The BLTS Archive- Claddaugh
by monkee (wiecek@earthlink.net)

---

Fathers of Fanfic, forgive me, for I have sinned. It has only
been two weeks since my last sappy story. And now I have actually gone
and written a J/C St. Patrick's Day story entitled 'Claddaugh.'

Disclaimers: Paramount owns Star Trek Voyager and all of its
characters.

Author's Notes: I wanted to fit Michael into this story somehow, but
it just didn't work. So I deleted him. :P

---

Chakotay walked slowly down Fair Haven's main street, nodding to both
holograms and crewmembers.  Dusk was fast approaching and the cool air
had an earthy, smoky aroma -- Paris had told him it was burning peat.
He looked up at the sky and smiled appreciatively at the spectacular
cloud formations. Tinged with scarlet and orange, the clouds looked
sculpted, and were low enough to be casting long shadows on the
hillsides visible outside of town. It occurred to him that, aside from
the crew, the clouds were the most genuine things in here. At least
they were actually made of what they were supposed to be made of.

Spirited music was emanating from Sullivan's pub, his destination.  He
was finally beginning to understand the crew's attraction to this
particular program.  At first, he'd been put off by the perfection of
the town. The streets were too clean. There were insects, but they
never bothered anyone. The colorful bar characters got drunk, but they
never threw up. He'd always been too grounded in practicality to have
much use for programs like this. The inconsistencies just got on his
nerves. Lately, however, he'd been forced to reevaluate his stance.
There was no denying that the crew had adopted Fair Haven as their
own. He heard people discussing it all the time, and everyone looked
forward to dropping by Sullivan's on Saturday nights, to have a drink,
to socialize, to play darts and rings. They weren't replacing their
real lives and relationships with Fair Haven; they were simply using
it as a backdrop. The holocharacters were stereotyped, but they were
friendly and amusing. The program made the crew happy, and if it was a
little too perfect and clean, well, they deserved a respite. Life in
the delta quadrant was difficult enough -- why would they want to play
in a program that was as gritty and complicated as their lives outside
of it?

At least the holocharacters no longer thought that Voyager's
crewmembers were 'space travelers from the future.'  About three
months after the incident in which the holograms had gained partial
sentience due to a malfunction, they'd gone through a nebula, and the
program, which had been running at the time, was wiped clean for the
second time. At first, Paris refused to reconstruct the program again
from scratch. Eventually, however, the crew convinced him to do it.

He was close enough to Sullivan's now to hear the murmur of voices and
the clinking of pint glasses.  He bounded up the steps to the door in
two strides, and stepped inside. He stood just inside the door and
looked around, grinning.  He estimated that there were at least twenty
crewmembers among the holocharacters. It was, after all, ring night.
It was also St. Patrick's Day, something he'd spent the afternoon
reading up on.

There was a new face behind the bar -- an older man, Matthew Sullivan,
ostensibly Michael Sullivan's father.  When Paris had reprogrammed
Fair Haven, Kathryn had asked him not to include Michael. Paris
agreed, and although Michael had been a popular character, no one made
much of a fuss about it. It was a good crew, at the core, and he
suspected that they kept quiet mostly out of consideration for the
Captain.

Concerned, he'd quietly asked her about her decision one day on the
bridge, when he was certain no one else could hear. She'd smiled, and
confided, 'I think I'm just too old to break in another hologram,
Chakotay.'  She'd said it with a lightness that seemed forced, but he
didn't push it.  He wondered, sometimes, if she missed Michael. He
thought she did, very much. He thought, perhaps, that he understood.

He spotted her, still in uniform, sitting at the bar.  She was
watching Ensign Patrick Gibson and his 'cousin', Lieutenant Frank
Williams play rings, chatting with them between throws. Slowly he made
his way across the crowded room, greeting various crewmembers as he
passed by them.  Through a gap in the throng of people, he saw Paris
and B'Elanna over by the dartboard. He wondered how Paris had managed
to get her in here -- she detested this program.  He caught her eye
and dropped his jaw in exaggerated shock. She grinned, rolled her eyes
and shrugged.

Finally he reached the bar, and slid onto the empty stool next to
Kathryn. He caught the barkeep's eye and gestured for an ale.

"Hello, Kathryn," he said.

"Hello," she replied, smiling warmly.  "Nice sweater."

"Thanks," he grinned. He'd replicated it an hour ago and it was
already his favorite article of clothing.  It was a wool knit sweater,
cream-colored, favored by Irish fishermen, according to the database.
He loved the weight of it, and the texture.

"Looks good on you," she observed.  She reached over and started
running her fingers lightly over his chest, preoccupied.  He raised
his eyebrows.

"Maybe I should leave you and the sweater alone?" he asked.

She shook her head, and returned to the moment, smiling sheepishly.
"Sorry," she said.  "I recognize this stitch, but I don't remember
what it's called."

His mouth opened in genuine shock this time.  "You KNIT, Kathryn?"

She laughed. "Well, no. My Aunt Martha taught me how when I was a
child. And I actually enjoyed it, but it just takes so long...I could
never sit still long enough to finish anything."

"Besides," he added, "why sit and knit when you could be reading about
quantum mechanics."

"Exactly!" she said.

They were interrupted as the barkeep arrived and clanked his pint down
on the bar. It sloshed a bit as he hurried off to tend to another
patron. Chakotay stared at it, aghast.

"It's green," he observed.

"Mmm-hmm," she nodded.  She gestured down the length of the bar, and
then he noticed, for the first time, that nearly everyone in the room
had green ale.

"It's a St. Patrick's day tradition," she explained.

"Yours isn't green," he said, accusingly.

"No," she agreed. "Mine is stout. It's difficult to dye stout."

He picked it up and took a small, experimental sip. It didn't taste
any different, so he shrugged. He'd certainly consumed stranger
looking concoctions over the years.

"Well," he said, "I guess this explains why all of the food at dinner
was green. Leave it to Neelix not to let any obscure Earth holiday
pass by unobserved."

She chuckled and took a sip of her stout.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small green velvet pouch, and
handed it to her.

"Happy St. Patrick's Day, Kathryn," he said.

Surprised, she looked down at the pouch, then back up at him.

"A St. Patrick's Day gift?" she asked.

"I was going to save it for your birthday," he said, "but I didn't
want to wait that long."

Smiling, she tugged at the drawstring until the top of the pouch
pulled open.  She upended it carefully, and something slid into her
outstretched hand, glittering all the way.  Gently, she lifted it up.
A pendant dangled from a delicate gold chain. A gold band formed a
circle, broken at the base. On both ends of the band, there was an
extended hand. The two hands held a crowned heart.

"It's a claddaugh," she said, softly.

He wasn't surprised that she already knew what it was -- after all;
she had an 'interest in Irish culture.'  He, on the other hand, had
only learned about the claddaugh this afternoon. He'd gone into the
database, curious about St. Patrick's Day and ancient Ireland, and had
stumbled upon the stories and legends surrounding the claddaugh.

He reached out to capture the swaying pendant in his palm, then held
it so they could both see it. It sparkled as it caught some of the
light from the pub's oil lamps.

"I found it in the ship's data base," he explained.  He glanced
quickly at her face, trying to gauge her response. If she were
genuinely moved by the gift, she would be silent now.  If she found it
inappropriate, or awkward, she would smile too broadly, thank him
politely, and change the subject. She was silent.

Looking back at the pendant still resting against his hand, he
continued quietly, although he was sure that no one else could hear
him.  "When I read about it, I couldn't believe it. I've never come
across a better symbol for the way I feel about you," he said.  He
hazarded another glance at her.  She was nodding slowly, and her eyes
were shining in the lamplight, just as the pendant was.

With his other hand, he pointed to the crown, brushing it gently with
his fingertip.

"The crown, of course, represents loyalty, and you've had mine from
the very beginning. And I'm still not sure I can say why I trusted you
so implicitly, even back then.  But I did. And I do. Trust you, I
mean."

He heard her breath catch a little and sensed slight movement out of
the corner of his eye. He continued quickly, not wanting her to stop
him now. He indicated the hands on the pendant.

"The two extended hands represent friendship. And, you know, you are
the closest friend that I've ever had. You're my best friend, Kathryn,
and I like to think that I'm yours as well."

He did look at her now.  Her face was slightly contorted, and she
hastily swept a tear away from her cheek, but she did manage to smile
and nod her agreement.

He touched the heart on the pendant, but said nothing for a few
moments as he tried to compose himself. He heard her take a slow deep
breath at the same time he did.

He smiled slightly, not embarrassed, but a little uncertain. "The
heart represents love," he said, simply.  He looked back at her and
she did not evade his gaze.  She smiled too -- the half smile that
he'd grown so familiar with over the years, only a little softer.
"It's there between us," he continued.  "No matter what form it
ultimately takes, it's there. And it always will be."

He released the pendant.  "So I wanted you to have it," he concluded.
He exhaled fully, feeling unburdened somehow.  He hadn't been
confident that she would let him say everything he needed to and was
relieved that she had. He also had the sense that it was something he
perhaps should have articulated to her a long time ago.

She slipped the pendant into her hand, and closed her fingers tightly
around it. Then she reached out, without hesitation, and touched his
cheek tenderly.  She didn't seem to be in any hurry to move her hand,
either -- it felt cool against his skin, soothing.  Her eyes, still
brimming with tears, reflected a wide range of emotion: fondness,
love, and some regret.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.  "It's perfect."

She leaned in towards him deliberately and he met her halfway. She
kissed him softly on the lips. He closed his eyes -- acutely aware of
the firmness of her touch on his cheek, the silky warmth of her lips,
and the depth of feeling that she was expressing.

She held the kiss longer than he expected her to, then pulled away
slowly. He opened his eyes. Hers were still closed. He put his hand
over hers -- the one that was still touching his cheek -- and she
opened her eyes.  They both smiled. He moved her hand away from his
face, but continued to hold it, squeezing her fingertips gently,
unwilling to break contact.

She maneuvered his hand around until it was horizontal, then pressed
the pendant into it.  "It's perfect," she repeated. "Will you put it
on me?"

Smiling, he stood and moved behind her. He unclasped the chain with
some difficulty -- it was quite delicate. She dipped her head slightly
as he brought it around into position. As he pushed her hair over to
one side, he had a sudden, sharp flashback to the table in the shelter
on New Earth.  Her hair was shorter now, but it still felt as soft as
it had then.  He had to lean down close to her to fasten the tiny
clasp.  When he was finished, he placed the chain gently against her
neck, briefly touching her skin.  He wanted nothing more than to rest
his hand on the back of her neck, just for a moment, but they'd
already attracted quite a bit of attention. Gibson and Williams were
surreptitiously watching them in between tosses, and he saw other
crewmembers looking their way and smiling. B'Elanna gaped at him from
over by the dartboard as she nudged Paris.  He grinned. He and Kathryn
were probably the only people in the room who weren't misinterpreting
this.

He sat back down beside her. She was looking down -- admiring the
pendant against her uniform.

"It's beautiful, Chakotay," she said, smiling crookedly at him as she
rubbed the pendant between her thumb and index finger. "Thank you."

To change the subject, and make them both more comfortable, he asked
her to tell him about County Clare. And she started to, but then
Seamus overheard them and broke into their conversation with a long,
convoluted tale about some misadventure his Uncle's friend had once
had in a place called Doolin. Chakotay lost track of the story
quickly, but settled back happily to sip his green ale and watch
Kathryn's eyes sparkle with amusement.

He smiled to himself at the occasional flash of gold around her neck.
She kept fingering the chain absently. He secretly hoped that she
would wear it always, beneath her uniform, and chosen the pendant form
of the symbol for that reason.  The claddaugh ring had certain
implications that he didn't want -- they were frequently used as
engagement and even wedding rings. He and Kathryn might not ever
marry, or even make a life together - and certainly not in their
current situation - but he liked to think that the symbol held a
meaning for both of them that was at least as significant. He hoped
that, no matter what happened, it would always remind her of his
loyalty, friendship and love.

---

The End