"I don't get it," Torres said impatiently.
Paris nodded slowly, looking at Chakotay. "Oh. I do. B'Elanna, look
at the composition of the groups."
"Comp---what?" B'Elanna stood and revolved, slowly staring at each
table in turn. So much for subtlety. She plopped back in the chair
and glanced from the pilot to the first officer. "So what? Male,
female. Mixed groups. What are you getting at?"
Paris sighed. Sometimes his love could be astonishingly narrow of
vision. Unless the matter in question involved a technical or
engineering problem. "B'Elanna, the Maquis and the Starfleet crews
aren't mingling. The Maquis are all at those tables to the right of
the bar. The 'Fleeters are all to the left and in the center."
"What's going on, Chakotay?" she demanded.
"I don't know. I was hoping you did. It was too much to hope it might
be something simple, I guess," he said, sipping his syntheholic beer.
"I've noticed increasing tension the last couple of weeks. But no
one's talking. I can't get a straight answer out of anyone. I'd hoped
you might have heard something."
"I'm too busy to hear anything," Torres snorted. "And they're busy
talking about Paris----not to him!"
"Hey!" Tom protested reflexively, but subsided when she shot him a
smile.
"I'll figure it out eventually," Chakotay stated. "So what have you
two been up to? I haven't seen you in the messhall for dinner for the
last couple of nights."
"Malista has been doing the cooking. And, oh, Chakotay, what you have
missed! Have you ever had moussaka?" Tom patted his flat, muscular
stomach for emphasis.
The first officer smiled wryly. "No, I don't believe I have. What is
it?"
"A Greek dish. Ground lamb with sliced eggplant. And we had rice pilaf
and fried zucchini, with gingerbread men for dessert." Tom licked his
lips as he reminisced about his latest repast.
"Gingerbread? Is that part of Greek cuisine?" Chakotay asked.
"No, but it's Harry's favorite," Torres replied. "And what did *you*
have for dinner, Commander?" Her brown eyes snapped with mischief.
Chakotay grimaced. "Pleeka rind stew. Again."
"Aw," Tom groaned with mock sympathy. "Too bad."
"I may have a talk with your 'sister', Mr. Paris. It may be bad for
morale if the crew finds out how well she cooks and that they aren't
invited to share the meals," Chakotay teased. "She could at least
invite me."
B'Elanna sniffed. "I don't know what the fuss is about. Anyone can
cook. It's not that hard."
Chakotay sputtered into his beer. "B'Elanna! That from you---of all
people!"
Sensing a good story, Tom closed in. "Oh? There's something I need to
know?"
"No!" B'Elanna said with a threatening glance at her commander.
"Yes," he corrected. "Tom, you're looking at the only Starfleet cadet
in Academy history who managed to burn----"
Torres surged to her feet and flounced away with a searing glance over
her shoulder at both men. She headed for the bar.
Chakotay and Paris exchanged glances. "Oops?"
"She's on a short fuse," Chakotay commented. "Any idea why?"
"I'm not sure. Overwork? She has been working awfully hard. I tried to
get her to relax, but---" Tom shrugged.
"Or jealousy?" the first officer speculated.
Tom squinted at him. "I beg your pardon? Jealousy? Now, wait just a
minute, Chakotay---" He stopped as Chakotay held up a placating hand.
"I don't mean you've given her reason to be jealous. Think about it,
Tom. You're bragging about someone else's cooking and I start to tell
a story that makes her out to be a lousy cook."
"You think she's jealous----of Malista?" Tom was incredulous. That
would never have occurred to him.
"Just think about it. B'Elanna is very competitive----"
Chakotay's patience held. "Malista can cook. B'Elanna can't. Malista
can knit. B'Elanna isn't good at that kind of thing either. Malista
doesn't lose her temper. B'Elanna blows up easily. If she thinks
you're comparing them---maybe she feels---inadequate."
"That's ridiculous! I've never said or done anything to---Let's just
see about that!" Tom said indignantly and strode over to the bar.
Torres pointedly ignored him, keeping her eyes on her drink.
"We need to talk," Tom said flatly. He was not going to take 'no' as
an answer.
Torres ignored him.
"Fine. If you want to talk here," Tom's volume increased as he went
on, "then we'll TALK HERE WHERE EVERYBODY CAN HEAR---"
Torres stabbed him with a glare as her hand flew up to cover his
mouth. Satisfied that he was silenced, she spun on her heel and strode
out of the holodeck, leaving it to him to follow---or not.
Paris was right behind her all the way to her quarters, neither of
them speaking.
She stalked into her living area and turned to face him, hands on
hips. "You wanted to talk?"
"Yes," Paris snarled, his easygoing charm had been left behind in the
holodeck. "I do want to talk. You want to tell me what the hell *that*
was all about?"
"What?" she snapped.
"We seem to be having a good time, then Chakotay starts to tell a joke
that might make you look bad---and all of a sudden you're in some
kind of Klingon snit! That's what! Where's your sense of humor? What's
the problem?"
"I am NOT in a Klingon snit!" she seethed.
"Then what do you call it?" he asked sardonically. "Heaven forbid, we
should use the wrong terminology!"
"What's that supposed to mean?" She pounced on his words. "Are you
making fun of my limited vocabulary?"
Paris was thrown by the sudden turn. "What?! *Now* what are you
talking about? If you're going to change subjects in midstream,
Torres, the least you could do is signal!"
"What?" It was her turn to be mystified by his mixed metaphor. "What
are you talking about?"
He brought his long, slender fingers up to massage his temples. "I
have no idea," he said, helplessly. "Do you think maybe we could
manage to argue about one thing at a time here, Torres?"
"I'm not the one who wanted to argue," she retorted snippily. "You're
the one who wanted to talk. So talk." She folded her arms across her
chest in unconscious imitation of one of his favorite gestures.
He clenched his jaw to restrain his first impulsive reply. "I want to
know what just happened. Did you get mad because Chakotay was going to
make fun of your cooking?"
She couldn't decide what she wanted to answer to that question. She
compromised. "Maybe."
He rolled his eyes.
"Stop that!" she snapped.
"Now what?" Paris said with exasperation.
"Stop making fun of me!"
"How did I do that?" He was honestly confused.
"You made a face---like you're humoring me."
"B'Elanna, I am NOT humoring you. I have NO idea what's going on here,
but I do know that much. Now---what is the problem? You can't cook? Is
that what upset you?"
She bobbed her head up and down, not trusting her voice, then lifted
her chin and glowered at him defiantly.
He stared at her. "So? What is it you're waiting for me to say? Am I
supposed to *care* that you can't cook?"
She dropped her eyes to the floor, unsure of how to state her concerns
without appearing foolish or petty.
"Tell me what my next line is, Torres. You seem to be writing your own
script here---my lines and yours. Am I supposed to scream with horror
and say 'You can't cook---then I'm out of here. Goodbye, Sweetheart.'
? Is *that* what I'm supposed to do?" The words ground out between
clenched teeth.
Her head almost lifted. He took it as a nod.
"Tough. I'm not saying it. If you want to get rid of me, you're going
to have to find a better excuse for dumping me," he said bitterly.
Her head flew up, her eyes seeking his. "Dumping you?"
"Isn't that what you want?" Paris said, surprised he could speak at
all with a lump the size of a baseball in his throat.
"No!" She crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat and seized
his forearms. "Tom, no!" She couldn't find words either. She gazed up
at him, but just looking at him wasn't enough. She wrapped her arms
around him and hugged him tightly to her body. After a hesitant
moment, his arms came up tentatively and tightened around her.
Tom felt exhausted by the abrupt swings in moods and emotions. "What
just happened here, B'Ella? I don't understand. Help me understand. I
can't conceive of how we got from joking in Sandrine's to talking
about breaking up in less than twenty minutes."
She was amazed at how sensitive he was---and aghast at how easily he
expected her to walk away from him. She rubbed her face against the
well-defined muscles of his chest and mumbled, "I got in a Klingon
snit?"
She felt a rumble of relieved laughter under her cheek. "Yeah, I guess
so." His hand came up to stroke her hair, pressing her closer to his
body.
"Tom." She squeezed him tighter, possessively.
"Yes?"
"I'm NOT letting you go. I'm NOT dumping you. I'm NOT letting you get
away from me---never." The repetition reassured him of her
seriousness.
"Okay. Now that we have that settled, maybe we can talk---and argue
about the same thing at the same time?" They moved to the couch and
sat down, arms around each other.
"I'm sorry," she blurted. "I overreacted."
"So did I. I've got to learn to stop expecting the worst," Tom said
ruefully. After a moment, he cautiously added, "Chakotay thought you
might be jealous."
"What?!"
"That's what * I * said," he stated sagaciously.
B'Elanna subsided. "He might be right. He usually is. At least when it
comes to me."
"Really? You're jealous of Malista? I don't understand. Why?"
She studied the toes of her boots as she answered. "I've been thinking
about it for awhile. It's not just the cooking. I guess I could learn
to do that---if I wanted to---if you wanted me to. It's a lot of
things."
"A lot of things like what?" he prodded gently.
"She's so tall and elegant-looking. She moves flowingly---all smooth
movements and easy elegance---like you. Maybe it's because you're both
so tall. I feel short and clumsy next to her."
"Funny. She wishes she was shorter---and graceful like you. She told
me she feels like a gawky, hulking monster sometimes. Especially when
she stands next to you."
"Really?" B'Elanna found it hard to believe.
"Yes. You know she's still not convinced she's attractive at all.
That's why I have to be careful when I tease her. She's insecure. If
you listen for it, she puts herself down all the time. She's not very
sure of herself---in any way."
Torres considered that for a moment. "She always *looks* so sure of
herself. It's hard to believe she's not totally confident and in
control. You're saying she runs a good bluff---like you do?"
Tom nodded ruefully. "If you watch her eyes carefully, you can see
through it. Most of the time. Anything else on your list?"
"She's better on the trapeze than I am," Torres grumbled.
"She's been doing it since she was four years old, B'Ella," he said
reasonably.
Having no good response for that argument, Torres abandoned that
subject with alacrity. "She can cook," B'Elanna mumbled. "I managed to
set fire to Starfleet emergency rations."
"You're kidding?" Paris grinned. He couldn't resist. The Starfleet
emergency rations were supposed to be absolutely foolproof. She rammed
a small fist lightly into his ribs. "Ow! Okay. So you can't cook. Why
do you need to? We can go to the messhall. Or I can cook. Or we can
replicate food. OR we can hint around for invitations to dinner with
Malista and Harry. They're easy."
"You don't mind that I can't cook?" She hated to admit she was less
than competent at anything. Especially something so simple, so basic a
survival skill.
"B'Elanna, I don't understand why it's supposed to matter."
She peered up into his face. He seemed to be sincere.
His eyes flashed angrily as he recalled something else she'd said.
"And what was that crack you made about your limited vocabulary? I
never said that---or thought anything like that."
She abruptly found his hand on hers to be a fascinating sight. "When
you and Malista talk sometimes you use words and expressions---"
Her meaning broke through the fog of his confusion like a beam of
sunlight and he nodded. "Oh. Oh, I see. B'Elanna, how do you think I
feel when you and Harry take off prattling about some warp engine
component or some technical aspect of the ship's design that I know
nothing about?"
"Dumb?" she ventured.
He grinned. "No. Maybe I should, but I don't. I feel bored. It isn't
my area of interest. You give me a ship---any ship---and I'll fly
it---very well, if I do say so myself. But don't ask me to build one.
You give me an emergency and I'll figure out how to repair what needs
fixing, because I have to---but don't ask me to do routine
maintenance. And Malista loves that stuff. She'd do nothing but tinker
on equipment all day and every day if you'd let her. Everyone has
different interests. I don't expect you to share ALL my interests. I
don't share all of yours. But we can still respect each other and
spend time together."
"I just felt---you have so much more in common with Malista---"
"Yes. We do have similar interests in literature, poetry, and music.
Sure, I want to spend time with her. I enjoy her company and talking
about those things. And sometimes I might want to spend time just with
Harry---doing guy things. Mostly I want to be with you."
"I'm glad."
"But as for comparing you and Malista---I wouldn't do that. I know---I
hate that feeling myself---the feeling that I'm being compared to
someone else and that I'm never going to measure up," Tom murmured.
His arms tightened around he
r.
"Your father?" She gazed up at him sadly.
"Yeah, but right now I was thinking of---Chakotay," he finished
reluctantly.
"Chakotay?" She seemed surprised. "Who does *he* compare you to?"
His brow crinkled as he stared at her. "Not him. You. I thought you
might be comparing me to Chakotay----" He broke off as he read her
expression. "No?"
"Tom, you're two very different people. I admire Chakotay. I respect
him. I may have even entertained some fantasies about him now and
then----"
"Really? Yuck. He's not your type at all. Mine either for that
matter."
She thumped his arm. "I'm not joking. But you're right. Chakotay and I
would drive each other crazy."
"Oh, yeah. Unlike you and I," Tom said snidely.
"We don't. You've been good to me---and for me." She cleared her
throat. "I don't want to make comparisons either. I'm interested in
you because of who you are---not for who you aren't. And, in a strange