On to the second chapter of my DMRM story! Planning on having a lot of time to write these next few weeks, but the best laid plans of mice and men oft go astray. Well, here's hoping!

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Trip was getting worried about Malcolm. It had been nearly ten minutes. Not that Trip was judging how long it took to take a crap, but that was a long time. He made up his mind, took a torch and walked down the hill to look for Malcolm. He would deal with the possible embarrassment when he came to it. "If this were any other planet, Malcolm, I wouldn't go looking," Trip muttered to himself. He was about to head out when he stopped, his mind flashing back to all the times on away missions that they had gone in search of someone and found them in need of medical attention. Better take a scanner, just in case.

With the scanner in his pocket, he walked around, calling Malcolm's name, taking care to not shine the light directly in the bushes. He heard the creek. Maybe Malcolm had gone down there. As he stepped up to the edge of the bank, he felt something zip by him, like a bug. It did not touch him, but it nearly hit him in the leg. He stumbled a little, the beam of the torch dropped to point into the creek—his heart nearly stopped when he saw the body in the water.

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Strangely, Malcolm could still hear and feel. He could think too, though it did not do him much good. The water rushed by, almost flowing into his mouth and into his lungs. The fear that had ruled his life as a child, brought about his father's eternal disapproval, and led to his joining Starfleet, reared its cursed-ugly head. It enveloped Malcolm, but the aquaphobia was not the worst; it was that he could not make a sound or a move.

He stayed there for minutes or hours, he could not tell. The cold water seeped into his clothes. The cut on his forehead bled, or so Malcolm could tell by the wetness on his face and the faint sickly sweet smell. Suddenly, through his eyelids, he saw the light of a torch. "Malcolm!"

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"Oh my god, Malcolm," Trip kept saying as he jumped down into the creek. His friend looked positively lifeless, except for the slash in his head that stained the water scarlet. Fumbling a little, he dropped to his knees in the freezing water, pulled out the scanner, and turned it on.

One of the knots in his chest undid itself when he saw the results: spine intact, no broken bones, but a bad concussion, a puncture wound in his leg and hypothermia beginning to set in. As gently as he could, Trip lifted Malcolm out of the water. He could try a fireman's carry, but he did not know what that would do to Malcolm. Instead, he picked his friend up like a child, taking care not to jostle his head. Staggering under the weight, Trip made his way to where the bank sloped down and he could step up more easily. Malcolm might be shorter than he was, but Trip doubted he weighed much less. Muscle was heavier than fat, and his friend crammed plenty of weight training and drills into his schedule. Slowly, carefully, he walked back to the campsite.

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He felt Trip set him down gently. Heat on his left side and the sound of the tent zipper somewhere above his head told him they were at the campsite. Trip must have opened a communicator by the chirp Malcolm heard next. "Tucker to Enterprise." Nothing, just static. "Enterprise, emergency! Come in!" Nothing. Trip swore and jumped back into the tent for something, although Malcolm could not be certain of what he was after from just sound.

Malcolm felt as if he were still drowning. Trapped in an unresponsive body, unable to speak or so much as twitch, all he could do was breathe and listen. His panic rose again, but his heart would not do him the courtesy of beating faster. It continued at a slow, but steady pace. Is this what descent into madness feels like?Malcolm wondered.

A wet cloth on his head startled him out of his speculations. From the smarting in the cut when the cloth touched it, Trip was using some antiseptic to clean it. The pain helped clear Malcolm's head. But more than that, he did not feel like he was drowning, not so long as he had some human contact. A while later, Trip wrapped a compress and a bandage around Malcolm's head.

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Trip knew what he had to do next. Malcolm was soaked to the skin. There were some dry clothes in his knapsack. "It's as simple as that," he muttered. "He's soaked and unconscious. I have to." He put a hand to Malcolm's shirt collar but stopped. "Why not start with boots?" he asked out loud. He unlaced them, yanked them off, and then pulled Malcolm's socks off.

Now the shirt. Clumsily, he undid the buttons, pulled Malcolm's arms out of the sleeves, and slid the shirt out from underneath Malcolm. Trousers followed. Trip redressed Malcolm as best as he could and then pulled one of the reflective blankets out from the emergency kit, which he wrapped around his unresponsive friend. The blanket, he knew, would absorb heat from the fire as well as reflect Malcolm's own body heat back on to himself. He would be dry and his body temperature rising in no time. Suddenly remembering, he whipped out the med scanner and pulled the blanket back from Malcolm's right leg. The puncture wound was a small hole bleeding sluggishly. "What did you do, Malcolm?" Trip wondered aloud. He knew there was no way Malcolm could hear him, but he could not stand not talking to someone for long.

From his first aid course in Starfleet, Trip could understand a basic med scanner reading. As far as he could tell, the wound had clotted itself. He pulled another compress and bandage out and proceeded to treat Malcolm's leg.

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So cold, so cold. He had thought he knew what hypothermia was like, that time in the shuttlepod, but this was much worse. Slowly, Malcolm felt a flicker of warmth return to his limbs. A flicker of hope also ignited in his soul; perhaps he would be able to move again.

He heard Trip pull out the communicator again. "Tucker to Enterprise, come in Enterprise." Still static. The sound of an object striking the far wall of the tent must have been Trip throwing the communicator back into the tent. "Dammit, Malcolm, they're not answering!"

Nothing after that. Just the crackle of the fire. "Don't worry Malcolm. They'll contact us soon. We'll get you to sickbay, Phlox'll patch you up good as new. They'll come, Malcolm, they'll come."

In his heart, Malcolm feared that Trip's words were spoken in vain.

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Kind of short, I know, but the next update will finish up the story.

The best Christmas present I could get would be a review! Please.