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

Paris hesitated for only a moment after. "I'll get the suits," he stood, stopping to lay a hand on Chakotay's shoulder -- a moment between two men who knew that it could've been a vice versa effect with the ones they loved.

"Chakotay?" her voice came to him, as he was still turned away. He wasn't sure if it was what his name, from her lips, held in the tone at that moment or if the surging cold had begun its affects, but he had to sit down. So he went to her.

"Next time," he smiled, as he took her hand in his, his fingers fighting to find the flexibility to close around hers, "let's find a nice warm beach to explore instead."

"Cheeky bastard," she laughed and coughed. "Will you help me lay down -- I need to lay down," she sighed. "I'm tired."

After moments away, Tom came back to find Kathryn's head resting gently in the Commander's lap. He hated what they had to do -- but do it they would.

"You can't be near her," Tom stated. He sighed at the look he received from the other man, "Your body heat will only aid hers."

"It won't be enough --" Chakotay defended.

"It will slow the process down." There. It was said. They had to make it happen quick.

"It's alright, Commander. I'll be fine," Kathryn stated but the words meant relatively nothing.

Chakotay gently put Kathryn to herself, on the floor, and stood to take his suit. The material slid on, sheathing him in a second skin and drawing to it the heat that the environment had been leeching from his body. What he wouldn't give to let Kathryn take it all from him -- every last degree.

"Chakotay, can you hear me?" Tom's voice stated, through the helmet's communicational nodes.

"Yes," Chakotay stated.

"We need to open the flyer's hatch all the way . . . let the cold in," Tom stated. He was commanding -- rather ironic -- even with one less pip than before.

They moved together, pushing and straining their sore muscles to hear the steel grate, the air compression hinges move, and the door to move downward as a wild wind of stormy snow entered it's new home and take in a deep freeze, its former master.

"It's okay, Chakotay," she smiled up at him, her face so pale -- and the blue tint of freezing blood, muscle and tissue setting in, "you can let me go now."

"I will never let you go," he stated.

"I always did want a White Christmas," she joked. "Commander, were you . . ." it was getting harder for her to speak, ". . . were you ever lonely by my side?" she asked.

He answered truthfully, "'Loneliness is a black burnt hole, but if you close it up, you close out so much that can be so beautiful for you as well.'"

She smiled, and took a shallow breath. It was all ending now. She wanted a happy ending. She didn't want to leave Chakotay. And she didn't want Tom Paris to see her die.

"Chakotay," Kathryn said, "tell me a story. Tell me a story so that I may forget it all."

"What do you want to forget, Kathryn?" Chakotay asked as he held her hand. It was all he could do. He couldn't feel her skin through the environmental suit that had sheathed itself entirely over his body. It was yet another testament to the inevitable. No doubt it shouted to her that it too would deny her a search for warmth, for heated contact . . . for life.

Chakotay asked again, when she did not answer, "What do you want to forget?"

Another wave of snow drifted into the carcass of the flyer. He watched as the snow, through small, seemingly innocent flakes, threw themselves down on her eyelashes, weighing them closed and stalking out her consciousness to an end.

"Everything," she had finally answered. And then, she was finally dead.

Chakotay's heart wept.

Part 5