Author's note: I hope you enjoy this series and please find the time to review. Paramount owns all, except the angst, that's all mine!

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The House That We Built

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Prologue

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"Shit Chakotay. Answer the damn Comm."

Tom is running, moving forwards as fast as his long limbs and the busy crowds around will allow, feet pounding on the cold, unyielding pavement. Each fast paced erratic step jarring his knees and then his lumbar spine, reminding him that he's no longer the young man that he once was.

But he doesn't stop.

The bitterly cold November air stings his throat and lungs with each inhaled breath as he weaves and dodges, rushing past the masses of dawdling Christmas shoppers. The gaudy window displays, music and the strings of bright festive lights all form part of the colourful blur that is his peripheral vision. As the outline of Starfleet HQ comes into view, a single stream of thought repeatedly pulses through his mind.

- She isn't doing this, this isn't happening, she isn't going to die - not like this.

Across town and at the third hail, Chakotay slaps his Comm badge with irritation. Damn Tom Paris, they didn't exactly part on amicable terms and he can't think of a single reason why he would want to speak to him today.

"Paris, I'm on my way out. What is it?"

The thinly veiled panic in Tom's voice is the first clue that something is seriously wrong, but submerged in anger, he misses it.

"Dammit Chakotay, I didn't Comm you three times just to check where you are."

If Paris were here, Chakotay thinks, he'd be tempted to knock that insubordinate tone right out of him. After their heated discussions the previous week, he can remember just why it took five out of the seven years they served together to form what passed for a minor friendship with the man. If he is brutally honest, there are still times when he finds him insincere and juvenile, but Tom is and always has been a favourite of Kathryn's and has demonstrated his loyalty to her more times than anyone cares to remember. It is for this reason that he still sees so much of the man and now, as he tries to swallow his ire, he is reminded of her faith in him and somewhere, finding its way into the back of his brain, is the faintest of sounds - like a Ship's warning klaxon, starting to wail.

Before he has a chance to reply, Paris continues. "It's Kathryn, she's at the Convention Centre next to HQ."

This unexpected statement brings him to a halt mid stride and he voices his immediate thoughts, unfiltered. "But I'm headed to her place, that's where we agreed to meet. Why would she be...?"

It is only whilst he is stood stock still in what passes for a moment of relative silence that Chakotay realises that Tom is sprinting at full pelt. His rapid, slightly irregular breathing periodically carrying over the open Comm line, audible over the background of irritated noises from the people he is pushing past, pushing out of the way. Suddenly, he feels sick to his stomach and the wailing klaxon becomes so loud that it threatens to deafen.

"Paris, what aren't you telling me?"

Nearing his destination, Tom doesn't cease moving, pushing forward. In his not so humble opinion, his former First Officer was never exactly the most rapid of thinkers, but even for him, this is proving a bit can barely spare the oxygen to speak.

"Chakotay, Kathryn's out on the rooftop. They're afraid that she's going to..."

But Chakotay can't hear those words, not today; not ever. For a split second, it is as if the entire world stops. He blinks and finds himself looking down at his feet, frozen to the spot.

"-Tom, where are you?"

"Less than a minute away... Deanna contacted me."

"I'm on my way. Tell her... tell her to wait."

And now Chakotay is sprinting, faster than he thinks he has ever run in his life. So fast that he can't stop, can't breathe and can barely see, his legs suddenly powered by the anger he has slowly allowed to build to a peak over the last three weeks.

Two men running from opposite directions; three lives about to converge once again. And high up on the edge of the roof of the Convention Centre, the solitary figure of Captain Kathryn Janeway sits silently on the ledge and continues to stare down at the distant world below.