By Coral
Disclaimer: I won't tell Paramount if you don't... ;-)
Dedication: This is ALL JO'S FAULT!!!! Blame her, not me, is that
understood?!
The first thing Kathryn Janeway notices as she opens her eyes
is the pain, and she squeezes them shut again instantly. The next thing she
notices is that she aches all over. Her throat is dry, her head is throbbing,
her skin itches all over, and she feels as if a dozen Klingons are holding an
all-night party in her head. Suffice to say, she is in pain. And Kathryn in pain
only has one thought on her mind: where is the coffee?
In the replicator, dammit, in the other part of her quarters. With a groan of
agony, she rolls out of bed and flops onto the floor, momentarily winding
herself, then hauls herself up with the aid of her dresser. She sends a mental
thank you to the wise person who bolted the furniture down whilst manufacturing
the ship.
Feeling her way cautiously with her hands and feet, she manages to make it into
the open living area of her quarters.
"Computer," she croaks, "Lights at ten percent." Each word
sears her throat, and even the dim light supplied as the computer complies with
her request shines through her shut eyelids to induce even more pain. She
considers collapsing on the floor and just going back to sleep, but Kathryn
Janeway does not give up that easily. Instead, she slowly, slowly, slowly opens
one eye, squinting a little until her poor, tortured pupil adjusts. Then the
other one follows suit... slowly...
In the near-darkness supplied by the lighting systems, and the faint light from
the warping stars, she can only make out shadowy shapes in her quarters. On the
small coffee table by her sofa is a disturbingly large collection of empty
bottles and glasses, although Kathryn has only a faint memory of replicating one
or two last night. Her head seems to verify the facts in front of her, though,
and it has obviously been a very... uncaptainly night.
She hasn't drunk herself insensate in years, and possibly never this badly. Not
that she remembers, anyway, she thinks wryly. She starts to shake her head, but
the sharp pain shooting through her body at even the merest hint of the
beginning of the movement quickly puts paid to that, and she reaches a hand out
to steady herself on her desk. Very slowly and very carefully, she raises a hand
to massage her temples gently. It doesn't help much - but then, it doesn't hurt
either. And it gives her something to focus on as she tries to piece together in
her mind the mess that this morning is turning out to be. She assumes it is
morning anyway; she hasn't checked anywhere yet. But it feels very - morning-y.
Morning after-y, in fact.
Coffee, she remembers. Coffee was where she was going to start. With this goal
in mind, she starts taking small, but determined, steps towards the replicator,
which is, of course, on the far side of the room. She is doing very well until
the moment her feet catch in a pile of something and she falls forward, flat on
her face. Good thing Harry or Neelix or Seven or someone isn't here. Wouldn't do
to have anyone else seeing the captain sprawled on the floor, tangled in...
in...
She pushes herself into a sitting position, leaning her head against the edge of
the desk and hoping she won't just topple back over. She feels giddy and
unbalanced, and vows never to do this again. Whatever 'this' involved. Fumbling
and missing several times, she eventually manages to free herself from the
material that has wrapped itself around her legs, and she realises it is her
peach silk wrap, though why it is here is a mystery. She normally hangs it,
tidily, from the hook in her quarters, one of the last things she does before
going to bed. She must have been out of it last night for it to be in here.
Coffee. She takes a few more deep breaths. If she wants to get anything clear,
then she has to have coffee. If she wants coffee, she has to get to the
replicator. Ergo, replicator before all else. She hauls herself back to the
feet, slightly steadier this time, and continues that long, arduous trek, nearly
falling over someone else's brightly coloured clothes on the way.
"Coffee, black," she barks out, and the replicator hums happily as it
provides. Kathryn would hum happily too if her head didn't hurt, if her feet
didn't hurt, if her eyes didn't hurt, if her arms didn't hurt -- if she didn't,
just... well... hurt. Instead, she grabs the cup like a lifesaver and drinks,
ignoring the burning heat of the bitter liquid as it nearly scalds her mouth. In
a way it is her penance for letting herself get so out of control last night;
her own way of atoning. That she was alone is irrelevant, it was enough that she
forgot herself and potentially endangered the ship.
The ship. Her head hurts. She must be due on the bridge, she realises with a
sinking feeling. She's in no shape to be on duty, but doesn't want to go down to
sickbay. For one thing, she isn't sure that she can make it that far. For
another, there is no way she wants to explain her state to The Doctor - or
worse, Tom Paris - if she can possibly avoid it. Somewhere in these quarters,
she has a medkit for situations like this. Well, similar to this. Anything where
she wants to avoid the Doctor if at all possible. The only problem is where it
might be. She drops to her hands and knees and feels around, under the desk,
where she finds one of her boots. It shouldn't be there, but she isn't concerned
about that at the moment, she just needs to find the medkit. She starts to stand
up but, forgetting she is under the desk, manages to slam her head up against it
with a scream of pain as contact is made.
She swears, rather loudly. It feels good, so she does it again, a stream of
curses tumbling from her fuzzy-feeling mouth, questioning the stability of the
universe and the parentage of the medkit. Its whereabouts are as mysterious as
its ancestors though, and she crawls out from under the desk, pressing a hand
against her throbbing head. Her vision is rather blurry, and she blinks several
times to try to clear it.
Someone is standing in the doorway between her bedroom and living area, holding
something up in the air. Squinting a little, she recognises the familiar shape
of a hypospray. "Looking for this?" The person speaks, and she
realises it is Neelix.
Standing in her bedroom.
Naked.
And she doesn't remember a thing...
END