II.

"Computer, calculate distance and running time."

"Distance is 6.32 kilometers, traversed in 35 minutes, 19 seconds."

"Fuck. . . Really?"

"Please re-state the command."

Tom wipes the sweat from his eyes, ignoring the computer's last attempt to interpret his colorful language. He begins to slowly walk the sunny hillside after two more minutes of standing in the same spot- angry and winded; no matter the paltry distance he ran and the mediocre time he did it in, it won't do skip his cool down and then end up in a universe of pain.

Perhaps it was a mistake not to keep track of his speed as he went, but he honestly thought he'd exceeded the clip he ran at yesterday, with Janeway. To say nothing of the fact that he didn't even manage to match the number of kilometers he put up in that run, coming short now by almost twenty percent.

When he leaves the holodeck to shower and change for his shift in Sickbay, it's laden with dejection and the pain of aching joints.

. . . . .

"Something wrong, Mister Paris?"

The Doctor's voice surprises Tom as he's giving himself an analgesic. The Lieutenant turns to face his holographic boss with the pale skin around his prominent cheekbones flushing a subtle shade of pink.

"You know how I feel about self-medicating," the Doctor admonishes crisply.

"I made a note of it in the record," Tom points out. "Very by-the-book."

The EMH's only reply to this thin defense is a haughty eye-roll before he turns and faces a console, examining the results of the experiments his assistant was supposed to be monitoring.

"May I inquire as to what you have been doing to your body that it is now putting up such stringent protest? Or should I instead direct my concerns to the ship's Chief Engineer?"

The pilot gives the Doctor a withering look for the over the remark that lands well over the line.

Maybe he and B'Elanna are too public a couple, but even if all of their previous behavior had been the result of poor judgment rather than alien experiment, it wouldn't make their private lives the kind of public domain everyone takes it as. He's sick of the crew, other than maybe Harry, making comments to him about sex life. Just because he is without B'Elanna's Klingon temper doesn't mean he won't, eventually, put someone through a wall.

"Running," Tom says tersely. His first two chosen retorts bitten back by the desire to avoid a lecture from the Captain, or (worse) Chakotay, on the expectations of professional conduct.

"Running," the Doctor repeats, with a disgusted shake of his head. "I will never understand the human fascination with forcing one's skeletal structure to adapt to high-impact activities that inevitably lead to deterioration and chronic inflammation. What have your bodies ever done to you, other than support your consciousness, thereby facilitating a lifetime replete with poor choices?"

"Doc, wasn't the Captain supposed to be here for her check-up ten minutes ago?"

It's a desperate grab for a change of subject, and Tom feels a little guilty for throwing Janeway under the proverbial shuttle. But if this conversation keeps going the way it has, Bad Things are going to happen for the Doctor. And then, by direct consequence, for Tom himself.

"So she was," the EMH huffs, having consulted his internal chronometer. "Computer, location of Captain Janeway."

"Captain Janeway is on deck one, section three."

"Why is she in her ready room when she should be on her way to her check-up?" the Doctor shouts with agitation.

"Insufficient information."

"That was rhetorical!" the Doctor declares dramatically, then mutters a string of comments about the inelegance of certain program matrices.

"Should we comm her?" Tom asks. His blue eyes big, and unconvincingly innocent.

In the early days, the Doctor would have commed the Captain in a snit, demanding that she come down to Sickbay. However, after almost four years of dealing with Janeway's crisp refusals or out-and-out excuses, the EMH's tactics have altered. He'll neither comm the Captain to cite her lapse, nor passive-aggressively comment on her absence the next time he sees her. Instead, like the intelligent and adaptive being he is, he'll bide his time. . . Lying in wait for his prey.

"No need," the Doctor says darkly. And without a further word, retreats to the privacy of his office, to contrive his plan of attack.

Alone again, Tom rolls his shoulders, feeling the medicine relieve part, if not at all, of the bothersome tightness there.

. . . . .

"What's wrong with you today?" Harry asks, after the third time Tom zones out from their conversation.

"Nothing," the Lieutenant replies, unconvincingly, as he restlessly shifts where he stands.

The turbolift they're on comes to a halt, and Kim hangs back, allowing Paris to exit before him.

"Nothing?" Harry repeats.

"I'm just thinking, Har," Tom defends, with a little too much edge. At which point Harry gives in, hoping whatever it is will pass.

The truth of the matter is that Tom is, in fact, thinking. Or, more to the point, simmering- in both his frustration with his stalled physical efforts and his new obsession with what he can do to better them.

It's true that he's being impatient with himself; it's only been two weeks of training. And he is losing weight, which was the whole point of this, in the beginning.

Unfortunately, none of this allows him to let go of his present agitation, fed by the memory of that gloriously fast run in Gatineau, with Janeway.

Maybe I just need a running buddy, he decides. Someone to keep me motivated, competitive.

It isn't an unpleasant realization since Tom is clearly a social person by nature . The lone rub is that the companion for such a task would have to have some very specific characteristics. They can't be too fast, or else too slow; either would defeat the point. They can't be too awkward to be around socially, or ten kilometers could easily end up feeling like one hundred.

Not too chatty. Not too grumpy in the mornings. Nor, worse, too chipper.

The list of excluded applicants grows longer and longer, quickly including most of the ship before Tom and Harry have even made it to the mess hall doors.

Yesterday's awkwardness about Tom's hobby notwithstanding, Harry is, of course, an option. And as they stride into the crowded room, greeting people as they go, Tom considers his friend's relative merit.

Harry's good company, that goes without saying. And what he lacks given his shorter stride he makes up for in sheer athleticism. The main problem is that Harry likes to vary his workouts and, above all else, likes to workout alone.

Tom isn't sure why that last part is, exactly. But a little voice inside his head tells him that maybe, when Harry jogs the decks, he imagines himself as Captain Kim, defender of Voyager and wielder of the fastest compression rifle this side of the Milky Way.

"What?" Harry asks, nudging Tom with his elbow.

"Huh?" Tom says with a jerk.

"You were smirking. Just now."

"Sorry," Tom offers, biting the corner of his lip. "Random thought. Nothing of consequence."

They take a spot in line as Harry shoots his pal a long, skeptical look. Tom manages an apologetic shoulder shrug, deciding, privately, that he would be a better friend to Harry if he let him have his 'Captain Kim' time.

The pilot is spared further interrogation by the passing of a group of officers, led by Mike Ayala.

"Any warning on dinner, Mike?" Tom asks smiling, and Ayala promptly shakes his head.

"Nope," Ayala replies stalwartly. "It's like training drills at the Academy, Paris. Hints would be an unfair tactical advantage."

The small crowd around them laughs, and Tom decides to rise to the challenge. He never would have thought, back when Ayala quietly hated his guts, that he would come to thoroughly enjoy the former Maquis' rather dark brand of humor.

"We're all on the same team here," Tom pretends to plead. "And besides, by definition, there's no such thing as a strategic advantage in a no win scenario."

"Don't worry," Ayala says, following his deep clap of laughter. "The suffering builds character, Lieutenant."

"Some comrade in arms," Harry shakes his head, to which Ayala raises a dismissive hand.

"Inside the mess hall, it's every officer for himself." Adding with a dark smile, "god speed, gentlemen."

When the amused murmurs surrounding the banter die off, Tom and Harry are almost at the head of the line, worriedly eyeing two completely unidentifiable substances.

"I think I'm going for the brown stuff," Harry says, but Tom only shakes his head.

"I'm going for the purple. Not a comforting color, but at least it doesn't look fuzzy."

It's when they've filled their plates and scanned the room for a table that Tom is struck by sudden inspiration to his previous quandary.

"Har, will you save me a seat? I need to ask the Captain something."

Harry gives him yet another skeptical look, nodding nonetheless. A moment later, Tom is standing awkwardly next to Janeway's table, wondering why in the hell he thought this was a good idea.

Janeway's sitting at one of the smaller tables, meant for two, and in a few minutes she'll be joined by the Commander. Tom guesses as much, knowing that soon young Harry will be smiling from ear to ear, despite the numerous PADD's that clearly indicate it's a working dinner.

"Hello, Tom," Janeway greets, carefully setting down on her coffee on the overcrowded table. "Something I can do for you?"

"As an officer in your service, Captain, I feel that it's my duty to warn you that your Chief Medical Officer is, at this very moment, plotting against you."

Janeway takes note of the way he comically stands at attention before her, her lips twisting into something between a smirk and grimace.

"I don't suppose he's filled you in on how he plans to ambush me?" she asks, scratching at her brow.

"No, ma'am," Tom deadpans. "I'm afraid he knows where my loyalties are and won't confide that kind of strategic information."

This last part succeeds in wringing a laugh from her, albeit a small one. The smile that appears on her face stays for only a few moments, before she realizes this is probably a lead into something else.

"I appreciate your warning," she says lightly. "Is there anything else?"

This is Tom's cue. Except that he feels like a colossal idiot. Is he really about to ask his Captain, a person crushed with work and possessing no spare time, to join him in a daily run?

"Tom?" comes Janeway's slightly worried voice. And the pilot blushes, realizing he's been standing with his mouth slightly ajar.

"I was wondering if you wanted to run with me," he blurts, panicking under Janeway's watchful stare.

"Run with you?" Janeway says, a little uneasily. And immediately, Tom regrets his lack of impulse control.

"I'm sorry, Captain. I know you're probably too busy-"

"It's a lovely offer," Janeway cuts him off, and (Tom thinks) with the impressive appearance of genuineness. "It was great fun yesterday. It's just. . . Well. . . There is a lot of work to be done these days."

"Of course," Tom nods crispy, and then, seeing the Chakotay enter, thinks to retreat. Quickly. "Enjoy your dinner, if that's possible."

"You, too," Janeway replies, her expression faltering as she watches her pilot practically trip over his own feet in an effort to get away from her. "And Tom?" she calls, when he's made it a little ways away.

It won't do to ignore his Captain, no matter how much he wants to pretend he doesn't hear her call after him. However reluctantly, Tom turns, trying to plaster a pleasant, non-mortified expression on his face as he does so.

"I wouldn't eat the brownish dinner offering," she warns him, careful that Neelix's is no where in ear-shot. "However disconcerting the 'casserole' is with its vibrant hue, the brown dish. . . tickles in a highly disturbing way on the way down."

"Thanks, Captain," Tom says. His discomfort momentarily supplanted with a different kind of horror. "I'll see if I can warn Ensign Kim, before it's too late."

"By all means."

Paris makes it to where the aforementioned officer sits waiting, arriving at the table just in time to block the first insidious forkful from reaching another innocent mouth.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Tom warns solemnly.

"Who says?"

"The Captain. She couldn't save herself, but apparently she's trying to save the crew."

"Noble woman," Harry pronounces, and quickly pushes away his tray.

"That she is," Tom agrees, generously sliding his bright but non-follicled dinner between himself and Kim.

. . . . .

"Aren't you going to get up?" B'Elanna asks groggily, her voice muffled by the proximity of her face to Tom's chest.

"I don't think so," Tom yawns, then orders the computer to reset his alarm.

"Giving up on running?" B'Elanna asks, already sliding back into sleep.

"No," Tom lies, to himself as well as the woman in his arms. "Just taking a day off."

Really, he knows how this will go. He'll take today off and then tomorrow, and before he knows it an entire month will have gone by, leaving him with no glimmer of remaining interest in what was previously a bright and shiny hobby.

The thing is, Tom can't bring himself to care. He's tired. His whole body is suffering. And presently, he's in a warm bed with a warm girlfriend.

There's nothing running can offer him this morning that can compete with his present locale.

"Perhaps we could engage in another form of cardio," Tom says, sliding his fingers through the strands of B'Elanna's hair that fall over his torso.

The engineer's response is muted sigh that tells her lover she's already succumbed to the land of the unconscious.

Ten minutes later, Tom is just about to join her there when the comm badge on his bedside beeps, causing B'Elanna to shift in protest.

"Paris here," he says quietly, angling his mouth away from B'Elanna ear.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," rings the Captain's distinctive voice. "I'm on the holodeck, but you're not here. . . Were you running somewhere else today?"

"Umm. No. . . I'm just. . . a little late getting started this morning." As his lips form the lie, he's already twisting out from the blankets and B'Elanna's form, mentally locating his athletic clothing and the spot on the floor where he last deposited his running shoes. "I'm sorry if you've been waiting, but if you'll give me a few minutes, I'll be right there."

"No apology needed given the lack of notice. See you in five minutes, Holodeck Two?"

The comm line closes and Tom leans over, placing an affectionate hand on his girlfriend's back.

"Bee?" he whispers carefully. "Bee, I'm going to get dressed and meet the Captain. Do you mind?"

"I don't care," B'Elanna groans, burying her face in Tom's pillow. "Just make all the noise stop."

With that, Tom drops a kiss on B'Elanna temple, strips off his night shorts and grabs for his running clothing.

. . . . .

"You changed your mind," Tom says with a wide if sleepy smile, coming into the already active holodeck.

"I did," Janeway says, with an air of gravity. "Sorry for turning you down yesterday."

"No need to explain," Tom rushes to say, then notes the way Janeway's expression looks oddly. . . guilty.

"Tom. . . I'm sorry to say I lied to you yesterday," the Captain confesses. And as she approaches him, he notes her gait. The way she looks decidedly stiff.

"Oh?"

"I cited my lack of my time, but really I was worried that I was a little unprepared. . . Physically."

"In a little pain after our run, Captain?"

Try as he may, Tom can't keep his tone from tipping into smugness, nor can he can keep his eyes from shining with amusement.

"What I'm about to say stays in this room, Mister. Got it?"

Tom nods, his gleeful, childish anticipation bubbling within him.

"I admit that while I felt energized immediately after our run, that evening and ever since I've experienced some . . . discomfort."

"Discomfort?" Tom asks, placing his arms behind his back. A nice, respectful at-ease stance.

"Yes," Janeway replies curtly. "On top of having to cancel dinner plans and . . . minimize my movements on the bridge, I had to avoid that damn Sickbay appointment. Which means the Doctor is going to be trailing me for stars know how long."

"That's all very odd," Tom begins, cuing what Harry once, privately, referred to as his 'dumb blonde' expression. "I mean you said yourself- you were quite the runner in your day. Never even had to stretch, right?"

"Can it," Janeway orders, with enough steel in her voice that it takes Tom's amusement down, just a notch.

There aren't many people she would admit this kind of weakness to, and doing so now is a sign of her underlying person trust in Paris. Nevertheless, having her very arrogant words parroted back to her is only grinding in her present humiliation. It's both a blessing and a curse that her helmsman's very smart mouth happens to be attached to an even smarter brain.

"I will admit that my expectations were on the. . . optimistic side," she continues, making a show of smoothing her exercise tunic. "But I'm now here, admitting to it. Which you should appreciate, as you seemed to experience some of the requisite post-excercise phenomena yourself."

"I was a little tired right after we ran," Tom admits. "But unlike what you experienced, ma'am, my fatigue and pain largely went away."

"A little tired?" Janeway repeats, now joining Tom in his gossamer-thin innocent act. "I seem to recall my conn officer being nearly catatonic at the helm that morning."

"Respectfully, that seems an exaggeration, Captain."

"Do you realize that after the third time you replied to Commander Chakotay with a one-word answer, he teasingly asked you to be in charge of Neelix's next search for leola root- and you agreed?"

"I did?" Tom asks in horror.

"You did."

The absurdness of this last fact, of their immature debate- of all of it- strikes both of them at the same time. They each start laughing so hard they can hardly breathe.

"Oh, I have to stop laughing. . . It hurts," Janeway says, still chuckling, but now painfully clutching her side.

"Ya know, this is something I didn't think about when I considered running partners," Tom says suddenly.

"What?"

"That there's such a thing as being too competitive," he finishes. "I mean we're relatively easy company for each other- right up until we race each other right off a cliff."

Janeway makes a face at the image, but she can't exactly deny the thought. There's something about putting the two of them together that creates a synergy of competitive energy. It makes them a force to be reckoned with, tactically speaking, but it's also a little like working with anti-matter; a reliable source of power, right up to the millisecond it explodes and takes everything with it.

This last thought serves as an image that's even worse than the one Tom painted. Janeway puts her hand on her hips, feeling determined to overcome this apparent obstacle.

"We can work on that," she says. "Learn to push each other in a way that doesn't have the same destructive side-effects."

"It isn't just about pushing each other," he warns. "If we're going to take this seriously, there are going to have to be easy days. Runs when we aren't concerned about time. Concentrate on giving our bodies a break while still putting up kilometers."

"I know," she sighs. Recognizes, too, that this will be as hard for Tom as it will be for her. It isn't as if the man's a stranger to pushing the limits, with or without her company. "But I refuse to believe we can't do this. Together."

"Agreed," Tom nods. Then, with a dramatic sweeping motion, asks, "would the Captain care to stretch with me?"

"Only if she can find the wherewithal to bend at her waist."

This last admission pries loose another snigger from Paris. With Janeway being in this kind of pain, and his own limbs feeling like they're made of lead after two straight weeks of the same abuse, they're barely going to make it four kilometers at a brisk walk today.

"Tell the truth, Captain. Did you avoid Sickbay because of the Doctor? Or because you would have been coming in during my shift?"

"One of a Captain's few privileges is not having to answer certain inquiries," she replies coolly.

They both cringe as one of the joints in Janeway's ankle pops painfully. Tom could shoot her a victorious glance, but the truth is that he sympathizes, both with the pain and the accompanying humiliation.

"If it makes you feel better," he says, a few minutes later, "the Doctor caught me giving myself an analgesic."

Janeway stands up straight, her elbow presently pulled over her head as her eyebrows reach for heaven. She can only imagine the very enlightening lecture Tom received.

"Were you able to escape before he went on about our 'human preoccupation' with abusing our bodies?"

"No," Tom grouses, then smiles sweetly, "but right after that I created a diversion by reminding the Doc you were already supposed to be in Sickbay."

"Traitor."

"I confess I have but one life to give my ship. My sanity, on the other hand, thinks everyone is on their own when it comes to the Doctor's lectures."

It's the kind of banter a Captain shouldn't really be engaged in, even though Tom knows that the Doctor is, every photon of him, concerned with keeping them safe.

But, if Janeway's honest with herself, part of the pull of running with Tom is having time to shake free a few of the shackles of protocol.

Paris is a fleet brat and knows all the rules- even when he decides to break them. He may push her boundaries on occasion, but by and large he's someone who understands the burden she's under and (she's recognized for sometime) strives to make it feel a little lighter when they're together off-duty.

"You ready?" he asks finally, when they're each as stretched out as possible but feeling a little terrified of what this outing has in store.

"I don't know that there's a good answer to that question," Janeway sighs, making Tom's mouth tug up at the corners.

Such painful honesty is a start, at least.

"C'mon, Cap'n," Tom encourages, offering her his arm. "I promise not to comment on your creaking body if you promise to ignore my occasional whimpering."

"Tom," Janeway says, accepting the pilot's proffered support, " that is the most profoundly thoughtful offer I've had all week."

. . . . .