Paramount as always, owns everything - except the Bourbon ;-)
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Klingon Philosophy for Beginners
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Klingon Philosophy 101 - Your Gods are probably more trouble than they are worth.
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The VIP end of Deck three is the very last place B'Elanna expects to find herself this evening.
It is a harsh truth, but following the events of the last twenty-four hours, she doesn't relish the thought of seeing her Captain again so soon and Janeway just may, have good cause to feel the same. But an unexplainable force is driving her onwards and so she walks Voyager's maze of familiar corridors and rides the Turbolift until she finds herself standing outside the nondescript door. It may be one of hundreds aboard Ship, but its occupant ensures that B'Elanna and any of the Senior staff could identify it in a heartbeat. She almost stops herself from pressing the chime, but then does so anyway, a little resigned to their fate. The short delay before the door slides open tells her that Janeway has asked the computer to identify the caller, a perfectly reasonable action given the late hour. Half surprised by the admission that she is summarily granted, B'Elanna takes a tentative step into the softly lit living area, halting just as soon as she realises that the room is empty, she has no intention of venturing towards the Captain's bedroom so stays put, fleetingly contemplating retreat.
When Janeway appears a second or two later, she is minus her uniform jacket, leaving her wearing the regulation grey tank top tucked into the waist of her uniform slacks. A dark maroon pashmina is draped around her shoulders, perhaps in an attempt to defend against the slight chill in the recycled air. What takes B'Elanna by surprise is not her Captain's attire however, but her sock clad feet. Without her heeled boots, Janeway stands at roughly B'Elanna's height, bringing them almost exactly eye to eye, unused to being on any kind of level with the woman standing less than a metre from her, B'Elanna suddenly finds herself at a loss for words, her opening gambit disappearing almost as fast as Tom's latest batch of ill-gotten replicator rations.
The Captain walks over to her Viewport and gestures for B'Elanna to follow. Slowly, she slides a hand across the small of her back and brings it to rest it on the crest of her hip.
"Do I take it this concerns Teero?"
Mutely, B'Elanna nods. Disarmed by both her location and the true stature of her companion, her brain struggles to form the single word answer, never mind an entire sentence.
In the ensuing silence, Janeway turns to look over her left shoulder.
"Just ask B'Elanna."
Something in her Captain's cool, unflinching demeanour irks and roused from her earlier stupor, B'Elanna finds her voice, low and full of an anger bubbling dangerously close to the surface.
"You expected nothing less did you?"
Hearing this, Janeway's entire body turns clockwise, her gaze rotating through one-hundred and eighty degrees, two intensely focussed, azure blue eyes thoroughly search B'Elanna's face, her rose tinted lips pressed together.
"You didn't want to believe how easily Teero could manipulate the others. Chakotay's betrayal, that was a shock, his loyalty to Starfleet, to you is something you've come to expect no matter what and when Tuvok picked up that phaser -"
Stopping abruptly mid sentence, she registers the flinch that results in Janeway's torso contracting momentarily at her mention of Tuvok's name, a reflex that even as a master of control, she fails to conceal entirely. The air between them becomes suddenly and brutally still and B'Elanna can feel the thumping of her accelerated heart rate and the heat of the anger that is covering her skin. She watches Janeway fight to retain her well schooled expression, the effort in her neck and facial muscles convincing the younger of the two women that there is more to that episode than Mess Hall gossip has thus far provided, but B'Elanna needs to finish what she has started and gritting her teeth she continues, her raised voice bouncing off the unfamiliar walls.
"...But you didn't have any trouble imagining that I'd join a Maquis rebellion, that I'd betray you in a heartbeat. After all this time, is that really still how you think of me Captain?"
There is more bitterness in her voice than she intends, her question re-opening a long since healed wound of trust between them, akin to slicing through an old scar with a laser scalpel, leaving only raw, bleeding tissue. Perhaps to put some distance between them, Janeway walks across the room and sits, resting back against the couch, no hint of her defences visible. If she is in any way affected by this accusation, she hides it well. The head tilt she aims in B'Elanna's direction is almost curious and her words laced with an honesty that makes her seem more real to B'Elanna than she ever has before.
"It wasn't like that."
"Wasn't it?"
B'Elanna needs more than the truth, she wants and needs absolution, the knowledge that her past transgressions have truly been forgiven. She stands in defiance, eyes flashing, hands on her hips, not unlike, she comes to realise, Janeway's own posture on the Bridge when faced with a formidable enemy. Janeway gestures to the other end of the couch with a resigned wave of one hand and for the first time since arriving B'Elanna notices a bottle of Bourbon on the table flanked by two tumblers.
"Captain…."
"Please B'Elanna, sit. And let's leave rank out of this, call me Kathryn."
Defined brows shoot her a questioning look and although convinced that she'll never be able to say that particular name with anything other than an entirely feigned ease, B'Elanna manages a small nod as her bottom touches the soft surface. In the ensuing silence, she realises that she has come to envy the way in which Janeway can make every movement, action so deliberate, so very carefully refined. Starting with the way in which she holds herself, adopting the necessarily upright Starfleet posture and coupling it with an elegance that defies her stature. It continues in the way in which she manoeuvres her limbs: crosses her legs, tilts her head, regards you as if you were the only person in the room and smiles that slightly crooked smile. B'Elanna has watched every member of her Engineering staff as they are bewitched and it drives her crazy, whenever Janeway is present, even in the one place on the Ship that she rightfully considers her territory, it is if she is entirely absent.
Janeway is not necessarily a classical beauty, she decides although high cheekbones and a sweeping brow work in her favour, rather a compelling mixture of self-assurance, fierce intelligence and compassion, combined with a calculated hint of vulnerability - the resulting power something few can resist. Unable to decide if it is a genetic trait or a deliberate tactic, if asked, B'Elanna would wager a combination of both. From what she has observed during their foray into the Delta Quadrant, Janeway's mere presence can hold the males of a variety of species entirely captive and even the straight women she knows, talk of her in hallowed and seductive terms. Catching herself scrutinising her companion, she almost smiles at the irony as she watches her Captain wrap several of her slim fingers around the glass and bring it slowly and thoughtfully to lips touched with a hint of rose.
"With or without ice?"
Tonight is not a time to hesitate. "Without."
She doesn't particularly like Bourbon and by the look of the vintage, it will burn like hell, but she needs the undiluted hit. This is all too strange, too complicated, too much of a head fuck as Tom would say. A little amused by the instantaneous answer, Kathryn's lips purse with the the hint of a smile and she retrieves the bottle to pour two generous measures of the amber liquid, swirling the liquid slowly, ice cubes clinking almost musically as she does so.
Her own glass now in hand, B'Elanna raises her eyebrows in silent question and receives a shake of the head by way of reply.
"It's the real deal, tomorrow's hangover will attest to that."
B'Elanna scoffs a little at the thought, quite sure that the model Officer opposite has never, ever had even the merest trace of a hangover and certainly not whilst on duty. Janeway's dedication to Starfleet she suspects, has and always will, come an non-negotiable first. Kathryn meets her gaze, blue eyes sparkling with a hint of something that B'Elanna can't quite comprehend as a wry look crosses her features and she lifts her chin in apparent consideration.
"The next time you talk to Chakotay off duty, ask him to tell you about the morning after Tom's birthday last year. I was sick over the pot plant in my ready room."
Caught totally off guard by this unnecessary and selfless honesty, B'Elanna is suddenly, painfully aware that her jaw is slack with shock, leaving her mouth hanging open. She snaps it shut, biting back a chortle at this unlikely image, Kathryn takes another sip from the glass and rolls her eyes.
"I blame Chell, whatever moonshine he put in that punch…... I probably should have demoted him."
Stunned, B'Elanna brings her hand up to her mouth to cover amusement and embarrassment in equal measures. She can recall nothing specific about the celebratory evening in question, in fact she can't even remember seeing the Captain present at Sandrine's. She can however, vividly recall the punch and its after-effects. Semi impressed, if at the same time a trifle disappointed at the thought that the woman sitting opposite her just might be subject to the same laws of nature as the rest of them.
And was sick into a pot plant.
Closing her eyes quickly, she tries to halt the image and its accompanying smirk. A large gulp of Whiskey and a deep breath later and she is ready to attempt eye contact with Janeway who she senses is now watching her in part amusement.
"B'Elanna, I want you to know that I trust you implicitly. And I would do so with my life. I want to make that very clear, what happened with Teero had nothing to do with you or anyone else failing to meet my expectations."
"But?"
Janeway shrugs, "But the events have taken a toll and I need some time to….. process."
Her voice dropping a notch, she raises a weary hand to lightly massage her temple. B'Elanna is uncomfortable, an unpleasant image of Tuvok directing his phaser towards Janeway forming in her mind's eye as one of Janeway's manicured nails comes to rest on an imaginary spot in the centre of her forehead. Subconscious or not, the gesture catches B'Elanna's attention and she finds herself unable to suppress a slight gasp at the realisation.
"It was a kill shot."
Her companion pauses before answering, her blue eyes slightly glassy.
"It was. And I would expect nothing less from my Chief of Security."
B'Elanna almost scoffs aloud at this, so strange a statement from the representative of a self-styled pacifist organisation. Janeway appears so detached from the incident that she is appraising it like a tactical training exercise, typical Starfleet. Whether the late hour, the Bourbon or both, something makes her want to question further and although Janeway's eyes send her a warning note, it is an impulse she decides to ignore.
"And if the phaser had been operational?"
Janeway pauses. "Then Chakotay would have an extra pip, permanently."
B'Elanna finishes her drink and refills both glasses. The Bourbon is making her brave, that or she's just plain tired of Janeway's self absorbed, one dimensional view of the Universe.
"I never took you for someone to indulge in self pity. You know that you're the fortunate one in all of this?"
Janeway's eyes darken to a dangerous shade of sapphire and the muscles around her jaw tighten. When she speaks, her tone is one that could freeze a river of free flowing molten lava on Vulcan.
"How so?"
B'Elanna holds her nerve. "Right now Chakotay is in Sickbay sporting a dislocated jaw, enduring a lecture from the Doc about boxing an opponent with twenty-five pounds and a foot on him, with the Holodeck safety protocols off. Tuvok I'd bet, is in his Quarters beating himself repeatedly with whatever the Vulcan equivalent of a Klingon painstik just happens to be, but you already know that don't you? You're just choosing to ignore it."
Janeway's stony expression gives nothing away, only pushing B'Elanna to go further, harder. Downing another slug of the Whiskey, she feels the liquid burn from her tongue all the way down to her stomach and on reflex, her eyes water.
"And the rest of the Maquis, well let's see, they probably feel about as manipulated and violated as I do, plus we're back to wondering if you and all the other Starfleet originals will ever trust us again. So you'll have to take my word that it's been a fairly awful day all round. But of course none of us had a non-operational phaser pointed at us, so we couldn't possibly understand."
At this accusation, her counterpart drinks deeply and perhaps it is B'Elanna's overactive imagination or perhaps the hand holding the tumbler wavers for a split-second. So short a time that she almost misses the tiny movement as Janeway instantly brings her other hand to still the glass. Teero's attack blindsided them all B'Elanna now understands, their esteemed leader included. It shook their very foundations, transcending hard fought allegiances and well cemented friendships with a disturbing ease; taking them back to a time and place they had long since left behind.
The unspoken doubt now present in their collective consciousness is ignored at all their peril.
Staring deep into the tumbler, Janeway's eyes flicker and B'Elanna sees her check the threatened emotion. She stands and sliding her hand back onto her hip, returns slowly to the Viewport, her steps just a trifle unsteady, falling a fraction short of the Starfleet perfection they have all come to expect of her. B'Elanna starts to follow, regretting the third glass of Bourbon drunk at such speed as the floor shifts underfoot. Using the substantial pieces of furniture as a roadmap, she winds her way around the space.
"The Crew don't blame you, you've earned their respect and you need to let it go. It's long overdue."
Janeway doesn't comment on this, choosing to keep her thoughts to herself, staring into the dark expanse of space. Another tumbler of the Bourbon apiece and B'Elanna decides that now might be the time to make a disclosure of her own. Folding her arms across her chest, she leans nonchalantly, or tries to.
"My Grandmother on my mother's side, she often spoke about traditional Klingon philosophy. Before she passed, she gave me one of the only pieces of advice that I've ever put any real store by….."
The mention of Klingon philosophy or perhaps the thought of B'Elanna contemplating it, catches Kathryn's attention. Her cheeks slightly flushed, she alters her gaze to look a little expectantly at her.
"Well? I might just be in the market for some good advice right about now."
B'Elanna pauses to inhale and allows her chest to puff out slightly. The importance of imparting advice to one's Captain not lost on her.
"It's difficult to translate, but roughly, it would be... Sometimes, shit just happens."
Kathryn fails to suppress a soft snort at this, tipping forward to rest her forehead on the cool surface of the Viewport and closing her eyes against the stars streaking past.
"Shit happens?"
A rogue tear escapes and slides down her cheek as her shoulders start to shake with laughter. B'Elanna shrugs noncommittally contemplating a return to the relative stability and safety of the couch.
"...Shit happens….."
Kathryn has placed both palms on the clear surface now and is bent almost double, her entire torso seeming to convulse with the hilarity of the phrase. Half offended, half disconcerted, it strikes B'Elanna that she has never seen her Captain really laugh before. One hand moving to support her abdomen, Kathryn might be attempting to regain some semblance of control, but she is failing impressively. That in itself is something to see. Rich, rippling laughter seems to be emanating in waves from her very core and tears are streaming down both cheeks as her breath continues to come in slightly ragged gasps. If it weren't for the expression on her face, B'Elanna might be tempted to call the EMH, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she suspects that this is exactly what her Captain needs.
And so she watches in a slight daze, until presumably a combination of Bourbon and exhaustion cause her companion to press her back against the obliging surface and slide to the floor until her chin is level with her knees. From this position she eyes B'Elanna and wipes her streaming eyes and nose with the pashmina that now lies in a crumpled heap at her feet.
"Please…." Her voice is a soft rasp and she is struggling not to hiccup. "Please don't say that again, not until I can stand at least. B'Elanna you're..."
Unsure if this warrants a reply, but sensing no hostility, B'Elanna risks approaching, the bottle of Bourbon in her one free hand, she settles alongside Janeway and refills their glasses.
Still trying to regulate her breathing, Kathryn's face is blotchy and the tip of her nose is red, but the smile she offers B'Elanna starts in the creases around the edges of her eyes, restoring the vibrant blue of her irises, before working its way across her cheeks and then down to her mouth. A smile that makes B'Elanna believe with every fibre of her being that if the Gods so desire the woman sitting alongside her will get them home. It is quite the most startlingly beautiful thing and time seems to stop as B'Elanna finds herself smiling back at the woman sat beside her. Just maybe, today has served to reinforce why she (and the rest of the Crew) will follow this woman wherever their onward journey now takes them, no questions asked.
She tilts her head sideways until it almost touches her Captain's shoulder, their tumblers miss the first time, but make a hard contact with an ominous sounding crack, the second time.
"To Klingon Philosophy."
07:00 hours the following day, Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris is requesting permission to enter the Captain's ready room for a second time. Their dark haired First Officer shifts in his seat slightly as he looks up from the PADD he is studying and slowly shakes his head.
"I'm sorry Mr Paris, but the Captain has a three hour meeting scheduled with Lieutenant Torres this morning and asked specifically not to be disturbed."
Tom is incredulous, obviously as much in the dark as the rest of them. "Three hours? Come on Chakotay, B'Elanna won't mind. It'll take two minutes - three tops."
He turns in the direction of the door before Chakotay can reply, only to be stopped in his tracks by the even, slightly stilted voice of their Vulcan Tactical Officer.
"I would advise against that Lieutenant. The Captain made herself very clear regarding the action I am to take if anyone disturbs her, unless as she put it, hell has frozen over."
Tom hesitates, Janeway's words carrying a great deal more gravitas than Chakotay's and weighing up his options, decides to acquiesce and ease long legs back into his chair. His curiosity however, like that of the proverbial cat, gets the better of him.
"And just what did the Captain make you promise Tuvok?"
All ears on the Bridge are now tuned into this exchange, although the majority of the Officers have experience and tact enough to appear otherwise engaged. Heads bowed, contemplating their various stations a little too intensely, they all wait patiently.
Tuvok's right eyebrow raises the merest fraction before he replies. "She requested that I shoot you, or indeed anyone else who should contravene her direct order."
Not doubting the Vulcan's commitment to carrying out the aforementioned action for a second, Tom's shoulders slump slightly, conceding a final defeat. The subtle emphasis on the person in the first half of the sentence is entirely intentional and he is convinced that Tuvok is having the Vulcan equivalent of a joke and at his expense. It is not the start to the shift he was anticipating and somewhat maudlin, he returns his attention to the Helm, grumbling.
"Well I guess I should be grateful that she didn't single me out for special treatment."
Tuvok doesn't miss a beat, unaware that before the end of the shift, his reply will have reached even the farthest corner of deck fifteen.
"Quite the contrary Lieutenant. The Captain specifically asked me to increase the stun setting by one level if it was you who attempted to gain access."
Paris keeps his eyes firmly locked to his station as a series of stifled coughs emanate from around the Bridge.
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Inside the ready room, the door to which is sealed with a level nine Command authorisation code, B'Elanna suspects that if their technology would allow, Janeway's preference would be to lock it to nothing less than her individual DNA. A small, white, basin shaped receptacle stands alone on the coffee table, untouched thus far and convinced that Janeway's pride means that she would actually swallow her vomit, before she would throw up in front of a Junior Officer; so far B'Elanna's supposition is proving accurate.
The two cross the room and ease themselves down onto the firm sage couch. The lights are dim and the environmental controls have obligingly reduced the temperature to exactly three point five degrees lower than that of the rest of the Ship. This morning, B'Elanna reminds herself to be especially grateful for the Klingon portion of her genes. Kathryn looks markedly worse than she does, her skin decidedly sallow, her movements slightly hesitant; one hand periodically raising to her temple. Her own head only mildly pounding, B'Elanna accepts the proffered cool pack and places it against her forehead. Once stretched out toe to toe, if she raises her head a fraction she can make out the shiny pips on Janeway's collar as she eases her head down onto a cushion one millimetre at a time. They don't speak and she is just beginning to feel the pleasant call of sleep when she hears a small, but predictably still authoritative voice.
"The larger end of the couch Lieutenant? I'm impressed by your courage, even after last night."
Keeping her eyes closed against even the dimmed lighting, B'Elanna momentarily allows herself to feel like the cat who has got the cream, a rarity in the presence of one Kathryn Janeway and an opportunity that she simply can't let pass. She formulates the next sentence with a great deal of care and when she speaks, it is with the slow deliberation of one savouring each and every syllable. Her voice is smooth and certain, with just a trace of the intended levity.
"Courage has nothing to do with it Captain. I just presumed you'd prefer to be closer to the pot plant."
The resounding silence from the other end of the couch speaks volumes and when B'Elanna falls asleep, it is with a half smile playing on her lips.