a/n: Many thanks to the wonderful Helen8462. She made this infinitely better with her beta skills.
Damaged
"Going somewhere?"
Her cool voice cuts across the room, making him pause from the shirt that he is folding. A half-packed travel bag sits on the vacant bed.
For it has been years since anyone has slept in it, and it reminds him too much of her.
Sometimes, if he looks hard enough, he can almost see her smiling face, head resting lightly on the pillow as she surveys him with a saucy grin.
His eyes close for a moment, and he savours the breeze that accompanies whenever she comes around. It touches his nose, and his cheeks, rests on his hands and winds around his fingers. It carries her scent, her perfume, to him from a place so far away that it calms him whenever he misses it in his soul.
Those times come far too frequently.
He turns around slowly, waiting for that painful thud in his chest he knows will come as a result of seeing her standing there.
She's exactly where he knows she will be, resting casually against the door frame of his bedroom door, a happiness in her features that smooth all the lines away. His eyebrows raise in silent question as to why she has appeared, now of all times, and all she can do is shrug her shoulders, and let out a laugh he'll never get tired of hearing.
"I came to see if it's true," she says eventually. Lightly.
"If what is true?" he asks, slightly offended by her causal, disbelieving tone. He feigns indifference, because it's easier to acknowledge than the truth.
She laughs again, pushing off the wooden frame with ease, and twirling around so that the beautiful dress she wears flutters about lean legs. "If you're really going away to do something stupid."
She throws him a mega-watt grin, bright and perfect and flashing at him in a way that renews the pain in his chest. He loves her smile, and he thinks suddenly he never sees it enough. But even if she smiles like that every day, it would never be enough.
Her dress is the same blue she always wears, because she knows he loves her in it, and she knows he'll never get tired of seeing her in it. The dress is such a startling contrast of brightness to the dull grey of the sky outside, and the autumn leaves from the trees hitting the ground softly without a word. He can't even remember the last time he saw sun.
He thinks it was probably the day before she left his life.
"I thought you had gone," he stutters out finally, avoiding answering her statement by pushing the blame back to her entirely. Because it is completely and utterly her fault that he has to consider doing this stupid thing. If it wasn't for her, there is no way he'd be toying with his own life with such reckless abandon.
"I'm here, aren't I?" she responds, saying the words with utmost ease like they were the simplest things in his dark world.
Not once does she even stop to consider that maybe she is the problem; the cause of the darkness.
He tears his gaze away from her sparkling eyes, finding a spot on the wall behind her to gaze at instead. Her face is too beautiful and strong, and it tears at the defeat fuelling his reckless actions. In a second, she is in front of him, mere centimetres away from his face as she smiles up at him expectantly.
"You look warm," she says casually. Her eyes roam his thick sweater, tracing the cable knit patterns with interest and an almost-longing. He tries not to focus in the image in his mind, where she is wearing it and not much else, snuggled into him on a cold and rainy afternoon.
"Well," he responds, diplomatically. He has to squash the anger down. "I'm not the one wearing a dress in late fall."
Her laugh bubbles up, and with a hint of a smirk she answers him flippantly. "I don't get cold anymore."
It hurts him that she can be so casual about this.
He moves another inch toward her, itching to put an arm around her slim waist, to feel her close again and desperately praying that something has changed since the last time she was here. So desperately he needs her. To touch her soft skin, to taste her lips on his, to run his hands through the auburn strands of her hair.
It's been so long, and the memory is one he never, ever wants to lose.
But suddenly she pulls back, a ghost of sadness flickering over her features. "Chakotay," she warns. "You know the rules."
He braces himself, and steps away from her. He has to, because its slowly killing him inside. "No touching," he sighs knowingly. "It's a stupid rule," he mumbles, and she pretends not to hear him.
His hand finds his ear, and he tugs it lightly. It's a small comforting gesture that she finds oddly amusing, watching with great pain to see the defeated stance of the man before her.
A relic of something she once held so dear.
"I hate it," he whispers to no one in particular. His eyes slip close, and he means every word. It's his own special brand of torture, designed just for him. To have her so close and yet so far.
She nods solemnly; a silent acknowledgment (the only one he'll ever get) and he wonders if it's the same for her. To have him stand by her all these years, within an arm's reach of each other only to realise that the distance may as well be light years.
And there isn't a damn thing either one of them can do about it now.
A quick stride in her direction, and he's in front of her again. Searching her face with anything but hope. She leans forward, tilting her head up and reaching up on her toes to whisper in his ear. He swears he can feel her breath on his skin.
For a spilt second he wishes to all hell that he could feel it.
"One day it will go away," she offers quietly, like the words can soothe the wounds inside him. Only they never will.
"How long?"
Her head tilts a little to the side, and she regards him with open, intelligent eyes. She is nothing if not honest. She doesn't know how to be anything else anymore. "Soon."
"Well, if soon is a lifetime, you're right," he counters sardonically, biting down on his lip with painful force so that she will never realise that he is so close to tears.
She does notice though, and always will. She reads him like the open pages of her favourite book. Only there are so many chapters left unfinished, and it gnaws at him every day, shattering their perfect illusion that everything will be alright.
"Chakotay," she implores. "Please, don't do this."
He drops his gaze to the patterned rug on the floor of his seldom-used bedroom. It's easier than looking at her now. He can never look at her beautiful face when they get to this part of her visit, because the words she has to speak hurts them both.
Because there are rules, and she's always been one to follow them. Even if it keeps them apart.
"Please don't destroy what we have just because you want something more."
He clenches his fists, anger coming to a boiling point after being suppressed for God only knows how long. He can't stand it now, the torment has become too much and he is very, very angry with her and their damn situation. "It isn't fair!" He bursts out. His hand finds his hair, and he tugs painfully at the raven strands streaked with grey.
The three words are never enough to express how much he hates this, and the situation they are in. Neither of them can ever find enough words to express the battles fought with their own darkness.
Ironically, Chakotay knows deep down it's the darkness that got them to this point. Her refusal to accept that sometimes you can break the rules, just a little bit, and his refusal to ever push her to that point.
He's never been able to tell her how many nights he lay awake, unable to sleep and wishing so desperately that she was curled up beside him. If only he'd pushed just that little bit harder, and saved her from herself.
Somehow, he thinks she knows.
"I can't do it anymore, Kathryn," he says eventually into the darkness, knowing without looking up that she is still there. He didn't even realise that the night had long-since settled outside, bringing with it the eerie stillness. "I can't just stand by knowing you're so close and I can't even touch you."
He hears her sigh sadly, and step further away from him so that when he eventually looks up again, she is back to where she first appeared. Leaning with casual grace against the door frame. Only now that dazzling smile is gone.
It hurts to see her beautiful face, and it's taking all of his self-control and fear of feeling ashamed not to lose it entirely. The lump lodged in his throat makes it impossible to speak, and a part of him wants to desperately to follow her to wherever it is she goes; something he has spent the last several years promising himself he would never do.
"I don't understand why it has to be so hard," he says eventually when he finds the strength to look at her. To really look at her. And he realises she looks just as tired and sad as he feels.
She has always been too strong to look so sad. The tears shimmer in her eyes, clouding the vibrant blue and unable to fall.
She shrugs her shoulder lightly, almost afraid to say the words. Because by not saying them, they can both pretend a moment longer that this isn't the outcome that the universe intended for them both.
But, finally, she has to say them. And they cut through his world like sharp knives to the soft, comforting bed sheets that he has never slept in because it reminds him too much of her. The shade of blue covering his bed is almost the same as the blue she wears each time she visits him.
"Because we missed our chance, Chakotay."
He is so irrationally angry at her when he says his next sentence. After all these years, he still can't admit to himself that they are both to blame. That maybe if he hadn't involved himself with Riley Frazier or Seven or Marla Gilmore there might have been a chance for them. That she wouldn't have had a reason to turn away, and he wouldn't have denied himself the instinct to push her that bit harder.
So that they both could admit what they really feel. And even after all these years, those feelings have never really gone away.
"We were never given that chance in the first place because of your stupid parameters!" He almost yells, not quite believing his own answer but giving it regardless. If only to see her reaction.
Because it always, always gets a reaction from her. Like him, she is never able to see the truth in his words.
He expects her to turn and leave now, like she always does when they have this argument. Only this time she stays where she is, and looks at him with an expression he can't read.
He thinks it's probably because it's been years since he has seen it.
"Well," she says, slowly. "What are you going to do about that?"
Husky words compel him to action and he steps over to her with quick strides, leaning down to her so that their foreheads are as close as they can possibly be. He can see the curiosity burning in her blue depths, hiding the slight, but expected, flash of defiance and challenging him to call her out on it.
Taking a deep breath, he looks closer, and he thinks he sees the same intense longing felt inside himself reflected back in her features.
"I'm going to do something stupid."
He turns away from her, grabbing the half-packed travel bag with haste. Almost, her laughs echoes around him and when he faces the door again she is gone.
Only this time it doesn't feel like it normally does.
Because deep down, he knows she isn't coming back.
Hours later and he is pacing up what was once their favourite hill, overlooking the bay; wind whipping his ageing face with an intensity he hasn't felt for years. The sun begins to dawn out on the horizon, peeking through the grey of the previous days.
It's refreshing, somehow. It makes him feel lighter.
He knows now, long after she has left, that he'll never get the chance to say goodbye before he leaves. It doesn't hurt like he thinks it will, because when he is through, he hopes he will never, ever have to say goodbye.
The earth is soft and muddy, the fallen leaves crunching between the soles of his recently polished boots. Mud splatters the shiny black leather with random spots, and he doesn't care one bit. The uniform he now wears hasn't seen the light of day in many years. Not since she left him alone and he couldn't bring himself to look at it without feeling angry.
For the first time in years, he allows himself to enjoy the serene walk to her place.
Reaching his destination, the small plaque that marks her place in the world, he kneels down. His knees creak and groan with protest as he places down a rose with pink petals and he can't remember how he grew so old so quickly. He's heard somewhere that grief does that to a person.
Calloused hands trace the letters of her name, and he allows a ghost of a smile.
"I know it hasn't been easy for you," he murmurs. Whenever she is now, he hopes she can hear him. He can almost see the disbelieving smirk on her face now that she knows exactly what he has been planning, and that this time, he is really going to do it.
"I hope this is the right thing, Kathryn."
He knows that she'd berate him now for doubting himself. But she isn't here, and he has to make this leap all on his own. But hopefully when he is done, things will be better for all of them and he'll never have to face this world without her.
A laugh bubbles up as he thinks of them; this completely, utterly ridiculous, and stupid idea born from living without her. An idea that she wouldn't hesitate to take and run with if their roles had been reversed.
If fate had been kinder to them.
Maybe he'd never have to stand here, looking at the small marble slab that is the only reminder he has of the remarkable woman that left him behind all those years ago.
He reaches out, pocketing the remnants of the last rose he the last time he was here. The vibrant pink of its petals now long since faded. Guilt washes over him a little when he realises how long it's been since he visited her.
"I hope you'll forgive me, Kathryn," he says. A little louder this time, to no one in particular, because suddenly he has made up his mind. And he knows that it's the right thing to do.
He runs a hand over the slab one last time, committing it to memory, even if only for a little while. Because if what he is about to do will pay off, he will never have to look at her gravestone again.
Not in this lifetime.
Not in any lifetime.
He stands, the knees of his pants now soaked through with damp, muddy earth.
One last look, and he walks back down the hill.
The rose feels heavy in his pocket, and he runs the soaked and ages petals through pinched fingers. It gives him strength. Hopefully, if fate is kind, the next rose he gives her will be fresh and full, in another lifetime and never left behind to mark her grave.
The sun shines brighter now, glistening off the droplets littering the grass he treads. A wind whispers over his skin, and he slips his eyes closed.
He lets out a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding, and he thinks it's entirely possible that he has been holding this inside for years. Because now he has a plan, and if he succeeds, they will never have to suffer like this.
This damaged timeline will never exist, and he will never have to stand before her grave.
And, if this works, he will never have to know her ghost.
a/n: Apologies for the feels.