Notes: This is the first in a series of post-Year of Hell novellas that have been sitting on my hard drive in various states of disrepair since...well, since Year of Hell originally aired in late 1997. The Prologue below begins just before Janeway sacrifices the ship and resets the timeline at the end of Year of Hell Part 2. It was a much too tidy ending for me, and I was mad that TPTB went for the Magic Reset Button yet again. Here was a chance to do something bold and different, and they just squandered it. In my mind, this is what happened instead...and what happened after that.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns all, I own nothing, aside from the laptop I'm typing on and a 16-year-old Toyota Avalon that desperately needs a new serpentine belt - and I definitely don't own these characters. If I did, things would have turned out very differently indeed.
Enjoy.
Secret World 1:
What the Wind Feels Like
Prologue
Day 257: November 28
As soon as he materializes on the upper deck of the Bridge, the acrid smoke of burning equipment closes on Chakotay's nose and throat. Through streaming eyes he takes in the damaged Bridge, almost unrecognizable now, and the lone figure in the center of it. He darts toward her, giving silent thanks that he has found her alive and whole. He'd guessed her plan as soon as he realized she'd put Tuvok off the ship. He is profoundly glad to have the chance to stop her.
"Kathryn," he begins, but she whirls on him with flashing eyes.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
He blinks against the smoke or the intensity of her glare. "Captain," he tries again, watching her stalk toward him. "You don't have to do this."
"It's the only way to stop him," she grinds out. It's been a long time since he heard her voice so deadly intense. "And I intend to stop him."
"I see that. But there may be another way."
Paris materializes on the Bridge behind him. Her gaze flicks to the Lieutenant, then back to him. "Explain."
Chakotay takes a careful step toward her. "One of the Mawasi ships is unsalvageable. We've already removed its surviving crew so we can use it as a battering ram to destroy the timeship. There's no need to sacrifice Voyager."
Tom moves to the Ops station. "Sixty seconds, Chakotay," he says. "The Nihydron commander is ready to use his deflector shield to throw the derelict at Annorax. Just give the order."
Chakotay nods without taking his eyes off her. Through the smoke he can see livid scars on her face but he does not flinch from them. What hell must she have gone through to get them? He cannot spare the time to ask but hopes that someday she will share her story.
She stands less than a meter from him, her eyes hard on his face. "Please, Captain," he says. "The Mawasi have offered us a place in their drydock if we can pull this off. We can repair Voyager. We can stay on the Mawasi homeworld as long as we need to recover and wait for our crew to return."
"But the timestream-"
"It's possible that the timestream will reset when we destroy Annorax's ship," he concedes. "But there's a possibility that it won't. We aren't that certain of the implications."
She shakes her head. "Look around you, Commander. Voyager is broken."
He stares at her, shocked at her willingness to concede defeat. "But not bowed," he whispers. The arcing light from a sizzling circuit flashes off the silver watch at her waist. When he sees it hanging there, he softens. "Still proud. Still fighting." He places a hand against her ravaged cheek, his fingers in her hair. "Still strong. I'm not ready to give up on her yet."
She presses her face into his palm and closes her eyes, as if undone by the human contact. Her lips tremble.
Then she straightens and nods. Her eyes are very bright when she looks up at him. "Do it," she says. "Give the order. Bring our crew back, Chakotay. Bring them home."
Day 274: December 15
First Officer's Log: As crazy as it was, our plan worked. The Nihydron threw the derelict at the timeship and destroyed it. But the timestream didn't reset. If we hadn't talked Captain Janeway out of sacrificing herself and Voyager, we would have lost them both. We were very fortunate.
The Mawasi have been as good as their word and more. We expected the base they offered to be nothing more than a place to repair the ship. In fact, it's part of a large network of spacedocks, planetary bases, embassies and facilities for visiting dignitaries. The Captain says it reminds her of Camp Khitomer – if Camp Khitomer were on Risa, with the Utopia Planitia shipyards grafted on. As thanks for our help with destroying the timeship, we've been given an honored place among them. We landed the ship at one of their bases, where we've been ever since.
Until Voyager is livable again, the entire crew has moved into resort cabins. There's a lodge available for staff meetings and crew gatherings, and the resort's staff have placed themselves at our disposal for meals and any other needs. We're within walking distance of the base and an impressive engineering complex. Mawasi engineers have joined B'Elanna and her staff, and repairs are well underway. We have a lot of work to do to make the ship spaceworthy again. But we couldn't have asked for a better place to be right now. We'll be safe and comfortable here until Voyager is ready to resume her long journey home.
We've sent out word of our location via Mawasi and Nihydron networks. In the first two weeks alone, we've heard from more than half of our displaced crew, and the escape pods have already started returning. Captain Janeway is determined to stay here until we've heard from everyone – or at least until we know their fate.
As for the crew... They've been through a lot. As comfortable as this place is, I can see that some of them are unable to relax. After ten straight months of constant danger, turning off the flight-or-fight reaction is not an easy prospect. Repairing the ship is the priority, of course, but we also need to take this time to heal. For some of us, simply acknowledging the need to heal has been a battle of its own.
End First Officer's Log.
It reminded him of Earth.
Kathryn had likened it to Camp Khitomer, and while he saw the resemblance in the purpose of the place – hosting off-world dignitaries and interplanetary negotiations – Chakotay was reminded less of a bustling, modern spaceport and more of a summer resort on the northeast shore of Lake Michigan, from the clear blue sky to the golden strip of sand at the edge of a vast lake. He'd visited the Lake Michigan shore in his Academy days with a fellow Cadet, a girl with mischievous green eyes and and easy smile. She'd shown him sandy beaches that surged up into rocky, scrub-covered bluffs that in turn gave way to stands of tall, straight pines. And a kilometer or so inland, a rolling cherry orchard, her family's livelihood for generations. He'd spent a week with her swimming in ice-cold waves, playing among the sand dunes, chasing her barefoot through the rows of cherry trees. Gorging himself on sweetcorn, fresh tomatoes and cherry pies. Lying with her under the pines, the Perseid meteors streaking through the sky above them. Her name was Eileen, and he hadn't thought of her in years. But jogging along the beach two weeks after Voyager's arrival on the Mawasi homeworld, Chakotay had a sudden strong memory of her hands, sticky with sap, brushing pine needles from his hair.
He ran along the empty beach in the pre-dawn stillness, dodging driftwood and rocks until he came to a secluded cove that he'd found the week before, a place protected from the wind where he had come to enjoy the spectacular Mawasi sunset. Before sunrise, though, the cove was too dark to provide safe footing, so he turned around and headed back the way he'd come. When the resort came back into sight he turned away from the rolling blue waves, shortened his strides and headed up the bluff toward the buildings. He avoided the stone path in favor of the sandy soil beside it. The softer surface was easier on his bare feet, unaccustomed as they were to running outdoors. Before the Year of Hell he'd run in the Holodeck whenever he could manage the time, but the Holodeck had been one of the first systems to go offline. There wasn't time or space to run on the timeship, and he found that in the intervening months, his feet had softened and weakened. So he kept to the sand, cool and soothing in the faint light of early morning. He dug his toes into the soil with each step and climbed to the top of the bluff, where he stretched his legs again and loped through the trees alongside the cabins and lodge. These, too, reminded him of northern Michigan – rough-hewn buildings fashioned after log dwellings. Their rustic exterior hid comfortable beds and state-of-the-art technology that rivaled anything the Federation had to offer, and even outstripped a good deal of it. Tom Paris had been especially delighted by the Mawasi's advanced holography. He had personally worked with the resort staff to program the trappings of the lodge's main rooms, which now resembled a centuries-old North Shore hunting lodge in late autumn, right down to the antique snowshoes hung over the stone fireplace and the moose motif in the decorations. He'd gone overboard with the realistic-looking deer heads mounted on the walls, though. Kathryn had nixed those at first sight.
Chakotay crossed behind the lodge, where he heard the first faint stirrings of breakfast being prepared for them. The resort staff, accustomed as they were to serving off-world visitors, had been very accommodating in their service. They had so far produced passable Human, Vulcan, Bajoran and Talaxian dishes. But the Mawasi chefs really shone on their own native dishes: Hearty breakfasts of rich pastries and hot cereals dotted with exotic fruits and nuts; spicy vegetable lunches, supplemented with the fresh catch of the day for the non-vegetarians; filling, multi-course dinners followed by decadent desserts that left them all overstuffed. The crew were beginning to regain the weight they'd lost during the Year of Hell when the replicators were often offline and fresh food was scarce. And Chakotay and Tom, who had eaten well enough on the timeship, were verging on chubby. After just four days on Mawasi, Chakotay noticed his uniform was tight around the middle for the first time in years. That night he'd found salvageable workout clothes among the charred remains of his quarters, set his alarm 90 minutes early and resolved to go for a long, hard run the following morning. Barefoot, the way he'd always preferred. He'd run nearly every morning since, alone with his thoughts in these quiet moments before dawn.
After an hour of fighting through dense, golden sand and over the bluff, he felt energized – and not too winded for a man his age. Mawasi's slightly lower gravity and slightly higher oxygen count probably had as much to do with that as anything, but he was happy with his effort. Was it enough to allow him a glass of the rich local brew at the crew's nightly beach bonfire? Maybe a couple more kilometers, he decided, and turned away from the resort, climbed another short hill and crossed into denser forest.
The trees were taller and straighter here than the wind-blown vegetation nearer the water, rather like the pines he remembered from Michigan. But these particular trees were deciduous, their dark green leaves mostly gone. This hemisphere was readying for its coldest season. Many animals had already headed to warmer climates for the winter. The ones that didn't migrate were fattening themselves on fallen seeds and vegetation. There were small predators native to the area, but the resort staff had assured him that the most dangerous were kept off the property with a combination of natural deterrents and high-tech fencing. All the same, he kept a wary eye out for fauna. This place was so like Earth he half expected to see a bear lumbering over every rise.
At the tree line he emerged from the forest and stopped, panting, looking down into the valley and the Mawasi drydock facility below. The rising sun glinted off Voyager's hull.
She was the largest ship in the facility, dwarfing the handful of ambassadorial skiffs and boxy utility vehicles sitting idle in her shadow. At the moment, no one was working on her. The Doc had insisted that, for the duration of their stay and as part of their healing process, all Voyager personnel would observe a normal workday in concert with the planet's day and night cycles, with meals and rest at predictable intervals. Chakotay had set out from his cabin before the work day had begun. In an hour or so B'Elanna's team and their Mawasi counterparts would descend on the ship, as would most of the crew. But for now, she sat alone and untouched in the early morning stillness.
Chakotay ran a critical eye over the ship's exterior. He was no engineer, but he knew enough to see that she was in dire shape. There were dark burns along both nacelles, deep gouges in the hull, hatches blown out of their housings... It was a wonder any of them had survived. That most of them had made it was a testament to their iron will, and the will of their Captain.
Running a hand through his sweaty hair, Chakotay frowned. He knew very little of what Kathryn had gone through during his six months away from Voyager, but not from lack of asking. He'd approached her in every way he knew how – professionally, First Officer to Captain; clinically, tactician to commander; casually, friend to friend. Her responses had ranged from guarded to evasive.
When the responses became dismissive, he'd stopped asking.
She'd been through a lot. That much was clear, and not just from the visible scars. But for reasons he couldn't fathom, she wasn't interested in sharing her thoughts and experiences with him. For most of a day after coming to that realization he'd nursed an overwhelming sense of rejection.
The next morning, he'd invited Tom Paris to go for a run.
For the first couple of kilometers they'd moved at an easy pace and chatted about repairs to the ship, Tom's programming efforts, the messages they'd begun to receive from the returning crew. At the 5k mark they turned and raced up the bluff. On the flat, their natural competitiveness and years-old rivalry took over until they were sprinting through the resort, each trying to outpace the other. Chakotay had to suppress a grin; he had ten kilos and more than ten years on Paris, but was still managing to match him stride for stride. They ran on through the tall, straight trees and along the crest of the valley before looping back through the resort and down the bluff again. At the beach, Paris slowed and collapsed in the sand, panting. Chakotay skidded to a halt beside him, hands on his knees.
"Nice run, Old Man," Paris wheezed.
Chakotay scowled. "'Old Man.' Did you pick that up from B'Elanna?"
Paris nodded. "She says it's a term of respect."
"It's not. Not entirely."
"I know." Paris grinned up at him. "You don't run like an old man, though."
"Thanks." Chakotay wandered down to the water's edge and let the waves roll over his bare feet while he bent to stretch his hamstrings. He might not run like an old man, but he was pretty sure he'd feel like one in a few hours, thanks to the spontaneous burst of speed.
He eyed Paris surreptitiously. After the last rebuff from Kathryn and a few hours of careful consideration, Chakotay had begun to form a theory about what was happening to the crew. But the only person he could talk to about it was Paris. They'd never been close, exactly, but over the years they'd come to a grudging respect for each other. On the timeship, Paris had been insubordinate, disrespectful, hot-tempered – and correct about it all, from Annorax's true motivations to Chakotay's own irrational response to the older man's obvious flattery. Paris was a perceptive man, and as much as he hated to admit it, Chakotay had need of his insight.
Chakotay scooped up cold water in his hands and let it fall over his head and face, shaking the droplets from his hair. Then he strolled back up the beach and sat next to Paris in the sand. The rising sun warmed their backs as they gazed out over the water. "Good run," Chakotay said. "Thanks for joining me."
"Thanks for the invite."
They were both quiet for a time.
Chakotay dug his toes in the sand. "Tom, can I ask you a question?"
Paris chuckled. "I knew there was a reason for this," he muttered.
"A man can't ask a shipmate to join him for a workout?"
"Sure, a man can. But a man who prefers to run alone usually doesn't. Not without an ulterior motive."
Chakotay tugged his earlobe. Hell yes, Paris was perceptive. "You're right. I do have an ulterior motive."
"Ship's business? You could have just called a meeting."
"Not this time. This is...complicated. I need an opinion – off the record."
Now he had Paris's full attention. "Everything okay, Chakotay?"
"No," Chakotay sighed. "Far from it."
Paris punched him lightly on the arm. "B'Elanna loves and respects you. And I love and respect B'Elanna. You need something, you ask. Now, what's up?"
Seeing his opening, Chakotay leaned forward. "How's B'Elanna doing?"
Paris frowned, as if this was not the topic he was expecting. "Okay, I guess. Working hard."
"You haven't seen anything unusual?"
"I don't think so." Paris looked out over the water. "She's pretty focused on the repairs right now, but that's understandable."
Chakotay sighed. "Forgive me if this is too personal, but... How has she been... when she's with you? More distant than usual, maybe? Or..." Chakotay grimaced. "More affectionate?"
Tom's face hardened. "What do you want, Chakotay?"
Sighing, he wrapped his arms around his knees. "Tom, what do you know about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?"
The younger man's eyes widened in sudden recognition. "Damn." He ran his hands through his hair. "I don't know much, but I know enough. I should have seen it. Who else?"
"I noticed Harry hasn't been attending the crew gatherings. Neelix isn't cooking anymore. I'm not sure about Tuvok and Seven because they've been spending most of their off-duty time together."
"Avoidance. Classic symptom." Paris scratched his chin. "Jorno Flagg came back with a bad attitude and a broken nose and doesn't want to talk about it – but I heard Gloria Young Bear kicked him out of their cabin pretty fast." Paris shook his head. "And B'Elanna has been... very aggressive lately."
Chakotay nodded, pretending not to notice Tom's blush. "That's a typical symptom, too. Especially for B'Elanna, given her genetic background."
Paris carefully looked back out over the water, his face neutral. "Chakotay, I have to ask... How's the Captain?"
Damn the man's insight.
They'd talked for another half hour, formulating a plan to reinstall the Doc's psychiatric subroutine. Chakotay had carefully steered the conversation away from Kathryn, but he knew Paris must have seen some of the same symptoms in their commanding officer that he had—when they'd seen her at all, that is. The next day, Chakotay had gone to Kathryn with a proposal: Every member of the crew would submit to evaluation for PTSD, including the command team.
To his shock, she had agreed to the plan without a single word of protest.
Chakotay shook off the memory and jogged back through the densest part of the forest toward the resort.
Since that day he'd had his evaluation and been declared free of PTSD. The Doc had left the door open for more counseling if he felt he needed it, but he'd never gone back – not for himself, anyway.
Kathryn had been back at least twice.
This, too, had surprised – and pleased – Chakotay. But after two weeks on Mawasi and three counseling sessions, the distance between them was still there. It bothered him more than he cared to admit, and on much more than a professional level.
He slowed to a cool-down walk at the edge of the resort property, now bustling with activity both in the lodge and among the cabins. At the corner of his own cabin he stopped suddenly and leaned against the wall. Kathryn was standing on the porch of the cabin next to his, looking out over the resort.
Her face was in shadow, but the rays of the rising sun shone on her body. Chakotay narrowed his eyes. Her uniform hung from her hunched shoulders like a sack and sagged at her waist. Two weeks surrounded by rich Mawasi cuisine, and she still wasn't eating. She wasn't sleeping enough, either; the lights in her cabin usually remained on long after the rest of the crew had turned in for the night. It had proved pointless to talk to her about her physical health as much as her emotional health, but Chakotay still felt helpless to know she wasn't taking care of herself properly. But until she stopped avoiding him, there was nothing he could do about it.
"Good run, Commander?"
She had turned her head to look at him. In the soft morning light he saw dark circles under her eyes. Her forced smile hurt him almost as much as her silence had. "Yes, thank you." He moved around to the corner of her porch and looked up at her. "Join me for breakfast?"
The forced smile tightened. "I have a counseling session with the Doc in fifteen minutes. I wouldn't want to keep him waiting."
"Of course." Chakotay shuffled his feet, watching her. "Lunch?"
She shook her head. "I promised Seven I'd help her in Astrometrics all day. We'll probably have something sent over to the ship."
The knowledge that she would spend time with Seven but not with him cut him, but he suppressed his reaction. At least she was interacting with someone. "Fine, Captain. I'll leave you alone, then."
The smile vanished. "Have a good day, Commander."
He watched her walk up the stone path toward the drydock. "Yes, ma'am," he whispered.
Before he could turn back to his own cabin, a hand fell on his shoulder. "Don't worry about that, Commander." Neelix stood beside him. "She'll come around."
Chakotay kept his eyes on her retreating back until she was out of sight. "Maybe."
"She just needs time."
"I know."
"Talking to the Doc helps. I know it helped me."
Chakotay sighed. "I'm sure it did. I just wish..."
"You wish it were you she was talking to."
Chakotay nodded. "I know that's probably selfish."
"Not at all, Commander. The two of you have a special bond."
"Neelix..." Chakotay warned.
"Don't deny what makes you strong, Commander. You know it does. In time, she'll remember it, too."
"I hope you're right."
Neelix squeezed his shoulder. "Did you know I was there when she found your watch?"
Chakotay finally looked down at him. "You were?"
Neelix nodded. "She missed you. I saw it in her face. And I'm sure you noticed she's still wearing the watch."
Chakotay couldn't deny the feeling of warmth he felt every time he saw her wearing his gift. "I noticed."
"Your patience will serve you well, Commander. Never doubt it." Neelix gave him a final pat on the back and then drew away. "Coming to breakfast?"
"Are you cooking again, Neelix?"
"I am indeed." The little man's grin was infectious. "Made-to-order omelets today." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And the resort's head chef promised to give me his pastry secrets this morning."
Chakotay laughed softly. Under the Mawasi's tutelage, Neelix's culinary skills had nowhere to go but up. "I wouldn't miss it. Give me fifteen minutes to clean up."
A small hand looped through his arm as Neelix headed up the path. "Make it half an hour, Old Man. You smell like a targ."
"Good morning to you too, B'Elanna," he laughed. "Save me a place at breakfast?"
Paris took B'Elanna's other hand and pulled her toward the lodge. "Always, Chakotay. Will we see the Captain this morning?"
"Not today." When both of their faces fell, Chakotay forced a smile of his own. "But maybe tomorrow."
They both nodded, accepting the evasion. "Maybe tomorrow," Paris echoed, and they turned up the path, too.
Chakotay lingered for a moment, enjoying the morning light on his face. He was still worried about her, but his shipmates' words had eased his fears just a little. Counseling sessions had clearly helped both B'Elanna and Neelix. Harry had started joining the nightly beach bonfire, and Gloria and Jorno seemed to be on better terms. Kathryn had been through much more trauma than her crew. Of course it would take longer for her to return to her old self.
Chakotay closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer that her recovery would be swift and thorough, and that soon, she would let him back in. Then he retreated to his cabin to clean up for the day.
=/\=
Every time she turned her back on him, it got a little harder.
She saw the pain in his eyes when she brushed past him on the path and headed across the resort. It gnawed at her, the knowledge of what she was doing to him. Of what she was doing to them both. But it wasn't time. Not yet. She had too many demons to exorcise, too many decisions to reconcile. The six months away from the ship had been hard on him – she could see that. He didn't understand why she was keeping him at arms' length now, and it was hurting him.
Someday, he would understand that she'd had no choice.
Kathryn hiked up the hill and through the trees to the rim of the valley, where she stopped to catch her breath. A sudden breeze blew up out of the valley, pulling a whirlwind of leaves in its wake. Kathryn watched them bobbing on the breeze, whipping through the air one moment, hovering in the next, then swirling out of sight. What must it be like to be pushed and pulled by gentle breezes, high and then low, never following a straight course? What must it feel like to be weightless and unburdened, to be buoyed up by the tender mercy of the wind?
What would it be like to let go?
She pushed the melancholy thought away and headed down into the valley where Voyager rested. She barely took time to notice the ship's scars and injuries. She'd studied them, mourned them and made peace with them days ago. "Badges of honor," she called them now, much like the scars on her own face and arms. At the edge of the lower hull she climbed up the temporary stairs and through the open hatch.
The interior of the ship wasn't in much better shape than the exterior, but the cleanup job was well underway. Fallen hull plates and girders had been removed, repaired and stacked neatly in place, just waiting for crews to put them back into position. The emergency lighting was functional all over the ship. Communications were intermittent at best, but getting better. B'Elanna's team had most of the bio-neural gelpacks back in place and functioning again. Navigation was nonfunctional, the deflector control center was still in shambles, and crew quarters were unlivable. There was still at least a month's worth of work ahead of them, probably more, but the work was progressing at a satisfactory pace. Voyager would be spaceworthy again – something Kathryn had despaired of just a few short weeks ago. She was proud of her ship and proud of her crew. They'd come a long way together. And although she knew that after the Year of Hell nothing on her ship would ever quite be the same, she'd begun to believe that they would emerge from it stronger than they'd been before.
The ship would be whole again. She would be whole again, too. Soon. But not yet.
Sickbay, her destination, was quiet and dark. The medical replicators were still down and the Mawasi, a race whose natural regenerative powers and robust immune systems made medical technology virtually unnecessary, seemed completely unable to help get the systems back online. There were other troublesome problems, too. There wasn't a single workable dermal regenerator left on the ship, their stores of antibiotics were dangerously low and the small blood supply they kept in reserve was rendered useless when the medical stasis units stopped functioning. Kathryn hoped that once they left Mawasi their journey would be free of incident for a while. The implications of serious injury or illness were more severe than they'd ever been.
In the center of the main bay, she stopped and raised her head. "Computer, raise lights to fifty percent and activate Emergency Psychiatric Hologram."
The Doc shimmered into existence before her. He smiled. "Good morning, Kathryn. Right on time as usual. Shall we go to my office?"
Kathryn nodded with a small smile. She wasn't sure she'd ever get used to the differences between the EMH and the EPH. They sounded alike...but they were wildly different, from the warm smile and the kind eyes to the tweed suit and the goatee – no doubt Paris's custom additions. The differences made the EPH easier to talk to than the prickly EMH, and for that the crew had been grateful. Still. It was...oddly unsettling. Kathryn wondered what they would do with the EPH when they didn't need him anymore. Store him away in a databank, never to be reactivated? It didn't seem right, somehow.
Another conundrum for another time.
She followed him into his office and sank into the guest chair. He settled himself behind his desk, where a mug of hot Mawasi "coffee" awaited her, as always. "How are you this morning, Kathryn?"
She shrugged and took up the hot drink. "I can't complain."
He cocked an eyebrow at her. "You could complain, but you won't," he corrected.
"Touché."
"Are you sleeping any better?"
"A little. I still have trouble falling asleep, but I'm at least sleeping soundly."
"No nightmares?" he asked. "No flashbacks?"
She shook her head. "No, nothing like that."
"Is there anything in particular you would like to talk about today?"
She waved her hand at him. They'd already talked about her obsessive behavior during the Year of Hell, her trauma at having to put the crew off the ship, and her apparent death wish when she had initially refused to leave Voyager at the end. While she hadn't completely reconciled those darker parts of her personality and how they had come to the fore, she had started to feel more like herself again lately. There was no need to cover that territory again, not today. "Your choice."
"Very well." He cocked his head at her. "Tell me about the fire."
Kathryn swallowed hard. She had known this topic would come up eventually, but even so, she found herself unprepared to go back to that day. The memories were still hard to bear, and while she'd tried to put them behind her, they were still there every time she looked in the mirror, every time she stared down at her scarred hands.
"The fire?" the Doc prompted again.
"Right. The fire." She took a sip of the Mawasi concoction and grimaced. The ship's replicators were at least a week away from being operational and though the Mawasi chefs had tried, they still couldn't quite reproduce the rich, layered flavor of a decent Kona. She folded her hands around the mug and stared into the swirling liquid. "It was about...six months into the Year of Hell. Lieutenant Paris and Chakotay had been gone for almost four months by then, and I had already put most of the crew off the ship in escape pods."
"So you were down to a skeleton crew."
She nodded. "Senior officers only. Voyager was badly damaged and barely keeping us alive. We came across a field of micrometeoroids and the deflector array went offline."
"Leaving you vulnerable to hull erosion."
"Yes. So I went down to Deflector Control to find out why the array was offline." She took another sip of her drink. "It was on fire. Hazard level 4. The doors were jammed open so I couldn't close it off to remove the oxygen and starve the fire. The only way to make repairs was to go through."
"Were you afraid?"
Her gaze snapped back to him. "I didn't have time to be afraid. I grabbed a piece of bulkhead, used it as a shield and went in."
"What was it like?"
Kathryn rolled her eyes. "It was hot."
The Doc stared at her calmly.
She sighed and looked inward again. They'd already discussed her tendency to deflect his questions with flippant answers. "It was bad," she said at last. "The touchpad burned my hands and the flames melted my uniform to my arms." She held her arms out in front of her and pulled up her sleeves, revealing livid burn scars. "And my face..." She touched her right cheek and closed her eyes. For a moment, she felt the flames licking at her again, white-hot and angry. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. "But there was no time to spare. I brought the array back online and alerted the Bridge. Then I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was in Sickbay with you." She waved her hand when he started to protest. "The EMH, that is."
"And yet you have had no nightmares about this? No flashbacks?"
She shook her head, surprised by the repeated question. "No. Is that unusual?"
"Not necessarily," he said. "You were resolved that you were doing what had to be done. Your conscience seems to be clear on that point, so you may have no need to make peace with the decision. You have always had an exceptionally high pain threshold, so the physical trauma hasn't significantly affected you either. And the Medical Doctor was able to stop the pain, even if he couldn't do anything about the scarring." He shrugged. "So the lack of nightmares and flashbacks is a good sign."
She stared at him. "And yet?" she prompted.
"And yet..." He folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "Why haven't you gone to any of the bonfires, Kathryn?"
"Bonfires?"
"You're aware that the crew has a bonfire on the beach every night, weather permitting."
"Of course." The fires were another of Chakotay and Tom's suggestions, an informal way for the crew to reconnect with each other at the end of each workday. Some of the gatherings had also become rather raucous welcoming parties for the returning crewmembers. She'd heard through the grapevine about the return of Megan and Jenny Delaney, and the crew's sudden discovery that Mawasi ale packed quite the wallop.
"And yet you have not attended a single gathering."
She frowned at him. "What has that got to do with anything?"
He leaned toward her across the desk. "Do you fear the flames?"
It was all she could do not to lie back in her chair and howl with laughter. "Not at all."
He blinked at her in surprise. "Then why have you been avoiding the bonfires? Surely you know it would do the crew good to see you there."
She brushed imaginary lint from her uniform. "I'm sure it would."
"Then Kathryn-"
"I don't want to talk about it." She folded her hands in her lap.
The EPH sat back with a look of grim satisfaction. "Finally," he murmured. "We come to it."
"What do you mean?"
"This is our fourth session, Kathryn, and you have yet to push back against any question I've asked you, any topic I've broached. And yet I knew there was something you were avoiding. Is this it? The bonfires?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. He was skirting dangerous territory. "I've told you I'm not afraid of the flames."
"Not the flames. The gatherings. You're avoiding them, even though you concede that the crew needs to see you there. Perhaps it's not the flames you're avoiding, or the gatherings. But there is something..." He stared at her levelly. "Perhaps someone."
Her head snapped up.
"In fact, you have stayed away from all of the informal crew gatherings," he continued. His gaze was cool and clinical. Knowing. Kathryn swallowed hard. "You attend meetings, of course, and you have dropped in on every work detail as well. Except one."
"Who have you been talking to?"
"Who do you think?" The Doc sat back in his chair, arms folded across his holographic chest. "He won't come to me on his own behalf, but-"
A bolt of cold fear ran down her spine. "Does he need to? Should he be coming in for counseling?"
The Doc blinked at her sudden intensity. "No. I declared him free of PTSD at his initial evaluation. He's fine."
"Then why is he coming to you?"
"Because he's worried about you."
She grimaced. "He's always worried about me."
"And why is that, do you think?"
"He's my First Officer," she said coolly. "It's his job."
"True," he conceded. "But there's always been...something more. Hasn't there?"
"We're friends."
"A friend might suggest counseling, Kathryn. But he comes to me every few days, consumed with worry for you. He wants to help you, but he doesn't know how. And he's afraid you wouldn't let him even if he did know how. That's more than friendship. That's-"
"That's enough." She stood up and headed out of the office. "I think we're finished here."
"No, Kathryn, I don't think we are."
She whirled on him, unsurprised to find him standing as well. "Computer, end EPH."
Nothing happened.
"You can't shut me down," he said. "It's a fail-safe in the program. Tom and Chakotay knew that eventually someone might try to turn me off instead of talking about something uncomfortable." He smiled grimly. "Tom even speculated that it would be either you or B'Elanna. He was right on both counts."
"Damn him. Damn them both." She rubbed her forehead. "I could just walk out."
"You could indeed. But stay and hear me out. You don't need to tell me anything else, but you need to listen to me, just for a minute. You're not the only person to have found yourself in this position, Kathryn."
"What position?" she asked, hoping to deflect attention from herself.
His gaze was steady and unnerving. "Wondering if your feelings for someone are real or only PTSD symptoms."
She blanched.
"I think I know why you've been avoiding the bonfires, Kathryn," he continued. "And the meals at the resort, and his work detail. It's him, isn't it? You don't want to be alone with him."
She swallowed hard. It was too soon for this. She had resolved to work through this on her own, to come back to their friendship in her own time, when she was less keenly aware of how much she'd missed him while he'd been gone. "Doctor, I can't-"
"You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to," he said kindly. "But I do ask that you listen very carefully."
Clearly, there was no avoiding this conversation. She supposed that if things got too personal, she could always delete the information from his data banks.
Not that she would.
Probably.
She fell back into his guest chair with a sigh. "I'm listening."
"Very well." He sat down, too, and folded his hands on the desk again. "Increased... affection... can be a symptom of PTSD. It's not unusual, and it's nothing to be ashamed of or worried about. Do you understand what I mean?"
She nodded. Her cabin was near Tom and B'Elanna's, after all, and she'd heard about other couples' reunions. "Affection" was a polite euphemism for what was really going on.
"Good," he said. "The need to do something life-affirming after a near-death situation is completely normal. For committed couples, it can be a healthy outlet. For casual couples... As long as both parties understand that the relationship may not be permanent and no one gets hurt, there is nothing wrong with exchanging a little 'Friendly Fire' as part of the recovery."
Another euphemism. Kathryn suppressed a smile. She was not about to exchange "Friendly Fire" with her First Officer – or anyone else. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll take it under advisement."
"I'm not finished."
She ground her teeth and sat back down. "Fine."
"PTSD can also be followed by a period of post-traumatic growth as the patient re-evaluates her priorities. Trivial, external influences can fall away, leaving behind a new appreciation of what is really important. This leads to a truer, more authentic self as she becomes more attuned to and accepting of her own innermost feelings."
Kathryn kept her face carefully neutral. "I don't understand."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "I think you do. I think that right now, you're avoiding Chakotay because your feelings for him are very close to the surface. You believe these feelings are nothing but PTSD symptoms, and they will go away in time."
"They will."
He ignored that. "I submit to you instead that you will soon emerge from acute PTSD and enter a period of growth. You are rediscovering your place, your purpose, and realizing that your relationships with the people around you may be more important to you than they ever were before the Year of Hell – more important even than maintaining the propriety of distance, or following the rules of a Starfleet that is still 50,000 light years away."
"So you're saying that these feelings – if I have them at all – might not be PTSD symptoms?"
He shook his head. "Wanting to exchange Friendly Fire would be a PTSD symptom. If you were concerned about compromising your command relationship with Chakotay, or afraid one of you might become...permanently attached, I'd tell you to go into the Holodeck or onto the Mawasi resort, find a suitable companion and do what comes naturally."
"But?"
"But..." He hesitated. "The fact that you had feelings for him before the Year of Hell complicates matters."
She wanted to deny it. Every command class she'd ever had, every second of her training told her she should deny it.
But her own voice came back to her from a time long ago, before the Year of Hell but indelible in her memory. Three years ago I didn't even know your name. Today I can't imagine a day without you.
They had disagreed about the Borg just a short time later, a professional rift she had turned into something ugly and personal.
But that moment, that unguarded, quiet moment – his dark, intense eyes, the feel of his solid body under her hands – had sustained her through six months without him. Much later, she realized that the disagreement mattered far less than the connection they had made in that moment.
And there were other moments, too. Breakfasts in her quarters. Dinners in the galley. Hours spent in Sickbay at his bedside, waiting for him to wake up and reassure her that he was all right.
A late night sail on the day he'd watched her die.
A transparent and touching story told on a planet they'd left behind so long ago.
A meaningful gift, kept against orders and carefully set aside to give another day.
A warm hand on her cheek, gentle fingers moving through her hair – a tender touch even as he begged her to save herself.
Kathryn closed her eyes.
The Doc's voice, when it came, was surprisingly mild. "Wanting to tell him how much you missed him and how much he means to you is not a PTSD symptom. It's a normal, healthy reaction to the trauma you've been through. It's a strong step in your recovery, Kathryn. It's nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to fear."
It was the fear that kept her awake late into the night, that made her avoid anything other than perfunctory contact with him, that tore at her every time she turned her back on him: Fear that if she let him know how she felt, she would lose herself. Fear that if she didn't, she would lose him. Her own private Kobayashi Maru.
She took Chakotay's watch in her hands. "And you don't think that feeling is temporary? That it won't just go away with time?"
"No. I don't believe it will, given your history together." The Doc hesitated. "And until you deal with this one way or another, your command relationship with him will be compromised, Friendly Fire or not. You can't keep avoiding him. It's hurting you both."
"I know," she whispered. "But I don't think I'm ready to face this yet."
"Then you must do the work until you are ready to face it," he said. "Acknowledging your feelings would be the best place to start. And then... You must decide whether the support and companionship you would gain from a deeper relationship with Chakotay is greater than what you think you would risk, from a loss of objectivity to the crew's disapproval – neither of which I anticipate, incidentally. And you must decide whether Starfleet's censure still matters to you on this side of the Year of Hell, whether we find a way back to the Alpha Quadrant next week, next year, or next decade."
"Do the work..." she mused. She opened her eyes. "How do I start?"
The Doc put his hands flat on the desk between them. "I'm going to ask you a question," he said. "You don't have to answer it now. You don't have to give me an answer at all. But you need to be honest with yourself before you can decide upon your next steps."
She steeled herself, uncannily afraid of the question – and of her answer. "Go ahead," she said softly. "Ask it."
He nodded, as if grateful for her permission. "Captain, how long have you been in love with your First Officer?"
=/\=
"Try it now, sir."
"Computer: Activate tactile interface, Bridge Security station."
Silence.
Harry threw down his scanner and sat back against the console. "I'm sorry, sir. I've tried reinitializing the system, reinstalling the protocol and rerouting the power. I don't know what's wrong with it."
Tuvok placed his hand flat against the dark console. "Nor do I, Ensign. But I thank you for your attempts."
Harry rubbed his hand over his face. The day had started off well enough with breakfast at the resort with Tom and B'Elanna. Chakotay had stopped by later with altered duty assignments for the day. They'd all sat together chatting for half an hour over plates heaped with fresh fruit, omelets and Neelix's first attempt at Mawasi pastries – surprisingly tasty pastries at that. For just a minute, things had seemed normal. They were all enjoying shore leave together, or down time in the Holodeck, and would return after breakfast to their stations on a Bridge that was whole and functional.
Not to this...this shell.
It made him almost sick to look at it – the charred furniture, the broken consoles, the burned-out displays. Not because of the work that was ahead of them; he'd never shied away from hard work. No, it made him sick because Voyager had been beautiful once, her Bridge the nerve center of a gorgeous little ship that had become home to him.
He pulled his knees to his chest and sighed. After four hours of patching relays, replacing circuitry and working on Tuvok's tactile interface, that sunny breakfast at the resort seemed a thousand light years away.
"Are you quite well, Ensign?"
Harry picked up his scanner again. "I'm all right, sir. Just tired, I guess." He clambered to his feet and stood next to the older man. "Maybe if I reinitialize from the backup server..." he muttered.
Tuvok stood very still at his non-operational console. "Ensign...
Harry didn't look up. "Yes, sir?"
"There is no need for you to repair this console now. I know this is not the detail to which you were assigned today."
"No, sir, but I don't mind." He reconfigured his scanner. "Let me just -"
"Mister Kim. Please stop."
Something in Tuvok's voice made Harry lower his hands. Maybe it was the note of gentleness, of concern. Whatever it was, it caught him off guard. "Sir?"
"Why are you so fixated on repairing my console?"
Harry took a deep, thoughtful breath. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I just...I feel like I need to accomplish something today."
"Have you accomplished nothing before today?"
"No, I have. I've helped out all over the ship. It's just that..." He looked around the broken Bridge. "The repairs I've worked on have all been ongoing things. You know?"
"No, Ensign. Perhaps an example?"
Harry shrugged, realized Tuvok couldn't see it and continued, feeling his way around the emotions as he went. "It seems like everything is taking too long. I can spend days ripping out damaged bulkheads, and days more replacing them. The end of every task feels so far away." He placed his hand on the dark console. "But if I could just fix this, just get this one console up and running for you, it might feel like I did something. I finished something." He sighed. "That's not very logical, is it?"
"No, Ensign, it is not." Harry slumped a little in shame, but then Tuvok continued. "It is, however, quite understandable. It is important," Tuvok said slowly, "to see oneself as useful."
Harry mentally kicked himself. While wallowing in his own sense of futility, he had completely forgotten that Tuvok was, in actual fact, useless – until the console was repaired. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't-"
Tuvok gave his head a small shake. "I only meant that it can seem as though we will never be finished with the repairs."
"Of course, sir." Harry decided to accept the evasion. "That's it exactly. It seems like there's no end in sight. But today, if I could just do this one thing..."
He trailed off, watching Tuvok's face. The older man's eyebrows knit together for an instant, then his face relaxed. "Could you rig an aural interface, Ensign?
Harry stood very still, thinking. The console wasn't damaged beyond repair, it just wasn't recognizing the tactile subroutine, possibly because it required too much power to run the holographic matrix – and the holosystems weren't reliable right now, anyway. Maybe with an infusion of the Mawasi's superior holographic technology, they would be.
But for now... An aural interface? Harry smiled. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think I could do that. And sir, I might know a way to get the tactile interface going in a couple of days, too."
"That would be quite the accomplishment, Ensign."
Harry chuckled. "I guess it would. Thank you, sir."
"You are very welcome, Ensign."
Harry picked up his scanner and dived back under the console. He'd been working for half an hour, exchanging quiet words with Tuvok, when the Bridge doors groaned open.
"Hello, Tuvok," said Commander Chakotay's voice. "And who have we here?" Chakotay's booted feet stopped right next to his head. The Commander leaned down and peered underneath the console. "Harry. Weren't you assigned to Engineering today?"
Harry shimmied out from under the console and stood up. "Yes, sir. But when I came up to the Bridge to test the power monitor, I found Tuvok having trouble with his console, so I asked B'Elanna if I could stay here and... I hope that's all right?"
Chakotay placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's fine, Ensign. We all have latitude to judge the situation and change priorities, when necessary. It'll all get done eventually."
"Thank you, sir."
"How goes it with this console?"
"The tactile interface is down, sir, so I'm trying to rig an aural interface so Tuvok can work here. And then..." He took a deep breath. "I'd like to spend some time working with the Mawasi holographic technology, sir. I think maybe we can come up with a more flexible and useful tactile interface if we incorporate some of their tech."
Chakotay gave a quick nod. "That's a good idea. Good work, Ensign. I'll see that you're reassigned tomorrow. If you want help, let me know who you need."
Harry stood up a little straighter. "Yes, sir. Thank you sir."
Tuvok raised an eyebrow. "I would like to volunteer for that assignment, Commander."
"Of course, Tuvok."
Harry suddenly remembered that Commander Chakotay wasn't assigned to the Bridge today, either. "What brings you here, sir?"
Chakotay smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "A special project I'm working on," he said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be in the Ready Room."
Harry watched him disappear into the Captain's office. "What's he doing in there, I wonder?"
Tuvok gave a tiny sigh. "I believe he is cleaning it, Ensign."
"Cleaning? Really? He assigned himself to Deflector Control today."
"Indeed. For the past four days, he has come to the Bridge at approximately the same time, worked in the Ready Room for sixty minutes, and returned to his primary assignment."
"That must be why no one has seen him at lunch. He's giving up his break to clean her office."
"Indeed."
Harry drummed his fingers on the console. "Does she know he's been in there?"
"No. I do not believe she does."
"It's too bad," Harry mused, and knelt down beneath the console again.
"Why is that, Ensign?"
Harry cocked his head to one side. Chakotay was a Grand Gesture kind of guy. He sometimes didn't say a lot, but his actions spoke for him. And in this case, cleaning the Captain's office was a gesture that spoke volumes about his loyalty to her, his worry, his absolute devotion. There was no good way to communicate all of that to Tuvok, though.
"Ensign?"
"Because it would make her smile," he finally said, and went back to work.
=/\=
The ship's air was suddenly stifling.
Kathryn swept out of Sickbay and down the corridor with no clear direction in mind. Just... off the ship. Out into the open air, where she could breathe freely and think clearly, away from the walls that reminded her of who she was and what she couldn't have.
Or thought she couldn't have. The EPH had been very clear on that point. The barriers she put up between herself and her First Officer were hers, not Starfleet's, not this far away from HQ and all their rules and regulations – most of which she'd broken repeatedly anyway. No, they were walls she'd constructed all on her own.
How and when had this happened?
She'd spent the better part of two additional hours with the EPH trying to puzzle it out. "How" turned out to be the easier question. Chakotay was an attractive, intriguing man, that much was certain. And there was no subterfuge in him at all when it came to his feelings for her. What she'd thought at first was simple respect for her position was clearly more. Far more.
As for when... She'd known practically from the start. The memory of their conversation about fraternization – so early on in their journey – had stayed fresh for years. He'd asked her outright if she was planning to "pair off," and at the time she'd thrown Mark up as a wall between them. She'd believed it, too – but she'd stolen a glance at his face, his downcast eyes, just the same.
Is that when it had first happened? That long ago?
Kathryn rubbed her forehead and turned down another dark corridor, sucking in stale air. And what of Mark? When had he become less a reason not to get involved and more of an excuse? Mark was a dear man, and loyal, but he'd always been the safe choice. The solid, simple lover back home who took care of her dog when she was away and warmed her bed when she was home – which was not that often, given her career path. Had he been an alibi even then, even before the Caretaker? Was he just an excuse to play at marriage without working at commitment?
Just a safety net?
Chakotay was far from safe.
I can't imagine a day without you...
She'd never said such a thing to Mark.
And in fact she had imagined days without Mark. Many of them. They'd both known from the start that they would be apart at least as much as together, maybe more. Even before Caretaker, he'd been little more than a pleasant thought in the back of her mind for months at a time. Someone to return to for a brief, intense reunion... and then leave behind.
Oh, she'd missed him in those first Delta Quadrant days. But she couldn't recall the last time she'd thought of him as anything other than a distant, fond memory.
Had he been nothing more than a diversion?
An excuse not to risk herself on something deeper and more intense – whether in the Alpha Quadrant or in the Delta Quadrant?
Mark was little more than an abstraction now. If they found a way home tomorrow, she would be glad to see him. She had no doubts about that.
But he was not the man she had missed fiercely every day for six long months while her ship and her crew and her life fell apart around her. He was not the man she had looked forward to seeing every morning for the last four years. Not anymore.
Maybe he never had been.
The shame of that realization had caused the walls of the ship to start closing in on her.
Had she accepted Mark's proposal because there was no real risk involved, a simple way to keep herself safe?
Had she loved him at all?
Had she ever loved – really loved – anyone since Justin's death? Had she even tried?
No. She realized it at once. She had never risked her heart so much again.
She wasn't sure she remembered what deep, joyful love felt like. It had been too long.
She rounded the last curve before the access hatch with tears in her eyes.
So many questions, none with good answers. And then one final question, forced from her throat in a half-whisper, half-sob.
"Am I a monster?" she had asked the EPH. "For using Mark this way?"
The Doc's eyes had been so kind, she had to look away. "No," he'd said. "Not a monster. But human. Very human. And maybe you're realizing it for the first time in years."
The words – the regret she felt at hearing them – had sent her flying from the office. That and another sudden epiphany: She wasn't just using Mark. She was using Starfleet, too. Her career had become a convenient excuse not to let herself get too close to anyone ever again, not even Mark. She would gladly risk life and limb and tell herself she couldn't risk her heart because her career was too consuming and too dangerous. She didn't want to hurt anyone by running off and dying somewhere. Not even Mark. Poor, sweet Mark, who deserved better than half a marriage, half a heart.
But out here, that was meaningless. They were all in the same boat, literally. By closing herself off, she was protecting only one person. Herself.
Not her ship – the ship had run just fine for four years while she quietly fell in love with her First Officer.
Not her crew, who had been through the same trauma she had, who were experiencing the same realizations about their lives and who probably knew exactly what was going on.
Not her position; she was too experienced, confident and professional to be anything other than the Captain she'd always been whether or not she acted on her feelings.
She was only protecting herself. But from what? The fear that she might someday have to order him into terrible danger? The fear that he might not come back? The fear that she might lose him whether she acted on her feelings or not?
How would that be any different from the way things currently were? She already worried about him, worried about them all whenever they were away from the ship. It was her job.
Would a relationship with him make that worry more acute...or would it make it easier to send him away, knowing that if the unthinkable happened he would at least know how she'd felt?
And what was the alternative?
A life of no risk, no hurt.
And no reward.
Safe.
And dull as hell.
She had to get off the ship. She couldn't think there, not with the walls and responsibilities – real and imagined – closing in on her.
She keyed open the access hatch, intending to bolt down the steps, race across the drydock, and...
To the beach. Yes. She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to smell the fresh air, to feel the cool spray on her face and the wind in her hair.
But someone was coming up the steps. Neelix, beaming and carrying a PADD in his hands.
"Captain!" he squealed. "I was hoping to find you!"
She forced herself to give him her full attention. "What is it, Neelix?"
He thrust the PADD at her. "The ship's comm system is still down, so this came over the Mawasi network. Captain, it's Sam and Naomi! They'll be here this afternoon!"
Kathryn's heart lifted, for what felt like the first time in months. "That's wonderful news, Neelix." She activated the PADD and scrolled through Sam's report, an account of their flight from Voyager, finding refuge on an inhabited moon, intercepting news of Voyager's location. And finally, a flight plan that would land them on Mawasi in just a few hours.
She grinned at the Talaxian. "We need to throw them a party."
The little man bounced on his toes. "I was hoping you'd say that, Captain. I've been working with the Mawasi chefs, and -"
She cut him off with a hand on his shoulder. "Do it. Pull anyone you think you need. In fact, I'm going to give the whole crew the afternoon off to celebrate. They all deserve it. Since the ship's comm is down, we'll need to tell everyone personally. I'll go find Chakotay first and -"
She stopped suddenly.
And I'll tell him. Because it'll make him smile. And I haven't seen him smile, really smile, in almost a year.
She did know what deep, joyful love felt like.
She'd been feeling it for years, never more acutely than the moment he had materialized on the Bridge with a mad plan to save the ship, to save the crew, to save her from herself.
"Captain? Are you all right?"
Kathryn blinked back tears. "I think I am, Neelix. Finally." She squeezed his shoulder one last time and withdrew her hand. "Start spreading the word. We'll meet them at the landing, and then," she nodded once, decisively. "Party at the resort. Go."
"Yes, ma'am!" He darted down the stairs and out of sight.
Kathryn scrolled through the padd until she found the day's duty roster. She found the name she was looking for under Deflector Control.
How long have you been in love with your First Officer?
That wasn't even a relevant question anymore.
The more important question was: What are you going to do about it?
She headed back the way she had come, a cool breeze from the open hatch at her back.
=/\=
To be continued...