Chapter 4: The shifting tide
The first morning that Kathryn wakes up in her own bed with Tom's arm draped over her, she feels a fundamental shift. As if every molecule of the ship beneath her has been transformed by an anomaly or spatial rift.
Listening to the even rhythm of Tom's breathing, she decides that it's time to talk to Chakotay and Tuvok about their relationship. She's been putting it off for two weeks, since the night she barged into Tom's quarters intending to apologize and left the next morning; one half of Voyager's newest couple.
She isn't sure how she's rationalized putting off this long, but she can't wait any longer. Hiding things from either of them is a bad idea, making her feel guilty and anxious. Just as she decides that she'll leave early to talk to Chakotay before her shift, she hears Tom's groggy voice beside her.
"What are you worrying about?"
"I'm not worrying," she assures, cuddling into him.
Tightening his arm around her, he lets go of a sigh.
They both know she isn't telling the truth. But she tries to tell herself that it isn't really a lie if there's no chance that he'll believe her.
"I can't sleep when you lay awake worrying," he says, punctuating his words with a yawn. "So why don't you just be kind to both of us and tell me what it is you're thinking about."
"I'm thinking about you," she says sweetly.
"Not bad," he teases. "But the only reason I'm tempted to believe you is because I'd like to think you aren't worrying even while we're having sex."
"We're not having sex," she points out.
He draws his mouth over her shoulder, pulling her flush against him.
When he rolls them over, his mouth nipping her neck and his hands tugging at her night gown, her last coherent thought is that talking to Chakotay can keep.
. . . . .
"Am I interrupting?" Kathryn asks, poking her head into her First Officer's office.
"Hardly. Come in, I was just about to replicate some lunch."
As Chakotay clears his desk of work, Kathryn settles into the seat across from his.
More and more he plows through lunch doing work in order to free up time to spend with Seven. And though Kathryn misses him in the mess hall or sharing meals as they once did in her ready room, she understands.
Silently, she wonders what sacrifices she'll be able to make in her day in order to spend time with Tom. Not finding many, she begins to worry all over again.
"You alright?" he asks, halfway through lunch. "You've been awfully quiet."
She sets down the fork she's been using to stir her food rather than eat.
"I've just been thinking," she shrugs. "Chakotay. . . there's a reason I came by to see you, and it's something I'm nervous about discussing."
He puts down his own fork, taking in the concerned expression she isn't even trying to hide.
"Kathryn, you know I'm here for you. Whatever you need."
She lets go of a ragged breath, feeling the sudden urge to bury her face in her hands.
"I've been doing something that maybe foolish," she confesses, the ghost of a rueful smile appearing on her face.
The uncharacteristic admission piques his interest as well as his amusement.
"Professionally foolish or personally foolish?"
"Both."
He leans back in his chair, his own smile growing.
"Well, now you really have my undivided attention. What is that you've been doing?"
"I've been. . ."
She closes her eyes when she can't get the words out, opening them only to look at the ceiling, as though her confession is painted there.
"It's just me, Kathryn. You can tell me anything."
She lets out a dry chuckle at this. However true his assurance, it's also laughable for any number of reasons.
"I'm seeing someone," she admits, looking him in the eye.
"Seeing someone," he repeats. "As in. . . dating someone on board the ship?"
She chooses not to roll her eyes, pushing away the wave of frustration she feels. Whatever his present doubt as to the nature of her new relationship, she accepts that it's partly her own choices that have caused it. He's probably worried she's dating another hologram.
"Well, Neelix and I talked, and we both feel a long distance relationship is a bad idea."
He laughs at the joke, even though he's surprised by it.
"I'm sure his new wife will appreciate that," he responds, sipping his tea.
She shrugs, feigning disappointment.
"I guess I could have managed being the other woman. But I drew the line when he sent me a bushel of Leola Root instead of flowers."
As Chakotay chortles into his mug, Kathryn silently congratulates herself. The conversation she's put off for two weeks is now over, and all she must do now is have the same conversation with Tuvok. Likely, without the Neelix jokes.
It's only after Chakotay falls silent for several moments, his dark eyes blinking as they watch her, that she realizes he's waiting for her to tell him who she's dating. Only after he arches an eyebrow at her, his smile fading, that she realizes he has no clue that it's Tom.
She and Tom have been spending so much time together before their relationship even began, she thought it would be obvious. The one revelation naturally leading to the other. Looking at him looking at her, she finds herself floundering all over again.
"It's Tom," she says eventually.
"Tom Paris?"
Despite that his tone doesn't indicate a challenge, she draws herself up in her chair. Daring him with her posture to question the decision. Daring him with her stare to make a remark on the age difference. The one that is dwarfed by the chronological chasm that exists between himself and Seven.
He falls silent, choosing to hide his spreading smirk behind his tea cup.
"What?" she prods, after several moments of silence.
He shrugs, his smile now obvious.
"Nothing. I'm happy for you is all."
She looks at him pointedly, and he bites his lip to keep from laughing at her frustration.
"Tom has a sense of humor and a certain lightness. . . I can see how you would find it attractive given your responsibilities."
"Tom's a very serious person," she counters. "He often uses his sense of humor to hide that."
Chakotay's smile falters. He'd honestly meant the obervation as a compliment, not an insult.
"I know that," he replies slowly. "Moreover, I think Tom is a profoundly honorable man. Most people with his past wouldn't have been able to turn their lives around the way he did. . . He's a trusted officer and I've come to consider him a friend."
"Do you?" she questions, and this completely befuddles him.
"Kathryn, I'm trying to support you, not argue. . . Is it an argument you need?"
"No," she says defensively. Only to deflate when he stares her down with those knowing dark eyes. "I don't know. . . Maybe." She continues, resting her forehead in her hand, "if only for practice. . . before I argue with Tuvok."
At this, he laughs out loud.
"Tuvok may surprise you, you know. I'm convinced there's a romantic hiding below that stoic exterior."
Looking at him across the desk, she pulls a face.
"The last time someone told him that, Tuvok took it as an insult."
"Who in heavens called him a romantic to his face?" he asks, putting down his mug.
She pauses for a moment, smiling softly.
"Tom."
"Ah," he murmurs, smirking as though his earlier point has been proven for him.
When they silent once more, her discomfort begins to pool anew.
"You're worried about protocols?" he ventures.
It's a painfully obvious question, but he knows they have to start this conversation somewhere.
"You're not?" she volleys back.
He shakes his head, looking down at the desk.
"You have Tuvok and I to vet any decisions concerning Tom. And even though it goes against fraternization policies, you've noted many times- including in regard my own relationship- that our circumstance seems to provide more than a little leeway." He adds, offhandedly, "if you're really concerned, you can consult Headquarters on the next stream of communications."
She pales visibly at the mention of talking to Command about her relationship, and Chakotay immediately backs them away from this particular nebula.
"That'll come when you're ready," he assures, before trying to lighten the conversation again. "It's not as though they can order you to transfer him."
"No," she replies darkly, "but I could use that particular threat against Tom when I need to. . . Perhaps they'll be another friendly convoy of Talaxians in our future."
Chakotay laughs again, his mirth giving way to a soft expression. He can see just from their brief conversation that the time Kathryn's spent with Paris has done her well. She's more open. More relaxed.
He tries not to linger on this last thought too long.
"Please don't ship him off too quickly," he says, trying to derail his train of thought. "If he goes, that supply of whiskey goes with him. And that would be truly devastating."
"You know about that?" she exclaims, her face morphing into a serious one and her voice dropping an octave when she continues. "Has he told you where he's hiding it?"
Chakotay's eyes glint with mischief. Trust Tom Paris not to share the location of his private stash. Even with the woman he's sleeping with.
"As his direct commanding officer, I don't want to know. And as his friend. . . why would I care where it is as long he keeps sharing it with me?"
She snorts, shaking her head. This is so very far from where they all were eight years ago.
"Good to know you're running a tight ship, Commander."
"I manage to keep everyone sober on shift," he replies, with a crisp nod. "You shouldn't expect miracles beyond that."
She gets up from her chair, realizing that their conversation is only going to degrade further into the silly and the absurd.
"Nice talking to you, Chakotay. . . You were utterly useless, as always."
He bites back his laugh enough to fake a scowl.
"If you would have let me be Captain, you wouldn't have to deal with my failures as a First Officer."
"If I would have let you be Captain, I wouldn't have had to hear all your complaints over the years when I went on away missions. Or else B'Elanna's complaints when you went in my place- to the detriment of our shuttles."
He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, she's halfway out the door.
"See you the back on the bridge, Commander."
When the door closes after her, he sips his tea with a small shake of his head. Come whatever may, he thinks Kathryn will always be someone who has to have the last word. And going back to the work on his desk, Chakotay feels a slight wave of sympathy for Tom Paris.
. . . . .
"Alright. Out with it, Tom."
As she sits across from Tom in the mess hall, he studiously refuses to look at her. Moving around his helping of Chell's Tuna Salad Surprise as though genuinely trying ascertain the pungent mystery ingredient.
"Out with what?"
He looks up just in time to catch the glare Kathryn tosses him, filling his mouth with a large spoonful of the distasteful casserole. Sitting back in her chair, she waits for him to meticulously chew every bite, pause to sip his water, and then finally swallow. When his mouth is once again unobstructed, she arches an eyebrow at him.
Only moments earlier, Chakotay passed by their table and bid them hello, Kathryn greeting him warmly as Tom gave the man only a curt nod before ducking his head and attending to his tray.
Inwardly, Kathryn had sighed. Things between Tom and Chakotay are genuinely friendly, but when the two men hit a thorny patch, the briar is always the same one these days.
Seven of Nine.
"He's pushing her to begin using her given name," he confesses finally, dropping his eyes again to his tray.
"Really?" she asks, surprised. She hadn't known this.
He nods, his face betraying his frustration.
"She doesn't want to consider it. She thinks going by 'Annika' means casting aside part of her identity. . . But Chakotay keeps pressing her about it."
She falls silent, considering Seven's dilemma. She understands both sides. And though she isn't surprised or hurt that Seven confided in Tom over her, she worries about Seven's tendency to confide in him alone.
Whatever protectiveness Kathryn has tried to abandon concerning the young woman, Tom has picked up in spades. It isn't the kind of thing Kathryn would comment on as his Captain, or perhaps even as his friend. But having transcended both of those designations, she has no choice. Chakotay is her best friend, and the occasional cool breeze she feels drifting between the conn and the Commander's seat puts her squarely in the middle.
At this point, she has had her fill of her lover of three months giving her friend of eight years the silent treatment, and vice versa.
"You're too protective of her," she says gently, raising a hand when he tries to interrupt. "And I know that you want what's best for her- for both of them. But you have to give them the space to work these things out."
She decides not to add that if everyone follows his lead, he's going to have a slew of people, from Chakotay to the Doctor, showing up at his door whenever they have their own skirmishes. Despite her omission, he seems to add the thought for himself, eventually nodding his head in a defeated manner.
"I know," he apologizes. "And I'm trying. But. . ."
As he hesitates, he casts his eyes around the room, eventually resting his gaze on Naomi Wildman. Watching her chatter excitedly to her mother, he smiles wistfully.
"Both of my sisters are several years older," he continues. "And growing up, I always wanted a younger sibling. I guess with Seven . . . even more so than with Harry. . . I feel like I found that."
Having just taken a bite of her own lunch, Kathryn freezes.
Though Tom is only a few years older than Seven, never has she felt the same maternal feelings for the man sitting across from her that she feels for the former drone. Part of it, of course, is just the context of their experiences, Seven becoming a part of Kathryn's life when the younger woman's humanity was barely formed.
Still, she is struck now by how much Seven and Tom even look like alike. The same fair coloring and piercing blue eyes; the high cheekbones and elegant, long limbs. They could even pass as siblings.
When Tom looks up from his tray, Kathryn's fork is still mid air. Her face looking decidedly ill.
"You alright?" he asks, concerned.
She nods, gesturing vaguely.
"That tuna salad will sneak up on you," he warns.
Tucking back into her own lunch, she concentrates on the ominous looking casserole. Hoping her next bite will overpower the bad taste lingering in her mouth.
When Harry drops down beside Tom with a cup of coffee, Kathryn perks up a bit.
"Harry," she greets with a smile
"Captain," the Ensign nods, holding his smile a beat too long. As if he's waiting for her to say something.
She doesn't, dropping her gaze back to her tray instead.
Tom watches the exchange with an inward sigh before reminding Harry about their next holodeck appointment.
"I'm not the one who was late last time," Harry teases, getting up from his seat.
Nothing about Kim's tone indicates that he knows what, exactly, Tom was doing that made him late. But given that the young man does know about his best friend's relationship, Kathryn fights to keep her embarrassment from showing on her face.
"Tell me he doesn't know why you were late," she says in a low voice, once Harry has exited the mess hall. Tom abruptly looking at her with horror at the accusation.
"Give me a little credit," he retorts, picking up both of their trays.
She lets go of the breath she didn't know she was holding, and he shakes his head with a smile as they leave the table.
It isn't until they're alone in a turbolift later, after their shift, that he calls her out about Harry.
"Why don't you ever tell Harry to drop rank when we're alone?"
The question catches her off guard, and she has to work to keep the guilty expression off her face.
"I didn't have to tell you, or the rest of the senior staff. I assume whenever he's ready, it'll come naturally."
As they walk the corridor to his quarters, maintaining a polite distance between them, he shoots her a wary look until his door closes behind them.
"Kathryn, you know he's not going to take the same liberties the rest of us did. He's waiting for your permission. Why don't you ever give it to him?"
He flops down on the couch with an exasperated look, watching her struggle to answer him.
"I don't want to make him feel awkward, Tom."
It's a feeble attempt, and he knows that she knows it. Harry doesn't feel awkward. Desperate maybe, like the kid who's scared he's going to picked last for parrises squares, but not awkward.
"He already knows that we're dating. And despite that he occasionally gives me this strange look- like he can't decide if I'm a god or a con artist- he seems to be dealing with it just fine." He continues, the smile dropping from his face, "Whatever this is, it isn't about Harry. It's about you."
She crosses her arms, irrationally angry that he's pushing her on this. Irrationally angry that he's calling her out the same way she did him at lunch.
"I don't know," she says, and he pulls a face. "It's just that it's . . . Harry."
"You love Harry!" he exclaims, throwing his hands wide.
"I know," she mutters, rubbing her face. "That's the point."
When he looks at her, completely baffled, she tries to collect her thoughts enough to explain.
"It's just. . . Harry came to me straight of the Academy. He couldn't even sit down in the same room with me without snapping to attention."
"That's what this is about?" he interrupts, trying to hold back his laughter but failing. "The fact that you don't want to admit that young Harry Kim has grown up? . . . I'm sorry to tell you Captain Janeway, but your baby boy is a married man now and decidedly less green than we were first out here."
"Do not call him that," she retorts, stressing each and every word. The last thing she needs are more images of parenthood and maternal feelings swirling in her head, after their conversation at lunch.
He bites his lip, trying to stifle his mirth before she genuinely becomes angry.
"My point is," he begins anew, "Harry has come a long way, just like we all have. And I'm sure, however you fondly remember his enthusiasm, he would appreciate you occasionally treating him as something more than your youngest senior officer."
"You're right," she admits guiltily, sitting on the couch beside him. "It just feels like. . . the end of an era if even Harry drops rank."
He looks at her thoughtfully, the typically resolved face he's been looking at for years once more beset with open worry in front of him.
However much he teases her about Harry, he understands now that she's avoided that particular change because it represents countless others. Some foreseeable. Most not; hidden like the mass of an iceberg, just below the surface.
He leans back on the couch, reaching for her hand.
"Have you evre been to Hawaii?" he asks suddenly.
Thrown off by the change in subjects, she stares at him.
"A few days. . . years ago," she responds, after a moment.
"I love the place," he enthuses. "Someone I knew when I was going through the Academy grew up in Maui, and there were a few weekends that some of us transported home with him. Spent the time surfing and scuba diving. "
He pauses, looking out into his living area as though he's picturing the sand and the surf there.
"The last time I went there, I went out swimming by myself. . . . Looking back now, it was foolish. The tides had been rising the last hour and I shouldn't have gone alone. But I didn't think about it, being young and stupid, and I swam out a long way from the shore."
Sitting next to him, Kathryn realizes with a sinking feeling that this random tangent is going to have a moral. Like one of Chakotay's damn legends. And though Tom's style of storytelling it is entirely different than her best friend's and whatever he imparts is bound to illuminate some hidden truth she's overlooked, right now- just as she would with Chakotay before the big reveal- she finds herself hating him. Just a little.
"What happened?" she asks, tying to feign interest, and he smiles slightly before schooling his features.
"Well, about halfway to where I wanted to swim, I got caught in a riptide." He hesitates, genuine discomfort appearing on his face at the memory. "I'd never experienced anything like it. . . It was terrifying. I went under a few times trying to fight it."
"And then?" she asks earnestly, pulled in by his obvious emotion.
"After about a minute rational thought kicked in, and I stopped swimming directly against it. Had the sense to start moving along the coastline instead." He drops his voice, giving her a pointed look as he concludes, "you wouldn't believe how many people drown out there, trying to swim against the tide because of their panic."
With a heavy breath, she slouches into the couch, both of them falling silent.
"I take back everything I said earlier about wanting you to be nice to Chakotay," she says eventually.
He smiles slightly at her petulance.
"Strange. I just came to the conclusion that he and I make a great team when it comes it annoying you."
She shoots him a frustrated look she doesn't genuinely feel, and his smile spreads as he moves closer to her, kissing her neck.
"Of course," he begins slyly, running a hand up her stomach, "I have ways of making my annoyance up to you."
"I don't know," she drawls, trying to keep her breathing even when he traces a path from her navel to her chest with his index finger. "You're far more frustrating than Chakotay could ever hope to be."
"Completely obnoxious," he agrees, his finger circling her breast.
"Infuriating," she gasps, her nipple being drawn to attention by a knowing touch.
"As obstinate as my captain," he counters, pulling her face to his.
Kathryn's last retort dies on her lips, her mouth covered with Tom's.
. . . . .
It's four months before they have their first real argument.
Before that, she holds her breath, expecting the constant bickering that punctuated his relationship with B'Elanna, but that doesn't ever materialize.
Tom's moods are relatively predictable, and even when he's had a long or tiring day, he takes comfort in her company. Sitting next to her on the couch in one of their quarters, or else finding solace in a quiet dinner. And when she's in a bad mood, he tries to sooth her, bearing her ill temper, as well as her lack of patience.
When the first argument finally comes, they are both in poor humor. But the blow up is, without question, her fault.
"How was your time with Harry?" she asks, not looking up from the report she's reading when he enters her quarters.
"Fine," he says dismissively, tossing his leather jacket on the couch in a way that betrays frustration.
She notes the unusual humor, but doesn't ask any questions. She's had a long day of her own and isn't really in the mood to hear him complain about his.
When he emerges from her bathroom, she still hasn't replicated anything, despite that she invited him for dinner.
"What are you in the mood for?" he asks, moving to the replicator.
"I don't care," she says, and he looks at her questioningly. "Just pick something, Tom."
The reply carries an unwarranted edge, but he bites back any retort, selecting something she's previously expressed a fondness for.
"Did you use the garage program without me?" he asks casually, a few minutes into dinner.
"Yesterday," she confirms. "I look Chakotay out in the Studebaker."
His brow furrows as he works on his plate, but she again ignores it, going back to scanning her PADD.
"Kathryn," he sighs. "Put the work down at least until we finish eating."
"I am finished," she shrugs.
He stops, putting his fork down and looking at her evenly.
"Is my being here bothering you?" he asks earnestly. "Because I'm getting the decided impression you'd rather be alone."
"You're the one who walked here in a bad mood," she remarks, favoring him with a brief patronizing look over her PADD.
"I did. And I'm sorry for that. But I've been trying since then. . . Which is more than I can say for you."
"It's been a long day for me, too," she points out without apology. "And tomorrow's going to be even longer if I don't finish reading this. So you can go, or you can stay. But either way, you need to let me do work."
Looking at her, Tom can't decide what irritates him more; her words, the fact that she's using her command voice, or the idea that she isn't putting down the PADD she's reading even while they argue. After a moment, he decides that it's the second one.
"Don't do that, Kathryn," he warns.
"What?"
"Order me. As though we're on the bridge rather than in private."
"Look, Lieutenant, you may have the convenience of walking away from the pilot's seat and being free and clear of work, but I don't have the same luxury. Nor do I have the time to nurse your ego every time I'm unable to give you my undivided attention."
"Lieutenant?" he asks, feeling the anger he's been holding back starting to color his cheeks.
She fails to acknowledge his rising agitation, going back to her work as though they've just concluded a meeting in her ready room.
When he gets up from the table and leaves, it's because he no longer desire to be near her, rather than because she has essentially dismissed him with her posture.
Later that night, she regrets her behavior, but doesn't comm him. Thinking perhaps she should give him the night to cool off. It's a thought that seems to be proven correct the next morning, Tom appearing in his usual cheer on the bridge; bantering with her, ribbing Tuvok and Chakotay.
It isn't until the end of their shift, having hidden away in ready room to do work during lunch, that she realizes he's still angry. They're on the turbolift with Chakotay and Harry, but the moment the two men step off, Tom falls eerily quiet, his face looking suddenly taut.
When the lift opens on her deck, his doesn't look at her, standing with his hands behind his back and his spine rigid. A meter into the corridor, she turns around and gives him a questioning look.
The last thing she sees before the door closes again is Tom averting his eyes from her, pain and anger etched across his face.
Walking to her door, she feels pressure build behind her eyes. Tom's behavior on the bridge, she realizes now, was only an act to spare their privacy. He hadn't wanted to broadcast their relationship, let alone their falling out.
Entering her living area, she stands in the center of the room. Trying to push away the feeling that it's never looked as empty as it does now.
. . . . .
Rising from her bed, she kicks off the tangled mass of blankets that bunch at her feet. Sleep has not found her, and her bed has been paying the price for the last three hours.
Changing into her uniform slacks and turtleneck, she decides to do something active. Anything, really, to get out of her quarters. Her empty quarters.
It's been six day since her fight with Tom. Six nights of sleeping alone in her bed, and waking up with only her cold sheets for company. The first two days she spent working the courage to apologize. But the last four she's spent worrying that even if she can fix this problem, another is sure to spring up in its place.
She's out of practice at relationship. And if she's honest with herself, she's never made them a priority in her life.
For a quarter of an hour, she allows herself to stroll the decks. But then she becomes nervous that the sight of the Captain roaming the ship at odd hours will cause ship chatter to increase, and she decides to find a quiet corner somewhere. She is terribly sensitive, one might even say downright paranoid, about the level of ship's chatter these days.
Heading to deck ten, she decides she'll help out repair efforts on the shuttle bay. The bay door has been refusing to respond to commands from the computer with any consistency, but every time B'Elanna gets ready to send a repair team down, they're diverted by some emerging catastrophe.
The last time Pablo Baytart attempted to take the Flyer out, the Ensign watched helplessly for twenty minutes while the bay door opened and closed in front of him. Informing her on the bridge of Baytart's ordeal, two weeks earlier, Chakotay had glanced down with silent amusement as Tom tried to stifle his own laughter.
"Why don't you like him?" she'd asked Tom later that night, over dinner.
"Who?"
"Ensign Baytart."
"Why do you think I don't like him?"
She gave him an eye roll as response.
As civil as Tom has always been to his fellow pilot, it had become obvious to her long ago that he didn't care for the man personally. The Chief Conn Officer always finding a way of ending up on the opposite side of the room from the Ensign at social gatherings.
"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked, scratching his face.
She only laughed at his apparent seriousness. They'd been doing a good job of finding a line between the professional and the personal, but there was still a dwindling number of secrets between them. His reasons for not caring for Baytart didn't seem to be worth shielding.
"He hates Harry," he confessed finally.
"What?" she asked, convinced that she'd missed something
"He hates Harry," he repeated, gesturing wildly. "Can you believe it? I mean, I can see not liking me or B'Elanna. Maybe even Chakotay or Tuvok. But Harry? What has Harry Kim ever done to anybody?"
Going back to their dinner, she'd decided he was right to question the line of conversation. She couldn't imagine ever looking at Pablo Baytart the same way again.
Entering the shuttle bay now, Kathryn rubs her hand wearily across her eyes. Starting to fear that no corner of her ship is free of some memory of Tom.
Approaching one of the bay's computer consoles, she takes note of a repair kit lying out in the open and puzzles over it. It's strange for Torres' staff to leave equipment of any kind around, as failing to put things back in the right place is one of their boss' biggest pet peeves.
She lets out a ragged breath as this thought, too, reminds of her Tom. Knowing by now that his sloppiness was something he and the engineer frequently argued about when they were together.
She realizes now, with a sense of dark sarcasm, that it was silly to leave her quarters in the hopes of putting her thoughts behind her. They've simply followed her down the seven decks. Crowding her here, in the wide open space of the shuttle bay.
She's so deep enough in thought that she doesn't hear B'Elanna behind her until the woman's hand is on her shoulder.
"Captain," B'Elanna says with surprise, watching as the redheaded woman almost jumps out of her skin.
Calming the surge of energy that courses through her body, Janeway looks at her Chief Engineer with a tinge of embarrassment.
"I'm sorry, B'Elanna. I didn't hear you."
The Klingon looks at her quizzically, before shifting her focus back to the panel in front of her.
"It's alright. I was surprised to see you as well."
The younger woman squats down to remove the front of the console, peering into it with ominous expression. As though she scare the bay door into cooperating with her.
Kathryn says nothing, content to watch as B'Elanna assess the problem in front of her.
"Couldn't sleep?"
B'Elanna's voice is distorted by the panel her head is in, but Kathryn can still make out the tone. A casual one meant to convey disinterest. A disinterest Kathryn knows she almost certainly doesn't feel.
Officially, only Harry, Seven, Chakotay and Tuvok know she and Tom have been dating. But unofficially, she is certain the Doctor has figured it out, and the rest of the crew are starting to put two and two together.
Watching B'Elanna work, Kathryn feels regret that neither she nor Tom informed her personally. But as the engineer's relationship with the pilot has been over for some time, Tom had been understandably hesitant.
"I don't want her to find out from someone else," he'd said, tinkering with a motor cycle in the garage. "But I also don't want to feel as though I'm trying to advertise it in a hurtful way."
She wonders if now it's a moot anyway. Her own relationship with the pilot possibly being over only months after it began.
"Something like that," Kathryn replies, adopting the same casual tone.
Inside the panel, Kathryn hears B'Elanna exhale heavily. Whatever the problem is, it's worse than the engineer assumed it to be.
"I know the feeling," the engineer confesses, her tone dripping with frustration as well as exhaustion. "It's been a long time since I slept through the night."
The way B'Elanna says this part surprises Kathryn, her candor unexpected. It's no secret that Ayala and Torres have decided to cool their heals. And though Chakotay has been convinced that it's only a temporary break, Kathryn doesn't know the couple well enough to form a hypothesis either way.
Looking at B'Elanna now, her shoulders sagging with fatigue and her lips pressed into a hard line, Kathryn decides it doesn't matter. Being alone again is difficult regardless of how long the loneliness lasts.
Sitting beside B'Elanna on the ground, Kathryn pulls the repair kit toward her.
"How bad is it?
"Worse than I hoped. I'm going to have to manually sync the command relays."
Rummaging through the kit, Kathryn hands her a hyper-spanner. The engineer takes it wordlessly, peering back into the console.
They fall into companionable silence, and Kathryn tries not to think too hard about the fact that of all the people, she's ended up sheltering a sleepless night with this woman.
"I made a lot of mistakes with Tom," B'Elanna announces, after a few minutes and her head still in the console that blocks from view her Captain's look of surprise at the sudden proclamation. "There are a lot of things, if I had them to do over again, that I would do differently. A lot of things I wished I'd know then."
Handing back the hyper-spanner to Kathryn, their eyes meet and B'Elanna looks rueful.
"It's easy to take him for granted, even when you're trying not to."
Kathryn is sure B'Elanna's use of the ambiguous pronoun is deliberate, and she feels her stomach churn as she hands the woman another tool. Still, she doesn't protest the line of conversation. Waiting as the usually guarded woman barrels on.
"He's quick to take on the needs of others," Torres continues, climbing again into the console. "Slow to vocalize his own." She pauses, sighing. "When you come home, tired and frustrated after a long day, it's easy to take it out on him. To let him take on the burden of your anger and resentment."
Had B'Elanna volunteered this information days earlier, Kathryn would have listened with a patient expression, inwardly vacillating between sympathy and the slightly smug comfort that she would succeed where the other had failed. But having slept alone for almost a week, Kathryn feels only a foreboding feeling at the younger woman's words.
She rummages for another tool, listening quietly as the engineer continues her monologue.
"At the end of the day though, he isn't moody or particularly complicated. There are things that always make him smile. Things that, no matter how well he hides it, always bother him."
"Such as?" Kathryn prods gently.
B'Elanna, mercifully, doesn't pull her head out of her work long enough to stare at after she asks the question.
"Nothing means more to him than when you put aside your work to spend time with him," B'Elanna replies. "He'll almost never ask or expect it. But when you do it, he'll be happier than any bowl of tomato soup could make him."
At this, Kathryn smiles slightly, handing B'Elanna another tool.
"He doesn't like it- no, he hates it- when people tinker with his possessions without permission. Especially when things get moved or rearranged."
Cringing, Kathryn reflects back on the bad mood Tom was in when he came for dinner the night of their argument. He'd just come from the taking a drive with Seven, and Kathryn hadn't thought to change the mirrors or seat position in the Studebaker after she last ran the garage program with Chakotay. Worse, she didn't even ask Tom if it was okay to bring Chakotay there.
She closes her eyes, remembering that Tom even asked her about it and she'd simply dismissed him out of hand.
B'Elanna emerges yet again, wiping her hand across face and leaving behind streaks of conduit lubricant that keep her frown lines company as she shakes her head.
"I think it's because of the way he grew up," the engineer theorizes. "His parents weren't very good about respecting his privacy, especially his bedroom."
The two women replace the console's cover, and Kathryn thinks for a second they have finished their strange confessional, the younger woman falling silent. After a moment, the engineer's face twists in thought, as though she's still assessing a problem.
"At some point, he's going to offer to cancel plans with Harry for you, and it won't seem like it's a big deal at all." She pauses, holding up her hand in caution. "Don't let him. Time with Harry balances him out in a way I didn't appreciate for a long time. If you let him skip it, he won't be himself again for week. He'll be irritable, grouchy; even the Doctor will notice."
They stand up, and, smiling wistfully, Kathryn inputs a command into the shuttle bay's computer. Within a second, the bay door glides open, gliding shut when she taps the screen again.
"Nicely done," Kathryn announces, still looking at the bay doors.
"Not too bad for a sleepless night's work," B'Elanna agrees. "Thanks for the help."
Kathryn gives her a soft look.
"You, too, B'Elanna. . . Try to get some sleep."
"Let's hope sleep finds both of us, Kathryn."
. . . . . .
After allowing herself the freedom to wander the corridors of the ship for an hour, Kathryn finds herself outside of Tom's quarters.
It's after 01:00, and Tom is undoubtedly asleep. But all she can think about after talking to B'Elanna is her longing for the man on the other side of the wall.
She enters his code without any real guilt. He gave it to her over a month ago, but she's never used it. Afraid, perhaps, of what it means if she begins to linger in his private space without him.
Afraid that it would mean he would seek to linger in her private space without her.
Coming into his quarters, she manually calls for twenty percent lights. Just enough illumination to reveal Tom's sleeping form in his bed, face down, limbs splayed out. The blankets lay discarded at his feet, evidence of his own fitful rest, and he sleeps only in a pair of shorts.
Tom is someone who radiates heat in his sleep, and Kathryn has more than once found it stifling when he pulled her close at night, enveloping her in his warmth. Looking at his muscled legs and the elegant line of his back, all she can think now is that she could desperately use a little stifling. And stripping herself of all of her clothes, she crawls into bed with him.
She isn't sure what she wants exactly, as it isn't lust that drives her. She doesn't even really mean to wake him up. But before she knows it, she's pressing herself into his back, burying her face between his shoulder blades with enough force to make him stir.
It takes him a minute to come to, but once he does, he's completely alert. Keenly aware of the woman in his bed and the bare breasts pressed against his own skin.
"If you're ready to apologize, I'm happy to accept. . . But I'm afraid I'm going to require words."
His voice is even, the sound muffled by his pillow. She buries her face deeper into his back, her cheeks flushing with delayed embarrassment. Not just about the argument she caused, or the fact she's snuck into his quarters and disrobed. But that she has, once again, tried to slip into his bed without so much as a conversation.
When she feels him stir beneath her, she shifts her body only enough to allow him the space to turn over, the front of her naked body coming flush with his barely clothed one.
"I'm sorry," she breathes, resting her face on his chest. "I don't know what happened. . . I think. . . I've gotten a little too used to giving orders."
Wrapping his arms around her, he reflects on the confession. It isn't anything he didn't already know, but hearing her admit it is different.
She doesn't just give orders, but hides behind them. Masking her fear of the things she can't control with her attempts to dominate the things she can.
"It's okay to be afraid," he soothes. "But you can't cling to the way things have always been just because of your fear. If you did before, our relationship wouldn't exist. . . You would have never given me the chance to fall in love with you."
Remaining silent, she shuts her eyes. Unable to speak for fear that the only thing that will escape her mouth is a sob. It's the first time that Tom's said he loved her.
When she presses into his body further, he somehow understands what she needs. And slowly, he flips them over, covering her body with his own weight. She doesn't complain about the burden, wrapping her arms around his back and pulling him flush against her. As if she's trying to sink into his core, his familiar heat surrounding her once more.
It's minutes before either of them move, but eventually she pulls slowly at the thin layer of fabric that clothes his growing arousal. Once the offending garment is removed, his limbs fall still again as he nuzzles her neck and leaves the phantom of a kiss at its base.
"Tom," she murmurs, tracing his back with one hand and threading the fingers of the other through his hair.
He ignores the cue at first, allowing his erection to press against her thigh, even when her hips stir in invitation.
When he draws his body up, her breath catches in her chest and her eyes slipping shut with expectation. But instead of penetration, she's favored only with a mouth tracing her right breast.
"Tom," she repeats after a while, this time a little more needy.
She's never found herself begging him in bed before, not that she hasn't thought about it. It's just that he's typically compliant with her cues, and in the rare occurrence that he doesn't pick up on them, she's quick to take control.
Pinned beneath him, her desire quickly growing faster than his agonizingly slow pace, the last thing she contemplates is taking the lead.
When he finally slides into her, it's after a methodical exploration of her collarbone, her shoulder, her arms, her breasts. And even with his first movements inside of her, it's obvious he has no intention of picking up speed.
"Please," she gasps, both of her hands finding his hair when he again flicks his tongue across a breast.
He pretends not to notice her pulling fingers and slightly bucking hips, his own movements accelerating only slightly after several minutes.
"Do you know what it was like to not be able to touch you?" he murmurs, grazing a nipple with his teeth. "Having you sit behind me all day. Pretending I wasn't imagining touching your body rather than helm."
She gasps at the words, the slightest sound of desperation and pain mingled in his desire. The need within her now tightens like a spring, the realization having found her that this slow torture is him punishing her for the six lonely days she imposed on both of them.
Whimpering like a kitten left out in the cold, she isn't sure her sanity with hold much longer, however fitting his reprisal.
"I can't. . . I can't. . ." she gasps, much later.
What it is she can't do, she doesn't know. But Tom now finds himself past the point of wondering, his breaths coming in shallow pants as he moves above her. Like a drowning man struggling against the waves, his efforts become more and more excruciating, each intake of oxygen a little harder to manage.
When she wraps her legs around him, clinging to him with shaking limbs and white knuckles, he grants them both the salvation of release, speeding his movements and altering his angle in a way that soon has her writhing and keening beneath him.
"Kathryn," he gasps, burying his face between her breasts, after her body has already stilled and his own spasms.
Eventually, when he regains enough control over his limbs, he rolls off her, pulling her small frame against his larger one. Her face flush against his chest, she doesn't think she can move. Her body is caught somewhere between euphoria and complete exhaustion.
It's only a minute later that he feels her snickering slightly against his chest.
"No more week-long breaks," she declares weakly. "I'm pretty sure the next one is going to kill us. Or at least the making up will."
Closing his eyes, he realizes part of his right leg is cramping and the rest of his body feels like gelatin. He begins to snicker, too.
"It would certainly lead to injuries I'd rather not have to go to the Doc for," he quips. "Pretty hard to explain away a sex sprain, even to a hologram."
As she continues to shake with laughter, he reaches for a blanket to pull over them, calling for the computer to cancel an early alarm as he settles back into the mattress.
"Why were going to get up so early?" she asks, already drifting closer to sleep.
"Promised Harry I work out with him in the morning. But I don't think there's anyway I'm going to be in any shape for it. . . I'll just reschedule for next week."
Her eyes snap open, her face shifting to look at him.
"Don't cancel on Harry," she says, a cryptic expression on her face. "Just. . . do something other than working out."
He looks at her, incredulous through his exhaustion.
"Are you sure? When I get out of bed, it's going to wake you up, too. You'll never get back to sleep."
"I'll manage," she assures. "I happen to know a charming pilot who's terribly good at relaxing me when I'm stressed and tired."
"Oh?" he asks innocently. "Who is it? I may know him."
"Maybe," she says, adopting the same expression. "Ever met Pablo Baytart?"
Grumbling, he pulls her possessively against him. Willing to prove, even in his exhausted state, that he has maneuvers the likes of which Ensign Baytart has never seen.