Work Text
The deep blue silk catches the last of the late afternoon light, repeatedly drawing her eye as she guiltily makes the business of tidying her already immaculate apartment into an artful distraction. She pulls at her new white sheets, which already appeared to have been steam-ironed onto the bed.The comm keeps bleating its messages into the silence, and she determinedly ignores it, wondering who it is every time she does in spite of herself. No doubt Phoebe will be behind some of the messages, and she absolutely knows who will be sending the rest.It is not that she is a coward, but she isn’t brave either. And she has decided she’s come quite comfortably to terms with that.“Computer,” she orders, over the ringing of the comm, “run the bath.”The noise of the water hitting the marble soothes her instantly, settling her jangling nerves, as she strips out of her sweater and jeans and pads towards the kitchen for a sizeable glass of wine.If she planned to get drunk, it was only to avoid the colossal mistake she knows she is making. Yet, making it is easier than facing down her nerves.The irony of her nerves is not lost on her; she has stared death in the face multiple times, has overcome odds that were so stacked against her she couldn’t see over them, yet here she is, too terrified to go on a date.But it is so complicated, and wanting something so badly it leaves you breathless also makes you entirely vulnerable.It’s an uncomfortable paradox.She snorts into the quiet, irritated suddenly, and makes her way towards her bathroom with a resolve in her step that she doesn’t feel.Stripping her underwear off, she sinks into the tub, enjoying the silky heat of the water as it ripples over her skin. The wine glass in hand, she lets her eyes flutter closed and tries to calm her own racing mind as it reminds her that her default is loneliness, and pain, and envy.“Your personal trainer really is doing a grand job.”She knows that voice so well that it makes her toes curl and for a moment she hopes it’s the dwindling sensibility of her own mind as opposed to the reality she knows to be true but no; Q is in her bathroom.She prises her eyes open to find him perched on the edge of the bath, dressed in an immaculate tux, legs crossed, examining his nails.She looks down for a moment at her lean, toned abdomen and her narrow waist.He has a point.“You’re wondering why on Earth I’m here,” he states. “And on that note, congratulations – for being on Earth I mean. Who knew you’d do it? Shame that you’re so painfully lonely.”At his words she feels as if she’s been gutted, run through suddenly with a hot knife. She sits up, curling her own arms around her exposed breasts.“I’m not the one interested in those,” he says pointedly, waving a dismissive finger. “And the one who is, is currently frantically calling you, tux all ready to go for your New Year, New Us date, wondering why you’ve stood him up. On New Year’s Eve, of all days. He’s hoping for a new beginning, and you’ve decided-”“Enough,” fury surges through her, and as she flies up water sloshes over the sides of the tub. She isn’t quick enough to steady herself and her foot misses the edge of the tub as she lunges at him. She stretches her arm out, but it isn’t enough to save her, and Q does nothing to help as she gathers momentum and crashes to the unforgiving tiles.
***
The burn of the whiskey is enough to make her feel sanitised, feel
more numb as each sip curls around her consciousness.
She’s been bleeding on and off for months, and though she knew it, she didn’t want to listen.
Menopause.
How completely anti-climactic it had been. And as the Doc had cycled through all of the procedures she could have to ease her suffering, all she could feel was the trickling of the last vestiges of her life, leaving her with the blood between her legs.
“Why am I here?”“Have you ever seen ‘It’s a Wonderful Life?’”“No. Fuck my head hurts.”“What a potty mouth you have, Admiral.”“This is my apartment. Why can I see myself?”“Just watch. You’re so dreadfully impatient.”“I’m bleeding. My head is split open.”“Don’t worry, you won’t die…not yet at least.”
She takes another sip, and then pushes her finger angrily against the screen. His face flashes up, tattoo curling blue-black around his temple, eyes brighter even than the sun shining outside of his Phoenix home.
Three bedrooms, he told her last time
they spoke.
So she should have been unsurprised when his message casually informs her that Seven is pregnant – with twins, no less, for Seven always does things impeccably – and that they hope to see her soon.
He grins his way through the message, telling her he’s seen her latest work on the Borg and definitely does think running for a role in the Federation Government is in her future.
He pauses for a moment at the end, and his fingers – once confident across the planes of her ribs, tracing the shape of her jaw – touch the screen.
“I – we –” he corrects, “love you. Call soon.”
But what is it to love someone?
“They aren’t together.”“Touchy, are we Kathryn? That doesn’t mean they can’t reconcile.”“Is this the future? Is this a parallel universe? Answer me, Q!”“You tell me.”“You’re toying with me!”“How dare you accuse me of that, when you’re the one toying with Chuckles.”
She slams the console shut, and stands, wobbling on cold feet, to go towards the giant windows which allow her unparalleled views of the Bay. She feels her own tears trickling down her face, to hang onto her jaw line and fall onto her uniform.
This fucking uniform. The entire reason she is so desperately alone.
Duty, she thinks. Duty.
It’s not the pregnancy, she can deal with that. She can cope with having been denied something she chose not to pursue.
She can stand the sadness that will eventually consume her.
But it is his almost-happiness she can’t stand, his every implication that his choice was the runner-up, the second of two choices he had.
And the fact that it is Seven he chose is wickedly painful, almost enjoyably so. Having been passed up for one’s surrogate daughter – the only daughter she’ll ever have (had) – is startlingly insulting.
“You’re very quiet.”“I’m-”“Jealous?”“I’m upset.”“It’s not like you to be so candid.”“I-”“He loves you. But he won’t flitter about the edges of your life forever. And every clock, both metaphorical and literal, is ticking.”“You don’t need to remind me.”
She turns, anger overriding her more gracious impulses, and slams the crystal tumbler off of the wall, where it shatters into raining fragments before coming to land with an empty tinkle across her living room floor.
“Stand up! You can’t see you, never mind hit you with a tumbler.”“I’m already bleeding and naked, can you please return me?”“Not until we’ve had a little more fun.”
She stands up, resolving to make life even more complicated for herself, and goes towards the comm unit. She flips it open again, and decides that recording a message seems like the right thing to do.
But the pain is exquisite, and too deeply sewn into her skin, and so she shuts the comms unit down.
*****
She skirts around a pretty little girl, black hair flowing behind her as she streaks after a little boy, shouting “Come back Michael!”
She smiles after them, wondering how they still have all that energy after having been awake for so long. She’d give anything for her bed now.
She manages to make her way to the table, groaning under the weight of innumerable bottles, and pours herself a whiskey.
The air changes behind her - even in a room full of people, she can feel it - and a hand snakes around her waist.
“Whiskey already?”
She smiles against the rim of her glass.
“I know what you’re thinking.”“Don’t presume to guess-”“I’m glad you cut that thought off. I’m omnipotent, remember? And I categorically know you’re thinking: ‘That seems more like it.’”
She turns in his arms, and the smile is still pulling at the corners of her mouth in spite of her attempt to sound flippant.
“Absolutely. How else is one supposed to survive a night with both their family and their crew?”
He kisses her nose, and for a fraction of a second she goes stiff in his arms. She’s still afraid, bizarre (and unnecessary) as it is, that their relationship will incite scorn.
“Even then, you don’t know if you can give everything to him.”“It isn’t about that.”“Then pray tell, dear Kathy, what it is about?”
But then she relaxes, and it’s easy to enjoy his warm embrace.
“Don’t fret,” he says. “No one disapproves.”
She looks up at him, “I loathe when you do that.”
“Do what?” he asks with a grin, knowing full well what she means.
“Read my mind,” she sighs, and then leans into him. “I am nervous about their reaction.”
He steps back a little, and his voice is quiet under the din of the party, but it makes it no less confident.
“They’ll be excited you finally said yes,” he smiles. “I mean, it is about time.”
His hands slide onto her shoulders, and stop just at the collar of her shirt. He pulls a chain from within the garment, on which she has strung the ring in order to wear it under her uniform.
“Shall we?”
“Do we have to?”
“We’re engaged?”“You can hardly keep the shock from your voice.”“I- I…Oh for heaven’s sake Q, what – when – is this?”“What does it matter? The point is it could happen.”“No it can’t.”****
His body throbs – all day, every day. Through every weeping, sleepless night. He never asked for this, he never asked for any of it. Anaesthetising as it is, he knows the whiskey has to stop.
But it’s the cold comfort he seeks. It’s a New Year, but when every day is the same – relentless, bruising, void of her – everything feels broken, stuck.
Another red alert, he thinks, and I know it will be the end.
He stands up, on wobbling feet, and moves to his desk. The picture is touched so often that the edges of the frame have started to rub, revealing the copper-alloy underneath. He feels cheap, having her photo here. He feels cheap because he cut that dog and that man out of it after he rescued it from the charred remains of her Ready Room.
It was the only thing she possessed that hadn’t been consumed by the flames that claimed her.
And nearly one hundred of their crew.
As he traces her young, naively hopeful, face, he feels tears again. There are so many layers, layer upon layer of anger and fury and pain, that he can’t cut through them to attribute his tears to any one thing.
“I’m dead?”“They’re still not home. Voyager has been intrepidly going for four years, without you. Skeleton crew with a ghost of a captain.”“He’s so…”“Old? Bedraggled? Miserable?”“Tired.”“Aren’t you tired, Kathryn?”“Yes.”He shuffles back to his couch, pushing away the fraying comforter and pillows, and cradling her photo to his chest.*****
She watches as he sleeps, her white sheets bunching at his waist, his face tranquil in the midst of sleep. They should wake up; not for any good reason other than to eat breakfast or to make love or to simply be.
She’s not been entirely perfect at that, but with him she will do everything in her power to try.
So instead she closes her eyes, and forces herself to be in the moment. To feel everything she should as her body lies beside his, in the silence of a new morning.
“This is my bedroom.”“So observant. It is indeed your bedroom.”“When is this?”“Tomorrow morning…if things go that way. Right now though-”“I hate you, Q.”“The thing is Kathy, I don’t hate you. I don’t want you to suffer from your monotonous sense of duty, and belief that you deserve punishment. Frankly, I’m getting bored.”“I…please take me back. I’m bleeding. I need my head examined.”“Finally talking some sense.”“Why did you do this?”“Because it’s about time someone let you know that it’s worth the effort.”***Her own name swims in her head, the colour of blue ink, the taste of coffee on her tongue. And wine. And good whiskey. Q, she fell, and then…“Kathryn!”She feels suddenly light, the floor leaving her as a strong arm slides under her scalp, other fingers tracing the hot stickiness of the gash on her temple.Opening her eyes, she manages a watery smile as his face – blue ink – hovers above her.“I’m alright.”“You’re bleeding.”“I needed my head examined,” she murmurs, and she’s sure she hears Q laugh. She wants to laugh too.“You certainly do,” he answer seriously.“Chakotay, how did you get in?”He sits her up, propping her against the bath.“I know all your codes. Where’s your tricorder?”“You can say that again,” she laughs, and he looks at her in confusion. His worry is evident. “In my briefcase.”He disappears for a moment, and she has the good sense to remember she is entirely naked. Suddenly self-conscious, she makes to stand for a towel when his voice stops her.“Don’t move. You could have concussion.”She frowns, “Not concussed enough to wonder if my being entirely naked will result in extreme embarrassment for us following this moment. Though I should hope not…”His hands pause in mid-air over her forehead, stalling in shock.“You stood me up.”“I was about to rectify that as I climbed out the bath…” she lies.“No concussion,” he confirms, setting the tricorder on the slick edge of the tub.“No,” she agrees, “just an epiphany.”“Why all the double speak?”He sits back on his knees, and reaches for a towel this time. He hands her it, and she pulls it over herself as he sets about healing the wound.“Are you good with your hands?”He stops again, annoyed now. “Are you drunk?”She realises her careless banter, her attempt at flippancy, aren’t fair on him. She places her fingers over his as he resumes with the regenerator, and stop him again.“No,” she promises. “Just…taking a chance on something I might otherwise never get to have.”“And after all the shit, that something is me?”She falters for a moment, but somewhere in the back of her mind she realises he has to ask this, because he has to be sure she won’t hurt him like she has, so many times.“It always has been.”“What a bizarre place to tell me,” he says simply. “Butt naked on your bathroom floor.”He puts the regenerator down and sits beside her, and she notices he’s come dressed in a beautiful tux.Clearly, he isn’t yet ready to give up the fight.They aren’t touching, but she can feel that current, suddenly – the one that had lain dormant for too many years, the one she had done everything in her power to kill.Some things, she realises, are just bigger than her.But never bigger than Q.“I don’t much fancy going tonight,” she says quietly. “But I did get a new bottle of Scotch and some lovely bedsheets today.”“And if I agree to those, is everything else for keeps?”She is silent for a moment.“Do you believe in second chances?” She doesn’t give him time to answer. “Of course you do. You’re so deeply…spiritual. The thing is, I never did. I didn’t believe – ” she bites her lip, “that you would want to give me one.”“I would give you millions of chances if you’d only let me.”They still can’t look at each other. Sometimes, the truth is too huge to look upon. But his hand snakes out to touch hers, where it holds her towel in place.“I believe in them now,” she says quietly.“I hope so,” he turns to face her, his fingers gripping her jaw. “Because I’m going to kiss you.”“Good,” she whispers. “I think you might even stay the night.”He grins as he edges nearer, his lips milimetres away from hers, “I might even ask you to marry me.”And somewhere, in the cosmos, her guardian angel rolls his eyes.