Disclaimer: Voyager belongs to Paramount Pictures. No infringement intended.

"Last night was the first night, in a long time, that B'Elanna replicated for dinner," Tom grinned. A youthful charm, it was his, his to hide the uncertainties that whipped him on the back.

"Bet you were a happy man, Paris," I smiled and we both let our eyes travel away from the conversation, to watch the Captain walk by reading yet another PADD of data, of sensor readings, of icy-cold things that didn't warm my heart a bit.

"Does she ever stop?" Tom asked.

His hushed tone made me glance back to make sure it wasn't overheard, having the opposite effect than was its original intent.

"Kathryn Janeway?" I smiled, still watching -- watching her. "Never."

"Mr. Paris," she spoke with impeccable timing. "Go ahead and take the helm. Take us in far enough to get the readings -- but nothing beyond that."

"Aye, Captain," he delivered. Tom may have pushed the line his entire life, but he had surrendered this trip to Janeway. Sometimes, I wonder if it was because I was onboard.

And then she was there, by me, with her hand on my shoulder and her body cresting itself over mine. She handed me the PADD she had been reading, I accepted it easily enough, and noted that neither one of us noted what was out of the ordinary -- our body heat.

I looked at the PADD, expecting it to be of our expedition, and then at her in surprise, "What's this?"

"Read it, Chakotay," she smiled and pushed her chin upward, one quick movement, for encouragement to the line.

"'The Top Ten Things That Captains, who are --" I looked up, my eyes sparkling with the next words, "-- in love with you, say'." I had one thought then and there: Wow.

Kathryn laughed and I kept smiling, as I pushed the buttons to scroll and scrolled to read.

"'Number Ten: Make It so. This common command also encourages the first flirtatious --" we broke off laughing together, but picked back up again, "-- flirtatious engagement in conversation."

"Speaking of engagement," Kathryn rubbed her left hand's ring finger, and chanced a glance at Tom Paris, "the best are on . . . one more year."

"You think they'll be Voyager's first," I stated, and even my own heart knew that they would be. Not me.

"No doubt about it," she smiled *again*, which must have been for another countless time -- but reflection on the matter rejected itself from my concern when the Delta Flyer shuddered.

"What was that?" Kathryn moved away and toward the piloting console. Again the shuttle rocked, and we were all thrown from our steadfast positions.

The minute you feel a jolt like *that*, the question of 'what was' moves far past, and into your frame of mind jumps 'how now do we fix this injured technology so that we may stay alive?'

But in seconds that matter, in the time it takes for human thoughts to form, for bodies to react and for computer warnings to be given, there is always that chance, that knowledge and acknowledgment, that you can't do anything at all. It's just going to happen.

And it does happen.

And you crash.

After the crash, is when you begin to regain those thoughts that you thought you had lost to death -- to a moment. You think about it all. And that's when the silence moves in . . . .

Part 3