by Meri Lomelindi
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feedback givers adored.

Distribute: anywhere, but send me an e-mail first.

Spoilers: Revulsion (early Season 4)

Disclaimer: I think everyone's well aware that I didn't invent Star Trek and that I'm not making any money here.

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"Harry, Harry, Harry. . . didn't your mother teach you that it's bad for your health to pine?"

Harry Kim, Ensign extraordinaire, looked up from his glass of beer in order to make Tom Paris the recipient of a dour glare as the other man abandoned his game of pool to join Harry at the bar. He then took a long swig. "I am not pining," Harry stated in what was supposed to be an authoritative voice; instead, he ended up sounding tipsy, so he glared again to drive his point home.

"Sure you are," said Tom, socking him lightly in the shoulder as he took a seat on the nearest bar stool. Pointing at the drink, he added, "I know that's not your usual fare. What is it, anyway?"

The glass was unceremoniously handed to Tom, who sniffed it with the caution of someone who is well-acquainted with the dangers of cheap alcohol. Harry watched him with little in the way of an expression, lips drawn into a thin line. "You're the expert on the twentieth century, Tom," he pointed out to his friend.

Tom's eyebrows shot up, and then his face melted into a good-natured smile. "Why, Harry! I didn't know you were delving into the annals of Earth history to make a study of alcoholic beverages. . . " He tipped the glass up. "Let's see if you've learned anyway, shall we?" Taking a sip of the dark golden liquid, he almost gagged, mouth and nose contorting in ways that the 24th century had never before imagined. "-Budweiser-, Harry?" he gasped, incredulous. "Okay, you've convinced me - you're definitely pining. It's not even synthehol."

When he didn't even elicit an eye-roll, Tom laid a hand on Harry's shoulder while Harry tried to ignore him and snatched the glass back; he downed its contents in one gulp. Tom wrinkled his nose but didn't move. Finally, Harry pushed him away. "Tom. . . " he began warningly.

Shrugging, Tom settled back onto his stool. "C'mon, Harry, tell me about it. I didn't think you were -that- enthralled with Seven. I know she's a beautiful woman, but. . . "

Harry cut him off. "We've had this conversation before, Tom, if you recall. About five days ago, actually, before this all happened."

Eyes narrowed suddenly, suspiciously, and Tom was eyeing Harry as if he wanted to dissect him. "You wouldn't see _me_ complaining if Seven of Nine said she wanted to "copulate" with me. . . are you repressed, Harry? Still worried about Libby?"

"Who died and made you ship's counselor?"

Tom waxed even more solemn than he already was, a very odd state of affairs considering his usual exuberance. "Actually, Kes did. She was the unofficial counselor, and now that I'm assisting the doctor, I thought I should probably. . . "

Harry did roll his eyes, after all. "Oh, shut up, Tom."

Defeated - or so it seemed - Tom raked a hand through his fair hair, sighed heavily, and ordered himself some synthehol. They sat that way for several minutes, ignoring the holographic and biological hubbub that was Sandrine's, Harry staring into his empty glass and Tom silently drinking his synthehol, though he briefly commented that Bajoran synthale tasted better. Neelix passed by, trying to interest them in some of his famed angla'bosque, but Tom waved him away. For a long time, there was relative silence.

Casual throat-clearing interrupted Harry while he was in the midst of ordering another beer. "C'mon, Harry. I care about you. I want to know what's the matter. Do you really like Seven?"

"Who wouldn't?" said Harry, avoiding Tom's eyes and words by stealing the other man's characteristic flippancy.

"No, I mean. . . _really_ like her. You know what I mean."

"No. And besides, it looks like she's already found someone else to teach her about human dating rituals. . . "

Tom looked perplexed. "How do you know that?" he asked. "And who would she meet? She never comes here, and. . . you've GOT to be kidding me." Following Harry's gaze over to a dark table in the corner of Sandrine's, he hadn't failed to identify its occupants. "The Captain has that rule about fraternizing with her crew members. It wouldn't happen. Besides, she's not -"

"Look under the table," Harry suggested, eyes twinkling for the first time that night. Sandrine had just arrived with another beer, an admonishment that his head would kill him in the morning, and a peck on the cheek. He was almost grinning.

Ducking down to peer through the table legs, Tom bumped his head against the bar, muttered an oath, and then proceeded with a louder series of curses as he realized what Harry had intended him to see. "She's playing _footsie_ with her," he hissed, jabbing Harry's boot with his fist. "No wonder Seven looks so disgruntled. She's probably wondering if the Captain is possessed. . . and so am I." But upon getting up and carefully reclaiming his seat, rubbing his head, he didn't seem too shocked. After a moment, he asked, "Do you think it'll work?"

Harry shrugged noncommittally and spoke, in between sips of his cheap beer. "Depends. She's been Seven's mentor, you know? Seven probably considers the Captain to be marginally more efficient than the rest of the crew - with the exception of Tuvok, of course, and Tuvok's married."

He was awarded with an amused grin and a chuckle. "Tuvok would be perfect for her." Then he paused. "Wait a minute, Harry, you're trying to distract me."

"Am I?" Harry blinked, eyes widening in presumed innocence.

"You certainly are," Tom said emphatically, warming to the subject. "Not wanting to tell me what's really bothering you, are you? Well, rest assured that I'll get to the bottom of it. I bet I can even deduce what it is - with a few hints." He eyed Harry meaningfully.

Stretched out on the stool with an elusive grin flitting about his face, Harry abandoned his beer and turned to look at Tom. "You have me all figured out, then," he said, deadpan.

"Yup. Guess I do." Tom was giving Harry one of his smiles of victory. There was a slight pause, and then it morphed into the same disgruntled look that Seven was wearing across the room. "Uh."

It was Harry's turn to arch his brows. "Something wrong, Tom?"

Tom wriggled a bit, his eyes crinkling. "Um - well - Harry, did you know that you have your hand on my thigh?"

"Yes, I did," said Harry, mouth schooled to stillness, eyes unreadable. He wasn't moving at all, in fact - not even his hand.

"Uh - " Tom stopped writhing on his bar stool and sat, staring at Harry. "Did you also know that it can be construed as a sexual advance, in many cultures?" An edge of hysteria colored his voice.

Harry was grinning widely. "I was well aware of that, Tom." He patted the other man's leg and watched with calm equanimity as Tom leapt up from the bar, mindless of the crowd turning to watch his antics, and fled Sandrine's like a frightened mouse.

Turning to refill his glass with some Klingon chech'tluth, he ignored the people who were now gawking at him and began to drink. B'Elanna, who had arrived from engineering just a moment too late to view her shocked boyfriend's exit, was eyeing his choice of beverage curiously from across the room.

With a melancholy sigh, Harry shook his head and munched on some replicated gagh. It was always better fresh, but it was difficult to find fresh gagh unless you were on the Klingon homeworld. "And they said that he was the playboy of the Delta Quadrant. . . "

Sandrine patted his shoulder. "Never fear, mon cherie; there are other fish in the sea."

But Harry was already occupied with a survey of the bar, and presently he was zeroing in on a particularly uncomfortable patron who was probably there under orders. "Sandrine," he murmured, his grin reviving full force, "What do you think about Tuvok?"

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End