A/N: Again, rating speaks for itself, but this chapter is quite dark. Angsty is the word, and for this entire story, this chapter is one of the angstiest. I promise, there is a happy ending. But a lot of what happens here drives motivations in the future. It has to be as bad as it gets for the characters to act as they do, something we rarely saw in the actual show.
June 1, 2386
Starbase 47
Aaron had never been so exhausted in his life. It went beyond lack of sleep, aching and fatigued muscles, or blurry vision from eye strain. His soul was tired. He had worked, multi-tasking, until the earlier hours of the next day. He shuffled between moving medical equipment, transporting patients, holding bandages, all the while fielding damage reports and sensor sweep information, and filing away the repeated status reports as the teams moved meticulously through the ruined station. When he finally had a moment to catch his breath, he realized more than half of another day had gone by.
He walked into the Infirmary, worried about what information he would be confronted with. Worse, he'd had no further communication with Tom since Miral had gone into surgery. The fear in his gut almost sickened him. Adding to that fear was the fact that T'Lassa had closed her mind to him, leaving him unable to sense anything from her other than the faint flutter of her presence in the back of his mind. He told himself it was just her way of working without distraction, but he also feared she had not wanted him to know the full extent of what she knew, and what she had seen.
T'Lassa heard the sound of his footfalls as he approached. She turned, and the look of her, so disheveled and out of sorts, left him at a loss. She still had not treated her head wound, though the blood had coagulated, leaving it dark and blistery. She was pale, her face gaunt, with dark, ashy circles beneath her eyes from her exhaustion. Her hair was even more tousled than before, and she had neglected to pin it back. The fact that in her eyes, he saw only pain startled him the most. When she let down her mental guard, the wave of anguish that blasted into him nearly caused him to stumble out of his brisk stride.
"Lieutenant Commander, you must relieve Commander Paris of duty," she said stiffly, stoically, as Vulcan as he had ever heard her sound in all the years he had known her.
He looked at her, stunned. He could have asked her why, but had a sinking suspicion he already knew what her explanation would be. "Doctor?" he questioned without direction.
She took a step toward him. "I will provide all the necessary documentation you require. But you must. He has reached the end of his ability to endure," she proclaimed, the dread thickening her voice.
He felt his stomach lurch at what she was saying. "Doctor?" he asked again. It was serious, reserved for the most dire of situations. Having something like that documented in his file, even for something this disastrous, could have dire consequences for the rest of his career with Starfleet. However, at the moment, Aaron was sure Starfleet was the absolute last thing Tom cared anything about.
She folded her hands behind her back, something she frequently did, only he sensed this time, it was so he would not see the slight tremor in her hands. "Miral did not survive her injuries." At his obvious dismay, she took another step closer. "B'Elanna's condition demanded we deliver the baby now. The fluctuating power in the neonatal unit prevented us from stabilizing him. He perished as well. B'Elanna is still in surgery. I am not certain that she will survive. Her injuries were...severe…and extensive."
"My God," he whispered, blown away by the true magnitude of Tom's loss and grief. He had already lost his father yesterday, and compounded with all of this, it was unbearably devastating.
Her voice actually wavered when she added, "He has been pacing around the neonatal unit...with his son's body in his arms. We have all tried to convince him to stop…and we have failed. He needs to be sedated. Aaron, you must help him. You are his closest friend here." She touched his arm. "Please," she pleaded. Her emotions were stuffed inside, suppressed, he knew, but he could see the despair in her pleading eyes.
He felt the sting of tears in his own eyes, knowing reproachfully that Tom needed none of that. Help me, Las. I need your strength.
What I have left, I pledge to you, Aaron. Even her voice in his head sounded tired.
But, when he turned from her, he felt it like a warm fire in his thoughts—her strength and emotion projected outward to comfort him. Like extended shields, he thought crazily. He let the warmth envelop him like a blanket. Anything to quell the feeling of ice that had started creeping into his veins.
}LS{
The room was dark as he entered, the low lighting casting large, irregular shadows over the ground where he stepped. Aaron saw the shadow in front of him seeming to wink in and out. He realized sadly, it was caused by Tom's keening, rocking back and forth as he leaned against the wall. As Aaron got closer, he could hear the low moaning sound seeming to come from deep in Tom's chest. His friend was literally covered in blood; it was in his hair, completely drenching the gray on the shoulders of his uniform, streaked across his face. His hands were coated as well, along with the blanket he held gingerly in his hands.
At last, Aaron's fearful eyes set on the child swaddled inside. He was tiny, smaller than any other human baby he had ever seen. The baby's skin was gray, a pallor emphasizing the life missing from his body. Tiny, delicate brow ridges, identical to his older sister's, were visible as well. The thought of Miral sent the grief spiraling, until he felt the warmth again, as T'Lassa helped him repress it.
"He's beautiful, isn't he?" The timbre in Tom's voice was off, unsteady, with a strange undertone, almost as if he were holding back laughter. The laughter of insanity, Aaron sensed with increasing dismay. "His name was supposed to be Michael. After my grandfather…Michael Owen. The records they have to file…they'll say Baby Boy, or Paris-" His voice broke. He swallowed hard. "But his name is Michael." Tom turned to face him, his eyes radiating an infinite pain. And although he looked at Aaron, he seemed to look through him, like he was having difficulty focusing his eyes.
"Tom, will you let me take him?" Aaron asked gently.
"Once you take him, I'll never be able to hold him again," Tom wailed in desperation. "Never…..hold…." He stopped speaking as his body began trembling. "Oh my God, Aaron. They're all gone…everything I ever loved….everything I had when I woke up this morning..." The hysteria reached its peak, and then tears began to pour from his eyes.
The effort to keep himself in check took literally all of Aaron's strength. "B'Elanna is still alive. She needs you."
"She's dying," Tom howled back in defiance. "She was exposed to vacuum for almost 30 seconds. T'Lassa couldn't explain to me how she was even still alive when they found her!"
"She's fighting for her life," Aaron insisted. "You can't give up, when she's fighting as hard as she is."
Tom's response to that was a hideous cackle of laughter, dripping with bitterness and anger. It lasted for too long, and drifted back into sobbing as Aaron stood transfixed in horror. The doctor had been correct in her assessment, he thought. Tom was completely overwrought, undone by tragedy and misery. Finally, Tom did catch his breath, his voice edgy and brittle.
"I've always been able to escape death. I've never faced it…not like this. There was always some way, something that saved us. Like we had a guardian angel or something." He did laugh then, so bitterly it burned in his throat. "Not anymore."
"Please, Tom. Let me take him. I'll make sure the doctor knows what his name is." He was close, and he felt Tom waver. He felt, rather than heard, T'Lassa come up behind him.
She felt something inside Aaron seemed to break through, a blast of his will pushing through her shields for him. It was a wall of emotion–anger and sadness, rising in crescendo like a tidal wave. "Damn it, Tom! I know what it is to lose literally everything. The absolute despair you feel right now. But, trust me when I tell you, it's too much for you to deal with alone. Please, let me help you." He looked Tom straight in the eye, held his gaze. Aaron watched as the tension in Tom's arms slackened. Gently, he reached for the blanket and took the baby's body from Tom.
T'Lassa flashed by him, straight to Tom's arm with a hypospray. "You need to rest, Commander," she whispered compassionately.
"Then you need to give me more than what you just did," he said slowly, his speech almost slurred.
Aaron left the room with the baby, handed his swaddled body to the nurse waiting outside. Well done, Commander. He heard it clearly, and felt the admiration radiate from her. Once the tension cleared, and she rescinded her shields from him, he sagged against the wall, spent, the emotion tearing through him like a bolt of lightning.
Yes, he knew what it was to lose everything he loved, how utterly destructive a force loss could be. If Aaron had lost what his friend had just lost, Aaron knew would have given up. He had given up before, for much less, comparatively speaking. Darkly, he realized, the urge to convince Tom he had a reason to go on seemed hopeless. But he knew he must, somehow. He was just unsure of how to continue.
}LS{
Aaron had only met Captain Chakotay once, many years ago. He knew Tom and B'Elanna were close friends of his, and they had maintained frequent contact. It had actually been during the first time Aaron had been significantly struggling with his substance abuse problems, right before T'Lassa had confronted him, and he had asked her for her help. What stayed in Aaron's memory at the encounter was how casual he was, not at all like any other Starfleet captain Aaron had served with. Chakotay was kind and compassionate in a unique way.
Chakotay had beamed down with his first officer, Lieutenant Commander Harry Kim, into the staging area outside the Infirmary. Aaron watched as he looked around, using only his eyes, surveying the utter destruction of the station. His mouth set in a grim line. "Captain Chakotay," Aaron said firmly, grasping his hand in greeting.
Chakotay flashed a brief, radiant smile, incongruous to the pain reflected in his eyes, as he said, "This is my first officer, Lieutenant Commander Kim." Chakotay gestured towards his companion.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Commander. I've heard a great deal about you," Aaron said lightly, shaking each man's hand briskly.
Harry smiled tightly, the smile never reaching all the way to his eyes.
"I read your reports, Commander, while we were still en route. What do you need from us?" Chakotay asked as they walked into the Infirmary. T'Lassa approached as the trio came near.
"Thank you for coming to our assistance, Captain," T'Lassa offered.
"This is Dr. T'Lassa, our Chief Medical Officer," Aaron said formally.
"I just wish we could have made it here sooner," Harry offered dejectedly.
"Indeed," she said flatly. "However, you are here now. The most severely injured cannot be moved, but, with your permission, some of the less severe cases could be transported to your ship's Sick Bay. There were 800 people left on the station when the reactor exploded. We still have over 400 wounded who need treatment."
Chakotay nodded, tilted his head toward Harry. "Will you see to that, Commander?"
"Yes, sir," Harry said crisply, heading away.
"How many fatalities?" Chakotay asked softly once Harry had departed their company.
"Including Admiral Paris, and Commander Paris' premature child, 47," T'Lassa explained.
Aaron watched as Chakotay absorbed the information, his face falling as the pain became apparent. "Where is Commander Paris right now, Michaels?" he asked.
Aaron didn't respond immediately, and Chakotay watched as something unspoken passed between the commander and the doctor. T'Lassa was slow to break eye contact with Aaron, and began hesitantly, "As per a discussion with Lieutenant Commander Michaels, Commander Paris was relieved of duty approximately 15 hours ago. He was sedated and confined to the Infirmary, but, we couldn't keep him here once he woke up."
Chakotay turned to Aaron, somewhat impatiently, as T'Lassa's description did not explain his current location. "He's still pretty heavily sedated, but he's helping some of the damage control and repair teams," Aaron offered.
"Do you think that's wise? Considering the potential for injury?" Chakotay asked mildly.
T'Lassa intervened, wanting to make sure the Captain understood exactly what the situation was. "I gave him three cc's of somnambutol and he only slept for four hours. It was unsafe to dose any more. Letting him keep busy, however trivially, was preferential to keeping him here."
Chakotay stood still, never shifting his eyes away from the pair who stood shoulder to shoulder. It wasn't what he would have done, for multiple reasons. Safety of course, but also just the optics of the situation. Paris was their commanding officer, and drastically incapacitated with medication he needed to merely function. With damage repair teams? Had they somehow instructed the engineers to keep the dangerous tools away from him?
The Captain opened his mouth to object more adamantly, but stopped himself. He'd had multiple interactions with Paris as the Starbase Commander over the course of the years since returning from the Delta Quadrant. Paris had his own command style, uniquely suited to the life he lived here with his team. Informality was more acceptable in this situation. He worked with design teams and structural engineers. They collaborated as a team, with little regard for rank, until certain situations, like the recent crisis, demanded it. He was very friendly with the people who reported to him, and yet, maintained the proper distance. Janeway had struggled with a similar sort of scenario while they had been stranded in the Delta Quadrant. The crew had become like family due to their circumstances, and she had led them as their Captain, but also their friend. Chakotay actually hadn't been all that surprised how Paris' style had evolved, considering he had learned primarily from both himself and Janeway.
So, in this unbelievably trying situation, Chakotay tried to take a step back, and not judge too harshly, or micromanage an inferior officer simply because of his rank. He was their commander, but he was a complete mess, and understandably so. Their sense of loyalty and camaraderie could work wonders, despite the fear that the crew would lose morale to see their commander so broken. Tom had always spoken so highly of his first officer, Lieutenant Commander Michaels. Chakotay was sure, regardless of how it was explained, that Michaels was running interference in this case–making sure that Paris stayed where his outward demeanor would not undermine the command structure in any way.
Together, they had been through some rough times on Voyager. Chakotay had numerous examples in his recall about how Tom acted when he was concerned for people he cared about. Nervous energy for Paris needed an outlet; despair and hopelessness needed work as a distraction. How much could one man endure before he broke? Anger seethed beneath Chakotay's calm exterior, an anger fueled by helplessness in the face of so much tragedy. "Commander Torres?" he asked, turning partially away from her.
"She is currently in a coma," T'Lassa said stiffly.
Chakotay turned back to Aaron, his eyes misted though his jaw was set. "What happened to her, Commander?" There was nothing but tenderness in the asking. Aaron knew it came from his place of friendship for her, not as a Starfleet officer. Aaron felt compelled to relay the whole truth.
"She had to manually eject the reactor from inside the bay. She was exposed to vacuum for half a minute, and then buried underneath the debris from the explosion for hours before we found her." Aaron paused to breathe, keeping his voice steady. "If she hadn't done what she did, the reactor would have torn the station apart. The ejection mechanisms were too badly damaged for the reactor to clear when it was released. All you would have found when you arrived was debris."
Aaron continued, his voice even softer as he did so. "She was hemorrhaging. The Doctor had to deliver the baby. He was three weeks premature and the state of disrepair in the Infirmary interfered with their efforts to save him."
T'Lassa took up the explanation. "She has significant brain damage, from what I read of her scans, although she hasn't regained consciousness. She's also lost a tremendous amount of blood, and the damage to our systems has prevented the synthesis of Klingon blood replacement. Can your Sick Bay synthesize it?"
"I'll send word to Dr. Jothan right away." In a whisper, he added, "Do you expect her to recover?"
She hesitated as she answered, sensitive to the devastation of her words. "I do not know. I can't know the extent of her injuries until she regains consciousness. And I have no way of knowing if, or when, that may be."
"Understood," he conceded. He took a deep breath, then another, before he continued. "We are prepared to begin evacuating the remaining personnel to the ship. I know your repair crews are working to stabilize things, but so much of the station is uninhabitable, or destroyed, I believe it would be the safest thing to do."
Aaron nodded, already working his mind to separate those who would leave and those who would stay behind.
June 2, 2386
USS Endeavor
Aaron lay awake on his bunk in his guest quarters aboard the Endeavor, exhausted and yet unable to sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, visions of destruction and death blazed through his mind behind his eyelids. T'Lassa had offered him medication to help him sleep, but he had adamantly refused, now so abhorrent to any type of medication to lull his emotional pain.
He had lost all sense of how long he had lain in the darkness when he heard the door hiss open. She was trying to be quiet, something much easier for a Vulcan, as she believed she may wake him. "Las, it's all right. I can't sleep," he called, relieving her of her effort for stealth. "T'Mira is asleep in the adjoining room. She transported over with me earlier."
"How is she?" T'Lassa asked, a curious concern in her tone, edged with the regret that she had not spoken directly with her daughter since the loss of her friend.
"She's Vulcan," Aaron sighed in reply. "I don't know how good I am at reading her. It took me years before I could pick up on your signals. She seemed extra serious, if that means anything to you."
She walked towards the bed, a shadowy form in the faint light. "She is still learning to suppress her emotions. Intense emotions often cause an overcompensatory state in young Vulcan children. She is learning to grieve, in the Vulcan way. But she is grieving. It is extremely difficult. Miral and T'Mira were quite close."
Aaron's face was masked in shadow, his expression unreadable to her. She lowered her shields ever so slightly, bracing herself for Aaron's emotions to overwhelm her. She found in the misery what she was questioning, his awkwardness when it came to dealing with her daughter. It was something she had been meaning to discuss with him soon. This tragedy seemed to minimize the importance of what she would say, but sensing his concern, she chose to say it anyway.
"You fear being awkward with my daughter," she proclaimed.
"I am awkward with her. The only child I have ever spent a great deal of time around is…was…Miral," he said, choking on her name, blistering inside with the memory that he needed to use the past tense. "She's Vulcan, which adds to the unease. I just wish I knew what she needed from me, what I can do for her, knowing what you do."
T'Lassa's voice was gentle and soft when she replied. "My daughter doesn't know you all that well, but she knows, without question, how important you are to me. How I have always felt about you. She trusts you, because of the way you are with me. Just remaining open and honest is the best advice I can give you. Be present."
She heard him sigh, waiting but not getting another reply. "You need to sleep, Aaron. You have been awake almost 40 hours," she admonished.
"So have you," he said softly.
"I am Vulcan. I can go five days without sleep if necessary," she defended.
"You're part human too, you know. And you can push that Vulcan line to everyone else, but not me. I can feel how worn out you are," he told her.
She sat on the edge of his bed, a slight sound like a sigh as she did so. "I became a doctor because I believed in the necessity to help others, to cure illnesses and repair injuries. It is a great source of frustration to be….unable to alleviate so much pain and suffering."
"I know," he whispered, reaching up and touching her back. She bent down, laying her head on the pillow next to him, swinging her legs up to lie beside him.
"I told Tom I would help him. But the truth is I don't know how...to help anyone. I feel nothing now….except despair. That helps nothing." The tears that had formed in his eyes dripped forward.
Gently, she kissed his cheek where the tears crossed the skin. You must grieve, T'hy'la. Humans grieve loss. It is all right, no weakness, to give in to despair when it threatens to overwhelm you.
He pulled her against him, holding her, grasping her, as if she were the only thing keeping him from drowning. She felt heavy with his anguish.
Comfort, she heard him say in her thoughts. She understood. Surrounded by death and mayhem, he clung to her, breathed in her life as a balm for the despair. He had never experienced feeling this way, such desperation and need for her, if only to push the death away from himself. She complied, knowing her body was acting as a bandage for his many wounds, new ones and old ones, all bleeding now from this trauma.
No matter what, you are no longer alone, she thought to him. He cried as she held him against her, insulating herself from the intensity of his grief, but offering herself as support. It was, alas, the only thing she could do in this case, to alleviate this particular suffering.
June 12, 2386
Starbase 47
This morning, just as he had done for the past nine days, Tom sat in the Infirmary, beside his wife, who lay unresponsive on a biobed. He held her cold, clammy hand against his lips, clutched in his own. The burns on her face had been healed, and though he had not seen them, he was told the broken capillaries in her eyes had healed as well. The tip of two of her fingers from the hand he held were gone, the meditape still in place, as the wounds had not completely healed. When he looked at her frame beneath the blanket, he would never have been able to tell that she had been pregnant less than two weeks ago. She was thinner now than he had ever seen her, even the hollows in her cheeks more pronounced.
He felt somehow that he had been here before. On Voyager, more than once, especially because he had been a medic, he had stood or sat by her when she was ill or injured. But as he had said to Aaron, in what felt like a dream when he tried to remember, she had always gotten better. They had always found a way. Even once, she had been lost for over 14 days after a shuttle crash. Until now, that had been the worst progression of time in his life, the agonizing worry and anxiety nearly crushing him. By another miracle, she and Harry had been found alive and well. He had only dealt with this feeling in transition, and it had always gotten better.
Having this feeling sitting on top of him, for this amount of time, he had never known before. The closest he had ever come would have been when he was on the transport on the way to the penal colony in New Zealand, when he had felt his life had been utterly destroyed. But then, he had been so much younger, and despite the utter helplessness he had felt, he had not let the light of hope inside him die. If he had, Kathryn Janeway would have had no use for him 15 years ago.
He remembered the first time he had ever seen B'Elanna- first in a frightening row of unmoving bodies, specimens in a horrific experiment initiated by the Caretaker, who had pulled them 75,000 light years to be his test subjects. The fear gnawing at his stomach at the sight of the alien laboratory full of living beings had distracted him, but her sleeping face, peaceful despite the gruesome backdrop, caused him to pause. The delicate ridges on her forehead indicated a mixed Klingon heritage. The beauty of her face struck him, paused him, which beauty hardly ever did.
The nightmare period in between had blurred for everyone, but she had not been returned, just as Harry Kim had not. He had seen her later, weak , ill, barely able to stand on the staircase that led out of the Ocampan underground. Kes and Neelix had pulled her up while he lifted Harry, who was just as weak and ill, but not before her dark eyes flashed angrily at him, burning with an intensity that left him breathless. Why she was angry, he could only guess, but it obviously ran deep, he knew, remembering how as he had pulled her up through the hole in the ground how she had struggled against his hold, even though without it she would have collapsed. Then he had dragged her up off the ground, pulling her arm across his shoulders for support, her petite, lithe frame oddly dense, more muscular than he had anticipated. She had glared at him then, in his makeshift Starfleet uniform, hating him and everyone, despite his help.
January 18, 2371
USS Voyager
The transporter effect faded away, leaving him supporting Chakotay's full weight. Tom braced himself, repositioning his grip so Chakotay's broken leg didn't hit the floor. "Being a Maquis has ruined your girlish figure. You nearly suffocated me."
The medics began helping Chakotay onto the biobed, as he retorted, "Pardon me for pulling your back out with my dead weight, Paris."
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw the EMH moving between Harry Kim and the Klingon woman. "Are they going to be alright, Doc?" Tom asked, a little nervous for his new-found friend. The feeling unsettled him, as it had been quite some time since he had been concerned with anyone other than himself. Tom's stepping out of the way gave the woman a full view of Chakotay's compound fracture, the bloody bone protruding through his pant leg.
She jumped off the biobed. "Chakotay! You're hurt." She wasn't, however, strong enough to stand, slinking down weakly as the Doctor caught her arm. Tom moved to assist the Doctor, but she yanked her arm away. "Don't touch me, Peta'Q!" Her vehement hatred was unexpected. He had no idea who she was, but she must have known him by reputation, most likely because of Chakotay.
"B'Elanna, stop," Chakotay said. She immediately calmed, though her dark eyes were still flashing, her muscles tensed like a coil. "He saved my life," Chakotay added softly.
Tom moved beside Harry, who watched impassively at the exchange. Chakotay had somehow earned her trust. He wondered how, considering she seemed angry at everyone and everything.
"Mr. Paris, please…" the Doctor said, handing Tom a medical tricorder. The Doctor moved the device over B'Elanna's tumorous growths and they began to disappear. He followed the Doctor's lead, gratified to see Harry's tumors fading as well. "This will heal the cellular disruption caused by whatever kind of alien DNA you were exposed to."
Tom stayed in Sick Bay, assisting the Doctor as best he could. Harry was improving, B'Elanna as well. Chakotay needed surgery, and Tom stayed beside the Doctor as he worked.
He'd realized when everything was settled how his mind had kept repeating her name. B'Elanna. It was beautiful, like a piece of music. It suited her perfectly, with a face as strikingly beautiful and exotic. Hours later, after she had changed out of her hospital garment, he still found the whisper of her name creeping through his conscious thoughts, and wondered why.
And later still, as she was boiling with anger after Janeway had deliberately stranded them all, Chakotay had managed to settle her again. Tom briefly wondered if the two were lovers, but then thought he had to have been wrong. Chakotay was too protective, treating her more like a sister. Even then, more curious was why it seemed to matter so much to Tom who they were to each other. She never stopped glaring at him, especially in her new, uncomfortable looking Starfleet uniform.
June 12, 2386
Starbase 47
Dr. Conlin had said talking to her might help; it was always an option when someone was in a coma. Talking, or finding something to say, had never been difficult for him. But here, like this, he remained silent. Idle chit chat about things she knew nothing about seemed wrong, almost disrespectful. Never mind, all his days and nights had been filled with only hours and hours of repairs and reports, an endless stream of junked metal and broken pieces of the station that had been his home for the past eight years.
"Good morning, Commander," Chakotay called from the doorway. Endeavor remained in orbit, still serving as living quarters for the crew members whose quarters had been destroyed, as well as continuing to provide medical and engineering support as needed.
"Captain," he acknowledged without turning around. He heard Chakotay clear his throat.
He set B'Elanna's hand down next to her side and turned. The dark circles under Tom's eyes appeared as bruises, his normally ruddy skin pale. His eyes were still glazed, slightly unfocused. Chakotay knew he still required medication to function-both to do his job, and sleep at night. His face was rough with unshaven hairs, looking as if he had only combed his hair with his fingers.
A woman with long, dark, curly black hair in a blue Starfleet uniform stood slightly behind Chakotay, and she took a step forward as Chakotay began speaking. "Commander, this is the woman I told you about."
Her eyes were dark and luminous, revealing her Betazed heritage. "I am Counselor Echenna Hubron. Pleasure to meet you, sir."
"Counselor," Tom said brusquely. He looked at Chakotay sideways, irritated. For days Chakotay had been pushing this on him, having his counselor beam down here to assist. For the people who reported to him, there was no argument. Starbase 47's counselor was dead, and if ever the staff remaining had been in need of someone to talk to, it was now. Chakotay had been pushing Tom to see her himself. For just as many days, he had refused, lacking time and the desire to do so.
"If you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do," he said dismissively.
Chakotay stopped him, spoke quietly so she could not hear. "Please, Tom. Just talk to her. Even just this once. She has a lot of experience with trauma. She worked during the war with some pretty critical patients."
"I'd prefer not to, if it's all the same to you, Captain," Tom grumbled.
"Don't make me order you, Commander," Chakotay said sharply.
"You may outrank me, but I'm still in Command of this station. What's left of it," he said, jerking away from Chakotay's grasp on his arm.
"We're worried about you. You're not eating, or sleeping...or doing anything, other than working….or sitting in here," Chakotay implored.
"I'm fine," Tom huffed angrily.
"No, Commander, you are not. Nor should you be, not after everything that happened to you." Chakotay held his gaze, until Tom was forced to look away. "Just one discussion."
"If I do, will you leave me alone?" he growled.
"No guarantees, Commander. But it's a start." He nodded to the counselor, then departed.
"Let's get this over with, Counselor," he said tightly, leading her into a private room.
June 14, 2386
Starbase 47
"Commander Michaels, please report to the Infirmary," Aaron heard over the comm from T'Lassa. The easy laughter that would usually have burst forth from him after such a summons was painfully absent now, and he felt it, almost like a missing limb.
When he entered, T'Lassa was waiting for him. She looked uneasy, and the fact that he could tell by just looking at her troubled him more. "What's the problem, Doctor?"
"Commander Torres has regained consciousness," she offered.
The news contradicted the look on her face, and it caused the dread to creep into his blood. "What's wrong? And have you told Commander Paris?"
"Not yet."
"Doctor, what is it?" he insisted again.
She crossed her arms in front of her. "The brain damage was...quite extensive. I thought it best to inform you, first, considering Commander Paris' state of mind."
He took a deep breath, nodding, acknowledging her decision. "How bad?"
"Serious damage to her memory engrams and neural pathways. She knows who she is, but she didn't remember who I was, or any of the other medical staff." Aaron's eyes widened, but she had to continue. "She doesn't remember anyone here, or even why she is here, that she is even in Starfleet. Or being married. Or having children. I can safely conclude she has no memories from her life beyond the age of 14. Her short-term memory has been damaged as well. She has difficulty retaining new information."
He stayed quiet, absorbing what he had heard. "Is this permanent? Is there a chance she could recover more of her memory?"
"Anything is possible," she said hopefully, but added, "but the damage is real. She will never have access to memories that have been obliterated from her mind. Memories that are no longer there."
The sadness, his ever present companion these days, swelled back up. One more wound to be inflicted upon his friend. "You have to call Commander Paris and tell him. I'll stay here while you do." She nodded, leaving to summon him.
