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Chakotay knows many things, accepts he doesn't know many more. He sits at the conference table, in the room where discussions are had nearly every day. The words are passed across the table quickly, today. The captain asks for ideas. His fellow senior staff has them. He does not. Not today. Not during this minute, this hour. The problem on the table has become nearly routine - a race holds fast to the belief that they rule this sector. The captain wants to move through the sector rather than 'waste time' going around. Chakotay knows they could go around and only 'lose' a day. He thinks about other possibilities. Perhaps a deal they could make. A negotiation. He gives up, knowing the captain won't be interested.
Chakotay instead thinks about other things, accepts he should not. Not there. Not today. Things he has been thinking about in great detail lately. He ruminates on the magic of touch, for he believes it can hold mystical powers, if one is simply open to the possibility. He knows that it's not only a matter of being open to its possibilities, but also willing to feel as much as humanly possible during the act of being touched. Because there is the basic mystery of nerve endings. The electrical impulse that shoots along those nerves, deep inside our human bodies, is a magical thing. The impulse has to cross a gap of empty space in order to continue onward. Nerve to nerve, in a way that is not entirely understood. All because of a hand touching skin. Fingertips sliding smoothly. A smooth caress that produces not only the current traveling the nerves, but as well a sharp jolt of adrenaline coursing through a person's system. There is a certain power inherent in both of those reactions.
Chakotay ponders how that entire thing sometimes happens. Really, why some times and not others. Why some people and not others. He ponders long, pale fingers that do it on his bronze skin. He thinks about things that he should not, not there. Not right then. He thinks about other sectors, sectors that exist on him, sectors on which he wants his lover's touch to move slowly, to linger, and not barrel ahead and through as quickly as possible. His lover has them, too. There is an area of space at the base of his lover's neck that Chakotay knows he should pay special attention to. That his lover will be rewarded if he does, and ultimately so will he, himself.
Chakotay tries to shift his thinking, there, at the table - to other things he has been thinking about in great detail lately. He imagines life not on this ship, not in this quadrant. He imagines a private space larger than his quarters, his bedroom, his bed, under the sheets. A private space much larger than he has, now. He remembers that the reasons he returned to his people to fight was to preserve what was left of their lands, to help his fellow human beings fight a race that wanted to take it all from them. He remembers holding a vision of his future life, a home among the trees overlooking the vastness of an ocean, beneath a blue sky. He imagines that life as he does nearly every week. With his lover by his side, he imagines he could find peace, again.
Chakotay sits in the room where problems are discussed, and ideas are given with the hope for solutions. He looks across the table, watching long, pale fingers deftly working a PADD, to ultimately make a point to the captain. He is tired. He wants to be done; he is not sure he cares what they do with this supposedly tyranical race in order to move through this area of space. He has a recurring thought - if they die today, where would he prefer it happen? He knows he is tired, because he would prefer that he die in his lover's arms in their bed, than on the bridge, fighting. He looks across the table. His lover is no longer talking to the captain. He is looking intently at Chakotay, blue eyes focused on every bit of Chakotay that he has access to, which is everything. All of him. Each corner. Every nerve ending.
Chakotay hears the captain dismiss the meeting, and he stands, willing blood flow back into his legs. He knows he has little concept of what the plan of action is. He watches his lover make his way to him. He feels Tom's energy coming closer, and breathes deeply in anticipation of it being right next to him. He needs to feel it. Right then, again, as he does every day, he understands that although he is whole without Tom, and whole with him - he needs to be reminded of the latter. He needs to feel enveloped in Tom's personal space. The room empties quickly as it always does. Tom takes his hand. Chakotay breathes.
Tom says, "I'm not ready to die, today, Chakotay. Come, help us survive." Chakotay nods, and lets Tom lead him back onto the bridge.
Chakotay knows many things, and accepts his ignorance about many more. Some tell him that knowledge is power, but he does not believe that. The things he knows only humble him. He knows today he is tired, and ready to be done. He knows tomorrow that will likely be different. He knows that, perhaps next week, Tom will be tired and ready to be done. He knows how he will help him get beyond it. He is one of the lucky ones, the one in a million lucky ones who hold true love, with all of its mysteries and its realities. He is tired today, but as he sits on the bridge, he accepts that maybe he is not ready to die, either. He will fight to survive. He has vast areas of skin to touch, when he and Tom can return to their bed, and vast dreams to dream, when they finally fall asleep. He will dream of their future. He is one of the lucky ones.
fin