Fire & Tears
Chapter 1
A blue shimmer of atoms and particles hustled together in the middle of an upscale farmhouse's lengthy driveway; it and the yard covered a stagnant white. The Rear-Admiral emerged, sticking her hands in the pockets of her black coat, her shoes crunching into the snow as she started forward.
This was one of the few times she felt glad to have a three-layered uniform. She always thought having a grey crewneck zipped beneath her uniform's red inner shirt was overkill layering. Who would even notice if she didn't wear the grey shirt? It wasn't like she was unzipping anything at work—although there was that one time Seven stopped by headquarters, demanding to see her. At that thought she bit her lip, Seven's unpredictable hormonal spikes always kept her on her toes.
But in the summer months, this uniform created nothing but a sauna; the grey and black jacket heavy by itself. Maybe that's why Starfleet buildings tended to be cold.
Christening snowflakes fell on her shoulders, powdering her coat as she trekked up the driveway passing a couple maple trees stripped of their leaves. That damn transporter never dropped her close enough.
The wind's swiping chill stung against her skin, chattering her teeth as she neared the house's porch and stepped up the stairs to the main door. Looking over, a gentle frown lengthened her mouth where she stood, staring at the empty porch's wicker chairs and polished wood floor dusted an untouched white.
Phoebe had long since moved out—even taking the dogs— and was hopefully close to marrying that man Ethan she met at some art convention. Sometimes he was a bit of a dud, relying on his good looks and charm. But he had proven himself to be committed to her sister and that's what mattered the most.
Shortly after Voyager's arrival, in one of the first heart to hearts she shared with her sister, they discussed their significant others around a cup of coffee, sitting at their childhood breakfast table in the kitchen—mom couldn't part with the vintage square table, just kept patching up its scuffs and cracks. Naturally Phoebe's nosiness got the better of her and she dug in, asking a plethora of questions about the "Ex-Borg Bombshell".
"Where did she come from?", "How the HELL did you score someone that hot?", "You think she'd want to be a model? I could use a face like that."
She'd be lying if she said Phoebe's fascination with Seven didn't make her glance out of the corner of her eye. But Seven was hers and only hers, the blonde confirming that many times.
She wanted to smile at those memories but couldn't muster more than a dull smirk.
The house was hers now; mom left her the beloved family possession her father inherited from generations before him, trusting her to uphold the Janeway legacy.
'Mom.' She missed the warm sound of her mother's voice ringing throughout the halls.
"Kathryn is that you?" Like clockwork, Mom's voice used to flow into the foyer when she came home from work at four in the evening; the screech of the screen door probably the giveaway.
Those days as an Ensign were bittersweet and carefree. Coming home to the succulent smell of her mother's cooking thickening the warm air, a smile never failed to grace her features; the woman notorious for hating the replicator. Toasted bread, lasagna, meat, and more, Mom never made it easy to keep her waistline within regulations while she was home.
Things changed when she became a Lieutenant Commander; she moved out, and her mother's innocent conversations turned into a badgering of questions about kids, family, marriage, etc.; the nurturing woman loving the innocent joy and warmth childhood laughter brought to the house. But after Voyager returned, she never heard her mother's meddling inquiries again, just remembered how crushingly tight her mother held her when she walked back through that door after seven years lost in space. Tears soaked her Captain's uniform and overwhelming relief rushed her heart.
That was almost three years ago now, and she swore she could still hear her mother's voice roaming the lonely halls at 4 p.m.
The Admiral shook off the memories, her eyes burning. She hadn't even made it into the house yet, just stood there with her hand on the doorknob.
With a deep, resetting breath she pushed the door open; she couldn't let herself get trapped in the past again. She had to tame the dark recesses of her mind before the negativity consumed her cracked and worn psyche, dragging her back to that grim, cold place.
She couldn't become a hollow shell again, walking the house's dark, drafty halls like a ghost searching for absolution.
Seven deserved better, having stuck around, having been the hand to guide her through those difficult days.
A godsend, Seven was the reason she wore the ring on her left hand with pride.
Slipping her shoes off at the door, the Admiral headed into the kitchen that opened into their living room, her black socks slippery against the hardwood. Unzipping her uniform jacket, she remembered the wet coat she forgot to hang, but just peeled both off at the same time, readying a toss over the leather sofa's arm.
"Prolonged exposure to water will damage the leather."
Freezing with her arm hanging in the air she hesitated then smirked, hearing Seven's voice in her head. God, she loved how the littlest things Seven said somehow stuck with her. Her wife was the know-it-all that actually knew-it-all, able to access a downloaded piece of information about as fast as any computer.
She tossed the coat and jacket on the rug.
Left in her red inner shirt, she kindled the mahogany-mantled fireplace, her tongue hungering for the refreshing taste of a warm cup of coffee.
'I don't want to walk back to the replicator.'
The fireplace's heat enveloped her in its embrace as she found her favorite spot in the middle of the rug and laid down, stretching out on her stomach, arms pillowing her head as the flames' entrancing dance calmed her soul and tired her already weary eyes.
The fireplace was her favorite part of winter, and she'd seen many in front of this one.