Cause they say home is where your heart is set in stone
Is where you go when you're alone
Is where you go to rest your bones
It's not just where you lay your head
It's not just where you make your bed
As long as we're together, does it matter where we go?
Home, home, home, home
So when I'm ready to be bolder,
And my cuts have healed with time
Comfort will rest on my shoulder
And I'll bury my future behind
I'll always keep you with me
You'll be always on my mind
–– from 'Home' by Gabrielle Aplin / Nicholas William Atkinson
Her door opens and she steps inside her quarters. She struggles to focus in the bright lights that come on, contracting her forehead and blinking at the pain.
"Computer, dim lights to five per cent."
Her head feels desiccated, like dead leaves. She has just four hours' respite before she must return. For another four hours Tuvok will endure on the bridge, as tired as she is now, for even though he is Vulcan, because that is what he is, he has done nearly twice as many shifts as his human counterparts. She doesn't think he can take much more of this but could not argue with his logic this time: a ship needs its captain, and she needs to get some rest.
But she doesn't think it would be a good idea to give in to sleep. She could be called back at any instant and if she sleeps she's not sure she would rouse quickly enough ... or perhaps at all at this stage.
She goes to the washbasin and splashes water on her face. Tries to recall when she last had a sonic shower. Her hair is lank and much of it has escaped the clip that she fastened there ... how many days ago? She cannot recall. She sees her turtleneck is marked by sweat and other stains and she idly wonders where her uniform jacket is because she doesn't remember taking it off. She grips the sides of the basin, reeling a little as a wave of nausea blankets her for a moment. She should sit down at least.
Her comm badge chirps.
"Tuvok to Janeway."
"Janeway here."
When she returns again to her quarters, she has just over an hour before her next shift. Her teeth are chattering and she's not sure why. She doesn't think she's cold. The doctor gave her a stimulant on the bridge and she considers this might be a side effect of that.
What do you do for an hour? It seems like no time at all but an eternity because she should be there, in the thick and thin of it.
She collapses in the seat beneath the window and finds herself staring out at the blackness, which is currently deceptively still. The ship is groaning around her, flexing and settling in this moment between onslaughts, licking its wounds. A spear of empathy and love surges in her for it, this boat which saves them all. At least, at least, there are breaths between the waves of attacks, although in the days since it began – or has it been months? Or years? – these have occurred randomly and lasted for only short periods. Often just enough time passes for them all to begin to hope that it will be over, that no more enemy fighters will appear. And then, just when each of them starts to wonder what relief might feel like, at exactly that moment, there is a tight white flash that sears reason and the next wave of fighters appears, completely renewed, an endless stream pouring out of the emptiness.
In the beginning, they had had hope and belief in reason and logic. They had applied the best of their humanity and studied their enemy, tried to understand their combatants' motivation and determine how to resolve the situation. They had hailed them but received no response; they had fought back; they had retreated; they had run; they had stood still; they had railed against the cold, dark wall of the barrage; shouted in frustration; flailed in confusion; surrendered; and eventually, eventually, just kept going, shoulder to the wheel. It didn't matter what they did or didn't do. The enemy vessels kept arriving, kept attacking, then let them live before disappearing again into nothingness, in an endless cycle.
They have long since stopped asking questions.
Time has passed. Fifteen minutes? Fifteen years? She shirks her shoulders, rousing anger at herself for falling into a reverie. Her door chimes. She rubs her eyes.
"Come in."
Her first officer is silhouetted in the doorway, a bowl of something in his hands.
"Sorry to interrupt."
"It's fine, Chakotay."
"When did you last eat? Neelix made this for you."
He brings it over to her. In the dim light she can pretend that his eyes aren't sunken with exhaustion and that he is merely bending to her not stooping from fatigue.
"Thank you." She takes the steaming bowl from him and sniffs it. The smell of food brings the nausea back. "I don't think I can ..." She sets it aside and looks up at him.
He sits down beside her in silence, leans against the corner of the seat, the dark behind him.
They look at each other, their features obscured in the dim light. Wordlessly, he reaches his arms out to her, and she turns her body and gives in, leaning back into him. Before all this, they would not have permitted even the thought of this kind of intimacy between them, but they are stripped bare now and neither can even feign surprise at the other's response. There is no energy to waste on denials and dishonesty.
"Rest, Kathryn. Just for a while."
"I have to go back shortly."
"It's fine. I'll wake you."
She pulls away.
"I can't sleep."
"It's OK. Just rest then. We'll talk so you don't fall asleep."
She leans back against him with a sigh. They curl their arms around each other's and he rests his head on the top of hers.
"We think it is strange when we are pushed to the very limit and revert to just surviving, don't we? But we are really just animals. We just want to live," she says.
He should be surprised at the despondency in her voice.
"We are more than that."
"You mean our spirits?"
"Mm-hmm. What else do you think really keeps us going?"
"I'm not sure I believe in anything except bodies at this point."
She feels his chin move slightly against her hair and realises he has smiled at her response. She closes her eyes at the feeling it produces in her, coveting this small remembrance of what it was to be more than something like an automaton. He moves a hand up to stroke her hair.
"You're wrong, you know."
"Tell me how I'm wrong." Her voice is slurring slightly, filling with sleep even as she fights it.
"You believe in this crew."
"Hmm ..."
He feels her body soften against him, her breathing slow. He is cautious not to move or stop touching her hair lest any change disturb her.
"And you believe in us," he whispers softly. He doesn't think she hears him.
After he is certain she is asleep, he risks slowly reaching to tap his comm badge.
"Chakotay to bridge"
He checks her but her breathing is still even, her chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.
"Paris here."
"Everything OK?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Good. The captain is asleep."
"I'll inform the crew you are not to be disturbed."
"Thank you. Chakotay out."
He wonders how that conversation would have gone down in the old days.
It's thoughts like this that keep him going.