Chapter Text
When Chakotay lands on Helenum IV with Janeway and Neelix to discuss trading for what Neelix claims are very nutritious tubers, he can’t help noticing the fat bumblebee-like insects that seems to buzz all around them, covered in pollen. “You have a very fertile planet,” he tells the trader.
The trader beams. “Yes, we’re well-known for our ability to grow almost anything! It’s thanks to our genetically-engineered bees.” A bee lands on Chakotay’s hand and busily cleans its face; another does the same to Janeway. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the crops that we have available for trade.”
Chakotay starts to feel a little dizzy as they walk. Suddenly, the Doctor comms, “Captain, Commander, I’m afraid I need you both to transport back to Voyager immediately. We’ve detected some very concerning and fast-acting pathogens. We’ll beam down another pilot to assist Mr. Neelix with the trade.”
They exchange glances as they’re beamed up—directly to sickbay. “I’ve erected a Level 10 forcefield around this area,” the Doctor says. “Unfortunately, the transporter was unable to filter out the pathogen.”
Tom Paris scans them both with a tricorder. “It’s as we suspected, Doctor. The only treatment is a decon chamber.”
“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on here?” Janeway’s tone hasn’t reached angry, but’s she’s definitely annoyed.
“Mr. Paris was monitoring all three of your life signs while on the planet, as part of his medical training. He noticed that you and Commander Chakotay had suddenly developed unusual symptoms. The symptoms are consistent with a pathogen that, among other things, lowers inhibitions. It seemed best to return you to the ship. We began researching treatments immediately.”
Tom brandishes a PADD and Chakotay immediately has a bad feeling about this. Janeway staggers the slightest bit—she must be feeling the dizziness too—and he braces her with one hand. “We haven’t found anything in modern medical treatments. But when the original Enterprise set out on its mission, it contained a decontamination chamber that used a combination of ultraviolet light and certain medical gels to deal with pathogens such as this.”
“A decontamination chamber.” He’s heard the stories. When Chakotay looks at Tom, Tom won’t quite meet his eyes.
“We’re replicating the appropriate gels now. I believe Lieutenant Torres is constructing the chamber itself. You’ll be beamed there are soon as it’s ready. Until then—” The Doctor gives them each a hypospray. “That should help with the dizziness.”
It’s not long before they’re both transported into a room smaller than one of the shuttles, containing two benches and a small shelf. Two cups of iridescent gel sit on the shelf. There are long windows on either side, but it’s still unpleasantly small. The Doctor pops up on a screen. “Now, you’ll need to spread the gel thoroughly.”
“Do we need to remove all of our clothing, Doctor?” Janeway picks up one of the cups.
“Based on Mr. Paris’s research and the efficacy of the gel when exposed to ultraviolet light, you can keep what’s necessary to—preserve modesty.” The Doctor is strangely squeamish about some things. “But you should fully expose the rest of your skin.”
Janeway meets Chakotay’s eyes. “Well,” she says. She sets the cup of gel back down and begins undressing. She does it efficiently, like everything else she does—shoes off, then uniform top, undershirt, socks, pants, all folded neatly on one of the benches. Her eyes are very bright in the dim light. Chakotay forces himself to look away, but he can feel her gaze and finds that his limbs feel awkward and ungainly as he undresses.
“All right, now the gel.” Chakotay had almost forgotten the Doctor’s presence. “It’s important to be very thorough, so you’ll need to assist each other. When you’re done, activate the ultraviolet light and leave it on for at least ten minutes. I’ll check in on you then.”
It’s almost hypnotic, watching Janeway rub the gel into her skin—her face, her stomach, just under the edges of her bra—as he spreads it carelessly on himself, trying not to focus on the sensation too closely. “Here,” Janeway says. “Turn around and I’ll get your back.”
He startles at the feeling of her slick hands on him. The gel is body-temperature, and she rubs it into his skin in broad swaths, across his shoulders, sweeping along his back, and then dipping just below the waistband of his briefs, just far enough down that his hips jerk the tiniest bit. She works her way all the way around to the front and he’s dizzy from something else entirely as she lifts her hands from the waistband and runs them all the way up his chest, casually brushing her thumbs over his nipples. This is far beyond what he’d imagined when they were told to assist each other. He keeps his eyes closed like a coward to keep from meeting hers as she does it, opening them only when she crouches down in front of him to massage the gel into his thighs. He finds that his legs are actually shaking with the effort of keeping still. If she leaned forward another two inches—if she reached into his briefs with her soft slick hand—
When she stands, she says, “Your turn,” and presents him with the expanse of her back. She pulls her bra straps of each shoulder and he—daring beyond what he should—unfastens the bra entirely to spread the gel over all her skin. The gel makes her pale skin shine and it takes him two slippery tries to re-fasten the bra and pull the straps up gently. The only sounds are their breathing and the quiet wet noise of skin on skin. When he follows her example and spreads the gel all the way down to her hips, rolling her waistband down just slightly to get beneath it, her hears Janeway’s breath catch. He pauses, but when she doesn’t pull away, he continues, letting his hands follow the same path that hers did on his body. In front of her, he finds that she’s closed her eyes—all the better for her to pretend later that this never happened. When he reaches her bra, he slides his fingers beneath the cups to spread the gel on the undersides of her breasts, over and around on the sides, across the tops—he leaves only her nipples untouched, some kind of mad torment to them both, and he can see how hard she’s breathing. The—pathogen, it must be affecting them.
Chakotay kneels before her to rub the gel into each thigh, down her legs, and when he’s done and still on his knees in front of her, he can’t help leaning forward and just—resting his forehead against her stomach, breathing hard. His hands are on her hips and it wouldn’t take much to drag her underwear down—with his fingers, maybe with his teeth. Janeway slides her hand into his short hair and grips tight, holding his head in place, nose just brushing the waistband of her underwear, his breath hot a scant distance below. He’s noticed she likes to pull his hair like that, to move him wherever she wants him. How he wants to slide even just a finger beneath the fabric and feel how wet she must be—
“Computer,” Janeway says. “Activate ultraviolet light.” Her voice sounds so unlike her that for a moment, Chakotay can’t understand what she’s saying. Then the ultraviolet light turns on and it’s even more overwhelming, like they’re all alone at night on an alien planet. She spreads her legs just slightly more and he takes it as an invitation. He slides his fingers very, very slowly across one thigh, so that she can pull away at any moment, and then works them into her underwear. She’s dripping wet, messy and hot, so much hotter than the rest of her skin. When he touches her she makes a kind of high-pitched noise and tightens her grip in his hair. Chakotay rubs his knuckles back and forth against her, over and over, never quite enough for her—her hips hitch and she rocks against his hand—and he never allows himself to slide a finger inside her as he desperately wants to do. Can't even let himself think of what else he wants to do.
The computer chimes and the ultraviolet light turns off. It gives them just enough warning to separate as best they can before the Doctor re-appears on the viewscreen. “Captain, Commander, how are you feeling? Mr. Paris suggested that I give you another ten minutes in the chamber, but your vital signs are very elevated despite the fact that the pathogen appears to have disappeared from your bodies.”
Chakotay shakes his head. He feels like he’s emerging from some kind of dream state. Almost unthinkingly, he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them, and he hears Janeway’s strangled gasp before she says, “Thank you, Doctor. And please thank Lieutenants Torres and Paris for their—quick thinking, in solving this problem. If you don’t mind, I think it would be best if you transported us both to our quarters to—clean up a bit from all this gel.”
“Of course,” the Doctor says. “But I’d like you both to come to sickbay for further examination once you have, just to make sure that everything is all right.”
When the familiar glow of the transport beam fades away, he’s not in his own quarters. They’ve both been transported into Janeway’s quarters. There’s a moment when she looks him up and down—slick all over from the gel, hard and wearing nothing but his underwear—and it’s the first time their eyes have met this entire time. It’s electric. He has to clench both of his hands into fists just to keep himself from reaching down and gripping himself, from doing something insane like walking closer to her.
She asks, “Computer, is there anyone in the hallway?”
“Negative.”
The message is clear. “Captain,” Chakotay says, and half-runs out the doors of her quarters and inside his own next door. Once inside, he finds himself stumbling to the wall that separates their quarters, bracing himself against it and furiously stroking himself until he comes. He can’t stop whatever word it is that he groans when he does.