Truth and Dare

Truth and Dare
by VoyWriter

From a story of a similar name by YCD and fully mused by her. It has edges from
my story War Crimes, too, but is not a sequel – more a continuing. I urge you to
read War Crimes, then Killing Time by YCD, then this story as it will add a lot to
your understanding. This is rated R, maybe more and describes in not too graphic
detail consenting sex between two adult males.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the rights and title to everything Trek but my ideas
and presentation of them. Feel free to distribute this via email with all comments
intact and without revision.

email comments to

Chakotay caught up with Tom Paris after his shift as the younger man was
heading down the corridor to Sandrines.

“Tom. I wanted to ask you about something you said a couple of weeks ago. It’s
been bothering me.”

“I didn’t mean it whatever it was,” Paris shot back.

“Would you mind coming to my quarters? Or we can use one of the briefing
rooms if you’re more comfortable there.”

He studied Chakotay. This seemed serious. The First Officer’s expression was
guarded, a bit withdrawn.

“Ok,” he agreed slowly. “And your quarters are fine,” Tom decided was the
appropriate answer. This obviously was not a public matter.

They were seated at the small table in his quarters which Chakotay used for meals
or work or both. A pot of tea sat on the table. And a mug of beer. That was Tom’s.

He took a sip and stared at Chakotay. “So what’s so important? You look a little
shook up – if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I do mind.”

“So it’s going to be like that. Great. I thought we were over all that crap.”

Chakotay pressed his lips together. “When we were – on the planet – you told
there had been rapes – by Maquis members. That you knew of them from your
time in the Maquis.”

“Yeah. And you said not on your watch.”

“You were serious.”

Tom stared at him. “You knew what Seska and Dolby were up to. Hell Suder told
me more than once that he was just following your orders.”

“And you believed him.”

“I did at the time.”

“And now?”

Paris paused. “I’d wager a month’s replicator rations that there’s not one thing that
happens on Voyager you don’t know about – close to the truth?”

“Close enough.”

“So how do you want me to answer that? Either you’re a fool or some kind of
sick…” Paris stopped.

“I didn’t know.”


“Okay you believe me?”

“Okay – I don’t know. Why is it so important I believe you?”

“It’s not.”

“So you just want me to make you feel better? Well, it didn’t happen, Chakotay. I
made it up. I was just trying to get a reaction out of you. There. Is that better.”

“Now I don’t believe *you*.”

“Why don’t you try telling me what you did know about,” Paris suggested.

He rose and crossed the room, leaning casually against the First Officer’s work

“Truth or dare, Chakotay. Ready for another round?”

“I’m not in the mood for games, Paris.”

“Oh this is no game, Commander,” Tom drawled. “This just a way to let you off
easy. I’ll even let you pick truth or dare after I ask the question.”

“That kind of makes the whole game pointless doesn’t it?”

“It let’s you tell me as much or as little as you want.”

“I just want an answer to my question.”

“I answered your question. There were rapes. I never saw one. But I know it for a
fact. I can be a witness at your trial when we get home. If we ever get home.”

“Dammit Paris, I wasn’t there! I didn’t know.”


Now Chakotay rose and paced, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

He was a big man. A powerful man. Yet he had never used his strength against
any member of the Voyager crew – Maquis crew either – at least as far as Paris
knew. Tom could appreciate that. But he also knew that people could change –
hell he had. So who knows what or who Chakotay really was when he was with
the Maquis. Something different than this usually calm, spiritual man who
seconded Janeway’s command. Of that Tom was sure.

“How many people did you kill?” Paris wondered.

Chakotay looked like he was going to blast him then said. “Personally or with a


“Good because I can’t answer the other.”

“So how many?”

“Eighty four.”

“You killed eighty four people…!”

“You asked.”

“And you kept count?”

“I kept count.”

“How did you kill them?”

“Most of them – close range phaser blast. One with my hands. Another with a full
body block. A few in less clean ways.” He took his place back at the table, cupped
his mug of tea in his hands.

“Did you torture any of them first?”

He saw Chakotay’s eyes flicker. Dark to dark obsidian and back again.

“Truth or dare.”

“I told you I’m not playing that game.”

“So you did.” He whistled. “Captain know about this little breach of protocol?”

“She knows something.”

“Did you talk about it on the planet?”

“What we talked about is none of your business. And no, I didn’t tell her about it

“So you didn’t talk about it?

“Are you going to tell me what you know?”

“It just seems like a pretty big topic to just ignore or gloss over. And you did have
all that time… What did you do with it all anyway?”

“Drop it, Paris.” Chakotay warned sharply. There was genuine anger in his eyes
now, and his voice was a level colder.

Chakotay spoke slowly now, deliberating pacing his voice as if it could pace the
anger that drove it. “I want to know what you know about the rapes.”

“What’s the point? So you can add another little burden of guilt to your back

Chakotay just glared.

“What if I told you I was raped?” Paris wondered.

“Were you?”

“Not then.”


“Are we playing the game now?”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I don’t mind. No. I never was. Were you?”

There was no answer. Chakotay picked up his mug of tea.

“Jesus – you were!”

“I wasn’t.”

“Something shook you up there.”

“This was a bad idea. Drink your beer and get out of here.”

“What do you know? What is it that’s eating your gut? What is it that my
comment on the planet got stirred up?”

“I saw one.”

“You saw a rape?”

Chakotay stared into his mug of tea, at the wall, out the viewport – anywhere to
avoid looking at Paris.

“The Cardassians raped Lon Suder. They made me watch.”

“You couldn’t close your eyes?”

Chakotay closed them now.

Tom saw some horribly deep expression of rage and guilt reflected in them before
they closed completely. God. Chakotay was really shaken. Tom moved back to
the table and put his hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. It explains a lot about Suder though. They’re bastards for making you

“The Cardassians are experts at torture. It’s all in the choice of weapon.”

“I never knew you were a prisoner of the Cardassians,” Tom realized.

“It’s in the past.”

“Like hell it is. It’s breathing right here in front of me.”

“Leave it alone.”

Tom crouched down before him. He knew what a man in pain looked like – he’d
looked in that mirror himself for a lot of years before Janeway rescued him from
it all – and this was a man in pain. Paris placed his hands on Chakotay’s thighs,
looked up into his face.

To his credit, Chakotay did not flinch or move away at the contact. He knew help
when he saw it – and he needed help with this one. Anything else he’d go to
Janeway. Anything but this. She was still not comfortable with what little she did
know of his time in the Maquis.

“What happened to Lon wasn’t your fault.”

“We had been pretty casual about our methods, too,” Chakotay told him. “What
you say happened might have happened. I wanted to know the truth.”

“You should have asked Seska.”

“I did. She said whatever I wanted to hear or served her purpose.”

“I guess she would.”

Paris took his chair back. “The thing with Lon. How long…”

“Several hours.”


Chakotay reached for his tea. His hand was shaking. Just a little. Imperceptible –
except to Paris. He covered it with his own, guided it past the tea to the beer.


“It will make you feel better.”

“No it won’t.”

“What will then?”

Chakotay flicked his eyes up to meet Paris’ gaze and then back down again.

“You can’t tell her about this, can you?” Paris said.

“Hell no I can’t.”

“But you need her to hold you – run her hand down your cheek, tell you it’s okay.”

Chakotay pushed abruptly from the table. “Enough Paris,” he growled. He walked
to the viewport, his arms wrapped around himself.

Paris watched for a moment then followed. He stood behind Chakotay a moment
and then slipped his arms around the other man and pulled Chakotay’s back tight
against his chest, laid his head against Chakotay’s shoulder blade. He could see
their reflection in the black expanse of space in the viewport. Chakotay’s
expression was unreadable.

They stood like that for a few seconds, maybe more. Then Chakotay pulled away,
moved closer to the viewport, rested his head against the coolness of the plasteel,
his hands on either side of the viewport frame.

Tom gave him a moment, then came to him again. This time he could feel
Chakotay shake. The muscles rippled and then relaxed. Then again. Tom pushed
his way in front and tipped Chakotay’s head up, his hands mingling with the
falling tears. It was sheer loneliness. A secret kept too long. Maybe even more to
the story. Things he would never hear.

Tom knew that by rights Janeway should be here. Comforting him. Holding him.
But telling her would reveal too much – too much about the wars, too much about
Chakotay’s own personal hell. Their relationship was too fragile, too clean, for

Tom half directed, half led Chakotay to the bed, pushed him gently onto the edge
and sat beside him. Chakotay put his head in his hands. His breathing was ragged.
The eye of the storm. More to come.

Tom reached up and touched his cheek, one hand along one cheek. Chakotay
pushed it aside.

“I know. I’m not her,” Tom said gently. “I’m sorry for that. But I can help you let
go of this, if you let me.” He gave it a minute and then touched his finger to the
cheek again. This time there was no resistance.

Tom drew him down then, onto the bed, and held him in a lover’s embrace,
Chakotay’s head on his shoulder, arms wrapped around him. Chakotay curled his
legs up tight. Protective.

The storm came again. More furious this time. Less control.

Tom stroked his face. His back. Pulled him closer. Chakotay fell asleep – the half
drugged sleep of someone spent with grief.

He looked battered almost. It would make anyone with any ounce of compassion
hurt for him. Tom gently met his lips to Chakotay’s tear swollen ones. Touched
them softly. Once. Twice. Again. He laid his cheek against Chakotay’s cheek.
Chakotay opened his eyes. He was a bit confused. Tom read need there. Hunger.
The desperate bid for human contact that grief wrenches from you. And Tom
could feel Chakotay’s growing erection against his thigh too. Not lust. That was
too simple.

Tom knew only one answer. He slowly disengaged himself and stripped off his
uniform then stripped off Chakotay’s and took him back in his arms.

“No.” Chakotay said hoarsely. The first thing he’d said for thirty minutes.”

“It’s ok. Let me help.”

It was not an act of lust nor love, but compassion when Tom guided Chakotay’s
hand to his own erection, turned so his back was against Chakotay’s front, raised
his legs, pressed his buttocks against Chakotay’s erection, reached back to touch
the other man.

Chakotay pressed himself slowly into Tom, ancient rhythms guiding his motions.
His mind was still bleary, but yet cognizant of both the empathy and the gift. He
collapsed in a cry of strangled emotional pain and release. Tom found his own
erection disappeared.

He reached down and pulled up the blanket from the end of the bed, ordered the
lights down and drew Chakotay close. The other man was already asleep, spent in
every way.

They slept like that.

Chakotay awoke first. He was showered and dressed by the time Paris woke up to
the smell of coffee and the sight of Chakotay at work at his desk.

Paris sat up in the bed, blanket slipping to his waist. He had no idea what to

Chakotay noticed him immediately. He brought him a cup of coffee.

“You’re on duty in 20 minutes. I’ll change your shift if you want.”

“No. I can be ready.”

“Fine.” Chakotay handed him the cup and met his gaze, deliberately opening
himself up one more time.

Paris saw relief, a little embarrassment, but mostly gratitude.

“We can say we had an all night poker game,” Paris suggested, diverting his eyes
and attention to his coffee.

“We can.”

“Or we don’t have to say anything.”

“It’s your call Paris.”



“It was a lousy thing to have happen to you.”

“What’s that?”

“The rape.”



Post a Comment

You must be logged in to post a comment.