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Title: Packages Summary: They're home to stay. * In the end, it all came down to a small, grey valise, the size of a standard first-year spacer's trunk. A dress or two, three slacks, a two shirts, several sets of unmentionables, her socks, the uniforms--folded, pressed and ironed with all decorations correctly placed by Voyager's ever efficient laundry systems. One pair of replicator leather sandals (Model #28371-A), two pairs of of Federation reg. uniform boots. Two washcloths, three towels, a comb, a brush, a compact of face powder and a bottle of nail polish remover, but no nail polish. Twelve data disks, three engineering manuals and the proverbial partridge in the pear tree, all wrapped up in an extra tough skin of Tetralon with a 'Lt. B'Elanna Torres' nestled between the arc of a Starfleet Insignia. No momentoes. No odd, charming little souvenirs to decorate her next cabin, give it a flair; just the necessities, ma'm. There wasn't anything that she really couldn't have synthesized at her next posting, but she somehow. . . Somehow, she hadn't wanted to let go of these little things, small and generic as they were, and the luggage allowance on the Chekhov was certainly generous enough. . . Imagine. Going to the Delta Quadrant as an outlaw and a Maquis, and coming back as a decorated Starfleet officer with a posting on a Constellation class ship as the second-shift head of Engineering. They were going to be mailing her medal out to the Chekhov; it would probably be waiting for her in a little spacemail package. . . She had actually gotten it at the ceremony, but then Janeway had to make that speech with the memorable catchphrase -- what was it now? -- that had impressed all the brass, so they decided to engrave the medals with it at the last moment. . . She can't help but grin: four years exploring uncharted space, and she couldn't even carry _one_ personal item with her to the new posting. All she had were the replicatable neccessities of starship living. //How *very* efficient,//the sarcastic little voice in her head mocked. //How very efficient, Lanna.The captain had her alien artificats, the odd bubble instrument and Chakotay to show; even Tom had a couple dozen alien knicknacks to gather dust. She had a starfleet reg bag and a couple suits of plain clothing. "Not that much luggage, eh, Maquis?" came a soft, pleasant voice. "That's a good thing. No breaking your back like me." She turns around to find Harry standing there, clarinet case under his arm, shoulder bag, carrier and towaway trailing. He's little bent over from all that luggage, a little more tired and a little older from the trip to the Delta Quadrant, but he steps up on the transporter platform firmly enough and arranges himself in that way people always do when they're about to be disassembled and reassembled a couple hundred thousand klicks hence. Chin up, shoulders squared, and a vaguely pleasant yet serious look. . . It's a very familiar look, really: B'Elanna's been seeing it on Harry's, ever since that horribly abortive "relationship" with Tom. Harry had certainly been sweet and supportive during it -- the very best of friends to the both of them -- and it had been his good sense which had seen her and Tom through to peaceful co-existence on the same ship afterwards. . . But it hadn't been quiet the same with Harry after that. He'd been nice enough, and he'd still come sit by her in the mess hall and go to Sandrines with her to drink and talk and shoot pool, but he didn't stand on tiptoe to look for her in the crowd anymore or play his clarinet for her anymore. They'd have pleasant, entertaining conversations, and Harry wear that same pleasant yet serious and attentive face for hours, as if he were just waiting for the transporter beam to sweep him up and take him away from this unpleasantness. . . It wasn't until weeks later, until they were back in the Alpha Qudrant, really, that B'Elanna realized that the unpleasantness had been _her_. //But Harry likes me! I'm his friend!// her mind had protested even as she realized that "friend" was stretching it a bit and that the demotion had been rather sudden. . . She had been much more, once, and now. . . Well. She was watching Harry shift himself just a little bit more and pull the strap of his shoulder bag just a little more tightly across his chest. He definitely looked much older in this light, and when he said, "Energize," his voice was deeper, steadier than it had been in the beginning of the voyage. His eyes moved from the transporter chief to the platform to check if he'd missed anything and finally to her; B'Elanna could feel them resting on her with that flat, pleasant curiousity as Harry's face faded into a shower of silver. //No, I'm certainly not breaking my back.// she thinks, as she steps up lightly up for her turn on the platform, package tucked lightly under her arm. //Just my heart.// * end* Comments to anasile@aol.com |