imagine being someplace you know
so well but are lost and don't have any idea
how to get out
_
the rule is, put your right hand out
lay it on the wall, and follow
_
sometimes the rules don't apply to all of us
I don't want to sleep here again tonight
— From "Labyrinth", Kenyatta Rogers
Ever since she came on board, the stars haven't looked right.
And he can't sit still, can't quiet his mind.
He needs to meditate. Or a few rounds in the ring.
Behind the command station, he hears the Captain talking to the Admiral in low tones, and he shifts in his chair, checking the command console for the hundredth time. But the duty rosters are done, and the operations reports signed off. And space is dead quiet. Just filled with those stars, clear and brilliant against the expansive black, challenging him.
His eyes flick down to the console again and he pulls up the holodeck schedules. Amazingly, there's still a slot in Holodeck Two available not long after the end of his duty shift. He huffs his relief, and claims the slot before anyone else can.
"Commander?"
Tom Paris has rotated in his chair at the helm and is looking at him expectantly.
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
"I thought you said something."
"No. As you were," Chakotay replies gruffly.
"Aye, sir." Paris ponders him for a moment before turning back to his station, wonders not quite idly what bee has climbed into his commander's bonnet over the last few days. A rasp of Janeway's – make that, Janeways' – laughter rings out suddenly as they stride towards the ready room, and his thoughts click into well-known positions: not one bee this time; two. So focused on the thought of Voyager's return to Earth and all his mixed feelings about that, he'd missed the obvious. He risks a quick glance back over his shoulder. The Commander is reaching for his earlobe distractedly, his eyes trailing after the women. Tom curtails a snort, immediately berating himself; there is nothing funny about that situation right there.
The corridors are quiet, and Chakotay is pleased not to run into anyone on the way down to the holodeck from his quarters. He'd rather not have to interact with anyone if he doesn't have to – he saw Paris give him the side eye earlier and knows already things are seeping out of him that undermine his role. It's been like this for days and tonight the pressure is finally too much.
He reaches the turbolift and gives it terse instruction, feels it whizz up into action. In the short ride that is not short enough, he thinks about giving in to his brain, of letting the thoughts out to begin to dash around the point like ... like so many doomed fireflies in a jar.
Fireflies. He rubs at his temples with a hand, fingers and thumb pressing into the tension.
One evening a year or so ago, Kathryn had told him about chasing the insects in the dark when she was very young, before her sister had been born. She'd spoken about capturing and imprisoning them in a preserving jar, then finding them dead the next day, starved of oxygen in the miniature version of space she had created. She so rarely spoke about her past. Her smile had been youthful, and he'd been swept up in her wistful, yearning delight and that brief glimpse of her residing in the moment.
It was only later that he found her story had lodged in him morbidly and his mind fixated on all the wrong parts of it.
The turbolift halts and he exits, striding the last few metres to the holodeck with barely restrained urgency.
At the interface, he asks the computer to load his programme and in two steps he's immersed in the old, Earth-style boxing club. The air is immediately close and warm. A thick holographic cloud of cigarette smoke hangs above him, and the facsimile scents of perspiration, sour coffee, along with that peculiar earthy smell of blood, are near enough to what he remembers, a welcome assault. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, savouring it all, and wills the pulse bounding in his ears to subside.
Climbing up into the ring, he lifts his gloves from around his neck, undoing the knot in the old-school laces, yanking them on over his wraps and using his teeth to roughly draw the ties taut. He calls for a sparring partner and referee, getting the latter to secure him properly into the gloves. "Tighter," he commands as the ref pulls at them.
Afterwards, returning to his quarters, muscles overworked and heavy, showering, preparing for bed, exhausted but not enough, he wrestles for sleep that will not come.
Very late, he finds himself walking once more the corridors of the ship. He's in his uniform this time, and he's not sure why. Habit probably. Certainty definitely.
The ship's apparent emptiness and low, white hum grate at him. There is no escape. Wherever he goes.
Wherever he goes.
His nerves jangle.
He could, perhaps should, visit Seven. But as he tests the idea there is that unpleasant flutter of constriction in his chest that he's felt whenever Seven crosses his mind lately – ever since the Admiral's arrival – or perhaps before that, he concedes – and he discards the thought with an irritable grunt.
Spirits, he is tired. Tired of not thinking about things he should be thinking about. He pushes a hand through his hair. Realises he has passed through this spot on Deck 5 before. Not for the first time, he wishes his circling would get him somewhere. Bulkheads and thoughts and the dark press him from all angles, their heavy presence insinuating things he's not willing to hear.
So many places in his mind that are off limits. So many, for such a long time, that he's lost track of where everything is in there, which parts aren't safe, where the danger and despair lurk. If he's less than honest, he's felt this way for perhaps the last couple of years; if he's more truthful, probably the best part of all seven years.
Maybe the worst part.
His jaw grinds.
In those latter years, he'd managed to let all those questions he'd had early on dissipate like vapour. He'd begun by just mentally stepping away, letting his attention drift. So damned easy. And the more often he'd let his focus lose its grip on her, on what she meant to him, the easier it had become. Simpler to put the head down and work within the professional structure of their command. Calmer to let feelings subside, and the mind turn away from half-closed doors.
When he'd allowed himself to think about the situation, he taught himself that this distance was what she'd always wanted between them; he'd promised to support her, and so he was.
And there had been time. Plenty of time.
But then her future self had arrived.
The mere fact of her was an exclamation mark: Kathryn tenfold. Reckless, hell bent on some course to set things right – the nerve this touched in him had crackled. And then there was that familiar, almost crushing ache he'd felt when she'd flirted with him so broadly on the bridge. He knew the feeling well of course, but after such a long time, the rush had caught him off guard, forcing him to remember his Kathryn, her fire and light, and the things he'd once permitted himself to think about her. Feel about her.
This person he is now. Someone he wishes he didn't know. Wired, resistant, passive.
This person who does nothing, feels nothing. Just ... hovers there in that jar, sleepless; wings numb from beating, beating; fire dimming, as the air gets smaller and smaller.
He gasps, dragging breath into his lungs, and abruptly his strides lengthen, his body answering a subconscious decision.
The Admiral has reminded him of who he was. Who he is.
And she knows something that he cannot bear not knowing any longer.
He tightens every inch of himself for a moment, fists balled, spine rigid, sinews protesting, holding the rope of it as he walks, feeling his body rankle and smoulder with all he has borne so long. Then he releases, and it is like the sweep and aftermath of a storm, a sliding back into his own skin.
No matter her answer, he thinks, as he closes the distance between himself and her quarters, no matter what, he is grateful to her for this wake-up call.