Fan Fiction
TITLE: Black's Not the Color of my True Love's Hair
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
RATING: PG
CODES: C/T. Also, as will become obvious, AU.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: No Paramount copyrights were harmed in the writing of this story. Dedicated to the members of the "chakotaytorres" list, and the popular "hair discussion" of July 2003. A slightly more serious story than I'd intended, written in response to the Light & Dark "hair challenge." Challenge elements: B'Elanna Torres, Chakotay, Chakotay's hair, and water.
SUMMARY: A story of love and -- hair color?
Chakotay hummed a cheery little tune as he stepped into the shower.
He felt wonderful this morning. What man wouldn't, in his situation? Instead of being awakened by the computer, he'd been roused (in a very literal sense of the term) by an eager half-Klingon who'd been blessed by the amorous appetites of any full-blooded daughter of the species. Almost before his conscious mind could comprehend, he'd been engaged in a hard, vigorous coupling, his partner growling and grinding against him as she forced them both to sudden release.
Oh *my*, yes, a very good way to start the day. A shame to wash the rich scent of her off of him, but inhaling it the rest of the day was the surest way he knew to derail his mind from any thoughts of work. Having a lover -- a real lover, one who shared his passion, shared *herself* -- was still too new for Chakotay to take it for granted. (Lucky for him that Paris had been a fool, luckier still that for once in Chakotay's checkered love life *he* had not.)
He triggered a warm-water shower, enjoying the sensual pleasure of the water sliding down over naked, and nearly hairless, skin. And speaking of hair --
Chakotay felt a mild niggle of doubt as his long fingers closed over a clear bottle filled with brown-black liquid. His people normally didn't color their hair at all; they regarded gray hair as a mark of wisdom and strength. In the culture he lived in now, though, it was often considered a mark of oncoming infirmity -- the sort of mark Chakotay surely could ill-afford, being one of the command officers of a ship whose crew needed to have complete confidence in said officers. And besides, he had his own reasons for wanting to look as young and strong as he could, didn't he?
In a sort of compromise between his two cultures, he'd made the dye himself, from an ancient recipe. Pouring a goodly measure of the walnut-based solution into his thick, dry hair, Chakotay massaged it in thoroughly with his fingertips. Then he capped the bottle and set it aside again, rinsing his hands in the water spray before reaching for the soap. He had to keep his hair dry until the color had time to set, but there was no reason he couldn't finish the rest of his shower while he waited. He rubbed lather over his chest, shoulders, and arms, breathing in the fragrant scent --
And stopped with a yelp when the spray of water shifted toward his head! Lurching backward, he attempted to step out of the stream of liquid -- but another person stood in the shower behind him, small strong hands gripping his arms and pushing him back into place. He tried to yank free, but, seeing the dark liquid cascade down his paler skin, he knew it was already too late: the color had been washed out.
Palming the shower to "off," he turned to the perpetrator of the "rinse-out," not bothering to hide his irritation.
"Dammit, B'Elanna, what did you do that for? Do you know how many rations it takes me to get the ingredients for that stuff?"
B'Elanna regarded him matter-of-factly. "Too many."
"So why did you make me waste them?" Damn, now he was going to have to eat at Chez Neelix an extra night if he wanted to get his hair taken care of properly.
"You were wasting them anyway."
"What are you talking about?"
"You were wasting them anyway," his lover answered, regarding him with what was, for her, unusual calm. "I mean, it's not like dying your hair makes you any better-looking, Chakotay. You ask me, it's the other way around."
"Really?" he said, with just a moment's irresistible vanity. He'd known she thought he was handsome, but of course it was always a pleasant thing to hear.
"Yeah, really." Smiling, she reached up and ruffled his wet hair, traces of dye lingering on her fingers. "The natural look -- that's just more *you*, Chakotay."
He snorted. "Yeah, well, we're not exactly in a natural sort of situation here, are we?"
She frowned at that. "What do you mean?"
"I mean all of us. Voyager." She still looked as if she didn't understand, so he went on. "I need to look strong. I don't want anyone to think that I'm getting...." -- when the incomprehension in her eyes didn't clear, he gestured to his hair and finished the sentence -- "well...old."
"Oh." Her eyes flared contempt. "Chakotay, that's the dumbest thing you've ever said."
He really should have expected that characteristic bluntness. "What?"
"I said, that's the dumbest thing you've ever said. You don't want them to think you're getting older? Do you think they think you're getting younger?" She ruffled his hair again. "You had gray hair when we first came on board."
That was undeniably true. "Well...it's gotten worse." He shifted a little, uncomfortably.
"So?" His eyes must have shown his own incomprehension, so she went on. "So you're getting grayer. So what. You think that makes you look weak? You were going gray back in the Maquis, and the Cardassians never thought you were a wuss."
"That's different," he started to protest, realizing only after the words had emerged that he didn't particularly want her to ask *how* it was different. But she didn't seem to hear him anyway.
"And you're in the best shape you've been in for years." That also was true; keeping up with his athletic young lover had driven Chakotay to adopt a personal fitness regiment that outmatched any he'd attempted since the Academy. Not to mention their shared sessions in her personal combat program... "If anyone gives you a hard time about getting older, you can always just take them down to the holodeck and kick their asses."
Hauling one of the ship's young bucks (especially Paris) into a boxing ring and teaching him a few lessons was an appealing prospect, Chakotay had to admit, and he was glad to know that B'Elanna was so sure he could do it. "Thanks, B'Elanna. But the other thing is, I don't want anyone to think --"
"That you're getting old?"
"That I'm too old for *you*." He hadn't fully intended to say those words, but that fact didn't make them any less true. She might say what she liked about his strength and his prowess -- hell, some of it might even be true -- but she could hardly deny his age. At more than fifteen years B'Elanna's senior, Chakotay was all-too-conscious of what people thought of men who "robbed the cradle" as he had, especially a man who'd turned away from pursuing a woman his own age in favor of a younger one. (In his case, he'd come to believe the woman he'd been pursuing had really had no intention of making herself available, but of course their shipmates might think he'd had other reasons for giving up on her.) While coloring his hair wouldn't make him any younger, it might make some small difference in the way the crew perceived him.
She snorted, shaking her head with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "You're an idiot, Chakotay."
"Excuse me?"
"Why the hell do you care if anyone else thinks you're too old for me?" She leaned up on tiptoe, wrapping strong slender arms around his neck. "*I* don't think so. I thought I proved that half-an-hour ago." B'Elanna pulled his head down then, and kissed him with an intensity that reminded him, very pleasantly, of just what they'd done half-an-hour ago. He returned the kiss, with interest. "Should I worry about whether they think I'm too Klingon for you?"
"B'Elanna, that's not the same thing."
"Oh, yes it is. Aren't you the one who's always telling me I should never be ashamed of what I am?" She took his hand in hers, and lifted it to her face. Gently, his fingertips traced her brow ridges, the structures that made her face uniquely hers, uniquely beautiful. "So why are you trying to hide what you are, Chakotay?" Her palm slid over his hair. "Are you sorry you're older? I'm sure as hell not. I remember when we never thought we'd live this long." Her soft tone recalled the dark times they'd shared back in the Maquis, when none of the freedom fighters had had any guarantee of another moment, let alone another day. "When I thought I'd never get to see what you looked like older."
Chakotay looked down into his lover's deep brown eyes, taking in the sincerity there. "Are you telling me you *want* me to look older?"
"Do you want me to explain it in one-syllable words?" Smiling fondly, she shook her head as if she rued his folly.
He snorted, ruing it himself. "Never mind, I think I can figure it out." He kissed her again, wrapping her up thoroughly in his arms and -- even though it was still too soon for renewed arousal -- relishing the feeling of her warm, naked body against his own.
After a moment, he turned aside from her, just long enough to pour the rest of the bottle of hair dye down the shower drain.
