The BLTS Archive- My Chakotay
#3: First Night
by MaisieRita (MaisieRita@aol.com)

---

copyright 1998

Disclaimer: Chakotay -- Not mine. Paris -- Not mine. Story -- Mine.

Warning: m/m sex, sort of. Weird psychological stuff, but not so much
of it as in the first two. Paris-angst.

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

---

He's gone, again. He's probably back in bed with B'Elanna, no doubt
asleep already. I, on the other hand, have been lying in bed for
twenty minutes, tossing and turning.

I'm upset. He let me touch him tonight, for the first time. I'd been
anticipating this for a long time, but I wasn't prepared for his
reaction. He wilted at my touch, his erection disappearing in seconds.
I'm not hurt, but I am dismayed. He makes me feel alive in ways I
can't even describe, and yet he won't let me give him the slightest
bit of pleasure in return. I don't think . . . I don't think he
believes it's allowed.

How little I know him, really. Oh, I know the outside of him, almost
as well as anybody else on the ship, including B'Elanna and Harry. In
the years since this voyage began, I've come to respect him, trust
him, even like him. And yet, I don't *know* him, on the inside. I'm
not sure any of us do.

He hides from us. Physically, when times are rough, he
disappears into the holodeck. We can deal with that. It's harder to
deal with the emotional disappearances, when he shuts us out for days
or weeks at a time. Sometimes when he's like that, I want to shake him
to see if he's really in there, or if he's just hiding away somewhere,
like he was hiding away that first night . . .

---
4 years earlier
---

This First Officer business can be tedious. I'm not sure Janeway's
done me any favors by giving me this job. Reports, left and right.
Status report, systems reports, supply reports. I've been off-duty for
hours but I'm still sitting in the mess hall, reviewing the reports I
should have finished yesterday, so I can start working on the reports
that were due today.

Neelix finished serving dinner an hour ago, and he's cleaned the
kitchen and left to help Kes in the hydroponics bay. There are only a
few of us left here. I'm sitting alone at a table, surrounded by
padds. There's only one other table occupied, and it's filled with a
bunch of my former Maquis. They're chatting and laughing, getting a
bit rowdy. Their words carry pretty clearly across the empty room.

I'm only listening with half an ear, so it takes me a while to figure
out what they're laughing about. When I hear the name "Paris", I stop
working on the inventory reports and concentrate on eavesdropping. I
took responsibility for his safety, but other than a few words of
warning, I haven't been doing much about it. It didn't seem necessary.
Now, listening to my former crew laughing about "giving him what he
deserves" I get sudden nightmarish visions of Paris lying in a corner
somewhere, drowning in a pool of his own blood. He's dying, and it's
my fault.

I shake it off, and chastise myself for being unduly melodramatic. But
still, I gather my padds and leave the mess hall, doing a quick
location check on Paris as soon as I get out into the corridor. The
computer spits back a location that I don't even recognize, unfamiliar
as I am with this ship, so I have to call up an interior schematic on
the nearest wall monitor to find the place.

It's a storage room, on a deck that's been mostly shut down to
conserve power. Life support is at minimal levels, lighting is low,
the temperature is lower. The bloody visions return, and I head down
towards the location indicated on the map, hoping against hope that
Paris is just down there looking for some supplies he's not entitled
to.

It takes me five minutes to get there, and I keep myself from running
only by sheer effort of will. I don't want to burst in on him as he's
stocking up on toilet paper, and have to deal with the smart-ass
comments sure to follow. It's quiet on the deck, and as far as I can
tell, it's deserted except for me and Paris. I walk as silently as
can, drawing on lessons learned from my father on how to track wild
animals. Not that Paris is a wild animal. Not really.

When I find the storage room, he's sitting against a wall. Leaning
against it, really, and he obviously hasn't heard me approach because
he doesn't look up when I poke my head cautiously in the door.

Mercifully, he's not lying in a pool of his own blood, but he's also
not collecting toilet paper. He's just sitting there, knees drawn up
to his chest, staring at a spot on the floor. His arms are wrapped
loosely around his legs. Occasionally, he passes a fist across one eye
or the other and I suddenly realize that he's crying. Silently, and
from the look on his face, he wishes he weren't.

I've seen a lot of people crying in the past few months, but somehow
I'm pretty sure these tears aren't coming because Paris is missing his
family. From what I've heard, he hasn't had contact with them since
long before I met him, over a year ago now. I inch a little bit
farther into the room, and though I'm too far away to see if any tears
have made it down his face, I'm not so far away that I can't see the
bruise around his eye, the cut on his cheek, and the split lip. My
bloody visions crystallize into reality, and I curse myself as an
idiot for not realizing what must be going on. We've been on this ship
for three months. Ninety days, ninety nights, give or take. I wonder
on how many of those nights Paris has come down here to nurse his
wounds. I wonder how I could have been so blind as to have missed the
signs of violence.

Another pass of his fist across his eyes and a deep breath. He reaches
for a regenerator that I hadn't noticed. He's moving so stiffly it's
no surprise to me when he lifts his shirt and I see a few ugly purple
bruises on his ribs. I saw him in the gym this morning, and he had no
bruises. These are fresh, and obviously the work of more than one
person. I'm furious at my crew for disregarding my warnings, and I'm
angrier still at myself for not taking my role as protector more
seriously. I'm mad at Paris too, but it's unjustified and I know it.
How can I expect him to have come and talked to me, when I've
deliberately made myself so completely unavailable to him?

He's fumbling with the regenerator, and drops it once or twice before
he gets his fingers comfortably wrapped around it. In the dim light on
this powered-down deck, I have to squint to see the cause of his
clumsiness -- ugly abrasions on his knuckles that surely came from
Paris's fist connecting with someone's jaw. Several someones' jaws,
from the looks of it. I'm obscurely satisfied to realize that he
fought back. I feel no pity for whichever Maquis took those punches.
Now that we're no longer fighting the Cardassians, I've been realizing
lately that I don't particularly like a lot of my former crew. I never
had much tolerance for bullies.

I figure it's time to make my presence known. I don't mean to spook
him, but he's so intent on what he's doing, he doesn't hear me walk in
the room. "Can I help you with that, Lieutenant?"

He startles, violently, and drops the regenerator again, letting out a
curse which is foul enough to make even me blush. I squat next to him,
picking up the regenerator before he can get his raw knuckles to
cooperate. He flinches as I reach towards him, and I wait until he
takes a breath and relaxes a bit. I work on the biggest bruise for a
few minutes, but the regenerator isn't great and I can't even get the
skin color back to normal. I frown at the machine and say,

"At this rate, we'll be here all night."

He shrugs. "It's not like I have anywhere else to go."

"You could go to Sickbay."

He shakes his head. "No way. The Doc would have to report it to the
Captain."

I don't bother to argue. It's his choice, and though I don't know him
well, it's well enough to understand why he wouldn't want Janeway to
know about the fight. Fights. "You could at least replicate a better
regenerator."

"This is the best one I could get without the request getting logged
into the medical computer." He reaches for it and starts healing the
cuts on his hand. "You don't need to stay, Commander. I can take care
of this by myself."

I don't leave. Instead, I sit back on my heels and watch him for a few
minutes, patiently working on bruises too deep for the low- powered
regenerator to handle. "This is ridiculous," I say, finally. "Come
back to my quarters. I've got a med kit from the Liberty somewhere in
my closet. The regenerator's not perfect, but it's better than this
one."

He stops what he's doing. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why help me? You don't owe me anything."

I'm appalled at how little he expects of me. Admittedly, we're not
friends, but he did risk his life to save mine, and I haven't
forgotten it, despite appearances. However, all I say is, "I don't
like anyone who's in such bad shape to own my life."

He snorts cynically.

It bothers me. "What?"

"If you want me in better shape, just tell your crew to lay off."

I accept the well-deserved rebuke and rise to my feet. "Can you
stand?"

He has to think about it, but, "Yes."

I offer him a hand and he hesitates only a minute before taking it so
he can get off the floor. We make our way to my quarters in silence,
and it's only after he settles on my couch and I begin to work with my
regenerator that I ask, "Why didn't you tell me about the fights?"

He winces as I prod at a nasty bruise on his ribs, then answers, "I
didn't really see the point."

"I could have stopped them."

"I didn't think you cared one way or the other, so long as they didn't
actually kill me."

"I told the Captain I'd look out for you."

He shrugs. "What else were you going to say to her? That you couldn't
control your crew? Wouldn't have made you look too good."

"You think I can't control my crew?"

He searches my face. "Can you?"

I say it firmly. "Yes. There won't be any more fights, Lieutenant. I
promise." He shrugs again, and I can tell he doesn't believe me. "I
mean it, Paris. They'll leave you alone from now on." He still doesn't
answer, and we spend the next thirty minutes in silence as I
methodically heal each bruise, cut, and scrape.

His clothes are covered in blood, and so is he. I steer him towards
the shower and toss his clothes in the refresher. When he comes out, I
go in. I'm covered in blood almost as much as he was. I take a long
shower, longer than necessary, and when I come out, I see that he's
fallen asleep on the couch, still wrapped in the towel.

I wonder briefly what my Maquis crew would say if they saw him
sleeping here, half-naked, and have to stifle the laugh. I don't see
any point in waking him. It doesn't hurt me to let him sleep on the
couch, and I'm sure he'll wake up well before morning, when his
presence in my cabin could become an issue. Starfleet couches are not
known for comfort.

I toss an extra blanket over him, and dim the lights before retiring
to the bedroom.

The cries wake me. It feels like I've only been sleeping for a few
minutes, but the clock on the nightstand insists that I've been asleep
for hours. It takes a few seconds for me to remember that Paris is in
the other room -- that the panicked shouts I heard in my dream are
real.

I grab my robe and hurry to the outer room. As soon as I raise the
illumination to 10%, I see him thrashing on the couch, firmly caught
in the grip of a nightmare. He's mumbling and shaking his head. His
hands are curled into fists, so I assume he's dreaming about the fight
from earlier this evening. I kneel beside him and shake him gently.

His eyes snap open and he stares into the dim light of the room.

"Paris?" I say softly.

He blinks and his eyes focus on me, but I get the uncanny impression
that he's not really seeing me.

"Paris?" I repeat.

"Chakotay," he says dazedly, and in an instant he's off the couch and
moving towards me determinedly. The towel's slipping from his hips,
but he doesn't even notice. It's hard to place the look in his eyes,
but I think it might be aggression, and I'm suddenly very much aware
of his comparative advantage in height and youth. I'm not sure I can
fight him off if he attacks me. I wonder if I'll have to call for
Security, and how I'll possibly explain to anyone what a naked Tom
Paris is doing in my quarters at two in the morning.

He keeps coming towards me and I'm backed into a corner. I've already
opened my mouth to call for help when he drops to his knees in front
of me. I stand there stupidly, idiotically silent, as he carefully
unties my robe and examines me. I'm not aroused, thank heavens. That
is, I'm not aroused until he leans down and takes me into his mouth.

God! The fact that I wasn't expecting it only makes it more exciting,
but truth be told, all the clumsy blow jobs I've ever been given by
over-eager former lovers pale in comparison to this skillful act of
oral loving. The tiny part of me that's still capable of rational
thought is horrified. I'm not sure that Paris is completely awake,
yet. I'm afraid I'm taking advantage of a sleepwalking man . . .
visions of court martials dance in my head . . . but then he takes me
down his throat and I stop thinking altogether.

The orgasm, when it hits, is blinding and I think I might be
screaming. My mind clears only when he starts wiping me off with a
towel he's apparently procured from my bathroom. He's still nude, and
obviously wide awake, if perhaps a bit uncertain as to how this all
came to pass. It only takes a glance to see that he's completely
flaccid. I wonder if he already cleaned himself up, or whether he
never came at all. I wonder what I'm supposed to do about it if that's
the case.

Nothing, apparently. When he's done cleaning me, he retrieves his
clothing from the 'fresher and puts it on. He still looks confused,
and he hasn't said a word since rising to his feet. I slip awkwardly
into my bathrobe and sink down on the couch, completely at a loss for
words.

He stares at me sitting there for a minute, and suddenly, his body
relaxes. I can almost *see* the tension flow out of him, like when we
vent plasma from the warp engines. It's eerie. Without another word,
he slips out the door and is gone.

---

It's been over four years since that first night. At the time, it was
easy to convince myself that the experience was a one-time aberration,
so I was completely shocked when he showed up at my door two weeks
later and repeated the process. I was even more surprised the next
time it happened. Somewhere along the way I stopped being shocked, but
I've still come no closer to figuring out what drives him here. Every
few weeks he knocks at my door, usually at night, almost always
silent. He touches me, loves me, makes me feel wonderful. In return,
he gets . . . peace. Not from the Maquis, but from some inner demons
that he won't name and can't fight.

I don't understand why he needs this, why it has to be me, but I know
he *does* need it and I know it has to be me. I can see the difference
in him those nights he comes here. It's like that first time -- when
we're finished, the tension simply seeps out of his body. It's a
miraculous process to watch, a blissful one to be a part of. I'm so
grateful that he lets me help him like this. Once upon a time, he
saved my life, and I know that somehow by doing this I'm helping to
save his in return.

---

The End