Sick Days

Well, I had to write this because I heard that
Robert Duncan McNeill was down with the chicken pox. 🙁
(Worse yet, I also heard that they gave most of McNeill’s
lines to Tuvok because he couldn’t work. =:-O).

Sick Days
By Jessica Ferroni

“Tom, don’t do that.”
“It *itches*, B’Elanna.”
“You’re just making it worse, you know.”
“So what?” Furious scratching at his ribs followed the last statement.
“Have I told you lately that you’re incorrigible, Paris?”
A pause. “No, I don’t think so. But I think these things are going
in my ears and into my brain, so it’s kind of hard to think right now.”
“Listen, I’ll pay you to scratch my back. Two weeks worth of replicator
“Come on,”
“You’d put up with two weeks of Neelix’s gourmet cooking to have somebody
scratch your back?”
“I think you’re delirious.”
Tom groaned. “Please?”
“I am not going to scratch your back in the middle of the mess hall,
Paris. And how did you pick up the chicken pox, anyway??”
He sighed and scratched at his neck. “Ensign Wildman’s baby.”
B’Elanna quirked an eyebrow. “And what were you doing with Ensign
Wildman’s baby?”
Tom flushed scarlet, making the painful-looking red spots on his
face and neck almost invisible. “I was watching her,” he mumbled.
“Really? Baby-sitting?”
Tom shrugged helplessly. “Ensign Wildman needed to check something in
Stellar Cartography and I just happened to be standing there. And besides,
I *offered*.”
“You offered to hold a baby covered in chicken pox?”
“She wasn’t covered in chicken pox when I offered,” Tom retorted.
B’Elanna seemed to think the whole thing was just hilarious, Paris thought
wryly. “What exactly do you find so funny, Torres?” he asked defensively.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Klingons don’t get chicken pox. Ensign
Wildman actually trusted you with her baby??”
“Cheap shot, Torres. Yes, she did. She actually trusted me with her
baby. Apparently she trusts me more than *some* people around here do.”
“Sorry, Tom.”
He waved it off. “It’s okay.”
“And I’m sorry I laughed at you.”
“Are you really or are you just saying that?” he asked warily.
She tried to hide a grin. “I really am sorry I laughed at you.”
“You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m NOT!”
“Touche, Torres. Well, you’re not smiling anymore, anyways.”
“You’re welcome.” He scratched furiously at his neck.
“Big improvement. Now you’re bleeding.”
“Aw, you want to kiss it and make it all better?”
“Don’t you know any other words, B’Elanna?”
“Not when I’m around you,” she retorted.
“Oh, my incredible good looks take your breath away?”
“That must be it.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“You’re bleeding on your shirt.”
“At least it’s not my uniform. The Captain’d probably kill me or
throw me in the brig or something.”
“Tom, you’re accident prone. You can’t tell me you haven’t ruined more
than one uniform in the time you’ve been onboard. And shouldn’t you be in
your quarters or something, somewhere you won’t spread this?”
“Nope. The Doc checked everyone’s records. Ensign Wildman’s baby and
I were the only ones who never had them.”
“How did you get chicken pox in the Delta Quadrant, anyway? Only you,
Paris, could find a way.”
“B’Elanna, I’m a pilot, not a doctor.”
“Too bad. I always wanted to marry a doctor.”
“Although I have been trained as a medic….”
“You know just what to say to take my breath away.”
“I think you *are* delirious, Paris.”
“B’Elanna, you’re sweeping me off my feet!”
She reached across the table and swatted his shoulder.
“Augh! Don’t *do* that!”
“Am not.”
“Don’t start again, Paris.”
“Oh, look. Here comes Ensign Wildman. She’s probably coming to tell
me how sorry she is that I’ve contracted this horrible thing from her
“She’s probably coming to tell you to stay away from her kid because
the baby got it from *you*.”
Samamtha Wildman spotted them and made her way over to their table.
“Lieutenant Paris, I am so sorry,” she began without preamble.
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“Still, it’s my fault,” She clucked at Paris like he was a small boy.
“Look at you, Lieutenant. You should be in bed with some chicken noodle soup.”
“Tomato?” he asked hopefully.
“My mother always said chicken noodle,” Samantha said firmly.
“Okay. I’ll remember that.”
“But, Lieutenant, I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said in the way of his that put people at ease, flashing
her a dazzling smile. “No permanent harm done.”
Samantha smiled. “Good. And you did a wonderful job with the baby.
Thank you.”
After she’d moved away, Tom turned to B’Elanna with the barest hint
of a smirk on his face. “Well, it was nice of her to stop by, don’t you
think, B’Elanna?”
“Don’t say another word, Paris.” She picked up her meal tray. “Now,
unlike you, I have to get back to work.”
She left and Tom sat in miserable silence with his chin resting on his
hands. He was reminded of the times he’d been sick as a kid, stuck inside
while his friends were outside playing baseball.
Bored, bored, bored. He should’ve been at least allowed on the bridge.
But, no, the Captain had said. You’re officially on sick leave. Well, fine.
Bored, bored, bored.
He strode back to his quarters, ignoring the various looks on the faces
of his fellow crewmembers. *Not like *they’ve* never had the chicken pox,*
he thought wearily to himself.
His quarters pretty much looked the same as they did when he’d left them
a few hours earlier. The plant needed watering, maybe.
Bored, bored, bored.
He sighed. “Computer,” he requested, scratching furiously at the patch of
raw skin behind his left ear, “Hot, *plain*, chicken noodle soup.”

© Copyright January 1997 by Jessica Ferroni on all original story content.
Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Paramount or any other copyright
holders of STAR TREK: VOYAGER. Please do not reproduce for anything other
than personal reading use (including fanzines) without written consent of
the author. Comments are welcome at


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