notes: Look who's actually on time this week! Also, I don't mind saying that the next chapter is about halfway written - and I could probably be persuaded to upload the it before next Saturday. Aaaanyway, I hope you enjoy.

Part IX: Exspectare

Tom Paris hovered awkwardly by the turbolift doors. His hands fluttered anxiously at his sides; first they were clenched tightly into fists, then they smoothed invisible wrinkles from his uniform pants. The air was too hot, then too cold, and he bounced on his toes as soon as he slowed from his restless pacing.

The turbolift doors opened, and divulged an ensign and two crewmen. They paused, drawn aback by the sudden sight of the ship's pilot standing almost in their faces, then stuttered quick apologies.

Tom lifted a hand, and grinned at them. "Bad timing," he said, and moved aside so that they could carry on down the corridor without having to walk through him.

"Excuse us," the ensign—a red-headed, freckled young man—said, and his two companions echoed the sentiment softly as they scurried past Tom.

Tom watched them turn the corner, and then went back to his anxious pacing.

Two minutes later the turbolift doors opened again, and Commander Chakotay stepped off of the 'lift.

"Commander," Tom said, forcefully bright. "What a coincidence. I don't suppose you're headed to the commissary?"

Chakotay, looking tired and drawn, little more than glanced at Tom. "I am," he said. He sounded as tired as he looked.

"Mind if I join you?" Tom asked, after an awkward second elapsed in which they simply stood and looked at each other.

Chakotay glanced at the padds in his right hand, then back up at Tom. He sighed. "No, not at all," he said.

They walked down the corridor together, the silence held between them by an uncomfortable uncertainty. It lasted until they had both gotten plates of food—what looked like steak but with a purple undertone, leola rolls, and greens of an oblong shape—and had settled down at one of the small tables toward the back of the room, well away from the doors and all but the most prying of eyes.

"I take it there is a reason you wanted to come with me?" Chakotay asked at last. He sat with fork in one hand, a padd in the other, and he looked at Tom with the kind of expression normally reserved for particularly tiresome children.

"What, you mean your dazzling wit and charm isn't enough of a reason for me to want to sit with you?" Tom asked. He tried to smile.

Chakotay just looked at him. Though he had seen it in the hall, Tom was struck again by just how tired and drawn Chakotay looked; his eyes were bruised with exhaustion, and his cheeks seemed almost gaunt.

Tom's smile died. He picked up his own fork, and stabbed it at the almost-steak. "No," he said into the silence, "I suppose it's not a good enough reason."

"Tom, please," Chakotay said, still not taking a bite. "If there's something you want to say to me, say it. Otherwise please leave me alone so that I can get some work done."

"Where's the captain?" It came out all in a rush, and not at all the way Tom had rehearsed saying it in his head the thousand and one times while waiting for Chakotay to appear on the turbolift. "I mean," he stumbled, trying to recover, "she wasn't on the bridge today. And she wasn't on the bridge yesterday afternoon either. And you said last night that she was sick. Is it something to do with that? Is that why you look like death only badly warmed?"

Chakotay stared at Tom. Then he shook his head, as if dazed. "Look, Tom," he began, and Tom had the distinct impression that Chakotay did not yet know what it was that he meant to say. He hesitated—but then, before Tom could figure out what to say, he spoke again, and with more calm than Tom would have expected. "What I told you last night—it was out of line. The captain is just fine. She's just been distracted with a project. Yes, she has a cold, but like I said last night, it's nothing to worry about."

Tom stared at Chakotay for a long moment. Chakotay stared back.

Finally, Tom nodded. "Okay," he said. "But you still haven't told me why you look like death badly warmed over."

Chakotay's look slid resolutely into a glare. "And you don't need to know all the details of my personal life," he all but snapped. "Now, if you will excuse me, lieutenant. I have work to do."

Tom stood, startled into action more than obeying Chakotay's wish. He could count on one hand the number of times he had heard Chakotay snap, and when it happened was always in a high-tension situation, or after Chakotay had been purposefully pressed past his breaking point.

"Sorry, Commander," Tom said stiffly, gathering his plate and cutlery. "I didn't realize my concern was so imposing to you." Then, before Chakotay could speak, Tom turned and marched away from the table.

Chakotay hadn't told him anything of use. Tom was pretty sure that he had been lying about the project, and he had flat out refused to answer Tom's other question. Which left Tom with a few very vague impressions of what was going on—and none of them were good.

~*x*~

Tom was gone, and Chakotay finally had the peace and quiet he had been craving all day. As he lifted a forkful of greens to his mouth, however, he realized with a sudden sour jolt in his stomach that his appetite had disappeared.

The day had been agonizingly long. He had remained on the bridge for his entire shift, refusing to allow himself to retire to his office where he knew he would do nothing but stew and, eventually, give in to the desire to make his way down to Kathryn's quarters. Instead he had read reports from his command chair, and written a few of his own on a padd at hand, and had tried to ignore the emptiness of the captain's chair just across the control console.

It had been a terrible eight hours.

After his shift had ended, Chakotay had forced himself to drop his reports off in his office, and gather another handful of padds that needed attention, before making his way down to see Kathryn. Kes met him at her door, and ushered him in with a warning to be quiet.

Kathryn was asleep in her bed, her face flushed with fever. Kes murmured a quiet supplication, and when Chakotay had nodded, she vanished from the room. Chakotay was grateful; he suspected that Kes knew exactly what he wanted, and that her request for him to watch the captain while she returned to her quarters for a book was little more than an excuse to allow him to sit by Kathryn's side.

He watched her face, watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She was as calm and tranquil as he had ever seen. It was as jarring as it was somehow uplifting, as if by seeing her sleep so peacefully Chakotay was again reminded that Kathryn Janeway was as human as him. It was at once reassuring and discomfiting.

When Kes returned, she did so with The Doctor in tow. Grudgingly, Chakotay ceded his seat to Kes, and then followed The Doctor out into Kathryn's living room. The couch beneath the viewport looked rumpled and forgotten, and it felt as if the days it had been since Chakotay last sat there with Kathryn were instead weeks, if not months.

"What do you have, Doctor?" Chakotay asked, turning away from the couch and his memories.

"Not much, I'm afraid," The Doctor said. "At this point, I mostly just know what it isn't."

"And what is it not?" Chakotay asked.

"Nothing that we know of," The Doctor said simply.

"Hell," Chakotay said softly. "Do you have any ideas?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Unfortunately no. Not yet. But I haven't given up hope."

Chakotay's eyes hardened on The Doctor's. "Good," he said. It was as much a warning as it was an affirmation.

"Don't worry, Commander," The Doctor said. "I won't rest until I know what this is—and how to fight it. We want her back, healthy and hale, just as much as you do."

Chakotay nodded. "Good," he said again, though this time without the hard edge of warning. "And Doctor?"

The Doctor looked questioningly at Chakotay, silently urging him to continue.

"Let's continue to keep this illness of the captain's between us, yes? As it seems to not be contagious, there's no use in causing a panic among the rest of the crew."

"They are going to begin questioning where their captain is before too long," The Doctor pointed out.

"I know," Chakotay said. "But let me handle the crew. You focus on finding a cure for the captain."

The Doctor hesitated. Then, warily, he said, "I must say, Commander, we do not yet know for sure if this illness is contagious. And as such, I'm not sure of the wisdom of you having continuing contact with her."

"If I was going to be infected I would have been infected already, wouldn't I?" Chakotay asked. His voice was again suddenly, painfully sharp.

"We don't know what the incubation period for this illness is," The Doctor pointed out. "For all we know, she might not have been contagious yet as of last night. We also don't know how it's transmitted—if it's transmitted at all. There's a chance that you may not have come into contact with whatever means of transmittance this illness uses.

"I'm sorry, Commander," The Doctor said softly. There was a distinct note of compassion in his voice. "But until we know more, I think it best that you allow Kes and I to watch her alone."

Chakotay stared. But then, slowly, he nodded. "You're right, Doctor," he said. The words were bitter on his tongue. "But keep me updated," he ordered. "And if anything changes—if you need anything—my prior order still stands. Get me."

"Yes sir," The Doctor said. "Now I think it best that you go. The less contact you have with the captain, the better."

And so Chakotay had left.

Chakotay dropped his uneaten forkful of greens back onto his plate. His stomach was churning, and the sharp taste of bile sat at the back of his throat. The Doctor's parting warning still rang hollowly in his ears, now layered over with Tom's parting salvo.

Was he doing the right thing? Chakotay wondered. Was keeping the crew in the dark about the captain's illness the right thing to do? More than just Tom were going to begin asking questions soon—had likely already started talking amongst themselves, speculating and wondering where she had been for the last day and a half. The crew was still in the thick throes of repairs, and it was unusual for the captain to not be seen down in Engineering at least once during her duty shift—and usually after her duty shift as well—when the ship was in such a state of fragile repair. Even more than that, the bridge crew was well-known to gossip, and news that she hadn't been on the bridge at all since the afternoon before was going to make it through the ship almost faster than Chakotay could cough.

Chakotay stood and, gathering his uneaten food and padds in hand, retreated from the mess hall. Neelix gave him a worried look when he took the plate full of food from him, but to Chakotay's relief did not question him—only gave him a nod, and a forcefully cheerful "Good night, Commander," which Chakotay half-heartedly repeated.

He would give it another day, Chakotay decided as he made his way toward his own quarters and what promised to be a restless night of fretful sleep. If The Doctor had no new news by tomorrow evening after the end of alpha shift, he would go talk to Tuvok and tell him what was happening. Together, Chakotay was certain, they could come up with what, and how, to tell the crew.

Chakotay hoped it would not come to that. He had the sinking feeling, however, that it would.

~*x*~

Katrhyn opened her eyes to the Void.

It was as black and formless as ever, still and silent. It was not, however, empty. As she sat up, then dragged her aching body into a stand, it seemed to her as if she felt breath against the back of her neck. She whirled, body and senses tensing, fingers curling into fists ready to fly.

Standing there, no more than three feet away, was the figure of her first officer, a gaping wound in his neck.

"This," said Virgil's voice, empty and echoing from every corner of air, "should not have happened."

Kathryn, wary and uncertain, watched Chakotay—or the man who would be Chakotay. He was unnaturally still; his chest did not move with breath, his eyes did not flicker with sight, and the blood did not drip from the wound carved into his neck. He was as unmoving as a mannequin, as if he had been frozen in an instant.

"What do you mean?" Kathryn asked, still not taking her eyes off of Chakotay. Her throat still ached with the memory of his hands tightening "What should not have happened?"

"This." Virgil said, and a wind blew suddenly through the Void, whining and hungry. It swirled around Chakotay, standing still as death, though it did not seem to touch him.

Kathryn, confused, hurting, and beginning to grow angry again, frowned. "Then what should have happened?" she snapped.

"This is what happens when you do not have a Guide."

Kathryn's frown deepened. "And what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Enough!" Virgil's voice cracked through the Void with the alacrity of a lightning bolt.

In spite of herself, Kathryn ducked and lifted a forearm to shield her face, expecting a blow of wind, if nothing else. When the blow did not come, she straightened slowly, looking around cautiously with narrowed eyes. Something had changed…

It took her a frightful second to realize what had changed. Chakotay was no longer standing in front of her. He had vanished, as quickly and cleanly as one dematerialized. There was no trace of him—no lingering scent, or warmth, or after-image that was sometimes left for a heartbeat after transport. He was simply gone.

"You have no Guide," Virgil said, "save me. And you are more than was expected."

Again Kathryn opened her mouth to demand an explanation. But then she bit her tongue and held her silence, hoping that by maintaining her silence Virgil—whoever he, or they, may be—would continue speaking and would divulge more information than if he was distracted by silencing her.

"There is no choice, though," Virgil went on. "The trials must be completed, Guide or no. There is no other recourse."

"What are these trials of which you speak?" Kathryn asked.

But Virgil did not answer. Instead, Kathryn felt again the sucking emptiness of the world vanishing beneath her feet, and then the swooping sensation of falling.