Disclaimer - Paramount should own a different Janeway.
*
I've had a revelation, the kind that comes late of night when I've had too little sleep and too much caffeine. I've decided to make a few changes in my life, so I've constructed this list.
Number one: Spend more time with Tuvok. I've missed his counsel.
Number two: Spend less time with Seven. I can't keep dominating her free time.
Number three: Ask the Doctor if he would like his own quarters; perhaps something to call him other than 'Doc'.
Number four: Punish Tom for making me use the word 'Doc' instead of 'Doctor'.
Number five: Ask B'Elanna what really goes on in deck nine, section twelve...
Number six: Let Harry think he's going to get a promotion, only to dash his hopes at the last second.
Sigh.
Okay. So I won't. But it would be amusing.
God I'm bored...
This is all *his* fault. He would keep me awake at night...
Number seven: Report for my next physical on time. It would be worth it just to see a hologram have a stroke.
Number eight: Decorate my quarters. I'm sick of beige chairs, beige carpet, beige walls. This isn't some kind of hotel! I need more mental stimulation than the walls of my quarters provide me with.
Number nine: Tell Neelix...hmm...tell Neelix...yes! Tell Neelix that I would absolutely *love* to be on his next edition of 'A Briefing With Neelix' to talk about the wonders of leola root.
Number ten: Ask the Doctor for a psychological evaluation.
This can't be right. It shouldn't be right. I'm clearly not in my right mind - I certainly don't feel that way. I shouldn't have these ridiculous images in my mind.
I'll blame it on the lateness of the hour.
What do I blame my insomnia on?
Simple - hair pasta omelette.
Number eleven: Create a new holodeck programme about the strong Starfleet Captain who kicks her First Officers behind for keeping her awake without even being in the same room.
Okay, okay, so it's him! What am I supposed to do? I certainly can't do anything about it; it would shake up the commander structure of Voyager in a heartbeat. I'm sure everyone would know about it in that length of time: no one here can keep a secret.
Although I can't help but wonder...
Isn't that what nights are for? It's late, I'm tired, but I can't sleep.
I do my best thinking at night.
Now where was I..?
...if he beeped at my door...if it was a simple visit to hand over a PADD...if he had no clue that I was about to drag him into my quarters...
...what would he do?
Run screaming...hold me...pass out...throw up?
Hold me?
Sometimes I want nothing more than that.
Not that I would, you understand. It's just what he calls my 'incessant curiousity'. Only he tells me I have that. Only he dares. I think that's what I like about him.
That's not all I like about him. There's a wide variety to choose from, but I'll go for the hands first.
'The hands make the man' my Mother used to say, and I'm afraid it seems to have been genetically passed to me. If they don't have nice hands then they don't stand a chance.
His do. I'm not going to go into mushy detail; sufficed to say they are extremely nice and I find myself spending time staring at them when I should be working.
Of course he isn't perfect. His proclivity for dying his hair is particularly unattractive, as is his ability to attract the most terrible women. Case in point: me. From what I understand of the women he has been involved with or closed to, they are all strong, independent and have some kind of scientific or engineering background. He's obviously attracted to a particular type of woman. Why should I be any different than the others?
Because - as egotistical as it sounds - I am me. I am *not* those other women, nor would I care to be. Although it might be nice to have some of their memories...just out of curiousity.
I know what you're thinking...wait, no you're not. You're just a PADD; you don't think. You're not even a 'you'. You're an 'it'.
I know what I'm thinking: something started all this off. Something happened to keep her awake all night.
As it happens, I'm right.
I gave him a Birthday present. Doesn't sound that dramatic, does it? You wouldn't know it from the crew's reaction. I've been heckled with sly comments since the moment I left the holodeck until I managed to escape to my quarters.
What's wrong with giving him a present? Just because it happened to be a picture of me...not wearing much at all. I mean it wasn't *really* me - it was a joke! My head on top of a body that clearly wasn't mine. I don't think they make bras that accommodating...
It turned out to be a bad idea. I haven't heard so many breast jokes since Seven came on board.
And God only knows what he must-
Wait, I...
Someone's beeped for entry.
Damn.
It's him. It has to be.
What the hell do I do?
You know...
...
...it would almost be worth doing. Diving in. Hands first.
Almost.
*
ADDENDUM:
Number twelve: Never eat hair pasta omelette again. Ever. It doesn't mix well with whipped cream.
~FINIS