Chapter 7: Like a stone (II)
As Paris' elegant strides are interrupted for the fifth time by the jerky, ill-timed movements of his dancing partner, he swallows his frustration.
"You're not paying attention to the rhythm," the pilot chides gently. Far more gently than he would like.
"I'm trying," Chakotay defends, taking an irritated tone he'll quickly regret. "This isn't as easy for me as it is for you."
The younger man gives a kind of snort, letting out a long breath that comes out as a "pfffff" sound.
"A lot of things come more naturally for me than you. But you seemed to have managed, despite that, over the years."
The Commander favors the Lieutenant with a retaliatory glare for the barb, his poor humor only made worse when he manages to step on Paris' feet yet again.
"Why don't we call it a day," the older man declares, breaking away from the awkward half-embrace.
"We've only been at it for half an hour!"
"I'm tired, Paris. No good can come from any further instruction."
Despite the dripping sarcasm with which Chakotay voices this last word, Tom manages to calm himself with a few deep breaths. He knows that this is a stressful time for the other man, not to mention that it took everything Chakotay had just to swallow his pride and ask for help with this.
"You're never going to be ready to dance at the wedding if you keep quitting on me. We've only gotten two hours of lessons in over the last three weeks."
"We still have a month," Chakotay begins, shaking his head. "I can catch up."
"Or you'll just stomp all over your bride's feet at the reception. Either way. . ."
Frustrated dark eyes lock onto resolved blue ones, but after a few seconds the former glance away in silent acknowledgment. The final surrender signaled with only a nod.
Tom calls for the music to replay, the two men resuming their uncomfortable proximity as Chakotay struggles to set the step for his partner.
"Thank you for doing this," the Commander says eventually. "I know that I haven't been the most. . . patient student."
As they circle the holographic dance floor, Tom cocks his head slightly to the side in acknowledgement.
"Well," he replies, "I suppose when you first met me I was a little. . . taxing. Guess we can call it even."
The score was even years before this, both men know, but Chakotay appreciates Tom's subtle tact nonetheless. This kind of personal trust, however measured, isn't something that would have been possible between them, a few years earlier.
"So what does Seven think we're doing?" Tom asks, after they've fallen silent for the length of most of a song.
"Scuba diving in the Caribbean. I told her I was giving you lessons."
"Giving me lessons?" Tom echoes incredulously. "I hold seven scuba certifications on three different planets. What could you possible be teaching me about diving?"
The Commander gives a feral smile, his lips parting to reveal white teeth that look even brighter in contrast to his bronze skin.
"Told her you were having some trouble learning the finer points of buoyancy compensators." Chakotay pauses (a momentary silence that Tom knows from experience is dramatically setting up an insult), before continuing, "I explained that it must be the enormous weight of your ego, always dragging you down in the water."
Tom rolls his eyes, though not actually annoyed. However sharp the two men's banter may appear at times now, it comes from a very different place than it used to.
"So, what's your bride-to-be doing this evening? Just waiting around for you to teach the resident megalomaniac how to doggy paddle?"
Chakotay barks out a brief laugh, his mischievous grin giving way to a beaming smile.
"No, I think she's having dinner with Kathryn tonight. Likely going over the ceremony."
As the mention of the ship's Captain, Chakotay subtly observes Tom for signs of pain and longing. Both have been consistently evident on the younger man for months, though in an ever-changing ratio.
This time, however, the pilot betrays nothing. Schooling his features given the proximity of his erstwhile lover's best friend.
"I'm still kind of surprised Seven wanted an old Terran ceremony," Tom admits.
"Me, too," Chakotay replies immediately. "But it turns out that her parents said the same vows as her maternal grandparents, and they as their parents. . . I think part of her is reaching out to the family that she's lost."
"Not lost," Tom breathes, shifting his arm slightly. "Just. . . a bit removed."
Chakotay smiles again. Dimmer than the last, but genuine nonetheless.
"That's what I said."
Tom shrugs, allowing himself to be turned as Chakotay performs a step he was incapable of, only a week earlier.
"Great minds," Tom drawls. "Besides- probably better that there's a little distance. When my oldest sister Moira got married, my grandmother tried to guilt her into wearing the dress she wore at her own wedding."
"People do that?" Chakotay asks with astonishment. Though human, he didn't grow up on Earth and so isn't privy to the more antiquated traditions of subcultures there.
"In some traditionalist circles it's done," the blonde man sighs. "Even more bizarre in my grandmother's case, since she and my grandfather didn't exactly have a happy marriage."
"So, what did your sister do?"
"Well, both my sister Kathleen and my mother tried to moderate, but then things started going south and my father declared our household 'officially neutral'."
"Leaving Moira to fend for herself?"
"Yep," Tom answers with a rueful smirk
"Did she wear the dress?"
"No. Moira held her own, to her credit. But it was all kind of. . . an ordeal."
"Well, as someone now rapidly approaching his own 'ordeal', she has my sympathy."
Tom shakes his head, clearly recalling his sister's enervated state in the months leading up to her wedding.
"I'm pretty sure Moira wasn't the one deserving of the most sympathy."
"That honor reserved for your brother-in-law?" Chakotay ventures, smirking a little as the song they've been dancing to ends.
The two men pull away from each other, Tom regarding his dancing partner with a look of complete conviction.
"No," the pilot corrects sternly, "her bridesmaids."
. . . . .
"I do not understand the custom of wearing white at one's wedding."
Standing next to the Seven at the computer, Kathryn sucks in a deep breath. She's willing to help Seven through as much of this as she can, but she'd really rather not go into theses on virginity and purity, however antiquated or even offensive.
"You should wear whatever color you like, Seven."
The former drone nods, dismissing from the screen the image of the wedding dress her aunt, her last tie to her family, sent her in the recent feed from the Alpha Quadrant.
"I am unsure how to proceed," Seven admits.
"Nothing like trying things first-hand. Just pick a few things to replicate from the database. You can try them on in my bedroom."
The blonde woman nods again, her fingers gracefully moving over the replicator as it springs to life with energy. When the garments have finished materializing, Seven gathers them up carefully, eyeing them with unease the entire time.
"I will endeavor to make my selection quickly," the young woman says warily.
"Take your time," Kathryn assures. "I'm here to help as long as you need me, and B'Elanna should be here any minute as well."
When Torres finally strides into Janeway's quarters an hour later, she finds Kathryn on the couch in the living room, looking exhausted.
"Sorry I'm late. Vorick needed me to look over a strange problem that popped up, and Mike couldn't get Miral settled."
The Captain favors her Chief Engineer with a steely gaze. The same one she has used to stare down the Kazon, the Borg Queen, and countless enemies since.
After a few beats, the engineer looks back at her with a slowly spreading smirk.
"I also may have walked here as slowly as possible," B'Elanna admits, settling on the couch next to Kathryn. "And taken my time drinking my double raktajino before I set out from my quarters."
"Traitor."
B'Elanna chuckles and Kathryn rubs at her right temple. From Kathryn's bedroom, a loud expel of air is heard. Not a sigh exactly. But something that approximates it for Seven of Nine.
"How many dresses is she on?" B'Elanna asks, her voice low.
"Nineteen," Kathryn breathes.
"Nineteen?" B'Elanna mouths, only to be met with a dismal nod from Janeway. "Guess that Borg drive for perfection never really left her."
Kathryn opens her mouth to reply, but is cut short by Seven appearing at the threshold of the room.
"That's a nice color," Kathryn comments, summoning a reassuring smile.
"Pretty material, too," B'Elanna chimes.
Rather than looking at the two women who've been waiting for her, the blonde looks down, regarding her own form with apparent scrutiny.
"It is . . . efficient."
Never has the former drone voiced the descriptor with such pronounced unease.
Standing up to examine Seven closer, Kathryn understands the younger woman's distress. The dress she has on is simple as well as form-fitting, but there isn't anything particularly memorable about it.
The fact that this last part makes her unhappy causes a newfound confusion in Seven, adding yet another level of stress to her already filling mind.
"Why don't we put it aside for now?" Kathryn offers, going to the replicator again. "Keep looking in the meantime?"
Seven agrees with apparent relief, coming to stand beside her former mentor as petite fingers dance over the console.
"There's an Italian designer from Earth," Kathryn informs her, "he began creating clothes sometime in the twentieth century, but the fashion house he founded lasted until the start of the Third World War. . . His dresses might be of some interest."
"The database has stored the designs of a long-dead maker of clothing?" Seven asks, obviously skeptical of this use of resources.
"Art is art," Kathryn murmurs, scrolling the offerings to make three selections.
Seven collects the materializing dresses with measured interest, if still the same skepticism. Her eyes catching on a small patch of fabric attached to the inside of one, as she moves to drape them over her arm one by one.
"Armani," Seven reads neutrally.
B'Elanna smiles a little. An understanding crossing her face that Seven doesn't see and wouldn't understand even if she did.
"See if they do anything for you," Kathryn says, shooing Seven back into the bedroom. "We'll be right here."
As Seven disappears, Kathryn replicates a bottle of wine and two glasses. Bringing the liquid comfort with her to the couch, she resumes her previous seat next to B'Elanna.
Watching Kathryn pour the thick red liquid, B'Elanna fills with compassion and something else. Taking a moment to gather the courage to voice her present thought as her companion hands her a newly filled glass.
"Tom replicate Armani for you, too?" B'Elanna asks finally, and though she already knows the answer. There's only so many ways a woman could encounter an ancient designer of clothing, after all.
Kathryn nods, her eyes glued to the bedroom door even though her thoughts now fail to center around Seven.
"He got tired of waiting for me to pick out something," she confesses. "Had the first dress waiting for me when we had dinner plans and I was already running late from the bridge."
"He always did have good taste," B'Elanna remarks, a wistful look on her face.
Patting B'Elanna's knee, Kathryn smiles at her. A look of genuine affection, even if tinged with some amount of pain.
"The best taste," Kathryn declares. Her eyes falling on the coffee table in front of them as a contemplative quiet settles over the room.
In the pause that ensues, B'Elanna fights the urge to embrace the woman next to her. An impulse that consumes her with an intensity that surprises her, given both her own personality and the relative age of the friend and CO sitting next to her.
Maybe it's motherhood that's done this to her, B'Elanna muses. Or maybe it's just the number of years they've been together now. The profound joys and sorrows they've shared, their quantity and quality easily filling a much longer span of time.
Either way, the younger woman finds herself letting out a deep breath. Wishing, as odd as the desire is, that she could pull Kathryn to her; soothing away the older woman's pains in the same manner that she does her infant daughter's.
The engineer's thoughts are interrupted by a sound from the bedroom; a frustrated expelling of air, coupled with the tell-tale sound of fabric hitting the floor forcefully.
B'Elanna sighs. Kathryn cringes. Both settle a little heavier into the couch.
"You know, this is all his fault," B'Elanna says darkly.
Her couch companion hesitates, looking confused.
"Tom's?" Kathryn puzzles.
"Chakotay's," B'Elanna corrects. "If he hadn't proposed, we could be relaxing on the holodeck right now, just like he's apparently doing with Tom. . . Instead of sitting here, doing this." The half-Klingon adds, her face deadly serious, "he should really be punished."
Kathryn taps her fingers on her wine glass. Remarks, too acid to be voiced, swirling in her head as she considers the irony that a woman who was once so unselfconscious as to prance around in a glorified catsuit is now spending a night trying on more than twenty outfits.
"There's bound to be a punch bowl at the reception," Kathryn points out glibly. "We could always hold his face down in it until he drowns."
B'Elanna's face becomes contemplative, seeming to genuinely consider the image of Chakotay's shallow grave, before finally shaking her head.
"Too easy for people to discover his body," B'Elanna remarks.
"Too many witnesses for Tuvok to question," Kathryn piles on.
Another frustrated sound from the bedroom. The two women exchange a long look as yet another hope of their making an escape is cast aside, cascading to the floor.
"Chakotay wants to the have the wedding on the holodeck," B'Elanna continues. "Some place outdoors. And knowing him, there's bound to be a lake or a river or something."
"We could take him for a nice walk prior to the ceremony," Kathryn says, following the line of thought. "Tell him his two closest friends just want to spend one last hour with him."
"Get him out there by himself before hitting him over the head and tossing him into the water."
"Make sure to weigh him down with rocks first," Kathryn adds. "Wouldn't want him waking up and making a swim for it."
As Seven tries on the last dress Kathryn replicated, the two women in the living room smile darkly as they sip their wine. Both quietly contented with the image of Chakotay's sturdy form slowly sinking to the bottom of a watery abyss.
. . . . .
"Scared yet?"
The reply is delayed by surprise. A discomfort that is temporarily hidden.
"No."
"Not even a little?'
"I am unafraid."
Tom smirks at his companion's characteristic composure as they slide into the turbolift. Still, he feels the need to needle Seven just a bit more.
"Only two weeks until the big day," he cautions. "The time to steal a shuttle and make for the nearest nebula is dwindling away as we speak."
Seven's posture becomes even more rigid. She knows that Tom is teasing her, but his jokes are hitting an uncomfortable topic. She has no desire to call off her wedding, but she worries sometimes that Chakotay does. He has left her before, after all.
The fear, likely irrational, that the man she's come to love will suddenly leave her again now clawing at her as she goes about her day. The familiar worry, pushed down forcefully over the course of the last year, resurfacing with a vigor that terrifies her whenever she stands still.
As Tom sees a shadow pass briefly over Seven's face, his mind catches up with his mouth.
"You aren't having second thoughts, are you?"
"No," Seven replies flatly.
"Something else the matter?"
Seven hesitates until Tom catches her gaze, blue eyes peering into even bluer ones.
"Sev?"
"I-"
Attention all senior staff: report to the briefing room immediately. Repeat, attention all senior staff: report to the briefing room immediately.
Seven's mouth snaps shut at the sound of Chakotay's announcement. The concerned frown staying on her friend's face long after she has smoothed away her own look of distress.
The two stride into the briefing room only a few paces before Harry. Chakotay and Tuvok are already seated at the table, both men watching stoically as the ship's Captain pours over a PADD with her Chief Engineer.
Janeway's somber expression is enough to concern even Seven, and as Tom glances questioningly at the engineer who is too absorbed in her work to meet his gaze, Seven arches an elegant eyebrow at her fiancé.
Though Chakotay doesn't speak, he gives her a reassuring look. A professional necessity, Seven has come to understand, but one that likely doesn't reflect his own feelings.
"Thank you for coming," the Captain begins, "and I apologize for the short notice."
As she speaks, she begins slowly pacing the room. An unconscious display of nervous energy, her staff has long-since deciphered, but typically the only one that slips through the cracks of her command mask.
"Two hours ago, Lieutenant Torres concluded a diagnostic that was launched in light of the unusual power fluctuations we've been experiencing. The results are conclusive, and the problem more profound than we anticipated."
Turning the meeting over to Torres with a nod, the Chief Engineer explains that what Voyager has been experiencing is the early onset of the ship's power grid failing, the foreseeable result, if unchecked, being the eventual cascade failure of every major system.
"The only way to avert a cascade failure," Torres concludes, "is to rebuild the grid from scratch." Seeing the paling faces of her coworkers, she hastens to add, "it's something that we can actually manage well, given our current supplies, but it's going to require powering down everything on the ship."
"The overhaul can't be achieved even if we power down the impulse engines?" Paris asks, Torres immediately shaking her head.
"I'm not just talking grey mode," the engineer elaborates. "We're going to have to shut down everything, even life support."
Everyone around the table looks deflated, albeit in degrees that vary according to temperament or species.
"We're going to have to ground Voyager," Kim says, with obvious concern.
It's a statement rather than a question, but nevertheless Torres nods as the Captain and Tuvok continue to observe the rest of the staff.
"How long?" Paris asks finally. When the silence that has engulfed the room tips solidly into the oppressive.
"Given that normal duty rotations will be suspended, I think we can get it done in under twenty-five days," Torres replies, her characteristic confidence evident. "Maybe twenty if we really press, but it would mean saving parts of the overhaul for after re-launch. Something, quite frankly, I would strongly advise against."
Before the engineer even finishes the last part of her statement, her Captain, quite predictably, begins shaking her head.
"If we're going to this," Janeway declares, "we're going to do it right the first time." She resumes her slow pace, though this time with more purposeful direction. "Mister Kim and Seven, you'll begin scanning for a suitable planet immediately, pursuant to Tuvok's recommendations regarding strategic concerns and Lieutenant Torres' requirements for the overhaul."
As she continues, she circles the table, locking eyes with each and every officer. Reassuring them that this setback is only temporary. Demonstrating with her posture, if not directly with her words, that she trusts them all to handle this.
"Chakotay," she continues, her tone lightening a bit, "I'd ask that you get together with B'Elanna to create a duty roster that will allow the crew to enjoy our temporary. . . accommodations, even as repairs proceed."
The Commander nods, grateful she's taking R & R into consideration. A new possibility, pleasant despite the backdrop of the ship's rather serious situation, now privately occurring to him.
"And Mister Paris. . ."
As the Captain's eyes fall to the helmsman, the attention of every occupant of the room shifts to the exchange now transpiring. The interest palpable, even if hidden in some cases behind stoic expressions.
"Aye, ma'am," the pilot acknowledges.
The reassurance he can't communicate with anything but intent blue eyes presently returned by grey ones that refuse to blink. A professional understanding, a trust in times of crisis, that has somehow survived everything else. The complete absence of doubt on either side.
"If you put one single scratch on my ship when you land it, it's coming out of your holodeck privileges."
A few snorts. One stifled chuckle. And quickly, a sense of normalcy replacing the foreboding feeling that's loomed over all of them during the course of the meeting.
"Don't worry, Captain. The Paris honor includes a money back guarantee for all services."
. . . . .
Preparations go faster than any of them could have hoped. Within six days, Harry and Seven locate a hospitable planet that exceeds both Tuvok and B'Elanna's expectations. And four days after that, Voyager finds itself in low orbit of an M-class planet that will become home for the next three weeks.
"At least we'll be able to mine a lot of the minerals from the surface," B'Elanna murmurs, after a final briefing, and looking over a geological survey of the continent they intend to land on. "The western coastline is replete with most of what we need."
"Do we need to replicate any new mining equipment?" Chakotay asks casually, not looking up from his own work.
"Only a portable microtomographic spectrometer," B'Elanna replies, "since it looks like ours is damaged"
"Damaged?"
"No idea how," the engineer sighs. "The last time we used it was over two years ago, and it's been in storage ever since."
Hearing the exchange, Janeway freezes in her seat. Remembering, with acute clarity, her tumble with the ship's mining supplies just under two years ago, after she'd unwittingly intruded on Tom and Seven in the cargo bay.
Over the conference room table, Tom shoots her a sly smile. She lets go of the breath she's been holding as he only winks at her, remaining silent as the other occupants of the room slowly file out.
"Thanks for not giving me up," Kathryn says ruefully, once they're alone in the room.
"I gentleman never finks on a lady," Tom declares, crossing his arms.
"Also part of the Paris honor?" she smirks.
"Maybe. Or perhaps just prudence, not ratting out the woman who assigns replicator rations."
"Very wise."
The banter is comfortable and familiar, even if it quickly falls apart. They've conversed more and more like this over the last few months, but they still haven't made any move to spend time alone together as friends.
When things ended, Kathryn assumed it was only a matter of time. But as this painful thing continues to stretch between them, she's realized that she might have been wrong in that assumption.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" he asks.
His obvious concern for her, personal and here completely unmasked, stirs feelings within her that she'd prefer to ignore.
"I'm fine."
He doesn't press her on the reply in the way that Chakotay likely would. He knows that she'll reveal only what she sees fit, and if pushed will quickly put her shields up. Knowing, beyond that, the generic reply she offers here is likely the truth, rather than deception. She's stronger than even the crew gives her credit for. But perhaps not as strong as he himself once estimated.
Eased by his unquestioning expression, she relaxes in her chair. Allowing herself to slip out of the posture of her rank, even if not completely.
"Maybe, once upon a time, I would have been troubled by the idea of grounding the ship," she elaborates. "But now. . . I guess it feels like a chance for reprieve rather than some kind of defeat."
He smiles at her. Not the toothy 'Paris grin' he wore while they bantered, but a softer version that's far rarer, and reserved for just a few.
"Reprieve sounds nice," he says, as they both get up from the table.
"Yes," she confirms firmly. "But first there's still the small matter of my helmsman safely landing my ship."
He doesn't reply to the good-natured challenge, following her onto the bridge with a wry smile as they both become absorbed with the ship's forward viewer. The large screen dominated by a coastline growing in size, as well as an ocean, so incredibly blue, teeming beneath them with unrelenting vigor.
. . . . .
As Tom strides with purpose across the open expanse of the field Voyager rests in, his eyes follow the line of the cliff one hundred meters away, the land dropping away dramatically to reveal the churning waters of the ocean they observed in orbit.
Putting distance between himself and the ship, he nods to passing crewmembers as he tries to tame his thoughts. Attempting, for the life of him, to push away the memory of Kathryn standing behind him on the bridge while Voyager quickly slipped through layers of atmosphere the day before. The small hand on his shoulder steady, unflinching, even as muffled gasps rang out across the bridge; the ship descending down hard over the ocean, only to level off abruptly as he expertly perched it a safe distance from the rocky precipice.
"Beautifully done, Tom," he'd heard her pronounce softly.
'Tom.' Not 'Lieutenant,' or the more frequent 'Mister Paris.'
The feel of her touch, in so many ways, the same as when they first set out in the Delta Quadrant. And in so many others, so entirely different.
As he passes one last cluster of crewmembers, he forces himself to smile at Naomi and Samantha Wildman. The rapidly maturing girl tugging her mother along with a zeal that reminds him of the days when she was easily occupied with Trevis and Flotter stories.
As he gets closer to the large grouping of trees he's been approaching, the noise of the buzzing repair crews and the droves of crewmembers fall away. He ducks his head, stretching his limbs when he catches sight of Seven darting- almost fleeing- into a particularly thick patch of trees that quickly obscures her from view.
He hadn't planned on company for this outing, just wanting to get away from the ship and indulge in a run across a stretch of land that isn't dependent on a holodeck for its existence. Overwhelming this desire, however, is his recognition that something is clearly wrong with his friend. Perhaps the same something that has left her distracted and quiet, these last two weeks.
"Sev?" he calls, entering the trees.
There's no reply, but he knows she can't be out of hearing range. She wasn't all that far ahead of him when he doubled his speed to follow her.
"Seven?" he calls again, his throat contracting with concern.
When he finds her, it's because he sees her rather than hears hers. She's perched on a large rock situated between two trees, her hair pulled up in a style that she hasn't worn in sometime. And though her frame is completely still, he can see the tears streaming down her face from where he stands, almost ten meters removed from her.
He doesn't say anything as he approaches her. The crunch of leaves beneath his feet the only sound until even that stops, Tom pulling himself up on the rock beside her.
They stay like for several minutes. The former drone who rarely shows dramatic signs of emotion now openly weeping next to him.
"What does a guy have to do to make you laugh?" he'd teased her once, years earlier.
"I laugh," she informed him, in her characteristic monotone.
"I've never heard you," he retorted immediately.
"I do not do so often," she conceded, "as it's reserved for those who are actually funny."
He'd howled with laughter then. Taking the barb as a challenge, just as she'd intended it. Resolving, then and there, and with increasing vigor as their friendship later deepened, to make her laugh as loudly and as often as possible.
The memory succeeds at biding forward a dull feeling of peace within him, even as the same friend sits in torment only a few centimeters away.
"Tis very true, my grief lies all within. And these external manners of lament are merely shadows to the unseen grief that swells with silence in the torture soul," he recites, his voice casual as he looks straight ahead. Staring at the parts of the ship and the ocean beyond that he can still glimpse, through the obstructing branches.
"Richard II," she pronounces evenly, and despite the tears still spilling from her eyes. "Act IV, Scene I."
Tom gives a smile that's as sad as it is proud. His eyes shifting away from the ship from which they've both apparently fled.
"Spoken by the king himself," he adds, kicking his foot at an imaginary insect and then looking at her. "So. . . What troubles you, fair cousin?"
As if by cue, Seven's tears stop their descent. Her back straightening slightly and her face taking on the same severe expression she used to sport when first freed from the Collective.
"I need to call off the wedding."
Tom's eyebrows shoot up, but it's only the reaction he allows himself.
At this point, he knows better than to press too hard when entering into an emotional conversation with Seven. Her open anger is one thing. Frustration or annoyance another. But circle in too quickly on pain or any sign of weakness she's allowing, and she pulls away hard.
It's a trait that, now painfully, reminds him of someone else.
"Do you mean you no longer wish to have the ceremony planet-side, like Chakotay wants?" he asks carefully.
"No. I do not wish to have the wedding at all."
He bites back a sigh at the firmness of her reply. Pulling his long legs up slowly and folding them under him, he weighs his approach paths.
"Do you not love him?"
"My feelings for him remain unchanged."
"But yet you've changed your mind about marrying him," he states softly. "Why is that?"
"It is irrational to engage in a project that is doomed to fail."
He steals a quick glance at her, catching a glimpse of the unchanging, harsh expression and determined set of her mouth.
"Chakotay loves you as much you love him," he soothes. "And you've both considered this decision with all the seriousness it deserves. Your life together isn't going to fail."
As he says it, he knows he's granting her an assurance that no one can. But still, despite all the possibilities that loom, he believes it.
With the part of him that isn't broken and hurting- the part of him that each day hopes a little more- he believes it.
"It will fail because almost all relationships are doomed to fail," she informs him sharply.
Well, that was clear enough, he thinks darkly.
And as he allows himself to close his eyes, he considers for a moment that she sounds just the way she used to when she first came aboard. But, of course, in all the ways that matter, she doesn't. Because now her words are infused with a fear that is very much the product of her own experiences, and thus so acutely and poignantly human.
"Not all relationships fail," he shakes his head.
"Not all," she says, as if he' s tried to twist her words deliberately, "but almost all. Making the very pursuit a waste of energy."
He opens his eyes, forcing himself to gather his thoughts enough to cut through her concealed panic.
"The strong ones survive," he insists, dodging the empirical issue she's raised. "Your friendship with Kathryn has been a constant throughout your development as an individual. And I would like to think that my friendship with you has entered into that category as well."
"Platonic relationships," she declares, her voice becoming neutral and losing the air of hostility. "Not the same as romantic relationships. As you yourself have pointed out to me."
He pauses, his silence a concession to her point, but before he can volley another reassurance she's plowing along at an unhurried clip.
"The two examples you cite are nevertheless helpful. As individuals, I would consider you both unfailing loyal. Determined. Compassionate, if not without certain failings. . . Yet despite all of this, the romantic relationship you shared failed painfully, and both of you have yet to recover."
The pronouncement comes as crushing weight to his chest. After all this time, Seven still has the same ability to hone in on the truth, striking it with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. The reality that he can't deny even one part of her observation leaving him to choke out breaths like a man who's just been struck and thrown overboard.
"Relationships are difficult, not impossible," he manages. "And you can't compare your relationship to anyone else's. Including mine."
Here, he looks over at her, allowing himself to really scrutinize her face. The thin line of her lips, the subtle despair in her eyes, all striking him as suddenly familiar in a different way. His vision quickly blurring with Kathryn's face, firm if despondent in his quarters. And before that, B'Elanna's. Her voice sounding serene despite all that was happening in and outside the Flyer.
All masks, Tom thinks now, attempting to claw through his painful memories enough to focus on the conversation at hand. Reminding himself, too, as the private realization comes to its inevitable conclusion, that he needs to continue breathing. Consciously focusing on his intake and expulsion of air.
"You can't be afraid of what might happen in the future," he says now, firm and ignoring all of her previous protests about probabilities and likelihoods. "Everything changes, Seven. Everything. But you can't run from that."
As he speaks, he remembers a similar conversation he had, perhaps prophetically, with another woman. Recalls the exact words he uttered when cautioning her against fighting the forces of change.
You wouldn't believe how many people drown out there, trying to swim against the tide because of their panic.
"Even if you do run from it," he continues, shaking his head as if to dislodge the echo of his own voice, "the change will find you. It doesn't need your consent."
When he finishes, Seven remains silent. Her face a little softer, the glitter of tears returning to her eyes. But whether these things are signs that he's gotten through to her, he doesn't know.
He doesn't speak again, even when she threads her long fingers through his longer ones. And when she finally gets up, favoring him with an appreciative look, he doesn't ask her anything further. All that he can do at this point is give her space to think as he privately hopes for the best.
"Tom?" she says, already retreating from him, but turning back around to meet his gaze.
"Yeah, Sev?"
"Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of Angels sing thee to their rest."
Even as the affection swells within him, he summons a dull, dumbfounded expression.
"It's afternoon, not night, Sev."
As he expects, the joke earns him a smile, though not a laugh. And as she turns from him, picking her way back through the trees, he watches as she emerges in the light. The sunshine catching in her impossibly blonde hair as she moves steadily back toward the ship and the coastline behind it.
After Seven's gone, Tom considers following her back, abandoning his plan of going for a run. But the idea is quickly rejected as he realizes the thought of returning is one he finds entirely unattractive.
He finally rises from his perch atop the rock, setting off in the opposite direction as Seven. After a minute of walking, he breaks through the dense population of trees, coming to a clearing even larger than the one Voyager rests in.
To his surprise, only one side of the plain is lined by trees, the other bordered with the same rocky coast he thought he'd left behind. Admittedly, he's never been very good with directions on land, and it certainly doesn't help his slight disorientation that when he set out in the trees, trailing after Seven, he wasn't paying any attention to where he was going.
All the same, he decides he has more than enough time to find his way back if he gets lost, and so he stops at the edge of the clearing, preparing himself for the activity he has forestalled.
As he braces his arm against the trunk of a tree, he stretches until he feels the joints of his hips pop and the muscles of his legs begin to strain. He swivels around, completes similar stretches. Basking in the patient knowledge of what is to come before eventually setting out across the flat horizon, the ocean remaining to his right.
It's been a while since he allowed himself to run like this. And while his surroundings begin to blur to dashes of green on one side and blue on the other, he pushes away thoughts of Seven, memories of Kathryn. Tucks away pains remembered and anticipated as, soon enough, he's consumed only with the motion of his body and the steady beat of his own heart in his ears.
Despite how long it's been, his legs carry him swiftly and steadily. The thud of the ground beneath his feet and the heat pulsing down on his shoulders both seeming to welcome him, like friends who've been left to contentedly await his return. Pushing himself even farther, a slow sense of anticipation begins to build in the pit of his stomach.
It's always been the part sometime after the eighth kilometer that he craves; that point when he's winded and having to push through the fatigue to keep going. The exhaustion seeping out of his pores, cleansing him of everything that sticks to him, clings to him, throughout the day.
It's then, with the sweat dripping down his body and his chest expanding and contracting, that something releases in him. Because as the beads run down his cheeks and the salt stings his eyes, it feels exactly like he's crying.
And as strange as it is, this is the moment he wants to hover in and that he set out in the first place to find. This is the feeling he used to chase when he was young and heard his father's angry voice echoing in his head.
This is the brief salvation he used to grope for in the middle of the night, stumbling from his bed, when the images of three dead officers filled his eyes even when he pressed them tightly shut.
As perspiration fills his eyes, tracing the contours of his cheekbones before dripping down his jaw, that feeling- that familiar sting and release- takes hold of him. He pulls in a deep breath, feeling his chest expand as far it will go. And letting it go, the expelled air drifting out as he continues to cut across the landscape, it feels like he's letting out a sob.
When the sensation ends, his breathing evens out and his vision clears. The ocean that he could so easily drown in, the cliff he could easily jump off of, now coming back into view, and every fiber of his being feeling utterly bereft.