FIClet: random Voyager preslash scene.

[letterblade]

This is essentially a blind rewrite of something I first wrote when I was about sixteen--which, naturally, in its original form, sucks. But I still like the story, and it's one of several Trek-related things that's been consuming me recently, so finally I couldn't stop myself from having a stab at it again.

I believe this may be the first Paris/Suder on the internet. I certainly haven't seen any else.

I'm actually posting this scene because it may change radically. I didn't quite expect it to come out sounding like I should read it with my best Edward Norton impression. Perhaps that Fight Club DVD is getting to me. Stylistic comments very, very welcome. I'm feeling terribly out of shape.

Ep. ref is Parturition--that episode where Tom is lusting after Kes, and Harry tries to cheer him up with obscene clarinet playing (will post screencaps; they made me do the funny), and Neelix gets jealous and throws spaghetti at him until they make up by adopting a baby dinosaur. Ah, Voyager.

~~~

There had been a lot of backslapping when Tom Paris had gotten back from Planet Hell, and a lot of laughing about and drinking questionable beverages as Neelix told Kes colorful versions of their adventures, but when he bowed out in the spirit of good sportsmanship with what felt like the last look at a beautiful woman whom he could never have, there was nothing but hollow resignation and guilt. A full cargo of guilt. And Harry's cheerful clarinet tunes were not helping.

It would go away. Hell, he'd known that even at the time. It would go away, and Kes would go on being in love with that somehow lovable idiot, and Tom would go on alone, admiring her from afar like somebody from an antique romance--while she somehow continued the lovely delusion that he only wanted to be her friend, that he had no interest in touching her mouth and her throat and her fascinating ears, and kissing her, and cupping her small sweet breasts, and licking sweat off her stomach, and parting those slender legs and proving to her that he could give her more than that fuzzball ever could...

No. He had to just want her as a friend, and a lovely friend she could be. Nothing more for Thomas Eugene Paris, bungling fuckup of the galaxy. He was miserable, and it was his god-damned right.

Harry, clarinet in hand, informed him that he was wallowing. Tom knew it well. But he was rather more skilled at wallowing, he told himself, than at getting laid, so he might as well go with it. He wallowed with abandon. He was the great wallowing hog of the universe. He perfected the fine art of wallowing while being serenaded with clarinet music about sunshine and flowers. No bunnies though. Bunnies get laid.

The best part was that wallowing didn't actually interfere with Tom getting his work done, at least not generally. Maybe he wasn't as enthusiastically up with brilliant and proactive ideas as usual, but he'd fall into a sort of deep, resigned drudgery. The sort of resignation which led to him working double shifts because he didn't feel like going back to his quarters and wallowing on the couch for eight hours. And letting Chakotay stick him on the graveyard shift without protest, with a promise to correlate the fuel consumption reports from Engineering with his flight logs. Shitwork. And he accepted it without a peep. Chakotay couldn't've been more surprised if he'd stripped naked and danced the hula on the console.

He wallowed peacefully at the helm for a few hours before heading down to Engineering to pick up the data, and the man with the fuel consumption reports looked up at him with huge drowning black eyes, and Tom thought, oh, god, no, a Betazoid. Being mind-read while wallowing was utterly out of the question. Nobody could understand. Nobody was supposed to understand. If Fuel Consumption Boy had said anything beginning with "I sense," Tom would've been about ready to turn and run screaming.

But instead the man looked at him with no understanding, feigned or otherwise. No sympathy, no kindness, no perky clarinets, no hint that he'd felt the muddy depths of misery simmering in Tom's mind--or, if he did, that he had a shred of pity for him. And, for that, Tom felt like shouting his gratitude to the high shadowy ceiling of Engineering.

He managed not to, however, and the man informed him that it would be a few minutes before he collated the latest data, so Tom leaned against a panel to wait and wondered why he felt like he was hovering near the event horizon of a black hole. He was straight, mostly. The mostly part was generally well-hidden, to preserve his reputation as a ladies' man, for what it was worth. The mostly part had surfaced maybe three or four times in his life, max, but each time it had it was anomalous and irresistable and more agonizingly private and vulnerable than jacking off. The mostly part generally was were quick and dark and painful and involved him or the other guy spending ninety percent of their time together crawling on the part of the floor that didn't have a carpet. He hadn't given a thought to crawling men since he'd come to Voyager. It suddenly seemed vastly appropriate.

The guy was thin and dour-looking and plain, and were those streaks of gray above his ears? The other engineer on duty, who'd looked half asleep, had just waved him over. He didn't even know his name. Maybe it was the eyes. Maybe he was caught in some obscure psychic Betazoid sex snare. Maybe he was just being very, very stupid.

Tom considered his options. He could hit on him and have a torrid self-destructive affair. He could hit on him and be laughed at for having a torrid self-destructive affair with a graying engineer. He could hit on him and discover he was straight too, or taken, or wouldn't touch him if he was the last man in the galaxy. Though statistics seemed to indicate most Betazoids to be quite sensual and open. Screw that. He didn't want sensual and open. He wanted to lose himself in torrid self-destructiveness. On the other hand, this one didn't seem like most Betazoids. So maybe, just maybe, he was in luck. Tom squinted at the rank pip. Ex-Maquis, always a good sign. He had practically learned torrid and self-destructive from Maquis chicks. He could try subtle, maybe, though that wasn't high in the Maquis lexicon. He could try to avoid embarassing himself. He could leave the whole stupid idea off entirely.

He could fall into those eyes and never come back.

He settled for the casual tack.

"What was your name again?"

"Lon Suder." He didn't look up from the console. Nor did he point out that the 'again' was meaningless.

"Torres stick you on the graveyard shift often?"

"I'm on it all the time." His voice had a droning, toneless quality to it. Tom found it strangely refreshing. "I requested it."

"Really?" It was time for the Mildly Surprised Yet Intrigued Reaction, With Eyebrows, copyright Thomas Eugene Paris. Generally used upon hearing nonsensical orders or discovering weird pets and kinky underwear, but what the hell?

"I prefer working without much company," Suder said. He still hadn't looked up from the console.

"It is oddly...peaceful in here." A bit of a white lie. This big a room, darkened, was really a bit creepy. If he were in here alone, he'd probably start imagining things.

"I could send the report up to you on the bridge if you want."

"Nah. I could use a break from that viewscreen full of streaking stars. Gets a bit dizzying after a while."

Silence in the big dark creepy room, except for the placid beeping of Suder's console.

"There." Suder handed him a padd. He still didn't look at him. Tom contemplated abandoning the prospect, perhaps to something torrid and self-destructive on the holodeck. He needed to feel something dirty and black and entirely un-Kes-like. He needed to forget.

"Thanks," he said, waving the padd. "Well, I've got to get off to a fascinating night's work up on the bridge. See you around."

He turned to leave. Suder turned too, half-turned, in his chair.

"Isn't this the point where you ask me what I do when I get off shift?" he said, dry, deadpan, pitiless. It was beautiful. Tom just about stopped midstride like he'd been brought up on a tripwire.

"It might be," he said, with maximum possible equanimity, and turned to see a full blast of those eyes. Damn telepaths. Damn, bloody, fucking telepaths. Or was he really being that obvious? Or had hitting on guys somehow become part of his reputation?

He checked, quickly. The other guy was, in fact, nodding off. Some measure of safety.

"We've got work to do," Suder said, matter-of-fact. "Generally I go home and sleep, by the way."

"Ah," said Tom, proud of his eloquence.

"I know what you want," Suder said, and turned around and went back to work like he'd said nothing at all. Tom bounced up and down on the balls of his feet for a moment, a nervous habit which girls of a certain stripe found cute, and guys almost always found annoying.

"Well," he said. "Yeah."

Suder didn't turn around again. Another moment, and Tom turned and left for the bridge. At least he had something new to wallow in for the rest of the shift--being as confused as all hell. Not a usual state for him.

It rather intensified when Suder turned up at his door five minutes after he got back to his quarters.

~~~

Good god, but do I need to make me some Trek icons.

Comments

[boblovesmusic.livejournal.com]

Yes you do need some Trek icons!

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

heh heh heh heh

There were so many hilarious facial expressions in that episode I mentioned, I can definitely whip up some sillies. :D Just need to focus for a bit someday.

(I would steal some, but I keep a strict make-my-own icon policy, mostly for my sanity. Otherwise I'd spend more time browsing for icons than I do making them. *twitch*)

[spanielfevver8.livejournal.com]

!!???????!#?
You must explain this episode to me more fully some day very soon.
(criges at thought of obscene clarinet playing. Tries to fight down maternal instinct as applied to baby dinosaurs.)

[wired-lizard.livejournal.com]

heh heh heh heh heh.

They do take quite good care of the afformentioned dino, under the circs. And as for the clarinet playing, I will be screencapping soon, I hope.

You could always see it someday. ;-)