The Last Nacelle
An In the Arms of Family Prologue
by monkee
Summary: Voyager is almost home, but Joe Carey has one last task to perform before he is "in the Arms of Family).
PS we ignored Nemesis completely
Joe Carey sighed as he stepped into his quarters, and the doors closed behind him. He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled, allowing all of the tension of the last few days to drain away. God, he was tired. Torres had ordered him to leave Engineering and get some rest, just as he had done to her yesterday. He hadn't argued. He knew she was right. But now that he was here – how could he possibly comply? Voyager was home!
From his viewport, he couldn't see the Enterprise, Voyager's 'escort,' but he knew it was there. And the stars outside didn't look any different from Delta Quadrant stars, but he knew they were different. He could feel the difference – in his own outlook, in the buzz around the ship, in the air itself. Everything felt different. Everything felt like home.
He'd promised to sleep, though, so he dutifully headed over to his sleeping area.
Then, abruptly, he stopped, turned around, and walked over to the shelves in the corner. There was something he had to take care of first. It wouldn't take very long, but he needed to do it. He needed a definitive closure to this chapter of his life.
He looked at the objects on the shelves. Souvenirs from the eight-year journey rested among his technical journals and reference books – rocks, mostly, from his away missions, but he'd also picked up models of Delta Quadrant vessels whenever he'd spotted them. Feeling nostalgic, he fingered some of the rocks from the more dramatic parts of the journey, Hanon IV, New Hope, and, finally, the ones he'd picked up on the moon Naomi had named FacetI. Had that really only happened a week ago?
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. From the bottom shelf, he retrieved a black case, and carried it over to the table.
He opened the case, and carefully lifted a glass bottle with a nearly complete model of Voyager constructed inside it. There was only one nacelle left to attach. He couldn't believe this particular project had been languishing in its case for so long. When B'Elanna had been pregnant, he'd suddenly found himself with more responsibilities in Engineering. Since then, of course, much of his free time had been devoted to making the slipstream work.
It was time. He took a deep breath, then pushed the nacelle through the narrow opening of the bottle. Then he began the painstaking process of maneuvering his carafologist's pliers into place to lift the nacelle and snap it onto the strut. The task required a steady hand, and much patience.
He was tired, though, and the nacelle kept slipping from the grasp of the pliers. Maybe he was trying too hard. He chuckled, remembering a conversation he'd once had with Tom Paris about the 'Zen of car maintenance.' Perhaps there was a 'Zen of carafology,' too. Maybe when he retired, he'd write a book about it.
He took another deep breath, and picked up the nacelle again. This time, as he worked, he let his mind wander. He thought about J.J. He'd taught his eldest son how to build bottled ships when he was very young. His efforts had been age-appropriate, of course – a pirate ship, a simple shuttle. But in one of his recent conversations with home, J.J. had sheepishly admitted that he still built them. He was touched that his son had kept the tradition alive in his absence, perhaps as a way of staying connected to him.
He wondered when and how he would be reunited with his family. He knew it was too much to hope that they would be on the station – he was fairly certain it wouldn't be permitted, even if they could get there. He told himself that it was just as well – that it would be more appropriate to see them first at home on Cobh. But he knew he was kidding himself. His heart ached – literally ached – for them, and the sooner he could see and touch them, the better.
He suddenly realized that the nacelle was in perfect position. Slowly, carefully, he applied just the right amount of pressure, and he heard the soul-satisfying click that told him he'd succeeded. He extricated the pliers, and grinned. He corked and sealed the bottle, then sat back to admire his handiwork.
As he inspected the fragile ship inside the glass, the enormity of recent events struck him anew. They'd done it! They'd been swept across the galaxy, a lifetime away from home, and they'd beaten the odds and returned after only eight years. Looking at the small ship from an outside perspective made him realize how utterly remarkable the accomplishment really was. He blinked back tears. He was tired and getting maudlin. He should go to bed. But instead he stared at the ship until his vision began to blur.
He hadn't chosen this path. The last eight years had been unexpected, and, for the most part, unwelcome. He had been parted from Annie for nearly a decade, and his boys had grown up without him. He'd missed those important years, and he would never, ever, get them back.
But he couldn't deny that it had been the adventure of a lifetime. With the absence of blood ties, he and his shipmates had formed their own family, and together they had explored places that no human had ever seen. He knew with certainty that these eight years would be with him, in an important way, for the rest of his life. Adventure. Excitement. Exploration. This was why he'd joined Starfleet in the first place.
He took one last look at his creation, and imagined how it was going to look on the mantel of his fireplace. He could actually see his entire family room in his mind's eye, with a level of detail he hadn't allowed himself in years. He expanded the vision to include Annie, in his embrace at last, and the actual in-person presence of his boys.
Then, smiling, he placed the bottle gently back into the case. He closed and latched it, then finally went to bed.