The Absence of Light

Summary: He was not the only inhabitant of this cell. Another take on an old FF cliché.

A/N: Thank you to MissyHissy3 for the beta read. Any mistakes are mine.

He woke to darkness and a throbbing head that gave rise to a reflexive frown. Chakotay felt the motion tug at his forehead, releasing a vicious lance of pain. He lifted a hand and cautiously probed the spot, wincing as his fingers connected with swollen skin. Something flaked as he dropped his hand: dried blood around a self-sealed cut. He sat up, slowly, waiting for the nausea to hit. It washed about his gut like juice in a bottle. He swallowed and breathed deeply, slowly, willing it to subside. The sickness slid away from him, fading along with the sudden visual cacophony of coloured lights that sparked in his dimmed vision. Whatever trouble he'd encountered had delivered a mean blow.

He'd been lying on his back on a low metal bunk. There were no springs to creak as he sat up and no padding to soften where he'd been lying. From these things coupled with the lack of light and the damp, putrid smell hanging in the cold room around him, Chakotay deduced that he was not being held out of kindness. He reached for his communicator, unsurprised when it turned out to be absent from its usual place on his uniform jacket.

Blinking, Chakotay realised that the darkness was not as absolute as he had first supposed. There was a faint hint of grey delineating what must be the door to the cell. As his eyes adjusted, the light was just enough to make out rough shapes. The room was square. The bunk he lay on filled almost the entirety of one wall, and fitted his frame with a few centimetres to spare. Two meters, he guessed, give or take. Two other walls – the one that housed the door and the one closest to where his head had been when he'd regained consciousness – seemed to be bare, nothing on them or in front of them. But standing at right angles from the toe of the bunk on which he sat stood another, also pushed up against the wall. There was a huddled mass heaped on top of it.

He was not the only inhabitant of this cell.

Chakotay tried to stand, and quickly realised that the ceiling was too low for him to do so without a stoop. He moved to the second bunk and dropped to his knees instead. It was too dark to see who the figure was. The body was silent, so silent that he thought there was a good possibility that whoever lay there was dead.

He reached out a hand, cautiously feeling for the body. He connected with what seemed to be a limb – an arm, perhaps. "Hey," Chakotay said, quietly, squeezing gently in the hope that the pressure would be enough to elicit a response. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing. He ran his hand lightly down the limb, finding a hand that felt distinctly humanoid. There was a thready pulse throbbing in the wrist. Whoever this was, they were alive.

"I need you to wake up." Chakotay tried again. "Can you open your eyes?"

Nothing.

Was this another Voyager crewmember? Who had he been with when this – whatever this was – had happened? His memory was void, a dark mass that he could not penetrate. Reaching out his other hand, Chakotay moved it up the unknown arm until he reached a shoulder, noting that the limb was, though muscled, pretty slim. A woman, perhaps, or an adolescent? At the shoulder, his fingers brushed through a filigree of hair. He leaned closer, trying to make out the face, but the scant light was not enough to see by.

He traced his fingers from shoulder to neck, and then felt for the outline of clothing, connecting with what he thought could be a rollneck and the edge of a collarless jacket. He was almost certain this was a member of his crew. Chakotay searched for the pips, fingers brushing against cold skin. He found them, counting the nubs from left to right.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

"Kathryn…"

Chakotay sprang from his knees to sit beside her on the narrow bunk. His fingers left her neck and trailed up into her hair, looking for an injury that would match his own. He found it at her temple, the seep of blood still sticky above her ear. A new wave of nausea bubbled in his gut and he leaned closer, turning his ear to her mouth until her nose brushed his cheekbone. He could hear her breathing now – thin and laboured. Barely there.

He leaned back and ran his hands down to her shoulders, gripping as firmly as he dared.

"Wake up," he said, speaking close to her face. "Captain, you've got to wake up."

The act of leaning forward caused his own injury to throb anew. Chakotay battled down the sickness in his throat. His heart rate had hitched the moment he'd realised who was here with him – an attack on a first officer could be construed merely as serendipity for a passing hostile race, but to take the two senior officers from one small and unknown ship? Until he knew otherwise he had to assume that was calculated, which meant it was likely Voyager and her entire crew were in danger.

His first thoughts were for Voyager. His second were for the woman lying below him. Chakotay had taken his fair share of knocks in his time and this one had obviously been enough to fell him in his tracks. Janeway was no stranger to close-quarters combat – she'd told him stories about going up against the Cardassians that would chill the blood of many a prizefighter he'd known back home. But she'd taken a blow to the temple that was likely just as hard as the one that had laid him out cold, and for all the steel of her demeanour she was smaller and slighter than he.

She had to wake up, and she had to wake up now.

Chakotay went to touch her cheek, but in the darkness found his fingers against her lips instead. He jumped and jerked his hand away, and then cursed himself for being an idiot. He gripped her shoulders again, resisting the sudden urge to shake her awake just to hear her voice. Who knew what other injuries she had?

"Captain. Wake up. Come on – I know you can hear me, Kathryn. Wake up."

He spoke to her for what seemed like hours, but in reality it was probably only a few minutes. The moan, when it came, was so faint he almost missed it. Almost, but not quite.

"Kathryn?" Chakotay brushed a thumb over her cheek, and felt her move, groaning. She turned on her side, away from him, her uniform rustling as she pulled her legs up, curling into the foetal position.

He reached out a hand, looking for her arm. He found what felt like her waist instead. "Captain…"

When she finally came around, she jerked awake with alarming speed. Janeway gasped, turning on her back and then moving to sit. Chakotay slipped off the bunk to allow her room, resuming a crouch beside it, one hand finding and gripping her arm.

"Slowly," he warned, "take it easy, you've-"

"What happened?" she rasped, and the relief he felt at hearing her voice was a physical taste in his mouth.

"I don't know, but you're hurt – we both are," he said. "And you need to take it easy, because-"

He felt her move as she tried to stand up. Chakotay went with her, shoulders bent so as not to hit his head on the ceiling of their prison. He kept hold of her arm, knowing what was coming next.

"Oh – god –" Kathryn retched, an awful wet heaving. He moved her towards the wall nearest the door, anxious not to have her vomit in the centre of a tiny cell they could be in for who knew how long. She crumpled to her knees and he stayed beside her as the sound of bile spattering onto the stone floor echoed into his ears. An acrid, sour smell added to the fetid odour of the room and he fought the urge to vomit himself, turning his nose into her shoulder as he held her up. Under his hands, Janeway shuddered. A few minutes later, he felt her lift her hand to her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she said, shakily.

"There's nothing to apologise for," he told her, helping her to stand. They moved back to her bunk and sat side by side in silence.

"Where are we?" she asked, eventually, her voice quiet. He could imagine how her head was throbbing: his was, too.

"I don't know."

"Do we know who our captors are? What they want?"

"No. I only came around a few minutes before you did. Can you remember anything? About how we came to be here?"

"No…" He felt something brushing against his arm, and realised it was her hand. She gripped his bicep, squeezing gently. "Chakotay? You said you were hurt," she said.

"A blow to the head, but nothing to worry about," Chakotay assured her. "I'm more worried about you. I think you took a harsher knock than I did."

"I'm all right."

In the dark, thirsty, hurting, desperate for fresh air, he smiled. What else would she say?

[TBC]