a story for Janeway and Chakotay
NC-17
Disclaimer: Paramount owns Janeway and Chakotay.
AUTHOR's NOTE: This story was written a few years ago, and now, edited and corrected, ready for reading again. It was the winner in the Voyager Blue Alert Contest for new stories. I've done research on the Greek islands and a classical music record label called "Naxos", named for a Greek island, became the inspiration for the exotic location for J&C.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: One lady, Mary Stark, an editor out of this world and without whom this story does not deserve to be out there, unedited. Her work on this story once again underlines the importance of a second, critical eye. Thank you so much, Mary!
SUMMARY: Kathryn loves Chakotay, her husband. He loves her. So what can be wrong with their relationship? [A post-Endgame story].
"The mind still longs for what it has missed, and loses itself in the contemplation of the past." - [Periander of Corinth]
PART ONE
She lies down on the bed, the covers pulled away. Wondering if she remembered to fold her gown neatly on a chair and hang her robe on a hook behind the door, she peers in the darkness, seeing the outline of the neatly folded garments, her shoes on the floor. Chakotay moves about, throwing off his clothes and leaving them where they land on the floor. In the morning, she knows, he'll pick them up himself and store them or throw them in the recycler.
They never share a shower - she is always there before he goes in. She knows his body: strong thighs and upper torso, firm buttocks, a smattering of chest hair, marvelling, as she always does, at how scant it is.
Her hair fans about her head on the pillow; her breasts are cooled by the air of the room. She touches her body, moves her hand lower, beneath her navel. Her centre grows warm, but isn’t bursting into flames. Closing her eyes, she prays that something will happen. The heat in her core simmers. Briefly she dips her fingers in her slit, feels for the moisture to lathe her folds as she prepares for his entry.
The bed creaks as he lies down next to her. He smells of musk, his breath hot against her.
"Kathryn..."
Her palm touches his cheek in the darkness.
"Yes..."
He moves, his hand covering her breast, leaning to brush his lips against her. A little agitated, she moves her head away from the kiss. He sighs, then trails his hand over the planes of her stomach, down to where her own hand had been earlier, searching for moistness. Impatient, she pulls him over her, opening her legs for him as she allows him to settle between them. Surprisingly, he is harder tonight than at other times. She can measure him by the texture of his erection. If the outer skin feels only slightly damp, the erection has too little heat. He'll go limp the moment he ejaculates and even as he moans in the darkness, she will feel him slipping out of her.
Other nights, like now, there is enough heat, and the ridges on his penis are pronounced, the seam along the length of its underside like a knife edge. He is rock hard. His tip feels distended; on one or two occasions when she touches him there, a droplet of pre-cum will smear her finger.
Her heartbeat quickens and her breath is expelled as tiny puffs. Raising her hips, she presses his tip briefly against her centre before slipping in, the shaft grazing her walls. She is still a little dry and winces at his sharp entry. He wants to pull out, but she locks her legs around him, willing him to continue. "God, Kathryn..." he mutters, sinking deep into her, burying his face in her neck as he begins to thrust.
The thrusts are slow and he heaves above her, his mouth only centimetres from hers. Her hands are on his damp back, her nails seeking a grip. His movement turns to vigorous pounding and she moves with him, her sheath only now beginning to fill with her juices. His shaft is thick, warm, and hard against the walls of her sheath; a quiver of ecstasy courses through her. She wonders absently if he will clamp his mouth around one nipple. It doesn't happen. He grunts as he pushes, never pulling out to the tip - short bursts that don't touch her core. The pounding accelerates; she wants him to hurry and bucks against him, feeling him coming closer to the edge. Her gasps are low, sedate; she pulls his head closer for a brief kiss before arching into him. His chest grazes her nipples, the sensation erotic. Then, the moment when his body becomes rigid. He groans and collapses, spilling warmly into her.
When he slips out of her, she turns on her side, thinking that tonight may have been a little better than other nights. At least she did feel the whorls of desire in her body, almost reaching the top before they remained there, leaving her deflated. Chakotay shifts behind her and raises his head to kiss her cheek, first brushing her hair away from her face.
In the early hours of the morning, she awakes when his arousal rubs insistently against her. His mouth burns into the back of her neck, his arm thrown over her to cup her breast. She waits a few minutes, letting him caress her breasts. She wants him to turn her over to kiss her, but he remains spooned to her, rubbing his hard cock into her buttocks. The hand moves away from her nipples, slides down to her buttocks, down the crack to touch her folds, dipping a finger quickly in her slit to asses her wetness. She wants his finger to stay and press in deeply, but it moves away, trailing wetly over her skin. Her core begins to heat. She turns on her back, feeling for his face in the darkness, grazing his lips with her thumb. Spreading her legs wide, he groans as he mounts her, his tip hovering briefly at her slit. This time she's wetter and he slips easily into her. His movements are more energetic, his growl joining her own gasps as they speed towards a crescendo. She raises her hips higher, smiling in the darkness as Chakotay groans loudly, the sound muffled as she pulls his head closer to kiss him.
The kiss is broken as his whole body becomes rigid; he lifts away from her as he climaxes, screaming a name.
"Annika!!"
*****************************
Breakfast had become a ritual, in which she downloaded the current affairs from her computer to a PADD and sat down at the table drinking orange juice while reading the news. There were two table mats and on her side, her plate was placed exactly on the centre where it covered an image of a starship - USS Voyager: Intrepid Class. On the other table mat was an image of the Caretaker's Array.
A knife and fork measured three centimetres from the edge of the plate on each side. The glass with orange juice, replicated to have fruit cells and which she always referred to as raw orange because it tasted somewhat bitter, stood on the left, just off the table mat with the starship image, placed within reach of her right hand. Even if she kept her eyes on reading the news of the day, her hand could reach and clasp the tumbler unerringly. On a saucer was an egg cup with its boiled egg. The egg wore a knitted yellow pixie cap which perched jauntily on its head. Once, in a moment of impulse, she had replicated the tiny cap. Chakotay had given her a jaundiced look when he saw it and continued eating without looking at her again.
Not today, however, the cracking of the egg’s head and spooning out the contents. Sometimes she thought the egg smiled at her through its slits for eyes and a gaping mouth drawn simply as a convex curve. There were days the egg glowered, but who was she to argue with what expressions it wore? In seconds, the shell would be cracked and that was the end of egg face.
This morning she had opted for toast; two slices lay on their silver rectangular dish that was placed to blend with the geometric designs of the other items on the table - square toast, rectangular silver dishes, circular plate, oval egg. A smaller dish with a pat of butter stood next to the toast, and the butter knife lay next to it, parallel to the rectangular length of the butter dish.
On another silver dish lay slivers of fruit: paw paw, kiwi fruit and green melon, their sweetness off-set by two wedges of grapefruit. No coffee this morning. No cereal. He would come later and have cereal and coffee. He always waited till she had almost finished her breakfast before sitting down.
Dressed in her baby blue robe, her hair was still wet from her morning shower and was brushed back, giving her a scrubbed appearance. She tried to redirect the images of last night. Two bodies attempting to find the magic that she had admitted long ago was never there. A resigned sigh followed. She had given up the tears, the pleas, the need to fantasise herself into creating the magic, the muffled apologies that followed the aftermath in which really, nothing happened. The world never burst into brilliant displays of fireworks. Not for her. Not for him, though men, once erect and firmly embedded in a sheath that was either dry, or unwilling, or worked too hard, or faked the spasms, of necessity had to reach a climax.
The orange juice lived up to its bitter taste as she took her first sip. She needed it, she thought, grimacing after the first swallow. The reasons for the gradual breakdown lay like a mystic annotation to an equally mystical story hidden in the first months of their marriage, not to be pondered on, never to be expressed even in anger, never to be admitted as an error of judgment. Those remained closed doors, opened sometimes when there was a subtle desire to inflict desolation and hurt on one another. Too much pain. In a sudden effort to drive away the reasons for those mystic annotations, she let the bitter liquid rest on her tongue. Another grimace, more subtle than the first, and she was able to redirect her thoughts and turn her attention to her PADD.
Taking up her PADD, she began to read the news. Nothing that shook the universe with controversy, scandal, war or rumours of war. The President of the Federation was due to meet with a delegation from the Klingon Empire in yet another attempt to appease the Klingons. The delegation was headed by Krog Morok, who was notorious for derailing proceedings. This year's batch of senior cadets were the best in fifteen years, so asserted the head of the Academy, Admiral Winston LaGrange, in a press release to promote Starfleet Academy. In another incident involving initiations whereby youths were introduced to manhood, two young Klingon warriors had died in the underground lava caves of Kronos. A human engaged to a Klingon woman warrior had died during the tea-drinking ceremony. He should have known the cup was laced with poison. The Klingon Empire - mentioned more than once in one news session. She should record the date.
The egg, separated from its pixie cap and shell, lay sliced through with precision along the length of the oval shape on her plate - two halves with the segmented golden yellow yolk exposed.
She thought idly how separated the yolk halves were as she started on her meal.
They will never be whole again...
As always, she was almost finished when he sat down opposite her.
Morning kisses had become forgotten annotations…
Another news item - three authors of Earth on the shortlist for the Federation Literary Book Award. She knew them all, had read all their works.
"Good morning, Kathryn."
She looked up from the PADD, casting him only a quick glance before murmuring "Good morning".
'Jupiter Station is gearing to launch Zimmerman's latest photonic creation'. That should put the nose of Voyager's EMH out of joint.
"Here," she said without looking up this time, "a human male died during a tea-drinking ritual with his Klingon fiancée."
"The tea is poisoned, but an antidote is supposed to be provided."
"So?"
"An act of faith, Kathryn."
"I think it was an act of betrayal. She deliberately withheld the antidote. She wanted to kill him."
She heard him sigh. She was goading him and he was rising to the bait.
He ate in silence, until, "What time are you leaving?"
He always asked the question. It was rude not to respond.
"Normal time: 0830. The perks of the Admiralty. I can make my own hours between 0600 and 1900. It's not as if you don't know."
"It matters, Kathryn. I'd like to know."
She looked up, putting the PADD down with a deliberate display of precision next to her table mat on the left, parallel with it with a three centimetre space. Her eyes met his. She had to remind herself not to blink, to allow the old, deep warmth to spread through her just looking at his face. She had to remind herself that he was just a man, tanned, with his hair sleek from the shower. Dressed pin neat in his Starfleet uniform, which he preferred when teaching senior classes at the Academy, she had to remind herself that though he was her husband, all descriptions of that designation didn't matter. In spite of his wavering smile that created two dimples that once used to throw her into a spin, her heart grew its familiar rock hard shell, impenetrable to any attraction, chemistry...love...
Yet, during the night, they had sex twice. The mind and the body...opposing forces, in moments of weakness the one betraying the other. Her desire had been bright, then came the disappointment, furious and sudden as her body refused to flame. Once, she had thought that she and Chakotay could light up the universe.
Only sex. No fireworks. The rest was contorting her body in a counterfeit display of passion.
But she still wanted him. She wanted his warm body close to her; she wanted to lie in his arms and feel his warm breath as he breathed in sleep against her, his smell, his touch, his lips that these days almost never touched her mouth. Yet, she wanted the mystery of that touch. She even, God help her, tolerated him not loving her...
"Does it really matter anymore? You go your way, I go mine, and in our bed the twain do meet."
With a body unsatisfied, untouched.
But, I made that choice...
A slice of grapefruit. Delicately balanced on her spoon as she raised it to her mouth, the first flush of its bitter sap spreading on her tongue.
"It could be different," he said sullenly, matching her mood.
"How, Chakotay? Shall we try new positions?"
"You are bitter."
Of course. She sucked on the sap of grapefruit. Grapefruit as ammunition. A thought worthy of being pursued. She gave a sigh; the anger simmered, dissolved, leaving in its wake deep resignation.
"It's not working, Chakotay." Her voice was strained, defeated. "Not here at the table," she said, turning her head in the direction of their bedroom, "and not there, in the bed."
"I love you, you know."
"How? How much? How little?" She almost jumped out of her chair at his admission. Two bodies entwined - sex, open your legs, close your legs when it's done, nipples sucked to tautness, nub licked into heat that only simmers. A moon flower opening briefly before it closed. Where were the explosions? Her laugh sounded empty, mirthless. "You say you love me in the same way people offer apologies that are what they are - false testimony."
"Kathryn..." her name slipped from his lips. A momentary flash of a time when the sound of it made her insides quiver. Now, it's a plea. For what? "I'm trying hard to make this work..." he added, his eyes on her, earnest, expectant.
She pounced on his words.
"Almost three years...that's a long time to try and make something work. You're not to blame. I am. It's my mind that - " She swallowed as the rest of her words stalled in her throat. Where was the damned bitter sap? "Look, finish your breakfast. You'll be late..."
"Don't change the subject," he persisted.
Carefully she placed her spoon on the plate; carefully she prepared her response. He looked...Starfleet. He looked...Academy Professor. She tried to bleach the image into nothingness, and carry it away from her emotions.
"Okay, Chakotay. What do you want me to say that I haven't said before in the last months?"
"That we could try, at least. Living like this...why do you punish me so?"
"Because you deserve it?" the words burst from her. "I've asked before, and I'll ask again - can't we end this farce?"
"And I'll say it again - I'll not leave you, Kathryn."
Impasse. Annotations that whirl in circles.
"There's nothing left. We're polite strangers."
"We're friends, husband and wife - "
Her upper lip quivered from pent up anger. This time...
"Chakotay, we fucked last night. Twice, if you can still remember. That's all we do. We fuck. I faked and you...the second time you..." The anger dissolved. Frustration, defeat, tears closing in on the battlefield.
"What, Kathryn?" he asked, ignoring her crudity.
In his eyes she could see he knew what she was going to say. Now the mystical annotation was to be voiced, coming into the open at last, forcing itself into the cynical context of their marriage canvas.
"You called out Seven of Nine's name..."
This time she allowed the tears to freefall to earth. She had no idea when he rose from his chair or when he left. The sound of the front door closing seemed distant, detached.
He couldn't forget Annika Hansen. Neither could she.
****
End Part 1