Chapter Text
He replicates the mushrooms and borrows a back corner of Neelix’s kitchen to make the soup. Janeway leans against the wall next to him, arms folded, and watches him cook. “I thought you were going to replicate this,” she says. Her voice is curious rather than critical.
“This is a soup you make when you don’t have a replicator. Really, it’s against the spirit to make it with anything replicated, but it’s also about making the soup with what you have, and on a starship…”
“Is there a recipe?” The mess hall is quiet, mostly deserted, but she keeps her voice low anyway. It’s hardly a secret, their dinners together, but something about it feels—private to him. And to her as well, apparently.
“Not really. This is—a Maquis dish. Because you can make it almost anywhere.”
“Oh?” Her entire demeanor has become very gentle at the mention of the Maquis, as though he’s a skittish horse.
“We traveled to a lot of different places. Planets, moons, places that were barely habitable. But if there’s one universal constant, it’s that most places produce some form of fungus.”
That startles a laugh out of Janeway. “Poisonous, too.”
“Yes,” he says, and can’t help a smile. “We relied on the advice of the locals, generally. And tricorders. And trial and error, occasionally. B’Elanna can tell you about that.”
“I hope this soup won’t contain any trial-and-error mushrooms.” Janeway sips her wine. Since he’s insisted that she join him for the cooking process, she’s brought a bottle along. Occasionally, she hands him her glass for a drink rather than pouring a second glass. They’re most of the way through the bottle by now.
“None,” he assures her. “Or at least, these were all tried on Earth quite a long time ago.” There’s something viscerally comforting about the smell of mushrooms cooking in fat, especially when the mushrooms are chanterelles and the fat is butter. “You’ll like it, I promise. At least as much as I like whatever comes out of your replicator.” Janeway makes an insulted noise but hands him the glass of wine. He takes it and manages to splash a little bit of hot butter on his uniform, shrugs and pulls the uniform shirt off and sets it aside. He’ll put a fresh one on before they eat, if either of them cares enough to mention it.
“Can we taste it now?” Janeway asks. She reclaims the glass of wine and finishes it, then empties the bottle into it.
“Go ahead, but be careful. It’s hot.”
She sidles closer and dips her finger into the pan. She scoops up a bit, but instead of tasting it herself, she offers her finger to Chakotay.
Chakotay is already warm from the stove and from the wine, but that’s nothing compared to the heat that shoots through him now. He doesn’t let himself think about whether it’s a good idea, only leans forward to take her finger into his mouth. Janeway keeps her eyes fixed on him as he does, as he spends far too long tracing the tongue over her fingertip. When he pulls away, he sees her exhale the slightest bit, like she was holding her breath. He’s the only person who’s going to get hurt here but he can’t stop himself, dips two fingers into the pan and holds them out to Janeway.
He feels like he’s on fire when she begins to suck his fingers. It’s barely a pretense at the idea that she’s tasting the soup, the way she swirls her tongue around his fingers, even bobs her head a little as she does it, and her intent is blatant—isn’t it? He’s struck with a vivid vision—Janeway on her knees, here in the kitchen, sucking his cock. Maybe she would pin his hips back against the wall so he couldn’t move, go as slow as she wanted until he begged her to let him come, or maybe she’d pull him closer, encourage him to thrust a little, let him tangle his hands in her hair and hold her there as he got his cock as far down her throat as she would take. And when he came, maybe she would swallow it all, or maybe she’d pull away just enough that he’d come on her chest, watch it trickle down the curve of her breast—he can almost see himself wiping a drop off one nipple and offering her his finger to suck again—
“The soup—” Janeway releases his fingers and he jumps out of the daydream. The liquid is evaporating, steam billowing, and he hurries to add more broth. She’s very red and he’s half-hard and it’s going to be a long evening, if this is where they’re starting out.
“Sorry.” His voice is wrecked and she must know what he was imagining. “I’ll try not to burn it.”
“I would have to put you on report.” She takes a large gulp of wine and holds up the empty bottle. “I’m going to get another bottle. Don’t spoil dinner while I’m gone.
He underestimates how long it will take to cook the soup, because he’s putting a lot more effort into it than the—fungus stew, to put it generously—that they used to eat on any particular rock. And because he keeps getting distracted by Janeway. They’re in her quarters now, working on the second bottle of wine along with the soup and some bread that he replicated. “You weren’t going to bake me bread too?” Janeway tastes the final version of the soup and says, almost surprised, “This is very good.”
“You knew I could cook.” The warmth suffusing him isn’t entirely from the wine. Or the hot soup. Or the daydreams.
“By programming a replicator, yes.” Her cheeks are flushed as she takes another spoonful. “But now I’m thinking that I’ll make Neelix my first officer and promote you to cook.”
“Oh, no,” Chakotay says. He dips a piece of bread into the soup. Maybe it’s not the right way to eat it now, but it tastes good and it’s what they used to do. “My repertoire is limited. Imagine the crew’s reaction on the fourth day of mushroom soup.”
“I suspect they’d like it as much as I do,” she says, and she follows his example with the bread, ends up sucking a few drops of soup off her forefinger. He tries not to think about the way he imagined her with her lips wrapped around his cock.
The room is very warm. Chakotay rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and pours himself more wine—the bottle at least is cold, set in an ice bucket. “Would you like more?” He offers her the bottle.
“We’ve gone through quite a bit of it.” He assumes that’s a no, but she takes the bottle from his hand and refills both of their glasses. “I suppose gamma shift can always stay on duty a little longer in the morning. They could use the practice.”
He breaks into a grin at that. “Practice sitting at the helm, knowing that at the first sign of danger one of us will be out on the bridge?”
“You didn’t practice that, when you were a young officer?” She looks a little dreamy. “Sitting there in the captain’s chair on gamma shift, tasked with the conn, when suddenly a crisis would strike and somehow you’d be the only one to take command?”
“No, not that I recall.” Funny how twenty years of Starfleet has been eclipsed in his memory by only a few years as a Maquis. “But some people are meant for command, and some people—find it accidentally.” Their bowls of soup are empty. He watches Janeway wipe the last drops out of hers with a piece of bread. “There’s more in the pot, if you want it.”
“I think I filled my stomach with wine,” she laughs. “It’ll keep. I hear soup is better the second day anyway. Something about the flavors having longer to meld.” She picks up the bottle of wine and gestures to the couch. “Come on.”
They end up in their usual positions—Janeway on the couch, him reclining in the chair catty-corner to it, the bottle of wine forgotten on the floor between them. “You and B’Elanna weren’t in—any kind of relationship before you came to Voyager, were you.” They’re both at a certain level of intoxication, where any topic—almost any topic—seems like it could be safe.
“No.” He tilts his head to look at her. “No, we only started—anything because B’Elanna thought it would be more fun than boxing to deal with—however we felt about the changes to our lives.” She makes a pleased kind of noise. “You knew.”
Janeway makes more of an attempt at a shrug than an actual shrug. “It was a suspicion.” He hears the trepidation in her voice—even after two bottles of wine—when she adds, “And after what Seska said—”
“You knew for sure, then.” He’s fuzzy enough that the mention of Seska doesn’t cause the stab of pain it usually would.
“She was real, though—the woman that you thought she was. That wasn’t a pressure release.”
“It was real for me.” Chakotay makes himself continue looking at Janeway, in defiance of his strong urge to look away. “After I learned that my family was dead—an old friend from the Academy found me. Sent me to find Seska to join the Maquis. It started then.” He takes a deep breath. “I ended it about six months before we ended up in the Delta quadrant. It was a little awkward, but we got past it.” It’s not that he thinks Janeway is suddenly going to decide that her rules don’t matter and declare her passionate love for him, but he still doesn’t want to make it sound like any kind of relationship with a subordinate is terrible. He finds himself tracing Janeway’s face with his eyes—the set of her mouth, the shape of her chin, her eyes that are so determined even now, when they’re relaxing—the fine hairs at her temples that escaped confinement in the humidity of the kitchen.
“Do I have something on my face?” she asks. It breaks him out of his reverie.
“No, nothing.”
“What are you looking at?” She sounds curious, and he wonders what kind of answer she wants.
“You. Just you.” He’s just drunk enough to say aloud, “You’re beautiful.”
Immediately, he can see that he’s made her uncomfortable. “Chakotay—” she starts.
He can’t help the frustration in his voice. “Kathryn. You’re allowed to—proposition me, but I can’t tell you you’re beautiful?”
“You turned me down,” she says. “I didn’t push it.”
“I see. And if I’d said yes to what you suggested, that purely physical emotion-free arrangement, would I be allowed to say it then? Or would you have asked me to stay quiet when we were together, to make sure I didn’t accidentally say anything that sounded too emotionally involved?”
“It would be inappropriate. It’s inappropriate.” Her voice is raspier than usual.
“We’re alone. We’re going to be alone for however long it takes to get back to the Alpha quadrant, and odds are that’s going to be years, if not decades—no, I know you believe you’ll find a way to get back there earlier, and if anyone can, it’s you, but it’s not—likely.” He realizes that Seska made an argument very much like this to him. “It’s one thing to say you’re going to adhere to the Prime Directive, to do things the Starfleet way, but you’re telling me that you’ll bend the rules enough to have a strictly sexual relationship with me, but not that one step further?”
They both freeze at what he’s almost said aloud. “I have a fiancé,” she says finally.
Chakotay stares at her. “You’re splitting hairs. At the end of this, however long this is, you’re going to—pretend like nothing has changed and marry him?”
“I understand that you’re upset because you’re—emotionally vulnerable right now,” she starts, and it’s the first time he can recall her being cruel.
“No.” He stands up slowly. Amazing, how quickly he can slip into the numbness when he needs its protection. “No. You’re not going to say that to me.”
She doesn’t stand up, but he sees the way her body starts to, the way she restrains herself. “I don’t know what more you want from me,” she says, and if ever there was a lie that’s it. “I offered—what I have to give. That’s all. We could do something we both enjoy, but keep it—separate. From everything else.”
“Maybe you could. But how could I possibly do that and not fall in love with you?” The words spill out softly, too quiet in this room that’s echoing with their almost-yelling. She stares at him, eyes wide, but she doesn’t say anything, and finally he walks out the door.