Cold Water

Kathryn Janeway gasped as the shower water suddenly became cold. Damn Chakotay she thought as she hurriedly tried to rinse the shampoo from her hair, he'd promised that he hadn't used all the hot water. She didn't know why he had to have a shower here anyway; his own quarters had a perfectly adequate bathroom.

Still shivering she stepped out of the cubicle and wrapped herself in a large, fluffy towel in an attempt to get warm before putting a bathrobe on as well. Fleetingly she was glad she'd had her hair cut off a few months ago; it would have taken a lot more time to wash the shampoo out of her longer hair. She'd been thinking about growing it back again, Chakotay liked it long, now she was thinking about being shorn. Of course, if someone hadn't used up all her hot water, it wouldn't make any difference how long her hair was.

Stepping out of the bedroom she glanced around her quarters, her attention finally focusing on Chakotay; comfortably curled up on her couch, reading a data padd, he looked completely at home. She wrinkled her nose in disapprobation, her quarters were unusually untidy, there was a uniform jacket draped over the couch, a pile of data padds scattered across the table and the cups and plates from their dinner were still lying on the floor. How had she not noticed how untidy he was before?

If she'd been feeling a little more reasonable she might have realised that he wasn't really untidy, he just hadn't picked things up yet; she might also have remembered that his office wasn't particularly untidy - but she wasn't feeling reasonable, she'd just had a cold shower and the fact that he was sitting there, blissfully unaware of his transgression was more than a little annoying.

'Do you have to make my quarters look so untidy?' she asked sharply. He looked up, confused.

'I thought you were having a shower? I was just going to finish reading this report and then clear up.'

'I'll believe it when I see it.'

'Kathryn,' he began, but she interrupted

'Is it too much to ask for you to put a few plates in the recycler, to not scatter and drape your possessions over my furniture?' Her angry tone finally spurred a reaction out of him.

'It wouldn't be a problem if you weren't so obsessional about putting things away - even your data padds are stacked with perfect symmetry.'

'I am not obsessional!' That remark earned a derisory snort.

Well, I don't know anyone else who hangs their clothes in the wardrobe in alphabetical order.'

'At least I hang them up - you just seem to use the furniture!'

'I am not untidy Kathryn, I can however sit in a room with a few plates on the floor and not hyperventilate, which is more than I can say for you.'

'Well - if you find me so disappointing please don't let me detain you, feel free to go and clutter up someone elses existence!' Suddenly, just when they seemed about to launch into a full scale row he began to laugh.

'What?' she demanded, 'what is so damn fummy?' For a few seconds he was laughing so much he couldn't answer.

'Do you realise what this is?' he asked between chuckles, 'this is our first row.'

'We've had disagreements before.'

'No, the Captain and the Commander have had disagreements, we might have got involved, but it was never us doing the fighting. This time it was us, just us.' She stood stock still, feeling the impact of his words and then she smiled, laughing delightedly.

'You're right. We're really having a normal argument, just like everyone else.' It was absurd, that this should be such a gift, but it was. That they were not arguing about confrontations with enemies, or the lives and future of their crew but about something so simple and personal. 'Isn't it wonderful?'

He laughed, clambered to his feet, catching her up in his arms and spinning her around. 'Yes,' he replied simply.

'I'm sorry,' she said suddenly, 'I didn't mean to pick a fight.'

'I'm sorry as well - and I don't think you're obsessional. I was just saying that,' she stopped him with a kiss.

'I know.' he kissed her again, more fiercely this time, the fire from their argument igniting between them.

Several hours later Kathryn Janeway stood in the doorway to her bedroom, surveying the scene of devastation that was her living room. The floor was scattered with towels and robes, the cushions from the couch had been pulled to the floor as well; the coffee table pushed against the wall; she almost blushed just looking at it. 'I'll clear it up in the morning,'a sleepy voice said from her bedroom, 'come back to bed.'

The End

Back to my Tales