Warning:  Spoilers for Star Trek: Voyager, up to and including the season two episode Investigations. 
Disclaimer?  How about, "Dear Paramount, please let me finish this story before you sue me". 
 

"Excellent work, Mr. Paris. Plot a course for the Dal'sar system, warp 6." It was a good thing for Culluh that he couldn't see Janeway's smile. "It looks like we'll be on time after all." 

Paris swivelled back around in his chair, the grin in his voice almost tangible. "Aye, Captain." 

He passed Chakotay at the end of his shift. "Stings, doesn't it." 

"Excuse me?" 

But Paris didn't elaborate. He didn't have to. 
 

Chakotay had glanced at him, then away. "The bridge." Pause. "Good morning, Lieutenant." 

Paris ignored his greeting.  "You don't think I could pull it off." 

Another glance, and a question that was terse, at best.  "Pull what off?" 

"Evasive manoeuvre beta-three. A Von Rhesa." 

"You've already proved yourself an excellent pilot, Lieutenant." 

"Yeah I have, haven't I.  And B'Elanna pulled a double shift to repair the damage to the port nacelle." The unspoken criticism: A beta three would have gotten us out of there clean. 

Chakotay should have ignored it--should have ignored the cocky pilot completely. "Dammit, Paris--if I'd allowed the manoeuvre you suggested she'd be lucky to be alive." 

"Sure, Commander." Sarcasm made the light tone harsh. "I called a pattern because I had doubts about whether or not I could fly it." The turbolift stopped at the bridge. Paris pushed himself away from the wall when the doors slid open. 

He'd taken his place at the conn and less than an hour later he'd pulled off a beta-three that left the re-grouped Kazon ships dead in the water. "Stings"? Like a punch in the gut. 

Just wait for your turn, Paris. 
 

"About Culluh? If there's anything you don't think we've discussed, Commander--" 

"About Lieutenant Paris." 

That surprised her. She sat down on the couch and leaned back, taking a sip of her coffee. "Go on," she prompted. 

"Tom Paris is an exceptional pilot. But he's also a risk taker. I don't know if this particular mission is the place for… his kind of attitude." 

"You're going to have to be more specific than that, Commander." 

"It's not his ability that concerns me." Half true, anyway. "It's his professionalism. The beta three this morning was dangerous and wildly inappropriate. Paris wanted to make sure I knew he could fly one. He made that clear before the shift. I know it was a magnificent piece of aviation, but--" Chakotay's brows furrowed. "I don't like the idea of a pilot that flies one of the deadliest runs in the book just to show up his commanding officer." 

She weighed his complaint. "I'll speak to Lieutenant Paris," was all she said. 
 

"All those evenings locked up in Engineering," Paris continued, oblivious to her complaints. "You're ignoring the ships . . . other systems . . ." 

It took her a moment. "You're a pilot, not a one-man biology department, remember?" 

"From anyone else I'd take that as a compliment." 

The other women on the ship could do what they wanted. She wasn't about to flirt with Tom Paris. She let Klingon inflection roughen her words. "It's not going to happen, Starfleet." 

He just upped the Paris charm. "You mean, 'Be careful what I wish for?'" 

"I mean try it and I'll have you substituting as the Doc's soprano," she growled. And dammit if she wasn't flirting after all. Klingon style. What the hell was it about this guy--? 

"Janeway to Lieutenant Paris." His communicator saved him from whatever he was going to say next--not to mention the gleam in B'Elanna's eye. 

"Paris here." 

"I'd like to see you in my ready room, Mr. Paris." 

"On my way," he replied. He made mournful eyes at B'Elanna. "Gotta go--" 

"Paris," she said, her tone acerbic. "That is too bad." 
 

She regarded him a moment and wondered how she was going to proceed. Dress down any other crew member? She'd do it without hesitation. Janeway wielded authority as naturally as she breathed. But dress down Paris? Paris was different. She leaned back in her chair and smiled at him. 

"And relax. Consider this an informal discussion," she said. 

"Wonderful," Paris returned. His guard was up, which came as no surprise to her. "Do I get to call you Kathryn?" 

She waited calmly. He didn't disappoint her. 

"I'm sorry, Captain." He ducked his head, spoke a little more earnestly. "What did you want to talk about?" 

"The Commander has some concerns about your recent performance on the bridge," she said simply. 

"Are they concerns you share?" Paris asked. Street smarts. Janeway had to admire them. There were few people on board that would have seen to the heart of the matter so quickly. Chakotay, maybe. Tuvok. Kes could even have missed it, and she was telepathic. 

"No, Lieutenant. They're not concerns I share. You've never done less than your best for this ship.  I'm not calling your performance into question." 

"Then what--?" 

"What is this interview all about?  Tom, the charade with Chakotay ended three weeks ago--and you two are still at each other's throats. I want to know what--what's really going on." 

Paris frowned. "I don't--know. I really don't." 

"Chakotay seems to think your beta three was some kind of… personal attack." 

"Captain--" 

"I've reviewed the flight logs, Lieutenant. I know you did all you could. Any other pilot at the helm and we wouldn't be here to argue about it." 

"I--thank you, I guess." 

"No. I want to know why my First Officer's angry enough with you to request another pilot for the away mission tomorrow." 

"Captain, the Commander and I have--we don't get along," Paris said. "It's not anything that's going to affect our work but it's--" 

She nodded grimly. "The ruse last month didn't help matters, did it?" 

"Ah . . . something like that, Captain." 

She looked at him a long moment. The truth of the matter was that even if she had wanted to humour Chakotay, she couldn't. She doubted there was another pilot in Starfleet, let alone on board the Voyager, who would last five minutes in-- "You're sure it's not serious enough to affect your working relationship?" 

"I don't think so, Captain. It never has before. We'll be fine." 

She took her time before answering, "If you say so, Mr. Paris.  And--"  As Paris rose to leave. "--Good luck tomorrow. We need that proposal." 

He grinned. "Yes ma'am." 
 

"Here are the system specs," Paris was saying. "I think B'Elanna overdid it, personally, I mean, it's just a polaron field, right? But you know what she's like when it comes to--" 

Chakotay cut him off. "Lieutenant Torres spent four hours compiling the information on that PADD. You'd better know it backward by the time we leave. I've got no intention of flying this mission with an under-informed pilot at conn." 

Paris' blue eyes flashed angrily. "Permission to speak freely, sir." 

"Granted--" 

"I don't fuck around where flying is concerned. I sure as hell don't need you to tell me to be thorough." 

Chakotay checked his own anger. "Fine. Do your job properly and we won't have any problems." 

There was a long pause. The pilot clenched his fists. "Yes, sir." 

"And once we get back with the proposal we'll finally be able to get out of this system." The calm layered over his voice reassured him.  He watched it frustrate Tom's impulse to a skirmish. 

"Yeah, no more Kazon.  No more Seska---" 

Softly, Chakotay interrupted, "Be careful, Tom." 

Tom cut himself off, almost mid word.  His gaze raked Chakotay's face.  Finally he said, "We could have this out once and for all you know.  You and me.  Before we leave tomorrow." 

"Forget it.  I've got better things to do with my time." 

"Suit yourself," said Paris. "I'm easy." 

"Yes, I had heard that." It was venomous. Chakotay wondered for a moment if it scored a hit - he couldn't tell. He supposed that meant it had. Good, he thought. The smart-ass deserves it. 

"That's right," Paris replied, his tone light. "Need a good pilot or a good fuck, just call Tom Paris.  As long as it's not during my duty shift." 

"Thank you, Mr. Paris," Chakotay countered pleasantly. "It's nice to know you're good for something." And it was nice to be the one baiting, he thought. Nice to feel some kind of power in a confrontation with Tom Paris. He didn't realise how close to the edge he was skating until- 

"Oh, I am." Tom's gaze was unsettling. "Very good." He shifted his weight slightly - maybe he even took a step forward. He never broke eye contact. 

And there it was, unmistakable. The look in those wanton blue eyes burned. 

Shit. 

"What's the matter, Paris? Screwed your way through all the women aboard?" 

Paris laughed, unfazed. "Including the Captain." 

Chakotay almost hit him. "You arrogant bastard-" 

" 'Enviable' bastard-" 

That was it. Chakotay grabbed the pilot by the arm and slammed him up against the wall - hard. "You're nothing Paris. You're ego and a fucking uniform -and I've had it with your attitude-" 

Blue eyes glittered with amusement. "You really don't like me, do you," he said. He moved his body ever so slightly against the commander's. That tiny friction - God. Chakotay's breathing roughened. 

"You were a sell out when I met you," his voice was low, almost a whisper. "You handed us over to Starfleet first chance you got. I've never liked you." But he was pressing their bodies together and he hadn't let go his grip- 

Paris reached out and carelessly traced the outline of the Commander's jaw. "But you still want to fuck me," he said. 

Chakotay made a guttural sound. He moved forward on the Lieutenant, crushing him - enraged. He felt the pilot's muscles tense. Paris wasn't fighting, but he was ready to, and his blue eyes were laughing like he'd won something-- 

Out of nowhere, Chakotay found himself remembering . . .

Scaffolding collapsing under him on the Ocampan home world. His leg hurting, probably broken. No way he could make it out on his own. Then a pair of blue eyes--a Starfleet uniform-- 

Paris even looked like a storybook hero. 

Himself, angry, "Get out of here, Paris." 

Paris' calm reply. "You mean you'd rather die than let me be the one to save you." 

Their eyes locked. Finally, "Fine--be a fool--" What choice did he have, after all? He'd held onto the pilot and hoped that Paris was strong enough to get them both out--before the scaffolding came down--

Golden brows furrowing with effort. "Isn't there some Indian trick where you can turn yourself into a bird and fly us out of here?" 

His laugh had been more like a gasp--but if Paris could joke, then: "You're too heavy." 

"I'm too heavy," was Paris's dark reply--because he always had to have the last word. 

Even when he was saving your life . . . 

Chakotay released Paris roughly, gave him a little shove backwards. He turned away, breathing hard, and tried not to think about the invitation he'd read in those blue, blue eyes--  "Make sure you're at the shuttle bay by 0700. It'll take us at least five hours to get through the polaron field." 

On to part II 
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