After much pacing in front of her closet, Janeway answered the door still in uniform, not a hair out of place, ready for inspection. She wanted to begin this Captains' Dance in the role of Captain, to be perfectly clear about the professional reasons why they were doing this. Chakotay stepped inside looking nervous, with both hands cupped around something she couldn't see.

"I didn't want to get caught carrying something like flowers to you, but I didn't want to come empty-handed. I made this. It's not much, but I want you to have it," he said as he opened his hands. On one palm sat a tiny wooden replica of the Valjean, his pulverized ship, detailed down to the call numbers and individual portals. It must have taken him many hours to carve, even with a well-tuned laser chisel.

Janeway put a hand out toward the gift, then hesitated. "You didn't have to bring me anything," she said. "This isn't a date, it's a …" and then words failed her. If he was Valjean, she reflected, did that make her Inspector Javert? Did he see her that way: vindictive, merciless, with no compassion for his people's suffering? She could certainly relieve his concerns on that count. She had great sympathy for the Maquis. Although in the Alpha quadrant she had been duty-bound to enforce Starfleet's hardline position against them, personally she had considered it overly harsh. And the little carved ship was beautiful – a touching, thoughtful offering from one captain to another of the thing he had sacrificed for the good of them all.

"It's a ritual," Chakotay finished for her. "I know. My people are strong believers in ritual. Rituals require physical objects to carry the meaning forward. This little ship represents what I was fighting for. It's important to me that you understand why we were out there in the Badlands."

"I see," Janeway said. "In that case, I accept it. Thank you. I want to know more about why you joined the Maquis. I want to understand." She opened her right hand, palm up, and let him set the wooden ship on it. His hand slid around the edge of hers and she shivered involuntarily.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "I won't hurt you."

Her glare was back in an instant at the suggestion of weakness. "I'm not afraid," she snapped, then immediately regretted her tone. Janeway turned and walked to a shelf where she settled the ship carefully next to a small collection of old, printed books. She pivoted to face him with a firm stance. "I've been searching the database for information on the nature of the ritual, but as you might imagine, accounts are sparse. There are a few versions in fiction, but I question their accuracy."

Chakotay's lips moved into a close-mouthed smile that showed his dimples. "I don't think there's a script for this…. It feels awkward to call you Captain in this situation. What would you like me to call you?"

"I suppose … you may call me Kathryn, in this situation," she said with a stiffness she did not intend but could not seem to control. "What is your first name, Commander Chakotay?" She knew the answer, of course, but she wanted to make a friendly response.

"My name is Amal Kotay," he answered. "But everyone calls me Chakotay. Usually they mispronounce it, but I don't mind."

"ChaKOtay?" she attempted. She knew little of the hybrid language his refugee people had developed in exile on Dorvan 5, a mix of Hidatsa, Navajo, and Algonquin language heritage, she had read.

"Not quite. In our language, each syllable of the name has separate emphasis. It doesn't run together. Cha-ko-tay," he said. She repeated and he instructed several more times until he was satisfied. "That's it," he finally smiled. "Now you say my name the way my sister does. It's good to hear."

"I'm glad," Janeway said. "We'll all need a little bit of home out here." As if suddenly aware that she had a guest in her quarters, Janeway swung an arm toward the cushion under the viewport. "I'm sorry, would you like something to drink?"

"Some wine might be good for both of us," Chakotay suggested. "Red?"

"Of course," Janeway agreed. As she went to the replicator, he took a seat on the cushion beneath the viewport, as she had indicated. She was relieved to see him respond to her prompt. There was room enough there on the long seat for them to face each other and talk without touching. She was not ready yet for physical contact. She hoped very much that he wouldn't be aggressive about it.

This would have been easier in some ways if he'd come from a very aggressive species. Klingon mating, for example, would have been a brute physical exercise from which she could easily detach. She sensed that mating with Amal Kotay would require a far higher degree of genuine intimacy. Of that, yes, she was a little afraid. Janeway took the bottle from the replicator, arranged a crisp, welcoming smile on her face, and turned toward her guest.

To be continued…