A man can get a lot of thinking done if he spends all day laying tied to a bed looking at the same gray designs on the ceiling. I've started my own cosmology lying here. The pattern above my head is the giant crapper (military issue, of course) and the collection of dust bunnies besides it is the drunken major, who creates and destroys the universe by eating it and then puking it back up. Hey, if the Greeks and Romans can have goddesses made from semen and ocean foam, bodily fluids are certainly legitimate mythological symbols. If I didn't join the military, I would have majored (ha, majored...I used to be a major...wait, I am a major!) in classical studies. Back in the day, people didn't bother to hide their violence, their political agenda, or their sexuality. I would have been happy there. A Spartan prince...that's me. Or a Caesar. Matteus Aurelius, Emperor of the Sickbayian Empire. That has a nice ring to it...though I've never been good at the paperwork side of bureaucracy.

I've been in sickbay for five days already, though I've only been fully awake for about two of them. I'm not sure whether or not these slightly crazy (okay, maybe more than slightly crazy) thoughts come from the drugs, the restless confinement, or -god forbid- the post-traumatic stress of nearly dying. I'm not really in any pain, though I can remember what it feels like to have a heart burn (ha ha, not the indigestion kind). I know I never want to feel that again: like your insides are set on fire, an almost itching vulnerability, and a crushing pressure. It still feels like I'm being torn in half every time I move, even the slightest bit. So no moving. Not even the drunken major on the ceiling can move.

But that doesn't stop me from trying to get out of here. Another day and I think my sanity will become a casualty. After my ill-conceived attempt stand up yesterday, Phlox has literally decided to tie me down. Luckily these are class-three restraining cuffs. Despite the agonizing pull on my chest, I lift my right arm to execute an escape technique I could do in my sleep...or on lots and lots of happy juice. I've escaped many a hospital this way. I'm surprised it's not in my medical file.

I've just started on the left cuff when I hear a muted giggle, "Naughty, naughty."

Great, she's awake again. Actually, I'm rather pleased. She's the only company I've got in this hell-hole...a fellow prisoner, but also a force to be reckoned with. She's a Fleeter, after all. Can't trust them. Well, actually I can. I can die for them too, and I nearly did. Still, I can't trust them with this. Despite the hardship of the past year, they're still all explorers at heart. Not big on the tough-guy stuff. Except Lieutenant Reed...

Damn, I was trying not to think about him. I dreamed about him, isn't that embarrassing enough? I was laying on my bed in an ocean of drug induced euphoria, seeing all the moments of my life: when I fell out of a tree and had to get ten stitches to close up the gash in my forehead; the resounding ring of the rifle shots at my father's funeral; the dappled gray of his eyes the first time they met mine head-on in challenge; the first day of basic training when I accidentally broke my sparring partner's wrist; my eleventh birthday party; the day I lost my virginity in Amy Chan's bathtub; his firm body pressed against mine as he tried to pin me to the floor; the fatal shot through the twinkle of the transporter beam; how I wanted to say so many things to him while I lay dying, but couldn't get beyond the soldier in me to do it.

You might think that, as a man who's spent most of his life conforming to the rigid structure of 'the establishment,' I would conform to general stereotypes about dying as well. But I didn't. There was no dark tunnel with a light at the end. I'm not sure who would be waiting for me on the other side either. Sure, I've known a lot of men -good men- that have died in battle, and I've cared for them as well, but never enough for them to show up at my house after work, let alone show up to greet me after death.

No, it was more like a fun house, with mirrors all around, the reflections in them slightly imperfect, each exposing a different flaw: my overwhelming pride, the scar on my left temple from that brawl at the Hustler Club in Atlanta, that gigantic chip on my shoulder. And there was a clown, one of the few things that could ever truly scare the valiant Matt Hayes. The clown opened his wide mouth to suck down all the mirror images, the flaws, the memories, until I was staring past gigantic tonsils to an overwhelming darkness. And then I dreamed he was there, sitting leaning forward on his elbows with his hands buried in his face.

I don't know where I was, really. I think he might have been sitting in sickbay, or in his quarters, but I could only see him--as though the rest of the world was out of focus. He wasn't crying, but I wouldn't expect him to. Men like myself and Malcolm Reed have learned not to cry. I'm not sure it makes us better or stronger or more courageous; it just makes us look tough. And leadership is all about looks.

But, I'm letting the drugs distract me--my usually precise thoughts flowing one into another like fruit tumbling out of those things they have at Thanksgiving...cornucopias, that's it! What was I talking about?...not turkey. I was talking about Malcolm...um...Lieutenant Reed. He's called Lieutenant Reed damn it! I hate drugs. I'd rather have pain than drugs. Who knows what I might accidentally let slip in this state?

So...Lieutenant Reed. In my dream, he wasn't crying, but his eyes looked far away. My old CO, Colonel Rogers, used to get that look on his face when he was planning an attack, like he was looking into the future. My mother used to get that look, after my father died. I guess she was looking into the past. I could see the shadows tumbling in his eyes--almost read them. In fact, I knew that I could have read them if I had wanted, but I chose not to.

They used to tell us about the best weapon being good intelligence (though I always preferred a pulse rifle), but I didn't want intelligence this time. I wanted to earn the knowledge. In battle you learn to take what you can get...you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when the gift is your life. But somewhere along the line, my relationship with Malcolm...Lieutenant Reed, stopped being a battle. I don't know what that makes it, but I guess I'll cross the bridge when I come to it.

I dreamed that he could see me. I couldn't talk to him, but somehow I know he was thinking about me. Maybe he was just thinking that it was one too many men...that we had gone beyond the acceptable rate of casualty, but whatever he was thinking, I saw the stubborn jut of his jaw, the dark power in his eyes. His entire body said that he wouldn't stand for it anymore...that this casualty was not acceptable. He seemed...well...he seemed angry! And intense...as though his refusal to accept it would be to prevent it. I guess it worked, because here I am...assuming this isn't hell.

Trapped immobile with a bumbling Denobulan and a babbling linguist, who I can't understand half the time...no, I don't think the devil's that creative.

Speaking of the devil...or at least one of him minions in sweet Asian girl clothing. "Hey Matt!" she giggles, peering at me with wide brown eyes over the back of the chair Phlox has set up next to me. According to Phlox, she's still running a fever or something, so she's a little on the loopy side of unloopyness. I guess that makes two of us. "What're we going to do today? Pensez-vous?"

She's asked me this everyday since I've been awake, and I still have no idea what pensez-vous means. I hope it doesn't mean something like, 'I would like you to give me a sensual massage and then I will suck your cock,' because I always answer with, "Nothing."

"øComo est·s?"

I actually understand that one. I spent a little while with the peacekeeping forces down in the Pantanal, and...well, Spanish and Portuguese aren't that much different. "Same as yesterday. Stir crazy." I hate being cooped up in here when there might be something I can do out there.

"I know how you feel. They won't let me out of here...what if he's alive, Matt?" She seems to have the same thought-jumping problems that I do.

"You were there." And I was unconscious. Hell, when Mackenzie and Kemper were in here earlier, they couldn't even tell me much. The Fleeters have been pretty tight-lipped about it. I bet he knows. I bet he's tearing himself apart about it. It's the security officer's job to do anything necessary for the well-being of the ship, and protecting the captain is one of those things. I'm probably the only other one on this ship that understands, but there's no way he'd come to me about it. I sigh.

"I was there, but I wasn't really kovesh." What? What were we talking about? That sounds kind of like a Middle Eastern dessert. Or...Kabash! Pow! Zam!

"Hmm...I sometimes think I'm not really kovesh." I really hope kovesh doesn't mean incredibly competent and studly.

"But, as they say, de'ke'lah." Do they now? "I...I just...I can't imagine that he's really dead. I mean...he was like uno zio to me. I can't believe he's just...gegangen." Gone. I understand that one too! My grandmother was German...boy was she ever...I turn my head to look over at her, reaching out the hand I just removed from the restraints, ignoring the burning in my chest. She takes it and clasps it tight...like her only lifeline. ". . . He was a good captain...and I loved him as a friend...I've known him since I was practically a child. And...well, we're supposed to say that it was an honorable sacrifice, but...that doesn't change the fact that he's..."

She wipes the tears away from her face, sniffling slightly. I want to make her feel better. I just don't know what to say...I'm drugged, and I don't know her very well. I almost died trying to save her, but I don't know her. She's a class above me, one of the best and the brightest. And I may know a few things, and -I think- a lot more about the world...I guess that makes us worlds apart.

But you don't need to speak a hundred languages to understand pain. Hell, if I've learned anything on this mission, it's that you don't even have to be human. I squeeze her fingers. "It's not supposed to make you feel like you haven't lost him, Hoshi. It's just supposed to make you feel as though there was something good in it...that because of what he did, things not only can get better, but they must get better."

She sniffles. "Is that how you do it? It can't be that easy."

I shake my head. It's never easy. Hell, to lose both a CO and a friend...another reason for those fraternization regs. A good commander makes sure his troops can go on without him, even if that means cutting himself off from those around him. "You wouldn't want it to be easy."

She smiles heartlessly, agreeing. She stands to go, releasing my hand. Almost subconsciously, it moves to my chest to start scratching whatever the doctor has put on it--I can't really raise my head enough to see.

She turns and yells, "Matt! Even I know you're not supposed to be touching that! Besides...ewwww! I'm going to get the doctor."

"Please don't." He's going to give me another one of his lectures and then tie my up in class-four restraints...and those I might only be able to get out of if they were tied behind my back and I could dislocate my shoulder. I hate that man. He's just too damn...cheerful. Am I supposed to be happy that I'm not allowed to move? God, that itches. I reach up a little and my hand comes into contact with something that's...slimy? Woah, woah, woah, what the hell is that? "On second thought, please do."

He never said anything about slimy creatures roaming around on my chest while I'm in restraints! What if one tries to choke me? Or crawl into my eyeball or something? I manage something that's halfway between a groan and a yelp...a grelp? Hoshi turns back to look at me again. "Don't touch that either, Matt! You might upset her." Her? Well, at least I've solved the mystery of why all my visitors seem to be trying to avoid looking at my wound. And I thought it was because they didn't want to think about me dying.

Hmm...maybe if I put myself back in restraints before he comes, Phlox won't bring out the big guns. That'll do it. I've just got my right hand resecured just as the doctor pulls open the curtain, a hesitant smile on his face. I pretend to be asleep.

"Don't bother with the act, Major, I know you're awake." Damn, "Though I don't see how he could have been scratching at his wounds tied up like that, Ensign Sato."

"That's because I wasn't. I don't know what kind of drugs you're giving this girl, Doctor." I try on my most innocent smile, trying not to think about the thing on my chest and turn it into a grimace. Hoshi glares at me.

The doctor just smiles again. "A word of advice, Major: Never try to lie when you're hooked up to a biomonitor." Damn, damn, double-damn. I know how to counter that...if I only I had been thinking...

"Besides, she's turned orange," Hoshi adds helpfully, and the doctor beams at her like his best student has just answered the challenge question.

"Huh? Who?" I'm having trouble tracking the conversation again...orange? I never did like the color...too conspicuous. But then again...we could run into an alien planet where all the vegetation was orange, and our camo would stand out like a sore thumb. An orange planet? That's an even scarier idea than Planet Hollywood.

"Lucy."

"Lucy?" I ask, though the doctor looks just about as confused as I am.

"Phlox's osmotic eel." She says it like any idiot would know the slimy thing on my chest was called Lucy. And I suppose the bat is Ricky. She leans down and speaks to my chest, "Has Matt been being mean to you, sweetheart?"

"Ugggh." That was a mix between a grunt and a groan...groant?

"Now, Major, not only would it be unwise to make uh...'Lucy' mad at you, but it is also crucial that you don't try to move. Do you have any idea how much work I had to do to your heart and lungs? You don't want to pop any of the stitching. And there is a reason I have listed you condition as critical, Major."

He looks stern and kind of scary. I hadn't thought of this before, but he's an alien! I mean, I knew it, but...the guy responsible for keeping me alive is an alien! And his eyes are too blue. I'm starting to wish I hadn't redone the cuffs. "I know, doctor, but..."

"What would you say to me if I wandered out of sickbay and started tap dancing down the halls during a tactical alert?"

This sounds like a trap...an alien trap...he's trying to gather intelligence...he's a spy..."I would tell you that it was your duty to maintain the security of this ship, like the rest of us, even though, as an alien and a civilian, you aren't required to."

"What if I thought that it was my duty to tap dance?"

Well...seeing as I don't see him learning how to tap dance anytime soon, I suppose it's a safe question to answer. "I would tell you that you're not qualified to make that kind of decision and forcibly remove you from the corridor."

"That, Major, is exactly why I am going to be forced to take drastic measures. class-five cuffs. When Mr. Reed was in here last night he told me class-three was being too easy on you. I didn't believe him." Reed? What? Here?

I nearly choke on the words, "Malcolm was here?"

"He's come in every night to check on you." Well now. I wince as I hear my heartrate speed up on the biomonitor. Deep breathes...concentrate on the beat...bring it down.

Phlox stares at the screen, concentrating. "Interesting...don't worry, Major, I don't think he was here to start a fistfight." Fistfight...Malcolm...sweaty...rolling around on the ground...soft skin...hot breath...Beep beep beep. Oh shit.

"I have an idea," Hoshi giggles, blushing. This can not be good. I recognize that look...it's the same look my older sister used to give me before she'd set me up on a date with one of her friends or decided it would be fun to tie me to the playset (and you think I learned how to get out of restraints in special ops training?).

"Yes, Hoshi. I would prefer not to have to tie my patients up." He looks pointedly at me. I look away.

"If Matt doesn't listen to you, I will simply put a call through to his mother."

I feel my heartrate increase this time--a burning pain in my chest. "You wouldn't..." I shoot her a murderous glare. My mother? She can hit a target with an old fashioned led rifle at 500 yards. And she can do the guilt-trip/death-glare better than anyone. Not to mention her connections...and her...the woman is just scary. I did not set a toe out of line in her house. No, Siree.

Hoshi smiles sweetly. Traitor. She just playing nice so the doctor will let her out...I see how it is, Mata Hari. I will get her back for this...I don't care if she is a Fleeter, or a woman, or half my age...she will pay. No one messes with Hayes family politics and escapes unscathed. I gulp. "You can take off the cuffs, Doctor. I'm not going anywhere." Not even to wipe that smug smile off her face.

"Fascinating." He turns to Hoshi, "Do human males ordinarily react this way to mention of their mothers?" I'm sitting right here!

Matt Hayes may be a grunt, but he is not a scientific experiment. "Trust me, Doctor, if you knew my mother, you would understand." Father had us do push-ups as punishment...she used the Scarlet Letter Technique...nice to have your entire class know you were the one that got kicked in the chest cow-tipping, because you have the hoof print stained to your shirt and outlined in permanent ink.

"Hmm...my mothers were all very friendly." Are there any Denobulans that aren't 'very friendly?' Aliens. But at least he's releasing me. I lift my hands to rub my wrists, but the doctor grabs them and does it for me, Hoshi walking -or kind of stumbling- over to the other side of the bed to do the left one. I am not a child, damn it! I don't need too grown people to tend to me...like parents...that would make them married. Hoshi and the doctor sitting in a tree...I actually laugh outloud and Phlox looks at me strangely, checking the biomonitor. "Well, I think it's time someone had his mid-afternoon nap." I already had my early-morning, mid-morning, late-morning, and early-afternoon naps, I need another nap like I need a hole in my head...but the hole's in my chest. Ouch...big hole.

Hoshi giggles hysterically. "You can see the pink rhinoceri too?" Who the hell says rhinoceri?

Phlox looks from one to the other of us. Triage. "I think you could do with a nap too, Ensign." Hoshi actually curls up her lower lip and pouts. "Come now, I'll help you to your bed." He extends his arm to her but keeps his too-blue eyes on me. "When I have her settled, I'm coming back to check on you. And you had better be asleep."

As they make their exit she fixes me with a suddenly serious stare. "Bella gerant alii." Let others wage war. Yeah, when pigs fly and it starts raining Klingons.

"Mordete me." Bite me.

She looks momentarily insulted, then her eyes light up. "Matt, you didn't tell me you spoke Latin!" She starts walking back towards me, opening her mouth to speak, but Phlox catches ahold of her.

"Ensign Sato, I must insist."

"Cras. Ientaculum. Tibi recito." Tomorrow. Breakfast. I read to you. I'm looking forward to it. It's been a long time...I smile.

I eye Phlox. He looks pretty determined as he drags her away from me. But Hoshi and I are clever...and we speak Latin. "Deo adiuvante." As God allows, I yell as the good doctor drags her back over to her own biobed.

Now...how to stay awake long enough to catch Malcolm when he comes to check in on me...

I haven't seen much of him--except in my dreams. I assume he's been busy, trying to do repairs and keep up morale. Even though I really do feel like a part of this crew, I know that the Fleeters are different from us. They're not used to dealing with losses--and we've lost so many. To deal with the loss of their captain as well...Malcolm understands this. He understands how to step up and show strength in the face of tragedy. He might fray a little in the outside shell that's still Starfleet, but underneath, he knows the awful truth...that people die, and we were damned lucky we got away with this many and not more.

The vulcan can't possibly be expected to understand...she came in the other day. I heard her talking to the doctor about the captain's dog. I was surprised when she petted it. For a second, she almost sounded...human. But I assume I was hallucinating. There's no doubt that the captain's death has affected her, but how could she understand human grief? We can't even understand it fully.

As for Commander Tucker...he was already a mess before this happened...The second I read through his file, I thought of him as a security risk--a ticking time bomb. Cole was really worried about him on a personal level--and she usually doesn't let herself get tangled up in other people's emotional messes. But, in all fairness, she lost people in the attack too -not her little sister, like he did- but even she wasn't unaffected. And we've both seen people we knew die enough times that it shouldn't hurt as much...even though I'd be worried if it ever stopped hurting entirely. No, Tucker's in no shape to pull this crew together--he knew the captain longer than anyone. Starfleet was even concerned that they were too close friends to go on this mission together.

So it's all up to my boy Malcolm...well, he isn't mine and he isn't Malcolm...well he is...but he's not supposed to be--in my head at least. I resolve to stay awake until I can finally catch a glimpse of him...

. . . Malcolm is looking down at me. Someone is doing something to my chest, but Malcolm is just staring into my eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, but his lips are set in a line. He looks so sad...so regretful. I want to cry for him. I want to hug him and tell him it will be all right. I want to move the universe to take away his pain, take it onto myself. But he doesn't cry. And I can't move. I can't even reach out to grab his hand. I am universes away...and all I want to do is be with him. Things are fading to black...images...sounds...dreams...

Then his voice, as clear as the most perfect crystal...that accent that has always made me just a little weak in the knees. "Doctor!"

Doctor...I don't need a doctor, I need an armory officer...I know a torpedo tube that would like some attention...

"Doctor!" Where is that voice coming from, anyway...

Then, pain...a tightening in my chest, cobwebs in my head. I guess my resolve to stay awake wasn't nearly as steadfast as I had hoped. This is all Phlox's fault. Alien conspirator.

Then the voice again, shouting, "Doctor! Phlox! Where the bloody hell are you?!"

I open my eyes groggily. I can just see Malcolm across the room--he's holding onto -or rather, holding up- someone taller than he is, thought that person is hunched over and shrunken into himself, almost like an old man. Maybe it's just my vision, but the other figure seems to be trembling until his silhouette is blurred. I think he is cradling his left hand in his right, but I can't be sure.

Malcolm leads him over to one of the biobeds next to me. Besides the shaking, it appears he can walk on his own. Malcolm has turned on the light by that bed, so I can see the silhouetted form against the screen. Malcolm puts his hands on the other man's shoulders, "Trip, I'll be right back. I'm going to get the doctor, okay?"

Tucker just nods, lying himself down and folding his lanky form into a fetal ball as Malcolm runs off to Phlox's sleeping area. With no motion in the room besides the shaking of his shoulders, I can make out the sound of quiet sobbing. So, he finally cracked. I would have expected it before now.

Moments later, Phlox and Malcolm rush back in. Phlox takes a scan and immediately goes off to find something. Whatever it is, is some sort of creepy crawly. I don't envy the man...then again, misery loves company.

As Phlox places whatever it is on the commander's hand he looks over at Malcolm (the alien's silhouette is even creepier than looking at him head on!) and scolds menicingly, "These are third degree burns, Lieutenant. I trust you know the procedure is to call a medical emergency so I can be ready by the time he gets here."

"I am aware of that, Doctor. But I think that discretion was necessary in this case."

Phlox scoffs, "The commander burns himself in engineering all the time."

Malcolm seems to pause, standing there as tense as if he were going into battle. His voice has a strange bite to it, as though to both conceal and cut through to reveal at the same time, "The captain is gone, Doctor. Trip is the next highest-ranking officer, even if T'Pol is temporarily in command. The crew cannot see him like this."

"Very well." Phlox nods, and hangs his head slightly. Tucker hasn't moved at all throughout the conversation. "I just have to check to see it there are any residual metallic ions in the wound."

Malcolm sighs reluctantly. "That won't be necessary, Doctor. It was done using a plasma torch." A plasma torch? I may be just a grunt, but even I know that you don't get third degree burns from a plasma torch unless you deliberately hold it to your hand...they're hiding something...conspirators.

The doctor pauses. He obviously knows this too. "Perhaps it would be best if I kept him here for observation. I'll give him a sedative. Maybe you should stay until he falls asleep." I hear the hiss of a hypospray, Malcolm nods, and Phlox pulls another screen closed before he leaves.

Malcolm is standing beside Tucker, rubbing his back and murmuring, "Everything's going to be all right, Trip." The sobs intensify just a little bit. "We'll be back on Earth soon. You can see your family. You can take me hiking through the Everglades like you promised. We'll go fishing...and build a bonfire. And you can let it all out. But he wouldn't have wanted you to hurt yourself, Trip. You know that."

Tucker nods with a choked sob, and Malcolm learns down to kiss his cheek. I feel a spark of anger rise within me. Jealousy? I refuse to be jealous of a clumsy engineer who can't fight. What could Malcolm possibly see in him? Cole, I can understand, but Malcolm? He's better than that. He needs a strong man...one that can equal him. "I'll come to take you back to your quarters before shift, okay? We still have a crew to lead." He pats Tucker's arm a few more times and I hear the sobs deepening to the slow breaths of sleep.

Malcolm begins to walk out, but stops halfway to the door and turns back, pulling the curtain to my area aside. I close my eyes and feign sleep.

"I know you're awake, Major," he whispers.

"The biomonitors?"

He shrugs, just a slight movement of his shoulders, more subtle than the breeze. "I just know."

He doesn't know how long I've been awake. But he's paranoid enough to assume the entire time, so I might as well fess up. "I overheard. Is everything alright?"

I see the confusing in his eyes, even in the dim lighting. His lips part just slightly, like that second before a kiss, but he closes them again into that tight lipped smile/grimace. "Everything's as well as can be expected." So, not all right at all. "Don't worry about it, Major. Focus on getting better." If he were in my position, he'd do the same, and he knows it, but his concern is genuine. I flash him a desperate smile. "I'll...I'll be back in the morning."

"I'd like that." I can't seem to keep the loopy grin off my face.

He shifts uncomfortably, but I can tell he's hiding his own smile. "Er...goodnight, Major."

"Goodnight, Malcolm." Lieutenant Reed, damnit--though, if he's noticed, he doesn't let on. Luckily he's turned to go before he can see me grimace at my statement. Did I mention how much I hate drugs?

He's true to his word. The next day he comes in with a tray of pudding from the galley and a protein shake. Tucker had disappeared by the time I woke up. Unusual for Phlox, but, then again, Malcolm can be very persuasive if he wants to be.

He drops the food on the tray next to my bedside. I look at it in horror, hoping he's not going to try to feed me. That's the last indignity I need him to see. It's bad enough that he can see me lying here helpless and weak. He opens the pudding and puts a spoon in it, but turns to me with a knowing smile. He was only teasing. "I'm not allowed in for very long...something about Latin and rhinoceri? I just wanted to make sure you were alright." He's far too serious. I can tell he's been worried about me. And if my dreams are to be believed...he was very worried about me.

I smile and try to make light of it. "Every day I beat my own previous record for consecutive number of days I've stayed alive."

He chuckles. "Actually, Major, you've got to live thousands more to do that."

"Excuse me?"

"You died on the operating table--flatlined." He looks down. I don't remember much of that, but I guess he was there, so he saw it. When he looks back up I can see a haunted look in his eyes. It must have been a really close call. Hell, I know it was a really close call...I wasn't only there, but it happened to me. He lets me see the sweetest little half-moon smile and his voice falters just slightly as he says, "So I guess that puts you back down to zero."

"Really?" How come nobody told me this, anyway? Or maybe someone did...

"Unless you think you can't make another...thirty-five years." Thirty-eight, actually, but, as chief of security, I'm sure he knows that--he's just being polite.

"Is that a challenge, Lieutenant?" Am I flirting? I am not flirting with Malcolm Reed. Even if I really felt that way about him...he would never feel the same way. He hates me.

"If that will convince you not to get shot again, I guess it is." Okay, so maybe he doesn't hate me, but still...

I'm going for suave, but I think it comes out more pleading than anything. "So you're saying you want me alive?"

"Of course I want you alive, you bloody git! You may be a pain in the arse, but you can be useful upon occasions."

"I'm glad I could be of service." I try not to sound hurt.

"You could be even more of service if you didn't let something like this happen again." He pats my leg awkwardly. This is the closest we've come to physical contact since our little brawl.

"I'll try my best."

He looks at me for a long moment. I'm not sure if I'm imagining it, drugs and all, but I think I see a glimmer there. He's calculating, wondering, sizing me up, but it's deeper, questing for more than just a threat assessment. Maybe, just maybe, there is something there.

"Feel better, that's an order." Even I recognize that as clichÈ, but I guess clichÈs are just around for when you're not with it enough to say what you need to say (I feel sorry for those that never are). I know I'm not at the moment, so I'll cut him some slack--especially when he lets his hand brush mine just slightly, a deliberate accident. It feel it like a tingle...there's something there...familiarity, yet fresh unsullied passion. Again, I don't know if it's just the drugs talking...but I don't think I've ever felt something like that in my life--the opposite of a brush with death...a brush with life?

"Yes, Sir." I smile, taking advantage of the view of his retreating six, and know that, even if there isn't a hope in hell he'll feel the same way I do, there's definitely more to this than meets the eye.