He might just change it all to leola root everything if he knew that, call it a taste of home and regain the crown of mischief that he is sorely feeling the lack of. Q is on a knife's edge of indecision. He's behaving because he should behave. He's overbehaving because it makes him feel like it's his decision, a choice he's made for some unannounced reason. It's a thread that he's holding onto and it might unravel all at once, because Q is pressingly aware that he is soon going to be himself again. That there's a very real possibility that none of this matters, because not one member of this wretched crew can keep their memories.

Chakotay will never remember reaching a level of decency with him. Chekov will not remember dog sled racing. B'ellana will not remember punching him in the face. And Kathy - sweet Kathy - she won't be able to remember a single iota of it. It's devastating. Frustrating. And he wants to make everyone else feel as wretched about it as he does. But he isn't. Out of respect.

Tentatively.

His smile is very nearly nothing at all. Dispirited, it's but a quirk of his lips, belying a tumult of thought just below the surface. He indulges in one of the things off the tray, but only because his treacherous human stomach is insisting on it.

"I appreciate your hospitality, Commander."

Definitely overselling it.