by Lizzie
---

DISCLAIMER: The characters don't belong to me, the poetry doesn't belong to me. . . hell, even the computer I'm writing on doesn't belong to me.

The rating's probably higher than it needs to be, and the characters are probably more literate than they need to be, but no one's going to complain, right?

---

"'My love, my life, my only--'" The words halted abruptly, the speaker groaning aloud in frustration.

"Aargh! What the hell am I thinking? I'm not a poet, I don't know poetry--so why'm I doing this?" The speaker growled again; quite an interesting sound really, so low in his throat that it almost wasn't audible.

"You're doing this 'cause you don't know how to say 'I love you'," the other person in the room pointed out.

"Oh, shut up. This was your stupid idea," Tom grumbled, tossing aside the PADD he'd been reading from. No, he was not a happy person.

"Come on, Tom," Harry coaxed. "Poetry's a known aphrodisiac."

"If I wanted an aphrodisiac, I would've stuck with oysters!" Tom looked at Harry, his voice turning plaintive. "She'll laugh at me, Harry."

"Well, obviously, if you keep carrying on like that. No way she'll take you seriously if you keep interrupting your reading to whine about how you hate poetry."

"Reading? I have to read this crap to her? Can't she just read it herself?"

"That's exactly the wrong attitude, Tom! Seriously, haven't you ever had someone recite poetry to you?"

"'Tommy and Jessica, sitting in a tree. . . '" Tom began. "Does that count?"

Harry stared at Tom, trying to figure out if he was kidding or not. Eventually, he said, "I'll bet Jessica was none too pleased."

"Jessica was the one who used to say it!"

Harry sighed and shook his head, trying to hide his grin. "Come off it, Tom. You want to win B'Elanna, poetry's the way to go."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm serious, Tom!" Harry protested, racking his brain for poems that had worked for him in the past. He could only remember fragments, and badly mangled fragments at that, but he was quite prepared to demonstrate the impact of true "take-me-to-bed" poetry. He sighed, one hand pressed to his chest, the other to his forehead, and declaimed dramatically, "'How dear to me the hour when first/My wondering eyes they form beheld!'"

"You talking to me?" was Tom's only response.

"Heathen."

"Harry, you really don't think any girl would fall for that, do you?"

"Why ever not?"

"You're saying you'd respond if someone started spouting garbage about your hair, your lips, your beauteous eyes?" Tom demanded, unconsciously imitating the ardent tone Harry had adopted while reciting.

"I suppose it would depend on who it was," Harry responded.

"What about me?"

"Huh?"

"Me. What if I started gushing about how much I love thee, how the twinkle in your eyes reminds me of the sun rising over the horizon, how the. . . oh, I don't know. Come on, Har, what then?"

"Well, you wouldn't do it like that, I hope."

"What?"

"If you were going to seduce me with poetry, I'd expect it to at least be good poetry."

"I don't want to seduce you at all! I want you to admit that this is stupid!"

"It's not at all stupid. You can't say this doesn't affect you," and he breathed deeply in anticipation of another recitation.

"The very air thy presence doth refine;
"Near thee, the sun doth warmer seem to shine;
"On rosy wings, whole hours like moments fly. . . "

Tom interrupted with:

"'Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
"'A medley of extemporanea;
"'And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
"'And I am Marie of Rumania.'"

"Cynic!"

"Romantic!"

The two of them laughed together at that. "So now we're supposed to fall into each other's arms?" Tom asked.

"I don't know," Harry shrugged. "I've never tried to win someone with Dorothy Parker before."

"Ah, but is it working?" Tom asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, sure, what the hell."

So they went to bed together. They had mad wild passionate sex, and Tom discovered poetry really was an aphrodisiac. And they lived happily ever after.

How could anyone argue with that?

---

End