Archivist's Challenge story, set as a missing scene from "Someone to 
Watch Over Me". What was Tom and B'Elanna's argument about - in fact, 
did they know what it was about themselves? Rated PG-13.


Disclaimer: Tom and B'Elanna are two of Paramount's finest. The 
argument is one of mine.



Human Mating Behaviour


Not for the first time, Tom Paris was pacing the corridors of Voyager.
Not for the first time, his face was a carefully composed mask that 
covered a riot of conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm 
him. And not for the first time, B'Elanna Torres was the cause.


  Personal log, Seven of Nine. Project notes: human mating behaviour.
  Stardate 52647, 1330 hours: subjects ingest nutrition together.

It had all started so well. An hour and a half between his morning 
shift in sickbay and his afternoon shift at the conn had coincided 
with B'Elanna's break in yet another double shift. They had met in 
the mess hall, and the small table in the corner had been free. No-
one disturbed them - Tom had seen Harry Kim steer a party of mutual 
friends away at one point - and, for the first time in days, they had 
started to relax and revel in each other's company. It had been a 
difficult week - hell, it had been a difficult *year* - but at last 
he was getting her to open up and let him in on her feelings. Then, 
though, at some point, the conversation had shifted into dangerous 
territory.

"...and the whole array discharged through Vorik's hand! I didn't 
know Vulcans could jump that high." B'Elanna didn't exactly dislike 
the young ensign these days, but somehow she found his discomfort a 
little easier to bear than, say, Carey's or Nicoletti's.

"Well, anything's possible, even Neelix cooking up a stew both of us 
can finish." Tom stacked up the empty plates. "Shall we go?" They 
both knew they still had an hour - maybe less than they'd like, but 
enough.

"In a moment, helmboy." B'Elanna leaned forward and gazed happily 
into Tom's eyes. "It's good to unwind a little... first." She let her 
chin rest on her hands. "We should do this more often."

Tom fought the urge to make some inane quip. He always felt a little 
overwhelmed at moments like this, torn between wanting to tell 
B'Elanna how beautiful she was and wanting to hide his feelings from 
anyone else who might be watching. And then there were the words he 
knew he wanted to say, knew she wanted him to say, yet which would 
somehow - even after nearly two years together - never quite come 
out.

And again, she beat him to the punch. "I love you, Tom", she said 
softly.

And he replied, just as softly, "B'Elanna." *I love you*. But the 
second part was silent. "You're beautiful." *Nearly, Paris. Keep 
trying.* And as some kind of reward for second best, he saw the 
quizzical I-can't-actually-believe-you-but-I-love-to-hear-it-anyway 
smile that always came to her face when he said those other, somehow 
easier, words.

It wasn't exactly as if her face dropped, but her smile suddenly lost 
some of its intensity as she stood up and said "Come on, let's go." 
Paris was on his feet in an instant, and they walked together, maybe 
a little too quickly, to the door. 

"See you later, Harry, Seven." She was working away at that PADD 
again. Every time he'd seen her lately she'd been making notes on 
something. He would have to find out what she was up to some day, but 
he wasn't going to devote too much mental energy to figuring out the 
resident Borg right now; he had a worrying feeling he needed it for 
figuring out the resident half-Klingon.

  Stardate 52647, 1400 hours: subjects quarrel in corridor outside 
                              female's quarters.

Something wasn't quite right in the turbolift either. B'Elanna wasn't 
exactly... wasn't exactly anything he could put his finger on, but... 
wasn't exactly. They were both quiet, but that might have been just 
because they'd run out of things to say for now. But as they stepped 
on to the corridor and the door closed behind them, she said, "Tom, 
how come you... why didn't...", a brief pause, then "Oh, never mind."

Alarm bells were starting to ring. Tom held his tongue, hoping she'd 
work through whatever it was, or at least let him in on the secret. 
Suddenly she blurted out, "I just wish sometimes you'd be a bit 
more..." SLAM! Her fist hit the bulkhead. "Klingon."

He tried a light smile. Stupid mistake. "Be careful what you wish for,
Lieutenant." Even worse mistake, he could see immediately. He heard 
the turbolift door open and close again behind him, but it wasn't a 
good time to look round. B'Elanna spun round with a withering look.

"Oh yeah, great idea, Paris. Let's just go and have sex and 
everything'll be okay. Is that all I mean to you? Two years, and 
that's the best you can do?"

"B'Elanna, I-"

"It's just a game, isn't it? A bit of fun now and then, keep yourself 
amused in the Delta Quadrant. Don't you have any *feelings*, Tom?" 
There was more, fast and furious, but he could hardly keep up with 
the words. She was almost shouting now, and though he tried he could 
barely even say her name before she shouted him down again. At last, 
as they reached her door, he put a hand on her shoulder. Worst 
mistake yet.

He could have coped with her slapping him, or carrying on shouting. 
But suddenly she stopped, turned away from him, and slammed her fist 
into the bulkhead again.

"B'Elanna?"

"Just go, Tom. Just go." Her door opened and closed, and she was gone.

Tom turned on his heel and marched back to the turbolift. As he 
walked, the small part of his mind that stayed clear and calm noted a 
couple of things about the rest of him. One was the way he immediately
adopted a fast, long-striding walk, trying to project the self-
confidence and calm that he was light years from feeling. The other, 
almost incidentally, was the way his elbow almost knocked the PADD 
from Seven's hand as she stepped out of his way.

  Stardate 52647, 1500 hours: Senior staff meeting. Subjects ignore 
                              each other.

For once, Tom was early for a meeting. He nodded to Seven, the only 
other one there, who responded with a brief "Ensign". A few seconds 
later, B'Elanna came in and sat at the far end, same side of the 
table, without once looking his way. Next came Captain Janeway; Tom 
didn't look at her as she came in, but from the corner of his eye he 
could see her raising an eyebrow, and as she walked behind him to the 
head of the table he thought he heard a derisive snort. *Great, she's 
noticed. Damn.*

As the others filed in, he could sense their eyes on him and B'Elanna, 
and a grim and oppressive silence seemed to settle on the whole room. 
Tom was about to relieve the tension with a joke, but as he opened his 
mouth he saw B'Elanna turn towards him, and the look on her face 
convinced him to close it again.

The meeting seemed to go rather quickly. In fact, everyone seemed to 
be hurrying over their reports - B'Elanna in particular, but that 
didn't surprise him. Janeway stood up and announced, "Well, if there's
nothing else" with a glare that clearly said *there'd better not be* 
"then we can get out of... get on with... Meeting adjourned." As she 
walked - sprinted wasn't quite the word - out of the room, Tom 
thought he could hear a sharp exhalation. Harry Kim followed with a 
look of relief. Chakotay was next out, and Tom thought he heard him 
laugh quietly in the corridor. And Tuvok looked, first Tom, then 
B'Elanna, full in the face, raised an eyebrow, and left quietly. Tom 
hoped for a moment alone with B'Elanna, but it was clear Seven wasn't 
going to leave; she sat quietly, concentrating on that PADD again. 
After a few uncomfortable seconds, B'Elanna turned and marched out of 
the room. Tom turned to follow, but...

"Ensign Paris, the senior staff appears to be acting atypically. Is 
there any problem of which I should be made aware?"

He wanted to ignore her and run after B'Elanna, but he couldn't. 
Seven of Nine was regarded as almost an automaton by most of the 
crew - except Harry, who still seemed to start stammering whenever 
she was around - but Tom still saw her as an echo of himself five 
years ago, the lonely outsider trying to keep up a composed appearance 
in the face of rejection. He owed her at least a response.

"Uh, I'm not sure, Seven, but I think B'Elanna's still feeling a 
little bit tense after the last away mission, and, uh, you know what 
her temper's like. They're probably just, uh, trying to be 
considerate, that's it, letting her cool off a bit."

"Thank you, Ensign Paris. That is most illuminating." And she went 
back to her PADD. Tom looked up and down the corridor as he left, but 
B'Elanna was long gone.

  Stardate 52647, 1505 hours: male subject is evasive and inarticulate
                              when engaged in conversation. While not 
                              unknown, these traits are rarely 
                              observed in this particular subject.

And to top everything, all hell had broken loose on his afternoon 
shift. The sensors had gone offline as Voyager investigated a star 
system with a promising M-class planet, and he'd suddenly found 
himself flying the ship through the middle of an asteroid field with 
only half power from the port impulse engine. 

"Paris to engineering," *Keep it cool, she might reply* "we could have
a problem if we lose any more power."

"Torres to Paris" *Heart rate, what, 140? That's all I need.* "We're 
on top of it."

Her voice seemed to soften slightly, although over a comms channel it 
was hard to tell. "Don't worry, Tom. Everything's OK now." 

And while he was wondering what she meant by that, his panel reported 
full impulse availability. Just in time to avoid - well, it probably 
wouldn't have done any damage, but a rock that size could have given 
them a nasty jolt. Not the sort of thing he'd like to see happen on 
*his* shift. Suddenly, he caught himself smiling. And just as 
suddenly, the viewscreen cleared. They were through. 

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw Janeway and Chakotay were both 
looking at him, trying not to smile themselves - they'd obviously 
heard B'Elanna's words, and read the same double meaning into them. 
Feeling a slight warmth rising in his face, he quickly applied the 
Paris mask and said, "And for my next trick, looping the loop 
under the Golden Gate Bridge."

  Stardate 52647, 2130 hours: male requests entry to female's 
                              quarters. Access is denied. Male leaves.

The door was locked, but in the circumstances he'd probably have 
announced himself anyway. 

"B'Elanna?"

"Not now, Tom."

"We need to talk."

"I mean not now, I'm about to have a shower and get changed. Come 
back in half an hour." She sounded irritated again.

Now it was Tom's turn to start punching bulkheads. All afternoon he'd 
been wondering what this whole damned row was even about, and now 
suddenly having a shower mattered more than talking to him. He turned 
and walked away, not even noticing Seven this time.

The mask was starting to slip, he could tell, but he'd simply had 
enough for one day. He was sick of her, putting him through this time 
and time again, and he knew it'd be hours, maybe days, before he even 
found out what he was supposed to have done wrong. Anger slowly 
turned to desperation as he walked blindly through corridor after 
corridor. What the hell could he do to please her? He loved her 
desperately, but she could drive him mad at times. Whatever it was, 
she must feel really angry not to have calmed down yet. He gradually 
realised that she must be feeling as confused and unhappy as he did, 
and the desperation faded as he remembered a young man who hadn't 
yet met B'Elanna, or anyone else who cared about him, consumed by 
anger, turning it in on himself and slowly burning his soul away. At 
least she was honest about her feelings, he thought with pride. 
Honest about her feelings - maybe that was it.

Somehow he realised he was carrying a dozen red roses. Where the hell 
had he picked them up? He vaguely remembered that his random pacing 
had taken him through hydroponics; he'd barely seen the crewman on 
duty there, but the crewman - whoever it was - must have seen him 
clearly enough, read the signs and taken appropriate measures. In a 
flood of embarrassment, he realised that the whole ship probably knew 
they were having another row. In fact, the whole ship probably had a 
standard drill to cope with them. He'd get some ribbing from Chakotay 
about this tomorrow, he bet himself. *Damn it, Paris, you can be 
stupid sometimes. It's a wonder they all put up with you. It's a 
wonder B'Elanna puts up with you. If she still does.* His anger was 
completely burned away, replaced by a familiar, almost comforting 
sense of self-loathing.

And now he realised he was coming to her door again, and it was half 
an hour later.

  Stardate 52647, 2200 hours: Male returns with 12 flowering plant 
                              stems--species rosa rubifolia--effecting
                              a cessation of hostilities.

The door opened, and there she was, radiant in her red dress. He 
looked hard at her face, and decided she probably wasn't going to 
kill him. He held out the roses awkwardly, and said, "Sorry, B'Elanna."

She almost smiled. "Good start. But you still don't know what the hell 
this is all about, do you?"

No evasions, no pretence. "Not really." *What do I say now?* "Tell me.
Please."

"Tom, where are we going, you and me? Do we have a future?"

He laid the roses on the table and sat down. Thought for a moment, 
then looked up. "I'd kind of planned for us to die together, 
surrounded by crying grandchildren."

Now she actually did smile. "Aren't you missing a couple of steps 
there?"

"Actually, I mean it. And you know I mean it. We've never talked about 
it, the Delta Quadrant isn't the best place to start a family, but..."
*I'm babbling* - he was relieved when she interrupted.

"Tom, how do you really feel about me?"

"B'Elanna, don't you know that?"

"I need to hear the words, Tom. You've never told me you love me."

He stammered helplessly, "I... I do, B'Elanna, I do."

"So why can't you say it?"

"It's just not the sort of thing I'm used to saying."

Her face hardened as she put her hands on her hips. "Not good enough."
For a brief, disconcerting moment she reminded him of the Captain.

He'd been trying to avoid this for a long time, but it looked like 
he'd have to face it now. "I said it once before. To my father."

"More than once, I should imagine." Now B'Elanna looked slightly 
puzzled.

Dully, "No. Only once, that I remember. And that's once more than he 
said it to me." He felt a new surge of disgust at himself. "You must 
be sick to death of me talking about my father."

"Actually, it makes a nice change to be talking at all!"

"Yeah. It seems like nothing's been right since we heard from home."

She took both his hands and gently pulled him to his feet. "Tom, why 
does it hurt so much?"

Tom looked down. He couldn't move, couldn't look at B'Elanna. He had 
to say this if it killed him. "It was after I got thrown out of 
Starfleet Academy. I went to see Dad, to say sorry, sorry I let him 
down, sorry I wasn't the son he wanted. He just stood there, not 
moving, not saying a word. I could see him hurting, and hiding it the 
way we Parises do, and I couldn't make it right. At last, I told him 
I loved him. There was nothing else I could say, nothing else I could 
do. Nothing else to offer."

"How did he take it?"

"He looked... offended. He didn't say anything, he just turned and 
walked away. It was as if my love was an insult. As if I was so low,
so worthless... it just seems like everyone I've loved has..." The 
words failed him at last, and the tears came. But B'Elanna was in his 
arms, holding him close, giving him strength to live with the pain, 
and gradually he started to breathe again. Then he felt the tears on 
his cheeks, and tried to turn away in embarrassment.

She turned his face back to her, and wiped away a tear with her 
finger. "Tom, they're your true feelings. Don't be ashamed, be proud 
of them." And then suddenly she was smiling, and her deep brown eyes 
met his. "Be more Klingon!"

"B'Elanna, I-" But she beat him to it. Yet again.

"I love you, Tom." Their lips met, and the pain left him. He knew it 
would be back, but next time it would be easier.


  Stardate 52647, 2330 hours: subjects join a social gathering on 
                              Holodeck 2.

"B'Elanna, are you sure this is a good idea?" They walked side by side
towards Sandrine's.

"Look, you said everybody knew we were having a row, right? And as 
far as they know, we still are."

"They might not be too pleased if they see through it."

"Well, if you're scared..."

"Ha! As if. Bet you a late night snack you crack up first."

"You're on. The rules are no talking, no smiling, no looking at each 
other. At least, no looking at each other like *that*. Down, boy."

"You just love to torture me, don't you?"

"Maybe later, if you're lucky. Come on, this should be good."

Their faces were carefully composed in blank, expressionless looks as 
they strode, side by side, through the doorway of Sandrine's. Tom's 
face nearly slipped at once. It wasn't that the bar went silent, or 
that everyone looked. It was more the way the bar most emphatically 
didn't go silent, as everyone very carefully carried on with their 
conversations after the briefest of pauses. And from the way everyone 
was trying not to look like they were looking at the couple, and at 
the same time trying not to look like they were deliberately looking 
away, he thought he might be treating a few stiff necks in sickbay 
tomorrow.

The pool table was free, although the rapidly retreating forms of 
Harry Kim and Jenny Delaney suggested that it hadn't been that way a 
few seconds ago. Silently, Tom racked up the balls.

B'Elanna took first shot, breaking up the pack with her usual 
aggressive game, and leaving an easy six ball over the top right 
corner. But as Tom lined up the shot, he - and, from the sudden drop 
in the volume of conversation, everyone else in the room - heard a 
growl from B'Elanna, standing behind him. Misjudging the angle, he 
left the six ball in the jaws of the pocket, cannoned into the four 
which caught in the jaws of the opposite corner, and left the cue 
ball near the centre of the table.

B'Elanna countered with a fine cut of the fourteen into the right 
side pocket, and as the ball sank, the growl was heard again. Out of 
position for the eleven into the bottom corner, she placed the cue 
ball hard against the side cushion with her next shot.

The game proceeded with a silent intensity as Tom manoeuvred the balls 
to cover all six pockets. B'Elanna was forced to play repeatedly to 
trap the cue ball between her remaining balls in the centre of the 
table, prowling round the table like a hungry lioness and growling a 
little louder every time she passed Tom. She potted one ball in the 
next ten minutes, squeezing it past the five into the corner pocket 
on a tricky cushion shot. As it sank, Freddie Bristow, desperately 
trying to avoid B'Elanna's cueing action, fell to the floor in a 
tangle of three chairs, a table, four bottles and Samantha Wildman. 
Tom was sufficiently deep in concentration not to let his face slip. 
From the corner of his eye, he thought B'Elanna hadn't quite done so 
well, but it didn't look like anyone had noticed. In fact, everyone 
else in Sandrine's was trying desperately not to notice anything at 
all. And the hum of conversation clearly diminished a bit more at 
every growl.

Seeing an opening, Tom managed to plant the seven ball on to the six 
for a pot. In what seemed like seconds, he worked round the table, 
slamming a ball into each pocket. As he lined up on the final eight 
ball, though, he could see B'Elanna standing right in line with it. 
The conversation around them had died away completely now, and once 
again a growl caused him to misjudge the angle.

Suddenly, it was all over. Tom had uncovered all the pockets now, and 
all B'Elanna's remaining five balls were well out into the centre of 
the table. Before Tom knew it, B'Elanna had cleared the table. As the 
eight ball sank, she gave him a look that would freeze hydrogen, 
slammed her cue down on the table with almost enough force to shatter 
the slab. From behind him, Tom heard a snap and a tinkling crash, as 
a wine glass stem, strained beyond endurance by the fist nervously 
clenched around it, gave way. His face slipped for a moment; B'Elanna 
caught his eye, and he knew he'd lost the bet. His only hope was to 
leave, fast; if he lost control and started laughing after the way 
their friends had taken that little display, neither he nor B'Elanna 
would get out of there alive. He just noticed B'Elanna rushing out 
beside him, in similar difficulties. Luckily, a rising hum of 
relieved conversation and nervous laughter covered their gasps. A few 
words followed them out - "I thought she was going to kill him." "I 
thought they were going to do it right there on the pool table!" 
"Maybe if we got rid of the pool table..." - then the holodeck doors 
closed and they were safe. B'Elanna leaned on Tom's shoulder, trying 
desperately to breathe, as Tom leaned on the bulkhead and slowly slid 
down to the floor. Then both finally gave way to total, unchecked, 
uncontrollable laughter.

Nobody came out of the holodeck after them; presumably, nobody wanted 
to risk seeing whatever scene the two of them might still be causing 
in the corridor. After a few minutes, they were finally able to speak 
again.

"You win, Lieutenant."

"Banana pancakes?"

"My rations."

"My quarters."


  Stardate 52647, 2355 hours: subjects return to female's quarters.

B'Elanna sat back on the sofa, watching Tom clear the table. They'd 
had a lot to talk about, once they got back from their practical joke 
on the holodeck. It had been a difficult evening, but at last she was 
getting Tom to drop the mask and let her in on his feelings. Not for 
the first time, she wanted to kill Admiral Paris, but that could wait 
a few more years. She knew Tom loved her, knew she was safe with him, 
knew he was...

Hang on.

She replayed the conversations of the last few hours in her mind.

Damn him, he *still* hadn't said it! She didn't know whether to laugh, 
cry or throw things. Although - she quickly estimated spatial 
relationships and trajectories - *aim for his right ear, he ducks 
left, a quick leap* - she could have him pinned to the bed and tear 
his shirt off before he knew what had hit him. *Much* better than 
more arguments.

Reaching surreptitiously for the nearest heavy object, she noticed the
clock. The night half gone, and early shift in the morning. Still, it 
wouldn't be the first time. She took a deep breath, and aimed 
carefully.



Outside, Seven of Nine listened, made one final note, and headed for 
her regeneration booth. She felt a pleasant glow of satisfaction. 
Today's mating ritual was, presumably, complete.

  Stardate 52648 0300 hours: intimate relations resume.



THE END