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Disclaimer time once again!   Forty-eighth 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 the unrequited longing of two men for an 
oblivious third.  If that is *not* your cup of tea, sweet as it is, 
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. 
 :)

Dedicated, with much love, to the CPSG for 'nagging and 
bothering and annoying and harassing and . . .' above and 
beyond the call of duty.

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


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"Alas, poor Vorik, I knew him well."

With that comment, a musing sigh, and a wry twist to his 
lips, Tom Paris had me snorting beer out my nose.  Damn 
him.  I glanced over to the young Vulcan in question, saw 
him deep in conversation with B'Elanna, and wondered if it 
actually *was* what it looked like it just *might* be.

"Those two?" I asked, with some incredulity, I admit it.

"Why not?" Tom sassed back, looking disgustingly pleased 
with himself.  Not only had he gotten them together, but had 
won a nice pile of replicator credits, which I wasn't supposed 
to know about, from betting on the outcome.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked perfunctorily and I looked, 
glared, actually, up at him, wondering what I'd done to 
deserve the honor of his company.  Maybe that sounds a 
little harsh, but I had been enjoying my funk and here he 
was trying to cheer me out of it.  Damn him. I guess I said 
that, already, didn't I?

He sprawled into the seat across from me with a bemused 
expression on his face, rested his elbows on the table and 
dropped his chin into his hands.

"What's up, Chakotay?"

I did my impression of Tuvok, a raised eyebrow and 
meaningful silence, but he just grinned at me and I found 
myself answering him, in spite of my best efforts not to.

"Nothing much, Tom.  What's up with you?"

A deep breath and he was back on my trail again.

"You want to talk about whatever's bothering you?"

"What makes you so certain something *is* bothering me?" I 
asked, with slight sarcasm, even though I really wanted to 
know how he knew.  If for no other reason, than to keep 
from giving myself away again.

"You want a list?" he shot back, grin a little more feral, more 
teeth showing, but the humor was still making his eyes 
glitter, so I bit.

"Yeah, give me the rundown," I surrendered and he laughed 
softly.

"All right."  

He paused for a moment . . . then let me have it, both 
phaser banks.

"You're sitting in the corner, as opposed to the front of the 
room.  You're facing the wall, rather than having your back 
to the wall so you can watch the action going down at the 
pool table and the bar.  And you, the only man Sandrine 
would ever have an iced tea ready for, are drinking beer. 
And not just *any* beer, mind you, but strongest brew she's 
got.  I know, because it's my favorite," he tossed a casual 
grin at me and went on, mercilessly.

"You're still wearing your uniform, the first time you've done 
that off-duty in the last five months.  You *always* wear 
casual clothing when you come in here, everybody does. 
But not today.  I couldn't get so much as a snort from you 
during shift and gods know I tried, I really did."  The 
sorrowful look on his face almost had me apologizing to him. 
Damn him, anyway.  Again.

"So, stop wasting my time, and yours, by denying that 
there's something bothering you, and just tell me what it is. 
You'll feel better, I'll feel better, and maybe things can get 
back to normal."

"You're just missing your appreciative audience, Lieutenant," 
I said, voice colored with annoyed lightness.  Of course, he 
heard it.  This *is* Tom Paris we're talking about here, 
remember?

"Maybe," he allowed, no hint of any reaction to what I'd said 
or how I'd said it.  "Talk to me." 

"Tom."

"I'm not going away until you talk to me. I'll just keep 
nagging and bothering and annoying and harassing and 
harrying . . ."

His voice trailed off to my jolting reaction to that last word 
and he quickly rethought what he'd said.  I cursed inwardly 
as I helplessly watched the wheels turning. 

"Harry?"

I sighed and seriously wished he was part of the program, 
so I could reset it and start over.

"What about Harry?"

It was asked softly, but judging from the look on his face, he 
already knew 'what about Harry?'

"He's seeing someone.  I don't know who.  I don't think I 
want to know. It's just . . . I don't expect you to understand." 
I gave up, hopelessly entangled.

"You want him," Tom breathed and it was only because I'm 
pretty good at lip-reading that I even knew what he'd said.

"I did," I admitted, but couldn't meet his eyes.  "All right, I 
still do." I looked up and felt the need to explain, regardless 
of what I thought I saw on Tom's face. 

"He's not the same man he was when we arrived here. He's 
grown, in so many ways.  He's stronger than most people I 
know.  Resourceful.  Resilient.  Intelligent . . ."  I gave up. 
Apparently, I couldn't explain this after all, at least not 
without sounding like Tuvok, for crying out loud.

"I know," Tom whispered, and I snorted, about to take 
another swallow of my beer, when I looked into his eyes.  

And saw another man who loved Harry staring back at me. 
"Is it you?" I asked halfheartedly, willing to bet I already 
knew the answer, but Tom shocked the hell out of me by 
shaking his head with rueful sadness.

"I wish it were," he said and took my beer out of my hand, 
then downed most of the rest of it.  Sandrine was there 
instantly, with refills for both of us.

"Then, who . . .?" I started to ask, before I remembered that 
I didn't want to know.

"You really don't know?" Tom asked, draining his glass and 
eyeing mine with a covetous glance.

I shook my head.  Spirits, the last thing I wanted was to 
picture Harry Kim in my mind, with . . . Whomever.  I 
shuddered and my gaze shot upward when long fingers 
grasped my wrist.

"If you don't want to know, do *NOT* look toward the door 
right now."

Of course, I couldn't help it, I looked.  And felt something 
rising in my throat that I couldn't swallow back where it 
belonged.  It must have been my . . .

"NEELIX!?!?"

. . . dinner.


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