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Sometimes, Tom likes having their shared quarters all to himself. He can spread out on the couch and watch the kind of corny old movies B’Elanna would roll her eyes at, and he doesn’t have to pick up the popcorn he spills quite as quickly. He doesn’t mind the reason for it—it’s fine if B’Elanna’s off with her mystery boytoy, because it’s not like Tom doesn’t have a sidepiece of his own. They’re open about it, honest, though they never bring the details home. B’Elanna says she doesn’t want Tom to get jealous, but he genuinely doesn’t mind the idea; he thinks it’s more likely her Klingon temper would get in the way if she thought she had ‘competition.’ The only trouble Tom has on nights where B’Elanna’s off with her other man is that it leaves him lonely.

So he doesn’t wind up staying in their quarters after all. He heads out, aimlessly wandering the busy corridors of Voyager, debating between the holodeck and mess hall. Neither will have what he’s really craving—Harry already said that he was busy. Except Tom runs into Harry outside of sickbay, the minor bruise he received from their earlier turbulence through the nebula all patched up. He’s rubbing his neck where it used to be, looking down, and he’s walking so fast that he nearly walks right into Tom.

Tom catches him before he can, and Harry glances up, clearly startled. Grinning, Tom notes, “There, you look good as new. How you feelin’, Harry?”

“Um... alright,” Harry answers. His hand drops from his neck, his shoulders shrugging as he admits, “Didn’t take as long as I thought, actually.”

“Was that your plans?” Tom checks, which seems odd, because Harry couldn’t possibly have expected it to take long—only half a dozen people of the entire ship were injured, as far as Tom knows, and the doctor can fix minor bruises in a matter of minutes. But that’s great for Tom, because, as he points out, “I have the place all to myself tonight, y’know.”

Harry’s lips pull into a frown, eyes a little wide at the implication—Tom even winks to drive that home. Then a pretty flush blossoms across Harry’s pale cheeks. He always looks particularly cute when he’s blushing, and when his perfectly manicured hair’s fallen askew from drama, his uniform still on but slightly wrinkled. All of it makes Tom want to get his hands all over Harry’s pliant body. It doesn’t help that Harry clearly feels the same attraction they’ve had since day one—his pupils start to dilate, his eyes flicking down to Tom’s lips.

Tom leans in to purr into Harry’s ear, “Come back to my quarters, Harry.”

Harry murmurs a weak, “Tom...” that just gets him going even more. He loops his fingers around Harry’s wrist, squeezing tight, and then he’s pulling Harry off down the corridor.

When they’re in the turbolift, Harry mumbles, “Tom, I shouldn’t—”

“You definitely should,” Tom interjects. He was the Doctor’s nurse for a short while, and he knows perfectly well how Harry’s treatment would’ve gone—modern medicine’s an amazing thing. He’s definitely all better, no rest or downtime required. They don’t even need to start slow. Tom’s still keyed up from the excitement of alpha shift, and with every new second he spends at Harry’s side, he wants more and more for them to just jump to it. The turbolift doors whoosh open, and Tom tugs Harry out.

Harry mutters a weak protest outside Tom’s door, but then Tom’s pushing Harry inside, shoving him right up the wall, and filling Harry’s mouth up with tongue. Harry seems to forget all his words—he threads his fingers through Tom’s hair and kisses back, even moaning and arching into Tom’s greedy touch. Harry’s combadge beeps, but they both ignore it. Tom’s hands push beneath Harry’s tunic and explore every bit of bare skin they can, riding the black fabric higher and higher, until he needs more.

He parts them just long enough to turn them around and shove Harry towards the couch. Harry stumbles back onto it, uniform ruffled and gaze hazy, mouth open in a languid smile. He reaches out, grinning wider as Tom comes back into his arms. Tom scatters Harry’s face in little kisses, swallows down his tongue for something deeper, and thrusts one hand inside his trousers. Harry breaks away to gasp.

The door slides open, and B’Elanna steps in—Harry instantly straightens up with his eyes wide as saucers.

Tom glances back, ready to ask if they can postpone whatever she wants, except B’Elanna only has eyes for Harry. She actually glares at him and growls, “Did you seriously stand me up, Harry?” Then she seems to finally notice Tom, and her anger visibly melts into confusion. She asks, “What’re you doing?”

“He’s my sidepiece,” Tom explains, jabbing one thumb in Harry’s directions. If possible, Harry’s cheeks turn even redder.

B’Elanna grunts, “But he’s my sidepiece.”

Tom glances at Harry, who slinks down into the couch like they’re both going to eat him alive. For a long moment, Tom just stares at him, then back to B’Elanna, while B’Elanna blinks and Harry splits nervous looks between them.

As the shock passes, interest slowly fills it, and then a new idea that’s too good to pass up. Tom suggests to the room at large, “Threeway?”

Harry looks at Tom like he’s lost his mind.

But B’Elanna barks, “Get on the bed, Starfleet!”

Harry actually yelps, jumping to attention. He spouts, “Yes, Ma’am!” and scrambles off. Tom can only guess what kind of relationship they have. It’s definitely something he wants to explore.

First, he grins at his wife. She grins wolfishly right back, and they both go to enjoy their prize.