by Meri Lomelindi
---

Distribute: PKSP, PK Elite - if they want it, anyway. others, please e-mail me first.

Setting: Sometime during season three, presumably after the events in "The Chute," though they aren't mentioned here specifically.

Warnings: Slash and self-injury (blood, not that it bothers anyone these days).

Disclaimer: Paramount owns all things Trek. I'm borrowing without permission as well as without profit.

Notes: Beta by the lovely Anita.

---

It was pitch-black when Harry woke up, dark and cool with the dry air swirling around him, but he was still sweating. Sheets had pooled at his feet, tangled, but the legs twined in his and the thick body sprawled nearby sufficed to keep him warm.

These were his quarters, but he felt like a stranger now - it wasn't every day that he slept with another man's slow, even breath falling against his cheek. He'd dreamed of the halo-golden head tucked into the hollow of his neck so many times that it seemed unreal now that it was actually happening. It would have been easy to assume that he was still asleep if not for the fact that this same scenario had played itself out four times already - as well as the telltale stickiness of the mattress beneath him. In a dream, niggling details such as the lack of clean-up would have escaped him.

Instead he felt uncomfortable with the reality of it all - dirty - and next he knew he was gently extricating himself from his sleeping lover's embrace and climbing out of the bed, thankful that it wasn't the creaking kind. Darkness made Tom's unconscious smile invisible, yet he could see it perfectly in his mind. He'd give anything not to disturb that smile, to preserve the pure, unadulterated pleasure that spread over Tom's face when he saw Harry.

Tom thought that he was beautiful and perfect.

If he knew what Harry was going to do after his sonic shower, he'd think otherwise.

---

Tom opened his eyes, yawned blearily, and rolled over to nuzzle empty space.

After overcoming the initial sleep-induced confusion, he wasn't at all surprised. Waking up when someone left or approached his chosen sleeping area was a habit he'd developed in prison, and he was alert enough now to recall that Harry had woken him up every time they'd slept together. Once, when they'd done the deed in Tom's quarters, Harry had actually left and returned twenty minutes later. The computer kindly informed him that Harry had gone to his quarters, but had left no clue about what Harry was doing there. When he returned, he smelled as if he'd taken a shower, but sonic showers had never taken twenty minutes - at least, not in Tom's experience.

It all boiled down to the fact that his new lover's behavior was odd, especially for someone as open and naive as Harry Kim, and it had happened enough that he felt justified in investigating instead of just faking slumber when Harry returned. Hinting at the matter during the daytime had produced no response, so now it was incumbent upon him to find out what Harry was doing in the middle of the night that took so damned long.

"Harry?" he called into the darkness, but the direct response failed to elicit a reply. Reluctant to disturb the natural night, he tried to make his way to the bathroom and instead stumbled over the clothing he'd hastily shed less than five hours ago. The grain of the cotton underneath his feet reminded him of Harry's red-cheeked modesty, and on went the boxers and the short-sleeved shirt, cool against his skin. Another trudge, to the left this time, and a bump on the nose informed him that there was solid wall where Harry's bathroom was supposed to exist.

Well, -that- made absolutely no sense. The arch that led into an officer's bathroom was always open, unless - yes, it was a door, and after a moment his questing fingers latched onto the panel that operated it. The display had been dimmed and the door itself was soundproofed as well as locked, from the look of it.

Why would Harry go to such trouble to keep people out of his bathroom?

Meticulous as his companion was about such things, Tom was more adept, and he'd proven himself able to break into Harry's room several times. This morning was no exception, once he'd gathered the proper equipment and jolted his sluggish mind into action with a metaphorical kick in the ass. In fact, it only took a few concentrated minutes, and then the door slid open with a barely audible whoosh to reveal a brightly lit scene of horror.

It was audible enough for Harry, whose dark brows shot ceilingward as he turned to face Tom and then stopped in mid-motion. The silver thing that glinted in his hand clattered onto the tile floor, fingers abruptly too limp to grip it. Smooth golden skin was swept away in a tide of crimson that flowed down the length of his lower arm. The stained hand, flung outward suddenly in a gesture of desperation, splattered blood on Tom's recently donned shorts. Red on black; an uneven set of checkers.

He couldn't think of anything to say, but somehow it occurred to him that Harry was in mortal danger, so he snatched the wounded arm and waved it around wildly. "Harry!"

Harry interrupted him, sounding strangled, "Tom, listen - "

"Do-you-have-a-dermal-regenerator?" Words came out in a rush, too quick to even form properly, but Harry was pointing to something on the pull-out sink. He didn't stop to think that a normal person wouldn't keep a dermal regenerator within arm's reach - and after a few moments of running the tool over the long, shallow cuts, they had all but disappeared. Then he fell back against the wall, the energy draining out of him in a single breath as Harry bent to wash the blood into oblivion. With vacant eyes he watched his lover as he carefully eradicated all traces of injury and drenched himself in cleansing liquid. It must have been frigid, from the way Harry gave an involuntary shudder each time water splashed against his face.

Harry was clean now, the liquid that glistened on his face clear instead of scarlet, and he extended his hands toward Tom. Face screwed up in pain, flinching, dark hair slick against his forehead, rusty stains on his nightclothes. "Tom - "

He'd thought he was calm, but his voice came out unsteady when he tried to speak in earnest. Perhaps flippancy would work. "Who needs to worry about danger from mysterious ships and alternate planes of existence when I've got plenty in crew quarters?" There, he was only a bit shaky, and he managed to make a sort of guffaw.

"Hey, I'm fine. There was never any danger." Fingers snaked out to grasp his shoulder, but he shoved them away.

It was funny, he thought as he scanned the room, that it even bothered him. Good old impetuous Tom, always flirting with danger and destruction, having a conniption because his lover of the week got a bit scratched. The silvery-grey thing on the floor caught his attention, and he knelt to grab it, almost cutting himself in the process - these were sharp blades. Two and two fit together in perfect discord.

Gleaming silver in his hands and he turned it over and over, wishing that he could crush it into ashes. Yes, he was well-versed in twentieth century history. "What are you doing with a razor from the olden days, Harry?"

His sweet, innocent Harry lied like the best of them, even when the equivocation was blatantly obvious. "It's for shaving." Not even a flutter of eyelashes to show that he was nervous, or maybe he was in shock. That would explain it.

A flick of the razor against his skin, almost close enough to draw blood, got Harry's eyes to widen again. "That's not what you used it for, though."

The broad shoulders trembled ever so slightly, after a wisp of breath. "No."

Looking into the slanted, murky eyes, it occurred to him that Harry was probably terrified. His misplaced anger was the last thing that he should be throwing at his lover. A step forward allowed him to drape his arm along Harry's and squeeze the still trembling shoulder. Soft voice, soothing. "Harry, tell me."

---

God, Tom knew. Tom knew what a monster he was.

But he was still here - he'd even healed Harry, no less, and now he was touching him without a grimace. Then again, maybe he didn't quite understand what it was all about - surely, if he could comprehend the nature of Harry's poison, he'd be marching down to tell the Captain what a demented bastard his friend was.

"Harry, tell me."

Eyes wide as saucers and he stared at Tom uncomprehendingly. "I can't." A pause while he collected his wits. "Tom, you don't want to know. It's nothing, really."

The disapproving gaze swept over him and then returned to the calm facade he'd made of his features, unrelenting. The facade crumpled even as Tom spoke. "That's too much blood for a mere nothing, Harry. Tell me about it, please."

He -hated- the little yelping thing in his voice, -hated- it with a passion. "I can't tell you."

"Look, Harry, I should be dragging you to sickbay right now. I should be contacting the Captain at this very moment, telling her that one of her senior officers isn't quite as well-adjusted as he'd let her believe for the last two years. The only thing that's stopping me is your - hopefully forthcoming - explanation."

There was a conscious decision in the way that Harry's shoulders slumped, tension melting into butter, in the way that his arms pushed Tom away to encircle himself defensively. "What do you want to know?" Attempts to inject hardness into his tone failed; instead, he just sounded tired, grim.

Tom was weary as well, but still steadfast. "For how long, how often, and why."

Methodical was probably best, if he could muster the strength. "Since I was fifteen, three or four times a week." Arms crossed and he received a baleful glare - Tom wanted more. Okay. "My dad thought it would be neat to teach me how to shave the old-fashioned way. So for my birthday, he got me this." He waved at the razor, which seemed to be glaring at him too. Blood coated it, rubbing off on the pale skin of Tom's hand, and he wanted Tom to drop it more than anything else. It wouldn't budge.

"And he showed you how to cut yourself with it?"

"No!" Somehow, an absurd desire to defend his father intruded on his logic. "It was fine when he showed me. I did it perfectly." Tom had actually raised his eyebrows now - damn, he looked like the Captain. Words spilled out of Harry's mouth without him quite knowing what they were. "I had this friend - Billy - who was 13, and I was trying to show off, except I wasn't as careful as I'd been when my father was watching and I got nicked, right here." He poked at his jawline.

Surprisingly gentle, Tom asked, "How did that lead to this?"

"I had a recital later that week. Clarinet. My parents and dozens of other people, watching me. I had really bad stage fright then. . . anyway, I screwed up. I knew the piece by heart, but I played a D instead of an E flat and totally messed it up."

"Your parents were mad?"

Again, he wanted to clear their names, even though he knew on the surface that their goodness wasn't in question. "No, no. They hardly even said anything about it, just patted me on the back and smiled and said they were proud of me for trying, and that I'd do better next time. But - they were disappointed."

Tom had unfolded his arms, and now a hand brushed against his cheek. "Tell me why, Harry." Cold fingers against his skin made him shiver. He wished his sometime lover, sometime friend would say more, would mention that he cared about Harry, maybe say that he wanted to understand. But that wasn't Tom's way, and he couldn't ask for more than Tom could give - so why was Tom wanting Harry to spill his guts? A rebellious instinct to curse flitted through his mind, to tell Tom to fuck off, but he suppressed it.

"Have you read about this, Tom?" He couldn't bring himself to include the name with which psychologists would have branded him.

A slow nod, and the fingers trailed into his damp hair. Cruel, cruel Tom. Didn't he know that it was impossible to talk when shuddering?

"It doesn't matter. You've been through so much - it's not fair to dump my little problems on you."

The hand froze, drew back, and Harry let out the breath that had caught in his throat. "They're not little - tell me why, Harry."

"If you've read, then you know. It's a control thing."

"But why you, specifically."

His voice did break this time. "I -can't-, Tom. I don't know why, not exactly. I just know - I get so overwhelmed. Everybody expects me to be this person that I'm not, and I don't know what to do. I want to please the Captain - I want to please you. You know how some people drink when they can't deal with things - well, I do this instead. It keeps me in control, and it doesn't leave any marks. But I don't know. I don't know what to tell you."

"Just the truth, Harry, and you did." Countenance grave, Tom leaned against the wall. Light shimmered against his eyes like glass, but he couldn't decide what was in the depths of azure as they tilted up to regard the ceiling. He was intent, as if there were stars above to attract his attention.

"Are you going to tell the Captain?"

"No. It's not like you can't function. You've never wavered at Ops, you know." Dry, bitter tone, and the thin lips that had recently been nipping at his neck were now compressed in what was presumably irritation.

Somehow, his heart wanted to sink at the unintended praise. "I guess you'll be leaving now, then. Um, I'm sorry, Tom. I - "

"Harry." Feathery whisper in his ear, arm slipped around him loosely, and he couldn't bring himself to resist. The razor was nowhere in sight. "Come to bed."

"To-to bed?" He stuttered, childlike.

Tom's nod was muffled, his head resting against Harry's, locks of gold tickling his cheek. "Yes, to bed. We'll work it out in the morning. It'll be okay." Free hand dipped in the sink behind them even as the cool lips pressed against his own, and then they were both clean, stumbling back into the darkness of the main room. Falling into the dirty bed, oddly comfortable, drifting off into a dreamless sleep. The only person to ever see the blackness of his soul was the most important, and Tom thought it was okay.

It takes the pain away
that could not make you stay
it's way too broke to fix
no glue, no bag of tricks
Lay me down, the lie will unfurl
lay me down to crawl

"The Crawl" by Placebo

End