The Art of Drowning
I wonder how it all got started, this business
about seeing your life flash before your eyes
while you drown, as if panic, or the act of submergence,
could startle time into such compression, crushing
decades in the vice of your desperate, final seconds.
After falling off a steamship or being swept away
in a rush of floodwaters, wouldn't you hope
for a more leisurely review, an invisible hand
turning the pages of an album of photographs-
you up on a pony or blowing out candles in a conic hat.
How about a short animated film, a slide presentation?
Your life expressed in an essay, or in one model photograph?
Wouldn't any form be better than this sudden flash?
Your whole existence going off in your face
in an eyebrow-singeing explosion of biography-
nothing like the three large volumes you envisioned.
Survivors would have us believe in a brilliance
here, some bolt of truth forking across the water,
an ultimate Light before all the lights go out,
dawning on you with all its megalithic tonnage.
But if something does flash before your eyes
as you go under, it will probably be a fish,
a quick blur of curved silver darting away,
having nothing to do with your life or your death.
The tide will take you, or the lake will accept it all
as you sink toward the weedy disarray of the bottom,
leaving behind what you have already forgotten,
the surface, now overrun with the high travel of clouds.
Billy Collins, "The Art of Drowning"
Author's note: This story assumes the events of "Endgame" never took place and the events of "Drive" and others unraveled, well, a bit differently. The story is J/P, but if you hate C/7, you should be warned there's a fair amount of it in the background.
Chapter 1: Of things eternal
As she navigates the corridors of her ship, she silently curses whoever it was that first said there is no rest for the weary.
She fervently hopes, trudging Deck Eight on heavy feet that almost refuse to move, that somewhere, in a dark, festering corner of eternity, that clever person is feeling the prick of a thousand needles. Perhaps the excruciating pain of a dozen Ceti eels burrowing into their brain.
All her reservations about an afterlife be damned.
Turning a corner, Kathryn Janeway exhales heavily. Her ship is yet again low on power, though this time due to a two-week-long problem with the main generator that B'Elanna is (hopefully) only a day from repairing. In the meantime, they've kept power usage to a minimum, including turning off the holodecks and limiting, even further, the use of replicators.
By now, most of the senior staff would be willing to pool their limited rations together, if only to pacify their Captain with one single cup of the caffeinated substance she has gone without for two weeks.
She can still see patient look on the Doctor's face when he'd told her, sitting with her in the mess hall as she ate her dinner, that the time without coffee would do her good.
It might help you sleep, Kathryn.
Entering the cargo bay, she wonders how much time it would divert from the generator project if she asked B'Elanna to program their EMH to feel pain. And how long, after that, it would it take Tom to design holographic Ceti eels.
When the doors hiss shut behind her, she's surprised to hear voices. It's almost 02:00, and most of the ship, even during earlier hours, has fallen quiet during the period of power conservation. Rounding a large container of mining supplies, two blonde heads come into her view.
Though there's no music, the two people in front of her are obviously dancing. Most would consider it strange, dancing in the silence of a cargo bay in the wee hours of the morning. But after more than seven years, her crew has learned to do a lot of strange things to keep themselves sane.
"Seven, you're trying to lead again," Tom complains, as he stops mid-step in their waltz.
"I find it difficult to follow your movements without musical accompaniment."
Seven's tone isn't the one of harsh exasperation that would have accompanied such a statement a year earlier. It's softer. Kinder. It acknowledge a certain degree of uncertainty in what she's doing.
"And so, instead of following me, you decided just to start leading yourself?"
Tom's tone, too, is kind. Affectionate even. And abruptly, the Captain wonders what, exactly, is transpiring between the former drone and her chief helmsman these days.
Both of them are currently single; the latter for more than a year following his split from the ship's Chief Engineer, and the former for only a matter of weeks, following her brief relationship with the ship's XO.
Though some distance has asserted itself in Janeway's relationships with both Chakotay and Seven as of late, she has been rather certain that the romance between the two of them would mend.
Looking at Tom and Seven now, she considers the possibility that she was wrong.
"This should not surprise you. You have often informed me that I 'march to the beat of my own drummer.' "
Chuckling, Tom pats Seven's back where his hand rests.
"That I have, my dear. That I have."
The tone of Tom's reply immediately quells whatever questions have sprung to Janeway's mind. He's familiar, but not flirtatious. Affectionate, but in the same manner that he is with Harry Kim and others. As the pair turn and turn in front of her, Seven's movements eventually become less stilted and her strides fall in sync with Paris.
"Have you talked with Chakotay yet?" he asks, tossing the question to his companion as though he has no fear as to how she will receive it.
"I have considered it, as you requested. But I am still uncertain as to what the objective in such a conversation would be."
At the sound of this last exchange, Janeway's body freezes. What she's done so far might or might not be considered spying, but eavesdropping on confidences that Seven no longer shares with her- this is clearly over the line. She backs up to head for the exit. And in her haste, her tired, treacherous feet trip her, sending her into the large container beside her.
As the mining materials clatter to the ground around her and the bin that contained them tumbles against her, she contemplates, for the brief moment that she falls, how merciful it would be if her landing were to knock her unconscious, her body finally finding the blissful state that has eluded her for three straight nights.
Lying sprawled across the floor, her backside and elbows aching but her heard still painfully clear, she silently repeats all the muttered curses and ill wishes that have accrued in her thoughts the last few hours.
"You alright, Captain?" Tom asks, extending a hand to help her.
Looking up at him with a weary face, she accepts the aid.
"I've been better," she responds, as he pulls her to her feet.
It's the kind of thing she wouldn't have admitted not so long ago. But clad in her sleep attire, having been busted spying on two of her officers, she's hard-pressed to put up a façade.
In truth, she doesn't even consider trying.
"I guess we're not the only ones who couldn't sleep."
Tom's expression as he speaks is one of sympathy, but, mercifully, is free of concern. The last thing she needs at the moment is a lecture from the Doctor- or anyone else- about her night-time habits.
"You two often dance in the cargo bay at night?" Janeway asks, wanting to fill the silence when an expression of curiosity takes up residence on Seven's face.
"About as often as you pace here. . . And end up damaging half of Voyager's mining equipment."
The pilot's dig is good-natured and well-deserved.
Still, Janeway adds his spreading smirk to the growing list of things that should be damned for all eternity.
"Care to join us in the place that's. . . less cluttered?" he asks, before the frustration can spread further across his CO's face.
"I wouldn't want to interrupt," she responds, only to watch Tom's eyes survey the mess around them.
She has already interrupted them, they all know. But not even Tom Paris will point this out to her in a coffee-deprived state.
"No interruption," he assures.
She nods in agreement, aiding Tom and Seven as they straighten up what she has thrown into disarray. When they're finished, they exit the cargo bay, making it all the way to the turbolift when Seven stifles a yawn.
"If you're actually tired, you should go rest."
Tom's tone is the same soft one he used only minutes earlier, but Janeway expects Seven to bristle at his suggestion. Despite all the things that have changed about the young woman, she remains as head-strong as they come. It's something Seven has in common with her Captain.
Not the only thing, Janeway mentally adds, cursing herself the second she thinks it.
Leaning against the wall of the turbolift, Seven slumps. Or at least, slumps for Seven of Nine.
"I believe you are correct."
Tom smiles slightly. He, too, expected an argument.
When Seven gets off the lift, Paris calls for Deck Two.
"Hungry?" Janeway asks, her face hovering somewhere between curiosity and amusement.
"Not really. But there's not much to do at the moment other than rummage in the galley or dance in circles." He pauses, eyeing her with a smirk. "And no offense, Kathryn, but you don't exactly seem in dancing shape at the moment."
She shoots him a brief glare, though the look bespeaks her foul mood rather than anger at the use of her first name.
All of her senior staff, save Harry, have begun to occasionally use her first name off-duty. It isn't the norm, even when she's alone with some of the officers she knows best, but it's a slowly emerging shift in their rapport. A change, she realizes with only mild surprise, that she has welcomed with open arms.
It has begun to wear on her more, being the highest ranking officer out here. And as much as she loves her job- despite that she wouldn't trade her ship for the immortality of a Q- she doesn't need the added reminder of her burden in settings that have nothing to do with it.
Tom smiles serenely at her putt-off expression, the same way he would have if Seven had bristled at his suggestion to rest. He respects the woman next to him more than ever, but he no longer runs from her bad moods or sour looks. Month by month, she has become more than his commanding officer. She's his friend. A person who gets tired and has bad days, just like him.
Someone who, right now, looks like complete hell.
Though he glances at her occasionally, he doesn't speak again until they enter the mess hall and he calls for forty percent lights. Following behind him, she doesn't complain about the relative darkness. Despite her inability to sleep, all she wants right now is to crawl into a dimly-lit corner and rest.
She sits down on one of the couches by the wall, watching curiously as Tom approaches the replicator. She suspects he's doing it out of habit or even longing, the way she has, every morning, for the last twelve days.
She's surprised when he punches a command into the device and it whirs with activity. When he turns around, there's a mug in his hands. He hands her the cup of coffee wordlessly, before sitting on the couch beside her.
She doesn't even think to feel guilty that he's donating his meager rations to her and, inhaling the familiar scent, her frustration and fatigue immediately fall away. She takes her first sip with an almost comical reverence that makes her companion smile slightly.
"Tom Paris, you are, at this moment, my favorite person on this ship."
He smile brightens, briefly, before his expression becomes rueful.
"Just don't tell your First Officer that. I'm not exactly high on his own list for that particular honor."
She understands after a few moments what he means. For the last few weeks, there's been a decidedly cold chill drifting from her XO's seat down to the conn. She hadn't understood why, after all these years of relatively warm relations between them, things had settled back into unfriendly feelings.
But watching Tom and Seven in the cargo bay, she'd realized the cause.
Despite that Chakotay had been the one to end things with Seven, it's obvious that he'd done so because he was afraid. And while she's not spoken to her friend about the woman whose presence on Voyager he'd initially challenged, she can imagine the thoughts that are racing through his head when he sees Tom and Seven together.
"We're not sleeping together, you know."
Tom's admission is startling in its frankness and she almost chokes on the hot liquid in her throat.
For all the barriers she's lowered with her crew in the last year, she doesn't speak openly with them about the details of their love lives. Let alone their sex lives.
"I know," she responds, after swallowing, but feel guilty that it's only partly true. Guilty that she, even in passing, assumed that same thing Chakotay did about the pilot's intentions. "I don't suppose you've communicated that to Chakotay, though perhaps with a bit more tact?"
Beside her, he shrugs.
"It isn't my place to make such proclamations." Closing one eye, he adds, "I also think it's good for him to spend some time worrying about her dating someone else."
Immediately, she sees the wisdom in Tom's statement. And the humor.
"I wouldn't have thought you'd be the match-making type," she teases, over the rim of her mug.
"I'm normally not." He pauses, his voice becoming frustrated. "And so help me, if Chakotay gives me one more glare, I may just lock them both in the cargo bay."
Images of the night's earlier calamity springs to mind, and she's surprised that Tom doesn't chance upon a joke first.
"If you do, just be careful of the mining equipment."
His frustration dissolves at her deadpan delivery of the self-deprecating quip. Resting his hand on her forearm and looking at her, he shakes with laughter.
When he stills, she regards the contents of her cup with slight suspicion.
"Do I even want to know how you got the rations for this?"
Her voice isn't accusing, exactly. Voyager's gambling ring has been around for years, and it provides harmlessly amusement for her crew. She has even wagered a few times herself, despite that doing so meant she was indebted to her helmsman for keeping her bets a secret.
"As Captain, no, you wouldn't want to know."
His face is angelic, albeit utterly unconvincing.
"And as Kathryn?" she drawls, a smirk appearing on her lips.
"Ah, well. Kathryn would be impressed. . . Though downright angry, I suspect, that she herself didn't think to wager that exactly thirteen people would report to Sickbay because of Chef Chell's latest foray into the wondrous and familiar world of Leola Root."
Cradling her mug to avoid spilling one precious drop of coffee, she chortles. She can only imagine Tom trying to contain his joy when the poor thirteenth crewmember came trudging into Sickbay, complaining of stomach pain.
"You're right," she agrees. "Kathryn is impressed."
When she takes her next sip of coffee, her face lights up with unadulterated pleasure. After a moment, she looks back at him, her smile now beaming.
"And the Captain is, too, for that matter."
Beside her, he laughs, both of them thinking back to the first time either of them used this distinction.
It had been just before Harry's wedding, three months earlier. The ceremony had been a rushed ordeal, Harry and Jenny Delaney having decided to get married in a matter of days, and after only four months of courtship.
Standing in the small storage area adjacent to the mess hall, looking the picture of decorum in her dress uniform, the Captain had been privately worried. This was the first wedding she'd preformed aboard Voyager, and it was a sign of the changing times. People were beginning to pair off, settle down.
Perhaps it was better for her crew's happiness, but what did it mean for her ship's main objective? Would they all be just as driven to get home?
Standing in the same hallway, Tom watched her with an expression of silent amusement before he finally put a hand on her shoulder and handed her a mug.
"Kathryn, stop pacing before you bore a hole in the deck."
The use of first name hadn't even registered to her, as she was too preoccupied with fear. Fear, and the materializing realization that what she'd just sipped was whiskey rather than coffee.
Later, however, she'd deftly taken a seat next to him during the reception, leaning over to him in between toasts.
"That wasn't synthehol, Mister Paris. Does your Captain even want to know how you got your hands on real whiskey?"
"I can say with complete confidence that she does not," Tom replied, without a trace of embarrassment.
She'd smirked at him rather than glowering.
"Will you tell Kathryn then?"
"No," he laughed. "Since I'm pretty sure she talks to the Captain on a regular basis. But feel free to tell both of them that I'm willing to share my private supply any time."
Looking at Tom now, she isn't sure why she hasn't taken him up on his offer yet.
Her Lieutenant isn't the same guarded person he was when she met him. He's no longer hell-bent on proving himself; fragile beneath the cynical, wise-cracking exterior he tried so hard to maintain. The sense of humor and charm are still there, of course. They've just shifted into traits of her officer that she enjoys, rather than defenses she feels the need to disarm.
Their relationship has survived stinging looks of anger and pained expressions of regret. They trust each other, even in the worst of times, and no longer because they are forced by circumstances to do so.
"I miss Neelix."
Tom's words draw her back, suddenly, to the present. When she turns to him, he's peering at the darkened mess hall with sorrow etched across his face.
"I do, too."
The brevity of her response doesn't begin to capture the depth of her sentiment. Entering the mess hall at any hour and not hearing Neelix is a cold reality she knows she'll never get used to. She comes here and somehow still expects to find him, looking at his empty galley the way she now does her darkened replicator.
"He and I had so many really good conservations, at the end."
"There wasn't an end, Tom. You can still talk to him anytime you want."
She isn't sure if she's trying to reassure the man next to her or herself, but either way, she's failing.
"I know," he acknowledges. "But it's not the same thing as coming here late at night and finding him."
She watches his eyes focus on the empty space ahead of them, as though he's trying to remember Neelix there. Chatting away at him, like it's first thing in the morning, rather than some ungodly hour of the night.
"The evening that B'Elanna and I broke up, I talked to Neelix for the longest time. . . I didn't even go to bed. We'd talked all the way through the night, so I just changed my uniform and went straight to my shift."
The nature of the confession surprises her, but she instinctively moves her hand to his arm.
Neither Tom nor B'Elanna speak about the ending of their relationship, but the rumor that Tom had wanted to get married has made its way even to the Captain's ready room.
As surprised that she'd been that their relationship had ended, Kathryn wasn't particularly shocked that Tom had wanted a commitment and B'Elanna had refused. The engineer's tendency to put barriers between herself and the pilot was a very public reality of their relationship, and one that had painfully enfolded in front of crew for three years.
"You know," she begins, her voice light, "I heard B'Elanna yelled at Seven last week for the first time in two years."
Tom snorts. He's heard this particular story, and with far more colorful detail than his Captain.
"It's been nineteen months, to be exact."
"Still," she replies. "It isn't like her, not anymore." She bows her head, her voice lowering. "Maybe Chakotay isn't the only who regrets certain decisions."
He peels his eyes from the room in front of him, regarding her with a look of tempered frustration.
"You assume that she was the one who decided to end things."
Even in the low light, he can see her blush at the gaffe. His frustration is quickly usurped by sympathy.
"Don't feel bad. You weren't the only one to think that."
The consolation makes her feel worse rather than better.
"I guess I thought. . ." Her voice trails off, unable to voice the rumor that, she realizes now, must plague him to this day.
"That I'd proposed?" he asks, his voice slightly bitter. "No. Although I did think about it."
He shakes his head, the cold mask of cynicism she now rarely sees slipping back into place.
"If ever there was rumor that I wish I could take out with a phase rifle."
His voice is filled with a bitterness she knows he uses to cover pain, and she returns her hand to his arm in absence of having a response. The familiar contact helps him shake away the darkest of his thoughts, while others still remain.
"I used to pray to the gods I've never believed in that B'Elanna and I would end up together."
She closes her eyes, understanding his sentiment. She can't even count the silent pleas she's made in the years they've all been out here.
"And now?" she breathes, willing herself to focus her thoughts back to the friend who needs her attention.
"Now I don't even know what I would ask for if I prayed."
The admission summarizes her own sentiments so precisely that it almost causes her physical pain. He feels the rush of breath when she exhales heavily, as well as the slight clenching of her hand before her fingers relax, beginning to tap out a slow rhythm on his arm.
They sit on the couch together for another hour, in the dim light of the mess hall and the looming darkness of their doubts.
. . . . .
As she strolls toward the holodeck, she thinks to herself that this has been a decidedly good week.
She was able to escape from the ship for a few hours yesterday, joining Seven on the Flyer to catalogue mineral samples. No one has attacked them in the last month.
They haven't been short on power (or, at least, they haven't been shorter on power than they normal are) since B'Elanna repaired the problem with Voyager's generator three weeks ago. And just this morning, after one of B'Elanna's staff repaired the replicator in her ready room, she'd got caught up on this week's reports while drinking a cup of steaming coffee.
Heaven in liquid form.
Approaching the location where Tom and Seven now wait for her, she reflects on how nice it's been to spend time with the twosome the last few weeks.
Her rapport with Seven has been strained since the woman's relationship with Chakotay began. And though she'd desperately wanted to mend it, she'd been too plagued with doubts to start. Doubt as to where she now fits into the young woman's life. Doubt as to whether her continued proximity would hinder Seven's development rather than helping it.
Spending time with Seven with the added company of Tom has helped, though she is slow to pinpoint why, exactly. Tom and Seven already have a style of banter, and she recognizes that it would be easy to feel left out. Instead, the few times she's joined them for lunch or else found them in the holodeck, she's felt included.
As though Tom's presence somehow stabilizes her and Seven, his wit and silent ease drawing both of them into conversation, making them feel comfortable.
She takes Seven's invitation to join them today as a sign of progress. A pleasant marker of good things to come.
When she enters the holodeck, she thinks maybe she read the marker wrong.
In front of her is the program of the garage, filled with various twentieth century vehicles, that has become Tom's newest hobby. Sprawled on the floor next to a motorcycle, Tom is clad in a brown leather jacket that was a gift from Seven; a token of apology for her breaking three bones in his foot during a dance lesson one month earlier.
Seven's hair is pulled back in a ponytail, wisps of blonde hair framing a face that looks angry and defiant.
Before Janeway even hears their words, she can tell by Seven's all too familiar expression that she and Tom are arguing. She thinks to leave, suspecting, when they continue on course, that they have failed to notice her entrance.
It quickly becomes clear that that both of them know she's there, but neither, apparently, seem to care.
"If the events of my personal life are adversely affecting you-"
"Stop right there, Seven. I'm not talking about how this is affecting me. This is about how this is affecting you. This is about me worrying about you."
"Yet you just described, with minute detail, I believe, the deterioration of your working relationship with the Commander."
Paris looks supremely frustrated with her words, throwing down the crude instrument in his hand with a loud clatter. He closes his eyes, as if praying for patience.
Janeway watches the continuing exchange in silence, looking at the Paris with thinly-masked empathy. He looks at her only briefly before shifting his eyes back to Seven.
"Chakotay," he says, and Seven looks puzzled. "I think its important to use personal designations, rather than rank, when talking about one's romantic life."
Standing over him, Seven bristles.
"Unless you are worried about how this affects your own functioning, I do not believe my refusal to speak with him is any of your concern, Lieutenant."
All three of them know the use of his rank is dig. One of the many things Seven has learned lately is the art of being petty.
Tom glares briefly at her. But then his face softens, his next words coming out in an even voice.
"It's my concern because I care about you. And because I wouldn't be a very good friend if I didn't point out your mistake."
"Why is it," Seven prods, her voice still hostile, "that though I'm told the development of my individuality hinges on my capacity to make my own choices, those who supposedly care about that development are often the first to infringe on my right to make my own decisions?"
The truth of Seven's accusation smacks Janeway harder than it does Paris. While the Captain schools any trace of pain from her features, the Lieutenant visibly deflates.
"You're right," he says, slowly getting up from his position on the floor. "And I'm sorry if I'm been too vocal with my opinions. But Seven. . ."
He pauses, casting his eyes on the cluttered garage as though the words he searches for are scattered among the antique vehicles and rows of obsolete tools.
"This is all we get," he continues, dragging his hand across his brow, his fingers leaving grease stains that will keep the worry lines company. "There's no afterlife waiting for us. No Eden, no Great Forest. We get one fleeting shot at happiness, and then. . ."
His voice trails off, his hands making a small sweeping motion to indicate the finishing of something.
The sentiment he expresses is one that has been articulated by countless artists and philosophers across untold planets, and in far more elegant ways. But it's the expression on his face when he looks at Seven- the open evidence of his own regrets and the gnawing fear of those his friend will take on - that Janeway finds tearing.
Closing her eyes briefly, she fills with gratitude that it is Tom, with his candor and unflappable manner, that has taken Seven under his wing these last few months.
Her anger falling away, Seven regards him with an apprehensive look. It isn't an apology, Kathryn knows, but she's still lost her desire to argue.
When Tom moves past Seven to reach for another tool, he touches the young woman's shoulder. A sign of truce.
Seven smiles slightly. A reciprocation.
Tool in hand, Tom glances at the woman who's joined them but yet to say a word.
"So, Kathryn," he drawls, a rueful smile on his face. "Today you're going to learn about carburetors."
"Carburetors," she repeats, her face serious.
Resuming his seat on the ground, Tom chuckles.
. . . . .
Watching Tom in his crouched position, she hopes that the two of them are wrong and there really is more than the mortal realm.
She hopes that there actually are spirits, or an omniscient being to grant clemency or mercy. An unseen force that organizes the tangled web of fates.
Something, anything, that will decide that this isn't the day Seven of Nine will die.
Her back pressed to the wall of a building in the Xeran capital, Janeway can see the pool of blood rapidly accumulating around Seven's body, ten meters away. Paris, working feverishly to deal with his friend's injuries, seems oblivious to the fire fight going on around him. He ignores the danger to his own life, as Tuvok and Ayala hold off enemy advancement that threatens to overtake the spot, protected by another building, that he and Seven's prone form occupy.
Seven's selfless sacrifice of her own body as a shield for the Xeran leader has assured that Voyager will get its much-needed supplies. But looking at Tom's focused face, his hand that now reaches directly into Seven's chest, she doesn't consider anything beyond saving the lives of her crew and getting the hell off this war-torn planet.
When they materialize in Sickbay minutes later, Seven's heart has already stopped and Tom's hand is the only thing holding the damaged organ together. As soon as the Doctor takes over, pushing him aside, Janeway sees the focused look on Paris' face dissipate, fear settling in on his features.
They both watch, Paris as he assists the Doctor and the Captain standing only two meters away, as the EMH attempts to bring Seven's body back to life.
When he finally succeeds, the operation over, the Doctor regards his assistant with a soft expression.
"You should get some rest, Mister Paris."
Paris nods vacantly, but doesn't move to exit Sickbay. He sits down on an empty bio bed with a thud, his Captain coming to stand beside him.
After all this time, she knows better than to offer him words of praise right now. Instead, she extends a hand to his shoulder, a silent act of support.
Despite the sterilization process, parts of Tom's uniform are still covered with Seven's blood. Beneath her fingers, she can feel the partially-dried evidence of how close they came to losing the woman whose motionless form remains just in front of them.
When Tom finally looks at her, his face is open and filled with fear that's yet to dissipate.
"I prayed," she confesses suddenly.
Later, she'll have no idea why the thought popped into her head, and will even be embarrassed by the admission. But now, looking into Tom's searching blue eyes, she doesn't think to feel self-conscious.
"I didn't," he says, sounding contemplative. "Maybe it's because I didn't think, if there's anything beyond this. . . it would bend its will for me, of all people."
He looks away from her, and the hand on his shoulder tightens. They both shift their eyes to Seven's body, watching as her chest rises and falls over and over.
. . . . .
When Seven wakes for the second time, it is Tom rather than the Doctor who is tending to her vital signs.
"Hey," he murmurs, smiling softly down at his friend.
"I was damaged," she says, a weak attempt at humor.
She has already been informed that her heart stopped for a period of roughly twelve minutes. That she was, technically, dead for some length of time.
Tom forces a smile.
"Let's just say that the Captain probably won't let you volunteer for any away missions in the near future."
Shifting her eyes from Tom's face, Seven sees the two people in the Doctor's office. One of them, she can tell by the voice, is obviously the Captain.
She realizes after her vision clears that the other is Chakotay.
Her hand on Chakotay's shoulder, the Captain glances in the direction of Seven's bed, her eyes meeting her Lieutenant's when she does so.
Slumped in the chair at the Doctor's desk, the Commander does not move. Tom knows, because he has been witnessing his exchange for the last hour, that Chakotay is vacillating between tears and the use of his medicine wheel.
"There was nothing," Seven murmurs, her gaze still on the forms in the office. "I was alive, next to you. . . And then there was nothing."
There's no evidence of surprise in her voice, nor even any trace of pain. Her statement is an acknowledgment. A confirmation of something she already suspected.
Perhaps, too, it's a belated apology.
"Rest," Tom admonishes, and with a deep breath, Seven complies.
Behind the glass of Sickbay's office, Kathryn watches as Seven's eyes flutter shut, followed, briefly, by the fluttering of her pilot's.
Glancing between Chakotay and Tom, she contemplates the many faces of devotion.