Title: To Kathryn, Somewhere in my Heart

Part: 2/2

Author: Magida (magida@my-deja.com)

Series: Voyager

Rating: PG-13

Codes: J/C, J/P, C/T, AU

Archive: Sure, why not . . .

Disclaimer: Paramount, of course they're yours.

*OK, you guys inspired me.*

~oOo~

        Chakotay woke in groggy and unfocused alarm from a dream of

Dorvan V where a water jaguar moving stealthily and silently stalked a

sedgeweaver through the undergrowth. His father had stood beside him

with bitter tears as the web-toed carnivore tore through the weaver's

soft iridescent fur, too mindful of the razor claws to stop the attack.

        "Chakotay, my son, there must be balance. This is the

universe's way." All he said, leaving Chakotay with a pounding heart

that continued for several minutes even the dark and distant cabin.

~oOo~

        "Tom?"

        Harry wasn't surprised to find the cabin was dark. Tom often

forgot to tell the computer to increase the room's illumination, but

when he received no answer he was gripped with a unusual concern. He

ordered the lights on and scanned the room - neat and orderly as usual,

the bed made, the replicator untouched.

        What he saw first, the shockingly pale form collapsed on the

cabin floor or the crimson pool beside it, he didn't know.

~oOo~

        No one had called him or known they should. It was only by

chance that Chakotay, his mind set on convincing the Doctor to release

the psychotropic prescription, strolled into Sickbay just as the

shimmering of a medical transport coalesced into the kneeling figure of

Harry Kim, Tom Paris's lolling head gently cradled, deathly white,

against his shoulder. Chakotay rushed forward and scooped the

unconscious body into his own arms, lifting him to the examination bed

as Harry staggered to his feet, drops of blood continuing to spatter

the Sickbay floor from Tom's raggedly slashed wrists.

        The Doctor was barking orders and then directions on how to

complete them as the ensign scrambled to retrieve the unfamiliar

medical tools. Chakotay knew a technological struggle to save Tom's

life was revolving around the bed he stood before, but there was

nothing he could do to aid in that fight. Instead, he gave into the

need that he'd spent years suppressing in times such as this, he willed

himself away from the chaos of the scene before him and concentrated on

geometry of the spiral glyph. Forsaking, for a moment, all the progress

that life had brought to the universe, he sought the creator of that

life itself. Reverting to the ancient words of his people, Chakotay

prayed.

        He came back to himself to find Harry repeating his name -

unaware how much time had passed, unable to remember when he'd last

been aware of the Doctor's struggle.

        "How is he?"

        To his relief the ensign managed a wan smile.

        "He's going to be OK."

        The reply was almost a mantra as it passed Harry's lips. *He'd

lost one Tom Paris. He was not going to lose two.* Chakotay nodded in

silent agreement. So much for his skills as counselor. Or maybe it was

simply his lack of adeptness with any version of Thomas Eugene Paris.

Somehow, even though this Tom had seemed the more stable of the two,

facing his life without the legions of fences the pilot erected, he was

the one who had taken the sharp blade to his pale skin.

~oOo~

        "Captain, if I could see you in private . . ."

        Kathryn looked up at her first officer worriedly. Chakotay's

voice was soft, even, and yet, somehow, disturbing. *Bad news*, she

discerned immediately. But then when, in the Delta Quadrant, had it

been anything else?

        "What's wrong?" she asked as soon as the ready room door slid

behind her.

        "It's Tom. He tried . . . he slits his wrists."

        She raised a hand, covering her mouth, and momentarily closed

her eyes.

        "Is he . . ."

        "He's in sickbay. The Doctor pulled him through."

        Kathryn made her way to the replicator and ordered them both a

cup of coffee. More to do something than for any other reason.

        "He left a message," continued Chakotay. "It's to you . . . to

her. We're not sure which."

        It was hard to hold the mugs steady as she delivered one to his

waiting hands.

        "Are you implying this is somehow my fault?"

        Kathryn Janeway was never one to stand on decorum in the

privacy of her ready room.

        "Of course not."

        Eyes which knew him too well met his.

        *All right, if that was the way it was going to be.*

        "But your . . . behavior . . . hurt him. It's hurt you, too."

        Kathryn drew in a sharp intake of breath. What made him think

he had any right to judge that?

        "Kathryn," he began, extending the uncomfortable openness.

"We're friends and we both know that's all we'll be. You're my

commanding officer and you take that role with all the seriousness it

merits." *Sometimes more than it does.* She thought she could see the

accusation flare in his coffee eyes. "We've both accepted that."

        Her startled gray eyes met his. Had *she*? Fighting the urge to

take the moment any more seriously than he'd taken all the other such

moments before, he continued to meet her gaze steadily.

        "You were right, you know, the Captain and the first officer,

there's a reason relationships aren't allowed."

        Her cheeks were coloring with a faint blush. Damn him for

causing it. Damn him for noticing, she added silently as a flash of

regret passed over his bronze features.

        "But there's no reason either of us have to be alone," he

continued. "There's a man in Sickbay who would be the perfect match for

a serious and independent-minded starship captain. He's even got some

experience with Kathryn Janeways."

        A look which he might once have translated "so do you" was all

the response she gave. He chose *not* to translate it that way.

        "For five years you've been my best friend and I'd like to

think I've been yours. And as your friend I'm giving you a friendly

nudge. You saw something in Tom Paris." Chakotay ducked his head

briefly as he continued. "In fact, it made me jealous. That it was

something more than your usual Mother Hen act."

        He raised his head to grin at her and Kathryn realized she was

grimacing faintly. There had been *something* -  from Tom's first

drawling greeting at Aukland to the fear that sent her first down the

chute to another kind of prison at Akritaria. But the "pilot" and

"captain" had moved beyond it. But, yes, in that first moment in the

penal colony and even a few times after . . . well, Tom Paris was

attractive and, clearly, he'd found something to his liking in her as

well . . . but the differences in their age, their rank, the similarity

of their *backgrounds.*

        Damn Chakotay for reading her again. She closed her eyes

wearily against the sight of his too-aware gaze and found herself

hearing a different tone in his voice.

        "He needs you and I think you need him as well, Captain."

        Kathryn opened her eyes and forced herself to gaze mildly at

the commander who seemed to be taking the first officer's requisite

duty to offer the captain alternatives in command decisions into an all-

too-personal realm.

        "I'll take that under advisement," she finally managed, a touch

of annoyance in her voice.

        Chakotay bowed slightly in homage to her stubbornness.

*Creator, some days he thought, somewhere else besides the Delta

Quadrant, he could have loved that woman.*

        "That's all I can ask."

~oOo~

        "You did *what*?"

        B'Elanna leaned across the table in the empty mess hall and

hissed the question. Chakotay tried to smile gently at the scowling

face across from his own.

        "B'Elanna, Tom's in sickbay. Harry found him pouring his blood

out all over the cabin floor. He'd slit his wrists."

        "Oh my God . . . "

        Chakotay reached a hand to cover her clenched ones. "Whatever

we tried to do -  it wasn't enough because that's not Tom Paris. Not

the one we knew. Not the one who fell in love with you."

        "I shouldn't have . . . in the turbolift . . . I . . ."

        "I'm sure you didn't do anything but act the same way any of us

would who'd just lost someone."

        "I should go to see him," B'Elanna blurted out, not hearing the

comfort offered. "I should have gone a long time ago."

        Left behind in her wake, Chakotay sighed and clasped his hands

around the cooling cup of tea.

~oOo~

        The doctor looked up at her briefly, then went back to manually

interfacing with the terminal at the desk, an occupation that would

have irritated B'Elanna in its inefficiency any other day. At this

moment, though, she only had eyes for the single occupied bed in the

bright Sickbay. Under the sharp lighting Tom's face was a chalky white,

despite the transfusions he'd been given. Dark circles, stark and

bruise-like beneath his eyes, highlighted his fair lashes.

        Too many times she'd seen him like this. Too many times she

thought she'd lose him here. She hadn't counted on him being snatched

from the bridge to cover a Q's error. Hadn't counted on seeing his face

afterwards, both marred and somehow brightened by the lessons of a

different lifetime.

        She clasped his hand gently, remembering too well the

occasional dark mood that would send Tom to seek the solitude of the

holodeck. She'd feared those too. He could seem so distant, so wrapped

in some internal struggle. She'd always pushed back the thought that he

would one day find it too difficult to fight those most personal

demons. That he would be too human.

        His fingers were startlingly white against her own. She was so

intent on the paleness of his fair skin that she failed to notice he'd

opened unresponsive eyes, ice blue, to the flat Sickbay light.

        The bloodless fingers curled around hers.

        "Hi," she said gently, as she might have to her own Tom. "How

are you doing?"

        A small sound escaped his throat that was almost Klingon in the

depths of its feeling.

        "Who found me?" he rasped finally, not knowing who held his

hand, not particularly caring.

        "Harry." B'Elanna replied, an edge of accusation creeping into

her voice.

        "Oh Spirits." The young ensign? *Who else did you expect would

come looking for you*, his mind cut in savagely. "Is he all right?"

        B'Elanna took the question as a good sign. Enough like the Tom

they knew in some ways - if he could be drawn out of his personal cage

by worry over Harry. She tried to hold her voice steady.

        "Yeah. He's worried. We were all worried."

        "Who's we?" A touch of dark humor edged the question.

        "Chakotay, me, the Captain . . ." Though she wouldn't have

thought it possible, his face paled visibly at the mention of Janeway.

"I'm B'Elanna. B'Elanna Torres," she continued, hoping to draw his

attention again.

        The engineer in the turbolift . . . the *other Tom's* . . . He

drew away from where she sat. He didn't deserve these kindnesses.

Spirits, first the young officer finding him bleeding, now this pain-

filled voice.

        "I'm so sorry . . . that I'm not . . ."

        "No. I'm sorry," cut in B'Elanna. "You shouldn't have had to

deal with my problems too. You shouldn't have had to handle this alone."

~oOo~

        Chakotay fingered the hypo, not knowing if he had Tom's recent

bloodletting or the Captain's persuasion to thank for the Doctor's

change of heart.

        "What is it?" he asked, surprisingly wary for someone who'd

spent so much time supporting Tom's right to use such primitive means

to meet his guide.

        "SDMT. A synthetic compound mimicking the ancient drug

dimethyltryptamine. Don't worry," he said sharply, "it has all the same

debilitating side effects as the original."

        "How many doses?"

        "Two. The new `Mr. Paris' said you might join him. I must tell

you that I do not recommend you attempt this procedure. However, I've

been made only too aware over the years that my advice is rarely taken

with the seriousness it merits."

        "I appreciate your concerns," soothed Chakotay. "I have a few

myself."

        "But you are still going ahead and participate," clucked the

physician.

        "Yes."

        The Doctor shook his head, his holographic eyes rolling skyward.

        "Seven asked me once what I'd do if I had a chance to see my

God. I may be about to find out."

        "`Mr. Paris,' said something similar," complained the Doctor,

raising his voice as the first officer disappeared into the hallway.

"I'm actually feeling quite grateful that my `God' is a programmer

named Zimmerman who is completely unreachable by means of psychoactive

pharmaceuticals."

~oOo~

        The holodeck doors opened to a dry plateau, the world's shadow

reaching after a pink hazed dusk to darken the sky and reveal twin

moonlets. A fire crackled in an earthen pit, illuminating Tom and

Harry's waiting faces.

        "Welcome to Farodohr," said Tom, looking more like the pilot

they'd lost, sprawled on the fading sandstone, than the uncertain man

who kept a tight grip on Chakotay's arm even in the open halls. "At

least I think this is what Farodohr looks like. It feels like home."

        Harry glanced around again at his makeshift programming effort

still finding it hard to think of Tom growing up on some barren and

poverty-stricken planet. But this was what he'd told him of the third

world of the Reighst system. The stone villages. The cooking fires in

the distance. Even the small, paired moons.

        Chakotay crouched down before the fire and viewed Harry Kim

with a frown.

        "What are you doing here Ensign?"

        Out of the corner of his eye he could see Tom straighten

protectively.

        "He's our vardk'wa. The one who grounds. He will stay with us."

He reached a hand in Chakotay's direction. "If you would rather I do

this alone . . ."

        It was hard sometimes not to feel it was the Tom Paris of old

challenging him, but the question was asked without the pilot's

trademark smirk. Simply a query of a more experienced traveler.

        "I will honor my ancestors," Chakotay replied, falling back on

formality to buoy his courage. "As they did, I will now do."

        "There will be some physical discomfort," Tom reminded him,

offering his bare arm for the hypo's hiss. "It will be stronger for

you."

        Chakotay nodded, catching a look of concern from Harry.

        "I understand."

        He pressed the hypo to the pale wrist, then handed it to Harry,

offering his own arm.

        "I will stay with you," Harry reassured him, emptying the rest

of the dispenser's contents.

~oOo~

        Waves of nausea rolled through Chakotay's body and he closed

his eyes trying to ride out the sickness of the chemical's impact on

his bloodstream. He didn't know how much time had already passed when

he was finally able to see again. Farodohr was much darker now, the

double moons a dancing pair revolving through the night sky.

        Across from him Tom's pale skin reflected like silver in the

fire's kicking light. He closed his eyes from the glare of Tom's face,

the stone-cut sapphire eyes, and was treated to an internal fireworks

show. Geometric figures in brilliant shades that dove from his gaze

making evasive patterns across the darkness. He tried to concentrate,

call the mantra he always used to center himself, but words somehow

failed him. The nausea returned and he turned away from the fire,

retching. Dimly he was aware of Harry's hands guiding him back toward

the flourescent light. For a moment his eyes fixed on Tom who remained

seated peacefully, his head tilted slightly as if to catch some far off

sound. His hair making a golden crown on his silver-white skin. Then to

the right a flicker of movement caught his sluggish attention. His

guide, her fur tipped in starlight. No, brighter, the stars themselves.

She was panting, her eyes sharp. Her incisors glistened in the

reflected shards of light revealing a tinging of blood . . .

        "I came."

        There was more blood on the fur of her throat and something

savage in the open parting of her jaws.

        "Are you hurt?"

        The glimmering coat shook, raining pinpoints of light like

water droplets.

        "No. I hunted tonight. I killed."

        She was his compatriot, his *muse*. His father would have

claimed she was his `kanul,'was the other half of his soul.

        "Killed?"

        Her eyes glittered fiercely in the firelight.

        "I am wolf. You are a wolf's child."

        Chakotay drew away from her, something he'd never done before,

disgusted by the thought of the bloody incisors.

        "You have killed also," she reminded him. "More than killed.

You felt the pleasure of the bite."

        Memories flickered before him like images on a viewscreen.

Blood and bloodless vacuum. Cardassians staring defiantly as he aimed.

Others who stared more hollowly, their will lessened by the painful

hours before.

        "I . . . I ask forgiveness."

        "No forgiveness, wolf's child."

        More images played themselves out before him. The smoking

remains of his father's home. The decimated jungle forest. The ancient

cry for revenge crawling its way from his throat. Revenge for his

father and for the Starfleet officer he knew he could no longer be. And

then they hunted him, his own kind. Melonda Ojdke, his classmate,

firing on him from the USS Ulysses and his return strike finding the

Ulysses' bridge . . .

        "Not my choice," he grated out, blinking to settle his too-

clear vision, the blood only growing redder.

        "I spring for the buck when I choose. I hold its life and mine

in my jaws. Only I decide if I and mine shall feed."

        "I was made Maquis."

        *Lie. Lie. Lie.* A whisper echoed from the dusty grassland. He

offered his own repeated retort.

        "It became who I am."

        "And such a creature kills it own kind?"

        "To save the others that are mine."

        "Naive cub. You come for years to the meadow, to the flowers,

to the daylight. You suckle like a pup, rolling in the ferns in play.

You worship the `noble' beast and, indeed, I am both. See now the beast

and you will see the whole."

        Her eyes matched the otherworldly glow of her dirty coat,

dissolving into the bleak whiteness of Farodohr's twin companions.

Chakotay's dilated pupils ached from the fire's brightness and he

turned away to where Tom knelt, Harry holding him as he, too, retched

from the drug's effects. His back was bare, the double spiral a clean

outline against his fair skin. The phosphorescent colors were fading

but when Tom straightened the spirals seemed to take flight. Double

moons, double Toms, double spirals, double life . . .

~oOo~

        He woke sometime later to a clear dawn and rolled slowly onto

his back, his sweat-stained clothes now stiff. Across the dying fire

Harry's eyes meet his worriedly.

        "Commander?" he asked softly, as if he wasn't sure how the

first officer might react.

        "What time is it?"

        The ensign looked relieved.

        "0720."

        Chakotay glanced toward where Tom lay, still sleeping.

        "Is he all right?"

        "I think so. Both of your readings shot up there for a while,

but everything seems within normal parameters now."

        Chakotay pulled himself slowly up to a sitting position,

crossing his legs.

        "Are you all right?" the ensign queried, noting his pained

movements.

        "I'm not sure I appreciate what he sees in it."

        "You seemed to be talking to someone."

        "I'm not sure. My guide was . . . different." Chakotay rubbed

awkwardly at his burning eyes. "Maybe it was just a hallucination."

        Across the fire Tom mumbled in some musical tongue. He

struggled up as Harry looked at him with even deeper concern.

        "There are no hallucinations," he translated as if realizing

the ensign didn't expect to find Tom Paris speaking obscure native

dialects. "There are only truths."

        Chakotay moved closer, still searching for some clearer meaning.

        "And your truth? What did you dream?"

        "I heard the song of the collective. A sad and beautiful song.

Ometok says that you have heard it."

        "I have," he admitted, the memories rushing back, particularly

vividly. He shook himself slightly to break their spell. "Seven, too.

She'd be the better one . . ."

        But Tom seemed still lost in the melody.

        "I didn't hear *them.* Maybe I didn't want to." Tom

straightened, having said as much as he was able at the moment. "What

about your dream?"

        "More like a nightmare. My guide, she was bloodied from her

prey. She said I was a `wolf's child'. I didn't like her meaning. I've

never seen her like that."

        Tom seemed to finally focus his attention on his companions.

        "Maybe I shouldn't have pushed you to try this. There are

dangers."

        And rewards, mused Chakotay silently, if this man could find

something `beautiful' in the Borgs' song.

~oOo~

        "Chakotay?"

        Kathryn rose as her first officer steadied himself against the

doorframe of the ready room. He'd stopped by his quarters long enough

to shower and change into the proper attire for a Starfleet Commander

but he'd not been ready to sample anything from the replicator. He'd

tried not to even think of what Neelix might have concocted for the

morning meal. He should of at least tried to drink something, he was

probably dehydrated he realized as he shrugged himself from the

doorway's support and practically collapsed into the nearest chair.

        "I'm fine," he reported, seeing the worried look she was giving

him, "but I don't plan to take this kind of communion up on a regular

basis."

        "I'm relieved to hear it. I was . . . concerned, but it's not

my place to dictate your religious practices to you."

        Chakotay rubbed his bleary eyes.

        "I don't even know if that's actually what it is. I don't know

if I believe I'm talking to my God or to myself."

        "Does it matter?"

        "I think it does. The vision I had was `disturbing.' I saw my

animal guide, fresh from the hunt. Covered in her prey's blood. She's

never appeared that way to me before. She called me a `wolf's child.'

Reminded me I'm no stranger to killing. Said she would not offer me

forgiveness."

        "The things they didn't tell you when you took the job,"

sympathized Kathryn.

        She hadn't thought she'd ever need to fire a weapon at full

strength, could still feel the shock of each of the times she had.

        "Not just `the job.' I was a Maquis Captain. I did what I

thought was needed to save my world, my people." He saw another kind of

sympathy flare in his Captain's eyes. One he suspected would never have

been there before their lonely trek.  "I struck preemptively when I had

the chance and I took revenge when I didn't. I have killed -  I no

longer know how many times. There came a time it became to much effort

to count."

        Kathryn retrieved a cool glass of water from the replicator and

brought it to him. Sank, herself, in the other chair.

        "You know it's been so long, most days I've forgotten you

didn't come on board as my first officer. I couldn't have asked for

better, but that's not what I knew then. To say it didn't concern me -

who you were, what Starfleet said you'd done. I had your dossier and

then I had you. I'd wondered as we headed to the Badlands, what it

would take to drive a well-respected officer to steal Federation

weapons, kill beings we had signed treaties with, and fire on

Federation ships, some of which were commanded by your classmates and

students. And later, oh, I thought about that a lot. That I was

trusting my crew to a traitor, even one that could quote the code as

well as I could. Then I could have called you a `wolf's child.'"

        "And now?" Chakotay asked quietly.

        For the first time in quite a while he saw a smile reach her

grey-blue eyes.

        "I've been careful not to ask, but if we ever do make it home,

what do you think you'll do?"

        "After I'm charged?" he answered wryly, sipping the water.

        "If you have a choice," she conceded. Though he damn well would

have if she had anything to say about it.

        "I don't know. The Maquis are dead. The Cardassians have my

home planet. Even if it would make life simpler, I don't know that I'll

be able to ignore certain political realities."

        "No teaching tactical at the Academy," she concluded.

        He shook his head. "Probably not."

        "There is who we are and then there is what the universe makes

of us. If you remember, Professor Scheller used to love to say that.

Yet you've somehow managed to be both. It would not surprise me if your

animal guide was equally as complex." Her eyes met his openly.

"Sometimes we don't see ourselves. What we really need. What we really

want."

        "He didn't reach her." Chakotay hadn't meant to bring Tom Paris

into this conversation, but the observation slipped out as he gazed

into the warm eyes.

        "I'm sorry," she said, drawing back. Chakotay followed her, a

hand reaching to clasp her own.

        "He said he could hear them sing."

        "The Borg?"

~oOo~

        "You know in the twenty-first century they would have had the

courtesy to put the address in Braille on the cabin doors."

        Chakotay blinked, not used to having Tom sound so much like the

pilot he'd replaced. Particularly not expecting it after last having

seen him still in the grip of the strong hallucinogen.

        "Chakotay? I did get the right place?"

        The first officer shook his head. "Come in. You read Braille?"

        "Yeah, as best I can. You want to use a dead communications

form you better be self taught."

        "Why not just use voice recognition?"

        "You forgot where I spent most of my time growing up. The only

way I even got to the databases to learn the historic stuff was to

hitchhike to the transport center. One of the guards used to let me

borrow the computer interface and the replicator. Seemed like a pretty

fair solution to the problem."

        "Maybe then," offered Chakotay, leading him to a chair. "But

the Doctor can offer you a much better selection of adaptive devices."

        "He's tried," shrugged Tom, smiling.

        "So he's told me," conceded the commander. "He said you were

`willfully uncooperative.'"

        "Wouldn't be the first doctor to think that."

        "You wouldn't be the first Tom Paris he's thought that about."

        Tom grinned.

        "I was born this way. It is my natural state. If I rely on

technology I'll miss everything blindness has to teach me."

        "Most people would disagree that it could teach you anything."

        "Brought me Kathryn."

        "Why would you think that?"

        There was a certain amount of surprise in the Commander's voice.

        "You think she'd have taken up with any other non-com she met

in a double-rented holosuite? Nah, she would have hightailed her

Captain's pips out of there. But a blind man? That's different. I

didn't know she was a Captain, not til later, even though she was

wearing her uniform. I guess I should have picked up something from the

way the Ferengi kowtowed, but I was too busy listening to that voice of

hers."

        Chakotay felt the heat of a blush darkening his skin. So much

for his one speech completely dampening all vestiges of an attraction

that had lasted years.

        "You too, huh," observed Tom in the silence. "When I first came

on board, I thought you might have managed to rid her of that strict

command protocol she's always liked to follow."

        "No, she's pretty much stuck with that story the whole time."

        Tom smiled.

        "Probably should believe her. I don't think she'd date an

officer in her crew if they were the last two people on a world."

        Chakotay shifted a bit uncomfortably at the unintended

reference.

        "But a blind Admiral's son in a holosuite. That was something

different."

        "Yeah," conceded Tom, "it was."

~oOo~

        He hadn't meant to insult the Commander. Hoped he hadn't. He

liked the man. Could understand that Kathryn might too, though in a way

they were too much alike. Both so serious and earnest in their roles.

He could tell the Commander needed to unwind as much as his captain

did, but neither would have ever turned to the other. Kathryn's rules

wouldn't permit it and Chakotay would do nothing he thought would bring

her disapproval. Hell, that had been his first task, to make sure she

knew he could care less whether he met her professional standards or

not. To make sure she didn't mistake him for a member of her crew.

~oOo~

        It was obvious that Chakotay had to break their appointment

without the Commander taking time to call him from the Bridge. The

small shock waves that occasionally swept through the decks were

noticeable even if you couldn't see the battle simmering outside the

clearskinned view ports. Tom steps measured the shaking floor of his

quarters carefully until he had reached a clear space. He sank to the

deck and began to carefully arrange the few objects in his new medicine

bundle. The cool, curved stone Chakotay had carved with the bifurcated

spirals. A pendant of Orion crystal like the one he'd presented to

Kathryn on their second anniversary that had cost him most of what

remained of the pilot's replicator rations. The premeasured hypo.

        He touched the hypo to his wrist, knowing that doing so had

alerted the Doctor to its use, knowing that some small part of the

Doctor's program connected with the cabin's internal sensors. Knowing

some part of him watched as he began to chant, easing the opening

between this world and the world of the Spirits. Small price to pay for

the ability to connect with his guide again.

        Ometok noticed the violence surrounding them. Acknowledged it

with a small sigh of distress then quieted it to a mere hum with his

song. When Tom returned to an awareness of his seat on the cabin's

floor, the conflict was over.

~oOo~

        "Computer, what time is it?"

        The cabin was pitch dark, something that made no difference to

its occupant.

        "0127," replied the dutifully cheerful voice.

        "Great." Tom pulled back the wrinkled covers and set his bare

feet on the standard issue Fleet carpet. What he wouldn't give to feel

the old wood floors again. The creaks and groans of the house settling

for the night in the cooling Tropic darkness. What he wouldn't give for

the feel of her warmth beside him.

        /Letter to Kathryn/, he instructed, no longer pausing to answer

the computer's query for an address. He wondered where the computer had

decided letters addressed to "somewhere in my heart" ended up. Wherever

it was, there must be a quite a stack by now. /You know when I miss you

most? When I wake up in the middle of the night and you're not there.

You're smiling aren't you? You're thinking how rarely you were there in

the first place, so how could it matter? But, Spirits, Kath, it does.

You didn't know I walked the house at night, did you? You always slept

so sound. Sometimes I'd wake up Miranda but she'd snuggle back in her

covers. "Oh, it's you, Dad." Bastet and I would sit on the porch,

listen to the surf til Bastet got bored and went off to round up the

her nightly meal. When I'd come back to bed, I'd have to push you over

because you couldn't resist filling the empty warm nest I'd left. When

you were off exploring the unknown I'd leave a pillow behind when I

rambled, keep your nest for you./

        Before he went to the closet to get something you could ramble

a brightly lit Starship in, Tom laid a pillow where he'd been sleeping.

~oOo~

        *God she was tired.*

        Kathryn sighed in the emptiness of the late-shift mess hall,

grateful not to have to face the Talaxian's eager assistance. Although

she could have done with something hot and non- stimulating to drink.

She would bet she didn't have more than a couple replicator rations

left after the cups of coffee she'd gone through fighting the Horvs'

barrage.

        Wearily she eyed the darkened kitchen.

        "You need something to eat."

        She must be tired if she hadn't noticed the hall was occupied.

And by the one person on the ship she'd been most careful to avoid.

        "I recognize the sigh," he added. "Unfed starship captain in

culinary quandary."

        She felt the twinge of a smile pull at her mouth.

        "I've been busy."

        The ghost of Tom Paris appeared at her elbow dressed in the

pilot's burgundy tunic. *What world had that been? The outdoor bazaar

and B'Elanna frowning slightly at his choice.*

        "I bet that's what you always say. Why don't you sit down and

let me fix you something?"

        Kathryn dragged herself away from the trivial remembrances.

        "You don't have to . . ."

        "Might as well," he returned. "I've never been much of a

sleeper."

        He tread the mess with a security that made her think she'd not

been the only officer he'd found in need of a midnight snack. Bypassing

Neelix's stash of exotic delicacies he headed for the replicator.

        "It seems your Tom Paris was quite the collector of replicator

rations," he explained as he ordered the replication of the ingredients

to what Owen had called, back in her Academy days, the `Paris

Omelette.' The reminiscence brought a heat to her cheeks which,

fortunately, would go unnoticed.

        Carrying the eggs carefully, he proceeded to light one of the

mess's makeshift burners.  Too tired to escape. Hell, too tired to

think, Kathryn sat watching numbly as he mixed the ingredients.

        "It sounded pretty bad."

        Kathryn blinked back from the edge of awareness, realizing

she'd almost dropped off in the mess hall's quiet.

        "It was," she replied wearily, "but we're out of Horvs'

territory. Maybe their neighbors won't be so touchy."

        "What started it?"

        He flipped the omelette cavalierly in the darkness.

        "I did. Something I said."

        "What?" he asked, sliding the steaming eggs on a plate.

        "If I knew that I wouldn't have said it."

        The kitchen lights glinted off his golden hair. It was shorter

than when he'd first appeared, making him look even more like Tom. She

hadn't noticed that he'd cut it. Not that she hadn't been doing her

best to not notice him at all.

        "Your breakfast, Captain, if you'll come get it. I don't quite

trust myself with all the chairs."

        "Thank you."

        He left her in solitude while he cleaned up. No need getting

Neelix upset. Already there'd been requests that he take over the

duties as cook. Though he doubted he could do much better with the

Talaxian's favorite tuber.

        He heard a soft moan from the corner.

        "Captain?" he asked, concerned.

        "This is delicious."

        The response brought a grin.

        "My pleasure. I'm just glad I was up." She saw the smile fade.

He guided himself around the counter and tentatively started toward her

table. "Now that you've . . .  I'd hoped we'd get a chance to talk

sometime. Not now, I know, but later if you feel comfortable."

        "I know. I owe you an apology."

        "No, I think that's my line . . . I don't mean for you to think

I'm trying to substitute you for my wife."

        If she hadn't just put in nearly 50 straight hours on the

bridge, if she hadn't been near exhaustion she wouldn't have replied,

but seeing the open remorse on his face she was taken back to

Chakotay's talk .

        "And I had no right to react as strongly as I did. It's just

that there was . . . a spark . . . between Tom and me. Nothing we acted

on. Nothing we would have acted on, but to think that somewhere else .

. ." Kathryn looked at the pilot's double uncertainly. "I know you're

not Tom."

        "`Tom' could see," he pointed out, gesturing toward his useless

eyes. "Whether I wanted it to or not, it's always defined me. I knew my

father had a different path in mind for me, probably would have

terminated the pregnancy if my mother would have agreed. I think it was

embarrassing. The mighty Paris clan with a classic case of genetic

mutation. Then Mom died.  I finally realized I was lucky Dad decided

not to raise me . . . that he shipped me off to Farodohr. The Natives,

they have a "natural" genetic condition that results in treatment-proof

blindness. Think he figured I wouldn't be such an oddity. I stayed

there until I was sixteen - did a term at the old Earth University, but

what I mainly wanted to do - if you'll pardon the expression - was

`see' the galaxy. So I signed up as a non-com, spent a lot of time

cooking for soc-survey teams parked up in holo-camouflage. Dad had

docked the Heroited at Deep Space Nine and sent a command that it was

time to visit. That's how I met Kath. Dad got pulled into some

debriefing and I headed for the nearest entertainment. Somehow this

Ferengi managed to rent Kath and me the same holosuite. We decided to

flip for it. I won. But being the gentleman I am, I gave it to her. She

invited me along . . . somewhere along the way my father got used to

it."

~oOo~

        "Now there's an unusual sight." B'Elanna stood with her arms

crossed in the center of the cavern opening and tried to decide exactly

what the first officer was doing. "May I ask what you've done with my

Klingons?"

        "I deleted them."

        "Ah ha, then may I ask what you're doing to my cave?"

        "Painting it."

        *Painting it*, she mouthed. Well, that was exactly what it

looked like he was doing.

        "I suppose I can accept that. I could ask why you're not

painting your own cave."

        "Didn't have time to program one. Didn't want to loose the

muse."

        "That spirit guide been speaking to you again?"

        The joking question brought an unexpected silence.

        "No," he finally conceded, adding more lines to the herd of

horses now stampeding in the dry cave mouth. "That's actually why I'm

here."

        "Oh. Anything I can help with?"

        He merely grunted in reply and B'Elanna decided the entire

scene spread before her was odd enough that it bore watching. If for

nothing else than the rare spectacle of the Commander in native garb,

his hair streaked with ochre, a pair of feathers from a Dorvan hawk

dangling behind his left ear. She'd forgotten how she'd always loved to

see him that way, reminding her - as it did in some odd twist  - of a

Klingon in battle gear. A comparison she'd refrained from ever

mentioning aloud.

        "It is true I didn't have much luck with my spirit guide."

        "You tried to kill it," noted Chakotay, bringing a pawing

stallion to height above the herd.

        "So you keep reminding me."

        "Why?"

        He asked the question so openly that B'Elanna dropped her

bantering tone.

        "Truthfully? I didn't want to hear what it had to say. Some

things about me are better left undiscovered. You may be all the better

for listening to your inner self, but I can do without that kind of

knowledge."

        "I think I'm beginning to agree with you."

        "So you don't want to know me either," she replied teasingly,

thinking he'd returned to his big brother routine, but he didn't turn

from the cave wall and fix her with his usual grin.

        "No. I think it's myself I'd rather not meet."

~oOo~

        "I'd like to you meet Seven of Nine."

        Chakotay guided his hand into one surprisingly warm and

lifelike. Odd that he hadn't expected that. That he'd expected

something cold and metallic even though he knew the Borg were partially

organic. *What a term. . . was that what his children, his lover, were

now. . . partially organic?*

        "Mr. Paris." The voice was clipped, professional, but with a

certain warmth running beneath. "Would you care to sit down?"

        "Sure."

        The guiding hand was also surprisingly gentle.

        "The Commander indicated you wished to talk with me."

        "I . . . I wanted to know if you could tell me what happened to

my wife and my children when the Borg . . ."

        "It is not something easy to explain."

        "If you would try. I need to understand."

        There was no rancor in the request. Seven regarded the double

of the ship's pilot silently.

        "They were afraid."

        Tom swallowed, knowing he'd asked her for the truth. Knowing he

hadn't wanted it.

        "In their first few seconds, they were always afraid. Then

there is a . . . dawning. To be drawn into the collective mind is a

humbling experience. Remaining there you become less and less. It

becomes more until there is only one mind. One soul. You can feel the

heartbeat of each drone. The breath of a million. You are never alone.

Never desiring. Never unfullfilled. Never yearning. `You' are not."

        The words were terrifying. He struggled to remember that the

song had not been.

        "Do you regret having to leave them?"

        "It has been . . . difficult," admitted Seven. "Captain Janeway

separated me unwillingly. For a long time I would have gladly returned."

        Tom nodded slowly.

        "They do not remember." Seven did not know whether this would

bring comfort or distress to the man beside her.

        "Good," he said, trying to blink back the tears threatening to

spill again.

        Seven reached a hand to his cheek.

        "They do not do that," she observed mildly.

        His hand brushed against hers, softly searching the remnants of

the Borg implants. The lacing of metal across the back of the hand that

had just so delicately smoothed his tears. When he started to withdraw

his questing fingers, Seven captured his hand, bringing it to the metal

curving her brow.

        "Some parts of the implants had to remain to allow my body to

function. A drone is more heavily mechanized."

        "I've heard descriptions."

        "It is not painful. Proper anesthetics are used."

        Tom shook his head.

        "I keep thinking about what my wife must have thought right

before the assimilation. Knowing that we were next. Thinking that she'd

failed to be Captain Janeway, the one who always saves the day. I think

about my children, that I wasn't there to comfort them. That they

couldn't find me."

        Seven frowned, not at the painful emotion written on the face

before her but at the small technical discrepancy of Kathryn Janeway's

name.

        "Your wife - she was also Captain Janeway?"

        "Yeah."

        "Not Captain Paris."

        "No," there was slight smile about his lips. "Actually I took

her name. I haven't told anyone, but I'm officially Thomas Janeway.

It's taken a little getting used being called `Paris' again."

        Seven stared in puzzlement.

        "Why would you not inform anyone of your chosen name?"

        "I didn't want your Captain Janeway to feel any more

uncomfortable than she already does."

        "You believe you make Captain Janeway uncomfortable?"

        After the Borg's honesty, Tom felt he had no choice but to

submit to the curious questioning.

        "She knows I loved my wife."

        "And this is what leads to her discomfort?"

        Tom smiled. What Chakotay told him about the ex-Borg's

innocence seemed all too true.

        "Well, how would you feel, Seven, if in another universe you

were my wife and I showed up here?"

        "I do not know. I have spent much of the last year dealing with

my severance from the collective. I have not considered there are other

versions of my life."

        "Apparently there are."

        "It would seem so," echoed Seven.

~oOo~

        "Thank you."

        Chakotay glanced at Tom, not sure from the look of confusion

he'd observed on both faces when he'd arrived to retrieve Tom from the

cargo bay, whether the meeting had been a mistake. Seven, in many ways

so young, and Tom, still too close to the assimilation of his family.

He'd almost denied Tom's request to meet the ex-Borg feeling it might

be too painful for both of them.

        "You're welcome," he returned, curious, but not questioning

what might have been said in the private meeting.

        They walked the remaining distance back to Tom's cabin in

silence, Chakotay still finding it strange that the pilot's double

could be such a quiet man. The blindness perhaps. He'd watched Tom work

a room enough to know that the pilot was a strongly visual person,

noticing spacing, glances. To have to work without that edge . . .

        "Come in a minute? I've got something I've been meaning to give

you."

        Tom disappeared into the cabin's bedroom, then re-emerged with

something in his hand.

        "Chakotay?" he asked, trying to locate the first officer.

        "Here."

        Cuing in on the sound, Tom held out the bound book he clasped.

        "Ever read the Popul Vug?"

        The name wasn't familiar and Chakotay flipped the cover open,

relieved to find the text written in Standard.

        "What is it?"

        "The Council Book. Recorded in written form during the Spanish

Conquest of the Mayan kingdoms. Think of it as the Mayan creation

story. I'm surprised your father didn't teach you."

        "He probably tried," admitted Chakotay, unconsciously running a

hand through the short strands of his hair. "I wasn't very good at

paying attention."

        "Take it," said Tom. "For all your help. For convincing the

Doctor . . ."

        Chakotay smiled, still finding it amazing how much he had in

common with the pilot's double. Imagining what would happen if Tom met

Tom, then deciding the two men would probably get along quite well. And

Kathryn, well that's what he'd always thought she needed. The quiet,

spiritual type, but with a sense of humor.

        "Thank you," he said, thumbing the pages.

~oOo~

        It was a few days before he returned again to B'Elanna's

modified program, lighting a mix of incense and ground maize, breathing

deep its sweet and acrid smoke. The bound, crisp pages in his hand.

Slowly he read again the nearly two thousand year-old story of Jaguar

Deer and Seven Macaw. And still, it was merely a mythical rendering to

him.

        "B'elanna said I'd find you here."

        There was a embarrassed half-grin on her first officer's face.

        "I needed a cave."

        "What's that?" Kathryn questioned, craning a look at the

replicated antique in his hands.

        "The Popul Vug. The Maya were a literate people."

        "May I?" she asked, putting out a hand.

        She studied the book for a moment.

        "Tom gave it to me. He thinks I should have a better grip on my

spirituality."

        "I can just imagine what he'd think of me," murmured Katherine,

closing the book, but not returning it, getting to what really had

brought her down here. "I've been doing a little reading of my own."

        "Oh?"

        "Somehow the computer believes the letters Tom writes to his

wife are directed to me." Grey eyes looked at him sharply. "I can't

imagine how it could make that mistake."

        "Neither can I," answered Chakotay innocently. "You could just

ignore them."

        Kathryn tried to discern whether such innocence could be

contrived by a "wolf's child" but could not see any sign he was putting

his Maquis skills to use.

        "He was very much in love with her."

        Chakotay's brow arched at the observation.

        "So he's told me. I suspect she was very much in love with him,

too, though I doubt she ever told him."

        "He knew," Kathryn said softly. "He knows."

        She placed the book back in his open hand and left her first

officer standing speechless in the smoky opening.

~oOo~

        Chakotay had debated the best way to handle the situation. He'd

settled for inviting B'Elanna for a meal in his quarters. She'd been

very interested in the cave rituals, asking him questions just as she

had long ago in the Maquis when she'd expressed a skeptical interest in

his religion. Doubting every truth he could come up with. That would

ease the conversation and he'd find some way to turn it to Tom's

letters, to how they continued to end up in the Captain's daily reports

- despite Harry and Tuvok's efforts.

        In the end, it was B'Elanna who brought it up first, stepping

through the door with too much idea of what had precipitated the

invitation.

        "You don't invite me for dinner every day - so, which is it?

You want to know how or why?"

        "Tuvok wants to know how. I'll settle for why."

        Her dark eyes studied him intensely then, satisfied with

whatever she found there, she sat down, gesturing Chakotay to as well.

        "It was the right thing to do."

        "That's not an answer."

        "Oh, yes it is. Don't get me wrong. I loved Tom. I would have

fought like a vorlet if I thought Kathryn Janeway or anyone was trying

to take him from me. But I loved him because we were two of kind. Bad

parents. Bad past. Bad attitudes. Not the most highly developed social

skills. We loved each other because we were each other. You know, when

he writes her, he talks about how she completed him. How she made him

whole. Tom and I would never have been able to that for each other.

Never thought it was important that we should. It's just now - I think

somehow we were wrong."

        "So you did this in hopes the Captain would respond the way his

Kathryn did."

        "I did this so she'd at least know what she was turning down."

        Chakotay blushed faintly, hoping with his dark skin she

wouldn't be able to see that he remembered doing the same thing on a

lonesome planet, parading his skills, his tender concern. May the

Spirits bless Tom's way more than they had his.

        "I'll have to report this to Tuvok."

        "Go `head, I'm a big girl. I took my action. I'll take my

punishment."

        "I'll try to get you clemency."

        B'Elanna nodded seriously, studying him again for a moment

before she relaxed. May Tom forgive her for what she was thinking.

Knowing him, he'd probably would have laughed.

        "Now, do I still get to eat?"

~oOo~

        "You know you've never asked me if I believed in God."

        B'elanna dished out the vegetable curry with a slender tanned

hand.

        *No, he supposed he hadn't.*

        "Do you?"

        B'elanna unselfconsciously licked sweet spice from her fingers

as she sat down to her meal.

        "I'll make a deal with you. You tell me why you never asked and

I'll tell you what I believe."

        "You never seemed the type to dwell on Kahless."

        "What makes you think I'd place my faith in old Klingon

legends?"

        "I didn't. That's why I never asked . . ."

        "What makes you think I wouldn't believe in a Human conception

of deity?"

        Chakotay took a bite of dark root.

        "I don't know. I guess I never thought . . ."

        "There's been a lot you haven't thought about, Chakotay."

        She wrapped her tongue around his name in the old way. A

pronunciation gone with days in the Maquis. His eyes snapped to her

face, widening in surprise . . . or alarm. Well, she had already

decided to accept the consequences . . . whatever they might be. She

could hear Tom laughing softly somewhere in a parallel universe. She

plunged on regardless.

        "So, yes,  I think there's an intelligence that engineered the

universes. That there's a God. I haven't decided yet if there's more

than that. If there's a chance we're not all fated from first initial

causes. I know - a very un-Klingon viewpoint. Not much use fighting all

those glorious battles if the cosmic dice already determined the

outcome for you, is there? Then, sometimes . . ."

        "Sometimes what?"

        "I have to test the illusion that's it's all been preordained."

        She was leaning in closer to him, her dinner untouched.

        "Is that what you're doing now?" he asked.

        "Maybe . . ." she admitted and she brushed his mouth with her

own. He tasted of salt and sweet curry, his lips widening to take in

her darting tongue.

        "B'Ellana," he whispered, finding himself both concerned and

entranced. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

        "Chakotay, I've wanted to do this since the first night at

Regor when you wouldn't let me in your bed."

        "I didn't want you to think all those stories about Maquis

captains were true."

        Her hands were nimbly unfastening the tunic he wore and her

face wore a satisfied grin at the discovery of the raging heartbeat

beneath the patterned cloth.

        "B'elanna, I don't want you to do anything you'll be sorry for

. . ."

        Having disposed of the tunic, the engineer bared her own smooth

skin, arching like a marking cat against his chest.

        " . . . so you better quit now."

        The edge of B'elanna's sharp teeth traced a shivering pattern

along his neck.

        "Chakotay," she nipped gingerly at the sharp bone of his jaw.

        "What?" he breathed heavily.

        "Find somewhere nice to put those white teeth of yours."

~oOo~

        "Kathryn?" Tom rose, letting the book on his lap fall to the

cabin floor. "Come in. I wasn't expecting you."

        The captain of the starship Voyager, dressed in a softly

flowing dress, bent down to retrieve the heavy antique text. She

brought its blank pages into her hands, running a curious finger over

the raised dots.

        "What is it?"

        "Braille." Tom held out his hands for the book's return, then

guided them both to the couch. His fingers took position at the top of

the open page.

        "As an Unperfect Actor on the Stage,

        Who with his Fear is put beside his Part,

        Or some Fierce Thing replete with too much Rage,

        Whose Strength's Abondance weakens his own Heart,

        So I for Fear of Trust forget to say

        The perfect Ceremony of Love's Right,

        And in mine own Love's Strength seems to decay,

        O'er-charg'd with Burthen of mine own Love's Might.

        O let my Books be then the Eloquence

        And Domb Presagers of my Speaking Breast,

        Who plead for Love, and look for Recompense,

        More than that Tongue that more hath more express'd

        O learn to read what Silent Love hath writ:

        To hear with Eyes belongs to Love's fine Wit."

        "Shakespeare," he explained, closing the book. "I used to read

to Kath."

        Kathryn felt out-of-place, like she'd entered one of her

Victorian holonovels in her uniform. Love poetry, phantom letters

written to a woman gone. A woman she could never be.

        "Your relationship . . .  some would say it sounded like a

fairy tale."

        Tom snorted at the thought.

        "You would have never heard Kath call it that. She had three

kids, a Starship, the Admiralty and a notoriously unconventional

husband to deal with. The day she was supposed to ship off on the

Trivecca the kids decided to unpack all her clothes and play Starship

first officer. Of course I could *hear* them playing but I couldn't see

what they had on. I suspect her reaction was pretty similar to what

yours would have been."

        "What did she do?"

        "Once she got her temper under control, she pointed out to the

three first officers that their Captain had just arrived and it was

their duty to repack the Captain's suitcases. I think we were only 20

minutes late. Though, Spirits knows what the children looked like. I

can just imagine all the proper families waiting to wave their loved

ones goodbye and here comes the Captain's brood - out of breath, the

kids wearing whatever they grabbed from the closet. They were all

dressed in orange and purple for all I knew. I would have loved to have

seen the look on my dad's face when he saw us. Kath told me it was

priceless."

        Kathryn studied the face of the man beside her. He was smiling

from the remembrance. *Smiling* at a memory of his father. Oddly it was

this, more than all the time it had taken her to become used to the

blindness, that made her realize truly this was not Tom Paris.

        "Kathryn?" He reached out into the silence. "I'm sorry . . . I

shouldn't have . . ."

        God, no, it wasn't that. Wasn't *him.*

        His hand found her shoulder, and then her face.

        "I was just thinking about Tom."

        "I know you miss him."

        "I do. I miss his wisecracks, his inappropriate sense of humor.

There are days I especially miss his hand at the helm."

        Not exactly an explanation for the kind of emotion he seemed to

evoke from her.

        "It's none of my business, but why didn't you and he . . ."

        "Get together? It never seemed appropriate."

        Tom's brow drew in a puzzled frown.

        "But you loved him . . . I can tell. I can hear it."

        "I needed to protect him."

        "Protect him from what?"

        Kathryn looked deeply into the unfocused blue eyes, thankful

that he had no idea.

        "Maybe the past . . ."

        "Whose past?"

        "His. You don't understand. I think I *knew*."

        "Knew what?"

        "That your . . . that *Tom's* father blamed him for his wife's

death. That he hit him. That he may have done more."

        "How did you know?"

        "Little things that added up. Tom didn't ever realize how well

I knew Owen."

        *How very well she knew him.*

        "I should have checked out my suspicions. I should have said

something."

        "Kathryn . . ."

        It was still startling to hear him call her name.

        "My father was distant, unbending, even unfeeling, but he never

laid a hand on me."

        "His Owen did. I could sense the . . . I don't know what else

to call it but fury . . . in him. When he lost his wife he lost the

anchor that held him spiritually. After that there was nothing but duty

and honor and anger. I tried, later, to make up for it. I demanded Tom

be realized into my custody  - to help me find Tuvok, yes, but to give

me a chance to do what I hadn't done years before."

        "And you succeeded. Tom *went* with this Q in order that lives

would be saved. When people talk about him it's with warmth and

affection. I find myself struggling to live up to his life. The life he

made on this ship. He took your opportunity, Kathryn. Embraced it. I

know he recognized the gift." He reached toward her, drawing cool

fingers down her smooth cheek. "I need you to know I'm not that man's

son."

        "And I'm not your wife," she whispered.

        "I know that too, but I think I love Kathryn Janeway in all her

incarnate forms."

        In his hands her face turned upward and he bent, his lips

pressing hers. Gently at first, then with a kind of frantic caress.

Tears were running down his cheeks.

        She broke from his grasp. "Tom. No. I'm sorry. I can't do this.

I have to get these people home."

        "No, this *ship* has to get them home. This *crew* has to get

them home."

        "And both are my responsibility."

        "Kathryn Janeway can't solve all the problems. You always

thought you could. I let her think she could. I let her think she

failed."

        "No one could fight the kind of Borg invasion you say was

coming," soothed Kathryn, taking his pale hands, no longer fighting the

closeness.

        "I should have told her, only I loved that about her. I loved

someone taking care of me. I should have said you've got to let time

unwind as it will. Play your role but not think you can control its

threads. I let her think that. In the end I think she believed she'd

betrayed us all."

        "No, she knew just like I know, somewhere, that I can't

control everything, but I have to believe I can. They look at me when

they don't believe and I have look like I can save us all."

        "And who saves you, Kathryn?"

        "I do. I save myself. I always have." For some reason, she felt

sudden tears welling behind her eyes. "It's just sometimes I get a

little tired."

        Strong arms buried her in a caress and she let them.

Fini

(finally)