by Lizzie
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DISCLAIMER: Paramount's the owner. I'm just babysitting. Rated PG. It's milder than that, but I'm being careful here.

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//I see friends shaking hands
Sayin' "How do you do!"
They're really sayin'
"I love you."//

--"What a Wonderful World", words and music by George David Weiss and Bob Thiel

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I'm not supposed to pry. I shouldn't, in fact, care about this thing at all except in the sense that the two of them might be breaking the fraternization rules I laid down so long ago. But I so want to know what's going on! I keep telling myself that I should be above it all; I'm a Starfleet captain and I have better things to do than wonder if two of my officers are sleeping together. But dammit, they're so subtle. It's driving me up the wall.

I see them together and they seem so close, what with the casual touches and the private jokes, but it never seems to go beyond that. They're very discreet. Even off-duty, when I run into them at Sandrine's or the resort (and they're always together, sitting next to or across from one another), I can't tell whether they're there as lovers or as friends. No one, as far as I know, has ever caught them in a compromising situation in the turbolift, though a number of other couples and at least two triads (goodness, but I would have loved to see how those threesomes managed in such a tight space!) have been exposed that way. I wish I knew for certain; I have so much trouble telling if Tom and Harry are lovers or just friends simply by looking at them.

I know they love each other. I see it in every touch, every glance, every smile. But I don't know. . . I don't know if they know. Do they realize they're in love with each other? Maybe each realizes that he loves his friend, but has no idea the feeling is reciprocated. Or hell, maybe they already have gotten together! I just don't know, you see. I know they love each other. I can see that much. Every so often, one of them will just let it slip. He'll look up at his friend and the light, the love in his eyes--it's obvious halfway across the room, even to me. I've seen them both do it; right now it's Tom staring at Harry as Harry carefully stacks toothpicks into a tiny tower. Harry's head is down, completely focused on the architectural feat his hands are performing--gorgeous hands, skilled yet gentle, and I ponder what they'd look like running over Tom's back and shoulders before I wrench my mind back out of the gutter.

Tom's devouring Harry with his eyes, and Harry doesn't seem to be aware of it at all. I wonder if they're lovers, if Harry knows that Tom wants him. Sometimes I think so. They touch each other often, soft quick little brushes on their shoulders or arms. In fact, Tom's just covered Harry's hand with his to get him to stop with the toothpicks. Harry looks up at him, saying something that I can't hear from this distance, and the two laugh. Tom's hand doesn't move. Is this a hint? Is there some significance? But his hand just sits there, covering Harry's, no caresses or squeezes. The two hands just sit on top of the table, and they're not doing anything.

Why aren't they more definite? Sometimes I just want to shake some sense into them, just lock them up together in a dark room and let nature take its course. (And record it while it happens.) Oh, dammit! Now I'm wondering how that would work. I guess I feel responsible for them. I know it's my fault that they're even here in the Delta quadrant, and so I hope that they can find something here that will make the loss of home easier to bear. If that something is a true-love, death-do-us-part kind of deal, well then, so much the better. I want them to get together. I want them to love each other. I want them to be happy.

I mean, sure, they probably are happy simply as best friends, but I want them to experience the complete union you can only have with someone who understands you fully. That they can only have with each other. Oh, it's melodramatic, but they need each other. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts -- together, they are greater than they could possibly be apart.

Oh, there we go--Harry's started back on the toothpicks with his left hand. Tom hasn't noticed yet, he's too busy staring at Harry's mouth (and can you blame him? it looks absolutely delectable from here, so there's no telling how appealing it looks from up close). Harry's not stacking them anymore. He's arranging them somehow -- is he spelling something out? Damn the distance between our tables! I wish I could see! He pokes Tom gently with one of the toothpicks, directing Tom's gaze downward. Tom glances down and then back up at Harry, and he looks so tender -- his face has softened and he looks nothing like the aloof young man I'm so used to seeing with everyone but Harry.

The two of them are laughing now, but it isn't raucous or jocular. Tom looks so loving I half expect him to reach over and draw Harry's face toward his so that he can kiss him. He doesn't, of course, and he and Harry sweep the toothpicks into a small pile again. There are so many chances for casual touches while they tidy up the mess they made, and they seem to take advantage of every one. Their fingers touch, stroke, dart back and forth in a miniature mating dance-- one forward, the other back, tips touch, one advances, the other stays still, stroking now, forward, touch, lift, follow--and then they stop. The toothpicks have been put away, and the two of them each sit with their hands on their own side of the table.

They're getting up now. It's getting late. Time to retire to their separate quarters--or perhaps they'll wind up together for the night? I have scruples, I can't check. I wish I could. I wish I knew. But it's okay. They'll figure it out eventually, if they haven't already, and when they do, I'll be right there cheering. I just have to wait. Time's on my side--they can't stay oblivious for seventy years, can they?

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End