Part four
To part three

---

"I'm here to see my husband," Chakotay said.

He smiled in what he hoped looked like good-natured excitement. New guard, new rules of engagement.

The guard eyed Chakotay dubiously: first look at the guy from the other part of the galaxy. About to get a really good look.

The guard motioned to an alcove halfway down the hall. Followed Chakotay. The alcove had hooks on the walls, a bench, a closed door. A curtain to shield it from the hallway. The guard followed him inside and stared at him. Okay.

Chakotay closed the curtain and started removing clothing. Sat on the bench and took off his boots and socks. The guard watched impassively. Chakotay ignored him and stood to remove his shirt. Standing, he could see over the curtain into the narrow hallway. A veiled Shiunta woman demurely padded down the hall, behind a female Wieong'tha; there was a spring in her step, and her cheeks were flushed. Looking forward to something.

Shirt off, he started on his trousers. Jumped when the curtain twitched aside to admit yet another guard, who eyed him curiously. Guy from the other part of the galaxy either rated two guards for safety's sake, or was that day's entertainment.

Chakotay kept his face bland as he dropped his trousers and then skinned out of his skivvies. Folded both and put them on the bench.

The guards were motionless, looking. Then one beckoned him forward with a gloved hand. The pat-down took both of them. One opened Chakotay's mouth and checked inside with a small light. The other-- There was a sudden antiseptic scent, and Chakotay blinked and tried not to clench as the guard probed with something cold that went unexpectedly deep when Chakotay bent forward automatically to accomodate it. More peering with a small light. Lucky guard.

Kept him bent as his feet were nudged further apart. Two sets of hands fumbling at his genitals. Chakotay stared stoically at the wall of the alcove.

Finally the guards seemed satisfied that he was carrying no contraband. Slid out the probe and let him straighten up. He smiled gamely at them, the prisoner's fond spouse eager for a good fucking.

One guard opened a small window in the door and peered inside. Closed it and opened the door with a key. Motioned Chakotay inside.

His knees bumped the edge of the bed just inside the door, and he scrambled onto it. The door closed; he heard the lock snick shut.

He looked around. Room the size of the bed, with another closed door opposite the one he'd entered. A light panel glowed in the wall at the bed's head; at the foot of the bed on Chakotay's side was a small alcove with a toilet hole in the floor and a tiny sink. No pillows. Bare mattress made of something moisture-proof. Romantic. He became aware of a frantic rhythm being muffled by the wall behind him. Yep: romantic.

A small panel in the door opposite his opened and closed; then there was the sound of keys, and the door swung open.

"Whoa!" Naked, Paris blinked down at the unexpected bed and cast a startled look at the sour-faced guard behind him. Scrambled onto the bed, clutching a folded sheet. "Thank you, sir," he said as the door closed. The rattle of the key in the lock seemed to echo.

"Hi," Chakotay said.

Tom goggled at him, cast an appalled look around them, flinched away from the muffled thumping. "And they say romance is dead."

Chakotay laughed more than the joke was really worth.

"I'm supposed to bring the sheet back with me," said Tom. He looked suspiciously at the mattress. "I think I want it between us and whatever's on this."

They spread out the sheet and sat on it.

Chakotay slid closer to Tom, who for blinked at him for a second, wild-eyed and panicky. Chakotay smiled sweetly at him. "Sweetheart, this time let's just talk," Chakotay cooed.

"Uh," said Tom. Then he got it. "Okay, sweetie," he said. Looked startled when Chakotay slid close. Then he bit his lips, apparently to keep from laughing. "I don't think they listen in," he breathed into Chakotay's ear.

"Never know," Chakotay murmured back. "Maybe we need to look at the mattress. Under the bed."

There was no under-the-bed to examine: the mattress appeared to be fastened to a platform bolted to the floor.

When Chakotay tried to pull the mattress off the platform, Paris yipped and grabbed his wrists, then looked abashed and let go. "They--they really don't want anything ... tampered with." The alarm in his eyes was a shock.

"Okay." Chakotay examined the mattress as best he could, his heart hammering. Evidently, the bastards had threatened Tom with another beating. His mouth was sour with anger.

Nothing in the mattress, as far he could tell. Still, he slid as close to Paris as Paris would let him. Murmured in Paris's ear, "How are things?"

"Uh ... okay."

"How's the new quarters? Got any idea where you are in the building?"

Tom glanced apprehensively at the door by which he'd entered. "Not a damn clue." He eyed Chakotay. "You're not actually going to get me out of here, are you?"

Chakotay took a deep breath. "I'm still working on it."

Tom looked at him in silence for a moment. "I feel like I'm smothering," he said. "But it's better than a lot of places I've been."

Chakotay blinked. Realized that his hand had moved to touch Paris's. Left it there, since Tom didn't pull away.

"But don't try to break me out," Tom went on, "unless you know you can do it. Because if you fail, we're both going to be in here for a hell of a long time."

Chakotay knew that: attempted escape tripled the prisoner's sentence. And if Chakotay were jailed or on the run and so couldn't bring food, and the prison had to feed Paris, that--what--doubled the sentence again? "Has anybody ever actually tried to escape?" he asked.

Paris winced. "Guy ten years ago. In for a year and a half. Family abandoned him. Just got out yesterday."

Chakotay stared at him, stunned.

"I'm fine in here," Paris said firmly. "I'll be okay. Just--" He paused, seemed to think better of something. "I'll be okay," he said again.

I feel like I'm smothering didn't sound anything at all like I'm fine in here, but Chakotay knew better than to press it. He cast about for a neutral topic. "So ... you sleeping on the top bunk yet?"

Tom laughed. "Working my way up," he said. "Some of the old alcovemates want me to join them. I probably will; we get along really well." He grinned. "Besides, if I'm going to cheat at cards, I'd rather do it with Thetl than with somebody who'd tattle to the guards."

"You could try not cheating," Chakotay said with a grin.

Tom grinned back. "Yeah, but what fun would that be?"

A heartbeat. The thumping behind them was speeding up. Tom eyed the wall, his mouth twisting wryly.

"So, how long did they give us?" asked Chakotay.

"Six pentals," said Paris. "About half an hour."

"Half an hour," Chakotay said serenely. "Hell--half an hour, I'd barely work up a sweat."

"So no--" Paris let a sly grin finish the sentence.

Chakotay gave him a fond smile. "Not unless you plan to be married to me for the next eighty, ninety years."

Tom blinked; then that damned impish expression of his took over. "Just a friendly little blow--"

"Like I said, not unless you plan to be married to me--"

"Nobody needs to know." The blue eyes twinkled; the bastard was just playing him. As usual.

"I'd know." Chakotay waited to parry the inevitable quip.

Paris pretended to pout; and, damn, but he suddenly reminded Chakotay of the young Shiunta when he did that. "Just se-e-e-ex...."

"Now, Tom," Chakotay said sweetly, "you know the law: if either of us so much as has an orgasm while the other is in the room, the marriage is legal." Simplified, but that was what it basically boiled down to. He looked mistily at Tom. "And I'd want a lot of children. We could have the Doctor implant you with an artificial womb when we got back, to make it easier--"

Paris cocked an eyebrow. "You know, I always thought you were more the maternal type," he said. He patted Chakotay's belly.

"What--and risk losing my boyish figure?" Chakotay said in mock dismay.

Tom's laugh warmed him.

A thump at the door into Tom's side of the prison; and then the little window opened and shut. Tom yanked hastily at the sheet underneath them. When the door opened, he had it bundled in his arms.

"Thank you, sir," he said to the sour-faced guard. Then, over his shoulder to Chakotay, "Thanks, sweetie." He leaned back and gave Chakotay a peck on the cheek.

"See you at supper," Chakotay called after him.

Good god, the thumping behind him was still going strong. A few minutes later, the door on Chakotay's side of the bed opened. Just one guard this time: presumably, Chakotay had been fucked into a manageable lassitude. The guard watched stonily as Chakotay dressed, then followed him to the prison exit.

Stepping outside, Chakotay felt unaccountably relieved. Well, accountably relieved, actually.

After all: one conjugal visit down; only twelve more to go.

He steeled himself before going to the old woman's stand the next day. But--

"Ah!" the old Iushkan said. "He off fucking!" She looked amazingly cheerful. "Since yesterday. And he is gone tonight! His husband earn another night of fucking." She positively glowed with contentment.

"So that's why it's so quiet," Chakotay said slyly, delighted when the old woman laughed.

"Huh!" she said. "And after he get back, he is even more useless."

Now, that was hard to imagine.

Not that Chakotay had to: when he went to buy vegetables a few days later, the young man was sighing at the back of the stand, where he was presumably uncrating fruit. He brightened when he saw Chakotay; the old woman snorted, but said nothing when the Shiunta pranced over to Chakotay for a confidential gossip.

Chakotay took a deep breath and smiled, flinching mentally from the inevitable question.

It didn't come. "Ah!" the young man sighed. "My man was so eager! And so strong!" His beautiful eyes unfocused; the fingers of one hand strayed over the veil and across his lips. "He fucked me and fucked me." He sighed languidly. Looked dreamily at Chakotay. "I was helpless." One hand found his thigh, stroked it, stroked it. "He just fucked me and fucked me--"

Chakotay felt the breath tangle in his throat and forced himself to look away. Looked down at the fruit he was holding--the fruit he was bruising. Ordered his hand to unclench. Did a little Vulcan five-level quadratic equation in his head. Jerked his thoughts away from that thigh and--

"That must have been ... very satisfying," he said. Sounded as though someone were strangling him. He cleared his throat.

"Yes." The young man sighed again. "He is so strong. I--"

"That fruit not sort itself!" The old woman smacked the young man's hand away from his thigh. "You not think about your husband! You think about your work!" She shook her head at Chakotay, pointedly added the bruised fruit to his purchase. "And you," she said, thrusting his change and his purchased produce at him. "You not encourage him! You thinking about your husband, you go someplace else!"

Abashed, Chakotay spent the entire afternoon preparing supper: tesmiro, which needed a lot of chopping and timing and measuring and just generally took hours of concentration. Worth it when he saw Paris's delight that evening; but, really--

What the hell was wrong with him? The question kept darting through Chakotay's head as he wandered the streets that night.

That delectable young man-- He forced his thoughts into a less dangerous groove. Except-- Except that was the problem, he had to admit. Far too much sex in the air. Naked in a bed-sized room with a naked somebody he couldn't touch, even if the naked somebody was only Tom Paris. And pursued by-- He grinned. --well, hell: the Shiunta was just a damned boy; "pursued" was a bit melodramatic. Okay: fondled and sexually harrassed by a luscious, flirtatious young man with beautiful eyes and a kissable mouth--

Are we talking about Tom Paris again, Commander? he thought with a chuckle. Because--dammit--Paris could look pretty damned luscious, and that mouth was-- He flicked his thoughts into a less dangerous groove.

Except-- Except that was the problem--or was going to be the problem--or had been the problem once and was becoming the problem again-- Things had always been pretty damned complicated when it came to Tom Paris.

You never have known just how to take him, have you? Chakotay thought. At first, too paranoid and angry at everybody to pay any real attention to Paris himself. Angry at the Federation's betrayal. Sick with guilt at his father's death. Struggling to keep his people alive, to keep them--in some cases--focused on fighting Cardassians instead of each other. And, here was the admiral's son--golden-boy Paris--freshly cashiered out of Starfleet, just the perfect spy. So you were ... suspicious. Understandably.

Only, there was always something else about him that you were trying NOT to notice. Which was what had complicated things. Even in the beginning, something in Chakotay must have looked past the probability of betrayal, past Paris's hurt aggressiveness, noticed the beautiful mouth and the aristocratic profile, the mesmerizing eyes and flashes of playfulness, the sense that Paris would be deliciously bad in bed--

Damned hot in the station, suddenly: somebody needed to overhaul the heating sys--

He laughed. Heating system, be damned: It's only YOU, Commander. Quit thinking about Paris and bed.

Which did cool things down. A little.

Sort of.

Oh, what the hell. Just get the fuck to bed.

A couple days later, he took the shuttle for a test drive. Ran a diagnostic on the engines and over every inch of hull; disconnected the feed lines; ran another diagnostic; cast off gently. Snorted at the automatic warning from the docking authority about the no-fly zone over the Wieong'than area and took the shuttle toward the docking bay hatch. Approaching the guard dock for the usual bureaucratic folderol, he thought, What the hell, and started a level two diagnostic on most of the nonessential systems. May as well test everything out at once.

The guards were polite and brusque. And ostentatiously armed.

Nature of Chakotay's trip through the hatch?

Engine test.

The guard consulted his data padd. Ah. Chakotay's husband was in prison for violating the person of a Wieong'than citizen. Chakotay would not want to miss havng supper with his beloved. A pointed look from the guard.

It was just a brief test, to make sure the engines were working properly. Chakotay would be very careful to return in time to feed his husband.

A distrustful eyebrow twitch from the guard. Behind him, Chakotay could see the others wandering through the shuttle with their sensors, checking Chakotay's quarters, Tom's quarters; watching the lights blink over the biobed, in the transporter, the replicators. Saw them go below, where they would find the holodeck twinkling through its own diagnostic.

The main control panel beeped as the replicator's diagnostic ended one of its automatic routines.

The guard raised his weapon. "What is that?"

"The computer is signalling the end of one phase of its program. It needs input from me in order to proceed."

"Do not touch anything."

"It can wait."

The guard still looked suspicious, but he lowered his weapon. When the transporter's diagnostic program signalled that it had ended one of its automatic sequences, the guard glared at Chakotay, but didn't move.

Finally, the others had finished the search and apparently reported in efficient grunts and head jerks that they'd found nothing suspicious. Chakotay felt unaccountably relieved to close the hatch on them.

He watched the gigantic hatch open to allow an Aiildan freighter to enter the station and then moved ahead on the guards' signal. As the hatch closed behind him and two other shuttles, he checked the diagnostic readouts and let the programs proceed.

Ahead, the outside hatch opened, and his heart lifted.

Open space. He hadn't realized how much he missed it.

Moving carefully through the field of ships too large--or too cautious--to enter the station, Chakotay kept an eye on the diagnostic readouts and gawked at the mixture of sleek starships and shabby freighters from planets he didn't yet know the names of.

At last, he was able to swoop away from the station at a decorous speed that would catch nobody's attention. Passed five of the tiny rocks that constituted the system's inner planets and put the star between the shuttle and the station. Ran a level two diagnostic on the warp engines. Ran a sensor check of surrounding space. Nobody near enough to notice him, to notice something suddenly zooming away at warp speed.

Damn, but he wished Paris were here for this.

He started off at impulse, passing the sixth inner planet, and then engaged the warp drive. Zoomed sweetly past the system's other two gas planets. Stopped in the shadow of the last one to listen to the comm chatter and to run a quick diagnostic. Under the belly of the planet, the system's sun dominated the void.

There were three small icy planets circling each other in the outer system. He should visit them.

Nothing worrisome on the comm channels, so Chakotay moved out and engaged warp drive. The muted rumble of the engines was soothing. Paris should be here; he could spend some happy hours fussing over one of those minor problems that only he could sense, ripping everything out and putting it back again. Making the engine his.

Stark against the star-studded void, the little icy planets weren't that impressive. Neither was the system's sun: just a bright star that drew the eye. Chakotay called up Voyager's data on the little trinary system, watched the holographic model go through its complex dance, as the three chunks of ice circled an invisible point at different speeds. The smallest had a slightly erratic orbit, pulled by the masses of the other two. Some time in the future it would be drawn in completely by one or the other, become a moon or be pulled apart. Tuvok had run all the scenarios.

Chakotay looked at the smallest planet, glinting in the viewscreen and felt a rush of sorrow at its fate. Which was, of course, stupid, the logical part of his brain told him. It was ice. It didn't matter what happened to ice. But the planet beneath your feet had an existence of its own, his family had taught him; it had a being, it had a spirit. And here was this cold little planet, with its own resonance in the universe, fated to be pulled apart, or to circle another planet forever.

He was getting maudlin. Time to be getting back. He briskly ran a diagnostic, scanned the planetary system as well as he could, and started off. At warp speed, it was mere minutes before the system's sun was close enough to hide him.

Another diagnostic, and Chakotay started for the station. It took as long to get there at impulse as it would to reach those little outer planets at warp.

A new shift was on duty. Before he opened the hatch, Chakotay thought, Oh, hell; give them a show, and started a level three diagnostic on nonessential systems.

These guards were equally efficient and brusque. And informed.

Ah. Chakotay had returned. Had his tests gone satisfactorily?

Oh, yes. The engines were running fine. He liked to keep up with these things--test them every so often, to make sure everything was running well. No sense letting things get out of trim.

This group of guards was quicker: checking for dangers to the station instead of for contraband. They were through the shuttle before the first system beeped for input.

Docking at the familiar berth felt oddly like returning home, as was taking Paris his supper.

"I tried out the engines," Chakotay said halfway through the meal. "I think B'Elanna did something to the warp drive: it sounds a little off. I may have to take it completely apart."

He glanced at Paris--suddenly frozen, face carefully blank--and thought, Damn. You shouldn't have mentioned it. But--

"After all," Chakotay went on, "if we have to blast out of here at top speed, I sure don't want the damned engines to cut out." He took a casual sip of his coffee.

"So you were off the station?" Paris's quiet voice had a painful edge to it.

"Just took a little look around the system, testing out the engines. Nothing much to see." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I just wanted to be ready."

"In case-- In case we needed to blast out of here at warp speed." Paris's tone dripped sarcasm.

Chakotay looked deep into his eyes. "Exactly."

Paris looked back for a minute, then blinked a few times and dropped his gaze to the table. His jaw worked. Then Chakotay saw the tension drain out of him, though there was hurt in Paris's eyes when he looked at Chakotay again.

"The drive sounds 'off' how, exactly?" he asked.

That night, Chakotay walked further than he had before: trying to somehow walk away from the pain in Paris's eyes. He'd hoped that the reminder that Chakotay could leave Paris behind whenever he wanted would be overshadowed by the thought that Chakotay was keeping alive the possibility of escape.

Even if Chakotay wasn't sure he should.

Maybe that was why the hurt in Paris's face stung so. Paris, like some damned caged bird eating its heart out to be in the sky, and Chakotay not sure he could even find the cage door.

He stopped in front of one of the small temples that seemed to have been shoved in between buildings here and there. Not Wieong'than: temples of some of the other races living here. He recognized a few. The Iushka paused at little alcoves scattered throughout the station, shouted a handful of words at the statue of the deity, and hurried on, deity and worshipper apparently both too busy for ceremony. The squat Aiildan temples were decorated with geometic shapes, mostly egg-ish. The Dletl temples were ostentatiously unadorned.

The front of this one had a series of deep alcoves; the center alcove contained the door. Above the alcoves was a carved frieze, its shallow figures battered and gouged: a marching army, a watching crowd, a man riding a creature like a tusked antelope, a naked figure walking beside the creature. Odd, and vaguely familiar; in Chakotay's mind, something stirred.

"May I know who prays there?" he asked an Aiildan bread seller across the street.

"Shiunta." The man rearranged some small loaves, looked pointedly at Chakotay.

"I'll take six of those," Chakotay said. "Who's that pictured above the door?"

"That?" The man spat on the street; Chakotay was dimly amazed that here was another culture which showed disgust by spitting. "That is that cursed conqueror. And his whore. The Shiunta still admire him."

Chakotay took the bread and paused in front of the temple again, peering at the frieze. Soldiers, watchers, conqueror, concubine-- The Triumph--that was what it was. The Conqueror leading his triumphant army into the capitol, the naked Companion walking alongside as a pretty little symbol of the defeated peoples. The Companion's wrists were fastened together by a chain attached to the Conqueror's saddle; his gaze was fixed firmly on the ground. Submissive. Defeated. Except-- The Companion's back was straight; his head was tilted only enough to show that he was gazing at the ground; he walked easily at the side of the Conqueror's mount: he wore his conqueroring lightly.

Chakotay snorted. Fine piece of propaganda. The Companion reveling in servitude: a glorious example for conquered peoples across the galaxy. This can be you, the image said, the proud companion of a strong warrior. With a layer of sex: the naked Companion defeated only so as to get into the right bed; submissive only because it suited him. No wonder the Shiunta idolized him.

Except, of course, for Chakotay's own personal Shiunta.

"Huh!" he said dismissively when Chakotay asked about the temple. "I give him gifts sometimes, but not much."

"Is he someone that pel't'khs honor?" May as well indulge in a little anthropological research. "What kind of gifts do you give him?"

"Money sometimes. I gave a necklace when I was married." The young man's mouth softened in a pout. "It was too pretty to give away. It would have looked pretty on me. Now I give him perfume sometimes. Fruit sometimes." He smiled and picked up one of the little purple-gold plums. "These are his fruits."

"His--"

"These are the fruits he gave his husband when he wanted to be fucked. Husbands all know that if someone gives them this fruit, they want to be fucked." A sidelong glance filled with mischief as the young man added the plum to the others in Chakotay's purchase.

For a moment Chakotay couldn't seem to form a thought, could only feel the heat rise in his cheeks. He'd been feeding those damned things to Paris daily, and the young man knew it. "Well, they are delicious," he said dryly. He made another stab at anthropology. "Why do you honor him?"

"He's what I should be. So my mother tells me and tells me and my husband tells me and tells me. He didn't argue with his husband and he was sweet in his husband's bed and he didn't let another pel't'kh satisfy him." He wrinkled his nose. "He's old and boring."

Uh-- "He didn't look that old in the statue I saw," Chakotay said. Then, dryly, "He certainly looked younger than me."

The Shiunta man flirted him one of those knee-melting looks, all speculation and promises. "He's too boring. What's the use of not letting another pel't'kh satisfy you? Husbands like to think of pel't'kh touching each other; it makes them fuck you hard." His hand lingered on Chakotay's as the young man handed over Chakotay's purchase. "You aren't boring. If you wanted me to satisfy you I wouldn't refuse." Another smoldering glance through his eyelashes; and Chakotay saw him gently bite his lower lip--that damned lush lower lip....

He managed to find oxygen again. "Thank you. For the--for the fruit. I--I may need some of those eorda beans tomorrow; I hope you have some ... fresh." Chakotay's face felt hotter than an O-class star. He gave the fruit seller a nod and a glassy smile and stumbled away from the stand, away from the disappointment that suddenly made the young man look extremely young and oddly vulnerable.

Well-- So: fruit, and-- He mazily stripped out the pertinent information from the conversation. Anthropology, after all; Chakotay should write up a report. Let's see: fruit and submission and-- He didn't let another pel't'kh-- --and faithfulness. Fidelity. Virtue? Marital fidelity. That was it. He should include that. Maybe the virtue part, too. He was sweet in his husband's bed-- Yes, submission. Oh, and the necklace-- It would have looked pretty on me--some metal that showed that golden skin to advantage, something silvery, perhaps-- Evidently a part of the marriage ritual that hadn't been mentioned in those stories. A ritual gift to the ideal pel't'kh, based on a historical personage now become a god of sorts, or the consort of a god, or--

And don't forget the fruit, which was really tasty and Paris liked it-- Husbands all know that if someone gives them this fruit it means they want to be fucked. --did the fruit have a seasonal significance? He should look into that. For the report. Because anthropology was one of the things Chakotay could be doing while Paris served his sentence; he could write up all this, do a little research, take advantage of his resources.

He looked down at the bag of fruit with a wry twist to his mouth. Interview his Shiunta source. The mischievous smile as Chakotay bought those damned plums to give to Paris. That soft lip tenderly bitten under the sheer veil. Those eager hands. Yeah: interview that Shiunta source. "If you wanted me to satisfy you I wouldn't refuse." The source eager for a little quick frottage in a dark corner somewhere: hot cock rubbing against his bare belly, naked ass working under his hands, breathy gasps in his ear-- He wrenched his thoughts away. That source.

Anthropology. Maybe he wouldn't. In classes at the Academy, anthropological research had seemed an interesting intellectual exercise.

Out in the field, though, things were a little more ... complicated.

~ ~ ~

"--forfeits this meal because he is being whipped." The guard was impassive, ticking off another chore taken care of before he could go home or take his coffee break or whatever the hell--

"I need to give him medical aid," Chakotay said. "There's a--"

"Contract." The guard's gaze hardened; he was getting impatient. After all, there was another visitor awaiting the news that her loved one was being punished. "Tomorrow." He turned to the Aiildan woman clutching her basket anxiously. "Your husband also forfeits this meal because he is being whipped."

She blinked at him. "Is he being whipped with that man's husband?"

The guard thought for a moment, then placidly said, "Yes." He went back to his paperwork, evidently done with them both.

The woman glared at Chakotay and turned to leave. He hurried to catch up with her.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

She cast him an angry look. "Are you stupid, or are you just a bad wife? It means they fought. When prisoners fight, they're always whipped together, so they can apologize to each other." Her expression became downright hostile. "Except my husband won't be apologizing to yours. Your husband will be whimpering out his apologies alone, the arrogant brute. People like you and your husband are too worthless to speak to. We shouldn't even have to share the prison with you." She stalked off, back stiff with outrage, gaze firmly on the ground, automatically shying away from the Wieong'tha in a status-conscious ballet.

Chakotay watched her, his jaw tight. Your husband will be whimpering out his apologies alone-- Damned arrogant asses, so conscious of their low status that they reveled in being able to lord it over someone else. We shouldn't even have to share the prison with you. As if he and Paris wanted to be part of that damned toxic system.

To Chakotay's surprise, the next morning he was ushered into a small empty room. Evidently the sub-assistant warden had satisfied his curiosity about how the people from the other part of the galaxy medicated each other.

Limping in beside the single guard, Paris looked ... sheepish, which told Chakotay all he needed to know. The bastard had gotten annoyed at something and picked a fight. Typical.

"Sir, is it all right if I touch my husband?" Chakotay asked the guard standing impassively in front of the closed door.

The guard considered this for a moment, then gravely gave permission. One of those overbearing jerks conscious of his own inflated position: if Chakotay humbled himself carefully, Tom might later be able to draw on the good will.

They hadn't beaten Tom as thoroughly as last time: the first beating might have been a lesson; or maybe Tom was growing on them--he had a tendency to do that.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Paris said as Chakotay ran the rigged tricorder over his back. "I was really looking forward to having supper with you last night."

"That's all right," Chakotay said. "Darling." He took Paris's hand--for half an instant, Paris laced his fingers through Chakotay's; then he blushed and let go. "I heated up last night's supper for this morning's breakfast." He looked innocently into Paris's eyes. "Of course, it was salad, so maybe it suffered a little in the process--"

Paris snorted a laugh that warmed Chakotay as he ran the tricorder around the bruised wrists--some bastard had held Tom down--and over the roughed-up knuckles.

"You should keep your hands to yourself," Chakotay murmured, inspecting Paris's hands. "After all, you're married to me; you need to keep your hands off other people." He flicked a grin at Paris.

Paris grinned carefully--his lip was split. "Don't I know it," he said. "Sweetie."

The black eye, Chakotay gave careful attention to: no damage to the eye or the skull, thank the spirits.

He kept hold of Paris's hand--or Paris kept hold of his--as he turned to the guard. "Sir, is it all right if I give my husband his injection? It's vitamins; it'll help him heal." Chakotay waited until the guard gave permission; Paris gave him a wry look as Chakotay stepped between him and the guard to give the injection.

An instant when Paris's face automatically relaxed as the painkiller took hold; then he recovered himself and shot Chakotay another wry look.

"Did you really pee into this stuff?" Paris asked as Chakotay dabbed salve onto his split lip. "Darling."

Chakotay grinned. "You may never know. Sweetheart."

"I know I shouldn't have let him get to me," Paris admitted later at breakfast--tomato soup and sandwiches made from some vile, old-fashioned concoction called "peanut butter," with donuts for dessert: real make-Paris-smile food.

"Except he's an arrogant ass," Chakotay finished for him. He poured coffee for himself and Paris. "I met his wife."

"Well, he's not all that bad." Paris mopped the rest of the soup out of his bowl with the last bit of his sandwich. "It's just that for some reason we got on each other's nerves, and one thing led to another. I had to apologize to him." He flushed. "He-- He--"

"--didn't," Chakotay said crisply. "Like I said: I met his wife. She explained some things to me."

Paris eyed him over the rim of his coffee cup for a minute. "You know, I can take it," he said quietly, "if you can."

Chakotay looked at him, startled, then felt himself flush. "They just seem kind of ... quick to punish people around here." And it was really my fault because you were upset because I can fly the hell out of this station and you can't; no wonder you ended up in a fight. "And the damned status thing really pisses me off." To the extent that he'd spent the night on the holodeck, combing through that fucking thicket of laws in another fruitless search for a way out. He leaned forward. "I mean, they're visitors, we're visitors; we should all be equal." And Paris especially shouldn't have to apologize to some fucking bully who'd given him the kind of pounding he'd endured....

Paris gazed levelly at him, remarkably mellow--maybe from the coffee, maybe from the donuts, maybe from the painkillers, maybe from all three. "You know, you're actually kind of cute when you're mad."

Chakotay shot him a glare that just bounced off Paris's mischievous grin. Smug, self-satisfied little prick, wallowing in his painkillers and his donuts and that damned coffee Chakotay had spent forty-five minutes trying to get just right.

"And a really fine cook," Paris went on with a wider grin.

Chakotay snorted. Self-satisfied little-- But the damned grin was infectious, and he found himself thawing. "You know," he said lightly, "it may not be too smart to upset the guy who makes your food."

Paris ostentatiously examined his coffee, then grinned again at Chakotay. "I've already got you peeing in my medicine; I can't imagine anything you could do to the coffee would be any worse."

Smart ass. Chakotay rummaged through the basket, pulled out the little packet containing Paris's lunch. Paris took it and levered himself out of his chair to go back into the prison. He looked down at the sandwich and the cookies and the handful of purple-gold plums.

"You know," he said, "maybe I better make this marriage permanent. I mean, really: you're an amazingly good little wife." And Paris was through the door into the prison before Chakotay could tell him to go to hell.

Damn self-satisfied smart aleck. Chakotay packed up the remains of their meal under the gaze of the silent guards.

Outside the prison, he let misery wash through him. He'd let Paris be beaten again. Well, all right, technically it was Paris's fault, but Chakotay should have figured out something by now; he wasn't bound by Starfleet regulations and protocol and customs; he'd been a Maquis and should have been able to figure some damn way to get Paris out of that fucking prison. Not that you did such a great job breaking him out of Auckland, hot shot. Except that was different: he'd thought that Paris had betrayed him, betrayed the cause.

This was different. This was Paris. In prison. Being beaten for defending himself; being punished for acts of charity. Damn toxic system where you couldn't give candy money to a little girl, where you couldn't share food with another inmate.

Damn toxic system. And it was up to Chakotay to get Paris the hell out of it.

Even if he had to destroy the damned station to do it.

[To part five]

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