by Pennhothwen
---
Feedback: yes please, and if anyone would like to beta this, please let me
know.
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek in any of its various
incarnations. All I own is the fire ant colony in my pants pocket. So if
you sue me, that's what you'll get.
It's brimful of angst – just to warn you. And it's not
really finished yet, so suggestions are welcome.
---
Tom sat, his head in his hands. The last time this had happened,
he'd been able to write it off to having had one too many drinks at
Sandrine's. But now, as he turned, gazing over his shoulder at the
sleeping figure in the bed, he knew that this time, there was no one to
blame but himself. His mind wandered, reliving the incidents that had
gotten him to this point.
It had been much the same, at first, as the last time, with Ensign
Mulcahey. A few months ago, he'd been in the mess hall eating lunch
alone when Mulcahey had come over and invited him for a friendly game of
pool at Sandrine's that night. Of course he'd said yes. Pool
at Sandrine's – who wouldn't?
As the night wore on, they'd both gotten more than a little drunk.
Tom had been too thick to realize what Mulcahey meant when he asked Tom
if he'd like to come back to his quarters.
It wasn't his first time: there had been Auckland. But prison had
been nothing like this – this time, he'd gone willingly.
He'd wanted Mulcahey. That had never happened before, and
Tom refused to believe it would ever happen again. When he'd woken up
naked in Mulcahey's bed – in his arms – he'd
panicked, blamed it on too much synthehol, and fled, leaving the younger
man hurt and confused. Tom swore to himself that it wouldn't happen
again. Never again.
But here he was, sitting on the edge of another man's bed, wrapped
in nothing but a sheet. He rubbed his eyes, cursing himself for his
weakness. Why? Why had he let this happen? And of all people, why with his
best friend? Why with Harry?
It began innocently enough. Harry had invited him along for dinner
yesterday after their bridge shift. Nothing so odd about that – he
and Harry often ate together. Besides, B'Elanna and a few others
were supposed to show up, too: just a normal, everyday social occasion.
Dinner had been uneventful, and Tom had gladly accepted Harry's
invitation back to his quarters for a game of cards. They'd played a
few rounds, and they'd gotten to talking. At first it was nothing
serious, just idle talk about their families, Captain Proton, ship'd
gossip. . . simple things. It had felt comfortable. Safe. Before he knew it,
Tom was telling Harry things about himself he'd never wanted to
share with anyone... and Harry had listened, without judgment, without
accusation, without blame. Just listened, and offered nothing but complete
acceptance. And then. . .
The soft sound of indrawn breath brought Tom back to the present. He
looked Harry again. So sweet – beautiful, even – gods, he was
beautiful. Tom wanted him, even now. This was no mere passing interest. . .
No. He pushed the thought away, refusing the implications.
Harry stirred, galvanizing Tom into motion. He forced himself to his
feet, willing himself to move toward the door. He couldn't be here
when Harry woke; maybe they could just forget this, if he could just be
gone before –
"Hey," a sleepy voice broke the silence of the room.
"You're still here." Harry's voice carried in it
surprise, gratitude – more than Tom could stand to hear just then.
Yet he stood, mesmerised by the sound of that voice. It continued to hold
him enthralled, washing over his ragged soul in soft waves. "I hoped
you would be." He could hear the bedsheets rustle as Harry sat up.
"Tom? Are you okay?" So soft, like the voice of an angel. What
right did he have to spoil such perfection? Tom closed his eyes as tears
came unbidden, tracing paths of regret as they escaped his downturned
lashes.
"Tom?" He felt Harry's hands on his shoulders, sliding
down his arms, encircling his waist. He dared not turn to face him: he had
to leave, couldn't let himself accept this offer of solace –
Whatever shred of resolve he might have clung to evaporated as
Harry's hand left his waist to travel upward, brushing the tears
from his face. "You're crying. . . what's wrong?" He
could not resist as Harry turned him, pulling him close. "Why,
Tom?" So soft. . . maybe he really was an angel...
"Harry," he whispered. "I can't."
---
End
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