Fan Fiction
TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: Same Old Lang Syne
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
RATING: PG
CODES: C, T. Future chapters will be C/T.
PART: 2/?
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But
they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Kathy Speck for the care and feeding of plotbunnies. Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing.
SUMMARY: At a New Year's Eve party for Voyager's former crew, B'Elanna and
Chakotay make a shocking discovery.
In easy synch with the rhythm of the music, Chakotay guided his dance partner into a smooth turn -- or would have, had not said partner been totally resistant to being guided. After a moment, he yielded gracefully to the inevitable, and let her guide him. In uniform or not, he thought, bemused, Kathryn Janeway never *had* gotten used to taking someone else's lead. At least she was a skilled dancer and, aside from that momentary tussle, not making them look too bad before their former crew.
Truth be told, dancing with her hadn't been his idea. It would be fair to say he'd had no profound objection to the notion, but it had originated with some of the junior officers and, he knew, had probably been inspired by those old, persistent rumors of him and Kathryn having a romantic relationship. Well, the dance itself ought to put paid to such ideas; though the music was slow and sweet, he and she stood a full handspan apart, and their only physical contact was hand-to-hand, hand-to-shoulder, and hand-to-waist.
There had been a time, of course, when he wouldn't have been averse to making those rumors true. He wondered whether Kathryn was thinking of that same time.
"This party's a lot smaller than the one we had last New Year's Eve," she said, effectively answering his question even as she introduced the neutral topic.
Mentally, he shook his head, again bemused. Had she *ever* thought about their relationship (or lack of same) as much as he had? He doubted it. He took up the conversational gambit nonetheless. "Yes. Yes, it is. Not that that's a bad thing, of course."
"Of course. It means that our people have finally had the chance to get on with their lives."
"Yes. Something to celebrate."
The process of re-acclimation had been unusually protracted for the former crew of Voyager, no thanks to the zealous enforcers of Federation and Starfleet law. Chakotay himself had missed the crew's first New Year's Eve party on Earth, while he did what the Federation Council euphemistically referred to as "straightening out his legal status." (What he had called it was nothing to recollect at a party.) By their second New Year's Eve, however, most of the former Maquis were at liberty and most of the longtime Fleeters were still taking retraining at Starfleet Academy, resulting in what was likely to remain the largest Alpha Quadrant New Year's Eve bash for the Voyager crew.
They exchanged a few other desultory comments on the whereabouts and career milestones of their old crew until the dance ended. Newly-minted (full) Lieutenant Harry Kim made bold to claim his former captain for the next dance, freeing Chakotay to head for the bar.
Champagne glass in hand, he leaned back against the solid oak bar and surveyed the room. The wood-paneled room was far smaller than last year's gleaming ballroom; as Kathryn had noted, the turnout was small as well. Chakotay doubted there were more than a hundred people, crewmembers and dates included. Getting on with their lives, indeed. He was not sorry to see that Seven of Nine, so briefly his lover, was among the missing. Had her technological "think tank" given her an offworld assignment, or had she been looking forward to their next encounter with the same lack of enthusiasm he had? Even if he'd known who could answer that question, he wouldn't have asked.
He thought he'd seen B'Elanna and Tom earlier -- yes, there they were on the dance floor, moving together with a lithe grace that belied their recent marital difficulties. He was relieved to see it. He had urged his old friend to try working things out with her husband, sure that no matter how angry B'Elanna might have been (might still be) at Tom's recent workaholic habits, she still loved him and would be happier with him than without him.
The pair swung past in such a way that for the first time Chakotay had a good view of Tom Paris's face. The expression he saw there made him start, disturbed. Tom didn't look happy. He didn't even look uncomfortable. He looked -- angry. Angry and restless. Chakotay remembered the first time he'd seen that look on Tom Paris's face: just before he had hired Tom to pilot for the Maquis. To say the least, that had not been a shining time in Tom Paris's life.
As they turned, B'Elanna's face came into full view. She looked mutinous and frustrated. Worse and worse.
With no clear idea of what to do, yet with the sense he should do *something*, Chakotay took a step forward, and hesitated. He would have been too late in any event. The pair stopped in the center of the dance floor as Tom Paris yanked free of his partner's hands and stalked away from her. He stopped as he came to Chakotay, pulling himself up to his full, considerable height.
"Oh, yeah," he spat, "go play rescuer, Chakotay. That's so like you."
"You're drunk, Paris," Chakotay said sharply; the pungent smell of alcohol was clear enough evidence of that.
"Yeah, well, some of us here are perfect, Chakotay. And I guess the rest of us are me."
Tom stalked out of the hall with rigid, drunken dignity -- or would have, had not a gleaming black pump shot out from the dance floor to smack him squarely in the back of the head. Firing a deadly look back in the direction of the thrower, Tom stomped out with what self-control he still had.
B'Elanna stood on the dance floor, breathing heavily, glaring after her husband. Hoping to minimize the scene -- and have a private word with his old friend -- Chakotay scooped up the shoe and crossed to her, with the intention of drawing her from the dance floor. "Come on, B'Elanna," he murmured.
"Dance with me," she snapped.
"We need to talk."
She shook off the hand he'd laid on her arm. "Chakotay, if you don't give me something else to do *right now*, I'm going after that man and kill him."
Because Chakotay was the man he was, he would pretend he didn't see the brightness of those flashing eyes. Silently, he offered her the pump, waiting as she set it on the floor and slipped her foot into it. Then he held out his hands, she stepped forward, and they danced.
The band had begun the next song before she spoke again, her voice determinedly level. "Not very many people here this year."
With a strange sense of déjà vu, he answered, "They've probably moved on with their lives."
She nodded, her countenance still looking as if she were making a resolute effort to keep it steady. Then she sucked in a breath. "Well, look who the cat dragged in."
His back to the door, Chakotay could only guess. "Tom?"
"My dear, dear father-in-law. Excuse me, Chakotay. I have to talk to that son-of-a-bitch." Without waiting for an answer, she pulled out of his arms and headed for the door. He followed her, hovering at a respectful distance, not sure if he should come closer to the confrontation, unable to stay away.
Thus, he was more than close enough to hear the admiral's reply to B'Elanna's angry salutation: "B'Elanna, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. We haven't seen Tom at headquarters in over a month."
