Chapter 2

Tom stared at the ceiling of the cabin while Chakotay drowsed 
heavily beside him, thinking that the last hour had been a complete 
disaster.  It was the stupidest thing he could have done, but he had 
fallen back on old habits.  It was more than just stupid to think with 
a dick he couldn't even feel.  The surprise of spotting the familiar 
face on the promenade short-circuited his brain, and the only smart 
thing he'd done was to ask for Harry to join them.  

But Harry could only delay the inevitable.  Once Tom was alone with 
Chakotay, he fell back on the one thing that'd he always been able to 
hide behind:  sex.  

But it wasn't something they could share -- never had been when it 
was only another form of manipulation.  Chakotay had tried to bridge 
the gap, but it was too much to ask that he cross it by himself.  It 
should have been a time for talking, but they weren't in the habit, 
and their recent patterns of frantic lovemaking no longer applied.  
Tom had finally forced the issue, using everything he knew about the 
man's body to bring him to arousal, to orgasm.  The taste was bitter 
in too many ways.

The comm system startled Chakotay awake.  "Bridge to Captain."

He rolled slightly away from Tom and sat up.  "What is it, 
Lieutenant?"

"Captain, we are receiving a hail from the runner ship Logan asking 
for Mr. Paris," the deep, even tones of a Vulcan said.  "They are 
insistent, sir."

Chakotay glanced over to Tom, who nodded.  "Patch it through to my 
quarters."

"Aye, sir.  They are transmitting voice only."

A half second later:  "Paris!"  The growl was unmistakably Klingon.

"Ba'ruq," Tom said, from his repose in Chakotay's bed.  "What's your 
trouble?"

"Finding you!"

"Duly found," Tom acknowledged.  "How go repairs?"

"Well enough," the gruff voice answered, "but we have another 
problem."

"Which is?"

"Female." The voice was acerbic.

"Take the usual tack:  Polite, but firm."

"I found resistance to be futile."

"Seven."  Tom and Chakotay spoke together.

In sardonic agreement, Ba'ruq said, "She was most persuasive that I 
find you."

"I'll bet," Tom chuckled.  "Tell her I'm on Wolf Raider with Chakotay."  
Tom looked at the captain questioningly, who nodded his assent to 
the unspoken question.  Tom continued, "Have her meet us here."

"Understood.  Logan out."

"She's earlier than I expected," Tom said lightly.  "Borg efficiency."  

Chakotay moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed.  "We'd 
better get dressed."

"Come back here," Tom said -- a request rather than a demand.  
Chakotay lay back on his side, head propped in his hand.  Tom's 
fingers traced the face before him, while his eyes searched for every 
nuance.  He was trying to see something that was missing.  
"Chakotay," he breathed, and contained in the syllables was a wealth 
of feeling.  Their eyes met, but despite the intensity in Tom's voice, 
each man was holding something back, each was disappointed.  They 
looked at each other a few minutes more, and Tom broke the reverie 
with his lopsided grin.  He hoped it didn't seem as forced as it was.   
"You've got gray hair."

"And you've got more forehead."

Tom scrubbed his hand across his thinning scalp.  "Had to grow it out 
to make up for what I've lost."  He pushed himself to sit up.  "Help 
me into that contraption?"

"Can't be worse than getting you out of the bath."  Chakotay's voice 
walked the line between friendly teasing and annoyed complaint.

He left to retrieve the leggings from the sonic shower, where they 
had undergone their routine cleaning.  As Tom watched Chakotay 
turn them right side out, he wondered whether the thick fingers 
were ignoring the feel of circuitry, the catch of openings for quite 
practical purposes.  

Chakotay handed over the black pants without discernible 
expression, and left to get the metal brace.  He struggled to carry the 
contraption, which was heavier than it looked, and an awkward 
shape.

Once it was set down, Tom met Chakotay's gaze calmly.  "You 
promised me clean underwear."

"You didn't have any on to begin with," Chakotay pointed out.

"That was half the problem."  

Chakotay pulled two pairs of Starfleet issue shorts out of his 
wardrobe, and tossed one pair at Tom.  

"Yours are too big," Tom complained.

"Adapt."  Chakotay shrugged slightly.  "This is a warship, and that's 
only a food replicator.  You could have bought some on the 
promenade."

"Heroes can't be seen buying underwear!"  Chakotay snorted a laugh 
in response, and Tom continued, "Hey, you gonna help me with this?"

"At least let me get my pants on."

Tom waited, watching the man dress.  They hadn't had so domestic a 
moment since their return to the Alpha Quadrant, but like 
everything, this was different.  

He was still cataloging the list of differences when Chakotay turned 
to him and asked, "How do we do this?"

It was the same question Chakotay had asked after his bath -- the 
meaning then being, "How do we make love?" -- and it broke Tom's 
facade of normalcy.  "Did you like that?" he asked.  Another echo.  
Tom had asked that question years ago, and in that same challenging 
voice.  Once again he knew the answer.  "It took you a while to get 
into it."  Tom's level gaze demanded a response.

Chakotay looked away.  "It felt like I was being serviced."

"You could have touched me."

"I did," Chakotay's protest sounded weak.

"I 'serviced' you because it seemed the only way to get your 
attention.  You acted like I would break.  Just because I can't get off, 
it doesn't mean I can't... that I don't want..."  Tom looked away and 
gathered himself.  It wasn't really Chakotay he was angry with.  
"Never mind.  I understand."

"Tom," Chakotay began, and broke off.

"Forget it."  Tom reached for the leggings, refusing to look up at 
Chakotay, to acknowledge his own fault in this.  "Get out.  I can do 
this."  Chakotay didn't move.  "Get out." Tom repeated.  "I've done 
this before, I don't need your help, and I know you don't want to see 
this."

The truth of the last seemed to unfreeze Chakotay, and he grabbed 
the rest of his uniform before leaving to the outer room. 

Alone in the bedroom, Tom made his practiced way into the leggings.  
He was angry, more at himself than at Chakotay, but what had he 
expected?  In the past one kiss had ignited them both, but this time, 
until he maneuvered himself to take Chakotay in his mouth, the 
man's body had given no evidence of desire.  He was glad of Seven's 
early arrival, and guessed that Chakotay was as well.  His only 
thought:  Get up, get Borged, and get the hell off this station.

By the time Tom fastened the last clamp, Seven's voice was audible 
in the next room.  He cursed inwardly that the shirt, vest, and 
trousers were out by the couch.  Two breaths.  He could do this.  He 
could even make it look good.

*

Chakotay's head turned at the movement from his bedroom.  He 
watched in appalled fascination as Tom took a slow walk in the brace 
over to where he stood with Seven.  Something had shifted in Tom, 
and he was back to the long-familiar guise of cockiness covering 
defensiveness.  Chakotay felt as if it was the first time he'd seen the 
man today, like nothing had happened before this moment.  This was 
Tom, and Chakotay wanted to reach for him, but Tom's attention was 
all on Seven of Nine.  She stood dressed in a jacket and pants of 
brilliant blue with her appraising eyes turned toward the injured 
man.  Tom's bare chest and halting pace she accepted with utter 
equanimity.

"Tom Paris," she said, by way of greeting.  "Your appliance is as 
inefficient as Ba'ruq described."  Chakotay looked over at her, and 
found that her face mirrored the humor he heard in her voice.  Her 
familiar choice of words now had a tone of bantering.

"Did you wave your assimilation tubules in Ba'ruq's face?"

"It was not necessary."  Shaking her head, she regarded his legs.  "It 
is even uglier in person."

"So you've seen the specs."

"Ba'ruq showed them to me, and we discussed the manufacture.   I 
never threatened him, Tom.  Everyone has to make the 'resistance is 
futile' joke at least once."

Tom smiled in response, and Chakotay realized that Seven had said 
the last with dead-pan humor.  "I know," Tom was saying.  "Thanks 
for coming all the way out here.  It's been a long time."

"I have several hundred days of leave accrued.  This is my first 
vacation."

"And you're spending it with me.  I'm touched.  So what did you 
think?"  Tom indicated the brace.  "Can you do better?"

"Undoubtedly.  Unfortunately we will have to have the muscle 
implants removed in a standard medical facility."

Chakotay opened his mouth to offer his sick bay, but Tom was 
already speaking.  "There's a Bajoran first officer on the station I've 
been wanting to meet.  She's given me all kinds of help in the past, 
and I bet she can get us into the station facility.  Let me get dressed, 
and we can go look for her."

Tom turned away to the couch.  Chakotay fought the impulse to help 
him, and instead turned to Seven, picking up their interrupted 
conversation.  "Your new flyer must be quite a ship.  It sounds like 
you got here in record time."

"It is more efficient than typical Starfleet designs."

"So what happened between you and Starfleet?"  Chakotay knew he 
was grasping at conversation.  He felt ill at ease; he even had his 
hands behind his back.

"They became interested in the nanoprobe warheads we developed 
on Voyager against Species 8472.  They would make a decisive 
weapon against the Dominion."

"They would think that.  They might be right."

"Yes, but only the Doctor knows how to replicate them.  That 
information is in his holomatrix and was never in Voyager's data 
banks."

"Yes, to protect it from being discovered.  Why haven't they just 
asked the Doctor?" Chakotay asked.

"He is considered a computer virus and rarely activated.  At my 
request he locked all files pertaining to me or to Borg 
bioengineering."

Chakotay knew the Doctor's status was on hold, but he wondered 
why she had asked the EMH to security code her files.  "Could you 
produce the nanoprobes they want?  But that would mean..."

"That either they would have to use me as a living factory or let me... 
assimilate a few 'volunteers'."  The corners of Seven's mouth turned 
up, and Chakotay noted that there was a hint of sarcasm in the 
expression.  She continued, "They were about to order me to produce 
nanoprobes for them regularly, enough to be used in certain strategic 
theaters.  I offered to assimilate the admiral, and let him serve.  He 
was unwilling.  I resigned."

"But you're still working there."

"B'Elanna was insistent, both with me and with Command."

"I can imagine.  Are you and B'Elanna getting along well?"

"She still calls me 'your Borgness' when we disagree."  Seven's eyes 
were as wry as any Paris grin.  "I have discovered that our 
disagreements can be ultimately quite productive, even when she 
slaps consoles and calls me names."

Chakotay's smile grew more genuine, imagining the scene.  "And how 
is 'your Borgness'?"

Her lips curled upwards again.  "I am undamaged."

"Unlike me."  Tom rejoined them, the earring flashing as he smoothed 
his hair back into the ponytail.  "Well, I'm sure you're busy, Captain.  
Thanks for the hospitality."

"Anytime, Tom."  The formality hurt, and Chakotay hoped his eyes 
spoke the apologies that were not leaving his tongue, but Tom didn't 
look at him.

"Shall we?"  Tom gestured toward the door.  

Seven extended a hand to Chakotay.  "It was good to see you again, 
Captain."  The shake was formal.

"Likewise.  I'm glad to see you're doing well."

"You also."  She nodded, and turned to Tom, who was already at the 
open door.  

"See you around, Chakotay," Tom said, betraying no emotion.  And 
then they were gone.

Chakotay walked over to the viewports feeling as if he had just come 
away from a particularly rough Vision.  Tom -- Tom's injury, he 
corrected -- had shown him a change in himself that he didn't care to 
see.  He had tried to give Tom what he wanted, but couldn't, and 
hadn't been smart enough to say no from the outset.

He had only seen the broken body, not seen the will that still 
inhabited it.  Tom talked of breaking himself, but Chakotay felt that 
everything that had happened to the man chipped away something 
extraneous, that he didn't so much need to be healed as to be 
uncovered.   Even the guarded man who had just left was only 
superficially like the defensive person he once had been. 

Their meetings over the years since returning to the Alpha Quadrant 
had been brief and explosive, but he had seen Tom change.  From the 
drug using lone Runner, he had become a leader with a ship and 
crew and a galactic reputation for daring.  Chakotay knew 
reputations had a way of outgrowing their source, but Tom had 
found his center around what had once been undisciplined impulses.  
Tom believed in something again, as he had once come to believe in 
Voyager.  It was good to see it.

Old harsh words came back to Chakotay, retracted, but nonetheless 
true.  In some ways he had always felt superior to Tom -- morally, 
spiritually, as if he were somehow larger.  The smallness of his 
reactions this afternoon sickened him.  He had become something he 
didn't recognize, didn't want to acknowledge, and it made his skin 
itch.