a/n: I should be doing homework or sleeping. I'm not. I was going to put this fic in the collection of drabbles but it got too long to be considered a drabble so...here we are.
Disclaimer: I don't own Zombies, Run!
"Sorry Five, but this sprain is pretty bad. It looks like we're going to have to pull you out of the field for a while." Dr. Myers finished wrapping Five's ankle in bandages and stood up.
"Really, I'm fine, it doesn't hurt!" Runner Five complained.
"I believe you. But you can't run from zoms on crutches. Which is how you'll be getting around for the next two weeks."
"It's not as bad as it looks, I swear. It's just all the bruising, and swelling and stuff. I'm sure it's good as new on the inside."
Dr. Myers handed Five a pair of crutches and steered the protesting runner toward the door.
"And I'm sure you feel that way, but I went to medical school. Don't fight me on this one Five."
Five sighed and wobbled away on the crutches. It was going to be a boring couple of weeks.
Runner Five seemed to be everywhere at once today. Hobbling up and down the courtyard. In the hospital, begging for removal of the bandages. At people's doors, asking if they needed help with anything. And now the poor restless soul had ended up in the communication's booth.
"Sam, I know Dr. Myers said I can't go on another run but you've got to let me go. It's been a whole week."
"Sorry, Five. The doc's jurisdiction trumps mine."
"She won't know unless you tattle."
"No. Not happening."
"I'll give you my chocolate ration. For a month."
"Hmmm, let's see...no. You stay back, heal properly, then you can go out."
Five spun around in the office chair.
"I'm. So. Bored."
Sam glanced around the disaster area that was the communication's booth.
"You could tidy up in here. It's gotten to the point where I keep losing stuff and—"
Five jumped in before he got any further. "You know I just remembered something really important and urgent that I have to do right now. But maybe another time. Bye, Sam."
Boredom can make people do many unpleasant things, thought Five on the way out. But cleaning the marmite, food wrappers, and God knows what else out of the communications shack is not one of them.