The BLTS Archive - Then Turn, Then Fall to Sleep
Second 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.

Bits of this overlap with the previous story - this is really  just
change of perspective piece, to build and continue the  concept.

The title is from my favourite Leonard Cohen poem, same as the  last
one. It seemed to fit

---

The only light in the room was the dim glow of the stars that streaked
past them, yet Harry couldn't stop watching Tom's face as he slept.
He had been awake 20 minutes or so, surfacing from sleep with a slow,
contented feeling that he couldn't pinpoint. Until Tom had mumbled,
that is, and rolled into his arms more securely.

Paris was beautiful. In sleep, his face lost that edge of
self-mockery, and the faint ghosting of sorrow that he could never
entirely hide. Curled against Harry's chest, his right hand lightly
clasping the younger man's hip, he seemed untouched by all the
darkness that he carried around in his waking hours. Harry had to
blink and swallow hard a couple of times to keep from crying at the
difference between this Tom Paris, and the one he had lured from
Sandrine's a few hours earlier.

Watching Tom had become a major part of Harry's life the last few
weeks. He couldn't not watch Tom. The moment the other man entered a
room, the air vibrated like a string plucked, and resonated somewhere
deep inside Harry. Each movement, gesture, and look was stored away in
some part of Harry's heart, almost as if he could somehow take Tom
piece by piece until at last he had the whole.

All the while he was very careful not to betray himself to Paris; Tom
had told him enough about his experiences at Auckland for Harry to
draw a few, heartbreaking conclusions. A little reading into the
history of prison systems only served to confirm what he suspected,
and keep him silent. He had no desire to erode the defenses that Tom
had carefully  constructed, or risk the friendship that sustained them
both. His parents had taught him that love meant being willing to
sacrifice to the greater good. Better to maintain what they had, than
to risk alienating Tom. The lieutenant needed a best friend more than
a boyfriend.

Still, it was difficult to maintain that friendly neutrality. At the
oddest moments he'd remember the feel of Tom's fevered skin as they
held one another for comfort, and a longing so intense it left him
almost gasping would shoot through him. The soft gold hair on the back
of Tom's hand, the way the fine lines around his eyes would crinkle
with amusement at the slightest provocation, any small thing could
trigger that hunger, and each time it was a little bit harder to hold
back, to remember the greater good. Remember there was a reason Tom
flirted with Jenny Delaney and not Harry Kim.

Harry was so intent upon holding himself in check, he almost failed
to notice Tom Paris' subtle withdrawal. It was nothing obvious,
really. Just quietness where there was usually talk, a smile where
there should have been laughter, and a fleeting expression that Harry
could not name, but ached for all the same.

So he watched all the more carefully, if still from a distance, and
was dismayed to see angles appear in an already slender face, and a
blooming of shadows beneath Tom's eyes. Now he noted every mouthful
the other man swallowed, or didn't swallow, and he took to asking the
computer for Paris' location at odd hours, to try and discover what
the lieutenant did in place of sleep. And yet still he kept silent,
unsure of how to make things right. If he were to confront Tom, he
wasn't sure if he could get through the other man's defenses, and if
he did make it through those defenses, he had no guarantees that he
could keep his own needs and feelings in check. If he reported his
concern to Janeway or the Doc, he risked getting Tom taken off duty,
and somehow he doubted that was the answer. Flying Voyager was the one
place Paris still seemed totally himself, totally at ease. To deprive
him of that might only make things worse.  There were no easy answers.

But then, were there ever?

It was dinner that decided him. Tom sat across from him, pushing
gingerly at Neelix's latest offering with a fork, and not talking
much. B'Elanna sat next to Harry, and between the two of them they
managed a fairly lively debate pitting Klingon opera against Big Band,
but the whole while he was surreptitiously watching Tom not eat, not
joke, not even really be. Once, he caught a glimpse of that unfamiliar
look, and something shivered deep within him, even as he returned his
gaze to B'Elanna.

After another fifteen minutes had passed and the conversation had
moved on to ship's gossip, Tom gave up pretending to eat, wished them
both a good night, and left the mess hall. Harry watched him leave, a
frown marring his face as he glanced down at the still full plate.

"Hey, Starfleet!" B'Elanna's smoky voice recalled his attention, and
he found her watching him with an expression that somehow managed to
convey annoyance, amusement, and sympathy. "Y'know, it's a damn good
thing I like you, Harry, otherwise I'd be insulted. Despite the fact
we've been talking all evening, I get the distinct impression you
barely know I'm here."

Harry shot Torres a contrite glance. "I'm sorry, B'Elanna. I've just
been a little concerned about Tom since the prison. He hasn't been
himself, and I'm not sure what to do about it. He's got all these
walls, y'know? And I'm afraid if I try going over the wrong one, I'll
make things worse instead of better."

The lithe young half-Klingon leaned back in her seat, slowly bit
through some unknown vegetable, and regarded the ensign with a
considering look. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, some part of her
enjoying leaving the man hanging, another part knowing that she had to
be very careful here. Human males were so fragile, especially
Starfleet ensigns, still green about the edges.

At last she swallowed, and leaned forward. "He's not the only one who
hasn't been himself, Harry. Every time he steps into a room, you know
it. Your eyes follow him when you think no one else, especially Tom,
is looking. If I wasn't the discreet, tactful woman I am, I'd have
said something a few weeks ago. But I figured, hey, they're big boys,
they'll work it out." She stood up, stretched, her muscles moving
supply beneath her uniform. A feline smile lit her face. "Now I'm not
so sure."

She turned to leave, but paused a few steps from the table. "Aw, hell,
Starfleet. I'll give you a hint. That look that you caught, the one
that got you all bothered?"

Harry nodded slowly, unsure of where this was heading.

B'Elanna's smile widened, took on a predatory gleam. "It was longing.
Good-night, Harry. Sleep well."

Harry watched, mouth hanging slightly open, as she strode sleekly from
the mess. Longing? What did she mean, longing? A few, faint glimmers
of hope surfaced in his heart as he put their left-overs in the
recycling chute, and headed back to his own quarters. And if it was
longing, longing for what?

---

Somewhere in the middle of third shift, he decided he had to do
something. To hell with easy answers. Better to risk everything than
to lose everything for the want of trying. He climbed from the tangle
of his bed, pulled on trousers and a shirt, and asked the computer for
the location of Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris.

"Lieutenant Paris is on Holodeck two," the computer replied dutifully.

"Is there anyone with Lieutenant Paris?" Harry queried as he searched
the room for some reasonable excuse to be on the Holodeck at this
hour.

"Negative. Lieutenant Paris is the only occupant."

Good, thought Harry, seizing at last upon his clarinet. It was weak,
but it would have to do. All he needed was a beginning.

Harry found Tom lost in the lulling repetition of practicing pool
shots. For awhile he was content to watch the fluid grace of the older
man, but the 'patrons' of Sandrine's had begun to notice him, and he
thought it would be better to announce his own presence than to be
caught staring. He coughed lightly, and almost laughed at how Paris
damn near dug a hole  into the table. He really had been out of it!

Paris seemed happy enough to see him, laughing good-naturedly at
Harry's contrived excuse about the clarinet, inviting him to have a
drink. But the reserve was still there, and it damn near broke Kim in
two.

Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer. "Hey, Tom. You look like
hell." Tom spluttered at that, spraying synthehol brandy over the
black pants and blue shirt he was wearing. He had a smart remark, of
course, and tried to cover by wiping at himself, but Harry had waited
long enough.

At last Tom dropped his defenses, and admitted to bad dreams. He was
leaving something out, but at least it was a beginning. Paris even
agreed to return to his quarters, and let Harry help him get some
sleep. He was too tired to resist, too worn out to put up any more
walls. He let Harry shut down the program, and followed him out into
the quiet, low-lit corridors.

Harry had not meant the bath as a seduction; his only hope had been to
let Tom relax, to give him some ease. A warm bath, a bit of a back rub
… hell, he'd have offered warm milk out of his own replicator rations
if he could have been sure Tom wouldn't have spit it back at him.
Paris was not a milk and cookies kind of guy.

He even managed to keep control when Tom, half-asleep, had nuzzled
against his shoulder. It was only when Tom had begun to put himself
down that Harry lost it, pulling the older man into an embrace,
telling him that he loved him, trying to convince Tom with word and
deed just how very important he was.

Tom pulled him into the water with him, but Harry didn't notice the
cooling water, or how wet his clothes were. The entire universe was
reduced to the feel of Tom's arms around him, and the taste of his
mouth as it kissed him. It was sweetness, mixed with hunger, and there
was no turning back from it.

"You taste like ..." Tom whispered once, after tracing the fold of
Harry's eyelid with his tongue.

"Like what?" Harry replied, losing himself in the brilliant blue of
the other man's eyes.

"You taste like home," Tom replied at last, his voice a mixture of
wonder and delight, leaning down to press his face against the
ensign's chest.

Now Tom's face was once again pressed against Harry's chest, and for a
moment Harry marveled that the hammering of his heart didn't wake the
fair-haired man. He had never made love with another man before. Hell,
except for Libby, he'd never really made love to anyone before. He
supposed it was because making love was how he thought of it - and
except for Libby and Tom, he hadn't ever loved anyone enough to want
to go to bed with them. He had been afraid at first, because he was
the only one to come right out and say the word 'love'.  But Tom, for
all his smooth talk, was more a man of actions than of words, and
every touch spoke of love, every look, so Harry was content.

For awhile, he continued to watch Tom sleep, wondering at the vagaries
of fate that had led them to this moment. He liked this peaceful Tom,
who felt safe enough to sleep dreamless and content beside him.
Finally Harry gave into temptation, and drew his left index finger
lightly down Paris' nose, and across his pink, still slightly swollen
mouth. He was surprised when those lips parted, and strong teeth
nipped firmly at his  fingers.

As Harry pulled his hand back, Tom stretched out, rolled onto his
back, and tugged Harry so that the ensign's head rested on his chest.
"How long have you been awake?"

"Not long," Harry replied, trailing his fingers across Tom's torso. "I
was just watching you sleep. You seemed... at peace."

Tom tightened his embrace, placed a kiss on top of Harry's dark head.
"I was at peace, I think." He kissed Harry again, this time against
the temple. "You know, Harry, most people would have just gone to the
Doc for a sedative for me to take..." he said, reaching out to still
the ensign's slow moving hand.

Harry propped himself up on one elbow, and met Tom's questioning gaze
unflinchingly. " You didn't need a sedative," he replied gravely.

Tom quirked his head in acknowledgement. "No, I don't think a sedative
would have done nearly so well." A small smile tugged at his
expressive mouth. "So what do I do from now on, Har? Take two ensigns
and wake up to you in the morning?"

"Not two ensigns. Just this ensign," Harry replied. "If that's what
you want. I meant what I said last night. I love you, Tom. This was,
and is important to me. I want to wake up to you in the morning, go to
sleep with you at night, and hold you until I've taken all the hurt
away. Are you ready for that?"

An expression very like pain crossed Tom's face, and he swallowed
hard. "Hell, Harry, I don't know if I'm ready. I know I want to be
ready, but I've been fucked up for so long … I'm scared I'll screw
this up, lose everything. I'm just scared, plain and simple." He
reached out, cupped Harry's cheek with his hand, and kissed him
searchingly. "But, God, I do love you, and that makes me think I'd
better try. Even if I am scared."

Now it was Harry's turn to swallow hard. He covered the pale hand on
his cheek with one of his own. "So we'll be scared together. It's
better than being scared alone, any day." He tugged Tom's hand over
his mouth, kissed it's palm gently, and returned it to the owner.

"You're gonna make me believe in second chances, Har," Tom whispered,
pulling their bodies together until it was impossible to discern where
one began and the other ended.

"Good," said Harry softly, his eyes closing as he eased into sleep.
"That was my intention."

---

The End