Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.pas.earthlink.net!elnk-nf2-pas!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newshub.sdsu.edu!postnews1.google.com!not-for-mail From: vanhunks@yahoo.com (vanhunks) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW VOY "Charade" 1/1 J/C [R] Date: 4 Nov 2004 04:44:59 -0800 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 264 Message-ID: <2e3d8ff9.0411040444.5e51639b@posting.google.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 196.31.84.2 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Trace: posting.google.com 1099572299 25203 127.0.0.1 (4 Nov 2004 12:44:59 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 4 Nov 2004 12:44:59 +0000 (UTC) Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:161278 X-Received-Date: Thu, 04 Nov 2004 04:45:01 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title : Charade Author: vanhunks E-mail: vanhunks@yahoo.com Series: VOY Part : NEW 1/1 Rating: R [being on the safe side here]. Codes : J/C First posted: November 2004 Archive: ASC and J/C Ville Library Summary: A metting. A deep forest glade. Joy? Disclaimer: Paramount owns Janeway and Chakotay CHARADE The forest is quiet. A kind of stillness, a pause or, even as it breathes through blades of grass or exotic petals or leaves that sway imperceptibly in the hazy memory or suggestion of a breeze - anticipates an arrival - not incongruous to its surroundings but merging into another facet of the wooded area. It becomes a sentient entity, a whole being aware of motion, of sounds, sounds still to come, others that have passed, gratified by the budding fullness of all that belongs to it. On a low overhanging branch the bird of paradise perches motionless, and yet in its state of stillness the very movement of its velvet feathers becomes part of the forest breathing. Long, long, in elegant trajectory, its plumes trail, deep bright yellow that eases gently into pale until they are white at their tips. Here and there on the ground the undergrowth is short, with grass that somehow inveigles itself into this part of the forest, a mocking paradox of order against the profusion of colour, of the diverse and abundant wildness of the glade. Maybe the bird of paradise claims much of what is orderly by its ancient genetic coding - proud head with curved, sharp dark beak, a breastplate that glows, the iridescence complimented by the deep ochre of its wings, the burst of colour in the long plumes - shades of yellow - that denotes order. This is the scene Chakotay loves. Hardly moving himself, imitating the quiet bird with its glittering breastplate in its stillness, he waits. Waiting becomes a desirable element of his presence here, part of what is to come, to happen, yet his heartbeat never registers any heightened anticipation of an event. He knows, like the forest senses a deep awareness that the enchantment, started the moment he himself entered, will today inexorably finds its conclusion. He picks up a sound. Nothing that had been there before, nothing that disturbs the comforting silence. It's just there, on the fringes of his conscious, establishing itself as the softest footfall, a placing down of one foot carefully - first the heel, then fluidly, gradually tapering until the toe connects with blades of grass, their springy texture sagging under the merest placement of weight. The bird sways, then as if it knows, it tilts forward and back, as if in a bow, the elegantly curved plumes fanning to complete its veneration. Chakotay checks his uniform. Today it is neater than usual, crisper, the collar of his turtleneck only mildly uncomfortable as his temperature increases. He listens to the soft footsteps as they come nearer, the steps sure, unerringly directed towards the small clearing. In the semi-dark it's her hair he notices first, gleaming in moonbeams throwing dappled patches artlessly over the glade. Once, he had had sunlight in the forest clearing, but its glare had been too intrusive, too sharp in its reminder that they were in artificially created surroundings. He had seen her face, had seen the retreat in her blue-grey eyes, once liquid with heat, then the cold welling over to mask them completely. Twilight provided them with a better shroud where it was easier to sustain an element of real within the unreal. Now, it was better. The half dark was what it suggested, a haze through which he could see her, touch her, caress the golden flames of hair and for a while at least, remain part of the world they created - an illusion only because they acknowledge a reality somewhere in their beings - shifted slightly, but always there. She glides effortlessly into his arms and he welcomes her; the way his arms lock about her, releasing their grip seconds later so that he can caress her cheek, a tone, a mark, a gesture that is at once familiar and thrillingly new. The touch is ethereal, yet it transmits a message that travels through her body, lighting up every nerve, creating a radiant glow that finally rests in her eyes. Her lips curve into a smile and he remembers the first smile, eons ago, as clearly as if it were just happening. It was a smile that accentuated, underscored, invited, yet always established rank, their place on their ship and the determined preservation of that rank. He pulls her closer to him, lowers his head for their first kiss, a searing affirmation of their appointment. Her mind, once ordered, throws off those shackles that wound themselves tightly around her emotions, her sensuality, her untapped eroticism and joins in the whirl, the heady and breathless contagion of chaos - a glorious relinquishing of the self to be caught up and assimilated, only to found a whole new being made up of him, her, equal... The forest breathes with her, an uneven corroboration of the beating of her heart as she appraises the man in front of her. There is passion hidden in the depths of his eyes: an animal - wolf perhaps, or more likely the fleet-footed cheetah of the African plains - coiled, about to pounce and stake its claim. It's in the way his fingers flex, the barely discernable rise and fall of his chest, the way the dimple undeepens and smoothes his cheek. He doesn't smile; there is a resolved air about him. But she knows. He wants to play, prolong the inevitable between them. She likes the glade, the soft woodland glow in moonlight, the way the leaves sway, the bird of paradise he insists is part of the allure, the enchantment. She throws her head back as he leans in, his lips barely brushing her jawbone, his tongue playfully flicking her chin. The whirling sensation is extended, evolves into flames that scorch the hollow of her neck. Once more, Kathryn is only hazily aware that Chakotay has picked off her rank pips, one by one, slowly, deliberately engineering the stripping of her uniform. The pips land somewhere in the soft grass, but she doesn't care. A sound…a distant call, perhaps the bird of paradise or its mate that encroaches on the remnants of her consciousness, reminds her that her fingers, nimble, swift, must remove his Maquis pin, dropping it into the grass with careless abandon. There is no sound as they begin the slow ritual of undressing; vestiges of rank are removed or as, when still in her tank top, Chakotay's mouth fixes on her breast that strains against the fabric. She runs her fingers through his hair as she merges with him. Her mouth is open, but no cry escapes, not even in the sudden heated contact of his teeth as he nips her breast. No cry…save those issuing from the exotic bird on the branch. Chakotay revels in this sensual undressing, his breath though heated, steamy and cool on her skin as he presses her to him. Their skins are damp, their smell as heady as the contemplation of their joining. Kathryn buries her face against him in a wordless litany, a silent invocation of her knowledge of this man, that here, or in another place, another dusk where the sun had already set and the semi-dark becomes a most desired cloak, can through her action alone express unbridled passion, love. Chakotay sees her smile, this time an invitation, coolly, lovingly challenging, taking their game to the next plane. He has long known that she could be who she was in these moments - undeniably attractive, all woman, all feral in her desire, discarding all reserve of which their dress, their badges, their pins are the ugly metaphors of reality. He has long understood that his body will forever strain towards her in primal need, that hers reciprocates that need but riding pillion with those desires also the acknowledgement that they can only, like a well-made crème brûlée, nibble and relish it for a short period and live on the memory of that taste. They cherish them, these moments, protecting them fiercely, even selfishly. Did the forest hold its breath? Did the bird of paradise stop dipping its head up and down or sway from side to side so that its plumes trembled in the slight breeze? Did the broad leaves stop their rustling to join in the reverence of the moment? When they lie down on the grass, they are only aware of movement, of their mingling breaths, of his hands on her body, of her hands pulling his face against her bosom, of shifting, of settling, of drawing up of her legs, of the bird of paradise calling in more melodious tones than the most beautiful human voice, of finally crying gutturally, grunting incoherently as they claw, bite, score, kiss, merge. He reaches into her, discovers her deepest, innermost mysteries and she welcomes his lack of control, the way his face contorts into something shapeless, yet irrefutably Chakotay. Kathryn grasps blindly as she tries to find something in the vortex of passion to hold on to, her fingers crushing clumps of grass, breaking...breaking, knuckles white as she is lifted somewhere. She knows not where. Only the smell - ironically not the bruised blades of grass, but cloves - draws her back to her temporary earth. Her face, like Chakotay's, twists into almost ugliness in the eye of the storm. Her eyes are wild, her mouth open, her hair matted against her damp forehead. Like someone in shock too extreme, staring with glazed eyes at death, in the throes of that death where for a moment everything coalesces into a mindless paradise of pleasure. To Chakotay, it is the final Kathryn, at her most vulnerable. He treasures her vulnerability, just as he treasures her love, their complete harmony as they are lifted down by soft clouds. He stares into her eyes, a stare that penetrates into her heart, finds the truth there. They mirror his own eyes and the truth that lies deep in his heart. Finally he kisses her in a lingering caress. He pulls her up and they take one last look at the forest, its trees, its grass, the profusion of colour, the diversity of sight and sound, shape and texture, the chaos, their stirring emotions. Kathryn places her palm against his chest, absently trailing her fingers down to his navel. A soft sigh as she relinquishes the touch. They must leave. They must leave their paradise behind, their counterfeit reality which they cosset possessively. Chakotay nods, his face wan, sombre. "Computer, end programme…" * Bright light as the holodeck is illuminated to hundred percent. They stand facing one another, still naked, with their uniforms lying about them. Slowly, reluctantly, they begin to dress. Chakotay bends down one last time to pick up his Maquis pin and her four rank pins. They lie strewn about on the holodeck floor, shiny pips stark against the gleaming smoothness. When he has collected them all, she takes his and pins it on his collar. Then, just as he had when he removed her pips, he begins to pin each one back, slowly, soberly. They stand like they did eons ago when the magic of New Earth was over, waiting for Voyager to beam them aboard. Stiffly, hands at their sides. Kathryn takes one last look around her, same as she knows Chakotay is doing. The grid mocks them, the floor with its grey-to-black and yellow rectangles and the walls with their diamond shapes, the panels lit by light sources. They blink from the glare of those lights. Ugly, real, normal, Voyager. Kathryn leaves first, then Chakotay, staring at the holodeck doors, hesitates, sighs, then makes his exit. In the morning they sit in their command chairs. The day has begun. Between their chairs the console that joins them, separates them. They look at the main viewscreen, thinking of their time together. Each one immersed in thought. Their loving had been shattering, all consuming; their bodies still recording late surges of desire, still sensing the pull. Once, she turns to glance at him, but his attention is on what Tom is doing at the conn. No sigh escapes this time. They sink into thoughts of their past passion, of images of clawing, straining bodies, open mouths, breaths mingling, stripped of all boundaries. They think of the seductive way in which Chakotay removed each rank pip, of the way Kathryn touched his chest, feeling the spirals of sensual energy passing through them. She thinks of the smell of grass, of cloves, hears the cry of the bird of paradise with its brilliant yellow plumage. He thinks of how he entered her body in a strong thrust, hearing her moan of capitulation as she welcomed him. Again, he sees how he cupped her breasts, how Kathryn's fingers dug not into his back like always, but the grass. She sees again his strength, his gleaming nude body, well toned, quivering in readiness, uncoiling…joining… But they never speak of it. Once, long ago, she had gone to the holodeck in search of peace, and she found Chakotay there. They made love, without once speaking of that love, without once speaking. They always leave silently, just as they enter silently, instinctively knowing that words are inconvenient, time consumers that, absent, leaves them with only the wordless expression of love. Sometimes months pass before they find their way to their created paradise. Then for months, they could feed on what they shared. It has to serve them for now, for now it's all they have, all they can allow. They dare not contemplate how long this will continue. *** END vanhunks November 2004 NewMessage: