Part II
Two weeks later
Captain Kathryn Janeway sat in her readyroom aboard the Federation Starship Voyager. There were still holes in the wall from where the Hirogen had hung their trophies, but the skulls and bones and various bodyparts had been spaced almost as soon as she could rip them off the walls. Now she sat at her desk, piled high with data padds of damage reports, casualty rosters, death certificates that still needed to be finalized. She'd do those last. When she wasn't so angry. Their lives deserved that much.
But she was angry now. Had been seething with constant anger ever since the bastards left. The ship was a mess. It would be for a very long time. And she had actually given them technology. God dammit. It was necessary, it was in their own best interest, and she hoped it was some sort of goodwill gesture -- a chance to save a race that would have just as soon tortured and destroyed her entire crew. But she was angry. If she'd had the means and the opportunity, she would have rather blown them out of the sky.
That wasn't the only reason for her anger, though, and she knew it. In the final analysis, she was more angry with herself. She hadn't allowed herself to think about it, but now, in the middle of the night as she sat alone in her readyroom, as the Delta shift quietly piloted her ship, she sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, allowing herself to think of him. Chakotay. They hadn't spoken outside of their bridge shifts, the various meetings and briefings they'd attended. Not that there had been any opportunity. Any downtime they'd had -- and there wasn't much of that -- was spent catching an hour of sleep here, a bite of food there. But it didn't matter. Because even in a meeting full of people, she could feel his disappointment, his confusion, his own anger. He couldn't even look directly at her.
Of course, she could simply be projecting her own feelings onto him. The once familiar sense that she and he could somehow read each other's minds, had established some sort of powerful, unspoken language, was gone now. She did not know him. Nor did she know herself, apparently.
Why had she done that? In the most prurient sense she knew why -- she had been full of adrenaline, fear, anger -- and her body had channeled it into something else. A physiological reaction to a prolonged heightened emotional state. They were both charged up, thinking instinctually rather than intellectually. And they did what felt good at the time. So it was not an unusual response.
But that was only part of the reason. And not even a very big part.
She had wanted it. And honestly didn't know how badly she had wanted it until his hands, his lips, were on her body. God, she wanted it. Wanted him. She'd always had some idea of her attraction to him, in the purely physical sense; she, however, had no idea that it would make her do something so completely, totally deranged.
It was her downfall. It was her mistake. And she was furious with herself, both for acting on her feelings, and for allowing herself to harbor these feelings in the first place. But mostly because she knew that she had taken advantage of him. Or, more precisely, his body.
There was always something between them -- extending before New Earth, extending even after their disagreements over Seven and the Borg. She had known it, he had known it, and they had both lived with the knowledge that under different circumstances, in a different lifetime, they may have been able to pursue it. But they had decided -- or at least she had -- not to do anything about it. And if it was purely her decision, then he had gone along with it. An unspoken truce.
And a truce which she had just annihilated in a moment of weakness.
She got up suddenly from her desk, almost jumping to her feet and walking to the door. She would talk to him. This instant. She would take responsibility, ask his forgiveness, and work on rebuilding what she had effectively destroyed.
And she would hope that he'd never see how much this had torn her apart.
That thought stopped her in her tracks, knocked the breath out of her for a moment. She could feel the burning of tears and they were so sudden -- she was so unaccustomed to the panicked feeling that gripped her -- that she thought briefly that she was ill. Raising her hand to her throat, she closed her eyes and swallowed once, twice. Breathing deeply. Okay. All right. Under control. She stood still a moment longer, blinking rapidly, clearing the redness she knew was evident in her eyes. Just a second. She'd be able to walk out in a second.
So. That was it after all. The simple, selfish feeling that she had ruined her chance with him -- a chance that she had barely acknowledged, let alone contemplated taking. That chance was gone now, gone before she had even known she'd wanted to take it. Only now to realize that she'd always counted on that chance -- perhaps the only thing she could ever count on out here. No matter what or who else came between them, it didn't even matter to her. She had trusted it. Trusted that one day, whenever she was ready, whenever circumstances permitted, she would go to him.
And then she went ahead and, with one act, in one blazing instant, breached that trust so severely, so completely, that it was too late. Too late.
She shook her head to no one, and strode out of her ready room and to the lift. It would be all right. She'd be able to fix it, just enough, just patch it up so that she could stand working with him, and so that he could stand being in the same room with her without hating her. She was fairly confident that she could fix that part. And she would hope. Hope that he wouldn't see that she was so far gone, so lost, that she feared she would never be the same.
And she would hope that he wouldn't force her to admit any of it again -- to him, or to herself. Because she couldn't chance it. Couldn't risk her future, their futures, for something that might only be inconsequential, a whim. Only it didn't feel like that. There was something weighty about it, something which hinted at great importance which she couldn't shake. And that, perhaps, was the most frightening thing of all.
*****
She felt like her heart was lodged in her throat when she buzzed the chime to his door. But she knew she looked fine. Calm. Authoritative. She was a Starfleet captain, for Christ's sake. She could do that.
She heard his muffled call to enter and walked in the door. The lights were dimmed, and he was stretched out on the couch. She could not see his face, and hoped he wouldn't get up, wouldn't come any closer. It would be easier if she couldn't see him.
"Captain," he said evenly. Not giving anything away. But sitting up slowly, his face still shrouded in the shadows. She stood there for a moment, looking around the room, suddenly uncomfortable, not knowing what to do with her hands, finally deciding to clasp them behind her back. She looked too formal, too captain-like, but she knew she needed it.
"Commander," she said, and then amended it suddenly. "Chakotay," she said. Quiet. A little less decisive than she would've liked. "If this is a bad time, I'll come back. I know you're tired."
"No, this isn't a bad time," he said, still rather monotonous, inscrutable.
She nodded. Suddenly unsure of where to begin. "I needed to... I want to talk to you. Off the record."
"All right," he said. Didn't offer her a seat. Didn't offer her a drink. Great. He was furious.
She cleared her throat. "I've read your report of the events during the Hirogen invasion. I assume you've read mine."
"I have," he said.
"Then I also assume you are aware that my neural implant was deactivated approximately three hours before yours."
"I am aware of that."
She took a breath, steeled herself. "And you do recall, though you had omitted the incident from your report..." she tried making her voice forceful, but this was horrible, this was awful to do. "You do recall regaining consciousness while on the holodeck?" He didn't immediately answer, so she added lamely, "With me."
He was silent again. And then he spoke, finally a bit of his fury surfacing -- at least it was something. "Yes, I recall that. And I noted that you also eliminated the 'incident', as you term it, from your report as well."
Well that was an obvious poor choice of words. "Yes, I did omit it from my report. It was... unnecessary."
He seemed to grunt or something, but she still couldn't see his face. She could guess that he was smirking, though.
She looked away from his shadowy form then, trying to regain some type of control over the situation. This wasn't going well. She belatedly thought she should have better-planned this conversation. Everything she said seemed to be pressing his buttons.
"Chakotay. I regret my... actions that night. I was out of line, and I wasn't thinking. I certainly wasn't considering your feelings. And for that I am sorry. I hope you can understand that, and I hope we can find a way to reconcile this."
He got up then, but turned away from her, receding further into the darkness of his quarters. His back to her, he spoke again, his voice sounding tight. "I can reconcile it, Kathryn. I understand what happened. I may have even helped the situation along -- not me, of course, but Captain Miller." His voice took on a bitter tinge when he said the name. "You were under a great deal of stress. Your life was in danger. And he was there. You're always one to take opportunities when they present themselves."
She shook her head, but again it was a fruitless gesture in the darkness, with his back to her. "No. No, that wasn't it. You're not just a convenient opportunity for me, Chakotay. You know that."
He spun in the darkness. "How do I know that? I can only judge you by your actions, Kathryn. You tell me you trust me, you tell me you can't imagine your life without me. But that isn't altogether true, is it?"
"It is," she said, her voice shaking in her chest. "How can you even question that?"
"How?!" His voice was a little louder now, and she could feel herself cringing, hoping no one else was walking by his quarters. "You keep me at arm's length half the time, and then you draw me in when you need something from me. Be it agreement in a command decision, or a quick grope in the holodeck --"
"What--?"
"And when I dare ask for something more, I'm out of line. Well, now you're out of line, Captain. How's it feel?"
Despite herself, despite her guilt over all this, she was getting very, very angry with him. He was deliberately putting her through this. And she didn't care if he had every right to be angry -- he could see what she was going through. Was it so easy for him to hate her?
"Chakotay," she said, trying to school her voice, trying to breathe normally. Because otherwise she was going to deck him. "I'm trying to make amends..."
"No. You're not. You're trying to rewrite the past."
"I can't do that."
"Yeah, don't I know it." His voice was duller now, resigned. That, more than his anger just a moment before, sent a sudden cold stab of fear through her. She didn't like the sound of where this was going. He was giving up. Perhaps he already had given up.
"Chakotay, you must know how much I regret this."
He lurched forward aggressively then. "What if I didn't remember it? What if the neural implant hadn't been deactivated? Would you have regretted it then?"
"Of course I would have..."
"Why?" he said, but before she could formulate an answer, he exhaled an angry breath. She saw his silhouetted shoulders shrug, and he turned back into the shadows.
"You know what, Kathryn?" he said finally, no question about the anger in his voice now. "I'm not continuing this conversation with you. You want me to say I forgive you? Okay. I do. You're worried about working with me from now on? Don't. I can be as professional as I need to be. At least give me that much credit."
"Look," she said, vaguely wondering why she was continuing to try and convince him. "I took advantage of you while you were... for all intents and purposes unconscious, Commander. If it had been me... if our roles had been reversed..."
"I would never do that to you," he nearly shouted.
She was about to tell him that she knew that, she knew he was better than that. And she was going to tell him how ashamed she felt, how terribly wrong she was. But his voice interrupted her.
"You've been playing me from the beginning, Kathryn," he said. "And now you're pissed off because I don't want to play anymore. You've known for a long time how I've felt about you, Kathryn. Don't insult me by trying to deny it."
She was clenching her fists, anger tightening in her chest, making her breathing laborious. "So, what?," she said, louder now. "The way to prove to you that I trust you, that I value you, is to begin a relationship with you? Sleep with you? Is that it?"
"No--!"
"Oh, I think it is," she said, an unfamiliar urge to injure, to be mean for the sake of being mean, suddenly possessing her. "You walk around like a spurned lover when I don't blush at your smile like some ensign. Well, tough. I'm not at fault here because you want me, regardless of how I feel."
"Yeah, well I think we all know how you feel, Kathryn," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "At least Captain Miller does. You had your tongue down his throat long enough."
"Go to hell."
She detected a quick movement from Chakotay, and jumped when something smashed in a dark corner of the room, the sound of glass shattering.
"Get out," he hissed, the starlight behind him outlining his stance, almost like he was preparing to physically fight her if necessary.
Breathing, closing her eyes, extricating her nails from the palms of her hands, she tried to shake herself from her fury. Remember why she came in.
"Chakotay," she moved toward him, but stopped when he virtually jerked back, retreated further into the shadows. "Listen to me. If I could take it back I would. No one is more surprised with my actions than I. It was very unlike me. Regardless of the circumstances, I should not have... I shouldn't have succumbed..."
"Succumbed to what?" he spat. "A feeling? An emotion? No, you wouldn't want to do that now, would you?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She was getting riled now, the last remnants of her control ripping apart. She'd heard this tune before. Cold, frigid Kathryn Janeway. She'd been written off that way before. It hurt though, more than she'd care to admit, to hear it from him.
"You know," he said speculatively, "I just figured it out. Captain Miller was the perfect person for you, Kathryn. No commitment, no parameters required. Someone for you to fuck with, or maybe just fuck..."
"Excuse me?!"
"...a warm body. I get it."
"No you don't, dammit --"
"Yes, I do. You've barely even giving me the time of day these past few months, and then as soon as I'm out of it, you decide you want me. And the best part is you didn't even want me. You just wanted someone.." His voice sounded wild, he was just on the edge of snapping. "Actually, I should be thanking you -- all this time I thought maybe you felt something for me. I'd been holding out for you. I don't have to do that anymore. So thanks. Captain." He turned away.
The room seemed to lurch around her. Blood rushing in her ears. She could barely catch a breath. No. Not this.
"Is that what you really think?" she rasped, beginning to shake with fury.
"Yeah, it is. I'm sorry things didn't work out the way you wanted. Maybe if Harry had just taken a little longer, you could've..."
She wasn't sure what possessed her then, other than blind, utter rage, and fear that everything she didn't want to happen was going to happen anyway. She flew across the room and grabbed his arm, hard, spinning him around to look at her. His face, hardened and angry, also registered shock.
"Look, god dammit," she hissed, her voice rattling in her throat, so angry she could barely even see. "This may be hard for you to believe, and maybe you think I planned this. But guess what, Chakotay? I'm a human being. I can fuck up, just like you can, just like everybody else on this ship."
He tried pulling away from her, but she yanked him closer, she was in his face, just centimeters away from him. "This was my fault, and I know it. And the worst part, the part that I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for, is that I hurt you. All right? So don't tell me what a cold bitch I am. I already know what you and every other person thinks of me. And I hate it, but there's really nothing I can do about it. I don't have the luxury of trying to be nice, and this isn't some fucking popularity contest. I've got over a hundred lives to think of, and a hell of a lot of blood on my hands to keep me warm at night."
"Kathryn, I don't..."
"And I know you think I use my commitment to the ship and the crew as an excuse. Well, quite frankly, if you don't believe me then you can go to hell, because I'm not going to sit here and try and convince you. But I want to tell you something. What I regret most," she could feel the tears now, blurring her vision, her voice sounding strangled, but she didn't care anymore. Didn't care what she revealed to him. "What I hate myself for, is that I ruined everything. Everything I had with you, everything I could have had. I know what I did. And I'm more sorry than you can ever imagine."
They stood motionless for an indeterminate amount of time then, and Janeway suddenly felt as if every drop of energy had been drained from her body. She was too shocked, with herself, with him, to even regret what had been said, to even try to fix it anymore -- it seemed beyond repair. And maybe she didn't even regret it, any of it. They'd said what they'd been thinking for months now, that vague sense that something was wrong between them now confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt. Brutal honesty. Well, she certainly couldn't condone working with him under a lie -- she just didn't know if the truth would save them. Dropping his arm then, she turned away with a shuddering inhale of breath and began to walk toward the door.
"Chakotay," she said so quietly that she didn't even know if he could hear her. "What I did... was unforgivable. A horrible breach of your trust. I wish I could take it back. I wish it had never happened." And she continued out, almost reaching the door sensor until his voice stopped her.
"Do you?" Whispered. He sounded far away. "Do you really wish that?"
She stood still for several moments. She knew what he was asking. It did no harm to answer it now.
"No," she said quietly. "I don't wish that. But it doesn't really matter anymore, does it?"
She didn't remember walking to the door. Didn't remember if he'd said anything to her, tried to get her to stay. Didn't remember the door opening, allowing her escape. All she did remember was the shocking light, the painful sensation of the bright corridor lights hitting her eyes, which had grown accustomed to the dimness of Chakotay's quarters. Fitting, in a way. Everything was different now. And all change comes with a certain amount of pain. So she concentrated on her stinging eyes, which were beginning to tear, and she convinced herself that the pain, the tears, were only caused by of the harsh, unforgiving lights above her.
*****
The look on Paris' face was one that she most often associated with him, best described as "caught in the act." He had one of the most expressive faces she'd ever come across, which meant he could never really lie very well, and would never be a very good poker player. So whenever he was doing something he shouldn't be -- which wasn't often, but more often than most -- she knew it. She liked that about him, though. Secretly. Liked that he wasn't always by-the-book, straight and narrow. Liked it even as she was aware of her vague sense of jealousy.
She'd ended up on the holodeck. Which was absurd. After everything they'd all been through, after their lives had been reduced to visual, auditory and tactile simulations, she would've thought that the holodeck was the last place she'd want to be for a long, long while. But something about it was comforting now.
Probably because real life was so fucked up beyond recognition that she'd just as soon submerge herself inside a seedy bar in France.
She stood a few moments in the doorway, after Paris had started up like a shot, a surprised "Captain!" squeaking from his throat. She nodded, glancing around the room, which was empty, save for a nondescript bartender. Strange -- she'd assumed Paris would have programmed a few pool sharks or some Cabaret dancers, maybe a prostitute here and there. Paris cleared his throat and she brought her gaze back to him, moving then toward his table.
"Captain," he said again, trying desperately to sound casual. "Is there something you needed?"
She shook her head, noticing with some humor that he was angling his body in front of a half-empty bottle of something decidedly not synthehol. His right hand was crooked oddly behind his back, and only when she got close to him did she see the suspicious ribbon of smoke curling up from behind his back, over his head.
"Are you on fire, Mr. Paris?" she asked straight-faced.
"Ah..." he said, not moving a muscle, "no. I'm not."
She cocked an eyebrow, and finally his shoulders sagged and he brought the offending hand around, revealing a smoking cigarette. Real, she guessed, not a hologram, otherwise he wouldn't be acting so guiltily. She shook her head but sat down at the table, and he joined her.
"Finding new ways to override the safeties on the replicators, I see," she said. But she was half-smiling, and enjoyed the relief on his face. So he broke a rule. Haven't we all, she thought ruefully.
"Yeah. This was a toughy," he said, his trademark confidence returning. "You should've seen the rigmarole I had to cut through to replicate marijuana."
Janeway laughed then, and it surprised her. She hadn't come here to cheer herself up. She'd come to make herself continue to feel bad. Sobering, she looked away from Paris, who had been watching her carefully. He wasn't stupid. He knew there was something up with her, otherwise she'd never show up down here of her own volition.
"Buy you a drink?" he asked, holding up the bottle. She regarded him for a moment, and inclined her head toward the cigarette still smoldering in his hand.
"May I have one of those?" she said, and then almost burst out laughing at the look of utter shock on his face.
"Y- yeah. Yes, of course," he stammered, fumbling in his pocket and pulling out a crumpled pack, shaking one out for her. She pulled out a cigarette as he patted his pockets frantically.
"Hang on a sec," he said. "Dammit, I've got a light somewhere."
"Don't bother," she said, and plucked his burning cigarette from his hand, placing the lit tip against the end of her own. The cigarette crackled to life as she inhaled, seeing from the corners of her eyes that Paris was watching her every move, extremely intrigued. She exhaled and handed Paris his own smoke, which he took and placed between his lips, inhaling.
"I didn't know you smoked," he said, flicking ashes on the floor.
"I don't," she said, taking a long drag and closing her eyes. "Not really. Only on special occasions."
He chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah. Me too."
"So what's the occasion tonight?" she asked gently.
He shrugged and looked down, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it with the first. "Oh, let's see. I guess that'd be a certain half-Klingon throwing a piece of tritanium pipe at my head. And I survived. So, it's kind of a celebration, right?" He smiled, but it was bitter. Only then did Janeway notice the nice-sized lump on his left temple, just beginning to turn purple.
"Oh, Tom. You should get that taken care of."
"Nah. I'll live."
"Really, Tom. See the doctor."
"Pass. I'd rather have a headache than another lecture from Dr. Personality."
She smiled and nodded in understanding. Took another drag on the cigarette. There was still something of a taboo around smoking, a sense of rebellion, of being bad just for the sake of being bad, and she embraced it. She needed it. Paris was watching her; she'd have to tell him something. He had, after all, shared his stash with her.
"I'm just brooding," she said in explanation, a rueful smile on her face.
"The perils of command?" he asked, taking an empty glass and pouring her a good shot of whatever he was drinking. She shrugged non-committally, and he cocked an eyebrow. "Or maybe the perils of the second-in-command," he said. She shot him a look then, and he greeted her gaze with impudence. Well, they'd already thrown protocol and rank out the window, she mused. She'd asked for it.
"I... did something ill-considered," she said quietly, suddenly wanting to tell him all about it, but she'd already gone too far. "Something that's entirely my fault. And now I'm paying for it."
He nodded as she lifted her glass and took a small sip. The liquor burned fiercely down her throat, and she gasped at it. He smiled and took a drink himself. "Hurts, doesn't it?" he said. "But it's a good kind of hurt."
She found herself placing a hand over his. "Tom, B'Elanna's a hothead. She's stubborn, she's quick-tempered. But she's honest. And a good person. You two are good together."
His look was that of total surprise. "That sounds like a benediction if I ever heard one, Captain."
She squeezed his hand. "Maybe it's too long coming. Not that you need my approval. But I do. And I know you'll work it out."
He dropped his cigarette to the floor and stomped it out, then looked at her frankly. "So will you."
She let go of his hand then, looking away. Not out of embarrassment -- she was way beyond that now. But out of her certainty, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she in fact would not work this out. The feeling of hopelessness, of complete despair, was unfamiliar to her, unsettling.
"Captain," he said quietly, drawing her eyes back to him "You told me about B'Elanna, right? So let me tell you about Chakotay."
"Tom, it isn't the same..."
"He's an asshole," Paris said, ignoring the fact that Janeway's jaw nearly dropped to the floor. "Sometimes. He's arrogant, self-righteous. And he doesn't know what the fuck is going on right in front of his face."
"Tom," she said, a warning creeping into her voice. "I don't think I need to remind you that he is also your commanding officer."
"I know that. Oh, this is off the record, by the way," he said, a crooked smile forming on his face. "But not this part: he's genuine. And he's loyal. And he'd do anything for you. Anything."
She swallowed, not realizing that a lump had begun to form in her throat. "He is all those things, Tom. You're right. But I think... no, I know, I crossed a line. And everyone has their limits."
Paris took her hand back in his, and she was surprised that she wasn't at all surprised. "Not him. Not for you. Whatever it is, he'll get over it. He has to. He doesn't know how to be anything else but..." He stopped, perhaps finally realizing that he'd gone way too far about ten minutes ago.
But she wanted to hear it. "Anything else but what?" she almost whispered.
He paused a moment, considering his response, and then said quietly, "Anything else but yours." She closed her eyes briefly, fighting back the wave of emotions, and then opened them again.
"I don't need him to be mine," she said earnestly. "I really don't. I'd never ask unyielding, blind devotion from any of my crew."
"Too late," he said softly, and stood up before she could ask if he meant too late for Chakotay, or for himself. Or all of them.
"You can keep the smokes, Captain." He placed a cork in the bottle and hid it underneath his uniform jacket. He turned away from her, but continued talking softly, as if he didn't really want to be heard. "I had to almost die before I was finally ready to admit how much I loved B'Elanna," he said. "But it doesn't have to be that way. As long as you don't give up. On him. Or on yourself." And he moved toward the door. After recovering from the simple elegance of his statement, she turned in her chair and called after him.
"Tom," she said, and he stopped, looking back. "Thank you."
He smiled again. "Hey, anytime you want lung cancer, you just let me know." And he was gone.