Rationality has always been like second nature to me.

I've replicated tomato soup but I blow on my first spoonful, because, obviously it's hot. Practical, right?

And I'm running the diagnostic checks on the lower engineering stations, but I wait, just a minute, even if I don't need it, so that my scan can't possibly interfere with the communications system that I just saw some engineer use. Because, God, I don't want everything screwing up so I'll have to start over.

And when I see you in the Mess Hall, and Sandrine's, and talking to Nicoletti absently in Engineering, and recounting dryly to the Captain, running through your engineering report in a respectful, hell, mournful dirge - what do I do? Well, gee, Harry, I think to myself, don't dare talk to her. Because what's the point of reliving what I did - going through all the shit that's gone on between us? Because you're gonna get hurt, Harry, I tell myself, in such a comforting superior tone, and you I it sure as I know Ayala will sweep up at the next craps game, and that Denez will miss the low b for the recital - that I'm going to get hurt if I so much as try to talk about them, the uber couple. Because I'm a rational human being. Rational.

But everyone has a breaking point, right? Well, I dearly hope so. Because I reached mine. I don't know if I reached it when I saw Tom grin at me in Sandrine's as he put his arm around Seven, or when Seven slipped gracefully into that embrace, or when I lifted my head to see the look of pure shock on B'Elanna's face as she watched the little greetings card moment before us. But I got there. Somehow.

And it was sort of fun. To live for once, to not tie up the metaphorical shoe laces, or look both ways when I crossed that road. To stand in a recreation of some smoky bar, in some Earth city, pool cue in hand and realise that rationality isn't going to save me this time.

To see that look on his face, as he forgets you, who you are and just pulls her closer, and he's smiling at you like he's your friend, like he even cares about you, as her hair rests against his cheek and she reaches a hand to cover his.

To hell with it being jealousy. Because it's not that rational, it's damn near psychotic. Only Harry Kim, he who would seek love life advice from a Vulcan, would still be playing the reason card so far into this cutesy little melodrama. And it's damn annoying. You know, to be this naive. To be this stupid.

To think - logically, that Seven didn't love him and to cling to that. Because reasonably the buxom blonde was always destined for the side kick and the hero would opt for the feisty brunette with the dark and foreboding past. And we'd all, with that same rational glint in our eyes, run off and live happily ever after. And, of course, it was completely sensible, as he held her in his arms , to think that she'd grow bored.

To grow bored of the bad boy, dark past, blue eyes, line after line after damn line of pick up talk, the flirting, the inherent torment, personal nightmares that any self respecting Borg drone was just yearning to heal.

And when you lose the rationality. And black and white seems like such an appealing medium with which to live your life through, you, slowly, carefully, get mad. Not just a little mad either, not punchy, or tired, or just wanting to curl up until it all goes away.

A new kind of mad.

The kind of mad where you hit out at someone. And in the back of my mind you pray to God you're capable of that kind of mad. And when you do get mad, finally, singularly, who's there? Who do you blow out at? Who's the one person in the entire of universe who doesn't deserve the kind of regurgitation you really yearn to offer?

Who's the one person who tells you that the lie you're living, the one that you think no one notices, is just that?

The one person who already knows.

*******************************************************************************************

It was a normal night on Voyager - or so I thought. I couldn't sleep. I'd spent fourteen hours staring at various work stations, running through the computer programs one last time, checking out Zuvari's skilful little shimmy when she jumped up and then crawled along tight, hot, Jefferies tubes. And no, repressed I may be, dead I am not. So these are the things any self respecting twenty seven year old, unattached, male notices.

I spent the following two hours staring at my wall. It's not a nice wall - and when I moved in I could never decide what to put there - picture or sculpture. Such were the things I thought I had seventy years to decide. I don't have that long anymore, but I'm thinking I've still got time to decide between the splattering of pink and red blobs on canvas or some good old hunk of artifact...

But the wall got boring, if you can believe that. And after I'd spent another half hour considering my bed, the angle of my lamp shade to gain the best kind of lighting in the small room, the quickest way to make my bed in the morning I moved to the replicator. And made my way through three night caps, two glasses of warm milk and some guicki fruit cookies. Slowly, running through a sickly sweet sugar blast, fruit between my teeth, I came to the conclusion that I couldn't sleep. Quick of me, I know. So, I made my way out of my quarters to view 'Voyager at Night' and all the visceral, and not so visceral delights it could offer.

Tom was taking Gamma on the bridge. Seven was regenerating. You were in Engineering.

I don't know why I chose you. I'd been avoiding you for weeks. Purposefully, oh yeah, I just didn't want to remind myself of what I'd done, what we'd done, and what they'd done to make us do it. A lot of consequences huh? Well, I'm a consequences kind of guy.

But at oh-four-hundred consequences don't amount to jack shit and I made my fateful way to you, without a hint of doubt about me. It's a clever trick that - maybe I'll teach you some time. You were standing there, head bent in concentration as you viewed the PADD in front of you and looked as drained as I felt. No, that's wrong, you looked as drained as you felt. And although you'll laugh at me, Starfleet, I know exactly how that feels.

"Hey Torres," I said, blankly.

"Harry," you mumbled to dismiss, not making eye contact so you wouldn't have to face me.

Because as much as I've been avoiding you Torres, you've been avoiding me.

"How've you been?" I started weakly. Dumb question, ladies and gentleman, but I once thought I could make a long and fascinating career of them.

You shrugged. "Oh, you know," you said, moving to tap something into a wall panel.

Maybe I did know. More than you thought I did anyway. Who am I Torres, anyway? Or aren't they the kind of questions I should be asking you?

"We have to talk," I offered, following you, talking through the three brandies and loss of even the most minute of my precious sensibilities. As I keep telling myself - I'm still human. Just.

"Talk?" You asked. You looked up at me, two sharp brown eyes and I knew what you meant.

We tried that. We ended up having sex.

"You need to talk."

You need to confess. I need to confess. Same thing, don't you agree?

You laughed, that grim chuckle that you have whenever the shit's going to hit the fan in the major way it always does and you were right all along...or just along for the ride, like we all are.

"I haven't got much to say," and you smiled, the ultimate impossibility.

"Yes, you have." I had to force my smile, you see, but the words were falling from the tightrope I was walking. It was a long way down.

"Harry," you sighed.

I hate it when you say my name like that - no, I hate it when everyone says my name like that, like some kind of admonishment, belittling me with two syllables sharp from your tongue.

"I'm sick of this! You, us, being like this!"

Histrionics never really went down well in Engineering. These are the things I realise now, post event. I didn't want to make you feel better. But maybe, just a little, you being there made me feel better. Sick as that sounds.

"Really? And what is this?" You said, darkly, that small smile still playing your lips as you turned and headed for your office.

"I don't know."

Original, aren't I?

The smile turned a little bitter. "Really, Ensign, no clue?"

You weren't getting mad.

I was.

I looked you straight in the eye. "It's not meant to be like this."

You nodded you head, eyes so blank, conceding the point. "Glad you agree, Starfleet."

"We need to resolve this, these...things between us."

Because fairy tale hell is getting a little hot. Because I had sex with you because I wanted to hurt someone else. Because I've been living on autopilot the past four months. Because I crushed something I wouldn't ever touch between us because I wanted to get him back for hurting me by hurting him and harder. Because I succeeded, I hurt him, and more than I realised. Because I didn't think.

And now I'm not thinking and trying to piece it all back together again. Doing the jigsaw blind, with one hand tied behind my back and a half smile.

Because pretending I'm damn near ecstatic for the joyous couple really doesn't have the same appeal anymore. Waiting so patiently to play pick up when he let her drop. Because that wasn't going to happen.

You looked at me - and I don't know if you understood, I don't know if you even cared or saw what I was going through and believed a part of my - 'let's figure this out' bullshit.

And I dropped it - the pretence. It smashed nicely too.

"I hate them."

I said it. You didn't look surprised. Thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did you know I've started counseling with Chakotay? He had all the buzz words right when he brought it up at our weekly dinner-cum-counseling sessions. Repression. Anger. Let go. Crap like that, the stuff they toss at you like its a new philosophy that you're just a bit too dense to understand, but with their guidance they'll Enlighten you beyond words to describe.

Ah, Harry. You were staring at me as if this fucking mess is all my fault.

"I hate them," you said. As if this was something new, something wonderful, the same way you'd say you were in love, the same way you'd whisper eternal devotion in your lover's ear. That kind of voice, that kind of passion, embracing it--shit, Harry, it's taken you this long to admit it? Where the hell have you been?

And you know what? I hate them too.

"I've got work to do."

It's not supposed to be like this, you said. And how do I answer that?

What the hell does that mean, anyway, it's not supposed to be like this? You tell me, you tell me now that this is all a holodeck induced fantasy, or a Q mind game, or a damned spatial anomaly that we need to get something practical done on, and I'm with you. I'll fix this. I'll fix it all and we can go back to how its supposed to be.

Say it, Harry, and I'll believe you, because I want it so badly--sometimes I think that it's all I want anymore. To fix it.

And I can't. I'm an engineer, and I can't fix this, and it's driving me as crazy as it's driving you.

I love him, Harry. You're infatuated with Seven, but I'm in love with him.

You have no fucking clue what it's like every day--seeing--

They were in the Messhall yesterday for lunch--and I was stupid enough to think, yeah, I can handle this. I can do this, I can sit and eat my lunch and this won't bother me. Sue showed up, taking the chair in front of me, blocking my view--

But not enough. She ate leola root stew and discussed warp coils--Tom was trying to make Seven try mozzarella sticks.

He held a piece to her mouth--she shook her head, Borg superiority in place, no doubt quoting nutritional content and pointing out how healthy leola root stew was--and when she opened her mouth, he popped it in.

And his forefinger rested just beside her mouth. Smiling at her as she chewed--under protest, I imagine. Smiling at her, as if she was the only person in the room, as if--

As if I wasn't there to watch.

And you know the funny thing, Harry, the thing that really got to me, when I thought about it? I wasn't. Not for them. I went from being Tom's hostile ex to being--being nothing. To them.

And there you were, in Engineering, staring at me. Waiting for something--what the hell do you want, anyway? Resolution? Closure?

It's not that simple. Five minutes changed my life, Harry, five minutes I said things I didn't mean. There isn't closure for that. I live with it every damned day.

I went to my office and you followed me, didn't take the hint--usually you do. Walked in, shut the door, as I sat down at my desk, PADD clutched in one hand, a report I knew damned well I wouldn't read. I'd see something else, the same thing I seem to see every day.

All those little things. The smiles, the touches, Janeway's beaming face of joy that her kids are doing so damned well, that indulgence when they were caught in hydroponics last week--yeah, I remember Tom came to the staff meeting with grass stains on the knees of his uniform--I guess I know whose on top now--

The mozzarella sticks.

You see, Harry, it was so familiar. Tom did that with me too. Almost the same way. With that same smile.

The same smile--and this time, it wasn't for me.

And Janeway at the staff meeting, with that fatuous smile when Tom showed up rumpled and grinning---

Come to think of it, I don't remember Janeway glowing when she heard about me and Tom in engineering--or the Jefferies tubes--or the holodeck--

"Take a break."

I stared up at you.

"I've got ten reports to read, I've got to finish--"

And you took the PADD out of my hand, threw it behind you, never looked back. Probably didn't even care where it landed.

"Forget it."

I stared at you for a minute.

Seven hours before our little chat--and how's that for irony?--the Captain asked for my presence in her ready room so we could have a nice chat of our own. You know, the mamma-Janeway, I'm-looking-out-for-you, take a seat and tell me all your woes chat. With coffee. Black, two sugars. Sat down, gave me that compassionate smile, asked how I was.

I almost told her, too. About the mozzarella sticks, about Sue who kept staring down at her PADD with the oddest expression on her face. About every night that I think about it, about him, about us, about how much I resent her for her fucking enthusiasm for her two lost souls finding each other, like it was meant to be.

And wouldn't have *that* have looked just great on my record?

She smiled and preened--she can now, you know. She can sit so comfortably with me and rest assured her little reclamation project is in the nicely controlling hands of Seven of Borg, who takes such good care of Tom. Encourages him to be more--conforming. More responsible.

More perfect.

Did you know he's taking command shifts now? Did you, Harry? That Seven wants to be a Starfleet officer? That Tom--*Tom Paris*--is drilling her in procedure?

That the crew says he introduced her to chocolate? That he's spent a few hours in the Cargo Bay she regenerates in a few nights ago, and a blown power relay was replaced there the next morning?

Did you, Harry?

"This isn't a good time, Starfleet."

And those are only the things I *couldn't* avoid hearing about.

But I wondered, I really did, if there would ever be a good time. Or if, just this once, we can get away with just letting it lie, just brush it under the carpet in a nice lump and just let time crush it down, until it doesn't hurt anymore when I look at him.

When I look at them.

When I look at you.

When I remember that beach--when I remember fucking you with the water around my waist and thinking about Tom.

It wasn't us. That's what I think about, when I remember that water, when I remember that night.

And I'm not making any sense, am I? Lack of sleep does that. I pulled out the PADD that Sue gave me, that I'd put in my smock, turning it on--noticing that it didn't look like Sue's engineering report.

"When would be?"

And you were waiting me out--I could see your frustration there, Harry, it was so obvious. What put you over the edge? When they moved in together, and you were being the prototypical best friend and helped Seven move her things--and that's just pathetic. Sorry, Harry, but will any excuse to get close to her really do? I mean, dinner twice a week, sitting across the table from the indecently happy couple--what the hell is that, anyway? Self-flagellation? Your way of atoning for what happened between us--watching Tom and Seven fall in love?

Shit, and I thought I liked to suffer.

"Harry, go away." Kahless, I couldn't do it. I couldn't, Harry.

When I look at you, I see what I did--what we did.

"What happened?"

I stared at the PADD, punching in commands. That's how I hid how my fingers wanted to shake. And I still didn't see an engineering report. It looked like a diary.

"What happened when?"

"Why'd Tom leave you, B'Elanna?"

That was all it took--the PADD hit my desk.

You came around, pushing my chair around with your foot so you looked straight at me, smiling a little--and I let you.

"Yeah, Torres. Tell me how you fucked up. Come on, spill it. Whatdya do?

Fuck someone else? Let out a few too many home truths?"

"Get out." And my hands clutched the chair arms, because otherwise, Starfleet, you'd have been inch-deep in the opposite wall, and my engineers would have had to pry you out, piece by piece.

That enough resolution for you, Starfleet?

You leaned over, hands locked on my wrists, and I could smell you'd been drinking.

And that's where your courage came from, this sudden need for resolution. You never had the courage to face me about it before. And you just had to choose that moment to do it, right?

"You fucked it up for everyone, not just yourself," you said softly, staring me in the eyes. "You didn't just hurt Tom--you took the rest of us with you. One fucking temper tantrum too many, B'Elanna. That was all it took, when your tongue got ahead of your head."

I didn't break your hold on my wrists--I just looked at you, a thousand thoughts chasing through my head.

One stood out, a memory.

Tom, walking out of my room. He didn't storm--he just walked. Just opened the door and walked out, and I sat on my couch and--you know that feeling? That very second that you know you've done something that can't ever be forgiven? That moment that you know you've changed everything and nothing will ever be the same?

I wonder if Tom felt that when he crashed into Caldik Prime.

"You're blaming me for this? For Tom and Seven?" And I couldn't even make myself sound disbelieving, or surprised.

Kahless, I do it to myself, every night. Every damned night.

And you leaned a little closer.

"Yeah, Maquis. I do."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is fun, don't you think?

Well, hell B'Elanna, I'm enjoying myself.

Got you by the wrists - nice trip for the ego, throw in a few fantasies and I'm done.

Got *you* by the wrists. You. B'Elanna Torres.

Yeah - I could get used to this if I wanted. I don't. But if I wanted, you know?

It's funny - I keep remembering the first time I met you. All angry, all domineering, all frighteningly mad at everything, anyone, anything. Alive. And as I sat there - in some underground medical complex, scratching at my neck and lamenting becoming one in a long line of Ensigns who became toast on their first mission - you made it almost bearable. In an overbearing, so-much-as-look-at-me-and-I'll-kick-your-butt kind of way. But I liked it. Maybe even envied it just a little. To be that free.

I liked you even more when I got to know you. The way your eyes would light when you solved the insolvable puzzle or your teeth would grit when some no-brained crewman was messing up hours of work...or having the guts to pop Carey for being the total ass hole he was managing to be that day. Having the guts to be that alive.

I remember you best - I think - when you found that android, you know, a couple of years - maybe three - ago now. And the look on your face that night, your eyes shone, a smudge of god-knew-what on your cheek, sonic spanner in hand, telling me in that excited chatter you have when you really get going - what a find this was, what *Starfleet* would think, what Janeway had said when she came to see how we were doing. Because underneath the anger - there was -- is-- a great mind, brilliant, complex, beautiful. I recognised that -- watching you fall asleep on Tom's sofa during the Warp 10 project, watching you berate Nicoletti for screwing up the manifolds realignment, watching you make your engineering report like all that junk meant something.

I liked it. Jeez, you scared the hell out of me for three years straight - but I liked it. You knew how to live. I liked to be around that kind of energy - that kind of passion. I liked you. Once, years ago now, I probably even loved you. I don't think Tom ever gave me chance to find out. Probably.

What the hell happened to you B'Elanna?

Why am I holding your wrists?

I think I know. Tom said once, I don't know when, drunk and philosophising on the meaning of life, and everything - and everything usually, no make that *always*, meant you.

He said--

With B'Elanna it's all about breaking down walls.

Or similar shit that they'd taught him at psych eval down at Auckland.

But it occurs to me that that's what he did, didn't he?

How he left you - half deconstructed.

Halved. Vulnerable.

Because you're fighting Torres, but it's not as much fun as it used to be.

And that's why I've got you by the wrists.

And that's why you're letting me.

"Leave," you ground out.

Are you weak or just stupid?

Make me leave.

But you don't want me to - and I have my pet theory for that too.

Because, you see, the more my hands grab your flesh, mark your skin, push your arms back against the chair.

The more I'm to blame.

And you can stop blaming yourself.

Because you like that, don't you Maquis?

Always deflecting. Shirking. Hiding. He provoked me. She made me.

They asked for it.

Always reacting and moving away. Pushing it to a far corner and moving on.

And that's what you did to Tom. You ignored him. You blamed him for everything - everything, a bad hair day, the Maquis dying, Voyager, Janeway, the colour of your quarters, the replicators malfunctioning.

Because you trusted him, I guess.

But you pushed him too far B'Elanna. And then you did something - and I'll be damned if I know exactly what - and he just walked away. Didn't turn around. Didn't make his way to your door with promises, and roses, and candles...

He just walked away.

Because I know him, B'Elanna, and he loved you. And whatever the fuck you did to him, whatever you said, whoever you fucked, however hard you hit him, however hard you lashed out - I never thought it would be enough for him to leave you.

He loved you more than he knew.

Because he saw what I used to see. He saw the life. He saw the beauty.

He saw what you used to be.

And now what the fuck are you?

Because I'm inclined to believe, grabbing you by the wrists, that B'Elanna Torres is just the wrong answer.

"Tell me."

"What's this Harry," you smirk, "interrogation?"

"Will that work?" I grip your wrists tighter. My voice a slight whisper, my body angled such that anybody from Engineering thinks it's just Harry and B'Elanna having a late night chat.

They won't remember I haven't been near you in weeks. You haven't been near me in weeks.

We're friends right? Friends who fuck each other with the cold design to hurt someone else. Friends. Right?

You shake your head. "You want to know, huh?"

"It'd be nice. Just so I can see which petty reason you screwed up my life for."

God - what started it? Did he spill wine on your carpet? Hack into your personal logs? No - I know what he did. Same thing I'm doing now...he saw you self destruct, right in front of his eyes, and he wanted to know why you didn't tell him, tell him what he already knew, granted. But tell him why you didn't trust him enough to let him in on your little holodeck indiscretion.

"What? Your idyll of a life with Seven? So, I shattered some kind of fantasy, damn you Harry, you think I even *thought* about you? He chose her."

You've seen them, B'Elanna.

I know them.

You get the memories.

I get the botched fantasy.

I sit across from Seven every Tuesday and second Thursday nights -- and ask for more pasta. I crack a few jokes, discuss holoprograms with Tom, lean back in my chair and try not to hate them. That's the easy part.

Because hating them is hard.

He makes her smile. I bet you've seen that too. But you haven't seen her lying on their couch, head on his shoulder, blonde hair unclasped and falling against his shirt, absently twirling a glass of water in her hand, his arm around her and that smile. That perfect smile.

It's hard to hate that B'Elanna. It's hard to resent them for that. It's hard to see that every damn Tuesday and second Thursday and not wonder if I could have made her smile. That smile. Eyes lighting, corners of her lips lifting just a touch, unconscious, Human, beautiful.

But it's easy to hate you for causing that. It's easy to hate you when I remember beaches, and water, and fucking you and thinking of her, you thinking of him. And it's easy to hate you for wanting to forget that. It's easy to hate you, B'Elanna.

But I've never wanted to.

"One question then." I say calmly.

"Go ahead, Harry." You smile.

I smile back.

"So - for some undisclosed reason - you fucked up. Totally. Completely. Irreparably. But you didn't mean it - right? And you're so very sorry that he's fucking Seven now. And I see you look at them in Mess, so I know that much. So what I want to know - and damn you if you can't find an answer, Maquis - why the hell did you let him leave you? He left you and you let him go. He loved you and you let him run straight into her arms. He would do anything for you, anything...and you let him leave you."

You met that with silence.

I lean in. "Pride?" I ask. "Did you fuck this up because you were too damn proud?"

He used to have this smile. Light, kinda amused, when he thought of you, talked about you, relayed in polite vagueness your last encounter on the holodeck, Jefferies tubes, whatever.

He wouldn't have left you B'Elanna.

Wouldn't have. Just wouldn't.

And now he won't leave Seven. Ever. And, God, yesterday - just yesterday I realised that. They were in Sandrine's. Did you know he's stopped drinking? Did you know he said efficient four times to me yesterday? Do you know she wants to become an officer - like him - and he's doing command shifts?

You should. You shouldn't be surprised either. He borrowed half my weekly rations to replicate his bat-leth. I know he still has "Klingon for beginners."

I shouldn't be surprised - but I always figured that it was hard to fall in and out of love, *love*, so easily.

Because I still love Seven. And you still love Tom.

And they love each other.

"Tell me B'Elanna," I whisper. "Who did you fuck?"

I can't remember it clearly - I remember hitting the wall, I remember the blood pouring from my nose, I remember it hurting - I remember looking at you. No remorse.

"I fucked you, Harry! And that was it - no going back, spoiled goods, betrayal, hell anything. But me, fucking you, and you fucking me, that was just if for him, Harry."

"He doesn't know..." I stammered.

You glared. "Of course he knows. It was the whole betrayal, wasn't it? How could we Harry? How could we? And after that the door closed, tight shut - and I've got you to thank for that Harry. I've got you to thank for seeing them together everywhere, seeing them in Janeway's Ready Room, the corridors, the Mess Hall. You. Because he's never coming back, Harry. Never."

"He loves her."

Why I said it - I don't know.

You picked up something on your desk, a PADD, I don't know, something and threw it straight at me. It caught my eyebrow, too slow to duck out of the way, what with my newly broken - ah- fractured nose and all.

"Fuck you. Did you think, even for a damn second, I didn't know that?"

I couldn't help but smile. Welcome back, Maquis. Stay awhile?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You stood there, blood dripping down your face.

You said he loves her.

And I know. I've known. For awhile.

It's in everything he does, all those idiotic little things that add up if you know the right formula and you've been watching.

And I have.

The way he touches her when he wants her attention, the way he grins when she says something Borgesque.

And the way he smiles, when she isn't looking, when she's leaned over a panel in Astrometrics trying for perfect efficiency, or when she walks into a room like she owns it.

That smile that I never really noticed when we were together, that smile that made his whole face light up. Maybe I never made him smile like that.

Maybe I never made him feel like that.

Maybe, just maybe, he never loved me like he loves her.

I could have killed you, Starfleet. I could have killed you, and liked it.

Liked it a lot.

It isn't always love, Harry. Not always. You don't get that yet, with your three-women a week and your sudden fascination with tolerance levels on synthale--or your growing toleration thereof. It can be lust, infatuation, wanting what you can't have--which amounts to infatuation. It can be a fantasy.

I know--I've done them all.

You need a lesson? I'll give you one, right here, right now.

Infatuation is easy--it takes a pretty face and a Borg body and a little time to ruminate on the possibilities. You can pick it up on any Delta Quadrant planet, quick and easy, and it'll be gone by morning.

Love isn't like that. Love hurts you, digs into you, makes you burn at

night when you're alone, makes you hate and rage and knock yourself against

walls trying to figure out how to handle it. It takes sleep, it obsesses

you, and it makes you vulnerable--open, Harry. To hurt

Love isn't pretty and let you ride off into the sunset of a warm beach with perfect memories.

I know what love is. I'm living with it.

You don't love Seven. You just want her.

I love Tom. And you don't have a fucking clue.

Sorry your fantasy life is ruined because Tom got to be the one to initiate her into humanity. So *damned* sorry that you didn't take the ten thousand opportunities you had to try long before I ever opened my mouth and screwed up my life--hell, I should be blaming you for this mess.

But I won't. Because, and trust me on this one, Harry, it doesn't do a damned bit of good. And besides, it would take all the fun out of blaming myself.

What if they hadn't started the little holodeck trips, Harry? What if--what if the next day, the day after he left, I went to his quarters like I wanted to, apologized, explained everything? What if I hadn't lost my temper when I watched her ask him on a date?

Ah, that would keep you up at night, wouldn't it?

Here's the big one, the one that actually does keep me awake, when I'm stupid enough to let it, when I'm too alone and too tired to do anything but lie in bed and *think*.

You ever play that game, Harry? Kahless--

"What if we hadn't done it, Harry?" I whispered. A beach, cool air, staring into your eyes in what seemed like another life--hell, I thought I was bitter then, I thought it couldn't get any worse, I couldn't make it any worse--

--and I did. We did. Together.

And like that, just like that, you deflated, sliding down the wall, staring at me with those dark eyes and a broken nose and blood smearing your chin and dripping onto your not-so-perfect uniform.

Because you didn't know he knew, so you never realized what that could mean.

I did.

"Do you think--" I sat down, my legs just didn't want to hold me up anymore, and anything I had resembling determination evaporated.

It's one thing to ask yourself that in the middle of the night in bed, where everything is on the edges of dream and fantasy, and you can dismiss it in the morning.

It's another thing entirely when you say it out loud in your office to your best friend.

I made it real. In seven words--and I find that funny, in a sick way--I accepted it.

"He knew. Then." You breathed it out--maybe only now realizing what it meant. That it hadn't ended the day Tom left my quarters, or on that perfect date on the beach--it ended that night, in the ocean water, coated the sand, with the wind in our ears.

There. X marks the spot, Harry.

Right there.

I nodded slowly.

"He knew then."

I remember the feeling when he walked into engineering and looked at me, a couple of days later. Just looked at me, searching for something on my face, maybe, or in my eyes, something to make it a lie. What he heard. What he knew.

He cared, Harry. And if it had been a lie, I would have won, right then, right there, Borg or no Borg, fight or no fight--it would have all ended there, and I wouldn't have been sitting at my desk hours before my shift because I can't sleep, and you wouldn't have been on the floor, staring at me like that.

And the how, the why, the who the fuck got to him, told him, what did he see, how did he know--somehow, all that's unimportant. Maybe unimportant because I know the answers to all those questions.

"Seven knows," I added softly. And you shuddered, one hand going to your face again, smearing the blood up your forehead. I opened my desk, finding the towel I always kept there, tossing it to you. And you watched it come, watched it fall, didn't even try to grab it.

"So what if, Harry?" You didn't look up. And my voice got lower. "What if we had acted like adults and not spoiled kids? What if we had accepted and simply waited? What if--" and I stopped there, because this game, this addictive game, could rip me apart too fast. I raised a hand to my head, felt the dampness on my face. Closed my eyes.

I don't cry. Klingons don't.

But sometimes, I forget that.

"B'Elanna--" you said softly, and I heard you pick up the towel, wiping your

face. Then you stood up, walking over to me, hovering uncertainly--I don't

blame you for that. "I don't--"

And you stopped there. Not touching me, not sure what to do or how to do it.

And I don't blame you for that either.

What if, Harry?

Welcome to my world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I don't know what to do."

You're crying. Funny, I didn't think you could. I'm naive like that.

I want to touch your shoulder. Tell you it's all going to be okay. But that's why you're crying. Because it's not.

Instead, I grip the bloodied towel tighter in my hand, stop it from shaking.

"B'Elanna, I--"

I want you to open your eyes.

I want you to look at me.

"I--just--"

You're silent.

All I can hear is your breathing, shallow, raspy. And all I can see is the light catching your face, the tear stains on your cheeks, this damn expression like you're trying to remember who you are. I don't have the answers.

But that's not what you want.

It took me a while to get here, B'Elanna. But I'm learning.

I touch your shoulder, warmly, squeezing gently. God knows what it means. What I'm trying to say. There's a lot to say. I was hoping it didn't all need to be said aloud.

Your eyes flew open and you look at me. Kinda pale. Haunted.

And I guess I'm your ghost. Your friendly keepsake of what we did. Smiling at you across the Mess Hall. Sitting with you at the Doctor's recitals. My hand on your shoulder at some ungodly hour in the morning. Reminding you. Even as I smile at you, swallow hard, move my hand slowly from your uniform. I'm reminding you.

"I never meant--" I said softly. It's hard to end sentences that start so promisingly. Like an apology. Like a reconciliation.

"I never meant to hurt you," I get out at last. But I did, hurt you I mean.

God.

You shake your head. Dismissing me. "You didn't."

I run a hand through my hair and look at you, blink slowly, the pain dulling a little, my vision blurring, my breathing leveling out to an absurdly calm rate. My heart barely beating in my chest. Like I'm trying to wish myself out of existence. Or just away from that stare. The stare that shatters any pretences I'm trying to uphold. You never did have time for them, did you B'Elanna?

"I meant to hurt him," I say, so assuredly, so like I had a fucking clue what I was doing in that damn holoprogram. "I meant to hurt him."

It's so quiet.

You just look at me, brown eyes washed a little with tears, hair limp. I don't think I realised it before. You loved him, didn't you?

God. You loved him.

I never knew. I always thought--.

"It worked. You hurt him, Harry."

No absolution. Just that stare. So blank.

"I never meant to hurt you," I whispered. "And God, B'Elanna, I never meant--never meant--never--damn it."

It's hard to say. But I never meant to hurt you. Never. That was never the plan. If there even was a God damn plan.

"Harry," you say, quietly, pushing me away again.

It's funny, being me. I'm always trying to do the right thing. That can, if needs be, stretch to drinking synthale and picking up a different woman every night. To get over her. To get her out of my mind.

I've been trying to get over her. Although there was never anything to get over, was there? Hesitation. Guess I just didn't have the courage. I just sat idly by and let her find out who she wanted to be. I never wanted to push her. And it turns out she wanted him. Big surprise. So did you. So did Megan Delaney and Sue Nicoletti. And when your life is like that, when you feel like you're slowly becoming the scenery, or just 'that guy that hangs around with Paris,' and when he takes everything you've ever wanted. And you haven't the balls to hate him for it. That eats at your soul. And I tried to live with it. Tried to. Tried to.

I can't.

I fucked you and told myself I could deal with it.

And look at me now.

"I never meant to hurt you."

You nod. Why do I keep saying it? Because I don't want to hurt anyone? Because I just want everything to be back the way it was. Because I live my life out on simple dreams - dreams that just seem to shatter at the slightest touch.

I meant to hurt him, B'Elanna. And I want her. Yeah. I'm dealing with that. Slowly. Because damn it, if this is infatuation I want a refund. I've been infatuated - I've been in love. I've seen what it does to me. I don't mean to hurt people.

"I care about you," and I say it limply, look at me, losing all my courage when it comes to saying things I know. Things I've never had to question.

I care about you.

You brush the tears from your eyes and try to smile at me. Shaking your head again you stand, raising your hands to my nose, pressing the jarred bone lightly and I wince in pain and then smile. It's hard not to.

"You want some ice on that?" you ask.

"Yeah, please." You move to the replicator in your office, order the ice pack, watch the particles swirl and the thin item materialise and move back over, small blue pack in hand. You hold the pack to my nose and sit me in your chair.

I should feel ashamed. I don't think I'm even sorry. You knew what you were doing. You never relinquished control. Not once. I grab the pack and you move your fingers away, a fleeting tap on the shoulder as you move away.

"You've got a mean left hook," I joke.

"Practice," was your dull reply as you moved to pick the PADD up from the floor.

It wasn't awkward. Somehow, through that, the playing field leveled out. I didn't feel like I was intruding anymore. I don't know if I felt any better. I guess seeing you put a perspective on it.

I often wonder - what is it about him? I mean, I see him everyday and he's a good man, a good friend -- well, depending on how he's feeling -- and I never got it.

Tom Paris.

What was it B'Elanna? What was it about him, huh?

"You realise, don't you?" I ask.

You spun, fatigue edging across your face, no smile, dark eyes. "Realise what, Harry?" It's a half sigh. Your voice trembles a little.

"This is it."

You close your eyes briefly, expelling all the air from your lungs, before slowly, torturously, taking that breath back. Like it's hard. Like living is hard. "What?"

"We either get through this or--"

"Or?"

"We don't." I knew what I was trying to say but I have no idea if I was making sense to you. You don't wear your heart on your sleeve. I never know what you're thinking. But then, I've never wanted to. "There's no choice. We get through this."

You leaned back against the wall, PADD hanging in your hand by your side.

"Maybe. I don't go in for simplicity, Harry. Things never work out that way.

You cope all you want. Go right ahead."

"I can help." I stood, the ice pack dropped onto your desk and I began to make my way toward you. Then I stopped. Feet rooted to the Federation Standard carpet, staring at you. I can't get close, can I? That'd be far too dangerous.

Your eyes, blank, dark.

"You don't understand."

Got it in one, Maquis.

"No." I shrug and then smile. "I haven't got the first fucking clue. Neither have you."

You lift your chin, jaw tightening. "Harry," you warn.

But hell, Torres, I'm on a roll now. This psychobabble shit is fun.

"Don't play the martyr, B'Elanna."

The smile is sickening, creeping across your features, patronising me. What have you got on me? Two years? Three? It's never felt like that. "Don't try to fix this. Just don't."

"Get over him. Quit being the victim. Find someone new."

You look at me like I'm naive. Maybe I am naive. Or maybe you thought no one else has ever loved and lost in such spectacular fashion? News flash: you're not the first, won't be the last - and maybe the inbetween's hell, but you're stronger than this. Stronger.

"What? Like you, Harry?" You narrow your eyes, smiling grimly.

I take a step forward. I'm screwed up, not stupid. "I didn't say it was easy."

"Yeah, Harry, it's not easy." You match my step forward. "And it's not going to get any easier. I do this with Chakotay every week - I've got an answer for every question, try me out Harry. Test it."

"Get over him." I shoot, hoping to score, knowing as the words leave my mouth that I'm hitting the backboard and rebounding away.

You shake your head. "No."

So I am naive. What made me think you'd even want to. You're trying, aren't you? Just like me. Head buried in your work. Pretending to live out your life normally. And not having the first idea what to do with yourself. How to make it stop.

"Because it's not real, isn't that right, Harry? It's all going to get better.

It's all going to be all right by the end of the story."

"Stop."

You smile again. Two steps forward. "What Harry? Care to tell me what I'm doing so wrong? Why sitting here and dealing with this the way I am isn't up to your specifications? Please, be my guest, enlighten me."

"He's just Tom."

You look up at me, your eyes going a little distant and mouth turning up, amused, faintly by the situation. "Yeah, just Tom Paris, ptaq, pig, ex-con, scum of the universe." And then you look down, shoulders a bit hunched and you seem to ask your polished boots, "Sickening, isn't it?"

And for the first time I wondered how he could do this to you.

Not me.

You.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Fuck me."

That's what I said to him. Chapman.

It was two nights ago, Harry. This coping and moving on you're making noise about.

Ask me any question, Harry, and I can give you an incredibly insightful, educated answer. About coping, and dealing, and moving on.

Find someone new.

Would it surprise you to know I have? Yeah, I think it would, actually.

Three nights ago.

You made some great points, Harry. He's just Tom Paris, that's all. Not the be-all and end-all of mankind, not the only one, not unique.

"Fuck me."

That's what I said to him, on my knees in my bed, the sheet between my fingers, digging into the mattress, trying so damned hard to cope.

"Harder." That's what I said, like a bad holoporn or someone trying to escape something. "Harder, damn it!"

Coping, Harry. You call what we're doing coping?

Let me tell you a home truth about moving on, Starfleet--it isn't.

He left early in the morning, and I took a shower and got ready for my shift. Uniform, issue-boots, nice clean shirt and tunic, my smock and my PADDs lined up on my coffee table. Then I stripped my bed and aired it out and sat down in those ruined sheets and cried.

Cheap magic. Presto, chango, I've moved on. All it took was two hours and my self-respect.

I've done it your way. Forgive me if I'm not so hot to try it again.

Just Tom. Just any man, a single man in the entire universe.

"It's sickening, isn't it?"

And you looked at me, with--pity? Maybe, I can't tell.

I threw away my lover, my best friend, and my self-respect.

"B'Elanna--"

"I know, Harry." And I leaned my head onto my arm, staring down at the desk, at Nicoletti's report. "I know."

And you just stood there, waiting for me. I have that effect on men.

Waiting.

You want me to move on, get over it. Chakotay wants it--Janeway wants it--I'll bet Seven even wants it, if she even remembers Tom had a life and a world and a girlfriend before her Ascent into his existence.

Damn, that's bitter. I do it well, don't you think?

I wonder if Tom wants it?

Now, that's a stupid question, isn't it? He'd have to remember me.

"Harry--" and I stop there, trying to think of what to say. "Harry, between us--what went wrong. We've got to fix that."

You nodded, the cold pack on your nose, your hair in your eyes, and I wonder, just for a moment, what it would have been like to be your lover--in reality. If one night, one of those endless nights we sat up and read to each other or just enjoyed each other's company--what if I had leaned over and kissed you?

What if you had kissed me back?

Before Tom? Before Seven? What would have happened between us?

Hell, maybe I'd be Seven's best friend and we'd go out in foursomes. Maybe right now we'd be in bed, planning out our own lives. Maybe we'd have the Captain giving us indulgent looks and asking us when the wedding is.

But some things--some things just aren't meant to be, are they? If you believe in fate, which I don't.

I know we are supposed to move on, Harry. I know. I spend so much time telling myself that, it would amaze you. Tom Paris, not the end of the world, so he upgrades to statuesque Borg and forgets about me. So the hell what. Not the first time it's happened and it won't be the last.

But Harry--you still don't completely understand. I love him.

Not loved. Not over, not even close to over. It's still there, has been so long it's as much a part of me as my temper--which you know very well--and my eye color. It's there.

Not when I can still hear his voice, feel him in bed when my eyes are closed, not when I wake up reaching for him, not when I see he's moved on in his publicly spectacular fashion--

Shit, Harry, and if it wasn't revenge, it should have been, because nothing, and I mean nothing, has ever hurt me like this.

You sat down on the chair near my desk, maybe staring at its surface, like I am. I'm studying the grooves in it.

Cheap magic, Harry. That's all it is. What we're doing.

"I did it to hurt him," I told you softly.

"Chapman?" So you did know about that little soiree into real life I tried on for size and found it didn't fit well.

"Both times." I followed the line of a groove to the edge with one finger, watching it dwindle and disappear. "With you. With Chapman. And I'm not doing anything right--it's just reaction. I could be proactive, Harry, but what does that achieve? I've accepted Tom will never come back. I've accepted that he and Seven are together. I've accepted that I fucked you to hurt him, and hurt him bad. Now--I want us to move on from what we did, between us." And I did.

Did Chapman hurt him? I don't know. Do I want it to? What the hell *am* I if I do? What does that make me?

I would have traded anything to get that night on the holodeck back. Fix it so you and I had acted like mature adults, not like adolescents getting over their first crush, and playing at revenge. Fix it so Chakotay didn't look at me with worry and Janeway with sympathy, fix it so I don't have so fucking much on my conscience.

"It's okay, B'Elanna." Your voice was so soft, I almost didn't hear it. I looked up, seeing your gaze still fixed on the table. "I know. I did the same thing. It's funny--we both went after the same person--not Seven, but Tom." You raised your head, that bitter smile turning up your mouth. "She approached him, she started that relationship with Tom, but you know what? I can't blame her. I've tried--and I just can't. I always blame Tom."

I can, but maybe you don't need to hear that.

I looked at you--really looked at you, as you lowered the ice from your broken nose and raised your eyes.

He's hurt you so much. Of all the women on Voyager, he went after the one you want. Probably thought you weren't interested--or maybe he was reeling from what I did to him, would have said yes to a monkey--hehehe, that's a hell of a bit of imagery there. But it still hurt you.

You lost Seven--you lost a dream, before you even got a chance to give it a test drive. You lost Tom, or parts of Tom anyway, when we betrayed him. And you lost me, because I couldn't stand to look at you and see what I'd done.

I reached across the table, taking your hand, and you started.

I miss my best friend.

"Okay, Harry. Let's fix this. Us."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Okay, Harry. Let's fix this. Us."

You're not going to let go of my hand.

I don't think I want you to.

"How?"

Simple enough question. How do you want to do this, Torres? Fast or slow?

Self help PADDs? Counselling? Shots of tequila?

You look at me. "I don't know. I know we have to."

"Maybe that's enough." I nod. I put my hand over yours, squeeze gently before moving it away.

You look at me, a small smile, still a little blank, pale, but trying to look a little happier. You didn't flinch when I touched you - I half expected you to.

"Harry, do you ever wonder--"

"What?" I asked, smiling my most amiable smile, looking at you, not through you, or past you, or trying to blame you, or any of the things I came here to say, to do. Just look at you. And sometimes I wonder too, B'Elanna, sometimes I'll stand at Ops and just wonder about you. I don't think I've reached one solid gold conclusion - but I missed being the one who got to care. You always turned to Tom. Or didn't. But he was there. And I wasn't anymore. And then, after all that time, rusty from lack of practice, you came to me - I screwed up. But I still wonder. Constantly.

You shake your head. "Nothing."

"I meant to ask -- are you free on Friday?"

You laugh. And if I'm asking for your company this is a hell of a time - right? "Well - I'm only working alpha shift this week," you say, a little subdued.

"Alpha shift?" I look around me, grinning. "Yeah, this looks a lot like alpha shift to me."

You shrug, pushing some hair behind an ear. "It will be - oh, in about three hours."

"I have a friendly suggestion." You look up, your eyes a little tired, hair a little wild, grinning because you probably don't know which other expression would be acceptable. Because I'm watching you now. Paying attention.

"How friendly? I don't take advice well." You grin at that too, sitting there so innocently in the seat opposite, leaning into the seat.

"Very friendly. You go home, get some sleep, and come to the recital on Friday."

You made a face. The Doctor singing Figaro. Yeah, I know. Not the most enlightening Friday evening on offer in the universe - but worth a shot. And I'd be playing. Nicoletti as second clarinet. The usual fare. And okay - maybe not Captain Janeway does the dying swan, but things that friends do. Laugh. Joke. Forget the miserable state of their lives.

"I'm allergic to opera."

"Good excuse, Maquis," I say, playing my poker face. "But you're coming with me."

"Do we get Seven singing 'You Are My Sunshine'?" You're still smiling. I wonder how - but you still are.

"Yeah - and Ayala and Dalby do 'Greatest hits of the 2130s.' And then there's open mike."

Dalby singing 'Girl of the Risan shore' was just a joy to behold. As was Ayala's 'My Heart is like the sands of Vulcan.' And the Betazed classic - 'Imzadi triangle' was just a show stopper. As Tom has, no doubt, already told you - the 2130s was not a good time to have ears.

"Mike who?"

"Karaoke," I say, glumly. Last month Neelix had taken to the stage and performed Meleck's Klingon Opera. But even that was better than Parsons and the singing security team with a truly haunting -- or was that down right scary? -- Bolian Requiem.

You look me straight in the eye. "Humans have the strangest customs. I mean - almost makes you want to go eat gagh and drink blood wine as opposed to...karaoke."

"You're coming though, right?"

You nodded, glumly. "I'll attend," you said, looking down a little and trying not to smirk. "But I'm not singing."

"I bet you'd be great," I encourage, moving my hand to playfully squeeze your arm. "Voice of an angel."

"Voice of a strangled Targ," you muttered in response.

And somehow - God, I've missed this. And I don't know why we're even discussing it. I mean - aren't we meant to be having some deep and meaningful conversation about where we go from here? About how we 'fix' this?

But we are - aren't we? Slowly, carefully, fixing this. I'm as sick of thinking about it as you are. And now that it's out - who's to say we can't forget about it, together?

"You need some sleep."

"Kahless, Harry, you do a wonderful impression of my mother. Say honour a couple of times, growl twice and you'd be there. In fact - I bet you look cute in ridges."

It's been a long time since you said anything even faintly friendly to me.

"Hey, I didn't know my 'maternal' instincts were so obvious."

You looked at me plainly, a hint of amusement only creeping onto your lips.

"Harry - If I were you, I'd be worried. Why don't *you* get some sleep?"

I liked this. I liked forgetting - if even for a moment, why my nose was currently a bloodied mess, and my breath smelt faintly of alcohol and it was oh four-fifty and I hadn't slept all night. I liked forgetting - and it worked, because you were forgetting too. Not enough. You weren't forgetting enough. But I couldn't help there.

"Me?" I asked, playing shock with apparent ease. "Because *I* don't look like I forgot sleep was a natural biological function."

"Harry," you looked me straight in the eye, "you're such a charmer."

I scratched my head. "I do try. Besides, I'd like to meet your mom."

I never knew what it was. Never. Why it was that you told me pretty much everything. Maybe because when we had that particular conversation my life amounted to coffee shop romance with Libby and Julliard practical jokes. I miss that. Well, for a start I miss Earth - and the billions of attractive and interesting people to choose from, you know, to act as those fish in the sea that there are supposed to be plenty more of. But aren't, on Voyager at least.

"She wouldn't look you in the eye until you arm wrestled her to the ground."

I remember the whole story. I replicated you coffee. What? Two, three days after you got on board Voyager. You mumbled something about Seska being embarrassing as you leaned against my door frame and asked if you could come in - that was, if I wasn't doing anything important. I wasn't. And if I was - I would have stopped.

"I could do that. Hey - don't look at me like that, I could if I wanted," I said, indignant.

"You haven't seen my mother."

"Big, scary, Klingon?" I ventured.

You looked at me in mock seriousness, an eyebrow raised just a hint. "Damn, you have met her, haven't you?"

You told me about her. There were a few tantalising gaps in the narrative.

But you told me.

I sighed. "It's good to talk like this."

I didn't mean to wrench us back into some hellish cycle of blame and redemption that we'd started to spin before. No, I also didn't mean to remind you why exactly by nose was bulging a nice indigo hue. I just meant what I said - which is usually the way with me. I'm not too complicated, really, or at least I try not to be.

"Yeah," you said, mouth stretching into a half yawn, "I missed it."

"Go on, admit it, you missed my sparkling sense of humour."

You nodded, short. "That and your debonair charm."

I cracked a full grin, proper and wide. "I knew it, the charm's the clincher."

You used to sit on my bed in your off-duty clothes. Your hair with that temperamental flick. And you'd talk about work, read out your report PADDs, ask questions about Starfleet protocol - you told me about your time at the Academy. And sometimes I wondered if it wasn't becoming something more. When you'd invite yourself over for Tarkelian tea, and trick my replicator into producing real Brandy. Or laugh at some lame joke I cracked as I tried to get you to listen to my latest sonata. But it never became that something more. Things like Tom and then Seven got in the way and somehow it wasn't even appropriate for you to come into my quarters anymore. Appropriate? Like you'd even care. But you stopped arriving uninvited. Punishing me for hesitating? Sometimes it feels like that.

"Do we forget?" you asked.

Beaches and water and the smell of salt on the air.

"No."

The smile was poor, half grown. "Move on then? As trite as that sounds."

"Trite's good." I leaned back in the chair.

Your eyes warmed a little. It was beautiful to see. Still a little bitter, hurt, wounded. But warmer - towards me at least. That's all I ask.

Maybe it's possible, maybe it's not as dark as it seems. Maybe this'll work in the real world - past your office, past the pristine stations of Engineering, past Deck 11.

Maybe.

"Go to bed."

"Harry, whoever told you the domineering thing was cute - was sorely misguided."

:::Paris to Engineering:::

I shut my eyes and screwed them up, tight. Before daring to open them and stare at you. You look shocked - hell, you didn't think I set this up, did you? If I were to go that low, reach that ebb - trust me, I'd be more subtle.

I wondered if Tom knew about Chapman. Then I checked that - he wouldn't even know you were down there. For all poor, unsuspecting Lieutenant Paris knew he was going to get Carey. He was on Gamma shift on the bridge - command. He didn't expect to even have to think about you - he had Seven waiting at home, Janeway there to pat him on the back -- life at a supremely easy pace...

:::Paris to Engineering. Please respond.:::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

:::Lieutenant Paris to Engineering.:::

That was the second time he hailed. Why the hell hadn't Carey answered?

Stupid question. He knows I'm here. I take calls from the Bridge if I'm here, he routed it the second he saw me come in. Efficient of him.

You looked at me, then picked up the PADD on my desk, Nicoletti's report, flicking it back on with a touch of your thumb. Stared at it for a minute, then frowned.

"I'll go talk to Sue," you said, in an odd voice, one I didn't recognize.

"I can take care--"

"Hey, I have engineering experience," you answered, turning the PADD off suddenly. "Don't worry about it."

Maybe you sensed I needed to be alone, I don't know.

:::Lieutenant Paris to Engineering.:::

You looked at me and nodded, mouthing "Friday" to me before you went to the door. I touched my commbadge with a remarkably steady hand. Will wonders never cease.

"Torres here. What's the problem?" And I did it, with beautiful control, with all my normal impatience, so utterly normal, more normal than I've been in a long time. I glanced out the window to see you talking to Sue. And you looked angry.

What the hell causes an emotional reaction to warp plasma manifolds?

I waited for Tom to respond.

And damned if there wasn't silence on the other end.

We hadn't talked much, Tom and I. There's a lot of shit about being officers before anything, but the rules are adaptable when you're a couple of decades from being anywhere near reassignment. The crew lets me and Tom have our space from each other, gives us some slack during duty assignments.

Maybe they see themselves in the same position. God knows, it can happen so easily.

:::We're having some problems with the--power flow::: he said finally. I waited. It wasn't like the new, improved Tom Paris to be so general. Of course, it wasn't like the new, improved Tom Paris to be talking to his ex like she exists. Damn, that smacked of immaturity and bitterness. :::Ops is losing sensitivity on the sensors.:::

I counted to five before responding. Because Tom had to know better than to call Engineering for that.

"Check in with Astrometrics--Seven has been monitoring deep space continuously over the last few hours. Power on sensors can be siphoned when she's using them. Anything else?"

A moment. A damned long one.

:::I was thinking--are you busy for lunch tomorrow?:::

And it took me a minute to take that in, knowing what his next statement would be, quoted from the Borg's mouth--because she asked me four hours ago and left me sleepless and brought me down here.

Lunch. With a friend. With Seven and Tom.

{--"Tom and I would like you to join us for lunch, Lieutenant."--}

For once, she wasn't working when she spoke, finding something important to do at her station when she asked. And she waited for my response. Just stood there, waiting, while I said I would think it over, when I couldn't think of an answer at all.

She almost looked nervous.

Lunch. Probably pizza and garlic bread. Olives and pepperoni on the pizza. I know the recipe--it's still programmed into my replicator. We'd all sit cozily around the table and chat about ship's business like its scintillating conversation, because any other topic would lead to places I know Seven doesn't want to go--or places I don't want to go.

For example--I can live the rest of my life quite comfortably without finding out what their plans for the future are, or their latest holoproject, or their shared interest in tennis with Captain Janeway every second Wednesday.

And I'm sure Seven could survive admirably without any pleasant memories of bat'leth contests in the middle of Voyager's night. Or being aware why selection A14 on Tom's jukebox used to be enough to make me sweat through my uniform shirt when I thought about it.

Used to? It still does.

I can actually see this, if that makes any sense. I can even see my own pasted smile as I watch them do the happy-couple moments right in front of my eyes.

I glanced out my window, saw Harry say something to Sue--he looked upset.

Sue tossed her head, and Harry turned on his heel, walking to the turbolift.

Still holding that PADD. Damn, warp manifolds upset them that much? What the hell was on it, anyway?

Lunch. With Tom and Seven. And I know its not malice, the "look, I moved on" thing--its simple friendship. Simple, adult, let's-bury-all-our-hatchets-and-be-friends routine. And I thought about it.

It's called coping and moving on.

It's called being a mature adult. Not the spoiled, self-centered girl. Not the angry Klingon. Just being what I should be, what I want to be.

"Thanks, Tom, but I'm on-duty. You need anything else?"

There was a silence.

:::B'Elanna--:::

"Really, " I said, trying to sound disappointed, trying to sound bright and courteous and not like I wanted to slam that connection closed by dint of tossing my communicator against the wall with Klingon strength. It wouldn't break--its Starfleet issue, it only breaks when we actually want the damned things to work. "Listen, we'll do it another time."

Being adult doesn't mean you have to be stupid. Or torture yourself by watching True Love in action, right before your very eyes.

There are things I can't do. I just can't. And maybe Harry can sit through dinner with them--he can watch a fantasy unravel right before his very eyes.

I can't watch my own past haunt me like that. Call it immaturity or selfishness or just a profound lack of ability to face reality. I know what reality is, and I don't need the reminder. I don't need to watch them smile and touch to know that I blew my chance big time.

He's just Tom Paris, not the beginning and end of all things. One man among many--well, less than many, I'm on Voyager, there aren't that many.

But God, seeing him with Seven of Nine--it hurts too much.

:::Another time, then.:::

And he knew there wouldn't be one.

"Yeah," I echo. "Another time. Torres out."

So did I.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sue."

She looked up, smiled at me a little and flicked a brown curl from her eyes.

"Harry, what's up?"

I had the PADD in my hand, innocuous and polite as it is. I know what's on it. I've known for quite a while - I just didn't think anybody would be stupid enough to give you a copy, guess I was wrong, guess I'm still covering for her, guess I always will be.

But trust me - this time, *this* time I'm doing all this for a reason, buried under the infatuation, and the jealousy and the self-pity...trust me, I'm doing this because it's easier. And B'Elanna, you've got to believe me, not knowing this is easier.

Because what the hell would you do B'Elanna, if you knew? What would you do to Seven? Nothing. You wouldn't be able to do anything. And that'd be worse.

"What do you think you're doing?" I asked her, holding up the PADD, hoping she'd click the pieces of this shattered jigsaw into place nice and easily - see what she'd done and regret it, make this easy for me, easy for you, easy for us all.

She smiled, lightly, and took the PADD from my hands, leaning back against a console and flicking it on. She read it for a little while, scrolling through the paragraphs and meeting my eyes every once in a while, telling me what I already know, what she's written. "You know?"

I nodded, looking levelly at her. "Pretty much."

She thumbed the PADD off and handed it back to me, turning back to her work.

"Then you can tell the Chief, I'm sure she'd like it better coming from you."

When Sue's playing she's merciless - hits the high notes hard and fast and rushes the easy part, skipping, seamlessly, to the grand finale.

"No one's going to tell her."

No. We're so close - all of us, so close to being past this, or just getting to that white walled comfort zone, where being in the same room ceases to hurt, when looking at them is easier.

This isn't going to get harder. I won't let that happen.

"You are," she made it a low whisper, cold blue eyes on mine, no smile, deadly serious, like I said - merciless. "You owe her this, Harry, you owe her the truth."

The truth - what's that then, Sue? I don't think she has the first idea. I don't think she even knows what tune she's playing beyond that of loyal engineer, dutiful friend, ship's gossip and primary troublemaker.

"You want to make this harder?"

"Not harder, this'll make it easier. Don't try to stop this, please, let her

take a look around - see what's really happening. This is going to fix itself,

Harry. As soon as she sees--"

"What?" I interrupt, a little louder, because I get short on time when I haven't slept all night - and though I'm sure her little speech is highly enlightening - the rules don't apply here, because those pat little regulations about truth and friendship - and everything else that means something - won't work, not here, not now. "She doesn't need this."

"Oh?" Sue said, dryly, an eyebrow raising. "So you know what she needs do you?

So that's why your nose is bleeding? Because you understand her completely?

Jesus, Harry, you don't even know where to start."

Sometimes - when that high note is straining and she knows she'll lose it, she fights on anyway, pushing when she shouldn't, strangling the sound.

I brought my hand to my nose and pressed lightly, biting a little on my lower lip as the pain shot through my skin. "I fell."

"Like hell," she sniffed, a grin playing the corner of her mouth as her hair fell into her eyes. "If you won't tell her - I will."

"You won't."

"Why not?" Defensively, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared.

"What do you think'll happen, Sue? Do you think this is going to solve anything? Do you think letting B'Elanna know that Tom left for this kind of life is going to make her feel any better? Do you think she'll tell Tom? Do you even think?"

Bandaids and sodas won't fix this. PADDs and diaries won't even get close.

She was searching my eyes - checking for the fatigue which would explain my tone of voice, the persistent dry words I was shooting at her. This Harry Kim. What the hell did she expect? For me to agree with her?

"She needs to know. You know."

And for all the passion of the crescendo, and fire and spark - she never could play through the ordinary, sit with that lull.

"I can handle it."

Well, look at me, I've had the practice.

"Don't protect her."

Grown adults - both of us. And at that very moment Engineering felt like my school playground, a little greyer maybe, and I was viewing it from a higher standing, but school yard all the same.

"I think she needs protecting after what she's been through, don't you?"

But when she hits the note and nails it - hard, she knows it and lets you see the look of victory in her eyes for measure.

"I wasn't talking about Torres."

"So, just because she's a Borg, and she pisses you off over power couplings, and looks all mighty and impenetrable - she doesn't get the right to some kind of privacy?"

Sue gave me a long look, and after that lovely little statement of undying devotion I think I deserved it.

"Get over yourself. Get over her. Do the right thing."

The right thing? Didn't that sound nice - so noble, so obvious, so easy to pick and choose.

This isn't right - it's not fair and it's not just, but believe me, taking that PADD is damage limitation.

Even if Tom and Seven did break up after this - and I can't say I'm not tempted, I can't say that wouldn't appeal to a very large part of me. Even if they did break up - he wouldn't go back to B'Elanna, she wouldn't have him, Seven would pine in her very own Borgesque way and I'd be back where I started - just this time cast in the deeply dark bad guy role, because all of that little mess would have been my fault, and mine alone.

I don't want to be there. I don't want to have to deal with this anymore.

I can see you, you're talking to him over the conn. You're smiling - and you're forcing it.

"I'll talk to Seven."

"About this?" Sue asked, determined not to let this drop.

"About this, okay? And don't go getting involved Sue, for yourself as much as anyone else. Just leave this the hell alone."

"Like you? Like you're leaving this alone?" she asked. And God help me, what gives these people the right to judge? What gives even them even the most minuscule idea that they can understand? And don't give me that 'I've been there' bullshit - because you've never been here, no one has.

"You won't tell B'Elanna?"

"What?" she said, petulantly, eyes small and aggressive. "I won't tell her Seven's writing a psych evaluation on everyone's favourite helmsman? I won't tell her Seven's perfecting him? I won't tell her what I saw? Which one, make it easy for me - choose."

"What did you see, Sue?" And I wasn't interested.

"I saw them argue."

I smiled. God she made it easy, too easy, far too easy. "Good. And now that you've finished your grand career in espionage - I suggest you let me handle this."

"You won't, you know," she shot, knowing this was over, and I don't know why she deferred to me - but anyone with half a grain of sense knows not to be involved, knows to get close, know not to give the new girlfriend's diary to the ex.

I was already walking away, PADD in hand. "I won't what?" I called.

"Handle this," she said pointedly.

No - I guess I'm just sweeping it under the carpet. Saving some hurt feelings.

I have no interest in some emotional spring clean.

I got to the turbolift and stepped in. I don't care if you don't understand -- but I won't let this get worse.

Because even I won't stoop that low.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were arguing in the Messhall.

Corner table, back in the most remote area of the room. Seven was standing by the window, looking out, and Harry was talking to her, one hand on her elbow.

A PADD in his other hand.

He didn't look happy.

*******************************************************************************************

I left my office needing coffee. The Captain had rubbed off on me, I admit it. It was late--or early, depending on how you think of life, is the glass half full or half empty--damn, Chakotay was getting to me more than I thought. I yawned distractedly, absently telling Carey I would be back when my shift started--and I didn't miss the look of relief that stamped his face for a full second before he nodded, Starfleet mask in place, and told me good night.

He must hate it when I wander into engineering unannounced. Maybe he thinks I don't trust him to run the night shift anymore, or maybe he thinks I'm just taking out my temper in my work, which the latter isn't really far from wrong.

But it's not either one of those, not really, and I don't think he would completely understand. The engine room--its safe, if that makes any kind of sense. Tom and Seven don't come down here--not willingly, anyway, not when I'm here. Engineering is the one place on this ship that I can forget--well, unless I'm in the upper engineering station, in which case I
have a few too many memories--but I can avoid that well enough. It has no memories, not ones I need to hide from.

I like that. Forgetting, I mean, even if it is only for a shift, or until his voice projects from my commbadge. For a little while. And maybe Harry, who does his twice-weekly dinners with the new lovers, would call that cowardly--but who the hell cares? He wants to be so mature and adult about it, fine. I'm perfectly content to wallow.

I walked to the turbolift, yawning again.

I *did* need coffee.

"Chief? On your way to the Messhall?"

Sue had come up beside me, almost relentlessly cheerful. I nodded.

"Yeah." She tossed me a grin.

"Me too." And the smile widened suddenly, and she motioned to me. "After you, Chief."

"Computer, Messhall, please." As it began to move, I noticed Sue watching me. I'd caught her doing that several times this last week.

"Sue?"

She shrugged, turning her gaze elsewhere.

"I just thought you looked tired, Chief, that's all."

And I probably did. I grinned a little.

"Is that a subtle way of telling me I look like crap, Lieutenant?"

Sue's gaze jumped back to mine--she was waiting to see if I was joking. Seeing I was, she relaxed against the wall behind her.

"No, just tired." Sue frowned a moment, then spoke again. "I was thinking--some of us get together during gamma shift, if you'd like to join us one night."

And do you know when you've truly sank to the lowest part of the social ladder? When you are just about as pathetic as you can possibly be? That's the day your subordinates pity you enough to invite you to their little get-togethers and try to make it sound natural.

And I know for a fact that some of them don't even *like* me.

Shit.

I grinned and tried to sound natural.

"Maybe, Sue." Because she was Sue, and she was kind, and for some reason my famous temper wasn't looking for a victim--maybe punching out Harry had its advantages after all. Sue opened her mouth to say something else--

--and the door opened.

I stepped out before she found the breath to speak.

*******************************************************************************************

Sue stood beside me, obviously as surprised as I was to see--well, Harry and Seven, of all people, engaged in a disagreement.

Sue stiffened, and I turned to see her eyes narrow.

Then, of course, because this was the moment that in any good melodrama it was supposed to happen, Tom walked in.

To reiterate--he had no business being in the Messhall during gamma shift. But there's just something about a bad night that just wants it to become worse.

He saw Seven and Harry first and frowned, beginning his walk toward them--then his gaze caught mine.

It was a moment I knew I wouldn't forget--

"B'Elanna?"

And didn't I say something about a bad night? I turned, Sue turned, watched Chapman walk up, that nervous expression on his face that told me he wasn't sure what his reception would be. I smiled.

"Hey." Sue said something, I don't know what, and had the incredibly bad idea to just leave.

And I stood there, not knowing what the hell to say.

"You want to get some coffee?"

When in doubt, go for the coffee. He looked surprised, then nodded warily, as if he expected me to get some just for the kicks of throwing it at him or something equally melodramatic. I pasted in my best smile and walked over to Neelix, who was staring at this little reunion with brown eyes wide and disbelieving.

I would have bet anything he was wishing to be anywhere else. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sue approach Tom, who was still standing in the center of the Messhall, apparently not sure where to go. I got the coffee from Neelix and Chapman and I found a table.

I chose one where I could see what was going on. He sat across from me.

"I'm sorry about the other night."

I blinked.

"You're sorry?" If anyone should be sorry--

"I'd like to--see you again," he said quickly, leaning forward a little over his cup, watching my face.

God, he was really interested. This couldn't be happening.

Tom had left Sue and was crossing to Harry and Seven, frowning.

Sue was watching them with a peculiar expression on her face.

Chapman was waiting for me to respond...

Oh yeah, Chapman. Damn.

"Listen--" And what would I tell him? I fucked you, because at the time, I just wanted anyone? Because I'm a selfish bitch and I wanted to hurt someone who doesn't give a damn about me? Sorry wouldn't cut it here.

"I know--" he stopped, frowning, started again, then reached forward and got one of my hands. I was too surprised to even pull away. "I know it's been rough--with everything that happened."

He doesn't know the half of it.

"But--I've got some holodeck time reserved for tonight--anything you want to do."

And he met my eyes.

He--he wanted another date.

Tom walked up behind Seven and I watched her jump, turning so suddenly--Harry stepped back, and Sue touched his arm, getting his attention.

Chapman was interested in pursuing another date, and my coffee was getting cold.

Seven shook her head and said something to Tom, leaving the messhall so suddenly that Tom, Harry, and Sue all watched her with complete and total surprise.

Harry said moving on and coping--and Chapman was nice. He wasn't Tom, no. He wasn't a fantasy or a part of my past. Just a nice guy who stumbled into the mess I was making of my life, and he wanted to take me to the holodeck where maybe I could forget for a few hours--that isn't too much to ask, is it?

"Okay," I heard myself say. And he smiled at me, obviously surprised, squeezing my hand, and I noticed how straight his uniform was--he wasn't on gamma, I guessed, must be early for alpha, couldn't sleep maybe. I stood up. "I'll replicate some breakfast." And I smiled when he nodded eagerly, like a puppy.

Because he's nice, and he deserves a hell of a lot more than I've given him. Because I don't like to be alone.

And maybe because when I looked up again, I saw Tom, watching us.

I gave him a nod and turned to the replicator, trying not to feel his gaze on the back of my uniform, trying to pretend that Harry and Sue weren't watching either, trying to pretend this was just any day in the Messhall.

It's cheap magic, what I'm doing--instead of doing it the Chakotay or Harry Way and just dealing with it, spending time constantly around him and watching them together and being mature about the end of our relationship.

I can't do that.

So yeah, its the easy way to do it--its not really coping or moving on--its a stopgap at best, but Chapman is nice and he just wants a chance.

And maybe, I can give him one.

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