ANGEL
By Morticia
8-10 / 60
Disclaimers: See Part 1
CHAKOTAY
It is almost 1820 when my door chime sounds. I have changed into casual clothes; prepared the bath which I promised Tom and have poured us both a glass of a dry white wine that I found on my last shoreleave. It sparkles in the lights of my Quarters with the same honeyed tone as Tom's red gold hair.
As I let Tom in, with a welcoming kiss and soft "Hello," I am aware of his eyes darting fearfully to mine as he regards my expression suspiciously.
I realise that he has been deliberately late, simply to gauge my reaction. I guess after our many arguments on the bridge during the Jonas incident; he has learnt that I am a stickler for punctuality. He's obviously deliberately testing me. Checking out whether I am the same hard taskmaster in my personal life. Wondering whether I will bring him into line.
To be honest, I hate lateness. It is rude and inconsiderate and usually unnecessary. I have no doubt that, if I tell him this, he will not be late again.
I am sure of his current need to please me. That at this stage he is prepared to make any compromise to make this relationship work. But that is not the kind of relationship I want with him. I want him to be on time because he cannot wait to see me, not because he is afraid of my reaction to his behavior.
I may have a tendency to be dominant sexually but I need Tom to be my equal partner in all the other aspects of this relationship, not pretending to be subservient and eager to please. (And let's face it, I can't imagine him being able to keep it up for very long anyway, he's simply irrepressible!)
If there is any complaint that I would make of Angel it is that he never understood that I wanted him to think for himself. Despite his obvious physical and mental superiority, he was never capable of meeting me on equal terms emotionally. It was my mistake that from the beginning, instead of helping him deal with his many insecurities, I merely imposed my own beliefs on him and allowed him to mould himself to my expectations. It was my own fault that our relationship became rather mundane as a result.
I am determined not to make the same mistake with Tom. So I swallow my irritation and simply hand him his drink whilst I relieve him of his small bag. There will be plenty of time later for us to have this discussion, when he is less insecure.
His shoulders sag with a release of tension as he realises that I am not going to comment on his lateness and he accepts the wine with a shy relieved smile.
Sadly I realise from the lightness of his bag, that he has only brought enough clothes to change into. He is obviously still uncertain of the permanence of his welcome. I decide not to mention it. I'm sure that as time goes on and he feels more comfortable with me, with us, his possessions will begin to creep into my spartan quarters and make it look more like a home.
"Your bath is getting cold" I chide him gently and lead him to the bathroom. His eyes widen appreciatively at the sight. There is only room for a shower in his own, smaller quarters.
Tom strips without hesitation. He shows absolutely no modesty about his naked form. I wonder absently whether it's because he's a Starfleet brat or because he has had such an active sex life. Don't misunderstand me, there is no jealousy in my thinking of him with his countless former partners. Or at least not much.
For a moment his beauty transfixes me. His long coltish limbs and pale perfect skin are such a wonderful contrast to my own dark, dense musculature. Although his frame is athletic and strong he is far too thin for my peace of mind. He has an air of delicacy to him, like a fragile porcelain doll. I am struck anew by my fierce desire to protect him.
I hold his drink for him as he slips carefully into the water and as the warmth pervades his muscles I can actually see the tension draining from him. I hand him back his drink and he takes a long sip of the golden liquid, sighs blissfully and only then does he languidly turn his lapis-lazuli gaze at me.
"Wow, you can't believe how good this feels," he purrs
"No, to be honest, I can't," I reply significantly.
He digests this for a moment as my meaning sinks in.
"So you've never, um, never been a bottom?"
"No."
I watch this thought roll around in his head.
"Don't you want to?"
"No. Never." I am careful to pitch my reply to the exact correct tone of gentle firmness.
He considers my answer briefly before gifting me with a sunny smile
"Good, 'cos I don't ever want to be a top, anyway," he laughs, and that understood we both grin at each other. I sit down on the toilet seat and watch him luxuriate as we chat. We sit talking like this for a long time, feeling each other out, defining the parameters of our relationship. It feels comfortable and good to be able to talk like this.
The water is cooling so Tom starts to wash himself. I climb down and kneel beside the bath and taking a handful of soap begin to lather his back for him. He leans forwards to give me better access and I run my hands over the tight muscles of his shoulders, stopping to knead all the knots of tension that I find.
Tom begins to moan with pleasure at my ministrations so I let my right hand sneak around his torso to rub the nipples that are standing proud from his wet chest.
"Ohhh, yes," he sighs, letting his eyes close and his head fall backwards.
Supporting the weight of his neck with my left hand, I let my right hand slide slowly down his chest, pausing to play briefly with his navel before following a damp golden trail of hair under the water until I find his cock.
It is already hard and eager for me. Closing my fingers gently I begin to slide up and down its length. Once, twice, a third time and he stiffens, squeals and comes.
He looks at me sheepishly, embarrassed yet again by my instantaneous effect on his body. I am tempted to joke that he has no more control over his cock than his motor-mouth but I doubt our relationship is strong enough yet for him to take my joke the right way. So I simply kiss the tip of his nose and then take his hands to help him up out of the water.
As I slowly rub him dry with a thick towel, he glides sensuously against me. Just the friction of the fabric on his bare skin is enough to rekindle his libido. He is so sensitive to my touch, so responsive, so absolutely fuckable that I have to force myself to remember the state of his battered ass.
Opening my bathroom cabinet I begin to search for my medical regenerator.
"Bend over, Tom," I say absently and it is only as I see how firmly he has braced his hands against the toilet seat that I realise he has misinterpreted my intention.
Oddly, for a moment I am angry with him. Outraged that he thinks so little of me to think I would take him again whilst he is so sore. I have to force myself to remember that he is currently so desperate to make this relationship work that he would probably take a space walk without a suit if I told him to.
Sorrow dampens my anger. Sadness that this beautiful, brilliant young man is so unaware of his own desirability. He hasn't figured yet that now I have finally given in, I would cut my own hand off rather than let him back out of my life.
Until we get home, my conscience whispers.
Shaking my head to clear that unwelcome thought, I begin to run the regenerator between his ass-cheeks. His low moan of understanding is an odd mixture of disappointment and relief. When I have finally finished, I give him a gentle slap on the ass, put down the regenerator and pick up a toweling robe that I wrap around him. He follows me sedately into the living room, a little confused at my failure to take advantage of his willingness, and I gesture him to the couch whilst I walk to the replicator.
"What would you like to eat?"
"Um...tomato soup, hot and plain."
"Don't you ever get tired of that?" I laugh
"Nope...it's what I like. When I decide I like something I like it forever," he replies, pointedly flashing his eyes at me and I catch the hidden meaning well enough.
"Good," I reply significantly and for a moment I see happy tears welling in his eyes before he blinks furiously and accepts the tray I hand him.
After we've finished eating and I have cleared up the refuse, I ask the computer to play a selection of my favourite music collections whilst Tom simply snuggles up sleepily in my arms. The bath combined with the tension of the last few days, not to mention the marathon sex last night, has turned his body into pure satisfied mush. I sit contentedly, stroking his back soothingly until his breath finally deepens into light snores.
And it is at that moment I'm ashamed to say, when Tom has finally trusted me enough to fall asleep. When he has allowed himself to be so trusting, so very vulnerable to me, that I find myself looking out of the window at the passing stars and thinking nostalgically about Angel.
~~~
When I was a small boy, maybe four or five, my father gave me a puppy. He was a huge bouncing ball of gangly legs, fluff and tongue. I called him Chinook. He was the first true love of my life.
His collie grin and bright black eyes are etched in my memory so vividly that I can almost see him now. I was the centre of his universe. To his canine eyes I was a god. I stole his love and affection and when he was no longer convenient to me, when he stood in the way of my selfish ambitions, I abandoned him.
That surprises you, doesn't it? I expect you cannot imagine me doing such a thing. Cannot believe that I was once so callow and cruel?
To be honest, as I look back, I cannot either. The memory of him still haunts me. The ghost of Chinook has run faithfully at my side through all the years of my adult life. Sometimes, like now as I stoke Tom's sleeping head, I find myself expecting soft fur under my fingers and am surprised and bereaved by its absence.
Growing up on Dorvan V, with its rolling hills and uncultivated wilderness, I had a freedom as a child that most federation citizens can only dream of. There were no cities or concrete roads. Just miles of uncharted space where my gentle people had made a home.
Chinook and I ran wild over this land for all the early years of my childhood. Untamed and unfettered we developed that special relationship that I believe can only exist between a boy and his dog. Secure in their love for me, my family brought me up on a loose rein, allowing me to make my own mistakes. They granted me the space to learn my own wisdom, as I grew brown and strong in the sun.
Dorvan V was given to my people in reparation for a terrible wrong. Five hundred years ago we were hunted almost to extinction for no crime other than the fact that we lived on a bounteous land that stronger, crueler people wanted to own. There was no prime directive back then to protect us.
The superior weaponry of a less civilized race overcame us. We were herded into reservations and denied any access into the society that had enslaved us. But my people did not despair, they waited quietly, they prayed in the dreaming tents and preserved their belief in the beauty way until they would again find a land where they could live in peace.
I was raised knowing this. That we had overcome all adversities and that finally the Spirits had rewarded our faith and granted us this good life on a new planet near the Cardassian border.
I knew no other way of living and so my childhood was a happy one. My family was large and loving. All disputes were mediated not by governments but by tribal elders, wise old men who had generations of meditation and knowledge behind their decisions. All discipline was meted out with love and a light hand.
But, as always, my people had to compromise for what they wanted. It had been ordained that the price of our freedom was that our children had to be brought up with knowledge of the Federation. So when I was twelve, my bare feet were forced into leather sandals, my sun browned limbs wrapped in the restrictive embrace of clothing and my long hair was tied back. Thus bound, I was forced to attend school in the federation embassy.
I hated it. Leaving my family, leaving Chinook. For eight hours of every day I was forced into a sterile room and force-fed details of a life I could hardly begin to imagine. Each night I would return home to our simple wattle and daub home, to the warmth of a real fire, the loving shelter of my family and the ecstatic welcome of poor lonely Chinook.
Each morning I would take the long lonely trek back to the shining prison that locked me like a criminal from the sunlight. I cannot describe the misery that I endured for the first years of my incarceration.
I don't know exactly when I changed, when I began to fall under the spell of cleanliness and technology and space travel. When I became enchanted by the promises of adventure that were whispered in my ears. I only remember that my footsteps towards the school became lighter and the journey home became longer.
By the time I was fifteen, I no longer rushed home. I would find excuses to stay later and later at the embassy. My home was no longer a place I found comforting. I could only see the poverty we lived in. I was bewildered and angered by my people's refusal to accept progress. I was even unmoved by the frenzied greetings of faithful Chinook. I barely noticed his muzzle graying and his eyes becoming opaque like frosted glass as the years progressed.
I had found a dream. I began to scorn my people's failure to embrace the new technologies. I called my father a fool for clinging to a way of life that I now saw as retrograde and pointless. I saw my people as hopeless relics of a long gone age and their efforts to gently guide me back into the fold were met only with repulsion.
By the time I was seventeen the stars beckoned me intolerably. They winked at me through endless, sleepless nights, tormenting me with their hidden secrets. I could no longer see the beauty of the Dorvan dawn or appreciate the value of the wonderful wealth I had in my close and loving family. I saw only the invisible chains my family wrapped me in. I felt as though their loving embrace was choking me.
As I passed the Starfleet entrance exams and waited breathlessly for my acceptance to the Academy, I was resolute in my decision, deaf to my father's pleading with me to reconsider my chosen path.
As I counted down my days to leave I was unheeding of his warning that I was chasing fool's gold. That there was nothing of value that could be found in the universe if I couldn't find it within myself. That everything that really mattered was already within my grasp if I could only open my eyes to see it.
It was during this period of waiting that my old friend Chinook began to fail.
He had become riddled with bone cancer. Every week found another tumor growing on his thin frame. I used his condition to rail against my people. His illness was a validation of my opinion that it was foolishness to refuse new medical technology. I was filled with selfish, righteous anger instead of the silence of true grief.
As the day of my planned departure neared, Chinook's condition worsened. As tumors in his mouth made it difficult for him to eat and the sick smell of decay followed his limping footsteps, I stifled my memories of the lively puppy he had been and the years of faithful devotion he had given. I saw him only as an unwanted obligation, a barrier the Spirits had created to prevent my escape.
I knew it would be unforgivable to leave him when he was so near death but instead of praying for his recovery I found myself wishing every morning that he had passed away quietly in his sleep.
I could not bear to look at him. He represented everything that I wanted to escape from. Perhaps my heartless reaction to his suffering was just my mind's way of protecting me from the futility of hope. I would like to think so.
But the decision was taken from me. Finally admitting that there was nothing but pain left in Chinook's life, my father made the decision to end his suffering. I was relieved. Actually relieved because I would no longer be obligated to stay.
Does that disgust you to hear as much as it does me to remember?
It was not until the moment that I was holding his faithful body in my arms, as his trusting eyes watched me in ignorance, as I was hugging him for the last time as the lethal injection took hold, that the horror and loss finally hit me.
I howled. I screamed in anguish at the spirits that I had wasted these last precious years of his life. The times I shut him out of my room so that I could study, deaf to his frantic scratching at the door. The many hours I had regarded as inescapable duty when I walked him, instead of recapturing the wonder of our early years together.
At that moment I should have understood what my father meant. That everything that really mattered could only be found inside my own heart. That knowledge alone could not replace even the love of a dog.
But instead it took my father's own death at the hands of the Cardassians to teach me the pointlessness of a life without selflessness. That love should never be spurned for ambition or convenience. That my own selfish desire for happiness cannot be bought at the expense of another.
It was the death of my father that forced me to reclaim my honour. To accept that nothing is more important than being faithful to those who love you. In response to his death I finally fulfilled his wishes. I gave up my life in Starfleet and returned home.
It is strange that the very Federation I had worshipped like a false-idol could not comprehend that my decision was one of honour and duty. That the man who became the "Maquis traitor" was twice the man who had worn their uniform with such false pride.
Don't misunderstand me. I believe in the Federation, in its principles and objectives, but the strongest chain is only as secure as its weakest link and the Federation, like all organisations, is full of small-minded individuals who forget that sometimes the letter of the law does not fulfill its intent.
As I waged my own lonely war against the Cardassians I was painfully aware that many of my Maquis companions were simply rebels and misfits, mercenaries who only fought for money and glory. It didn't matter. They were weapons and tools I could use but I made friends of none of them. They repelled me. It was only with the Bajorans that I found kindred spirits, people who were fighting not only for their home but also for their belief in the Prophets.
Then I met B'Elanna and she awakened in me a fierce protective empathy. Her rebellious nature reminded me of my own selfish, wasted youth. Had I been a lover of women I would have cleaved to her and thus filled my empty life but whilst I loved the company of women, their bright intuitive thinking, their strong softness, I needed a different kind of love.
During my years at the Academy and Starfleet I had obviously had relationships but to be blunt they were all just fuck-buddies, people I shared a drink and a bed with for a few nights before moving on. Perhaps it was just that my heart was a vacuum of coldness in those years between Chinook and my father's death.
Whatever cruel spirit had lodged in my heart when I was seventeen had clung like a leech, sucking out emotion instead of blood. With the Cardassian invasion, my heart had shattered and that dark spirit had fallen out. I was aware only of a gaping hole within myself that I needed to fill.
It was in this frame of mind, careering emotionally like an empty vessel on a stormy sea, that I met Angel.
He became the second true love of my life.
Perhaps the only way you can truly appreciate his effect on me is to consider the fact that within a mere hour or two of meeting him, I completely abandoned my beloved B'Elanna alone in an alien spacecraft and failed to do more than send her a cursory comm. message or two for a whole week.
I had never in my life even imagined that creatures such as the Herans existed. When we were beamed onto their ship, the sheer beauty of each and every one of them overwhelmed me. They were like the spirit warriors of my childhood stories. They were taller than Klingons and more exquisite in feature than any artist's rendition of unattainable perfection.
I felt too short, too dark, and too ordinary. I had never before felt inadequate physically and I didn't like the feeling.
It was almost too much that I had been rescued by such beings. I could imagine the scorn with which they must be regarding us. I thought that we were probably an amusement to them. That they were regarding us like bugs on a microscope and they had deigned to help us only out of the ennui of Olympians.
I remember starting to become angry and defensive just standing there. I was bristling like a Tomcat in front of a rival for his territory. I could actually feel the hairs on the nape of my neck rising.
It was then that Angel looked straight into my eyes and smiled.
As though I were a pricked balloon the air escaped out of me with a gasp. There was absolutely no mistaking the look in those golden cat-eyes. It wasn't disgust or pity or scorn, it was pure unbridled lust.
~~~
TOM
Well, today is our anniversary. It's actually been seven days since that night in the observation lounge. Six days since I began to move my stuff into Chakotay's quarters. It's my day off today and I have spent the day rearranging the wardrobe to conceal my clothes and finding hiding holes for my vids and personal crap so they don't ruin the neatness he obviously values so much.
I've never seen such pristine quarters as his. I feel as though I make them untidy simply by being in them.
I've always hated housework. Growing up in the Paris household I was always taught that a messy room meant a messy mind. In the Academy I was always forced to be neat as a pin and in prison... well the less said about that the better. Suffice it to say I have developed an urge to relax and be a bit of a slob since I've been on Voyager.
Everything is different now. I am determined to make so little impact on Chakotay's quarters that he never finds my messiness an excuse for finding fault with our relationship. He is really sweet about it, saying the more possessions I bring, the more 'homely' his quarters will feel but I know he doesn't really mean it so I'm being really careful not to be too obtrusive.
Am I happy?
I must be. I've never felt so loved, so valued, in my whole life.
Is it everything I expected?
It's more and less at the same time. Chakotay has taken me into his home and his life. He really seems to care about me but he isn't, well, isn't as demonstrative as I had hoped.
So okay, what I really mean is that it's not the fuck-fest I had envisaged.
He is so damned careful not to hurt me that we've only actually 'done-it' twice this whole week. I mean, sure I'm sore but if it doesn't bother me, I don't see why he has such a problem with it. Isn't that what regenerators are for?
But that's okay. I guess it's nice really that he is so concerned. Just sooooo damned frustrating.
He doesn't ever want to go out. I think that he can't bear to share me or waste any of the time we have together. Every evening we just sit here together and stare at the stars and talk, really talk and he smiles and laughs at my jokes and holds me in his arms as though I am somehow precious to him, as though I really matter. It's an unusual feeling for me and it feels so good.
I've never had this kind of closeness before so I guess I can't appreciate it properly. There's this part of me that can't help feeling a little confused. I mean, how can he be so damned controlled with his passions if he feels so much for me?
Every night I throw my arms around him when he finally escapes home and as he holds me I feel my whole body go rigid with desire, but all he does in response is kiss me and let go.
I am so stunned and rejected at that moment that I cannot even speak to him. We just eat silently together until food and wine have relaxed us both into a better mood and then finally we snuggle together and simply talk for hours about little things, like an old married couple.
It's great, but it's kind of terrible too. It's my fault, I guess. To me passion means going for what you want and damn the consequences. I know I shouldn't judge his reticence by my standards. That I don't even know the name of the morals be judges himself by. But still....
And sometimes I catch him just staring into nothing and I know, I just know, that it is not me he is thinking of. And it hurts. It hurts so damned much I just want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Make him see that I am there. Flesh and blood. Loving him so much I could die.
But then he shakes himself and he turns those brown soft eyes on me and smiles so lovingly that I am confused and ashamed of my doubts.
Because I know in that moment that he does love me.
Doesn't he?
CHAKOTAY
Tom is off work today and I am hoping he will finally take the opportunity to bring more of his possessions and make my quarters into his home.
I don't know why it bothers me so much that he is so distrustful of me, of our relationship, that he seems so unable to commit himself. It's been a week now but you'd never know it. Apart from his presence, there is no clue in my quarters that he has moved in.
He is careful to hide his clothes away out of sight, obviously in case of visitors. He will not leave his vids and pads on display. He has never once suggested that we go out as a couple. He just wants us to hide in my quarters every evening.
Perhaps he is ashamed of loving me.
I can understand that. I am so much older than him and his Senior Officer to boot. Perhaps he is worried about negative reactions, about being called my toy boy, about being accused of using sex with me as a tool to further his career.
Then again, it may simply be that he regrets his choice.
Considering how much I have accidentally hurt him on the two occasions we have made love, it would be no wonder if he turned away from me completely.
I can't explain to him, without somehow making it worse, that I am so used to sharing my passion with someone so much physically stronger than him, that I have lost the ability to judge what is acceptable in the height of passion.
He is so responsive, so eager at the time, so desperate to please me, that my good intentions fly out of the window and it is not until I see the bruises on his pale skin and the raw redness of his ass, that I realise how much I have damaged him.
He never complains but I know he is now frightened of my touch because when he hugs me and I respond too enthusiastically, I feel him involuntarily stiffening in my arms and it is enough to completely unman me.
He then won't talk to me for hours. As though afraid of voicing his fear he simply eats his dinner and watches me warily.
It is not until we sit back together on the couch and finally relax that I feel I can put my arms around him without his fearing my touch. Then we avoid talking of his pain and just talk of inconsequential things.
Increasingly I find myself drifting away and remembering how good it used to be with Angel and wishing so much that I didn't have to be so careful with Tom.
Strangely, I am finding that the more time I spend with Tom, the surer I am that I really could love him if he would only let me.
But if I love him, shouldn't I care enough for him to accept that he needs a gentler love than mine.
That he deserves better.
Doesn't he?