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Some people have no appreciation for who and what they are.
For instance, they possess a set of particularly long, shapely legs—and waste them on bloody crawling down an unusually narrow pathway, leading to the gym where Kathryn’s very first anti-grav class is about to take place.
She tries clearing her throat pointedly, but the guy in front of her (she’s mostly judging by the size, since the slow-walker’s head and neck are almost entirely wrapped in a thick, brown scarf—she gets that environmental controls have been acting up for three days straight, but it’s a bit too much) doesn’t seem to hear her, much less take a hint and get a move on. She’s all but jumping up and down in frustration, not wanting to be late—daddy said she shouldn’t, not only because of him, but mostly because of herself; and besides, she’s been dying to get into this class—but seeing absolutely no way she could squeeze between the guy (how does it feel to have such broad shoulders? Is he constantly aware of all the space they take up, or is it something he’d got used to and hardly thinks about anymore?) and Mr. Boothby’s prized hedges. Damnation!
She’s about to actually jump and throw herself at him (she probably wouldn’t reach much higher than his waist, but hey, at least he’d notice her, right?), when the neatly trimmed wall of greenery to her right gives way to a slightly unkempt patch of grass—an opportunity she’s not about to miss. She makes a sharp right, takes a few quick, long leaps…
…and slips on a muddy stone.
Okay. When she said she was looking forward to doing some anti-grav exercises, this was not what she had in mind. She’s sent flying, waving her hands desperately as the muddy lawn gets closer and closer to her face, and reaches out to grasp at the very first thing that looks like something to break a fall with.
As luck would have it, said thing is one of the flapping ends of the strange guy’s scarf. For a moment, as her fingers close around a tassel of thick, fuzzy wool, Kathryn worries she might pull it hard enough to actually strangle the poor man (and on her second week at the Academy, no less! That would surely break Kirk’s record…): but as luck, or lack thereof, would have it, he loses his balance the moment she starts tugging in earnest, and follows her to the ground, those ridiculously long limbs tangling with hers as they fall into a heap.
For a few blessed seconds, they’re both stunned into silence—but then, the guy moves (a good thing: at least she knows she hasn’t killed a man in her eagerness to get to class), and speaks (a sort of mixed thing, because his rumbling voice causes her to shiver in a most childlike manner), gruffly, “Ouch. What was that for?”
He gives her a hurt, worried look, and she notices how bloodshot his eyes are, and how clammy his skin feels where her hand is resting against his neck. “Are you okay?” she asks, instantly more concerned with his health than the class that’s probably started without her anyway. “You don’t look too good.”
She almost winces at her own ‘smoothness’ (behold, Kathryn Janeway, nerd extraordinaire, who cannot talk to men to save her life!; especially when they happen to be tall, broad-shouldered, soft-eyed, and incredibly close to her), but her victim thankfully lets it slide, and sniffles unhappily as he sits up on the grass. “Not really. This wretched weather is killing me—I’m from a much warmer planet, I get these terrible colds every time the controls give.”
She frowns, mirroring his movement of sitting up and actually wincing as her right shoulder protests vehemently: she must have bruised it when she fell. “Why aren’t you at the infirmary, then? They should have a hypo or two to help you out.”
“I was on my way there,” he explains, and she shakes her head, wincing again.
“No, you weren’t. This is the way to Gym Hall Theta. The infirmary is on the other side of the campus.”
He looks positively sheepish, and way too cute for a guy of his bulk and size. “My fever must be running higher than I thought. Sorry. Here, let me help you up, and I’ll be on my way.”
She lets him pull her up—his hands feel warm and safe, and she supposes it’s only partly to do with his current body temperature—but doesn’t relax her grasp once she’s regained her footing. “Tell you what—it’s a thirty minute hike from here. How about we go to my dorm instead? It’s just around the corner: I have a hypo from the last time I got sick at home, and my replicator actually makes a decent cup of broth once I bribe it with maintenance. I did get you all muddy and dirty after all, so I’ll even throw in a quick laundry; what do you say?”
She keeps talking, and hoping he doesn’t say anything at all, because she’s blabbing like the schoolgirl she used to be but a few short weeks ago, and he probably thinks she’s all sorts of ridiculous, with her makeup-free face and all the crazy freckles, hair in disarray and a muddied uniform…
“Okay.”
Her head snaps up, and she lifts an incredulous brow. “Really?”
He smiles, and reveals a set of dimples that make her grateful for having held onto his hands, since her knees don’t seem to be working at the moment. “Yeah, really. As long as you’ll let me take a look at that shoulder that seems to be bothering you. Don’t worry—I don’t expect the fever’s had any serious impact on my skill as a masseuse.”
She smiles right back at him and nods, letting go of one of his hands and noticing with pleasure that he tightens his hold on her other one. “Well then, let’s go,” she says, stepping back onto the path and not minding his languid pace at all this time. “I’m Kathryn, by the way.”
His eyes are the warmest she’s ever seen. “Chakotay.”
/end