I have sworn off her again. This afternoon at weekly staff. She sat on the right side of the table, cool as ever, beautiful as ever. I pray that this time I will have the strength to keep my vow. I count the hours and minutes like a drunk and his last drink. Inevitably, when I can stand no more, I find a way to arrange a rendevous in my quarters. The record so far is two weeks.
I am sick. I am ‘cut to the brains.' The doctor cannot cure me. It will destroy me before I free myself.
Her face floats before me in every waking moment. When I close my eyes at night she is there. When she is with me, there is no one else. She is my reality.
I go to Astrometrics when I don't have to, hoping she will be there. Sometimes I get lucky and she is alone. I am ever- grateful for Borg security codes for the cargo bay doors. Or I find a reason to stand behind her when she is on the bridge, at one of the tactical stations. I watch her without anyone realizing it. She knows I do this. She knows why. I wonder if it amuses her. I know I make it difficult for her, being this way, but she is always polite, professional. Sometimes when I'm being particularly captainly, firing phasers, demanding warp 8, ranting against Chakotay's occasional naive idea--I catch a glimpse of an ironic smile in her eyes. As if she sees through me and knows what I am.
There are times I think she does not want me anymore. When we sit through a meeting and she is cold towards me–colder than I think she should be. I fear that she has tired of me and my delusions. Then I am grateful for the power my title grants me. I know that if worse came to worst, I could order her to my bed and she would comply.
But in my crazed state I also justify my behavior by reminding myself that she is not a member of my crew. That she has free will but has chosen not to exercise it. She has disobeyed direct orders in the past. She just hasn't ever refused any of my late- night requests.
She researches sex. She gets this studious, focused look on her face at the oddest of times and I know I'm in for a wild ride. I made the mistake once of asking her what she learned, what she intended to do. I received a fifteen-minute discourse on the history, physiognomy, and significance of the g spot. I've learned that it's much more fun to be surprised. I don't know where she gets her information, but I have yet to be disappointed in her homework. Sometimes I think she sees all of this as the ultimate scientific experiment. Formulate a hypothesis, do research, controlled trials, prove or disprove the theory, form a larger hypothesis.
Shame is an emotion she has no concept of. Not in her nakedness, not in her base needs, not in what she does to me in our most intimate encounters. What haunts me is that at her most vulnerable she is still stronger than me at my best. So firm in her opinions, so resolute. She knows no fear.
She likes to be kissed. I avoid it. By not kissing her, it is just my body that is engaged, I give away nothing of myself. She usually gets what she wants in the end. Yet on those nights when I have the strength to stay away, the memory of her sweet kisses torments me. I am going mad.
I carry the image of Ransom in my head as well. It was he who opened my eyes to how fragile our life is out here, so far from home. How quickly it could all disappear. It was then that I broke out of the rigor mortis with someone I knew could remain discreet. The one person who would not insist on strings. I have often wondered if the deep-space mission research at Starfleet Medical includes extended periods of no intimate human contact. It ought to. Holograms certainly don't count. As real as they are, they cannot compensate for the pure explosive chemistry of that one person who has your number.
The worst day of all was one week after I decided to try and stay away from her. Again. I stepped onto the turbo lift without looking, without thinking. Seven and Naomi were there. Naomi got off two decks later and we were left alone. I stared straight ahead at the doors, listening to my own breathing. I could feel her eyes on me, raking me up and down. I almost came just from her scrutiny. I did not look back or speak when the doors opened and I started to step off. She called me back with a word. It wasn't my stop. Several people got on. She remained in the back, behind the new occupants, watching me. The wetness trickled down my leg. That night I got no sleep at all. She barely made it out of my cabin before Chakotay showed up for an early meeting.
I am getting too old for this.
I sometimes think Chakotay knows, or at least suspects. He gets a concerned look on his face, those puppy-dog brown eyes giving me a thorough once-over while asking me if I'm all right. He always calls me Kathryn when he asks, softly, as if he knows my private hell and wants in. I put him off. Not enough sleep last night, I say, because it is usually true. Occasionally, she stands above us at tactical when we have this conversation. I feel her listening. She knows I speak the truth, and why I hadn't slept.
Each day takes Voyager closer to the Alpha Quadrant and home. The warp drive churns on, day after day, relentlessly. It carries me to ending it with her. I know that I will have to be the one to say the words. She does not know enough to even know that. When I tell her that we will not see each other anymore, she will accept it at face value. She will not press me for an explanation. She never does. That is the power I hold over her. As yet, I am unable to wield it. Because I can imagine the look on her face when I do it and I cannot bear it.
Ransom's Syndrome–that's what it is. I am no better than he was. Even worse. I don't have the excuse of "the good of the crew" to fall back on. I abuse my power to satisfy my own physical cravings. My own comfort, nothing else.
Enough. I have to find a way to get past this. I am a professional. I command a starship. I have a crew to think of. I know better. I just don't care.
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