He evaded her lips and shook his head. Withdrawing his hands from her
body, he quickly straightened her clothing and gently rolled her off
of him and onto the couch beside him. He tucked her into his side and
embraced her, holding her still when she tried to move away, flushing
with embarrassment and shame.
"Malista, don't move. Let me get my breath." His voice sounded
strained.
She stilled obediently. "Harry, I'm so sorry," she moaned. "I don't
mean to be a tease or to---"
"I know." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. She hugged him more
tightly, almost desperately.
After a few minutes, Harry's breath---among other things---was more or
less under control. "Malista, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rush---"
"You aren't. It's my fault. I don't know why---I just can't---It's
like a warning klaxon goes off in my head---"
Harry chuckled. She raised her head to stare at him. "An intruder
alert?" he asked, brown eyes sparkling with humor.
Her mouth fell open in astonishment. "You're *joking* about it?"
"Malista, if I don't laugh, I may very well cry," he said playfully.
"It's okay," he added as he read the dismay in her eyes. She wasn't
ready to find anything amusing in this situation. "I promise you,
frustration is not fatal. We'll live. We just won't enjoy it for a few
minutes."
She dropped her head back onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing." He sounded almost stern. "I was the one who
started it. If I have to live with being frustrated, it's my own
fault."
"But it's not fair! To you," she said. "You shouldn't have to---"
"Shh." He stroked her hair and soothed her with his own calm
acceptance. "Calm down. Being with you, touching you---it's enough.
For now. There's no rush. I meant what I said. I'll wait. For you,
I'll wait as long as it takes. The best things in life are the ones
worth waiting for. There's an old Italian saying, 'He who can wait,
obtains what he wishes.' My mother told me that one when I was waiting
to get my first assignment after graduating from the Academy. She was
right, too."
She sighed and nestled against him. Her hand rubbed his bare chest
rhythmically. The warmth and closeness was almost hypnotic. Being with
Harry, listening to him breathe, feeling his heartbeat beneath her
palm. He wanted her. More than that---he cared for her. It was so
reassuring to know that. It was so peaceful. Her eyes were half
closed, she was floating between waking and sleeping.
"Slut!"
She heard the word so clearly, she was sure it had been spoken---but
it wasn't Harry's voice. And it wasn't hers. It was her father's. It
was her father's voice that she heard.
She jerked out of Harry's arms, sitting upright so abruptly she fell
off the couch onto the floor. Startled, he jumped up as well.
She scrambled to her feet.
"Malista, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I have to go." She was frantically gathering up the padd and
the other belongings she'd brought with her to his quarters this
evening.
"Malista, it's not nothing. What is it?" He caught her arm as she
headed for the door. "Talk to me! I want to help!"
She twisted out of his grasp. She wouldn't meet his eyes, but
attempted a smile. It was a grotesque imitation of the doctor's
efforts and totally unconvincing. "I said it's nothing. I'll see you
tomorrow, Harry." She darted away before he could formulate another
sentence.
Harry frowned at the closed door. "What the hell---?" He kicked the
couch viciously. Hurting his foot, he collapsed on the floor and
stared at the door once more. He didn't think going after her would be
helpful at all. At least not now. Harry shook his head in confusion
and despair and flopped onto his back to stare disconsolately at the
************************
Malista was waiting for Chakotay in his office. She'd sent a message
to the terminal in his quarters asking him to meet her there after
he'd had breakfast. She leapt to her feet as he entered and stood
there silently. She was trembling and she was chewing her lower lip,
ignoring the fact that it was already torn and bleeding.
"I'm off duty today," she explained as she plopped down in the
armchair.
That explained why she was out of uniform. She was wearing the baggy
green jumpsuit she'd worn on the Maquis ship. That she hadn't worn
since she'd begun seeing Harry Kim. It was wrinkled and at least a
size too large, but still didn't conceal that she had lost some
weight. Her shoulder-length hair was brushed forward, almost
concealing her face. Which seemed to be the point. Her eyes were
reddened, from lack of sleep or from crying or both.
Chakotay wondered if she understood herself that she was hiding again.
Hiding her figure, hiding her face, hiding her attractiveness. And
what else? Chakotay took a deep breath. He could sense this wasn't
going to be easy---for either of them.
"I hope you don't mind, Commander---"
"Not at all. You said you were going to be on time this week, Malista.
By my reckoning, you're two days and seven hours early," he said
lightly. "What's the problem?"
She was bouncing her foot up and down, as if she was too nervous to
sit still. She clasped her hands in front of her, wringing them. "I
haven't been sleeping too well."
"Is this something new?"
She hesitated. She flung her hands out and grasped the arms of the
chair, squeezing tightly. "Not exactly. But the dreams are. New, I
mean. Before---I just couldn't sleep. Now---last night, I heard a
voice. But I was awake. When I heard the voice, I mean. I was awake.
And then I had this dream."
"What did the voice say?"
"Just one word." She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see his
reaction. "Slut."
"Did you recognize the voice?"
She hesitated before answering. "It was my father's voice."
Chakotay didn't speak. He couldn't think of anything to say.
"Then I had this dream," she repeated.
"A nightmare?" he asked gently.
Her breathing was audible and ragged. "Not exactly. It was more like
a---I don't know. Maybe it was a memory."
"Do you remember the dream?"
"Yes." Her voice was shaky. Her eyes met his, then darted away and
back again. She couldn't maintain eye contact. One hand tugged
restlessly at her collar. The other clutched the chair arm as if it
were a lifeline keeping her in touch with solid reality.
"Do you want to talk about the dream?" he asked. No answer. A pause.
"How did it make you feel?"
She didn't answer. She was biting her lip again. She stopped when she
tasted the metallic flavor of fresh blood on her tongue as a cut
reopened. Her index finger flew up to her mouth to check the damage.
Harry didn't like it when she---
"Malista?" He reclaimed her attention. His brown eyes were warm with
compassion. "How did the dream make you feel?"
"Terrible
. Hopeless." Her voice broke. The tears were not far from the
surface, but she seemed to be fighting them off. "Dirty."
Chakotay pushed a box of tissues across the desk to sit within easy
reach of her hand. "You want to tell me about it?"
"No. Not really. But I'm afraid---" She pinched the bridge of her
nose, trying to squeeze the tears away. Trying to pretend they didn't
exist. If she didn't acknowledge them, then they might go away. A
shaky sigh escaped her. "I'm afraid you'll think I'm crazy. I'm even
more afraid that if I don't tell someone about it, I'll have the same
dream again. Or something worse."
"Sometimes it helps to talk about it. Maybe I can help you put it in
perspective."
"Do you believe dreams have meaning, Commander?" Her voice was filled
with dread or hope. He couldn't tell which.
"Some of my people believe in vision quests, which are similar to
dreams. These vision quests provide information and guidance for
making choices about the direction your life should take. Is that the
kind of dream you had?"
She was shaking her head before he finished. "No. I dreamed about my
father. About when I contacted him---after---" She bit her lip again,
flinched at the sharp pain, and covered her damaged mouth with the
tips of the fingers of her right hand. She blotted the blood away with
a tissue.
"After Huldon III?" Chakotay supplied.
She nodded vigorously, relieved she didn't have to say it aloud again.
"Is there any reason that you can think of that may have caused you to
dream---"
"We were talking about it yesterday." The words burst out.
"We?"
"I was telling B'Elanna about it. About what he said when I called
him. When I told him. Did I ever tell you?"
Chakotay shook his head. He'd never asked. He knew that it was at that
time she had stopped using her family name of Petrides and adopted her
Maquis code name of Shadow as her surname. He hadn't felt a need to
know the specifics, and she hadn't volunteered the information so he
hadn't asked.
"I told Harry. And Tom. At different times. And yesterday I told
B'Elanna." She twined her fingers in a tress of her ebony hair and
began to twine it around her hand, pulling at it, but ignoring the
pain she caused herself. It seemed to help her focus and continue so
Chakotay noted it, but didn't mention it.
"Would you like to tell me?" he offered.
She nodded. "I didn't tell them everything he said," she confessed.
She looked at him and paused as if waiting for his reaction to that
revelation. Would he be mad at her sin of omission? She knew from
their days in the Maquis that Chakotay had a strict code of honor, one
that didn't include lying to his friends. His warm eyes and impassive
expression comforted her somehow.
"You can tell me what you want to, Malista. This is all confidential.
You know that. I won't share anything you tell me with anyone. Not
without first getting permission from you." He felt she needed that
reassurance so he gave it freely. Not for the first time.
"I told him---my father---that I'd been captured by the Cardassians.
That I'd been their prisoner. Before I could even think of---how to
tell him the rest---he asked me." In her distress, she couldn't sit
still. She was fidgeting, her hands moving restlessly, fiddling with
her hair, grasping at the chair, at her own arms. "He asked me
straight out, 'Did they rape you?' What was I supposed to say,
Chakotay? I couldn't deny it. Was I supposed to lie to my father?" She
didn't wait for his response. She rushed on.
"I couldn't lie to my own father. He would have known I was lying
anyway. So I said yes. They did. And he looked at me for a second---I
swear, it was no more than *one split second*---and he said 'I have no
daughter.' I tried to argue with him. I begged him. I told him I was
sorry. I told him I wanted to come home. That he was right. I never
should have left home. I never should have joined the Maquis." Her
tears were blinding her. She scrubbed at her face with the heels of
her hands and wiped her hands on the legs of her jumpsuit. Chakotay
came around the desk to stand next to her chair. He put a hand on her
shoulder, hoping to give her some solace.
"Then he said 'You have no home here. You've lost your chastity.
You're *damaged goods*! No respectable man will marry you.' He called
me---a slut. He said I had chosen to leave my family and join the
*Maquis scum*. He said I'd made my bed so now I could lie in it with
the other---sluts---who ran with the Maquis. He wouldn't even let me
talk to my brothers. But they probably wouldn't have wanted to---" She
buried her face in her hands and wept. It was a helpless, hopeless
release of grief and despair and loss.
'Maybe the first she'd ever allowed herself,' the first officer
thought. She'd been carrying this burden alone. For years.
After a few minutes, when the sobs began to subside, Chakotay knelt
next to her and put his arms around her, giving her ample opportunity
to resist or move away if she recoiled from being touched. He didn't
know what else to do. His action seemed to be appropriate. She leaned
against him as if drawing on his strength.
She finally raised her head. He put several tissues in her hand,
tactfully moving back to his chair, not looking at her as she mopped
her face and blew her nose.
He waited.
He waited, his eyes on his desk, until her breathing slowed and became
more regular and she'd regained her composure. He looked up and his
eyes caught and held hers with the force of the conviction she could
read there. "Malista, your father was wrong. I wish I could do
something to totally remove the memory of his words from your mind. I
can tell those words hurt you terribly. They are continuing to hurt
you, because you allow it. Your father was wrong. You cannot continue
to allow his words to control your life and your feelings."
"But Chakotay, my whole life---until I was sixteen, my father loved
me. I threw it all away. The Cardassians took my whole life away when
they---"
Chakotay wasn't prepared to give in on this point. He knew counselors
were supposed to be objective. Perhaps he wasn't as objective as he
should be to deal with her, with this situation, but he knew beyond
any doubt that this was a crucial cusp in Malista's life and he prayed
the Spirits would give him wisdom and the right words to say.
"What happened on Huldon III was NOT your fault. You joined the Maquis
because you believed that it was the right thing to do. When you were
hurt, when you needed him most, your father let you down. He pushed
you away because you didn't meet his standards for the perfect
daughter. That was his choice, not yours. His mistake. You were a
victim of the Cardassians. You didn't choose to be raped."
"But Chakotay, didn't I tell you---I *volunteered* to go with the
Cardies---"
"Trying to save your friends. You thought you could keep the
Cardassians busy until the Maquis rescued you."
"I was so dumb!" she cried. "So stupid! I didn't even have much of an
idea of what to expect. What they would do. I was just scared stupid!
But it will never happen again. I will *never* let anyone do that to
me again!" The glittering fury sparking in her green eyes disturbed
him. He wasn't sure what it meant or at whom it was directed. It made
him uneasy.
"Malista, you didn't choose what happened to you. The blame for what
happened belongs to those who did it. You were an innocent victim. If
your father was too blind or prejudiced to see that---" He couldn't
think of the words to convince her.
"But he was right about one thing," she said bitterly. "I am damaged
goods. Everyone knows it too."
Chakotay sighed. Here it came. The culture clash. He'd known it was
going to come up. He found it ironic that he would be the one to
advise someone on such a subject. He hadn't had much luck resolving
the clash between himself and his own father with regard to the same
type of cultural differences. "Malista, I know that in the culture of
your homeworld, chastity is very important---"
"It's not important. It's crucial. There is no marriage for a woman
who is not a virgin," she explained. "No honorable man would *marry*
such a woman."