Author's note: This is a canon consistent look at the relationship between Tom and Chakotay. No B'Elanna, but it's a P/T story all the way. You could consider this an "episode" that takes place between Scientific Method and The Year of Hell (early season 4). All standard disclaimers about me not owning anything apply.

"Did you have something to say, Lieutenant?"

Tom Paris considered how best to answer this, as he was essentially trapped under the busted nav console he was working on and couldn't escape quickly if the need arose. A few weeks ago, it wouldn't have been such a loaded question, but his relationship with the first officer seemed to have soured recently.

The problem was, Tom had no idea why. Sure, when Voyager was first stuck in the Delta Quadrant, Chakotay thought of him as the traitorous drunken mercenary he'd hired to fly for the Maquis. And then, of course, there was the time the Captain used Tom to flush out Jonas, and pushing Chakotay's buttons had been (a not unwelcome, to be honest) part of his cover. There was also the fact that the first officer took everything so damn seriously, and Tom… Actually, Tom took a fair number of things seriously, but he preferred that as few people knew that as possible. When people thought you didn't give a shit, it was a lot harder to disappoint them. But that attitude meant he butted heads with Chakotay on a regular basis. Really, he thought, chuckling to himself, why shouldn't the first officer hate his guts?

But Chakotay, as inflexible and humorless as he could be at times, was nothing if not ridiculously fair. And so after over three years of working together, and Tom not fucking up overly badly or often, he and the commander had…well, no one would call it a friendship, but certainly a cordial working relationship. Until the last few weeks.

"I'm talking to you, Paris!"

Discretion being the better part of valor, it was probably best that Tom not tell Chakotay what he had just muttered under his breath in frustration. Yup, definitely better to keep his mouth shut. Or just claim he hadn't said anything of consequence.

"I said," Tom called out loudly, apparently possessed by a stupider version of himself, "Why don't we just take them out and find out whose is biggest once and for all?" Hmm. A stupider version of himself with a deathwish, no less.

A shadow passed over him, and Tom could have sworn the shuttle floor sank a few centimeters under Chakotay's greater weight. "Excuse me, Mr. Paris?" It sounded like the man chewed up the words and spit out the remains.

Mind whirring as to how to backpedal as efficiently as possible, Tom slowly contorted his upper body until it was out from under the console and held up the tool in his hand for Chakotay to see. "The hyperspanners. If you have a larger one, it might be better for this repair." See, Self, this is why you stopped drinking so much. It's a lot easier to talk yourself out of trouble when you're sober. Tom regarded the man looming over him with the most innocent expression he could muster. "What did you think I was talking about?"

Chakotay glared at him, eyes narrowed. Then, fortunately for Tom, he decided that this wasn't a fight worth pursuing and walked away with a grunt and a gesture towards the tool kit.

Tom made a face at his commander's retreating back, and extricated the rest of his tall frame out from beneath the console. As he switched out the hyperspanner in his hand for the larger one in the kit, he cursed his best friend's name for what must have been the tenth time in the past hour. Because it really was all Harry's fault that he was stuck on this stupid ill-fated mission in this stupid broken-down shuttle with his stupid grumpy XO as his only company for the foreseeable future. First of all, Harry was the one who noticed this little out of the way L class planet that might have significant amounts of a mineral that was maybe similar enough to gallicite to be usable. Second of all, he was also the one that said the storms over the continent of interest were bad enough to warrant sending Voyager's best pilot out with the first officer to do the initial survey. Third, he was the one who didn't notice that the storms produced weird, electrified hailstones the size of baseballs. They were like lightning bolts in boulder form, and they beat the crap out of the Sacajawea - both the hull and her computer systems. Fun times.

So they weren't even supposed to land on the planet, and Tom was supposed to be back in plenty of time for his date with B'Elanna; instead he spent a tense fifteen minutes trying to dodge lightning rocks with a failing navigation system. Landing the shuttle had been so difficult that he was grateful just to get them on the ground with no significant injuries and the Sacajawea not irreparably damaged.

One would think his passenger would feel the same way. One would think his passenger would in fact be appreciative of the level of skill his pilot needed to possess in order to get them safely out of that mess. One would think that appreciation would translate to a certain level of civility and forbearance. One would be wrong on seemingly all counts.

It started out as a comment on his choice of landing site, (Like I had a choice! Tom thought to himself). Perhaps the Lieutenant could have chosen a spot that wasn't directly in the center of the still raging storm? Then it became a critique of which repairs Tom chose to prioritize. Is there some reason the Lieutenant thinks that having navigation would be helpful when the sensors are still off line? Then it was the way Tom was working. If the Commander wanted to listen to the Lieutenant's singing, he'd be sure to let him know. When Chakotay then asked him how he managed to make the hyperspanner emit such an annoying whine, Tom had just about had it. That's when his frustrated muttering started. For Christ's sake, it was like it was their first week in the Delta Quadrant all over again.

Tom was debating the wisdom of asking the man if there was some specific reason for the stick up his ass, just to finally get it out in the open and consequences be damned, when Chakotay barked another order at him, "Paris! I think I've found all the fried relays. Check to see if sensors are functioning."

"Aye, sir," Tom said, as he un-pretzeled himself from beneath the console once again. Because God forbid you walk the two meters across the shuttle to check yourself. It's not like I'm doing anything important over here, trying to fix the systems that actually make this thing fly. Tom tapped a few buttons on the sensor display. "Yup, you've got 'em. Short range and long range sens... Fuck!"

"Language, Paris! You're a Starfleet officer!"

"Yeah, well, we're both going to be pancakes in about five minutes if we don't get out of here!" Tom yelled back at him as he started grabbing what equipment he could. "The rock face immediately above us just got hit by a 2 meter wide lightning...rock...thing. It's unstable and could collapse anytime!"

"Shit," Chakotay said, and grabbed a nearby medkit. Tom successfully fought an urge to point out the other man's cursing, the threat of imminent death generally being an effective deterrent to smart ass comments. They both paused at the rear hatch of the shuttle.

"It's not much safer for us out there than it is in here," Tom said to the older man.

"I'll take possible death over almost certain death any day, wouldn't you?" Chakotay responded. "Let's go."

That's the most civil thing he's said to me in days, Tom thought absently as he helped the commander manually open the hatch. The two men stepped out into the storm.