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“We can work this out,” he says helplessly, sitting down on a chair and staring at his hands—empty, useless, unable now to build her the boat she wanted. Perhaps unable to build anything else, ever. He doesn’t think he could meet her eyes and stay calm and collected.
She sighs and walks up to him, the hem of her skirt brushing his knees. “Look at me.” He shakes his head; it may be childish, petulant, unreasonable: he simply doesn’t care. “Chakotay—“
Her hands cradle the sides of his face, raise it to hers. He closes his eyes in defiance, and thus is caught completely off guard when her lips brush his. He gasps and she takes advantage of the slight parting of his mouth to slip in, her touch oh so gentle and the way her tongue curls around his absolutely perfect.
He knows she’s not giving in to his arguments, not accepting his view of things—this is neither a promise or a reassurance, this is goodbye—so he tries to keep himself from drowning in her, pulling her down onto his lap and doing much more than nip at her lips and drink in all of her small, half-sobbing sighs. He doesn’t accept what’s happening, but what he once said to B’Elanna holds true: Kathryn is the captain, it’s her call to make. He will always hope she changes her mind, but for now, this is their reality. For now, they kiss: and he hopes she can feel a small fragment of his soul attach itself to hers, and find some comfort in it.
This is what he’d promised himself he would do, and he will stay true to his promise.
He finally opens his eyes when the kiss ends, and his resolve shatters into pieces.