Light As A Feather
by Chasmina@aol.com
"I am told," Paris said, putting on his boots, "that it is to the advantage 
of a starship pilot to maintain a good relationship with the Engineering 
department."
     B'Elanna peered out from the bathroom.  "Are you kidding?" she said inc 
reduously.  "For what you put my engines through, hotshot, I should make you 
rue the day you set foot in Engineering."
     "You could try. We still have half an hour before the next duty shift 
begins," Tom offered.
     B'Elanna adjusted her collar.  "Don't tempt me."
     "Me?  Tempt you?"  Tom laughed, his face vibrant with mischief.  "No, 
you've proven that temptation is your area of expertise.  Maybe it's linked 
to those vertiron emissions from the warp coils."
     "You make it sound as if I was corrupting an innocent," Torres 
protested.
     Tom grazed her cheek with a kiss and headed out the door.  "That's me," 
he tossed over his shoulder.  "Mister Innocent!"
***
B'Elanna never trusted auspicous beginnings.  Nothing lead to a bad afternoon 
quicker than a good morning.  After a thoroughly enjoyable morning with Tom, 
it was no great surprise to her when Carey and two other members of her staff 
came down with a stomach virus.
     "It's actually a problem in the replicator matrix," Carey was saying  
over the comm link.  "Turns out we would've been better off eating whatever 
Neelix was serving for breakfast."
     B'Elanna sighed.  "I guess I'll get a team out on those replicators, 
then. Does the Doctor have an expected recovery time?"
     "Twenty-four hours maximum," Carey replied.  "I don't think any of us 
could stand longer than that."
     "Believe me, I understand.  I've spent an unusual amount of time under 
the Doctor's care of late myself." B'Elanna tapped her badge.  "Torres out."
***
Tom had the distinct feeling he was being watched.  Harry was off fixing 
replicators, Chakotay was working on quarterly personnel reports, and Tom 
barely knew the ensign filling in at Ops.  That left Tuvok and Captain 
Janeway.
     The problem was, he couldn't turn around.  The rotation mechanism on the 
pilot's seat worked fine, and Tom was perfectly capable of swinging his chair 
around to face the interior of the bridge.  But there was no reason to; 
nothing satisfactorily beyond his own persistent paranoia, at least.  It was 
a matter of self-control, one didn't just spin about in the pilot's seat on 
duty.  But...
     It was Janeway.  Tom was almost positive.  Tuvok, he decided, was not 
the type to stare.  If the game was one of hold-out, Paris was the loser.  
The sensation was starting to irritate him.  He had to know.
     Shifting around in his chair, Tom confirmed his suspicions.  Janeway's 
head was resting on her fingertips, and she was looking quizzically at the 
towheaded pilot.
     "Captain?"  Tom queried.
     Janeway slipped out of her reverie, and had the decency to appear a bit 
embarassed.  Tom, in response, felt far less awkward about turning around. 
*Usually I'm the one staring off into space.*
     "I'm sorry, Tom," Janeway said, easing back into her chair.  "It's just 
...Well, I was simply wondering exactly what made you so -- so bouyant this 
afternoon."
     Tom grinned.  "Just the old Paris attitude shining through, Captain.  
Like the proverbial ray of sunshine."
     "Well, Mr. Paris, I hope the sun will keep shining when you hear how 
you'll be spending the afternoon."  Tom was sure Janeway knew that the "Paris 
attitude" had about as much to do with his glow as a basket of Romulan jinta.
     "Not even leola root could bring me down, Captain," Tom answered.
     Janeway quirked a smile.  "I'll be sure to inform Mr. Neelix."
     "So, what exactly *will* I be doing this afternoon?" Tom inquired.  His 
mind rifled through possibilities; flight tests, battle simulations, computer 
upgrades...
     Janeway grabbed a padd from the chair next to her and held it out to 
him. "Inventory."
***
"Orr, finish cleaning out the plasma manifolds.  Siptik, fill in for Cartney, 
power fluctuations on deck five."
     Siptik nodded curtly.  Ensign Orr was still trying to neutralize the 
sour look on her face.  B'Elanna sympathized; this group had eaten breakfast 
a la Neelix, and were now being doubly punished, pulling the loads of those 
who hadn't.  She decided to sweeten the deal.
     "Replicator rations to everyone covering for a sick crewmember," Torres 
announced, trying to muster an upbeat attitude.  "If we ever get them fixed," 
she muttered under her breath.  "Schiffer, you've got coil recalibration.  
And I'll take over for Carey.  So, that should be everything.  Let's go!"
     The small group dispersed.  B'Elanna looked down at the duty roster and 
accessed Carey's file.  She had taken on his work knowing it would probably 
be the largest load.  *It's my own fault, I suppose.  I should have read 
_all_ the assignments before doling them out.*  With an audible groan, she 
stalked out of the Engine room and headed for Cargo Bay Three.
 ***	"I'm sorry to do this to the two of you."  The Captain's voice sounded 
genuinely apologetic over the comm system.  "I hate to put two senior 
officers on mundane items.  But we're down by two dozen crew members from the 
replicator malfunctions."
     "We understand," Paris assured her.
     "Janeway out."
     Paris glanced at B'Elanna.  "Hours on end in an empty cargo bay with 
you."  He leaned closer.  "This could be torture."
     "Torture," she said, pushing past him, "is that we have to be working. 
Inventory, Tom.  Surely you remember it from your cadet years?  Hours on end, 
as you so aptly pointed out, counting and stacking and recording."
     Paris followed her into the cargo bay.  "Come on, B'Elanna.  On a ship 
this size, it's impossible not to mix business with pleasure."  He paused to 
look around the expansive bay.  "Wow.  What exactly are we cataloging here?  
Those are some large containers."
     B'Elanna studied the padd in front of her.  "Believe it or not," she 
said, moving among the cartons, "it's some kind of currency...monetary units 
used in this area.  We got all this -- " she made a wide gesture with her 
hand " -- for some herbs and berries from the hydroponics lab."
     Paris let out a low whistle.  "I heard about the negotiations.  Remind 
me that I need to go berry picking every once in a while.  Either this 
currency has little or no value, or else Kes is growing some pretty amazing 
plants."
     "I think there were some plants in hydroponics that provided a necessary 
mineral for one of the alien species," B'Elanna replied.  "I don't know what 
the currency is, though.  And the containers are huge.  This is going to be a 
big job."
     Tom walked to a replicator.  "Computer, two anti-grav ladders."  A pair 
of flat antigrav devices appeared on the surface of the replicator.  The term 
"ladder" was, of course, a misnomer.  They were more like personal 
antigravity units.  Tom remembered the antigrav scooter he had as a kid.  And 
having it taken away trying to exceed the recommended five meters.  He handed 
one of the units to Torres.
     "Here," she motioned towards a container.  "Let's start with this one."  
She set her ladder on the floor directly next to the gargantuan, metal drum.  
The unit measured the height of the object, estimated her height, and floated 
her up next to the rim.  Tom glided up next to her.  Torres entered access 
codes into the crate's control panel.  The wide, silver-toned cover slid 
automatically into one side.
     "You have got to be kidding me," B'Elanna murmured.  "Tom, are those... 
feathers?"
     "I guess so."  The carton was three-quarters full of medium sized tufts 
which did appear to be feathers of some variety.  They came in a array of 
colors, and Tom noticed a few distinct structures.
     "Actually, it would explain some things," B'Elanna said.  "Like the size 
of the containers.  If you can fly to the lid, there's no problem in opening 
the thing."
     "But how are we supposed to inventory this?  Count every feather?"
     B'Elanna surveyed the mass of fluff before her.  "Well, we could always 
take a cross-section and multiply it by the height of the container.  If the 
Captain knows or knew what was in here, I don't think she'd demand an exact 
total."
     "Sounds good.  Now I know why they keep you around," Tom teased.
     "Let's just get this over with, Helmboy."  B'Elanna flipped a tricorder 
out of her holster.  "Here, I'm going to take the count from the top layers."  
She passed over the edge of the container and hovered above the feathers.  
She swept the tricorder in a wide arc.  As she turned around, Tom noticed a 
red light on the edge of her antigrav unit.  Simultaneously, a warning beep 
went off. B'Elanna barely had time to let out a strangled gasp before being 
dumped uncerimoniously into the pile.
     "Do not laugh."
     Tom tried to stifle his grin entirely.  Then, B'Elanna emitted something 
roughly resembling a sneeze, and he had to allow himself a chuckle.  He eased 
up on the ladder and levitated above the rim of the crate.  B'Elanna's hair 
was spotted with colorful fringes.  A large, deep purple feather clung to her 
shoulder.
     "Excellent job, B'Elanna.  I'd give your little, pardon the pun, swan 
dive at least a eight-point-zero for the sheer gracefulness of it."
     Torres was steaming.  "Just get me out."
     "You know," Tom said breezily, "I could just leave you in there.  But," 
he added quickly, "I will do the proper, chivalrous thing.  Of course."
     "Of course," B'Elanna mimmicked.
     Tom began ascent onto the soft, cushioned surface.  With a sudden jolt, 
he felt his body rushing towards the multicolored mass below him.  A few 
seconds later, there was a clatter as his antigrav ladder fell to the floor 
of the cargo bay.
     Tom watched B'Elanna's lips curve slightly.  "I was asking for that, 
wasn't I?" he said ruefully.
     "You got every bit you deserved," Torres returned.  Tom edged closer and 
the two sat across from each other, sinking into the feathers.  "My guess is 
that the replicator malfunctions are not being so kind as to limit themselves 
to edibles."
     "When we screw up a system on this ship," Tom laughed, "we do it right."
     "I guess we have to have someone come down and retrieve us.  Or beam us 
out."
     "That," Paris said, plucking a feather from her hair, "could be 
embarassing."
     "What?  Why?  Not everyone's mind works like yours, Tom."
     "Why, B'Elanna," Tom mocked.  "I wasn't even thinking of *that*."
     As Tom's lips met hers, B'Elanna realized that he might have been 
telling the truth.  *Maybe the thought never even crossed his mind...*  Tom 
ran his hand across her shoulder and to the nape of her neck.  She could feel 
the warmth of his face next to her own.  She pulled back slightly, leaving 
only an inch of air between them.
     "Tom, we can't," B'Elanna protested softly.
     "Why not?"
     "It's...it's a cargo bay, in case you haven't noticed," she hissed.
     "Computer, lock doors to Cargo Bay Three.  Authorization Paris-Beta-6."  
Tom smiled at her.  "Better?" Tom asked.
     "Probably not if Captain Janeway comes looking for us,"  she said.
     Tom leaned forward and the feathers went pliant under his knee.  "I 
think Captain Janeway would understand," he whispered.
     Tom kissed her again; this time, B'Elanna answered him eagerly.  She 
pulled his uniform top off and pushed him playfully onto the heap of 
feathers.  He bounced slightly in landing.  B'Elanna helped him wriggle out 
of his turtleneck. His mind went hazy with contrasts; the cool, soft mattress 
of feathers under him, and B'Elanna's warm breath on his shoulder as her 
teeth gently tugged at his skin.  Tom recalled a phrase he had read 
somewhere: exquisite pain. B'Elanna murmured something and Tom took her face 
into his hands.  Kissing her urgently, Tom pulled himself up and then pressed 
her onto to pile.  Their legs tangled.  Tom could feel her laugh even as 
their lips were joined.  He ran a finger lightly over her collarbone.
     "That's more like it," she said quietly.
     "Hey, this was your idea."  He picked up a thin, green feather and 
twirled it idly between his thumb and index finger.
     "B'Elanna."
     "Mmm?"
     "Are you ticklish?"
     "Thomas Eugene Paris, if you so much as dare...."  Her stern tone melted 
instantaneously into shrieking.
***
From the security monitoring room, Ethan Simms switched off the security 
devices in Cargo Bay Three.  It was, he thought, the least he could do.
***
B'Elanna sat up against the side of the container.  Tom thought she looked 
like an exotic bird.  A very tired exotic bird.
     "I never would've pegged you as ticklish," he said.
     "You're not exactly one to talk in that area," B'Elanna shot back.  She 
looked around.  They had created a complex landscape; entire mountain ranges 
and deep, burrowed valleys, all composed of light, colorful down.  "You 
realize we are going to have to take inventory now."
     Tom stretched his hand out and took a orange feather off her forehead.  
"One," he said.  "This might take a while, you understand."  He reached up 
and drew another out of her hair.  "Two."
     "Tom, what are you doing?"
     "We have work to do, Lieutenant Torres.  I fully intend to stay here 
until we count every one."