The two arm lengths between them that she has put there are both endless and traversable in this moment of stillness – a perfect summary of their whole relationship.
She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, her brow tensing. What is she doing? She can't let herself slip into feeling a part of this timeline. If she is to succeed in her mission, this place, all the people in it, have to remain external, separate from her. Just a memory revisited.
She had known he would come to her, after seeing that haunted look on his face on the bridge. And for this blissful instant, she let herself forget she was here for others, not herself. Just for once she had wanted to feel ... just once ...
"We can't ..." she says again, falters, avoiding his gaze but she is clinging to his hand as if to a life raft.
And he is looking at her like he did in those first years out here, with that simple acceptance and love. And that unnerving patience of his.
Just saving him, all of them, has to be enough, the still reasoning part of her brain cries, even as the warm reality of his fingers in hers and the new memory of his kiss – the kiss to end all kisses – make it clear it is not.
In all those years apart, he had never, not for one quiet day, left her thoughts. Always at the back of her mind knowing that she had been both lost and found the day they met. Now this new punishment – not only that she is just a visitor here but the illusion that she is the one he wants – this embittered, lonely old woman, barely reminiscent of the dark Kathryn he already knows. She almost laughs at the hell of it.
"I'm not ... her. I'm not even the person I was ..." she founders, her throat clenching, mind dizzying.
"You are my Kathryn." It's not a question, not a conviction.
But she can't give in. She can't risk it. Can she?
"I'm ... old, Chakotay." Her voice is small, full of regret and uncertainty. And that is the very, very least of it.
"I don't know what your life has been," he says. "But I know you. I can see it's been hard. I know you have a mission. But you can let yourself have this—" his voice catches "—happiness. It won't change anything."
An almost sob, almost choke takes her at his words, and she bites her bottom lip. Of course it will. It will change nothing and everything, all at once.
He tugs her towards him before he realises what he is doing, leaning in to kiss her again, his free hand reaching behind her head, fingers glorying in the texture of her hair, and gently bringing her mouth to his, taking that lip she has injured in his teeth, giving it the lightest, sweetest bite himself before passing the tip of his tongue over the small pain, noting her shudder. Then he forces himself to release her and take a step back, but does not let her hand go; couldn't if he wanted to – her nails are digging into him.
He sees the decision when she makes it. She seems to stand a little straighter, raises her chin, undoes the step between them, and he can't help but be transported back to the day he first stood before her on her bridge.
He brings his fingers to dust her cheek.
She nods once, clearly startled at herself, but he is sure she means it, even if she is not quite sure yet why, and so he turns, leading her across the breadth of the living area to the bedroom.
Gently bidding her to sit on the bed, he crouches at her feet. He takes a deep breath, deciding to tackle the one worry she did voice. "There is nothing about you ... that I don't cherish, that I don't want." He pauses, thinks of the seven years of being together but apart and the years for her of which he knows nothing. "I want all of you. All of who you are, Kathryn. I always have."
He hears her sharp intake of breath and feels a hand in his hair, the sensation sending scythes of desire through him, her fingertips moving and pressing into his scalp. He raises his eyes to hers and lets her see in the dimness the blaze she has put there, the strength she has given him, before quietly removing her boots and socks, taking each small foot as it is released into his hands and massaging gently, coursing his large thumbs over her instep and across the ball of her foot in long, languid strokes, letting his fingers begin to show her his devotion.
He becomes aware that she is not relaxing under his touch.
"Kathryn?"
"Hmmm ...?"
"Computer, lights 25 per cent."
He stills and looks up at her. A light frown dallies around her mouth, a small crease between her brows.
"Kathryn. I think ... you should take a moment." He pauses to come up on his knees, take her hands in his, bring her attention to him.
"Chakotay ...?"
He squeezes her hands. "I want to make love to you right now. More than anything. And I know you want that too. But, I don't think you're quite here with me. I can see everything is twisting around in you. If you are going to come to me, I want you to be sure about it." He pauses, reaches up to cup her cheek. "I know you," he continues, more softly. "You'd rather do than think. I don't want there to be any regrets."
He returns her a stern look when she starts to protest, and she retreats. She may be an admiral now, and the years between them long, but some things in this existence are immutable, and Kathryn Janeway's propensity for rushing into battle having made a hasty decision is perhaps chief among these, his counterbalance to her perhaps a strong second.
"All right. But ..."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Stay with me?"
He reaches forward to plant a kiss on her head, his mouth tipping up into a warm smile. "I'm not going anywhere." He sits back down on the floor and she comes to sit beside him, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder.
He stills to be unobtrusive, just offering her what he always has, his quiet presence, and watches her begin to tackle the task he has suggested. A flicker of panic first, some inner battle too fast and complicated to tease out, and then, as he feels her fingers seek his, that fierce determination and commitment claims her features. She appears so serious, so very captainly in her deliberations that even through his unease a mild chuckle manages to threaten.
Kathryn tries to look herself in the eye. An unsettling prospect. She takes a breath. Focus, she urges herself. She is here to give them all a chance. Herself included. And this gift – this moment right here – can be hers, if she can just ... find some peace. She reaches for his hand, interlinks her fingers with his, and immediately feels better. Stronger.
She gives a little start.
Could it really be that simple?
Could her weaknesses, her fears, her vulnerabilities, all those burdens, could they have – will they – become strengths instead, if freely shared with him?
She thinks about their time out here. When things were really down to that wire, when the Kazon had their ship, the Viidians their organs, the Borg their throats, all she had to do was seek him out, meet his gaze, and she knew she could go on.
How could it possibly have taken her this long to work out? She closes her eyes, her soul breaking and made whole again in one tumbling, aching shift of reality.
Sitting up, she turns her body to face him. And blushes when she encounters the soft humour apparent on his face. "What?"
"You looked like you were plotting to overthrow the Borg again," he says gruffly, a little shy, clearly conscious of the small precipice on which they are standing.
"Near enough," she retorts, punching him lightly on the arm, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
He catches her wrist and takes her hand as it uncurls, giving it a squeeze, and looks somewhat reassured by her firm response back, her palm pressing into his.
She meets his gaze. "Yes, Chakotay," she says softly, huskily. "I want this moment with you. I want you. I want us." Reaching up, she draws a thumb achingly slowly across his lower lip and delights at the shiver that runs through him.