TITLE: A Little Free Time
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
GENRE: ST: VOY
CODES: C, P (not C/P)
RATING: PG (mild language)
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns all, but sometimes I wish they'd give these fellas a little more thought than they usually do.
SUMMARY: After a friendly game of catch, Tom and Chakotay reflect on life post-Voyager. Sequel of sorts to "Paris at the Bat," but can stand alone.
A Little Free Time
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
It was a beautiful day, Tom Paris thought as he walked through the wooded area; in fact, it was probably as fine a day as any he'd seen since Voyager's precipate return to Earth. The tremendous trees of the region towered overhead, the verdant ceiling of leaves gapping just enough to reveal a stunningly blue sky dotted by stretched-cotton wisps of cloud. A soft breeze filled the air, warm, redolent, and barely sufficient to ruffle Tom's thinning blond hair.
Best of all, he noted, he had the afternoon off-duty, and a few hours to himself. And he had long since decided how he wanted to spend that time.
As he walked, Tom flipped the baseball in his hand up into the air, caught it easily, tossed it again. Not far now, to the field. He quickened his pace.
It had been sheer coincidence that he and Chakotay had found the field at the exact same time, some months ago, and sheer good luck that its contours and dimensions made it perfect for the game they both loved -- well, a two-man variant of it anyway, that being all they could assemble these days. Tom thought fondly back to the baseball games they had played back on Voyager, what seemed like years ago. Most of the ship's company had played in one competition or another: Maquis versus Starfleet, men versus women, Command versus Engineering or Sciences versus Astrogation or Deck Three versus Deck Four, or Tom couldn't remember how many other planned competitions or pick-up games. But Tom and Chakotay had been the real baseball lovers, the true believers, each man insinuating his way into every game in which he could reasonably participate, and playing support staff or cheering section for as many others as he could arrange. Aside from B'Elanna Torres, and the very different affections Tom and Chakotay felt for her, baseball had been the one great bond between them.
It was good to renew that bond, even if not as often as Tom would like, or in the most complete way he could wish.
As Tom stepped onto the field at last, the grass beneath his feet was a lush green, rich with the earthy scent of mid-summer. Hand up to shade his eyes from the brilliant sun, he scanned the area, looking for his fellow ballplayer.
As if on cue, Chakotay strode out of the woods and onto the meadow, hand moving to his tattooed forehead in unconscious imitation of Tom's gesture as he looked out over the grassy expanse. Tom waved broadly, catching his attention. Even at this distance, he could see the white flash of the other man's teeth as Chakotay smiled.
//Let the games begin!//
Water bottles were removed from belts and tossed aside, leatherlike baseball gloves and brimmed baseball caps quickly donned to make odd contrasts to each man's uniform. Chakotay set himself as Tom reared back and threw: a high, arcing toss that cleaved the blue sky before dropping neatly into the former first officer's outstretched glove. With a nod of approval, Chakotay lobbed the ball back to him in a trajectory with as much vertical to it as horizontal, but no less accurate for that.
Each man having proved his measure in their traditional fashion, it was time to make the game a bit more competitive. Tom picked out a spot some distance to Chakotay's left and aimed for it, watching with satisfaction as the other man ran to get beneath the spheroid. Chakotay's return was a long, rifling ground ball as far to Tom's left, nearly sunk to the soil before the pilot could get to it. A low-slung strike to Chakotay's right forced the big man once again to put on speed as he gave chase.
They continued that way for some time, running, throwing, testing themselves and each other to as great an extent as this particular form of competition would allow. The sheer exertion, the simple pleasure of the movement, the joy of the game against a man who was his match, satisfied Tom, made him happy in a way he could barely define -- and these days, rarely experienced. He refused to dwell on that last, keeping his mind instead on the arcs and angles and efforts of the game.
At length, though, the physical effort, under a warm afternoon sun, took its toll. Chakotay waggled a hand in request for respite, just as Tom's own hand was moving upward with the same intent. Pocketing the ball, the pilot picked up his water bottle, took a long quaff before heading to the middle of the field to meet his fellow player. Chakotay did the same.
They dropped to the ground beside one another, each man sweating, breathing a little heavily, as he took another hearty swig from his bottle. For a time, neither spoke.
Chakotay was first to break the silence. "Nice day."
"Perfect," Tom agreed.
Another pause, then, "So how's B'Elanna?"
"Fine," Tom answered automatically. "She's fine."
"Great. Miral?"
"Fine, she's fine. Bigger every minute. Gonna be walking soon." He wished he could be with her -- with them both -- right now, but of course this was not the time. //Soon,// he reminded himself. //Soon.// Keeping up his end of the conversation, he asked, "How's Seven?"
Chakotay's expression changed, to -- it might have been more accurate to call it a *lack* of expression. "We're not...together any more," he answered quietly.
"Oh," Tom said, a little startled but not especially surprised. From similar terse conversations before, he knew Voyager's return to Earth had placed a lot of strain on Chakotay's relationship with the beautiful ex-Borg -- probably too much for any nascent relationship to bear, let alone one with someone so new to the whole concept of romance. For himself, Tom was glad his bond with B'Elanna had been so firmly established before the ship made planetfall; as tumultuous as their own early relationship had been, it, too, might have failed such testing. "Too bad," he said, belatedly.
Chakotay's face relaxed into a rueful smile. "Yeah, I think so too." He turned his face toward the sky for a moment, looking off at Tom knew not what -- something, or nothing -- before glancing back to his companion. "Have you heard from anyone else from Voyager lately?"
"Harry stopped by not too long ago." //Good old Harry.// "He's got another girlfriend, believe it or not."
The other man chuckled. "Wonder what's wrong with *this* one?"
"Chakotay!" Tom exclaimed, with a show of being scandalized. Then he let himself chuckle in return. "He does have one hell of a track record, doesn't he?"
"That he does."
"Yeah, well...anyway, he said to say 'hi' to you."
"Well, 'hi' to him, too."
"So, have you heard from anyone lately?"
"The captain called the other day," Chakotay answered, more soberly.
Tom leaned forward eagerly. "What did she have to say?"
The former first officer shook his head. "Not much. She's working hard, Tom."
The surge of excitement faded. "I figured she would be. I guess she and Dad have both been busting butt ever since we got back."
"So she tells me."
They were quiet for a moment. Then the stillness was marred by a sound at once unnatural and too familiar: a low buzzing not made by any insect.
Tom looked toward his ankle automatically, though the absence of vibration already told him that the signal was not his. Chakotay's eyes went to his own anklet, and he shook his head, with a restive, frustrated look. "I have to go," he said softly, though undoubtedly both were aware that he was telling Tom no more than the pilot already knew.
"I understand." They got to their feet, gathered up their various belongings. "Next week?"
"I'll try." Each man turned toward the place where he'd first come onto the field, and walked away without another word.
As Tom entered the woods again, he thought back, wistfully, to the games he had enjoyed on Voyager. To the *life* he had enjoyed on Voyager.
Would they have been so eager to return to Earth, if they had known so many of their number -- former Maquis, parolees, and ex-Borg alike -- would end their long journey consigned to penal settlements?
//I don't know. But where else would we have gone?//
He walked back to his residential sector then, trying very hard to think of nothing at all.
END
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
GENRE: ST: VOY
CODES: C, P (not C/P)
RATING: PG (mild language)
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns all, but sometimes I wish they'd give these fellas a little more thought than they usually do.
SUMMARY: After a friendly game of catch, Tom and Chakotay reflect on life post-Voyager. Sequel of sorts to "Paris at the Bat," but can stand alone.
A Little Free Time
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
It was a beautiful day, Tom Paris thought as he walked through the wooded area; in fact, it was probably as fine a day as any he'd seen since Voyager's precipate return to Earth. The tremendous trees of the region towered overhead, the verdant ceiling of leaves gapping just enough to reveal a stunningly blue sky dotted by stretched-cotton wisps of cloud. A soft breeze filled the air, warm, redolent, and barely sufficient to ruffle Tom's thinning blond hair.
Best of all, he noted, he had the afternoon off-duty, and a few hours to himself. And he had long since decided how he wanted to spend that time.
As he walked, Tom flipped the baseball in his hand up into the air, caught it easily, tossed it again. Not far now, to the field. He quickened his pace.
It had been sheer coincidence that he and Chakotay had found the field at the exact same time, some months ago, and sheer good luck that its contours and dimensions made it perfect for the game they both loved -- well, a two-man variant of it anyway, that being all they could assemble these days. Tom thought fondly back to the baseball games they had played back on Voyager, what seemed like years ago. Most of the ship's company had played in one competition or another: Maquis versus Starfleet, men versus women, Command versus Engineering or Sciences versus Astrogation or Deck Three versus Deck Four, or Tom couldn't remember how many other planned competitions or pick-up games. But Tom and Chakotay had been the real baseball lovers, the true believers, each man insinuating his way into every game in which he could reasonably participate, and playing support staff or cheering section for as many others as he could arrange. Aside from B'Elanna Torres, and the very different affections Tom and Chakotay felt for her, baseball had been the one great bond between them.
It was good to renew that bond, even if not as often as Tom would like, or in the most complete way he could wish.
As Tom stepped onto the field at last, the grass beneath his feet was a lush green, rich with the earthy scent of mid-summer. Hand up to shade his eyes from the brilliant sun, he scanned the area, looking for his fellow ballplayer.
As if on cue, Chakotay strode out of the woods and onto the meadow, hand moving to his tattooed forehead in unconscious imitation of Tom's gesture as he looked out over the grassy expanse. Tom waved broadly, catching his attention. Even at this distance, he could see the white flash of the other man's teeth as Chakotay smiled.
//Let the games begin!//
Water bottles were removed from belts and tossed aside, leatherlike baseball gloves and brimmed baseball caps quickly donned to make odd contrasts to each man's uniform. Chakotay set himself as Tom reared back and threw: a high, arcing toss that cleaved the blue sky before dropping neatly into the former first officer's outstretched glove. With a nod of approval, Chakotay lobbed the ball back to him in a trajectory with as much vertical to it as horizontal, but no less accurate for that.
Each man having proved his measure in their traditional fashion, it was time to make the game a bit more competitive. Tom picked out a spot some distance to Chakotay's left and aimed for it, watching with satisfaction as the other man ran to get beneath the spheroid. Chakotay's return was a long, rifling ground ball as far to Tom's left, nearly sunk to the soil before the pilot could get to it. A low-slung strike to Chakotay's right forced the big man once again to put on speed as he gave chase.
They continued that way for some time, running, throwing, testing themselves and each other to as great an extent as this particular form of competition would allow. The sheer exertion, the simple pleasure of the movement, the joy of the game against a man who was his match, satisfied Tom, made him happy in a way he could barely define -- and these days, rarely experienced. He refused to dwell on that last, keeping his mind instead on the arcs and angles and efforts of the game.
At length, though, the physical effort, under a warm afternoon sun, took its toll. Chakotay waggled a hand in request for respite, just as Tom's own hand was moving upward with the same intent. Pocketing the ball, the pilot picked up his water bottle, took a long quaff before heading to the middle of the field to meet his fellow player. Chakotay did the same.
They dropped to the ground beside one another, each man sweating, breathing a little heavily, as he took another hearty swig from his bottle. For a time, neither spoke.
Chakotay was first to break the silence. "Nice day."
"Perfect," Tom agreed.
Another pause, then, "So how's B'Elanna?"
"Fine," Tom answered automatically. "She's fine."
"Great. Miral?"
"Fine, she's fine. Bigger every minute. Gonna be walking soon." He wished he could be with her -- with them both -- right now, but of course this was not the time. //Soon,// he reminded himself. //Soon.// Keeping up his end of the conversation, he asked, "How's Seven?"
Chakotay's expression changed, to -- it might have been more accurate to call it a *lack* of expression. "We're not...together any more," he answered quietly.
"Oh," Tom said, a little startled but not especially surprised. From similar terse conversations before, he knew Voyager's return to Earth had placed a lot of strain on Chakotay's relationship with the beautiful ex-Borg -- probably too much for any nascent relationship to bear, let alone one with someone so new to the whole concept of romance. For himself, Tom was glad his bond with B'Elanna had been so firmly established before the ship made planetfall; as tumultuous as their own early relationship had been, it, too, might have failed such testing. "Too bad," he said, belatedly.
Chakotay's face relaxed into a rueful smile. "Yeah, I think so too." He turned his face toward the sky for a moment, looking off at Tom knew not what -- something, or nothing -- before glancing back to his companion. "Have you heard from anyone else from Voyager lately?"
"Harry stopped by not too long ago." //Good old Harry.// "He's got another girlfriend, believe it or not."
The other man chuckled. "Wonder what's wrong with *this* one?"
"Chakotay!" Tom exclaimed, with a show of being scandalized. Then he let himself chuckle in return. "He does have one hell of a track record, doesn't he?"
"That he does."
"Yeah, well...anyway, he said to say 'hi' to you."
"Well, 'hi' to him, too."
"So, have you heard from anyone lately?"
"The captain called the other day," Chakotay answered, more soberly.
Tom leaned forward eagerly. "What did she have to say?"
The former first officer shook his head. "Not much. She's working hard, Tom."
The surge of excitement faded. "I figured she would be. I guess she and Dad have both been busting butt ever since we got back."
"So she tells me."
They were quiet for a moment. Then the stillness was marred by a sound at once unnatural and too familiar: a low buzzing not made by any insect.
Tom looked toward his ankle automatically, though the absence of vibration already told him that the signal was not his. Chakotay's eyes went to his own anklet, and he shook his head, with a restive, frustrated look. "I have to go," he said softly, though undoubtedly both were aware that he was telling Tom no more than the pilot already knew.
"I understand." They got to their feet, gathered up their various belongings. "Next week?"
"I'll try." Each man turned toward the place where he'd first come onto the field, and walked away without another word.
As Tom entered the woods again, he thought back, wistfully, to the games he had enjoyed on Voyager. To the *life* he had enjoyed on Voyager.
Would they have been so eager to return to Earth, if they had known so many of their number -- former Maquis, parolees, and ex-Borg alike -- would end their long journey consigned to penal settlements?
//I don't know. But where else would we have gone?//
He walked back to his residential sector then, trying very hard to think of nothing at all.
END