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PERFECT KNOWLEDGE, A Star Trek: Voyager slash story by Ruth Devero
Rated NC-17
To part one
Honeymoon? "Honeymoon?" asked Chakotay.
"Yes. Didn't we--" Paris looked down at his hand,
fingered Chakotay's ring finger. "--didn't we get married?"
"Not that I remember."
A second later, he regretted that facetious answer, as hurt
disbelief washed over Paris's face. But he didn't get a chance to
apologize, because just then the door opened, and Siilne came in
with tea.
Chakotay was out of the bed and halfway across the room
before thought even settled in. Well, shit, stupid: you're
supposed to be MARRIED to him.
She looked at him, smiled at Paris, who pulled the veil to
his shoulders and smiled back uncertainly. Siilne took Paris's
face in her hands, examined his eyes. She opened her mouth wide
and peered inside Paris's when he copied her. Paris rolled his
eyes at Chakotay, who was sheepishly sidling back to the bedside
and trying not to look guilty.
"Drink this." She handed the tea to Paris, who sniffed at
it, grimaced, sipped at it, grimaced again, and tried to hand it
back. She just gave him The Stare. Transfixed, Paris took a gulp
and then choked and made the "bad taste" face, looking to Chakotay
for help. His look of mock pleading stabbed Chakoty to the soul.
Paris was taking refuge from his hurt in being a smartass. Shit.
"All of it."
So Paris drank all of it under her unwavering eye. Again
she examined his eyes, peered down his throat. Seemed satisfied.
She looked pointedly at the empty bed beside Paris, then
looked pointedly at Chakotay. "You should be more comfort to your
spouse."
He hesitated. Out of the corner of his eye, he could
Paris's sudden jerk of surprise. Siilne's Stare gave no quarter.
Chakotay sat down on the bed beside Paris and put his arm around
him, drawing him close. Happy now?
Apparently she was, because she left.
There was silence for about two heartbeats.
"Okay," Paris said lightly, "I'm not confused."
He wasn't moving away, either.
"What do you remember?" Chakotay asked.
"Wa'uuta dying. A bunch of us were taken in to see her.
She--she died." His face paled. "Then--then somebody gave us
something to drink. I don't remember ... much after that." But
from the sudden flush in his face, Chakotay realized that Paris was
remembering quite a lot.
"You almost had a second career," Chakotay said.
"As ..."
"A prostitute."
Paris blinked. Then, "Well, I've always been pretty
popular," he said with a smirk.
I'll just bet, thought Chakotay.
"Prostitute?" Paris went on. "For ..."
"Wa'uuta."
"Ewwww." He frowned. "But she's--she's--"
Chakotay took a deep breath. "All the others died with
her," he said as gently as he could.
Paris stared at him. Then,
"Oh, god," he said in a strangled voice; and he stumbled
from the bed and staggered into the bathroom.
Chakotay listened with sympathy to the sounds of retching.
He gave Paris a minute, sidled in to find him coughing into the
toilet. Chakotay got him some water; then grabbed Paris when he
tried to rise. Held onto him as he rinsed his mouth: the water
in the glass slopped in Paris's shaking hand.
"All dead," Paris whispered. He set the glass on the
counter near the sink, knocked it over grabbing the edge of the
counter. "Oh, god. All of them dead. Mygod. Twenty-two people.
Mygod." Something new seemed to strike him. "I--I almost died.
Mygod, I almost died." He fell to his knees and was sick again,
throwing up the water.
Chakotay held his head and rubbed the back of his neck,
trying to soothe him and trying to pretend not to be there, all at
the same time.
"Oh, god. Oh, god." Paris was shaking hard. "Oh, god.
Oh, god. Oh, god."
Chakotay got him up, held onto him.
"Oh, god," Paris was murmuring. "My god." Chakotay pulled
him close and rubbed his back.
They stayed there for a minute; and then Chakotay got him
another glass of water. Chakoty felt unsteady, himself.
He helped Paris stagger out of the bathroom and sat him on
the edge of the bed, wrapping him in the first thing he could find.
It was the damned veil.
Paris was still shaking, paler than Chakotay had ever seen
him. Chakotay settled next to him, arm behind Paris, giving him
something to lean on.
"I didn't--" Paris said shakily, "I didn't mean that 'you
owe me a life' thing literally."
"Well, I didn't think Janeway would approve of her chief
helmsman starting a new career whoring in somebody else's
afterlife."
Paris laughed at this: a thin, shaky sound that made
Chakotay unreasonably pleased to hear.
"How did you get me out?" Paris asked. Thank the spirits
the shaking was subsiding.
"Well, that's kind of the funny part. The Chaauree think
we're--" Word. Word. Had to be another word; but only one
came to mind. "--married."
Paris grinned at him. "Why, Commander, this is so sudden!
I didn't know you cared for me that way."
Ignore it. Though something in him warmed to see Paris's
smartass, coming back pretty strong. "Since you and I
are--ah--spouses, I could claim you."
"So they think we're married."
"Yes. And--and I think it's best if the Chaauree don't
find out any different. We have to stick around here for a couple
more days."
"Okay, loveykins."
Oh, yeah? "Don't call me 'loveykins,'" Chakotay said,
deadpan.
"Babycakes?"
"No. Not 'babycakes,' either." Shit, look at that smile.
"Loverbuns?"
"'Loverbuns?' How the hell do you come up with
something like 'loverbuns'?" But he was grinning.
"Observation," Paris said, glancing pointedly at Chakotay's
ass. His grin was mischievous and lascivious.
Chakotay laughed. His arm curved to fit Paris's waist.
"How did you ... claim me?" Paris wasn't moving away from
him.
Chakotay felt his spine straighten. "I just-- Well, I had
to, um, go to the funeral and--uh--pick you from the others. It
was harder than it sounds," he said to Paris's mocking look. "You
were all wearing those veils."
"Then, how--how did you know it was me?"
"I just ... knew." Chakoty looked away from the
startlement in Paris's eyes, then looked again; and felt his heart
race at the speculation also there.
They were silent for a minute. Paris stared thoughtfully
at the floor. Chakotay watched his face. Damn, he looked so
tired. Chakotay's arm tightened around Paris.
"Well, sweetiecakes," Paris said finally, "can a guy get
some breakfast around here?"
As usual, Siilne was there almost before the words were out
of his mouth, with a tray of food. Her lips tightened when she saw
Paris's condition; she looked a "humph" at Chakotay.
Who felt like an awkward boob as Siilne got a wet washcloth
to wipe Paris's face and fetched another glass of water for him to
drink and straightened the bed and patted him into place on it,
with the blanket over his lap.
Then she settled on the edge of the bed and smiled at
Paris, who smiled warily back. And she fed him herself some bowl
of cooked grain, spoonful by spoonful, encouraging him with smiles.
It was, Chakotay thought, a pretty blatant demonstration of what
he apparently was supposed to be doing.
He ate his own damned grain by his own damned self, with
his own damned spoon.
And then defiantly snuggled right up to Paris while he
drank his tea.
Paris's shoulders started shaking; the instant Siilne had
left the room, he started to laugh. "Mygod, you should've seen
your face!" he spluttered; and Chakotay found himself grinning.
"Apparently I'm a pretty lousy husband," Chakotay remarked
and was stupidly heartened by Paris's laughter. He watched him
fondly. "You want a shower?" he asked.
"Sure!"
So Paris went in and had a shower. And Chakotay tried not
to hang around the door of the bathroom and tried not to be too far
away, in case-- Well, Paris was still pretty wobbly.
But getting steadier. "Hey!" he said around the edge of
the shower door, "wash my back?" and kissed the air a couple times
at Chakotay, before disappearing into the spray.
Smartass. But Chakotay remembered the sleepy delight on
Paris's face that morning, the kiss--thorough, tender--and the hurt
disbelief; and something cut through him like a knife. Paris
had--Paris had wanted something, and Chakotay was too much of a
coward to find out what it was.
His own shower next. "These clothes are filthy," he said
with a grimace.
"I can--" Paris began.
"You rest," Chakotay ordered. "I'll wash them."
After his shower. He dropped them onto the bedroom floor.
And emerged from his shower to find them gone and Paris
swaddled in a blanket.
"She took 'em!" Paris said before Chakotay could open his
mouth. "She came in and took 'em. I couldn't stop her; she just
took 'em."
Typical.
Typical, too, that Paris had used all the damned towels.
Chakotay dried himself with something too tiny to tie around his
waist, grimaced at the clammy towels that were big enough
to wear. Damned annoying man.
Chakotay strategically positioned his towel-in-training and
stomped into the bedroom. "Give me something," he ordered.
Paris cast about helplessly, then tossed something at him.
Chakotay let it drop at his feet; it was the damned veil.
"There isn't anything else!" Paris protested.
Typical. Chakotay picked up the fucking thing and wrapped
up in it. He knew he looked as stupid as he felt. He let his
glare describe to Paris just what would happen to him if he
laughed.
Paris made a face Chakotay had never seen before, blinked
hard. Looked out the window. Blinked some more. Took a couple
deep breaths. Looked sidelong at Chakotay. "Red actually looks
pretty good on you," he said. He seemed to mean it.
Chakotay went over and sat in the chair beside the window.
The maze had been removed; the canopy was being taken down.
Chaauree were greeting each other in the square; at the tavern,
Raabio--in a new suit--was waving his arms in storytelling.
"So, now what?" Paris asked.
"So, now--" Chakotay ran the possibilities through his
head. He was not about to tell the man about the two-day
orgy to come. "So, now, they, ah, close the ... ah ... grave;
and--and then tonight there's some sort of feast."
"Do we have to be there?"
Something in Paris's voice made Chakotay look at him.
Paris was sitting against the headboard, pulling the blanket tight
around him; he was a shade paler than usual.
Chakotay stood, tried to make his movement toward the bed
look like a serene saunter. "I'm--I'm afraid we do," he said,
sitting down on the bed. "We're--we're probably the--um--the star
... mourners."
He looked uneasily at Paris, who looked like a man staring
into an abyss.
"I don't have any clothes," Paris said flatly.
"We'll get you some." The palace should be open by now.
But Paris didn't relax. Chakotay reached, started at
Paris's angry flail away from him.
"Don't touch me." He stared within himself for a short
while. Then, "How many days has it been?"
"Four." He saw Paris blink at the surprise of four days
gone. "What do you remember?"
"Drums." Paris's mouth twisted. "And singing. And
somebody washing me for about five hours, and ... you. I remember
you. I kept seeing you. You were sitting by a hole--" Chakotay
looked at him sharply. "--and, you were sitting--" Paris looked
around the room, and recognition dawned in his eyes. "--you were
sitting here. On the floor." He frowned and shook his
head. "I felt like I was, I don't know, lost, or something;
but you kept finding me. And then they'd give me--they kept giving
me stuff to drink. Kept telling me I should make myself ready,
because I was going to be--be with the one I love."
The kiss at the grave. Cold stole into Chakotay's
belly, warred with the heat in his face. Paris's delight at
seeing him. He didn't know where to look.
Paris was staring into space, his face as red as the veil.
"Oops," he said in a strangled voice.
Chakotay's brain stumbled over this new information like
an ensign over an algorithm. Fuck. And they were going to have
to pretend-- "I'm sorry," he said.
"'Sorry,'" Paris said conversationally, "seems to be the
name of just about everybody I know." He closed his eyes. His
mouth was tight with pain.
"Did you really see me?" Chakotay asked after a long
silence. "I kept seeing you," he said when Paris didn't
answer. "I was--I was meditating. I kept seeing you in my
visions."
Paris was looking at him. "You looked upset."
"Did I? You looked pretty serene."
"Well, I thought I was--" Paris's mouth twisted.
Well, shit.
"She said I belong to you," Paris said.
"Wa'uuta? Did you see her?" Just fucking ignore that
other part.
"Last night?" asked Paris. "Yeah. She--she was
here." He indicated the bedside. "Said she was going to
miss my exotic hands. She was pretty good-looking when she was
younger. A guy could do worse."
"She was celibate," Chakotay confided, warmed when Paris
gaped at him: gossip always did perk the boy up. "The whole time
she was daumna, she was celibate." A long time, too. "I think you
were supposed to be her reward for all those years of doing
without," he added slyly.
Paris grinned, and Chakotay felt a glow inside him. Just
doing his duty as a Commander: raising morale. Of COURSE,
his brain told him condescendingly.
"Well," Paris said with a leer, "a guy could do worse. I
mean, a woman," he amended hastily. "A woman could
do worse."
Chakotay flushed, glanced at him. "A guy could do
worse, too, you know," he said lightly; and felt his breath catch
at the startled speculation in Paris's eyes.
That was a damned stupid thing to say, Chakotay's
brain scolded, later. An exhausted Paris had stretched out for a
nap, and Chakotay watched him from the chair beside the window.
And malicious. Because, if Paris really was ...
attracted--Chakotay wasn't even going to think the word
"love"; it had to be some sort of twisted attraction,
because what the hell would Paris be in love
for?--attracted, it wasn't fair to tease him about it.
Especially since Chakotay had no intention of acting on that
attraction. "You belong to him." She'd said it to both of
them. "You belong to--" No intention at all of action on
any sick attraction Paris might have.
Because, at heart, they loathed each other. That damned
grass ring Paris gave him in the vision didn't mean any damned
thing, because they really despised each other. You kept
finding me. Hated each other, in fact. Well--well, maybe not
hated. But, certainly they weren't in love. Paris was like
some damned sexual butterfly, flitting from beauty to beauty; and
he'd sure never seemed interested in Chakotay. Who was
really not interested in him. Not at all. No, Chakotay was
saving it for a certain fascinating Starfleet captain, who was--
He caught himself. Who was pretty damned uninterested, to
be honest about it. After their sojourn on that Edenic planet,
that had been pretty much it for their growing attraction, for
their delicate flirtation. Back on the ship, and back to business
as usual. Starfleet business as usual. His jaw tightened
against the pain. You declared yourself, he thought, and
she did nothing. And would do nothing.
He leaned back in the chair, and he watched Paris sleep.
You belong to-- He belonged to-- He belonged to--
He wasn't certain who he belonged to. But surely not to
Paris.
Chakotay woke with a start. The sun was low in the sky.
Beside him, Paris was still sleeping. Chakotay straightened,
stifled a groan. You are far too old to sleep against
headboards, he scolded himself. But he hadn't wanted to
completely stretch out on the bed, where Paris was too likely to
snuggle against him. He stretched, trying not to disturb Paris.
Late. Better--
Chakotay blinked at the clothing on the chair beside the
window. Great. Just great.
He shook Paris's shoulder. "We have to--ah--get ready,"
he said to Paris's sleepy protest; and he saw the jaw tense. "We
have clothes," Chakotay went on.
Paris looked. "That," he said, "is not my Starfleet
uniform."
"Not mine, either," said Chakotay. "Apparently we're
honorary Chaauree tonight."
"Beats what I had on the last time they saw me,"
Paris said.
And didn't look that bad, either. The clingy, ankle-length
robe suited Paris; its mandarin collar looked good on him. A gray
so dark it was almost black--which maybe wasn't his color--but it
was a rich fabric with a lushly textured weave; and with the loose
trousers and short black boots, it made him look like some exotic
prince. Chakotay caught Paris looking away suddenly, face flushed,
and thought, Maybe you don't look so shabby yourself.
Sleeves were too short, but he sort of liked the feel of the soft,
clingy fabric. Deep brown, with iridescent stitching at the seams.
Sort of liked that, too.
"We don't have to stay long," Chakotay said. "Just make
an appearance." Get the hell out before the orgy starts.
Going down stairs in ankle-length skirts had unexpected
pitfalls, but they made it, and nothing much got broken in the
process. Siilne and the new daumna met them. "That looks better
on you than it does on me," the daumna said to Chakotay.
"Thanks for the loan."
The daumna's eyes went to Paris. "I can see why my aunt
chose you," he said; and Chakotay saw Paris's shoulders tense.
The smile Paris plastered onto his face was palpably false.
He put his arm around Chakotay's waist; Chakotay tried not to tense
up. "You can see why I had ... other plans." Paris's voice was
thin.
The daumna inclined his head. "Your love will pass into
legend," he said. There was something wistful in his voice.
Siilne's husband wandered in, then, and they left. Paris's
grip tightened. Chakotay placed his hand on Paris's, linked their
fingers. They could get through this.
The square was filled with-- Chakotay blinked. --with
chairs and rug-covered benches. All sizes, all kinds. All empty.
Scattered around piles of sticks waiting to be lit.
Siilne walked with her husband; the daumna fell back to
walk beside Chakotay.
"Did my aunt visit you last night?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Did she ... say anything?"
Er. "She ... spoke of our relationship." He squeezed
Paris's hand. "Did she ... visit you?"
The daumna laughed. "Yes. I knew she would. And she was
very much herself. She looked at me, and she said, 'I gave these
stiff-necked people forty-five years of peace. Don't ruin it.'"
He smiled. "She always did know how to motivate people."
The walk to the grave was mercifully short. Chakotay tried
to hang back, but when the Chaauree saw that The Man Who'd Claimed
His Spouse was on the outskirts of the crowd, he and Paris were
gently ushered forward until they stood at the edge of the mound,
mounded over except for a hole at the base.
Paris made a small choking sound. Chakotay drew him close.
From the murmur behind them, he knew that the Chaauree saw this as
some romantic act; but he felt Paris leaning into him, shaking.
Chakotay's arms tightened. They could get through this.
And, they did get through it: through the chanting,
through the head priest kneeling to speak through the hole in the
grave to those lying silent below, through the muffled sobs that
rose from the crowd when branches were fitted across it and earth
packed on, and their connection with the eleventh daumna was
severed.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. In the bleak silence,
Chakotay felt that something good had ended forever.
Then, the chanting built again, hopeful words woven with
the sound of the drums. The head priest started back to the
village, chanting words about the lush hills, the sweet water of
the rivers, the delight of children. And they followed him, back
to the life of the village.
Paris and Chakotay trailed behind. Chakotay's arm wrapped
itself around Paris's waist. Paris fiercely gripped Chakotay's
shoulders. Along the way, Chaauree left the crowd and settled
beside campfires, calling to each other, offering food and drink
to all comers. A few times, someone saw Chakotay and Paris and ran
to them with glasses and a flask of wuaash. Shit, Chakotay
thought, the first time it happened: politeness was going to get
them both completely sloshed. But the ritual seemed to be that
someone splashed a few sips into each glass, someone toasted life
or love or peace or the beauty of Chaau, everyone drank a sip, and
the rest was dribbled onto the ground so that Chaau could share the
toast.
"Waste of good brew," Paris said.
Not so wasteful, Chakotay thought. It was a
charming gesture from people who deeply loved their world. "You'll
get your share," he said to Paris.
By the time they reached the square, the small fires had
been lighted, and Chaauree had settled into the chairs, calling to
each other, passing food, passing drinks.
Siilne met them with glasses and wuaash. "To love," she
said, looking into Chakotay's eyes; and her smile grew impish as
they drank the toast.
She presided over a largeish gathering that included all
the guests at the inn and residents of several houses scattered
throughout the village. Paris and Chakotay were settled on a bench
against the wall of the building--next to the inn's door--and,
seeing the mischievous glow in Siilne's eyes, Chakotay knew she'd
planned a clear path between them and the bed. From the grins
around the fire, the plans were obvious. An oblivious Paris slid
closer to him; and Chakotay felt his own face burning, which
broadened the crowd's grins.
Food was handed around: cold dishes apparently prepared
in advance. Despite the wuaash, it was a surprisingly dignified
gathering. People told stories, teased each other about old
incidents. Chakotay listened to the cheerful rumble of voices,
looked at the firelight playing over the faces in gatherings all
around the square, watched children play some complex game of tag
around the clustered families. The new daumna wandered from fire
to fire. Here and there a couple embraced. A man closed his eyes
blissfully as another stroked his neck. Two young women broke from
a kiss to blush at some good-natured ribbing. At Siilne's fire,
Saachna beamed down at the woman he'd loved for fifty-two years and
murmured something in her ear that made her kiss him hard.
Siilne's husband touched her cheek.
More food was handed around. More wuaash was poured.
Paris was looking at everyone around the fire, over the glass of
wuaash he'd been nursing since they sat down. They were supposed
to be married; Chakotay slid an arm around Paris's shoulders.
There. Paris tensed slightly, then relaxed. Wistfulness
slid across his face; his mouth took a bitter cast. His fingers
tightened on the glass.
Chakotay's heart twisted inside him. Well, they could get
out of here pretty damned soon, and then they could stop
pretending. Across the fire, two young men--newly betrothed--held
hands and whispered to each other. Chakotay accepted a glass of
tea--damned bitter stuff, he discovered too late. He
surreptitiously poured the rest onto the ground. Paris gagged when
he drank his, but manfully got it all down. Shit, what a strong
stomach.
More food. Berries in small bowls.
"These can be only given, never taken," Siilne warned him.
Given, never-- His face heated as he realized what
she was saying. He took a berry, slid it into Paris's surprised
mouth. Paris caught on immediately and fed him in turn, to the
crowd's delight. Sweet berry, with a pleasant spiciness. Paris
evidently saw the pleasure on Chakotay's face: Chakotay was hard
put to make sure Paris got his fair share of the berries. Which
seemed to be the point: around the fire, couples laughingly tried
to ensure that the beloved got the most berries. Huulthe gleefully
stuffed his spouse's mouth while dextrously avoiding the berry he
was offering; then triumphantly ate it once the bowl was empty.
And licked the other man's fingers. And then licked the other
man's mouth.
Heat built in Chakotay's groin. A young woman pressed her
spouse against the back of his chair and kissed him lingeringly,
her hands busy inside his robe. Siilne's husband tangled his
fingers in her hair. Chakotay found himself wondering what was in
the tea.
Chakotay's eye was caught by Siilne, who glanced at Paris
before looking back. Her gaze melted into The Stare. His breath
caught. Damn. He probably should kiss Paris and get it over with.
The flash of apprehension across Paris's face when he realized what
was going to happen was like the cut of a knife. But he met Chakotay's
mouth; and Chakotay dimly heard approval from the people around
them. He tried to keep the kiss superficial.
But when he pulled back, the heat didn't die down. All he could
think of was the soft mouth, the touch of Paris's breath on his cheek.
And he wanted more. The alarm in Paris's eyes just before Chakotay
got more flavored the kiss with some indescribable spice.
Nearby, Wabii's young twins were sucking their thumbs and
staring sleepily around them as she stroked their hair. She smiled
up at her spouse and then kissed him, and roused the children to
take them home.
A storm of heat raged inside Chakotay. What the hell had
been in that damned tea? Or was it the berries? Whatever was
driving him, it wasn't going to take him further. Siilne's husband
toyed with the top button on her robe, and she smiled.
Paris met Chakotay's gaze with wary defiance. Whatever the
hell was driving the heat in Chakotay's body, he could resist it.
For Paris's sake, he had to resist it.
His tongue met Paris's just
before their lips touched. He could resist it: he couldn't toy
with Paris's heart.
The pain in Paris's eyes cut him to the bone.
The world narrowed to that mouth, soft with kissing, to that
flushed face, to those sorrowful and defiant eyes, to the sweet
weight of Paris's head in his hands. He couldn't hurt Paris.
The heat roared through him. Not hurt him.
Their mouths joined.
The rest of that night was a blur of images and sensations:
Paris's husky breathing in his ear, the silky feel of cloth
capturing them, the approving smiles around the fire. The slide
of rich fabric on Paris's smooth skin. Gleam of rosiness as each
button undone exposed more skin for Chakotay's mouth to caress.
Paris's thighs capturing Chakotay's hips. The roughness
of stone against Chakotay's naked shoulders. Paris beneath him,
gasping, arching. Clatter of a boot landing somewhere hard.
Paris, rosy against the scarlet cloth. Siilne leaning
against her husband. Paris groaning into Chakotay's mouth as he
slid the waistband of Paris's trousers down over the firm curve of
his ass.
A kiss tasting of spicy berries. Paris's mouth on
Chakotay's throat. His fingers on Chakotay's hardening cock.
The priest's smile in the firelight. Paris staring avidly
down into Chakotay's eyes as they rode each other, rode.
The gleam of moonlight and firelight on Paris's shoulders
as the robe slipped from them.
Paris's hands hard on him, fiercely gripping as--
Paris's cock hot under Chakotay's cheek.
Someone whimpering, "Yes yes yes."
--as pleasure overtook them both and all thought burned out
completely.
Chakotay woke to silky fabric around him and warm breath
regular on his neck and thought, Huh? He eased himself up
and looked around him and thought, Shit.
Naked. He was naked; so was Paris, curled up beside him
under the scarlet veil. And from the state of both of them--and,
to be truthful, from the relaxed hum of every muscle in Chakotay's
body--they'd had quite a night. Bits and pieces of that night
flashed through his mind: the sweet heat of Paris's cock seemed
an integral part of each and every moment. Chakotay rubbed his
face with his hands. Damn it. He hadn't been going to do this.
Damn whatever the hell they put in that tea.
He looked around for clothes, saw none. Great.
Chakotay eased out of bed and into the bathroom. Looked
himself over in the mirror as he washed his hands after peeing.
Bruises. Love bites. And damned well-kissed look in his eyes,
underlain with a hint of smug satisfaction. Oh, just shut
up.
Paris was awake when Chakotay re-entered the room. He sat
up, smiled contentedly. Chakotay's heart turned over.
"I--" he started; when the door opened, and Siilne entered.
Shit. He sprang for the bed, leaped under the blanket a
laughing Paris held ready for him. Why the damned woman never
seemed to knock....
He tried to yank the blanket up to his chin, trying also
to ignore the slide of Paris's warm, naked skin against his. Shit
and hell and damn.
Siilne smiled approvingly at them and set the tray down
beside the bed. And, to Chakotay's horror, began to straighten the
bed, with them in it.
"Um," he said, "where are our clothes?"
"They're downstairs," she said. "Some are out in the
square."
Oh fuckit, they had-- The blood draining from his face
passed the blood rising to heat it. And, they'd done it with an
audience.
She leaned over and patted him on the cheek. "You make
good souls for us," she said with satisfaction.
Chakotay buried his face in his hands. One of the
difficulties of being an adult was knowing that it wasn't really
possible to die of embarrassment, no matter how much you wanted to.
Not even if a grandmotherly type was tucking you in bed with a
lover, after informing you that you'd scattered your clothes and
his before an admiring public.
He looked up to see her surveying them with satisfaction:
tucked naked under the blanket, with the damned scarlet veil over
that. "Make us good souls," she said with a smile; and she left.
Paris was silent for a moment. "Make souls?" he
asked.
"The Chaauree believe that--that when people have sex after
... the funeral, they're making new souls to be born in the
village."
"Huh." Then, "They do know that we're two guys,
right?"
Well, if they didn't before, they'd probably gotten a
glimpse last night.... "Yeah. They know. The souls will be born
to the Chaauree."
"Huh."
The touch of Paris's skin on his was like a slow fire
building.
"We've probably made enough souls for them," Chakotay said.
"Oh, yeah. Probably."
A heartbeat. The musk of that body was intoxicating.
"How many souls would you say we made last night?" Paris's
voice was breathy.
"Oh, about fifty, sixty."
Amusement enlivened Paris's face. Chakotay's breathing
stumbled at the sight of that ripe mouth.
"So, we've probably done our share," Paris murmured.
"Oh, yeah."
"Don't need to make any more."
"No."
"Don't actually even ... want to make ... any more."
"Definitely."
"Because we're actually not ... a couple."
"Nope."
Their mouths closed the last centimeter of distance.
You shouldn't be doing this, Chakotay's conscience warned
him.
Paris's mouth opened under his; and Paris's hand found his
cock; and Chakotay's conscience threw up its hands in surrender.
It was gentler than what he remembered of the night before:
Paris's wet mouth languidly caressed his throat; Paris's hand
slowly stroked Chakotay's cock. Chakotay's hands found the places
on the hard body that had elicited pleasure last night; felt warmth
flood him at Paris's groans now. He rolled onto his back and
pulled Paris over him.
His hand cupped Paris's ass; his finger teased the opening.
Paris bucked against him, whimpered. Chakotay tangled his fingers
in the hair on Paris's head, drew it back so he could kiss the
strong throat. Paris's hands were frantic on Chakotay's cock.
Chakotay looked deep into the unfocused blue eyes, fucking
Paris with his finger, while their hips bucked against each other.
Cock slid against iron-hard cock, against their sweat-slick
bellies, against Paris's firm grip.
Their hips rocked, sped up. Paris's breath came in soft
grunts. He grasped the headboard with his free hand and rode
faster.
Chakotay lost himself first, felt the white-hot pleasure
overtake him. Heard Paris wailing over him, arching in his arms.
A heartbeat, and Paris collapsed on top of him and then
rolled off. Chakotay felt the heat radiating from his body, a few
centimeters away.
A slowing of breath. "Now, would you say we were stupid,
blind, or just pathetic?" Paris's voice was lazy and warm with
laughter.
What they were was not happening again, if Chakotay could
overcome that damned whatever-it-was from the tea. Even though
every cell in his body seemed to be humming contentedly to itself.
"I think it's the tea from last night thinking for us,"
Chakotay said lightly.
Paris looked at him. "Is that what you think? You think
it's that?"
"What else could it be?"
"Well, there's my considerable charm."
Chakotay tried to ignore the speed-up in his heart at that
sated smile. He leaned close. "Nobody's that charming."
"And there's my considerable skill."
Chakotay caught his breath. "I don't seem to remember any
special finesse," he lied; except you were enjoying it so
fucking much, his brain informed him, that you'd've come at
the mere THOUGHT of him touching you. Come hard, too.
"Well," Paris said with an obvious attempt at lightness,
"there's the fact that I've wanted to drag you into bed since that
first insult on you tossed at me as a Maquis." His chin looked
rock-solid with defiance.
Blink. Chakotay's mouth dried. "All that long ago?" His
voice sounded thin.
Silence. Paris was looking at him. Then,
"I'd like to think the feeling could be mutual." His whole
body seemed to be clenched.
"It--" Chakotay said. "I--" He looked into the fierce
eyes and couldn't lie. "You've ... never actually been ... my
choice."
The blue eyes went blank with hurt. "Then you'll want to
take your hand off my ass." The voice was hard as duranium.
"Won't you? Commander?"
Chakotay jerked back, felt himself blush. Shit: he'd been
fondling Paris during that entire rejection speech. Very smooth
move, Commander.
Paris lurched off the bed and into the bathroom. Chakotay
started after him, jumped back as the door slammed. I thought
you only made WOMEN mad enough to slam a door in your face.
He stood there a minute. Listened to the water running
inside. Blockhead, blockhead, blockhead, his brain was
telling him. Fuck, his life had been so simple. He loved Janeway
and despised Paris and pitied Suder and liked Kim and tolerated
Tuvok and--and--well, whatever the hell that was he felt for
Seska. So simple.
Chakotay's mouth twisted wryly. Simple. Simple always
seemed to have hidden complications: psychotic Suder saving the
ship, Tuvok and Seska turning out to be spies. And, Janeway:
well, you're not really going anywhere with Janeway, are
you? And ... and Paris:
"Look," Chakotay said in a hurry when the door opened.
"I'm just not used to thinking about us as ... well, as us."
Something like a smile flashed across Paris's face and
vanished. "'Us,'" he said.
You're not going to make this easy, are you? And,
why should he? "Yes, us. There never was actually supposed
to be an 'us' to think about."
"Because I'm just Paris-the-whore, aren't I?" He searched
Chakotay's face, and his mouth tightened at what he saw there.
"Selling my skills to anybody who pays for them. I'll pilot for
anybody who pays my bar tab. Fuck anybody I think I owe. And I
owe you."
"That's not it--" Chakotay began.
"That's always been it, Commander. You made that
pretty damned clear the first time we saw each other again on
Voyager. How much was I getting this time? Isn't that what
you wanted to know?"
"That was then." Chakotay met the glare. "Things have
changed."
"Not so much."
"Yes 'so much.'" He drew a deep breath.
"You've changed. Or maybe I've just--just let myself see
what was underneath."
Paris's look was wary. "You did drop the 'Psycho-Commander'
routine pretty quickly."
"Too tiring to maintain."
They stared into each other's eyes for a long minute.
"I'm sorry," Chakotay said; and Paris blinked in apparent
surprise.
"For what?"
"For--shit, for so |