Author: Lucy Kenward. Email: Maquis_47@yahoo.co.uk Summary: Just a piece of fluff that I wrote when in a partciually depressed mood. Author's note: Sorry it's been such a while since my last story. I wish I could say I'd actually done something whilst taking my break...but it's a lie, so I won't. This one's a bit different from anything I've done before and so feedback is always encouraged. Thanks to all of you who gave me words of encouragement for Beautiful Stranger. That series is still happening, but I felt a need to write this. Codes: K/S. Rating: PG- I suppose.. Disclaimer: Everyone who reads these knows the drill by now. I don't own Paramount or these characters from their show. I'm just a fan and one who doesn't make one single penny out of any of this, but of course if you want to give me money then I won't object... And Brannon Braga, this one's for you...Harry angst that *means* something, as opposed to using him as a "dramatic punchbag". **WARNING** This is heavy stuff, and it's certainly heavy on the Harry-angst. If you like your fanfic with a 'happily ever after' at the end of it--then DON'T read this please.. Crush. By Lucy Kenward. March 2000. His whole skulled hummed with such a throbbing, contorting, intensity that it quickly made him nauseous. He shifted his weight as smoothly as he could and felt the entire contents of his very angry stomach swish and groan uncertainly. He moaned and screwed his eyes together, trying to block out all light and sensation. The bed was quicly sinking to mold into his form and he allowed his body to relax into the soft mattress. His body convulsed and he forced back the bitter tasting bile in his mouth. Squaring his jaw and tightening his stomach muscles he prepared himself to move positions again, this time his stomach lurched and made a horrific rumbling noise. He instinctively brought his knees up to meet his torso and drew his head in closer. He was now very barely aware of anything else but the pain and torturous feeling of sickness. He knew he was disorientated. He knew he was alone. He shuddered suddenly and quickly became aware of the frigid wind nipping round his bare, exposed, feet. This provoked him to only draw himself in tighter and let out a more audible shudder. He began to think. It helped him somehow, briefly taking his mind away from the horrors of this sickness. He thought about the past five years, actually he concentrated on the past year. He couldn't remember when this had started, could he even pick out a specific event? No, it always seemed to suddenly jump on him, he could never foresee it. It took him a few minutes of concentrating on the new sound he had become aware of before he realised it was the sound of him sobbing. His whole body heaved with the heavy gasps for air as the tears freelt flowed down his structured face. He couldn't think what had caused it. Then he remembered. His first few years he'd spent awkwardly trying to find his 'place'on his new, moving home. He'd found it hard at first to settle in. He was teased by many older, more experienced crewmembers and certain Maquis crewmembers made it clear that they had no respect for him. He had few friends and had found work hard. The first few months he'd spent just getting used to the work routine. Of course his first friend Tom Paris had always made sure he had a little time for fun and enjoyment but it had all seemed a little hollow to him. And then there were the nights. They were lonely. Those were the times he'd really missed Libby, and not just for her physical closeness or for the sex. He remembered, with a fond smile on his face, how they'd often spend the night, even after months of seeing each other, just talking. Not a day went by when they didn't discover something new and interesting about each other. It was, quite simply, the most perfect, heavenly relationship he'd ever experienced. Which brought him to the second friend he'd made on Voyager, well technically on the Ocampan homeworld, 'Maquis' otherwise known as the often volatile, but always loyal, B'Elanna Torres. From the very first time he saw her, groggily arousing from his drug-enhanced sleep--he'd always been fascinated by her, those beautiful alien ridges, that angry, forceful expression she was wearing whilst pounding hopelessly away at the Ocampan door, the way that falsely fragile looking storng body resisited the force of the guards but most especially the way that slowly, but surely, her voice began to soften everytime she said his name. 'Starfleet', how original he'd thought. But then, as slowly as he realised that he liked her calling him that, it dawned on him that he was attracted to her. They were always close friends, and it felt different to his friendship with Tom, they were closer somehow, and not just because he was attracted to her. But he knew, despite her gentle flirtations with him that her heart was given to the Maquis Commander whom she had served under dutifully for so many years. This, however, had not quelled his interest in her. In fact, it had the opposite effect, as with so many things in his life, he found he wanted what he could not have. And when she began to see less of the Commander, when he noted she'd stopped staring at him with those dark eyes alight with that wonderful sparkle, he began to get hopeful. He was sure he would tell her. He was uncertain how she felt but he knew she'd now be able to listen to him without thinking of Chakotay. Unfortunantly Harry Kim never made his confession. He remembered the day well. He'd just finished his duty shift on the bridge and it had all been pretty quiet. The ship had been crusing along at a healthy warp four and every conduit on board had finally been repaired from the recent attack by the Swarm ships, B'Elanna was supposed to meet him in the messhall for their regular "date" at 800 hours. She'd been slcing away in sickbay helping Kes with the Holodoc after his memory loss and she'd been in a foul mood for a week now because, she claimed, "the doc was driving her insane!" He'd saved just enough replicator rations to treat her to some chocolate fudge cake for dessert as a treat. Whilst he had been mulling over excatly *how* he was planning on asking her out over the evening's dinner (a la Neelix) Tom Paris began talking to him in a hushed voice. He told him about their 'conversation' on the shuttle before the whole mess with the Swarm ships began and how he'd asked B'Elanna out. Harry remembered *exactly* now he'd felt then. Like someone had swiftly removed several internal organs in the most painful way possible. Sighing he advised Tom as best he could and headed to meet B'Elanna. He asked her directly about it as soon as they had sat down. After almost three years of friendhsip he knew when B'Elanna was lying and nothing was most clear to him than that lie. "I am not interest in that pig--Tom Paris!" Everything about that statement seemed so false and insincere that it made Harry want to run for the nearest airlock. From that day onwards he vowed he would *never* mention his feelings to either again. And he didn't. One year later and after a near-death experience they finally confirmed his gut instinct. they began a rocky, unsteady but sickeningly loving long term relationship. In those first few 'honeymoon' months he almost missed their constant tension-filled jibes and insults. The love they shared, although private and secretive was something Harry could feel nothing but envy for. The fourth year he'd spent on Voyager had been fun, well partially - no mostly- enjoyable. He knew exactly why but he was almost afraid to speak it, no *think* it. Somehow it always became more real, even in his thoughts. Now he wasn't even making any sense. his sobbing had stopped and he could almost feel the warmth of a smile spreading across his features. He *would* say it. It would be the only time, but Harry Kim would pluck up the courage from deep within him and say her name. "Seven of Nine." He gaped. The words didn't sound right, well, not like he'd usually 'sound' anyway. He wondered why his voice had changed. The tears threatened him again but this time he had been warned and he would stop himself. It was crazy, mad, stupid. Those were all the things he'd told himself. But from the very first time she'd invaded his personal space--as she had this horrifically wonderful habit of doing-- from that very first time and he'd caught the very faintest hint of her scent, her own odour which was -no- still is, the most intoxicating, appealing smell he'd ever inhaled, from that very first time, he knew he was hooked. 'Hooked'? What a word. Is that really how to describe it? No- more enchanted. Something that sounds more pleasant and less 'hunted'. So much had happened that year, so many awful, terrible things. Wars, crewmembers dead, life-threatening situations, the ship had even been captured and overrun by aggressive alien spieces. The list was endless, but somehow, he never did understand how, he was always happy, cheerful, optimistic. And he knew exactly why. Her. He was too afraid to say her name again, but thinking about her wouldn't hurt him. Would it? No. She was, unusual. Unique. He enjoyed every valuable second he'd spent with her. He knew it was a stupid crush, more lust than love, in the beginning certainly. Everthing he'd ever learnt about women had gone out of the nearest airlock. It showed. He knew the crew laughed at him behind his back. He also knew that *everyone* knew about his failure with Seven and the 'mess hall incident'. But there were things no-one knew. His dreams, for example. Those wonderful heated, beautiful dreams where they would hesitantly, faltering make love to each other time and time again. Those were the dreams he'd never wanted to wake up from. The temptation to release him into them even now was too great. But it had all changed. He'd began to talk to her and he soon realised what a person was behind that perfect, cool, exterior. It was the woman he loved. He quickly began to make her talk to him and that day he made her smile, merely by saying how much he'd miss her, that smile he wished, he had prayed that it would never leave those glorious features. He'd wanted, from that day on, to hold her and never let her go, to stroke that golden mass of neat, groomed, hair- those tiny golden strands on the back of her neck- how he'd wished he could touch them. He was sobbing again. He knew it and he hated it. He tried to block out the next series of thoughts. He failed. Self-control could only take him so far. Purging his passions in another woman only made things worse. He knew that Tal was a big mistake and while he didn't regret the brief time they had shared he knew that he would always look upon it as an error of judgement. Tal was a matter of lust, a fling, an affair. Seven was the woman who haunted his dreams, and the woman who he knew he would love to spend the rest of his life with. He had wanted her. She had, well, chosen another. He knew they were special. He had very quickly learnt to avoid social events where he knew they would attend together. He knew he'd never taken her idea of 'dating' seriously. That day when she had come to him, told him of her plan and he had been strangely calm about it --even internally and although he wasn't overjoyed at the prospect of Seven dating another crewmember he knew that her choice of candidates would result in failure. He knew that it was this same arrogance and confident in himself and his knowledge of Seven that had failed him in the end. He had failed to consider the random and unexpected factor, the third candidate. The person who's name was never mentioned on the list but who had somehow managed to worm his way into Seven's heart. From the rumours he'd heard in the mess hall after Seven's date with Chapman he remembered then how sick he felt as various crewmembers --Tom included-- were placing bets on how soon the Doctor and Seven would start dating seriously. Needless to say, he hadn't eaten much that day. And somehow he'd let Seven slip through his fingers. He was a coward. He'd never expressed his feelings towards her and he'd never asked her why he wasn't a candidate. He could guess that one easily. Derran Tal. Thinking about the way Seven's cold face looked at him with almost the barest hint of pity and compassion as he sat in sickbay refusing medicine to cure his 'disease'. Her words to him, "Get well soon Ensign." Even at the time he realised the sincerity of her words. They gave him hope and provided him with a much needed focus which allowed him to drag himself out of his self-pity and depression. No such words could help Harry now. His cold hands pressed closer to his torso and he tried to remember what his skin has felt like as one smooth plain. Now it was a mass of ruptures and thick blood slowly trying to clot. The wave of dizziness that crept over him shook him with fear. His time had come. Somehow, through all those brushes with death he'd never felt like he did now. Sure he'd occasionally had time a few seconds to reflect on his past or think about those he'd leave behind. But now, now he'd had-- at a guess-- severval hours lying on a small bunkbed in a frigid, unstable shuttlecraft with a shockingly dead crewman at his feet. He glanced down at her. Maria Gilmore. How ironic, the one woman who'd shown him any kind of romantic interest to pursue a stable relationship in four years--no, since Libby. She was dead. Lying at his feet, her beautiful face in the first signs of decay. Those permenantly flushed cheeks and lips now an unsettling shade of blue. He shivered. At least her eyes were shut, she, at least, looked vaguely serene which was always a comforting thought. He mustered all his remaining strength and pulled himself up from the comforting surrounds of a hard, damp S8ÝÙWleet issue bunk and reached for a nearby computer terminal. He hacked away coughing and spultering until this throat was clear and his voice audible. He had made a decsion. He remembered recording all his 'goodbye's' to his nearest and dearest, mainly Tom, B'Elanna and the Captain but he'd forgotten someone. "Seven," he spoke hesistantly at first, waiting for his voice to regain a little strength and normality, "You're probably not expecting to hear anything from me. I'm dead. Well, at this precise moment I'm dying. That's a mere formality now. I'm rambling, great. Well, now I'm here words escape me." He squeezed his eyes shut and winced with pain, one hand still clutching his stomach he forced the other to touch the screen. "I'll never forget your smile Seven, so few people ever see it but I'm thankful I was one of them, I know you remember--that eidetic memory of yours remembers everything. I'm also glad I knew you Seven. I've thought about you a lot and I know I'm going to miss you, I hope you'll miss me, irrelevant conversation and all." He paused again and chocked back the tears already brimming his eyes. His hand slid down from the screen leaving a blooded fingerprint remaining smeared across the terminal. "I have to say this Seven, you won't want hear this, but I *have* to say it. I love you Seven of Nine. I've loved you for so long now. I'm really sorry that I never told you because now I'll never see your face again or hear you express your disgust for human imperfection." He paused and the barest of grains lit across his face. " I wish I'd had more time, but at least I've said it now." He gaped for breath, but continued, nonetheless. "I have to go now Seven, just remember that you are a very special and unique person and someday you'll find someone who deserves your love. I hope you find happiness and I hope you discover your humanity. When you do finally get back to earth do a little sightseeing, for me anyway." The terminal began to beep threataningly. "My time's running out, goodbye, maybe we'll meet again someday. Love you. " With that Harry Kim used his last remaining minutes of life to press a button on the terminal to record the message, he then lowered himself to the floor and waited for his ribcage to finally finish crushing his lungs so that slowly, but surely, he would stop breathing and he would finally accquire the peace he had hoped he would find in death. ~END~ The Road Not Taken-- Robert Frost. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that, the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.