Cat's Eye
By Morticia
Part Eight
(Tom's poem by courtesy of Ellison Wonderland <the BAD boy!!>)
Chakotay glared at Greg Ayala as he rolled about on the lounge, clutching his stomach as though it might explode, tears of mirth literally rolling down his face.
"It's not *that* funny," Chakotay growled.
"Yes it is," Greg choked, before howling with laughter again.
"It's touching," Chakotay argued. "At least he's making an effort rather than just trying to batter the door down like B'Elanna."
Greg wiped at his eyes and tried to assume a serious expression, but failed miserably. It was impossible to keep a straight face as Chakotay continued to pore over the data padd with a doting expression.
"There's only one spelling error," Chakotay pointed out. "The rest is artistic licence."
"The only artistry in that poem is the number of times he manages to say 'fuck' and still *almost* get it to rhyme," Greg snorted.
"It's not funny, it's sad," Chakotay snapped.
"Sad for you, you mean, Captain," Greg pointed out, his expression suddenly serious.
"What are you talking about?" Chakotay asked warily.
"Look, let's cut the crap while I'm still too tired to feel horny again," Greg replied. "You should have chosen Tom Paris to be your mate. You've been drooling over him since the Maquis. I can't believe you didn't jump at the opportunity to fuck him."
"Tom's straight. He's in a relationship and he's under the influence of an alien."
"So am I," Greg pointed out.
"But you're *not*straight and you're single and we've got history. It's different," Chakotay said defensively.
"I know perfectly well why you chose *me*, and don't get me wrong, I appreciate the gesture and I'll appreciate it more when my cock's recovered a bit, but we decided a long time ago that we weren't cut out for each other.
"Or at least *you* decided that, and I accepted it because there's only so many times a person can hit their head against a brick wall. Speaking of which, did you read Tuvok's note about Megan Delaney liberating a laser rifle and trying to blast her way in here?" Greg asked, with a smirk.
"I checked with the Doc. She's going to be fine. She's got third degree burns but there's nothing that can't be fixed. After this is over I'm going to have to organise some refresher courses on hand weapons," Chakotay replied absently.
"You never give up, do you? Even in a situation like this all you can think about is the welfare of the rest of the crew. Shit, don't you think it's about time you developed a sense of self-interest, Chak? It's kind of exhausting to spend time with a saint. I don't think I can take three months of it," Greg snorted.
Before Chakotay could reply, Greg doubled over in pain, this time clutching his stomach in agony.
"Greg?"
Greg looked up, his face tinged a pale green, and gave a weak smile.
"I don't think I'm allowed to criticise you," he gasped.
Chakotay hurried over to the lounge and wrapped his arms around the younger man in an obvious gesture of affection. Instantly Greg's shuddering stopped as the Grrchek symbiont sensed Chakotay's forgiveness.
"That's why you're making a mistake, Captain," Greg mumbled.
"I don't understand."
"Look, it's not the crew who are in love with you, although admittedly a lot of us are, have been all along to be honest, only we never would have done anything about it. The urge, the *need* comes from the symbiont. So, when we do the crazy things, the Grrchek has taken over, and if we refuse to obey it really hurts. The rest of the time it's almost controllable if we really try. At this time of the morning it's practically dormant. It takes something like me actually being aggressive towards you to wake it up"
"What are you saying?"
"That Tom Paris can't possibly not find you attractive because the poetry certainly isn't coming from the Grrchek. Whenever he's lucid enough to write to you, he's also in enough control to refuse the urge if he really wanted to. That's why you should have gone with your instincts and had him instead of me."
"I don't believe you."
"Think about it. It's like the difference between being pleasantly drunk and being completely out of your head. A small level of intoxication frees your inhibitions but doesn't radically alter your behaviour. That's why the crew are managing to do the repairs. Most of the time they are almost in control of themselves. Like me now. I am constantly aware of your presence in the room, I can't avoid the fact that you're sexy as hell, but I don't *have* to do anything about it. Well, not right at this moment anyway."
"So you're saying Tom wrote this in a state of semi-control?" Chakotay asked.
"He must have. Otherwise his fingers would have been too busy jerking himself off, " Greg replied. "Sorry," he added with a shrug as Chakotay's face twisted in distaste.
"Damn," Chakotay muttered, staring down at the padd again. "He really IS a horny little bastard then."
"Not to mention a seriously *bad* poet," Greg smirked, crossing the room to stare over Chakotay's shoulder and read the words that the older man was re-reading::
I'm fucked on Paris luck, Chak
I really wanna fuck, Chak
I need your cock inside me
I'll let you sock and ride me
So do me please, Chakotay
You really rock my boatay,
I know I used to bug you,
But you let Tuvok plug you,
So now come home to poppa
And fuck me with your whopper.
Greg's fingers inched around Chakotay's waist and stroked suggestively at his groin.
"So, when did he get a show?"
"What?" Chakotay blurted.
"How does he *know* you've got a 'whopper'?"
"Lucky guess?" Chakotay laughed, leaning back into Greg's embrace and closing his eyes as the evidence of Greg's renewed interest poked suggestively into his lower back.
"I thought you said you were under control, that the symbionts are dormant at this time of day," he murmured as Greg's fingers slipped down his waistband and groped at his stiffening cock.
"They are," Greg whispered. "What's that got to do with anything, big guy?"
"We've only been out of bed for an hour," Chakotay groaned.
"So? You got any other pressing engagements today?" Greg laughed, beginning to propel Chakotay back into the bedroom.
"Hang on, you're telling me that this isn't the Grrchek influence? That this is just you?"
Greg nuzzled his neck and swirled his tongue lightly across the tender skin behind Chakotay's ear.
"That's right," Greg purred. "This is just you and me, babe. Kind of a goodbye thing."
"Goodbye?"
"Well, I'm sure as hell you don't want a threesome. You and Tom are right for each other. You'll be so hot together I'd just get burned in the middle."
It was like a dash of cold water in Chakotay's face and he had to fight the urge to scream his anguished fury.
He'd almost believed Ayala when he'd said the Grrchek was dormant at times.
/I wanted to believe, because I want Tom to love me/
This wasn't Greg talking. It hadn't been Greg talking since he'd doubled over in pain. *That's* when the symbiont had taken over. The symbiont had done it's best to convince Chakotay that Tom *really* loved him.
But why?
Why play such a cruel trick on him? What did the Grrchek hope to gain from its deception?
The answer, when it came, was sickeningly obvious.
Because Chakotay and Tom would "be so hot together".
The Grrchek wanted him to sleep with Tom because it knew that Tom was the person he really wanted and obviously it presumed that the experience would be so much more satisfying to itself because of Chakotay's passion for the pilot.
As if he wasn't already having a hard enough time controlling his own urge to simply have Tom transported into his bedroom, now Chakotay was going to have to battle the Grrchek's obvious intention to make him do just that.