Angel

ANGELBy Morticia

ANGEL

By Morticia

8-10 / 60

Disclaimers: See Part 1

 

CHAKOTAY

It is almost 1820 when my door chime sounds. I
have changed into casual clothes; prepared the bath which I
promised Tom and have poured us both a glass of a dry white wine
that I found on my last shoreleave. It sparkles in the lights of
my Quarters with the same honeyed tone as Tom's red gold hair.

As I let Tom in, with a welcoming kiss and soft
"Hello," I am aware of his eyes darting fearfully to
mine as he regards my expression suspiciously.

I realise that he has been deliberately late,
simply to gauge my reaction. I guess after our many arguments on
the bridge during the Jonas incident; he has learnt that I am a
stickler for punctuality. He's obviously deliberately testing me.
Checking out whether I am the same hard taskmaster in my personal
life. Wondering whether I will bring him into line.

To be honest, I hate lateness. It is rude and
inconsiderate and usually unnecessary. I have no doubt that, if I
tell him this, he will not be late again.

I am sure of his current need to please me.
That at this stage he is prepared to make any compromise to make
this relationship work. But that is not the kind of relationship
I want with him. I want him to be on time because he cannot wait
to see me, not because he is afraid of my reaction to his
behavior.

I may have a tendency to be dominant sexually
but I need Tom to be my equal partner in all the other aspects of
this relationship, not pretending to be subservient and eager to
please. (And let's face it, I can't imagine him being able to
keep it up for very long anyway, he's simply irrepressible!)

If there is any complaint that I would make of
Angel it is that he never understood that I wanted him to think
for himself. Despite his obvious physical and mental superiority,
he was never capable of meeting me on equal terms emotionally. It
was my mistake that from the beginning, instead of helping him
deal with his many insecurities, I merely imposed my own beliefs
on him and allowed him to mould himself to my expectations. It
was my own fault that our relationship became rather mundane as a
result.

I am determined not to make the same mistake
with Tom. So I swallow my irritation and simply hand him his
drink whilst I relieve him of his small bag. There will be plenty
of time later for us to have this discussion, when he is less
insecure.

His shoulders sag with a release of tension as
he realises that I am not going to comment on his lateness and he
accepts the wine with a shy relieved smile.

Sadly I realise from the lightness of his bag,
that he has only brought enough clothes to change into. He is
obviously still uncertain of the permanence of his welcome. I
decide not to mention it. I'm sure that as time goes on and he
feels more comfortable with me, with us, his possessions will
begin to creep into my spartan quarters and make it look more
like a home.

"Your bath is getting cold" I chide
him gently and lead him to the bathroom. His eyes widen
appreciatively at the sight. There is only room for a shower in
his own, smaller quarters.

Tom strips without hesitation. He shows
absolutely no modesty about his naked form. I wonder absently
whether it's because he's a Starfleet brat or because he has had
such an active sex life. Don't misunderstand me, there is no
jealousy in my thinking of him with his countless former
partners. Or at least not much.

For a moment his beauty transfixes me. His long
coltish limbs and pale perfect skin are such a wonderful contrast
to my own dark, dense musculature. Although his frame is athletic
and strong he is far too thin for my peace of mind. He has an air
of delicacy to him, like a fragile porcelain doll. I am struck
anew by my fierce desire to protect him.

I hold his drink for him as he slips carefully
into the water and as the warmth pervades his muscles I can
actually see the tension draining from him. I hand him back his
drink and he takes a long sip of the golden liquid, sighs
blissfully and only then does he languidly turn his lapis-lazuli
gaze at me.

"Wow, you can't believe how good this
feels," he purrs

"No, to be honest, I can't," I reply
significantly.

He digests this for a moment as my meaning
sinks in.

"So you've never, um, never been a
bottom?"

"No."

I watch this thought roll around in his head.

"Don't you want to?"

"No. Neveuot;uot; I am careful to pitch my
reply to the exact correct tone of gentle firmness.

He considers my answer briefly before gifting
me with a sunny smile

"Good, 'cos I don't ever want to be a top, anyway,"
he laughs, and that understood we both grin at each
other. I sit down on the toilet seat and watch him luxuriate as
we chat. We sit talking like this for a long time, feeling each
other out, defining the parameters of our relationship. It feels
comfortable and good to be able to talk like this.

The water is cooling so Tom starts to wash
himself. I climb down and kneel beside the bath and taking a
handful of soap begin to lather his back for him. He leans
forwards to give me better access and I run my hands over the
tight muscles of his shoulders, stopping to knead all the knots
of tension that I find.

Tom begins to moan with pleasure at my
ministrations so I let my right hand sneak around his torso to
rub the nipples that are standing proud from his wet chest.

"Ohhh, yes," he sighs, letting his
eyes close and his head fall backwards.

Supporting the weight of his neck with my left
hand, I let my right hand slide slowly down his chest, pausing to
play briefly with his navel before following mp gmp golden trail
of hair under the water until I find his cock.

It is already hard and eager for me. Closing my
fingers gently I begin to slide up and down its length. Once,
twice, a third time and he stiffens, squeals and comes.

He looks at me sheepishly, embarrassed yet
again by my instantaneous effect on his body. I am tempted to
joke that he has no more control over his cock than his
motor-mouth but I doubt our relationship is strong enough yet for
him to take my joke the right way. So I simply kiss the tip of
his nose and then take his hands to help him up out of the water.

As I slowly rub him dry with a thick towel, he
glides sensuously against me. Just the friction of the fabric on
his bare skin is enough to rekindle his libido. He is so
sensitive to my touch, so responsive, so absolutely fuckable that
I have to force myself to remember the state of his battered ass.

Opening my bathroom cabinet I begin to search
for my medical regenerator.

"Bend over, Tom," I say atly tly and
it is only as I see how firmly he has braced his hands against
the toilet seat that I realise he has misinterpreted my
intention.

Oddly, for a moment I am angry with him.
Outraged that he thinks so little of me to think I would take him
again whilst he is so sore. I have to force myself to remember
that he is currently so desperate to make this relationship work
that he would probably take a space walk without a suit if I told
him to.

Sorrow dampens my anger. Sadness that this
beautiful, brilliant young man is so unaware of his own
desirability. He hasn't fid yed yet that now I have finally given
in, I would cut my own hand off rather than let him back out of
my life.

Until we get home, my conscience whispers.

Shaking my head to clear that unwelcome
thought, I begin to run the regenerator between his ass-cheeks.
His low moan of understanding is an odd mixture of disappointment
and relief. When I have finally finished, I give him a gentle
slap on the ass, put down the regenerator and pick up a toweling
robe that I wrap around him. He follows me sedately into the
living room, a little confused at my failure to take advantage of
his willingness, and I gesture him to the couch whilst I walk to
the replicator.

"What would you like to eat?"

"Um...tomato soup, hot and plain."

"Don't you ever get tired of that?" I
laugh

"Nope...it's what I like. When I decide I
like something I like it forever," he replies, pointedly
flashing his eyes at me and I catch the hidden meaning well
enough.

"Good," I reply significantly and for
a moment I see happy tears welling in his eyes before he blinks
furiously and accepts the tray I hand him.

After we've finished eating and I have cleared
up the refuse, I ask the computer to play a selection of my
favourite music collections whilst Tom simply snuggles up
sleepily in my arms. The bath combined with the tension of the
last few days, not to mention the marathon sex last night, has
turned his body into pure satisfied mush. I sit contentedly,
stroking his back soothingly until his breath finally deepens
into light snores.

And it is at that moment I'm ashamed to say,
when Tom has finally trusted me enough to fall asleep. When he
has allowed himselfbe sbe so trusting, so very vulnerable to me,
that I find myself looking out of the window at the passing stars
and thinking nostalgically about Angel.

~~~

When I was a small boy, maybe four or five, my
father gave me a puppy. He was a huge bouncing ball of gangly
legs, fluff and tongue. I called him Chinook. He was the first
true love of my life.

His collie grin and bright black eyes are
etched in my memory so vividly that I can almost see him now. I
was the centre of his universe. To his canine eyes I was a god. I
stole his love and affection and when he was no longer convenient
to me, when he stood in the way of my selfish ambitions, I
abandoned him.

That surprises you, doesn't it? I expect you
cannot imagine me doing such a thing. Cannot believe that I was
once so callow and cruel?

To be honest, as I look back, I cannot either.
The memory of him still haunts me. The ghost of Chinook has run
faithfully at my side through all the years of my adult life.
Sometimes, like now as I stoke Tom's sleeping head, I find myself
expecting soft fur under my fingers and am surprised and bereaved
by its absence.

Growing up on Dorvan V, with its rolling hills
and uncultivated wilderness, I had a freedom as a child that most
federation citizens can only dream of. There were no cities or
concrete roads. Just miles of uncharted space where my gentle
people had made a home.

Chinook and I ran wild over this land for all
the early years of my childhood. Untamed and unfettered we
developed that special relationship that I believe can only exist
between a boy and his dog. Secure in their love for me, my family
brought me up on a loose rein, allowing me to make my own
mistakes. They granted me the space to learn my own wisdom, as I
grew brown and strong in the sun.

Dorvan V was given to my people in reparation
for a terrible wrong. Five hundred years ago we were hunted
almost to extinction for no crime other than the fact that we
lived on a bounteous land that stronger, crueler people wanted to
own. There was no prime directive back then to protect us.

The superior weaponry of a less civilized race
overcame us. We were herded into reservations and denied any
access into the society that had enslaved us. But my people did
not despair, they waited quietly, they prayed in the dreaming
tents and preserved their belief in the beauty way until they
would again find a land where they could live in peace.

I was raised knowing this. That we had overcome
all adversities and that finally the Spirits had rewarded our
faith and granted us this good life on a new planet near the
Cardassian border.

I knew no other way of living and so my
childhood was a happy one. My family was large and loving. All
disputes were mediated not by governments but by tribal elders,
wise old men who had generations of meditation and knowledge
behind their decisions. All discipline was meted out with love
and a light hand.

But, as always, my people had to compromise for
what they wanted. It had been ordained that the price of our
freedom was that our children had to be brought up with knowledge
of the Federation. So when I was twelve, my bare feet were forced
into leather sandals, my sun browned limbs wrapped in the
restrictive embrace of clothing and my long hair was tied back.
Thus bound, I was forced to attend school in the federation
embassy.

I hated it. Leaving my family, leaving Chinook.
For eight hours of every day I forcforced into a sterile room and
force-fed details of a life I could hardly begin to imagine. Each
night I would return home to our simple wattle and daub home, to
the warmth of a real fire, the loving shelter of my family and
the ecstatic welcome of poor lonely Chinook.

Each morning I would take the long lonely trek
back to the shining prison that locked me like a criminal from
the sunlight. I cannot describe the misery that I endured for the
first years of my incarceration.

I don't know exactly when I changed, when I
began to fall under the spell of cleanliness and technology and
space travel. When I became enchanted by the promises of
adventure that were whispered in my ears. I only remember that my
footsteps towards the school became lighter and the journey home
became longer.

By the time I was fifteen, I no longer rushed
home. I would find excuses to stay later and later at the
embassy. My home was no longer a place I found comforting. I
could only see the poverty we lived in. I was bewildered and
angered by my people's refusal to accept progress. I was even
unmoved by the frenzied greetings of faithful Chinook. I barely
noticed his muzzle graying and his eyes becoming opaque like
frosted glass as the years progressed.

I had found a dream. I began to scorn my
people's failure to embrace the new technologies. I called my
father a fool for clinging to a way of life that I now saw as
retrograde and pointless. I saw my people as hopeless relics of a
long gone age and their efforts to gently guide me back into the
fold were met only with repulsion.

By the time I was seventeen the stars beckoned
me intolerably. They winked at me through endless, sleepless
nights, tormenting me with their hidden secrets. I could no
longer see the beauty of the Dorvan dawn or appreciate the value
of the wonderful wealth I had in my close and loving family. I
saw only inviinvisible chains my family wrapped me in. I felt as
though their loving embrace was choking me.

As I passed the Starfleet entrance exams and
waited breathlessly for my acceptance to the Academy, I was
resolute in my decision, deaf to my father's pleading with me to
reconsider my chosen path.

As I counted down my days to leave I was
unheeding of his warning that I was chasing fool's gold. That
there was nothing of value that could be found in the universe if
I couldn't find it within myself. That everything that really
mattered was already within my grasp if I could only open my eyes
to see it.

It was during this period of waiting that my
old friend Chinook began to fail.

He had become riddled with bone cancer. Every
week found another tumor growing on his thin frame. I used his
condition to rail against my people. His illness was a validation
of my opinion that it was foolishness to refuse new medical
technology. I was filled with selfish, righteous anger instead of
the silence of true grief.

As the day of my planned departure neared,
Chinook's condition worsened. As tumors in his mouth made it
difficult for him to eat and the sick smell of decay follohis his
limping footsteps, I stifled my memories of the lively puppy he
had been and the years of faithful devotion he had given. I saw
him only as an unwanted obligation, a barrier the Spirits had
created to prevent my escape.

I knew it would be unforgivable to leave him
when he was so near death but instead of praying for his recovery
I found myself wishing every morning that he had passed away
quietly in his sleep.

I could not bear to look at him. He represented
everything that I wanted to escape from. Perhaps my heartless
reaction to his suffering was just my mind's way of protecting me
from the futility of hope. I would like to think so.

But the decision was taken from me. Finally
admitting that there was nothing but pain left in Chinook's life,
my father made the decision to end his suffering. I was relieved.
Actually relieved because I would no longer be obligated to stay.


Does that disgust you to hear as much as it
does me to remember?

It was not until the moment that I was holding
his faithful body in my arms, as his trusting eyes watched me in
ignorance, as I was hugging him for the last time as the lethal
injection took hold, that the horror and loss finally hit me.

I howled. I screamed in anguish at the spirits
that I had wasted these last precious years of his life. The
times I shut him out of my room so that I could study, deaf to
his frantic scratching at the door. The many hours I had regarded
as inescapable duty when I walked him, instead of recapturing the
wonder of our early years together.

At that moment I should have understood what my
father meant. That everything that really mattered could only be
found inside my own heart. That knowledge alone could not replace
even the love of a dog.

But instead it took my father's own death at
the hands of the Cardassians to teach me the pointlessness of a
life without selflessness. That love should never be spurned for
ambition or convenience. That my own selfish desire for happiness
cannot be bought at the expense of another.

It was the death of my father that forced me to
reclaim my honour. To accept that nothing is more important than
being faithful to those who love you. In response to his death I
finally fulfilled his wishes. I gave up my life in Starfleet and
returned home.

It is strange that the very Federation I had
worshipped like a false-idol could not comprehend that my
decision was one of honour and duty. That the man who became the
"Maquis traitor" was twice the man who had worn their
uniform with such false pride.

Don't misunderstand me. I believe in the
Federation, in its principles and objectives, but the strongest
chain is only as secure as its weakest link and the Federation,
like all organisations, is full of small-minded individuals who
forget that sometimes the letter of the law does not fulfill its
intent.

As I waged my own lonely war against the
Cardassians I was painfully aware that many of my Maquis
companions were simply rebels and misfits, mercenaries who only
fought for money and glory. It didn't matter. They were weapons
and tools I could use but I made friends of none of them. They
repelled me. It was only with the Bajorans that I found kindred
spirits, people who were fighting not only for their home but
also for their belief in the Prophets.

Then I met B'Elanna and she awakened in me a
fierce protective empathy. Her rebellious nature reminded me of
my own selfish, wasted youth. Had I been a lover of women I would
have cleaved to her and thus filled my empty life but whilst I
loved the company of women, their bright intuitive thinking,
their strong softness, I needed a different kind of love.

During my years at the Academy and Starfleet I
had obviously had relationships but to be blunt they were all
just fuck-buddies, people I shared a drink and a bed with for a
few nights before moving on. Perhaps it was just that my heart
was a vacuum of coldness in those years between Chinook and my
father's death.

Whatever cruel spirit had lodged in my heart
when I was seventeen had clung like a leech, sucking out emotion
instead of blood. With the Cardassian invasion, my heart had
shattered and that dark spirit had fallen out. I was aware only
of a gaping hole within myself that I needed to fill.

It was in this frame of mind, careering
emotionally like an empty vessel on a stormy sea, that I met
Angel.

He became the second true love oflifelife.

Perhaps the only way you can truly appreciate
his effect on me is to consider the fact that within a mere hour
or two of meeting him, I completely abandoned my beloved B'Elanna
alone in an alien spacecraft and failed to do more than send her
a cursory comm. message or two for a whole week.

I had never in my life even imagined that
creatures such as the Herans existed. When we were beamed onto
their ship, the sheer beauty of each and every one of them
overwhelmed me. They were like the spirit warriors of my
childhood stories. They were taller than Klingons and more
exquisite in feature than any artist's rendition of unattainable
perfection.

I felt too short, too dark, and too ordinary. I
had never before felt inadequate physically and I didn't like the
feeling.

It was almost too much that I had been rescued
by such beings. I could imagine the scorn with which they must be
regarding us. I thought that we were probably an amusement to
them. That they were regarding us like bugs on a microscope and
they had deigned to help us only out of the ennui of Olympians.

I remember starting to become angry and
defensive just standing there. I was bristling like a Tomcat in
front of a rival for his territory. I could actually feel the
hairs on the nape of my neck rising.

It was then that Angel looked straight into my
eyes and smiled.

As though I were a pricked balloon the air
escaped out of me with a gasp. There was absolutely no mistaking
the look in those golden cat-eyes. It wasn't disgust or pity or
scorn, it was pure unbridled lust.

~~~

TOM

Well, today is our anniversary. It's actually
been seven days since that night in the observation lounge. Six
days since I began to move my stuff into Chakotay's quarters.
It's my day off today and I have spent the day rearranging the
wardrobe to conceal my clothes and finding hiding holes for my
vids and personal crap so they don't ruin the neatness he
obviously values so much.

I've never seen such pristine quarters as his.
I feel as though I make them untidy simply by being in them.

I've always hated housework. Growing up in the
Paris household I was always taught that a messy room meant a
messy mind. In the Academy I was always forced to be neat as a
pin and in prison... well the less said about that the better.
Suffice it to say I have developed an urge to relax and be a bit
of a slob since I've been on Voyager.

Everything is different now. I am determined to
make so little impact on Chakotay's quarters that he never finds
my messiness an excuse for finding fault with our relationship.
He is really sweet about it, saying the more possessions I bring,
the more 'homely' his quarters will feel but I know he doesn't
really mean it so I'm being really careful not to be too
obtrusive.

Am I happy?

I must be. I've never felt so loved, so valued,
in my whole life.

Is it everything I expected?

It's more and less at the same time. Chakotay
has taken me into his home and his life. He really seems to care
about me but he isn't, well, isn't as demonstrative as I had
hoped.

So okay, what I really mean is that it's not
the fuck-fest I had envisaged.

He is so damned careful not to hurt me that
we've only actually 'done-it' twice this whole week. I mean, sure
I'm sore but if it doesn't bother me, I don't see why he has such
a problem with it. Isn't that what regenerators are for?

But that's okay. I guess it's nice really that
he is so concerned. Just sooooo damned frustrating.

He doesn't ever want to go out. I think that he
can't bear to share me or waste any of the time we have together.
Every evening we just sit here together and stare at the stars
and talk, really talk and he smiles and laughs at my jokes and
holds me in his arms as though I am somehow precious to him, as
though I really matter. It's an unusual feeling for me and it
feels so good.

I've never had this kind of closeness before so
I guess I can't appreciate it properly. There's this part of me
that can't help feeling a little confused. I mean, how can he be
so damned controlled with his passions if he feels so much for
me?

Every night I throw my arms around him when he
finally escapes home and as he holds me I feel my whole body go
rigid with desire, but all he does in response is kiss me and let
go.

I am so stunned and rejected at that moment
that I cannot even speak to him. We just eat silently together
until food and wine have relaxed us both into a better mood and
then finally we snuggle together and simply talk for hours about
little things, like an old married couple.

It's great, but it's kind of terrible too. It's
my fault, I guess. To me passion means going for what you want
and damn the consequences. I know I shouldn't judge his reticence
by my standards. That I don't even know the name of the morals be
judges himself by. But still....

And sometimes I catch him just staring into
nothing and I know, I just know, that it is not me he is thinking
of. And it hurts. It hurts so damned much I just want to grab him
by the shoulders and shake him. Make him see that I am there.
Flesh and blood. Loving him so much I could die.

But then he shakes himself and he turns those
brown soft eyes on me and smiles so lovingly that I am confused
and ashamed of my doubts.

Because I know in that moment that he does love
me.

Doesn't he?

 

CHAKOTAY

 

Tom is off work today and I am hoping he will
finally take the opportunity to bring more of his possessions and
make my quarters into his home.

I don't know it it bothers me so much that he
is so distrustful of me, of our relationship, that he seems so
unable to commit himself. It's been a week now but you'd never
know it. Apart from his presence, there is no clue in my quarters
that he has moved in.

He is careful to hide his clothes away out of
sight, obviously in case of visitors. He will not leave his vids
and pads on display. He has never once suggested that we go out
as a couple. He just wants us to hide in my quarters every
evening.

Perhaps he is ashamed of loving me.

I can understand that. I am so much older than
him and his Senior Officer to boot. Perhaps he is worried about
negative reactions, about being called my toy boy, about being
accused of using sex with me as a tool to further his career.

Then again, it may simply be that he regrets
his choice.

Considering how much I have accidentally hurt
him on the two occasions we have made love, it would be no wonder
if he turned away from me completely.

I can't explain to him, without somehow making
it worse, that I am so used to sharing my passion with someone so
much physically stronger than him, that I have lost the ability
to judge what is acceptable in the height of passion.

He is so responsive, so eager at the time, so
desperate to please me, that my good intentions fly out of the
window and it is not until I see the bruises on his pale skin and
the raw redness of his ass, that I realise how much I have
damaged him.

He never complains but I know he is now
frightened of my touch because when he hugs me and I respond too
enthusiastically, I feel him involuntarily stiffening in my arms
and it is enough to completely unman me.

He then won't talk to me for hours. As though
afraid of voicing his fear he simply eats his dinner and watches
me warily.

It is not until we sit back together on the
couch and finally relax that I feel I can put my arms around him
without his fearing my touch. Then we avoid talking of his pain
and just talk of inconsequential things.

Increasingly I find myself drifting away and
remembering how good it used to be with Angel and wishing so much
that I didn't have to be so careful with Tom.

Strangely, I am finding that the more time I
spend with Tom, the surer I am that I really could love him if he
would only let me.

But if I love him, shouldn't I care enough for
him to accept that he needs a gentler love than mine.

That he deserves better.

Doesn't he?

 

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to Part Eleven