Author's note: Story is a second season insert, set before both the events of "Investigations" and the sleep-inspiring ancient legends of "Resolutions."
If you don't love me now, you will never love me again.
I can still hear you sayin'
that you would never break the chain.
- my five favorite dysfunctional poets
The Chain
They walk as briskly as they can manage under the scorching sun, staying close to rock formations and the rare punctuation of trees. They've given up running hours ago, their legs now fighting just to sustain forward movement. Every part of their bodies sore from injury, or else fatigue.
The chain that tethers them at their wrists is only a half a meter long, but its weight is remarkably burdensome, approximately five kilograms. The mineral it's forged from is incredible dense, chosen deliberately for use on prisoners due to its ability to resist tempering.
They could get it off in an instant if they had a phaser, but their weapons, along with their tricorders and comm badges, were stripped from them when they were captured six days earlier. No rock or crude instrument will sever it, and, like running, they have given up even the attempt.
They've found its easier to move if they wrap the chain around their arms rather than letting it hang between them, but this forces even further proximity. When Paris again bumps into his Captain with his arm, she regards him with a disapproving expression.
He has wrapped most of the chain around his own wrist, taking the majority of the weight away from her smaller frame. He notices the look but doesn't bother to say anything.
However much she dislikes him taking on the extra weight, he knows she's also too tired to argue.
When they come to small stream, the Lieutenant looks at it longingly. There has been just enough water along the way for them to stay hydrated, but neither of them have bathed in days and the water offers a relief from the heat.
"We don't have anything to scan it with to make sure it's safe," she says, obviously preferring not to stop.
While true, the statement is somewhat laughable to her Lieutenant, in light of everything else they face.
They have crash-landed on a planet only to be dragged out of their shuttle while unconscious. Imprisoned thereafter to be used as slave labor, the planet's superstitious inhabitants afraid of the technology they did not understand.
Their only stroke of luck has been that their captors thoughtlessly chained them to each other rather than assigning them to a work detail with other prisoners, allowing them the opportunity to first plot and then execute an escape.
Looking at the woman in front of him, Tom wants to say to her that they might be better of if there are venomous predators waiting in the shallows. That a quick death due to sharp teeth or paralyzing toxins would be more merciful than the slow one of starvation or exposure.
Or else, the fate they'll suffer if recaptured.
They don't know for certain that they are being hunted, having failed to see or hear any sign of pursuers after they fled, incapacitating two guards to make their escape. But if they're found, they'll likely be publicly killed in some slow, tortuous way to set an example for others.
Janeway possibly faring worse, given how some of the guards had eyed her.
Tom has never killed anyone with his bare hands. But looking at one of the guards as the man watched Janeway, the pilot methodically choreographed four different ways to strangle someone with the chain used to bound them. It would only take an instant, and he doubted he would even hesitate as the man struggled under his power.
"We should at least flush our your cut," he comments, pushing away the dark thoughts running through his head.
The scrapes and bruises they've accrued have been cleaned, to their best of their ability, but the cut on the Captain's shoulder concerns him.
She nods slowly after a moment, and they walk down into the stream together. The water is clear and feels cold relative to the planet's heat.
She hesitates for a moment before lowering her upper body into the water, and Tom worries for a second that she's caught sight of some kind of animal.
"Is something wrong, Captain?"
"No," she says quickly, not meeting his gaze.
He nods, lowering his own body into the water and closing his eyes.
When they get of the stream, he understands her hesitancy. Their wet undershirts, all they have left of the top half of their uniforms, cling to them like a second skin.
He doesn't see her change her posture, but he can tell by the way the chain yanks against him that she goes to cross her arms in front of herself before realizing it's impractical.
When they start moving again, he walks slightly in front of her, allowing the chain to dangle between them with the increased distance.
She notes that he doesn't even turn his head to glance at her until his own undershirt is mostly dried from the heat, and feels grateful for his tact. Neither of them has been afforded much dignity the last few days, and Tom's dutiful respect of her privacy is comforting.
Back in the work camp, his chivalrous impulses had been more worrisome than relieving. The last thing she wanted was her crew member putting himself in harm's way to protect her, nor did she doubt for an instant, watching him watch the guards, that he would.
Having known him for a year now, she isn't entirely surprised by his behavior. But she hadn't entirely expected it, either.
When they finally stop to sleep it's only because both of them are practically hobbling. They find a small group of trees, settling down in the clearing in the center.
"Voyager is already looking for us," she assures, reclining on the ground. "It's only a matter of time now."
"Yes, ma'am."
There's nothing flippant about his tone. It's the same one he has used in countless crisis since the Caretaker's array.
Still, she knows this time that he doesn't believe her.
"Mister Paris. . . We are not going to die on this planet. Do you hear me?"
"Aye, ma'am."
He closes his eyes as he says it, wishing he believed her words as much as she does.
After ten minutes, she finds herself moving for the third time to get comfortable on the hard ground. Her body is exhausted, but the terrain below them doesn't exactly provide a soft mattress.
The next time she turns over, she feels a steady pull on the chain, forcing her to roll on her side, facing Tom.
"You could use me as a pillow," he offers. "At least one of us would be comfortable."
She doesn't respond immediately, but he can tell by her face, even in the dark, that she's doubtful about his intentions. He's used to people not trusting him, so her reluctance doesn't really come as a surprise.
But this woman not trusting him is hurtful to a degree that surprises him, and he lets go of a deep breath before angling his head away from her.
When she hears him sigh, she realizes that he's read the nature her hesitancy and it's hurt his feelings. She thinks to apologize but doesn't, realizing he'll likely brush it off.
It isn't the kind of thing she wouldn't spend much time worrying about, back on the ship. But presently, her universe has collapsed to just herself and Tom.
The chain scrapes on the ground as she moves to put her head on his chest. The contact, while infinitely more comfortable than having her head on the ground, is also uncomfortable in other ways. Through his shirt, she can feel his chest hair against her cheek. His breath disturbs her hair, which has dried naturally, and cascades over his chest in loose waves.
She falls asleep after he does, the even rhythm of his breathing the last thing she can remember before she nods off.
. . . . . .
When she wakes up, she realizes that she has curled her entire body into him. The temperature has dropped considerably, and she must have moved closer to him for warmth in her sleep.
Her arm is wrapped tightly around his torso, and his hand is placed firmly in the neutral zone between her backside and the bare skin of her upper back. Before she move off of him, she hears his voice, the sound vibrating against her own chest.
He would have been able to sleep for several more hours had she not woken first, but her slight stirring immediately alerted him.
It hadn't paid to be sound sleeper in Auckland, and the slightest sound still jars him awake.
"I'm starting to hate this planet, I think."
The remark captures her own mood perfectly. As she moves to sit up, a wry expression appears on her face.
"I was just thinking the same thing, Lieutenant."
They rise together, the pilot extending a hand to his Captain. When they begin moving again, it's obvious that his back is bothering him. His mattress was far more unforgiving than hers.
"I missing my holodeck time with Harry right now," he comments, after they have been moving for a few hours. "At least, I think I am."
They've mostly remained silent as they've walked, but the lack of distraction isn't helping either of their moods. Nor is it keeping them any warmer.
"What program were you going to run?" she asks, happy to be distracted from her own musings. "Sandrine's?"
"No. We were going to play tennis. . . I used to be good at it once upon a time, and Harry played some at the Academy."
"I've always loved tennis," she comments, her voice a bit brighter. "I played a great deal when I was younger."
"You should join us sometime. Embarrass Ensign Kim by publicly beating him."
"How do you know I'm any good?" she asks, her face not betraying anything.
"Is there anything you aren't good at?" he counters, his face adopting the same expression.
She looks contemplative for a moment. As if genuinely considering his question.
"I'm pretty bad at basic Klingon. . . And I have trouble admitting when I'm wrong."
He smiles at her, despite his aching back and tired limbs.
"Well, a wise person told me once that the only vocabulary one needs to master in any language are the curse words. . . And as for being wrong, I guess it's a good thing you became a Captain. No one to have to admit it to."
Her only response is a snort. But when they fall back into silence, the small smile that's appeared remains on her face.
Later, it becomes obvious that she is groping for a topic of conversation. Something, anything, but talk of their present circumstances and their prospects of rescue.
"I could teach use Klingon swear words," he offers, and she looks at him disapprovingly.
"Not exactly appropriate conversation with one's Captain."
He fights the urge to roll his eyes, looking forward instead.
"I wasn't going to put in my report," he mutters, before letting the matter drop.
"So, how many Klingon curse words do you know?" she asks later, feeling that his mood has settled into something dark.
"Not that many to be of any interest," he replies dismissively.
He knows that she's extending this olive branch as a way of lifting his spirits. But right now he doesn't want his spirits to be shifted.
They've been on this god forsaken planet for more than seven days and haven't found much of anything safely considered edible since their escape. Moreover, they aren't even sure that Voyager will be able to track them here. And if it does, it's possible it will arrive just in time to recover their dead bodies.
He doesn't want to take out his frustration with their situation on her. But she, unfortunately, is bound to his foreboding, and suffers as a result.
"I'm sorry I asked you to come with me," she says, much later. After they have walked untold kilometers in dead silence.
He isn't sure if she means she's sorry that she took him on the scouting mission that resulted in this, or else sorry that she freed him from the penal colony only to get him stranded seventy years from home. He suspects from the slight lilt in her voice that she isn't sure either.
When he glances sideways at her, her face is drawn and her eyes are distant. As if she's re-examining the last year in her head.
Regret on her is something he has never seen before; he immediately feels guilty for the pouting silence he's subjected her to the last few hours.
"It's alright," he consoles. When she doesn't look at him he nudges her arm with his, the slithering sound of metal on metal the own reply. "At least I have good company."
She doesn't smile at him, but as they walk, her shoulder brushes his arm every few paces.
. . . . . .
On the third night following their escape, she curls into him with less hesitancy. The air is the coldest it's been thus far, and beneath her ear, his stomach groans with hunger.
She hasn't given up hope that Voyager is coming for them, nor will she allow her Lieutenant to do so. Still, she has started to consider the possibility that they will die on this planet. That Tuvok will locate them, only to beam back their lifeless bodies.
Perplexed, even in his stoic grief, that his Captain's prone form lies snuggled against that of the ship's Chief Conn Officer.
When a cold blast of wind finds them, she reflexively buries her face in Tom's chest, feeling his arm wrap tighter around her lower back.
When they get back. If they get back. She will have no idea how to note this in personal log, let alone her official one.
When she wakes hours later, she doesn't immediately move off his chest. It's still cold, and, low on vital nutrients, her body is unwilling to get moving.
"Remind me why we can't just stay here like this," he says, his voice hoarse from both disuse and exhaustion.
For a moment, she struggles to answer him. Their proximity is something she has gotten used to, and she understands the desire to stay like this, rather than trudging on, miserably, in flight of pursuers who are likely not even after them.
"Because I said so," she replies, slowly moving to get up.
He of course knows the other reasons. But even without them, this would be enough.
The thought would perplex him endlessly, if ever he contemplated it.
When they pass another stream, the weather is warm again. Tom doesn't even look at it. Partly, it's that it's no longer as hot as it was days earlier, but it's also that he doesn't desire to bathe.
He doesn't particularly desire anything anymore.
"We should stop," she comments, and he only looks at her blankly.
After a moment, his gaze falls to her shoulder. The skin around her cut is an angry red, the wound obviously becoming infected.
When they walk into the stream, she doesn't hesitate before submerging herself. And when they get out, she closes the distance he establishes when he tries to walk ahead of her.
The sight of her nipples pressed to her undershirt no longer worries her. Tom has already felt them pressed against him in the cold night air, his body never reacting to hers.
Mostly, she is just too exhausted to care. But beyond that, she trusts him. And in ways she never would have imagined, back before they began their slow march toward death.
"What exactly happened with you and Chakotay in that cave on Occampa?"
The question comes out of no where, both of them having fallen silent for sometime.
He isn't sure if she's just curious, or is asking it because she wants to know the answer before she dies.
"He didn't put it in his report?"
He already knows the Commander didn't, but he's stalling. She stares at him briefly. A look that would be a glare if she had the energy to power it.
"The stairway he was on collapsed," he relents.
He doesn't offer anymore, and she decides to press.
"You saved his life somehow?"
"I guess you could say that."
She regards him as they slowly crest a hill, the wind chapping their faces.
"I'm glad the two of you got over your differences."
They both know that the two men have yet to really do so. Chakotay having rather been saved by a Cardassian than be indebted to the man who betrayed his former Maquis crewmates.
"Not yet," he says, with uncharacteristic candor. "But maybe someday."
She looks at him with an approving smile as they begin their journey down the hill.
. . . . .
When Voyager finally finds them, they are, in fact, asleep, pressed against one another. They have no comm badges to be signaled of the coming transport.
Even if they did, it might not even matter.
She has been taken down by the lack of food faster than him, and he had declared that they were stopping to rest when she had almost collapsed. She leans into him more than she has before as she sleeps, her exhausted body essentially collapsed on top of his.
When Tom feels the familiar tingle of the transporter through the haze of his sleep, he struggles to open his eyes. They are both on the same bio bed, and he doesn't notice the Doctor's surprised expression or Chakotay's frown.
His mind has begun to play tricks on him, and he doesn't believe that this isn't some delusion brought on by fatigue or else starvation. He is slow to let the woman he holds go, and when the Doctor approaches him, his fear takes over completely. His mind spinning into a confused panic.
The Captain doesn't stir as the conversation goes on around her. But later, alone in her quarters, she will be able to recall hearing the words.
"Lieutenant, I need you to let go of the Captain so I scan her."
"Back off, or I'll kill you."
"Tom, it's me- it's Chakotay. The Doctor needs to examine the Captain."
"I swear to god, if you touch her, I will kill you. I will kill you with my bare hands."
"Tom, I'm not going to hurt her. I'm trying to help her. But I need to get this chain off the two of you and I have to examine her. Tom, I need you to trust me."
When the sedative they give him takes effect, he goes under convinced that he's failed her.
. . . . .
"Tom."
The voice coaxing from sleep is soothing. Familiar. But despite this, he doesn't want to open his eyes. There is no weight pressed against his chest, and drifting at the edge of consciousness, he is convinced the woman next to him is gone. That he somehow, in some way, failed to protect her.
"Tom," the voice repeats, and this time he feels a hand on his forehead.
When he opens his eyes, the Captain's concerned face is staring down at him. It takes a minute for his vision to clear, but when it does he sees that she's still in her medical gown. Her hair loose, cascading down her back.
After he opens his eyes, she smiles.
"Welcome to the land of the living," she says, placing her hand on his arm.
He looks up at her, examining her face.
"Is there some reason that regardless of where we are, you have to be the one to wake up first?"
His voice sounds weak. Still, she takes the fact that his humor has already returned as a good sign, and her smile widens a bit.
"I'm the Captain, so it's part of my job. First one up and last one down."
"Are you sure?" he drawls in a low voice, his eyes squinting in the light. "Because I really think it's just some sick competitive thing."
When he hears her chuckle, he allows himself to close his eyes. Pleased that he's succeeded at making her laugh.
"Go back to sleep," she instructs.
"Captain, I just woke up."
"I know, but it's only because I woke you. I'm sorry for that. I was just. . . impatient."
His eyes snap open again, surprised at the confession. He smiles at her.
"You should go back to your own bed before you get us both in trouble with the warden," he whispers.
"Even if the Doctor's holographic, I'm pretty sure he's scared of me."
"We're all scared of you," he quips. "But I was actually talking about Chakotay."
The joke at her First Officer's expense earns him a gentle tug of his ear, but after that she moves away.
"Good night, Lieutenant," she calls softly, from her bed.
"Good night, Captain."