Rapture of the Deep

Summary: Torres visits Janeway after Tom's adventures in "Alice." So minor spoilers there, not that anyone cares.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns them all. I am not making money from them. The Torres drowning thing comes from Jeri Taylor's book Pathways.

Rating: PG, I guess. I'm really not sure. A lot of stuff passes for PG these days.

AN: Lots of the imagery here was inspired by my study of Willa Cather's novel "O Pioneers!" The heroine in that story, Alexandra Bergson, has always struck me as a dead ringer for Janeway. I also might add that while this story is somewhat slashy, I do not believe that Alexandra was a lesbian, like many modern day Cather critics do. Well, that said....from one Cather fan to another somewhere out in cyberspace, I hope. Thanks to Djinn for the beta.

abbey@repunk.com

There are scenes of my life I keep only for her. Stories, really. Stories I won't desecrate by sharing with anyone else. They are tales of equations, epiphanies, engineering. When I plugged a set of variables into a complex equation and got out the two whole, full, real numbers that I sought for a solution. The realization that my aggression comes from the ancient certainty that I am inferior. I remember once on the Liberty we were under attack and losing warp drive. I fixed the core through a series of anti-matter bursts, drew the necessary matter into the ship from a vent below the engine room that was leaking plasma, at the time. To this day, I haven't told Chakotay how I did it.

But the Captain. I would tell the Captain everything, if she would let me. I am sure that when she dreams, she doesn't dream of Earth, or of her dog. Or her dog-sitter. She dreams of being carried through the stars, of hurtling through nebulas uncontrolled, falling through light and shadow, and unafraid, being lifted through the ceiling of the universe. You could say that she dreams of dying, but that does not worry me. Dreams are far more wonderful than reality itself, and she knows that.

But the Captain speaks my language. I remember when I understood that. We were under attack, and she was down in engineering, helping me put the ship together. I looked over at her, and her face was bright and flushed with excitement as she bent over a console. Science excites her more than sex ever did, and I think I like that. Maybe I'm a bit grateful. For the understanding.

Tom just had a little run-in with that sexy demon shuttle. He was almost killed. I find myself standing outside the Captain's door, about three in the morning. She must have detected my presence, finally, because she opens the door, puts a hand on my shoulder, and guides me in. There's cup of tea in front of me before I realize I've sat down. She sits across from me, dressed in sweats and a loose shirt. I remember what she used to wear to bed. Years ago, Tuvok and I reviewed security tapes of her quarters, searching for potential intruders. But now, gone is the pink nightgown; the smooth satin.

But she doesn't seem angry. She wasn't sleeping anyway. All of my words come out in one long rush, and I know that there's was no way I can take any of them back, not here.

"When we were in the Maquis I fell into a river and was trapped between two heavy rocks. I was going to drown. This sense of peace came over me like I'd never known before, and I viewed the world above me with detachment, lost in...in this peace, this quiet. And Tom rescued me. Pulled me out. Sometimes I wish he hadn't."

"The rapture of the deep," she says with a slight smile.

"It was more than that...It's hard to explain. I'm sorry if.."

"No, not at all B'Elanna. I'm happy to listen." She looks me head-on, carefully.

"Do you think this leaves you feeling indebted to Tom? Irrationally angry at him?"

"Maybe. Maybe it means that whenever he does something objectionable, I feel I can't be angry at him. But I am. Still angry at him, I mean. I probably shouldn't be. The shuttle forged this direct neural link with him. He almost died."

"I think it's reasonable to feel conflicted over it. And about the drowning thing. When I was young I had this obsession with diving around in caves. Mostly because it terrified me." She laughs, rubs her eyelids. "I had a few close calls. There is a wonder about it all. I haven't forgotten that either, B'Elanna."

Her eyes are a faded aqua-marine, and she yawns. I want to touch her, I think. It's 0300 hours, and I shouldn't want to wake her up, drag the person in that shell to the surface, but I do. I want her to know that she is still capable of being cared for. Loved. I reach for her hand, but am not surprised when I find it gone, and she stands pacing the cabin, eyes fixed on mine.

I want to touch her, want to hear her cry as though being hurtled through the stars, thrown through nebulas. I want her to hit the ceiling of the universe, break the water that both of us have learned to live under, indeed regard with peace and cerebral fascination. Dreams and concepts have always meant more to us that actual feelings, because feelings are incapable of adequate explanation, they end before words can be found for them. And that angers me.

Her hair is short and cut at the neck as she approaches me. I truly think Chakotay stopped loving her because she cut her hair. A cliche, yes, but men are really that shallow. About hair, at least. I am probably shaking a little bit, because nothing seems quite straight. Her shirt is short-sleeved and I can see the small freckles on the inside of her elbow. And I'm reminded that I'm not completely human.

"B'Elanna...not."

I take her arm, clench her ulna before she can pull away. I grip her, feel my hands digging into the backs of her shoulders. Before long my head is below hers, crushed to her small human breasts. She has always been good at touching people. I want to touch her. I almost struggle, but I can't fight the certainty with which she holds me. She is warm, and smells vaguely like coffee. I wonder why I'm surprised.

She pulls away, puts an arm on my shoulder, carefully pulls a strand of hair off of my collarbone. She breathes deeply, but her face is bright. She doesn't seem angry. But maybe a little sad. I don't think she minded it. Being touched, grabbed for a few moments. But I think it had cost her something. I'm not sure if I should feel guilty about that.

With her, the line between maternal and sexual is constantly destroyed and built again. I've seen it in her dealings with Tom, and see it now, as she sips from her coffee mug, eyes fixed on no particular point. She probably likes the coffee because it overwhelms her, lets her eyes unfocus.

An explanation is not necessary or relevant. I don't care who she is to others, who I am to others. Some facts go beyond all relationships, all additions to the crew manifest. I fix her engines, she tries to fix my psyche. It's a situation that alternately creates illusions of equality and resentment. She hazards me a half-smile, almost dares me to speak. Maybe she wants to be angry. She can't handle a person whose restraint matches her own. I meet her eyes silently and she steps away, heads towards her table.

"Well. My couch is your couch. I've got a few reports to finish. I think what you're finding with Tom is perfectly normal. Give it a little time."

She sits down and starts scrolling through a padd intently. I'm angry, and I think that anger is unreasonable. And that makes me--angrier. It is, again, the same process I'm going through with Tom. But how can I ask for an acknowledgement of something I don't know how to acknowledge or accept?

I slip past her, sit on the couch and curl my legs to my chest. Out of some misplaced sense of loyalty, I guess, I can't bear to leave. The minutes pass slowly. She seems to shudder in her chair, and pause slightly. And then fluidly reach for another padd, and read through its contents smoothly.

The stars outside her quarters come in waves, swaying to an ancient rhythm I cannot bear to fathom. Waves above the surface of this ship, burning my eyes. I fall against the edge of her couch into the deep and cool night.

END