2/5

—
- i -
—

Admiral cCmndhd (whose first name was spelled suspiciously like the entire last third of the English alphabet but was pronounced exactly like John) was a surprisingly good conversationalist when the universal translators weren't choking on his native language. This made helping him defeat a pair of blank-faced Vulcan dignitaries at billiards less painful than it rightfully should have been (and left Kathryn suspecting that James Montgomery had sprained his wrist not because John wanted to win but because he didn't want to fall asleep during the match).

"They'd be better off playing poker," Kathryn said conspiratorially as she prepared to put the finishing touches on the last game of 8-balls. It had just started, but she was certain that she could dispatch with it quickly enough.

John, who had a deft hand at wry expressions, looked down at her from his fairly impressive height and twisted his thin lips, "Vulcan's don't gamble."

"Noooo, but they could logic themselves into a game of Dabo if they were so inclined."

"Fair point, but I'll wager that they are terrible at poker."

A quick look at their competition revealed that both men were staring at them with matching, thinly-veiled expressions of annoyance,.

Kathryn decided not to take him up on that bet, "They'd all have the same tell, wouldn't they?"

John lifted his brow dramatically, and she was forced to admit to herself that she had to stifle her laughter. When she turned to approach the table, it was with a sly smirk on her face, "Have you gentlemen been made aware of the fact that I'm the reigning champion of 8-ball in not only one quadrant of the galaxy but two?"

Several minutes later, John and Kathryn were seated at the bar. This was one of those privately owned establishments that was small, filled with real smoke, and likely kept running by the interests of a few Ferengi holdouts (1). Located in the Carpathian Mountains, it had taken two transports to reach (and more than a fair share of could-be-empty threats). The woman standing behind the counter was human, but she had a distinctly keen sense of profiteering, which meant that both Starfleet Admirals (despite their civilian garb) were recognized immediately for what they were and offered a round of congratulatory drinks on the house. The fact that they had quite a nice sum of winning credits to split between them and could be easily persuaded to buy more alcohol had helped as well.

"To the best pool player in this Quadrant and the next," John held his glass slightly aloft; Kathryn clinked hers against it, relieved that he hadn't so much as announced it loudly as stated it in a plain tone while barely looking away from the bar.

"I was thinking of taking on the Beta Quadrant next. I wonder if the Romulans have better intuition."

She herself was leaning against her elbows, wondering what in the world the admiral sitting beside her had up his sleeve. So far, they had kept the conversation shallow but friendly, and he had given no indication that her presence here was anything more than to give him a sure win (not that she was inclined to believe this), but he had been the one to offer the second round of drinks when it came time to order them.

"I know for a fact that they are," despite his coy smile, he did not enumerate (he reminded her of Mark in many ways, sly but kind, a man of many words but not entirely inclined to share them), which brought Kathryn to her next statement.

"I'm not entirely convinced that you brought me here to win a game of pool, John." Kathryn had taken to just saying John as if it were spelled that way, in order to avoid the embarrassment of choking on her own tongue.

"That's because I didn't."

"All right," she spoke slowly, "is this something I'm going to regret? Because if it is, I'm going to need more alcohol?"

This time John did smile, and indicated with his drink that they should get a more private booth (it was code for: I think the bartender is a spy, probably for the Ferengi or the Breen or Starfleet, and she's very clearly listening to us and I may or may not have a personal dampening field generator in my pocket).

"Not in so many words."

Kathryn scooped up her pálinka and followed him away from the bar, speaking softly, "This doesn't have anything to do with the hearings, does it?"

"Everything," he spoke quickly over his shoulder, ushering her into one of the booths before settling in opposite of her, "but I felt that we should discuss it out of earshot of P'ox and her people."

At her critical expression, he continued, his accent thickening to the point that he sounded Welsh, "P'ox is polite and actually quite nice, but she has her own agenda. The same as me, and the same as you. Yours and mine, they're a little more compatible with one another than they are with hers. In fact, ours run pretty well parallel, whereas with P'ox's..."
"They run at counter purposes," Kathryn finished, and he nodded while making a sound akin to a starship ricocheting off of a planet's surface.

"Do you think that bartender is one of her informants?"

John scrunched his nose, "Nah. At worst, she's one of Paris'." "Owen?"

"Especially him."

Kathryn shook her head, "Look. I don't know anyone's agenda let alone my own. Until a week ago, it was to get out of Emergency Ops and on a mission, any mission (even if it meant taking shifts on a Bajoran freighter) that got me off of this planet. That didn't work, and I've been forced to start building a new one from the bottom up."

John waved his hand at her, not dismissively but in disagreement, "No. Keep your old one. It was good, and we can work with that."

"I don't see how…"

"You made an unfair agreement with the Vice Admiral last week, and we'll have to work on a way to get you out of it. Well, not wholly unfair because she does control the pacing of the hearings and your agreement saw that it was placed on my docket next month, but unfair enough because the conclusion of that hearing was already determined months, perhaps even years, ago."

"Are you telling me…"

"That P'ox purposefully put off the ruling until you came to her directly? Yes."

"Why?"

At this point, John took a fairly hefty drink and rubbed at the emerging stubble on one of his cheeks. He seemed to be thinking of the correct way to approach this without it coming out as blatant treason and came to the conclusion that this was impossible but-to-hell-with-it-anyway:

"I suspect you've already done your research. During the war very few people outranked her in terms of intelligence clearance regarding the Delta Quadrant, and since the war those numbers have whittled away to only three. Your Admiral Paris is one, but he has no control over what happens internally, Admiral Ross rounds it to two, but he's so busy dealing with the fallout of Deep Space Nine that he couldn't be damned with your career. The last is... I'll give you two guesses; I'll even say that the first doesn't count."
"Admiral Nechayev," her response was so immediate that his lips quirked upward in a sort of out-of-place glee.

"Damn," Kathryn hissed, "I'd forgotten that they promoted her to Full Admiral."

"Well deserved, too, but the rumors have it that she's been placed in charge of keeping you in line. It's a full time job, if I've heard it correctly"

Kathryn snorted, "Yeah, and the rumors also have it that I'm in some sort of sordid affair with the Doctor."

There was a moment of silence as John let her think about that one. He sat, watching her with a clinical interest, until finally he stated, "And who do you think is behind those?"

"I refuse to believe that…"

"You willingly agreed to remain landlocked for the duration of your career to ensure that he was granted citizenship."

"I would do nothing less for any member of my crew."

"You are not being foolishly accused of having an affair with any of those other members. Kathryn," he used her first name to prevent her from cutting him off:

"You have not returned to a Federation of high moral standing. Everything has become a very unfashionable shade of dark grey since the war. It was recognized that your accomplishments could bring civilian faith back into Starfleet, but very few people at the top want to give you any real power. They've been scrambling to create ways to naturally undermine you since they realized Voyager was going to make it back in one piece."

That was all well and good, and on some levels made some sort of convoluted sense (Kathryn had to admit, though, that if they wanted to undermine her all they needed to do was flaunt the word Equinox to the press, not an affair. Unless they weren't trying to paint her as a homicidal maverick so much as make her look silly). That being said, there was one thing that just didn't make any sort of sense at all:

"You're only a Rear Admiral, the same as me. How do you know all of this?"

"Ah," John finished his drink, "its mostly well educated conjecture, and ah, I've found myself owing a few favors to Owen Paris, you see. He's really quite fond of you and hates what is happening, but has very few means of his own to stop it. I'm to keep your rank treading water."

"What's in it for you?"

"A promotion, for starters," he admitted, "but also a sense of fairness. I'm a sucker for it, it gives meaning to my life," he deadpanned, and Kathryn couldn't help but smile softly.

In response, he scowled at what appeared to be two cadets out after curfew before continuing, "When I said I was fond of your EMH, I wasn't lying, and I quite like you. You faced the impossible task of bringing your crew home to their families and succeeded, with more grace than most and with the majority of your sanity where it should be."

"Thanks."

"Owen has made it clear that the brass is punishing you for the actions of a version of you that no longer exists, while it's giving accolades to captains and admirals who did rather unspeakable things in the name of war. I'm a judge at heart, and I find it absolutely intolerable when the scales aren't balanced."

"All right," Kathryn conceded, sipping at her own drink, "I'll believe you. For now."

"Good. That's good. I'd like to have dinner next week to discuss this further. It'll have to be in public because the tabloids have been running photos of you and the EMH sitting cozily at a cafe and a bar. It'll do you some good to be seen in a social setting with someone else, specifically of your preferred gender."

Kathryn cursed internally, but externally her face was a mask of careful indifference, "Even if that someone else is the ruling judge in the Doctor's hearings?"

John waved his hand again, "Those are closed due to the nature of the ruling having already been decided. No one has access to the names of the presiding judges without a steep clearance. So steep that you sent a message to P'ox last week by even knowing that I was on the final panel."

"Really?"

"Really. The only people who will know we're actually in cahoots are Owen, P'ox and Nechayev, which is a good thing. Mostly. It's still two-to-one, there, and we're just the puppets dancing on strings."

"As puppets, what can we accomplish, exactly?"

"Probably nothing, but it should be fun regardless."

"Cheers," Kathryn said rather cheerlessly, slammed back her drink, and thought of how ridiculously convoluted Starfleet had become in her absence.

John flagged the attention of the nosy bartender and ordered another round.

—
- ii -
—

Two months, fifteen days and a handful of hours later, Kathryn found herself in the largest crisis situation since her return to the Alpha Quadrant:

That being the one year reunion gala celebrating the return of Voyager to the Alpha Quadrant, an event that approximately 15% of her former crew actually looked forward to. The other 85% saw it for what it was (a massive publicity stunt for Starfleet); or in the case of Mortimer Harren, they were entirely too misanthropic to care about seeing everyone again. Nevertheless, the small venue on the San Francisco campus was brimming full of 'The Voyagers' a horrible moniker bestowed upon her old crew by the media, and she found herself avoiding not one but ten undercover reporters (2).

"Admiral!"

Kathryn quickly swallowed her generous sip of wine and declared, "Oh thank god," at the site of Tom Paris making his way over to her, a massive cat-eat-the-canary grin on his face.

She'd feared that he would be a guest she didn't recognize or someone looking for a quote to publish.

"Haven't seen anyone this happy to see me in a while," he teased, boyish eyes alight with good humor.

He's having fun - Kathryn thought to herself incredulously before reclassifying him as one of the 15%, "My date's been usurped by Tuvok, and I've spent the last half hour avoiding ham-handed attempts by journalists to manufacture a scandal. You could conscript me to another round with Chaotica, and I'd still find it more appealing than this."

Tom's eyes twinkled a bit (in the way that they were always wont to do) as he held a finger to his lips and shhh'ed her in an exaggerated manner. Kathryn quirked a nonplussed brow and gestured for him to get on with it.

"Oh, all right," he rubbed his hands together as if conspiring with her, "I've been given the mission to encourage you to participate in the festivities."

"Really?"

"Yes!" He gave her a solid thwack on the back, "So stop standing here looking sour. Go forth. Mingle. Pilot's orders."

Kathryn gave him a mock solute, an Aye aye, and proceeded to remain right where she was standing.

Tom groaned, "Oh come on, Captain! Admiral! Kathryn! One of those three has to be right, maybe even two, don't think I don't notice the smile you're trying to hide. Seven's tormenting a member of the press corp (and if I'm not mistaken, she's doing it on purpose), Chakotay's boring B'Elanna with anthropology, and the Doc has been stealing glances this way for the last hour. You have a proverbial buffet of choices! I'd offer myself, but I promised Harry I'd rescue him from one of the twins in...two minutes ago. Excuse me."

A cursory glance around the hall told Kathryn that no one had paid witness to that excessive display of energy (even for Tom Paris) and that everyone was doing exactly what he said they were. Another glance told her that Tuvok had introduced John to T'Pel (she made a mental note to ask her friend how deeply he thought her association with the admiral went), that Tom had thrown a theatrical arm around Harry's shoulder, and that the Doctor was doing an awful job at hiding the fact that he was drifting slowly in her general direction.

She turned to greet him, "Greg."

The Doctor winced, "You did that on purpose."

"I haven't been told what name you settled on," she replied glibly, taking the time to sip from the rest of her wine.

"Doctor, for now."

"You had your name legally changed to Doctor?"

"For now," he batted at one of the streamers that had made its way down from the ceiling, sending it into Kathryn's drink.

She pursed her lips as she fished it out, "I got your correspondence."

This time his wince was less pronounced but gave the impression that she'd slapped him, "I wanted to talk with you about that, actually."

"Talk?"

His shoulders drooped, "I meant apologize."

"Whatever for?" it was cruel, she knew, to string this out more than necessary. After all, Kathyrn had only been a little put off by what he had implied between the lines of his thank you note for her participation in the outcome of his trial.

His face twisted in a way that made her fear that his imaging processors had been corrupted and leaned toward her, "I implied that you prostituted yourself on my behalf!"

"In so many words I did" she whispered (not very softly) back, "but not in the way you suspected," and I happen to appreciate John's company, thankyouverymuch, she didn't add.

"What does that mean?"

"In short, I'm currently at the whim of a Bolian. Admiral cCmndhd and I are simply spending time together to make her uncomfortable. It's working, so far as I can tell; she's switched out my best aide for someone in her office."

Kathryn leaned into him, a perplexed furrow in her brow, "Tell me something…"

Thoroughly confused by the sudden change in her tone, the Doctor frowned, "What?"

"Does Tuvok look like he's trying to intimidate my date?"

The EMH craned his neck a little (it really wasn't her imagination, his imaging processors were malfunctioning, as demonstrated by the 170-degree swivel of his head), spying openly, "On a scale of zero to ten, I'd say he's reached the maximum threshold of Vulcan behavior."

Kathryn set down her drink and made to move, "That's what I'm afraid of. Come with me."

The Doctor jumped and immediately began trailing behind her, "I'm sure he's only concerned about...don't glare at me like that, the man spent seven years on your bridge shooting at various alien lifeforms for you."

A soft chuckle cut off their approach, and Kathryn turned in time to see Chakotay extend another glass of wine to her (taking her now empty one in his free hand), "Don't worry, I overheard the conversation on the way over. Admiral cCmndhd is out-Vulcaning our Vulcan."

Shoulder's sagging in relief, Kathryn accepted the drink, "What were they saying?"

"I believe Tuvok was pondering the likelihood that 'Misters Kim and Paris would attempt their haphazardly organized and poorly concealed scheme to erupt a dampening field around the hall within the next hour.' Admiral cCmndhd has been insisting that it has already happened, since the undercover reporters have been complaining about their ineffectual devices for the last hour and a half. T'Pel doesn't have the heart to tell Tuvok that we saw the Admiral in the bushes not fifteen minutes ago, making sure said dampening field was still functioning."

With an expression that didn't know whether to be amused or confused, Kathryn managed a, "Really?"

"I'm not sure if I'm more concerned by the fact that Tuvok is participating in gossip or that Seven not only allowed herself to be included in the scheme but re-organized half of it to increase its probability of success," at this moment, Chakotay spotted Doctor as the latter attempted to sneak away and offered a genuine smile, "Hello and congratulations!"

The Doctor puffed out his chest and beamed, "Thank you, Captain. And congratulations to you! Voyager is in good hands. But if you two will excuse me, I left my date by the hors d'oeuvres."

As he walked away, the Admiral and Captain made and held bemused eye contact, the former mouthing, "Date?" in an exaggerated manner.

Across the room an ice sculpture toppled over, and Kathryn thought she heard three of her old crewmen drunkenly singing Klingon opera. After locating the scene with her eyes, she turned backed to Chakotay, grabbed his arm and smiled. For the first time in nearly a decade, she felt herself again.

"I think I'm going to go enjoy myself now."

His friendly grin was encouraging.

On her way, she caught sight of Seven, the tall blonde clearly done intellectually eviscerating whichever member of the press had been foolish enough to ask her 'who' she was wearing, and made mind. If nothing else, she'd at least leave the evening having made a real friend out of her protégée.

"Seven," she linked her arm through the other woman's, "let me introduce you to an Alpha Quadrant tradition. Spiked punch."

The blonde looked more receptive than Kathryn could have hoped given her past experience with alcohol, "Proceed."

—
- iii -
—

Several months passed before word reached her that the Doctor had petitioned to be granted civilian status. The note telling her came from Ccmndhd's office. A literal note. Transported to her desk while she's replicating her third morning coffee (eighth, if you considered the five she had downed while working through the night to coordinate relief to colonies ravaged by ion storms). Kathryn only noticed it was there when she went to access the report submitted by Lavek the evening before.

She blinked her weary eyes and worked hard to prevent them from crossing.

The note read:

'No legal grounds to deny. I'm sorry.'

From his penmanship, Kathryn could tell that if he didn't send notes via back-dooring the transporter system often, he made use of longhand elsewhere. Still, the neat script did nothing to help her understand what he meant, only that he only meant for her to know something.

After gulping down and additional good portion of her coffee, replicating a pen, and flipping the equally replicated paper John sent her over, Kathryn scrawled a sloppy reply:

'I know less than you think I do. Mind enlightening me?'

To her horror, the admiral's immediate response was to transport a hard copy of a confidential case file onto her mug. Kathryn only managed to snatch the stack up and toss it to the far side of her desk before her coffee could topple off the edge with the paper on it, but she could not actually prevent the coffee from spilling over onto the floor.

She swore (somewhere in the growing litany of it was a disgruntled "what is it with this guy") and pressed her palms into her eyes while attempting to count to ten. By five, the file was shoved into a desk compartment for later viewing. By eight, she had lifted herself to replicate a rag (there was no sense in leaving the cleaning to crewmen). Ten never came, as a chirp at her office door let her know that Lavek was there to steal her attention away to the Beta Quadrant melee that had been threatening to erupt for three days now (3).

Six hours later, she was frightening pedestrians as she stalked an intricate pattern through San Francisco alleyways. Having been awake for nearly sixty hours, her pallor and scowl gave the impression to anyone around enough to see her that the entirety of the Federation would crumble if happy civilians did. not. scramble. to. get. out. of. her. way. Naturally, they obliged; she didn't seem to notice.

On the inside, she felt that she was perfectly calm and behaving in a reasonable manner. Someone she had spent a great deal of effort and political capital (something she had been learning meant everything in the Alpha Quadrant) helping, had completely pulled the wool over her eyes. Kathryn thought she deserved more than a card after the fact, something Doctor surely would have done had John not broken two dozen laws and another couple dozen regulations.

It wasn't until she jammed her finger while ringing the chime that she began to reevaluate that assessment, and by the time the Doctor triggered the release to allow her to enter, she was no more ready to demand to know what he was thinking that she was ready to run a marathon. Instead, she let out a massive yawn (much to her chagrin) and said,

"Your petition for civilian status is going to be granted."

The hologram in question was wearing an apron (of all things) over his uniform and managed to have the foresight to appear chagrined, "Oh. You heard about that?"

She thrust the stack of papers in his general direction, barely registering that he had taken them from her, before she drifted idly toward his love-seat, legs feeling like lead, "The person responsible for informing me had assumed I already knew. Considering I derailed my immediate career aspirations of moving beyond cleaning up after Starfleet for you, I can see why they would have."

Whether the Doctor's eyebrows darted up his forehead because of the candor of her words or because the way in which she sat down resembled carefully coordinated falling, Kathryn wasn't certain.

She quirked an eyebrow in return.

The Doctor relented, he eyes falling to the file in his hand, "Why is this so large?"

Toying with the idea of kicking off her boots, but then thinking better of it (even exhausted, she was aware that the Doctor was unlikely cooking for himself but rather for impending company), Kathryn pinched the bridge of her nose, "It's mostly your service record. Starfleet isn't willing to risk fighting this and allowing it to go public. In fact, they have agreed to compensate you for eight years of service as a contracted civilian. "

"Oh," the Doctor then began what could only be described as a monologue on how wonderful it was that Starfleet finally understood the work he had done over the years (with nearly double the credit-compensation he had expected, no less) in a tone that suggested he was actually quite saddened (or was that offended, Kathryn couldn't tell) that they were not fighting to keep him around. Surely he was the best doctor they had, after all and…

Before he could get more than a minute and a half into the speech, Kathryn began to snore.

—
- iv -
—

Admiral cCmndhd personally delivered her a very stiff drink the next morning. Why he did so became apparent only later, when Tom forwarded her the latest photos from the tabloids.

When the morning settled into noon, Kathryn returned to her office to the sight of traditionally baked coffee cake, a hypospray loaded with a sleeping aid supplement, and a small succulent carefully chosen by someone who could not expect her to remember to keep a more needy plant alive. She suspected she knew who it was from, and decided she might forgive him, at the very least for allowing her to sleep until morning.

Kathryn would have to consider forgiving him for the rest.

—
- End Notes -
—

(1) Perhaps one of the greatest upsets of the post-war predictions was how easily the Ferengi Alliance was able to make the transition from a purely capitalistic society to that of socialism. Rather than jail political dissidents, Grand Nagus Rom had simply let them be. With less competition, many of the old profiteers had turned into robber barons, creating small niche markets on those planets in the Federation that had declared themselves currency free. Earth being one.

(2) Maybe she was only being paranoid, but Kathryn had originally felt that having the entirety of the Voyager crew converge on a single location for the celebration was not the brightest decision to come out of Starfleet headquarters. That was, of course, until John snuck her a copy of the classified study carried out by the same five mathematical geniuses that had determined she and starships were not compatible. The report had concluded that the likelihood of disaster occurring was 4%, with a 3% margin of error.

(3) Picard, despite his renowned diplomacy, had an unparalleled knack for pulling the Alpha Quadrant into Romulan shenanigans. This time it had to do with ships disappearing around the neutral zone, something the Romulans declared the doing of Starfleet — in this case, specifically, Picard. Naturally, Picard thought they were talking out of their posteriors. At least, that's what she gathered after their last subspace comm-link.