IV
Chakotay
As the shift finally, blessedly ends, Chakotay rises and staggers under the combined weight of guilt for another timeline's crimes, crimes he hasn't even had the chance to commit, and of responsibility for his trespasses just in the last few weeks. Seven has, by now, mercifully left the Bridge. Tuvok mutely raises an eyebrow at Chakotay's uncharacteristic disposition, which Chakotay does not bother to acknowledge. He takes pains to not seem like he's fleeing as he makes for the turbolift, knowing as he does that he is going the wrong way.
He doesn't want to think he used Seven – he cares for her, doesn't he? Kathryn hadn't given him anyreason to wait for her except, well, a number of conversations they'd had years ago, years, but – but this train of thought returns him forcibly to his experiences across thirty-seven shattered timelines, in which a Kathryn Janeway who hadn't even met him yet, still in the mindset of glorified bounty-hunter, was, within a couple of hours of galivanting through that grotesque time capsule, looking at him with undisguised want.
Trusting him, instinctively.
Kathryn cares for him in any – every – timeline. Had once been impelled to believe in him even with her memories inhibited. He'd allowed himself to suppress this knowledge, and now he doesn't know why. Because Seven's interest had flattered him? Because it had been such a long time? They'd always known the score. They'd always known how long it might take them to get home and they were, let's be honest, way ahead of schedule even before the Admiral arrived to force them down a shortcut.
He doesn't want to think he used Seven – but now everything is different.
He exits the turbolift, and by some miracle proceeds to his quarters without being intercepted by a single crewmember. Once inside, he collapses heavily against a bulkhead and barks at the Computer to disallow visitors and comm calls for an hour. He needs to regroup. He needs to understand what he is feeling before he has to explain it to anyone else.
A thousand unspoken promises roar in his mind, and war against the memory of his declarations of safety and surety made to Seven so unspeakably recently.
She will need him now more than ever.
And so would Kathryn, except – he's sure of this if nothing else – she knows what he's been hiding from her. She will not come to him now. He thinks she might have, finally, otherwise.
He thinks the word home, again, like a death knell. The death of hope. Hope: A Tragedy, he thinks, absurdly.
What must she think of him now.
He gets as far as deciding to talk to Seven, without the faintest idea of what actually to say to her, when she comes to him that evening. As she glides into his dimly lit quarters he starts to speak, praying to all the gods that the right words will sort themselves into some kind of coherent arrangement before they come out of his mouth, when his brain catches up with him and he takes in her appearance. She looks more vulnerable than he has ever seen her, and terrified. Fragile. She seems, like him (but not at all), to be at a loss for words.
She comes to him, and he falters. Words like responsibility and fairness and loyalty float through his shell-shocked mind. His stomach clenches involuntarily. He does the wrong thing: he says nothing.
When they disembark, they're all quartered at a residence hall on the grounds of Starfleet Command. Seven's alcove is disconnected from Voyager, a suite of rooms refitted for her unique requirements. It occurs to Chakotay that this is the first time Seven has ever in her life had this kind of privacy, but rather than revel in it, she asks him to stay with her. Privately, he balks. Privately, he loathes himself for letting inertia carry him this far, so unsure of how to back out of the promises he'd made her, before.
He's made one too many vows to one too many women.
Aloud, for want of a plan that doesn't hurt everyone, he agrees. He stays.