The Great and Powerful Q (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fingersnapping) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2013-12-18 02:15 pm
fingersnapping) wrote in tampered2013-12-18 02:15 pm
Sleep in our eyes / her and me at the breakfast table
When; December 18th
Rating; G
Characters; Kathryn Janewaydirectives and Q fingersnapping
Summary; The morning after this thread
Log;
The light stayed on all night.
Losing the full range of his powers was difficult, but it was nothing compared to the loss of his omniscience. Don't let this handsome visage fool you! Q was no frail human, and his confinement to this fragile form was claustrophobic at best. For a creature with no need for a solid form, who existed in all places at once and none at all, the small bedroom with its four close walls was stifling. Having picked one of the corners on the very top floor, he'd found at least some small assemblage of calm; the view gave him a familiar feeling of overseeing everything, but that was all it was. A feeling. No longer were the answers to the universe in his head. No longer could he see as well with his eyes open as closed--or with the lights on as off.
So sleeping without the lights was completely unacceptable. The darkness made him feel completely detached from reality, struck intellectually dumb. There wasn't even an illusion of being completely aware of his surroundings. A Q that was afraid of the dark! Preposterous! And yet here he was.
He slept invariably badly, and tonight was no different. He rose, padded circles around his room looked out at the stars, squinting until his eyes hurt, then climbed back into bed again. In the other room, he told himself that he could hear Janeway breathing. He slept an hour or two more; rinse, repeat.
The stops and starts weren't altogether nonconstructive. At one point, sitting cross-legged on his bed, Q conspired to transform his apartment. The previous evening, Kathryn had done him a number of services, comforted him about his son, and even though he knew that she was effectively here to keep an eye on him (he'd let her insist it was he doing her the favor not the other way around, but he wasn't stupid) it became his prerogative to make sure that her stay here had the comforts of home. She'd tell him that it was cheating, but what better use of his powers than to bring emotional relief to those who brought him the same?
By morning, a sonic shower replaced the hot water and soap. Her bedsheets had been transformed from the already grim 21st century cotton into the 24th century cheese-grater variety that Starfleet captains liked best. Where once a microwave oven had sat like an ugly little home invader on one of the counter-tops, now a replicator waited to be used. When the sun rose, Q decided to abandon his attempts to sleep, and he was to be found at the kitchen table, staring a steady hole into the replicator while his hand pressed on and off against his lips, as though testing the sensation. It would be a while yet before he quite forgot that kiss. If ever.
Rating; G
Characters; Kathryn Janeway
directives and Q fingersnapping Summary; The morning after this thread
Log;
The light stayed on all night.
Losing the full range of his powers was difficult, but it was nothing compared to the loss of his omniscience. Don't let this handsome visage fool you! Q was no frail human, and his confinement to this fragile form was claustrophobic at best. For a creature with no need for a solid form, who existed in all places at once and none at all, the small bedroom with its four close walls was stifling. Having picked one of the corners on the very top floor, he'd found at least some small assemblage of calm; the view gave him a familiar feeling of overseeing everything, but that was all it was. A feeling. No longer were the answers to the universe in his head. No longer could he see as well with his eyes open as closed--or with the lights on as off.
So sleeping without the lights was completely unacceptable. The darkness made him feel completely detached from reality, struck intellectually dumb. There wasn't even an illusion of being completely aware of his surroundings. A Q that was afraid of the dark! Preposterous! And yet here he was.
He slept invariably badly, and tonight was no different. He rose, padded circles around his room looked out at the stars, squinting until his eyes hurt, then climbed back into bed again. In the other room, he told himself that he could hear Janeway breathing. He slept an hour or two more; rinse, repeat.
The stops and starts weren't altogether nonconstructive. At one point, sitting cross-legged on his bed, Q conspired to transform his apartment. The previous evening, Kathryn had done him a number of services, comforted him about his son, and even though he knew that she was effectively here to keep an eye on him (he'd let her insist it was he doing her the favor not the other way around, but he wasn't stupid) it became his prerogative to make sure that her stay here had the comforts of home. She'd tell him that it was cheating, but what better use of his powers than to bring emotional relief to those who brought him the same?
By morning, a sonic shower replaced the hot water and soap. Her bedsheets had been transformed from the already grim 21st century cotton into the 24th century cheese-grater variety that Starfleet captains liked best. Where once a microwave oven had sat like an ugly little home invader on one of the counter-tops, now a replicator waited to be used. When the sun rose, Q decided to abandon his attempts to sleep, and he was to be found at the kitchen table, staring a steady hole into the replicator while his hand pressed on and off against his lips, as though testing the sensation. It would be a while yet before he quite forgot that kiss. If ever.
no subject
She made use of the sonic shower in spite of herself. It was necessary to wash off everything from the previous day, though she was forced to pull the clothes she had on yesterday, having neglected to think that far ahead. And by the time she steps foot in the kitchen, she isn't at all surprised to see the replicator. Not happy, but not surprised all the same. It's only because she really needs coffee if she's going to deal with any of this does she make use of it.
"Coffee, black."
The coffee shimmers to life, and the sound of the matter-energy conversion matrix makes her a little homesick. It's not helping her mood.
Kathryn turns to face him, coffee in hand. She doesn't join him at the table. "Get rid of it — all of it. The sheets, the shower, and the replicator."
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"Good morning to you, too, mon capitaine."
It wasn't an entirely unexpected reaction. Q, with his experience, was more attuned to the ability of his gifts to backfire, and this was apparently no exception. There were a myriad of reasons why she might reject them. Either they made her homesick, or else she was determined to 'rough it' just to prove her own resourcefulness. Alternatively (the possibility Q favored), she just didn't want to receive any gifts from him. And to think, she could have spent those last few years trapped on Voyager with a puppy companion a la Captain Archer. Even at her loneliest, she would have had a canine friend at least--and all she'd have had to do was accept the gift! Easy, right?
Well, he wasn't going down without a fight this time.
"Now let's not make any hasty decisions before finishing our morning cup of Joe, hmm? I for one haven't had breakfast yet, and if you think I'm eating anything that's been warmed up by agitating its water molecules--" His nose crinkled up. Microwave ovens! Who thought that was a good idea?
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It shouldn't be any surprise that the moment she's done with her coffee, she's recycling the empty mug back into the replicator — and looking for a way to pry it off the wall.
Honestly, she thought he would've learned by now. She's rejected everything he's ever given her, whether it be a puppy or a one way ticket to the Alpha Quadrant. There's finding an easier way to do something, and then there's taking the easy way out, and Kathryn Janeway isn't the sort of person to do that. If she were, she would've put the fate of the Ocampa aside in favor of using the Caretaker's array to put her ship back where it was taken from. So yes, she wants to 'rough it' and prove how resourceful she can be in this setting; yes, sonic showers, Starfleet sheets, and a replicators make her homesick; and no, she didn't want anything from him.
But there's no denying she enjoyed waking up in a bed that felt something like her own, that she enjoyed the relaxing thoroughness of the sonic shower, that she missed the ease of replicating a quick cup of coffee instead of waiting half an hour for a damned pot to brew.
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"Now Kathy, be reasonable. I know you're angry with me - and heaven knows why - but just think of this scientifically. Be logical, isn't that what your Vulcan officer friend would say? The sheets and the shower--I'll be the first to admit that might have been overkill, but..." He raises his hands up deliberately, making desperate placating motions. "Back in your apartment, you have at least the advantage of a First Officer to cook for you. I, on the other hand, am lacking in such basic skills.
"And think of the time we'll save! Think about it. Instead of worrying about coffee, washing up and burning pancakes, you can apply yourself to more worthy tasks; those more befitting the use of your time. Our time."
He makes desperate puppy dog eyes at her, the best he can manage.
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"And just what do you intend to do, snap one into existence every morning?"
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"Yes, absolutely. I have to eat something, although I suppose you expect me to go about scavenging food like a wild animal instead?" He drops his arms back down, but only to fold them across his chest. "And think: that's one less trick I can use elsewhere. You're counting them, aren't you?"
Of course she was--or at least he supposed she might try her best to. He kept count. Now, more or less, he had a good idea of how many tricks he could use, when the headache would begin to set in, and little by little what he absolutely couldn't do. Creating the replicator was on par with creating a dish of macaroni cheese. Of course, he could summon together an entire table and meal with the same click of his fingers. The replicator, at least, would be more useful.
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"Aren't you?"
Of course she was counting, as she assumes he is already aware of. He asked for show, as did she. Sometimes, it was almost like a game of asking a series of questions with the most obvious answers, just to see if the obvious one was the answer they'd be provided with. The game wasn't as dull as she made it out to be, but she'd be hard-pressed to admit otherwise.
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"Patisseries Viennoises and hot chocolate, two servings."
The machine hummed guiltily behind him, and Q broke into a hopeful smile before stepping aside, gesturing toward it. Croissants and pains au chocolat beckoned from their matching plates. The hot chocolate was French vanilla, in bowls rather than mugs; a European breakfast.
"Oh--yes, fine, the sheets and the shower are gone. But breakfast--breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
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"I thought we already covered the part where I'm not Picard."
The replicator can stay as long as the sheets and sonic shower are gone. She can bring herself to reap the benefits of a replicator, but not subject herself to sheets and a shower from home that would only make how much she doesn't fit in this century even more apparent than it already was.
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"Which is why it's important to try new things. You'll like it, I promise."
He gathers up the tray and carries it toward the table, setting it down carefully. Then, with just as much care, he distributes the bowls and plates, watching Janeway as he does. And here, a hint that his choice was not quite as frivolous as it seemed, that he was indeed reading the underlying current of her unhappiness. Perhaps it was just sleeping in a different bed--it unsettled humans, didn't it? No, it was what had happened just yesterday. Everything had changed, and waking up here was just another sign of that change. Oh, he knew.
"The chocolate will help you feel better."
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They'd already covered that when it came to her, fine was relative. More often than not, fine meant she was merely coping with a situation that would have no pleasant outcome no matter which path she took. She'd be unhappy with the aftermath of yesterday's kissing extravaganza regardless of if she'd stayed at the apartment with Chakotay and B'Elanna, came here, or went somewhere else entirely. None were ideal, but nothing in her life has been truly ideal since she found herself flung halfway across the galaxy.
She's used to being her definition of fine, to living a less than quintessential life. This option was at least in some ways pragmatic.
Kathryn sits, but doesn't move to touch the food. Stubbornness, waiting to see if he'll eat it first, something else? Likely all of the above.
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Fine indeed. He knew what fine was.
With one last thoughtful look, he reached across to pick up his croissant, breaking it in half to a puff of steam, then reaching down to dip the end of it into the hot chocolate. He's not about to stand on ceremony, but he will look at Kathryn over his breakfast, telling her with his eyes how delicious it was with the expectation of her eating it.
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"I'm sure you know all about the time I got Voyager home to the wrong time." A short-lived triumph once she realized they were in 1996 and not 2373. "Had we not been able to return to the future and somehow lost Voyager in the process of stopping Starling, I don't know I would've managed in that century. This is time is barely tolerable, but twenty years prior?" A scoff denotes what she thinks about that.
Tom would've flourished. Chakotay would've made do, likely would've been happy. And she would've hated it.
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"You're suggesting that you wouldn't have found a way to get your crew home even without Voyager, but then you have what others in the twentieth century didn't have; an understanding of temporal science. You know how it could work, and you'd have had some access to 29th century technology. Eventually you would have discovered a way to send a temporal distress signal, perhaps, through your Doctor's holo-emitter. The Enterprise did much the same thing, only they used Data's head. Oh, I know, it breaks your temporal prime directive, but what's more damaging? A little distress call in a future that already understands temporal displacement or a crew of a hundred and something stranded in the past?
"So it's simple. You bury the Doctor somewhere he'll be found, and presto--minutes later, you're back where you ought to be. No slumming it in the past required."
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It isn't him. It's a lot of things, but for once only a small fraction of her frustration pertains to him, and the replicator aside, that matter's already been resolved. It's a lot of things that have been leading up to one moody starship captain for the past six months. She's been here half a year and B'elanna aside, she seems to be the only one truly focused on getting the hell out of here. There are times when Jim seems to be on the same page as her, others when he's in an entirely different chapter.
She wonders how different it would've been in 1996. Would they have settled easily? Would those working towards returning to their proper place in time be limited to herself and the more obvious non-human crewmen who were forced to spend the duration of their interment in a primitive century ducking out of sight? For that, she is grateful; the City has seen its fair share of 'oddities' to the point that halflings possessing Vulcan and Klingon DNA aren't classified as outsiders. (B'Elanna's doing that to herself — but Kathryn's one to talk, given her self-imposed segregation.)
"I wouldn't have stopped looking, but I wouldn't have taken a page out of Picard's book and so carelessly risked contaminating the timeline further just to get myself home!"
Which, in some ways, was why Voyager hadn't reached home yet. She was too caught up in doing the right thing to put herself and her crew above the needs of others or basic Starfleet principals. She would get them home, but she was determined to do it the right way. Just like here, just like she would've done had she wound up there.
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At first he doesn't respond, shouldn't respond, because he can already tell that she's in a sour enough mood as it is. But she disagreed on account of...well... She couldn't see the details. Would she hold out when her crew began to die? Perhaps when someone spotted B'elanna's facial ridges and shot her down like an animal? It would happen; it wasn't a question of if. As careful as they would inevitably be, the world into which they'd found themselves was four hundred years less developed; four hundred years less civilised, despite how far they might have come.
He considers her for a moment longer over his breakfast, and elects not to be right this one time, to not insist. It's quite an accomplishment--but then it is his job to maintain the status quo. If he could do that for the cosmos, then surely maintaining his own living environment shouldn't be too difficult.
All he had to do was not be a complete smartass. Right?
He looked away from her deliberately, in case he should be tempted. "You don't need to convince me how imperative it is that we slip this trap. I will never stop trying to find a way out, never stop testing my limits. You can rely on me for that."
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No crew to deal with, no bridge duty to be on, no mind numbing reports on waste management to sift through — just her and her bad mood.
"That makes three of us. Four on a good day."
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Now he had no choice. Well okay, not no choice, he could still run away if he wanted to, but he'd still have to come back and share his apartment with the tempest of human emotion, and at least at the moment her bad mood wasn't actually directed at him.
"When would you like to fetch your things?" A pause. "I could see to it myself, if you'd rather give Chuckles his space."
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pilotdrive one) or a transporter. Were she to see to the fetching of her things by her lonesome, it would likely take her all day and she'd have to deal with Chakotay face-to-face not once or twice, but a few times while she made her trips to and fro.No, that wouldn't do.
"Go ahead. Snap your fingers, make it happen."
All she has in her possession are clothes, books, electronics, hygiene products, coffee, and coffee accessories. No creature comforts, no decorations — just the essentials. Surviving, not settling.
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"Perhaps you'd be better setting this up in your room? I'm not going to be making much use of it."
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She holds it out. "I believe you wanted to see this."
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mostly. "I suppose I'll have to make do.""You know, you missed out on all the best of Picard's experiences with me. I should update your reading material." He dropped himself a little further back on his heel.
"I don't suppose you have a--what do you call it? A PADD I can borrow?"
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The uniform is handed off to him while she vanishes once more to retrieve the PADD Kirk gave her. It's something the other captain fashioned out of an iPad, saving the two of them the trouble of having to make do with it or the other tablet options while operating in the century this city's based on. And while it isn't as up-to-date as a PADD from the 24th Century would be, she's grown rather attached to it.
"You break it, you bought it."
It's a miracle she's letting him touch it at all.
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He takes the uniform, moving to sit down with it while she goes out into the other room again. She's not gone for long, but it's long enough that he folds it neatly about the hangar and sets it down on a clear space on the table. He accepts the PADD carefully, and investigates it for a few moments.
"I break it, I'll fix it. It isn't so complicated."
He turns it over thoughtfully, then looks back up at her. "I can work with this. May I?" See? He's genuinely, actually trying to help; to get involved.
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Janeway treating him like a child, though. He gave her a very arch, sharp look, though it was accompanied by his placing the PADD down on the uniform delicately.
"So little faith you have in me, Kathy."
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"I have an appropriate amount of faith in you, Q, but that was a gift. I'd rather it stay intact."
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It couldn't be that complicated if Kirk had made it. Q carefully gathers the breakfast things back onto the tray, circling around to place them in the replicator. No washing up, no wasted food--it was a wonder humanity hadn't invented these sooner.
"Now then, we've had breakfast, avoided discussing the previous night, talked about work. What's next?"
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"I was planning on doing more work at the lab before yesterday's debacle, but I'd rather not venture out in case this is a two day thing."
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"You don't need to go to the lab to work. There's plenty that can be done right here."
He could create a stand in laboratory if need be--or perhaps something simpler. Transporter schematics for the past three centuries would disappear at midnight, but they'd have the whole day to copy them by hand if need be. It would at least keep her busy. Or he could...
"I know better than to suggest you take the day off."
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"And I know you've already got a suggestion or two." She shifts on the couch, sitting up a little straighter, but makes no move to put her feet back on the floor. "Let's hear it."
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He drums his fingers thoughtfully on the back of the couch, still watching her, then sweeps his other hand out toward the room.
"It lies within the realms of my ability to transform this room into a laboratory, or even a holodeck." Of course, that'd be him done for the day, but it'd be worth it if it put Janeway into a better mood. He could afford - now and again - to expend his energy on her, in order to perhaps sweeten her to his plight. Being human was difficult enough: he had to keep himself from dying and all sorts of other things, and anyone who had been around humans long enough knew that dying was stupidly easy whether or not you actually knew how.
"Alternatively, or perhaps as well, I could give you access to records and schematics, though without the mental agility of a Cardassian, I'm afraid we'd have to copy everything out by hand. And if none of that suits, well...you could go to the lab and everyone else can just go home."
He puts his hands back onto his lap. "Oh, better idea! Go to work as usual only as a member of 8472--problem solved."
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She rolls her eyes, but that slight upturn at the corner of her mouth betrays the amusement she found in that thought. Of course, one of her own would likely gun her down before she got very far — not that she was even considering it.
Kathryn slaps a hand down on one of her knees in resolve. "Well, if I'm going to be copying down schematics, you're going to help me. Tell me your penmanship has more to offer than just chicken scratch."
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Back to normal; back to not making disturbing noises, and Q waves his hand out across the floor, generating out of nowhere a dozen stacks of PADDs, all containing a wealth of useful information. One appears in his hand, too, and this he passes to Kathryn directly.
"The specs for the NX-1's transporter aparatus, mon capitaine."
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There's a couple of notebooks and some pens on the desk in my room.
[ kathryn rises to her feet, but walks instead to the kitchen, indicating that she meant for him to retrieve them, not her. as for what she's doing? well, if she's going to be working— ] Coffee, black. [ might as well do it with proper ceremony.
coffee in hand, she returns to her spot, setting her coffee down to one side of her, and sorting PADDs to the other. ]
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When he had gathered the necessary tools, he head back, finding a spot on the floor between several of the towers and trying to resist the enticing aroma of her hot coffee, foul temptress that it was.
He asked instead: ] Do you know where you want to start?