Rain Dance      
by L.R. Bowen


	Tom Paris thought it was about time to take some clothes off. The
desert air was still cool, in this hour before dawn, but he was beginning
to work up a sweat. Chakotay was a goddamn slave-driver. And what was the
point, anyway? He unfastened the front of the jumpsuit and took off the
top; both of them had used Chakotay's pocketknife to separate their
uniforms into jacket and pants. He threw it on the sand and glared down at
Chakotay.
	"It's been three days now. They're never going to find us."
	"Two days. We crashed Monday at 1030, and it's only Wednesday
morning," Chakotay replied, barely pausing to glance up.
	"Well, we're on the third day."
	"If that's how you want to think about it, go right ahead. Now
empty out that sand, and give that piece of casing back to me." Chakotay
stooped into the shoulder-deep hole again, scraping out a shelf halfway
down. The only tools he had were a small entrenching shovel and some
curving pieces of sheet metal. He dumped another load of dark sand onto
one of the pieces that lay on the rim of the hole, and looked at Paris
expectantly.
	"OK, OK. Why are you working so damn hard, anyway? I'm getting
tired just looking at you."
	"If you want to finish it for me when you feel up to it,
Lieutenant, I won't stop you. But I think it's going to be even hotter
than yesterday, and at a conservative estimate, it was about one hundred
and twenty-five F at 1400."
	"But it was so damn cold last night--a lot colder than the first
night." Paris tugged the pieces of sheet metal a few paces away and tipped
out the sand into the big pile already there.
	"That's because the clouds have gone. No insulation from the sky.
All the heat escapes at night, and all the sun's radiation hits the ground
during the day. It's going to be a scorcher, and this solar condensation
still is going to be even more important when we run out of water."
	"About another day's worth, huh?"
	"Yes."
	They worked in silence for a while. No animals greeted this barren
dawn. The only sounds were the crisp scrape of the shovel and the soft
hiss as Paris dragged the sand away. The light was still dim and grey,
pinkening gradually on the western horizon--the planet had a retrograde
spin--and the temperature was comfortable at last. After the burning heat
of the previous day, and the dangerous chill of the night, it was obvious
that dawn and dusk were the only times the human body could safely take
any stress or exposure. They had lain in the shade of the ruined
shuttlecraft and under a tent Chakotay had rigged from survival blankets
for fourteen hours yesterday, breathing the furnace air with slow pants.
Each of them had drunk four liters of water despite minimal movement. Even
so, both of them looked gaunt and dehydrated. Chakotay stopped and pulled
off his turtleneck, tossing it up onto the surface of the sand. The light
in the west grew stronger, the faint ripple of warming beginning already.
	"Shit," said Paris. "How close are you?"
	"Another fifteen minutes' work, maybe. Then we'd better hang the
blankets up again and get under cover." Chakotay's broad back was streaked
with sweat, glowing faintly in the coralline light.
	"I'll go do that now," replied Paris.
	"Bring me the jug, a clean empty casing, and those extra survival
blankets."
	"Yes, sir, right away, sir." He resisted the temptation to salute.
	Paris stepped into the open back of their shuttlecraft, gathering
up the crumpled bedding. The thin, flexible fabric was useful for many
purposes; opaque, waterproof, an excellent insulator. They had four big
sheets of it, and a standard set of emergency supplies. Food would not be
a problem for a week or so, but the extreme amounts of water required just
to stay alive and coherent in this climate had depleted the reserve
rapidly.
	He brought the jug and the two unopened blankets to Chakotay, who
had finished patting the rimmed moat into shape on the shelf that ringed
the circular pit. One blanket had to line the moat, to hold liquid; the
other had to cover the top to catch the evaporating moisture, which would
then condense and drip down into the container.
	By the time Paris had stretched the blankets over the makeshift
wire tent poles, the first white beams of sunlight were raking the ground.
It would soon render the sand untouchable where it struck, the metal of
the shuttlecraft searing hot, the air like the breath of dragons. Paris
hauled the water containers out of the storage locker and put them in the
shade of the tent. They would not be able to enter the interior of the
shuttlecraft for an hour after sunset, or longer, if yesterday was any
gauge. A great deal of the insulation had ablated away in the descent, and
the cracks and gaps in the buckled fuselage admitted the heat to be
trapped in the interior like an oven. He took a pile of food packs as
well, although neither of them had much appetite in the heat. 
	Chakotay put his hands on the edge of his pit and heaved himself
up in one quick motion. He peeled the transparent waterproof layer from
one of the blankets, draped it over the pit, secured the edges with stones
and sand, put a rock in the center to create a point from which the
condensation could drip into the casing. Catching up the entrenching tool
and his shirt and jacket, he walked the ten paces to the side of the
shuttlecraft, ducked under the tent and sat down heavily. The hot smell of
his skin hit Paris with a slap. He moved his head back, averting his face
slightly.
	"Sorry if I stink, Lieutenant," said Chakotay, who didn't sound
sorry. He wiped his tattooed forehead with his turtleneck and tossed it
aside, then leaned back on his hands and took a deep breath, expanding his
chest. Geez, he must outweigh me by twenty kilos, thought Paris, and I
know from bitter experience that it's all bone and muscle. That time he
punched my lights out  in that tavern--OK, I was drunk, and not too steady
on my feet, but I think he could take two of me any day of the week. I'd
be afraid of him right now, just the two of us here with a few liters of
water between us, if he hadn't said his life was mine--
	The groaning metal staircase, the spiraling shaft of the Ocampa
cavern, the dust and choking smoke, the desperate grip of one corded brown
arm around his own slim shoulders--
	Thomas Eugene Paris was still not sure why he had insisted on
saving his old enemy from a painful death. He liked to spite expectation,
he supposed. Chakotay would have anticipated the worst from him, and so he
had found his best, just to be perverse. He had done some stupid things
under those impulses to prove others wrong, but he had done some of the
things he was most proud of as well. Like landing this shuttlecraft, more
or less in one piece, and both of them uninjured, after the massive solar
flare had fried nearly every system and instrument. Chakotay had looked at
the exploded panel, and grim-faced had tried all the manual backups,
shaking his head, while Paris held like doomsday to the remaining
controls, coaxing the last bit of power from the sputtering engines and
saving them from a quick, fiery death in the atmosphere. The scorch marks
on the hull testified to just how difficult the task had been.
	Now they could just die a slow, fiery death on the planet's
surface. What an improvement. Or freeze to death at night, or dry up with
thirst, or slowly starve. Paris wondered if any of Chakotay's ancestors
had practiced cannibalism. No more likely than any of mine, he thought
wryly. He took another glance at the man next to him, who was lying flat
with one arm over his face, and gave some small thanks at least that he
was stranded with the Voyager officer best able to deal with the
situation. Chakotay's experience and cool-headed practicality, coupled
with serene acceptance of the rough and smooth alike, inspired what little
confidence Paris had left. Harry Kim would have been a better
conversationalist, but did he know how to dig a solar still in an hour and
a half? Would it have occurred to him to use a phaser to charge the
emergency beacon, after the last of the auxiliary power had faded? 
	Another fourteen hours, or more, before they would be able to
move. Paris lay down as well and drew his knees up. He had stripped to his
briefs already in hopes of letting the sweat evaporate more freely. He
wished he had a few holovids to watch, or something. Chakotay spoke to him
briefly and infrequently, and always with that faint sneer in his light
voice, that tone of basic disapproval of everything Tom Paris was and had
ever been. "Good job," he had said when the shuttlecraft had finally
skidded to rest against a small dune, and the compliment had been the
first, and last, friendly word between them. "Thanks," Paris had replied
with an air of entitlement, and Chakotay had looked at him a moment with
stony eyes.
	"Did you get everything out of the shuttle, Lieutenant?" he asked
now, not removing his arm from his face.
	"Food and water and medical kit, yeah," Paris replied.
	"How about my data padd?"
	"Uh--no, why?"
	"Because I'm going to need it, Paris. And it will probably get
pretty hot in there today, and the padd might be damaged."
	"OK, OK, fine." Paris got up and ventured out into the sunlight,
searing and bright now. Besides the line of distant mountains on the
horizon, there was nothing to break the full force of the nuclear furnace
that sat low in the morning sky. The air was probably ninety degrees
already. He rummaged in one of the lockers and found the padd. As an
afterthought, he looked in another locker, and found the remaining charged
phaser. Shit--I can't hide it on me, and frankly it wouldn't help me any
if he were out of the picture. He's the one keeping us alive, he thought.
I'd have given up already if I were alone. 
	He returned with the padd and handed it to Chakotay. It held all
the observations they had made on their run through this solar system, and
the logs Chakotay made every evening, but not a single game or even a
novel to read. What a serious guy. Won't do anything recreational on duty
time, and didn't expect to be out even overnight, so there's nothing for
sheer pleasure on here at all. Paris made a mental note to take along a
lot of entertainment software the next time he had to go anywhere with the
First Officer. Why had Janeway picked the two of them, anyway? He had
nearly groaned out loud at the prospect of spending an entire day--little
had he known--with the man who was at once his worst enemy and his sworn
protector. If she had some idea that proximity would smooth things out
between them, she had some pretty screwy ideas. Even before the solar
flare had forced them down on the only M-class planet in the system, they
had been snapping at each other in between the uneasy silences. In the
enforced closeness of fighting to survive until the Voyager could find
them, they had grown even more tense. 
	Another day, another eternity of listening to each other shift and
fidget in the sand, breathing uncomfortably. Chakotay put the padd down
between them and turned on his side, facing away. It was still cool enough
that they might get some sleep. Paris closed his eyes.
	He woke some time later, from a dream in which he was trapped on a
desert planet with someone who didn't like him very much. He opened his
eyes to the searing air and sighed. Chakotay was breathing evenly,
probably still asleep. Paris tried to conjure up a sexual fantasy,
something with the Delaney sisters--yeah, the Delaney sisters, and that
big-breasted redhead down in Engineering--was she ever going to let him
into that jumpsuit?--in the Holodeck, and a big cool pool of bubbling
water--
	That sufficed for about ten minutes, since he couldn't do anything
very physically interesting with the First Officer a meter away from him.
Maybe he could try writing it down, develop it a little, change the names
and details, put it on the recreation board in the ship's mail system when
they got back. He read the postings nearly every day, but they were
getting repetitive with such a small group. Time to spice it up a little.
He reached for the data padd, then hesitated. Chakotay would see the new
file, and probably read it, and have no sense of humor about it at
all--oh, heck, Tom, you know how to hide a listing. He picked up the padd
and hit a few keys to create a locked and concealed text file, then began
to type. 
	The Delaneys were just peeling off each other's matching black
latex wet suits when Chakotay stirred and turned over. He blinked at
Paris, sat up halfway and reached for a drink of water. His bare chest
shone bronze in the reflected glare off the sand. Half a liter at a gulp.
Paris could see the Adam's apple bob in Chakotay's throat as he tilted his
head back with the canteen. There was no point in trying to conserve the
water too carefully; it would do them much more good in their stomachs and
bloodstreams than in containers. They sweated it all out so quickly, they
would dehydrate to the point of renal failure in a few hours without
drinking. About a hundred and ten degrees now, and it was only 0800 hours.
Yep, this was definitely going to be a scorcher. Paris felt the urge to
pee, and rose to his knees, pulling his penis out of his briefs and aiming
outside.
	"In the container, remember?" said Chakotay, with a trace of
exasperation. He lay down again and picked up the padd. Paris grimaced and
looked for the emptied water jug they were using as a latrine. That was
the whole point of the solar still; to extract drinkable water from their
urine and eke out the supply a few days longer. Just putting off their
eventual deaths? Or saving their lives. He finished and capped the
jug--boy, it smelled even better than Chakotay--and lay down again. Oh,
just great. Now he couldn't even type to amuse himself. Chakotay was
making some notes and calculations--probably figuring how soon he can kill
me to distill me out--if he does it too early in the day, I'll be a mummy
before he can get me chopped up and in the pit. Paris chuckled with black
amusement.
	"Something funny?" Chakotay was looking at him.
	"Nothing at all, Commander." Nope, this is not a joke. We are
stuck here, and we have some food, and a little water, and an emergency
beacon that has to cut through some pretty damn powerful interference, and
a ship looking for us that has its sensors jammed by that same
interference--no joke at all. I'm going to die here, he thought. I'm going
to die in a little tent made out of survival blankets, in my shorts, with
a half-finished dirty story as my epitaph. Will he even bury me, or just
get out the drinking straws?
	Chakotay was looking silently at the padd, his face somber. The
screen was not visible to Paris from this angle. Oh, that's encouraging,
he thought. Probably figures he can last a week if I'm not consuming any
supplies. That flare will subside eventually, but there's no way of
knowing how long it will last. Voyager could be circling the damn planet
now, blind and deaf with all that ionized plasma blasting past--
	The First Officer touched another key, and his face changed, still
somber, but with a calm light in it that Paris had sometimes observed on
the bridge. Huh, something's looking up, he thought in surprise. What's he
got on there that's cracking the Great Stone Face? Chakotay looked at the
screen a few moments longer, then smiled to himself, turned the padd off,
and set it down again. Paris waited a few minutes in order to seem casual
before he retrieved it and punched his story up. Wait a minute--there's
another hidden file here, he thought. That little chooser window--that
only shows up if it's deciding which one to load. So the Big C does have
some girlie pics on here, or something. Paris gleefully set to work. A
challenge. Perfect. And the prospect of having something to hold over
Chakotay's head--even better. He threaded through the concealment
protocols, using the default settings in each case, since Chakotay was not
much of a hacker. No problem, it's a picture rather than text, all right.
Oh, geez, maybe it's his mother. Paris suffered a twinge of conscience and
glanced at Chakotay, who was staring at the roof of the tent, his hands
under his head. OK, but why hide a picture of your mother? It's something
he doesn't want anyone to know he has--so, fair game. He continued to
touch the keys.
	Password encrypted. Sneaky bastard. What would he use for a
password? Something innocuous, that would show up on here anyway--Voyager.
Nope--his own name? Nope. His rank--nope. Another rank--the one he
probably wishes he had--hey, we've got something here. The screen was
changing, an image brightening--
	A very familiar image. Level blue eyes. Swept-up hair. A confident
stance and a thin-lipped smile--
	Janeway? What the hell? This looks like something out of her
personnel record. Why would he hide it on his padd? Who wants to secretly
look at pictures of the captain?
	Oh, no. You've gotta be kidding me. The Big C? Oh, that's rich.
Paris wanted to laugh out loud. She goes to arrest him, gets me out of
jail just for that purpose, follows him to the other side of the galaxy,
for chrissake--the Voyager always gets her man, yes ma’am--and now he's
mooning over her personnel record? Truly rich. God, I wonder if she knows.
He tried to think of ways to use this little tidbit to Chakotay's
disadvantage, but couldn't think of any offhand. Well, he could drop
hints, torment him perhaps--but maybe not just yet. He stole a look at the
formidable man beside him, who hated his guts anyway, who would be a lot
better off if Paris were not alive just now, who knew more ways to kill
him with bare hands than he liked to think about. Better hang on until
they were rescued. He sighed and closed the image.

			      ****************************

	One hundred and forty. Easy. They lay side by side, barely moving
except for the shallow vibrations of painful breaths. Every inhalation was
torture, and would be for hours yet. It was about 1400, 1430. Was it even
worth living, to go through something like this day after day? Paris held
a canteen on his chest, dribbling the water slowly into his mouth, too
weak to sit up. Hail Mary, full of grace. Mother of mercy. Have mercy on
us...Oh, blessed oblivion. He passed out.

			      ****************************      

	Chakotay was dripping water on his face when he woke up. "Paris,"
he said through cracked lips. "Drink something. You've sweated away a
liter in the last hour. You have to drink something." Was it any cooler?
No. The sunlight on the sand outside was pure white, searing. He gulped
water while Chakotay held his head up and put the canteen to his lips.
"1600 hours," Chakotay said. "It'll start getting cooler soon." They
curled down to the sand again.

			      ****************************

	God, at last. He could breathe now, and move around, and feel like
a human being again. They lay on the sand for a while anyway, letting the
heat seep out into the twilight. Chakotay got up first and went outside,
heading to the solar still. Paris heard a strange sound after a minute, a
strangled groan. Chakotay? Who else?
	He rose and looked out. Chakotay was on his knees, staring at the
uncovered pit. Paris arrived at his side just in time to see the last few
wormlike creatures wriggle into the sand.
	"It was filled with them," Chakotay said. "Just filled with them.
Bone dry."
	He was right. Not a drop of anything remained in the moat or in
the casing. This kind of climate, sure. Anything that needed water was
going to seek it out pretty aggressively. And such a relatively large
concentration in one place--hordes of them, of course. He was a little
surprised that they hadn't been nibbled on themselves. Chakotay rose after
a moment, walked back to the tent, and began another series of
calculations on the padd. 
	Paris looked at the pit for a while, fighting a scream, then
walked slowly back to the shuttlecraft. Still too hot to go inside. He
returned to the tent and took a food pack, ripped it open and chewed
fiercely on energy bars. Chakotay was staring into the distance, tapping
on the padd in a steady rhythm that rapidly grew irritating. "Christ,
knock that off," Paris said. Chakotay looked at him with cold disdain. "So
what's the verdict? Do we die tomorrow, or the day after that?"
	"There's water for one more day, and the urine."
	"So what are we going to do with that? Drink it straight? All that
work on the still for nothing--"
	"Not for nothing. If I line it completely, instead of just the
moat, we can keep those worms out. That will give us some more time."
	"More time to die. We are fucking going to die here. This flare
could last for weeks, and Voyager will never find us while its sensors are
overloaded with the radiation. I'm fucking dead." Paris could hear his
voice crack, feel his face twitch. Chakotay looked at him impassively, the
dark eyes holding no trace of pity. Paris sat down and gulped another
energy bar. Goddamn Indian. Goddamn self-righteous, over-principled,
does-you-a-favor-and-twists-the-knife-in-your-back Indian bastard. He
hates me, but he's going to keep me alive as long as he can to repay his
life debt. More merciful to off me now and drink the water himself. He'll
outlive me in any case, he's tough. If he offers me any of his share, I'm
going to throw it in his face. Bastard.

			      ****************************

	The night was even colder than the previous one. They huddled in
the shuttlecraft, rapidly losing heat through the buckled panels, wrapped
in the survival blankets. Paris felt his slender body shaking
uncontrollably with the bonechilling drafts. He had his head under the
wrap, and all his clothes on, but he could not get warm. The day's furnace
was a distant memory. Chakotay stirred restlessly nearby, rubbing his
chest and arms so that the shuttle floor vibrated. "Knock that off, would
you? I'm trying to sleep," Paris snapped. Chakotay took a deep breath, let
it out like a hiss. OK, now he comes over and strangles me. Put me out of
my goddamn misery, he thought. Chakotay was still for a moment, then
rolled over and said, "We need to sleep together to stay warm enough,
Paris. Let's combine the blankets."
	"Wonderful," Paris replied sarcastically, but knew the First
Officer was right. If he had been here with anyone else, he would have
suggested it a lot sooner, I'll bet, he thought.
	They laid the sheets together and pulled the heavier wrap over
themselves, lying as close as possible without actually touching. Again
Paris recoiled at Chakotay's strong smell; old sweat, fresher sweat, dust
and stale ammonia. Well, Tommy boy, you're not too dainty yourself. He
doesn't like this any more than you do. Gradually his nostrils grew used
to the aroma, and he was aware only of a distinctive musk and the creeping
warmth of the other man's big body. He's doing me a lot more good than I'm
doing him. Stop doing me favors, dammit. He fell asleep very soon.

			      ****************************

	Chakotay had used all but one of the bedding blankets to line the
still pit completely, so the tent was cramped today. They had to lie
twenty centimeters from each other, accidentally touching every time they
sneezed. Although it was not quite as hot as the previous day, it was
close, and the radiation from each other's bodies was as uncomfortable now
as it had been beneficial during the night. They drank almost all the
remaining water, but produced very little urine; apparently they were
becoming seriously dehydrated. Paris lay with his back turned, working on
his story. He put Chakotay into it, just to give himself a laugh--OK,
which sister? Does he ever fool around, anyway? Oh, yeah, Seska. Boy, she
always gave me the creeps, but she liked him pretty well, and I wouldn't
mind having someone who wanted to cook for me...
	At dusk, Paris went with Chakotay to check the still. He held his
breath while the sheet peeled carefully back--
	A foul odor, a drip into a half-full container. Was it a relief or
a burden to know they would live a little longer? Chakotay jumped down
into the pit and decanted the water into a jug. Between three and four
liters. Conceivably enough to keep one man alive through another day like
this one. Definitely not enough for two. Chakotay handed the jug up to
Paris and hauled himself out. He stood scanning the horizon, the fading
light in the east, the surrounding mountains across the kilometers of
barren sand and gravel. The gauntness of his face emphasized the bone
structure, the long, heavy jaw, the broad cheekbones and forehead. Time to
fish or cut bait, Paris thought. Kill me now, or else forever hold your
peace. He felt a faint breeze stir his hair, and he set the jug down.
	"Time for the traditional rain dance," he joked hopefully.
Chakotay looked at him, his face serene and unreadable.
	"That takes more than one person," he replied, and walked back to
the tent. Paris followed after a moment, confused. Some kind of decision
had been made, but Chakotay was simply sitting and typing on his padd
again. I wonder how he'll explain my death? Just hold my head in the sand
until I choke, and say it was an accident? Or if Janeway does know, or if
she's after him too, will they cover it up together? Nobody likes me
anyway. Maybe Harry will miss having a pool partner for a few weeks, but
who the hell else? I've hardly made anything you could call a friend the
whole damn time. The Starfleet men all whisper about my record, the Maquis
hold the same opinion as Chakotay, some of the women are willing be nice
to me for an hour or two at a time-- Sex appeal, Tommy, that's all you've
got going for you. That's the only basis on which anyone responds to you,
or wants to hang around with you. So if I offered him my boyish bod--yeah,
right. Paris rolled his eyes at the thought. Somehow I don't think that's
uppermost in his mind right now. What is, exactly?
	Chakotay spoke very little through the twilight hour, and
wordlessly dismantled the still to retrieve the blankets. When the sky
began to darken and the air to chill, he made two doubled wraps and rolled
himself in one. Guess he figures it won't be so cold tonight, Paris
thought. Indeed, the weather seemed to be moderating a little. So we'll
die comfortable; how nice. The breezes were cutting through his uniform,
so he followed Chakotay into the shuttlecraft.

			      ****************************
[Part 2 follows]

From alt.sex.fetish.startrek Fri Jun  9 18:13:25 1995
Path: mars.efn.org!news.uoregon.edu!hookup!gatech!howland.reston.ans.net!news-e1a.megaweb.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail
~From: lrbowen@aol.com (Lrbowen)
~Newsgroups: alt.sex.fetish.startrek
~Subject: New Story:"Rain Dance"VOY, M/M, C/P, NC-17 2/2
~Date: 9 Jun 1995 10:15:53 -0400
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	Copyright 1995 by L.R.Bowen.



		      ****************************

	Both of them woke earlier than usual, disturbed by the sound of
the rising wind. Chakotay sat quietly for a few minutes, apparently
meditating, then made a few more entries on the padd. There was just
enough light for Paris to see him bring up the picture of Janeway again.
Easily ten minutes passed while he held the little screen in his hands,
the dim phosphorescent glow on his dark face. Then he hit the delete key,
and the image vanished. He partly filled a small canteen, picked up his
blanket and folded it, and pulled his boots on. "I'm going to go take a
look at the country while it's cool," he said. "I may be gone a little
while."
	"OK," said Paris absently, and rummaged for a food pack. He was
halfway through it before he realized what the big lug was up to. Oh shit.
Oh, God. Mother of mercy. He shot out of the shuttlecraft like a photon
torpedo. The land was pancake flat here, so Chakotay was still visible
several hundred meters to the west.
	"Come back here, you bastard!" Paris shrieked. The wind would
drown him out at this distance. He took off running, desperate. No. I
won't let him. Stop doing me favors. It's no goddamn favor. Don't leave me
here--
	It took him a while to catch up to Chakotay's long, purposeful
strides. Gasping, choking on the dust kicked up by the freshening wind, he
stumbled in front of the other man to stop him. "What the hell do you
think you're doing?" Paris shouted.
	"You seem to have guessed, Paris. I'll give you some credit for
that." Chakotay stepped around him and kept going.
	"I won't let you. You asshole, I'm not going to let you die for
me. We're both doomed anyway. You're not saving my goddamn life, you're
just leaving me to die alone."
	"Did it ever occur to you *I* might want to die alone?" said
Chakotay, and stopped walking.
	Paris felt cold poison in his veins. "Rather than with me for a
companion? Would that be bad karma? Would you rather have someone you like
better in this with you? Maybe you'd like to see Janeway's corpse
withering up in the sand beside you, you selfish bastard."
	The expression that tore Chakotay's face startled Paris so much he
took a half step backwards. Mouth distorted, teeth sharp as a bone knife,
the nose and brows drawn together in a wolfish snarl. "Get out of my way,"
Chakotay said, and shoved Paris hard. Paris balled his fists up and took a
swing, but connected with nothing; then a heavy blow to the stomach rocked
him off his feet. Chakotay watched him sprawl for a moment, his face still
twisted with rage, then turned and strode off again.
	"Nooo..." Paris howled, gasping for breath. "Oh, Christ, no--don't
leave me here. Don't make me die alone. Kill me. Just don't leave me
alone. Please..." His voice trailed off, sobbing; he collapsed into the
sand and cried dry tears. The wind whipped dust over him. Several minutes
passed as he clutched the ground with trembling hands, heaving with
anguish. He doesn't give a shit. He's leaving me the water, and his
goddamn conscience is clear, and he's paid me off at last. He can go to
the Happy Hunting Grounds and chase fucking herds of buffalo for eternity,
and Tommy Paris will be just a bad memory. 
	I'm gonna haunt him. I'm gonna turn up there, all pale and
ghostly, and I'm gonna say, "Why'd you leave me, Big C? Why'd you leave me
on the ground to die alone? Maybe I'd rather you drank all the goddamn
water and just talked to me for a little while. Treated me like a human
being instead of something to scrape off your boot. Comforted me a little
in my last hours, goddammit." God, he hates me.
	There was the crunch of a boot in the sand next to his ear, and a
hand hooked under his arm and pulled him up. "Come on, Paris," said
Chakotay. "Let's get back to the shuttlecraft before it gets too hot." He
held Paris for a moment, looked in his face with an odd expression. I
think I missed another decision, Paris thought. Then Chakotay let go and
started back the way they had come, the rising sun sending a long shadow
out ahead of him.

			      ****************************

	The clouds began to move over the mountains about noon, gathering
in thin wisps along the edge of the basin. The sun seemed less intense,
glowing yellowish and hazy through the high dust devils that the wind spun
up off the sand. At 1400 hours, it might have been a hundred degrees. They
split the water evenly, and drank the last of it just before twilight.
Chakotay spoke softly, pointed out the changes in the weather. The heat of
the previous days was drawing in the wind and moister air from over the
mountains. Obviously it didn't rain here more than once in a year or so,
if that often, but at least the temperatures were evening out. The clouds
would insulate the ground at night as well, and the night would probably
be warmer. By dusk, Paris could almost call the sky overcast.
	Well, OK. The weather was fair, Chakotay was acting like a decent
guy for a change, and the tension was considerably less. But the water was
all gone, and the next day would probably kill them. They were still in
reasonably good shape, although thirsty and growing lethargic, but with
nothing at all to drink, death would come quickly. This was his last night
on earth, so to speak. How should he celebrate it? He'd had fantasies like
that when in prison, imagining himself in some old movie, Jimmy Cagney on
death row, spitting at the guards. Then marching down the corridor, grim
and silent, Pat O'Brien in a priest's collar begging him to show yellow at
the execution so as not to make a hero of himself to the kids who
worshipped the criminal life...
	I'm no hero. I can't take it like Chakotay, who has even deleted
the one comfort he had here, who is sitting like a monk by the shuttle,
cross-legged and meditating. I'm going to scream, and cry, and beg for my
life, and beg God for mercy. He tried a prayer, but the words wouldn't
come. Our Father-- I'm not going to think about my father.
	I was going to ask for lobster, and steak, and really good French
fries with the skin on them, and strawberry cheesecake, and tomato soup.
Angel food cake. Really stuff my face for my last meal. And dancing girls,
in black latex, and some cute little blond with a good figure to drop
grapes in my mouth. I didn't ask for a big guy with a crewcut and tattoos.
No way. He didn't ask for me either. What does he want to do to celebrate
his last night alive? 
	Paris looked over at the shuttle, where Chakotay sat with his eyes
closed, barechested and silent. He had used a few centiliters of his water
to wash his face and body, and wipe the dust out of his dark hair. Gotta
face your ancestors looking decent, I suppose. I wish I'd thought to do
the same. He picked up his canteen and shook it. A few drops tinkled in
the bottom, and fell out on his palm when he upended it. Paris wiped his
face, and ran his fingers through his hair, and felt a little better. Hey,
could be worse. I could be alone. He walked over and sat down next to
Chakotay. "Hey, pal," he said when the brown eyes opened. "I just wanted
to tell you--uh, thanks for coming back." Chakotay looked at him for a
moment, then nodded slowly.
	Paris knew he should leave it at that, but the words kept coming,
spilling out like raindrops into the sand. "I, uh, I know you don't like
me, and I guess you've got good reason not to, but I, well, for whatever
it's worth, I always thought you were a decent guy. A little righteous,
OK. But you've got principles, and you stick to 'em, even if it kills you.
Um, that is, you try to do the right thing, and stand by your promises,
and I've gotta admire that. You probably still think I'm scum, but I'm
glad you helped me out all this time, and I, um, I'll leave you alone now
if you want me to." He started to get up, but was stopped by Chakotay's
hand on his shoulder. 
	"That's all right, Paris. You're not bothering me."
	They sat side by side for a while, breathing the cool air as the
light went, until the sky was dark and the stars showed fitfully through
the tears in the blanket of clouds. Paris felt warm, despite the chill of
the night, and he looked at the dim shape of the man beside him, and
wanted to tell him something, and there were no words for it. He reached
out to touch Chakotay's shoulder, and met his skin, the smell of it
familiar by now, and tried to see his eyes in the darkness. Chakotay
turned to him, and moved a little closer, and let Paris' head fall to his
chest, and put his arms around him. The rise and fall, the slow heartbeat,
the knowledge that he was still alive for the moment and able to embrace
another human being, to feel the smooth warm skin, to raise his head and
kiss a breathing mouth. The lips were firm, and curved, and after a
moment, met his with assurance. All right, I guess he knew that was
coming, even if I wasn't sure myself. So do I owe him now? All bets are
off tomorrow. 
	They rose and went into the shuttlecraft, where the temperature
was just between warm and cool, and lay down on the blankets spread on the
floor. Too dark to see much, only the faint glow of the sky through the
buckled panels, and the blink of the emergency beacon, faithfully
broadcasting. Chakotay kissed him gently, and smoothed his hair, and
slipped off what remained of their abused uniforms. His hands measured the
slender limbs, the wiry muscles and crisp hair, cupped, and stroked, and
held. Paris slid down and found the patch of straight hair, the half-firm
penis, and took the glans in his mouth, inhaling the scent and taste,
strong and familiar, like a friend in the darkness. Chakotay moved and
breathed deeply, his erection growing more solid. But he sat up and guided
Paris down, lying between his knees, and put his arms under his thighs,
and took the younger man's stiff cock into his own throat, stroking,
pushing deep and closing his lips, drawing the shaft out with his tongue
sliding against the underside. He wasn't a stranger to this, apparently.
Paris felt his orgasm building quickly, pulled back to catch his breath,
couldn't help himself. He held the cropped head in his hands and moaned,
curling up around himself, tense and concentrated, letting the heat
gather, waiting. The movement, the warmth, the gift of moisture, the dance
of connection, the shoulders pushing against his thighs, the lips pressing
around him--
	Oh. Oh, now. Now-- His body surged, and bucked fiercely, and he
felt the movement, the pumping forward, pumping his life forward into
Chakotay's mouth. The arms held him steady, the lips accepting him,
swallowing the warm liquid like a libation. Paris's heart was pounding,
his breath fast, drying his throat. It grew more ragged rather than less,
changing to sobs and coughs. He was panting after something, clutching
Chakotay's shoulders, pulling him up to kiss him, taste him. Yes, he's
heavy. Arms like goddamn tree trunks, torso pressing the breath out of me,
his cock digging into my thigh-- He parted his legs, let Chakotay settle
between them. Does he really want this? Well, yeah, he's hard as a rock,
and he's getting bigger--oh, boy. Chakotay's tongue swept through his
mouth, giving and receiving the warmth, the drink of communion. The thrust
of his hips--yeah, he wants this. Let him have it. 
	Chakotay rolled over and reached for the medical kit, finding a
tube of ointment, applying something cool between Paris' buttocks.
Allowing Paris to take the tube, he rested on hands and knees over him,
giving him access to the jutting shaft. What am I letting myself in for
here? Paris thought, spreading ointment. He's, um, not small. Okay, all
greased up, thanks for the thought, pal. Just slow and easy, all right?
Chakotay sank down and kissed him, knelt, ran his hands under his
buttocks, lifted him up. Rolled back a little, let the bodies fit together
naturally, holding the narrow pelvis against him, tense. The push, a
steady pressure, the relaxation slow, ring by ring, slowly forward.
Inside. A stretch, a little too much of one, the pressure forward--oh god,
oh god, he's fucking me, he's actually fucking me, oh Christ, he's inside
me, it feels like him, big, and smooth, and oh Christ, ow, I want it, even
if it's too much, he's fucking me-- His penis stirred again, and Chakotay
sat back on his haunches, supporting Paris on the plane of his thighs,
clasping his hips, rising up and down slightly with the slow movements of
his thrusts. Not much back and forth, halfway in, no more. Paris' legs
straddling him, his feet flat and knees bent, raising himself, pressing
up, smooth, slick with the lubricant. Chakotay's hand on his cock,
encircling. Used to it now, relaxed, filled up. Ready for more. 
	He let Chakotay pull out, turn him over, put a folded blanket
under his hips, reaching under himself to stroke his erection. Chakotay
pressed forward again, a different angle, padded by the upturned buttocks.
The shock of slow entry again, and the longer movements, the swing of the
hips. His breath in my ear, his hands on the blanket on each side of me,
his legs brushing the insides of mine. Fucking me, and I can hear it; the
tight wet friction sound, different, raspier than the familiar one, the
groin hair brushing the cleft of the buttocks at every stroke. Oh God, so
deep, the movement, the push, he's inside me, the rhythm, the beat, the
chant. He's so goddamn hard, he wants it, his chest is sweating, his
breathing heaving his whole torso. Not so far off now. The ending.
Chakotay groaned, shaking, head flinging back. A repeated syllable, like a
harsh breath. The response from Paris' throat, the tenor voices together,
the one soft, the other edgy. The movement, the whole body shaking, the
hands jerking on the blanket, the crescendo. I gave him something, he
returns it; only fair. Not a man to leave his debts unpaid. Oh Christ--
	Plunging; uneven thrusts, holding himself deep inside, withdrawing
with a jerk, back inside, pulsing. Spilling over, full, giving himself
back to me. God, what a howl. Both of us.
	They lay flat, Chakotay on top of Paris, breathing profoundly
deep, gradually slowing. "Oof," said Paris. 
	"Sorry," Chakotay replied, and eased to the side to let him roll
out, then relaxed to lie on his stomach. Paris dropped his face to the
broad, sweaty back, threw one arm over it, closed his eyes. "Pull the
blankets up, would you?" said Chakotay. 

			      ****************************


	They woke to cool air, damp-smelling, the wind slow and whistling
through the cracks in the shuttlecraft's hull. Paris felt a flick of
moisture on one cheek, cool and upturned, the other pressed to a warm
chest. "Hey--" He sat up into the damp air, and heard the soft patter
beginning. "It's raining! Jesus Christ, it's raining!" They raced out with
the blankets, spread them on the ground, draped one in the open still pit.
The fat drops splashed in the growing puddles, their bare skin washed free
of sweat and dust, of the scent of each other. It rained hard for half an
hour. The pit filled halfway with muddy water, little gullies started in
the earth, sand washed in fans over the harder patches of dirt and gravel.
The grey clouds rolled on and over. They filled all the jugs when the silt
had settled, filled all the casings, covered the remaining water in the
pit. Naked, clean, they drank until Paris felt like bursting. The sun
struck the wet ground, a hiss and crackle of the water settling into the
sand, the gravel rattling in the tiny streams that were already subsiding.
Steam began to rise, and they sat in a cloud, eating energy bars for
breakfast.
	"Nice weather we're having," said Paris. Chakotay chuckled. A few
more days, at least. And if the flare had been just one event, a single
massive surge unrepeated, it might have started to die down by now. Here's
hoping it was a one-time thing.
	The crackling of gravel was louder than before. Paris saw Chakotay
turn his head, listen carefully, his eyes moving. Suddenly he sprang up
and leaped into the shuttlecraft.
	"Voyager, come in," Paris heard him say. "I'm receiving--"
	Paris almost collided with the panel before he could come to a
stop inside. "About fucking time!" he shouted at Harry Kim's fuzzy image. 
	"Prepare for transport," said Kim, grinning. Paris realized both
he and Chakotay were still naked. 
	"It's wash day, Harry," he said. "Just hang on a minute, OK? I'd
rather not give a free show." They struggled into their ragged uniforms,
dirty and stinking. Chakotay picked up his padd and glanced at Paris.
	"If you want this thing after we get back--" he began. Paris
jerked upright from pulling on his boots, then realized Chakotay was
talking about the story Paris had typed on his padd. 
	"Oh, heck, just download it to my mailbox," he said, blushing
faintly, looking at the First Officer with his eyebrows a little raised.
"It's a souvenir."
	"Fine. I suppose I can go to that much trouble."
	"Thanks, Commander."
	"You're welcome, Lieutenant." He slapped the comm badge on his
chest. "Chakotay to Voyager. Two to beam up."
	"Oh," he continued, while the transporter room adjusted the
lock-on, "to be perfectly clear: if I ever hear about--that--" it was
obvious to Paris what he meant-- "from any sentient being--
	"Your life is mine."
	The high whine of dematerialization drowned out any response Paris
might have had.

END