IV.
"There are many who are living far below their possibilities because they are continually handing over their individuality to others."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
The Lieutenant's almost impeccable table manners take his Captain by surprise, and in the silence that eventually ensues over their meal, she contemplates the likelihood that such habits are lasting legacies of his upbringing.
Though her father was an Admiral like Tom's, she grew up in Indiana, away from Fleet society and the bright glare of San Francisco scrutiny. Tom wasn't so lucky. And as he meticulously adjusts the napkin his lap, his dining companion wonders how many of his behaviors bear testimony to the expectations of his family.
"Do you not care for your pok tar?" he asks, lifting his eyes from his own to plate to hers, mostly untouched.
"You know, I used to love it," she confesses. "But it tastes a little more. . . bland than I remember."
Tom gives her a thoughtful look, pushing his own plate a few centimeters closer to the center of the table.
"Have some of my jumbo mollusks," he offers, nodding his head to teeming platter of Vulcan seafood. "They're amazing. And perfectly cooked."
She doesn't want to be rude, and his plate does look much better than hers. But still she's cautious, somehow uncomfortable with the intimate gesture of sharing food.
It's a strange feeling to have now, given how many times she's looked over at Tom and B'Elanna dining casually together in the mess hall, or else watched with a smile as Tom stole a piece of something from Harry's tray without asking. Each time aware of the study tug of envy within her.
Dining behaviors reveal more about people and relationships than most realize. A companionable quiet over a few shared plates; a rigid meal where no one looks much above their wine glasses. The degree of boundary enforcement betraying any number of realities, from profound affection to complete and utter isolation.
Thinking back, she can't even remember the last occasion someone reached onto her plate, though surely it was at home, with Mark.
"Good?" he asks, after she's freed part of a mollusk from its shell and forked a bite into her mouth.
"Amazing," she replies. And with a blissful expression he's rarely seen her adopt when it comes to food. . . Rarely seen her adopt at all, really.
"Help me finish it," he grins, pushing his plate ever farther toward her.
"Are you sure?" she asks hesitantly.
"This platter is huge," he laughs, "I'll never finish it. And besides, I'm trying to cut down. . ."
She represses a smirk at his last comment. She's noticed his weight slowly creeping up. And felt a sense of sympathy. The last time she wore civilian clothes, she had to shimmy into a dress she's owned for over ten years.
The butter sauce on the mollusks is hardly going to help her plight in that regard. But then, they have no idea if this place is purely illusory, and so too the calorie-dense food within.
"Come on," he almost pleads, "unless you'd prefer to go back to your boring vegetable mash."
Janeway scowls at the taunt, but nevertheless capitulates. His dinner is better than hers, after all.
They both dig into the generous platter of food, Janeway careful to avoid bumping awkwardly into Paris' fork.
"I'm sorry about before . . ." Tom says eventually, his gaze suddenly fascinated with the task of carefully and slowly cutting up a mollusk.
The apology takes her by surprise. She abruptly wells with regret at how harshly she reacted when he interceded in her conversation with Q, and that now he's taking responsibility for it.
"Oh. . . Tom, you don't need to be sorry about that exchange with Q. I'm just. . . frustrated with the situation. And you caught the brunt of it."
She watches as he colors slightly, his eyes not lifting from his plate. If he dissects that mollusk any smaller, she thinks, he's going to need a tricorder to find the pieces on his plate.
"I didn't actually mean about that," he says, clearing his throat midway through. "I meant. . . About our names here at the resort. Q's . . . questionable sense of humor."
His voice, already low, drops an octave at the end. Discomfort and disgust fighting for prominence on his face.
"One becomes accustomed to such slights. . . when one's job involves diplomacy."
She couples her perfunctory reply with another bite of her dinner. Silently praying that Tom will drop this line of conversation by the time her mouth is unobstructed.
"Maybe a creature who lives forever can't really understand what is to miss someone," he says after a few moments, and meeting her eyes briefly.
The sincerity of the statement- his obvious pain for her- is something that moves her. However compassionate and giving her helmsman, he normally tries to camouflage such traits under cynicism and glibness. Not that such efforts have ever really fooled her.
She waits for him to look up again, their eyes meeting once more. And then she lets her affection, her personal appreciation of him, show on her features. Even if in a measured way.
"Thank you for your tact earlier, at the resort." She sits back in her chair, looking relaxed even as she unconsciously tries to create distant between them. "Most officers would have trouble with the idea that their CO's are flesh and blood, complete with romantic pasts."
His jaw tightens at her observation. An acerbic reply about the expected divorce of Starfleet duty and humanity stinging his throat as he swallows it.
She watches, subtly, as he pushes down reflections on his childhood, his father. Watches as he summons a practiced smile to his face, and with as little effort as it takes for her to call for lights in her quarters.
"Funny," he grins. "The things I like most about you are the things that make you human."
"Oh?" she asks, crossing her arms. Giving him a look that would make Chakotay- or anyone with less gall and more sense- begin to backpedal.
"Your addiction to coffee," he supplies. "Your - what was it Tuvok called it the other week? 'Irrational fear of arachnids'?"
"It isn't a fear," she counters immediately. And simultaneously steeling herself against the memory of Voyager'ssmall infestation of large, spiny-legged spiders, which were transported aboard with their last round of bartered food stuffs. "I do, however, dislike finding them in my bathtub."
"To the point that you called your Chief of Security," he points out, in his most respectful tone.
"I was meeting him for a working dinner anyway," she defends, now irrationally intent on denying his claim. "I simply. . . commed him to my quarters half an hour early."
Paris gives a small grin, not bothering to further point out that she had Harry sweep her quarters for more spiders. Twice.
"So then not an irrational fear of spiders," he placates. "But there are still other things. . . Like your temper."
This last comment earns him a full eyebrow arch, as he knew it would. And by cue, Tom pretends to cower and hide under the tablecloth.
Janeway's indignation quickly dissolves into peels of laughter.
"Fine, fine. . . I have a boiling point," she chuckles. "But I contend that it's a brand of righteous anger."
"Of course," he drawls, smiling hugely. "Captains are never cranky for no reason."
He doesn't push the joke any father, realizing that she's letting him dance relatively close to the line. Content to bask for a moment in her genuine cheer at his cheek.
All of his life, people have accused Tom of not knowing where the appropriate boundaries are. Boundaries of taste, morality, duty. Plain decency. But the truth is, Tom is a person who is keenly aware of where all the lines are, even when he steps right over them.
Watching his Captain chuckle freely, he wonders which of them has suffered more because of their awareness of those boundaries. Janeway for feeling inexplicably bound to them, even (or perhaps especially?) in those instances when she chooses to ignore them. Or himself, for feeling an almost compulsive urge to flout them at great cost to himself.
When Janeway stills, regarding her abruptly contemplative officer, she looks across the table curiously.
"What is it?" she asks, her smile now dimming slightly.
"It might be rude to say this," Tom begins seriously. "But I feel I'd be letting you down. . . as your husband. . . if I didn't tell you."
He leans over the table, looking serious, and she finds herself leaning to meet him. Abruptly concerned and disconcerted by his manner.
When he resumes his thought, his voice has dropped to a whisper.
"You have exoskeleton on your chin."
They both begin to laugh as she tries to wipe the mollusk shell from her face, each convulsing with giggles, albeit at different times, when she repeatedly misses the piece of debris with her napkin.
. . . . .
When they slowly circle the terrace they began on, easy banter and fits of laughter have fled them. The Risian sun is steadily descending in the sky and Q has not made an appearance for several hours.
Janeway is restless, uneasy at the idea of spending even more time away from her ship. So too, uneasy at the idea that she and Tom may have to try to get some sleep here, seeking out the room that was no doubt designed for a romantic couple.
For his part, Paris is mostly mute. He can feel Janeway's frustration and worry quietly pulsing beside him, and he knows no observation he can make will help matters.
Still, there is only so much strained silence he can take, and so after their fourth lap around the terrace, he motions over the railing to another pool that stretches out below the main one.
"If it's alright with you, I'm going to go for a swim."
He doesn't use her rank, per her earlier request, but his tone defers to her authority.
She nods, looking at the long line of lounge chairs on the other side.
He departs in the direction of the station where they left their swim attire. And after she claims a lounge, stretching out slowly, she watches as he reappears on the far end of the terrace, plucking his way through the crowd to the staircase that will take him to the lower pool.
She expects to feel relieved when her pilot is gone, leaving her alone, with a chance to collect her thoughts without someone watching her.
After twenty minutes, it becomes clear the solitude is only exacerbating her restlessness. She vaguely considers the idea of going and finding Tom.
She's been fighting the urge to go off and join Paris for ten minutes when she realizes that Q had materialized beside her. How long the creature has been there, Janeway can't quite pinpoint, as Q has appeared without either her customary flash or any immediate comment.
Q wears the same swimsuit and straw hat that she donned when she first appeared on the terrace. But joining the hat now is an oversized pair of tinted glasses.
Like the hat, the glasses strike Janeway as odd. But odder still is the way Q stretches out in the lounge, apparently paying Voyager's Captain no mind.
"Lovely breeze," Q comments eventually. But in a polite voice that any tourist could easily adopt when in close proximity to another.
Janeway waits for Q to go on, but no other commentary follows. The powerful being stretching out further on the lounge, almost appearing close to sleep.
"I've considered your observations," Janeway volunteers, suddenly feeling the need to fill the silence. "I don't know that they're quite accurate, but I can appreciate why you were trying to caution me about my rapport with Mister Paris."
No reply is offered by Q, the only sound the gentle rustle of wind through the resort's landscaping and the distant din of people.
Janeway fidgets, however slightly, in her recliner; not sure what Q's silence means, and somehow more uncomfortable with it than Q's characteristic haughtiness.
"Are you content to keep us here much longer?" Janeway demands, and in a tone designed to draw an argument.
Q sighs, adjusting the glasses on her nose before allowing her hand to gracefully fall against her body.
"However pleasant the appearances of the holding cell," Janeway continues, "hostages are still hostages. Being held against our will is an intolerable action."
"The pool is a wonderful temperature," Q observes, and in the same polite tone. "You should consider taking a dip."
Janeway fumes at the apparent dismissal, and Q eventually pushes the glasses down on her nose, casting a long look at her angry companion.
"Helm boy went down to the other pool to give you some privacy, in case you actually chose to unwind. . . Shame to waste the gesture by sitting here and griping at me with the same pointless complaints you've voiced all day."
Q's tone is one of mild annoyance. Relatively measured, as Q's criticisms go.
Janeway looks away, fixing her eyes the staircase that Tom descended sometime earlier. She's surprised by the revelation that he did so to give her space, rather than because he wanted to ditch his CO.
Whether too vexed by Q's new companionability, or giving into the lure of the pool, Janeway rises to seek out her previous swim attire.
The Captain changes quickly, making a beeline to the diving-board, where she executes a flawless pike. She then swims more than a dozen laps, stopping only when other tourists swim across her path.
Reaching the edge once more, she notices Q, now in the pool and floating several meters away.
Janeway concludes her laps, approaching Q with barely masked interest. The straw hat is gone but the glasses remain. Long, red hair spreads out around Q as she floats tranquilly, her chest failing to rise or fall.
The Captain almost stops herself from saying anything, afraid to disturb such an image of peace and contentment. She quickly shakes the thought away with the reminder that Q is their captor, and has hardly shown any respect for their preferences or projects.
"You can't even relax properly, can you?" Q asks, just as Janeway opens her mouth to say something.
Q doesn't stop floating, bobbing along slowly with the waves that are being created within the pool. A brochure-worthy appearance of calm in the exotic landscape.
"You even have to regiment your pool time," Q continues. "Can't let go even when you're alone." A deep sigh, even as she continues to move gently at the top of the water. "Tragic, given how infinitesimally short your lives are."
Janeway lets out a deep breath of fatigue. As much as she's tried to bait Q in the last half hour, she doesn't really want to debate her life choices with her. Especially as she's starting to think she's coming out on the losing end of the argument.
"You should take a lesson from your pilot," Q says, this time returning to the pleasant tone she adopted in the lounge chair. "Follow his own approach to relaxing."
"Which is?" Janeway sighs.
"This," Q replies, fanning her arms out in the water.
Janeway gives an involuntary smile. More than able to picture Tom floating in the water, appearing as carefree as Q does before her.
The idea of doing so herself appeals to Janeway, but humoring Q (or even giving the appearance of humoring Q) is something she won't allow herself at the moment.
She quits the pool and the bobbing demi-god, going off to knowingly disturb the relaxation her officer is engaging in.
"Cap. . . Kathryn," Tom greets stiltedly, when Janeway appears next to him, standing on the edge of the pool.
The discomfort with which he says her first name is comical. But it's lost on Janeway, who is standing erect enough to be in her pips and uniform rather than a swimsuit.
"Anything I should be apprised of?" he asks, pulling himself out of the pool in one quick movement.
Janeway averts her eyes from his muscled body while he rises. And once he stands, he meets her gaze, not allowing his own eyes to wander lower.
"I'm no longer willing to go along with this- charade," she declares. As though she's been somehow complicit in it until this point. Or as if they have any choice now.
Tom schools his features as he towels himself off. He knows better than to point out their lack of options, but he's also confused by her sudden and dramatic anger.
Not that he's ever thought it a particularly fruitful endeavor, hunting for the root of Janeway's temper flares.
She begins to pace, slowly and as though on the bridge. And Tom watches, waiting for orders. Or perhaps waiting for her to come to terms with the position their in. . . Which all things considered, could be much worse.
The Captain begins to think out loud, ignoring her own directive to her pilot to watch talk of ranks and Voyager, doing so herself now within earshot of droves of tourists.
Not long into Janeway's verbal brainstorming, Q appears a meter from them, abandoning her resort attire for a Starfleet uniform, though one whose design Janeway and Paris have never seen.
"If it is so untenable for you to be in this environment, I'm happy to produce a more suitable one for you," Q offers. But in an ominous tone that makes Paris' stomach begin to churn.
"This is fine," he says quickly, and watching as Janeway estimates her misstep.
"There's no need to . . . produce another environment for Mister Paris," Janeway openly pleads, stepping between Q and Tom. "Just take me."
"I would never separate a Captain from her crewmember," Q replies darkly.
And with a snap of her wrist, the resort is replaced with a momentary, blinding light.
When Janeway and Paris materialize in their new surroundings, their nostrils and throats are assaulted by clouds of smoke, their ears filled with discordant cries of pain and panic.