Summary: Who’s Harry to be the exception?

Authors’ note: Not my fault. Blame Jenn. Blame Suz. Blame JetK. Blame Counterpoint. I am merely a conduit. Done now. Note to Harry Kim characterisation purists: Sorry.

Somethings you do because you want to. Somethings you do because you have to.

Somethings you do because you’re out of your little fucking head.

And lying on your back, naked and cold in the guest quarters of someone who was screwing your Captain fell, squarely and with a comforting thump, into the latter.

It was official that Harry Kim, Ops officer, sidekick and all around nice ‘guy’ was a raving lunatic with a comm-badge and some hair gel. Not that this felt in any way bad right about now. Just different, and that brought a smile to Harry’s face.

He knew he’d meant to come here. He’d made a point to tell Tom that he had a headache and was going to lie down, which really, in the not-so-secret life of Harry Kim wasn’t exactly unusual. He’d told Nicoletti at practise that he was sure it was something he ate, and then, naturally, reassured Neelix it was probably the replicator, and B’Elanna that it was Mess food. No need to cause anyone extra work, after all, Harry Kim was a nice guy, a decent guy, a ‘let’s settle down and have a family’ kind of guy.

Supposedly.

Curiosity killed the cat. Probably brutally, with a meat cleaver and a sadistic smile, wiping its hands on its blood stained apron. No doubt something similar would befall young Harry Kim. That or Janeway would string him up in Astrometrics, tell him she ‘didn’t think he was capable,’ or something equally redundant and leave him for Seven to take potshots.

Harry sat up, still smiling.

Didn’t sound too bad. Maybe this way, levitated above the floor by a rope around the neck, he could finally look down on Seven, hell, maybe they’d even get quality time.

Tom, well, Tom would take it badly. He’d probably launch yet another useless crusade to help his ‘innocent’ friend, take the opportunity to sulk a bit, shout at Chakotay. But then Tom would eventually get used to it, play the denial card and moan about the fact that Harry hadn’t got time for the holodeck anymore. Maybe Tom could help Harry write a letter to his ‘folks’ – something along the line of ‘Dear Mom, hope you’re all well, I’ve been strung up in a science lab by my captain for fucking her close, personal friend, Inspector Kashyk. Don’t worry, made a nice change.’ And Tom Paris thought he was screwed up. That was almost laughable, he didn’t have anything on Harry.

Although Tom was probably screwing Kashyk too, he never was one to pass up a challenge. In fact, and this brought a wider smile, the only person probably not ‘getting it the Devoran way’ was Janeway. Which was a nice irony, and one that Harry wasn’t about to dwell on.

So, what was this? If he was going to get cerebral about it, this was called living. This was called taking a chance. And thinking about it like this was called lunacy. But there was something sickening about the way he could justify it with such easy logic and puerile psychobabble. Shit, if he tried hard enough he’d probably be able to plead insanity, the EMH, with all those damned wonderful ethical subroutines, happy at his side. And wouldn’t Janeway just love that.

And through it all. Through the weird way he wanted to laugh at the pure stupidity of his situation. Through the way he should have known he’d be late. Through the perverse way he wanted to get caught. He was still Harry. He was just Harry without a sane ember in his body. But, here he was thinking through consequences, calculating the numerous ways this one could turn out. Harry did that on away missions. Harry did that in the Mess. Harry always did that. It was a reassuring in a way. Reassuring that he hadn’t dwelt on the contributing factors.

Boredom.

That’s what he was sticking to. Stir crazy from listening to Tom moan about B’Elanna, B’Elanna moan about Tom. Sick of playing fucking Captain Proton with Jenny Delaney. Blissfully happy if he never had to hand in another report ever again. But then, that wasn’t the real reason.

But who the hell cared about the real reason? Who the hell cared about Harry, period?

And that made it sound like a cry for attention. Fuck it. It was.

He could hear him. Moving in the darkness. Door opened. Closed.

And that small smile, spreading across his face as he took in the image in front of him. Smug, inflating his own ego as he took each breath, watching Harry with clinical precision. Harry had waited for him. Another senior staff notch on his bedpost. Another knife in Janeway’s back. An easy lay, a quick fuck. It was obvious to all what he was thinking. Bastard.

"Well, well, Mr Ki--"

Harry smiled as he rammed his shoulder into Kashyk’s ribs. He heard the little gasp for breath that the Devoran made as the oxygen was forcibly expelled from his lungs, felt the Devoran’s fingers grapple for a hold against him, hoped on shifting that smile from his face as he hit the wall with a pleasing thud.

Turning, as Kashyk just raised his head, he thrust his foot into the man’s abdomen, saw words catch in his mouth. Kashyk’s footing faltered and Harry took a step forward, clasping his hands and holding them ready back behind his head. With almost fluidity he brought his combined fists down on the man’s shoulder, pushing him further towards the floor. Another swift kick and pleasing groan and he was done.

Harry smiled, unsure if he’d actually stopped, smiling that is.

On average Devorans were probably twice as strong as Humans, more maybe, Harry was no doctor. Surprise was a beautiful thing, and it seemed for Kashyk at least, that complacency wasn’t, he was out cold.

So, it hadn’t gone as Harry had planned.

But Janeway was taking too long. And it was about time somebody fucked with Kashyk, instead of vice versa.

And besides, Harry hated to be predictable.

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