She looks different.
She looks older. The roundness is gone from her cheeks, the carefree joy from her eyes. She carries herself with cool precision, her chin held high, her strides slow and deliberate. She pauses right before the door, and her face emerges from the shadows. The look of utter grief that had painted it mere seconds before has been stored away, locked somewhere behind those stormy grey eyes.
He is simultaneously relieved and ashamed to have glimpsed her moment of weakness. Relieved, because the grief had opened her face, made her human for all too short a time. And ashamed, because the figure in front of him is not human. She is not, she cannot be, sad, surprised… scared shitless. She is a captain. A captain without a ship, but a captain all the same. And there is something about captains, especially Starfleet captains, that makes them a little more than human. And, in some ways, a little less. Something that both robs them of the right and absolves them of the responsibility of feeling as we do. So he is ashamed. Because he saw her weak, when he knows that she can't be. For all of their sakes.
He clears his throat, just a little, to alert her to his presence, and her head swivels toward him. There's a flash of recognition in her eyes, only a flash, but she doesn't hide it quick enough. He sees it. And that's her mistake, their mistake. One flash of humanity he could ignore, chalk up to his imagination, and never think of again. But this – this tacit, if unintentional acknowledgement of their shared history – this he cannot will away, and he knows better than to try.
So he dips his head towards her, ever so slightly. She blinks – first in surprise at his presumption of familiarity, and then in gratitude, as she takes in his face. A friend, she thinks. Unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome, especially out here. She'll take what she can get out here.
He nods again, this time towards the door. "Going to talk to Chakotay?"
He excludes Chakotay's title, a small kindness in response to the shock he can imagine she's feeling. But he can tell from the crinkle of her eyes, from her slight wince, that she saw his hesitation. Knows his game. Her eyes call him out on it, but on this one, he thinks, he will not give in. Captains, especially Starfleet captains, should transcend emotion, transcend grief. But she is no longer on a Starfleet ship, and sooner or later, she's going to have to realize that grief is not easily shoved aside on a Maquis ship. It's grief that drives them, sustains them, keeps the ship running when by all rights it should be collapsed in a junkyard. Perhaps not the best way to be in their old lives. But here, in the midst of the Delta quadrant, he's starting to think that that grief may be the only thing that will get them out alive. Even her.
She's started talking, he realized. "…everyone's been through a tremendous shock, but you can imagine that right now the fate of my officers is paramount to me, Mister…?"
Ah, he thinks. So that's how it's going to be. He knows she recognize him, and he knows that she knows that he recognizes her. But two can play at this game, so he swiftly responds "Mike, Mike Ayala", and gives her a smile. The rules have been set, and truth be told, he thinks he understands her decision. His influence will help her and her officers. She is used to Starfleet – he would bet that she believes that acknowledging their personal connection will undermine the leverage that she can gain from him. He wants to tell her no, this isn't Starfleet, this is the Maquis, and personal is not our weakness; it is our strength. But he doesn't. Because, in the end, he thinks, she's going to have to figure that one out on her own.
She'll have plenty of time to figure it out. He already knows what's going to happen behind those doors; Chakotay has discussed it all with him beforehand. The rough journey and battle with the Kazon has left the Val Jean desperately short on hands, even by Maquis standards. And Janeway and her officers are trained, talented personnel, with nowhere else to go. Offering them positions is a no-brainer. From Mike's point of view, anyway. And, it turns out, Chakotay's as well. It's not that he believes it will be easy; he's not naïve or delusional. Many of the Maquis hate 'Fleeters. And he bets that Janeway and her lot will cling desperately to protocol for as long as they can. It's all that they have now.
There's not many of them. It's only been a day, but Mike feels like it was ages ago that he watched Voyager, shattered and burning, turn course and ram into the Kazon vessel. Ages ago that he heard Janeway's voice over the staticy com, calm and resolute and desperate as she half orders, half begs Chakotay to beam out her crew. And they tried, oh they tried. But in the end the Val Jean was what she was: an old, ragtag cargo vessel that Chakotay had (irrationally, in Mike's opinion) fallen in love with. Her transporters were, well, shit. And so they only got those on the bridge and Deck 2 before Voyager had collided and dissolved into a fiery void. Janeway, Paris, Kim, Neelix, Kes, Carey, Rollins, and Tuvok. That was what was left of the intrepid crew of Voyager.
He doesn't say anything to her about it, because, well, there's a reason he joined the Maquis, and he knows when words just shouldn't be said. When platitudes ring hollower than silence does. Instead, he takes her lead. Tells her offhandedly that he knows that Chakotay has thought about the Voyagers, assures her that absolutely no one on the ship would turn them out. That's bullshit, and they both know it: there's plenty of Maquis with enough hate to beat her pretty face into pulp without a second thought. And that's not even considering what they might do to Paris. But the fact that he says it is a silent promise: an assurance that he, at least, is on her side. And he likes to think it helped.
He doesn't actually have that much time to gauge his success, for Chakotay chooses that moment to open his door. He startles a little at Mike, surprised to see him there, but then nods. Automatically assumes that Mike has already taken his captain's suggestion to heart, and is working his hardest to begin integrating the newest members of the crew. Even if those members haven't agreed to be members yet. Mike's fine with letting him think this. He's beginning to think Janeway's right about hiding their acquaintance; Chakotay's already going to have to deal with two betrayals, and Mike's hesitant to reveal a secret which would make it appear like he, too, was holding back. Yes, he thinks, Janeway is right. He will keep quiet. For now.
So he nods at them both, and makes to turn around. Before he leaves, he catches a glimpse of Chakotay as his captain offers Janeway his hand. There is sympathy for her grief, anger at the Federation, hope for reconciliation, and perhaps a slight awe for her unbreakable stature in the face of events, all written clearly across Chakotay's face. Mike suppresses a snicker; Chakotay has always been a good captain, but he's far too open. Perhaps, Mike thinks, Janeway's presence will be a good thing for this ship, in more ways than one.