Author's Note: Ah, so I am very late to the party on this one. But it's a ship I love, and this came into my head. Of course, it completely fixes 'Endgame' so it's hardly new, but I hope it's a new spin on the fix that should, quite clearly, have happened.
It skews slightly with timelines, but when you're writing total AU, I think that's okay?
Since it's my first foray into Voyager, and into J/C, I'd be grateful if you took time to review. Please be honest and as critical as you can. If you can't review, please just enjoy it.
Disclaimer: All of the characters belong to Paramount. I just decided, for the first time, to play with them. I make absolutely no monetary gain from them.
There was something old-fashioned, she mused quietly, about passing champagne about on trays. Something solid, earthly. Of this world.
Of this world. She stopped the words as quickly as they twisted through her brain.
She was too fixated on the worlds that could have been.
She set another empty glass down on a passing tray, and swore to herself she wouldn't be having another. Champagne, reserved only for the most prestigious of Starfleet parties. It was such a rarity. She turned to look out into the dark night, moving away from the body of the banqueting hall.
She was tired of speaking.
And of smiling.
Nearer the huge windows it was cooler, and the music of the quartet was distant from here. She couldn't see the stars she had been so used to; the city made the lights of the sky non-existent, and they made the days permanent, where she had been used to continuous night.
And endless, countless stars.
It had been difficult to adjust.
And she wasn't sure she had adjusted yet, not if she was brutally honest with herself. But when she was brutally honest, she didn't like where her thoughts took her, dragged her, compelled her.
Her own hand went up to the nape of her neck, and she tried, vainly, to massage the tension away. She wasn't much use. Her hair was pinned so tightly, it was bordering on agony.
"Hello…Admiral."
Her fingers stilled on her own skin, and that sudden stillness rippled through her entire body.
-0-
He watched her for a moment, felt the courage flow into him, and dissipate, and flow into him again.
Then he spoke, because it was either speaking or standing there, staring.
He had done enough of that to last him a life time.
She stalled, her fingers still on her neck, where her hair had been piled elaborately onto her head, at the sound of his voice. Her small back straightened.
"Commander."
She turned then, slowly, and her smile crooked up at one side of her red mouth.
He could never remember seeing Janeway wear lipstick like that. It matched her dress perfectly; a deep, wine red which looked fluid to the touch.
Or so he imagined.
She moved towards him, her arms open. He made to move too, but then she deflected, bringing her hands up to his shoulders so there was distance between them. She held him at that length and grinned that lopsided grin he found so incredibly disarming.
"Chakotay."
It seemed strange to hear it again. That husky, playful inflection – and somewhere, even fractionally, affection – had been missing from his life.
"Kathryn," he felt himself grin back at her, almost in spite of the gravitas he wanted to create, and his face was warm.
"They said you weren't coming," she said softly, "I mean, they told me you weren't."
He stalled for a moment then moved her hand from his shoulder, taking it in his own. She let him do so for a second, then she pulled her hand away as a tray of champagne passed.
"Want one?"
He shook his head.
"I wasn't going to come," he said, watching as she took an unmeasured gulp of the sparkling gold liquid, "Then I realised I couldn't miss it."
She raised a brow, "You didn't miss much, it has to be said. Speeches, applauses, standard Starfleet banquet fare, some dancing…you did miss out on the champagne."
"I missed you becoming Admiral," he said softly, coming to stand beside her as she turned back to the window.
"So did Seven," she paused a moment, and he felt her word more than he heard them because in them, in the in-between of her perfectly sensible questioning, was a note of agony, "Where is she?"
"She couldn't make it."
Janeway seemed genuinely crestfallen for a moment, then she pushed her shoulders back again.
"This party is dying down," he turned back to look around the slowly emptying room, "And it was dying long before it started to die down by the sounds of it. Wanna' go for a drink?"
She laughed that low, half-disapproving laugh she was prone to gift him, then shook her head.
"You were always good at getting me to…bend protocol Chakotay," she said.
It was his turn to laugh.
He missed laughing with her. He missed that low, indecent little chuckle she was prone to.
"Exceptional circumstances. So will you come with me, have a drink…"
She was quiet for a moment as she drained the last of her glass.
"For old time's sake?"
There was a hint of aggression to her voice as she asked.
He shrugged, "Something like that."
It was an old bar too, smack in the midst of the teeming city, which dated back to the 21st century. He was clear why he picked it, despite the far swankier, nicer venues he could have come to for their reunion – Chakotay was old at heart, and it was quiet and they could speak here. And it had something of history about it. To him, it was poetic at least.
He wasn't sure she wanted to speak, about history or anything else, but he had to try.
He ordered two whiskey on the rocks – something he'd missed on Voyager because, despite the replicator, it was never quite the same – and they settled in a little table set in a corner, pushed back from the body of the bar.
Kathryn could hold her liquor: Kathryn Janeway could hold a fracturing world together.
Where their conversation had flowed, albeit with some pauses, on the journey here, it seemed now to have hit its wall. He looked for something to say, anything that would recall their once easy, delightful connection.
"So, Admiral?"
She smiled, but it was tight.
"Against my will…it took them nearly a year to talk me into it."
He laughed, "Really? What made you give in?"
"The prospect of another accidental seven years stuck in a Quadrant I didn't know. That was enough for even this intrepid scientist. Plus, I can do my own research and let others do the dirty work."
He laughed again and watched as she moved her hand, almost against her own will, up to her neck.
"You're sore."
She shook her head, "It's nothing…this stupid hair, it's too tight."
"Take it out."
"No Commander," she said, "You know that's part of my façade."
He bit back his response – he wasn't sure where the façade had become her, where he'd lost Kathryn Janeway and the Captain had become all there was.
His guilt spoke then, blaming him for not taking that last, final opportunity. Whenever that guilt voiced itself, he swallowed it.
"Do you ever miss it?"
He felt himself asking her, despite his better judgement.
Chakotay tended to do lots of things despite his better judgement.
"I don't miss it. I don't miss Voyager," she lowered her eyes, "I miss the people. We are scattered to the wind."
He ached as she spoke.
She motioned to the waiter, and he brought another round of their drinks over. He'd barely touched his, but she was drinking hers as if it was her beloved coffee.
"What did you do, after the de-briefings?"
Her face darkened and he couldn't help but feel he was missing something before the pain slid from her eyes and she was smiling again.
"Slept, a lot. Drank a lot of good coffee. I went hiking…" her fingers curled round her glass, "And I went to Lake George."
He swallowed, winded by her admission, as he watched her and, the coward he was, he found solace at the bottom of his glass before he could find the courage to speak. She beat him to it.
"We never said goodbye," she said suddenly, as he opened his mouth to ask her what her first duty would be.
He nodded, took a sip of his own drink.
"Not that it matters, just that…." she shrugged, and she seemed to think she'd mis-stepped.
"It does matter," he murmured, "The debriefings were hard going, and then – look Kat, there's no excuse for it. and I am sorry I didn't say goodbye."
She ignored him, or at least, she chose not to hear the apology.
It might have been the same thing.
"Did they keep you for months?"
He didn't understand what she was asking.
"What do you mean?"
"The Federal Admiralty," she looked into her drink, tinkled the ice cubes around her glass, "They made me go through everything, in incredible detail."
He was quiet as he watched her slide around the booth. Her leg came into contact with his, and she lowered her voice. It was not conspiratorial. It was, instead, frightened of being overheard.
He felt the intensity of memories: how she'd lean into him, over the command module on the bridge, and smile and say something just slightly irrelevant.
Back then, in the face of a world neither of them knew, she had been his to know as deeply as one could know another person. She was readable and predictable and as tangible as anything.
Now she was air.
"They celebrated me, Kathryn Janeway, only after they'd examined and analysed every single decision," she said, "They made me go through every single log on the ship. Hearing it all…I lived it all once more. All of my decisions."
He spoke passionately, vehement with honesty, for the first time since he'd began talking to her.
"You made all the right calls," he touched his fingers to her wrist and she pulled them away, breaking their contact instantly, "You were right, every time."
"You are saying that to ease my guilt," she whispered, "I'm grateful for that Chakotay."
He had suspected it at the time, when he'd pass her, stricken and small, in the Admiralty Headquarters. She was always flanked by a guard, or by some distantly official Federation employee. He had never had the guts to ask her what they were doing to her, how intense the interrogation of her seven years had been – because his own had been savage in its intensity - and on those few occasions they'd spoken afterwards, she had been polite and professional and he was angry at her for it.
He was angry because she was moving away from him, leaving him behind. Or so he thought. So he wanted to believe, in his narrative which liberated him of any guilt.
"It's me who should be guilty," he said, "I should have spoken to you –"
"No," she murmured, but the fierceness she was renowned for sparked in her eyes, "No. if I had wanted your counsel I would have sought you out."
He was as hurt by her admission as he was relieved to hear it.
"I was your first officer, I should have protected you."
She laughed a little, and drained her glass, "You did enough of that over the seven years."
"Not as much as I could have Kathryn," he said softly.
"You are not responsible for me," she clinked her glass against his, "At any rate, here we are. I am at the top of my game and you are..?"
She left the half-humorous question hanging in the air.
"I lied," it spilled out, thumped onto the table in front of them, "When I said Seven wouldn't be coming. I – well I didn't lie as such. I just… I wouldn't know if she was or wasn't. We don't speak. We ended it, six weeks after we were de-briefed."
She lifted her eyes to his, and they were genuine in their compassion.
"I am so sorry."
He felt suddenly irritated, "Are you? I'm not."
"Well I am sorry if you are, I'm hurt if you are."
"It was a stupid mistake, Kathryn. I don't know why I thought it would work."
She shrugged, "We all think we are making the right choices, otherwise we'd stand motionless. Which…" she raised her blue eyes to his, properly, for the first time, "I was good at, at times. I was good at standing still."
She let her head fall forward into her hands.
"I'm drunk," she murmured, "And tired. I should go home."
"Let me walk you home, at least."
He was surprised at her flat – it was large and unfilled, barren, stark. It was cavernous almost. He wondered why she needed all this space she evidently had no intention of filling. There were boxes of new things unwrapped and glistening, and the things she'd had in her quarters and Ready Room stowed in a large crate in the hall. He only glimpsed them, but he felt moved to tears at the thought of their strangeness in her life now.
She swayed to the cold, sterile kitchen's replicator and ordered coffee.
He felt at a loss, not sure what to do, until she turned.
"Sit down," she motioned to the leather couch in the middle of the room, "Please."
He did as she asked, watching as she slid out of her high-heels, padding across the floor.
She settled beside him and took a long, slow sip of coffee from the mug.
Then he watched as she leaned forward, set the coffee cup on the stack of books at the side, and began running her fingers through her elaborate hair, searching for pins.
She huffed with irritation after a few seconds, trying to prize one from a particularly artistic roll.
"Let me."
He moved behind her, pulling her towards him. She stiffened, resisted wholly until suddenly she didn't. There were only a few inches of space, and the watery silk of her dress glided easily across the new leather until she was flush against his chest.
She didn't make a sound but he did. He breathed the breath he'd been holding in for nearly a year.
It had been such a long time since he'd touched her at all.
He flittered his fingers across her bare shoulders, noting that she'd lost weight, that somehow her small frame had grown even smaller. He began then to circle his fingers, moving them across her tense shoulders and collarbones and the very top of her back.
He didn't want to cease this, ever, if she would let him.
She said nothing still, but he felt her relax just a fraction more.
She was coming back to him in increments. Or maybe he was coming back to her.
It wasn't relevant who was making the return.
Just that it was happening.
His finger traced up the curve of her pale neck and into her hair, where his fingers – sober and determined – made much better work of deconstructing her hairstyle than she had. He unfurled each roll and strand, resisting the intense temptation to bury his nose in the smell of her.
She smelled earthy now, free from the confines of a world they didn't know.
He let her hair fall over her shoulders, tracing the length of it with his hands a few times. He hadn't realised she'd grown it out again, when it had been piled up, like those early days on Voyager, where time was stretching into a dimension they couldn't possibly know.
She had worn it down when they had been stranded, and it used to catch the light of their own world as if it was drawn to her.
She had reclined at the edge of their garden, tending flowers gently, and he had watched it glisten as it flowed behind her, over a pale blue dress.
Maybe it was then he had known, but there was every chance it was before then.
There was every chance it had been the moment he'd argued with her on the transportation deck.
When he was still Maquis: he was already hers.
"Thank you," she finally said, and she seemed sobered now, but she didn't move from his embrace.
He risked sliding his hand around her waist. She settled back, her breathing slowing to an almost halt. Then she closed her fingers around his hand which rested on her stomach.
"I need sleep," she whispered finally, sliding his hand away and standing up.
"I should go…"
"Where are you going?"
She looked down at him and her hair slid over her shoulder, partially masking her face.
He tugged on his ear, nervous as he prepared his answer.
He didn't have a chance.
"Because I thought, this time… you might stay."
It was barely a whisper.
She moved away, giving him the opportunity, he supposed, to leave.
He wasn't stupid enough to do it a second time.
She was lying, dressed still, on a huge bed in the centre of the room. She was propped on one side, her eyes were closed, and her hair was fanned out against the striking white of the pillow.
He slid his shoes off, lined them up neatly by her bed, and settled behind her, moving impossibly closer, when she pulled his hand over her hip to rest it on her stomach.
So she hadn't been moving his hand, earlier in the sitting room, she had been moving them.
They were quiet for a while, but he knew she wasn't asleep. He wasn't either. He could barely believe it enough to drift into oblivion.
He didn't want anything, he wanted to tell her, if he couldn't have this. This reckoning, this reunion.
"Any regrets?"
"I don't regret ending it with Seven," he whispered, "I regret one thing."
There was a still, deep silence, then she spoke:
"I regret coming back to Old Earth."
"You would have stayed on Voyager?"
He knew what she meant, but he had to be sure. He needed Kathryn not to hide behind half-truths and innuendos, just this once.
"No, I would have stayed on New Earth…I would have stayed with you."
He kissed her shoulder, her cheek, the back of her neck.
It would be the last time Chakotay would ever walk away from Kathryn Janeway.
-0-
She awoke with his arms around her, his trouser-clad leg wrapped around her stockinged one. One hand was in her hair, his head was pressed into her neck. She was locked into him.
There would have to be conversation, and reckoning and, in some instances, hurtful truth.
That would come. They had time.
Suddenly, finally, they had time.
The hangover that had threatened her last night didn't materialise as she lay in his arms.
There was something to be said for that, she thought wryly to herself.
"We should unpack your apartment Kathryn," he said into her hair after a few moments, "We need to make you…us… a home."
She smiled at that. At the 'us'. They'd lived together so long, and now this year's imposition seemed a vast, stupid mistake.
But a mistake, she realised, they had needed to make.
"I don't have a bath here. I…didn't bother looking for an apartment that had one."
He laughed gently and pulled her nearer.
"I can fix that."
Author's note: So, what did you think? If you have a moment, a review would be greatly appreciated.