by Julad
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This is a sequel of sorts to Discovery. It will eventually be rewritten as (probably) the fifth in the series, but I decided to post it now because I'm too busy with study to finish the others anytime soon. It takes place a few months and a whole lotta angst later. I'll fill you in on the rest of the story eventually. Consider this a preview of things to come.

Feedback will be very much appreciated, because I'll be able to incorporate suggestions into the final version.

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, Paramount. Archiving: Might as well. R'rain, PKSP. Warning: Yes, Tom and Harry fuck. Each other. I can't see why that would be a problem for anyone.

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I often wonder how Starfleet manages to make sense of psych evaluations. I mean, people are so complex; such confusing, contrary creatures that absolutely anything can be said to be true of them at one time or another.

We deceive ourselves as much as we deceive each other. We lie about ourselves without knowing we are lying. We can even tell the truth without recognising it as such. So, do the evaluators ever get under the skin of a person and find out what actually makes them tick? Can they discern which motives really drive actions, and accurately detect the true emotional states through which our reality is filtered? Can they sift through the outer layers of projected personality and comprehend the underlying persona? I guess what I'm wondering is this: Which Harry Kim, and which Tom Paris, did Starfleet think they were recruiting?

When I had my evaluation, I thought I was being honest. So, did the psychologist believe in the same Harry that I believed I was? I thought I was a straightforward person: honest, hardworking, loyal. Modest. Oh yes, I knew I was smart as all hell, I knew I was an academy Golden Boy, but what with all my friends and family and lovers and teachers adoring me, I had never in my life needed to assert my own greatness. So, did Starfleet believe the humble confidence and self-assurance that I carried on the outside, or did they read deeper than I had, and see the deep-hidden terror of failing, and even worse, the arrogant certainty that it would never happen to me? So far it hasn't, really, but how many times have I carelessly tossed my career, even my life, on the line, without thinking that I could actually lose it? I owe three lives over, maybe more, to cordrazine and last minute beam-outs and sacrifices made by someone other than myself. Did Starfleet know, when they made me operations officer on Voyager, that I honestly don't believe in the event of my own death?

And the same goes for Tom. Why did they accept him into the academy? Could they look at a member of a Starfleet royal family, and believe he had ever been given an option of doing something else with his life? Tom's sullen resentment of his father's insistence could well have manifested as rebellion against Starfleet principles. Yet even then, Tom tells me, flight called him, and the stars beckoned.

That's why I think they must know, not us, but our abilities. Because no matter what his personal feelings toward Starfleet are, Tom thinks like a pilot. He's not especially book-smart, he has no mind for theory, but he thinks in motion. Momentum, inertia, acceleration, and velocity. He sees the three-dimensional patterns of objects moving within space, and understands instinctively the forces that govern and direct them. People, too. He sees the forces that propel them, the forces which resist their movement and can predict the pattern which results. It's what makes him a holoprogrammer as well as a pilot. He simplifies characters into their governing forces, and it gives them depth and authenticity that many more detailed programs lack. That perception is why some people find Tom's teasing so annoying, and some, like me, just can't stay away.

And me, he tells me that I'm governed by mathematics and music. Once hearing it, I knew it was true. Those are the two forces which make up the yin and yang of my soul. I hear harmonies in the function of Voyager's systems, see a complex but perfectly balanced equation in the relationship between her captain and first officer. I hear a glorious counterpoint in B'Elanna's wild speculations and Carey's pragmatic rebuttals. I hear music and mathamatics in delta quadrant chaos, and they're the source of my calm, and I hear chaos and music in the statistics of Operations, and they're the source of my creativity.

Ah. My creativity. The reason for my current aimless musings. I was deciding how to wake Tom up today, and wondering how I can take such delight in making my predictability unpredictable. Predictable because it's nearly 0600 and I always wake Tom at six. Predictable because I woke, as I have every day since I entered the academy, at precisely five hundred, and worked on reports and research with my lover nestled warm and oblivious at my side, as I have every day for the eight weeks we've been together. And unpredictable, because when Tom drifts off to sleep in my arms at night, he never knows how the next day will begin.

Once, in a fit of cynically romantic poeticism, he dubbed it 'Morning Glory'. The source of the phrase is lost on me, but the beauty of it isn't. Mornings are glorious with Tom. This is my favourite part of the day, the hour I spend with my lover before we report to the bridge for duty. It's my favourite thing, to wake him in a different way every day. It's more than a game to me, it's an unspoken challenge to the routine forced on this relationship by duty and confinement. Tom and I work together, eat together, socialize together, and now sleep together. Boredom and stagnation, while not inevitable, are the greatest threat to our happiness as lovers. Hence the determination on my part to make every morning special and unique.

Sometimes he wakes with his cock growing stiff in my mouth as I suck gently on the silky head. Sometimes I whisper sweet, dirty nothings in his ear and they infiltrate dream after dream until their urgency brings him to consciousness. Sometimes I straddle his hips and stroke myself, shifting gently over him, and anticipating the moment when his cock hardens in response. Then I lower myself onto it, and blue eyes open to see me bringing myself off, surrendering completely to the exquisite feeling of his erection throbbing inside me. And then sometimes he wakes to feel my hand curled around him and my slicked arousal pressing at the opening to his body, and always before his eyes are open, he begins the day with a breathy, whispered "yes".

Oh, don't think it's all sex and sweetness though. The reality is usually far from pretty. Tom actually hates waking up more than anyone I've ever known. He is very damn bloody-minded about it, to tell the truth. If my methods don't have the promise of immediate pleasure, he'll ignore my attempts at rousing him, or curse me roundly and pull the pillow over his head. And to add insult to injury, he usually blames me for his reluctance to get up. Ha! As if he's the only one who expended all his energy the night before.

There actually is one failsafe way of getting him out of bed. I discovered it when we first started sleeping together. Unfortunately it doesn't last long, but it's kind of fun sometimes. I used to get up at five and work on my reports at the table in his quarters, but after I'd been out of bed for a couple of minutes, some unerring sense of Tom's would alert him to my absence. I'd hear him swear hoarsely and then he'd stagger out, bristly and more than half asleep, to find me. The corners of my mouth are twitching at the memories of him picking me up and dragging me across the room, then dumping me unceremoniously in the bed and curling up around me, content once more. He'd do it every time he woke up alone. These days I usually don't bother trying to get up without him, I just grab datapadds quickly and then work in bed while Tom sleeps happily at my side. Sometimes I feel like a glorified teddy-bear, but I adore him for finding a bed so horribly empty without me in it. I forgive his shitty morning temper tantrums, his laziness, his stubbornness, just because he wants so badly for me to be there.

Now, listening to my own indulgent thoughts, I'm starting to think that I'm far too easy on him in the morning. He gets everything he asks for, even breakfast replicated from my rations, just because he looks so gorgeous when he's tousled and sleepy and confused. And if I have the nerve to deny him what he wants, he just rolls over and starts snoring again. Ignores me, after all I do for him. Hmmmph! A bucket of cold water seems like Tom's well-deserved wake-up call now.

Hmmm, cold water. . .

That's a very tempting thought. I can see it clearly in my head, and I can't help smirking at the mental picture: Tom leaping out of bed with a yelp and standing there dripping and spluttering, electric blue eyes wide with disbelief. There'd be curses and accusations and threats, but he wouldn't be ignoring me, that's for sure. And then I'd have a whole hour of his revenge to look forward to. Oh shit, I can't stop giggling now. Good thing flyboy is still totally oblivious.

This idea's too good to use right away. It'll be more fun to save it up for a special occasion. When he's been flirting with Megan or B'Elanna to make me jealous, maybe. I'll certainly enjoy the anticipation. Every time he teases me from now on, I'll be picturing his warm fuzzy dreams being rudely interrupted by icy cold water.

Still, I can tease him this morning as well. There's no reason I should let him take my tolerance for granted, is there? Today's plan is forming in my mind now. I call up a few schematics on the various padds scattered in the sheets, and immerse myself in them until I can get the smirk off my face and my tell-tale erection is gone. Then I shake him awake.

"Mmmph?"

"Tom, wake up, I need to ask you something." I keep shaking him.

"Nnnnnghhrrr." He's definitely annoyed. Good.

"Hey, just wake up will you?" His eyes are slowly opening, so I pretend I'm still lost in the data on the padd I'm holding, and absently shake his shoulder again.

"Nnnrrwhat?" He knocks my hand away but I don't look up at him, just pick up another padd.

"I've been thinking about that problem we have getting emergency power to the impulse engines. I need to know something."

"What?" I recognize that tone of voice. It means 'what' as in, 'I don't know what you're talking about, but if you don't explain yourself now and if the explanation is not to my liking, I'll be responding with deadly force.' Tom can be very eloquent at times. And I can be very blithe.

"Is there ever a situation in which a pilot would need to drop the ship out of warp and immediately engage maneuvering thrusters? Or go directly from thrusters into warp in under ten seconds? You see, I can possibly bypass the auxiliary power conduits from the warp drive so that the impulse reactors can be brought online by. . . " That was quick. I'm suddenly pinned to the bed with a very cranky, stubbly pilot glaring in my face.

"Harry Liu Kim," he growls, "I may love you, and I may owe my every scrap of happiness to you, but if you've woken me at six to talk about Operations, I'm going to have to kill you."

"Well," I offer in my most reasonable tone of voice, "the discussion about the engines should only take ten minutes, and that leaves us about forty minutes for me to reward you for your assistance."

Tom snorts and rolls over, pulling the covers tightly around him. "I'll take another fifty minutes sleep and a quick fuck in the shower, thanks."

Okay, so he's genuinely shit off, but now so am I. "Oh, that's romantic!" I snap.

"You're the one who woke me to talk about warp drives and conduits," comes the muffled reply.

"Yeah, and then I was going make love to you until you were delirious with pleasure. But don't worry, I'll find something better to do while you waste our morning snoring." I throw all the datapadds onto the floor and start crawling out of bed. An arm slides around my waist and pulls me back.

"I'm sorry, baby," Tom whispers, kissing my face. "Stay here and I'll show you romantic." He starts sucking gently on my neck, and my anger dissolves instantly. This is exactly what I wanted: a morning of him being nice to me, rather than the usual reverse. I'm thinking about telling him that the 'shop talk' was only a joke, but then he stops his attentions and snuggles into me, breathing slowly and deeply. I stare at him indignantly, but he's oblivious to me again. The bastard! He's going back to sleep! I lie there and start fuming. That bucket of water is going to make its debut in about sixty seconds, I think, and what's more, it's coming out of his replicator credits.

He snuggles closer, and I feel something poking my thigh. Oh, okay, he's not going back to sleep after all. A hand creeps between my legs, stroking and scratching, making me shiver. I sigh happily, closing my eyes and concentrating on the sensations.

"I'm just tired because you wore me out last night," he whispers. His breath is hot and tingly on my ear, and my erection is returning at the memory. Tom threatened at dinner last night to fuck me until I screamed, and I held him to it. He wasn't satisfied with the results until I was on the brink of orgasm for the third time, and by then I was sobbing and begging and thought I was going to die if I didn't get release. Then when he finally let me come, I screamed his name repeatedly and blacked out.

Oh, dammit, I just remembered something else.

He did work pretty hard at doing that, and I didn't wake up to give him anything in return. Belated guilt makes my face turn red. I guess maybe he deserved to sleep in this morning. I should have just done clarinet practise or something till he woke up naturally.

Then my thoughts return to the present because his hand is stroking my balls and I can only moan incoherently as all the blood leaves my brain. Apparently I'm forgiven.

Tom rolls over onto my stomach and grins in my face. "Care for an encore performance?" Those fingers travel lower and start teasing my ass. I moan again, and they descend into the crack. It stings and I can't help but wince.

"Sorry, but you can't go there," I tell him apologetically. "Too sore."

Tom wriggles provocatively against me, wicked lust in his eyes. "So go fix it with the regenerator."

"But I want to be sore." I wriggle under him in response. "I want a reminder of what you did to me."

My lover pins me with a look of exaggerated patience, as if speaking to a two-year-old. "So go fix it, and I'll make it sore again." Then he beams a glorious smile at me. "It'll be fun!"

I groan, and push him off me. "There's no time. I'll have to make you sore instead."

Tom stretches out on his back. "Oh, I don't know about that," he says airily. "I need to be convinced that it's a good idea."

Oh, no way. I'm going to fuck him senseless, but I'm not going to let him be difficult about it. There's no time, and besides, I'm the one who calls the shots in the morning. If it's convincing he wants. . . I move in between his legs, take his cock in my mouth and suck hard. Tom arches his back and mutters something about subtlety. Well, I've had it with talking, so I deep-throat him in response. He shudders and moans, but I don't let up in the slightest. Instead, I use one hand to fondle his balls, and slip the other hand under him, searching for his crack. One finger slips inside and as I use it to stroke his prostate, he groans and thrusts up into my mouth.

"Alright, alright, fuck me already," he gasps.

I release him and he shoves the crumpled sheet out of the way and gets on his hands and knees for me. I'm not giving it to him right away though. I put my hands in the small of his back and push until he's lying flat on the bed, then I nudge his legs until they are spread wide. He whimpers in anticipation.

Oh God. I love the sound of Tom when he's like this: vulnerable and needy. And he looks gorgeous, head to the side, muscles tensing through the long, lean body, lying prone on dishevelled bedclothes. And that sweet round ass is so inviting I can't stay away from it another second. I pounce, touching, stroking, squeezing, kissing, sucking, biting. Everything about it looks and tastes and feels wonderful. I could feast on Tom's ass all day, but unfortunately I have other things I have to do, so I drag myself away. Quick lubrication, and then I push my erection inside him.

Oh God. I could stay like this all day too. It feels so incredibly good to be this close to him, pressing every part of my skin to his and feeling the tight, slick heat of him surround me. The sensations rushing through my aching cock are sending me out of my head too soon, and I breathe deeply to calm myself, inhaling the scent of him and sweat and sex. Tom whimpers again and tries to move under me, so I lean forward and flick my tongue over his ear. Having that done only makes me giggle, but it drives Tom absolutely wild with lust. As he moans incoherently, I withdraw slowly and then thrust even deeper into him, licking his other ear when it comes into reach. The slow torture makes my beautiful lover cry my name, so I keep doing it: long hard thrust, lick his ear, and slowly pull back while he shivers with pleasure and desire.

The sight and sound of him under me is clouding my mind with crimson want, but only when his moans are constant do I give into my own pressing need for release. I pull him up until he's on hands and knees, and reach around to grab his seeping erection. Then I let him have it.

The last shreds of my control dissolve as I thrust savagely into him, and his cries and mine are indistinguishable as we quickly climb the wave of ecstasy towards climax. He sobs aloud and I fuck him harder, faster. The pressure is unbearable now and I see stars in the red haze and I hear a rushing sound in my ears and my body tenses and Tom calls out to me as he comes. He tightens around me and I thrust as deep as I can and the world turns white and oh god the pleasure is ripping my soul apart, oh god, OH GOD, orgasm slams viciously through me and I'm screaming too, and flying and falling and dying with the sheer agony and ecstasy of it. . .

My body collapses on top of his, gasping and trembling.

My mind still soars through the stars on wings of rapture and exultation.

Slowly my breathing calms and I can feel my limbs again and they're still tingling with aftershocks. Wow. Where did that come from? Usually in the morning, sex is playful and lazy. That fuck rivals our first time together, so sudden and intense. I kiss Tom's shoulder and taste salty sweat. It's delicious and I suck his neck and throat languidly, wanting to taste more. He stirs finally, and kisses my face and lips, whispering words of love. I hold him closer for a minute, but then he rolls me off him and pulls my arms around his waist until I'm spooned up behind him, drifting peacefully. He sighs contentedly and his eyes are closed and I suddenly realize. . .

That son of a bitch! He's gone back to sleep! And if my internal clock is right, we are already running very damn late. I check the time, and now it's my turn to start swearing. We don't even have time for breakfast, and after last night and this morning, I am very fucking hungry. And since Tom is in no state to get ready, I'll have to do everything for both of us.

I clamp down my temper and drag my bleary-eyed lover into the shower, wash us quickly and hand Tom a towel while I shove my uniform on and straighten up my hair a bit. When I'm done I dress Tom roughly, and finally he's awake enough to shave himself while I run a comb through his short curls. Then we quickly rinse our teeth with dental solution, and I slap our communicators on and drag him towards the door, still cursing God and clocks and Starfleet.

At he door, Tom stops me. His seraphic smile keeps me from protesting as he slips his arms around my waist and lowers his lips to mine. They are so warm and inviting, moving gently over my mouth until I open it and his tongue slips inside and I can taste him, fresh and clean and delicious. After a very thorough kiss my bad temper is gone, my limbs are tingling again and apparently Starfleet can just go to hell, because I'm kissing him back passionately. Surprisingly, it's Tom who breaks it off and leads me along the corridor and into the turbolift. The doors shut and he kisses me again, using warm, moist, talented lips to make me dissolve in his embrace. He pulls away just as the doors open onto the bridge.

With the eyes of the crew on us, Tom squeezes my hand and brushes the hair off my forehead. There is a love and mischief in his eyes as he speaks softly in my ear.

"Good morning."

Then he leaves my side and sits down at the conn, and somehow I have to bring my mind back down from cloud nine and listen to updates on sensors, shields and controls. Still, I can't keep the stupid smile off my face as I remember the past hour. Every single thing about getting Tom out of bed is glorious, and it definitely was a good morning.

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End