Author's Note: For Alpha, as promised. . . Mostly

"I long for the raised voice, the howl of rage or love."

-Leslie Fiedler

Howl

I.

Present

"The wind is changing," B'Elanna says, standing on her tippy toes, and looking down, into the valley that contains their battered runabout.

It's the first thing Torres has said in more than three hours, so Janeway should be grateful for an end to the brooding silence.

And maybe, eventually, the Captain would have been. Were it not for what comes next.

"I'll take being wrong," Janeway shrugs, "if it means not losing the Delta Flyer."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," the engineer rejoins, bitterness apparent. "The wind has shifted the fire in our direction. . . Now it's coming toward us."

And though Janeway's surely made more costly mistakes, she certainly can't recall any that she regrets more- watching Torres collect their equipment with a muttered curse that much be Klingon for 'I told you so'.

. . . . .

Ten Hours Earlier

It isn't so much that B'Elanna's day has already been bad, prior to meeting Janeway in the shuttle bay. Rather, it's that anything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong, culminating in an afternoon the ship's Chief Conn Officer would have termed 'shit-tastic'.

And now, of course – of course– Tom isn't here to say good-bye to her.

"Where are you?" she demands into her comm badge, standing outside his quarters.

"I got stuck pulling another two hours in Sickbay," Tom informs her, dripping with apology.

"In Sickbay? Why?"

The question comes out harsher than it should, given that this obviously isn't Tom's fault. It certainly isn't as if he'd rather be pulling a long shift than seeing her, especially as he's the one who's made it a ritual to kiss good-bye before away missions.

If she's taking this all out on him now, it's partly her bad day, and partly because she still doesn't know what to do with all of these feelings she has for him.

It's been indescribably joyous to be this in love- to care about another person so much that her breath catches in her throat at the simplest, most innocent touch. But it's also terrifying; disorienting that she could be so disappointed at not being be able to see him for only a moment. To say nothing of the nausea-inducing panic she gets when considering what it would be like to lose him altogether.

"I'm really, really, sorry, Bee," Tom says, now sounding unabashedly pathetic. "I'll make it up to you when you get back. But this was Captain's orders."

Captain's orders, B'Elanna thinks bitterly. Of course.

"Right," she mutters, her mood turning even darker.

"Bee?"

"It's fine, Tom," she shoots back, not sounding at all convincing. But then she takes a breath, realizes how unfair she's being. "I expect dinner," she says, more teasingly. "Wine, too."

"Breakfast?"

It's the kind of thing only Tom Paris would ask over a comm line. Reflexively, B'Elanna checks the empty corridor for anyone in earshot, heat rising to her face.

"Maybe. If you're lucky," she allows, feeling herself start to smirk.

"Yes, ma'am."

Closing the line, B'Elanna huffs.

She really wishes Tom wouldn't call her that.

. . . . .

"You're late," Janeway says, as B'Elanna slides into her seat inside the Delta Flyer. And though it's a neutral observation rather than an admonishment, the engineer's lips press into thin, thin line.

The mission isn't anything extraordinary. Just a routine scouting mission to an ore-rich planet, and home in time for dinner. Depending on what they find, Voyager will spend the next two to six days in orbit, mining what they need.

It's the kind of mission Torres likes going on herself, despite that any number of people under her are more than qualified.

Adding in the Captain is plain overkill. On, oh, so many levels.

"Setting in coordinates for a low orbit above the southern-most hemisphere," Janeway announces, an hour after she's given up making small talk with B'Elanna. The Captain isn't sure what's going on with the Chief today, but obviously it's something.

They have another fifteen minutes of maneuvering to get in orbit, and then three odd hours of scanning.

It only takes twenty minutes before Janeway breaks, oddly uncomfortable with the silence.

"I'm going to replicate some coffee. Care for any?"

"No."

Torres' response is practically a growl, and Janeway sits back down, folding her arms in front of her chest.

"Alright, Lieutenant. Out with it."

"Come again?"

"What's going on? What's happened to get you so . . .?" Janeway finishes the question with a vague hand gesture that Torres, uncharitably or not, mentally fills in as 'Klingon.'

"It's just. . ." B'Elanna begins, trying to contain the rage welling up within her. "It's been a long day."

"They're all long days," Janeway says, sounding almost patient. "What what was it about today?"

It would be easy to be vague or deflect to work; talk about the lack of sleep lately, the power fluctuations on deck three she still can't track down, the small accident that sent Vorick to Sickbay and left her down two skilled hands.

But thinking about her horrific, unending day and staring into Janeway's damn 'trust me, confide me' eyes, all of that flies out the window. B'Elanna thinks of but one thing.

I'll make it up to you when you get back. But this was Captain's orders.

"Is there a reason you disapprove of my relationship with Tom Paris?"

Although it's a question she's been swallowing for months now, B'Elanna doesn't regret the act of lending voice to it. Not even as Janeway's eyes go wide in horror, the engineer's accusation hanging above them, in the very small space of the Flyer.

"Disapprove?" Janeway manages eventually. "I don't disapprove."

For a woman whose job it is to convince powerful foes that she can destroy them in a blink, Janeway's denial registers to Torres as an underwhelming performance.

"Really?" Torres prods, uncharacteristically calm given the fury she can feel whipping within her. "Because after the dust settled with the Srivani last year, you never apologized to Tom. Or me."

"Lieutenant, we were busy- we were all busy. That doesn't mean-"

"And every time Tom and I are due to go off shift at the same time, or have plans during one of the, oh, three weekly hours the ship isn't being shot at, you assign him extra duties."

Whatever trace of horror was evident on Janeway's face, it's wiped clean by B'Elanna's last remark, the Captain sitting up straighter in her chair, her eyes grey steel.

"Let me make this clear right now, Lieutenant. Whatever may go on during off-duty hours, the priority of every officer is the safety of ship and crew. I'm sorry if that duty has occasionally compromised your personal life, but my job doesn't involve take your dating calendar into account whenever I change the duty roster."

The low, rumbling tone is the kind of thing that would reduce Janeway's other officers to puddles of fear and shame. But the self-righteousness of Janeway's speech, the way she dodges the direct question, only adds to B'Elanna's anger.

"I just have to know," she says, ignoring Janeway's lecture, "is it about me, your disapproval? Or is it just about Tom. Tom dating someone."

B'Elanna is hardly the first person to imply a unique relationship between Janeway and her conn officer. But B'Elanna's suggestive tone, the young woman's remarkably open face, leaves no doubt that this isn't akin to Chakotay calling Tom her personal reclamation project.

This is more than that. Much more.

"I'm the Captain," Janeway hisses. "And as Captain I don't have the luxury of romantic relationships with my officers."

It's the farthest thing from a denial. And absolutely the wrong thing to say to B'Elanna Torres.

But it's in the ensuing chaos of shouting and accusation that the atmosphere in which they're hovering changes, just enough.

It's only once they've finally out of stable orbit that either realize what's gone wrong; Janeway back at the helm in a flash, B'Elanna a second behind her. But still, neither of them are Tom when it comes to flying, let alone maneuvering such an unforgiving, powerful, little ship.

They end up careening through the atmosphere in a series of inelegant flips and dives.

. . . . .