Chapter 2: Oh, weak mortal flesh
Looking down at Chell's latest concoction, Tom picks reluctantly at his tray.
He isn't sure if it makes it better or worse, the fact that Chell's cooking is just as unappetizing to human's as Neelix's. Looking at Neelix's empty galley at night, he typically decides better.
Sitting down to lunch, he decides worse.
His lunch companion falling silent, he ventures a look around the room.
Tuvok sits at the next table over, going over the results of their latest security drills with a smattering of his team. Harry and Jenny have just left, the former having patted him on the shoulder with a smile as he followed his wife out.
In the far corner, B'Elanna and Mike Ayala sit alone together, talking in low voices.
That relationship is one Tom never saw coming; the quiet, divorced father of two not seeming B'Elanna's type. But looking at them sitting together, the obvious intimacy, he notes the absence of pain in his stomach. And then feels a wave of relief.
Taking another bite of the brown paste on his tray, he looks to Seven and Chakotay on the opposite side of the room.
The two, not surprisingly, have renewed their relationship since Seven's near fatal injury one month earlier. But this time, Seven is cautious. The last six months have been a tutorial in loss for her. Not only did Chakotay end their relationship without warning, but she lost the Doctor's friendship when things with Chakotay first began.
Even her relationship with the Captain became more distant.
Watching Seven's refusal to meet Chakotay's gaze, Tom feels for both of them. Seven knows now what it feels like to be cast aside, and she's terrified it will happen again. Progress between the two will be slow going for sometime.
Yet, watching Seven get from her table, he feels optimistic for them.
"Can I ask you something?"
Janeway's voice surprises him, and he quickly looks back at her over the table they share.
"Of course, Captain," he says, thinking that the seriousness of her tone denotes ship's business.
She smiles slightly, an indication that her title isn't suitable for the subject matter she's about to bring up. But then the smile falls away entirely, replaced by a worried expression.
"Do you not like my hair longer?"
Pausing his fork in mid-air, he raises his eyebrows at her.
It doesn't seem fitting to call his Captain a vain person. She rarely makes comments out loud on her appearance, after all. And whenever she wears civilian clothes, something she does more frequently now but still not as often as others do, whatever she chooses is simple. Never drawing attention. Not to mention that in the hundreds of times they've been forced to dash into public spaces at a moment's notice due to red alert's and Kahless knows what else, she often arrives on the bridge looking just as much a mess as her officers. The safety of her ship and crew coming before her own shallow concerns.
But Tom isn't an idiot when it comes to women, and over the years he's watched her changing hair lengths and ornate updos that, he knows, must have taken her forever. He's taken note of the toying with lipstick shades and eye makeup that would have been entirely subtle, if he didn't see her face everyday.
He's seen, too, the frustrated looks she occasionally gives her own tired face, catching sight of it in some reflective surface after an especially long shift.
No, his Captain isn't a vain person. But Kathryn is. At least, in the small space that her life and job allow.
Looking at her, he puts down his fork entirely. He knows from having two sisters and too many girlfriends to count that the conversation they are presently starting is deadly serious. Her casual tone not withstanding.
"Why would you say that?" he asks cautiously.
"You've looked at it twice since we sat down. As well as earlier, on the bridge."
She punctuates her words by tucking an errant strand into her ponytail. She has been growing it out the last few weeks, and it's now just long enough that it needs to be pulled back to be regulation.
"I look at you all the time. You're kind of around me a lot. Seeing as how your seat is only a few meters from mine. "
She doesn't appreciate the dodge, and her crossed arms tell him as much. He winces, suspecting her hands would be on her hips if only she were standing up.
"The look you had all three times wasn't an approving one. So I'm curious. Just asking your opinion. . . There's no right or wrong answer."
Over his tray, he regards her evenly, knowing damn well that the last part of her statement is a lie.
There are a thousand wrong answers to her question. And maybe no right answer at all.
"How long are you trying to grow it?"
"Long. Maybe as long as it was five years ago."
She pauses, watching him school his expression.
"Did you not like my hair that long?"
Picking up his fork again as a distraction, Tom contemplates his reply. And the many extra days he could spend pulling shifts in Sickbay if he handles this poorly.
"I liked it long, back then. . . The few times I saw it down, anyway."
At his reply, she stops and then pulls a face. He has, however artfully, communicated a thought she's had herself.
She likes her hair when it's long, but the reality is, she will almost never be able to wear down. She will have to resort once more to harsh buns when on duty. She will spend thirty minutes of her morning trying to tame her hair into something that's appropriate for a Starfleet Captain.
When the conversation falls silent, Tom searches her face, finding contemplation rather than frustration.
Forking more of his unappetizing lunch, he tries to fill his mouth before she can change her mind. Asking him yet another question that puts him in mortal danger.
"So, what's Seven been reading this week?" she asks, after a moment.
He almost sighs with relief at the change of subject.
The last two months, Seven has taken a growing interest in Earth's literature, and both Kathryn and Tom heavily suspect she's processing her feelings about Chakotay along side the literary themes.
Today in Astrometrics, the three of them will go over the bits and pieces of long-range information Starfleet has sent them through the compressed subspace messages they now receive every two weeks. The process is long and full of periods of doing nothing, while Harry works on information to transfer down to them from the the lulls, Kathryn and Tom always chat with Seven about what she's been reading, tackling, separately or together, whatever questions about humanity Seven's reading has given rise to.
The last time they worked together in Astrometrics, Seven was reading The Grapes of Wrath and found herself torn between humanity's twin capacities for cruelty and selfless sacrifice. When Seven fell silent, obviously unswayed by Kathryn's comments about humanity's unending potential for hope and compassion, Tom began, in a low voice, to reflect on being plucked out of the penal colony in Auckland and ending up on Voyager.
How the grace of a young Harry Kim's friendship had saved him early on. And how, in turn, that salvation inspired him to save Chakotay's life.
His Captain had watched him speak with unmasked interest. The same way her helmsman watched her the time before that, when Seven had just finished Moby Dick, remarking, as though it were obvious, that her Captain's feelings about the Borg closely resembled Ahab's pursuit of his white whale.
Looking at Kathryn over his lunch tray now, he knows she isn't just asking about Seven's reading. She's try to ascertain what kind of afternoon she should expect. Whether their conversation with Seven will end in angry silence or quiet camaraderie.
"Poe," he replies, pushing away his tray.
"Death and insanity," she remarks, smiling a little.
"Right up your alley."
She rolls her eyes as they get to their feet, but he only looks at her with a self-congratulatory smirk in response.
No matter how old Tom gets, he'll never outgrow his occasional over-confidence.
. . . . . .
Walking to Astrometrics, she fights the urge to sigh.
She expected Tom to meet her for lunch today, though she isn't exactly sure why. They never made an appointment to do so, but it has become their habit, especially on days when they'll spend their afternoon going over information with Seven.
She runs a hand through her hair, which now stops a few centimeters below her chin, before turning onto the corridor that will take her to the turbolift.
When she rounds the corner, Tom's head comes into view, and she immediately smiles.
"I missed you at lunch today," she says, standing beside him.
"I'm sorry. I got caught up on something with Harry. Did you survive Chell's Warp Core Chili?"
Something about his tone is off, she can tell, but she decides to let it go.
"Yes. Although I don't know that Chakotay did. I could see him sweating, despite that I was two tables over."
He chuckles at the joke, but it's a forced laugh. This worries her a little more.
Things between the pilot and XO have calmed, the older man having two months back apologized profusely and repeatedly for his behavior and the younger man having graciously accepted.
Despite this, the Captain can still see the Commander's pained expression whenever he looks down at the conn.
Some wounds never really heal, and she understands Chakotay's fear that his lack of trust in Tom has brought back bad memories of the way people used to look at him- the convicted felon, the traitor- when he first came aboard.
Twice now, she has looked at Chakotay and patted the arm next to her chair upon seeing his pained expression. Both times, Chakotay simply dropped his gaze, contemplating the emotion in the blue eyes that remain staring forward, barred from observation.
Seeing Tom shift uncomfortably in front of her, she thinks maybe Chakotay was right to keep on worrying. She steps on the lift, regarding Tom with a hopeful grin.
"So what are we talking about today- death, devotion, jealousy?"
This time, Tom completely freezes, refusing to look at her. Thinking something is decidedly wrong, she calls for the turbolift to stop.
"Tom?" she asks, concern apparent in her voice.
Slowly, he turns to her, and she can see that he isn't hurt or angry. He's nervous. So much that he's tapping his fingers against his thigh the way he does when he's in a tiny, closed off space he finds uncomfortable.
"I told her to read Madame Bovary," he says quickly. Almost blurting.
In front of him, her eyes go wide.
"Please tell me you're joking, Tom."
"I'm not. . . I wish I was. But I'm not."
Turning away, she no longer feels concern for him. Rather, she considers trapping him in the lift with his panic until he screams for help.
Even then, she's not sure if she'd let him out.
"Resume lift," she barks.
Speeding toward Astrometrics, she can only imagine the delightful questions Seven is going to have about sexuality, as well as how much the nature of her questions will reveal the exact point of... maturation in her relationship with Chakotay.
She swallows scathing remarks about what else he could have suggested to Seven. Perhaps the writings of the Marquis de Sade. A brief foray into Theopompus' painstaking description of orgies in ancient Greece.
Exiting the lift, she doesn't look at Tom, and he falls silently in step behind her.
He understands why she's angry. He knew she would be. Which is the whole reason he'd spent lunch in Harry's quarters rather than bearing her wrath in the mess hall.
Hiding, like a coward, from a woman who is half his size.
He can't really blame her, either. He knows, with complete clarity, the awkwardness his unthinking suggestion is going to cause them. Especially as Seven has informed him, just this morning, that she has been looking forward to their conversation all week long.
When Seven clicks off the console in front of her after two hours of work, Tom feels the sense of foreboding that he'd felt when they first entered Astrometrics.
"I do not understand infidelity," Seven announces, and her companions quickly glance at each other.
This is not at all what they expected.
"If someone is unhappy with a partner, why not simply end the relationship?"
The question is directed at Tom, so Kathryn allows him to take the lead.
"I think there are a variety of emotions and reasons that accompany the phenomenon of infidelity. Sheer boredom or lust. The feeling of being trapped and not knowing how to get out. Fearing the loss of the current relationship even if it isn't one that's proven satisfactory."
Listening to his impassive tone, Seven narrows her eyes.
"You do not find these reasons compelling?"
He lets go of a deep breath, staring down at the information on his console.
"I understand them. I can explain theme with enough nuance, I guess. . . But no, I don't find them particularly compelling."
"So you have never been unfaithful?"
Seven's tone courts surprise as well as intrigue, and Kathryn sits down in a chair, content to watch the conversation play out without her.
Tom regards his CO with an accusing glance for abandoning him, then shifts his gaze back to the work in front of him.
"I admit that there was a time that I didn't put a lot consideration into monogamy or serious relationships. But despite all my mistakes back then, no, I've never cheated on someone." He adds, putting weight behind his words, "and so help me, Seven, if I look up and you seem surprised by that, you're going to me owe me more than a jacket as an apology."
When Tom finally looks up, Seven has dutifully hidden any trace of her reaction to his words. She looks contemplative, and he can tell she's deciding on another question.
"There are a wide variety of pitfalls in romantic relationships," Seven observes.
"An infinite number," Tom confirms.
"Why brave the risk of failure? Humans are capable of being happy without romantic entanglement. Friends and family members are enough."
They all know that she wants to say 'I am capable of being happy without romantic entanglement,' but doesn't because she's too self-conscious to do so.
For all the confessions she demands of her companions, Seven has become painfully slow to offer her own.
"Like many other risks, it can be worth it. Romantic relationships offer a very different kind of fulfillment than platonic ones."
"Sex."
It's a statement rather than a question. Tom fights off a smirk when the Captain shifts uncomfortably in her chair.
"That," he drawls. "But more importantly, the satisfaction of having someone to spend your life with."
"I have someone to spend my life with," Seven says, looking between Tom and Kathryn. "I have friends. . . I have the two of you."
Kathryn smiles, and Tom tries to put aside his own reaction for Seven's benefit.
"Not the same thing, Sev."
Falling silent once more, Seven regards him with a hesitant expression.
"I am sorry if I am an inadequate substitute for B'Elanna Torres."
The remark takes him completely off-guard, and Kathryn watches as his expression morphs from surprised to pained.
"B'Elanna and I weren't happy in the end, so you don't need to be sorry that we aren't together now."
He taps his console forcefully before continuing.
"But more importantly, you are my friend- not a substitute. I choose to spend time with you because I genuinely want to do so. . . And I expect you to do the same."
Seven eventually nods, turning to her work as the Harry begins to send them new data from the bridge. Once she's occupied, Tom looks to Kathryn, who now stands just beside him.
"That goes for you, too," he whispers, looking at her with a serious expression.
She abruptly flushes with guilt at the remark.
She has been wondering these past few months whether the increased time her pilots spends with her is just because of Seven. Or else, because he is, like herself, a member of the dwindling pool of people on Voyager not engaging their time in romantic relationships.
Beneath her guilt, she feels relief that he understood her doubt and thought to displace it.
She pats his arm in agreement, flashing him a smile before they return to the work in front of them.
. . . . .
Looking around the crowded room, Kathryn contemplates making an escape attempt.
It would be terribly undignified, running for the door; pushing people in the crowded room out of her way as she bolts for the exit. But these days, she's learned to value her comfort a little more and her dignity a little less.
Settling into her seat, she sips the purple concoction that smells like sulfur and burns like rubbing alcohol before pushing it away.
She has always hated bars, even when she was younger. The loud noise, the strangers violating one's personal space. The thinly-veiled attempts to seduce and the open displays of poor behavior.
Only once did ever spend any amount of time in places like this, and it was during a dark period of her life, after suffering the loss of both her farther and the man she'd planned to marry. Bars bring back bad memories for her. They make her uncomfortable rather than putting her at ease. And all she presently wants is to escape from this one, to slip into her robe and curl up on her couch with a cup of coffee and a good book.
Alas, she has promised her crew to join them here. To spend her first evening of shore leave in this crowded place with music so loud it drowns out even her own dreams of undignified retreat.
"Captain," Harry greets, handing her another drink. "Glad you finally made it down to the planet."
Looking at her Ensign, his cheeks already flushed from alcohol, she smiles despite herself.
"Well, I couldn't let that nice room the Letarian Ambassador provided me with go to waste. There's even a replicator."
Harry looks surprised.
"You have a replicator in your room?" he asks incredulously. "We barely have enough to walk around our bed."
"Well, I would like to say that it's one of the many perks of my rank. . . But I'm relatively certain all of the rooms in the building I'm staying in have replicators."
She doesn't think to voice that they also have balconies, with breathtaking views of the ocean Letara's capital looks out on.
"You and Tom have all the luck," Harry comments, smiling at her.
Both of them know it wasn't quite luck. Kathryn was given a room in a nicer building as a gesture of political good will to Voyager's Captain.
And Tom was given a nicer room because a certain Ambassador obviously found him attractive.
"Where is Thomas Eugene? Is he going to grace us with his presence anytime this evening?"
Harry chuckles at the teasing use of Tom's middle name. Only the Captain can get away with it. And even then, Tom usually looks like he's contemplating a way to make her replicator produce only decaffeinated coffee.
"He should be down soon. He's just not the biggest fan of bars. . . And I believe he's also trying to avoid my dear sister-in-law."
The last part doesn't surprise Kathryn. Tom has quickly risen to most eligible bachelor status among the female crew, but (unfortunately for his many admirers) appears to have absolutely no interest in being caught. Megan Delaney is clearly the residing chair of the Tom Paris Adoration Society, and from her- a woman he once briefly pursued- Tom flees faster than from anyone else.
Still, the other part of Harry's statement leaves Kathryn unconvinced.
"Tom? Not a fan of bars? Half of his holoprograms revolve around them."
Harry smiles knowingly. He's had this thought himself once.
"As Tom would point out, holographic bars are entirely different entities than real ones. Especially when you design your own."
Looking around the Letarian watering hole, she can see Tom's point.
She's always had a soft spot for Sandrine's, as well as the bar in Fair Haven, but she thought maybe it was just sentimentality- all of the time there, spent with her crew.
But reflecting on them, she realizes now that the characters Tom programmed lacked the darker social undertones of those in her current environment. The holographic patrons of Sandrine's, however overly familiar and sometimes lecherous, acting more as comic relief. The friendly folk of Fair Haven bringing comfort and effortless companionship.
Neither group palpating with poorly masked pain. Neither refuge feeling like a place where people who are alone go to drown their loneliness.
"Speak of the devil," Harry announces, interrupting her line of thought.
When Tom appears just inside the bar, it's rather obvious he's skeptical. As though he's already having the same thoughts of escape that Kathryn just entertained. Still, he moves forward into the bar, masking his chagrin when immediately met by Megan Delaney and, to Megan's open annoyance, Sarah Jenkins.
"Are you going to go over and save him?" Kathryn asks, after a few moments elapse.
"Oh, I think I'll let him fight his own battles this time."
Watching Tom fail three times at extracting himself, Kathryn contemplates helping him herself. She agrees with Harry that it's funny, but there's only so much of this that she can watch without sympathy.
Seven beats her former mentor to the punch, extracting Tom with words that Kathryn can't make out from her position, but that are, undoubtedly, unceremonious. Leaving the group with the pilot in tow, the blonde woman earns open glares from his former captors.
"I should go find Jenny," Harry comments, as Tom moves to join Seven at her table with Chakotay. "Now that Voyager's Chief Conn officer has been safely rescued from hostile territory."
"Indeed you should," she replies.
As Harry walks away, Kathryn allows herself to watch Tom perch across from the Commander. She hasn't seen her pilot much socially this past month, Seven finally having abandoned her reluctance in regard to Chakotay and retreating almost completely into her romantic relationship.
Looking at Tom now, she isn't sure why she hasn't thought to invite him to dinner or play a game of pool, as it isn't as though Seven was the only driving force behind their time together. She considers him a friend. A close friend even. So why is that she always find herself hoping that he'll ask her to do something rather taking the initiative herself?
It's obvious even from across the room that Chakotay and Seven are having some kind of deep conversation, making overtures to include Tom occasionally, but only by way of being polite. He is, without a doubt, a third wheel. Yet somehow he fails to look awkward.
Like all of them, he's left his uniform behind on the ship. He wears black pants, a white shirt, and the leather jacket that has obviously become his favorite item of clothing.
She always thought the jacket looked slightly silly before, like a costume, when she saw it in the holodeck, surrounded by strange vehicles and obsolete tools. Here, in an alien bar, she thinks the last thing he looks is silly. And kicked back with casual confidence, the sight of him reminds her of one of the ancient films he'd played for the crew sometime earlier.
It was shortly after their hopes of getting home had yet again been dashed (though for the life of her, she can't remember which time now), and the young actor who starred in the film had played an unhappy youth prone to causing trouble. Tom had informed her, before being hushed by someone behind them, both that the actor had died before the movie was released and that he'd originally been from Indiana.
Watching Tom now through the shifting crowd, she feels that same emotion she did whenever she'd turned from him and gone back to watching that film. A profound though inexplicable sense of loss for someone who'd passed from the face of Earth more than four hundred years earlier.
At some point, she realizes that Tom has gotten up from the table, moving to the bar for a change of scenery.
None of Voyager's crew are immediately around him, but he doesn't remain alone for long. After less than a minute of sitting, he is approached by a Letarian woman who whispers something in his ear before draping her arm across the back of his chair.
Watching Tom's shoulders slump in resignation, Kathryn frowns.
Tom is just about to tell his companion that he really isn't in the mood for any company, her very colorful offer aside, when he feels a hand glide confidently up his back.
He freezes.
"There you are," Kathryn purrs, "I've been looking for you everywhere."
She doesn't look at his alien companion, but Kathryn's posture, standing only a centimeter behind Tom, her arm draped over him, is designed to communicate all she needs to. Intimacy. An already staked claim.
With a shrug, the woman moves away. She doesn't really mind taking home a couple, but this one seems to only be interested in each other. Monogamists can be so incredibly boring.
"Have I ever told you that you're my favorite person on the ship?" Tom asks, looking at her with open gratitude.
Kathryn surveys the position of their Letarian friend as she shrugs.
"I'd rather hoped it wouldn't require me propositioning you to earn me that particular honor. But if that's what it takes. . ."
As soon as she says it, she suspects she's crossed a line that will make him uncomfortable. For all their banter, she never makes jokes like this. She lets his quips roll offer, even laughs at his occasional innuendo, while still maintaining appropriateness.
The joke makes him laugh out loud instead, dropping his head onto the bar in front of him before peering back at her over his arm. She sinks into the chair next to him with a self-congratulatory smirk, and he pushes her his drink.
"That's awful," she sputters after sipping it, pushing away the cocktail that tastes like Leola Root and burns like plasma fire.
"It is," he agrees. "But somehow its awfulness is fitting."
He scans their surrounding with open repugnance before sitting back in his chair.
"I hate bars. I used to like them once. . . A long time ago. But now they just remind me of times in my life I'd like to forget."
His admission reminds her of her earlier thoughts, and she nods in agreement.
"You like the ones on the holodeck."
"So do you," he counters.
Looking down at the sickly green liquid in her glass, she begins to smirk again.
"I'm surprised you didn't bring your secret stash of whiskey down with you."
He grins wildly, looking around the bar once more.
"I clearly should have. . . My lack of forethought strikes again."
The comment, which may have been bitter once upon a time, is delivered without a trace of self-consciousness. They both laugh, stilling only when their gazes fall on Seven and Chakotay.
"You must miss her," she says softly.
The comment could seem inappropriate. Seven is in a fulfilling relationship, not dead. Yet to both of them, the sentiment is fitting.
Like Harry, Seven has retreated into the comforts of romantic partnership. The blissful rewards of sharing a life with someone. They're both happy for her, of course. But it leaves them on the outside looking in.
Is this what it would have been like for others, Tom wonders, if he had married B'Elanna? Would Harry have watched, with a mixture of happiness and pain, as he wed and then withdrew into his own private bubble?
"You must miss both of them," he says, not thinking about the implication of his words.
When he looks back at her, she's paled. He places his hand over hers as a silent apology for crossing a boundary he shouldn't have. She looks away from him quickly, ducking her head to sip the liquid both of them find disgusting.
It isn't that Tom's comment has journeyed into areas she doesn't trust him in. Rather, it's that he's crossed into something she herself tries not to examine too closely.
She isn't sure if she ever really loved Chakotay. But she'd like the idea that he loved her.
Liked it far too much than was good for either of them.
"Do want to get out here?" he asks suddenly.
She doesn't hesitate before nodding in agreement, sliding from her chair in one stealth motion.
Outside the air is colder than when they entered, and he can see her body tense with chill out of the corner of his eye. She's clad in only a grey shirt and slacks, not having thought to bring a jacket.
"Talk about lack of foresight," he teases. "You're from Indiana and you didn't think to bring garments for cold weather."
She glares at him as they cross a wide pathway, and as an apology he slips off his jacket to hand to her. She takes it without much thought. He won't be nearly as cold as she is. And even if he is, she thinks it suitable punishment for his sass.
Several minutes into their walk, he realizes she's laughing. He arches an eyebrow at her as they round a building.
"I never would have believed it, eight years ago, if someone told me I'd have to help you fight off unwanted advances from women."
He knows she's right. But he also can't let her taunt go unanswered.
"What you mean to say is that you never would have believed you would be lucky enough to run your hand seductively over your handsome pilot's back."
The retaliatory hand that hits him in the stomach is quick, and she smiles to herself as she hears his loud exhale of breath when it lands.
Eventually, they approach the district where their temporary lodgings are located. Instead of heading for the building, Tom leads them down to the shore, coming to sit on the edge of a wide planter. Several meters from the tides of the alien ocean, they settle close to each other, fending off the cool air and thoughts that have followed them from the bar.
This isn't something they would have done when first found themselves out here, after the Caretaker's array. They wouldn't have felt comfortable, sitting alone on an alien planet, away from the safety their ship affords. They would have been silently holding their breath. Waiting for the next calamity.
At this point, their fear has receded. They are still vigilant, but in the same way people are who grow up in a rough neighborhood. The understood risks becoming the background of a daily pattern of life.
"Why did you break up with B'Elanna?"
Perhaps she has no right to ask the question, but she's been containing it for several months now. His opaque allusion to her feelings for Chakotay having simply pried it loose.
If he's surprised by her frankness, he doesn't show it. He looks out at purplish water that laps gently at pink sand in front of them.
"We'd been having the same fights for months. Maybe even years."
She knows that this is only the beginning of the explanation, but for this alone would have been enough. When she left Earth's orbit to track down Chakotay, she and Mark had been having the same quiet argument for the last year. He wanted to have children. She didn't. At least, not yet.
She wonders, sitting on a beach in the Delta Quadrant, what would have happened if she'd come home from the mission as scheduled. Whether she and Mark would have had the same argument over and over until they finally called off the wedding she'd already postponed two times, each of them filled with anger at the other.
She thinks, too, that she can guess at least one of Tom's arguments with B'Elanna, her Chief Engineer typically looking at Naomi Wildman with the same masked discomfort she herself used to look at children. Back before her own window for having them began to rapidly close before her very eyes.
She always assumed that if it happened for Tom and B'Elanna, B'Elanna would turn out to be happy with motherhood. But she couldn't be expected to appreciate someone telling her that. Just as Tom couldn't be expected to wait.
When she looks back at Tom, he can tell she's been light years away. He smiles at softly rather than looking hurt, and she touches his arm for him to go on.
"During that race with Antarians, we argued. . . She told me that she thought I wasn't serious about our relationship. I tried to tell her that I was- that she was the most important thing to me- but I could tell she didn't believe me."
He looks away from her, watching the Letarian tide beginning to come in as three distant moons rise in the night's sky.
"I mean, there I was, ready to ask her to marry me. And she'd convinced herself our relationship was over."
"It ended then?"
She sounds confused when she asks. She clearly remembers the two of them appearing at several events together afterward.
"No," he explains. "She went back to acting as though none of it had ever happened. . . But I couldn't. . . I ended things two months afterward."
"Do you regret it?"
She wants to take back the question as soon as she asks it, feeling even more frustration with herself than she did back in the bar.
"Not really," he admits, and with seeming ease. "Maybe if we would have gotten married things would have settled down. But I don't particularly think marriage should be approached as a solution to problems."
Her expression expresses agreement, her thoughts once more floating back to Earth and the fiancé she left behind.
"And it's nice to see her with Mike Ayala. She seems. . . content. In a way she never was with me."
There isn't any sadness in his voice when he says it, and she smiles at him. Amazed at how thoroughly caring he can be, even after he's been hurt.
He returns her smile, his gaze slowly drifting toward the zipper of the jacket that's only centimeters away from him.
"What?"
"It's not fair," he remarks, tugging on the bottom the jacket. "It looks even better on you than it does on me."
She chuckles, though more at the ridiculousness of the assertion than anything else. The jacket is several sizes too large for her and fails to cling to her in the flattering way it does to Tom.
"I highly doubt that," she says, her tone betraying her appreciation for the way the article of clothing looks on him.
It's the kind of thing a commanding officer shouldn't say to a subordinate, but neither of them worry about the boundary they're crossing.
It, like their crippling fear, was abandoned a few light years back.
Neither of them will ever be sure what happens next. Who, exactly, is the first to lean in. But either way, they find themselves kissing, Kathryn sitting up she can reach him, and Tom bending down to meet her, his hand moving from the soft leather to the fabric underneath.
When he pulls back, he expects her to once more flush with apology. To pull away or look ashamed. She doesn't. Resting her hand softly on his chest, her finger traces a pattern in his shirt.
He leans down again, deepening the kiss, and before long she's on his lap, her tongue and hands just as insistent as his. When she kisses the side of neck, she can feel his pulse pounding. She hesitates for only a moment before kissing a hot trail back up to his mouth.
Hearing the thud of footsteps in the distance behind them, both of them freeze. No one else from Voyager is staying in this district, but it wouldn't be hard to run into someone here either.
"We shouldn't stay here," he says, his breath hot against her cheek.
She knows that it's an invitation as well as a warning.
Haltingly she rises, throwing a glance over her shoulder before he quickly trails behind her.
Later, she will be amazed that in the two-minute walk to their building, she didn't change her mind. She will realize as well that had they needed to transport back to the ship, passing crewmembers who greeted her by rank, she would have.
But walking the Letara's streets, there is more than enough time for her blood to slow in her veins and rational thought to return to her. She will not be able to blame what transpires on a passing impulse, nor will she able to push it aside because of mitigating circumstances. Neither of them have drank much of anything all evening. And the loneliness that found her earlier in the bar is not what presently drives her, looking back to Tom to make sure he's still behind her.
With a blinding desire that has been slowly building for months, she wants this. Wants Tom. And for all the barriers she's erected over the years, nothing she has left in her has the strength to walk away from it.
As soon as the door of her room closes behind them, her mouth is on his, his hands impatiently tearing at her clothes. They make it to the bed, but only barely, and his mouth quickly follows where his hands leave her skin bare.
"So many freckles," he murmurs, pulling away to look at her in way she finds as agonizing as she does arousing. "Is it like a Trill? Do they go all way down?"
"Only one way to find out," she breathes, her heart pounding in her ears.
Smiling against her, he pulls at her pants. Unable to resist the lure of freckles that remain beneath.