@kbunks4 was on the
ball with the last one. 420 words, made me work for this and I’m
so glad! Ready to play?
It wasn’t my idea.
I didn’t want to do it.
I’ve been telling myself these words for weeks but
the nightmares won’t subside. I see her standing before me, eyes wide
with disbelief at what I have ordered. I feel no remorse.
He draws his weapon and I wait with eager
anticipation. I want to see her fall. I want to see her crumble and
suffer. I want to be rid of her and then maybe I can be rid of goddamn
everything else she keeps doing to me.
When I wake, I am mortified. Sick. Most
mornings I dry heave over the side of the bed before my eyes are fully
open.
I’ve done everything I can think of to shed the guilt
– to forget. I’ve recycled my clothing, dumped the Vulcan brandy and
destroyed the weapon. I’ve even attempted to confess.
“It wasn’t my idea,” I told her. “I didn’t want
to do it.” Half-truth poured from my tongue like syrup over a cake of
wretched lies.
She told me that she understood, she forgave me. But her words were short-lived relief. I
could see the hurt set deep within her soul. I never wanted it to be this
way between us.
My unending, unrequited devotion had morphed to depthless
sorrow. And then twisted into rage.
There is only one other person who knows. At the end of the day,
he’s the only other individual I trust explicitly out here – and especially
after this. God, I owe him my life another time now.
I decide, at once, I need to speak with him. I can’t endure
another night of quiet torture.
“Hey boss,” Ayala greets me, spry and ready even though it’s well into
twilight hours.
“Got a minute?” I ask.
“All night,” he replies, waving me through. A bottle of whisky –
seal still intact – has been waiting on the table. He knows me well.
I sit. He pours.
“How much do you remember?” I finally get out.
He sets his glass down, it makes a dull thud. “Everything.”
I lower my face to my palms, fingers catching in my hair.
“I’ll shut the hell up if you want, but I thought you loved
her,” he says.
I nod.
“Then why?”
I shake my head with my hands.
He sips from his drink again, sees that mine is empty and refills the glass.
“Disabling the phaser….” I say, words hushed in shame.
Chakotay knew she was strong. He’d seen her arms. After she’d beaten back the threat brought on by the overgrown viruses, and she knelt in the mess hall ever his fevered body, waiting for the cure to take effect, her body marked by exertion and her brow knit with worry.
When she’d stripped off her confining jacket to better wrangle the rigging of their sailboat on Lake George.
Watching her clear brush from their paradise on an alien planet.
But none of those glimpses held a candle to now.
“Five more minutes, you’re so warm!!” She murmured into his neck.
“Honey, I need to got to work…”
Now her arms were draped across his shoulders and around his chest, her naked breasts were pressed against his back, and her leg were wrapped around his waist. She was climbing him like a tree, trying to savor every iota of warmth he had to offer her chilled nakedness.
This made it very difficult to get dresed, but Chakotay couldn’t say that he really minded. After waiting so long, he relished every new touch, every new laugh, and truly getting to know the woman he’d loved for longer then he’d realized, including her propensity for being affectionately goofy. He hadn’t seen it coming, but he was overjoyed that she finally felt so at ease with him.
Chakotay straightened up and leaned back, dumping Kathryn on the bed. Turning to face her, he gripped the waistband of her black panties and pulled them down over her hips and off her legs. He then proceeded to shed his own black shorts. Kathryn smiled as she crawled over her, bringing them face to face on the bed. Chakotay moaned as she wrapped those strong arms around his neck, and rubbed her thigh along his side.
Yes, he’d fallen in love with this strong woman, and he now had a lifetime to discover all of her. He didn’t want it any other way.
For @emmikamikatze, who supplied this picture upon my request for fluffy prompts. Artist’s URL is on the picture. I can’t link the source on mobile for some reason.
Oh groan. This is so wonderful! Great job with the prompt @rawkfemme!
(I think I’m revelling in the angst at the moment. And, I’m quite liking Ghost!Janeway too!)
Timeless – Part 2
The first time he sees her, it’s 43 days, 4 hours and 37 minutes since it happened.
He has barely slept. He can’t recall the last decent meal he ate and he has no idea where Harry is.
Since their unplanned arrival in the Alpha Quadrant, no Voyager on their tail, they’ve been prodded and poked by the Federation. Questioned, interrogated and paraded.
He hates them all.
He hates the councillors and their pathetic phrases, their nods and hums as he speaks, they think they understand, but they haven’t got a clue. He hates the doctors and their hyposprays. Their constant questions about his sleep, his eating, his physical state. He hates the sympathetic looks from everyone around him, the supposed words of comfort, the gentle pats to the arm or shoulder. He hates the small talk, the constant hounding from the media. Everyone wanting a piece of him.
He. Hates. It. All.
He wishes he had died back there with them.
He knows that’s how Harry feels. But, it’s been weeks since he saw him and he can’t bring himself to care.
Then the message arrives. From a Mrs G Janeway and he feels his entire insides twist uncontrollably.
He leaves it exactly two days before he brings himself to open the message. He runs his hands through his hair; Gretchen Janeway wants to meet up with him.
He stands and paces his basic room. He can’t, he can’t meet her. He can’t sit in the same room as her mother. He just can’t.
He tries to think of what to say to her, how to say no, but he finds himself agreeing to her request anyway. He smiles grimly at the screen as he sends his affirmative reply – it seems he can’t deny any Janeway woman. Before he knows it, he’s stood outside a large house in the depths of Indiana looking across at a woman he’s never met before, but feels an affinity towards.
Gretchen Janeway is just an older image of her daughter. Small and slim in stature, but an imposing presence that captures him immediately. There’s just one difference. Even from this distance, he can see the grief etched in her face, her stance, and it hits him like a shuttle. This is Kathryn’s home. The place she grew up. He gasps a shaking breath and walks towards the mother of the woman he lost.
“Commander Chakotay,” Gretchen greets, her voice heavy with pain. He notices she has the same coloured eyes as Kathryn.
“Just, Chakotay,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Janeway.”
Gretchen gives a shake of her head, her grey bob swishing gently from side to side. Even that movement seems to hurt her. “Please, call me, Gretchen.”
She takes his arm and pulls him gently, but firmly, towards the house.
He can feel her presence the moment he walks through the door. She’s everywhere, in the walls, the pictures, the pure essence of the house. This place is, Kathryn. It hurts, but damn, it feels good too.
Gretchen encourages him to sit in the living room and she sits opposite him. He wonders what she wants to say, but has barely time to settle into the soft cushions of the chair before her first question leaves her lips.
“Tell me how it happened,” she begins.
Chakotay sighs and dips his head, “I can’t answer that. I don’t know the answers.”
“I’ve read the reports. I’ve had every Admiral in the Federation showing me one report or another, but I want to know how it happened. You were there. You helped make the decision.” She’s angry, hurting, her voice is sharp, but there’s no mistaking that edge of devastation that lingers within each word.
“I know as much as you. We took a risk and it failed.” Chakotay tries to keep his voice even, but on the final word, he fails.
Gretchen’ eyes soften, but she doesn’t let them leave Chakotay’s face.
“Do you think she’s dead?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
Chakotay closes his eyes and lets his head drop to his chest.
“The data suggests…”
“Data!” Gretchen spits, making him jump slightly. “I’ve read the data and I’m not a scientist, but even I know the odds are too slim. But, do you, Mr Chakotay, think my daughter is dead?” her voice cracking with anger and grief.
Chakotay looks up and reels from the raw emotion in Gretchen’s eyes.
“Yes,” he nods. “There is no way they could have survived re-entry at that velocity.”
Gretchen closes her eyes. “That’s the first damned honest answer anyone has given me over this whole thing. They all think they are sparing my feelings, offering me unfounded hope, but, I know she’s dead,” she opens her eyes and looks at him. “I feel it,” she lays a hand to her heart, “I know she’s gone.”
Chakotay nods. He understands.
“Why?” Gretchen asks suddenly. “Why did you all go ahead with it? The odds were not good and the data suggested it was a disaster waiting to happen, so, why?”
Chakotay looks at the floor. It’s a question he’s asked himself too many times to count, but the answer is always the same.
“Kathryn thought it was worth the risk,” he replies finally.
“Didn’t you challenge her?” Gretchen presses.
Chakotay gives a hollow laugh, “I tried. But….”
“She was stubborn.” Gretchen finishes.
Stubborn, convincing, alluring, beautiful. Words he thinks, but cannot say.
“I’ve grieved for her once, when Voyager first went missing, but I knew then she was still alive, I just knew. But, deep down I always believed the job would take her from me. Just like it did her Father.”
The silence that follows that statement is deafening. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears.
“Where are my manners? Would you like some tea?” Gretchen gets up and he can tell she’s fighting back the tears.
“That would be nice,” he replies. He doesn’t want tea, but he knows they both need a few moments alone.
As Gretchen leaves the room, it’s then that he sees her for the first time. She’s stood in the doorway her mother just walked through, leaning casually, arms folded and she’s looking at him with that indulgent smile she saved only for him.
He feels the breath leave his body and he folds himself over, covering the back of his head with his arms. When he recovers himself enough to look up, she’s gone.
When Gretchen returns, she sees the look on his face and she knows. Knows now why he didn’t fight her daughter. Knows now, he will be tortured forever. Her heart aches for him.
“How long have you been in love with her?” she asks, setting the tea down onto the table.
Chakotay can’t speak, he’s not surprised by her question and knows she deserves an answer. With the little strength he has left, he replies, “Too long.”
“And did she know?”
A million thoughts run through his mind, StarFleet, Lake George, protocol, her fiancé, New Earth, but he has to give as honest an answer he can. His mind flows back to that last night,
“Yes, I believe she did.”
Gretchen smiles, “Then I am glad she died knowing she was loved.”
Hours later and Chakotay finally falls onto his bed and sleep consumes him, but not for long.
He wakes with a start, and as his eyes adjust, he sees a shadow sitting on the edge of his bed. He sits up and the shadow grows clearer.
“Kathryn?” he asks, his heart pounding, his throat tight with emotion and something akin to hope.
The figure stands and moves closer and it’s her. She’s there with him. Her eyes are soft, her hair falling gently around her face. She kneels before him, resting her hands on his thighs as she does so.
“Chakotay…” she says softly, her face sincere and filled with something he dares not define. She gazes up at him, “I’m here.”
“Kathryn…” the name comes out as a moan.
“Are you with me?” she asks, pulling herself upwards, closer to him, one hand moving to rest over his heart in that familiar move of hers.
“Always,” he answers immediately.
She smiles at him and he can feel the warmth of her skin as she reaches up to caress his cheek, tenderness flowing from her eyes. It’s her. She’s here with him, and yet, he knows the truth.
“Stay,” he pleads. “Stay with me.”
“I can’t,” she whispers, and then she’s gone, and he’s alone in the room once more.
He can’t stop the gulping gasps that erupt from his body and he crumples back onto the bed, loneliness, guilt and despair consuming him.
It’s the first time she comes to him, but it won’t be the last.
I’m crying.
Alone
“You didn’t poison the coffee did you?”
“Not any more than I usually do.”
I smile at him and he chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He is still feeling uneasy, and this bothers me, but then again, I am too. I don’t want this to become a problem for us. I don’t want this rift that seems to have been slowly growing where our friendship once blossomed. I make up my mind then. He has to know. He has to know that I can’t do this without him.
“Chakotay,” I start, setting down my mug, we need to talk.
He sits down his mug as well and looks up.
“I hate what we’ve become.” I admit, standing up and striding over to the couch, “We can’t afford to stop trusting each other, we can’t afford to be afraid to talk to one another.”
“I agree,” he says coming to sit beside me, “I don’t want to feel like that again, not knowing if you’re on my side or not.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t think I could do this without your support.”
He turns to look at me, and we make eye contact. I can see the truth in his eyes. I’ve missed being able to read him so well.
“You could if you had to.”
There is silence then, each of us thinking about this disturbing prospect. I inch closer to him on the cushion and lay my head on his shoulder, needing to feel close to him again. Chakotay stiffens at first, then relaxes, and eventually wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer.
Sorry this took an outrageous amount of time (my excuse is finals) and it’s pretty short but I can see myself possibly adding to it in the future. Here goes…
“You didn’t poison the coffee did you?”
“Not any more than I usually do.”
I smile at him and he chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He is still feeling uneasy, and this bothers me, but then again, I am too. I don’t want this to become a problem between us. I don’t want this rift that seems to have been slowly growing where our friendship once blossomed. I make up my mind then. He has to know. He has to know that I can’t do this without him.
“Chakotay,” I start, setting down my mug, we need to talk.
He sits down his mug as well and looks up.
“I hate what we’ve become.” I admit, standing up and striding over to the couch, “We can’t afford to stop trusting each other, we can’t afford to be afraid to talk to one another.”
“I agree,” he says coming to sit beside me, “I don’t want to feel like that again, not knowing if you’re on my side or not.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t think I could do this without your support.”
He turns to look at me, and we make eye contact. I can see the truth in his eyes. I’ve missed being able to read him so well.
“You could if you had to.”
There is silence then, each of us thinking about this disturbing prospect. I inch closer to you on the cushion and lay my head on your shoulder, needing to feel close to you again. You stiffen at first, then relax, and eventually wrap an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer.
I don’t know about ‘best’, but I was pretty proud of this ending on my first piece:
“Captain Janeway turned back to the lines of stars, blurred by unshed tears.”
The ship creaks and groans around us, temperature dropping by the minute. Distant crashes blend with the sound of Ensign Kariuki’s moans, a bleak soundtrack to the darkness of the half-crushed hall. And Chakotay is speaking, voice not cancelling out but
nonetheless
warming the frightened darkness. I crawl around the perimeter of our accidental prison, checking for warning signs of further collapse, for leverage,
for a
way out. Crewman Rameau
tests pulses
in steady rotation, monitoring the spread of blood across makeshift bandages. And Chakotay is speaking as red seeps
across
his
own
shoulder, his warm voice gently assuring the young and injured among us that we will be rescued when the battle is over, that we will be safe, that they will be all right.
When the crashing ceases and, shortly
afterward,
the distant hum of the warp core purrs
back
to life, I expect we’ll wait here
several
more
minutes, if not longer.
The transporters will need
to be brought back online
before we can be beamed
through
the
meters of collapsed and twisted bulkheads. I abandon the fruitless search for
a means of escape
and silently take
Crewman
Peterson’s
cold hands
in mine, hoping that we have those minutes.
Chakotay’s
steady
voice continues as the rest of
us
silently settle in for the wait.
Except there isn’t a wait.
Instead: a BANG! louder than lightening and a whirring hum. A glowing circle traced into the collapsed bulkhead, then pulled away. Light, molten metal and
blazing
flashlights and red alert beacons, cascading
into the darkness as the rescue team pours one by one through the smoking hole.
Captain Janeway is the first through,
disheveled hair
glinting crimson
in the firelight, and then our former trap is filled with purposeful voices and efficient motion, bright-shouldered figures kneeling by the injured and widening the blasted passage. The
musks
of
smoke and sweat tangle with the
sharpness of blood and urine, and I breathe it all in, savoring the scent of lurking death blasted into so much smoke.
Unlike certain crewmembers, I’m not much of one for joking around on duty, but the injured need to feel in their bones that they have reached the aftermath. “Can’t believe I didn’t see that coming, Captain,” I tell Janeway as we bend together to lift
Peterson
onto a stretcher, a quip to feed the growing warmth.
Over
the captain’s
left shoulder, I can see Chakotay smiling at her. If we were all in another place and time, without ranks between us, I might float the suggestion that he’s enjoying
the particular
view he happens to be getting at the moment.
In reality, of course, the quip would be as inaccurate as it is inappropriate.
My
one-time
captain’s
gaze is weighted with a far deeper emotion, looking at our fiery-haired rescuer with…not relief, but something
else, something closer to faith.
I understand, now, the meaning of his calm in the dark. He was not pretending
for the sake of the injured
that
he was not afraid: he wasn’t. He knew we had no reason to be.
bekjaneway 