The BLTS Archive- Revisions
#6: So Many Scars
by Ellen Milholland (pretyclose@aol.com)

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Disclaimers: They ain't mine. :)

Notes: This is part five of my "Revisions" series. I suppose this
could be a stand-alone vignette, but I think it might make more
sense with the others as back story.

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"I'll be your dream
I'll be your wish
I'll be your fantasy
I'll be your hope
I'll be your love
Be everything that you need."

     -'Truly Madly Deeply,' Savage Garden
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DAY 179
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I drift slowly awake, my brain hazy with the last remnants of sleep.
As I yawn, I smile and think that perhaps there is no place more
comfortable in the entire universe than in a bed with the woman I
love.

Yes, I love her. It took me a long time to admit, and it took her even
longer. She's stubborn sometimes, but I've learned to accept that.
It's part of what makes her the woman she is, and that's the woman I
want to care for forever and a day. Only she could've kept us going
for this long. Only she had the strength to give the order for
everyone to abandon ship. Only she can soothe my fears, cradle my head
in her hands and tell me that everything will be okay. She is the only
one I will ever give my body and soul to.

There is something different about this woman than any other I've met.

She is small in stature, but she is powerful. Strength of an animal,
with contoured muscles that give her the most beautiful curves. I have
spent a great deal of time outlining each one of those curves with my
fingers and my lips and my tongue, memorizing each and every inch of
her body, from the arch of her foot, to her delicate collarbone, to
her temples, and back again.

She's got one hell of an intellect, but she doesn't have an ego to
match it. Sure, she's got an attitude, but I think that's part of
command training at the Academy. To command a crew, to take a ship
into space, you have to be a little cocky. You have to be damned sure
of yourself. And that she is. This is a woman without any problems
with self-consciousness or self-doubt. She is sure of herself. Even in
the midst of war, she knows what she's fighting for, and she's getting
stronger, not weaker.

I examine her in the soft glow of the nebula that surrounds the ship.
She isn't awake yet, and I'm glad. I hardly ever get to see her like
this. Usually, I'm asleep before she is, and I wake to the sound of
the sonic shower. But this morning, I am awake early.

She sleeps in the nude, now, because the only clothes we haven't given
to the effort are one or two ratty uniforms a piece. She is laying
curled up on her side, the lightness of her skin a stark contrast to
the dark blue of the sheets. She's clutching a worn blanket to her
chest, and all I can see is the delicate edge of a perfect breast.
She's turned just enough so that the curve of her hip juts into the
air, and then smoothes into a muscular thigh. Her hair, grown longer
now, is spread out across her shoulders in wild tendrils, and I softly
brush a lock away from her forehead. She smiles in her sleep, and I
caress her cheek, careful not to wake her.

Her skin is paler than it should be, I know. All we have now are
rationing bars, but she rarely eats her fill. Whether she's trying to
hold out so the others can have more, or whether she simply cannot
stomach the bars anymore. . . I couldn't tell you. There are certain
questions we don't ask one another, now. Perhaps one day, after the
war is over, I'll ask her. But not now.

Her cheeks are sunken a little, and she has circles under her eyes
which tell of her exhaustion. Her mouth is opened a little, and she
coughs in her sleep.

The worst of it all, though, are the scars. And there are so many
scars.

One here, on her ankle, curving palely around her leg and up her calf.
It's an old wound, healed now, except for the white, snakelike
reminder of the battle. That's one that I remember clearly, because it
was one of the bad ones. We all thought the ship might come apart at
her seams, but at the time, we didn't know how much worse it could
get. A piece of bulkhead fell on her, the ragged, sharp edge nearly
taking her leg off.  Another, similar scar wraps around her other leg
from the same injury. I think we almost lost her that time. There was
so much blood, and she was screaming in pain before the Doc sedated
her. We haven't had the tools for dermal regeneration in months, and
so many of us carry scars from the worst of the battles.

I don't think I'll ever be able to forget what it's like to hear the
woman I love scream like that. All I wanted was to help her, but I
couldn't. I touched her face, her hands, and she pleaded with me, with
God, to please stop the pain. And though I tried to quiet her, to
soothe her, I couldn't.

We never talked about it afterwards, but I've caught her sobbing, late
in the night, and I know she's reliving some of those times. In her
sleep, she cannot protect herself from the memories, and they haunt
her as terrible nightmares. She'll wake, clutching me like I am the
last thing keeping her alive. And sometimes, I think I am.

Another scar mars the pale skin of her thigh, near her hip. A burn
mark, this time, from a fire that licked its way across the bridge one
day. She used a portable fire suppression unit and eventually put the
fire out, but the flames got to her first. Marks from those burns dot
her legs, and her back, and her arms, swirling patterns formed by heat
and pain.

She carries each scar like a medal, or a reminder. A reminder of
things that have come before, of her own bravery and the bravery of
her crew, of the horrors of war. They are there to remind her to
respect war, to fight destruction, to remember those who died and
those who lived. She does not hide her face because of them, but
raises her chin higher. She feels no shame.

With a finger that hovers just above her skin, I trace another scar.
This one extends upward from her naval, between her ribs - which, I
notice, are much too prominent - and I know that one is a reminder of
the Doctor's emergency surgery of close to five months ago. But he
patched her up nicely, and that's the only memento she has of that
nearly fatal event. The intruder alert sirens were loud that day, and
I think that's the last time they actually sounded at the presence of
an intruder.  Right into Engineering, shot her down.

She didn't have a chance to fight back. That's what hurts her the
most. She never even had a chance to fight back.

That's the most painful part of this war for her. With a crippled ship
and a smattering of crew members, we can do little more than collect
stones to throw. Our systems are coming back online slowly, painfully.
. . and they certainly don't work like they used to.

There are so many scars, and they are not all physical.

And all I want is to be able to erase them from her perfect body, to
be able to make her forget what's happened. . . To make her happy
again.

I trace a delicate scar up her jawbone, up to her hairline, and I
remember the day B'Elanna and Chakotay died. My throat tightens, and I
take a deep breath to fight down the emotions that come up from my
stomach.

"Oh Kathryn," I whisper, touching her cheek softly with my hand, "I
love you so much."

And a slight smile curves her lips, as she kisses my palm and says, "I
love you, too."

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The End