The Other Side of the Wall
By Melissa

**a response to a suggestion on JetC12 to tell the story of what would happen if one of our favorite duo was to take up with someone else. This story changes viewpoints back and forth between Janeway and Chakotay. I have marked the sections with initials, but you should be able to tell the difference. I've also been experimenting with tense. If a knowledgable person sees a problem somewhere, please email me and let me know.

Disclaimer: All characters within are the property of Paramount. I wish they belonged to me, because I think I treat them better, but they don't. So I promise to give them back when I'm done, and to accept no payment while I have them with me. No circulation without author's permission, please. I'll give it freely, I just like to know first.

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**J**

I suppose I should have expected it.

It's been four years-a long time to go on that way. I've been preparing myself for the moment, steeling myself so that when it came, I would be ready. I would meet it with my shoulders squared and my chin high, and the appropriate words on my lips. It was destined to be eventually, though I could not predict when it would happen. I carried on whole conversations in my head so I would be prepared for any possible situation. Mental battle drills, I thought of them. I could hardly have been expected to prepare myself for the one scenario I had never dreamed of.

It wasn't me.

I sat alone, hidden away in a dark corner of the bar, watching them. His head rising atop broad shoulders that I had touched too often, eyes twinkling, a smile spread across his cheeks like sun on the hills. The sound of his laughter rang out over the noise. Normally it would have lightened my heart, would have warmed me through. Tonight it was the most painful sound I had ever imagined. Reaching blindly for the drink in front of me, I thought of getting drunk enough to block out the sound. He would never know-he might see the circles under my eyes and worry, but he's seen them before. He would keep his own counsel. He knows asking about certaint things is futile.

Futile.

It seems these last few years have been one exercise in futility after another. Futility, and stupidity.

Only stupidity would have let me believe he would wait forever.

I never thought I would continue this voyage alone, finish it alone. If we finish it.

I drew my head up sharply. I could not, would not allow one melancholy to lead to another. Mourning the loss of something I never really had anyway was allowable, for this one night. Letting that mourning spill over into the rest of my life was a complete lack of control. I would not let go that much. Gripping my glass a little tighter, I raised it to my lips and swallowed without tasting it. I granted myself one more look in that direction. This time, I forced myself to extend my gaze past him.

She was lovely. Long, thick blonde hair, usually bound up on duty as the rules dictated but down around her shoulders now. Left down for him. She was wearing something soft, feminine. Blue. Her eyes were glued to his face, her head bent towards him. His fell back as he laughed again. Louder this time.

The knife turned. I would not look away. Easy way out. I had never taken the easy way out.

The fraternization policy allowed the relationship to happen-allowed almost any relationship to happen. It had allowed this to happen, this picture before me. I tipped the glass back, drained the contents. Felt the eyes on me. Knew it was time to leave, before anyone could draw conclusions. Not that they hadn't already. I had the smartest crew in Starfleet. They knew.

They knew I loved him.

I knew I loved him.

The only person that didn't know was him...and it hardly mattered anymore.

A quick shove from the table and I was on my feet, navigating a careful path to the door. I greeted as few people as politeness dictated, and made my way without another look in that direction. Even so, his presence crept up my spine, my face flushed, my hands trembled. I wondered how long it would continue to do so, how many more evenings like this I would have to force myself to endure before the urges faded away to memory.

I fought back the knowledge that it would never fade, denied the eternal qualities that had crept into my life. Blindly, I sought the refuge of my quarters.

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**C**

I watched her go. I'm sure she thought she was being subtle, silent. To the rest of the crew, perhaps. But not to me. Not my Kathryn. I know her too well.

My Kathryn. The phrase mocks me even now, because I've never had the right to use it. In the quiet of my quarters at night, hearing the faint sounds of her movement on the other side of the wall, I would lie in bed and whisper it softly. Just to hear it out loud. I knew she would never let me say it to her.

A fist clenched around my heart as she walked out of the room, but I forced it down, lifted my head, smiled at Sara. She's lovely; clouds of blonde hair and a wicked grin, slender limbs and green eyes that sparkle in the dim light of Sandrine's. She's been flirting with me for months; inventing excuses to leave her post in Engineering and run reports back and forth between B'Elanna and I. I finally gave in. B'Ela knows what's going on, knows the circumstances behind it. Knows the name that sings in my heart, has seen the despair it has driven me to on more than one occasion. She's fought Cardassians on the holodeck with me, watched me beat the creatures into a bloody pulp, held my hand when I fell apart afterwards. It happened more than once. B'Elanna puts up a tough front, but she was there beside me when I needed her. Good friend. Staunch and fiercely loyal, and completely in love with Tom Paris.

No one was perfect.

Sara was saying something to me, and I heard myself laugh with her. It's strange, this detachment that allows my mind and mouth to carry on two different conversations simultaneously. She was lovely, and intelligent, and fun. It wasn't her fault that her eyes weren't blue and her hair wasn't red, that she didn't smell like vanilla soap and sandalwood. That she didn't stand next to me, hands on hips, eyes flashing. That she wasn't Kathryn.

A large part of me registered the unfairness of my even sitting in Sandrine's allowing Sara to flirt with me as I cried out, body and soul, for Kathryn Janeway. We had been meeting here for almost two weeks now, and the evenings were always enjoyable and filled with interesting conversation. The last couple of nights I had walked her to her quarters, kissed her good night briefly. And last night, she had invited me in.

I accepted.

After several moments of playful banter, she had moved closer to me on the couch, laid a hand on my thigh. It had been easy to take her in my arms, kiss her, stroke her hair and neck and eventually her breasts through the silky material that covered them. My body responded instantly to that kind of physical connection after so many years of denial and abstinance, and it would have been just as easy to lift her, carry her to the bed in the next room, and release the tension that had grown within me. Easy. Wrong. I had eventually drawn back, moved her clothing back into place, and returned to my bed alone.

I knew she was watching me, wondering how far things would go tonight, if I would stay. I was tempted, more than she knew. But somewhere within me I was disgusted with myself, that I would even consider using this woman in that manner. She was lovely, and intelligent, and sexy as hell-but there was only room for one woman in my soul, and she wouldn't have me. To use Sara as a replacement for Kathryn-for that's all it could ever be-was wrong, and it wasn't me.

The life of a monk wasn't me either.

Tonight was the first time Kathryn had really seen us together, Sara and I. I'm sure she's heard rumors, from Tuvok or maybe from B'Elanna, trying one last time to do right for me. I can imagine her impassive face, her hand brushing it aside. The impartial way she would phrase her words to show that it didn't bother her.

It bothered her. I saw her face just before she got up to leave. It's a look I've seen before, back amongst tomato leaves and gray walls, when our world was tilted beneath us and our future rewritten again. I know that look, have felt it on my own face many times. It bothered her. But she'll never tell me. I've finally figured that out. A man can only hold on to hope for so long before he is branded a fool for all time.

I sat back in my chair, sipped at the water in front of me, and tried to decide how I would avoid walking Sara home tonight. It would be so much easier when I returned to my quarters.

Alone.

With Kathryn on the other side of the wall.

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**J**

He just came home.

If I listen carefully, I can hear him moving on the other side of the wall. I wonder why he's back so soon after I left, wonder why he's not in Lieutenant Bryan's quarters.

I'd been pacing around my living area, a glass of wine in my hand, trying desperately to get drunk. I haven't tried this hard since my cadet days, and of course, it wasn't working. My mind remained lucid, my body on red alert. Burning. For him. In my soul as well-but my physical arousal had worked its way to a fever pitch I'd already eased once. The bath was running in the other room, and I knew that I would soon have to relieve it again. Wine does that to me sometimes, but I knew it wasn't the wine.

How cruel the irony of realizing what you want, what you need, when it's too late. The knife turned, enough to make me cry out. I bit my lip lest he hear, my hands curling across my stomach, my eyes closing against the tears that had been threatening all evening.

I heard him shift again, heard a faint thump-his boots, probably. A shock runs straight through me, imagining him sitting on the edge of my bed, his boots falling to the floor. I wonder if he's taken them off for Sara, if his shirt and pants have slid to the floor on top of them.

I nearly fell to my knees, the wave of desire washing over me as I imagined him naked. Glorious-he must be glorious, the gold of his skin amplified in the dim light, the strength that he holds me up with present in muscle and bone. His love for me painted across his face as his hands close over my skin. Quickly, I stumbled to the bathroom, draining the last of the wine, willing my head to spin. Willing myself to pass out before I can lower myself in the tub and reach between my legs to ease the ache that will never, never pass fully.

I slip on the water that is spilling over the edge, my ankle twisting painfully beneath me as I fall to the floor. A cry of pain escapes my lips, and then another, until I am sobbing on the floor, naked in a pool of water.

Alone.

The walls seem higher than ever.

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**C**

I thought I heard her cry out once, and it took every ounce of willpower in me to not run to her door. I was stumbling around my quarters in the dark, unwilling to turn the lights on and face the truth. It had been difficult to explain to Sara why I was not coming in, especially after we had been half-naked and moaning on her couch the previous evening. She seemed to understand, but I could see the confusion in her eyes as she told me good night. I knew if I turned the lights on and looked at myself in the mirror, I would be forced to face reality:

Kathryn Janeway had become the second half of my soul.

I could no more banish her from my heart and mind than I could banish my own self.

The loneliness bore down on me with a weight I knew I couldn't bear much longer.

I sat on the edge of my bed to pull off my boots, letting them fall heavily to the floor. Swinging my legs up and around, I lay back on my bed, not bothering to remove the simple shirt and pants I'd donned for Sandrine's. One arm fell across my eyes. Perhaps I could sleep if I stopped thinking about her.

And then I heard it-a loud thump-and a cry, like she was in pain. I was out of bed, into the corridor and keying in my override to her door lock before I knew what I was doing. Thrust into the present by a cry from the other side of the wall.

"Kathryn?"

I see the light streaming out of the bathroom, hear the muffled sounds. She is crying. The sound tears at my heart like I have never imagined anything being able to. I step to the door, look in, am stunned by the sight. She lays on the floor in a pool of water, the faucets still running and spilling more around her. Her ankle is twisted up beneath her-the reason for the loud cry.

She is naked.

She is glorious.

I tear my mind away from her long enough to shut the faucets off and grab a robe from the back of the door. I kneel beside her, heedless of the water soaking my pants, and lay the robe on top of her. Much as I want to keep looking, to drink in every inch of her incredible skin, I know how embarrassed she would be.

"Kathryn, I'm going to lift your ankle so I can get a look at it. This may hurt."

She is still shaking, but her tears have stopped, and she is looking at me with a myriad of emotions flashing across her face. Too many to translate at once. I concentrate on her ankle, waiting for the reprisal for entering her quarters without permission.

When I called the Doctor, asking for a site to site transport of a tissue regenerator, I was still waiting. I run the instrument over her foot, the simple sprain healing in seconds. Her fingers creep up to feel the bone, and carefully she flexes the foot back and forth.

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice raspy, her face averted from mine. Her hair has fallen over it and I can't see her expression.

"I'm sorry I came in without permission-I should have called first but I heard you cry out and I just panicked."

"It's fine," she says, her voice hoarse. Thick with tears? Was she crying again? I take a deep breath, reaching out my hand and brushing her hair away from her face, tilting her chin up to look at me. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears.

"Does it still hurt?"

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**J**

I hear the concern in his voice, and I saw the look on his face when he ran into the room. My impetuous First Officer, running ahead of his thoughts. He keyed open my door with only one thought in his head: my safety. But I saw the look on his face, the hunger, the yearning. If it were possible to devour with a look, surely he would have. If I would allow him to.

Allow?

The pain in my ankle is gone; he took care of that like he takes care of everything else for me. He stands beside me, before me, behind me as I need him to, holding me up, taking more than an equal share of my load. I have never been so grateful for anyone in my life. I have never loved so deeply before. I have never been so afraid of so many things. The look on his face now is guarded; I can see the struggle in his eyes. The struggle not to touch me, not to notice that the only thing between his hands and my skin is this robe he has draped over me. He is nearly as wet as I am now, but doesn't seem to notice as he kneels above me, my ankle cradled in his large hands. Gentle, beautifully formed hands that he has held out to me so many times.

Slowly, as if in a dream, my hand reaches out and covers one of his.

He jumps back like he's just reached his hand into the warp core.

"Kathryn...I'm glad you're okay...you should get up off that wet floor before you catch your death. I'll see you in the morning." He is babbling, talking too fast. His tone of voice betrays more emotion than anything else. He is leaving again, I think, and he'll never come back. Not the same way. My chance will be gone. Somewhere I wonder if the wine is speaking, and later I will realize that it's not the wine. It's my soul, crying out for what I have needlessly denied it for so long.

"Chakotay. Please." I reach my hand up towards him, not knowing what I am asking for exactly but frantic for him to stay until I figure it out.

"Kathryn, you're going to get sick, you need to dry off."

I remain sitting, my face turning towards the wall, knowing he will not leave while I sit there. Understanding the power I wield over him. Wanting to give him the same power. Not knowing how. I need him to help me and I don't know how to ask him. Eventually, as I knew he would, he moves back towards me, kneels back down beside me.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Do you love her?" The words are out before I can stop them, hanging in the air in front of his shocked face.

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**C**

It is several seconds before I can answer her, and a million things run through my head. Why is she asking this? What can it mean? I fight down the hope several times, not allowing it to consume me. I need to stay detached, for the moment when she jerks the rug out from under my feet and I am left drowning in her puddle on the floor.

"No." The simple answer is out before I can change it, phrase it more cryptically. My heart will not allow me to deceive her. I see the changes flicker over her face and unexpectedly I feel an anger rising within me. I try to force it away, breathe deeply and try vainly to banish it. It only seems to grow and fester, and part of me is appalled while part of me knows she has forced me to it.

Before she can say anything else, words begin to pour out into the air. Somehow I find the strength to tell her that my personal relationships are none of her business, that she has no claim on my life, that I have been pushed away by her more than any sane man could live with. That I was tired of her games and tired of pretending. I say more to her than I have ever said in one coherent thought, and when my gaze refocuses on her, I expect to see an anger on her face that matches mine.

It isn't there.

Her face is quiet, still. Her eyes meet my gaze evenly and she reaches out her hand to me again.

"I love you."

My heart contracts and then begins beating wildly, and a brightness glows in front of my eyes so that I can hardly see for a long moment. I know I am staring at her, can feel the disbelief mingling with on my face with the joy I cannot stifle. I search her face for the truth and find it, yet part of me still denies.

"The wine, maybe?"

I expect her to be hurt by my words, but she just shakes her head silently. I see the tears welling fresh in her eyes, feel the tremble of her fingers where she has laid them on my arm. I feel my throat tightening, feel my own hands start to shake uncontrollably. Her face trembles, wavering, and finally breaks out into a kind of half-laugh.

"Chakotay-I've been a fool, but I do love you. If you don't want me, if you want Sara, I will-"

I reach out fiercely, yank her hard into my arms. The robe slips down but neither of us notice as I hold her tight against my chest, feel her trembling mingle with my own. My hands wrap themselves in her hair and I tilt her head back. "I've only wanted you, from the beginning," I whisper, and watch a tear break through and roll down her cheek. Unable to wait another second, I lower my lips to hers and the world explodes.

We are locked together tightly, both of us drenched and neither caring. Somehow she manages to divest me of my clothing, and when I pull her naked form against my own, I can feel a door closing somewhere and another opening before us. The love we begin to make is fast and frantic, neither one of us possessing enough patience or sense to slow it down. Together, we slip over the edge.

In my mind, we step through the door in the wall. There is no looking back.

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**J**

I wake in the middle of the night, an unfamiliar weight resting against my back. There is a moment of surprise, and then my lips curve into the pillow. Slowly I roll over so I can see him, and I lay awake a long time, listening to him breathe. Watching his chest rise and fall. His face is so peaceful in sleep; the lines that develop when he furrows his forehead during our frequent arguments are nowhere to be seen. Gently I trace the mark of his people and smooth his hair back from his forehead.

His eyes open.

I watch the split second of shock pass through his gaze, watch his face change as he remembers. Feel his arms curve around my back as he pulls me to him. His heart beats under my ear and the scent of him fills my nose. My tongue darts out to taste the skin briefly, yet I feel him shudder under the contact. Several hours of lovemaking has not sated our hunger. I wonder if a lifetime would be enough to do so.

Outside the door lie problems to deal with. We will face them, together, when the day begins anew. Now it is only the two of us, Chakotay and Kathryn, wrapped in one another in the dim starlight that streams through the window. He begins to kiss me again, and I discover all over that Chakotay's mouth is possibly the most erotic part of his body.

My last coherent thought is of dismantling the wall between our quarters.

And then I realize we've already done it.

FINIS

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