1/5

—
- i -
—

It didn't take long (roughly around the time Voyager drifted into the Earth's orbit) for the tumultuous relationship between expectation and reality to put a halt to the dreams of a one, Kathryn Elizabeth Janeway. For seven years, she had rather foolishly anticipated the feeling of happiness when her crew found its way home. However, when the incandescent blue of her home planet loomed larger and bluer in her view screen, she realized that she would give just about anything (Harry Kim's spleen if need-be) for one more slap-happy, perilous week in the Delta Quadrant (1).

What was meant to be a month of debriefing, followed by painstakingly slow efforts to integrate her crew back into life & duty in the Alpha Quadrant, morphed into a streamlined eleven days of Starfleet disguised mania. Briefings lasted hours instead of days, pardons came in the manner of high praise by those who had previously sought to squash the Maquis crew. It seemed that the Federation was so war-ravaged and starved for some good news, that the brass was more willing to spin high carat gold out of what amounted to a battered-tin captain than they were willing to court martial her. Rather than being raked through Starfleet's proverbial mud, the captain of Voyager became the poster child of all the things that had gone right (or, at the very least, all the things that hadn't gone all that wrong) in the post-war society (2).

At least, that had been Starfleet's intention. Such as it was, the reality was that Kathryn's reintegration into her old life was indefinitely halted by a questionable mental state, media cycles, and Fleet PR consultants that didn't know when to quit while they were ahead.

And the gossip?

Well, as always, it was as inventive as a group of pre-war Ferengi attempting to sell depleted dilithium crystals above market price.

Which meant, she had learned how to (mostly) ignore it all.

That didn't mean she didn't attempt to keep well informed.

Serving as the interim commander of Emergency Operations (3), Rear Admiral Janeway had excellent access to Fleet-wide communication channels. This perk of the job helped her keep track of much of the Voyager family; at least, all the ones that wanted to be kept track of (4). For instance, she caught word that Harry would be promoted to Lieutenant, Junior Grade two weeks before he did; that Tuvok would be offered reassignment to a science vessel flying in close proximity to Vulcan for five years; that B'Elanna would be given a position as the assistant research coordinator behind the new slip-stream project once she returned from leave; and that Chakotay's rank would be permanently reinstated, provided he agreed to keep from the borderlands between Federation and Cardassian space.

She had once thought should would have to fight tooth-and-nail for her crew to be recognized for their many achievements, but she learned that they were capable of impressing their worth upon others all on their own.

What Kathryn did not have great access to was the latest relationship scuttlebutt, as it existed and spread through news and gossip feeds she had no time to track. The loss of this source of information — information she had guiltily reveled in as the captain of such a tight-knit crew — left her adrift when it came to keeping up with everyone's growing personal lives. So, when she received the latest and eagerly awaited update from her former pilot, she expected little more than another featured piece on the surprisingly vibrant and still-going-annoyingly-strong relationship between Voyager's former XO and its ex-drone, as well as the attached betting pool on how long it would take to implode (5).

Reality, as she had yet to fully appreciate, was utterly and undeniably delusional.

'Probably won't amount to anything' read Tom's short note.

'Thought you could use a laugh.'

Beneath was the headline, "Behind the Unlikely Affair: Voyager Ensign Explains the Relationship between Kathryn Janeway and her EMH, Mark I."

She promptly spat her coffee on her personal computer.

For once, expectation and reality fell into perfect alignment, as there was, in fact, a great deal of laughter.

—
- ii -
—

Where Tom had gone wrong in his prediction — and where Kathryn should have known he would go wrong — was that the gossip would amount to nothing. Gossip about Kathryn Janeway, the woman who sacrificed nearly everything for the Ocampa and her crew, always amounted to something.

So, the piece blew up. Immediately.

And it persisted. Three months, eight days, and-she-was-really-too-busy-to-keep-track-of-the-hours later, and the topic of her 'affair' with the Doctor just wouldn't go away. It was like the Vidiian Phage, utterly and annoyingly adaptive.

Oh, sure, it didn't make endless headlines and wasn't the most prevalent piece of scuttlebutt to come out of Voyager's return home (that distinct honor went to Seven — who may have quite literally had volumes written about her choice in apparel), but it did appear seemingly at random (6). Perhaps not at random after-all, but whenever her attention was better placed elsewhere.

The reality of it was, Kathryn hadn't even seen much of the Doctor since they docked, except to lend the occasional hand (as well as the occasional stern glare) at the half dozen depositions that acted as precursors to a series of panels that would determine his citizenship status. Essentially, the best and brightest that Starfleet had to offer would argue the question: was the Doctor 'human' enough to be an individual under Federation law. That 'human' was the standard he was being held to spoke more about the Federation than it did the doctor, and explained a good 75% of the stern glares Kathryn had leveled on his behalf.

They were both kept rather busy as of late, and their fledgling tradition of friendly coffee dates seemed to have been left behind in the Delta Quadrant, but even this did not prevent people from wild speculation of the impolite kind.

So, Kathryn Janeway did what she'd always done best in the light of other people's flagrant stupidity: she dug her head into the proverbial sand and made a great show of pretending that she had no idea what was being said about her. Her friends, family, the majority of the Voyager crew that kept in contact - even the Doctor himself — all took a note from her book and kept mum on the subject.

Except for Tom, but that was to be expected (7).

So good was she at ignoring the wild speculation about her "unlikely" and completely false affair with the Doctor, that roughly eight months after her return to the Alpha Quadrant, Kathryn Janeway had all but forgotten that she was the topic of such grossly miscalculated intrigue. By the tenth month, she had forgotten (mostly because, at around that point, approximately every ship assigned to low-risk missions in the Alpha Quadrant had managed to haphazardly drift into gratuitous amounts of life-threatening danger). She had work to do, after all.

Very important work.

See, it was her designated mission as the head of Emergency Operations to make sure that the number of Federation deaths did not exceed the monthly projections she was given by the dozen or so Admirals that outranked her. These numbers, in turn, were determined by a group of people who had probably spent their entire adult lives trying to break the record for digits of pi memorized. The good news was that she had a nearly miraculous tendency to keep said numbers of death so far beneath the projected red line that no one stopped to condemn her for how she was doing it: through an uncanny mixture of intuition and sheer determination, both fueled by coffee and seven years of having acquired a since-then unheard of ability to not get half of a crew (or two, to be technically correct) killed in a volatile region of space.

She literally had no time for intrigue — political or otherwise.

That's why, when the Doctor stopped in for a visit one day, and the enormous din of the cramped Emergency Ops headquarters fell to quiet breathing, Kathryn thought it was because a statistically significant portion of her lower-ranking officers were in the medical profession and were rendered temporarily mute by their awe and/or impolite-curiosity of him (with assumptions like this, he probably wouldn't need to use his ego as a defense mechanism for very much longer).

In reality, they were all trying to hear what was being said while she led him into her private office.

"Doctor! What brings you here?"

If she sounded pleasantly surprised to see him, it was because she was. Hidden in the question, however, was another: How did you manage to gain access of your mobile emitter (8)?

"I had a break in my busy schedule and asked myself who hadn't been graced with my presence in while. So, of course, I thought of you."

When her office doors closed and the glass darkened to afford them privacy, his superior expression faltered and became wary. Before Kathryn could ask, he fingered his collar, pulling it away from his neck to display a narrow strip of metal pinned to the inside.

"Dr. Zimmerman procured the materials through private channels," his tone implied that this had all been done extra-legally and probably amorally, "in order to make me another mobile emitter. He technically owns it, since he used his own resources to create it, so we're running under the assumption that Starfleet has no legal claim."

Stepping closer, Kathryn got a good look at the device and was impressed by its sleek design. She'd met Lewis Zimmerman exactly once, and she hadn't thought the man capable of creating physical pieces of art.

"Does it operate the same?"

"In every way that counts," he flattened the collar, "and in some ways I would prefer very few people become aware of, considering…"

Although her office was sealed off from main Emergency Ops, Kathryn understood his hesitation. People were polite, but the discussion about whether or not he should be classified as a living being was still a highly volatile debate.

"Why don't we go get coffee? I'm three hours due for lunch and can easily clear my afternoon."

That last bit was a flagrant lie. That morning there had been reports of an interplanetary pandemic; one in which they were all still trying to coordinate efforts to solve, but she was willing to delegate her responsibilities for a friend who needed to talk. Also, the illness wasn't even that fatal, just uncomfortable for any species with iron-based blood.

The Doctor went from skeptical to aghast in record time, "It's three in the afternoon! It's not healthy to skip meals, and I know for a fact that you think a balanced breakfast only needs to consist of three servings of coffee! Food. We're getting you food, and you're drinking decaf! Water, even. You're drinking water!"

This last bit was heard by the entirety of Emergency Ops, as Kathryn had made the mistake of opening the door so she could lead him out. Someone was chuckling, and since the room was as still and as silent as a tomb, Kathryn was easily able to triangulate the offender's location and stare them down. Ensign Lowrey, a xenolinguist fresh out of the Academy, shrank in her seat until Kathryn's eyes softened into kind amusement. They had all been slammed with long hours for weeks, she couldn't begrudge anyone who found something to laugh about. Even if that something was her.

Lieutenant Commander Lavek, a startlingly expressive female Vulcan nearly twice Kathryn's age appeared at her side, "I assume by the sudden outburst, that you will be taking a late lunch today?"

Which translated to: I was beginning to suspect that you did not need food to survive. I am pleased to be wrong.

"Close but no. I'll be taking lunch and the entire afternoon off. Do you think you can keep this place in line?"

Kathryn had learned, in her many years of friendship with Tuvok, that carrying an inside joke with a Vulcan was not only possible but a requirement if you wanted to be anything more than someone they frequently tried to condemn for behaving in a perpetually irrational manner. Vulcans enjoyed their humor, even if they could not express it, and seemed to deeply respect those who knew how carefully extract it.

Both of the Vulcan's brows rose, "I believe you are trying to bait me."

"I believe I have succeeded. I'll see you tomorrow."

Commander Lavek folded her hands behind her back, made a soft thoughtful sound, and moved away.

"She reminds me of Vorik," the EMH offered.

He wasn't wrong, although Kathryn was not as familiar with the engineer as the Doctor.

"So," Kathryn clapped her hands together, "Buenos Aires?"

Which really meant: care to get far far away from Starfleet Headquarters?

"Where else?"

—
- iii -
—

It was raining in Buenos Aires when they rematerialized.

The use of the word 'raining' was, to be perfectly honest, a fraudulent understatement. The sky was physically assaulting the city and the surrounding county with heavy belts of water in such a way that, if you were to turn toward the east and stare for a good while, you'd realize that the wind was trying to move the entire ocean inland. This all, of course, made what the transporter operator in San Francisco had said seem like wishful thinking ("They've planned a light thunderstorm. Might want to take an umbrella").

They had brought one, but that didn't stop the two-or-five inches of water on the ground from ricocheting and soaking Kathryn's uniform up to her knees. The Doctor, ever the gentlemen, kept close beside her but let her stand fully under the umbrella. Since the rain seemed to slide right off of him, Kathryn didn't really care to argue with him over this.

"This is perfect," the Doctor shouted over approximately a thousand decibels of Mother Nature punishing her children, "if anyone decided to follow us, they're in for a rude awakening!"

Since it was impossible to see more than three inches past her nose, Kathryn had to agree with him, "Let's find the cafe before we get lost at sea!"

This was much easier said than done. Only after they spent fifteen minutes dodging large projectiles and rain insistent on demonstrating it was aerodynamic enough to fall horizontally were they able to duck into a building with a giant coffee mug painted on a sign hanging above the door. The proprietors, a woman significantly younger than Kathryn and a man that looked like the former's father, stared at them briefly in shock. It was quite clear by their mirroring expressions that they hadn't seen a costumer all day, nor had they expected to.

A puddle formed under Kathryn's boots; the Doctor's uniform remained frustratingly dry.

Finally, the man spoke, his expression going from incredulous shock to bemusement, "Only Starfleet officers would brave this weather for a cup of coffee."

"I find it always tastes better when you have to work for it," as she said this, Kathryn thought of all those times that she had to plead with the replicators on Voyager just so she wouldn't have to try another one of Neelix's just-like-coffee concoctions. Something in the thought made her miss the very thing.

A sort of delightful reproach had filled the eyes of the young woman, "Did your friend stand behind you as you walked?"

Confused for only a moment, Kathryn smiled when she understood. It had been raining sideways, and these two didn't know who they were, "Yes, something like that."

"Elena, take the…"

"Admiral."

"Take the Admiral to the back and get her a fresh pair of clothes. The...

"Doctor," the Doctor spoke up.

"Yes. The doctor may take a seat anywhere in the dining area while he waits."

It took ten minutes for Elena (an outgoing twenty-three year old with a unused doctorates in history, who thought Kathryn would look better in coral than in command red, and since the cafe didn't have access to uniform patterns, replicated her a full set of casual clothes. An understated pink sweater included) to get her situated in the back. It took another five for Kathryn to dry off, warm up, and return to the dining area. It struck her that she hadn't spend this much time outside of a Starfleet capacity it nearly a year.

The Doctor had taken the table farthest from the door in her absence. Hanging over the back of one of the spare chairs was his uniform jacket; something in Kathryn's brain shorted out at the sight of it. If only because for all intents and purposes it should have been impossible, but her expressions remained schooled as she sat, as if seeing the Doctor in his regulation grey tee was a common occurrence.

And then she quirked her brow.

With a satisfied grin, the Doctor extended a closed fist across the table, palm down as if he expected to drop something on its surface. Kathryn got the hint and extended her hand palm up. A moment later, something thin and cool hit her skin and she felt herself nearly gasping at what she saw.

The Doctor's new mobile emitter was not attached to his person.

"I'm guessing this is the something you don't want many people to know about," she said somewhat breathlessly, it had been too long since she had seen a true feat of engineering genius.

"It has a three meter radius," he beamed, "It's not perfect, I honestly don't dare to remove it beyond a couple of feet, but it prevents people from deactivating me by simply plucking it off. And Lewis is making improvements to the design every day."

Elena brought a steaming mug over at this moment and set it in front of Kathryn on the table, and said, "Your sandwich will be ready in only a couple of minutes," before departing again.

"I hope you don't mind. I took the liberty of ordering for you."

"I'll forgive you if the coffee is good," Kathryn blew across the surface of the beverage and took a small sip, it was better than good for being decaffeinated, and so she held the mobile emitter out for him to take.

"So, does this mean that you've been keeping in contact with Dr. Zimmerman?"

"Unfortunately," his tone was haughty, but there was fondness in there (like a child whose parent was a grouch and every-bit hard to get along with but inexplicably endearing despite of all of it), "He was on Earth to petition Starfleet to have custody of my program until the hearings have concluded."

"That's how I got this," he jiggled his emitter.

"Did they give it to him?" Kathryn was curious. Her own petition had been denied, as she had expected it would (on the grounds that she had far too many resources as well as the power to squirrel him away should the verdict not be in his favor).

Would they give it to his creator?

"Reg and Admiral Paris were able to swing it in his favor," unspoken was the sentiment that they had both been swinging many things in the Doctor's favor, "I'm actually due to spend the next couple of months at Jupiter Station. Lewis says it's for surveillance, but…"

"But you think that since he's already made you a mobile emitter, surveillance is just a pretense?"

The Doctor nodded, and they both fell quiet as Elena returned with Kathryn's food, "We have been told that the weather will settle by the evening. They have found the flaw in the weather net and are working to fix it now. You are welcome to wait here until it does."

"Thank you."

When Elena retreated to the counter once more, Kathryn looked under the top slice of bread and spoke softly, "If that's the case, be careful."

"Of course," he scoffed.

She ignored him, "Harry's been working with creating a subspace encryption system that can be used by the old crew in a crunch (9). I don't know if he actually plans on it being used, since it could just be another hobby of his, but I'll tell him to send you what he has. If something happens, don't hesitate to comm me."

Then she took a giant bite of her sandwich, and their conversation became a little less illegal.

—
- iv -
—

The Doctor spent an awful two months in the company of Lewis Zimmerman (the longest he had been away from Earth since Voyager's return); during which, Kathryn became aware that the EMH's creator had given him with a number of new and interesting subroutines as well as a name.

He'd told her much of this over a comm-link while he was in-route to Earth, and the expression on his usually smiling face (at least since Chakotay and Seven took their dating off-world permanently nine months prior), was so devastated that it made Kathryn want to reach for a drink. All she had readily available was stale coffee, so she was forced to wait until his shuttle arrived to pull him into one of the several synthehol establishments the main campus (if people were watching this strange spectacle, she wasn't in the mood to care, the Ferengi had just offered to assist the Starfleet in a rescue mission, and she was considering all the ways in which that mission could and would go wrong).

She was in the middle of something pink in color and fairly bitter in flavor when he dropped the bombshell on her. She choked; he handed her a napkin.

"I'm sorry. Did you say that he named you Greg?"

"Gregory Zimmerman. After his father," he hated it. It was so clear that he hated it that Kathryn wasn't even all that surprised when he reached for her drink and took a long pull from the bottle (she did, however, briefly wonder if there would be a puddle of synthehol on the floor the next time he deactivated, but managed to not say that out loud).

"Oh, this is awful! Peaches aren't supposed to be bitter!" he said this as if it was a personal affront to both him and his senses, "Admiral, how can you drink this?"

She was too busy confused by his choice of words to do anything other than say, "What?"

It took her the next thirty minutes to get anything of sense from him. During that time, she didn't ask for her drink back and he didn't seem inclined to give it. Apparently, Lewis Zimmerman had capitalized on his custodial rights when it had come to the Doctor's (cough, Greg's ) name. As far as she could tell from what was being said, this could not be changed unless he won his hearing.

"And who knows how long I'll be stuck with it. This...debacle...has lasted nearly a year already."

Low and pleading now, "I don't want to be called Greg."

"And I don't want to call you Greg," the fact that she meant it surprised her. In all the years that he'd been activated, she'd expected the Doctor to take a name eventually, but hadn't ever been a willing participant in the search.

One of her small hands came to rest on his shoulder. Although they weren't exactly causing a scene, a number of people were watching, which meant that this little rendezvous would reach Fleet and Federation news before the hour was out. She'd rather utilize the rumors than have anyone know what she was minutes away from suggesting.

As the Doctor continued to drink, Kathryn narrowed her eyes and contemplated his out of character behavior, "What else did Dr. Zimmerman do?"

"A number of experimental subroutines were added to my program. He felt that if I could actually feel, taste and respond to external stimuli in 'appropriate' manners, then the opposition couldn't argue that I was a mere anthropomorphism."

"Uh-huh," she started to ease the bottle from his hand, "Is inebriation among these new subroutines of yours?"

"It. would. seem. so."

"People are watching, I suggest you deactivate it for the moment."

His shoulders tensed briefly, and then the Doctor nodded crisply, "I haven't gotten used to that one yet."

"Well, you've got plenty of time to learn your limits," or set them yourself, but she didn't say that last bit; instead, she turned and scowled at those who were still watching them openly.

"Do I?" he asked. It was melodramatic, but when wasn't he?

"Give me a few days to see what I can do. Certain admirals might be persuaded to...bring a favorable end to this case."

"Subterfuge, Admiral? I thought you were beyond that," his tone suggested anything but.

When her only response was a snort, he continued, "You mean you'll convince them to rule in my favor rather than have the decision based on my merits?" he had the good grace to whisper this.

Kathryn finished the drink off, coughed again because the taste really was as bad as bitter peaches, and slapped his back, "You really have a problem with that?"

"At this point? No. Ask me again in a year, when I have the luxury of being offended."

"Good. In that case, I recommend you not contact me until after the dust has settled."

"Not even with MA'AM?"

"Not even. Greg."

He groaned.

—
- v -
—

Four long days later, Kathryn found herself constructing very important messages to the two admirals who had the most influence in the Doctor's hearings. These were written with as much care as she could afford between several messy emergencies that involved ten ships and the entire world of Risa, which meant that both (informal) communiques were incredibly short and to the point and may or may not have invited both admirals out for drinks. Two days after that, Kathryn had her responses, both of which led her to believe that all she had to do in order to make a difference in Starfleet was become a functioning alcoholic.

—
- vi -
—

The Officers Lounge (née Club) was a throwback to the early Starfleet years. It was a little bit flashy, quite a bit poorly lit, and therefore the perfect location to make all the backroom deals that weren't supposed to keep key (and therefore incredibly bureaucratically clogged) areas of the Federation running smoothly but did so anyway (10).

This seedier side of the Lounge's nature meant that Kathryn rarely went there, which was why she was still stuck in Emergency Ops — almost a year after her miraculous return to the Alpha Quadrant — but nobody was going to tell her that. In fact, she so rarely went there, that the last time she could definitively say she had gone was when her father had taken her and Phoebe when she was six.

From what she could remember, very little had actually changed.

It was fairly late into the evening (some four hours after the official end of her workday but really only twenty minutes since she'd actually called it quits) when Kathryn found herself squeezed between Rear Admirals Montgomery and cCmndhd, the latter of which was a native of an equally difficult to pronounce country and insistently (on the verge of violently) refused to modernize his name to the phonetically accurate Smith so that the universal translators wouldn't suffer a seizure every time someone tried to pronounce it as written (11).

Montgomery, an attractive man approximately her age (and not recently married and divorced as in the case of the curious cCmndhd), was waxing poetic about the financial aid-disputes between a Cardassian ambassador, Garak-someone-or-another, and Lwaxana Troi (something anyone with access to Fleet news could enjoy, in all of its glory and gory detail). This was not what Kathryn had made this trip for, and so she waited impatiently for the opportunity to hijack the conversation.

…which came exactly two and a half hours later, when Montgomery left without preamble to go bother a pretty Captain, who was (supposedly) not under his chain of command. cCmndhd scooted further into Kathryn to make room for Vice Admiral P'ox, a friendly Bolian woman who had been circling their table with near predatory intensity for the last hour, waiting for Montgomery to get bored with his unenthusiastic audience and leave already.

The Vice Admiral said hello by downing and entire shot of something the shade of vicious purple and blinking, "I thought he'd never shut up."

cCmndhd said something that sounded like fifteen consonants strung together in no particular order, scowled when he realized just how far the Starfleet linguists had gone to make sure his native language stayed dead and switched to standard, "He's getting worse."

Kathryn, not very keen on gossip in this form, joined in anyway, "I went to the Academy with him. Trust me. This was better."

Cringes are generally thought of as a universal gesture of physical or emotional distress; all three shared one.

"I was surprised to receive your invitation," P'ox had clearly determined that it was a fine time to get down to business. This meant that another round of drinks was ordered and served — a tall golden beverage that bubbled very, very slowly.

"I assumed that you avoided this hole at all costs," cCmndhd tacitly agreed.

Clearly these two had not looked over her command decision in the Delta Quadrant. If they had, they would have come to the solid conclusion that Kathryn Janeway, though a moral woman, functioned in a gray space. Whatever it took to insure the right conclusion was what she would do.

But she didn't say this; instead, to be polite, Kathryn decided to give the pretty drink a try, was instantly reminded of three week old socks, tried not to gag, and made a mental note to get the recipe to send off to Neelix.

"To be perfectly honest with you," she coughed, "the panels concerning the status of one of my crew are dragging on. For no good reason."

She shot a pointed glare at cCmndhd who had enough grace to wince.

"I want them to end. Sooner rather than later and in his favor."

P'ox considered this, enjoying her sweat-and-athletes-foot flavored beverage as she did so, "As the overseer of this particular set of hearings, I admit I may be able to…impress a certain level of haste upon the proceedings."

cCmndhd grunted, the sound was obviously to cover up a rare smile, "I am fond of your EMH. As the presiding judge and the tie-breaking vote, I can influence certain outcomes."

It was almost too easy. No. It was too easy. Just like sticking it to the Borg Queen with future technology while simultaneously transporting a ship from one end of the galaxy to the other in mere moments. This, of course, meant that she would need to sacrifice herself in the process. Or something similar.

Kathryn groaned, "All right. What do you want in exchange?"

"One more year in Emergency Ops," P'ox slurped the last of the drink — this time Kathryn did gag — "afterward you will lecture at the Academy until it is decided otherwise."

This was longhand for: you will never leave Earth in a professional capacity again.

A life sentence of unequivocal boredom.

"You want me landlocked. Why?"

For a single moment, P'ox looked apologetic, but only for that moment, then she shrugged a uniformed shoulder, "You do not mix well with starships."

There were precisely three minutes where Kathryn tried to argue against this, but the Vice Admiral deftly cut her off with an offer to give her a classified study, carried out by no less than five of the Federation's best mathematical minds, that concluded in no uncertain terms that Kathryn Elizabeth Janeway did not mix well with starships. Apparently there were four proofs to support this, all of which were iron clad, and one of which and produced an entirely new branch of probability theory.

cCmndhd wasn't any less demanding, "I am in a billiards tournament this Wednesday. My partner, Admiral Montgomery, will find himself suffering from a severely sprained wrist that day," (Kathryn did not want to know how cCmndhd planned to make this a reality). "I want to win, which cannot be done with him, since he has terrible aim, so you will be his replacement."

"Done," she agreed emphatically, feeling like a giant loser (but this she could handle, if it meant that the Doctor could face his future as an individual and not a tool and most certainly not as Greg).

Both Admirals smiled at her; Kathryn sighed.

After cCmndhd excused himself, intent on saving the pretty Captain from his long-winded friend, P'ox prepared to leave as well, but not before fixing Kathryn with an uncanny stare.

"May I offer some advice, Kathryn?"

"By all means."

No.

"Perhaps you should be careful. I would hate to see the growing scuttlebutt about you and the hologram to be given any real weight. Holo-addiction has slain the careers of greater men. And women."

"The Doctor is my friend," Kathryn took a great deal of offense to this so-called advice, "a good one at that. My spending time with him and caring about his future is not holo-addiction. It's natural."

P'ox looked as if she could argue the point all night, but came to a silent conclusion and said only, "Your 'friend' will be given the rights of a Federation citizen before the next two months have concluded. If you will not think of your reputation, at least try to protect his. It's a difficult thing, starting out your life being considered another person's relief."

As the Bolian made her exit, Kathryn ordered another drink. And perhaps, much later than she ought to have, she finally asked herself what anyone could have possibly gained from making up an affair.

—
- End Notes -
—

(1) She would even miss the Borg, in that strange way we miss those who have managed to render entire days/weeks/years of our lives into waking nightmares. As if we aren't sure we know who we are and what life means in the absence of their reliable animosity.

(2) Kathryn often speculated, usually in the company of thoughtful Tuvok, that had Benjamin Sisko not gone missing, the outcome of their return would have gone differently. Without its war hero, the Federation had had to settle for its next best thing: a shepherd. Quite unsettlingly, Tuvok always agreed with her logic.

(3) A position meant to help ease her back into taking orders, but really only served in making her want to break every single one of them.

(4) The Equinox crew had spread for sheets to the wind. Last she had heard, Gilmore went private sector after her forced resignation. Meanwhile, Noah Lessing offered his skills and need for penance to charity organizations working with the worse affected by the Dominion War.

(5) Knowing the patient and loyal nature of her best friend as well her protege's fierce loyalty and desire for stability , Kathryn always chose to vote in favor of the couple in question.

(6) A conversational scrap at the bottom of social repertoires; gossip that no one admitted to believing when pressed, but talked about anyway when they didn't know what to say to one another aside from, 'the weather is quite lovely today' despite the apparent failure in the weather net.

(7) And now that she thought of it, Tuvok had once said, "It is not the most unfortunate, baseless rumor about your actions to be perpetuated since our return, nor would it be the worst truth." Which was entirely true: apparently there was a well-circulated conspiracy theory that she was, in fact, the real Borg Queen.

(8) The subject of his mobile emitter was one of great umbrage to the Doctor. Starfleet, through legalistic maneuvering, had declared that the artifact was not the EMH's possession. That it had been acquired via 'temporal shenanigans' only solidified Starfleet's case for custody of the technology. The Doctor had sense been sequestered — in rotation — at Starfleet Medical, Jupiter Station, and the Pathfinder headquarters.

(9) It was a fairly complex system that could be broken (as almost all could), but not easily and certainly not quickly enough for anyone to do anything about it. According to Harry, all he needed to do know was decide on the encryption algorithms. She refrained from mentioning that Harry and called it MA'AM.

(10) There was nothing like some really good, really real alcohol to make a group of fundamentally different and inherently prideful people buckle down and get the fine print ironed out.

(11) That the constructed language of the nation of Qwghlmian (a dreary place somewhere in the vicinity of Great Britain, founded in 2063 by the few dozen or so rabid fans of a long-winded novelist who wrote about the place in great length before it actually existed*) was even human in origin had baffled Kathryn for as long as she'd known that it was one of those dead languages (d. 2109) that had been revived for absolutely no good reason.