Tom
USS Billings
The first time it happens is an accident.
Once something's captured Tom's interest, he tends to have one speed: pedal to the floor. And Kathryn Janeway's had his attention for a long time, the intervening years between the Academy and now doing nothing at all to lessen the way that she makes him want to turn his whole life upside down if it means she'll keep smiling at him in that way she does, warm and inviting.
But she asked him to wait. And he's waited this long, after all. So he controls the habit of a lifetime: he backs off. And, sure, he could make some crack about how flying at impulse is a hell of a lot more fun than warp, anyway. But the truth is, it means something to him to get this right.
But then one day he walks into Kathryn's office with a navigation report and she's standing perilously on her desk chair, heels lifted high as she strains to reach one of her upper wall cabinets. Automatically, he drops his report onto her desk and comes around to hold the back of her chair to stop it swiveling.
"Do you want me to…"
"No, I've got it," she pants, using an empty mug to extend her reach. Fascinated, he watches as she slides a stack of PADDs right up to the edge of the cabinet, then tips them over and catches them one-handed on their way down.
"Impressive," he says.
"Take this," she laughs, passing him the mug, then hops down before she has a chance to fall, and also before he can get out of her way. She catches herself with a hand on his chest. Their bodies now inches apart, he looks down at her from his considerable height advantage; notices, too, the way her lips part, that her gaze tracks upwards to his own mouth. Her desk is just behind her and she twists to set down the spoils of her victory.
"They didn't design these ships for people my height," she says, a little breathlessly, when she faces him again.
"Well, I am ever at your disposal," he says. She has pinned herself between him and her desk and in the split-second before he moves away he imagines the opposite, imagines stepping into her, lifting her easily onto the desk top and sliding between her legs, one hand curling around the nape of her neck while the other—
He takes two steps backwards.
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind." She touches the inside of his wrist as she passes, so lightly that he might've imagined it, except for the blush high on her cheeks.
It's not that Tom tries to find opportunities to recreate these conditions, after that. It's just that he's normally coming on duty right as she's getting off, and if he happens to wait until the last possible moment to call the turbolift, so that she's likelier to be inside when it arrives at his deck, surely he can't be faulted for that. And if he allows his hand to brush hers as they trade places—if she pauses just a beat longer than necessary before proceeding down the corridor, the warm press of her skin lingering long after the doors shut behind him—
Well. It's going to be a long mission, is all.
The Billings arrives at Arali Prime just in time for their chief helmsman to come down with a case of the Levodian flu. Captain Blum taps Tom in at the eleventh hour, summoning him for a flash briefing en route to the shuttle bay, Lieutenant Tuvok at her side.
"It'll be a bumpy ride," Blum warns, "and their atmosphere is so dense it's practically opaque. Sensors can't make heads or tails of what you'll find down there, so you'll be flying blind. You up for this?"
"Always," he grins. But he has to ask, "If the Adegedan delegation is shuttling up, why aren't we just going back down with them?" Not that he minds a challenge, but their knowledge of the terrain would sure make this a hell of a lot safer.
"They are properly identified as the Adegeda, Mister Paris," Tuvok says.
"And they don't want to be left up here without their own transportation. They're not used to visitors—as far as we can tell, they hardly leave their planet at all."
"Got it," Tom says. "Anything else?"
Blum passes him a PADD. "Landing coordinates. Don't crash, don't cause a diplomatic incident, do follow Commander Janeway's lead. Think of this as a first date. If all goes well, the Federation Diplomatic Corps will come out to do the rest."
When they arrive at the shuttle bay, Kathryn and Ensign Probert are already there. "The Adegeda flight officer just commed to say they're running behind schedule," Kathryn reports. "Should we—"
"Just go," Blum says. "Wave if you pass them mid-flight."
"Aye, ma'am," Kathryn chuckles. The away team piles into the Class 2 shuttle and Tom begins his preflight checks, then punches their coordinates into the navigational computer.
Kathryn leans around Tom to shut the hatch. "Good to have you with us, Lieutenant."
"Pleasure's all mine, ma'am," Tom replies, but quietly, mindful of Tuvok in the row behind them. Once Kathryn slides back into her seat, Tom taps out a series of commands, and feels the shuttle lift into the air.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times," he says, louder now, easing them through the outer forcefield.
"…What?" Probert asks.
"Old holoprogram, Ensign. Don't worry," Kathryn assures him, rolling her eyes at Tom. But before he can begin to feel properly cowed, she whispers, "This is an aggressive ride."
Tom chokes.
But this, as well as Captain Blum's warning, turns out to be a vast understatement. They breach the thermosphere and, in the same instant, lose all visual input. The stars vanish, swallowed by a wall of swirling green that seems to cling to the shuttle. The cabin glows emerald like the inside of a bottle, casting strange shadows across their faces.
Instinctively, they fall silent.
Tom shifts in his seat, all seriousness now as the shuttle shudders under turbulence. Beside him, Kathryn braces herself with one hand, her other hovering over the auxiliary controls. The shuttle bucks again, harder this time, inertial dampers lagging half a beat behind. Tom counters easily, hands light over the controls… and then the altimeter blares once, and blanks out.
"Is that normal?" Probert calls from the back.
"Autopilot's out too," Tom says, eyes on the raw data. "Switching to manual."
Kathryn nods tightly. Tom redirects power from the aft maneuvering thrusters to forward pitch control. The atmospheric density is higher than projected, so that every movement feels sluggish, the shuttle fighting him like it's pushing through molasses.
"I don't think this is quite what the captain meant when she said we'd be flying blind," Tom jokes to cut the tension, though blind isn't exactly how he feels, so much as that he's flying gut first, as exhilarating as it is alarming. "Hold tight," he warns. "There's shear ahead."
The shuttle drops, hard. Everyone lifts an inch in their seats. Tom throttles back, the hull groaning under the strain; through the viewscreen, the cloud cover thins just enough to reveal terrain—jagged rock formations, uneven but solid. He scans for anything flat enough not to kill them on landing.
"There," Kathryn says, pointing. "Ten degrees to port."
"I see it." He adjusts course, easing off the main thrusters. He guides them down, nice and steady… the shuttle hovers briefly—he ignores the familiar, hollow lurch in his stomach—and then they touch down with a muted thud.
Behind him, Probert blows out a huge sigh of relief.
"Shuttle's intact," Tom announces. "Not to brag or anything."
"The bare minimum mission requirement," Tuvok intones. Tom catches Kathryn's eye, grinning.
They step out into warm air, a breeze tugging gently at their uniforms. The green haze filters the sunlight, casting everything in a soft, surreal light. The field they've landed in is mostly empty, though not far from the boundary of a village.
"Nice work, Mr. Paris," Kathryn says, squeezing his shoulder.
"Are we early?" Probert asks.
"You are precisely on time."
Tom turns in time to watch a boulder shift and reform, stone sloughing away like nothing he's ever seen before. A figure stands in its place—lithe and not quite solid, as though the light around it can't decide what to do. A second later, a second form emerges beside the first, apparently folding itself into existence.
"I hope we didn't startle you," one apologizes. "We were inhabiting another plane when you arrived."
"Another—?"
"I believe you would call it an alternate dimension?"
"Did we know this about them?" Tom murmurs to Tuvok.
"We did not," Tuvok replies, an eyebrow raised.
"I am Ambassador Irizasi," the taller of the two says. "This is my Acolyte. It is an honor to host you."
"The honor is ours," Kathryn says smoothly. She introduces each of them in turn. When she gets to Probert, the Acolyte brightens.
"Ah, the xenobotanist! I have the pleasure today of taking you to the ash meadows. The flora are perhaps unique to you in that they, too, are transdimensional. You'll be welcome to collect samples, of course!"
"Transdimensional? Is it safe?"
"Oh, yes. It is our way. But—" The Acolyte looks uncertain, his face falling comically. "But it is some distance from here. I hadn't thought…"
"I can fly us out there," Tom offers, looking first to Kathryn and then to the Ambassador. "As long as there's somewhere, uh, dimensionally stable to land."
"Perfect!" The Acolyte claps his hands together happily.
As is the apparent custom of every alien race at first contact, the Ambassador will take Kathryn and Tuvok on a tour of the city center while the others investigate the ash meadows. They arrange to meet back up at what the universal translator tells them is a night market, leaving Tom, noting the sun high in the sky, hoping very much that this planet rotates faster than he thinks it does. He makes to follow the others to the shuttle, but Kathryn holds him back.
"Do not let Probert get sucked into any kind of transdimensional vortex."
"Just Probert?" Tom grins.
"You, either. No vortexes, no portals—"
"Yes, ma'am. But if I do get pulled out of spacetime, tell them I was lost a hero." He pauses, then adds, "But come and rescue me, too."
She represses a smile, gives him a little shove at the small of his back. He jogs to catch up with the botany party.
It's early evening, as far as Tom can tell, by the time he sets the shuttle back down at their original landing coordinates to rejoin the away team.
"I'll leave you here," the Acolyte says, apologetically. "I'm overdue elsewhere—our realms align imperfectly at twilight."
"If it's all right with you, sir, I'd like to stay behind to stow the samples properly," Probert adds. So Tom heads off on his own, following the path into town by the light of two moons, music drifting on the wind.
He's only just reached the bazaar, ducking under a low wooden archway to enter the open-air enclosure, when he spots Kathryn and Tuvok at what looks like a fruit stand. Kathryn notices him at the same time and intercepts him, grasping his arm to drag him out of the main thoroughfare.
"Thank god," she says, keeping an eye on Tuvok over Tom's shoulder. "Tom, I need you to keep me from making an ass of myself."
"It's going that well?"
"It is," she says darkly. "It is going so well that the Ambassador invited us to celebrate with a number of important dignitaries over a ceremonial nectar. Fermented nectar."
Tom can't prevent his grin. "Good thing you're not driving."
She grimaces. "Tuvok's waiting for a final word with their Chief of Security. She's on the way. Just—"
"Say no more." Tom repositions Kathryn's hand to rest in the crook of his arm. A flash of light catches his eye and he looks up over the top of her head, noticing for the first time that bonfires dot the darkening hill ahead of them, half a dozen or so.
"What is all this, anyway?" he asks. "Some kind of festival?"
"It is the moon's end," the fruit seller calls. Kathryn tugs him back toward the stand, where Tuvok examines something resembling a pomegranate but twice its size, a single black flower set on its stem. "We take from the old moons what was good, and bring sweetness into the new."
"You do this… every week?"
"We do this with the moons. There is always something new to honor, don't you find?"
Tom can't say that he's ever thought about it before. In Starfleet, time is necessarily tracked by duty shifts and little else. It is the hardest thing about this life, for him: the scarcity of variation to any routine, the clothes he wears, the view from his quarters. All made worthwhile only by the odd high excitement—and even these are hit or miss, since in space excitements are more often life or death than they are as fun as the Academy simulators.
He has sometimes wondered whether he didn't make a mistake, yielding to Starfleet rather than pursing the Naval Patrol—another military by any other name, perhaps, but at least on the open ocean there is weather to contend with, wind and salt spray and not a single inertial damper in sight; and gravity, real gravity, with real stakes.
But there are some advantages to serving aboard a starship, these days.
"Not weekend, Tom," Kathryn says, gazing up into the night sky. "Moon phases. The translator is misunderstanding."
"We work hard," he confirms. "And we rest well." He gestures to the produce Tuvok holds, then selects another from the stand, quartering it deftly with a small blade. "My name is Amjl. It tradition to partake of the iinod fruit, in the summer months. Join me," he says, offering a slice to Kathryn.
"Oh, I—," she falters.
"It's fresh," Tom points out in an undertone.
"Please," Amjl repeats, kindly. "A gesture of friendship, our first visitors."
Tuvok, perhaps thinking along the same lines as Kathryn, draws his tricorder from its pouch and scans the fruit. The merchant scowls at him.
"You're causing a diplomatic incident, Tuvok," Tom chuckles. "Now you have to try it."
Tuvok looks discomfited, but before he can object, his Adegeda counterpart waves him over, the final meeting scheduled before their departure. Kathryn shoos him away, and as he goes she accepts the fruit, carefully, cupping it in both hands. She seems unsure how to eat it.
"Just bring the fruit to your mouth, he says, handing Tom his own piece and then demonstrating for them. Kathryn looks to Tom uncertainly. He shrugs, and takes a bite, then immediately yanks his body back, away from the juices spilling from the overripe fruit. Kathryn, in the same predicament, tries to catch the juice with her other hand, laughing.
"It's delicious," she says. "A bit of a learning curve, maybe."
For his part, Amjl seems unphased, allowing the juice to fall to the ground. He finishes the fruit and wipes his hands on a cloth, which he then passes to Kathryn.
"The 'learning curve'," he says, "is to understand that iinod is never easier to eat. You must let it be what it is."
Kathryn smiles her understanding. She's missed a streak of fruit across on face; already, her lips are stained a soft purple. He supposes his must be, too.
"Here, you've got—" He reaches over, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. He lingers there, gentle, before pulling away.
"Thank you," she breathes. Recovering quickly, she adds, "And thank you," to Amjl.
A glance over at Tuvok confirms he is still absorbed in a conversation neither of them have any interest in joining. Wordlessly, Tom offers Kathryn his arm again, which she accepts easily. He leads her up the road, away from the crowd. The music dwindles as they put some distance between themselves and the main square, and after a few minutes, Kathryn leans her head against Tom's shoulder. His chest constricts with something that feels dangerously like hope.
The light here is strange. Not quite dusk, not quite moonlight, but something in between—as if the planet hasn't settled on a single definition of time itself. Shadows stretch at odd angles, softening the edges of buildings that don't seem entirely fixed in place. Now and then a passerby bends and folds and disappears mid-step, vanishing as casually as ducking into a doorway, and leaving a lamp post, a cobblestone in their wake. Once, he and Kathryn have to quickly sidestep a tree, fully rooted into the sidewalk, as it morphs into a person carrying a dark red bottle by its neck.
"That's handy," Tom comments.
Ahead, a wagon cart laden with textiles comes into view, intricate fabrics swaying in the light breeze. On a low stool off to one side, a woman with long, white hair sips at something aromatic enough for them to catch the scent of it from the road. She raises her cup in greeting.
Kathryn slows to look at the fine silks hung from string. She brushes one gently.
"That would look lovely on you," the woman says. "Try it on, please."
"Oh—thank you, I couldn't."
"Why not?" Tom asks.
"Tom, how often am I out of uniform? I'd never have the chance to wear it. It's beautiful, though," she adds, wistful.
Before the merchant can regroup, Tuvok reappears, rounding the bend. Kathryn disengages herself from Tom and goes to meet him, leaving Tom alone at the cart.
He lowers his voice. "Got anything more… practical?"
The woman smiles knowingly. "A blanket, perhaps?"
Tom hums noncommittally.
"Is it for the woman, or for the officer?" she asks, taking in Tom's uniform.
"Does that change your suggestion?"
"Changes everything."
He glances sideways at Kathryn. "She's… a friend. A gift for a friend."
The woman tsks at him, but disappears behind a heavy tapestry and comes back holding something in soft blues and greens.
"A shawl," she says. "Practical, but also a comfort. She can wrap herself up in it, and think of you holding her."
A flush creeps up his neck. "How much?"
"Special deal for hard luck cases. Four strips of latinum."
"It's not like that," Tom protests. Wrapping the parcel in plain brown paper, she spares him an unimpressed look; from the corner of his eye, he can see Kathryn on the move again. "Listen, can we just—"
"Take it, take it," she says. "Good luck to you."
"Lieutenant," Kathryn calls, and Tom joins the group. "What's that?"
"Souvenir!"
She clearly wants to wheedle more information out of him, but Tuvok warns that if they want to make their return window, they have to leave now.
"Home?" Tom asks.
"Home," Kathryn agrees.
The Billings is on gamma shift by the time they dock. The away team files out of the shuttle and is met by Doctor Bailey, masked and wielding a hypospray.
"Were we exposed to a contaminant?" Kathryn asks.
"Not yet," Bailey says grimly. "Lieutenant Torvek's flu. Thought we'd caught it in time. That's what we medical folk call hubris."
She presses the hypospray to Kathryn's neck with clinical precision, then moves down the line, dosing each officer in turn.
"The Captain?" Kathryn asks.
"Fine, but it's been a long one. Said to tell you not to bother reporting in 'til morning." Bailey's eyes narrow, taking Kathryn in properly. "Are you…"
"That's why I asked. If I'm in command, I should—"
"Do absolutely nothing to ruin this fine buzz you've acquired. I haven't seen you this relaxed since drydock."
Tom snorts, but Kathryn seems to have no argument for that.
Exiting the shuttle bay, they fall into step, the corridor quiet at this hour. Probert peels off first, muttering about cross-referencing data in the science lab. Tuvok continues on until the next junction, then bids them good night with a nod.
Tom and Kathryn walk on in sleepy silence.
"This was nice," she says, after a moment. "Thank you. For not letting me make a fool of myself."
Privately, he thinks there was never any real danger of this. She is nothing if not a model Starfleet officer. "You know what the captain called it? 'A first date'."
She turns sharply, and he chuckles. "She didn't mean us. A diplomatic first date. But, you know. We could mean us."
She slows, and he thinks she's working on a suitable response—something, he guesses, to let him down easy. But then her eyes widen. She looks at the door they've stopped beside. So does he.
He blinks.
"Did you just—"
"Damn," she says. "I was on autopilot."
Tom, appalled, demands, "Are you telling me we've been living on the same deck this whole time?"
"What did you think was happening when we met at the turbolift every day?"
"I thought—the mess hall—"
She laughs. "You could've looked this up ages ago."
"I could've," he allows. "I was hoping to be invited."
She considers him, a smile tugging at her mouth. "Well, then," she says, her voice low. "Would you like to come in?"
And oh, yes, he is tempted. He leans in, tucks a strand of hair that's come loose from her ponytail behind her ear. He could kiss her, he thinks. She looks up at him, happy, relaxed, and he knows that she would let him kiss her.
"Yes," he says, finally. "I do. But ask me again when you don't have alien nectar coursing through your blood stream."
She looks surprised, and then, if he's not mistaken, a little hurt. Quickly, he adds, "But until then, take this."
"Your souvenir?"
"I don't have room for it," he says. "I was hoping you could store if for me in your vastly superior officer's quarters."
"Our quarters are the same size, Lieutenant," she mutters, but she shakes out the little package. She looks at it, then Tom.
"Try it on," he says.
First glancing up and down the corridor, she wraps the soft fabric around herself, pulling it close. Her smile is like the rising sun.
It's a sight that warms him as he falls asleep in his own quarters, that night.
Tom
Quarra
In a twist of irresistible irony, the party they throw to celebrate their coup—that is, their wedding—nearly gets them thrown out of the building. They'd extended an open invitation not just to their friends but also, in a fit of goodwill, Kathryn's coworkers. Tom looks around the room with something like awe, figures the headcount to be three or four times over the dozen they'd counted on. A woman he only vaguely recognizes adds a wine bottle to the growing cache of empties tucked behind the propped-open front door. Her long black dress glitters as she disappears back into the packed kitchen.
They hadn't meant it to be a formal affair. Tom has to believe there was a conspiracy amongst their friends, who'd shown up dressed to the nines to make up, they groused, for missing the wedding itself. Now the properly suited-and-booted partygoers are very much at odds with the neon-colored party hats someone had brought, and the streamers they did not themselves hang around the room.
That must have been Jenny, Tom thinks, what with her particular grudge against the Housing Authority.
He is just weighing the cost of slipping out for a resupply against abandoning his new wife to the throng when Kathryn appears out of nowhere and drags him away from the door by the crook of his arm.
"Don't you dare," she warns.
"What?"
"You know what," she accuses, poking a finger into his chest.
Laughing, Tom catches her hand in his and guides it behind his neck, drawing her up and into a kiss he means to be brief—a joke, almost—except that she deepens it unexpectedly, bringing her other hand up too, lacing her fingers together to hold herself steady. Dimly, he registers someone's catcall, a loud whistle that cuts through his pleasant surprise. He feels the huff of her laugh against his mouth and can't help but smile in return, their lips just brushing in that space between love and absurdity.
Finally she pulls back, her skin flushed, losing several inches of height as she drops down from her tiptoes. And over her shoulder, Tom spots his boss smirking in the doorway.
"Umali!" She is armed with reinforcements, a crate packed with liquor bottles like a travelling minibar in her arms; Jaffen, close behind, hauls in another. "You're a lifesaver," Tom says, lifting it out of her arms. He sets it down on the sideboard they're using as a makeshift bar.
"Your wife sent out a distress call," Umali drawls, winking at Kathryn.
Jaffen grins at him, clapping him on the shoulder. "This is some party. How do you two even know this many people?"
"Hell if I know," Tom admits. "It seems like everyone I've ever served showed up." Behind Jaffen, people have spilled out into the hall and are drifting in and out of Ashmore's adjacent apartment.
Umali gives him a pitying look. "People like you, darling," she says, patting him on the cheek. "They like you together. Hadn't you noticed? It's wonderful for business, I must say."
Tom had not, in fact, noticed this. But he feels a flush of embarrassed pleasure, and something like pride. He doesn't quite know what to do with these feelings, all his profound gratitude for the sheer dumb luck of ending up on this distant planet, alongside the first person he's ever wanted to build a life with. Well—a life already well on its way, Tom amends, looking down at his wife. Kathryn tucks herself into his side, and he squeezes her in a one-armed hug—before someone from the plant materializes, pulling her by the hand back into the crowd again.
Umali and Jaffen move off, too, and Tom, left momentarily alone, leans back against the dining table cluttered with half-empty glasses, the remnants of snacks someone had donated to the cause. He lets the hum of conversation wash over him. Through the wide living room windows, thick, swirling snowflakes obscure the view of the river, and in the glare from the lamplight he catches Kathryn's reflection, her head thrown back in laughter.
It's a strange, warm feeling—a sort of fullness he hasn't felt before. The easy way they both fit in here, in this place where neither of them ought to belong.
Still, when building security shows up a few hours later and threatens to throw every last one of them out into the blizzard now raging outside, he can't say he's sorry to wind the party down.
On his way out, Jaffen takes Tom aside. "I'm happy for you, man. Truly."
"Thanks," Tom says, surprised. There's never been any ill will between them, but still, "I know you two—"
"Nah," Jaffen cuts him off. "It was all over the second she walked into your bar. She's only ever had eyes for you."
Again, Tom finds Kathryn across the room. Even as he's hardly seen her all evening, each of them pulled in different directions, he has felt himself peripherally aware of her at all times, his center of gravity as she's moved around the room with her light touches, her easy smile. She's still surrounded now, deep in conversation, but as if sensing him she pauses mid-sentence and looks up, eyes scanning the room until they land on him. Softly—knowingly, Tom thinks—she smiles.
Beside him, Jaffen snorts. But there's no edge to it.
"I'll see you two crazy kids tomorrow," he says, and sees himself out.
When the last person has left at last, Tom surveys the carnage of their—their!—apartment. "Well. That was successful, wouldn't you say, oh wife of mine?"
Kathryn collapses against him, face in his chest, arms hanging limply at her sides. "I would indeed. But let's not elope again, hm? I imagine we violated a number of fire codes tonight."
"You got it. One and done, that's my motto. Well, maybe not as a bartender," he grants. "But as your husband, certainly."
She sighs happily, but as she pulls back she presses her fingers into her temples.
"Hey," he says, catching her by the hip before she can move away. "You okay?"
"Oh, fine," she waves him off. "I'm sure I didn't drink enough water tonight. Everything just—"
"Exploded," he laughs. "Yeah. How do we know all those people?"
"There was definitely at least one group that I think just followed the crowd. I didn't recognize a one of them." She fingers the cuffs of his sleeves, unbuttoning one, and then the other. "I vote," she says, lowering her voice as she runs her thumb across the bones of his wrist, "that we clean all this up tomorrow. Thoughts?"
"An excellent idea," he agrees. "Enlightened. Exactly the sort of quick thinking I married you for."
"Literally," she notes, wryly. She slides the palm of her hand into his, and leads him through the maze of misplaced chairs and pillows and excess streamers, and into their—their!—bedroom.
Tom wakes some time later without immediately knowing why. From the gritty dryness of his eyes, the lack of illumination from beyond the bedroom door, he senses it's early, still. He scrubs a hand down his face, scratching at the short beard there. With a groan, he rolls over, reaching automatically across to the empty space beside him.
"Kathryn?" He pushes himself up to his elbows, leans over to see through the doorway and into their living room. Nothing.
"Kathryn," he calls again, louder, just to be sure. When there's no response, he drags his legs over the side of the bed. Checks the clock on his nightstand, just to be sure.
It's been two hours since they'd gone to bed.
He throws his robe on over his pajamas, steps into untied boots while he pockets his keys and ID card, and takes the lift up to the arboretum.
He finds her wearing a heavy, oversized sweater which should not be needed in the artificial humidity of this place. She is sitting on the bench she tends to favor, her knees drawn to her chest. Beside her, little silver fish flash in the underwater illumination of their pond.
She does not look up as he approaches. He settles down next to her, loosening the tie on his robe even as she draws the neck of her sweater higher. Slowly, she leans into him; he can feel the huge rise and fall of her chest.
They haven't talked about it, the changes he's noted in her the past few weeks. He'd tried, of course. She'd dismissed his worry again and again—I'm fine, headache, didn't want to wake you. But he feels in his bones that it's gotten worse since the wedding, and unless he's missed his mark, whatever's happening inside her head is bleeding into the daytime, now. She struggles to shake it off each morning, her smile slower to reach her eyes.
"Do you remember sunflowers?" she asks.
He frowns at the non sequitur. "Of course." They hadn't grown anywhere near him. If they'd ever grown in California, they'd long died out by the time he'd left the planet. He tries to think of the last time he'd seen one. Had he only ever in photos?
"We had them on the farm," she says. "As crops go, they're a pain. Mold, mildew, aphids, god. And the harvest. Every fall, my sister and I, we'd…." She trails off. "Well. We gave up, eventually, just let them grow for the beauty of it. They could last into October, did you know that? But by then most of them are this black-brown color, hunched and shriveled… strangely haunting. And there's this… mythology, about sunflowers. That when the weather turns, and they can't find the sun, they face each other instead."
"Is it true?" Tom asks.
"No." At last, she turns on the bench to look at him. "No, it isn't. As they age, actually, they sort of lock in place, point east and… hope for the best. Catch the very last dregs of the autumn sun before it's all over. It was my sister who told me the story, and I was skeptical, you know"—her mouth twists into a grim smile—"ever the scientist. Eager to prove my chops, back then. But I was sorry to know the truth, in the end."
Tom can picture it easily: a tiny Kathryn Janeway, budding scientist on a mission. Trying, and failing, to take her findings in stride. He wants to hug then-Kathryn. He pulls her to him, now, and kisses the top of her head with a deep sigh.
"They're just dreams," she says. She's said it a dozen times since they'd begun sharing a bed, and if at first she seemed to want to reassure him with these words—just dreams, just her unconscious mind apparently clawing its way to the surface—more and more she sounds like she's trying to convince herself. She never does tell him what they're about, and to his mind this secrecy is considerably more alarming than whatever she's dreaming. But he's on the verge of resigning himself to learning no more tonight than any other, when she adds, "You keep dying."
It sounds as though she's forcing the words out. "It was me, before," she continues. "I would die, and that wasn't great, but it wasn't… like this. Over, and over, and over, Tom, you die. And I can't—"
"Hey," he says. He wants to tell her that she doesn't have to do this, after all. He doesn't have to know. But now that she's begun, she can't seem to stop.
"I don't—I can't ever really tell what's happening, not clearly. You're in space, like I always was. Only you're in a shuttle, I think. And you—crash."
"Well," Tom says. "You're right, that's totally unrealistic. Space travel makes me sick."
She huffs a watery laugh.
"It was a long ride out here from Earth," he adds gently. "Those stasis ships, they stress me out, to be honest with you. It's like stepping into your own coffin. Do you think that could be it? Your subconscious catching up to itself, all that missed time?"
"Maybe," she says. "I don't know. That's not how it feels. But I don't know what it feels like." She rubs at her forehead, and Tom realizes that she never did overcome her headache, earlier.
"Do you want to go to Medical?" It's an option that's been on his mind for a while now, except that he hasn't wanted to overreact. He has a feeling she could dig in, if pushed too hard.
"No. No, god, I've never even been sick enough to go to a hospital. Just…." She looks up at him, her blue eyes so tired. "It feels—like an ending. In those moments just before I wake up, it feels like the end of everything."
"We're just getting started," Tom promises.
And whether or not she believes him just then, she allows him to take her home.
The blizzard blows itself out over the next few days, replaced by clear, star-studded skies. Tom watches the city blur past, scattered lights smeared across fogged glass, his reflection faint in the window. This early, the train car is mostly empty. He slides low in his seat, hands tucked into the pockets of his parka.
Kathryn had been called in before dawn, another emergency shift. She'd left in a rush, weary and uncaffeinated, and he'd seen her off with a kiss instead of the argument brewing in his mind that maybe she, too, should call out of work, if there is something serious going around. But the city is still claiming there is no public health crisis, and Kathryn, too duty-bound for her own good, could never be convinced to leave it all to the too-few workers left on shift.
So the seat beside him is empty, for a change, her absence folded into the quiet of the car. But Tom has been waiting for an opportunity to duck out on his own for a few hours. Though he hadn't meant it to come at the expense of his exhausted wife.
The train trembles as it crosses onto the bridge. He feels the shift, a faint vibration through the floor as steel meets steel, the rhythmic clunk, clunk, clunk of the rails. He leans toward the window; below, the river sprawls dark and still, sealed under thick ice. The surface gleams dully in places, crisscrossed with pale fissures. It's a sight, at once eerie and beautiful, he thinks he may never get used to.
And then the train begins to slow, and Tom watches the platform slide into view, aglow in the pale bluish hue of early morning—overhead lights casting their synthetic dawn, an artificial sunrise for a city without daylight. He rises before the train stops fully, pulling his thin wool liners back on, heavy mittens clutched in one hand.
The doors hiss open with a blast of frigid air. He steps down carefully, mindful of ice on the concrete. Even as he's prepared for it, his breath catches, sharp, in his chest. Above, a sign warns of the train's imminent departure; next to this, bright amber letters flash: CAUTION: COLD WEATHER ADVISORY IN EFFECT.
Tom glances down the tracks. A few brave, bundled figures move briskly, heads down, shoulders hunched against the wind. He tugs his mittens on over the liners, tightening the straps at the wrist in a now-familiar ritual against the chill, his breath curling like smoke around him. At the far end of the platform, he takes a set of stairs down to the nearly empty street and then cuts across salted pavement, past empty benches fringed with icicles, and the last line of lamp posts before the terrain slopes away into inky darkness. He pushes his hood back just long enough to loop his headlamp around his knit cap. He clicks it on, adjusts the angle of its narrow red beam, and begins to ease himself down to the riverbank.
Scattered lanterns illuminate the ice, tents pitched over fishing holes to blunt the wind. At the river's edge he squats awkwardly, brushing away a small patch of snow until he finds the dark sand beneath. He struggles to grip the zipper of his parka with mittened hands. Cursing softly, he realizes there's nothing for it—he pulls the right mitten off with his teeth, unzips just enough to palm a glass bottle from an inner pocket. Carefully, he coaxes half-frozen sand into the bottle, trying not to dirty it, pausing every minute or so to flex his fingers. When he can't fill it any further without spilling what he's already got, he stoppers the bottle and tucks it safely away again. Then he turns, replacing his mitten with a relieved sigh, and prepares to heft himself back up the rocky hillside—but a hand on his shoulder, barely discernable through his many layers, stops him. Startled, he slips, catching himself hard on a half-buried boulder.
"She isn't here," a voice says, high and urgent.
Tom spins around, heart thudding against his chest, and finds a Brenari woman inches away. Her eyes are wide, catching the red glow of his headlamp.
"Excuse me?"
"The woman. She isn't here."
Before he can think of a response to this, a man hurries over from one of the fishing tents, his spiked boots rasping against the ice, jarring in the hush of the morning. Hearing it now, Tom can't imagine how this woman managed to approach without his noticing.
"Sorry," the man pants, pulling her backward, away from Tom. "She isn't well."
"No harm done," Tom says, uneasy.
Without another word, the fisherman hurries the woman away. Tom adjusts his hood and turns from the river, clambering back up to the road.
The jeweler's shop is narrow and unassuming, wedged between a bookstore and a brightly lit café. As Tom steps inside, warmth rushes to meet him. He draws a deep breath, unzips his coat, and feels a tension he hadn't noticed in his neck and shoulders begin to recede.
A small Quarren man comes out from a back room, smiling when he sees Tom. "You've got it?"
"Finally," Tom agrees. He withdraws the bottle, grimacing at the sand clinging to its sides. "Sorry, Marek, I came straight here."
"Good that you did. You saw the weather advisory?"
"I'll be home in plenty of time," Tom assures him. "Switched shifts."
"Good, good," Marek says. "This'll be plenty," he adds, holding the bottle up to the light. The sand inside glimmers midnight blue, and for a moment Tom's almost sorry it won't stay as it is.
He'd found this shop by accident, back when he'd thought he'd be losing his apartment. The sign in the window advertising something called sandcasting had intrigued him, though he'd had no use for it at the time. But when he'd discovered that Quarren wedding traditions do not include an exchange of rings, he'd known exactly what to do. It's fitting, he thinks, to forge their wedding bands from this particular sand. Two humans so far from home, together not just on this planet, but this city, the same building, overlooking the river.
He doesn't believe in fate. But if he did—well. Quarra makes a good argument for it.
"I brought one of her rings," Tom says, setting it down on the counter. "But she wears it on her other hand, I don't know if…"
"It should be close enough," Marek says kindly. "Her band can easily be resized."
"Okay. Okay, good." He didn't expect to be so nervous, and laughs at himself for it, rocking on the balls of his feet. "How long?"
"A week, maybe two. I'll cast hers first, then yours. The metal, I've already sourced from your description. Then the engravings, and that's it!"
Tom nods, glancing again at the bottle in Marek's hands. The sand will be pressed into a mold, he understands, shaping a hollow to be filled by molten gold. They'll be simple bands, lightly textured by the grains—matching, yet necessarily unique, and hers smaller and more delicate than his own. A thin half-circle etched inside each band will form a complete circle, when the rings are stacked—this had been Marek's idea, after hearing Tom's explanation of what wedding bands meant to those humans who wore them. And though Tom had worried it was a bit much, the idea had taken hold once spoken aloud. Circles within circles.
He thanks Marek, bracing himself to face the cold outside. Before trudging back to the train station, he ducks into the used bookstore next door, thinking to cheer Kathryn up with a new addition to her collection after her long, early shift. He runs a hand over the spines, fingers pausing on a familiar author, then pulls a slim paperback from the shelf.
He tucks it into the pocket where the bottle had been, and heads out to work the lunch shift so as to not get caught in tonight's weather.
When Tom arrives home that evening, he finds Kathryn perched on a small ladder, clad in one of his shirts, which falls to her knees—and a pair of his socks, too, if he's not mistaken. She has paint on her elbow and her long hair is piled high on her head, so he kisses her bare neck in greeting, and then smirks when she shivers.
"You went with the blue," he notes happily. "I would've helped."
For weeks, she's had a rotation of paint swatches all over the apartment. He's been hoping against hope she wouldn't go with the teal green.
"Got the supplies on my break! Didn't want to wait."
Tom eyes her suspiciously. She's running on about three hours of sleep—she should be flat on her back by now. "Oh, I get it. They gave you stims."
"Yep," she confirms. "After lunch. My heart rate is through the roof right now."
She says it lightly enough, but he feels his jaw tighten. "They can't keep doing this to you."
"I think you'll find they can. We're just so understaffed right now."
"No public health crisis," Tom mutters. "Maybe we should—"
"They're going to double up our injections."
"What?" Tom gapes. "How do you know?"
"Kashimuro. He's been moved over to Control part time, heard it from the swing supervisor. They'll probably announce it tomorrow."
"Is it everyone in the radiation zone, or just the plant workers?"
"I don't know," Kathryn sighs. "But I hope it helps. I'm doing the work of three people right now."
It's on the tip of Tom's tongue to voice what he'd been thinking this morning: that maybe they should be taking this more seriously. Maybe even leave the city for a while. Yet, as before, he holds back. He tells himself that she's had a long day—and another hard night, before that. But also, the thought of saying it aloud feels… wrong. Too heavy, for this moment.
Tomorrow, maybe. If the announcement really does come.
"Well, speaking of which," he says instead. "I got you something."
He digs in his coat for the book and holds it up for her, mindful of the wet paint on her hands. She beams at him.
"I love her! Oh, Tom, thank you. This is great."
"Anything for you, my love, love of my life," he says dramatically, and then ducks when she swats at him with her towel.
"Wait—did you go across the river? Why?"
This, Tom realizes, is a critical error that he absolutely should have anticipated. He thinks fast—what else is over there? Umali sent him on an pickup run? Should he be lying to his wife about their wedding rings? But he is saved from having to answer by a sudden knock at the door, sharp enough to startle them both. He looks toward the sound, then at Kathryn, who glances down at herself doubtfully.
"Should we ignore it?"
Another knock, louder this time, and then the chime rings out through the apartment.
"Better not," he says. The soles of her socks—his socks—are smeared with paint, so before she can say anything else he scoops her up, one arm behind her back, the other under her knees.
"Tom!" she gasps, laughing.
"We're protecting our security deposit." He twists awkwardly to reach the door handle from under her legs. He flings the door open and staggers back quickly, nearly overbalancing in the attempt.
"Jaffen!" Kathryn says. "Oh my god, your timing is—"
"Exceptional," Tom says. "Truly. Please come in. Would you also like a pair of my socks to destroy?"
But Jaffen doesn't answer. He steps through the doorway, shoulders tight, and shuts it quickly behind him. Tom's smile fades. He finds Kathryn's tarp and sets her down gently.
"What's happened?" Kathryn asks.
Jaffen looks around the apartment, eying their bookshelves, then the new paperback laying on the floor. He stoops to pick it up, studies it. "I've never read this author. You like her?"
"Yes…" Kathryn says. She shoots Tom a worried look.
"How long did it take you to learn to read Quarren?"
"Jaffen, what—"
"Took me ages. Nightmare of a language, isn't it? How long for you, Kathryn?"
"I don't—I'm not sure. I don't recall exactly."
"And the cursive, wow, might as well be a totally separate alphabet. Don't you think?"
Tom frowns. Kathryn's handwriting is fluid, precise, and it strikes him for the first time that when she leaves notes for him they are in Quarren, not English.
Kathryn is silent, but Jaffen plows ahead anyway. "How did you two get here from the other side of the galaxy?"
"…A ship. A stasis ship."
"Where is the ship now? Who captained it? Did Medical process you?"
"I—"
"Did you have tremors after you arrived? Muscle fatigue?"
"No, but—"
"And why here? Why this far?"
Suddenly, Tom remembers Kathryn's words from the other night. I've never been sick enough to go to a hospital. But shouldn't they have, actually? Both of them, when they'd disembarked, if not before? He's seen the ships arrive, new workers quarantined before getting their assignments.
He doesn't remember being quarantined.
"How can you read this book, Kathryn? The day I met you, you were engrossed in your work manual like it was a favorite novel. If you'd only just arrived, how could you read it? How did you read your marriage license?"
"Stop! Just… stop," Kathryn says. "Let me—I need to change." Abruptly, she leaves the room, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
"Jaffen," Tom says. "What the hell is going on?"
"Someone from Division Six came for me. At the bar."
"Division—"
"Neuropathology."
"You came through Neuropathology?"
"No. No, I did not." Jaffen pulls out a chair and drops down into it. "Sorry, just—I ran here."
"From the bar? Jesus."
Silence stretches between them, heavy and uncertain, until Kathryn reemerges, wrapped in a robe and cradling a cup of hot tea. She sets it in front of Jaffen, but does not sit down.
"I'm sorry," Jaffen says again. "I didn't want to involve you two. But—you are, I think. I think you're part of it."
"Part of what?" Kathryn asks, gently, and Tom has the feeling she isn't completely certain he doesn't belong in Neuropathology.
"I'm not sure, yet. A lot of things aren't adding up lately. That woman who collapsed a while ago—Annika? She never came back. She was human, too, which made me realize it's not the Quarren workers out sick, is it? It's only the 'guest workers'. Why?"
"But you're not Quarren."
"No, but I remember things that others don't. I remember how I got here. I remember why I left. And I ran into another Norvalen last week—not unheard of, here, but rare. Really rare. I came alone, not on some big transport ship like you. And this guy… it's like we came from completely different worlds. Nothing he said made sense."
"Things might've changed since you left."
"Not this much. Not this fast. It's only been two years."
"Okay… so what are you suggesting?"
"I don't know. But someone's not happy I'm asking questions." He looks at Kathryn, an apology written in his face before he says again, "How long did it take you to learn the language?"
Kathryn is quiet for a long moment. She looks down at her hands, clasped tightly, her thumb tracing her forefinger. When she looks up again, it's Tom, not Jaffen, she addresses.
"I don't remember. Anything." Her voice falters. "I don't know how I can read Quarren. Tom—"
Tom crosses to her, his heart racing, and folds her into his arms. "Okay. It's okay."
"No," she says. "I don't think it is."