Author's note: Takes place between 'Atonement' and 'Pocket Full of Lies' where they get like a week of peace in the DQ (or so I imagine). You don't have to have read the books to read this anyway, because it's really just a moment of sheer fluff/ romance, but you might enjoy it more if you have.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, and nor does any reference or allusion to plots or idea that are recognisably Paramount's or CBS' or indeed Kirstin Beyer's and her publisher/ agent. any other affiliates. I make no gain – monetary or otherwise - from writing these stories.
"Springtime blooms the starry tree
Bearing fruit the mariners see.
High by night and low by dawn
The silver apple guides us home."
- The Gray Isles, F.T. McKinstry
It's still strange, she realises, to wake up beside him.
Before she does become fully aware, before she curls closer to his warmth and relishes the moment as much as she can, terror envelops her. It crawls inside of her, twisting around her ribs, compressing her lungs. She will die in this dream.
She is back in the Continuum, trying to piece together the scattered pieces of who she was, recalling her body to take shape in a way that feels futile and terrifying at the same time. Kes comes to her, reassuring, but she has to claw her way to the surface of life for air, knowing she will drown if she doesn't.
And then there is him, his black desperation at her death. He awaits her amidst the gondolas of a long-ago, halcyon world, poised on the edge of his own eternity, before his hope is summarily ripped apart at the seams, and his tears pour forth in such unreserved agony that she can wish for nothing other than to die with him, in that moment.
Around him, Venice peels away at the edges and he splits apart.
Then there is the solid knowledge, as insurmountable as a cliff edge, that she can't possibly escape the moment the Borg assimilated her, consuming her fully.
The pain is as real as it is exquisite – it fills her from the fingertips, the soles of her feet, fiery and sharp all at once. Her body blazes with it.
Then she gasps awake, and he's there, bringing her round. First her touch returns, and under his hands she becomes real again. She re-enters this world. Their world. The world he is in.
His fingers trace her shoulder, pulling the sheets up over her where they've slipped during the night, "Shh, Kathryn. You're here, we're safe."
We're here, on Voyager. And you're safe.
The very thought of those words calm her.
She hears him then, the solid reassurance in his soft, delicately inflected voice.
Then her sight comes back, her eyes open slowly and he's inches from her face. It's a calming image; the gentle, half smile, sleep still softening his features, his curious tattoo, his hands reaching out to still her. His dark eyes are tender with concern, contrition, and fragile hope.
Her heart beat evens out.
"Hey," he says again, "You are okay."
She breathes deeply, then nods. He brings his face level with her on what has become her pillow, and they stare at each other for a long moment.
When she realises she's here, and she's safe with him, her terror quells in her belly – the beast recedes, claws withdrawn.
"Do you want to talk about it," he asks, reaching out to trail his fingers across her cheek, "Or was it just the same?"
"Just the same."
She's surprised by the meekness entangling her own voice. He pulls her nearer, wrapping her in his arms. Her cheek presses against his warm chest, and under her ear his heart thrums, and she loses all fear in the circle of his embrace. The softness seeps through her, and the calm he gives, and she starts to loosen hold on the terrors of her recent past.
There is still so much to battle, she knows, but with him it feels easier than she could have imagined.
He's always made each campaign she's had to mount so much simpler, whether it be the basics of a First Contact or the utter impossibility of the Borg. There's something deliciously comforting, and totally petrifying, about knowing she's going to overcome this with him at her side.
Her fraternizing lover. She almost rolls her eyes as she thinks of Montgomery's crudity and lack of insight. It's something they're going to have to battle but right now, with this reprieve and the quiet they've had these few days, it's easy to forget Starfleet's concerns.
"Good morning Kathryn," he says gently, propping up his jaw on his hand.
"Good morning. What's the time? I have to be on Vesta by – "
"You've another three hours," he interrupts her panic, "And I'm sure Farkas can hold the fort until then."
There's no protest to be brooked, and she is relieved of her feeling that she shouldn't enjoy this as much as she wants to. Duty awaits but it can wait just a little longer, his eyes say.
He knows it's hard to break the habit of a lifetime, but he's always been incredibly patient with her.
She rolls onto her back, wiggling until her nightdress loosens around her hips and legs from where it has twisted during the night. The ceiling of his quarters, identical to the ones she used to stare at nightly for seven years, offer her some sort of calm. Their unbroken, grey comfort settles her more, and when he pulls her to him she finally feels her muscles loosen, her bones settle, her mind lull to only one thought at a time.
That a man can do that to her is the most unsettling thing she's ever exposed herself to. Chakotay calms her like no one has managed before.
The thought of that calm, an ocean she'd retreated to, had kept her going through the recent – literal – trials she'd faced. Knowing she'd come back to him, even though he was going to be nursing fury was enough to level her out, even through the nightmares she'd been subject to as she slept alone for the first time since returning to the Fleet.
She rests against his chest, again relishing the thrum and steadiness of his heart below. When they lie, like this, it strikes her as utterly unbelievable that this is Chakotay, and that they've ended up here.
And then she realises it's the most natural conclusion of all.
"I can feel how hard you're thinking," he eventually says, his hand running gently between her shoulder blades.
They, of old at least, should be urgent to rise for breakfast, for log-checks, for status reports, for exploration. And yet they're not. They're labouring at not letting those things be the focus, and the mornings they have are so rare – since her return to the Delta Quadrant, there's barely been a moment - that it's impossible to want anything other than this.
It's a pleasant, if alien, sensation.
"Can you read my thoughts too?"
"No," he laughs gently, "Sometimes I wish I could."
"Oh no you don't," she says ruefully, "I think you'd hate that."
"Hold that thought… " he untangles her from his body and slides from the bed, returning only a moment later with a freshly replicated cup of coffee for both of them and a platter of fruit.
"Ah," she sits up, "I see. Feeding me up?"
"Guaranteeing you'll eat a meal today," he corrects, motioning to the fruit.
She smiles sweetly and decides to give in before she starts a battle, then takes a long sip of the coffee. His replicator's always been better or, at least, it likes him far more than it likes her. She doesn't have a particularly great diet – in that it is sparse and almost entirely replicated - and her newly restored body doesn't deserve the punishment she once subjected it to, so she has reacquainted herself with the human practise of taking time to enjoy eating. Plus, he's such an accomplished cook that she'd be deluded to pass up anything he's got offer in the way of fare.
She moves over as he climbs back in beside her, setting the platter to balance on their legs and choosing a kiwi fruit himself.
"So, being in your head…" he says over his own coffee cup, "I would have liked that, maybe I would like it still."
"You're kidding," she rolls her eyes, sinks her teeth into a piece of mango and delights as it bursts over her tongue.
It may have only been seconds or minutes for her, but she's savouring everything as if it was the fourteen months everyone else experienced. She owes everyone who loves her that much, at least.
And she owes it to one man in particular. That's the real atonement she's assigned herself, ignoring the ease of it, the pleasure she derives from it.
With this notion at the front of her brain, she moves over so she is resting against his chest again, even as they sit up against his head board.
"Don't want to be away from you," she explains as he looks down, that irritating half-disbelief, half-delight on his face.
He grins, brimming with a contentedness that she's denied him of for so long, as he takes another sip of coffee.
Sometimes she wants to shake him, to force him to believe this is real. Then she recalls that she tore him to shreds, as a person, and she can't blame him for his doubt. He'd waited in Venice, met by Mark, and been broken. Mark has told her, and it's been gruelling to hear.
Again, she's going to have to deal with that. Atonement.
"I'm not kidding, no," he kisses the top of her head, "There were times when I was desperate to understand you and your motives…hell, there are times I don't know what you're thinking now. I would love access to your mind sometimes."
"It's six a.m," she warns, "Don't start the day off on a philosophical foot."
"How'd you intend to start the day then, if not with deep conversation?"
He laughs that disarming, full laugh as she raises a brow.
She can't believe she gets to have the chance at this again. Sometimes she's winded by the very fact.
"It didn't involve a lot of talking," she answers instead, levity something she's striving for as much as possible, selecting another piece of mango, "When I actually have time and energy…I don't want to do a lot of talking with you."
She doesn't really mean that, and she is sure he comprehends, otherwise she wouldn't say it, but there are other things she knows they need, and want, too, and they don't often get the gift of a morning in bed. The bulkheads – Voyager's used to their desperation - , the couch in his quarters and the quick silence of midnight in either of their beds has seen most of the action, where lazy luxury has been little catered for.
I want to do a lot of…making up for lost time."
"Ah, I see," he removes the platter from their legs, and then sets his cup aside, "And what does that involve?"
"Oh, well…" she can't believe she's so coquettish, so open to this.
She'd quite forgotten she'd once enjoyed this aspect of life as much as she'd enjoyed command, or first contact or hot coffee or the blaze of stars. She'd once enjoyed sex as much as she enjoyed punishing herself for her endless mistakes, as oppositional as those sensations were.
She had been as insatiable as any other human once upon a time, and recovering that has been quite a revelation. She lost it in the Delta Quadrant, but there's no questioning that she's found it again, in the exact same place, in abundance.
Death has given her levity, and absolved her of the desire to realise her own agony. She'll live with what she's done, but she's decided she is still going to live. She's going to live with him, and wring it dry of every drop of joy it has to offer her.
He takes her cup from her and she pushes the sheets away – not Starfleet but heavy rich cotton and a hand-woven throw, - and wastes no time in straddling his broad hips.
"Good morning," she leans forward and settles her weight on his chest with one hand, then circles her hips teasingly.
"It is," he groans.
"Apparently so," she tips her head forward to kiss him briefly, "We have quite a bit of time…and you're quite the lover. Fancy breaking some Delta Quadrant records?"
He grins and pushes the hem of her night gown up her thighs, "That is our thing as a command team, right, breaking Delta Quadrant records?"
His fingers dance across the less supple, though still lean, flesh of her thighs.
"I still can't believe you let me do this, you let me make love to you," he mutters, as if it's a question, sliding the material up as her fingers meet his and take over the task to lift it over her own body and head.
"This is tame in comparison to what I'd like you to do," she laughs, delighted, at the wash of sincere desire on his face.
Chakotay is easy, in the kindest way she could mean that, to arouse. Minimal effort output renders maximum reward. It is blindingly complimentary and she doesn't take it in her stride. She loves it though, in a way that is both arrogant and humble. It humbles her, and it makes her feel like the most desirable woman in the galaxy, setting her alight with an arrogance that is entirely new to her. He wants her.
No one has ever wanted her this much. She is older than she once was, and a lot less confident in the power of her appearance alone, yet she is more confident in the assertion that he desires her more than anything else she's ever felt and as that knowledge becomes a sensation, it is dizzying in its proximity to bliss.
Their first night together – the distance of Proxima station – comes back to her. The heat, the literal heat between bodies and mouths – is the dominant memory. It was the best sex of her life, and she's not been shy in admitting that. Passion. She hates hackneyed descriptions, or overused clichés, but passion is the only way to describe it.
Passion that had been matured slowly, in painful progressions, but passion that was all the more potent for it.
She hates that there was such a gap between then and now, and that somewhere in between he was destroyed by the lack of her.
"Kathryn," he calls her back, cupping her face in his hands, curling his fingers around her jaw, "Stay here, with me."
She shakes her head, as if dismissing the thought, and brings herself back to the here and now.
She throws her night gown to the floor and grins as he sits up to come flush with her chest, slightly lower than her because of her position in his lap, and licks and nibbles at the sensitive skin across her ribs and sternum.
He learned her quickly, that night, and he certainly hasn't forgotten, and it's refreshing to be so catered for.
His fingers – skilled, astute - move lower, and she gasps, presses against him, pushes away because the touch is so intense. She likes that he knows her. Welcomes him, anything from him, even if it's not exactly what she wants at that moment. Wants – needs – more, desires less, lest it be too quick for her. It's never too quick, not in the temporal sense, but she'd happily live with it never ending.
She's so confused about what she wants, and it's blindingly obvious to her exactly what she needs from him. It's hard to think when she's like this, with him.
Everything is about the feeling. That's what he wants from her, and that is what she wants to give him.
He likes preamble, but not in a lazy way. He's only satisfied to take what he wants when he's given out plenty of what he thinks she deserves.
And according to his track record, she's very deserving.
"You're…" the words are hot on her skin, trickling over her, raising shudders across her flesh, "Keen."
She laughs as he grips the back of her thighs, pushes her off and onto the bed, and as suddenly as that he in on top of her and between her legs.
"You're agile for a man built like a bulkhead," she delights in his laugh at her comment, full and heavy as it plays around the room.
"Thanks…" he grins, "I think."
He kisses her then, thoroughly, without reserve, and it leaves her gasping for oxygen and keenly aware she needs nothing more than this. He knows what to bite, what to caress, what to touch.
He's so good.
She's learned, now, not to be covetous – she is going to take this as her lot, and be so satisfied she can't possibly imagine anything else. She watches as he slowly, deliciously, meanders down her chest, stomach and across her hip bones and trails kisses and murmurs promisingly – and scandalously –about what he's going to do.
"Record breaking," he vows, pushing her legs open.
"Definite-" the words are consumed by the sensation, and they melt into a heady moan of satisfaction.
Just because she's learning to live, doesn't mean she's patient with life.
And she won't settle for anything less than the best.
Her fingers weave into his hair, holding him to her and marvelling at that mouth. He groans in equitable pleasure and the noise is powerful against her skin.
"I want you," she manages to bite out, despite the fact that the ability to voice anything coherent is quickly abandoning her.
He ignores her, says nothing - his mouth is far too occupied to deliver her relief. She lets his head go, her fingers moving to the sheets to clutch them tightly, leverage needed to stave off the intensity of need.
"Chakotay," she pleads, "You."
"Say my name again," he mutters against her thigh, breathless, "And I might. You don't call the shots," he bites the sensitive skin and she yelps, and she knows he likes it, "Not here. Maybe on the bridge…"
"Maybe on the bridge," she repeats darkly, moans for emphasis as the fantasy fleshes itself out in her head, "Now that's definitely a suggestion, Chakotay…for another time, of course."
He laughs loudly, darkly, and then moves up again, pulling her towards him. She watches as he removes his shorts. Resting back on her elbows, her hair messier than it should be, her mind somewhere, wrapped in amazement, that this is Voyager and she's doing this here, and this is the man she'd set out to capture once, and he became her XO.
And now he's her lover.
And she loves him.
She died once, and she got to come back to this.
The universe might despise her, but it's giving her a moment's grace.
"Stop thinking," he reaches for her, pulling her calves towards him so she slides into his lap, pelvis to pelvis, while he rests back on his heels.
It's certainly an interesting angle. And at this age, it shouldn't be quite so easy. Or so erotic.
Yet it is.
"You are beautiful," he says, closing his arms around her, moving her into place, "And you have a clever mind. But switch it off."
She lets him guide her, leaning back on one hand, open to him, as he moves to join with her.
Too easy, and she moans at the contact. His eyes are so dark, and they never fail to render her breathless with the depth of their intensity.
"If you…" her own teeth clamp onto her lip as he lifts her, and brings her down again, not roughly or ill-thought out, but not delicately either.
Her gut tightens at the fullness of the contact, and the rightness of the angle and how very real he is inside her.
And probably the rightness of it all.
"I insist," he murmurs against the skin of her neck, knowing exactly what she was going to say, "I insist Kathryn."
Then she's moving, her fingers buried in the firmness of his broad shoulders to give her leverage, and he's holding one hip firmly as he moves and the other between her legs to touch her – "just there," she assures as if he needs it - and he's muttering how much he loves her against her mouth.
He loves her.
It seems as impossible as it is believable. This is Chakotay, and delicious morning sex, and everything she thought she wouldn't get again.
There has to be some form of retribution coming her way.
"Kathryn," he touches her more firmly, twisting his advantage to render her boundlessly aroused, the knowledge he's gained of just the right moves working to great effect, and it makes her shudder against his hand, "Stop thinking."
She gives him a sheepish grin and he devours it, his mouth hot and demanding, and his tongue trailing from her lips to her neck after a moment. He sucks the sensitive skin behind her ear, not losing momentum as he continues to move her, nor removing his fingers from her, and she feels whiteness travel through her body, curling her muscles in delicious agony, and splintering her senses.
She cries his name and her pleasure against the tendons of his neck, breathing him in. He still maintains his pace, giving her no time to recover even from that.
He's quite relentless and she can't say it isn't fast becoming one of her favourite aspects of his personality.
"God you're so…" he loses his own words, leans back onto his hands – removing his fingers from her - as she takes the aggressive role now, almost naturally, moving against him.
"So..?"
Her own fingers replace his and he watches openly, delighted, as she moves and he lies back and enjoys it. He enjoys her, and he enjoys this act. He groans and bites his own lip before he answers, his eyes still on her hand.
"Sexy," he grinds out.
She laughs, delighted at the adolescence of the statement, and leans forward to capture his mouth. They move then, rhythm established, and the architecture of it is slow and deliberate and grinding in the most delightful way. Breathy, hot, eyes eliciting contact before it becomes too much. The gestures become frantic, the movements less attuned. He gropes. She bites.
She loses first – she always does, and willingly, and she sobs as the tightness recedes, holds her again, and carries her over the edge – and he clutches her hips and falls back as he does too, her name on his lips and his body rigid with pleasure. He takes his time, even in this, savouring every moment of pulsing delight that reverberates through his body and into hers, and is returned by her own.
"Stay," he commands breathlessly, before she even thinks of moving and he pulls her down, flush against him, their bodies still joined.
She usually darts to the bathroom not because she can't face him, but because the sensation of him is so shattering that she needs time to process it no matter the frequency with which they've been intimate.
"So demanding," she murmurs dryly, giving in, and kissing his jaw.
"I think I've earned the right," he rolls her to his side, not putting any space between them, and then holds her so she can rest on the expanse of his chest.
He idly combs her hair with his fingers. He loves her hair, longer now, and he often settles to this after they make love.
"You certainly have," she concedes, "Pass me my coffee."
He hands her the tepid beverage, balancing it on his solid stomach, and she grimaces as she drinks, then he returns it to the side.
He's watching her, contemplative, and she is sure beyond a doubt that something profound is about to come around. She pre-empts him, because if knowing Chakotay for seven years can't be of some advantage to her, she'd be a fool.
"I love you," she says softly, "But it's not all I feel for you. You calm me, centre me. I am grateful to you, despite not always seeming that way."
It's an admission he's always known, she guesses, but not one she's ever made. She needs to tell him this, not because another chance will never present itself but because they have the chance now, and she's letting herself fall open like a box closed too long, weakened at the strategic points by his patience and love and kindness.
He looks thoughtful and possibly even sad, for a moment, then he smiles gently.
"Thanks Kathryn."
"You do know that, don't you?"
He considers her question and her quest for reassurance.
"Yes," he says firmly, and it gives her happiness she hasn't known in a long time, "I do know it. Sometimes I doubted it, but not often…and certainly not recently."
"I shut you out once," she admits, as if he doesn't know, "And I drove you away, and we wasted a lot of time. And god…" she raises a brow, "And the worst of my crimes? I denied myself the best sex I've ever had, for seven years."
He laughs then, richly and uninhibited, and holds her tightly to him. She kisses him, gently, and he has to know she means it. She straightens her face and moves her fingers over his heart, knowing the time for sarcasms has dwindled.
"Chakotay, you must never let me do it again. Fight me if I try."
"I'm no match for you Kathryn."
She shakes her head, dumbfounded by just how wrong he is, in every way he can be.
There is literal perfection here, for her, and she has come to see that now. They'll have their fights, they'll disagree, and they've still to learn where their boundaries are. He still needs to let go, a little, of the anger he's been harbouring and she needs to let go of the terror that she's living on borrowed time.
But if ever perfection was to be achieved in Kathryn Janeway's life it is here, in his arms.
She leans over, presses her mouth to his in the most deeply telling kiss she can manage. He feels it.
"You couldn't be more wrong," she whispers, "And that's why this is perfect."
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