Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. I own neither Voyager nor any of its characters.
"Hey, Tom?"
He cranes his neck from the pilot's seat to acknowledge Harry calling from the back of the Flyer. His focus split between the final prep for launch and listening to essential information his co-pilot would soon impart to him.
"There's an incoming message from the bridge."
Tom jerks his eyes back to the console, the unobtrusive blinking indicator indeed telling him someone from Deck 1 needs his attention. Harry cracks a grin and lets the doors swish shut, leaving Tom to read in peace.
"Thanks Har," he responds, only silence and the soft beeping of the consoles respond as Tom brings up the communication, his interest and heart-rate piqued at the time-critical marker accompanying it.
Uh oh. This isn't just any message.
It's not just Chakotay reiterating his threat of bodily harm if Tom doesn't bring the Flyer back in pristine condition. Or Seven sending yet another unsolicited course correction or piece of "tactical advice" on competitive shuttle racing (as if he hadn't spent his entire Academy career ditching classes in order to drag race on Nova Squadron). Or Ensign Baytart "just making sure" he'd done that routine conn diagnostic correctly (as if anyone actually cared if he biffed it). Or B'Elanna cackling via text about how he's about to get his cocky ass handed to him on an intergalactic, Delta Quadrant-spiced platter (she could be right about that, but he didn't want to think negatively pre-race). Or even Tuvok telling him to leave at 18:00 hours exactly so he doesn't mess with Voyager's embarkation schedule (as if it really matters that they leave at 18:01 when no one is docking on Voyager for the next 50 years).
Nope.
This message isn't just his friends saying good luck. This is a message from the bridge. From her. From her personal console.
Tom takes a deep, fortifying breath. He swallows once and pulls up the comm.
A single line of text appears. Don't worry, baby.
Seconds fly by. He narrows his eyes in confusion while something hovers in the back of his mind. The phrase is familiar in an odd way. He can't place it.
It isn't that the phrase is unwelcome. He more than welcomes it, especially coming from her. It's just a surprise. She doesn't usually go with something so effusive, so obvious, so—well, nostalgic.
His finger hovers over the "respond" command when it clicks. Nostalgic. That's how he knows it. And just like that, the cabin is flooded with music, a crisp drum beat, guitars and voices harmonizing.
He can't stop the half smile brought on by the campy lyrics. Lyrics he'd hummed to himself weeks ago when she'd finally allowed him to enter the race, when he thought she'd been asleep and he'd poured over his computer perfecting the modifications for the Flyer.
Don't worry, baby.
She'd serenaded him. Or, as close to a serenade as he'd likely get from his no-nonsense girlfriend.
He breathes out, the nerves he'd not-so-successfully repressed finally settling into a dull comfortable hum beneath his ribs.
"Love you too, Kath" he says, as the music plays on.