I remember when I got to Shattered in my re-watch of Voyager about four years ago, when I had rediscovered the series after pretty much completely forgetting about it since the first time it aired. I must have missed this episode first time around, and ARGH ARGH ARGH. I mean, I already knew that there was no happy ending for J/C, but by the end of that I was just like, “Oh well. That was it. That was the last chance where something would have happened if it was ever going to,” and it was a sentiment that extended further than the thwarted J/C element. I actually found Shattered far more depressing to watch than Endgame, because it was a microcosmic display of all the failed potential that Voyager represented – not just for J/C relationship but for the show in general. Honestly, whether you ship J/C or not, their relationship and the natural chemistry between those two actors in the early years could have been such a fantastic boon for the show if it had just been written properly, with the natural conflict and difficulties that their relative positions and the progress along that parth would have provided. I know I go on and on about this, but if Ron Moore had gone on to write it the way it had been set up, we would have had Roslin and Adama, but on Voyager: a believable adult relationship that added so much extra to the show. The path would have been almost identical, from rivalry and suspicion, to admiration and understanding, to attraction and loyalty and then maybe beyond. And I am willing to bet Moore had a hefty hand in Voyager’s early set up and bible. That, for me, is what’s so frustrating about Shattered. It was a good episode, and if they’d written every ep like that from the beginning it could have actually been a consistently great show on screen instead of just the great one the fanbase has spent diligently reconstructing in the two decades since the studio and the writing room pissed all its tension and conflict potential down the drain.
My kinds of ships are the ships where the men know their women are powerful forces of nature and that they could fuck up entire armies in a matter of seconds and THEY EMBRACE IT AND TAKE PRIDE IN IT???! “Oh… It’s not me you should be worried about… It’s my WIFE.“ *smirks* YAAASSSSSSSSSS GIVE ME MORE.
nebula: put your itunes on shuffle, give me the first 5 songs that pop up
cosmos: what are you like when you’re angry at someone?
shooting star: what are you like when you’re sad?
eclipse: what are you like when you’re happy?
luna: favorite names?
space dust: are you happy?
constellation: have you ever read a book that is worse than the movie?
black hole: do you have any diagnoses?
comet: do you like the person that you’ve become?
galaxy: are you a sun, moon or star person?
milky way: do you prefer math or humanities?
satellite: when was your first kiss?
betelguise: what’s something that calms you down when you’re upset?
solar system: if you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live?
sunspot: are you a sensitive person?
andromeda: describe your first best friend
saturn: what do you think about before falling asleep?
pulsar: what kind of person do you want to be?
cassiopeia: what do you like most about yourself?
orion: what do you dislike most about yourself?
meteor: do you have a favorite historical figure?
[Janeway’s coffeegasm face is truly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. ]
Amen. And this isn’t even the best one…
The Doctor(sees Kathryn walking by with a cup of coffee): Are you drinking just coffee for breakfast?
Kathryn: Yeah, what did you have for breakfast?
The Doctor: Nothing?
Kathryn(taking a sip and walking away): I’m doing better than you then.
writer: *stops mid-sentence* damn what’s the word I want?
writer: *spends 25 minutes on google trying to figure out the right vocab word*
writer: *gets a paragraph done*
writer: *starts another sentence, stops* what is that really specific fact I need?
writer: *spends an hour trying to figure out this obscure thing that probably doesn’t actually matter*
writer: Wait what’s that thing called again?
writer: *has no idea how to search for what I need*
writer: *ends up digging through blogs and other archived websites for details*
writer: *needs to reference source material for fact checking*
writer: *has to eat and sleep at some point*
writer: should it be “she regards him with disdain” or “she glares at him with disdain” ??? (hint: it doesnt matter but gunna go back and forth over it for an hour)
writer: *gets distracted by the internet in general*
writer: HOW IS THIS ONLY 800 WORDS???????
writer: fuck proofreading
writer: okay fine i’ll proofread.
writer: holy shit this is awful.
writer: *reworks entire sections*
writer: *doesn’t think I’m good enough as a writer and stops for a few days*
writer: repeat process as needed.
Kathryn Janeway had no idea when this had happened. How could she have let this go so far? Something had to be done, yes, something had to be done.
Somewhere over the years, she had lost her judgment. She had given in.
But what was she to do?
Suddenly, she found herself thinking back to when it had all began. When her biggest problem had first presented itself.
It had been years ago, in the middle of a duty shift, right there on the bridge.
It had been a completely uneventful and unbelievably boring shift until Paris had made one of his typical childish jokes that had left the entire bridge crew consumed in fits of laughter.
She, unaware of the impacts, had reached out and placed her hand on Chakotay’s shoulder.
He had turned his face to look at her, surprised at first as she was, but then smiled gently. Showing a hint of those dimples. And in that moment, she had lost control for only a split-second, but that was everything.
She had felt something.
Something long repressed and long denied.
Damn those dimples.
Since then, she had found herself reaching out to him more and more.
Wanting, desperately, to recreate the feeling of that first time.
Wanting, desperately, to feel again.
It had started simply. A comforting hand here, and a gentle brush there.
But it had quickly become more.
Weekly dinners, started on the pretext of ship functionality, had all been her idea. Her way of maximizing their time spent together.
Her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, had the power to bring the most complete feeling of calm.
Hand holding, even on duty, as a means of her own comfort. As a reminder. She wasn’t alone.
Staying on the bridge, way beyond the end of her shift. Not because she wasn’t exhausted, as she always pretended, but because he still had two hours left.
Sitting, maybe just a little too close, because he was her pillar of strength. And because she belonged there.
She really ought to get this under control. After all, a captain could not afford even the smallest distraction.
bekjaneway 