The BLTS Archive - So You And I Encounter
First in the As The Mist series
by Brighid (earthstone@lycos.com)

---

I've recently read a plethora of post-Chute stories, and this  just
sort of flew out in a mad rush. It is a pretty tame,  gentle little
thing, but it has a wee bit of swearing, and the  romance is between
two male characters, so if either of those  two things bothers you …
what are you doing still reading?  Disclaimer: Harry, Tom, and even
the universe, are Paramount's  toys. I just wanted to show them what
they could do if they  ever really wanted to join the 24th century.
I'm not making a  profit, I've no intention of even trying to. This
was just for  fun.

The title is from my favourite Leonard Cohen poem. It seemed to  fit.

---

Tom Paris rolled across the bed and swung his feet onto the floor, 
making a noise somewhere between a sob and a groan. The dreams would
not stop. Nothing could circumvent them: not working to the point of
exhaustion, not sex, not bootleg wine. Hell, not even one of
B'Elanna's technical manuals had been able to send him into the deep,
dreamless sleep he so desperately craved. 

It had been like that since their imprisonment. Night after night he
awoke to sweat-soaked sheets, his breath coming in tortured gasps, his
skin cold and clammy with fear, his mouth sour, his guts in knots.

At least, he thought ruefully, the dreams provided variety. Each time
he closed his eyes it was something new, or at least a new variation
on an old theme. Sometimes it was Caldik Prime, other times he was
back in the penal colony at Auckland. A lot of the dreams were his
fever-riddled memories of him and Harry at the bottom of that chute.
Often they were a  bizarre combination of all three. And always they
were devastatingly bleak, violent, and hopeless.

None of them troubled him half so much as the dreams he kept having
about Harry.

A guy was not supposed to have dreams like that about his best friend
- not if he wanted to stay best friends. And yet, time and again, he
awoke with Harry's name on his lips, the taste of him on his tongue,
the ghostly feel of the ensign's body, half-remembered from the time
Harry, fairly certain they were both dead already, had curled against
him, offering Paris what little comfort he could.

It made it hard to look Harry in the eye. One minute he'd be making a
smart remark about B'Elanna's relationship with the warp core, and the
next minute he'd be positively drowning in the dark, unfathomable
depths of Harry's gaze. He'd wonder what it would be like to trace the
elegant, epicanthic fold with his tongue, to taste that gently smiling
mouth, to brace himself against the sure solidity of Harry Kim's
shoulders….

Yeah, dinner-time small talk had become a real bitch.

Since sleep just didn't seem to be a viable option, he made his way to
Holodeck two, which the computer informed him was unoccupied and
unbooked. It was late into third shift, and night time according to
ship's cycles, so he was hardly surprised to find it available. He
implemented Sandrine's , and walked in, not even bothering to engage
the privacy lock. No one was awake to intrude.

He requested something mellow and smoky from the piano player,
accepted a synthehol brandy from a mildly concerned Sandrine, and
began practicing on the pool table. After 10 minutes or so he really
began to get into it; everything else faded into white noise as he
shot and sank over and over again.

Consequently, when a small, polite cough sounded from somewhere behind
his right elbow, he came perilously close to roughing his shot and
wrecking the green baize table.

He turned to see Harry Kim standing behind him, his clarinet held
loosely in his left hand.

"Hey, Har. What are you doing here?" he asked, a lazy smile sliding
easily into place as he leaned back into the table.

"Couldn't sleep, and I got an urge to play. I figured that Sandrine
would make a more appreciative audience than Ensign Bateheart." A
rueful smile curved Kim's mouth. "At least, that's what I assume,
based on the pounding on the wall!"

Tom laughed at that. "Harry, you're too modest. That was probably just
Bateheart's version of a standing ovation!" He motioned to Sandrine,
who brought him over another brandy. "What would you like to drink,
Harry?"

"Yes, mon petit, what can Sandrine get for you?" the holographic
hostess echoed.

Harry pursed his lips in thought. "Orange juice would be nice," he
decided at last, and  sat down at a table. "That is, if I'm not
intruding. You seemed to be enjoying having the place to yourself."

Tom set down the pool cue, and moved across to join Harry at the
table. The ensign was out of uniform, dressed in black trousers, and a
cream-coloured pullover of some sort. It looked soft to the touch, and
it made Harry's eyes seem an even warmer brown. Tom swallowed, trying
to get his more wayward impulses under control. "Nah. I mean, it was
sort of nice having this place back to myself again, but you're not an
intrusion. You're never an intrusion, Harry." Except in the middle of
my dreams,  every damn night, he thought with an inward groan. He
sipped at the brandy, wished the buzz was more akin to the real thing,
and then glanced roguishly at his best friend. "Especially not if
you've got some spare replicator rations you'd like me to relieve you
of!"

Harry laughed aloud at that, accepting the orange juice Sandrine
handed him. "No thank-you, Lieutenant Paris. While I'm sure you won't
be satisfied until you have me stripped naked and forced to wear a
barrel, I'm quite content with how much I let you fleece me for the
last time!"

Tom swallowed again, and tried to blot out the 'stripped naked'
reference. "Why a barrel, Harry?"

Kim waved a hand. "Old Earth reference, one my Dad picked up. He had a
thing for 20th century memorabilia - especially books and films." He
set the clarinet down on the table. "Hey, Tom. You look like hell."

Paris choked on his brandy, and managed to spray and spill a fair
amount over his civvies. "Thanks a lot, Kim. I take back what I said.
Sometimes you are a real intrusion." He mopped at himself with one of
the cloth napkins on the table, and shot a frustrated glare at Harry,
who was looking faintly apologetic.

"I'm sorry if it came out wrong, Tom. I don't have the same gift for
small talk and smooth talk that you do. And you do look like hell." He
shrugged slightly. "I'm worried about you. You've cut your socializing
to a minimum, you don't participate much in conversations at dinner -
you haven't made fun of B'Elanna and the warp engines for three weeks,
at least, and you hardly touch your food."  Harry held up a hand to
quell Tom's rising protest. "I know, you're afraid it'll touch you 
first, but damn, Tom, even I can see you've lost weight. You've got
hollows." He reached across, gently touched the curve under Tom's
sharply etched cheek, moved up to stroke beneath the other man's eyes.
"And shadows. Aren't you sleeping at all?"

Tom sighed, leaned his forehead into his hands, sharply aware of how
cold his skin seemed once Harry pulled his hand away. It would be
easier to lie, to brush his friend off, but in the end he knew that
was no answer. "I've been having bad dreams - nightmares, really, ever
since…"

"The prison," Harry completed softly. "I've had a few myself. It's
understandable." He reached across, took hold of Tom's chin, lifted
his face until their gazes met. "What I don't understand is why you're
letting them tear you apart like this, rather than getting some help."

Tom laughed, a short, bitter noise. "Harry, I've got so many damn
things to have nightmares about. Caldik, Auckland … this is just the
latest in a long list of horrors. I just need time to work it out. I
don't want Chakotay teaching me how to contact my spirit guide, nor do
I feel like going to the Doc. I trust him with broken bones,  but I'm
not ready to share…"

"Broken spirits," Harry finished again, even softer than before. "All
right, I can accept that. So what about me?"	

Tom stared at him with almost stupefied surprise. "What about you,
Harry?"

Harry leaned across, taking both Tom's slender white hands within his
own large grip. "You are my best friend. Anywhere, anytime. Why not
come to me for help, to talk, to just be with? Why try to wrestle with
this by yourself? Jeez, Tom, it's been downright painful watching you,
wanting to help you." There was a distinct tremour in the younger
man's voice. "I hate to see you like this. Let me help."

Tom tried to swallow, but couldn't get anything past the giant lump
that had formed in his throat. At last, his voice came back to him,
rough and alien sounding. "How do you propose to do that?'

Harry smiled slightly, stood-up, and pulled Tom with him. "We'll start
by getting you a good night's sleep."

Tom tried to read the expression in his friend's dark eyes, but
couldn't. Instead, he just let Harry lead him out of the room.  

Harry took them back to Tom's quarters, and ordered him to sit on the
couch while he began fussing about. Tom just sat back, bone-weary, and
let his eyes drift close. He heard Harry stripping the sweaty sheets
off the bed, replacing them with clean ones. He heard a bath being
drawn, smelled something warm and herbal floating out to him. After a
time that seemed both infinite and brief, Harry was gently tugging him
to his feet, and leading him into the refresher. Yes, the warm, herbal
smell  was definitely coming from in here. 

God, he felt so dead.

Harry gently began stripping him down, and he thought about
protesting, but he was just too worn out - the restless energy that
had driven him to Sandrine's had deserted him completely, and he found
it oddly comforting to just accept Harry's ministrations. He was too
exhausted to respond physically, and it was perhaps one of the rare
times in his  life he'd know such tenderness. He might as well enjoy
it.

Harry helped him into the tub, which was neither hot nor cold, but
just soothingly warm. "Are you bucking for sainthood, Harry?" he joked
tiredly.

Harry laughed, and smiled. "I don't think giving you a bath will get
me canonized, Tom." He began to work a sponge over Tom's back and
shoulders, letting warm water trickle gently down the other man's
body. "If you want to talk about anything, you can. Or you can just
sit back and enjoy this. Whatever you prefer."

Tom sighed, unthinkingly moved his head to rub it against Harry's
shoulder. When he realized what he'd done, he waited for the hiss of
indrawn breath, the withdrawl of contact. When neither happened, he
opened his eyes to find Harry intent upon stroking him with the
sponge, his calm face unreadable. "I've told you bits about Caldik,
and you know some of what Auckland was like…."

Harry nodded. "I went and did some more reading about both. You've
dropped enough information about them to give me a good start. Caldik
was unfortunate."

Tom laughed humourlessly. "People died, Harry. I killed them."

Harry shrugged. "You made a mistake. You've been paying for it ever
since. My mom always said that if a good man were allowed to
administer his own judgement, it would be life imprisonment every
time. You seem to be a living example of that."

Tom opened his eyes a little wider at that. So Harry considered him a
good man? He must not have figured out about what had really gone on
at Auckland, then.

But Harry continued on inexorably, and shot all Tom's theories to hell
once again. "As for the prison - I refuse to allow you to accept being
raped as some sort of reflection on your character. That is such a
load of …"

"Shit?" Tom supplied. "Ah, but it wasn't really rape, Harry. Not after
the first few times. After that it was a commodity." Now Harry'd
withdraw, now he'd leave.

Instead, his face was pulled, almost jerked, to look up at Harry. For
once, the eyes were not unfathomable, the expression unreadable. Naked
fury, and such exquisite pain shimmered there that Tom's breath left
his body as if he'd been punched in the gut. "Tom, if I could go back
and deal with every person, every incident that brought you to this
place, I  would.  But all I can do is be with you here and now, and
try to love you in spite of yourself." Harry leaned in, gathered the
warm, wet lieutenant into his arms, and murmured into his neck.

"You have been a true friend to me since the day we've met. You risked
your life for me, you've comforted me, you've believed in me. The
person I've come to know is a good man, an honourable man. I don't
doubt that you've made mistakes - bad ones." Tom felt a soft explosion
of laughter against his throat, and the soft curve of Harry's smile.
"You're never one to do things in half-measures. But you've also
worked damn hard  to make up for them - you have people who believe in
you. It's time you started believing in yourself." He pulled away
slightly. "And trust others enough to let them love you, care for you
when you need it."

Tom was fully awake now, and getting more awake by the moment. He
snagged the sponge Harry had let drop, and moved it into a more
strategic position. "Thanks, Harry. I really appreciate that. This has
helped a lot. I wouldn't be surprised if I slept like a log." A very
rigid, wide-awake log, he mentally added. 

Harry smiled at that. "You are such a liar, Tom Paris. Even to
yourself." He reached for the sponge, tactfully said nothing, and
resumed stroking Tom's tense back. "I seem to recall saying that you
are the best friend I've ever had. Anywhere." He leaned in, letting
his breath tease along Tom's ear. "That puts you ahead of Libby. Way
ahead."

Tom flushed, reached out and stilled Harry's slow-moving hand. "Okay,
Harry. I'm going to get you to spell this one out for me. What are you
saying?"

He felt the young man's other hand snake up his spine, curl up through
his short, fair hair. "I've already said it, Tom. I love you. You are
my very best friend. As good friends as we were, as much as I loved
Libby, it just somehow fades in comparison with what I feel for you."
He leaned in, kissed the side of Tom's neck. " My parents are the best
of friends, and their love was the best role model a kid could have,
growing up. In the prison, when I stood over you, knowing it was
pretty much over, I realized that you had taken that place in my
life."

"You said 'that man is my friend'," Tom mused, leaning into Harry's
warmth even as the bath water began to cool around him.

"'Nobody touches him … but me!' " Harry continued softly, doing just
that. 

"Harry," Tom said at last, but he was silenced by the descent of Kim's
mouth. After a few moments, Tom pulled back, only to lean in again and
trace his tongue lightly over the curve of Harry's eyelid. "You taste
like…" He paused, searching.

"Like what?" Harry asked, laughing.

Tom hugged him fiercely, pulling him into the tub on top of him. This
time it was Paris whose  mouth descended, but Harry met him, returning
the kiss with passion and tenderness.

When it ended, he rested his head against Harry's chest, listening to
the thud of his friend's heartbeat. "You taste like home," he said at
last.

---

The End