"No," he said. "No. It wasn't my--not my fault. The gauges were--god, everything was-- She gave me the wrong coordinates."

"Yes," he said. "I was--I couldn't do anything. It was all falling apart. I couldn't-- It was me. It was my fault."

Because it didn't seem to matter that it was a lie. Except--well, maybe not a lie. Surely not a lie, because Tom Paris was a pilot first class; Tom Paris was a natural--born in a docking bay and teethed on an o-ring, that kind of natural--or so his father told him; and if a shuttle flailed apart under Paris's piloting, shed bits of itself as it did a dreadful cartwheel across the landing field at Caldik Prime, why it must be someone else's fault.

Except that Paris knew it wasn't. It was his fault; he'd killed them; he'd lied about it; they were dead because of him. And he'd lied to save his own ass.

The kindly face of the commanding officer who welcomed Paris into her office and seemed prepared to pep-talk him through the usual how-did-I-screw-up? gradually hardened as she realized what he'd really come there to say. The voice grew cold as Pluto. He straightened his shoulders as she interrogated him, stiffened his back.

Took it all, chin up through the whole damned ritual of recrimination and retaliation. Took the cashiering out. Took his father's contempt.

Drink helped of course. Booze softens anything.

But that wasn't all. What really helped was the knowledge that they were right, that they'd finally found out what a fuck-up he was and were acting on it at last. They'd finally realized that he was damaged goods--shit, his father'd hinted at it enough.

Actually, it was a kind of relief, looked at the right way.

Still, it cut in a way liquor didn't smooth over. All those damned upright Starfleet types turning their backs, sneering, cold. Wide-eyed cadets staring queasily at the Admiral's fallen son as the trial progressed. His father's rage.

So he showed them he didn't need them, that he was a pilot no matter what.

Found his way to the Maquis.

And, sure he wasn't much of a recruit, sure he was basically in it for the flying, sure he was there because-- Well, yeah, he was showing all those people who'd made his life miserable. But it was flying; and just about every Maquis he met had been betrayed by the very Starfleet that had betrayed him.

Even that damned stubborn Chakotay--the untrusting bastardsonofabitch. Father murdered by Cardassians on a planet the Federation basically abandoned. He'd been in Starfleet himself, left it for a principle.

That he was fucking amazing-looking was--well, just one of those pluses life occasionally hands you. Even in that little dive on K'laut'k II, he looked upright and confident. Paris took one look and lost what was left of his soul.

Shiiiit. He'd fight for this guy; he'd show this guy; he'd make himself indispensable to this guy, be the best pilot this guy could want. Defeat everybody who'd betrayed them both.

So of course what Paris really showed Chakotay was what a fuck-up he was. First mission, and Paris hot to show his stuff--and Starfleet just reached out and nabbed him without breaking a sweat.

But surely-- All through the interrogation, all through the trial, Paris waited. Surely they weren't going to--surely Chakotay would rescue him. Surely the Maquis wouldn't just leave him.

When the Federation shipped him off to Auckland, Paris was still waiting. When his father refused to see him, and his mother didn't make contact--he was still waiting.

But he took it. Took it with squared shoulders and straight spine, the way he'd been taught. Took the veiled contempt of the Federation guards and not-so-veiled distrust of the other prisoners.

Because it didn't seem to matter that it was the truth. They were gentle--everyone was so gentle around him. Doctors. And then counselors. His parents. All so fucking gentle, and he had killed three people; he was responsible for the deaths of three people--people who'd cried out in terror as the shuttle did its terrible cartwheel, shedding bits of itself across the field at Caldik Prime--and everybody was acting like Tom Paris was a victim, when, really, he was a murderer.

The worst was his mother, who seemed to treat it as some sort of accident, something that couldn't have been avoided; who just kept saying over and over, "You're alive. That's the important thing. Oh, Tom, you're alive"--like that was something to be proud of.

Except the worst were the counselors, who listened to the details and then listened to them again and then listened to them again; and then questioned him; and then unfolded for him an exquisite proof that he was somehow not to blame.

But the worst was his father, who acted like shuttles crashed for reasons other than inept piloting; who embraced him and spoke of other pilots and other crashes--but whose eyes held disappointment.

Still, the worst was the review board, who listened to the details and then listened to them again and then listened to them again; and then questioned him; and then drew charts and graphs and maps; and then explained in exquisite detail that he was not at fault.

Worst of all were some of his senior officers, who couldn't seem to hear enough about the crash and made him repeat the details and ran him through simulations and steered him through the maze of what he was could learn--which mostly was that shuttle crashes weren't always the pilot's fault.

"Yes," he kept saying; "yeah. I see that. You're right." Which seemed to satisfy them. But not his fault didn't mean not a murderer. Three people dead, and Tom at the helm, and three dead.

Oddly enough, the ones who got it were some of the other lieutenants, who generally treated him like he was Death at the banquet: be polite, but don't make eye contact. They backed off and let him alone; and once he proved that time-differential trigonomics didn't kill just because he'd done the formulas, or that advanced Klingon law wasn't lethal because he remembered the cases, they moved back to being friendly and competitive. But there was an edge of mistrust.

And things moved on; and he moved on to another assignment; and he saw a counselor once in a while. He broke the back of some of the toughest flight simulations. And he flew. And things were okay.

Really okay when he found a good club and could drink and dance and drink and drink with people who'd never heard of him or of Caldik Prime.

Really the best when he could get a little tight and then get a lot loose in an alley somewhere, with some guy's cock up his ass or down his throat.

Two guys was better.

Male, female, something of both--didn't matter. Alley or bed. He would fuck or he would suck, and he would dance, and he would feel hands on him and arms around him, he would loosen in the heat of bodies crushed against him, hear music and moans, smell sweat and musk, be filled, be bruised by passion or by a well-placed fist--and, shit, it was so good, it felt so fucking good, because he was alive and strong and young; and the alcohol and the music or the alcohol and the fucking would fuse in a white-hot, ecstatic instant that burned out any doubts, like some exquisite proof by the universe that even murder could be forgiven. And he would coast on that for a few days, until the shadows gathered again.

Of course, when his counselor found out, there were sessions and recriminations and sessions and those drugs that took the edge off everything. And more sessions.

But they didn't kick him out, because he was one of their own, a Starfleet baby; and besides, he was about the best fucking pilot in the Fleet; and his counselor pointed out that for Tom piloting wasn't just a skill, it was woven into who he was. He needed it, like he needed food or air.

So he stayed on, stayed sober, stayed chaste--well, mostly. A few sweet interludes with a mixed bag of homesick ensigns and between-assignment officers. T'el, who started losing it and tried to control Tom since he couldn't control anything else. It got boring even as rough sex; and Tom dropped some hints, and the counselors found T'el.

Things moved on. Once or twice he lost himself in the clubs. Time and counseling dulled the razor-sharp edge of knowing that he was a murderer. His piloting skills became the stuff of legend. In his heart he nurtured the strong and certain knowledge that he was damaged goods.

Captain Kathryn Janeway. Petite no-nonsense sizing him up, cold calculations flickering behind the steady gaze. Asking him to betray his "friends" in the Maquis, so she could rescue her own old friend. Must be nice to have friends, to have people who trusted you, people you'd rescue if they were lost to the other side, people who'd rescue you in the same situation.

Naturally, he said, "Yes."

And the Badlands--well, no Federation ship had flown through them, but that didn't mean Voyager couldn't. Because she was one sweeeeet ship. In Paris's mind he sat at her conn and flew her a hundred times. It was great. He saved them; he saved them all, a miracle speeding silently through the vortices and the sensor-blanking plasma storms, weaving a net of phaser fire and justice. The untrusting sonofabitch would learn: learn who he was dealing with, what Paris could do when he had the chance--nothing could be better.

Better went worst faster than light speed, on the crest of a tetrion wave that the pretty Betazoid at the helm couldn't handle. With Paris there, who knows? He was born to fly a ship like this, a ship this sweet; he was born to lose himself in her circuits and responses, to keep her on course no matter what.

Captain Kathryn Janeway. Petite no-nonsense sizing him up. Considering him. Hesitating. He felt a prickle of annoyance that she'd even stop to think about adding him to her crew, that she'd have to stand there and figure the fucking odds before welcoming him onto Voyager. Best damn pilot in the Alpha Quadrant, and he could see the damn calculations going on behind her smile.

So he showed her. Showed everyone. Put Voyager through paces that even the ones who dreamed her up hadn't imagined. Sweet ship who knew her master the minute he touched the conn. By the time they'd reached Deep Space 9, the calculations in Janeway's eyes had reached a solution.

And the Badlands--well, no Federation ship had flown through them, but that didn't mean Voyager couldn't. In Tom's mind he'd done it a hundred times. It was great. He saved them; he saved them all, a miracle speeding silently through the vortexes and the sensor-blanking plasma storms, weaving a net of phaser fire and justice. Piloting the sweet ship he'd fallen in love with through the worst place in the galaxy--nothing could be better.

Better went worst faster than light speed, on the crest of a tetrion wave that for 6.734 seconds he was handling, that for 6.734 triumphant seconds the ship was surfing the way he'd surf an ocean wave.

But he wasn't at the helm; and then it was smoke and blood and the sourness of failure. Quick flashes of Caldik Prime.

Not your fault. He hadn't fucking done anything but stand around. So now he got down to cleaning things up, helping through shutdown of nonessential systems, through the cataloguing of malfunctions. Through the realization that they were now in the unknown Delta Quadrant. Not YOUR damn fault.

Through the shouting on the bridge and all the rest of it. Janeway, her hair down and her chin up, glaring and snapping out orders. She caught his eye for a nanosecond of sympathy and approval that pierced him to the soul. Starfleet captains. Shit--he'd die for her.

But the mistrust hadn't actually gone away: it was there all through what happened next, through a surreal hoedown on an illusory farm, through the cold terror of a Frankenstein laboratory where he was tested and again found wanting, through the chaos of waking out of a mad dream. Not your fucking fault. With Ensign Kim gone, and, sure, Paris really didn't know him--had barely talked to him--but he'd been stubbornly loyal and was touchingly naive and stood his post on the bridge, rattling off sensor readings within seconds at the end of that horrible ride. --your fault. Paris was pretty hot to find him.

But then his sweet ship torqued her way right out of his hands; and then it was smoke and blood and the sourness of failure. Though he managed to shut down the conn before it completely overloaded and blew. But not everybody was that fast or that fortunate. Screaming and blood and the fucking ceiling falling in. Quick flashes of Caldik Prime.

Not your fault. In his mind he heard his counsellor saying just those words. Not your-- Heard his mother. Heard the review board. --fault. Not your fault. Heard it as he swore his way through shutdown of nonessential systems, through the cataloguing of malfunctions--his sweet ship gone haywire, her synapses frying. Through the realization that they were now in the unknown Delta Quadrant. --your fault.

Through the shouting on the bridge and all the rest of it. Janeway, her hair down and her chin up, glaring and snapping out orders. She caught his eye for a nanosecond of approval and respect and regret that pierced him to the soul. Muted the voices to a bare whisper. Starfleet captains. Shit--he'd die for her.

But the voices hadn't actually gone away: they were there all through what happened next, through a surreal hoedown on an illusory farm, through the cold terror of a Frankenstein laboratory where he was tested and again found wanting, through the chaos of waking out of a mad dream. --your fault. With Ensign Kim gone, and, sure, Tom really didn't know him--hadn't even really talked to him, just sized him up as a bed partner: cute, but scared and too innocent, and probably not that good in bed--but he'd been on the bridge, at his post, rattling off sensor readings all during that horrible ride. --your fault. And they'd lost so many crew members already; so Tom was hot to find him.

Found that bastard Chakotay, still spitting insults: "What was your price this time?" Well, screw him: Paris had new irons in the fire.

That one of Chakotay's crew had turned out to be a spy was just sweet reward. But Paris could be magnanimous.

Still, you'd think there'd be some gratitude when Chakotay broke his leg escaping the Ocampan homeworld and Paris went back for him.

"Get out of here, Paris," he snarled as Paris started down the creaking, swaying metal staircase, "before the whole thing comes down."

Shit. You'd think a guy hanging on for dear life to a stairway about to drop into an abyss would be less mouthy. "I intend to. Just as soon as I get you up."

He could pretty much hear the disbelieving snort Chakotay probably thought.

The fucking shaking staircase, groaning and about to fall into the abyss--and Chakotay never letting up. Well, while he was talking, he was still alive; and while Paris was returning insults, he wasn't shaking so badly he'd humiliate himself.

Found one hell of a hotstick-looking bastard of a Maquis captain. --your-- Chakotay--that was his name. With a major chip on his shoulder--no wonder, given that one of his crew turned out to be a spy. But, intense and fucking amazing-looking.

And not all that very grateful when he broke his leg escaping the Ocampan homeworld and Tom went back for him.

"Get out of here, Paris," he snarled as Tom started down the creaking, swaying metal staircase, "before the whole thing comes down."

Shit. You'd think a guy hanging on for dear life to a stairway about to drop into an abyss would be less mouthy. "I intend to. Just as soon as I get you up."

He could pretty much hear the exasperated snort Chakotay probably thought.

"Besides," he added lightly, "if I save your ass, your life belongs to me. That's an old Indian custom, right?"

He did hear the snort now. "Wrong tribe."

"Had to try." He was within reach now, could see those those bright, untrusting dark eyes. Stubborn sonofabitch.

"I thought," Tom said breathlessly, hauling, trying not to hear the groaning of the metal staircase about to collapse, "you guys had some way of--" He heaved. "--turning yourself into some sort of--" Fuck, he was heavy. "--bird and flying us both away."

"You're too heavy." Said with a surprising amount of humor, given the circumstances.

The bit of metal tread Chakotay had been clutching fell as Tom hauled him up: clang, clangalang. The ringing muted as the metal disappeared into the void. --your fault.

All that long struggle up the groaning staircase--everything swaying, falling apart. All that long way, Chakotay kept it up, insult for insult, smart ass remark for smart ass observation.

Through the sheer terror of what was happening, Paris felt an unexpected rush: anticipation. This time he'd done it. This time he'd saved them all, shown them all. Shown Chakotay. Something new in his life was about to be born.

All that long struggle up the groaning staircase--everything swaying, falling apart--hauling Chakotay on his back, that other heart beating hard against him, little hisses in his ear when the pain from the broken leg became too much to bear. All that long way, Chakotay kept it up, insult for insult, smart ass remark for smart ass observation.

Through the sheer terror of what was happening, Tom felt an unexpected rush: anticipation. Fucking erotic anticipation. The voices in his head silenced.

Of course, the fucking Kazon had to ruin everything by attacking them, the Maquis ship, the Array that could send them all back to the Alpha Quadrant--every damn target in the area. Paris found himself appreciating again just how amazing Chakotay and his crew were: dart in, sling phaser fire, dart out. Damn beautiful.

The biggest fucking Kazon ship in the Delta Quadrant had to arrive and mess that up, too.

And then that stubborn ass transported his crew to Voyager and rode his own disabled ship straight for the enemy.

Paris snatched him out of it just as the Maquis ship found its target. That's TWO for me, he thought.

Good thing he didn't expect Chakotay to be grateful.

Of course, that wasn't the end of it, and that didn't save them. Didn't get them back to the Alpha Quadrant. The Array had to be destroyed, and they had to do it--doom themselves to a lifetime 70 lightyears from home. That just dropped the bottom out of everything.

But, he was back in the bosom of Starfleet, chief helmsman of a ship he was just about ready to marry, right back to lieutenant.

Another chance. And, behind him on the bridge, giving orders and back in Starfleet red, that bastard Chakotay, still looking like one fucking hot ride.

Back on Voyager, the stubborn sonofabitch wasn't much more grateful, glaring mistrustfully at everyone while the holographic doctor worked on his leg. Well, not so suspiciously at Tom. More speculatively, as in How much can I trust you? Why did you rescue me? Then, "Thanks," Chakotay said shortly to him.

Shiiiit--from him, that was tantamount to foreplay. "Any time," Tom said.

Of course, the fucking Kazon had to ruin everything by attacking them, the Maquis ship, the Array that could send them all back to the Alpha Quadrant--every damn target in the area. Chakotay and his crew were simply amazing: dart in, sling phaser fire, dart out. Damn beautiful.

Damn disheartening when the biggest fucking Kazon ship in the Delta Quadrant arrived to join the fight.

And then that stubborn ass transported his crew to Voyager and rode his own disabled ship straight for the enemy ship.

Tom snatched him out of it just as the Maquis ship found its target.

"Two," he mouthed to Chakotay when he saw him next; and under the frazzled and the frustrated and the fed up, Chakotay looked amused.

"Thanks," he said. He looked for a minute longer than usual, as if looking past the uniform to the man underneath.

Tom felt the rush again. "Any time."

Of course, that wasn't the end of it, and that didn't save them. Didn't get them back to the Alpha Quadrant. The Array had to be destroyed, and they had to do it--doom themselves to a life in the Delta Quadrant. That just dropped the bottom out of everything. --your fault.

Glancing back at Chakotay--new First Officer of Voyager--trim in his new uniform, solid at his new command post on the bridge, Tom Paris heard the voices fade.

Still a damned stubborn bastard. And completely humorless. But loyal, managing Torres' promotion to chief engineer, managing the fallout from that damned temper of hers.

Paris flew. Bonded with the beautiful ship so responsive to his touch. Dodged the veiled insults and wicked whispers in the mess. Ignored the cold shouldering of the--well, former, but just barely--Maquis. Played deaf to the sneers of the Starfleet crew. Stayed upright, loyal, true, and all the other stuff, for Janeway, who'd believed in him. Janeway, who'd trusted him. Janeway, seemed to see in him what he wanted to see in himself. The calculations in her eyes had long since reached a conclusion. Now was his chance to live up to it.

He was changing. He was. Not the old guy.

Still a damned stubbornuntrustingsonofabitch. But even sexier in command. The uniform suited him.

Or maybe it was the anger. There was a lot of it, damped down. Maybe nobody else even saw it. But Tom knew anger. He knew that glow it gave a man: it drew him like no other erotic power on earth.

So he started the seduction.

Flying through the void, Paris started again to trust himself. Best damn pilot Starfleet ever graduated. Janeway's willing slave.

He'd be Chakotay's slave, too, if the bastard would just unbend.

Among the crew, things started to ease. Jokes broke out in the mess. Torres teased Harry unmercifully, and Paris watched him fall hard for her. It was sweet, but she didn't seem interested.

Paris watched it all from his own little pocket of reality. Mostly watched Chakotay, bridging the crews. Watched Seska cozy up to him again; watched him back away: maybe distancing himself from the old Maquis days, now that he had to be Starfleet. Or maybe saving himself for somebody. The Captain, maybe; she certainly seemed intrigued.

Paris could understand the attraction.

Though being married to Chakotay turned out to be something less than a treat.

But Tom kept getting those flashes. Something--maybe the tension on the ship, maybe the desperation of never getting home--layered the old shadows over everything. --your fault. At the back of his mind, the crew members killed when they were flung into the Delta Quadrant--your fault--joined the three from Caldik Prime.

Not your fault, he reminded himself piously, as his counsellors had advised him. But his skin started to twitch.

Among the crew, things started to ease. Jokes broke out in the mess. That half-Klingon woman--Torres, Chakotay's engineer--teased Harry Kim unmercifully, and Tom watched Harry fall hard for her. It was sweet, but she was a little standoffish--holding back in favor of somebody else, maybe. Chakotay maybe, who had that pretty Bajoran after him. He was polite, but uninterested: maybe distancing himself from the old Maquis days, now that he had to be Starfleet. She didn't seem to like that much.

Tom moved through this complicated mix in his own little pocket of reality. All he really wanted was a good, hard fuck, but there didn't seem to be any possibles but Chakotay. By comparison, everybody else seemed washed out, pathetic. But, Chakotay: mmmmmmmmm. Not really that big, but--damn--he seemed massive. Blunt fingers on strong hands, lush mouth quirking with humor, eyes sparking impatience.

Especially when Tom gave him a little extra lip. There was an art to doing that: keep 'em off guard, but don't let it tip over into fury--well, not until you were alone. So Chakotay got the obedient lieutenant, with glimpses of the smart ass bed partner. Tom watched him warm to both.

The Oeongaleesh, who were a kind of pathetic people, but whose planet seemed promisingly rich in dilithium. What there was of the planet: it was mostly sea, with one big island that seemed like an afterthought. And a skittish populace: the merchant who shuttled up to dicker with them took one look at Janeway and looked ready to scamper. So Chakotay stepped in. Went down to the planet with Paris and Kim, to check out the dilithium deposits and maybe do some bargaining.

It was a nice, warm planet. Tropical. Women probably didn't wear much, judging by the men's sarongs. Walking around the shabby little village with his tricorder, Paris kept an eye out--just for the sake of anthropology, of course. The odd thing was--

"Have you seen any women at all?" Harry murmured to him.

"Now that you mention it--"

"Maybe they're--secluded?"

Could be. Lots of civilizations kept one part or another of the population tucked away from strangers. The Aikiss, who veiled their men; the Ferengi, who kept their women naked at home.

Chakotay joined them then, compared readings, tapped his commbadge to report to Janeway. "Looks promising," he said.

"Go ahead and start negotiations," Janeway told him.

Chakotay nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "I'll report back once I know more."

"Acknowledged. And, Chakotay--stick together. Something about that merchant's reaction is making me uneasy."

So they stuck together--for the most part. Into the head man's house, which was basically an open hall. Chakotay and the head man went to the far end to negotiate. Paris and Kim lounged near the door. Well, actually, Kim lounged. When Chakotay left them, the servants guided Harry to a big, soft chair and plunked him down into it. A couple brought him food and something to drink and smiled shyly at him. Stared at him like yokels studying the city slicker.

"Here, Tom." Harry started up with a glass of the drink.

But one of the men made an impatient face and took it from him, patted him back into the chair. Handed the glass to Paris with a chilly little sniff.

Gee, thanks.

As Chakotay dickered and Kim looked puzzled, more men arrived. They were served by the head man's servants, and they sat down, and they eyed Paris the way a horse trader eyes the horse he's thinking of buying--or a customer eyes a whore he's considering.

Paris sidled over to Harry. "What's going on?" he muttered.

"Beats me!"

Chakotay dickered, and more men arrived. The head man's servants were polite and deferential to them. They smiled and cooed over Kim. They treated Paris like he was furniture. The men stared at him like he was a juicy steak.

A chill started to work its way up his spine.

"Maybe I'll just go see how Chakotay's doing--" Paris murmured to Kim. He started to wander toward the far end.

One of the men stepped in his way. Paris froze, readied himself to take a blow or give one. The guy leered at him.

"Too-oo many cloooothes," he said. He grabbed Paris's tunic and yanked.

"Tom!" Harry was up in a heartbeat, but one of the men made shooing motions at him. Grabbed him gently when Harry started around him, and put him right back in the chair, crooning, "Now--now; think of the baby," at him as he struggled.

Paris stepped back, cocked his fist. It was grabbed by one of the other men, who laughed.

"Lively," he said.

And then there were other guys right there, pressing in; and hands groping him and tugging at his clothes; and somebody grabbed his other hand when he tried to defend himself; fabric ripped; and, Shiit! This is a fucking GANG rape! slid into his mind.

Then Chakotay's meaty hand was around the first guy's throat. "Let," he said. "Go." The guy's face started to turn interesting shades as Chakotay gripped.

The guy let go. They all let go.

And, after a second or two, so did Chakotay.

"You all right?" he said to Paris, and he actually sounded like he cared.

"Yeah," Paris said breathlessly. Shit--he was shaking.

Kim wrenched free of the man's grip and managed finally to get up. "I thought they were going to--" he said.

"What the hell happened?" Chakotay asked.

"I have no--" Paris started.

The head man bustled up. "What happened?" he screamed at Chakotay.

Paris saw Chakotay's eyes go hard. "That's what I asked," he said.

But the head man wasn't listening. "All they wanted to do was see your trade wife without her clothing--see what they're going to enjoy at the contract signing. You were the one who put her in clothes! You should have known they would strip her!"

And for one delirious minute, Paris wondered if the universal translator had gone completely haywire. Chakotay's mouth fell open. He turned a kind of muddy color. Paris watched about half a million replies go through his mind.

Then, "If I clothe ... someone," he said, "I expect them to stay clothed."

Good answer. Ambiguous pronouns.

"I'll need to think about this negotiation," he said crisply. "I'll get back to you."

Then, one day, he caught Chakotay in his office, gave him his best smile--half shyness, half fuck-me--and said, "I--uh-- Supper? In my quarters? Tonight? I've saved up replicator credits." The nervousness he let show in his face wasn't wholly put on.

Chakotay looked startled. "Ah--" he said. "Uh--" Tom watched some quick calculations cross his face; most of them probably had to do with rank and the growing camaraderie between the two crews and, maybe, in there someplace, whether or not Chakotay actually wanted to.

"That'd be-- I'd really enjoy that, Tom." Mygod: he was blushing. A genuine smile lighted his face. "Can I bring anything? Dessert?"

"Just you," Tom said, with the quick, sly grin that implied that maybe the dessert would be Chakotay; and he saw Chakotay flush again, and grin back.

So, oh yeah, supper in Tom's quarters, and the hard fuck he needed; though something made him uneasy all that afternoon. Something about that smile, so genuinely pleased that Tom had invited him. Surely Chakotay knew this wasn't romance. Tom was just five-minute joyride. Surely Chakotay knew that.

"Trade--WIFE?" Janeway said, blinking. Her eyes got that glazed look.

"Somehow," Chakotay said, "our tricorder readings failed to indicate that about half those--" He visibly fumbled for a word.

"--people?" she supplied.

"--are female."

Janeway stared at him. "And the wife...?"

Paris watched Chakotay think through about 47 ways to answer. Harry's face turned a mottled red.

"They interpreted the two subordinate officers as--" Chakotay said.

"They thought I was having the Commander's baby!" Kim's voice was a little loud for an ensign responding to a captain--and interrupting a commander to do it.

Paris saw her lock every muscle in her face--probably to keep from laughing--then rearrange them into a somewhat pensive expression. "And Lieutenant Paris?"

"Merchants have two wives." Chakotay had finally figured out his explanation. "One to bear children and one--"

"--to seal the deal," Paris put in before he could say it. "Apparently every contract signing ends with a gang bang."

Janeway's glance at him was an automatic reproof of his language; then her mouth twisted as if she'd tasted something disgusting. "I'm sorry, Tom." She looked at Chakotay. "Can we salvage this? We could certainly use those crystals."

"I think we can," he said. "But--if you don't mind, I'd like to go back down with--with Lieutenant Paris. Have him do the negotiating. Make perfectly clear that he's a valued member of this crew who's to be treated with respect."

For another dizzy moment, Paris wondered if the translator had gone on the fritz.

Janeway was smiling at him. "Lieutenant Paris?" she asked.

He looked at her, at Chakotay. They really seemed to think it should be up to him. Chakotay really seemed to mean what he'd said.

Maybe, maybe not. The commander enjoying a good supper was funny and a good conversationalist. The commander enjoying a not-bad Romulan brandy was positively flirtatious. Tom felt the heat rise in the room, and when the energy between them had just about peaked, he set down his glass, moved in, and pressed his mouth to Chakotay's.

There wasn't even that little startled, not-expecting-this second of somebody pretending to themselves that they were really there for the food. Chakotay's mouth met his with an intensity that was staggering; and then Chakotay must have set down his own glass, because both hands were at the back of Tom's head, cradling it, holding it tight so Chakotay could plunder Tom's mouth with his tongue. It was-- Tom felt himself getting dizzy.

When they broke the kiss, he had a moment when he couldn't think what was supposed to happen next. He didn't actually kiss much: the usual quickie didn't exactly require it. In that moment, Chakotay was on him again, fervent, tender. It was like a slow ravishment, and terror flashed through him. This didn't seem like the usual suck and fuck, and he was pretty damn sure he wasn't in the mood for it. But it was already too late: his cock was swelling quite happily, and finding an answering hardness to rub against, and that portion of his brain that made really good decisions for him wasn't taking any hails.

Clothes scattered across the floor and Chakotay's hard body on top of his on the bed, Tom tried again to take control, to get Chakotay going, to take that clean, hard, uncomplicated fuck that burned out all the shadows. But Chakotay wasn't playing.

Not that he didn't understand what Tom wanted. A minute or two of rough play, and Tom saw understanding dawn in his eyes.

And then the stubborn sonofabitch just peeled himself off of him. Pulled back, with his hands gentle around Tom's wrists. Even though that magnificent cock was so hard it was weeping. Didn't seem angry, just seemed hurt.

"I don't do that." The words were crisp and final. Then the eyes dulled a little. "Is that what you think? I'm some sort of Maquis mauler? Some sort of rapist?"

Damn; he was going to leave; Tom could see the signs.

"It's what I like!" he said desperately.

Chakotay looked down at him, looked straight into his eyes for what seemed a very long time.

Then, "No, you don't," he said firmly.

And then he was on him.

That slow, thorough ravishment began again. Chakotay's strong hands all over him, except for his cock and his balls, and, oh, they really wanted it. Chakotay's hot mouth all over him, except for his balls and his cock, and oh damn, they wanted it.

"Ohmygod, fuck me--just fuck me," Tom found himself moaning; and Chakotay's laugh was rough.

"No," he said; and he captured Tom's hands when they tried to finish things. Pinned them above Tom's head. Knelt to one side, so there was no way to rub himself off against the hot belly. Just stopped things for an eternal minute. Tom felt Chakotay's free hand brush against his cheek, soul-searingly gentle.

"Look at me." Chakotay's voice was soft, uncommanding.

But Tom obeyed. Damn--the man was just luscious. Flushed skin shining with sweat, mouth swollen from kissing. Dark eyes half frustrated, half tender. The eyes held him mesmerized; he couldn't seem to look away. Had anyone ever before looked at him like that?

Time froze for a long, aching minute.

Then Chakotay was on him again. In control, taking no nonsense. Their sweat-slick bellies slid against each other; their hot cocks brushed, brushed, brushed. Chakotay's hands were gentle on his body; his gaze was tender and joyous.

Tom couldn't look away. His flailing hands found Chakotay's tiny ass; his heels dug into the mattress; he thrust, he thrust, mesmerized.

And saw the instant of Chakotay's orgasm, saw the joy flush with wonder. Felt his own body take fire an instant later, Chakotay's face unfocusing as Tom rode the sweet heat for what seemed an eternity.

Everything blanked out for a moment. He dimly felt Chakotay's body slip to one side, one leg holding him in place, one hand drifting along his jaw. Before he realized what he was doing, he touched the hand, caught the fingers, kissed them.

A minute where he felt completely drained, completely at ease.

He turned his head and looked at Chakotay. There was that damned tenderness again, and a little sadness. Tom couldn't seem to look away.

"I'd like to stay," Chakotay said softly.

This was the time to get him out of here, to regroup, to rebuild the defenses Chakotay had just dented. Getting the guy out let you shower, change the sheets, put the fucking into fucking perspective. Best to get the stubbornsweet dewy-eyed bastard out of here right now.

Of course, he mentally kicked himself about 32 times a minute as he floundered through the negotiations with the puzzled and slightly resentful head man. Chakotay was a solid presence beside him; and Paris wasn't sure which finally closed the deal: Paris's winning ways or Chakotay's unwavering stare.

The head man didn't even seem sorry that their usual little deal-closing shindig didn't happen.

Paris waited for the next few days: waited for somebody to say something about whores, make some remark. But there was nothing--suprising, given the gossip-mongers on this ship. But the Captain and Chakotay apparently were keeping their reports under wraps; and Harry Kim was too freaky at the thought of Chakotay and child-bearing to let anybody else in on their humiliating little encounter in paradise. Paris could rib him, though, which made Paris feel unaccountably good.

Chakotay was still ... Chakotay. Upright, uptight. Spine of duranium, with stubbornness to match. But Paris remembered the fury in those eyes when he had his hand around the neck of the wannabe rapist. That hadn't all been just outrage over a subordinate being pawed.

And--now and then--Chakotay made a little joke for Paris to smile at. Now and then, a quirk of a smile.

Now and then, a glance that hinted at--speculation.

And that, terrifying, also made Paris feel unaccountably good.

Of course, he mentally kicked himself all the next day, because the rest of that night wasn't at all what he needed. Oh, Chakotay sucked him and Chakotay fucked him; but it didn't have the raw drive he needed so he could completely lose himself. Didn't have the impersonal edge that let him forget he even existed.

This was-- Well, it was Chakotay giving him pleasure. Chakotay's hands all over him, Chakotay's mouth avid on his cock. Chakotay exploring him, learning what he liked, using the knowledge to guide him to orgasm. Damn earth-shaking orgasms, but not the warp-core obliteration Tom needed, because every one of those orgasms was built around Chakotay, based on the musk of his skin, on the touch of those deft fingers, on the rough voice growling words and half words as Chakotay lost himself in pleasure. This wasn't what he'd wanted: the exhiliration built on those whispers of "Tom, Tom, Tom," as he was ridden, on the taste of those blunt fingers he mouthed as Chakotay sucked his cock. He didn't want that anchor to someone honorable enough not to despise him. It felt better to just kick free into oblivion.

He avoided Chakotay for the next few days--tried not to make it obvious. But it was tougher than he'd expected, not because they couldn't avoid each other on the bridge, but because for some reason they kept meeting everywhere else. Always unexpected: Chakotay looked startled almost every time. Looked good, too, which Tom hadn't anticipated: usually, the guys who fucked him were pretty stomach-turning the next day.

What was also unexpected was that Chakotay seemed to be leaving it up to him whether or not they did it again. Oh, he invited Tom to eat with him. Lunch. In the mess hall. But he didn't act the way guys usually acted after they'd slept with Tom--possessive or needy or distant; he just acted like they were good friends.

He thought about it while he tinkered on the holodeck. Always soothing to write his own world, where things could pretty much go the way he wanted them to. He fiddled with an old program: little dive in Marseilles that he'd spent far too much time as a cadet. When it seemed right, he fired it up for the rest of the crew. Most of them used it as a place to gather in, combining their holodeck time for a little pool, a little music, some pretty good wine. Not everybody. Chakotay didn't show up much.

The crew's pleasure was warming, though like any artist Paris still fooled with stuff, smoothing this out, adding that. Great thing about a virtual world is that you can fiddle with it whether it needs it or not.

Paris went there, played pool, drank, flirted. Never seemed completely right, though: something missing.

So it was Tom who had to make the next move. "I've got a couple hours coming to me on the holodeck," he said over some interrupted paperwork. "You want to come?"

His face heated the instant he realized that a double entendre had left his mouth, but Chakotay just blinked and then said, "Sure!" Happily.

For some reason, Tom's stomach was flip-flopping as he showed Chakotay into the holodeck. Like it mattered if Chakotay liked the program or not.

"It's a little bar I used to spend way too much time in," Tom said. "Kind of ... shitty." Suddenly it struck him that the bar wasn't good enough for Chakotay. "We could run something else."

"I like it," said Chakotay. "Feels like home."

Now that had never occured to Tom: that Chakotay had ever been inside a place like this.

"Met one of my old crew members in a place like this," Chakotay went on. "I was getting the shit kicked out of me by a guy with just no sense of humor."

He went over, tested the pool table. "You play?"

"Oh, yeah," said Paris the Hustler of Marseilles.

Scaryshit moment when he realized what it was. When he realized that, somehow, even this touch of home, with all his friends there--somehow, the whole program seemed off.

Unless that stubborn sonofabitch with the attitude problem was right there, too.

He didn't have to try very hard to lose to Chakotay. And it worked: after the game, when Tom caught his eye and said, "Ever play strip pool?" Chakotay grinned lasciviously.

"Not in this quadrant."

"We could...." Tom murmured.

Chakotay looked around. "Got a room upstairs?" he said. "I like it private. With a bed nearby." He grinned. "So I can enjoy my winnings."

The great thing about holoprograms is they're so easy to adapt. Cheesy pool room up the creaky stairs, with a cheap, squeaky bed and a door that didn't lock.

"The rules I play by," Chakotay breathed in Tom's ear before they started, "you foul, you lose a piece of clothing. You scratch, and I win it all."

Seemed fair, though for some reason Tom kept fouling a lot; and my god, wouldn't Freud have loved this game. Balls and long hard sticks to fondle and deep pockets for things to disappear into; and once Tom started losing, Chakotay teasing his pool cue up the inside of Tom's leg, "for luck." Damn good run of luck it gave him, too.

The sounds from downstairs, the occasional creaking as someone passed the unlocked door, Chakotay's appreciative gaze as Tom shed piece after piece of clothing, the sight of the rough sheets on the bed.... When Tom finally shed his underwear, he was hard as the pool cue and dizzy with anticipation.

"Now?" he breathed.

Chakotay's grin was mischievous. "That was for your clothes," he said. "Now is for your virtue."

Tom scratched immediately.

And, oh, damn, it was even better than he'd bargained for: the bed's frenzied squeaking; laughter just outside and someone saying, "Must be collecting his winnings;" Chakotay's sweat tangy in his mouth; that erotic smell of musk and warm Chakotay; the free-fall sensation of giving himself to the man grunting, "Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom," as he thrust, as he thrust, as he thrust.

And at last, surrendering to the heat and the rush of Chakotay's orgasm, as aware of it as he was of his own.

He felt their hearts thumping against each other, heard them slowing.

"Ow," Chakotay said politely.

Huh? Oh. Tom let go of Chakotay's hair. "Sorry."

"That's okay. I'm just glad it's too short for you get a really good grip." Chakotay was easing off him.

While they were trying to fit themselves on the cruddy little mattress, the bed collapsed underneath them.

"Are you okay?" Chakotay was laughing. "You programmed that, didn't you?"

"No." Tom was laughing harder than he had in weeks.

"We don't have to pay for this thing, do we?" Chakotay asked in mock anxiety.

Though, shit, they barely had time enough to program a quick shower before Tom's time was up. Watching the water sluice over the hard body next to him, Tom started to plan out another program. Water had so many possibilities.

A few days went by before they had a chance to get together in private. But Tom could tell it wasn't because Chakotay wasn't interested. On the contrary: the warmth in the dark eyes, the incipient smile when he saw Tom.

Not that Paris did anything about it, of course. Well, not with Chakotay.

Because there were plenty of warm bodies on that ship, and some of them hadn't heard half the stories about Paris.

Because, really, he didn't need Chakotay, didn't need that smug arrogance, that superiority. Didn't need the reminders of his mistakes and his failings.

So Paris enjoyed himself with people on the planets they passed--though, okay, that turned out to be a bad idea on Banea, when that scientist was murdered while Paris was flirting with his wife.

Better still was enjoying himself with people on both crews--those Delaney sisters, wow! and, twins!--but he got restless fast--sometimes even before he got to the actual payoff. And Chakotay started looking impatient again, started acting curt, freezing him out. Acting disappointed in him.

Not that it mattered to Paris. Nothing Chakotay did mattered to Paris.

Time the bastard realized that.

It was terrifying. Because it was fragile; once Chakotay remembered that Tom was such a fucking screwup, he'd drop him like the loser he was. And, really, Tom fucking didn't need this. All he needed was sex, and even mediocre sex with Harry Kim would do. Just sex. He didn't need Chakotay.

Trouble was, when he went to Chakotay's quarters to explain this, five minutes after the explanation was done, he was on his belly, moaning, "Harder, harder!" Didn't get out until morning.

The next explanation a couple days later went pretty much the same way.

He tried to stay away, to distract himself with people on both crews--those Delaney sisters, wow! and, twins!--but he got restless fast--sometimes even before he got to the actual payoff.

He knew Chakotay was watching him. Not jealous, not disappointed. Just ... observing.

And maybe it was the knowlege or maybe it was the restlessness, but inevitably Tom found himself outside Chakotay's quarters and then found himself in Chakotay's arms. They didn't always fuck. But either way he listened for the brush-off.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself murmur one of those nights.

"It's ... your choice." But Chakotay's hands were shaking.

Damn. "I--" He pulled away, looked into the strained face. I don't know what I'm doing, he wanted to say. I don't understand any of this. Maybe I'm losing my mind. Just what you wanted to hear from the guy at the helm of the great big ship. "I--" he said again. Then, "I killed some people." Chakotay was watching him. "On Caldik Prime." Just watching him. "Three people."

Pause.

"I know," said Chakotay.

Tom waited for the damned sympathy or the pious condescending explanation that it hadn't been his fault.

He didn't get it.

"It was an accident!" he finally said, with heat. "I didn't mean it! it just happened!"

"You were responsible," Chakotay said. "You were at the helm."

That was like a punch to the heart, a clean blow that took the wind right out of you.

He sat there and struggled for breath, because he really should be leaving now--why on earth would he stay around some guy who didn't even realize it wasn't his fault?--but he couldn't move. It was the first time he'd been in the presence of somebody who didn't try to forgive him or analyze him or pity him. It was the first time he'd been in the presence of somebody who knew just what was what.

Chakotay was still looking at him, tenderly, evenly. "What do you want?" he asked quietly. "You want my sympathy? You want my forgiveness? What?" He leaned close. "You want me to tell you you're not responsible? You are. You were at the helm. It happened. Because the laws of physics-- Well, they don't bend around you, Tom Paris. I've read the reports. All of them. What happened was inevitable. You did the best you could. But it wasn't enough. They died anyway. And all the sympathy in the universe isn't going to take that away from you."

Tom stared at him. There was something-- He couldn't breathe. And-- Everything was a little blurry-- He rubbed at his eyes, stared at his shaking hand when it came away wet.

He struggled for breath. "I ... I didn't want it to--" Agony twisted inside him. "I didn't want it to happen." Which was a really stupid thing to say--who would want it to happen?--and really wasn't what he wanted to say, anyway. But that was what he choked out. He covered his eyes.

And found himself in Chakotay's embrace, sobbing like a two-year-old in Chakotay's arms. There were a couple minutes when he couldn't get a handle on it, couldn't seem to stop. And then, even after he did, after the tears were just sniffling, he was still in Chakotay's arms, still being warmed by the big, sweet body. He relaxed into that warmth.

"You are the most half-assed crier I've ever met," Chakotay said fondly, reaching for something, handing him tissue.

Tom laughed damply and blew his nose. Laughed again. "I try not to practice." He blew his nose again. "I look like shit."

A shaky breath. "You always look just fine to me," Chakotay said huskily; and when Tom looked shyly at him, he seemed to mean it, which was embarrassing. Tom didn't know where to look. He wiped his damp nose.

Chakotay drew him close again. Tom put his head on Chakotay's shoulder and relaxed. A long moment went by.

"I don't know what we're going to do," Chakotay said quietly. It sounded rhetorical.

Whatever he was talking about, it didn't involve letting go of Tom, so it wasn't important. He felt himself letting go, released his hold, anchored by those arms. The sense of that warm safety followed him into sleep.

The bastard seemed not to have realized it by the time Torres asked him and Paris to take out the recently overhauled Shuttle Ibn Battuta for a shakedown spin. The whole trip, Chakotay was silent as a stone, except when he snapped out orders for this and that. They tried out the warp capabilities--maybe not the smartest thing, given that they were in Kazon space--and had to take her engine apart and do a little on-the-spot revamp that took a good portion of the afternoon. By the time they were done and had a fix on Voyager, Paris was ready to pitch Chakotay right out an airlock.

And, wouldn't you know, even once they were back at the ship, things weren't right.

Because they were there, and Voyager was there.

But the crew wasn't.

For an eternal minute, Paris couldn't seem to breathe.

Scanning and talking to the computer and talking to the Doctor and reconstructing the timeline didn't make him feel any better.

Crew removed in the space of a few seconds, a couple hours and light years ago. Some sort of sensor beam bathing the ship; and then the logs every place on the ship showed the same: crew member, shimmer, gone.

"Transporter?" Chakotay murmured.

So they flew Voyager back to within kilometers of where the crew had vanished. Damn creepy trip, on a silent ship that seemed populated by ghosts.

"My god," Chakotay breathed when he saw what was waiting for them.

"Shiiiit," Paris agreed.

It wasn't long after that that they became An Item. Not that they were obvious about the fact that they were fucking on a regular schedule. Just that people noticed things, and on a ship like this, seventy thousand light years from home, people gossiped seventy times as much. Some of the Federation crew were titillated and maybe a little shocked: the admiral's son sleeping with the enemy. But most of them took it pretty well. Some of the Maquis crew were a little suspicious; but eventually they took it for granted. That Bajoran woman didn't--Seska, that was her name. Sheesh--the fury that rolled off of her when she saw Tom. And Torres: it took her a little while to warm back up.

Then stuff started to happen. This, that. Things gone missing: a replicator, a phaser or two.

A murder. When the murderer turned out to be Lon Suder, for some reason everybody relaxed a little about the other stuff, like he was to blame for that, too, though it didn't make any sense. The stuff was still missing.

Chakotay got that strained look, like it was all his fault: Suder was, after all, a Maquis. He'd brought him onboard, and he'd killed.

Not your fault, Tom could have told him, but didn't. That just didn't always help.

Six moons, one ringed planet--nothing special. Except the space between was littered with ships: various types, in various stages of decay. All drifting for the big planet, slowly drawing them ever closer for a final fiery fall.

All abandoned.

Sensors hinted at a population, scattered thinly over a planet full of ruins. No modern technology. A couple hot spots, though, where something hummed and provided energy. There, the population was thicker. Calculations showed them where Voyager had been when the crew vanished: right over one of the hot spots where there was one fucking big building humming with energy, and some villages.

They argued over how the hell to get down there without triggering whatever had happened before; and then they argued over whether both of them should go or not.

They both transported down, to just outside the building.

"Nice day," Paris observed.

Chakotay grunted. Phasers drawn, they took readings of the building and the area and the nice day. Building impenetrable to tricorder scans, area clear of humanoids, and ambient temperature well-nigh perfect.

So, in they went.

It was obvious that the building hadn't been used for years. And it was equally obvious when Chakotay tried his commbadge that communication with the ship would be impossible.

Greaaaat. Paris just loved these.

He liked this one less than usual: unlighted corridor littered with unrecognizable junk. Carbon marks here and there; center of the corridor clean and well-worn: somebody went through here regularly.

They edged along, aiming lights, phasers ready. Creepy building silent except for the busy hum of machinery. Empty--

Except for the enormous room where Voyager's crew slept. Tier after tier of shelves, with Voyager's crew asleep on them. Machinery humming in the background. Paris had a flash of the Caretaker's awful laboratory.

A hiss from Chakotay; and Paris flashed his light to a little table to the side. A crew member--Samtha?--in a tangle of tubes and machinery. Dissected quite efficiently.

Paris swallowed hard and lowered his light.

"Whatever that machinery is--" Chakotay's voice was tight. "--we have to get it turned off." Paris watched him change from the shocked man back into the Commander. "I'll go look for a power source. You get someone back to the ship, so the Doctor can figure out what's happened."

"Let me look for the power source," Paris said. "The Doctor might need you to--"

"Just don't stay too long, Tom," Chakotay said briskly. And he left.

Damn. It really wasn't that Paris was concerned for Chakotay's safety; it was just that--well, that sometimes you needed a Commander to tell the Doctor what was what. Really; it was just that. He spotted Janeway, on one of the lower shelves. Besides, the damned stubborn sonofabitch always seemed to get himself into trouble when somebody wasn't around to--

What was that light?

He turned. Torches, in the doorway. Fire, flickering.

His light fell full on a group stopped in the doorway. For a half second, everybody froze.

In that half second, his eye took in everything: men, women, children. Baskets. Knives. All of them had knives.

He felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle.

Then he was howling and waving his light around, stamping toward them, shrieking at the top of his lungs.

Somebody screamed, and the group stampeded out the door. He followed them, up the corridor clear to the entrance, still howling. It would have been funny, but there was something about those knives that--

A cry from behind him; and Paris was off at a run. Chakotay. Fucking stubborn Chakotay--

Who was struggling to move, apparently held in the corridor by some beam.

While a guy with a torch and a knife circled him, apparently looking for the best place to stab.

He fell with a really satisfying smack when Paris phasered him.

"Don't!" Chakotay shouted as Paris came for him. "I--I seem to have triggered something. No point in getting you caught, too."

And the fucking tricorder was, of course, no use. No figuring out where the beam was coming from, so Paris could phaser it out of existence.

"How come he wasn't affected?" Paris asked, using the tricorder anyway.

"I don't know--different biology?"

As much sense as any-- "I think they were here to--as ... cannibals."

Sick look at each other; then both looked at the downed hunter beside the torch with its dying flame.

"What happened to your light?" Paris asked.

"It quit working the second the beam caught me. Phaser isn't working, either. Some sort of electromagnetic pulse, I guess."

Great.

"Tom," said Chakotay. "You have to get a force field up at the entrance, keep those people out of here. You have to get somebody up to Voyager, so the Doctor can start working on them."

"And if he wakes up?" Paris said, raising his phaser to remind Chakotay that it could be set on kill.

Chakotay gave him a little headshake tantamount to an order. "Just hurry," he said.

So Paris hurried. Into the room, where he found Janeway and tossed her unceremoniously over his shoulder. Back up the corridor, shining his light into every corner.

Because he was frozen with horror at what could happen if any of those people had crept back. The helpless crew. Chakotay, imprisoned there in darkness as that torch guttered out, listening for his murderer waking.

The cannibals hadn't retreated far outside the building. And, shit, they didn't look happy. But they stayed away, though he'd love an excuse to phaser them all out of existence.

He called the computer, described the force field he wanted, waited while it sizzled into place. Transported himself and Janeway to the ship.

"Since when has it been procedure to transport the patient over your shoulder like a Neanderthal?" the Doctor huffed when they materialized in sickbay.

"No time," Paris said. "Take care of her, brief her, come up with a way we can get the crew awake before somebody does them in." He was out of Sickbay before the Doctor could come up with another huffy speech.

Just hurry. Paris grabbed a phaser rifle, transported back to just inside the force field. The crowd had gotten bolder. They were throwing stones at the field, either fascinated by the sparks or convinced they could "break" it.

He ran. A glance into the room where the crew still slept dreamless.

He charged down the corridor, rifle at ready.

Except he was too fucking late. The cannibal was on his feet, fingers tangled in Chakotay's hair, knife on Chakotay's throat. Growling something unfriendly into Chakotay's ear as he walked the Commander backward up the corridor.

The cannibal stopped when Paris's light hit them. Cast a glare at Paris, then started dragging Chakotay up the corridor toward Paris. This time, though, he was watching his feet on the well-lit path.

Shit. Paris had a great shot at him, but he was the only one who could get Chakotay out of that beam. And if the bastard so much as twitched as he went down, Chakotay's throat would be sliced ear to ear.

Paris fell back before them, lit the bastard's path so he wouldn't stumble and accidentally kill the commander of the sweetest ship in the Delta Quadrant. He practically felt Chakotay's relief when they left the area controlled by the beam and he could move on his own. Not that he could move much.

With the Commander clear, Paris made his own move.

"Hey," he said to the cannibal.

Who glared at him and made a threatening twitch with the knife.

Oh, great. "Me," Paris said, pointing to himself. "Take me." He gestured to the knife, then to himself. "Take me. I'm a hell of a lot more tender."

"Don't." Chakotay caught his breath as the knife shifted on his throat.

"Don't worry. I have no intention of being lunch." But, Voyager could better stand to lose a pilot than she could her commander--though he'd never tell Chakotay that. He smiled invitingly at the cannibal. "Take me."

The logic, the smile, or the promise of being tender--something made up the cannibal's mind. Or maybe it was the light Paris was carrying--the guy couldn't seem to keep his eyes off it.

Either way, he swung the knife from Chakotay's throat to Paris's, let go of Chakotay, grabbed Paris by the hair and bent his head back before either could move. Very efficient.

"More painful than it looks," Paris hissed. But just as awkward: dragged backward, hoping to hell the guy didn't twitch too hard.

"Shit, Paris!" Chakotay followed them, stealthily took the phaser rifle, which the cannibal apparently didn't see as a weapon.

"Hey--you're always ... telling me to take initiative." His neck muscles were screaming--couldn't the guy let up for a second?

Then they were past the room where the crew lay helpless, and then they were at the open entrance, where sunlight streamed in.

Paris turned off his light.

The cannibal stopped in his tracks; and for a horrible instant Paris thought he was going to just slaughter him on the spot.

But the idiot just made a surprised sound and lifted the knife to gesture at Paris's light with it.

And dropped when Chakotay cold-cocked him with the rifle butt.

Didn't let go of Paris fast enough, though; and, "Shit!" Paris was on the ground, rubbing uselessly at his wrenched neck.

Then Chakotay was beside him, kicking the knife far down the corridor; and his hands were on Paris's neck, kneading, soothing. Felt pretty fucking good. Paris relaxed into it.

"Damn it, Tom," Chakotay said with some heat.

Paris looked up at him. "This is what--three times I've saved your life? Three lives you owe me?"

"Well, I did save yours when the Oeongaleesh wanted it."

My god: an actual joke. "Actually, it wasn't my life they were after...."

And then Chakotay was looking down at him; and Paris saw a smile touch the corners of the precise mouth. "So, if my life belongs to you, since you've saved it," Chakotay murmured, "then, I suppose your virtue belongs to--"

"Gentlemen!" Janeway's voice, brisk.

Chakotay let go. Paris's head hit the floor with a distinct thunk. "Sorry," muttered Chakotay. He helped Paris to his feet.

"Are you all right?" asked the captain.

"Just my-- Oh, god." Paris winced. "Just my neck and my head and about half the muscles down my back--"

"Report to the Doctor." Janeway took him from Chakotay, supported him as they left the building. "Come back when he's taken care of you."

Oh, gee--alone and helpless with pain in the hands of the Doctor, no doubt still smarting from being ordered around like a mere ensign. What fun.

But Janeway grasped his arm and looked deep into his eyes. "Good job, Tom."

And Paris looked past her at the doorway, where Chakotay stood, actually smiling at him; and wouldn't you know it, the praise in Janeway's husky, intimate tone was nothing compared with the memory of Chakotay's strong, comforting hands and that smile, so warm that Paris wanted to bathe in it forever.

The shuttle most definitely wasn't Suder's fault.

When the first thruster blew, Tom thought, Shit!

When the next two blew, his brain started to chant, Ohnoohnoohnoohno--

Numbers four, five, and six; and everything inside his head just fucking shut down; he became a machine. Senses locked into what the shuttle was doing; brain flipping through scenarios; hands flickering over the conn. He knew that Harry Kim was beside him, but it didn't matter, because they were about to skim the ionosphere of the fucking planet they were supposed to survey, and if Tom didn't keep it together, they'd be adding some new elements to the planet's surface.

He angled her nose a little higher, and they bounced, as he'd hoped they would. But the atmospheric drag slowed her a little, and they frankly didn't have the thrusters to keep her in orbit for long. And then there was the lovely ticklish problem of getting her back onto Voyager.

Because--with the remaining thrusters still on full--the conn shut down completely.

Harry was out of his seat in a nanosecond, headed for the processor at the back of the shuttle. Tom fell to his knees to examine the conn panel.

"Nothing wrong here!" Harry shouted.

"Nothing here!" Tom answered. Fuck!

Tom slapped his commbadge, but there was no answer, because the computer just wasn't there to respond.

The shuttle shook at that exact instant, and Tom felt his heart stop. Even with two thrusters burning, they would sink toward that big hard shuttle-smashing planet far faster than he'd like.

There was another shudder. And,

"Oh, thank you!" Harry said fervently.

Tom raised his head to look out the port.

And saw Voyager, tractor beams on full, holding them steady. Though with the thrusters still firing, bringing them into the shuttle bay would be disastrous.

A crackle on his commbadge. "--to Paris. Are ... okay?"

The damned tractor beams interfered with ship-to-commbadge communications at just the worst times.

"Yes!" he said. "But, Voyager, we've got a problem--"

Yeah, they fucking did. "Shiiiiit," Tom breathed, as the second-biggest Kazon warship he'd ever seen glided out from behind the planet's closest moon.

What happened next he wasn't in a position to hear. There was probably an exchange, and it probably went along the lines of Janeway saying, "Back off," and the Kazon captain replying, "Make me." It wouldn't be a fucking equal contest, because Voyager couldn't raise shields while the tractor beam was in use, and they were too far away for her to enclose them in her shields. So it was bye-bye Voyager or bye-bye Shuttle Ibn Batuta, and Tom knew which one made more sense.

Chakotay, he thought. Chakotay. It seemed all he could think.

He knew that Harry was making his own peace with the universe--

Then Voyager was coming at them at full impulse; and the two photon torpedoes she spat out seemed just an afterthought.

But they did the job on the Kazon cruiser--wham whomp--the first puncturing her shields, and the second punching a hole right through her midsection. There was a second or two when it wasn't clear that the cruiser was even hurt.

Then a flower of fire seemed to bloom inside the ship, and out spewed flame and ship plating in all directions--

--and Voyager was right over the shuttle; he almost felt her shields extending around them, holding them in a protective embrace, which was good, because--

--the shock wave hit them and everything went haywire for an eternity or two they were rolled even inside the shield everything flying and Harry crying out and something thumping him pretty damned hard on the shoulder--

It was a shaky minute before Tom realized he was in one piece. And Harry. And the shuttle. And-- He slapped his commbadge.

"Paris to Voyager!"

"Good to ... voice, Tom." Chakotay. Fuck--Chakotay was all right. He could have sobbed in his relief.

Not that they were out of the woods yet. The fucking thrusters were still at work. And where there was one Kazon cruiser, there usually were two or three.

"I've got to disconnect the power cells," Tom told Harry.

"Let me." Harry was fast, and Harry was adamant. He had the panel open over the cells before Tom could stop him.

"I'm the pilot; it's my job," Tom said, elbowing him out of the way.

"You get the next ones." And Harry had his hand on the power cell unit before Tom could stop him.

He jerked.

A sudden crackle and a flash, and both of them were flung wide. Tom blinked, shook his head free of cobwebs, scrambled over to Harry.

Who wasn't breathing.

Tom's hands were working even before his brain caught up, pumping that still chest. He cocked the head back, blew air into Harry's lungs. Pump; blow. Pump; blow; pump--

Harry choked, sprayed vomit, coughed. Automatically, Tom turned him on his side, crooning encouragement, slamming him unmedically on the back to make sure everything cleared. He barely noticed when the shuttle thumped gently onto the deck of the main shuttle bay.

It was after they'd rushed Harry off to sickbay that Tom suddenly started to shake. Fucking almost happened again fucking almost killed-- Tom's legs failed him, and he leaned against the shuttle. --Harry almost killed Harry--

Distantly, he heard thumping over and over and over--somebody hitting something hard again and again--hitting something unyielding--

Then Chakotay was there; he could smell that warm skin; Chakotay right next to him.

And it was Tom's fist hitting the side of the shuttle, Tom's arm jolted from the thumping. Somebody was trying to stop him, but Chakotay interfered; there was a small altercation.

And then Tom found he could stop. Chakotay just put his hand on Tom's cheek, and Tom stopped.

The next thing he knew, he was in sickbay, and the Doctor was being sarcastic over his broken hand.

"Don't," Chakotay said; and the Doctor shut up.

Harry was okay; Tom could see the monitor from here. Asleep, and some of the readings looked a little wrong, but okay. Eventually. Kes was beside him. She was really wonderful in sickbay, and Harry would be all right.

Torres stomped in then, crackling so much fury they could have run the ship off her rage for at least a couple weeks.

"Sabotage!" she spat out to Chakotay. "Somebody sabotaged the shuttle! Almost killed--"

And to Tom's astonishment, her face started to crumple. She marched over the Harry's biobed, swept Kes right out of the way. She glared at the monitors, at Harry Kim.

"Damn it, Starfleet!" she said.

Suddenly Tom felt giddy. So tired he could barely stay upright. Chakotay's strong hands were on him; he leaned into that warm body and closed his eyes. Chakotay stroked his neck.

"Hmmm," said the Doctor. "Perhaps there's a paper here on the narcotic effects of sexual--"

"I can do that, Doctor," Kes said hastily. "Perhaps you should see to Ensign Kim."

Tom felt the rumble of Chakotay's repressed laughter. "Somebody ought to reprogram his bedside manner," he said softly.

"I heard that!"

"And his hearing," Chakotay whispered.

It actually took no time at all to get everybody up and out of there: once the captain was properly infuriated, all kinds of things could happen. Samtha was the only casualty, though the Doctor came close to being erased when he chirped, "Excellent job!" at the sight of her dissected body.

What to do occupied some hours of discussion. Examination of what computer logs they could decipher and of what parts of the building they could safely move through hinted at a disaster of global proportions sometime in the distant past. Something--one of those fabulous diseases that the Delta Quadrant seemed to specialize in, perhaps--befalling the population led them to create these monstrous automatic laboratories, kidnapping the crews of passing starships, to be analyzed, apparently in the hope that they held the key to an antidote. Poor Samtha had almost done in Chakotay: her biology, fed into the system, taught the computer that humans were now lab subjects, to be caught if they escaped, and to be held until a member of the planet's population came to take charge.

Which was where the cannibals came in. Descendants, it seemed, of the original builders. Survivors of the devastation, now living quite literally on the accidental bounty that arrived every few months.

A couple well-placed photon torpedoes changed their diet for good.

From his place on the bridge, Paris looked at the abandoned starships in their decaying orbits and thought about the crews, kidnapped and helpless under the knives of people more curious about how they tasted than about what they knew or thought or created. The damned arbitrariness of the universe was just breathtaking sometimes.

Yeah, he thought, like you didn't know that already.

It actually took no time at all to find out who'd done it; apparently, once Torres was properly pissed off, all kinds of things could happen. Later, Tom wasn't sure what set her off: Harry getting hurt--though she was right back to standoffish the instant he could leave sickbay--or one of her precious shuttles being damaged. Whatever it was, it inspired here: she tore right through every log, every sensor reading, and swept the others along like some gravitational tsunami.

By the time Tom woke and stumbled out of sickbay, the only possible suspect was in the brig.

Seska.

He didn't know if it was a surprise or not; he hadn't thought about her much except to note that she reeeeally didn't like him with Chakotay. The hate in her eyes was almost palpable when Tom found Chakotay and Janeway questioning her in the brig. Jealous. Chakotay's gaze at her was stony, but under it was a hint of absolute loathing. Another of his friends murdering among the crew; and this one turned out to have been trying to leave the remains of a nice little shuttle for her new friends, the Kazon, to pick over. Tom's death would have been a nice little bonus for her.

"You two are off duty," Janeway said firmly. She and Chakotay shared a glance: respect and sympathy and determination. In that instant, it was hard to believe that either had been ready to kill the other just a few months ago.

Tension just radiated from Chakotay as he and Tom went to Chakotay's quarters.

"How's Kim?" he asked.

"He'll be fine. If Torres bouncing off the walls in sickbay doesn't kill him."

Chakotay smiled. "She gets intense," he said. "When it's somebody she cares about, she--gets intense."

Chakotay got a little intense, himself, once they were at his quarters, bossing Tom into eating, into showering, into bed. Where he couldn't seem to leave Tom alone--touching, examining. It was like having a second physical.

"I'm okay," Tom protested. "Really!"

And the look Chakotay gave him then: half tenderness, half agony. Tom pulled him close; and ahgod, the rest of that sweet night....

He woke before Chakotay did and watched him sleep for a muzzy moment and then thought very clearly, Oh, shit--that was NOT supposed to happen. And what the hell was he supposed to do now? Tell Chakotay?

Then Chakotay's eyes opened, and they looked at each other for a long moment.

"When did I fall in love with you?" Chakotay asked conversationally.

Tom felt his heart skip a couple thousand beats. Okay, so the big lug got it in first. "Oh, I don't know," he said more lightly than he felt. "I just woke up one day, and there I was--head over heels in love. With you," he finished a little shakily.

A smile touched Chakotay's soft mouth. Tom grinned at him. If the computer hadn't reminded them at that exact second that they were due on duty in thirty minutes, who knows what would have happened?

As it was, as Tom dressed, behind him, Chakotay cleared his throat and said in a tiny, shaky voice, "So, you want to just move in here, or should we get married first?"

Tom swiveled his head around so fast his ears nearly flew off. Married? HIM?!?

It was a really great wake--everybody seemed to think so. Samtha probably would have enjoyed it: eulogizing her, everybody managed to forget the time she fried the newly refurbished antimatter reactant injector and the time she cracked the case on the antideuterium sublimator--which really shouldn't have been possible--and the dozen or so times she tried to attach the injector nozzles backward. Instead, they focused on the times she didn't screw things up; and Neelix told a really funny story about how she taught him to make trianon. He made it for the wake. It was a really good recipe.

Chakotay waylaid Paris when he went for his third piece of cake. "What you did," he said, "trading yourself for me with that cannibal--"

Paris felt his jaw tighten. "When an officer is in imminent danger of death, a subordinate is expected to take his place if it is at all feasible." And a Thanks, Tom! You saved my ass! wouldn't kill you.

Chakotay blinked. "Where is that in the regulations?"

It was in the Paris Code of Conduct, which he wasn't going to explicate.

"What I wanted to say," Chakotay went on, "was that it's the kind of thing I don't want you doing again."

Paris looked at him: Chakotay's eyes had the familiar disagree-with-me-and-die expression. So much for that little warm moment on the planet.

"Voyager needs all the good pilots she has, to get her home," Chakotay continued.

"And she needs her Commander more."

Chakotay's spine straightened at that; Paris thought, Here we go again. He braced himself for Dressing Down Number 92 on the subject of not arguing with a superior officer.

"The lieutenant's conclusion is correct." Tuvok's dry voice firmed Chakotay's jaw. "Your influence on Voyager clearly outweighs that of a single pilot, who can be replaced by anyone with sufficient skills."

Ah, gee, Tuvok; didn't know you cared.

Paris's dismay must have showed: Chakotay's mouth quirked. He leaned in. "Happy now, lieutenant?"

Oh, yeah. Paris watched Tuvok stride purposefully off. Thanks, Tuvok. Thanks a LOT. Every time Paris thought about it, trading his life for Chakotay's was an act of loyalty; in Tuvok's explanation, it was just Starfleet mathematics. Made Paris feel just peachy.

"And, Paris--" Chakotay's voice was steel; his eyes were stone. "--like I said, don't. Do it. Again."

It was a really great wedding--everybody seemed to think so. The captain looked proud and a little misty-eyed as she presided; Harry Kim practically smiled himself right in half. Torres was a little quiet, but she came around about the time the level in the punch bowl dropped halfway. Even Tuvok's right eyebrow hinted that he was having a reasonably good time.

Neelix outdid himself: the cake was gaudy and bizarre and just about inedible. Welcome to the Delta Quadrant wedding, Tom thought, trying to decide which of the little figures on top was supposed to be him and which was supposed to be Chakotay--or maybe they were both Neelix's impression of Starfleet Kazons. Tom wasn't really sure.

What he was sure about was that he had to be sick or something: clammy hands, and his stomach wasn't really doing that well, and breathing--something wrong with the oxygen mix. As the service progressed, he had the increasingly overwhelming sense that everything was closing in all around him. He grabbed Chakotay's hand at some point in the ceremony, and there was a ripple of amusement around him; but couldn't they all see how sick he was?

"Breathe, Tom," Chakotay murmured; and breathing helped a little.

After the ceremony, he started to feel a little better. The ring was uncomfortable, though: it was heavy and kept getting in his way, and he felt like he was about to clonk himself with it every time he raised his left hand. And time wasn't moving right: it kept surging forward and hanging back. Some sort of time distort. Temporal anomaly, or something, though nobody else seemed to notice.

Finally, he and Chakotay left the party under a barrage of confetti.

"This ritual once was believed to increase the fertility of the newly married couple," Tuvok said loudly to no one in particular, which indicated that maybe he'd been at the punch a little often. That he immediately pitched his handful of confetti into the side of Chakotay's face proved it.

They were going to be cleaning confetti out of the carpet for weeks, Tom realized when they got to their quarters. Every time he or Chakotay moved, it seemed to swirl around them like a little snowstorm.

"You want a shower?" Chakotay said.

By which he must have meant, "by yourself," because he didn't come in to share it, which was okay because Tom felt a lot better after those minutes by himself and that really hot shower. But his heart was jumping. It was stupid: he wasn't any damn virgin, especially not with Chakotay. This, though, was for keeps. And, boy, the guy reflected in the mirror looked really scared.

When Tom stepped into the bedroom, Chakotay was sitting on a corner of the bed, naked. He didn't look like the commander, sitting there; he didn't look like the arrogant Maquis captain. He just looked like a man, staring down at his wedding ring, about as uncertain as a guy could get.

Tom walked over, put his left hand on Chakotay's. For an moment, they stared down at the two rings.

Then Chakotay looked up at him, and Tom saw the smile come into his eyes. And he slid his hand down Chakotay's face; and bent; and kissed the sweet mouth; and Chakotay pulled him down onto the bed.

A wonderfully long time later, Chakotay laughed somewhere among the ravished sheets and drawled, "Well, no backing out now. We're officially consummated."

Tom laughed, too languid to move. "Yeah," he said; "they probably noticed that in the Alpha Quadrant."

That delicious laugh again; and Chakotay was pawing through the bedclothes, searching for him. The hand grabbed Tom's thigh, fingered it. Found his hand. Their rings clicked as their fingers intertwined.

A minute.

"Any regrets?" Tom asked.

A tightening of Chakotay's fingers; then he shifted and suddenly was grinning down at Tom.

"Just," he said, "that we didn't do this the day after I came aboard."

Not that Paris didn't have plenty of opportunities to save the stubborn bastard's life in the next weeks. Somehow, life in the Delta Quadrant was just one potential catastrophe after another. Made you wonder how the natives managed to survive.

Though there were those natives you just basically wanted to deck. Like the Ekaishaan, who might possibly have an acceptable power source, but whose condescension rivaled Tuvok's. There was the fact that their clocks were set differently from those on Voyager, and there was their amusement that they'd caught Voyager in sleep cycle. And there was the fact that, after Janeway had been wakened and stumbled to the bridge, it turned out that they wanted to talk to Chakotay, since the Ekaishaan women ran the spaceship, while the men made the contact and did the trading. So up Chakotay got, at what was now 0330 hours, and over to the Ekaishaan ship he went, to make preliminary contact; and back he came at about 0700 to report to Janeway. It looked good, but--

It could have been weird, being married to the commander. Things at home could have spilled over onto the bridge, and vice versa, but for some reason every time they threatened to, Tom found he could stop it: stop the smart remark, stop the insubordinate grin. It had something to do with not looking like an ass in front of Chakoty--or not letting him look like an ass in front of everybody else. Something like that; maybe those lessons in leadership they taught at the Academy should include fucking your junior officers into adoration.

And, for Chakotay's part, he seemed to be working on things, too. He was such a--well--commanding guy on the bridge, it would have been natural for him to stay the commander at home, too. And, once in a while he did get pretty damned bossy. But, for the most part, when they were alone together, to Tom Chakotay was just the guy Tom was in love with: the guy who ate more damn mushrooms than should have been healthy, the guy who had a hissy when Tom left his unwashed socks on the floor, the guy who'd gotten a really bad surprise when the Doctor did some blood work on Seska, the guy who gave the best fucking neck rubs in two Quadrants Tom knew of, the guy who sometimes cheated at cards. The guy Tom had somehow wrapped his soul and his life and his whole existence around.

"The final deal will be finalized tonight," he said, "--their tonight. Our-- In half an hour." He looked exhausted.

Janeway used some of her precious replicator credits to offer him more coffee, which he drank with evident gratitude. Paris, newly awake, watched wistfully as Chakotay drank the coffee. And watched Janeway watch wistfully as Chakotay drank the coffee. My god, but they had to get a fucking power source. Coffee was becoming more important than breath.

Having drunk the coffee, Chakotay continued. "They'll finalize it at some sort of dinner party. Well, breakfast for us, but--" He blinked, made another try. "They'd like me to attend with a junior officer. Apparently they have an apprentice system and are uncomfortable with the idea that I don't have a--ah--student. I was thinking that Lieutenant Paris would be the best choice. I've learned to count on his level-headedness in bad situations."

Paris stared at Chakotay. My god, it was a, bygod, compliment. From Chakotay. That coffee was just going right to the big lug's head.

Janeway was smiling at both of them. "I think it's a very good idea," she said.

So, off Paris went with Chakotay to the dinner party. Or breakfast. "I hope they don't have something--just inedible," he said.

"And just what," Chakotay replied, "could be more inedible than one of Neelix's breakfasts?"

The opening conversation, for one. "Ah!" said Bishooan, the head trader, as they exited the shuttle in the Ekaishaan shuttle bay. "Your cock-warmer!"

There was one of those universal-translator-fried-my-brain moments. Paris looked at Chakotay. Did fucking everybody in the fucking Delta Quadrant fucking think fucking Chakotay was fucking him? Chakotay turned that muddy color.

"Uh--" he said. "I thought you said 'student.'"

"Are they not with you the same, as they are with us? Do they not come to you because they admire you, because they are eager to learn, eager to give themselves to your service, body and mind, that they might learn from you? That they might become like you?"

Chakotay turned red. Yeah, Chakotay, Paris thought, did they not come to you, because they wanted to become Maquis?

"We--uh-- We don't have that system."

"Pity."

But Bishooan still seemed amenable to the negotiation.

"I am so sorry, Tom," Chakotay murmured as they followed him down one of the head-scrapingly low corridors. "They said 'student.' I distinctly heard them say 'student.'"

"Jus as long as I'm not served up a la mode at dinner."

Chakotay quirked him a quick grin. "You always struck me as the barbecue sauce type."

Good grief, a joke! "What do you know about barbecue sauce? You're a vegetarian."

The grin widened, was combined with a sidelong glance of pure mischief. "I have my non-vegetarian moments."

Right about then they entered the cabin where the dinner was to be held, which was a good thing, because Paris's brain was circling around "non-vegetarian moments" and that mischievous glance and the whole general theme in the Delta Quadrant that he was Chakotay's bed boy and the general lush quality of Chakotay's mouth; and--well, it was just a little too early in the day for that kind of rush, or even for admitting to himself that he was having that kind of--

He stopped dead inside the cabin. Pillows, all over; they'd be sitting on pillows at the low table; actually, reclining was more likely; Chakotay reclining right next to him on those nice, soft pillows; and it was just a little too early in the day for that kind of image, too.

Though things actually got worse during breakfast--dinner. Because they didn't just recline and feed themselves: the--uh, students served their--hmm, mentors. And more.

About halfway through the meal, some of the students started getting a little ... fresh.

Bishooan's student--a young man handsome in the Ekaishaan mode--knelt behind him, whispering into his ear as he slid his hands down Bishooan's body and then circled a distinct bulge at Bishooan's crotch with a languid finger.

Paris licked his dry lips and looked at Chakotay. Chakotay hadn't noticed; he was too busy not staring at the men beside them, one of whom seemed to be trying to map the other's body with his hands, under his clothes. Chakotay's face was about the red of his uniform. His breathing was erratic.

Paris caught Bishooan's reproving look at him and Chakotay and thought, Well, when in Rome--

He took Chakotay's chin in his hand and planted a good, solid kiss right on Chakotay's mouth.

The Commander froze for an instant; and then his mouth opened under Paris's, and the good kiss became a great kiss. When Chakotay pushed him off, Paris was dizzy.

Not too dizzy to notice Chakotay's face: half desperate, half furious.

"They--seem to expect us to," Paris managed to say.

Chakotay still looked furious, but the desperation was taking over; and when Paris lowered his mouth, Chakotay's rose to meet his with an audible click of teeth on teeth.

Shiiiit. Paris pushed him down onto the pillows, and for a glorious white-hot moment they seemed to fuse at the mouth, tongues busy exploring. Breaking away just allowed him to kiss Chakotay's jaw, cheek, chin, throat.

When the Commander pushed him away, Paris almost fought him.

They stared at each other for a long, breathless minute. Paris was dimly aware of somebody moaning nearby, and of some rhythmic sounds that were pretty universal. His cock twitched in sympathy.

Chakotay closed his eyes for a minute; and when he opened them, he was the calm Commander again, taking charge, making the decisions. "This is going no further," he said in a low voice. "You're one damn fine kisser, and we may be in the middle of an orgy, but this is going no further."

Paris leaned close. "Is that what they tell you to do at the Academy?"

Chakotay grinned. "Yes, actually. They have--a similar scenario, one of the cases we study."

"And if the loyal lieutenant just drops his pants and begs the stalwart commander to fuck him dry?" Because mygod it was a distinct possibility.

"Then the stalwart commander thinks of Starfleet and the handsome lieutenant's reputation and how used he'd feel later and--" His voice softened. "--and says, 'no.'"

No. Said like that, it was another case of that Starfleet mathematics. Paris felt as if he'd been slapped.

"Okay," he heard himself say as if from a distance.

And he leaned forward, putting one hand directly on Chakotay's crotch, and kissed him solidly on the mouth.

This time, Chakotay didn't react, didn't deepen the kiss. When Paris pulled away, Chakotay looked at him. That familiar old anger was building in his eyes.

"We still haven't closed the deal," Paris said; and he put his frustration into his kissing, into the touch of his fingers on Chakotay's body. Stubborn sonofabitch.

Chakotay's breathing was rough when he struggled to sit up a few minutes later. Paris kissed the side of Chakotay's neck. The Commander picked up some haschwa in his fingers and slid it into Paris's mouth as tenderly as if he were feeding a lover.

"Ready to finalize our deal?" Bishooan boomed across the table.

For a horrible moment, Paris was afriad he meant a trade of bed partners; and the alarm in Chakotay's face hinted that he thought so, too.

But it just meant more boring bargaining, now that appetites of all kinds had been satisfied.

Or, rather, not satisfied: "A man," Bishooan said with admiration, "who can wait until they are private to let his cock-warmer show his admiration is truly worthy to negotiate with."

Chakotay cast Paris a see-what-I-meant? look. Oh, yeah, Paris thought. You were right. Didn't do anything for his cock, which was not interested in the negotiations, but was mighty interested in the sight of Chakotay's beautiful mouth forming the necessary words. And, he had to admit, Chakotay was right about the rest, too: if they'd gone ahead, Paris would have felt damn used afterward. Sexually satisfied down to his toes, but used. But just wait till I get you home.

The guy whose ass was just too fucking choice to leave alone even after they'd been an old married couple for two whole months. Tom watched him dress, which was an unbelievably sexy act; Chakotay looked really great in that uniform. Chakotay was nattering on about something--whatever it was he had to do that day. Meetings. Whatever.

Tom could come up with other things to occupy that carefully trained mind. Just as they were about to leave, he grabbed Chakotay and planted one on him: soft and thorough. Slid his hand over the bulge at Chakotay's crotch, fingering, teasing.

When they broke the kiss, Chakotay was breathless and his color was high. "Shit, Tom. I do have to think about other things than you and that bed and--"

Tom nipped his earlobe. His hands hadn't left Chakotay's crotch. "Think about 'em," he groaned into Chakotay's ear. "Think about 'em alllll day. Think about it all, allllll daaaaay lonnnnng. You know how great you are when you've been thinking about it for hourssss...."

Chakotay growled and pushed Tom's hand away and then kissed him hard. Gave him a grin that was half exasperated glare. "Great," he said. "Give me a fucking hard-on and then make me sit there and watch the back of your neck for the rest of the day." The grin got sly. "I may just have to call you into my office and give you a little private counseling."

"Your desk," Tom breathed. Fuck, yesssss.

They grinned at each other. The all-day foreplay was starting off just fine.

Kept going, too. A quick brush of hands as they passed in a corridor; a significant glance across the mess. Stupid and juvenile, and Tom enjoyed it immensely. Playful. It was fun.

Of course, something could always mess things up. In this case one of those unexpected bonuses of the Delta Quadrant: the previously unknown astronomical phenomenon, which in this case was-- Well, nobody quite knew. Drifting somethings. A whole flock. Little black holes. Energy anomalies. Pockets of negative energy. Something like that. Just drifting around, waiting for Voyager to plow right into them.

They full-reversed like mad, but, shit--the damn things--whatever they were--punched right through the shields--shorted out the shields--and--

"Hull breach, deck nine!" Harry shouted through the chaos. "Hull breach, deck six!"

And then Tom blocked him, because Harry wasn't the captain or Chakotay, wasn't giving the orders, wasn't even saying anything Tom needed to know, though every breach was like a knife blade slicing through his own skin. In that instant, Tom himself went away; he became what he was to the core: the conduit between the captain and her ship. Janeway's commands took reality as his fingers flickered across the conn; the ship spoke to her through Tom's observations.

And, out of there, they were finally out of there, in open space, blessedly clear of those whatever anomalies which probably somebody in astrophysics was having full-blown orgasms over, but damn, what they'd done to Voyager.

Hull breaches and half of everything offline. The stink of frying circuitry. Crew members in agony, covered in blood. Charred flesh from overloads. Tom helped for a while in sickbay, until the worst of it was over and the Doctor waved him off irritatedly.

Torres was about as irritated, but he could ignore her; his hands knew the ship, knew what she needed, knew how to heal her, so Torres' orders and advice just became part of the background noise.

Chakotay came past, looking damn tired, and Torres went after him, clucking a mile a minute about her precious Jeffries Tube 13, which was practicaly all they had left to do, everything else was just about taken care of, though was Tom always this stubborn; because she'd just about had it with him--

Chakotay looked back and grinned at Tom--a wait till I get you home grin. Wait till I get you home sparked some focus-destroying thoughts. Jeffries Tube 13. Maybe Chakotay could use some help--

They were just crawling in when Tom sauntered by: Chakotay and then Ensign Baytart. Torres gave Tom a look that kept him sauntering. Chakotay probably had all the help he needed, and that hot body right next to Tom's while they worked would just melt every brain cell he had, so fixing Jeffries Tube 13 would take twice as long as necessary. Tom could keep up the all-day foreplay in his mind: jump Chakotay on the way out of the Jeffries Tube and give him a little taste of things to come. Tom grinned. Things to coooommmme. Oh, yeah.

So he went to help Harry Kim in the main shuttle bay, where one of those drifting whatevers had sparked a little cascade event in panel 19. It was basically a lot of mindless testing and replacing and retesting, so Harry took the chance to wax poetic about Megan Delaney. Tom listened sort of and made sort of appropriate noises, and tried to figure out how it was possible that Harry Kim managed to fall into lust-infatuation-adoration with just about every inappropriate love object in the Delta Quadrant. Was he like this in the Alpha Quadrant?

Which, finally, he did. As they stepped out of the shuttle, Janeway hailed them.

"Not as much as we need," Chakotay said exhaustedly, "but more than we have."

Paris could practically hear her smile. "Good work."

Yes, Paris admitted, good work. Because it was good work. Dilithium; both of them out of there with reputations intact; no morning-after regrets. Really good work. He watched with pride as the dilithium was unloaded, looked happily at Chakotay.

Who looked at him at just that instant.

For a minute they stared at each other. Then Chakotay blushed, smiled, looked down at the padd Baytart had just handed him. Looked back.

Damn, but the man was gorgeous. Paris remembered the full lips on his, the heat from Chakotay's cock under his fingers. Remembered, too, the searing moment when all he wanted to do was strip and be fucked fucked fucked.

His mouth dried as Chakotay sidled over, looked at him, glanced around to see that they were alone.

"What if the stalwart commander invited the attractive lieutenant to his quarters for dinner around 1800 hours?" he murmured.

"It's 'loyal,'" Paris said. "It's the loyal lieutenant. And he'd say 'yes.'"

A smile kindled in the dark eyes. "Well, the lieutenant I'm looking at is more than just loyal--he's pretty fucking great-looking; and, frankly, the Commander's not sure he can wait until din--"

The Doctor's voice on Tom's commbadge was almost a relief. Except there was something about the tone--

"I'm afraid there's been an accident." Every word was calm and just a little kind. "Commander Chakotay--"

And Tom was running before the rest of that sentence came through: everything just switched off then except running and the need for speed. Hearing. All he could hear was his own breathing--far away--and his own distant voice saying, "Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry," as he charged past humanoid shapes. Though--shit--he could also hear, very clearly, the Doctor's voice: Commander Chakotay. Still hear it, though the Doctor had quit speaking.

Nightmare run, like those nightmares where nothing's exactly clear and you're running through some sort of labyrinth. Commander Chakotay.

And-- Sickbay. In sickbay, where the air was heavy with the smell of blood and burning. There were dim figures there, something like voices, saying his name, but--

Chakotay.

The only one he saw was Chakotay, lying on one of the beds, lying very still on one of the beds. Covered to the chin with a blanket. Oh, god, he looked--

Someone took Tom by the arm. He spared a glance. The Doctor. That's right; that's who it was: the Doctor. With a look on his face that--

"There's a lot of damage." Every word out of the Doctor's holographic mouth was precise and clear and said very gently.

"And you can--" Except something in the gaze ended that sentence for him.

Tom stared.

"I'm sorry." There was just enough inflection to make it plausible, make it seem that the Doctor was a real person really sorry.

Tom jerked away, stumbled for the bed where Chakotay lay. The Doctor receded into that vague distance.

Chakotay was breathing. But his face--oh, god, he would never look the same again, not that that mattered; it simply didn't matter what the hell he looked like; he would always be Chakotay.

Tom reached out, took Chakotay's hand. Felt the struggle for breath. What the hell was the Doctor thinking? Why wasn't he bustling around over here, piecing together, mending--he wasn't-- Oh, god, oh god.

Chakotay's hand tightened a fraction. The eye on the good side of his face drifted open.

Tom felt himself breathe again. He moved into Chakotay's gaze. Saw warmth touch the dark eyes.

Forced himself to smile, clutching that big, warm hand. Heart caught at the struggle of Chakotay's chest to rise. A sound in Chakotay's lungs as the shallow breath rattled through them, and something deep inside Tom began to howl.

Chakotay's other hand shifted blindly on the blanket, plucking uselessly at its light weight over his chest.

Tom bent, felt his mouth twist into a crooked grin. "Some people," Tom said, "some people will do anything to get everybody to fuss over them."

A smile moved into Chakotay's eyes. "Tom," he breathed.

And that was all.

A moment of blankness. If he didn't move, it would not have happened, Chakotay would draw another breath; if he didn't move, that last second when Chakotay's heart beat would not be over.

But, to breathe is to move....

Yes, Paris admitted, good work. Because it was good work. Dilithium; both of them out of there with reputations intact; no morning-after regrets. Really good work. He watched with pride as the dilithium was unloaded, looked happily at Chakotay.

Chakotay looked down at the padd Baytart had just handed him. Damn, but he looked tired. And fucking gorgeous. Got you home, Paris thought happily, and now I'm going to seduce you good.

Paris loited until they were alone in the shuttle bay. Chakotay looked up at him as he sidled over.

"About what happened at dinner--" Paris began.

"I think it needn't be mentioned in my report," Chakotay said briskly.

That hadn't been what he wanted to talk about. "Okay," Paris said.

"It needn't be mentioned in your report, either, lieutenant." Chakotay turned his back, started to leave.

"Why not?" The words left Paris's mouth before his brain could shape them. "Too embarrassed?"

Chakotay froze. His back straightened. When he turned, he had that psycho-Maquis look that Paris had seen in his eyes their first days in the Delta Quadrant. Oohhh, shit.

"I was thinking, Lieutenant Paris, of your reputation. I was concerned about your pride. I was trying to keep you from being humiliated in the official records." He kept his voice low, but it could have sliced through duranium.

"Or maybe you just don't want anybody to know how you reacted." He regretted the words the instant they were out of his mouth.

Chakotay's face flushed an ugly color. "I reacted," he said, "the way anybody would have with someone with--" He cast a contemptuous eye up and down Paris's body. "--your depth of experience."

It was like being punched. "I seem to recall," Paris said icily, "you showed a pretty impressive depth of experience yourself."

For a minute, he thought Chakotay was going to sock him. The Commander's face closed up; his fists clenched at his sides. Then he turned on his heel.

Paris bit down on some choice parting words.

But then Chakotay did the unexpected thing. Instead of leaving the bay, he barked, "Computer: seal hatches; sensors off"--which was just about the scariest sentence Paris could have heard, given the present mood; and then Chakotay turned and snarled, "What the hell do you want from me?"

"Respect!" Adrenaline sang through Paris's body as Chakotay advanced; he readied himself to take a punch--or give one.

"'Respect?' Why the hell should I respect you?" Shit; he was coming in close, crowding Paris, acting the big bruiser.

"Because I've earned it, Chakotay! I'm the best fucking pilot on this ship! I've hauled her out of every disaster you've gotten us into. I've certainly saved your ass often enough. I've kept my word in some pretty bad places, and I've earned the right to some fucking respect."

Chakotay snorted. "And you're still playing 'golden boy.' You still think you deserve every damn privilege there is, because you're a pilot. Because you're the Captain's special pet. Because you can smile or charm or fuck your way out of trouble. And you're still screwing every woman in sight."

"Jealous?" The word was out of Paris's mouth before he knew it was in his brain. "Jealous of me?" And he felt heat rising. "Or--or jealous of them?" His voice sounded rough.

Chakotay looked startled; and then, shit oh shit, the look in his eyes shifted pretty damn quickly to lust--shifted so fast, Paris knew it had been there all along, that Chakotay had been trying to ignore it all along. Paris's mouth dried. They stared into each other's eyes for a long, hot moment.

"My quarters," Chakotay growled. "Nineteen hundred hours. Find out." And he left.

Well, shit--that was romantic. Paris's hands were shaking. He felt limp. But not all over: there was a part of him that was very un-limp indeed. Nineteen hundred hours. Find out. Shit.

Chakotay looked back and grinned at Tom--a wait till I get you home grin. Wait till I get you home sparked some focus-destroying thoughts. Jeffries Tube 13. Maybe Chakotay could use some help--

They were just crawling in when Tom sauntered by: Chakotay and then Ensign Baytart. Torres gave Tom a look that should have kept him sauntering. Chakotay probably had all the help he needed, and that hot body right next to Tom's while they worked would just melt every brain cell he had, so fixing Jeffries Tube 13 would take twice as long as necessary. But, shit.

"Hey," Tom said to Baytart. "I can--"

"We don't need you, Tom," Torres said. "Ensign Baytart can help the Commander. Why don't you go help Kim in the main shuttle bay?"

"Come on." He gave her a grin--the one that sometimes melted stubborn people to putty.

It didn't work on half-Klingons. "We don't NEED you, Paris! Go help Kim!"

"Lieutenant!" Chakotay, glaring at them both, having crawled back to the mouth of the Jeffries Tube.

"Okay!" Though why the hell he didn't want Tom to help him--why the hell Tom had to stand there and watch Baytart crawl in obediently after Chakotay--

He glared at Torres as he turned and--

The fucking explosion probably wasn't as loud as it sounded. Tom realized what it was in the instant between two heartbeats, dove for the Tube in the instant between two breaths. Smoke and and the smell of blown circuitry and an awful stench of charred meat--

And fucking Baytart in the way, damn it. Tom grabbed his feet, hauled. The ensign protested that he was coming out, he could come out on his own, damn it! but that really wasn't why Tom was dragging him out. Chakotay--

Who was pushing himself backward, one hand to his head as if to hold it on. Tom grabbed him, hauled. Hauled. Hauled--

"I'm okay." Chakotay's voice was thick. "I'm okay, Tom. I'm--"

Tom looked. Shit--Chakotay wasn't fucking okay. Skin blistered and blackened on the side of his head, his cheek raw. That shoulder-- Tom swallowed hard. All the skin gone from that shoulder. Nothing there but carbon--

"I'm okay." Chakotay had a hand on Tom's face. "I wasn't-- It was worse farther on. I'm okay. I wasn't that far in. I'm all right."

"Help me!" Some humanoid shapes appeared out the blur around him and helped him with Chakotay, who seemed for some reason more worried about Tom than about himself.

Their progress through the corridors was one of those nightmares where nothing's exactly clear and you're stumbling through some sort of labyrinth. The only clear thing was that solid body leaning on him and the godawful smell of Chakotay's charred flesh. And, "I'm okay." Whispered. The brush of blunt fingers on his cheek.

And-- Sickbay. In sickbay, where the fucking Doctor strolled out of his office like they were there for some sort of inspection.

"Hmm," he said when he saw Chakotay. Like he was a question in an anatomy exam.

Tom and the others got Chakotay to the examining bed. Chakotay was a color Tom had never seen before and didn't want to see again. His head lolled.

And the damned Doctor--

Staring at his tricorder, instead of at the patient. Frowning at Chakotay's wounds, like they weren't the kind they should be. Standing there.

He finally reached for a hypospray, which Tom handed to him, to speed things up. The Doctor got his huffy face.

Chakotay roused at the hypo. His eyes drifted open. His face twisted with pain--

"No!" The Doctor grabbed the pain medication right out of Tom's hand. Got the huffy face again. "Lieutenant Paris, there is a reason doctors don't operate on their loved ones-- go."

Except he wasn't a doctor; he was a med tech. And he knew a thing or two about the Doctor, about his methods; he knew what the Doctor would go for next, what he would do after that, and Tom would be a lot of help anticipating his every--

"Lieutenant Paris!"

So Tom stepped back, stepped out of the way, though he hadn't been in the way to begin with, since mygod the Doctor needed an assistant, didn't he? he was always complaining about that, about not having any--

Chakotay held out his good hand, winced under the Doctor's ministrations; so Tom darted over to the opposite side of the bed, grabbed the hand, held onto it. The Doctor cast a withering look across at him, but said nothing as it became very clear that Chakotay was relaxing. Tom glowered at the Doctor, clutched Chakotay's strong hand between both of his. Chakotay's grip, tighter when--shit, who'd programmed the ham-handed sonofabitch? Didn't they realize he was a doctor, not a ditch digger? Tom held on as if his life depended on it.

Then, finally, the Doctor was done; and that awful charred smell had just about faded. "You should rest," he said, in the resigned peevishness that meant he knew nobody was going to listen to him.

Sure enough, Chakotay struggled to sit up.

"You should rest," the Doctor said again.

"I'll need a new shirt--" Chakotay was saying to Tom, but then he stopped and looked at him. Tom looked right back.

Chakotay paused, and looked a little apprehensive, and then paused; and then he lay back down.

Tom leaned down and kissed him, gave him another look. Chakotay's mouth quirked, and he closed his eyes. When Tom straightened from pulling the light blanket over Chakotay's shoulders, the Doctor was looking at him, eyebrows hovering somewhere in the vicinity of his nonexistent hairline. What?

Chakoty slept the rest of that afternoon, not that Tom sat around watching him. Well, not the whole time. In the beginning, yeah, because for some reason his legs suddenly seemed to realize what had almost happened and got all shaky about it; and Tom had to sit until his legs realized that everything was okay.

He buried his face in his shaking hands. Things had almost not been okay. Mygod, things had very nearly not been-- He let it wash through him, flood all the way through him, finally trickle out through his hands and his feet. Yes. Almost not okay, but--but it was okay now; it was-- He watched the sweetstubbornsonofabitch sleep, through eyes suddenly misty with tenderness. Damn.

He got up and found that his hands weren't shaking any more, and went off and helped sort things out in damn Jeffries Tube 13.

So, there he was at nineteen hundred hours; and when the door opened, there was Chakotay, in civilian clothes. Looking a little green.

Paris's eyes met his, and suddenly the air seemed to heat. Paris watched the color rise in Chakotay's face as the warmth rose in Chakotay's eyes.

"I'm finding out," Paris said.

Chakotay's mouth quirked. "The one time," he said, "you actually fucking listen to me."

Well, shit--they were back to that. Paris turned. "I'm not playing this--"

Chakotay's hand on his arm stopped him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just keep putting my foot right into it when it comes to you, don't I?"

Yeah; you do. Paris let Chakotay tug him into the cabin, stood right beside the door as it closed.

They both stood there a minute. Chakotay looked jumpy.

Get this out of the way, Paris's brain said clearly. Then you can fuck him and go home. "What the hell is it with you?" he said. "Commander," he added.

Chakotay blinked. "It's just 'Chakotay' here," he said.

"Well, then, what the hell is it with you?" Paris said. "Chakotay." Damn; his voice was shaking with hurt.

Chakotay looked stricken. "I--" he said. He took a breath. "I-- Damn it, Tom. I can't seem to get myself past our ... history."

Oh, great. "Then why the hell did you invite me here?"

"You keep ... catching me off guard." Chakotay's eyes were softer than Paris had ever seen them. "You keep reminding me of-- You know," he said with the air of a man taking a plunge, "the moment I saw you, I wanted you. You were brash and unsure of yourself and talented as hell and damned eager to please somebody you could trust. Of course, you were drunk as shit. I've always tried not to take advantage, though in your case--" The warmth was coming back into his eyes at the memory. "--I was ready to make an exception. But you were Starfleet. And back then I wouldn't have put it past them to publicly cashier out one of their own to plant him in the Maquis."

"Oh, I did that all by myself." Paris felt the old pain rising.

"I know," Chakotay said. "Now. But then I was just mad at everything--especially myself. I let myself get cut off from my heritage; and I let my father get killed; and--" His mouth twisted wryly. "--I'd just generally managed to fuck up everything that mattered."

Paris's jaw dropped. Chakotay feeling like a fuck-up?

"So there you were," Chakotay was saying. "You'd had everything, and--shit, Tom, you were every damn thing I wanted in a Maquis warrior. In a lover. And I couldn't even trust you. And then ... you let yourself get caught--"

Now, WAIT a minute. "I didn't let myself get captured!" Paris snarled.

"Well, it sure looked like it from this angle!" Chakotay's voice had hardened.

"That piece of shit you had me flying didn't help!"

"I thought you could fly any damn thing in the galaxy. Isn't that what you told me?"

They glared at each other.

Then, in the evening, he went back to sickbay, where Chakotay had just wakened. He was propped on his elbows, face all creased from resting on something wrinkled, with that grumpy frown he always got when he thought he shouldn't have been sleeping. Big grumpy bear.

Tom went over and tousled his hair, which the big grumpy bear never liked, but let Tom get away with. Chakotay grinned up at him sort of lopsidedly--the grump knowing he was being a grump and a little sheepish about it. He sat up, and Tom's arms went around him automatically.

They were that way for a minute, Tom nuzzling Chakotay's cheek. He smelled wonderfully of sleep and of warm Chakotay, and Tom found himself smiling.

"I'm okay," Chakotay murmured.

I know, Tom thought; but he didn't say it. Instead, he let his hands and lips say it for him, caressing the smooth face.

"I'm sorry," Chakotay murmured. Tom looked at him. He seemed contrite. "Do I get that look on my face when you get hurt?"

What look was that? "Probably."

"I'm sorry," Chakotay said again. His fingertips just brushed Tom's face. "Got everything shipshape?"

"Yeah." Funny conversation to be feeling all dopey and soppy about. "Even with you in sickbay. Imagine that."

"I hate sleeping all day," Chakotay said.

"I know." Tom grinned at him, knowing the answer to what he was about to ask. "Why did you?"

Chakotay's grin was sly. "You gave me that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says, 'Cross me, and I'll take you home and wallop you.'"

Tom grinned at him, leaned in. "I'm taking you home now," he said huskily.

Chakotay slid his fingers up the back of Tom's neck and pulled his head down for a lazy kiss with a lot of promises in it. "We could do the walloping part, too," he whispered into Tom's ear, "if you want."

Tom laughed.

"What the hell else was I supposed to believe?" Chakotay hissed. "How the hell was I supposed to believe you hadn't betrayed us? betrayed me?"

But he didn't just look mad, he looked ... hurt. As hurt as Paris felt. He took a deep breath. "I didn't betray you," he murmured, looking deep into the deep eyes. "I wouldn't betray you."

Deep, angry breath. "Well, you sure were doing your best when I found you on Voyager."

"You didn't-- Nobody helped me. You said I was part of the team--I could be part of the team. But you didn't-- I got captured, and that was just fucking it. Prison. Nobody. No help at all!"

Chakotay looked aghast. Then he looked uncomfortable, ashamed. "We couldn't-- I'm so sorry. They had us on the run. I couldn't do a damn thing. Shit, Tom, I'm so fucking sorry. I thought...." His voice trailed off.

Paris let the silence stretch. "You thought, What the hell--Starfleet once is Starfleet forever. Admiral's son--why the hell wouldn't he betray the Maquis? Why wouldn't he just get welcomed back into the bosom of Starfleet?" Deep breath, to quell the shaking in his voice. "You thought wrong, Chakotay."

"I'm sorry." Chakotay's mouth had softened. The fingertips of one hand slid over the back of Paris's fist, gentle, tentative. "I'm sorry, Tom."

And, shit, he seemed to mean it. Paris felt the hurt and anger beginning to seep out. But how the hell did they get to bed from here?

They were about 15 centimeters apart, swaying closer. The look in Chakotay's eyes; the brush of his fingers. The heat from that solid body. That kind of mixture could make a guy feel drunk.

Paris brought his mouth close to Chakotay's ear. "So," he murmured, "we gonna fuck, or what?"

Explosion of Chakotay's laugh. They leaned into each other. Chakotay's hand took Paris's; he nuzzled Paris's neck. "Shit, Tom," he said. "Smooth line like that--no wonder the ladies can't resist you."

Paris grinned. Oh my god, had anyone's skin ever smelled so good?

"I'm kind of ... wound up, though," Chakotay murmured. "I don't jump as fast as I used to from 'fuck you' to 'fuck me.'"

Paris laughed shakily. "I don't either," he admitted. "You know, I wanted you the minute I saw you. I took one look at you in that crappy little bar, and I was ready to drop my pants and bend right over the table."

Chakotay grinned. "As I recall, there were three Nausicaans and half a dozen Klingons there who probably would have made a beeline for your ass. I'd've had to fight 'em off." A spark of lust and mischief. "I'd've won, too."

Paris ran the tip of his tongue along Chakotay's lower lip. Delicious. He sucked on that lip for an exquisite second or two; and then Chakotay put a hand on Paris's back and drew him in for long, languid, thorough, knee-rattling kiss. Paris was dizzy at the end of it. Chakotay was gasping air.

"There were," Paris murmured, starting on Chakotay's ear lobe, "some Vulcans there, too. If I remember right."

Chakotay's moan turned his knees to water. Chakotay ran his mouth over Paris's neck, clutched his ass in a way both possessive and promising.

"They'd've--" Chakotay groaned as Paris's hand found his crotch. "--just probably have taken--" His gasp made Paris's hips jerk. "--notes."

"Okay." Paris tried to focus. "You better fuck me now, or it's over."

Chakotay grinned, made a sudden movement that stripped Paris's shirt from his body and left it halfway across the room. "Made the jump, huh?"

"Oh, yeah." Paris started walking him backward toward the bed. Damn, it was great: a good, hard fuck.

Chakotay grinned wider. "Giving orders, huh?"

"Oh, yeah." Paris did some stripping of his own. Chakotay's shirt landed somewhere.

"I'm not fucking you, Paris." Chakotay's hands undid Paris's trousers, jerked them down far enough for Chakotay to grab a double handful of Paris's ass.

Paris kissed him. "You're not?"

"Huh uh." Chakotay stopped. "I want to see your face as you surrender completely to my amazing talent." He grinned as Paris undid his trousers, yanked them down.

"Shit," Paris said, putting his hand on that hot, thick cock, "I'd rather surrender completely to your amazing cock. Why the hell," he said, falling to his knees, "didn't you just fuck me when we first met?" And he slipped his mouth over the head.

For a delirious minute he sucked with happy abandon, hearing Chakotay keening above him, feeling fingers in his hair, working his own cock with a frantic hand. Nothing had ever felt more perfect.

"Don't." Chakotay's thumb worked its way into Paris's mouth; for a second, he sucked it, too. "Don't," in a breathless gasp.

Paris pulled away. Chakotay's face was almost savage as he bent down, pulled Paris up, shoved him onto the bed.

Okay, so-- Paris lifted his feet, started taking off one boot as Chakotay yanked on the other. Their hands met at Paris's waistband; the trousers and underwear landed someplace.

Stripping off Chakotay's pants was less complicated, but more distracting: no shoes, but, ohgod, there was that delicious cock at mouth level, just begging to be licked. Chakotay made a little sound of frustration and trampled off his trousers.

He dove for Paris, grabbed him at the waist, hauled him further onto the bed. Paris worked his way backward, eyes on that gorgeous cock. He lifted his knees, spread them wide. He would burst any minute.

"Ohgod, fuck me," he moaned. "Just fuck me. Right up the ass. Hard."

"No." Chakotay's face was adamant. He slid between Paris's legs, thrust his cock against Paris's. Paris arched helplessly, wrapped his legs around Chakotay's waist, thrust, thrust against Chakotay's belly. "Not until ... I can do it ... right."

Oh, right, wrong, it didn't fucking matter any more. The world had shrunk to those hot cocks sliding against each other, to Chakotay's grunts in Paris's ear, to the whimpering noises that seemed to be coming from Paris's mouth. He grabbed something with both hands, hung on.

A moment of riding.

And then Paris felt everything surge into his cock for a blinding explosion--every damn thing: Chakotay's growl, the smell of hot sweat and hotter semen, the taste of salty skin, the heat, the heat--

His fucking fury that this sweetbastard sonofabitch could be so fucking stubborn. The deep-rooted pain of everyone's mistrust.

It all must have been in there, because--well, it was gone when he came back into himself, gasping, clutching--

"Ow," Chakotay said.

"Sorry," Paris said, letting go of his hair. "Shit!"

"Sorry," Chakotay said. He kissed Paris's shoulder, worked himself off.

Paris looked. No blood. "A biter, huh?" he said, grinning at Chakotay.

Who blushed. "I kind of," he said, "forget myself." He kissed the marks again.

"I don't mind biters," Paris said. "As long as it's friendly."

"Oh," Chakotay said, "it's friendly."

They grinned at each other, gasping. Damn--flushed, mouth soft with kissing--Chakotay post-coital was a sight worth waiting for.

Chakotay's fingers found the side of Paris's face, traced the curve of his cheek, the line of his jaw, did it again, again; his eyes were tender. Paris's heart stumbled. Had anyone ever looked at him like that? Migod, he had to get out of here, or he was lost. He had to get out of here now.

"I guess I better leave," he heard himself say.

Chakotay didn't even flinch, just kept looking, caressing. "Why?" he asked. "I know your schedule. You're not on duty tomorrow."

Self preservation, Paris thought desperately.

"Besides," Chakotay said in a low, silky voice, "I know you really want to stay."

Oh, god, now. He needed to get out of here now.

"And," Chakotay said huskily, "I really want you to stay."

Nowwwww--

But he leaned into that caressing hand, turned his head; and put a kiss into the palm. A sharp intake of breath from Chakotay. Paris couldn't look. Chakotay slid his fingers over Paris's mouth, lingering. It was a caress; it was a kiss; it was more than he'd counted on when he walked in here.

It was more than he needed.

It was just what he wanted.

So they went home, where there was no walloping. Instead, Chakotay took a shower. Then Tom fed him and then Tom fucked him, tenderly and thoroughly, gazing down into the avid face until Chakotay clutched the sheet and cried out words and bits of words, and bucked in orgasm; then Tom rode that orgasm into his own, almost as an afterthought.

"Shit," Chakotay panted. "I just showered."

Tom laughed. "Yeah. But now you smell so--" He trailed his fingers over Chakotay's cheek.

They lay like that, in that comfortable after-fuck glow that slowed things down so that Tom could enjoy them.

He turned to Chakotay, who slid his fingers to knead the back of Paris's neck. In Chakotay's eyes were mingled tenderness and amusement. And exasperation. "Damn it, Tom," he said, "how much time did we waste?"

"How," Paris said, "do you want that calculated?"

Smart ass, Chakotay's look said; but MY smart ass, his fingers murmured.

"Now, if we'd done that," Paris went on, "when we first met, I bet even the Vulcans would've lined up to enjoy your considerable talents."

Chakotay's grinned a thanks. "I'm not trying it with Tuvok," he said.

Bantering. Who the hell would have thought they'd be lying here after sex, bantering?

Chakotay leaned over and kissed him. "You've got the prettiest damn mouth," he said.

"And I can't wait to see your gorgeous mouth wrapped around my cock. But then you better fuck me up the ass so hard I see stars, or, damn it, Chakotay," he said in mock earnestness, "I'm reporting you for sexual teasing of a subordinate."

"How can I say no, when you ask so nicely?"

A grin; a kiss. Chakotay moved in to cradle him.

Froze when he saw Paris's face.

"What is it?" Chakotay murmured.

"Nothing." But, "I-- A little sudden, a little ... soon, I guess." Paris looked into the gentle eyes. "It's just-- Are we ... okay with each other? I couldn't stand it if you went back to despising me, Chakotay. Anything could go wrong and you could go right back--"

"That's not going to happen." The warmth in that fervent voice, in that tender gaze made some long-tangled knot inside Paris start to loosen. "That is not going to happen. You've been too much to me." A smile started at the corners of the delicious mouth. "Every possibility branches off into yet another universe, and in every one of them that is not going to happen."

Held by that gaze, Paris felt himself start to relax. His fingers found warm, smooth skin and began to caress it.

"I'm sure," said Chakotay, "there'll be times you'll just annoy the hell out of me, make me want to bust you right down to ensign. And, you put yourself in danger for me again the way you did with that cannibal, and I will. But despising you--there's no way I can ever do that, Tom. I can't imagine any possibility that I could ever do that, in this universe or any of those other ones branching off of it."

Damn. That silky skin, that stubborn uprightness. That bone-melting smile. Paris's fingers moved, and Chakotay sighed pleasure. A long, searching kiss that left him breathless.

And content.

And wanting more.

"I'm sorry," Chakotay said again.

Huh? "About what?"

"About-- You just get this anxious look." Chakotay brushed his fingers across Tom's forehead, along his mouth.

"You getting hurt makes me kind of ... anxious." His voice wasn't shaking as much as it wanted to. "There's so damn much that can go wrong. A phaser bolt hits one millimeter to the wrong side. If you'd been farther in that Jeffries Tube when that conduit blew...."

Chakotay stopped his babbling with a kiss. Tom grabbed him, held on.

"It's all right," Chakotay whispered in his ear. "The universe can be damned arbitrary. And I don't have to tell you that every possibility branches off into yet another universe."

Tom breathed in the heady scent of sex and Chakotay, and felt himself start to relax. Chakotay. At the center of every possibility was Chakotay.

"But I love you," Chakotay went on. "In every possible universe, I love you." He grinned down at Tom. "None of the physicists have figured it out yet, but that's what's holding all those universes together."

Tom laughed up at him. Damn right.

And, "Not a chance," lied Tom.

And, "You bet," said Paris, grinning right back.