Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

matter how they felt from day to day, they stuck to their assigned dates and times. Why?
    Because Tuvok took his only comfort in regularity, in patterns and dependable, repetitive habit. Spontaneous visits, no matter how enthusiastic, had sent him into fits of panic and weeks of rejection. The only thing that had calmed him down was a set schedule.
    “How are you?” she asked.
    “I'm close to completing my work,” he told her, his eyes on the paper.
    So nothing had changed here either.
    Janeway sat down in the nearest chair, hoping he might take her cue and stop crouching like a frog on a lily pad. “I'm glad to hear it.”
    He kept his nose to the paper. “It's difficult with so many interruptions.”
    “I'm sorry. Would you like me to leave?”
    Tuvok contemplated the question as if it were complicated, and made a royal decision. “You may stay.”
    Janeway watched him for a few seconds. She could indeed have sat here all night and he might not acknowledge her again, having welcomed her into his delusions and accepted her as a fixture. She'd tried that a couple of times—just sit and wait, give him a chance to start a conversation. He never seemed obligated.
    The pencil continued to scratch on the paper. The markings were unrecognizable, almost hieroglyphic. From what dark grotto in his disturbed mind had he dredged them?
    She wondered if she should ask. Would he tell her?
    Would it help?
    She had come here today to stiffen her spine, to remind herself of the painful parts of success, of the losses her small family had sustained, and of the failure that everyone else saw as a victory. Her resolve toughened as she sat here, watching one of her best friends sink deeper and deeper into a black lonely pit. If she had any lingering doubts about what she had to do, this visit smashed them.
    “Tuvok, there's something I need to tell you,” she began. “It's very important.”
    The pencil continued scratching.
    “I'm going away,” she continued. “I may not see you again.” At this he surprised her by looking up. Did he understand? Were there thirty seconds of sanity in there for her to make him understand? His dark eyes flickered with the candle's flame as if to say
I must forbid this.
    Janeway forced herself not to expect more.
    “Commander Barclay and the Doctor will continue to visit you,” she said. “They'll bring you anything you need.”
    He seemed to be fighting for reason, to respond to the real problem she had just put before him, but then lost it before he got a good grip. “The Doctor comes on Wednesdays . . . Commander Barclay's visits are erratic.”
    A frown crossed his face suddenly, sharply. He knew that was the wrong answer, the wrong angle of thought. Like a boy casting a line into rapids, he'd lost the direction of what he was fishing for.
    But Kathryn Janeway had gotten what she had come here for.
    She stood up quietly, careful not to rustle a single paper with her feet, and moved toward the door.
    “Goodbye, Tuvok.”
    The pencil continued its scratchings. They say to never look back, but she did.
    * * *
    Last-minute second thoughts. She banished them with vigor.
    It'd been a long time since she had packed to go away. One trait common to most
Voyager
alumni was the lack of wanderlust.
    She laid out a few items of clothing the way she had back in her days of undercover work—the toughest fabrics, the simplest cuts, the least fussy necklines.
    “You must be the only doctor who still makes house calls,” she commented.
    A few steps away, the Doctor produced a medical tricorder and began scanning, but with an attitude.
    “What are your symptoms?” he asked.
    She looked up. “I'm perfectly fine.”
    “For thirty-three years, you've fought me every time you were due for a physical. Now you ask me to give you one ahead of schedule?”
    He bobbed his brows at her with a you're-sick-or-else delivery.
    “I'm taking a trip,” she told him. “I just wanted to get our appointment out of the way before I left.”
    Lies, lies. Had to admit, she was getting better at it.
    “That's all?” he prickled.
    She managed not to nod. “That's all.”
    Accommodating what he perfectly well knew was a red herring, he eyed his tricorder and uselessly reported, “The good news is, you're as healthy as the day I first examined you.”
    “Hm. Well, now that that's out of the way,” she said with a gesture, “have a seat. We didn't get to talk much at the party.”
    “No . . . I suppose we