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 is worlds away from dirty diapers and the
safe place that Earth has become.
She is worlds away from Tom and Miral.
She would have to, if
pressed, admit that she is in heaven. No
one calls for her, or cries, or falls down in the next room only to shriek.
She is 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, sees
Janeway laugh. She laughs too. It feels good. Woman to woman.
"May I?"
Torres nods. "Of all the dives on all the
planets..." She is 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 has always
seemed larger than life to Torres, always seemed like a giantess. It is 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 is 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 at her own drink, something
clear--it may be water, it may be straight one-hundred proof. There is no smell, and Janeway's eyes don't
water as she drinks it. She makes no
face to indicate it is 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 is staring
at her, eyes dark, almost all pupil, or maybe it is 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 at 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 Torres, 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 is
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 has 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 is no doubt who
is 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 is 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 is more than a little of the Maquis in
her too. Torres wonders if the admiral
realizes that maybe she is 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 does not look comfortable with the familiarity,
despite having invited the liberty.
"Would you prefer admiral after all?"
"Kathryn's
fine." There is an edge running
through Janeway's voice; her tone could cut glass. The glare she gives Torres as she sips at 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 has not laughed for a very, very long time.
"I'm sorry." Janeway wipes at 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 is 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, 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 is not 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.
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 is something they have 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, 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. Her hand is so much
smaller. Tiny, really. Torres could crush it like a little
bird. She folds her fingers over
Janeway's.
She hears Janeway
exhale. Slowly, the sound ragged.
"Where is she now? Seven?"
It is a question aimed to hurt.
Torres knows where Seven is. When she is not visiting chez
Even longer since she's laid
anything el--
Janeway jerks her hand away,
no mean feat since Torres is holding on firmly.
Torres does not 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
has 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. Her eyes were looking
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, 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 is rubbing off on
her. Or maybe she is 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 is smiling at her in a way that is 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. The
longed-for touch.
"I love Tom." Torres feels the need to say it. "And Miral."
It is tearing at her suddenly.
That they are 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 is unsaid that she views Torres as lucky,
that she views her as happy.
"You'll be all right."
"I know. So will you." There is 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 is 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.
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 laugh. 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 is 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 will not reach out, will not 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 am 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