A/N: This is a follow on to 'The house that we built' so to understand it, you may wish to read that first.

Foundations

"Breakfast?"

In an attempt to break what has become a tense silence, he raises his eyebrows kindly, at the same time placing the plate cautiously before her. Passing the cutlery, he tries for a smile, but she registers only a weary concern settling on his features. Sitting down opposite, he forks the eggs efficiently into his mouth while she observes, regarding in detail, the damage done.

His expression may be diplomatic, but the newly formed creases around the heavily lidded eyes currently averted from hers and the pronounced lines around his mouth say otherwise. Coupled with the shadow of stubble gracing his cheeks and chin and his careworn shoulder slouch, he looks tired.

She has spent hours enough by his side to have every contour memorised, from the wide, smooth forehead to those dark, telling eyes; stopping at a mouth easily tugged into a slight smile and the dimples that have bought him more than his fair share of female attention. His tattoo is a roadmap so familiar that when she closes her eyes she can see its every detail, no doubt he has her memorised too, although she feels the march of time has been kinder to him, resulting in nothing worse than salt and peppered hair and some distinguished grey at his temples.

A decade or so after they first met he is still tall, broad and striking.

She, on the other hand, knows only too well that their foray into the Delta Quadrant has physically taken its toll. Colouring her hair has become part of her regular routine and while she would never describe herself as vain, the softening of her jawline mirrors that of her body as a whole. She doesn't entirely resent the extra pounds, she'll never admit it, but regaining her hips and increasing her bust by a good cup size has had the pleasant side effect of making her feel more feminine than she has in years. It is almost worth trading up a uniform size for civilian clothes with seams that she can actually fill. The thickening of her waist and arms is less welcome, but she supposes it comes with age and her current largely desk-bound existence.

It hadn't exactly come as a surprise when the senior Starfleet Doctor she had encountered on Earth had looked anxiously up at her from the PADD resting in his hands and sighed. After seven unrelenting years in command, she didn't have delusions of immortality, but apparently, Voyager's EMH had developed a less than honest sub-routine, that or a penchant to lie by omission.

The Physician had spoken slowly, almost entirely without inflexion, peppering his monologue with diagrams and charts to which she gave no more than a cursory glance. His primary concerns were in large part a result of far too long spent running on a mixture of adrenaline, caffeine and bloody-mindedness to paraphrase Tom. It is thanks to that and possibly the well deserved Karma of the majority of a Captaincy spent avoiding Voyager's Sickbay, that she is now forced into bi-annual medicals which seem to get worse each time she attends. The last one, less than a month ago highlighted something that deepened the frown on the Physician's face and she duly ignored his mutterings about considering restricting her time on active duty.

Opposite her, an exhausted Chakotay stifles a yawn. She suspects that he isn't about to let her out of his sight and resigns herself to breakfast, or at the very least to pushing the food skilfully around her plate. Right now, it doesn't take a Betazoid to determine that he is thinking about what transpired. It wasn't strictly what she had intended, but Deanna just might have something to say about her subconscious desire to bring all of this to a head. Fortunately, now is not the time to talk further, she hasn't got the energy and it's obvious that he hasn't either.

In the midst of all this musing, he has stopped eating, watching her not eating and so summoning up all the enthusiasm she can, she retrieves her abandoned fork. After eggs, toast and coffee, they retire to his office. It is a room that despite herself, she likes - dreary and old fashioned is how Tom described it, but it is reminiscent of her Grandfather's study with its heavy wooden furniture, worn couches and bookcases lined with colourful tomes. Some are replicated, but others are genuine antiques she has given him, gifts from the rare book fairs they frequent. Their favourite is on the banks of the River Thames and work permitting, it has become their tradition to visit each Christmas. Closing her eyes, she can almost feel the bitterly cold night air blowing across the water, chilling her cheeks and causing the strings of brightly coloured festive lights slung haphazardly along the concrete Embankment to swing.

Chakotay stretches out on the dark maroon couch, tucking his hands neatly behind his head as she sits curled up on the opposite armchair, still nursing her mug of coffee.

"Promise me you'll be here when I wake up?"

He softens the question with his trademark smile, but it still stings and rapidly tiring of explaining herself to him; to all of them, she fails to hold back a frown.

"I just needed some space Chakotay."

"And now?"

She expected this at some point, although she'd have taken later over sooner.

His speciality - gently probing; open-ended questions. Questions that ask far more than the mere sum of their words. Even with him, she has never been good at full disclosure; the intimacy it brings and after spending the greater part of the last ten years together, it is strange to have spent the majority of the last month trying to avoid him and his righteous anger. She resents being made to feel like a scolded teenager.

"And now, I need some more coffee."

Walking back into the kitchen, she catches a glimpse of his tanned fingers rubbing his furrowed forehead as his eyes close.

Guilt. The familiar feeling is back and as she stands by the doors that open out onto the garden and watches the dawn sky slowly changing from a dark, inky grey to a soft, streaky violet, she wonders just when she will feel something else.

Chakotay sleeps deeply and doesn't wake when his door chimes. Kathryn is reluctant to answer the repeating call, Tom is the only person that she could reasonably expect to see and is not due until later. Asking the computer to identify the caller, it is a surprise when the monotone voice states that it is one Lieutenant Thomas Paris.

The first thing that greets her once he crosses the threshold is a bright smile, followed by a cautious hug and a critical eye. "You didn't even attempt to use a dermal regenerator?"

You're early Mister."

He nods, his hand finding the small of her back as they stand side-by-side in the hallway, "I can't stay, the flight school have called me in to evaluate a student, but I thought I'd drop in and fix you up first."

"She starts to walk, beckoning him to follow. "Come through to the kitchen."

After offering coffee which Tom politely declines, she perches on a stool at the breakfast bar and submits. It has only been twenty-four hours give or take, but she is heartily sick of her aching face and throbbing jaw and of the pain that constricts her chest each time she inhales more than a mouse-sized breath. Perhaps, it has served a purpose, forced her to confront her demons and amend a bad decision, albeit one taken for justifiable reasons.

Tom sets his Medkit precisely on the counter before slowly lifting his tricorder to scan her, eyebrows raising slightly in unnecessary permission. He is appraising her, trying to make sense of all of this, just as she had done the previous night. It is a strange turnaround, the erstwhile student now evaluating his mentor.

"I'll start with your head and jaw. Any pain, dizziness or blurred vision?"

She shakes her mildly pounding head. "Not really, but I think I cracked a tooth."

Features twisting into a grimace of sympathy, he places two fingers underneath her chin. "That will take a specialist I'm afraid. Well above my humble pay grade. While I'm at HQ, I'll see if I can book you an appointment with Dental."

Closing her eyes against the bright morning light now streaming through the window, she takes a second to enjoy its lingering warmth on her skin. Sunlight straight from Heaven as her mother used to say, capable of warming the coldest of hearts. Back on Earth, she makes time to appreciate the newfound delights of real fresh air and sunshine. Tilting her chin to allow him access to her jaw, he nimbly tucks the strands of hair behind her ear.

"Just do me a favour and don't ever do that to me again."

She knows this to be a perfectly reasonable request, but it jars her pride and she chooses to deflect with an uncharacteristically glib attempt at sarcasm.

"Sit outside and enjoy the view?"

Refusing to play along, he steps directly into her eye line, casting a long, lean shadow, blocking out the comforting rays. He takes one of her hands and stooping slightly to bring his face close to level with hers, holds on just firmly enough to let her know that he's serious, that even to the self-proclaimed king of one-liners, this is no joking matter.

"You shut me out Kathryn, shut us all out. We're a family and you don't get to do that anymore."

The honesty bites, a warm flush spreads across her chest and upwards and she manages the smallest of nods. She is saved from the need to say anything further as he spins her around to examine the lump on the back of her head, angling her chin downwards which causes her to close her eyes against a wave of dizziness. A silence hangs during which time she inches her left hand sideways until her fingers find a kitchen cabinet. Palm braced against the solid, grainy wood she is able to stay upright by focussing on a single point on the slate floor until the rolling sensation passes.

He squeezes her shoulder lightly, his way of saying that he accepts her unspoken apology. Between Tom and her more often than not, it is about what is left unspoken and he knows that just as well as she does. Attempting to lower her defences, she drops her shoulders a little as he pronounces her head wound healed. "Permission to check your ribs? I have to warn you though, I have horribly cold hands."

His voice has regained a cheerful quality and she unbuttons her navy shirt. As soon as the soft fabric falls open however, she begins to feel uneasy. In all their years aboard Voyager, she had come around in Sickbay fairly regularly without really giving much thought to just how much Tom or the EMH had seen, back then it was part of her job and of theirs. You were injured and then you were fixed and then it was over. Now though, she feels a shade less than exposed as Tom's hands carefully slide her open shirt from her shoulders until it forms a crumpled heap of soft material pooled in her lap. Balling the fabric into the palms of her hands, she holds on tightly, an unpleasant sense of shame building. The fresh, red-purple bruises track almost the entire circumference of her torso, starting on her slightly softer stomach and finishing just beneath the fastener of her blue satin bra. Tom palpates her midsection gently, his eyes flicking repeatedly upwards to her face, observing for any signs of pain.

"She doesn't meet his gaze, fighting hard to keep her breathing light and her Captain's expression perfectly schooled.

Moving on to examine her back, he is privy to the imprint of a large military-style boot, its heel just shy of the ribs on her left-hand side and its toe print almost reaching the base of her right shoulder blade. The amount of pain each of his gentle touches elicits confirms her suspicion that it did some damage and requires an almost herculean effort not to wince. Immeasurably worse, however, is that it evidences that she was outnumbered and outfought and ended up on the floor, out of options, curled into a ball. Not the outcome the Starfleet Officer in her ever wants to acknowledge.

Tom's hands are not cold and she feels him methodically press each of her ribs with care before she hears the hum of the regenerator start and then abruptly stop. There is a pause and when he speaks, his voice is quiet but contains a clarity that she can't ignore. "Kathryn, am I making you uncomfortable?"

Inconsiderately perceptive, his right-hand rests lightly on her waist, skin on skin. The question waits patiently to be answered and fleetingly she considers lying, but they have known each other for too long and have come too far. Shaking her head, she motions for him to come back around to face her, resisting the urge to lift the shirt that still sits in her lap. She places one hand over his, skin on skin and he studies their joined hands apparently understanding the deeper meaning of the gesture.

"It's not me, is it? This attack - it was the tipping point?"

She nods, finding some honesty for the first time. "I've realised that I can't live a lie."

At this, his bright eyes return to look deeply into hers; his voice serious, he is every inch the outstanding Starfleet Officer that she knows him to be.

"You know exactly what you'd say if the positions were reversed. Given the circumstances, none of us would have done differently and I'd have that bloody great boot print too. Your instincts probably saved your life."

She nods and he gives her an affectionate version of his trademark grin before withdrawing his hand to resume running the regenerator back and forth. The gnawing, gripping pain starts to dull and gratefully, she takes a deep lungful of air and proceeds to cough heartily.

Work complete, he offers a glass of water and a hypospray. "For the headache and the dizziness, don't think I didn't notice you almost fall off that stool earlier."

Tilting her head for him to administer the drug, she offers an eye roll by way of thanks. Shaking his head, he works his magic on her hands, the skin on her knuckles turning from an angry purple back to a pale rose tint, flexing her fingers gingerly, she catches the mischievous glint in his eye.

"It looks like you managed to land a good punch or two Ma'am."

She can't resist a wry smile as she starts to button her shirt. "And that's just the beginning Tom."

Chakotay wakes about twenty minutes after Tom has gone, just as she is dozing in the chair. He eyes her sleepily, "Is that an impressive DIY job or did Mr Paris pay us a visit?"

She shoots him a look. "Tom couldn't stay, he was on his way to work. He'll be back later and he said he'll bring dinner from that Thai place near HQ."

"Chakotay pulls himself into a more upright position, stretching his shoulders. It might be her imagination, but he looks vaguely resentful.

"He means a lot to you doesn't he?"

It's an obvious statement given her closeness to Tom and his family and far from the comment she is expecting, she doesn't reply, waiting for him to offer a clarification.

"Deanna said that his relationship with you is safe ground."

Although essentially accurate, the statement doesn't do their relationship justice and she bristles, realising that he is watching her reaction keenly. Suddenly, she is wary of the direction in which the conversation is headed.

"I've never phrased it quite like that, but I guess she could be right."

"Could be?"

Irritated, she finally takes the bait. "I consider him as part of my family, of our family."

Her voice softens at the end of the sentence and he stares at her, before rubbing one hand across his face.

"Deanna contacted Tom first. He told me that she called him when she couldn't reach me, but I checked the logs and she contacted him a full two minutes earlier."

Still unsure of the potential significance, she tries to avoid clenching her jaw, keeping her tone carefully neutral.

"I didn't know."

"How could you?"

She is rapidly tiring of this. "Is this going anywhere Chakotay? Does it bother you that she contacted Tom first?"

His expression darkens. "It doesn't bother me, no."

"That's a lie."

The speed of her retort only confirms its veracity, but all of a sudden she wants to stop this dance that their conversation has become. Closing her eyes she takes a deep, slow breath. When she opens them, something about the way that he fixes her with his gaze tells her that he is going to be totally, and brutally, honest.

"You're right Kathryn. It does matter because Deanna was correct."

Pointedly, he holds looks skyward. "I was angry with you Kathryn. The distance I put between us….. it was intentional."

Allowing herself to feel the aching sadness that she has been suppressing for weeks, she almost smiles. "I know."

He brings his forearms to rest on his knees, one large hand clasping the other. "Deanna counselled me last night. She sat me down and showed me that I was angry because of the depth of feelings I have for you, Ibiriis may have been a bad call, but it didn't break us. I did and for that, I'm sorry."

At his carefully chosen words, she moves to mirror his posture, angling her body until their knees are almost touching.

"What else did she say?"

"That you needed your best friend."

Her voice sits just above a whisper. "I do Chakotay."

Suddenly he stands. "I'll go and make us some tea."

He doubts her statement with every fibre of his being, footsteps heavy with uncertainty. Such is the nature of their relationship since Ibiriis, mainly due she suspects, to the way she has treated him. Desperate to begin the process of rebuilding and unwilling to let him leave, she follows him into the kitchen, resisting the urge to reach out and physically hold him as realisation dawns that she has to find a way to let him in.

"Chakotay, my place... I was wondering if….."

She tails off, unsure if she is on the right track. He says nothing further instead concentrating on retrieving the cups and placing them on the work surface. The slight inclination of his head and the way that he subtly shifts his feet, however, indicates that he is listening, waiting for her to make her move, to extend the olive branch.

To begin to tell him the truth.

Biting the bullet, she admits something that so far she has not told another soul and just one of the many reasons she was out on the rooftop. Her voice shakes a fraction as she struggles with the admission, fighting a sense of failure that has never come easily.

"I - don't want to go back there."

Chakotay doesn't miss a beat, immediately turning his entire body towards hers. Eyes full of compassion, his gentle expression soothes the troubled air between them like a potent, yet invisible balm. He takes a stride forward and simply extends his hands. Purposefully, she rests her palms on top of his, twisting her fingers until their hands are clasped. It feels safe and warm and she wonders how she ever let him go.

They stand face to face in the sunlit stillness, grateful to have found each other again until he pulls her close, circling his arms protectively around her shoulders.

"Then stay Kathryn. Stay for as long as you want."