Four

Over the next two weeks, Kathryn and I meet regularly to work on the mission.

It's fascinating work, and every time we get together to hammer out the details, I find myself feeling more energized and more excited about going back into space.

After spending a not-insignificant chunk of my life stranded out there, you'd think I'd feel otherwise. But there's something about the prospect of exploring on our own terms — building a real mission, and really thinking about our scientific and research aspirations.

It's common ground that Kathryn and I share in very strongly, and it's like I'm rediscovering a part of myself as we think and plan and build together.

She smiles more easily now, laughs more frequently, and it's safe to say, she's finding her footing again — her drive.

And, it feels right — sharing in the intellectual challenges, the science; sharing our hopes and ambitions.

The other day, my teaching assistant remarked that I seem to be walking on air, lighter and happier than she's ever known me.

It's true, and it's impossible to hide — I feel alive in a way I've not felt since well before getting home.

At the same time, I must admit, part of me is afraid to feel like this — to be happy — because I know all to well that it can fall apart at any moment. That life is fragile, and brief. But if there ever was a reason to embrace happiness when it presents itself, that would be it.

One day at a time.

Kathryn and I have spent most of our working hours at her place, and a few at her favorite coffee shop nearby, but yesterday she suggested we go to my place for a change of scenery.

I was nervous about having her there.

A lot of it was because of Seven, and the way her imprint is still visible in my home — especially to someone like Kathryn. I didn't want to open up old wounds, or risk souring the friendship we'd so recently reestablished.

What I didn't expect as I worried over these things, was that a few hours in my home would actually help us move forward — that it would give us an opening to navigate the difficult feelings that still haunted the spaces of our silent moments — that still echoed in the gaps between our words, our glances.

Standing in my apartment now, the day after Kathryn's visit, I think about the way she explored my living space. Tentative at first — so unlike her in most circumstances — and then with purpose, as if she needed to do it. Had to do it.

"I never really faced it — the two of you together."

A particular kind of silence filled my home after she spoke, and as I stand now in nearly the same spot I was yesterday evening when we began to talk — really talk — about her feelings, I remember how my heart pounded against my chest as I waited for her to say more, uncertain if we were moving forward, or back.

"I felt so…angry. And…so left out."

It was news to me when she said it. Not so much the "angry" part — though she did a damn good job of hiding it most of the time in our later Voyager days, conveying instead a detached indifference I allowed myself to fall for — but the idea that she'd felt…left out. I'd not really considered it before.

It made sense, though. And while Freud would no-doubt have a good time with the various relationships and feelings among the members our particular triangle, I can see now that, beneath everything, she felt abandoned — by both of us.

The most ironic (and deeply sad) part of it all is that abandoning her was the last thing either Seven or I wanted. In fact, it was quite the opposite of what was in our hearts.

We were — both of us — in love with the very person who thought we'd left her.

I shake my head as I think about this, and all the things we never say, in general. How too much of life passes by with words unspoken, too much time slipping away as we hide who we are and what we desire.

I grab the small marble figure from one of my shelves and hold in my hand, just as Kathryn had done. I think about the woman to whom it belonged, how Kathryn had made that connection instantly, and I think about where we are now.

I'd almost kissed her last night, right in this spot — not too long after her revelation — so strong was my desire to comfort her and ease the hurt feelings she had shared. But I didn't want to attach our "something new" — whatever it may turn out to be — to something old and desperately in need of being put to rest.

More than that, though, I recognized that she needed to tell me, not to receive some kind of apology, but to fully own her feelings. To air them, in the light of day, where their character would be fully visible, unmasked.

It's what makes healing truly possible, and it was a relief then, and now — knowing we are on that road.

As for the nature of our relationship, there is an air about us that makes it feel almost inevitable, that we're not just fixing to share our working lives, but to share our lives, period. It means something in particular to me, and I only hope it carries the same significance for her.

I take nothing for granted, of course, having been down a road like this with her before. But a lot has changed, and more than ever, it feels like our timing might finally be in alignment.

It's not lost on me that we're looking to go into space again — that we'll be serving on the same ship, and I as her subordinate, a configuration historically given to necessitating a certain distance in our relationship. But life is different now, and it's my sense that neither of us is willing to make that kind of sacrifice again. After all, we're not getting any younger, and let's face it — life is too damn short to spend our days merely dancing among the possibilities, flirting with happiness and never quite getting down to it.

Still, I've not worked up to asking her directly, what the nature of our relationship can (or cannot) be if we ship out again. And although I think the particular charge between us these days could power a small city, I've not asked her to define it, or us, or to tell me what should come next. Mostly, I'm just taking it a day at a time, and I figure we'll get to that point, when we're ready to lay things out, eventually — one way or another.


The night before her presentation to the council, I show up at her house in time to cook dinner. She's frantically reviewing the proposal when I arrive, and I can tell by her tousled hair and lack of makeup that she's been working non-stop since she woke up.

"Busy day?" I tease as I hang my jacket in the usual spot.

With a hand on her head, she sighs, and then dives right in, her words coming a mile a minute. "We're almost there. I've added to the Myzran sections, and the studies at Myzralon — I think I mentioned that the other day? Oh, and there's the Moab region and the Plexar nebula that we talked about — I got that all in there. And I broadened the xenobiological scope for that region, in general. Oh! And out beyond Zhargosia, I think we need to devote some time to the ruins on Loren 5. And I added another researcher to the biology department, because with all the changes we've made, we're going to need extra personnel. And I've —"

Maybe it's the hair.

Maybe it's the day.

Maybe I'm crazy.

Maybe it's everything at once, but when I close the space between us and kiss her, abruptly silencing her speech, I know that, most of all, it's because I love her so damn much.

She's stiff at first, but after a moment, when the shock wears off, she presses against me with purpose and claims our kiss with her own desire unleashed, letting go in the way I have always imagined she would — that I have longed for from almost the first day I met her.

I pull away for a moment and stare fully into her eyes. The intensity there, the openness, takes my breath away. It's new — so new — and an overwhelming elation washes over me as I register the permission grantedparameters erased, obstacles cleared.

This is what we both want.

Words are not needed as the years, the emotions, the strength and depth of our history, coalesce against the fire that's always been between us, but my heart aches to tell her the one, most ultimate truth that connects all of our years, good and bad —

"I've never stopped loving you."

She breaks from my gaze for moment, glancing out to the sea, and when she looks back at me, her eyes are warm — full of hope and love, desire, and everything I've longed to see written there. If there is one moment I will hold in my heart forever, this is it.

She answers my declaration — my confession, in a way — not with words, but by capturing me in another kiss.

Then she pushes us toward the couch, and I can feel her heat against me, the depth of her hunger crashing into me like waves to the shore.

I've not wanted anything more.

Part of me longs to draw this moment out forever, but I ache to take her completely, body and soul, so long have I wanted this; exactly this.

It is a battle between those instincts as she pulls at the buttons on my shirt, but the urgency of our desire wins out. I do nothing to slow the quick work she makes of my clothes and her own, and we are intertwined on her sofa before I know it.

I am simultaneously shattered to a million pieces, and more whole than I've ever been before.