The BLTS Archive - Crew Manifest by Miriam (pongo@asan.com) --- For Dyevka, whose request for a Chakotay/Paris story became, for me, a challenge. --- How did it begin? He had been staring at the same rock for two hours now, trying to decide. How did it begin? Nothing. Maybe it had been too long. Maybe he should have used his medicine kit, but then he might have learned something, and he admitted, to himself, that he wasn't at all sure he wanted to know. He got up and stretched his legs, feeling the slight burn in his lower back that said he hadn't been getting enough exercise lately. But the crew evaluations were due and he'd been spending too long with each of them, not just because he wanted to do a thorough evaluation, but because one of them was at the bottom of the pile, and, when he was done with the rest, he would have to fill it out. And then he'd have to answer the question, in some form or other. How did it begin? No answer to that one. It was probably the wrong question. He sighed and walked over to what passed for a window in Voyager's crew quarters. Not that it was bad, really. It kept him from feeling too trapped, and the ship was certainly bigger than the Maquis ships he'd been on. But still, when there was no hope of going home and seeing the stars from Earth, the stars just outside the porthole seemed too large. Too bright. They wanted a sky between them. When he stepped back a bit he could just make out his own reflection in the darkness. Getting old. Grey hair and the softness of his face, the lines around his eyes. He was starting to look like his father's pictures, from when he was a boy. When had that happened? Another question he didn't want to answer. It was enough to know that it had happened. He was getting old. Too old to be thinking about beginnings, certainly. But still. The crew manifest had left him no other choice. If he believed in fate, which he did not, he might have thought that it was inevitable. That it began so early that the very stars outside knew before he did. He shook his head, surprised at the illogic of that idea. His father might have said something like that and he would have laughed and said that the stars were balls of gas, without memory. Father thought that everything held memories. It was not an idea he could ever share, appealing as the idea was, in spirit. The red alert klaxon broke the flow of his thoughts and he was almost relieved. He did not need to be thinking about this. Not when there were casualties still coming in. On the bridge, there was the same calm that reassured him, even in the middle of battle, that Voyager would come through. The crew acted with precision, and, if there was any doubt about what to do next, they only had to look at the Captain and be reassured. She wasn't going down without one helluva fight. Kathryn or Voyager. He wasn't sure whether it made any difference which one he thought of. They were the same woman and he had been more than a fool to think he could come between them. No man could. And no other ship. Certainly not the small runner that continued to sting the ship with short bursts of power that did no more than light damage now that the shields were fully up. Kathryn's hair was no longer pulling out of its bun. She had cut it all off, so suddenly that he almost couldn't remember what it had looked like. Now, it skimmed her jawline, swinging with every jolt to the ship, and he could see her jaw clench in response to the damage reports that were coming in. Yes, this was her ship, entirely. He was just a guest here. The first officer wasn't in charge of the ship. He was in charge of its crew. And Kathryn didn't mind sharing them, but the ship was hers alone. Even B'Elanna, who seemed sometimes to think she *was* the warp field, didn't love the ship the way Kathryn did. Even Tom, who sometimes acted as if he was making love to the ship, his hands stroking the conn so swiftly that his fingers seemed to blur into the controls, becoming a part of the light as if he was literally reaching into Voyager and stroking the speed out of her... Gods. Is that where it had begun? With those hands on the controls? He looked away, forcing his eyes to the viewscreen where the small ship took one more hit from Voyager and broke apart in a flash of fire that was instantly put out as the ship's battered insides were exposed to the empty space surrounding them. And the life, what life there had been, was put out as well. A part of him worried about that. He was no longer moved by the death of those around him. Not when they threatened Voyager. But he looked around him and saw the tensed shoulders of his crew slip back into place, heads held high again with that sudden, clean victory. No one on board was injured this time. And they had found a way to fight these runners who came out of nowhere and attacked for no reason and without warning. He scanned the bridge crew again, automatically taking in the set of each body, reading for signs of weariness, subtle shifts that meant the pressure was becoming too much. It was all he could do, and not enough. But there was no other counselor on board. Everyone looked fine. Harry, still so young, was examining his board, his smooth brow furrowed in concentration, but a small smile playing at his mouth. And Tuvok was, as always, betraying no emotion, which was a good thing. And Kathryn was leaning back in her chair, crossing her legs, one hand coming out to smooth back the hair that no longer fell into her face. Old habits... And Tom. Gods, yes. That was how it had begun. With those hands on the controls. Those long, pale fingers caressing the flat glass of the conn, pressing gently each lit panel and steering the ship forward. So damned confident. Almost smug. He had hated him, once. He had wanted to keep hating him. But something about those hands, reaching back to pull him from the staircase on the Ocampan homeworld. The way Tom had insisted that his life was Tom's now. And he had denied it. Some other Indians believed that. He realized that he'd actually said it like that. Some other Indians. As if he knew, for sure, that there was a people, somewhere, who believed in a life for a life. In indebtedness.And he had implied, or tried to, not *this* Indian. And he really hadn't meant, not my tribe. Not really. He had meant, not *me*. Don't tell me what I believe. And yet he had been so sure, just looking at Tom, just listening to him, that he had known the other man. Blond. Blue eyes always mocking you. Fair skin like every white man from the legends his father told, of the days when the white men had claimed the land from every tribe they came across. And then claimed space until, finally, they had encountered other men, men already in the stars, and they had been pushed back again. Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris. Murderer. Traitor. Ex-convict. Heart- breaker. A gambler who he was sure never played fair. He had thought he knew this man and now found that he was wrong. And those too clever, too skilled hands that had taken a ship down with him, once. He had thought that he knew those hands, but he didn't. He wanted to. He wanted those hands to know him. To touch him. He turned away, getting up out of the chair carefully, feeling his legs trembling under him, from the strain of battle, or so he hoped everyone would assume. He walked to the turbolift and said what was necessary, not really hearing his own voice. The crisis was over and it was still the middle of his sleep cycle. So he headed for his cabin, weariness settling into each muscle and, thankfully, overwhelming the desire that had started as he stared at Paris. He would sleep. The evaluation would have to wait until he could decide what to say. --- "Computer, time?" "It is 0800 hours." It felt earlier than that. He hadn't slept well. Not surprising, but he looked in the mirror and saw that it showed. He showered and dressed quickly, not bothering to stop at the mess hall. He had overslept and there was no time. The shift lasted four hours. Then lunch. There was no sign of another runner. Maybe they'd scared them off. Or maybe they'd finally passed out of their space. It was strange, sometimes, that the boundaries were so important, but invisible. They had no maps and he knew that they forgot, sometimes, that this space was not uncharted. On some other ship, Voyager was clearly trespassing over territory, invading and cutting across it without permission. He heard himself sigh and caught it too late. Kathryn looked over and he smiled. "Looks like clear sailing today, Commander." "I hope so. They seemed pretty persistent. Maybe they're hiding somewhere." "Chakotay, don't be such a pessimist. We beat them fair and square. They're probably running home with their tails between their legs." He flinched at the sound of his name. Tom should have addressed him as Commander. Even Kathryn did. It was regulation and they were on bridge. On duty. It should go into his evaluation of the Lieutenant. Tom turned around and grinned at him. Irreverent, even in the face of danger. Especially then. "Maybe so. I hope so." It was all he would say, and Tom turned back to his controls. It had been the wrong thing to say. Tom had expected something else. He just didn't know how to respond. It didn't matter. Not really. But it did. He didn't know how to respond, and that was the problem. Still, that was the problem. --- "Hey, Commander. Buy you a drink?" Tom swayed over to the bar and he felt himself press closer to it, gripping the edge of the bar and wondering why Tom called him Commander, when they were off duty, but not while they were on the bridge. Did he even notice the slip? It made him too aware, suddenly, of his position. This was one of his officers. Swaying. As if to some music that only Tom could hear. No, there *was* music. That tall piano player was in the corner, hunched over the keys playing something soft and familiar. But Chakotay couldn't remember the song and realized that he didn't know the man's name. A hologram, but still. He saw him at least once a week. One of Tom's creations. "Commander?" "Yes. Thank you." Tom shrugged and Chakotay realized that he hadn't said what he wanted yet. "Scotch on the rocks." "Going for the hard stuff today?" Tom asked, and he noticed the small nod Tom gave Sandrine as he ordered the drinks and watched as she poured the amber liquid over the ice, then poured a second one for Tom. He didn't answer until he took the first sip of it, letting the scotch settle on his tongue before swallowing. It was good scotch, and, from the fire that hit the back of his throat, probably the real thing. He didn't bother to wonder where Tom got the credits for it. Tom's money- making ventures were Tuvok's problem. Not that Tom would ever get caught. "Thanks." Tom nodded and then tipped his glass back. Chakotay watched as Tom swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. Then he set the drink down on the bar, hard enough to make the ice clink in the glass and Chakotay noticed that it was half-emptied already. He took another sip of his own drink and then shrugged, tipping the glass back and letting the scotch slide down his throat without really tasting it. Suddenly, he knew that he wanted to get drunk. "Set up another, Sandy." Tom grinned at Sandrine and she made a little clucking sound at him, but smiled back, indulgently. Somehow, Tom managed to charm even holographic women. Or maybe he had just programmed her that way. He looked at Tom as the man emptied his glass and decided that Tom probably wouldn't bother to make Sandrine love him when he was so sure of himself. So obviously sure he could make her respond to him. The way he made everyone respond to him. Chakotay could see that Sandrine was looking at Tom's body, tracking her eyes over the silk shirt that clung to his arms, gathering in a ruffle at his wrists. It was a very feminine shirt and it made Tom's face seem younger than his thirty-some years. He should remember how old Tom was. It was written on the padd in his room, but he couldn't remember. It made him feel old again. And so he took up the second drink. Tom raised his own glass and spoke softly, so that Chakotay had to lean in to hear him over the crowded bar. "To close calls." He hesitated, for too long, and Tom almost lowered his glass again, was already lowering it, so that when he brought his own glass to meet it, their hands brushed. "To close calls." He whispered back, his voice sounding unusually hoarse. It was the scotch. It was burning his insides, making the room seem several degrees too hot. He set down the glass again and wiped his hand over his brow, trying to wipe the sweat away but instead dampening his brow with the moisture beading on the outside of his drink. Tom giggled and he raised his eyes from contemplating the slick surface of the bar, simulated wood, but as real as everything else in the bar, as real as the stool he was perched on. He suddenly felt a wave of dizziness, realizing that the stool wasn't real, but that everything felt similarly unreal. Gods, it had been too long since he'd drunk the real thing. And Tom was looking at him, also looking somehow... unreal. He wanted to touch him. To make sure that he was really there. And he gripped the edge of the bar to keep his hands from betraying him. He had to get out of here. Before he did something stupid. "Another." "Tom--" He was about to say no. Enough. Tell Tom he was going to his cabin. But the drink appeared before him and another was in Tom's hand and he found himself raising his glass to his lips automatically. By now, the warmth of the alcohol wasn't a shock. It was familiar, almost pleasant. His hand shook a bit as he set the glass down. He remembered his father had told him that the white man had introduced alcohol to the Native Americans in the days before the States united. And he had laughed, he remembered, and said, how come the natives there grew corn and didn't know how to ferment it themselves? And his father had no answer. They just hadn't. And he had laughed again, feeling superior because his father didn't know. He realized that he'd meant to find out the answer, but never had. It was, like so many things, made irrelevant this far from home. It was always some other Indian. Father, the naive Indians who traded beads for land. Even that Chakotay, the one who'd thought the story was funny, seemed like some other Indian. It had been the wrong response to laugh and his father had looked hurt. Angry. Distant. A relic that had no place in this world. He closed his eyes tightly and opened them again, half-expecting Sandrine's to have dissolved into the matrix of the holodeck. But it was all still here, as was Tom. He looked around the room and saw that people were talking, playing pool, laughing. In the corner, a couple of ensigns who had just started dating were bent towards each other, leaning in so close they were almost kissing. He looked back at Tom and noticed that he still didn't know why Tom was here. They weren't talking. Tom was just standing there, still swaying in time to the music, to the song which Chakotay could tell had changed. The holopianist had probably been playing for long enough that he should have taken a break by now, but he could probably go on forever. And still, Chakotay couldn't identify the song, but knew it was an old one, something from the twentieth century. "And the shark, babe, has sharp teeth..." Tom was singing, softly, and Chakotay strained to make out the words. He didn't understand the reference, but Tom smiled dreamily as he sung along. Then he stopped, abruptly, and Chakotay realized that he had been staring at Tom and that Tom had caught him. He looked down at the bar again, noticing that he could see his reflection waver in the polish, his tattoo looking strange and backward, which didn't make sense, since he always saw it like this, in reflection. He looked up again, disconcerted, and his eyes met Tom's, and this time, he didn't look away. "How much do you want me?" "What?" He was sure he'd misheard. It sounded like-- "You want me. I asked you how much." "I--" "That much." Tom nodded and licked his lips, nervously or suggestively. Chakotay wasn't sure. He wasn't sure what he had said. He *hadn't* said anything, had he? But Tom was watching him, staring at him, as if he had responded, and, just once, it had been the right response. "My cabin." And Tom slipped out, moving to the door with measured steps, weaving between the couples who were dancing together between the tables. And then he was gone. He waited a few more minutes, picking up his glass and swallowing a bit of the weak, diluted liquor from the bottom of the glass. Then he got up, and, very carefully, made his way to the door. --- He walked through the corridors, blinking as the too-bright light blinded him. He tried not to think about anything but the lingering bitter-sweet taste of scotch on his tongue. And then he was standing in front of the door. Tom's door. Wondering whether he'd made a mistake. Deciding, quickly, that he had. Turning to go, but then the door swished open and he could see the tall body filling the doorway. Tom's hands were up above his head, bracing against the top of the doorway. And then he swung forward and stepped out into the light and grabbed Chakotay's arm, his grip strong and confident. "Come." The word sent a shock through his body stronger than the touch, but mixed up with it. And he found himself following Tom into the cabin, letting the door shut behind him without protesting, despite the still-strong urge to run while there was still time. Hands reached out, pushing him into the wall next to the door, and Tom leaned against him suddenly, as if he was off-balance. Tom's face was so close to his own. He smelled like scotch and the hands that were sliding under the hem of his shirt were slightly damp and very warm. Chakotay finally noticed that his own arms were hanging at his sides, and he brought them up and grabbed Tom at the hips, pulling him against him and he could feel Tom's cock was hard against his own. Tom hissed at the contact and tried to pull away, but Chakotay dug his fingers into the soft flesh of Tom's waist. Once, Tom had been too thin, and he might have slipped away, but now Chakotay had him and he knew it. Tom stopped struggling and relaxed against him, bringing his face even closer so that their lips brushed together, just barely, and then Tom kissed him without warning, so hard that Chakotay winced as the back of his head knocked against the wall. For a moment they shared a breath, rubbing against each other awkwardly, and then Tom pulled away, slipping out of Chakotay's hold. "Bed." Had he actually once thought that Tom talked too much? Tom walked to the bed, and in the dark he seemed to have glided there. Chakotay followed, bumping into something and then tripping over something else, but finally he was there and he sat down on the edge of it. The scotch buzzed in his head, fuzzing the room, but it still hit him, hard. This was Tom's bed. Tom's bedroom. Tom's body, already half- naked and sprawled out elegantly over the turned sheets. He made a shaky attempt to get up, but then settled back again. He told himself that he was too drunk to leave now. But it wasn't true. He was not drunk enough to leave. He pulled himself onto the bed, still dressed, and climbed up to where Tom lay, still barely able to see more than an outline of his body in the dim glow of the blue sleep light. Maybe it was the scotch, but his eyes took a long time to adjust, but then he blinked and suddenly Tom was in focus. His frilly shirt was already off and he was struggling with the fastening on his slacks, his usually steady hands trembling slightly. Chakotay reached over to help, but his hand was swatted away. Finally, Tom worked them open and Chakotay watched, already breathing uncomfortably fast, as the fabric slid down, exposing Tom's long legs, but first, exposing his cock, which sprung up against Tom's belly, hard, and tipped with the gloss of pre-ejaculate. Chakotay moved up on the bed and kissed Tom softly on the mouth, waiting until Tom's lips parted under his and then pulling away. He kissed a path over Tom's chest, exploring it with the tip of his tongue, laving his nipples until he moaned. He followed the soft pattern of fur that traced over Tom's belly. Finally, he could take Tom into his mouth, and he did, the taste of scotch blending with the taste of Tom, the scent of him, the glide of velvet wet against his lips, the inside of his mouth. He relaxed his throat and sucked hard until he felt the pulse of Tom's cock, felt thigh muscles tighten as Tom arched his back, and then Tom was coming into him, and Chakotay swallowed, forcing cries from him, until Tom called out his name, softly, just a whisper. He let Tom's cock slip out of his mouth and rested his head on Tom's belly, smiling slightly at the soft rise and fall of it. "C'mere." Fingers brushed over his hair, almost petting him, and he kissed Tom's belly, following the trail back up to his still erect nipples, pausing to bite the right one, then kissing it apologetically. His head was clearing as Tom rolled over to kiss him, those too clever fingers stroking across his body, pressing in, pinching, tickling, softly caressing, until he had no idea what might come next, but relaxed, somehow trusting Tom. Those long fingers slipped the knot of his pants, drawing them down his thighs. He felt Tom's breath whisper against his cock and felt his cock twitch in response, and then the wet warmth of Tom's mouth surrounded him and one of those long fingers was slipping across his perineum. He heard a drawer open next to the bed and then almost pulled away as he felt Tom's suddenly slick fingers drag over his balls, catching on them and pressing against them. And he moaned as one of Tom's fingers breached his body, pushing into him unmercifully, perfectly, finding his gland and pressing against it with relentless accuracy. He screamed Tom's name, twice, before coming, the force of it surprising him, as if it had been building up for hours, days, before releasing into the close tunnel of Tom's throat. He opened his eyes, then, and noticed that the combination of starlight and the halo of blue light above the bed made Tom's pale body look magical. Unreal. Tom crawled up his body, settling his head down on Chakotay's chest and curling up against him. "Chakotay." "What?" He whispered back, unable to find his voice, or the words he knew he should say. "Wow." He put his arm around Tom's back, hugging him because he didn't know what else to say. Then he remembered, and the one word was sobering. "B'Elanna." Tom tipped his head up so that he was staring at Chakotay, and in the blue sleep-light, his eyes seemed colorless and strangely alien. But then he grinned, and the strangeness went away. This was just Tom. Unrepentant. "I've made a lot of mistakes." Chakotay felt his whole body tense, then. "No. This was right, Chakotay. *This* was not a mistake." "Tom--" "It wasn't a mistake, was it." It didn't come out sounding like a question, but it *had* to be. It *was* a question. *The* question. "Tom--" "It wasn't. So don't you *dare* tell me it was." Tom's voice had a dangerous edge to it, an unforgiving, desperate edge. Chakotay sighed, letting the air, and the tension, escape from his body. Yesterday, even this morning, he would have been sure he knew a mistake when he saw it. But, with Tom's body stretched out beside his own, those long, too clever fingers holding fast to his skin, tracing restless patterns over his body, he didn't know if he could recognize one now. And he was certain, now, that *that*, more than anything else, was why he had left Tom's crew evaluation blank. He didn't *know*. And right now, that blankness seemed to spread through his own body, blotting out his doubts with more efficiency than the scotch had offered, and it was just as intoxicating to admit it. Under the influence of uncertainty that brought with it a kind of freedom that made him feel dangerously, frighteningly young again. "I don't know, Tom. I don't know." --- The End. --- The Muse does not work for free :-) Comments to the author can be sent to: .