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

Disclaimer time once again!  One-hundred-and-ninth verse 
same as the first . . . everybody *sing*:

I don't own these characters, (chorus) Paramount does!
I don't own this venue, (chorus) Paramount does!
I am making no money off of this, (chorus) Paramount does 
not either!

This story involves sex between two men, (well, mostly) aka: 
slash.  If that is *not* your cup of . . . tea, sweet as it is <g>, 
then don't read it!  (simple, ain't it??)  Feedback is *very* 
much appreciated, and always answered.  Flames will be
passed around to friends and chuckled over.  :)

Many thanks to Ally Lanart for the anatomy lesson.  Yummy!

'Exsanguination' by Amirin <groh@iquest.net>


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


Gods, his trust is limitless.  I truly don't believe he'd deny me 
anything, ever.  Sometimes it's frightening, sometimes, 
humbling.  Always miraculous. Of course, it also makes it 
practically impossible to deny *him* anything. Not that I want 
to, not really.

It's been four days and we're slowly finding our way toward a 
routine.  Wake up, shower, dress, head to the holodeck . . . 
and watch the sun come up.  Every morning, like clockwork. 
The gods themselves could take lessons from Tom on how 
to create a sunrise, a new one to greet each day.  Fiery,
golden, spectacular.  

I swear I can *feel* the warmth on my face, the glowing light 
behind my closed eyelids, the color of the sun rising, red, 
much like the color rises in his face when he's aroused.  His 
blood, like the sun's kiss of the horizon.  Hair, as golden as 
the light that warms me to my soul.  Eyes, the blue of 
cloudless skies.  He is all that is life and living, real and 
warm.  And he is my own.

<sigh>

Work has been mercifully quiet of late.  After putting as 
much distance as possible between me and the planet of my 
'rebirth', Voyager is making her way cautiously through the 
heavens.  The systems seem scattered, distant from one 
another, but it is all to the good, as far as I'm concerned.  
Space is quiet, watchful.  Waiting.  And I, for one, am 
grateful for the peace and the silence.

I find the Captain still looking at me with concern at times, 
but I'm centered, now, in orbit around my own personal sun, 
fiery, golden, spectacular, and my smiles back toward 
Kathryn Janeway are genuine and happy. She seems to 
know this, acknowledges it with relief, and I am also 
relieved; her concerns will diminish over time.  Tuvok's 
thoughtful frowns are not so easily reassured.

He remembers some things, dimly, as his memories are 
slowly being gathered from the darkness, stolen back from 
that place where they imprisoned him. He shocked me, the 
other day, with his hazy recollection of both my anger, at 
finding him injured, and my strength, as I tore to shreds the 
straps binding him, broke the restraints apart with my hands. 
But, all he did was express his gratitude.  His gaze rests on 
me more and more often of late and I don't know what to do, 
what to say, to get his attention off of me. Hopefully, like the 
Captain's concern, it will fade in time.

The crew simply thinks that the disastrous adventure on the 
planet lit a fire under Tom and made him seek me out, to 
begin a different chapter in our friendship together.  The 
knowledge that we are firmly entrenched in one another's 
company surprises them not at all, and provides us with the
solitude we need to conduct our work.

Tom spends a lot of hours working on 'private projects', 
namely a cure for me, in the off-duty time when we're not 
together.  He had a challenge on his hands, finding a way to 
work on my problem regularly and, more importantly, 
unobserved, but he finally hit on a truly inventive solution in 
the guise of Captain Proton.  

<smile>

That program suits our needs perfectly and no one suspects 
a thing.  Dr. Chaotica's lab is a wonderful creation of Mad 
Science and legitimate medicine and Tom can work there all 
he wants without fear of discovery.  Even if someone were 
to venture onto the holodeck during a scenario, the black 
and white ambiance brilliantly conceals the work being done 
on my red blood.  Yet, in spite of all the time and effort, he's 
no closer to finding anything.  But some ingenious theories 
have been put to the test.

He secretly used the transporter buffers to try and filter out 
the new genetic material my body finds itself a reluctant host 
to these days.  It didn't work, not on the blood or the tissue 
sample.  It's not a virus; there's no vaccine or drug to 
counteract it.  Neither heat nor cold can kill it, not 
permanently, so the thought of freezing or boiling my blood
will not help me at all.  It has permeated my body utterly, 
rewritten my DNA.  It would be impossible to replace every 
cell with a new one and not have the change reoccur before 
the job was finished.

To my eternal shame, I find myself becoming more 
accustomed to what has happened to me and Tom's 
excitement at a new theory doesn't affect me as it used to. 
In fact, we're now spending more time playing Proton and 
Buster than looking for a cure.  Soon, I think, I'll have him 
stop trying.  Maybe I should rail at my growing acceptance of 
my situation, but his delight has overcome my disgust, to 
some extent, and I no longer burn to rid myself of the 
vampirism within me. The fear of what I am has become an 
ache for what I used to be.  Nothing more. If I had to kill to 
live, I wouldn't have survived the first day.  But, I don't.  Tom 
is everything I need, my sole source of life and light.

I make my way slowly through the corridors, now, careful not 
to bump into anyone, as I could easily send them flying if I 
did.  I'm late again, a discussion with Seven about the 
sensors taking much longer than I'd anticipated.  

Tom is eating dinner when I walk through the doors.  He 
looks up and smiles, only to have the look on his face turn to 
horror as he realizes he's eating spaghetti with all the 
trimmings.  Heavily garlicked.  I smelled it as soon as I 
entered, but didn't make the connection he's making, right 
now.  I try to stop him before the rest of the meal goes into
the recycler, but I'm laughing too hard and I fail miserably.

"I don't have a problem with garlic, Tom," I say gently and he 
growls at me, throwing his napkin on the table.

"Yet another myth shot to hell," he grumbles and I laugh 
again.

"I'm Chinese, remember?  Daikon could be a real problem, 
though."  I'm kidding, but he hasn't figured that out yet. 
Silence for an instant, then the pillow behind him is hurling 
itself at my head.  I duck, laughing again, and head to the 
replicator to buy him another meal; it's not like I use my 
rations for much besides lube these days, anyway.  

I just sit there and watch him eat it, matching his grin with 
one of my own.  He's glowing, rich and ruddy, and I know 
he's full to bursting, inside, but not with food. At least, not 
his. Mine.  The blood that gives him life also grants that gift 
to me. And my hunger for him has awakened.  I know my 
eyes are changing, I can feel it, and he slows down to watch 
it happen. I'm close enough to hear the rise of his heartrate, 
the increase in his breathing, and I see his eyes dilate when 
I move nearer, drawn to him, helpless as a moth to flame. 

He pushes his plate away and I glance down at it; he's not 
quite finished. His hand touches mine and I raise it to my 
lips, feeling his pulse pounding under luminous skin.

"I'm done," he murmurs, eyes closing as I lick the inside of 
his wrist, tasting the salt in his blood through the sweetness 
of his flesh.  "Hungry?" he asks, the velvet voice hardening 
my fangs and cock instantly.

"For you, always," I whisper around heat and hunger, both 
uniting within me in a blinding urge to take him, have him, 
now.  Oh, yes, now.

I pick him up, still sitting in the chair, and carry them both 
into the bedroom, lowering him carefully as though I were 
placing him on an altar. He's facing the mirror, now, and 
meeting the heat of my eyes in the chill of its surface.  The 
mirror was yet another myth blown to hell, as he would say. 
I found it in his closet and brought it out two nights ago. 
He'd stashed it there, so I wouldn't have to see it.  Maybe he 
thought I wouldn't cast a reflection?  I don't know.  

I just know I love watching him in it almost as much as he 
loves watching me. Like now.  Gods, he's so beautiful.  So 
flushed, so alive, so breathtaking and I know that my 
appetite has just increased with a frightening speed, desire 
fueling my need for him, as always.

Standing behind him, I reach around to unfasten the shirt 
he's wearing and he groans as my hands skim over his 
chest, urging me to take this far faster than I want to.  Shirt 
undone, I slide it down his shoulders, his arms, and off, 
watching his reaction to my baring him to my gaze.  His 
eyes are as hot as my own and the moan that escapes his 
lips when I touch him through his slacks is enough to make 
me want to shred the rest of his clothing off of him. I can't 
strip him completely, gods, Tom naked before me is more 
than I can handle right now, but I can free his erection and I
do, sliding my fingers over its length as his head falls back 
against my shoulder.

"Oh, yes, Harry," he mutters, his speech slow and difficult. 
My lips find his ear, sharp teeth scoring the lobe slightly, and 
he bucks upward into my hand with a harsh cry.  My name. 
Oh, he knows what that does to me. My name on *his* lips 
is almost as exciting as his blood on *mine*.

"I'm here," I murmur, my voice low and rough with need, 
hunger, everything.  "Tom, watch me." I meet his eyes in the 
mirror again and he groans, grabbing the seat of his chair 
with both hands as I lean past his shoulder, kiss the skin 
over his heart, and glide backward a little until I'm right over 
his collarbone.  He's not the only one who's been studying 
anatomy.  I look up through my eyelashes and his eyes, 
huge and blue, are riveted on me. A quick swipe with my 
tongue and he jerks under me, too tense to relax, too 
excited to remain as still as I need him to be.  

My left hand continues stroking his cock as my right arm 
circles around his chest like a vice.  He sighs at the contact 
and doesn't comprehend yet that he can't move, he can't 
even twitch, not against my strength.  His hand comes over 
my forearm to tangle in my hair and damn me if he isn't 
pulling me down, guiding my mouth to where we both want it 
to be.  His heartbeat, so loud, the thunder of his blood 
through his body, nearly deafening, like the ocean, and I 
watch him as my tongue licks the spot near the collarbone
that my fangs will soon sink into.  Ohhh, his moan touches 
me, stirs the air around us, and I move forward and rest my 
teeth against him. He tries to surge upward, finally realizes 
he can't move, and falls back, panting, letting me take this, 
and him, at my own pace.

"Please," he whispers and I hush him, pushing slowly into 
him, piercing his skin as he cries out, body jerking and 
tensing as I drink deeply, moaning myself when the 
sweet-salt taste of him explodes in my mouth, life rushing
past my tongue, down my throat, to pool like lava within the 
very core of my being.  Then, heat, merciless heat, coursing 
through me, licking every nerve with flame and my own 
ecstatic cries are muted by his flesh as his hand tightens in 
my hair, his sharp, needful sounds echo in my ear and I 
stroke him faster, wanting to drink in his pleasure while I 
feast on his body.  I swear, I can almost taste his desire in 
the hot fire of his blood now roaring through my veins.

He's shaking, trembling and, suddenly, his slender frame 
tightens like a coiled spring an instant before his release 
bursts forth with a strangled shout, covering my hand with a 
different kind of wet heat. I ease back, sated for the 
moment, and meet his heavy-lidded eyes in the mirror again
just as he turns his head to capture my mouth, tongue 
sliding along my fangs while they slowly retract, tasting 
himself.  His kiss is passionate, as is everything about him, 
and I find myself responding to him, the other hunger he 
enjoys satisfying so much rising up within me. 

He pulls me onto his lap and I straddle him; his hands move 
to undress me, stripping off the uniform with careful haste. I 
clean my hand off on the shirt as his tongue lightly traces 
the subclavian on me, the same vessel I'd just tapped on 
him, and I sigh when his hands mold themselves to my 
shoulders, my back.  I wrap myself around him, fingers in his 
hair, lips against his temple, and feel him shivering as the 
sweat cools on his body.  He pulls back and smiles, bringing 
up a finger to slide over my mouth, before he kisses me 
again.  My back arches helplessly as his hand drops to 
stroke my hardness through the uniform pants and his 
chuckle sends tiny vibrations right through me. I slide 
backward off his lap and he moves to my slacks when I 
stand before him, looking up at me with a devilish smile.
He quickly gets the rest of my clothes off, hands firmly 
holding my hips, and leans forward to take my cock into his 
mouth.  Gods.

"Tom!"  It's a plea, a request, a warning, everything.  This is 
going to be over far too quickly unless I do something, so I 
step away and grin down at him, holding out my hand.  He 
takes it, rises, walks me to the bed and stops, looking over 
my shoulder into the mirror behind us.  My hands move to 
position him in front of me so I can finish stripping the slacks 
down over his hips to pool on the floor. He kicks them away 
impatiently and that's when I notice the faint trickle of blood 
running down his chest from the still-open wound.  

I lean forward, the tip of my tongue just touching him as I 
clean him off, the sweet-salt of his blood spiced with sweat, 
and his groan is almost silent.  Almost.  

"Harry."  A prayer, when he says my name like that.  Oh, 
and I thought I was hard *before* . . .  I pick him up and 
carry him the remaining couple of feet to the bed and lay 
him down like the banquet he is.  He grins at me, like he 
knows what I'm thinking, and I cover his body with my own,
trapping my hardness and his renewed erection between us. 

"You feel so good," I whisper in his ear while his hands 
caress my ass, massaging all the way up my back.

"So do you," he answers, back arching up into me when I 
move down his body.  A firm hand stops me. "I need you. 
Now."

See?  What did I say?  This man, I can deny *nothing*.

My fingers fumble for the drawer and he slides almost out 
from under me, opening the stand and grabbing the 
well-used tube inside.  He tugs me around until we're lying 
crossways on the bed and I haven't any idea why, but I 
humor him, regardless.  His hand is cool and slick but I don't 
think I'm going to get any harder. Of course, he proves me 
wrong when I notice he's burying his fingers within himself, 
drawing his legs up, his back arching with their every move 
deep inside his own body.  Blood fills the brown of my eyes 
and the slight gasps he's making as he prepares for my 
possession drive a groan from my lips.  His eyes are on me, 
heat and want and passion, and I bite my lip to keep from 
crying out when his hand positions me just outside his 
beautiful body.

I move forward slowly, but his legs tighten around my waist 
and pull me hard, much harder than I'd planned on entering 
him, and he muffles a yell behind clenched teeth.  I freeze, 
the molten fire of his blood becoming ice in my veins, until I 
hear him.

"Yesyesyes, sogood, ohsogood.  Oh, Gods, Harry, Harry, 
yes, yes, please."

I pull back and move forward and he rises under me, 
collapsing back onto the bed when I do it again.  His head 
has fallen to the side, baring his throat to me, and I'm  
wondering if he wants me to take him, drink from him again, 
when I notice his attention is on something else.  I turn my 
head and see his eyes in the mirror, as he now silently 
watches me fuck him. I withdraw again, nearly leaving him, 
then plunge forward, watching the reaction of his body in the 
mirror as he bucks up beneath me, his leg muscles 
contracting so hard I can feel them quivering.  I do it again, 
and again, and soon he's dragging my head to his neck, the 
mirror-cold reflections of his hot eyes begging me to make it 
perfect for him.

Have I mentioned that I can deny this man nothing?

I drag my tongue over the artery in his throat, hear the 
primal drumbeat of his pulse pounding in my ears and feel 
the raging fire within me desperately trying to put itself out. 
Like drowning this flame in his blood will do anything but 
make it burn all the hotter. I thrust into him again, speeding 
up, harder, faster, and those tiny whimpers of his are driving 
me out of my mind.  Then, my fangs are imbedded inside 
him, as deeply as my cock is, and both work to complete the 
circle of give and take, of life and blood and pleasure, that 
exists between us.

I drink shallowly, not much, just the slightest bit to give him 
what he needs, even as he's giving it back to me. Gods, the 
tension in my body is overwhelming and the tightening in my 
groin signals the climax of something I couldn't stop if I had 
to.  Tom's shaking again, moaning, legs clenched around 
me so hard I can barely breathe and something, he's crying 
out something, loud and clear and long and the fact that it's 
my name pierces through my arousal and demands that I 
return to him what I'm taking from him and my voice echoes 
his own and then silence, completion, fulfillment, as I 
collapse against him, carefully removing my teeth from his 
throat.

Totally sated, I cannot move and Tom is as still as . . .  

I all but leap backward, my heart in my mouth, until I see his 
smile, perfect and content and barely conscious, below me. 
Oh, thank you.  His arms come around me as a faint sob 
escapes from my lips and I crush him to me, rolling to the 
side, wrapping up in his warmth as he hushes me, the 
confusion and query evident in his voice.

"Tell me." 

How?  How do I share with him the fact that I thought I'd 
killed him?  "You weren't moving."  My voice is shaking and 
he pulls away, alarmed and worried.

"If I wasn't moving, it was because I was half-conscious from 
you loving me, nothing else," he says firmly, brushing my 
hair out of my eyes with tender touches.  "Harry, you weren't 
taking enough to *hurt* me, certainly not enough to *kill* 
me." 

He turns his head to me and can't hide the flinch as he 
finally feels what I did to him. "That was incredible."  Barely 
a whisper, but loud enough for me to hear and grin shakily 
at.

"You are the most amazing man," I say, nuzzling his neck, a 
few sweeps of my tongue and he's left with two new holes, 
clean and bloodless.  I rest my head on his chest and he 
smiles at me in the mirror. 

"Sleep," whispered in my ear.  "I'll watch over you."

My eyes close when I hear him murmuring soothingly to me 
and I let myself relax into the heat of him, exhausted and 
content.


                   <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>


<sigh>

I love it when this happens.  When I wake up before him and 
can lie here and watch him sleep.  He looks peaceful, 
happy. I'm glad.  Hell, I'm more than glad, I'm relieved.  I 
scared him, earlier.  I didn't mean to, but I did.

He has this unreasonable fear that one of these days, he'll 
lose control and kill me. I know he believes he killed Saik'lin; 
he told me so a couple of days ago.  But that was deliberate 
and because he had no other choice;  it was the only 
weapon he had against that monster.  Monster.  Huh.  I don't 
see Harry that way, I guess, because Harry *isn't* that way. 
He's not a killer.  And I just can't see him killing me, or 
anyone, for that matter, but it haunts him, regardless.  I hate 
it that he can't trust himself.  

I gotta admit, it does seem to be getting a *little* better.  I 
think he's growing used to being what he is.  Each new test 
makes him curious, but no longer excited, and I don't think 
it's because of all the disappointments, either.  Hopefully, 
he'll soon be up for telling them, the crew, I mean. 

He slipped the other day, said something about how nice it 
would be when he could finally quit pretending to eat in the 
mess at breakfast and lunch. I'm not pushing, but I think it 
would be okay, I really do.  He's just a different lifeform, as I 
keep telling him, nothing more. I truly don't believe the 
Captain would have a problem with it, except maybe for the 
fact that I'm Harry's favorite food group.  Sorry, bad joke. 
But, seriously, I think it would be one of those things, where 
if she doesn't have to see it, then it's not a problem.

My fingers idly trace the new holes near my collarbone and I 
know I'm grinning.  Gotta love Gray's Anatomy, Vampire 
Manual.  <snort>  Shame Harry didn't get an instruction 
book to go with all of this.  It'd have been nice.  We're having 
to learn as we go.

Mirrors, thankfully, aren't a problem, neither is garlic. 
Obscure religious symbols are curiosities, nothing more. He 
still has a heartbeat, but the aging process has slowed 
down.  However, it hasn't stopped, so he's not immortal, 
unless he's also inherited a really long lifespan on top of
everything else.  Don't know about sunshine, but judging 
from the precautions the others took on their planet I'd bet 
it's a *major* problem.  And that's going to be the catalyst for 
telling the Captain, when he can't go on an away mission, 
because it's daylight down there and gods only know what 
that would do to him. We've got time, though.  Not many 
worlds to explore, right now, and he's been put at the bottom 
of the rotation, because of his last experience.  Eventually . . 
. well, we'll deal with it when we have to.  

We won't be going anywhere, for a while, anyway.  B'Elanna 
has convinced the Captain that this is the perfect opportunity 
to take things down and apart, since we're in such a dead 
area of space.  Maintenance Hell, in other words.  

<sigh>

Gives me more time to find a cure, I suppose.  That would 
make telling the Captain moot, which is why Harry's waiting 
until I run out of ideas, apparently.  If I can cure this, he 
doesn't have to deal with finding a way to tell Janeway.  But, 
I don't think he's quite as hot for the cure as he used to be.  I 
won't quit until he says to, though.  I won't give up on him. I 
swear I won't.


                    <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>


It is unfortunate that I cannot recall more of my experiences 
during the most recent away mission.  My memories are not 
clear and I am unwilling to trust them.  I have vague 
recollections of Ensign Kim facilitating our escape.  His 
strength was notable; I remember it well.  And I have 
thanked him for his efforts, although I have not told him of 
my concerns.  Or my suspicions.

The impressive speed and strength of the aliens is also 
something I can remember without difficulty.  As to their 
nature . . . I am unable to reconcile what I saw with what I 
logically know to be possible.  And yet, I find myself 
observing the ensign, making comparisons of his nature to
theirs.  

There were evident changes immediately following our 
return to Voyager but they have diminished noticeably in the 
course of his newfound relationship with Lieutenant Paris.  I 
am unable to offer a reasonable explanation as to why. 
Because of this, I have made an effort to . . . suspend logic 
for a time and simply observe.

These efforts include paying particular attention to the use of 
their replicators for the past four days.  I had concluded that 
if Ensign Kim's nature had become equal to that of our 
captors, he would not be using the replicators to sustain 
himself.  Indeed, I have noticed that he does not eat in the 
mess hall, although he presents a convincing appearance of 
doing so.

Tonight, however, has somewhat allayed my suspicions. 
Lieutenant Paris had replicated a meal of impressive 
proportions, likely due to the fact that he had neglected to 
eat lunch earlier.  Shortly after the ensign's arrival, a second 
meal was replicated.  It would be illogical to assume that 
Lieutenant Paris could have eaten both of them.  I must 
conclude that, although Ensign Kim's appetite is not as great 
as it was before our capture, he is, nevertheless, consuming 
what would be considered normal food for a human. 

If this is the case, then why am I so reluctant to accept it?  I 
do not believe my methods are questionable, nor can my 
logic be faulted.  Perhaps if I attempted to 'clear up' my 
vague memories, some answer could be found to help ease 
my doubts about the ensign's true nature.  While I freely 
admit he does not appear to be a danger to the crew at this 
time, I would be derelict in my duties as Chief of Security if I 
failed to explore any and all possibilities, whether they are 
logical, or not.


                  <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>


Okay.  We have a problem.  Actually, we have a *lot* of 
problems.  Dammit, I should have known things were going 
too well.  

We're on reserves and the replicators are only to be used for 
emergencies, while B'Elanna and Seven, with Harry, work 
on a new energy source for the warp core.  The holodecks 
have been shut down indefinitely, due to the grid 
destabilizing and the power being all over the map. It'll be 
days before they're back up to speed.  But, that's not the 
worst of it.  I can't replace what Harry takes from me, what 
he needs to survive, any longer.

You should have seen his face when the Captain informed 
us what was going to happen, shit.  He went ashen and the 
look in his eyes, so sad and so resigned.

I don't know what the hell we can do about this, I just don't. 
Short of telling them all, I mean. And that's his decision, not 
mine. I just can't go up to the Captain and say 'You can't 
take everything down or Harry will starve to death'.  And I 
have no doubt that he will. 

We'll be on reserves for the next six days.  Harry will be 
dead in four. If he took half my blood volume the second and 
drained me dry the fourth, he'd make it.  But, I wouldn't.  So, 
he's not about to do that.  Damn, if I'd had any warning, I 
could have come up with a way to preserve some of it, or 
stockpile the rations necessary to replicate a portable 
hemoglobin regenerator, or . . . something.  *Anything*.

Dammit, there *are* things we can do, but there'd be 
questions.  The Doc already gave me a strange look and a 
'no' when I asked to move a generator into sickbay.  That 
would've worked fine; it would've powered the equipment
I needed and no one would have been the wiser.  But, 
they're needed elsewhere, right now, and unless I can come 
up with a damned good reason to have one in sickbay, it 
isn't going to happen. 

I thought about staging an accident.  To myself, of course. 
One that would result in massive blood loss and just happen 
to obliterate any signs of fangmarks, so the Doc would have 
to fix the damage, *and* replenish my blood supply.  Harry 
found out.  He wasn't pleased.

<sigh>

Okay, he was livid.  Said he wasn't going to feed at all, if it 
came to that.  We had a hell of an argument, I mean, this is 
his *life* we're talking about here, right?  But, he was 
convinced that another way existed, without putting me in 
jeopardy.  We just had to find it.

He's so scared.  Scared of the hunger becoming more than 
he can handle, scared he'll become a predator, like Saik'lin. 
Scared he'll end up killing me, to survive.

<groan>

There's got to be a way.  Dammit, *think*.

He cannot eat normal food. He needs blood.  He'll only drink 
mine. And I've got no way to replace what he takes.  We'll 
have to tell them.  The Doc, at least, if no one else.  Maybe 
this would fall under doctor/patient confidentiality?  Maybe?


                   <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>


I can't believe what I've driven him to.  God help me, how do 
I live with this?

I found the bottles before I found him and my long-ignored 
hunger was so all-encompassing, so over-powering that I 
gave into it, surrendered utterly, and drained them both, 
warm enough though not as hot as when I drink from him 
directly.  A little flatter in taste but otherwise his absence 
was barely noticeable in the state I was in.  It was odd 
having his essence on my tongue, having it fill me, yet being 
surrounded by silence.  I'm used to hearing his heart beat, 
feeling it quicken as I feed on him, roaring into thunder.  I 
hadn't completely fed in so long that the sudden rush of 
sustenance increased everything, sight, hearing, scent.  I 
couldn't smell him anywhere, couldn't hear him, certainly 
couldn't see him. I glanced in the mirror to assure myself 
that I appeared as human as I was going to get and went to 
look for him.

And found him.  Near death.  Collapsed in a jefferies tube.

I beamed us both to sickbay and let the Doc go to work, 
while trying to contain my anger as well as my fear.  Tom 
had gone and done it, anyway.  Created an accident to 
explain both the blood loss and the injury: a welding torch, a 
fallen panel, a slight concussion and a deep, nasty slice to 
his thigh.  And I knew exactly what had brought him to this. 
*I* had.

I'd been feeding on him, just a little for the last three days. 
Just enough to keep me going.  Barely.  He had convinced 
me he'd found a way to make it work, swore it wouldn't kill 
him. Wouldn't tell me what it was.  Involved some sneaking 
around and distraction, plus the Doc's unwitting cooperation. 
But he refused to tell me how.  And I rationalized it.  Told
myself I didn't need to know.  That maybe I wouldn't like it, 
but it was worth it, to him. To me. So, I made excuses for 
my growing concern at how pale he was.  How easily he 
tired.  And I rationalized him right onto a biobed in sickbay, 
with serious bloodloss.  

May the gods be merciful.  

And the worst thing is, I know he'll do it, again.  He'll have to, 
to keep the charade up, to keep my secret.  

Things won't be normal around here for another week.  And 
that's my fault, too.  I know it is, despite what B'Elanna and 
the captain say.  I should have checked the energy level of 
the shielding before the testing.  Normally, I'm over-vigilant. 
Yesterday I was considerably less so.  Hunger was 
distracting me. Blood was all I could think about, dream 
about.  Blood and Tom.  And when the shielding blew, it took 
with it any hope of the replicators being back on line for 
another week.  My six days of impending starvation had 
stretched to twelve.  And Tom knew I couldn't survive, one
way or another.  That if I fed on him, and killed him, I'd be 
right behind him as soon as I could find a way to end my 
own life.  He knew I only had two choices, if I was going to 
keep my silence.  Starvation or suicide.

So, he put his life on the line to give me a third.  And in 
another two or three days, he'll be right back in here, on that 
same biobed, forced to let the Doc fuss over him as he 
repairs whatever damage Tom will have done to himself that 
time.  And I cannot allow it to happen. 

I watch with relief as the monitors register his recovery. 
He's still more pale than I am and that is so wrong.  A hand 
on my shoulder nearly makes me jump out of my skin and I 
turn to see the captain with an apologetic smile on her face. 
She's apologizing to *me* for scaring me. And that, too, is 
so very wrong.  

I turn to see Tom, remember nights of passion and fire, 
consuming him, feeding me, and I watch his eyes open, 
focusing on me as I relive some of our more spectacular 
times together and his blue eyes go grey with horror as he 
sees the blood fill my own, sees the desire to remain silent 
drowning under blood-red resolve.  

The captain's question of 'how is he', dimly heard as my 
tongue curls around the descending fangs and Tom shakes 
his head at me, warning me away from the path I'm already 
choosing, the one I should have chosen long ago.  Gods, 
why does he look so guilty?  This isn't his fault.  It's mine. I
refuse to let him put himself at risk again, and I know he'll do 
it, continue to pay that price to buy me time.  It's a luxury I 
do not deserve and one he can no longer afford.

"I can't let you do this to yourself," I say and his eyes close 
as he hears the words spoken around the fangs in my 
mouth.

"Don't.  Harry, no," he pleads on a whisper, strangled around 
fear and grief.

My ears pick up Tuvok's voice speaking quietly to the 
captain behind me as my hand reaches out to stroke a 
cheek, too pale, on the man I love more than the dark 
existence my life may yet become, depending on the 
captain's decision of what the hell to do with me, now.

"Captain," I murmur thickly and all is silent behind me once 
again.  "We need to talk."


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