The Morning After The Night Before...
[Alternate Version]
By Coral
Disclaimer: I won't tell Paramount if you don't... ;-)
Dedication: This is ALL JO'S FAULT!!!! Blame her, not me, is that understood?!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first thing Kathryn Janeway notices as she opens her eyes is the pain, and she squeezes them shut again instantly. The next thing she notices is that she aches all over. Her throat is dry, her head is throbbing, her skin itches all over, and she feels as if a dozen Klingons are holding an all-night party in her head. Suffice to say, she is in pain. And Kathryn in pain only has one thought on her mind: where is the coffee?
In the replicator, dammit, in the other part of her quarters. With a groan of agony, she rolls out of bed and flops onto the floor, momentarily winding herself, then hauls herself up with the aid of her dresser. She sends a mental thank you to the wise person who bolted the furniture down whilst manufacturing the ship.
Feeling her way cautiously with her hands and feet, she manages to make it into the open living area of her quarters.
"Computer," she croaks, "Lights at ten percent." Each word sears her throat, and even the dim light supplied as the computer complies with her request shines through her shut eyelids to induce even more pain. She considers collapsing on the floor and just going back to sleep, but Kathryn Janeway does not give up that easily. Instead, she slowly, slowly, slowly opens one eye, squinting a little until her poor, tortured pupil adjusts. Then the other one follows suit... slowly...
In the near-darkness supplied by the lighting systems, and the faint light from the warping stars, she can only make out shadowy shapes in her quarters. On the small coffee table by her sofa is a disturbingly large collection of empty bottles and glasses, although Kathryn has only a faint memory of replicating one or two last night. Her head seems to verify the facts in front of her, though, and it has obviously been a very... uncaptainly night.
She hasn't drunk herself insensate in years, and possibly never this badly. Not that she remembers, anyway, she thinks wryly. She starts to shake her head, but the sharp pain shooting through her body at even the merest hint of the beginning of the movement quickly puts paid to that, and she reaches a hand out to steady herself on her desk. Very slowly and very carefully, she raises a hand to massage her temples gently. It doesn't help much - but then, it doesn't hurt either. And it gives her something to focus on as she tries to piece together in her mind the mess that this morning is turning out to be. She assumes it is morning anyway; she hasn't checked anywhere yet. But it feels very - morning-y. Morning after-y, in fact.
Coffee, she remembers. Coffee was where she was going to start. With this goal in mind, she starts taking small, but determined, steps towards the replicator, which is, of course, on the far side of the room. She is doing very well until the moment her feet catch in a pile of something and she falls forward, flat on her face. Good thing Harry or Neelix or Seven or someone isn't here. Wouldn't do to have anyone else seeing the captain sprawled on the floor, tangled in... in...
She pushes herself into a sitting position, leaning her head against the edge of the desk and hoping she won't just topple back over. She feels giddy and unbalanced, and vows never to do this again. Whatever 'this' involved. Fumbling and missing several times, she eventually manages to free herself from the material that has wrapped itself around her legs, and she realises it is her peach silk wrap, though why it is here is a mystery. She normally hangs it, tidily, from the hook in her quarters, one of the last things she does before going to bed. She must have been out of it last night for it to be in here.
Coffee. She takes a few more deep breaths. If she wants to get anything clear, then she has to have coffee. If she wants coffee, she has to get to the replicator. Ergo, replicator before all else. She hauls herself back to the feet, slightly steadier this time, and continues that long, arduous trek, nearly falling over someone else's brightly coloured clothes on the way.
"Coffee, black," she barks out, and the replicator hums happily as it provides. Kathryn would hum happily too if her head didn't hurt, if her feet didn't hurt, if her eyes didn't hurt, if her arms didn't hurt -- if she didn't, just... well... hurt. Instead, she grabs the cup like a lifesaver and drinks, ignoring the burning heat of the bitter liquid as it nearly scalds her mouth. In a way it is her penance for letting herself get so out of control last night; her own way of atoning. That she was alone is irrelevant, it was enough that she forgot herself and potentially endangered the ship.
The ship. Her head hurts. She must be due on the bridge, she realises with a sinking feeling. She's in no shape to be on duty, but doesn't want to go down to sickbay. For one thing, she isn't sure that she can make it that far. For another, there is no way she wants to explain her state to The Doctor - or worse, Tom Paris - if she can possibly avoid it. Somewhere in these quarters, she has a medkit for situations like this. Well, similar to this. Anything where she wants to avoid the Doctor if at all possible. The only problem is where it might be. She drops to her hands and knees and feels around, under the desk, where she finds one of her boots. It shouldn't be there, but she isn't concerned about that at the moment, she just needs to find the medkit. She starts to stand up but, forgetting she is under the desk, manages to slam her head up against it with a scream of pain as contact is made.
She swears, rather loudly. It feels good, so she does it again, a stream of curses tumbling from her fuzzy-feeling mouth, questioning the stability of the universe and the parentage of the medkit. Its whereabouts are as mysterious as its ancestors though, and she crawls out from under the desk, pressing a hand against her throbbing head. Her vision is rather blurry, and she blinks several times to try to clear it.
Someone is standing in the doorway between her bedroom and living area, holding something up in the air. Squinting a little, she recognises the familiar shape of a hypospray. "Looking for this?" The person speaks, and she realises it is Neelix.
Standing in her bedroom.
Naked.
And she doesn't remember a thing...
End
[Alternate Version]
By Coral
Disclaimer: I won't tell Paramount if you don't... ;-)
Dedication: This is ALL JO'S FAULT!!!! Blame her, not me, is that understood?!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first thing Kathryn Janeway notices as she opens her eyes is the pain, and she squeezes them shut again instantly. The next thing she notices is that she aches all over. Her throat is dry, her head is throbbing, her skin itches all over, and she feels as if a dozen Klingons are holding an all-night party in her head. Suffice to say, she is in pain. And Kathryn in pain only has one thought on her mind: where is the coffee?
In the replicator, dammit, in the other part of her quarters. With a groan of agony, she rolls out of bed and flops onto the floor, momentarily winding herself, then hauls herself up with the aid of her dresser. She sends a mental thank you to the wise person who bolted the furniture down whilst manufacturing the ship.
Feeling her way cautiously with her hands and feet, she manages to make it into the open living area of her quarters.
"Computer," she croaks, "Lights at ten percent." Each word sears her throat, and even the dim light supplied as the computer complies with her request shines through her shut eyelids to induce even more pain. She considers collapsing on the floor and just going back to sleep, but Kathryn Janeway does not give up that easily. Instead, she slowly, slowly, slowly opens one eye, squinting a little until her poor, tortured pupil adjusts. Then the other one follows suit... slowly...
In the near-darkness supplied by the lighting systems, and the faint light from the warping stars, she can only make out shadowy shapes in her quarters. On the small coffee table by her sofa is a disturbingly large collection of empty bottles and glasses, although Kathryn has only a faint memory of replicating one or two last night. Her head seems to verify the facts in front of her, though, and it has obviously been a very... uncaptainly night.
She hasn't drunk herself insensate in years, and possibly never this badly. Not that she remembers, anyway, she thinks wryly. She starts to shake her head, but the sharp pain shooting through her body at even the merest hint of the beginning of the movement quickly puts paid to that, and she reaches a hand out to steady herself on her desk. Very slowly and very carefully, she raises a hand to massage her temples gently. It doesn't help much - but then, it doesn't hurt either. And it gives her something to focus on as she tries to piece together in her mind the mess that this morning is turning out to be. She assumes it is morning anyway; she hasn't checked anywhere yet. But it feels very - morning-y. Morning after-y, in fact.
Coffee, she remembers. Coffee was where she was going to start. With this goal in mind, she starts taking small, but determined, steps towards the replicator, which is, of course, on the far side of the room. She is doing very well until the moment her feet catch in a pile of something and she falls forward, flat on her face. Good thing Harry or Neelix or Seven or someone isn't here. Wouldn't do to have anyone else seeing the captain sprawled on the floor, tangled in... in...
She pushes herself into a sitting position, leaning her head against the edge of the desk and hoping she won't just topple back over. She feels giddy and unbalanced, and vows never to do this again. Whatever 'this' involved. Fumbling and missing several times, she eventually manages to free herself from the material that has wrapped itself around her legs, and she realises it is her peach silk wrap, though why it is here is a mystery. She normally hangs it, tidily, from the hook in her quarters, one of the last things she does before going to bed. She must have been out of it last night for it to be in here.
Coffee. She takes a few more deep breaths. If she wants to get anything clear, then she has to have coffee. If she wants coffee, she has to get to the replicator. Ergo, replicator before all else. She hauls herself back to the feet, slightly steadier this time, and continues that long, arduous trek, nearly falling over someone else's brightly coloured clothes on the way.
"Coffee, black," she barks out, and the replicator hums happily as it provides. Kathryn would hum happily too if her head didn't hurt, if her feet didn't hurt, if her eyes didn't hurt, if her arms didn't hurt -- if she didn't, just... well... hurt. Instead, she grabs the cup like a lifesaver and drinks, ignoring the burning heat of the bitter liquid as it nearly scalds her mouth. In a way it is her penance for letting herself get so out of control last night; her own way of atoning. That she was alone is irrelevant, it was enough that she forgot herself and potentially endangered the ship.
The ship. Her head hurts. She must be due on the bridge, she realises with a sinking feeling. She's in no shape to be on duty, but doesn't want to go down to sickbay. For one thing, she isn't sure that she can make it that far. For another, there is no way she wants to explain her state to The Doctor - or worse, Tom Paris - if she can possibly avoid it. Somewhere in these quarters, she has a medkit for situations like this. Well, similar to this. Anything where she wants to avoid the Doctor if at all possible. The only problem is where it might be. She drops to her hands and knees and feels around, under the desk, where she finds one of her boots. It shouldn't be there, but she isn't concerned about that at the moment, she just needs to find the medkit. She starts to stand up but, forgetting she is under the desk, manages to slam her head up against it with a scream of pain as contact is made.
She swears, rather loudly. It feels good, so she does it again, a stream of curses tumbling from her fuzzy-feeling mouth, questioning the stability of the universe and the parentage of the medkit. Its whereabouts are as mysterious as its ancestors though, and she crawls out from under the desk, pressing a hand against her throbbing head. Her vision is rather blurry, and she blinks several times to try to clear it.
Someone is standing in the doorway between her bedroom and living area, holding something up in the air. Squinting a little, she recognises the familiar shape of a hypospray. "Looking for this?" The person speaks, and she realises it is Neelix.
Standing in her bedroom.
Naked.
And she doesn't remember a thing...
End