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“We have nearly everything we need,” Tom Paris said, pulling out a chair and dropping into it with a tired sigh. The mess hall was quiet at this hour, the soft hum of the ship filling the empty spaces between words. Only four of them lingered at a corner table, too wired to sleep, too invested to stop.
“We’re just missing the main ingredient,” Kenneth Dalby said calmly. He lifted his cup, taking a slow sip of coffee as his other hand flexed and stretched absently, the tendons shifting under the skin like someone trying to work out the last traces of effort from a long night’s work.
“Relax, guys,” Mike Ayala said, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “I have the perfect guy.”
“He’s never gonna do it,” Gerron muttered, his voice quiet but sure.
“Who?” Tom asked, raising an eyebrow, suspicion flickering across his face at being left out of the loop.
Dalby chuckled into his cup. “Gerron’s right, Mike. It’ll never happen.”
“What are you talking about?” Tom pressed, his tone edging toward frustration as his curiosity grew.
“He’s got the skill, and the passion for it,” Mike said confidently, leaning forward on his elbows. “We just have to get him to loosen up about doing it in front of people, that’s all.”
“Who!?” Tom demanded, louder this time, eyes narrowing in mock frustration. He hated being the last to know what they were scheming.
Dalby’s lips curled into a smirk. “Commander Chakotay.”
Tom blinked. “Chakotay?” His eyebrows practically shot to the ceiling. “There’s no way.”
“Yes, there is,” Ayala countered, his grin widening. “He’s done it before. Back on the Val Jean. We used to spend hours at it together. It helped pass the time.”
“Yeah,” Gerron muttered, his tone skeptical. “In his quarters, where no one would know. He’s not the type to do it in front of a crowd.”
“I already got him to meet us on the holodeck tomorrow night, 2300 hours,” Mike said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Once we get started, he’ll remember. He won’t be able to resist joining in.”
“I didn’t know the big guy could even do that,” Tom said with a crooked grin. “This oughta be good.”
“Even if he shows up,” Gerron said, folding his arms, “the second he finds out we want to do it in front of the whole crew, he’s gonna head for the nearest airlock.”
“Or throw us out of it,” Dalby quipped, earning a low round of laughter.
“Trust me, this will work,” Mike said, pushing back his chair and rising. “I’ve got early shift on the bridge. I’ll see you all tomorrow at 2300. Be ready, and don’t be late.”
“Yes, sir,” Tom replied with an exaggerated salute, which drew another round of quiet chuckles from the group.
As the others drifted out, Tom lingered for a moment, shaking his head with a grin. Tomorrow night was definitely going to be interesting.
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At 2300 hours, Chakotay found himself standing outside the holodeck, not entirely sure what he was walking into. All Ayala had said was that he needed a hand testing out a new program, and that it would mean a lot to him if Chakotay came with an open mind.
Mike had never steered him wrong before. He’d trusted him since their Maquis days, and that bond still counted for something. So with a quiet exhale, Chakotay stepped through the holodeck doors.
…And immediately wanted to turn around and leave.
“What’s going on?” he asked, blinking as he took in the sight before him.
The program had rendered what looked like an old, converted storage room: scuffed walls, low lighting, and a burgundy-and-gray rug spread across the floor like someone had been trying to make the place livable again. Cables and wires sprawled in every direction, tangled across the rug, leading to a jumble of amplifiers and stands. For a moment, it looked chaotic. Then his eyes landed on the instruments.
Kenneth Dalby was bent over a blonde wood acoustic-electric guitar, tuning each string with meticulous care. Gerron sat beside him, running silent finger patterns across the neck of a black bass. Tom Paris, of all people, was perched behind an electric-blue drum set, giving Chakotay a mischievous grin as he spun a stick between his fingers. Since when does Tom Paris play the drums? Chakotay thought, both impressed and suspicious.
“Glad you could make it,” Ayala said, adjusting the strap of a silver electric guitar and tapping through a few pedal presets with his boot.
“Mike…” Chakotay began, but the words died on his tongue the moment he saw the final piece of the setup.
At the very center of the setup, surrounded by a half-circle of instruments, stood one unmistakable object: a microphone stand. The only empty spot in the room. The only thing clearly meant for him.
His eyes widened. “Oh, no,” he said flatly, shaking his head as he turned for the door. “Absolutely not.”
“Chakotay, wait,” Mike said quickly, unplugging his guitar and jogging over before he could escape. “You promised you’d keep an open mind.”
“And you promised you’d never betray me,” Chakotay countered dryly.
“This isn’t betrayal,” Mike said, holding up both hands. “It’s just a jam session. We wanted to do something new, something that doesn’t involve another mindless round of velocity or hoverball. After seven years, it all feels like the same game on repeat.”
Chakotay gave him a look. “And this is your solution?”
Mike grinned. “Look, you and I used to do this all the time on the Val Jean. What’s adding two more people?”
Chakotay sighed, rubbing at his ear. “And Tom?”
“Okay, three more people,” Mike conceded, smirking. “We’re just playing the songs you and I used to know. Come on, Chakotay. One song. If you hate it, you can walk right out.”
Chakotay exhaled through his nose, knowing that once Ayala got an idea in his head, there was no shaking it loose.
“Fine,” he said at last. “Just one.”
Mike grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “You won’t regret it. You’ll see.”
He hurried back to his place, plugged his guitar in, and gave it a quick strum. “We ready?” he asked, glancing around the room. Dalby nodded, Gerron gave a thumbs-up, and Tom twirled his sticks with a smirk. Chakotay stood rooted in place, still trying to decide how he’d been talked into this.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re playing?” he asked, voice edged with irritation.
“I was thinking this one,” Mike said casually, and strummed the opening two bars.
Chakotay groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course it was that one.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s get it over with.”
Tom lifted his drumsticks and gave a sharp four-count lead-in, the taps echoing lightly off the holodeck walls before the guitars struck the first chord.
Chakotay drew a steady breath. He knew this song far too well, every beat, every word, and still, his pulse thrummed in his ears. He dropped his gaze, fixing it on the floor as if the scuffed rug beneath his boots could steady him, and then he started to sing the opening line.
Never made it as a wise man
I couldn't cut it as a poor man stealing
Tired of livin' like a blind man
I'm sick of sight without a sense of feeling
And this is how you remind me
He glanced up at Ayala with a shy smile, and Ayala answered with a small nod that clearly said, Go on, keep going. Tom’s eyebrow arched in surprise, realizing for the first time that Chakotay wasn’t just holding a tune, he could really sing.
This is how you remind me of what I really am
This is how you remind me of what I really am
As the song surged into the chorus, the energy shifted. The guitars grew louder, steadier. Dalby began to strum with more drive, Gerron leaning into his bass line with one knee forward, the low notes pulsing through the floor. Tom’s sticks blurred in motion, his grin widening as a crisp drum fill carried them into the swell.
Chakotay still stood mostly still, shoulders tense, but his voice had begun to loosen, richer now, more assured. The stiffness was giving way to something else: the rhythm finding him, even if he hadn’t meant for it to.
It's not like you to say sorry
I was waitin' on a different story
This time I'm mistaken
For handing you a heart worth breakin'
And I've been wrong, I've been down
Been to the bottom of every bottle
These five words in my head
Scream, "Are we havin' fun yet?"
And sure enough, it was starting to look like Chakotay was actually having fun. The corners of his mouth twitched upward between lines, and Ayala caught his eye with a knowing smile before sliding effortlessly into singing the harmony.
Yet, yet, yet, no, no
Yet, yet, yet, no, no
Chakotay’s stance eased, his shoulders rolling back as he found his rhythm. He gripped the mic stand, leaning into it slightly, his voice growing bolder and stronger with each line. When the song dropped into the second verse, the room softened, the instruments pulling back to give space to his voice, but the energy didn’t fade. Every player moved with quiet exhilaration, their bodies carrying the beat as the song finally felt whole, the missing piece now unmistakably in place.
It's not like you didn't know that
I said, "I love you," and I swear I still do
And it must have been so bad
'Cause livin' with me must have damn near killed you
And this is how you remind me of what I really am
This is how you remind me of what I really am
As he sang those lines, Chakotay shot Ayala a look: half glare, half grin, the unmistakable kind that said, dammit, you were right. He was having the time of his life.
Somewhere between the rhythm and the warmth of familiar faces, the years seemed to fall away. He’d forgotten how good it felt, how alive it felt, to make music with his friends. And with that realization, he stopped holding back. The grin stayed on his lips as he let the joy carry him straight into the chorus.
It's not like you to say sorry
I was waitin' on a different story
This time I'm mistaken
For handing you a heart worth breakin'
And I've been wrong, I've been down
Been to the bottom of every bottle
These five words in my head
Scream, "Are we havin' fun yet?"
Tom tore through the drum fill, shaking his head with a grin as his arms blurred in motion. The beat pulsed through the floor, alive and unrestrained. Dalby and Gerron traded a quick, impressed glance when Chakotay hit that last line with real force, his voice rising clear and powerful above the music.
Across the circle, Ayala met Chakotay’s eyes again, joining him on the upper harmonies. For a heartbeat, everything else fell away, the lights, the hum of the holodeck, even the years between then and now. It was just the two of them, grinning like they had back on the Val Jean, remembering exactly how this used to feel.
Yet, yet, yet, no, no
Yet, yet, yet, no, no
Yet, yet, yet, no, no
Yet, yet, yet, no, no
As the song eased into the bridge, the room shifted with it. The energy softened, the edges rounding out until the music felt almost acoustic. Dalby’s strumming grew gentler, each chord warm and deliberate, while Ayala wove a delicate lead guitar line over the top, notes floating light as breath.
Gerron and Tom eased back, letting the rhythm hum quietly beneath the melody. They watched Chakotay instead, seeing the way the music seemed to move through him now, how his posture, his phrasing, even the tilt of his head fell perfectly into sync, guided by muscle memory and instinct.
Chakotay lowered his voice to meet the softness of the guitars, the rich timbre settling comfortably in the quiet.
Never made it as a wise man
I couldn't cut it as a poor man stealin'
And this is how you remind me
He shot Ayala a raised eyebrow, catching his friend’s grin. This is certainly reminding me, he thought.
This is how you remind me
Tom punctuated the moment with a tight drum fill, the rhythm pulling them forward again. The sound swelled gently as the band came back in, still restrained, but building, gearing up for one last climb into the final chorus. Ayala dropped to the lower harmony, his voice anchoring the line as they eased into the pre-chorus once more.
This is how you remind me of what I really am
This is how you remind me of what I really am
Now the room was in motion. Tom was practically bouncing off his drum throne, sweat glinting under the lights as he drove the rhythm forward with infectious energy. Gerron leaned into a low lunge as he picked, grinning when he caught Dalby throwing his shoulder into each downbeat with perfect timing. Ayala’s fingers flew across the fretboard, his voice threading effortlessly through Chakotay’s as they sang melody and harmony in tandem.
It’s not like you to say sorry
I was waitin’ on a different story
This time I’m mistaken
Then, on cue, the music dropped away.
The guitars went silent, the drums cut out, and Chakotay’s voice filled the space, strong, resonant, commanding.
For handing you a heart worth breakin’
Tom’s eyes went wide mid-rest, realization dawning. Chakotay didn’t just sing, he performed. His voice carried weight and warmth, the kind that could fill an entire room, maybe an entire crowd. His expression had shifted too, focused, alive, the hint of a smile playing at his lips as he sang into the mic like he was performing on stage for an audience of thousands.
And I've been wrong, I've been down
Been to the bottom of every bottle
These five words in my head
Scream, "Are we havin' fun yet?"
As the song neared its end, Ayala shifted seamlessly between harmonies and the filler lines, weaving his voice around Chakotay’s as it became a duet.
Yet, yet, are we havin' fun yet?
Yet, yet, are we havin' fun yet?
Yeah, yeah (These five words in my head scream)
Are we havin' fun yet?
Yeah, yeah (These five words in my head)
No, no
The final chord rang out, cymbals crashing in a shimmering swell that lingered for a breath before fading into silence. For a long moment, no one moved. The only sound was the fading hum of the amplifiers and their own breathing, heavy with adrenaline and laughter just waiting to break loose.
Then the quiet gave way to grins, five men standing in the afterglow of the music they’d just made, hearts pounding, the shared high of creation thrumming between them. It had been years since any of them had felt that kind of rush.
Ayala was the first to break the magnetic silence that hung over the room.
“So…” he began, one brow arched. “Just one?”
Chakotay lowered his gaze, the grin already tugging at his mouth before the chuckle escaped. “No,” he said, his tone certain now. “I think we should do a whole lot more.”
The room erupted in cheers. Tom threw his drumsticks into the air and caught them with a triumphant spin, while Dalby let out a sharp whoop that echoed off the holodeck walls. Gerron even cracked a rare smile. But Ayala wasn’t ready to celebrate just yet. There was still one mountain left to climb, and it stood right in front of him.
“And what if we wanted to play…” he began carefully, “…at the next talent night?”
The color drained from Chakotay’s face faster than a warp core shutdown.
“You mean perform…in front of the whole crew?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “I don’t think I…”
“Come on, Chakotay,” Tom interrupted, smirking. “You just sang your heart out in front of me. Who could be more stressful than that?”
“Anyone,” Chakotay shot back, voice rising a notch. “Everyone. I didn’t realize that was part of the deal.”
“We’re not gonna force you,” Mike said quickly, his tone softening. “But…we’d really like to do it. You’re good, really good. They’d love it.”
The others chimed in with a chorus of encouragements, good-natured teasing, laughter, and a few well-timed pleas of “come on, Commander.”
Chakotay stood there, arms crossed, weighing it all. He’d faced enemies across two quadrants. He’d survived assimilation attempts. He’d even gone toe-to-toe with Captain Janeway more times than he could count, and lived to tell about it. There were scarier things than performing in front of his crew. But not many.
“What would we play?” he asked finally, his tone cautious but hopeful.
Ayala’s grin widened like a sunrise. “I was thinking this one,” he said, and launched into the guitar solo of a song Chakotay knew instantly.
Chakotay exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as the first notes hit. He loved that song, and Mike knew it. With a quiet laugh and a resigned grin, he gave a small nod. The room exploded again with cheers.
----------------
Later, as he walked back to his quarters, the lingering adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a familiar flutter of nerves. He’d agreed to keep their little project quiet, and to give up his Tuesday and Thursday nights for rehearsals over the next few weeks. But the idea of performing still made his stomach twist.
Crowds had never been his comfort zone. Truthfully, the thought of standing on a stage in front of everyone terrified him. But this crew was different. They’d accept him, no matter how it went. Hell, they’d probably be too shocked to see him up there at all to notice if he missed a note.
Still, one face kept floating to mind. One person whose opinion mattered more than all the rest. He could already picture her in the crowd, blue eyes fixed on him, that knowing little smile curving her lips. What would she think? Would she like it?
It wasn’t her kind of music, not even close. But maybe she’d like it because it was him.
He certainly hoped so.
He could imagine her teasing him afterward, coffee in hand, pretending to scold him for keeping secrets. And maybe, just maybe, she’d tell him she was proud.
When the doors to his quarters slid open, he stepped inside and paused. The silence of his quarters felt full, alive with the memory of the night.
Crossing to the viewport, he leaned on the frame and watched the stars slide by, silent, endless, and somehow reassuring. He thought of the laughter, the music, the unexpected thrill of singing again, and the warmth of friendship that had made this ship feel alive.
He thought of Kathryn. Of the idea of singing for her.
To her.
And for the first time in a while, he didn’t think about duty, or distance, or what waited in the next sector. He just thought about the song still echoing faintly in his head and the promise of another night like this one.
He smiled to himself, quietly, and whispered into the stars,
“Yeah…I think we’re havin’ fun now.”