Disclaimer: All characters belong to Paramount, the order of the words belongs to me.
Rated R
Part 2: Earth and Air
She watched him sleep, his big golden body sprawled over the faded sheets, his hand, palm up, fingers loosely curled. It hadn't been easy, extricating herself from his warm embrace. In his sleep, he had muttered something, her name maybe, and curled himself tighter toward her. It had been tempting to remain, rest her cheek on his chest, as she had done during their shore leave nights. But as wonderful as it was being here with him, there were things that had to be said, done, and resolved before she could allow herself to finally believe that they could be together.
Starlight washed through the room, and she was drawn outside by its promise. The verandah was warm underfoot, the old timbers retaining the glow of the day. His ugly dog raised its head at her approach, studying her with quizzical eyes. The dog was a surprise, and if she were honest, a complication.
She settled herself into a chair; its shape reminded her of his command chair, the imprint of his body was the same. She had never felt comfortable in his chair on the bridge, but now she curled herself into the echo of his body, and rested her cheek on the back. The hound padded over on silent paws, pushing her mottled head into Kathryn's hand. Absently she stroked it, pulling gently on the long ears.
Her body still hummed from his lovemaking. Oh, how she had missed it, missed him, during the interminable briefings by Starfleet. True, the outcome of the inquiries was known to all before they started, but still the formalities had to be observed, the protocols rehashed, and decisions made and long forgotten brought back out for examination.
Once, nearly three years ago, she had drawn comfort from the idea that when they were home, they would be together. Nothing to fear, nobody to answer to, just the simple knowledge that they loved, and it would be enough.
"If only it were that simple, dog," she said aloud, fingers absently furrowing the short dusty hair. "When did it change?"
It was a rhetorical question of course. Even if the dog replied--and, oh, how she wished it would--she knew the answer. Delta Quadrant dreams of Chakotay had given her added impetus to return home. But, like so many wishes, once the reality was attained, the dreams were lost. She loved him. That would never change, but she had loved the idea of love as much as the man himself. It had been a way of holding onto Kathryn when the captain had threatened to overwhelm her.
Now, back in the everyday world, she needed to find a way to hold onto those dreams, and keep them shiny and fresh. And to blend the practicalities of the world, with her and Chakotay's individual needs, and make a whole.
She had spent the nine months since Voyager's return answering to Starfleet. As she had said to Chakotay in the ready room, the relationship of the first officer and captain had indeed come under scrutiny. She had answered the questions honestly. No, she and Commander Chakotay had never had any sort of romantic relationship. They were friends. Good, true, close friends. And Starfleet honored the precedent of years and never asked about any sort of informal shore leave arrangements. Don't ask, don't tell.
She had followed the investigations into the Maquis and Equinox crew from a distance, not involving herself, as she had agreed. Starfleet intended to exonerate them, but had wanted the decision to appear to be an unbiased one, without any undue influence from the heroic Captain Janeway. Inwardly, she had rejoiced as they walked free. Outwardly, she issued an approving statement couched in appropriate Starfleet lingo.
A short mission on an experimental prototype ship was offered and accepted. Working with a skeleton crew near the Cardassian border hadn't allowed her much time to dwell on her future, but it did allow her to see what her life would become without Chakotay in it. And although she didn't like what she saw, the mission consolidated one thing for her; she wanted--needed--to return to space.
Funny. All her years in the Delta Quadrant, she had assumed that, once she got to Earth, she would find some land and settle down to live a quiet life with Chakotay, wanderlust assuaged. Write her memoirs. Teach a little. Live a peaceful, rooted existence on the planet that had been her focus and goal for seven years.
She had ignored the fact that she had always been restless and hated to teach, becoming impatient when her students failed to intuitively grasp the principles. After only a few months on Earth, when the joy of homecoming and family reunions had faded to the mundane, Kathryn was already looking to the stars again.
But Chakotay was rooted to the earth. Everything she had heard--from B'Elanna, Tom, even Harry-- since their return had indicated that he was living a solitary life in Arizona, molding himself into the landscape, content to watch the shifting seasons from his verandah. And now she had seen it for herself. She had seldom seen him so peaceful. He had always been a contemplative man, but now, he radiated a stillness and a serenity.
And he had a dog, of all things. She ruffled the short fur again in mute apology. The dog was obviously a stray, a careworn creature that she sensed had seen hardship in its few years.
Kathryn stood, and moved to the verandah rail. The dog padded beside her, a night wraith, a silent but comforting presence. Staring out across the bajada, glinting eerily in the moonlight, she heard a lone coyote howl, announcing its presence to the night. Shivering, the dog pressed itself closer to Kathryn's bare legs.
She would solve nothing out here. There were no answers in the lonesome night. She would just have to see what happened, see if she and Chakotay had enough common ground in their lives to entwine them without one making unbearable sacrifices.
Sometimes love was not enough.
***
Chakotay woke to find Kathryn curled around his back. One of her hands rested on his chest, and her hair was spread over his shoulders, tickling his nose. For long moments, he simply lay and savored the sensation. This was the first time he had woken with her, without having to steal away, resisting the temptation, like Orpheus, to look back. Slowly he rolled, so that he faced her, and began to run a hand lightly over her shoulders, stroking down the sheet , so that it pooled around her waist in a soft waterfall of fabric. He shifted his attention to her breasts. With delight, he relearned the downy hairs around her nipples, the smooth upper surface and the curve of the lower. Small breasts, softening slightly with age, but still shapely and oh, so perfect.
He heard her breath catch as he traced her nipple and her eyes opened and locked onto his.
"Chakotay," she breathed, a shivering sigh of anticipation, and he moved forward and caught her breath in his mouth.
For a while he did nothing but kiss her, feathering over her lips, softly tracing the contours of her mouth with his tongue, until she rolled onto her back, pulling him over on top of her, undulating her hips in invitation. Although his arousal was sharp and instant, he refused to be hurried. Instead, he moved down her throat with his lips, simply letting the pattern of his breath ripple over her skin. He tasted her slowly, the small salty indentation at the base of her throat, the puckered surface of a nipple, the planes of her stomach, tight with desire.
His erection dug painfully into the mattress, but he could wait, as long as it took for her pleasure. But seldom had he had a partner so responsive to him. Her skin shivered into goosebumps of awareness as he ran his fingers lightly up her inner thigh, advancing with a careful fingertip until he could just push into the heat, parting her gently, aware that the fierce and urgent sex of the night before would have left her sore.
How he loved her taste. She was sharp, tangy, an edge of addiction, like the woman herself. He loved her gently with mouth and fingers, until she sighed, and bucked against his mouth, then went limp, boneless after her climax. He moved his mouth up, a gentle motion against her sex once more, smiling as she gasped and tightened, too soon for her now, the feeling too intense, but he knew that when he slid inside, into all that clasping heat, that she would ascend the pinnacle with him, and come shuddering, to a second completion. So responsive, his Kathryn.
He rolled her over again, onto her stomach lifting her hips to him, and pressed home. The sheet bunched between, caught up by their movement, and the gentle friction of the cotton rasped over his legs as he thrust, tangling around her legs, a sunwashed drape of blue. He thrust steadily, listening for her gasps, focussing down, spiraling into the world of feeling so that all that existed for him was this room, the sun, the bed, the cotton, and Kathryn. His fingers teased between her legs, until she arched up, clutching the pillow, clenching around him again, and he came in a sunburst, white heat inside her, white light around her.
They spent the morning in bed, a loving lethargy keeping them from moving too far away from each other. Even though the sun warmed the room, raising the temperature enough that a sheen of sweat covered their bodies, they still touched. A hand on a shoulder, fingers drumming on a hip, a tangle of thighs pressed together. And they joined together once more, an unhurried meshing of bodies, a lazy spiral to climax, a messy sticky completion of moisture and dampness.
After they had showered, Chakotay walked naked onto the verandah. The sun was low in the sky, filtering through the chollas, illuminating them to a surreal softness, the illusion of gentleness. He thought he could ask no more of life; he was content, here in the desert, his woman finally come to him, a simple life, a peaceful path. And the map of his future stretched before him, and he was happy.
"No longer lost," he mused aloud, crouching to look into Perdita's adoring eyes. "Neither of us are."
"What's your dog's name?" Kathryn was behind him, and he turned to see her wrapped in a soft cotton sarong, one of his, he realized. It looked good on her, the voluminous wrap emphasizing her seemingly fragile body.
"Perdita."
"From the Latin," she said. "I sometimes thought we should have called Voyager, 'Perdita'."
"We're not lost any more," he said, and he didn't mean simply the ship.
She was silent, running a careful finger over the rough wooden railing.
Something was holding her back; there was a reticence about her when there should have been only joy. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but instead he said simply, "Want some lunch?"
The veil lifted slightly and she moved toward him, lifting her mouth for his kiss. "That would be good."
They lingered over lunch, savoring the wine, the simple food, and the company. And afterwards he drew her on to his lap, unwrapped the sarong and pleasured her with his fingers until she shrieked, and then she spread a blanket on the verandah, pushed him down and took him in her mouth, not easing up until he came, hot and salty.
The night came creeping in again and she said, "we should sleep here. So we can see the stars. This is a beautiful place, Chakotay."
"We can find somewhere like this," he replied, and couldn't miss the slight stiffening of her body, and then he knew that getting home was not the resolution they had both hoped for, that she wanted something else, something more, something that maybe he couldn't give her.
Kathryn raised herself up on an elbow so that she could see his face, tracing his lips with a finger. "What will you do with your life now, Chakotay? Where do you want to be?"
He noticed she hadn't included herself in that question, and then he recognized the problem. The wanderlust, the explorer's heart still beat strongly in her breast.
"I haven't resigned from Starfleet." He evaded the question. "I have an indefinite leave of absence."
"They expect you to leave," she said. "They don't want to lose you, but they think they will."
"And you want to stay." It was a statement. Suddenly he was angry. He had waited nearly eight years for her, when would it be his turn? "Have you accepted your new ship and your new mission yet? Is this my 'shore leave' night for the next few months?"
"They've offered," she said steadily. "But I haven't answered."
"But you want to go." He closed his eyes. He truly hadn't thought very much about what would happen at this moment in time. His life had been focused on this point, the pinnacle, when he and Kathryn would be together. He expected to go back into space again at some nebulous future time; he couldn't imagine not being able to move amid the swathe of stars ever again, but it was too soon.
Where did that leave him? If Kathryn went back into space again, it would be as a captain - admirals didn't command starships. And if he went as her first officer, the protocols that had kept them apart before would again rear their ugly heads--even more so since he had no doubt they would be scrutinized for any indication that their relationship went further than friendship. And if he were a captain too, equal in rank, then he would have his own ship. He could resign, sacrifice his career for hers--it had never meant that much to him anyway-- but, and the anger flared again, once more his life was out of his hands, the decision was not his, and his needs were sublimated.
Kathryn was watching him, her face seemed sad. "I can't live all my life on Earth," she said, "and I can't ask you to live all your life in space."
"I've lived by your rules the last eight years," he said harshly. "Is it so unreasonable to consider my needs and feelings now?"
"No. It's not. But you weren't the only one living by rules that were not of your own choosing."
"I need to be on Earth," he said, and his words surprised him; until voiced, he hadn't known how deep was the need to remain connected.
"I know," she whispered, and her fingers ran briefly over his chin, dropping down to his chest.
He clutched her fingers to his heart, desperate to find a solution. "We can resolve this," he said, surprised at how steady his voice sounded. "We have to."
"We'll try," she said. "Chakotay, I..."
"Don't," he said harshly. "Don't say the words. Can you accept my name now, the one I gave to you on Kalama? That's what love is - binding ourselves together now and always. If you can't give me that, then there are no words to be said."
She was silent, and he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes, the hurt expression that she didn't try to hide. "I thought it would be so easy," she whispered. "I used to think that once we were home, all the pieces would fall into place. I didn't look beyond us finally being together, as we should have been for the last eight years." Rolling away from him, she curled up tightly.
Her hair was over her face, but he knew she was crying. His Kathryn, who seldom cried. He touched her shoulder, gently moving away damp strands of her hair so that he could stroke her cheek. "Kathryn, we'll try. There has to be a solution we can both live with."
"I can't see one right now."
"We'll start to look tomorrow." Softly he kissed her cheek, and taking her clenched fist, he curled up behind her, wrapping her in his arms.
Above them, the stars moved their slow arcs in the sky. Eventually, he felt Kathryn relax and settle into sleep, and he heard the soft click of Perdita's claws on the verandah as she wandered restlessly. He lay awake, absorbing the night sounds of Earth, and in his head he traced the etched lines of his carving, mapping out their completion in the wood.
© Shayenne, October 2002 Please email me to post/distribute elsewhere.