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.