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---
He had first come to her in autumn, on the quad, touching her hand with cool
fingers, calling her
'Admiral' with only the barest hint of derision. Well enough, she never thought
it without a great deal of
derision.

Later, she recalled the nuances of the day, the sparsity of friends, the chill
of the breeze. Thinking back, it
all seemed strange...the young, painfully drive smile, the strong, squared
shoulders clad in the old Starfleet
uniform. Thinking back, it didn't seem an odd tip of the hat to memory. It
seemed rotted memory.

His voice, at the time, had been warm, and hopeful, and had held no inflection
at the same time. Though
she had only heard it days before, it had seemed a tongue unvoiced for years.

Every week they spoke, awkwardly. It seemed a waste, face to face
communication. He lost ground and she
lost audacity. Via subspace, with naught but audio, they said a great deal. He
promised her a yellow rose,
for friendship. Implied a great deal more. It was erotic, heady, the absence of
expression, the lack of
disappointment. She hadn't yet found the time to worry over the more
terrestrial aspects. Eventual physical
reunion. The downfall.

On that day, however, the headiness had been absent, the camaraderie of
previous conversations. He
seemed alien, a different person He had stopped her on the quad, they had
spoken, awkwardly. She had
asked gingerly of his mission, his posting, and he had batted away the
questions with odd panic. They had
taken their leave, his lips pressing against her temple, cool breath on hot
skin. He had smiled wanly,
walked away, and she had continued on to work, and with dusk left via
transporter in lieu of her typical
walk. Shadows. Alone on a stretch of civilized hell. She had never overtly
enjoyed the mythos of the big city
danger...her horrors and haunts were more subtle, more entrenched in the gothic
past. Big city streets at
night caused her no fear. Usually.

Midnight had come, and she had awoken in a tangle of soaked linen, trembling.
He lay beside her, and she
had briefly thought him dead. That was how he appeared, at least, with an arm
sprawled across his eyes
and another across her breasts, an arm still clad in the ridiculously outdated
uniform. He'd emanated
coldness, and she had shied away, stirring him. He had eyed her for a moment,
as if thinking, then stood,
holding out a hand. A rose. Black. She'd jerked away, turning, calling for
lights, and turned back, robe
gripped to her chest modestly.

He had been gone.

She had not slept again.

Hours later, with dawn, the scheduled comm signal had come through. From
several systems away, he'd
assured her he'd slept well, no dreams, space did that to him. He'd told her
he'd order a rose or two, to
expect them at her command suite. Yellow, he said. For friendship. She needn't
be embarrassed for
meaning.

Perhaps her silence had said a great deal. He'd asked if white would be
better.

Spiritual love. Purity. Emphasis on worth.

She had told him that black was the hue of death.

He'd laughed, and told her that she was becoming as pessimistic as he had been
on Voyager. She hit the
visual button for just a second, allowing him a look. She'd known that she
looked like hell. He had looked
gorgeous, hale, hardy in his new uniform, resplendent with new pips. Smile
faltering, he had apologized.
He'd been wearing it for nearly two days...deep space grub work...and needed to
change. Somehow, she'd
managed to chuckle tiredly, and assured him that she had seen him in worse. He
hadn't seemed to get the
emphasis, or had developed one hell of a poker face.

She'd turned visual off, and told him not to contact her for a few weeks. She
needed space, before she went
stir-crazy, stuck on Earth. He'd agreed, tones faintly concerned, mostly
injured. He did injury well.

They had spoken no more, and she had dressed for work, indulging in a full
bath, scrubbing her skin raw.
Sweat. She hadn't done it so much in years.

He had approached her at lunch. She had taken to the habit of eating beside the
bay, sipping coffee and
watching the falling leaves. She'd soon lost herself in the breezes, content
with the background. Ensigns.
Cadets. Children, dogs. Earth.

She'd spilled the coffee when he touched her shoulder, slipping onto the bench
beside her. He'd smiled, and
told her she was getting edgy with age. His voice had been cool. His hands
freezing. Her gaze had taken
him in, fully, feigning bravado. His eyes had chilled. He'd worn one pip, and
gold-crested shoulders.
Intellectually, she had known that it was an impossibility. Pranks aside, he
simply couldn't be there, short
of some new transportation technology, or Q.

Q.

She had told him that he was a miserable, fucked up bastard.

He'd seemed to believe her, and walked away silently, Harry Kim face a study in
disappointment. Injury.
He did injury so very damned well.

Some time later, Tom Paris had approached, hedged concern. She had passed
lunch. It was dusk. People
were worried. She was Making A Spectacle. She'd laughed at the irony, and took
her messenger's arm,
asking him if he'd seen anything odd.

Maybe.

The Paris eyes had flickered, he didn't like risking opinion. Too many people
thought him a fool even
before his remarks. Afterward was worse. She urged him to continue.

Harry had come by the house. Her former pilot had been dozing, B'Elanna was on
Qo'NoS. Miral had
woken him up screaming. That wasn't odd, she was a lunger. But she never cried
with Harry. Never, so
needless to say, Tom had been more than a little disconcerted to wake to her
screaming. Logic had told him
that any stranger would've triggered the alarm, they had only the best
protection for Miral. No alarms had
triggered, sensors had recognized the guest. He'd hurried up, confused. Harry
was the only one who ever
dropped in unexpectedly, and Miral never screamed at Harry, and Harry was in
deep space. But there he
had stood, hadn't even woken the Daddy up upon entrance, just stood there by
the crib, holding her as if
she were...as if he didn't know how. Like he was relearning touch. He had held
her delicate head at odd
angles. Her arms were thrashing. She had been turning red with upset.

Tom had been scared witless. He'd grabbed her, first instinct, and turned to
yell at his retreating friend,
just what was it with him?

By the time he'd gotten a grip on his wailing daughter and turned, Harry Kim
had been gone.

Miral hadn't slept again, and eventually Admiral Paris had called, asked him to
come get her.

She had told him about the midnight visit, the lunch. He, in turn, had told
her that it hadn't been Q. It had
been Harry, but not their Harry, not the...he told her he might be crazy, but
he'd been thinking a lot about
the other Harry lately. The dead one, not the one who had saved Naomi Wildman.
He said it was that
Harry, he didn't believe in ghosts, but he just knew it.

Regretting the slouch in his shoulders, she'd told him that he was ridiculous.
She didn't believe in ghosts
anymore either, and besides, after so many years, what self-respecting spirit
would come back to terrorize
the two people who had cared for him most?

Her voice had caught and his hands clenched on hers, eyes understanding, and
pitying. He'd turned back
away, giving dignity, told her again, forcefully, that he sensed something odd,
that it wasn't their Harry. He
didn't play sick jokes like that. Even Q didn't.

He had just known it.

Thinking back, so had she.

Paris had walked her home, and followed her in, the baby draped limply over a
shoulder, finally worn
down. So tired, so precious. Briefly, her heart had hardened, and whoever it
was, whatever it was, she had
cursed the cruelty. Whatever could such a monster want with an innocent like
Miral?

Tom had pointed out the roses on the table. Yellow. Two bunches, one tagged as
a deep space send-off. The
other was cardless. To dispel the tension, she'd mentioned that yellow
signified friendship. He had picked
up the cardless bunch and recycled them. Turning back to face her at the
doorway, he'd only remarked that
yellow also signified jealousy.

She had been, still was, flabbergasted, amused, displeased. Did Paris think
this...this other
Harry...resented their Harry? For what? Surviving? The one they had lost was
Starfleet as well. He had
known the risk. She would have died to save him...hell, the other Janeway
had...but there had been no way
to predict his end, or stop it. A deranged spirit? She thought the matter
absurd.

Starfleet didn't turn out deranged spirits. They simply didn't. Rubbing her
neck tiredly, Janeway stared into
her coffee mug, sighing as the doorway chime sounded. "Come in."

"Chakotay." Not wholly unexpected, Paris would've blurted the whole mess to his
wife, and Torres would
have promptly told her old friend. Glancing up, she took in his surprise at the
swift greeting, his longer,
shaggy hair, the almost polished tone of flesh that bespoke of time out in the
sun, on archaeological digs.
"Am I insane?"

He smiled, pulling up the chair opposite. "Only if Paris is too."

"We always said he was that close..." She snapped her fingers teasingly, then
sobered. "I don't know. I've
seen all manner of supernatural phenomena during my career, I've felt them,
touched them...I've come
closer to death and what lies beyond than most people ever do. But I...I
suppose the small, stubborn
scientist in me still refutes spirituality at every turn. At least in us poor
humans. We weren't meant for
immortality. We've barely figured out morality."

"Harry? Are you regretting the decision your duplicate made all those years
ago, Kathryn?"

"Oh." She stood to refill the coffee supply, hip resting against the counter,
brows furrowed. "I can barely
comprehend the decisions *I* made, Chakotay, I can't hold myself responsible
for those made by other
versions. On the surface, I suppose she made the right decision, and I by
accepting it. Had we not taken he
and Naomi in, they would have been lost to both ships. I couldn't see how it
would harm...he had the same
memories, the same life...it would be difficult, yes, for him to step into a
life that both was and wasn't his,
and difficult for Sam to deal with the loss of a child and a living one...but
we made it work. Or so I thought.
I never...grieved...for Harry, because he was always there, living. No
body...easily, no memory. Most of us
managed to neatly forget. And the Harry that died didn't deserve that, God
knows, if there is such a thing
as purgatory, I suppose we put him in it. But why now? All those years on
Voyager, and now, with her
gone, he appears?"

"Exactly." Chakotay leaned forward, touching her hands. "On Voyager, he felt
comfortable, safe. He could
watch without fear of losing us. Here, now that Voyager is gone, he has no
place. He's being pushed away,
and doesn't like the feeling. He wants to stay."

"I can't help him do that...I..." She gripped the warm hands, staring beyond
her former first officer into the
sunset. "I had no idea it was possible to love that deeply. Poor Harry..."

"Or poor Kathryn?"

"Both of us." She sipped her coffee absently.

"You were intimate on Voyager, before..."

"He died? Yes, Chakotay, he did, and we were...we might have been. It was just
the barest of beginnings,
our relationship." Janeway rubbed her forehead. "Then he died. *Her* Ensign Kim
joined us. Of course he
carried the same memories, but he didn't seem to care."

"Until recently?"

"We've...talked. I'm not even certain what it is, Chakotay. But...Harry's a
friend."

"Friend enough to give the other Ensign Kim reason to want to stick around."

"A jealous ghost? Jealous of himself? That's pretty damn odd on any level."

"Kathryn." The Indian considered, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. "You've
been through depressions.
We all knew about them, even if you tried to hide it. Think back to
those...what did you feel when you
looked at yourself in the mirror?"

"I don't see the relevance."

"Your spirit was aching, wasn't it? You felt small, and weak, and broken. Your
image in the mirror was
anything but...you never lost physical strength and beauty. Didn't a part of
that aching spirit come to loath
looking at that strong body in the mirror?"

"This is absurd."

"Maybe. Or maybe we just haven't been enlightened enough to understand it. I
can't tell you what this
visitor is, if its that Harry, what he wants...but I suspect that unless you
and Paris quit pushing him away
and ask, you'll never know either."

"Or maybe Paris and I are both crazy. Or delusory. He was Harry's best friend,
of course he feels some
small amount of guilt."

"And you both began experiencing the same delusion at the same time?"

"Well, when we first arrived home, after your untimely resignation and Tuvok's
return to Vulcan, as third
officer he helped me put together the manifests...the dead. I remember...we
argued over what to put in
Harry's case. It was the most ridiculous argument I've ever had with any
crewman. I recommended that the
file remain classified, unless the living Harry wanted it known...no need for
his family...or him...to have to
cope with the mess. His parents need never know they lost a son. Tom didn't
agree. He felt very strongly
about remembering that dead Harry...wanted him to have a memorial like the
rest. In the end, I won out,
and I suspect Mr. Kim has kept the secret. Of course we had to put him on both
classified manifests, with
my log from that time appended. Is it really so unreasonable to think that
argument might be lingering in
our minds?"

He spread his hands, smiling wryly. "You're the logical one, Kathryn. I'm just
the spiritualist, but...perhaps
it isn't delusion, Harry might just want that memorial."

And so she caved in. Months later, the ceremony itself was meant to be private,
only she and Tom and
Chakotay and B'Elanna, who, on second thought, was the one of them she
suspected needed it the
most...far more than even the supposed spirit of lost Mr. Kim. B'Elanna Torres
had seen her friend's death,
and insofar as Janeway knew, had never spoken of it to anyone, never recorded
logs, said good-byes.

Holding her child, B'Elanna Torres was the first to place a flower on the
discreet, but elegant stones.
Ensign Harry Kim. Infant Wildman. Chakotay spoke, another beautifully touching
tribute. Tom made his
uneasy eulogy, the beginnings of grief-stricken tears in his eyes. Kathryn
Janeway remained mostly,
shamefully unaffected. Distance. She had practiced it.

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the still of the evening was broken, rough
footsteps climbing through the
rough trail. Harry Kim, wearing his new Starfleet gloss and pips, burst onto
the scene, looking both
relieved and utterly disconcerted.

"You're late." Chakotay deadpanned, lips flicking upward.

"For your own funeral, Starfleet." Torres caught on, gripping her old friend's
arm, shoulders heaving with
what her former captain suspected was pure laughter.

Harry looked abashed. Tom managed a small, pitiful choking sound.

The small, formally dressed girl who stepped from Mr. Kim's arms only sighed.
"Captain's Assistant
reporting, ma'am. For my own funeral."

"That does it." Fighting a fog of disbelieving bemusement, Janeway glared at
them all. "Who told them?"

"Actually." Harry smiled. "I did. Or at least, some version of me. I've been having the oddest dreams lately..."

"And me too." Naomi added, small hand gripping his in utter esprit de corps.

"Does Samantha know you're here, young lady?"

"She said if I wanted to go to my own funeral, I was welcome to, but count her
out. But I think she lit a
candle."

"I see." Kneeling, the Admiral steered the growing child into her arms,
watching as Naomi gently and
calmly laid a poesy on each stone. And the children shall lead, she thought
wryly, remembering the youth
of that other Harry's face, contrasting it with the firm resolve of the man
behind her. His hand reached out
to hover just above her shoulder and she smiled, ruffling the child's hair.
"All better, Miss Wildman?"

"Much better." The child proclaimed, taking her hand.

"Much better." Lieutenant Kim repeated. "No more dreams, I think."

"Only good ones, Mr. Kim." His former captain straightened, fingers touching
his face lightly. "Only good
ones."

FIN

---
AWAKENINGS (excerpt)- by Robert Desnos

It's strange how you wake sometimes
In the middle of the night, in the middle of sleep
Someone has knocked on a door
And in the extraordinary city of midnight of half-waking
And half-memory heavy gates clang from street to street
Who is this nocturnal visitor with an unknown face?
What does he seek, what does he spy?
Is he a poor man demanding bread and shelter?
Is he a thief, is he a bird?
Is he a reflection of ourselves in the mirror
Back from a transparent abyss
Trying to re-enter us?
Then he realizes that we've changed.
What does he become then?
Where does he wander? Does he suffer?
Is this the origin of ghosts?
The origin of dreams?
The birth of regrets?
---