Title: Coping
Rating: T
Author: Singing Violin
Series: Star Trek: Voyager
Summary: Chakotay suspects something terrible has happened to the captain, and he wants to help, but when he tries, he only makes things worse. Very dark, but not graphic.
Disclaimer: The Star Trek characters and universe are not mine.
Author's note (Chapter 6): Thanks once again to Lia Harkness for her thoughtful feedback and good eye for inconsistencies! Any remaining errors are mine; I've edited quite a bit since she saw it last. And thank you to everyone who has written me a review or pm, or added the story to their faves or alerts: you keep me going, especially when you 'get' me! Finally, it seemed fitting to post this particular chapter on the Day of Atonement: may those of you celebrating have a peaceful and productive fast.

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"Should I call the Doctor?" Chakotay asked his trembling captain.

"No. Please," was all she could get out between clatters of her teeth.

"Okay," he conceded, intent upon not repeating his mistake of contradicting her wishes, even though he suspected she had not seen the new version of the EMH, and was basing her request upon the assumption that the Doctor was still...well, himself. For now, Chakotay was determined to do whatever Kathryn said, and hopefully, it would help. "I have an idea. I'll be right back."

Rising easily and jogging to the replicator, he returned promptly with a thick blanket and a cup of steaming tea, the latter of which he placed upon the coffee table in front of her. Careful not to touch Kathryn, he draped the comforter over her shoulders, and gratefully, she grabbed the edges and pulled them around herself, though her shaking did not perceptibly decrease in intensity.

The commander glanced down at the mug, then back up at the auburn-haired head perched atop the huddled mass underneath the blanket. "It's chamomile. I'll leave it on the coffee table and you can sip it when you're ready." With that, he knelt once again so that his head was level with hers, knowing that either towering over her or cowering below her could make her even more uncomfortable than she already was. He also harbored a remote hope that she would make eye contact with him and see in his face that he was sincere in his desire to help. She did, in fact, look across at him, but only briefly before turning her eyes once more towards her knees, covered now by the comforter.

"Thank you," she managed to say.

"Have you been here since we talked before?" he asked, though he feared the answer. It would certainly explain why she hadn't called Tuvok: if she'd been like this the whole time, she wouldn't have been able.

"Sort of," she admitted through clenched teeth. "I had to get up a few times."

He gulped, imagining a number of possible reasons that would have forced her to rise, all of them unpleasant, especially seeing as he knew for certain she wasn't alluding to any official ship's business. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he blinked them back. "I am so sorry," he tried. "I should have believed you, and followed orders. I was being an ass."

She surprised him then. "It's okay. You were only doing what you thought was right." He noted that her breathing seemed slightly slower now, her tremors ever-so-slightly less than when he had found her a few minutes ago.

"Still, I'm sorry. I want to help. Do you want me to get B'Elanna or one of the other women?" he offered.

She shook her head. "I don't...no. Please, I can't. Nobody else." He knew she was sincere because instantly, in response to his query, she began to shake harder again, and her face went pale.

"All right," he answered quickly, hoping to allay whatever fears were plaguing her by unequivocally withdrawing his suggestion. "Does that mean I can stay?" Chakotay asked, hoping desperately that the answer was yes, because he honestly didn't think she should be alone right now, and was already kicking himself for leaving her for so long while he was obsessing over his own fate, and then digging into her affairs.

Kathryn nodded in response. She seemed resigned to the fact that her first officer wasn't going to abandon her again, although he would have if she insisted. At this point, he would do literally anything for her: he'd stab himself in the heart and bleed to death at her feet if he thought it would make things right.

"May I sit?" Chakotay asked carefully, gesturing to the far side of the couch. Kneeling was beginning to hurt, and though in a way, he welcomed the pain as a woefully insufficient penance for everything he'd done to make this all worse, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back up if he kept his current position much longer.

She nodded again, so he rose from the floor and sat in the opposite corner from where she was curled: as far as he could get from her while still properly seated upon the same piece of furniture.

He sighed and observed her for a moment. Her condition didn't appear to be changing very fast, and she seemed to be quite uncomfortable, even with the blanket.

Now was as good a time as ever, he decided uncertainly. He realized that, although he might ordinarily prefer to stay away from heavier topics while she was feeling unwell, the fact that she was currently incapacitated meant that she was stuck listening to what he had to say, and he didn't know if he'd get another chance. He needed to tell her what he'd learned.

"I know about the training," he admitted. "It turns out, quite a number of the Maquis women left Starfleet because of the way they were treated."

Her eyes went wide, and though she didn't speak, her expression implored him to continue.

"They wrote letters," he explained. "All Maquis were encouraged to contribute complaints when they first joined. To show their motives, and to give them an outlet to vent, so they could focus on working within the organization for our collective goals, rather than their personal vendettas. Mostly, nobody read them, but I had them on file on the Val Jean, and since I copied the memory core before the ship was destroyed, they're in Voyager's data banks now. You could read them...although, it's probably not a good idea right now."

Contemplatively, she looked up at the ceiling, and he tried not to let on that he'd noticed the tear running down her cheek. Finally, she leveled her head and answered him, and her voice was surprisingly calm, but tinged with darkness, "Of course they didn't like following rules and regulations. That's why they joined the Maquis. Their reports are biased, Chakotay...you can't trust them."

He forced down his instinct to argue with her, to point out that the Maquis had rules and regulations too, and that it seemed unlikely that someone would make something like that up. Not to mention that he could easily take offense at the implication that the Maquis were not as honorable as Starfleet, essentially an attack upon his own character, having been one of the Maquis leaders. Instead of responding as he normally would, he accepted her objection, then clarified. "That may be, and I would be ecstatic to learn that the allegations were fabricated. All forty-seven of them."

"Forty-seven?" she echoed disbelievingly.

He nodded. "Variations on a theme, all of them. They claimed they were told that, as women, they should expect to be treated as—how can I put this?—less than men. Objectified, marginalized, even abused. And that they should be thankful for the opportunity for service only they could provide to Starfleet. That unwanted advances should be taken as compliments, and that sometimes their bodies were needed as bait or leverage."

Another tear made its way down Kathryn's cheek, and again, Chakotay pretended not to notice.

"That's an exaggeration," she tried.

"So it's not completely inaccurate?" he surmised.

She looked directly into his eyes before she spoke, and seemed to gather courage from his gaze. "No."

"Kathryn, I need to know. Did you do something you didn't want to, with someone down on that planet, because you felt it was your obligation to Starfleet or to Voyager?"

She shook her head. "No...I mean, I don't know. I'm not sure," she stammered.

He wanted to cry. "As far as I'm concerned, your body is not something to bargain with," he insisted. "You never have an obligation to use it against your will, not for the ship or for anyone aboard."

Her tears were coming faster now, but they were still silent. "No, you don't understand," she shot back. "I don't remember what happened."

Chakotay inhaled sharply, then exhaled slowly in an effort to calm himself. "You may not remember," he pointed out, "but your body does."

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