Disclaimer: Pick one.
Comment: To tell the truth, I was completely overwhelmed by the response to my story. Your comments are not only kind and respectful, but very insightful and thought-provoking, and even the ones stating that they don't believe captain Janeway would ever try to commit suicide made me look at the story from a different perspective. Nevertheless, I am not changing the general story line. I hope you continue reading and enjoying "Black Hole" for what it's worth. This chapter is from Chakotay's point of view.
Review: Yes, please! I'm counting on you, I read every review and take it very seriously, provided it's not a brainless flame. I couldn't do this without you.
A special thanks to Maja! I think you're wrong, but you express yourself very clearly and with much feeling, and if you're not already doing it, I would encourage you to take up writing RIGHT KNOW!! :-) I don't know if I can make this story into that "one-of-a-kind" you've been waiting for, but I will sure as hell try.
Special thanks also to those who offered to beta-read! And extra-special thanks to Michelle for actually taking the time and doing it:-) I owe you one.
Chapter 3: One Question
"How do you feel?"
Although it had only been two weeks, it seemed to Chakotay that he had been asked the same question innumerable times: worriedly, accompanied by an air of earnestness and firm handshakes, by people he hardly knew but who claimed to be "there for him," (cousins twice removed, old schoolmates, shopkeepers that used to give him candy when he was little); slyly, with greedy eyes, by reporters thrusting their cameras and micros into his face, hoping for a scandalous revelation, for a breakdown, for details about his sex-life; as a matter of courtesy by Starfleet interviewers who took great pains to make it perfectly clear just how little they cared about his answer; in a conspiratorial tone, by crewmates he met in the cafeteria, in between interviews, or who whispered it in his ear at one of the parties they were made to attend, as if it were not a simple question, but part of a secret code only they could understand.
At first he had been confused and befuddled, trying to give a truthful answer, until he realized no one wanted that. What they wanted was reassurance, so now he had a standard "fine, thanks" for everyone, complete with a blank smile and empty eyes that said nothing. It worked well enough, except for B'Elanna, who gave him an angry glare whenever he used that phrase on her. Last time (yesterday, on a party thrown by former Starfleet Academy classmates of the entire crew, a rather tumultuous affair) she had grabbed him by the arm even before he could say hi, and had hissed in his ear "don't you 'fine thanks' ME, Chakotay, don't you dare!" But then she had been borne away by the same small whirlwind of eager red-and-golden cadets that had swallowed Tom only seconds before. There was no time to talk, which was just as well for Chakotay. What was there to talk about, after all?
There were only three persons who had NOT asked him that question.
Alone in the temporary quarters he and Seven shared, within walking distance of Starfleet Headquarters, this was the first time he had more than two minutes for himself, that were not scheduled in advance, filled with meetings, hearings, formal and informal interviews, parties, gatherings - or Seven. All the members of the bridge crew (except for the captain) had been asked to share their quarters during the "initial formalities," (a somewhat frightening expression, Chakotay thought), and it had only seemed natural that he should share with Seven. It was not as if they were moving in together, but everyone, including themselves, seemed to take it for granted that they belonged together now.
Chakotay shook his head and moved over to the window, overlooking a patch of lawn and some poplar trees clinging to their last, wet, leaves. He didn't want to think about that. In fact, there were a great many things he didn't want to think about, and up until this moment he had managed to avoid doing it. That morning he had been informed that his meetings with Starfleet authorities were over for now, that "deliberations" were being held, and that he would be informed of the outcome. Fine. Seven, of course, they were told by enthusiastic, all but gloating groups of scientists, they needed to investigate "more thoroughly." Fine.
Should he be outraged at being treated in such a dismissive, haughty way? ("You will be informed," "you are asked not to leave the premises until further notice"; what was it with bureaucrats and the passive voice?) Should he be worried about Seven? Maybe. Maybe he would have been, once. Right now, all he felt capable of doing was staring out of this window straight ahead into nothingness.
Trying not to think.
He was not succeeding.
There were three unasked questions.
Seven had not asked him how he was because it was irrelevant, of course. There was nothing she could do about the way he felt. She could take him out for dinner if he was hungry, for a walk if he was restless, she could bring him another cushion or a blanket, she could talk to him if he felt like company or be silent if he would rather be alone. Those were the things she did for him.
She had adjusted with astonishing ease to being a "couple," to saying "us" and "we" instead of "me" and "I." Chakotay could see that she not only said it, but thought it. Like everyone else, she assumed they belonged together now. It was understandable: she needed something to be sure of. Everyone else had a family, friends, and they were content with taking things easy for a while, just enjoying being home, before thinking about the future. Seven, on the other hand, was not one to "take things easy," and her future was more uncertain than anybody else's. So, for the time being, she concentrated on being Chakotay's girlfriend, until someone told her what else she could be.
The captain, -Kathryn-, no, THE CAPTAIN hadn't asked him how he was either, simply because they hadn't talked since they arrived. Chakotay knew she had attended some of the same parties, that she had been questioned in the same buildings, sometimes in the same room he had just left or would be sitting in minutes ago. At first he hadn't noticed; he was so used to having her around, to *knowing* she was somewhere close by, that he just assumed she was.
A week ago he had begun asking; she had been here, yes, someone was sure he had seen her yesterday, Harry had heard her voice in an adjoining room - but no, no one could tell him where she was right now. Busy no doubt, weren't they all? Sure. He began leaving messages. No response. Should he try her mother's house? It seemed inappropriate and intrusive, but now that he had the time to think, the worry welled up in him like a black, sticky wave, threatening to drown him in blind panic.
Standing there by the window, Chakotay thought: "I'll call her mother. I'm sure she'll be there. I just want to make sure she's all right. I will turn around now, walk to the comm-console, ask for Gretchen Janeway's number... I WILL turn around NOW..."
But he couldn't move. Feet rooted to the carpet, heart beating madly against his ribs, sweating hands - all the classic symptoms of the imminent nervous breakdown. After two weeks of holding back, (two weeks? or was it more like five years?), his body was telling him that this was it: no one was moving until this question had been answered.
He leaned his forehead against the glass, spread his palms and put them on the glass too. As he spoke, Chakotay didn't recognize his own voice, creaky and small, coming out of a throat tightened with anguish. He was not surprised; he had not talked to himself for quite some time. But now there was no choice, so he asked the question again, and again, and again. All he could do was hope to come up with an answer, eventually.
"How do you feel?"
Comment: To tell the truth, I was completely overwhelmed by the response to my story. Your comments are not only kind and respectful, but very insightful and thought-provoking, and even the ones stating that they don't believe captain Janeway would ever try to commit suicide made me look at the story from a different perspective. Nevertheless, I am not changing the general story line. I hope you continue reading and enjoying "Black Hole" for what it's worth. This chapter is from Chakotay's point of view.
Review: Yes, please! I'm counting on you, I read every review and take it very seriously, provided it's not a brainless flame. I couldn't do this without you.
A special thanks to Maja! I think you're wrong, but you express yourself very clearly and with much feeling, and if you're not already doing it, I would encourage you to take up writing RIGHT KNOW!! :-) I don't know if I can make this story into that "one-of-a-kind" you've been waiting for, but I will sure as hell try.
Special thanks also to those who offered to beta-read! And extra-special thanks to Michelle for actually taking the time and doing it:-) I owe you one.
Chapter 3: One Question
"How do you feel?"
Although it had only been two weeks, it seemed to Chakotay that he had been asked the same question innumerable times: worriedly, accompanied by an air of earnestness and firm handshakes, by people he hardly knew but who claimed to be "there for him," (cousins twice removed, old schoolmates, shopkeepers that used to give him candy when he was little); slyly, with greedy eyes, by reporters thrusting their cameras and micros into his face, hoping for a scandalous revelation, for a breakdown, for details about his sex-life; as a matter of courtesy by Starfleet interviewers who took great pains to make it perfectly clear just how little they cared about his answer; in a conspiratorial tone, by crewmates he met in the cafeteria, in between interviews, or who whispered it in his ear at one of the parties they were made to attend, as if it were not a simple question, but part of a secret code only they could understand.
At first he had been confused and befuddled, trying to give a truthful answer, until he realized no one wanted that. What they wanted was reassurance, so now he had a standard "fine, thanks" for everyone, complete with a blank smile and empty eyes that said nothing. It worked well enough, except for B'Elanna, who gave him an angry glare whenever he used that phrase on her. Last time (yesterday, on a party thrown by former Starfleet Academy classmates of the entire crew, a rather tumultuous affair) she had grabbed him by the arm even before he could say hi, and had hissed in his ear "don't you 'fine thanks' ME, Chakotay, don't you dare!" But then she had been borne away by the same small whirlwind of eager red-and-golden cadets that had swallowed Tom only seconds before. There was no time to talk, which was just as well for Chakotay. What was there to talk about, after all?
There were only three persons who had NOT asked him that question.
Alone in the temporary quarters he and Seven shared, within walking distance of Starfleet Headquarters, this was the first time he had more than two minutes for himself, that were not scheduled in advance, filled with meetings, hearings, formal and informal interviews, parties, gatherings - or Seven. All the members of the bridge crew (except for the captain) had been asked to share their quarters during the "initial formalities," (a somewhat frightening expression, Chakotay thought), and it had only seemed natural that he should share with Seven. It was not as if they were moving in together, but everyone, including themselves, seemed to take it for granted that they belonged together now.
Chakotay shook his head and moved over to the window, overlooking a patch of lawn and some poplar trees clinging to their last, wet, leaves. He didn't want to think about that. In fact, there were a great many things he didn't want to think about, and up until this moment he had managed to avoid doing it. That morning he had been informed that his meetings with Starfleet authorities were over for now, that "deliberations" were being held, and that he would be informed of the outcome. Fine. Seven, of course, they were told by enthusiastic, all but gloating groups of scientists, they needed to investigate "more thoroughly." Fine.
Should he be outraged at being treated in such a dismissive, haughty way? ("You will be informed," "you are asked not to leave the premises until further notice"; what was it with bureaucrats and the passive voice?) Should he be worried about Seven? Maybe. Maybe he would have been, once. Right now, all he felt capable of doing was staring out of this window straight ahead into nothingness.
Trying not to think.
He was not succeeding.
There were three unasked questions.
Seven had not asked him how he was because it was irrelevant, of course. There was nothing she could do about the way he felt. She could take him out for dinner if he was hungry, for a walk if he was restless, she could bring him another cushion or a blanket, she could talk to him if he felt like company or be silent if he would rather be alone. Those were the things she did for him.
She had adjusted with astonishing ease to being a "couple," to saying "us" and "we" instead of "me" and "I." Chakotay could see that she not only said it, but thought it. Like everyone else, she assumed they belonged together now. It was understandable: she needed something to be sure of. Everyone else had a family, friends, and they were content with taking things easy for a while, just enjoying being home, before thinking about the future. Seven, on the other hand, was not one to "take things easy," and her future was more uncertain than anybody else's. So, for the time being, she concentrated on being Chakotay's girlfriend, until someone told her what else she could be.
The captain, -Kathryn-, no, THE CAPTAIN hadn't asked him how he was either, simply because they hadn't talked since they arrived. Chakotay knew she had attended some of the same parties, that she had been questioned in the same buildings, sometimes in the same room he had just left or would be sitting in minutes ago. At first he hadn't noticed; he was so used to having her around, to *knowing* she was somewhere close by, that he just assumed she was.
A week ago he had begun asking; she had been here, yes, someone was sure he had seen her yesterday, Harry had heard her voice in an adjoining room - but no, no one could tell him where she was right now. Busy no doubt, weren't they all? Sure. He began leaving messages. No response. Should he try her mother's house? It seemed inappropriate and intrusive, but now that he had the time to think, the worry welled up in him like a black, sticky wave, threatening to drown him in blind panic.
Standing there by the window, Chakotay thought: "I'll call her mother. I'm sure she'll be there. I just want to make sure she's all right. I will turn around now, walk to the comm-console, ask for Gretchen Janeway's number... I WILL turn around NOW..."
But he couldn't move. Feet rooted to the carpet, heart beating madly against his ribs, sweating hands - all the classic symptoms of the imminent nervous breakdown. After two weeks of holding back, (two weeks? or was it more like five years?), his body was telling him that this was it: no one was moving until this question had been answered.
He leaned his forehead against the glass, spread his palms and put them on the glass too. As he spoke, Chakotay didn't recognize his own voice, creaky and small, coming out of a throat tightened with anguish. He was not surprised; he had not talked to himself for quite some time. But now there was no choice, so he asked the question again, and again, and again. All he could do was hope to come up with an answer, eventually.
"How do you feel?"