§ 7 §

Phlox heard a soft beep and turned from his desk to the only occupied biobed in sickbay.

"Ah, Lieutenant! Finally awake," he said cheerfully when he saw that Reed's eyes were open. A grimace appeared on his patient's face, when he tried to turn his head. "Ah, yes. You will find it a bit difficult to move your head," he warned him, approaching. "And you won't be able to use your arm for… uhm, I'd say no more than two weeks, thanks to bone regenerating treatments. How are you feeling?"

"I'll let you know," Reed replied drowsily.

"The good news," Phlox continued, as he entered a few commands into the monitors at the head of the man's bed, "Is that surgery on your broken limb was successful, your hand is still attached to it – and you have my Targaelic gelatinous starfish to thank for that – your skull is in one piece..."

Sparing a glance as he waited for some readings to come up, Phlox thought the expression on the Lieutenant's face conveyed the desire to be able to knock himself back unconscious, and was silently amused. This particular crewmember had never been – and never would be – an easy patient.

"...And…" Information came up on the monitors. "…Oh, yes, we're getting rid of a nasty infection that had made you quite sick," he went on blithely, disregarding Reed's obvious annoyance at being given a long injury report. "You had developed a very high fever."

Phlox was actually quite relieved to have finally found a way to fight Reed's infection. He had seriously feared for his patient's life at one point.

"A pernicious little bug, that was. Indigenous to that planet."

More information scrolled up on his monitors, and he broke into a smile. "Very good," he commented, but the words didn't seem to do anything to improve his patient's mood.

"Commander Tucker's hand got infected with it as well, but his injury was minor and consequently his infection was easier to treat. I am sure the Interspecies Medical Exchange Committee will be interested in..."

"Doctor," Reed interrupted him in the croaky voice of disuse. "How long have I been... a resident of this lovely place?"

Phlox rolled his eyes. He took a couple of steps to enter his patient's view range and received a scowling glance from the man, who was tentatively checking himself over, discovering the heavy bandages on his left shoulder and arm, and the tubes that sneaked out of his body, also from places Phlox knew humans would rather they didn't.

"Four days," he replied directly.

"Four..." There was a groan.

Reed brought his right hand, with the IV line attached to it, to his eyes, and Phlox patiently removed it and placed it carefully back on the bed. "As I said, you had a very high fever, Lieutenant," he repeated. "You were drifting in and out of consciousness. We were quite worried about you. Last night, finally, I found the right treatment and your temperature started to drop."

"When can I go to my quarters?" Reed asked. Phlox saw him wince, probably at the weakness of his voice.

"Now, now, Mr. Reed," he said sternly. "You'd be hardly able to keep yourself upright, believe me."

This was a bit too much even for someone like this stubborn man, and Phlox jerked his head in disbelief. "You were unconscious for four days and the first thing you ask for is to leave sickbay. You're easily the worst patient I've had to deal with, Lieutenant. But you won't get so easily… I believe the expression is 'out of my clutches'."

A dejected sigh met the words. "Wonderful."

"The Captain!" Phlox exclaimed, suddenly remembering. He started towards the comm. link on the wall "He asked to be informed as soon as you were conscious. He was quite concerned about you. As was Mr Tucker, and the rest of the crew, of course."

Trip sat near Malcolm's bed, watching the immobile form. The man's breathing was finally quiet and even, and a sheen of perspiration no longer covered his friend's face, which looked more relaxed, if still quite pale.

The past four days were something Trip wanted to forget. The relief of being back on Enterprise had been short lived. Malcolm's condition, which had soon appeared serious, had slowly but steadily worsened, and every time Trip had walked into Sickbay and seen Phlox's uncharacteristically dark face he had felt his hope grow fainter. But eventually the Doctor had managed to find a way to fight Malcolm's infection, thank God.

Trip passed a weary hand over his face. He hadn't slept much, since they had been back on board. Eyes closed, he allowed his mind to wander to a particular night, a few months back. The night that was responsible for his staying behind, down in that cave.

It had been a long and difficult day. Things had malfunctioned throughout the ship, a bit like the time they had discovered the Xyrillian vessel in their trail; except this time no one was stealing a ride. They had all worked their butts off trying to keep important systems working. In the end, just as mysteriously as they had gone awry, things had fixed themselves.

Trip had known that Malcolm had not only worked solidly for hours on end but also been worried sick. He had feared that the problems might be caused by some hostile aliens lurking around, and that with targeting sensors constantly going out of alignment and weapons going on and off line he wouldn't be able to defend them properly should the need arise. After a day like that, their Armoury Officer would be a bundle of nerves, so Trip had thought he'd pay him a little friendly visit and help him relax: he had showed up at Malcolm's quarters with a bottle of Andorian ale he had 'borrowed' from the Captain. Indeed Reed had still been awake and quite receptive to Trip's offer of sharing a drink. Unfortunately they had slightly underestimated the strength of the alien stuff, and soon they had both felt more than a little light-headed…

- that night -

"Ya've got to admit, the grav. plating goin' off-line without warnin' in odd places all over the ship made for pretty interestin' situations," Trip drawled, pouring some more of the blue liquor into his glass and Malcolm's.

Malcolm snorted. "I've been told of a flying Phlox frightening his Pyrithean bat to death. And in the galley..." He gave an uncharacteristic roar of a laugh and added rowdily, "Light cuisine – yes, indeed! Pity I wasn't there to see that."

Eyebrows dancing, Trip shot him a mischievous look. "Well, if ya want, one of these days I can always arrange for an encore…"

Malcolm's grinning face reshaped into a wide-eyed expression of horror. "Good grief, no," he said in his deepest voice. "I don't ever want see again my Armoury in the state it was after the problem got fixed." His accent was already a bit less sharp than usual. But he downed a generous gulp of his drink, scrunching up his face as he swallowed, and without a flicker of hesitation reached out for a refill.

"Wasn't only your Armoury, believe me," Trip said, pouring the blue liquor into the glass.

Malcolm's grin came back with a vengeance. "Is it true that Hess fell right into your lap?"

"Who the hell tattled on me?" Trip cried out in outrage. He watched Malcolm lean back against the headboard and, pressing two fingers on his eyes, give in to giggling. The man was definitely on his way to a wonderful headache. Not that he himself was much more sober; it was getting a bit too easy to join in the mirth. Well, what the heck. After the day they'd just had, getting smashed wasn't such a sin.

"Would've loved to see her face," Malcolm slurred, making a low, gruff sound in his throat. "Or yours, for that matter." He shook his head and surrendered to another fit of laughter.

Trip downed his own drink and poured himself another one. Then he slipped to a slouching position in his chair, sprawling his legs forward and nursing his glass in both hands. "Speakin' of faces," he said, a silly smile plastered in place. "Ya oughtta have seen Travis's face when we finally got him out of that tiny storage room where he was stuck for…" He didn't get to finish, stunned into silence by Malcolm's reaction to his words. The man stopped laughing and his face jerked up, suddenly serious.

Well, mood swings: too much booze could do that to you.

Trip blinked, watching his friend awkwardly get to his feet and take a couple of stumbling steps. Malcolm walked on unsteady legs to the far wall, and Trip followed him with his gaze, while he squeezed his intoxicated grey cells in an effort to figure out what he might have said to cause this sudden change.

Having reached the end of the small room, Malcolm turned, swayed, put out a hand to the wall and raised glazed-over eyes on him. "He was trap-- trapped?" he asked, the hiccup which shook his voice doing nothing to blunt a certain edginess in it.

Trip looked at him blankly for a beat; then his mouth curved upwards again. "For three hours." He raised three fingers and snorted. "And he was screamin' that if we didn't get him outta there soon, he'd water the…"

"Wa-- water?" Malcolm's hitching voice cut him off.

"Not the kinda water you want in a storage room," Trip blurted out, grinning wildly.

Malcolm shook his head slowly. "I wouldn't wan-- want to get trapped"

Trip made an effort to pull a straight face – which was difficult, for some reason – and regarded him in puzzlement. "Why the hell should ya get trapped?" he asked a bit too loudly.

"I wouldn't want to," Malcolm repeated, his accent quite slurred. "Be bleeding trapped. In a cramped space. Alone. Ever." He stabbed a finger in the air punctuating every word.

Trip shrugged, already losing control over his serious mien. "Alright. I won't let ya. I promise."

Malcolm pinned him with narrowed steely eyes. "A promise is a pro-- promise."

He was wavering slightly but sounded serious, and Trip felt suddenly hesitant. But then, in spite of a little warning voice insisting he'd better shut up, that he was surely tempting fate, he raised an unsteady glass filled with treacherous blue liquid and drawled out solemnly, "Cross my heart."

- §§§ -

Trip sighed. Maybe he should go and get some rest now. He was beginning to wonder if Phlox had not been tipsy himself, when he had paged the Captain to inform him that Malcolm was back 'online'. Trip had been with Archer then, and they had both gone to sickbay, only to find the man fast asleep. That had been – Trip glanced at the clock on the Sickbay's wall – over two hours ago.

He was about to call the Denobulan, when Malcolm suddenly stirred. He cracked sleepy eyes open and blinked, slowly focussing on Trip.

"Commander," he slurred. He cleared his throat and raised lazy eyebrows. "Been demoted to nurse?"

Trip's budding smile took a lopsided tilt as a certain image flashed through his mind. "The Capt'n did mention something about disobeying orders, but… nurse? No thanks. I'd rather be thrown in the brig than have to play nursemaid to you." He let his expression soften. "Anyway, I've had enough of bandages and the like."

Malcolm frowned slightly and suppressed a yawn. "Must have drifted off," he mumbled, behind the hand that – proper gentleman that he was, even when hardly awake – he had raised, IV line and all, in front of his mouth. Suddenly an expression of dismay painted itself on his face. "Did the Captain... did I fall asleep before he..."

Trip chuckled. "How dare ya, Lieutenant, sleep through your C.O.'s visit?"

Malcolm mumbled a soft curse, shifting position cautiously. He didn't look like he was in pain, but Trip had no doubt that Phlox was taking care of that. Mainly, the bulky bandaging made it awkward for him to move.

"So, how're ya feelin'?" Trip asked, turning serious as he raised the bed to a less reclined position.

There was a mirthless huff. "A lot better than in that bloody cave."

"Yeah," Trip said softly. "I was worried about you down there."

They fell silent, and Malcolm's eyes got fixed on the IV line attached to his right hand. When he lifted his gaze again, there was confusion in it.

"I can't remember all of what happened on the planet," he said in a quiet voice. "And perhaps it is better, because what I do remember isn't very pleasant." His gaze became intense. "But it's enough to know that I was in real trouble. Thank you for getting me out."

Trip shrugged. "I only did what I had to." He had put a little emphasis on the words, to see if Malcolm would catch the meaning hidden between them, and indeed his friend's eyes narrowed as he studied him for a moment.

"You didn't have to stay and risk your life, Trip," Malcolm eventually said, in a voice that was deep with feeling. "You should have left when the Captain ordered you to."

Trip bit his lip. "Some things go beyond orders," he said carefully, hoping to jolt Malcolm's memory. He knew the man had sensed something and he didn't want to leave things unsaid between them.

There was another short pause.

"What do you mean?" Malcolm asked outright.

Trip's mouth curved into a fleeting smile. "You don't remember, do you?"

Malcolm heaved a deep breath and released it slowly. "I'm sorry. I don't remember half the things we did or said down there. I was…"

"I know," Trip cut him off. "I know," he repeated more gently. "But I'm talkin' about somethin' that happened three or four months ago."

Malcolm frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand," he muttered. "Perhaps it's my concussion." He raised his hand and felt the bandage covering the side of his head.

"Ah, don't worry," Trip replied with an impish grin. "I believe a certain blue liquid has more to do with it than the bump on your head."

"Five minutes, Commander," Phlox called, heading out of sickbay. "I'll be back shortly."

Trip watched the Doctor disappear behind the closing doors before shifting his gaze back.

"What do you mean?" Malcolm asked again, looking more puzzled than ever.

Trip bit his lip. "Remember that evening I showed up at your quarters with a bottle of Andorian ale… at the end of that terrible day when things kept malfunctionin' all over the ship?"

"That day is hard to forget," Malcolm commented deadpan. "But what has it got to do with all this?"

"Well, that evening… you told me about your claustrophobia, and…"

Malcolm rubbed a tired hand on his eyes. "I don't have claustrophobia."

Trip's mouth opened and closed a couple of times. This couldn't be. Maybe Malcolm was right: his concussion could be more serious than Phlox thought. Because they might have been tipsy that night, but Trip could still hear Malcolm's words echo in his mind.

"When I mentioned Travis had been trapped in a storage room," he eventually blurted out, finding his voice, "You got upset and said… you said you didn't want to get trapped in a cramped space, alone, ever."

Malcolm looked at him blankly. "I don't remember saying anything of the kind."

"Well, we had both downed a few glasses of liquor and weren't in the clearest state of mind, but I swear to ya, Malcolm, you said those exact words. And you looked damned distressed as you said them," Trip went on. "I took it you had claustrophobia."

Malcolm's eyes returned to the IV line as he mulled the words. Something seemed to dawn on his face, and suddenly he looked up in horror. "You stayed behind in that cave because you thought I had claustrophobia?"

Trip grimaced. "Yeah, well, ya see… when you told me that, you looked so troubled that I…" He took in a deep breath. "I promised you that I would never leave you alone trapped in a cramped place."

"You pro…" Malcolm closed his eyes briefly. "Trip, I was drunk."

"So was I," Trip said, hesitantly. He was beginning to feel a little stupid. "But then you looked me straight in the eye," he went on with more conviction, "And told me 'a promise is a promise'. And…" He gave a helpless shrug. "I replied 'cross my heart'."

"And you disregarded the Captain's order and risked your life because of things we said when we were stoned?"

Malcolm was staring back at him wide-eyed, and Trip gave him one of his disarming smiles. "Would ya prefer I hadn't?" he asked innocently.

"No… no," Malcolm stuttered. "I'm grateful... But there is no way you should have felt bound by a promise you made when your brain was swimming in Andorian ale."

Trip shrugged again. He watched Malcolm swallow hard and purse his lips tightly as if to dam an unexpected surge of emotion. The man sure looked overwhelmed and uncharacteristically fragile, and Trip averted his gaze, knowing Malcolm would find it uncomfortable to be seen like that.

The sickbay doors swished open, breaking the awkward moment.

"The five minutes are up, Commander," Phlox said in a meaningful tone, as he re-entered.

"Just another moment, Doc," Trip called back. "I'll be gone in a couple of minutes."

"Not more than that," Phlox warned.

"I promise."

"Watch what you say, Commander," Malcolm commented, choking the words out.

Trip sat up in his chair and leaned forward, rubbing his cheek in a hesitant gesture. Something was still bothering him. He wanted to make sure.

"When we were down there, you were… not always with it."

"I'm afraid I only remember bits and pieces," Malcolm breathed out, closing his eyes.

"A couple of times you started raving," Trip went on cautiously. "From what I could understand you thought you were on a ship, sinking. And then another time you told your sister you were trapped somewhere, that you couldn't get out, and to call your mom."

Malcolm opened his eyes again.

"Ya sure you're not claustrophobic?" Trip forced out, hoping Malcolm would understand this was the voice of concern – and not of curiosity – speaking.

"I am not, Trip, believe me," Malcolm replied in a deep voice. His lips tightened. "There were... a couple of events, when I was a child," he said uneasily, "Which… gave me a bad feeling about being trapped in cramped places."

Trip nodded, satisfied. That was enough, as far as he was concerned. "You don't have to tell me more," he said, making as if to stand up.

"Wait," Malcolm put in quickly, stopping him. He sighed. "It's all right. The least I owe you is an explanation."

Trip leaned back in his chair and watched Malcolm focus once more on the line feeding into his vein.

"I had a great uncle who died in a submarine accident," he began. "He was Chief Engineer on the Clement. They hit a mine, and he locked himself in Engineering and kept the engine running so that the crew could make it to the escape pods. He went down with the ship."

"Damn…"

"He…" Malcolm shot him a quick glance up and faltered. For a moment he looked at a loss for words. "Well, he became a heroic figure to me," he went on awkwardly. "And as children often do, when I played I made up adventures where I pretended to be him."

"That's nice," Trip commented softly, with a small smile.

"One day I had this bright idea. I decided that an old trunk that was in the basement of our house would make a wonderful submarine. I emptied it of the old odds and ends my mother kept in it, got a torch, and went inside." Malcolm gave a soft huff of a laugh. "It was the best make-believe game of my childhood. And the worst. I was having a wonderful time, until I tried to open the lid again and found that it was stuck. I wasn't very worried at first. I thought that if I called, mother would hear me. But after ten minutes of screaming, I started to panic."

Malcolm darted him a self-conscious glance. "I began to have difficulty breathing. I remember very clearly that for the first time in my life I thought that I would die."

"And then your sister heard ya?"

"Yes. She got our mother and I was rescued." Closing his eyes, Malcolm let out a long breath. "I still have nightmares once in a while about my uncle's death, and about my little misadventure," he slurred, sounding weary beyond caring about his accent. "Hence I don't particularly like being trapped in a cramped space. But after all, who does?"

Trip got up and placed a hand on his arm.

"I'm not claustrophobic," Malcolm repeated, eyes still closed.

"Get some rest, Lieutenant," Trip told him. "Looks like ya need it."

TBC