The small skiff moved effortlessly through the water as if pulled by the skein of silver light that the full moon cast on the lake.
An owl hooted across the tree tops; and the occasional laughter of children, playing long past bedtime along the shore, rose to mingle with the pungent smoke of waning campfires.
The man and woman in the boat did not speak. If words were a useful currency, they had long ago been spent. Thousands and thousands of them had been exchanged over the last several years.
She appeared content just to rest against the pillows he had provided for her back. Eyes closed, she gathered the shawl around her shoulders a little closer. It was late summer, and the night air hinted at an early autumn.
He watched her as he drew the oars back and forth in a smooth rhythm. She leaned bonelessly into the cushions, more at ease than he had seen her since.. .since New Earth. Her hair, caught into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, had grown out again from the functional cut she had worn the last months of their voyage. Gone too was the red-and-black uniform. She wore a gauzy blue dress spangled with white flowers. The ubiquitous black boots were missing as well; and her small feet were clad in sandals.
He rowed around a rocky islet, crested with four pine trees, then rested, letting the boat drift. She sensed the change in momentum and lazily dipped her fingers into the water. They had been here before. In this boat. On this lake. Or at least in a very close approximation. She had nearly died once-upon-a-time--over and over. And he and she had celebrated her miraculous resuscitation by sailing off into make-believe.
Now all of them--the whole Voyager crew--had a chance at a new life. Nearly seven years of being homeward bound, nearly seven years of single focus, nearly seven years of uncertainty and longing and infinite ingenuity had finally seen them back to Earth.
He pulled the oars up. One slipped from his hand, and he grabbed it before it could sink out of his grasp for good. His abrupt movement rocked the boat, and she opened her eyes, attentive.
"Nearly lost it," he said by way of explanation. "Which would have posed a real problem, since I can't just call up a new one on the computer out here."
She smiled. "Then, I could have accused you of rowing with 'only one oar in the water' with some validation."
"And I would have told you that you were 'up the proverbial creek,'" he replied.
"I've been up worse," she said, settling back again, drawing her hand into the boat and drying her fingers on her skirt.
"Sometimes it's hard to remember that we no longer have any 'safeties.'"
She nodded.
"I mean, almost all the safeties are off," he said, fixing her with his dark gaze.
Her eyebrows lifted.
"No more protocol. No more rank. No more routine. No more shields," he continued.
She was slow to respond; and when she did, her voice was very low. "No more 'safety nets,' either."
"A different kind of risk now--maybe not life threatening, but it could be life altering and a little frightening just the same. . ." His words were as much question as statement.
"Are you implying that I can't hide behind my uniform anymore, Chakotay?" she pointedly asked.
"Would I ever suggesst such professional cowardice, my Captain?" he returned with mock seriousness.
"Say, as I recall, I'm the one who was toasted and touted, cited and feted, paraded and confetti-ed for 'bravery above-and-beyond," she said with false petulance.
"And richly deserved, all of it," he added quickly.
She pulled her lower lip from its exaggerated pout and grinned.
"Of course, Starfleet didn't know about your little problem with 'personal cowardice,'" he ventured.
"Personal cowardice?!" she exclaimed.
"You know. Your continuous 'duck-and-cover' exercises."
"What 'duck-and-cover'exercises?!" Her voice, while still in teasing mode, had acquired the smallest edge of irritation.
"Oh, the way you would weave and bob anytime your loyal first officer tried to get a little closer to you. . ."
She sighed. "Oh, Chakotay. We've been there a million times. You know I did what I had to do for the good of the ship--for all of us."
"The ship has landed, Kathryn."
She looked down at her feet. "I know."
"The safeties are off," he said again.
"I know."
"Ready to take a risk?"
She shrugged. Not from indecision but from sure knowledge that he had at last gloriously cornered her, had led her irrevocably to the dearly desired inevitable. After years of resistance, it was now time for her to give him the right answer.
He balanced the oars on the gunwales and waited for Kathryn Janeway, just as he had always waited for Kathryn Janeway.
The silence expanded between them, sharpening their senses to the scents and sounds of the night air, of Lake George lapping at their boat.
"On New Earth," she finally began.
He allowed her time and space.
"If we had stayed. . ." she continued in confession.
He had waited for seven years. A few more minutes wouldn't matter much.
She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes luminous with tears in the reflected moonlight.
"Well, would we have?" He had asked the question at last.
"Yes."
Securing the oars firmly, he reached for her hands.
"And now?" he asked.
"Yes" came the unequivocal affirmation. "Yes."
Careful not to rock the boat, he drew her firmly into his embrace. And felt the last safety disappear.