Their first operation was to join up with Seventh Fleet on a two-pronged attempt to both slow the relentless Dominion advance and recapture the Tyra system. A hundred and twelve starships, heavy cruisers from Ambassador-class to Sovereign-class and everything in between – and even the nimble, tiny Steamrunner-class fighters barely twenty percent the size of a Galaxy-class starship - warped off to battle.

Fourteen came home.

Later on she would barely remember the specifics of that battle. She didn't remember much at all, actually – nothing more than the screams of her dying crew as compartments were torn open to the depths of space, and the slam of bulkheads as the ship did her best to save those she could. She remembered learning, early on, of Admiral D'Gret's death aboard the USS North Star, the proud, Sovereign-class flagship of Seventh Fleet, and the subsequent chaos as ships fought and died with no central command structure to organise an effective attack or even an effective retreat.

Caught between three wings of Dominion fighters armed with the deadly torpedoes that made mincemeat of even a heavy cruiser's shields, the only thing sparing Providence from the fate of ninety-eight of her sisters was her small size. Too big to be a nimble attack ship, too small to be impressive next to the Galaxy-class and Sovereign-class ships that flanked her, she was largely ignored, and it was mostly stray fire that tore through her hull, undoing three weeks of Fleet Yard repairs and killing over 250 crew in the two-hour-long engagement. Barbara's and Shannon's desperate attempts at return fire barely made a dent.

Smoke bloomed on the bridge as consoles exploded. Woodrow barely even looked up, piloting more by instinct than by feel. Around them – if they could spare a glance at the viewscreen – floated the detritus of nearly a quarter of their saucer section; were it not for the failsafes that shut off breached compartments almost instantly, the ship could never have kept fighting.

But the worst of it all – the very worst – was the moment when Nkata's voice, which had been rattling off reports for the better part of two hours, suddenly went silent.

When Barbara dared to glance, she saw him, reddish liquid pooling around his body, shrapnel from his exploded console buried in his skull in three places.

Including the brain stem.

He wasn't breathing.

She couldn't think. She could barely breathe. And she sure as hell couldn't tell her captain.

So she took over Ops herself, calling reports, voice steady as a rock. Lynley didn't even flinch at the change of voices. His entire focus was on the battle in front of them – or, rather, the slaughter, as the fourteen remaining ships somehow limped back to Federation space, what refugees they could carry stowed wherever they had room.

She felt nothing.

Twenty-four thousand Starfleet members, officers and crew alike – including over two hundred and fifty of her own people – had died in the struggle. Ninety-eight Federation Alliance ships were in ruins, or scattered in their constituent atoms across the bleak battleground of the Tyra system.

Twenty-four thousand people, including a third of her crew and one of her dearest friends, would never come home, and she felt nothing.

But then Lynley rose from his chair to walk toward Ops, saying, "Barbara, is Nkata all right? " and he stopped dead.

They hadn't even had time to move his body.

He gasped, once, a hoarse, agonised noise, and without even thinking about it, his hand sought hers.

She didn't think, either – just reached and clung, squeezing his hand in a crushing grip as the horrible reality began to sink in at last and the numbness began to thaw.

She felt the grief hit her, felt it rush through him too as surely as if she shared his thoughts in a Vulcan meld, and she started to shake.

His hand clamped down, hard, and the force of it steadied her, if just barely.

Through the hellish minutes that followed – as Shannon's eyes widened and filled with tears, as Woodrow turned away and shook his head in fierce denial, as Lafferty and Jackie Kelley rushed onto the bridge with Hana hard on their heels, as Lafferty sat back and shook his head in sorrow – he never once let go, and his grip told her more than words that if he was the only one stopping her from collapsing into sobs where she stood, she was the only one holding him together, even if by the barest thread, enough to be the captain they needed while he gave the orders for cleanup – to store the bodies for the mass memorial and funeral to come, to assess the damage, to confer with the captains of the surviving ships, and to be there for their crew as they grieved their own.

No loss could ever match the grief that had torn her apart when Lynley had left for what they thought was a suicide mission without a chance of success.

But the agony of Nkata's death came close.

Some nights she would wake up in a cold sweat and scream herself hoarse, and he would sit up and hold her close and take her hand, and she'd crush it in her own as she relearned how to breathe. And others he would thrash in a desperate fight against an enemy seen only in his dreams, and she would duck the flailing limbs and take every bruise without complaint to get to him, to hold him, and, maybe, if she could get through, to calm him. She couldn't always, but sometimes, she did. When she could she'd soothe him as best she could, and when she couldn't she'd just hold on, hoping against hope that her presence at least gave him a little more strength to fight.

It wasn't just Nkata's death that hit them hard. The battle had decimated their crew, and on Providence, crew was family.

Ensign Alicia Santara, a dark-haired, dark-eyed half-Betazoid, six weeks pregnant, died when an outer compartment of Engineering was torn open by a Dominion torpedo.

Lieutenant Matthew Woodson, one of Kimura Hana's nurses who loved football, was lost when one of the auxiliary sickbays was vented into space by stray phaser fire.

Ensigns Robert and Aliana Garrison, married all of six months, died together in the phaser strike that destroyed Weapons Bay Two.

The list went on and on, a roll of names too long to bear.

They were living with ghosts. Sometimes she'd see Alicia's laughing eyes as she worked her magic on the warp cores – Carly had said, with pride, that Alicia was the most promising Engineering officer she'd seen in years. Others she'd swear she saw Aliana and Bobby snogging in a shadowed corner before they reported for a duty shift.

And always, always, she turned to look for Winston, and when he wasn't there, it was another dagger in her heart.

The senior staff were shadowed, subdued, in the aftermath. Woodrow barely talked to anyone and had ceased flirting altogether, and only Jackie Kelley could reach him. T'Maya was even more Vulcan-ish than usual, and Sonak, who had worked less with the bridge crew than his bondmate, was almost visibly distressed as she retreated ever further into the veil of logic. Lafferty became gruffer than ever, trying even Hana's patience; only Fiona MacAllister, head of Medical Research, could stay in the same room with him for more than ten minutes. Carly and Shannon could barely be separated; Carly's stoicism, tempered since her Academy days by her partner's bubbly cheerfulness, reappeared with a vengeance, and Shannon's attempts at a smile were shadows of what they had once been.

War is hell, her Academy professors had all said, over and over.

They had been right.

She knew, without a doubt, that if she had lost Lynley, she would go too. She'd fight, oh, she'd fight, to stay, because it would be what he would have wanted, but in the end, the grief would have driven her mad.

They had just twelve hours to go before they reached the welcoming arms of Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards when she found herself startled awake by his arms wrapping tight around her, squeezing so hard she was almost unable to breathe.

"Tommy?" she gasped.

"It could have been you, Barbara," he whispered against her hair. "It could have been you. Oh, God, kerensa, I could have lost you!" And, as he so rarely did, he began to cry in earnest.

How was she supposed to answer that? Her heart knotted in her chest, and she wrapped herself around every part of him she could reach.

"I'm here, mo chridhe," she soothed. "I'm here. I'm alive. This isn't a dream. I'm here, I'm all right, I'm never leaving you. God, I swear, not ever. It wasn't me. It wasn't me. I'm here. I'm here."

She repeated the litany over and over for what seemed like hours as he held onto her and shook, tears soaking the neck of her pyjamas as he sobbed unabashedly against her shoulder.

In the end she had to cry with him, for what they had lost, and for what they were still to lose, because their fight was far from over.

It was never easy. In the aftermath she could hardly bear for him to touch her, sometimes, and others she just wanted to hold on for all she was worth. They pushed each other away, so many times, only to come right back in because they needed each other too badly, and oh God, it should have felt so wrong but it was the most natural thing in the world to find him in his ready room and pull his mouth to hers and lose herself in him.

Their kisses were born not from arousal, but from a desperate need for comfort; slow, soft, and deep, his mouth on hers reaffirmed a connection they needed all too much. He could still taste the salt of tears she had fought not to shed, and her hands on his shoulders soothed his own shakes of grief as they searched desperately for a connection to life in the midst of death and loss.

The door slid open then, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of her completely as they broke apart and turned to face T'Maya; he held tight to her hand in his, and she squeezed back, saying everything without words.

All the same, he couldn't stop the hot flush of embarrassment that coloured his face at being caught in a compromising position with his executive officer – even if she did also happen to be the love of his life.

But T'Maya, as always, was unfazed. "Do not apologise, Captain," she told him, before he could even open his mouth. "It is logical to take comfort in one's bondmate in times of emotional stress. Contact with Commander Havers comforts you, as contact with you comforts her. Doctor Sonak and I have a Vulcan bond, rendering physical contact unnecessary. As you and Commander Havers lack such a connection, it is therefore logical that you connect in other ways. I am, however, sorry for interrupting a moment of intimacy between you."

"Ah, thank you, T'Maya, and no harm done. Was – was there something you required, Commander?"

"No, Captain, but I do believe I have a solution to the gap in the senior staff created by Commander Nkata's loss. Clearly, Lieutenant Gonzales is incapable of performing the Commander's duties due to his medical condition, and Ensign Allen is much too inexperienced to serve on the bridge in the midst of a war. As the Science department has been, as you would say, 'put on the back burner' for the duration of the conflict with the Dominion, it therefore appears that the natural solution is for myself to serve at the Operations station."

Lynley couldn't have been more startled. "That is a generous offer, T'Maya, but that is far beyond the scope of your duties as Chief Science Officer."

"Captain," the Vulcan replied as tartly as a Vulcan ever could, "whether it is beyond the scope of my duties or not is beside the point. There is a need I am capable of filling; therefore, I should fill it. As I had several degrees from the Vulcan Science Academy before I entered Starfleet, I was not required to take many of the courses needed to qualify as a science officer. This left me with the opportunity to pursue a primary emphasis in ship's operations alongside my science courses. The choice was quite logical; my duties as Science Officer require me to collate data collected from multiple sources and use it to gain a wider understanding of the universe around us, as Operations requires one to collate data from all departments of the ship to gain an understanding of how it is functioning in all departments at any given time. I have not served in that capacity for quite some time, it is true, but I believe I am, as you would say, 'the best chance you've got.'"

And despite the raw grief that still ate at him, despite exhaustion and despair brought on by months of loss and unceasing war, Thomas Lynley felt an undeniable urge to leap into the air and shout "Hallelujah!"

He didn't, of course, but he did turn to his CSO and say, "I believe you are. My gratitude, T'Maya, cannot be expressed."

"Your gratitude, while unnecessary, is accepted in the spirit in which it was intended, Captain. With your permission..."

"Yes, of course, T'Maya. The briefing will be on your console by 20:00 hours."

"Very good, Captain."

And she turned and left the room.

The door slid shut behind her, and Barbara turned to face him, the faintest light of hope beginning to glow in her eyes for the first time in weeks. "I love Vulcans," she told him fervently, eyes wide and bright, and he couldn't help but smile.

"I am very much of the same opinion, Barbara," he told her, and he, too, began to think that maybe the faint light at the end of the tunnel wasn't an oncoming train after all.

When they went to bed that night, the darkness and grief felt just a little less lonely, and just a little easier to bear.

But it wasn't over yet, and as the war wore on, morale dropped lower and lower. With the utter destruction of Seventh Fleet, Providence had been redeployed to the Vulcan border to join with Fifth Fleet, and the series of skirmishes wore down even Providence's senior staff. Shannon's eyes were haggard, and she rarely smiled. Carly was absolutely stone-faced. And Barbara and Lynley just clung to each other in the night, trying to find the will to make it through the next day, never mind the next week or the next month. And they were not alone. The depression that ravaged Providence was taking its toll, and the whole ship felt as if it was about to break with the tension.

It was lucky, then, that they were asked to join in on Operation Return just two months after the Tyra disaster. At least they could
do
something.

"I know what your losses are," said Admiral Taylor sombrely, "but we need your firepower too badly. Tell me, Captain – can you join in this offensive?"

They looked at each other, uncertain, before he made the decision.

"Yes, we can." But his heart broke as he said it.

"Very well," she said quietly, knowing what they were risking. "T'Maya appears to be serving well at Ops – is your Ops second back on duty?"

"No, ma'am," said Barbara. "He's at Starfleet Medical. And Ensign Allen can't step up just yet. T'Maya is working out well. We don't want to mess with that."

"Very well," said Taylor. "Proceed with the rest of Fifth Fleet to Starbase 375. Godspeed, Providence."

"Yes, ma'am. And thank you." And the screen went black.

Barbara's eyes were shadowed. "The wormhole," she murmured, in wonder and fear, "and Deep Space Nine. You know we'll be challenged."

"Of course. We'll be lucky to make it there at all. It's all but a suicide run. But we have to try."

"No, of course we do. We couldn't do anything else. I just wish..."

"I know, kerensa," he murmured, soft and low. And then he wrapped his arms around her and just held on, because he needed, so badly, the soft warmth of her in his arms.

It was long, aching minutes before she spoke again, but when she did, his heart nearly stopped.

"Listen, mo chridhe," she said, "I need you to know something. I need you to know that Fate, Destiny, cosmic meddling – none of it matters. Because I'd still choose you. I'd still love you if there were no such thing as Destiny at all. I'd still want you, I'd still need you, I'd still choose to serve with you. Fate may have thrown us together but I will not go into this without telling you that – that I don't love you because Fate tells me to. I love you because of who you are and what you bring out in me and what I bring out in you. And I'd still choose you. I just – I think you already knew that. But I had to say it."

He closed his eyes and held her tight, and his voice was choked with tears as he said, "I did know, Barbara. But it means everything to hear you say it. And you have to know that I feel the same way. That I'd still choose you and no one else."

"I know," she whispered. "I've always known. But it means everything to hear you say it."

"Remember," she whispered, "for..."

"...whatever time we have," he finished with her, and they smiled.

And after that, they didn't need to speak at all.

They held each other in silence, for love and comfort. Burrowing into his arms, lying on the sofa with her head in his lap, her face buried against his stomach, her hands clutching his shirt, curling herself around him, she instinctively sought the security of his embrace, willing to surrender to weakness with him as with no one else. He, too, held tightly, hugging her against him and stroking her hair; here, with her beside him, he could face his fears – fears for his ship, for his crew, and for her. If he should lose her now... but no. It was not a possibility, and he would not consider it as such, because to do so would be to imply that he did not have faith she would come back to him. And if he believed in anything, he believed in her.

They would see this through, and they would do it together.

A memory of Barbara, singing for him and him alone, came to his mind, and he smiled.

This world keeps spinning faster, into a new disaster so I run to you – when it all starts coming undone, baby you're the only one I run to, I run to you... our love's the only truth, that's why I run to you...

All they would ever need was each other.

T-minus two hours, give or take.