Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. Reverberations are serious effects that follow a sudden, dramatic event.
2. A reverberation is the shaking and echoing effect that you hear after a loud sound has been made.

~ The Collins English Dictionary

~~~~~~~

1234 Universes to the right of ours:

“I said that’s enough, Vorik!”

Tom glanced beyond Harry’s shoulder toward where B’Elanna and Vorik were seated at a table near the viewport. Sue Nicoletti was with them, and Tom noticed that she had pushed her chair back from the table giving B’Elanna some space. Vorik’s back was toward him so he couldn’t see the young Vulcan’s expression, but B’Elanna was glowering across the table at him. Sue looked shocked, and she had raised her hands in a ‘calm down, everything’s fine’ gesture. It didn’t look fine to Tom. Vorik had obviously done something to piss off B’Elanna.

Harry turned his head and glanced over his shoulder, chewing and swallowing before he turned back to Tom. “I thought Vulcans were supposed to be logical,” he quipped. “He should know better than to enrage his boss’s Klingon temper.”

Ordinarily, Tom would have laughed at the joke, or at least smiled, but there was something about B’Elanna’s expression, something about the set of her shoulders that made him think the situation was more serious this time. He sat straighter in his chair and pushed his mess tray into the center of the table.

“B’Elanna, ashalik, I am the logical choice, you must see that.”

Vorik’s voice carried across the hushed mess hall. He was standing now, leaning toward her, and Tom watched as B’Elanna leapt to her feet, her own voice rising. “There’s nothing logical about it!”

Tom got to his feet, too, and Harry reached for his arm, “Hey, I’m sure it’s nothing. She can take care of herself. Remember what happened last time you interfered…”

“B’Elanna, you must see—” Vorik began, but B’Elanna cut him off.

“I don’t have to see anything! I see plenty,” B’Elanna countered. “You’re off the mission, and if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll file a formal complaint!”

Her body was radiating tension, and even from his own table near the door Tom could tell that this was more than an argument over mission protocol. He took a step toward them.

Harry gave the trio a dismissive glance. “Volatile chief engineer, remember? I’m telling you, don’t get involved,” He sing-songed.

“B'Elanna, you may wish to reconsider.”

Tom would swear Vorik’s words were edged with anger. “Your choices for a mate are currently limited to the seventy-three male crew members on this ship, some of whom are already unavailable.”

What the hell? Even from across the room Tom could see that she was furious, her eyes blazing warp plasma across the table.

Sue leapt from her chair and backed away, and Tom stepped up to the table and slid into her spot. “Hey, we’re all friends here, remember?” he said, his mouth stretched into a smile, hands raised placatingly. They both ignored him. He reached for B’Elanna and wrapped his long fingers around her forearm. Her hand was balled into a fist and the muscle in her arm was rigid with strain. She was furious; Vorik must be out of his mind to keep pushing her.

“I’ll worry about my choices myself, petaQ!” She practically spat the words at the young Vulcan.

Tom tried again. “B’Elanna, calm down.”

Vorik glanced at him and curled his lip. “It’s no secret that Lieutenant Paris is interested in you,” he addressed B’Elanna again, stressing the word in a way that made it sound lewd. “But to my knowledge he’s made you no offer. Ashalik, my intentions are honourable and would fulfill the expectations of both of our families.”

“You can take your offer,” B’Elanna gritted, “and shove it up your pointy little Vulcan ass!”

Vorik’s eyes blazed. “I should also remind you, B’Elanna, that many humanoid species are unable to withstand Klingon mating practices.”

Someone in the mess snickered.

“Are you serious?” It came out on a disbelieving laugh. Tom hadn’t intended to say it out loud, but whatever response he’d been expecting from Vorik it hadn’t been that! “Okay,” he said, “that's enough, Ensign.” His own temper was starting to rise.

“...whereas my superior Vulcan strength would make me a very suitable partner.”

“I’m done.” B’Elanna shrugged off Tom’s hand and headed for the exit.

He reached for her again but missed.

“B’Elanna…” Vorik hissed.

It all happened in a moment.

He was fast, Tom had to give him that. He’d stepped into her path before Tom could even move from the end of the table. Vorik raised his hands to her face, his thumbs positioned on her cheeks, fingers splayed across her forehead. Tension stiffened his shoulders as he held her, and he stared at her, his eyes intent. Tom barely heard his muttered words, “Kah-if-farr”.

B’Elanna let out a gasp and her knees buckled as she sank toward the floor. It was as if Vorik had sent an electric shock through her and she’d been stunned to immobility. Tom froze for a second, his brain not computing what his eyes were seeing. He snapped awake and lunged toward them, smacking his hip into the edge of the table, then swivelled around it directly into Vorik’s chair. He cursed as he kicked it out of the way. From the corner of his eye he saw Harry rising, finally, caught a flash of blue from the corner of his eye and saw Chell and Tabor move toward them.

By the time Tom reached them, B’Elanna had recovered somewhat and brought her arms up between Vorik’s in an attempt to push his hands off of her face. Tom grabbed at his left arm and jerked hard but Vorik’s fingers didn’t budge. He swung the heel of his hand into Vorik’s shoulder blade. The force of the blow snapped his wrist back, and pain from the impact zinged up Tom’s arm to his elbow, leaving it buzzing. The young Vulcan hardly seemed to acknowledge the blow.

“Let her go!” Tom shouted. Vorik ignored him.

Tom grabbed him by the wrist with both hands and squeezed, digging his short fingernails into the other man’s flesh as he pulled downward. Finally, Vorik’s grip loosened and his fingers slid along B’Elanna’s hair as she jerked away from him. She staggered free of his grip, stumbling backward.

“Do not resist me,” Vorik insisted, lunging after her. His fist swung through the air and B’Elanna’s head snapped back as he landed a glancing blow on her jaw.

Tom stopped breathing for a long second as she careened into the next table. The chairs clattered. She staggered, off balance, and fell over one of them. Her arm and shoulder took the brunt of the impact as she landed on the floor. Tom’s blood ran cold. He felt chilled, heavy. His body jerked and he sucked a breath. “B’Elanna!” Tom grabbed Vorik by the arm and hauled him backward. “Get your hands off of her!”

He could hear Harry calling for security, his voice sounding muffled like it was coming from the next room. He could feel the press of people around them, and wondered why no one was stepping in to help. He reached for Vorik again, his fingers closing over his shoulder, but the man turned and slammed a palm into Tom’s chest, shoving him away with enough force that Tom staggered and tripped over his own feet. Vorik scooped up a chair and advanced toward him. With the neighbouring table at his back, Tom had nowhere to go. He raised his arms in defense and ducked, but the chair’s leg hit his shoulder and his body curled into the blow. It hurt like hell! Pain danced down his arm in pins and needles making his hand useless for a moment.

B’Elanna roared as she appeared behind Vorik, and swung a two-fisted punch between his shoulder blades. He staggered a step, then found his footing as he turned toward her again.

“You are my mate,” Vorik shouted, advancing toward her again, “not his!”

He was entirely focused on B’Elanna now as he grabbed her again, his fingers digging into her cheeks as she struggled to break free. Tom was back on his feet in an instant, and he rushed toward them and rammed Vorik from behind, sending his shoulder into the man’s ribs and making him stagger, finally. Tom lurched after him, momentum propelling him forward. He found his balance and grabbed the young Vulcan by the uniform collar and jerked him backwards. Vorik’s hands slipped free of B’Elanna’s face for a second time.

She had recovered enough to straighten, her chin lifting upward as she snarled, and Tom saw bright blood on her mouth. Rage coursed through him! He hammered his fist into Vorik’s lower back, and the man stiffened. His eyes flamed as he turned his head and redirected his attention back at Tom. Cold fear gripped him, and he felt the sudden urge to run.

B’Elanna hit Vorik then: a clean uppercut under the chin with the heel of her hand that snapped his head up and back, and spun him ninety degrees. Reflexively, Tom reached for him, but then pulled his arms back to his sides and let him fall. He landed in a heap at B’Elanna’s feet, his head bouncing off the hard deck.

If he had a brain, he’d stay down, Tom thought. He looked from the semi-comatose young Vulcan on the floor up into the furious expression in the eyes of the half-Klingon chief engineer. A fleeting thought crossed his mind to make a joke about staff discipline in engineering and being glad he was a pilot, but he held his tongue. Nothing of what had just happened was funny.

B’Elanna was panting, her chest labouring with the struggle to catch her breath, and Tom realized his own breath was coming in sharp gasps. He was tense, his muscles twitching with surplus adrenaline. He hadn’t been in a real physical fight for a long time, and though he worked out regularly, sometimes in the Klingon programme with B’Elanna, the fear he’d felt just now had slowed him. Made him weak.

He reached for her but she shrugged him off, then glanced back at him. She looked confused, frightened and angry, and Tom felt it in his gut. He wanted to pull her into his arms, and for a brief moment he thought she might let him. “Come on,” he said, “sit down.” He wrapped his fingers around the firm muscle of upper arm and guided her to a nearby chair.

“No,” she breathed. “No, I’m fine.” She straightened and her hand reached for his chest before withdrawing.

Chell bustled over just as Ayala and Tuvok ran in. Tuvok kneeled beside a still groggy Vorik, assessing him, and Tom noted that the younger man was bleeding from the nose and sweating profusely. Was he in pain? Had he broken something? Tom hoped it hurt. A lot. He glanced back at B’Elanna: she was holding her shoulder, and Tom felt a renewed rush of adrenaline and wondered if she’d been injured. Harry was at her side, urging her to sit down. Tom stared at B’Elanna as he raised his hand to his combadge and called sickbay to let the doctor know what had happened, not that it was very clear to Tom, himself.

Chapter Text

Kathryn Janeway pressed her lips together in a frown as she read through the Doctor’s preliminary medical report. She reached for the coffee cup at her elbow but it was long empty, and if she wanted her evening pick-me-up, she couldn’t afford to fill the mug for another three hours. She sighed and brought her fingers to her temple and attempted to massage away the headache that was forming. She flashed back to a similar scene two years ago and, though the players had changed, the details were remarkably similar. Joe Carey had got off lucky compared to Ensign Vorik.

Fractured ribs, punctured lung, split lip, three broken teeth! Plus various contusions and lacerations, some brought about when he’d punched B’Elanna in the mouth. Kathryn shook her head. She’d seen the security footage of the fight. It had been vicious and mercifully quick and had seemed to spring from nowhere: zero to sixty in two seconds, as Tom Paris would say. More like zero to warp speed.

When she’d first heard, first sat down to view the footage, she’d assumed B’Elanna had lost her temper, overreacted, and perhaps she had, initially. She knew that Torres had had trouble reigning in her temper before, as Joe Carey’s nose could attest, and she’d read more than a dozen complaints about her snappishness, her abruptness, which could easily be construed as rudeness. But Kathryn thought she’d come to understand her, at least a little, in the last two years, and what Torres lacked in social graces she more than made up for in engineering brilliance.

Ensign Vorik, at least until an hour ago, had appeared to possess both. Not brilliance, not yet, but he was clever and intuitive, and under B’Elanna’s tutelage he would go—had they been in Federation space—far. Of course, had they been home in the Alpha Quadrant, B’Elanna Torres wouldn’t be Voyager’s chief engineer, Ensign Vorik wouldn’t have started a fist fight with her in the middle of the mess hall, and B’Elanna, aided by her shadow, Tom Paris, wouldn’t have fractured three of Vorik’s ribs and punctured his lung.

And Kathryn wouldn’t have a headache now.

She would, however, still be longing for a fourth cup of coffee.

She’d had the chance to read the reports, Lieutenant Nicoletti’s being the least biased. It, combined with the footage, had served to revise her opinion of B’Elanna’s actions. Just by reading B’Elanna’s body language alone it was clear that Vorik had said something inappropriate to her, then he had been the one to stand, to menace her, before Tom had arrived at the table. Something had tipped Tom off, made him rush to her defense, and while Kathryn had never condoned physical violence, she was grateful that Tom had been there. B’Elanna had a few mild injuries, all quickly healed by Kes. She’d read her report, too, and aside from bruised knuckles Tom had come out of it unscathed.

She closed her eyes and set the report on the desk, sighed then looked up into the eyes of her first officer. They were hooded, hard, and she figured she could guess what was going on behind them. He was sitting stiffly in a chair in front of her desk, his legs crossed, tapping a PADD—his own copy of the incident reports—against his thigh.

“I know what you’re going to say and—”

He cut her off, impatience in his tone. “You can’t blame her for this. She was defending herself. You saw how he attacked her! There’s never an excuse for—”

She held up a hand to stop his flow of words. “I was about to agree with you. Does B’Elanna have a temper? Yes. Is it sometimes a problem? Also yes. But in this case, it may have saved her life.”

“It and Tom Paris,” he agreed, grudgingly.

Her mouth quirked with a grin. “How much did it hurt to admit that?”

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” he confessed. His eyes twinkled now and she felt relief that they wouldn’t be at loggerheads, not about this at least.

She allowed herself a smile. Slowly, gradually, Chakotay had come to respect Tom Paris, and vice versa. Like might be a stretch, but the respect was there, miraculous considering their rough start in the Delta Quadrant and their shared Maquis past. She hadn’t helped matters by assigning Tom to rout out the Kazon spy a year ago. Of course, she’d never told him to irritate the hell out of Chakotay, or to coldclock him on the bridge. He’d come up with that plan all on his own.

“So,” she nodded, “we have a problem.”

“We do,” he agreed.

“I suppose the best choice is Joe Carey,” she said.

Chakotay frowned, clearly confused. “Does he have a background in psychology that I’m unaware of? Has he facilitated a mediation session before?”

“Mediation?”

“Between B’Elanna and Vorik. If they’re going to work together, whatever that episode in the mess was, it can’t be ignored.”

“Well, you’re right, of course, but I was thinking of our more immediate problem. The nebula. More specifically, the search for the omicron particles.”

“The nebula. Coffee?” Chakotay asked, nodding at the empty mug on her desk. She flashed a grin, and he returned her smile. “I’ve heard this before.”

“Yes, well, this time B’Elanna is certain there is coffee in that nebula.”

They’d come across the nebula two days ago, as a blip on their long-range scans. It hadn’t been out of their way, much, and yesterday they’d arrived at its threshold to discover why they’d been practically on top of it before they’d noticed it: it was filled with parthogenic radiation making it difficult to scan up close and almost impossible to detect from a distance. But they had found traces of omicron particles which, with a little skill and a lot of luck, could be transformed into antimatter needed to power the ship and the replicators.

B’Elanna had already devised an inverter to test the viability of the particles. She, Tom, and Vorik had planned a four-day away mission plotting and scanning the nebula, and testing a sample of the particles while Voyager continued on her way to the Acari system for a little schmoozing, a little trading, please, let them love raaska fruit, and a little sector intel. Had being the operative word. Unfortunately, the little side trip in the shuttle might have to be put on hold.

“Lieutenant Nicoletti has already volunteered to take B’Elanna’s place,” Kathryn informed him. “I was hoping you would step in for Tom.”

He was still for a moment, then shifted to lean toward her and put his elbows on the desk. “Kathryn, if you were her, if you’d been attacked in a public place by a subordinate on the eve of an important mission, how would you feel if your captain took that mission away from you?”

Her lips clamped together again. She hated when that happened, hated that she hadn’t managed to perfect the Command Face despite her almost twenty years in Starfleet. “Chakotay, this isn’t a punishment, it’s an expression of concern. And I can’t run this ship afraid of B’Elanna’s temper!”

“If she’s angry, she has a right to be. He had no call to put his hands on her.”

“That’s the strange thing…” She sat back again, looked pensive for a moment.

“What could cause a Vulcan to lash out like that? I’ve been wondering, too. Vorik is young, yes, but surely he had his emotions under control before he entered the Academy.”

She nodded, tapped her PADD with a fingernail. “There’s nothing in the Doctor’s report to suggest he’s ill, or suffering from any sort of mental or emotional imbalance.”

“But it’s just a preliminary report,” he reminded her. “It focuses almost entirely on his physical state, not mental.”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a deprecating smile. “I’d hate for any of us to have our mental state assessed.”

They’d been lost for over two years so far from home, far from friends and family, with only each other for support as the body count mounted. It seemed that every few weeks they lost another member of the crew, of their small, sometimes dysfunctional, family. Sometimes she wondered how they’d kept their masks of civility in place for so long.

Chakotay nodded, loosing an uncharacteristic sigh. “Well, something set him off. Maybe Tuvok can give us some insight?”

She was pensive for a moment. “I can certainly ask him about it.” She tapped her PADD again. “I have his report here, as well.”

“What was it Vorik said? Kah-if-farr. Do you know what that means? The translator isn’t any help.”

Kathryn shook her head and sighed. “No. But if it’s Vulcan, Tuvok must. I can ask him about that, too.”

~~

Sickbay was quiet. Vorik, the only remaining patient, was lying on a biobed under an arch. The bruises on his face had been healed, but a closer inspection revealed that his hair was stuck to his forehead by a fine sheen of sweat. Vulcans had perfected the wait patiently stance, but there was nothing serene about the young officer. If she didn’t know better, Kathryn would swear that he was agitated. He was squirming, shifting with short, jerky movements as if he couldn’t get comfortable. She nodded at him, but he turned his head away, dismissing her.

Her forehead puckered in a frown and she headed toward the Doctor’s office. Kes beat her there and smiled in greeting, then turned her attention to the Doctor seated behind his desk.

“Here are the results of Ensign Vorik’s cortical scan, Doctor.” Kes offered him a medical PADD. He stood and walked around the desk to take it from her, and scrolled through the information with a frown.

“What’s wrong with him?” Janeway asked.

“In addition to the injuries I detailed to you an hour ago, Ensign Vorik seems to be suffering from a neurochemical imbalance.”

Voyager’s doctor had a knack for sounding inconvenienced by the crew’s ills, and this time he appeared downright affronted. Janeway suppressed a sigh. “An imbalance? What does that mean?”

“That he’s not responding the way he normally would. That he’s having trouble repressing his emotions, as you may be aware.”

Annoyance rippled over her features. “So what are we dealing with? A mental breakdown? A genetic abnormality? Some sort of illness? Are we about to have a plague on our hands?”

“It’s a little early to quarantine the ship, Captain.” The doctor sighed. “To put it plainly, I don’t know yet. I have a few ideas, but I’m not particularly willing to discuss them with you at the moment. In any case, doctor-patient confidentiality would preclude my discussing—”

“I’m his captain,” she reminded him. Her own emotions were beginning to feel a little unbalanced.

“And I am his doctor!” He walked back around his desk and sat in the chair, holding the oversized PADD deliberately in front of his face, blocking her from his sight.

“When you do find out what’s ailing him, are you planning on telling me?” Her eyebrow rose, and her voice was laced with sarcasm.

“Possibly. If there’s a need. If the rest of the crew is at risk. If Ensign Vorik doesn’t expressly request I not tell you.”

She attempted to stare him down but soon gave up: holograms didn’t feel uncomfortable. “Let me know what you find out.” She turned on her heel and left.

~~

“Tuvok, with me.”

Kathryn barely broke her stride as she entered the bridge and headed toward her ready room. Tuvok gave up his console and followed her. He stopped in front of her desk, his body stiff and straight at attention as she skirted it and sat. She put her elbows on the flat surface of her desktop, tented her fingers and peered at her old friend from over top of them.

“I’ve spoken with the doctor,” she began without preamble. “He wasn’t exactly forthcoming. He says that Ensign Vorik is suffering from a neurochemical imbalance.”

“Indeed.”

She tilted her head and stared at him for a moment. “You think you know what’s wrong with him, don’t you?”

“It would not be appropriate for me to speculate on Ensign Vorik’s condition, Captain.” His chin went up a fraction, a sure sign of his discomfort.

“But you have some idea. If I were to order you, you could take a guess.”

Tuvok inclined his head. “Vulcans do not guess, Captain.”

Kathryn drew a breath. “Tuvok, believe me, Vorik’s privacy is of utmost concern, but if whatever is wrong with him poses a threat to the crew, to this ship, then I need to know what it is. So if you do have some idea, I’d like to hear it.”

“It does not pose a threat to the ship.”

“Lieutenant Torres would disagree with you.” She waited a beat but Tuvok remained silent. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Unless you are ordering me to elaborate, Captain, yes.”

“Should I?” Her eyebrow rose of its own volition and she was struck by the fact that her response was more Vulcan than Tuvok’s.

“Ensign Vorik is confined to sickbay behind a security forcefield. There is an armed guard posted. Indeed, if he were to somehow escape, the computer would lock onto his signal and transport him to the brig. My suggestion would be for you to wait to make any further decisions regarding ship’s security until the Doctor has fully assessed Ensign Vorik’s condition.”

The captain sighed, exhibiting a wholly human response to her frustration. “I suppose I don’t have much choice, but we’re not done here, old friend,” she said.

“Perhaps, if you were to allow me more time to complete my investigation, I would be in a better position to answer your questions more to your satisfaction.”

Kathryn nodded and dismissed him with a flick of her fingers, and Tuvok turned on his heel and left her ready room.

~~~~

Chapter Text

Janeway was seated at her desk reading a PADD, her expression deliberately neutral, her spine ramrod straight.

Tom and B’Elanna were standing at attention in front of her, their chins high, shoulders back. Both were staring at a point on the wall beyond the captain’s head, though Tom’s eyes occasionally flicked to B’Elanna. The cut on her mouth had been healed, and she’d cleaned up a bit. Her long hair was pulled back and secured with a clip, but Tom saw that one slim braid had escaped, and hung down past her shoulder to rest on her shoulder blade. She was always careful to contain her hair, he’d noticed, to tame the wild curls that betrayed her Klingon ancestry—as if her forehead didn’t give her away—and for her to have missed that one, slim braid gave away more about her state of mind than any amount of conversational prying ever could.

He’d pestered Kes, and she’d finally relented and reassured him that B’Elanna hadn’t been seriously hurt by Vorik’s attack. Good thing; if Vorik had truly hurt her, Tom wouldn’t be standing here now: he’d be in the brig and Vorik would be a permanent resident of sickbay instead of an overnight guest. Tom himself was unhurt except for a lingering pain in the hip that had connected with the corner of the mess table. It hadn’t been worth mentioning to the doctor, or even to Kes: they’d both had their hands full, and B’Elanna’s welfare had been Tom’s main priority, anyway.

“Fractured jaw, fractured eighth and ninth left ribs, punctured left lung.” Janeway lowered the PADD and stared at B’Elanna. “He bit his tongue, broke three teeth.”

“Captain,” Tom interjected, “if you had seen what he did, how he grabbed her. B’Elanna was only defending herself!”

Janeway turned her head and nodded at Tom. “I did see it, on the security recording.”

“Then you know that this wasn’t her fault!”

The captain eyed him cooly. “Relax, Tom. Neither of you is in trouble. Right now we’re just trying to figure out what happened. But I can’t condone a brawl in the mess hall.”

“The lung was my fault,” Tom said, feeling the need to make that clear. Janeway ignored him this time.

“Would you care to explain, B’Elanna? What led to the… altercation with Ensign Vorik.”

Typical of the captain, it was phrased like a question but there was no mistaking the fact that it was an order. B’Elanna flushed, her jaw tensed. Tom watched as she reigned in a flash of frustration.

“We were reviewing the specs on tomorrow’s mission with Lieutenant Nicoletti. I was making sure she’d have the refinery ready by the time we got back. He...Vorik asked if we were finished, and when I said yes, he said… he said that he had chosen me to be his mate!” She practically spat the word.

Vorik had asked her out on a date? Really, the idea was laughable, would have been laughable if not for the violence that had come after. Tom hadn’t realized that a Vulcan could develop a crush on their boss.

“He said he wanted to bond with me,” she continued. “As if I would mate with that Vulcan petaQ!”

Tom glanced at her, startled by the venom in her tone; she was obviously angry all over again. Bond…? “Wait,” Tom interrupted. “He asked you to marry him?” A crush was one thing, but this was ridiculous!

Janeway’s eyebrow rose but she kept her focus on B’Elanna. “Then what happened?”

“I told him no! I was surprised, shocked. It was obvious that Sue—Lieutenant Nicoletti—was uncomfortable.” She shifted slightly and Tom felt her embarrassment and renewed anger at the situation.

“Yes,” Janeway said, “Lieutenant Nicoletti has already filed her report but I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

B’Elanna took a breath. “I knew he was interested in me,” her eyes flicked to Tom, flicked back to the captain, “he’s been following me around like a puppy, volunteering for extra duty when I’m on shift, showing up when I’m in the holodeck, bringing me coffee when I’m in my office. He’s a talented engineer, and I wanted him on my team. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. Die out.” She moved slightly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I thought he’d get the hint.”

“Obviously not,” Janeway muttered. “So you didn’t outright reject his advances?”

Tom stifled a snort. Her rejection seemed pretty outright to him!

“What are you saying, Captain? Are you asking if I led him on?” B’Elanna’s temper was rising again and Tom tensed. Punching Vorik was one thing, punching the captain…

“No, of course not,” Janeway said. “Your behaviour’s been nothing but professional since I made you chief engineer, B’Elanna. I trust that you did nothing to encourage Ensign Vorik.”

That seemed to mollify B’Elanna somewhat.

“And I understand your feelings on this,” the captain continued, “but we’re in a unique situation. If we were in Federation space, I could have Ensign Vorik transferred to another commission. But we’re not. I can hardly put him off the ship.” B’Elanna drew a breath, but Janeway held up her hand to forestall her. “As you said, he’s a talented engineer, and he’s also very young, for a Vulcan.”

And B’Elanna wasn’t young? Tom realized that she couldn’t be that much older than Harry, and he still considered Harry a green kid. He’d never thought of B’Elanna as a kid. “What are you suggesting, Captain? That he gets a pass because this is his first posting?” His own temper was rising again.

“No, Tom.” Janeway tilted her head, and Tom saw her frustration in the set of her mouth. “I simply meant that he doesn’t have his family around to guide him,” the captain continued. “He may not be in full control of his emotions yet, like older Vulcans.”

Tom huffed. “The hundred and forty humans on this ship aren’t always in control of our emotions, either, but we don’t start punching people when someone turns us down.”

Janeway gave Tom a hard stare, reminding him that he was pushing the limits of her patience and good will. She ran a relaxed bridge allowing, even encouraging, comments from her officers, but he knew that sometimes he went a little too far.

She turned her attention back to B’Elanna. “As I said, since I can’t put Ensign Vorik off the ship, we’re going to have to figure out a way for you two to work together.”

Or you can assign him to Chell and make him peel potatoes for the next seventy years, Tom thought.

B’Elanna’s face was stoney. “Then have him transferred to ops and keep him out of my way, because if he even so much as looks at me again I’ll snap his scrawny, little neck!” Her hand jerked into a fist.

Tom reached for her and closed his fingers around her forearm. “Hey.” He didn’t give a shit that he was breaking protocol.

“Reassigning him to ops is an idea,” Janeway said, deliberately ignoring her outburst, “but I think his talents would be better used if he remained where he is, in engineering.”

“Then let B’Elanna put him on gamma shift,” Tom broke in, his own frustration with the conversation finally bubbling over. “Have him scrub the plasma manifolds, assign him to shuttle maintenance.”

Janeway glanced at him and sighed. “Alright. You can move him to gamma shift for now. Put Lieutenant Carey in charge of him; have him find him something to do.”

“You’d better put a security detail on him, Captain,” Tom warned.

“There already is one. And for now he’s confined to sickbay while he recovers. Is that acceptable to you, B’Elanna?”

Her mouth tightened, then she gave a short, sharp nod.

Now,” Janeway continued, “this brings us to the other matter.” Tom frowned, confused. “The mission to explore the nebula. I think, all things considered, we should scrub the mission and be on our way.”

“Captain!” B’Elanna cut her off before Tom could. “With respect, I don’t think we can afford to do that. We need those omicron particles to create antimatter for an energy reserve. Without them…”

B’Elanna didn’t have to finish. Without them they were at serious risk of depleting their resources. The reserves were already down forty-two percent, far below what B’Elanna considered a comfortable margin. If they didn’t restock soon, the ship would have to go to gray mode.

Janeway sighed. “Then I’d like recommendations for a crew to replace your original away team. I don’t think either of you are in any condition to explore the nebula right now.”

“Captain, that nebula is full of parthogenic radiation. I wouldn’t trust anyone but Tom at the helm of that shuttle.”

Tom barely registered the compliment. No way! No way in hell was he off this mission!

Janeway pressed her lips together. “Chakotay is a skilled pilot as well and he has experience navigating through the Badlands, in case you’ve forgotten. And Lieutenant Nicoletti has already volunteered to replace you if you need time to recover.”

B’Elanna tensed and Tom laid a hand on her arm again. He glanced at her, noting the flash of frustration in her eyes, the way her eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. “Captain, I think I speak for both of us when I say that we’re fully capable of sitting in a shuttlecraft and looking at some monitors. B’Elanna’s right, we need those particles. And we’d appreciate the chance to get off Voyager for a few days. It’s a small ship and the gossip mill...” He looked at B’Elanna again. She was furious, but she’d managed to keep her temper in check.

“Yes, I’m sure everyone knows about the altercation by now.” The captain nodded. “Well, maybe everyone but Crewman Herron.” She smiled, but her attempt to lighten the mood sure as hell wasn’t working on B’Elanna.

“Please, Captain. Let us have some space.” It seemed he’d said the magic words. He watched as Janeway’s expression morphed from rigid decisiveness to hesitation. “I’m sure by the time we get back, this will have all blown over. Vorik is going to be fine, right?”

Finally, he registered the captain’s capitulation. “Alright. But I’m cutting it to three days instead of four. I don’t like that you’ll be out of touch. Voyager will still head for the Acari sector to meet with the Kre’CHur, and we’ll rendezvous at the same coordinates, just a day early. If anything happens, if either of you start to show signs of anxiety, I want you to contact Voyager and head straight for Acari immediately. A few extra replicator rations aren’t worth the wellbeing of two of my best officers.”

Tom was inordinately grateful. Janeway’s smile conveyed her affection for both of them. “Aye, Captain,” he said, smiling for the first time in hours.

“Agreed, Captain.” B’Elanna nodded and visibly relaxed.

“Good. You can leave at oh nine hundred tomorrow. No earlier. I want you both to get a full night's sleep. You’re dismissed.”

Tom nodded his thanks and turned, but B’Elanna was already disappearing through the door to the corridor.

~~~

The Doctor frowned, then sighed dramatically and tossed the PADD onto his desk, giving it a little English so it spun a half-rotation in the air before it hit the desk’s surface and skittered toward the outer edge. It came to a stop before it fell to the deck. All of the Federation medical database at his fingertips and he was no closer to a solution than he had been three hours ago. Oh, he had ideas, but no clear diagnosis. There were several things that could be wrong with Ensign Vorik, or it could be something he had never encountered before, some Delta Quadrant illness that he had picked up last week or that had lain dormant in his system for the last two years. He simply didn’t know, and that bothered him.

He prided himself on fixing them, his crew. As much as this was the captain’s ship, her crew, they were his as well. And every time he’d lost one it had troubled him and he’d vowed to learn from the experience. Not that he could not learn, his algorithms guaranteed it.

There were several things it could be, but the file on Ensign Vorik’s medical history was sparse. He’d reviewed every one of Vorik’s away missions since Voyager had left Deep Space Nine and was about to expand his research to the entire engineering staff, but he had a suspicion that he was moving farther away from the cause of Vorik’s behaviour rather than closer to it. He felt—had a hunch—that it was more emotional than physical.

A scan had shown irregularities in his mesiofrontal cortex, the system responsible for the Vulcan suppression of emotions. Misfirings, like an interrupted circuit. Which was good to know, but didn’t solve the question of why? It was the age old: ‘Doctor, Doctor, it hurts when I do this.’ Simply telling Vorik not to do ‘it’ anymore wouldn’t cure him.

He left his office and crossed the room to the young man on the biobed. Young for a Vulcan, anyway; for a human he would have been approaching middle age. These things intrigued him, these comparisons, since without reprogramming he himself would never age. At first glance, Vorik appeared to be asleep but the Doctor’s keen eyesight observed that he was not. His jaw was clamped rigidly shut, and every few seconds his body would tremble as a tremor passed through it.

“How are you feeling, Ensign?”

Vorik’s lips pursed. He blew a breath through his nose. His eyes opened and he focused on the Doctor with bright intensity. “Fine. I request permission to be discharged and return to my quarters.”

“I think it’s a little early for that.”

“There is no—” He drew a sharp breath, “no need to keep me here. I must speak to B’Elanna. Lieutenant Torres. I must apologize for my behaviour.”

“I rather suspect she’s not very interested in an apology right now,” the Doctor quipped. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve run some tests, read your chart. I have a few questions for you.”

“I am not interested in your questions, Doctor.”

“Nevertheless, I’m interested in your answers so you’re going to hear them. Your mesiofrontal cortex shows signs of upheaval. You’re having trouble controlling your emotions, aren’t you?”

Vorik said nothing. His hands balled into fists, his eyes darted toward the Doctor’s office, the door, the security guard posted at the door. The EMH followed the line of his glare.

“Of course,” he nodded. “Lieutenant? You can step out now that Kes is gone.”

Baxter straightened and shook his head. “Sorry, Doctor. I have my orders.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “He can hardly hurt me even if he did get loose.” Baxter stared at them. “That’s an order.” Baxter stood a moment longer then nodded and stepped out into the corridor.

“You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve ruled out Choriocytosis.” Vorik didn’t look pleased. “Does your family have a history of Bendii Syndrome? I’m on the fence with that one: you’re far too young, and don’t exhibit any of the initial stages, but who knows what a dose of random Delta Quadrant radiation could do to its pathology?” He waited for a response. Got none. “Ensign?”

“No.”

“Right. That leads me to Pa’nar Syndrome.” Vorik twitched and looked away. “Is that a yes? No?” He sighed. “Really, Ensign, this would be so much easier if you were a little more forthcoming.”

“I do not want to discuss this, Doctor,” Vorik ground out. “I want to be re—”

“Released to your quarters, I know. But I can’t do that until I diagnose you. And I can’t do that until you start answering my questions.” He stared at the young man expectantly, but he’d fallen silent. “When you…placed your hands on Lieutenant Torres’ face, were you attempting to mind meld with her?”

More silence.

“Hmmm. Historically, those with Pa’nar Syndrome would be ostracized from Vulcan society,” he looked around the sickbay, “though, one could say you already are. Leading one to muse on the old chicken and egg theory: which came first?

“Alright,” he tried again. “Tell me about your Kolinahr ritual, your training? Did you complete it? Were there interruptions?”

Still more silence.

“Well then, if that’s how you want to behave, Ensign, I have all night.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked back into his office.

~~~

Chapter Text

Tom’s door chimed. He was tempted to ignore it but it might be the captain or, he could hope, B’Elanna. He stopped fiddling with his laundry and called, “Come.”

Harry stood in the doorway, covered mess tray in hand, a hesitant smile on his face. “I brought your dinner,” he stepped in and gestured to the covered dish on the tray, “since you didn’t get a chance to eat it.”

Tom hesitated; it hadn’t really been worth eating and he wasn’t overly hungry anyway. Not anymore.

“That is,” Harry continued, “if you have any teeth left to eat with.” He raised an eyebrow and Tom laughed.

“Thanks, Harry. Sit down.” He gestured to the couch and took the tray, grimacing as he lifted the lid. It was Bajoran Night in the mess, and Chell had done his best to replicate, in the non-literal sense of the word, a Bajoran comfort food. It hadn’t comforted anyone so far as Tom could tell. He was hoping Harry had slipped a peanut butter sandwich under the tray’s cover, but unfortunately it was still tuwaly pie, just now it was stone-cold tuwaly pie. Chell hadn’t had any rekja to spice it, so he’d used the bane of the Delta Quadrant, the dried and crumbled leaves of a plant named raaska. The fruit was disgusting, bitter with a slimy texture on the tongue, but the dried leaves tasted surprisingly peppery and, used in enough quantity, they overwhelmed the flavour of whatever they were added to. Thankfully.

Disgusting as the congealed mess appeared, Tom’s stomach rumbled its betrayal and he felt suddenly hungry. He sat at the end of the couch and speared a lump of something lavender with his fork. Food shouldn’t be lavender.

“Is B’Elanna okay?”

“Her injuries weren’t as bad as they looked,” Tom hedged.

“That’s a relief.” Harry nodded. “What the hell was all that, anyway?”

Tom swallowed. He was certain that B’Elanna wouldn’t thank him if he told Harry about Vorik’s proposal. He remembered the way Vorik had sneered at him, tried to make Tom’s attraction, his friendship, with B’Elanna seem dirty. Tainted. He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

“Pretty strange behaviour for a Vulcan,” Harry remarked. When Tom didn’t respond, he continued. “So. You saw the captain, I guess?”

Tom glanced at his best friend. Harry was trying his hardest to appear nonchalant but Tom could see the curiosity in his eyes, his suppressed impatience.

“Yeah.” Tom nodded, determinedly keeping his eyes on his tray. He chewed. Swallowed.

“That’s it? Just, yeah?”

“What more is there to say, Harry? I promise to keep my fists to myself and the captain promised to not put me in the brig.” He tried a smile.

Harry huffed a sigh. “It’s not every day a Vulcan attacks their superior officer. Attacks anyone! Half the ship is talking about it!”

“Only half?”

Harry shrugged. “Gamma shift is still asleep,” he offered with a smile.

“Great.” Tom dropped his fork onto his tray and raised his hands to scrub his face with his fingers. He drove the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until he saw swirls of colour. Like a nebula. He snorted and opened his eyes to find Harry peering at him. “What?”

Harry inclined his head; raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Is the mission still on?”

“Yes. But I had to fast talk my way around the captain to do it. She wanted to ground us.” Harry bit his lip, puffed his cheeks. “Oh, come on, Harry,” Tom said, his voice taking on a cajoling drawl. “It was nothing more than a dust-up. Nothing worse than in my old Maquis days. You know, any time people found a tavern there’d be a fight.” He tossed his friend his best charming smile. It didn’t land.

“Sure. Your ‘old Maquis days’. All, what, twenty of them? Twenty one?”

“Oh, but they were filled with life experience, Harry,” Tom said. “Those three weeks were the equivalent of three years.”

“Coincidentally the amount of brig time I thought Captain Janeway would give you for this.”

Now Harry was the one smiling, but Tom felt a chill. “When he grabbed her face…” he shook his head. “Did you see that? It scared the hell out of me.”

Harry immediately sobered. “Was he trying to crush her skull or something? Break her neck? It was… I mean, I know Vulcans have emotions, they just suppress them. It’s a good thing they do; I’d hate to see Lieutenant Tuvok go off like that.”

Harry’s voice sounded hollow, and Tom glanced at him and shook his head, agreeing. He would gladly spend the next seventy years never witnessing something like that again.

“So,” Harry continued, “do you think this is how we’ll end up? At each other’s throats?”

“Like rats in a sinking ship?”

“Actually, rats are very social animals. They sleep together, groom each other. They’re very intelligent. They live in hierarchical groups, like us: from the captain on down to crewmen.” Harry smiled.

“Sounds like the Borg,” Tom deadpanned. “The queen and the drones. How do you know this stuff, Harry?”

He shrugged. “I know things. When I was twelve, my best friend had a pet rat. Two. They need—”

“A friend.” Tom nodded.

“Or a mate.” Harry smiled. “Speaking of…” His voice trailed off for a moment. “What do you think Vorik meant by that?”

Tom hedged. “I guess it’s like you said, don’t get a Vulcan angry.”

“I’m not talking about the fight, I mean what he said when he threw that chair at you. If I remember correctly it was, ‘she’s my mate not yours’. Why do you think he’d say that?”

Tom had an idea, and from the glint in Harry’s eyes so did he.

Had he been that obvious? He and Harry and B’Elanna had become friends in the last two years and during a few rare, unguarded moments B’Elanna had confided in him: her lonely childhood after her father had deserted her, her arguments with her mother, her failed attempt to fit in at the Academy. The fact that her Klingon temper got her in trouble more times than she could count. She didn’t see the strength her Klingon genes gave her, or the unvarnished beauty of her Klingon heritage. She didn’t see the elegance, just a barbarism that embarrassed her, one that she wrestled with daily.

In the first few, tumultuous months after the two crews had merged, she’d made an impact. She turned heads when she walked down a corridor, his included, and he’d heard more than one rumour about her from both the Maquis and ‘fleet crews. He knew that she was aware of it, and didn’t like it. She’d complained to Harry, who had passed the information on to Tom, that speculation and rumor and old innuendo about the voraciousness of Klingon females had made her life uncomfortable since she’d been old enough to notice that she didn’t look like the other kids in that backwater human colony where she’d grown up. And the more time he spent with her, the better he’d got to know her, the more it pissed him off that many of those admiring, speculative glances aimed her way had more to do with her being Klingon than with her being… her.

Freddy Bristow had made his interest in B’Elanna known a few months ago. Tom had been unsettled to realize just how much it bothered him when he heard that the normally reserved chief engineer had agreed to a date on the holodeck with Bristow. He’d wanted to punch the smug grin right off Freddy’s handsome face. But, according to B’Elanna, their ‘date’ had been a game of Parrises Squares, not the romantic dinner that Bristow had no doubt planned, and Freddy’s ego hadn’t been able to handle her mopping the floor with him. He’d been secretly delighted when he’d heard.

“Voyager to Paris?”

Tom recovered with a jolt. He turned his head and stared at his friend, wondering if Harry had read his mental gymnastics on his face. Harry had raised an eyebrow, as if he was waiting for something. Vorik. His announcement. Tom looked back at his tray and poked at his dinner. “You heard that, huh?”

“Yeah, everybody heard. He practically shouted it. I’m pretty sure the Captain heard him on the bridge.”

Fuck. Tom doubted very much that B’Elanna would appreciate Harry’s prying. He tilted his head and plastered a bland smile on his face, hoping Harry would pick up on his ‘it doesn’t matter/let it go’ vibe. “How would I know what he meant, Harry? He wasn’t himself. I doubt he even knew what he was saying.” He speared a long, slimy, purplish-grey stalk of … animal? vegetable? “What do you suppose this is?” he asked, holding it aloft and peering at it sceptically.

“A dodge. Answer the question.”

Tom glanced up at that, his expression morphing into one of bewildered innocence. “I didn’t hear a question,” he stated.

“Okay,” Harry drawled, “how’s this: when are you going to stop pining for her and ask her out?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Harry.”

His friend rolled his eyes and shifted slightly on the couch so he was looking at Tom more directly. “I’m talking about you and B’Elanna on a real date. Dinner, maybe?”

Tom’s eyes widened. “We had dinner together last night.”

“Yeah, in the mess,” Harry agreed, nodding. “You, B’Elanna, me… And half of alpha shift.” A small, knowing smile tugged at his mouth. “I just couldn’t help but notice how quick you were to jump in front of Vorik’s fist, when he threatened her.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “And I couldn’t help but notice that you weren’t there.” He hadn’t meant to voice the thought but Harry’s prying had him feeling defensive. At the sudden look of hurt in Harry’s eyes, Tom shook his head, chagrined. “I didn’t mean that, Har.”

“No, you’re right.” Harry's mouth firmed. “I should have listened to you when you said there was something wrong. You just don’t expect a Vulcan to, you know.” He jerked his chin upward and raised his eyebrows. He stilled and peered at Tom for a long moment, then his mouth twitched in a smile. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you? You’re more serious about her than I thought.”

Caught. Tom stiffened and looked back at his mess tray.

“Tell her,” Harry encouraged. “You’re going to be spending four days in a shuttle with her, now’s your chance to let her know how you feel.”

“Three,” Tom cut in. “The captain shortened it to three.”

“Okay, three days. Plenty of time to clear the air.”

Tom surged up from the couch and paced over to his dining table. He tossed the tray onto it with a clang. “And do what, exactly, when she turns me down? Hide in the head? Go for a spacewalk?” He kept his back to his friend as he continued. “Klingons are all about honour, Harry, and my life, my behaviour, could hardly be described as honourable.”

Harry was silent for a moment, and his voice had softened when he spoke. “You told the truth about that shuttle crash when you knew it would totally blow up your life. That sounds pretty honourable to me.”

Tom shook his head. There was nothing honourable about his confession. In truth, he couldn’t live with the guilt, or with the cloying sympathy directed his way after his poor judgement had killed three of his friends.

“And you joined a group of freedom fighters who were trying to do what they thought was morally right,” Harry continued.

Tom snorted at that. “I joined the Maquis because I was out of credits for booze.”

“Alright. But you can’t tell me that when you went undercover to find Seska’s spy, that wasn’t honourable.”

Tom turned around and stared at his friend. “Chakotay might argue with you about that,” he quipped. “And I lied to everyone while I was doing it.”

“Yes, you did,” Harry agreed. “You risked alienating me, B’Elanna, the commander. Everyone on this ship who cares about you. And I know for a fact that the captain didn’t order you to do it, she asked you.”

“I was just giving the crowd what they wanted, Harry. Tom Paris, fuck up, misfit.” Harry’s mouth twisted, and Tom shrugged. He knew that his friend had little patience for his tendency toward self-pity.

“You can’t believe that anyone feels that way about you now,” Harry pressed.

“Okay.” Tom raised his hand. “You sound like the president of my fan club.”

“I’m your friend. And it’s my job to tell you when you’re being an ass.” He smiled to soften the insult then stood and moved toward the door. “Just take these three days with B’Elanna and talk to her. She might surprise you and ask you to have dinner with her.”

The door closed behind Harry with a soft whoosh. Tom stared at it for a moment, then turned to face the room. Energy coiled in his belly and he gave in to the urge to pace.

He knew a little about Klingon culture and enough about B’Elanna to realize that though she blamed her Klingon DNA for most of the problems in her life, it was also what made her who she was. His mind flitted back to their experience in the Vidiian mines, to the scared, sick, human woman who had prompted no more deeper feelings in him than a fierce determination to protect her. Was he just another asshole in a long line, not attracted to her but, more likely, by the fact that she was half Klingon? No. His jaw firmed as he denied it. As soon as he’d realized that there was something wrong in the mess, he’d felt that same urge to protect, to defend, despite her having her full Klingon strength and courage intact. Because he'd been aware of her discomfort, her confusion. He was always aware of her because, despite his best efforts, she was always on his mind. And until Vorik made that ridiculous pronouncement, he hadn’t wanted to dwell on the reason why.

He couldn’t get her out of his head, couldn’t stop wanting her, thinking about her, fantasizing about her. Which made him as much of an asshole as Freddy Bristow. But he was her friend, too, before anything else, a feat that had taken the better part of the last two years to accomplish, and he wasn’t willing to sabotage that friendship just because he couldn’t get the thought of them together out of his head, because he couldn’t shake the feelings of jealousy that bombarded him whenever some other guy made his own interest in her known. Who she dated—or didn’t date—was none of his business. Unless, of course, it started a brawl in the mess hall.

Unless she had feelings for him, too.

Tom allowed himself a moment to daydream. He and B’Elanna alone for three days. Long enough to clear the air about the fight this afternoon. Long enough to talk about things that mattered. To figure out if what he felt for her was real or some fantasy brought about by loneliness and boredom. No. He didn’t need three days. He loved her. He was in love with her, and he had been for a long time. Months. He smiled at the thought. Grinned. A laugh burst from him and he raised his hands to cup his forehead, ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it. He was in love with B’Elanna despite how hard he’d fought against it, despite the fact that he hadn’t wanted to admit it, and when Vorik had attacked her this afternoon, he’d been terrified. Warmth spread through him, and with it, a little ripple of excitement, of uncertainty.

He’d tried asking her out: dinner in the mess when she wouldn’t agree to something more intimate, water skiing in the open beach programme when she’d refused to go sailing with him in his private one. Unless Harry had joined them, she’d always turned him down. He needed a plan. He needed to find out if her no really was a no, or if he simply hasn’t asked the right question. He sat at the desk in the corner of his sleeping area and thought for a moment.

“Computer, access all files on Klingon mating habits. Correlate with files on Klingon customs and honour.” He stared at the screen as files scrolled by, then reached for a PADD. “Computer, begin download.” It only took a moment, then Tom moved to his couch and thumbed on the PADD and began to read.

Chapter Text

Kathryn took a sip of coffee and closed her eyes. She should be blissful, relaxing into her evening routine of a hot, comforting beverage and daily reports, but she wasn’t. She’d been craving this cup for hours, actively anticipating the slightly smokey, slightly bitter taste on her tongue, the familiar comfort of her hand wrapped around the warm mug. She’d put off replicating it until the appointed hour, barely, and she’d become downright cranky the last thirty minutes or so, her mood exacerbated by a headache that throbbed at her left temple. Enough so that Tuvok had raised an eyebrow at her and suggested she retire to her quarters for some rest. She’d agreed.

During their conversation earlier in her ready room, she had half expected—and wholly hoped—that Chakotay would stake her the rations for a cup or, better yet, buy her one outright, but he hadn’t. Lately, he’d started to look at her coffee addiction with a jaundiced eye. Like he was one to talk, Mister Tea.

She sighed, already having second thoughts about allowing Tom and B’Elanna to go on the shuttle mission. Had she agreed because they needed to explore the nebula for energy sources and they were the best qualified crew members for the mission, or because Tom, an accomplished charmer, had implored her to assure their privacy for the next couple of days, something that was even rarer on the small ship than omicron particles?

Really, she was being a little hard on Tom. He hadn’t tried to cajole her into agreeing to let them go and even if he had she wouldn’t have allowed his usual flattery to persuade her. It was his concern for B’Elanna’s privacy that had swayed her decision. And, probably, her own desire for an endless supply of coffee. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” she said to her mug.

She pushed her concerns from her thoughts. After a few days to cool down, B’Elanna would be fine. And Tom would look after her in the meantime. Hopefully, their mission would be a success, the process of capturing and converting the omicron particles would go off without a hitch, and everyone would have a few extra replicator rations this month.

She took another sip of her drink and allowed her mind to settle on the problem of Ensign Vorik. To say his behaviour this afternoon had been unusual was an understatement. She had read the Doctor’s report on his condition and was satisfied that he was contained and comfortable, for now at least, but it hadn’t shed any light on why he’d behaved as he had in the mess hall.

Maybe they were all going a little stir crazy. It had been months since the last shore leave, and that hadn’t been very relaxing once Tom and Harry had been falsely convicted of a terrorist bombing and imprisoned. Living and working with the same people day after day, seeing the same faces, could start to feel claustrophobic. After more than two years in the Delta Quadrant, with no options for a quick way home, Kathryn couldn’t help but wonder why this sort of behaviour didn’t happen more often. She was aware of a handful of incidents of jealousies and romances ending badly, and it was a credit to her crew that they all behaved so admirably, so professionally, most of the time. Especially since, had they been home, several of the Starfleet crew would have rotated off the ship by now, replaced by new graduates and a few seasoned veterans.

She sighed and drained her mug, then stood. It was getting late, and more than time she headed to bed if she wanted to be bright and bushy-tailed for her meeting with the Kre’CHur representative tomorrow.

~~~~~

She’d packed, then emptied her bag and repacked it just to be sure that she didn’t forget anything. She’d sorted through her PADDs, checking the stack three times because she’d thought she’d misplaced the one with the numbers on the particle conversion, but it had been with the others all along. She’d cleaned her quarters and looked for things she could recycle, tossing her too-long workout vest and a pair of socks with a hole in one heel into the reclamater. Her hands hovered over her old boots but, even though she hadn’t worn them in months, she couldn’t part with them. She was tempted to slip them on now. They matched her mood: angry, frustrated, with an almost overwhelming urge to blow something to hell! She shoved the boots back onto their spot on the closet shelf and blew a harsh puff of air.

Despite the lateness of the hour, she felt invigorated, not tired. Energy sparked on her skin, coiled in her belly and the base of her spine, and she prowled her quarters, pacing. She wanted to leave on the mission tonight. Right now. Hop in the shuttle and go! She didn’t want to wait until morning. If she went to his quarters this minute, would Tom agree? Maybe. Or he might comm Janeway, might decide to tell the Doctor that she was showing signs of stress.

She forced herself toward the bathroom, stripping off her undershirt and slacks on the way, wadding them up and shoving them into the refresher as she passed it. She’d practically torn off her uniform jacket as soon as she’d entered her quarters. Torn it off and threw it! Fucking Starfleet! Instead of doing something about Vorik, Janeway was reading reports on the incident. Reports, questions. It was bullshit! If this had been a Maquis ship, Vorik would be out the airlock by now.

Fine. He wouldn’t be. But she liked to think he would.

She stepped into the shower, hoping the warm, pulsing sonic waves would soothe her. They didn’t. If anything, the brush of air on her naked body made her skin tingle, made her muscles clench and release with sweet anticipation. She… wanted. Something. She didn’t know what, though. She leaned her forearms against the shower wall and rested her head on her clasped hands, trying to blank her mind of her chaotic thoughts. Chakotay had stopped by her quarters right after she’d been released from sickbay. His concern had been claustrophobic. He’d smiled serenely while he’d treated her like she was a photon torpedo that was about to go off, and employed his old trick of speaking softly then waiting in patient silence for her to talk. She hadn’t wanted to talk. She’d wanted to pace, scream, rage!

Still did.

She smacked her fists against the wall, then pushed her hands through her hair, working out the knots and tangles with her fingers. Her mother used to say—while attempting to get a brush through it to tame it—that a Klingon woman’s hair was a symbol of her glory, but B’Elanna’s had brought her nothing but frustration. Unruly, neither straight, nor as curly as her mother’s, it was constantly getting in her way when she was trying to repair Voyager’s systems. She’d contemplated cutting it all off like Sue Nicoletti, but hesitated. It was a link to her mother’s people, to her mother, and every time she combed it, dressed it in the morning before shift, she thought of Miral and the lessons she had tried to teach her about Klingon culture and history. As the only Klingon in the Delta Quadrant, wasn’t it her duty to uphold those traditions? Her mother would say it was.

Plus, she knew that Tom liked her hair long. She had caught his eyes on it more than once. That thought made her smile. Tom. Just thinking of him warmed her. Energized her. She grinned, then bit her lip as she remembered how he’d tackled Vorik in the mess. He hadn’t faltered, hadn’t backed down even when Vorik had turned his anger on him. He’d been like a warrior…

She slammed the control to end the shower, and wrapped her bathrobe around herself as she moved toward her living area. She couldn’t get visions of the fight out of her head. It was over: Vorik was under guard in sickbay and, after some fast-talk by Tom, the captain had agreed to let them continue with the mission. She should be feeling fine now, vindicated, but adrenaline was still pumping through her system lending her a rush of energy that she had no way to dispel.

Fuck Vorik for what he’d done, for what he’d said in front of everyone. She’d been humiliated! That petaQ! That stupid taHqeq! He’d ruined everything! She could feel the curiosity of the rest of the crew like a tangible thing, could almost hear the gossip through the walls of her quarters. She’d tried to mentor him, been friendly with him, sure, but she had never, never given him any reason to think that she was interested in him romantically. A fresh wave of anger seethed through her and she balled her hands into fists and looked around her quarters for something to throw. Her eyes landed on a vase on the coffee table, and she swept it into the air with a roar. It landed on the ‘fleet grey carpet with a less than satisfying thud, refusing to break. She tried giving it a kick, but it spun off toward her bedroom.

Fucking Vulcans! Tuvok had spoken to her in sickbay impressing upon her the importance of filing a report as soon as possible. A report! She wanted to file a formal complaint. With her fist! Her breath came in sharp puffs and she recognized the old urge to run, to put as many light years as she could between herself and the ship.

Maybe if Tom had been at the table, Vorik wouldn’t have…

Tom. She bit her lip to hold back a grin. A little bubble of excitement blossomed inside her and she pushed a fist against her belly to contain it. She was about to have three days and two nights alone with him, just the two of them, away from the prying eyes and gossiping tongues of Voyager’s crew. Maybe she would figure out just what it was she wanted from Tom Paris. She had to admit that she was attracted to him, that she wanted to know how his skin felt against hers, how it tasted on her tongue. Was it possible, given how he’d fought at her side, that he wanted her, really wanted her, too?

She plaited her hair into a long rope, poking her fingers through the braided sections and winding it around her palm. If the nebula did contain those particles, and they could convert them to energy, there might just be enough left over after they’d replenished their power reserves for everyone to have a few extra replicator rations. Maybe she’d replicate a new dress to wear on the holodeck. Maybe, the next time Tom asked her to join him in Marseilles, or Casperia Prime, or even Risa, she would agree. Maybe she would ask him about sailing on Lake Como. Maybe she would replicate some new underwear instead…

She climbed into bed and leaned back against the headboard, letting loose a long sigh. She slid down under the covers, and deliberately slowed her breathing. “Computer, dim the lights.” She needed sleep, not fevered imaginings about Tom Paris. She closed her eyes but couldn’t stop seeing Tom as he’d fought Vorik, the courage he’d displayed, his strength. She’d wanted him for a long time, had denied it, pushed her feelings down and away, and told herself that she was misreading his attention, his friendship. But…

He’d charged in while everyone else was just sitting there with their mouths hanging open, he’d rushed in to defend her before anyone else had had a clue that there was anything wrong. Which meant that he’d been watching her. Again. The thought warmed her, soothed her, thrilled her just a little. He had tried to speak to her in sickbay earlier, but she’d slipped out before he could make his way past the doctor. She hadn’t quite known what to say to him, still didn’t, but she knew she needed to thank him for helping her to fight off Vorik when everyone else had been too startled to move.

It was a good thing Vorik hadn’t really hurt him, she decided. If he had, she would have killed him where he stood.

Chapter Text

Poetry? Poetry?! They had to be joking. He could understand the throwing things and the ducking, it fit with the rumours about a Klingon’s sexual enthusiasm, but poetry? The only poem he knew was about a daring young man from Nantucket who flew into space in a bucket. He landed on Risa, and got a surprise, ahhh… when he found out—

No. He was pretty sure that B’Elanna wouldn’t find that remotely ‘stimulating’. At least, not in the way he intended.

Surely that little bit of trivia couldn’t be true. Who were these people who were writing addendums to the Starfleet Encyclopedia of Cultural Practices, anyway? Doctors? Ambassadors? He’d bet his last replicator ration that they weren’t Klingons, unless they were trying to see how gullible the other members of the Federation were. And what was this about a Klingon woman crawling on all fours, growling at a prospective mate? They weren’t animals; they were people who lived in a highly ritualized society with rich cultural norms and traditions, despite some of those traditions appearing odd by Human standards. He felt like a patsy. Like the butt of a joke that had gone over his head.

From the time he’d been old enough to notice that girls had breasts, and that the thought of girls’ breasts did funny things to his breathing, he’d heard no end of rumours about the sexual practices of different members of the Federation. Some he’d found too outlandish to believe, others he’d eaten up, hoping he’d get the opportunity to find out for himself if they were true. He distinctly remembered the first time he’d been told about the voracious, and some might say hazardous, appetites of Klingon women. Fifteen-year-old Jason Echem had taken fourteen-year-old Tom Paris aside at a ‘fleet Family Day picnic on the grounds of the Academy, and told him all the salacious details around Klingon mating habits. He’d believed it all: the biting, the clawing, and the throwing of heavy objects included. Because he’d wanted to. Those newly acquired facts had been exciting and titillating and forbidden, and young Tom had felt older and wiser in the knowledge.

His twenty-two year old self discovered that Jason was full of shit. A newly minted ensign, he’d had a layover at Starbase 234 near the Azure Nebula while waiting to rendezvous with the Exeter. With a few days to kill and an inflated sense of his own worldliness, he’d been sitting at the bar people-watching and nursing a glass of Saurian brandy when he’d met a couple of proud and dignified Klingons warriors. They’d teased him about his shiny new pip and his child’s drink, and had bought him more than one mug of Klingon blood wine, likely placing bets on when he would slide under the table. He hadn’t matched them, but he’d held his own, and they’d made sure he got back to his room unmolested at the end of the evening.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe that sex could get a little rough between consenting Klingons—the ones he’d met could drink, and talk, and he assumed they could fight—but he couldn’t picture them spouting love poetry and ducking flying coffee tables. Or vases. It all seemed… silly. The part about the biting and the blood and the broken clavicle, while interesting and slightly more plausible, was a little hard to believe, too.

But none of that was what he’d been looking for when he’d begun reading, anyway. He wasn’t worried about the sex. Sex happened, sometimes planned, sometimes spontaneously, and he’d always been able to figure it out to the satisfaction of both himself and his partner. He wanted to know about romance. The pursuit. He needed to know about any expectations that B’Elanna might have. Any important steps he was supposed to follow.

His mouth twisted and he snorted. He’d spent the majority of his evening trying to figure out how to woo B’Elanna Torres in an honourable way, in a way she would accept and that wouldn’t insult her Klingon heritage, but he hadn’t bothered to consider whether or not she would want him to woo her. Did Vorik have a point? Her conflicting Klingon and human natures drew him, too. She was a puzzle. A mystery. And the more time he spent with her, the better he got to know her, the more he’d been drawn to her. Her mother’s people valued honour and loyalty over everything else, which was the crux of the problem. Just how honourable did she believe he was in comparison to Harry or Chakotay?

Six months ago, after a shore leave gone horribly wrong, he’d taken a chance and asked her to try out his Lake Como programme with him. She’d turned him down with a laugh, turning his invitation into a joke and claiming that she’d rather take her chances with Freddy Bristow. He’d laughed along with her, but he’d been serious about wanting to spend some private time with her, and her rejection had hurt his pride. He hadn’t opened the programme since.

If he were being completely honest with himself he’d admit that, sure, he was curious about sex with a Klingon woman. This woman. And he’d spent more than one sleepless night imagining what she looked like naked, wondering if there were differences, picturing her in his bed. Because as brilliant and fascinating and compelling as her mind was, his heart sped up whenever he saw her, and his breath came faster when she sat near him. He wanted her, wanted to taste her mouth, to push his fingers through her hair, to feel her skin against his. But he also loved listening to her talk through an engineering problem, loved to watch her eyes light up, to see her smile in triumph when she and Harry figured out a workaround to whatever the Delta Quadrant threw at them.

Was there anything he could do or say to make her believe that he was honourable enough to pursue her, or did she think his invitation, his interest, was an insult? Except… They already spent time together: exercising together in that Klingon programme he’d found in the holodeck database, playing pool after shift in Sandrine’s, and sharing a table in the mess when their off hours coincided. She wouldn’t do that if she thought he was dishonourable, would she?

He sighed. It was possible that he’d already blown it. That by interfering in her fight with Vorik, he’d dishonoured her, made it look like she couldn’t defend her honour herself. Or maybe the very fact that he’d stood up with her, for her, had proven that he was a suitable candidate to pursue her. He wished there was someone he could ask. Maybe one of the Klingon fighters in the workout programme led a secret holographic life as a romance coach?

The database stated that Klingons usually mated for life. Maybe, when they chose a mate, when they committed to one person, they simply honoured that commitment and put in whatever effort and sacrifice was needed to make a marriage succeed, like his own parents had. Not so for B’Elanna’s mother, but was five-year-old B’Elanna really a reliable source of information on that point? Had her father really deserted them like B’Elanna believed, or had their split been mutually agreed? Or were his bones lying at the bottom of a canyon somewhere on Kessik?

When a Klingon chose a mate, he realized, it was more than marriage. They formed a bond that lasted a lifetime. The idea should terrify him, should make him throw out his hands in defense and back away as fast as, well, humanly possible from any idea of romancing B’Elanna Torres. But… it didn’t. In fact, the idea that B’Elanna might not only accept his offer of fidelity but hold him to it calmed him. Warmed him. He realized that he didn’t just want her, he wanted her along with that ideal, and everything that came with it.

An excited, almost overwhelming giddiness hit him and he bounded up from the couch needing to work off a sudden rush of energy. It was getting late and he’d spent so long reading that he hadn’t packed for the mission yet. He paced toward his closet and selected a few clean uniforms and extra boxers and tossed them on his bed along with his rucksack, then he headed for the bathroom. After a quick shower, he grabbed his hygiene kit and packed it, then gave his boots a quick shine so he wouldn’t have to do it in the morning.

He looked around to see if he’d missed anything. He crossed to his closet as an idea struck him. Even though he wouldn’t be wearing civvies on this mission, his hand hovered over the belt he’d picked it up in a shop on Irakas VI during the tumultuous year after he’d been cashiered out of Starfleet, after his confession, after the crash and his lie. He’d convinced himself that he needed it for protection though, in the back of his mind, he knew he’d acquired it for a darker purpose just in case. His finger strayed over the buckle and he fiddled with the catch, making sure it still worked.

If what he’d just read was true, there was a third option. One that he’d convinced himself was out of reach to him, one he’d only begun to believe might be possible. Vorik’s bumbled proposal, his preposterous proposal, had caught him off-guard and allowed half-formed hopes to tumble into his brain. Hopes that he’d set aside months ago out of necessity for his own peace of mind. Maybe, just maybe, B’Elanna had hopes, too. And maybe Vorik’s little display had forced them to the surface. They had three days alone in that nebula. Enough time to tell her how he felt. Enough time to prove to her that he could be worthy of her. He might get the chance to find out. He picked up the discarded PADD and scrolled rapidly through the article on Klingon mating until he found the part about the marriage oath, then he climbed into bed and began to read it again.

Chapter Text

It was the only thing that fit. Bendii Syndrome would have been easier, in fact he could have published a paper on it, but no, it had to be this. So ordinary that it was unexpected. So commonplace that it was overlooked. So Vulcan that people didn’t speak of it.

He’d kept Ensign Vorik overnight, much to his chagrin, and he did look a little better this morning. He was sitting up on the bed, dressed in his uniform, fed if not bathed. He appeared to be in control. That wouldn’t last long if the Doctor’s diagnosis was correct.

The Doctor approached him and stood at his elbow, remembered to modulate his vocal subroutines so his voice sounded softer, more gentle. “You're going through the pon farr, aren't you?” he asked. Vorik stiffened, and looked away. The doctor saw a nerve twitch near his eye.

“That's an extremely personal question, Doctor.” He sounded like he ground the words between his teeth before he spat them out.

“I’m your doctor. Nothing is too personal to discuss with me. In fact, if you’d opened up earlier, we would have saved ourselves a lot of time and trouble.”

Not surprisingly, there was no response.

“Yes,” the Doctor continued, his tone closer to derisive now than conciliatory, “I'm aware that Vulcans prefer to keep their mating practices very much to themselves. There's almost nothing in the medical database beyond a few observations made by Starfleet doctors over the years. Doctor Leonard McCoy’s notes on the subject were particularly interesting.”

Vorik’s head jerked. “I knew there was something wrong. I was hoping it wasn't this.”

“So you’ve been aware of this for some time? Your symptoms, the chemical imbalance and loss of emotional control, are consistent with the observations I’ve been studying. Have you been eating and sleeping normally?”

“No.” The syllable was drenched with emotion: anger, frustration, the obvious desire that the conversation end. Now.

The Doctor nodded. “I assume this is your first pon farr?”

As expected, the question was greeted with silence. Really, for a species that prided itself on logic Vorik was acting like a recalcitrant child about the situation. “There's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's a normal biological function. I'll do what I can to help you through it, but I'll need a little more information.”

Vorik turned toward him, his eyes blazing. “We do not discuss it,” he said through his teeth.

“I'm afraid you'll have to. You have a severe imbalance in your brain chemistry. If it gets much worse, it could become life threatening.” No response. “I need to know how Vulcans deal with this condition.”

“We go home. Every seven years of our adult life, Vulcans experience an instinctual, irresistible urge to return to the homeworld and take a mate.”

To a man who looked to science and knowledge for answers, this solution seemed rudimentary at best, archaic at worst. Surely medical science could come up with a more practical, less disruptive solution. “But in your case, being stranded halfway across the galaxy, that's impossible,” he said.

The young man turned his head, looked away. “Yes.”

And it struck him then, the reason for the altercation with B’Elanna. “So then logically, you try to find a mate here. I assume that explains your behaviour toward Lieutenant Torres.”

“She was…the logical choice. I have always had great respect for B'Elanna. I hope she isn't too upset with me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You attempted to crush her skull in the middle of the mess hall. Why would she be up— No! You attempted to mind meld with her! You were trying to form a mental link with her.” The EMH stiffened with shock. Could it be possible? He would have to access the records on Klingon physiology.

“The mating bond, yes,” Vorik admitted.

The Doctor allowed himself to extrapolate what their offspring would look like: dark, thick hair, dark eyes, faint forehead ridges and pointy little ears. Humans, certainly, would find them adorable. But with half-Klingon B’Elanna’s full Klingon temper, and the ancestral madness of unrepressed Vulcan emotions, its first terrible-twos temper tantrum might cause a warp core breach! It was a shame, really, the Doctor thought, aside from being attractive, any offspring of theirs would likely also be highly intelligent.

“I failed. I do not feel her within me.”

“If you had been more forthcoming, if I had known your diagnosis, I would never have allowed her to leave!” the Doctor accused.

“She has gone on the away mission? Is she in danger?” Vorik’s question was edged with fear, his eyes wide with concern.

“No, not that I’m aware. But I would have done more extensive tests on her, made sure that you didn’t transmit your pon farr to her.”

Vorik’s face lit up with hope. It really was remarkable, the Doctor noted, watching the play of emotions on his features.

“Do you think that’s possible?”

The Doctor sighed. “I don’t know. That’s why I’d want to run some tests.”

Vorik slipped off the biobed and took two steps toward the door. “Where is she? I must go to her. She needs me!”

“I rather doubt she feels she needs anyone. And if you think I’m going to tell you where she is after your little display yesterday, you’re out of your mind! Literally. Besides, Lieutenant Paris is with her. He’s a trained medic, I’m sure he’s watching over her.”

Vorik was silent, obviously not liking the Doctor’s decision, but holding onto enough of his Vulcan faculties to recognize that more argument was futile.

“In any case,” the Doctor continued, “we're going to have to try to find another way to treat your condition. Let's start with a microcellular scan.”

“No!” Vorik shook his head. “I don't want medical treatment. I will resolve this myself.”

“How do you intend to do that?” He hadn’t meant to sound snippy, and readjusted his vocal parameters, hoping that Vorik hadn’t noticed.

“There are certain meditative techniques. I will be fine if simply left alone.” He drew himself up with all the dignity he could muster. “Please, allow me to return to my quarters. Confine me there if you wish but allow me to resolve my situation privately.”

Really, it mattered very little whether he was in his quarters or sickbay. “All right. Until I have a better idea of how to treat your condition, I'll release you to your quarters. You'll be under confinement, with a security guard outside your door, and you’ll be wearing a cortical monitor at all times.”

He waited until he saw capitulation in the young Vulcan’s eyes, then turned toward a cupboard of medical equipment and withdrew the monitor. Vorik stood still while he attached it, then met his eyes and nodded.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome. I wish I could do more to help you.”

~~~~~~

A loud beeeep reverberated in the quiet shuttle, and Tom jumped.

“Sorry,” B’Elanna said, her voice high and rushed. She’d hit the wrong key on her console, and leaned closer to him to tap a command and correct her mistake.

He glanced at her, his eyes taking in her flushed cheeks and slightly messy hair. She’d talked nonstop for the first forty minutes of their journey, an uncharacteristic flow of words that covered everything from their current mission to the next level of the exercise programme they shared. She’d seemed excited, almost breathless as she’d enthusiastically listed the upgrades she would tackle on Voyager if they managed to top up the ship’s energy reserves. The more she’d talked, the more his own nerves had twisted tighter in a rush of unfamiliar anxiety and anticipation, and he’d begun to second-guess his determination from last night. Eventually, she’d wound down and run out of things to say, but by then he’d convinced himself that spilling his guts to her was a bad idea. She was focused on the mission, and he needed to get his head in the game if he was going to pilot the little craft through the gravitational eddies of the nebula. This wasn’t a good time to tell her how he felt. He would wait until they were back on Voyager, until he’d talked her into accepting a few real dates with him. He could programme a romantic restaurant in the holodeck, and tell her how he felt over wine and dessert.

She’d been in a hurry to leave Voyager this morning to the point where, with her hands on her hips and a crooked little grin to accompany a raised eyebrow, she’d accused him of stalling when he insisted on running a by-the-book preflight check before they departed. He’d been standing in the shuttlebay giving the Cochrane an external visual survey when he’d felt her warm palm slide up his back and over his shoulder. Her nails had scraped against his trapezius muscle as she’d grasped the strap of his duffle bag and eased it off his shoulder with an ‘I can stow these while you admire the ship’. Boxy and unadorned, there wasn’t much to admire about a class two shuttle, but the sight of B’Elanna Torres walking away from him as she headed for the ramp was a thing to behold.

He’d been worried this morning that she would still be upset about the fracas in the mess yesterday, but she appeared to have put it behind her; her excitement over the mission must have pushed it from her mind. Either that, or she was deliberately avoiding thinking about it. He’d hoped they’d have a chance to talk, and it would give him the opening he needed to tell her how he felt, but it would have sounded strange, a conversational non sequitur tucked between her plans for upgrading the ship’s targ scoop and her strategy for beating level six of the Klingon programme, so he’d kept quiet.

Now, two hours later, he looked at her, assessed her, and realized that his face was scrunched into a frown at what he saw. Hers was alight with what he assumed was an internal monologue and he could almost feel energy vibrating off her. She seemed…not herself. Tense. Unnaturally excited. Practically bouncing in her seat. He’d seen her irritated, annoyed, even furious, but this mood was different. As if she couldn’t shake off the emotional impact from yesterday and it had translated into a rush of barely contained energy. She was slumped forward in her seat now, arms clasped around one drawn-up leg. Booted heel hooked on her chair, her foot bouncing. Her chin rested on her bent knee, and it looked like she was nodding, agreeing to some unvoiced plan. But, despite her overt display of energy, she looked tired, he decided. Her eyes were bright as she studied the readings on her console, but the dark circles under them suggested that she hadn’t gotten much sleep last night.

He’d slept, eventually, and the fight had haunted his subconscious, emerging as chaotic, confusing dreams. In one particularly vivid one, the one that had woken him an hour before his alarm, Vorik had appeared on the bridge and attacked him, demanding to know where B’Elanna was. Everyone had looked away, ignored them: Tuvok, Chakotay, the captain. Even Harry. Tom had been forced to fight him again. He’d woken up soaked in sweat and gasping, and a little annoyed that he hadn’t finished the dream, that he hadn’t had the chance to punch Vorik’s lights out. He wondered if she’d had bad dreams too.

He remembered Janeway’s caveat to jettison the mission and head straight back to Voyager if there was any sign of trouble, but he could just imagine how B’Elanna would react to that idea. His instinct was to go gently with her, feel her out, but experience had taught him that would just piss her off.

“Are you okay?” he asked bluntly, surveying her profile.

She glanced over at him, her dark eyes flashing, lucious mouth lifting in a quick smile. “I’m fine.”

“Really? You sure?”

Her cheeks were flushed a ruddy colour, and a fine film of perspiration shone on her throat and dotted her hairline. She straightened, her foot hitting the deck with a thud, and shrugged. “It’s just hot in here.”

He raised an eyebrow. Maybe it was a little warm in the shuttle. Actually, he was starting to feel a bit too warm, himself.

She reached for a button on his side of the console, her hand brushing his as she keyed in a sequence to lower the cabin temperature by two degrees. His skin tingled and he shivered as pleasure like pain gathered in his knuckles and his fingers twitched. He swallowed and sucked a breath. He had a vivid flash of memory of her in a blue and black swimsuit at Joe Carey’s birthday party in the holodeck last week. She’d certainly seemed to enjoy the warmth then.

“I thought…” It was on the tip of his tongue to say Klingons, but after what Vorik had said in the mess yesterday, he caught himself in time. “…you liked the heat.” He knew that B’Elanna was sensitive about her appearance, and he wasn’t willing to risk life and limb bringing up the K-word. He also knew that she longed to look more human, and regretted that her DNA had made her more closely resemble her mother’s people, but he thought she was stunning; he thought she was perfect just the way she was.

“Look, if you’re still worried about yesterday, don’t be,” he said, his words tumbling over each other to fill the sudden silence. “I doubt Tuvok will let Vorik out of the brig any time soon, if he’s even been released from sickbay yet.”

B’Elanna frowned; she didn’t look reassured by his words.

“I just mean,” he tried again, “I don’t think he’ll bother you anymore.” He wouldn’t let him. If he had to camp out in the corridor outside her door, he’d make sure Vorik didn’t bother her.

“I can handle him,” she stated.

She hadn’t looked like she was handling him in the mess but he had the sense to stay quiet about it. He peered at her more closely. Though she’d settled down somewhat, her eyes were bright and sweat was beginning to collect along her cranial ridges. It crossed his mind that she could be running a fever. Tom’s brow pinched in concern as he reached a hand toward her forehead. She grabbed it, her fingernails sinking into the soft skin of his palm, and brought it to her mouth. He felt her warm, moist breath puff across his skin, felt her teeth scrape the inside of his wrist. His eyes widened, and he inhaled sharply as a jolt of electricity shot along his arm and gathered in his elbow and the tips of his fingers. His stomach tightened with desire. Shit.

Her eyes flew to his and she dropped his hand and stood, bumping the console.

“I… I’m going to the other compartment.”

“B’Elanna?” He looked at her and shook his head, confused. “There is no other compartment, unless you mean the head.”

Her eyes jerked from his face to the aft of the small shuttle and back. She nodded, and almost ran to the bathroom.

Chapter Text

He burned.

The flame in the lamp flickered with his every exhalation, jumping and wavering in the dim light. Shadows danced on the wall.

He burned.

Perspiration dotted his hairline, gathered at his right temple and ran down his cheek in a thin twisting line. A drop hung, suspended, at the point of his jaw, cohesion keeping it attached to his skin. He disregarded it.

He focused on the flame, the knuckles of his clasped hands a guidepost for his eyes, thumbs pointed toward his throat, index fingers peaked and resting along his nose. He attempted to modulate his breathing, tried to clear his mind, but he saw her in the flame, her face, her body, her katra, the essence that was her.

He burned. For her.

He had told the doctor he hadn’t bonded with her, but he hadn’t wholly told the truth. He couldn’t sense her in his mind, couldn’t locate her wherever she was, there was no thread that linked them. But he felt her, longed for her. They had secreted her away while he’d been sedated in sickbay and hidden her from him! And he had no way to find her.

But he longed for her. Ached for her.

He closed his eyes, drew a breath. “B’Elanna,” he murmured, “Taluhk nash-veh k’dular.” He imagined a life shared with her. It calmed him.

~~~~~

“Got a minute?”

Chakotay looked up from the monitor on his desk, his mouth stretching into a welcoming smile. “Captain. Shouldn’t I be coming to you?”

“Maybe,” she agreed, stepping into his office and helping herself to a seat in front of his desk. “Shall I guess what you’re watching?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head, chagrined. “I can’t seem to look away.”

“She’s fine. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t have allowed her and Tom to go on the away mission.”

“And here I thought I used my powers of persuasion to sway you.”

She laughed. “I’m not saying you didn’t.”

He nodded and watched as she brought her hands together in her lap, tenting her fingers then letting them slide together in a fist that she knocked against her thigh in a rhythmic tat-tat-tat. She had something on her mind. So did he; likely the same thing. He stood and gestured to the replicator on the wall near his desk. “Coffee? My treat.”

She looked startled for a moment, then smiled. “Yes, please.”

He ordered a black coffee for her and a jumja tea for himself. It was a Bajoran blend that he’d acquired a taste for while he was in the Maquis. He handed the mug of coffee to Janeway and she accepted it with a smile of thanks, then turned the monitor so she could see the screen. The players were frozen in an absurd tableau: Vorik clutching B’Elanna’s face, her body buckling, her arms up and askew. Tom was just starting to move around the table, his fear and shock obvious in his expression.

“What’s so fascinating, or are you just torturing yourself?” she asked.

He inclined his head, acknowledging her remark. “It’s just so strange. I’ve never heard of a Vulcan behaving that way before.”

“Well, our situation could hardly be described as normal.” She tilted her head and eyed him over the monitor. “Did I do the right thing, allowing them to go so soon after the… altercation?” She flicked a finger at the computer screen.

“Second thoughts, Kathryn?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I’m wondering about my motivations in sending them out.” She nodded at her mug, “Wondering if I’m being a wee bit selfish.”

“The Doctor cleared them for duty. Besides, captains have to consider the good of the ship as a whole, not just two officers.”

She inclined her head. “Now why did I assume you were going to use the word favourite in that little speech?”

“Should I have?”

She smiled. “Tom has lived up to all of my expectations of him, and B’Elanna, she’s absolutely blossomed.” She shook her head. “Two years ago, I would never have believed she could come so far.”

“She’s had her moments,” he reminded her, his tone rueful.

“Yes, but on the whole, she’s become a fine officer, and a real leader.”

It was true that when Kathryn had appointed B’Elanna chief of engineering over Joe Carey there had been rumblings from a handful of the Starfleet crew. Ensign Vorik and Lieutenant Nicoletti had even gone so far as to file formal complaints. But B’Elanna had shown everyone that she was not only a brilliant, intuitive engineer, but that she also had the capacity, with Joe Carey’s help, to lead the largest department on the ship. He knew that Kathryn had never regretted her decision to make B’Elanna chief, and she didn’t regret it now.

Chakotay glanced back at the screen and shook his head. “This incident is baffling.”

Kathryn nodded. “Well, she certainly made her rejection clear.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly confused.

“Ensign Vorik proposed marriage to B’Elanna. In a...” she waggled her head, “in a Vulcan way, of course.”

“He what?” He shifted in the chair, surprise tensing his shoulders. When he’d dropped by her quarters yesterday evening, she hadn’t said a word about a marriage proposal. “I thought he was just asking her out and didn’t like being rejected.”

“He outlined the benefits of their union.” Kathryn peered at him over the rim of her mug. “Did you read Sue Nicoletti’s report?”

“I skimmed it,” he admitted. “If that was his version of a marriage proposal, it’s no wonder she hit him.”

Kathryn suppressed a smile. “He said that he was the only person on the ship who could withstand the rigors of Klingon mating practices. Then he reminded her that her choices for a mate were limited.”

Chakotay shook his head. “That went over well.” A mate, of course. He passed a hand over his mouth, and his eyes glittered with mirth. “This really isn’t funny,” he said.

“I know,” she agreed. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose he’s not wrong.”

Chakotay gave in to the urge to smile.

“Indeed.” Kathryn cocked an eyebrow. “I’m starting to think B’Elanna showed remarkable restraint.”

He remembered B’Elanna’s anger two years ago when she’d accused him of giving up on their cause. She’d been ready to battle her way off the ship one broken nose at a time. Ready to toss him out an airlock for betraying her, betraying them all by siding with Janeway and putting on the uniform. Except this time, she hadn’t been the aggressor, she’d been the victim. He had to wonder if that had shaken her more than her own loss of control had back then.“And I started this day feeling optimistic,” he said.

“Me, too.” She shook her head. “It’s more than strange, Chakotay, it’s… absurd.”

“I thought Vulcan marriages were arranged. Surely Vorik has a fiancée at home. He might not see her for decades, but he’s young for his species, and even if it takes us sixty years to get home, he’ll still be on the younger side of middle age when we arrive.”

“I know. I can’t understand why Vorik felt the need to press his interest on B’Elanna so forcefully.”

“Maybe he’s lonely,” Chakotay suggested. “Vulcan’s may not express their emotions, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have them.” He shuddered to think of the damage that Vorik could have inflicted upon B’Elanna had Tom not interfered. His body had been rigid as he’d grabbed her, and he’d paid no more heed to Tom’s blows than he would an insect buzzing around him, that is, until he’d focused his attention on him. Normally passive, Vorik’s face in the security vid had shown pure rage. Luckily, B’Elanna had taken advantage of his distraction and dropped him with one punch.

“Still,” Kathryn said, “I’ve never known a Vulcan to become physically violent.”

Chakotay inhaled a long, slow breath. “I stopped by B’Elanna’s quarters yesterday. She didn’t mention the marriage proposal.”

“I suspect she may want to forget it ever happened.”

“I wish she’d said something; it’s going to change things between her and Vorik. It would change their working relationship even if the fight had never happened. It will make working with him, supervising his work, awkward for a while.”

“Agreed,” Kathryn nodded. “I’m not certain that I would be comfortable working with a subordinate who had changed the nature of our relationship so dramatically. And in a way that was so public, as well. And I’m not half Klingon.”

Chakotay grimaced. “I should have read Nicoletti’s report more thoroughly, and should have paid closer attention. Hell, I should have taken a moment to consider Nicoletti’s and Tom’s emotional response to the fight. They’re my responsibility, too.”

Kathryn reached for his hand and gave it a pat. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. No one could have predicted Vorik’s behaviour. I would’ve been just as surprised had Tom dropped to one knee and proposed to her in the middle of the bridge.”

He flashed her a smile at that. “I think we can safely assume that’s not going to happen any time soon.” He tapped a key, backtracking the recording thirty seconds, then hit play. “Vorik says something to B’Elanna right before he attacks her, in Vulcan, I assume. I didn’t catch it the first time.” Tom was already at the table, his expression a mask of conviviality. Vorik had turned toward him with a sneer. B’Elanna’s anger was obvious, her body stiff, as she slipped her arm out of Tom’s grip. Kathryn watched as Vorik sent Tom a look of loathing.

“...ecret that Lieutenant Paris is interested in you.” Vorik turned back toward B’Elanna, his back and shoulders tense. “But to my knowledge he’s made you no offer. B’Elanna ashalik,my intentions are honourable and would fulfill the expectations of both our families.”

Kathryn watched as the anger on B’Elanna’s face morphed into confusion, then embarrassment. “You can take your offer and shove it up your pointy little Vulcan a—”

She stopped the recording with a sharp tap of her finger.

“Ash-something.” Kathryn frowned. “I have no idea what it means but surely Tuvok would know.”

“Ashalik,” he corrected. “I haven’t asked him. It seemed…unimportant, somehow, considering what came after. But it caught my attention. It’s not the only bit of Vulcan he said, either.”

“And the universal translator didn’t translate it.” She tapped her chin with a finger, lost in thought. “It’s a piece of a larger puzzle, but right now I’m willing to look at any clues we have if it helps us to figure this out.” She hit her combadge and hailed her security chief. “Janeway to Lieutenant Tuvok. Report to Commander Chakotay’s office immediately.”

Tuvok responded with a ‘right away, Captain’, and she turned back to Chakotay. “It’s time he opened up about his theories, whatever they are.”

“I agree.” He stood and offered her his seat but she declined, also standing and turning toward the doorway.

It took Tuvok less than a minute to join them. He inclined his head in greeting, “Captain. Commander?”

“I’ve been reviewing the security recording of the incident in the mess hall yesterday,” Janeway began, “Vorik says something to B’Elanna while they’re arguing before he attacks her: Ashalik.”

“Yes.”

Tuvok didn’t appear surprised, not that Chakotay expected him to be.

“I assume you’ve seen this. Why didn’t you mention it yesterday when we were in my ready room?” she asked.

“I have not yet concluded my investigation, Captain.”

Chakotay stifled his frustration. “The computer didn’t translate it.”

“It would not, Commander. It is an ancient dialect, not spoken in front of…” his voice trailed off in an uncharacteristic display of indecisiveness.

“Outsiders?” Kathryn smiled slightly to show that she wasn’t insulted by the term.

“Outworlders. Yes.”

Janeway frowned.

“So, what does it mean?” Chakotay demanded. “Was he insulting her parentage? Challenging her to a duel?”

Tuvok’s lips thinned for a moment. He breathed out slowly and looked distinctly uncomfortable. “On the contrary, Commander. It means, beloved.”

“What?” Chakotay exclaimed, startled. Vorik certainly hadn’t behaved like someone who loved B’Elanna!

“Captain,” Tuvok clarified, “I do not believe Ensign Vorik intended to harm Lieutenant Torres. He was acting more on instinct.”

“What instinct?” Chakotay was getting tired of pussy-footing around the point.

“Until I speak with him, I do not feel it is appropriate for me to speculate, Commander.”

“And when will it be appropriate?” Chakotay demanded. The captain raised a hand to calm him.

“You’ve put me off once already, Tuvok, when can I expect a full report on this incident?”

“I will conclude my investigation within the hour, Captain.” He stood stiffly, and Chakotay realized that they weren’t going to bully him into saying any more than he was prepared to say.

“I expect you to report to me immediately when you do,” the captain said. “One other thing, Lieutenant, since you’re playing translator, what was it that Vorik said just before he attacked B’Elanna?”

Tuvok stiffened, and for a moment Chakotay wondered if he was going to answer. “Kah-if-farr,” Tuvok supplied. “It is time.”

“Time? Time for what?” Janeway demanded.

“Time for me to speak with Ensign Vorik,” Tuvok said. “Are we done here, Captain?”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Yes,” she said, flicking her hand in a go away gesture. After the doors had slid shut behind his back, she turned to Chakotay. Her eyebrow shot to her hairline. “Did he just make a joke?”

“Can’t be.” He shook his head.

Chapter Text

She stared at her reflection in the mirror for a moment then closed her eyes, mortified. As if yesterday’s incident in the mess wasn’t bad enough, she had to go and grab Tom’s hand and… sniff him. Taste him. He must think she was insane.

She’d woken up early this morning, full of energy and absolutely starving. She’d replicated breakfast, figuring the splurge was worth it since the Cochran didn’t have a replicator and she would have to eat ‘fleet emergency rations for the next three days. When she’d dropped by the mess to pick up the food hamper for their away mission, she’d discovered that Chell had prepared her a special breakfast complete with his ‘coffee substitute of the day’. She’d only meant to pick at it, to spare his feelings but, despite being impatient to get going, she’d ended up eating it all. Then she’d made a quick stop in engineering for a last-minute check on the converter and to assure herself that Sue and Joe would be ready for the omicron particles if they were lucky enough to locate them inside the nebula.

She didn’t see Tom until she reached the shuttlebay a half hour later. He’d been outside the Cochran giving it a needless visual check when internal sensors would have told him if anything was wrong with the hull or exhaust ports. She’d expected to be frustrated with him for wasting time but he’d looked… good, too good, standing there with a PADD in his hand and the bright, overhead lights of the bay glinting off his sandy-coloured hair and making it look golden. She’d felt a familiar pull of desire for him, and had reacted by teasing him about wasting time, challenging him. He’d stood firm and told her that he would be done when he was done.

She’d felt a rush of heat when he’d turned his head and said that the nebula wasn’t going anywhere without them, and she couldn’t resist touching him. She’d slid her hand up his back and over the firm muscle of his shoulder before curling her fingers around his arm and relieving him of his kitbag, saying that she’d stow it for him inside the shuttle. It was dangerous, and felt a little forbidden, but in that moment, when he was so serious in his concentration on his preflight check, she couldn’t not touch him.

She felt that way again now, the little thrill of electricity that buzzed her fingers and palm and shot up her arm when she’d grabbed his hand. The pull of wanting in her belly, of need. She let out a long, slow breath.

She looked at herself critically: her eyes were unnaturally bright, cheeks flushed and lips parted as she sucked air. She wished she could splash water on her hot face, but the shuttle only carried enough for drinking and she wasn’t so far gone that she was willing to waste it. What was wrong with her? She was jumpy, on edge, and it wasn’t only because of her altercation with Vorik yesterday. Janeway was right, she decided, the mission had been a mistake; they shouldn’t have gone. Tom’s scent was all around her in the small shuttle. She couldn’t escape it, and couldn’t escape her attraction to him. She was having a harder and harder time preventing herself from touching him. Obviously.

She’d tried sitting still, tried pulling into herself, away from him, but the shuttle was so damn small! She could see him in her peripheral vision even when she concentrated on not looking at him. Could feel the heat of his body beside hers. Her nerves felt frayed.

She hadn’t reassigned Vorik’s position on the away team, not just because she was embarrassed and wanted to be alone, but because she wanted to be alone with Tom. She’d been fighting her attraction to him for months, rebuffing his invitations for her company because she assumed, like every other human male who had come sniffing around her, that his interest in her wasn’t really about her. Her mother had warned her, and though it had taken some time, she’d learned the lesson well. What her father’s desertion hadn’t taught her, her ill-fated few months with Max, her Academy boyfriend, had: human men only thought they wanted a relationship with a Klingon woman. In reality…

So, the only invitation she had accepted from Tom had been the one to use the Klingon martial arts programme and she’d only said yes to that to watch him fail, in hopes that it would make him leave her alone. To her surprise, he’d actually done reasonably well. He’d made it to level four that first day before he’d begged off, and by then she was tired and sore, too. He’d looked good, very good, in his form-fitting workout clothes, displaying more muscle than she’d imagined he had hidden under his ‘fleet uniform. She’d made a point of meeting him—and Harry and Vorik, curse him—in the beach programme whenever she had the time, just so she could see Tom without his shirt on.

Their workout had become a regular date, but not an actual date, twice a week no excuses. Three months in they’d both improved, and were on level six. Occasionally they would share a meal afterwards in the mess hall or, very rarely, in his quarters if they decided they were too sweaty for polite company. She knew Tom wanted more from her than friendship, he’d made that very clear, though presumably he didn’t want as much as Vorik had. That thought brought a snort: he’d likely jump out an airlock rather than be tied down.

She’d kept a distance between them anyway, never allowing herself to feel too much for him, cutting off that line of thought before it could fully form in her mind. All he could ever be was her friend because if she allowed anything more he would realize that it could never work between them, likely before she did, and end it.

Like her father had with her mother.

But… She didn’t need to marry him to have sex with him. She’d had lovers before, in the Maquis, scratched an itch, indulged an interest, and she was certainly interested in having sex with Tom Paris! This mission was the perfect opportunity to find out just how much Tom was interested in her. Plus, the little shuttle would provide all the privacy they needed to explore whether or not they were compatible. A year ago, she’d thought Tom would be too weak for a half-Klingon lover. That assumption had been wrong. He’d proven his strength, his endurance, in that exercise programme and when he’d defended her so courageously yesterday.

She was tempted…

But the question was: could she have sex with Tom and remain detached, remain friends? His reputation said yes, but what if he thought she was too intense, too much like Max had? What if she frightened him? What if she repulsed him? Could she take that chance? Could she open herself up to him and bear being rejected?

It wasn’t worth the risk, she decided. She’d been fooled before, been made into a fool, by a handsome charming man, and she needed to remind herself of that. She wouldn’t let it happen again despite how much she wanted him, how much she ached for him.

She stripped down to her undershirt and wiped at the sweat on her forehead with the heel of her hand, following the angle of her cheek along her jaw and down her throat. She reached back and gathered her hair, then lifted it. The cool breeze from the shuttle’s air circulation system on the back of her neck brought some needed relief. Then she realized that her hair clip was in her bag in the shuttle’s storage compartment. Damnit! She twisted her hair into a knot high on the back of her head and pulled the ends through, hoping it would hold. It did, barely. What she wouldn’t give for a pair of scissors right now. Sweat had pooled in the hollow between her breasts and she used the sleeve of her uniform shirt to rub it away. She considered a moment, then pulled up her tank and swiped under her breasts and at the small of her back. Better. Not fine but better.

She contemplated her reflection in the mirror, hair mussed, eyes dark and glittering, her expression dour. She had to get herself under control before Tom decided to turn the damn shuttle around and run back to Janeway. “Stop fucking this up,” she muttered. Then she opened the door and walked back into the main cabin.

~~

Tom caught her image in the foreword viewport as he glanced back down at his console, then he immediately looked back up. A classic doubletake that would have been funny if he’d observed it rather than lived it. The viewport acted like a mirror, and he watched as B’Elanna moved from the rear of the small shuttle to her seat beside him. She was superimposed over the purples and greens and sulphuric yellows of the nebula, and the bare skin of her arms and shoulders glowed bronze in the dim reflected light.

He half-turned in his seat and stared at her. “Warm?” he asked, trying for amused but hearing concern in his voice instead.

“Not anymore,” she answered. She slid back into her seat and checked her readings. “Scanning sector three seven two mark eight.”

Tom nodded, still staring at her. She’d gone into the head fully dressed and come out half naked.

“What?” she asked, glancing at him.

“If I’d known it was casual Friday I’d have brought my blue jeans and surfer shirt.”

B’Elanna jerked and moved away from him, not an easy trick when their seats were secured to the deck.

“Are you—”

“If you ask me if I’m okay one more time, I’ll—” she closed her mouth with an audible click.

“Okay.” He held up his hands in supplication. “You’re just acting a little…”

She turned her head and started at him. “A little what?”

Tom waffled. He wasn’t sure himself if she was more B’Elanna or less. He smiled. “Nothing. I guess it is a little warm in here. I’ll check the environmental controls.”

“Fine,” she snapped.

Tom peered at her again. She did seem to have stopped sweating; maybe she was just overheated before. Maybe it was a Klingon thing.

He did another sensor sweep of the area, just to see what he could pick up. Not easy with the radiation; it was like trying to see through a thick fog. The words pea soup lit in his brain and he smiled. They needed a name for their charts, and The Pea Soup Nebula sounded better than Delta Nebula XIV. He grinned. And pea soup sounded better than Starfleet Ration Pack 37 but he was destined for veal marsala ala Federation. Next away mission, he vowed to pack the picnic basket himself instead of letting Chell do it.

His smile widened. Now there was a thought. Him, B’Elanna, a sunny hillside, soft grass, and a softer blanket. A bit of a breeze stirring her hair, some fluffy clouds set on random so they could lie on the blanket, shoulders touching, and name the animals they saw. He imagined her raising her arm, pointing out a targ. He’d counter with a tribble and she would shove his arm down, pin it down against the blanket—

He glanced up again and saw her watching him in the viewport. He had to wonder if he’d been making odd faces while he was daydreaming about their picnic. Probably, considering the intent way she was staring at him. He smiled: a quick lifting of the corners of his mouth, then relaxed. He opened his mouth then closed it again. Nope. No. There was no way in hell he was going to ask her if she was okay.

Chapter Text

Concentrate on the flame. There is nothing but the light. The flame is light. I am light. I am the flame.

The door chime sounded, startling him, and he jumped. “Go away,” he snarled. Interruptions were unwelcome. The prying of the Doctor, of the captain, could not be borne. If they didn’t leave him alone—

Vorik heard the doors to his quarters slide open and whirled toward them, spinning on the floor mat where he was seated. “I said, go away!” He recognized his superior officer as he entered, and pushed back his irritation over the flagrant disregard for his privacy. He took a breath, modulated his tone. “I'm sorry, sir.”

Tuvok stepped forward but stopped several metres from him. He glanced at him, watched as he stumbled gracelessly to his feet and brought himself to attention. Looked away. “No,” Tuvok said, “I must apologise for the intrusion, particularly at this time.”

Rage swamped him, quickly followed by shame. He knows! He wanted to scream, wanted to lash out at the older man, to hurt him, see his blood glitter on the deck, to throw him, bodily, out of his quarters! He was the only one on the ship who could fully understand what he was going through, the only one who could appreciate how much he desired privacy! Yet here he was, uninvited. Unwanted. There are no secrets on a ship this small! The words rang inside his head in Tom Paris’ mocking voice.

Slowly he brought himself back under control. Tuvok waited, his body turned toward Vorik’s sleeping area, his eyes surveying the play of light and shadow on the wall. “Then you know,” Vorik said quietly.

“Yes.” Tuvok nodded, a superfluous movement, now habit perhaps, after living with humans too long. “I regret that I must ask you some questions regarding Lieutenant Torres.”

Vorik swallowed his shame. “Yes, sir.” His voice was rough. He didn’t even pretend to look at the lieutenant as he addressed him.

“When you approached Lieutenant Torres during your argument in the mess hall, you touched her face.”

Vorik frowned. “I… It's difficult to remember. I was not acting rationally,” he confessed. “I meant to be gentle, but she tried to move away, and then I was holding her more tightly, both hands on her face like this.” He brought up his arms, hands extended as if he were gripping a Terran basketball and about to throw it. “It felt very important not to let go. I'm… I'm not certain why.”

Tuvok nodded. “I believe you were initiating a telepathic mating bond.”

“I wanted to bond with her, that much I remember clearly. I need to make her understand.” He felt the flames of anger lick at him again, spur him toward rage.

“You chose her.” It was a statement, flat and without accusation.

“We are not home. We cannot get there, and she is highly intelligent,” Vorik began, feeling the need to defend his choice. “Her bravery and sense of moral duty make her a highly desirable mate. But her Klingon disposition makes her temperament erratic.”

“She can be highly volatile,” Tuvok agreed.

“Perhaps we are not an obvious match. However, our differences would complement each other.” If he could make Lieutenant Tuvok understand, convince him of the logic of the match, surely he would help him! “My mental discipline could help her control her Klingon temper.” He noted the irony of this last statement and dismissed it. “And my physical stamina makes me better able to withstand the rigors of Klingon mating practices than a Human or Bajoran male.”

Tuvok inclined his head. “All very logical reasons to assume she would accept your offer. However, as you’ve already noted, Ms. Torres is not a student of logic.”

“If I could only apologize, make her understand…”

“Unfortunately, you currently have no opportunity to do so. She is off the ship.”

“With Paris!” He spat the name.

“Yes.”

“They’re in the nebula. Let me go to her. I should be with her.”

“I do not believe she desires your company at the moment. Besides, you would not be able to find her shuttle. The parthogenic radiation in the nebula will mask its trail and make it impossible to track. It is a far more sensible strategy to wait until she is back on Voyager, and then decide on the proper resolution for this matter.”

“The proper resolution is that we become mates!” The Lieutenant stared at him, and Vorik forced himself to calm.

“Judging by her previous reaction,” Tuvok began, “Lieutenant Torres would disagree with you. The wiser course of action would be for you to continue your meditative efforts.”

“You think she’ll reject me again?” The words came out as a challenge, forceful and accusing. Tuvok glanced away, and Vorik felt a wash of shame for losing control.

“I believe she has already made her answer clear.”

The chirp of Tuvok’s combadge interrupted them. “The Doctor to Lieutenant Tuvok. I need to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

Tuvok turned away from the younger man. “Tuvok here, Doctor. I am on my way.” He closed the link and turned his head toward Vorik but didn’t quite look at him. “I believe it would be best for you to continue on the path you have previously started.” He motioned with his chin toward the meditation lamp.

Vorik swallowed. He drew himself up straighter and exhaled slowly. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Tuvok nodded and left him in peace.

~~~

She was having difficulty concentrating. The muted colours of the nebula, refracted through the forward viewport, were shifting and swirling hypnotically in their dance against the charcoal void of space. B’Elanna blinked and drew a breath but Tom’s scent enveloped her, tantalizing in its warmth and familiarity: the faint salt and musk of his sweat, the woodsy scent of his soap. She knew he had a penchant for water showers, had observed him in morning staff meetings with his hair curling crisply against the collar of his uniform, damp and dripping onto his shoulders, water beading on the black fabric resembling stars. She closed her eyes and coasted on the surge of need and want that gripped her, held herself still and focused on things she knew: the colour of his eyes, brighter than the blue in the nebula, his long, slim fingers skipping and dancing across the shuttle’s controls. She imagined them moving on her skin…

She held herself still and tried to blank her mind. Tried to pause. But images of yesterday’s fight assailed her, and she remembered Vorik’s rage directed toward Tom. Pictured what could have happened if she hadn’t been quick enough. Saw Vorik grabbing him, punching him, throttling him, before flinging him across the room. Saw Tom’s body flying through the air, bouncing off a table, chairs, landing crumpled and broken on the deck.

She shuddered. Vorik’s blood would have painted the mess hall green.

She glanced at Tom. He was checking the readings on his console, his forehead pinched, eyebrows drawn down, wholly absorbed in the information scrolling on the screen. She wanted to reach over and run her fingers over his brow, smooth the taut lines of concentration there, cup his cheek, his jaw, taste his skin. Inhale him. She wanted his heat, his mouth on her throat, his teeth sinking into her flesh. She wanted him inside her, joined with her, a part of her.

Her breath stuttered in her chest. Tonight. She would offer herself to him tonight. He wanted her too, she knew he did. They could take this time away to explore their attraction, to explore each other. No expectations, no assumptions, just answering that pull, that tug toward him that she felt when he was near her.

She flushed with heat and longing, and looked down, flexed her fingers. Blew a calming breath. Focus on the mission. she told herself.

Chapter Text

“Oh, Lieutenant, good. I need to speak with you about Ensign Vorik.” The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief as Tuvok entered sickbay. “I'm concerned about his cortical readings. One returns to normal levels, then another one spikes.” He gestured to the monitor mounted on the wall near the diagnostic bed. “It's chaotic. As if his brain's regulatory system had simply shut down.”

“Indeed.” Tuvok was stiff, his tone rigidly polite.

“Yes. I can't tell if he's making any progress with his meditations. I thought maybe you could suggest other possible treatments.”

“I cannot.”

The Doctor was taken aback. “You sound very sure. Is that because you don't know, or because you don't want to discuss it?”

“For both of those reasons there is little help that I can offer.” His reply was stiff and his tone held a note of finality.

The doctor drew himself up sharply. “Well, there must be something you can suggest. Perhaps you can lead him in meditation, like you’re doing with Kes.”

“The two situations are not comparable, Doctor. It is inappropriate for me to involve myself in Ensign Vorik's personal affairs.”

The Doctor frowned, disgust clear on his features. “Well, unless someone does, he may die! His body can only take so much stress. Of course, if we’re very lucky, he may only go insane.” He waited for a response from Tuvok but there was none. “Pon farr, Lieutenant, you can say the words can’t you, even if you can’t involve yourself?”

Tuvok’s jaw tightened. His lips thinned as he pressed them together. “Is this your official diagnosis, Doctor?”

“Yes. He’s confirmed it, if you must know.”

Tuvok gave a short, sharp nod. “There are three options of which Ensign Vorik may avail himself in an attempt to deal with his condition. If we were in Federation space, he would return to Vulcan to join with his Ko-kugalsu.”

“His what?”

“It is an ancient Vulcan word. It means more than betrothed, less than wife.”

“Well, that’s not an option. And I doubt he can hang in for another seventy years,” the Doctor said dryly.

“He could…choose another mate.”

“Which he did: Lieutenant Torres. And we all saw how well that worked out.” The Doctor’s tone was dismissive. “What else?”

“Ritual combat, but that does not apply in this situation.”

“Combat?” the Doctor echoed, taken aback. His eyebrow rose in surprise.

“An ancient tradition of fighting for one's mate which, as I have said, is not relevant here.”

“But I thought Vulcans prided themselves on being nonviolent!”

“Vulcans do not suffer from the failing of pride, Doctor.” The EMH snorted. “The pon farr is a time when logic deserts us. It is a time when primitive urges override our mental discipline. A time of instinct, a fever in the blood. You cannot expect a logical response to it.”

“So, who would Ensign Vorik have to fight? His choice for a mate? Is that why he attacked B’Elanna?”

“I do not believe so. It is more likely that her rejection of his offer provoked an,” he paused, swallowed, and a ripple of distaste crossed his features, “emotional response in him. I believe that he was trying to force her to mind-meld with him; to initiate a bond.”

The Doctor nodded. He’d surmised the same. “She rejected him and he became angry so he attacked her? Vulcan’s have never heard of the word, no?”

If Tuvok stiffened any more, he might snap in half. “As I said, Doctor, this is not a time—”

“Of logic, I know.” The Doctor thought a moment, mentally reviewing what he’d seen on the security vid. “It’s a good thing Mister Paris was there or Vorik may have succeeded in establishing that link. There’s no telling how a Klingon might react to this blood fever!”

“Mister Paris may be the only viable choice,” Tuvok said.

“Of a mate for Vorik?!” The Doctor couldn’t hold back his shock. “Forgive me, I know the parts can fit together a couple of ways, but I assumed the pon farr was a mating imperative for procreation. Unless you know something about Vulcan and human physiology that I don’t, I don’t see how Tom Paris, despite his reputation, could possibly help in this situation.”

Tuvok turned his head and stared at the EMH. He blinked slowly, the Vulcan equivalent of a sigh. “I was referring to combat, Doctor. By coming to Lieutenant Torres’ defence during the altercation in the mess hall he involved himself in the matter. He could be her champion.”

“Well, that’s all well and good, but he’s not here and he won’t be back for three days. I need to know how I can help Vorik now!”

“Then we are back to meditation.”

The EMH sighed dramatically. “Isn't there anything we can do to help him with that?”

“You must allow him to face this challenge privately, Doctor. Your interference would be…unwelcome, and could serve to distract him from the mental discipline required to reach a point of psychological resolution. If he can attain that, then his chemical imbalance should correct itself.”

“If. Should.” The Doctor stared at Tuvok for a moment, then threw up his hands. “Fine. I’ll do nothing for now.” He glanced at the display on the computer monitor. The spikes in Vorik’s serotonin levels had leveled out. “The Vulcan brain never ceases to amaze me.”

“If there is nothing further, Doctor, I have my duties to attend to.”

He turned toward the door but the Doctor halted him. “Just one other thing: when was your last pon farr, Lieutenant? Your time will come. And we’d better have a plan for dealing with it when it does!”

~~~~~

“Ah ha!” Tom crowed. “There it is!” He’d been studying his scans, focusing on the readout, sifting through the background noise from the composite gases and dust, and he’d found it, the omicron particles they were looking for. Or, as he liked to think of them, pepperoni pizza.

Actually, he was surprised B’Elanna hadn’t noticed it first. She hadn’t responded to his whoop of joy and he glanced at her. She was slumped in her seat, an elbow on the console, side of her head propped up on the heel of her hand.

“B’Elanna?”

It took her a moment, but she tilted her head in his direction and blinked at him. “What?”

“Okay, that’s it,” he said, getting up from his seat.

She straightened with some effort. “That’s what?” There was confusion in her eyes, and a bone-weariness that Tom had never seen before. Even after she’d worked ‘round the clock, she always had energy to spare.

He moved to a compartment at the aft of the shuttle and pulled out the medkit.

“Forget it,” she growled, rousing and straightening in her seat.

“It’s this,” he warned, waggling the kit in the air by his shoulder, “or I turn us around and go home. Your choice.”

“I’m. Fine. I’m just a little tired.”

She was glaring at him now, holding his gaze, daring him to pull out the medical tricorder. He was tempted, but he wasn’t sure it was worth three days in a tiny shuttle with an irritated half-Klingon. She was livelier now that he’d pissed her off, had turned back to the console and was running numbers through the computer, cross-checking with the information on her PADD. He waffled. Truthfully, it was pretty mind-numbingly boring checking sensor readings for hours on end; he’d almost fallen asleep himself.

He turned back to the compartment and put away the medkit, then stood there a moment staring at the back of her head, trying not to let his eyes stray to her long, slim neck, her strong shoulders and upper arms. All that smooth, bronzed skin that looked so warm and inviting. The strength that had knocked him on his ass more than once in the Klingon exercise programme in the holodeck. At dinner the other day, before the fight, Harry had alluded to the time Tom had turned his back on his own opponent and rushed to her aid when she’d been outnumbered—he’d gotten her elbow to his head for his trouble and had the beginnings of a true shiner by the time they’d finished the match.

They’d been out here for eight hours already, maybe she was just tired, just sleepy. Maybe the shock of yesterday’s altercation in the mess hall had triggered a physical reaction in her, exhausted her. Delayed shock? He didn’t know. Janeway had assigned him to the doctor right after they’d been pulled into the Delta Quadrant, and despite his regular recertification as a medic he didn’t fully trust his observations. He wasn’t a doctor. He wasn’t even a nurse, and his skills at diagnosing a patient were rudimentary. He sighed and slid back into his seat, shooting her a glance. She was concentrating, her jaw tense, her lips pursed. She looked irritated and Klingon; time to follow her advice and back off.

“I’ve isolated the particles from the main cloud,” she said. “I’m going to check the containment field one more time before I attempt to capture some for testing.”

Tom nodded. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” He closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side, did some shoulder rolls. As much as he loved sitting at the helm of anything that flew, too long bent over a console display doing nothing tended to turn his body into one giant ache. While she’d been working, he’d continued to map the nebula, scanning for known elements and mapping dust clouds and denser particulate matter.

She twirled her chair and stood. Her arm brushed his shoulder as she moved past him, heading toward the back of the shuttle and the containment canister they’d set up on a pop up table near the fold out cots. Everything in the little craft slid in or out of some compartment, everything in its place, neat and tidy. Not so for his emotions. He’d been trying valiantly for the last three hours, since she’d returned from the head in just her undershirt, to get thoughts of her out of his brain. Thoughts of her in his quarters, or hers, thoughts of them on the holodeck victorious after defeating level six of their workout programme. Her turning toward him, eyes bright and shining with triumph, pulling him into a kiss that leads to something more.

“Cut shields now,” she said, her voice ringing with authority and certainty. “Beam up the sample.”

He checked the coordinates she’d keyed into the transporter, and hit the control to activate the beam up, then swung his seat and watched as a tiny sample of the omicron particles materialized in a confinement chamber. Satisfied, he tapped the commands to raise shields again. He watched as she plugged the canister into the antimatter converter that she and Joe had jury rigged before the mess hall incident, programmed the computer, and double checked the settings. Finally, she sat back in her chair, facing the rear of the shuttle.

He had a perfect view of her jaw, her ear, the slim curve of her throat and the back of her neck. He wanted to touch her.

“There. Now we wait while the computer does the hard work.”

Her voice was quiet and Tom swivelled his chair and looked at her. “You know, if you want to get some rest,” he nodded at the cots folded into the walls of the shuttle, “I won’t tell.”

She looked like she was about to snap at him, but then her gaze shifted to the bunks and he saw her hesitation.

“It’s either that or some calisthenics to wake us up and I’m not sure there’s room in here for that.”

“Okay,” she relented, standing and moving past him. “I am tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she confessed. “Wake me in an hour.” She unlatched the bunk and it fell slowly outward in a hiss of hydraulics. She nodded at the converter. “Wake me if anything happens.”

Tom frowned. “How will I know if anything happens?”

She shrugged. “It’ll beep.” She climbed onto the bunk, and turned her back to him with a sigh.

Good, Tom thought, and as soon as you’re asleep, I’m scanning you.

Chapter Text

Kathryn Janeway frowned as she stared at the viewscreen. She idly watched the stars streak by at warp, noted the blur of light and motion. She found it helped her to concentrate, usually, but not so much this afternoon. What a mess! She shook her head. It was one more problem, one more nightmare, that she hadn’t expected when she’d accepted that fourth pip.

If, when, she amended, we get home, no more Vulcans on my crew!

Her eyes slid to her old friend studiously manning his security post and she sighed. The Doctor had informed her that Ensign Vorik’s cortical readings showed that his neurochemical imbalance wasn’t getting any better. His meditation didn’t seem to be working, and the drugs the doctor had tried to artificially lower his serotonin and adrenaline levels hadn’t worked. He was concerned about the strain on his body, not to mention his mind, and had suggested placing Vorik in an induced coma to give him more time to work on the problem. Time, apparently, might be in short supply for the young ensign.

She wasn’t prepared to accept that. Her first gut reaction had been to turn Voyager around and head for the nebula, to find Tom and B’Elanna and— And what? Order B’Elanna to have sex with Vorik? The very idea made her skin crawl. She glanced at the PADD in her lap. The Doctor had outlined three possible therapeutic routes open to Vorik, according to their reluctant resident expert: taking a mate, engaging in ritual combat for that mate, and meditation. Meditation wasn’t working. The situation was preposterous: fuck or die.

She shook her head, repressing a snort.

“Captain,” Pablo Baytart spoke up from his position at the helm. “We’re entering the Acari sector.”

She glanced at him absently, noting that his dark head looked odd at Tom’s place at the most forward position on the bridge. She frowned, wondering when she’d gotten so used to things being a certain way. Tom at the helm, Harry at ops, Chakotay beside her. She wasn’t one to play favourites with her crew, and she made a mental note to encourage Chakotay to shake up the duty roster after this current crisis was settled.

“Slowing to one quarter impulse and approaching the rendezvous point, Captain.”

The screen filled with the image of a space station. Half the size of Earth’s moon, it appeared to be comprised of hundreds of roughly rectangular shaped objects, some vast, others perhaps the size of Voyager, all apparently linked together. It was enormous and extremely ugly, spread out and stacked, roughly spherical in shape. Ships of various sizes were docked at some sections and there were small runabouts zipping in and out and around the containers reminding Kathryn of a swarm of no-see-ums, the plague of summers in her home back in Indiana.

“The station is approximately two thousand kilometers in diameter, Captain, comprised of greater than five thousand separate components. Oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, however the mean temperature would fall below what most humanoids would consider comfortable. I’m reading approximately ten thousand, seven hundred life forms. It is possible that some are livestock.”

“Thank you, Tuvok,” Kathryn said. Her eyes were glued to the screen, attempting to take it all in. She half expected to hear Tom whistle in appreciation, then remembered that he was off the ship. He’d be sorry he missed this.

“They’re hailing us.” Harry said.

Kathryn straightened in her chair. In her peripheral vision she saw Chakotay’s head jerk up. “On screen.”

A man with a long, thin face replaced the view of the station on the screen. His skin was a pale blue, and he had short silvery hair that stuck out in spikes on his head and down his cheeks to his shoulders. He was wearing what appeared to be a military uniform, but she couldn’t be sure, not knowing the reigning fashion in this sector of space.

“Welcome, USS Voyager, to Acari Sector trading post 1138. I am Trak’hmua Ox’t’zn of the Kre’CHur Imperium. We trust you have familiarized yourself with the rules and regulations surrounding all trades.”

“Yes,” Kathryn contained a nod, conscious of the fact that he might take the gesture as an insult. She briefly wondered if that was his name, title, or job description. It didn’t really matter. “I’m Captain Kathryn Janeway of the United Federation of Planets. We received your information packet. We are also bound by rules that constrain our interactions with alien species. But I am hopeful that we can come to some agreement.”

His chin came up, pursing his mouth and wrinkling the skin on what she assumed was his nose. He made a sucking-clicking sound that the universal translator chose to ignore. He looked to his left, likely consulting their version of a PADD, and spoke. This time the translator did its job. “You desire to trade in edibles.”

“Yes. My crew is not large, but we have a long journey ahead of us and we don’t know when our next opportunity to resupply will be.”

Ox’t’zn bobbed his head. “You offer charts?”

Janeway inclined her head. “As I said, we are constrained by the rules of our Federation.” Sometimes it was politic to gently suggest that they weren’t alone in the quadrant. “We’ve travelled over seven hundred light years, surely someone would be interested in that data.”

“You also seek doo’tr’um and gal’sidt. These are unfamiliar to us.”

“Yes, I realize that you may call these substances by different names, that’s why we included their molecular structure in our request.”

Ox’t’zn wrinkled his face again and Kathryn began to wonder if it was a sign that he was thinking, pondering her request. Or maybe he just needed to sneeze.

“What else do you offer?”

She’d been prepared for this. “We come from a system many light years from this sector of space. We have a vast library of cultural material we’d be willing to share: music, literature.” Her eyebrow rose. Usually, other spacefaring cultures were eager to see how other people ticked. Usually, but not always.

“There is little market for entertainment. What else?”

Kathryn pursed her lips. She made a show of reluctance, hoping it translated. “We have a delicacy, our greatest delicacy, actually.” Ox’t’zn leaned closer to the vid screen. He finally appeared interested. “You must understand that I give this up with great reluctance. I’m not sure how I’ll explain it to my crew.” She glanced at Chakotay and he sent her an almost imperceptible nod, but she saw the glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“We call it, raaska fruit…” She nodded at Harry and he sent an image and information of the plant to the space station.

Ox’t’zn glanced at the screen again, his mouth pursing in interest, she hoped. If he didn’t go for that, she was tempted to offer him a bright, skilled, young Vulcan engineer.

~~~~~

Tom glanced over at the bunks and studied B’Elanna. She appeared to be sleeping peacefully, curled on her side, her expression relaxed, chest rising and falling rhythmically. He let out a long, slow puff of air. In the back of his mind he was still worried about her, still tempted to scan her, to make sure she was okay. His mind rolled over the events of yesterday, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for an extraordinary situation. Maybe Vorik’s bizarre behaviour had been because of a bug, maybe he was sick with some sort of Vulcan flu and he’d transmitted whatever it was to B’Elanna somehow. When he’d grabbed her, when he wouldn’t let go. She didn’t look feverish anymore, but maybe he should scan her anyway? The mental image of an enraged B’Elanna Torres waking to discover him looming over her with a beeping tricorder gave him pause. They were stuck with each other for the next few days in a very small shuttle, after all, maybe pissing her off wasn’t such a good idea. Not that her temper really bothered him; usually, she had a good reason for getting frustrated.

It had scared the shit out of him: the suddenness of it, the violence, the way Vorik hadn’t even noticed when he’d punched him, trying to make him let go. He was still concerned about what would happen when they got back to the ship. It was obvious that Janeway didn’t truly understand the violence of the incident, how Vorik had violated B’Elanna, otherwise she wouldn’t have been acting like it should be swept under the proverbial rug. He could only hope that Tuvok was doing his job and had Vorik under guard.

He squirmed in his seat. That last cup of coffee had been a mistake, he decided, just one from a long list. Backing B’Elanna when she’d assured the captain that the mission should continue had been another. But he’d seen her reluctance to stay on Voyager, her unwillingness to be there while the story made the rounds, so he’d convinced the Captain that they were fine and were capable of concentrating on the mission, reminded her that the nebula might contain Omicron particles…

He idly wondered if Janeway had allowed him to play her.

He glanced at B’Elanna again but she hadn’t moved. That second cup of coffee had definitely been a mistake: he needed to piss, not politely relieve himself. If he’d kept the mug… but he’d repacked it in the food hamper half an hour ago. He sighed, weighing his options. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but the head was right beside the bunks. He’d only be a minute. He shifted in his seat, trying to relieve the pressure on his uncomfortably full bladder. Maybe two minutes.

He put the helm on automatic and got up carefully, making sure he didn’t disturb her. Even so full of urine that he was sure his eyes were turning green, he was tempted to stay right here. He’d taken full advantage of this opportunity to watch her, to stare at her. She was… gorgeous. And exoctic, sure, but the first word that came to mind when he thought of her was gorgeous. Her dark eyes, her full, lush mouth. Her cranial ridges weren’t as prominent as a full Klingon’s, but they were unmistakable. They swirled and dipped, backtracked across her brow, and he ached to trace them with a finger, dip into the hollows, press gently on the raised edges. Were they soft and malleable? A hard, bony ridge? He had no idea.

He thought back to that bathing suit she’d worn in the beach programme, modest as such things went. She’d wrapped a scarf around her waist, draped high over one hip and tied low over the other. She'd had no idea that it had only made her more appealing in Tom’s mind, made him long to untie the knot and let it fall. To unwrap her. Eventually, she’d untied it herself and dove quickly into the pool, but not so quickly that Tom hadn’t observed the line of spinal ridges that began just below her ribcage and ran into the low cut back of the suit. He’d found himself breathless, and grateful for the oversized, extremely cold drink Chell had just handed to him. He’d rested it in his lap and chatted nonsensically with Harry until he’d calmed down. In the end, he’d had to make his own mad dash for the water.

Looking at her now, sleeping under a light blanket, she looked soft and warm. He wanted to lean down and kiss her cheek.

His bladder sent him another urgent warning and he slowly moved past her bunk and into the head. Ninety seconds, tops, and he could stare at her all he wanted. At least, until she woke up and caught him at it.

~~~~~

“I’m telling you, Captain, the meditation isn’t working. I’m afraid he isn’t going to survive!”

“Doctor, there must be something—”

“There isn’t.” The EMH paced to the computer display on the briefing room wall. His features were drawn into a frown. “I’ve tried synthesizing hormones to mimic the reduction of serotonin in his system once bonding is achieved with a mate, but his body simply rejects them. Nothing I’ve tried has worked.”

Chakotay’s tone held an edge of impatience. “You can cut the euphemisms, Doctor. We all know we’re talking about sex between Vorik and the person he’s selected to be his mate.”

“B’Elanna,” Janeway stated.

“Ideally, yes. But since he didn’t complete the mind meld with her, there’s no reason to think there is a bond between them. From what I can gather, sex is only a part of it, Commander. It’s the mental bond that’s the most important factor in the equation. It’s highly possible that he could still form a mental link with someone else, let nature take its course and purge his pon farr in the usual way.”

“Then he’ll have to seek out a new volunteer,” Chakotay snapped, “because I can guarantee you that B’Elanna won’t be it.”

Kathryn had sent a team including Chell and Kes over to the trading station to see what was available and how much of a bargain they could scoop. Thankfully, Ox’t’zn was one of hundreds of minor bureaucrats working the station, and Voyager one of hundreds of ships seeking accommodation. After he’d verified that they had something worth trading, he’d shunted them off to an underling who wasn’t insulted in not dealing with anyone higher up than the ship’s cook and nurse.

Which left Kathryn free to deal with Vorik, and Chakotay’s rapidly escalating temper. Tuvok had finally reported his findings to her this morning, in the privacy of her ready room. Vorik was undergoing the pon farr, an instinctual mating imperative that all Vulcan adults endured. It was about more than just sex, it ensured that a lasting mental bond tied two mates together until their death, and was required for the conception of children. It was, for want of a better word, imperative that Vorik’s pon farr be resolved or he could die. Would die, according to the Doctor.

So far, Tuvok, standing stiffly to her right, had been silent on the matter, allowing the Doctor to lead the conversation. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Even if B’Elanna was willing to help him, and I’m not convinced she would, she’s off the ship.”

“I’ve been thinking,” the Doctor said. “What about a hologram?”

Chakotay’s jaw tensed; his hands fisted at his sides. “A hologram? Are you suggesting we create a hologram of B‘Elanna for him? I can assure you, Doctor, Starfleet has rules about modelling holograms after crewmembers for use as… as…”

Janeway raised a hand. “Stand down, Commander.” She stared into his eyes and noted his fury. He looked away. She turned toward the EMH. “Putting aside the ethics of modelling a hologram after a crew member for the explicit purpose of…” Kathryn slowed and flicked a glance at Tuvok, then pushed onward, “of medical intervention, I thought that the mind meld was the salient point. No offense, Doctor, but he can’t meld with someone who doesn’t have a mind.”

“Well, I’ve run out of options. I took it upon myself to ask Crewman M’Akis to help him, and she refused.”

“Imagine my surprise,” Chakotay muttered.

“Really, this matter involves a simple biological process. I don’t understand why everyone can’t just be logical about it.”

Kathryn rolled her eyes. “Doctor, selecting a mate involves more than just acknowledging a biological process. You’re asking her to choose her life partner.” She slanted a glance at Tuvok. “I like and respect Ensign Vorik myself, but I can’t imagine being mentally linked to him for life.”

“Well, neither could Crewman M’Akis. Actually, Captain, that led me to the idea of trying a hologram.”

“And how do you propose it would work?” Chakotay demanded.

“I’m glad you asked, Commander. I was thinking of seeing if we can unearth some information on Ensign Vorik’s betrothed and using her for the model.” He sounded affronted. “He already has a mental link with her, from their childhood bonding ritual.”

“I rather doubt he’ll tell you, but you could ask him.”

Chakotay turned toward Tuvok. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Lieutenant.” His words were clipped, his tone was just short of accusation.

“I have no salient points to offer. Unless Lieutenant Torres accepts Ensign Vorik’s proposal he will most likely die.”

“I can’t accept that.” Kathryn shook her head. Her eyes were drawn back to the display of Ensign Vorik’s vital signs. She watched as a line spiked and gyrated for a few seconds before dropping again.

“You’ve all forgotten something,” Chakotay’s words broke the short silence.

Kathryn turned back to face him. “What?”

“I’m wondering if this has affected B’Elanna. She’s not Vulcan, but…”

The Doctor nodded. “I’ve been wondering the same thing, Commander. There have been instances of Vulcans mating with members of other races. Ambassador Spock’s mother, for example, was human. I can only surmise that his parents attained some level of mental link, otherwise it’s unlikely his father’s pon farr was purged. Klingons are known to have very intense mating urges themselves. And while Klingon divorce is not unheard of, like Vulcans, once they select a mate it’s usually for life.”

“So, what are you suggesting, Doctor? That Vorik may have kickstarted some sort of Klingon mating urge in B’Elanna, after all? That she may be suffering like he is?” Kathryn’s eyebrow shot up.

“It’s possible, Captain. Without her here, I can’t rule it out.”

“Even a brief moment of bonding may have been enough to disrupt her self-control, as the pon farr does in us,” Tuvok confirmed. “In a half-Klingon, the effects may be even more extreme.”

The Doctor skirted the long table and strode to where Tuvok was sitting placidly. “You knew this could happen! You knew and you didn’t tell me? I would never have cleared her for that away mission had I known there was a chance that Ensign Vorik’s condition was contagious.”

“I would not describe the pon farr as a contagion, Doctor. It is impossible for it to ‘run through the ship’ as you previously alluded. As I told you then, Ensign Vorik’s condition is an isolated incident.”

“Isolated to him and B’Elanna.”

Tuvok inclined his head, “Perhaps, Commander.”

“If the mind meld was successful, it may very well have triggered her Klingon instincts,” the Doctor confirmed. “You know how she can be when she’s angry, just imagine all that passion trained on her chosen paramour.”

“Chosen?” Chakotay barked. “She hasn’t had a choice in any of this!”

“Well, that might depend on who she selects as a mate,” Kathryn mused.

“And she’s alone with Tom Paris for the next two days.” Chakotay scowled and turned away. “And we have no way of knowing if Vorik did form that link until she and Tom are back.”

“Tom would never take advantage of her, Chakotay. He cares about her. His reaction in the mess yesterday was proof of that.” She pondered that for a moment. Vorik’s crudely put observation was right; Tom had made his interest in B’Elanna obvious. There’d been a time, about six months ago, when he’d begun to flirt with her shamelessly enough that Kathryn herself had noticed, and the ship’s gossip mill had had them on the verge of becoming Voyager’s newest couple. But he’d also appeared to accept that she didn’t share that interest, that she was determined to keep their relationship friendly and nothing more.

Kathryn glanced at Chakotay noting the set of his shoulders, the rigidity in his jaw. “Besides, he has orders to immediately head back to Voyager if either of them are unwell.”

“Knowing B’Elanna, once she’s set her mind on mining that nebula he’d have to sedate her to do it.”

“Well,” the Doctor noted, “he is a trained medic. And a fairly good one at that.” The compliment sounded grudging.

Kathryn glanced back at the display on the computer monitor, and watched another line spike. “If she’s feeling like Vorik is, it might not be a bad idea.”

Chapter Text

He was closing in on the end of his third run through of the ABC song, on TUV and rounding on Y and Z when he felt the ship shudder. He gave a final push and a quick shake, and was still tucking himself into his slacks when he stepped back into the main compartment. B’Elanna was up, seated at the helm, keying the controls.

“What happened?” Tom shouted, adrenaline kicking in.

“Nothing,” she said. “I stopped us.”

She’d stood when she saw him, and Tom nudged her aside as he slid into his seat. “Why? What’s out there? I didn’t hear an alarm.” He quickly scanned the readouts on his console, then raised his eyes to the viewport.

“There’s nothing out there,” B’Elanna answered. “Just the nebula.”

She was standing behind him, and her hands settled on his shoulders; he felt the heat of them through his uniform. He twisted his neck and looked at her. She was staring at him, her eyes bright, her mouth curved in a little smile. He frowned. “Are you okay? You were sleeping…”

“I’m absolutely fine, Tom. Better than okay.” She leaned toward him, and he felt the warm, firm pressure of her breast against his shoulder blade, her breath on his cheek. The heat of her. Then she kissed him.

He froze a moment, then jerked away, surprise making him stiffen. She followed him, leaning closer, bobbing her head to capture his mouth again, her nose bumping his. Her lips were soft and warm, and her sharp teeth grazed his bottom lip. His breath caught in his throat as her fingers tightened on his shoulder. He reached for her, swiveling his chair so he could cup her cheek with one hand, grip her hip with the other. She deepened their kiss and slid onto his lap, ran her hands over his shoulders and into his hair.

He drew back and stared at her. “B’Elanna?” He didn’t understand what had changed. She moved toward him again, following him, trying to lure him into another kiss. He relented, and she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, ran her tongue along it. Warmth bubbled up in him, heat igniting his veins, desire and an old longing rushing in and threatening to burst from him. He stifled a groan. How long had he dreamed of just this? He closed his eyes and skimmed his fingers over her cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He opened his eyes and stared at her.

“I’ve seen how you’ve watched me, Tom.”

She kissed his temple, his cheek, angled her head to scrape her teeth over the point of his jaw, skimmed her lips over his chin and back to his mouth. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth again, her sharp teeth biting down firmly. He tasted blood and clenched his teeth as desire slammed him in the gut and stole his breath.

“I know that you want me.” She stated it like it was fact, inarguable. “I want you too.”

His mouth dropped open. Of all the things she could have said, that was the last thing he imagined she would say. “I thought…” He shook his head. Despite his hopes, they were friends, that was all. All she’d ever wanted, at least until a few minutes ago.

“Thought what?”

She smiled, excitement shining in her eyes, and he saw it: desire. For him. It was remarkable, astounding. Another dip of her head, another kiss, deep and sweet. His fingers clenched convulsively on her shoulder, then he raised his hand to her hair, dug his fingers into its softness. The knot let go and her hair fell around her shoulders in a dark wave.

Even as he shook his head, he couldn’t stop touching her. He glided a hand down all that thick, glorious hair that he’d always found so alluring, let it drift to her shoulder, down her arm, along her ribs to the small of her back where those fascinating spinal ridges were hidden under her shirt. He gathered her against his chest and held her there while he pushed his fingers into her soft, thick curls, anchoring her head while he broke from her lips and trailed moist kisses along her jaw, down her throat to her shoulder. She hummed in approval and he felt the vibration on his lips. He pulled away, gulped a breath.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” he said, hearing the wonder in his own voice. He caught one of the thin braids woven throughout her hair and stared at it, letting it slide between his forefinger and thumb. “All those invitations to dinner, Lake Como, skiing in St. Moritz. You always turned me down.” He caught her eyes for a moment, but she looked away.

“I didn’t think you were serious. I thought you would lose interest in me and move on.”

Tom frowned, hurt by her lack of faith in him. “B’Elanna, I haven’t even looked at another woman in…” He shook his head, trying to remember how long he’d wanted her, when their friendship had stopped being enough for him, how long he’d wanted more.

“Months,” she said. “Many, many months. I’ve noticed.” She smiled and kissed him again, and he gave himself over to it: the softness of her lips, her warmth, her breath on his cheek as she broke from his mouth and trailed kisses up to his temple. He traced the sweet curve of her waist, the flare of her hip. His fingers slipped under the hem of her shirt and spread over her soft warm skin. He gripped her harder as he bent his head and kissed the sharp angles of her collarbone above the neckline of her shirt.

She growled low and sexy, and it was a surprising turn-on for him. He pulled back and stared at her. She was grinning, her eyes bright and shining with expectation. Tom’s smile faltered; he felt totally overwhelmed by the suddenness of having her here, in his arms. “B’Elanna, are you sure about…” this. us. He raised a hand and smoothed her hair from her cheek so he could see her eyes. He knew he shouldn’t question his luck, but she’d turned him down so many times in the past, and she appeared to want more than dinner from him now.

She ran a fingertip down the side of his face, then leaned forward and kissed him again, and Tom closed his eyes and lost himself in her. Her lips were soft and full, and she tasted like the Tarkarian plums that Chell had packed in their meal hamper. He gripped her waist, slid his arms around her, pulling her as close as he could. He broke for air, and dropped a quick kiss on her nose. She rested her forehead against his. Boney, his brain supplied. Her cranial ridges were hard. He smiled in delight, glad that the only head-butting contests they’d engaged in had been verbal.

“Yes. I want you and I’m tired of fighting it. I know you want me too.” She cocked her head and frowned, and he felt her body stiffen. “Or was that all just a game for you?”

“No.” He shook his head, his fingers tightening on her waist, and she smiled again. “I want you, B’Elanna.” There was wonder in being able to touch her; the line of her jaw, the back of her neck, the lush softness of her hair. He was smiling at her, and if he looked dazed, it was no wonder.

“Then prove it.”

She grinned, suddenly playful, and excitement tightened Tom’s chest. He kissed her again: her mouth, hard and quick, her cheek, temple, eyelids. He hesitated, but she gave a little growl, and Tom took it for encouragement and gently slid his mouth along the V between her eyebrows. He kissed that first row of ridges, skimmed his lips upward along the next row, followed the dip and swirl with his tongue as it climbed toward her temple.

She drew back, panting, her eyes glowing as they bored into his. She buried her nose in his collar and nuzzled his throat and under his jaw. Tom shivered as desire buzzed along his spine and gathered in his lower back. His cock jumped.

“I’ve picked up your scent, Tom,” she breathed against his throat. “I’ve tasted your blood.”

His lip throbbed where she’d bitten it, and he was reminded of the passages he’d read last night, the ones about blood and biting that had seemed absurd in the sterile confines of his quarters. He’d had no idea how it could quicken his blood, heighten his desire for her.

His fingers burrowed under her shirt and over her ribs, around her back, skirting those tantalizing ridges. She was warm, her skin feeling almost hot to his cool hands, and he dug the pads of his fingers into her flesh as he inched his hands upward. Her body undulated and her groin pressed against his erection, and Tom’s breath caught. He glanced past her shoulder to the—extremely narrow—bunk she’d recently occupied, then at the deck. Too cold and hard, he decided.

He slid his palms up to just under the swell of her breasts. He was wearing too much clothing. She was wearing too much clothing.

Did he say that out loud? Her hands were on his chest again, fingers scrabbling over the fastener on his jacket, pulling down the zip. She spread the fabric open, running her palms over his chest and shoulders, and he leaned forward so she could push the sleeves down his arms, pull the jacket out from behind his back. She dropped it to the deck, then reached behind his neck and pulled apart the back fastener on his uniform shirt. She gave it a mighty yank, and he wasn’t certain that she didn’t tear it off his back. He usually pulled it over his head, the stretchy fabric making it possible to disrobe either way, but he decided he liked her way better and he laughed out loud as she grinned at him and tossed his shirt over her shoulder. She did shove his undershirt up his chest and tug it over his head, swooping in to kiss him again while his arms were still in the air. He freed one and lowered it to curl around her. He pulled her tight against his bare skin. Bare. He wanted her bare: wanted to feel her skin against his, to feel the hard beads of her nipples in his palms, against his tongue.

He hooked his thumbs under the hem of her tank and skimmed it up and over her shoulders, watching her face as he tugged it over her head and off her arms. She was smiling slightly, her lips parted, her eyes hooded and half closed with desire. For him. His gaze dropped to her chest and he caught his breath. Her breasts were high and firm, full and perfect, her dusky nipples pebbled hard and tight. He ached to suckle them. He leaned toward her, and her soft breasts flattened against his chest. He felt the hard buds of her nipples, surprisingly cool against his heated skin, and his hands convulsed against her back. He kissed the soft flesh of her throat under her jaw, skimmed his lips over the firm flesh of her shoulder.

She breathed his name and arched her back offering a breast to his mouth, and he took it, first kissing her nipple gently, then licking it into his mouth, closing his lips around it as he laved the hard nub with the tip of his tongue. She gasped and convulsed, dug her fingernails into his scalp. Tom winced, but the pain only served to arouse him even more. He pulled her hips forward, settling her more firmly into his lap, and curled an arm around her shoulders to hold her as she arched backwards, giving him better access to her breasts. He switched from left to right, sucking the nipple over his teeth, and she grunted, grinding down onto his erection.

She pushed against his shoulders and straightened suddenly, dropping her hands to the fastener of his slacks, burrowing into the fabric, tugging on the waistband, her fingernails scraping his belly. She dug her boots into the deck and slid backwards on his lap so she was perched on his knees, and grinned before she deftly popped the fastener on his slacks, then reached in and freed him.

Tom closed his eyes and his head fell back as she squeezed his cock, slid her palm up to the head. Pleasure rippled along his length in little shocks and he tensed as he felt blood pulsating in waves, rushing to his cock, making him even harder. He groaned and grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand away before he could embarrass himself. Sitting at the conn of the shuttle, her in his lap, she was fantasy come to life, literally, and he was determined to enjoy every second.

He set her on her feet, then leaned forward and kissed the hollow between her breasts as he gripped her hips. She helped him tug down her slacks, and kicked off her boots as he bent to kiss her belly, then she shoved him upright. She settled over him, reached for his cock and positioned him at her opening and sank down onto him; he slid into her tight, silky heat. He gasped at the shock of it, the rightness. He bucked into her and didn’t breathe for a moment, held himself rigid as he beat back a rush of pleasure and tried to adjust to her heat. He clenched his jaw as he held on. She felt like a thousand nights of longing, answered. Like the most natural place in the world to be. She felt like home.

She folded her body around him, her knees and thighs pulled up embracing his ribs, her arms around his shoulders, her fingers burrowed in his hair. She shuddered and squeezed his body, reminding him of a python squeezing the life out its dinner, and he almost laughed.

“I guess we skipped the part where you throw heavy objects at me?” He tried for humour, distraction. He needed a moment to breathe.

“Maybe later.” Her voice was husky against his temple. “They’re all bolted down.”

He smiled and thrust upward, his arms curled around her back, holding her in place. She rolled her hips and shuddered in his arms, and her teeth grazed his throat. She rose up, then slid down again, her internal muscles rippling, her breasts sliding along his chest, skin on heated skin, and Tom’s head fell back, his eyes closed, breath coming in quick gasps. He was filled with gratitude that she would choose him, and a hunger that burned deep in his belly, a desire to be closer to her. He wished he could meld with her somehow and become one person. His hands twitched on her back, fingers digging into her smoothly muscled flesh as he thrust gently into her.

She bucked against him. “I won’t break, Tom.”

Her voice was low and breathy, and he rejoiced when he realized that she didn't want gentle. He didn’t, either.

He kissed her hard and slammed upward, establishing a rhythm, hard and fast, not certain it wouldn’t kill him if it lasted. She responded with equal forcefulness, her hips pistoning, back arching. Her mouth was open, head thrown back, and her hair fell over her shoulders and tickled his hands. He could come just from touching her hair alone, he was certain. He dragged his mouth along her neck, her jaw, dropped wet kisses on her chin before capturing her lips. She plunged her tongue into his mouth, tangled it with his, broke away and scraped his jaw, his cheekbone, with her teeth. It was almost too much: her moist breath on his cheek, in his ear, gasping for air, her little grunts and growls of pleasure as he pounded into her.

His hand skittered down her spine, damp with sweat, and his fingers grazed her spinal ridges. She jerked, her hands grasping the headrest of his chair as she strained against him. Then she was shaking in his arms, her body spasming on a gasp, and Tom had only seconds to recognize the gathering rush as his muscles tightened, his breath caught, and he came inside her in an explosion of light and energy. Pleasure rippled through him and he shivered at the intensity of it. He held his breath, then he was gasping too, crushing her slight, strong body to his, his chest heaving in time with hers.

She was curled over him, her head slumped forward, her forehead resting on the curve of his shoulder. Her glorious hair was splayed across his mouth and chin, one strand hooked on his nose, catching on the eyelashes of his right eye when he blinked. He dropped a kiss on her shoulder, closed his eyes and skimmed a hand down her back. He nuzzled her neck, kissing his way up her throat to her jaw, nudging her cheek with his nose so he could claim her mouth in a long, deep, soul-satisfying kiss.

He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to think or speak ever again. He was precisely where he was meant to be: in the pilot’s seat of a shuttlecraft with the most brilliant, most beautiful woman in the universe naked in his arms. Sometimes the universe is generous. Ten minutes, fifteen tops, and he’d be ready to love her again. He buried his nose in her hair and hmmm’d in contentment.

Chapter Text

“Ah, Ensign. Thank you for joining me.” The Doctor smiled as he approached his patient.

“I did not have a choice; I was escorted here by a security detail.”

“Yes. Well.” The Doctor nodded. “Lieutenant Tuvok is nothing if not conscientious.” He smiled again, then realized it was wasted on the young Vulcan and sobered.

Vorik glanced around the holodeck, taking in the programme. “Where is this place?”

The Doctor had called up a scene from Vulcan. “I’ve consulted the database and found a programme for a holiday resort on Lake Yuron. I had to tweak it a bit, of course. We are at the Slumbering Sehlat Lodge below the western tip of the lake, on Vulcan. I thought you might appreciate a little taste of home.”

“I was raised in the southern provinces. I have never been here. Therefore, it is not my home.”

“Nevertheless, it’s going to be your home for a little while.” The Doctor gestured to a stone courtyard bordered by several smaller buildings, and a walled-in area beyond. “There are extensive gardens with plants from all over Vulcan and other worlds. Botanists from the Vulcan Science Academy have managed to create little ecosystems that emulate the home of each of the plants grown here. Quite the feat. It’s not all decorative, of course. In fact, the proprietors grow their own plomeek for their soup.” He smiled, pleased at the idea.

Vorik didn’t look impressed by the information.

“You can walk through the gardens. And, if you like, there are hot and cold natural pools fed by mountain streams, for bathing. If that doesn’t strike your fancy, you can explore the P’Tranek Monastery. Work on your meditation. You can renew your mental discipline and bond with total logic.” He sounded like he was reading it from a promotional pamphlet which, in a sense, he was.

“Why have you brought me here, Doctor? I do not understand the purpose of coming to the holodeck.”

“I have someone I want you to meet.”

He turned and held up a hand, beckoning someone to join them. A young Vulcan woman in a long, pale green robe walked toward them and stood at the Doctor’s elbow. “This is Tam’A.”

She was attractive, her long dark hair wound around her head in an intricate plait which highlighted her large, dark eyes. Vorik dismissed her with a glance.

“She is a hologram,” he stated. “Surely you are not suggesting that she become my mate?” His lip curled in disgust.

“Well, I wouldn't recommend a lifetime commitment, but she might be able to help you with your immediate problem.” The Doctor smirked, pleased with his wit.

“She is a hologram,” Vorik repeated. “She isn’t real.”

The Doctor stiffened, hurt crossing his features. “I hope you don’t have the same low regard for me.”

“You are a skilled physician, Doctor. You have shown an interest in expanding your knowledge and experiences through social interaction with the crew. You have exceeded your initial programming.”

“Well, thank you.” He smiled. “I appreciate—”

“But allow me to point out the limits to your programme in regard to physical matters.”

“Really, that’s not necessary. I believe we’re discussing your sexual difficulties at the moment, Ensign.”

“I cannot mate with her.” Vorik’s tone was flat, certain.

“Well, as a matter of fact, you can. Believe me, I made sure all the physical parameters are in place. And this holographic mate was the best solution I could come up with at the moment.”

Vorik’s jaw tensed and his teeth gritted. “She will not be the same as a real mate. I cannot bond with her.”

“Forgive me, but don’t Vulcans pride themselves on their superior mental abilities and logic? You don’t have a real mate on Voyager. The one you selected has rejected you, and I don’t see anyone else volunteering. It’s her or death, and choosing death wouldn’t be very logical.”

“B’Elanna is my mate. If I could go to her, I could convince her—”

“Convince her?” the Doctor exclaimed. “Have you met her? She doesn’t want you, Ensign, she made that quite clear.” His expression softened, and he sighed. “I know you prefer her, Vorik, but you can’t have her. Tam’A is as good a substitute as you’re going to get.”

“How do you expect me to bond with her?”

“The difference is all in your mind, which, if I've understood you and Mister Tuvok correctly, is where the pon farr must ultimately be resolved. Let your mind convince your body that she is exactly what you need her to be. Think of this as an advanced self-healing technique. It will still require considerable mental discipline on your part.”

The young Vulcan’s eyes closed for a moment. He opened them and nodded. “I will try, Doctor.”

“Good. I’ll be back to check on you in an hour. That should give you enough time?” He raised an interrogative eyebrow. Vorik ignored him and turned toward the female hologram who had been waiting patiently and quietly. “I’ll make it two,” the Doctor said, then he called to be transferred back to sickbay.

~~~~~

They were lying on the floor of the shuttle, legs entwined. B’Elanna was curled around him, her arm draped casually across his belly, her head pillowed on his shoulder. They had pulled the mattresses off the bunks and made a nest of blankets on the floor—not that they’d used it the first time: the chair at the conn had worked just fine.

He had one arm up, elbow bent, his hand tucked under his head while he trailed the fingers of his other hand along the ridges of her lower spine. Her body was neither Klingon nor human, and she’d always thought her spinal ridges were ugly and had done her best to hide them. Tom obviously disagreed. He’d kissed them, licked his way along them to the small of her back, and she’d convulsed from the pleasure of it, from the intimacy of his breath on her skin. When he’d kissed her buttocks, rolled her onto her back to scrape his teeth over the point of her hip, moved closer to her center, she’d realized just how poor a lover Max Burke, her Academy boyfriend, had been, and how little she had known about her own body, her own desires.

Her desire for Tom had shocked her, overwhelmed her, the need to possess him a burning in her belly and her brain that had blotted out all other thoughts. Luckily for her, he had wanted her too, because she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have forced him, forced herself on him, if he hadn’t. It had been a little frightening, the need that had driven her, the hunger, the desire to mark him as hers! She was thankful that she hadn’t gone that far, grateful that she’d had that much restraint, at least.

She settled against him and nuzzled his chest; the scratch of his crisp red-gold chest hair prickled her cheek. He squeezed her hip, and her head rose and fell on his chest as he sighed in contentment.

“When I said I was interested in doing the Klingon workout programme with you, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.” Tom teased.

She snorted. “Oh, wasn’t it?”

“Okay, I admit it, it was.” Tom hugged her tighter and smiled at the ceiling of the shuttle.

She angled her head and took in his smug grin. “You look pretty pleased with yourself,” she observed.

“I think I kept up,” he glanced at her, devilment making his eyes sparkle.

“You did okay, for a human.” She grinned back and nipped his chin. “There was one point there when I thought you were going to surrender, but you proved to be a formidable opponent.” She was laughing now; she felt happy, like a burden had been lifted from her chest.

“Yeah, well, why do you think I’ve been working out lately? Lifting weights with Ayala, doing that Klingon martial arts programme with you.”

She slid her hand along his arm, over his shoulders and down his chest, rested her palm on his hip. She smoothed the pad of her thumb over the small bruise there. Had she done that? When? She craned her neck and looked back up into his eyes. “Mike’s been weight training with you?”

“Yeah,” he waggled his eyebrows at her, “and I think he figured out something was up. He didn’t believe me when I said I was doing it to arm wrestle Harry.”

She smiled at the thought as Tom hugged her closer.

He was quiet for a moment, then drew a breath. “You’ve never even hinted that you wanted to be more than friends. Why now?” he asked.

“We’re alone for the next few days. It seemed like the right time,” she said simply.

“Are you sure it wasn’t, you know,” she felt his body shift, “yesterday. Vorik.”

They’d avoided talking about that so far and she didn’t want to talk about it now. “He has nothing to do with this. With us.”

“Okay,” Tom said. His voice held that tone that betrayed his skepticism. “B’Elanna, I’ve wanted you for months, and suddenly—”

“And now you have me.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to question my good fortune here,” he said, giving her a little squeeze, “but the timing seems a bit suspicious.”

She puffed a breath. For a moment, lost in a post-orgasmic haze of bliss, she’d forgotten how much Tom could irritate her. “So, okay, Vorik’s stupid…” she faltered for only a moment, “announcement, made me realize that I wanted you. You jumping in to defend me made me realize that…”

“That?”

“That I could trust you. Depend on you.”

Tom released a puff of air and kissed her temple. “That’s a relief. I was afraid I’d insulted your honour.”

She stiffened and squinted up at him. “What?”

“Well, you know, by implying that you couldn’t handle him on your own. I know you don’t want my help in our programme. And you have,” he shifted and rolled her onto her back, then began to kiss the hollow under her ear, “that tough,” he skimmed his lips down her throat, “Klingon,” along her collarbone, “exterior. Though, it feels pretty soft to me.”

B’Elanna chuckled and pushed him onto his back. She slid on top of him, resting her elbows on either side of his head, affording him a spectacular view of her breasts. “Do I look so tough right now?”

“Always,” he said. “You look like the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She sat up and propped her hands on his shoulders, and the smile slid from her face. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His eyebrows drew together in confusion .

“Don’t flatter me, Tom. Klingons don’t… Klingons are more forthright.” She glanced away, looked back into his eyes. “‘A beautiful woman shouldn’t have to eat alone’,” she quoted. “It’s not necessary.”

He shifted under her until she slid off of him, then sat up. He lifted a hand and pushed her hair behind her shoulder, cupped her upper arm and squeezed. “Engineers deal in facts, right?” He said. “Not gut instinct or exaggeration?”

She looked confused at his conversational detour. “Most of the time. Yes.”

“Well the fact is, to me you’re gorgeous. Your eyes,” she shut them as he moved to kiss her eyelid, “and your sexy mouth.” He kissed that too, and sucked her lower lip between his own to give it a light bite before he released it. “And your intriguing forehead ridges.” She let out a little whimper as he tilted his chin and kissed those one by one, his warm, damp mouth skimming over her skin, his hot breath making her tingle. He pushed her back down onto the mattress, following her down, and her body rose to meet him. His mouth settled on hers for a long, soft, lingering kiss. She felt languid and boneless when he was done.

“Even covered in dust and dirt, and those disgusting sores back on Ocampa, I thought you were beautiful,” he murmured.

She laughed at that, but Tom shook his head. “I’m not kidding. I thought Harry was crazy when he said you two were just friends.”

“Well, we are.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to beat the crap out of him when we get back to the ship.”

She snorted. “Klingon women aren’t prizes, Tom. You don’t battle it out to the death to win us.”

“Really?” he asked. The expression in his eyes was soft. “‘Cause I feel like I won the jackpot.” He kissed her with just enough heat to make her toes curl, then asked, “So, when we do get back, do you want to move in with me or should I move in with you? My closet is bigger but I think you have more living space.”

She froze and stared at him. Was he joking?

“Or we could ask the captain for new quarters. The VIP quarters on deck two are empty, and they have a whole wall of viewports. We could make love under the stars every night.” He was smiling stupidly, and he leaned down to kiss her throat.

She pulled back, shook her head. “What? What are you talking about?”

He looked confused. “Us. Me and you. When we get back to Voyager.”

“I…” She stared at him, and realized that her mouth was hanging open in shock.

“What? Did you think this was just…” He waved a hand around. “That we’d just go back to nor—back to before, when we got back to the ship?”

“Well, no.” Something told her to tread carefully, to choose her words with caution. “But there’s a big difference between having a little fun and moving in together.”

“Fun?” He frowned. “As far as I’m concerned, it feels like we’ve been dating for the last year already. If I had my way, we would have been.” There was an edge of hurt in his voice. “So just what did you think this was?”

B’Elanna sighed. “I didn’t think it was anything, Tom. I’m attracted to you, and you’re attracted to me, that’s no secret. But I didn’t ask you for any promises. I didn’t expect that…”

Her words trailed off. She truly hadn’t expected anything from him. Hadn’t thought beyond the moment, beyond her overwhelming desire for him. She had the terrible feeling that she had just ruined more than their friendship. If she thought being stuck on Voyager with Vorik was going to be difficult, being forced to live and work side by side with Tom would be unbearable if things went bad between them. She’d tried to warn herself; too bad she hadn’t listened.

“Didn’t expect what, that I’d want to be with you when we’re back on Voyager? That I’d want everyone to know that we’re together? I don’t want to just be with you here and forget it, I—” His jaw worked for a moment but he’d run out of words.

“Tom…” she began.

A sudden understanding lit his eyes and he stiffened, his chin jerking upward and firming. He rolled off of her and onto his back. She caught a flash of hurt in his expression before he smoothed his features to neutral. “Sure,” he said, his voice clipped. “Of course.” His mouth settled into a firm, straight line, jaw rigid.

“Tom, that’s not what I meant.” She rose up on one elbow and stared down at him. “I want you. I want to be with you, I wouldn’t have started this if I didn’t.” But they didn’t have to share quarters to be together. There were lots of couples on Voyager. Her hand settled on his bare chest and he reached up and curled his warm fingers around it, trapping it there.

“I care about you, B’Elanna. When you climbed onto my lap, I thought that meant that you care about me, too.”

“I do. Or I wouldn’t have…” she shrugged. Okay, she probably would have, eventually, because she’d desired him long before she even liked him. “Why are we arguing about this?”

“I just need to be clear on what you want. What are you thinking, we meet up for a quickie Saturday night and every other Thursday at lunch?” he said.

She frowned, his flip attitude immediately pissing her off. Tom caught her arm when she pulled away from him and continued, his voice insistent.

“B’Elanna, I’ve pursued you for the last six months, I’m serious about you, about us. All those times you turned me down when I wanted to take our relationship deeper, I hoped that this,” he let go of her and flapped his hand in the air, “meant that you were finally taking me seriously.”

He was staring at her, his expression open and honest, his eyes the most intense blue she’d ever seen. They were mesmerising, and the expression in them doused her anger and made her want to kiss him again. Do more than kiss him. She smothered a fluttering in her stomach, determination pushing her onward. “When I turned you down, it wasn’t you,” she confessed. “I couldn’t admit my own feelings.” She raised her chin, felt her chest expand with air. She felt calm, sure, powerful. “But now I can.”

“And what are those feelings, exactly?” His tone was light, but she caught an underlying hesitancy, and an apprehensive look in his eyes.

“I love you.” She said it simply, proudly, a declaration rather than a confession.

Tom stared at her for a silent five seconds then got up and moved, still naked, to the storage compartment at the back of the shuttle. He pulled out his pack, and opened it and rummaged around, and she realized that he was more upset with her than she’d thought. He was getting dressed. She sat up, wondering how telling him she loved him could anger him, and she beat back her own swell of anger at his childish display of temper. She didn’t understand. He didn’t want her to love him? What the hell did he want?

She watched, scowling, as he pulled a long, thin strip of leather from the bag, but nothing else. She sat up straighter, tensed. He turned and she saw that it was a belt, one he’d worn in the holodeck many times while playing pool after shift. It had a large, silver-toned clasp instead of a buckle, with an intricately carved design. He’d caught her staring at it once early in their voyage, trying to make it out, and had joked about her staring at his groin, offered to give her a better, unobstructed look. What was he doing?

He fiddled with the catch a moment, then pulled out a short, very thin, very sharp blade. He dropped the belt back into his pack and turned and looked at her.

“...Tom?”

He moved toward her slowly, then knelt directly in front of her, his eyes never leaving hers. Her respiration sped up, her pulse jumped. She had an immediate, overwhelming urge to shove him away.

He held up his left hand, fingers spread, palm out, then raised the blade, and she knew in an instant what he was about to do. Her arm shot out and she grabbed the hand with the knife, halting it. She squeezed it so hard that her fingernails dug into his skin.

A shiver of dread? excitement? she wasn’t sure, ran up her spine. “What are you doing?” she breathed.

“B’Elanna, I’ve been in love with you for…” he stilled, and she saw in his face that he willed her to believe him, “I don’t even know how long. Loving you became a part of who I am a long time ago. When I tell you that you’re the most brilliant, fascinating woman I’ve ever met, I mean it! When I say I want to be with you, I’m certain. And I intend to spend the next seventy years proving that to you.”

“I...” B’Elanna shook her head. She was stunned. “I never knew you felt that way.” She felt the weight of wasted time: days and months that they could have shared together if she’d allowed herself to believe that he was serious about her.

“Because I was afraid to tell you.” He sighed. “I don’t want any more misunderstandings between us. You’re the most important person in the world to me. Everything I do, I think of how it will impact you. I’ve tried to become a better person, an honourable person, because of you. Your opinion matters to me, more than you’ll ever know.”

She was quiet for the longest time, just staring into his eyes, then she leaned forward and kissed him softly. “Even when we were first lost out here and you were behaving like an ass, you were an honourable ass.” She grinned, taking the edge off her teasing, and Tom chuckled. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you sooner.”

She kissed him again, pushing her full breasts against his chest, and trailed her tongue along his bottom lip. Tom opened his mouth, welcoming her in, and tangled his tongue with hers. He caught her other hand in his and brought it to his mouth, kissing the palm and tracing the line of her wrist with his tongue. Her gut clenched.

“I want to honour you,” he said against her skin. “I want to claim you and join our Houses so everyone knows that we’re together. So they know if they threaten one of us, they threaten both of us.”

He dropped her hand, then freed his own from her loose grip and raised the blade to his left hand. He dragged it from the soft pad below his index finger, diagonally across his palm to his wrist. “jIH dok!” It was a declaration: bold, insistent. A command.

B’Elanna drew back, shook her head. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t understand what he was starting. Surely he couldn’t comprehend the true meaning of those two words?

“jIH dok!” he said again, louder. His eyes burned into hers, his expression serious.

“Tom, I…” She shook her head again, dumbfounded, unwilling to believe that he knew what he was doing. She tried for humour. “I know we fight sometimes, but we’re hardly at war.” As jokes went, it was pretty lame, but Tom had always appreciated a good pun.

Klingon culture had a long, intricate marriage ceremony that involved extended members of both Houses and days of trials and feasting. The Oath had been developed as a way to join a couple during times of battle, war, when the traditional wedding feasting was impossible; a way to satisfy the honour of both Houses and solidify the union without having family present.

His expression had softened, and she saw a new emotion in his eyes. Such a pretty, clear blue, they were the first thing she had found compelling about him. She had discovered many more things to love about this man: his honour, his sense of duty, his compassion and bravery, too many to list, but this… this step was too much. She assumed that whatever Tom had been reading, paired with his mixed up ideas of chivalry, made him believe that he had to become her mate now that they’d shared a bed.

She placed her fingertips on his chest, felt his warmth, and the slow, steady movement of his breath. “This isn’t necessary, Tom. Klingons have sex.” She tried a laugh but his expression didn’t change. “You don’t have to do this.” Her gaze left the serious expression in his eyes and flickered to his hand. Blood had gathered along the line of the cut, and run down his palm. It snaked down his wrist, forming a bright scarlet ribbon that ran slowly toward his elbow. It made a shocking contrast against his pale skin.

“We don’t have to do this, B’Elanna, but I want to. If you’d rather, when we get back to the ship,” Tom began, his voice quiet and rough with emotion, “we can have Janeway marry us in a traditional Human ceremony. Pick one.” He laughed. “But I love you, B’Elanna, I have for months. I want to eat dinner with you every evening, go to sleep with you at night, wake up with you in the morning. I want to have babies with you, and grow old with you, and if we’re stuck on Voyager for the next seventy years I don’t care, as long as I’m stuck there with you. And I want to honour you with this.”

The air left her lungs and she forgot to breathe. He looked so sincere. She chose to accept this, to take this for herself. She chose to believe him, and her heart felt like it was about to burst out of her chest. She nodded, and Tom’s eyes lit and his mouth split in a grin.

“jIH dok.” It was quiet this time, emotion making his voice rough.

She smiled hugely, that same emotion forcing a laugh from her. He grinned back.

She reached out and took the stiletto from him, raised her hand and sliced cleanly across her palm. “maj dok.” Her voice was quiet but firm.

“tlhIngan jIH,” he said, clasping her hand in his.

“tlhIngan jIH.”

It was done. She nodded and joy bubbled in her tummy, forced its way up through her chest and out of her mouth. She laughed, then he was kissing her, holding her tightly against his chest. He let go of her hand and squeezed her shoulder, ran his hand down her back to her waist, pulled her closer, and she felt the wet smear of his blood on her skin. She growled as a wave of desire, stronger than when they’d first joined, washed over her. She pulled away and touched his face, leaving a bright patch of her own blood on his chin. She looked into his eyes and flashed a quick grin. Hers. Only hers. She’d make sure everyone knew it!

She brought her mouth to his jaw, just under his ear, and rested her teeth there, inhaling his scent. His evening beard prickled against her lips and chin as she nuzzled his skin, getting closer.

“Yes,” he hissed, his hands tightening on her waist. “Mark me, parmaqqay. B’Elanna.” She pressed her mouth against his jaw, sucked his flesh between her lips, and he gasped as she bit, her sharp teeth breaking the skin. His warm blood flooded her tongue and she grunted in satisfaction. She pulled away and eyed her handiwork, then leaned forward again and licked at the bright blood oozing from the crescent-shaped cut. He flinched.

“Ow,” he said, with a grin. He raised an eyebrow. “My turn?”

Her breath caught again and she felt her pulse ratchet higher. “Are you sure those rounded human teeth can—”

“Break through that tough Klingon exterior of yours? Oh I think so. You’d be surprised what I can do if I put my mind to it, be’nal.”

She laughed, delighted. “Give it a try, loDnal. I’ll bet you five replicator rations that you—”

He kissed her again, hard and sweet, then drew back slightly and dropped moist kisses from her chin to the hollow below her ear. “Where?” he breathed. “Where would be the best spot? Somewhere where everyone can see, like mine?” He scraped his teeth over the point of her jaw. “Somewhere where no one will see unless you choose to show them?” He nipped and kissed a path down to the muscle on her shoulder, dipped his tongue into the hollow above her collarbone.

She shuddered and gripped his hair.

“Maybe a place where only I can see?” He licked his way down to the high curve of her breast and sucked some of the firm flesh into his mouth.

“Where,” she panted, “are you getting these ideas?”

Tom chuckled. “I’ve been reading. I do read occasionally, you know.”

She snorted, tightening her fingers in his hair and tugging his head back so she could look him in the eye again. “I doubt that Klingon For the Galactic Traveller has a chapter on this.” She raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“No,” he agreed, “but Women Warriors at the River of Blood does.”

B’Elanna gasped, delighted. “You actually read it?”

He grinned. “I read the shit out of it. I have all my favourite parts bookmarked.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Why do you think I started weight training with Mike?”

A laugh burst out of her and she socked him one on the arm.

He dropped his mouth to her breast, flicked his tongue across her nipple, then quickly bit into the firm flesh above it. B’Elanna bucked against him, pressing her breast more firmly against his mouth, and he sucked at the warm blood that spilled from the cut he’d made. His eyes flamed, and he pulled back, his hands reaching for her hair, leaning in to kiss her again.

She flipped him so quickly that he was on his back, her on top of him, the air slammed from his lungs, before he fully realized that he was moving. Her strong fingers clamped onto his wrists, pinning him to the floor. “bljeghbe'chugh vaj blHegh!” B’Elanna shouted.

His expression registered his shock, then he broke into a grin. “I surrender.” Tom murmured. He leaned up and kissed her jaw, and she chuckled.

“Klingons never surrender, Tom. You should know that by now.”

He trailed kisses along her throat, licked his way to the hollow above her collarbone, and she shuddered and ground her groin onto his.

He flipped her quickly, slamming her back onto the deck and rolling them up against bulkhead. She laughed. “And warriors don’t bare their throats to the enemy, parmaqqay.” He nipped her throat and she gasped. He kissed his way to her breast, eliciting a grunt of approval when he laved the bite with his tongue. He sucked her nipple over his teeth and she started at the wave of pleasure that shot to her toes. Desire slammed into her again, hard and fast and irresistible; desire for this man, her mate. Her breath caught as he slid inside her, and she wound her arms and legs around him and held him tightly. Her body was light. Flame. Pleasure sparked across the surface of her skin, contracting into pinpricks of pure energy. And as they moved together, as he made love to her again, words ricocheted through her brain: Mine. Only mine. Always mine.

~~~

Chapter Text

The Doctor materialized in holodeck two and glanced around. No one. He strode toward the walled garden, brushing aside a thorny vine, and poked his head through the stone archway. “Hello? Anyone here?” He knew that Ensign Vorik was, in fact, here; he’d had the computer confirm it.

“Doctor?”

Vorik had appeared behind him silently, and the Doctor whirled to face him. “Ah, Ensign. How are you feeling?” He peered at the young man, noting the lack of perspiration on his brow, the even tone of his skin. He was still and contained.

“I am in control. Your holodeck therapy has been most effective.”

The Doctor peered beyond Vorik’s shoulder. “And where is your paramour?”

“I deleted the programme. I no longer require it.”

“Well,” the Doctor smiled, a trace of condescension in his expression. “That remains to be seen. I’d like you to accompany me to sickbay. I need to run a few cortical skans, to be sure, but it looks like my idea worked.” He brightened, and his expression transformed to smug. “You know, this could open up space exploration for Vulcans. Your people could go on deep space missions and not have to worry about…”

He trailed off at the look on Vorik’s face: stoney, disappointed. “...about hearing about your private ordeal from me.”

Vorik stepped toward the exit. “Shall we, Doctor? I am eager to return to duty and put this incident in the past.”

“Of course.” The Doctor smiled again and called for the computer to end the programme.

~~~

“Ensign Vorik’s biochemical readings are stabilizing. He’s not quite back to normal, but I believe he’s gotten through the worst of it. My, rather brilliant—if I do say so myself—idea appears to have worked.”

Now that Ensign Vorik was no longer in sickbay, Kathryn had called the Doctor to her ready room to give her an update on his condition, rather than going down to sickbay herself. “You’re sure?”

“Well, you can see for yourself.” He tapped a command into a medical PADD and reached across her desk to hand it to her. “You can compare his readings from last night with now. It looks like an entirely different brain!”

He smiled, and Kathryn waited to see if he would contort to pat himself on the back. Vorik’s readings did indeed appear to have changed dramatically, but she didn’t know what they should look like. “Good work, Doctor.” She handed back the PADD and noted that he looked a little smug.

“I’m ready to release him from sickbay. He’ll wear the cortical monitor for another day or so, to be sure, but I think we can consider him cured.”

“That’s good. Tom and B’Elanna are due back tomorrow, have you thought any further about how Vorik’s attempted mind-meld may have affected her?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve been doing some research on the psionic abilities in Klingons. It’s nil, if you’re wondering. But in humans, about five percent of the population have latent psionic receptivism.”

“And B’Elanna is half human.” Kathryn nodded.

“Combine that with the Klingon mating urge—there’s a copious amount of information in the ship’s databank about Klingon mating habits—and it’s very possible that B’Elanna may be suffering from a Klingon version of Ensign Vorik’s pon farr.”

“As soon as the away team gets back, I want you to examine her.”

“Of course.” The Doctor smiled again, a hint of devilment sparkling in his eyes. “I'll get to work designing the half-Klingon version of the programme. Did you know that fracturing a clavicle on the wedding night is actually considered a blessing on the marriage?”

Kathryn nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

The Doctor looked a little crestfallen but it didn’t last. “I'm planning to do a comparative study of all these mating rituals. It really is fascinating, from a socio-biological point of view.”

“Well, I'm sure both Ensign Vorik and B'Elanna would be thrilled to help you with your efforts, Doctor.” Her tone was dry enough that even he caught her sarcasm.

“Yes,” he murmured, “you may be right about that. I would change the names, of course, to keep it confidential.”

“Perfect,” Kathryn dead-panned, “I’m sure no one will figure out who the half-Klingon Voyager crewman is when you publish your paper.”

Harry’s voice came over the comm, interrupting them. “Captain, I’m reading an unauthorized shuttle launch.”

“What? Who is it?” Janeway strode out of her ready room and onto the bridge.

“I’m reading one life sign: Vulcan.” Harry said. He looked up from his ops panel and glanced at Tuvok, then at crewman M’Akis at the science station at his left. “I’m guessing it’s Ensign Vorik,” he said with a shrug.

Tuvok checked his readings then looked at her. “According to his comm signal, he is in his quarters.”

Kathryn scowled and shot a glance at the Doctor, who had followed her out. “Engage a tractor beam. Lock onto him and get him back here.”

Harry shook his head. “Sorry, Captain, tractor beam is offline.”

“Then beam him back.”

“Transporters are also offline,” Tuvok said. “He has gone to warp. Shall we follow him, Captain?”

She sat in her chair and frowned. “We know where he’s going and I’m willing to bet the nebula will hide Tom and B’Elanna’s shuttle from him for a little while. Contact Crewman Chell and Kes, and tell them we’ve got a stray chick we need to round up. We’ll be back for them.”

She glanced at Ensign Jenkins, who had turned in her seat and was awaiting an order. “Let’s cut him off. Warp six.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Jenkins’ fingers played over the conn panel and they shot to warp. Within moments, Harry spoke up again.

“Reading a Federation shuttlecraft nine hundred thousand kilometres dead ahead, Captain. It’s him.”

The small shuttle appeared on the viewscreen, and Kathryn shook her head.

“Tuvok, fire phasers. Don’t damage him, just stop him.”

“Acknowledged.”

Kathryn watched as plasma streaked through space and struck the port nacelle of the little shuttlecraft. A small explosion flared, then died, and the shuttle spun and dropped out of warp. Voyager did the same, and came to a stop a kilometer from the little craft, which was listing to the side.

“Well done,” Kathryn said.

“Transporters are back online,” Harry said.

“Beam him back, shuttle and all,” Kathryn replied, standing and striding toward the ‘lift. “Tuvok, Chakotay?”

They were already behind her.

~~~~~~

Tom finger-combed his hair and tucked his regulation T-shirt into his trousers. He’d planned to put his turtleneck back on, but B’Elanna had said that she liked the way the T-shirt looked on him, so…

She stepped out of the head, and he noticed that she’d clipped her hair up, exposing the enchanting, long column of her neck and her strong shoulders. And everything else. She hadn’t dressed yet, and she threw a seductive little grin his way as she reached for her duffle bag. They’d shared a sonic shower, a tight squeeze that was definitely worth the attempt, and his skin felt clean and invigorated. Hers glowed.

It occurred to him that it might be a good idea to take advantage of their solitude while they could; this time tomorrow, they’d be back on Voyager. She pulled on a clean undershirt, straightening the fabric around her waist, then reached for her underwear. Tom slipped behind her, sliding his hands over her bare hips, and she smiled. He angled his head down and kissed her under the point of her jaw, then closed his hands over her wrists and pulled them over her head. She chuckled.

“Tom, we have work to do.”

“The computer is monitoring the scanners. All the lights are flashing and the beeper is working. It’ll let us know if anything exciting happens.” He kissed the back of her neck, then caught the hem of her shirt and eased it up her ribs and over her breasts and, finally, up over her head. She turned, nude once more, sliding her body against his, and lowered her arms to wind them around his neck.

He kissed a trail down her throat, across her shoulder, down to the swell of her breast, and she stiffened. “Mmmm?” he asked. He straightened and looked at her: her eyes were round with shock and her mouth had dropped open. “What?” he asked.

“You don’t think it is, do you?”

Tom frowned in confusion. “I don’t think what is what?”

“The computer,” she hissed, her volume dropping to a whisper. “You don’t think it’s monitoring us?”

Tom froze, then gave in to the laugh that almost choked him. The fight with Vorik in the mess hall had been recorded by the ship’s vid security system. A system that was in place in all Federation shuttlecraft as well. He shook with laughter, feeling tears spring to his eyes.

“Well,” he said, kissing the scowl off her face, “if it is, let’s give ‘em a show.”

He shoved her against the bulkhead then sank to his knees, kissing his way from her breasts to her belly and lower. Her fingers wound in his hair and pulled, and he heard her hummm her agreement.

Chapter Text

Janeway stormed into the shuttlebay with Chakotay, Tuvok, and the Doctor on her heels. A security team had met them in the corridor, and Janeway nodded at Ensign Culhane, the shuttlebay watch officer, then jerked her head toward the door, dismissing him. He beat a hasty retreat. The shuttle sat on a pad, nose angled toward the bay doors. Its port nacelle was half gone, and the shuttle was scored and smeared with black soot. The ramp was still secure, Vorik still inside.

“Open it,” she ordered.

“Captain, Ensign Vorik may be armed. I suggest you stand back.”

She nodded and moved away from the back of the shuttle. Chakotay followed her. Tuvok motioned for his team to take their places on either side of the ramp, then raised his phaser and walked to the side of the shuttle and hit the control. There was a click, then the ramp slowly lowered to the deck.

Vorik stood in the centre of the opening, his face contorted with rage, chest heaving. He stared at Tuvok, and Kathryn saw pure hatred flare in his eyes.

“No one can keep me from my mate!” Vorik screamed.

“Lieutenant Torres is not your mate. She has rejected you. Slowly exit the shuttlecraft.” Tuvok’s voice was calm, reassuring.

“B’Elanna needs me, and I need her.”

“You need to exit the shuttlecraft so the Doctor can examine you,” Tuvok responded.

“I have to go to her!”

“No,” Chakotay stepped forward, putting a foot on the ramp. “You have to forget about her; she doesn’t want you. She wants me.”

Kathryn had been watching the exchange between Tuvok and Vorik wondering when the younger man would lash out and attack the man who could have been a mentor to him, or if Tuvok would decide on expediency and stun the ensign where he stood. Her head snapped around at Chakotay’s words and her mouth dropped open as she stared at him in shock. Chakotay and… B’Elanna? She’d known B’Elanna had had a crush on him when they’d been together in the Maquis, it had been obvious in the way she looked at him, and followed him in the early months after they’d been pulled into the Delta Quadrant by the Caretaker. In the way she had worried and waited while Chakotay had been in a coma after he and Tuvok had been attacked by the Komar while on an away mission at the beginning of their journey.

But being stranded in the Delta Quadrant and taking on their new roles as XO and chief engineer had soon put paid to that. Not to mention the fact that B’Elanna appeared to be spending an awful lot of time with Tom Paris lately. Kathryn had begun to believe that the two of them would get together sooner or later. So she had thought. But if what Chakotay had just said was true…

Had they been carrying on an affair all this time? Had they been seeing each other for the last two years and Kathryn hadn’t known? It was impossible, wasn’t it?

“No.” Vorik said. He gave his head a sharp shake.

“Yes,” Chakotay insisted. “You can’t have her. I won’t allow it.”

“She is my mate, not yours!” Vorik screamed. He reached for an engineer’s tool kit and threw it at Chakotay’s head.

Chakotay dodged left, and took another step up the ramp. “I’ve loved her from the first moment I saw her,” he declared. “I’ve nurtured her, protected her, and she shares my feelings. We’re meant to be togeth—”

With a roar, Vorik rushed at Chakotay, doubling over and driving a shoulder into his gut, knocking him backwards and propelling him back down the ramp. Chakotay grabbed Vorik by the fabric of his uniform and brought the young Vulcan with him, somersaulting him over his body so they lay adjacent to each other, flat on their backs on the ramp. Chakotay scrambled to his feet and jumped down onto the deck, then circled behind Vorik, moving closer to him.

Vorik regained his feet and turned, his face contorted with rage as he launched himself at his rival. “Fa-wak shroi ri nash-veh nemut zhitlar'!” he screamed.

“Tuvok!” Janeway called. They needed to end this fight now before someone was hurt. “What did he say?”

“‘I will not listen to the words of my enemy.’ He views Commander Chakotay as a rival. The commander has declared himself Lieutenant Torres’ champion.”

Tuvok had moved forward and was aiming his phaser at Vorik when the Doctor laid a hand on his arm. “Wait, Captain. Don’t you see? The ritual challenge: the Commander has challenged Ensign Vorik for B’Elanna’s affections. This could be the only way to resolve his pon farr.”

The two men were grappling, hands locked on the other’s shoulders, grunting and shoving, Vorik’s Vulcan strength easily matching Chakotay’s brawn.

“You’re saying we should just let them fight?” Kathryn asked. She winced as Chakotay shoved a hand into Vorik’s face, pushing his head to the side.

“We can stop it before anyone is seriously hurt, Captain,” the Doctor assured her.

She was skeptical, and hissed in sympathetic pain as Vorik landed a vicious kick on Chakotay’s thigh. He staggered, then roared up with a left jab, snapping Vorik’s chin up, forcing him backwards. She glanced at Tuvok, who was watching the fight impassively. “Could this actually work?”

“It is possible, Captain. Ensign Vorik has accepted the Commander’s challenge.”

That much was obvious. “But,” Kathryn paused, not quite sure what she was asking. “But isn’t it supposed to be more formal, part of a ceremony or ritual? This is so…” Brutal? Repugnant? She gasped and shied away as Chakotay landed another blow, this one to Vorik’s right ear. “This is barbaric.”

“Were we on Vulcan, words would be spoken in an ancient tongue, but the words are merely ceremonial. It is the actions that are important,” Tuvok said.

Vorik came at his opponent, bending again and catching Chakotay in the belly with his shoulder. His arms came around Chakotay’s legs, and he pulled upward tipping the commander backwards so he landed flat on his back on the ramp, his head bouncing off the metal plates of the shuttle’s deck.

“That’s enough,” Kathryn said, stepping forward. Anxiety tightened her muscles and she felt a pool of fear in her belly. It wasn’t an emotion she felt often, not even here, stranded in this strange quadrant with so few friends. “We need to stop this, now.”

“I urge we wait, Captain,” Tuvok reiterated.

She was left with little choice but to trust Tuvok’s advice. He was their resident expert on this matter, after all. But it was disconcerting to watch the usually placid young ensign as he did his best to kill his senior officer! And she’d long suspected that the anger that had driven Chakotay to give up his Starfleet commission and join the Maquis was held on a short leash. This brutal display appeared to support her theory.

Vorik delivered a kick toward Chakotay’s ribs, but missed as the commander rolled off the side of the ramp and hopped to his feet. He wrapped his arms around Vorik’s legs in a move that mimicked the ensign’s attack on him, and pulled him onto the floor of the shuttlebay. Kathryn took an involuntary step forward, but Tuvok’s hand landed lightly on her shoulder, halting her.

Vorik staggered to his feet, grunting as he circled Chakotay. He swung a fist at him and connected with Chakotay’s chin, but his swing was sloppy, without much power behind it. Chakotay shook it off. He hit Vorik again, raining blows to his ribs, his cheek, his belly. The younger man shuffled backwards, tripped over his feet, and landed hard on the deck. He groaned and reached for the Commander, then slumped onto his nose, unconscious.

Chakotay staggered and Tuvok grabbed his arm, supporting him and holding him upright. He led him to a storage container and lowered him until he sat. The Doctor was fussing over Ensign Vorik, checking his breathing.

Kathryn crouched beside her first officer. She brushed the hair out of his eyes and looked pointedly at him. He had a cut lip, and a cut over one eye that was dripping blood down his cheek to his chin. His mouth was swollen, and he had the beginnings of a black eye.

“I thought he’d never go down,” he said.

“Loved her, hmm?”

Chakotay nodded. “Like a little sister.” He winced.

Kathryn shook her head and smiled.

“She was lost, alone, angry. Life had let her down,” Chakotay explained.

“And you wanted to fix her.” Kathryn said.

He nodded. “I loved her immediately; what else could I do?”

“That was foolhardy,” she admonished him. Bad enough that she’d had to accept that she might lose a bright young officer, but if she’d lost Chakotay, too… She wasn’t sure how she would manage without his steady presence at her side.

“It was a risk, but I figured challenging him was the only way to resolve his condition. The Doctor’s idea didn’t work, and B’Elanna—”

“And B’Elanna was more likely to fight him herself.” She eyed him and sighed. “Let’s get you checked over.”

He nodded carefully. “I wouldn’t say no to an analgesic.”

He smiled at her as she helped him to his feet. It felt good to laugh.

~~~

They’d made love a dozen times in the last three days, and somehow remembered to scan and chart the nebula and take their samples. B’Elanna had even successfully completed the first step in converting the omicron particles into antimatter. It looked like it would work—they would be able to replenish their power reserves, and B’Elanna had even mused on the viability of constructing ‘batteries’ to store surplus energy in case this opportunity didn’t come again. They were about an hour from the rendezvous point, had cleared the nebula some time ago, and Tom sent a hail.

“Shuttle Cochrane to Voyager, we’re coming home and we have a surprise for you.” He glanced at B’Elanna and grinned. The motion pulled at the scab on his jaw and he puckered his lips, then leaned over and kissed her quickly.

“Voyager to Cochrane, acknowledged. We’re waiting for you.” Harry’s tone was curious. “What did you find?”

“The future, Harry. The next seventy years.”

B’Elanna laughed.

“Ohhhkay. The captain wants you both to report to her ready room as soon as you’re aboard.

“Gee, that’s convenient,” Tom said, “we wanted to see her right away, too.”

~~

People stared as they walked past, headed toward the turbolift and the captain’s ready room. Culhane, the shuttlebay watch commander, had given Tom a strange look when he’d caught sight of his jaw, but he’d refrained from asking him about it. They’d repaired the cuts on their hands with the regenerator in the emergency medkit—leaving a trail of blood all over the nav and science consoles hadn’t been an option—but Tom had insisted on keeping the bite mark on his jaw. He wanted it to heal naturally, had said he hoped it would scar so everyone would know that she had chosen him.

They strode into the turbolift, and he pulled her into his arms even before the doors had completely closed. He kissed her sweetly, then with more heat when she slid her hands up his chest and into his hair. His hands settled on her hips but he kept her body separated from his, unwilling to walk into the captain’s ready room with a raging hard on. How did he want her again already? They’d gone at it like crazed Tarka beasts in a mating frenzy, and still he wanted her: imagined her warm and willing and welcoming underneath him, or on top of him, or up against the wall…

He set his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away a fraction, broke their kiss and rested his forehead against hers, tried to still his rapid breathing. She laughed, a throaty chuckle that rippled along his nerve endings.

“When are we off duty?” he asked.

“Not soon enough,” she answered as she leaned in to nip his earlobe.

They hadn’t quite kept ship’s time while they’d been away. They hadn’t paid attention, and while it seemed like mid-afternoon to him, a quick check when they’d Docked had verified that it was still a few hours 'til noon. The day stretched out, long and unending, at least for B’Elanna, since he knew she would want to start on the particle conversion immediately.

He groaned and briefly considered ordering the ‘lift back to the shuttlebay, stealing a shuttle, and turning their backs to ship and duty, and running away together. He didn’t care if he never saw the Alpha Quadrant again: B’Elanna was home.

Unfortunately, the ‘lift doors opened all too soon, depositing them in the corridor just outside the ready room door. Tom sighed, gave B’Elanna a quick peck on the mouth, then he took her hand and wove his fingers with hers as he tugged her out into the corridor.

B’Elanna hit the door chime and the ready room doors parted on Janeway’s curt “come”. Tom let go of her hand, and motioned for her to precede him. He couldn’t help smiling as she brushed past him and walked into the room.

“Captain, we have a favour to ask—”

“Tom, B’Elanna, come in, sit down.”

She was standing in the upper level of her ready room, in front of the god-awful seafoam green sofa, Chakotay at her side. The Doctor stood near the steps. He had a medical tricorder in his hand, and Tom noticed an open medkit on the coffee table. Tom frowned. This wasn’t quite the welcoming committee he was expecting.

“How are you feeling, B’Elanna?” the Doctor asked. He pulled the wand from his tricorder and ran it over her forehead.

“I’m fine.” She tried to bat it away but he dodged and kept scanning her.

“Any shortness of breath while you were gone, increased heart rate? Fever?”

She glanced at Tom and grinned. He suppressed the urge to laugh; he’d picked up on the double entendres, and his mind had immediately gone to a picture of them naked and panting on the floor of the shuttle after they’d made love rather vigorously. But then he remembered her behaviour before her nap, her snappishness, her exhaustion, the perspiration on her forehead that had led her to strip down, and made him wonder if she had some sort of virus.

He faltered, glanced from her to the Doc then back to her again. His tone held an edge of wariness that he couldn’t conceal. “Actually, yeah.”

“Tom… ” B’Elanna warned.

“She did run a fever, I think. She said it was too warm in the shuttle and she was perspiring a lot. She wouldn’t let me scan her. But she’s fine now. Why?”

Tom was focused on the Doctor, who was focused on B’Elanna. He frowned at the readings on the tricorder, tapped at the display. B’Elanna turned her attention to the captain, obviously intending to implore her to make the Doc back off, but Janeway looked serious, intent. “What’s going on?” B’Elanna asked.

“We discovered the reason for Ensign Vorik’s behaviour before you left on the away mission,” Janeway began, and B’Elanna stiffened. “The Doctor is just making sure he hasn’t transmitted it to you,” the captain continued.

“I knew it!” Tom cut in. “I figured it was some sort of Vulcan flu, a twenty-four hour thing. Was I right?”

The Doctor passed the wand over B’Elanna’s chest and torso, nodded, then put the wand away and snapped the instrument closed. He smirked. “In a way. Though, it’s been coming on for longer than that.”

Tom frowned. B’Elanna glanced from him to the Doctor. “Well, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter now. I’m fine.” Tom recognized the edge in her voice: drop it. I don’t want to discuss this.

The Doctor’s gaze went from her to Tom’s jaw. “Actually, it may matter a great deal. I’d like to run a full series of scans on you, to be sure.”

“Sure of what, Doc? You’re starting to scare me,” Tom said. Trepidation scampered up his spine.

“Normally, I wouldn’t break Doctor-patient confidentiality, but there are extenuating circumstances.” He looked at Tom’s jaw again, and Tom raised a hand to the welt.

“Yeah,” he huffed a laugh, “that’s what we wanted—”

“Ensign Vorik was suffering from a condition that all Vulcan males experience once they reach adulthood. Are you familiar with the pon farr, Lieutenant?”

Tom flushed and glanced at B’Elanna. She shook her head. “Well, yes, sort of,” Tom said. “Just things I heard in Academy Prep. Stupid stuff, really.” He felt a quickly ratcheting sense of dread wash over him, and he wanted to touch her, hold her hand, reassure himself that what had happened between them was real.

“Was Lieutenant Torres agitated or irritable? Did she seem anxious, at all?”

“Would you two stop discussing me as if I’m not here?” B’Elanna’s temper was rising, Tom could tell, and blood had risen in her cheeks with her temper, turning them ruddy.

The Doctor turned to her, chagrined. “I apologize, B’Elanna, but as a trained medic, Tom was in a better position to analyze your condition than you were yourself.”

“What condition? What are you talking about?”

That’s what Tom wanted to know, but he thought he understood, and fear gripped him. He felt the overwhelming impulse to grab her and run. Was it possible to have your heart in your throat and feel your stomach drop to your feet at the same time?

Chapter Text

She didn’t like this. She didn’t like anything about this. She didn’t like the way she felt set up, the way she felt like they’d ganged up on her. Didn’t like the way the Doctor was quizzing Tom—her mate—about her. Certainly didn’t appreciate Janeway and Chakotay standing in mute witness, and doing nothing about it. She felt trapped on the upper level of Janeway’s ready room, the sofa at her back, the Doctor blocking her exit to the stairs. She briefly thought about vaulting over the low railing and just leaving.

She didn’t want to discuss Vorik or his behaviour before she and Tom had left on the mission, she wanted to talk about what had come after: to share their news, to plan a party and, yes, why not, maybe an old-fashioned human wedding on the holodeck. But the Doctor wasn’t letting anyone else speak unless it was to answer his questions.

“In the mess hall, before the physical altercation with Ensign Vorik, do you remember what he said to you? Did he make a declaration to you?”

B’Elanna drew away from the Doctor and crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t want to get into this, not with the Doctor, especially not now. She pressed her lips into a thin line as her anger came rushing back; her embarrassment at Vorik’s words, at the fact that Sue had witnessed it all. Nicoletti had been sitting with them, and Vorik had dismissed her as if she’d suddenly been transported away and disappeared.

“He said…” she glanced at Tom. He was watching her intently, his face and body rigid, tight. “He said Soo-something. At first, I thought he was talking about Nicoletti.”

“koon-ut-so'lik,” the Doctor nodded. “He was proposing marriage.”

B’Elanna took a step backward. “It was ridiculous!” She shook her head. “I thought he just wanted...” what most men want from Klingon women.

“I believe that when Vorik held you by the face, he was initiating a telepathic mating bond.”

She barked a laugh. “A what?” She glanced at Chakotay, her old friend, hoping to see that smile, that hint of devilment in his eyes, but his expression was serious, his gaze on her intent.

Tom shook his head. “But she’s not Vulcan. How could…?”

“There have been instances of Vulcans mating with members of other races,” the Doctor explained. “The unusual behaviour that Lieutenant Torres displayed sounds very much like the early stages of pon farr.”

“Pon what? This is absurd!” B’Elanna exploded, swinging her arms up and away as Tom reached for her. She paced toward the railing dividing the upper and lower levels of the ready room, swung back to face the group awkwardly assembled in front of the sofa.

The captain’s arms were folded tightly across her chest, and Chakotay looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “B’Elanna,” he said, “you need to take this seriously.”

The Doctor sighed. “Even a brief moment of bonding may have been enough to disrupt your self-control, as the pon farr does in Vulcans. In a half-Klingon, the effects may be even more extreme.” He glanced at Tom again, then back at her. “Your emotional balance was disrupted. You may not have been in control of your more aggressive instincts.”

“My agress—” She shook her head, her mouth twisting in derision. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“I can assure you, it’s not,” the Doctor replied. “Your serotonin levels are stabilised for the moment, but you could still experience some fluctuations, unless of course,” he shot a glance at Tom, “your pon farr was resolved.”

Tom was shaking his head, and a pained look had come into his eyes. “Oh, no.”

“What?” B’Elanna asked. “What are you talking about? Tell me what you mean!” Tom’s face had morphed into an expression of horror and regret. Her hands fisted at her sides, and she turned on the Doctor, furious, her voice rising. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The pon farr is a time of bonding for Vulcans, an intense mating urge that guarantees the survival of their race.”

It was too much to acknowledge, so she focused on triviality instead. “I assumed Vulcans had arranged marriages,” B’Elanna said.

“They do,” the Doctor confirmed, “the two principals are bonded, through a mental link, at a young age. Then, when they reach sexual maturity, the link induces the time of mating. Even if they’re far apart, they’re drawn back together by the link every seven years. They mate, or they die.”

“I’m not bonded with Vorik,” B’Elanna spat.

“He believed he bonded with you.”

She threw up a hand and turned away, glowering. “No!”

“Is…” Tom’s voice sounded strained. “Is he alright?”

“Ensign Vorik? Yes. We devised an alternate therapy. Actually, the little contretemps in the mess hall four days ago almost purged his pon farr. If it hadn’t, he likely would not have survived.”

“So he won’t be bothering her anymore?” Tom glanced at B’Elanna and she caught his eye. He was stone-faced. Quiet.

“I suspect he’ll stay far away from her for a while. Despite Ensign Vorik’s claims to the contrary, I believe he’s acutely embarrassed by his actions.”

Tom nodded. “So you’re saying that B’Elanna’s actions in the shuttle, her behaviour, was because…”

“Of the chemical imbalance, yes.”

Tom closed his eyes, shook his head.

“I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you both,” Janeway began, “so if you need some time, I understand. I’m sure nothing’s happened that can’t be undone—”

Tom huffed a laugh and shook his head. He started to raise a hand to his face, then let it drop.

“No!” B’Elanna shouted. He jumped at the vehemence in her tone and stared at her. “I was not out of control on that shuttle,” B’Elanna said. “I knew what I was doing. I knew what I wanted.”

Tom shook his head again, and there was pain in his eyes, recrimination. For himself, she had no doubt.

“I’ve loved you for months, Tom. I’ve just been too afraid to admit it.” His lips parted, and she saw hope flare in his eyes. He wanted to believe her, she could tell. She could only think of one way to convince him.

Her face took on a determined expression as she raised a hand to the front of her uniform jacket. She quickly drew the zipper down and shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor. Chakotay said her name but she ignored him, concentrating instead on the wary expression on Tom’s face. She pulled off her shirt and discarded that as well, then grabbed the neckline of her tank and yanked it down, exposing the upper swell of her breast. She didn’t care that they had an audience.

Tom hissed a breath when he saw his bite mark, still red and slightly swollen like his own.

“What does this mean?” she asked.

Tom looked stricken. “B’Elanna…”

She dropped her hand to the waistband of her slacks and tugged, exposing the dark bruises decorating her hip. His finger marks. “And these?”

She took a step toward him, reached out her hand and clasped his in a tight grip. “What did they mean when you gave them to me?” They were his gift to her: a sign of his passion, a sign of their bond. He had to see that.

He shook his head. “I… ”

“What did they mean?” she insisted. She raised a hand to his face, traced the bite mark on his jaw with her fingertips. She stared into his eyes; wouldn’t let him look away.

“That you’re mine,” he said quietly. “And I’m yours.”

“I refuse to regret this, Tom. I don’t care how we got here, loDnal, I’m just glad it finally happened. maj dok.”

Tom shuddered a long sigh. He smiled and nodded, and pulled her into his arms. “maj dok” he agreed. He kissed her hair, then turned toward an astonished command team. “Captain, we were thinking that the crew might appreciate a party, so we were wondering if you would marry us.”

Janeway wore a stunned expression that quickly broke into a disbelieving grin, but Chakotay frowned. “Are you sure?” He was looking at B’Elanna, assessing her.

“We’re already mates, Chakotay, we took the oath in the shuttle. This is just a formality.”

“And an excuse for a party,” Tom chimed in.

“I don’t know if I’m entirely comfortable with this,” the Doctor sniffed. “I want to run tests on both of you. I’m not convinced that she didn’t transmit the pon farr to you, too, Lieutenant.”

Tom smiled at his mate, gave her waist a little squeeze. He shrugged. “If she did, then everyone should try it. There’s nothing like a little Vulcan mating imperative to bring your true feelings to the surface.” He grinned at her, and she gave him a gentle thump on the chest.

“Well, this is all a little overwhelming,” Janeway began. “I’ve never married anyone before. Were you two even dating…?”

Tom laughed. “In our own way.”

“I insist that you both report to sickbay immediately,” the Doctor huffed. “Starfleet regulations require that every member of an away team report for a physical examination if they’ve been away longer than forty-eight hours, which you were.”

B’Elanna opened her mouth to protest but the Doctor continued, cutting her off. “And I need to treat those bite marks. Did you even think to clean them? A little soap and water goes a long way. The standard emergency medical kit has a regenerator, you know!”

Tom looked shocked. “Oh, no you don’t, Doc.” He held up a hand to ward off any surprise regenerators that may fly at his face. “The marks stay. And yes, I disinfected them.”

“They’ll still scar, right?” B’Elanna growled. She lifted a hand to his jaw and traced his mark—her mark—with a fingertip.

He smiled. “Oh, I think the best engineer in the fleet can figure out a way to reverse a regenerator so it leaves a scar.” He leaned closer to whisper in her ear, apparently conscious of their audience once again. “I like that you’ve marked me, be’nal.”

Chakotay cleared his throat. “So,” he said, clearly awkward but gamely trying, “wedding plans? Have you given any thought to…?”

B’Elanna nodded. “We were thinking of having it in the holodeck as soon as possible.”

“The beach programme?” Janeway suggested.

“That sounds nice. At sunset,” Tom said. “With Harry as my best man.”

“Of course,” Chakotay agreed.

B’Elanna glanced back at her mate and saw his eyes widen. “We need to tell Harry!” And a grin spread across his face. “Captain, if I may?” He gestured toward her desk and the computer sitting on top of it.

“Of course.” She acquiesced with an expansive wave of her hand, clearly beyond trying to put the brakes on the situation.

B’Elanna followed him past the scowling doctor and down the steps to the captain’s desk. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see,” he grinned. He reached across the desktop, and spun the console toward him and started typing. B’Elanna leaned over his shoulder to read what he was writing. His scent enveloped her, and heat rose from his body, and she had to remind herself where they were and who they were with. Maybe there was something to this mating imperative thing, after all.

He quickly tapped in his security code and accessed Voyager’s message system, sending a message directly to ops, where Harry was stationed.

Tom Paris and B’Elanna Torres request the pleasure of your company, and your service as best man, at their upcoming nuptials. Location: holodeck one, beach programme. Date and time: to be determined, but if you have plans for tonight, cancel them.

Tom hit send, then straightened and grinned at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. She was contemplating throwing him onto Janeway’s desk, protocol be damned, when Harry burst through the ready room doors, eyes round with shock, a disbelieving “WHAT?!” rang throughout the room.

~~~~

“That was nice.”

She was seated on his lap in the Cochrane holding a glass of champagne, wearing a thick gold band on the third finger of her left hand and very little else. Her head was resting on his shoulder, her back on his chest, and he had an arm curled around her waist anchoring her in place.

“Mmmmm.” He hummed into her hair and placed a chaste kiss on her temple. Their backs were to the viewport, but had they swung the chair around—provided B’Elanna’s knees weren’t in the way—they would have seen the swirling greens and purples and yellows of the Pea Soup Nebula off to starboard. It was still officially classified Delta Nebula XIV, but Tom was petitioning Janeway for a name change and, provided he hadn’t used up all of her goodwill for the next decade or two, he was pretty sure she would give in and let him log it in the official report.

Voyager was floating above them like a mother hen with her chick beneath her belly. They had returned to the nebula two days ago, ahead of the wedding, so they could capture and convert as many omicron particles as they could store. The extra replicator rations had come in handy during the wedding reception. Joe Carey and Sue Nicoletti were working on jury-rigging antimatter batteries right now: a wedding gift dear to both Tom and B’Elanna’s hearts.

“What was your favourite part?” B’Elanna’s voice was low, her tone cajoling. She turned her head and ran her lips over Tom’s jaw, over the mark she had given him not a week ago. It was almost healed, as was hers, but she wasn’t sure if it would scar properly. It should, given his pale skin, but she might have to mark him a few more times for it to show her claim on him. She’d noticed that Jenkins had been a little too handsy with him in the mess hall last month, and she never did like the way Kes smiled at him. Bad enough that, as the Doctor’s assistant, she’d likely seen him naked more than once; her husband did have a habit of getting injured more often than most crew members.

Of course, the way he’d kissed her at their wedding should halt any rivals for his affections.

He turned his head and kissed her again now, digging his fingers into her hair, twirling the curls she so resented into long ringlets. He drew back and kissed her nose, her forehead, the place where her ridges blended into her hairline. “I think,” he murmured, “it has to be when I first saw… Harry after he fell into the pool.”

She snorted and thumped him on the shoulder. “Be serious,” she grumbled. While she’d been busy with testing the particle conversion, he’d taken on the job of planning the ceremony and reprogramming the beach resort into a beautiful wedding venue. Her breath had caught when she’d stepped out onto the patio, her arm tucked into Chakotay’s, and she’d seen the hundreds of candles softly lighting the warm evening, the boughs and sprays of flowers everywhere. He had even thought to include their scent. She’d been thrilled with the bouquet that Kes had given her, cut from her personal flower garden in the hydroponics bay, but the detail that Tom had put into the programme had taken her breath away, and brought her to tears.

And, true Tom, he was joking about it.

“The captain catching the bouquet?”

She frowned and set her empty glass down on the deck.

“The look on Chakotay’s face when the captain caught the bouquet?”

“Be careful, parmaqqay,” she growled. “I can hurt you.”

“Oh, I hope so,” he drawled, grinning. She turned her head and nipped him on the earlobe with her sharp teeth, tasted the drop of blood that welled there. “Ow! No! Wait! It was when Chell dropped the tray of little sausage rolls on Chakotay’s head!”

He was laughing now, and she launched herself at him, turning in his lap and straddling him, catching his wrists and pulling his arms up over his head. “I’ll roll your sausage, Paris!”

“I certainly hope so, Mrs. Paris.” Her naked breasts bounced just under his chin, and he dipped his head and laved the spot where he’d marked her with his tongue. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

B’Elanna arched her back, pushing herself closer. She loved the feel of his crisp chest hairs against her breasts. Tom nudged aside the collar of his Big Daddy-O Surf Special shirt—which he’d admitted looked a hell of a lot better on her than it did on him—with his nose and kissed and nipped a trail up her throat to the underside of her jaw. B’Elanna felt it in her groin, and ground her center against him, and didn’t even notice that he’d lowered their arms until she registered that he was gripping her waist, lifting her, then lowering her onto his not so little sausage.

She groaned and gripped him by the hair, threw back her head and stared at the swirling colours of the nebula outside the viewport, then closed her eyes and kissed him again.

Chapter Text

Teeny Tiny Epilogue…

Kathryn Janeway stood just inside the doors of cargo bay two surveying the canisters and stasis containers, andthe bailed, dried...leaves? vines? stalks? that filled the room to bursting.

She was content. The crisis with Ensign Vorik had been resolved and Chakotay, the fool, was on the mend. Tom and B’Elanna were blissful with how their chapter in the story had turned out, and the gallicite had been the icing on their wedding cake. Kes was busy seeing if she could harvest seeds and roots from their new food supplies for propagating. Even Chell, puttering happily amongst said containers, was cheerful. He was humming tunelessly, inspecting and cataloguing their bounty and making notes on a PADD.

He turned abruptly when he noticed her, and bustled over to her side. “Captain!” He was grinning hugely. “I’ve found the most wonderful thing!”

“Do tell, Crewman.” She smiled in return.

He produced a plant with a thick, irregularly-shaped root system and spiky leaves that reminded her of a tiny palm tree. She took the gold and green specimen and gave it a careful sniff. It smelled faintly of ginger, with an underlying bitterness. She refrained from wrinkling her nose just in time.

“How interesting,” she said, using every bit of her ‘fleet-learned discretion.

”Very much so!” Chell enthused. “The leaves of this plant will kill you in a matter of hours. A thoroughly agonizing death. First, your tongue will swell, then your throat will close up, but not quite enough to cut off your breathing. Then your stomach will—”

“Enough,” Janeway raised a hand. “Why do we have so much of it?”

“For the root! The root is chalk full of vitamins and minerals. Proteins, carbohydrates, why, it’s practically a meal in itself! And I’ve been advised that it’s very versatile. It can be baked, boiled, fried, shredded, mashed, dic—”

“It sounds lovely.” Janeway cut him off.

“Oh, it is!” he assured her. “I’m serving it tonight. A little celebration for the crew.”

“And what is this wonder food called, Mister Chell?” Janeway couldn’t help but smile back at his enthusiasm.

“They called it, L’e’o h’la. I’m not sure what it means, but I’m hoping it’s Kre’CHur for delicious. And the best part is, they gave us nine metric tonnes of it! We have enough to last for years if I’m careful.”

“Well, it looks like we got the best of that trade. You might want to consider keeping it under lock and key.”

“Believe me, Captain, no one will be pilfering my supplies. I’ll guard this root with my life!”

Kathryn smiled and nodded, turned back toward the doors and, for the first time in many months, she was looking forward to the evening meal.

~~~~~~