The BLTS Archive  The Rose Garden
by Ananke (aeteananke@gmail.com)

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Published: 08-19-02 - Updated: 08-19-02

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It's been a while, Chakotay.

Your communications blackouts do damage, you know. At times I find
myself afraid, lost in them. No black hole ever exerted quite as much
force.

Do you care? Or are you so far gone into your pedantic, planet bound
civilian life that the mere mention of astrophysics...bad memories,
surely...drives you to seclude yourself away? I know even more of
myself than you after all these years, an unusual position for me.

I like to pretend to still know you. In all truth, I can't claim
expertise on either of you anymore. I can make only the sketchiest
suppositions about your lives...civilian, obviously. A certain grace
has replaced the reserved formality you both held, that I tried to
coax away so ineffectually. I have your last holo here on my desk,
months old. You smile at me, fingers entwining the simple wedding
bands.

You both smile, and we need not pretend it is anything but artificial
affection.

Once, a very long time ago, I do believe you, at least, cared. Time,
as Miral says, is a cruel bitch. Life as well. So young and
rebellious, she curses so eloquently, and understands so little.
Rather like B'Elanna, long ago.

As I remember, you dislike talking about them. Fine. Paris does as
well. As he explains it, opening the wounds long enough to try leaves
him lost as well. Lost and angry. For Miral's sake, he really doesn't
want to hurt either of you. So he stays quiet and helpless, flies off
his frustrations. He drinks as well.

I envy him the escape.

Were you aware that the Captain was once the ship's alcoholic?

Of course you were. You absorbed everything, with your unfathomable
staring and silences. You had to note the ration loopholes, the empty
glasses in the ready room. Some peculiar sense of command dignity kept
me in control unless by myself, and some amusingly antiquated sense of
honor kept you out of my face. Any other XO would have raked a
commanding officer across hot coals for the weakness.

Then again, perhaps that was what I subconsciously wanted.

I was starving for your attentions, Chakotay. Don't pretend honor kept
you at bay in that particular case. Honor didn't keep you from
plundering another man's salvation.

You always had her, you know. I watched, painfully, those initial
months out there, the initial years. She was a deprived child,
emotionally raw and practically pleading for you in every way but the
direct. You pushed her away, pummeled her with your far and between
bursts of fraternal, paternal devotions. I pitied her, even as I
pitied you for completely missing...no, deliberately shunning...the
best opportunity for love and happiness anyone could possibly have
hoped for in our situation.

Do I contradict myself? Adjust. I haven't made a point of altering
myself over the years. You should be used to it.

And so it goes. The initial years, the initial lack of
consummation...only in part command distance, in part personal
sacrifice. I held the doors open to your happiness.

Torres eventually got tired of the fruitless waiting and slammed those
doors for me, moved on to another unlikely one, one as needy as she in
his own way, as fragile of ego and temper. I should have been
relieved, I suppose, overjoyed at the omen of happiness the union
brought to Voyager, at the moral freedom it should have offered me.

You had to fancy the second daughter of my soul, did you not?

Oh, I did love Seven of Nine, so much. I saw the relationship forming
long before either of you could have admitted it to yourselves. I
rarely put store in religion, but I found myself bent in a ball
praying for her more than once. And for myself. You see, the command
distance had finally begun to chafe by that point. With all of my
matchmaking ducks in a row, my crew reasonably settled and content in
their Deltan exile, I no longer had any excuse to push my own problems
away.

I ached to be loved, Chakotay, ached with an intensity I had never
felt before. I came to feel a certain burning hatred for you...for the
walls you had erected seemingly overnight, for the bridges you had
burned. In the beginning, you and I were more than colleagues, if less
than lovers. We had friendship, ballast, connection. By that seventh
year we had nothing of the sort. Perhaps I spent too much time in my
holoprogrammes, perhaps I became too much of a pessimist to suit your
company...I remain uncertain. I only know that our traditional meals
together became more chore than pleasure for both of us, and we made
no attempt to socialize between. You had Seven, for the wistful
watching, and Torres for friendship. Odd, how the more she received
from life, the more she needed from you...you were her confidant in
all matters Paris, her spiritual counselor, her link to a distant
Maquis past I suspect you both found difficult to remember with any
clarity, much less honor.

I came to feel a certain burning hatred for you both when Tom stepped
into my ready room not long after our return from Quarra, medical
floppy in one hand, an odd little stuffed toy in the other. I seated
him, quickly, and paced, recognizing the wilted defeat in his eyes, a
defeat I had spent years battering away at. He spoke, monotonously at
first, then with increasing fervor, anger, fist balling about the
little toy. The floppy went into my terminal and we watched it
together, he putting his medical training to ironic use and pointing
out the nuances to me. DNA strands, genetic encoding, inherited
traits. He actually cried when he remarked that the baby could never
have blue eyes. I didn't understand the importance, of course, put it
down to Klingonese genetics, but his next few words cleared the matter
up. B'Elanna, he said, had been caught looking at fetal manipulations
again. He hadn't understood why it was still so important to her, an
obsession, until the Doctor had threatened to call security unless she
explained herself, completely.

Tom broke off on the story at that point, staring in bafflement at the
toy, and I had to coax him on. He finished, reluctantly, tonelessly.
"I wanted to give this to Baby," he explained. "It's Paris family 
tradition, you see, one of the few I've actually managed to keep to.
It has a bonding matrix, weird alien thing, but it recognizes the
family DNA coding...failsafe inheritance gift. Word has it that the
only reason Dad didn't toss me out on the stoop is the fact that the
toy didn't reject me, he had to accept that I was his." My pilot
laughed then, that broken laugh I had heard and hated so often when
he'd first come aboard. Gradually, he quieted down, and met my eyes,
cold anger settling in the depths of the beautiful gaze. "I'm not my
father." His fingers pointed out the final divergent strands, the
perfect match your DNA and Torres' made, the perfect copy of it found
on Miral's chart. He leaned back, shoulders squared, tones calmed,
even. "Well, I don't believe in stoop babies. It just hurts like hell
that Baby'll never have this toy. Even Dad wasn't going to take that
little bit of honor from me. Your fucking Maquis had no right."

My fucking Maquis.

I could say something witty and vicious now, but I didn't then, and
I've come too far without looking back to believe in second chances.

We sat in silence, Paris and I, for a good hour or more. There were a
hundred questions I perhaps should have asked, a hundred issues to
cover. I could have made it a medical ethics issue, a security issue,
had Torres trussed up and on her toes in the brig as punishment, but I
chose not to. I could have made it a matter of public knowledge, of
example, stripped away her dignity and assuaged whatever vindictive
longings Tom must have had, though he would never have admitted them,
not our good, reformed Paris. I could have assuaged my own pangs of
fury and betrayal...but in the end, it was never about the Doctor, or
Torres, or Paris, or even the Captain.

Only you, the quiet man.

I despise that self-sufficient reserve. I suppose it must allow for a
lot in the way of emotional protection, and I do grant you admiration
for the wisdom of it.

One day I may find the audacity to tell you so personally, instead of
in logs voiced while staring at an outdated holo of you. One day I may
send these logs to you, out there on your frontier planet...so much to
say, to tell.

I dream of you, you must realize. Not your traditional
nightmares...once, a few years ago, I got it into my head to actually
give a damn about what had become of you, and researched your home of
choice. The travel vids show a plains area, grassy slopes,
wildflowers, canyons, oddly undeveloped coastline. Your home, I
understand, plays parlor to many varieties of thornless rose. Gothic,
really. At times I imagine what it must be like for you, isolated from
our modern artificiality, spending your days in woven fiber, chasing
Seven and your honey-haired, blue-eyed child through the fields.

At times I think you undeserving of the honor.

You don't know about Miral, I'm given to understand. Nor does she, for
that matter. Tom Paris has been a driving force in her young, glorious
life since day one, the perfect father. I can even say that he finds
joy in the position, though at times there is perhaps a sadness in his
eyes...a sadness that there has never been a real daughter to give
that toy to. It sits in a crate in my attic right now. He gave it to
me thinking to spare himself some pain, but if only...

Can you ever realize how much joy you've drained from all of us,
Chakotay, drained and bottled up, cast into your own existence? Do you
never wake in the morning, watch Seven stir, listen to the pitter pat
of that golden child's feet...think of how grotesquely blessed you are
to have them, to have your simple joys? Do you never feel undeserving
of them, never remember the fiery half-Klingon who did naught but love
you and has never stopped living with her dishonor, never remember the
angry con who came to worship you as equal parts enemy and mentor,
never remember...

My fucking Maquis, my quiet man.

Perhaps your silences and that funny, disaffectionate smile say more
than any of us care to know.

Oh, I don't blame you, per se. I still have that stubborn command
streak. Politically, I was always responsible for your choices.
Personally...I chose our lives, thread by thread. Had I made an effort
early on, had I not played officer and lady, had I...

What use is culpability?

It-s been a while, Chakotay. A very long, empty while.

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The End

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"Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not
take Towards the door we never opened  Into the rose-garden. My words
echo Thus, in your mind."

 - T.S. Eliot
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