DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters
are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc and Viacom. The story contents are the
creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2004 by Djinn. This story
is Rated PG.
Banked Fire
by Djinn
The bar is gloomy, dark and
too warm. It smells musty from clothing worn for too long in too hot a climate.
Torres closes her eyes, breathing deeply. She's worlds away from dirty diapers
and the safe place that Earth has become.
She's worlds away from Tom
and Miral.
She would have to, if
pressed, admit that she's in heaven. No one calls for her, or cries, or falls
down in the next room only to shriek.
She's a good mother. But
sometimes she longs to just be herself, to just be Torres: the bad-tempered
engineer who took no shit off anyone. That woman has seemed so far away for so
long, and Torres has enjoyed getting her back.
Even if it's only for a few
more days.
"Slumming,
Lieutenant?" The raspy voice is full of amusement.
Torres feels her lips turn
up, it's almost a Pavlovian response after seven years with this voice, with
this woman. "I could say the same about you, Admiral." She looks up as
Janeway laughs. She laughs too. It feels good. Woman to woman.
"May I?"
Torres nods. "Of all the
dives on all the planets..." She's paraphrasing badly. Tom's love of
things past has rubbed off on her; his knowledge hasn't made as much headway.
But Janeway seems to get it. "I
know. I had to walk into this one." She sits, her compact body taking less
space than her essence does. She's always seemed larger than life to Torres,
always seemed like a giantess. It's a shock to realize how petite she is after
the months away from her.
"How are you,
Admiral?"
"We're off duty, B'Elanna. And out of uniform."
Torres is uncertain what to
do with that. She settles for taking a long sip of her drink. She's not sure
what's in her glass. Knows only that it's strong and slightly bitter and a
dark, dark orange.
Janeway smiles. "I mean
you can call me Kathryn."
"Mmmm."
Torres smiles, but she knows it's a wary expression. "I don't think
so."
She means it as a joke; it
seems to strike like a missile. Janeway's expression goes blank, and suddenly
she's cold, as distant as she ever looked on the bridge, when Chakotay made one
of his gentle suggestions that maybe the captain was a little bit crazy.
Torres looks down. She didn't
mean to rip into her former commanding officer.
At least not that hard.
"Sorry. My humor
subroutine needs work." EMH jokes might work where mean-spirited humor
didn't.
Janeway just nods. She sips her
own drink, something clear—it may be water, it may be straight one-hundred
proof. There's no smell, and Janeway's eyes don't water as she drinks it. She
makes no face to indicate it's anything potent.
Torres looks down. "It's
just..."
"Fine. It's fine, B'Elanna. Let's drop it."
It drops. All the way to the
floor and then some.
"I didn't expect to see
you here." Torres knows Janeway could say the same of her. She looks away
before her former captain can ask her why she's on Trilaris
Prime. Of course, she can always say she's here to help. Freakishly strong ion
storms wiped out the infrastructure; Starfleet answered the call—B'Elanna answered the call. Quickly, too quickly perhaps. Tom
looked a bit hurt when she first told him she'd be gone for a few weeks. She
may have seemed too eager to be away—to be alone.
"Earth gets a
little...dull." Janeway's staring at her, eyes dark, almost all pupil, or
maybe it's just the light.
Torres wants to look away,
but she can't. "Life gets a little dull."
A slight nod concedes the
point. No other indication that Janeway agrees with her or not, as she sips her
maybe-water-maybe-more.
"Do you miss it?" Torres
wishes immediately that she could take the words back.
"What? Exactly?"
"Voyager." Torres
misses it. Misses the hum of the engines—her engines—underfoot, the smell of
the alien components she melded seamlessly with Starfleet ones, the sound of
her crew, working, talking, mourning, sometimes rejoicing. God...what she
wouldn't give—
"Not as much as you do,
apparently," Janeways says as she watches her,
as if she can read every single thought. Maybe she can. She's always seemed
like a bit of a witch to Torres. Too powerful. Too insightful.
"The adventure. I miss
that."
"Yes. The Hirogen, the Borg, the Kazon. Boy,
do I miss them." Janeway's picking the worst times, the defeats—the
horrible parts of the adventure. She must still be smarting over the name
thing.
Torres tries it out, forms
the word in her mouth. "Kathryn"—the name almost sounds natural—"there
was more than just that."
But it seems a betrayal to
say that. To Joe Carey, especially. Torres still thinks of him. Still wishes
she had the courage or the compassion to reach out to his wife, to his children,
but it's hard enough some days for her to reach out to Tom and Miral.
"Maybe." Janeway
finishes her drink. "You want another?" Her eyes dare Torres to say
no.
"Sure." She belts
back the drink, feeling reckless. It's been a long time since she felt this
free, this energized, despite how tired she is from working double shifts on
the repairs.
Getting up, Janeway goes to
the bar, somehow managing to push past men and women much larger. Her own
special magic. There's no doubt who's in command here.
Torres misses that more than
anything. Knowing exactly who her boss was, knowing who she had to please, and
how. Keep the ship going, make it more efficient, get them home. It was a joint
mission, a shared goal. Their dream.
She's dying of boredom in
their dream. She will never tell Tom that, hopes that she never inadvertently
shows him that. But getting home was a lot more exciting when it was years away
than what the reality has proven to be.
"Here." Another
glass, full of something pink and steaming is in front of her. Janeway looks at
her, her eyes hard, her smile mocking.
"You don't seriously
think you can drink me under the table, do you?" Torres feels something
coming alive as she talks, something dangerous and dark and full of the old
Maquis ways.
"Oh, I think I can more
than drink you under the table." Janeway's gaze doesn't waver; she doesn't
blink as she stares Torres down. There's more than a little of the Maquis in
her too. Torres wonders if the admiral realizes that maybe she's too wild for
Starfleet, especially after seven unfettered years.
"So why are you
here, Kathryn." Torres watches Janeway's face as she calls her by her
given name; she doesn't look comfortable with the familiarity, despite having
invited the liberty. "Would you prefer admiral, after all?"
"Kathryn's fine." There's
an edge running through Janeway's voice; her tone could cut glass. The glare
she gives Torres as she sips the steaming pinkness could shatter glass.
Torres reaches for her drink,
takes one small sip and nearly chokes at the rancid, penetrating taste of the
sticky liquid. Spitting hers back into the glass, Janeway breaks up, even as
her eyes start to water, from pain, Torres thinks, not from mirth.
"My god. That's
awful." Torres is laughing now too, laughing in a way she hasn't laughed
for a very, very long time.
"I'm sorry." Janeway
wipes her eyes. "That bartender hates one of us. Or possibly both of
us."
Torres slides out of her
chair, picking up the glasses and making her way to the bar as if she's still
in the Maquis and this bar is her home turf. She sets the glasses on the bar,
pushes them toward the bald and shiny man who looks oily and dirty and utterly
at home in the seedy little place.
"She said she wanted a
taste of the local color." He looks a little worried that the local color
might earn him a thrashing.
Torres is tempted. It's been
a long time since she beat someone up just for fun. "Make it up to
me."
He nods, fixes her a double
of what she had to begin with. The orange liquid is suddenly comforting. He
hands her something else, this time dark, like a bitter stout. "For your
friend." He manages to put an
interesting twist on the word.
"My friend isn't going
to appreciate any more dirty tricks."
"She'll like this. I'm
good at reading people."
Torres laughs. "Oh,
yeah? Read me." She stares at him, her smile dangerous. But then her smile
slips as she sees something in his face, something she doesn't like. "You
think I'm housebroken?" The thought angers her, probably because it's
true. She is tame. Tom's pet Klingon.
And most of the time, she
likes it like that.
"I never said that. Drinks
are on the house. You go back to your girlfriend now."
It makes her feel odd, to
walk back to the table with him thinking that she and her former captain are
more than just old comrades. She looks at Janeway and smiles as she does it. It's
been so long since she felt this way—antsy and sexy and just a little bit
deadly.
Janeway looks up at her,
takes her drink and says, "What kept you?" as if she wants to provoke
her more than she already has.
Torres sits down and studies
her.
"Are you looking for
something in particular? Would you like me to give you my best side?" Janeway
turns her head in profile, facing away from the bar, away from the man and his
ability to read her. This isn't surprising; Torres knows the admiral does not
like to be read.
"I know why I'm here,"
Torres says. "I'm bored. I'll admit it. Earth...bores me. Now. You admit
it."
"I'm here because
Starfleet Command thought an admiral should be overseeing the rebuilding. It is
our best listening post against the outer reaches."
She's right. It's no secret. The
Federation, the Klingons, hell, everyone comes here to peer out with their
newest gadgets and try to guess what sort of nasty thing might be coming down
the pike. The Borg? Something worse?
"And they asked for
you?"
"Any admiral would
do." Janeway takes a drink, smiles and nods approval—obviously, the
bartender could read her, at least as far as her beverage preferences.
"So
you volunteered?"
"Yes, B'Elanna, I volunteered." Janeway leans back, and with
the move seems to shed some sort of tension she's been wearing like a cloak. She
stares at Torres with the fond half-smile she used to wear when she would come
down to engineering and "help out."
Torres loved those times. Quiet,
between some crisis or other. Just the two of them. Passing instruments back
and forth, talking softly about this modification or that possibility for
improvement. Sometimes, Seven joined them. Torres
hated that. Not that she hates Seven—or at least not anymore. But back then,
she resented Seven horning in on her time with Janeway. Time that became
increasingly rare as they got closer to home.
"I miss you," she
says, then takes a quick drink. Why the hell did she say that? It must be the
drink. Orange for truth, orange for blurting out stupid, honest, useless
statements.
Janeway doesn't answer, and
Torres feels unreasonably hurt. Unreasonably because she doesn't expect her to
say that she misses her too, or to tell her she's sorry.
"I was your protege
first." Again, such stupid, useless truth.
"You didn't need me the
way she did." Janeways says it as if it's
something they've talked about often. Maybe she told herself this? Maybe she
felt guilty when she abandoned her half-Klingon mutt for her shiny new doll?
"How did you know that? How
did you know what I needed?" Torres looks down. "I didn't even know
what I needed."
"I know." Janeway
sighs then reaches out and touches Torres's hand. Her touch is light, warm. Soft.
"Don't. You use that
like a weapon. Your touch. Your skin." Torres says it, but she doesn't
pull away.
Janeway doesn't pull away
either. She pushes Torres hand over, lays her hand in it. A hand that's so much
smaller. Tiny, really. Torres could crush it like a little bird. She folds her
fingers over Janeway's.
Janeway exhales slowly, the
sound ragged.
"Where is she now? Seven?"
It's a question aimed to hurt. Torres knows where Seven is. When she isn't
visiting chez Paris with Chakotay, she's off in the bowels of Starfleet
Command, wowing the resident science base with her Borg know-how and
efficiency. She isn't anywhere near Janeway, and by the look on the admiral's
face, it has been a long time since she's laid eyes on Seven.
Even longer since she's laid
anything el—
Janeway jerks her hand away,
no mean feat since Torres is holding on firmly. Torres doesn't even question
that she could tell what she was thinking. Janeway is a witch, a sorceress, a
warrior. Her idol.
"I love how strong you
are," Torres says, smiling at her former captain with courage fueled by
orange alien liquor and the knowledge that no one will ever know what happens
here.
"B'Elanna.
I'm your husband's friend."
"I know." Her voice
is mocking. She doesn't even try to soften her tone. "That's why you stop
by to see him so often." She's never been by. Not to see Tom. Not to see
any of them. Miral wouldn't know her "Aunt
Kathryn" if Janeway bit her in the ass. Torres laughs, leaning back,
stretching.
Once, back in her Maquis
days, Torres and Seska were in a bar like this.
"Do you like her?" Seska asked, pointing out a native beauty.
Torres laughed. She liked
Chakotay. And she hadn't yet found out that he'd liked Seska
a whole lot better.
"She likes you," Seska said in that way she had that made everything a
little bit risky, a little bit sexy.
And it was probably true. The
woman was staring over at them, over at her the way Kathryn is looking at her
now. Only there wasn't any anger in the alien's eyes. And there definitely is
in Kathryn's.
It's getting easier by the
minute to call her Kathryn.
"I want you,"
Torres says, maybe to the girl from so long ago, maybe to Janeway. Maybe to the
memory of what they once had, made prettier by time and alien alcohol.
"You want me?" Janeway
slams her hand down. "You don't want me. You want our old life back. It's
what I want too, B'Elanna. Yes, I'm bored at Command.
Yes, I'm bored on Earth. Yes, I miss it." She finishes her drink and
starts to stand.
"And it's why you came
to my table. So that you could say that. Finally."
Janeway stops rising, then
slowly sinks down. She sighs, and the sound is the epitome of defeat, if this
woman ever actually admitted defeat.
Torres smiles. Maybe the
bartender's rubbing off on her. Or maybe she's a little bit witch too?
"I have a room." She
knows what Janeway will say. But she wants it out there. The offer. Even if it
just hangs in the air between them forever. Even if there is never anything
else for them. She wants it out there.
"I have a perfectly good
room of my own." The words could be cruel, but Janeway's smiling at her in
a way that's far from that. She looks down, and the smile turns into a grin. "Do
you remember? Passing the hypospanner to me?"
Torres nods. Sometimes, she'd
miss, just so their hands would touch for a moment. And every time Janeway
left, she'd put her hand on Torres's arm, on her back, on her shoulder. The
goodbye touch. A longed-for touch.
"I love Tom." Torres
feels the need to say it. "And Miral." It's
tearing at her suddenly. That they're home, and they love her, and she loves
them. And that she wants this woman still, this woman who trusted her and gave
her a chance and was everything to her for so very long.
"I know you do,"
Janeway says, her hand again falling on Torres's hand. "And they love
you." It's unsaid that she views Torres as lucky, that she views her as
happy. "You'll be all right."
"I know. So will you." There's silence then. She could leave it
at this. She could...but she can't. "It's good to be here though. For a
while."
Janeway nods. "Yes. It
is." She takes a long sip of her drink.
"So
what does an admiral do on a war-torn world?"
"Meet people. Read
reports."
"Sounds
scintillating." Torres laughs at her.
"Wait till you're an
admiral, missy." It's the voice of old. The voice of shared hypospanners and a "no Borgs allowed" tree fort.
Torres smiles. "There's
work to be done, you know? Engineer-type work, not admiral-type work."
"I forgot my tool
belt." But Janeway looks nostalgic again.
"I'll share mine."
Their eyes meet—a long,
lingering glance that could be the start of something torrid and wonderful and
probably very wrong.
Them they both look down.
"What time do you start
in the morning?" Janeway asks.
"As soon as the anti-tox
kicks in."
The admiral laughs. Not a
mean laugh or a self-deprecating one. But a real laugh. "I'll find you."
"I'll count on
that."
Janeway's smile is gentle,
her touch soft again—one last, glancing connection before she's up and out of
her chair. "You can count on that."
Their eyes meet. So many
other things that could be shared besides that promise are whirling around them
and between them. Torres forces her hands into her lap, where she won't reach
out, won't try to draw this woman back in, back down, back to her.
She notices that Janeway has
clenched her fists, then she puts her hands behind her back, the picture of an
admiral at parade rest.
"I'll see you
tomorrow," Torres finally says, releasing her.
She stays in her seat as
Janeway walks away, only looks for one long moment as Janeway nears the door,
then forces her head back down, to study a drink she no longer wants.
A cup of something that
smells like coffee is pushed under her nose. She looks up at the bartender. If
anything, he looks even oilier, but his eyes seem to read her, all the way to
her heart where the woman who just left defends the space she carved out long
ago, a space she shares with a precious girl and a beloved man.
"I'm not house
broken," she says, sucking down the coffee.
"Of course not." He
wisely says nothing more as he leaves her to what probably, for her, resembles
honor.
FIN