The things left unspoken
Drifting close to consciousness, Tom is having a dream about B'Elanna.
He can't see her face, but he can feel her standing over him. He's back on Voyager, in Sickbay, though how he knows it isn't clear, as he can't make out anything he sees.
He hears the Doctor's voice, the sound distorted as though far away.
"He's definitely dead."
The statement is casual, an unimportant observation.
"Are you sure?"
B'Elanna's voice breaks even in getting out the three-word question.
"Positive," the Doctor confirms.
"We should tell the Captain."
"No need to overreact," the Doctor tsks. "It would interrupt the Prixin festivities. . . We'll wait for a better time. Perhaps next week."
The voices end, but he can feel that B'Elanna is still standing by him. He wants to shout that he's alive, reach for her hand- anything. But he finds that he can't move or produce sound.
When he wakes with a start, he reaches for his wife, finding only the cool sheets of an empty bed.
Walking into the kitchen, Kathryn is surprised to find Tom already awake. Unlike her, clad in her robe, he's fully dressed, sitting at the small wooden table doing work.
It doesn't take much scrutiny to tell he's been up for sometime. The bags underneath his eyes are pronounced and something about the rest of his face is oddly taut.
"Didn't sleep well?" she asks, pouring some of the coffee waiting for her on the counter. It's freshly brewed, not replicated, and the smell wafts deliciously through the entire room.
"Slept fine," he shrugs.
She lowers herself into the stool across from him, maneuvering her knees so as not to bump his under the limited space of the table.
His eyes still trained on the PADD in front of him, he can feel that she's scrutinizing him, but he assumes that she'll refrain from making any further remarks when he doesn't give her an in.
"We're not off to such a good start at lowering our shields."
When he finally looks up at her, she has her head resting on her arms, her coffee forgotten on the table. Her expression is patient, not chiding.
He puts his PADD to the side of the table, looking down as he does so.
He expected when he woke up earlier that she would pretend their conversation the night before never happened, unwilling to let her defensives down, no matter what her intentions. He should be grateful that he was wrong, but all he can feel presently is frustration that he has to be the one to let his down first.
"I slept fine after I left your room," he explains. "But I woke up from a nightmare this morning and I couldn't go back to sleep after it."
Her furrows her brow slightly as she looks at him, sipping her coffee as though she's thinking.
"What kind of a nightmare?"
"I'm not sure that I can explain it. . . It was . . . Strange."
She doesn't say anything, obviously waiting for him to go on. He scrunches his face, adopting her pose, head propped up by his arms.
"I was back on Voyager. In Sickbay."
"I can see already why it was a nightmare," she teases, eyes twinkling.
"Exactly," he responds, chuckling softly at the joke.
He and the Doctor have remained friends, but their relationship has certainly been helped by the fact that he no longer has to listen to the hologram's self-indulgent lectures.
Except, of course, when it comes to his god-daughter.
He stills, looking contemplative.
"I was dead."
"You mean you were hurt, dying?"
"No," he says, smiling with forming embarrassment, "I was dead. . . I could hear B'Elanna and the Doc talking over my body. But I couldn't move or speak."
She puts down her coffee cup again, seemingly fascinated.
"What were they talking about exactly?"
"Me, I guess. B'Elanna asked if he was sure I was dead, and the Doc said he was positive. And then she said that they should tell you."
"What happened then?" she asks, leaning closer to him over the table.
He smirks slightly.
"He told her to that it could keep for a week. Something about Prixin." He pauses, the smile falling from his face. "I tried to move, tell B'Elanna that I was there. And I couldn't."
Her eyes narrow, her face becoming concerned.
"The Doctor said that the news of your death would keep for a week? From me?"
He looks back at her, surprised that this is what she latched onto, as it wasn't the part that disturbed him.
"To tell you the truth. . . He didn't sound all that crushed about my demise."
He says it with a smile, but she looks back at him with concern that hasn't abated.
"What a strange dream," she comments, looking back down at the table and drinking her coffee.
"Definitely," he agrees. "But then I woke up."
"To an empty bed," she supplies softly.
He nods, dropping his gaze back to the PADD in his hand, and they both fall into an uneasy quiet.
"Do you still want to start with your father's office today?" he asks eventually.
"Good a place as any."
At this, he looks up again, searching her face.
He knows how she lost her father and her fiancé in the same accident, but they've never talked about it. Just as they've never talked about the time she spent in the Cardassian POW camp with his own father. It's something he would normally keep silent about now, thinking it's not his place.
His silence, however, no longer seems appropriate.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asks, his voice low.
She shrugs dismissively, as if he's asked her whether she should really have that fourth cup of coffee.
"Has to be done at some point."
Something about her logic isn't quite right, but he doesn't challenge her. He's yet to rid himself of the instinct to go along with her decisions.
However much the instinct proves as damaging as it does helpful.
. . . . .
It isn't until they're deep into clearing out the office and find a storage bin with photographs that she breaks down.
There's one of her standing between her father and a man about her age whom Tom doesn't recognize. He looks at the photo briefly, but she tucks it away quickly, moving onto her father's desk.
He thinks she's fine at first, but then he sees her shoulders duck in and her body begin to shake. He moves from what he's doing on the bookshelf, coming to stand behind her.
When she feels his arms wrap around her shoulders, she tries to make the tears stop. They won't, coming harder instead, and she finds herself shaking for several minutes while her former pilot holds her.
"I'm sorry," she apologizes, when she's calmed herself.
"You're not allowed to apologize," he replies, shaking his head.
Not 'don't apologize' or 'there's no need'; she's slightly struck by the response. She can't remember the last time someone other than her mother directed the words 'you're not allowed to' at her.
"Thank you," she breathes.
He says nothing in response, perching on her father's desk
"He wasn't very good at telling me he was proud of me," she admits, looking around the half empty room.
"He told my father all the time that he was proud of you," he soothes. "I heard him a few times when I was in Dad's office."
"Just the way your father used to tell me how proud he was of you," she counters.
He nods, dropping his head.
Expressions of pride, like those of love, mean terribly little when said to people other than their object. They have both suffered, albeit in different ways, from their fathers' inability to express their feelings directly.
"He would have been so proud of what you achieved on Voyager," he murmurs, looking at the picture on the desk of her with her father.
"We all achieved it," she dismisses, out of reflex.
"I'm not talking about getting back home," he retorts, this time firmly. "I'm talking about before. . . Seven years of constant struggle and challenges to your principles. Seven years of making the ship a home to the crew."
He turns to her, locking onto her eyes with a sudden intensity.
"Not many people would have been able to do what you did, Kathryn. They would have folded under the pressure. Or become like Captain Ransom."
She holds his gaze, having no idea how to respond.
Sometimes she feels like she folded. Sometimes she feels like she became Captain Ransom.
"But you didn't," he finishes. "You made it. And you pulled us all with you."
Her eyes fill with tears again and she looks away from him. When she blinks the tears away, she puts her hand on the knee next to her as a silent thank you, and then moves away from the desk.
"We should have some lunch," she says, shifting the subject.
Neither of them ate anything for breakfast other than coffee, and her question reminds him that his stomach is empty.
"Sure."
"Do you care what I replicate?"
"Replicate?" he ask with horror. "There's a fully functioning kitchen in this house."
"You can cook?"
"You can't?" he asks, but his spreading grin betrays that he already knows the answer.
She crosses her arms in front of her, narrowing her eyes.
"Has Chakotay told you some story?"
He laughs, looking not the least bit guilty.
"I may have weaseled a few tales out of him. Over the years."
She shakes her head with frustration.
"Remind me to have his security clearance pulled at the end of this. Clearly, he can't be trusted with sensitive information."
He smiles, knowing she isn't really angry, before following her into the kitchen.
. . . . . . .
As Kathryn finishes cleaning their plates, Tom pours over his latest work project in the dining room.
Both of them are solemn on their sixth evening together, having finished her father's office and moved onto her mother's bedroom.
The decision was one Tom openly questioned, worrying that it would be too much for her to deal with in one week.
It's the only time an argument will run its course during his stay. But he didn't back down, even when she glared menacingly at him. Or else, when she refused to speak to him for an hour after the glare failed.
Putting the last dish away, Kathryn wishes she'd listened to Tom when they'd argued.
It took two days and a half days and three breakdowns to finish packing the bedroom, and she'd cried even harder than she had in her father's office. Her legs at one point collapsed under her from her shattering sobs, Tom catching her as she stood in front of the closet she used to sneak into as a girl.
Tom has been patient in his support, but offered her no consoling words when she began to cry. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say, but that he recognized no consolation was possible.
When she sits down across from him with coffee in hand, he manages to keep a sympathetic look from his face.
"What are you working on?" she asks.
It's the first time she's shown any interest in his work since he arrived.
In truth, it's the first time she's shown any interest in his work since he left Starfleet for his current profession.
"Simulations for the new advanced piloting center the Academy is putting together."
Her face piques with interest, as well as surprise.
"Really?"
He chooses to ignore her surprise, at least for the moment.
"Yep. It's way I contacted Tuvok. There are a few battle simulations that I think could be made more difficult, but I needed help from someone with more tactical experience."
Her eyebrows draw together slightly as she sips her coffee.
"You could have contacted me," she points out, cradling the mug.
She isn't just alluding to his failure to contact her this time, but his failure to contact her ever regarding his work.
"You thought I was busy writing Risa programs," he teases, but something about his tone betrays he isn't entirely kidding.
"I didn't know what you were busy doing," she points out, her voice serious. "You never talk about your work."
He tilts his head to the side after a moment. A concession that she wasn't the only one slow to bring up his new career.
"You were disappointed when I left Starfleet. I think I've been afraid to talk about it."
She grimaces at the confession, but then leans slightly over the table, her eyes searching his face.
"I admit I was disappointed, Tom. But I wasn't disappointed in you. There's a difference."
He looks at her hesitantly, his doubts barely masked. He buys the distinction she's making, but he doesn't necessarily think it applies to her feelings about him abandoning the commission she handed him ten years ago.
"My leaving Starfleet had nothing to do with how I felt about my time on Voyager," he assures, dodging her last statement. "Being a part of that crew, being under your command was something I found rewarding. But entering back into Starfleet at large- dealing with promotion and Starfleet Command. Policies that never made sense to me. . ."
He shrugs, uninterested in finishing the thought.
She eyes him with open skepticism. She buys part of his reasoning, but she doesn't believe that his decision to leave Starfleet behind had nothing to do with his feelings about his seven years on her ship.
"I know it was difficult for you to reconcile protocols with your own approach to situations. After the Moneans-"
"No."
He cuts her off quickly and firmly, though the one-word interruption isn't angry.
"No?" she echoes, her voice rising with challenge.
"Not now," he explains, shaking his head slowly.
She softens, realizing it isn't an argument he's after.
"I want to talk about it," she presses. "There have been things that have gone unspoken, on both of our sides, for far too long."
"You're right," he agrees, leaning back in his chair. "And we will talk about it. But not tonight. Not after today."
However stubborn Kathryn Janeway is, she's also a woman who learns from her mistakes. She doesn't fight him this time, but her acceptance of his words doesn't quell her concern either.
"So then when?" she asks, her eyes doing the pleading she won't allow in her tone.
"Soon," he promises. "But not tonight."
. . . .
On the morning of the seventh day, Tom transports to his office to attend a meeting and touch base with his staff.
The house feels strange without him, and Kathryn is disturbed by how much his sudden absence bothers her.
When B'Elanna comms from Deep Space Nine, it's a welcome distraction from the quiet that has settled over the house.
"He's in New Jersey," Kathryn apologizes, after the woman asks after her husband.
"I forgot he was going in today," B'Elanna says, obviously frustrated with herself.
"I'll have him comm you when he gets back."
"No. . . I'm about to leave for several hours while we replace one of the docking rings. I'll have to comm him tomorrow."
The pain on the younger woman's face is clear. Kathryn smiles sympathetically.
"How is everything going at the station?"
When B'Elanna's face shifts to obvious frustration, it takes her former Captain back in time. She almost laughs out loud.
"You wouldn't be willing to pull rank and temporarily reassemble Voyager's engineering team, would you?"
The request isn't a serious one. Yet.
"It can't be all that bad," Kathryn comments.
"There's no way we're going to finish what we need to while I'm here. But I refuse to stay any longer than I've planned, so they're just going to have deal with doing things over comm lines."
She's pleasantly surprised to hear that B'Elanna is drawing lines when it comes to work and her home life, as it's something the younger woman has never been historically good at.
The unfortunate tendency is one of the many things they have in common.
"How's Miral?"
Here B'Elanna's face becomes obviously pained, and Kathryn regrets asking the unthinking question that triggered the reaction.
"She misses her father," B'Elanna replies solemnly. "She had a fit last night and I couldn't calm her down. He's much better at soothing her than I am."
"It'll go by quickly," Kathryn assures, but B'Elanna doesn't look at all convinced.
"How are things going there?" B'Elanna queries, trying to change the subject.
Kathryn hesitates at first. But staring at B'Elanna's expectant face, she realizes that her former pilot isn't the only one with whom too many things have gone unsaid over the years.
"It's been difficult," she admits. "But Tom's been incredibly supportive. It appears he has a way with admirals in addition to Klingon children. Perhaps they have something in common?"
The engineer laughs, her dark eyes twinkling.
"He'll surprise you," B'Elanna warns. "One minute he's off playing Captain Proton, and the next he's the most observant, understanding person you've ever met. . . It can be disarming."
Kathryn smiles slightly. She's noticed.
"I should go," B'Elanna says, "I need to make way down to the docking ring."
"Good luck," Kathryn wishes. "And B'Elanna. . . After you settle in at home, we should have dinner. Just the two of us."
The engineer seems surprised by the offer but pleased nonetheless.
"Absolutely. I'll make Tom stay home with Miral. Perhaps after I've filled her with ice cream and candy, as her father so thoughtfully does for me."
"Ha. Good planning. I'll tell Tom that you commed. Janeway out."
When Tom arrives back at the house just after lunch, Kathryn fails to hide her relief.
"I thought you were going to be gone all day," she says, looking at him in the entryway.
"It's good to see you, too," he teases, and she rolls her eyes with a smile. "I cut it short. Wanted to get back here and spend the afternoon with you."
"I rather thought you'd be sick of dusty rooms and packing," she remarks, slightly apologetic for the last week.
"Well, I'd rather thought we could take a break from that. Maybe go into the city later and have some dinner together."
She looks at him with mixed emotions. She hasn't been able to do much of anything without him, but the idea of giving up entirely on the day isn't one she likes.
In front of her, he sighs.
"Even God rested on the seventh day, Kathryn."
She isn't sure whether to be put off more by his tone, or the fact he's comparing her to an entity neither of them believe in.
When she crosses her arms, he tries to disarm her temper before it can set itself to detonate.
"Surely there's some little bar around here you'd like to go to."
"It's Indiana," she deadpans, and he looks at her, waiting. "Two things that aren't in short supply here are cornfields and bars."
When they sit across from each other hours later, it's in a small pub in downtown Bloomington, after a leisurely dinner and a bottle and a half of wine.
"I never would have pegged you for a lightweight," he teases, his own cheeks slightly red from the cabernet.
"I am not a lightweight, Mister Paris. And I take such an accusation very seriously."
The denial is quickly belied by the faltering of her glare, both of them beginning to snicker at their slightly inebriated state.
His tolerance for real alcohol isn't much higher than hers. Being the parent of a small child doesn't exactly allow a lot of pub time.
"I should have gotten you drunk on the ship," he smirks, sipping his wine.
"I believe you tried. Several times."
Despite his delayed reaction time, he feigns hurt impressively.
"Why is that you always blamed me for the Prixin nectar being spiked?"
"Because it was always you who spiked it," she retorts, beginning to laugh.
"It was a team effort, I assure you. Your own Ensign Kim was highly resourceful, those last two Prixins."
She stops, her eyes flying wide.
"Harry? No. . . I don't believe you."
He smirks, leaning over the small table so that his face is closer to hers.
"Harry wasn't as innocent as you think, my dear Admiral. He might have been in the beginning. But at some point, it was just an act. . . An alibi to cover his darker motivations and seedy nature."
Her eyes narrow, as if considering his words.
"If that's true- and I'm not saying I think it is- Harry's conversion was due to the influence of a certain pilot."
He chuckles, shaking his head.
"I see. According to you, everything is my fault."
The taunt is meant as a good-natured one, but she abruptly stops smiling when he speaks it. She opens her mouth to say something, but he cuts her off, knowing exactly what road she's about to go down.
"No."
"No?" she echoes again, this time incredulous.
"No," he repeats firmly.
"Why?"
The question is practically spat him, and he lets go of a ragged breath as he watches anger further color the high cheekbones that are already rosy from alcohol.
"Because we're having a perfectly pleasant evening together. Because we're away from the house and everything that being there entails. Because it's silly to drag up painful memories when the entire point of the night has been to get away from them."
The slight desperation in his tone mollifies her enough to lower her glare from kill to stun, but she still doesn't drop the pursuit.
"If we can't talk about it after a bad day, and we can't talk about it after a good day, when can we possibly talk about it?"
"Soon," he promises again. "But not tonight."
She looks away from him, obviously frustrated, and he reaches for her hand over the table.
"Kathryn," he says, but she refuses to look at him. "Kathryn."
When she finally turns her face back to him, her eyes are filled with equal parts doubt and anger.
It's a look he's seen before, though not for many years.
"We've known each other for ten years," he remarks, his voice tipping into plaintive. "Can't we just for once remember all the good things without remembering the bad?"
She looks down at their hands, and then softens perceptibly.
She's getting accustomed to giving into his requests. She's getting accustomed, too, to abandoning her own demands.
"There was a lot of good," she concedes, meeting his gaze again.
"And it far outweighed the bad," he adds.
She looks abruptly apologetic. Moving her hand from his, she reaches for her wine glass, holding it up in toast.
"To the good?" she asks, forcing a slight smile.
He nods, holding up his own glass.
"To all the things that went unheralded."