Work Text:
History (Not) Repeating
He hears it as he walks up the townhouse steps—the not-so-distant shouting, the metallic clang of something being flung at a wall with considerable force and speed—and hovers uncertainly on the doorstep, pondering his next move: until the proximity sensor activates the chime.
A tall, dark-haired child with pained grimace on her face opens the door and tries her best to smile up at him. “Hello, uncle. Come in, please.”
She leads him to the kitchen, its large table cluttered with PADDs, old-school notebooks and pencils (he’s proud to see his influence in her choice of writing utensils). He accepts a proffered glass of fresh guava juice, and nods at the disarray. “What are you studying?”
“History.” Another loud twang from upstairs makes both of them glare at the ceiling reproachfully. “Well, I’m trying, at least.”
“What is it this time?”
“What else?” she shrugs with studied annoyance, but he detects a mischievously playful twinkle in her eye, somewhat reminiscent of her father. “New child, same problems. Today, it’s education.”
“Come again?”
“Traditional upbringing in an environment consisting of carefully selected cultural influences, versus Starfleet-approved curriculum of schools and academies.”
“Remind me again—when’s Owie’s birthday?”
“You know very well,” she points out, looking uncannily like her mother. “He’ll be three in nine weeks.”
They smirk at each other, ignoring another round of yelling above their heads—and he picks a PADD up at random. “What’s this about, then?”
“The Burnham Mutiny.” She sighs and frowns, the ridges on her forehead darkening slightly. “I don’t understand it very well.”
“Why not? Can I help?”
“Well,” she pulls her legs up onto her chair and pats a piece of paper with a pencil, “I don’t really get what all this fuss is about. I mean, nobody talks about it much, do they? Not since the Discovery’s mission, and that was ages ago. And not very… you know.”
He nods, echoing her smirk. “I know.”
“And besides, many people mutiny, don’t they? Mum tells me Dad’d spent a month in a brig, but they don’t call it the Paris Mutiny. And you, uncle—“ she fixes him with a long, thoughtful look—“you must have mutinied and at some point, right?”
The words sting, and his first instinct is to snap at her, tell her that these were actually very different things: but in the end, he chooses the more humbling way of peaceful explanation. “Your father didn’t mutiny, Miral—he rebelled. There’s a difference. And I—I hope I never did anything as drastic as Michael Burnham’s actions.”
She cocks her head to the side, the tip of her pencil drawing faint circles on the empty page. “Explain.”
“I’d done many things I’m not proud of—but I have never actively raised a hand against my captain, and neither did Tom.” An image of a Vulcan pressing down on a phaser trigger passes through his mind, and he shudders. “Not willingly, that is.”
“But this shouldn’t matter: Michael Burnham was friends with Captain Georgiou, but you don’t even like her,” Miral points out flatly. “Aunt Kathryn. You never come to dinner when she visits—never open any of her Prixin presents—never even talk about her, though she talks about you lots…”
“She does?” he interrupts, his heart soaring. It’s been ten years since their spectacular return to Earth, but Kathryn Janeway is still a chapter in his life he cannot put behind. Not that there’s been much written in it for the past ten years—if there had been anything at all. It is, of course, his own fault: but to have her call him out on it so bluntly is still surprisingly hurtful.
Miral shrugs, focusing on her homework rather than her guest’s distress. “Sure. What I don’t get,” she adds pointedly, “is why Dad’s trying to save a planet is better than Burnham’s trying to save her ship. And why both of you haven’t been prosecuted,” the word feels too grownup for her small mouth, filling it to the point of bursting, “for what you’d done in the Maquis, like she was.”
“To be fair, your father did go to prison,” Chakotay points out, pulling at his ear. “I did not, but it was only because I was better at hiding from the Federation… for a while longer.”
“And then Aunt Kathryn found you, and you spent seven years in the Delta Quadrant, and Dad met Mum,” she nods, rolling her eyes with an exasperated look of a very young person being told the same story all over again by a very old person. “I know. But you still opposed her, didn’t you? Dad told me how you used to argue and all.”
Funnily enough, he doesn’t remember much arguing—in the very beginning, perhaps, but even that wasn’t in front of the crew; even so, leave it to Tom Paris to notice such things and talk about them to this very day—heated discussions, yes, but those were simply their way of dealing with unspoken emotions, and handling them by proxy. “People don’t always agree in every aspect,” he waves a hand at the ceiling pointedly, and frowns. “Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?”
Miral blanches and wrinkles her nose in disgust. “They’re probably making up,” she spits and shudders bodily. “They’re worse than the girls at my school.” Her eyes return to the PADD, blinking slowly to indicate a dying battery. “Captain Georgiou and Michael Burnham made up soon enough. This person here says mutineers shouldn’t be allowed back on the bridge. That you need to repent for your mistakes. They’re unhappy with what happened later—well, not all of it, obviously, but…” She huffs impatiently, and drops the pencil with a dramatic flair. She looks so much like B’Elanna in that single moment, that Chakotay’s heart soars with pride and joy. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”
“Is it okay to hurt someone you care about?” he asks softly, picking up the discarded pencil. “Someone you should be loyal to?” She shrugs, one short look up the stairs telling him all he needs to know. “There should be an easy way to answer this, but there isn’t one.” He remembers the way a pair of blue eyes clouded and turned away from him as he walked into a reception hall with Seven on his arm. He remembers Seven leaving, not many words and as few months afterwards. He remembers another life—a boat schematics, a patch of tomatoes. A man hunting telepaths. A frightened man almost thrown out of the airlock.
A Vulcan with his hand on a trigger.
A ruptured time. A handshake.
“Sometimes we think we have the right to decide for those we… care about,” he says at length, feeling Miral’s eyes watching him closely. “We think we can protect them from making the wrong choice, taking a step in the wrong direction. That we can save them from the consequences of their actions. Michael Burnham thought that about her captain. I don’t know about your dad, but I sure thought that about… Kathryn. I believed I knew her well enough to know what was best for her… what would have made her happier. Kept her safe from harm.
“But that doesn’t mean I had the right to make that choice for her.” And ultimately, he didn’t—he doesn’t, keeping to the shadows and lurking on the outskirts of her life as he is. He knows she hasn’t—found anyone, and neither has he—which is beside the point, naturally. “We still talk about Michael Burnham’s actions today, because she was one of the first people to defy their commanding officer so openly. The example of a behavior we hope never to repeat: not with our superiors, and not with those we love.”
“But you do,” we says, frowning at him. “They do.” A thumb points at the ceiling. “I do, sometimes.”
Chakotay nods seriously and gives her a gentle smile. “That’s because we’re human, kiddo. Just human. And a part of our humanity is—making mistakes.”
“Can we correct them?” she asks, sounding more uncertain than he’d ever heard her. “Can we make those people… not hate us?”
There’s a rustle at the door, and Chakotay turns in surprise.
“You don’t have to,” Kathryn Janeway says softly, walking over to the table and kissing the top of Miral’s head, her arms wrapped tightly around the little girl’s shoulders. “More often than not, they’re willing to forgive you—almost anything.”
Miral smiles and hugs her favorite aunt back. “Why?”
“Because,” Kathryn answers her, but her eyes never stray from Chakotay’s face, “they usually love and respect you right back.” She gives the girl one final kiss, and pats her cheek gently. “I just spoke to your mother—she’d like a word with you.”
“Okay,” Miral rolls her eyes and gets up, smiling at Chakotay. “Thanks, uncle. Will you stay for dinner?”
“Tomorrow, maybe,” Kathryn answers, before Chakotay has a chance to open his mouth. “Or the day after.”
“That’s optimistic,” he murmurs after Miral skips out into the hallway, and Kathryn walks around the kitchen table and into his long-waiting arms.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she purrs into his ear, making his heart soar. “There’s a piece of history to be made here, I think…”
/end