FIRST CONTACT
        A Star Trek:  Voyager slash story by Ruth Devero
                         Rated NC-17


	Throbbing.  His head was--  He slipped back.

	Head.  Ohmigodfuckshit, his fucking head.  Big too big too-- 
He groaned.  Hurting.  Darkness beckoned, but--
	Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris, chief flyboy of the U.S.S.
Voyager and big fucking idiot, struggled to rouse himself.  Head. 
Could he lift it?  It seemed welded to the dusty place beneath his
cheek.  He groaned again, realizing he'd gotten no reponse the
first time, realizing he'd been expecting one.
	None this time, either.
	He thought about opening his eyes.  Dust.  He smelled dust
and old garbage and fresh smoke.  Heard distant voices and
occasional wooden creaking.  Feet were cold.  Mouth seemed packed
with tongue.
	He lay there for a while, eyes closed.  Resting up for the
major effort of--
	Paris opened his eyes.  Light scalded them.
	He lay with closed eyes for the count of three.  Open. 
Whimper and close and force them open again, groaning and then
squinting the world into focus through a curtain of lashes.
	Dust.  Well, that explained the general dusty feeling. 
Planet of dust.  Captain Proton on the Planet of Dust.
	He heaved himself up on shaky arms before he could notice and
stop himself.  Ohmi--
	The dusty world grayed at the edges.  He swayed for a moment,
fiercely focused; and then absolutely everything he'd ever eaten
in his entire life spilled out of his stomach onto the beige
ground.  Throwing up just did his head no good at all, but his
stomach seemed grateful.
	He did it again and then retched a few times--mostly a
reaction to the vile taste in his mouth--and then scrabbled
backward away from the vomit, so it wouldn't happen again.
	The wall was rough against his back, but it steadied him
while he struggled to steady the world.
	Dust and wall and--  He tried to look around without moving
his overly large head.  Walls on both sides of him:  end of an
alley.  Alley punctuated by small heaps of ripening trash.  All
softened by the beige dust.
	And no Chakotay.
	Because--  Had Chakotay been here?  Paris thought so.  They'd
been together--at least he seemed to remember it that way.  They'd
been--
	Feet were bare.  That was why they were cold.  He didn't have
shoes.  Paris stared at his feet, trying to solve the puzzle of
why they looked pinched and bluish, why he'd come out without his
shoes, why the Captain had let him come down to the planet without
shoes, because, really, she usually cared about things like that. 
But he'd HAD shoes, and Chakotay had had shoes, and--
	Well, shit:  THINK, Paris, THINK.
	Okay.
	Chakotay.  He and Chakotay hadn't slept in the alley; that
wasn't like them; they'd have found someplace less dusty. 
Someplace with beds, someplace with other travelers, other traders
eager to share a meal and a friendly--
	The memory was like a solid blow to his achy gut.  Last
night.  Lousy little inn with the pretty serving girl and the
chatty guys who'd sprung for the meal and for the wine.  Wine that
Paris hadn't liked much, but potent stuff:  after a couple of
mouthfuls his head was spinning, and then--
	*You fucking idiot, that stuff was drugged*.  And Chakotay
hadn't drunk it at all, since he didn't generally drink.  Was that
why he wasn't here now?  Paris remembered the guarded looks the
other guests had given Chakotay during their meal, the way they'd
sized him up, and his stomach clenched in sudden terror.  What the
hell had they done to the Commander?
	He lurched to his feet and swayed for a moment against the
rough wall.  Oh, fuck, whatever the hell that had been in the
wine, it was devastating.  He spent some precious moments
struggling with dry heaves.  He pressed his forehead against the
coolish plaster to steady himself.
	Comm badge was--  Paris fumbled frantically over his clothes. 
Pockets empty.  No comm badge, no redstones, no trader's fetish-- 
Fuck.  Not even any lint.  And no shoes; and, especially, no
Chakotay.
	*Fuck, Paris, do you have ANYthing?*  Well--  He reached
under his knee-length tunic to explore his lightly padded 
trousers at the inner thigh.  Two--no, five tiny redstones.  Right
next to the family jewels.  Chakotay had snorted as he watched
Paris work redstones through the coarse cloth and into the
padding; "All the valuables in one place," Paris told him, and
Chakotay had laughed....
	Okay, so they wouldn't starve.  Now, find the inn, find the
thieves, and find Chakotay.
	And find some shoes.  Paris had been in situations before
where shoes were currency; he'd wondered then what made them so
damned important.  By the time he reached the end of the alley, he
knew.  You needed the damn things because there was so much just
waiting to stub your toe, bruise your arch, cut your heel.  He
came out into a noisy little courtyard just as a woman sloshed
filthy water across his path.  Thanks.
	Damn city with its damn heat-reflecting white buildings.  The
sun ricocheted off all that white and straight through his brain. 
But there was the inn and there was the serving girl.  Paris
stumbled toward her like an undecided photon torpedo.  She seemed
surprised to see the state he was in--or maybe just surprised to
see him, period.
	"WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?" Paris said in a voice so harsh he
barely recognized it.
	"Who?"  She held her broom as if it were a weapon.
	"Chakotay!  Where the fuck is he?"
	But she was backing away into the inn, alarm and
consternation mingled in her face, and the broom at ready to
defend herself.
	"What's going on?"  It was the inn keeper, pushing past her. 
He saw Paris.  "Oh," he said.
	"Where is he?" Paris said.
	"Who--the slave?"
	"Chakotay!  We were together!"
	"The slave," the inn keeper said, as if that were the most
reasonable description of Commander Chakotay he could think of. 
"Probably in the slave market.  Your friends probably took him
there."
	"My fr--"  Paris stared at him.  Something must have happened
to the universal translator embedded in him; maybe the stuff that
had been put into the wine.  "Those weren't my friends.  They
robbed me."
	"They bought your meal, and they took you outside when you
got sick," the inn keeper said.  "I thought they were your
friends."  His tone implied that that was the story he was
sticking with.
	*You piece of*--  "What happened to Chakotay?"
	"What always happens to slaves.  You know we don't allow
slaves in this part of the country.  Someone probably took him
back across the river."
	Panic blossomed in Paris's stomach.  "He isn't a slave."
	The inn keeper blinked.  "Of course he is!  He's probably in
the slave market right now, waiting for a new master.  One that
will know better than to bring him across the river where he
doesn't belong."
	New master--  Paris stared for a minute at the inn keeper. 
"Where's the damn slave market?"
	The inn keeper gestured.  "Across the river."  He cast Paris
a look of disgust as he turned on his heel and went back into the
inn.
	River.  Paris stared around him, trying to orient himself. 
There was a dull roar from somewhere:  continuous and monotonous. 
Probably the river.  Before he followed the sound, he drank deep
from the well in the middle of the courtyard--hoping desperately
that it wasn't downstream from latrines--and let the trickle of
water run over his head.
	His head felt clearer, but he shivered as he stumbled toward
the sound of rushing water.  It was chilly; autumn was coming on
fast.
	The town--city, to the Verkau--was a labyrinth of dusty
little streets bounded by monotonous white buildings.  Men leaned
against the walls, staring at everyone who passed; women lounged
at the doorsteps, staring at everyone who passed.  Paris avoided
looking them in the eyes, unsure of how an answering stare would
be interpreted.
	He walked, he walked.  He wasn't even sure he was headed for
the river; how the hell did anybody ever get where they were
going?  Finally there was a break in the buildings; and his street
emptied onto a pathway beside a gorge.  The river.
	A handful of elaborate bridges spanned the gorge, linking
this city of white, dusty buildings with a mirroring city of
white, dusty buildings.  Paris joined the Verkau streaming across
the nearest, passing blue-clad guards slouching at this end--armed
with bows, no challenge to someone with a phaser, except he didn't
KNOW anybody with a phaser.
	As Paris started across, someone jerked at his arm, and a
huge hand with a tattooed palm was thrust in front of him.  He
stared for a minute at the guard who had stopped him.
	"One stone to cross the bridge," the guard said.
	Paris blinked at him.  *What?*
	"Cheapest bridge in the area," the guard went on. 
"Sturdiest, too.  The House of Bentau likes to give customers good
value.  One stone."
	A couple baskets half full of redstones sat at the guards'
feet.  Up and down the river, other guards watched similar baskets
at other bridges.  Damn.  Paris fumbled under his tunic.
	The guards laughed.  "First time in the city?" one called
out.
	Paris felt his face grow hot as he fumbled for the redstones--
any stone at all.  He ripped frantically at the coarse material,
finally yanking one free.
	His guard stepped back and raised his hands.  "_I_ wouldn't
touch it!" he said in mock alarm.
	Paris glared and dropped the stone into the basket.  He
stalked away from the raucous laughter with as much dignity as he
could muster, hurrying to lose himself in the crowd.  Good going,
Paris.
	The wide bridge was of wood, painted the blue of the guards'
uniforms, with geometric designs in green covering almost every
inch.  The colors of of a Verkau House.  The damned Houses--the
sixteen major ones--controlled everything, made money from
everything.  The river the bridge spanned was--mygod.  Paris
stopped and grabbed the railing with both hands.  Hundred-meter
drop, down to an expanse of raging water roaring across rocks.  No
swimming THAT.
	Something jostled him.  Paris whirled, ready to fend off an
attacker.
	"Sorry," his jostler said.  "Slave thinks he can still get
away from me."  He gave Paris a grin of conspiratorial amusement,
a grin that said, "YOU know how they are."
	The slave in question had stopped struggling, at least
temporarily.  He plodded ahead in the grasp of the grinning
Verkau, stony-faced, eyes on the dusty bridge ahead of him, hands
bound behind him.  It wasn't Chakotay.
	Stomach suddenly flopping like a landed fish, Paris followed
them to the other side.
	The slave catcher grinned at the guards eyeing the crowd at
this end.  "Good catch!" one of them called out as he dragged the
slave off the bridge.
	"One more, and we can put a new wing on the house!" the
Verkau called back happily.  The guards laughed as he and his
catch disappeared into the crowd.
	Oh, fuck--CHAKOTAY....  It suddenly hit Paris just what had
happened to Chakotay.  Somehow the Verkau had decided he was a
slave; somewhere they were selling him; someone was actually
selling him and thinking about whether to use the money for a good
drunk or for a good lay or maybe for the local equivalent of a
bunch of carrots and a toy to give a child.  My god--CHAKOTAY.
	Paris pushed through the crowd in a sudden surge of panic. 
Find him find Chakotay fucking find fucking Chakotay--  It was all
up to him:  no comm badge no way to signal Voyager no emergency
beam out even if they were in trouble because the underlying
geology of the fucking planet fucked up the scanners in a major
way and Voyager couldn't find them.  Not even the local equivalent
of Interstellar Travelers' Aid, because the Verkau hadn't even
invented their equivalent of gunpowder yet, let alone space
travel; they didn't even know they were being visited by space
travelers stopping by to trade for dilithium crystals on their way
to another part of the galaxy.  They didn't know they were selling
the commander of a starship like a basket of not-so-fresh fish.
	Finally at last finally finally, Paris caught sight of the
slave catcher.  The slave seemed to have given up struggling, and
the slave catcher was hustling him along.  Must be trying to get
home for dinner.
	Paris followed at a casual distance, eyeing the crowd around
him.  Verkau carrying baskets or packs followed other Verkau at a
respectful distance, eyes firmly on the ground.  Slaves following
their masters.  Chakotay....  The masters--male and female--wore
knee-length tunics over padded trousers, in the bright colors of
the various Houses to which they were allied.  The slaves dressed
mostly in browns.  They kept their heads down, and they followed
their masters like sheep following shepherds, stopping obediently
when the master stopped, silently adding purchases to their loads,
never looking up.  Chakotay--
	Paris snorted.  Chakotay as a slave was just--  Chakotay
would incite the biggest revolt this planet had ever seen--Prime
Directive be damned.  Paris would love to see it.  Prime Directive
be double damned.
	The slave market was huge.  An enormous square stretched
before him.  Here a crowd studied the features a slave trader
pointed out on the body of a naked Verkau man; there, a Verkau
woman pursed her lips in deep thought on the relative merits of
two naked Verkau children.  Naked Verkau huddled together against
the autumn chill, as clothed Verkau studied them and dickered,
under the gaze of leather-armored guards with whips.  Paris tasted
bile.  Fucking Prime Directive be triple damned.
	He surveyed the square, trying to look casual.  And as if he
had all the redstones on the planet:  that look would earn
obsequiousness from the damned slave traders, that look would get
him a better price than desperation would.  At least the red and
black of his tunic would impress them, though the color
combination belonged to none of the major Houses; Tuvok had made
sure of that.  Paris looked at his chilled and dusty feet. 
Probably a Verkau who had all the redstones on the planet also had
shoes.  Well, fuck it.  If he had to buy Chakotay out of slavery,
he'd need all the stones he had; starship commanders didn't come
cheap.  Paris would have to be the eccentric Verkau with all the
redstones on the planet--an eccentric who disdained mere shoes.
	Paris scrabbled casually for the remaining four stones,
clenching them tightly in his fist, which he shoved into his
pocket with as casual an air as he could manage.  Okay.  He
started off on his tour of the slave market.
	Halfway into it, he spotted Chakotay, glaring at everyone
around him.  Paris let out a relieved breath.  At least the
commander hadn't been sold yet.
	He stopped for a minute to reconnoiter.  Chakotay stood, arms
bound behind him, completely naked; good thing they'd done the
full-body disguise.  Paris studied him:  uncut and a respectable
size; smooth brown skin grazed in a few places; full lower lip
puffy with bruise; right cheek bloody.  Built-up epicanthic folds
over the eyes intact; and if Chakotay turned, Paris knew he'd see
the rich brown freckles the Verkau bore, spreading from his
hairline down the nape of his stiff neck and across his shoulder
blades; lighter down his spine; and nestled in a dark triangle at
the crack of his ass.  Paris's smile crinkled his own altered
eyes.  Even naked and bruised, Chakotay radiated hostility and
defiance.  And power.  Four redstones wouldn't BEGIN to buy this
guy.
	Except maybe in this market.  As Paris watched, potential
buyers approached, took one look into Chakotay's stony black eyes,
and retreated, glaring hostility at the seller and not even
glancing at the scrawny old naked Verkau huddled against Chakotay. 
A couple guards stood nearby, eyeing Chakotay and talking to each
other--apparently deciding something.  The slave merchant looked
frustrated and desperate.
	Paris made his move.  Stroll forward, smile pleasantly at the
suddenly hopeful merchant, stop and study the prospective
purchase.  Old guy first:  stringy muscles, apparently on his last
legs--
	Paris felt ice settle in his belly as he realized what it was
that made the Verkau think Chakotay was a slave.
	He had to remind himself to look at the Commander, remind his
face not to show the shock as he surveyed the merchandise from
head to foot.  Chakotay was giving him the warning glare a really
caring commander usually gave the lieutenant who'd be spending the
next ten years in the brig if he screwed up in the next ten
minutes.
	"Very strong," the merchant said.  "New this morning.  Look
how strong he is.  And probably breed you many more."
	Paris struggled to control his breath, before it came out in
a laugh.  Chakotay was giving him the glare an especially caring
commander always gave the lieutenant who was going to be cleaning
Jeffries Tubes on all his off-bridge hours for the next thirty
years, if he so much as smiled in the next thirty seconds.
	"I don't know," Paris said.  "I'm not really in the market."
	"A good bargain," the merchant said coaxingly.  "Won't be on
the market long.  Only twenty stones."
	"Twenty?" Paris asked coolly.  "Twenty for someone with THAT
attitude?"  Chakotay's glare burned brighter than Verka's twin
suns; he probably thought Paris was joking around.
	Paris lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, fanning four fingers
on the hand that the slave merchant couldn't see, and watched
Chakotay's glare fade to alarm as he understood the message.
	"Fifteen," the merchant said quickly.
	"Two," Paris said.  *Just hold on, Commander*.
	"No.  Impossible.  That's an impossible price for this strong
slave who will breed you many more and make you rich.  Ten.  Ten,
I might consider."
	"Three."
	"Do you want to ruin me?  Six."
	This guy was desperate, and the sudden smile in Chakotay's
eyes said he knew it, too.
	"Four," said Paris.
	"This must never get around," the merchant said.  "If it got
around that I gave this slave away, I'd be ruined.  Five.  Five
would allow me to at least keep some dignity.  For five, my wife
would still call me husband."
	"Four," Paris said again.
	"Four is an outrage.  Four is an insult.  Four would make my
mother turn away from me in disgust.  For four, my father would
tear my name from the book of our family.  Five.  I can only take
five."
	Paris sighed.  "Like I said," he said, "not really in the
market."  He turned.
	"Ruin," the merchant said.  "You were sent here to ruin me,
weren't you?  The House of Auln still hasn't forgiven me for that
small matter of the third son's virtue, not that he had any to
begin with, the little plump-bottomed slut.  Out to ruin me."  He
heaved an enormous sigh.  "But a man must pay for his pleasures,
and those red lips and bold ways were worth even my economic ruin. 
So, four.  Tell the House of Auln I have lost my mind and may lose
my business.  Tell them they have won.  Four it is."
	And Paris found he could breathe again.  Chakotay gave him
the glare a tender commander often gave the lieutenant who'd
sidestepped a messy death by millimeters.
	The slave merchant carefully placed the stones in a worn
pouch that hung around his neck and unfastened the old man, who'd
been tied to Chakotay.  The old Verkau staggered; the merchant
gently guided him to a seat on the ground, speaking to him in a
low, mock-scolding voice.
	Paris reached to untie Chakotay's hands.
	"I wouldn't," the merchant said quickly.  "He might--  He was
very--  He's been disobedient."
	"I think it'll be all right," Paris said, struggling with the
knots.   Damn.  Chakotay's wrists were bruised and abraded.
	Paris started when a leather strap was thrust at him.  "I was
going to beat him," the merchant said.  "Remind him of obedience
before the guard did."
	"I don't think so," Paris said.
	The merchant tried to put the strap into his hand.  "Beat him
now.  A few strokes from a caring master is better than being
broken by the guard."  He indicated the men, now silent and
staring at Paris and Chakotay.  The ice settled again in Paris's
belly.
	"I don't need to."  Paris held Chakotay's startled dark eyes
with his own.  "I think he knows better than to look directly into
a master's face."  *My god, Chakotay, just pay attention*.  "I
think he knows a slave just shuts up and looks at the ground." 
*Good god, Chakotay*--  "I think he knows he needs to blend in--"
	Chakotay's eyes filled with loathing, but he turned his gaze
to Paris's feet.  His mouth was set in a line that didn't bode
well for the future.
	Paris stood for a minute, watching Chakotay's slow burn. 
Then he lifted his eyes to the watching guards.  They still looked
suspicious, but they were relaxing now, eyes drifting to other
parts of the market, looking for other trouble spots.
	"We need to get out of here," Paris said to Chakotay.
	He started off, glancing behind to see what Chakotay was
doing, glancing around to see if anyone was watching.  My god,
the first officer of Voyager was being paraded naked across the
square, and nobody was even noticing.
	"Don't enjoy this," Chakotay hissed in a low voice.
	"I'm not."  *Much*.  Commander, stark naked with his head
lowered in humility, walking a respectful distance behind a
lieutenant?  What wasn't to enjoy?
	Paris turned, feeding himself with a glance of an outwardly
humble Chakotay, and stopped, watching the scraggly old Verkau and
the slave merchant, sitting together and sharing a snack.  "What
about the old guy?"
	Chakotay stopped; his mouth went lopsided.  "Don't worry
about him; I think he's been on the market for years.  Apparently
this is some sort of retirement for him.  He and that slave
merchant bicker like an old married couple."  Chakotay looked
around.  "My god, this place is vile."
	"Well, we didn't mean to come here."
	"Yeah, but we're here now."  Chakotay's eyes burned dark
fire.  "Prime Directive or not, this society doesn't deserve--" 
He bit it off.  "We've got to get out of here."  He started off
for the river, striding along with the arrogant power he exuded
walking through Voyager's corridors.
	*Shit*.  "Chakotay!"  Paris glanced around as he went after
the commander.  He managed to step in front of him.  "Commander! 
Just fucking STOP!"
	Chakotay stopped and glared at him.  Just beyond him, the
damned guards were interested again.
	"You have got to fucking remember who the fuck you are here!"
Paris hissed.  "Commander," he added belatedly.
	Chakotay glowered.
	"These bastards just SOLD you to me!"  Paris tried to keep
his voice low.  "They don't give a fuck that you command the
greatest starship in the Delta Quadrant; to them you're just a
slave.  You have to ACT like one--at least until we get the fuck
out of here!"  One guard was striding towards them, the other
watching warily.
	Chakotay's eyes promised mayhem and revenge on an
unprecedented scale.  But he lowered his gaze to Paris's bare
feet.  Good.
	"Quick," Paris said, watching the approaching guards.  He
started across the square just like nothing was wrong, aiming away
from the guard.  He could feel the guard behind him and ran a
dozen possible scenarios through his brain; but the expected shout
didn't reach his ears.
	Paris glanced back casually--the master checking on the new
slave, who was following obediently, glaring at the ground.  The
guard had given up.  He felt his knees wobble in relief.
	A narrow street led off the square, a quiet place with few
pedestrians.  A cul-de-sac; Paris took them to the end of it.
	Chakotay's eyes burned cold fury.  "Just what the hell
happened back there, Lieutenant?" he said.
	For some reason, Paris found himself moving between Chakotay
and the street, as if hiding him from anybody who might be
watching.  Stupid, since Chakotay was so enraged he didn't seem to
care that he was naked in public.
	"They were going to whip you," Paris said.  "I couldn't have
stopped them."
	Chakotay's mouth tightened, but that seemed to have gotten
his attention.  "We weren't supposed to end up on this side of the
river," he said.  "How the hell did it happen?"  Barked out as if
he thought it was Paris's fault.
	"They think you're a slave.  That side of the river catches
slaves and sells them on this side."
	"And why the hell would they think I'M a slave?"
        Paris swallowed.  Now he was in for it.  "The tattoo," he said. 
"All the slaves have tattoos on their faces.  Must be some sort
of House mark.  The masters don't have them."
	That stopped him. There was a long, silent minute while
Chakotay stared at him, color draining from his face.  His hand
went up absently as if to cover the mark that honored his father,
that meant so much to him.
	Then Chakotay's mouth quirked, and his eyes went blank.  "My
ancestors must be laughing their heads off," he said.
	Huh?
	"I didn't even notice," Chakotay went on.  "Some observer."
	"Well, everything was kind of chaotic," said Paris. 
"Besides, every time you look in the mirror, you see a guy with a
tattoo.  After a while, guys with tattoos probably just don't make
that much of an impression."
	Chakotay's grudging half-smile told Paris he knew bullshit
when he heard it, but he appreciated the effort.
	"Tuvok's going to have to do something about reconnaisance,"
Paris went on.  "We should have known."
	"I agree."  Chakotay suddenly looked tired.  "Cultural
indicators said, 'slavery', and we just said, 'No, thank you.'
We should have pursued it instead of blithely assuming we could
sidestep the issue by avoiding the slavers.  Caught by our own
arrogance."
	"So now what?"
	Chakotay looked at him.
	"We can't just cross back," Paris said.  "They'll just jump
us again and take you right back.  Apparently slave catching is a
good business."
	"Can't communicate with Voyager; Voyager can't get a lock on
us or our position."  Chakotay had ceased to be the naked
commodity, had donned his role as Commander, considering the
situation.
	"When we don't check in tonight, they'll send somebody after
us," Paris said.
	"Yes, but not until tomorrow, and a shuttle will have to land
where ours did--there isn't any place closer with enough cover to
hide it.  Another day to get to the city, and they'll have to
search street by street, since the scanners won't work.  And even
then they won't think to search on this side of the river.  At
least not for a while."  He surveyed the area over Paris's shoulder.
His mouth went wry, as if he'd tasted something sour. "We may be here
for days."
	"Great."  Paris felt his stomach turn over.  Days of dodging
guards and trying to make sure nothing really bad happened to
either of them.  And they needed stuff:  food, a place to stay. 
He glanced at Chakotay.  And clothes for the shivering Commander. 
"We don't have any money."
	"And we need it.  These people have commodified everything." 
Chakotay's voice held no irony.  "We'll need to figure out how to
get some."
	"You'll have to--"  Paris's voice suddenly failed him.
	Chakotay's gaze went straight to Paris's.  "Act like a
slave," he finished for him.  The black eyes were neutral, though
the jaw tightened.  "What was it you said?  Keep my head down? 
Walk behind you?  Know my place?"  Every word was as crisp as a
phaser bolt.
	Paris flushed.  "I didn't make the rules, Commander!"
	"No, but you're certainly benefiting from them.  As usual."
	Paris felt hot words rising to his lips, squelched them. 
Damn fucking stiff-necked Chakotay.  As big a pain as a Starfleet
commander as he'd been as a Maquis captain.
	Chakotay let him stew a minute.  Then, "Tom," he said, "I'm
sorry.  It's not your fault.  I'm just not feeling very happy at
the prospect of staring at your ugly feet for the next few days." 
The quirk of his mouth was an apology.
	Paris accepted it.  "We have to get you some clothes.  I'll
refrain from mentioning what part of YOUR body I don't relish
seeing for the next few days."
	To Paris's surprise, the Commander flicked him a grin.  "Then
I suggest that the first thing you do is give me your pants."
	His--  Great.  Pantless, Paris would spend the next few days
naked-legged and looking ludicrous.
	Chakotay was giving him the Commander look--the one that
promised that he could make sure that for the next thirty-five
years, any time Paris wasn't in the brig, he could be scrubbing
Jeffries Tubes with a toothbrush.  "Or your tunic.  I'm not picky. 
LIEUTENANT."
	Well--  Paris started to pull the tunic over his head.
	"Hooeeoo!  Hooeeoo!"
	Paris jumped, turned, stepped back to shield Chakotay, who
hissed, "Shit!" into his ear.
	A plumpish woman was scurrying toward them, beckoning.  "I
need a trunk carried out.  I'll give ten redstones for use of your
slave."
	Uh--  ("DAMN it!" muttered Chakotay.)  "He doesn't--uh--he
doesn't have any clothes.  On," Paris said.  ("LIEUTENANT,"
Chakotay said, warningly.)
	The woman looked puzzled and a little impatient.  "I don't
need him to wait table.  I just need something carried."
	Uh--  "But he's--NAKED," said Paris.  *Think fast, Tom*.  "I
wouldn't want to offend you with--with--uh--with his naked--uh--
his nakedness."  He heard an impatient sigh from behind him.  *Oh
yeah?  See if you'd do any better*.
	Now she really looked impatient.  "He's just a slave.  Who
hasn't seen a naked slave?  They're just animals.  Come.  I'll
give you twelve redstones.  But no more.  The trunk isn't that
big."
	Uh--  "_I_ could do it for you."  He flashed her his best
knock-'em-dead-with-charm grin.  "Let ME do it!"  And maybe
Chakotay could hide himself--
	Now the woman looked offended.  "Of COURSE not!  That's what
SLAVES are for!  Comecomecome!"  And she reached around Paris and
grabbed Chakotay by the arm.
	She was strong, and she was fast, and she had the advantage
of surprise.  Chakotay stumbled past him, giving him a glare that
said, *Do something!*
	Yeah, but do WHAT?  Paris trotted after them.
	This was just--  "Uhhhh," Paris said.  My god, this was--
	He felt hilarity bubble up inside him as he followed the
woman and his naked Commander to a doorway a few steps away.  My
god, this was one scenario they'd never even thought of cooking up
at Starfleet Academy; he hoped he'd make it back to the Alpha
Quadrant and get it added to the syllabus.
	One of what passed for a horse on Verkau stood hitched to a
carriage outside the door.  A glance at the wizened little driver
explained why they needed someone to carry the trunk.
	"Chair, Lashlee!" the woman called out, and a little girl,
eyes respectfully averted, brought out a chair.  "Sitsit!"  The
woman shooed Paris to the chair.
	So he had a front row seat for the whole humiliating scene. 
Chakotay's hands were clasped at his crotch; his head was down at
a respectful angle; but he was giving Paris a glare out of the
corner of his eye that could have run Voyager at warp nine for the
next fifty years.  Paris gave him a sick and helpless shrug.  The
glare upped about ten more years.
	"Comecome!" said the woman, and as Chakotay followed her into
the house, he cast Paris a look that could have withered the Great
Tree of B'n'a'ba, which had actually weathered a nuclear
explosion.
	Shitshitshitohfuck.  But it was--well--FUNNY.  Paris's mouth
warred with his instinct for self-preservation, which kept
reminding him that he shouldn't grin, because Chakotay might see
him out a window.  His mouth won.
	Lashlee set up a little three-legged table and brought out a
glass and a pitcher of something tinged a cloudy blue.  It was
cool, not at all sweet, and very refreshing.  Paris downed a glass
of it and settled back to enjoy another one.  Shit.  This was just
too ridiculous.  Harry was going to LOVE hearing about THIS.
	Time passed.  Paris planned.  Twelve redstones.  First thing
they'd get was clothes for Chakotay--  --*oh, god, Chakotay
standing there stark naked, trying to hide behind his hands, while
that woman*--  --and shoes for himself.  And they'd need a place
to stay--
	He heard merry chatter inside the house, coming closer. 
Okay, now, try to look humble enough to mollify the Commander.
	Chakotay came through the door first, carrying the trunk
easily on one shoulder.  He was watching his feet, his face a
stony mask.  Behind him the woman chattered with another, who was
wrapped in furry robes.
	And right on Chakotay's heels--  Paris's fingers tightened on
the glass, and all impulse to laugh evaporated.
	Right on Chakotay's heels was a very small boy with a child-
sized riding crop, slapping Chakotay's legs with it and chanting,
"Go!  Go!  Go!  Go!"
	"That's it," the woman in the furs said fondly, "make him go
faster."
	The woman who'd hired them smiled over at Paris.  *Aren't
they just adorable at that age*, her smile said.
	Everything went gray for a minute.
	Then, Chakotay was strapping the trunk onto the back of the
carriage, and the two women were embracing, and the child was
being lifted into the carriage, and he and the woman in furs were
being driven off; and Paris stood and poured a glass of the drink
for Chakotay, his hand steadier than his stomach.
	"Now, here's your redstones," the woman said.  As he stowed
them in his pocket she cast an appraising--and not unappreciative--
glance at Chakotay.  "I've been thinking of breeding Lashlee pretty
soon, if your--"
	"I don't think so," Paris said, not looking at her.  He
handed the glass to Chakotay and watched him drink, so he wouldn't
have to look at the damned woman.
	"Thank you," he said, handing her the emptied glass.
	To his astonishment, she looked at it in disgust and then
straightened her back and smashed it against the wall of the
house.  "Think I could use it after a SLAVE--" she said; she
glared at him and went inside.
	Because CHAKOTAY had drunk from it?
	He stood for a minute, shaking and disoriented with sudden
rage.  Then, "TOM," Chakotay said quietly; and Paris's feet turned
him around and walked him away from the damned house.
	Walked him right down the street, down another street, down
another.  No idea where they were going; just getting
awayawayaway.
	"THAT was instructive."  Chakotay's voice was dry.
	Instructive--  Paris stopped, turned.  Chakotay looked at
him.  They stood that way while Paris fumbled for thoughts.
	"I don't think I can do this," he said.
     "You're a Starfleet officer," said Chakotay.  "You can do it."
	"But, Chakotay, that--that CHILD...."
	Chakotay looked at him for a moment, then he straightened his
spine, became the Commander again.  "Lieutenant, you HAVE to do
it.  These people have--"  His mouth twisted.  "These people
aren't going to listen to me; YOU'LL have to take care of
everything.  For once in your life, you have to take
responsibility for something."
	*You piece of*--  Paris bit back the words.
	But Chakotay saw the fury.  He stepped forward, got right
into Paris's face.  "YOU have to take responsibility.  I have to
be able to count on you.  No matter what happens.  Whether you
like it or not; whether _I_ like it or not.  Can I do that? 
LIEUTENANT?"
	It was a minute before Paris could control what would come
out of his mouth.  "YES, SIR."
	They glared into each other's eyes for a long moment. 
*Stiff-necked, uptight, hard-assed*--  And he knew just which
buttons to push when it came to Tom Paris.  Then Paris saw
Chakotay relax a little.
	"Tom," Chakotay said, "I can't even express how humiliating
was to have to go into that house naked, have that child herding
me, hear those women laughing about it."  His mouth tightened. 
"That woman smashing the glass I'd drunk from....  Your anger was--"
Chakotay smiled.  "--heartening."  Paris took a shaky breath.
SHIT--just which buttons....  "I hate having to depend on ANYBODY. 
But--but I know I can count on you to get us through this.  Can I?"
	Fuck fuck fuck.  JUST what buttons to push.  "Yes,
commander," Paris said, though in his heart he knew he was going
to screw this up somehow in his time-honored way, just completely
fuck it up, get them both killed or worse.  Shit.
	And there was that wry look coming into Chakotay's eyes, that
dry quirk to his lips.  "And now that we have money, we need food,
we need shelter, we need clothes.  I suggest the clothes first. 
I'm FREEZING.  And I'm sick of feeling like a Dendrelian pleasure
boy advertising his wares."
	Paris blinked.  What the hell did CHAKOTAY know about
Dendrelian--  He just killed that thought right there.
	The suns were setting, and the long shadows were chilly.
The next street over, Paris spotted a clothing stall.
	Twelve redstones.  Hmmm--
	Trousers and tunic and shoes for Chakotay--good, thick ones,
because it was getting nippier by the minute.  The stall owner was
helpful and loquacious and informative.  Slave clothing?  Right
here, sir!  The boots were easy; there was only one color and one
style.  Paris's heart sank as he looked at the dull browns and
grays of the clothing.  Chakotay wearing this, just another
generic slave--
	Of COURSE, there were other colors, sir!  Chaneet the
Clothier had everything a Master could need!  But the rich red
tunic that caught Paris's eye cost eight redstones.
	And his own boots--
	The Master should have only the best!  That must be why they
cost three times a slave's boots.  Chaneet the Clothier was aghast
when Paris asked about a pair like Chakotay's.  Masters never wore
the boots of a slave!  No, not even as a joke!  Such a thing was
unheard of!
	"Buy the good ones," Chakotay murmured, his gaze fixed on the
ground.
	Chaneet the Clothier politely rearranged his wares,
ostentatiously not listening.  Apparently little unheard
conversations between master and slave went on all the time.
	"But I don't want you to have to wear those--" Paris started.
	Chakotay flicked a smile at him.  "I appreciate that," he
said.  "But, it'll make it easier for us to blend in.  We're in
Rome, Tom.  Dress like a Roman."
	Damn it.  He bought the damned boots, and two pairs of the
socks fit for a master, and a tunic and trousers in a brown that
wouldn't look half bad on Chakotay; and once it was all totalled
up, they had exactly two redstones left.
	They found an alley and donned their clothes.
	"You always have to have your own way," Chakotay commented as
he examined the soft, thick socks before putting them on.
	"You're welcome," Paris said.
	He could see Chakotay's grin in the fading light as he
fastened up his boots.
	Food took the rest of their redstones:  little rounds of
something like corn bread, and a couple handfuls of a small autumn
fruit they'd both grown fond of in the last couple days:  "And
this cost half what you paid for me," Chakotay said.  "I'm
beginning to feel seriously underpriced."
	Shelter--well, they sheltered themselves in a really nice
alley, where there wasn't much in the way of garbage, and the wind
didn't blow too hard.  Paris froze when Chakotay lay right up
against him, though, really, it was the only way they'd stay warm.
	"How do you feel about rats?" Chakotay whispered genially
into Paris's ear.
	Paris sat up in a hurry.  "Where?"
	But Chakotay was grinning.  "I just wondered.  A man needs to
know how his companion's likely to react."
	"Oh, I react just swell," said Paris.  "I scream and run all
over the place."
	Chakotay's chuckle warmed him until he fell asleep.

	Ohmigod, sleeping on pavement was--  Oh, god, he felt about
fifty years older than when they started this mission.  And this
was his second night in a row bedded down in an alley.  Paris
heard the sound of water trickling and opened an eye.  Chakotay,
pissing against a wall.
	"Good morning, Lieutenant," Chakotay said over his shoulder.
	"Morning, Commander."  Paris groaned himself to his feet and
shuffled over to the wall to empty his bladder.  Oh, god, his
back....
	Sleeping in an alley didn't appear to agree with Chakotay,
either.  Hair rumpled, face creased, eyes puffy with sleep,
bruises gone an ugly color, back obviously protesting every move;
and those dust-covered brown clothes--  Paris had definitely seen
the Commander look better.
	As Paris refastened his trousers--shit, he wanted a shower, a
real SHOWER, with hot water and soap and shampoo and--Chakotay
started the moves of the Klingon-Vulcan-Earth variation of tai chi
they'd all learned at the Academy.  Good way to loosen up.  Paris
joined him.
	Loosened wasn't fed, Paris's stomach kept whimpering.  Well,
it would have to wait until they earned some redstones.
	It waited most of that morning, because earning enough for
breakfast turned out to be a long process.  His attempts to find a
quick job for himself were met with amused bemusement by the
Verkau:  apparently a slave owner wasn't actually expected to
work, himself, which was actually a part of this culture he could
probably learn to live with, though, "Don't get used to that,
Lieutenant," Chakotay murmured behind him.
	Finally he found the hiring market, where lounging masters
scrounged odd jobs for their slaves.  Here, though, they ran into
a humiliation Paris hadn't actually anticipated, though, in
hindsight, he should have.
	"What House?" an approaching client asked.
	"House of Chakotay," Paris said.  Voyager's senior staff had
discussed the answer to this anticipated question for almost an
hour, and decided that, since each pair of traders would need to
identify with some House, using the name of the senior officer in
the pair would sound plausible enough to pass, but obscure enough
not to raise suspicion.
	"Ah," said the man.  "A House unknown to me, though
undoubtedly a strong House."
	Paris smiled and inclined his head modestly.  "We come from
far away.  The southern continent."  There was, in fact, no
fucking southern continent on Verka, but he'd noticed a long time
ago that for unexplainable reasons most intelligent beings in the
universe prided themselves on a non-existent knowledge of
geography.
	This one was no different.  "A lovely place," he said.  "I
have visited it often."
     *Of course you have*.  "How may my House be of service to you?"
     The client smiled happily.  "I am breeding a lovely pair of--"
	HUH?  "I'm sorry," Paris said hastily.  "He's not for
breeding."
	"Pity.  So much of our slave stock is inbred; a stud from a
distant place could charge quite a fee."
	"Such a pity," Paris agreed.  (Behind him, Chakotay snorted.)
	And another Verkau, five minutes later:
	"I'm breeding a VERY strong and beautiful--"
	And, three minutes after that:
	"They're triplets, and I would love to breed them all to the
same--"
	And, six minutes later, the final touch:
	"Five minutes, and you could be on your way--"
	"FIVE MINUTES?" Chakotay said in a strangled voice when the
would-be client scurried away.
	*Finally got to you, huh, Commander?*  "Obviously thinking of
himself," Paris said, and was rewarded by Chakotay's chuckle.
	"STUD service?" Chakotay said.  "These people--"  He sounded
disgusted.
	Paris thought of Lashlee, being bred to some other degraded
lump of a slave as if she were an animal, and felt sick.  But,
Chakotay at stud--Harry would howl when he heard about it.
	"You could have had triplets," Paris said.
	"I'll just have to live with that."  Chakotay's voice was
rich with amusement.  Then, "This won't appear in our final
report, Lieutenant."
	"Of course not, Commander."  *Stud*.
	When the next man bustled up, Paris almost greeted him with,
"I'm not interested in breeding this slave," but,
	"Work for a week," the man said briskly.  "Carrying.  Not
heavy loads, not far."  He walked around Chakotay, eyeing him
critically.  "Pardon me," the man said to Paris; and he lifted
Chakotay's tunic to examine him.
	Above the bunched tunic, Paris's sickened gaze met
Chakotay's.  My god, to be prodded like a side of suspect beef. 
The Commander's mouth tightened.  Then his face went stony as he
dropped his gaze to the ground.
	"Good muscle tone," the Verkau said to Paris, dropping the
tunic and running his hands appraisingly down Chakotay's arms.
	He was going to pay for that--dearly.
	He did.  "For thirty a day, I had better get full bargain out
of him," the Verkau snapped at the end of their dickering.  "You're
lucky that Vaneet the Importer needs a worker in a hurry."
	"And half in advance," Paris said.
	The Verkau glared, and then laughed.  "The House of Chakotay
is unknown to me," he said.  "But with bargainers like you, it is
a House that will live in legend."  He handed over the fifteen
stones almost cheerfully.
	The job actually was as Vaneet had described:  Chakotay
loaded baskets off carts for the rest of that day, with a couple
male slaves.  Paris watched.  It was monotonous and, watching the
deadened expressions of the slaves, Paris could see why the other
Verkau thought of them as animals:  they had retreated so far into
themselves that they looked almost incapable of thought.
	At noon, Paris learned something else.  First, he learned how
to feed a slave.  Vaneet sat with the food in front of him, his
slaves just behind him; and as he ate, he passed them their own
meal.  They ate only what he gave them, when he handed it to them,
but even without looking he seemed to know when they wanted
another piece of meat, another chunk of bread.
	Chakotay heaved a disgusted sigh and sat just behind Paris,
who shared out the food he'd bought on the way to the shop.  It
was, Paris decided, a ridiculous way to feed somebody:  he was so
worried that Chakotay would go hungry that, "Slow down," Chakotay
hissed; "You're loading me up worse than Neelix trying to finish
off that leftover leeola root casserole!"
	And then he learned something else.  Finished, Vaneet stood,
tapped one slave on the shoulder, and led the way to the alcove
where he apparently did the books.  The other slave lay down and
appeared to fall asleep.
	After a minute or two, the sounds from the alcove made it
very clear that Vaneet was enjoying the dubious pleasures of his
slave's body.
	"Don't get any ideas, Lieutenant," Chakotay murmured in
Paris's ear.
	"Commander!" Paris squawked, turning a shocked look to him.
	A smile flickered at the corner of the lush mouth.
	"All these people seem to think about is sex," Chakotay said
as the sounds began to build.
	"And money," Paris added.
	"Like Ferengis," they said together.  Chakotay's laugh
sounded good.
	A few minutes later, the noises reached a crescendo and then
stopped, and Vaneet soon strolled out of the alcove, completely
unruffled.  The sleeping slave sat up and stretched.  When the
other slave emerged, the two grinned happily at each other; the
one Vaneet had used rubbed his ass briskly, cheer radiating from
every pore.  He showed his friend two fingers; apparently a very
good time had been had by all.
	"Good god," Paris breathed.  He could hear Chakotay choking
behind him.
	The afternoon stretched on and on.  It was pretty damned
boring watching Chakotay and the other two trudge back and forth,
back and forth.  Maybe he could find something to do, get a job
from somebody who didn't know he theoretically had a slave to do
all the work, earn enough that they could both relax for a few
days--
	The shout and the clatter of a metal cup hitting the ground
brought him to his feet; when he saw Vaneet glaring at Chakotay,
Paris was moving before his brain even told his feet to go.
	They were beside a pottery jar that held water.  Chakotay was
wet, the ground was splashed, and a cup rocked at his feet.  He
was glaring at the ground, his fists clenched; his jaw was working
hard.
	"Your slave should know when it is proper to drink and when
he should be following his orders," Vaneet growled.
	"Where we're from, we pretty much drink whenever we feel the
need."  Paris picked up the cup, handed it to Chakotay.  "He knows
to drink as much water as he needs, as often as he needs it."
	Vaneet's eyes narrowed as he watched Chakotay take his drink. 
"Your slave acts as if he thinks far too well of himself.  He
doesn't walk much like a slave."
	*What the hell's he supposed to do, shuffle and say, "Yes,
massa"?*  "Chakotay acts just the way he should."  Paris stepped
very close to Vaneet and said quietly, "And if you do that again,
I'll hand you your head."
	The idiom may not have translated well, but Vaneet seemed to
get the gist of it.  "You're right," he said.  "It is for the
master to beat his slave.  But see that you do it."
	Then he shoved Chakotay back to work, and Paris realized that
his own hands were shaking.  Fucking planet, fucking Verkau,
fucking slave culture, fucking--  "Observe, so you can blend in,"
the Academy had drilled into both of them; but first contact
usually didn't involve trying to stay invisible, learn the
culture, AND protect your commanding officer from bullies with
whips.
	The most painful part of the rest of that day was watching
Chakotay watch the two slaves, slowly learning from them how to
move.
	The suns were just setting on the short autumn day when Paris
and Chakotay set out in search of shelter.  A room where nobody
watched to make sure Chakotay acted like a slave, a room with a
bed, a real bed, a real fucking bed....
	At an inn that didn't actually look half bad, when they found
it.  Seven redstones a night bought them a bed and a meal.  When
he saw the room, Paris blinked.  A bed.  One bed--one very narrow
bed.  One.
	"Chakotay needs a bed," he said.
	"Slave's bed," the innkeeper said, pointing to the rug beside
the bed.
	Oh, for--  Paris could feel his blood pressure rising; he was
just not in the mood for this.  "He needs a mattress."
	The innkeeper looked puzzled.  "You have a mattress, so when
you fuck your slave, you are comfortable.  No slave needs a
mattress just to sleep on."
	Deep breath, Paris.  Deeeeep breath.
	Paris stepped very close to the innkeeper, looked down at
him, and said very calmly and precisely, "When I fuck my slave, we
use HIS bed; and I WANT ANOTHER MATTRESS."
	The innkeeper bustled outside in a hurry to shout down the
stairs for another mattress.
	"'When I FUCK my SLAVE'?" Chakotay murmured.
	"Please don't start, Commander."  Deep breaths, Paris. 
Deeeeeeeep breaths.
	Chakotay strolled to the window, where the candle light
bathed his face; and Paris could see his grin reflected in the
dark glass.
	Supper was communal:  Paris sat with the others on low stools
around a low table, sharing bread and fruit and platters of
vegetables and some sort of meat.  Good:  plenty for Chakotay, who
was a vegetarian.  No silverware, though, so Paris had to keep
wiping his fingers on his napkin, to keep the juices from the meat
off the food he passed back.
	There were baths next door, and the minute Paris realized
what they were in for, he wished he could just drown himself and
get the misery over.  First you undressed, then you washed, then
you soaked:  the procedure wasn't that alien.  Except that slaves
were involved.
	"Don't get used to this, Lieutenant," a naked Chakotay
murmured as he stripped Paris.
	"I won't, sir," Paris said.  He had a sinking feeling he knew
what was going to happen next.
	He was right.  Chakotay got to soap him up.
	With his bare hands.
	Where everyone else getting soaped was watching.
	My god.  Paris was going to be hearing about this for the
next sixty or so years.
	"Just close your eyes and think of Starfleet, Lieutenant,"
Chakotay murmured into his ear.
	Which was funny, except--oh, god--closing his eyes wasn't a
good idea, since it left him free to focus on the slide of
Chakotay's soapy hands on his back, his stomach, his thighs, his--
	"That's probably going to get clean enough without the soap,
Commander," he said briskly when Chakotay's hands wandered just
south of Paris's stomach.
	"Just being thorough," Chakotay muttered.
	*I'll just bet*.  Paris frowned down at Chakotay's sly grin. 
*Damn you, Chakotay; quit making this worse*.
	Chakotay seemed in good humor while he finished with Paris's
legs.  He was very thorough in soaping Paris's ass, massaging,
stroking, circling--
	"I think that's enough soap, Commander," Paris gasped
finally.  DAMN it.
	"Yes, Lieutenant."  Meekly.
	Those strong hands went up to shampoo Paris's hair.  It felt
good.  Very good.  And then, unbidden, Paris's mind reminded him
that this was a naked body behind him, radiating heat,
occasionally bumping him, smooth skin glistening with water and
flecked with soap suds, and--
	WHAT?  His eyes snapped open.  What the hell was he THINKING? 
This wasn't some hot and willing flirt.  This was upright, uptight
Chakotay.  His commanding officer.  Paris took a deep breath. 
*Just get a grip, Paris*.  Rinsed and neck-deep in the communal
tub of steaming water, Paris tried to relax.  But, my god, there
was Chakotay washing himself in the area set aside for slaves: 
soaping himself, rinsing, absorbed in the dreamy pleasure of
getting thoroughly clean.  Lamp light on that glistening skin,
turning it golden--  Paris tore his gaze from the kneeling figure
and focused instead on the skeletal merchant across from him,
droning on to a friend about some complex deal involving rotten
fish.
	Chakotay seemed cheerful when he knelt on the deck just
behind Paris's head.  "Bed, Lieutenant?" he murmured into Paris's
ear.
	*Damn you, Chakotay*.  As Paris clambered out of the water,
he caught a glimpse of Chakotay's mischievous grin.  Double damn
you, Chakotay.
	When the Commander meekly wrapped Paris in what passed for a
towel here, and began to rub, Paris grabbed it away.  "I can do
that," he said drily.  "Commander."
	Chakotay inclined his head.  "Yes, Lieutenant."
	It was a relief to reach their room, away from judging eyes.
	Paris dropped onto the mattress on the floor.  "You wouldn't
have been TRYING to humiliate me, would you, Commander?"
	Chakotay's grin was pure mischief.  "Sorry, Lieutenant; I
couldn't help myself."  Then, "I should probably be sleeping
there, you know."
	Shit.  Paris stretched out on the rustling mattress--what was
it filled with, hay?--and closed his eyes.  There was a draft. 
"You'd need another blanket," he said.
	"We'll take care of it," Chakotay said briskly.  Paris opened
his eyes; Chakotay was looking down at him with undisguised
friendliness gleaming in his dark eyes.  "Come on, Lieutenant." 
He reached down to pull Paris up.
	"I hate this planet," Paris said.  He grabbed a blanket, felt
it, tossed a thicker one to Chakotay.
	"I've certainly had more enjoyable away missions," Chakotay
said drily.  He wrapped the blanket around himself and paused. 
"But you're doing a very good job, Lieutenant."
	Praise from Chakotay?  "Uh, thanks, Commander.  Oh--and
remind me tomorrow that I beat you black and blue tonight."
	Chakotay eased himself onto the mattress and closed his eyes. 
"I'll limp and whimper a lot."
	"Don't overdo it."  Paris blew out the candle and stretched
out.  A bed.  Migod, a bed.
	"You know, Vaneet's men are actually pretty intelligent and
interesting."  Chakotay's voice was sleepy.  "Rao makes up
stories.  Sei knows about a hundred funny songs.  They like
Vaneet.  They feel lucky, because when he beats them, he uses his
open hand instead of his fist or a whip; and when he has sex with
them, he makes sure they enjoy it."
	"Shit, that's pathetic."
	Relaxed sigh.  "They're surprisingly happy."
	That was even more pathetic.  "Good night, Commander."
	"Good night, Lieutenant."
	Happy.  Pathetic.  But Chakotay said it as if he sympathized--
or at the very least understood.

	Sometime during the night, Paris woke.  He raised up and
looked around the room.  Everything okay.  The blanket-wrapped
bundle that was Chakotay snored gently.  Paris grinned down at
him.  This was familiar; it was reminiscent of a hundred sleep-
overs he'd hosted as a child.  He lay back, smiling.  Kevin
Seabring, who'd wet the bed.  Luis Radowsky, who'd spooked both
Paris AND himself with his scary stories.  Ned Smithton, who'd--
	Paris caught his breath.  Well, actually, PARIS had
instigated that.  Both of them teenagers and full of hormones, Ned
honest about his homosexuality, and Paris curious, especially
after watching Roger Ives' "Iliad" in all its unexpurgated glory: 
Achilles, beautiful and fierce, bedding an eager Patroclus in
luscious detail; and Paris's mouth had dried with lust.
	So, Ned, sleeping over, on a mattress beside the bed,
awakened to find Paris nervously slipping in beside him.  And
shyly reached out.
	In his cold bed on Verka, Paris wrapped the blanket closer
and smiled.  My god, they'd both been virgins--at least, when it
came to THAT--though virginity was long gone by sun up.  It had
been awkward and painful and glorious, all at the same time.  And
then the summer--they must have tried every damn thing two males
could do with each other.  Now he sighed into darkness at those
impossibly innocent days, when they'd happily explored the
boundaries of pleasure, before either learned that he couldn't
always feel this happy or this strong.
	Chakotay murmured and shifted.  *When I fuck my slave*-- 
Ned, on that bed beneath his.  *Get your mind away from that,
Paris*.
	But what would it be like to have the right to use the body
on that mattress?  Naked, in a soft nest of thick blankets, the
warm body stirring as Paris slipped into the bed, the thighs
automatically parting and the snug ass obediently lifting to the
perfect angle, even before the slave fully climbed out of sleep;
lush mouth slackening with pleasure as Paris slid again and again
into tight, compliant flesh, husky voice crying out ecstatically--
	Oh, for--  Paris savagely wrenched his mind right away from
that scenario; such a lovely one, too--the rape of a passive
slave--and was that supposed to be Chakotay?  Slip into Chakotay's
bed, and you'd be lucky leave it with just your genitals ripped
off.
	He grinned into the darkness.  No tapping CHAKOTAY on the
shoulder.  Just go back to sleep, Paris.  Nothing doing THERE.

	Vaneet apparently didn't agree.  Halfway into the next
morning, Paris took a little stroll; sick of watching Chakotay
trudge alongside Rao and Sei, he went in search of some delicacy
for lunch.  When he returned, he noted Chakotay's set jaw, saw the
frowns the other two were giving him.
	Hmm.  Paris brought Chakotay a cup of water.
	"Don't--" Chakotay whispered.  "Don't--go off again."  He
flashed an embarrassed grin, turning a rich color.  "Vaneet
apparently likes to sample the talent."
	Paris felt all the blood drain to his feet.  "WHAT?"
	"Just--some--just his hands."  Chakotay gave an embarrassed
little laugh, and his eyes met Paris's; then he forced them down
again.  "No call to act like an outraged duenna.  But--stick
around here.  Remember, I--I can't actually tell him no."  The
gaze again; and Chakotay remembered that he couldn't do that,
either, and looked down again.
	Damnshit.  Paris looked over to where Vaneet was frowning
over his books.  He felt like ripping off the man's cock and
stuffing it down his throat, but they needed the damned redstones.
	Lunch, and Chakotay enjoyed the little autumn berries Paris
had bought as much as Paris had hoped.
	Lunch over, and Chakotay jumped when Paris rose, tapped him
on the shoulder, and led the way across the street.
	"Where are we going, Lieutenant?" Chakotay whispered.
	"To fuck our brains out, sir."
	Sleazy little place in sight of Vaneet's shop.  Paris dropped
a redstone into the hand of the old woman who ran it; "Four," she
said; and they entered the grimy labyrinth of curtained alcoves. 
Alcove four was barely bigger than its bed, but they were safe
from watchers--at least Paris HOPED they were.
	They sat side by side on the lumpy bed.  From two sides came
the sounds of professionally enthusiastic sex.
	"THIS takes me back," Chakotay said.
	HUH?
	Chakotay flashed an amused glance at him.  "Don't look so
surprised.  I was once young and full of hormones."
	"Not YOU, Commander."  Really.
	Chakotay laughed.  "She was beautiful and thought she was
wild; and I was completely smitten.  We found a place rather like
this on Merka'a Seven, and she thought it would be fun.  It was--" 
He turned red and laughed.  "It was not exactly my finest hour. 
Place made me too nervous."
	"It's an acquired taste," Paris said.  "And I once came very
close to acquiring it."  He regretted the words almost as they
came out of his mouth; Chakotay didn't really need any more
ammunition to use on him.
	But Chakotay was regarding him thoughtfully and with a tinge
of sadness.  "You'll have to tell me about it sometime," he said.
	This was a switch:  no judgment of Paris, no morally superior
tone.  Nice.  Paris rested against the wall behind them, eyes
closed.
	"We ARE staying more than five minutes, aren't we?" said
Chakotay.
	"You bet."
	Chakotay chuckled.
	"I'm surprised," Paris said, looking at him.  "I thought by
now you'd have at least led the first revolt, Prime Directive or
no Prime Directive."
	Chakotay looked thoughtful.  "Believe me, it's tempting.  And
if we were going to be here a while, I'd probably--  Well, I'm not
sure I could do much of anything.  Actually, Tom, the Prime
Directive doesn't just protect indigenous cultures.  It protects
US.  People like Rao and Sei aren't going to join in any
rebellion; and I'd just get killed starting one."  Still, he
looked a little sad.
	"I'D follow you," Paris said softly.
	Chakotay smiled at him.  "Then I'd get us both killed.  And
Captain Janeway would never forgive me.  For that matter, neither
would a quarter of the women on the ship."
	Smart ass.  "More like three-fourths," Paris said, standing.
	"You're over-estimating again," Chakotay said, falling in
behind him.  "Math always was your weakest subject."
	"Better that than Inter-species Relations."
	"Hey, I never touched those sheep."
	Paris was still grinning when they reached Vaneet's shop. 
Rao--or maybe it was Sei--was hitching at his clothing, smiling in
post-coital contentment.
	"Mmmm," Chakotay said; and, as Paris watched, he grinned at
Sei and Rao, stretched blissfully, and held up two fingers.
	*Ham*.
	Paris watched the other two greet him happily and ask furtive
questions.  Vaneet glowered at them, at Chakotay, and at Paris,
who stared back evenly.  If the son of a bitch wanted to start
something, Paris was right in the mood for it.
	But Vaneet just shoved everybody back to work, and the
trouble was over.
	Of course, there were other ways of getting into trouble--
there always were.
	Another night at the inn, and Paris was starting to think
that a master-slave relationship could cut both ways.
	"I'd like a bath first," Chakotay said quietly before supper;
so they both had to have a bath.  Complete with soaping, which
Chakotay at least accomplished with no nonsense.
	Comfortably ensconced in hot water, Paris found his eyes
drifting to the corner where Chakotay soaped himself, sluiced
himself with water, did it again, water sheeting over the well-
muscled body, that little smile curving the precise mouth.  My
god:  if the captain could see him now--shit, if ANYBODY on
Voyager could see him now, he'd never go to bed alone again....
	Water highlighted the tan-golden skin as Chakotay strode over
to take his place behind Paris, sparkled in the dark hair at the
base of Chakotay's thick, blunt cock.  *My god*.  Paris closed his
eyes against a rising heat that had nothing to do with the bath.
	Supper; and Chakotay's meal occupied Paris almost as much as
his own did.  Was Chakotay getting enough to eat, and did he like
the green stuff, and what about the purplish bread?  And Paris
having to wipe off his hands every five seconds, so he wouldn't
contaminate Chakotay's food.
	After the meal, he was singularly reluctant to go upstairs,
where all they could do was go to bed.  So he sat for a while with
the other guests, watching them, listening.  Most were having a
drink and getting a shoulder rub from their slave; and Paris heard
an impatient sigh behind him just before Chakotay's hands shaped
themselves to his shoulders.
	My god.  That felt--it felt pretty fucking great.  He must
have been more tense than he realized.  Chakotay's hands kneading
away the stress--maybe they could rent him out as a masseuse.  By
the hour.  Oh, hell, by the MINUTE, and they'd STILL make a
bundle, those hands were so--
	"Gee," Chakotay said into his ear, "this is going to be fun
to remember when we're back on the ship and I'm doing work
assignments."
	*Great*.  "Thank you, Commander," Paris said dismissively.
	"Why do you call him that?" one guest asked.  It was a new
guy, and he sounded like he wanted to start something.
	"It's a nickname."  *Like it's any of your fucking business*.
	"It sounds like he gives the commands to you, instead of the
other way around."  Still sounding belligerent.
	"It's our custom."
	A dismissive snort; and the man's slave--a docile teenaged
girl--poured him another drink from the pitcher.  Paris felt sick
when he looked at her and thought of her in the man's bed.
	"Maybe you should use my name instead of my title," Chakotay
said when they were alone upstairs.
	"This is an away mission.  You're still the Commander." 
*Even if I did buy you naked in the slave market*.
	Paris sat on the end of the bed and started to take off his
boots.  For some reason, he felt angry.  At--  Well, he wasn't
sure who, but possible targets included the man downstairs,
Vaneet, the entire fucking Verkau culture, and--and this made no
sense at all--all the damned slaves who allowed themselves to be
used, including--and this REALLY made no sense--Chakotay, who
wasn't foaming at the mouth about everything the way Paris
expected, but who was taking it all calmly, trying to blend in. 
Paris was sick of trying to blend in.  He had to make all the
fucking decisions and figure out how to keep out of trouble and
deal with the fucking master race, while all Chakotay had to do
was--
	He took a deep breath and watched Chakotay undress for bed. 
While all Chakotay had to do was not get smacked around by Vaneet
or whipped by the guard for breaking some obscure rule of being a
slave.  Oh, yes, and not get raped.
	"Rao and Sei were telling me that west of the mountains
slavery is illegal and people can't take slaves back over the
border to sell," Chakotay said.  "If you can get there, you can
stay put."
	"Think they'll try to escape?"
	"No."  Chakotay looked sober.  "I think they like to talk
about it to make themselves feel better."
	Fucking pathetic.
	"The guys are really jealous," Chakotay said, stretching out
on his mattress.
	"Of what?"
	"Of me."  Chakotay was grinning.  "I'm afraid I may have
exaggerated your sexual prowess.  I think they're hoping that
whichever one doesn't get the nod from Vaneet tomorrow, YOU'LL
take."
	Shit.  Paris found himself laughing.  "Maybe I will.  That
Rao has a pretty nice ass."
	"That's Sei.  But Rao has a little crush on you."
	Oh, SHIT.  Paris blew out the light, trying not to laugh.  He
heard Chakotay yawn.
	"It is ME you're taking to that sleazy place tomorrow, isn't
it, Tom?"
	Silence.  Paris grinned into darkness.
	"Tom?"  Paris could almost hear the grin.
	Silence.
	"LIEUTENANT?"  The word was ragged with laughter.
	"Whatever you say, Commander."
	Chakotay's soft chuckle warmed the chilly darkness.

	Awake again; and alert again.  Paris sat up and stared at the
darkness, matching shadows to memory, listening.  All systems
normal.  He lay back.
	All systems except one, of course.  His damnshitfucking
libido.  Yellow alert there--and edging close to red.  *Chakotay
on one knee in the slave section of the bath, water sheeting over
him as he rinsed himself.  Chakotay's hands soaping Paris, sliding
over places that nobody touched unless he was reciprocating*.  Oh,
yeah--pretty damn close to red.
	*Full stop, Lieutenant*.  He stared at the ceiling, tried to
empty his mind.  My god, it must be true:  a guy really DID go
nuts unless he got sex every, say, forty-eight hours.  That was
the ONLY explanation for where his mind was veering.  My god,
CHAKOTAY, of all damnfool lust objects.  May as well be TUVOK. 
Paris grinned.  Yeah--THAT image really iced up the old cock. 
But--oh, shit--the barest thought of Chakotay melted the ice right
off.  Chakotay's mouth quirking in a sudden grin; that thick cock
bobbing slightly as he walked; those knowing hands.
	He bit back a groan.  Just QUIT it--just--
	Paris flopped onto his side.  Pathetic.  That's what it was: 
just pathetic.  Fixating on the nearest warm body.  *Warm*.... 
Shit--QUIT it.
	He frowned over the side of the bed at the shadowy bundle of
Chakotay.  He did have to admit that Chakotay wasn't all that bad
looking.  Even if you HADN'T seen what lay beneath the uniform. 
Sometimes his eyes seemed a little small; and from some angles his
face looked all jowl and monumental nose.  But the profile was
interesting, and the tattoo suited him.
	Paris grinned.  That was NOT the reason Chakotay had gotten
tattooed--Paris KNEW it wasn't--he KNEW there was a spiritual
reason.  But it did look good on him, and the Commander wasn't
completely free from vanity.  Chakotay wasn't the first guy whose
hair was losing its gray as time went on.
	And women responded to those looks.  B'Elanna Torres had a
thing for him.  So did the Captain.  And about fifteen or twenty
other assorted female crew members Paris could name.  He smiled. 
And more than one alien.  Like the wife of the ambassador from
Yt'l.  My god, the look on Chakotay's face at that state dinner,
when she seemed to have lost something and was apparently
rummaging for it in his lap....
	But good looks aside, Chakotay really didn't have much to
offer.  He could be a judgmental, condescending, self-important
son of a bitch who gave orders like they were his own Prime
Directives.  He could strip the ego off a chief helmsman with just
a glance.  He was arrogant, over-critical, and way too fucking
sure of himself.
	Paris lay back and closed his eyes.  Just keep your mind on
that, Paris.  No need to remember that Chakotay could also be
funny, supportive, and very gentle with the fragile.  Forget that
having him at your back in a fight felt like having half the
Federation fleet behind you, that those barked out orders could
guide you out of a panic like a flexisteel safety line.  Dismiss
the way a joke warmed those dark eyes even if the mouth didn't
dare acknowledge it, the beauty of his hands at the conn, the fact
that he smelled good.  Really good.  Just put all that right out
of of your mind.
	Just remember the Maquis son of a bitch who wanted to kill
you, Paris, and you'll get through this just fine.

	Real trouble started the next morning.
	Paris woke to a sky saturated with dawn and a room golden
with candle light.  Chakotay knelt on the mattress, hands easy on
his thighs, eyes intent on the flame of the candle sitting on the
floor half a meter away.  His breathing was easy and slow; his
face was more relaxed than Paris had seen it since they started
this mission.  Something relaxed inside Paris, as if Chakotay's
serenity had something to do with his own.  He tried to move
quietly as he got up, went downstairs to take a leak.
	When Paris came back into their room, Chakotay was watching
sunlight steal over the dark sky.
	"Morning, Commander," Paris said.
	"Good morning, Lieutenant."
	Get dressed.  Paris looked at his tunic in distaste.  "I
think this needs a wash."
	"Not judging by everybody else's."
	Well, Paris wasn't everybody else.  He ran a hand over his
jaw, relieved to feel the smooth skin.  "If we're here much
longer, I'll need to find a razor."  The Verkau didn't grow
beards, and the Doctor's solution would last only so long.
	Paris saw Chakotay smile.  He could afford to be sanguine,
since he didn't grow much of a beard, himself; Paris was the one
who'd end up looking like the werewolf of Verka.
	"I'll ask the guys," Chakotay said, putting on his shoes.
	"Try not to make it sound like some weird sexual kink, would
you?"
	Chakotay laughed.
	But something--  Paris put on his own boots.  Something was
nagging at him--something about Chakotay.
	When Chakotay finished dressing and stood ready to go out,
Paris realized what it was.
	Chakotay hadn't so much as glanced at him the whole time.
	"Commander?"
	"Yes, Lieutenant?"  Eyes still focused on the floor.
	Shit.  Paris's heart started racing for really no reason
whatsoever, except that Chakotay not looking at him was--
	"COMMANDER?"
	"Yes, Paris?"  Staring at Paris's boots.
	Shit.  There really was no graceful way to ask.  So he did it
the ungraceful way.  "You ARE planning to look at me sometime
today, aren't you?"
	A hesitation.  Chakotay shifted his weight.  Uneasy.  "I
think I'd better--  I forget myself sometimes.  I think I'd better
get out of the habit of looking directly at you, even when we're
alone."  Serenity had fled; Chakotay's shoulders looked tense
enough to deflect phaser fire.
	Oh, shit.  It was stupid--it was just a stupid, stupid thing--
but with Chakotay focused on the floor like that, Paris felt cut
off from him.  And, surrounded by the damned Verkau, Paris didn't
want that distance from the only other person on the planet he
could feel easy with.
	"Well, if--"  Paris wasn't sure how to finish that sentence.
	Chakotay was smiling.  "It's just for a little while, Tom. 
Just--it's just for a little while."
	But he didn't sound as if he were trying to reassure Paris;
he sounded as if he were trying to reassure himself.

	Watching Chakotay that morning, Paris kept trying to veer
from a ridiculous train of thought, which was why the hell it
mattered to him that Chakotay did or didn't look at him.  After
all, Paris was trying to keep him at arms' length.  And it was
safer for Chakotay.  Kept him from making the mistake of looking
at Vaneet, who'd probably knock him down before Paris could
intervene.  But--but--
	But it made Paris into one of Them, one of the Verkau, one of
the fucking masters.  And just when they were getting along so
well.
	Fresh in Paris's mind was the flash of sick guilt and shame
when he realized that to the Verkau he looked like a master, while
Chakotay looked like a slave.  That was almost bearable, as long
as Chakotay didn't treat him any differently.  But now--  Watching
Chakotay laugh at something Rao--or maybe Sei--said, Paris felt a
twinge of envy.  And of loneliness.  Stupidstupidstupid, but
there.
	*Stupid*.  Chakotay still slept beside his bed at night. 
Chakotay still sat behind him at meals, still razzed him whenever
possible.  Stupid to feel envious because another man could smile
and Chakotay would see it.  Melodramatic to feel fucking lonely
because Chakotay was treating Paris like one of Them, when
Chakotay was the only other person Paris could talk to.  Stupid,
Paris.  Just fucking stupid.

	More trouble started after lunch.
	They ate in silence--well, Chakotay ate.  Paris's stomach
kept seizing up on him and didn't seem interested in food.  He
felt jumpy; he always did when he was unhappy.
	So when Vaneet stood up and started toward them, Paris was on
his feet and blocking the way before the merchant could come close
enough to tap Chakotay on the shoulder.
	Paris locked eyes with Vaneet, and everybody froze.
	Dead silence for a minute.
	Vaneet started around him; and Paris stepped in his way. 
Behind him, Chakotay had risen to his feet.
	"No," Paris said.
	Vaneet stopped, looked annoyed.  "Don't you honor the
kat'ree?" he demanded.  "Have you forgotten how to be polite?"
	*Kat'ree?*  Damn--what the hell concept could be so esoteric
that the universal translator couldn't find a word for it?
	"I only need once with him," Vaneet went on.  "And you can
honor our bargain by using one of them."  Behind him, Rao--it was
probably Rao, the one with the crush--got to his feet.
	("Shit, it's some sort of tip," Chakotay murmured.  "Some
sort of bonus for hiring me.  Like the damned Ferengi.")
	And, shit, knocking Vaneet down probably wasn't a real great
idea.  Paris studied Rao, who was trembling expectantly, like a
shy girl about to be kissed; his hand kept straying to touch the
fabric over his crotch.  Paris looked back at Vaneet and tried to
put a smile on his face.
	"I haven't forgotten how to be polite," Paris said.  *Keep it
light, Paris, keep it light keepitlight*.  "It's just that--  It's
just that--"  He cast a meaningful glance down at Vaneet's crotch. 
"--well, from what I've heard, after YOU, I may not be enough for
him."  *Give him that bad-boy-of-the-Delta-Quadrant smile.  Hope
he can't hear your heart hammering*.
	Half a minute went by; and then Vaneet decided it was funny. 
He smiled.  Paris grinned back, trying to give it that we're-BOTH-
bad-boys-aren't-we edge.  Vaneet grinned back, a fellow bad boy
indeed.
	"Besides," Paris said, looking pointedly at Rao, "I think
THAT one must have spent the whole morning thinking about you,
he's so hot to come--if you catch my drift."  *Wink at Vaneet;
hope it means the same thing it does in the Alpha Quadrant*.
	Vaneet looked puzzled for a heartbeat after the wink--
apparently it DIDN'T mean the same thing--but then he glanced at
Rao; and then he STARED at Rao, and his nostrils definitely
flared.  He turned away from Paris and Chakotay.
	"Strip," Vaneet said harshly; and Paris watched Sei and Rao
freeze and almost stop breathing for a minute.
	Then Rao stripped hastily--wiry body, very hard cock.
	Sei looked on with fierce eagerness as Vaneet circled Rao,
stroking the tip of a finger here, sliding his hands there,
stopping to whisper into Rao's ear:  Rao's eyes closed in ecstasy;
his hips jerked slightly.  Sei's hand wandered to his own crotch.
	"I THINK we better--" Paris murmured to Chakotay, just as,
"Strip," Vaneet barked to Sei, and Sei's clothes joined Rao's in
the dirt.  Hard body; harder cock.
	"--get the hell out of here and leave them to their magic
moment," Chakotay finished for Paris; and at that moment, Vaneet
looked over at them.  His eyes were hard as duranium.
	"When you return, have him unload that cart," he said; and
then he hoisted Rao--who was actually taller than he was--under
one arm, and Sei--equally tall--under the other; and carried them
into the warehouse.  Both kicked a little--some sort of token
resistance, since they looked ready to come on the spot.
	The same old woman sat outside the half-hour-of-heaven hotel;
"Six," she grunted.  Gee, the whole world must be in love.
	Six was cleaner than four, which was a plus.
	"Good job, Lieutenant."  Chakotay sounded breathless; Paris
didn't want to speculate why.  His own heart was hammering, and
there was a distinct pressure in his groin.  Those hard bodies--
and the one next to him right now, slick with sweat--
	"Yeah--well, if it weren't for Rao being so obviously ready
to fuck, I don't think you'd be very happy right now."
	"That was Sei."
	Moment for Paris's brain to reboot; "I thought you said it
was RAO who has the crush on me."
	"I guess Sei has a crush on you, too."
	Oh, just great.  Paris stared around at their cubicle,
fighting not to laugh.  "Well, I hope Vaneet doesn't--hurt them. 
He looked ready to rip off body parts."
	"Oh, I think the guys are really, really grateful."  Chakotay
was grinning at the floor.  "Apparently this is one of their
favorite scenarios.  Some creative re-enactment of an ancient
story; they love it, but Vaneet doesn't get into the mood very
often.  Some ancient warrior who rapes his way through an entire
empire.  He's about to sack a caravan, but they offer him a night
with a virgin prince if he doesn't attack.  He likes the looks of
the prince's friend, too, so he has both of them strip at
swordpoint right in front of everybody, carries them to a nearby
cave, and then spends the night ravishing them both repeatedly. 
It's a love story."
	It would be.  "Repeatedly?" Paris said weakly.
	"Well, you know those storybook heroes."
	Repeatedly.  The body next to him right now, thrashing
beneath him, coming hard, again and again--
	"Somehow, I never thought SLAVES would get off on rape
fantasy," Paris said, wrenching his mind right away from the
scenario.
	Chakotay gave a weak little laugh.  "I've just given up
trying to figure these people out at all."
	Paris laughed.
	"May as well take our time," Chakotay went on.  "Vaneet
doesn't like to lose much time in the middle of the day, but this
isn't the usual fuck with lunch.  That one, he just bends you over
his desk, yanks down your trousers, and lets you hump your hand
while he has his quickie."  He didn't look up, but he turned red
as Paris stared at him in stunned surprise.  "The guys coached me
for my debut over the account books."  He grinned.  "See what I
missed because you got territorial?"
	Bastard.  Paris grinned.  "I could bring SEI here tomorrow,
if you like.  Just say the word, Commander."
	Chakotay laughed and leaned back against the wall, closing
his eyes.  "I think you should remain a tantalizing fantasy in
Sei's fevered imagination, Lieutenant.  Less possibility of
disappointment."
	"That's not what the Delaney sisters say."
	"What Delaney sisters would those be?  Because I've TALKED to
the ones on Voyager."  Chakotay's grin broadened at Paris's
chuckle.  Touche.
	They sat in comfortable silence for a while.  Paris watched
Chakotay's face in the dim light.  This wasn't the Chakotay Paris
thought he knew:  the hard-nosed hard ass always on Paris's case
for not being perfect.  This was a different Chakotay.  This one
had an actual sense of humor.  This one had tried sex in an in-
and-out hotel.  This one could be chatted with like a friend.
	Of course, it helped that he looked different than he did on
the ship.  The Verkau look suited Chakotay; he looked like Harry
Kim's older brother.  ("I look like Marlon Brando playing
Japanese," Paris had said, seeing himself after the Doctor's
ministrations; "Who?" Kim had asked.)  But there was something
else, some other side to Chakotay that seemed to be emerging now
that power had been taken from him.  Perhaps this was the Chakotay
that lay under the regulation uniform and the regulation behavior: 
the guy whose sense of humor could get him pounded in a bar.
	"Why did you say your ancestors would find this funny?" Paris
asked.
	Chakotay stiffened.  He opened his eyes.  "I--"  His fingers
wandered over the tattoo.  "I got this tattoo to honor my father,
to honor his attachment to my people, to our old ways.  I--"  He
sat up, stared unhappily at the floor between his feet.
	*Shit*.  "You don't have to--"  Chakotay silenced him with a
gesture.
	"When I was young, I didn't want what my father wanted for
me," he said.  "I wanted Starfleet.  I didn't want the old ways;
I wanted new ways, new people, new adventures.  New worlds.  I
didn't really--even after I changed my mind, re-centered myself,
I felt like a fake Indian, like everybody could tell that I wasn't
really an Indian, that I was just trying hard to be something I
really wasn't inside.  Even getting the tattoo, I still felt like
people could see that I may have looked right, but deep down
inside I wasn't really very Indian.  Sometimes I still--"  He
smiled.  "You wouldn't really understand.  But even in the 24th
century, race is--well, it can still be complicated."
	But Paris understood complicated, especially when it came to
genetics.  B'Elanna Torres blaming her Klingon genes for the
temper that really, at heart, wasn't ruled by DNA.  His own father
so focused on the family tradition of service to Starfleet that he
disowned the erring son tainting the gene pool.  Paris had never
had to think about race, but he could understand the sense of
being fake behind the facade; he'd felt it every time someone who
knew his family tree looked at him.
	"I may not understand race," Paris said, "but I do understand
family expectations."
	Something that may have been surprise flickered over
Chakotay's face; then he looked thoughtful; and a smile dawned in
his face, as if he'd just been handed a gift.  "You're right,
Lieutenant," Chakotay said.  "I think you do understand.  At least
a little."
	And Paris felt himself relax for the first time that day--
maybe for the first time in a couple days.
	"Think we're finished?" Chakotay said.
	"Sure."
	"Did I enjoy it?"
	"Of COURSE!"  Paris grinned at Chakotay's grin.
	But not as much as Rao and Sei.  Chakotay had about half the
cart unloaded before they stumbled out of the other warehouse,
hard-used and dreamy-eyed.  They whispered and touched and laughed
softly together while they tugged on their discarded clothes,
whispered and touched and laughed softly together while they
helped with the unloading--in fact, they looked like two lovers
prolonging a tryst.
	Vaneet didn't make eye contact as he scuttled out of the
warehouse and into his office:  probably embarrassed.
	Shit, Paris would be glad when he and Chakotay were away from
these damn people.

	Real Galaxy-class trouble waited until they got back to the
inn.
	Bath first; watching Sei and Rao flirt with each other all
afternoon, after the earlier performance, had Paris on edge and
feeling grimy, all at the same time.  Chakotay's hands soaping him
didn't help the edge any; Paris was startled at Chakotay's shaky
breathing and flushed face when he was done.  Edge seemed to be
catching.
	Soaking in the tub, Paris resolutely kept his eyes closed. 
Relax.  Just fucking relax.  Yes, he's over there soaping himself,
naked.  Yes, he's rinsing himself, naked.  Yes, water is making
trails over that smooth skin as he stands up, naked.  Yes, he's
naked.  Just relax and think about--about anything but naked.
	"Hey!"  That fucking bastard from last night.
	"Sorry, sir."  Chakotay.
	Paris's eyes flew open.
	"Did I tell you to speak to me?"  The bastard was right up on
Chakotay, glaring at his bowed head.
	Paris was out of the deep tub in one movement.
	"No, sir.  I--"  Chakotay stopped himself, clenched his
fists, visibly calmed himself.
	"Did I TELL you to speak to me?"  The bastard stepped even
closer; one hand formed itself to hit.  "Did I?  Did I TELL you to
apologize to me?"
	Chakotay stood stock still, staring at the floor, his face a
careful blank.
	Paris grabbed the hand as it started a swing, gave a jerk
that might have looked accidental but stopped the bastard cold.
	"Problem here?" he said, stepping right up close to the
Verkau, offering himself as a tempting target.  *Swing on me, just
swing on me, swing on me, you bastard*:  a fight would do him just
no end of good, edge-wise.  A good fight would be just really
relaxing.
	The Verkau glared over Paris's shoulder at Chakotay, turned
the glare on Paris.  "The problem is your slave.  Why haven't you
taught him not to speak to a master?  Who does he think he is,
apologizing to me as if he were a person?"
	*Oh, you hypocritical piece of shit, Paris thought with giddy
joy.  If he HADN'T apologized, you'd have tried to hit him for
that*.  Shit, the fucker was tall.
	"Gentlemen--gentlemen!"  The bath keeper bustled up between
them, oily with good humor.  "Comecome, gentlemen!  The baths of
the House of Erkau are for relaxing, not for continuing petty
quarrels!  Ah, gentlemen, return to your bathing, before the
guards of the House of Erkau, who are just on the other side of
that door, hear your raised voices and misunderstand.  Oh, kind
gentlemen, if they hear you and think we are being robbed, they
might do you some harm as they drag you to safety out in the
street."  He paused, and silence fell in that part of the baths.
	The Verkau glared at Paris, who stared levelly back.  Ready
he was ready--
	The Verkau gave him an ugly look, turned on his heel, and
stalked away.  Disappointment rippled through the bath.  Paris
relaxed.  His mouth tasted bitter with adrenaline.
	"Now, kind sir," the bath keeper said.  "Back to your bath,
kind sir."
	"I was finished."  Out of there; just get the hell out of
there before he punched somebody out.
	The shakes hit when he was almost finished dressing: 
reaction to being all wound up with no one to pound.  Shit, he
could use a drink.
	Paris looked down at Chakotay, still naked and fastening
Paris's boots.  Fuck.  All the son of a bitch had to do was stay
focused, stay humble, and stay out of everybody's way.  But he
couldn't even manage that.  No, Paris had to spend his time
feeding him and talking people out of raping him and making sure
no fucking loser tried to pound him into pulp.  *You have to take
responsibility*.  Well, Chakotay could just shove that fucking
responisiblity right up his ass.
	Paris got up and started out.
	"Lieutenant?"  Chakotay, stumbling to yank on his own
trousers.
	"I'll be outside."
	He was sick of watching, sick of waiting, sick being a
keeper.  Chakotay would be steaming when he came out of the bath
house:  fucking let him.  Fucking Verkau slave system; fucking
society that let the Verkau on the other side of the river feel
self-righteous about not owning slaves while capitalizing
literally on their recapture; fucking arrogant sons of bitches so
intent on feeling superior to slaves they bullied and beat that
they took offense at every little thing.  Screw 'em.
	He didn't even see her until he barrelled right into her.
	"Oh, hey, I'm sorry!"  Manners mainlined into him from birth
cut the circuit on the really good mad he'd worked up; contrition
poured cold water on what remained of the heat.
	It was that little teenager with the pugnacious Verkau
bastard, now chasing some round fruit Paris had knocked out of her
basket and into the dusty street.  Shit.
	"Here, let me help you."  Shit, Paris.  Good going, Paris. 
Fuck up her day because you can't control your temper--
	His collar suddenly bit into his throat:  someone grabbing
the back of his tunic, yanking him up.  He dropped the fruit he'd
gathered.
	Well, well, well, it was the son of a bitch himself.  "What
do you think you're doing?" the bastard roared at him.
	Paris twisted himself out of the man's grip.  Chakotay had
just stepped into the street; he froze when he saw what was
happening.
	"I knocked those out of her basket; I was just--"
	"What do you think you're doing?"
	"I was just--"
	"SHE doesn't need your help!  She doesn't need anyone's help! 
Why are you interfering with my slave?"
	A crowd was clumping up around them, and from their flat,
suspicious expressions, someone was about to get hurt.  And not
the Verkau.
	"You haven't properly trained your own slave."  The bastard
had an audience now and was working himself up good.  The teenager
had gathered all the fruit she could find and stood impassively
behind him.  "Why are you interfering with someone else's?"  The
crowd murmured agreement.  This was going to get ugly.
	"Look, I'm sorry."  Out of the corner of his eye, Paris saw a
couple guards edging their way through the crowd.  Oh, fucking
great.  "It was automatic.  I just--"
	"I think I should teach you not to interfere with a good,
obedient slave."  The bastard swung then, a roundhouse so clumsy
and amateurish that Paris mistrusted it, and as he deflected it
with his forearm, he automatically turned from a more lethal
follow-up blow that never materialized.
	A flurry of activity and the sound of a blow behind him, but
he didn't dare look; the son of a bitch could blindside him; but
Chakotay was back there, and if someone had hurt him....
	So he risked a glance--about half a nanosecond, but he could
have programmed a holoscene with the details:  Chakotay, flat on
his face on the ground, still gasping from a blow, with one of the
guards standing over him, heel of one foot resting lightly on his
neck.  Just standing there, reminding him not to get up.  *Shit*.
	The other guard strolled up to Paris and the Verkau. 
"Gentlemen," he said, "is there a problem?"
	One thing Paris's misspent youth had taught him was that once
a cop was involved it was best to get your side in first.
	"I'm afraid I offended this gentleman," he said.  "I knocked
some things out of the girl's hands and was helping to pick them
up."  Self-deprecating smile with a little helpless shrug.  "I
didn't realize I was giving offense; I truly didn't mean to
interfere.  It's just that where I'm from we help each other
without even thinking about it, especially if we're at fault."
	The guard studied him a moment, sizing him up, before turning
to the Verkau.
	"He can't even control his own slave!"  The man was
practically frothing.  He jabbed a finger at Chakotay.  "That
slave tried to attack me!  You saw it!  He was going to attack me! 
You know what the penalty is for a slave attacking a master!  You
should kill him now!"
	*Kill him*--  Paris's stomach twisted inside out.
	"He didn't."  The guard's voice was carefully neutral.
	"But he was going to!"
	"But he didn't."  A little bored.  "A slave isn't put to
death unless he actually attacks a master.  The law is very clear
on that point."
	"He was going to attack me!  You saw him; he made a fist!  No
slave gets away with that!  You should beat him now, strip him and
beat him right now, here in the street.  Teach him the lesson his
master hasn't.  Break him right now, where the other slaves can
see and learn."
	Oh, fuck.  The crowd had fallen so silent that all Paris
could hear was his stammering heart.  His mind automatically began
to weigh possible avenues of escape.
	He saw that in that instant the guard decided not to like the
Verkau.  His eyes went flat.  "What I see," he said quietly, "is a
man very much interested in seeing another man stripped and beaten
in front of him.  That's what I see."
	A sharp intake of breath in the crowd; and Paris felt the
mood around him shift.  People were staring, sniggering, at the
Verkau, who had turned a really ugly shade of red.
	The guard turned to Paris.  "Your slave tried to attack a
master.  He must pay the penalty.  We can beat him here, or you
can do it in private while we watch.  It's up to you."
	Everything faded for a moment.  *We can beat him here, or*-- 
Paris struggled for breath.  *We can beat him here, or*--
	"I'll do it," he heard his voice say as if from a distance. 
You're not touching him, you fucking bastards.  *We can beat him
here or*--  Not fucking touching him.
	The Verkau bastard glowered as Chakotay was jerked to his
feet; he didn't say anything; he didn't dare.
	"Where?" the guard said in a business-like tone.
	"I have--I have a room at the inn."  Fuck.
	His feet automatically led the way; his brain had seized up. 
*I'll do it*.  Just completely seized up, refusing to plan beyond
getting Chakotay off the dusty street, away from the eager eyes. 
The inn keeper held his hand out for that night's redstones and
gave him a lit candle to light their way up the stairs.
	*I'll do it*.  But--  The flame on the candle trembled.  Oh,
fuck.
	In the room he would--  A hundred plans slid past each other
in Paris's brain.  Alone with the guards in the room he could--
	Because he wasn't touching Chakotay, and he wasn't letting
them touch him, either.
	In the room, Paris carefully set the candle on the little
table.  Take out the unoccupied guard first; Chakotay would take
care of the guy holding onto him.
	The guard moved in close to Paris--too close for him to
maneuver.  Balanced on the balls of his feet.  Hands halfway into
fists.  Ready for anything Paris might try.  A leather strap hung
at his belt, a thick, ugly motherfucker smooth and polished from
use.  Over the guard's shoulder, Paris saw Chakotay staring at the
floor, his face stony, steeling himself for....  *I'll do it*. 
Something rose in Paris's throat.
	"In cases like this," the guard said in a low voice, "there
is a third alternative."
	A third--  Paris took a deep breath.  "Yes?"
	"In cases like this," the guard said, "where a loyal slave is
defending his master from the attack of another master, as your
slave was defending you, we can forgo the beating and escort you
both out of the city.  Of course, you can't return.  Ever."
	Who the fuck WANTED to return?  Paris stared at him, suddenly
able to breathe again.  "I imagine there's a fine," his mouth said
for him.
	"Ten stones," the guard said casually.  Fucking cheap at ten
times the price.  "You can pay it to us."
	"Okay."  His voice didn't sound much like his own.
	Okay.  His hands trembled as he counted out ten stones. 
*They've commodified everything*, Chakotay had said; but who the
fuck cared?
	The guard handed five stones to the other--not even trying to
pretend it wasn't a bribe.  Shit; Paris felt light-headed.
	It lasted while they were escorted through the dark streets,
lasted until they were shoved through the door at the side of one
of the massive city gates.  The guards at the gate watched, bored.
	"If you come back," their guard said in a low voice to Paris,
his voice warm with pleasure, every word distinct, "we will strip
you both and use the whip on every inch of skin, front and back,
from your neck to the soles of your feet.  And then we will sell
HIM to the crystal mines and have a feast with the proceeds."
	And that was it.  The slam of the door sounded final.
	He turned.  A handful of buildings crowded up close to the
gate, dark and shuttered now that the gate was closed.  Firelight
flickered in camps nearby:  people too late to enter the city that
night, people now staring at him and Chakotay with stony
suspicion.
	Otherwise, the landscape outside the city gate was
featureless and flat, spread out in all directions under the star-
washed sky still stained with sunset, empty and free.  Free. 
Fucking free of the damned Vaneets and bullies in the city.  Paris
felt a weight the size of Voyager lift off his shoulders.
	"We can't stay here," he said to Chakotay.  Even the low-life
stragglers were looking hostile.
	"We've got to find shelter.  We don't have any blankets."
	And not likely to get any, either--at least not that night.
	The exhiliration waned pretty quick as they walked away from
the camps and found some rocks to huddle beside.  Shit.  They were
even farther away from where Voyager expected them to be, outside
the damn city.  His legs started shaking:  reaction.  They folded
right up on him in the lee of a small boulder.  No blankets, no
supplies.  And only 37 redstones.  They hadn't even had supper. 
Shit:  he'd fucked things up pretty good this time.
	"I'm sorry, Commander.  I--"
	Chakotay's hand came up and stopped his mouth.  "Not every
damn thing that goes wrong is your fault, Lieutenant."  His voice
sounded harsh.  He was shaking--Chakotay was shaking--though his
fingers didn't feel cold.  "We'd have run afoul of that guy
sometime."
	Paris moved away from the silencing hand.  "Yeah, but now
we're--"
	"Lieutenant."  Chakotay's voice sounded tired and just the
littlest bit shaky.  "Let's discuss this tomorrow."
	"Yes, sir."
	Paris's whole body seemed to be shaking now--not from cold. 
Sleep seemed about a million kilometers away.  *I'll do it*.  He
felt Chakotay trembling beside him.  Migod, Chakotay was usually a
rock.
	"I wouldn't have done it," Paris said.
	"I know, Tom."
	"I just didn't want them to--  I wouldn't have done it."
	"I know."
	"I just wanted to get out of that crowd.  I was going to--  I
was going to--"
	"Tom, NAOMI WILDMAN could have guessed what you were going to
do."  Naomi was four.  "Sleep, Tom."
	Chakotay's hands guided him down.  He stretched out on the
rocky ground, nestled up close behind Chakotay's warm, solid body. 
Shaking.  Paris's arm went around Chakotay, pulled him closer. 
Warm him.  He was shaking--warm him up.
	"Good night, Commander."
	"Good night, Lieutenant."
	The shaking faded long before Paris slept.

	"I'm getting fucking tired of sleeping in the dirt."
	"Good morning to you, too, Lieutenant."
	Paris opened his eyes.  Chakotay was standing over him,
grinning down at him.  Looking right at him.  He reached down and
pulled Paris to his feet.
	The first sun was edging over the horizon, outlining the
rooftops of the city.  Paris stretched.  Desert stretched west of
them--well, maybe not real desert:  the ground was covered with
scraggly clumps of brush.  Pretty open, though.  Beyond the desert
lay bumps of mountains, rosy with dawn.
	"I've been thinking," Chakotay said, staring off at the
mountains while Paris pissed on a little bush.  "We sent a team
just west of the mountains--Kim and, I think it was Lieutenant
Hargrove.  It would be stupid to stay here on the off chance that
a search team will think to look outside the city gates."
	"Passes might be blocked with snow."  Paris fastened his
trousers.  "Do the words 'Donner Party' mean anything to you?"
	"You know I don't eat meat."  Chakotay gave him a quick grin. 
"It's early in the fall; we're travelling light; I bet we could
get through.  And at least we'll be in the right part of the
country to find somebody from Voyager."
	He'd made up his mind.  And he was the Commander.  And, my
god, he looked happier than he had for a couple days now.
	"How many of those stones do we have?" Chakotay asked.
	"Thirty-seven."
	Chakotay made a face.  "Not much.  We'll need blankets and
food.  But, first, you're going to buy me breakfast."  Sly grin. 
"Or I might just rethink staying vegetarian."
	The gate was open, and so were little shops just outside it. 
Breakfast; and then they found an outfitter who could have been
the twin of Chaneet the Clothier.
	Paris's boots--too light for a trip through the mountains--
were apparently worth a tougher pair and two padded coats.  Paris
bought goves and another pair of socks for him and Chakotay; and
the merchant's satisfaction made it clear he felt he'd gotten the
better of them.
	"Do you know a man in the city named 'Chaneet'?" Paris said.
	"Ah, yes!  My brother!"  The man stroked the dust off Paris's
old boots.  "We often trade back and forth.  These will fetch a
fine price for him in the city."
	Chakotay coughed.  Paris grinned at him.  "Well, you keep
saying everything goes in a circle, Commander," he murmured.
	A couple blankets, a few candles, a tinder box-- ("Oh, no,"
Chakotay murmured; "Practice makes perfect, Commander," said
Paris, who'd heard volumes about how bad he was at making fires.)
--hard rounds of bread and dried fruit, some dried vegetables that
just didn't even begin to look edible, a couple flasks to fill at
the well, and a length of rope they could use to bundle it all
into a pack; and they were down to fifteen redstones for
emergencies.
	"My ancestors walked hundreds of miles on water and a handful
of cornmeal a day," Chakotay said dryly, heaving the bundle of
supplies onto his back.
	"I didn't know your ancestors took Survival 301."
	Chakotay grinned.  "'Tolverson's Revenge.'  I almost flunked
that class."
	"I'd be more concerned if I didn't know that EVERYBODY almost
flunks that class."
	And, off.
	It felt good to be travelling, to be doing something instead
of waiting around for somebody to find them.  Instead of trying to
outwit Vaneet.  This was a pretty good road, paved with smooth
stones.  Mountains looked close, day looked dry and bright, wind
was acceptably chilly; they'd be in the mountains and stranded at
Donner Pass in no time.
	Paris took a deep breath.  "I'm really sorry, Commander."
	"Like I said, not everything that goes wrong is your fault." 
Chakotay's voice was firm; that subject was closed.  "That son of
a bitch would have gotten his fight some way or other; at least
neither of us got hurt.  You--"  Paris heard him take a deep
breath.  "I've often thought you're your own worst enemy.  You
figure you're going to foul up some way, so you do, even if you
have to sabotage yourself to accomplish it.  And I don't help; I
usually wait for you to do it and then go after you with phasers
on full.  I'm embarrassed to tell you how much you've surprised me
this mission.  You've kept us fed and out of trouble, and you've
managed to talk us out of some truly bad situations.  And done a
lot to help me keep at least some dignity.  I'm grateful.  Thank
you."
	Paris caught his breath at the glow that suddenly warmed him. 
"Mission's not over yet, Commander," he said lightly.
	"Yeah, there's still Donner Pass."  Chakotay's voice was warm
and lazy.  "And you're just way too skinny to eat."
	Noon, and a rest for lunch.  "Think what Neelix could do with
this," Chakotay said, grimacing over the rock-hard bread.
	"Yeah, make it even less edible."
	The mountains looked close as the suns dipped into the west;
"Maybe another day's travel," said Chakotay.
	Sunset was spreading across the sky as they came upon an
encampment:  assorted travelers around a common fire.
	"We should stop," Chakotay said in a low voice.
	"Nervous about making that fire?"
	"Not even sure how to open the box."
	A man stood to greet them as they approached the fire:  a
gigantic man with two plump female slaves giggling behind him.  In
the shadows, men reached for their bows.
	"Kind sir, we greet you!  How may the merchants of the House
of Tinau be of service?"
	"We're crystal traders of the House of Chakotay," Paris said,
"traveling to the western mountains.  We're hoping to share your
fire for the night."
	The man looked around at the others, apparently got some
assent from them.
	"A strong traveler is always welcome at our fire," he said. 
"Bandits are bold this close to the mountains; there is safety in
our numbers."
	"Thank you."
	The fire was--fragrant.
	"It's burning dried dung," Chakotay muttered.  "Like the
Plains Indians did."
	Which made sense, given that there were no trees around.  But
it added a flavor to the air that Paris wasn't eager to find in
his food.
	"No, comecome!" said the man who'd greeted them when he saw
them pulling out the rock bread.  "Share food with us like a
civilized man who wants only peace with his companions!"  There
was an implied threat in his voice that Paris wasn't eager to
explore.
	So they sat with the rest.  It was actually quite pleasant: 
the food had been roasted in sealed containers under a small fire
and held no taint of smoke; and after Paris had made up some
outlandish lies about his past, the other travelers decided he was
good fun, and the mood turned festive.  The leader of the group--
the man who'd greeted them--sat beside Paris; he could hear the
man's slaves giggling and flirting with Chakotay.
	"You must travel with us," the leader said.  "Bandits are
quite fierce in this part of the country; they prey on lone
travelers with no one to defend them."
	For a giddy second, Paris thought of that ancient warrior
who'd so inspired Rao and Sei; "Thanks," he said. 
*Repeatedly*....
	It was as Chakotay was organizing their campsite and
spreading blankets down for their beds that the problem started.
	"A moment, kind sir," said a breathless merchant holding out
ten redstones.  "An hour with your slave; he'll suffer no hurt--"
	Oh, shit, not again.  "Uh, I don't think so."
	And then, a couple minutes later, a woman, sidling up and
offering twelve:  "Only that beautiful mouth and those clever,
clever fingers--that's all I'll even touch--"
	And another man, clutching nine stones and sweating so hard
he almost dripped:  "My bed is soft; he'll be comfortable and
warm--"
	The leader, with twenty:  "My slaves have taken a liking to
him, and I always enjoy watching their pleasure--"
	When the next one started over, eager-eyed and panting, Paris
had had enough.  Time to make it clear that he had plans for this
guy, so they'd leave them alone.
	He bent over Chakotay, who was untying Paris's boots, lifted
his chin, and put his mouth on Chakotay's:  Starfleet Regulation
Kiss 16, Lieutenant Laying Claim to His Commander.
	The kiss stayed regulation Starfleet for 0.047 seconds; then
Chakotay's lips parted under his, and it became Kiss 28: 
Commander Buckling the Lieutenant's Knees and Restarting a Dead
Warp Core with the Excess.
	Ohmigod, the heat of that lush mouth, the sheer presence of
Chakotay's mouth on his.  Everything around him seemed to blur;
there was only this kiss, that tongue exploring him, that
breathing unsteady in his ear.
	When Paris pulled out of it, his knees were so shaky he had
to steady himself by grabbing Chakotay's shoulder.  Chakotay
looked dazed as he fumbled again for the boots.
	"Kind sir?"
	HUH?  It was the merchant, apparently unimpressed, eagerly
thrusting out twelve redstones.  Shit--Paris had forgotten him.
	"As you can see, I have plans for him."  His own voice
sounded harsh.
	The merchant looked puzzled but walked away.
	Paris kicked off his boots and dropped to the blanket.  Wrap
himself up tight; put another layer between him and--
	Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another merchant start
over.
	Well, SHIT.  Paris pushed Chakotay flat on his back and got
on top of him, pulling the blanket up over their heads.
	Chakotay was laughing.  "I just wish I'd been HALF this
popular in the Alpha Quadrant."
	Paris laughed down at him.  Firelight filtered through the
blanket--it wasn't anywhere near as thick as the one the outfitter
had shown them; he should have known not to trust the little
weasel to get an exact duplicate out of the stock--and illuminated
that laughing face.  Damn.  Twenty redstones was cheap for him.
	"Maybe the Delta Quadrant just knows how to appreciate you." 
Paris shifted, trying to take his weight off Chakotay while not
uncovering them.  "I can think of about twenty women on Voyager--
including Torres--who have a thing for you.  And did the
ambassador from Y'tl's wife find what she was feeling for at
dinner that night?"
	Chakotay reddened.  "She did, but--but I don't think it was
the shape she was expecting."
	Paris's laugh sounded high-pitched even to himself:  my god,
he was losing it.  My god, Chakotay smelled good.
	Chakotay was shifting underneath him, kicking out slightly.
	"What are you doing?" Paris said.
	"Aren't we supposed to be having sex?"  A sly grin quirked
the corner of his mouth.
	"I'm not simulating sex with you, Chakotay."
	The grin got bigger.  "And I suppose the real thing is out of
the question...."
	"Commander!"
	The grin was pure mischief now.  Paris tried to remember how
to breathe, tried to keep his mind off the fact that his crotch
was just brushing Chakotay's....  Maybe this had been a mistake.
	Chakotay squirmed, grimaced a little.
	"What's wrong?"  Paris tried to lift himself off even
farther, which wasn't going to work.
	"Just my shoulders.  That pack got kind of heavy after a
while."
	Well, he could fix that.  "Turn over."
	It was complicated and delicate and involved a lot of body
parts brushing and being brushed, but finally Chakotay was on his
belly beneath Paris, which, Paris quickly realized, maybe wasn't
such a good idea, since it meant that Chakotay's firm ass was
right beneath his--
	He shifted to one side, leaned on that arm, started kneading
Chakotay's shoulders with the other hand.  Chakotay's sigh of
pleasure almost undid him.  *Just keep your mind on your work,
Paris*.  It probably looked more authentic from the outside than
what they'd been doing earlier.
	"You're very good at that."  Chakotay's voice was warm with
contentment.  "Even one-handed."
	"Thanks."  It felt good:  Chakotay relaxing in their private
little world beneath the blanket.  He could do this.  Just keep
his mind off his cock, and he could do this easy.
	"Torres?" Chakotay said sleepily.
	"Oh, yeah."
	"Torres could be interesting."
	"If she didn't rip your head off during sex."
	"Or something else."
	Chakotay was relaxing under the massage, and for some reason
that was possibly the most wonderful thing that could be
happening.  Chakotay relaxed, after the terror of last night....
	Chakotay yawned.  "If we keep this going much longer," he
murmured, "they'll be trying to rent YOU next."  He smiled at
Paris's laugh.
	Blanket tucked over both of them; Paris nestled close to
Chakotay's warmth, on his back to accomodate an incipient
erection.  His hand tried to wander to Chakotay's back; he tucked
it firmly under the opposite arm.
	Sounds from the leader's tent made it clear that he was
making it up to his slaves for not renting them Chakotay.

	Paris woke for a minute or two late in the night, to find
Chakotay's arm draped across his chest.  The four moons were just
setting; a rock was poking him in the back; Chakotay was snoring
directly in his ear; everything was perfect, just perfect.
	He slept.

	The next morning, he had a tantrum.  "You dropped this pack
TWICE yesterday!" he shouted at Chakotay.  "I don't trust you to
carry it properly!"  He tossed the heaviest stuff onto a blanket
and rolled it all up into a bundle.  "We NEED this stuff; you
can't go dropping it everywhere!"
	"I'm sorry, Lieutenant."  Chakotay sounded meek and confused.
	"Here!"  Paris thrust a blanket at him.  "Maybe you can carry
your own blanket without too much disaster.  If you lose THAT,
you'll just have to sleep cold."  He tied the ends of his pack
with the rope and hoisted it onto his own shoulders.  "Now, follow
me and try not to get lost."
	Paris stomped into the caravan of merchants starting toward
the mountains.
	"You missed your calling as an actor," Chakotay murmured.
	"I was training to be a masseuse."
	Traveling with the merchants was slower, but it had
compensations.  They were interesting, and the day passed quickly. 
And not one of them seemed to want to beat or rape Chakotay,
though one frail old man offered five stones for a quickie behind
some rocks at lunch.
	The mountains loomed before them, already peaked with snow. 
Paris had seen higher, namely the Rocky Mountains on Earth.
	As they entered the foothills, the guards reformed ranks
around the group, watchful.  Good thing:  movement behind the
rocks didn't look like animals; but apparently they didn't dare
attack.
	They made camp in a flat area apparently often used by
travelers.
	Another supper; another bedtime; and another--
	Chakotay was ready this time:  the kiss slid immediately from
a cautious Kiss 16 to a full-out Kiss 135:  Commander Really
Cutting Loose and Frying Every Brain Cell in the Lieutenant's
Skull.  Emerging, Paris staggered.  Chakotay was gulping air.
	Planet.  They were on a planet.  And his name was--um--  And--
	"You better go to bed now," Paris whispered as the inevitable
merchant with the inevitable handful of redstones edged up.
	"Yes, Lieutenant."
	Watching Chakotay dive for the blankets--all breathless
obedience--was as staggering as the kiss.
	Shit--PARIS.  Tom Paris.  THAT was his name.  "No!" Paris
said to the merchant.
	Night air was cold, and that was really a plus, because he
had this definite need to cool off.  *That hot, delicious mouth*. 
Paris stretched, trying to ease the cramp in his shoulders from
the fucking pack.  *Those little sounds Chakotay made deep in his
throat*.  Breathe deep and enjoy the frosty air.
	Another damned merchant started over.
	Shit.  Paris slid into bed; thought a minute; and then pulled
the blanket over himself and Chakotay.
	Chakotay chuckled.  "They are persistent, aren't they?"
	"You know, you'd think they'd get the hint after--"  Paris
groaned and tried to find a more comfortable position over
Chakotay.  "You were right about that damned pack."
	Chakotay's hands were on his shoulders in a heartbeat,
kneading, coaxing away the pain.  Paris groaned and closed his
eyes.  If he couldn't see that face, if he just focused on the
fact that he was getting a massage, if he ignored the hard, hot,
welcoming body beneath him--
	"What's the worst thing Neelix has cooked that you've eaten?" 
Chakotay sounded really interested in the answer.
	Okay, it was a distraction.  "Worst.  Worst would have to be
the time he tried to make me a pepperoni pizza out of leeola root
and that weird pink algae Kes was growing in the hydroponics bay. 
It tasted horrible, AND I came out in a rash because I was
allergic to the algae.  You?"  My god, Chakotay's strong hands,
gentle on the really tender spots.  A guy could fall in love with
those hands.
	"Corn soup.  Made with those strange little blue peas that
taste like rotten potatoes.  My mother's recipe, too.  I may never
be able to eat it again."
	"It's always the stuff we love he seems to mess up.  He added
hot-pepper vinegar to Harry's oatmeal one morning--said it tasted
bland."
	Chakotay laughed.  "Were you there the morning he spiked the
orange juice?  'Just a little hot sauce.  Give it some PEP.'"  His
imitation was uncanny.
	Mmmm.  Paris could stay here all night, in the half embrace,
smelling Chakotay's skin, listening to him.
	"Hey."  A hand smacked his cheek gently.
	Paris opened his eyes.  Chakotay was smiling up at him.  "You
were falling asleep.  That's kind of insulting in the middle of
sex."
	"Sorry."  Paris yawned, rolled off.  Damn, he WAS tired.  And
relaxed.  Completely fucking relaxed.
	Not so relaxed, though, that he didn't notice the hardness
pressing into him when Chakotay snuggled up right behind him. 
Paris's eyes drifted half open.  Surely Chakotay knew--  And knew
that Paris had probably noticed--
	And it occurred to him that Chakotay did know.  And that he
didn't mind Paris noticing.  And for some reason that thought
warmed him as much as the solid strong body behind him.

	What he should have remembered was that every group has at
least one son of a bitch in it.  This one waylaid him the next
morning, as he and Chakotay were starting off with the others.
	"You shouldn't carry a pack when your slave can do it."  The
Verkau was glaring at him.  Taking it personally.
	"I'd rather carry some of it."  *And just what business is it
of yours?*
	"That's no way to train him to carry it properly.  All it
does is teach him that if he does a job poorly enough, you'll do
it instead."
	*Hold it together, Paris*.  "I'll keep that in mind," he
said; and he stepped around the guy.
	Who followed him.  "Slaves shouldn't see a master doing a
slave's job.  They'll stop respecting us.  They'll start thinking
they're our equals."
	Shit; he'd take Rao or Sei over this nitwit any time. 
"That's certainly something to think about.  And if you don't
mind, I'll go--go think about it."  He charged ahead of the guy.
	"Maybe I should--" Chakotay began.
	"I've got it, Commander."  DAMN it.
	Trudging along--the fucking pack cutting into his shoulders;
and they hadn't even touched most of the stuff in it yet; what the
hell were they going to do with the damned stuff if they didn't
use it, because the last thing he wanted to do was bring another
horrible food onto Voyager for Neelix to force feed to the crew--
Paris tried not to notice the calculating looks Chakotay was
getting from some of the merchants--persistent bastards--and tried
not to listen as Chakotay fended off the flirtation of the
leader's pair of slaves--pretty persistent themselves.
	*Maybe the Delta Quadrant just knows how to appreciate you*. 
Mygod:  Chakotay as the sex object of the Delta Quadrant.  Or at
least this little corner of it.  Who would have thought?  And WHY?
	Oh, don't kid yourself, Paris; you KNOW why.  You noticed why
the first hour you spent in the damn baths; you understood why the
first night he slept handy on the floor beside your bed; you felt
why the first time you had to lay claim to him with a kiss.  Quit
kidding yourself.  Your cock has known why for a long time; now
it's time for your brain to figure it out.
	And Chakotay's response last night:  that hard cock pressed
against one of the places on Paris that knew how to appreciate it. 
Shit.  What would it be like to--
	Deep breath; hitch the pack to a more comfortable angle. 
Shit.  That cock, and Chakotay grunting breathlessly in his ear,
filling him, filling him.
	Deep breath; think about those clouds over there, coming over
the mountains at you.  Did that mean snow?  Oh god, trapped in the
snow with Chakotay, that beautiful mouth warming his, those clever
fingers fumbling in places that generated heat just thinking about
it.
	And--what?  Just what, Tom Paris?  Because even if Chakotay
was interested--and he was interested, oh, he was interested,
mygod that kiss--what?  Interested was fun, but going beyond
interested was--dangerous.  Not physically.  Just--going beyond
interested would alter their relationship. Change the delicate
balance they'd developed over the last couple years.  Shift it
into something that--well, with Chakotay, going beyond interested
wouldn't be some quick fuck and a fling.  With Chakotay, it would
be something meant to last.  Permanent.
	Permanent.  The very word made Paris's heart pound, though
not just with trepidation.
	And that very fact itself sparked enough trepidation to make
up for it.

	As the morning progressed, the trail got steeper, the wind
got colder, and the clouds above them darkened to a threatening
color.
	"Snow," announced the caravan leader when they paused at noon
to choke down some bread and dried fruit.  "A major storm.  But
not to worry:  we will be at Kirlnu before it hits."
	Chakotay wordlessly shouldered Paris's pack when they started
off.
	Shit.  That damn Verkau busybody would be beside himself with
joy.  "Commander--" Paris began.
	"I've got it, Lieutenant."
	Damn it.
	The snow didn't hold off until they got to Kirlnu:  late in
the afternoon it started down in lazy swirls; and then it got
serious.  They came to the village in a snowfall so thick Paris
could barely see the walls rising up before them.
	Kirlnu turned out to be a village mostly of inns and
outfitters.  Most of their caravan ended up in an eccentric inn
with a lot of stairs and alcoves and cubbyhole rooms that would be
perfect for a holomystery.  Hmm.
	"Six stones a night," said the inn keeper, a short man thick
with muscle.  "But--"  He was eyeing Chakotay.
	Paris steeled himself.  Not ANOTHER one.
	"Your slave looks strong and healthy," the inn keeper said. 
"I'll take three if you'll let me use him once or twice during the
day.  He'll be yours at night."
	"I--"
	"I need wood stacked, water carried, that sort of thing."
	Paris felt limp with relief.  NOT another one.  "I'll--"
	"Yes," Chakotay whispered.
	"--be very GLAD to let him work for you," Paris said.  "But--
I don't mean to be rude, but no kat'ree."
	The inn keeper snorted.  "I have a wife and two slaves to
satisfy," he said; and two middle-aged women behind him and a
young man sweeping beside him smiled happily.  "It's nearly worn
to a nub now."
	Their room was a cubbyhole at the top of the stairs:  one
bed, big enough for two; one fireplace with one regulation
cheerful fire; one small stack of wood, for the fireplace; one rug
in front of the fireplace; and in the corner beside the fireplace,
one metal bathtub resting on one end in a little square space with
a drain.  And not much room for anything else.  Cozy.
	Maybe too cozy.  Because Chakotay eyed the bed and pretended
not to eye Paris and eyed the floor and resolutely didn't eye
Paris and looked over at the bed and apparently relaxed when he
noticed that there was enough room in front of the fireplace for a
man to stretch out.  Coward.
	And still not cozy enough.  Even with the fire, the room was
chilly, and Paris had the feeling it was going to stay that way. 
No nice warm warp core to power a central heating system. 
Sleeping apart, they were both going to be fucking cold.
	Snowy clothing off and drying in front of the fire, and Paris
found his eyes straying to that bathtub.  Hmm.
	"Of course!" said the inn keeper.
	And a few minutes later there was a scratching at the door,
and he opened it to find a girl there--a slave with her head
bowed--with two buckets of steaming water.  With the efficiency of
practice, she righted the tub in front of the fire, poured the
water into it, and left.  Well--
	She was back in an instant with two more buckets.  Chakotay
was quicker on the uptake than he was; he followed her out of the
room and came back with more buckets; and it was then that Paris
realized with a sinking stomach that every damn time he took a
bath here, somebody was going to have to bring up the water a
couple buckets at a time.  And, shit, she didn't look more than
twelve.  Well, this would have to be a good bath, because it was
the last he was going to take here.
	He sat in embarrassed idleness while Chakotay and the girl
filled the tub and brought in a couple extra buckets.
	"Thanks," he said to the girl as she left.  She didn't
answer.
	"Well, THIS isn't more than extremely embarrassing," Paris
said to Chakotay.
	"They have a pulley system," Chakotay said.  "They just pull
the water up from the first floor--actually, from the hot springs
that feed the river under the inn.  That drain over that is for
the soaping up and for the bath water after you're done.  Her name
is Aia."
	Pretty name.  "After YOU'RE done," Paris said.
	"Huh?"
	"The bath water gets dumped down that drain after YOU'RE
done.  It's your turn, Commander."
	Chakotay blinked and then turned red.  He hid it with a grin. 
"I'll soap myself, if it's all the same to you."
	"Coward."
	Paris tried to busy himself while Chakotay stripped and
washed, puttered around rearranging their stuff, tried to occupy
his mind, tried to keep it off the subject of Chakotay and naked
and soapy.  But the sigh of pure pleasure as Chakotay eased into
the hot bath shattered all that effort.
	"That bucket's going to get cold if you don't use it soon,"
Chakotay said after a minute.
	Well, actually, there were times when cold water was really
great for bathing, because--  But Paris obediently stripped and
shivered his way over to wash himself over the drain.
	Damn:  Chakotay relaxing in the firelight, head resting on
the edge of the tub, eyes closed, mouth soft with pleasure. 
Flushed with the heat of the water steaming faintly in the chilly
air.  Heart-stopping.
	Paris tried not to look, as--
	"If I were you, I'd try to wash in front of the fire,"
Chakotay said.  "Cold in that corner.  Don't want you coming down
with something."
	--as he knelt on the rug in the warmth of the fire and used
his dirty socks to soap himself up and swipe water over himself: 
washing two birds with one bucket.
	It was quiet:  crackle of fire, hiss of sleet against the
shuttered windows, soft splash of water, uneven thump of his heart.
	And without even looking up he knew that Chakotay was
watching him.
	Paris's breath caught in his throat.
	He managed a glance through his eyelashes:  Chakotay WAS
watching, his expression half dreamy, half predatory.  One hand
absently stroked the rim of the tub, smoothing it as if it were
something alive.
	It seemed an hour between breaths, between heartbeats.  Paris
watched his hand smooth soap over his already-clean arm, his just-
washed chest.  Chakotay, watching.  He burned with the fire of
that gaze.
	He washed himself again, very thoroughly; laid out his socks
to dry; and stood up as if he were alone and dumped the rest of
the water down the drain.
	Chakotay's eyes on him, watching every movement.
	Paris grabbed a towel, dried himself, very thorough, just a
man taking a bath.  Found his clothes and pulled them on.
	Long sigh behind him.
	And now the room wasn't chilly at all:  that fire put out a
lot of heat.  A LOT of heat.
	"If we're quick, we won't miss supper."  Paris's voice
sounded husky.
	"I'll be down."  Chakotay's voice had a rough edge.
	So he went down by himself.  Most of the others were halfway
through their meal; their boisterous chatter diluted the thick
golden honey feeling of Chakotay's eyes watching him.
	"Where's your slave?"  Shit; it was that damned busybody. 
"Probably still relaxing in the bath.  He thinks masters should do
the slaves' jobs."  And, shit; he'd made a couple friends somewhat
the worse for drink.
	Ignore them.  Luckily, Chakotay came down just about then,
quiet and correct, the model of the perfectly obedient slave. 
Paris concentrated on being the model of the perfectly obedient
master, passing back the choicest vegetables and the best bread.
	The busybody and his friends stayed on the subject pretty
much all through supper:  their family's slaves; their friends'
slaves.
     Tiny cups of a really exquisite tea were handed around.
The idiots got louder:  obedient slaves they'd known; disobedient
slaves they'd punished.
     Paris felt his stomach clench.  Complaints about the state
of slavehood on Verka.
     The crowd around the table thinned out.  Tales of bad masters
and what they'd done about it.
	"--so his slaves got so unruly, he finally had to have them
all beaten; but by then it was too late.  The farm failed, and
when he had to sell everyone, he couldn't get half of what he paid
for them.  My father got them all dirt cheap, beat them into
obedience, and sold them for a beautiful profit."
	Paris concentrated fiercely on the taste of his tea.
	"I knew a master once who let his slave think he was as good
as anybody else."  The busybody's voice was thick with wine and
pleasure.  "Let him sleep right beside him after he'd fucked him. 
Did part of his work.  We finally got together and we beat the
slave for him.  And then we beat the master.  The master cried
harder than the slave."
	Paris felt dizzy.  The tea sloshed in the cup in his hand. 
Shit, here it was again they couldn't get away from it they'd
never get away from it not as long as they were on this fucking
planet--
	And suddenly Chakotay's hand was beneath his, holding the cup
steady, raising it to be filled from the pitcher Chakotay had in
his other hand.  Warm hand cradling his, steadying it.
	When he finished, Chakotay let go and knelt just behind him,
a warm and solid presence barely touching him.  Watching his back.
	Paris swallowed half the tea in a gulp.  The busybody and his
idiot friends were sniggering.  And a wispy-looking merchant who
was part of their caravan was casting covetous eyes at Chakotay.
	Shit, he hated these people.  Paris swallowed the rest of the
tea, turned, and placed his mouth on Chakotay's.  The kiss stayed
Kiss 16 this time, but only barely.
	"I'll be up," he said.
	"Yes, Lieutenant."  Chakotay didn't look at anyone as he rose
and went upstairs.
	Paris rose slowly to his feet.  Something in him wanted a
really good fight--wanted it bad.
	But a thought wandered into his mind:  Chakotay.  If
something happened to Paris, what would happen to Chakotay? 
Abused, probably:  someone would beat him or rape him, or most
likely both, and then--
	Damn.  He took a deep breath and started for their room
without even looking over at the sniggering idiots.
	The merchant followed him, stopped him at the top of the
stairs.  "When you put your mouth on your slave's mouth.  Why do
you do that?"
	Shit--the KISS?  He didn't understand KISSING?  "Uh--it's a--
kiss.  It, um, tells him that--well, that I want sex.  And it's
for, um--well, it's pleasurable.  For both of us."  Oh, shit--the
damn kiss; he'd been kissing Chakotay every damn night, trying to
send the message that this guy was his, and not one of them had
had any fucking idea what it meant.  Hilarity started to bubble up
inside him.
	The merchant got the half-wondering expression of someone
seeing light for the first time.  "You mean, it makes him enjoy
the sex?"
	"Uh, yeah."
	"Ah!  I am glad to know about this.  It is so much more
pleasurable when the slave enjoys the sex."  The merchant looked
like a shy bridgroom discussing his wedding night.
	"Yeah, it is."  Paris remembered this guy:  his slave was a
pouty young woman who looked demanding.
	"I will try it.  I thank you."  The merchant had an extra
bounce in his step as he left.
	Chakotay was wrapped up in his blanket, lying on the rug in
front of the fire.
	"You're not going to believe this," Paris said.  "The Verkau
don't kiss."
	Chakotay sat up, looked at him.  "You mean, every time we--"
	"Yes, sir."
	Chakotay started laughing.  He laughed harder than Paris had
ever seen anyone laugh; there was an almost-hysterical edge to his
laughter.  Paris joined in:  my god, all that warp-core meltdown
going for nothing.
	"We both should get remedial training," Chakotay said, wiping
his eyes.  "What made us think kissing is universal?"
	"And, we, uh, kind of blew the Prime Directive," Paris
admitted, fighting for breath.  "You know that skinny merchant
with spoiled-looking slave girl?  I think he's going to try it on
her.  We may have introduced kissing to the Verkau."
	"Well, just don't tell the Federation."
	For some reason, this was almost as funny.
	Paris finally caught a sobbing breath.  "You know," he said,
"I think that merchant's kind of in love with her.  You should
have seen him talking about giving her pleasure."
	"Strange sort of love," Chakotay said dryly.  "He gave her a
pretty good beating yesterday morning."
	That WASN'T funny.  "You're going to freeze to death on that
floor," Paris said.
	"Actually, it's nice and toasty."
	"It's too hard to sleep on."
	"I'm fine, Lieutenant."  Chakotay's voice had that stone-hard
Commander layer to it.
	Stubborn hard ass.  "Well, you can have half the bed."
	"I'm fine, Lieutenant."  A hint of desperation had crept in.
	All right.  Paris went to bed, sighed extravagantly as he
sprawled on the soft mattress.
	"Good NIGHT, Lieutenant."  Dryly.
	"Good night, Commander."

	Even wrapped in every blanket on the bed, Paris kept waking
up that night from dreams that he was shivering in a snow bank.

	Morning, and Chakotay was up before he was:  Paris heard him
hiss with discomfort as he eased himself up.  A stifled groan as
Chakotay straightened, started the tai chi.
	Good.  Do him some good.  He could have been warm and comfy
in bed with Paris, who'd have been a lot more warm and comfy,
himself.
	He untangled himself from the blankets and draped one around
himself as he went to open a shutter.  Damn fire was pretty much
out.
	Snow was still falling as thick as before.
	So it was a day lost to travel.  A day where Paris sat beside
the fire on the first floor, listening to the other guests swap
lies about wonderful trades they'd made.  Or sat in his room with
a shutter open a crack, keeping an eye on Chakotay busy with wood
and water in the snowy courtyard below, ordered around by the
inn's handyman, who never seemed to do a fucking thing himself
except order Chakotay around.  Much of the time, Chakotay was
dogged by a boy about Aia's age:  a slave named Toa, who reminded
Paris of an excited puppy.
	The idiots didn't appear until after lunch, and then they
kept to themselves.  Started drinking again.
	Someone started a kind of card game downstairs in the
afternoon.  Paris watched closely, but the rules seemed to shift
with every hand.  Still, it was something to look at.
	The idiots glowered at him and Chakotay all through supper. 
That was when the wispy merchant and his slave finally showed up: 
he was glowing, but she had puzzled mixed in with her pouty. 
Kissing must have been pretty complicated.  Paris was giving no
lessons.
	And Chakotay was giving no quarter.  He was back on the floor
that night.  Stubborn.
	Damn.  For some reason, Paris was on edge:  sitting around
all day, listening to the idiots, probably.  And being fucking
cold all the time; finally, "Chakotay, I'm FREEZING," he said,
sitting up.
	In the light of the dying fire, he actually saw the bundle
that was Chakotay tense.
	Long silence.
	Then Chakotay got up and came over to the bed.  He looked
down at Paris for a minute.  "Move over."
	Oh, god, it was so much warmer with that warm body near his
in the bed.  Even though he couldn't touch it.  And Chakotay's
contented sigh as he stretched out.  Wonderful.
	"What, no kiss tonight?"
	"Don't push it, Paris."
	*He let him sleep right beside him after he'd fucked him*. 
Paris smothered a grin.  Stupid assholes didn't know what they
were missing.

	Halfway to morning, Paris woke to the howling of the wind and
the clatter of sleet against the shutters.
	And to Chakotay wrapped around him like a big, snoring
comforter.
	Stupid assholes had NO idea.

	Stupid assholes got really stupid the next day.
	Snowing again--or maybe still.  Flakes as determined as
Neelix with a cause.  So, damn it, another damn day lost; another
morning spent moping around the fire downstairs, where there was
conversation to be bored with and a card game to watch with no
comprehension.
	Lunch came, and the idiots were drinking good and hard. 
Chakotay went out into the courtyard to do something, and Paris
went up to their room to mope around and be bored.  He looked at
the dried vegetables they were carrying, bit off part of one,
tasted it, decided it tasted like rotting wood with just a hint of
really old garlic, wondered what Neelix could ruin with it--
	Something was going on in the courtyard; somebody was
yelling, and--
	Paris pushed open the shutter.
	And saw:  the courtyard half swept, with a broom lying on the
pavement and Chakotay's coat folded carefully on the woodpile; saw
that that son of a bitch handyman had his strap out and swinging
down hard; saw movement as Toa headed for clear space; saw
Chakotay jammed up against the wall so he couldn't move, with the
bastard handyman holding him half bent over, with a hand tight on
the back of his neck; saw that strap coming down, coming down,
coming down.
	Things went blank for a minute; and when he could see again,
could hear again, he was in the courtyard.
	They were clear on the other side.  Chakotay was already
wincing hard away from the strap; by the time he was within reach,
Chakotay's breath was coming in little gasps just this side of a
yelp.
	Paris grabbed the arm wielding the strap, ripped the fucking
strap right out of it and tossed it away, twisted the arm and
shoved the fucking bastard son of a bitch against the wall,
yanking hard.
	Chakotay staggered, grabbed the wall to steady himself.  He
was gulping for air.
	"Can you get upstairs?"  Paris's voice sounded more steady
than he felt.
	Chakotay nodded.
	"Go on up."
	And Chakotay eased away.  It physically hurt to watch him
limp across the courtyard.
	Paris focused for a minute on not letting his hand do what it
really wanted to do, which was break the bastard's arm in sixteen
places or maybe just rip it off completely.  The bastard wasn't
real happy.
	"Your slave--" he began; and Paris gave a jerk.
	"If you touch him again," he said, every word precise, "I'll
break your arm."
	The bastard glowered at him when Paris released him.  "You
don't beat him enough," he said.  "He seems to think he's just
like a real perso--"
	Paris's fist slammed right into his mouth.
	There was a really satisfying moment where the bastard
dropped like a dead shuttle and sat there on the snowy pavement
for a minute, looking surprised.  Paris enjoyed the moment,
examined his hand for cuts.
	Then he picked up Chakotay's coat and went up to their room.
	Chakotay was pacing, gulping deep breaths and occasionally
wincing.
	"He was going to beat Toa," he said the instant Paris came
into the room.  "He was going to do this--to TOA."
	"Let me look."
	"I stopped him.  That son of a bitch was going to--"
	"DAMN it, Chakotay--let me LOOK!"
     "But he didn't.  I stopped him.  He didn't even lay a hand on--"
     "DAMN it, Commander!"
	Chakotay stopped then, seemed puzzled that Paris was so
excited.  "I can't believe he was going to do this to a child."
	Paris lifted Chakotay's tunic as gently as he could.  Shit. 
That strap had done some damage, even through Chakotay's tunic.
	"How is it?" Chakotay asked.
	"I don't think the skin's broken, but--"  Paris winced at the
red welts across Chakotay's back.  "I don't think you're going to
be very happy for quite a while."
	"He was going to do this to a CHILD."  Chakotay arched his
back, straightened again, grimacing.  "A CHILD."  He shifted
again.  "SHIT.  I can't seem to get comfortable."
	"Why don't you lie down?"
	Paris's mind was racing through everything he'd picked up
from the Doctor.  He eased Chakotay onto the bed, on his stomach;
pulled a blanket over him; stopped his hand from stroking the dark
hair.
	"Thank you, Lieutenant."  Chakotay's eyes were closed; one
hand slid out, toward Paris.
	"Don't thank me yet," Paris said.  "It could still go
septic."
     Chakotay grinned softly.  The hand was shaking.  Paris
looked at it a minute, and then reached over and gave it a
squeeze.  Chakotay squeezed back, and then he relaxed.
	"It doesn't really hurt all that much," Chakotay said.  "It's
just the--it's just the shock that he--"  The hand clenched.
	Paris felt sick.  The shock that the son of a bitch had
actually beaten Chakotay.  That's what it was.  Paris could
understand the shock of being physically attacked by a brute.
He put his hand over Chakotay's, warmed it.  The hand relaxed.
	Damn it:  what the hell did Paris know about bruises?  Real
bruises, like Chakotay had?  All he seemed to know was, you used
the regenerator on them.  And if you were on an away mission, you
used the regenerator in the medkit.  And if you didn't have a
medkit, you got the patient up to Voyager and used the regenerator
there.
	Except--some vague memory of--you put something hot on one
kind of injury and something cold on another because--well, cold
reduced swelling, like--  Oh, shit.  Something cold on those
welts.  Chakotay wasn't going to like that one bit.
	"Commander?"
	"Hmm?"  Sleepy.
	"I think I need to do something about those bruises."
	Chakotay went wide awake when Paris put the socks filled with
snow--damn, socks were handy; you could do just anything with
them; maybe the Academy should do a class just on the creative use
of socks--on the worst of the welts.
	"This better be necessary."  Chakotay's voice sounded kind of
thin.
	"Reduces swelling."  Paris had learned early from the Doctor
that it was best to sound brisk.  Made you sound like you knew
what the hell you were doing.
	"Well, it does kind of--numb things."
	"Good!"  Said like he meant it to do that.
	He sat beside Chakotay; and pretty soon the part of him that
was waiting to tell him just how badly he'd fucked things up this
time sang out clear and strong.  It had happened:  what he'd been
waiting for since he'd realized what they were in for on this
stinking planet.  Chakotay had gotten hurt.
	"Not everything that happens is your fault," Chakotay said.
	"Huh?"
	Chakotay opened his eyes, cocked an eyebrow at him.  "I SAID,
not everything that happens is your fault.  I mean it, Lieutenant. 
This isn't your fault.  Toa made him angry, I got in the way, and
he decided to show me my place."  Half a grin slid onto his face. 
"You know, the whole universe doesn't revolve around you.  The
rest of us can get into trouble all by ourselves, thank you very
much."
	Paris grinned at him.
	Chakotay's eyes warmed up.  "Did you break anything on him?"
	"I just punched him in the mouth."
	Chakotay smiled.  "That shows admirable control, Lieutenant. 
I'm proud of you."
	Smart ass.
	"And these damn socks are leaking."
	Oops--time for another pair.  Paris filled them at the
windowsill and exchanged them for the soggy ones.  Damn.  They'd
have to be dried out before he could use them again, or they'd
dribble all over.
	"How many pair of these damned things do we have?" 
Chakotay's voice sounded tight.
	"Well, there's the ones we have on--"
	"You put dirty socks on me, Paris, and you'll be scrubbing
Jeffries Tubes for a month."
	"Yes, Commander."
	And for some reason he couldn't stay still unless he was
sitting right beside Chakotay, which was okay because Chakotay
seemed more relaxed when Paris was right there.
	"This is a sick culture," Chakotay murmured.
	"Agreed."
	And when those socks soaked through, Paris did a quick
examination:  skin roughed up several places, but no bleeding. 
Chakotay's back looked redder--but maybe that was from the snow. 
But not really that bad.
	"Feels better."  Chakotay's voice sounded contented.
	"Good."
	He sat right there on the bed until Chakotay fell asleep.

	Downstairs to arrange for supper to be brought up, because he
wasn't going to let those bastards see Chakotay limping around. 
The idiots were drinking near the fire.  The inn keeper wasn't
real happy to see him.
	"I wish to apologize for Theer.  He should have let you beat
your own slave.  But you needn't have--"
	Paris looked at him; and the inn keeper saw something in his
eyes that shut him up fast.
	Turning to go back upstairs, Paris found his way blocked by
idiots.
	"So, the slave got his beating," the busybody from the
caravan said, grinning.  "Now the master should get HIS."  He
stepped forward.
	All right.
	The young man was sweeping the floor nearby; Paris said,
"Excuse me," and took the broom from him.  Not a pool cue, but it
would have to do.
	A CRACK! of the handle across the side of the busybody's
head, and his knees wobbled.
	One more CRACK! to the back of his head, and he was out of
action for the duration.
	"Who else?" Paris said; but the others stumbled away from
him.
	He handed the broom back to the young man.  "Thanks," he
said.
	Chakotay slept the rest of the afternoon.  Paris watched him.
	His own hands were shaking, and he couldn't seem to sit
still.  His skin felt twitchy.  He went to the window to look at
the snow, he went to the fire to try to warm up.  He tried to find
something to fiddle with.  It didn't matter:  he ended up watching
Chakotay.  Chakotay, warm in the nest of thick blankets, completely
relaxed.  Face soft in sleep.  Occasionally murmuring parts of words.
The whole room seemed to have arranged itself around him.
	Stubborn, hard-headed, soft-hearted hard ass.
	Chakotay sighed, waking; and Paris was across the room in an
instant.
	Chakotay winced as he eased up.  "My god, I'm stiff."
	"Maybe you shouldn't--"
	But Chakotay shot him a look that told him to quit
nursemaiding him.  "Really--it's not that bad."  Crooked grin and
a careful stretch.  "I got worse in T'Nal's self-defense class."
	"I had Dnieu.  She was tougher."  Paris took a good look at
the welts, which were turning some unhappy colors.
	When Paris looked up, Chakotay was smiling at him: 
amusement, mixed with warmth.  "I'll be fine, Lieutenant."
	"Just making sure, Commander."
	The smile warmed up.  His heart flip-flopped.  Oh, shit.
	Someone scratched at the door.  Chakotay shifted, mouth
tightening for a second.  "Is that food?"
	Yeah, it WAS food.  And Chakotay fed himself, lounging on the
bed.  Though--
	"Yes, I had some of the bread," Chakotay said.  "And you
don't have to keep shoving things over for me to eat."
	Paris looked at the little plates of stuff he'd shoved over
to Chakotay's side of the table.  "Sorry.  Force of habit."
	"I noticed, though, that you managed to keep all those little
cream puff things for yourself."
	Paris stopped himself from chomping right down on the little
pastry he'd just popped into his mouth--the last one.
	"Well, I don't want it NOW, Tom."  Chakotay grinned at him
over his cup of tea.
	Bastard.  Paris chewed, swallowed.  "Sorry," he said again.
	Chakotay swallowed the last of his tea and shifted,
grimacing.  "DAMN, I'm stiff.  I'd really love a hot bath."
	Well, most likely the heat of the water would aggravate the
bruising.  But--  *Chakotay in the bathtub, glowing in firelight,
relaxed and contented*.
	Paris went out and ordered the damned bath.
	When Aia came in with the first buckets, Chakotay started to
his feet.
	"I thought we established that your back hurts," Paris said,
pushing him back down.
	He went out himself to help with the damned buckets.
     "What if somebody sees you?" Chakotay asked when he came back.
	"The hell with them."
	Aia was skittish, but she stood by as he yanked on the pulley
and brought up the steaming buckets.  And when he sloshed some on
his foot, he saw a flicker of a grin cross her face, just as he'd
hoped he would.
	When Paris came in with the next buckets, Chakotay was
looking down at a squashed-looking little meat-filled pastry.
"A present from Toa," he said.
	"That's meat in that," Paris told him.
	"I know."
	Then Aia came in, and Chakotay bit into the pastry with
histrionic relish.  Her face glowed.
	"Softy," Paris murmured to Chakotay as he went out for the
next buckets.
	Nobody saw him; and he filled the bathtub with real
satisfaction.  Aia scurried out with the remains of supper.
	Okay, so, now--  Paris bolted the door and stripped.
	Chakotay looked startled.  He got up and started to
undress, but--
	Paris went over and took Chakotay's hands off his tunic,
stripped the tunic off Chakotay.  Started on his trousers.
	"I can--" Chakotay started, trying to pull away; but then he
moved wrong, or something; and bit off the end of that sentence.
	He stood quietly while Paris finished the job.
	And now--
	Soap, and the bucket of warm water, and the smooth slide of
his soapy hands over Chakotay's skin.  Brisk, because he didn't
want to embarrass him; but mygod that silkiness:  Paris's hands
lingered.  Chakotay's eyes were closed, and the color in his face
was high.
	Ease soap over the mottled back, dark with bruise.
	"She gave me some oil they usually--"  Chakotay's voice
strangled on the words.
	"Okay."  Brisk; but he didn't feel brisk.
	Wind rattled the shutters.  Nasty night.  But here they were
warm and alone, and anybody who wanted to hurt Chakotay would have
to go through him.
	The clear splash of warm water as he poured it over Chakotay.
	And into the bath.  Chakotay drew hard breath when he
moved wrong starting down into the water; and Paris grabbed him.
Chakotay's body was hard and solid under his hands as he eased him
down.  Trembling slightly.
	Chakotay sighed.  "Thank you, Lieutenant."
	"You're welcome."
	So now it was his turn, and he knelt on the rug just in front
of the fire.  Sock-washing time again:  he washed with his, and he
rinsed with Chakotay's.
	It was hot and bright, there by the fire; the shiny tub
reflected light.  The fire crackled happily; it smelled good.
The wind outside made things cozy.  He loved the feel of soap,
of water, of being clean.
	And of Chakotay watching him.
	Nothing covert this time.  Just--watching, with a dreamy look
on his face.  Lips parted.
	A hitch in his breath.
	Paris took more time than he really needed to, rinsing
himself, rinsing the socks, straightening them out on the hearth
to dry.  He rose to his feet, sloshed the rest of the water down
the drain, slid a towel over the dampest parts of him.  Casually
wrapped it around his waist.
	Reached for a dry one, for Chakotay, who was stubbornly
working his way to his feet.
	Paris helped him step out of the tub, into the heat of the
fire.  He dried Chakotay's arms and chest, blotted his back,
draped the damp towel around his shoulders to protect him from
drafts.
	Another towel for the hard legs, the small ass.  Drop it. 
Stand up.  And--
	As Paris reached for Chakotay's thigh, Chakotay put a warm
hand on the back of Paris's neck and brought him in for a kiss
that went clear through every number in the book.
	Oh, god--that mouth plundering his, blanking all reason. 
Then, hands, dragging slightly over the dampness left on his skin,
all the way down his back; the towel twitched away, so that he was
naked against that hardness, basking in its heat.
	He slid his hands up Chakotay's arms to cup his head, tousle
the damp hair.  One of Chakotay's hands spread open warm over his
ass, smoothing gently.  Wet heat of the soft mouth; shaky breath
against his cheek.  My god, this kiss could restart the universe.
	The kiss broke then, and they gulped air for a minute,
staring vaguely at each other.
	Then a light shone in Chakotay's eyes, and he cupped the back
of Paris's head and kissed his cheeks, his chin, moved along his
jaw to one ear, kissed his throat.  Paris was vaguely aware that
his hips were thrusting slightly, rubbing hardness against an
answering hardness.  One hand wandered of its own accord to
Chakotay's cock, exploring; and Chakotay groaned against Paris's
throat.
	Oh, yes.  Slide fingers gently along warp-core heat. 
Chakotay arched, thrust into Paris's hand.  Yes.
	"Bed," Paris heard himself whisper.
	And the bed was somewhere away from the fire, somewhere on
the other side of the room, but they found it anyway.  Eased
Chakotay onto it.
	A fumble to find a position that didn't hurt unexpectedly,
pain soothed away with the heat of hands, with the slide of
Paris's mouth over hot silky skin.
	Paris ran his tongue down the smooth chest, the flat belly. 
Ah, yes.  Mouth exploring that dark, lovely cock.  Chakotay's
groans were half ragged with gentle laughter.  Paris glided his
tongue over the hot length.  And, OH, yes.  His hand found the
heavy balls, happily explored them.
	Chakotay groaned, thrust, groaned again.  One hand firm on
the back of Paris's neck guided his head back up to Chakotay's
mouth.
	"I want--" Chakotay said breathlessly; and his mouth
plundered Paris's.
	So--
	Paris's hand wandered between their moving hips, gathered
slickness there.  Settled firmly around Chakotay's cock, pumping.
	Chakotay gasped against Paris's throat.  Then his own blunt
fingers were around Paris's cock, stroking, pumping.  Paris felt
growls building in his own throat.
	They rode; they rode.
	Chakotay crying out harshly, igniting--  --and Paris was
helpless in pleasure, riding the stroking of those strong fingers,
arching, feeling--  --Chakotay's voice ragged against Paris's
throat as he arched, as he thrust.
	An eternity later; and Chakotay sighed.  It was a soft sound
Paris barely heard above the shudder of his own breath, the
thunder of his own heart.  But it was the most wonderful sound: 
contented, satisfied.
	He opened his eyes.  Chakotay's grin was happy and dazed, a
mirror, probably, of his own.  Shit.  Oh, shit.
	Chakotay's grin broadened.  He raised his sticky hand and
showed Paris two fingers.
	Paris laughed.  "What the hell does that really mean?"
	"No idea."  Chakotay's other hand was just stroking the back
of Paris's neck.
	Paris closed his eyes for a minute, gulped breath, tried to
master his heart.
	Then he opened them; and there was Chakotay.  Locked eyes for
a minute; and there was something there--my god, something there
behind the tenderness and delight that had Paris breathless--and
Chakotay bent and kissed him.
     *This is bad,* Paris's brain told him.  *This is very very
bad.*  Because things could get complicated.  Real complicated,
real fast.  *Stop this now, because this is very very bad.*
     *Shut up,* said his cock--and quite possibly his heart.
	So it did.
	A pause for breath; and Chakotay's mouth was on his again: 
gentle, insistent.  Kiss 47D:  Commander Laying Claim to His
Lieutenant After Some Pretty Great Sex.  *Yes*, said something
inside him.
	Paris was even more breathless afterward.  And they weren't
through, they weren't through, not by a long shot; Chakotay had
that predatory look in his eyes--
	Their mouths came together again, gentle, exploring. 
Appreciating.  Yes.  And despite the heat of the kiss, Paris
shivered:  it was cold over here, away from the fire.
	A furious movement, and Chakotay was dragging up the
discarded blankets, was wrapping them around him.  So--
	Wrapped in the blankets, Chakotay's heart thumping against
his.  Chakotay's hot mouth moving to Paris's cheek, to his chin. 
Slow.  Tender.  Sticky hands cupping Paris's ass.  One finger
finding the crevice and kneading the sensitive opening as
Chakotay's mouth explored Paris's throat.
	Paris arched and groaned happily.  Necking.  Damn, he loved
necking.
	His own hands shied away from Chakotay's back:  one found the
tight little ass; the other tangled fingers in Chakotay's hair,
tugged up his head to position it for a good, long, deep, slow,
satisfying kiss that lasted about a day and a half.  Oh, shit,
yes.
	They were both struggling for breath afterward.  My god, the
faint firelight on that glowing face; those parted lips slightly
swollen from kissing.  Eyes gleaming, full of mischief and warmth,
tender, slightly implacable--
	"My god," Chakotay said, looking down at him.  "My god, Tom. 
You--  My god."  One hand cradled Paris's head as their mouths
joined.
	Paris's hand massaged Chakotay's ass, slipped between the
cheeks to stroke the opening there, to ease part way in, slide
out, ease in again.  Chakotay's breath caught; his hips rode the
stroking.
	They broke the kiss, looked at each other.  Paris's heart was
beating hard in his ears; something was fluttering in his stomach. 
The wind outside battered the shutters.  His foot stroked
Chakotay's calf.
	"I wonder if we can ravish each other repeatedly like that
guy in the story?"  Chakotay's thumb slid gently along Paris's
jaw; his eyes were dazed and happy.
	Paris grinned happily.  "We could find out."
	Chakotay grinned back.
	And then the sweet mouth descended.

	Repeatedly--oh, yes, repeatedly.  The night seemed to last a
moment--and forever.  A night of Chakotay's hands and Chakotay's
mouth, the way Chakotay's groans turned ragged with need.  The
whisper of skin on skin, husky sighing.  The warm musk of skin. 
The wind howling in the chimney.  The light in dark eyes,
reflecting him.
     Tenderness where they'd found none, gentleness after brutality,
warmth in a cold country.  Comfort.  The world contracted to this
bed, to Chakotay's arms around him, to Chakotay's hands giving
pleasure.  A startled gasp when Chakotay moved wrong.  A flash of
fury at the sick son of a bitch who'd hurt him.  The heat of that
mouth on his skin, that tongue tasting him from mouth to cock. 
The tongue gently massaging the length of his cock; and a slow,
deep, thorough sucking.  *Yes*.

	"When you got so mad at that woman who broke the glass.  I
knew then I'd be able to trust you."
	That woman--  He felt sick all over again.
	"And you've never once referred to me as your slave.  Not
once."
	"Really?"  He thought he had; he was sure he had.
	"Nope.  Not once."  A roguish twinkle.  "Of course, I've been
'he'ed almost to death...."
	"Well, I couldn't call you 'stud.'  Not to strangers."
	"'Stud'?"  Laughing.  "'STUD?'"
	"Well, COMMANDER Stud.  Too bad, too, because it's so very
descriptive."

	The wind rattled the shutters through the husky groan of
Chakotay's pleasure.  His own hands seemed to exist only to smooth
that velvet skin, his mouth to taste that hard body.
	Salty skin, the throb of Chakotay's heartbeat under his
tongue as it glided along the hard shaft; Chakotay's hands
tightening in his hair; a rough shout as Chakotay thrust and heat
spilled into his mouth.

	"Oh, I don't know.  Harry, I guess.  If I had to.  What about
you?"
	"If it were any guy on the ship?  Well, there are a couple
down in Engineering who are pretty good looking."  Quirk of a
smile.  "But right now it's kind of hard to think past you, Tom
Paris."

	The only words he could count on to know were "god" and
"Chakotay" and "yes" and "oh"; and every one of them was alive
and new each time he groaned it.  A sigh in his ear, and "please"
and "oh" and "yes" and "Tom" and "Tom" and "Tom"--words infinitely
erotic.

	"If it's a love story, then who falls in love?"
	"The prince and his friend."
	Of course.  Turning to each other in their terror and pain. 
Only natural.
	"It's the greatest love story in Verkau literature.  Rao and
Sei see themselves as those two lovers."  Chakotay's voice was
gentle.
	"That makes Vaneet the bandit."
	"Mmhmm.  Appropriate, I think.  I think they love him,
though."  The dark eyes got merry.  "Now, if we wanted a model
and didn't want to pattern ourselves after Romeo and Juliet, who
could WE cast as the bandit?  Neelix?"  A grin as Paris laughed.
"Harry Kim?"
	Harry, ravishing ANYONE repeatedly--  "Tuvok.  He dislikes us
enough."
	"But, Tom--"  Mock worry crept into Chakotay's voice.  "He
only goes into Pon Farr every seven years.  What would we do the
REST of the time?"
	
     That body fit for his mouth to worship.  Full lower lip to
suck on.  Big, oddly shaped ears worth nibbling.  And, oh, those
fucking erotic Verkau spots to kiss:  down the nape of the stubborn
neck, through the minefield of bruises, down to linger at the crack
of that small, hard ass.  Run his tongue gently along the crack
while Chakotay cried out beneath him.  Nip each cheek; and grin at
the mischief in dark eyes when Chakotay grabbed so he could exact
revenge.

	"Not until we get back on the ship."
	"But, Chakotay, we've got this oil."
	"And we have no idea what the hell is in it.  I'm not putting
anything inside you unless it's been analyzed--"  A kiss.  "--and
sterilized--"  A kiss.  "--and thoroughly vetted by the Doctor." 
A kiss.
	"Who's going to want to know why two bridge officers want to
put oil inside each other.  Are YOU going to explain it to him?"
	A grin that melted into a kiss.  "YOU'RE the holoprogrammer: 
you can program him a lusty bandit who won't take 'no' for an
answer and satisfies him repeatedly.  Let him figure it out for
himself.  Meanwhile--"
	Long, luscious kiss that took breath away.  "Meanwhile, I
don't think I need to program any bandit for ME...."
	"Fucking right you don't."

	And sometime, oh, sometime deep in the night, Paris on his
knees, gripping the headboard; Chakotay, behind him, spreading oil
between his thighs, caressing, teasing; and then that thick cock
sliding, branding his sensitive inner thighs.  Chakotay's hands
held him steady; he couldn't move:  he could only whimper and
groan and cry out as the hard cock moved, thrust with infinite
slowness between his thighs; could only plead for the warm hand
that fitted itself around his aching cock.
	He rode it, rode it, to the rhythm of Chakotay's thrusts.
	A suck at his earlobe, that mouth busy at the side of his
neck.  Harsh gasps in his ear.
	And heat spilling onto his belly and his thighs as he groaned
and arched, pouring pleasure into the slick hand.
	Shaking as they dropped onto the bed.  Paris dragged at
blankets, covered them.  His mouth found Chakotay's.  Yes.  Oh,
shit--*yes*.
	And then they were asleep.

	Paris woke sometime later.  The fire was dying.  The wind was
hard against the shutters.  Chakotay sprawled against him,
drooling slightly on the pillow.  Heaven.
	He eased out of bed, tucked the blanket around Chakotay. 
Fucking floor was cold.  He found the chamberpot--at least he
guessed that was what it was--and pissed into it.  Tough target.
	And the damned bathtub still had to be emptied--
	A scratching at the door, and he snatched at a tunic.  It was
Chakotay's, but Paris dragged it on as he went to the door.  Aia. 
With food.  And a bucket of steaming water.  Must be morning.
	"Thank you," he said as she set down the tray.
	But she'd spotted the bathtub and hustled over to empty it. 
Paris barely caught the glance she gave the rumpled bed where
Chakotay sprawled contentedly.  After she emptied the first bucket
down the drain, she glanced again; she looked pleased.
	Paris's face got hot; he grabbed the other empty bucket and
helped her.  He hoped to god Chakotay didn't do something to
embarrass himself.
	Chakotay woke halfway through the job.
	"We have a visitor," Paris warned.
	Chakotay looked, flushed; then eased himself up, wrapped in
the blanket.  He cast a sheepish grin at Paris.
	And Paris saw that Aia saw it.
	Her hand faltered; she flinched.  A slave looking straight at
his master--
	"It's all right," he whispered.
	She froze; he could tell she was thinking about something. 
Then her hand automatically emptied the bucket.  She looked at
Chakotay, who smiled back, apparently at ease.  She flushed and
ducked her head.
	"You look really stupid in that tunic," Chakotay said
cheerily to Paris.
	"Well, it's YOURS," Paris shot back.
	"Yeah, but on me it looks good."
	Aia smiled then; her hand moved to cover it.  The small
shoulders were still tense, as if waiting for a blow to fall on
someone.
	Paris grabbed the almost-empty tub, wrestled it over to the
drain, dumped it, propped it to drip down the drain.
	"I hope you brought a lot of food," Chakotay said to Aia.  "I
could eat half of Mount Tilka."
	The smile again.
	"_I_ hope she brought some of those pastries," Paris said. 
"The little ones with the cream filling."
	"I didn't get any of those," Chakotay said.  "Somebody last
night ate--"
	Oh, for--  Paris strode over, found one, and shoved it into
Chakotay's mouth.  For Pete's--
	Chakotay shook with laughter, chewing on the little pastry,
dark eyes laughing as he looked up at Paris.  Paris felt his heart
skip a beat.  The fluttering started up inside him.  His fingers
brushed Chakotay's face.
	But Aia was there--still there--and--he could see out of the
corner of his eye--staring at them in open-mouthed wonder.  Well,
staring at Chakotay:  Paris wasn't sure she could ever bring
herself to actually look above the knees of someone she thought of
as a master.
	Shit--young girl with two men who'd clearly been fucking all
night.  The room must reek of sex.  He wanted to crawl into a
wormhole and pull it in after him.
	But her eyes were shining as she left.
	"I'm embarrassed that she saw us," Paris said.  *Chakotay,
mouth swollen from kisses, skin marked by love*.
	"She's probably seen worse."  But Chakotay was blushing,
tugging the blanket tighter.
	Breakfast--shit, he was hungry--and as good a wash as he
could get, sharing a bucket with Chakotay.  Paris got what was
left of the oil, rubbed it gently on the blue-purple bruises.
	"That feels good.  You've got good hands."  Chakotay grinned. 
"But, then, I noticed that last night."
	"We have to leave tomorrow."
	"No more money?"
	"Just enough for one more night."
	Chakotay's thumb slid gently across Paris's mouth.  His smile
was soft.  "Then we better make it a good one."
	A good day, too.  The snow had stopped:  the wind was
whipping the clouds away from the suns.
	They stayed in the room, away from the damned Verkau. 
Somehow, a lot of kissing remained to be done, and a lot of
murmuring, and some really stupid jokes.  They sat by the fire and
kissed; they wrapped in the blanket on the bed and kissed.
	No sex--well, except for when Chakotay said, "I've been
sitting on the bridge, staring at that left ear for years now.  I
think that ear needs attention"; and he gave it attention,
licking, nibbling, sucking; until Paris laughed and gasped and
bucked against him; and Chakotay found Paris's cock and stroked
it, teased it, caressed it, murmuring in Paris's ear about the
beauty of his mouth, about that exquisite ear, about sky-blue eyes
and a hard ass, and the grace of a back and deft hands on the
conn; stroked and stroked and pleaded with Paris to come for me
come hard yes come hard for me come for me yes--  And Paris arched
beneath him and helplessly obeyed.
	A doze in Chakotay's arms; a waking to kisses.  Food Aia
brought.  The wind died, and Verka's four moons climbed the skies.
	A good night, gentle and sweet.  The fluttering came back
strong.  This was more than--well, it was sex--it was GREAT sex--
but it was more than just--  It mattered to Paris when Chakotay
gave himself over to the pleasure.  It mattered that he winced
when they did something that hurt.  It mattered that he could fall
asleep so contentedly in Paris's arms.
	Paris stroked the back of Chakotay's neck as he slept.  Shit--
this shouldn't be love.
	Stubborn, stiff-necked hard ass that Paris could--shit.  This
shouldn't be love.
	Couldn't be love.  Because this was Chakotay.
	He reminded himself of that over and over, before he fell
asleep.

	So, next morning, and--
	"I should be carrying that pack."
	"Don't be so damned stubborn, Commander."
	Chakotay grinned.  "Just felt compelled to try, Lieutenant."
	Paris grinned back.  "Understood, sir."
	Pack hoisted onto his shoulders; and there was Chakotay,
right there in front of him.  Square hands cradled his face; and
then a kiss, long and hard and sweet.
	Chakotay smiling at him when they came out of it.  "Thank
you, Lieutenant."
	For--oh, who cared what for.  "Any time, Commander."  Hoarse.
	Then Chakotay dropped his gaze to Paris's feet, and Paris saw
the mobile face close up:  the perfect slave, humble before his
master.
	Shit.  He tasted bitterness.
	Paris tossed their last six redstones to the inn keeper as
they passed.  He never wanted to see another fucking Verkau again;
these bastards--
	Toa was sweeping across the way, under the gaze of the
handyman; he jumped up and down until Chakotay acknowledged him.
	Aia held the gate into the street.
	"Thank you," Paris said automatically.
	And her eyes lifted to his.
	They were clear grey, in a face set and apprehensive; the
hand on the gate shook; her slight body trembled.
	He smiled warmth and approval as he passed.  "Thank you," he
said again.
	And saw delight warm her eyes before they went to Chakotay. 
Her face glowed at what she saw there.
	And they were out into the street.
	"Your effect on the average female never ceases to amaze me." 
Chakotay's voice was warm and contented.
	"Hey--YOU spent more time with her than _I_ did.  And you're
the rebel."  He felt great.  Prime Directive be damned.
	"So now we...."
	"The springs feed the river; the river leads the way."  And
there was a trail beside the river that never completely closed,
warmed by the heated earth.  Sitting with the damned merchants had
given him that much information.
	It felt good to be moving again, even with the fucking pack
cutting into his shoulders.  Clear day, joyous river steaming
beside them.  Trees cast deep shadows that eased the brightness of
suns on snow.
	They were the first along the path, breaking the calf-deep
snow; and while it was good to have everything to themselves--to
be away from watching Verkau--Paris was soon exhausted.  So they
alternated breaking the trail.
     That snug ass in front of him....  The flutter of uncertainty
came back.  Because they weren't in love; Chakotay couldn't be in
love with him.  No one fell in love with Paris--not really, not
forever--and certainly not his commanding officer.  Not upright
Chakotay, who could still circle back to despising him.  So Paris
couldn't be in love--it would just--he would just be in love by
himself, and that would kill him.
	A stop for rest by the river, which had narrowed to a stream,
where mosses overhanging the water grew green in the heated air;
some long-legged crab thing moved below the surface of the water.
	They spread one of the blankets between them and the snow,
eased off Paris's pack.  Chakotay sat behind him, tucked the other
blanket over Paris's legs; and then slid his own hands under
Paris's coat and tunic, to rub his back.
	His hands were warmer than Paris expected.  "That feels
good," he said.  It did--those hands that knew his back, knew how
to coax the muscles into relaxing.
     Eventually the hands finished, and Chakotay scooted up close
behind him, pulled him back.  Paris relaxed back into the solid
body while Chakotay wrapped both arms around him.  Paris tucked
Chakotay's hands under the blanket, held on.
	They sat there for a minute or two on the snow-silent
mountain.  Paris, eyes closed, felt Chakotay's heart beating
against his back, Chakotay's legs snug alongside his.  Chakotay
had dropped his head to Paris's shoulder; the sound of his
breathing in Paris's ear was steady and sweet.  It felt good to be
locked together like this.  Uncertainty fluttered in his stomach
again.
	"I ... like this," he murmured, voice so faint that he could
ignore it if Chakotay did.
	A hitch in Chakotay's breathing.  "So do I," he whispered;
and those words felt like the sun spreading warmth.
	A moment to enjoy it.  Paris laced his fingers through
Chakotay's.
	"You're not my first choice as bed partner," Paris said.
	Chakotay snorted.  "Trust me; you're not my first choice,
either."
	Paris grinned.  The flutter had vanished.
	"But you feel like my last," Chakotay said, his voice soft
and hesitant.
	Shit, oh, shit.  "So do you."
	What a beautiful catch in Chakotay's breathing.  He rubbed
his cold cheek against Paris's.
	They sat for a moment.
	"My ass is getting cold," Chakotay said.  He sounded happy.
	"You'll have to build us a fire next time."
	"Just give me a couple hours' warning.  And a fully charged
phaser."
	On and up through the pass, trudging through snow, watching
the Verka equivalent of eagles glide above the river, diving to
catch the Verka equivalent of fish.  Small furry animals leapt
from tree to tree, and chittered at them.
	At noon they ate the rock bread and some fruit--cold.
	On and up.  The river narrowed to a rivulet, steaming:  they
could warm their hands over it.  The suns started down in front of
them.
	It was nearing dusk when they came to a flat place beside a
pool boiling with heat and with the power of the water surging up
from below.
	Someone was there ahead of them:  a camp.  Paris strode
forward as Chakotay fell back.  Back to master and slave.  Paris
steeled himself.
	They were greeted by--
	"Lieutenant.  Commander."
	"CAPTAIN!"
	Oh, god, the Captain, looking gorgeous in Verkau disguise. 
She laughed; she strode up to them, hugged Paris.  Hugged
Chakotay.  And, oh, damn, Harry Kim, grinning at him, pounding his
shoulder.  My god, they'd been found.
	"We THOUGHT you gentlemen would make a break for freedom." 
That smoky voice, rich with fondness.
	Oh, god, they'd been found; my god, they were safe.  Chakotay
was safe.
	And a shuttle--they had a shuttle, tucked so neatly in a
break in the trees that Paris tasted envy.  Could he have done
that?  He wasn't sure--but he was for certain going to try it on
the holodeck.  Damn sweet.  "Who landed this?"
	"Culhane."
	Who made a terrible-looking Verkau, not that Paris was
biased, or anything.
	Hot coffee by the fire, while they waited for dusk, when a
leaving shuttle would be harder to spot.  Chakotay's face,
animated and golden in the fire's glow.  Paris felt a weight as
large as Verka lift off his shoulders.
	And home to Voyager.
	"I should have insisted that you be transported off the
shuttle."  The corner of the Doctor's lip lifted.  "You're
CRAWLING with the local equivalent of fleas and lice."
	"LICE?"  Janeway sounded horrified.  Her hand came up to
scratch delicately at her head.
	And, gee, as if things weren't embarrassing enough--
	"Socks.  Filled with snow.  Very cold."  Chakotay's voice
brooked no argument.
	But the Doctor was always ready to give some.  "SOCKS?"
	"Creative use of available materials.  It'll all be in my
report."  Chakotay's eyes warmed when they looked at Paris.
	ALL?  Shit.
	Paris watched as the Doctor transformed Chakotay back into
the Commander:  removing implants, fading spots, regenerating. 
Wistfulness settled into his belly.  It was stupid, but he missed
the old Chakotay.
	Janeway called Chakotay to the bridge as the Doctor started
on Paris.
	Home to Voyager.  And the funny thing was, he couldn't seem
to get alone with Chakotay.  Over the next few days, off duty,
somebody always needed one or the other of them.  And on duty--well,
the bridge wasn't exactly set up for romance.
	And the first time Chakotay saw Paris after the Doctor was
done, he stopped, blinked, looked lost for a minute.  Then Paris
saw the Commander's professional demeanor slide onto his face, and
they were back to being Lieutenant and Commander on the bridge.
	Paris sat at the helm for a minute, mind blank with shock. 
*You feel like my last*.  Yeah--sure.  Whatever you say.  He was
an idiot for believing any of that.
	Except--  Taking a report from Paris's shaking hand, Chakotay
looked at him, and warmth came into his eyes.  *You feel like 
my*--
	And a couple times that shift, Paris caught Chakotay staring
at him from the Commander's chair, wistfulness in the bright eyes. 
--*like my last*.
	But Chakotay ate in the Captain's quarters instead of in the
mess; and his schedule just kept conflicting with Paris's.
     Then, finally, close to a week after they left Verkau, something
blew in Jeffries Tube 13.  B'Elanna was beside herself, giving them
all a good education in Klingon cursing.  For some subtle engineering
reason, fixing the affected conduits would have to be correlated with
adjusting the conduits in Jeffries Tube 47 and maybe 24 or 9--she
wasn't sure.  So there were teams crawling through Jeffries Tubes
all over the damn ship.
	He and Chakotay were the team in 13, relaying new conduits.
	And wasn't THAT just a lot of fun:  the thin connectors, the
tiny junctions.  Springing out of place every time you breathed on
them.  Chakotay seemed jumpy.  And all with B'Elanna spitting fire
because she couldn't personally accompany every team doing the
work.
	"Go check on the team in 47," Chakotay finally said.
	"But--"
	"That's an order, Lieutenant."
	Paris relaxed as he heard the cursing fade in the distance.
	Eight connectors sprang free immediately.
	"Shit," Chakotay whispered.
	They were both on their bellies over the opened grating,
heads nearly bumping, eyes straining to focus.  Quiet there,
except for the hum of Voyager, and the ragged thumping of Paris's
heart.  Chakotay's hands shook as he reconnected the fragile lines.
	"I miss the spots," Paris murmured; and Chakotay froze.
	Then,
	"I miss Marlon Brando."  His voice was warm.
	Oh, god.  Paris felt himself relax.  Chakotay's breath was
soft on his cheek.
	"Did you mean what you said?"  Shit, he hoped his voice
didn't sound as needy as he felt.
	"About you being--being the last?  Yes."  The last whispered
so low he had to strain to hear.  "But we can't--it can't be the
same as it was on Verka, Tom."
	Shit, he KNEW that--he wasn't a child.  "No more public
bathing?"
	Chakotay chuckled, and three connectors sprang free.  "SHIT." 
Said happily.  "But we can still soap each other.  In private."
	My god, he could lie here fiddling with connectors for the
next five years.  Jeffries Tube 13 seemed bathed in a golden
light.
	"I'm sorry, Tom.  You just look so--so DIFFERENT from the way
you did down there:  it was disorienting."  Paris hazarded a look: 
Chakotay was blushing.  "I'm afraid I gave my heart to a guy with
spots and eyes that aren't quite like yours.  After the Doctor
changed you back, I'm afraid I didn't make the adjustment very
easily."
	"I'm still that guy."
	"I know."  Chakotay was looking at him.  "In all the ways
that count, you are that guy."  A breath.  "And I'm pretty sure
I love that guy."
	They stared into each other's eyes, faces a few centimeters
apart.
	"Good thing."  Paris's voice sounded ragged.  "Because that
guy's pretty sure he loves YOU."
	Chakotay dropped the connecting wand.  "SHIT!"
	Paris laughed.
	"Oh, yes, that's very funny," Chakotay said.  "The longer
this takes, the longer before you and I can get off duty and get
to know each other again."
	Well, SHIT.
	"I can't favor you," Chakotay said, retrieving the wand and
starting the whole damn process over.  "I can't be softer on you
than I am on the rest of the crew."
     "I KNOW that.  I can take it, Commander."
	An unhappy hitch in Chakotay's breathing.  "I know YOU can
take it; I'm just not sure _I_ can."
	"You can do it."  Paris's blood seemed to be bubbling with
joy.  "WE can work it out."
	"Yes, Lieutenant."
	And then Chakotay reached over and grabbed Paris's hand and
placed one of Paris's fingers very firmly on the junction of a
just-connected conduit.  A quick twist; and Chakotay placed
another of Paris's fingers on the next junction.  And a third. 
And a fourth; and--
	Those warm fingers caressing his as they were carefully
placed just so; Paris's breath caught.  That warm breath on his
cheek; Chakotay's mouth just millimeters from his own.  The beauty
of that fierce concentration on what they were doing.  Paris's
heart skipped, beat, skipped.
	One hand occupied.  Chakotay moved to occupy the other.  Warm
pressure; soft mouth near his.  He could hear the ragged beating
of Chakotay's heart, smell the musk rising from that warm body.
	Chakotay's breath touched his cheek as Chakotay leaned across
to fumble for something behind Paris.  Those hands not quite
touching him.  Not-quite-foreplay in Jeffries Tube 13.  Paris
started to laugh.
	Chakotay grinned at him as he placed the binder around the
newly connected conduits.  "Whatever works, Lieutenant."
	"I'll keep that in mind, Commander."
	"Haven't you finished YET?"  That exasperated voice cleared
the intimacy out of the air like a blast through a plasma
injector.
	"Yes, Lieutenant."  Chakotay smiled at Paris.  "Yes.  I
think we've taken care of everything.  And now we're officially
off duty."
	She didn't seem to be listening:  she was too intent on
making sure they hadn't somehow damaged her precious conduits. 
Which was okay with Paris.  Off duty.  Oh, god, they were off
duty, and--
	And in the mess, eating something that bore little
resemblance to food.
	"Those chokka roots you brought on board are a real treat,
Commander!"  Neelix beamed with gastronomical joy.
	"I TOLD you we should have just dumped them in the river,"
Paris murmured.
	"And pollute the water?"
	But, oh god, they were off duty together, and he could eat
anything the Delta Quadrant had to offer.
	Paris managed to keep his hands off Chakotay until they were
in his quarters.
	"Engage level two privacy lock," Chakotay gasped.
	Which meant only a major alert message would get through.  My
god, they had a red alert now, and Paris would blow up the ship
himself.
	Chakotay laced the fingers of both hands through Paris's,
pressed him against the sealed door, looked into his eyes for a
minute.  My god, those poor fools on Verka, who would never get
that look from the people who served them--and who sometimes loved
them.
	Chakotay let go, leaned in to trace Paris's mouth with a
shaking finger.  Paused.  Leaned in closer for Kiss 48:  Commander
Very Definitely Laying Claim to Lieutenant's Heart and Body and
Soul.
	A dizzy moment after they broke the kiss.  They looked at
each other.  And looked.
	That predatory light in Chakotay's eyes.  Dimples at the edge
of a roguish smile.
	"And now, Lieutenant--where should we start?"

                         THE END