Ethan Bellamy
a novel
pairing Janeway with an original character
by
vanhunks
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17
Pairing: Starts with J/C, C/7 and the
primary pairing is J/Original Character
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
1. This is the first story I've written in which I've paired Janeway with an original character, a story that will sustain this pairing to the end. There are J/C elements as well as C/7 but the primary pairing here is J/Original character.
2. The story is a multipart story.
3. A grateful thank you to Mary Stark who has always been so obliging in betareading my work.
4. The first chapters as well as some of the parts later on in the story contain large segments of internal dialogue. Janeway's thoughts [ and later, Ethan Bellamy] are written without the quotation marks, while the character or characters who respond to her is written in italics in order to establish to the reader the character speaking and thus avoid confusion, hopefully.
SUMMARY: When they return to the Alpha Quadrant, Janeway is subjected to and near collapse after the particularly strenuous and intensive debriefings and court-martial. Ethan Bellamy, a former Starfleet officer and cellist, a recluse, finds the near dying Janeway on his property and nurses her back to health.
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns Janeway and Chakotay. The character Ethan is, however, my own.
ETHAN BELLAMY
PART ONE: HOMECOMING
For
I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity -
William Wordsworth
*
They were home.
Crew were reunited with parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, loved ones. The constant buzz of sounds and movement created a haze in which she felt swallowed by grey swirling mists, unable to see straight ahead, or knowing which way to turn.
She heard laughter – bright laughter. She heard weeping – tears of joy, of sadness, of aching voids that could no longer be filled. She had done what she needed to do: see that every crewman was tended to. That Voyager’s logs be downloaded to the Federation database, every report from every department over a period of seven years be in the hands of admirals who would decipher, analyse, discard, disseminate, laud, admire, doubt, criticise.
The voices were around her - loud
voices, astringent calls, soft, coaxing voices that asked a child to accept a
father never seen, that informed a husband of a child, now seven, that imparted
to a daughter of a mother just died, that told of misery, of denigration, of
acceptance, of joy, of loss. Later the voices sat in her head, crowding and
overcrowding her spaces until she felt her head would burst. She tried to find
the nearest tree where, in helpless rage, she could simply bang her forehead
until she could no longer think.
It was not supposed to be like this.
Homecoming meant Caesar entering the gates of Rome in triumph and relating his many exploits in Gaul. Homecoming meant Odysseus returning after twenty years and countless trials at sea to a waiting son and wife. Homecoming meant a prisoner, long transformed from his former wickedness, flying into the arms of his overjoyed wife and children.
Her mother was dead. Voices – again – that travelled from the centre of the mists told her of the pining of Gretchen Janeway until at last, too unbearably tired to hold on to life, she simply passed away. Homecoming meant a sister who remained hidden until her face emerged from the mists and the only words that held any power, any meaning, that stabbed too deeply for her to offer an explanation were "You killed my mother." Just that. Phoebe had turned away from her before she could even open her mouth; before she could open her arms for a hug of joy; before she could say, "I'm sorry."
Homecoming. No one to wait for her. No loved ones. Everyone of her crew had come home to something or with something. They had something to connect them to their past and their present and their future. She lay, like Odysseus, washed up on the shores, turned into an old, old woman who had nothing to look forward to.
Nothing. An emptiness that heralded her future. A homecoming that offered no more than what Starfleet was prepared to give: new rank pips and an office.
What then, Kathryn Janeway, of your first officer?
The unknown voice seemed to drill into her head, creating a channel through which her lifeblood coursed, seeking exits that could only be attained through the breaking of her skull. Was it her own voice that spoke those words? Why did it feel disembodied, as if it belonged to no one, or to everyone who knew her?
What then of your first officer?
The days turned inward, rushed into the chambers of all knowledge in her brain. There was no hiding place except in her head, and her head could deceive her with guileless ease - days before Voyager came through the hub, days before her future self appeared.
She had wagered her life on a waiting period.
Until we get home.
Home is thirty thousand light-years away.
I can bear it. So can you.
I am a man, Kathryn. A man with needs.
I can't give you what you need now.
That is a lie. I can see it in your eyes, in your face, in your hands, even. You need me and you want me. You love me.
That may be so. But I am not a young and guileless woman who rushes headlong into a relationship that will make demands, ask more than what I will be able to give, and do so without considering the consequences.
We have been in this place seven years, lived side by side for seven years, fought one another, loved one another, looked out for one another, protected one another. That does not constitute rushing headlong into love, into thoughtless acts. You have the strength, the ability to handle any threat befalling this ship and its crew. You have proved that over and over. What consequences do you speak of that cannot be handled by you?
My message, I believe, has always been clear. I don't believe that I have given you any reason at any time to think of me more than as a friend, a valued colleague, as your superior.
What then, of New Earth?
We needed one another's warmth. Believe me when I tell you that all the reservations I have for pursuing something with you, which would require leaving all of me in the custody of your heart, is not the Federation, not the ship, not Starfleet.
I would have thought the Federation to be your first line of defence. Now I see that you are more cold-blooded than that which, in my estimation, acts as your father. You have led me on, hinted here and there that I might dare to hope. There is thus no point in asking whether Kathryn Janeway loves me.
I love you.
Yes, as the friend, the valued colleague, as my superior officer, nothing more.
Chakotay…
I am a man.
She had walked away from him. It had been hard to walk away from her life. It had been hard to see the destruction her words wreaked in his eyes. It had been hard not to rush back to him and plead to be accepted or forgiven. It would have been harder had she not seen his eyes before the destruction.
Didn't you know, Chakotay, that your words were just lip-service, that your hurt was centred in your manly ego? Couldn't you discern a difference between hurting of the heart and hurting of the head, the id, the ego? You loved me, but you loved not all of me. You loved me, but it was the love provoked by your extraordinary sense to protect. It was the love inspired by your inborn capacity to touch with healing, to soothe with gentle words which belied such a roughened exterior.
You say my love was selfish?
I cannot deny that you felt what you felt, what you are still feeling. But don't you see? Your love is tempered by your obligation to me. I should not be an obligation.
She thought it had been arrogant to assume that she knew where his heart lay, arrogant to articulate that notion and convert it into words of wisdom of a condescending nature that he would be happier with someone else.
You don't understand me, Chakotay.
I understand enough, more than you think.
Then
why do I still feel that the light, which I dare
to wish into my soul, cannot even filter through a parsec of it? Why do I still
have a sinking feeling of being deflated, unanswered in the depths of me? I want
my soul touched…touched… I want that understood. No one understands…
The part of me that can love and that can be loved, is only a part. I pen my thoughts in poetry, paint my agonies on canvas, listen with pure awe to music that rains from mountain ranges, from waterfalls, from wild geese skimming a glittering lake, from the clouds that sail away into the distance. Sometimes I dance… There are times the joy of it, the expression of it is so unbearable that I dream of one who could understand that drive in me. All expression that reaches beyond the sublime is art. Every line I write, every stroke of the brush, every note of elegance sounding from the keys, every movement of the body into forms and contours that elicit a sense of the sublime, is art. There is a part in me that burns to be understood. I've never felt that with you, Chakotay. Perhaps in that I am selfish, perhaps in that I may divest myself of any idea that sexual intimacy can compensate for all understanding. Men may think that, sometimes.
Your judgment of me is unfair. It is not right.
I am the friend who will be by your side too, if you need me. Just like you promised to be by my side so long ago, I will be that for you. But Chakotay, our journey has ended and for me, whatever lies ahead, I face alone. We were thrown together by extraordinary circumstances which required extraordinary measures to survive together, and we have done that. You are my friend, but even as we part here, I tell you that you never really understood me, understood that I must walk alone.
You will be happy, Chakotay. With her.
What do you mean?
What I said. I see the light go up in your eyes. You don't even know that your heart is reaching, away from me, where it should be.
I don't know what to say.
Then don't. Rather explore the new, as yet untouched dimension, I see in your eyes. They glow and speak of realms I can never tread or live, or exist in. That dimension, Chakotay, that desires your total understanding. I love you, yes, but what I feel should never betray you, or where your path leads you. It's written.
You love me, Kathryn Janeway.
Yes.
But I cannot love you back.
I know what you feel for me, but Kathryn Janeway should never become your obligation. Yes, we shared intimacies; yes, we loved, yes, there could be something lasting. But I have seen your eyes, seen that someone here on Voyager will have custody of your heart. Not me.
I am sorry.
Don't be. Don't ever be sorry.
****
What of Chakotay?
That was what she saw through the haze in everyone's eyes. Her senior officers, her superiors who read the reports, the official logs which couldn't lie. They sifted through them and extrapolated the facts, distilled them into one personal reckoning in the life of the captain of Voyager: there was something between Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay.
Did you, or did you not pursue a personal relationship with another officer on board a Federation vessel, Captain? Did you, or did you not fraternise with a member who was a subordinate, albeit your first officer? Did you, or did you not pursue a relationship with a prisoner, a Maquis whom you were to deliver to the Federation?
What then, of Chakotay?
Nothing of Chakotay, she responded, smiling her way through the cynical enquiries, the compassionate questions that were well meant. She smiled, remained a true Starfleet product that knew how to play the game of hearts and crosses.
What you have read in the ship's logs and reports I cannot refute. We believed ourselves to be lost forever. Had it not been for the Borg, we would have taken three more decades before returning home. Admirals, a number of my crew have formed attachments. Dare you tell me that given the extraordinary circumstances of our journey home, the need to survive by seeking comfort and companionship should not be part of that survival?
Therefore, what attachments that
were formed were borne of survival's need?
You understand me wrong, as I think you very well know and understand that where the heart lingers, men and women will find a way to be together. What I have shared, as you indeed seem to have distilled from all the reports before you, was the need to be two things at once in a position of leadership. I would quote you the words of Periander of Corinth when he agonised over whether a king, a leader, could also be a man, a poet, an artist. Is it possible to bridge and merge what Starfleet declares to be two divides? To find a balance between prince and poet and provide for each in equal measure? In this case, to be captain and woman.
What I shared with another individual on Voyager was, I can assure you, discreet and private, not to be brought into disrepute or questioned by your team which can only glean second-hand knowledge of Voyager's trials and tribulations. On all other issues I stand before you, to be judged and judged fairly.
Commander Chakotay and the rest of the Maquis have been offered pardons, Captain Janeway.
I am happy. Thank you, Admiral Nechayev, Admiral Hays, Admiral Gordon.. The Maquis were a valuable asset to Voyager. While my original mission had indeed been to deliver the Maquis into your hands, many things changed, on Voyager, in the Delta Quadrant, and here, in the Federation, which cast a different light on their worth, their ideals, their struggle for freedom and justice. The nature of our mission assumed an entirely different objective which required its crew to battle all manner of adversity, to survive in a quadrant with mostly hostile worlds. We became a Voyager crew, with a common goal and that was to work together as one to reach home. It has been my greatest wish to see them all pardoned and freed.
Please do not go off-world, Captain Janeway. We may need to contact you again.
Then you are not finished with me?
No, Captain Janeway. There are matters regarding some events and incidents which require your expert knowledge on whether further action should be pursued.
In other words, a court martial. The last words were then, as now, in her thoughts, warring with all others to gain precedence and hoist itself as the primary, single most serious indictment against her.
**
No more questions about Chakotay, and her crew left, leaving their smiling captain behind to clean up after Voyager's return. She hadn't wanted them around and ordered them to go with their families, plan their futures, get on with their lives, mourn too, if they needed.
A knock on her hotel room door. Tired feet shuffled to the door to open it.
Chakotay. A welcome, reassuring sight. He stood hands behind his back.
"Captain…"
"Chakotay! I thought you had left for Dorvan V already."
Chakotay's eyes bore into her, flitted over her features trying to find a chink, anything that bore traces of heartache. Instead, she graced him with a smile, remaining happy.
"I must thank you again for performing the ceremony. We didn't want anyone else and we didn't want to leave until you had performed it."
"It has been a pleasure, my friend. So, where is your wife?"
They had been temporarily housed in a hotel, a huge concession subsidised by Starfleet for the entire crew. From there, most of the crew could go their way to their respective destinations and make plans. She opened her door further and he entered, though not taking more than three or four steps inside.
"She has been in contact with her aunt in Sweden and we're to visit her first before leaving for Dorvan. No more cat suits for her, she's decided."
"That's something new. I thought she loved it."
"She maintains she's no longer on Voyager and would like to test the waters in clothing like slack suits. And, she's letting her hair down, literally."
"Seven of Nine. Who would have thought she could relax about anything. She looks radiant, you know."
"She is. We have a few plans, but first, Dorvan. She's to be our technical advisor there. We're hoping to have children…"
Chakotay spoke with the ease of an old friend, the simple relief that he could still share many things with her. The lines of strain were gone from his face, strain she had seen too often during their years away from home. Even with her. Had he been too afraid of hurting her? She touched his arm.
"You look happy, Chakotay."
"I am. Thank you, for that too. Here…"
She frowned. He had been standing with his hands behind his back and now she saw that he held a package.
"What is this?" she asked, frowning.
"Go on…open it. I think you will like it."
She had already pulled the wrapping off while he spoke and gasped as she held the leather-bound book in her hands.
"Warrior Mine by Henry F. Marchand! My favourite modern author! Chakotay, this is wonderful!"
"I was hoping you'd like it. Besides, I know you love the physical book with pages that you turn. This was the last of the leather-bound copies. The man's sold out, can you believe it?"
"Of course I believe it. I have his first two novels… Before we left for the Badlands."
She flipped through the pages, smelled the leather, the paper, closed her eyes at the prospect of pure enjoyment in reading the book.
"He never does book signings, I was told. Very elusive man."
"I know! I tried to get him to sign his first novel - "
"Songs of a Wayfarer?"
"I didn't know you read him…" she said, a little reflectively.
"It was before Voyager. Well, now you know... Pity, isn't it?"
"That's okay. Thank you, Chakotay, for this very beautiful gift."
"You're welcome, Kathryn," he said, smiling his dimpled smile. "Kathryn, I want to thank you again for marrying us. I - "
He paused, the unspoken words hanging heavily between them. She understood the significance. She didn't want to be an obligation. He married Seven of Nine for love, and that was more than what anyone could say of many people who married. His eyes shone. He glowed, looking much more relaxed than she had ever seen him. Her heart thumped wildly for a few seconds, then settled into an even rhythm again.
"Chakotay, it has been an honour to perform the ceremony for my best friend. I – "
"Will you visit us on Dorvan?"
"I'd love to come! See what progress had been made in the planet's reconstruction and rehabilitation. It's hard work, Chakotay, but you are up to it."
"Kathryn…"
"What is it, Chakotay?"
His eyes had gone sombre for a second. She knew what he was thinking, and her refusal was already formed in her mind when he opened his mouth again.
"You are to be court-martialled, you know that."
She sighed, then forced herself to calm. The debriefings had left her exhausted; she didn't sleep well, hadn't slept well for six days. She was near breaking point.
"I don't want you there, Chakotay."
"A character witness – "
"No. Thank you. You have been given a pardon. Be free. I trust that I will come through this, too."
"I don't mean to sound like a prophet of doom here, Kathryn, but I've seen Nechayev's face. Seen the other admirals', too."
"So first name basis with some of Starfleet's admirals isn't going to help me now. So what? I can defend myself."
"Kathryn…please, let me be there, for you."
She saw how determined he was, his eyes filled with great resolve. She relented, even felt a sense of relief.
"I didn't want to impose, but I would be grateful if my best friend could be there. Thank you. I'm not looking forward to it, you know?"
"I know," he sighed, reaching to give her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "But I'm also hopeful that you will be exonerated."
"Your faith is greater than mine presently, so can I borrow some of it?"
"Naturally."
He kissed her briefly on the lips then turned quickly. His room was one level below hers and she heard the lift swish as he entered and vanished from her sight where she stood just outside her door in the carpeted passage.
She turned and went in, closing her door behind her, then stood with her back against the door.
"I may never be able to breathe without you…" she whispered, the words exiting painfully from her, her chest burning, ready to burst from seeing him go, looking so patently happy with his new wife.
But she had to make him understand that her reticence lay within herself, not anyone else, not Starfleet. How had she missed the signals in the beginning? In recent months, Annika Hansen's name had kept cropping up in their conversations. Nothing to do with her work, but the slow, if tentative exploration of letting her name fall from his tongue, getting used to its sound, the inflections, the velvety quality of uttering it.
She had known, even before he knew, how much he was beginning to care for Annika, and she had known, by the end, just before Admiral Janeway informed her of Seven and her First Officer, that Chakotay loved Seven. He hadn't wanted to commit himself to the former Borg because he hadn't wanted to hurt his captain, his former love his confidant.
Her peace had been made. She was able to walk away, her friendship with a great man still intact, still active, still alive. That alone gave her courage and lifted her spirits somewhat. She wanted to see Chakotay happy.
And what of Kathryn Janeway?
Kathryn sighed. She was alone. Her mother dead, Phoebe hating her for killing their mother. Another snippet of a subspace communication with her sister had left her gasping with the unjustness of Phoebe's words…
"For seven years I never had peace, Kathryn. Our mother pined day after day for you, and she left me out in the cold, especially the few times you were able to write her. I heard nothing but Kathryn's name for seven years. I was mainly an afterthought, as if Mother remembered too late she had another daughter, right here, on her doorstep. I lost my mother long before you lost her. For that I can't forgive you…"
Phoebe's words lashed her, striking like a wet strip of leather across her body.
Deciding that her sister would one day come round and they could then talk, Kathryn moved away from the door and entered the bedroom, preparing to pack a few things for a two day stay at Indiana, the farm Phoebe hated so much.
Only, the first night of her arrival at Indiana, Kathryn received official notification from Admiral Howe, the Judge Advocate General, that she was to be court-martialed.
She had been expecting that call with dread.
****************
END PART ONE