A/N: The crew person, Lieutenant Commander Mackensie, is an actual thing. I don't know who the actor is, but he was a regular extra in TNG and VOY (maybe DS9...not sure) We learned his name in the Voyager episode "Workforce," as there is a screenshot with his name visible there. The Next Generation reference is to the episode "Conundrum."

July 27, 2386

Starbase 47

"What are you doing here, Doc?" Tom asked acerbically, irritated, as he stood. The computer in front of him flashed several times, the reflection from the screen gleaming off the glass objects positioned behind him on his office shelves.

"Nice to see you again, as well, Mr. Paris," the Doctor quipped sarcastically.

"Who was it this time? Who recommended the wellness check now? I'm sure that's why you're here." Shaking with his anger, Tom pushed the padd across the desk to the Doctor. "It's all there. What I ate, when I slept, the holosuite programs I ran, how many shifts in a row I worked before I collapsed–"

The Doctor said nothing, watching helplessly as Tom fell back to sitting in his chair.

"I'm sorry," Tom replied, after he had taken several deep breaths. It got harder and harder to control all of the emotions he was feeling, though this time he had heard the rage, felt it rising to the surface like magma through a volcano, and knew letting it loose on the Doctor was not the answer. He was here…because he just wanted to help.

"Your first officer," the Doctor replied.

"My first officer is dead," Tom blurted, a knee-jerk reaction.

"I apologize. Your acting first officer," the Doctor clarified. Chakotay had temporarily assigned Commander Kim to Starbase 47. Part of that was for the sake of practicality. The unspoken part, Chakotay's knowledge of their lasting friendship and his hope that at least for a short time, Harry could keep Tom from coming irrevocably unraveled. Starfleet had not responded to Tom's request for a replacement for Commander Michaels, nor for a replacement for his Chief Medical Officer. It had led them to believe Starfleet was planning on decommissioning the station.

The silence persisted, making the atmosphere in the room heavy. The Doctor continued. "Counselor Hubron recommended a leave of absence, Mr. Paris. You refused."

"You're damn right I refused," he growled.

"There is a limit to every person's endurance. It may not be the same for everyone, but no one has no limit, not even a Vulcan, Commander," the Doctor said gently.

Tom grumbled wordlessly in frustration. "I know it's been a while, but we did serve on Voyager for seven years, Doc. We were put through a lot. Loss and tragedy and stress. Do you remember a time…ever…when I was able to sit still while things were coming apart? I need to work. It is literally the only thing holding me together. I could see if I was behaving erratically, or making ill-advised decisions. I'm not, am I?" he queried.

"The only ill-advice is your treatment of your own well-being," the Doctor answered.

Shifting his eyes away, Tom grumbled, "You think that. But…stopping…would be worse."

"You are not a Vulcan. You are human. Which means, eventually, at the rate you are going, you will crash. Hard. My concern is the potential for harm…as a direct consequence of that crash," the Doctor explained.

"I just spent a full week with a ten year old girl who just lost her mother. One of T'Lassa's cousins on Vulcan took custody of the girl. I offered to travel with her. Harry thought it would be better than staying here," he said. He rubbed both hands over his face. "It wasn't," he hissed. "But I needed to do it anyway," he admitted.

T'Mira had reached down deep for her Vulcan training, but as T'Lassa had once explained to him, she was still learning to suppress her emotions effectively, and her partial human heritage made it more difficult. Tom had noticed her leaning into that training, viewing her as more stoic than he had ever seen her. Losing her mother, her only constant in her life, had taken an enormous toll. Tom had done everything he could to be compassionate and understanding, but it was hard. He was still not reconciled inside with his anger directed at T'Lassa, who had ultimately allowed her emotions to rule her actions, to the point where he believed she had intentionally abandoned her own child. He kept trying to rationalize it, contrast it to his own situation, but it didn't make sense. He had lost literally everything, and was still here, struggling. In the darkest hours, he had thought a lot of that anger was actually jealousy, that she had found a way to escape the pain that had consumed his life.

Eager to change the subject, the Doctor spoke into the awkward silence. "I actually have news that I believe you will find interesting," he said. Tom lifted his head, raising his eyebrows as a key for him to continue. "That radiation signature? The one Dr. Conlin found in Commander Michaels' wounds?"

"Yes," Tom started warily. Conlin had been unable to identify it, and had forwarded all the information to Starfleet Medical, in the absence of a Chief Medical Officer.

"It turns out it's a type of tachyon radiation the Federation has never encountered before," the Doctor explained.

Even as bone tired as he was, Tom's brain was spinning. He had been sworn to not divulge anything Admiral Janeway had told him about the sphere builders. He wanted to ask the Doctor, but he refrained. Instead, he posed the question in a different way, technically still keeping his word. "When did the Federation first have the ability to detect tachyons?" he asked.

"I'm a doctor, not an engineer, Mr. Paris," the Doctor deadpanned.

Tom curled his lip at the Doctor's quip, then called out, "Computer, when did the Federation gain the technology to detect tachyon radiation?"

Instantly, the female voice of the computer replied, "The Federation devised multi-spectrum radiation scanners in 2205, first developed at the Daystrom Institute."

"Computer, did the Vulcans, Tellarites, or Andorians have this technology at any known point before 2161?" Tom asked.

"Negative," the computer replied. "The Andorians had the most advanced scanning technology in 2161, almost all of it for military, as opposed to exploratory purposes. The joint task force, working at the Daystrom Institute, repurposed weapon scanning technology for the purpose of exploration, after the first fleet of Warp Seven ships was constructed."

It made sense, Tom thought. The scanners on Archer's Enterprise were rudimentary in 2153. They had no ability to detect the neutronium in the shell of the spheres, nor, he knew now, the ability to detect the tachyons that obviously were associated with the movement of the sphere builders in this realm.

He had been quietly suspecting all along that Aaron's death had been a direct result of the information Janeway had relayed to him at Starfleet Headquarters. This seemed only added to his collection of proof, but also to his long list of questions. He was still thinking when the Doctor floored him.

"What I cannot explain, Mr. Paris, is how B'Elanna has those same tachyon signatures, detectable when we ran that advanced diagnostic at the Rehabilitation Facility," the Doctor said, his voice pinched as he acknowledged the severity of what he was saying.

August 1, 2386

Starbase 47

Tom had had to downplay the information the Doctor had told him, trying to just casually ask him if he had informed Admiral Janeway of his findings. He had, of course. She was involved, concerned about someone she still considered a friend, or part of her extended family, like the rest of the old Voyager crew. He had been thinking of a way to ask the Doctor to scan him for the same type of radiation, but couldn't think of a way to say it without raising suspicions.

It seemed that T'Lassa's early warning about the race known to the Xindi as the Guardians had been spot on. The station had been nearly destroyed, memories erased, and crew killed…all for some purpose Starfleet was trying to discern while they waited here, targets, if there was more to the plan than what had already been affected.

Tom had been tasked with the unpleasant job of emptying Aaron and T'Lassa's quarters. With no next of kin, the majority of Aaron's belongings had been recycled, truly heartbreaking for him, a man who had been his friend for eight years. Most of T'Lassa's things he packaged to send to Vulcan with T'Mira. The ten year old had no capacity for sifting her mother's things and deciding what to keep, so that was also left to Tom. He saved what he thought was important, recycled things that he thought were of no consequence.

At the forefront of his mind, after everything that had happened, had been to secure the remains of Ambassador T'Mir's artifacts left for her, including T'Pol's personal logs. He could not locate them. He asked T'Mira, who had no idea what he was talking about. Her cousin, the one taking custody of her daughter, was her only living relative. T'Lassa had no other residence other than the Starbase, so everything she owned had been in her quarters. He found no evidence of any of that, and was only more and more troubled as he thought about it now.

Tom was sitting in his office with the Doctor, attempting to have a normal conversation, just in part to calm the Doctor's fears that he was close to a breakdown. He wanted to ask the Doctor about something that had been on his mind.

Tom looked away, staring at the vase on the table as he focused his thoughts. "Do you remember Lt. Commander MacKenzie?"

A Voyager crewmate, the Doctor nodded. "I do not forget under normal circumstances, Mr. Paris."

"No, of course not," he muttered distractedly. "But did you know he served on the Enterprise before Voyager? For I think eight years."

"Ok. But how is that relevant?" The Doctor asked.

"When the Quarans kidnapped us, and altered our memories." He looked up at the Doctor, his thoughts coalescing faster than he could almost speak them. "While we were all recovering, I remember him telling me about a situation that he was reminded of, from when he served on the Enterprise. I wish I could remember, but I was still recovering at the same time. Something about the Satarran commandeering the ship."

Immediately, the Doctor retorted, "Stardate 45494.2. The Satarrans used a concentrated plasma probe to alter the main computer of the ship as well as selectively erase the identities of the crew members but left their knowledge of ship systems intact, so that they could place an operative on board without them knowing. They intended to use the Enterprise to destroy the Lysians, apparently falsely claiming the Federation was at war with them."

"Impressive, Doc," Tom quipped.

"It's part of my program, but, thank you, Commander." He paused, then continued, "How is that relevant?"

"It was something he was explaining to me. I was sitting with him, talking about B'Elanna. How weird it was that we still seemed drawn to each other, even when we had no idea that we were married, or that she was carrying my child. And the fact that Neelix focused on her emotions, for me, and that helped her remember. MacKenzie said when that happened on the Enterprise, Counselor Troi, the one who counseled the Voyager crew when we first returned…you know, the one Reg Barclay knew so well," he kept adding information, thinking that the Doctor didn't know who she was.

"I had extensive time with her, Commander, when I went back to Jupiter Station for Dr. Zimmerman. She actually helped to heal the rift between us," he explained.

"Well, she and the first officer, Commander Riker, I guess, had had a previous relationship. The status of which I guess, from what MacKenzie said, was on again off again. Although they married right after Voyager came back, so I don't know how off again it ever really was," Tom rambled.

"A point, Mr. Paris?" The Doctor added impatiently.

"She was an empath, because she was half-Betazoid. She remembered Riker, and it was the only personal thing any of them remembered at all. MacKenzie was making the point that it was similar. Those memories could be erased, but feelings somehow were more difficult. And how Vulcans always made it seem like it was a weakness of humans, when at least then, it had become a strength. He was a pretty quiet guy, but when he chose to talk, he always had something important to say," Paris explained.

"Indeed. Perhaps at least here, it makes sense. Back then, it was easier to repair her actual memory by tapping into emotions. The factual memory came back slowly. The emotional memory, much quicker. You two were the easiest to cure, if you will. Because of that," the Doctor added.

Whether it was embarrassment for listening to the sound of his feelings laid bare, or just the unpleasantness of the memory, the Doctor couldn't tell. But Tom looked away, rubbing his hands together distractedly.

The Doctor waited, sure he had something more to add. When nothing came forth, he added, "What does this have to do with B'Elanna?"

"I don't know. But you said so yourself. Her memory loss, the extent of it, doesn't make sense compared to her injuries. Is there a possibility…." His voice trailed away, feeling disappointed at the Doctor's negative head shake.

"I don't want you to get your hopes up, based on what I'd said before. I just wanted you to know I had some thoughts to offer. Random regression to arbitrary points in time is common, despite what you may have implied from my earlier words. It's the lack of detectable injury that's odd, as well as the aberrant tachyon radiation." At Tom's crestfallen expression, the Doctor pushed on, more gently. "Commander, it's been almost three months since the accident. Any significant gains that could have been made would have happened by now. She's never shown any signs of remembering anything related to you, emotional or otherwise."

"I know all of that, Doctor. Believe me. It's the first thought on my mind when I wake up in the morning, and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. When I can sleep." He gave a short, sharp laugh. "But the tachyon radiation readings that Aaron and Harry found were concentrated in the reactor room, more than anywhere else in the station. Whatever killed Aaron--" He stopped, forcing the edge of anger out of his voice. "Whatever killed him left the same traces of radiation on his body, in his wounds. I don't think it's a coincidence. And I don't think it's too far a stretch to say that the anomalies in her situation could maybe have something to do with it?"

"Commander, the accident was caused by a graviton wave. Fostering conspiracy theories won't change that fact. What are you suggesting? Somehow a graviton wave was released at the bidding or someone, or something?" The Doctor asked, angering.

"I don't know," Tom said in defeat, not able to explain further, though he knew a great deal more.

"I don't know what you expect me to do, Commander. This is beyond my programming," the Doctor replied.

"I know, Doctor. It's actually beyond mine, too." he said with a crooked grin. "All I'm asking is that you don't give up. On B'Elanna."

With an earnest smile, the Doctor said, "That is something, Mr. Paris, that I promise you, I will never do."

August 7, 2386

Starbase 47

"Admiral," Tom said lightly as Janeway stepped through the airlock, her confident strides halted as she took in the sight of his deterioration.

She was tough as nails, a force to be reckoned with. But she had a tremendous capacity for compassion, and gentleness. Her blue eyes were overrun with sadness and sympathy, this being the first time she had physically laid eyes on him since the most recent tragedies that had befallen him. She said nothing, the line of her mouth pressed together in a grim line. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him hard, resting her chin on his shoulder. She felt the bones in his ribs through his back, the lack of bulk to him. No words seemed adequate, so she said none. She just held onto him tight, making him feel like she wouldn't let go.

She wasn't afraid to let him see the tears in the corners of her eyes as she finally pulled away. He looked away, blinking hard to keep his own tears away. "Come on, Tom," she said softly. "Let's sit down for a while. You look like you could use a break."

She walked beside him as they moved to the cafe, keeping stride with him and saying nothing. He ordered her a black coffee, gratified as she smiled when he did. He ordered the same, making it a double size compared to hers. She cradled the warm drink in both hands, bringing it gently to her lips and gently blowing on the steam before she sipped it. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him chug his drink, surprised that it didn't burn him. Vaguely alarmed, she realized it probably had burned him, only he seemed oblivious to it.

"I deeply regret not coming here sooner, you know that, Tom," she said, reaching for his hand.

"I understand, Admiral. I really do." He drank again, shuffling his feet beneath the table. "I saw your name on the log at the Rehab Hospital. It means a lot to me that you went to see her as much as you did. I can only get there every 14 days or so. You filled the gaps."

"She eventually got comfortable enough with me. She looks forward to my visits now. A few times, she and I have taken a walk around the grounds. She asks me the names of the flowers." She tried to be upbeat, telling him only positive things, but the tragedy of it all hung in the air around them like a fog.

"Did she ever remember anything when you were there? Something about her life?" he asked.

"No, I can't say that she did. The Doctor told me what happened when he saw her with you. It was strange, I'll admit," she said. He sat silently. Finally, she spoke again. "I'm sorry about Commander Michaels and Dr. T'Lassa. I know you were close friends."

"That's all I hear lately. How sorry everyone is. I understand. But….it's…." He looked up at her, the struggle for his composure slipping. "I understand, finally, what B'Elanna was thinking. While she was hurting herself….on the holodeck." Janeway looked at him intently. "About being so numb, you can't feel anything anymore." The sorrow on her face contorted her visage. But he continued. "Only, now, I can't imagine why, after all that pain, she wanted to feel anything again. Or why she was afraid that she couldn't."

"She had lost the ability to feel--good or bad. She wanted…she needed…to feel the positive things. Companionship with her friends. Motivation to do her work. Love for you. All she wanted was those feelings back," Janeway whispered.

"But what if it's all gone? Every last good thing…" He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself out of the reverie. Too much hung between them.

"Have you ever heard of the Vulcan mating bond?" he asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

"I have." It was a statement, but uplifted at the end, like a question. She knew there was more.

"I wasn't sure. I know you and Tuvok were friends for a long time. I also know how secretive Vulcans are about their...personal stuff," he offered.

"He told me, after Voyager was in the Delta Quadrant. Just as a precaution, but it was never really an issue," she replied.

"Because T'Pel was Vulcan," he said to her, but inward, like he was talking to himself aloud. "I guess it's worse, when a Vulcan is bonded to a non-Vulcan."

She looked at him curiously. He continued. "Aaron died in the unexplained incident. T'Lassa didn't, at least not directly."

"They were a bonded pair?" she asked, surprised. "I didn't know that was even possible. Humans aren't telepathic."

Tom nodded. "I guess it runs in her family, the ability. She was the third one, from what she told me. She died, because he died. No one here knew but me, and I didn't know how serious it was until it was too late."

"Oh my God, what a tragedy. She has a young child, doesn't she?" Janeway asked.

He nodded again. Then looked up at her, his eyes narrow slits. "Is it, really, though?" Her eyes widened as he spoke. "What is the real tragedy? Romeo and Juliet? They both die at the end. Would it have been less tragic if Juliet had lived? Woke up, and realized that he was gone, that he had died because of her, and just went on and lived the rest of her life alone?"

She understood his meaning, but couldn't feed into the misery. She let it hang there between them, heavy and terrible, as she waited for the threatening tears to fade. "None of this was your fault."

"Come on, Admiral. Everyone who died when we were in the Delta Quadrant, you eventually blamed yourself for. For stranding us, or whatever you thought you did. Am I wrong?" He remembered the darkness of her mood, while they had been traveling for two months through the starless void, the hopeless guilt that no one, even Chakotay, could shake from her. As with many things now, he felt he understood the despair that had driven her to feel as such.

"It's part of the burden of command. As you have felt, I'm sure. You focus on who you saved, not who you lost. You learn that eventually, too. Although I know you lost far more than any of us have. I know, Tom." She was firm in her belief, yet her voice was still rich with compassion.

So quietly she strained to hear, he said, "If B'Elanna were at all coherent, I wonder if she would feel that way. If she could ever forgive me."

There was nothing harder than the loss of a child, to put a strain on a marriage, Janeway knew this. She couldn't answer him, reassure him. But if it were at all possible, she knew, B'Elanna had the capacity. She had loved Tom with a ferocity unmatched. She sensed something else, and turned the question on its head.

"Have you forgiven her?" she asked. He looked at her, his eyes clouded with confusion. "For leaving you...like this. All alone, with this enormous weight on your shoulders, and no one to grieve with. And maybe, for what she did, that caused your son to be born too early."

He cleared his throat, forcing the air out of his nose as he controlled his breathing. "Since when have you taken up counseling, Admiral? You sound like Echenna."

"Since I had a crew lost in the Delta Quadrant for seven years. I did more than my share, as I'm sure you remember. You were the beneficiary on more than one occasion." She set down the coffee mug, leaned forward.

"What brings you out, Admiral? I know this isn't just a social call," he said.

She smiled. "I have some news."

"Good or bad?" he asked. The specter of the knowledge, the conspiracy that Starfleet Command was chasing never far from his thoughts. He knew she couldn't talk about it out in the open, but it was there with them all the same.

"Maybe both, depending on how you look at it." Seriousness evened out her expression. "Starfleet has decided to decommission the station, Tom."

He shook his head back and forth. "Polishing trash. I knew it."

"I know you feel let down. But it's the best use of resources. The Center is gone. Starbase 144 is close enough that all traffic can be rerouted without disrupting the traffic in the sector."

Anger raising the timber and pitch of his voice, Tom responded, "Would have been nice for them to tell me this before I spent the last three months gluing this hunk of junk back together. Before my first officer was killed in the process."

"The station needs to be functional, and capable of supporting life. For the investigations upcoming. You completed that task in half the time Starfleet thought you would," she countered. Her stress on the word "investigations" wasn't lost on him.

"Aaron did that, not me," Tom blurted quickly.

"Tom, you know, you are capable of commanding any starbase from here to the Beta Quadrant. But is that really what you think would be the best utilization of your talents?" she asked.

"My talents," he mumbled under his breath.

"It worked, when you were raising your family here. But as hard as it is to acknowledge, they're gone now. Pushing papers behind a desk for the rest of your life is a waste," she said with disdain.

She raised the small box from her side, slid it across the table to him. He took it, opened it without speaking. In it, a single gold pip gleamed against the plush velvet lining of the box. His eyes wide and disbelieving, he heard her say, "Congratulations, Captain."

He just continued to stare at it, not touching it, afraid to lift it out of the container. "For the second time in my life, you've rendered me speechless. I don't know what to say."

She stayed quiet, letting the moment sink in. "And what a captain needs most, is a ship." She pulled a padd out of her bag, slid it slowly across the table towards him. She saw the confusion on his face, the irresistible urge to pick it up and look. "She's the Yeager."

Wordlessly, he scanned the specs in front of him. It was a ship like none he had ever seen. Almost like a giant, flying hangar bay. He scrolled faster, his curiosity getting the best of him. Full crew complement was 88. There were ten shuttle bays with advanced sensors. Five engineering laboratories, and ten holodecks.

She smiled at the wonder on his face. "You always managed to shrug it off, but there was so much interest in the upper echelons in Starfleet for what you were doing out here. You impressed admirals who had been beyond the ability to be impressed, for a long time. What you were able to do here, in less than ten years, would have taken over 25 years with the old regime. Designing craft was what you were meant to do. We took it for granted, in the Delta Quadrant, how easily you created the Delta Flyer, twice. But it was amazing, then and now."

He squirmed slightly, uncomfortable with such overt praise. "Starfleet salvaged as much data as they could, after the accident, and worked around the clock to rebuild all the working prototypes you had on hand, as well as the few more that were in the process of being built. They are all inside that ship. Waiting to be tested for extended periods of time, in deep space."

She watched him scroll faster through the padd, watched his eyes grow large as he saw design after design. "This is incredible," he whispered.

"She's yours, if you want her. She's still in spacedock. She'll be spaceworthy in three months," she said.

His mouth hung open, utter bewilderment on his face. "I don't know what to say. I can't believe this." It seemed unreal, like something from a dream.

"You have time, you know. To decide. To pull your crew together. But not too long," she smiled gently.

He felt the pang, inside, when he thought, how much Aaron would have loved this ship. The idea of taking those crafts out into space, charting hours among anomalies, singularities, and all the other various hypothetical situations they had devised. With the heaviness of missing Aaron still at the forefront, he slid the padd back across the table to Janeway. "It's the most exciting thing I think I've pondered in a very long time. But I can't accept it, Admiral. I'm sorry."

She saw the sadness cross his face. "Why?"

He folded and unfolded his hands in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees. He couldn't look at Janeway when he spoke, unable to calm the tremor in his voice. "I made a promise, a long time ago, that I wouldn't just take off and leave." He looked up then, his eyes piercing her. "I intend to keep it."

Janeway's eyes misted with tears. She knew what Tom was referring to, a quick chat between husband and wife while they had been adjusting the warp core, for the older Admiral Janeway's plan to bring them home early by changing history. She had understood completely, then, afterward, why they had both opted for starbase duty.

"B'Elanna would understand," she said compassionately.

"I see her twice a month now. It would be a year away at a time, if not more. It's too much," he said tightly.

"She would understand," Janeway affirmed again. "She would know how much you needed to do this. To find a purpose again. To take back what's left of your life."

"I've never broken any promise I ever made to her, ever," he whispered.

"She made you promise that you wouldn't see her...until after The Doctor removed her Borg implants. I was there. I saw what happened, I heard what you said to her. She forgave you, then, because she knew how awful it was for you, and you still did what you did. Because you loved her." She watched him squeeze his eyes shut hard, to keep tears from escaping his eyes.

"This isn't any different. Just because she can't cognitively understand the pain you're in, doesn't mean she would want you to suffer. She doesn't remember that particular promise anymore," Janeway rationalized.

"So that gives me the right to ignore it? I can't do that!" he affirmed.

"Tom, this is killing you. Maybe not all at once. It's a little bit at a time. So that decades of your life will go by and leave you just an empty shell. No matter what the cost to her, she would never let you do something so self-destructive." She grabbed his wrist before he reached up to his eyes again. Pointedly, she stressed, "She did what she did, knowing what was going to happen to her, so that you, and as many other people on the station as possible, would live. Don't belittle her sacrifice by being afraid to live the rest of your life."

Reddened by shame, he hung his head. He had spent too much time indulging in his guilt, for having failed to save his children, and the others. Instead of actually acknowledging what she had done for him. She had made the decision, true, but it obliged him no less.

She could tell by his face that her words had started to take effect. She stayed quiet a while longer, then added slowly, "Just think about it. Give it some thought. Starfleet Headquarters gave you two weeks. Take the time. You know where to find me."

August 15, 2386

Starfleet Rehabilitation Facility, Luna

The pale orange glow from the artificial sunset cresting over the Luna horizon lit the room as he entered. Half of her face was in shadow, streams of light burnishing her hair as it hung over her shoulders. The desk in front of her was cluttered with items, metal pieces and tools. Things no doubt the staff had provided her to occupy her time, keep her mind engaged, however weakly it worked now in her muddled confusion. A trilling whine filled the air, a small arc of yellow sparks spewing from a tool she held in her hand. So intent on whatever she was doing, she hadn't heard him enter.

"B'Elanna," he said softly, trying not to startle her. Still, she jumped, her hand twitching and the tool in her hand clattering across the desk. She turned, one hand against the base of her throat as her heart raced.

He watched the brief alarm fade as she recognized him. A soft, friendly smile touched her lips. "Tom." She turned the rest of her seat, so her body faced him. "You're early," she started. Her brow creased as she looked away. "Aren't you?" Confusion clouded her eyes. "You said….another month….or…."

He stepped forward, both hands clenched into fists at the end of his rigid arms. "No, you're right. I wasn't due until the end of August." His stomach burned, acid roiling as he felt the words he had been practicing for two hours on the transport jumble together, echoing inadequately in his head. No matter how many times he reminded himself, her lack of makeup still jerked him. Each time the memory it evoked was the same….her face, smiling up at him in exhaustion over the head of their crying baby, only minutes old.

He swallowed down the pain, feeling more rehearsed words evaporating in the face of a task he knew he must do, but didnt know quite how. "There's something that I needed to talk to you about. Something that I wanted to see you in person….to talk about." He swallowed hard, his mouth feeling dry and pasty. Nerves flaring, he walked closer to her, stepping around the bed to stand in front of her. Over her right shoulder, he could see the various circuits and conduits she had been assembling. "What's this?" he asked distractedly, stepping to her side.

She swiveled back towards her desk, brushing her knees against his right leg as she did so. "Just something I wanted to see if I could build….I had a dream about it…." He knew whatever it was, it wasn't functional. It was too haphazardly fused. He glanced back at her hair, inadvertently taking in a lungful of her perfume that twisted his insides. Just as he shifted his eyes, the markings on the widget stopped him short. He searched his memory, knowing he had seen something similar before, but unsure from where.

"You dreamed….about these symbols?" he asked.

"I think so…." she said scatteredly. "I don't know what they mean…."

He tried to clear his head, knowing he was letting himself be distracted because he was dreading the coming conversation. "Let's talk, B'Elanna. That is why I came." He reached down for her hand, guided her up and sat next to her on the bed. She sat close enough that he could feel her breathing against his neck, a hand's width between them. He looked down at his hands, her hands, awkwardly.

"What is it?" she asked openly. He fidgeted, uneasy, unable to turn his face to look at her. As the silence extended, she asked softly, "Why are you so sad?"

The acid in his stomach burned against his breastbone. He had always struggled to keep his spirits up, to not let her see any of his pain, because she couldn't understand it. This time, it was seeping through his facade, and he couldn't reign it in. "I came to tell you….that I….I've been promoted." He turned to her, smiling, though his eyes were dark and dull.

"Captain?" she breathed. She looked down, ran her finger along the collar of his uniform. "Oh...why didn't I notice?" The fourth pip shone.

"It was unexpected," he grumbled. "They gave me a ship. The Yeager. We'll be testing experimental craft in the field….it's like a dream come true, really…."

The exhaustion in his voice, the slight tremor as he spoke, didn't match the words as he spoke them. Sensing it, she asked, "Then why is it making you so sad?"

He tilted his head away, one corner of his mouth turning up. The tremble in his lip revealed the lack of humor in the smile. 'Because….it means I'll be away….for a long time. I won't be able to come to Luna like I've been able to. I'll be gone for close to a year at a time." He reached down, his hand inching forward and backward several times before coming to rest on her knee. "I…"

"Oh," she sighed. Her face shifted down, her shoulders drooping.

"I….took a long time….trying to decide….if I should….I mean….I don't have to--" he stammered.

"You just said it was a dream come true," she sighed.

My dream….my real dream….is gone now. This dream, secondary as it was, was the best he could do now.

"I'm worried….about you….when I'll be gone…."

"Don't. The Doctor is here. He told you not to worry, didn't he?" She was smiling again, and he had a brief flash of thought that she probably didn't remember asking him about his melancholy.

"You--" He stopped short, a loud hissing interrupting his thoughts. "What…?" The hissing became a whine, so high-pitched B'Elanna put her palms up to her ears to block it. Tom searched quickly with his eyes, trying to gauge where the sound was coming from. Eventually , he was covering his own ears, and he saw it. The tool B'Elanna had been using to build her contraption had fallen against the base of the desk lamp when he startled her. It was still switched on, and the lamp was superheating.

A loud pop blasted his eardrums. Instinctively, he leaned across and grabbed her, shielding her as the bulb exploded from the heat. She gasped, shocked. He felt his left cheek start to burn, and a sharp pain that spread to his ear. He shifted slightly, noticing a drop of red blood splash down on B'Elanna's hand. He released her, reaching up and feeling the wetness on his cheek.

He jumped up, his hand still pressed against the bleeding wound. He reached for the tool and switched it off. "It was still on…"

"I forgot….I--oh, I'm so sorry," she shifted nervously, embarrassed.

He cringed at the thought, worrying that even that simple task that was meant to keep her mind active was too dangerous for her to do unsupervised. "I distracted you….it's ok. It wasn't your fault," he said.

He heard the glass crunching under his shoes. Hastily, he grabbed a tissue to hold to the cut, and scoured the room for a recycler tool to clean the glass. He vacuumed the floor, then the desktop, moving each piece as he went, neatening the jumbled pile as he moved left to right. He paused again at the strange markings she had etched on the metal. So familiar...but…

Cleaning had helped ease some of his nervous energy, like always. When he turned back to her, she had pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, rocking slowly back and forth. He sighed, crunching the bloody tissue in his hand, sitting back down opposite her, facing the door as she still faced the window. Speaking to her as he would have his daughter, he said softly, "You're ok. Don't worry."

"You got hurt," she whispered, reaching up a hand slowly toward his gash that still lightly oozed.

"I'm all right," he said softly, his dry throat burning.

Her eyes clouded over and she looked away briefly. In an instant, she whirled back quickly, grabbing a hold of his chin hard and turning his face, while at the same time pressing her mouth against his wound. "I've tasted your blood, Tom," she growled, panting as if she had run a great distance.

He was shaking, trying to pull her hands away. "B'Elanna--" Uncertain as to what had caused the sudden change, such peculiar and inexplicable behavior, he struggled to get out her grip. She wrestled him down to the bed, and then flipped him over onto the floor. He felt the breath shoot from his lungs as his back hit the floor.

"What are you doing?" he gasped, struggling with her hands. She pinned him beneath her, straddling his hips as he pushed up against her. Her ragged breathing stopped as she pressed her lips against his and kissed him.

It was exquisite anguish, forcing her up away from him. "You don't want to do this...you…"

"I love you….." she breathed against his lips. When he closed his eyes again, tears rolled down his temples, his only indication that he was in fact crying. "I want this….I've missed this... you...so much…." she moaned.

All his remaining strength bled away, leaving him weak and longing, his heart aching from his long suppressed need. She was pulling at his clothes, ripping her own at the same time.

The next hour passed in a haze, intensity turning the memories of it to dreams, so that whenever he recalled it again it felt like he was trying to remember a dream that he had woken from. He said nothing…couldn't say anything….like he was balancing on the edge of reality and fantasy, and the slightest word or breath out of place would shatter the moment and he would lose her. Her eyes stayed clear the entire time, burning, fixed on his as he made love to her. His wife...there was nothing awkward, no vacancy any longer that had become the norm. She knew him…she remembered him.

How, he didn't know. But her touch, her mouth, every move she made beneath him was with the comfortable familiarity of old lovers, who knew instinctively how to please, effortless in the knowing.

The world shattered, crashing over them as they lay on the floor, glued together by their own sweat. Her cries of pleasure rang in his ears as he finally lay still, the soft moan as he withdrew he felt against his chest. As he lay unmoving, an instant later her breathing quieted. She was asleep.

Sleep escaped him for the moment. In the past, the amount of physical exertion their amorous pursuits demanded usually knocked him out cold for the night. But fear clenched his heart, and anxiety started eating away at him. The weight of her body against him was the most pleasant sensation he could remember in a long time. But...this wasn't real.

Oh my God, what have I done? Her mind was damaged...she could never go back to the way she was. She didn't even remember that they had any children...that were now gone. How had she come to, for just enough time to let this unfold? Was it what he had said, and she feared him leaving, losing the one regular, familiar thing she had come to rely on? His heart broke anew, flooded with guilt that he had satisfied his aching loneliness at her expense.

She shifted, circling her arm around his neck. Eleven years, she had fallen asleep like that, so that he could feel her arm against his cheek. It was like sleeping with a security blanket, an instant comfort like no other. Tears flowed from his eyes, into her hair. It was like giving a sip, but only a sip, to a man dying of thirst in the desert. He had never realized how intense his own anguish had been, until he had a moment's relief from it. And, the comfort of that, the sheer relief of that moment, was enough to lull him to sleep–his starship, his crew, his mission, and all that he had been burdened with was gone, his months of exhaustion accumulating to that very moment. He fell asleep listening to his wife breathing.

He woke, an hour later, to the sound of her screaming.