C/P story part 3
7 February 2004 20:11![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mandragoraAnd there's more
Chapter Three
Captain's Log. Stardate: 50525.3
We have encountered a new race with which we are finding it difficult to communicate, as their speech doesn't readily translate. Unfortunately, their actions to date have been hostile, as they beamed into a shuttle occupied by Lieutenants Torres and Hamilton, who were investigating some unusual sensor readings that we had detected, and attacked my officers. Lieutenant Torres has made a full recovery, but Lieutenant Hamilton is still unconscious in sickbay. I have called a meeting of the senior staff to determine how best to proceed.
End entry.
~~~~~
Chakotay looked consideringly round at the senior staff. Rollins had just played the shuttle's recording of the aliens' strange hissing, clicking speech, which the universal translator had been unable to translate, although Harry was working on it. Neelix had reported to the meeting that he had heard rumours of these particular aliens, that they were known as being very protective of their territory, which unfortunately encompassed a huge area of space.
"So, if we go round, we'll be adding months to our journey," Kim commented.
"Fifteen months at maximum warp, actually," Paris said. "But, there's a narrow stretch of their space in front of us that would only take four days at maximum warp to go through, although I guess the aliens wouldn't be too pleased to find us there."
Chakotay pondered the options for a moment. "We'll go through," he said, decisively.
"Um," Paris started to say.
"Yes?" Chakotay asked.
Paris looked a little uncomfortable. "Er, I just thought I ought to point out that it's contrary to regs to encroach on other species' territory."
Chakotay raised an eyebrow. "So, you're suggesting that we ought to go round?"
"Hell no! Just thought I ought to let you know, First Officer's duty and all that," Tom drawled.
The Captain glared at him. "Thank you Lieutenant, for that lesson in Starfleet regulations," he said sarcastically.
Paris flushed as he saw the barely concealed smiles of some of his colleagues. Damn Chakotay anyway, he'd only been trying to do his job! "Yeah, well, I just thought you should know, that's all," he muttered.
"Duly noted," Chakotay said briskly. "But I'm not going to waste fifteen months going round."
Just then he received a message from the Doctor. "Lieutenant Hamilton's condition has deteriorated," the hologram reported. "I will need to operate."
Chakotay thanked the Doctor, and dismissed the meeting, most of the senior staff filing out to take their positions on the bridge. Paris remained behind.
"Yes?" Chakotay said curtly.
After a moment's hesitation, Paris responded. "Perhaps as Hamilton's out of commission, I ought to take the conn."
Chakotay favoured the lieutenant with a withering look. "I don't think that's necessary. We have plenty of other pilots, after all. Even if they're not 'the best pilot in the Delta Quadrant'." There was a definite edge of sarcasm to his voice as he spoke.
The younger man's mouth tightened as he forcibly restrained himself from making a retort that would likely have him brought up on charges of insubordination. "Fine," he said curtly. "I'll get to the bridge then." With that, he turned and stalked out of the room, throwing himself into the First Officer's chair, sulkily pondering once more the injustice of him being First Officer on board Voyager. He gazed longingly at the conn, thinking how much he'd rather be sitting there than here, how he'd rather be piloting the ship, than having to endure cheap shots from his Captain, particularly when he spoke up to remind him of regulations in accordance with his duty. Surely by this time Chakotay ought to know him well enough to understand that he too, wanted to risk going through, not wasting time going round. Even though, truth be told, he wasn't all that fussed about getting back to the Alpha Quadrant and the life he'd had there. Although, on the other hand, the sooner Voyager got home, the sooner he'd be able to stop trying to pretend to be the First Officer. And could get back to what he loved best - piloting.
~~~~~
Captain's Personal Log. Stardate: 50252.3
We're now through the aliens' space, almost unscathed. I'll admit that their invasion of the ship was a little unnerving, but am pleased that all the crew fought well, managing to repel them. Harry's advice, once the aliens' small ships started clamping to the hull that they had the effect of the lattice, made me realise that killing one of them should cause a chain reaction. Luckily I was right.
In hindsight, I wonder whether I should have acted in accordance with Paris' reminder of Starfleet regulations and gone round. Although cutting through worked well enough this time, next time we might not be so lucky. I find myself wondering, as I have done in respect of many of the decisions I've had to make since her death, whether Kathryn would have made the same decision. I suspect, knowing her, that she would have felt the same as me, that she wasn't going to let this alien race needlessly add months on to our journey. I find it strange to realise that what Paris did, when he reminded me of regulations, was carry out the job I would have had to do, if I was still first officer to Kathryn's captain. So why was I so annoyed at Paris quoting regulations at me? It was the way he said it that got to me - as usual. I suppose he was just carrying out his duty, when he reminded me, but every time he says something along those lines...Is it just my imagination that he's gloating, taking an opportunity to get at me? Am I confusing his attitude now with his deliberate baiting of me when he was attempting to find out that Jonas was a spy? I think it's something I need to meditate on. He has done some good work since his promotion, after all. It's just...I can't help wishing that the person who was by my side was someone else, or more accurately, I suppose, that I was beside hers. Also, the creator knows, Paris is one of the most irritating people I've ever met.
On a happier note, I'm relieved that the alarming deterioration in the condition of the Doctor was alleviated. He was becoming forgetful, unable to carry out his duties, but faced with the prospect of re-initialising his programme, and losing all the social growth he's made, I was very reluctant to order this without trying to save his programme as it is. Kes really went to fight for him, I wonder if he knows how good a friend he has in her? This experience has made me thankful for the extra crew who are training as sickbay assistants at the moment, in accordance with Paris' cross training programme. Kes does an excellent job, but her life expectancy isn't long and with the attendant risk we run out here, the more assistants, the better.
End entry.
********
Tom looked with distaste at the brightly coloured substances, that Neelix called food, on his plate. Food shouldn't be that virulent a purple, should it? He looked round, seeing if there was anyone he could join for dinner, but the messhall was almost empty at this hour, its lighting dimmed, and the only people here were not persons he wanted to spend any time with. He went to an empty table in the middle of the room and attempted to eat Neelix' latest culinary creation. He was concentrating hard on trying to force the food down, so wasn't initially aware that he was the subject of conversation.
"Oh, c'mon, it's just a matter of time 'til he screws up again," Chang was saying, stabbing futilely at a rounded piece of fruit in his salad as he spoke.
Jackson nodded in agreement. "Nothing new there." He took a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. "Look what happened a few weeks ago, we shoulda known that if anyone would get thrown into prison, it'd be him. Not to mention dragging his buddy down with him. I tell you, if I was Kim..."
"I don't know," Jones interrupted, her dark, Welsh eyes thoughtful. "I don't think it was his fault, that time."
"Yeah?" Jackson said, sceptically. "How many times has he been in prison now, here in the Delta Quadrant?"
"I guess he must miss it back home," M'debele snickered. "That's why he keeps on being jailed."
Jackson grimaced. "That's up to him. But I hafta ask how many times we're going to have to bail him out. Plus, the Captain risked his neck to save him and if you ask me, when faced with a choice between his neck and Chakotay's, I know which one I'd choose."
Tom sat there in silence, thinking wearily 'Shit. Again.' More comments from some of the crew doubting his ability to perform as exec, comments about how likely it was he'd screw up. And okay, these comments seemed to always come from the same small group of people, but he feared that their attitude reflected what other crewmembers thought, but didn't say openly. Even after the more open taunting in Sandrine's a few weeks again, he'd continued to ignore the talk, figuring that it *had* to die down in time, sooner or later. Always assuming that he didn't screw up, of course. And so long as they didn't actually refuse his orders, well, he could live with the sneers and the taunts. Even though he was pretty sure that the crew obeyed his orders only out of the respect that they had for the Captain, not hesitating to let him know what they thought of those orders.
For example, although Crewman Chang hadn't made any secret about his displeasure at having to undertake cross training, he'd sulkily agreed to undertake it in the end. Not without a great deal of whining though. This was the case even though the specialisation Tom had assigned him to, in the airponics bay, was one he was well suited for, in accordance with his prior experience of growing up in a farming colony in the Alpha Quadrant. When he'd complained, Tom had asked him to suggest another specialisation, but the man hadn't been able to come up with anything else. He was one of the crew who probably should have been put on report, but the very fact that he would have to report them was an admission of failure that Tom was reluctant to make.
And it wasn't as if this sort of thing wasn't something he hadn't been used to in the past, after all, although it had hurt rather more than he liked to admit to hear a resumption of this type of thing after a time without having to live with it. Plus, what could he do to prevent it? Go running to Chakotay whining that the crew didn't respect him. When hell freezes over. He wasn't prepared to give Chakotay the satisfaction and, in any event, he knew all too well that respect couldn't be ordered, that it had to be earned.
So, as usual he'd just sit here and take it, grit his teeth and keep quiet. Although what he'd really like to do was take these cretins and beat the shit out of them. Who was it who said that violence solved nothing? He couldn't remember, and they were probably right, but it sure would make him feel better. He decided to force himself to eat up, aware that what little appetite he had was rapidly dissipating, but God knows he needed the energy, as he was pretty tired, having been working hard, not least on the training schedules.
He looked round as more people entered the messhall. Ensign Boretski, Dalby, Nicoletti and Galloway. A peculiar combination. Boretski glared at Tom as he walked over to the counter. The man hadn't taken Tom's suggestion about him appreciating shorter reports at all well, had obviously been highly insulted at the suggestion. Ah well, he'd tried and in any event it would have been worth it, if his reports had actually got any shorter. Which they hadn't.
Then Tom heard Jackson's voice, several notches louder than he had been, obviously intending to be heard by the new entrants to the messhall. "Yeah well, no argument here, Paris the fuck-up on the one hand, versus the Captain on the other. No contest."
Tom kept his eyes on his plate, but was peripherally aware out of the corner of his eye that Boretski, Galloway and Nicoletti, even Dalby, were looking shocked at the open insult. Shit. Both Boretski and Galloway had a propensity to gossip, this would be all over the ship in an hour. Even the tenuous respect he now seemed to command would evaporate if he didn't deal with it. He had to do something, couldn't let this one pass by without taking action.
He rose slowly to his feet, catching Neelix' sympathetic glance as the Talaxian made himself busy cleaning up the counter. He had a brief memory of their food fight; it seemed so long ago now. He walked over to where Jackson and his cronies sat. "What did you call me Crewman Jackson?" he asked, in a level toned, but clear voice, giving the man the chance to retract, or at least pretend he hadn't said it. If not, he'd be going on report.
Jackson smirked at him, his bald head gleaming with reflected light. "What? You didn't hear? Not going deaf are you Paris?"
"I'm afraid not," Tom retorted. "And it's *Lieutenant* Paris. I just wanted to make sure I'd heard you right, before I put you on report for insubordination."
"On *report*!" Jackson said mockingly. "Ooh, I'm scared."
Tom's features hardened, the normally youthful features suddenly appearing several years older. "You'd prefer the brig?"
The other man shrugged. "Sure. A nice vacation, a break from this cross training shit you've inflicted on us. Yeah, I've got no problem with the brig."
Tom clenched his fists. Was this how Chakotay had felt, when he'd been mouthing off at him? So angry, so helpless? Well fuck that. He was sick of this, the attitude of these people, their complaints, the lack of respect. He was going to do something about it, right now. He smiled carefully at Jackson. "Okay," he said slowly. "Let's settle this the Maquis way."
Jackson's expression reflected his surprise, which segued into poorly concealed delight. "All right with me." He pushed his chair away from the table and stood, unfolding to his considerable height, maybe a couple of centimetres taller than Tom and much broader, with wide, strong shoulders. He looked to be in good shape physically, as indeed he was. It was his proud boast that he had the best work out programme in the Delta Quadrant. His table companions hastily stood up and moved away, leaving the two men staring at one another in a clear space. Scattered round the messhall, the other persons present watched the confrontation with varying degrees of wariness and disbelief.
"Sooo," Tom drawled. "You want a piece of me, Jackson. Come and get me!"
The bigger man feinted suddenly, made to grab Paris, but instead caught empty air, as Tom dodged to the side. Tom smirked at him. "C'mon Jackson," he taunted. You can do better than this. I thought you were in security!"
The enraged crewman tried again and this time caught an arm, but even as he did so, Tom sank the other into his gut. Jackson collapsed, bent over wheezing, as Tom moved behind him, twisting his arm up behind him in a hold that he would have to break his bones to displace. Jackson's face scrunched up in pain, he was red faced and sweating. By contrast, Tom looked cool and calm.
"I want an apology," he said fiercely. "Or I'll break your arm." As he spoke, he twisted his hold, causing Jackson to cry out in pain. He was silent for a moment, until Tom tightened his hold again. Jackson whitened, he knew there was to be no escape, as no one made a move to intervene.
"I'm s...sorry," he stuttered.
"What was that!"
"I apologise," Jackson yelled as the hold tightened further. He felt that his bones were on the verge of cracking.
"Sir!"
"Sir! I apologise, sir!"
At that Tom let him go. Jackson went to his knees, cradling his injured arm.
"All right. We'll let it go at that," Paris said. "This time." He gazed round the room, meeting the shocked gazes of those members of the crew who were present. "Anyone else?" he asked.
There were various headshakes and murmurs of "No sir." Jackson was known to be a more than competent fighter, but Paris had defeated him shockingly easily. Not one of Jackson' cronies was prepared to face him, not after seeing that.
"Good!" Tom strode out of the room.
~~~~~~
Chakotay heard the report from Boretski with disbelief. He didn't much like the man, considered him to be a brown noser, as was borne out by what he'd just been told, but in this instant he was glad that Boretski had come to see him. Even though Boretski had interrupted his precious off-duty time and come to find him in his quarters. "I see," he said quietly. "Thank you Ensign."
"Um, not at all, sir." Boretski had felt nothing but glee at the opportunity to put the mocking, insulting Lieutenant Paris in his place, but the Captain's fixed expression frightened him a little. He certainly wouldn't want to be in Paris' shoes right now. "If I may be excused, sir?"
"Yes, of course."
Boretski left the room quickly, leaving Chakotay sitting there in silence for a moment, attempting to calm down the pool of rage he felt welling to the surface, disturbing his emotional equilibrium. He had rarely been so angry. The First Officer was meant to set an example to the rest of the crew, not brawl like a deckhand! "Computer, location of Lieutenant Paris," he snapped.
"Lieutenant Paris is in holodeck 2"
Chakotay got swiftly to his feet and stalked out of the room, every footfall resonating determination. On arrival at holodeck 2, he noted that the privacy lock was in place, but used his command authorisation to override it. Within, he found that Paris had engaged some sort of Klingon programme; he couldn't see much, as a chill, dank mist permeated the air, but he could hear Klingon war cries in the distance and the underground footing was rough and uneven, a Klingon trait, designed to trap the unwary.
"Computer, freeze programme," Chakotay ordered.
"What the fuck!" Paris' startled voice exclaimed. Chakotay espied through the mist a dim form moving swiftly towards him. As it drew nearer he could see it was dressed in a one piece, tight fitting exercise outfit of dark green that clung tightly, outlining the underlying trim physique.
"What do you think you're doing?" Tom asked, annoyance palpable in his voice. Then, realising who it was: "Oh, it's you Captain."
"I think that should be my line," Chakotay said tightly.
"Huh?" Paris was obviously confused.
"What the *hell* did you think you were doing earlier, brawling in the messhall!?"
Paris shrugged, then folded his arms and leaned back casually against the jagged wall of the cave. "Oh that. Good news travels fast, I guess."
Chakotay stared at him in disbelief. "That's it? You, as First Officer were fighting with a subordinate, in public, and that's all you've got to say?"
Paris' expression tightened, even as the long body stiffened, the seemingly relaxed posture falling away. "Jackson was insubordinate, so I dealt with the problem, okay."
"No, it is not okay," Chakotay spat. Your conduct is beyond reprehensible, it's *disgraceful*. There are proper channels to deal with insubordination and a command officer does *not* stoop to brawling."
Paris lifted a mocking eyebrow. "Oh really. So, that time you hit Dalby doesn't count then?!"
"That was different! He was one of my men and--"
"Oh, I get it," Paris interrupted, pushing himself off the wall and moving closer to Chakotay as he spoke. "It's okay for *you* to hit someone by way of discipline, but not me. Well, that figures!"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Chakotay yelled, his rage becoming incandescent now. How dare Paris seek to justify himself, by comparing his conduct to his own? There was no similarity in their actions, none. When he had hit Dalby, it had been a calculated move, to keep the peace, whereas from all accounts Paris had simply lost control. And that was inexcusable in a command officer. He, too, shifted position until he was standing, fists clenched by his sides, opposite the other man, close enough to feel the exhalations of air as he breathed.
Paris jerked his head back, hackles rising at this invasion of his personal space. "That you have one code of conduct for you and another one for me. That it was okay for you to discipline the crew as you saw fit, when you were First Officer, but let me try the same thing and wham! I'm out of line. Well, maybe you're the one out of line. You never wanted me as First Officer, you've made that more than plain. Hell, the whole crew knows it. No wonder they don't respect me. Why should they, when you obviously don't! Well, fuck you Chakotay, because I have *had* it!" He was yelling now, in his turn, as he pivoted on his heel, intending to leave the holodeck, when he stopped short as felt his arm grabbed by Chakotay, restraining him, preventing him from moving. He stared incredulously into eyes darkened by rage into chips of obsidian, unaware that his eyes too were dark pools of anger.
"Oh no, you don't," Chakotay said, through clenched teeth. "I haven't finished yet."
"Let go of me." Tom's tone was deadly.
Chakotay didn't release his hold. "Or what?" he sneered. "You'll hit me too, Lieutenant!?"
Tom swung round until he was directly opposite Chakotay. Both men were breathing hard with rage, standing close together, almost pressed chest to chest. "Don't tempt me!"
Chakotay felt an odd sense of joy. Was this going to be it, at last! Was he finally going to get the chance to wipe that arrogant expression off Paris' face? He realised that he had, subconsciously, longed for this moment for a long time, payback for all the shit he'd had to take from Paris over the years, culminating in the time Paris had made a fool out of him in front of the whole ship, letting everyone know how much he'd enjoyed baiting Chakotay, that Chakotay hadn't been sufficiently trusted by Kathryn Janeway to be part of the plan to catch the spy. Oh, this was going to feel *so* good.
Tom attempted to pull his arm free, but Chakotay tightened his hold. At that, Paris gave his anger free reign, striking at Chakotay with his other arm. But Chakotay was ready for him, grabbing the striking arm. Paris tried to yank free, but Chakotay was too strong for him. They struggled for a few moments, rocking backwards and forwards, feet scuffing in the dirt, surrounded by the eerily unmoving mist.
Chakotay's whole concentration was on the other man. He gleefully realised from Paris' fixed expression that he was hurting the other man. But it wasn't enough, he wanted to make Paris *really* hurt, tear him, rip him apart! He released an arm, Paris pulled back, preparatory to hitting him, but, instead, the broader man landed a walloping punch to the ribs, which made Paris cry out in pain. Chakotay grinned, revelling in the other man's cry, his normal calm demeanour quite absent. Both men had discarded the mask of civilisation; this was primitive, unscientific combat, visceral, bloody and heartfelt.
Chakotay felt his heart race as he struck at Paris, again and again, Tom falling back, able only to ride out the punishing blows. Then he was down, rolling desperately to avoid the kick that Chakotay aimed at the prone body. In a neat, fluidly blurred movement, he went head over heels to land on his feet, ready to attack. He viciously kicked Chakotay's knee, the leg collapsing under Chakotay, who desperately grabbed hold of Paris. As he did so, the younger man punched at Chakotay's gut. He reeled backwards, hand catching in the low neck of Paris' outfit, which tore, baring him to the hip. Paris kicked Chakotay, hard, again, under the knee; this time Chakotay went down, grabbing hold of Paris as he did so. They landed hard on the ground, Paris falling on top of Chakotay. The Captain lay there stunned for a moment, the breath knocked out of him, then attempted to heave the lighter man off him. To his utter disbelief he failed. He was well and truly pinned.
"H...had enough?" Tom wheezed.
"Never!" Chakotay snarled. "Let me go!"
"So you can hit me again? No thanks!"
Stalemate. The two men lay there, unmoving, for several moments, gasping for breath, neither willing to give way. Pinned under Paris, Chakotay gradually became aware just how closely the other man was pressed to him. He could feel practically every centimetre of that firm, lithe body lying on top of him. That beautiful body. At that thought, the atmosphere changed, the rage-scented air deepened, thickened. Brown eyes met blue, as Tom's hold on Chakotay's arms slackened, allowing the older man to pull his arms free. But, far from using this to free himself, instead, Chakotay seized Paris' head by its sweat soaked hair and dragged his lips down to meet his.
The kiss was bruisingly hard, both men vying for control. Tongues met and tangled, exploring the scent and taste of the other. In the back of his mind, Chakotay was aware that he was as much aroused at this moment as he'd ever been in his life. He groaned, low in his throat as he broke the kiss, nuzzling at Paris' neck, inhaling his scent, a mixture of sweat and cologne, licking at the fair skin, glowing even in the dim light of the cavern, savouring the salty taste. He was still holding the younger man's head, fingers caressing the nape of the neck, revelling in the feeling of the soft, silken strands of hair sliding through his fingers. He licked down Tom's exposed chest, tasting blood, mingled with sweat, feeling the contrast in texture, smooth skin and soft hair. He sucked hard as he reached a nipple, feeling Paris' sharp intake of breath, pressed close as they were. He realised that Tom's fingers were at the fastening of his uniform, as he felt the touch of cold air to his exposed skin as the neck of the turtleneck slid open.
With a heave of muscle, he switched positions, until he was looking into dilated blue eyes below his. Then he stilled. Triumphantly: "You want this!"
A gasping confirmation, "Yes."
He kissed Paris hard, again, and again, rejoicing in the other man's response to his brutal kisses. Passion, too long stilled, made its presence felt. This was irresistible; it was real, and raw. He was out of control and he didn't care. Both men were breathing in harsh, panting gasps, but there was no other sound. Chakotay sat up, kneeling astride Paris and shrugged off his jacket, then swiftly pulled the turtleneck over his head. As he moved he was enjoying the sight of Tom Paris, practically half-naked beneath him. Even if this wasn't quite what he'd thought he'd had in mind when he'd thought about pounding Paris into the ground. He became aware that Paris was struggling to sit up, and reached down to pin him to the ground, but even as he did so, he felt the lieutenant's surprisingly strong arms seize him in an embrace, long fingers running up and down his bared back. He shivered and ground his hips into the other man's, feeling the bulge of his arousal, rubbing at it with his own. He sat up, pulling Tom up with him, until both torsos were upright and helped Tom strip off the remnants of his exercise suit from his arms, leaving the torn rags to hang round his waist.
Chakotay wanted more. He reached for the fastener at the front of the trousers, undoing it, and reached within to feel the smooth, hot shaft, running his fingers round the head, spreading the moisture trembling at the tip. At that, Paris whimpered. Chakotay grasped the shaft in his hand, and moved his hand slowly up and down. Tom gasped, his grip on the older man slackening. Chakotay pushed him down flat onto the ground, not ceasing his motion on Paris' cock.
"Faster," Tom gasped. Chakotay grinned down at him, ferociously, enjoying the sight of the young man lying there, his lips swollen, from *his* kisses, eyes darkened with passion. He speeded up his motions, not taking his eyes off Paris for a moment. He wanted this, wanted to see how he looked when he came, wanted to know that he was the one who made him come, that he was exerting control over the beautiful body lying on the ground, the exposed skin gleaming like starlight. His greedy eyes missed nothing, noting as Tom bit at his lower lip, the restless movement of his head, the way his hips bucked as his breathing quickened. Paris screamed as he erupted into Chakotay's hand, white fluid spilling to run down his wrist. Tom's head fell back to the floor, eyes closed, as his harsh breaths slowed. Chakotay watched intently, noting every panting breath, the rise and fall of his ribs, the sweat tricking down his torso, wending its way through the fair hair that lightly furred his chest.
Tom opened his eyes, obviously fighting the lassitude of orgasm, to see the older man looking down at him triumphantly. With a growl, Paris moved and, before Chakotay quite knew what was happening he was the one lying on the ground, with Paris astride him. In swift, economical movements, his trousers were unfastened and pulled down to pool round his hips, baring his swollen flesh to cool air. He shivered reflexively, then cried out as he felt a hot, wet mouth surround his hardness. He moaned as the mouth moved up and down his shaft, then took a sudden intake of breath as he felt long, clever fingers caressing his balls. His lips parted and he gasped for air as he felt the sweet rise of tension when the talented tongue licked round the head. He felt his mind start to haze out in sensory overload, but made a superhuman effort to regain control, grabbing Paris' head to hold him steady. All motion stopped. He felt his hands seized by those of the younger man, and pulled away, as Paris raised his head. Chakotay controlled his impulse to cry out in disappointment, as implacable blue eyes met brown.
"No. We do this my way."
There was silence, then Chakotay nodded raggedly.
"Lie down," Paris whispered. Chakotay complied, relieved when he felt Paris' beautiful mouth on him once more. His erection called to him, demanding release, but this time he surrendered to sensation. He whimpered as he felt himself being taken in deep and his breath shortened as he felt it his orgasm well up, irresistible, unstoppable. The universe whitened out around him as he felt himself explode into Tom's mouth, burst after burst of pure feeling. Aaah, creator of us all! He was unaware that he cried out as he came, and came. Finally, he lay there, panting, in the aftermath of release. He felt boneless, weightless, yet paradoxically lacked the strength to move. He still felt the younger man's mouth on him, washing him clean, until finally Paris lifted his head, exposing Chakotay to the cold air.
At that, he somehow found the strength to lift his head, and met the other man's eyes. He reached out a gentle finger, and traced round Tom's mouth, wiping off traces of saliva, even as he pulled him down to lie beside him. Neither man spoke.
Finally, Paris stirred. He sat upright. Chakotay admired the bunching of muscle in the long back. He'd always known that Paris was good looking, that was impossible to miss, but he'd never quite realised just how beautiful he was, until tonight. Then, fluidly, Tom stood, looking down at himself. His expression was one of dismay. Chakotay could guess what he was thinking; he looked thoroughly ravished, lips swollen, the remnants of his clothes bunched round his hips, bloody scratches on his chest and the beginnings of what Chakotay thought would be several large bruises by tomorrow. His outfit was ruined beyond repair and if he walked through Voyager's corridors, it would be all too apparent what he'd been doing.
Chakotay sat up. "The transporter."
Tom stared at him. "What?"
"Site to site transport."
"Oh, yeah. Good idea. Computer, site to site--"
"Tell me one thing," Chakotay interrupted. Paris looked down at him inquiringly. "Who taught you how to fight?"
Tom's mouth quirked upwards. "My mother." His smile widened at Chakotay's look of surprise, but he said nothing further.
"Oh." Chakotay could think of nothing else to say. After a brief silence, Paris called again for the transporter and was gone in a shimmer of energy. The Captain sat there for a while, until he finally hauled himself to his feet. He picked up his scattered clothes, terminated the programme, and then called for a transport, leaving the black and yellow grid behind.
~~~~~
In his quarters, Tom slumped in his robe on the couch, hair still wet from the shower. What the fuck had happened tonight? One minute he and Chakotay were fighting and he was getting the better of it too. The next... His head fell back against the couch as he closed his eyes with a groan. Once, what felt like a million years ago, when he'd first met Chakotay, he'd wanted him. God, who wouldn't? The guy was gorgeous, sexy as hell. But when he'd realised that he'd got no chance with him, that the man despised him, he'd gone out of his way to annoy him. And succeeded. Rather too well. But then, at the time, he hadn't thought that he'd get stuck with him, probably for the rest of their lives, on a ship that was all too small. Let alone become the exec to his captain. What was it about him? Did the universe get its kicks out of playing jokes on one Thomas Eugene Paris?
What had happened tonight...He'd wondered for a long time what the guy would be like sexually, but had never thought he'd get the chance to find out. Because, until tonight, he hadn't realised that Chakotay wanted him. Or did he? After all, it could just be one of those things, a side effect of the fight, he knew that this was how some people reacted to physical combat. But, no matter what Chakotay's motivation, now he knew what it was like to be with him. And, to make it worse, he suspected that he'd never be able to forget. Because, for all his vast experience, his varied encounters with beings of all races and genders, for all that his time with Chakotay had been short, and almost brutal, it had been one of the most intensely erotic experiences of his life. The taste of him, his scent, the way he'd cried out as he came. God. And now, the lust he felt for him, lust that he'd forcibly dampened down, had returned, more intense than ever. He shifted restlessly, becoming aroused again at the thought of licking Chakotay's dark skin.
Okay, time to think of something else, quickly. Like the fact that fighting, actually fighting, with the captain was not exactly the thing to do. Shit. He was in so much trouble. Although, Chakotay had been equally guilty, if he wasn't mistaken had wanted the fight just as much as he had. He'd just have to wing it, see whether Chakotay was going to make an issue of it. As for why Chakotay had come to see him in the first place...
He buried his head in his hands, feeling sick as he thought about his first physical encounter of the day. Chakotay was right, his conduct had been nothing short of disgraceful. What the fuck had he been thinking? Fighting with a crewman like that. He knew the rules and the reasons why discipline onboard was so important. Particularly stuck out here in the Delta Quadrant. Maybe Chakotay could get away with hitting one of his crew, but he sure as hell wasn't Chakotay. That was the whole point; when Chakotay hit Dalby, the man had been one of his own, had served under Chakotay in the Maquis and respected him. The same couldn't be said about him and Jackson. He'd fucked up. Again. His father was right, if there was a way to screw things up, he'd find it. That was one of the constants of the universe.
What would happen with the crew now? What he should have done, what he'd *known* he should have done, was to have gone to Chakotay, explained the problem he had with some of the crew and devised a strategy with him to deal with it. But he'd been too proud to do that, couldn't admit that he couldn't cope. All because he hadn't wanted to experience Chakotay's triumph at the fact that he'd have to admit he was an inadequate first officer. Even though they both knew - hell the whole crew knew - that he was. So, as usual, he'd put his own welfare before that of the crew, selfish bastard that he was.
Today had been quite a record, even in the less than stellar career of Tom Paris, fighting with a crewman *and* his captain. Not to mention having sex with said captain. Although he couldn't regret that quite as much, even though God alone knew how that would affect his already rocky relationship with Chakotay.
Shit, he was such a fuck up.
~~~~~~
Tom stumbled onto the bridge the next morning, only narrowly avoiding being late. Since his promotion to first officer he'd diligently made certain he was early for his duty shifts. Well, most of them anyway. But he'd slept disastrously the night before, his usual nightmare of he and Harry, or Kathryn Janeway, in the Akritirian prison, which had become inextricably intermingled with memories of Auckland, having segued into dreams of he and Chakotay, fighting, struggling, panting, kissing and... He'd woken up, late, to find the sheets damp with his own emissions, sticking to his skin. And now, he had to go and face Chakotay.
He quickly took his seat next to the captain, wincing as he felt his bruises complain, but having decided to live with them, rather than having to brave the Doctor's enquiries as to how he had obtained them. Chakotay avoided looking at him. Tom shot him a glance out of the corner of his eye. Was that a flush, high on Chakotay's cheek? The man's colouring was too dark for him to be sure. Could it be that Chakotay was as uncertain as he was about what had happened last night? Tom felt his spirits begin to rise, maybe it wouldn't be as bad as he'd thought. Or maybe, Chakotay was just waiting for a chance to throw the book at him. On that depressing thought, his stomach plummeted back down again to near the soles of his boots. He quickly pulled the console towards him and busied himself reading administrative reports.
The morning briefing was an endless nightmare. He'd taken his usual place next to the captain, but had never been more conscious of the heat radiating from Chakotay's body. He couldn't help but notice his scent, which he'd inhaled so deeply the night before. He cursed. This was ridiculous. He had to concentrate on the meeting. In spite of his admonitions, however, he was unable to subdue his apprehension, which was an enormous ball sitting congealed at the bottom of his stomach. He told himself that he was being stupid. After all, it wasn't likely Chakotay was going to throw him in the brig. Not without putting himself in there as well. He had a sudden insane image of the reaction of the crew to both the captain and first officer being in the brig and suppressed a smile. Probably the worse that could happen was he'd be on report with a note on his record. Big worry, here in the Delta Quadrant.
He stole a glance at Chakotay, noting that he looked calm and focussed, as usual. Dammit, here was he twisting on tenterhooks and Chakotay was his usual self. So much for him hoping earlier that the man was as affected by yesterday as himself. Stupid.
At last, the meeting was over and Chakotay dismissed the staff, but asked Tom to stay behind. Tom felt his stomach roil inside him, but turned his seat to face the captain, praying he looked even half as calm as Chakotay.
"About last night," Chakotay began without preamble.
Tom nodded. Shit, here it comes.
"I think it's best that we forget it happened, put it behind us."
Tom felt enormous relief. "Uh huh."
"However..." Uh oh. "What happened between you and Jackson... You were out of line, you know that, don't you?"
"Uh, yes, I guess so." At Chakotay's glare, he qualified hastily, "I mean, yes sir, I was."
"Then I think it best that we just let it ride, at least for the time being. We'll see what the reaction of the crew is, but I don't want to make a big issue out of it, as Jackson hasn't filed a complaint and anyway I understand he threw the first punch. So, I guess we can say that you disciplined him for it. Particularly as the Doctor informs me that Jackson had a nasty sprain to his arm. But, if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I'll throw the book at you. As it is, I'm disappointed, this isn't good, even for you Paris."
Chakotay didn't raise his voice once, nor did his gaze waiver. By contrast, Tom could feel the heat rising to his face, was pretty sure that he was deeply flushed. Dammit.
"Do you have anything to say?" At Tom's instinctive headshake, Chakotay said, "Dismissed."
Tom swiftly escaped to the bridge, his feelings a mixture of relief and resentment, at the fact that something that had affected him so profoundly evidently had had no effect at all on the other man.
~~~~~
Harry looked happily at his pleeka-rind casserole. Good, one of his favourites. Opposite him, Tom looked rather less happily at his own food.
"How can you stand this stuff?" he asked as Harry shoved a large mouthful into his mouth.
Kim shrugged. "I like it."
Tom shook his head. "Harry, you have the most rotten taste in food, you know that?"
"Huh! That's not what you said when we were devising menus, when we..." Harry's voice trailed off, as he realised what he'd almost said, recalling their time together in the Akritirian prison. He winced.
There was a short silence, then Tom said, with a commendable attempt at lightness, "I'll give you the menus, but liking Neelix' cooking, that's beyond the pale Har."
"Hey," Kim protested, "I don't like all of it. One dish doesn't--"
"Make Neelix a gourmet cook?"
"Yeah, exactly." Harry took another mouthful of food, relieved that they were back on safer ground again. The strain in their relationship was beginning to tell on him. Things just hadn't been the same since Akritiria. They were still friends, of course. How could it ever be otherwise? But, he was still having trouble sleeping, not helped by his memories, of how he'd almost killed Tom, of a sick and wounded Tom Paris cowering away from him; they haunted him. He and Tom still hung out together, played pool and other sports together, talked almost like they'd always done. If they saw less of one another than they'd used to, well, that was understandable, given Tom's increased duties, not to mention this cross training thing he'd inflicted on them all. Yes, it was a good idea, but it was also a lot of extra work. But he knew that some of the crew had given Tom a pretty hard time over his promotion so had tried to be there for Tom, support him, cheer him up. Be a friend to him. After all, Tom was the best friend he'd ever had, in another reality had even died for him.
It was just... Moments like the one that had just passed, when one of them would say something that would remind them both of that prison. And then the underlying strain, that'd never quite gone away, would raise its ugly head, throwing a shadow on the previously easy friendship.
"Hey, you two."
He looked up, welcoming the interruption from B'Elanna. She pulled up a chair, sitting next to Harry and opposite Tom. She forked a mouthful of casserole into her mouth and pulled a face, much like Tom had. "Ugh!"
"I know," Tom said. "You can always give it to Harry though. He loves this stuff."
Torres looked at Kim in disbelief. "Starfleet! How could you?"
Harry shrugged, and kept eating.
B'Elanna looked Paris speculatively. "I heard about an interesting incident that took place here in the messhall last night."
Tom winced.
"What incident?" Harry asked.
"That Tom was fighting Jackson--"
Harry turned incredulous eyes to his best friend.
"--who lost. Badly."
"You didn't!" Harry exclaimed.
Tom shrugged, face downcast, as he moved his fork in idle patterns, arranging and rearranging his food. "What else did you hear?" he asked Torres, without raising his eyes from his plate.
"That Jackson had it coming."
Tom's head snapped up. He blinked. "Really?"
B'Elanna looked at him quizzically. "Yes. Really. The way I heard it Jackson was out of line, that he got what was coming to him, that you made him apologise. Seems like pretty much all of the crew think that anyway."
Tom's expression was a study in contrasts, amazement, tinged with disbelief. This wasn't the reaction he'd been anticipating. He wasn't quite sure what he'd expected, possibly muttered complaints from the crew, at the least some more comments skirting the edge of insubordination, maybe even outright insubordination. Instead, it seemed that there was actually a measure of approval, even support from the crew. For *him*. He murmured, "I'll be damned." It seemed that he'd actually done something right, for once. Even though on the face of it, he'd been totally wrong.
B'Elanna grinned at him. "I'll admit I was surprised that you beat Jackson. Where'd you learn to fight anyway?"
"Um, my mother taught me," Tom admitted.
"Yeah?" B'Elanna's face showed her surprise. In contrast to Harry, who, remembering the way Tom had fought in the Akritirian prison, until another prisoner had stabbed him from behind, was rather less taken aback.
"Uh huh. She's a martial arts instructor."
"You kept that one quiet, Paris."
"Well, the subject never came up."
"Hmm. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd like to do a work out with me some time. I could use a challenge."
Tom's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Sure. I've got this Klingon martial arts programme that's--"
"No thanks," B'Elanna moved swiftly to head him off at the pass. "I'm really not into Klingon stuff."
Tom didn't bother to hide his disappointment. He shrugged. "Oh, okay. Some other programme then?"
"Yes. How about tonight? Your pick."
"You're on! 20.00 hours?"
"Great." At that, the chief engineer picked up her half-eaten casserole, chucked the remains in the trash and exited in her usual brisk manner.
"Um, Tom..." Harry began, speaking quietly so as not to be overheard. He was a little uncertain, but had decided to have his say none the less. "Why were you fighting with Jackson?"
Paris sighed. "He was out of line, making comments, being insubordinate. I couldn't let it pass."
"Of course not. But...Hitting him? Do you really think that was the best thing to do"
"Seemed like a good idea at the time. The truth is, putting him on report wouldn't have worked, he wouldn't have given a damn about that. And he seemed to welcome the thought of the brig."
"Oh. Okay. But still--"
"I'm the first officer, Harry. I *have* to have some respect, at least outwardly."
Harry nodded. "Well yeah, Tom, but it seems to me you've got that."
Tom looked at him incredulously. "Since when! I tell you, every time I turn around, there's someone making another crack about how I'm not fit to be first officer and--"
"Really?" Harry frowned, the indention in the middle of his forehead presaging how he would look in twenty years time. "That's not what I've heard."
Tom snorted. "Well, they know you're my friend, so no-one's going to say anything in front of you, but I know that's what they're all thinking, as--"
"You're wrong, Tom," Harry said bluntly. "I'd've heard if the crew thought that was the case. Even though I'm your friend, I usually know what's going on, you know that."
Tom nodded. That was true, Harry's propensity to gossip was well known to him. It actually tickled him no end, that Harry, almost the perfect Starfleet officer, had this quirk.
"The only thing I've heard," Kim continued, "are a few grumbles at the extra work because of the cross training, but most people think it's a good idea and that you've been pretty fair about the assignments, given people a say at what they'd like to do."
Tom sat there, mouth open. This wasn't what he'd expected. "So, you're saying that they don't...I mean, the crew are okay...that they..."
"Don't have a problem with you? Yes. Honestly Tom," Harry said in an exasperated tone, "how you could have thought what a few known troublemakers said is representative of the whole crew is beyond me!"
"I, um, I dunno, Har. I just thought that, you know, me being who I am, that the crew wouldn't be happy about me being first officer."
"Well, you were wrong! At worse, some of them are reserving judgement, but the consensus seems to be you're doing okay so far. Come on Tom, its not like you weren't a senior officer right from the beginning. And anyway, you were next in line after Tuvok when Captain Janeway and Chakotay were stranded on that planet, so it's not like we're not used to the idea. Don't you think that you could have given us a little more credit!"
Tom blinked. Since when had this been his fault? "I do," he protested. "But when all you hear is people making comments about you, well, I guess I thought that was what everybody thought."
Harry looked at his friend thoughtfully. He'd sometimes wondered whether Tom was as confident as he liked to project. This latest comment suggested that he really didn't realise how most of the crew viewed him now. "You were wrong," Harry repeated quietly.
Tom shrugged. "Maybe." He still wasn't totally convinced, but Harry's comments had certainly given him something to think about - later - in the privacy of his quarters.
"So, why didn't you send him to degauze the transporter room, or something?" Harry asked, when it was apparent that Tom wasn't going to say anything more on the subject of the crew's opinion of him.
"Because I thought that what I did was a better solution, in the circumstances. Also--" Tom cut himself off, having decided it wasn't a good idea to admit to anyone, not even his closest friend, given that he was now also his commanding officer, that he'd been so angry he'd actually wanted to take down Jackson. Or, that, at the time, he hadn't been able to think of anything else to do.
"What?" Harry asked when Tom trailed off into silence.
Tom strove for just the right note of convincing sincerity. "Nothing. Just that I thought it the best thing to do."
Harry let it slide, knowing Tom too well to believe he would get anything out of him when he didn't wish to speak. For someone who talked so much, Tom could be remarkably closed mouthed at times, particularly on anything pertaining to him personally. "Maybe. But, Tom, I don't think you would have got away with it, on anywhere but Voyager."
Paris snorted. "You think I don't know that!"
"So, what did Chakotay say?" Harry asked, intrigued by the answer.
To his amazement, Paris actually blushed. "Not a lot."
Harry was definitely fascinated by now; there wasn't a lot that got to Tom Paris, whatever Chakotay said, it must have been a doozy. "Come on Tom. Spill."
Tom shook his head. "It's between me and him, Har. Sorry. You finished?" he asked, looking at Harry's empty plate and hastily changing the subject. At Kim's nod, he stood to leave.
As they exited the messhall, Harry was conscious that almost all eyes were on Paris, watching him closely. However, most glances he saw seemed to be those of approval. It looked like B'Elanna was right and most of the crew *didn't* have a problem with the first officer hitting a crewman.
*****
End Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Captain's Log. Stardate: 50525.3
We have encountered a new race with which we are finding it difficult to communicate, as their speech doesn't readily translate. Unfortunately, their actions to date have been hostile, as they beamed into a shuttle occupied by Lieutenants Torres and Hamilton, who were investigating some unusual sensor readings that we had detected, and attacked my officers. Lieutenant Torres has made a full recovery, but Lieutenant Hamilton is still unconscious in sickbay. I have called a meeting of the senior staff to determine how best to proceed.
End entry.
~~~~~
Chakotay looked consideringly round at the senior staff. Rollins had just played the shuttle's recording of the aliens' strange hissing, clicking speech, which the universal translator had been unable to translate, although Harry was working on it. Neelix had reported to the meeting that he had heard rumours of these particular aliens, that they were known as being very protective of their territory, which unfortunately encompassed a huge area of space.
"So, if we go round, we'll be adding months to our journey," Kim commented.
"Fifteen months at maximum warp, actually," Paris said. "But, there's a narrow stretch of their space in front of us that would only take four days at maximum warp to go through, although I guess the aliens wouldn't be too pleased to find us there."
Chakotay pondered the options for a moment. "We'll go through," he said, decisively.
"Um," Paris started to say.
"Yes?" Chakotay asked.
Paris looked a little uncomfortable. "Er, I just thought I ought to point out that it's contrary to regs to encroach on other species' territory."
Chakotay raised an eyebrow. "So, you're suggesting that we ought to go round?"
"Hell no! Just thought I ought to let you know, First Officer's duty and all that," Tom drawled.
The Captain glared at him. "Thank you Lieutenant, for that lesson in Starfleet regulations," he said sarcastically.
Paris flushed as he saw the barely concealed smiles of some of his colleagues. Damn Chakotay anyway, he'd only been trying to do his job! "Yeah, well, I just thought you should know, that's all," he muttered.
"Duly noted," Chakotay said briskly. "But I'm not going to waste fifteen months going round."
Just then he received a message from the Doctor. "Lieutenant Hamilton's condition has deteriorated," the hologram reported. "I will need to operate."
Chakotay thanked the Doctor, and dismissed the meeting, most of the senior staff filing out to take their positions on the bridge. Paris remained behind.
"Yes?" Chakotay said curtly.
After a moment's hesitation, Paris responded. "Perhaps as Hamilton's out of commission, I ought to take the conn."
Chakotay favoured the lieutenant with a withering look. "I don't think that's necessary. We have plenty of other pilots, after all. Even if they're not 'the best pilot in the Delta Quadrant'." There was a definite edge of sarcasm to his voice as he spoke.
The younger man's mouth tightened as he forcibly restrained himself from making a retort that would likely have him brought up on charges of insubordination. "Fine," he said curtly. "I'll get to the bridge then." With that, he turned and stalked out of the room, throwing himself into the First Officer's chair, sulkily pondering once more the injustice of him being First Officer on board Voyager. He gazed longingly at the conn, thinking how much he'd rather be sitting there than here, how he'd rather be piloting the ship, than having to endure cheap shots from his Captain, particularly when he spoke up to remind him of regulations in accordance with his duty. Surely by this time Chakotay ought to know him well enough to understand that he too, wanted to risk going through, not wasting time going round. Even though, truth be told, he wasn't all that fussed about getting back to the Alpha Quadrant and the life he'd had there. Although, on the other hand, the sooner Voyager got home, the sooner he'd be able to stop trying to pretend to be the First Officer. And could get back to what he loved best - piloting.
~~~~~
Captain's Personal Log. Stardate: 50252.3
We're now through the aliens' space, almost unscathed. I'll admit that their invasion of the ship was a little unnerving, but am pleased that all the crew fought well, managing to repel them. Harry's advice, once the aliens' small ships started clamping to the hull that they had the effect of the lattice, made me realise that killing one of them should cause a chain reaction. Luckily I was right.
In hindsight, I wonder whether I should have acted in accordance with Paris' reminder of Starfleet regulations and gone round. Although cutting through worked well enough this time, next time we might not be so lucky. I find myself wondering, as I have done in respect of many of the decisions I've had to make since her death, whether Kathryn would have made the same decision. I suspect, knowing her, that she would have felt the same as me, that she wasn't going to let this alien race needlessly add months on to our journey. I find it strange to realise that what Paris did, when he reminded me of regulations, was carry out the job I would have had to do, if I was still first officer to Kathryn's captain. So why was I so annoyed at Paris quoting regulations at me? It was the way he said it that got to me - as usual. I suppose he was just carrying out his duty, when he reminded me, but every time he says something along those lines...Is it just my imagination that he's gloating, taking an opportunity to get at me? Am I confusing his attitude now with his deliberate baiting of me when he was attempting to find out that Jonas was a spy? I think it's something I need to meditate on. He has done some good work since his promotion, after all. It's just...I can't help wishing that the person who was by my side was someone else, or more accurately, I suppose, that I was beside hers. Also, the creator knows, Paris is one of the most irritating people I've ever met.
On a happier note, I'm relieved that the alarming deterioration in the condition of the Doctor was alleviated. He was becoming forgetful, unable to carry out his duties, but faced with the prospect of re-initialising his programme, and losing all the social growth he's made, I was very reluctant to order this without trying to save his programme as it is. Kes really went to fight for him, I wonder if he knows how good a friend he has in her? This experience has made me thankful for the extra crew who are training as sickbay assistants at the moment, in accordance with Paris' cross training programme. Kes does an excellent job, but her life expectancy isn't long and with the attendant risk we run out here, the more assistants, the better.
End entry.
********
Tom looked with distaste at the brightly coloured substances, that Neelix called food, on his plate. Food shouldn't be that virulent a purple, should it? He looked round, seeing if there was anyone he could join for dinner, but the messhall was almost empty at this hour, its lighting dimmed, and the only people here were not persons he wanted to spend any time with. He went to an empty table in the middle of the room and attempted to eat Neelix' latest culinary creation. He was concentrating hard on trying to force the food down, so wasn't initially aware that he was the subject of conversation.
"Oh, c'mon, it's just a matter of time 'til he screws up again," Chang was saying, stabbing futilely at a rounded piece of fruit in his salad as he spoke.
Jackson nodded in agreement. "Nothing new there." He took a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. "Look what happened a few weeks ago, we shoulda known that if anyone would get thrown into prison, it'd be him. Not to mention dragging his buddy down with him. I tell you, if I was Kim..."
"I don't know," Jones interrupted, her dark, Welsh eyes thoughtful. "I don't think it was his fault, that time."
"Yeah?" Jackson said, sceptically. "How many times has he been in prison now, here in the Delta Quadrant?"
"I guess he must miss it back home," M'debele snickered. "That's why he keeps on being jailed."
Jackson grimaced. "That's up to him. But I hafta ask how many times we're going to have to bail him out. Plus, the Captain risked his neck to save him and if you ask me, when faced with a choice between his neck and Chakotay's, I know which one I'd choose."
Tom sat there in silence, thinking wearily 'Shit. Again.' More comments from some of the crew doubting his ability to perform as exec, comments about how likely it was he'd screw up. And okay, these comments seemed to always come from the same small group of people, but he feared that their attitude reflected what other crewmembers thought, but didn't say openly. Even after the more open taunting in Sandrine's a few weeks again, he'd continued to ignore the talk, figuring that it *had* to die down in time, sooner or later. Always assuming that he didn't screw up, of course. And so long as they didn't actually refuse his orders, well, he could live with the sneers and the taunts. Even though he was pretty sure that the crew obeyed his orders only out of the respect that they had for the Captain, not hesitating to let him know what they thought of those orders.
For example, although Crewman Chang hadn't made any secret about his displeasure at having to undertake cross training, he'd sulkily agreed to undertake it in the end. Not without a great deal of whining though. This was the case even though the specialisation Tom had assigned him to, in the airponics bay, was one he was well suited for, in accordance with his prior experience of growing up in a farming colony in the Alpha Quadrant. When he'd complained, Tom had asked him to suggest another specialisation, but the man hadn't been able to come up with anything else. He was one of the crew who probably should have been put on report, but the very fact that he would have to report them was an admission of failure that Tom was reluctant to make.
And it wasn't as if this sort of thing wasn't something he hadn't been used to in the past, after all, although it had hurt rather more than he liked to admit to hear a resumption of this type of thing after a time without having to live with it. Plus, what could he do to prevent it? Go running to Chakotay whining that the crew didn't respect him. When hell freezes over. He wasn't prepared to give Chakotay the satisfaction and, in any event, he knew all too well that respect couldn't be ordered, that it had to be earned.
So, as usual he'd just sit here and take it, grit his teeth and keep quiet. Although what he'd really like to do was take these cretins and beat the shit out of them. Who was it who said that violence solved nothing? He couldn't remember, and they were probably right, but it sure would make him feel better. He decided to force himself to eat up, aware that what little appetite he had was rapidly dissipating, but God knows he needed the energy, as he was pretty tired, having been working hard, not least on the training schedules.
He looked round as more people entered the messhall. Ensign Boretski, Dalby, Nicoletti and Galloway. A peculiar combination. Boretski glared at Tom as he walked over to the counter. The man hadn't taken Tom's suggestion about him appreciating shorter reports at all well, had obviously been highly insulted at the suggestion. Ah well, he'd tried and in any event it would have been worth it, if his reports had actually got any shorter. Which they hadn't.
Then Tom heard Jackson's voice, several notches louder than he had been, obviously intending to be heard by the new entrants to the messhall. "Yeah well, no argument here, Paris the fuck-up on the one hand, versus the Captain on the other. No contest."
Tom kept his eyes on his plate, but was peripherally aware out of the corner of his eye that Boretski, Galloway and Nicoletti, even Dalby, were looking shocked at the open insult. Shit. Both Boretski and Galloway had a propensity to gossip, this would be all over the ship in an hour. Even the tenuous respect he now seemed to command would evaporate if he didn't deal with it. He had to do something, couldn't let this one pass by without taking action.
He rose slowly to his feet, catching Neelix' sympathetic glance as the Talaxian made himself busy cleaning up the counter. He had a brief memory of their food fight; it seemed so long ago now. He walked over to where Jackson and his cronies sat. "What did you call me Crewman Jackson?" he asked, in a level toned, but clear voice, giving the man the chance to retract, or at least pretend he hadn't said it. If not, he'd be going on report.
Jackson smirked at him, his bald head gleaming with reflected light. "What? You didn't hear? Not going deaf are you Paris?"
"I'm afraid not," Tom retorted. "And it's *Lieutenant* Paris. I just wanted to make sure I'd heard you right, before I put you on report for insubordination."
"On *report*!" Jackson said mockingly. "Ooh, I'm scared."
Tom's features hardened, the normally youthful features suddenly appearing several years older. "You'd prefer the brig?"
The other man shrugged. "Sure. A nice vacation, a break from this cross training shit you've inflicted on us. Yeah, I've got no problem with the brig."
Tom clenched his fists. Was this how Chakotay had felt, when he'd been mouthing off at him? So angry, so helpless? Well fuck that. He was sick of this, the attitude of these people, their complaints, the lack of respect. He was going to do something about it, right now. He smiled carefully at Jackson. "Okay," he said slowly. "Let's settle this the Maquis way."
Jackson's expression reflected his surprise, which segued into poorly concealed delight. "All right with me." He pushed his chair away from the table and stood, unfolding to his considerable height, maybe a couple of centimetres taller than Tom and much broader, with wide, strong shoulders. He looked to be in good shape physically, as indeed he was. It was his proud boast that he had the best work out programme in the Delta Quadrant. His table companions hastily stood up and moved away, leaving the two men staring at one another in a clear space. Scattered round the messhall, the other persons present watched the confrontation with varying degrees of wariness and disbelief.
"Sooo," Tom drawled. "You want a piece of me, Jackson. Come and get me!"
The bigger man feinted suddenly, made to grab Paris, but instead caught empty air, as Tom dodged to the side. Tom smirked at him. "C'mon Jackson," he taunted. You can do better than this. I thought you were in security!"
The enraged crewman tried again and this time caught an arm, but even as he did so, Tom sank the other into his gut. Jackson collapsed, bent over wheezing, as Tom moved behind him, twisting his arm up behind him in a hold that he would have to break his bones to displace. Jackson's face scrunched up in pain, he was red faced and sweating. By contrast, Tom looked cool and calm.
"I want an apology," he said fiercely. "Or I'll break your arm." As he spoke, he twisted his hold, causing Jackson to cry out in pain. He was silent for a moment, until Tom tightened his hold again. Jackson whitened, he knew there was to be no escape, as no one made a move to intervene.
"I'm s...sorry," he stuttered.
"What was that!"
"I apologise," Jackson yelled as the hold tightened further. He felt that his bones were on the verge of cracking.
"Sir!"
"Sir! I apologise, sir!"
At that Tom let him go. Jackson went to his knees, cradling his injured arm.
"All right. We'll let it go at that," Paris said. "This time." He gazed round the room, meeting the shocked gazes of those members of the crew who were present. "Anyone else?" he asked.
There were various headshakes and murmurs of "No sir." Jackson was known to be a more than competent fighter, but Paris had defeated him shockingly easily. Not one of Jackson' cronies was prepared to face him, not after seeing that.
"Good!" Tom strode out of the room.
~~~~~~
Chakotay heard the report from Boretski with disbelief. He didn't much like the man, considered him to be a brown noser, as was borne out by what he'd just been told, but in this instant he was glad that Boretski had come to see him. Even though Boretski had interrupted his precious off-duty time and come to find him in his quarters. "I see," he said quietly. "Thank you Ensign."
"Um, not at all, sir." Boretski had felt nothing but glee at the opportunity to put the mocking, insulting Lieutenant Paris in his place, but the Captain's fixed expression frightened him a little. He certainly wouldn't want to be in Paris' shoes right now. "If I may be excused, sir?"
"Yes, of course."
Boretski left the room quickly, leaving Chakotay sitting there in silence for a moment, attempting to calm down the pool of rage he felt welling to the surface, disturbing his emotional equilibrium. He had rarely been so angry. The First Officer was meant to set an example to the rest of the crew, not brawl like a deckhand! "Computer, location of Lieutenant Paris," he snapped.
"Lieutenant Paris is in holodeck 2"
Chakotay got swiftly to his feet and stalked out of the room, every footfall resonating determination. On arrival at holodeck 2, he noted that the privacy lock was in place, but used his command authorisation to override it. Within, he found that Paris had engaged some sort of Klingon programme; he couldn't see much, as a chill, dank mist permeated the air, but he could hear Klingon war cries in the distance and the underground footing was rough and uneven, a Klingon trait, designed to trap the unwary.
"Computer, freeze programme," Chakotay ordered.
"What the fuck!" Paris' startled voice exclaimed. Chakotay espied through the mist a dim form moving swiftly towards him. As it drew nearer he could see it was dressed in a one piece, tight fitting exercise outfit of dark green that clung tightly, outlining the underlying trim physique.
"What do you think you're doing?" Tom asked, annoyance palpable in his voice. Then, realising who it was: "Oh, it's you Captain."
"I think that should be my line," Chakotay said tightly.
"Huh?" Paris was obviously confused.
"What the *hell* did you think you were doing earlier, brawling in the messhall!?"
Paris shrugged, then folded his arms and leaned back casually against the jagged wall of the cave. "Oh that. Good news travels fast, I guess."
Chakotay stared at him in disbelief. "That's it? You, as First Officer were fighting with a subordinate, in public, and that's all you've got to say?"
Paris' expression tightened, even as the long body stiffened, the seemingly relaxed posture falling away. "Jackson was insubordinate, so I dealt with the problem, okay."
"No, it is not okay," Chakotay spat. Your conduct is beyond reprehensible, it's *disgraceful*. There are proper channels to deal with insubordination and a command officer does *not* stoop to brawling."
Paris lifted a mocking eyebrow. "Oh really. So, that time you hit Dalby doesn't count then?!"
"That was different! He was one of my men and--"
"Oh, I get it," Paris interrupted, pushing himself off the wall and moving closer to Chakotay as he spoke. "It's okay for *you* to hit someone by way of discipline, but not me. Well, that figures!"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Chakotay yelled, his rage becoming incandescent now. How dare Paris seek to justify himself, by comparing his conduct to his own? There was no similarity in their actions, none. When he had hit Dalby, it had been a calculated move, to keep the peace, whereas from all accounts Paris had simply lost control. And that was inexcusable in a command officer. He, too, shifted position until he was standing, fists clenched by his sides, opposite the other man, close enough to feel the exhalations of air as he breathed.
Paris jerked his head back, hackles rising at this invasion of his personal space. "That you have one code of conduct for you and another one for me. That it was okay for you to discipline the crew as you saw fit, when you were First Officer, but let me try the same thing and wham! I'm out of line. Well, maybe you're the one out of line. You never wanted me as First Officer, you've made that more than plain. Hell, the whole crew knows it. No wonder they don't respect me. Why should they, when you obviously don't! Well, fuck you Chakotay, because I have *had* it!" He was yelling now, in his turn, as he pivoted on his heel, intending to leave the holodeck, when he stopped short as felt his arm grabbed by Chakotay, restraining him, preventing him from moving. He stared incredulously into eyes darkened by rage into chips of obsidian, unaware that his eyes too were dark pools of anger.
"Oh no, you don't," Chakotay said, through clenched teeth. "I haven't finished yet."
"Let go of me." Tom's tone was deadly.
Chakotay didn't release his hold. "Or what?" he sneered. "You'll hit me too, Lieutenant!?"
Tom swung round until he was directly opposite Chakotay. Both men were breathing hard with rage, standing close together, almost pressed chest to chest. "Don't tempt me!"
Chakotay felt an odd sense of joy. Was this going to be it, at last! Was he finally going to get the chance to wipe that arrogant expression off Paris' face? He realised that he had, subconsciously, longed for this moment for a long time, payback for all the shit he'd had to take from Paris over the years, culminating in the time Paris had made a fool out of him in front of the whole ship, letting everyone know how much he'd enjoyed baiting Chakotay, that Chakotay hadn't been sufficiently trusted by Kathryn Janeway to be part of the plan to catch the spy. Oh, this was going to feel *so* good.
Tom attempted to pull his arm free, but Chakotay tightened his hold. At that, Paris gave his anger free reign, striking at Chakotay with his other arm. But Chakotay was ready for him, grabbing the striking arm. Paris tried to yank free, but Chakotay was too strong for him. They struggled for a few moments, rocking backwards and forwards, feet scuffing in the dirt, surrounded by the eerily unmoving mist.
Chakotay's whole concentration was on the other man. He gleefully realised from Paris' fixed expression that he was hurting the other man. But it wasn't enough, he wanted to make Paris *really* hurt, tear him, rip him apart! He released an arm, Paris pulled back, preparatory to hitting him, but, instead, the broader man landed a walloping punch to the ribs, which made Paris cry out in pain. Chakotay grinned, revelling in the other man's cry, his normal calm demeanour quite absent. Both men had discarded the mask of civilisation; this was primitive, unscientific combat, visceral, bloody and heartfelt.
Chakotay felt his heart race as he struck at Paris, again and again, Tom falling back, able only to ride out the punishing blows. Then he was down, rolling desperately to avoid the kick that Chakotay aimed at the prone body. In a neat, fluidly blurred movement, he went head over heels to land on his feet, ready to attack. He viciously kicked Chakotay's knee, the leg collapsing under Chakotay, who desperately grabbed hold of Paris. As he did so, the younger man punched at Chakotay's gut. He reeled backwards, hand catching in the low neck of Paris' outfit, which tore, baring him to the hip. Paris kicked Chakotay, hard, again, under the knee; this time Chakotay went down, grabbing hold of Paris as he did so. They landed hard on the ground, Paris falling on top of Chakotay. The Captain lay there stunned for a moment, the breath knocked out of him, then attempted to heave the lighter man off him. To his utter disbelief he failed. He was well and truly pinned.
"H...had enough?" Tom wheezed.
"Never!" Chakotay snarled. "Let me go!"
"So you can hit me again? No thanks!"
Stalemate. The two men lay there, unmoving, for several moments, gasping for breath, neither willing to give way. Pinned under Paris, Chakotay gradually became aware just how closely the other man was pressed to him. He could feel practically every centimetre of that firm, lithe body lying on top of him. That beautiful body. At that thought, the atmosphere changed, the rage-scented air deepened, thickened. Brown eyes met blue, as Tom's hold on Chakotay's arms slackened, allowing the older man to pull his arms free. But, far from using this to free himself, instead, Chakotay seized Paris' head by its sweat soaked hair and dragged his lips down to meet his.
The kiss was bruisingly hard, both men vying for control. Tongues met and tangled, exploring the scent and taste of the other. In the back of his mind, Chakotay was aware that he was as much aroused at this moment as he'd ever been in his life. He groaned, low in his throat as he broke the kiss, nuzzling at Paris' neck, inhaling his scent, a mixture of sweat and cologne, licking at the fair skin, glowing even in the dim light of the cavern, savouring the salty taste. He was still holding the younger man's head, fingers caressing the nape of the neck, revelling in the feeling of the soft, silken strands of hair sliding through his fingers. He licked down Tom's exposed chest, tasting blood, mingled with sweat, feeling the contrast in texture, smooth skin and soft hair. He sucked hard as he reached a nipple, feeling Paris' sharp intake of breath, pressed close as they were. He realised that Tom's fingers were at the fastening of his uniform, as he felt the touch of cold air to his exposed skin as the neck of the turtleneck slid open.
With a heave of muscle, he switched positions, until he was looking into dilated blue eyes below his. Then he stilled. Triumphantly: "You want this!"
A gasping confirmation, "Yes."
He kissed Paris hard, again, and again, rejoicing in the other man's response to his brutal kisses. Passion, too long stilled, made its presence felt. This was irresistible; it was real, and raw. He was out of control and he didn't care. Both men were breathing in harsh, panting gasps, but there was no other sound. Chakotay sat up, kneeling astride Paris and shrugged off his jacket, then swiftly pulled the turtleneck over his head. As he moved he was enjoying the sight of Tom Paris, practically half-naked beneath him. Even if this wasn't quite what he'd thought he'd had in mind when he'd thought about pounding Paris into the ground. He became aware that Paris was struggling to sit up, and reached down to pin him to the ground, but even as he did so, he felt the lieutenant's surprisingly strong arms seize him in an embrace, long fingers running up and down his bared back. He shivered and ground his hips into the other man's, feeling the bulge of his arousal, rubbing at it with his own. He sat up, pulling Tom up with him, until both torsos were upright and helped Tom strip off the remnants of his exercise suit from his arms, leaving the torn rags to hang round his waist.
Chakotay wanted more. He reached for the fastener at the front of the trousers, undoing it, and reached within to feel the smooth, hot shaft, running his fingers round the head, spreading the moisture trembling at the tip. At that, Paris whimpered. Chakotay grasped the shaft in his hand, and moved his hand slowly up and down. Tom gasped, his grip on the older man slackening. Chakotay pushed him down flat onto the ground, not ceasing his motion on Paris' cock.
"Faster," Tom gasped. Chakotay grinned down at him, ferociously, enjoying the sight of the young man lying there, his lips swollen, from *his* kisses, eyes darkened with passion. He speeded up his motions, not taking his eyes off Paris for a moment. He wanted this, wanted to see how he looked when he came, wanted to know that he was the one who made him come, that he was exerting control over the beautiful body lying on the ground, the exposed skin gleaming like starlight. His greedy eyes missed nothing, noting as Tom bit at his lower lip, the restless movement of his head, the way his hips bucked as his breathing quickened. Paris screamed as he erupted into Chakotay's hand, white fluid spilling to run down his wrist. Tom's head fell back to the floor, eyes closed, as his harsh breaths slowed. Chakotay watched intently, noting every panting breath, the rise and fall of his ribs, the sweat tricking down his torso, wending its way through the fair hair that lightly furred his chest.
Tom opened his eyes, obviously fighting the lassitude of orgasm, to see the older man looking down at him triumphantly. With a growl, Paris moved and, before Chakotay quite knew what was happening he was the one lying on the ground, with Paris astride him. In swift, economical movements, his trousers were unfastened and pulled down to pool round his hips, baring his swollen flesh to cool air. He shivered reflexively, then cried out as he felt a hot, wet mouth surround his hardness. He moaned as the mouth moved up and down his shaft, then took a sudden intake of breath as he felt long, clever fingers caressing his balls. His lips parted and he gasped for air as he felt the sweet rise of tension when the talented tongue licked round the head. He felt his mind start to haze out in sensory overload, but made a superhuman effort to regain control, grabbing Paris' head to hold him steady. All motion stopped. He felt his hands seized by those of the younger man, and pulled away, as Paris raised his head. Chakotay controlled his impulse to cry out in disappointment, as implacable blue eyes met brown.
"No. We do this my way."
There was silence, then Chakotay nodded raggedly.
"Lie down," Paris whispered. Chakotay complied, relieved when he felt Paris' beautiful mouth on him once more. His erection called to him, demanding release, but this time he surrendered to sensation. He whimpered as he felt himself being taken in deep and his breath shortened as he felt it his orgasm well up, irresistible, unstoppable. The universe whitened out around him as he felt himself explode into Tom's mouth, burst after burst of pure feeling. Aaah, creator of us all! He was unaware that he cried out as he came, and came. Finally, he lay there, panting, in the aftermath of release. He felt boneless, weightless, yet paradoxically lacked the strength to move. He still felt the younger man's mouth on him, washing him clean, until finally Paris lifted his head, exposing Chakotay to the cold air.
At that, he somehow found the strength to lift his head, and met the other man's eyes. He reached out a gentle finger, and traced round Tom's mouth, wiping off traces of saliva, even as he pulled him down to lie beside him. Neither man spoke.
Finally, Paris stirred. He sat upright. Chakotay admired the bunching of muscle in the long back. He'd always known that Paris was good looking, that was impossible to miss, but he'd never quite realised just how beautiful he was, until tonight. Then, fluidly, Tom stood, looking down at himself. His expression was one of dismay. Chakotay could guess what he was thinking; he looked thoroughly ravished, lips swollen, the remnants of his clothes bunched round his hips, bloody scratches on his chest and the beginnings of what Chakotay thought would be several large bruises by tomorrow. His outfit was ruined beyond repair and if he walked through Voyager's corridors, it would be all too apparent what he'd been doing.
Chakotay sat up. "The transporter."
Tom stared at him. "What?"
"Site to site transport."
"Oh, yeah. Good idea. Computer, site to site--"
"Tell me one thing," Chakotay interrupted. Paris looked down at him inquiringly. "Who taught you how to fight?"
Tom's mouth quirked upwards. "My mother." His smile widened at Chakotay's look of surprise, but he said nothing further.
"Oh." Chakotay could think of nothing else to say. After a brief silence, Paris called again for the transporter and was gone in a shimmer of energy. The Captain sat there for a while, until he finally hauled himself to his feet. He picked up his scattered clothes, terminated the programme, and then called for a transport, leaving the black and yellow grid behind.
~~~~~
In his quarters, Tom slumped in his robe on the couch, hair still wet from the shower. What the fuck had happened tonight? One minute he and Chakotay were fighting and he was getting the better of it too. The next... His head fell back against the couch as he closed his eyes with a groan. Once, what felt like a million years ago, when he'd first met Chakotay, he'd wanted him. God, who wouldn't? The guy was gorgeous, sexy as hell. But when he'd realised that he'd got no chance with him, that the man despised him, he'd gone out of his way to annoy him. And succeeded. Rather too well. But then, at the time, he hadn't thought that he'd get stuck with him, probably for the rest of their lives, on a ship that was all too small. Let alone become the exec to his captain. What was it about him? Did the universe get its kicks out of playing jokes on one Thomas Eugene Paris?
What had happened tonight...He'd wondered for a long time what the guy would be like sexually, but had never thought he'd get the chance to find out. Because, until tonight, he hadn't realised that Chakotay wanted him. Or did he? After all, it could just be one of those things, a side effect of the fight, he knew that this was how some people reacted to physical combat. But, no matter what Chakotay's motivation, now he knew what it was like to be with him. And, to make it worse, he suspected that he'd never be able to forget. Because, for all his vast experience, his varied encounters with beings of all races and genders, for all that his time with Chakotay had been short, and almost brutal, it had been one of the most intensely erotic experiences of his life. The taste of him, his scent, the way he'd cried out as he came. God. And now, the lust he felt for him, lust that he'd forcibly dampened down, had returned, more intense than ever. He shifted restlessly, becoming aroused again at the thought of licking Chakotay's dark skin.
Okay, time to think of something else, quickly. Like the fact that fighting, actually fighting, with the captain was not exactly the thing to do. Shit. He was in so much trouble. Although, Chakotay had been equally guilty, if he wasn't mistaken had wanted the fight just as much as he had. He'd just have to wing it, see whether Chakotay was going to make an issue of it. As for why Chakotay had come to see him in the first place...
He buried his head in his hands, feeling sick as he thought about his first physical encounter of the day. Chakotay was right, his conduct had been nothing short of disgraceful. What the fuck had he been thinking? Fighting with a crewman like that. He knew the rules and the reasons why discipline onboard was so important. Particularly stuck out here in the Delta Quadrant. Maybe Chakotay could get away with hitting one of his crew, but he sure as hell wasn't Chakotay. That was the whole point; when Chakotay hit Dalby, the man had been one of his own, had served under Chakotay in the Maquis and respected him. The same couldn't be said about him and Jackson. He'd fucked up. Again. His father was right, if there was a way to screw things up, he'd find it. That was one of the constants of the universe.
What would happen with the crew now? What he should have done, what he'd *known* he should have done, was to have gone to Chakotay, explained the problem he had with some of the crew and devised a strategy with him to deal with it. But he'd been too proud to do that, couldn't admit that he couldn't cope. All because he hadn't wanted to experience Chakotay's triumph at the fact that he'd have to admit he was an inadequate first officer. Even though they both knew - hell the whole crew knew - that he was. So, as usual, he'd put his own welfare before that of the crew, selfish bastard that he was.
Today had been quite a record, even in the less than stellar career of Tom Paris, fighting with a crewman *and* his captain. Not to mention having sex with said captain. Although he couldn't regret that quite as much, even though God alone knew how that would affect his already rocky relationship with Chakotay.
Shit, he was such a fuck up.
~~~~~~
Tom stumbled onto the bridge the next morning, only narrowly avoiding being late. Since his promotion to first officer he'd diligently made certain he was early for his duty shifts. Well, most of them anyway. But he'd slept disastrously the night before, his usual nightmare of he and Harry, or Kathryn Janeway, in the Akritirian prison, which had become inextricably intermingled with memories of Auckland, having segued into dreams of he and Chakotay, fighting, struggling, panting, kissing and... He'd woken up, late, to find the sheets damp with his own emissions, sticking to his skin. And now, he had to go and face Chakotay.
He quickly took his seat next to the captain, wincing as he felt his bruises complain, but having decided to live with them, rather than having to brave the Doctor's enquiries as to how he had obtained them. Chakotay avoided looking at him. Tom shot him a glance out of the corner of his eye. Was that a flush, high on Chakotay's cheek? The man's colouring was too dark for him to be sure. Could it be that Chakotay was as uncertain as he was about what had happened last night? Tom felt his spirits begin to rise, maybe it wouldn't be as bad as he'd thought. Or maybe, Chakotay was just waiting for a chance to throw the book at him. On that depressing thought, his stomach plummeted back down again to near the soles of his boots. He quickly pulled the console towards him and busied himself reading administrative reports.
The morning briefing was an endless nightmare. He'd taken his usual place next to the captain, but had never been more conscious of the heat radiating from Chakotay's body. He couldn't help but notice his scent, which he'd inhaled so deeply the night before. He cursed. This was ridiculous. He had to concentrate on the meeting. In spite of his admonitions, however, he was unable to subdue his apprehension, which was an enormous ball sitting congealed at the bottom of his stomach. He told himself that he was being stupid. After all, it wasn't likely Chakotay was going to throw him in the brig. Not without putting himself in there as well. He had a sudden insane image of the reaction of the crew to both the captain and first officer being in the brig and suppressed a smile. Probably the worse that could happen was he'd be on report with a note on his record. Big worry, here in the Delta Quadrant.
He stole a glance at Chakotay, noting that he looked calm and focussed, as usual. Dammit, here was he twisting on tenterhooks and Chakotay was his usual self. So much for him hoping earlier that the man was as affected by yesterday as himself. Stupid.
At last, the meeting was over and Chakotay dismissed the staff, but asked Tom to stay behind. Tom felt his stomach roil inside him, but turned his seat to face the captain, praying he looked even half as calm as Chakotay.
"About last night," Chakotay began without preamble.
Tom nodded. Shit, here it comes.
"I think it's best that we forget it happened, put it behind us."
Tom felt enormous relief. "Uh huh."
"However..." Uh oh. "What happened between you and Jackson... You were out of line, you know that, don't you?"
"Uh, yes, I guess so." At Chakotay's glare, he qualified hastily, "I mean, yes sir, I was."
"Then I think it best that we just let it ride, at least for the time being. We'll see what the reaction of the crew is, but I don't want to make a big issue out of it, as Jackson hasn't filed a complaint and anyway I understand he threw the first punch. So, I guess we can say that you disciplined him for it. Particularly as the Doctor informs me that Jackson had a nasty sprain to his arm. But, if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I'll throw the book at you. As it is, I'm disappointed, this isn't good, even for you Paris."
Chakotay didn't raise his voice once, nor did his gaze waiver. By contrast, Tom could feel the heat rising to his face, was pretty sure that he was deeply flushed. Dammit.
"Do you have anything to say?" At Tom's instinctive headshake, Chakotay said, "Dismissed."
Tom swiftly escaped to the bridge, his feelings a mixture of relief and resentment, at the fact that something that had affected him so profoundly evidently had had no effect at all on the other man.
~~~~~
Harry looked happily at his pleeka-rind casserole. Good, one of his favourites. Opposite him, Tom looked rather less happily at his own food.
"How can you stand this stuff?" he asked as Harry shoved a large mouthful into his mouth.
Kim shrugged. "I like it."
Tom shook his head. "Harry, you have the most rotten taste in food, you know that?"
"Huh! That's not what you said when we were devising menus, when we..." Harry's voice trailed off, as he realised what he'd almost said, recalling their time together in the Akritirian prison. He winced.
There was a short silence, then Tom said, with a commendable attempt at lightness, "I'll give you the menus, but liking Neelix' cooking, that's beyond the pale Har."
"Hey," Kim protested, "I don't like all of it. One dish doesn't--"
"Make Neelix a gourmet cook?"
"Yeah, exactly." Harry took another mouthful of food, relieved that they were back on safer ground again. The strain in their relationship was beginning to tell on him. Things just hadn't been the same since Akritiria. They were still friends, of course. How could it ever be otherwise? But, he was still having trouble sleeping, not helped by his memories, of how he'd almost killed Tom, of a sick and wounded Tom Paris cowering away from him; they haunted him. He and Tom still hung out together, played pool and other sports together, talked almost like they'd always done. If they saw less of one another than they'd used to, well, that was understandable, given Tom's increased duties, not to mention this cross training thing he'd inflicted on them all. Yes, it was a good idea, but it was also a lot of extra work. But he knew that some of the crew had given Tom a pretty hard time over his promotion so had tried to be there for Tom, support him, cheer him up. Be a friend to him. After all, Tom was the best friend he'd ever had, in another reality had even died for him.
It was just... Moments like the one that had just passed, when one of them would say something that would remind them both of that prison. And then the underlying strain, that'd never quite gone away, would raise its ugly head, throwing a shadow on the previously easy friendship.
"Hey, you two."
He looked up, welcoming the interruption from B'Elanna. She pulled up a chair, sitting next to Harry and opposite Tom. She forked a mouthful of casserole into her mouth and pulled a face, much like Tom had. "Ugh!"
"I know," Tom said. "You can always give it to Harry though. He loves this stuff."
Torres looked at Kim in disbelief. "Starfleet! How could you?"
Harry shrugged, and kept eating.
B'Elanna looked Paris speculatively. "I heard about an interesting incident that took place here in the messhall last night."
Tom winced.
"What incident?" Harry asked.
"That Tom was fighting Jackson--"
Harry turned incredulous eyes to his best friend.
"--who lost. Badly."
"You didn't!" Harry exclaimed.
Tom shrugged, face downcast, as he moved his fork in idle patterns, arranging and rearranging his food. "What else did you hear?" he asked Torres, without raising his eyes from his plate.
"That Jackson had it coming."
Tom's head snapped up. He blinked. "Really?"
B'Elanna looked at him quizzically. "Yes. Really. The way I heard it Jackson was out of line, that he got what was coming to him, that you made him apologise. Seems like pretty much all of the crew think that anyway."
Tom's expression was a study in contrasts, amazement, tinged with disbelief. This wasn't the reaction he'd been anticipating. He wasn't quite sure what he'd expected, possibly muttered complaints from the crew, at the least some more comments skirting the edge of insubordination, maybe even outright insubordination. Instead, it seemed that there was actually a measure of approval, even support from the crew. For *him*. He murmured, "I'll be damned." It seemed that he'd actually done something right, for once. Even though on the face of it, he'd been totally wrong.
B'Elanna grinned at him. "I'll admit I was surprised that you beat Jackson. Where'd you learn to fight anyway?"
"Um, my mother taught me," Tom admitted.
"Yeah?" B'Elanna's face showed her surprise. In contrast to Harry, who, remembering the way Tom had fought in the Akritirian prison, until another prisoner had stabbed him from behind, was rather less taken aback.
"Uh huh. She's a martial arts instructor."
"You kept that one quiet, Paris."
"Well, the subject never came up."
"Hmm. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd like to do a work out with me some time. I could use a challenge."
Tom's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Sure. I've got this Klingon martial arts programme that's--"
"No thanks," B'Elanna moved swiftly to head him off at the pass. "I'm really not into Klingon stuff."
Tom didn't bother to hide his disappointment. He shrugged. "Oh, okay. Some other programme then?"
"Yes. How about tonight? Your pick."
"You're on! 20.00 hours?"
"Great." At that, the chief engineer picked up her half-eaten casserole, chucked the remains in the trash and exited in her usual brisk manner.
"Um, Tom..." Harry began, speaking quietly so as not to be overheard. He was a little uncertain, but had decided to have his say none the less. "Why were you fighting with Jackson?"
Paris sighed. "He was out of line, making comments, being insubordinate. I couldn't let it pass."
"Of course not. But...Hitting him? Do you really think that was the best thing to do"
"Seemed like a good idea at the time. The truth is, putting him on report wouldn't have worked, he wouldn't have given a damn about that. And he seemed to welcome the thought of the brig."
"Oh. Okay. But still--"
"I'm the first officer, Harry. I *have* to have some respect, at least outwardly."
Harry nodded. "Well yeah, Tom, but it seems to me you've got that."
Tom looked at him incredulously. "Since when! I tell you, every time I turn around, there's someone making another crack about how I'm not fit to be first officer and--"
"Really?" Harry frowned, the indention in the middle of his forehead presaging how he would look in twenty years time. "That's not what I've heard."
Tom snorted. "Well, they know you're my friend, so no-one's going to say anything in front of you, but I know that's what they're all thinking, as--"
"You're wrong, Tom," Harry said bluntly. "I'd've heard if the crew thought that was the case. Even though I'm your friend, I usually know what's going on, you know that."
Tom nodded. That was true, Harry's propensity to gossip was well known to him. It actually tickled him no end, that Harry, almost the perfect Starfleet officer, had this quirk.
"The only thing I've heard," Kim continued, "are a few grumbles at the extra work because of the cross training, but most people think it's a good idea and that you've been pretty fair about the assignments, given people a say at what they'd like to do."
Tom sat there, mouth open. This wasn't what he'd expected. "So, you're saying that they don't...I mean, the crew are okay...that they..."
"Don't have a problem with you? Yes. Honestly Tom," Harry said in an exasperated tone, "how you could have thought what a few known troublemakers said is representative of the whole crew is beyond me!"
"I, um, I dunno, Har. I just thought that, you know, me being who I am, that the crew wouldn't be happy about me being first officer."
"Well, you were wrong! At worse, some of them are reserving judgement, but the consensus seems to be you're doing okay so far. Come on Tom, its not like you weren't a senior officer right from the beginning. And anyway, you were next in line after Tuvok when Captain Janeway and Chakotay were stranded on that planet, so it's not like we're not used to the idea. Don't you think that you could have given us a little more credit!"
Tom blinked. Since when had this been his fault? "I do," he protested. "But when all you hear is people making comments about you, well, I guess I thought that was what everybody thought."
Harry looked at his friend thoughtfully. He'd sometimes wondered whether Tom was as confident as he liked to project. This latest comment suggested that he really didn't realise how most of the crew viewed him now. "You were wrong," Harry repeated quietly.
Tom shrugged. "Maybe." He still wasn't totally convinced, but Harry's comments had certainly given him something to think about - later - in the privacy of his quarters.
"So, why didn't you send him to degauze the transporter room, or something?" Harry asked, when it was apparent that Tom wasn't going to say anything more on the subject of the crew's opinion of him.
"Because I thought that what I did was a better solution, in the circumstances. Also--" Tom cut himself off, having decided it wasn't a good idea to admit to anyone, not even his closest friend, given that he was now also his commanding officer, that he'd been so angry he'd actually wanted to take down Jackson. Or, that, at the time, he hadn't been able to think of anything else to do.
"What?" Harry asked when Tom trailed off into silence.
Tom strove for just the right note of convincing sincerity. "Nothing. Just that I thought it the best thing to do."
Harry let it slide, knowing Tom too well to believe he would get anything out of him when he didn't wish to speak. For someone who talked so much, Tom could be remarkably closed mouthed at times, particularly on anything pertaining to him personally. "Maybe. But, Tom, I don't think you would have got away with it, on anywhere but Voyager."
Paris snorted. "You think I don't know that!"
"So, what did Chakotay say?" Harry asked, intrigued by the answer.
To his amazement, Paris actually blushed. "Not a lot."
Harry was definitely fascinated by now; there wasn't a lot that got to Tom Paris, whatever Chakotay said, it must have been a doozy. "Come on Tom. Spill."
Tom shook his head. "It's between me and him, Har. Sorry. You finished?" he asked, looking at Harry's empty plate and hastily changing the subject. At Kim's nod, he stood to leave.
As they exited the messhall, Harry was conscious that almost all eyes were on Paris, watching him closely. However, most glances he saw seemed to be those of approval. It looked like B'Elanna was right and most of the crew *didn't* have a problem with the first officer hitting a crewman.
*****
End Chapter Three
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Date: 7 February 2004 15:13 (UTC)Re:
Date: 8 February 2004 01:14 (UTC)