veronica_rich (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
veronica_rich) wrote2007-01-14 10:45 pm
veronica_rich) wrote2007-01-14 10:45 pm
"Breaking Command" Part 3
Keeping up with her interview schedule was made a little easier by knowing that after each day she could escape to the haven of the Voyager and Reg. He could usually be found tinkering on some part of the ship, and wasn’t difficult to find if she located his communicator. Sometimes, however, she preferred the challenge of finding him on her own, walking the corridors in solitude as she glanced about for a sign of his presence.
“Good answer on that first question,” he’d say, letting her know he’d watched yet another of her appearances at a duty station. Or, “Are you sure you want to keep going through with this? That last comment really seemed to bother you today.”
In fact, she wasn’t at all sure she should keep up the interviews. They’d gone from merely annoying to bothersome, to nerve-racking since she and Reg had first hashed things out nearly a month ago. She found herself dwelling on answers she’d given, or wondering about the way certain questions would snake through her brain and demand rougher, more honest answers than she’d given so far to any reporter. How did she justify not using the Protector to send them back when she had the chance so many years ago? Why hadn’t she tried harder to find a way to convince Q to bring them home? The answers she gave either sidestepped the questions entirely or were pat and scripted for her ahead of time. She wasn’t too stupid to answer; just occasionally confused and sometimes, too guilt-ridden.
Lately, she’d awakened from a couple of pretty bad nightmares about battles she’d almost lost, or crew members killed in the line of duty as the crew searched for a quicker way home. The crew under her command. The crew that did what she ordered it to, with faith in her good judgment and leadership skills. Sometimes the guilt would press down on her chest so hard she would start gasping for air, and she’d have to close her eyes and will herself to calm down. Those were the worst.
Today she roved the corridors, her pumps clicking softly along the thinly-carpeted floor, the slightly flared legs of her mocha silk pantsuit brushing her calves and inviting little air eddies up between the skin and the material. The silk swished softly every so often as her legs rubbed together, and she thought of the cicadas from the farm where she and Mark had lived so many years ago. The memory gave her brief pain, for she’d learned upon returning home that he’d died of a heart attack just the year before. While she hadn’t realistically expected him to wait for her, and she hadn’t exactly had all-chaste thoughts about men in her crew while away from him, Kathryn had held onto great fondness for Mark and wished he had lived so they could at least be friends.
She stopped suddenly in the middle of the hallway, struck by a myriad of emotions. The guilt she carried over command decisions, her grief at Mark’s death, the giddiness she felt at finally being back in a safer territory — at least temporarily — and getting her crew there mostly intact ... all coalesced around her, bathing her in an oncoming fit of anxiety. Kathryn closed her eyes, wondering how she’d managed to tamp this down for so many years and why it refused to stay buried now that there was no longer any reason for the panic. Mixed in was a sharp longing for ... something, she knew not what. Or, she did, but had thought herself immune to the need for physical passion for so long that it shocked her with its intensity.
The gasping began, and she put a hand out against the wall for support,
damning herself for this weakness. Tuvok and the Doctor had done their best to
be a comfort to the rest of the crew, but nothing took the place of
well-trained psychologist, which neither Kathryn nor the crew had had for many
years. Her fingers curled against the wall, clawing at it, and she bent
slightly, lowering her head and beginning to bend her knees, slowly —
sometimes it helped to curl into a smaller area and “hide” there for a few
minutes while she recovered from one of these.
She didn’t realize she was actually making any noise until she felt the hands on her shoulders. “Kathyrn! Kathryn, answer me!” She opened her mouth to talk, but found it was already making small gasping noises, unable to get air. “Okay, all right,” the person conceded. “We’re gonna just hold still and try to get you breathing again, okay? Stay with me, Kathryn. Look at me.” Going slowly, she righted herself enough to look at Reg, who was regarding her steadily, trying to lend her some mental strength. “Good ... good. There you go. Steady ... we need to get you to a chair, come on with me.”
He began pulling her along with him, walking backwards so he could face her, but she hadn’t recovered her next breath sufficiently. As she began to kneel again, he moved in on impulse and scooped her up. Kathryn closed her eyes and leaned into him, her faced pressed into his neck and her hands on his chest, pressed between their bodies as he held her close. Each time she inhaled to get air, her nose took in the slightly woodsy scent of his skin and her mouth a clean tang along with that.
“Shh ... it’s okay, you’re gonna be all right there, Kat. It’s okay, I’ll help you,” he was murmuring over and over. As she regained her footing a bit, he held her up with one arm and raised the other hand to stroke the back of her head comfortingly. “Breathe, now. That’s it.” She felt his lips speak against her temple from the vantage point where he stood, and sighed, finally able to recover her breathing again.
“I don’t know what happened,” she mumbled into his collar, feeling the metal of pips against her lips and the warmth of his skin against the bridge of her nose. Absently she noted that he must have his sleeves rolled up because she could feel his skin against the warmth of her back, separated only by thin silk. “It just ... just came out of nowhere-”
“Anxiety attack,” he explained, his voice deep, yet soft. She felt the rumble of words in his chest against her palms. “I know them too well myself.” He continued to hold her and she stayed where she was for another moment or two, then slowly pulled away. Clearing her throat, she straightened herself out a bit, smoothing down an imaginary wrinkle or seven on her blouse. “And there are usually more than one.”
At that, she looked up, and he’d tilted his head slightly, fixing her with an unwavering chocolate gaze. It wasn’t disconcerting; in fact, she found it oddly comforting. “How long have you been having these, Kathryn?”
She cleared her throat again. “About ... about three weeks.”
“How often?”
She lifted her chin, tossing her shortish hair back unconsciously. “Just a couple of other times.”
He turned and held out an arm, a silent gesture for her to start moving. When she did, he rested his hand lightly on her back, walking beside her. “Come on, I’m going to get you something to calm your nerves.”
“Coffee sounds good,” she agreed as he dropped his hand.
He chuckled at that, a pleasant, resonant sound, and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid coffee’s part of your problem; it isn’t doing you any good, at least. First thing you need to do is give that up.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He led her into a nearby crew quarters, gesturing at the sofa for her before going to the replicator. “Two cups of hot tea, jasmine, light brown sugar.” The little light swirled around and in a few seconds he carried the two saucers and cups to the low table in front of the couch, setting them down as he took a seat a few feet away. She recognized the gesture was meant to put personal space around her, and appreciated his intuition of her discomfort from being so close only moments before. It had nothing to do with him personally; Kathryn Janeway didn’t make a habit of falling into anyone’s arms easily.
He gestured at her cup. “Wait a couple of minutes for it to cool, then try it. I think you’ll like the flavor.”
She eyed it skeptically. “Unless it’s java, not bloody likely.”
“Ah, you need to be more adventurous, Kathryn.” She glanced at him and he was grinning at the implication that the captain of the Voyager could be anything but. As if. Then he switched gears, his features shifting into analysis mode. “What kinds of thoughts do you usually have right before one of these attacks?”
“Are you a licensed psychologist, Reg?” Kathryn knew she was being snappish, but she didn’t feel comfortable discussing this. Not even with him.
“Actually ... yes.” He spread his hands. “I mean, I passed the basic exam right out of college, if I’d wanted to go into that. But I admit it’s been thirty years.”
She sighed. “Very well. I usually start thinking about the decisions I had to make for the crew while we were stranded, and the ones that didn’t turn out the way I wanted.” She employed logical progression of thought to keep herself calm as she spoke. “Then I think of what I lost when we were flung to the Delta Quadrant — my career in Starfleet, all my habits and favorite things to do, Mark ....” She trailed off at the thought of him again.
“You loved him, and he died,” Reg filled in. “Twice, for you. I’d be surprised if you weren’t more upset, actually. It’s all right to be angry, Kathryn; nobody’s going to begrudge you such feelings.”
“But most of my worries are about the decisions I made concerning the crew,” she hastened to add.
“Why is it such a bad thing to think of yourself, your own losses?” he asked, and she swore he was reading her mind. “You don’t always have to think of yourself as their captain anymore; they’re safe, because of you. Because of you and an older you, who sacrificed herself to get you home faster. I believe she probably knew what she was doing, if she was just an older version of you, and didn’t regret it,” he added, correctly interpreting her expression at
that.
“But it’s not just about me!” she insisted.
“No, it’s that you’re trying to fight it, to make it about everything but you. Those attacks — they’re not going to just go away because you want them to. They’re there so you’ll deal with whatever your mind is trying to tell you. You’ve ignored whatever it is for so long that they’re like little alarm bells, trying to wake you up!”
Kathryn was surprised at the emotion in his voice as she looked at him. “How do you know so much about this?” she ventured.
He nodded at the table. “Try your tea and I’ll tell you.” He waited as she picked up the cup with a maximum of eye-rolling, and took a tentative sip. It was sweet and bitter at the same time, but the texture was smooth and went down her throat with a gentle coating action. “I’ve had my own problems in the past facing some ... issues. The brain knows when it needs attention and is set up to acquire what it needs in the quickest way possible. Not always good for you, but definitely good for it.”
She sipped again, and his look of silent triumph at her action didn’t escape her notice. “So what now, Freud?”
“You need to see a counselor.”
“I don’t have time. Not with my schedule.”
“So cancel some things. Make time.” He reached for his own cup. “You’re afraid to find out what your mind wants to deal with, aren’t you?” Kathryn said nothing but continued to drink quietly. “I don’t blame you; sometimes it’s painful. But usually, it’s okay. Not too bad in most cases.” He shrugged. “If you want someone to go along the first time, I’m sure you could find a female friend to volunteer, make you feel better.”
“Would you go?”
She was as surprised by her question as he was. The cup was frozen on its way back down from his mouth. “Um ... I’m not sure you’d want me there ...”
“Just the initial visit, right? They don’t do anything too probing then, do they?”
“Not usually, no. But ... Kathryn, you’d better think about this. I mean, I don’t mind at all, but it’s a private thing, and something tells me you’re not exactly the open-book type anyway.”
“I just want someone who knows how to phrase the questions I want to ask, who can help me tell the counselor what kind of help I’m looking for. I’m not asking you to sit in on session.” Lord, no! she added mentally. Bad enough I’ve already panted and gasped all over you. “Besides, I’d say you’ve already seen the worst part of me out there.” She looked down at her cup as she lifted it for a sip.
“Don’t be embarrassed. We all have our problems. If I had a bar of latinum for every time Deanna Troi’s had to hear a sob story of mine, I could afford to retire and not spend my middle years poking around in a ship that I have no idea how the hell is even put together anymore. What did you people do, strip and reassemble it for fun out there?” he teased.
“We made do with what was available,” she defended in an equally jocular tone.
“Well, I can’t fault B’Elanna her engineering improvements; I’m still trying to figure out some of them. I really should see if she can get away from the baby at some point and come over here and explain ‘em to me. Put Tom to good use.”
“I think Tom already gets lots of ‘good use’ from what I understand. He’s looked a little bleary-eyed the last few times I’ve seen him,” Kathryn explained. “I guess he’s holding up his end of the two a.m. feedings.”
They sat and chatted a little more over the next half-hour, until Kathryn looked down and realized it was dinnertime and that she was hungry. “Reg, how would you like to get something to eat?”
He shook his head and stood. “Thanks, but I need to be getting back to work. Duty calls, and I still have about two hours to go ‘til I’m finished tonight.”
“Need any help?”
“Not for this one, no. But the next time you’re back, I’m sure we’ll find something to dismantle or destroy. Plenty of ship left.”
*****
Much later that night, in his quarters, Reg leaned back into the corner of his sofa and tried to concentrate on the book PADD he held, but his thoughts kept drifting back to that afternoon on Voyager. He’d been working at a wall panel not too far from where Kathryn came aboard, usually, figuring she would show up after that afternoon’s interview. He’d watched the broadcast and even if nobody else did, he’d seen the strain in her body language, the tension in her expressions as she framed her answers. It seemed they were becoming more difficult to voice.
He’d heard soft footsteps and kept working, taking it for granted she’d come around the bend at any moment. He was used to her presence now to the extent that if she didn’t show up and didn’t have another appointment each day, even for a little time, he wondered what she was doing. Rather a possessive attitude for a friend, but Reg knew the difference between thinking something and voicing it; she had her own activities and responsibilities that needed tending.
When the footsteps had stopped, he’d been puzzled, but kept working. It was only after a few more minutes that he realized they hadn’t started up again in either direction, and he put his tools aside and walked up the corridor a bit to meet her. Seeing her struggling to stay upright had produced a swift, immediate response to help, and he’d done the only thing he had time for. Nor had he regretted it; she’d been warm and solid in his arms, and for a couple of minutes he’d let his protective nature take over, released it from hiding where it stayed because it was so rarely needed. Kathryn was the last person he would have expected would ever inspire it, but then again ... she had a lot of emotional baggage. She was human, after all.
And so was he, dammit. Incredible guilt washed over him as he replayed how good she’d felt pressed up against him. Kathryn Janeway was a starship captain — and a heralded one, at that. She had led her crew through some of the most unpredictable situations ever thrown at a human being, and done it with more than aplomb. She’d delivered most of them alive and safe to their families and friends, and even now, was going through a personal kind of hell to help them, not herself. He believed her when she said she was tired of the publicity and just wanted the cameras to go away; he’d seen the dark circles around her eyes, the sag to her shoulders after particularly grueling interviews. And still the ship’s popularity hadn’t diminished; even now it was being turned into a screenplay for a holomovie to be released in a few months. She would, no doubt, be expected to make appearances for that, too.
Yet, she made time for him. Talked to him just about every other day. And really talked, not just making conversation to politely pass the time, as many other people did around him. He’d learned long ago not to impose himself on anyone, with two exceptions: Deanna and Geordi. Deanna was a trained counselor and had made it clear from the beginning that she would always be willing to listen and had proven time and again she would also help, despite whatever else she had going on. Geordi, he considered his best friend, even though the man was light-years away on a ship. Every time they saw each other, the shorter man would grin and give Reg a hearty hug, then invite him to the nearest restaurant for a couple of beers and conversation. He’d even asked Reg’s advice when he’d started dating Leah Brahms.
He’d blinked in shock. “You’re asking m-me? About women?”
“Well, the one thing I’ve noticed about you, buddy, you’ve got excellent taste in them.”
Oh yes, he did. Very occasionally dating whomever showed interest or accepting blind dates courtesy of friends, but always lusting after the ones clearly out of reach. He remembered when he’d first seen Deanna, talked to her, and how that had fueled his fantasies for quite some months. But there had been a few others before her, beginning back in the Academy with one of his best friend Ben’s girlfriends. She and Ben had only gone on a couple of dates and that had been nearly thirty years ago, but Reg remembered her like it was yesterday: Tall, well-proportioned, with long, wavy honey-blonde hair and humor-filled gray eyes. He couldn’t remember her name to save his life, now, but vaguely held that it was something unusual — a man’s name. He’d known at the time there was no chance in hell she would even look at someone like him even though she’d been perfectly nice to him, and yet ... and yet. He knew quality when he spotted it. It was a vaguely comforting thought, that he wasn’t so desperate for female companionship that he would admire just any woman who happened by. There had been a couple of exceptions in his life, but he was only male.
And Kathryn was quality, probably more than he had ever aspired to in any of his fantasies. She had matured into a handsomely beautiful woman and had a quick wit and the brains to match. She was also intimidating as hell, and for some reason, he recognized that as a quality to which he was usually attracted. It was as though some part of him yearned to aspire to more than he was by dreaming he could match these women. Or, more realistically — and despite what some people thought, Reg was not above facing reality — he wanted to be equal to such a woman to prove he was as good as the men who could actually win her interest.
“Not again,” he sighed to himself, shaking his head at his own hopelessness. “When will you learn? And a captain, for Chrissake.” Why did he always have to pick the most difficult of the difficult? How many men in the quadrant harbored fantasies involving the modern-day Anne Bonny? Why was he doomed to never be happy with an average, perfectly nice woman who would be willing to marry him and have his children and stick with him until he died?
“Oh well,” he told himself as he picked up his PADD and began concentrating on the novel again. “It’s just a fantasy, after all. Can’t be crucified for those, or I’d’ve been dead long ago.”
*****
Part 2
Part 4
“Good answer on that first question,” he’d say, letting her know he’d watched yet another of her appearances at a duty station. Or, “Are you sure you want to keep going through with this? That last comment really seemed to bother you today.”
In fact, she wasn’t at all sure she should keep up the interviews. They’d gone from merely annoying to bothersome, to nerve-racking since she and Reg had first hashed things out nearly a month ago. She found herself dwelling on answers she’d given, or wondering about the way certain questions would snake through her brain and demand rougher, more honest answers than she’d given so far to any reporter. How did she justify not using the Protector to send them back when she had the chance so many years ago? Why hadn’t she tried harder to find a way to convince Q to bring them home? The answers she gave either sidestepped the questions entirely or were pat and scripted for her ahead of time. She wasn’t too stupid to answer; just occasionally confused and sometimes, too guilt-ridden.
Lately, she’d awakened from a couple of pretty bad nightmares about battles she’d almost lost, or crew members killed in the line of duty as the crew searched for a quicker way home. The crew under her command. The crew that did what she ordered it to, with faith in her good judgment and leadership skills. Sometimes the guilt would press down on her chest so hard she would start gasping for air, and she’d have to close her eyes and will herself to calm down. Those were the worst.
Today she roved the corridors, her pumps clicking softly along the thinly-carpeted floor, the slightly flared legs of her mocha silk pantsuit brushing her calves and inviting little air eddies up between the skin and the material. The silk swished softly every so often as her legs rubbed together, and she thought of the cicadas from the farm where she and Mark had lived so many years ago. The memory gave her brief pain, for she’d learned upon returning home that he’d died of a heart attack just the year before. While she hadn’t realistically expected him to wait for her, and she hadn’t exactly had all-chaste thoughts about men in her crew while away from him, Kathryn had held onto great fondness for Mark and wished he had lived so they could at least be friends.
She stopped suddenly in the middle of the hallway, struck by a myriad of emotions. The guilt she carried over command decisions, her grief at Mark’s death, the giddiness she felt at finally being back in a safer territory — at least temporarily — and getting her crew there mostly intact ... all coalesced around her, bathing her in an oncoming fit of anxiety. Kathryn closed her eyes, wondering how she’d managed to tamp this down for so many years and why it refused to stay buried now that there was no longer any reason for the panic. Mixed in was a sharp longing for ... something, she knew not what. Or, she did, but had thought herself immune to the need for physical passion for so long that it shocked her with its intensity.
The gasping began, and she put a hand out against the wall for support,
damning herself for this weakness. Tuvok and the Doctor had done their best to
be a comfort to the rest of the crew, but nothing took the place of
well-trained psychologist, which neither Kathryn nor the crew had had for many
years. Her fingers curled against the wall, clawing at it, and she bent
slightly, lowering her head and beginning to bend her knees, slowly —
sometimes it helped to curl into a smaller area and “hide” there for a few
minutes while she recovered from one of these.
She didn’t realize she was actually making any noise until she felt the hands on her shoulders. “Kathyrn! Kathryn, answer me!” She opened her mouth to talk, but found it was already making small gasping noises, unable to get air. “Okay, all right,” the person conceded. “We’re gonna just hold still and try to get you breathing again, okay? Stay with me, Kathryn. Look at me.” Going slowly, she righted herself enough to look at Reg, who was regarding her steadily, trying to lend her some mental strength. “Good ... good. There you go. Steady ... we need to get you to a chair, come on with me.”
He began pulling her along with him, walking backwards so he could face her, but she hadn’t recovered her next breath sufficiently. As she began to kneel again, he moved in on impulse and scooped her up. Kathryn closed her eyes and leaned into him, her faced pressed into his neck and her hands on his chest, pressed between their bodies as he held her close. Each time she inhaled to get air, her nose took in the slightly woodsy scent of his skin and her mouth a clean tang along with that.
“Shh ... it’s okay, you’re gonna be all right there, Kat. It’s okay, I’ll help you,” he was murmuring over and over. As she regained her footing a bit, he held her up with one arm and raised the other hand to stroke the back of her head comfortingly. “Breathe, now. That’s it.” She felt his lips speak against her temple from the vantage point where he stood, and sighed, finally able to recover her breathing again.
“I don’t know what happened,” she mumbled into his collar, feeling the metal of pips against her lips and the warmth of his skin against the bridge of her nose. Absently she noted that he must have his sleeves rolled up because she could feel his skin against the warmth of her back, separated only by thin silk. “It just ... just came out of nowhere-”
“Anxiety attack,” he explained, his voice deep, yet soft. She felt the rumble of words in his chest against her palms. “I know them too well myself.” He continued to hold her and she stayed where she was for another moment or two, then slowly pulled away. Clearing her throat, she straightened herself out a bit, smoothing down an imaginary wrinkle or seven on her blouse. “And there are usually more than one.”
At that, she looked up, and he’d tilted his head slightly, fixing her with an unwavering chocolate gaze. It wasn’t disconcerting; in fact, she found it oddly comforting. “How long have you been having these, Kathryn?”
She cleared her throat again. “About ... about three weeks.”
“How often?”
She lifted her chin, tossing her shortish hair back unconsciously. “Just a couple of other times.”
He turned and held out an arm, a silent gesture for her to start moving. When she did, he rested his hand lightly on her back, walking beside her. “Come on, I’m going to get you something to calm your nerves.”
“Coffee sounds good,” she agreed as he dropped his hand.
He chuckled at that, a pleasant, resonant sound, and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid coffee’s part of your problem; it isn’t doing you any good, at least. First thing you need to do is give that up.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He led her into a nearby crew quarters, gesturing at the sofa for her before going to the replicator. “Two cups of hot tea, jasmine, light brown sugar.” The little light swirled around and in a few seconds he carried the two saucers and cups to the low table in front of the couch, setting them down as he took a seat a few feet away. She recognized the gesture was meant to put personal space around her, and appreciated his intuition of her discomfort from being so close only moments before. It had nothing to do with him personally; Kathryn Janeway didn’t make a habit of falling into anyone’s arms easily.
He gestured at her cup. “Wait a couple of minutes for it to cool, then try it. I think you’ll like the flavor.”
She eyed it skeptically. “Unless it’s java, not bloody likely.”
“Ah, you need to be more adventurous, Kathryn.” She glanced at him and he was grinning at the implication that the captain of the Voyager could be anything but. As if. Then he switched gears, his features shifting into analysis mode. “What kinds of thoughts do you usually have right before one of these attacks?”
“Are you a licensed psychologist, Reg?” Kathryn knew she was being snappish, but she didn’t feel comfortable discussing this. Not even with him.
“Actually ... yes.” He spread his hands. “I mean, I passed the basic exam right out of college, if I’d wanted to go into that. But I admit it’s been thirty years.”
She sighed. “Very well. I usually start thinking about the decisions I had to make for the crew while we were stranded, and the ones that didn’t turn out the way I wanted.” She employed logical progression of thought to keep herself calm as she spoke. “Then I think of what I lost when we were flung to the Delta Quadrant — my career in Starfleet, all my habits and favorite things to do, Mark ....” She trailed off at the thought of him again.
“You loved him, and he died,” Reg filled in. “Twice, for you. I’d be surprised if you weren’t more upset, actually. It’s all right to be angry, Kathryn; nobody’s going to begrudge you such feelings.”
“But most of my worries are about the decisions I made concerning the crew,” she hastened to add.
“Why is it such a bad thing to think of yourself, your own losses?” he asked, and she swore he was reading her mind. “You don’t always have to think of yourself as their captain anymore; they’re safe, because of you. Because of you and an older you, who sacrificed herself to get you home faster. I believe she probably knew what she was doing, if she was just an older version of you, and didn’t regret it,” he added, correctly interpreting her expression at
that.
“But it’s not just about me!” she insisted.
“No, it’s that you’re trying to fight it, to make it about everything but you. Those attacks — they’re not going to just go away because you want them to. They’re there so you’ll deal with whatever your mind is trying to tell you. You’ve ignored whatever it is for so long that they’re like little alarm bells, trying to wake you up!”
Kathryn was surprised at the emotion in his voice as she looked at him. “How do you know so much about this?” she ventured.
He nodded at the table. “Try your tea and I’ll tell you.” He waited as she picked up the cup with a maximum of eye-rolling, and took a tentative sip. It was sweet and bitter at the same time, but the texture was smooth and went down her throat with a gentle coating action. “I’ve had my own problems in the past facing some ... issues. The brain knows when it needs attention and is set up to acquire what it needs in the quickest way possible. Not always good for you, but definitely good for it.”
She sipped again, and his look of silent triumph at her action didn’t escape her notice. “So what now, Freud?”
“You need to see a counselor.”
“I don’t have time. Not with my schedule.”
“So cancel some things. Make time.” He reached for his own cup. “You’re afraid to find out what your mind wants to deal with, aren’t you?” Kathryn said nothing but continued to drink quietly. “I don’t blame you; sometimes it’s painful. But usually, it’s okay. Not too bad in most cases.” He shrugged. “If you want someone to go along the first time, I’m sure you could find a female friend to volunteer, make you feel better.”
“Would you go?”
She was as surprised by her question as he was. The cup was frozen on its way back down from his mouth. “Um ... I’m not sure you’d want me there ...”
“Just the initial visit, right? They don’t do anything too probing then, do they?”
“Not usually, no. But ... Kathryn, you’d better think about this. I mean, I don’t mind at all, but it’s a private thing, and something tells me you’re not exactly the open-book type anyway.”
“I just want someone who knows how to phrase the questions I want to ask, who can help me tell the counselor what kind of help I’m looking for. I’m not asking you to sit in on session.” Lord, no! she added mentally. Bad enough I’ve already panted and gasped all over you. “Besides, I’d say you’ve already seen the worst part of me out there.” She looked down at her cup as she lifted it for a sip.
“Don’t be embarrassed. We all have our problems. If I had a bar of latinum for every time Deanna Troi’s had to hear a sob story of mine, I could afford to retire and not spend my middle years poking around in a ship that I have no idea how the hell is even put together anymore. What did you people do, strip and reassemble it for fun out there?” he teased.
“We made do with what was available,” she defended in an equally jocular tone.
“Well, I can’t fault B’Elanna her engineering improvements; I’m still trying to figure out some of them. I really should see if she can get away from the baby at some point and come over here and explain ‘em to me. Put Tom to good use.”
“I think Tom already gets lots of ‘good use’ from what I understand. He’s looked a little bleary-eyed the last few times I’ve seen him,” Kathryn explained. “I guess he’s holding up his end of the two a.m. feedings.”
They sat and chatted a little more over the next half-hour, until Kathryn looked down and realized it was dinnertime and that she was hungry. “Reg, how would you like to get something to eat?”
He shook his head and stood. “Thanks, but I need to be getting back to work. Duty calls, and I still have about two hours to go ‘til I’m finished tonight.”
“Need any help?”
“Not for this one, no. But the next time you’re back, I’m sure we’ll find something to dismantle or destroy. Plenty of ship left.”
*****
Much later that night, in his quarters, Reg leaned back into the corner of his sofa and tried to concentrate on the book PADD he held, but his thoughts kept drifting back to that afternoon on Voyager. He’d been working at a wall panel not too far from where Kathryn came aboard, usually, figuring she would show up after that afternoon’s interview. He’d watched the broadcast and even if nobody else did, he’d seen the strain in her body language, the tension in her expressions as she framed her answers. It seemed they were becoming more difficult to voice.
He’d heard soft footsteps and kept working, taking it for granted she’d come around the bend at any moment. He was used to her presence now to the extent that if she didn’t show up and didn’t have another appointment each day, even for a little time, he wondered what she was doing. Rather a possessive attitude for a friend, but Reg knew the difference between thinking something and voicing it; she had her own activities and responsibilities that needed tending.
When the footsteps had stopped, he’d been puzzled, but kept working. It was only after a few more minutes that he realized they hadn’t started up again in either direction, and he put his tools aside and walked up the corridor a bit to meet her. Seeing her struggling to stay upright had produced a swift, immediate response to help, and he’d done the only thing he had time for. Nor had he regretted it; she’d been warm and solid in his arms, and for a couple of minutes he’d let his protective nature take over, released it from hiding where it stayed because it was so rarely needed. Kathryn was the last person he would have expected would ever inspire it, but then again ... she had a lot of emotional baggage. She was human, after all.
And so was he, dammit. Incredible guilt washed over him as he replayed how good she’d felt pressed up against him. Kathryn Janeway was a starship captain — and a heralded one, at that. She had led her crew through some of the most unpredictable situations ever thrown at a human being, and done it with more than aplomb. She’d delivered most of them alive and safe to their families and friends, and even now, was going through a personal kind of hell to help them, not herself. He believed her when she said she was tired of the publicity and just wanted the cameras to go away; he’d seen the dark circles around her eyes, the sag to her shoulders after particularly grueling interviews. And still the ship’s popularity hadn’t diminished; even now it was being turned into a screenplay for a holomovie to be released in a few months. She would, no doubt, be expected to make appearances for that, too.
Yet, she made time for him. Talked to him just about every other day. And really talked, not just making conversation to politely pass the time, as many other people did around him. He’d learned long ago not to impose himself on anyone, with two exceptions: Deanna and Geordi. Deanna was a trained counselor and had made it clear from the beginning that she would always be willing to listen and had proven time and again she would also help, despite whatever else she had going on. Geordi, he considered his best friend, even though the man was light-years away on a ship. Every time they saw each other, the shorter man would grin and give Reg a hearty hug, then invite him to the nearest restaurant for a couple of beers and conversation. He’d even asked Reg’s advice when he’d started dating Leah Brahms.
He’d blinked in shock. “You’re asking m-me? About women?”
“Well, the one thing I’ve noticed about you, buddy, you’ve got excellent taste in them.”
Oh yes, he did. Very occasionally dating whomever showed interest or accepting blind dates courtesy of friends, but always lusting after the ones clearly out of reach. He remembered when he’d first seen Deanna, talked to her, and how that had fueled his fantasies for quite some months. But there had been a few others before her, beginning back in the Academy with one of his best friend Ben’s girlfriends. She and Ben had only gone on a couple of dates and that had been nearly thirty years ago, but Reg remembered her like it was yesterday: Tall, well-proportioned, with long, wavy honey-blonde hair and humor-filled gray eyes. He couldn’t remember her name to save his life, now, but vaguely held that it was something unusual — a man’s name. He’d known at the time there was no chance in hell she would even look at someone like him even though she’d been perfectly nice to him, and yet ... and yet. He knew quality when he spotted it. It was a vaguely comforting thought, that he wasn’t so desperate for female companionship that he would admire just any woman who happened by. There had been a couple of exceptions in his life, but he was only male.
And Kathryn was quality, probably more than he had ever aspired to in any of his fantasies. She had matured into a handsomely beautiful woman and had a quick wit and the brains to match. She was also intimidating as hell, and for some reason, he recognized that as a quality to which he was usually attracted. It was as though some part of him yearned to aspire to more than he was by dreaming he could match these women. Or, more realistically — and despite what some people thought, Reg was not above facing reality — he wanted to be equal to such a woman to prove he was as good as the men who could actually win her interest.
“Not again,” he sighed to himself, shaking his head at his own hopelessness. “When will you learn? And a captain, for Chrissake.” Why did he always have to pick the most difficult of the difficult? How many men in the quadrant harbored fantasies involving the modern-day Anne Bonny? Why was he doomed to never be happy with an average, perfectly nice woman who would be willing to marry him and have his children and stick with him until he died?
“Oh well,” he told himself as he picked up his PADD and began concentrating on the novel again. “It’s just a fantasy, after all. Can’t be crucified for those, or I’d’ve been dead long ago.”
*****
Part 2
Part 4