Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité


By Britta

Chakotay woke up with a sense of foreboding. It was only 0400, but he knew it was Bastille Day; a holiday Tom particularly favored. His own knowledge of French history was very fuzzy, and because of that, only the most dramatic images and words came to mind. And they scared him.
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Even though he'd put the kibosh, with the flat of his hand, on any 'public' celebrations between the two of them forevermore, he was still nervous at what Tom might come up with today. He rolled over and silently dialed up the lights a notch hoping to get a chance to watch Tom sleep.
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It was a useful way to gauge the younger man's mood and tension level, and he tried to take advantage of it when he could. However, this time he was unsuccessful in that he encountered Tom staring back at him.
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"Good morning," said Chakotay lightly.
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Tom didn't answer; the wide-awake blue eyes didn't blink either.
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Chakotay began to wonder if Tom was sleeping with his eyes open again. He never did figure out how to do that, but he was aware that Tom could, and it unnerved him no end. After a few moments of silence, he knew he was correct. Letting out a deep breath, he turned Tom's head to face him and snuggled down beside his lover.
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Then he waited until Tom blinked. It was a long time in coming and Chakotay thought it was surprising that Tom's eyes didn't dry out. But maybe Tom sneaked in a blink when he, himself blinked. Who knew? Satisfied that Tom really slept, Chakotay yawned, settled comfortably into the bedclothes, and slipped into a dream....

~~~~~~~~~~

It was chaos. Everywhere. Throngs of people shouting, shoving each other, and getting in his way. Damn, this was a problem he didn't need.
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Chakotay knew only one thing: he had to save his lover from the sharp blade of the guillotine. Running through the streets, crowded with commoners, he pushed his way between them, his heart nearly bursting with the effort to get to the Bastille and rescue Tom, who'd had the bad fortune to be born into the aristocracy.
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If only he could get them both to Chakotay's homeland, they would be safe. His emotions overtook his reason and he plowed forward with the determination of a musketeer, absently rubbing the spot on his chest where his communicator would be, if he'd had one.
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After hours of fighting his way to the worst prison on the continent, it was nearly sunrise. He finally wielded his sword and advanced to the front of the gates. God help him, he would save his beloved or die beside him! With a roar, he plunged into the fray....

~~~~~~~~~~

Tom woke to Chakotay thrashing around in bed so hard he flopped onto the floor. A moment later Tom called for more light only to see a look of anguish cross Chakotay's face. Reaching down, he touched Chakotay's cheek gently and whispered, "Wake up. You're having a nightmare."
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Shocked brown eyes locked onto his own and suddenly Tom was pulled down into an iron embrace with Chakotay's hands grabbing his head tightly and yanking at his hair. "It's real. You're real. Tom?" Fingers and lips ran around his neck as if making sure his head was still attached to the rest of him.
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Uncomfortable, chilly, and confused, Tom grumbled, "What?" as he struggled to his feet then hauled Chakotay up and back into bed. God, the weird things he had to put up with....
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Chakotay burrowed under the blanket only to roughly catalog each part of Tom's body. Tom felt Chakotay's tension emanating from every single touch. It must have been a doozy of a dream, he thought, as he began to doze off again.
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Just as Tom was about to hit that wonderful state where nothing could better the oncoming rest, Chakotay resurfaced and demanded, "Tom, tell me what you have planned for Bastille Day."
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He cuddled, rubbing his chin on Chakotay's shoulder and mumbled, "Nothing."
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"Are you sure?" Chakotay's hand came up behind his head and gripped tightly.
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"Ow! Let go! What is your problem, Chakotay?" Tom tried to glare but he was just too damned sleepy to do it properly.
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Looking somewhat contrite, Chakotay replied softly, "I had a bad dream."
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"No shit." Tom then opened his eyes enough to see that Chakotay was still disturbed by it. He squeezed his lover as hard as he could then asked, "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"
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Chakotay leaned in for a kiss and shuddered. "Promise me you won't ever wear a powdered wig."

THE END

Comments? Suggestions?
E-mail me at Britta