The BLTS Archive - Twilight
first in the Lines in the Sand universe
by Seema (seemag1@yahoo.com)

---

Feedback: I'm experimenting again, so feedback is very much welcome. I
only ask that if it doesn't work for you, please let me know why.

Summary: Voyager returns to the Alpha Quadrant. Torres works through
her feelings about assimilation and the fate of the Maquis. Sequel
to "100 Days," (archived at http://seema.org) but not necessary to have
read that to understand this one.

Archiving Information: ASC yes, everyone else please ask

Disclaimer: No profit/infringement intended. Characters & places belong
to Paramount.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Kim for his help in keeping me true to the
laws of physics and for putting up with my constant barrage of "what do
you think...?" and "what if...?" questions. Also thanks to Julie for her
comments. I appreciate it!

---

Seven has news.

Whether it's good or otherwise, she won't say.

Only thing we can deduce is that it's important enough for her to
convince Janeway to call a staff meeting, but we can tell the Captain
is equally in the dark.

Seven's sphinx-like expression gives nothing away as she stands at the
front of the room, intent on the tricorder in her hand.

Damn, she is good at torture; must run in Borg genetics. B'Elanna,
since her return from the Borg, seems to have inherited this particular
talent also.

"Come on, Seven," I cajole. "What's going on?"

Seven rewards me with a thin-lipped smile. We could make a list of all
of Seven's faults, but indiscretion isn't one of them.

B'Elanna leans over the table and exchanges a less than mysterious look
with Chakotay.

Wherever Seven's concerned, B'Elanna is ready to rumble; while Chakotay
may not come out and say anything, he usually takes B'Elanna's back,
though in a much nicer and gentlemanly way.

Me, I'm ready to give Seven the benefit of the doubt; she's been
playing nicely these days, sharing when appropriate and not talking
back. In fact, just the other day, she joined Harry and I in a Captain
Proton adventure and actually went along with the storyline. Amazing;
Seven is rapidly becoming the eighth wonder of the universe.

"All right, Seven," Janeway is reclining, staring up at Seven from
beneath her eyelashes. "What's going on?"

Seven does her little head tilt, almost annoyed by Janeway's little
admonishment.

"Curiosity killed the cat," I offer up.

"There is no cat on Voyager," Seven retorts.

"Tom," Janeway turns her chair to skewer me with a penetrating
glare. "Go ahead, Seven."

Seven nods and brings up the viewscreen. There is Voyager represented
by a Starfleet emblem, and around it, nothing but blackness. A second
later, the computer pops up curved vectors.

"What are we looking at?" Janeway asks.

"Our projected course and velocity," Seven answers. "If we continue on
this trajectory, I estimate we will reach the Alpha Quadrant in
approximately seventeen days, eight hours and thirty-two minutes."

"How many seconds?" I ask insolently, earning myself a punch in the
shoulder from B'Elanna.

"The Alpha Quadrant," Janeway says, pointedly ignoring me. "Are you
saying it just sneaked up on us?"

"No," Seven says. "We omitted one crucial variable in our calculations.
I discovered the error and corrected it."

We all lean back in our chairs as if on cue except for Janeway; she is
out of her chair and across the room faster than I thought possible. If
we could have bottled that kind of speed seven years ago, the Maquis
would have made it back in time to continue their guerilla war against
the Cardassians and I would still be cooling my feet in New Zealand,
not having spent enough time "rethinking my mistakes."

"How long have we been making this mistake?" Janeway asks in a low
voice. I sense that a certain helmsman is about to face the wrath of
Janeway, formerly of Borg.

"For the last five months," Seven says.

Ah, that explains it all. Mistakes made during the crazy period when
Janeway, Tuvok and Torres were on the Borg cube are automatically
forgiven. Or so I hope.

"You're positive?" Janeway asks. "You're not making a mistake?"

After four years, Janeway still hasn't learned; you never ask a Borg if
she has made a mistake, but I don't blame her. We've been let down so
many times in the past that this particular revelation is almost
anticlimactic.

"My calculations are accurate," Seven says. "There is no error."

Again, that odd silence falls over the group. My eyes scan them all.
Chakotay is unreadable, but that is no surprise. A photon torpedo could
explode three feet from him and he wouldn't blink. Next to him, Harry
looks as he is going to be sick; I don't blame him, I feel the same.

It's odd to feel this way. After seven years meandering and exploring
the Delta Quadrant, we are going home. The Alpha Quadrant is a sacred
mantra on the lost ship Voyager; it's what keeps the warp core going,
the replicators humming and the holodecks running. Hell, it's what
keeps us going. The Alpha Quadrant is our raison d'être; without it, we
would probably be chopped liver for some Delta Quadrant species.

But being obsessive about returning home and actually getting home --
now those are two very different things.

We talk about the Alpha Quadrant loudly, hoping to hide whatever truths
we left behind; now it's the day of reckoning and there's much to
confess, much to face.

That speaking for myself, of course; I wouldn't be so presumptuous to
speak for the rest of Voyager.

It just feels strange, that's all I can say. To finally attain
something that seemed so far away... I guess I never really thought we
would actually get home.

"Let's double check," Janeway says. "I don't want to take a chance of
telling the crew yet; we've had too many disappointments already."

True. Who knows? We could always run into the Caretaker again or maybe
discover some rare nebular phenomenon that has to be explored before we
could possibly return home and that could possibly fling us somewhere
else, say the Epsilon Quadrant (wherever that might be).

You can never count the Delta Quadrant out; she's a harsh mistress and
unfortunately for us, a deadly and manipulative one also.

"Keep this quiet for now," Janeway says, sweeping her eyes over all of
us. If there is one thing none of us are good at, it's keeping secrets.

Twenty holodeck rations say that everyone on Voyager will know, to the
second, how far we are from home within thirty minutes.

Conventional wisdom also puts money on Harry to be the one to spill the
beans first.

"Remember," Janeway puts a motherly finger to her lips. "Dismissed."

We spill out of the room, but Chakotay remains behind to talk with
Janeway. I often wonder what the two of them talk about. I'm sure some
of it is business, but even the most scintillating of
conversationalists -- which Chakotay is certainly not -- would get bored
of discussing Voyager day after day.

After all, much as I adore B'Elanna, I get tired of her engines real
fast.

"Hey," I say, grabbing B'Elanna by the upper arm.

"What?" she glares at me. I recognize the flash in her eyes and let go.

I back away so that I'm up against the corridor wall, making sure there
is enough distance between us so I can duck if she lunges at me.

For the life of me, I can't think of what I did wrong this time. My
mind quickly scrolls through all possibilities. I haven't been late for
a meal in at least a week, I barely have spent any time in Fair Haven
and I did not watch the latest episode of "Bonanza" without her.

"Something you want to tell me?" I ask easily.

The tension eases visibly out of B'Elanna's shoulders as she looks
quickly up and down the corridor.

"You startled me."

Now that's a bunch of, well, crap. Mostly because B'Elanna has the
finely tuned instincts of a saber toothed tiger. She can smell blood
and fear a kilometer away and she pounces when you least expect it. I
don't try to surprise her because she has the uncanny ability to detect
when I'm hiding something, whether it's good or bad.

"You're upset," I say.

"No," she shoots back. "Not upset. You're making a big deal of nothing,
Tom."

"You just bit my head off and while you're still chewing on my cranium,
I want to know what got you so riled up."

B'Elanna actually smiles.

"Sorry," she says sincerely.

"So?"

She starts walking and I trot along behind her.

"I'm just thinking about everything that needs to be done before we get
back to the Alpha Quadrant."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. I told you I was thinking about it."

"If it's the warp core, you can get a new one in the Alpha Quadrant," I
tell her. "I hear they actually manufacture them. You don't need to
hold it together with bubble gum and spit anymore."

"Huh?" she pauses. "Bubble gum and spit?"

I offer her a cheeky smile.

"I want to make sure that Voyager looks good when we get home, that's
all. I want to make sure the Starfleet engineers can't find anything
wrong," B'Elanna answers.

Ah, it's that bit of vulnerability showing through. No matter how many
times I tell her, B'Elanna never believes in herself enough. She has
her moments of self-realization, but never enough for me and certainly
never enough for her.

"You've done a great job," I pull her close to me. "Don't worry about a
thing, okay?"

If we had endearments, silly names to call each other, this would be
the ideal moment to do that. But both of us -- and B'Elanna especially --
shrink from silly nicknames. No, I take that back. B'Elanna is allowed
to call me "pig," but only in when we are rutting in the heat of
passion.

I take it as a compliment.

"You just don't get it, Tom," she says in a low voice.

"Get what?"

"If you have to ask..." B'Elanna says. She pulls away. "I've got to go.
I've got work to do."

I stare after her, wondering what exactly is going on in that head of
hers. I could run after her and prod her for more information, but I
know better than to do that; since her return from the Borg cube, she
has been a little colder, more stand-offish. Sometimes, when I touch
her, I feel her muscles tense and I pull back.

I don't doubt her love for me; that has never been in question. I do
worry about her though because sometimes I think she is walking a plank
and any second now, she's going to jump.

What frightens me most is that I won't be there to catch her.

---

He means well and I know that.

There are so many things involved in being with someone, in loving that
person so completely. So many things and yet, I feel capable of none of
it.

There are books written on relationships. The titles are not mysterious
in any way, all of them giving away the plot before I even turn the
holo-PADD on. I have already worked my way through "101 Ways to Love
Your Lover," "Open Your Heart and Start Living" and "The Power of
Honesty."

None of them help. I'm still hollow inside.

It's odd. Give me some schematics, and I can interpret them and make a
pile of circuits work. A blueprint on how to love someone correctly is
not something I have been able to follow; instead, I find myself
muddled constantly, caught off guard by him and constantly wondering
how long can I keep this pretense up?

I say "pretense" only because that's how I view this relationship.

I want a schematic on Tom Paris; I want someone to write it down for
me, to tell me how best to approach this man in my life. I need the
guidance because when I look into those baby blues, I'm hopelessly
lost. I hate that he has that effect on me and I hate not being able to
put him off-balance the way he does me.

I love Tom Paris. I love him like I have never loved before and I doubt
that that fact will ever change.

He doesn't tell me that he loves me as often I tell him, but it doesn't
bother me. I feel his love in the way he always cups my jaw before
leaning in for a kiss. I see the quickness in his step when he sees me
and the way his lips curve up when my hand surreptitiously brushes his
when I think no one is looking.

I worry that his love for me will vanish if and when I ever tell him
what I have yet to tell anyone. I fear that he will look at me with
that same disgust that was in his eyes when I was still Borg.

I don't tell him that I saw his initial reaction because I know it
disturbs him greatly that he reacted so violently; I don't tell him
that he is one of the reasons why I can't confess the crimes that
plague my every waking hour.

I know I'm not strong enough to see us through what lies ahead. Tom
will protest, say that he is strong enough to hold us together, but he
doesn't know everything yet.

I love him in ways that are completely unexpected. If at some point in
my younger years, if I had been asked to draw up a list of my ideal
man, very few of Tom's traits would have been on that list. About the
only thing my list and Tom have in common is the fact that he is not
Klingon. Indeed, the list of Tom's faults is longer than my arm.

He's late.

He's forgetful.

He breaks rules more often than he follows them.

He spends more time in the holodeck than with me.

He drinks too much beer while watching television.

He leaves his socks lying around.

Yet Tom has grabbed a hold of my hearts and won't let go. When I see
him, everything stops just like that. He only has to smile at me and I
forget who I am, where I am, everything.

And I'm keenly aware that when we are in a room together, no matter how
many people are around us, I am the only one he sees.

But I'm also a realist and know that at some point I have to stop
pretending.

When he knows the truth, Tom is going to leave. He won't stay with me.
No one ever does.

---

Word travels fast on the good ship Voyager. It's amazing sometimes.
Gossips evidently know things about B'Elanna and me even before we know
it ourselves. Sometimes, I hear stories about our fights, each tale
more fantastic than the last. We throw things, apparently, and call
each other terrible, unmentionable-in-public-type names.

I find this all a bit humorous, for the very idea of B'Elanna and I
constantly at each other's throats is a bit ludicrous.

B'Elanna has only thrown something -- a vase -- at me once before.

As for calling each other names? Nah, never happened, unless you
count "pig" as a name.

But I digress.

Entering the messhall, I find Neelix bubbling with something resembling
joy. He has accosted poor Tuvok who did indeed leave what little sense
of humor he had on the Borg cube.

"We have not yet confirmed this news," Tuvok says patiently as I swing
into the seat directly opposite him. "You must be calm, Mr. Neelix, and
not spread false hope through the crew."

"Can't I just tell one person?" Neelix is positively glowing. Makes me
wonder who he has back in the Alpha Quadrant keeping his dinner warm.

"No," Tuvok says.

Neelix's face falls but I could have predicted Tuvok's answer; you ask
a stupid question, you get a stupid answer -- especially when you ask a
Vulcan.

"Are you excited, Mr. Paris?" Neelix asks me.

"Excited isn't the word for it," I said. "I'm positively overjoyed."

Tuvok arches an eyebrow at me.

"You are exaggerating your emotion," he says. Always the one for the
understatement, always pointing out the obvious. Yes, I'm anxious to
get home, yes, I'm exhausted after seven years in the Delta Quadrant.

What I want most is to stay in one place for some time, sit out in the
sun and drink lemonade. It sounds simplistic, but after going up
against a million different aliens and escaping by the skin of our
teeth each time, I want nothing more than to relax, stretch and feel
the tension ease from my muscles.

For once, I don't want to wonder who is around the next nebula or who
is hiding in the next star system. I don't want to figure out how best
to dodge torpedoes that far surpass Voyager's technology and I
certainly don't want to run into the Borg again.

I wonder what the others want. I have no doubt that Harry will continue
in Starfleet; he is much too eager not to purse his career. Chakotay,
who knows? I can never read the man. Sometimes he is almost as
enigmatic as Seven, showing little or no emotion.

Tuvok will stay; it would be logical for him to. He would never dream
of retiring to Vulcan to peruse ancient texts. I do suspect that first
stop on Tuvok's tour of the Alpha Quadrant will be Vulcan to resolve
his Pon Farr; there is no way in hell meditation can replace a soft
body curled up against you.

Janeway is married to Starfleet; more importantly, Voyager is her ship.
She won't give it up without a fight and I honestly would hate to be
the admiral who comes between the Captain and her ship.

But then again, that's what B'Elanna would call a worst-case scenario.
Retiring Voyager isn't a done deal. Only in my twisted, most demented
moments, do I imagine this ship as a heap of scrap metal in the
shipyards of Planetia Utopia.

And speaking of B'Elanna, I do not know what she will do once we return
home. There are times when she allows herself to indulge in my flights
of fancy, seeing and feeling the same as I do; other times, she fixes
me with a penetrating gaze as if admonishing me to be real.

I don't know what she wants from me, honestly.

There are times when I wonder what we are still doing together. Her,
me, B'Elanna, Tom, Torres, Paris. It's a bizarre thing, no matter how
you look at it. We disassociate freely, face off with impunity and
never, and I mean never, ask for forgiveness.

She doesn't need me; this much I have figured out.

"Well, I'm excited," Neelix declares.

"You're coming back to the Alpha Quadrant with us?" I ask in surprise.

"There is no reason for me to stay here, is there?" Neelix asks. "I
would love to see the Alpha Quadrant. What do you think, Mr. Vulcan?"

Tuvok gives Neelix a look of pained tolerance. Neelix grins, his
reptilian skin stretching as his lips curve up.

"Your decision on whether to stay here or accompany us to the Alpha
Quadrant is not a concern to me," Tuvok says.

My jaw drops; damn he is cold.

Neelix looks disappointed. He shuffles his feet, bends his head
slightly so that he is no longer looking Tuvok in the eye.

"It will not be long before we are there," Neelix says. "I imagine the
crew will be just as excited as I am."

"You are not to share this information," Tuvok lectures sternly.

Honestly, I don't know why Tuvok is such a stickler for rules; hell, he
made up a rule just to get onto that Borg ship.

Yeah, that's right, he made it up.

I think they -- Janeway, B'Elanna and Tuvok -- had been gone ten days
before I could bring myself to look at the Starfleet Rules and
Regulations manual.

In the darkest hour, the hour just before dawn, I squinted at the tiny
print, but could never find that archaic little rule that said a
captain could not go into hostile territory without a security officer.

Until that moment, I had not thought Tuvok capable of lying nor had I
correctly predicted the depth of his loyalty to Kathryn Janeway.

"Everyone already knows," I point out.

Tuvok nails me to the wall with one of his glares.

"That is not an excuse, Lieutenant," he says. I fully expect him to ask
him if everyone else on this ship decided to jump out an airlock, would
I do so also? Instead Tuvok pushes his chair back and gets up from the
table; his back is ramrod straight, a new posture courtesy of the Borg.

I sit there in the middle of the mess hall, surrounded by so many, but
feeling so alone.

Eager to go home? I don't know. Disappointment seems to follow us at
every turn so I don't want to get my hopes up.

There's more involved in going home than just arriving in the Alpha
Quadrant and saying, "Hi honey, I'm home!"

There will need to be a period of adjustment -- I know this -- and none
of it will be easy.

Those whom we left behind aren't the same people now. Seven years has a
curious way of changing people, of getting beneath the skin and
tinkering with emotions and opinions. There are the superficial changes
like crow's feet or gray hair and then there are the other changes, the
deep personality traits hidden deep within. Those are the ones you
can't predict, the ones that are harder to get used to.

And then there is something else: I'm not the same man I used to be.
I'm only afraid that they -- the ambiguous they we are always talking
about -- will see and understand the changes in me.

---

Each time I take a step through the corridors of Voyager, I'm very much
aware that this might be the last time I put my foot down in this exact
location. I notice things more than I have before; everything is in
focus, clear and sharp. No longer do I take Voyager for granted; each
day that passes is one day closer to the Alpha Quadrant, one day less
on Voyager.

I don't know where my sentimentality comes from.

Tom says I'm softer, more gentle, since my sojourn on the Borg cube. I
think he is trying to be nice, trying so hard to make up for his
initial reaction when he saw me for the first time in full Borg regalia.

He was frightened, understandably frightened.

In my lucid, non-Borg moments, I too felt a tinge of fear running
through the parts of me that still belonged wholly to B'Elanna Torres.

But whether Tom is trying to be nice is irrelevant -- there, you see? I
did it again. I can't help myself; some parts of my brain were so
completely absorbed into the Collective, I find myself curiously alone
at times, longing for the cacophony of voices. At other times, I want
to flee, run from the memory of constant shrieking in my head.

And then I wake and realize that it was all a nightmare, that I no
longer sleep standing up. Realize that I can relax beneath a sonic
shower and not wonder when my joints will be oiled again.

These are things I do not share with Tom; instead, these are mine and
mine alone.

I do not mean to push him away; it just happens. Sometimes, I find
myself staring at Tuvok or Janeway and there's this look in their eyes
and I know, just as they know this about me, that they are remembering
something too.

The three of us have never sat down to talk about the time we spent on
the Borg cube -- there just hasn't been the time.

And now, with the Alpha Quadrant in arm's reach, I doubt we will ever
talk about it.

Does it matter?

Maybe it does. I don't know. Maybe in ten, twenty, thirty years I will
know the answers, but right now, I'm just counting my steps. Measuring
each moment, hoarding them because I don't know what lies ahead and
more than any specific instant on the Borg cube, this frightens me.

---

It has been weeks since I have worked on the Camaro. I'd been staying
away from the holodeck since B'Elanna's return, working on putting her
back together, putting us back together.

But now, dressed in my grease-stained monkey suit, I lay beneath the
car, running a rag over its engine parts.

I love this feeling of making things work. Especially something that I
could so easily have the computer fix in a few minutes.

The holodeck doors slide open.

"Tom? You in here?"

Harry.

I slide out from beneath the car, wiping my hands on the rag.

"You are a mess," Harry observes.

Of course Harry is standing there in his neatly pressed Starfleet
uniform, nary a stain to be seen. I'm impressed. If he doesn't get his
promotion in the Alpha Quadrant, I'm going to nominate him for
the "Best Dressed" award.

"Hello to you too," I say. "Coming off the Bridge?"

"Yeah. You know, Tom, before we get back home, you really ought to
consider spending some time on the Bridge."

"No thanks. I get enough time as it is on the helm."

"You don't want the command experience? It would help with your career."

My career. I had never thought of Starfleet as a career before; in
fact, it was merely something my father did and something for me to try
when nothing else worked out.

Until Janeway extended her hand to me, I had always thought of
Starfleet as a bunch of foggy old men in starched uniforms drinking
Earl Grey, and spouting philosophy in the best tradition of Aristotle
and pontificating endlessly, each one hoping to be the next Cicero.

And now?

Well, don't ask me now what I think. I haven't got the faintest clue. I
vacillate daily, shifting from foot to foot, thought to thought,
wondering what the galaxy holds for me.

"Not interested," I answer airily because I don't have anything better
to say.

Damn if Harry looks disappointed. He's a good friend; he cares more
about my future in Starfleet than I do.

"B'Elanna's looking for you," Harry says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Is she mad?"

"No," Harry shakes his head.

"So she's just looking for me?"

"Yeah."

Harry walks around the car, very careful not to get any grease on his
uniform. He touches the chrome lightly with his fingers.

"Nice," he says. "You ever drive one of these? I mean in real life, not
on a holodeck."

"Once. At that antique car museum."

"Fun?"

"Yeah. I kept stalling though. On the other hand, the Mustang, now
that's the car to drive."

"Do you like driving better than flying?"

"Nothing is like flying," I tell him. "You see where you are driving
and you react accordingly. It's very manual, very visual. Flying, now
that's more instinctive, more from the heart than driving is."

"I'd like to try driving again," Harry says.

"We'll go again sometime, just don't hit a burrito stand again."

"Don't put the burrito stand in a place where I'm going to hit it,"
Harry retorts.

Harry takes another look at the car, "I'm going to miss this."

"Miss the car?"

"No. This. You, me, the holodeck."

"There are holodecks in the Alpha Quadrant. I hear that's where they
were invented."

"Haven't you thought about what going home means? They could split us
up, you know."

"The possibility has occurred to me."

"Doesn't that frighten you?"

'Frighten' isn't quite the right word for the emotion I experience
whenever I think of the possibility of the 150 people on Voyager
dispersing to various parts of the Alpha Quadrant.

A counselor -- and we could sorely use one on Voyager -- would term my
feelings about our return to the Alpha Quadrant as "separation
anxiety."

I have this crazy fantasy that we will write to each other daily, share
dirty jokes and trade barbs over the comm system. Once a year, we will
reunion talk about the good ol' days on Voyager and then we will
reminisce about the Malon until they are larger than life and we come
out looking like heroes every time.

"It is a possibility," I say. "Depends what people want to do with
themselves."

"I'd like to stay," Harry leans against the car; I'm impressed by his
daring -- he might get a speck of dust on himself.

"On Voyager or Starfleet?"

"Voyager, preferably, but the ship could be decommissioned when we
return. Who knows if Intrepid-class vessels even exist anymore?"

"So you'd take your chances again in the great black beyond?"

"Yeah," a slow smile spreads across my friend's face.

"You'd do it again?"

"Yeah," he says. "In a heartbeat. Wouldn't you?"

Now there's the question of the day.

I don't know.

I would think by now I would have acquired the ability to know what I,
Tom Paris, would want.

Maybe I'm waiting for someone else to tell me what he or she wants.

I joined Starfleet because my father wanted it.

I ended up on Voyager because Janeway wanted me.

And now, with all my options in front of me, I still can't figure out
what I want.

"For the chance to be a punching bag for the Hirogen again?" I shake my
head.

"When you put it that way," Harry grins. "No, but really, Tom, don't
you know?"

"Actually, I'm going to wait and see," I answer, picking up the rag
again. "Did you say B'Elanna was looking for me?"

"I'm here," B'Elanna says from behind Harry. She is leaning against the
doorjamb, her arms folded across her chest; she is smiling though.

"Took you long enough, Maquis," Harry says, turning towards B'Elanna.

"You didn't ask the computer?" I ask.

"And take all the fun out of searching for you?" she shakes her
head. "There are only a few places you would be, Tom, and I can pretty
much eliminate the lower decks."

"She's so smart," I tell Harry. B'Elanna offers me a grin, a crooked
mixture of arrogance and pride.

"I've got to go," Harry says. "I'm beat."

He is out of the holodeck so fast that we feel a breeze in his wake.
B'Elanna tips her head towards Harry's departing figure.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asks as I slide back underneath the
car.

"No," I say. "We were just talking."

B'Elanna pulls out a wobbly stool from beneath the tool bench and
perches on it precariously.

"You really need to fix this in the program," she says. "It's not safe."

"It's for authenticity," I argue back as grease lands on my cheek. "Aw,
shoot!"

B'Elanna is immediately at my side, "What is it?"

"Nothing," I slide back out. She kneels by my side and dabs at the
grease with a rag. Damn, I love this woman.

"You were looking for me," I say.

"Hmmm... just thinking about you."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she offers me a shy smile. I wrinkle my brow.

"What's going on?"

"Just thinking about going home."

"You excited?"

"Don't know. I like it out here."

"You've said that before."

"Wouldn't you like to stay out here?" she leans forward, balancing her
weight on her palms. "Think about it, Tom. You, me, and wide-open
spaces. There is so much to discover, so much to do. We could make a
life out here, you and me."

Her cheeks flush as the words fall from her lip. She is animated in a
way I haven't seen since her return from the Borg cube. In fact, she is
downright giddy -- not typically an emotion I get from her.

I sit up and take one of her hands in mine. Her fingers are slender,
long -- the type that are perfect for piano playing. Her nails are
rough, grooved and occasionally blue at the base. She is looking at me,
almost pleading with me to agree with her proposal.

"So you want to leave Voyager and stay in the Delta Quadrant," I say. I
want to comprehend completely.

"Yeah," she says. "No reason to go home. Hell, it's not even home to
me, it's just another place to be. You know, somewhere else for me to
be miserable. I might as well stay here."

"You don't mean any of that," I tell her.

"I do," she says defiantly. "Tom, don't you think about what's going to
happen when we get home?"

Hmm... now that she has postulated the question, I have to be honest. I'm
not very good at lying and B'Elanna has a hunter's instinct; she smells
fear and she pounces without a second thought. I've been prey enough to
suit my tastes, so I confess everything.

"Depends what you mean," I tell her. "I think about a normal life, a
house, a family..."

Her face is shadowed, guarded. I have learned, over the past four
years, that there are some places I'm not allowed and as such, I don't
ask B'Elanna. When she is good and ready, she will let me in.

"I don't," she admits. "I don't want walls. I just want to fly, be
free."

"You can do that in the Alpha Quadrant."

"How?" she asks pointedly. "You think Starfleet is going to let me onto
another one of their precious ships? They probably don't even want me
on this one."

"We'll find a way," I caress her hand between mine. She shakes her head.

"Tom, you can't fix everything."

She gets to her feet and is out of the holodeck. I sigh, drop my head,
and after a minute, slide back beneath the car.

---

I'm an emotional train wreck; every time I think I'm back on my feet,
something else derails me and pushes me hopelessly off track.

I want to help myself, Kahless, I do. I look at people who cringe when
they see me come and I hear the fury in my voice and I see the impact;

I can't help it. I just steamroll through others, knocking them off
their feet only because I'm so out of control myself.

I don't want people to know that inside, I feel like blood pie gone
sour, quivering and shaking. I think to reveal my insecurities would
take away something that belongs to me and more than anything, I don't
want to be found out to be anything less than B'Elanna Torres, chief
engineer extraordinaire and Klingon warrior.

Actually, that last thing -- B'Elanna the Klingon warrior - is my
mother's fantasy; I think she wanted to believe that I would do battle
in her honor and bring glory to her name.

Or something like that, I don't even know anymore. Don't know if I want
to know.

I wake up at night, sweating, sometimes even on the verge of tears.

I didn't use to be like this.

I worry, as we get closer to the Alpha Quadrant, that I will collapse
in a boneless heap on the floor, unable to stand under the weight of my
own wayward emotions.

"Feelings aren't wrong or right," Tom says over and over. "They just
are. If you feel something, you have to verbalize it. What you feel is
what you feel and no one should condemn you for that."

He's right, I know that, but like so much else, actually putting what I
feel into words is hard and instead, I hold it all in -- a sure recipe
for a chronic case of ulcers.

The truth is, I'm better with actions than with words. I'm not a poet,
never have been, but give me a pile of circuits and I will make
something out of nothing.

When I'm down in Engineering, I think that if I switch this circuit
with that one, the warp core will sputter and we'll be stranded here in
the Delta Quadrant. Other times, I think that I can send wrong sensor
readings to the helm and put us off-track so that we continue to stay
out here, searching fruitlessly for a way home.

I see Tom as a victim of my insecurity. I hold onto him as if he is the
only one who can save me from drowning. The irrational fear persists
though: nothing lasts forever and no one, and I mean no one, ever
sticks around B'Elanna Torres for very long.

Tom looks at me sometimes, a bit confused, wondering what is going on
in my head; I wish I could tell him but I don't know myself.

We cling to each other out of habit. We turn to each other because
that's what we're used to.

Habits, however, cannot withstand the scrutiny that will come once we
return home. There will be investigations, I know, and none of us will
emerge unscathed.

Somehow, I have to hold on to Tom, make sure he doesn't leave me, make
sure that I won't be alone.

I can't help it; the tears swell just behind my eyes, bubbling up in my
throat. I can only swallow hard and blink my eyes back into focus. I
think about losing Tom because I'm in sickbay and I can still see
evidence of the frantic hours he and the Doctor spent de-assimilating
the others and me.

"Are you going to take long?" the Doctor's voice is in my ear.

"Give me a second," I say. "The diagnostic picked up some corrupt
recursive algorithms."

My tone was sharper than I wanted it to be, but he has interrupted my
pity party; after all this time, everyone should know that when I'm
feeling sorry for myself, they are not invited to ride along on the
B'Elanna Torres emotional roller-coaster.

Not for the first time, the Doctor suggests counseling. He stands
there, smug little hologram, arms crossed against his chest, saying in
his self-righteous baritone tinged with melodrama, "I know a great
holodeck program that is guaranteed to work wonders. I've used it many
times to help others who are in the pit of despair."

"I'm not in the pit of despair," I tell him. "Far from it."

"I know the signs," he says. "You're suffering from post-traumatic
stress syndrome."

"And how would you know?"

"The classic signs are all there," the Doctor says. "Avoidance, that's
one of the symptoms."

"Avoidance?"

"You refuse, for instance, to talk about the things which trouble you.
You will not talk about how you feel about the decimation of  the
Maquis, your relationship with your fa-"

"That is no one's business!" I flare back. At this moment, I want to
jab his holographic self with something metallic, anything to disrupt
that photonic matrix of his. Then we'll talk trauma.

"You haven't talked about your Borg experience."

My fingers curl into fists involuntarily.

"Have you talked to Mr. Paris about what happened?" he asks. "About
your time on the Cube?"

"What I talk about with Tom is none of your business," I answer hotly.
My fingers curl and uncurl uncontrollably. There is nothing nearby to
smash, nothing to disrupt except for the EMH Mark 2 holographic doctor
in front of me and Kahless help me, but we do need him.

"Do you have trouble sleeping at night?" the Doctor persists.

I refuse to tell him about my nightmares; those belong to me alone. I
cannot tell him of dreams tinged in eerie green glow or how sometimes I
can hear the heavy metallic thud of footsteps behind me. I don't tell
him how I wake up in the middle of the night, my heart pounding and
light sweat coating my brow. Most of all, I cannot tell him how it
feels to know you have assimilated someone.

Yes, that's right. For three months of my life, I was Borg, lived as
Borg, thought as Borg, and yes, as Borg, I assimilated others.

I don't know the number of assimilations I participated in; I was
unconsciously following the Borg directive: just do it. In the echoes
of my mind, I think there must have been thousands of assimilations; I
look at Janeway and Tuvok and I know they are wondering the same. How
many how many how many... it is a vicious taunt that plays in
continuous rhythm through my mind.

"Lieutenant? Do you have trouble sleeping at night?" the Doctor is now
grasping my forearm, making it difficult for me to continue working.

"No," I answer flatly.

His brow crinkles in a display of serious thought.

"I don't want to talk about this," I say.

"You see? Classic avoidance. You refuse to talk about what you feel."

I shut my tool kit with a resounding snap, "I choose not to discuss
certain things with certain people. Is that all right with you?"

"We just want to help you, B'Elanna."

"Then stay out of my way," I answer.

The Doctor looks perplexed and for a moment, I let myself feel sorry
for him and then, I get my furious B'Elanna face back on and stomp out
of sickbay.

He doesn't know, he can't possibly know, that around every corner there
is a Borg drone and that in the shadows, when I'm alone, I hear the
screams.

I hear the screams and I cannot make them stop.

---

She avoids me. Janeway, that is. She averts her eyes and says very
little to me. In fact, I notice she talks mostly to Chakotay and
occasionally to her protégé, Seven of Nine.

Even Harry notes it and says he thinks the Captain's behavior is odd.

"She's been like this since they got back," he says as we sit in the
black and white world of Captain Proton.

"Who? The Captain?" I ask carefully, tightening the laces on my boots.

"Yeah," Harry leans forward, flicks imaginary dust off of his khaki
pants.

"It was a ...difficult mission," I answer.

"It's more than that," Harry says. "Tom, did something happen between
you and the Captain?"

I freeze. Harry, good-natured Harry, but still perceptive in ways that
I never suspect.

I have not even told B'Elanna about my feelings about Janeway, how I
feel that our Captain deliberately endangered the crew of Voyager when
she chose to be assimilated by the Borg. I know that Harry has some
idea of the anger that boiled within me during the time Janeway,
B'Elanna and Tuvok were gone -- the period of anxiety and turmoil -- but
I have never verbalized my feelings. Only once did I say something and
that was to the Captain directly; she accepted my condemnation of her
activities with something close to neutrality and then, in her gravelly
voice, dismissed me with the admonishment that she was the captain.

In the two months since they have been back, talk of the Borg is
strictly taboo; Janeway walks around with a pained, tight-lipped smile,
Tuvok says less than ever and B'Elanna... well, who even knows what's
going on with B'Elanna?

At night, she sits curled in an armchair, a blanket around her
shoulders, staring blankly into space. Sometimes, she lies next to me,
submitting to my caresses until finally, even I give up.

And then other times, I never see her; she vanishes somewhere into the
bowels of Voyager, working tirelessly at problems that exist only in
her mind.

"I get the feeling the Captain doesn't like you," Harry continues.

I offer Harry a semblance of a smile, "I think you're right."

---

Voyager is in frenzy; there are countdowns and plans for a "Welcome
Home" type party. Sue Nicoletti made this last suggestion and I could
only respond, scorn dripping from every word, "You can't welcome
yourself home. That doesn't make sense."

I could tell from Sue's expression that if such a party were held, I
would not be invited. "That B'Elanna Torres," she would say in a kindly
and sympathetic tone, "she's not really, you know, a party type of
girl."

It doesn't matter; I wouldn't want to go anyway.

I listen to the conversations around me, hear the expectations in
voices that rise and fall in excitement. Most talk about seeing their
family and friends again. Even Harry, who has not mentioned Libby in
years, is looking forward to seeing her again -- even if the
relationship isn't quite as he left it.

I envy them their anticipation, envy their nonchalance. I want that
secure feeling of knowing that someone in the Alpha Quadrant loves me
and is waiting eagerly to see me.

I have these fantasies of getting off of Voyager and running straight,
like a little girl, into my father's arms. I dream that he will lift me
and swing me around, my legs flying out behind me. His head will tip up
towards mine and we will both laugh laughs that come both from the
belly and the heart.

Tom sometimes asks what I'm thinking but this is one thing I cannot
share with him. I'm afraid that if I say my dreams out loud, I am
automatically setting myself up for disappointment. If I keep it to
myself, it's mine, this crazy little dream.

It's amazing how fast time flies when you are dreading a certain event;
it's almost like knowing the day you're going to die.

Heart pounding, hands shaking, blood racing -- and the only place I can
spend this extra energy is in the holodeck, fighting famous Klingon
battle after battle.

I return to my quarters, bruised and utterly exhausted; there is no
time to think of the Alpha Quadrant because sleep takes me to a place
where, thankfully, there are no dreams.

---

We are close, so damned close, I can almost taste fresh pizza on my
tongue. It's silly the things you long for and I'm sure, as soon as we
cross into the Alpha Quadrant, my wish list will grow exponentially.

But right now, I'd settle for a slice of cheese pizza, a beer and a hot
shower. I guess when you've been away for so long, you get used to
doing without the things you would ordinarily consider as essential to
your well-being as oxygen.

What we wanted most during our sojourn was contact with anyone who was
not intent on killing us or stealing our technology or kidnapping our
people; this wish has been fulfilled.

According to Seven's countdown, we are only five days away and the
messages from the Alpha Quadrant are coming fast and furious, almost
more than we can possibly read or respond to.

My father has written several times, each time reiterating his pride in
me and how eager he is to see me again.

B'Elanna, however, has received nothing.

If it bothers her, she does not say and I do not ask.

We lie in bed, her body turned away from mine, her head resting on her
clasped hands. Her body is absolutely tense but I make no attempt to
touch her.

There are, in my mind, two periods in our relationship. There is "BC" --
or "Before Cube" and then there is, "AD" -- "After Deassimilation."

To the casual observer, there is little or no difference between the
two B'Elannas, but I know better. Her temper is more controlled these
days and she often is deep in thought, thinking thoughts I'm not
allowed to know. There are times when I want to ask her what happened
on that cube. I want to know why she feels the need to withdraw into
herself at the times when we should be most intimate.

The B'Elanna lying next to me tonight is "AD" -- utterly cold, stiff and
scarily unemotional. Her arms are at her side, her hands balled up into
tight fists and her teeth grind against each other as she lies there,
silent except for the rasp of her breath.

Because I want to stay alive, I say nothing. I do not ask her what is
wrong because she doesn't know the answer herself.

But I know. At least, I think I know. I think it has everything to do
with the Borg, with what happened there and I know she hasn't told me
everything.

I put my hands beneath my head and stare up at the ceiling panels. I
have counted them in the past and know that there are exactly seventy
tiles making up B'Elanna's ceiling. There are little dots on the tiles
too, but my eyes aren't strong enough to count those. One day though,

I'm going to find out exactly how many little dots there are per tile;
it's amazing how little it takes to amuse me.

"Tell me about the house," her voice is muffled. I glance at her. It
has been days, weeks even, since I had last discussed my plans for a
house with her. At that time, she had seemed less than interested and
suggested that maybe I should focus on reconstructing the Delta Flyer
than dreaming up house blueprints.

"Where did that come from?" I ask.

"I want to know."

"Well, it's on the cliffs in San Francisco," I tell her.

"I thought the house was going to be outside of the city."

"Okay, outside of the city then. Maybe four or five kilometers out."

"That's better," B'Elanna rolls over so that she is now facing me.

"It will be perfectly square," I say. "And it will be built up around a
swimming pool."

"A swimming pool? You never said anything about a pool before."

"Harry's idea. He and Megan were talking about pool parties they went
to back at the Academy. I thought it sounded good."

The look B'Elanna gives me is positively crippling; I don't believe
that she believes a single good idea can spring from Megan Delaney's
head. But then again, that's the little jealous streak that pops up
every now and then in my selfish darling. She'd never admit it, but she
does get fiercely protective, clutching at my arm whenever either
Delaney sister is around. Her grip, during those chance encounters, is
so tight, circulation ceases, but I get the point and so does everyone
else; I might as well have "property of B'Elanna" stamped on my
forehead.

"Go on," B'Elanna says, an edge creeping into her voice.

"Uh, all of the rooms will open onto the pool patio," I tell
her. "There will be an office for you, an office for me, kitchen,
living room, maybe three or four bedrooms..."

"That's a lot of bedrooms," she says.

"I figure we might need them. Don't you?"

She raises both eyebrows at me; now I'm in trouble.

"I'm just anticipating possibilities," I tell her. "And there will be
flowers, lots of them, and maybe even a fountain."

"It sounds beautiful, Tom," B'Elanna rolls over on top of me, the tips
of her hair brushing my cheeks. She leans down and brushes her lips
against mine. I tighten my hold on her, sliding my hands down her back,
reveling in the feel of the silky material against my palms.

"Is there a reason you're asking?" my hands are pushing her nightgown
up past her thighs.

B'Elanna lifts her head and meets my eyes. For the first time in days,
I see that she is ready to be honest with me.

"I don't see myself living there, Tom," she says. "It's not that I
don't want to be there, but I just don't believe it will happen."

"It's going to happen, B'Elanna," I tell her. "I'll make it happen."

"I don't doubt that for a second."

She rolls off of me and sits up in bed. She removes the magenta
nightgown in one fluid motion. I prop myself up on my elbow, admiring
the curve of her back, the delicate arch of her neck and the slope of
her shoulders. B'Elanna glances back at me, her chin nearly resting on
her shoulder.

"Everything is going to change, Tom," her voice is soft but confident.

"I know."

"Are you afraid of what will happen?"

"It's nothing we can't handle."

"They'll separate us."

"You don't know that."

"Chakotay is positive it will happen," B'Elanna shivers.

"Why does he say that?"

"Because of some of the communiqués the Captain has shown him."

"The Captain will take care of you, of us."

"And if she can't?"

"That won't happen."

"I'm already pretending in my head, Tom. Already trying to imagine what
it would be like without you. Does that make me a bad person?"

"I think you're overreacting," I respond carefully. "But no, you're not
a bad person. You shouldn't say that."

She seems satisfied and falls back onto the bed, landing on my
outstretched arm. I roll on top of her, my fingers brushing her hair
away from her face with my thumbs.

B'Elanna presses her hands onto my shoulders, keeping me from kissing
her.

"Marry me, Tom," she whispers.

"I thought you'd never ask," I reply in an equally low voice. "When we
get back, we can have a big wedding in San Francisco."

"No, now," she says. "Before we get back."

She is serious, I realize. This isn't a casual proposal, but apparently
something she has been thinking about for quite a while. I don't want
to flatter myself and say that her urgency is driven by her
unconditional and overwhelming love for yours truly; rather, I sense
something more, a fear of what awaits us in the Alpha Quadrant.

And there is also a difference between me saying that I will be there
for her and being legally obliged to stand by her. I have run out on
some many people and commitments in the past, I understand her doubts
and a small part of me even wants us to get married so that I don't
have an escape route this time.

"Tom," her eyes look back at me, panic-stricken. I haven't seen her
look this distressed since the first few days after her de-assimilation
process. "Please."

"We'll do it," I promise her.

"Before we get back."

She is genuinely serious and I wrap a strand of her hair around my
finger. What the hell, I plan to marry her anyway. Now is as good as a
time as any.

"Tomorrow?" I suggest.

"Yes," her arms snake around my neck. I lean down to kiss her, my lips
moving down from her cheek to her jawbone and down into the curve of
her neck. Her hands ruffle my hair as her right leg bends up against my
hip. I lift my head to look at her.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"You're welcome," I answer, wondering why I feel so cheap and used.

---

When I was a little girl, I used to dream of the day I would walk down
the aisle. I would wear white, not Klingon red and gold, and my father
would be there to give me away, his eyes misting with emotion. Everyone
would stand as I made my way to the altar, some of the women would dab
at their eyes with their dainty handkerchiefs. They would even
mutter, "Isn't she beautiful?"

I never really put a face on the man who would be waiting for me; I
only knew he would not be a Klingon.

I wanted someone smooth-faced like my father, with silky hair instead
of rough Klingon tresses.

As Tom would say, one out of five ain't bad. My father isn't here and
I'm not wearing white, just my usual dress uniform. There are no crowds
of sobbing women here, just the senior staff. And there is no walk down
the aisle; Tom and I merely join hands and look up at Janeway.

She looks slightly flustered, mostly because she did not expect our
request and she certainly did not think she would have to perform a
wedding ceremony during her last four days in the Delta Quadrant.

We went this morning to ask Janeway if she would marry us. We sat in
front of her like two little kids in detention, hands folded neatly in
laps, legs crossed at the ankles.

"You are sure?" Janeway asked about thirty times. "You sure you want to
get married? This is sudden, isn't it?"

Irritation bubbled up in the back of my throat; I always felt that
Janeway had feelings that were less than maternal for Tom. Sometimes, I
would see her looking at Tom with a strange look on her face and it was
more than pride in her protégé; her expression tended to be a little
more lascivious than appropriate for a commanding officer.

"We have known each other for seven years," I told Janeway
flatly. "This isn't like we just met yesterday."

"We planned to get married anyway once we got home," Tom said. I looked
over at my husband-to-be; such a smooth liar he is. We had never once
discussed getting married. We had talked about a house, but never about
the two of us actually living there together. I guess we figured it was
either implied or it would just happen with little resistance from
either of us.

"We just want to do it now," I said.

"Today?" Janeway looked at both of us. "You don't have time to plan a
proper ceremony."

"We want to get married today," I laid stress on the last word. "There
will be time to do a so-called 'proper' wedding at another time."

"I don't know about you, but I plan on getting married only once," Tom
joked. Both Janeway and I glared at him and he immediately wilted, his
lips pursing shut.

"I just find your haste surprising," Janeway said. "Is there... something
I should know about?"

I winced at the tone in her voice; did she suspect pregnancy?

"No," Tom said. "We want to get married today."

There was something in his tone that made Janeway sit up straighter.

"You owe me this," Tom said in a very low voice. I turned to him in
surprise; Janeway's cheeks flushed red.

"Very well," she said. "This evening then. At 2100 hours, I will
perform the ceremony."

We skulked out of the ready room and I took a moment to stop Tom,
placing my hand on his shoulder.

"What did you mean by that last comment?" I asked.

"B'Elanna, don't get involved," he said. "This is between the Captain
and me."

"Fine," I snapped. "Be that way."

"Hey!" he grabbed my arm. "This is our wedding day. Let's not fight,
okay? Just one day, promise me that much."

And so I promised that much to Tom and as I stand here before him, my
hearts are beating madly and nervously at the thought of having to
pledge my entire life to this man.

My eyes shift back and forth, focusing on anything but Tom. I see Seven
standing next to the Doctor. Tuvok, Chakotay and Harry are opposite
them. Neelix stands just behind the Captain.

Amazingly, we managed to keep the wedding a secret from the entire
ship, no small feat when you consider how fast the Voyager grapevine
is. Part of it had to do with the fact that we did not inform our
guests until about one hour prior to the ceremony. And when we did tell
them, Neelix nearly choked as he begged for more time to bake a cake
and Harry was upset because he had not practiced an appropriate tune
for a wedding ceremony.

"Do you have something to say?" Janeway asks. I look at Tom, hoping he
has not prepared vows, because I certainly have not; I was busy down in
Engineering until two hours prior to the ceremony.

Tom swallows hard; his lips part slightly and then close again.

He has, I realize with a mixture of fury and dismay. He has something
to say and I... I have nothing.

"What's there to say?" Tom asks shakily. "Except that I will stand by
you, B'Elanna, through thick and thin, through Hirogen and Borg, and...
you don't have to worry about me. I will be there as long as you will
have me."

Damn him. Even unrehearsed, he still finds the words that stop my
hearts and leave my breath in my throat.

He reaches for my hands, caressing them between his.

"B'Elanna, do you have something to share with Tom?" Janeway looks at
me. At this moment, if looks could kill, I would be dead on the floor.

"Um," I hesitate. Words and people are not my specialty; I prefer
engines and other things mechanical for the pure reasoning that
something inanimate, such as a machine, cannot hurt me.

I can choose the trite and obvious path: my undying confession of
eternal love and endless devotion. I can pledge to respect him, to
stand by him and to adore him, no matter how often he gets that engine
grease in his hair. I can offer to cook dinner every night, to leave my
bat'leth in a place he won't trip over it and to put away my clothes
instead of leaving them on the floor.

"B'Elanna?" Janeway says as Tom starts to look a bit panicked. I
squeeze his hands.

"Thank you," I tell him. "Thank you for taking a chance on me. I... I
can't even express how much that, um, means to me. Knowing that you,
um, will stand by me forever... that's a big promise, Paris, and I, I
mean to hold you to it."

Over Janeway's shoulder, I see Neelix brush away a tear. At least
someone is touched.

As for the Captain herself, she looks unimpressed, even bored.

"Do you, Tom Paris, take B'Elanna Torres to love, honor and cherish as
long as you both shall live?"

Tom's jaw works nervously and for a moment, I fear he might back out.

"I do," he says as he places a slender gold band around my finger.

"And do you, B'Elanna Torres, take Tom Paris to love, honor and cherish
as long as you both shall live?"

There is no hesitation on my part, "I do."

Janeway swallows and then she offers up a broad, generous smile. I
figure, maybe I've been wrong about her feelings about Tom; after all,
I've seen her making eyes at Chakotay also.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," she says. "Tom, you may kiss the
bride."

Tom's lips barely brush against mine; he has never been this tentative
before and I wonder if we are making a big mistake.

There is applause as we turn to face our friends.

"Congratulations," Chakotay says, shaking Tom's hand.

"May you have live happy and fruitful lives," the Doctor says
enthusiastically. Seven merely glances at us with an expression
slightly less than disgust. Harry is beaming and Neelix is positively
bursting.

"Congratulations to both of you," Tuvok says in his usual stilted
manner.

"This is indeed a surprise," Seven finally comments. "Though not an
unpleasant one."

"Thank you," I tell her. I can afford to be generous; today is my
wedding day.

Tom is all the way across the room, talking to Harry.

My stomach twists, somersaults, and then after a few minutes, Tom is
back at my side, a wide smile spreading across his face.

"Want to get out of here?" he whispers. "Harry just gave me his
holodeck time."

I grin, more from relief than pleasure, "I thought you'd never ask."

---

There was no time to create a special honeymoon program so it's the old
fallback, the Virgin Islands beach program B'Elanna created for me over
a year ago.

We enter the holodeck, hand in hand. The scene is already set; a
melting sunset bleeds lavender and gold over a faded blue sky, a gentle
breeze moves the heavy branches of palm trees surrounding the crescent-
shaped beach.

"Does it feel different to you?" she asks. "Being married, that is?"

"No, but it's certainly not the way I expected," I say. I lead her over
to one of the lounge chairs and push her down on it. We're definitely
not the giddy lovers of four years ago; we're too domesticated, too
settled for that kind of passion these days.

"I know it came out of nowhere," she says, lifting her foot so I can
remove her shoe.

"We never even talked about getting married," I tell her. I sit at the
edge of the chair and remove my own shoes. B'Elanna is already removing
her jacket.

"I hate these things," she says. "Itchy and hot."

She leans back against the chair, moving over to make room for me.

"I don't think the person who designed these uniforms actually has to
wear them," I answer, removing my own jacket. B'Elanna rests her head
against my shoulder. It feels so good to sit here, just the two of us,
talking for the first time in what seems like weeks. "So why did you
want to get married so quickly?"

"I was afraid with all the excitement in the Alpha Quadrant, we'd just
forget about it."

"Forget about it? B'Elanna, are you crazy?"

"Maybe," she says. "I wanted to be sure that you wouldn't go anywhere."

"Where do you think I'm going to go?"

"I don't know," her brown eyes are wide and curious. She runs a finger
up and down my pant leg.

"Don't say you have doubts about me."

"I don't. I doubt me," she says. "The other day, I was in the
turbolift, and all of sudden, I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened
and I really thought I was going to die. And that's when I realized
that there was something left undone and that was you and me. After all
we've been through, I wanted to make sure we had something to show for
it."

She holds out her right hand and I take her fingers, carefully
inspecting the gold ring.

"It does look nice there," I tell her softly, lifting her hand to my
lips. "Mrs. Paris."

She smiles, "I think it should be Torres for now, don't you?"

"If you insist," I tell her. "And I suppose this means you can't go off
and get yourself assimilated without asking me first?"

"I did not say I would obey you," she says, smiling. "But yes, I guess
I can't. You're stuck with me, Tom."

I wrap my arms around her, "I can think of worse fates."

She leans her head back against my shoulder and I feel her muscles
relax. We have not been this close in months. Emotionally, that is.
There are times, in bed, when I feel like I'm clawing at her, trying to
get underneath her skin just to get close to her. There are other times
when we are the only two people in a room, meters away, yet sharing a
connection we both feel but need no words or physical contact to
experience.

I do not know how this paradox exists; it's unfathomable to me and
merely taunts me into lust or utter disinterest - there is nothing in
between.

B'Elanna gets up from the chair; I make no motion to stop her. She
walks towards the edge of the water, a darkening silhouette against the
early echoes of evening. She steps into the surf, wading ankle deep
into the water. She turns only once and I wave at her.

After a few minutes, B'Elanna comes out, the hem of her pants soggy and
clinging to her legs. She beckons to me, and fool I am, I get to my
feet.

B'Elanna is dragging her toe in the sand.

"Stand there," she commands.

"What's going on?" I ask. A meter separates us, but once again I feel
the distance between us lengthening, the earlier intimacy of the
evening gone.

"This is the way it's going to be," she says. She points down at the
sand. "When we get back, it's going to be Starfleet versus Maquis.
Everyone's going to have to choose."

"That's not going to happen," I say, staring down at the line.

"It's already happening. Don't you feel it?"

"You're the only one who talks about it."

"You're not listening, Tom," she hisses. "Don't you ever listen?"

I turn away and head towards the holodeck doors.

"Where are you going?" she calls after me.

"I don't need this," I tell her. "For once, can't you let well enough
alone?"

"I don't want there to be surprises."

"Surprises? Ha! You're paranoid, B'Elanna."

"No, I'm not," she catches up to me, her hand on my shoulder. "Tom,
please, promise me, when it's time to take sides, you'll forgive me."

I shake off her hand, "That's not going to happen."

"Don't be so stubborn. It's only a matter of time."

I gaze into those brown eyes, wondering what she's hiding.

"Are you planning something, B'Elanna?"

"Promise me," she says. "Whatever happens, you'll forgive me."

I twist the gold wedding band on my finger nervously. She is serious
and that scares me.

"Sure, yeah," I say, not really believing the words dripping from my
lips. At this point, I'll say anything to get her to stop this crazy
delusional talk.

And I look at her and realize that she knows I'm lying to her. B'Elanna
bites her lip.

"It's all right, Tom," she brushes my cheek lightly with her
fingers. "And I hope you're right and I'm wrong and that this is all in
my head."

She exits the holodeck, leaving me alone.

---

He would hate me for this but I went to Chakotay. My feet somehow know
what I want even before my brain does and I suppose this is why, on my
wedding night, I am standing in front of Chakotay, trying to compose
myself. He hands me a raktajino and indicates the chair opposite his.

"You fought already?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his
voice. "B'Elanna, really."

"I told him what is going to happen," I say dully. "He doesn't believe
me."

"Do you really need him to believe you?"

"I'd like to think he would," I put the mug down. My hands are cold, so
very cold, and I shiver. Chakotay gets up and hands me a thin, black
blanket. I wrap it around my shoulders, trying to get warm.

"It's a small thing, B'Elanna."

"Not to me, it's not," I answer. "He doesn't see me the way I want him
to."

"As a Maquis?" his voice is sharp.

"In a few days everyone is going to see me as Maquis. He might as well
too."

"You can't dictate terms like that, B'Elanna. It's not fair."

Chakotay straddles his chair, resting his arms on the back. The lights
are dim, his hair is slightly tousled and he is wearing pajamas; I am
only just now conscious of the fact that my late night arrival must
have woken him.

"I'm sorry for bothering you," I tell him. I push the mug back and get
to my feet.

"You're not," he says. "But I don't think it's fair for you to impose
on Tom a vision you have of yourself."

"Do you see yourself as Maquis?" I challenge.

Chakotay's face tightens; I can almost see the thoughts running through
his brain; I imagine electrical impulses dashing along neural pathways,
igniting another messenger neuron in turn.

"I haven't thought about it in a long time," he answers finally. "I
guess the Alpha Quadrant seemed so far away, I never thought we would
get home."

"What's going to happen to us, Chakotay?" my voice is very low.

"I'm not sure. I've told you everything I know already," he says. "But
we're still Maquis to Starfleet. That much is clear."

"Has Janeway said anything?"

"No, only that she will do her best for us."

"I don't believe that."

"She's the only friend we've got, B'Elanna," Chakotay's voice is harsh
and I wonder if there is something more, an unspoken sentiment, behind
this last statement. Of course there has been gossip about the Captain
and her first officer. There has been plenty of talk about the way they
look at each other, how their fingers occasionally drift a little too
close, and how much time they spend together... alone... in her quarters.

Kahless only knows what they do together -- I can't fathom what Chakotay
could possibly see in Janeway.

I know what I see.

I see a cold woman, utterly hardened and single-mindedly determined. If
she has regrets, she does not dwell on it; there is always the next
best thing to move on to.

Chakotay, on the other hand, and here, I get into dangerous territory --
a place no married woman should go on her wedding night. But it's true.
Chakotay possesses a quality of serenity, utter calmness, and
trustworthiness; his word is good.

Janeway, I don't trust. I never have and there have been times when I
felt her actions mirrored those of my mother and so I disliked her even
more.

"That's a sorry state of affairs then," I answer. Chakotay scratches
his nose and then looks at me.

"She'll do her best for us," he says.

"It won't be enough," I say. "The whole Alpha Quadrant could speak for
us and it wouldn't make a difference."

"You don't need the whole Alpha Quadrant, B'Elanna," Chakotay says
softly. "You only think you do."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I demand.

"I guess I'm just telling you not to worry," he smiles. "And also, good
night."

It is probably the coldest dismissal I've gotten from Chakotay, but I
take it in stride.

Chakotay's just afraid to admit what the rest of Voyager's crew already
knows.

He's Janeway's boy -- always has been and always will be.

And I... well, I no longer know who I am.

---

The day after my wedding, I meet Harry for breakfast. He is sitting by
the windows, stirring oatmeal listlessly.

"What's going on?" I ask him.

"Didn't think you were coming," he says. "It being your wedding night..."

"I wouldn't stand you up," I answer. "Give me a second."

What I don't tell Harry is that B'Elanna and I spent the night apart.
At least that's one perk of keeping separate quarters; when the going
gets tough, we can retreat to our separate corners to link our wounds
and wallow in misery in private.

I replicate a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice, and
bring the tray back to the table.

"Have a good night?" Harry asks without a trace of irony.

"It was all right," I answer.

"That good, huh?"

Harry puts his spoon down.

"Have you noticed it?" he asks.

"What?"

"The divisions."

"What divisions?"

"Are you blind? Look around," Harry's voice is low. "Starfleet and
Maquis."

I twist around to look. Harry is right. There are not many people in
the messhall at this hour, but those who are, have chosen their tables
strictly along party lines.

"Well," I struggle to find an explanation. "That's normal. They've been
through so much together..."

"I don't think that's. It's more calculated," Harry says earnestly.

"You sound just like B'Elanna. She said the same thing last night."

"She's right, you know," Harry says. "Look around you. Friendships that
have lasted seven years mean nothing now. Once again, we'll be two
separate crews, hating and distrusting each other. It will be like we
were never in the Delta Quadrant together, fighting for one common
goal."

"Getting home, you mean?"

"Exactly."

I take another look around; a group of three, Starfleet, rise from
their table and leave with nary a glance at the table of four former
Maquis members. The coldness of their departure leaves a bad taste in
my mouth and I push my plate away.

"Just watch," Harry says in that low voice. "In a couple days, we'll be
in the Alpha Quadrant and I bet you and B'Elanna won't even talk."

"Isn't that looking on the dark side of things? That's not like you,
Harry."

He picks up his bowl without looking at the oatmeal now congealing on
the sides, "I hope I'm wrong, Tom."

I hope he's wrong too, but a funny feeling in my gut makes me think
that he might actually be right.

It's weird how you don't notice things until they are specifically
pointed out and then this new awareness nags at you, driving you
utterly out of your mind.

During my Academy days, there was this girl - I think her name was
Fiona - and she irked me in ways I never thought possible. She was the
type who always had the great ideas but always came across as a
sledgehammer, bludgeoning you until you cried uncle. With Fiona, you
never wanted her to be right even though instinctively you knew
everything she said made sense.

She had this high-pitched laugh and one day, someone confessed, "I hate
Fiona's laugh. I hear it and my blood curdles."  After that, whenever I
heard Fiona laugh, I cringed.

It's the same thing now that Harry pointed out the division between
Starfleet and Maquis. I notice it as I walk through the corridors of
Voyager. Maquis and Starfleet barely glance at each other as they pass.

With each cold encounter between former friends, I cringe.

In Engineering, I notice the division even more. The Maquis are on the
second level while the Starfleet blue bloods occupy the lower levels. I
find Seven intent on a data PADD as she inputs information into her
console.

"Seen B'Elanna?" I ask casually.

"She is in conduit thirteen."

Ah, my favorite conduit, a prime breeding ground for claustrophobia. I
know it well, having spent time there before repairing down power
relays, hating every second of it. It would figure that B'Elanna would
hide out in the one place where it is ninety percent sure I would not
follow.

Well, her luck just ran out.

"Thanks," I tell Seven. I cross Engineering to conduit thirteen; the
wall panel has already been removed and I enter, crawling through the
narrow space.

B'Elanna is lying on her back, about halfway down, fiddling with
something directly above her.

"Damn!" she exclaims as something sparks.

"Something I can help you with?"

"Tom?" she sits up, banging her head on the ceiling. "Damn! Oh, that
hurt! See what you made me do?"

"Want me to kiss and make it better?"

"No," she says, lying back down. "What are you doing here?"

I settle myself into a semi-awkward position of my back against the
curved conduit walls and my feet propped up against the opposite wall.

"Looking for you," I tell her. "I miss you."

"We saw each other last night."

"You walked out on me last night, remember?"

B'Elanna sighs, "You really want to talk, Tom?"

"Yeah," I say. "Look, we need to. We got married and I'm not sure that
it was the right thing to do."

"If you have doubts, tell Janeway; she can divorce us as quickly as she
married us."

"That's not what I mean. I merely meant that maybe we rushed and maybe
the Captain was right. We didn't exactly think things through."

"I've been thinking," she says.

"You want to share some of those thoughts with me? Don't you owe me at
least that much?"

B'Elanna sits upright, this time a bit more carefully. She pulls her
legs to her chest. She leans forward slightly, a pensive expression on
her face, as she rests her chin on her knees.

"Does there need to be a reason?" she asks. "Can't you just do things
because you want to?"

"Depends if there is someone else involved or not. And if there is, you
damn well better have a reason."

"I love you," she says simply. I tilt my head towards her. Once again
she takes the easy way out. In the past, all she has had to do it
whisper those three words to me and I would melt into a puddle of goo
at her feet. This time, I don't.

"That's it?" I ask.

"What more do you want?"

"An explanation, maybe," I say. "You never mentioned getting married
before and then all of a sudden, you want to do this. Forgive me if I
find it a bit confusing."

"Sometimes things feel right. This felt right."

I laugh sardonically; "right" is certainly not the word I would use.
I'm more inclined to describe our shotgun nuptials as "uncomfortable."

"We didn't spend our wedding night together," I remind her. "Where were
you last night?"

"Here," she says in a low voice.

"You married me, not Voyager's engines, B'Elanna," there is more bite
in my voice than I intended. "Are you planning something I'm not aware
of?"

"I don't have an ulterior motive," she shakes her head but her voice
wavers making me suspect otherwise.

"Have you and Chakotay..." I let my voice drift off. "What has he said
to you?"

"Nothing," she says defensively. "I told you everything."

"I don't think so. B'Elanna, are you even planning to come back to the
Alpha Quadrant?"

B'Elanna blinks, her eyes shifting back and forth.

"You're not coming back with us," I whisper. "When were you going to
say something?"

"I was going to... eventually."

"When? When you were on your way out of the airlock? Don't be crazy,
B'Elanna. You can't survive in the Delta Quadrant by yourself."

"I won't be by myself," she says.

Our eyes lock and she is the first to break off the eye contact.

"I wouldn't agree to stay so..." I stare at her, completely bewildered.
She looks apprehensive, licking her lips like she does when she is
nervous.

"You have to understand, Tom," she says. "There isn't going to be a
party when Voyager comes home. Janeway will be a hero and then when the
formalities and debriefings are through, they will march Chakotay, me,
and the others off to some penal colony."

I'm still in shock; in all of our years together, I had never imagined
B'Elanna capable of such duplicity, not had I ever thought she would be
afraid to face consequences.

"I don't want to be locked up," she whispers.

"That won't happen. Janeway won't allow it."

"Why would she care?" B'Elanna flares. "She only cares about herself."

"That's not true," I say, but silently, I agree; only a few months ago,
I had confronted the Captain, demanding answers, and wondering why she
put Voyager in unnecessary jeopardy.

"It's true. She will show off Seven and she will talk about all the
discoveries she made, about how she survived the Borg a million times,
and in the midst of all that pomp, she'll forget about the Maquis."

Where this stream of invective comes from baffles me; B'Elanna has been
less than fiery since her return from the Borg. She is more low-key.

There are times when I fear that if she gets much calmer, she will be
comatose. In some ways, I'm glad the anger is back; dealing with her
temper is something I can do. This other B'Elanna, the sedate B'Elanna,
is not someone I know.

"B'Elanna, I won't let you stay here."

"Is that really your decision?" she asks.

She has a point but I think she also knows that I won't leave her
behind and now that we are married, my obligation to B'Elanna Torres
has increased tenfold.

Damn, she's good.

"You're overreacting," I say firmly.

She looks at me doubtfully, "You say things you want to believe, Tom.
What happens when none of what you think will happen happens? Then
what?"

"I refuse to be pessimistic about our homecoming," I tell her. "I'll
talk to Janeway myself, find out what she thinks of the situation."

B'Elanna extends one hand, curling her fingers in and out. I am
transfixed on this simple movement, imagining those long fingers
against my cheek, my neck and then those nails, scratching my skin,
drawing blood.

"Or I'll talk to my father," I say suddenly.

B'Elanna's head whips again, banging against the ceiling.

"Ouch!" she exclaims.

This time, I lean forward and gently touch her head. She leans forward,
allowing me to see the slight bump already forming on her scalp. The
skin is bruised, already smarting from impact.

"I'll do whatever it takes," I tell her. "But you have to promise to
trust me. Trust Starfleet."

She gives me a look, one that usually would reduce me to a quivering
mass, but I shrug it off. I have faced that famous temper of hers so
many times that now it rolls off of me like water on oil.

"I'd sooner trust a Cardassian," she says.

"Oh that's great. You compare Starfleet to Cardassians. That's not a
fair, B'Elanna."

"If things were fair, we'd never have ended up in the Delta Quadrant,"
she swallows hard. "I would have finished what I had started and..."

"You can't be blamed for not being there for-"

"Easy for you to say. You've never seen anything through, have you?"

I glare at her, "Fine, stay here."

I get to my hands and knees and start crawling out. I'm almost a third
of the way to the conduit opening when I turn. B'Elanna is still
sitting there, her arms wrapped around her knees as she rocks back and
forth.

"You're wrong," I tell her. "I'm going to see this through."

---

It's easy to blame the Alpha Quadrant for what ails me.
I don't care about penal colonies honestly. I hear the food is bad, the
furniture is utilitarian and uncomfortable, and the clothes are itchy.

Sounds a bit like Voyager, except that you can actually go outside.
Putting my finger on the exact source of my discontent is more
difficult. I might as well throw a dart at a wall or spin a wheel or
something.

Chakotay says when it comes to me, the list of possible suspects is
endless.

"I think you just like being difficult," he tells me as we hike through
the Cascades. After my altercation with Tom in conduit thirteen, I took
a few minutes to compose myself, and then commed Chakotay. He had
suggested the holodeck and twenty minutes later, I am surrounded by
towering pines beneath a deep blue sky.

"That's not it," I object.

"I think it is," Chakotay pauses at a fork in the trail. "You are
afraid of going home but I don't think that's the only thing you're
afraid of."

"Are you a counselor now?"

"I'm your friend."

We turn right and for a few minutes, we don't speak.

"You do realize that the Captain will never allow you to stay here,"
Chakotay says.

"I wasn't planning on asking her."

"Hmmm... now that sounds like the B'Elanna I know," Chakotay points out
a rock ledge. He removes his pack and sits down; I follow suit. Our
feet dangle off the edge; below us is a cover of lush green pine.

Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the roar of a waterfall.

"Whose program is this?" I ask. "I've never seen it before."

"I think it's a default," Chakotay answers as he hands me a water
bottle. "I discovered it, um, when you were on the Borg cube."

I pause in mid-drink, "Tom says no one used the holodeck while we were
gone."

"That is almost exactly the truth," Chakotay says. "I came in here just
the one time to relax. I guess there are some things you want to do
with a good friend and hiking is one of them; I left almost
immediately."

I lean forward, mentally trying to calculate the distance between the
ground and me.

"The holodeck safeties are on," Chakotay says. "Jump if you'd like. The
most harm you can possibly do to yourself is a few scratches from the
tree branches."

I give him a sideways glance.

"I'm not trying to kill myself," I tell him.

"Sometimes it's hard to tell with you. One moment you're hurling
yourself through space at a hundred kilometers an hour and then the
next, you're volunteering for an insane mission on the Borg cube."

I look at him in surprise; most of the time, he kowtows to Janeway,
agreeing with everything she says as if she is never wrong. It makes me
furious when Chakotay acts like a Starfleet officer, with his strict
adherence to rules and regulations; it's almost as if he forgets he
was - is - Maquis.

"You didn't agree with the mission?" I ask.

"No," he shakes his head. "It made me feel better that you and Tuvok
were with her, but I still didn't feel good about it. I played out a
thousand different scenarios in my head about what could possibly go
wrong and it terrified me that we might not be able to get you back."

"You sound like Tom."

Chakotay offers me a cryptic smile. He reaches to the side and plucks
pine needles off of a tree. He hands them to me.

"He's a good man, B'Elanna," Chakotay says. "He doesn't deserve what
you do to him."

My fingers are sticky with sap and I turn my gaze downward in attempt
to avoid Chakotay's eyes.

"When did you and Tom, um, become so close?" I ask.

"Close?" Chakotay snorts. "I doubt that that would ever be possible
with Mr. Paris. You two are a lot alike, B'Elanna. I think that's the
problem."

"Excuse me?"

"You're both hard to reach. You both coat yourselves with a shiny
veneer, a personality that you want everyone else to see, but you never
let anyone see below the surface. Sometimes, I wonder how I can reach
out to either of you and with Tom, I think I had a breakthrough while
you were gone," Chakotay says. He breaks a stick into little pieces and
hurls them off into the distance. "For a few moments, I felt like he
actually trusted me. That, B'Elanna, was a good feeling."

"I can imagine," I tell Chakotay. "But I don't know what that has to do
with me."

"Yes, you do, because you're doing it again. You're putting up barriers
the way you always do, but there is a difference this time. You know
exactly what you are doing," he says. "I never thought of you as
manipulative, but that's exactly what you're doing to Tom and I'm
telling you, it has to stop."

"That's between Tom and me."

Chakotay heaves a sigh, "None of this has been easy for us, B'Elanna. I
suppose it was more straightforward when we, Maquis and Starfleet, were
united in a common goal - getting home. Now that we are so close, it's
easy to lose sight of what binds us together and I want to believe
something more holds us together than our original mission."

I fling the needles over the edge of the rock, but some stick
stubbornly to the palm of my hand. I pick the survivors off and then
rub my hand against the rock in an attempt to remove the sap.

"Here," Chakotay hands me the water bottle. "This might help."

I pour the water over my hand, some of it splashing on my clothes. A
breeze ruffles my hair and Chakotay glances upward.

"It's getting cooler," he says. "Want to keep going? We should reach
the summit before nightfall."

"It's a holodeck program, Chakotay," I say. "We can always set back the
chronometer."

"That's cheating," Chakotay is already on his feet, shouldering his
pack. "Are you coming?"

We make our way up the trail, pausing at junctions in the trail to
catch our breath or drink water.

"I see from holodeck logs you've been running your Klingon battle
simulations," Chakotay says casually during one such break.

"Are you monitoring my activities now?"

"I review all holodeck logs."

"Since when?"

Chakotay shrugs, "I like to know what the crew is up to."

"Even the, um, private programs?"

"It's not my intention to pry into the crew's privacy," he says
sharply.

"I should hope not," I answer. I brush past him to continue up on the
path.

"So when did you start re-enacting famous Klingon battles?" he calls
after me.

"You ought to know. You're the one who is reviewing holodeck logs."

"I imagine meditation doesn't work for you like it does for Tuvok."

I whirl around, nearly breathless.

"What does that mean?"

Chakotay leans his shoulder against a tree, crossing his arms against
his chest.

"Tuvok meditates to control his emotions," Chakotay says. "We all have
our own ways of escaping what bothers us, what haunts us and keeps us
awake at night."

"I'm certainly not escaping anything."

"I believe that you believe that you are not escaping," Chakotay's face
is grim. He takes a step towards me. "Kathryn and I have talked,
B'Elanna. I know what happened on the Borg cube. I know about the
assimilations."

My eyes widen and I take a step backwards. I miss my footing and
stumble over a root, landing painfully on my rear.

"Are you okay?" Chakotay asks solicitously.

"Fine," I hiss back.

"The Captain has said that she has difficulty accepting her role in
those assimilations," Chakotay goes on.

"I'm not listening."

Chakotay leans down and lifts my chin so that I'm staring directly into
his liquid brown eyes. It surprises me now to recall that eight years
ago, I would have done anything to find myself in such a position.

Instead of his love, I had to settle for friendship.

"You need help," Chakotay says. "You're not like Seven who was
programmed from an early age to assimilate. She didn't know anything
else really, barely could remember a life where she was not Borg. You
are different."

"I knew the risks when I went in," I answer. "I knew what might
happen."

"Just because you knew what might happen doesn't mean you were prepared
for it," Chakotay says. He releases my chin and stands upright
again. "Do you remember the first one?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Of course not," Chakotay says. "That's why you want to stay out here
in the Delta Quadrant where no one will ask you the questions you don't
want to answer."

I cover my eyes with my hand, "Chakotay, I'm tired."

"I know," he says; his voice, low and gentle, sends shivers down on my
spine. Damn me and my stupid reactions. I'm a married woman now, hell,
I was practically married before Tom and I exchanged vows. "B'Elanna,
the transition isn't easy. One day you're B'Elanna Torres, the next
you're Borg, and then it's back to B'Elanna again. Those kind of
changes don't occur without some kind of trauma."

He holds out a hand and I take it.

"You don't want to stay here, B'Elanna," he says. "You just want to be
comfortable and you're comfortable here, even though you hate
everything about the Delta Quadrant. You know it too, B'Elanna, so stop
saying that you aren't coming back with us, because you're lying to
everyone and to yourself."

I open my mouth to speak, but there is really nothing left to say;
Chakotay has said everything that is inside of me and it amazes me how
he can pull the exact words from inside of me and put them together
into sentences, complete with nouns and verbs.

"Let's go," he says. "We've been standing still too long."

He pulls me to my feet in one smooth gesture.

"There's another thing, B'Elanna. I see the divisions," Chakotay says
over his shoulder as he continues on. "It worries me to see people
separating into Maquis and Starfleet contingents. And it's not the
Starfleet officers who are doing it, B'Elanna; it's the Maquis.
Somehow, we Maquis manage to put distance between us and the people who
care about us the most; it's an unnatural talent, B'Elanna, and not one
that I'm particularly fond of. I expect that you, as a senior officer,
will not contribute to the segregation. We've gone through a lot to
become the crew we are today; I intend for it to stay that way."

"You're asking for a lot."

"I'm asking you to do your part," Chakotay says. "The rest is none of
your concern. I'm asking that you don't perpetuate the division."

"Are you afraid of going home?"

"Afraid? No. Apprehensive? That's more like it."

"Do you think they really will put us on trial?" I ask.

Chakotay stops in his tracks, waits a second, and then turns.

"Sounds like you plan on coming back to the Alpha Quadrant," he says.

"Tom won't stay here," I say petulantly.

"No," Chakotay says. "This time, he won't be the one running away."

This last comment really hurts; I have always thought of myself as
fairly strong, able to get through the toughest times. But I have to
see now that I'm the one who is falling apart inside. It's almost like
my insides have been shredded and my body is held together by the
thinnest of skins.

"Well?" I ask, choosing to ignore this last comment.

"I wouldn't be surprised if questions are asked," Chakotay says. "I
don't know what the consequences, if there are any, will be."

We are now just a meter apart from each other.

"For what it's worth," I tell him. "I don't regret my time with the
Maquis."

Chakotay quirks a smile, "I never thought you did. In fact, I think the
Maquis made you the person you are today."

"Don't forget the Borg."

Chakotay's smile broadens.

"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Isn't that right?" I
continue.

"Only if you let it out," Chakotay answers. "Otherwise it eats you up
inside until there is nothing left."

He reaches out and lightly touches my shoulder, "Come back, B'Elanna."

Then Chakotay turns and heads down the trail.

I stare after his retreating figure in wonderment. It startles me how
Chakotay can get to me. It's absolutely amazing the way he gets beneath
my skin and manages to find all of the right emotional buttons to
press. Once again, that wistful dream of mine, that little girl's
fantasy of Chakotay whisking me away into the sunset, tugs at my
memory. I smile to myself and then follow him down the path.

---

Janeway has called what she terms "an emergency brainstorming session."

In other words, it's a senior staff meeting, called at the last minute,
because she is panicking in the way only Janeway panics: calmly and
utterly unruffled.

She is leaning back in her chair, her fingers stroking her chin; she is
turned away from most of us, though she faces Chakotay at an angle.
B'Elanna sits across from me, doing her studious best to avoid my gaze.

I have spent the last two hours trying to track her down, only to find
out she was in the holodeck with Commander Chakotay.

I personally do not know what anyone can say or do with Chakotay for
more than ten minutes so it baffles me that B'Elanna spent so much time
with him.

I'm sitting in between Harry and Seven and then across the table,
between Chakotay and B'Elanna, sits the good Doctor. Tuvok remains
standing, which makes me think that this will be a relatively short
meeting; for that small concession, I would be exceedingly happy
because I want to talk to B'Elanna desperately.

"I have noticed," Janeway begins, her voice scratchy with emotion, "a
certain tension between some members of our crew."

B'Elanna shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Chakotay looks down at his
fingers. For myself, I love Janeway's euphemism for the growing dislike
between Starfleet and Maquis.

"I want you all to be clear on this," Janeway rotates her chair so she
is now facing us, both elbows on the table as she surveys each of us in
turn. "We are one crew and we will remain so. Going home changes
nothing."

"If you are referring to the coldness between Starfleet and Maquis,"
the Doctor began. "The divisions have always been there, only they are
more prominent now."

"I'm aware of that, Doctor, which is why I admonish you all to do your
best to avoid these types of... divisions," Janeway says. "I expect you
all to remain supportive of each other. Dismissed."

Chakotay is immediately out of his side and by his captain's chair. She
turns her chair towards the window, so Chakotay has to turn his back to
us so he can speak to her.

"Hey, Tom, if you aren't busy, want to meet in the holodeck?" Harry
asks me in a low voice.

My eyes are fixed on B'Elanna, "Maybe another time. I've got something
to fix."

"The car? The Flyer?"

"No," I nod towards B'Elanna. "Something infinitely more important."

Out in the corridor, I catch up to B'Elanna. She looks at me and her
gaze is slightly cannibalistic; this is a good sign -- I feel the need
to devour her myself.

"We need to talk," I tell her, clutching her forearm in case my Klingon
darling takes it into her head to hide in another EPS conduit.

B'Elanna's face softens just a bit.

"I know," she says. "Uh, my quarters?"

At least I know I'm not in the doghouse anymore. I don't know what she
did in the holodeck for two hours, but it seems to have a positive
effect on her; B'Elanna no longer looks as if she is going to rip my
larynx out if I try to speak.

Once in her quarters, B'Elanna strips off her uniform jacket, tossing
it carelessly across the back of the sofa.

"One thing I'm not going to miss when we get back are these uniforms,"
she says casually.

"So you've changed your mind," I say. "About staying here in the Delta
Quadrant."

B'Elanna curls up on the sofa and pats the seat next to her. I accept
the invitation and lean back against the sofa, not quite touching her.

"I suppose that was a foolish idea," she says.

"No, it wasn't. I think you just have some things you need to work out
and it's easier here where you don't have the baggage that you have in
the Alpha Quadrant."

"Tom," B'Elanna knits her fingers together. "I was wrong, I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize," I say. "What were you doing in the
holodeck?"

"Hiking," she answers. "Chakotay found this old program of a hiking
trail back on Earth. It was invigorating."

"Ah," I look at her; damn if she doesn't look serene. I feel a slight
tinge of jealousy because I have never put that look on B'Elanna's
face. Chakotay, on the other hand, yields this enormous influence over
her and he manages to bring her a sense of inner peace that I cannot.

It's hard to compete with that kind of power. He makes her happy and I,
well, I just make her mad. Ying and yang, Chakotay and I are. Between
us, we keep B'Elanna in a constant state of flux. More than anything, I
want that to change. I want to be the calming influence in her life
just as I am the irritant.

"We talked," B'Elanna says.

I lean my head back, focusing on the ceiling. Of course she talked to
Chakotay, she always does. The two of us, B'Elanna and I, banter back
and forth, but never do we truly talk to each other. I have Harry and
she has Chakotay.

B'Elanna gets on her knees as she turns to face me. She leans forward,
her hand cold against my cheek.

"I should have been talking to you, Tom," she says very softly. My eyes
fly open.

"What?" I croak. If I weren't already sitting, I would have fallen over.

"There are things I haven't told you," she says. "About my time with
the Borg..."

"I'm listening."

B'Elanna looks down at her hands, "This isn't easy for me, Tom, and I
don't know where to begin. I just know that I don't want to run away.
Not this time."

I fumble for her hand, "Take your time, okay?"

"You might hate me when I tell you."

"I don't think that could happen."

"It's worse than you think."

"It could be, but then again, it might not be."

We exchange a smile and then she gets up off the couch, still holding
my hand. She leads me into the bedroom, that enigmatic smile crossing
her lips as she glances over her shoulder back at me.
She pulls back the covers and then pushes me down.

"B'Elanna," I say. For once, physical intimacy isn't the answer; I want
to talk.

"Shhh," she puts her finger to her lips. I lay back against the
cushions as she curls up next to me, pulling the blankets over us. "I
want to tell you something."

I wrap my arm around her and she rests her head on my chest.

"When I was Borg, I assimilated people," she says very slowly. My grip
on her body tightens a bit and she presses herself closer to me. "Shhh,
Tom. Don't say anything, okay?"

"All right."

"I remember," B'Elanna says. "I wake up in the middle of night because
I think I'm in mid-assimilation. Either I'm getting assimilating or I'm
assimilating someone else."

"Oh B'Elanna."

"There are one hundred and eighty-seven steps in the assimilation
process," B'Elanna whispers. "The first step is the sedation of the
victim. The second step involves the injection of nanoprobes into the
blood stream, and in the third step, you begin the process of
networking the new drone's brain into the neuromatrix."

She pauses, breathing deeply, "It goes on like that, Tom, and
sometimes, I get on stuck on a step, say step ninety-two, which is, um,
the enhancement of vision -- you know, the ocular implant? I messed that
up, I think, a few times. I was never, um, um, good at that step."

"B'Elanna, it's all right."

Her fingers rub the fabric of my jacket; she raises herself up on an
elbow and looks down at me.

"Are you warm? Do you want to take off your jacket?"

I sit up and shrug out of the jacket. B'Elanna doesn't look at me as
she lies back down, her eyes focused on the ceiling. I lay back down
next to her, careful not to touch her.

"I think I assimilated a thousand people," she says. "I asked Tuvok
once. I said to him 'how many?' and he couldn't answer. He told me it
was illogical to try and guess since the number would be inaccurate.
But I have to know, Tom, I have to."

"Is that why you're angry with Janeway?" I ask softly. "Is this why you
don't trust her?"

"What?"

"Because she volunteered herself for this mission and you went with
her, thinking it was the loyal thing to do and then you found yourself
in a position that compromised your principles."

B'Elanna inhales deeply, "I became the thing I hate the most, Tom.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see that Borg face of mine staring
back or I look at Seven and I remember something awful and I'm cold. So
cold, Tom."

"It's all right," I tell her as she rolls back into my arms.

"There's more, Tom," she swallows hard. "When I walk the halls of
Voyager, I feel like there just might be a drone around every corner.
Sometimes I hear their voices in my head or I hear screams of the
victims. I can't get away from it."

I squeeze her hand, "I'm glad you're finally telling me."

"I don't feel better. I thought I would but I don't."

"It's going to take a while, B'Elanna, but I'm glad you decided to tell
me. We'll work it out, okay?"

She cuddles closer and I revel in the softness of her, relishing that I
can hold her in my arms, and feel her warm breath against my cheek.

During the time she was gone, I felt as my right arm had been ripped
off. With B'Elanna, I am complete.

What she doesn't know is that I would not have left her behind. If she
had truly decided to stay in the Delta Quadrant, running from the
demons in the Alpha Quadrant, my choice was clear: I would have stayed
also.

---

Janeway and Chakotay's admonishments aside, the segregation between
Maquis and Starfleet continues. Somehow, it just happens.

The duty assignments are given out arbitrarily, yet I notice the Maquis
take to the second level of engineering while the Starfleet engineers
stay on the first level. In one thing, the lines blur and they are
united: uniformly, they all stay out of my way.

I stand in front of the warp core, hands on hips, surveying the
situation. The right thing to do -- what the captain and Chakotay would
want me to do -- is to break up the teams and shift people around.

But I can't lie -- my loyalties lie with the Maquis. Once a Maquis,
always a Maquis, and we know that whatever trials are ahead of us in
the Alpha Quadrant, we Maquis will stick together while pompous
Starfleet asses rack us for crimes committed seven years ago.

I imagine claiming "principle of the matter" is not an acceptable
defense strategy, so we might as well leave our principles en masse in
the Delta Quadrant.

It's not that we Maquis are afraid of the consequences, it's just we
need to solidify our ties with those who will stand by us, no matter
what. Why try to work on a relationship when you know that the other
person won't give you the time of day once D-Day (as I've started to
think of our return to the Alpha Quadrant) arrives.

"Vorik," I approach the Vulcan. "How are things going?"

"I have finished realigning the plasma manifolds," he says. "They
should be operating at peak efficiency now."

"Good job," I look over his work. As usual, Vorik's penchant for
perfectionism shows clearly. "Do you mind helping Janus-"

I pause as trepidation crosses Vorik's face. I grab his shoulder and
propel him into a quiet section of Engineering, well away from the
others.

"Is there a problem?" I ask sharply.

"I had intended to work with Lieutenant Carey on the-"

"Scratch that," I tell him fiercely. "Joe can handle the job himself.
He doesn't need you to help run a diagnostic on isolinear chips. A
first year could do it alone. I want you to help Janus realign the
relays. Is that clear?"

Vorik nods and I release his shoulders. I let my breath out slowly, my
eyes still on Vorik's face.

"I know what's going on," I tell him softly. "Don't think I don't see
it and I know what everyone's thinking. We're going home and
eventually, we're going to go our own ways, but that's in a few days.
Right now, we're still on Voyager and we're still one crew. Do you
understand?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

I turn to look back at Engineering; action has all but stopped and most
eyes are turned to me. I can see the challenge unspoken in their
expressions and I know they are daring me to say something, but I find
that I cannot. Everyone might as well know that I too want to run in
the opposite direction and get as far away from Starfleet as I possibly
can.

"Back to work, everyone!" I call out. I look back at Vorik. At least I
won't have to lie to Janeway; I did try, only my heart wasn't in the
effort -- but she does not need to know that.

"Do not let me down, Vorik."

He nods and heads to the second level to work with Janus. I lean back
against the wall and watch his progress. Janus looks visibly disturbed
at Vorik's arrival and voices rise in dismay as Vorik begins to work.

After a few minutes, Janus joins in.

The problem is, I can't walk the talk. I understand instinctively what
Janeway is saying and I know that we need to remain one crew and not
promote separate factions; it's just that my heart belongs firmly with
the Maquis. I never wanted to wear a Starfleet uniform and even now,
sometimes I look at myself in the mirror, staring at that mustard
yellow and black fashion faux pas and cringe.

It was much better on the Borg cube.

You didn't form alliances nor did you have thoughts. You just were. The
Queen dictated, you listened, and not for a moment, did you feel
remorse or pity for your actions.

There are advantages to being a drone.

No wonder Seven kept trying to form her own little collectives when she
first came on Voyager.

I brush my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear, before
joining Nicoletti.

Janeway lives in some kind of Utopia, a Borg kind of world, I think.
She can spout philosophy about staying together, but guess what? I
don't buy it. Not for a single minute. It's not worth expending the
energy on something I don't believe in and never have I believed in
Starfleet or anything remotely associated with that stuffy
establishment.

I am Maquis.

Don't try to tell me that Starfleet sees anything about me other than
that one fact.

And don't try to convince me Starfleet cares because it doesn't. When
it comes to the Maquis, Starfleet ranks us somewhere below the common
terrorist but slightly above the Genoa firefly.

I guess it's always good to know where you stand.

---

We slip into the Alpha Quadrant when most onboard Voyager are still
sleeping. I only notice because I'm at the helm and the senior staff,
with the exception of the Doctor, is on the Bridge.

"We're being hailed," Harry tells the Captain.

Janeway is on her feet, "On screen."

The enormous face of one Admiral Rodney McArthur fills the screen. If
he sits any closer to his viewscreen, we might be able to see his pores.

"Welcome home, Captain," the Admiral says.

"It's good to be back," she answers.

"Preparations have been made for your arrival at Starbase 87," the
Admiral says.

"Good," Janeway says. "We should be there in about eight hours."

"It's good to see you again, Kathryn," the Admiral continues. He looks
around the Bridge, his gaze sweeping over each one of us. "We have a
lot to discuss when you get to the Starbase."

"I look forward to it."

"Until then," the Admiral bestows a smile upon the Captain; I'll bet he
was a real heartbreaker, say, fifty years ago. The viewscreen goes
blank and is immediately replaced by the blue and white
Federation/Starfleet logo.

"Now that's a sight for sore eyes," Harry declares. "Real proof that we
are finally home."

"It doesn't feel any different than the Delta Quadrant," B'Elanna says.

I can extrapolate, from the tone of her voice, exactly the way she is
standing, shoulders back and stiff, arms crossed stubbornly across her
chest.

"Except that the star maps in our database actually match up with a
known sector?" Harry offers.

"It's like a birthday," B'Elanna argues back. "You officially get a
year older on a specific day but it doesn't feel any different than the
previous day or even the day before that."

"Your comparison is flawed. The Alpha Quadrant and birthdays have
nothing in common," Seven interjects.

"I'm just saying, I don't feel any more at home in the Alpha Quadrant
than I did in the Delta Quadrant. Is that all right with you?" B'Elanna
is spitting fire now.

"Seven, Lieutenant," Janeway gets up from her chair, but there is a
smile in her voice.

My wife bristles.

My wife.

It's odd. We have been married for three days now yet this is the first
time I have actually referred -- even if only in my thoughts -- to
B'Elanna as my wife. And like so many other things, the transition from
girlfriend to wife was so subtle, I never even noticed.

B'Elanna's right; it should have felt different when we crossed from
Delta to Alpha. There should have been fireworks or, I don't know, but
there should have been something. Instead there is nothing.

Janeway however looks like a cat that just swallowed the last bit of
catnip left in the galaxy. If her smile gets any wider, her ears are
going to have to move back to make room.

Chakotay looks tense, unbelievably tense. In some ways, he looks like
the man I remember from five months ago, the one who couldn't make up
his mind about what to do about the Borg.

I have to cut him slack though; I wouldn't have known what to do in
that situation.

If ever I was face to face with the Borg Queen, I think my first
instinct would be to hop into the Delta Flyer and hope against hopes
that I could outrun the cube. And then, when they did finally catch up
to me, I would hope that assimilation would be relatively painless.

I know now, after talking to B'Elanna, that assimilation is not
painless and that even after de-assimilation, the pain lingers, carried
on the backs of nanoprobes still stubbornly flowing through her blood.

"Do you think they have a welcome party for us?" Harry asks.
Harry would be the one to ask. Sometimes, I want to smack my friend to
try to get some of that naivete out of his head.

"I wouldn't expect so," Chakotay responds even before Janeway's lips
part. Janeway's head whirls around and she looks at Chakotay sternly;
to his credit, he does not wilt.

"I would think there would be some kind of fanfare," the Doctor says. I
have no doubt that the Doctor has already prepared some kind of slide
show for the Alpha Quadrant; left to his own devices, he would
certainly tour the galaxy, showing off indigenous species of flora and
fauna from the Delta Quadrant. Every presentation, of course, would
feature a long-winded speech filled with more adjectives and adverbs
than necessary. "After all, we have been gone for seven years. Surely
there would be some interest in our return."

"Too much interest, if you ask me," Chakotay mutters.

B'Elanna catches that; she is quick, my wife is.

"What do you mean?" B'Elanna demands.

"Now, Lieutenant," Tuvok says.

"No, I want answers," B'Elanna says. "Is there something we should
know? Captain?"

Janeway's eyes are hard; diamonds couldn't cut the glassy surface of
her expression.

"Captain?" B'Elanna says again.

There is utter silence on the Bridge; we are all waiting with bated
breath.

"If you're concerned about what Starfleet intends to do with us,"
B'Elanna says, "you don't need to be. We already know so it's no use
saying nothing at all."

Janeway clears her throat. Seven tilts her head questioningly;
unfortunately, the Doctor has yet to cover body language with her and
so, she remains in the dark, unversed in the subtleties of silent
communication.

"That's enough, Lieutenant," Janeway says sharply.

Janeway's tone suffocates all conversation on the Bridge. B'Elanna
bends her dark head over her console and Chakotay moves uncomfortably
in his seat. Even the Doctor seems perturbed though I doubt it's
because of anything B'Elanna might have said.

So we enter the Alpha Quadrant just as we left it: at odds with each
other.

---

Starbase 87 hangs in space, tilting at an awkward sixty-degree angle,
some of its decks held together by force fields. Some of its
communication array towers are bent or broken off completely.

Construction crews in EVA suits are tethered to various spots on the
station, bouncing off of the panels as they conduct repairs.

It is not the most inviting place I've ever seen. Even the Borg cube
looks like the lap of luxury in comparison.

The minute Tom pilots the ship smoothly into the docking bay, I flee
from the Bridge, not waiting for Janeway's dismissal. At this
particular point, I am beyond reprimands.

Instead, I retreat to the holodeck, the quietest place on Voyager and
it isn't long before Tom joins me.

"I thought you might be here," he says.

Once again, I'm running the beach program. Today, there is a light wind
blowing through the palm trees. In the distance, we can make out the
faint shimmers of a sailboat gliding across the seemingly smooth
surface of the water. I have picked late evening so I can watch what I
believe is my last sunset as a free woman.

I am still in my uniform, but have stripped off my shoes and socks,
letting my toes dig into the sand.

"Are you all right?" Tom asks, sitting on the lawn chair directly
behind me. "I was worried when you stormed off the Bridge like that."

"She was lying," I answer, my gaze focused straight ahead. "I despise
that."

"What do you want her to say? That yes, there will be a special
committee working on an extra special homecoming for the Maquis?"

"If that's the truth, then yes, that's what I want her to say."

"Is this another pity party, B'Elanna? Because I'm getting tired of
this."

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," I tell him. "I just want whatever
is going to happen. I'm here now even though I don't want to be and if
I'm going to prison, I want them to just tell me. I want Janeway to
tell me. I think she owes me that much."

I don't turn around, but I can imagine Tom leaning forward, his
forearms on his knees, and his fingers knit together in nervousness.

"Have you talked to the Doctor lately?" he asks softly.

"I am not suffering from post-traumatic stress or whatever that is," I
shoot back.

"I think you are," Tom says. "You need medical help."

"I don't think so," I get to my feet, rubbing the sand off of my pants
as I rise.

Tom catches my arm and pulls me down on to the chair next to him.

"Chakotay said as much, Tom. Said that Starfleet hasn't forgotten; that
they are just waiting at the airlock for us."

Tom rubs my shoulders, easing the tension out of them, "And if it's
true?"

"I don't know," I say. "I guess it doesn't matter, does it? It was only
a matter of time. This could have happened anytime, ten years ago or
today. Except it's much worse today, much worse."

"You don't know for sure what's going to happen."

I turn to smile at him, putting my fingers to his lips, and then
tracing the strong curve of his jaw.

"I'll miss you," I whisper. His hand tightens on my shoulder.

"I suppose I can give you tips about New Zealand," he says. "You know,
give you the ins and outs of the place."

"That would be nice," I answer.

"It's not so bad," he says. "Food's terrible though."

"That's what I hear."

The sun is now a thin sliver in the distance, lavender blending into a
periwinkle sky tinged with gold.

"You can have the house ready when I get back," I tell him. "Ten,
twenty years, you should have it perfect."

Tom holds my hand in his; his sweaty palms are clammy against mine.

"It better not be that long," his voice is very low. "I know we haven't
quite seen eye to eye for the last few weeks, but I want you to know
that I will do everything I can if, and I say if, you do end up in
prison."

I touch his cheek with my palm and somehow, he gathers me into his arms
and we lay back down, my cheek against his chest.

I love moments like this when all is silent with the exception of our
breathing and our hearts. Sometimes, I try to match my breath with his,
thinking that this simple act of living can be another way of binding
us closer together.

His fingers run through my hair, his nose just above my head.

I tighten my hold on his shoulder, thinking that the might be the last
time we're together and then I'm suddenly and inexplicably furious -- if
we had stayed in the Delta Quadrant, we would not be in this situation,
facing the very real possibility of saying good-bye.

We fall asleep like this, our bodies curled together.

When I wake, the holodeck is pitch dark.

"Tom?" I whisper.

"What is it?" his voice is groggy, still heavy with sleep.

"It's...," I look around. "Dark. Very dark."

"It's nothing, B'Elanna," he says. "It's just before dawn."

"How do you know?"

"They say that the darkest hour is just before the sun rises again," he
mumbles.

I shift my weight so I'm lying almost completely on top of him. Our
lips meet hungrily and his hands are suddenly everywhere as are mine.

We don't speak as our bodies mesh together, as he sinks deeply into me,
his mouth nipping at my cheek. My hands rest on the small of his back
as I inhale, memorizing his scent, the way his body fits mine so
perfectly, and of course, the way his breath blows warm against my skin.

The sun comes up and we lie there, our hands intertwined, still not
speaking.

At some point, Tom sits up, gets dressed and then holds his hand out to
me. I understand instinctively and again, he grabs me by the waist.

"Whatever happens," he says. "It doesn't matter. I'll wait for you."

I touch his cheek gently, "I know."

We are still sticky with each other and I can smell myself on his skin.

When we part ways at the holodeck door, I return to my quarters but I
am reluctant to wash his scent off of me.

I shed my Starfleet uniform on the floor, kicking it out of the way as
I slip out of bra and panties on my way into the bathroom. I activate
the sonic shower, leaning against the wall, barely feeling the gentle
pulses against my skin.

When I emerge, I don't look at my discarded clothes, but rather head to
the closet and pull out the brown-red tunic and brown pants I discarded
seven years ago.

I look in the mirror, hoping to see some of Starfleet left in me, but I
have rejected that persona as easily as my now despised uniform.

I am ready when Chakotay appears at my door. Like me, he is no longer
wearing his Starfleet uniform.

"Ready?" he asks in a low voice.

"Yes," I answer. And with those whom we had formerly called friends,
still in their Starfleet uniforms, watching, Chakotay and I leave
Voyager.

---

continued in the second story in the Lines in The Sand universe 'Night'