The Still of the Night (fic)

The Still of the Night

spengie

When I finally find her, she's sitting away from the fires, on a dark outcropping of rock. She has one leg pulled up, her wrist laying across her bent knee, her other leg folded tightly underneath her. Exhaustion has her eyes half lidded, head leaning dejectedly back against the rockface. It was a rare glimpse of her unguarded, distraught, and I struggled with the still unnerving confusion of my feelings.

I knew the pull well, the desire to fold her into my arms so strong sometimes I shook with the effort not to. It had been different, once, I remembered. Easier. Before I’d been allowed the privilege. Before I knew how much it actually did comfort her. Before I understood that it was profound guilt, her own certainty that she did not deserve the solace, that prevented her from reaching out.

Now, though, as I approach her, she seems resigned. Her head lolls toward me as she opens her eyes.

“How’s everyone?” she calls as I climb up to her, though she knows they are all okay. She’s been watching them from this vantage point. I know she’s chosen it for that reason chiefly – although the solitude and isolation are close seconds. She looks ethereal from her dark vantage point, the firelight too far away to provide any appreciative light on her alcove, but the flickering from below casting fleeting and insubstantial shadows across her features. She’s unbearably beautiful and my heart catches.

“Fine, under the circumstances,” I answer quietly. It’s cold up here, and I wonder how she’s tolerating it; she has to have been here for at least a few hours. I sit next to her and realize she’s not tolerating it at all – she’s shivering uncontrolledly,  a fact I could not appreciate until I settle next to her.

“Captain,” I start, removing my jacket and placing it around her shoulders. But she doesn’t let me finish, a frown marring her face as she closes her eyes, pressing her lips together in what looks like pain. She brings a hand up to the collar of my jacket draped around her shoulder, then tenses, fighting herself. I’ve seen this struggle before. I’m not sure what she’s fighting now, but tension in her jaw and the curl of her left hand tell me it’s an internal battle. It’s over in just a few seconds.

“Thank you,” she says, but shrugs out of the jacket anyway. “But I am okay.” She hands it back to me.

She has been like this since we returned from New Earth. I feel the familiar rejection; nothing I do is preferable to her own suffering. It’s been five weeks and I still haven’t worked out whether she is punishing herself or me.

We never talk about it. Our time there. Sometimes I’m not sure it happened, except that where there used to be a spirited, passionate woman there was now only a taciturn captain. Oh, she was no different with most of the crew; I doubt if anyone even notices. But she seems colorless to me, the woman behind the rank was – faded somehow. Worn down, hollow.

I want to hold her. I ache with it, the familiar wound not lessening with time. I have no doubt she’ll never permit it, as versed as I’ve become in the self-flagellatory eschewals of Kathryn Janeway. She’s as incomprehensible as she is spellbinding, and the urge to shake sense into her is nearly as potent as the raw compulsion to ease her suffering. Either option would subject her to my touch, a liberty I was no longer allowed. She continued to shiver next to me.

“You’re freezing,” I say instead, hoping to appeal to her common sense. “Everyone is settling for the night, come down by the fires.”

She looks at me then, and I see the guilt in her eyes, the frustration at our helpless position. She sighs, scrubs a hand over her face.

“I –” she starts, pauses. “Chakotay, I’m sorry.” Her teeth chatter with her shivering and she bites her lip to try to stop it.

It’s not what I expect and I hold myself very still. She’s wringing her hands in her lap. Is she nervous? I can’t tell in the low light. There’s so much between us, the chasm that we had bridged on New Earth now wider than ever. I feel like I can’t read her anymore and the thought saddens me. I used to be better at this. We used to be better at this.

She’s still silent, looking over the makeshift camp, but I sense that she’s far away.

“Captain?”

“Can – can we not, right now?” she looks at me. “Chakotay.”

The air feels charged, and the shadows cross her face again and I blink. Surely, surely those are not tears I’m seeing glittering in her lashes. It must be a trick of the light. But then her hand rests on mine, the lightest touch, and I feel my heart flop awkwardly in my chest. Her fingers interlace with mine. She still hasn’t looked at me.

“Kathryn,” I attempt softly, unsure if I’m still allowed the privilege, the intimacy of her name. I have not tried since our first night back aboard from New Earth, where I was promptly reprimanded. I still remember the sting of her terse response.

“I – I know – ” she stopped as my thumb rubs over her hand. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t stop myself. She bites her lip. “I know this has been hard. I just – ” she waves a hand over the camp below. “I can’t put me first. I can’t – I can’t be what you want. We can’t be what – what you – ”

She looks at me now, unmistakable tears running down her cheeks. “What I want.” Her eyes plead for forgiveness, for mercy. “I have to put them first.”

I feel my own breath hitch at her admission. “Kathryn,” I say again, more certain in my entitlement to use her name, “I – I – understand.” I look at her, curled miserably on herself, and make a decision. We may both regret it, but at this moment I can’t stop myself. I pull her to me roughly, rapdily, knowing she’ll protest if I give her the chance. Still, she resists, but it’s clumsy, her limbs stiff with cold. I wrap her in my arms – if this is the last chance I have to hold her, I’m going to take full advantage.

She folds into me surprisingly quickly, pressing her cheek to my neck. Her skin is icy, wet with rapidly cooling tears. I breathe in the dusty scent of her, bury my face in her hair. The frizzy bit where Harry hacked off a chunk tickles my nose, but I can’t bring myself to move.

“I never wanted – I would never ask you to choose.” I say into her hair. Her hand is still interlaced with mine and I bring it to my lips, press a kiss to her knuckles. “I just – I just want you to be happy. I still want to ease your burdens, not add to them.”

She cries softly into my shoulder. I stroke her hair until she calms. It is over too quickly, and she is pulling away. I let her go, her hair trailing through my fingers as she does. She cups my cheek, traces my tattoo. I close my eyes at the gentleness of her fingers, and sigh. I can’t tell her everything in my heart, but for the first time, I’m confident she knows.

“Let’s go check on everyone, get you warmed up, and get some sleep. We have a ship to get back to tomorrow.” My voice is low, but I hope she catches my sincerity, my support; that I will never ask for more than she can give me. That I’m behind her no matter what.

She looks at me, and I see the things she won’t say. They warm me, and I squeeze her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, no longer shivering. “Thank you.” And I know, we’ll be okay.