“I hear you’ve had a rough go,” Quinn said, his voice low and sounding as tired and drained of spirit as the man himself.
Pennington nodded. “I’d say you can seeI’ve had a rough go. Might as well talk about it, I suppose.”
“Okay, then,” Quinn said, seeming to relax a bit. “So, how are you feeling?”
“Like an idiot,” Pennington replied. “I guess I was due, right? Running around, getting the story, doing what I do. I shouldn’t be that surprised to wake up one day and see this. Could’ve been worse, the more I think about it.”
“It’s not your fault,” Quinn said. “You got shot. From what I hear, you kept other people from getting hurt, too.”
Frowning, Pennington tried to remember details of the fire-fight, and was surprised to realize that some of the memories were still refusing to present themselves. “I’ll have to take your word for it. Maybe it’ll come back to me.”
“Maybe,” Quinn replied. “Then again, maybe it’s a good thing you can’t remember.”
Pennington nodded. “Do me a favor? Pass me a drink? I’m not that steady.”
His expression turning to one of confusion, Quinn blinked several times before answering, “I’m not carrying anything on me at the moment.”
That’s a damned lie. Pennington almost said the words aloud, but caught himself at the last moment. There was nothing to be gained from going down that path. Not now, at least. Instead, he nodded to the stand next to his bed. “Over there. The cup.”
Quinn lifted the cup and maneuvered it to Pennington’s lips, and the reporter sipped from the straw. Once he had done so, he tried once more to find a comfortable position in the bed.
“Believe it or not, it’s good to see you, Quinn.”
“Yeah,” his friend replied, averting his gaze to stare at something on the wall behind Pennington’s head. “I wasn’t sure that would happen again.”
“What,” Pennington said, nodding toward his right shoulder. “This changed your mind?”
Quinn nodded. “Got me thinking, yeah.”
“Thinking that the last time we spoke, you acted like a complete bastard?”
To Pennington’s surprise, Quinn smiled at that. “There’s the newsboy I know.”
“And where’s the Cervantes Quinn that I know?” Pennington let the question hang in the air a moment before pressing ahead. “You’re standing there worried about me? Hell, mate, I’m worried about you.”
“Well, don’t,” Quinn snapped. “I’m the one standing on the good side of a hospital bed, not you.”
“This time, anyway,” Pennington said. “Maybe next time I’ll be standing on the good side of a slab in the morgue.” No sooner did the words leave his mouth than he felt regret wash over him. Bloody hell.
Quinn’s features darkened, his brow furrowing and his lips pressing together as he backed away from the bed. “Well, just look at the time. I’ll tell the doctor you’re ready for your next hypospray.” As he walked to the door, he added without turning his head, “See you around. Tim.”
Angry at himself and his own stupidity, Pennington called out, “Damn it, Quinn, don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m not my—” He sighed when he saw that he was speaking to a closing door. “Damn it.”
Releasing a sigh of exasperation, Pennington shifted in the bed, hoping he might grow accustomed to reclining just enough that he could doze off again. He knew that was unlikely, at least in the short term, as his mind no doubt would continue to torture him with replays of the disastrous conversation that had just transpired. Despite that, he closed his eyes and drew several deep breaths, trying to force himself to relax, but his thoughts turned once more to his friend, whom Pennington suspected might be nearing his limit. How much further could he descend, spiraling ever more out of control? Quinn seemed content to commit slow self-destruction, and it angered Pennington that he would probably be forced to watch the final act of his friend’s deterioration from a hospital bed.
Damn you, Quinn.
The sound of his door opening yet again startled him from his reverie, and he looked up to see yet another unexpected visitor.
“T’Prynn?” Despite his earlier musing about her, part of him had hoped she might see fit to pay him a visit.
Just outside the doorway, dressed in her familiar red Starfleet uniform and with her hair pulled back into a functional, regulation bun, the Vulcan stood with her hands clasped behind her back. “May I enter without disturbing you?”
“Probably not,” Pennington said as he squinted into the light from the room’s open door. “But please enter anyway.”
T’Prynn moved far enough into the room for the doors to close behind her. “May I approach?”
Pennington laughed for what he imagined was the first time in a while. “You’re being awfully formal, considering we used to be married. I mean, even though it was a sham marriage that you insisted on so that you could use me for personal gain and all.”
Her right eyebrow arching, T’Prynn replied, “I would never presume that our rather odd venture into temporary matrimony afforded me any special privileges, particularly now that our marital contract has long since been voided.”
“Of course not,” Pennington said, punctuating the reply with another small chuckle. “Please … approach. I promise that losing an arm isn’t contagious.”
Stepping closer, T’Prynn countered, “Not unless you had lost it as a result of contracting Arcturan limb-specific necrosis.”
“Wait, they actually have such a thing?” When T’Prynn said nothing, Pennington’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Did I survive all this just so I could see you crack a joke?”
“I understand how your recent trauma might alter your perceptions,” T’Prynn said, “so I will keep my visit brief. I trust that you are recuperating according to Doctor Fisher’s expectations.”
Pennington nodded. “Looks that way. As illogical as I’m sure this will sound, my missing arm hurts quite a bit. Other than that, I seem to be coming along fine.”
“Excellent,” T’Prynn said. After a moment, she brought her right hand from behind her back. “I also have come to deliver something.” Reaching toward his bedside table, she placed atop it a slim, silver-bodied device.
“Ah,” Pennington said, recognizing the object as she withdrew her hand. “You’ve found my recorder.”
“It is not your recorder,” T’Prynn corrected. “Yours was damaged to the point of necessitating a replacement. I was able to acquire an identical model. You will find that it contains all of your original audio and visual files, in case you need them for review.”
It took Pennington an extra moment to comprehend what he had just heard. When realization dawned, he lifted his head to regard T’Prynn with skepticism. “Wait a minute. Allof them? Including what I was recording at the time I—”
“Your files are complete,” T’Prynn replied. “Admiral Nogura was initially disinclined to return the recordings, but I explained that your traumatic injury likely resulted in some short-term memory lapses, and that your files might offer restorative benefits should you choose to view them.”
“I suppose they could,” Pennington said, nodding in agreement as he studied the device before him. “And what did he say about their journalistic value? I recorded an armed assault by Orion pirates aboard a Starfleet installation, which was incited by the legally questionable extradition of a former Starfleet officer who had requested asylum within protected Orion property. That’s news.”