ANGEL
By Morticia
1-3/60
C/P C/Other
Rating. SLASH, m/m PG , later sections are R and NC-17
Disclaimer: Tom, Chak et al are Paramount’s (lucky devils)
Summary
In this story Tom and B’Elanna never got together (Hooray!) Chakotay and Paris’s aggression was due to (you guessed it) Unresolved Sexual Tension! Chakotay had left a male lover back in the Maquis and can’t get over the loss. Tom is completely besotted with Chakotay and is sure that the Commander is attracted to him too but can’t get anywhere with him.
TOM
It is past midnight. The lights in Sandrine’s are flickering a dull yellow in the haze of holographic cigarette smoke. At the bar and around the dirty tables, the seedy holographic characters are slumped like weary ghosts in the echoes of the earlier laughter. Having been brought to life by the partying crewmembers earlier, having briefly absorbed the energy of a few dozen glad escapees from Alpha shift so that for a few hours their characters had been animated and real, they have now sank in dejection, discarded into the shadows.
At the pool table, perennial virgin Harry Kim is still playing with Sue Niccoletti. They are both a little drunk. Harry is desperately drawing the evening out, obviously hoping that synthale and exhaustion will do for him what five years of persistence has failed to achieve.
I smile fondly at him from my dark corner. I love Harry, he’s my best friend, the only person who ever really saw me properly for who I am, or at least who I am trying to be. Harry is the best!
He knows he hasn’t got a chance with Sue. But he won’t admit it. Like a dog with a bone he just won’t give up. Won’t accept the inevitable rejection. It’s comical in a sad kind of way.
But it’s not as comical as my situation. It’s not as bad.
Harry doesn’t LOVE Sue, he just wants to get his leg over. No, that’s not fair. That makes him sound like a sex-craved deviant. But you know what I mean, don’t you. We’re all alone out here. People have begun to pair up, get married, and have families. No one wants to be alone and on a ship with 150 people no one can be too choosy. Nobody is looking for a soul mate or the ‘love-of-their-life’. Harry doesn’t expect to find another Libby on Voyager.
No, all he wants is what we all want, someone to share a bed with, to share companionship with, someone who will pretend that we are their family whilst we can pretend to be theirs. Just someone to cling to in this lonely, hostile part of space. It’s not too much to ask, is it?
Take Janeway and Tuvok, for instance, now there’s a match made in hell. Between her temper and his ironic coldness I’m lucky to survive helm duty when they’ve had a fight. Fiery barbs deflected by icicles of contempt fly across the bridge like the crossfire of phaser rifles.
Only the calm, powerful presence of Chakotay keeps me at the Conn. He simply exudes tranquility. He’s an island of serene composure and I draw strength from knowing that his gaze is fixed on the back of my head.
Chakotay.
I lied, you know.
When I said no one was looking for his or her soul mate.
I lied, or maybe not, because I’m not looking, I’ve found him.
Problem is, he hasn’t admitted it yet. Maybe he never will. Maybe I’ll be like Harry and Sue forever.
A moth battering at a window, desperate to be impaled by Chakotay’s flame.
~~~~
CHAKOTAY
It’s quiet on the bridge today. Almost too quiet.
Kathryn and Tuvok are glaring at each other as usual. Tuvok is standing stiffly at tactical, his body betraying the tension that never shows in his impassive face. I find the contrast interesting. I find Harry Kim interesting too. He is nearly slumped over the Ops console; his whole body radiates lack of sleep and if I didn’t know better, the affects of a hangover.
Perhaps I should check his replicator logs?
Interesting. Both of them. But not as interesting as watching Tom.
Since I owe it to myself to at least be honest in my private thoughts, I may as well admit it.
I LOVE watching Tom. I love the way his long elegant fingers play over the helm like a concert pianist. The effortless way he spins Voyager in complex maneuvers with such consummate ease that he makes it look easy. It’s like watching an ice skater that is so excellent that they make you believe that you could don skates yourself and do the same. It’s only when you land abruptly on your butt that you realise how deceptive their skill was.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a pretty good pilot myself. But Tom’s flying is genius.
You can’t learn that in a book. You can’t learn it, at all. Genius is born not made. I envy Tom his ability. But I don’t envy his genius.
Genius is a burden that breaks the back of those who carry it. Abilities like Tom’s make people expect so much from him that he is terrified of failure. And it makes him arrogant. Tom has a justified arrogance in his own abilities that has let him ignore orders of lesser minded mortals time and time again as he saves our butts, but it was the same arrogance that killed his passengers at Caldik Prime. He is an enigma, Tom. Conceited yet often self-depreciating. Capable of both incredible courage and extreme cowardice. The life of every party and yet a loner with few friends.
I admit I hated him when I first met him. When that handsome face smirked arrogantly at me in a seedy bar. He was down on his luck. Recently cashiered from Starfleet. Selling his talents, and maybe even himself, to the highest bidder. But so godamned cocky. So insolent. So sure of himself. It has taken me years to understand him. To finally see the generous heart. To learn to appreciate the humour. To learn to love him.
I do, you know. Love him, I mean.
I love everything about him. He has charmed and beguiled me against my better judgment. He has battered at the door of my heart with every weapon at his disposal. Every argument we have had, every confrontation, every painful step of our relationship has led here. To this point. To where I find myself longing for the sound of his voice every morning. How my day doesn’t truly start until I see his sunny smile. How I sit all shift gazing at the back of his head and imagining how his soft hair would feel under my fingers.
It’s a form of torture.
I think, in all honesty, that’s why I do it. Why I let myself imagine holding him in the bitter loneliness of my nights. Why I image waking next to that face in the mornings. Why I picture how he would look asleep with his hair tousled and his frown lines smooth. How young and beautiful he would be.
Because the thinking, the wanting, HURTS. And the pain reminds me of my betrayal.
I am a man of honour. I cannot live with myself being any other way. I made a promise, you see. A promise to love someone forever. Until death parted us.
But forever is a long time in the DQ, when my love is lost to me and the nights are cold and my heart so lonely.
Hearts don’t break they just bruise. I heard that once and it’s right. If my heart was broken I would be dead and I would be free.
Forever is too long.
~~~~
TOM
I’m in the Resort with Harry. We’re sipping cocktails as we sprawl on sunbeds and watch the girls in their bikinis and grass skirts.
At least Harry is. His eyes are as wide as a child at Christmas. It’s as though he’s never seen a girl before! Christ, I love him! I wonder why none of the women can see him with my eyes. I mean he’s cute and well made and sweet and good. If I were a girl I’d count myself lucky to have him!
Ah ha! Thought you’d catch that! ‘If I was a girl’. Why, you ask yourself, do I have to imagine it that way?
Well it’s simple really. I mean it’s not just that Harry is so straight he would probably scream if a guy propositioned him. (In fact, scratch that statement, I seem to remember Ayala having a quiet word with him in Sandrine’s one night and he DID scream. Quite funny really!) But that’s not why I’m not interested, I mean unrequited love seems to be my forte.
No, the problem with Harry is he’s not a man’s man, so to speak.
He’s a bottom, to be crude, and so am I. Making love with him would be the equivalent of a couple of fish flopping around together out of water, unsure of what to do next.
I snigger at the image and see Harry smile at me. He gets this thrill just out of seeing me happy. Christ, I DO love him!
"Wow!" he says as a well-stacked brunette saunters past wearing three small shells and little else.
"Like her?"
"OH, YESSS!"
"Good."
I had spent my lunchtime tweaking the program to produce that babe for him. Of course, considering the fuschia gelatinous mess that had pretended to be lunch it hadn’t been much of a sacrifice. But I’m not about to tell Harry that!
"Thanks, Tom. She’s gorgeous. You’re great!"
"You’re welcome."
"Seen anything you fancy?" Harry asks
"Oh, yes!" I breathe softly as my eyes catch on a breathtakingly beautiful body.
"Where?" He asks with interest, sitting up to follow my gaze. He looks around the resort, which is teeming with life since both Alpha and Beta shift are off at the moment. Because of the throng of bodies, both human and electrical, he can’t decide where my interest lies.
"You’ll never guess, Harry," I reply enigmatically and taking a long drink I lie back down on the bed and close my eyes in shock.
When I had looked over the resort, the sight of his strong, stocky frame in black trunks and NOTHING else had mesmerized me. I had paused at the shorts in contemplation and when I looked up again he caught my eyes. An amused smile was playing on those luscious lips. I blushed hotly with the realisation that he had noticed EXACTLY where my interest lay.
And then he winked!
Honest.
Chakotay actually winked at me!
I can’t believe I did it.
Of all the stupid, juvenile, thoughtless, tactless things to do I actually WINKED at him.
Talk about giving the green light! As if he needed any more encouragement!
I’m not dense. Of course I know how Tom feels about me, how he’s felt for years. I mean he’s always been subtle (which is a surprise since subtlety isn’t an adjective with which anyone would normally describe Tom Paris!) but it’s been there nonetheless. It’s the little things that give him away: the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, how he accidentally brushes against me in the turbolift.
Sometimes I catch the heat smoldering in his blue eyes and it takes my breath away.
But I’ve NEVER encouraged him!
I’ve never let him see the way my traitorous body reacts to his presence. How the very smell of him makes saliva rush to my mouth. Never once by word or deed have I let him know how much he affects me.
He’s vulnerable, you see. Oh I know he doesn’t appear that way, but believe me, he is.
All throughout his life he has had happiness dangled in front of him and then snatched away. Sometimes it’s been his own fault. He has torpedoed himself into self-destruction. He is tortured by his own failures, his own mistakes.
How can I let myself become his next error of judgment?
Don’t get me wrong, I would die before I willingly hurt him. I feel physically sick at even the thought of being the cause of another furrow on his brow, another shadow in those beautiful eyes.
A few years ago, if I had felt ready, I could have accepted his offer. He was bouncing from bed to bed then. Looking to lose himself in short flings of pure hedonistic pleasure. He didn’t want a relationship, wasn’t ready for it. If I had accepted then, I wouldn’t have to imagine the pleasure of his body I would have real memories, real experience.
I was so sure back then that we would get home, that Angel would be waiting for me. I couldn’t bear to shatter my lover with the knowledge I had found comfort in another’s arms.
But it’s been FIVE years. Five long, cold weary years of monastic existence and even if we got home tomorrow, surely he would understand my weakness in giving in. And what if we never get home?
I am so lonely. I need the comfort of arms wrapped around me. It’s so hard to live up to my image all the time. I know how they see me, the stoic warrior, the calm voice of reason, the unshakable big man. But there’s a person under that image they see. I’m as vulnerable as they are to fear and loneliness and self-doubt.
In the still of the night I lie in bed alone and I want to cry sometimes. I want to mourn my lost friends, my family, the life I have lost!
Bet you can’t imagine that, can you?
Chakotay, crying?
~~~
I can’t believe it!
I’m floating so high they are going to have to peel me off the ceiling unless I calm down.
Chakotay winked at me. He finally realised how I feel and he didn’t go mad, or get offended or pretend not to notice like I expected.
I mean, I don’t even know how he feels about homosexuality.
So okay, it’s no big deal, everybody accepts it. No one batted an eyelid when B’Elanna and Seven decided the best way to solve their hostility was to get married. Well, they did, of course but that was only because it was unexpected, not because anyone had a problem with it.
Chakotay gave B’Elanna away himself which I guess he wouldn’t have done if he didn’t approve.
But that didn’t mean he would consider it himself! The man’s a monk. He hasn’t slept with anyone since he arrived on Voyager. How am I supposed to know what his sexual preferences are? He could have had a thing for Targs for all I know.
But I’ve been around the block a bit. I KNOW what that wink meant. So why hasn’t he done anything about it? It can’t be that fraternization with subordinates crap because now Janeway and Tuvok are together it would be a bit like shutting the shuttlebay doors after the shuttle had launched.
Okay, so the Captain hadn’t really had a choice. She and Tuvok were alone on an away mission when the Vulcan went into Ponn Farr and since they are mind-melded now, they can hardly split up despite their frequent marital spats.
But that’s not the point and anyway the whole ship is pairing off so no one would even notice.
He must be waiting for me to make the first move. Giving me the chance to change my mind. That’s what he’s like. Caring, generous, gentle…gorgeous.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do next but I won’t disappoint him. Now he’s given me this chance I’m not going to blow it!
Hold on to your hat, Chakotay, here I come.
~~
I knew it was a mistake. What the hell am I going to do now?
I made another error of judgment. I seem to be making a lot of them at the moment. I don’t know what’s wrong with me all of a sudden.
I guess I had better explain: I went to Sandrines after shift and Tom was there.
Yes, I know. Don’t laugh. Did I really think he wouldn’t be?
So, anyway, he came up to me, all smiles and bright eyes and asked me to play pool.
I refused; just got up to leave, but the confused hurt and rejection that immediately flooded his eyes froze me to the spot.
He’s a consummate actor. It only took a moment for him to recover and toss his head negligently, as though I hadn’t really just knifed him in the gut.
"Okay, Commander" he said flippantly "Whatever!"
And I could have just walked away.
I don’t know why I didn’t. Why I changed my mind. Why I decided that it was better to break his heart completely instead of simply leaving it at the ego-blow I had just delivered.
I stayed.
I played pool with him, and flirted and laughed and drank and it was the most fun I’d had in years.
Am I so selfish?
Can I really lead him on like this just because the thought of being alone, even another day, makes me want to howl? Can I let him commit himself to a relationship with me that will end the second we arrive home?
Maybe we’ll never get home. Perhaps we won’t even survive the next battle.
Perhaps I’ll never have to tell him it’s over.
Perhaps.
TOM
"Hey, Haz," I call across the mess hall.
Harry looks up. A welcoming smile lights his face. As always he blushes a little in pleasure at the nickname. He thinks it’s really cool.
I have never had the heart to tell him it’s short for ‘hazard’.
So okay, I suppose it’s a little mean but he IS a hazard. That squeaky-clean, just-out-of-cadet-school naiveté has gotten him into trouble so many times that I sometimes wish he would grow-up and become as cynical as me.
No, I don’t really. It’s just that I worry about him, you know. And anyway, who would play my straight man if he weren’t so wonderfully gullible?
"Hi, Tom," he says as I take the seat opposite and plonk my tray down.
Neelix has excelled himself once again. Who would have thought it possible to create a meal out of mashed leola root, bananas and curry powder? I contemplate the possibility of convincing my fork to commit suicide over the edge of the table.
"It’s not TOO bad," chirps Harry
"You always say that!"
"That’s just in case I’m ever right," he grins.
See, I told you his naiveté was dangerous!
"Guess what? Sue’s agreed to have dinner with me tonight," he suddenly gushes
I blink in surprise. Maybe it’s catching. Perhaps the patron saint of lost causes has finally glanced kindly in Voyager’s direction.
"Um, Haz?"
"Yes?"
"Can I ask you something kind of personal?"
"Sure, Tom."
"It’s about Libby."
"Oh!"
"Sorry."
"No, that’s okay, ask away."
"What if you get together with Sue and then we get home and you find out Libby waited for you, after all?"
Harry looks at his plate thoughtfully. I feel really bad for being so tactless, but I really need to hear his answer.
You see, I played pool with Chakotay last night. It was kind of a date. I really thought that something was finally going to happen but at the end, when he walked me back to my quarters and I paused meaningfully at the doorway, waiting for those hot lips to descend, he simply said "Night, Tom, Thanks for tonight," and walked away.
I was in shock. All night we’d been flirting and I KNEW he wanted me! I had guessed he wasn’t the first-date type, more's the pity, but I definitely expected a quick snog and grope before he left! But nothing, nada, zip. It’s never happened to me before! So, like I said, I was in shock.
I didn’t get much sleep. I just kept replaying the evening in my head. I guess anyone else would have chalked it down to experience, but not me. Oh, no. I couldn’t get THAT close to what I wanted and then back off. So I went to his quarters first thing and when he answered the door he didn’t seem surprised to see me. He asked me in, offered me coffee and told me it was over.
Over? It hadn’t even begun.
I was so mad, so disappointed, so hurt, I just wanted to run out with my tail between my legs. But oddly enough he seemed even more upset than I did. So I just asked him why? And that’s when he told me. Told me that he had someone waiting for him. That he wanted me so much he couldn’t think straight but that he already had a lover on the other side of the galaxy.
I could kick myself. It should have been obvious. Why the hell else would the sexiest man in the known universe live like a monk? It probably sounds crazy but I feel better now than I have for weeks. You see, it’s not ME. I’m not the problem. It isn’t that Chakotay doesn’t want me it’s just that he’s still clinging to the memory of someone who undoubtedly gave him up for dead a week after he disappeared into the badlands.
I can fight a ghost. What’s a memory next to a real live body in your bed? A memory can’t laugh and joke and play pool with him. A memory can’t comfort and hold him. A memory can’t have wild rampant sex with him. Wow! That’s a thought to drool over.
It’s kind of sweet really. Chakotay’s sense of honour, I mean. It just proves to me that he is exactly what I thought he was. Honest, dependable, faithful, in fact everything I want.
So that’s why I need to know about Harry’s feelings about Libby. Because if someone as innately decent as Harry can get on with his life then so can Chakotay. We might never get home and even if we do, I am sure that this ‘Angel’ will have moved on.
He’d better have, because once Chakotay is finally mine, I will NEVER give him back!
~~~~
CHAKOTAY
When Tom was waiting at my door with a sunny smile after shift, my good intentions went out of the window again. I had been honest with him this morning. I gave him the chance to walk away. Is it really my responsibility if he won’t take no for an answer?
See, there I go again. Trying to justify myself for something that I know is wrong.
I should have told him to leave. But instead I let him follow me in. He walked happily around my room looking at my possessions, drinking in the essence of my life. I felt ridiculously at ease with his presence. It felt so good to have company.
All the time he looked around, he kept up a cheerful banter, telling me about his day, passing on the kind of funny anecdotes that I rarely hear in my position as First Officer. I was laughing so much I nearly missed his sudden silence as he saw the picture. I watched him freeze. Then as he reached out and picked up the delicate silver photoframe, he flinched. Really flinched, as though to avoid a blow.
I wasn't surprised; not really, I'd seen that photo have the same effect on someone before. It was seeing that same photo that had finally convinced Kathryn that I meant it when I told her we could never have a relationship together, back when she imagined that my support and friendship might be concealing attraction.
One sight of the photo on my bedside table had made even the diminutive but fearless Captain of Voyager immediately call off her subtle pursuit.
Angel has that effect on people. Even in a two dimensional picture. That's why I don't have a holo image of him. In three dimensions he is overwhelming, almost painful to look at. Even for me.
I see Tom slowly replace the picture; the tension in his neck and shoulders is palpable. When he turns, his arms are folded against his chest protectively and his mouth is twisted in a wry grin.
"So, " he drawls. "That's why he's called Angel. Why didn't you tell me?"
His tone is light and teasing but I can see the tension around his eyes, see the discoloration of his knuckles as his fists clench so tightly that I can imagine his nails biting into the soft skin of his palms.
"I did," I reply, although it's a lie and we both know it.
"You told me you had someone waiting for you. You never said he looked like THAT!"
"Does it matter?" I ask him softly
"Of course, it matters," Tom snaps with painful bitterness "I can't compete with him. No one could."
"It isn't a competition, Tom. I've been honest with you. If we ever do get home, if he's still waiting, then I am going to go back to him, Tom. But I DO love you and want to be with you, now."
"Just a substitute," Tom says resentfully, his eyes dark with anguish
"No. Tom. It's not like that. How can I explain to you that I want you and desire you and if I'd met you first I would never have chosen him over you. It's just too late for us, Tom."
"Yeah! Right. You'd have chosen a pale imitation like me, over THAT? Pull the other one, Chak. I'm not buying it."
It's an apt image 'pale imitation'. In a way it describes Tom perfectly. He is like the full moon that gleams in the night sky, pregnant with promise. In a world where there is only darkness, that moon has an irresistible beauty. But when the sun rises and snatches back its stolen reflection, when the sun shines in all its morning glory, the moon becomes a wraith-like wisp of dull white in the dawn sky.
Although it pains me to admit it, there is no comparison between the two. In a room of ordinary people Tom shines. If Angel walked into that same room everyone would be so dazzled by his incandescence that Tom would become almost invisible.
It's true and Tom knows it. But, it's also a lie.
You see, there's no real way to compare them with each other. That would be like trying to quantify the relative merits of food and water. Both have their own value, their own worth. Neither is sufficient by itself.
I realise that I want them both.
How can I make Tom understand that, in a strange way, the very perfection of Angel is sometimes too much for me to handle? How it is Tom's very flaws that make him so approachable, so accessible, so human.
That was a cruel thought. I didn't mean to imply that Angel isn't human. There is no statement that would hurt him more. He's from Hera you see. He perceives himself as sub-human, a monster, as do many Federation citizens.
A beautiful, perfect , genetically engineered monster.
This will destroy him if he ever finds out. That I have fallen in love with Tom. That I have chosen a normal lover after sampling his artificial perfection.
You see now, don't you, why I have avoided Tom for so long? I am going to destroy both of the men I love.
Even if we never return home, Tom's self-image will be shattered by doubt. He will be eaten away by the knowledge of Angel. He will constantly compare himself with that perfection and find himself lacking. He will always consider himself to be my second and reluctant choice. And if we do return, I will leave him.
Doesn't that prove him right? Doesn't the fact that I will not consider any other course of action prove that he will never mean as much to me?
No. It's not really a question of love. It's about honour, and promises and the fact that out of both these vulnerable men whom I love, only Tom has the strength to survive being abandoned.
Don't get me wrong, I understand that it will destroy him, probably drive him back to drinking, fighting, and hating. But he will survive because that's what he is, a survivor.
Angel isn't.
Which is strange really. I've never walked into a room with him on my arm without being aware of the envy, the disbelief, the lust directed at my spectacular companion. Even those who despise him for what he is, still want to possess him rather than destroy him. He could have chosen anyone. But he chose me.
I have never understood why.
He is patiently waiting for me like a faithful hound. A cruel image but sadly true. I know this in every fibre of my being. I don't know why he loves me like this. I don't understand why it was me he chose out of a whole galaxy of potential mates. It's a burden, this love. Something that lies heavy on me. For every moment of joy his love gives me, I also feel such a weight of responsibility that sometimes I wish we had never met.
Cruel and ungrateful, aren't I? To spurn a gift of such love simply because It chains me so heavily. I am a prisoner of his very need for me. I cannot escape his terrible devotion. He wouldn't survive me leaving him. In my very soul I know that he would take his own life before he would let me turn my back on him.
Sometimes I hate him for this.
~~~
Well I admit my self-confidence took a long suicidal leap off a high cliff last night. I ran out of Chakotay’s quarters like I had a Kazon warband on my tail.
I know I don’t generally let it show, but I’ve never exactly had what you’d consider a good opinion of myself. I never got a chance to develop one. As the only son of the youngest Admiral in Starfleet history, I learned early in my life that I was destined to be a colossal disappointment to the entire Paris clan. Then I proceeded to make a career of it!
Don’t get me wrong, I tried desperately to fulfil my family’s expectations. To be who they wanted me to be. But somehow I always fucked it up.
One for the résumé that. "Guaranteed fuck-up."
It didn’t matter what I did or how hard I tried; I always managed to disappoint them. I always let down the hallowed Paris name.
Like the time I spent all summer working on a science project for a school competition. Whilst my friends played ball in the sunshine, I sat in Dad’s gloomy library and pored over computer files and ancient texts (my Dad had real books!) and I even spent hours at his lab at HQ being tutored by all his ass-licking subordinates. I had all the advantages, you see, I had no excuse for failure.
By the time I handed the assignment in, I was positive I had succeeded. With the supreme Paris arrogance that was my birthright, I was absolutely certain that I would win the prize for best project.
I came second.
I still cringe when I remember the look on Dad’s face. The way his features screwed up with disgust and disappointment at the offending blue ribbon.
"If you aren’t first, Tom, you’ve lost," he told me. "Nobody ever remembers who came second. Who was the second man on the moon, Tom? Who was the second man to achieve warp speed?"
And he was right, as always. I couldn’t remember. So I knew he was correct. Second WAS failure. By which he meant that I was a failure.
I still am.
Oh sure, I have learnt to cover up my insecurity with this polished act of brash arrogance that is so smooth that sometimes I even manage to fool myself.
But that isn’t the same as really believing it.
Take Chakotay for instance (and I wish I could, Take him, I mean). Self-confidence simply oozes out of his every pore. He never has to say or do anything to promote his image of quiet perfection. It’s simply who he is. He glides effortlessly through life never doubting himself, never questioning his actions, never worrying about getting things wrong because he’s quite simply incapable of failure.
Chakotay NEVER comes second.
How the hell could I have been so presumptuous as to imagine that he would willingly settle for a fuck-up like me? If you asked me to picture an ideal companion for him, a perfect foil for that dark magnificence, I have to admit that it would never look like Tom Paris.
It might look like Angel though.
Bastard!
So what now? Do I do the sensible thing and give up? Do I simply creep back to my lonely life like a beaten puppy, Unloved and unwanted? Do I swallow the bitter taste of defeat?
Strange allegory that. Most of my favourite pleasures are acquired tastes. My adult palate has learnt to appreciate tart flavours. I have achieved an appetite for many things that were unpalatable to me in childhood. But an appreciation of the vile bitterness of failure can’t be acquired no matter how often it is sampled. Take it from me, I know better than most people. No one ever learns to savor the nauseous piquancy of defeat.
So what now? Do I admit that the best I can hope for from Chakotay is a mercy fuck?
No.
Because I’ll let you in on a secret.
Receiving that blue ribbon was one of the finest moments of my life!
It doesn’t matter that everyone at home saw it as my failure. For me, I was proud of that second place. It was so damned near first that I could almost reach out and touch success. For just an instant I could taste it in my mouth and savor THAT flavour. It was like the first time I tasted chocolate. The sweetness breaking in soft waves, assaulting my senses with unexpected delight. In that moment of time, which is frozen in my memory like a snapshot to be hauled out and gloated over, I was uniquely, unbelievably, ecstatic with victory. I didn’t see the one person who beat me; I only perceived the dozens who hadn’t.
Weird, huh?
Maybe I’m Chakotay’s second choice. But that’s still a hell of a lot better than being his last.
~~~
Image is a funny thing, isn’t it?
Here I am, sat on the bridge, so tired and depressed that I feel like the artificial gravity has tripled. I’m pinned in my chair by this huge invisible weight. Incapable of escaping the tsunami of depression that is threatening to crash over me, leaving me drowned and smashed in the scattered flotsam and jetsam of my shattered dreams
But no one has noticed. Oh no, as far as they are concerned I am just being my normal stoic, silent self. To them I am an unshakable rock, unchangeable except by eons of erosion. Eternally dependable. Chakotay.
I have a mad urge to leap to my feet and run around the bridge howling war cries like my ancestors.
I can shut my eyes and virtually see myself do it. See myself captured by security and sent to sickbay for a very long time. Tempting thought that, actually. I can almost hear the hiss of the hypospray that would fly me to oblivion.
But it would involve more effort than I am capable of at this moment.
And I would miss watching Tom.
After last night, it’s all I’m ever likely to be able to do.
Watch him.
~~~
I’m fidgeting so much at the Conn. that the Captain has asked me twice whether I’m okay. She probably thinks I need the bathroom!
I can’t help it. For the first time ever, I beat Chakotay to the bridge. I never got a chance to look at him, to smile my apology, to let him know I’m sorry for the way I stormed out last night. To let him know I’m willing to accept his terms.
Okay, willing is not the right adjective. Insert ‘desperate enough’ and that’s probably closer to the truth.
I didn’t even hear him come in and sit behind me. You’d think I would notice something like that, wouldn’t you. You’d think my senses would hone in like radar at the slightest hint of his presence. But the truth is I only knew he’d arrived because the Captain said "Good Morning" to him in an ironic tone.
He’s never been late before. Ever.
Was he late on purpose? Was he so reluctant to look at me that he deliberately dawdled to ensure I would be seated with my back to him before he arrived?
I must have really hurt him with my reaction to the photograph.
He must hate me for running out the way I did.
Damn. When am I going to learn to think before I act?
~~~
Poor Tom.
He’s so upset he can’t sit still in his seat. He looks like someone has set fire to his butt.
There’s an image to torture me for the rest of my sorry life: Tom’s butt.
I tried my best to make today easier on him. After the way he ran out of my quarters last night like a scalded cat, I realised that the last thing he would want to see this morning was my face. So I arrived late.
Beyond belief isn’t it? Dependable, by the book, Chakotay being deliberately late for duty? Even Tuvok blinked at my tardiness and Kathryn was definitely snide when she greeted me.
But, to be honest, I don’t care.
The way Tom has reacted since he became aware of my arrival has proved to me that I did the right thing. If he can’t even bear the thought of my sitting behind him, how on earth would he have coped with having to smile and greet me, as if nothing had happened?
Spirits, I am so tired.
For hours after his precipitous departure I just sat and looked at the photo he had dropped. Desperately trying to convince myself that his reaction had been for the best. That Tom’s rejection of me was the only sane course of action.
It’s the best thing that could have happened. This way I won’t get the chance to hurt him any more and I won’t have to face the guilt of betraying Angel.
I accept that it’s the best way for all of us.
The only way.
So why is that sickening despair crushing me, smothering me with its black weight?
Why do I have this urge to leap forwards to the Conn, throw my arms around him and beg for another chance?
I can feel tears needling at the back of my eyes and the Herculean effort to retain my composure is suddenly too much.
"Permission to leave the bridge, Captain?" I manage to whisper
Kathryn looks at me with concern. It dawns on her that there is something wrong and I see the worried solicitude in her eyes. But she doesn’t question my request, she simply agrees with a gentle nod.
Perhaps her marriage has taught her compassion.
As the turbolift doors close, I see Tom’s shoulders relax and I know without doubt that it would be best if I avoided him for as long as possible. Perhaps even changed the duty roster so he wouldn’t have to see me.
In the privacy of the turbolift I finally let the silent tears escape.
~~~
As I hear the turbolift doors closing, the strength sags from my body and I feel my shoulders slump.
Only the rigidness of the seat and helm prevent me from curling up into a fetal ball of misery.
He’s gone.
He couldn’t even bear to look at the back of my ungrateful head.
He hates me.