A brief Voyager fanfiction by Lori Summers
Author's Note: This vignette was my response to a fanfiction challenge on my Voyager list in which all us authors were tasked to write a convincing representation of Neelix having a crush on Captain Janeway. I'll let you judge whether or not I succeeded.
He has always felt that kitchen sounds, especially those of one that services 150 people, are second only to ocean waves for numbing the sensibilities. The hiss and sizzle of cooking, the muted clatter and scrape of silverware and of course the constant ebb and flow of murmured breakfast conversation. Buoyed on this cushion of white noise, he falls into a familiar rhythm: smile, listen, cook, serve. Next crewmember. Smile, listen, cook, serve. Sometimes he feels the sounds of the mess hall are almost musical, this morning for instance. Ensign Rosenberg is in to help and has been set to slicing vegetables for the lunchtime stew, his knife tapping steadily as a metronome. The rise and fall of the crew's voices follows its own patterns...random yet structured.
The routine normally has a calming effect on him. A chance to interact with his crewmates, or perhaps more a daily affirmation of his important, if auxiliary, contribution to Voyager's smooth operations. Each day he looks forward to his duties, to the familiar settings and the chance to practice his culinary skills. As he prepares for each mealtime he firmly sets his mind upon the task at hand, resolved that this time it will be different.
It never is.
Most of the time, each of the three meals served each day aboard Voyager are an exercise in stomach-twisting anxiety and heartwrenching agony.
Lieutenant Gomez, he thinks as the dark-haired man steps up to the counter. It's a habit to catalog each crewmember as he or she passes by. Just concentrate on Gomez's eggs, nothing else. Lovely eggs, not too soft, not too done...no, don't look over there!
And yet his eyes glance over to where she sits, then return just as quickly to the frying pan. He determinedly begins humming an old Talaxian drinking song under his breath. It is no more effective than it ever is. His traitorious gaze again strays to the corner table. Her back to the wall, her profile against the backdrop of stars...how appropriate for her face to be there against the stars whose light seems to shine from it when she smiles.
Think about EGGS, you nitwit. Eggs eggs eggs eggs. Big eggs, small eggs, strange blue and purple spotted eggs. Ensign Smythe now...eggs for her too. Eggs for everyone. Keep your eyes forward...but that's so much harder than it would seem to be.
As usual, she is sitting with HIM. Holding a PADD, their heads together in conversation. She lays a hand casually on his arm...
Eggs, dammit!
Ensign Smythe appears a bit startled at the vehemence with which he slides her breakfast onto her plate. She hurriedly vacates the area. Ah, here's Tom.
"Morning!" he smiles cheerfully.
He smiles back. It's impossible not to return a Tom smile. "And to you, Mr. Paris." It's as if his eyes are physically being PULLED to the corner table. As always, he is powerless to resist.
Talaxians have little malevolence in their hearts, filled as they are with goodwill and buoyant bouncy joyfulness...but something not quite so benign, something green and ugly, tugs at his heart as he sees them laugh together. She looks so comfortable and easy with him.
She does not look this way.
Nothing in the world but eggs. Eggs enough for the entire crew, eggs enough for the entire quadrant, eggs enough to fill the vacuous ache that flows through him at the knowledge that it is HIM she shares her joy with and HIM she shares her sadness with and probably HIM she thinks of as she tries to go to sleep at night.
Tom smiles again over his plate of eggs and goes to sit down with Harry. Another one moves into his place...there is always another one. They keep coming and coming and Rosenberg's blasted knife-tapping never stops and oh please don't let us run out of eggs.
They are getting up now, dropping their dishes into the cleaning unit. Giving in completely, he stares after them as they leave the dining hall, each glance and each casual touch like a phaser blast through his heart.
He sighs and returns to his cooking, the torture over...at least until lunch.