The BLTS Archive- Revisions
#4: The Wine of Promise
by Ellen Milholland (pretyclose@aol.com)

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Archiving: ASC Archives are fine, anyone else, get my approval first.

Notes: Part four of my "Revisions" series. Reading the first three
might help this to make a *bit* more sense.

For my lovely beta readers who have given me such fantastic support
with this series. Thanks you guys. :)

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"You came to me like wine comes to this mouth
Grown tired of water all the time
You quench my heart
And you quench my mind."

-"Two Step," Dave Matthews Band
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DAY 121
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I don't know how he does this to me.

It's a strange feeling, for me. I'm used to knowing why things happen,
how things happen. Especially inside myself. I've always been that
way, tried not to let emotions get in the way of good judgment.

But this simply defies common sense.

I've always thought myself to be a fairly intelligent woman. Some have
been so brazen as to call me brilliant, but I try to accept that with
a polite smile and not let it go to my head. I can think of few things
more aggravating than a Starfleet captain with an ego the size of a
small sector.

So when someone tells me that I'm the most intelligent woman that
they've ever met, of course, I'm either going to simply ignore it, or
I'm going to argue with them.

Then what's keeping me from doing that now?

He looks at me with wide eyes, cloudy and darkened. By what, I
couldn't tell you. Exhaustion, perhaps. His thumb is stroking the back
of my hand in gentle, feather-light circles, and I find it very hard
to come up with coherent phrases to convey my less-than-coherent
thoughts.

"Tom," I say, and it comes out on a breath.

"Don't argue, Kathryn. Please. I shouldn't have said anything. . . I'm
sorry."

I open my eyes, and raise my head from the back of the couch. "Don't
ever say you're sorry for something like that."

He shrugs. "It just seemed to make you uncomfortable. . . That wasn't
what I was trying to do, you know."

"Yes," I say, settling back again, but keeping my eyes down, on our
hands, mesmerized by the movement of his soft skin over my own. "I do
know. It's just. . ."

"Shh. It's not important."

I look up at him, and he's almost smiling. "You're right," I say
softly.

"So," he says, after a pause that isn't uncomfortable, "What have you
been up to lately?"

"The usual. Mostly, just working to get her up and running again."

"It's lonely without the main computer."

I smile, and it's a wonderful, rare feeling. "Yes, I know what you
mean. You cannot imagine how much I'd love to hear some Beethoven
right now."

He smiles at me, and hums a few bars, slightly off-key.

"Fur Elise. . ." I say, and there's almost a plea in the tone, "One of
the most beautiful pieces of music ever written. . ."

"I don't know. . ."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "What do you mean?"

"Always been more of a Mendelssohn fan, myself," he says, smiling
broadly.

I laugh. Before this, I never knew how amazing it could feel simply to
laugh. But then again, the past months have changed me, and there's no
turning back now. I am not the Kathryn Janeway of four months ago, and
he is not the Tom Paris of four months ago, and we are not the people
who left on this trip five years ago. We are not those people.

Or perhaps we are not the people we have become.

And it occurs to me yet again that I am making no sense whatsoever.

"Yes, Mendelssohn is somewhere at the top of my list," I assure him.

"Oh good, or that might throw a wrench into our relationship."

There is a moment of deathly silence. "Well - I mean. . ." he begins,
stammering.

"Don't," I say, and there's a note of warning in my voice. "No, we
have to talk about this."

He lets out a resigned sigh. "I know." He stands, slowly, and I'm
aching in the wake of his warmth.

*Get a hold of yourself, Kathryn,* I tell myself sternly.

He heads over to the box by my bed, and he pulls out two sealed
bottles of water and two rationing bars. From here, I can see that his
nose wrinkles as he looks at the bars, but he does not complain, just
shrugs a little to himself, and turns back around. He sets the food on
the upturned box that serves a coffee table now.

He sits back down next to me, but he leaves space between us this
time. Before, our legs touched just a little, and our arms and hands,
too, of course. Now, there's definite space between us, and I know
it's intentional, on both our parts.

He offers me one of the water bottles, and I take it, popping the seal
with my teeth. Not the most attractive thing to do, I know, but
effective, and no one seems to care about manners now. He mimics my
action. All I can hear is the sound of my heart beating in my ears.

Look at this. Kathryn Janeway, getting flustered. This is a rare
event.

"You want to talk," he says, and it's a statement, not a question.

"Don't we need to?"

He nods, and takes a sip of his water. "I didn't mean to call it a
relationship. I mean. . ."

Damn. He's as unnerved as I am. We're like two adolescents.

"I know what you meant."

He nods, and I hope my voice didn't sound as harsh as I think it did.
"Good. I'm glad."

"Oh, Tom," I say, and my voice comes out on a sigh. "I'm not sure
what's happening."

"Me, neither, Kathryn. I haven't been sure ever since this," he
motions between us, "started."

I look up at him, but he's looking down, studying the fabric of his
pants, running his hand over the fabric, nervously flattening the
wrinkles. My hand finds his, and it instantly stills. I draw his hand
between us, entwining my fingers in his, and he takes a deep breath.

"What *have* we started, Tom?"

"I don't know."

"This isn't what I set out for."

Almost immediately, he's trying to pull his hand away, and he's
saying, "I'm sorry. . . I didn't mean to overstep any boundaries or
anything. . ."

But I hold fast to his hand, and I look hard into his face until he
meets my eyes. There is apprehension there, and some fear. I'm not
sure what he's afraid of, but I'm trying to reassure him, squeezing
his hand lightly.

And then I laugh a stifled, pained laughter that makes him raise his
eyebrow. "I once . . . tried to define . . . parameters with a former
lover."

There is much more to my words than what I've said, and we both know
it. "Chakotay?" he asks softly.

A wave of pain crosses over his features in much the same way it
crosses mine, I'm sure. "Yes." My voice is pained.

"I'm not going anywhere." He is determined, steely conviction in his
tone.

"Neither am I."

We know it's the truth. We have made our promises . . . to one
another, to the ship herself, to whatever Gods we may believe in. . .

We have made our pleas, and we have made our promises. We cannot break
them now.

"Kathryn, what have we gotten ourselves into?"

"Frankly, I don't know."

"I. . ." he's searching for the right words, I can tell. "I. . . care
about you, Kathryn. Very, very deeply."

I nod a little, and I think a bit of blood rushes out of my head. My
body tingles warmly. "I care about you, too, Tom."

His voice lowers to a heavy whisper, "I need you."

The quiet admission is enough to cause me to become light headed. Only
he is able to do this to me now. Even in the midst of a bloody war,
with all the pain and fear and regret that comes with it, only he can
make me feel this way.

"Oh God," I breathe, and I squeeze down on his hand, "I need you,
too."

I can tell he's shocked by the admission, and he sucks in a deep
breath. He moves closer to me, and his warmth is filling me again,
making me whole in a way I don't understand. He puts one hand on my
knee, holding fast to my hand with the other.

"Kathryn," his voice is throaty, and he looks at me in a way that
tells me he's made a choice, "I am *nothing* without you, now."

It's my turn to take a deep breath, and my body is flooded with
warmth. "Don't leave me," I say, and my voice is low and hoarse.

"Never. I'll never leave you."

He squeezes my hand, and his eyes are warm and inviting. I raise my
free hand, and I run softly callused fingers down a rough cheek. He
turns his head slightly, and lays a soft kiss on my palm.

"I propose a toast," he says, as I lower my hand, and he picks up our
water bottles off the table.

Taking mine, I ask, "What shall we drink to?"

"To us," he says with a soft smile.

"Yes," I hear myself saying, raising the bottle into the air, "To us."

I smile, and as I bring the bottle to my lips, it's not water I'm
drinking, but the sweet wine of promise.

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The End