Second Chances: Chapter 33

A/N: My chapters are getting longer and longer. I'm trying to keep it under control so the chapters don't drag on too much. Apologies for when I fail in that.

Stardate 51083
February 2374
Dominion/Cardassian Space

Torres had no idea how long a day was on the planet, because she hadn't seen the outside. The crew of the Defiant lived by 26 hour days; Torres didn't know why and didn't care, because it's not as if she was sleeping, anyway. She was a demanding engineer and leader, but wasn't unrealistic and didn't expect anything unrealistic from her crew. She knew everyone had their own personal limits of how long they could be productive, and expected them to stop and rest when they needed to.

She had no idea what time it was, but knew that both Chief O'Brien and Cadet Nog were sleeping, which was fine with Torres, as she was working through a complicated repair that was better done alone. "Have you slept at all since we landed?" a voice asked behind her. She sighed. Dr. Bashir again.

"No," she answered simply.

"You need sleep."

"You've seen my medical records," she said, still not looking at him. "You know that's not true. I just need more caffeine and tri-ox."

"That's not exactly what your medical records say," he replied. "Caffeine and tri-ox are not a substitute for sleep. Everyone needs sleep."

"And I'll get some," she said. "Just as soon as we get this ship back in space."

She thought he was going to let it go, but then he said, "Your physician entrusted your care to me."

Torres snorted. "She's not my physician," she said. "She's my daughter's pediatrician." She looked over at him to see him blinking in surprise. "And my sister-in-law," she added. "She worries too much."

"There's nothing wrong with having people in your life who care for you."

She didn't acknowledge his words, because he wasn't a counselor and neither of them had the time to go over Paris family dynamics in the post-Tom era. Or even the post-Battle of Sector 001 era. "We should have the ship operational again in about twelve hours," she said instead. "We won't be able to communicate with any allied ships until we leave the nebula."

"We may need you to pause on the repairs." Both Torres and Bashir turned to the entrance of engineering to see Captain Sisko, looking more tired and drawn than Torres felt. "The Jem'Hadar are going to attack. The Vorta gave me their attack plan and will surrender to us when the Jem'Hadar are defeated."

"Why?" Torres wasn't able to stop herself from asking. "What's he getting out of this?"

"Not dying on this planet," Sisko replied. "They're out of White. Their ship is not operational, and even if it were, he couldn't operate it without a crew." Torres frowned, still not understanding, but there was a lot about people doing what they did that she didn't understand. "We need everyone available to defend our position when they attack," Sisko continued.

"If they're low on White, it won't be much of an attack," Dr. Bashir pointed out.

"No, it won't," Sisko agreed. "The Third knows he's being manipulated by his Vorta. I have tried to explain that they have options, but I don't think that will make a difference." He seemed lost in thought for a second before turning to Torres. "I understand you can run."

She barely bit back a snort at the understatement. It had been almost four years, and nobody had come close to approaching her Starfleet decathlon record. She didn't do sprints anymore, but a sub-3 hour marathon in San Francisco wasn't much to scoff at, either. "Yes, sir," she said instead.

He outlined his plan to defend their position against the Jem'Hadar attack; low on ketracel-white or not, they were still designed to hunt and kill, and having a solid defense plan was always better than being unprepared. Knowing what their offense would be didn't hurt, either, assuming that Sisko trusted the Vorta, which he didn't appear to. The plan would involve Torres and a security ensign doing a lot of running with a phaser rifle; that wasn't her preferred way to run, but she was going to take what she could get. She was also a damn good shot both phasers and phaser rifles, thanks in part to her better eyesight and faster reflexes from her Klingon heritage.

An hour later, she had traded her uniform boots for her training flats—it wouldn't be comfortable to run a marathon in those things, but they did the job a hell of a lot better than heeled boots and packed down in a standard duffel better than her usual running shoes—and was running along a ridge line behind the ensign at a pace much slower than she was accustomed to. They saw the Jem'Hadar approach, right on schedule, and strangely, approaching their crew mates while visible. "They're not doing that freaky cloaking thing," The ensign—Torres had heard his name and quickly forgotten it—commented nervously.

"I don't think they can when they're low on White," Torres commented quietly, settling herself in a sniper position. She had gleaned that from Nicki, who had learned it from Solaris Jaxon, who was still studying the Jem'Hadar and Vorta and Founders, despite now living on Bajor while DS9 was under Cardassian control. She aimed the phaser rifle at one of the Jem'Hadar and wished Nicki had passed along what parts of their bodies were most vulnerable to attack instead of complicated biochemistry of White withdrawal. But Starfleet Officer at war or not, Nicki was first and always a physician, and rarely considered the most efficient ways to kill other people.

As expected, the Jem'Hadar ignored Captain Sisko's pleas for them to surrender and fired, the Starfleet crew returning fire and quickly eliminating the threat. Torres had taken out three from her sniper position, not moving until she saw the Vorta approach Captain Sisko from wherever it had been that he had been hiding, and then it was time for the second part of the plan. Both Torres and the security officer jumped up from their prone positions and again ran along the ridge, heading in the direction the Jem'Hadar had come from, ensuring they hadn't left anyone behind for a second-wave attack. "We need to find that ship," Torres said. Captain Sisko had said that they had been hiding in a cave, but there had to be a ship somewhere.

The cave hadn't been far from the Starfleet crew's ship, and they found the other ship about two kilometers further away. They went through the motions of systematically ensuring the ship was clear of any Jem'Hadar or Vorta, even though it had been obvious from the beginning that it was empty. "Cover me," Torres ordered once they were on the bridge, as she tried to power up the ship to run a damage report. No such luck. "We need to go down to engineering," she said, and the ensign dutifully followed, his rifle still at the ready.

As soon as she walked into engineering, she started swearing. "They trashed their own ship!" she exclaimed in frustration, seeing the disruptor blasts and ripped out circuitry.

"Why would they do that?" the ensign asked dumbly.

"So we couldn't take it!" she snapped, wondering how that wasn't obvious. She glared at a destroyed console for a long minute before releasing another long string of Klingon curses and slammed her hand hard against it. "God damn it!" she fumed, staring at the jagged cut along her palm, the visual representation of her anger and her tendency to self-destruct when she got that way. She didn't know why she was so angry at the ship, or the Jem'Hadar, or anything else. They had a ship that would be flying again by the next day. They didn't need another, and in fact, another ship would just be another complication for her, but the sight of those destroyed consoles set her off in a way that had no explanation. "Let's go," she said crisply, heading for the docking port without looking back.

She was so angry that the poor ensign couldn't keep up with her on the run back to their own ship.

"You're bleeding," Dr. Bashir said when she returned. She frowned, then followed his eyes down to her hand. She had forgotten her injury in the adrenaline rush of her anger, masking her pain.

"It's fine," she said brusquely. "I need to get back to engineering." She handed off the rifle to the ensign and brushed past the physician to enter the ship.

"It will just take a minute," Bashir said, following her toward engineering.

"I said it's fine," she snapped.

"You'll work better with two good hands," Chief O'Brien pointed out as she grabbed a hypospanner. She glared at him, and then realized she was holding the hypospanner in her left hand. She gave O'Brien, and then Bashir, another glare, but reluctantly relented.

"There's an old scar under," she said. "Don't change it."

Dr. Bashir frowned, but the expression on her face must have been serious enough that he didn't see the need to question it. "I'll do my best," he said.

She watched her palm closely as he ran a dermal regenerator over it, watched as the new cut disappeared, and watched as the scar Tom had made with the chuHwl' faded. "Stop!" she exclaimed, forcing her hand roughly from his. "What did you do?" she asked harshly, her fingers frantically feeling for where that scar should have been, finding only smooth skin. Her eyes went to his and she watched him take a step back in surprise. Or fear, and she knew on one level how hostile she must have looked, but couldn't think about that now. She couldn't process anything beyond the fact that it was gone.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Bashir stammered. "I didn't—"

She wanted to hit him. Hard. She wanted to punish him for what he had done, and got as far as clenching her fist before she heard Tom's voice in the back of her head. Let's go for a run, Torres.

And so she did.

Ten hours later, she was again outside the ship, now reclining on the hull, her eyes up on the dark purple sky but not really seeing it, her middle finger of her right hand still desperately trying to find the familiar scar. She hadn't realized until it was gone how often she did that, rubbing that raised line of skin absently, a part of her remembering the moment she had earned that scar.

And now it was gone.

She turned her head at the sound of the hatch opening, and tried to make her way to her feet at the sight of Captain Sisko sticking his head out of the ship. "As you were, Lieutenant," he said, climbing out to join her.

A few long minutes passed without either of them saying anything before she couldn't take it anymore. "We'll be ready to lift off in about two hours, Captain," she finally said. "I'm running one last diagnostic now."

He nodded at the news, which he probably already heard from Chief O'Brien. "I understand you were injured in the other ship," he said conversationally, and she stiffened, knowing where this was going.

"Yes, sir," she said. "It wasn't serious, sir."

"I know," he said, his voice still annoying calm. "Dr. Bashir reported that you were more upset by the dermal regenerator than the injury itself."

"That was unprofessional of me," she said after a long pause. "I'm sorry, Captain." She couldn't help but think on the number of times she had said those exact words in her four years at the Academy. That was unprofessional of me. I'm sorry. It had practically been a mantra her first two years. And then she had learned her lesson and started being a little bit more professional.

"Tensions get a little high on these missions," he said simply, neither accepting nor rejecting her apology.

She didn't know how long they sat in silence before she spoke again. "I lose a little bit more of him each day." She didn't know why she said those words, didn't know that she was going to say them until they were already out.

"Grief is a funny thing," Captain Sisko said after several beats of silence. "It's been almost seven years since Jennifer died, and there are moments that I can swear I hear her talking to me, as if she was right there. I see something that reminds me of her, and all of a sudden, all of the pain is back."

"I don't want the pain to go away," she said softly. "I don't want to forget him."

"Lieutenant," Sisko said, almost gently. "You never forget. And the pain never goes away. It changes. It becomes almost like an old friend. But it never goes away."

"Tom twisted his wedding ring with his thumb," she said, her fingers again trying to find that scar. "I don't think he realized he did that. I don't wear my ring often, because engineering is not a place for any sort of jewelry, but I had a scar…" Her voice trailed off, not wanting to explain the ceremony they had created for their wedding, not knowing how to say that he had cut her without it sounding…abusive. "And now it's gone, and I miss it, and I feel like another piece of him is gone, too. And I did that. I got angry about that damn ship, and that's so damn symbolic of our entire marriage when I paid more attention to those ships than to my own husband—"

"Can you fix it?"

"My husband is dead, Captain. It's a little late to fix my marriage."

"The ship, Lieutenant," he clarified. "Can you fix it?"

She blinked hard at the question and bit back the impulse to give him a harsh retort. Could she fix it? She wasn't one for false bravado; she didn't claim to be able to fix everything. They were pretty fast and loose with decommissioning ships when she was the Repair Company commander.

And yet she had that damn S-Class shuttle, which had been in worse shape than anything else that had gone through the shipyards.

She thought back at the events of a few hours before, at the crashed ship that the other crew had left behind. They had trashed it, yes, but it was still mostly in one piece. The warp coils had appeared to be unharmed. She hadn't had the opportunity to do any sort of diagnostics, and yet… "Yes," she finally said. "We can fix it. It's just going to take time that we don't have."

He shrugged. "Then we'll take it with us," he said. "We'll tractor it home."

She snorted a laugh, and then saw that he was serious. "I guess I better check the tractor beam, then," she said as she stood up.

"That sounds like a good idea, Lieutenant," Captain Sisko replied. "And Lieutenant," he said as she got to the hatch. She turned to face him again. "It's not meant to be easy."

She wasn't sure what exactly he was talking about—marriage? Starfleet? Parenting?—but at the same time, she knew what he meant. She gave a single nod and descended into the ship.