Summary: After the events leading up to, and depicted in, "Extreme Risk", B'Elanna and Tom have to reconcile. And, even in the 24th century, depression isn't cured in a day.

Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount/CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Rated T for mature themes (including references to depression and self-harm) and strong language. This story is set in the aftermath of 5x03 "Extreme Risk". There are a couple of allusions to events in my previous stories "Alive" and "Diversions", although reading those is definitely not essential.

A massive thank you goes to Delwin, whose help went above and beyond beta-reading this. Any remaining "crimes against punctuation" are entirely my own.

Breaking the Surface

By Photogirl1890

Chapter One - Hindsight

Tom didn't know which was worse - the fact that B'Elanna hadn't told him what she was going through, or the fact that he hadn't realised. He'd known something was wrong from the way she'd been behaving and the distance she'd put between them, but he hadn't considered that she might be ill. The recent passage through The Void had made everyone cranky. Neelix had suffered a panic attack. Captain Janeway had, for a few weeks, become a virtual recluse. But Voyager had been back in normal space for a few weeks now, and Neelix and the Captain seemed back to their usual selves. B'Elanna was a different case entirely, and Tom couldn't get his head around it. The secrets. The lies. The sheer recklessness.

Sitting at the table in his quarters, he keyed on his LCARS terminal. B'Elanna was attending a meeting with the Captain and the Doctor, and she was supposed to come by when she was free. They hadn't had a real opportunity to talk alone since getting back from the Delta Flyer's maiden voyage. He wasn't sure what he was going to say to her when they did. Getting angry with her wouldn't help, but he couldn't help but feel a sense of betrayal.

Chakotay had given Tom and the Captain a brief overview of what he'd found in B'Elanna's personal holodeck files, as well as a summary of the confrontation he'd had with her earlier that day. Tom wasn't certain what to make of the first officer's methods for getting B'Elanna to admit that she had a problem, but he'd conceded that Chakotay had been the right person to do it. Chakotay had been able to take the discovery of B'Elanna's reckless behaviour in his stride. Tom was too close, too stunned to have been able to get through to her. And, whilst he'd felt a little redundant, he knew that, in the situation at hand, Chakotay could command authority and respect, whereas he himself would have been dismissed without obtaining the necessary answers.

In a snatched conversation with B'Elanna after delivering the mission report, Tom had established that the Doc had her set up with a cocktail of antidepressants to stabilise her serotonin and norepinephrine levels. The first dose was already taking effect. Voyager, of course, had no ship's counsellor, so psychotherapy wasn't an option. The Doctor did keep proposing that additional subroutines be added to his program, but so far that hadn't happened. And that was probably a good thing. Getting B'Elanna to sit and talk through her emotional problems with the EMH might involve restraints and a force field. Tom permitted himself a moment of dark humour as he envisioned a group therapy session on Voyager attended by B'Elanna, Billy Telfer – the hypochondriac, Baxter – the exercise addict, and Dalby with his anger management issues. Voyager had her fair share of crewmen that could use some psychiatric help. Considering the crew's isolation and the shit that came down on them on a weekly basis, it was remarkable that more people weren't suffering from some form of mental illness.

Or maybe they were and no one had noticed.

The letters from the Alpha Quadrant had been a mixed blessing. For every crewman who'd received good news, it seemed another had been notified of a bereavement, or of a spouse or partner that had moved on. Sometimes, ignorance was indeed bliss. But not always. And not in the case of his own ignorance as to exactly what was going on with B'Elanna.

Tom accessed the Starfleet medical database and loaded the entry for clinical depression in humans. Having completed medical assistant training, he already had a grounding in basic psychiatry, but he was far from an expert. The list of possible symptoms in the data file was extensive. Psychological symptoms were mentioned first. He worked down the list from top to bottom.

Sadness. B'Elanna had never said she felt sad. According to Chakotay, she hadn't been feeling anything at all. Tom hadn't seen her cry. But then, when had he last heard her laugh, or seen her genuinely smile? He scratched his forehead and read on. Guilt. How could he know if she were feeling guilty? As astute as he considered himself to be - correction, had considered himself to be - he wasn't Betazoid. What did guilt look like?

Anger and irritability. Huh. He'd have been more worried if she'd suddenly stopped displaying either of those. Anger, or at least irritability, was her default setting. But now that he thought about it . . . Hell, had she been less angry than usual, lately? He keyed in a search for clinical depression in Klingons. There was no entry. Of course there wasn't. Klingons didn't get depressed . . . Back to human signs and symptoms then.

Thoughts of self-harm or suicide. He coughed away the lump in his throat. She'd covered her tracks well. Her holodeck activities hadn't been attention-seeking. Quite the opposite.

The list went on. Flicking to the next header for Physical Symptoms he read Loss of appetite. Had she been eating properly? They ate so many meals on the fly that it was hard to say, and, with Neelix's cooking, sometimes avoiding the galley offerings was the healthiest course of action. But, she had lost a little weight in the past few months, now that he thought back. Nothing drastic, but she'd got a little slimmer.

Insomnia. They hadn't slept together in weeks, in the literal sense or otherwise. Before that, he hadn't noticed her up in the night, but then he'd have been asleep, wouldn't he?

The next section caught his attention. Loss of interest in sex. He'd put it down to familiarity; their relationship wasn't new any more. They'd made up for three years of virtual celibacy in a few torrid months and then it was out of their systems. They'd settled into a routine. A couple of nights together, a couple of nights apart. His place, then hers. Contrary to shipboard gossip, they no longer went at it like tribbles. His own reputation on that front had been somewhat exaggerated, not that he'd made any effort to dispel the rumours. And B'Elanna was only half-Klingon. Though just before the incident with the "USS Dauntless", there had been that resurgence in her attentions when she'd not been able to get enough of him. He'd struggled to keep up with her then, in fact. Had that been an early symptom of her illness? Had she been using sex as a distraction before she'd moved on to darker, destructive things? And there'd been that rather abrupt change in her repertoire. When had that been? A few weeks before their last night together. She'd become less demanding of him and more giving in certain departments. Far less energetic, more restrained . . .

The thought that, under the surface, she'd harboured partially-healed fractures, invisible bruises and poorly-treated sprains and strains, sent a chill through him. Had she been faking enjoyment just to get it over with? Or worse, could he have mistaken groans of pain for moans of pleasure? His stomach churned, and he was glad he'd not eaten properly since breakfast.

He scrolled down to the last section: Social symptoms.

Poor performance at work. In the last week or so, certainly. Prior to that, he'd not heard anyone raise concerns. But, then, B'Elanna was the chief engineer. And who'd have been brave enough to speak up if she'd been doing things wrong? Certainly not Joe Carey. The former Maquis engineers idolised her; something drastic would've had to have occurred for them to report her. Vorik might have complained if he'd deemed it logical, but he hadn't. And Seven, well she'd have needed little reason to lodge any objection, so obviously she'd had no cause to. B'Elanna's work performance had been the last thing to suffer, it seemed.

Her abject indifference to the Delta Flyer project had been downright upsetting. And, the fact that her major role - trying to solve the micro-fracture problem - had involved almost getting herself killed, made him feel even worse. She'd turned up late to a few senior staff briefings, but that wasn't unheard of. He was late himself, from time to time. No, the signs hadn't been obvious until very recently.

Avoiding contact with friends. Relationship difficulties. She hadn't been very enthusiastic about the New Year's Eve party that he and Neelix had organised and had spent the whole evening looking like she wanted to be somewhere else - the other holodeck, most likely, running a dangerous program with the safeties off. Tom uttered a profanity. Hindsight was a fine thing.

Glancing at the chrono, he saw it was past midnight. What was taking so long? It had been a busy day. Surely whatever the Captain had to say could wait until the morning? As he was considering calling B'Elanna over the comm, his door mechanism chimed.

"Come in," he called, simultaneously turning off the computer. The door slid open. B'Elanna waited in the entranceway. At some point since the debriefing she had dressed in full uniform, presumably to present a proper appearance to the Captain.

"Hi," she said, cautiously.

Tom got up and moved towards her, feeling his heart rate accelerate. "Hey."

She shuffled forward enough for the door to hiss shut, and clasped her hands in front of her, fingers twitching.

"I was just about to call you," Tom told her. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to. Did your meeting go OK?"

B'Elanna nodded. "It was fine. I dropped by the mess hall afterwards to get something to eat."

"Oh," Tom said, frowning. So, that was where she'd been. "I was waiting for you. I thought we could grab some supper together."

"Sorry . . ." She seemed genuinely apologetic. "I didn't think . . . but we could still spend some time together." Her tone was almost pleading, and Tom felt his irritation give way to the urge to console. Tentatively, he reached out his hands. Without hesitation, she took them in hers and let him draw her into an embrace.

"I'd really like that," he said softly, resting his chin on the top of her head. He breathed more easily as she relaxed in his arms, and they stood motionless for a while, until the persistent rumbling of Tom's stomach became a distraction. She eased away from him.

"Maybe you should replicate a sandwich," she suggested.

"Yeah. You want something?" It was only polite to ask.

She shook her head. "No, thanks." And then she grinned, a heartening sight. "I just ate a stack of banana pancakes," she explained. "And you know I actually enjoyed them." She lowered her gaze, a flicker of tension again on her features. "It's been a while since I could say that about anything, really. Anything that it's normal to enjoy . . ."

What should he say in response to that? Unable to formulate a verbal reply, he leaned forward clumsily and kissed her gently on the forehead.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

He swallowed hard. "Me too." They badly needed to talk, but the early hours of the morning were not going to be conducive to what would be an emotive and possibly fraught conversation. He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers and turned toward the replicator to order a bacon sandwich. One thing at a time. She followed him to the sofa.

"So, what did the Captain say?" Tom asked through a mouthful of bread.

"I'm on restricted duties for a week. She wanted me to take some time off, but the Doctor suggested that keeping active would be better for me than enforced rest. I have to check in with him twice a day." She sighed. "It's not so bad, I guess. I didn't get busted down to ensign, or anything."

Tom smiled. "That's good. We wouldn't want Harry to get any ideas about a promotion."

As glad as he was to see her sense of humour had reappeared, he was wary about expecting too much. Her recovery when the Delta Flyer needed her expertise had been fast. Too fast. The mission had served a purpose; she'd needed something to focus on, a crisis to help her snap out of her funk. But she wasn't going to get back to normal in a day. Not even with the meds rapidly working at her synapses.

"My holodeck privileges are restored. I think the Captain wants me to know that she still trusts me," B'Elanna continued. She paused before adding softly, "but I think I've spent enough time in there for a while."

Tom studied her carefully. Was she prompting him to ask about her risky behaviour? Surely not at this late hour. But, if she was ready to open up, he didn't want to miss the opportunity. She yawned. No. Definitely not the time for a heart-to-heart.

"You've spent a lot of time in there on your own," he replied, careful to keep his tone neutral. "But we could spend some time in there together. The holodeck's supposed to be used for fun." Did that sound critical? No, she wasn't overreacting.

"Not Captain Proton. Or skiing," she sniped, her eyebrows raised. Much more like herself.

Skiing? Unlikely. "I was thinking Samoa. How about tomorrow night?" He finished the last bite of his sandwich as she considered.

"Just the two of us?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

Tom nodded. "I have a couple of hours booked in holodeck two at 1900. Harry and I were going to play golf, but I'd rather sit on the beach with you."

Was she going to turn him down? Would the Doctor approve of him taking her in there? Maybe she should avoid the holodeck altogether for the time being. Or maybe the sooner she got back in there under appropriate circumstances the better. Life on Voyager without the escape and entertainment that the simulations provided would become intolerable, not to mention the fact that her engineering work sometimes required the use of the holodeck for research purposes.

She locked gazes with him. "OK," she said. "If Harry doesn't mind."

Then it was decided. "He won't. And . . . we can talk."

She lowered her gaze and bit her bottom lip. "Yeah."

Tom washed down the sandwich with a glass of orange juice. B'Elanna replicated a mug of camomile tea, a pungent blend that reminded him of the smell of wet grass. Apparently, the Doctor had recommended it to her as a sleep aid. Tom considered replicating a mug of it for himself. His mind reeled with questions and unsubstantiated conclusions, mixed in with remnants of exhilaration from the mission's success.

"I was wondering," B'Elanna said, staring into her drink. "I mean, it's OK if you don't want me to, or . . . but . . ."

Tom laid a hand on her arm. "What is it?" he coaxed.

"Could I stay here tonight? It's just that . . . I think I'd sleep better if I wasn't alone."

That was unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. He smiled again and clasped her arm more tightly. "I think I would too."