The BLTS Archive - Season V: The Moon is Nothing
by Bridget Cochran (bjcochran@aol.com)

---

This is the fifth in the Season V Series which includes 'The Way
of All Flesh', 'A Friend in Need', 'A Friend in Deed' and 'Pride's
Cloak'.

© 1998

Disclaimer: I own the ideas, Paramount owns the rest. Archive at will
including ASC/EML, BLTs, R'Rain's, AllSlash, et al.

This story involves two men establishing a relationship that will
eventually result in consensual sex. If the idea of men in love
offends you, move along home.

---

Tom sat at the bar at good, old Sandrine's. This time it wasn?t
because he was homesick. Or because he was grouchy (even though he
was). It was a tradition. Every year he raised a silent, solitary
toast to the one who made this all possible.

Every once in a while he believed that it was the Great Captain
Kathryn Janeway that made it possible. She sprang him from Auckland,
gave him responsibility and her trust. Until he blew it all trying to
be a hero on the Monean water planet.

Sometimes he believed it was The Caretaker. After all, the entity
flung them so far away from all they knew. It was The Caretaker that
had kept Tom free, out of the world of ankle bracelet monitors and
work details that involved manual labor.

Janeway brought him on board as an observer and he'd ended up manning
one of the most stalwart crews Starfleet could ever dream of. The
Caretaker just made sure they'd be together for--forever. Well, not
forever. With the help of Kes and serendipity, they were inching
closer to the Alpha Quadrant. Less than 60,000 light years from home.
Shit, he might just live long enough to see it.

If you called this living. He took a sip of his single malt scotch and
let the burn roll around in his mouth before he swallowed it. Ensign
Tom God-damn Paris. The last time he sat on this stool he was
congratulating himself for saving the universe from Species 8472.
Today, he was barely back into the pilot's seat after a couple months
in hell.

Tom turned the glass in his hand. Who would guess that B'Elanna would
have been the one to shame him back to the helm? Not for the first
time did he wonder if Chakotay had coached her on reverse psychology.

---

B'Elanna stomped into Sick Bay and stood centimeters from Tom,
looming. He knew she was there, but her 'I'm here, notice me',
hands-on-hips posture was something he wasn't buying into any more. He
finished the test he was running before he gave her his attention.

Folding his arms across his chest, he turned to the engineer. "Is
there something you want?" He watched as the kettle began to boil, a
smirk creeping onto his face.

The smirk turned off all the Klingon steam, and B'Elanna calmed
herself. "I want you to get back at the helm."

Tom's face couldn't hold any more disdain. "Oh, I'll report there
immediately." After I dance naked on the exterior hull. He turned back
to the work station, keying in the next test he was supposed to run.

B'Elanna took a step forward, but when Tom stiffened, took a half a
step back. "Tom," she said softly, "I **need** you back on the helm.
These amateurs they have scheduled are making more work for me than I
really need right now."

"They're pretty good pilots," Tom said. Whether the pilots were good
or not wasn't his concern. Not anymore. By default, Baytart was the
head pilot. Wasn't his worry.

"Damn it, Tom, I've had the warp engines off-line eight times in the
last six weeks. The dilithium we're wasting is a crime. I don't want
to waste anymore of it starting up the warp core." B'Elanna's voice
was quiet, emphatic. Tom didn't look at her while he listened. He
pretended to continue with his test. He'd have to do it again, gods
knew what the hell he was testing.

"What does warp being off-line have to do with bad piloting?" he
asked, still focused on the bogus test.

"Poor judgement. Lack of experience."

Damn it, what a crock. He turned on her. "Cut the crap, B'Elanna." She
backed up another step before standing her ground. "I only piloted an
eight hour shift in a twenty-four hour rotation. Baytart, Culhane,
everybody at the helm has been at the helm for nearly five years."

"Tom--"

"What's this about?"

She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing with the ire he was most used
to seeing. "I want you to stop this feeling sorry for yourself. It's
been a couple of weeks since you've been out of the brig. When are you
going to get over it?"

Tom blinked. Then he stepped back, so he wouldn't deck her. But he
wanted to deck her. Bloody her nose, blacken her eye. He opted for
trying to return his breathing to normal, and making sure his fingers
bent out of fists.

"I'm getting over it fine, B'Elanna. Thanks for your concern."

"Tom, you just seem to be wallowing in this self pity."

The dry laugh came out as a huff. "Aren't you one to talk. Christ, all
I wanted to do was be with you, and all you did was push me away. When
I found out what you were doing to yourself, I felt like a prize ass.
All the time you were avoiding me, I thought you were just getting
tired of me." He looked away, swallowing something big and sad. "But,
what you were really trying to do was hurt yourself. I felt like a
pretty selfish son-of-a-bitch."

B'Elanna placed a tentative hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry."

He brushed her off. "Everybody keeps saying that."

They stood in silence, each angry and sad. "Well, think about what I
said," B'Elanna said. "We really do need you on the helm."

Tom turned back to delete the useless test. "I'll think about it."

When B'Elanna finally left him, he closed his eyes, the frustration of
the last long, rotten months welling up in him. He went into the
Doctor's office, slouched in the chair at his desk and stared into
space, warring with the decision he had already made.

He understood now how Harry must feel; always an ensign, never a
bride. Lt. Here she was, Lt. Torres, Starfleet drop-out, chief
engineer on Voyager, current fourth in command. Here he was, the
former Lt. Thomas E. Paris, former fourth in command, Starfleet
graduate. When she went against direct orders, she continued to be
rewarded. When he went against orders, he lost everything.

Tom sighed. That was just the way it was with Tom Paris. All or
nothing. Crash and burn.

"Paris to Chakotay."

---

He hadn't fooled anybody about giving up the helm. B'Elanna called him
on it, albeit in the stupidest possible way. So, he'd gone back to the
helm.

Yep. He went back to the helm just in time for the Great Captain
Janeway to champion the cause of a dozen fugitive telepaths. Not that
the telepaths were bad. It's just that the Captain was risking the
lives of everyone on board to save a dozen telepaths from a species
that hunted them down like dogs.

The ogre that inspected them on their trip through Devore space--what
the hell was his name? Kashyk. He seemed to enjoy his little
cat-and-mouse game with Janeway. She seemed to enjoy it too. And that
freaking Tchaikovsky music he piped ship wide while his storm troopers
inspected Voyager

Harry knew which pieces were played. All Tom knew was that it was no
"Sleeping Beauty Waltz". Harry had given him that 'don't you know
anything' look. "Tchaikovsky only wrote "Sleeping Beauty" and "The
Nutcracker Suite" to make money so he could write the stuff he really
loved."

Tom just shook his head as he left the turbo lift to take the helm. "A
whore's a whore, Harry."

---

Tom was saying lots of nasty things like that lately. His anger was
always close to the surface these days, biting at anything that got
too close. Everybody had been so nice to him when he got back to duty.
They missed him. Was there anything they could do for him? How about a
game of pool? He was grateful, but ambivalent about the whole thing.
He erected the shields, keeping his distance while people smiled and
nodded. And gave him his distance.

He knew when he activated Sandrine's tonight, people were going to
think he was finally getting back to normal. His mouth quirked at the
thought of normal. Normal as compared to what?

"Mind if I sit?"

Tom shrugged. The question was rhetorical because Chakotay was already
sitting. He watched the older man make a signal to Sandrine. She
smiled, nodded and poured the cup of coffee. He smiled back at her
when she set the steaming black coffee in front of him.

"Home sick again?" he asked after the first sip.

Tom shook his head. "No, annual toast." He could feel Chakotay's
frown.

"To whom?"

Tom didn't answer right away. That would have been the ideal moment to
tell a lie. Shit, when had the truth become easier to give than a lie?
He used to be so glib with a lie, now he just blurted out the truth
without provocation. He swirled the smoky liquor around in his glass,
studying the vortex he stirred up.

"Stadi."

"Stadi?"

"The chief pilot on Voyager when we left DS9."

Chakotay made no comment. With cup and saucer in hand he turned his
back to the bar and scanned the room. Tom felt like Chakotay was
keeping the hounds at bay. Protecting him. He kept talking. "She was
Betazoid. Incredibly beautiful. Deep, dark eyes that looked straight
into my soul. And she still talked to me.

"She was at the helm when we first came across," Tom continued.
Christ, he could talk all night. Chakotay would never stop him.
"Cavit, he was the First Officer; he was a son-of-a-bitch. But he died
trying to get to Stadi, trying to save her. Seems even bastards have
their moments."

Chakotay caught the double meaning, answering with a nod. Tom looked
at him then. "It seems like you owe something to Cavit, too."

"Never thought of it that way."

"That's understandable. You never met him. Trust me, you wouldn't have
liked him." Tom still stared at Chakotay's profile. "He had a way of
looking at you that--well, reminded me of my dad. Like you could never
measure up."

Chakotay sipped his coffee. Tom was in an unusual mood tonight.
Talking. Not exactly voluble but giving information. "You toast her
every year?"

"Yup, like clockwork." Tom turned fully to Chakotay. "I often wondered
what would have happened if she lived. She still would have been head
pilot. I would be piloting some shift. I can't help but feel she would
have been good for me. There's a lot a non-psychotic Betazoid could
have offered this crew in the way of counseling."

Chakotay nodded, still looking around Sandrine's, not wanting to turn
to look at the man who was staring at him so intently. But his coffee
was done. He put it on the counter and forced himself to look at Tom.

"Come home with me," came the soft plea.

"Home with you?" Where the hell did that come from? Chakotay noticed
the bright eyes and pink face.

"Yeah." Tom's voice was so low it was almost not there. "I want to be
with you."

"Be with me?"

Ire moved into the hazy blue eyes. "Do you **always** practice
reflective listening?"

Chakotay shrugged. "It's reflexive."

"Very funny," Tom said and pushed off the bar stool.

Shit, Chakotay thought. He grasped Tom's forearm in a vise, knowing
Tom would try to shake him off. "What are you talking about, Tom?"

The look of contempt was huge. "Sex, Chakotay. I'm talking about sex."

Chakotay sighed. "I know you're talking about sex, Tom." He stood, but
saw no reason to turn Tom loose. "What is it that you want?"

If Chakotay had two heads, Tom couldn?t have looked at him with any
more incredulity. He let a long sigh out as well. "I thought I made it
clear. I want to go to bed with you." Tom's voice was low. He knew
their current little 'slow dance' was drawing attention. "Let go of
me."

Chakotay did. "Let's go." The older man walked away from Tom without a
backward glance. Startled, Tom looked to Sandrine for some kind of
approval. The holowoman gave a gallic shrug which meant nothing, and
everything. Tom returned the shrug and followed Chakotay out of the
holodeck.

Chakotay was waiting in the lift when Tom reached him, barely inside
when Chakotay called for their deck. The two stood silent, each tense,
Tom wondered what the hell was going to happen next.

It was a supreme effort for him to keep still. Never in a million
years had he expected Chakotay to call his bluff. Oh god. Oh god. Oh
god. He'd just asked for sex--he knew Chakotay wasn't going to take
advantage of him in this 'fragile' state. But the son-of-a-bitch said
yes. He wasn't supposed to say yes. He was supposed to tell Tom he
wasn't in any state to start a relationship.

Christ, how the hell do I get out of this now? he thought as the lift
deposited them down the hall from his quarters. Chakotay led the way,
Tom trailed with lead feet. Waiting as the code was keyed in, Chakotay
stared at Tom. Tom felt his neck and face heat up. Without preamble,
the Commander strode into the darkened quarters.

Like a man facing a guillotine, Tom followed. "Look, Chakotay," he
began, only to feel himself grasped by the shoulders and pounded
against the wall. The back of his head bounced, giving pain and
jolting him into action. He grasped Chakotay by the collar and used
the adrenaline that shot through him to reverse their positions. But
he didn't bounce Chakotay's head.

Angry eye to angry eye, they warred with each other for a moment.
Chakotay was breathing fire. "What the hell is this all about?"

"Sex," Tom said.

"Bullshit. You knew I wouldn't say yes. You're screwing with me."

Tom blew out air in a hiss, pushing himself away with a shove. "Why
did you have to say yes?" He crossed the room and landed on the couch.

Chakotay didn't understand what the hell was going on with Tom, and he
was still angry. He made it as far as the table, leaning against it,
trying to re-center himself.

They both knew there would be no sex tonight and they both were sorry.
For different reasons. And the same reasons.

"Guess I was out of line," Tom admitted, wrapping his arms around
himself. He looked at a point behind the Commander's head. He was
aware of Chakotay's nod. "I've never been subtle."

Chakotay said nothing.

"Or good in a relationship."

Chakotay frowned. He only had Tom's relationship with B'Elanna as a
guide, and those two had never really been on the same path. The path
had converged into a volatile relationship, but it had been
separate--parallel, but separate--for sometime. He had no idea about
his past relationships.

Of course, there was Tom's fuck-all-night, drink-all-night days in the
Maquis. Chakotay didn't pay much attention to the pilot in those days.
As long as he showed up sober to fly, he didn't worry about him. Shit,
he had more than his hands full trying to cobble a strike force
together from nothing to worry about a reprobate's love life.

They hadn't gotten along then. Chakotay had no time to rehabilitate
anybody. If a recruit was capable and angry, he wanted him on his
team. Tom Paris just filled a vacant slot.

It had taken the Commander years to get over the perceived betrayal
and the cocky-ass attitude Paris used to protect himself. Years of
extreme effort. Respect came gradually and grudgingly; then,
eventually admiration replaced whatever bad feelings lingered.

And now it was hard to tell what was going on. Tom was holding
everyone at distance, pushing everyone away. Tonight Chakotay pushed
back. He blinked back to the day room to see Tom now staring at him.

His eyes were shuttered again, but his face was still flushed. "You
can go now."

Chakotay shrugged, but straightened. "You ordering me out?" His eyes
pinned Tom's.

"Yeah," Tom said, but it wasn't so believable.

The older man stood looking down at the pilot in extreme conflict. He
was so close to saying, "Fuck it, I'm staying," seeing Tom there
warring with himself. It was obvious that he was asking for something
he didn't know how to ask for.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked, not sure if his voice was loud
enough to carry across the room. Tom's eyes fixed on him again, but he
shook his head.

"You know that it would be wrong for us to do anything right now."

Chakotay nodded. It would be wrong to crawl into bed with Tom, but it
didn't stop him from wanting it.

Tom blinked a few times. Chakotay would leave now, and he'd be alone
again. He shook off the chill that danced up his spine; his eyes never
left the Commander. He swallowed the urge to blurt some embarrassing,
maudlin request to be held.

Christ, he needed a--a what? An understanding lover? A good, hard fuck
to help forget the hole in his soul? A mother to stroke his hair, and
whisper into his ear?

"Do you want me to go?" Chakotay whispered again.

"Yes." It was the hardest thing Tom ever had to say.

---

The End