Author's Note: For S. Because.
Birds of Prey
One of Harry's favorite childhood memories is traipsing around the North American wilderness with his grandpa Kim. The man was well into his eighties by the time his youngest grandson was born, and yet never ran out of energy. A xenobiologist by training, he delighted in explaining to Harry, as simply as he could, the elaborate patterns present in the landscapes around them.
"Bird!" Harry once declared, stretching his tiny arms to the azure sky of a clear day in New Mexico. He was perched atop his grandfather's relatively frail shoulders when he'd spotted the elegant flourish above the rolling hills.
"Hawk," the old man supplied gently. "I think if it gets closer we'll see that it's bronze in color."
"Pretty," he'd whispered. His childish awe complete.
"Very pretty," the senior Kim had agreed. "And also a predator."
Predator. It's a word Harry knew, though not one he reliably understood how to use. He remembered grandpa using it when talking about some bears. He also remembered it used over and over with another 'p' word, but he can't recall what that one was.
"Too up high to be scary. Right, gran'pa?"
"Well, we're probably too big to look like meals to it," came the laugh. "But Harry, I want you to always be careful. . . Creatures like that are a thing of beauty, but their power also makes them dangerous." He tilted his lined his face close, his dark eyes never wavering in their patience as he implored, "do you understand?"
Harry had felt himself nodding, even as his gaze wandered to the seductive lines that suddenly entered a steep dive. It was quick rush of air- a flash of red that seemed to hover for an instant between land and sky.
It went directly over their heads before plucking something from the ground, then ascending in an explosion of power that stilled all of Harry's questions.
"What do you know," his grandfather said, resuming their previous trek. "It was a different kind of hawk altogether."
. . . . .
"Ma'am, I can assure that I was a complete and utter gentleman as a teenager. Honestly. A more respectful suitor could no mother wish for their daughter!"
Snorts of disbelief are heard around the bridge at Paris' last statement. It's been a relatively quiet hour during a stressful day, and now he and the Captain have begun to banter. It's a little suggestive, though never crossing the line.
As always, Janeway started it.
"Sounds believable, doesn't it Commander?"
From Harry's angle, he can see that Chakotay meets Janeway's slight smirk with an expression of strained patience.
"Perfectly," the XO intones amiably. But an hour later, finds a reason to ride Tom about a course correction that was relatively trivial.
The Captain doesn't say a word.
"I think you're playing with fire," Harry sighs one day in the messhall, and across the table, Tom gives him a cultivated look of ignorance. "It's one thing to take liberties with the Captain. It's another thing to do it in front of Chakotay. He seems to hate it, and it's not like you two are chummy to begin with."
"We've been out here more than a year," Tom shrugs, "the stress gets to everyone. If the Captain likes kidding around with me to blow off a little steam, who am I to stop her? Hell! Who is Chakotay to stop her?"
"Fine," Harry mutters. "Just promise me this isn't some game to get under Chakotay's skin.
"Contrary to popular belief, " Tom begins, his voice uncharacteristically reflective. "I do not enjoy being loathed."
Harry suspects it's the first honest thing Tom has said in the last few minutes. Tries to swallow his suspicions along with his bite of Neelix's casserole.
They both leave a disturbing taste that stays in his mouth the rest of his shift.
. . . . .
In the lead up to the Jonas affair, Harry's concern blooms like poison ivy. Tom shows up late and rumpled for shifts, doing so twice after he'd stayed late in Sandrine's, playing pool with Janeway for all to see.
Tom's never quite inappropriate with the Captain, one way or the other. But his bruising insubordination with Chakotay goes unremarked on by her, which seems to enrage the XO more than the pilot's childish comments.
"Gotta admire the set of brass ones on Paris," Harry hears Crewman Harren say to someone in the ship's gymnasium. "Chakotay strips him of holodeck privileges for gambling, but the cocky bastard still tosses Janeway a smile and a wink in the corridor. Fuck, man. Pays to be an asshole."
Several meters away, the XO works a punching bag like it's a Cardassian. His bronze features emotionless as the exposed muscles of his neck and arms strain with deadly force.
Harry watches every explosion of power, concern giving way to panic.
. . . . .
It sounds callous to say that Harry is relieved when Tom decides to leave the ship. But as much as he feels let down by his friend - as deeply confused as he is by this sudden shift in his demeanor - he foresees much worse happening to Tom if things on Voyager unravel any further.
When the real plot's revealed, Harry swells with relief all over again. Tom is back, safe, and acting like himself.
Well, mostly himself, save an apparent sense of trepidation that he doesn't do well at covering.
"Hey," Harry cajoles, alone in Tom's quarters. The Doctor gave him three days for rest and recuperation, and right now it looks like Tom needs every bit of it. "People know you were doing your job. They'll get over it like I did. You'll see, okay?"
The pilot makes no reply. His blue eyes cloud over with worry before he ducks his head; mutters something inconsequential about needing time on the holodeck.
The three days without Tom on the bridge are the most unpleasant of Harry's career to date. Neither the Captain nor the Commander speak unless giving orders, and the wind chill coming off the space between them makes Harry's lips feel chapped.
Chakotay vacillates between looking contemplative and thoroughly pissed. Janeway does her best to sound normal though her temper is too quick and explosive to convince anyone within striking range of her tongue.
"They made Chakotay look like an idiot."
"They? It was Janeway's call. Tom was just following orders."
"Orders I'm sure he reveled in."
"What if he did? It wasn't his idea to humiliate the Commander."
The discussions about the Jonas fallout are everywhere, and Harry can't help but overhear them. He doesn't comment on them, never even acknowledges them. But they echo in his head, the chatter distracting him when he's alone, trying to practice his clarinet.
The morning Tom's due back on shift, Ensign Matthews slides behind the helm. Harry wonders when the duty roster changed, calls it up to for himself to see that it hasn't.
"Where's Paris?" Ayala mouths to him, and Harry shakes his head.
Tuvok is gone as well, and the Captain must be in the Ready Room. Chakotay doesn't seem enraged, nor has he noted Tom's apparent tardiness. He remains calmly sipping tea as he scrolls through a stack of reports.
"Janeway to Commander Chakotay. Would you please join me in sickbay?"
"On my way," the XO replies into his commbadge. Sits his padds down but keeps his tea in hand as he slowly rises. "Mister Kim, you have the bridge."
"Aye, sir."
When the Commander returns later, the Captain is beside him. Both are sedate, if relatively more responsive to each other. When the Janeway gives Chakotay the bridge a little later, its without any of her previous sternness.
"Harry, would you please join me in my Ready Room?"
"Is this about Tom?" he asks, almost as soon as they're alone. He usually manages a pretty good poker face these days, but the last month has apparently used up all his bluffs.
"It is," she affirms, a sad smile appearing briefly. "It seems last night that he was attacked in his quarters. He suffered several major injuries, all of which he tried to heal himself. The Doctor found him unconscious in sickbay this morning. . . Tom's rather fortunate his internal bleeding wasn't any more severe."
"Attacked," Harry repeats. "Attacked by whom?"
"We don't know," she shakes her head. "There's no record of anyone entering Tom's quarters around the time he was assaulted. Tuvok's interviewed Tom twice now, but he insists it was too dark." She adds, moving to the replicator and producing a cup of coffee, "it's clear he's being… less than forthcoming. But I'm unwilling to press him given the circumstances."
"This is retaliation," Harry declares. "Someone is obviously punishing Tom for the way he acted last month."
"I tend to agree, which is why I don't want to force Tom's hand. He tried to avoid having his injuries rise to my attention, the Doctor's. I obviously disagree with his decision, but Tom's also made more sacrifices recently than I can ignore."
"Is Tuvok still investigating?"
"Of course. I've just asked him to hold off on questioning Tom again."
"What can I do?" Harry asks, his helplessness acute.
"As an officer?" she begins, gesturing with her mug. "Nothing. As a friend?" She lets him fill in the answer for himself, then tells him she'll relieve him of duty a few hours early, when Tom's released from sickbay.
"And Harry?" she stops him, when he's about to leave. "Don't pressure him to talk if he doesn't want to. Tom might be built differently than you or I, but he's resilient. He can decide what he needs."
It's not the kind of thing Harry would expect the Captain to say. He checks his confusion that she would let a violent offense go unpunished. Gives her a perfunctory nod instead.
When Janeway relieves him of duty later, he goes to his own quarters instead of seeing Tom. Something in all of this doesn't make sense, but he's going to figure it out. One way or another.
. . . . .
Other than the bridge, the two places on a Starfleet ship that have the most surveillance per square meter are sickbay and the brig. But unlike the data recorded in the brig, the data recorded in medical bay is easy for a skilled technician to hack into without ever leaving a trace.
It takes Harry only half an hour to gain access to the sickbay security protocols, and another two minutes to locate the time index he desires.
He zaps through the playback of Tom staggering into sickbay, successfully using a dermal regenerator and a hypospray, before collapsing on the floor, another instrument in his hand; cringes at the fast-forwarded image of Tom's form - prone for several hours, until the EMH activates and begins immediate treatment.
It's only when Tuvok appears, solemn beside Tom's biobed, that Harry begins normal playback. He zooms the image and centers it on Tom's expressionless face as the tactical officer begins to question him.
"-defensive wounds to your arms, ribs, and hands, all consistent with struggling with someone while standing up, despite that you maintain you were attacked while in bed."
"The Doctor must be wrong, Tuvok."
"Lieutenant Paris. My sole purpose in questioning you is to find your assailant. The more you obscure the truth, the more difficult you make that task."
"I'm sorry, I can't help you. I was asleep. Like I told you. I don't know who did this because I couldn't see anything. What would you like me to do exactly?"
"It would help if you told me the truth."
Tuvok is as insistent as Tom is unconvincing. Harry wants to bash his friend's head in just watching the exchange.
The irony of the last thought burdens him with guilt. He continues forwarding through the images, drumming his fingers against his desk.
"Let's make a deal, Tom. You don't lie to me, and I'll keep what you say between the two of us."
"Captain."
The one word is a gulped plea, and Tom looks away from her as she speaks to him. Tuvok is gone, the EMH deactivated. Tom looks close to telling her the truth.
"It's okay," she says. "We're a team, remember?"
Tom gives the ghost of a nod. Takes a long, steadying breath as Janeway tucks a wisp of red hair behind her ear, then carefully taps her commbadge.
"Janeway to Commander Chakotay. Would you please join me in sickbay?"
"On my way."
Tom's torn expression is immediately replaced by suspicion.
"Chakotay and I are going to get to the bottom of this," Janeway tells him calmly; looks on as Tom works his jaw a bit before turning his head away from her.
. . . . .
"You have to tell her!" Harry yells, as soon as he enters Tom's quarters.
If the pilot's surprised by Harry's knowledge, he doesn't show it. Merely looks back at him with something akin to pity.
"Harry."
"No, Tom, I mean it. I understand that this is going to make a mess of the ship, but you have to tell the Captain and Tuvok that Chakotay-"
"Kicked my ass?"
"Yes."
"Har… Do you really think the Captain didn't know the second the Doctor commed her?"
It's a question that makes Harry's face go numb. Because it's one that Tom voices with such detachment, and its answer is so painfully obvious.
So darkly, twistedly obvious.
"She said you were a team," he hisses, his horror morphing into rage.
"We are, in a way," Tom shrugs, fluffing a couch pillow for show. "He punishes me because he can't punish her. And she tortures him because- well, frankly that part's kinda lost on me."
"It's sick," Harry spits. "How could they possibly do this?"
"Few CO's are completely sane," Tom tsks. "It's all the power, I guess."
"What- what are you going to do?" Harry manages. "Are you going to tell anyone?"
"Hell no," Tom shakes his head immediately. "And I'm telling you as your friend that you should forget what you know."
"Forget?" he says. "How do I forget? How do you?"
"I don't," Tom retorts. "But you, thankfully, are not in the same position as me."
"And what position is that?" Harry crosses his arms, and Tom gives him a rueful look.
It's something he won't lend voice to, even if they both know the answer.
. . . . .
For all appearances, things return to normal after Harry's conversation with Tom. Granted, Harry can never see anything on the bridge as normal again.
Every instance of banter between the Captain and Tom becomes a ripple of a darker current. The one-upmanship between Chakotay and Tom always dangerous in its appearance of banality.
Tom becomes more calculated in his conversations, but doesn't throw over his role as Captain's personal weapon and Commander's public whipping boy. At some point, Harry starts to suspect it's more out of duty to the ship than any personal fear.
After all, what would Chakotay and Janeway's professional relationship become without Tom as a buffer for their stinging anger, their now checkered history of betrayals?
Harry gets a glimpse of the answer in the aftermath of Voyager's alliance with the Borg, rage throbbing between the Captain and the Commander with such vengeance that no one even comments on it. Tom wisely get himself assigned to sickbay for extra shifts, which Harry privately applauds - even though it means sentencing the rest of the bridge crew to a deafening silence of accusation.
But isn't until the water world that things finally change irrevocably. The cost is a failed attempt to save an ecosystem, one pip, and thirty days of solitary confinement, but Tom emerges on the other side with a sense of freedom he didn't before possess.
"When she said she'd shoot you down, Chakotay almost looked envious," Harry confides.
"You mean envious that he wasn't the one giving the order?" Tom laughs. Laughs. As if this is some joke they've played on Tuvok.
"No," Harry corrects, "envious of you."
"He's welcome to follow my example anytime, but I know he never will. It's like they're both caught in each others' gravity. Sadly, so convoluted an orbit no astrophysicist could ever hope to explain."
Harry knows Tom's right, and the future enfolds in confirmation. The twisted dance never changes, only the weapons do: a Devore inspector, random aliens, and then, finally, back to a member of their own crew.
"Do you think it was ever about love?" Harry asks Tom, months later. Janeway is in their line of sight, discreetly watching Chakotay indiscreetly watching Seven of Nine. "Or do you think it was only about power?"
"I've always thought it's about both," Tom says, meeting his gaze. "Which is why it can never right itself. Each concept is the antithesis of the other."
Tom's blue eyes are free of cynicism when he says it, though not untouched by sadness. And even though his tenor voice is clear and strong, and his frame unbent by age, it reminds Harry of another man's caution to a child. Years ago. On a planet many light years away.
. . . . .
"Hawk!" Emily squeals with excitement. Tugs at her grandfather's pant leg to lift her up, closer to the sky.
Harry Kim does so gladly; realizes he doesn't have many more times like this before she'll be too big to sling on top of his shoulders.
"Two hawks," he points out, and highlights the second, circling dart with his pointed index finger.
"Are they they same?" she asks him, her voice breathy with excitement.
"I don't think so," he sighs. "But different species still have a lot in common. Especially predators."
"I wish we could see their colors," Emily laments, and Harry hears her breath catch in her chest. The bird farthest away suddenly dives, its descent one fluid movement of power and beauty and destruction.
But to a child of only seven, this third concept is a mystery. A mercifully elusive mystery.
"Me too, honey," Harry says to her. "Maybe on the way back, okay?"
They resume their trek along the hillside, and Harry doesn't consider the hawks they saw again.
In his mind's eye, all birds of prey are bronze - or red.