Fan Fiction
TITLE: The Rarity of Second Chances
AUTHOR: C.J. Grant
RATING: PG
CODES: C/T
AUTHOR'S NOTES: No archiving without permission.
SUMMARY: An older Chakotay reconsiders a relationship with B'Elanna Torres.
The open duffel bag lay waiting on the bed. At the bottom sat a securely wrapped bundle of leather, a few items tucked carefully inside. As Chakotay glanced around the bedroom, he realized there was little he wanted to pack. Some clothes. Maybe a picture or two. The rest were reminders of a past he'd rather forget. He'd slept sixteen years in this bed. He'd slept sixteen years in this house. These old walls had seen a divorce. They'd witnessed the death of a friend. Nothing but sorrow and regret lingered in this earthly place. Chakotay wondered as he pulled a shirt from the closet why he had stayed so long. There was nothing to keep him here anymore.
He moved towards the bag, the linen shirt in his hands. The coarse fibers brushed against his fingertips. The sensation brought him back decades to another place. It seemed like another life. The memory was vivid, connected to the texture of the linen. He welcomed it, moving his palm against the fabric. It was a pleasant escape from his current duty. He closed his eyes and returned to that night.
A beautiful woman of chocolate brown hair stood before him. Hungry brown eyes matched the richness of her hair. She advanced on him with speed. He fought the instinct to step back. A second later, warm breath danced on his neck. The skin of her lips hovered just millimeters from his nap. Forceful hands rushed to his torso. The linen shirt was pulled from him. The rough material moved across his body, already sensitive from anticipation.
To this day, whatever possessed him to turn away from her was a mystery. The memory turned sour as she recoiled in anger and stocked from the room. The friendship had been salvaged. The romance had not.
Chakotay shook his head. He'd spent the last few days rummaging through the "what-ifs" and "what should have beens." This house was full of them. It's why he had to leave. Starting over took fresh air and new faces. It meant associating with people who didn't carry their own misconception. It was time to become a person without a name, without a past.
He started toward the bag again, the shirt still in his hand.
"You were going to leave without saying good-bye."
It was B'Elanna. His best friend. No pretense. No beating around the bush. Just the plain ugly truth.
He turned to face her. "I didn't hear you come in," he said softly.
"Come on, Chakotay. Tell me. You were going to leave without saying good-bye," she said, her voice touched with anger.
Her chocolate brown hair was streaked with subtle shades of gray. A few lines had developed around her eyes. She leaned heavily on one hip, her arms crossed tightly above her chest. To Chakotay, she was just as lovely as the day she'd tried to seduce him. Time had been good to her.
"I was," he finally said.
She lost the wind in her sails. Her arms dropped to her side and she looked away for a moment. "I haven't had a chance to say I'm sorry."
He managed a half-hearted smile. "So am I. She was a good friend."
"Harry told me she died in her sleep."
He nodded. Words didn't seem to come as easily as they once had. The vagaries of youth, he imagined.
"I am sorry, Chakotay," she said.
"I know." He reached for her with an empty hand. She took it without hesitation. They stood on opposite side of the room, the distance temporarily bridged. A comfortable silence elapsed. Their hands eventually fell away.
"It's never been like you to run, Chakotay. Why now?"
The side of the mattress dipped as he sat down on the edge. The linen rested in his lap. "It's time to move on," he said sadly.
"The Admiral dies and all of a sudden it's time to pack up and leave?"
The thought his answer over carefully before answering. "B'Elanna, I have more years behind then ahead of me. I've wasted the last ten, hanging onto things I couldn't change. I don't want to die in my sleep. At least not yet. I want to live. And I can't do that here. Everywhere I go, people know who I am. I'm still the Maquis rebel in many of their minds. I will never be anything other then what they perceive, whether that perception is real or not."
She dropped on the bed beside him. "My husband died four years ago in this..." she glanced around, "GOD FORSAKEN house. I never thought I would be so scared in my entire life. But I got through it. And so will you."
He had to smile at her determination. She was going to will him into a better mood regardless of his desire.
Her gaze drifted naturally downward. The beige linen shirt captured her attention. She reached over slowly, almost reluctant to believe that it still existed. The cloth was worn but still rough. Memories of that night returned. "This isn't...?"
"Yes. Seems like a long time ago, doesn't it?" He involuntarily cringed at the word 'time.' He couldn't seem to escape it.
A smile lit her face. "Not so long ago, I think," she corrected him. "You never did tell me why you turn away from me that day."
A pained look transformed his features. "I honestly don't know," he admitted. "Maybe I was scared."
"Do I scare you, Chakotay?" she asked, teasing.
The smile returned. "You always scare me, Torres," he teased back.
She rose from the bed, pulling the linen with her. Raising it to her nose, she took in a deep breath. It smelled of him. "I've been fortunate to love two men in my life," she announced. "One of them is dead. The other is about to disappear from my life. Probably forever. I won't allow it."
He looked up at her, his eyes longing.
"Take me with you, Chakotay."
"Your responsibilities -- "
"To what? My children are at the Academy. There are a million engineers. I live in an empty house, just like you. Do you know the rarity of second chances, Chakotay?" She enunciated every last syllable of his name. She had always done it that way. He hoped she always would.
"I can think of no better woman to have at my side," he whispered.
She advanced on his with the same hunger that sparked the night oh so many years before. "Promise me," she said, "that you won't turn away this time."
He paused, allowing her nearness to invigorate passions long since buried. Finally, he answered. "I promise."
