Author's Note: The idea for this vignette came from an interview with the lovely KM in which she said (of Janeway's future) that her greatest joy was in Space. My thanks to the talented OPYKJ for her excellent Beta and happy holidays to one and all. VFF :-)
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Of Lost Things
"I've survived a lot of things and I'll probably survive this."
- JD Salanger.
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They are a throng or at the very least a large gaggle, one hundred or so people filling a space large enough for more than double that, with more arriving by the minute. Liberated from the official Starfleet ceremony less than two hours ago, tonight's private gathering is an opportunity to celebrate their return with those who matter most. Couples unexpectedly reunited embrace tightly in quiet corners, fingers running through tumbling tresses, lips finding the soft familiar once again. Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters reconnect with those thought lost, while groups of friends and colleagues talk animatedly, waiting for their loved ones, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling.
Tears of joy, relief, elation and more are freed, alongside those of pain and grief, but tonight at least, happiness triumphs over sadness.
The ballroom is hot, noisy and vibrant and fresh from a peaceful afternoon spent gazing at his newborn daughter, it takes Tom a moment to adjust to the powerful tides of emotion lapping the space as a figure rushes past him, throwing herself forward. Ensign Kaplan's family all but scoop her shaking figure from the floor. Harry is by a large, bay window, his mother stroking his hair, despite his half-hearted attempts to stop her from doing so. Mrs Kim wears a pale green dress, court shoes and a small hat and his father sports a matching tie, they look exactly as Tom knew they would, recipients of a long prayed-for miracle, the return of their prodigal son.
To his left, Susan Nicoletti is in the arms of her father, a tall grey-haired man in an even greyer pinstriped suit that seems to extend the considerable distance from his narrow shoulders to his toes. Long, lean arms are wrapped around his daughter, lips pressed against the top of her head, tears openly rolling down his cheeks. Her mother stands to one side, wringing her hands in agitation and beside her must be Susan's sister, he can see the family resemblance, the same neat forehead and slightly pointed chin, wisps of a faintly auburn hair neither straight nor curly.
Chakotay, Ayala and a crowd of others are gathered close to the centre of the room and on reflex Tom starts towards the group. Chakotay nods at something Mike says, then his hand lightly comes to rest on Seven's waist, pulling them together so that their hips touch. The two figures unexpectedly and intimately connect and Tom stops abruptly in his tracks, brain spinning in disbelief. Staring awkwardly, he retreats towards the bar, needing time to process what his brain is telling him can't be true, Chakotay and Seven as a couple blow his mind, privately he'd always been convinced that his former First Officer only had eyes for one other and it wasn't the tall, statuesque blonde currently on his arm. Starfleet wouldn't have looked favourably on any Captain having a relationship with a subordinate, but from the outset he'd sensed a deep connection between the two: subtle gestures, knowing glances and faintly flirtatious smiles had him entirely convinced that they could be more than colleagues. He had hoped that when they finally made it home, the ever-bright smile his Captain used to conceal an enduring loneliness; might be replaced with something akin to real happiness.
Reaching the bar, he orders a whiskey - neat, not his usual drink of choice, but something that might help get his head around this bizarre turn of events. The amber liquid stings his throat; the sight of Chakotay's hand resting on Seven's hip leaves a lingering sadness sitting in his chest. Tonight he has neither the desire nor the fortitude to cope with any further unexpected events and he turns to leave, but before he can move, he glimpses a familiar figure. Almost totally obscured by deep shadow, her back tucked up against the wall is the woman who made tonight's celebrations entirely possible. She who beat the Borg; made it back to Earth a mere thirty-six hours ago, against odds even the most dedicated of gamblers wouldn't touch. His father praised her ceaseless courage and determination, eliciting the first of many standing ovations, Admiral Brand had been unable to keep the sentiment from his speech, calling Janeway nothing short of Federation hero. He'd watched her colour at the praise, the apples of her cheeks pinking as she tipped her head to Chakotay telling the audience that it was as much his leadership as hers.
This is a decidedly grey area, while Chakotay may have been their port in many a storm, there was only ever one person riding the waves and holding fast to the tiller.
An enduring habit of avoiding on-board socials means that he can't recall just when he last saw Kathryn Janeway in anything other than her second skin of command red, but tonight she wears a gown of deep Aegean, iridescent blue. Its neckline skims her décolletage; ruched fabric sculpting her bust before tucking in at the waist, from where it falls into a pool of inky darkness; he imagines it swirling gracefully around her feet. In the low light, lace of an indeterminate shade is scattered across her shoulders, her dark mass of hair swept elegantly from her face and the glint from diamond earrings peppers their corner of the room.
A sigh escapes his lips, instantly absorbed by the heady, throbbing surround, sliding onto the stool next to hers, he orders another whiskey. She doesn't acknowledge him, instead staring over his shoulder as a peel of laughter echoes widely; Jenny Delaney is in the throws of hilarity and sensing Seven's awkwardness, perhaps at misunderstanding the joke, Chakotay leans to whisper something into her ear. In response, her rouged lips part with a small smile of relief and slightly self-consciously, she tugs at the shimmering fabric of her backless dress. Cut with Borg-inspired precision, two rivers of sultry golden fabric flow like sparkling waterfalls over each shoulder, before joining to skim an enviable derrière. The dress sits teasingly low on the hip, a carefully positioned slit highlighting seemingly endless legs. Finding his mouth suddenly dry, Tom swallows, uncomfortable at the public show of affection and gives serious consideration to turning tail, returning to his wife and child by far the easier option than being any part of the horror show that tonight is threatening to become. B'Elanna may just have the easier ride, an evening with an overtired, cranky newborn quite possibly preferable to whatever this is. But somehow, he can't bring himself to break a long-standing tradition of refusing to walk away without making sure that his Captain is all right.
And she isn't.
The hand wrapped around the glass is predictably steady, but her intense interest in the pair betrays her, the faintest blush of colour along her cheekbones evidence of being kept in the dark, literally and figuratively. Not the very last to know, that honour apparently his, but damn close and after seven years side-by-side, that has to wound. He glances back as Jenny Delaney's laughter rises again drawing glances, crew are starting to notice Voyager's newest pairing, subtly raised eyebrows swiftly followed by pointed glances, heads turn as fingers flutter to cover lips. Kathryn adopts a well-practised neutral expression, shoulders back, features schooled, the only outward sign of any distress the slightest smudging of her pale raspberry lipstick; it blurs the corners of her mouth, where he suspects she may have drunk directly from the bottle sat in front of her.
She needs to leave.
He makes the decision then, morphing into her de facto protector in the absence of another. He is not about see his Captain, who physically held them together over the last seven years, battling through adversity that would break any other mortal and who sacrificed everything to get them home, reduced to the role of the other woman; the lesser woman. Buttoning his jacket and sliding down to stand directly in her eye line, he replaces his glass.
"Let's go Kathryn," he tries. Surprised by the informality, she turns her gaze on him and slowly arches an eyebrow, it's a gesture he has seen a thousand times, but tonight is almost monotone, the lack of animation in one so passionate about life only confirming what he already knows. He makes sure to keep any hint of pleading from his voice as he predictably returns to type, bowing slightly and proffering an overly gallant arm.
"Allow me to escort you Ma'am?"
He gives her time to process, to come to the decision on her own terms and she closes her eyes, smooths her dress and sliding down from her barstool, accepts the arm. Boldly he pulls her close, though she doesn't require steadying, her steps sure on the highly polished floor. Hogging the outskirts of the room, he navigates precisely, she seems to shrink, tucking herself into his shoulder and somehow they pass unnoticed through the ever-expanding crowd to emerge into the cold, brittle night air. They cross the large, open courtyard in silence, its noisy bars and restaurants closing; causing people to spill out onto the pavement in cheerful pockets, strings of fairy lights rocking back and forth in the late autumn breeze.
In the relative anonymity of the first side street they take, Kathryn missteps, her heel catching in the cobbles. She stumbles and instantly his hands fly to her waist as quietly cursing, she rotates her ankle counter clockwise before replacing the strappy silver shoe gingerly on the pavement. One hand holding onto to his shoulder, she tentatively puts her weight through the foot and his fingers fan out around the curve of her hip. The fabric of her dress is surprisingly coarse, its rigid corset contrasting with the soft, warm skin of the arm that brushes against his cheek. He stares down at the damp, ash grey pavement, slightly ashamed at the image of golden free-flowing fabric that flashes into his mind, perhaps, Chakotay is just as fallible as the rest of mankind, swayed by the charms of a young, seductive woman. Simultaneously disappointed and empathetic, he allows his hands to linger even as she stands independently. Kathryn doesn't look at him, instead leaning forward, until her forehead comes to rest on his shoulder just inside the lapels of his jacket, against his crisp white dress shirt. He tightens the hands at her waist, trying to silently convey the unexpected, unguarded and yet entirely honest sentiments that can never pass his lips: that she's still beautiful, still desirable, still the most remarkable woman that he has ever met.
The cold air stings his cheeks and when her shivers start to register, he releases his grip, moving an arm to encircle her shoulders. "Let's go," he says casually, and they start to walk. Reaching her temporary accommodation in the historic part of town he stops, briefly taking in the grand red brick building, stretching at least four floors deep into the dark sky. It's original bay windows and ornate cornices a world apart from the modern building he has been allocated, he appreciates the coupling of the old and the new, a glorious part of Earth that will always be home.
"... beautiful babies ..." Kathryn murmurs, her words catching in the increasing breeze.
"- Sorry?"
"Chakotay and Seven," she says with a distant smile, "they'll have beautiful babies, don't you think?"
His hand is still on her forearm, her back against the door. "Maybe," he relents, before she bids him goodnight and he is left standing alone.
It is almost a month later when he hears that she has accepted a year long deep Space mission to explore and chart unique astronomical phenomena in a remote section of the Gamma Quadrant. A chance to captain a ship again and with a newly minted crew to boot. Weaving his way through another throng of family members and embarking crew at HQ, he finds her hip deep in Starfleet canisters preparing to beam out, once again in her command red. She sees him approaching from a distance and dismisses her newly promoted First Officer, such is his exaggerated formality that Tom almost expects the man to salute as he bows smartly and scurries in the opposite direction.
Raising her eyebrows heavenward, Kathryn shakes her head sand once face to face, plants kisses on both cheeks before stepping back a pace and sliding one hand onto her hip. Tom is instantly transported back to that cold, strange night, to the feel of his hands around her waist and to a sea change in all of their lives, hers in particular, that he's not entirely sure he'll ever be comfortable with.
"I hope you find what you're looking for out there, Ma'am."
An easy affection seeps into his words as he appraises. She may no longer be the bright and sanguine Officer he met nearly eight years ago, but her sapphire blue eyes study him just as intently as the Kathryn of old, then twinkle in recognition of his care, the fine lines around her mouth disappearing as her lips quirk upwards into a smile.
"Maybe," she breezes, leaning close enough to press one palm to the centre of his chest.
"Don't worry about me Tom, I'll be just fine."
And she straightens her shoulders, steps up onto the platform and offering a brisk nod to the Transporter Chief, disappears from sight.