The BLTS Archive- My Chakotay
#16: Echoes
by MaisieRita (MaisieRita@aol.com)

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copyright 1999

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Tom and Chakotay. I have stolen them
without permission but without any intent to harm anybody. Really.

Warning: This will make no sense if you haven't read the first
fifteen. I will accept no blame for any confusion you may suffer if
you read this segment without having read the others first. Also,
major m/m alert! Don't say I didn't warn you.

Feedback: Please! All constructive comments will be seriously
considered. Grammar nits welcome.

---

My own scream is what wakens me, blessedly pulling me out of the
hellish  realm my dreams have become lately. For a minute, I wish
B'Elanna were here. Though she never really knew what caused the
nightmares, she'd gotten very good at banishing them with her own
particular brand of therapy. It wasn't nearly as effective as a trip
to Chakotay's quarters, but at the end, after the sweaty part was
over, we'd fall asleep in each other's arms. And in that brief instant
right before sleep, when I was secure in the knowledge that she loved
me and the illusion that I loved her, I'd be content.

That's all over now, of course. Even if I was still capable of
sustaining the fiction that I was in love with her, B'Elanna isn't
willing anymore to struggle with our relationship. She can forgive the
attack -- she really does believe that I'd never intentionally hurt
her -- but she can't forgive me for turning to Chakotay when I needed
help, instead of turning to her.

I miss her. I miss her arms around me, her hands in my hair, her legs
wrapped tight around my waist as we'd strain together. I miss the way
she would look in the morning when we'd been up all night making love.
I miss the way she'd rub my back when it was full of knots after eight
hours of sitting at the conn. Mostly I miss her laying next to me in
the dark, her very breath reassuring me that, for the moment at least,
I wasn't alone.

Now, at this moment, I feel very alone. Even my ghosts have
disappeared. I've tried calling to them but they're either unwilling
or unable to come to me here, and I'm too afraid to go to the spirit
plane and find them gone.

Before another minute has passed I'm up out the bed, pulling on the
clothes piled in a heap at the foot of the bed. They're my workout
clothes from earlier in the day, and they reek of sweat, but I don't
care. It never bothered him before, and anyway, if I'm lucky, I won't
be wearing them for long.

You'd think I'd have a little more self-control than this. You'd think
that after everything that's happened, I wouldn't be so dependent on
him. You think I'd have learned to trust my ability to control myself.

All I've learned is that I can't be trusted for shit.

Yes, when it mattered, when it came down to the wire, I did the right
thing. But I'd be lying if I said it was anything less than a very
near thing. If the gods have any compassion, Chakotay will never know
how close I came to using that phaser on him. I'm still not sure what
it was that caused me to turn it on myself.

I'm pretty sure I meant to shoot him.

His voice was strong, but the demons' voice was stronger. God, I can
still remember what it felt like to have them with me, their power
burning through my veins. Anything I wanted, anything I wished for,
was mine with just a thought. Nothing could touch me, not their
weapons, not their transporters, *nothing* . . .

. . . and down this path lays madness.

Shit.

Those are *their* thoughts. Mostly. Chakotay thinks they're gone, but
really, they're just not *here* anymore, and that's not the same thing
at all. They still talk to me in my dreams, as often as they can.
Every night, lately. They make me remember what it was like. They make
me imagine what it could have been, what *we* could have been . . .
what we still can be.

They tell me I could get them back, if I wanted to.

I don't want to. I *don't*. Not because I'm scared of them, but
because I'm scared of me.

Dalby, Jackson, and Suarez are dead. Not because the demons wanted
them dead, but because I did. No one believes they were random targets
-- hell, everyone knows I hated them, and why -- but the crew seems to
have bought into Captain Janeway's comforting fiction that I wasn't
entirely responsible for my actions, and therefore don't deserve to be
punished. It's bullshit.

I hated Dalby. I hated Jackson and Suarez. *Hated* them. I didn't just
dislike them; this was a passionate, irrational, deep-rooted hatred.
They died because  I wanted them dead.

I remember killing them. I remember liking it.

That's what wakes me in the middle of the night. Remembering how
*much* I liked it. "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord."
Yeah, well,  this time, vengeance was *mine*, and god help me, it had
me flying higher than any drug.

Shit, shit, *shit*.

The turbolift deposits me a few doors away from his, and I finally
stop to check the time on the nearest computer display. 0230, give or
take a few minutes. A bit late for an unannounced visit. Before, I'd
never have stopped to check the time. But things are different, now,
and I'm not sure how he'll respond when he sees who's at the door.

What the fuck. I hit the chime.

He's groggy when he answers the door, but he doesn't look particularly
surprised to see me. He doesn't say a word, just steps aside and lets
me in. He's wearing that same robe as always, and I wonder again
whether or not he sleeps in the nude. Not that it matters.

I'm nervous, suddenly. Last time I was here, doing this, it was
unimaginably painful. Of course, I had a million or so demons keeping
me company, and it was really they who were feeling the pain. Still,
even the echoes of their agony made me too weak to defend myself
against them, and allowed them to solidify our union. By the time all
the smoke had cleared, three crewmen were dead, and twelve more were
seriously injured.

Just thinking about doing what I came to do makes me nervous, almost
nauseous. Damn it. If they've managed to corrupt *this*, I might as
well just walk to the nearest airlock and throw myself out. Being here
with Chakotay, doing this . . . it's the closest I've ever come to
praying.

I realize I've been pacing, and Chakotay is just standing there
silently and watching me. When I finally stop moving and turn to face
him, he asks mildly, "Rough night?"

"Yeah."

He nods, taking in my appearance with one quick glance. "Looks like
you've been having a lot of them."

"A few." I don't meet his eyes, and study my hands instead. To my
surprise, they're shaking. I clench them convulsively and hope he
didn't notice.

He did. He reaches out to take one hand in his own, and slowly coaxes
it open, pressing his fingers firmly into my palm to relax the muscles
there. "It's okay," he says quietly. "I'm still here for you."

"It's so hard," I whisper, feeling the pressure of his hand on mine
and relaxing for the first time in a month. "Trying to pretend I don't
notice, that it doesn't bother me . . . "

He drops my hand and moves around behind me, bringing his hands up to
massage the back of my neck. I can almost feel the skin tingling, as
if his touch is transferring energy to me. Maybe it is. "That what
doesn't bother you?"

"The things they say, the way they stare. Like I have the plague." A
small groan escapes me as his fingers work at a particularly tough
knot. God, he's better at this than B'Elanna, which is saying
something. "It's like it was in the beginning. Except . . . . . . . .
. . *god*, you're good at that."

He chuckles. "It's a gift. And your back is a *mess*. I don't know how
you're even standing up."

"Force of habit," I murmur, realizing with a start that my eyes are
closed, but not having the inclination to open them again. He's
focused on one small section of my back, directly below my shoulder
blade, and it feels so good that I'm having trouble concentrating.

"You were saying?" he prompts, finally realizing that I'm in danger of
falling asleep on my feet. "It's like it was in the beginning, except
. . . "

"Except I'm not getting beat up this time. They're all scared
shitless."

He chuckles. "They'll get over it."

"I hope not."

He's surprised at the venom in my voice, but  thankfully not so much
so that he stops the massage. "You want them to be frightened of you?"

"Only some of them." I sigh contentedly as he loosens yet another
muscle, and drift off a bit, musing dreamily, "They're right to be
afraid."

His fingers freeze for an instant, then carefully resume their work.
"Why do you say that?"

"It would be so easy to get the demons back, Chakotay. So easy to hurt
the others . . . make them pay for what they did to me. It's
tempting."

His fingers freeze again. "If this is your idea of a joke, Tom, it's
in very poor taste."

I sigh as he removes his hands from my back. "No joke."

He walks around in front of me and looks me squarely in the face. "You
could get the demons back?"

"Yes."

He swallows heavily. "Should I be worried?"

"I don't think so. I don't want to hurt you."

He chuckles nervously. "I don't want you to hurt me, either."

I turn away, uncomfortable for many reasons with the nascent fear in
his eyes. "They're strong, Chakotay."

"You're stronger."

"Not nearly as strong as you think." I still can't meet his eyes, and
study something fascinating on his carpet. "I'm not the hero you
imagine me to be, Chakotay. Not even close."

"Maybe not." I suspect he's humoring me, so I don't answer. The
silence stretches between us for a long instant before he breaks it.
"Why did you come here tonight, Tom?"

I stare at him mutely, no more able to give words to my need than I've
ever been. I try to turn away again but he stops me with a firm grip
on my shoulder and holds me there, searching my eyes for something,
and frowning when he doesn't find it.

"It's not a weakness, you know," he says finally.

"Isn't it?" I feel slightly disgusted with myself. "It's a coping
mechanism, that's all. Like the drugs, like the drinking. Except this
isn't illegal . . . so long as you don't pay me."

His face hardens. "Is that how you see this? Like you're some kind of
whore for me?"

"No! No. God, Chakotay, it's the complete opposite of that. Don't you
get it? You're not the one using me. *I'm* the one using you."

His face relaxes. "Then I don't see the problem. If it helps you fight
the demons and helps you deal with the bad memories . . . it's not
hurting anyone, Tom."

"It hurt B'Elanna."

He concedes the point with a nod. "You probably should have told her
about it from the start."

"Are you crazy? She'd never have understood. She still doesn't."

He's silent, studying my face. "You really wanted to be in love with
her."

Shit. I don't want his sympathy; that's not why I'm here. I find
myself answering honestly anyway. "Yes. I just . . . I just couldn't
be. Not with her. Not with anybody, probably." I swallow heavily,
blinded for an instant by a flash of memory, of strawberry blonde hair
and laughing blue eyes, of a softly
accented voice calling my name. "I don't think I remember how."

He shrugs gently. "Give it time. You'll remember."

I'm not sure what he means by that, and it's more than a little
disconcerting. I stare into his eyes, desperately trying to read the
emotions written there, and failing. "I'm not in love with you,
Chakotay." It's important, I feel suddenly, to say it out loud.

He shrugs again. "I know that. It doesn't matter. What's important is
that you trust me."

Somehow, his voice makes it a question, and I answer instinctively. "I
trust  you."

He nods, and a small smile ghosts across his face. "Then let me help
you." His hand brushes across my shoulder and again I feel a tingle;
again I wonder if he's actually transferring power to me. He's just
mystical enough to do it -- after the demons and the ghosts and the
walks in the spirit plane, I take nothing for granted anymore.

His hand is still on my shoulder and he's quietly waiting for me to
speak. Memories assault me, memories of us together in this room, of
the way he'd cry out as he came, of the calm that filled me
afterwards. That's why I'm here, really. I'm chasing that sense of
calm. I just wish I could figure out how to explain it to him.

I can't, though, so I sink wordlessly to my knees in front of him and
gaze up at his face. He stares back at me, serene as always; no hint
of worry  darkens his expression. I could keep my clothes on - - I
have no particular intention of pleasuring myself tonight -- but I
know he won't like it, especially given their ripe condition. I strip
them off and toss them away, flushing a little under Chakotay's steady
regard. He's never watched me so obviously before. His eyes ground me,
keep me here, in this room. They don't let me slip away to that place
where his pleasure is all that matters, where everything I am is his.

Silently I reach my hands to untie his robe, letting my hands linger
on his thighs as I slide the fabric off his body. Firm muscles
underneath my fingers, all his strength held in check. His cock lies
flaccid against his thighs and I marvel at his self-control. He wants
this; I can see it in his eyes and hear it in the unsteady rhythm of
his breath. And yet he somehow doesn't let that want translate into
arousal, not until I bend down and run my tongue gently up and down
his length.

His cock springs to life then, rising under my touch, and I hear the
slightest catch in his throat. I close my eyes and focus on the shape
and taste of him. There is no pain today; the few demons that weren't
banished are obviously staying far away. Good.

He's moaning a bit now, and I relax even further. God, I love being
here and doing this for him. I'm even thankful -- well, almost
thankful -- for all the others, for teaching me to do this so very
well. I had a gift, they told me, and I realize suddenly that it *is*
a gift. A gift for him.

I suck and lick him greedily, driven by the rhythm of his breath,
hungry to hear him call my name. Yes, just like that. My own cock
jerks in response. I'd forgotten how arousing it is to hear him moan.
Fuck the demons, anyway, for trying to take this away from me, for
making me forget how right it is . . .

He's trembling now, thighs rippling beneath my fingers, chest heaving
as  he fights to keep his breathing under control. He's close to
coming, and I'm waiting for it, wanting it desperately. He calls my
name again and thrusts into my mouth, wanting it as much -- or
possibly more -- than I do.

God, he's moaning continuously and he's so beautiful like this: a god
come to life, lost in the sensation . . . no, that's not right; he's
not lost, he's *here*, he knows it, and that's what's so amazing. He
never forgets, not even at this point, he never forgets that it's
*me*.

"Please," he whispers, and a shudder runs through me. He asks; always
asks, never demands. How many times will he prove to me that he's
different than the others? How many times until I believe it?

I take him in, deep in my throat, and his next breath comes out as a
sob. He's so close, almost done, and unless I choose to draw it out it
will all be over soon . . . I don't want to draw it out. Not tonight.
He gasps and my cock gets harder in my hand. Funny, that, since I
don't remember when I started to stroke myself. But I must have,
because I'm harder than hell and aching to come.

His pleasure first, though; it's always been more important than my
own. I suck a little harder and work the muscles in my throat. He
calls my name again, one last time, and then he's coming, and it's
sweet and salty and I have to swallow quickly so I don't choke. God, I
love this, love that look on his face, love the feeling that I get
just from looking at him like this . . .

And then suddenly, before I have a chance to think, before I have a
chance to move to the bathroom and get the cloth to clean him up, he's
on *his* knees. I try to speak, but my voice isn't cooperating, and
then it's too late because he leans over me and takes me into his
mouth.

No, no, *no*, this isn't right . . . this is how everything went wrong
. . . but god, it feels good. I'm paralyzed for an instant, waiting
for the demons to burst out from the shadows, waiting to hear them
screaming in my head . . . but the only thing I hear is my own
breathing. It's heavy and uneven, like his when our positions are
reversed. And really, it's hard now to believe that anything that
feels so good could be wrong . . . was I really afraid this would
taint things? That somehow my pleasure would diminish his?

Yes. I remember Sickbay, I remember fighting against the restraints as
he tasted me, I remember hating it and loving it at the same time.
Now, there are no restraints, no demons, just me and him and my cock
and his mouth . . . and all at once, I'm not afraid anymore. A wild,
giddy thought crosses my mind. If this brings the demons back, I can
always commit suicide on the spirit plane again. It would be worth it.

I was close to coming before he climaxed, and it doesn't take that
long, all things considered, before the feeling of his mouth on me
gets to be too much. He screams when he comes. I don't.

When my head clears, I see him sitting back on his knees and looking
at me hesitantly. He relaxes only when he gets a clear look into my
eyes.

"Still blue?" I ask, managing with effort to get my voice to some
approximation of normal.

"Still blue," he answers, grinning a bit. The self-satisfaction that I
*know* he's feeling doesn't surface on his face or in his voice, and
he doesn't say another word.

I rise smoothly and head towards the bathroom to get the towel. I
clean us both off -- him first, as always -- and then reach for my
clothes. We never talk much, afterwards, and I'm not inclined to start
now. I'm not inclined to do much of anything, really, except sleep.
There won't be any more demons, figurative or literal, bothering me
tonight. Maybe there won't be any more demons, period.

I don't believe it for a second, but I want to.

Then I catch sight of Chakotay, pulling on his robe and rubbing
tiredly at his eyes. I remember again that it's the middle of the
night. He's got the early shift tomorrow, and yet he's sacrificed his
sleep to help me. Again. He's always put my needs ahead of his own.

I'm beginning to suspect he always will.

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The End