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This is an original fan story. However, it uses characters and situations copyrighted by Paramount. I make no claims to any copyrights regarding these characters. This story is for my enjoyment and for the enjoyment of readers.


COLLATERAL DAMAGE
A Star Trek: Voyager slash story by Ruth Devero
Rated R

When phaser fire clipped the shuttle's starboard engine, Tom Paris knew he was in for a rough ride home.

"Shuttle Collins to Voyager!" he shouted, struggling to bring thrusters six through twelve back online.

"Voyager here." Harry Kim's voice sounded as if he were speaking underwater. There was a burst of static, and then the voice came through again, so garbled that Paris couldn't catch the words.

Not that he really had time to listen. The pale blue phaser fire lanced all around him, and he could hear the strain on the thrusters as he executed a roll to take him out of the way. But--

"Repeat?" he said.

There was no answer.

"Voyager, your signal was garbled. Repeat?" Damn. This little shuttle was maneuverable, but it was never meant for battle. He was having enough trouble just keeping thrusters eight through ten online; something must have shorted out. And where the hell was that fire coming from--

He got the answer as he brought the shuttle around in a twisting loop that just avoided a bolt of phaser fire. The smooth ship now in front of him was so dark it almost blended into the blackness of space; he couldn't see the edges, couldn't get a sense of shape or size. Just of power, and animosity.

The Th'wel. Had to be. He caught a shaky breath. Damn; they weren't even supposed to be on this side of the asteroid field--were they?

Just beyond the alien ship, Voyager dodged fire in a banking turn that Paris recognized as Chakotay's Alpha Roll. An elegant maneuver that not only took Voyager out of the line of fire, but brought the forward phasers to bear on the enemy. And a damn beautiful thing to witness; he'd have to tell Chakotay--

Paris dropped the shuttle's bow 87 degrees in a plunge designed to avoid the incoming phaser bolt and bring the shuttle in a banking swoop under the belly of the alien ship, towards Voyager. Damn, he wished the shuttle had phaser capabilities; he'd like to fire back. Distract them at the very least, so Voyager would have a chance to blow them to-- He looked ahead and suddenly couldn't breathe.

Distract them so Voyager would have a chance to get away.

She was taking a pounding: the alien ship was blasting away with four phasers, and even as a heartsick bystander, Paris could see that the shields wouldn't hold for long. Oh, get away, he found himself pleading silently. Just--just get away. Don't wait for him; he'd--well, he'd hide out in the asteroid field, follow the path through it to the friendly space on the other side. Someone would pick him up there, and eventually--

"Paris to Voyager," he tried again.

The only answer was some sort of alien garble, probably from that other ship. And a phaser blast his direction.

Okay, Paris, you're the best in the Delta Quadrant. Prove it.

But something was wrong; helm didn't feel right. The little shuttle was acting downright sluggish. Like it was--

Like it was caught in a tractor beam.

A chill settled into his belly. Tractor beam. Nightmare situation: free in space, there was a chance he'd get back to Voyager. But, tractored into the belly of the alien ship, he'd be at their mercy. Imprisoned. And, golly, he'd just loved every prison he'd ever been incarcerated in.

But now thrusters six through ten simply weren't responding, and he could almost smell overheated wiring as the other seven tried to take up the slack. The shuttle began to shake. There went thruster eleven. Damn. This was it. No use burning out both engines. This was just it. He cut the engines.

On the other side of the alien ship, Voyager was fighting back. But her phaser fire was sporadic, and something was venting from the port nacelle. Go on--get out of here. Save yourselves.

As he watched, Voyager vanished into warp. Dread settled in as he watched the alien shuttle bay grow larger and larger, but the dread was overshadowed by exultation. Okay, he was on his own, but he'd been on his own before; and, besides, on his own meant he didn't have to make sure anybody else was safe. And Voyager was safe. Chakotay was safe.

Looking into the darkness of the shuttle bay, about to meet the enemies who had routed Voyager and ruined his chances of making it home, Paris felt peevishness spark through him, and all he could think was, Why today? Why the hell did it have to be today? You couldn't have waited until we'd at least had dinner?

...

A shimmer as the shuttle breached a force field, and suddenly Paris heard the faint sounds of broadcast commands echoing through the shuttle bay: "Sections twelve and fifteen to area twenty-three. Section nine to area forty-two." A woman's voice. His translator must have picked up enough of the language to begin its work. Good. Interrogations went better when you could understand what the torturer was asking.

The bay looked like any other: a shuttle trailing wires in an interrupted repair, parts stacked against one bulkhead. But not every shuttle bay had a small army of soldiers waiting. All female. Yep--the Th'wel. Paris swallowed hard to force his heart out of his throat and back into his chest. Just another day in the Delta Quadrant.

There was a small thump as the shuttle came to rest, and immediately he heard the sounds of some sort of plasma torch being fired up to cut through the hatch.

Number one in Paris's Rules of Engagement was, "Don't resist--until the odds are in your favor." It applied equally well everywhere: playground, Maquis resistance cell, prison. Especially prison, where resistance could get you a pop in the mouth--or worse.

And, here--

"Computer, security lockdown, Paris alpha four seven beta seven four."

"Confirmed." Everything on the shuttle went dead.

And then he heard the hatch blow and stood to give himself up to whoever was coming in, turned with his hands held out at his sides so they would see that he was unarmed, that he wasn't resisting, that--

The first soldier through the hatch clipped the side of his head with the butt of her weapon, and as he crumpled, his last clear thought for a while was, "Well, so much for plan A."

...

Flashes of awareness:

...

The deck hard against his cheek while someone nudged him with the toe of a boot, as if he were something new and interesting. "Not much there," said a woman. More than YOU can handle--but thankfully his mouth didn't say it.

Hand grabbing his hair, jerking his head up from the deck so abruptly that the darkness--

...

Firm hands bruising his upper arms, supporting him, while his toes dragged on the deck. I can walk--but apparently his body thought otherwise. I can walk--but his legs weren't listening. Hiss of a door opening, and then the hands let go--

...

The hiss of a hypospray jerked him into total awareness of a bruised body and a killer headache. The jolt of whatever was in the hypo seemed to slam through his body, queasing his stomach, which didn't settle much when he opened his eyes and blinked into the brightness of the room. He was lying on his back, on some sort of biobed, strapped down; and he was completely surrounded by women.

In Paris's experience, there were two kinds of people: those who responded to charm well poured, and those who didn't. A lot of women were the former type. Judging by the faces around him, these weren't.

If there was one word to describe them, he thought, it was utilitarian. Bodies small-breasted and well-muscled, most bearing battle scars on their dusky-gold skin. One missing an ear. A fine golden fuzz covered their skin, coarser on their heads; here it was about three centimeters long. No fussing with hair on this ship. Or makeup. Their faces seemed all forehead, and their noses were flat, so that in profile their foreheads and noses were on the same plane; their eyes were large and really would be rather beautiful if they weren't looking through him. They wore uniforms, but the clothing hadn't been designed for style. Or to please the eye with color: the women carrying weapons wore light gray; it was a woman wearing dark gray who seemed to be in charge.

"We think it's male," said the woman at Paris's head. Her uniform was pale blue. "It has no place to carry the child and nothing with which to suckle it."

"You bet I'm male," Paris said. "Ensign Thomas Eugene Paris, of the Federation starship Voyager."

The woman in the dark uniform glanced at him. "Well, even if it is a male, it can be useful to us."

"What was it doing out on its own?" asked a woman in a lighter uniform. "Would anybody really use males as shuttle pilots?" There was a trickle of laughter from some of the others.

"I'm one of the best damn pilots on the ship," Paris snapped. "And I'm not an 'it'!"

The slap came out of nowhere. He blinked and glared at the woman in command. But she wasn't interested; she just looked at the mark she'd left on his face, as if studying it. She took his chin in her hand and turned his head for a better look.

"Does it work on him?" she asked, letting go.

The woman in blue made a gesture--

Agony jolted through him from the back of his neck, turning every muscle and nerve to fire. He strained against it, set his teeth on it, closed his eyes to focus on not screaming--

The pain faded, and he could hear his own ragged breath, as if he'd been running fast and far.

"It's adequate," said the woman in blue.

"Good," said the other. "Find out what you can. Don't cut into him or do any permanent damage yet. We may need him when we find that ship. Dialla is working on the shuttle." She turned.

Paris worked saliva into a dry mouth. "Thomas Eugene Paris," he said. All but four of the women were leaving. "Ensign." The woman in blue nodded to one in a lighter shade of the color, who tapped notations onto a padd and nodded back. "Serial number--"

Pain took all words, all breath, all thought.

...

He dimly felt them drop him, felt motion. Whir of a motor. Silence, except for the sound of his ragged breathing.

He opened his eyes. Darkness. His shaking hand brushed his face. Yes, his eyes were open. There was just--darkness.

He lay for a moment, hearing his breathing, hearing the shudder of his laboring heart. Paris. He was Thomas Eugene Paris. Ensign. Of the Federation starship Voyager, commanded by Captain Kathryn Janeway. First officer, Chakotay. Paris. He was Thomas Eugene Paris, and he was well and truly fucked.

Questions. They hadn't asked any questions; they had just made the pain and made the pain and sometimes one said something to the other and then they made the pain even worse. No questions. No interrogation. Just the pain. And sometimes he'd gotten a glimpse of their faces, between bouts of screaming. They mostly looked bored.

Okay, Paris. Let's use that Starfleet training, Paris.

He took a deep breath, another. Fresh air; must be a vent somewhere. Injuries? Wrists sore from the straps. Otherwise, hard to tell: he was a mass of active or residual pain, from throbbing head through nerves still on fire. What the hell was that? He carefully felt the back of his neck, felt--well, something was there that shouldn't be, something small and hard that--ouch!--he didn't want to poke at any more. The torture device. Lovely. Probably really intimate with his nervous system. Welcome to the Delta Quadrant, where aliens plug all kinds of nifty devices into you. Damn.

He cleared his throat. Throat a little sore, Tom? Screaming will do that. Screaming and screaming and--

Just stop it. He took a deep breath, another, a third.

And what about the cell? Paris extended his right foot and tapped a wall just under the sole. Okay.... He slid his hands out at his sides. Wall, twenty centimeters away on both sides. He took a deep breath. Okay. He slid one hand along the wall, past his head, farther-- Wall. About ten centimeters from the top of his head.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes in the darkness, wiped his sweating palms on his uniform. Now for the punch line. He took several deep breaths and stretched out a hand for the ceiling. Ceiling. Could it actually be termed a ceiling if it was about twenty centimeters from your nose? Paris swallowed hard. Wall. Just think of it as another wall.

Okay, so it was a little tiny cell. But it had air, and it had an entrance, and probably he could use both to his advantage.

Or not. His exploring fingers found a ten-centimeter by ten-centimeter grate at the top of his head, but the holes for the grate had been punched into the wall and were too small for a curious finger. A similar grate in the opposite wall, or so the scrape of his questing foot seemed to indicate. And there seemed no sign of a door at all. How the hell had they gotten him in here? A crack ran around the room at floor level, too thin to do him much good.

And that was it. That was his cell.

Well, Ensign Thomas Eugene Paris, welcome to the world according to the Th'wel.

Thwell. He grimaced at his own bad joke and began to pat pockets. Nothing. Commbadge gone. And nothing in his boots: he'd stopped carrying weapons and emergency equipment there when he'd started trusting the people on the ship. Sucker. That nice, sharp length of duranium would have come in handy, as would the piece of wire. Or the coil of flexisteel. Of course, the Th'wel would have found and confiscated them....

Surprisingly, that thought cheered him. He hadn't screwed himself by trusting the people on Voyager and dropping his defenses; he'd simply screwed himself by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. As usual. Hey, he'd done this before, and he could do it again!

His laugh sounded thin and a little ragged. Time to stop and think.

He laced his hands over his stomach. Easier in that position to forget that the walls were only a few centimeters away--

That wasn't the way to relax and think. Start over.

He closed his eyes so he could pretend that the darkness wasn't there. Relax, Tom. You plan better when you're relaxed.

Paris took a cleansing breath. He could do this. Think about something pleasant, about--

Shit. Why the hell today? After all the-- And the damned Th'wel have to pick today to screw up his life.

Tonight was--well, tonight was going to be The Night. A smile curved his lips. Chakotay. Shit. Lust spread like warm honey through his body.

Lust was good. He could use lust. It felt good, reminded him that he was alive.

And lust with Chakotay was--fun. A surprise. Chakotay was possibly the second most irritating person in the galaxy, after Tuvok-- Third, after Neelix-- Er, fourth, maybe, or fifth-- Well, definitely in the top ten.

So damned repressed, you wanted to poke him to see if he felt anything. So damned sure of himself, you wanted to jab him, to let out some of that smugness. And so damned angry--at least at first--that the resulting explosions were mighty entertaining.

Not so angry now. Things had settled. News of the destruction of the Maquis had let the air out of most of the rage. Still repressed, though. And underneath that, flashes of humor. A mischievous side. A solid competence that made you surer of yourself. And a damn fine-looking ass.

Paris had become aware of all those elements a few nights ago in the pool game at Sandrine's. He'd been playing himself in a desultory way, not really interested in a game with people he'd played so often he'd memorized their moves. But Chakotay--he hadn't played Chakotay much, so when the commander offered, he'd accepted. Chakotay had played well. One game led to another, led to a third....

And, somewhere in one of those games, something shifted. They chatted during the play, casually deriding each other's skill, sharing jokes. And, somewhere in one of those games, Paris felt The Flush, the rise in temperature and heartbeat that meant that he was migod flirting. With Chakotay. Who was flirting right back.

Flustered, he missed the next shot, and Chakotay's lazy smile and even lazier stretch to make his own shot made the flirting official. Paris relaxed and enjoyed it.

Next night, handball. Foreplay, actually. An evening of foreplay. Watching Chakotay's strong body stretch and move, watching the sweat-drenched clothing cling to shifting muscles. Foreplay.

Things got busy after that, but they managed to meet for a meal here, a game of pool there. A hike in one of Chakotay's holoprograms. All foreplay, tacitly understood and thoroughly enjoyed.

"Dinner tomorrow?" Chakotay said last night. "I'm told I replicate a mean casserole."

"Sure. I'll replicate dessert."

All day, busy as he was, Paris was happily aware that tonight he was going to fuck Chakotay's brains out. Was going to tease him and seduce him and just--

He drew a deep breath. No, he wasn't. Not tonight. And not ever, if he didn't plan how to get out of here. Focus, Paris. Focus on something besides your cock.

At least it had calmed him. Energized him. He could do anything now, to get back to--

Whir of motor, and the wall to his right lifted. Light blinded him as the floor--with Paris on it--slid through the opening.

Figures there, two, probably armed.

He launched himself at the farthest one, blinking away the blindness of sudden brightness, grabbing at her weapon and using her to steady himself for an instinctive kick at the other, who folded and said, "Ooooof."

Jerk at the weapon, throwing the soldier off balance. She didn't let go. He pushed her and made for the door anyway, ecstatic when it opened automatically. A step through, and suddenly lights were flashing, and a siren was sounding, and he ran full speed into a force field. That surrounded him. He fumbled at it with desperate hands, but he was well and truly trapped.

At least he was in the corridor. And before the guards grabbed him, he got a good look. To the right, nothing; just a bend he couldn't see around. But to the left, some sort of hatch. Into the shuttle bay? Into something interesting, at least.

The guards were not gentle when they retrieved him. One--probably the one he'd kicked--drove the butt of her weapon into his stomach. He lost breath for a moment, doubled up. The other guard straightened him with a baton pressed under his chin. He gagged, gurgled, "Okay. Okay. I won't--" She jerked at the baton, and he shut up, wheezing.

Being hustled to the torture table wasn't much fun, but it was better than what happened once he was strapped down. More of the insta-agony: a low setting, a higher, two highs and a low, one so high that he blacked out and had to be revived. No chance to get ready for the pain, because no idea how bad it would be. And still no questions. It dimly occured to him that they were using him as some sort of experimental subject, testing his reactions to pain.

And he reacted just swell: he screamed and he screamed, until at last he couldn't scream any more, because he had no voice left to scream with, but even then he couldn't stop torturing his raw throat. By the time they finished, every breath was a wheezy cry.

This time he welcomed the darkness of the little cell. The darkness meant peace, quiet, no pain. He could rest, recover himself, whimper out his desperation.

He may have slept for a few minutes. But there came a moment when he knew he was awake, because he felt the mantle of despair settle over him. Test subject. Some sort of test subject so they could test their torture device. So they'd know how to torture humans. They were learning from him how to break the only humans in the Delta Quadrant, how to break Janeway, Chakotay, Harry Kim. All the people who cared about him, who trusted him. Thankfully everybody on Voyager wasn't human; he couldn't betray them--

Out of it, Paris. Quit wallowing. But you're so good at it, he reminded himself. Yes, very funny. Damn, he was thirsty.

He tried to stretch, but stretching just reminded him how small his box was. Deep breath. The ceiling seemed to be lowering. Wall--it was just a wall; and it wasn't moving. Deep breath. His hands shook, and his mind raced at warp 10. He grinned. He should know. Deep breath. Calm. Think about something else, something pleasant.

Remember the Garden. When the words floated into his head, Paris grinned wryly. The Garden. It got him into this fix. But there he had experienced some of the most glorious moments of his life.

Meeting Hethwa and the other P'kau on the Long Hope had at first just seemed like good luck. Peaceful, possibly foolish folks who didn't even have a weapons system on their ship. But the meeting turned out to be a lifesaver. Literally. First, there was the fact that by trading with the P'kau, they made themselves friends of nearly every other race in P'kau space, since whoever traded with the P'kau became part of the vast, extended P'kau family, and almost everyone in that sector traded with the P'kau. But, just as important, they learned from Hethwa about the Garden of the One Unnamed, the vast asteroid field through which only the P'kau knew the path. During dinner on the Long Hope she showed them a holographic map of--chaos.

An asteroid field, so thick it made the hair at the back of Paris's neck stand up. Asteroids larger than Voyager tumbled between smaller boulders and tiny rocks capable of smashing the ship to pieces. And, judging by the coordinates, right in Voyager's path home.

"How big is that?" Janeway's voice was hoarse with horror.

"To go around it takes what you call weeks," Hethwa said blandly. "There is an energy here which causes sensors to malfunction, so a ship cannot feel its way through the Garden alone." She shut up the map and smiled brightly at Janeway. "But the One Unnamed allows the P'kau to travel through the Garden, so long as we are respectful and do all things correctly. We will ask our pilot to guide you through."

Going through the Garden was nerve-wracking and glorious. It was a sacred place to the P'kau, and only the religious knew the paths through it; the pilot was a priest, funny, intelligent, and absolutely unflappable. He came aboard with a young acolyte, and Paris spent two days learning to guide Voyager under the priest's direction. The priest wasn't there to man the helm; he was there to sing directions, in the form of greetings to each named asteroid.

"A mnemonic device," Chakotay hazarded when he first heard the chant. But it was more to the priest. It was a chant of respect to the Garden, to the power that created it, to the universe itself.

It hadn't been much fun to learn: as the priest chanted, the acolyte stood behind Paris and silently signalled him with touches to his shoulders--this tap for up 10 degrees, this slide for port 20 degrees, this circle for slow one tenth. It was frustrating and exhausting, but Chakotay looked so proud of him that Paris threw himself into study, focused so hard that simply scratching his own shoulder blades sparked his other hand to twitch on an imaginary conn panel: down ten degrees, left 15, slow 20 percent.

But it worked. It shouldn't have: the shifting of asteroids should have made the chant moot. Paris thought that the priest was not just guiding Voyager, but relearning the position of each boulder. The first look at the Garden made Paris's heart sink: asteroids tumbled, most dark against the blackness of space, some light enough to show as ghostly shadows. Here a smooth surface caught the light of a distant sun, there a dark rock eclipsed a far-off nebula.

His anxiety vanished almost with the priest's first words and the acolyte's first touch. Down thirty degrees, port ten, ahead ten percent, starboard twenty degrees, slow ten percent. Gradually he forgot the other crew on the bridge, gradually the universe narrowed to the acolyte's touch, to the flicker of his own hands on the conn, to Voyager's response. Before him on the main viewer was the terrifying beauty of the shifting asteroid field. The priest's song merged with the ship's engines, his own breathing, his own heartbeat as he guided the ship in a twisting dance through the garden of tumbling stone.

Paris smiled now in the darkness, relaxed. Such pure flying--a moment of such pure and beautiful flying in the ship that he loved. And Chakotay watching him, dark eyes glowing with pleasure and pride when they emerged unscathed on the other side.

He'd been exhausted by that time, limp at his station as he listened to the priest thank the One Unnamed for their successful journey, heard him ask blessings on Voyager. Later, Chakotay asked him to dinner tonight....

And, gee, he'd gotten to do it all over again twice today, once backward, because he had to ferry the priest back to Hethwa's ship. When they reached the Long Hope, Paris was greeted like some long-lost cousin, and there was a feast. Then the priest blessed him and the shuttle, and Paris put the shuttle on autopilot, the helm obeying a computer record of the first trip, the priest's recorded chant again blessing the journey.

Falling into a dreamy state made up of the flying and the chant and the friendship and good food, Paris had happily planned the seduction of Chakotay. A kiss. He'd start with a kiss, their first kiss, one of those long, slow kisses that lasted about a week, Chakotay's gorgeous mouth slowly softening against his while Paris's hands stroked port twenty degrees, down thirty degrees, starboard, up, ahead full, guiding Chakotay through their own private garden.

And he'd emerged from the asteroid field into--

The cell opened, and he was dragged again into the nightmare.

...

Darkness, blessed darkness, but it wasn't quiet, someone was wailing hoarsely, wailing, and why didn't he shut up, why didn't he just shut up because Paris hurt all over, hurt all over and wanted to just lie quiet, but that guy was croaking out a long wail, and-- But it was himself. Shut up, Paris. It was a while before Paris listened.

He flinched awake, hitting the ceiling of the little coffin-like cell and panicking before he reminded himself. It was small. It was small, but it was safe, because here he wasn't with the Th'wel. Damn, his hands were shaking, but they were still numb from the tight straps, so it mustn't have been too long since they'd shoved him back in here, at least he hoped it hadn't been too long, because otherwise there might be some nerve damage happening here, nerve-damaged hands, and oh fuck the horror of that if they were too damaged for the Doctor to fix, because a guy with damaged hands couldn't fly Voyager. He flexed his hands to work life back into them.

At least he'd had a chance for a leak. He'd had to ask, and the damned guards had watched, though not with any degree of interest, just the way you'd watch a faucet running. Which was even more humiliating; he was used to getting the occasional compliment. But they weren't interested, and he felt despair swoop down to drag at him as they hauled him over to that hateful table for another round. They were robots, mindless drones programmed to guard things, and he was another robot programmed to scream with the right stimulation and provide data for some sort of hellish bell curve.

Increase. Our theme this time was increase. At what setting did stimulation elicit the desired scream, and then at what setting did the screamer pass out? How long did it take for the subject to become unconscious at each level of stimulation? At what level did the subject begin to sob in exhausted despair, and how did his sobbing alter his response time?

Oh Paris quit it just quit it. His stomach was heaving, and bitter saliva flooded his mouth, but thankfully nothing came out, maybe because there was nothing there to come out. How long had he been here? Forever, maybe. He was thirsty, so thirsty, but they didn't seem interested in giving him water. Which was fine because then he'd die quicker and be out of this.

And never to have kissed Chakotay.

That made him laugh, it sounded so much like a bad line from a bad holonovel. But the laughter didn't sound right: too raspy maybe, or too high-pitched. Or because it didn't seem to be stopping. Stop laughing, Paris. It was a while before Paris listened.

Where was Voyager? Did she get away? She had to have, because--well, would they be experimenting on Paris if they had others, if they knew the others were dead? Was she close by? Would Voyager come back for him? Was she anywhere near?

Damn, the Th'wel were even worse than the P'kau had said. "The Th'wel," Hethwa had told them, "are not of the family, though we have agreements that the family will not attack them, nor will they attack us. They are--" Her face creased in annoyance. "They do not respect life. They judge males inferior, so only females lead." Well, I've gotten a taste of that, Paris thought now. "All things without speech are not-alive to them, so they do not respect them. They do not respect life, so they fear the Long Life, the life after this one." Hethwa seemed to be fumbling for words. "They do not respect life, so they war on it all."

Janeway frowned, confused. "They don't respect...."

"Life." Hethwa gestured widely. "That plant. That child. The suns. The world. The Garden of the One Unnamed. Life."

Light shone in Chakotay's face. "The life force that runs through everything," he said, and Hethwa gestured in acknowledgement. "They don't feel that. They don't believe in it, so to them a stone is nothing more than an object, a tree is only a source of wood."

"They do not respect life," Hethwa agreed. "So they fear everything. They strive to make all aspects of their lives safe, to remove all risk from everything they do. They attack everything before it can attack them."

"That's why you have no weapons on your ship," said Janeway.

"Because we fear nothing. The One Unnamed created all and cares for all, but to live is to risk. Sometimes we succeed and survive; and sometimes we succeed and go to our Long Lives with the One Unnamed. We cannot mold the universe to what we would have it, the way the Th'wel try to do, but we can mold ourselves to accept the risks that the universe offers us."

Naive. Damn, it'd sounded so naive, but Paris had been breathless with admiration at that courage. To live was to risk--he'd found that true enough. Shit, sometimes just to breathe was to risk. This is just one of those--those risks, Paris. The Th'wel think they're breaking you, and--but they're not, they're not, this is just one of those risks, and maybe you'll succeed and die, or you'll succeed and--and Chakotay will find you and Voyager will find you and they'll kill all the Th'wel and smash them and blow them up and Chakotay will take you home and take care of you. Voyager will take care of you. They'll all take care of you. Chakotay will find you. He will find you. He will. Believe it.

This time, when the coffin opened, he stumbled off toward the Table unaided.

...

Life alternated periods of darkness and of light. Darkness and peace in the Coffin, light and mindless howling on the Table. Whimpering in darkness and waking in light.

He tried to remember that there was something besides darkness and pain. Stars. There was vast space, full of stars. And there was Chakotay.

He tried to hold thoughts of Chakotay, to call him, to guide him. In the Coffin, Paris's hands found the wall and scrabbled directions to his cell. Port ten degrees, full ahead. Listen. Hear me. Oh, god, Chakotay Chakotay.

...

Once, the darkness vibrated around him. Phaser fire, his mind informed him.

Voyager?

But after a while it stopped, and then they came and strapped him to the Table as if nothing had happened.

...

Then he lay on the Table with his hands and feet free, just lay there curled on his side, and someone touched his face. He opened his eyes. It was the commander, the one in the darkest uniform, and she was looking at him.

"You are brave, for a male," she said. "If you were mine, I would be very proud."

Would she?

A hypospray hissed at his neck, and most of the pain faded. Energy bloomed in its place, and he lay quietly, tasting it, revelling in it.

"I have a question," she said.

A question. Oh, god, a question at last a question. He hoped he knew the answer.

"Your shuttle," she said. "It doesn't respond."

Oh, that was easy. "Lock," he croaked.

"It has been programmed not to respond to us," she said.

"Yes."

"We need the code."

He knew it, he knew the code, and he could tell her. He looked at her.

"If you will please tell me the code."

He shouldn't tell her. He shouldn't. But she'd asked. He took a breath. "Paris," he whispered. "Alpha. Seven. Four. Gamma. Four. Seven."

She smiled. It was a really nice smile. "Thank you," she said. "Rest now." She looked at his torturers. "You will allow him to rest. We can proceed with data collection after we've examined the ship." She smiled down at him again. "Thank you."

He lay quietly on the padded Table, so much softer than the Coffin's floor, while she quietly discussed the data with his torturer. Heaven, to sprawl this way. Enjoy it while you can.

The ship rocked then in a muffled explosion, and sirens screamed. The commander glared at him, and the back of her hand caught his face before she strode from the room.

Rest time over, Paris thought. And then, as they strapped him to the Table, Sorry, Captain. Lost another shuttle.

...

For some reason the explosion happened again, kept happening as he lay there in the dark. There was only one shuttle, but it just kept exploding, kept exploding, and--

He woke properly when he rolled into a wall. Phaser fire, you nitwit. That was phaser fire, which meant Voyager. Oh, god, it meant Voyager.

But then it stopped and didn't start again. Phaser time over.

...

Light again, and the Table. The commander was there; she grabbed his chin with one hand. "You. Thomas Eugene Paris," she said. She slapped him. "You. Look at me."

He looked at her.

"Your captain is very stubborn," the commander said. "You will change her mind."

He almost laughed. Nobody'd done that in probably decades.

"You will change her mind," the commander said again. She looked at his torturer. "Do what you can. I want him alert. And--" Her eyes locked with Paris's. "--responsive."

He lay quietly on the Table while the torturers became doctors. Hyposprays. Water. Someone washed him. More hyposprays. More water. The returning strength was ecstasy, but ice settled in his stomach. They were about to do something to him so horrible that it would persuade Janeway to turn over the ship. He would betray Voyager pretty completely this time, betray Janeway, betray Chakotay, and oh, damn, he couldn't live with that. The physical agony would be tame beside that.

But, hauled to the bridge and strapped into a chair beside the commander, he feasted his eyes on the image of Voyager against the stars. She didn't look too bad--a little singed, a little battered. A lover could overlook that.

"Hail them," said the commander.

Voyager was on red alert, but there was minimal personnel on the bridge. Chakotay had the helm. He looked, as usual, as self-possessed as if he were just taking Voyager out for a little spin.

"Commander." Janeway's voice had the core of duranium in it that Paris didn't mind hearing when it wasn't aimed at him. "Mr. Paris." The duranium had softened.

"Captain," he croaked; and Janeway stiffened, shot The Look at the Th'wel commander. The Look could freeze a warp core in meltdown. The commander's spine straightened.

Chakotay looked at her. His eyes had the flat expression that meant he was considering how best to snap her neck.

Paris closed his eyes. Risk. Either they would succeed and escape, or they would succeed and die with him. Either way, there would be no giving up Voyager. Oh, damn, he wanted them to escape. He could even be content to die alone, if they were alive and safe and alive and alive.

"I suspect from the hole in your ship that Mr. Paris owes me another shuttle," said Janeway.

He looked at her. "Sorry," he croaked.

"Noted."

The commander broke in. "So, you see I have your crewmember."

"Do you think that matters to me?"

The commander made a careless gesture, and Paris jerked in a flash of pain.

"Yes," the commander said to the sudden grim set of Janeway's mouth, "I do."

Janeway took a deep breath. "Then you don't know me very well," she said; and she cut the transmission.

The commander sat for a minute in angry disbelief. "Hail them again!" she roared.

"No response," said someone on the bridge.

"Keep hailing them until they do respond!"

"She won't," Paris rasped. "She won't give up Voyager."

"I think she will!" The commander's hand tightened on the arm of her chair, and agony arched him. When it ended, he was sweating and limp.

"Ship responding."

"Commander." Janeway laced that one word with loathing, annoyance, and infinitely wearied patience.

"If you end our transmission again," said the commander, "we will torture him until he dies."

Shit, they were going to do that anyway.

"I'm afraid you won't change my mind," said Janeway. "I will not give you this ship."

Pain lanced through him again, and even as he was wheezing a scream, he was thinking, Sorry, Captain, sorry sorrysorrysorry.

"I can do this for hours," the commander said when the pain stopped. "At least until he is dead."

"And you'll have lost your only bargaining chip. As I said before, we value Mr. Paris, but we will blow up this vessel before we give it up to you." She looked at Paris. "Sorry, Tom."

"C'est la vie in the Delta Quadrant." He tried to make his shaky whisper jaunty.

The warmth in her eyes told him he'd succeeded. But she turned The Look on the commander. "Return him. Return him, and we might let you live. Otherwise--" She cut the transmission.

"I thought it wouldn't work!" someone on the bridge exploded.

"It's worked before," said someone else.

"But only on those soft-hearted Churis. These people are as bad as those damned P'kau! Why are they all so ready to die rather than give in? What do they think is going to happen that's better than being alive?"

The commander glared at the empty viewscreen, her hands clenched into fists.

"We only want the technology," she said. "We will destroy that ship ourselves. And we will salvage what we can." She froze Paris with a look. "And we will find out what he knows."

He swallowed hard. "I don't know everything," he said.

"Then we will find out what you do." Something in her voice hinted that she would do that personally.

And that she would enjoy her work.

Hauled back to his Coffin, Paris tried to memorize the ship's layout--just in case. Where there was life, there was a possilibity.

But, shut into the darkness, he was flooded by the reality that it was all useles, completely useless, that he was never getting out of here, never getting out of this, that even if he did, everyone he'd ever loved would be dead, and it would be his fault.

...

Waking to the shuddering darkness. Phaser fire. That was phaser fire. And that--no, that was something else, something louder, something closer.

He strained to hear it, struggled to put the sounds together. Something flavored the air--something that made him cough.

The Coffin opened, and the commander dragged him out. She looked grim and ghastly. There was a sound of running feet and of distant explosions, and over all a woman's voice calmly counted down numbers. She had reached ten.

The smoke was getting thicker. The commander dragged him to the corridor, where the smoke caught him and he staggered. She dragged him on.

He fell. She glared and aimed a weapon at him. He automatically tried to get to his feet, but his legs kept folding. She hauled at him.

"Six," said the voice overhead.

Then, there came a most wonderful sight. From out of the smoke came Chakotay, filthy, grim, and aiming a phaser.

"Five."

"This ship is going to destroy itself," the commander hissed.

"Four."

"I know," said Chakotay. He fired.

"Three."

And Paris stumbled for Chakotay, who strode forward to catch him up in a fierce embrace.

"Two."

"Got him!" Chakotay shouted.

"One."

He had him. He did. Paris pressed his face into Chakotay's shoulder as the darkness took him.

...

Someone coughed somewhere very far off. Poor guy--couldn't seem to catch his breath.

...

Mist. He was breathing fog.

Hiss of a hypospray. "There," someone said in satisfaction.

They'd left the straps off him this time. He tried not to move, so they wouldn't notice.

"Now, then."

Someone turned him and fiddled with the device at the back of his neck.

"Hmm."

No. Nonono--they were adjusting it, they were doing something to it, and next time the pain would be worse. He choked down an exhausted sob.

"Hmm."

Hiss of a hypospray, and--

...

They'd left off the straps again. He was breathing mist, and he was feeling pretty good. Oh, yes. Getting him ready to exhibit. That had-- Hadn't that happened earlier?

Sounds were different. He cautiously opened his eyes.

The Doctor smiled down at him. "I hope you're feeling better," he said. Cheery Bedside Manner Subroutine 12. Paris blinked at him.

"He's awake." The Doctor's tone implied that this was a singular accomplishment.

Then Janeway was bending over him. Her face blurred in and out, but he saw concern and relief and remorse. Her hand patted his shoulder.

"Welcome back," she said.

...

"I know you're feeling better. I've given you an injection to make you feel better. But your body is still mending. It needs quiet and rest. That alien device I untangled from your nervous system was quite a nasty piece of work. Your vocal cords have suffered a major insult. You will lie here and you will rest. And you will be quiet. You will not speak a word until I give you permission." The Doctor leaned down until he was almost nose to nose with Paris. "Because if you don't, I'll keep you here until we reach the Alpha Quadrant. Is that understood?"

Paris nodded. He nodded hard.

"Gooood!" Cheery Bedside Manner Subroutine 8. "I'm glad we understand each other."

Paris watched with relief as the Doctor went back to his office. He wanted the names of those 47 doctors whose experiences made up part of his personality matrix. Klingons. There had to be a lot of Klingons on that list. And at least one really grouchy Romulan.

...

"It's my stomach," B'Elanna said. "It might have been something I ate. I don't know. Maybe. It just--hurts."

"Well--" The Doctor turned for a tricorder.

But B'Elanna had wandered over to the surgical bay and was smiling down on Paris. "Glad you're back, Starfleet," she murmured; her voice was warm and smooth, and he felt his heart skip a beat.

"Lieutenant Torres!"

B'Elanna jumped guiltily, and a small, silent laugh rippled through Paris.

"Ensign Paris needs his rest! And you--" The Doctor ran the tricorder over her and glared at the results. "Readings indicate nothing organically wrong with--"

"Feel much better now, anyway!"

B'Elanna sprinted out of sickbay under the Doctor's glare, flashing a smile back at Paris just as the door closed. He felt an answering spark flicker into life inside him.

...

"It's nothing, really," Harry was protesting. "It just hurts, is all. I don't think I did anything, really, to injure it, but...."

"Hmmmm," said the Doctor, frowning down at Harry's left wrist. "A preliminary scan indicates a touch of inflammation, but no more than would be expected from someone whose job and off-hour activities entail repetitive movements. Perhaps--" He wandered off in search of an instrument.

Harry sidled over to Paris. "Hey, Tom." He didn't say anything more, but he didn't have to: Harry Kim's glowing face spoke for him. Paris relaxed in the warmth of that delighted smile--

"Ensign Kim!"

Tom found himself grinning as Harry and his wrist were unceremoniously ushered back to the main ward.

...

"I feel the need for a physical examination," Tuvok said evenly. "I have had difficulty focusing, which can indicate an imbalance in--"

"Records indicate that your last examination was four weeks ago." The Doctor sounded crisp. "And you were fine."

"Much has happened since then."

"True. Well, since you insist. Biobed three is open. I'll get my tricorder."

But Tuvok strolled over to the surgical bay, where he glanced at the readings before looking blandly down at Paris. "I am gratified to see that you appear to be recovering from your ordeal."

I love you too, Tuvok. But he took the remark as intended and gave Tuvok a "thumbs-up" smile.

A loud and reproachful sigh straightened Tuvok's spine even more. "Coming, Doctor," he said mildly and strolled over to biobed three.

...

"It is a painful injury," Seven was insisting. "I require medical assistance."

"It is a barely discernible splinter."

"Which requires I seek medical assistance."

"Oh, all right--"

While the Doctor rummaged through his equipment, Seven strode purposefully over to the primary biobed, glanced at the readout, and then studied Paris.

Her mouth suddenly curved in a smile so perfect that Paris knew she'd been practicing. He grinned up at her; his breath caught when she seemed to realize that her experiment had worked and her face lit up. In that va-va-vavoom body still lived the soul of a child.

Then-- "Ouch!" Seven said, looking at the Doctor in puzzlement.

He held out the tweezers to show her an almost microscopic splinter. "Medical assistance," he said dryly.

...

"They're simply concerned about their friend and colleague." Janeway's voice was rich with amusement. "They just want to see him--see how he's doing."

"I have posted bulletins on Ensign Paris's condition every half hour," the Doctor protested. "Yet thus far I have had to tend to nine fake illnesses and fourteen minor injuries--eight apparently self-inflicted. It's wasting time that could be devoted to care of Ensign Paris."

"I'll take care of it." She was chuckling when she cut the link.

...

"But it's tomato!" Neelix protested. "It's his favorite! And very nourishing. And he has to eat--how else will he regain his strength?"

"Ensign Paris is on a strict diet, a carefully balanced solution of essential vitamins, minerals, and calories." The Doctor inhaled the aroma rising from the container and curled his lip. "That is not on the diet."

"Solutions are no solution at all when it comes to morale," Neelix informed him. "And morale is the key to a man's health. Feed the inner man, and the outer man will grow strong!" He cocked an eyebrow at the Doctor. "I brought a straw," he said coaxingly. "He won't even have to sit up."

"Well--"

Neelix bustled over to Paris, bearing the container of soup as if it were a case of jewels.

It was twice as valuable. In that aroma wafted a dozen pleasant memories; and even Neelix's fussing over straw and container and napkin tucked under Paris's chin couldn't spoil it. The first sip warmed more than his stomach.

"Now, then," Neelix said, settling himself on a stool in order to hold the container for Paris. "Naomi Wildman would like you to know that--"

The words and cheering sentiments nourished him as much as the soup.

...

A rustle. Paris knew it was Chakotay even before he opened his eyes. Damn. Chakotay looked even better than before.

"If you didn't want my shitake and wild rice casserole," Chakotay said with a smile, "all you had to do was say so."

Paris grinned at him, started to speak. Chakotay hastily put his fingers over Paris's lips. Paris kissed the fingers. Chakotay's lifted eyebrow signalled admonition and appreciation. He was slow to remove the fingers.

"Let's see. One shuttle, a complete overhaul of the port engine, a threatened warp core overload, innumerable repairs to shields, a photon torpedo, five personal phasers, nine plasma grenades, sixteen minor injuries to crew, a donnybrook with Janeway, and my favorite uniform. You're an expensive man, Tom Paris. But I'm glad we got you back." The dark eyes were merry.

Damn. A photon torpedo. Those were hard to come by. Part of Paris was heartened that they'd thought him worth it, but the rest was calculating the loss.

"And, of course, the Th'wel are off the P'kau's party list. A little Klaathran cargo ship got caught in the first attack and spread the word on the other side of the asteroid field. Nice folks, the Klaathra. Really appreciated Voyager protecting them until they were safe in the asteroid field. Unfortunately, the appreciation took the form of about nine tons of some purple vegetable Neelix has been serving at every meal since."

Chakotay had found him. He'd come for him, and he'd rescued him, and he'd shot that damn commander and she was dead. And he'd rescued Paris. Damn. If they'd had that damn dinner, Chakotay would probably kiss him now, show Paris how glad he was to have him back. But they hadn't gotten there yet; they hadn't even kissed once yet; and Paris didn't want his first kiss from Chakotay to be a pity kiss. They hadn't even gotten to the point of touching much; a caress would be just as awkward. Damn the timing. Damn the Th'wel.

Paris reached for Chakotay's hand. Chakotay stiffened for an instant, then he folded his warm hand around Paris's. It was not too bad.

He felt himself drifting off. He tended to do that unexpectedly. Chakotay started to ease away.

Paris dragged his eyes open, tightened his fingers, looked a pleading command at Chakotay.

The commander stopped. "I can stay a while," he said gently. Paris relaxed.

He let himself go, now; let himself slide into sleep with Chakotay's hand in his. He felt the brief brush of Chakotay's other hand smooth a wisp of hair back from his forehead.

...

"Again."

"A-a-a-a-a-ah."

"Hmm."

Paris sat very still. This was a delicate moment. The Doctor couldn't be cajoled, the Doctor couldn't be charmed, the Doctor couldn't be coaxed.

"I need him at the helm," said Janeway.

What the Doctor could be was commanded. "Well," he said. "I still don't like the quality of that voice, but I suppose, if you're very, very careful not to shout or to use it for more than a few words at a time...."

"Thanks, Doc!" Paris practically leaped off the diagnostic table. Out of here; get out of here before he changes his mind.

"Thank you, Doctor." Janeway could afford to be more effusive; she could leave sickbay any time she wanted.

"Mr. Paris," the Doctor called before Paris had cleared the door. Paris froze. "Please remember that I've also ordered you to report to the ship's counselor."

Chakotay? Sure! "Will do!" Out of there; get out of there; get away from the damn door before he changes his mind.

Walking never felt so good. The rest of the crew had never looked so good. And, damn, Janeway had never smelled so good. Down, boy; you're taken.

"Are you really sure about this?" Janeway asked. "It's only been a week."

"Oh, yeah," he assured her. Plenty sure. His hands on the conn again, manning Voyager's helm again, Chakotay watching him....

"Captain on the bridge," Kim sang out as they entered, and Janeway gave him a wry look. Kim looked barely sheepish; the abandoned formality had had the intended effect of making everyone on the bridge look her direction--and see that Paris was back among them.

The ripple of delight heartened him.

"I'm relieving you," Paris said to Culhane.

"Welcome back, Tom," Culhane murmured, logging out and gripping Paris's shoulder for an instant.

"Good to be back." Log in, watch the helm's configuration shift to the familiar pattern. Home now; he was home. Whenever he turned his head, he could see Chakotay's comforting form out of the corner of his eye. Home.

...

"So, how are things?" Chakotay sat behind the desk, in uniform, in professional mode, in ship's counselor mode. Paris had a sudden sick flash of every time he'd been called on the carpet in this very room, with those very words.

"Okay, I guess." Suddenly his throat felt tight. He cleared it.

"The captain says your work on the bridge has been first-rate; the Doctor says your physical health is 'almost adequate'. High praise, for him. But how do you feel?"

Water. Drink some water. It eased a little of the tightness. "Okay."

Chakotay seemed disappointed. "Just--okay?"

Well, what the hell more did he want?

"Tom, we need to--I need you to talk to me. You can say anything in here; nothing will get back to anyone else. Not even the captain. I need--" Now Chakotay was sipping water. "I need you to--" He heaved a hard breath. "I need you to tell me. Everything. I need to hear everything that happened. So I can help you deal with it." He smiled. "I'm a pretty good listener."

"I'm not supposed to talk much," Paris said; and he could understand why: his throat, something was wrong with his throat. It felt raw and it kept tightening. He wasn't ready. And he was--suddenly he was damned tired after his shift. Maybe he had come back too soon.

"When you can talk." For some reason, Chakotay seemed relieved. He picked up a padd. "Once the Doctor's okayed you to say more than ten words at a time. Hate to ruffle his feathers."

Of course. Paris stood, studied Chakotay. Damn. He hadn't felt this awkward since he'd asked Cassie March to his first dance.

"Dinner?" he croaked.

Chakotay blinked. "I," he said. He put down the padd. "Tom, I think we'd better hold off on that until you've had a chance to get completely back on your feet."

You bastard. "Dinner doesn't have to include sex," Paris said. "I'm not that cheap."

"I didn't mean that. I only meant that right now you've got a lot to deal with. A lot happened to you--all of it pretty nasty. That's a lot to work through. A relationship--our relationship--is going to complicate that. A lot."

Bastardbastardbastardbastard-- "Am I dismissed?"

"Tom--"

"Commander?"

"Tom, I--"

"Commander?"

"Yes. Tom, we--"

But he didn't stay around to hear the end of that sentence.

...

He cooled down by the next day. Chakotay was probably right. But, still--but still he wanted comfort. Chakotay's hands on him. Chakotay's smile warming him. Couldn't Chakotay see that? Maybe if he explained.

At least this time, Chakotay was with it enough to sit out from behind the damn desk.

"Tom, I--"

Paris stood up and walked right out of the room.

...

Two days later, Paris got a clean bill of health from the Doctor and a complete dressing down from the captain.

"Mr. Paris, I know it doesn't seem as if counseling after a traumatic event is that important, but trust me--it is. You need it. I've needed it. It helps. And given our situation, it's vital. I need you working at the top of your form. You have a choice: counseling, or removal from duty until we reach the Alpha Quadrant. Which I will do." She gave him The Look. "However, you have a choice of counselors. You can have Chakotay, or the Doctor, or Tuvok, who has volunteered his skills. Your choice."

He stared at her.

"Make your decision, Mr. Paris. And act on it. Tomorrow."

...

So, oh damn, it was Chakotay again. If he had to spill his guts it couldn't be to Tuvok, who would gaze at him in a display of superior emotional detachment, or to the Doctor, who would busily make the kind of notes that the torturers made. At least Chakotay would react.

The weird thing was, once Paris got started talking, he couldn't seem to stop. It just kept pouring out of him. All of it. All the pain, all the terror. Chakotay locked the door, cancelled his other appointments. After a while, he couldn't seem to stay still. He paced, brought Paris water, went to a port to stare out at the stars.

At last Paris ran out of words. Or maybe out of voice. He'd run out of starch a while earlier and sat huddled in a shaky heap. Damn. His hands were shaking again, and his face was wet with more than just sweat. Chakotay handed him more water and sat down beside him as he drained the glass. His arm went around Paris's shoulders.

Paris jerked away. "I thought we weren't supposed to do that."

"Tom, counselors touch their patients all the time."

Counselor. Patient. Paris stared at him and fled to the tiny head. Counselor. Patient.

Suddenly he was on his knees, vomiting into the toilet.

"Damn." Chakotay was beside him in an instant, holding his head, then wiping his face.

Paris jerked away. Oh, no-- More vomiting, and then damn awful retching, the dry heaving that made you just wish you were dead.

This time, he was too wrung out to push Chakotay away. Chakotay wiped his face, offered water to rinse his mouth. They stood for a moment in a weird tableau while Paris's stomach decided whether or not to let him leave the head. His hands were shaking--but, then, so were Chakotay's.

Back into the office, but, oh, he was exhausted. Chakotay guided him to the couch, eased him onto it, helped him to lie down. Paris closed his eyes. Chakotay brought a chair to sit right beside him.

They stayed like that for a little while. Paris listened to the quiet thrumming of Voyager's engines. It was a lovely sound.

"So," he said without opening his eyes, "think I'm cured yet?"

Chakotay laughed, a short sound that turned ragged in a hurry. "My god," he said. Paris looked at him. "My god, Tom, how the hell did you survive that? It's not the counselor talking, it's the-- How the hell did you get through that?"

Shit. Time to spill it.

Paris sat up. "You," he said dully. Chakotay looked puzzled. "I got through it because of you. I knew you'd find me. I knew you'd rip that ship apart to find me. I knew you'd make that woman--make them all go away. You got me through it."

Chakotay didn't look pleased; he looked--well, he looked stunned. "And then I--"

"Did just that," Paris finished for him. His stomach was queasing up again. "Don't give me the counselor party line," he said. "I don't want to hear it."

"Why don't you lie down and--and rest a little longer?" Chakotay said. "This has been a lot."

"Is that what counselors do for their patients?"

Chakotay's jaw tensed. Anger. Good. Counselors didn't feel anger. "I think it would be a good idea."

"As long as it's not an order." This anger felt good, felt familiar. The fire in Chakotay's eyes meant Paris had gotten through the counselor to the man underneath.

Paris stretched out and closed his eyes. Sleep. That had been in short supply the last couple nights. He'd jumped at every little sound, listening for--he wasn't sure what.

Chakotay was still sitting there, and Paris thought he was probably staring at him. Or at the stars. Either way, it didn't make a damn bit of difference.

...

The next morning it did. "I'm sorry," he said to Chakotay when he got to the counselor's office. "I was just--" Chakotay had on that really good listening face, the one that didn't sympathize, didn't judge, the one that meant that he was just a set of ears. "I was just angry at you. I really hate the shit out of the counselor."

Amusement touched Chakotay's face. "But you need him more than you need the lover. Especially now."

"How do you know? Is that more counselor stuff?"

And they were off.

...

And the awful thing was, the stuff he usually did to pull himself out of these post-fuckup funks didn't seem to be working. Distractions usually did the trick. He'd distract himself, and eventually the pain moved to the background and he got on with his life. Holonovels, for instance. He could be somebody else, somebody who hadn't been savaged over and over and-- But partway into every one he started, everything began to seem pointless and dumb or really poorly plotted, and he'd quit.

...

"What do you mean, 'betrayed'?"

"They were learning from me how to hurt you. If they'd captured Voyager, they would have known just what it took to break you."

"That wasn't your fault. You wouldn't have been to blame."

"Do you think that mattered? Do you think that would make me feel better, Chakotay, listening to you scream and scream and knowing that it wasn't really my fault?"

...

Other people were usually a pretty good distraction. Especially sex, which would work great because it would show Chakotay he wasn't the only game in town. But for some reason nobody seemed interesting enough; they'd chatter on about work or some gossip, all bright and happy with themselves, like bad stuff didn't exist, couldn't happen to them, and he'd run out of interest and energy a long time before the situation ever came to bed. He tried to pick up with B'Elanna again, but that hadn't actually worked that well the first time, and she seemed as relieved as he was when they dropped it now.

...

"What do you mean, 'betrayed'?"

"If Janeway had given up the ship because of me, I think that would qualify as a pretty major betrayal, wouldn't you?"

"But it would have been her decision. You wouldn't have been to blame."

"I would have been the reason. And even if she hadn't given up the ship--I know she wouldn't give up the ship, I know she likes me and respects my skills and I know she still wouldn't just hand the ship over to the Th'wel to save me--even if she'd blown it up to keep from giving it to them, it still would have been my fault."

"It would have been her decision. One she's made before. One she'll make again."

"But I would have been the reason. And you would have been dead, and I would never see you again, and it all would be because of me."

...

Anyway, just being social was turning into a chore. Get too many people around him, and Paris felt hemmed in, surrounded. He tried to make sure he went to the mess hall during the off hours. Hell, even the bridge seemed overcrowded sometimes, and there at least he had something to focus on.

Not that he was focusing very well; sometimes he'd forget what he'd done about three nanoseconds after he'd done it and have to check to make sure he'd done it to begin with. But at least he was flying, he was flying, he was free in the stars.

...

"The captain wonders if maybe you came back too soon. Maybe a short leave until you're back up to par."

"No! No! It's the only thing I-- I'm fine; I'm just tired. I haven't been sleeping very well. I'm fine, Chakotay. You know me--I can steer in my sleep."

"Sometimes I've wondered."

"See? Fooled even you."

...

He was jumpy. Still for too long, and he wanted to scream. The sensation built up during the day, so that by 1400 hours his skin felt twitchy, and his hands shook. The Doctor was little help: "There's no nerve damage," he said. "There was some when you--returned, but the nerves have healed extremely well. Perhaps a mild sedative."

But Paris wasn't getting started on those. On sedatives, he couldn't man the helm. He'd just handle this. He'd handled worse.

...

"Meditation," said Chakotay. "It'll help you to focus, help you to relax."

So they tried it.

"How long is this supposed to take?" Paris asked.

"Shhhhh!"

He could keep his mouth shut, but he couldn't keep his hands quiet, or his feet, or his mind, for that matter. It just kept racing and racing and screwing up his focus and--

"How long is this supposed to take?"

Chakotay looked at him. "I could send you to Tuvok."

Threats worked. Paris closed his eyes and focused again. But the focus just kept slipping out of his head, it wasn't very interesting anyway, and he just couldn't keep his mind on it.

"What do you love the most?" asked Chakotay.

He opened an eye when Paris didn't answer, and turned an interesting shade of rose at Paris's lecherous stare. "I don't mean lust after, I mean love."

The stare didn't waver. Chakotay cleared his throat. "And I don't mean love to annoy beyond human endurance."

Paris gave in. "Voyager."

"Focus on Voyager."

Which was a pretty tall order, because she was a pretty big ship, but Paris worked on it.

"Can you hear the engines?" Chakotay asked suddenly.

Of course he could; he heard them constantly; he could hear them in his sleep. He loved the sound.

"Focus on the sound of the engines."

And this was--this was something he could do. The warm hum of the engines running smooth filled him. Peaceful.

"That went well," Chakotay said later. "When you start to get anxious, focus on the engines."

"I'd rather just roll over and focus on you." Softly.

"I heard that."

Good.

...

Sleeping wasn't a great success. He would have thought it was because of dreams. But bad dreams he could deal with. Well, except for the ones where he was still on the Table, and Chakotay wasn't ever coming to rescue him.

No, trouble was he woke and then couldn't get back to sleep. Exercise didn't tire him enough to keep him asleep. He would start thinking about things that made him queasy, or homing in on the sounds of the ship--the ones the engine-hum didn't mask. It was easier to just get up, dress, and stroll through Voyager. The walks felt good: the ship was quiet, and he could check it out, make sure things were okay, check out those noises; and after a while he'd relax enough to go back to sleep.

He usually met Chakotay, as if the commander knew every time Paris left his quarters. Probably had the computer tell him. Turn down a dim corridor, and Chakotay would fall in beside him, face creased with sleep. It was like having a damned keeper. But it was comforting to have Chakotay beside him, not speaking, just walking. Paris usually tried to wander past Chakotay's quarters pretty early in his midnight maneuvers.

Often they would wander someplace and sit, watch the passing stars. They would sit silently for a while, and then one would say something, the other would answer, and they would talk. The night talks went better than the day talks. Lack of sleep was making Chakotay start to look a little ragged. But he was always there.

...

"What are you listening for?" Chakotay asked, haloed by stars.

"I don't know."

"What was important for you to hear?"

"I don't know."

Chakotay studied him.

"What sound bothered you the most?"

Paris looked at him.

"Besides the screams," said Chakotay.

"I don't-- The motor. There was a little whirring sound whenever they opened the Coffin. Oh, god, I hated that sound. It meant they were going to hurt me again." He watched Chakotay's fist clench in the darkness. "Do you think that's what I'm listening for?"

"Could be."

But if it was, knowing about it didn't make much difference. He still walked, walked, walked, through the sleeping ship, listening and searching with Chakotay at his side.

...

For some reason, even on this crowded ship, he was starting to feel as alone as he'd felt when he'd first come aboard. Not that people were avoiding him exactly, but he couldn't really talk about much with them. Just work, or who was sleeping with whom. Not everything. The subject of what had happened to him just didn't seem to exist. Even Harry couldn't seem to talk about it; his visible shudder the first time Paris described the Coffin ended that conversation in a hurry. The subject simply never came up again. It was like that thing where you had a really big elephant in the living room, but you just didn't mention it.

...

Sometimes he thought he was making progress.

"Jeffries Tube 13," B'Elanna said confidently. "Someone needs to take a look at Jeffries Tube 13."

"We'll take it," said Chakotay.

"Good," B'Elanna said. "Harry and I will check the access panels on deck nine." She seemed to relish the thought.

"Why so eager for the Tube?" Paris asked as they opened the hatch.

Chakotay grinned. "Those access panels weigh more."

Paris grinned at him and climbed into the Tube. More close quarters with Chakotay, who knew better than to expect sparkling conversation. Very close quarters. Close--

Close and no air. Close and closer and-- He gripped the tricorder for dear life and started to back out, ran into Chakotay.

"Tom?"

Out he had to get the hell out of-- "Out," Paris wheezed, eyes squeezed shut against the sight of the Jeffries Tube closing in on him. "Out."

"Okay. It's okay. Everything's okay."

And it was okay, once Chakotay dragged him out. Well, not immediately, because he couldn't get a breath for a while, and the corridor walls kept blurring out, and his stomach churned so hard, he was suddenly sick right there in the corridor, all over Chakotay's boots.

"Tom?" Chakotay's voice was faint. "Sit. Put your head down. That's right. That's right."

And he was sitting, probably in the end of the Jeffries Tube, with his head between his knees, gulping air while Chakotay rubbed the back of his neck. Felt ridiculous, though the rubbing wasn't bad; Chakotay gave good neck rub.

Chakotay's breathing was ragged; he'd been scared. And, oh, his boots....

"I'm sorry," Paris said. He'd thrown up on Chakotay, and he was just the sorriest mess in the galaxy.

"Don't worry about it," Chakotay said. "Stupid. I was stupid."

Well, that was a new one. Paris craned to look up at him. Chakotay was flushed, really burning up at himself.

"I should have thought," said Chakotay. "I should have remembered--"

"So should I." Paris was suddenly just weary of it all. "I was the one who did time there."

"That's okay. Just one more damn thing to work on."

He was sick of working on things. He just wanted everything back to normal, to him about to bed Chakotay after a blissful day. But it looked like that was never going to happen.

...

"How did it make you feel?"

"How the fuck do you think it made me feel? I was helpless. I couldn't move. I couldn't get away. And nobody actually looked at me. They looked at the machines, but...."

"But never at you. You were just a test subject, not a person." Chakotay's knuckles on the arm of his chair were white.

"Just a patient," Paris said.

There was that flush again, that jaw-clench. Good. He wanted a reaction. He needed a reaction.

"I think we've done enough for today, Tom. We can talk more tomorrow."

Cracking, counselor? Good. But it didn't make Paris feel better; it didn't seem to make one damned bit of difference.

...

"Sir, there's a ship off the port bow. Appears to be-- " Harry took a deep breath. "Appears to be a Th'wel cruiser, sir."

"Red alert! Chakotay to Janeway. They're back."

Everything went black for a minute, and when Paris's vision cleared, the first thing he saw was his hands. They were doing their job, tapping here, correcting there, flying the ship without him. Good job, hands.

"Shields at maximum. Fire up the phasers." Janeway's voice sounded oddly distant, though she'd stopped just beside him.

And if he kept looking at the conn, at the familiar patterns of the conn, he would be all right; he could fight his shifting stomach.

"Phasers online."

If he just kept his attention on the conn, he wouldn't have to notice that the bridge was in weird motion around him. Environmental controls must be offline; he was sweating.

"They're hailing us."

"On screen."

"Federation ship, prepare to be boarded." The voice hit him like a cold blast, and when he dragged his eyes to the main viewer, the woman on it could have been the twin of his commander. Everything went blurry, and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard to keep down what was rising in his throat.

"I think not. If you know this ship, you know that we destroyed the last Th'wel cruiser that attacked us. Leave us alone, and we won't do the same to you."

His hands fumbled on the conn. He looked at them; they were shaking, but it wasn't 1400 hours. They didn't usually get bad until 1400 hours.

"Prepare to be boarded, or we will attack." She was nothing if not consistent.

"I'll say it again. No."

"Very well." The transmission ended.

"Mr. Paris, I need you in sickbay, to help the Doctor with injuries. Chakotay, take the helm."

"Captain. They're powering up phasers."

So, migod, she was ordering him off the bridge. The final humiliation. He blinked at her.

"Wait until they fire. Tom, we developed a few maneuvers in the last--incident that you haven't been briefed on. I need you in sickbay, to take care of the crew."

Chakotay had just settled in when phaser fire struck.

It was big; this commander meant business. It sent a shockwave through the shields that rolled the ship hard. Paris grabbed the nearest railing and hung on tight.

"Shields at eighty-five percent!"

"Evasive action! Fire phasers! Configuration Gamma nine!"

Another hit. Paris's hands seemed frozen to the railing. Voyager twisted temporarily out of range.

"Mr. Paris, I ordered you to sickbay!"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm trying, ma'am!"

"Captain!" Harry sounded puzzled. "Five ships have just dropped out of warp--no, fifteen. Twenty-six. Twenty-six ships have just dropped out of warp. They appear to be Churisi."

Churisi. Those soft-hearted Churis. Paris turned.

"Captain, we're being hailed."

"On screen."

"Federation cousins!" What greeted them was an animated gnome. One of three in a cramped little ship. "Federation cousins! We are coming to your aid!"

"Ah--thank you, Churisi cousins." If the situation had been less serious, Janeway would have seemed amused.

Something shaped like an asteroid-sized brick hung at the edge of the viewer, surrounded by two dozen tiny ships. As Paris watched, fifteen of them converged on the Th'wel cruiser.

"They gave in."

"Paris? What are you still doing on the bridge?" Janeway was giving him The Look.

"They had someone in my--my situation, and they capitulated."

"Well, they're not capitulating now."

They weren't. The tiny ships darted in, darted out, firing on the Th'wel cruiser and being fired on in turn. They looked like humming-birds fighting a bear. One little ship became a cloud of shimmering debris, and another swooped in from the sidelines to take its place.

"Chakotay, go to the aid of our friends. I want that cruiser out of our lives. Paris, I ordered you to sickbay."

"Yes, Captain."

"There you are!" The Doctor handed him a tricorder and aimed him toward a groaning ensign.

Paris did his work automatically, falling into the rhythm of diagnosis and treatment. It felt better than it usually did, helping the rest of the crew feel better, helping them to heal.

Voyager's engines snarled power and fury, and in his mind, the tiny Churisi ships darted in, darted out, weaving a web of deadly fire with Voyager, until the Th'wel made the final, explosive capitulation.

...

Chakotay was asleep in the mess. Paris didn't blame him. Tough day, after weeks of late nights following him around.

Paris watched him. Most aggravating man in the galaxy. Stubborn. But for some reason just sitting here with him was comforting. Just having him dog Paris's steps made Paris feel more whole. He snorted. "More whole." More bad holonovel.

Besides, this wasn't supposed to be romance. What this was supposed to be was some maybe really great sex. Chakotay wasn't supposed to be romance: he was annoying, superior, and generally on Paris's case. Not romance. But watching him sleep was oddly satisfying.

When Chakotay slept, he wasn't the counselor. He was just the tired man, twitching a little, frowning. Some bad dream. Chakotay's sleep evened out.

Shit. All Paris really wanted was the man. The counselor could just go to hell.

He reached out and took Chakotay's limp hand. It was solid and warm and felt right. Not much, but all Chakotay would let him have.

Chakotay stirred, and his hand tightened for a blissful instant. Then he jerked awake and blinked at Paris. He sat up and yanked his hand out of Paris's.

"I thought counselors touched their patients all the time," Paris said.

"We said we weren't going to do this."

"No, you said. You said we weren't going to do this. You decided it; you decided everything; you've been deciding everything ever since I got back!"

"Tom, I told you it was a bad idea for us to--"

"Save it." Paris got up. "Just save it, counselor." He knocked a chair over on his way to the door.

...

"Mr. Paris, my ready room. Now."

"Yes, ma'am."

She spun on her heel the instant he entered the room. "Explain yourself."

"He's been on my case all morning."

"He's been doing his job."

"At my expense. Captain."

There was actually a look beyond The Look--The Look Squared--and she was giving it to him now. "I don't know what is going on between you and Chakotay, but I want it to stop. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

"I will not have that kind of insubordination on my bridge. If it happens again, I will put you in the brig. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Tom, you went through a dreadful ordeal. It takes time to recover from something like that. I've been very patient. I've overlooked a few mistakes, some minor lapses. Even at your worst, you're one of the best pilots I've ever seen. But I cannot overlook the kind of gross insubordination you've displayed recently. It's bad for morale, and it's bad for this ship. And it's unfair to Chakotay. We've tried to be understanding--"

"That's the--that's part of the problem. Everybody's so damned understanding!"

Smooth move, Paris. But she was just looking at him; she hadn't gone for her phaser just yet. "Explain."

"Everybody's just so damned polite about it. Except for Chakotay. He's the only one on the ship I can talk to. Nobody else will listen. I feel like the dirt you sweep under the rug."

That just completely wiped The Look right off her face. She stared at him for a minute. "Oh, Tom," she said, touching his arm. "Oh, Tom, I'm so sorry. I-- When that Th'wel cruiser appeared on the viewer, Tom, you should have seen your face. I've never seen such stark terror on another human face in my life. I hadn't broached the subject to you--Tom!"

The cruiser. Suddenly the ready room was swimming around him. Her voice seemed to be coming from the other end of Voyager.

"Sit. Sit." Her hands were guiding him to the lounge. "Put your head between your knees. That's right." Now she was sitting beside him and was soothing the back of his neck. "Are you all right? Are you going to be all right?"

Deep breath. "I'm okay." He tried to raise his head. My god, the captain rubbing the back of his neck. Who was next-- Admiral Deroef? Ambassador K'rin?

"No, keep your head down." Her hand was as firm as her sense of command structure.

So he kept his head down. No sense ending up in the brig. Again.

"Oh, Tom. I am so sorry. I, of all people, should know what you've been going through. But I thought you would pull out of it--you always do. And-- No, I don't know what you've been through. When your father and I were captured by the Cardassians, at least we could help each other get through it. We had the resources of the Federation to get us through the aftermath. And at least there was some logic to what happened. Not like what that Th'wel commander was--"

"Ouch."

"Sorry!" She let go of his neck. "Are you all right?"

He sat up, nodded, tried to surreptitiously make sure the back of his neck was still intact.

She gave him a wry look. "Sorry. Tom, the worst part happened to you, but--" She took a big breath and her face softened. "But part of it happened to us, too. Watching that woman torture you, I felt helpless and enraged, and I just wanted to wipe that smug look right off her face." She looked a warning at him. "If you tell anyone I said any of this, I'll deny everything."

"Lips are sealed."

"Better be. Tom, there was a moment when I was afraid I'd have to make the most agonizing decision a Starfleet captain has to make: whether or not to abandon a member of her crew to the enemy. We took a pounding from them. And their shields--well, let's just say I'd love to duplicate their shield system. We just couldn't seem to get to you. Putting you on display like that was just about the last straw. And I had to decide."

"I know you would have done it."

She looked taken aback--and a little sick. "You mean a lot to me, Tom. And you're very important to this ship."

"But nobody's worth the lives of the entire crew."

She grinned. "Now, who's being understanding? It was the only logical choice, but it certainly wasn't the choice I was eager to live with. And, what was worse, I knew they wouldn't just let us leave; they'd be after us and after us. They wanted Voyager. I would have to blow up that damned ship, with you in it." She swallowed hard. "But then Chakotay realized that the explosion in that shuttle bay had weakened their shields just enough that a well-placed photon torpedo would take them out completely. And he insisted on beaming over to that ship to find you himself, instead of sending a security team. I admit, that was an argument I wasn't averse to losing; I didn't want any more of my crew on that ship than necessary. But he cut it far too close to suit me."

She stood and straightened her uniform, became the captain again. "Tom, I meant what I said about the insubordination. I don't know what's going on between you and Chakotay, but he's taken about all he can take. I've never seen him this tense; he's almost worn out that boxing program of his, and lack of sleep isn't helping. Yes, I know about your nightly sessions. I won't order you confined to quarters at night, but I swear, mister, another outburst like the one we just had on the bridge, and you'll spend the rest of this trip in the brig."

Paris stood. "Yes, Captain." Then, "And thank you, Captain."

"You're welcome, Tom. And any time you need to talk, you know where to find me. I'm not much of a counselor, but sometimes a sympathetic ear is almost as good. Dismissed."

He started for the bridge.

"Mr. Paris?"

"Captain?"

"May I mention what we talked about to Commander Chakotay?"

"If you think it'll help."

She gave her usual curt nod of dismissal.

Oddly enough, as he went back to the helm, despite the sheepish bravado he always felt after these dressings down, he felt good. Really good. For the first time in days.

...

"How did that make you feel?"

Silence.

"How did that make you feel?"

"Tom, I don't have to answer those kinds of questions."

"Humor me."

"I think we need to deal with your problems."

"We are."

"My feelings aren't at issue here."

"I think they are. Humor me."

"How did you feel when you heard that the captain had contemplated your death?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"I don't intend to."

"Because you're the counselor."

"I am not going to have this discussion again."

"We didn't have it the first time."

"Paris, I'm your counselor. It would be unethical--"

"I think you're hiding behind the counselor. I've already told you what I think of the fucking counselor."

"You need the counselor."

"More than I need the man?"

Chakotay sat for a minute. His jaw looked tight enough to hurt. "I'm going back to bed," he said, and he left.

...

"I can't."

"What do you mean you can't? I need you to hold that--"

"B'Elanna, I just--can't. Get somebody else to help you."

"There isn't anybody else!"

Yet another damn Jeffries Tube. The whole fucking ship was filled with Jeffries Tubes, and why the hell did they have to be so fucking narrow?

B'Elanna was starting a royal hissy. "By the time I get somebody else down here, we could be finished! Just get in here!"

Paris backed away from the Tube. Backed clear across the corridor and started fussing with tools. Engines. Listen to the engines. But all he could hear was B'Elanna.

"Paris! Paris, what is wrong with you? You've been dropping things and sweating like a first-year ensign all morning."

But he wasn't about to spill his guts now. His mouth was drying and something seemed wrong with the air; the mix was bad or something because he didn't seem to be getting much oxygen from it.

"I can't. You'll have to get someone else."

"Damn it, Tom! All you have to do is hold the damned--"

"No." Fuck; the corridors in the damn engineering hull had to be narrower than the ones in the primary hull. Ceiling was definitely lower.

"Damn! Torres to Chakotay!"

"Chakotay here."

"I need you. My damned assistant won't go in the Jeffries Tube."

There was a pause. "I'll be right there."

"Can I go now?" It was hot down here; his uniform was beginning to stick.

"No! Not until Chakotay gets here. Feed me in that cable. May as well get something done. Instead of just wasting time."

Her shouting faded to impatient muttering to herself as she turned to drag her end of the cable down the Tube. Paris heard words like, "damned blockhead" and "fucking idiot." She was really toning down her language; he was proud of her.

Only problem with feeding in the cable was that it meant he couldn't get away from the Tube, away from how it got narrower and narrower the farther he looked....

Another pair of hands took the damn cable, and he stumbled away from the Jeffries Tube, as far away from the Jeffries Tube as he could get. He had to get out of here, out of this corridor before it slammed in on him. He focused on the deck right in front of his feet, so he wouldn't have to notice that the walls were starting to lean and the ceiling was reaching down for him.

"This way." Chakotay's steady voice and Chakotay's steady hand, steering him.

"It seems a little--cramped here."

"I know. We're going someplace bigger."

The someplace was the main shuttlebay, now minus one more shuttle. One of the biggest spaces on Voyager, and one with vistas: when Chakotay triggered the shuttlebay doors, Paris glued his eyes to the widening view of stars at the end of the bay, to the open space full of stars, and tottered over right next to the force field, followed by Chakotay.

Oh, here he could breathe again, which was stupid since he was barely a meter away from a vacuum. But look at that, those stars streaking away into infinite space. He gulped air.

Chakotay watched him for a minute, then started pacing. After a while the pacing got agitated. His foot found a spanner someone had forgotten; he picked it up, and, as Paris watched in amazement, Chakotay hurled the spanner at the opposite side of the bay, just as hard as he could throw.

He looked contrite the minute the spanner left his hand and went after it, picking it up, examining the spot where it hit, running his hand over the tool to make sure he hadn't damaged it. He looked embarrassed as he walked back over to Paris and dropped the spanner on the deck.

"A little tense? Counselor?"

Chakotay shot him a look. The look he'd often had in his Maquis days. The one that made people scramble away quickly. Paris didn't scramble. He straightened and looked right back.

"I've had just about all I can take of this." Chakotay's voice was no longer steady.

"All you can take? You've had all you can take? You're the one with no damn feelings! 'Sorry, Tom, I've decided that a relationship between us just when you need me the most would be inappropriate.' 'No, Tom, I can't even hold your hand to make you feel human.' 'Tom, I'm just going to sit here and make a few notes while you describe how it felt to be strapped down and rip your throat out screaming in agony--" He flinched back when Chakotay's open hand swished past his face and slammed the bulkhead so hard it should have left a dent.

The fury in Chakotay's eyes could have relit a dead warp core. "Enough!"

They glared at each other for a heartbeat, another.

"Yeah, it is enough," Paris said. "I've had enough. Enough of this counseling, and enough of you." He started to step around Chakotay, just get out of here.

Chakotay stepped right into his path. "Tom," he said.

"Let me past."

"No."

When he tried again to get around Chakotay, Chakotay grabbed his arm. Hard. Paris stepped back, jerked out of the grasp.

"You're going to listen to me," said Chakotay. "For once in your life, you're going to keep your damned mouth shut and listen to me."

Paris glared at him, but Chakotay was right there, right in the way, so he didn't have a choice.

"Do you have any idea what it was like to have to sit by and watch that commander torture you, and act as if nothing were happening?" Chakotay's voice shook. "All I wanted to do was bathe my hands in her blood. Seeing the pain in your eyes, knowing that you'd been through hell. My god, Tom, it was agony. And then I had to act as if you were just another member of the crew. I had to listen to Janeway decide whether or not to finish off that ship--and you. That was the worst moment. That was the absolutely worst moment. I knew she would do it. I knew she would blow that ship apart, and I knew I couldn't a damn thing about it because she's the captain. I'd have to sit there and watch you die, because it would be 'in the best interests of Voyager.'" His mouth twisted as if he were tasting something sour. "And then you were back, and all I wanted to do was help you deal with what had happened to you. But, my god, every time we talk about it, every detail you choke out--it's like a white-hot knife to the heart. I want to go over and sack that ship again, get that commander in my sights again. Every time I watch your hands shake in the middle of the afternoon; every time I see you flinch away from an unexpected noise; every night I find you wandering like a ghost through the corridors of the ship. So don't tell me I'm not feeling anything!"

The fury in his eyes was half agony, but Paris couldn't relent; the central core of hurt stiffened his spine and tightened his jaw. "And just how does it feel to admit that--counselor?"

Chakotay's fist slammed against the bulkhead about 15 millimeters from Paris's head, and Paris jumped. "Damn it, Tom!" There was that look again; but Paris stood his ground, though his hands were trembling and his stomach was in knots.

"Damn." Chakotay stepped closer. "Do you understand what it means for me to be the ship's counselor, to have to listen to your agony and not to be able to comfort you the way you want to be comforted? The only way I can help you is to be the counselor. You need that. You need somebody who isn't going to fuck up the sessions by bleeding every time you open up. You need somebody who can separate himself from what happened to you. I wanted to help you; I want to help you! But you can't have the counselor and the sex partner. You can't have the counselor and the man who--" He stopped suddenly, blinking like a man coming out of a fugue state. He looked as if he wanted to take back the last few words.

"I can't have what, counselor?" Paris asked. "I can't have the counselor and the man who what? The man who has the feelings?"

"Just--the man," said Chakotay. "You can't have the counselor and the man. But, then--" The fury seemed to drain out of him. All that seemed to be left was sadness. "But, then, the counselor isn't doing very well, is he?"

"Not that you'd notice...." Paris's voice trailed off. He and Chakotay looked at each other across the silence. Chakotay's mouth quirked.

"Some counselor," he said.

"Well, I didn't throw up on B'Elanna," Paris reminded him. Though, damn, his stomach was churning now. A bitter taste filled his mouth. But, there was Chakotay, about a quarter of a meter away, radiating warmth, dark eyes burning with pain, hand on the bulkhead trembling slightly. Something was easing inside Paris. He didn't know what it was, and he wasn't sure he wanted it to, but it was responding to Chakotay's pain, and he couldn't seem to stop it.

Chakotay's laugh sounded bitter. "I guess that's progress. Tom, I thought I could do it. I thought we could work through all the pain together, heal together. But, my god, I can't. I just can't. It's too agonizing. I'm afraid you're going to have to get another counselor."

One down, two to go. Shit. "So I have to spill my guts all over again." But his bitterness was tinged with something like hope.

"Whoever it is will have my notes." Chakotay took Paris's shaking hand. His eyes were gentle. "We'll work it out, Tom." Then he looked down at their joined hands, startled, and let go.

They stared at each other for a couple long moments. Paris's heart thundered in his chest. Something important was about to happen.

He reached out and very carefully took Chakotay's hand. And watched Chakotay stiffen. And then saw him relax. Chakotay tightened his hand. Warmth blossomed deep inside Paris.

"Do you know what my very mature reaction was when I realized you'd been captured?" Chakotay asked, with a sheepish smile. "'Why the hell couldn't they have waited a day or two?'"

Paris smiled at him.

"I was going to ply you with my mushroom casserole," Chakotay went on, laughter dawning in his eyes. "Then I was going to work my wiles on you, weave my web of seduction."

Paris grinned. "Kiss," he said.

Chakotay lifted his eyebrows.

"I was going to kiss you. I was going to wait till you were completely relaxed and unsuspecting, and then I was going to kiss you. I was going to kiss the clothes off you and you right into bed."

Chakotay drew a ragged breath. "That would have been one hell of a night." His fingers laced with Paris's. His eyes glowed with something that wasn't a laugh.

Paris swallowed, drew in a deep breath. "I--still want you," he said softly. "I want what I was going to have from you."

Chakotay stared into Paris's eyes for the space of four heartbeats. "And I want you. But what you said about how you got through it all, how you kept thinking about me, about how I'd rescue you--Tom, that scared the hell out of me. I don't want you to come to me just because I got you out."

"I wanted you before. Rescuing me isn't part of that. Chakotay, I don't fall for every knight on a horse who rescues me from the dragon."

Chakotay grinned. "Good." His smile softened. "Because I want this to count."

Paris was wrong; there was no air here either. He struggled for breath, but his heart was racing with something that wasn't panic. "So do I," he said softly; and felt warmth spread through him at the glow in Chakotay's face. Damn. Maybe this was romance. Shit. That was more frightening than the Th'wel.

"So," Chakotay said after a minute. "Maybe we should--start over?"

"Pool again?"

Oh, that languid smile that made the dark eyes glow. "Sandrine's. Us playing pool in Sandrine's. But just us and the holograms. With those lowlifes looking at you and wanting you and knowing they can't have you because you're mine. That's what I want. Computer," said Chakotay, "when's the earliest a holodeck will be free this evening?"

"The last program in holodeck one is scheduled to terminate at twenty-two-hundred hours."

"Good. Reserve holodeck one at twenty-two-hundred for Commander Chakotay. Reserve for--" He smiled at Paris. "Reserve for four hours."

"Confirmed."

"Trying to wear me out?" Paris asked.

"Well, we're always up then, anyway. And I want to give the lowlifes a good, long look. Tease 'em. That game was over way too soon last time. I didn't get nearly as many views as I wanted of you stretching across that table for a shot."

Paris laughed. But, shit: it was building again, even through the warmth of romance or whatever the hell it was, that sensation of his skin twitching. Sweat prickled the back of his neck. His heart raced. He tried the deep breaths, but the damn tremors started taking over.

"Sorry," he said. "Fourteen-hundred-hour shakes."

Chakotay took his other hand, held both lightly. "That's okay. Get 'em out of the way before I whip your ass at pool."

Paris gave him a shaky grin. "Think so?"

"Know so. I only threw the game last time so you'd sleep with me."

Paris laughed. "You know, I'm, still--I'm still pretty messed up."

"As if I hadn't noticed." Wry grin. "But if I don't have to deal with it as ship's counselor, then I get to do things like--" He leaned over and kissed Paris very gently on the cheek.

Heat loosened his muscles. He grinned at Chakotay's grin. Look at him--Chakotay was blushing.

"Not on the mouth?" Paris teased.

"Why, Tom Paris: I'm not that kind of boy!" Chakotay's eyes were alight with mischief. "You have to at least buy me dinner first."

As Paris laughed, he felt something unlocking inside him. The tremors started to die.

Home. He was coming home at last. The tremors were almost gone now, but if he admitted it, Chakotay might let go.

"Janeway to Chakotay."

Chakotay let out a quick, impatient sigh and let go of Paris's right hand just long enough to tap his commbadge. "Chakotay here."

"Are you just about through with those repairs? I could use your presence on the bridge."

"Just about done." He held Paris with his warm gaze. "Ten more minutes."

"Acknowledged. Janeway out."

Paris grinned. Chakotay gave him a reproving smile. He let go of Paris's hands.

And then he hesitated, stepped right up to Paris, and carefully wrapped his arms around him. After a startled second, Paris moved into the embrace. Chakotay's heart thumped hard against his. They fit together pretty well. After they stood there a minute or two, Paris closed his eyes.

When Chakotay still didn't let go, Paris dropped his head to rest his cheek on Chakotay's shoulder.

Solid body warming him; sweet spice of skin; big heart thumping against Paris's chest.

Paris's arms tightened. So did Chakotay's.

He felt Chakotay relax against him and heard him exhale in a long, contented sigh. Their bodies found that perfect fit against each other. Places inside that Paris hadn't even known could be tense began to unknot. Chakotay's right hand moved up Paris's back and stroked port forty degrees, down thirty, up, ahead full, ahead full.

Home.

They stood that way for a good five minutes, beside the receding stars.

THE END

Some notes on "Collateral Damage"

To the slash stories