by Rachel Martin
---

Archiving: Freely archive and post, but please keep this header information intact.

Warnings: m/m sex, small amount of violence.

Disclaimer: The Star Trek universe belongs to Viacom/Paramount/UPN. This story belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm making no money off this.

Criticism welcome.

---

"You're gonna scare everyone else off the bus," Miguel Ayala observed.

"That's one way to get a seat." Harry Kim grinned, shook his head and pointed to the civilian clothes on the stripped mattress. He tugged at the uniform he wore. "I'll leave this on your bunk after I change."

"Well, thanks, man." Not that Harry's uniform would fit, but Ayala could trade it for booze and cigarettes and porn.

The two looked at each other for a silent moment.

"Hey Miguel. Do you ever think of going back Out There?" Harry gestured vaguely in the direction of the civilian world.

"Nah, man, there's nothing Out There. Not for me," Ayala amended hastily. "I got everything I need in the Army, and talk about job security. Every payday I think I should send a thank-you card to Owen and Tom Paris."

"Ten years and counting. How much longer can it go on?"

"Well, let's see. You got a stubborn old fuck like Owen Paris, you got a crazy young fuck like Tom Paris. I'd say. . . forever." Ayala chuckled. "Or at least till I'm eligible for retirement. Which is the most important thing."

"Right."

Gradually their smiles faded.

Ayala said, "I can't believe they're not letting you just watch TV or something till your enlistment runs out."

"Gotta wring me dry."

"What do they have you doing?"

"Guard duty over at Building 210." Ayala's eyes widened. "I never knew you had a Top Secret clearance."

"Get real. They're just desperate, is all. Half the MI company has the flu."

Silence again.

"You better get going, Miguel."

"Yeah. Wish I could stick around to see you off."

"Yeah."

"Gotta write me, man, okay?"

"Yeah. You come and visit if you're ever Out There."

Ayala nodded. Harry held out his hand. To his surprise he was pulled into a bear hug. Just as suddenly Ayala let go and jogged out of the barracks.

Harry lifted his lightly packed duffelbag onto the bare mattress. He had little to carry home but awards and souvenirs and gifts. He'd given away all his military gear and clothing, except for what he stood in. And as fully uniformed as he was, he felt naked without his tags and cards and badges. One by one they had been plucked from him today as he traveled through the outprocessing system.

Nothing to do now but wait for the clock to run down. At midnight -- in eight hours and twenty minutes, to be exact -- Private Kim turned back into Harry Kim, civilian. And at twelve thirty a.m. -- not 0030 -- he'd be on the bus out.

He felt sad and scared. Sad to leave his friends. Scared to leave his well-ordered military world. And for what? To return to the scene of his greatest humiliation. College! Harry groaned internally. He'd spent an entire semester in remedial courses that didn't even count toward graduation. He'd practically kissed his draft notice. An honorable out!

He hadn't reckoned with the iron will of his mother. If he re-enlisted the Federation was going to have a worse enemy than Owen Paris on its collective hands. Harry didn't doubt his mother would march and picket and protest until the Army positively begged him to leave. She didn't understand the Maquis rebellion any more than most civilians -- any more than most soldiers, to be honest -- and was not about to let it interfere with her son's life. She reserved that privilege unto herself.

Grinning wryly, Harry got ready to coast through the last eight hours of his military career.

---

Lieutenant Buendia was cool, for an officer. He walked Harry around the weirdly windowless Building 210, pointing out which hallways to patrol and rooms to check. Buendia told him to report into the main office after each round and Harry was surprised to be offered a cup of coffee on his third visit. He drank it as Buendia swung his legs back up onto his desk and fiddled with the reception on his short-wave radio.

"I only passed three people this time, sir -- and they checked out," Harry added hastily.

"Yeah, it's quiet here at night. How're Brunner's codes working out?"

"No problem, sir." Harry knew he shouldn't be using another man's codes to traverse a secure building, but "field expediencies" could be hard to avoid. He could hardly be issued a Top Secret clearance in an hour. Anyway, it was Buendia's neck.

The phone rang. Buendia looked at it irritably. "I'm busy."

The phone rang again. The man sighed and picked it up. "Building 210, Lieutenant Buendia speaking, how-may-I-help-you-sir-ma'am."

Harry could hear the excited chatter pouring out of the line. Buendia didn't seem terribly affected. He replied "Yes, sir" several times in a moderately interested tone before hanging up.

Meeting Harry's curious eyes, he said, "Bringing up a prisoner. A downed pilot." Buendia sighed and swept his radio into a drawer. He opened a file and arranged it on his desk; studied the effect and added another file.

The door flew open. A man wearing captain's bars and the nametag "Markowitz" charged in. "Buendia!"

"Sir!" The lieutenant jumped smartly to his feet.

"Get this fingerprint card over to HQ ASAP! This could be Tom Paris!"

Harry's eyes widened.

"Yes sir!"

Markowitz rushed out of the office.

Buendia winked at Harry and stuffed the card into an overflowing in-box. "Don't let Captain Ahab get you excited."

Harry smiled uncertainly. Wasn't the captain's name Markowitz?

"Should I stand by, sir?"

"No, no. Go ahead and make your rounds." Buendia waved dismissively and sat back down. He opened his desk drawer and looked longingly at his radio. Harry smothered a smile as he walked out.

He supposed he wouldn't see the pilot, although he already knew what the man must look like: twenty-something, fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes. All male Maquis prisoners unfortunate enough to fit The Profile had their prints checked against the ten-year-old driver's license application of one Thomas Eugene Paris.

Harry wondered if the teenaged Tom had done much hot-rodding before General Owen Paris had resigned his commission and gone underground.

---

When he next reported into the main office, Harry found Buendia tiredly arguing with a courier.

"Sorry, sir, but I have my orders. I have to deliver this into Captain Markowitz's hands."

"Look, don't pull a Janeway on me, okay? Just let me have it."

"Sorry, sir." The courier clutched the large envelope to his chest.

"He's interrogating a prisoner. He can't be interrupted." Buendia pointed to a metal door at the far end of the room.

"I have my orders, sir." The courier raised his voice. "Captain Markowitz?"

"Soundproof." Buendia sighed. He got up, crossed the room and opened an intercom next to the metal door.

"Sir, there's a envelope for you from the 486th, to be delivered into your hands."

Harry was shocked to hear a groan of pain through the intercom. He sucked in his breath and edged behind the courier toward the metal door. Buendia smiled at him reassuringly.

Markowitz's voice came through clearly. "So, accept it."

The captain sounded okay.

The courier said, "To be delivered into your hands only, sir."

"I'm authorizing Lieutenant Buendia to accept it."

"I have my orders, sir. To be delivered into your hands only."

"God damn. This had better be good." A pause. The door opened. The smell of cigarette smoke floated out. Buendia waved the courier ahead. Harry stood outside the small room and stared in.

The captured pilot was stark naked and hogtied. Belly to the floor, bound wrists and bound ankles fastened together over the small of his back. His body was liberally bruised and dotted with small, angry red marks. Even from the doorway Harry could see the pain and exhaustion in the man's face.

Markowitz parked a cigarette in a corner of his mouth and reached for the envelope. The courier said apologetically, "I'm supposed to look at your ID first, sir."

"What?" Markowitz glared. The courier stood resolutely. Muttering, Markowitz rummaged through his pockets and produced an ID card. The courier handed him a form to sign. Markowitz took a last drag on his cigarette and dropped it on the prisoner's back.

Harry didn't understand the how of it. One second he was in the doorway and the next second he was inside the room with the muzzle of his rifle buried in Markowitz's abdomen. With the tip of his boot he kicked the lit cigarette off the pilot's skin.

The captain's eyes were bugging.

Harry said, "Leave him alone." He stopped, startled. Had that deep snarl really come out of his own body?

The courier wailed, "Jesus, kid, I'm just the mailman," and bolted from the room.

Markowitz stumbled backwards. "Are you crazy?" he asked incredulously. He banged into the wall and began sliding along it toward the door. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Leave him alone," Harry repeated.

Markowitz fell over the threshold. Harry slammed the door shut, threw the bolts home and spun around.

The Maquis had turned his head and was staring wide-eyed at him.

Harry jumped across the room and knelt by the prisoner's side. Furiously he began working at the cord connecting the man's ankles to his wrists.

Voices roared through the open intercom.

"There's your damn envelope!" the courier screamed.

"Brunner!" Markowitz yelled. "Brunner! I'll skin you alive!"

"Uh, sir," Buendia said, "you know that's not Brunner, sir."

"What? What do you mean, that's not Brunner? You wait until now to tell me --"

"But, sir. I thought you noticed. I mean -- Brunner's black."

"I don't have time for petty shit, Lieutenant. Who is that kid? Where's he from?"

"Uhhhh. . ." A rustle of papers. "Private Harry Kim. The 381st. His platoon leader is Torres and his platoon sergeant is Chakotay."

"I want them NOW NOW NOW!"

"But sir --"

"NOW!"

The cord came free. The prisoner cried out in mingled pain and relief as his arms and legs struck the floor. Harry loosened the wrist and ankle restraints and backed away until he was standing by the door.

He glanced at the intercom and switched it from "open" to "listen."

He looked back at the Maquis and said, "You can get them the rest of the way off by yourself."

The man stared uncomprehendingly for a second before starting to struggle with his bonds. Harry kept his rifle leveled. The prisoner freed his wrists in about three minutes. He ripped off his ankle restraints about one minute.

He sat up, stretching the muscles of his arms and back, and regarded Harry silently.

The Maquis was blond and blue-eyed and fair-skinned, as expected. Handsome, for a white guy. He was long and lanky and. . . furry. Thick chest hair, heavy growth on his arms and legs. Harry's gaze drifted unthinkingly to the thatch of reddish-blond pubic hair which did not do much to conceal the man's genitals.

Harry realized that after a year of communal showering he could still be impressed.

Suddenly recollecting himself, Harry looked aside and saw a pile of clothing in a corner of the room. The prisoner followed his gaze and looked at him questioningly. Harry nodded. The man tried a few times to stand before deciding to crawl to the clothes. He sat next to the pile and painfully dressed.

It occurred to Harry that it must hurt like hell to wear clothes over burns. Mentally kicking himself, he unhitched a canteen and his first aid kit from his web belt. For the first time, he was glad that Colonel Janeway required soldiers to go about the post as fully equipped as though they were on the front lines.

The Maquis looked up sharply. Harry put the canteen and the kit on the floor and kicked them across the room. The man caught and hefted them. He studied Harry intently.

Suddenly it all caught up with Harry. What he had done. What he was doing. He started trembling. The more he tried to control himself the more violently he trembled. His teeth actually began chattering and he stuffed his fingers in his mouth. He had threatened an officer. He was disobeying orders. He was helping a Maquis. He felt like his head was going to explode.

He should open the door. He should throw himself on the captain's mercy. He should plead post-traumatic stress syndrome.

The Maquis said softly, "Thank you."

Harry sat down hard on the floor.

Why was he doing this?

His mother would say -- Because it must be done.

---

"Buendia! There's a platoon in the hallway!" Markowitz made it sound like a cockroach invasion. "Torres! Chakotay! What's your platoon doing in my hallway?"

Harry jumped up and switched the intercom to "open."

"You ordered First Platoon to report, sir." Torres sounded harassed.

"I did no such damn thing!"

"But --"

"Didn't --"

"You said --"

"Everybody SHUT UP!"

Chakotay said soothingly, "You want to tell me the problem, sir?"

"Problem? Problem? You want to hear the problem? Your Private Kim won't let me question a Maquis prisoner! He's locked me out of the interrogation room!"

A pause.

"Kim! It's Sergeant Chakotay. You hear me, Kim?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"You cracking up, Kim?"

"No, Sergeant."

"You get a Dear John letter?"

"No, Sergeant."

"Your mom all right?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"You want to tell me the problem, son?"

"Captain Markowitz was torturing the POW, Sergeant."

A pause.

"You just misunderstood, Kim. You're overreacting."

"He was torturing the POW, Sergeant."

"The captain knows what he's doing. You have to trust your chain of command." Pause. "Look, Harry, do you have a plan, or do you figure on spending the rest of your life in that room?"

A plan.

A plan.

And the plan, which must have been quietly budding in his mind, blossomed. "I'll turn the POW over to Colonel Janeway, Sergeant."

"Attila the Hunette? You don't want her to know you're alive."

Buendia chimed in. "She's not even on post. She's at Camp Kalil."

"Harry," Chakotay said kindly. "Your enlistment runs out at midnight. You were all set to catch the bus at double-oh-thirty. Now there's no reason to mess up your plans. This isn't your problem. Why are you getting involved?"

Harry bit his lower lip. "I guess I'm going to miss the bus, Sergeant."

"Kim --"

The sergeant was interrupted.

"Goddamned peace freak!"

"No sir! No sir! Kim's a patriot. He doesn't believe in peace at all."

"He went to college, didn't he?"

"But but but sir. You and I went to college."

"We're a different class of people, Torres. We can get the good out of college without getting contaminated."

"Captain, I swear Kim's not like that. He's having a nervous breakdown. Post-traumatic whatsis. Let me talk to him." Pause. "Kim! This is Lieutenant Torres."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Kim, if you want to help someone, why pick a Maquis dirtbag? You think he hasn't hurt our own POWs? You think he appreciates what you're doing? Hell no. He's laughing at you, Kim. He thinks you're weak and stupid. The second you let down your guard he'll kill you. You're in danger, Kim. You've got to open this door."

Harry clutched his rifle convulsively. He looked at the pilot for reassurance. The pilot looked back with no expression on his face at all.

"But ma'am. Captain Markowitz was hurting him."

"Kim. Harry. It's a Maquis. They're animals. You can't reason with animals. All they understand is pain. They don't respect anything but violence, so that's what we have to dish out. I don't like it either, Harry, but that's what these bastards have brought us to. They've brought it on themselves."

"You mean. . . fight fire with fire."

"Exactly," Torres said warmly. "We have to think like them, act like them, fight like them."

"But then. . . we are them."

A pause. "I'm not explaining this very well; let me start over."

"No!" Markowitz bellowed.

Chakotay interjected, "Sir, Kim's a good trooper, really."

"He's a goddamn traitor! He's keeping me from interrogating a prisoner!"

"Sir, it's not that I agree with what Kim's doing, but I think --"

"You think? You think?" Markowitz roared. "Since when? No one's paying you to think, Sergeant! Get that damn door open!"

Long silence.

"I think," Chakotay growled, "I think if Kim opens that door you're going to torture that POW. I think that's against the Convention. So I think we'll wait for Colonel Janeway. Sir."

"No one is bothering Colonel Janeway!"

Whispers.

"WHAT?"

Harry glanced at his watch. Twenty-one-hundred hours now. Janeway ought to arrive around midnight.

"You son of a bitch!" Markowitz yelled. A long string of expletives followed.

Harry said frantically, "Oh God, what if he has a stroke or a heart attack or something? He must be thirty years old!"

The pilot doubled over and muffled his laughter in his arms.

"Lieutenant Torres!"

"Sir!"

"Get that door open or I swear you'll break rocks for the rest of your life!"

Silence.

More screamed imprecations.

Harry cringed against the door. The Maquis raised his head and wiped his streaming eyes.

"You think this is funny?" Harry screeched in a whisper.

"Well. . . yeah." He looked into Harry's terrified face and sobered.

Crashing noises. Scuffling sounds. Yells.

Harry banged the heel of his left hand against the side of his head.

Now quite grave, the prisoner said, "It sounds like he's hitting your people." He paused. "Open the door, soldier. Before that crazy fuck starts shooting."

Harry looked desperately at him.

"Go on," the Maquis urged gently. "Open the door. You can't put principle ahead of your platoon."

But it must be done, Harry's mother reminded him.

Harry moaned.

The noise outside reached a crescendo. Harry waited for the sound of gunfire. It never came.

Silence did, eventually.

Wretchedly, Harry switched the intercom off. He sat down on the floor and slumped back against the door.

---

Harry realized in horror that he was awakening.

Meaning he'd been sleeping.

He exploded to his feet.

His weapon was still in his hands. The pilot was still sitting on the floor on the other side of the room.

Panting, Harry stood staring at him. The man said calmly, "Nothing happened. I would have woken you up."

Harry said nothing while his heartrate and breathing slowed. When he thought he could speak without gasping, he asked, low-voiced, "Why didn't you kill me?"

"Kill you? You're the only chance I've got in this place."

"Why didn't you take me hostage?"

"You'd make a piss-poor hostage, bud. That captain hates you, if you haven't noticed."

"I noticed."

Harry slumped against the wall at his back and slid down it until he was once more sitting on the floor.

"When is your colonel getting here?"

Harry glanced at his watch. "Maybe ninety minutes."

"So tell me about this Janeway babe."

Harry looked scandalized.

"Colonel Janeway, I mean."

"She's the post commander."

"And?"

"They say she's got an awful temper." Harry paused "But that she's fair. And that she's real by-the-book. Won't bend the rules at all."

"Hoo-ahh," the Maquis intoned. "You keep saying, 'They say.' What do you say?"

"Got nothing to say. I've never met her. Only seen her from a distance."

"You don't actually know her?"

"No."

The pilot looked at him in frank amazement. "You're betting everything on her reputation?"

"Yes."

The pilot said somberly, "You know, pal, if Janeway isn't the person you think she is, you're gonna be in a world o' hurt."

"I know."

But it must be done.

Harry rummaged in the left cargo pocket of his trousers and pulled out several packets. "Believe it or not, this is food. You want to try some?"

The pilot's eyes lit up. Harry lobbed two packets one at a time across the room. "That's 1,000 calories. Thirty percent fat, forty percent carbohydrate, thirty percent protein. Half your daily requirement of vitamins and minerals." He used his teeth to tear open a third packet and began eating.

The pilot completely unwrapped one of his packets and, despite his obvious hunger, eyed the square tan block hesitantly. Harry could not repress a guffaw. The blond grinned ruefully and took an experimental bite. "Damn." He chewed forcefully. "I thought you Feds got the best of everything."

"More Maquis propaganda." Harry pulled his second canteen off his belt. "You still got water?"

The pilot picked up Harry's first canteen, shook it and announced, "Doing okay."

They choked down their dry-as-dust (but healthful) food bars.

The blond said curiously, "Why are you doing this?"

" 'Cause I'm hungry."

"Why are you keeping that captain off me?"

Harry shrugged. "My mom."

"Huh?"

"If I didn't do something. . . I couldn't go home."

The man shifted uncomfortably.

"So what's your name, Maquis?"

All the tentative friendliness vanished from the man's face. "Been softening me up, buddy?"

"My name's Harry Kim. I'm a Private. My number's 66354018." Harry rolled his eyes. "What's the big deal? Look, you gotta give your name, rank and number if you want to get on the Federation POW report. Otherwise the Maquis will list you as MIA. Maybe even KIA. Why would you do that to your family?"

The pilot said nothing.

"Fine. What about your friends?"

No response. Harry shrugged again. He stuffed the wrapping of his food bar into a pocket.

Abruptly the blond said, "Tom Paris. Captain Thomas Eugene Paris. 21737."

Harry's mouth had fallen open after hearing the first two words. Paris looked somewhat resigned, somewhat amused.

Harry managed to say, "Oh, shit."

"Oh shit is it."

Harry throttled back his shock. He said, "I can see why you didn't want to tell me your name."

Paris shrugged and said, "Your people are going to find out anyway. They'll match my prints. But not for a while. Now when Janeway shows up, you'll have some hot news for her. Something your captain wasn't able to get. Might buy you a few more seconds of her time."

"Thank you," Harry said warmly.

Again the man looked uncomfortable. He barked, "Hey, I'm just looking out for myself. What's good for you is good for me."

"Oh." Harry reddened and looked down.

Silence.

Paris asked curiously, "How old are you, Harry, seventeen, eighteen?"

"Twenty-one," Harry lied.

Paris smiled. "Twenty-one it is. Why are you in the Army?"

"Drafted."

"And your enlistment runs out at midnight. That's what your sergeant said."

Harry nodded.

"What are you going to do with yourself Out There?"

"I'm supposed to go to college."

"Supposed to?"

"I don't think I can hack it." Harry sighed. "I'm not smart enough."

Paris leaned forward. "Hey," he said gently.

"Reading takes so long and it's so boring. And I hate writing."

"Aw, you just never had anything worth writing about. Now you do. 'How I Spent My Last Day in the Army,' by Harry Kim."

Harry smiled reluctantly.

"I wish I could go to college. But it's kind of difficult when you're Public Enemy Number Two."

"It would be tough getting a student loan."

"Hell, I didn't even finish high school, officially. Damn war started when I was sixteen. My mom home-schooled me." Paris heaved a theatrical sigh. "No prom."

Harry snorted. "You didn't miss anything. Unless you like rejection."

"See, you got material for another essay. 'My Horrible High School Prom,' by Harry Kim."

Harry had to laugh outright. This was surreal. Was he really bantering with Thomas Eugene Paris?

"What was so horrible about the prom, Harry? Come on. Tell all."

"Well, for starters, I had a hell of a time getting someone to go with me."

"Now I find that pretty hard to believe."

"Gee, thanks. I should've asked you." Harry chuckled. "I didn't even get a kiss out of it."

Paris fished around, picked up Harry's canteen and said, "Here you are." He rose to his feet and crossed the room.

Harry jumped up and brought his rifle down. Paris stopped and extended his arm, holding out the canteen. His nonchalant expression and relaxed posture quite belied the fact that a rifle muzzle was digging into his abdomen. Harry found himself so confused that he automatically reached for the canteen with his free hand.

Paris leaned over and kissed him.

The canteen fell to the floor.

For a long moment Harry absorbed the heat and pressure of lips over his own. The rifle slipped sideways and was crushed between their bellies as he stepped unthinkingly forward. Paris slid his hands around Harry's hips and grabbed his ass and yanked him even closer.

The kiss ended and began and began again. Paris ground his pelvis into Harry's until the younger man could feel his cock engorging under the layers of uniform.

Sanity set in.

Harry tore loose.

"S-stop it," Harry stuttered. "You d-don't have to do anything. I d-didn't stop the captain so I could r-rape you instead."

The blue eyes gleamed almost maniacally. "Oh, is that what you think is going on."

"I have a rifle. You d-don't. That makes it r-rape."

Paris paused, then said, "Look at your rifle, Harry."

Harry shook his head impatiently.

"Take a look."

Harry hesitated. A cold trickle of premonition dripped down his spine. Abruptly he sat on the floor and stripped his rifle. A moment later he looked up dumbly at the pilot.

Paris shrugged. "I did it while you were asleep."

Harry dropped the rifle, doubled over and wrapped his arms around his abdomen to control his sudden nausea. He wondered why Paris had toyed with him. He wondered how Paris would kill him. He wondered how much it would hurt.

"I wasn't going to tell you." Harry heard the rasped words an instant before he felt a tongue trace along the rim of his ear. He inhaled sharply and jerked backwards and connected with a body. A pair of arms encircled him. Harry twisted around to see Paris kneeling behind him. His eyes seemed all enormous black pupils.

"But. . ." Paris leaned in and dragged his wet mouth slowly back and forth over Harry's. He flicked his tongue against Harry's lips and then probed more insistently for access. Harry clenched his teeth, staving off the unknown for as many more seconds as possible. Paris whispered, "Uh uh " and dug his thumbs into the joints of Harry's jaw. When the pain and pressure became unbearable Harry surrendered.

Paris penetrated Harry's mouth as though it were a vagina and his tongue a cock. After the first stunned moment Harry opened to him like a woman spreading her legs. He gulped a mixture of his own and the invader's saliva, breathed in Paris's exhalations, lost track of body boundaries as Paris tongue-fucked him.

Harry moaned and clutched at Paris when he withdrew. The Maquis laughed breathlessly. Harry was pulled into Paris' lap, his back to the older man's chest. Paris rubbed the stubbled side of his face against Harry's smooth cheek and murmured, "Baby."

Harry roused. He was going to explain his lack of beard to this white ignoramus. The ignoramus short-circuited that thought by sliding his hands up under Harry's jacket and tugging the regulation shirt out of the regulation trousers. Harry squirmed and gasped as fingertips tickled his abdomen and traced his ribcage. He arched back as a thumb and forefinger closed around each of his nipples and began milking them.

Harry realized he was whimpering and writhing against Paris without a scrap of dignity. He didn't care that Paris was chuckling. He didn't feel embarrassed. He didn't feel anything but increasingly aroused and frantic.

He had to have Paris. He wasn't even sure what that physically involved. But he had to have Paris. And he wondered why. Homosexuality was just another one of those "field expediencies," yet he'd spent the past year politely rejecting the advances of men he liked and respected. For one of the Federation's worst enemies?

Poor taste.

Terrible timing.

It seemed to be another one of those things that had to be done.

Harry fumbled behind himself for the other man's crotch. Paris stopped fingering Harry's nipples to slap his hands aside and say casually, "Behave."

Harry scrambled around, growling, and bit Paris' shoulder right though the fabric of his flight suit.

At the man's yelp of surprise and pain Harry jerked back, startled. In that second he was sane. In the next second he lunged at Paris again.

The older man shoved him away violently. Harry crashed onto his back on the floor. Paris scrambled on top of him.

"Goddamn," Paris hissed, "goddamn, if that's --"

Clenching Harry's hips between his knees, he jerked the uniform jacket and shirt up, stooped over and bit an erect brown nipple. Harry cried out incoherently. Paris licked the blood from his lips, raked his teeth across the smooth chest and closed his mouth over the other nipple.

Harry felt the sucking and chewing in his cock. He groaned and banged his head against the floor. The pain provided some relief from the sexual tension but not enough. Grabbing fistfuls of the Maquis' shirt, he brought his knees up, his pelvis up, trying rub his erection against the man's ass.

Paris glanced over his shoulder and abruptly sat back. For a moment he writhed provocatively against the cock trapped under his buttocks. Just as abruptly he rocked forward onto his hands and knees. The whine reverberating in Harry's throat brought a twisted smile to Paris' face.

"You want to fuck me?" Paris whispered. Harry arched up pleadingly. Paris lowered his body onto Harry's until they lay chest-to-chest, belly-to-belly, cock-to-cock. Harry felt trapped and inexplicably excited. Obeying an atavistic urge, he flung his head back. Paris mouthed his exposed throat and growled, "You want me to fuck you?"

The words sunk into Harry's rational mind. Quite suddenly the prospect -- the mechanics of which he was only vaguely aware -- frightened him. He put his hands against Paris' shoulders and pushed until the man sat up.

"So. . . " Paris drawled. "You want to fuck me."

Harry gulped and blurted out, "Tell me how."

Paris stilled. He stared down almost stupidly.

Harry could feel the energy between them dissipating. Anxiously he reached up. To his near-horror, Paris ducked aside and rolled off. Slowly the man climbed to his feet.

"What is it?" Harry asked frantically. He propped himself on his elbows and tilted his chin back to look up at Paris. "What's wrong?"

Paris shook his head and mumbled.

Harry stared uncomprehendingly. Abruptly he turned beet red. He stammered, "I d-don't have a, a disease or anything. I haven't been around anyone else."

The older man grimaced.

Oh, God, he thinks I'm lying, Harry thought despairingly. Tears of frustration blurred his vision. "Please."

Paris looked away.

Harry whimpered. His erection hurt. His balls hurt. He rolled over onto his hands and knees and crawled to Paris. He leaned his forehead against the man's knee and whispered, "Please. Tom."

He heard a shuddering sigh. He felt a hand touch his head and drift down to his shoulder.

Paris toppled him over with a gentle push.

He pressed Harry's back into the floor and straddled him. Harry almost didn't dare breathe as Paris unfastened the belt and unbuttoned the trousers of the Federation uniform. He was terrified the man might change his mind again. But it seemed that Paris was not going to change his mind. Harry raised his hips as his briefs and trousers were pulled down. He arched up again as a pair of hands slid between his thighs to cup and caress his balls.

Paris murmured, "What do you want?"

"Anything."

Paris smiled oddly before taking Harry's cock into his mouth.

Harry almost screamed as his erection was worked with a merciful lack of finesse. Paris sucked strongly and used his lips and tongue roughly until Harry was bucking uncontrollably upward. Paris made no attempt to restrain him. He allowed his mouth to be fucked as violently as Harry desired.

Harry grabbed the blond hair and dragged Paris' head down. He pumped deeply and rapidly and mindlessly down the man's throat. He didn't have the experience to know he was half-gagging, half-suffocating his partner. Paris gave him no clue.

And finally Paris brought his self-imposed punishment to an end. He ran his hands behind Harry's balls and over the perineum and stretched the anus open between his thumbs. A wail started in Harry's gut and began working its way up through his body to his throat. Paris pushed a fingertip into him and the wail poured out of him and his orgasm poured out of him and he thought his life might be pouring out of him too.

The muscles of Paris' throat contracted around his cock, swallowing his come. Harry struggled feebly. He could not repress the superstitious feeling that Tom Paris was stealing his soul. But he could not articulate his fear. His brain had turned to mush.

He roused briefly as his briefs and trousers were pulled back up over his hips. Paris buckled and rebuttoned his uniform. Harry did not participate in the process. His body had turned to mush too.

It was the strangest interval of the strangest day in his admittedly short life.

---

Harry drifted out of his post-orgasmic doze to find his own rifle leveled in his face.

Paris said gently, "It was repairable, you know."

Harry stared down the barrel. He would have sworn the rifle was unrepairable. Obviously he wasn't even smart enough to be an Army grunt.

"Time for me to go. My old man's waiting." Paris hesitated. "Got another bone you can throw Janeway."

"Why?" Harry spoke dully.

Paris chose not to understand the real question. "The Maquis Council is talking surrender. But my father keeps thinking there must be some other option."

Harry tried to focus on something besides the knife in his back. "What are you going to tell him?"

"To surrender. We can't beat an army with recruits like you."

"Yeah, that's why I'm on the wrong end of my own rifle." Harry laughed bitterly.

"You've been holding off an entire post. For an ideal. And you've convinced your platoon to jump off the cliff with you. And you're just the cannon fodder in this outfit."

Harry couldn't think of a reply.

"And I'm telling him to surrender to this Janeway of yours. So tell her to clear her calendar." Paris gestured to the door. "Unlock it."

Harry felt the muzzle of the rifle press into his back as he threw the bolts and opened the door.

Harry vaguely noted what appeared to be his entire platoon encamped in the outer office. He heard the sound of many boots hitting the floor as the group surged to its feet. He heard click-click-click echo around the room as safeties snapped off and bolts shot home.

Paris said coolly, "You must really hate him."

Everyone froze.

Harry caught sight of Lieutenant Torres. As he made eye contact with her she smiled encouragingly. He looked past her and saw Chakotay. The sergeant's face was grave. Ayala. There he was, front and center. As Paris propelled his hostage forward Ayala hissed, "I'll kill you, Maquis."

"Someone go ahead of us and open the doors," Paris said. "Get us out of this building in five minutes or I'll shoot him."

Buendia jogged forward.

Harry followed the lieutenant as if in a dream or trance. He noted doors, hallways, and then the clean fresh smell of night air.

Paris said to Buendia, "Get back inside."

"You won't make it off this post."

"Get inside," Paris repeated. Buendia backed into the building. Paris nudged Harry forward. "Take me to the flight line."

Floodlights came on a moment later. Harry blinked, dazzled. A uniformed woman stepped out of the surrounding blackness.

"Colonel Janeway, I presume," Paris drawled.

"What do you want?"

"A helicopter. Bring it here, why don't you. And if you sabotage it, well, you can talk tactics with his mom at the funeral."

Janeway spun on one bootheel and raised her voice. "You heard. Move." She pivoted back. "Let him go. He's not old enough to drink."

"Really?" Harry could positively hear Paris grinning. He wondered which would kill him first, embarrassment or a bullet.

"He protected you."

"Right." Amusement vanished from the voice. "I can't believe I fell for that good cop, bad cop routine. Your boys really put one over on me."

Janeway looked startled. But not as startled as Harry felt. Incautiously he turned his head.

Paris winked.

Rattled, Harry faced around again.

"If you want a hostage, a colonel is a hell of a lot more valuable than a private."

Paris groaned. "I'm knee-deep in nobility here. Sorry, ma'am."

The three stood in a silence broken eventually by the approach of a helicopter. They instinctively crouched down as the machine settled nearby. Arms raised above his head, the pilot carefully climbed out and backed away from the idling craft.

Paris nudged Harry forward. "All aboard."

Harry glanced at Janeway as he scrambled inside. That glare wasn't even aimed at him and he shivered.

The colonel said, "The next time you see me, you'll be the one on the wrong end of the rifle."

Paris actually laughed. "Bet on it." He slid the door of the helicopter shut.

Harry saw Janeway's bewildered expression through the one-way windscreens. Heedless of the rifle in his back, he turned completely around and stared at his captor.

Paris tossed the rifle to him. "It's unrepairable." He walked past Harry and slung himself into the pilot's seat.

Harry made a strangled noise.

Paris turned around. His eyes sparkled with mischief and something more. He said softly, "Come with me, Harry."

Harry spluttered, "Like I have a choice?"

Paris pointed to the door. Warily, Harry edged toward it. He gripped the handle.

Paris repeated huskily, "Come with me."

Harry swallowed.

The blue eyes coaxed.

"I can't." Harry said thickly. "My mom. She'd think I was getting tortured or something."

Paris sighed.

After a pause, he said, "So here is where we have a desperate struggle and you jump out."

"What?"

"Harry. Work with me."

"Oh. Okay."

Paris studied the control panel and flipped several switches. The gently revolving rotors began racing. With no small disgust Harry dropped the accursed rifle and kicked it across the helicopter. When he looked up Paris was beckoning him. He walked forward and crouched down by the pilot's knee.

Paris leaned over and stroked Harry's closely-cropped hair. "I'm going to have to give you some bruises. To make it believable. You understand?"

Harry nodded and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes.

The first punch would have knocked him flat if Paris hadn't taken a grip around the back of his neck. Another punch, and he knew he had a spectacular bruise over his cheekbone to match his rapidly blackening eye. He huddled, gasping with pain, against the pilot's thigh.

He felt a hand petting his hair again.

Paris whispered, "I'll find you, baby."

Harry's head hurt too much for nodding.

And that hot hard mouth covered his own again. That tongue forced apart his lips and teeth and pushed deeply inside. He choked and gulped and began sucking. He heard a moan, his own or the other man's, and he didn't realize he was out of breath until Paris pushed him back, set him free.

Harry opened his eyes, or rather, his uninjured eye.

Paris pushed him again. "Go to the door. I'll tell you when to jump."

The helicopter rose as he crawled to the door. It began tilting crazily as he reached for the handle. Right, he thought hazily, we're fighting.

"Now!"

Harry slid the door open and rolled out.

He fell perhaps ten feet and landed on his side in soft grass. Even so, he felt a bolt of pain travel down his shoulder and elbow and hip and knee. His head slammed the ground and he grayed out.

---

Lots of noise. Lots of excited voices. Lots of aches and pains. He groaned and tried to raise his hand to his head.

"The medics are on the way, Kim." The raspy voice of a woman who'd smoked too many cigarettes. He opened his good eye. Colonel Janeway's face was directly above his own.

"Well. I'm out one Maquis and one helicopter. What do you have to say for yourself, soldier?"

"Ma'am." He couldn't recognize his own croak. She stooped lower. "That was Tom Paris. That was Tom Paris His father is going to surrender to you. He --"

Janeway's eyes widened. She put a hand firmly over Harry's mouth.

He nodded.

She took her hand away.

He looked around with the least amount of head turning. He was on the lawn outside Building 210. He seemed to be in the middle of a crowd of military police. In the distance he heard sirens.

Janeway coughed. "I hear you had a confrontation with Captain Markowitz."

"Yes, ma'am." Harry tensed.

"You have this whole post in an uproar. You dragged me all the way in from Camp Kalil. You think I don't have anything more important to do than worry about one POW who probably isn't Tom Paris?"

Harry took a breath and braced for impact. "No ma'am. You don't have anything more important to do."

Janeway studied him a moment.

"When do you make corporal?"

He said slowly, "Actually. . . my enlistment ran out at midnight."

"Did you re-enlist?"

"No, ma'am. I. . . I'm going to college."

Harry looked away from her disappointed face.

He wondered how the professor would grade his first composition.

---

End