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Malcolm Reed was a lousy patient. Phlox, who was notorious for being willing to help even the worst patient, couldn’t handle Malcolm. He was too stubborn, too work-oriented. Even the idea of spending a day off when he shouldn’t need to made him impatient.
Colds were the worst. No cure for them, just bed rest. The one thing Malcolm despised.
Phlox didn’t want to confine him to sickbay. He really didn’t want to have to monitor the man 24/7, assuring that he was in bed, resting, and not trying to escape. Luckily for him, Trip was more than eager to help.
“Look, Phlox, how bad could he really be? Besides, if I help him through an illness, he’s gonna owe me a bunch!”
Two days later, however, Trip was starting to regret his decision. It seemed that Malcolm’s cold was a bit more than the common cold. Phlox had moved them both to the decon-chamber, just to make sure they didn’t infect anyone else.
Malcolm, for his part, seemed to be doing much work. He had chills, a nasty cough, and, worst of all, a bad fever that only seemed to get hotter and hotter.
Phlox had given him every medicine he could think of to combat the fever, but nothing seemed to be working. Malcolm had moved into a state of delirium, getting up and walking around and talking to thin air, only to suddenly collapse on the ground as if nothing had happened.
Trip was worried. Very worried. He cared for the man, he really did. He was a brave soul, the best armory officer he’d ever known. He didn’t deserve to go like this.
“Hey, Malcolm?” Trip asked, nervously, “Do you want some water? Doctor Phlox said you need to drink a ton so you don’t dehydrate.”
Malcolm only rolled over in response.
“Jeez, Malcolm,” Trip sighed, rubbing his face, “I don’t want you to die on me, okay?”
He placed his hand on his partner’s shoulder and squeezed it gently.
Surprisingly, Malcolm leaned into the touch, shifting his head so Trip had no choice but to cup his cheek. The man was burning up, his face almost hurt Trip’s hand.
“God, Mal…”
Gently, as to not disturb the man, he unzipped his jumpsuit (God only knew why he was still wearing the thing) and pulled it down around his waist.
“I’m gonna take off your shirt, Malcolm,” he whispered, pushing a strand of sweaty hair off his face, “Just to cool you down. You’re burning up.”
Carefully, he pulled off the undershirt and tossed it on the ground.
“Oh,” Trip said suddenly, gazing at Malcolm’s bare chest, “Oh, Mal, I’m sorry…”
His fingers hovered over the two thin scars that ran along the bottom of Malcolm’s pectoral muscles. Trip didn’t need to be a genius to know what those were. Quickly, he placed the light, cotton sheet on top of his body, giving him the privacy he wanted.
Hopefully, Trip thought, as he placed a light kiss on his partner’s forehead, Malcolm would wake up and be able to tell him, in his own time, all of his secrets.