DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The crew of Voyager prepares to move on—but first, one last party and a chance to say goodbye. C/7, post-"Endgame" timeline. Follows "Aurora" in the Becoming Lightseries.

"Blue Moon," music by Richard Rodgers and lyrics by Lorenz Hart, 1934.

First Place, Die J/C Die Het, 2004.

Archive with permission.

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ONCE MORE TO THE JOURNEY

Stardate 55130.12

Chakotay nudged the last bench into alignment next to the last table and looked around. Twenty-four tables, thirty-six benches, in two tents—now in some semblance of order. It had taken just over two hours. He sat down and took a long draught of water from a bottle that hung from a belt on his hip, then squirted some onto the top of his head, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the sensation of the rivulets running behind his ears and down his neck. Not yet 1030 and it was already twenty-nine degrees. It was shaping up to be a brutal day, although the steady breeze off the Gulf of Mexico promised some relief from the heat.

Icheb was following his trail around the open-sided tent, adjusting the alignment of every table and bench. He was trying to be surreptitious about it—he glanced at Chakotay just before he moved something—which made his actions all the more obvious. When he got to the bench Chakotay sat on, he stood there, frowning, likely at the fact that it was about six degrees off of parallel.

Chakotay swallowed a laugh by taking another swig from the bottle, then handed it to Icheb. "Sit down, Cadet," he said. "You've earned a break and the view is amazing." He looked down the beach and out over the azure, sparkling Gulf. Dolphins arced in the breakers and a flock of flamingos, violently pink, were huddled at the edge of the surf.

Icheb glanced at the water, then looked at the bench again, frowned, and sat down, somewhat reluctantly. "We should organize the area for the food," he said.

Chakotay grinned, shook his head, and raised his hand. "Seven's handling the 'culinary arrangements.' I wouldn't venture into that territory, if I were you." He clapped Icheb on the shoulder. "It's a potluck picnic," he said. "It's supposed to be a little chaotic."

"Seven won't approve of chaotic," Icheb said.

"Which is why we won't add to the chaos by organizing the food tables without her."

While Icheb considered this, Chakotay returned his attention to the view—the flamingos were slowly working their way east. He chuckled to himself. If someone had told him a year ago that he'd find himself hosting a picnic for Voyager's crew on a Yucatán beach, without Neelix to organize things, but with the Borg Catering Service stepping into the breach, he would have ordered an immediate psychiatric evaluation. If someone had told him that they'd be home, forgiven, reinstated, and moving on with their lives, he might have ordered confinement to sickbay behind a level-ten forcefield. And if the Admiral had come back a year earlier and told him that he'd be falling in love with Seven of Nine, none of this would have happened. He'd have called her crazy to her face, wouldn't have believed a word she said about anything.

Yet it had happened, all of it. Dumb luck or fate, a cheat, a gift. A cheat, definitely—not his own, although he was a beneficiary. A gift, too, time reset, a second chance to get it right, without knowing what—if anything—he'd done wrong the first time. There wasn't much any of them could do under the circumstances but take the opportunity and live it the best they could. Maybe appreciate things a little more. Maybe appreciate things a lot more.

Icheb handed him the water bottle and stood again, frowned, and looked around. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then took a deep breath and looked at Chakotay directly. "May I ask a personal question, Commander?"

Chakotay raised an eyebrow. He was never sure what sort of question that might be. The kid's Borg past—however brief—had left him, like Seven, excruciatingly logical, socially tentative, and obsessed with perfection. By nature, he was curious. And like Seven, he tended to notice the odd detail, things that no one else would pay attention to. A "personal question" could be absolutely anything.

Chakotay nodded. "Sure," he said, then took a swig of water.

"What are your intentions toward Seven?" Icheb asked.

Chakotay choked on the water, spraying a mouthful onto his slacks and the sand at his feet. "I'm not sure that's an appropriate question, Icheb," he said finally. "You know, cadet to senior officer, adolescent to adult."

Icheb frowned and nodded and paced a bit. "I understand your reservations about discussing this, sir," he said. "However, Seven is my legal guardian, is she not?"

Chakotay struggled against a smile—he knew immediately where Icheb was going with this. He nodded agreement, and waited for his next point.

"According to my research into human traditions, a guardian stands in for a parent when the parent is unable to perform that role."

Chakotay nodded again. He wondered if Seven had known what she'd be setting herself up for when she'd accepted the role. He realized that he hadn't when he'd encouraged her.

"My parents are in the Delta Quadrant," Icheb said. "And arguably incompetent."

More than "arguably," Chakotay thought. To conceive a child as a genetic weapon, then send him to his destiny—to be assimilated by the Borg and destroy the Collective from within. And when that child was miraculously returned to them—to do the same again. More than most, Chakotay understood desperate measures in an attempt to save a homeworld, and his anthropological training taught him to be objective. But to use a child as sacrifice… He looked at Icheb and nodded again. "Agreed," he said.

"Then my relationship to Seven is akin to that of a son." Icheb raised an eyebrow, signaling the end to his argument.

His facial expressions were almost exactly Seven's. Familial resemblance of a sort? Chakotay chuckled. "Fair enough," he said. He looked directly at Icheb. "I care for her a great deal. And I can promise you that I'll do my best never to hurt her."

"Do you love her?"

Chakotay smirked. The kid was relentless, another personality trait he shared with his guardian. How to respond? He decided on honest evasion, and let Icheb make of it what he would. "I decline to answer that," he said. "Not because I don't, but because when I say the words, I want her to be the first one to hear them."

Icheb studied him for a moment, then nodded acceptance.

Chakotay breathed a silent sigh of relief, grinned and stood. "Come on," he said. "Let's get the volleyball nets set up."

But before they could start, the hum of a transport interrupted them, and Seven materialized a couple of meters from the tent with a dozen large containers in three precisely arranged piles. She looked around her, taking in the location and progress on the arrangements in one cool, efficient glance, then focused on Chakotay and beamed the smile that lately never failed to make him weak in the knees, the smile that targeted his eyes with absolute precision, the smile that completely lit up her face. She was wearing a lilac sleeveless dress that skimmed her lean but ample curves, and her hair was gathered in a loose braid at the base of her neck—the stray wisps escaping in the tropical humidity caught the sunlight and framed her face in a golden halo. He walked to her, giddy and grinning, took her chin in his hand and kissed her, tender and slow.

But he knew that Icheb was watching them, closely, and reluctantly he pulled away. "Good morning," he said. "What's all this?"

"Good morning," she said. "I did some additional calculations and determined that we had an insufficient number of heating and refrigeration units. Admiral Paris was kind enough to requisition the necessary units." She turned to Icheb and handed him a PADD. "These are the specifications for the arrangement of the food tables. You may proceed."

Icheb started to pick up a container from the top of the pile nearest Seven.

"Not that one," she said, and pointed to another pile. "Begin with those."

They watched as he picked up a container and started toward the nearest tent. Seven turned to Chakotay, put her arms around his waist, and drew him close to her. "Now he is occupied and we have a few minutes alone."

"Quick thinking," he murmured. As they kissed, he could feel the change in her demeanor through his hands, how she softened tangibly in his arms. Her lips were warm, lush, and tasted faintly of the lemon and honey she used to flavor her tea. He would stop time himself, if he had the means—not for too long, just long enough to stretch the moment, long enough to commit every detail to memory.

But he felt eyes on them and opened his own, just as Seven did. He chuckled, breaking the kiss. "Not alone enough," he said.

Seven frowned at Icheb, who blushed and returned to his task. "I will have to remind him of his manners," she said.

Chakotay grinned. "Don't be too hard on him. He's just acting like a son." Seven raised her eyebrow and he distracted her with a quick kiss. "Private joke," he said. He turned to the container Icheb had started to move. "What's this? Something special?"

"My culinary contribution," she said, and smiled slyly. "Mushroom and garlic ravioli with a salsa verde."

He looked at her, astonished. "How did you get Francesca to agree to put a recipe into a replicator program?"

Seven raised her eyebrow, mildly offended. "I didn't replicate it," she said. "I prepared it."

"How did you…?" He shook his head. "Francesca doesn't give out that recipe." He knew that was true—he'd tried to get it out of her every time he ate at her restaurant, and that had been dozens of times over the years. He couldn't have done much with it—he wasn't a good cook—but he'd have liked to have had it on hand, just in case he met someone who was. Which he had. So how did she get the recipe?

"She instructed me and assisted in the preparation," Seven said. "It was her contribution to the celebrations surrounding Voyager's return." She smiled. "I promised her that the secrets would never be revealed."

He grinned. "Good work," he said. "There might be a future for you in diplomacy."

"Doubtful," Seven said, and shrugged. "However, I have found that using the sentiment the public has for this crew is an effective means of achieving an end." She smiled. "In other words, I followed your advice—I played upon her sympathies."

He chuckled as he looked at the containers, which were huge. "Heavily played upon them, I'd say. How many did you make?"

"Four hundred fifty."

He laughed. "You must've been up all night," he said. "Did you sleep?"

She shrugged again and glanced away. "A couple of hours," she said evasively. "It was sufficient."

He frowned. "You're supposed to be sticking to a sleep schedule," he said. "You're not going to adapt if you keep ignoring it."

She pursed her lips and looked at him defiantly, and he knew that she was going to accuse him of nagging, and he knew that he'd have to concede that she was right. But she let it pass, and slowly smiled. "Thank you for your concern, but I am fine," she said. "I need less rest than other humans. I can sleep tonight."

He put one arm around her shoulder and picked up a refrigeration unit with his other hand. He nuzzled her ear. "And if I don't want to let you?" he asked.

She looked at him and smirked, then picked up a tray of ravioli. "I thought that I was supposed to be 'sticking to a schedule,'" she said. She tossed her hair—just a small tease, but enough to make him laugh aloud—then started walking toward the tent. "But, if that is the case, then I will sleep tomorrow night."

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Seven moved slowly along the table containing the salads, rearranging each with a spoon into a neat mound and adjusting the garnishes in a futile attempt to make them appear somewhat fresh. She spoke briefly to her former crewmates as they filled and refilled their plates, instructing them to try Lieutenant Wildman's Ktarian fruit salad or Lieutenant Jenny Delaney's lettuce, apple and dulse with cider vinaigrette. She had observed Neelix providing this sort of encouragement at social gatherings on Voyager and believed that it was something that the party's organizers were expected to do. Normally, she disliked large gatherings—humans were exuberant and the atmosphere inevitably chaotic. But today, although she remained as usual on the fringes of the party, she felt she belonged—her responsibility gave her a purpose for being there, something to do.

"Great party."

The husky, nasal voice came from behind Seven's left shoulder, and she startled and turned. "Captain… I mean, Admiral Janeway," she said.

Kathryn Janeway shook her head. "Not 'Admiral' until Sunday," she said. "And today, it's 'Kathryn.'" She grinned and put her hand on Seven's back. "Chakotay tells me that you were a key force in organizing the party. Well done." She took the spoon from Seven's hand and replaced it in the salad, then took Seven's elbow firmly and started guiding her toward a beverage table. "Now you should join it."

Seven complied with Kathryn's direction. "It was not difficult to organize," she said. "Mister Neelix kept copious records of the social gatherings on Voyager. I merely reviewed his logs."

Kathryn took a glass of lemonade and chuckled. "I'm glad you found them useful," she said. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Between us? I never read his reports all the way through."

Seven raised her eyebrow. "Commander Chakotay said that he only scanned them as well."

Kathryn laughed as she led Seven from the tent and onto the beach. "Concision was never one of Neelix's strengths." She sipped her beverage, and then peered at it curiously. "This is delicious," she said. "Who made it?"

"Chakotay and Icheb," Seven said. "It was an experiment. The ingredients are locally grown."

"Well, I'd call it successful." Kathryn raised her glass as in a toast and grinned. "And I'm glad to see that you've continued to explore your interest in cooking. You top yourself every time—the ravioli were exquisite."

"Thank you," Seven said, returning Kathryn's smile. "It is one of Chakotay's favorite Terran dishes."

Kathryn chuckled. "He tells me he's gained ten pounds since we've been back," she said, winking at Seven. "You aren't overfeeding him, are you?"

Seven felt the color drain from her face. "He… he has been a willing test subject," she stammered. Emotions reeled and her mind struggled to order them. He had enjoyed the meals, and she had enjoyed preparing them for him, and—if she were to be completely honest—enjoyed his praise. So much so that she had not considered the negative consequences to his health. She frowned. She cared for him—more than she would have thought possible—yet still she had been… selfish. The realization startled and shamed her, and she stopped abruptly to consider it.

"Seven, I'm teasing you." Kathryn rested her hand on Seven's shoulder and Seven blinked. "He loves your cooking, he raves about it," Kathryn said. Then she grinned and elbowed Seven in the ribs. "Just don't let him get too out of shape while he's on academic leave. I'd hate to have to order him to physical reconditioning when he returns to active duty. He's no spring chicken, you know."

Seven wasn't certain what a "spring chicken" was and she was even less certain as to why Chakotay would be expected to resemble fowl of any sort, but she nodded anyway. "I will endeavor to ensure that he gets adequate exercise," she said earnestly.

Kathryn choked on her lemonade, then laughed heartily. "I'm sure you will," she sputtered.

Seven furrowed her brow. She was about to protest that she hadn't intended to make a joke, when she belatedly realized that she had made a sort of double entendre. She tried to keep her face impassive, to look as if she'd planned the humor, but her flaming cheeks rendered the effort futile.

Still chuckling, Kathryn led the way to a pair of unoccupied beach chairs. Seven perched on the edge of one seat, while Kathryn sprawled in the other, turned her face to the sky, inhaled deeply, and sighed. She wore a pale blue cap-sleeved pullover and darker blue drawstring slacks, and her windblown hair was held off her face with a white cotton headband. Although she appeared to have gained weight since their return—her cheeks were fuller and her jawline softer—she looked… lighter, as if the cares of the last seven years had been physical weight that she'd been forced to carry. And now it was gone.

The crew was gathered in small groups on the beach, talking, laughing, tossing discs and balls. A volleyball game was in progress—Tom Paris and Harry Kim were on opposing sides and the competition was friendly but intense. 4.7 meters away, Samantha Wildman held Miral, while B'Elanna Torres—the infant's mother—looked on proudly. Some congregated near the tents, some lay on the sand basking in the sun. Down at the shore, Naomi and Icheb stalked flamingos, and out beyond the gentle breakers, Chakotay cut through the water with powerful strokes, so smoothly that from the distance, he was barely distinguishable from the dolphins schooling around him.

"You all look so happy," Kathryn said softly.

"We have you to thank for that," Seven said.

Kathryn smiled and shook her head. "We did it as a crew," she said. "Together. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for each and every one of you."

"Nevertheless," Seven said, "it was your leadership that inspired us… inspired me." She looked at Kathryn directly. "Without your assistance, your continued dedication to my well-being, my life would be very different. I've never appropriately thanked you—and I'm not certain that I can."

Kathryn beamed and leaned toward Seven, put her hand on Seven's upper arm. "Just be the best damn Starfleet officer you can be, Lieutenant Hansen." Her voice was even huskier than usual and her eyes were moist. "And have a good life, a fascinating life…"

A long life. Even unspoken, the words echoed.

"I will try," Seven said. She looked across the beach. Chakotay was walking from the surf, shaking the water from his hair. She caught his eye, he smiled and waved, and she flushed—she was certain that her heart skipped a beat. She grinned back. She watched him jog across the sand toward the tents, his gait loping and easy. Her vision clouded, and in her mind's eye, he was standing directly in front of her, his face millimeters away, so close she could feel the heat from his skin, so close she could feel his breath on her lips, so close…

"Doctor Zimmerman, good to see you!"

Startled from her reverie, Seven jumped, and turned to see that Kathryn had risen and was embracing the man she'd greeted. Then she turned to his companion and offered her hand. "Lieutenant Barclay," she said, "glad you could make it."

While Seven rose and joined them, Reg Barclay mumbled a response, and Voyager's holographic doctor beamed and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. "Please, Admiral," he said. "Call me Shmullis."

Kathryn raised her eyebrows and nodded. "Shmullis Zimmerman. Distinctive," she said.

The Doctor folded his arms across his chest. "I thought so, Admiral," he said proudly. He stood closer to her, turning his back slightly on Seven. "It's been too long since we've seen each other, Admiral, and I have so much to tell you… The operas I've attended, the traveling I've done… La Boehme at La Scala…" He clasped his hands together in front of his chest and sighed dramatically.

Kathryn laughed and raised her right hand. "It's been three days, Doctor. Not a lifetime." She turned to Seven, who was quizzically studying the Doctor's back. "How long has it been since you've seen… Shmullis?" she asked.

"At his sentiency hearing. Three weeks ago," Seven said softly.

"Well then, you two have a lot of catching up to do." Kathryn smiled broadly, turned to Reg Barclay, and put her hand on his shoulder. "Reg, I promised Naomi Wildman that I'd try her dessert contribution—a 's'more,' I believe it's called. From twentieth century Earth." She smiled her most heart-stopping smile. "Care to join me?"

Seven would have preferred to accompany them, but by the time she could say so, Kathryn had already begun dragging the bewildered lieutenant across the sand in Naomi's direction. Seven inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She looked at her companion, at one time—perhaps still—her closest friend. "Doctor," she said.

He looked out across the water pensively. "Seven," he said at last. "It's been a long time."

"It would not have been so long if you'd returned my communications," she pointed out.

"Forgive me," he said, and turned to her, smiling, but his joviality was forced—his voice was tight, his jaw tense. "I've been terribly busy."

Seven nodded understanding. "Yes, we have all been busy," she said.

"Humph." The Doctor folded his arms across his chest again and perused the beach for a little longer.

Seven followed suit, her hands clasped behind her back. "I hear you've joined Starfleet," he said, after another extended silence.

She nodded. "I had hoped to give you the news myself," she said, smiling proudly. "I will be commissioned a lieutenant junior grade at the ceremonies on Sunday."

"A junior officer," the Doctor replied with a sniff. "You should have demanded more—lieutenant commander at the very least." He looked at her as though he was examining a laboratory experiment that had gone sour. "Where have you been assigned?"

Seven furrowed her brow. She'd been unaware that she—a former drone, an enemy combatant—was in a position to demand anything. Indeed, she'd been profoundly grateful that she and Icheb had been welcomed—albeit cautiously—and well-treated; they could have been shunned or imprisoned. In her darkest imaginings, she had considered even worse.

"I will divide my time between Utopia Planitia, where I am working on a shuttle prototype with Lieutenants Paris and Torres, and Starfleet Academy, where I will be teaching a section of Elementary Temporal Mechanics and attending officers' training classes." She smiled brightly, hoping this would please him.

It did not. The Doctor snorted derisively. "They're sending you to Remedial Starfleet?"

Seven raised her eyebrow. "That is the nickname that Mister Paris gave the classes, yes," she said.

"That's ridiculous, Seven," the Doctor blurted. "You have the assimilated knowledge of Starfleet captains—including Jean-Luc Picard. You could teach command training."

She pursed her lips. "I have the knowledge, but knowledge alone does not make a good officer," she said and shrugged. "One must begin somewhere."

He snorted again. "You sound like Chakotay."

Seven frowned. "Doctor, please give me your tricorder."

He looked at her, suddenly attentive and concerned. "What for?" he asked. "Are you ill?"

"No," Seven said. "But I believe your program is malfunctioning."

"My program is perfectly stable," he said. "Whatever would lead you to that conclusion?"

"It is not a conclusion, Doctor, it is a theory. I have yet to test it. However, these are my initial observations: Your behavior is appalling. You are snippy. You are derisive. You are rude. You act as though you are angry with me, yet I do not know why." Her throat felt as if it might close and prevent speech. She swallowed hard. "This is not your usual behavior, so I believe we should investigate further."

She watched his face in profile, as wave after wave of emotion played over it—frustration, anger, sadness… and what curiously looked to be a brief moment of joy. At last he met her eyes. "Seven, you have so much potential and you're limiting yourself. Designing shuttlecraft? Teaching first year cadets? You should be working with the Federation's top scientists, not settling for mediocrity in Starfleet." He clasped her by the shoulders and studied her face intently. "I want you to be happy," he said.

"I am happy," she protested. "I have a challenging career that is far from 'mediocre,' recreational activities that I enjoy. I have…"

But he wasn't listening. Instead, he looked around them, taking in the totality of their surroundings in one grand sweep of his gaze and his arm—the Gulf, the sand, the mangroves to the west, the scrub extending into the forest behind them. He inhaled deeply and smiled contentedly. "Look at this," he said. "It's breathtaking. Earth is a beautiful world—diverse, so much to explore. And Federation space contains thousands of such worlds." He looked at Seven earnestly. "I'm free to go wherever I please, whenever I please. I have no Starfleet regulations to constrain me, no Starfleet duties demanding my time. I am beholden to no one. I can pursue whatever research I choose; I can devote extended periods of time to music. I am free to explore the entire breadth and depth of existence."

"I have freely chosen the path my life will take," Seven said. "For the first time in my life, I…"

The Doctor raised a finger to her lips to stop her from speaking. "Please," he said, "let me finish." He paced for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then stopped and smiled. "Since we've been back, I've done a great deal of traveling. I've seen exotic places, met fascinating people, heard music that made me weep with joy. On Voyager I dreamed of all of this, I've been planning it for years—where to go, what to do first—and when it lives up to my expectations, it's…" He sighed dramatically. "I can't begin to describe how gratifying it is."

"I'm not certain I understand…"

The Doctor held up his finger again and smiled sadly. "But it isn't complete. You see, I always dreamed I'd see those places with you, together, both of us for the first time…" He looked at her, his expression hopeful and pleading. "You know how I feel about you, Seven," he said.

She closed her eyes and nodded. Now she understood perfectly. "Yes," she said gently. "I do." She bit her lip and swallowed hard. What did he want her to do? She did not want to hurt him, but she couldn't lie. "I thought I was clear that I do not feel the same way." She wished she could rid her voice of its tremor, the sensation that words were catching in her throat. "If I've done anything to indicate otherwise, I am sorry…"

He met her eyes, and she felt that for perhaps the first time, he saw her as she was, not as he wished her to be. "No," he said finally, "you've always been completely honest, perfectly consistent… The hope was mine."

"We can still visit the places you wish to see," she said, looking at him eagerly, encouraging him to say that they would put this misunderstanding behind them, perhaps even find humor in it one day. "We are friends. We can still…"

"No," he said, and shook his head sadly. "Before, when I was with you, I could believe… there was still hope. Since your relationship began with Commander Chakotay that is no longer possible." He looked at her directly and swallowed hard. "I think it would be best if we didn't see each other for a while. I need time… to adjust, to accept…"

"How long?" Seven was surprised to hear her own voice—small as it was—surprised that she still had the power of speech.

He looked at her. His eyes were damp and she wondered if his tears burned the same way hers did. "I don't know," he said.

She turned away from him then, before the tears overflowed. She'd preserve a bit of dignity and he knew her well enough to give her that. He put his hand out to her; it hovered over her shoulder for a moment. Then he drew back and let it fall to his side, and by the time Seven turned around and looked for him, he had already disappeared into the crowd.

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