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 loitered 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.