Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This above all, to thine own self be true,

And it must follow as the night the day

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

~ Hamlet, Act one, scene three

Sunset District, San Francisco, CA, 0400 hours, October 3, 2149

Malcolm Reed was roused from a deep slumber by the sound of an incoming vid-call. He rolled out of bed and blinked himself awake on the way over to the monitor at his desk, entering a few keystrokes into the keyboard before he sat down. The monitor flickered and a familiar face stared back at him. Harris, the head of Section 31 and his direct superior for the last year and a half, was somewhere in his forties or fifties, it was hard to tell, and he had gray hair, shrewd eyes and a smile which seemed kindly but was anything but.

“We have an assignment for you, Mr. Reed. The team is assembling at headquarters in one hour for a mission briefing.”

Malcolm nodded, sitting up straight in the closest approximation of ‘attention’ that was possible while remaining seated. “Understood, sir. I’m on my way.”

Harris nodded slightly, neither his voice nor face betraying any reaction when he replied, “Very good. We will expect to see you shortly.” His jaw muscles tightened slightly, and he closed the channel without another word, leaving Malcolm staring at a blank screen.

Even after working for the man for eighteen months, Malcolm still had trouble reading Harris’ expressions. He supposed that was an asset for Harris in their career of spying, espionage and duplicity, but it made serving under him a bit unpredictable. Being able to tell if his superior was pleased or disappointed with his performance was a useful rudder, and without it, Malcolm often found himself at a disadvantage. How could he be expected to correct flaws which he didn’t know existed?

He shook his head as he stood up. He shouldn’t be thinking about trying to do damage control on damage which might not even exist. It was appropriate that Harris was a closed book, because a commander like that kept all of his subordinates on their toes. A spy who allowed themselves to become complacent had a short life expectancy; indeed, with a boss like Harris no one in the Section would ever become complacent.

Malcolm grabbed a quick shower, had a shave and put some water on for tea once he was done, then he toweled off and began to get dressed.

The calendar caught his eye as he started pulling on his clothes and he let out a heavy sigh. The next day, October 4^th, was marked in red and had a notation ‘lunch with Jean’ written on it. Missions for Harris rarely took less than forty-eight hours, which meant that he would be God-only-knew-where when he was supposed to be having lunch with his friend. Malcolm shook his head resignedly and fastened the closure on his pants. He obviously had to cancel lunch. It wasn’t the first time he had needed to cancel on her because of a ‘business trip,’ but each time he felt a stronger twinge of guilt at doing it.

The whistling of the tea kettle sliced through his thoughts, and he briskly walked over to the stove, opening the valve on the kettle’s spout to quiet it before removing it from the heat. He poured boiling water over the tea bags, watching in a semi-hypnotized state as gentle curls of steam rose into the air above his mug. The smell of the tea woke him up and he shook his head at himself as he put the kettle aside, annoyed that he had allowed himself to become distracted. He finished getting dressed, ran a comb through his hair and set about fixing something to eat. By this time, it wasn’t even half past four, which meant that he had time enough to make a decent breakfast. It was the work of a few minutes to scramble a few eggs, toast some bread and heat up a couple links of pre-cooked sausage. Once breakfast was cooked it was barely gone 0430, so he was able to sit by the window and enjoy his food at a fairly leisurely pace. He drank his tea black with one sugar, and this morning he had made enough to fill not only his breakfast mug, but also a travel mug which he routinely brought to early morning mission briefings. Malcolm finished the last of his food and filled the travel mug with sweetened tea before depositing his dishes in the sink, shrugging on his coat and exiting the apartment.

When he had first joined Section 31, he had found it exciting. The subterfuge and tactical finesse of it, the firefights and explosions… especially the explosions. It had all been very romantic after a fashion, and he had enjoyed playing at being James Bond for a while, but things were different now. More and more frequently, the missions had become hard for him to stomach, and although he couldn’t be certain, he had a feeling that Harris was irritated by his moral stance. He had no idea what this new mission would be about, but he hoped that it would have an honourable aim… and not one that only seemed honourable after Harris had spent quite some time explaining why it was the right thing to do. Still, despite the shades of grey which he had grown distasteful of, there was still something exciting, if inconvenient, about being woken in the wee hours of the morning and needing to rush off to a secret facility for a briefing.

He smiled to himself as he locked the door and headed downstairs. There was a lift in his building, but in the mornings he preferred to use the stairs because he found that doing so was an excellent way to wake himself up. It was still dark out by the time he reached the street, and despite light pollution from the city he could still see a few dozen stars. One star seemed brighter than the rest, but he knew that it wasn’t actually a star. It was the underbelly of Starfleet’s first ship, the NX-01 Enterprise, still under construction at an orbital launch platform. Her launch date was set for some time in the spring of 2151, and he wondered what that ship would mean for the future of humanity.

His apartment was at the intersection of Noriega Street and 43^rd Avenue in the Sunset District. He had been extremely specific about the sort of place he wanted to rent to the point where he might have frustrated the real estate agent who had been assigned to him. He wanted to live somewhere on the east coast of the city, so as to take advantage of the breezes off of the Pacific, but he didn’t want to be close enough to either see or hear the ocean. Malcolm had stressed that to the agent in no uncertain terms, and the man had been puzzled by the odd request but had come through. The southwest winds off the ocean were blessedly pollen-free, and since he was situated both south and east of the cities’ many parks, no annoying particulates were blown past his home at any point of the year. A number of good restaurants and clubs were within walking distance of his place, as well as a bar which he was quite fond of, so all in all he felt that he had chosen wisely. Malcolm sighed as he got into his flitter. There was one advantage to being roused at such a God-awful hour: he didn’t have to worry about traffic.

Chapter Text

Surplus Material Storage Facility B (Section 31 HQ)

Richmond District, San Francisco, CA, 0455 hours, October 3, 2149

Malcolm took his seat in the briefing room five minutes before Harris arrived, and he used the time to look around at the rest of his team. They were all seated around a circular table which always reminded him of Le Morte d’Arthur, and even though the quests that this particular band of knights carried out were a far cry from the exploits of Camelot, he knew that the idealized version of Arthur and Medieval chivalry which had survived to the modern day was equally remote from the brutal truth of how Medieval knights actually behaved.

Their squad leader, Danny Gutierrez, was brave, fair-minded and stern. He had a fierce smile, was built like an ox and had a slight, lilting Castilian accent. He also doubled as the engineer on their freighter, Chimera and could fix and utilize pretty much any piece of equipment they came across. Frank Stephens, the medic and Gutierrez’ unofficial second, was a gruff no-nonsense type from Texas, and he had the drawl to prove it. Stephens was equally comfortable inflicting injuries or tending to them, and while Malcolm had occasionally seen a flicker of distaste or unease cross his face during a mission briefing for wet-works assignments, he had never voiced any qualms about assassinations to either the group or Harris. Irena Koslovsky, their pilot, was calm, efficient and one hell of a flier. More than once she had pulled off an L-4 or a Crazy Ivan to get rid of ships that were trying to follow them. Malcolm admired her skill and knew how integral she was to the team, but every so often his queasy stomach would lodge a complaint against her. Malcolm served as the team’s ordnance and tactical officer, ensuring that they were stocked up on functional weapons, employing or disarming explosive devices as the situation called for it, and analyzing their enemies’ tactics and outmaneuvering them in either ship-to-ship or firefight situations. The last member of the team, and most certainly the least as far as Malcolm was concerned, was Matt Zuger. Malcolm didn’t know where Zuger was from, and he didn’t care to find out. Zuger was extra muscle, nothing more, although he did have a disturbing lust for inflicting harm on others. Malcolm had a nasty feeling that the only jobs Zuger genuinely enjoyed were the ones where he had the chance to kill something, and he suspected that Zuger had been the kind of child who enjoyed pulling the wings off of insects.

Zuger made no secret of the fact that he thought that Malcolm’s less than perfect health was a liability to the team, and while they worked together quite well in combat situations, during down-time before and after missions there was always an element of tension between the two of them. The first time Malcolm had turned green during an L-4, Zuger had not only been quick to point it out to the rest of the team, but he had even gone so far as to tag him with the tactless nickname of ‘Malady Malcolm.’ The rest of the team had seemed to think the name was amusing, which stung Malcolm more than he cared to admit, but he thought that the jibe would simply be forgotten like so many other jokes had been before. Unfortunately, the name had stuck after a mission where Malcolm’s allergies had been particularly bad, and the team had actually needed to abort their plans in order to get him medical attention. Sometime after that, it became common practice for either Zuger or Stephens to start a job off by saying ‘lets hope Malady Malcolm doesn’t blow this one for us.’ Stephens seemed to be a man of high principle, but he wasn’t perfect, and he wasn’t exactly charitable when it came to dealing with the added stress of having to be vigilant about the health of his ‘sickly’ teammate.

The rest of the team got on very well together, leaving Malcolm the odd man out. He didn’t want to have an out and out fight with Zuger… most of the time, in any case, and he didn’t want to potentially show weakness by tipping his hand to the fact that Zuger’s comments got to him. Besides, he saw Zuger as a Neanderthal and Malcolm didn’t want to stoop to the other man’s level, so to avoid a potential confrontation or any unnecessary unpleasantness he mainly kept to himself. When they were in transit, he usually spent most of his time either shut up in his quarters or manning the weapons console on the bridge. Sometimes when he was on the bridge, he and Koslovsky would talk, but they didn’t have very much in common so most of the time they would just enjoy a companionable silence.

Harris came into the briefing room at precisely 0500 and started the briefing without any preamble. “Operatives, we have received intelligence that a group of Rigelians are planning on stealing virulent disease samples which are en route to a top-secret storage facility known as Cold Station 12. The facility is used to store hazardous viruses and pathogens for research purposes. The Rigelians’ plan is to sell samples of these diseases to the highest bidder, who will most likely not be using them for research. The facility itself is difficult to breach, but the medical transport ships which supply it are not well armed and this particular shipment does not have an armed escort, making it even more vulnerable. Your mission is to rendezvous with the Beshern, accompany her to Cold Station 12 and prevent this heist or, failing that, to destroy the Rigelian ship. Under no circumstances can the Rigelians be allowed to carry out this heist. Does anyone have questions or concerns?”

Malcolm cleared his throat. Zuger rolled his eyes and Malcolm was fairly certain that he saw a flash of irritation cross Harris’ face. “Yes, Mr. Reed?” There was also some annoyance in Harris’ voice, but Malcolm knew his question was legitimate, so he pressed on.

“What sort of armaments and defensive capabilities do these Rigelians have?”                                      

Harris nodded, apparently finding the question valid. “Their tactical information is on the Chimera’s computer, as well as schematics of their vessels, and their language has been loaded into your universal translator. Any other questions?”

No one spoke, so Harris nodded again. “Everyone needs to be on the Chimera by oh-eight hundred hours. There will be shuttles going to the Chimera every quarter hour starting at oh-seven hundred. Dismissed.”

Chapter Text

Sunset District, San Francisco, CA, 0700 hours, October 3, 2149

Malcolm waited to call Jean until he got home from the mission briefing. He checked the contents of his ever-ready bag and was almost set to head out for the shuttle. He had been putting off calling her for a couple of reasons; primarily because he didn’t want to wake her at some ungodly hour to give her the bad news, but also because he wanted to delay having to give said news for as long as possible, since he hated to see the disappointed look which he knew would inevitably pass over her face. She would try to hide it, of course, and tell him it wasn’t a problem, but her willingness to accommodate his unpredictable ‘business trips’ always made him feel that much guiltier about cancelling their plans. If she got angry about the rainchecks then he could at least have the satisfaction of telling her that work was more important than socializing, but as it was, he was perennially stuck being the bad guy.

By then, it was around 0710 and he knew that she would be awake and getting ready for work at Starfleet Medical. She was one of the staff doctors there, and had confided in him about how mind-numbingly boring it was some of the time. He sat down at his desk and steeled himself to place the call. He dialed her number and waited for her face to appear on the screen.

She smiled at him, sitting back in her chair and putting aside a mug of what he knew was most likely Twining’s Earl Grey. She took hers with milk and one sugar. “Good morning, Malcolm.”

She had brought what looked like a bowl of oatmeal over with her to answer the call, and he realized that he had caught her in the middle of breakfast. He tried to push aside his guilt at having to cancel on her, but seeing how glad she was to hear from him only made him feel worse about what he had to say. Malcolm still mustered a smile for her. She needed to know that he was glad to see her in spite of the circumstances.

“Good morning.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head and dropping his eyes briefly before looking up at her again. “I’m sorry to be doing this again, but I got an off-world assignment early this morning and I won’t be able to meet you for lunch tomorrow.”

As he expected, she looked disappointed by the news. Her face fell and she slowly put aside her tea, shaking her head and not looking at him. When she spoke, there was a resigned tone to her reply. “Do you know how long you’ll be gone?” She only met his eyes after she had spoken.

Malcolm felt a slight knot form in his stomach at the hurt expression on her face. He briefly, very briefly, considered suggesting that they could meet up that morning. They might be able to squeeze in a coffee and a bite to eat before he had to catch his shuttle… but no, there probably wasn’t time enough. In any case, she was expected at the hospital, and he didn’t want her to be late either. “I’ll probably get back late on the sixth or early on the seventh.”

Her shoulders sagged, but after a moment she made a half-hearted ‘never mind’ gesture with one hand. “Well, it can’t be helped, right? You’ve gotta go do some big important thing and…” she cut herself off, but he had a good idea of what she had been about to say: ‘and our plans go out the window.’ He knew that was the way it had to be, but the knowledge was hardly comforting. Jean shook her head, composing herself with a visible effort, and offered a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I know it’s your job. Just promise you’ll make it up to me?”

He nodded, relieved that she understood. “You have my word.” His mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile as a thought occurred to him. “We’ll do a movie night as soon as I get back, your choice of films.”

She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, leveling a stern look at him. “A couple of movie nights, you mean, as well as a lunch or two… and no backing out,” Jean wagged a playful finger at him, “even if the sky is falling.”

Instead of trying to distance herself from him, as he had expected her to do after so many cancellations, she seemed intent on spending more time with him. Very intent, in fact. He shook his head with an amused sigh and, encouraged by the unexpected demand, added a sweetener to his offer. “Done. I’ll even sit through one of your interminable chick flicks if you like.”

“Hmm,” Jean narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “I guess that’ll have to do, Mr. Reed.” Her playful mood seemed to fade, and she uncrossed her arms, sitting forward again and looking earnestly concerned. “Promise me you’ll be careful?”

He sighed. She always said that. It felt good in a way, knowing that she cared enough about him to worry, but he didn’t like to be a burden on her. Besides, in his line of work there were no guarantees, especially when it came to Rigelian pirates, and the last thing he wanted to do was cause her any grief. “I’ll do my best.”

She nodded and forced a smiled. “You always do. Good luck, Malcolm. I’ll call you on the seventh.” She hesitated before adding, “I’ll miss you.”

That caught him off guard. Not that she would think it, but that she would express it. He cleared his throat uneasily and heard himself give the expected reply, although his voice faltered a bit as he realized the truth of his words. “I’ll… miss you, too.”

He smiled back stiffly and closed the call, feeling slightly guilty about having to keep her in the dark, but such was the life of a spy. He stood up from his desk, frowning. He would miss her, and that was a problem. When had she become so important to him, and how had she managed to bypass his defenses and get so close?

He shook his head. This should come easily to him. After all, he had spent most of his life keeping other people at arm’s length, which was one of the reasons Harris had sought him out in the first place, so why was he suddenly having difficulty with it now? Maybe it was because every so often when he was spending time with Jean, he found himself unable to look her in the eye, or maybe because he couldn’t help thinking about the diametrically opposed reasons why each of them ended up with blood on their hands at the end of a hard day at work. He doubted that she would hold him in such high regard if she knew what his ‘business trips’ truly consisted of. The thought of Jean’s skillful hands trying to mitigate damage which he had inflicted on one of his missions was almost too much for him to bear. He shook his head as images of the last person he had killed flashed before his mind’s eye. Maybe it was time to think about his options, about the possibility of doing something other than Harris’ dirty work. This mission had a noble enough aim, but jobs like this were few and far between, and no matter how noble it was at the outset, he knew that it would most likely end up with a body count, either human or otherwise.

Malcolm shook his head again as he set about double-checking the contents of his ready bag. It was definitely time to think about doing something else with his life, preferably something which he didn’t have to lie about, and which wouldn’t slowly but surely corrode his sense of honour. He would give the matter serious thought… after this mission was over.

Chapter Text

Frigate ‘Chimera,’ 1350 hours, October 4, 2149

The trip to intercept the transport was expected to take just over one day, and they were coming up on the rendesvous. As soon as he got on board their frigate, Malcolm had deposited his ready bag in his usual rack compartment and then headed straight for the frigate’s equipment locker to check the status of their hand weapons. After making sure that all of their EM-33s, plasma rifles and stun grenades were in perfect working order, he grabbed an early lunch in the galley area – which was blessedly empty – and then went up to the bridge area to run a diagnostic on their plasma cannon and torpedo launchers. Everything checked out – as he had expected it would – and once he was satisfied that they would be able to acquit themselves well in a firefight of any sort, he retired to his rack. He spent a few hours studying the profile report on Rigelian armaments and tactics before venturing out for his supper.

He glanced at his chronometer as he walked down the ship’s corridor and shook his head. If he hadn’t been sent on this assignment, he would have been finishing lunch with Jean instead of reading up on Rigelian pirates alone in his rack. Malcolm chided himself for being distracted from the task at hand, if only for a few moments.

They intended to provide the transport with an armed escort and thereby discourage any attempts at hijacking, but when they arrived, they found that the Rigelians had already boarded the transport and were engaged in a firefight with a poorly armed crew of technicians.

Medical Transport Ship ‘Beshern,’ 1417 hours, October 4, 2149

Stephens was busy trying to take down a Rigelian who was hiding behind some crates. He was so focused on the Rigelian bobbing in and out of sight in front of him that he didn’t seem to notice another Rigelian coming towards him from his blind side. Malcolm dodged forward, firing at the alien, and made the raider drop his particle weapon with a well-placed shot to the raider’s hand. Stephens finally got a clean shot at his target, leaving only one Rigelian standing: the one Malcolm had just disarmed.

As a last resort, the raider took a vial of liquid out of his pocket, opened its valve and threw the contents in the Englishman’s face. Malcolm wiped the substance out of his eyes with one hand and shot the Rigelian in the chest with his EM-33.

Two of the technicians had been killed in the attack, and when the fighting was over, the Rigelians were all dead. Malcolm sighed to himself, feigning some enthusiasm for the victory which his teammates were already celebrating. They had stopped these particular villains from obtaining bioweapons, but that didn’t mean there weren’t a thousand other threats to worry about, and he couldn’t muster genuine excitement for taking one threat off of a list which was so blasted long.

He was shaken out of his glum thoughts when one of the techs spoke to him. “Sir, you should know that -” the Denobulan woman hesitated when Malcolm started slightly, but she seemed encouraged when he smiled and nodded for her to go on. She smiled back, and he thought that the ridges on either side of her face were oddly pretty.

“Sir, you should know that the vial you were exposed to contained a live sample of Hesperan Thumping Cough.”

He let his head tip forward with a quiet groan. “Lovely. And what, specifically, does this mean in terms of my health?” He looked up at her, dreading what her reply might be.

Her smile didn’t waver, but he thought that her expression seemed more sympathetic. “Since the sample came into contact with the mucus membranes of your eyes as well as your skin, there is a 98.3% chance that you have contracted the disease and will begin to experience symptoms within the next few hours.”

“Just my luck,” he muttered under his breath, raising his voice to ask, “And these symptoms are?” He glanced over at the team apprehensively before focusing on her again.

She handed him a PADD. “This contains all of the IME’s information on Hesperan Thumping Cough.”

He skimmed the first paragraph of the article and had to suppress a groan.

‘Symptoms include severe hacking cough, chills and sweats, headache, a fever over 101 degrees Fahrenheit, body aches, fatigue, blurred vision, loss of appetite, weakness, lack of coordination, nausea and rhinitis. The best treatment for Hesperan Thumping Cough is to let it run its course while getting plenty of rest and staying hydrated. Once symptoms appear, the patient will have a high fever for four to six days, with body aches persisting for an additional few days after the fever is gone. After the fever and body aches subside, the patient will have a persistent cough and feel run-down for at least one additional week.’

Malcolm stopped reading after that, still digesting the information and not quite ready to see what the ‘Detailed Symptom Overview’ had in store for him. “Sounds wonderful,” he grimaced and slipped the PADD into one of his pockets. He sighed, shaking his head slightly and forced a smile at the tech, touching a hand to the PADD in his pocket. “Thank you for the information. I’m certain it will be helpful.”

“I hope so,” she nodded, adding in a concerned tone, “I strongly advise that you be treated by a physician as soon as possible. Cold Station 12 has an experienced medical staff, and while it is not a functioning hospital, the fact that you have been exposed to one of the pathogens which we were transporting is sufficient reason for you to receive some basic treatment there. If nothing else, we can give you an injection which will inhibit the airborne spread of the pathogen so that you will not become a vector for this disease.”

He shook his head, not understanding the medical terminology. “I’m sorry, what did you mean by that last part?”

The tech smiled gently. “It will prevent you from spreading the disease to anyone else by coughing on or near them. My name is Dreeyla Phlox, and if it wouldn’t be an imposition, I would like for you to contact me after you are feeling well again.”

Malcolm blinked at her curiously. “Why?”

“Well,” she hesitated briefly, then went on. “I have never had the opportunity to document a case of this illness in an actual patient, and since you have contracted it…”

He sighed. It was never just one thing at a time, was it?

Chapter Text

Frigate ‘Chimera,’ 2038 hours, October 4, 2149

Malcolm grimaced, glad that only Irena Koslovsky, their pilot, was in the bridge area with him. He was glad because he had been fighting a nasty tickle in his throat ever since they had squared away that mess with the Rigelians. Fighting it, and much to his chagrin, he was losing. His less than perfect health was something of a running joke with the team, to the point where Zuger had even started a pool as to when, and not if, ‘Malady Malcolm’ would get space-sick, have issues with his allergies, or come down with some other ailment on one of their missions. Bloody Zuger… Malcolm shook his head. The team respected Malcolm’s skills with weapons and explosives, his tactical thinking, and his ability to handle himself in a firefight, but they still had the gall to think it was funny that, once again, he needed to be seen by a doctor. It wasn’t that they were stronger than he was, he just hadn’t been blessed with their good health, and despite that disadvantage he still managed to do his job as well as – if not better than – the rest of the team.

When they were on their way out of the asteroid field where Cold Station 12 was hidden, the tickle became impossible to ignore and he coughed lightly into a handkerchief, trying to get rid of it. Koslovsky brought him a container of water and handed it over with a concerned, knowing look. He gave her a wan smile. She was the only member of the team who had never put any money down on the pool, for which he was grateful, but it didn’t stop the existence of the betting pool from bothering him. He accepted the water with a nod and told her he was fine, even though they both knew better. They both knew damn well that he had been exposed to a virus on that transport vessel, and that it was only a matter of time before he started showing some kind of symptoms, but for the moment he could still man the cannon and that was what he intended to do. If nothing else, it would take his mind off of his unerring bad luck and maybe even prove to his comrades that ‘Malady Malcolm’ could still do his part, alien virus be damned.

Malcolm was still at his console half an hour later when the nasty, persistent tickle in the back of his throat returned. He drank more of the water and that helped for a while, but before too long the only way to rid himself of the irritation was to indulge in a few light coughs. He could feel some kind of congestion at the back of his throat and knew that it was the most likely culprit of the wretched ticklish feeling. What he needed was a lozenge, or better yet, a large package of lozenges. That, and some piping hot tea with clover honey. The lukewarm water worked for a shorter span each time he tried it, and he had to cough more frequently to quell the irritating sensation. At first the noise was easy enough for anyone within earshot to overlook, but over the course of the next few hours, his little voluntary throat-clearing coughs were gradually replaced by harsh, body-bending, hacking fits which he couldn’t control. It was getting so bad that he had to push away from his station every few minutes just to avoid banging his head on the console and getting a concussion when the coughs doubled him over. The tickling, congested feeling had spread into his chest, which ached and felt oddly heavy, and breathing had turned into a new variant of Russian roulette. He had a pounding headache and his throat had become painfully raw, which he wrote off as results of his increasingly nasty coughing fits, and he was shivering slightly. All in all, he was feeling wretched. He knew that he was ill, and he actually wanted to go lie down, which was alarming enough in and of itself, but he was in a tricky situation. Although he wanted to go to bed, he wasn’t sure he would be able to get there. His head was spinning, he had run out of water some time ago, and when he tried to stand up to get himself a refill, his legs nearly gave out on him. Koslovsky rushed out of the pilot’s chair to stop him from falling onto the deck and she helped him back to his seat.

He muttered his thanks and she nodded sympathetically on her way back to the pilot’s chair.

“Don’t worry about it, Malcolm. Just sit tight for a sec.” She pressed the comm once she sat down again, but she kept her voice low, and he couldn’t tell what she was saying. Malcolm thought he heard Gutierrez’s voice at the other end of the comm., and he grimaced. Apparently, their pilot had had enough of listening to him coughing his lungs out and had called in the boss. For the next minute or so he just sat in his chair, trying not to cough, hugging himself in an effort to fend off the chills and waiting for the hammer to fall. It wasn’t long before Gutierrez came storming up to the bridge.

“Jesus Christ, Reed. I could hear you at the other end of the ship, and I was standing next to the fucking engine.” He held up a hand, forestalling the protest which he expected to hear. “Don’t give me that ‘I’m fine, stiff-upper-lip’ crap. You’re just getting in the way up here and spreading whatever was in that damn vial all over the place, now for fuck’s sake go lie down!” Gutierrez bodily hauled Malcolm out of his chair and packed him off to bed, practically frog-marching the Englishman towards the ship’s main corridor.

“Yes, sir.” By some miracle Malcolm managed to speak without dissolving into coughs, and he headed off of the bridge.                                                                                                    

Malcolm stumbled down the corridor on legs whose femurs had apparently been replaced with overcooked pasta, and he had to brace himself against a doorframe when another coughing spasm hit. When he opened his eyes afterwards, his vision was slightly blurry around the edges, but blinking rapidly seemed to resolve that issue, so he wasn’t too alarmed. Using the bulkheads for support, he managed to get to his rack compartment without further incident and wearily kicked off his boots before he crawled into bed, shivering. Unlike the chills he had felt on the bridge, which had merely been annoying, these were bad enough to make his teeth chatter. He tried to pull the blankets up over himself, but his hands were strangely clumsy, and he couldn’t make his fingers grab hold of the covers. He squinted at the suddenly blurry covers in annoyance as a strong shiver racked his body, and after what seemed like an eternity, he managed to hitch a sheet and blanket up over his shoulders. Fighting with the blankets had exhausted him, and still shivering fitfully, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

He didn’t know how long he slept for, but when he woke up his sheets were unpleasantly clammy, his entire body ached, and he could barely lift his head from his sweat-drenched pillow. His tongue felt like it was covered in lint and when he tried to open his eyes to look at the chronometer, all he saw was a light smudgy blur where the digital read-out was supposed to be. Malcolm grunted quietly to himself, disconcerted by these developments, and fell victim to another bout of vicious coughs. His back already hurt like blazes, probably because of this damn virus he had picked up, and the harsh coughs ruthlessly punished his aching muscles. Being kicked repeatedly could hardly have been more painful, and thanks to his experiences at boarding school, he was uniquely qualified to know how it felt to be kicked in the back. He tried to roll over, thinking that resting on his side while coughing might be marginally more comfortable than lying on his back, but he could barely summon the strength to do it. His arms throbbed and were nearly useless at the task, and by the time he finally managed to turn over, the coughs were backing off.

Malcolm knew that he had a fever, and judging from how he felt, it was a fairly high one. He knew that he would need to stay hydrated, and knowing his teammates, the wasn’t a chance in hell that any of them were going to suddenly turn into Florence Nightingale. They were fine fighters, every one of them, and they made a good team, but Stephens was the only trained medic among them, and he was more likely to give Malcolm a hard time about being careless enough to get himself sick with one of the viruses they had been sent to contain than he was to show up with soup and a cold compress. Koslovsky had been kind enough on the bridge, but she wasn’t the type to make house calls, and the others? Next to no chance of handholding from them. He would have to deal with this on his own for now. Malcolm levered himself upright through sheer force of will, and by hanging onto the walls and sparse furniture of his accommodations, he managed to reach the stash of water bottles he kept in his locker. On a ship like this, you never knew if the water tanks might run out, so he was in the habit of keeping a stash of fifteen liters just in case of emergencies. He grabbed an armful of blurry bottles, which was around six liters worth, and shuffled back to bed. He knew that the trip to Earth would be roughly two days, and assuming it was still Saturday the 5th, he figured two litres of water per day, plus two more in case some of them spilled, should be enough to keep himself hydrated during the trip. His stomach muscles were sore to the point of being tender to even the lightest touch, he felt slightly nauseous, and his appetite was non-existent, so mustering the strength to get food for himself was a non-issue.

A bout of coughs struck as he was heading back to the bunk, and although he tried to keep a hold on the bottles, he didn’t react quickly enough and a couple of them fell to the deck. He left them where they landed, not trusting his ability to retrieve them without dropping any of the others or to keep his balance during the attempt and stumbled the rest of the way to his rack clutching the remaining bottles. His arms felt heavy and tired by then and he gratefully let the rest of the bottles fall onto his mattress. He was still coughing fiercely when he dropped into the bunk and crawled back under the damp covers. He huddled in a miserable ball under the sweaty sheets and pressed his head into the pillow. His chest burned and stung with each hacking cough, the ragged breaths tortured his sore throat, and as the fit continued, he began to feel lightheaded. Malcolm lifted one badly shaking hand and started to rub at his chest, hoping the action might help calm his spasming lungs and let him take a full breath.

The coughs petered off, and he had no idea whether rubbing at his chest had done the trick or not, but frankly, he was past caring. He’d been feeling steadily worse ever since he woke up. At some point his nose had started bothering him, too. It was tickling and running badly enough that for a second he had the incongruous thought that it was much too late in the year for his allergies to be acting up. He dug out his handkerchief and rubbed it at his nose, glad that he was alone in his rack and didn’t have to be self-conscious about sniffling as much as he needed to. His vision was still blurred too badly for him to see the chronometer, and the bottles he had worked so hard to carry over to the bunk just looked like silver blobs scattered over the dark brown plane of his covers. He groped around for one of the bottles, letting his shaking hand creep towards the closest blob like some sort of epileptic spider. When his fingers came into contact with the bottle, he felt around for the strap and then grabbed onto it, dragging the bottle back towards himself until he held it cradled against his chest. He smiled to himself and took a moment to steady his breathing before attempting to open it. It seemed that in his current state even reaching for something less than thirty centimetres away required a considerable effort, and if his fingers were still as clumsy as they had been with the covers when he first fell into bed, he would need to wait a while before trying something as challenging as opening a bottle of water.

Malcolm grimaced, staring up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes and getting a strange satisfaction from the fact that it didn’t seem blurred. It was a uniform, un-surprising grey, and because it didn’t have any distinctive features he couldn’t tell if it was out of focus or not. His eyes slid closed, and he fumbled with the water bottle, intent on opening it without looking at it. He couldn’t see it except as a blur even if he were holding it a hand’s-breadth in front of his face anyway, so for the moment he indulged in the fantasy that he was merely engaging in a blind-folded dexterity exercise. A smile tugged at his mouth when he got the bottle open, and since he was lying on his side it was simple enough to bring the container up to his mouth. His hands shook and some of the water sloshed onto his chest, chilling him and making his shivers more pronounced, so he opened his eyes and guided the spout into his mouth before any more water could spill.

He drank the water slowly, wary of triggering a coughing fit by taking large gulps and managed to put away nearly half of the first bottle before there was a knock on the hatchway. He groaned, shakily replacing the cover on his water, and letting himself sag into the bed. He hadn’t coughed in several minutes, which was the longest lull he had experienced since before he had been kicked off of the bridge, and he knew that raising his voice to make a reply would break that streak. Fortunately, whoever had knocked didn’t seem to need a reply.

“It’s Stephens. I’m comin’ in, so you’d better not be naked.”

The hatch creaked open, and Stephens stepped in. “Well, Reed, this is a new one on me.”

A convulsive shiver ran through Malcolm’s body, and he tightened his grip on the water bottle, closing his eyes with a tired sigh. “I didn’t exactly plan this,” he whispered, hoping to avoid provoking the vicious tickle in his throat.

Stephens’ footsteps moved closer to the bunk, and he chuckled. “No, don’t s’pose you did.”

A slight weight settled over him, and Malcolm opened his eyes to see that a second blanket had been spread over his bunk. He blinked up at Stephens in confused gratitude. “Thank you, but…” he shook with more coughs and buried his head in the sweaty pillow. He could feel some weight shifting on his bunk, and opened his eyes to see that the bottles, including the ones he had dropped, had all been lined up by the wall which his rack butted up against, and they were all within easy reach. He was trying to make sense of that when Stephens grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him upright. A second pillow was shoved under his shoulders, and then Stephens let him lie down again. The additional pillow propped him up a little, which seemed to help his breathing, and as his head cleared, he came back to his earlier thought. “Why?”

Stephens chuckled drily. “You saved my ass. The guy who threw that crap in your face was sneaking up on me with a pulse rifle, an’ I didn’t even see ‘im. Would’a got the drop on me, too, but you stopped ‘im, disarmed ‘im and he threw it at you instead. Consider this a ‘thank you’.”

Malcolm shook his head a tiny bit, still not understanding why the gruff man was being so helpful. “I was just doing my…” he coughed into the handkerchief and Stephens pressed a hypo to his arm, releasing medication into his bloodstream with a quiet hiss. The throbbing pain in Malcolm’s back and limbs suddenly decreased, and he forced his eyes open to stare at the medic. He couldn’t be sure because his vision was so blurry, but it seemed like the man was smiling.

“Yeah, you were doin’ your job. An’ that’s all I’m doin’. My job.” He opened a bottle and pressed it into Malcolm’s hand, helping to guide it up to the Englishman’s mouth once the coughs backed down. “I just gave you an anesthetic, and this is electrolyte fluid with protein concentrate mixed in.” Malcolm gagged at the gritty texture, and Stephens nodded. “Not the tastiest stuff, but it should hold ya until tomorrow. Drink all of it.”

Malcolm blinked to signal his understanding and kept choking down the wretched stuff. He hadn’t been hungry, but the protein concentrate would probably help him feel a little stronger. When he finished, Stephens rested a hand on his shoulder in what felt like a friendly gesture, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure. “Can you see, okay?”

Malcolm hesitated, embarrassed, and then shook his head. “Everything more than half a metre away is just a blur.”

Stephens gave him a reassuring pat and let out a low whistle. “Damn. This won’t do anything for your eyes, but it should help the coughing.” He handed over a small plastic bag and made sure that Malcolm’s fingers closed around it.

Malcolm fumbled one hand into the bag and felt around inside. His fingertips encountered many rounds, hard objects in the bag, and he looked up at Stephens, perplexed. “I have no idea what these are.”

“Cough drops. I don’t know if there are enough to last you. The ones in the blister packs have anesthetic in ’em, so they’ll numb your throat for a while. We’re just under forty hours from Earth, and I’ll be back a couple times to check on you before we get to Jupiter station. Just drink as much of that water as you can and try to sleep.”

Malcolm unwrapped a cough drop and popped it into his mouth, smiling as the flavours of menthol and lemon went to work soothing his ragged throat. He nodded his acquiescence and settled in, closing his eyes. “Thank you for these. They’ll definitely help.” The cough drops were a godsend, and he appreciated the information on their ETA.

Stephens’ footsteps headed for the hatch. “Don’t mention it. See ya in about eight hours. Oh, and Reed?”

Malcolm opened his eyes and saw that Stephens was smiling that blurry smile again. “Yeah?”

“Zuger is a dumbass.”

Malcolm laughed quietly, wary of setting himself off coughing but unable to completely suppress his relief at having found someone else who agreed with him on that score. “Does this mean you’ll stop betting on the pool?”

Stephens laughed along with him. “Yeah. Too bad, though. As your medic, I’ve got one hell of an edge. Inside scoop.” His footsteps came back to the bunk, and he gave Malcolm’s arm a soft bump. “It really bugs you?”

Malcolm kept his eyes low and shifted uncomfortably, squeezing his half-empty water bottle like it was a teddy bear as he gave a self-conscious shrug. “Not worth fighting over, and it gives the team something to laugh about. In any case, I don’t want to dignify the pillock by letting him see me upset about it.”

Stephens sighed, and it was a sad sound. “No wonder you don’t hang with the team in transit. And I thought it was just because you were an arrogant bastard with a permanent stick up your ass.”

Malcolm smiled slightly and aimed a wry look in Stephens’ general direction. “Oh, I am.”

Stephens started laughing again. “Get some rest, Reed, and the next time Zuger opens his idiotic mouth, I’ll set him straight.” Malcolm heard the hatch door close behind Stephens and tightened his grip on the precious cough drops. Maybe he had just found an ally. Cheered by the unexpected development, he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Jupiter Station, 1840 hours, October 6, 2149

Harris stood outside the medical unit at Jupiter Station, shaking his head. It had taken forty-seven hours for the Chimera to return to the Sol system from Cold Station 12, and according to the team’s medic, Reed’s fever had been holding steady at 104F/40C for nearly a full day. Apparently, Stephens had felt obligated to play nursemaid for the man throughout their journey, even trying to get Reed to drink chilled electrolyte solutions and helping him get to the head. According to Stephens’ own report, Reed had become delirious and spent most of the journey muttering incoherently, so it was highly unlikely that the problematic Brit would have any recollection of the medic’s presence.

Instead of being treated at Starfleet Medical, which would doubtless raise too many questions with Starfleet proper as to how he had come in contact with such a rare disease, Reed was currently being examined and treated by a Section 31 doctor in orbit at Jupiter Station.

Reed was a good enough demolitions man, but there were plenty of recruits who didn’t need to be convinced of the moral justification for their missions at nearly every briefing, and who didn’t burn through sick days so damn quickly. Harris shook his head, watching dispassionately as Reed hugged his meager blanket tightly around his shoulders and shivered on the cold exam room table before shaking with more coughs.

Pathetic. Harris shook his head and turned away from the pitiful sight in the two-way mirror. The man was far more trouble than he was worth. Something had to be done.

Just over an hour later, the team had docked at the San Francisco spaceport. Malcolm was dimly aware of being helped off of the ship and into a flitter by Zuger and Stephens. He was surprised that they would be the ones helping him, since neither one of them had ever seemed to regard him as more than a tactical and ordinance manual with a medical alert bracelet. The idea that they were actually helping ‘Malady Malcolm’ to do anything struck him as very strange, but he was in no condition to refuse their help, let alone give too much thought to what their motivation might be for providing it. He grimaced as another coughing fit started. Zuger had won the pool, which might account for his uncharacteristic behavior, and Stephens had been good about looking in on him during the trip. Malcolm waited for the coughs to die out, and when they finally did, he rested his forehead against the cool glass of the flitter’s window, tiredly watching as the hazy but familiar sights of San Francisco passed by. It looked like a blurry watercolor was passing before his eyes and trying to focus on any one spot made his head pound. He sighed carefully and closed his eyes, hoping that they were taking him home.

He was woken sometime later by someone roughly shaking his arm. “C’mon, Reed,” Stephens’ deep voice came from high above him. “We’re at your building.”

Malcolm blinked copiously, trying to clear his vision in order to see where they actually were. He could only dimly focus on things less than half a metre in front of himself, and everything more than a metre away looked like one large colorful smudge, but the shapes, colors and sounds seemed right for his neighborhood.

The flitter’s passenger door slammed shut and Zuger’s voice came towards him. “He’s out of it, Frank. The boss says his fever’s so high he doesn’t know what’s goin’ on. We could’a left him anywhere an’ he wouldn’t know the difference.”

“Shut it, Zuger,” Stephens barked. “We have our orders, and even if we didn’t, I’m not gonna dump anyone as sick as he is in some random alley just ‘cause you think it would be funny.” He hauled Malcolm upright and pulled one of the Englishman’s arms around his own shoulders. The next time Stephens spoke, his voice was softer, and the tone was actually friendly. “Okay, Reed. One foot in front of the other. Don’t give him any more ammo.”

Malcolm nodded, surprised by the unexpected helpfulness, but too dazed to dwell on it for long.

Stephens raised his voice again and addressed the sullen member of their party, “Now, help me with ‘im.” Zuger heaved a heavy sigh and then Malcolm was aware that he was being supported by both of them and that they were bringing him towards the front door of what looked like his building. “We get him home, tell him Harris’ orders, and then we split. That’s what the boss said to do, and that’s what we’re gonna do. End of discussion.”

Malcolm started coughing when they got onto the lift, and he hadn’t stopped by the time they reached his apartment door. Stephens tried the knob and gave a frustrated sigh. “Reed, we need your keys.” Malcolm tried to help, but his hands were shaking too badly to be much use. He managed to choke out “Left… front… pocket…” Stephens grumbled and fished the keys out of Malcolm’s pocket, then he went through the key ring until he found the apartment key, and roughly a minute later a severely embarrassed Malcolm was hauled none-too gently into his apartment.

They got him to the couch while he was still coughing and manhandled him for a second, turning him around for some unknown reason, and he closed his eyes. He was feeling queasy enough already, and the fact that everything around him was blurred didn’t help matters. If anything, it only added to his disorientation. Suddenly he felt like he was falling, but when he landed on the cushions, he realized that Zuger and Stephens had just been getting him into position so he wouldn’t end up face-down on his couch. Someone, probably Stephens, peeled him out of his jacket and tossed it aside. The coughs died out and Malcolm shivered, hugging himself in a feeble attempt to feel warmer. When he had been wearing his jacket and the two other men had been supporting him, he had been able to feel some of their body heat through the intermediate layers of clothing, but now even that meager warmth was gone. The blur that he thought was Zuger stepped away and headed for the front door, while Stephens went off in another direction, only to return about a minute later carrying a puffy blue mass. The puffy blue thing turned out to be the comforter from Malcolm’s bed, which Stephens un-bunched and gruffly spread over him. Malcolm nodded his thanks, not wanting to speak through chattering teeth, and hitched the blanket up to his chin. He heard Stephens put something down on the coffee table, and although Malcolm squinted in the general direction the sound had come from, he couldn’t tell what the object was.

Stephens cleared his throat. “There’s a water bottle on the table, Reed, and I’m putting an electrolyte drink next to you.” A slight weight settled on top of the blanket between his side and the back of the couch, and when he squinted Malcolm could make out the fuzzy shape of a bottle filled with orange liquid just above his hip. “It’s got protein concentrate mixed in, like I gave you earlier. Drink it as soon as you can and get to bed. Harris’s orders are for you to take it easy and just lie low here until you feel better.”

Malcolm shook his head, confused by the orders. “What…” he managed, “what about Starfleet Medical? I…” he tried unsuccessfully to hold back a few wrenching coughs, then gasped out, “I might need...”

Stephens cut him off with an impatient sigh. “You’ve already been to a doctor. Hell, you’ve been to two, if we count that fella at Cold Station 12. The doc said you’d be okay, so just rest. Got that?” He poked Malcolm in the shoulder with two fingers to punctuate his next words. “Just. Stay. Here.”

As the IME article had promised, his muscles were painfully sore as a result of the fever and Malcolm tried not to groan or flinch away from Stephens’ less than gentle touch. He gritted his teeth, pulling the blanket closer with a shiver and blearily glaring up at the medic-shaped blur standing over him. “Understood.” He shivered again and shut his eyes tight, tired of trying to make sense of his blurred environment and utterly sick of being poked at, shunted about and viewed as a nuisance for something which was completely beyond his control. “Now get out.”

Stephens sighed again, and for a moment Malcolm thought that the man sounded sad. So, Stephens wasn’t perfectly happy? What a shame.

“Okay, Reed. Feel better. I’ll come back to check on you tomorrow.”

Malcolm let out a bitter huff, kicking off his boots and muttering grumpily to himself as he heard the other man’s footsteps head towards the door, “If for one second I thought you actually meant that, I’d have a bloody heart attack.”

The front door closed behind Stephens, leaving Malcolm alone in his flat. He fumbled one hand out from under the blanket and reached for the sports drink. His coordination was shot to hell, and he could barely see, so managing to get a firm grip on the bottle took some doing. Once he had a hold of it, he turned onto his side, since that seemed to help him breathe easier and provoke fewer coughs, and then he opened the bottle and had a few mouthfuls of the bright orange stuff which Stephens had left. He made a face at the sweet, gritty sludge, screwed the cap back on and put the bottle within easy reach before closing his eyes. It was going to be an abysmal couple of weeks.

Harris glanced at the timepiece on his desk impatiently. He was reaching for his comm. button when there was a knock at his door. He called “come,” his office door opened, and Zuger and Stephens walked in. They stopped in front of his desk and came to attention. He waved an impatient hand. “At ease.”

He sat back in his chair, regarding the men before him. Stephens shifted to a position which vaguely resembled parade rest, and Zuger started surreptitiously picking at the thumbnail of his right hand with his neighboring index finger. Harris had a feeling that his team’s resident cudgel would have liked nothing better than to flop down into one of the office chairs and prop his feet up on his CO’s desk. Zuger was a blunt instrument, no doubt about that, but Harris didn’t need his team to be spit-and-polish types. He needed them to follow orders and get results. “Report.”

The men filled him in. Stephens did most of the talking while Zuger just looked bored. “We left him at home as you ordered, sir, and notified him of your instructions.”

“And did he understand my instructions?”

The medic frowned slightly, shaking his head. “I believe so, sir, but he asked about going to Starfleet Medical.”

Harris tensed but didn’t let his concern show. This could throw a wrench into his plans. “And what did you tell him?” he asked evenly.

“I repeated your orders, sir, that he should just lay low and stay home until he feels better.”  Stephens shook his head again, looking worried. “But sir, sick as he is, shouldn’t Reed be receiving medical care? He’s almost blind and he can barely stand. If he’s left on his own, I’m not sure he’ll—”

Harris cut the man off with a wave of his hand. “I’ve made my decision, Stephens. Are you questioning my judgement?”

The medic snapped back to attention. “No sir.”

“Good.” He sat back again and started looking over the most recent threat assessments on his PADD. “Your accounts have been credited with wages appropriate to your official occupations. I’ll notify you both of our next mission within the week. Dismissed.”

The men nodded and turned to leave. Zuger headed straight out, but Stephens paused by the door for a moment and glanced back at his CO, looking perturbed.

Harris smiled grimly to himself once the men had gone. The Section had no use for a man of questionable health who couldn’t put aside his moral qualms in order to do what was necessary. In the unlikely event that Reed survived this illness, he might turn out to be worth the trouble after all. As for Stephens, there were always contingencies in place if he turned out to be a liability as well. After all, they were in a dangerous line of work, and accidents happened all the time.

Chapter Text

Inner Richmond, San Francisco, CA, 0715 hours, October 7, 2149

Jean glanced at the date display on her screen again and shook her head. Malcolm had said he would be back late on the sixth or early on the seventh, but she hadn’t heard anything from him yet, and she had never known him to go back on his word. His usual pattern was to call as soon as he got back to town, unless it was between midnight and dawn, and he knew her schedule, so she was surprised that he hadn’t called her yet.

“I’m probably being silly,” she muttered, absently stirring her oatmeal. It was still fairly early on the seventh, after all, and he was a grown man, perfectly capable of looking after himself… so why did she have a cold knot of worry in her gut? She was eating breakfast at her desk instead of in the kitchen that morning, hoping to get an incoming call before heading out to work. “Well, there’s no rule that says I can’t call him, right?”

She dialed Malcolm’s number and waited for the vid call to connect, impatiently drumming her fingers on the desk.

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

She shook her head. He probably wasn’t home yet. That’s all. He was probably still off world doing… whatever it was he did.

She frowned. He’d never told her what his ‘assignments’ were, and they weren’t close enough for her to feel entirely comfortable pressing the issue, but given his knowledge of weapons, explosives and tactics, added to the fact that he was often called away on short notice and returned with various injuries, Jean was fairly certain that he wasn’t really working for R&D. His criticisms of the Bond movies were another hint, so she thought he might be into some kind of special ops. The lying bothered her, but again, she didn’t feel secure enough in their friendship to question him about it too much. It had taken the better part of two months to get him to trust her at all, and she didn’t want to jeopardize that by asking too many questions. He was a good man, an honorable man, so she was confident that he wouldn’t be doing anything immoral. She did worry that he might come back from one of his assignments with a more serious injury… or worse yet, not come back at all. That was an awful thought, and it made her all the more determined to make sure that he was okay.

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

“Well, I guess he isn’t home yet.” She decided to try him again around lunch time and was about to close the call when the screen flickered to life and a pale face blinked out at her.

Her eyes went wide. “Holy crap. Malcolm?” He looked awful to the point where she almost didn’t recognize him. He was shaking, sweaty, his hair was matted, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he was coughing badly. She found her voice again, but now it was laced with concern. “What…”

He managed to catch his breath and motioned for her to be quiet. “Jean, I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel our lunch. If you wouldn’t mind rescheduling –”

She shook her head, worried and confused but determined. “Oh no, mister. You’re sick and I’m coming over right now to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

His breath came quicker, and he looked downright scared, shaking his head frantically. “No!” Raising his voice must have irritated his throat, because he doubled over with a few deep, painful-sounding coughs. Once he’d gotten himself under control again, he went on. “I don’t… I don’t need a nursemaid and I’m contagious.”

She crossed her arms, glaring at her sick, stubborn friend. “So, I’ll get inoculated. What do you have?”

“I…” he broke off, coughing into his fist and shaking with each ragged breath. It took nearly a full minute before he could speak again. “Hesperan Thumping Cough, but…” 

“Save it,” She snapped at him, pulling up a small data window in the corner of her vid screen and searching the IME database for an article on the disease in question so she would have some idea of what she would be dealing with.

“Jean, really, you don’t need to –”

His stoicism was annoying at the best of times, but she had thought that he had better sense than to turn down help when he was obviously in such rough shape. Clearly, she had given him too much credit in the sense department, and her worry quickly turned into annoyance. “I might believe that you were okay to deal with this on your own if it didn’t look like you were about to fall out of you chair, but the way you’re weaving around while trying to sit still pretty much torpedoes any ‘I’m fine’ argument you might be planning on making. I’m coming over as soon as I get the shot.”

He seemed to shrink into himself after hearing her sharp tone. After a long moment, he nodded and said, very softly, “if you think it’s best…”

She softened at seeing the hurt, shame-filled look on his face and took a steadying breath before she spoke again. “I’m sorry, Mal. I’m just worried about you and I don’t want you to suffer if you don’t have to.” She was relieved when he seemed to relax at her gentler tone. “Now, do you have a glass of water? How about a blanket?”

He bobbed his head twice in the affirmative, staring past her and shivering. He sat forward slightly, wrapping his arms around himself like he was trying to warm up. Jean couldn’t remember ever seeing him look so miserable, so she gave him an encouraging smile and nodded. “Okay, Mal. Drink your water and then lie down until I get there. Try to stay warm, okay?”

Malcolm gave a resigned sigh and nodded tiredly. “Jean, I…”

She smiled when he trailed off, looking uncertain. “Save your voice and thank me later. For now, just rest. I’ll be there quick as I can.”

He nodded again and closed the call without another word. Her smile faded. He’d never really been a fan of small talk, but this was extreme even for him.

She started reading the IME entry about the disease Malcolm had mentioned. It just so happened that there was an up-to-date vaccine for HTC in the Med Banks at Starfleet Medical, so she could get inoculated and pick up medical supplies before going to look after him.

She called Starfleet Medical to talk to Phlox, and the Denobulan gave her a run-down of what to expect, but then he paused. “If there is any way I could be of assistance…”

“Actually, if you could put together a bag of supplies for at-home care, just basic equipment I’ll need to get his fever down and keep him hydrated. Also, if you could load a hypo with a dose of vaccine for Hesperan Thumping Cough and administer it to me, that would be really helpful.”

Phlox nodded, smiling beneficently. “Of course. I’ll have it already by the time you arrive.”

“Thank you, Phlox.” She smiled back at him and ended the call, switching her attention to the IME article.

She scrolled down through the symptom overview and loaded the info onto a PADD. Just as well it was a Saturday, and she didn’t work weekends. She shook her head. Never mind the weekend, if she couldn’t talk him into being treated at Starfleet Medical, this was going to keep her busy for the next few weeks. There were a few things at her place which might come in handy, so she quickly put together a bag of supplies, including a couple changes of clothes and some sundries. If she ended up staying at Malcolm’s place for a few days, and it looked like there might be a chance of that, she wanted to be prepared. Once the bag was packed, she grabbed her coat, turned off the lights, and headed out.

Malcolm stumbled away from his workstation and by some miracle managed to blindly feel his way back to the couch without walking into or tripping over anything. He counted that as a small victory, along with the fact that he had managed to sit down on the couch without pinning the fluffy blue comforter beneath himself. He felt around for the water bottle Stephens had left and gave a relieved sigh when his hand closed around it. Now that he knew where it was and that it wouldn’t go rolling away when he shifted the covers, he bundled himself back under the comforter.

It took a few minutes, but he drank nearly half of the bottle and then pulled the covers closer with a convulsive shiver, waiting for his breath to steady after so much exertion.

Getting up to answer the vid call had been an adventure. At first, he hadn’t been sure what the chiming noise was that had woken him, and then once he figured it out, he just wanted it to be quiet again so he could go back to sleep. After managing to get himself upright, his feet had become tangled in the blanket and he nearly fell, just barely managing to catch himself on the coffee table. The next bit had been difficult as well. None of the lights in his flat were turned on, and since the darkened monitor and desk space were flanked on one side by a bunch of matching cabinets and on the other by a curtained window, he hadn’t been able to see his workstation. He had just followed the chimes, hoping that whoever was calling wouldn’t give up before he reached the desk. One he had gotten there and tried to sit down; he had come awfully close to missing his chair altogether. Overall, he was glad to be back under his blanket with help on the way.

His eyes closed and he let himself relax, snuggling into the cushions and waiting for his self-made cocoon to warm up. Jean was coming. She was a doctor and, even better, she was his friend. This would be almost as good as being at hospital. Better, even, since he would be in his own flat instead of some cold, noisy ward.

Malcolm frowned. Harris had wanted him to lay low, and if he found out about Jean paying a home-visit, would the man consider that disobedience of a direct order? Malcolm didn’t know, and frankly, he realized that he didn’t much care. He didn’t want anyone to get into trouble on his account, but if he was honest, he’d been relieved when Jean had insisted on coming to check on him. The only thing left for him to do was sleep and hope that he didn’t manage to make her ill by accident…

Chapter Text

Sunset District, San Francisco, CA, 0823 hours, October 7, 2149

Jean knocked on Malcolm’s door, but there was no answer. She kept knocking, louder now, and tried shouting through the door. “Malcolm? Mal, if you don’t let me in, I will find a way to get this door open.” He didn’t reply, and she was just about to go ask the building manager for a spare key when her hand came to rest on the doorknob. Knowing how cautious Malcolm always was, she expected to find the door locked, so she was surprised when the knob turned easily in her hand and the door opened.

She stepped inside and shut the door behind herself, more worried than she had been a minute before. There was no way that Malcolm would have left his place unlocked. He was far too cautious – hell, the man was downright paranoid about some things – so she knew something was rotten in Denmark.

“Mal?”

A series of deep, awful sounding coughs answered her. She looked around for the source of the noise and spotted him on the couch, struggling to sit up. His dark, tousled hair and pale, damp face slowly came into view over the arm of the couch. With what looked like a great deal of effort, he finally managed to stand. Malcolm had wrapped himself in a dark blue comforter and was clutching it to his chest with one hand while the other hand was braced against the back of the couch. She smiled a little at the visual. He looked like a giant blue taco. A giant, blue, feverish taco caught in the midst of a wrenching coughing fit. Her smile vanished at the awful sounds, and she moved towards him, leaving her coat and supplies by the door. She rushed forward to steady him when he folded in half and lost his balance, one hand braced against his knee and still hacking away.

Jean put her arms around him, helping him straighten up and trying to keep him from listing sideways. “It’s okay, Malcolm. It’s okay,” she murmured, rubbing his back through the blanket. He leaned a good deal of his weight against her, and she held him tighter, starting to really worry when the coughs continued instead of dissipating. “I’ve got you.” He seemed to nod against her, but she had no idea whether he was signaling his understanding or if the motion was due to his labored breaths.

A few interminable seconds later he stopped coughing, and with her help he managed to stay upright, but he still seemed wobbly, so she didn’t plan on letting him go any time soon. Malcolm rested his head on her shoulder and gave a tiny groan, and she could feel the heat of his forehead radiating through her shirt. She frowned worriedly at his uncharacteristic behavior and continued to gently rub his back. For him to be acting like this, he must be extremely sick.

“Jean?”

She smiled and started trying to edge him towards his bedroom. This was the first time he had spoken since she had come in. “Yeah?”

He leaned against her more heavily and rubbed at his nose with a hankie. “I’m sorry I… cancelled lunch.”                                                                            

That was more in line with the Malcolm she knew. She chuckled and gave him a quick, affectionate squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get your fever and this nasty cough under control, okay?”

“Okay.” He nodded against her but then seemed to lose his footing for a moment. She caught him and shifted around so that his free arm was draped over her shoulders and one of her arms was wrapped firmly around his back. He gave a tiny, hesitant cough and let his head hang forward. “Sorry,” he croaked, starting to cough again, and she couldn’t tell if his cheeks were red from fever or if he was blushing.

“It’s okay, Mal. Just lean against me.” She resumed rubbing his back, knowing that the motion sometimes helped to soothe coughs. However, judging from what she had read about this Hesperan virus, she had a feeling that her standard bag of tricks might not be good enough. As they moved along, she felt his forehead and winced at how warm he was. “Poor thing, you’re burning up. C’mon. Let’s get you to bed.”

He didn’t really respond, except for trying to muffle a cough in the shoulder region of his puffy blanket and allowed her to lead him to his bedroom.

“Did you get sick on your trip?” She knew that he had, but it seemed as good a way as any to start the conversation.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded against her. “Yes.”

“And the people you were on this trip with, they didn’t take your stubborn English backside to a hospital when they saw how sick you were?”

He gave a slight shrug, seeming a little defensive about his colleagues’ actions. “They took me to a doctor. He said I’d…” he cleared his throat, wincing, but his voice still came out sounding low and hoarse. “I’d recover at home if I just rested.”

“Like hell,” she shook her head angrily. “I’d like to see that doctor’s license… and shove it up his malpracticing ass. Sending you home like this is completely irresponsible. You can barely stand, and with a fever as high as yours seems, dehydration is a killer. Someone as sick as you are needs to be looked after, and the people you were with, I really hope you don’t consider them friends, ‘cause they don’t seem to understand loyalty or empathy.”

He made a soft noise of protest and rubbed at his nose again. “Jean, please… not so loud. My head is killing me.”

She rubbed his shoulder apologetically and grimaced, not realizing that she had raised her voice. Considering how angry she was with that mysterious doctor, and Malcolm’s mysterious friends or colleagues or whatever they were, it wasn’t surprising that she had gotten loud. Those people, whoever they were, had contributed to Malcolm being in his current state, and that made her see red. The fact that they had just left him at home to take his chances with an alien virus and no medical care made her want to bash their heads in, her own Hippocratic oath be damned.

“I’m sorry,” she was careful to keep her voice low this time. “Is this better?”

He nodded, sniffling into his hankie. “Better...” He sneezed into the hankie twice and then sniffled again, groaning softly. His nose seemed to be bothering him quite a bit, too.

She shook her head, her protective instincts going into overdrive. “Bless you.”

Malcolm was dead on his feet by the time they reached his bedroom. She urged him to sit down on the bed and was surprised that he didn’t fight at all when she unwound the comforter from around his shoulders, although his shivering did become more pronounced. She kept a wary eye on him while she spread the comforter over his bed, noting that he crossed his arms over his chest as he shivered, probably in an effort to stay warm. She grabbed an extra pillow from next to the bed and put it on top of the pillow that was already at the head of his bed, turned down the covers and then gently touched his arm when he didn’t seem to notice that the bed was ready. “Mal? Do you want to lie down now?”

He started at her voice, looking confused for a moment before nodding at her with a forlorn expression. “Yes... please.”

She smiled gently, hoping to reassure him, but in the privacy of her own head, she was extremely worried. The only other time she had ever seen Malcolm this – well, pliant was the only word that came to mind – was never. She had never seen him like this. Even during their desert survival training, when he was concussed and on the verge of heat stroke, he had seemed more aware of what was going on around him and more in control of his faculties than he was right now, and that frightened her.

He lay down, or, more accurately, tipped over into bed with a soft moan and allowed himself to be tucked in. She tutted sympathetically and smoothed out the covers, drawing them up over his chest. “I’m going to scan you, okay? Just need to know how bad this fever is…”

His eyes were wide and almost frightened when he blinked up at her. “Can I have water?”

The desperation in his voice hit her like a kidney punch, but she managed to smile and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Of course, you can. Water, tea, soup, juice… you name it. Just rest easy and let me do my doctor thing, okay? Then I’ll get you a nice drink.”

Malcolm relaxed back into the pillows and closed his eyes. He smiled faintly, nodding. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Jean gave in to an impulse to straighten his hair with her fingers. He usually kept it so tidy, but just then it looked like some kind of mutant hedgehog was living on top of his head, and she knew that he wouldn’t want to be so unkempt.

“Hmm?” He blinked up at her, seeming confused by the touch.

She gave his hair a final brush with her fingers and stood up. “I’ll get my kit. You just relax.”

His only reply was a soft groan. His fever-glazed eyes slid shut again, and he pulled the covers tight as he shivered.

Jean quick-stepped into the main room, nearly breaking into a run as she headed for her bags. She scooped them up, slipping the handles over her arms so her hands would be free, and then she made a beeline for the kitchen, where she took down a large drinking glass and a ceramic pitcher, and she filled each container halfway with ice and topped them off with filtered water. After a short search through the cabinets, she found a plastic bendy straw, which she placed in the glass. One more quick look around confirmed that there wasn’t anything else she needed in the main apartment, so she headed back to the bedroom.

When she got back, Malcolm had rolled on to his side with the covers bunched up around him and he was coughing badly. Worry knotted in Jean’s stomach as she put the glass of ice water down on his bedside table and set her bags on the floor.

She sat on the side of his bed and rubbed his back, hoping to soothe the coughs. “Easy, Mal. Easy does it.”

He gave a feeble nod and wheezed, catching his breath for a moment before succumbing to another bout.

She kept rubbing his back with one hand while she used the other to unzip a compartment of her medical kit, fish out a medical scanner and turn it on. “It’s okay, Mal. Help is here. I’m just checking your fever, and…” the scanner beeped a warning, and the screen registered that his body temperature was 40.39C/104.7°F. She shook her head at the readout, setting the scanner aside as she resumed speaking. She was fairly sure that he couldn’t hear her over his barking coughs, but she reasoned that it couldn’t hurt to try.

“Okay. I’ve got your water right here, and once you’ve had it, I’m going to give you something to tame those coughs. Would you like that?”

The coughs abated just before she told him about the water and he didn’t answer at first, instead trying to catch his breath. After a minute he opened his eyes, although doing it seemed to take a lot of effort, and he blinked at her, nodding with a whispered, “Please.”

She smiled, glad that despite the high fever he still seemed to be pretty cogent. “Good. Do you want to sit up a little? It might help you breathe easier.”

He nodded again and tried to push himself upright, but he didn’t get far. His arms shook and the effort left him panting for breath. He lay back, wincing, and muttered, “How am I supposed to – “

She shook her head, gently scolding him. “I didn’t mean on your own, silly.” She moved closer and slid an arm under his shoulders, gently urging him into a sitting position. He made an unhappy sound, either because he felt wretched or in reaction to the manhandling, she had no idea which, and she gave him a fond squeeze. “I’m here to help, Mal.” She re-arranged the pillows and coaxed him to sit back against them. “I had a nasty case of pneumonia a few years ago, and it really helped my breathing to sit propped up.”

He just blinked at her for a moment, and then his eyes darted towards the water on his bedside table. “Jean?”

She picked up the drinking glass and held it for him, her concern growing as she watched him fumble for the straw. His hand was shaking, and he couldn’t seem to get a hold of the straw in order to guide it into his mouth, even though it was only a few inches from his face. She frowned. “It’s right there. Can’t you see it?”

He sighed quietly, looking embarrassed. “No, I can’t.” His expression became frustrated, and he balled one hand into a fist, softly hitting the mattress in a rare show of undisguised temper. “I can’t see a damn thing. Everything is blurred and I… I don’t…” He trailed off, squeezing his eyes tight and slowly shaking his head. She thought that he was just angry until she heard his breath catch. He grabbed the hankie out of his pocket, fumbled it to his face and sneezed into it twice, rubbing his nose through the cloth afterward and groaning to himself.

“Bless you, Mal.” She had moved the water out of the way in time, and now she put it down again and shifted to sit next to him with an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry about that. Blurred vision is just one of the symptoms and it will go away along with all the others. Actually, it’s the first symptom that clears up after your fever breaks, so we won’t have to wait too long.” The tension seemed to drain out of him when she pulled him a bit closer and rubbed at his far shoulder. “Until then, I’m here to help. Just let me be your eyes for a few days. Okay?”

When he gave a relieved nod, she picked up the glass again with her free hand and raised it until the straw brushed against his mouth. He shot her a wary glance but opened his lips for the straw and started drinking the water. After a few sips he relaxed against her and let his eyes close, apparently just enjoying the hydration. She watched him carefully, looking for any sign of impending coughs in case she needed to move the glass out of harm’s way. He managed to finish most of the water without incident, leaving a half-submerged lump of ice chips in the otherwise empty glass, and rested his head against the wall as she lowered the glass.

She put it aside and turned back to him, hoping that the drink had done him some good. “Did that help?”

He nodded a tiny bit, then sniffled badly and slowly raised the hankie to his face as his breath hitched. Jean let her arm run up and down his back as his breaths deepened, and she felt his muscles tense up before he pitched forward with another sneeze. He kept the hankie pressed to his face afterward as he sniffled.

“Bless you.”

He groaned again and was just starting to clear himself out into the hankie when another bout of coughs struck. She rubbed his back, waiting it out, and was surprised when he turned to fully lean against her. He rested his head on her shoulder and coughed into his hankie, holding the cloth tightly over his mouth as he shook with the fit. She was pleased, if surprised, by his uncharacteristically trusting behavior, and determined to let him know that she wouldn’t do anything to betray that trust. She held him close, resting her head against his and murmuring to his hair, “I’ve got you, Mal. Don’t worry about a thing.”

He seemed to nod in reply between coughs, but she couldn’t be sure. Not knowing what else to do, Jean used her left hand – the one not rubbing his back – to gently massage the center of his chest. It seemed to help somewhat, since the coughs started to peter off.

“Is this helping?”

He managed a nod, so she kept rubbing his chest until the coughs died out. Afterwards he rested against her side, his chest heaving, and moaned softly, “Jean?”

She moved her right arm up to loop around his shoulders again and used her other hand to reach for the glass on his bedside table. “Yeah?” The pitcher was just out of her reach, so she couldn’t top off his water, but there was still enough in the glass for Malcolm to have a few sips of water, and as for the remaining ice, it would do a good job of soothing his throat, which was undoubtedly sore from so much coughing. Fortunately, the glass was close enough that she didn’t have to lean away from him in order to pick it up.

The Englishman wiped the hankie at his nose and made a soft, unhappy noise. “I feel terrible.” His voice sounded painfully hoarse, and he rubbed a badly shaking hand at his throat, wincing after he spoke.

She smiled to herself, both amused and worried that he was admitting to being something other than fine. “I know, sweetie.” She gave him a gentle squeeze and rested her hand on his forehead. “I know. Ready for some medicine?”

“God, yes.” He croaked enthusiastically, which made her chuckle.

“Okay. Now I know you’re sick, since you’re being so cooperative.” She hugged him close for a moment and then offered him the glass again. “How about you have a bit more water and suck on some ice chips while I get the hypo ready?”

He nodded again and she put the glass into his hand, carefully wrapping his fingers around it and making sure he had a good grip on it before she removed her hand.

“Think you can manage?”

“I’ll try.” His hand was shaking badly, but he was able to get a mouthful of ice without any further help from her.

She watched him struggle for a few seconds, and only got up once she was certain that he didn’t need a hand. She swung her legs over the side of his bed and stood up, putting her bags on the empty side of his bed so she could keep an eye on him while she was unloading her supplies. “Okay, I’ve got some medicine here that’s usually used for treating the flu. It’ll help with most of your symptoms, but I can’t do anything about getting your eyesight back to normal. That will happen on its own. I’ve also got a few hundred cough drops, a salve for your chest to help loosen the congestion so your coughs will actually get rid of the junk in your lungs, and some herbal tea that will help your throat.” She glanced over at him, smiling. “You feel like having some tea?”

“With honey?” Even muffled by a mouthful of ice chips, his tone was unmistakably hopeful.

She grinned, tickled by the fact that he didn’t disprove the cultural stereotype about Brits and tea. “And lemon. I’m going to set you up with a chilled IV to make sure you stay hydrated. It will also help bring your fever down, so you’ll be more comfortable.” She loaded the hypospray with medicine and started calibrating it for the right dosage.

He smiled at her and closed his eyes, lowering his arm to rest on top of the covers and letting the glass of ice chips start to tilt in his hand. “Thanks, Maddie.”

Jean blinked for a second, confused, and gently took the glass from him. She put it back on his table along with the loaded hypo and scanned him again, frowning. The scanner beeped like it had before, but now his body temperature had shot up to 105.2°F/40.67C which might account for him being confused. “Malcolm, what did you call me?”

The smile didn’t leave his face as he shifted position slightly, settling against the pillows. “What I always call you, Maddie. You’re always so good about looking after me…” he stifled a yawn and coughed lightly into his hankie. “Even…” he coughed again, and a sad look came over his face, “even when Father told you it wasn’t worth the effort, you still stayed with me... took care of your big brother.” He opened his eyes again, looking up at her hesitantly, and reached out for her hand. “You will stay with me this time too, won’t you?”

Jean sat back down on the bed, taking his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Of course I will.”

She was torn. She knew that she should try to ground him in reality, but part of her wanted to play along with his fevered confusion in order to learn more about her reticent friend. After a brief debate, her less selfish side won out and she decided that playing along to gain insight into his past would be an underhanded thing to do. Using only one hand, since Malcolm was still holding the other one, she tipped the remaining ice chips into a clean washcloth from her bag and folded it envelope-style, squeezing the cloth for a few seconds so that heat from her skin would melt some of the ice and make the compress useful.

She smoothed Malcolm’s sweaty hair back from his forehead with one hand, then gently laid the compress on his skin and coaxed him to lean against her. He couldn’t see well enough to recognize her face, so letting him rest his head on her shoulder wouldn’t impede her efforts to identify herself to him. She made sure to keep her voice soothing and smiled, even though he couldn’t see it due to the awkward angle and his blurred vision. “Malcolm, I’m not your sister.”

He blinked up at her, looking confused. “Not my… But who else would bother to…”  He shook his head, starting to seem anxious, and tried to pull away, squinting at her suspiciously. “Who are you? What do... do you want from…” He started coughing again, shaking slightly in place, and he cringed away from her when she tried to rub his back.

“It’s me, Jean.”

She let him pull away, not wanting him to feel trapped, and fought to suppress her own disquiet at the implications of what he had said. So, at some point Malcolm had been ill, and when baby sis started to take care of him, Reed senior had told her not to do it? Well, bravo Maddie for not listening! And as far as Malcolm was concerned, there was no one other than his sister who would ‘bother’ to look after him without expecting something in return? Jean shook her head, hatred for Stuart Reed and sympathy for Malcolm temporarily overwhelming her. She had to close her eyes and slowly count to ten before speaking again.

“Jean, remember? From Starfleet Medical? We met during desert survival training in the Sahara. You twisted your ankle and I got stuck in some quicksand, and we've been friends ever since.”

He just shook his head, still shuddering with paroxysmal coughs, and made a feeble attempt to lean further away from her. If he tried to sit up by himself in his current state, he was liable to fall over. The bed was king-sized, so there was no risk of him toppling over onto the floor, but if he were lying flat it would take him that much longer to get his breathing under control. She put her arm around his shoulders again and drew him close, hoping that the action wouldn’t alarm him too much.

He groaned and tried to pull free, but this time she didn’t let him. “No, Mal. I came over here to look after you and that’s what I’m gonna do, whether you cooperate or not. Now, just rest against me and try to get your breath back.”

He stopped fighting her and let himself relax, making a pained sound between coughs when she started massaging his chest again. His breathing steadied a few seconds later and he muttered to her shoulder, “…hurts.”

She made a sympathetic noise and held him close for a moment. “I’m sorry, Mal. Those muscles must be sore from so much coughing, huh?”

He gave a tiny nod and she hummed. “Let me get that hypo for you…” She reached for the hypo of medicine and finished setting the dose, then injected it into his neck. He winced and let out a low groan. Giving the shot in his arm would have hurt less, but the medicine would work more quickly this way.

“I know, the meds aren’t fun, but I promise they will help you feel better.” He made another pained sound and sniffled but didn’t move away. His hankie had disappeared somewhere among the covers, along with the cold compress, so Jean set aside the hypo and put a box of paper tissues on his lap. She put a tissue in one of his hands and then hunted around for the compress, hoping to use it to get his fever down. After a minute she stopped looking and decided to get his IV set up instead, since that would be a more effective way of lowering his temperature. She stood up, keeping her arm around his shoulders in order to ease him into a comfortable position on the pillows. Once he was propped up, she withdrew her arm and headed towards her kit again.

“Thought so.” He gave her a sad look as she moved away and then he closed his eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t stay.” He spoke softly, and the resignation in his voice hit her like a physical blow.

If he had sounded surprised or hurt, it might not have affected her as much, but the fact that he expected her to abandon him and let him suffer alone very nearly broke her heart. True, because of the fever he wasn’t exactly in his right mind, but she suspected that just then it was affecting him more like truth serum than a hallucinogen, and as such it allowed her a rare peek behind his formidable defenses. What she saw was a sad, lonely man who seemed to have learned the hard way that he shouldn’t expect anyone to go out of their way for him or offer him comfort. She decided that that was going to change, effective immediately. Malcolm Reed was just going to have to get used to the fact that he had a friend who was willing, nay, who was actually eager to help him, and she would do whatever was necessary to make sure the message got across.

“No, sweetie.” She shook her head and petted his sweaty hair back, hoping that he would open his eyes so she could at least tell if she was getting through to him. “I am staying, Mal. I’m just getting up for a minute to set up some supplies so I can look after you.” She bit her lip, trying to think of a way to prove that leaving his side and leaving him alone weren’t the same thing. “Do you want me to bring you some more water?”

His eyes opened and he stared at her for a long moment with a guarded expression before nodding slightly. “Please.”

She smiled and went back to her kit, quickly rigging up a collapsible IV pole and hanging a bag of Ringer’s lactate from it. The IV solution was held in an ice-pack type sleeve to keep the liquid chilled. Jean talked to her patient while she worked, since she knew that he couldn’t see her very well, if at all, and she wanted to reassure him that she was still nearby.

“Just so you know, Mal, I’m here to look after you and I’m not gonna leave you on your own until you’re feeling a hell of a lot better. I might have to get clothes or supplies in a day or two, but I’ll make sure that someone will be here to look after you while I’m out. You won’t have to go through this by yourself, okay? D’you hear me?”

He nodded listlessly, his gaze dull and unfocused. “I hear you, Jean,” the gray eyes slid shut and he frowned, muttering, “I just don’t understand. Why are you –”

She shook her head and gave a frustrated sigh as she unpacked more supplies from her kit. “Because you’re my friend, you impossible, stubborn man! And I won’t let you be alone and miserable. One or the other if there’s no helping it, but not both at the same time. You’re important to me, so I can’t sit idly by when you’re suffering. I have to help. Clear enough?”

He didn’t respond. She took his hand and carefully inserted a peripheral IV, adjusting the IV drip to an appropriate speed and then taking a moment to pet back his hair again. Sweaty and matted wasn’t exactly a bad look for him, oddly enough, but seeing him so far removed from his usually neat self unnerved her. He relaxed slightly as her fingers ran through his hair, so, on a hunch, she repeated the gesture. With any luck, she had just found something that might help soothe the not-so-savage beast. He sighed a little at the touch, sounding more at ease, and she smiled to herself. “It’s okay, Mal. I’m here for you.”

She sat by his shoulder, just watching him breathe for a while and scanning him every so often. Despite what she had said, there wasn’t too much she could do for him except sit idly by. There was no cure for this virus, so she had to let it run its course. She could give him medicine for his symptoms, keep him company and try to help him feel better, but not much else.

The corner of something white poking out from under the dark blue comforter caught her eye. She grabbed it and realized that it was the cool compress. She smoothed it in place on Malcolm’s hot forehead with a relieved sigh. “Well, this should help a little.” His eyelids twitched and gradually came open. He blinked at her for a full minute without saying a word.

After a while, his silent, steady gaze started to make her uncomfortable. She dabbed the cool cloth at his face and the sides of his neck, hoping he would speak. She didn’t even care if what he said made sense or not, she just wanted to know that his brain wasn’t frying. After a while, the cloth started to feel warm and dry in her hand, and she squeezed it, realizing that she would have to get it wet again if she expected it to do him any good.

“Mal, I’m gonna get some cool water for this cloth, okay? I’ll be back in a minute. Do you want anything from the kitchen?”

He coughed a little, wincing, and shook his head with a pained grimace. “No.” When she stood up, he grabbed at her hand and looked genuinely frightened. “Maddie? Where are you going? ”

Jean cringed inwardly. She had thought that he was acting more lucid, but it seemed that he was stuck in his fevered delusion. Trying to snap him out of it once had agitated him, and since she didn’t want to do that again, this time she reluctantly played along. It didn’t matter that he thought she was someone else, although the experience was a little disturbing for her. The important thing was to help him stay calm and comfortable, so she put on a happy face and tried to do just that. “I’m just going to the kitchen, Mal. Don’t worry, I’m coming right back.”

He relaxed back into the pillows and gave a genuine smile, and she thought it was the first time he had looked fully at-ease since she had arrived. “So… you’re going to stay?”

“Yes.” She petted his hair back again. Doing that really did seem to help him relax, because he loosened his grip on her hand. She took the opportunity to stand up and move out of his reach, just in case he tried to make another grab for her. “Close your eyes, sweetie. I’ll be right back with something to help you feel better.”

He did as she said and she stepped through the doorway, shaking her head as she moved back into the kitchen. She needed to track Maddie down and find out what the hell had happened to Malcolm when they were kids. Jean frowned. At least, she assumed that if he was reliving an actual memory instead of just raving, it was probably something that happened when he was young. She got out a bowl and set it in the kitchen sink, letting it fill under the faucet while she opened his stasis unit and looked around for ice-pop. Anything to bring his temperature down and soothe his tortured throat.

“M… Maddie?”

She shook her head at the unsteady voice coming from the Englishman’s bedroom and winced when he started coughing badly. Phlox. She needed help from Phlox. He knew about this disease. As soon as Malcolm was sleeping peacefully, she would call Starfleet Medical and ask the Denobulan doctor to come lend a hand. With any luck, he could bring a wider array of medicine and enough cold packs to help keep Malcolm’s fever from climbing too high.

“Coming.” She switched off the faucet, grabbed the bowl of water and something called a ‘Pineapple-Dazzle’ fruit pop, and walked back towards her sick friend. The next few days were going to be rough.