Chapter Text
He’s requested to speak with her. The man she captured. The Maquis.
Of course she has every right to send Tuvok or Cavit to see to his request. In fact it might be considered unusual for a captain to go, rather than send a subordinate to relay a message. There’s no obligation. No protocol.
She can’t say why she decides to go herself.
But it's her decision. She’s the captain.
So she tells Cavit he has the bridge and takes a moment to straighten her uniform. She values the appearance of being unflappable as much as the act itself. With this being her first command, she knows everyone is watching her a bit more carefully, waiting for her to prove her mettle.
She’d say that capturing a wanted Maquis captain who’s evaded half of Stafleet is a damn good start.
There will be no whisper now of her pedigree being part of her blistering rise to the top. No rumors that the tragic death of her father left Starfleet indebted to her and her success.
Not anymore.
The ensign on duty gives her a sharp nod as she arrives at the brig. A formal greeting rising to her lips, but stalls there. She can’t remember his name. Jacobs? Johnson? Neither seem right. She makes a mental note to look it up in his file. There are still so many people she barely recognizes on the crew, just faint familiar stirrings from dozens of personnel files she poured over for nights before they deployed.
“What are you doing?” Mark had asked her, leaning over to kiss her neck.
“Its my first crew, I need to at least learn their names. A first mission can make or break a captain,” she’d remarked, giving him a playful push back.
“I don’t think anything can break you, Kathryn.”
It's a romantic sentiment, one she hopes she lives up to. Life hasn’t broken her yet, despite dealing her a sorted hand. With this mission a rousing success and Voyager headed for home, it would appear she’s once again managed to come through the metaphorical storm.
The Maquis captain, Chakotay, is sitting on a low bench in the cell when she comes in, elbows resting on his knees. He looks up at the sound of her boots, his expression unreadable. Unconsciously she squares her shoulders, tilts her chin. Why she’s trying to intimidate a man behind a forcefield she can’t quite say.
There's just something about him that feels a little dangerous.
“Thank you for seeing me.” he says quietly, rising to stand.
He’s tall, moreso than she realized in the chaos when they boarded the Val Jean, with broad shoulders, strong hands. He’s built like a fighter. A warrior. Part of her wonders if he's killed with those hands. She's nearly certain he has.
Despite his stature, there’s no aggression or malice in his tone as he regards her. The temptation is there to let her guard down.
Be careful, she reminds herself. He was ‘Fleet. He knows the game they’re playing now.
“What is it I can do for you, Mister Chakotay?” She purposely doesn’t use his rank. The Maquis are not a military or a government, they’re a rebellion made up of renegades and delinquents.
“I wanted to ask about my crew. Did we lose anyone?”
She’s taken aback by the question. She’d expected he’d want to know about the charges, the potential sentence that awaited him back in federation space. Perhaps he’d want to trade information for a reduction.
Instead, he wants to know about his people.
It doesn’t fit the image of him she's built in her mind.
“Yes. There were losses on both sides. You’d know better than I who fled in the escape pods, but I can give you a list of the deceased. I believe there were twelve.”
His jaw twitches at the number, but he’s careful to guard his emotions.
Still, she thinks she hears pain in his voice when he speaks, a rasp like sandpaper against his smooth baritone. “I’d like to write letters to their families, if it can be allowed. I’ll dictate them if you can’t provide me with a PADD.”
It occurs to her then that he almost certainly knows the name of every member of his crew. More than that, he knows their families. The circumstances that led them to the Maquis. She could see the bond almost immediately as they took prisoners, the way they banded together for comfort and protection.
And she still can’t remember the name of the ensign at the door.
She doesn't like this.
He takes a deep breath, “Are there wounded?”
“We’re treating them in sickbay. All expected to recover at this point.”
“I’m grateful for that.”
“Its protocol, Mister Chakotay.”
He gives her a look that’s both disbelieving and amused, “Not everyone plays by the rules, Captain Janeway.”
“I’m aware. You certainly don’t.” she shoots back, feeling satisfied as he raises his eyebrows at her.
“I did once. I won’t anymore. But I suppose you’ve read my file, so you know all that.”
She has read his file. In fact it's open on a PADD on her desk as they speak. But it's not what's on those pages that keeps pulling her back to it. It's what isn’t. She’s poured over the words a dozen times already, looking for something that feels just out of reach.
How does a man fall so far from where he started? When does darkness snuff out the light?
"If you play by the rules it may benefit you in this instance." She knows she's testing him, looking the self-serving core of this man that will make him abandon his ill-conceived allegiance to these people. It must be there. It has to be.
“Every person on the Val Jean is a life I’m responsible for, they trusted me to lead them. Being their captain is not a role I gained by having a piece of metal pinned on my collar by an aging Admiral who has never seen death, never fought a battle. That trust was not lightly placed in me, and it's my responsibility to uphold it.” His tone is calm, but she sees the flash of anger in his eyes. Something tells her it's directed as much at himself as her.
After all, he did fail. He's been captured.
Still, she finds herself off balance. She doesn’t like the implication that her own commission wasn’t earned, or that her people are meaningless names on a list with a rank and an allegiance.
But she still can’t remember the name of the ensign at the door.
“Your people will be treated fairly here, I give you my word.”
“What is your word worth, Captain Janeway?”
The question sends a spear of rage through her, that he would have the audacity to question her pledge. Her word has always been her bond, whether it's given to an Admiral or a prisoner. How dare he assume anything different?
Don’t react, her mind says, don’t let him see he’s affected you.
Her eyes snap to his, and she can feel the anger hot and sharp on the tip of her tongue. But the man in front of her doesn’t look mocking or distrusting.
It's a quiet curiosity that’s written in those dark eyes, as if he too is seeing something he doesn't quite understand. An enigma found in the most unlikely of places, where every assumption cast out is thrown back again.
“It's all you have, Mister Chakotay. You’re hardly in a position to make threats or demands. If I say they will be treated well here, they will be. Take that as you will.”
He studies her, the intensity making a ripple of unease pass through her body. It's as if he can see through the bravado and the pips to the very heart of her. It makes her nervous, feeling exposed like this. As if suddenly she’s just muscle and bone, and not a bastion of Starfleet’s righteous power.
“I believe you, Captain. Thank you for your candor, and your compassion.”
She’s uncomfortable when she realizes it means something, his trust.
Why should it matter if this man trusts her? This man who’s broken a hundred laws, taken even more lives. She’s damned if she knows.
It's that feeling that makes her take a sharp step backward, nearly tripping over her own feet. She’s even more furious now. It takes a deliberate effort to smooth her jerky movements as she nods in his direction, to appear unruffled by this unexpected encounter.
Neutral gaze, walk slowly, even breaths.
“Let the guard know if you need anything else.”
She feels his eyes on her as she walks out the door, her voice a little too loud as she bids the same ensign a good evening.
It takes her an hour and two dozen personnel files to find out his name is Jansen.