ugly bag of mostly voyager

Part VIII | Desire

 

“Dinner plans?”

 

“Nothing special,” he admits. “Date with a replicator.”

 

“Cancel it. That’s an order.”

 

She’s already walking away, knowing he’s watching her go. She can hear in his voice that he knows something’s changed as he answers. “Aye, Captain.”

 

Later, after Tom’s bombshell and Harry’s impassioned plea, after she’s already decided that this is one more risk she’s willing to take – needs to take – she faces Chakotay across the dinner table.

 

“Special occasion?” he asks, indicating the candles, the wine.

 

“Our last night in the Delta quadrant,” she murmurs, wondering if he’ll understand. Hoping he’ll understand. “I’d say that’s special enough.”

 

“You’ve made your decision,” he says, and she knows he hasn’t missed a thing.

 

She talks about the slipstream drive, as if that’s what they’re really talking about. He responds in kind, never taking his eyes off her, and it makes her bold. She says something overtly suggestive about dessert, wonders if she’s gone too far, pulls the conversation back. But then he says they can find another way home, they’ve waited this long, and she can’t stand it any longer. “Long enough,” she says, watching him watch her, “we’ve waited long enough.”

 

He puts down his glass.

 

“I know it’s a risk,” she whispers, and they both know this isn’t, never has been, about the slipstream flight. “Probably our biggest one yet. But I’m willing to take it.” She slips out of her chair and walks around the table to him, her hand out, trying not to tremble. “Are you with me?”

 

He takes her hand and stands slowly, facing her, inches apart. Her throat feels tight.

 

“Always,” he says, winding his fingers into hers as he pulls her toward him, and she lets her breath out on a sigh as he dips his head and finally, finally kisses her.

 

She forgets everything else in that moment. Voyager, Earth, her own name, nothing matters but the touch of his lips on hers. She feels his fingers brush her face, tangle gently in her hair. She leans up into him, pressing her body into his, and in that instant the kiss is no longer at all light or tentative. She grips handfuls of his uniform jacket, her tongue in his mouth; his fingers tighten in her hair and he wraps his arm around her waist and hauls her closer. She can feel the heat of his body through thick layers of clothing. Her nipples are hard and she’s thrusting herself shamelessly against the solid thigh between her legs. She reaches for the fastening of her own uniform, yanks it open, grabs his hands and brings them to her breasts. She hears him growl low in his throat as his hands slide under her turtleneck, burning a path along her skin.

 

He breaks the kiss and she feels suddenly afraid; is she going too fast? But no, he’s ripping off his own jacket, pulling the undershirt over his head, reaching for her again. The turtleneck gets caught in her hair as he tugs it off and her pips scatter to the four winds. She fumbles with the fastening of his pants and he wrenches her close again, his mouth on her throat. He bites at her collarbone and her head falls backward, her back arched over his arm, offering her body up to his hands and mouth. One-handed, he works her pants over her hips as his mouth finds her breast, sucking at her nipple through her bra. She tries not to let her knees buckle, lifting each foot in turn so he can yank off her boots, shove the pants off and away. She feels his hands cup her ass and he’s lifting her, shifting to sit her on the table, her thighs around his hips. His teeth fasten on her neck. She gasps. Glassware tips and tinkles. Without taking his lips from her throat he sweeps out with one hand, and plates and glasses clatter to the floor.

 

She tries to pull him close to kiss him, but he pushes her firmly down as he sinks to his knees. She feels his hands grip her hips and his mouth skim the inside of her thigh and she tenses, quivering, holding her breath. At the first touch of his tongue she bucks violently and bites down on a moan. She’s almost embarrassed at the force of her response to him, but from the reflexive tightening of his fingers on her hips and the ragged exhale of his breath, she knows he’s as tightly wound as she is. He licks at her again and she’s writhing, her hands fisted in his hair, teetering on the edge. “Please,” she begs before he can send her over, trying to tug him upwards. “I want –”

 

So he rises between her legs and he’s hard, so hard and hot against her, nudging just inside her and then holding still, wrestling for control. She looks up at him and thinks that if she dies tomorrow, at least she will have had this.

 

“Chakotay,” she breathes, not sure if it’s his name or a prayer.

 

And then he’s sliding inside her, all the way home, and she reaches above her head to clutch the edge of the table and rocks her hips to meet his thrusts and she’s laughing, screaming, sobbing, she’s alive, she always knew it would be like this …

 

=/\=

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… and she explodes into the real world, her mind grasping to hold onto that rush of liquid golden sensation, heart pounding. And somehow she knows, before she’s even fully aware that it was all just an illusion, who she’s going to see when she opens her eyes.

 

He’s staring at her as if he’s never really seen her before, something dark and naked in his eyes, and she cringes, bolts upright, wrapping her arms around herself reflexively. God, did I just …

 

“Chakotay,” she says huskily, when she’s stopped trembling and gulping air.

 

He has to swallow, twice, before he can speak, but when he starts, “Kathryn, what –” she holds up a hand.

 

“Please. God, please don’t.”

 

It comes out more harshly than she intended. She watches him reining himself in, his face shutting down, and averts her eyes. “I’m sorry, Commander,” she says, and she’s relieved to hear only the slightest catch in her voice, “but this was one experience I’m not prepared to discuss.”

 

“All right,” he says. She tries not to notice that ragged edge in his tone. She hears him getting to his feet. “Your clothes are over here,” he says. “The guides said you can leave the tub as soon as those tubes disconnect themselves. There’s a shower room through this door.” He hesitates, but she can’t look at him. “I’ll wait outside. Take your time. Mekhaal wants to see you before we return to Voyager.”

 

“Thank you, Commander.” Her voice is as calm and steady as though she were on the bridge, but as soon as he leaves, she sinks her face into her hands, unsure if her cheeks are burning from shame or from the longing she fights so hard to hide every damned day of her life.