Commander Chakotay walked into the mess hall and sighed. He looked around the room, at the ceiling, the viewports, and the centerpiece. And sighed again. He'd told not only Neelix but the captain as well that putting up decorations in a public area of the ship was not appropriate, in his opinion. Not everyone celebrated Christmas and it wasn't right to force those who didn't to see it everywhere. As usual, it seemed to him, the captain had ignored his opinion. She'd listened, all right, but went ahead and did what she wanted to anyway. As usual.

There were lights around the viewports, lights along the counter, lights on Neelix's hat. There was mistletoe hanging in both doorways and Chakotay'd made sure he was nowhere near any crew member passing under them, ever since they'd been hung. No way was he going to be embarrassed in that fashion. The only decorations he could mildly support were the garlands of replicated greenery that were around in copious amounts. As this custom had it's origins in a pagan ritual, albeit in old Europe, he could at least understand the significance of it. The tree that sat in the center of the room, as well. And yes, the captain had been enthusiastic in her discussion of the origin of the lights, too. Still, he thought them a bit gaudy and overblown. White, maybe, considering they were supposed to represent candles, but those colored ones that many of the crew favored...

And really, all he wanted was a quick bite of lunch. He had a major crew rotation schedule to work out, with the different holidays coming up. Who wanted which days off was his own personal headache. One, he was sure, no one appreciated or sympathized with. This was the holiday season, after all, and people wanted what they wanted. He'd had it up to here with the whole thing.

He walked through the mess and passed by Paris sitting with Ensign Lewis.

"Thanks, Tom, I really appreciate it," the ensign was saying.

Paris put something into the PADD he was holding. "No thanks necessary, Sue. I hope Jerry doesn't find out."

She stood and kissed him on the cheek. "He won't. Merry Christmas."

Chakotay was almost to the counter, but turned to keep watching surreptitiously. Paris wished her a happy holiday, then studied the PADD with a look of wistfulness. Chakotay faced the food choices and thought about what he'd witnessed.

While he ate, he kept an eye on the pilot. Two more people came up to him, spoke briefly, then left after the man made more entries into that PADD. After each encounter, he saw Paris look, apparently, more and more depressed. Once the people were gone, that is. When he thought no one was watching him. Chakotay was more than curious about what was on that PADD. He didn't like secrets amongst the crew, and especially when they involved Lieutenant Paris in a starring role.

He got up to leave, just as the man in question got up to get something else to eat. He'd left the PADD on the table, likely because there were only a few people left in the room, sitting at scattered tables, engrossed in their meals. Chakotay walked quickly to Paris' table and glanced at the handheld device. All he could read was "Rations / December." What the hell? What was the man up to now?

Stalking to his office, Chakotay got angrier and angrier. He really did not need to be dealing with one of Paris' betting pools, or whatever he was doing with crew members and their rations. When was that man ever going to learn? He punched his doorpad and entered his sanctuary, his domain, the one official place on the ship where he was in charge. Sitting in his chair he opened his console and began some detective work, already planning on how to notify Tuvok of Paris' latest transgression.

After fifteen minutes he was completely mystified. According to the computer, Lieutenant Paris, for the past three days, had been transferring some of his rather abundant replicator rations to various members of the crew. Chakotay could find no method to the transfers. The crew members were from various departments, held various ranks, and as far as he knew, were not necessarily friends of the pilot's. It appeared as though the lieutenant was giving away his rations. Or had he actually lost them? Was there some new scheme in the works? The commander called Ensign Lewis and 'requested' her presence. Immediately.

He had to give her credit, she was giving him a look of gentle defiance, but defiance nonetheless. He was more certain than ever that something untoward was happening. "Ensign," he said smoothly, "I give you my word that I will not write you up in this matter. Just tell me why Lieutenant Paris is going to give you replicator rations. He is, isn't he?"

"Commander, excuse me, but this really is personal. I mean, I don't mean to be insubordinate, honestly. I can only tell you if you promise me I won't be written up, because Jerry can't ever find out. Not ever."

He sighed. "I promise. Now. Tell me." This time he gave it his command voice, and saw her pale visibly.

"He's giving away the rations he's won playing pool over the past six months. Some of us don't have enough to replicate presents for people we care about. Tom heard about it a few days ago and started passing the word that he had rations - to help us out." She raised her hand. "And before you think he's got some scheme, these are being given free and clear. He doesn't want anything in return."

He still didn't quite understand. "Why is he giving his rations away?"

"Because," she said simply, "he said he doesn't have anyone special in his life to make a present for. He doesn't need 'em."

Chakotay noted the total number of rations Paris had transferred. It was quite a lot. He amended his thinking. The rations Tom had transferred. But what could he do for the young man? And not just to assuage his guilt, that wasn't the only reason he had. He remembered the look on Tom's face after each crew member had left. The sadness in his eyes. He understood that feeling.

Tom entered the course correction automatically. He'd noticed the significant asteroid field coming up in another few light years and calculated what it would take to miss it and not lose any significant amount of time. In his head. Though he was in no rush to make it back to the Alpha Quadrant, he'd long ago decided he'd do whatever he could to see that everyone else made it back home. This course correction would only lose them, overall, a few hours. It was the best choice.

After shift he was due to see Peter Cohain who needed about fifteen rations. He wanted to replicate his boyfriend a new tunic. Tom hadn't asked people to justify why they needed the help, but most did anyway. He, actually, wished they wouldn't tell him. Hearing about all of the loved ones other people were giving gifts to was depressing. But he'd make it through another holiday, put on a smiling face, have a good time at the party. It was expected of him.

From behind, he heard the captain welcome Commander Chakotay to the bridge. The two of them chatted briefly but he ignored the words. He calculated how many rations he'd given away and how many more he had to give. He was almost to his limit. If he'd had a special someone this holiday he knew precisely what he'd have replicated. It probably would have taken a fair chunk of his surplus. A black sweater. Turtleneck. With a small red pattern running throughout it, maybe a deep red. That would look good. And then a rich brown sweater, too, only this one would have thin, gold stripes in it. That would look good, very good. They both would. Then there was a book he'd heard about. And other things. But if Tom had his way, he'd tell the man to stop dying his hair. He liked it better with the speckles of gray in it. If Tom had his way... he wouldn't be alone. But he was.

Tom entered the already promised ration transfers as soon as he got home. The total in his account was wrong, however. He sighed, and started to backtrack to see where the error was. His heart stopped. Someone had transferred, to him, ninety-one credits. That afternoon. What the hell? He tried to access the transfer but it was encrypted and no codes he had at his disposal would break it.

"Chakotay to Paris."

Tom's heart flew against the wall of his chest. He tapped the spot. "Paris here, sir."

"Tom, would you come to my office please?"

TOM? "Yes, Commander, I'll be right there."

"Good. Chakotay out."

He barely heard the computer beep the comm link closed. What had the man decided Tom had done now? As he walked the corridors, he wished the feeling in his chest would stop. The thudding was distracting.

Chakotay sat on the edge of his desk, trying to look casual. He stood again and sat on the couch, trying to look casual. That didn't work, either, so he opted for just standing. And waiting. Trying to look casual. His door chimed and he had to clear his throat before being able to call for admittance. Tom walked in, looking serious. Chakotay's hands started to sweat as he admonished himself.

"Tom, please, have a seat. This isn't official."

Tom sat and looked at him. Still serious.

Chakotay coughed. "I was just wondering if you've had a chance to take a look at your replicator ration account since you got off shift."

Tom rubbed his palms on his thighs. "Yes," he answered, hesitatingly. The he sighed loudly. "Look, Commander, since this is unofficial. There's nothing in any regulation that says I can't give some rations away. Nothing. I checked."

"I agree with you," Chakotay said. "You've done nothing wrong. I haven't either."

If Tom's eyes could have bugged, they would have. Chakotay smiled.

"You," Tom said, "you transferred those credits to my account? Why in the world did you do that?"

"I thought you might like to replicate something special for yourself. Give yourself a nice present for Christmas. You deserve it."

Tom continued to stare at him. "You think I deserve to give myself a nice Christmas present?"

At that Chakotay laughed, he couldn't help himself. "Yes, Tom, I do. I know what you've been doing for other crew members. And, it's fine. A very nice thing to do. I've got extra rations, too, don't use that many on myself. So, go crazy. Look, you could make yourself a nice new sweater. Or get a new part for your car."

"A sweater?"

"Yeah, how about a nice blue one, or maybe pale green..." Chakotay stopped, suddenly slightly embarrassed. Tom was studying him intently. He decided to take the full jump. "And, I was also wondering, if, well, you'd like to accompany me. To the holiday party tomorrow night."

Tom didn't move a muscle. Chakotay's heart began to pound. Maybe he'd been mistaken all this time...

"Wait a minute," Tom said, breaking the tense silence. "You're asking me to go with you to the party. Like ... a date?"

Jumping... "Yes, Tom. A date." He coughed again.

Tom's smile blossomed across his face. "Okay," he said quietly. "I accept."

Chakotay breathed for the first time since the man had come into his office. "Thank you."

"No, Chakotay, thank you. For the gift. And the date." Tom stood up. "So what time will you pick me up tomorrow?" He was still smiling. A lovely, sincere smile.

"Oh. Want to have dinner first? Say, eighteen hundred hours? I'll come by then and we'll go to the mess hall. I'm a little short on rations," he said, teasing gently.

"I'd love to have dinner first." Tom hesitated, then moved toward the door. He turned. "Chakotay? Thank you."

"You're welcome, but understand one thing, Tom. This isn't a pity date. It's a real one." His heart skipped this time to see Tom blush.

"Okay. I'll, um, see you tomorrow," Tom said.

The doors swooshed open as he backed up a step. "Good night, Tom. See you tomorrow." Tom smiled at him once more and left.

Chakotay sank into a chair. "Spirits. I did it." He felt a grin break out. Cleaning up his desk he wondered if he could abscond with a few mistletoe sprigs from the ship and hang them up. One in his office. One in his quarters. And take one to Tom's quarters the following evening. He whistled all the way home.

Tom, in a daze, stopped at Peter Cohain's quarters and confirmed the transfer. Wishing him a 'Merry Christmas' felt wonderful for the first time in very long time. On his way home he did some calculations in his head. How many rations it would take to replicate a black turtleneck sweater with a small, dark red pattern running throughout.
 

End.

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