Chapter Text
Kathryn's patience ran out at the exact wrong moment.
The trouble started with a simple trade negotiation, which quickly spiraled into a test of diplomatic forbearance that strained her composure to the breaking point. She would have listened to the Doctor if his warning hadn't come on the tail end of an exceptionally irritating day.
She was on her last frayed nerve by the time she spoke to him, and well beyond caring about anything other than ending this wretched week and getting on with the business of traveling home.
She could not have foreseen the impact this would have on herself and her chief helmsman, or the collateral damage to her first officer.
The fault lay, in more ways than one, with the satrap. She had never assaulted a friendly alien diplomat and she wasn't about to end her streak on the Holy and Exalted Satrap of Withorp. But oh, how she wanted to boot the little man across his office, and Voyager's peaceful traversal of this sector be damned.
The satrap was half her height, twice her age, and covered in a thin layer of slime as blue as the wrap core.
He was also, obnoxiously enough, an incredibly tactile person. He put her usual count of arm pats and casual shoulder clasps to shame.
Kathryn had witnessed him slapping the backs of all his subordinates as they navigated Voyager through the Withorpi's elaborate first contact protocols. Unfortunately, owing to her height advantage over the diminutive alien leader, her own back was out of easy reach. Much to her chagrin, this was not a hindrance to the satrap.
Either the man was an unapologetic lech or his culture had wildly different taboos from the Federation. Over the course of Voyager's week-long trade negotiations he had placed his hands on her waist, her legs, her hips, and – once, most unfortunately in front of her first officer – directly on her left buttock.
As she had seen him do the same to Tuvok earlier that morning, she tried not to assume ill intent, but merely steered the satrap away from both Chakotay and B’Elanna at every opportunity thereafter.
And each time that he touched her he left a sticky blue residue on her uniform. Something she was slightly allergic to, according to the Doctor, and as evidenced by the raw, red tone of her hands when she touched the slime.
Now the satrap stood before her in his office, one hand clasping a triangular, spiral bottle of green liquid and the other holding confidently to her fingers in the most minimal handshake she could manage, bidding her farewell and good luck.
“It has been an absolute delight, my dear Captain Janeway, to meet you and your little ship and to learn of your incredible journey.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” she said by rote, acutely aware of his hand slipping about in hers. She felt the slime coating her skin. “You've been most generous to us.”
“I only wish we could do more,” he said, taking his hand back and patting her on the stomach. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Home stretch. She could keep it together for a few more moments, then she would beam back to Voyager and never suffer this slimy, itchy, irritating little man again.
“Truly, Satrap, you've given us so much.”
“One last gift! Fermented walwal pulp, aged fourteen rotations. A most excellent beverage. Good for social encounters.”
Ah, alcohol. A near universal vice, it seemed. The bottle's shape reminded her of Cardassian kanar; the virulent green color did not.
She took the wine. It felt like her due, and the cool glass soothed the burn in her hands.
“Thank you,” she said again, teeth gritted. “And now I really must return to my ship.”
“Of course, of course. Be sure not to drink alone!” He chortled. “Although I'm sure a lovely lady like you has no trouble in that department.”
He reached as if to grasp her hand one more time but she had already tapped her comm badge and vanished in a shower of blue sparkles. The harsh light of the transporter room had rarely felt so welcoming.
She glanced at the odd bottle as she stepped down from the transporter pad. She'd swing by sickbay and have the Doctor run a toxicology analysis after he sorted out her hands. It better come back clean; she had earned this.
──
“Hmm.” The Doctor hummed disapprovingly as he peered at her reddened hands. “And I suppose not touching the alien dignitary was out of the question?”
“Holding his hand was the lesser evil,” Kathryn said. “Can you clear this up or not?”
“Easily enough,” the Doctor assured her. “Hold still.”
The Doctor rummaged about for a moment, leaving her sat on the biobed, tired and irritated. Several vials were checked and passed over before he finally loaded a hypospray and returned to her side. The cold pressure and soft hiss at her throat was followed by an immediate relief as the raw, itchy feeling in her hands subsided. She rubbed her thumbs over her fingers as the ruddy color faded.
"Thank you,” she said, hopping down from the biobed. “One more thing. Can you check if this wine is fit to drink?”
The Doctor was frowning at the sticky blue hand print on her stomach and did not accept the proffered bottle. “You may be re-exposed. Come back later, after you've changed your uniform, and I'll administer another dose.”
Kathryn brandished her prize meaningfully and the Doctor relented, taking the wine bottle from her and beginning to scan it.
“Well, I doubt this is good for you,” he said. “Why the recreational imbibement of intoxicants is such a popular pastime, I will never-”
“Is it safe for human consumption?” she clarified, interrupting his tirade. She heard quite enough from the Doctor regarding her caffeine intake - she did not need his opinions regarding alcohol. Not after the day she'd had.
He glanced down at his tricorder, frowning as he studied the results.
“I'd hardly call anything that induces this degree of impaired judgment safe for-”
“Is it toxic?”
“No,” he said. “There should be no long-term deleterious effects.” Then he re-assumed the lecturing tone that was becoming far too familiar. “Assuming it is consumed in moderation, and not mixed with any intoxicants or stimulants or other aph-”
“I'm not allergic to it?” she interrupted again.
“No, it's not that reaction that worries me. My concern-”
“Thank you,” she said, snatching the bottle back from him and turning to leave.
“Don't give any to a Vulcan!” he called after her.
What a weird warning, Kathryn thought, and then promptly dismissed it.
──
Dinner that night was in her quarters, consisting primarily of duty roster revisions and mushroom risotto. She was preoccupied programming the replicator and had almost forgotten her earlier irritation and all that had engendered it.
Chakotay was the one to suggest drinks.
“Good idea,” Kathryn said, recalling the satrap's gift. After the successful trade negotiations, getting sloshed on alien wine sounded perfect, and never mind the Doctor's naysaying.
Chakotay wrinkled his nose when she produced the bottle. “Where did you get kanar?”
“It's from Withorp, actually. I haven't tried it yet.”
“All the same," he said. "I'll pass.”
“As you like,” Kathryn agreed, replacing the bottle on her sideboard and replicating two glasses of a sweet Riesling she knew Chakotay favored. She could try the new wine on her own time easily enough.
They proceeded to have a peaceful, pleasant evening, much the same as their usual evenings together.
The bottle of alien wine was left, momentarily forgotten, in place of pride on her sideboard, waiting patiently to be selected.
──
Her door chime sounded.
Kathryn looked up from her desk in surprise. Chakotay had left well over an hour ago, and she was beginning to give her bed some serious consideration. She had shed her jacket in token acknowledgment of the hour, though not yet changed into her sleepwear. Which was just as well if she was about to have a visitor. She called for entry.
It was Tom, brandishing a medkit.
“House call!” He said, cheerfully letting himself in. “The Doc sent me.”
Kathryn sighed. She'd forgotten about the second round of antihistamines and never returned to sickbay.
Tom stepped in, looking around with unapologetic interest. It occurred to her that he'd never seen the captain's quarters.
“Swanky digs,” he pronounced. He set the medkit on the coffee table and removed a medical tricorder. “May I?”
She closed her console and moved to join him, waiting with more patience and good grace than she would have afforded the Doctor while Tom scanned her hands, then made a more general sweep over her body.
“I haven't had any trouble since we departed Withorp,” she informed him.
“Yeah, you look good.” Tom closed the tricorder and rifled around in the medkit. “Since I'm here anyway, want something prophylactic?”
He brandished a hypospray with exaggerated enthusiasm. She waved it back.
“No, Tom. That's alright. I'm sorry to have wasted your time.”
“It's no trouble, Captain.” He repacked the medkit. She watched him taking another, more surreptitious look around. He seemed reluctant to go.
“Stay for a nightcap?”
Tom's obvious delight at the offer did somewhat to assuage her guilt over the unnecessary visit.
“I'll be right back. Help yourself,” Kathryn said, gesturing towards her replicator and her small collection of bottles.
Tom drifted towards the sideboard while she went to find her discarded jacket. Tom was still in uniform, even at this hour, likely due to the house call. She would feel more comfortable in an equal state of dress if he was staying for a while. Something about Tom always set her slightly on edge, though she'd never examined that feeling.
To her delight, when she returned, he had set aside a distinctive spiral bottle and was holding two glasses of bright green liquid. She should have known - he'd found the only bottle in her collection that was Delta Quadrant in origin, and therefore unlikely to be synthahol. Classic Tom.
She took a sip of her drink. Floral, tangy. She couldn't even taste the alcohol, other than a smooth warmth that bloomed in her chest.
“Good choice,” she told him.
The warmth moved through her limbs as she settled closer to Tom. She felt relaxed and happy for the first time in a long while. This was good idea, turning Tom's visit into a social call. She was glad he'd stayed.
She swallowed another mouthful of wine, then set her glass carefully aside. She should socialize with more of her crew. Especially Tom. Maybe only Tom.
He was perched carefully on the edge of his seat, facing her, holding his drink in one hand and with the other draped casually over the back of the sofa. The length of the cushions stretched out behind him. Her own hand moved, almost without conscious volition, to rest against his bicep. He felt solid, steady, and he didn't move away. She wondered if she could push him over.
It seemed a strange thought. She'd been here, not two hours ago, with Chakotay, and all her thoughts had been occupied with ship's business.
She met Tom eyes and realized that there was an easy way to find out.