CONSOLATION
October 1996-December 1997
This should more properly be called an episode addition, though there's a lot more to it than that. "False Profits," an episode from a long time ago, has bothered me ever since it aired. I hated the ending. Seems to me it was way too early in their journey for them to not be affected by the collapse of the Barzan Wormhole. It had been their best chance to get home for a long time, but no one seemed to react. That has bothered me ever since. Here's my response to it, starting just minutes after the collapse. This is a bit experimental, literature-wise. I decided for some reason to go all grad school on Voyager's ass. This is also rated NC-17, so please don't read if you shouldn't.
CONSOLATION
Sometimes I miss her.
I know it's foolish, but it's true. Though she spends every afternoon sitting two meters away from me, though I have breakfast with her every morning and dinner almost every night, I miss her.
I walk into her Ready Room and catch her staring out at the passing stars with that faraway look in her eyes and I wonder what she's thinking. I'd like to ask her, but I can't, not here. I would have, did, months ago -- years now. I'd see her staring up at the night sky, the forest quiet around us, the last two people in the world. There, I could do it, could force the words from my lips.
"Kathryn, what are you thinking?"
Sometimes she'd tell me, she'd hit me with a story about some deep space mission or other, incredible danger she had faced and surmounted some time long past, before I'd met her -- unfathomable, that there could have been time, any time, before I met her. If I was very lucky she'd tell me a different kind of story, one that would keep me awake laughing half the night. I'd never suspected it in her, this humor, this wicked power of observation that allows her to re-create situations perfectly, mimic people and their mannerisms so well that I recognize the characters in her stories -- professors we'd both had at the Academy, enemies and friends we'd faced together, Tuvok's dry bombast, B'Elanna's fire, Harry's shyness. Even me, sometimes, a little too inscrutable, a little too deep-eyed and serene, but me, even me.
And sometimes, more often than not, she wouldn't answer at all, just turn to me with a crooked smile, a sad smile, and walk away home without even saying a word. But at least I'd been able to ask, and her silence was a kind of answer all its own, an acknowledgment that her thoughts, though she could not express them to me, were troubling thoughts, and she appreciated my concern.
It's that faraway look she has in her eyes now, when I turn to her. I want to ask what she's thinking. But I can't. And I know what she's thinking, what we're all thinking. Not again. Not this close and then another failure. Looking at her I know that if the spirits could grant me one wish, only one, it would be to erase these last five minutes, to make them vanish forever, to wipe away sorrow and disbelief and bring back hope again.
I start to say something, to make her turn to me instead of staring at the viewscreen where the wormhole used to be. But there aren't any words, nothing I can say. And I know again how much I miss her, how much I miss being able to speak my mind to her, even veiled in a thin story or disguised in a bad joke. She wouldn't listen to them here, she's left me without any gifts to give. So I turn away, I fold my hands in my lap and stare at them. My hands that tried to make a home for her, my hands that would mold the universe into any shape she asked for, if only she'd give them the chance.
*********
When the call comes up from Sickbay, they're still sitting on the Bridge, staring at the forward viewscreen.
She turns to him with a frown, he presses his lips together in a thin, tight line, not wanting to understand.
"Tuvok, please repeat that."
The Vulcan looks up from his station. "Ensign Murphy has returned to Sickbay asking for a security guard to escort him to his quarters."
"He wasn't . . . He wasn't attacked, was he?" Harry's voice is full of disbelief and anger.
"Negative. Not attacked. But he was confronted by a group of crewmen in the corridor outside Sickbay. He claims that they blame him for the escape of the Ferengi, and the subsequent collapse of the wormhole."
She turns back to the viewscreen, her face hard. He lowers his eyes and shakes his head. "How could this happen?" he murmurs. "How could they blame him? He couldn't have known . . . "
Her head snaps around, forcing him to look up. "But he should have suspected. We all should have." She rises quickly, decisively, and he watches her with something that almost feels like fear. "Tuvok, assign a security detail to Sickbay. You have the Bridge. Commander, you're with me."
He rises and follows her into the turbolift, cold without his uniform, unprotected and vulnerable. She eyes him closely, up and down, and he shivers.
"Sorry about the clothes . . . " he begins, and stops when she shakes her head.
"Never mind -- there hasn't been time. Are you still armed?"
He fishes in the deep pockets of his trousers and pulls out a hand phaser and a tricorder. "Wish my uniform had pockets like these," he jokes, and she frowns. The phaser is too solid in his hands, too real; he does not dare to think he will have to use it against one of their own crew. "This is my fault," he says quietly. "If I had gone with Murphy and the Ferengi, maybe -- "
"No. Don't second-guess yourself. I needed you on the Bridge."
He nods, accepting, and slips the tricorder back into his pocket.
The turbolift ride is long and silent, unbearably silent. They do not look at each other, cannot, for fear of the storm of emotions that might follow. She wants to hear his voice console her, but cannot ask for it; he knows that if he could hold her against the ache in his heart, even for a moment, he might be able to get through the night without crying himself to sleep.
*********
The corridor outside the Sickbay is deserted when they arrive.
There is a security detail, two officers, one Maquis and one Starfleet. He glances at them, wondering why his mind continues to make the distinction, even after all this time. Murphy is there, seated on an exam table. He is ashen, clearly frightened. She reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder.
"What happened, Ensign?"
The boy shakes his head. "I was going back to my quarters to rest, like the Doc told me. But there was a group of them, about four, and they wanted to know if I'd let the Ferengi beat me up on purpose." He looks up at them, his eyes pleading. "I hadn't even heard yet, Captain. I didn't know the wormhole collapsed. This is my fault, isn't it? It's my fault we aren't home right now..."
Chakotay also reaches out and touches the boy's arm. "It isn't your fault, Charlie," he says softly. "It's nobody's fault. It's done now and you can't second-guess yourself like this."
He feels her eyes on him but does not turn.
"I guess you're right, Commander. But still, I -- "
She pats his arm. "We'll walk you to your quarters, Ensign. You're relieved until the Doctor clears you for duty again."
Gratitude washes over Murphy's pale face. "Thank you, Captain." He slips off the exam table and moves to the door; they flank him on either side. In the corridor they feel eyes follow them but stare straight ahead; Chakotay slips his phaser back into his pocket.
*********
The galley is quiet when she walks in.
She is not surprised; she would have expected nothing less than subdued voices and a dozen heads bent over their improbable meals, a dozen forks picking at something unidentifiable. Even Neelix is quiet, and she wonders at this. The Alpha Quadrant is not his home, he cannot possibly share the disappointment of those around him. But it makes sense, somehow, that the Morale Officer should also be affected by a blow to morale such as this. She is grateful for his insight, his wisdom that no morale-boosting activity he could design will shake this mood of the crew's, not tonight.
She fills a tray for herself and glances around the room, moving instinctively for the table in the corner, the one where he sits alone. His back is to the room but she knows it is him; even if she hadn't recognized his shape, his broad back and close-cropped hair, she would have known him. He is the only diner out of uniform.
She slides into the chair opposite him.
"Commander."
"Captain."
"What's on the menu for tonight?"
"I'm not sure what it is. If you figure it out, will you tell me?"
She raises a spoonful of something green to her lips and takes a cautious bite. Too salty, she thinks, and is suddenly reminded of his cooking back on New Earth, his bean soup and their frequent arguments about the spicing of meals. She wishes she had a bowl of that soup again, salty though it was, wishes she could ask him for it, wishes she could come to this galley with him late at night some night when everyone else is asleep and watch him prepare the meal, listen to him hum and mutter and talk quietly to himself when he thinks she's paying no attention.
"Well?"
"Tastes like....scrambled eggs. But too salty."
"Always too salty for you. You must have a very sensitive tongue." His smile is fleeting, wistful, and she can't ask him what he finds so amusing.
"Anything else happen this afternoon?"
He shakes his head. "No. But you can see what the mood is like."
She nods. "Suggestions?"
"A quiet night for everyone to think about it, come to terms with the disappointment."
Again. She hears it in his voice even though he doesn't say it. Come to terms with the disappointment again.
They eat quietly, slowly, watching each other from lowered eyes.
He looks up and catches her staring, raises his eyebrows in silent question.
"I don't mind you dressing down," she begins, almost smiling, "but there is one thing."
"What?"
She taps her forehead with her fingertips, just above her left eye.
He rubs his palm across his own forehead. "I almost forgot about it," he murmurs. When he lowers his hand it is covered with a fine, flesh-colored powder and half his tattoo is exposed once again. Another pass and the mark is almost completely visible.
She leans across the table, napkin in hand. "Here, you missed some." She rubs at his forehead, takes his chin in her left hand and rubs harder. The stubble against her fingertips is soft, much softer than she expected, but the line of his jaw is firm. Gently now, she wipes the last of the disguise away from his face and wills herself to let go, to let her fingers slide away from his flesh, not to return and pull him near.
Surprise in his eyes, and something more she refuses to acknowledge, lest she see it in herself as well.
"Better?" His mouth quirks up into a half smile.
"Better." She nods once, decisively, hoping the familiar gesture has fooled him. "Much better."
They both sit back slowly, staring at each other. The moment is long.
"I'm finished here," he says finally, reluctantly, rising and picking up his tray. "Think I'll go back to my quarters."
"Good night, Commander."
"Good night, Captain."
Hers are the only eyes that follow him from the room; all others are fastened on her, on her resigned, almost regretful expression.
*********
Sometimes I miss him.
Duty forces us to spend many of our waking hours together, and personal choice often finds us together even after the day's shift ends. We are friends. I know it deep, in a place my Command instructors would call intuition, in a place he would probably call soul. I don't know what to call that place, reluctant to name it intuition or soul, and afraid to call it heart. But I know it, I am as sure of it as I am sure of the ratio of a circle's radius to its circumference. It is a given, a constant, a truth. I know that he will always be at my side, should I need him, and I know that he will turn to me, has turned to me, seeking my strength. We will find each other without a word ever being spoken.
But he spoke the words once, late at night when the concerns of the days behind could no longer distract me, calling me away from the sound of his voice, late at night when he was most vulnerable and his heart shone in the darkness, a beacon lighting my way home. He held it out to me in his hands, and I realized how many times he'd done it in the past, sometimes with such subtlety that I'd missed it. Every time he tried to prevent me from putting myself into danger, it was there, disguised as professional concern. Every time he awoke in sickbay, smiling to find me at his side, it was there, undisguised. Every evening we sat across from each other in the galley, talking over coffee about the crew or the mission or our old lives in the Alpha Quadrant, his heart was there, held out for me to see. And always my vision had been obscured by something else -- the ship, the uniform, my own selective blindness.
But back on the planet there were no barriers between us; even the walls that separated us in sleep were translucent, transparent if the moons were bright, allowing us the freedom to see each other clearly as we never had before. And it would have been impossible for me not to see him, barriers or no barriers. He held back nothing from me, his heart was as visible to me as the trees and rocks around me, written clearly in the work of his hands.
When he walks out of the galley, his eyes haunted, pained, I realize again how much I miss him, the man who would build something for me because of a chance remark, who begged me to open myself to the joy of living in the present, his present, who would make the simple task of preparing a meal into an act of devotion. I miss the man who would not have run away from this moment, even if he thought it was what I wanted, who would have forced me to acknowledge everything between us. I wonder if I have caused it, this fear in him, if my reluctance has somehow taken the heart out of him and left behind this hesitation.
I miss the words he might have said at this moment, and wonder what I might have said in response. But here he offers me no words, no gifts, and I am left only with the fear that, if I should ever find the courage to reach out to him on my own, he would not reach back.
*********
He does not know how to name the emotions he feels when he leaves the galley.
Regret, surely. Regret is a significant part of it. He might have said something to her when her hands were on him. Should have, perhaps, but there were so many others in the room watching him that he did not dare start the discussion there. And then there was fear -- fear that she had forgotten they were not alone anymore, that she would realize her mistake and pull away from him, never to return. He would never feel her touch him again, a thought that left him chilled all over.
Fear also that if he had tried to make contact, if he had reached out to her, she would not have reached back.
He leaves the turbolift near the officer quarters, his head hung so low that he almost slams into Tom Paris. The younger man is still out of uniform, like himself
"Tough day, Commander," Paris says, shaking his head.
"Yes...."
"A bunch of us are meeting in Sandrine's for drinks and sympathy. You should come."
"Maybe later."
Tom frowns. "Everything all right, Commander?"
Chakotay looks up and forces a tight smile. "As well as you can expect, under the circumstances."
"I know what you mean." But Tom's eyes are still narrowed in suspicion. "Have you seen the Captain this evening?"
"I just left her having dinner in the galley. Why?"
The younger man looks up and down the corridor with practiced nonchalance, his blue eyes wide and innocent. "I was going to ask her to join us, too. If you see her later, will you mention it for me?"
Chakotay nods. "If I see her."
"Thanks." A door opens down the corridor and Harry emerges. Tom trots off after him. "See you there, Commander."
"Yeah. Maybe." He watches the two of them scurry into the lift, the disappointment of the day already flowing out of them, the gloom fading from their faces, so young, so incredibly young. He feels his shoulders slump and turns away.
*********
The ship feels empty and quiet. Somber. She shivers in the corridor, stands alone in the turbolift with her arms wrapped around herself for warmth, for comfort.
She moves through her quarters without a light, kicking her boots into the closet. They hit the back wall and slide to the floor, landing with a soft thump. She wonders if, through the wall, across the space that separates them, he has heard the noise in his own room. She suspects that he can hear, the way she can hear him in the evenings when he returns to his quarters, prowling the room next door. The sounds are unmistakable; a thump from each of his boots hitting the floor, running water and muffled splashing, soft footfalls, and finally a long, drawn-out sigh as he settles into bed. She wonders nightly how much she can really hear from his room and how much her mind fills in, how many sounds she imagines, extrapolating from the bedtime routine she remembers from their days and nights on New Earth. The sigh, for instance; the sound-proofing, though it leaves much to be desired, should keep his voice from her. Yet each night it is there, a low rumble, a breath expelled in bone-deep satisfaction, and often she wishes she could see his face, relaxed and at rest, at peace.
She cocks her head, listening, but hears nothing.
Her rooms are huge, almost as large as their entire house on New Earth. Barefoot, slowly stripping off her uniform, she paces them off. Here, she thinks, here would be the table where we ate each morning. Here would be the place where he kept his woodworking tools, here my tricorder and sample cases. Here the chairs where we drank spiced tea each evening. My bed here. And his bed...his bed here.
She pauses in front of the window, finally hearing the rustle of movement from the room next door, footfalls, splashing, a soft sigh.
So near, she thinks. So far.
*********
He rests.
Sleep will not come, and so he lays back in a bed that for months has seemed too big. He misses the narrow bed from their house, uncomfortable and confining though it was. It was near hers, so near that he could hear her tossing and turning restlessly, could even see her sometimes. So near.
But this bed... Not even a meter's space between them, and yet she is so far away. The wall that keeps him from her is impenetrable -- he cannot see, he can barely hear. And so he is forced to imagine.
She is just beyond the wall, probably stripping off her uniform, brushing out her hair, pulling on something soft and silken. Or slipping into bed, the sheets cool against her bare skin.
Imagination is cruel, he thinks, and draws his forearm across his eyes.
But memory is also cruel sometimes. It plays tricks on him. He remembers things that barely seem real now -- long morning walks with her by the river, hurrying to see the sunrise. Afternoons spent working in companionable silence, one bending over a workbench, one kneeling in the garden. Quiet evenings listening to rain pound the roof, sipping tea and sharing a basket of his spicy nut cookies.
And nights... Awkward sometimes, long, drawn-out goodnights that found him wishing for a sign from her, any indication that he could invite her into his embrace without fear of rejection. He never got that sign, though he craved it, prayed for it, had almost convinced himself that it would come soon, if only he were patient enough. If only she were willing enough, if only Tuvok hadn't come back for them.
If only....
Familiar frustration takes him. He rolls to his belly and buries his face in his pillow.
When the door chime rings he tries to ignore it. It rings again and he sits up, dragging his sleeve across his eyes.
"Come in," he calls, knowing who it must be.
She is also out of uniform now, her informality matching his own. He manages a smile.
"Captain? Something I can do for you?"
She steps into his quarters hesitantly. "Tom just called me. I think we should at least put in an appearance at Sandrine's."
"I suppose so." He finds his boots and pulls them on, follows her into the corridor.
In the turbolift he tries not to stare at her, but she catches him at it. "Something wrong?"
"Dressing down?"
She shrugs, smiles in answer. "It seemed appropriate tonight." She cocks a challenging eyebrow at him. "Don't you think?"
"I think it's fine. But there is one thing..."
"What?"
Before she can stop him, before he has fully thought through the consequences of the action, he reaches behind her and plucks the clip from her hair.
Surprise in her eyes, even shock. She turns to look at him and he holds his breath, not knowing what her reaction will be.
Surprise in his eyes when she smiles and shakes the hair free.
"Better?" she asks.
"Better. Much better."
The lift doors open and he guides her out, one hand lightly brushing her shoulder, her spine, the small of her back. With his other hand he slips the clip into his pocket.
*********
They manage to keep the pool table between them for most of the night.
There are too many eyes in Sandrine's, too many whispered conversations that began when they walked into the room together, out of uniform, close enough to climb inside each other's clothing.
He leans against the pool table, wondering if everyone in the room can see how much he needs her, wondering if she can see. He knows she's been watching him while they've played, even though he can't catch her at it. But she's been watching, the way he watches her move around the table and sink her shots, wordlessly, methodically. She leans over to survey the table and a lock of hair falls over the side of her neck. It tickles her; he sees her twitch against it, watches the muscles of her neck move, long and lean, strong and supple. He closes his eyes and rocks against the pool table, head thrown back.
When he looks at her again he finds her staring at him, her nostrils flared. For an instant she is confused; he can see it in her eyes, in the set of her jaw when she turns away from him suddenly. But then she turns back and raises her chin at him. Defiance. Challenge.
They meet at the side of the pool table, hip against hip. She sinks her last shot, her backside firm against his thigh. Deliberate. He gasps.
There are words, but neither will remember them later -- polite pleasantries for the benefit of the assembled crew. "It's been a difficult day for everyone," she announces. "I suggest we all get a good night's sleep and make a fresh start in the morning."
"Aye-aye, Captain."
"Good night, Captain."
"Sleep well."
In the doorway she turns to him, her expression guarded to all but him. For an instant he sees the longing there, the barest flicker of it.
"Commander..."
A smile quirks up the corner of his mouth. He nods his head once. "Captain. See you in the morning."
She leaves quickly, before anyone else can notice the hunger in her eyes.
***********
I am waiting for him when he arrives.
He lets himself in without ringing the chime. Daring this evening. I wonder how daring.
The door opens and he stands framed in the corridor light for an instant, a dark silhouette. A big man, a strong man. Not as strong as he thinks he ought to be, but strong, solid. Powerful but restrained. I can smell him halfway across the room.
The door slides closed behind him and he stops there, hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes are so dark they seem to have no pupil. No beginning and no ending. I stare into them, lose myself in them.
"Commander."
"Captain." He steps forward finally, reaches a hand out to me but stops before his fingers touch me. I stare at his hand, I remember suddenly -- his skin warm against mine, his hands gentle. His touch a memory my body has never forgotten, though I've refused to acknowledge it in my thoughts. I respond without hesitation, closing the distance between us, taking his fingers in mine.
Something solid in his hand. He passes it to me, his fingers lingering on mine, then withdraws. I turn my hand over. My barrette.
"I forgot to give this back to you. I thought I should return it before...before you miss it." I look up and catch him staring at my hair. So predictable...
"Thank you..."
"You're welcome." He hesitates for an instant, his hand starts to rise again, and then he quickly hides it in his pocket and looks away. "Well. I have a report to write. So if you'll excuse me..."
I take a hasty step after him. "Wait. Stay a minute...?"
The words stop us both -- stop me moving across the room to him, stop him turning to the doorway.
"Kathryn..."
Movement then, and when I look up again I remember being close to him, lying under a table, huddled together against a sudden storm on New Earth. All the discoveries I made that afternoon come back to me even though I've barely touched him at all since then -- but I know him, I know his arms are muscular, but not as thick as I once thought; his belly is flat, flatter than it was at the beginning of our journey; his breath is warm on my hair. I fight to keep from leaning into him. Instead I reach out and cover his heart with my hand. For balance, I think. For strength.
His heart throbs in my fingers and I am lost.
I want him.
***********
"Kathryn..."
Here and now is the phrase that wants to spring to my lips. But now and forever is the one that hangs between us, that's been between us for months. For years, maybe. It's terrifying, that phrase.
"Kathryn." Her hand still on my chest. Surely she feels how hard my heart is pounding. Surely she hears. I am suddenly certain that she has been able to hear it all these years, that at night she surely hears me cry out her name.
Why does she want me to stay?
What do you want from me, Kathryn?
She hesitates, she looks up at me with a frightened look, almost panicked. I don't want her to ever be afraid of me. I cover her hand with both of mine, fighting her a little when she tries to pull away.
"What is it, Kathryn? Tell me."
"Chakotay.... I want...to thank you. For today. For being strong when many others weren't."
"No thanks necessary, Captain."
"I should let you go get some sleep, then."
"I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight."
She looks at me and her expression wavers suddenly, the frozen smile begins to melt. "I don't think any of us will."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
"Chakotay..."
Her hand is still on me, clasped in mine.
I won't let her get away, not this time. "We've made our appearance at Sandrine's. You saw them all there, talking to each other about...about what happened today. They've found comfort in each other." I squeeze her hand. "Now it's our turn."
"Our turn..." She slips her hand from mine and moves away toward the window. "It will never be our turn, Chakotay."
The words hang. We were talking about comfort, discussing the day's disappointment. "Our turn for what?"
She seats herself on the sofa, her legs drawn up under her. She stares out at the stars and I see it again, that faraway look, as she shakes her head. "I'm so tired," she whispers.
I cross the room slowly, hesitantly. Her voice is small in the dark room. She is small in the dark room, dwarfed by the silent space beyond the windows. "Rest, then, if you're tired. Or tell me why you're tired. I'm tired, too." Another step and I'm close to her again, kneeling beside her. "I'm here, Kathryn. Let us help each other."
A lock of hair falls across her neck when she turns back to me; it brushes the top of her dress and rests in the hollow of her collarbone. I lick my lips and force myself not to react outwardly, though inside I am burning.
"Chakotay..."
"Why did you ask me to stay, Kathryn?"
Slowly, slowly, she reaches out to me. Her hand hovers near, nearer with each passing second and the heat rises in me, my heart pounding when her hand finally closes the distance and comes to rest on me, her palm against my cheek.
I hear myself breathing hard, panting at her feet.
I want her.
***********
When they thought about it, if they had ever thought about it, they both assumed that it would be slow and sensuous, that they'd take their time with each other, learning what pleased the most, rediscovering all they'd forgotten over the years.
Not like this.
Time freezes around them, her palm cool against his warm cheek, her fingers lightly brushing his ear. Eyes locked. Hearts stopped. An instant suspended, a decision hovering between them, not the first time. Advance or retreat. Go forward from this point and never look back, or step away now, only to face it again a month from now, a year. Stay or go.
He turns his face into her palm and kisses it, the brush of his lips light and fleeting.
She draws in a sharp breath, almost a sob.
"Tell me to go and I will go," he whispers.
"Don't go."
His mouth on hers, sudden and greedy.
Her arms locked around his head, slender and strong.
He kisses her long and hard, reveling the feel of her, the taste of her, drowning in memories so deep that although his flesh is focused on giving and receiving pleasure, his mind is far away, remembering the last time he held her like this, at the edge of a clear, cold river, countless light years away. Morning -- they'd gone to watch the sunrise together. Months of playing games with each other coming to a sudden halt and he'd leaned close to her and kissed her, softly at first. He'd gasped when her hands pulled him closer. So much wanting... The sun rose, unseen, as he held her tightly for the first time.
The last time. The only time.
Tuvok's call came later that day, and his dreams of watching the sun set with her that night died as suddenly as they'd been born.
But now...
He pushes himself up from the floor and covers her body with his. No more retreating. Not this time. Never again.
She wraps one leg around his thighs, urging him closer, closer.
His hands are tangled in her hair, cradling her head softly while he kisses her with such force that he knows she will be bruised later, her chin and cheeks raw from the stubble that rasps between them. But he won't stop, can't stop, he gnaws at her with a hunger he's never known before. His teeth find her jawline, her earlobe, the thick tendon that runs the length of her neck. He can taste her pulse against his tongue, strong and salty. He licks the line of her collarbone, following to the base of her throat.
Her arms unlock themselves from his head and smooth down his sides. Long fingers meet at the base of his spine and pull him down to her, where he knows she must feel him against her belly. The hands continue up his back beneath his tunic and he shivers uncontrollably, distracted. She takes advantage of the moment and pulls his tunic over his head and drops it to the floor.
He throws his head back, eyes closed, when she fans her fingers against his chest as she's done so many times before, the layers of his uniform between them. Her hands on his bare skin, taking in the shape of him, smoothing over his chest, stroking his belly, lightly squeezing the knotted muscles of his upper arms as he holds himself above her. Her hands on his bare skin, reaching for his trousers.
He stops her. No, Kathryn, he thinks. This is for you.
He leans back on his heels and lifts her dress, helping her sit a little so that he can pull it over her head and drop it to the floor beside his tunic. The clothes beneath are decidedly non-regulation; he removes them hastily and sits back, staring down at her.
Narrow shoulders, slender arms, small round breasts, flat belly, flared hips, parted thighs.
He draws in a long breath.
"I have dreamed of you like this," he murmurs, and she blushes furiously, color radiating from her face, her neck, her chest.
Before she can respond he lowers himself to her, catching her up against his chest, struck speechless by the feel of her skin, soft and smooth, against his body. Then his mouth finds her again, first the hollow at the base of her throat, the soft roundness of each breast, the thin strong line of each rib. His tongue dives into her navel and her hips rise, leaving a trail of wetness on his thigh, enough to soak through his trousers. He moves lower.
The feel of her body's kiss...
The taste of it...
I could drown in her, he thinks.
He teases her with his lips and teeth and tongue, mercilessly, darting in and out of her until she moves him to her own rhythm, rising and falling, rising and falling, until she arches upward, pushing him back, her feet against his thighs. She pants, her mouth open wide.
He climbs back up her body, rolling his head from side to side, rubbing her wetness onto her belly, her breasts, her neck. He surrounds himself with her scent.
*********
She strokes his sides slowly, measuring the breadth of his ribcage, probing the softness of his belly. Her fingers find the opening of his trousers. She pushes them down and he draws back to help her, kicking off his boots and dropping the last of his clothing to the floor.
He settles his weight onto her at last.
Just brushing against her at first, she struggles impatiently beneath him, pulling him closer. But he hesitates, looking down at her, she can see him fighting to prolong this for her, to make this last.
No, Chakotay, she thinks. This is for you.
She locks her arms around his back, her legs around his waist, and draws him in and in with a force that surprises them both. He gasps, eyes closed tight, withdraws and slams himself into her again and again, struggling for control, gasping for breath.
She looks up at him, his face fierce with passion, his body tense with desire.
"I have dreamed of you like this," she murmurs, the realization coming to her only as she speaks the words. His eyes open wide.
A drop of sweat falls on her face. She licks her lips and parts them again.
He rocks and rocks, his power to restrain himself shredded, his hands knotted in her hair. At last he arches up and howls long and loud, his movement setting her off again, her voice rising with his, intertwining with his.
He collapses onto her, forcing the air from her lungs in a rush.
***********
Have I ever been touched by a hand that loved me?
Have I, now?
We're not the only two people who find themselves like this tonight, huddled together against the darkness, huddled together against the terrible disappointment of the day. We saw them in the galley, in Sandrine's, in the dim corridors. Leaning on each other, gathering strength from each other. That's their luxury, perhaps, our penalty for being who we are and what we are. We envied them. We envy them still.
It wasn't our intention to find ourselves like this, lying together, a surprised tangle of arms and legs. We've left our uniforms behind somewhere. Did we leave the roles with them? Is that even possible?
No. We are who we are. And even if it wasn't our intention, it is done now. Inescapable. No way to pretend this didn't happen. No way to pretend we didn't want it to happen, if only for a moment. No way to pretend we didn't want it to happen months ago, years now. Forever.
This changes everything.
This changes nothing.
Tomorrow we will walk out on the Bridge, we will sit down in our familiar places, we will perform our usual routine. We will know the taste of each other's skin and not be distracted by it. We will argue passionately about policy and protocol and remember the sound of each other's voices raised in passion of another kind, but we will not be dissuaded. We will give orders and expect them to be obeyed. We will receive orders and obey them, as expected. We will be who we are, who we have always been.
Tomorrow we will look across the space that separates us, each in our individual cocoons of red and black, divided by burdens too great to bear alone, and we will know that we are not alone, were not alone, will never be alone. We will return to those who need us most and we will be strong for them, strong for them all.
Tonight we are strong only for each other.
In this private darkness, as far away from prying eyes as we can ever be, we have exchanged a silent vow that may never be repeated, but that will always be between us. We have given and received comfort, confirmation, consolation.
Have I ever been touched by a hand that loved me?
No.
Not like this.
In the darkness I seek out and find my lover's eyes. My voice is a small, warm whisper in this vast space.
"Sometimes I miss you."