Author's Note: A one-off I started writing sometime ago, but then started growing and growing as I tried to finish it this week. Still on the shortish side, but being posted in increments because I'm just mercenary enough to want to drag it out in the feed. ;-)
Begins mid fourth season and ends just before the events of the fifth season episode "Counterpoint".
Lighter Still
I.
In the privacy of his quarters, Tom Paris tugs at his uniform trousers, feeling the waistband dig uncomfortably into his skin before he's even attempted to zip them.
He catalogues the increasing girth of his midsection with a grimace. Then, with a mental curse, attempts to wrestle with the protesting garment once again.
"Having a little trouble, flyboy?" comes B'Elanna's teasing voice behind him. No doubt, watching him in amusement, from the threshold of his bathroom.
The pilot sucks in one last deep breath and zips the straining material, then turns around to confirm his suspicions. B'Elanna is standing in only her skivvies, her elegantly muscled arms crossed in front of her chest.
"It seems I'm losing my boyish figure," he says, burying his embarrassment in a quip.
His lover's only response is a smirk as she turns around to continue dressing, but Tom can fill in the rest of the conversation for himself. He's been on the receiving end of a few too many 'affectionate belly pats' for him to not have caught the message; B'Elanna's been trying to tell him something- albeit, in subtler terms than his uniform just did.
Time to get serious, buddy, Tom sighs inwardly. Won't do to pack on the kilos when you've finally got the girl.
. . . . .
The next week, Tom tries to cut back on junk and fill his plate with veggies, but the last part proves more painful than the first. Neelix has a way of rendering every vegetable (however initially promising) completely inedible with his 'special' seasonings, and isn't as if his replicator account will support very much of an escape from the Talaxian's pantry.
"What's up with you?" Harry asks him finally, after the fourth lunch of watching his friend unhappily swirl his food around his plate.
"I have to get this weight off," Tom confesses. "But between not eating the foods I like, and filling my stomach with Neelix's daily tour of locally grown culinary nightmares, I'm starting to think I'm better off being fat and happy."
Harry pauses to reflect on Tom's words, forking another bite of his generously portioned plate.
"So, maybe you should focus on your exercise?" the Ensign finally offers, belatedly cluing into the way Paris is intently watching him eat. "It's a basic equation of calories in, calories out. . . Why not try to up the number of calories you expend instead of trying to cut the number you consume?"
It's good advice, really. And part of Tom knows that Harry has a point. But another part of him is irrationally angry that Harry is still young enough that he can eat whatever he wants, without having to do caloric calculus before he sets down to every meal.
"Fair enough," Tom says neutrally, and then swipes a forkful of Harry's pasta salad.
"Hey," Harry protests, "I'm not the one who needs to lose weight."
"Harry, Harry. As your friendly ship medic, it's my duty to advise you that the best medicine is always prevention."
"Don't mind me," Kim sighs with a wave of surrender, then pushes the rest of his tray to the smirking Lieutenant who happily pulls it the rest of the way.
. . . . .
It's another two weeks into Tom's resolution before he settles on an exercise regimen. He's hardly opposed to being active, but the problem is he's both a creature of habit and someone who's easily bored. He needs something that he can do almost everyday yet will continue to challenge him; an activity that won't be difficult to maintain with his lifestyle of changing shift schedules and low-level ship emergencies.
It's with some optimism that he settles on the idea of running, as it's something he did competitively in prep school and his first year at the Academy, back before piloting took up most of his time and concentration. And though he was never really the fastest person on a given team, he vaguely recalls liking the routine that went with competing in track; the feeling of getting up each morning and looking forward to the certainty of a run.
The first morning he takes it easy, only five kilometers, zigzagging the lower decks of the ship. But even afterward, when he slides into his seat on the bridge, he thinks he can already feel a difference; a pulse of energy and concentration that displaces his usual beginning-of-shift haze.
All the optimism he feels quickly fizzles after a few days of waking up at 05:00, and then, later, feeling his aging body protest the new abuse. When he gets into bed at night, he imagines he can feel every inflamed joint and aggravated muscle, the lone comfort of his condition being that B'Elanna has been on a later shift all week, preventing him from having to back out of any dates. . . He can only imagine what the Chief would say if he had to explain he didn't have anymore physical performance left in him.
After ten days of his new routine, he opens his eyes to his alarm filled with dread at the prospect of putting on his athletic shoes. He doesn't want to run. And he no longer gives a damn about his straining uniform. So be it if he ends up roughly equal with Chakotay in heft.
The last thought proves a new, if short-lived source of motivation; he drags himself- tired, aching, and cranky- out of bed.
As a last-ditch effort, he decides to try running on the holodeck. He thinks it a shame to use up his holo- privileges on exercise, but if it's a choice between this and going back to eating Talaxian chef salads, it's at least worth the initial investment.
He's in the midst of both stretching and trying to shake off his pessimism when the holodeck doors part, admitting a lone figure that stands in stark contrast to the orange grid.
"You're up early, Lieutenant," comes Janeway's voice.
She isn't dressed in uniform, something that's a rare sight lately. But Tom is too resentful of the hour to think about the state of Janeway's appearance, or even focus much on her presence.
"So are you, ma'am," he replies, a little gruffly. And with no further comment, begins stretching out again.
The Captain watches him for a moment, but then appears to realize she's barged in on him without invitation, and, thus far, without excuse.
"Sorry to interrupt your time. . . The holodeck isn't normally occupied at this hour and I was thinking of borrowing one of Tuvok's programs."
"Perhaps a nice mutiny simulation to get your blood pumping?"
She grimaces momentary, but then apparently decides to let the inappropriate joke slide. After all, they're alone and she knows Tom doesn't mean anything by it.
"Actually, I was going to use one of his meditation programs. He and Chakotay both seem to think it would be. . . beneficial."
At this, Tom's eyebrows shoot up, but he wisely makes no comment. The Captain's been under more strain than normal since the addition of Seven of Nine, that much is plain to see. At least, plain in what he does see of her, Janeway having essentially disappeared from public view except for duty shifts and occasional meals.
"Don't take this the wrong way, Captain , but you don't seem the meditative type."
"Oh?"
"You're a little too. . . action-oriented."
Janeway gives a lopsided smirk. 'Action-oriented' is perhaps the nicest way anyone has ever called her high strung.
"Maybe that's right," she sighs. "But speaking of action-oriented people, what are you doing here, so early in the morning?"
"You mean besides chatting with my charming Captain?"
"Flattery won't get you of the question, Lieutenant."
"Well," he begins, standing up straight for the first time since she entered, "if you must know, I was just warming up for a run."
"I didn't know you liked to run," she says, crossing her arms.
"Tell ya the truth, I haven't for sometime. Used to, years ago. But this will be the first time I've picked up the habit since my Academy days. . . Can't say that I'm finding it as rewarding as I remembered, either."
" But here you are anyway," she observes. "This sudden swell of dedication owing to. . . ?"
"The sudden swell of my waistline," he replies flatly. Apparently, it's too early in the morning for either his self-consciousness or his dignity to be awake.
"Happens to the best of us," she says ruefully.
The last comment earns Janeway a skeptical glance, Paris pointedly looking at her own trim figure.
"Right," he murmurs sarcastically.
"Lucky for me, my favorite food contains not a single calorie."
"Captain, coffee is not a food."
"I think we'll have to agree to disagree on that."
Paris thinks to counter her comment with another joke, but stops when he mentally calculates the time. He came into the holodeck with only an hour in which to run, and as he stands here bantering with Janeway, that time is quickly slipping away.
"I'm sorry," she says, reading the expression on his face. "I'm keeping you."
"No, it's alright," he shake his head. "Talking to you was a nice distraction. Honestly."
The earnestness in his voice makes her smile. They both stand still for a moment, not quite ready to break the comfort of their conversation for the individual projects neither find quite. . . inspiring.
"Tell you what," Tom comments, suddenly struck by a thought. "If you're willing to abandon your scintillating plans of Vulcan mediation, you can join me in a morning run?"
The Captain's mouth quirks up at the taunt-wrapped invitation that only Tom Paris would slide to her. But still, she shakes her head in refusal.
"I admit it's a tempting offer- I've always found running to be invigorating. But I wouldn't want to interrupt you. The addition of another runner would upset your pace."
"Ha," Tom scoffs. "You'd be welcome company. And as of this week, my only pace has been 'keep going'."
"That happens to be my favorite pace," Janeway nods. "So, in that case, I accept."
He calls for some suitable clothing for her, as well as place to change, but when he indicates that he'll wait while she warms up, she waves him off with her characteristic brand of confidence.
"I'll be fine, Tom. It's been a while since I did it regularly, but I used to be quite the runner- never took the time to stretch."
The pilot bites back any warnings, knowing they're almost assuredly going to be ignored.
"Whenever you're ready then," he shrugs, scanning through the holodeck's files for a suitable location. "Any requests?"
"Someplace low in humidity," she says neutrally.
It's not the kind of request he expected, but hardly difficult to satisfy. He taps at the console and a moment later a lush landscape of vibrant autumn hues materializes around them.
"Beautiful," Janeway spontaneously assents. "New England?"
"Gatineau hills," he corrects. "Quebec."
It's without much further comment that they're taking off, setting a conservative pace down the sloped tree-lined path. Quickly Tom observes that, warmed up or not, Janeway's shorter legs are having no trouble matching his longer strides. Fifteen minutes later, when they hit the first steep incline, he decides to push it- just a little.
He's torn between annoyance and admiration when the woman next to him matches his increased speed with ease, her legs gliding across the pavement and her exhalations puffing out in the crisp air at a remarkably even rate.
When an even steeper bend looms later, Tom pumps his limbs, his movements (fueled by an already kindled sense of competitiveness) falling into an even tighter rhythm. Seeing Janeway's auburn head pop back into his peripheral vision, the sentiment of quasi-admiration quickly morphs into frustration. Here he's been training for a week and half, and this woman (of remarkably shorter stride) is making him feel like a cargo freighter trying to outrun the Enterprise.
The yellow and orange trees blur in his vision. He ignores the pain building up in his legs; pushes himself harder, faster, even as Janeway continues to match his course.
They come to the end of the ten-kilometer path with Tom still desperately trying to pull ahead of his companion. It's only when they slow and stop- side by side- that the pilot feels, really feels, the flames engulfing his lungs and the build up of lactic acid in his limbs.
"That was wonderful," Janeway beams eventually, her breathing uneven but not nearly as haggard as his. "Thanks for the morning shot of energy. Almost as good as a cup of coffee."
After they say their temporary good-byes, he allows her to leave the holodeck two minutes earlier than him.
Tom gets on the turbolift alone, leaning his head against the wall, followed soon by most of his weight. The realization that he still has a nine-hour shift to get through is something he can neither ignore, nor, at the present moment, bring himself to acknowledge.
. . . . .
"Hi gang," Tom greets enthusiastically, sitting down at the mess hall table Harry and B'Elanna have already selected. "How's Neelix's latest attempt at lasagna going over?"
Harry eyes his friend's cheerful face with some degree of interest. This, by far, is the peppiest Tom's been all week, and it's coming at the end of day which began with same man sitting down at the conn looking a little worse for ware.
"I can't decide if it's meant to be eaten or used as replacement hull plating," B'Elanna replies.
"So, a win for our supply list even if a loss for our taste buds," Paris pronounces, then shovels some of the offending dish into his mouth, just as soon his tray and backside both make contact with the table.
Leaning forward to get Harry's attention, the engineer nods in Tom's direction.
"What's with Captain Chipper here?"
"I was going to ask you," Harry says casually, if with a bit of a leading look. "He certainly wasn't this happy at the beginning of the day."
"Starfleet, if you're implying what I think you're implying- you're a pig, just like your friend. And not that it's any of your business, but I worked straight through lunch, meaning we didn't have to . . . see each other."
"Whatever you say, Chief," Harry smiles, a little too innocently, and for good measure B'Elanna puts a bit more energy into her glare.
"Has it occurred to either of you that I'm right here?" Tom drawls, though without any sign of annoyance. "You could just ask why I'm so cheerful."
"We could," B'Elanna says. But then makes a show of focusing on her dinner.
When Tom pouts, B'Elanna lets loose a repressed smirk and Harry laughs, leaning back and folding his arms.
"Alright, Paris. We give. What is it? What miracle has transformed you from the whiny, lethargic man we've all come to know and tolerate lately to this bundle of energy and light before us?"
"Whiny?"
"Spill it," B'Elanna warns, raising a palm to silent the rest of her lover's protest.
"Believe it or not, guys. . . I just had a good morning."
"A good morning?" Harry repeats, his skepticism dripping down to pool with. . . whatever it is that's congealed at the top of Neelix's lasagna.
"Yep."
"So the reason showed up at the beginning of shift looking like you'd just been chased by a flock of Kavarian tiger bats was that. . . ?"
"Well. . . I admit that the day started out a little rough around the edges after a bit of a taxing run. But, ya know, my energy came back to me two-fold by lunchtime. And when I got to thinking about it, I realized that the time I ran this morning wasn't that far off from my average times at the Academy."
As Tom finishes his explanation, having been smiling into his beverage, he looks to his right just in time to see B'Elanna's lips flirt with a smirk before they're hidden behind her Klingon coffee. Across from her, Harry's face remains remarkably neutral.
Oh, Tom thinks. Got it.
"I know you probably think. . . I realize this looks like a passing phase," he begins haltingly .
The immediate, chorused denials from both companions deter anything he would have said.
It isn't that they're being unsupportive, nor are their assumptions unreasonable. Male crisis- midlife and otherwise- is a theme that's up there with lust, betrayal, and greed in the tapestry of human history. Add in that this was all kicked off by the desire to shed a few kilos, then that last remark about his running times in the Academy, and his behavior starts to look a little cliché. Even Tom can see it.
The problem is that, to Tom, this newfound interest isn't just some male cliché. It's his life. His body. And now, unfortunately, his best friend and girlfriend he feels oddly estranged from.
Forcing a smile, he meets Harry's measured stare, watching as two dark eyes blink and blink and blink.
"Anything to note for the good of the order?" Tom deflects, raising an eyebrow in invitation of a new topic.
"Vorick's still getting on my nerves?" B'Elanna offers. And a little bit of the awkwardness Tom feels is displaced by amusement.
"And you're such a patient person," Harry says, maintaining the same deadpan expression.
"Is it just me, or is our young Mister Kim getting braver?" Tom whispers, too loudly, into B'Elanna's ear.
"You call it 'bravery'. I call it being an idiot. Either way, I liked him better back when we was terrified of me."
However brooding B'Elanna sounds, her companions know the words are devoid of malice. Harry opens his mouth to volley another comment back when his eyes lock onto something behind the others' backs.
"What?" Tom asks, turning around. And then he spots the object of Harry's interest. Standing at the entrance of the mess hall is Chakotay, his eyes scanning the room for someone or something, other than just a place to sit.
After more fruitless searching, the Commander gives up, an air of deflation briefly appearing before he greets passing crew with a smile, then stands in line to grab a tray.
"You think she stood him up? He looks disappointed. . ."
B'Elanna and Tom exchange looks, keenly aware of whom Harry's 'she' refers to. For an officer generally opposed to gossip, the Ensign expends a great deal of energy analyzing the behavior of a certain ship's command team.
Though Tom rarely encourages this line of conversation, he doesn't think Harry's interest is either malicious or idle chatter. Tom's come to understand that his friend is defined by optimism, and part of that optimism is wanting everyone around him to be happy; Harry genuinely wants the good guy to win, someone to ride off into the sunset, and for there to be a rainbow after every storm.
Why a Janeway-Chakotay pairing is supposedly something that will make all concerned parties happy, Tom isn't entirely sure. But he knows that for Harry this thesis is a given, like wanting to get home and his mother's pies tasting better than replicated.
"I don't know," Tom shrugs, not having much to really comment.
"They were awfully quiet on the bridge today," Harry observes. "Very little banter."
Tom scans his memory to see if this is right, but the only thing he remembers about the first half of his shift is his entire body aching.
"Maybe," the pilot allows, and B'Elanna just sticks to her dinner.
When Chakotay ends up sitting at the table next to them, Paris nods politely, a greeting that's promptly returned.
He'll never say it out loud, but in a way Tom thinks Harry's right about the nature of Chakotay's relationship with the Captain. Granted, he doesn't think anything physical is going on- protocol is too much a part of Janeway's blood, maybe Chakotay's, too. But whether or not he's close with the Commander, Tom can tell that the emotional is something far more important to the man than the flesh ever could be. And he's always, from the very moment he met Janeway, known that the most private parts of the woman are the things she keeps in the space between her ears.
Put those facts together with the obvious intimacy and respect the two share, and yes, you get something that looks very much like a relationship. Regardless of who sleeps where.
"You think they're on the outs?"
Harry's question interrupts Tom's chain of thought, his immediate inclination being to note that Janeway seemed fairly chipper that morning. However, given the previous awkwardness, he doesn't particularly want to revisit the topic of his daily exercise.
"I'm sure everything's fine," Tom shakes his head.
"Perhaps instead of worrying about Chakotay's love life, you should worry about your own," B'Elanna teases lightly.
The table's banter restarts and shifts, their dinners quickly finished. But every few minutes, Tom can't help but look over at where Chakotay sits, an aura of heaviness about the Commanders despite the bright smile he offers his dining companions.
. . . . .