Destinations Disclaimer: All characters owned by Paramount Studios. No copyright infringement intended. Note: This started out as a J/C, but I thought it could go for J/P or J/K. Then I figured that the female didn't even have to be Janeway...it could be Torres, as a P/T or C/T. Then I thought about Seven. Hint: Too much thinking is bad for the brain. So you decide, because I quit.  * She is uncertain of her destination. It is a breathless experience, somewhat daunting.  Years have passed since her return home, and there are duties, rites, expectations. It has not occurred to her to fulfill any of them.  There is a certain diabolical freedom in evenings out upon the town, late mornings celebrated with hyposprays and fresh coffee. There are the people that have found their way to her door, of course. Allowed entrance, they smile warmly, falsely, glance around and attempt conversation. Eons ago, within Starfleet walls, the attempts would have soared. Soon, they understand that this residence, this haven of hers, is not Starfleet, and leave, discomfited. She does not mind. He finds her in the marketplace, and meets her gaze beyond swaying folds of imported silk. The moment is a study in choices, she realizes, for he is perhaps the only one capable of driving her directly into ways and self-examinations she would prefer to avoid. Has avoided, with impressive success. There is a certain diabolical freedom in evenings out upon the town, late mornings celebrated with hyposprays and fresh coffee. He is perhaps the only one capable of rendering that freedom hollow. She walks away, aware that he follows, unaccountably pleased. His grip is harsh when he catches her, yet his eyes are gentle, and she suspects that his voice would be as well, were words necessary. They are not. He does not attempt further injury, only examines. She allows the barrier to fall and does the same, granting that person she does not wish to be anymore free reign, free inner commentary. He is older. Again, this should not be a surprise, and yet somehow is. Briefly, uneasily, she questions her own vibrant self-image. Suddenly, she wishes that he would speak, desires to dissect the rise and fall, the inflections...does the voice remain ageless? It is a trivial curiosity, and yet, unaccountably, not so. His voice, she is convinced, was her salvation, her ballast. If it has changed... His hands frame her face, and she reads his lips, as if to draw sound from silence. None is forthcoming, but the word read is...beautiful. Beautiful. He repeats, smiling faintly, and somewhere, she feels the barrier shatter. She is uncertain of her destination. It is a breathless experience, somewhat daunting. She is home. The realization falls years late, and she feels unaccountably hollow. His arms are still strong, still gentle, as he carries her into her haven, as if cradling a lost child. The bed is soft, and clean, and he seems to understand that there have been others in it as well, though she could not recall faces or names if pressed. His touch is fire, and time, and destiny, and silently, relentlessly, they cry together.  Fool. The word echos against her thigh, on her belly, higher, against her chest, as he touches and kisses. His destination is clearly put in. She decides that her heart will hold water after all. They laugh together. She is home.   The end