Trade
*****
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, I'm just borrowing them from Paramount.
A/N: Okay folks, C/P...and I warn that this was a somewhat challenged piece, so you may find a few odd things in there...lol
*****
"You're out of line, Ensign!"
Ensign Tom Paris managed to satisfy himself by sending the First Officer an ice filled glare as a reply, biting back the automatic sarcasm, realising he had already pushed the Commander far enough. Jaw clenched, Tom turned and ducked out of Sickbay as abruptly as the Commander had entered, leaving Chakotay to throw an inane,
"Dismissed." At the closed doors.
Tom flew into his quarters, slamming an open palm into the bulkhead as he often did when he missed the sound of a slamming oak door.
He still couldn't believe the sheer audacity of the man! He had been back on board barely long enough to check into sickbay before the Commander had come sailing in, throwing what were as near to insults as he could possibly get, whilst he was in his uniform with the Doctor hovering on the periphery, left, right and centre. Sure, perhaps he hadn't conducted the mining mission in the most orthodox of ways, but he had got the job done, and he was damned sure that was more than anyone else onboard could say if they had been in his predicament.
He stalked into the bedroom, clambered out of his uniform and found a pair of black sweat pants to pull on. He moved back into the main room, heading straight for the replicator,
"Scotch."
He picked up the glass and consumed the contents in one go. Restricted items from the replicator had been a luxury he'd enjoyed from very early on in their journey. Tampering with the controls really was far too easy; it had sometimes made him wonder if perhaps it was an intended fault, granted by pitying designers, but that, of course, would be ridiculous.
"Scotch. Bottle."
He took the bottle round to his sofa, where he dropped down and sprawled out till he occupied the whole thing. Helping himself to a drink he continued his rant on the Commander to himself. One of the things that really pissed him off was that outraging habit that he had of conveniently forgetting his position as Starfleet officer one minute, enthusiastically letting Tom know his condemnation on the subject at hand, usually being him or at least how magnificently he had fucked up, and then the next minute, coincidentally as soon as he started giving some back to the Commander, he would pull rank with a line as superbly predictable as 'You're out of line, Ensign'. Ensign. Tom snorted with what could be said to resemble a bitter laughter. The perfect condescending phrase finished off with another twisted, painful insult.
Ensign.
Tom glanced down at the bottle in his hand and was slightly shocked by the amount he'd gotten through without realising it. However, as he rose and walked through into his bedroom with just enough presence of mind to tuck the bottle, with its now small amount left, into his bedside drawer, his body confirmed what his eyes had told him about how much he had consumed. He managed to drop into bed though, pulling a sheet over himself, with his last thought being a thin hope that perhaps the solace of the alcohol would provide the bonus of oblivion in sleep, keeping the damned nightmares away, for one night in any case.
*****
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, I'm just borrowing them from Paramount.
A/N: Okay folks, C/P...and I warn that this was a somewhat challenged piece, so you may find a few odd things in there...lol
*****
"You're out of line, Ensign!"
Ensign Tom Paris managed to satisfy himself by sending the First Officer an ice filled glare as a reply, biting back the automatic sarcasm, realising he had already pushed the Commander far enough. Jaw clenched, Tom turned and ducked out of Sickbay as abruptly as the Commander had entered, leaving Chakotay to throw an inane,
"Dismissed." At the closed doors.
Tom flew into his quarters, slamming an open palm into the bulkhead as he often did when he missed the sound of a slamming oak door.
He still couldn't believe the sheer audacity of the man! He had been back on board barely long enough to check into sickbay before the Commander had come sailing in, throwing what were as near to insults as he could possibly get, whilst he was in his uniform with the Doctor hovering on the periphery, left, right and centre. Sure, perhaps he hadn't conducted the mining mission in the most orthodox of ways, but he had got the job done, and he was damned sure that was more than anyone else onboard could say if they had been in his predicament.
He stalked into the bedroom, clambered out of his uniform and found a pair of black sweat pants to pull on. He moved back into the main room, heading straight for the replicator,
"Scotch."
He picked up the glass and consumed the contents in one go. Restricted items from the replicator had been a luxury he'd enjoyed from very early on in their journey. Tampering with the controls really was far too easy; it had sometimes made him wonder if perhaps it was an intended fault, granted by pitying designers, but that, of course, would be ridiculous.
"Scotch. Bottle."
He took the bottle round to his sofa, where he dropped down and sprawled out till he occupied the whole thing. Helping himself to a drink he continued his rant on the Commander to himself. One of the things that really pissed him off was that outraging habit that he had of conveniently forgetting his position as Starfleet officer one minute, enthusiastically letting Tom know his condemnation on the subject at hand, usually being him or at least how magnificently he had fucked up, and then the next minute, coincidentally as soon as he started giving some back to the Commander, he would pull rank with a line as superbly predictable as 'You're out of line, Ensign'. Ensign. Tom snorted with what could be said to resemble a bitter laughter. The perfect condescending phrase finished off with another twisted, painful insult.
Ensign.
Tom glanced down at the bottle in his hand and was slightly shocked by the amount he'd gotten through without realising it. However, as he rose and walked through into his bedroom with just enough presence of mind to tuck the bottle, with its now small amount left, into his bedside drawer, his body confirmed what his eyes had told him about how much he had consumed. He managed to drop into bed though, pulling a sheet over himself, with his last thought being a thin hope that perhaps the solace of the alcohol would provide the bonus of oblivion in sleep, keeping the damned nightmares away, for one night in any case.