#30daysofprodigy

***

The second time Dal tasted coffee was definitely not his fault. He was just settling back into his own body when he caught the taste of something familiar…

“Ok,” he demanded between gulps of replicated root beer, “who let her drink coffee in my body?”

“She said it helps her think,” Gwyn offered with a shrug. 

“What’s so bad about it? Our Janeway drinks it all the time!” Rok-Tahk chimed in. 

“It’s awful - it tastes like sour rotten vegetables and I am banning it from this ship!”

“Yes, Captain,” Zero said in a tone that made it clear they would be rolling their eyes, if they had any. 

***

The third time Dal tasted coffee, he did so in secret. He kept thinking about how Admiral Janeway said it helped her think, and how her doctor had ordered him to drink it, and how even Hologram Janeway often had a cup in her hand. He began to wonder if all good captains drink coffee and if so, he’d better learn to like it. 

And maybe if he was prepared for it, it wouldn’t be so bad. 

So he waited until the rest of the crew was asleep and then he snuck into the mess hall. He ordered a coffee from the replicator, pinched his nose shut, and took a tentative sip. 

Nope. Still disgusting he thought as he finished wiping up the coffee he had reflexively spat all over the bulkhead. 

***

The fourth time, Dal had become determined to conquer his vile enemy. He had never been one to give up and he wouldn’t start now! 

The next night, he snuck to the mess hall again. His mantra, as he approached the replicator, was “Real Captains don’t spit out their coffee. Real Captains don’t spit out their coffee.”

Dal spit out his coffee. 

Feeling defeated, he sunk into the nearest chair and covered his face with his hands. How would his crew ever respect him if he couldn’t do something as simple as swallowing a sip of coffee? 

“I thought that stuff was banned on this ship.”

“Janeway!” Dal exclaimed as he jumped to his feet and began fumbling for an answer.  “I, uh, I didn’t - I thought -“

“I just want to be a good captain,” he wailed. “And all good captains drink coffee! Admiral Janeway, you, even Captain Chakotay has a mug in that holo-recording!” He hurled himself back into the chair and flung his head down on the nearest table. Though his arms covered his face, it was clear that he was trying very hard not to cry. 

Janeway studied her young captain for a moment and decided not to correct this assumption when he was so distressed. Instead she chose a different tactic. 

“Chakotay always ruined his coffee with too much cream and sugar,” she said with an amused shake of her head. 

Dal looked up at her, suddenly hopeful. “You mean, I’m allowed to add stuff??”

***

The fifth time Dal tasted coffee, it was loaded up with milk, sugar, and even chocolate syrup. It was a pale tan color, rather than the deep dark brown he was accustomed to and it smelled of sweetness, with only a faint hint of sour vegetables - and only if you knew to look for it. 

This time, Dal did not spit out the coffee. 

This has become her nightly ritual, on this long journey to rescue Chakotay. She sheds her armor and then Kathryn curls up on the couch with a glass of wine, wrapped in the tribal blanket he gave to her years ago, back on the first USS Voyager.

She imagines it still smells like him. It probably doesn’t.

She looks out at the stars as she sips her wine and she talks to him. She doesn’t say anything of consequence. She tells him about her day. She tells him about the antics that the Hellions (which is how she refers to the former crew of the USS Protostar and their shadow, Miral Paris) have gotten up to. She tells him about the class 4 nebula that they flew past and that maybe they’ll stop to study it further on the way back, but there’s just no time now for such frivolities. Besides, she thinks he would enjoy studying the nebula too.

Truthfully, she is fairly certain that the only reason he cares at all about studying nebulas is because he likes to watch her watching it.

When she has run out of new stories to tell, she begins recounting old ones.

She ends, as she always does, with the story of the Angry Warrior who found peace. Only then does she allow a tear to slide down her cheek.

She stands, still clutching the empty wine glass and wrapped in the blanket, and she presses her palm to the glass. He’s out there somewhere, waiting for her. The stars twinkle encouragingly as she silently pleads for them to guide her to him.

Then, just like every night, she folds the blanket carefully over the back of the couch. She recycles her wine glass and she picks up the pieces of her uniform from the floor and puts them in the refresher for tomorrow.

Tonight, she puts on a long, quilted nightgown. She wears it because it is chilly in her quarters.

But also because, for some unfathomable reason, it is his favorite.

She slides between the cool, desolate sheets and orders the lights off. Before she darkens the viewport, she turns onto her side to look out once more at the vast field of twinkling lights and she completes the ritual.