by Colleen
---
Paramount, of course, owns the world; no infringement of any kind is meant
by my borrowing these characters and this setting. There is verbatim dialogue
in this story from the Voyager episode "The Chute". The story
itself is mine, with many thanks to Killashdra; feel free to distribute, but
please keep my name and this header attached. I love feedback!
No sex, no violence - but if you absolutely can't stand the idea of
two men loving each other, read no further.
This is really a departure for me; I've never really been a slash fan
and never would I have guessed I'd be writing - and posting (!) - a
piece of slash fiction, even one as - mild? is that the word? - as this.
(Actually, I don't write much fanfic at all - last week I posted the
first piece I'd ever written; this is the second.) But when I finished
Killashdra's story "Ghost in the Machine", I couldn't
stand not knowing what happened after Harry opened the door, so I wrote
her and asked (begged!) her to hurry with the sequel. Well, she
wasn't planning on writing one - so I had to come up with something on
my own. Then I saw"The Chute" and everything just fell into
place. I guess this isn't really a sequel, just sort of a . .
Copyright 1996
---
I was having a difficult time waking out of my dream . . . I don't
remember what I was dreaming, only that an incessant chiming filled the
background. Finally my subconscious mind identified the sound as my door
com. Someone was paying me a visit.
I rolled out of bed and grabbed my robe; as I tied it around me, I
glanced at the chronometer. 0603. I am not a cheerful early riser; this
had better be an emergency.
I opened the door, my customary morning scowl on my face, and there stood
Tom. I doubted he'd been to bed the night before. There was faint,
fair stubble along his jaw, he was wearing civvies and - had he been
crying? Was there the faintest, fading hint of red in his eyes, his nose?
Or was that simply the remnant of a night filled with synthbeer and no
sleep? He just looked at me. When I asked if he was ok, he said,
'Yeah, I'm fine."
And then he grinned, the smile suffusing his face with light like the sun
through a cloudbank. It wasn't the smirk everyone is familiar with; it
was the clean, honest, untainted grin that so few of us on the ship have
seen and always want more of. "Listen, Harry?" he said.
"There's something I have to tell you."
He walked through the door, walked toward me, and for one wild moment, I
thought he was going to grab me in his arms and - Tom gave a quick, almost
imperceptible shake of his head, and walked over to the sofa, settling
into a corner. I asked if he wanted something to drink. "Coffee,
raktajino - "
When I returned to the sofa with two steaming mugs of coffee, I took a
seat in the other corner. Tom was still wearing that beautiful smile.
(Beautiful?)
"Whatever you have to tell me, it must be pretty good. I haven't
seen you grin like that in ages."
"It's good, Harry," Tom said and his voice was
uncharacteristically soft. "It's good."
"So? Tell me!"
Tom swallowed then said, "I love you, Harry."
I loved Tom as much as I'd loved any of my friends, probably more. I
laughed a little and said, "I love you too, Tom, but I don't
think I'd wake you up two hours early to tell you." I was still
pretty groggy - I hadn't been sleeping well and was beginning to feel
perpetually groggy - and I suppose that's why it took me a moment or
two to realize that Tom was shaking his head at me and that his tone of
voice had indicated something different from what I'd assumed he'd
meant. Suddenly, I was very much awake.
"No, Harry, that's not what I meant." He gave a short
laugh. "I've been thinking about everything I wanted to tell you,
everything I wanted to say, and now I've forgotten the whole
speech." He stopped talking abruptly and the smile was still on his
face but it was fading.
I could've said, "Then maybe you weren't meant to say
it," or "Tom, let's please not get into this," or
something equally discouraging. Instead, I carefully placed my mug on the
floor in front of me, then leaned forward just a little. "So
don't make speeches Tom. Just talk to me."
He drew a shaky breath and began to talk. He talked to me about lust and
desire and how those feelings had covered up a deeper feeling - love. He
talked to me about the day he realized that he loved me, that day a few
weeks back when we'd been cleaning his quarters. I remembered it.
I'd seen something in his eyes then, but I couldn't read it and he
wouldn't answer my questions. At some point - I don't remember
when - Tom reached over and took my hand. I didn't withdraw it.
"I was never going to bring it up, Harry, because I thought . . .
well, I thought it would make you treat me differently, or pity me, or
despise me. And I didn't think I could bear that. But last night . . .
last night I couldn't put you out of my mind - I missed you at
Sandrine's, you know - and I finally decided I had to tell you.
Because not telling you and never knowing what might have happened seems
worse now than anything that could happen. I don't know," he
looked me in the eyes and his voice trembled, almost imperceptably,
"I honestly don't know if I could have kept this inside myself
and continued our friendship. It . . . hurt too much."
It wasn't a particularly eloquent declaration of love and it
didn't take very long, but I felt as if we'd been sitting there
forever. When Tom was done talking, the look on his face was so hopeful,
so fearful all at once, so naked and open, that I wanted to turn away. But
he wouldn't let me. His eyes held mine and I couldn't look away.
And I couldn't find my voice. Finally, I had to talk or scream, so I
said - and my voice was shaking -
"Tom, I - " feel the same way you do, I'm just scared to
death. I had to stop for a moment because the thought had ambushed me.
Where had it come from? " - I don't know what to say."
I'm not rejecting you, I just don't know . . .
Tom released my hand and stood up. "I understand, Harry. But - I had
to say it and . . . I feel I should have told you a long time ago. I'm
sorry I waited."
"I'm glad you did tell me." He turned and headed for the
door. The smile was gone. I couldn't stand it.
"Tom!"
He stopped, eyes closed, back to me.
"I didn't say 'no'. It's just that - "
Tom shook his head a little. "Don't. You don't need to say
anything. I won't push you."
Then he left. I sat there for a long time, thinking. Then I got up and
got ready for my shift at Ops. As I left the bathroom, I saw the ring Tom
had given me that day in his quarters, on the shelf where I'd left it
the night before. I put in on before I headed out the door.
---
Not long after Tom's early morning visit, I had another sleepless night.
It had been happening more frequent over the past couple of months - Libby
was haunting me. After three years in the Delta Quadrant, almost everyone
on the ship seemed to have reconciled themselves to never seeing their
friends and family back home again. They had done their grieving, dealt
with their anger, and were well on the way to forming new lives. I was one
of the few exceptions. I wanted to remain eternally optimistic and I held
on to the images of home and Libby like . . . well, like the proverbial
drowning man grasps a rope.
But now my grasp was slipping. I was becoming more and more aware of the
fact that, to Libby, I was a dead man, three years dead, and though I knew
she loved me, Libby was not a fool. She would've moved on. It was time
for me to do the same.
I'd been shying away from that thought for a long time but that night
I faced it head on. When the tears came, I wasn't taken by surprise;
they were part of what I'd been avoiding. Giving in to grief meant
acknowledging that the situation was real. I was "dead"; my old
life was gone.
I didn't want to face this alone - but there was only one person on
board that I wanted to talk to, and that was Tom. I knew I could call him
and he'd be there before the com link closed. Or I could walk down to
his quarters - so close - and wake him. I knew he would listen without a
single "told you so!" (though he had), that he would hold me,
comfort me, say all the right things . . . and I couldn't go.
I almost did, headed for the door half a dozen times, but another thought
kept creeping into the back of my mind - the thought that it would be
unfair to Tom, to go to his quarters, ask him to hold me, talk to me,
listen to me, do whatever it was I needed to feel better right then - and
then sneak back to my own quarters after having given nothing in return,
pretending in the morning that nothing had happened. Because I knew that,
for whatever reason eluded me at the moment, that's what would happen
if I sought him out right then. So I spent a white night in my quarters
with only my tears, my grief, my anger to keep me company.
---
After that night, I began sleeping better and life started moving a little more
smoothly for me. Libby - home - crossed my mind less and less often. Of
course, that meant that I had a lot more time to think about Tom and our
friendship and Tom loving me and me . . . me loving Tom.
Because I did, and if I were going to be honest with myself, I had to
admit that I had for quite awhile. And it did scare me. I wasn't
entirely sure why. It wasn't - at least I didn't think it was -
because Tom was a man and I'd never had "romantic"
feelings for a man before. In reality, Libby was the only person I'd ever
loved like that and, while I never thought I would fall in love with another
man, I didn't question it when I realized it had happened.
The biggest reason, the one that flashed through my mind like a neon
sign, was as old as the hills. Tom was the best friend I had - the best
friend I'd ever had - and I had never known a couple who'd moved
from friendship to romance, then broken up, and truly remained friends. I
was afraid of the relationship not working out and not being able to stay
friends if it didn't. Voyager was too small a ship and 70 years too
long a time for that to happen. I would rather have Tom's friendship
and nothing else than not have him in my life at all. Selfish, cowardly -
and incredibly unfair in light of the risk Tom took, saying the things
he'd said to me.
---
Surprisingly, our relationship didn't change much, not on the surface.
Things were different, of course. There was a tension between us that
hadn't been there before, but I think we were the only ones to notice.
Most of it was created by me, wanting to offer encouragement while asking
for time - but not wanting to tease.
I didn't want Tom to give up on me, but I wasn't ready to leap
that gulf between friendship and a deeper relationship either, and I
didn't know if I ever would be. I always wore the ring he'd given
me - I knew he noticed - and sometimes, I couldn't help myself, I had
to touch him. Just a hand on his shoulder or an "accidental"
brush of my skin against his if I were handing him something. Nothing
more. I hated to think that I was hurting him. If I was, he gave no sign.
We hung out together as much as we ever had, shooting pool at
Sandrine's or shooting the bull in our quarters. When we got the
chance at some shore leave on Akritaria, we went together.
---
Shore leave was a nightmare. The terrorist attack, being separated from Tom,
not allowed to call Voyager, the kangaroo court. Then being dropped down
the chute into the center of that hideous "welcoming committee".
All those . . . those animals, each one screaming, "He's
mine!" "No, I tell you, he's mine!"
And then Tom stepping forth, a ragged knight in dirty clothing, knife in
his hand, daring them all to interfere with his "revenge".
"This one is mine." I did love him. I won't go into
details; it's all in the official record. I can't say I'm glad
it happened. But I can say that this is what it took to open my eyes and
force me to make up my mind. Shortly before the end - before I tried to
kill Tom - there was a night that was worse than usual. He woke up and
couldn't remember what had happened to him. When I reminded him
that he'd been stabbed, he became convinced that I was the one who
had done it. He tried, weak as he was,to attack me and I had to fight him off.
He did calm down and memory returned, but he was scared - I could see the
fear in his eyes - and in pain and he pleaded, "Harry, please
don't leave me here." I held his hand in both of mine, not
knowing what to say. I thought perhaps he was dying and I'd never been
so afraid of anything in my life.
I wanted to cry out, "No Tom! Please don't leave
me!" I wanted to hold him close, to lean over and kiss his
forehead, kiss his cheek, kiss - I didn't cry out or move, except to
lie down beside him to sleep. "Close your eyes," I said.
---
After the rescue, after we'd been cleaned up and put back together,
the implants removed, Tom led me from sickbay, slinging a friendly arm
across my shoulders, saying, "Come on, Harry. We're overdue
for that steak dinner," and we walked along while he talked about the
dinner and all it's trimmings.
I couldn't stand it. Guilt and remorse burned inside me like cold,
white fire.
"Tom," I said, but he kept talking. I quit walking.
"Tom! Listen to me!"
He stopped. How could he stand there and act like nothing had ever
happened?
"Tom, I almost killed you."
"What're you saying? You're the one that kept me
alive."
"I was ready to hit you with the pipe." I burned with shame,
telling what I'd done. "Don't you remember?"
"You want to know what I remember? Someone saying, 'This
man is my friend. Nobody touches him.' I'll remember that for a
long time."
I wanted to cry. I wanted to reach out and hold him. I wanted to look
away but his eyes wouldn't let me. I couldn't move.
Touch me, I thought. Hug me or kiss me or just take my hand.
Touch me once and I can move again. Just once and I'm yours
forever.
"So what do you say we blow a week's worth of replicator
rations?" Tom was saying. The spell was broken and I averted my gaze.
Throwing his arm across my shoulder again, Tom led me up the corridor.
"So what's for dessert?" I asked.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned, played my clarinet,
tried to read a book. Nothing helped. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted
Tom.
"I won't push you," he'd told me two months before.
The next move was mine. I got dressed, asked the computer for Tom's
whereabouts.
"Lieutenant Paris is in his quarters."
"Is he alone?"
"Affirmative."
I walked the short distance down the hall, then stood outside his door
for a full minute before touching the door com. When Tom came to the door,
it was clear that I'd wakened him. He stood there, not speaking,
looking at me confusedly.
"Tom," I said, my voice breaking a little, "There's
something I have to tell you."
I walked inside and as the door closed, I crossed the short distance
between us and drew him close, hugging him tightly to me. For a moment he
just stood there, then his arms went around me and he held on like a
drowning man. Then I put my arms around his neck and pulled his head down,
meeting his mouth with mine.
---
End
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