Runaway

Disclaimer: My apologies to The Libran Iniquity for borrowing her original characters Crewman Clara Kopleck and Ensign Rose (love those two, Libra :)!). Paramount owns the Enterprise and her senior crew, although I couldn't think of anyone who deserves them less. So there :P.

AN: Thanks to T'eyla for her feedback and help. This story contains mild Slash (T/R) - it's very very mild, so if you don't like the idea of Trip and Malcolm as a couple, it should be easy to ignore :).

As always, feedback is very welcome!

1

"No, Lieutenant. Absolutely not."

Malcolm tried to sit up and winced as his head screamed in protest at the movement. Tiny, far too bright stars appeared out of nowhere and began to dance in front of his eyes, and Malcolm was so distracted that he offered no resistance when Dr. Phlox' firm hand pushed him back down on the bed. His skull was pounding as if it were going to explode, and right now, Malcolm found the thought strangely comforting. A nice loud bang, maybe a little smoke to round things off, and he would not only be out of sickbay (he doubted even Phlox could do much if your head was gone), but would also be rid of the sickening ache that roared inside his skull. The more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea.

"Doctor, I'm..." fine, he finished in thought, but his throat had other ideas, producing a harsh, hacking cough that made him feel as if he had swallowed a bunch of razor blades.

Another part of his body that would best be eliminated by introducing it to an explosive charge, Malcolm thought grimly as he spit a nasty-looking blob of... something... into a handkerchief. Phlox' gloved hand appeared in front of his eyes and removed the handkerchief.

"I believe you can see for yourself why I can't allow you to return to your quarters, Lieutenant," the doctor said, sounding infuriatingly smug as he dropped the hanky into the overflowing bin next to Malcolm's biobed. "You may not be contagious, but I'd be careless not to have your readings constantly monitored. The Tyrellian influenza is no joking matter."

It's just a bloody case of alien flu, Malcolm tried to shoot back, but what came out sounded more like the small noises Porthos made when he was begging for cheese.

"Try not to speak, Lieutenant," Phlox told him. "Your vocal cords are infected, and using them will only add to your discomfort."

Actually, Malcolm thought sourly as he watched the doctor sort through the hyposprays on his wheeled equipment table, at the prospect of being locked up in here for an indefinite period of time with no one but a chronically happy doctor and a homicidal bat to keep me company, I don't see how anything can still add to my discomfort.

His head punished him for thinking by sending a particularly nasty throb down his spine, and Malcolm closed his eyes, feeling miserable and very sorry for himself. Of all the people who had been exposed to the virus (that was, everybody who had handled the micro equipment from the recently opened supply box in Cargo Hold 4), only he had fallen ill, and so, of course, he was the only one lying in sickbay with a headache that threatened to split his skull in two, being poked and prodded by Dr. Phlox. Not that he wished this... influenza on anybody else, but it would have been reassuring proof that Fate hadn't picked him out as her own personal spare-time amusement if someone else had fallen ill as well. As it was, however, all thirty-three potential influenza victims were brimming with health, except for one unlucky and very foul-mooded Armory Officer.

A clucking noise somewhere above his head stirred him out of his broodings, and Malcolm opened his eyes to see Phlox frowning at his bio monitor.

"Your temperature seems to have gone up again," the doctor said, his eyes still on the screen. "39,6 degrees. I think we should try and bring your fever down a little, Lieutenant."

Malcolm nodded weakly, hoping that the injection might also help with his headache. Maybe with the constant dull pounding gone, he might even be able to catch some sleep.

To his surprise, however, Phlox didn't pick up any of his hyposprays.

"I'll be right back," the doctor announced brightly and bustled off, leaving Malcolm to stare after him and wonder what he was up to now. With growing suspicion, Malcolm heard the sound of a tap being turned on and for a moment had a horrible vision of Phlox dumping him into a bathtub full of icy water, claiming that this was the best way to bring down a patient's temperature.

After less than two minutes, however, the doctor was back, and Malcolm saw that he was carrying a bowl of water with several white... things floating around inside. Things that reminded him of wet towels, although Malcolm's fever-blurred mind failed to understand what Phlox would want with a bunch of soaked sickbay towels. The doctor set the bowl down on his equipment table, and Malcolm noticed several small ice-cubes floating next to the towels in the water. His vision of before re-entered his mind, and suddenly he knew that he really did not want anything wet and icy touching him at the moment. Actually, the idea of those towels coming anywhere near his fever-racked body made him want to jump off the bed and run. Except that he couldn't even sit up on his own, of course.

"What... are you doing, doctor," he croaked, watching with growing horror as Phlox removed the blankets from his feet, and, quickly lifting his patient's legs, spread an extra sheet across the foot of the bed.

The doctor smiled at him. "Sometimes the old-fashioned remedies are the most effective," he said. "Cold leg compresses are ideal for breaking a fever."

"Oh no." As quickly as he could, Malcolm pulled his feet under the sheets and out of the doctor's reach. "You're not wrapping those wet things around my legs." His voice threatened to fail, but Malcolm cleared his throat, not ready to give up without a fight. "I'd like to avoid frostbite if I can help it, thank you very much."

"Don't be silly, Lieutenant," Phlox scolded, and lifted one of the towels out of the bowl, wringing it out so the water wouldn't drip all over the floor. "You'll find it's a very relaxing sensation."

Malcolm highly doubted this, pulling his legs even closer to himself. Sighing, Phlox reached under the blankets and felt around until he managed to grab hold of Malcolm's right foot. Briefly, Malcolm considered kicking and screaming, but a sharp pain in his knee joint reminded him why that might be an unwise move. Meeting only weak resistance, Phlox pulled the foot out from under the blanket and pushed the sheets aside so that Malcolm's right leg was exposed up to the knee.

Malcolm made as if to pull his leg back into the safety of the blankets, but Phlox was quicker. He grabbed Malcolm's ankle and clucked in disapproval.

"Lie still, Lieutenant," he ordered as he reached for the towel. "You don't want me to use restraints on you, do you?"

Malcolm opened his mouth for a caustic reply, but his sarcasm was drained out of him as the wet towel was slapped on his leg. It felt as if someone had created a space-time distortion, transporting the lower part of his leg to the very depths of the arctic ocean. Okay, so maybe it wasn't that bad, but it was still bloody damn cold. Instead of the acid remark he had intended, only a small, pained squeak escaped him. Undisturbed, Phlox proceeded to wrap the wet towel around Malcolm's calf, adding a dry one so the water wouldn't soak through the bed sheets.

"There we go. And now the other leg."

Malcolm closed his eyes as his left leg was submitted to the same procedure, trying to pretend he wasn't in sickbay being tortured by a Denobulan doctor who called having one's legs encased in ice a "relaxing sensation". Finally, Phlox let go and pulled the blankets back over Malcolm's feet.

"All done. That wasn't so bad, now was it, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm opened his eyes again and glared, but Phlox had already turned away to get rid of the now-empty bowl. Malcolm cleared his throat so he would be able to speak up loud enough for the doctor to hear him.

"When can I go back to my quarters?" He didn't even mention going back to duty, realizing that the answer would only leave him more depressed than he already was.

Phlox turned around. "At least another three days, I'd say," he said, and tipped the bowl so the rest of the water poured into the sink. "It depends on how you respond to the treatment, of course."

Three days. Malcolm could barely suppress a groan. Was it so unusual that he wanted to be in his own place when he was sick, and not here where he had no privacy and had to endure the doctor's pokings and proddings every minute of the day? He felt his left leg beginning to itch under the compress and gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the sensation. If Phlox really thought that he was going to stay here for another three days... well, then the doctor definitely had another think coming.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think so far!