Disclaimer: Paramount rules. I'm just playing with their dolls.

WARNING: THIS STORY IS NOT TOLD IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER! PAY ATTENTION TO THE CHAPTER DATES/LOCATIONS!

Note: This is not my usual Janeway/Chakotay story. In this universe, Our Favorite Couple is a little more confused and much more human than they appeared in the Delta Quadrant. Maybe it's something in the water. LOL

Undeniable

By Mizvoy

Chapter 2

September 15, 2378 (four months after Voyager's return)

Mark Hopkins Inter-Galactic Hotel San Francisco-Suite 818-1700 hours

When Kathryn Janeway heard that the decision on her crew was scheduled to be released the following week, she'd used every shred of her influence and notoriety to obtain an advance copy. Instead of opening it in her office, however, she decided to download it into a PADD and leave Starfleet Headquarters early for a long weekend. It was a beautiful Friday, so she changed out of her uniform and walked into the city where she purchased a bottle of good Kentucky bourbon, downloaded a few credits, and picked up some necessities she'd need for her solitary retreat. Then she caught a scheduled local transport to Union Square, which was a short distance from the recently restored Mark Hopkins Hotel, and walked incognito to her destination. She kept the PADD in her hand, fingering it nervously as she walked.

Admiral Hayes had made a few nonspecific allusions to what the message contained when she'd picked it up in his office and had been surprised when she didn't read it right away. "Are you sure you don't want to look at it now, Kathryn?" he'd asked, obviously disappointed. "You won't be able to discuss it with anyone but me before the hearing next week, you know."

She shivered at the way he'd peered at her, and she knew that what he really wanted was to see her reaction, just plain curiosity. That was the reason behind her flight. Even if the news of upcoming hearing was leaked, as it most assuredly would be, no one in the press or Starfleet would think to look for her at a San Francisco hotel, and there was no way to trace her, since she would be careful to pay in cash for the entire weekend and register under an assumed name.

Admiral Hayes had given her seventy-two hours to read the decision before he sent out summonses for the hearing, and she intended to use every minute of the weekend to prepare herself for the next step, whatever that entailed. The crew had been given a limited, supervised release and all of them remained on earth, so she wasn't worried about finding them or getting them to San Francisco in a timely manner. The fact that security forces had not taken the crew into custody gave her real hope that this situation was coming to a positive conclusion. In the meantime, she'd read the decisions in the sanctuary of a private suite at the Mark Hopkins. For now, she wanted solitude and time to think. She wanted to retreat.

She knew that her counselors would not approve of her decision. While they'd stopped short of faulting her for maintaining a "proper" distance from her crew while in deep space, they'd been very concerned about her continuing preference for isolation and seclusion now that Voyager was home. In her years on Voyager, she'd become a master at repressing her emotions and sublimating her need for intimacy and affection in favor of hard work and duty, a habit the counselors continually told her would have to change if she wanted to return to a normal, healthy lifestyle.

"You need to allow yourself to feel the emotions you've repressed, Kathryn," the counselors said. "You need to relax and face the losses and the pain that you've put aside in the last seven years. And you need to indulge your need for intimacy and love. It won't be easy, but it's a process you must go through sooner or later or the damage could be permanent." The image of her white-haired older self flashed through her mind.

She'd bristled at the implication that she'd lied to herself or deluded herself in some way about her feelings, but the counselors had remained adamant. "Don't think of it as lying, Kathryn," they'd cautioned her. "You looked past the truth because facing it was too painful and would have made it impossible to function. You put survival above all else, including the truth. But now you need to open up to your feelings, no matter how difficult it is for you."

But, in spite of their advice, she'd resisted doing that. She felt as if her life was still on hold, as if she were holding her breath, reluctant for the whole experience to truly come to an end. There were times when she thought it would never end. And, she'd learned through experience that she needed this distance, this control, if she were to keep her sanity in the meantime.

The four months since Voyager's arrival had been, in some ways, among the worst in her life as a Starfleet captain, as bad personally as any four month block of time in the Delta Quadrant. At least on her bridge she'd felt as if she'd had some control over her crew's destiny. Since their return, she'd felt helpless to influence the outcome of the bureaucracy's deliberations, and the loss of control had been maddening. She longed to be in charge again as she'd been on Voyager, where she could take whatever action she deemed necessary, where she could issue orders, where her crew's future, good or bad, was at least in her own hands and not that of strangers, where the consequences of her decisions were immediate, not hopelessly delayed or mired in political negotiations.

The threat hanging over all their heads robbed her of peace and closure, yet she'd kept even that frustration carefully repressed. She'd dutifully attended the welcome home festivities, greeted countless cheerful family members, accepted untold expressions of thanks for all she'd done for her crew, for all of her sacrifices, for all of her labors to bring the ship home. The ship's exploits were constantly recounted over the airwaves and she was interviewed time and again about her experiences, answering the same questions with limitless patience and good humor. She smiled and rephrased her answers, she discussed their experiences and reflected on their gains, but she wasn't happy, wasn't satisfied.

All of parties, all of the accolades, she thought to herself, were a pointless waste of time, busy work to keep them from thinking about what might happen to them when the decisions on their futures were finally made. She'd wanted to tell her crew to wait before they celebrated, to thank her once they were sure they were welcome, to be wary until they were truly free to pursue their lives without fear. In public, she'd been positive, happy, sane and optimistic-the archetypal Starfleet captain home from the challenges of deep space without a perceptible physical blemish or psychological scar.

In private, she'd brooded and worried and fretted until her mother was beside herself with concern. On the weekends when Kathryn visited her family in Indiana, she usually spent most of her time sleeping or taking long walks alone through the countryside, and she was strangely unwilling to tell the stories of her adventures. She evaded her mother's questions about Voyager, usually deciding to take a nap or spend time alone as soon as a question was asked.

"I wish you'd talk to me about some of what I hear in the media," her mother said one afternoon after lunch. "I'm fascinated by what happened to you out there and I want to hear about it from your perspective."

"I know you do, Mom. But I've spent nearly every day of the last two months talking about it. I need some time to come to terms with everything, and then we'll have some long talks." She'd stood up, snapping her fingers for the dog to follow her outside. "Zeus and I are going for a walk. I'll be back in time for dinner."

Gretchen had stopped her at the door. "Katie, are you sure you're all right? Are you seeing a counselor?"

"Yes, I'm seeing a counselor, Mom. In fact, I'm seeing two of them. I just need some time." And with that, Kathryn had once again escaped.

Gretchen Janeway had first enlisted her younger daughter, Phoebe, to dispel Kathryn's black mood. Phoebe took her sister shopping, invited her to dinner, introduced her to half a dozen eligible men, and tried every trick she could think of to force Kathryn to forget, at least for a few hours of pleasure, the responsibility that she still carried. In spite of moments of obvious cheerfulness, Kathryn's overall mood was not significantly affected. She smiled, but the smile never reached her eyes. She agreed to Phoebe's plans, but never made any of her own.

"I give up, Mom," Phoebe said after two weeks of effort. "I think Katie wants to be unhappy. No matter what I tried, she'd eventually get quiet and withdraw again, worse than ever."

When Phoebe's efforts failed, Gretchen turned to Chakotay, the man who'd been beside Kathryn through their long exile, and asked him to talk to her and find out the source of her daughter's lingering melancholy. He'd met with Kathryn briefly, a few hours over lunch, and then called Gretchen with his opinion.

"It's the apprehension," Chakotay had reported. "She's never been a patient person, you know, and nothing could be more suspenseful than the Federation's delay in issuing a decision, especially when the lives and happiness of her crew hang in the balance. And she feels powerless to do anything to help." He paused, giving Gretchen a boyish grin. "On Voyager, she spent times like this disassembling and 'repairing' her replicator. Unless you know a good engineer, keep her away from yours."

Once in her suite at the Mark Hopkins, Kathryn swallowed the bourbon and coughed as it burned her throat. She sprawled on the sofa and eyed the PADD she'd tossed carelessly on the coffee table. She wanted to believe that the judge's willingness to give her advance access to the decision foretold a good result, but she wasn't sure. It could mean that some of her crew would go free while others did not. Would the Maquis be prosecuted for crimes they'd committed nearly eight years earlier? Would the Equinox survivors be thrown in prison because they'd followed Captain Ransom's unlawful orders? Would Tom Paris go back to jail? Would her Starfleet career end in disrepute because of the decisions she'd made in the isolation and jeopardy of the other side of the galaxy?

She sighed and walked to the window, looking out toward the bay. It was a picture postcard afternoon, clear blue skies with cottony clouds, bright sunlight, and whitecaps on the blue water. She'd dreamed of this view a thousand times while on Voyager, both waking and sleeping. It had been her safe place, the image she'd created to escape from the worst, most depressing moments of despair. She'd imagined herself standing at a window like this, in this very hotel that she and Mark favored for special getaways, sipping wine while he stood behind her, his arms around her shoulders as they looked toward the safe and glorious future that had been restored to them.

She wondered idly if they'd ever shared this particular suite during their long courtship and considered, for a moment, accessing the hotel's data base to find out. But that would be a pointless gesture. Mark was happily married and the father of twin boys who were just turning two. She'd met them just a month after Voyager's return, giving each of them a tiny replica of her ship, yet she'd felt oddly unaffected by the experience at the time. These boys were Mark's children, symbols of all that had been taken from her by her exile in the Delta Quadrant.

Now she choked back a sob, remembering the look of wonder in the boys' eyes as they'd held the ornaments in their small, pudgy hands--gifts from the woman who might have been their mother. Perhaps for the first time in nearly four years, she accepted the fact that her perfect future with Mark Johnson was gone forever, that the love and the belonging and the home that she'd left behind were no longer possible. There was no Mark Johnson waiting for her, no Mollie and her puppies, no house in Marin County with chrysanthemums blooming by the front door, no twin boys with bright blue eyes. No, she had her mother and her childhood room in a farmhouse in Indiana.

"Don't be pathetic, Kathryn," she said aloud, taking another long pull from the bourbon. "After all, you're the one who stranded Voyager out there. You should be glad that you're still alive, that your crew didn't mutiny and hand you over to the Kazon. Or the Vidiians. Think about what you've gained, not what you've lost." But the admonitions fell flat, and as she realized just exactly what she'd given up, all that she'd lost, hot tears welled up and threatened to spill onto her cheeks.

Coming here alone wasn't such a good idea, she realized, nor was the bourbon. She had always been prone to depression, and the last thing she needed to do was to dwell on the negatives, to mourn for losses long since buried and better forgotten, and to get drunk while doing it. This wasn't, after all, about Kathryn Janeway; this was about her crew, about her obligations and duties. She'd deal with her own personal problems later, when the dust settled. Repress the emotions. Sublimate her needs. Keep moving forward.

She returned to the sofa, refreshed the bourbon in her drink, and picked up the PADD, studying the light that glittered on its smooth surface. What was she waiting for? She'd been impatient for this moment to arrive for weeks and months, yet she'd had the information in her hands for almost two hours without as much as a brief review of the decision it contained. It was almost as if she were procrastinating.

But Kathryn Janeway, she told herself, did not procrastinate. She was always ready for action, she was forceful, she was proactive, she was "an ant on a hot rock," according to her first officer. She had erred on the side of action in nearly every crisis in her life. So, why not read the decision and move on?

Maybe it was that she didn't want her captaincy of Voyager to end. That was probably part of the problem. Chances were that she'd find out that everyone was free, that her responsibilities were over, that her crew would scatter in every direction, never to be together again. The classic empty nest syndrome. But then she reminded herself that the crew had already scattered. She hadn't seen most of them in months and hadn't even been on Voyager herself in weeks. That couldn't be the only reason for her delay. There was more.

Perhaps she was worried about what would be required of her next. She was tired just thinking about it. Would she be fighting for her crew's freedom? For their lives? Or would she be celebrating their release? One or the other, or a combination of both, she assumed. She'd do whatever was required of her without complaint and to the best of her ability. That couldn't be the source of the procrastination, either.

No, she'd been most upset when she'd remembered that favorite dream, standing in this hotel looking out toward the future she had been planning with Mark. For years, she'd returned to that dream as her "safe place," the moment that brought her peace and hope. So why was it so different now? She'd very nearly cried at the thought of it. Why? Because she finally knew it was impossible?

Perhaps the counselors were right, she reasoned. Perhaps she'd repressed her emotions and ignored her needs for so long that the thought of facing them scared her to death. Perhaps she was afraid they would overwhelm her, or that she would spiral out of control into a bourbon- enhanced crying jag.

So be it. She'd never lacked the courage to face an enemy while standing on the bridge, and she wasn't about to give in to Kathryn Janeway's inner demons. She studied her empty glass, refilled it, and returned to the window, taking in the beautiful day before she closed her eyes and allowed herself to create the vivid memory of her dream.

She was standing in a room like this one, perhaps in this very suite, looking out at San Francisco Bay. She was wearing her favorite peach silk nightgown and leaning back against the warm, solid body of the man she loved as he put his arms around her and gently nuzzled her neck. There was a familiar piece of classical music playing in the background and on the low table in front of the sofa lay the remains of a room service tray, including a large carafe of coffee that was nearly empty, the remains of an appetizer sampler, and two empty bottles of white wine. She was a little drunk, but very happy, sated, and excited about the prospect of a delightful weekend of rest and relaxation.

That was where the dream had always ended. In all the years on Voyager, she had never allowed herself to go beyond that feeling, never allowed herself to remember the intimate lighting of the hotel room, the warm tingling in her body as his hands and mouth caressed her, the tangled sheets just visible in the adjoining bedroom, the feeling of his body pressed against her backside. She couldn't have endured that memory while she was still thousands of light years away and completely and hopelessly alone, and so she had simply repressed that portion of it, stopped short of it, and had focused instead on the previous moment of contentment and belonging. She'd always been happy to leave it at that.

But, she was home now and she needed to push on, to summon up the remainder of her dream so she could face what she had lost, come to terms with it, and find the closure she needed. Here, in San Francisco, in heart of the Federation, there were literally hundreds of potential suitors that she could choose from. Here she could map out a new future and restore her chance for happiness without restriction. She no longer had to put aside those sublimated desires and hopes. She could be a woman again. But none of it would happen until she put this dream behind her, until she finally gave up on the impossible and grasped the possible with both hands.

And so she concentrated on the rest of the dream. She remembered putting her arms atop his as they encircled her waist and leaning her head to the side to allow his mouth better access to the sensitive shell of her ear. She shivered at the memory of his warm breath against her neck, his hands cupping her breasts gently, and then she turned in his embrace and smiled up into his brown eyes, molding her body against . . .

No.

Her eyes flew open. Blue eyes. Mark had blue eyes, not brown.

And then the truth ripped through her like a knife and she doubled over, gasping for breath as the emotions she'd avoided for years hit her like a punch in the stomach and left her dizzy with despair.

The man standing behind her in the dream, the man she loved and needed to let go of once and for all, wasn't Mark Johnson.

It was Chakotay.

To be continued . . .