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Kathryn fidgets, shifting her weight slightly across the couch in Tuvok’s quarters, and there’s a brief pause where he scrutinizes her twice as intently, trying to judge whether or not that’s a sign of her weariness. He knows she’s tired—it’s been a particularly long, grueling mission, and despite her incredible strength and stamina, she’s only human. She didn’t have to come for their nightly routine—he would’ve understood the reprieve for as many nights as it took for her to recover. If he were less emotionally disciplined, he might’ve been surprised to find her trailing him off the bridge to his personal chambers. Vulcan or not, he was glad to usher her in.
He wasn’t surprised that she passed the table holding a three-day kal-toh match in suspension and went straight for the replicator. She ordered tea instead of coffee; understandable, given that her systems surely couldn’t handle a stimulant at this late hour. For her, it’s the middle of the night after a triple shift, and it’s a wonder she has the strength to sit up straight at all.
Kathryn Janeway is always a marvel. She’s perched in the middle of the cushions like it’s any normal night, and she sips her tea quietly and casually. Unlike some of the younger ensigns on the bridge, she doesn’t feel the need to babble over their close calls—doesn’t need to express to him how lucky they are and pat him on the back for every little ‘heroic’ deed that was in fact only duty. She can appreciate the silence that Tuvok so prefers, although he also enjoys most of their quiet late-night conversations. Now isn’t the time for stray musings. That will come in the afterglow—a time where Kathryn often feels content but contemplative, and Tuvok can feel it under her skin as he kisses her face and listens to the rapid flutter of her heart.
Now her breath is steady, even, pausing every so often for a careful sip. Her shoulders are slumped every so slightly, but her spine holds its perfect posture. Her brown hair tumbles richly down it, and Tuvok drags the brush through at exacting, familiar angles.
His other hand skims beneath it, cupping each long wave. Ever since he took over its care, her hair has felt particularly smooth, silk-soft against his palm, parting easily around his fingertips each time he curls them through it. He drags the brush in long strokes, starting from the bottom up, methodical and meticulous. He does this faithfully enough that there’s rarely any snares. When one does crop up, he retires the brush to gently detangle any mats with his bare hands to be certain he doesn’t tug her head.
As the brush curves behind her left ear, exotic and round, Kathryn’s head tilts back as though caught. She lets out a soft but emphatic yawn that tells him everything he needs to know. She is indeed exhausted, but simply pushing through, because Kathryn Janeway would push right through a warp core breech if she had any option.
He says more than asks, “You are tired.”
“We’re all tired,” she answers, gravelly voice particularly deep with the weight of their adventure. Tilting to the side, she catches his eye over her shoulder. With the corner of her red lips curled up, she teases, “Vulcan officers excluded, of course.”
He does experience fatigue, but not nearly so swiftly or easily. It’s times like this that he’s grateful for that—pleased he can remain in control when she most needs him. But there is no reason to prop her up at this particular moment, and he informs her, “We may retire for the night, Captain.”
She gives him that withering look that she does whenever he uses her title in private, but there is no difference for him. It’s merely a word and holds no more or less affection for him than her given name. Kathryn is the thing he loves, and language is merely a tool to communicate that.
She asks him as though it should take precedent, “How’s my hair?”
“Lovely.” Tuvok was going to brush it more, perhaps for another fourteen minutes, because he finds the action strangely soothing and would prolong it as long as possible. But he makes the executive decision that it’s been tended long enough. Kathryn reaches back to run her fingers through it, and even that holds an odd appeal for him, perhaps because this is a side of the captain that no one else gets to see. She rarely even wears her hair down in public now that it’s grown out. More often than not, he’s the one to braid and pin it up for her.
He bends over her shoulder and brushes a kiss along it, unbothered by the taste of the standard-issue red fabric. He knows the action will be seen for what it is: a final decision. It’s over.
It’s time to sleep. Or at least to enter the bedroom. Her eyes flicker down to his lips as he pulls back, and she murmurs, “Thank you, Tuvok.”
“Of course, Kathryn.”
Her smile is small, but radiant. It fans things in him he thought long dead—a fire, a love, burning adoration more profound than even pon farr. This is not a woman chosen for him by other mortal creatures, but someone almost delivered by fate. The Delta Quadrant’s brought many things to light, like his need to be everything his captain could ever want or need.
Kathryn is the first to rise. She climbs off the couch with grace and ease, though she groans as though doddering, and then the mug of cooling tea is set beside the brush. When she turns to Tuvok, several strands of shining hair slip over her shoulder. She holds out her hand.
He takes it in his and follows her to the bedroom, like he would follow her anywhere, all the way across the broad universe and back.