Chapter 10: The changing seasons
Janeway's last week on the Nighthawk was less eventful than the first.
Tom and his crew worked their tails off to the repair the damage the ship had suffered in two consecutive battles, and she split her days between helping their efforts and compiling her report for Starfleet. Off duty, he spent almost all of his time with her; they ate breakfast together everything morning and met for dinner every night. Sometimes his officers joined them in the formal dining room, and sometimes it was just Harry.
The last evening she was on board, however, they ate alone in his quarters. The meal was simple and replicated, and they ate on the couch rather than at the table. Neither said much, but the silence was companionable and punctuated with affectionate looks.
Two hours after she went to bed that night, she was woken up by the sound of her door. She hadn't yet been able to fall asleep, and so made her way quickly to the living area. The doors opened to reveal Tom, rumpled and looking slightly frightened. He'd told her two days before that he was having nightmares. Though both of them had infinite material for bad dreams between them, she'd known exactly the kind of images that haunted him. Specters of charred bodies and smoke-filled decks; warning claxons, and cries for help that he couldn't reach. At the time, she'd said nothing, patting his hand with her own.
Now, he attempted to walk through the door into her quarters, but she put her hand on his chest, pushing him gently back into the hallway. She followed him down the corridor to his own quarters, walking in before him after he entered his code. She led the way to his bedroom, and he eyed her warily as she rounded the bed to reach its right side. This wasn't like her, he knew, but it was beyond his energies to question.
She eyed the bed with concealed interest as they'd entered; the blankets lay thrown to the floor and his sheets dangled in a mass at the bottom. She leaned over, silently straightening and smoothing things, before crawling in. He crawled in after her, still eying her as though at any moment she was going to leave him alone again. They lay facing each other, but didn't touch. Soon enough, he was asleep, and then so was she.
She woke up the next morning to find his arm draped over her torso, her head propped against his shoulder. She realized that it should have felt awkward or inappropriate, but it didn't, and she stayed still until he began to stir. His stretched his arm slightly, but let it relax again over her; his breath disturbed the hair just above her ear.
"You don't have to go back, you know," he said, after sometime. It was before 06:00 and his alarm had yet to go off. "Starfleet wouldn't even have to know you were gone." He was being ridiculous and childish, but here, in this space, such thoughts were allowed.
"Maybe you could rig a holo projection of me to sit at my desk. At the very least, it would buy me a few weeks."
Her words betrayed her longing, as well as her frustration. They both knew it, and his arm briefly tightened around her torso.
. . . . .
When she returned home, rain and cold wind greeted her. It was early February, and the idealic San Francisco of brochures and holovids was no where in sight. Her apartment seemed barren and lonely, her office at work a prison. She considered using some of the leave she had saved up, but instead buried herself in the backlog of work she had on her desk.
The day after she returned, Tom commed her. She was at home, reading dense diplomatic reports- tortuous things that made B'Elanna's engineering updates on Voyager look like Victorian poetry- and it took her completely by surprise.
"Hey," he said, as soon she opened the line.
"Hey yourself," she replied, the tension from her shoulders miraculously subsiding.
"How's everything planet-side?"
"Well. . . The weather is horrendous and makes me want to hide inside. And the sentiment seems to have spilled into the Headquarters, as meetings today were even more unpleasant than usual. So, I guess. . . What you'd expect of San Francisco in the winter. How's everything there?"
"The Chief refuses to leave engineering unless I directly threaten his rank. The warp manifold is acting up again. And I'm convinced that Rix and Harry are plotting against me. . . All in all, the usual." He smiled as he finished, and she felt happy for the first time all day.
"I miss you." The words were out of her mouth before she thought about them and she immediately felt ridiculous. It had been less than 48 hours that she'd left the Nighthawk and only a day since she'd been back in San Francisco. She fought the urge to hide her face from him.
"I miss you, too." His reply was natural, sincere. It made her feel less crazy. "I can't stay on long, but I wanted to tell you that I expect to hear from you often." He was looking at her the way he looked at O'Donnell when he refused to go off-shift; with a mix of affection and resolve.
"I know. I'd planned on it. You just beat me to the punch this time."
"I mean it, Kathryn." His tone was light but his eyes were serious. "If you suddenly go silent, I'll be forced to go AWOL and find you. And then you'll have the guilt of my professional demise to live with." She laughed, and his eyes sparkled. Their conversation ended far too soon, but she returned to her work with new-found energy.
After that, they spoke every other day. The days when they didn't speak were longer, harder for both of them, though neither chose to consider it. His temper was shorter, his foot tapped impatiently as he sat in his chair on the bridge; she barricaded herself in her office and spoke to as few people as possible.
Three months after she returned San Francisco, the Nighthawk, along with three other ships, were ambushed by Cardassian forces. All three ships made it, but the Nighthawk sustained heavy damage and Tom lost ten crewmembers, including Ensign Richards. Admiral Longman was revealed as a traitor after the ambush- he'd been passing on information for profit- and the whole of Starfleet fell into a kind of malaise. Kathryn sat on a park bench under the May sun, and contemplated whether the she'd done her crew any favors by getting them back to the Alpha Quadrant.
After that, Tom stopped comming her and instead began to write letters; long, elegant things that articulated his cycle of frustration and hope, as well as the rhythm of his everyday life. When she received them, she often downloaded them onto a PADD to read outside, with sun shining on her face. She wrote back to him but her letters weren't as long nor, she feared, as elegant. Tom didn't seem to notice.
At the beginning of August, she began to grow impatient and restless. Tom had two weeks of leave coming up and he was spending part of it on Earth. It was a little over ten months since the Nighthawk had been launched, and the ship was to be grounded for a final round of refitting. The assumption was that a permanent Captain would soon be named to replace him, and Tom was torn as to do what to do. He'd spoke in his last letter about taking a position again at the research facility- about wanting to settle into a normal life and spend more time with his daughter- but he seemed indecisive, and she was reasonably certain he would take a position as First Officer on one of the Fleet's larger ships when he relieved of commanding the Nighthawk.
Two days before the Nighthawk was scheduled to dock, he commed her. It was in the middle of the day and she was in her office at Headquarters. When her secretary informed her, she rushed to answer the line, fearing something was wrong.
"They offered me command of the Nighthawk," he said, his face emotionless.
"Tom! That's wonderful! And such an accomplishment. Have you told your father yet?" Her faced beamed, and she inched closer to the screen. He looked at her with confusion, frustration; his brows knit together as though they had a bad line and he was struggling to make out her words. Or, more precisely, that she'd failed to understand his.
"Kathryn, I'm not taking it."
"You what?" She looked at him with complete puzzlement.
"I'm not taking it. . . I told you. . . Months ago, when you were here; I said that I don't want this." As soon as he said it, he could tell that she wasn't listening. Not really. It was the way his father listened when he was younger and spoke about joining the Naval Patrol.
"Tom, all CO's have moments like that. It's normal. But you have to think about what you're giving up- what you're turning down. They might not ever give you another ship if you pass on this. Think about your career-"
"What I'm giving up?" He cut her off, his tone seamlessly shifting from confusion to anger. "What about all the things I'm giving up on while I do this? Seeing my daughter more than twice a year, having a normal life and normal friendships. This isn't the life I want, Kathryn."
"Tom, you aren't thinking this through." It was her command voice, and the patronizing sound of it made him lose all sense of control and appropriateness.
"This isn't the life I want," he repeated. "This is the life you want."
"You say that like it's a crime!" She was angry, too, now, the blood rushing to her face. Instinctively, she drew away from the view screen.
"A crime? No. Unhealthy? Yes. But I've tried not make judgments about the way you've chosen to live your life. Putting your ambitions before everything else." He was yelling now, gesticulating in the same way as his father. "But I damn well expected you to respect my choices, and to not let your own screwed up priorities keep you from supporting me."
With that, he ended the comm line, and she sat seething at her desk for nearly an hour.
She managed to cling to her anger for three long days. It was an anger that pervaded everything, and even her secretary tried not to speak to her unless it was absolutely necessary. On the fourth day, she ran into Admiral Paris as she left the grounds and he told her that Tom had accepted a position back at the research facility. The older Paris was open about his frustration, as well as his disappointment in what he thought was Tom's inability to make good decisions. Kathryn found it hard to believe that, after all this time, he still felt the need to burden his son with the same expectations and pressures that had crushed him in his youth. She walked all the way home instead of taking the transport.
By the time she reached her door, her reproach had turned inward.
. . . . .
Kathryn showed up on the porch of Chakotay's house, unannounced. They spoke more frequently now and had lunch whenever he made the trip into Headquarters, but she still hadn't visited him in Washington. Through the screen door, he eyed her with a mix of sympathy and apprehension. She made stilted small talk with Seven in the dining room while he grabbed refreshments, and then he led her onto the back deck, a pitcher of iced tea in his hands.
She sat, not drinking anything, as the warm wind moved her hair. Somewhere, Tom was on leave without her. He might even be in San Francisco. She wondered if, wherever he was, the sun was beating down on his blonde hair, his blue eyes squinting in the light.
She could feel Chakotay's eyes on her, but he said nothing. She wasn't sure if he was giving her time to collect herself, or just refusing to make things easier on her.
"I was an idiot," she said, finally looking up at him.
"It seems be a recurring theme." Definitely refusing to make it easier, she concluded.
"Have you spoken to him? Is he on Earth?" Her voice was filled with pain and a bit of desperation, and his features softened as he looked at her.
"He was for a few days since he had to look for a place to live. But now he's traveling to meet the Jackson while it's docked at Starbase 12. Spend some time with Miral." Her eyes fell, no longer meeting his. The silence seemed to stretch forever, broken occasionally by the rustling of the surrounding trees.
"I had no right." He made no reply. It seemed she was speaking as much to herself as she was to him. "It's his life and his career, and I had no right. It's just. . . He was so good at commanding. It suited him in ways I never thought possible."
"I think he found it rewarding, too," he said, refilling his glass with the pitcher, "but. . . fulfillment isn't the same thing as happiness."
"It's taken me along time, but I think I'm finally beginning to learn that." She angled her face toward the sun that was now beginning to set, closing her eyes.
"You realize," Chakotay began, his voice the gentlest it had been since the start of their conversation, "that Tom told you, in a round about way, that he was coming back to Earth, back to San Francisco where you are, and your first response to him was that it was a mistake." She cringed. She hadn't even considered that implication. He hadn't said anything directly about wanting to be near her, but he had said something about having 'normal friendships'. She dismissed it as being a remark about Harry, which was silly and foolish. She knew that he missed her. She also knew that she missed him more.
"I was an idiot," she repeated.
"Yep. But nothing says you have to be one in the future." She picked up her ice tea, and sipped it slowly. Together, they watched the sun continue its slow decent.
When Kathryn had gone, Seven joined him on the patio. Part of their conversation had drifted in through the backdoor, and she'd tried her best not to listen.
"Do you thinking they are secretly dating?" she asked, taking the seat Janeway had previously occupied. Seven had become fascinated by tortured loves and secret affairs. She found the concept and its accompanying emotions stirring, utterly captivating. Chakotay found her interest endearing. Most of the time.
He smiled ruefully. "No, they're not dating," he replied, and then the smile disappearing from his face. "But they're most certainly falling in love with each other. And both of them are either too preoccupied or too scared to realize it." Chakotay's voice was wistful and Seven moved to sit on his lap.
She felt suddenly grateful she'd never had to experience tortured love first-hand.
. . . . .
It had been surprisingly easy to find out where his apartment was and, then, to gain access. He wasn't living in a Starfleet building, but it was San Francisco and an Admiral's pips carried a lot of weight everywhere in the city. She would try to remember this perk the next time she was forced to sit through a three-hour meeting with the full admiralty.
Much of his things were still in boxes, but the apartment had furniture and he'd already begun to put up some of his furnishings. The place felt like him, and when she'd first walked in, she felt warm and safe.
Now, she was cooking pasta, or at least trying to. She'd opened the patio doors to let the smell of the previous botched attempt escape, and the evening breeze found her even in the kitchen. Tom would be home soon. His transport had already docked, and she was nervously ticking the time away in her head as she tried not burn dinner again. She selected music from his archive, choosing songs he'd often played on Voyager. She told herself that it wasn't manipulation, just background music, as she concentrated on grating the cheese.
When Tom opened the door, it was obvious he wasn't alone. He could hear the music and feel the warm air from the patio door. And something definitely smelled like it was burning. He sat his bags down in living room, seeing her over the counter that separated the two rooms. She didn't say anything, and he tried to decide how he felt about her intrusion.
"I didn't realize they taught breaking and entering in command school." His voice was icy as he walked into the kitchen. His eyes took in the mess she had made there.
"They don't. Just a little thing I picked up in the Delta Quadrant." She continued grating. "Good thing my pilot was a felon." She didn't look up from her work, and he didn't laugh. He came around to the plasma stove and turned down the rue she'd been cooking.
"I'm sorry to tell you, but it looks like the bottom of this is scorched." He stirred the contents of the pan around for a moment, revealing the blackened bottom. She put down what she was working on and allowed herself to look at him for the first time since he entered.
"I guess I'm not very good at this. Never have been, really. But. . . wanted desperately to get better." The secondary meaning of her words wasn't lost on him, but he didn't appear all that moved.
"Sometimes there are things we just never get good at." He turned to dispose of the burned sauce and she felt her eyes well with tears. He turned back around and gave her a measured look. "Why don't we save my kitchen anymore harm, and go around the corner to the Vietnamese place? At the very least, they make a coffee that could keep you up for three days straight."
His manner was still reserved, but she accepted. Content, if nothing else, to be saved from cooking.
At dinner, she made her apologies. And when he accepted but smiled politely, she made them again more profusely, telling him how much she'd missed him- how happy she was that he was going to be near her. He finally caved, and they walked arm-in-arm back to his apartment. They stretched out on opposite ends of couch, as had become their custom on the Nighthawk, but he now positioned her feet to rest in his lap.
"What was your worst day on Voyager?" They'd been talking for hours, about everything from his visit with Miral to their childhood memories of their fathers. His question was random, but didn't seem so in the haphazard conversation they'd been having.
She considered her answer, looking out the still-open balcony doors to the stars that now shown. "When the Kazon left us on that planet." She looked back to him and her face didn't show embarrassment or remorse. "I know that I should say that it was when I lost members of the crew. . . But the truth is that those days, however horrible they were, kept me going. Kept me fighting. Even if hey haunted me later . . . But that day, left stranded on that planet. . . I wanted to crawl under a rock and give up." He understood what she was saying immediately. When the Kazon robbed her of her ship, they robbed her of her hope.
He still remembered the look in her eyes when he returned to them with help. It was as though she didn't quite believe it, as if she had already given up someplace deep inside herself.
"What was yours?" He looked thrown off when she asked him, and she thought perhaps he didn't understand. She clarified, "what was your worst day in the Delta Quadrant?"
He'd understood the first time she asked, but for some reason he hadn't expected the question to be returned to him. He seemed awkward and embarrassed. He looked away from her, but it wasn't because he had to find the answer. She was puzzled by this; he never really seemed embarrassed in front of her anymore, and it was a quality she often envied. She watched him with interest, saying nothing.
"When we had to leave you and Chakotay on that planet.," he replied finally, looking her in the eye as she spoke. And then he stopped breathing. Her eyes seemed to mist, but her body noticeably shifted.
She looked away from him again and said, in a soft voice, "maybe B'Elanna was right not to want me outside your door."
He wasn't sure what to say to that and felt overwhelmed by guilt. Like he'd confessed to adultery, to some kind of on-going affair. Maybe, in a strange way, he had. He sighed and waited for her eyes to return to him. When they did, she found him looking open, honest; his embarrassment was gone.
"It's not that my feelings for your were every inappropriate, exactly." He squinted his eyes as if trying to make sense of things. "I just. . . always seemed to care a little too much."
She made no reply, and he silently thought that he'd finally thrown off the strange balance they'd managed to achieve between them. He assumed that she would pull away from him now, dutifully replying to his comms and requests for dinners, but ultimately keeping him at arms' length. Eventually, they would stop talking altogether. And then, decades later, there would be a funeral. One of them would them sit next to a grave, crying over the burial of their long-lost friend. One of them, inconsolable with grief, would mourn the endless possibilities. His ears were already filled with the sound of eulogy when she replied.
"I cared too much, too." She smiled. A rueful smile, as if admitting defeat. He looked at her with surprise. "I think I cared so much I even sentenced you to thirty days in the brig. Just to prove to myself that I didn't."
Almost all of the senior officers had protested his sentence after the water world; thirty days and a demotion was harsh- more than anyone else had ever received for similar breeches. But Tom had never questioned it, and had assumed he deserved whatever she dished out. Looking back, he'd been far too eager to accept her wrath.
"It didn't work," she went on, "it only broke my heart."
She looked tortured and full of regret, and he looked at her with affection and understanding.
. . . . . .
After Tom's first night back in San Francisco, his friendship with Kathryn went on as it had before. Tom worked at the research facility and taught an advanced piloting course two nights a week at the Academy. Things at the research facility had changed; Starfleet was now onto bigger and brighter ventures, and his department fought tooth and nail for every scrap of funding. The challenge suited him and he reveled in the work. The facility's resources were largely out of Kathryn's oversight, but when it came up in full meetings, she spoke her peace. When she did so, Admiral Paris looked at her with a question in his eyes, but he never actually said anything. She ignored it.
Kathryn spent much of her free time at Tom's apartment. Her place was larger and closer to Headquarters, but it somehow felt cold and uninviting. She'd always thought that she had good taste in decorating, but she realized now that she had a way of making any space look like Starfleet regulation. Tom remarked as much once. When she stayed the night, she stayed in his guest bedroom. On the now rare occasions that there were nightmares, they managed to find each other, but always returned to their respective rooms before going back to sleep.
In November, her mother was taken ill. Tom took personal leave from the research facility, joining her in Indiana. For a week, Kathryn spent everyday at her mother's hospital bedside, along with her younger sister, Phoebe. She returned to the house well after dark and slept in her childhood bedroom. Tom slept on the couch in the den and woke up early every morning to greet her with freshly made coffee. Kathryn had lost her appetite entirely, but Tom made Phoebe omelets or pancakes, making funny shapes out of the pancake batter that caused Phoebe's laughter to carry all the way to living room.
On the sixth day, her mother's health improved and Kathryn was flooded with relief. She walked from the transport station with Phoebe, Kathryn shoving her gloved hands in her pockets to keep warm. It was bitterly cold, but no snow had fallen yet that week.
"So," said Phoebe, her eyes on their feet as they plucked there way down the path, "how long, exactly, are you going to drag your feet about Tom?" Kathryn jerked her head up in surprise, but Phoebe suspected her reaction was partly feigned. Her sister had to be expecting this line of questioning at some point.
"Phoebe, we're friends." Her voice sounded horrified but the horror didn't travel all the way to her eyes.
"Right, Katie. Friends who spend all of their time together, who practically live together." Phoebe's voice dripped with frustration, and Kathryn found it hard not to scowl at her patronizing manner. "When was the last time either of you dated someone, anyway?"
Kathryn's mind churned. She'd gone on a few dates the first two years after their return, but no one ever seemed to hold her interest and nothing serious materialized. Now, she didn't even think about dating, but it was possible she was just too tired, too unwilling to try. But what of Tom? He hadn't dated on the Nighthawk, of course, but now that he was back on Earth there was nothing to stop him. Certainly, the divorce had left its share of scars. But Tom wasn't the kind of man to hide away; he'd returned to Earth because he wanted to live his life, after all. Why wasn't he dating?
Kathryn let out a harsh breath and briefly turned her face up to the clouded sky. It was an admission- a confession. But Phoebe looked at her, demanding that she say it out loud.
"We both have feelings for each other, Phoebe. At least I certainly do." Phoebe gave her a scornful look; a look that told Kathryn that she was crazy if she thought that her feelings were one-sided. Kathryn withdrew her hands from the safety of her jacket, gesticulating as they walked. "I just don't know to change what we've been doing. What if he doesn't want to risk our friendship? What if he wants to keep things the way they are, and I go wrecking things, making declarations of love and devotion?"
At the word 'love' Phoebe raised an eyebrow, but, to Kathryn's immense relief, made no comment.
Instead, she said, "Katie, for the last week that man has been sleeping on a ten-year-old couch that has more lumps than you have pips. He gets up at the crack of dawn just to make you coffee. And when you leave the room, even if it's only to let the dog out, he looks more bereft than I knew was humanly possible." Kathryn froze in her tracks. "Do you really think there's any doubt that he wants the same thing you do?" When Kathryn didn't respond, Phoebe continued dramatically, "if it wasn't all so horrifyingly sad, it would almost be comical."
The rest of the way to transport station they were quiet, but just before they reached the house, Phoebe whipped around, looking at Kathryn with a wry grin.
"It doesn't hurt that he's gorgeous, and several years younger than you, does it?"
"Phoebe."
"I'm just saying," Phoebe turned back around, walking to the house again. "There are certainly worse men to be trapped on a ship with for seven years."
"He was married part of the time, you know."
"And that makes it so much better, doesn't it?" The horror finally found Kathryn's eyes.
"Sometimes I hate you."
"I know, dear." Phoebe pushed open the door and Kathryn followed her in, wiping her feet on the mat.
That night, Kathryn couldn't sleep. It wasn't surprising; she hadn't slept well at all since they got to Indiana. But this time it was a different kind of sleeplessness. Restlessness took possession of her whole body, and she twitched endlessly under the blankets. After a few hours, she cast the covers aside and crept down the stairs. She paused on the landing, looking out the window that was at the bottom of the stairs. Snow had begun to fall during the night and white flakes clung to the windowpane. By morning, the snow would be up to the top of their boots, and her mother's dog would refuse to go outside.
In the den, Tom was sleeping soundly but she wasn't sure how. He was a bit too tall to fit entirely on the couch, and his feet draped awkwardly over one end. He was laying curled up on his side, despite that he preferred to sleep on his back. No doubt, it was to avoid the discomfort of the couch's many dips and bumps.
She sat down gingerly next to him, perching on the few inches where his torso bowed in, away from the edge of the cushion. She ran her hand softly through his hair and he stirred.
"I'm sorry, Tom. Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you." He stretched, turning over on his back, but didn't open his eyes.
"It's okay. I've gotten used to the fact that you have a bad habit of wanting to talk when I'm trying to sleep." His voice was groggy and lower than usual, but his tone was still affectionate. She thought it was adorable.
"That's because I also have a bad habit of thinking while I'm trying to sleep." Her hand was in his hair again as she spoke, and he unconsciously nuzzled against it before he found it with his own hand, squeezing.
"Stop worrying, Kathryn, and go back to bed. Your mother's going to be fine. Everything's going to be okay." He was still half-asleep, but even in this state he wanted to reassure her emotionally, physically. She smiled.
"I know. And I'm not worrying. At least, not right now."
"Well, if you're not thinking about your mother, what is it that's interrupting your sleep, and so mine?"
There were a dozen ways she could of replied, but she didn't consider any of them. Instead, she bent down and pressed her lifts softly to his. She didn't use any pressure, and she didn't close her eyes. After less than a second, grey eyes looked into blue ones. He was wide awake now. She sat up slightly, her hand still draped across his chest.
"What was that for?" His voice was curious. Mystified even. But he wasn't uncomfortable and he didn't pull away from her.
"That," she said resting her chin on her hand, "was something I should have done months ago."
He was grinning at her now, something about his face looking slightly lecherous. She liked it.
"Months?" he asked, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear. "Not years?" She feigned shock, sitting up and taking his hand. "You could have joined me in the brig, dismissed the guards. . . I would have thought of a few new ways to kill thirty days."
Only a few hours earlier, they were close friends and nothing more. Now, without any long, drawn out discussions, he was making sexual innuendos and looking at her with only partially masked desire. The transition was seamless.
"You're going to pay for that, Mister." She stood up, pulling him by the hand as she rose. "But first we're going to get you off this old couch."
Upstairs, the mattress in Kathryn's room was soft, and entirely free of lumps.
Tom didn't notice the bed at all.
. . . . .
In March, Kathryn and Tom decided to move in together. She spent almost all of her time at his apartment anyway, and neither felt the need to cling to the idea of a refuge that was their's alone, away from the other.
Tom told Chakotay when he and Kathryn went for dinner in Washington. Seven and Kathryn were in the dining room setting the table, and the men were finishing up dinner in the kitchen. Tom had opened the window to let some air in. It was still too nippy to eat outside on the deck, but the gentle rustle of cool air through the kitchen felt nice. Chakotay was genuinely happy for them, but looked surprised. Tom looked back at him questioningly over the sauce that he was stirring.
"It's a little fast. You two haven't been dating that long." Chakotay's voice was low but contained no judgment. Tom rolled his eyes, smiling
"Yeah. It's only been four months. Ten years and four months. . . We're living life dangerously." When Seven and Kathryn joined them in the kitchen, both men were shaking with laughter.
"Do I want to know?" asked Kathryn.
"Probably not," Chakotay replied.
The next week, Tom and Kathryn were measuring walls in the apartment. Kathryn hadn't officially given up her place yet, but they were already in negotiations to buy the studio apartment that was next to Tom's two-bedroom. Kathryn wanted to add an office and a third bedroom; Tom wanted to expand the kitchen. He was on a ladder in the hallway and she was on the floor of the second bedroom, examining the baseboards. He called to her through the open door.
"I'm officially on my father's calendar for tomorrow morning," he said, getting off the ladder. They'd decided that he would be the one to tell his father about their plans. Or rather, Kathryn had decided, and he hadn't complained. "I assume once that happens, we're going to have to start thinking about how to handle this with the brass."
Tom wasn't directly in her line of command, but he was still based in San Francisco and Kathryn made judgments about him in the larger sense of having say about the research facility. There were going to be concerns, at the very least. She grunted a reply from her seat on the floor, but didn't look up from her work.
"You know," he said, "it's going to be easier on us if we just go ahead and get married." His tone was casual, and he leaned against the ladder in thought. She came out of the bedroom, peaking her head through the door frame.
Marriage hadn't been something that was off the table, but it wasn't something either one of them seemed particularly attracted to either. It was the commitment that mattered to them, not the paperwork. Kathryn scratched just above her eyebrow.
"Are you proposing to me?" He shrugged.
"Just thinking out loud." They spoke about the possibility of marriage like they were talking about what color to paint the hallway; the conversation was easy; free of fear and other pitfalls.
"We don't have to have a wedding do we? Because there's just no way. . ."
"No," he said firmly. The idea of crowds of people starting at the them, dress uniforms, Starfleet higher ups; the idea repulsed both of them. "Besides," he continued, "I've already had one wedding. I believe you were there, yes?"
"Very funny." She came over to him, putting her chin on his upper arm. "Why not? It's just forms, at the end of the day." She looked up to his face, her eyes now defiant. "But I'm not changing my name."
"That's fine. Neither did my first wife." She punched him. "Ouch!"
"Serves you right."
"I'll accept that." He kissed the tip of her nose and walked toward the living room. "But if I'm telling my father about this, you're telling your mother about there not being a wedding."
She froze.
"Care to renegotiate our deal? Perhaps we could tell your father together?"
"Nope, but nice try, Janeway."
She cursed in three languages, vowing to herself that she would take this out on his kitchen budget.
. . . . .
By the middle of April, almost all of the renovations were complete. B'Elanna, just finishing leave from the Jackson, dropped Miral off with Tom and Kathryn.
Regardless of B'Elanna's schedule, Tom now had Miral with him five months of the year. Kathryn had painted Miral's bedroom lilac with green trim, and Tom stenciled pictures of hippos (her favorite animal) on two of the walls. B'Elanna was polite, but it was the kind of politeness that she had greeted Janeway with the day Kathryn showed up outside Tom and B'Elanna's quarters on Voyager. Kathryn thought she couldn't exactly blame her, and Miral ran around the apartment, not seeming to notice the tension.
When B'Elanna left, Tom shook his head, looking contemplative and sad. Miral was playing in her room, and they sat, already a bit exhausted, on the couch.
"What's wrong, Tom?" She draped her leg over his and nuzzled into his shoulder. He looked at her and smiled wistfully.
"I don't feel guilty for this. Not one iota." She kissed his shoulder through his shirt. "But I'm convinced, somewhere in the back of B'Elanna's mind, this just confirmed every misguided thought she had about trusting people." She reached for his hand and dragged her lips across it, the cool wind from the patio blowing wisps of her hair into his face.
Two days after Miral arrived, Tom and Kathryn were married. It was done at Headquarters and took about ten minutes. They came home and made macaroni with Miral, choosing to eat on the living room's new wood floors.
The first Friday of May, Chakotay threw a party for them in Washington. It was as much of a reception as Kathryn and Tom were willing to have, and they timed it to coincide with the Nighthawk being docked for routine maintenance. Harry, Rix, and the Chief all came, accompanied by their spouses, who were now happily living on board with them. O'Donnell hugged Tom fiercely, while Harry and Rix both congratulated Kathryn, kissing her on the cheek.
The Nighthawk was now led by Captain Hanson, an unyielding CO whose attention to regulation far surpassed Tom and Kathryn's combined. Tom didn't press for details of their new working relationships, and Kathryn felt a flood of sympathy for Tom's former crew. She regaled Harry's wife Liz with tales of their husbands' misadventures on Voyager, and Harry helped Tom and Chakotay bring out the endless trays of food.
Dinner was held outside on the deck. The weather was glorious and the sun beamed down, highlighting Kathryn's auburn hair. Miral flitted back and forth between Kathryn and Tom, occasionally coming to rest in the laps of uncles Harry and Chakotay. When Tom leaned over and kissed Kathryn, Rix turned around to look at Harry and the O'Donnell.
"That reminds me." Rix grinned. "You two owe me your holodeck time for the next month."
"You three bet on my personal life? How horrifying." Tom straightened up as he spoke, trying to act aghast. No one was convinced and Rix rolled her eyes dramatically.
"This coming from the CO who once made his Lieutenant and best friend publicly sing the lyrics to "I'm a little teapot" for costing the alpha shift a win in the physical fitness training." Chakotay and O'Donnell lost it when Rix announced this. Harry hung his head in embarrassment, Liz putting a hand on her husband's arm while trying to stifle her own laugh.
"Tom, you didn't?" Kathryn looked between Tom and Harry.
"He did," Harry supplied, "and he even made me do it on the bridge."
Seven was laughing, too, her hand covering Kathryn's as she sat next to her. Tom chuckled into Miral's hair, and her little arms reached for Kathryn.
Years later, the large picture that hung in Kathryn and Tom's entryway was one of all them around that table, laughing and clinging to each other under the warm summer sun.