Please see chapter 1 for info and disclaimers. Thank you so so much for the reviews and follows on the first chapter, and for clicking here and reading on even though it's taken me forever to update! I won't bore you with the reasons (RL blah), but do know that I'm committed to finishing this story and Lifeline - they shall not be eternal WIPs! Thank you so much for sticking with me.

South from that place

Two

The two steaming cups of black in front of me are so ordinary, so unremarkable, it almost makes me laugh, considering. We sit, unceremoniously, Kathryn and I, at a table in the corner. Chestnut Street - her choice.

We've ordered breakfast, and as we wait, I can't help but to stare at her. And though some part of me is still stuck in disbelief at the unexpected turn this day has taken, I feel a kind of calm - deep, and solid - as I take her in.

I haven't seen her in eight months, haven't spoken with her in over a year, and honestly, we drifted apart well before that. I realize now, as I watch her - presence, gestures, so familiar, even after all this time - that I've been missing her, in one way or another, for years.

She glances up from her cup suddenly, looks directly at me, and I catch a flash of humor in her eyes - because she knows I'm trying to read her. Gauge her feelings. It used to be part of my job, but I'm more than a little out of practice these days, and she knows it.

I smile automatically at the spark of recognition that passes between us - and the way it brightens her eyes. But the moment passes quickly, and I watch the levity slip from her face - burdens, loss, resuming their place at the forefront. She turns her gaze to the windows, and I'm not sure if it's my loss or hers weighing more heavily on her mind.

We didn't talk about it much, on the way here.

As we left the cemetery and made our way down the hill, our steps fell into sync easily, the sensation of walking beside her both familiar and not. And although our pace seemed to reflect the way neither of us feels quite at home here - as if the planet's gravity is maybe just a touch too strong - we could not have asked for a more beautiful morning to simply walk, and I can't remember the last time I felt so happy doing just that.

We traded observations about the landscape - both of us clearly still captivated by the aesthetics of life planetside - and we talked about mutual friends and colleagues. How it's odd, really, that we've not run into each other before now.

I didn't mention how I've gone out of my way to avoid certain places, certain sections of HQ I know she frequents. I'm not really sure how long it would have gone on like that, but I find myself rather grateful now, that fate put an end to my avoidance this morning.

The Marina District in view, we talked about work, and while she was more than happy to listen to me ramble on about my classes, she was decidedly less eager to talk about her current pursuits. I didn't force it, curious as I am.

I'd already heard, of course, that she's been offered a promotion, and that she's yet to accept.

After the debriefings, after the leave time, she took to a desk at headquarters, and I assumed she'd transition right into the Admiralty. But, even weeks after the official offer, it hasn't happened, and I know her well enough to be certain there's a good reason she's not taken the job.

I've heard a number of popular "theories" around HQ, usually because people have sought me out for confirmation - for inside knowledge they assume I must have. I honestly can't guess at the number of conversations started in my direction that were purely to solicit information about Kathryn Janeway. But even if I were the sort to oblige the curiosities, I've had nothing to share. I've been busy, I'd say, when circumstances forced me to engage. (Of course, that paved the way for a whole other kind of "theorizing" - most of which I've tried my damnedest to ignore.)

Since returning to Earth, we've had to contend with our share of celebrity, to say the least - especially early on. Fresh returned from our trek through the Delta Quadrant (for all intents and purposes, back from the dead) with stories to tell, traumas to relate, and knowledge to share, we've been a favorite topic of media and Starfleet personnel alike. Kathryn most of all, followed by Seven. And next on the "list", me, I guess - but more often than not, it hasn't been me so much as it's been my position relative to them.

I've not tolerated it especially well, and as a result, I've acquired a reputation for being a poor interview subject, so rarely do I offer the details or the sound bites they're after - so infrequently do I give anything but the most cursory response to any questions I'm forced to indulge.

We were "instructed" to be courteous and cooperative with the media. "Watch the classified information," they said, "but give them your presence. You guys are heroes, and that's something we could all use right now."

Right.

With declining enlistment, waning power in the quadrant, and more than a few public blunders on the books, what they really meant was, we should help give Starfleet a much-needed boost. Be "ambassadors to the public image," to quote Tom Paris. I've not really participated in the whole affair.

To this day, I'm not certain whether they pardoned me because I "demonstrated a firm re-commitment to the cause and values of Starfleet," to use their well-scripted words, or if it was because they wanted me, my story, as Voyager's First Officer, to boost their image.

It matters very little to me at this point, but it sure pissed me off plenty when we first got back. Don't get me wrong - I was happy to have my "sins" forgiven. And I didn't - don't - mind talking about the scientific aspects of our time in the Delta Quadrant. But the incessant fascination with our personal lives - that I've no patience for.

I might have done something about it eventually - no idea what; punched a reporter, maybe - but then suddenly, it all fell off my radar, when I found myself faced with the task of burying the woman I loved.

The other woman I loved.

The thought's in my mind before I can stop it but I'm honestly not sure, anymore, why I'd bother trying.

The heart of it, to a large extent, is that Seven and I came together because we shared, and saw in each other, the same love for the woman neither of us could have. Don't get me wrong - that was not the only driver of our relationship. But, there was a certain solace - a closeness we had - because we found in and with each other a greater understanding of ourselves.

I don't know that Kathryn ever really knew. Not because she was blind to us, but because I don't think she could really allow herself to know - to see, to really hold the truth of that love and what it meant.

Part it was her position, of course - and that's what she'd tell anyone who asked, why she didn't take up with someone out there.

In reality, there was never any guarantee we'd make it home, and a "violation" of Starfleet protocol in this case would have been completely forgivable. It didn't matter, though - for Kathryn, accepting this particular breach of duty, in some ways, meant she was giving up on getting us home. And, let's face it, sometimes it's just easier - safer - sticking with what you know...not risking your control.

Of course, I can't pretend to know, that she would have stayed as grounded, as focused, had she compromised on this - and I can see that now, looking back. I can understand - and forgive - her reasons. Why she kept me close, but not too close.

At the time, particularly in the later years of our journey, I was damn angry about it all. It crept up on me, building as I tried to ignore it, but you can only dance the same dance so many times before it starts to wear you down. I get that now, and I would have handled things better back then, if only I'd found my lucidity sooner.

Instead, I spent a good many hours of my off time in the boxing ring on the holodeck - my hurt feelings, mangled and rotten from stewing too long in my head, boiling over in a left hook, a jab, a low kick. Not accomplishing anything, but back then, it was the only way I could cope.

Time, distance, tragedy...I'm not the same person I was. I'm grateful for the more enlightened perspective - regretful at the cost by which it came. But such is the way of things...

I watch as Kathryn takes a sip of her coffee, and, by all outside appearances, we're just two old friends gathered for breakfast - life, other diners, moving around us in normal time.

Eggs over there, pancakes, coffee, juice...sun streaming in the front windows, lively chatter all around, and the two of us - she alternating, between looking at me and her cup, with occasional glances out the windows, and me, mostly just looking at her - just another part of the scene. You'd never guess, glancing at us, that we've traveled to hell and back several times over. That we spent lonely, isolated years in an unknown and unforgiving part of the galaxy, and that in its wake we found a gaping chasm between us and the lives we used to know - one I'm not sure will ever completely vanish. We're "home", but it's not as simple as that.

She looks tired.

I've noticed her hands rarely leave the table when she talks, and when she smiles, it does not reach her eyes. The spark that I used to know and love so well, is absent.

I fight back the impulse, to grab her hand, or to reach up and brush the hair back from her face.

Old habits. Sometimes they just come back to you, given the right circumstances.

I don't recognize anyone else here, which is not surprising considering that we're not at all close to headquarters.

It's possible that we are recognized, of course - it still happens from time to time, often in the oddest of places - but if anyone has noticed us, they either don't care or they are polite enough to leave us alone.

I take a sip of my coffee and decide to take a chance.

"Why haven't you contacted me all this time, Kathryn?"

She's quick to respond, even though she's clearly a bit taken aback by my question. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Fair enough," I say, and then, with more boldness than I'd planned or thought myself capable at this moment - "I really regret the way things went for us, Kathryn. My life's not been the same without you."

She takes in a breath, holds it, and I think I've stunned her with my directness. I take the opportunity to continue, not willing to waste the feeling that's come over me while it still lasts. "I know it started before Seven - before I dated Seven. I can't really pinpoint it - the moment when things changed for us - and I've spent plenty of time, trying to figure it out. All I know is that it's been too long, Kathryn. I've yet to really make sense of my life here on Earth, and part of that is because you've been completely absent from it."

My words hang in the air for a moment, and then settle around us. She takes a deep breath in and out, and brings her palms to grip around her coffee cup.

"It has been too long."

Her words strike right at the heart of my fear, and she must recognize that because she holds up her hand, rushes to clarify. "What I mean is, I feel the same way." She pauses, and I can tell that she is gathering her words carefully.

"Chakotay..." her voice is low and soft and although I should be perfectly reassured by what she's already said, my heart races as I wait for her to say more - as if our fate is about to be declared. She shakes her head, presses her lips together before continuing. "It's strange - I miss the Delta Quadrant. The place we spent seven years trying to flee - I miss it. Do you believe that?"

"I do," I say - though I know she's not really asking for an answer. And she's not done. I fold my hands on the table, remind myself to breathe as she continues.

"But it's not the place, of course - it's what I had when I was in it. The people..." She looks up at me, and her eyes are warm and sad at the same time. "And, you, by my side. Ready to tackle whatever that blasted part of the galaxy threw at us next. I miss being with you, Chakotay."

Relief washes over me, and I grab her hand in both of mine. It's warm from the cup.

She brings her other hand on top of mine, and we sit like that for a while, sharing understanding, and thoughts, in our silence.

I squeeze her hand, and meet her eyes, and what flashes between us is, I'm sorry that I hurt you. And that was really at the heart of it, for both of us.

And then, looking directly at me still, she says, softly, "I miss her."

My throat tightens, and I nod and look down at our hands. I think about the three of us, the paths we have traveled, and how much we have meant to each other. I take a deep breath, and when I look up at her again, I see my own feelings mirrored in her eyes. My next words come easily -

"She would be happy, seeing us here like this."

She nods, squeezes my hands.

We sit like that until our food arrives.

There's more to say (isn't there always), but for now, I think we are both happy to focus on eating.

And we do, until we're about halfway through our meal, when she says suddenly -

"I'm not done. Out there."

I pause mid-bite, and regard her.

"I'm not ready to be permanently desk-bound, here on Earth." She laughs lightly and shakes her head, gestures in the air with her fork. "It's only just now that it's become completely clear to me. I'm not done exploring. It feels so good to say it."

She tilts her head slightly and stares off into the distance, as if considering what "exploring" would mean, what it would be like.

And I smile, because I see in her eyes a hint of that spark that I remember so well.