This takes place during the first book of Christie Golden's Dark Matter series – which to this day are my favorite Voyager books. It is mostly canon-friendly with that story. Voyager is owned by Paramount. Christie Golden created the Dark Matter books, for which I am eternally grateful.
=/\=
Her headache made my anger deeper, hotter. Watching her suffer, absolutely beyond help and almost beyond hope, served to fuel the anger that was already threatening to consume me. But what could I lash out at to defend her? Nothing. And that made it all the worse.
The face that I have watched carefully every day for five years is an open book to me, and I read it without effort. I see the muscle beside her eye flex, her eyelid twitch. I watch her lick her lips and bite at her tongue – causing herself more pain to distract her from the colossus rampaging inside her skull. Her skin has reddened – she is feverish with pain. Her breathing is deliberate and her shoulders carefully rise with her inhale, giving her head more of a cushion when she must exhale. Her fingers twitch and rub, and I sense delirium floating in the air just behind her neck, grasping at her vulnerable throat with its patient and knowledgeable hands.
I marvel that she is still standing. That her eyes are still open and her voice is still obeying her commands. A bead of sweat is visible for half a second as it rushes between her hair and her grey collar. The strands of hair she perpetually tucks behind her left ear are a darker red now, dampened with perspiration. I know she is not sleeping because I hear her scream at night. I know she has not eaten because the replicators are down. I know that, if dark matter could bear form and stand in front of her, she would stare it down even now.
I rise from my chair where I have been working and go to her. She has not summoned me: no voicing of my name, no jerking of her head, and no beckoning from her hand. And yet I know that I need to stand beside her at this moment.
I have just reached her shoulder and turned to her face when the small hand falls that has been pressed to her forehead in a futile attempt to isolate the pain. The color drains from her cheeks, and her head drops to the side as her legs finally collapse under the weight of her. I catch her easily, like I had planned it, and scoop her into my arms, seeing the clammy and sweat-beaded face fall vacant and still.
Tom Paris is there, concern for her written all over his face and he looks at her, then up at me. "The headache," he whispers.
"I'll take her to sickbay," I tell him quietly. The bridge has gone still, all eyes on the burden in my arms. I glance around at them as I adjust her weight slightly. "She'll be all right," I promise. "Lets keep looking for those Shepherds."
There are nods from the frightened and ashen faces around me, and they turn back to their screens. I move swiftly across the deck, up the stairs, and into the turbolift, handing off control of the bridge with a nod. Tuvok returns it, stealing a glance at his friend as I pass by.
Inside the turbolift, I cradle her closer, looking intently at her face. "Rest, Kathryn," I hear myself telling her. "It's time to hand over your sword for a while."
For the next minute, as the lift settles on the appropriate deck and I walk the deserted halls to sickbay, the knot of anger in my stomach is gone. The weight of her in my arms, the warmth of her against my chest, her need for me to simply carry her, and my ability to help her in the simplest way, have counter-acted the dark matter inside me. I am at peace as I carry her.
The doors to sickbay slide open before me, and I wordlessly carry her to an open biobed. Other crewmen are on stretchers on the floor, stabilized and out of the way for new or more serious cases. Peripherally, I see the Doctor hurrying towards me, but I consume myself for a few more precious seconds in settling her on the biobed, her hands resting on her stomach, and letting my fingers draw the line of her jaw as I move her head gently.
"What's happened?" The Doctor's terse voice bumps hard against my bubble of peace, but it doesn't yet burst as I let my hand linger on her elbow.
I meet his eyes. "She's finally passed out from the pain," I say.
His tricorder confirms my analysis, and he loads a hypospray. Before he can administer it though, he encounters my hand blocking the way to her neck. "Doctor, don't wake her up. I know sleeping won't help her, but at least she won't feel as much pain this way." I try to keep my voice steady, and largely succeed.
He sighs. "It's a sedative, commander. I don't want her awake any more than you do," he tells me, and I move my hand.
There is a hiss as the hypospray releases its load of slumber into her exhausted body, and the Doctor looks up at me grimly. "Commander, the captain is in serious danger of suffering permanent mental damage if we don't find a solution soon, and she's not the only person who will suffer long-term." He looks around the floor of sickbay at the sleeping crewmen. "We need to hurry," he whispers urgently.
I take a deep and steadying breath. "We're going to find the Shepherds soon, Doctor," I grate out. "I won't settle for anything less than getting every last person on this ship through this safely."
He gives me a sad smile. "You sound like you're channeling her," he says wryly. "But if it gets us through this, Chakotay, then by all means, channel her."
A weak smile finds my mouth, and I nod. He turns away and goes to other patients, and I look down again at her. Errantly, I wonder if this is how she looks when she is really asleep, and my belabored mind conjures up an old memory of her stretched out on a picnic blanket, sound asleep. No, she looks much more relaxed in true repose. I shake myself mentally and touch her cheek with one hand, closing the other around one of her cold hands. "We'll figure a way out of this, Kathryn," I promise her. "You're going to wake up, and your head won't hurt, and we'll all be safe."
How many times have I stood over her prone body in this sickbay and made her promises and apologies? And never had she made any acknowledgement that she has heard me. But this time, today, there is a soft pressure from her hand, and I return it, hanging on for a few much-needed moments. And then I walk away from her, mind clearer than it has been in days, and determination renewed. She has told me many times that I am her ballast, but she has been and always shall be my well of calm.