Orange Juice
By Michele Masterson
Author's Note: This is just a little story in response to a JetC11 challenge using such words as coffee, scrambled, eggs, sausage, toast, juice (sensing a theme here?). The problem is that I failed miserably because this was only supposed to be 600 words. Further proof that you just can't shut me up.
~*~
When I am homesick, when I allow myself to feel that plaintive longing, that sorrow so hopeless and so heavy that I fear I won't be able to complete a bridge shift without excusing myself to weep silently in my ready room, it is not for the sight of Earth, nor for the bureaucratic comfort of Starfleet. It is for the small things, the insignificant now made rare. Things like sitting on the porch of my childhood home in the early mornings, drinking real orange juice, the sounds of my mother and sister within, chatting, laughing, the smell of coffee escaping the open screen door, mixed with the heavy scent of Indiana in the summertime -- the grass, the rich soil, my mother's gardenias assaulting the senses. And the heat, already stifling by eight hundred hours, settling on my skin and filling my lungs and grasping my spirit, shaking it fiercely and telling me "You are alive, Kathryn Janeway. You are living."
And when I awake this morning, for no particular reason, I have this feeling again. And I allow it today, also for no particular reason -- I know that I must sometimes revel in my sorrow, otherwise I would be destroyed by it. So I leave my quarters, walk through the halls, noticing the vague sterile smell that permeates the ship, like a hospital -- a little too clean, a little too perfect. And the hallway is lit well, not a shadow cast, not a dark corner, the colors muted, dull. Nothing brilliant, nothing like a willow tree or a sunrise to greet me as I make my way toward the mess hall. The ship was designed to be comfortable, unoffending, innocuous. And today I resent it; I want to be offended. I want to be surprised. I want to be made uncomfortable. I want to feel these things, if only for the sense that they will provide proof that what we are doing is not futile, what we are is not simply a negligible percentage of the Alpha Quadrant lost in space. We are here. We are alive.
I take my food and take my place, apart from the other members of the crew, only today it strikes me as sad. I have referred to our ship as home, I have referred to my crew as family, but are we truly? Or perhaps they are; the real question is, am I part of the family? Or merely the gatekeeper, the paladin of this collection of lost children. Neverland of the Delta Quadrant. So I guess that'd make me either Peter Pan or Captain Hook, depending upon who you talk to.
It is upon this wry thought, this nearly bitter thought, that you appear before me and sit across the table, placing a silver cup in front of me. I am vaguely annoyed, frustrated that my musings have been interrupted by the cocky, crooked smile on your face.
"What is it?" I say, and you shake your head, grinning.
"Try it. You'll like it," you quip, and I could throttle you, I could just choke you, you're so smug.
"Why would I drink something if I don't know what it is?"
"Because I'm asking you to."
"Telling me."
"Okay, I'm telling you. Drink it Kathryn."
And just because you think I won't, I lift the glass and take a large gulp. It is sweet, and thick, tartness biting at my tongue and the inside of my cheeks, bits of pulp so large that I bite them and more liquid is released. And it is good. It is really good.
"Fresh squeezed orange juice," you say, and you are triumphant. And I can say nothing, for if I do I'll cry, I know I will, and it is silly, it is almost funny that this could move me so. And you're concerned suddenly, your eyes darting about the mess hall to make sure no one can see me, and a wave of tenderness crashes over me anew, that you know me so well, that your first concern is for my appearance to the crew. Only today it is not my first concern.
"What?" you're whispering, leaning in close. "What is it?"
I blink my eyes several times, and smile at you. You're confused, but you are beginning to mirror my smile. I lean into you as well, so that we are very close, invading each other's space, but I want the invasion, I crave it.
"You are home to me Chakotay," I say quietly, but you've heard it. And I look down, because I can't look at you just yet, can't get a handle on the turmoil of emotions quite now, though I know it is coming, I know what is in store, and I will embrace it. I will be ready for it.
Your hand folds over mine, and I wait for the uncomfortable feeling, I wait to feel offended, embarrassed. But I am not. So I turn my hand over and grasp yours hard, and you are grasping me back, surprised. But I am not.
We stay this way for so long that I'm not sure who saw us, what was said about us, but I honestly don't care. Finally you get your half-smile again, beautiful, so like a homecoming that I feel a current run through me, but you are looking at my tray of food.
"Well, we don't have scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast," you say of the green and purple mishmash of food.
"No," I say. "But we have real orange juice. I'll share it with you, if you'd like." And when you look back at me, and I look at you, I know that I am looking at everything I need, perhaps everything I'll ever need, and I realize suddenly that, after all this time, what I have been most homesick for was you.
FIN
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