by Bridget Cochran
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I watched 'Night' 10/14/98 and was just so happy to have everybody back, so fresh and ready to go! So, many ideas for stories sprang up, I could hardly wait to put them on paper. What do you think I write? A P/K hurt/comfort for after 'The Killing Game'. Sometimes (most of the time), I just don't get it. But the question that always nagged me was, what went through Harry's mind during and after that episode? Here's my answer.

© 1998

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In a final fit of irritation, Harry knocked the regenerator away with his elbow. "Tom, I told you I didn't need your help."

Tom was grim, not giving up because Harry said so. "What the hell's the matter with you?" he growled as he followed Harry into the bathroom. Without another word, Harry stripped naked and stepped right into the sonic bombardment.

The sound put Tom on edge, but, shit, nobody was using water frivolously right now. Not with everybody on austerity rations after sending the Hirogen packing.

Bastards, he thought as he leaned against the door frame watching Harry shower. The poor guy had ugly swollen bruises everywhere--

Tom straightened. The med-tricorder was out in the dayroom, but unless he was mistaken, a couple of Harry's ribs were broken. "Computer, end shower," he called, ready for Harry when the young man turned on him.

"Whadya do that for?" The eyes were dark with anger. He stepped out of the shower and over to the sink.

"When were you going to tell me about the ribs?" Tom's voice was hard, his eyes narrowed to slits.

"When I was ready." Tom reached Harry in one broad stride to stand angry nose-to-angry nose with his lover. "When?"

Harry sighed. "Look, there are people who need the regenerator more than I do. I have a couple of bruises and a couple of cracked ribs." He stood unflinching before his personal medic.

Tom softened, a hand reached to gently cup the battered face he loved so well. But he paused when the younger man jerked away from his touch. That was a first. Harry tried to push past, but couldn't get Tom to budge from the doorway.

"I'll make a deal," Tom kept his voice as neutral as possible considering the roil his mind was in. It wasn't too hard to know Harry wasn't saying what was really bothering him. "I'll only regenerate the cracked ribs and leave the bruises."

Harry's lips thinned, then they scrunched together. Tom was convinced he was going to give him an argument, so he reached an index finger to one of the damaged bones and pushed.

"Deal," Harry gasped.

This time Harry shoved Tom aside, and Tom let him pass, standing at the door to watch Harry gingerly roll into bed to lay on his back. The man looked like he'd been used as a punching bag with face was so swollen he didn't even look like Harry. His lips were puffy, one was still scabbed, an eye was swollen shut, the other one sporting a split just at the brow line. What the hell happened to him during the whole mess?

Tom pursed his lips. Harry wasn't talking. Harry, who wanted to talk about every damn thing, wasn't saying a word. He lay like a body ready to be wrapped and entombed, staring at the ceiling with his good eye.

After retrieving the tricorder, Tom climbed onto the bed himself. Yah, the ribs were cracked. He made a manual determination of clinical detachment. He picked up the regenerator and flicked a look at Harry. "This is gonna tingle."

An imperceptible nod came from Harry. Tom knelt closer to the hurting man, putting a hand on the top of the dark head, soft strokes through the not-quite clean hair. But Harry shook the hand away. Tom frowned, but had to concentrate for a minute as the bone knit began to kick in. Then he could move his hand back to the top of Harry's head. This time it was rather forcefully knocked away.

Tom turned serious eyes, now tinged with irritation. In the two years of their relationship, Harry never pushed him away. "Start talking."

Harry tried to effect the stubborn look that was part of his charm, but it hurt and his lip began to bleed.

"Oh, great," Tom sighed and he switched off the regenerator to drop it on the bed before heading to the bathroom. He returned with a wet washcloth and pulled Harry's resistant body into his arms to dab at the blood pooling on Harry's lip and chin.

Once again Harry tried to withdraw, but Tom was insistent as hell, cleaning the sensitive skin with incredible tenderness. Harry lay stiff within this embrace, enduring the ministrations as long as necessary.

He nearly pitched off when Tom picked up the regen. "You said just the ribs," he accused through lips of rubber.

"Just your lower lip. I promise." Tom didn't understand why Harry was so resistant to having his injuries treated.

"No."

"Do you want me to call the Doc, Harry?"

The eye that could narrow, did. He felt the blood dribble warm and moist on his chin again. "Screw you." He'd given in.

Tom flicked on the instrument and made a quick pass to instantly heal the torn skin. He dabbed the residual blood away, grasping Harry firmly when he tried to move away. Tossing the regen and cloth on the nightstand, he moved his arms to circle Harry. "Start talking," he said again.

"No."

"Then we'll sit here all night."

Harry sighed. He lay still and rigid in Tom's arms. Once sure his lover wasn't going anywhere, Tom once again raised his hand to Harry's crisp hair, stroking from front to back, the movement through the matted strands separated them. With the gradual persistence, Harry finally laid his head on Tom's shoulder. Tom's pace never changed.

"I was so alone." The voice was so quite, and so desperate.

"Those fucking commandos used me, making me screw around with Voyager. I was destroying it."

"But you didn't destroy it, Harry." Then, "you saved us."

Harry made a derisive sound. "After I let them bully me into abetting them." Tom's hold tightened at the bereft quality of Harry's voice, but it loosened when his lover groaned. The graceful fingers kept moving through the dark hair.

"I wish I could have been there for you." Tom pressed his lips onto the only unmarked patch of forehead. He felt Harry's body shiver. "What?"

"I met you when the battle spilled into the corridor."

"You did?"

"Yah--called you Tom, but you weren't Tom."

"Bobby."

"Whatever." Harry's voice was flat. "You thought I was the enemy. You pointed a pistol at me and asked me a stupid question."

"Uh-huh."

"I almost didn't get the answer right."

"Oh." Tom understood now. Oh, Christ. He tilted Harry's face up to see the tears that wet the brutalized face, feeling his own eyes sting. Bastards, he swore again. He'd almost killed the guy that meant more to him than anything.

Easing Harry out of his arms, he stretched the hurting man to lay on his back, Tom stretched out beside him, watching him.

"All I could think of was how I deserved to be shot and how ironic that you were going to do it."

"Harry--," Tom sighed, propped on his elbow looking into the dark and troubled face of a man who resembled his lover. What could he say? Tom could never find words to assuage the guilt Harry was feeling. Hell, Tom had been where Harry was now more than once. Second guessing everything he said or did.

Compared to Harry,Tom lucked out in this ordeal, if that's what you'd call it--luck. He'd been placed in the thick of the 'battle' with Chakotay, and B'Elanna as a love interest. Weird stuff, but they were all together fighting for a common cause.

But Harry. He'd been thrown a load of shit. A whole load of shit, and fought back--on small human against big Hirogen hulks. The concept humbled Tom. He bent to the face, lips a whisper on the purple, swollen cheekbone, a tongue on the one salty tear that traveled toward the dark ear. "I love you, Harry," he breathed.

Harry's eyes closed, but that didn't stop the roll of tears that multiplied and pooled before their weight sent them further down toward the bed. "Touch me," he whispered, a heart sick sound that nearly smothered Tom with sadness.

He didn't have to repeat himself: Tom's hand immediately skimmed the bruised and mottled skin of Harry's closest arm. Light, feather touches coated the tormented flesh with love, resting no where. Soft kisses ressed into Harry as Tom rose to his hands and knees to access feet, ankles, calves and kneecaps.

It was at the kneecaps that Tom noticed Harry's erection. "Uh, Harry?"

"Mmmmm?"

"You want me to-uh-take care of this?" Tom hated this unsure feeling. Harry had never been this low that Tom could ever remember. He certainly didn't want Harry to think he was pushing him into something.

"Please."

"Hands or mouth?"

"Whatever." Harry's eyes were closed, a long fingered hand lay on a belly mottled with yellow, healing bruises. His other hand was fisted at his side. Tom moved his lips to Harry's groin. Bile rose from deep within him as he thought about what Harry had gone through. He made a mental shrug as his tongue lapped at the bruises, in a gesture of erasure. He lapped at the base of Harry's cock and moved to tongue swirls at the wrinkled balls.

The able ministrations brought rumbling to Harry's chest. A groaning gasp accompanied one sac into Tom's mouth. Another groan when the ball was released and the seducing tongue eased between the two sacs in an effort to push them apart; a movement that was continued until-

"Tom."

Tom knew what that meant: Harry couldn't wait any longer. Moving his mouth to the waiting shaft that was dark with blood, surging straight up. Applying his lips wasn't enough for Tom tonight. He rubbed his jaw, cheeks, forehead with the erection like some holy, anointing ritual.

It was. The erection was the physical manifestation of the love Harry had for Tom. And Tom revered it. Reveled in the comfort he could give for all that had been suffered. They had been apart for days, weeks and only Harry knew they'd been apart. Then Harry said he'd almost shot him. It was too much.

Tom moved his lips to the top of the cock, sucking in only the glans, sucking, sucking until Harry gave a pain-filled, squeaky "Yes." Tom released the pressure to engulf most of the penis. The gusty sigh told the blonde more that words.

Slow, very slow, movements of mouth and tongue worked the muscle. A hand rested on Tom's head. The other on the pale cheek, grazing it with finger tips.

The fingers moved to Tom's lips. Harry grazed the stem of his own cock, then moved back to Tom's lips. One finger tip slid across the lips. "God, this is good Tom. I missed you so much. I was so alone." He stopped talking, but worked a finger to share space with his penis in Tom's mouth, digit fought with tongue for space on the slippery dick. "I love you," he whispered as the fire built in his gut, raged in his balls and charged into his dick.

"Yes," he said as he bore down into the mattress and surged forward into the mouth of the man who meant everything to him.

Tom tried to get every drop, but his mouth was distended by the finger that didn't leave; residual semen was wiped away with the back of his hand as he raised himself up to look at Harry, relieved to see the rapture on the messed up face. He climbed over the spent body on hands and knees until their noses touched.

Harry turned his head to one side. "Go brush your teeth."

Tom smiled, relief plain. Good, old Harry. He'd swallow Tom's come, but couldn't stand the taste of his own. "Anything you say, Harry," placing a peck on a bumpy cheek instead. He headed to the bathroom, hoping Harry was on the road to repair.

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End