AN: This is not the story i had intended to write. It's almost a betrayal, because i adore Tom Paris, and i can feel that even as i sit here helpless in front of my computer, listening to Coldplay and Ben Harper and pounding out page after page of the story. I've been watching Voyager in order, and just came across Blood Fever, and was stunned by the empathy i felt for this poor lost belowdecker Vorik. So, madness ensued, and i thought, why not let him have his chance? I don't know-- maybe you'll all get lucky and i won't finish it. But right now, it has me in a relentless grip-- Coldplay is the ultimate trancewriting music. Somebody please come switch it off...
Disclaimer: We pick up the crumbs, the lost chances, from Paramount's high table, and make them into banquets. All characters belong to TPTB.
Dishonored.
Ensign Vorik attempted to find a better word to describe his state of mind, but he could not. No amount of meditation could get him past the unalterable fact that he had been defeated by the very woman he had chosen to be his mate. No, not defeated. Beaten. Conquered. True, this cast her in an even more desirable light; she was lithe and powerful, with a nimble mind and an intellect that went beyond his own, at least in the field of engineering. She had such an amazing ability to leap from problem to solution… he shook his head. These thoughts were not helping him gain peace. The more he thought about B'Elanna, the less he thought of himself, and his behavior. Which drove him in turn to make some sort of gesture, to balance things between them. They would, after all, be working together for a very long time, in intimate circumstances, dependent on each other. It was only logical that he attempt to return their professional relationship to one that was equivalent to what had been before.
This was how Ensign Vorik found himself, one week later, in the mess hall, pondering the human concept of courage. Not that Vulcans lacked a concept for courage—it was called kyi'i. But somehow this was different. It was possible that traces of the aborted mating bond still lingered in Vorik's subconscious, although he was loathe to admit to such a possibility, and that the human or Klingon, or even both identities of B'Elanna were wrapped up within him, confusing his own sense of self. Whatever it might be that prevented him from rising from his chair, he sat helplessly and watched as the woman he most admired on this lost ship chatted endlessly with the overly cheerful (even for a human) navigator Tom Paris. The man whom she had chosen over Vorik. A most irritating man, in Vorik's opinion. He laughed too much, and was reckless, and graceless, preferring to slouch rather than to sit with poise. Why would B'Elanna, a mighty warrior, choose a weak human over a strong Vulcan? Admittedly, as he watched his thoughts turn a full circle, she had beaten him soundly. But not on the first hit. Tom Paris wouldn't have lasted past the first body slam.
Vorik turned that moment over and over in his mind. He had been hazy with the blood fever, the ritual battle, the kali'fee. But when her fist had connected, it had shocked him into clarity for a moment, and sheer astonishment made him stumble. In all his years of training, no one had ever hit him that hard. The blow rang through his bones like a bell, turning his knees to water. It was… bewildering… beautiful. In that moment, he had wished that the battle could continue forever, that he could be locked into combat with his warrior queen, savage and lovely, until there was nothing left of him to fight, and that as he lay broken and dying on the ground, his only wish would be to see her gazing at him as he took his last breath, and closed his eyes, loosing his katra to her keeping.
Suddenly, he found that his kyi'i had not abandoned him at all, but was just waiting for the proper moment. Tom Paris was being called to the Bridge. How fortuitous. Vorik waited a moment, and then rose and sat down beside B'Elanna, a plan not even considered a moment ago now fully formed. His mind was extremely quick in its own way; lightning-quick, B'Elanna would have acknowledged, had she not been still so angry about the entire circumstance of the pon farr. She attempted an appropriate smile and hoped the Vulcan wouldn't notice her lack of warmth. But she was to learn that Vulcans were much more perceptive about emotion than she would ever have thought possible, from a species that claimed not to have any.
"Lieutenant, I wish to make a proposal."
B'Elanna raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him, a half-smile gracing her lips, and he looked down at the table, reconsidering what was clearly a poor choice of words. "What is it, Ensign?" she asked, sparing them both an awkward rephrasing. She wondered if that was how he was taught to speak, or if was an affectation. Maybe he was shy, or felt tongue-tied around humans. Tuvok, the only other Vulcan she knew well on board Voyager, was completely at ease in human company, even using humor on occasion. Vorik just seemed… young. And she realized that he was. He had just, more or less, reached puberty, even though she knew he was easily in his fourth decade. That was a disconcerting thought, and she did her best to stifle it, as he gathered up his courage, and spoke again.
"I have been burdened with… regret at my behavior, and I wish to make amends." He looked at her with was unmistakably eagerness, and she blanched inwardly, wondering what these amends were going to entail. To her dismay, his eagerness was shrouded immediately, and his dark, solemn eyes flickered down to the table. She flushed, wondering if her thoughts had been so obvious as to embarrass him. She hadn't intended to cause him more pain, and yet here she was, rubbing his nose in it like a bad puppy. That was damnably unkind, and she owed him better than that
Her voice was gentle with embarrassment when she spoke. "What you did, Vorik… I may be the only person who isn't a Vulcan on this ship that understands what you went through. And let me tell you that if you were only half as helpless as I was against that tidal wave, well, you did just fine."
"Tidal wave?" Curiosity perched on his eyebrows, and she found herself warming again to the young man sitting in front of her. He was quite handsome when he forgot to be concerned that someone might be watching him. Olive-complected and sleek black hair always slightly untidy in a way she found endearing, although she was certain he took great pains to make himself look as polished as possible. She nodded, remembering now.
"That's what it felt like. Like I was being washed away, every civilized layer, everything that made me who I was." She clutched at her uniform, as if that would describe what the pon farr had taken away from her. Two years ago such an icon would have been a symbol of scorn, but now it was the face that she was proud to present to the world. "The brutality of it… the sheer power." She shook her head. "I fell like a cut flower." Her sudden realization struck her like a weight in her stomach, and she looked up to meet Vorik's eyes. He looked slightly horrified, as if she were loudly describing her lingerie collection in public. She blushed even more. "I'm sorry. Would you like to go somewhere more private to discuss this?"
He blinked. Twice. His voice, when he finally spoke, was more of a breath. "Yes." She nodded at him, and wondered, not for the first time, what she was getting herself into.
