Disclaimer: ST: VOY isn't mine. However, there are infinite parallel universes, aren't there? I must own VOY in at least one of them...

Author's Note: Back to school for me. Distractions from writing suck, but I'm going to need a job one day. Pardon the slower updates.

Volatile
by mistress amethyst une

Part 11: Forty-One Winks

He tiptoed in, not wanting to wake her if she was asleep. If she was still resting, he would most probably leave lunch by her bed, trusting her to eat at her leisure once she got up. He'd replicated her a chicken sandwich and some orange juice. Fluids and Vitamin C were always good, right? He'd opted for the sandwich since he didn't think chicken soup was a good idea with all her coughing; at least, not unless he spoon-fed her. As romantic as that sounded, he knew she would never agree to it. Also, he could already visualize how it would turn out if he did feed her the soup; she'd spit up all over him if she coughed, and she wasn't exactly still when she had one of those fits. He could already see them getting second-degree burns from hot soup spillage, him having to replicate new sheets and another uniform, her having to get cleaned up and being flustered about being forced out of bed. Yes, the sandwich was the superior tactical choice.

It wasn't exactly a meal that required supervision. Even if she was awake, he really didn't need to stay and watch her. He squelched the impeding argument in his head before it even started. Eager to shirk his duties, was he? He knew very well how stubborn she was. She probably wouldn't have touched her breakfast if he hadn't supervised. All right, if she was awake, he would remain with her even if it might entail having to shove a sandwich down her throat later.

He sighed at his decision to stay. Even before he came in, he already knew what he was going to do, what she was going to do to him without her realizing it. Asleep or not, she always drew him in, made him unable to resist the urge to linger near her. He always stayed.

Memories of nightly vigils every time she almost got herself killed suddenly plagued him. He always stayed longer than was good for him. He wished he didn't but he couldn't help it. Every time she got hurt, he ached as well. The uncertainty drove him mad. He just couldn't leave until he was sure she was all right, until her gaze, glaring or gawking, met his again, until her voice, castigating or complimenting, reached his ears once more. To think that he might never see her move again, that her breathing could cease, that her heart could stop beating as his pounded desperately...he often forgot that she was mortal, too.

He hated sitting by her bed wondering if she would ever open her eyes again, hated the waiting, hated his impatience, hated how he felt about her, hated how she didn't feel about him...

As he neared her, he heard her coughing. She was awake. A tissue ball pelted him in the face as he closed in on her bed. Great...now she was fortifying her ammo with white fluff. She slipped back into dreaming just as he got near enough to set the tray on the table.

Would he wait for her to wake up? He had reports to get to and a duty shift schedule to arrange; she wouldn't exactly appreciate him neglecting his job to take care of her. Then again, he desperately needed a pause from the hectic day, a small reprieve before diving back into the chaos. He could spend his breaks at his own discretion, and he wanted to be selfish. Getting ahead on work was going to take a backseat today. He wanted to watch her sleep knowing she wasn't in any danger, knowing for sure she would open her eyes and croak at him if she saw him there. Certainty was a luxury in the Delta Quadrant; wasting it would be a crime.

He pulled up a chair, and sat by her bed. She tossed and turned a lot; he decided against tucking her in as he had yesterday. Again, the floor was littered with tissues. He picked them up and properly disposed of them, mirroring his actions of the previous night. As he watched her sleep, he felt the urge to touch her. He reached out but quickly pulled back. No, he'd already crossed boundaries that weren't meant to be crossed when he'd kissed her. He wasn't going to risk it again. It was fortunate that she hadn't remembered his indiscretion. He wasn't about to commit another one for her to recall.

He had to go. Now. She would eat if she was hungry. If she didn't, there was always dinner. Against his better judgment, he decided to leave her alone in her slumber.

He rose from his chair, and got as far as the door before her coughing pierced the silence. She was really quite awake this time, the vehemence of this particular phlegm-induced fit jolting her into full awareness. The stale, bitter taste in her mouth wasn't lost on her. She needed to brush her teeth. Badly. She croaked something that sounded a lot like his name as she clambered out of bed. Finally, he was able to see if her legs were clad in anything beneath those sheets. They weren't.

Not exactly. Her tee was big for her and came down around her knees, protecting her modesty despite her lack of pants. Earlier that day, she'd found herself a bit dizzy and, since she couldn't use the voice prompt due to the condition of her throat, she'd pushed buttons while in a haze. The result was a shirt much too big for her. Oh well, at least it eliminated the need to replicate pants...or underwear for that matter. Chakotay didn't need to know about that last bit.

She sauntered to the bathroom as he stood frozen. Deciding to throw him for a loop, she randomly winked at him as the doors closed behind her.

His eyes widened. Kathryn Janeway had winked at him? What was that supposed to mean? He swallowed. Could she have sensed him reaching out to touch her? Remembered what he'd done the night before? Was she acknowledging his unintentional advance? He urged himself to calm down. Whatever it was, it couldn't possibly involve brig time, could it?

And now I run off to Spanish class...