Her accepting his hand was as good of an invitation as he would get, and Alfred seized on in. He took a step towards her, still holding her hand, and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders. He pulled Zelda in against his chest and tucked his chin against her shoulder. (This was what one couldn't do in a letter; was this what had been missing all along?)

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I'm sorry we don't get to do anything anymore. I'm sorry you haven't gotten to see all my tattoos." It was ridiculous that she hadn't, really. He'd wanted to show her the very first day he'd met her. The thought had occurred to him out of nowhere, like an impulse — in retrospect that's how he'd known he'd liked her right away. But he'd only been undressed around her once, just before the Voyager set sail, and they'd both been drunk and had their minds too much on each other's bodies to care about tattoos.

"I'm sorry about Jo," he continued, which was true. Not sorry for being friends with her, or even for almost-kissing her one time, over a year ago, when it shouldn't have mattered. He was sorry that things had come out like this and that Zelda had gotten such an awful impression of the pair of them. He was sorry that Jo kept saying things that were hurtful, even if she didn't realize it (he was sure she didn't, and could not judge her too harshly when he had just delivered the most inelegant explanation of their escapades possibly of all time).

Alfred stopped for a moment, holding her. After a pause he added a little reluctantly, "I'm sorry for being drunk."