Author's Note: After reading the wonderful story, "The Unholy Trinity," by Laura W., my reluctant muse just had to explore what happened next in that bathroom, and the following brief story just sort of wrote itself. It can't hold a candle to Laura's story (and you should read her story first if you haven't already), but, with her permission to play alongside her literary sandbox, I am posting it. Thanks, Laura!
She's surprised that he's upright when she enters the bathroom, having expected to find him either face flat on the floor or sagging against the vanity. Instead, he is seated, somewhat precariously, on the closed lid of the toilet, listing a bit southward, but technically vertical. He looks up as she crosses the threshold, brooding brown eyes finding her gaze, latching on, like a ship lost in the tossing of a stormy sea setting course toward a beacon of light shining through a clouded sky. Yet before she reaches his side, the next wave catches him, pitches him forward, and tequila and fried avocado tacos hit the floor, barely missing his boots.
Kathryn sighs, and the groan she emits is nothing compared to the heaving sound of his stomach expelling not enough food to match the amount of alcohol he's ingested. She steps closer, avoiding the fallout, and places her hands on him, rubbing down over his back, gentle yet firm strokes, trying to ease the convulsions and steady his thudding heart. His shoulders judder and then settle; she feels his muscles relaxing under her touch.
"You're all right, Chakotay," she says softly, one hand moving to the back of his neck, cool palm against heated skin and bristled hair. "Just breathe."
His lungs expand, ever her first officer, following orders, holding the breath for a half moment, releasing it slowly, drawing in another: a steady pattern, in and out… in and out… in and out…
Then he lifts his head, looks up at her.
"I'm sorry," he manages between the next breaths.
Kathryn smiles, knowing that his apology isn't about the tequila, or the lizard babies, or the mess he's just made; it's about Seven and what almost was but wasn't.
Keeping her hand at his neck and placing her other on the line of his jaw, fingers soft against his flushed cheek, she whispers, "You're forgiven."
His next breath is a gasp, an almost silent, strangled cry, arms wrapping around her, clenched fists gripping at her waist, body surging forward, face buried into the front of her uniform.
Her arms encircle his head, holding him to her.
"Kathryn…" he breathes, voice low and muffled against her stomach. But she can hear him, feel his lips moving, a heavy exhalation of breath, "I love you."
She leans down, presses a kiss to the top of his head, echoes the words she's just spoken to Harry. "I know. I've always known."
The arms around her relax, tight hands loosen as he pulls back, lifts his face to hers. His next inhalation is held, full and waiting, balanced on a precipice.
Kathryn traces her fingers over the dark lines on his forehead. "I love you, Chakotay."
And he releases the air from his lungs. He knows she is his life, his every breath. He's always known.
~The End~