A/N: The first fanfic I ever wrote (years ago now) and never intended for anyone to read. Now that I'm here, though, I figured what the hell. It isn't good. Don't expect good. But it does satisfy my still-present desire to see them get the relationship they should have had.

"Captain?"

"Captain."

"KATHRYN!"

I start as I realize my first officer has been trying to get my attention for, well, who knows how long. We've been working in silence so long now, I realize I'd forgotten he was even there. The last week's constant attack/fight/flee/repair cycle has apparently ended. It's been quiet now for over 24 hours. We're tucked safely in a nebula, nursing our wounds and repairing our poor battered ship. The quiet has its downside, too, though. Reports. Piles upon piles of reports. Endless days of simply trying to survive have resulted in countless reports, some actually important, some not, all needing attention. So, after scrubbing most of the grime off and grabbing an hour's restless sleep, Chakotay and I are tackling a mountain of mind-numbing paperwork. I'm beginning to think I know how Sisyphus felt.

"Sorry, Chakotay. Guess I was really in the zone with this…" glancing at the padd in my hand, "…glorified grocery list Neelix insisted was too important to be ignored for one minute longer. I know he has good intentions, but I really wish sometimes he weren't quite so … enthusiastic." I chuckle as I say it, though, because I know as well as anyone that our morale officer has saved the lives of this crew in just as many ways as any phaser or photon torpedo. He reminds us to have hope when we begin to despair, and I'm afraid we would be lost without him.

"Suuuure." My first officer looks at me with open skepticism. "I actually think you may have lapsed into some kind of waking trance. Or maybe you were sleeping with your eyes open." His turn to chuckle. "Either way, your mind was NOT on groceries. Which is why I think we need to take a break. You are running on nothing but caffeine, judging by your nice little collection of coffee cups. You need food." I follow his eyes to the top of my desk. I have, indeed, amassed a pretty impressive collection. And, despite the fact that my eyes feel like they want to cross and my neck may now be permanently fixed in a hunched-over position, I'm feeling the jitters of a caffeine overload.

Chakotay considers my momentary silence and then asks, "Aren't you hungry?" I realize he's misinterpreted the quiet and is thinking that I'm trying to come up with some excuse to skip yet another meal. What he can't understand, what I can't explain to anyone, even myself, is that I'm always hungry. I have a pit in my gut that never stops twisting and aching, asking to be filled. No matter how many or how few meals I eat every day (and let's face it, it's always how few), no matter what I eat, no matter how much I eat. I am never not hungry. I assume it has to do with the fact that I stay amped up, metabolism burning like a plasma flare. I'm constantly overdosed on caffeine, adrenaline, fear…even when I'm sleeping, I'm just a breath away from red alert. I guess that probably burns through the calories with a quickness, right? So, over the years, I've come to an understanding with my constant hunger. If I only eat enough to stay alive and reserve those resources for the people on board Voyager that I have singlehandedly stranded 75,000 lightyears from home, then my conscience is eased just a little. The void in my stomach stays just as empty, but my heart doesn't ache quite as much. So, I load up on coffee until my nerves jangle and I can pretend I'm not starving, and I let my staff either think I've eaten or that I just don't want to. I've developed an impressive array of excuses to avoid being guilted into eating a meal that won't fill me up, and, six years in to this … adventure … they work pretty well. Except on him. He always knows.

"Sure, I could eat something." I say this to placate him. My mind is too numbed by the endless streams of numbers and letters, requests and demands, bad news and worse, that I just can't argue with him about food right now. "Just grab two of whatever you're having. And a cup of coffee." He turns to look at me from the replicator, disapproval flashing in his eyes.

"Kathryn, if you drink any more coffee today, I'm afraid your heart just won't be able to take it and it'll explode. And, to be honest, that's just one more report I don't care to add to our list. How about some tea? One of Neelix's concoctions? Wine? Anything else."

Because he used my first name, I know he means it. He won't order a coffee for me, and he's probably put some kind of override on the ship's systems that will prevent me from ordering some for myself for the next 12 hours or so. I roll my eyes and hold up a hand in defeat. "Fine. Tea, then." I see him smile to himself as he turns back to the replicator and, while his mother hen act can get old, I feel a slight flush of pleasure that he still cares enough about me to be concerned with my coffee addiction. Our forced service together has been difficult at times. We were enemies, then we were colleagues. We became friends, and we almost became something more. We both wanted it. I could tell how badly he wanted it. I'm pretty sure I successfully hid my feelings from him. Doesn't mean they weren't there, though. But, when "something more" didn't happen, we became best friends with an unspoken promise between us. Then the Delta Quadrant really threw some shit our way, and we became former best friends who were still colleagues. We've come out the other side of everything the Delta Quadrant has thrown at us, so far anyway, and we're still standing side by side. I guess that counts for something. I don't know if we're friends anymore, but in these rare moments of peace, I dare to hope that he doesn't hate me. That we're moving toward being friends again. Maybe we're even working on being best friends again. Things have been … smoother … lately. I know I've ruined the promise that our friendship once held though. I've been cold and hurtful. Worse, I've been dangerous. I've walked the line of ethics, sometimes testing the waters on the other side. I've diminished myself in his eyes, revealing that I am not the woman of principle he fell in love with. It's ok, though. Maybe even better. While I love him more every day, it's easier to be around him knowing he doesn't feel the same way anymore. I don't have to be quite as careful with my glances, casual touches, teasing tones. I don't have to worry that everything I do will give him false hope or hurt him further. I carry the burden of what could have been alone. I prefer it that way. But, when he shows such obvious concern for my wellbeing and takes that tone that lets me know he's going to take care of me against my will if he has to, my heart still flutters ever so slightly. At least, I think, he's still my willing to be my first officer. Willing to look out for his captain, even when she's beyond difficult. At least I haven't ruined that.

"Here." He returns to the couch in my ready room, where we have been working for the past 14 hours, with a plate of cheese, crackers, and fruit, and a glass of wine. He moves the padds to my desk, taking his usual care to keep everything in order and in its place. I protest. "Chakotay, why'd you move them all? We're just gonna have to move them all back when we're done eating. In fact, I can eat and work at the same time."

"Nope. You will be taking a bit of a break. You will be eating some dinner, drinking this glass of wine," as it registers for the first time that he's replicated wine for both of us rather than tea for me, "taking a hot bath, and going to bed. You are not to return to this room for the next 8 hours." I want to argue. There is so much to do. We need to get the repairs completed, figure out what supplies we need, see to our injured … the list never ends. But, when I open my mouth, I surprise both of us. "Ok." He looks at me for a moment, and I can tell I've rendered him speechless. I never give in that easily. I smile. "But only if you agree to do the same. I will not be sitting idle while you slave away in here. I know how you work, and, this time, I won't have it. It's not fair. So … deal?"

He grins at me and shakes his head, chuckling softly. "Yes ma'am. I know a captain's order when I hear one."

"Good. Now, let's eat. And you can catch me up on the ship's gossip." We spend an hour in easy company. He's closer to most of the crew than I am, so he's always full of the latest juicy tidbits about their personal lives. He fills me in on Tom's most current betting pools, Naomi's unsuccessful attempts to help Neelix in the kitchen (which explained why the crowd coming out of the mess hall last night looked particularly green around the gills), a couple of romances blossoming in engineering. It's good to hear. The crew, despite the hell we've been through in the past couple weeks, is showing their usual resiliency. I pick at the food, knowing he's paying attention, while pretending not to, and sip at my wine. After we've both eaten and had a second glass of wine (I suspect he's trying make sure I actually sleep tonight), we bid each other goodnight outside the doors to our quarters. I follow his instructions and take a bath. I sip another glass of wine and read a chapter out of an old novel. As tired as my eyes are, it's nice to escape reality for 20 pages or so. After I'm dried off and snuggled in bed, I drift off, secure in the knowledge that I'll sleep like a baby.

Hands on my shoulders, shaking me, waking me up. Someone is screaming. My face is wet and I can't catch my breath. I realize tears are streaming from my eyes and my throat is raw. My heart is racing, and it speeds up even more when I realize someone is in my room, touching my shoulders, forcing me onto the bed. I scream, realizing whose shout I heard a moment ago and understanding that must be why my throat is so raw. How many times must I have screamed to make it hurt so badly?

"Lights, thirty percent." My bedroom is dimly illuminated, and, when my eyes finally are able to focus, I realize Chakotay is the one standing by my bed, holding my shoulders. I relax and take a deep breath. No matter what our difficulties have been, I know without a doubt that he would die before intentionally lifting a hand to hurt me. When he sees that I've calmed down, he lets me go, and I sit up. He sits beside me, carefully taking one of my hands in his and stroking it calmly, waiting on my breathing and heartrate to return to normal. When I've collected myself, I ask him why he's in my room.

"I could hear you screaming in my quarters. You were terrified. I used my override code … you scared me to death." As he speaks, images from my dreams flash through my mind. Vidiians. Kazon. Borg. Hirogen. Every monster we've met in the Delta Quadrant and some that I'm pretty sure are of my own making. Although I can't remember the details (isn't that the nature of dreams?) I know I was being punished, tortured, killed over and over again, each species participating according to its particular perverse pleasures. And I'm glad I can't remember the details. I shudder, and he looks at me with the question in his eyes. "I guess I was fighting some monsters." My tone is light. He worries about me enough when I'm awake. He shouldn't feel obligated to start worrying about me when I'm asleep, too. "I'm ok. I'm sorry I woke you. You don't have to stay."

"Don't be sorry. I don't know how many times I'll have to tell you this before you believe it. I will always be beside you. No matter what." I feel tears well in my eyes again. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

"In that case, will you sit with me? Just until I fall back asleep?" My voice is small and I feel like a child asking to crawl in bed with her parents, but I know if he leaves now, I'll never go back to sleep. "Of course. Scoot." I move over to make room for him. He moves to sit with his back against the headboard, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He shivers and chuckles. "I will never understand how someone as tiny as you are can stand to keep your rooms at this arctic temperature." "Pull the blanket over your legs," I tell him. "I have no interest in explaining why my first officer died from hypothermia in my quarters." The bed shakes gently as he chuckles again under his breath. I'm on my side, turned away from him, not touching but just close enough to feel his warmth. The coldness of my room is also part of my atonement. I won't use resources to heat my personal space if they can be better used to benefit the crew. But he doesn't need to know that, so I chuckle too. I drift off into that in-between stage. Not really asleep, not really awake. The lights are completely off again. Although I'm still semi-conscious, I can feel my heartbeat slow and my breath become even. My mind, disconnected, realizes I may actually get some sleep after all.

He sighs deeply beside me, and I can tell he's drifting off, too. That's ok. Normally I wouldn't let him sleep in here, but I'm too tired and battered to care. If a little proximity helps us both relax and get some actual rest, then so be it. Then, in a whisper so soft I'm not even sure I heard it. "I love you." I don't move a muscle but I'm wide awake now. I take care to keep my breathing even and I listen to his. He's still awake after all. I have a decision to make. After all we've been through, all I've done, I still have a decision to make, and that simple thought almost paralyzes me. I sit up. His eyes are closed, but when I move he opens them, looking down at me. I sit up. "What did you say?" My voice shakes.

He looks guilty and when he answers me his voice is laced with regret. "I thought you were asleep. I just wanted to say it to you while you were actually in the room. I've told you a million times, but always when you're just on the other side of a door or bulkhead or argument. And I just wanted to say it when I could see you and at least pretend you'd want to hear it." He moves to get up and I know it's because he thinks he might have broken our fragile peace. I put my hand on his shoulder, firmly, stopping him in mid-motion. He leans back against the headboard, eyebrows raised, mouth set in a tense line, waiting for the ass chewing I know he expects. Parameters. How many times do I have to say it, right? Before I can perpetuate the long season of my stupidity, I kiss him. If someone had asked me at that moment, I would have said I was still shaken from my nightmares or sleepwalking or possessed by an alien. No matter how badly or for how long I had wanted to do that very thing, I had always known he was the one thing I could not have. Of course, that hadn't stopped me from fantasizing about it, imagining how his lips would feel on mine. I had always imagined our first kiss would come with the thrill of the prohibited. That tingling sensation when you're doing something absolutely wrong. Those fireworks and earthquakes that you feel when you finally give in to the most dangerous temptation. It doesn't. Our first kiss feels the opposite of prohibited, and I briefly marvel at how blind I've been. I'm home, safe, right. I already know what he likes. He already knows what I like. I'm not nervous but confident. I'm secure rather than worried. I realize now the magnitude of my idiocy.

His hands run up my arms, into my hair. They cup my face. They tease here, tantalize there. I realize my hands are doing the same to him. I realize our nightclothes are on the floor. And now, oh now there are fireworks and earthquakes.

We lay tangled together, utterly exhausted. For once it's an exhaustion borne of pure and total satisfaction. A feeling of relief rather than the bone wearying, soul crushing fatigue brought on by fighting desperately to stay alive in this part of space that seems determined to erase us. We talk. We work it out. We have become best friends again, and I have kept my unspoken promise. We kiss. We touch. We hold each other. And, finally, we sleep. I don't think I've really slept in all the years we've been in the Delta Quadrant. But in his arms, breathing his scent, feeling his heartbeat, sharing his breath, I truly sleep.

I wake to the computer's flat voice informing me it's time to get up. I hate that bitch. Apparently the allotted 8 hour break from report hell is over. I roll over, looking in his eyes. Have I really not done this every morning of my life? How can this be so completely normal to us after the years of parameters and Tom's betting pools and cold showers and fights and disappointments? He smiles sweetly at me, and we set off a few more fireworks. He gets up to get my coffee. I guess the moratorium on caffeine has been lifted, and none too soon. Standing at the replicator, he looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "Hungry?" "Nope. Just coffee, please." I grin a wicked grin at the raised eyebrow, knowing he is all too familiar with that tired response. Not hungry indeed. Except … . For the first time since hitting the Delta Quadrant, since the naked man standing in my quarters set foot on my bridge bristling with leadtherclad hostility, since I began my endless atonement for ruining the lives of an entire starship full of people … for the first time since all that happened, I'm not hungry. Not even a little bit. In fact, I am truly and completely full. And, looking at him, he smiles at me, and I can tell he knows it's the truth.