Part two
To part one

---

He was at the prison before the doors were opened to the prisoners' families for breakfast.

"I'm supposed to tend to my husband," Chakotay told the guard outside the entrance. "I have to use something electronic--an analyzer." He opened the medikit to show the guard. "And a hypospray. They're essential; I need them. It's in the--"

"--contract," the guard said caustically.

Jerk. Chakotay unclenched his jaw and tried to look patient and long suffering and concerned for his beloved spouse.

The guard took everything out of the medikit, opened the medicines, fiddled with the hypospray and the medical tricorder. He handed the tricorder to Chakotay. "Use it," he said.

So Chakotay turned on the tricorder and ran the hand sensor over his own hand. That seemed to satisfy the guard, who watched as Chakotay used the hypospray and who then took both and handed them to another guard, who walked away with them. The medicines were put back into the medikit, which was handed to yet another guard, who escorted Chakotay through one of the side doors.

Here, the food basket was searched, and the journey took on a familiar rhythm: go ahead and hear the door click closed behind you; try not to look suspicious as you wait under the guards' gaze for the inner doors to open; go ahead, a respectful few paces behind the guard with the medikit.

Long corridor with the sub-assistant warden's office at the end; he lounged behind his desk. Obviously curious about how the fragile guys from the other part of the galaxy took care of their own. The tricorder and the hypospray were on his desk, beside Tom's deck of hekkasha cards.

And one of the other doors opened, and there was Tom, between two guards--not holding him up, thank the spirits. Tom, completely naked, limping a little, shoulders hunched, head erect, jaw tight. Another guard followed them.

Tom glanced at Chakotay; then his eyes slid away. Something in his eyes-- Chakotay smothered a flash of anger. Shame. Paris was ashamed. Ashamed that this had been done to him, ashamed to have Chakotay see him like this. Damn it!

Paris's guards stepped away from him and arrayed themselves around the office, guarding the sub-assistant warden, guarding the doors.

Chakotay picked up the tricorder and turned it on. Paris was staring into that middle distance that had been his refuge during his first prison exam. Chakotay took a deep breath and stepped behind him.

His heart bounded in relief. Not as bad as he'd feared. Bruises, mostly: black stripes spreading out in ugly mottling; nothing deep or bloody: somebody knew what he was doing.

He ran the sensor over Paris's skin, eased the tricorder down his back. They'd avoided the area near the kidneys ("We had him show us--"), but the rest-- Damn, but Paris bruised badly: whoever had beaten him had done a cross-hatching with something thin and blunt; the bruises were purple and black and had spread pretty completely across Paris's back. Looked damned painful.

Paris's head lifted at the sound of the rewired tricorder; then Chakotay saw his shoulders gradually relax. Good. The regenerator he'd jury-rigged inside was helping.

He finished the job and ostentatiously consulted the readings on the tricorder, then beamed fondly at his spouse. Paris's eyes caught his; his mouth twitched in a smile.

Okay; you're married to him. Act like it.

He casually grabbed Paris's hand, tightened on it when Paris automatically tried to jerk away. Hesitation; then Paris tightened his grip.

The sub-assistant warden frowned. "No touching," he said.

Chakotay looked puzzled and hurt, then allowed Paris's hand to slide out of his. "He's my husband," Chakotay protested, picking up the hypospray and the vial of vitamins and antibiotics and pain-killer.

"Vitamins," Chakotay said to the sub-assistant warden's suspicious face as he added the other vial and set the spray pattern. "My husband needs all his strength."

Paris's little smile was regaining some of its cockiness. The hypospray caught him off guard: Chakotay saw the relief in his face and body as the pain-killer took hold. Then Paris consciously tensed for the watching guards. Smart guy.

"I have to touch him now," Chakotay said to the sub-assistant warden, picking up the jar of salve. He waited for the sub-assistant warden's gesture of gracious acknowledgement before dipping his fingers into the salve to ease it over Paris's back.

Paris was wrinkling his nose. "What's that?" he said. "Darling," he added.

"Just another home-made remedy."

"This wouldn't involve you peeing into--"

Smart-aleck. "You know me too well, sweetheart."

Paris grinned as Chakotay finished, then turned to deliver a quick kiss on the mouth. Wha--

"No fucking!" one of the guards roared.

Paris snorted a laugh before he could catch himself, and Chakotay found himself smothering a grin. Trouble-maker.

He tried to look placid and innocent as he repacked the medikit.

"Take those." The sub-assistant warden gestured at the cards. "He will begin quarantine again." He cast a stern look at Paris. "And this time he is not permitted luxuries."

What the--? Petty, pompous little--

"Nor will he be allowed to keep food with him," the sub-assistant warden went on.

Now, hold on. "My husband needs to eat," Chakotay said quickly. "He needs to regain his strength. He hasn't eaten since yesterday; he needs--"

The sub-assistant warden gestured impatiently. "He can eat breakfast today. For the next ten days, he will be permitted a meal morning and evening. But no other food."

Chakotay took a breath. "Then I'll need to give him injections of vitamins every day. Especially until he's recovered from what you did to him. I need to doctor him every day: give him vitamins and put on the salve." He saw Paris give him a startled look. Maybe it was the shouting.

The sub-assistant warden glowered. "He doesn't seem that fragile."

"Nevertheless," Chakotay said, "it's in the contract. I need to at least give him extra nutrients, to help him recover. Our species is used to eating three times a day; he won't recover completely without the extra--"

"Until he's recovered," the sub-assistant warden agreed.

"And the salve," Chakotay ventured. "There are diseases here that we're not used to; the salve will keep him from--"

"Once a day."

Good. He felt himself relax, allowed himself a glance at Paris.

Who was staring at him. And in those blue eyes was ... admiration.

Chakotay ducked his head, felt himself blush.

Looked up to see that the admiration was still there. Unwavering. Oddly warming.

So, then Chakotay was taken to the room where inmates took their meals--almost empty now. Don't gloat, the voice in Chakotay's head admonished him as he piled all the food he'd brought on Paris's side of the counter. You're just doing what any good commander does for those under his command. But Paris's gratitude was ... nice.

And then, Paris was there, dressed in the jumpsuit, trying to move as if he still ached. Grinning at Chakotay.

"You were really pissed off," he leaned forward to inform Chakotay, sotto voce.

"I hate bullies." Really: he'd just done what any good commander would do. Why was Paris surprised?

"Yeah, but...." Paris seemed happy as he picked up a donut. "You were really-- Did they tell you why I--how I got into trouble?" he asked between bites. Shit: his wrists were bruised, too. Chakotay should have checked.

"I--" Chakotay felt his face redden. "I didn't get a chance to ask. I kind of got--I got distracted."

"I gave Iugh my lunch." Paris paused to slurp down some coffee. He bit into another donut.

"And...." Chakotay prompted when he didn't go on.

Paris's mouth twisted wryly. "That was it. I gave Iugh my lunch. His damn wife hasn't shown up here for the last two days. He was starving."

Chakotay blinked. "Why...."

"'Low-status individuals do not present gifts to those of higher status.'" Paris's voice was bitter. "I'll definitely remember that. I had to repeat it every time that bastard hit me."

Son of a-- Chakotay caught his breath, jerked his thoughts away from the image. "So, what's he supposed to do now, if you can't give him anything to eat?"

"Well, if his wife doesn't come back or he can't find another family member to bring him food, he can have himself 'adopted by the People,' which means he'll get fed. 'Course, it also means they'll double his sentence." Paris started on the protein-nut-bars. "Too bad you can't marry him, too," he said with a grin.

Smart ass. But Chakotay was glad he was feeling better. "Eat some fruit," he said, gesturing to the little purple-gold plum-looking things he'd bought from the old fruit seller. Really: vitamin injections were no substitute for the nutrients you got from actual food. "I thought you might like them."

Paris smiled again; it didn't seem to take much to make him happy. But then he sobered. "Did you tell Janeway?"

"Does she have to know everything you do?"

The blue eyes looked startled for a second. "Well, I just thought-- You usually-- You know, technically I'm still in her custody."

Which meant...? "And, technically, so am I," Chakotay said evenly. "I think she probably has more pressing things to think about."

To his non-surprise, Paris flicked him a relieved smile. Having polished off the first piece of fruit, he started slurping on another; he did like them.

"Harry Kim says hello," Chakotay lied; he hadn't even thought to download their messages last night or this morning, but it wouldn't hurt Paris to have a chipper message from his best friend.

"Is he still dating Torres?"

Torres? "Kim and B'Elanna?" Good grief: that could be fatal. "I thought you were dating her."

"We were--" Paris started on another piece of fruit. "It hadn't really gotten ... important to us. Harry's always been pretty interested." He studied the fruit's exposed pit more closely than it deserved. "Clear field for him now."

Now that Paris wasn't around to distract her. "Well," Chakotay said lightly, "you are married...."

Paris gaped at him, startled, and then snorted at Chakotay's sly grin. "And darn it," Paris said, his eyes twinkling mischief, "now we have to wait at least another ten days before we can have that conjugal visit."

"Something to look forward to," Chakotay said, grinning.

Paris grinned right back. "You better," he said.

~ ~ ~

Of course, the young Shiunta man was just devastated when he heard that Paris was doing another stint in quarantine.

"But you must yearn for him! Your bottom must be lonely for his penis! Your penis must be ready to--"

Luckily, the old fruit seller stopped him by what apparently was her preferred method: smacking his backside. "Hush, you! Not every pel't'kh live for fucking like you do! Not everybody's ass is lonely!"

Chakotay choked on the laugh threatening to overcome him. To his surprise--and slight dismay--the young man reached out to place a concerned hand on Chakotay's arm. "Do not cry," he said. "I can see that you love your man, though he does not protect you from the world. He will fuck you again--soon--and make you happy."

Oh, dear. The young man was gazing sentimentally at Chakotay, whose struggle to keep from laughing apparently looked to him like a struggle to keep back tears. Chakotay smiled into the Shiunta man's trusting eyes. "Thank you," he said breathlessly; and to his surprise the young man's gaze turned positively flirtatious.

Back at the shuttle with the vegetables for Paris's supper, Chakotay thought, You have GOT to find out what the hell is going through that nice young man's head, before you do something stupid.

It turned out to be a little tougher than he expected. Somewhere in the vast, crumbling Empire there was an anthropologist--but, judging by what was available in the central computer banks, not in this vicinity. Eventually he found one of those curio shops--luckily, run by an Aiildan--that had a jumble of books of dubious literary quality. Treatises On the Biology of Many Species was obviously pornography masquerading as science, but it covered the topic. With pictures.

The Aiildan leered at Chakotay as he paid for the book. "Got others even better," he whispered.

"I'll ... get back to you." Good god: this was like buying his very first pornographic holovid all those years ago--

Luckily, Treatises explored more than just biology--often in lubricious detail. The most common sexual relationship among the Shiunta--who, undressed, looked very much like humans--was characterized by one partner dominating the other: female over male; male over male; male over female; female over female. Apparently gender had nothing to do with it, but individual personality did. In every combination, the submissive was known as the "pel't'kh."

And the dominant was called something that the Universal Translator rendered as "husband."

Chakotay blinked at the page; and then blinked again; and then consciously closed his mouth. Damn it. All over the damned station-- He and Paris. With everybody assuming--

He felt his face heat as he read on and discovered just how submissive the average pel't'kh was expected to be. Name spoken only by the dominant after marriage, and then only in private--"He has no name," the old woman had said. Veiled, to protect him from the gaze of others--"you love your man, though he does not protect you from the world." Eyes averted from the face of dominants not his husband, though he could look into the face of another pel't'kh--the young man's averted gaze, until Chakotay used the word "husband." Long hair--the Shiunta of both sexes wore their hair long--in the demure braid the young man wore. And, the book bleated feverishly, in bed--"your bottom must be lonely for his penis..." Hell, even that old woman smacking his ass probably--

Chakotay slammed the book closed. Pel't'kh. Oh, fuck.

He laughed for what must have been a good five minutes. For some reason, he remembered accidentally propositioning the Tarkannan ambassador on his first assignment: the breezy use of a word he just knew meant exactly what he needed it to mean; the sinking realization that he'd just very efficiently insulted the ambassador, endangered the mission, and offered himself up for a quickie.

Language, he thought. No better way to separate two sentient beings than a common language. Oh, he had to make it quite clear that he and Paris weren't-- Especially to the young Shiunta-- Chakotay's mind skittered away from the flirtatious look the young man had given him: did pel't'kh sleep with each other? Or--"Not every pel't'kh live for fucking like you do!"--was it just that the young man's libido took up his entire brain?

Oh, yeah: Paris. Chakotay got up to make the vegetable lasagna for tonight's supper. Paris was most emphatically not hearing about this, if Chakotay could help it.

And, he realized as he cut up everything that needed to be cut and sliced the cheese that had passed not only the taste test, but the safe-for-bioneural-gelpacks test, neither was the young Shiunta man. He'd accepted Chakotay with heart-warming openness; Chakotay couldn't make him feel foolish. And what would happen to him if his dominant learned that he'd been interacting with Chakotay? After all, there were cultures where someone expected to live like a pel't'kh could be murdered in the name of honor. No, Chakotay thought as he put the layered casserole in to be cooked, you'll be just another pel't'kh, and like it.

Meanwhile, Treatises had a lot to say about the reproductive systems of the rest of the known universe. Female Aiildan could halt the growth of viable embryos and harbor them for years before implanting them into a male. Among the Dletl, only one daughter in a family married--to all the sons in another family. Once she conceived, she distributed the embryos to her sisters, to be carried to term. The Tka honored their creation god with sexual acts that took four hours to complete. Compared with all this, the fact that pregnant Iushkan females laid leathery eggs which were then tucked into a brood pouch to develop was just not all that exotic.

Paris was starting to get bored again, which in his current situation could be disastrous.

"Nine more fucking days of this," he hissed at Chakotay. "I'm going to go nuts."

"Talk to the other inmates," Chakotay suggested. "Find out about this part of the Delta Quadrant: what we'll need to know once we're out of here."

Paris looked sulky, but seemed amenable. "Good lasagna," he said, wolfing it down. "I was starving."

Everything Chakotay could think of that would help Paris keep his mind off food during the day--exercise, meditate--seemed too much like lecturing to mention. But Paris hadn't gotten to hear about the young Shiunta man....

"'Two days and a night?'" Paris choked.

"Yeah," said Chakotay. "I might try to hook up with one of those guys. I mean, two days--"

"You're married to me." Paris mock-glared at him. "Just keep that in mind. Sugar-buns."

Chakotay grinned at him. "Of course. Sweetie-cakes."

~ ~ ~

His evenings were falling into a pattern: take the empty supper basket back to the shuttle; wander through the docking area at this end of the station, learning the maze of alleys and thoroughfares. Chakotay watched the artificial sun dim, the lights of businesses brighten as "night" fell in the station. Listened to the wailing chants of Wieong'than priests bidding farewell to the day and reminding the Wieong'tha of the first prayer of night. Watched the other non-Wieong'tha relax as the Wieong'tha withdrew into their family compounds. Safe again for another night.

Night brought a renewed liveliness to the docking area, where the non-Wieong'tha enjoyed their hours relatively free of the Wieong'tha and of the Defenders of the People. Chakotay had been in this kind of space station before: the cylinder rotating to create gravity. Curve of populated space station above his head; curve of populated space station at what should be the horizon; sense sometimes when he was walking that he was treading the endless path of a small rodent on a wheel. At each end of the cylinder, a system of airlocks allowed ships to enter and exit; the docking bays were just inside. An artificial sun stretched the length of the cylinder, darkening each night.

This station was different, of course: in the middle of the cylinder's long sides, the Wieong'tha lived in their sprawling compounds--an insular world safe from contamination by the non-Wieong'tha. At night, what he could see of their section above him was almost completely dark, studded only by the flicker of fires at the temples. Small flicker marking the temples of the lesser gods--the Changing God, the Weeping God--big glow of fire at the central temple of the Cleansing God, who had lesser temples scattered through the station.

This evening, as the sun began to dim, Chakotay found one of the Cleansing God's less-important temples: nondescript walls apparently surrounding a courtyard shaded by fabric. Two entrances, one grander than the other. Through the grand entrance went those he knew were of the ellunio and bielda castes; through the plain entrance on the opposite side of the building went the shantsui. And, outside the building, near the shantsuis' entrance, the tha knelt, prostrated themselves, chanted.

Chakotay stood a respectful distance away--watched closely by several of the gloved and masked and glowering Defenders of the People--and thought of what he'd read about the temples. The statue of the Cleansing God stood somewhere in the temple; the Oanohtsieldua (who must use a hidden entrance) prostrated themselves at the statue's feet, where they could look up directly into the face of their god; the ellunio saw God through the veil that separated them from the Oanohtsieldua. The bielda saw neither, separated from the statue by a wall, though they knew that the god looked through the wall at them. The shantsui, inside the temple, saw God's backside. And the tha-- The tha never entered the temple at all. And did their god listen as they prayed behind him outside the temple walls? Chakotay saw their faces, smooth with devotion, watched the complex dance of their hands reaching, receiving, glorifying, giving, as they knelt and stood and lay in the half-swept alley. That their god might not see them wasn't an issue to them: what they knew was that they saw him. It was, perhaps, as pure an example of spiritual devotion as any he'd seen.

Then he thought, And the tha who beat Tom is probably as devoted as these people--as sure that his god hears him and approves. Approved of--

He turned on his heel and strode away, a sourness in his mouth that he could still taste after half a glass of ghastly hooch in some nameless bar.

The area around the docking bays was rowdy and bright during all the hours of darkness, as the non-Wieong'tha made up for the daylight hours of repression. Now the prostitutes did most of their business, and the bars made most of their money. Chakotay wandered the alleys, alert against thieves. He often entered the bar nearest the shuttle via the back entrance, through the toilet; the pregnant barman, seeing Chakotay emerge, would draw him half a glass of the house special.

Tonight, Chakotay drank it at the bar, looking mildly at the other patrons. Three Aiildan playing hekkasha. Some Shiunta out on the town, with their simpering pel't'kh spouses. And--oh, shit--the Iushkan fruit seller, with some Iushkan friends and the young male Shiunta.

The fruit seller spotted Chakotay before he could leave. "Hah!" she said loudly enough to be heard over the crowd. "Drinks here!" She indicated the entire table.

Chakotay did a quick calculation in his head and looked at the bartender, who looked back impassively and then started filling a pitcher with something that looked as if he'd drawn it from a swamp. Well--

Chakotay paid and took his drink and the pitcher over to the table, where he--or the pitcher--was greeted joyfully. The young Shiunta sat beside the fruit seller, reading a book and occasionally sipping from his glass. The fruit seller waved Chakotay to the empty seat on the other side of the young man. Oh, this was not a good idea.

When Chakotay sat down beside him, the young Shiunta flirted a glance at him and brightened visibly when he saw who it was.

"Hello," Chakotay said to him.

"I am glad you are here!" the young man chirped. The flirtatious smile gleamed beneath his veil--or perhaps that was just the alcohol warming the blood in Chakotay's veins.

No, it was-- Chakotay snatched away his glass before one of the Iushkans could slop booze into it. "Sorry," he said, "I can't drink that. It's poisonous to my people." --it must have been flirtation, because suddenly he realized that he had a lapful of hand.

He started, looked at the young man. Who flushed and looked right back. And started exploring.

Only one thing to do-- Chakotay grabbed the young man's hand and smiled at him. Held the hand in a firm and friendly grip.

The young man leaned close. "I can feel that you are thinking of your husband," he said, his eyes sentimental.

Uh-- No, that was just standard structural configuration.

The old woman looked over, saw the hand-holding. "Your friend not coming back to have sex with you tonight," she said evenly. "You got to wait for your husband; he will want all your passion."

Chakotay felt himself reddening and sipped from his glass as coolly as he could. He hazarded a glance at the other Iushkans, who were paying no attention to the conversation, but were outlining some complex business contract in spilled booze on the table.

The Shiunta man flicked an impatient glance at the old woman. "I am holding myself ripe for my husband," he said loftily. "I will see him very soon. But this one cannot see his husband for several more days. He must be lonely for him. I can touch him, and it won't be a shame for him." He turned back to Chakotay and squeezed his hand.

Oh, damn. The young man was looking solemn and noble and misunderstood. Chakotay just couldn't laugh.

"Thank you," he murmured to the young Shiunta, who gave him a dazzling smile and threaded his fingers through Chakotay's.

"My cousin's husband does not satisfy him completely," he said confidentially to Chakotay. "When we visit, I satisfy him again and again; it is just as it was before we were both married." His smile was nostalgic.

Oh, there just had to be something to talk about other than sex. Like, say, cultural norms. "You ... lived with your cousin and his family?"

"Of course. My cousin and I shared a bed. Like all who are ripe for marriage. We learned about fucking from each other. Well--" he said, blushing, "--not all about fucking. Not about what the husband--" He giggled.

Oh, there just had to be something to talk about other than sex. Like, say, family. "What does your husband do to make a living?"

"He is a merchant. He sells fabric, so he can dress me well." The young man indicated his tunic with shy pride. It was ... short. And he was bare-legged. Long, muscular legs--

Chakotay looked away quickly. "How did you and your husband meet?"

The young man gaped at him. "The way you met yours! He came to my father and said he wanted me. And so my father talked about him with those who knew him and decided to give me to him, and we had the veiling. And then he married me." The large eyes grew wide and earnest. "Did you like fucking when you were first married?"

Uh-- Chakotay took a quick sip to buy time. "Uh--" he said.

"It was a while before I liked fucking," the young man said. "But--" He gave Chakotay a sly grin that hinted that now he liked it very much indeed.

Chakotay smiled back valiantly and mentally cursed whomever had come up with the Shiunta system of marriage. Why wouldn't a vital, hot-blooded young man enjoy sex right from the start? Then--Oh, yes: anal. With the wrong partner, that could be rather less than a thrill.

"In this book--" The young man picked it up with his free hand. "--everybody likes fucking right away." The book looked cheap and well-read. The title was Classic Tales of Love. Naturally.

The young man was blushing again.

"Have you read this?" he whispered, holding out the book. "It's--" He glanced at the fruit seller, who was arguing with a friend, and lowered his voice until Chakotay could barely hear him. "--it's very romantic. And--" His cheeks were pink under the gold; he was so flustered, he was on the verge of giggling. "--very-- They fuck a lot. The author tells you about it." The young man's breathing was unsteady. "You should read it." He pushed the book at Chakotay. "You'd like it." His eyes were pleading. "You should read it."

He looked so young and flustered that Chakotay took the book. "Thank you," he said, trying to look pleased. The young man's hand was warm in his. "I'm sure I'll enjoy it."

The young man was looking wistfully at the book. "I-- It's my favorite," he said. "I--"

"I'll take good care of it," Chakotay said. "I'll give it back to you soon."

The young man looked absurdly pleased. "You must tell me your favorite part," he said shyly. "And I can tell you mine. We can talk about the stories."

And Chakotay thought with a sudden pang, He's lonely. "That will be fun," he said gently. "Thank you for loaning me the book. I'm--I'm looking forward to reading it."

"Huh!" The old woman was getting to her feet. She glared at Chakotay. "We walk you to your ship!" she said. "It is late! You not walk alone."

She wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. So Chakotay was escorted safely the few yards to the shuttle, the young Shiunta man still gripping his hand as he and Chakotay walked demurely behind the old woman.

"Thank you," Chakotay said at the shuttle.

The old woman glared at him. "You should not walk so late alone!" she said. "It is dangerous. You get raped!"

Don't laugh. "I'll ... keep that in mind. Good night!"

He stepped through the shuttle hatch as if going inside, then leaned out to keep an eye on them until they rejoined the Iushkans who'd been with them in the bar. In the darkened Wieong'than section of the station, the priests were calling the faithful to the second prayer of the night. Chakotay sealed the hatch. Remembered the book in his hand and tossed it onto the galley table. He had a headache--probably from the noise and the bad alchohol and the stress of the day and the yearning young Shiunta--

Shower. Meditation. He rose from the latter feeling cleansed.

Bed. Except he'd forgotten that he was going to try a new recipe with that fruit Paris liked--

He went into the galley, began to cut up the fruit into a small bowl. Paris. So ridiculously pleased this morning. Chakotay had just done what any good commander would do. What the hell had Paris expected? Had he thought that Chakotay wouldn't try to take care of him, wouldn't try to protect him?

He sprinkled spices over the chunks of fruit. And thought, No; of COURSE he didn't. Because when have you done anything other than go after him with phasers on "kill"? Which was pretty melodramatic: they'd been getting along quite well recently. But what they had of a relationship had been pretty rocky; and sometimes Paris had a tendency to overdramatize, so he'd probably convinced himself that Chakotay wouldn't do his best to make sure Paris was comfortable and safe, wouldn't just do what any good commander would do for a crew member in trouble.

He snorted and put the covered bowl into the refrigeration unit. Get the medikit ready for tomorrow; then you can go to bed--

Turning out the light, he saw the tawdry little book on the galley table. Damn. He'd promised to read that.

Just looking at the cover threatened a return of the headache. He could read it tomorrow.

~ ~ ~

"There's a pirate colony on the only inhabited planet in the D'nau system," Paris said between bites of casserole the next evening. "I'm not positive I know which system that is, but I can ask around. Though I think they all think I'm some sort of a spy." He looked pointedly at the casserole. "Have we discussed how much I don't like brussel sprouts?"

"Not in the last three seconds," Chakotay said. "I can find out what system that is."

"Good." Paris peered into his plate. "Did it perhaps occur to you that noodles and brussel sprouts aren't the tastiest combination?"

"Noodles go with everything." Really: they did.

"Not brussel sprouts."

"Well--" Chakotay looked at his own food. "Maybe you've got a point."

"More cheese," Paris said. "That's probably the answer. It's pretty much always the answer." He was cleaning his plate: hunger works wonders to dull the palate.

Chakotay dutifully dug into his own food. "How's the ... medicine working?"

"Fine." He looked meaningfully at Chakotay. "Everything feels fine." Then, "I'm-- Can you teach me how to meditate?"

Huh? "Sure."

"I just-- It gets a little boring, now that I can't play cards. I thought that I could try-- You know."

Chakotay pulled the brownies out of the basket.

"You didn't say brownies." Paris looked as if someone had given him a brand-new shuttle.

"I needed the fix." Chakotay grinned at him. "If you want to try meditating, you just need to get comfortable. Lie down, or something. Focus on your breathing." Which sounded like something Paris would try for about 4.7 nanoseconds. "Try to feel the rhythm--your breath going into and out of your body. Some people build a place in their minds--someplace safe. They start the meditation there and end it there. You might try that. Think about how it looks, sounds, smells." He looked slyly at Paris. "Voyager, maybe."

Paris's mouth twisted. "Not there," he said.

Chakotay blinked but didn't pursue it.

"Where do you go?" Paris said around a mouthful of brownie. "Is that--? I mean, if you don't mind."

Chakotay thought. "It's kind of Dorvan five. Only ... not exactly. I don't know: maybe it's my idealized version of Dorvan five." Since when had he started confiding in Paris? Since now, apparently.

"Maybe I'll do that." Paris chewed thoughtfully on his third brownie. "My idealized version of San Francisco. Or Marseilles. Or," he said, looking around at the chattering inmates and the scowling guards, "maybe just my idealized version of not here." He bit into the brownie more savagely than it really needed.

~ ~ ~

"He's ... settling in," Chakotay assured the captain. "We're both settling in."

Her image on the screen looked frazzled, but no more than usual. "Good," she said. "Things here are-- Well, you know how they tend to get."

He laughed with her. "How is Tuvok doing?"

"Very well. The crew misses you: his style is ... different. But everyone seems to be adjusting."

"It's a good crew."

"Thanks for the information about the pirates. We haven't gotten that far yet, but--" He could tell that she was thinking about the pirates and about whether or not Voyager should go do something about them and whether or not Voyager had the right to go do something about them and how much firepower it would take and whether it was ethical to put Voyager into the path of the pirates so there would be no question that they'd have to do something about them and whether Voyager really ought to be playing cosmic police officer--

"If there's a colony of them, there'll be families involved," Chakotay reminded her.

He saw her make one of those lightning decisions. "We'll see how it goes," she said. Then, "I'd better let you get back to what you were doing. Give our best to Tom."

And she was gone. Chakotay stared at the blank screen for a minute. And how it's going to go, he thought, is that Voyager will saunter right past that planet and end up taking on the entire pirate fleet. And win; and figure out some way to end the piracy in that area for all time....

And smoothe their way through another section of the Delta Quadrant, as the people who'd taken care of the piracy problem over in the D'nau system. One of those politically smart, potentially disastrous actions that good captains took and good commanders supported.

He started the shuttle's daily diagnostics--level three, since he was feeling a little ... bored.

Tuvok was a natural choice as first officer in Chakotay's absence, but he didn't deny that it rankled. Tuvok's dislike of him was particularly galling because the Vulcan had served under Chakotay's command in the Maquis. And apparently, Chakotay thought wryly, was oblivious to your amazing skills as captain. He laughed gently at himself.

His style is different. He thought about his conversation with Harry Kim the day before--Harry was dating Torres; had Chakotay remembered to tell Paris?--and Kim's crisp, "He runs a tight ship," accompanied by that slightly mulish expression that meant he would say no more even if tortured. Tuvok was doing what anybody does at the beginning of his command: making it his own, doing whatever necessary to remind the crew that someone else was in charge now, acting like not-Chakotay. The crew would adjust, and Tuvok would relax--eventually. Still, Chakotay thought, having a Vulcan as first officer had to be easier when you knew you could ask to be reassigned. Stuck in the Delta Quadrant with no foreseeable possibility of change.... Sooner or later, something was bound to go pop.

Not your problem, Commander, Chakotay reminded himself. Or, rather-- What did you call yourself, when you weren't commanding a starship, when you were sitting in a shuttle inside a space station, waiting for the guy you were temporarily married to to get out of prison? You're still Starfleet, he reminded himself; but it was hard to use the word "commander" for the guy in charge with making sure Paris had clean clothes and good coffee every morning for the next nine months. "Wife", he thought with amusement as he checked the last set of system readings. "Spouse." "Pel't'kh". Not the right words, either.

Just call yourself "Chakotay", he thought. And quit fussing about it. Good advice.

And--damn, he was going to have to hustle, if he was going to have supper done on time.

~ ~ ~

"I've got my place all figured out in my head," Paris said. "What am I supposed to do now?"

It was easier, Chakotay realized, when you had a mechanical device to guide your way. "I just ... let my mind drift. Usually it takes you where you need to go."

"I'll try that." But he looked dubious.

"Or think about one of those holonovels you've been threatening to write." That got him a mock-reproving glare. "You know--program it all out. Or--have you ever thought about your perfect shuttle? Plan that--build it in your head."

Paris's face got a dreamy expression. "Thaaat would-- I could do that. Or.... A new starship. Intrepid class, maybe."

"Yeah," Chakotay said, "start small."

Paris's impish grin was infectious. "Meanwhile," he said, examining a forkful of that night's lasagna-like food product, "you could maybe ... reprogram the replicator? I mean, not that it's not ... tasty," he said hastily. "It's just-- Is it supposed to crunch?"

Smart ass. "I'll have you know," Chakotay said, "that this is actual food. Not the replicated kind; this was grown in--" Well, actually he had no idea what it was grown in. "--well, it is real food. Full of real nutrients and good--" He took a bite. "--cruuuunchy vitamins. Mmmmmm."

Paris was laughing too hard to eat. Chakotay swallowed, feeling stupidly pleased with himself. What the hell was he doing, clowning for Paris? But the guy needed cheering up, and if that's what it took....

"I forgot that you have an actual sense of humor," Paris said, digging into his lasagna substitute.

"So," Chakotay admitted, "had I."

Paris smiled at him, chewing a mouthful of that atrocious food, and the blue eyes glowed with a warmth Chakotay hadn't seen in a long time. It was one of those instances of connection. Us against the galaxy, he thought. It felt good.

And, strangely, it also seemed to feel something like, well, ... married.

[To part three]

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