Chapter Text
The first thing Kathryn Janeway remembers after the transporter beams her back to Voyager is the taste of smoke and an alien version of apples burning the back of her throat.
Antarian cider. Its sharp, golden sweetness settled low in her belly like a secret. Tom Paris knew where Chakotay had hidden it in the cargo bay and had been kind enough - or mischievous enough - to transport his hidden cache to the planet those seven weeks ago.
She remembers Chakotay’s low laugh in the dark. The way his fingers had curled around the neck of the bottle as though he had been saving it for something special. Or catastrophic.
Now, she feels the transport pads hard beneath her boots. Voyager’s air floods her lungs, filtered and recycled, and, for a split second, she misses the warm, fresh atmosphere of the planet.
“Captain,” Tuvok says, breaking her out of her reverie.
She steps down without looking at Chakotay.
“Report,” she orders because that is what captains are supposed to do and say.
Chakotay’s shoulder brushes hers as he moves beside her. The contact is nothing, just heat through layers of uniform fabric. And yet her body remembers what that same shoulder felt like bare beneath her palm, the same warmth she had pressed her mouth against.
For a moment, just a moment, she is back in the shelter, the trees swaying in the evening breeze, her fingers tracing the curve of his collarbone as the cider glows amber in their glasses.
She forces the memory down.
Time has fractured for her now.
Before and after.
And she wonders now if she can separate the two.
Tuvok’s expression is composed. “The inoculation provided by Doctor Pel seems to be effective. Our Doctor has confirmed that you are now both free from the virus.”
Free.
The word lands strangely.
Captain Janeway nods. “Good work, Lieutenant…and we won’t mention how you violated my orders again.” She smiles at him, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.
She feels Chakotay’s eyes on her. Not pleading. Not demanding. Simply present. A steady warmth at her right side. She forces herself to meet his eyes. “Commander,” she says, “we’ll resume duties as soon as we have one final clearance from the Doctor.”
A flicker, just a flicker, passes across his face. Hurt? Anger? No. Something sharper.
He inclines his head. “Aye, Captain.” But nothing in his voice betrays the way it had sounded the night before Voyager came back for them, low and rough and almost reverent as he whispered her name into her shoulder.
She holds his gaze for half a second too long. Then, she walks out.
…
It’s been six weeks. Six weeks of green hills and alien birdsong and one rather annoying primate. Of shared labor and shared silence. Of her scientific mind, resolutely searching for a cure. Of his peaceful contemplation, ready to accept the cards they had been dealt.
Six weeks of slow, inevitable unraveling.
The cider had been his idea.
He had just told her about an angry warrior and a determined female warrior. They had held hands across the table. That’s when he had suggested it. “I think I could use a drink,” he had said laughing after he released her hand.
“A drink?” she smirked, not totally believing what she was hearing.
“You know I have a stash, right? Not synthethol, the real stuff,” he replied, walking to his side of the shuttle where his bed stood.
“Really?”
“Tom Paris sent it down. Figures,” Chakotay chuckled, producing the bottle from a crate beneath his cot, wrapped in cloth like contraband. “Antarian,” he’d said, almost sheepish. “I’ve been saving it.”
“For what?” she’d asked lightly.
He laughed as he grabbed two glasses from a storage cabinet. “Not sure, really. I thought it deserved an occasion.”
She smiled. “Stranded on a pre-industrial planet qualifies?”
“I suppose so,” he replied. He tilted his head, studying her in a way that always felt like more than observation.
She watched his hands as he uncorked it. Strong hands. Capable hands.
“Go ahead and pour,” she instructed. “It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
The cider glowed in the pale light of their shelter, amber and alive. It tasted of sun-warmed apples and distant summers she barely remembered. They had drunk it slowly at first, seated on opposite sides of the small table.
“It’s good,” she’d admitted after the first sip. The cider had been sweeter than she expected, with a sharp edge at the end that made her mouth tingle. It warmed her in a way synthehol never quite did. It felt…real.
Like everything else on that planet.
Like him.
“Worth a headache?” he asked.
She looked at him over the rim of her glass.
“I don’t know yet.”
She should have stopped it there. Instead, she’d let him pour another glass.
“Careful,” she murmured after the second glass. “I have a low tolerance for real alcohol.”
He smiled. “So do I.”
They drank anyway.
And when the bottle lay empty between them, when the night pressed close and the world outside their shelter narrowed to wind in the leaves and their own breathing, something shifted.
He said her name. Not Captain.
“Kathryn.”
It sounded like a confession. There had been something in his voice that made her heart stumble.
“Yes?”
He had looked at her for a long time. Not like a first officer assessing his captain. Like someone memorizing a horizon he might never see again.
“I don’t regret being here with you,” he said softly. “Even if this is all there is.”
She had felt the truth of that settle into her bones.
She had meant to say something light. Something that kept them safely on the edge of that dangerous territory. A joke about his new bathtub. A comment about the weather. Something about that damned monkey.
Instead, she heard herself say, “Neither do I.”
And then she was standing. Her mind had gone blank. She forgot herself. She told herself it was the cider. That it was loneliness. That it was the terror of thinking that this quiet life might be all that was left. That it was the exhaustion of weeks spent wondering if this quiet, green world would be her grave.
But when she stood from her seat and crossed to his side of the table, she knew it wasn’t any of those things.
It wasn’t the cider.
It was him.
Kathryn placed a hand on his chest.
“Kathryn?” he said again, and this time it was a question.
She answered it by kissing him.
The first brush of her mouth against his was tentative, almost disbelieving. Then the restraint that had defined them for years snapped like a frayed tether. His hands at her waist were reverent at first, then certain. Her fingers fisted in his shirt as if he were the only solid thing left in the universe.
He tasted of apples and smoke and something uniquely his. There had been no speeches, no promises as they stumbled back against the wall. Only the urgent, almost desperate sense that if they did not take this chance, this small, blazing thing in the darkness, they would regret it for the rest of their lives.
Later, much later, tangled in the rough weave of the blankets on his bed, she had traced the tattoo on his forehead with her fingertip. She lay with her cheek against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“You’ll blame the cider,” he murmured, tracing a slow line down her spine, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
“Probably,” she replied.
He went quiet for a long moment.
“You shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
He turned his head to look at her. In the dim light, his eyes were softer than she had ever seen them.
“Because I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
She grew serious then, her fingers stilling against his skin. “We can’t…” she began, and stopped.
He tried to make it easier for her. “Don’t,” he replied, hushing her. They lay there in the silence of the night, listening to the wind move through unfamiliar trees.
“I could drink a case of you,” he said softly, almost to himself. “And still I wouldn’t be satisfied.”
She had laughed, drowsy and warm. “Is that a challenge, Commander?”
“No.” His hand had stilled. “It’s a warning.”
…
She hadn’t understood what he meant then as she sinks into her chair in her ready room and stares at her desk.
She does now.
On Voyager, there is coffee. There are duty shifts and staff briefings and the constant calculus of survival. There is a line she has drawn in her own mind, again and again, between herself and the man who sits to her right on the bridge.
On that planet, the line had blurred. Then it had vanished entirely.
She closes her eyes.
It had been her who crossed the room first.
That’s the part she keeps returning to, the part she keeps playing over and over in her mind, wondering why the hell her reason abandoned her.
A chime at her computer desk pulls her back to the present - an incoming message from the Doctor. She smiles when his face fills her screen. His expression is a careful blend of professional concern and thinly veiled curiosity.
“Captain, I wanted to confirm that your final scans show no residual effects from the disease. You are clear for duty.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He folds his hands in front of him, staring at her. “If I may, Captain…reintegration after extended planetary isolation can be…difficult.”
“We were only gone seven weeks, more an extended trip than anything.”
“Yet, what you faced, the possibility of remaining on the planet, must have been difficult,” the Doctor insists. He seemed too eager.
“What are you getting at Doctor?” she asks, her eyes rolling unconsciously. Her elbow rests on her desk, her chin balancing on her hand.
“Commander Chakotay appears… contemplative.”
She arches an eyebrow. “That’s hardly a medical diagnosis.”
“No,” the Doctor agrees. “But it is an observation.”
She meets his gaze steadily. “We’ll both be back on duty tomorrow.”
He studies her for a beat longer, then nods. “Very well. If you require counseling…”
“I’ll let you know.”
When he vanishes, she exhales slowly.
Contemplative.
That’s one word for it.
…
The planet is trying to be kind. That’s what Kathryn Janeway had decided, standing at the front door of the shelter. The air was clean. The sky - impossibly blue. The sun warmed her skin in a way she hasn’t felt since before Voyager was lost.
The planet offered peace.
That might be the cruelest thing of all.
Behind her, she heard Chakotay moving inside the shelter, the scrape of a chair, the careful rhythm of someone who knows exactly how close she is and is pretending not to notice.
“You’re going to burn if you stand out there too long,” he said.
She didn’t turn. “I’m not used to having that problem.”
“Neither am I.”
A pause.
“Coffee?” he asked.
She smiled faintly. “If you’ve managed to replicate anything resembling coffee, I’ll promote you on the spot.”
“I thought we weren’t necessarily in a command structure here,” he replied dryly.
She laughed, soft and surprised, and finally turned to face him.
This is before. Her mind has categorized it. But this - this - is also where the danger began.
Not the illness that stranded them here. Not the fact that Voyager left them behind. But the way they’ve slipped into something almost domestic without noticing. The way he talked like that.
Like there’s just her and him.
Inside, the shelter smelled faintly of coffee, something plastic, and Chakotay himself. He had been working on a boat most of the morning to take up the river. He had handed her a mug. She took it, their fingers brushing.
Neither of them moved away.
“This feels like cheating,” she said finally, blowing out a breath.
“Cheating?” he repeated, clearly confused.
“At command,” she clarified quickly. “At reality. You’re trying to make our stay here seem more like a home. I’m still thinking that Voyager is home.”
He studied her over the rim of his own mug. “Reality is that we’re stuck here. Everything else is theoretical.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You always were good at reframing.”
“I had to be.”
She took a sip. The coffee is…adequate. She pretended it’s better.
“Do you ever think,” he asked carefully, then paused, afraid to even put the question into words. He summons his courage then continues, “that if things had been different…”
“Yes,” she replied immediately.
He stopped.
She exhaled, a little rueful. “Sorry. You were going to finish.”
Chakotay watched her for a long moment. “No. You answered the question.”
Silence stretched between them, thick but not uncomfortable. It had never been uncomfortable. That’s what frightened her.
But that was before a case of cider.
…
Chakotay stands in his quarters, staring at the uniform laid out on his bed.
It feels heavier than it used to. He runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes.
He can still feel her. The curve of her hip under his palm. How her body melted into his. The way she had looked at him afterwards…unguarded and almost unbearably tender.
He had known, even in the throws of bliss, that it was fragile. That if Voyager returned, rank and duty would rise up between them like some wall.
And yet, he doesn’t regret it. Not one moment of it. He would drink that cider again. He would welcome her into his arms and memorize the shape of her breath.
But he does not know how to stand beside her on the bridge tomorrow and pretend nothing has changed.
Chakotay has lived too long negotiating this territory - the space between restraint and surrender. Before and after.
And he’s tired of living in it.
He throws on his uniform just as a chime sounds at his door.
“Enter.”
B’Elanna steps in, arms crossed.
“So,” she says.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “So.”
She studies him with that piercing, almost sisterly scrutiny. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look okay.”
“I was stuck on a planet for nearly two months and cured of a terminal illness in the span of a week. I think I’m entitled to look a little off-balance.”
Her expression softens.
“And the Captain?” She has always been too perceptive.
He hesitates.
B’Elanna’s eyes narrow. “Oh.”
He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t deny it.
She lets out a low whistle. “Well.”
“B’Elanna…”
“I’m not judging,” she says quickly. “I’m just…wow.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “It was complicated.”
“It always is.”
He meets her gaze. “It’s over.”
She searches his face. “Is it?”
The question lingers between them like smoke.
He doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know how.
…
The planet had been unbearably green that afternoon.
Chakotay remembers the way the river caught the light dancing across the surface. He’d been waist-deep in the shallows, steadying the half-finished hull of the boat while Kathryn stood on the bank with her hands on her hips, pretending to supervise.
“You’re compensating,” she called out.
He glanced up. “For what?”
“For the fact that we may never leave,” she replied lightly. Too lightly. “You’re trying to give me some method to explore.”
He braced the hull against a rock and wiped his brow with the back of his hand and chuckled. “It’s a boat, Kathryn. We need something to get around the river.”
“Why are you so much more at peace with this than I am?” she asked, genuinely interested.
He studied her face. The stubborn set of her jaw. The way she squared her shoulders even here, even now, bracing.
“I’m not at peace,” he answered as he walked slowly out of the river, his bare feet sinking into the mud. “I just don’t spend my time fighting reality.”
Her chin lifted. “Reality is that we belong on Voyager.”
“Reality,” he countered gently, “is that Voyager isn’t here.”
For a heartbeat, something flickered in her eyes - anger, yes, but beneath it something raw.
She turned away first, hands on her hips, clearly annoyed.
He shouldn’t have reached for her. He knows that now. But on that planet instinct replaced discipline in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He caught her wrist, not hard, just enough to stop her retreat.
“Kathryn.”
She stilled.
The breeze moved through the tall grass, bending it. Somewhere in the trees, birds shrieked.
“I’m not giving up,” he said. “I’m just… trying to live the days we have.”
She looked down at his hand around her wrist. Then back up at him.
“And what day is that, Chakotay?”
His thumb brushed, almost unconsciously, over the pulse point beneath her skin.
“Today,” he said.
Something in her expression softened. The fight drained out of her shoulders, replaced by exhaustion.
“I don’t know how to do that,” she admitted. “I can’t give up hope of finding a cure.”
“How?” he asked gently. “All your tools…all your equipment…the storm destroyed most of it.”
“I know,” she whispered as her face fell. He released her wrist slowly, but his hand didn’t fall far. It hovered at her waist instead, uncertain.
They stood there too close, the river murmuring behind him, the shelter visible just beyond the rise. The life they were building piece by careful piece.
She searched his face like she was looking for a flaw in his logic.
“You make it sound easy, accepting things as they are,” she muttered.
“It’s not,” he admitted readily. “It’s just… possible.”
She surprised him then.
Kathryn stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her skin and could see the faint gold flecks in her eyes.
“If we were different people,” he began slowly, “if we weren’t captain and first officer…”
She held his gaze. “We aren’t.”
His lips parted slightly.
“We’re still us. Still Voyager’s command team,” she insisted, but the conviction wasn’t there.
He shook his head once. “Out here? We’re just Kathryn and Chakotay.”
The way he said her name, without rank, without distance, sent something unmistakable through her.
She exhaled.
“Don’t,” she warned softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this harder.”
His hand finally settled at her waist.
“I’m not.”
It was the truth. Hard would have been pretending the current running between them didn’t exist. Hard would have been stepping back.
Instead, she placed her palm flat against his chest.
Not a shove.
A choice.
His heart hammered beneath her hand. He wondered if she could feel how long he had wanted her touch.
She patted his chest once and then left her hand where it was, a gesture so small and so intimate it stole his breath.
Just a moment.
Just enough.
When she stepped back, the line had already begun to blur.
“Finish your boat,” she said, voice steadier now. “If we’re going to live for today, we might as well be prepared for tomorrow.”
He watched her walk back toward the shelter, sunlight catching in her hair.
He had wanted to kiss her then. But that would come later, with cider and shadows and the quiet unraveling of restraint.
The planet hadn’t been cruel.
It had simply removed the walls.