"IN HIS MIND'S EYE"
by Maisie (maisierita@comcast.net)
copyright 1997
Voy, P, Rated R for language and adult situations
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Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek, Voyager, and all of these
characters. I'm just playing with them in their free time.
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Feel free to archive.
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WARNING!!!! Angst alert! If you don't like Paris angst, don't
even bother reading this story. This my first attempt at fanfic, and
I'm very nervous about exposing it to public view, but I suppose
there's not much point in writing it down otherwise. Please send
me feedback, especially if you like it. (If you hate it, well, please
don't be nasty!)
PART 1
"Damn." Tom cursed under his breath. Just figures, doesn't
it. Can't even go on a simple little cultural exchange mission with
something getting fucked up. To wit, a seasonal weather
disturbance in the upper atmosphere forced the shuttlecraft down
out of the sky in the middle of fucking *nowhere* and now he,
and most of the rest of the senior command crew, were marooned
for three days, three goddamn days, until the storm blew over. Or
was due to blow over. He wasn't particularly optimistic about that
working out as planned, either. Three days and two nights and
nothing to do but sit around. Damn, damn, damn. Although it
wasn't the days that were going to be the problem. It was the
nights. Shit.
He threw down some blankets at the campsite with a growl.
"Hey, Tom, you o.k.?" Harry asked, too cheerfully. Sure. Harry
probably *loved* camping, toasting marshmallows, telling ghost
stories, and sleeping under the stars. Tom shuddered. Sleeping
under the stars with all his fellow officers. That was a laugh!
He'd be lucky if he didn't -- -- -- stop it! Just don't think about it.
You'll be fine.
"I'm fine." Tom muttered. He stalked back to the downed
shuttle and grabbed some rations. Starfleet emergency rations.
Just dandy. One notch below Neelix's cooking. Worse than leola
root, even, which was saying something.
He tossed the packets onto the small but growing pile of
supplies, and took a quick mental inventory. Not enough rations
for three days. He guessed there would be some more packed
away in the cargo hold. There was a river about two kilometers
away where they might be able to catch some fish, but God only
knew if they'd be edible. Given the way his luck was going, they
wouldn't be. He spun around on his heel to go back to the shuttle
and nearly crashed into Captain Janeway, who was carrying some
wood for the fire. "Lieutenant, are you all right?" she asked,
amused, as she neatly sidestepped out of his way.
"I'm fine." he sighed. "I'll be fine." He paced back to the
shuttle and tore through the cargo hold. Yup, just as he'd
suspected. There were extra rations there. He gathered up as
many as he could carry and made his way back to the camp site.
Funny, they didn't look like Starfleet rations. And what was this
label on the side? He peered at it. Oh god. These were packed by
Neelix. Probably leola root casserole. Yecch. He threw them
down disgustedly, turned to go, and promptly smashed right into
B'Elanna.
"Watch where you're going!" she said, darkly. Not too happy
about being here either. Tom nodded his apology, then regretted
it. Must have banged into her harder than he'd thought. The
world spun, and he swayed, losing his balance. "Whoops, steady
there, flyboy." B'Elanna said. She caught his arm and held him
still until he stabilized. "You all right, Paris?"
"I'm fine!" he said, irritably. If one more person asked him if
he was all right, he was going to scream. Scream and yell and
throw a tantrum until they left him the fuck alone. Yeah, sure.
Real mature, Tommy. Chakotay would just *love* that,
watching Tom completely fall to pieces. He'd get that concerned
look on his face like he gave a shit and ask "What's wrong,
Lieutenant?" when all the while he'd be telling himself he'd
always *known* that Paris was unstable, that he couldn't handle
the pressure, that he couldn't be trusted.
Tom sighed. The Commander wasn't like that, and Tom
knew it. O.k., fine, so they were never going to be best buddies,
but Chakotay was scrupulously fair with him, and seemed to be
doing his best to put their past behind him. Tom suspected,
uneasily, that the problems he had with Chakotay stemmed from
the fact that the Commander reminded him of his father in a lot of
ways. And given that resemblance, Tom just couldn't help
pushing the man, testing his patience and tolerance. Waiting for
the inevitable explosion, so he could stop worrying about it. So he
could see how deep the similarities really ran.
Speak of the devil, here came the Big Man himself. Chakotay
walked near, loaded down with medkits, tricorders, and phasers.
"If you're not too busy, Lieutenant," he said in that ever so slightly
sarcastic tone they'd all come to know, "I could use some help."
Tom shook himself out of his reverie, and began taking some of
the instruments out of Chakotay's arms and piling them neatly on
the ground. He was brooding to himself, wondering how in the
hell he was going to make it through two consecutive nights with
all these other people around, when he realized that Chakotay was
staring at him expectantly.
"Ummm, sorry Commander, what was that you said?" He felt
the heat rise in his face and willed the blush to go away before it
became noticeable.
Chakotay sat back on his heels and laughed. "Welcome back
to the land of the living. You were gone for a good few minutes,
there. But I just wanted to know if you were up for a hike to the
river. The Captain and I are going to see if there are any fish.
You look a little stressed; I thought the walk might help you work
off a little excess energy."
You look a little stressed. Yet another polite inquiry as to his
well being. Aarggggh. Tom allowed himself the mental scream
that he didn't dare voice to Chakotay. Damn the man. Always
the perfect First Officer, looking out for the crew's welfare, always
calm and collected. Couldn't he be just the *slightest* bit
perturbed that they were stuck down here for three days with no
way to get back to Voyager? Would it damage his reputation that
much to show he was human?
Tom realized he was glaring at the ground and kicking up
piles of dirt. Whoops, better stop that! "Sure, Commander.
You're right, I am a little..." he paused briefly, "tense. Maybe a
walk will help." He caught Chakotay looking at him out of the
corner of his eye, and figured he'd better change the topic before
Chakotay decided he wanted to pry further. With practiced ease,
as if the thought had just occurred to him, he asked smoothly
"Fish, Commander? I thought you were a vegetarian."
Chakotay had risen to his feet and was brushing the dust off
his uniform. "I am. But the rest of you aren't, so it can't hurt to
check what's available. There aren't enough rations for the five of
us to last three days. Maybe we'll even find some fruit or
vegetables closer to the water." He called to the Captain to join
them, and the three officers made the hike to the river.
In fact, they did find several trees burdened with strange,
ovoid, purple and orange fruit that the tricorder deemed edible.
On the other hand, there were no fish to speak of in the river.
Tom and his two senior officers picked as much of the fruit as
they could hold, and brought it back to camp just in time for
dinner.
The whole evening had a rather festive air to it, Tom thought
afterwards, despite the inhospitable setting. They were all
together, uninjured, in no immediate danger, and Captain
Janeway had declared it a sort of unofficial shore leave. He even
managed to relax, at least a little bit, when Harry shared the very
funny story of his audition for the Julliard Youth Symphony. That
led to B'Elanna's tale of her first, disastrous, day at Starfleet
Academy, which had Chakotay laughing so hard he was in tears
even though he'd obviously heard it before. Tom had just
managed to convince himself he was calm enough to make it
though the night, when Janeway, determined not be outdone by
B'Elanna, started to tell the story of her first time in command of
an away mission. Which unfortunately seemed to have happened
during her tour on the Al Batani.
It was probably a very funny story, judging by the peals of
laughter ringing out around the fire, but Tom couldn't hear it over
the sound of blood pounding in his ears. His heart was
hammering so loudly he was afraid that Harry, sitting next to him,
would hear it. "And when we got back to the ship, the Captain
told me I was supposed to *wear* it, not *eat* it!" The Captain.
Captain Paris, not yet an Admiral, but almost there, each mission
another rung up the Starfleet ladder. Tom remembered this
particular mission, the Arias expedition. Gene Paris had been
away for almost four months. Tom unwillingly remembered the
night his father had come home. The events ran through his mind
like a televid he couldn't turn off, and he felt himself start to
shake.
Stop it, stop it, stop it! he commanded himself, furiously
willing away the tremors. Self-control born of long practice won
out over adrenaline-induced panic, and he forced air into lungs
that had momentarily stopped working. Glancing around, he
breathed an inaudible sigh of relief -- no one seemed to have
noticed. But gods, he knew now that there was no way he was
going to make it safely though the night. Briefly, he considered
filching a sedative from one of the medkits, but rejected that idea
when he realized that they were at the bottom of the pile of
supplies. No way to get one without causing everything else to
come crashing down. He supposed he could just ask for one, but
then he'd have to come up with some plausible explanation, and
what could he possibly say, and anyway sedatives didn't always
help and even if they did they'd just wear off in a couple of hours
and then where would he be? Right back where he started. Shit.
The evening shadows slowly deepened, and the stars began
peeking through the night sky three or four at a time. Soon
enough, the entire sky was filled with twinkling points of light. "I
keep forgetting how they look." Chakotay mused, gazing
absorbedly at the stars.
"What?" B'Elanna was incredulous. "Chakotay, you see the
stars every day!"
"Not through an atmosphere." he replied, smiling. "They're
much..." he searched for the right word, "*colder* on the
viewscreen. Don't you find them friendlier down here?"
B'Elanna shook her head. "Stars are stars, Chakotay.
Whether we're up there or down here."
But Janeway nodded. "I know exactly what you mean,
Commander. Planetside, they look less bright, not as distinct.
Fuzzy. They remind me of home." She gazed up at them. "Even
so, I'd still rather be up there."
Wouldn't we all! Tom added silently. He'd stayed out of the
conversation, concentrating instead on claiming a blanket and
staking a spot for his bedroll. Not that he planned to do any
sleeping. He figured the best he could do would be to just stay
awake through the night. He could nap the following day --
sleeping was always less of a problem during the day for some
reason -- and then he could stay up again the following night.
Hell, it was only two nights, and he'd pulled consecutive all-
nighters more than once during his astrophysics senior seminar at
the Academy.
Now, that senior seminar, that was really something! Cheryl
O'Sullivan was in that class with him, and her father was an
admiral, too. She was probably the one person in the world he
knew was really friends with *him*, as himself, not as some
admiral's brat and ticket to advancement. They spent a lot of time
together that year, and things might have progressed beyond the
casual level of intimacy they shared, but the friendship with
Cheryl was much too important to Tom for him to risk fucking it
up by fucking her. Anyway, he wasn't sure he was ready to risk
sharing himself quite that intimately with someone else.
Especially if it meant taking his clothes off in front of her; no,
there was no way in *hell* he was going to do that. So they
stayed just friends. Good friends; really, she was the best friend
he'd ever had until, well, until he met Harry. And yet, even with
Harry, it was different. *Tom* was different, older, even less sure
of his tenuous footing in the world. It wasn't that way at the
Academy. He and Cheryl had gotten up to some serious mischief
back then!
Tom snuggled cozily under the blanket, reminiscing about
wild weekends, evenings, and Academy vacations, spent in New
Orleans, San Francisco, and Paris. Assorted sounds from around
the fire assured him that Harry, B'Elanna, Chakotay and Janeway
were settling down for the night as well. He listened to their
breathing as they fell asleep. He kept himself determinedly awake
for a while, concentrating on memories of Cheryl to keep him
from thinking about anything else. The steady noise of the fire
was really very soothing, though. Tom's mind started wandering,
the stress and excitement of the day caught up to him, and, despite
his best intentions, he fell asleep.
**********
"Tommy, are you dressed yet? Your father will be home any
minute!"
"All right, all right, already. I'm dressed." Tom walked into
the living room, straightening his tie. "And don't call me Tommy.
I'm 15!"
"14. You won't be 15 for another month." Emma gazed at
Tom with a critical eye. "That tie doesn't really go with that
jacket, your collar's crooked, and those pants are getting too short.
And those shoes! You should at least have polished them." She
turned to the bar and poured herself a glass of very expensive
whiskey.
Tom stuck his tongue out behind her back. "You're *not* my
mother. I don't need fashion advice from you, Auntie Em. They
don't dress that well in Kansas."
"What a pleasant way to be greeted after a four month
absence." The deep sarcastic voice came from behind him and
Tom whirled around, unprepared. "Thomas, I will not tolerate
you being disrespectful to your aunt." Gene Paris gave his son a
disapproving look. "You should listen to her, Tom. You dress
yourself with the talent of a three-year-old." Without so much as a
second look at his son, Gene gave his sister a quick hug and led
her into the dining room. "Emma, it's so considerate of you to
have stayed with Thomas this past week. I hope he didn't give
you too much trouble."
"Not *too* much trouble, Gene." She paused, then shrugged
dismissively. "You know what he's like. But tell me all about the
mission!" Tom trailed behind the two elder Parises and sat, stone-
faced and silent, throughout dinner. He excused himself from the
table as soon as they'd all finished eating, and made a beeline for
his room. Not bad at all this time. He breathed a sigh of relief as
he got undressed and ready for bed. Only one quick insult which
Dad hadn't even had his heart in, and otherwise he'd escaped
unscathed. Aunt Emma must be a calming influence. They
should have the nasty old witch over more often.
A few hours later, Tom was deeply asleep, not even
dreaming, when the door to his room burst open with a cry that
spoke of hinges bending under the stress. "What the fuck is
*this*, Tom?" His father came storming into the room, waving a
datapadd wildly in the air.
Oh shit. Tom was instantly awake, but still groggy and
tangled under the covers. He felt himself lifted and slammed into
the wall. His breath came out in a whoosh as he leaned there,
momentarily stunned.
"What's the meaning of this, Tom? How can you get a B- in
political science? You've got politicians all over this house every
fucking weekend! I guess you're just too goddammed stupid to
listen and learn anything. God forbid you should actually use that
pathetic excuse for a brain! I can't believe it; I'm stuck with a
fucking *moron* for a son." And so on.
When he'd finally gotten tired of yelling at Tom, Gene
starting beating him. Tom had been waiting for it, bracing
himself for it, mentally psyching himself up. Don't give in to him,
Tommy boy. He likes it when you cry. He likes it when you beg.
Be a man, Tommy. Men don't cry; they don't beg; they *don't*
cry; but oh god it hurts; it does! He's fucking nuts; why won't he
stop I'm not fighting him, oh god it hurts, don't cry, Tommy!
All thought was soon erased. The only thing left, like a
refrain from a song, was the running chant 'Don't cry, don't cry,
don't cry'. Then, suddenly, it was over. And he'd managed --
somehow he'd managed to stay silent through it all. He was
bruised, battered, and bleeding, and yet there was a small feeling
of victory racing through his blood. He'd won, ha! Take that,
Dad, I'm a real man whether you like it or not! His father was
gone, who knows where. Tom thought he might have passed out
for a few minutes. Christ, his body ached, but he'd won, dammit!
And then Gene Paris came back into the room, holding a largish
metal cylinder.
Oh shit. What's that? Another one of Dad's little toys?
Probably picked it up during the mission. Likes to do his
shopping in the dark alleys, always manages to find the guys who
have this sort of stuff to sell, don't know how he does it, where he
finds -- oh shit, no, please don't; please don't, I'll be better, I
promise; I promise, god no DON'T oh god; I promise I'll try
harder, I'll be better, Daddy; I promise I will; oh god please stop;
please stop; no no NO --
Somewhere in the back of his mind Tom heard the sobbing
and the pleading and knew the cries were coming from him. He'd
lost, again, and this was worse, so much worse, oh god please,
maybe he'll just kill me this time and be done with it; please,
please, I just want it to stop I don't care if he kills me just please
make it stop...
**********
"Should we wake him?" Harry whispered. He was sitting up,
hunched into his blankets against the chill night air. A few feet
away Tom was thrashing and moaning in his sleep.
"I dunno." B'Elanna whispered back. "Are you supposed to
wake people from nightmares?"
"Maybe it's not a nightmare," Chakotay mumbled groggily
from the other side of the fire. "Maybe he's just having a
particularly vivid dream about the Delaney sisters."
"Commander!" Harry said, slightly shocked.
"Lighten up, Ensign. We're on shore leave, remember?"
Across from him, Tom stiffened and cried out, still asleep.
"I think we should wake him." Harry said. "I can't stand to
watch this. "
"Then stop talking about it and do it already, Starfleet."
B'Elanna grumbled. "Some of us are trying to sleep."
"I second the motion." Janeway whispered loudly from
B'Elanna's other side. "If you prefer, Ensign, I'll make it an
order."
Harry crept over to Tom's side. The older man had curled
into a tight fetal ball, hands protectively over his head. Harry
gently shook Tom's shoulder. "Hey, Tom, it's o.k., wake up, it's
just a dream."
"No, Daddy, please don't, I'll be good, I promise!" Tom
mumbled, indistinctly. His thrashing grew more violent.
"Tom, Tom, wake up! It's o.k., it's o.k., buddy. Wake up."
Harry gave a particularly insistent shake, and Tom bolted upright,
his eyes looking around in panicked alarm. Harry backed off
slightly. "It's o.k., Tom. You were having a nightmare.
Everything's o.k."
Tom stared wildly around. Shit. He'd fallen asleep, and look
what happened. What a fucking surprise. His heart was
pounding. Christ, he could still feel his father's hands on him.
When the fuck was he going to get over this? It had gotten a little
better, for a while, when he'd realized that Voyager was well and
truly stuck in the Delta Quadrant, and that, with any luck, he
wouldn't be home for 75 years. It *was* getting better, easier to
sleep. And then he'd gotten thrown down the Chute, and that
brought back a whole other bunch of awful memories, and
everything started all over again. Even now, months later, it was
getting worse, not better. He put his head down in his hands and
concentrated on taking deep, measured breaths.
"Are you o.k., Lieutenant?" Chakotay, sounding concerned,
looking for all the world like the concerned father figure Tom had
never had. Tom's stomach lurched, and plummeted. What
another fucking surprise. He got up, unsteadily, and stumbled his
way to a nearby grove of trees where he could at least be sick in
some privacy.
He stayed there for a few minutes afterwards, needing the
time to compose himself somewhat, then slowly walked back to
camp, trying not to gag at the taste of vomit in his mouth. He
needed some water desperately. As he moved back into camp,
Harry stood up silently, and held out his canteen. Wasn't that just
like Harry? A true friend. The truest Tom had ever known. He
rinsed his mouth out with relief. "Thanks." He handed the
canteen back.
"You o.k., Tom?" He could read the concern in Harry's eyes.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Nothing to talk about, Harry. Just a nightmare. I don't even
remember it." God, it's too damn easy to lie to Harry. Just throw
an ounce of sincerity in your voice and he eats it right up. Tom
hated himself a little more. "Sorry I woke you. Why don't you go
back to sleep?" B'Elanna, Chakotay, and Janeway were already
dead to the world.
"You sure you're all right?"
"Yup. I'll be fine. Thanks for the water." Tom pretended to
settle down under the covers, and waited until he heard Harry's
breathing even out again before he got up and moved out of the
camp. That was enough sleep for one night. Might as well go
watch the stars and try to invent some new constellations.
END PART 1
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PART 2
Morning dawned, chill and bright. As the two suns made
their way over the horizon, Tom roused himself from the ground,
grabbed his blanket for use as a towel, and made his way towards
the river. Better wash up early, before everyone else gets up.
Either that or don't wash at all, and after yesterday, not washing
was a particularly unpleasant prospect. He stripped and dove into
the water. It was deep enough for swimming, and the current was
comfortably strong. Tom was out of practice, but he remembered
enough from the private lessons he'd had to be able to hold his
own against the current.
Brrr. Damn, the water was cold. He wasn't going to be able
to stay in too long. Too bad -- he kind of liked the sensation of
floating weightless in the water. Like freefall, but more grounded.
"How's the water, Paris?"
Tom choked and spluttered as he swallowed a mouthful of
water. B'Elanna? Dammit, what was she doing up at this ungodly
hour?
"I've always been an early riser, Lieutenant."
Tom cursed himself as he realized he'd spoken his thoughts
out loud.
B'Elanna stripped down to her tank top and dove in. She
broke for air and shivered. "Gods, it's cold!" She swam a few
strokes in Tom's direction. "What are *you* doing up so early,
Paris? I always figured you for one of those people who rolls out
of bed 10 minutes before you're due on the bridge."
Tom mumbled an indistinct reply. At least she hadn't noticed
he'd never gone back to sleep last night. Carefully keeping his
body submerged in the water, he angled his way towards the bank
of the river. Maybe he could get out and wrapped in the blanket
without B'Elanna noticing.
"Morning!" Harry's cheery voice dashed Tom's hopes of an
easy escape. He looked up to see Harry dive into the water,
followed closely by Janeway and Chakotay. Great. Just great.
"Oh my, it's cold!" Janeway announced as she came up for
air. "But as my father always said, there's nothing like a good
brisk swim in the morning to get the blood going." She gave this
pithy advice quick action, and set off through the water with a few
even strokes.
Tom treaded water as he thought about his options. (1) Stay
in the water until everyone else got out and went back to camp.
Freeze to death. (2) Sneak out of the water when no one was
looking. (3) Get out of the water casually. When questioned, pull
out one of his old standby cover stories. (4) Tell the truth.
Option (4) he threw away immediately. No way in hell.
Option (1) would be fine except for the part about freezing to
death. Tom discarded it. Option (2) he tossed out as extremely
improbable. It would be impossible to escape notice with 4
extremely giddy and cheerful Starfleet officers splashing around
so close to shore. So it looked like it was option (3). Tom sighed.
He hated lying to his friends. He'd tried so hard to turn over a
new leaf since he got on board Voyager, but circumstances seemed
to be conspiring to drag him back down.
Might as get it over with. He swam over to the river bank
and pulled himself out of the water.
"Getting out so soon, Tom?" B'Elanna called as she splashed
some water in his direction. A short pause. "What the hell's
*that*?"
Well, that didn't take too long. Try playing dumb. "What?"
Tom called back as he reached for the blanket.
"Those markings on your back. Some kind of tattoo?"
Now all 4 heads were focused on him. He felt himself
blushing under their steady regard, and began toweling himself
off furiously, carefully keeping his back to the river. Let them
concentrate on this one, and not see the others. "No, it's not a
tattoo. It's just scarring. From the accident." There. Throw in a
reference to Caldik Prime and cross your fingers. Hopefully now
they'd rightly assume (for the wrong reasons) that he didn't want
to talk about it and they'd shut up and leave him alone.
"Couldn't the doctors heal it?" This from Harry.
"They did the best they could, Harry. It looked much worse
before." Tom finished toweling off and quickly got dressed. The
Captain and Chakotay were silent. Thank the gods for small
miracles. "I'm going to go fix us some breakfast. Any requests?"
His voice was cheery, light, business-as-usual. "Leola root
casserole, anyone?"
He was greeted by loud groans and a vicious splash of water
in his direction, which he was able to duck. Tom laughed lightly.
"I'll see you all back at the campsite." He walked off purposely
towards the camp.
A few minutes later, the rest of the crew got out of the water.
B'Elanna toweled off vigorously. "I think Tom was covering up
about those marks on his back. I think it *was* a tattoo, and he's
just ashamed to admit it!"
Harry laughed, but Chakotay grew somber. "It's not a tattoo,
B'Elanna. And it's not scarring from the crash, either. He's
lying."
Janeway was disbelieving. "Lying, Commander? Why on
Earth -- or wherever -- would Tom lie about it?"
"I don't know, Captain. But I recognized those markings.
They're from a Tarkesian laser whip. The scars it leaves are
unique, and easily identifiable, if you know what you're looking
at."
"The Tarkesian laser whip is a torture device, Commander."
Harry's voice was low, slightly incredulous. "They were outlawed
over 50 years ago under Ngomo's fair treatment initiatives."
"Tell that to the Cardassians, Ensign. Or the Ferengi. Or the
Likaturi. I was in the Cardassian camps; I've seen the marks
those whips leave, before this. I know what I'm seeing now. Trust
me."
"But Tom was never in any camps." Harry insisted. "He went
straight from the Academy to the Exeter, and then to Caldik
Prime. After the court martial, I think he bummed around Earth
for a while before heading out to join the Maquis."
"I know." Chakotay replied. "He certainly wasn't captured by
the Cardassians in the few weeks he was with us. And I don't for
a minute believe he got those scars in prison." He paused. "I
can't explain it. But those are *definitely* laser whip scars."
"One thing's for sure; Tom doesn't want to talk about it." the
Captain said. "So I suggest we respect his privacy and not bring
the subject up again."
*******
Well, well. Not a word from anyone. Could it possibly be
that they *believed* that ridiculous story? No. They weren't that
stupid, and he wasn't that lucky. So they were just playing dumb.
Fine. He wasn't going to bring it up if they weren't. Tom puttered
around the campsite for the rest of the day. Harry and B'Elanna
went scouting to see if they could find any other fruit for dinner,
anything to save them from Neelix's rations, and the Captain and
Chakotay took a hike up the mountain to see the view. How cozy!
Tom laughed to himself. Apparently the wind patterns in the
upper atmosphere created some breathtaking effects with the sand
in the desert. Yeah, right. As if *everybody* couldn't see what
was going on with those two. Everyone, that is, except the
Commander and Janeway. Two of the most intelligent people
he'd ever met, and they're as blind as two Meldavian cave mice.
Left to his own devices, Tom took it easy. Don't want to get
tuckered out, Tommy boy. No repeats of last night, please.
Maybe, if he could get through this night with no -- incidents --,
the rest of them would figure it was just a one night deal. Please
god, just for once, let something go right!
Harry and B'Elanna returned as the shadows were beginning
to lengthen, laughing and cracking jokes, laden down with
armfuls of fruits and vegetables. "You should have come with us,
Paris," B'Elanna said as she began to lay out her precious cargo.
"We found an entire *grove* of fruit trees. Plus over an acre full
of wild vegetables, all edible! They're good, too! I don't think
even *Neelix* could ruin them."
"Oh yes he could, B'ela. He could use that awful pepper
sauce on them!" Harry laughed. He was almost giddy, Tom
thought. And what was with this "B'ela" business? Something
going on he should know about? Tom felt unaccountably
depressed at the thought. Jealous, he supposed, although he
wasn't sure of whom. Who do you want more, Tommy? Harry or
B'Elanna? As if it matters! You can't risk getting too close to
either of them. Just because they're your friends doesn't mean you
can trust them.
"You o.k., Paris? You look kind of gloomy." Harry
interrupted Tom's increasingly depressing train of thought. His
voice was a little hesitant.
God, he's probably thinking about the damn scars. I'm
doomed. Get a smile on your face, Tommy! "It's your fault,
Harry. I was fine until you mentioned that pepper sauce. Just
thinking about it gives me indigestion."
Janeway and Chakotay showed up a few minutes later.
They'd harvested a tuber that looked suspiciously like leola root,
but tasted more like horseradish. Tom took on the unofficial role
of chef and shooed everyone away from the cooking area. "No
one can disturb the master while he's creating." he said loftily.
Creating. Hmm. What's to create with? Starfleet rations? Uggh.
Neelix's rations? Double uggh. Maybe he could mix and match.
If he'd had a pot, he could mix up a great veggie stew, but cooking
pots were not standard Starfleet emergency equipment. Oh well.
Wait! Inspiration hit and Tom jogged back to the shuttle.
Yeah, this'll work. He snagged a few crash helmets and made his
way back to camp. At least he had some mixing pots. He should
be able to serve in them, too. They might even hold up over the
fire, if they weren't held too close to the flames.
Tom hummed happily to himself while he poked around the
fire. B'Elanna and Harry were telling each other dirty jokes, to
which Janeway and Chakotay were pretending not to listen.
Something caught in the back of Tom's mind, some memory.
This reminded him of something. A family camping trip? His
mother cooking over an open fire.
He remembered, vaguely, one of the last vacations they'd
taken before his mother died. He'd been 6, and the family had
gone to Lake George. That must be it. They'd gone camping, just
the three of them. It had been fun. Things were better before
Mom died. Before Dad got so out of control.
He shooed his mind away from that train of thought, before it
got too unpleasant, and placed his concentration on the task at
hand. Let's see what we can do with this!
45 minutes later, he announced grandly. "Dinner is served."
"Mmmm, smells good!" B'Elanna said. "I'm starving. What's
to eat?"
"Vegetable stew a la Paris." he replied with a grin. "Made
from our family's secret Irish recipe, handed down from one
generation to the next for hundreds of years."
"I'm almost afraid to ask what's in it, Lieutenant.
Considering we're nowhere near Ireland." Chakotay said. Then
he took a taste, and leaned back, a funny expression on his face.
Tom looked at him anxiously. He hadn't cooked for a while,
and these really weren't ideal circumstances. "Is it o.k.?" No
answer. "Commander?"
Chakotay still didn't answer. He took another, tentative
mouthful. Harry, B'Elanna, and Janeway watched him cautiously,
spoons poised over the makeshift bowls. "Well?" they said, all at
once.
"It's ... good." Chakotay exclaimed, sounding nothing if not
astonished. He took another mouthful. "*Very* good."
Oh, for god's sake. The man could be very aggravating.
Janeway was the next to risk it. "Delicious, Tom." she said,
delightedly, as she dug heartily into the bowl.
Encouraged, Harry took a taste. "Wow!" He didn't speak
again until he'd finished the whole portion, and then he only
spoke long enough to ask for seconds.
"Where'd *you* learn to cook?" B'Elanna asked, in-between
mouthfuls.
"My dad wasn't around much when I was growing up." Tom
figured he could talk a little bit about his childhood without
setting off a panic attack. Just keep it light. He continued, "After
my mom died, he'd be gone for a couple of months at a time. I
had to fend for myself a lot; I watched televid broadcasts until all
hours of the night. There was this one cooking show aimed at
kids." He shrugged. "I'd record it each week, and keep playing it
until I figured out how to make the whole meal." Tom paused to
take a mouthful of stew. It really *was* good. "I don't know; I
guess eventually I just learned how to mix spices and ingredients
and stuff, 'til I could do it without thinking about it. Sometimes
I'd even cook for the house staff..."
He stopped, embarrassed. Boy, it wasn't like him to run on
like that. And mentioning the household help! Like Chakotay
and Janeway didn't already think he was just a spoiled admiral's
brat. He didn't really need to give them any more ammunition,
did he? At least no one's saying anything. Guess they're too busy
eating. Looks like they're really enjoying it, too. Tom felt a
ridiculous surge of pleasure.
Gods, you're pathetic, Tommy. You need constant praise,
don't you? Always have to be the center of attention, always have
to be told how good you are ... wait a minute. That's Dad talking.
Shut up, asshole.
Tom shook himself mentally and looked guiltily around. As
usual, no one had noticed anything. Thankfully, he'd kept his
mouth shut this time. He wondered if everyone else had this sort
of internal dialog constantly running through their heads
Sometimes it made it difficult as hell to think.
Harry and B'Elanna, not so hungry now, were nonetheless
picking at the remains of the stew. Sitting closely together, they
were discussing modifications to the warp engine plasma flow
control routines. The Captain and Chakotay were discussing an
upcoming wedding between two members of the astrogation
department. Boy, everybody's just pairing off, aren't they? Look
at Harry and "B'ela". If they were sitting any closer they'd be in
each other's lap.
When B'Elanna and Harry's conversation gravitated over to
the recent problems with the navigational controls, Tom was able
to join them and offered some wild solutions that got progressively
more and more farfetched as the night went on. Janeway and
Chakotay joined in, offering some ridiculous ideas of their own.
Eventually, after voting down the suggestion that everyone on the
ship should lose 50 lbs to lighten the ship's mass, (and thus enable
the nacelles to respond more quickly to helm controls), they went
to bed.
Tom was absolutely determined not to fall asleep. All he had
to do was lie in bed until everyone else was asleep. Then he could
get up and walk around, or do whatever it took to stay awake.
The wind rustled through the long grass, making it sound like
whispers around the fire. It was very peaceful. He was almost
going to miss it when they got back to Voyager tomorrow. But it
was too quiet here, it made him nervous. He liked to have a lot of
people around; it made him feel safe; a lot of people and a lot of
noise...
*******
"Hey, you! Yeah, you. I ain't seen you around before. You
must be the new guy. What's your name?"
"Tom Paris."
"Izzat right? They told me it wuz you, but I didn't believe
'em." The tall man sized him up. "Shit, you don't look like an
admiral's brat."
Tom had no idea how to respond to that, so he just stayed
silent under the other man's intense regard.
"C'mere, blondie. I want to get a better look at you."
"I don't want any trouble," Tom began.
"Trouble? Who said anything about trouble? What, those
other guys tell you stories 'bout me, try to scare you? I'm not
gonna hurt you. Just come here for a minute." When Tom didn't
move, the big man got an annoyed look on his face. "I don't like
being ignored, pretty boy."
Pretty boy. Blondie. Blue-eyes. Sweetie, even. Tom wasn't
sure what was going on. He'd only been here 2 days, but it
seemed like everybody already had a cutsie nickname for him. It
made him nervous for some reason he couldn't exactly put his
finger on. There was just something about the way these guys
*looked* at him. Like he was a steak and they hadn't eaten in a
month.
Tom hadn't moved from his relatively secure position by the
sink. The bigger man shifted ominously. "You're getting me
pissed off, 'Fleeter. What, I'm such a lowlife you won't even talk
to me? You think you're so much better than me 'coz your
Daddy's a big shot admiral?"
"No."
"Damn right. You'd better stop acting like some high and
mighty a-ris-to-crat, blondie, 'coz in here you're no better than
anyone else."
"I never said I was -"
"You don't have to say it, Paris. It's written all over you. You
think you don't belong here. Oh, I get it. You're going to tell me
you're innocent now, right?"
"No." He sighed. "No, I'm not. Look, I don't want any
trouble. I just want to go back to my cell and go to sleep. Can I
leave now?"
"You're not going anywhere 'til I say you can."
This whole scenario was very familiar. The guy had the same
look on his face that Dad used to get right before he started
beating the shit out of him. Dammit, he wasn't in the mood for
this! Tom looked around the bathroom. No way out except past
the big gorilla at the door. Maybe he could maneuver around him
and sneak out, get back to the safety of the central corridor.
"What's happening here, Kristoff?" Another big man at the
door. Kristoff gave him an indecipherable look then let him in
the bathroom.
"Nothing, Mickey. Paris and I were just having a little talk."
Mickey (shit, he's even *bigger* than this Kristoff asshole)
said, "Paris? You're the Maquis fuck-up, right?" He looked Tom
up and down. "I saw you all over the newsvids after that first
accident, when you got court martialed. The newsies couldn't get
enough of you. Kept saying how it was such a shame, you know,
the kid from a good family gone bad. You're whole fucking
family's 'Fleet, right? Admirals and captains out your ass. They
must of gone nuts, you joining the Maquis and all."
"Yeah, well, most of my family wasn't talking to me anymore,
so I don't really know what they thought about it." Tom braced
himself against the sink. This new guy was obviously smarter
than Kristoff, but he looked meaner, and he had the same
predatory look in his eye.
"I saw an interview with your old man after you were
captured. Said he was finished with you; as far as he was
concerned, you weren't his son anymore. Said you'd always been
a fuck-up, not in those words, exactly, but that's what he meant.
Is it true? You always been a fuck-up, Paris?"
"I guess so." Gods, he didn't want to be here, having this
conversation. It wasn't bad enough he was in prison -- he was
going to have to put up with this shit every day? Fucking
wonderful.
Two more men entered the bathroom. It was suddenly getting
very crowded. "Hey, you guys having a party in here?"
"Maybe." Mickey answered slowly, eyeing Tom with a look
that gave him the chills. "This here is Tom Paris. He's a little bit
of a celebrity. He just got here; maybe we'll have a little party to
celebrate his arrival."
"Uh, look, I'm about finished in here, so if you fellows don't
mind, I'll just go back to my cell and -"
"Not so fast, pretty boy." Kristoff placed himself directly in
Tom's path. "It wouldn't be much of a party without the guest of
honor." He reached out and grabbed Tom by the shoulders. Tom
faintly heard Mickey telling one of the others to lock the door.
Shit. What the fuck was this? All *four* of them were going
to beat on him? Fuck. Well, he could handle it. At least they
wouldn't have any of Dad's little toys. But he wasn't going down
without a fight; he wasn't going to let them think he was an easy
target. So he fought, as hard and dirty as he knew how. The
other men were surprised. Betcha didn't think a 'Fleet brat knew
*those* moves, did you, assholes?
Eventually he couldn't fight any more. He lay crumpled on
the floor, aching but silent. It wasn't so bad. Shit, he could hold
out against a lot worse than this kind of crap. But then one of the
other men approached him. Not done yet? Jeez, even Dad
would've stopped by now. Who is it, anyway? Kristoff, no, maybe
that Harrison fellow. What -- -- -- what the hell is he doing? Oh
fuck he is *not* going to -- -- oh shit! God, no, this is not
happening; this can't be happening; it's a Federation prison; it's
not supposed to happen here; this is *not* happening; oh shit; no,
god it hurts!
Tom tried fighting, weakly, but the other men held him down
and laughed. Please no god this can't be happening; fuck it; I'll
kill them; gods I'll kill them all, all of them dead dead dead; this
isn't supposed to happen; please no -- -- -- Don't cry Tommy boy,
they want you to cry. They want you to beg. Don't cry...
******
"This is worse than last night!" B'Elanna muttered, sourly.
"How am I supposed to get any sleep with him making all that
noise? Harry, wake him up."
"Why me? I woke him up last night." Harry huddled deeper
into his blankets, trying to ignore Tom's ever more frantic moans
and sobs.
"Because you're his best friend, Ensign. I'm sure he'd like to
see a friendly face after a dream like the one he's having."
Chakotay's voice was ever so slightly amused.
"Chakotay's right, Harry." Janeway added. "Besides, we all
outrank you. Wake him up so we can get some sleep."
"Fine. But I won't forget this." Prophetic words, he thought
seconds later as he found himself pinned to the ground, Tom's
hands at his throat.
"Tom," he managed to gasp out, struggling to break the
pilot's hold. Tom's eyes were focused on him, but he didn't really
seem to see him. Tom's hands tightened around Harry's throat,
and Harry started to choke.
Chakotay was at his side in an instant. "Paris, what the hell
are you doing?" He shook Tom, hard, to get his attention, and
regretted it. Tom turned around, blue eyes blazing bright with
hatred.
"Don't you fucking touch me, asshole!" His fists were moving
even as he spoke, and Chakotay was down on the ground, blood
running from his nose and a pain in his side that spoke of bruised
kidneys. Tom turned his attention back to Harry instantly. "I
didn't forget about you, fuckhead." He backhanded Harry across
the face and threw him to the ground.
Harry was in shock. He couldn't even recognize his friend.
Tom's face was hard, cold, like a statue cut in stone. His voice
was low and throaty, absolutely devoid of any emotion other than
pure hate. And his eyes, gods, his eyes were so cold. As Tom
pinned him to the ground with one arm and pulled the other arm
back, hand curling into a fist, Harry came to the sudden,
unsettling conclusion that he was fighting for his life, and losing.
"Lieutenant!" Captain Janeway said, firmly and loudly, at
Tom's side. "Stop this immediately, Lieutenant. That is an
order!" Her voice was commanding and would brook no
disobediance.
Tom turned to Janeway, confused, one hand still at Harry's
throat, the other still curled into a fist. His eyes widened as he
looked at her. "Captain?" His hold on Harry eased up slightly as
his gaze slid around to Chakotay on the ground, B'Elanna at his
side helping him sit up. Suddenly his head whipped around and
he looked down at Harry, who could see light dawning slowly in
his eyes. Long seconds passed. Finally, "Harry?" Tom's hands
released, convulsively, and he moved off him in one quick, jerky
movement. "Harry? Oh shit!" His voice was anguished. "I'm
sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't believe I hit you, I would have killed
you! Fuck, I'm so sorry, Harry."
Harry didn't say a word. He just massaged his throat and
stared at Tom.
"What happened, Lieutenant?" Janeway asked gently.
Tom was pacing like a caged animal, arms wrapped tightly
around himself. He didn't answer Janeway. He just murmured
over and over "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry".
"Maybe if you talked about it, Tom," Chakotay said softly,
feeling better now that B'Elanna had given him some water and
gotten him to his feet. "Maybe we could help you." He placed his
hand on Tom's shoulder in a gesture of friendship.
Tom shrugged it off, violently, and whirled around. He
grabbed Chakotay by the shoulders and shook him. "If you ever
fucking touch me again I'll rip your hand off and feed it to you for
breakfast." His eyes were dark, almost feral; his voice was raspy.
"Paris!" B'Elanna said sharply. "Snap out of it!"
Tom came to himself, again, and with a sharp gasp released
Chakotay's arms. He dropped to the ground and wrapped his
arms around his knees. "God, I'm so fucked. I'm just so fucking
fucked up. Please don't touch me, Commander. I can't... it's too
much, at night, it's too fucking much and I can't control it. Please
don't touch me anymore." His stomach was churning violently.
He tried to calm down, to control it, but it was impossible with
everybody staring at him.
Finally, he got to his feet. Another battle he was going to
lose, but he'd be damned if he was going to be sick in front of
them. "I need to -- fresh air, I need some air." Janeway was
looking at him worriedly, but nodded her head and stood aside to
let him pass. Tom made it back to the same group of trees, before
being thoroughly and completely sick. Deja vu all over again, he
though, wearily, as he collapsed against a tree trunk. Can't take
too much more of this. He stayed there, silent and unmoving,
until the sun broke over the eastern mountains.
Today, with any luck, they'd be going home. Yeah? And
then what, Tommy boy?
END PART 2
----------------------------------
PART 3
"What's he doing now?" Janeway asked.
"He's still sitting there. As far as I can tell, he hasn't moved
for the past four hours. I don't think he even cleaned himself up
after he threw up." Harry had just returned from an hour long
vigil.
"Did he see you?"
"I don't think so. He's just staring at the ground."
"Maybe we should talk to him." B'Elanna suggested
tentatively.
"You can try, B'ela, but I wouldn't risk getting too close."
Harry said sourly, rubbing his aching neck. The medkit's dermal
regenerator had removed all the bruises, but his muscles were still
sore. At least he was better off than Chakotay, who winced every
time he moved.
"Ensign, you're not made at him, are you?" Chaktoay asked,
curiously.
"No, of course not. He obviously wasn't in control of his own
actions. He didn't even know who I was at first. And, gods, I
almost clubbed him to death when we were in the Akritirian
prison, so I guess he owes me one." He tried out a laugh, but no
one was particularly amused. "But..." Harry paused, unsure of
how to phrase his jumbled thoughts. "It's just, the way he was
talking, you know, all the curses, and the threats, and -- -- and the
look on his face. So much hate. I've never seen anyone look like
that before. It's like he wasn't even Tom. And there's the scar
that he lied about. I don't understand why he would do that. He's
my best friend; I thought I was his. But now...now I can't help
wondering if I really know him at all. I can't help wondering
what he's hiding."
"It's not your fault, Harry." Janeway said quietly, and Harry
looked at her, startled that she could read the guilt he felt. Why
hadn't he *known*? Janeway continued, "He hides himself away,
and only lets you see what he wants you to see. It must run in the
family; his father was like that, too. You never felt like you got to
know the man behind the mask."
B'Elanna spoke up. "Tom doesn't like his father, you know.
Not at all." Janeway looked at her inquisitively, and B'Elanna
fidgeted under the Captain's steady gaze. "He hasn't said it in so
many words, but the things he tells me, they're never good. Every
time you mention Admiral Paris or the Al Batani, Captain, Tom's
body tenses up, and his whole face shuts down."
"She's right, Captain." Harry added. "Just from the way Tom
talks about his father, I always get the feeling that their
relationship was very uneasy."
"I never noticed." Janeway replied. "I wish I had. I always
assumed they had gotten along. Gene never said that anything
was wrong between the two of them. Although..." Her look
become abstracted and distant.
"What is it, Captain?" Chakotay asked. "Did the Admiral tell
you something about Tom? He must have been a teenager when
you served under his father. I can imagine he was a difficult
child." His voice was light and teasing.
"I don't know, Commander. That's just it. I'm trying to
remember, but I can't think of -- I mean, I can't recall -- I don't
think I knew Gene *had* a son until the court martial. He never
even mentioned him. The mission was 4 months, Chakotay, and I
don't think Gene mentioned Tom once."
She fell silent.
The sun was rising higher in the sky. B'Elanna picked up a
tricorder and started scanning the horizon. "Hey, looks like those
news broadcasts were right. The ionic storm is clearing up. We
should be able to get out of here in a couple of hours."
As if on cue, Janeway's communicator beeped. "Tuvok to
away team."
"Go ahead." Janeway replied.
"Are you all right, Captain?"
"We're fine, Tuvok. We're all fine."
"I am relieved to hear it. Our sensors were unable to
penetrate the disturbances in the upper atmosphere. I believe
Lieutenant Carey will be able to modify the transporter to cut
through the remaining ionic interference, if necessary. Do you
require any immediate assistance?"
"Thank you, Tuvok, but no. Our readings indicate that the
last of the storm will clear up in an hour or two, and it will take us
at least that long to load up the shuttle. Is everything o.k. up
there?"
An almost indistinguishable pause. "Yes, Captain."
"What's wrong, Tuvok?"
Vulcans didn't sigh, but Janeway could swear she heard
Tuvok release a long exasperated breath. "Nothing serious,
Captain. However, Mr. Neelix's latest culinary endeavor has
produced some unexpected digestive side effects in approximately
1/4 of the crew. It was rather - - - unpleasant. Luckily, the
Doctor has been able to treat the symptoms. Things are returning
to normal. It is fortunate we were not required to travel for the
past few days."
Janeway suppressed a chuckle. "I understand. Keep things
under control, Tuvok. We'll see you in a few hours. Janeway
out."
Chakotay, B'Elanna and Harry were already starting to pack
up the equipment. Chakotay straightened up with a barely audible
groan. "One of us should really go get Tom."
B'Elanna volunteered. "I'll do it. He didn't try to beat *my*
brains out last night. Maybe he'll talk to me."
"Just watch yourself, B'Elanna." Harry warned.
B'Elanna laughed. "Harry, the day Tom Paris takes me in a
fight is the day I renounce my Klingon genes entirely."
*****
B'Elanna found Tom in the exact same position she'd seen
him when she finished her watch almost 3 hours before. They'd
all taken turns watching him. A waste of time, it seemed, since
he hadn't so much as moved a muscle.
She approached quietly, directly from the front.
"Hey Paris, you o.k.?"
There was no answer for a few seconds, then Tom raised his
head wearily. He squinted against the morning glare. "Mornin',
Lieutenant."
B'Elanna squatted down next to him. "Tom, you haven't
moved for four hours. C'mon, let's get you down to the river and
cleaned up. No offense, but you're starting to smell."
Tom caught a taste of hours old vomit in his mouth, and
winced. "Yeah, I guess I am." He struggled to his feet. "I can
clean myself up without your help, B'Elanna. Why don't you go
back and tell the others that I haven't gone on some wild and
bloody hunt against the local mammals. "
"They know that, Tom." B'Elanna answered, then
immediately wished she hadn't.
"What, have you guys been watching me all night?" He
looked at her for the first time, and she winced inwardly at the
deadened look in his eyes. "Shit. You *were* watching me.
Wanted to make sure I didn't do something else crazy?"
"We don't think you're crazy."
"Good. 'Cause I'm not." He started walking away from her,
down towards the river.
"Paris, wait up. I'll come with you." she called, running after
him.
"I don't need your help, B'Elanna. I'm fine, really. It was just
a nightmare, for Chrissakes."
"It must have been a doozy. You nearly throttled Harry."
Tom stared at her angrily for a second, before his face relaxed
into something more peaceful. No, not peaceful. Resigned. "I
know. I can't believe it. Is he o.k.?"
"He's fine. So is Chakotay. A little worse for wear, the two
of them, but they'll be good as new once the Doctor fixes them
up." She waited for a response but got none. "How about you,
Paris? You going to be o.k.?"
"I already told you, I'm fine, B'Elanna. And I'll be better once
we get off this fucking planet and back to the ship."
"What about the nightmares?"
"What about 'em?"
"Do you remember them?"
"No."
"Bullshit."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. I don't believe you. You're lying again."
"What's *that* supposed to mean?" Tom was getting really
angry now. He stopped walking and turned to face her.
"We know you were lying about the scar, Tom. It's not from
the accident. It's from a Tarkesian laser whip."
For a minute, Tom's face took on an analytical look, and
B'Elanna could swear he was processing the information, storing it
somewhere for later retrieval. Then it was gone, and the angry
expression returned. "You're wrong, *B'ela*. I told you, it's from
the accident. Now will you please go away and leave me alone!"
He spun around on his heel and stomped off towards the river.
B'Elanna considered following him, but decided against it. He'd
come back to the campsite when he was ready.
As she walked back to the others, B'Elanna pondered the last
few minutes. She couldn't tell if she'd hurt or helped, but at least
Tom was talking. And he'd called her B'ela, which was Harry's
newest nickname for her, and she didn't know yet whether she
hated it or loved it. The way Tom had said it, though, it was
almost like an insult. She shook her head, frustrated. There was
one man she would *never* figure out.
*****
Tom finished washing, and straightened up with a sigh.
What the hell had that been about? Gods, she'd just come to make
sure he was o.k. and he'd practically chewed her head off. You're
not going to win any friends that way, Tommy. A little bell went
off in the back of his mind, a memory tickled at his consciousness
for a second before he found it. Oh yeah, that conversation he'd
had with Neelix right before he left the ship to join the Talaxian
convoy. What had he said to him? "Deep down, it must be that I
don't want any friends, or a family, or a home." At the time, he'd
assumed he was just throwing himself into a role, saying what
needed to be said to make his departure believable, but now...he
wasn't so sure anymore. Maybe it was true.
Boy, that's a depressing thought. He shook it away and
started off back to camp. What the hell am I going to say to
them? Sorry, I had a little psychotic break, but don't worry, it
won't happen again. Oh, and sorry for threatening to rip your
hand off, Chakotay. You know me, always kidding around. Shit.
There wasn't anything to say. Well, fuck it, then; he wasn't going
to say anything.
He straightened his spine, threw back his shoulders, and held
his head high in his best little soldier manner, and walked into the
camp. The other officers looked at him warily. There was
nothing for it but to dive right in. "Harry, let me help you with
those blankets." He walked over and started folding the blankets
into neat bundles. Harry looked at him cautiously, but didn't say
anything. "Hey, Harry, I'm really sorry about last night. I guess I
was a little freaked out. You woke me up but it was like I was still
in the dream, you know? I didn't realize it was you." He finished
the first blanket and moved on, business-like, to the second. "Are
you o.k.?"
"I'm fine, Tom." Harry finally answered. "Are *you* o.k.?"
"Never better." Tom lied. "Just a little stiff from sleeping
against a tree. I guess I fell asleep out there."
"I guess so." Harry said. He seemed a little uncomfortable.
Not surprising, Tom thought, seeing as how I tried to strangle him
last night. "Tom, about that dream, do you remember it at all?"
Poker face, Tommy boy. "Nope. Not at all."
"Really? Because I always remember my dreams if I wake up
in the middle of them."
"That's interesting, Harry; I never remember mine." He
moved away from Harry and the conversation, and went over to
Chakotay. "Commander, I want to apologize for what I said to
you last night, and for hitting you."
"It's not necessary, Lieutenant."
"But I feel awful about it-"
"I said it's not necessary, Lieutenant. You weren't yourself."
Oh, how wrong you are, Commander. I was more myself last
night than you've ever seen me. I was exactly myself, the me I
used to be, the me I want to stop being, the me I'm so afraid of.
And I do need to apologize because somewhere there's a part of
me that knew exactly who you were last night, and enjoyed hitting
you and hurting you. Doing to you what I could never do to my
father.
But all he said was, "I'm sorry anyway, Chakotay."
The Captain walked over. "Tom, the storm is clearing up.
Once we finish packing up our gear, we should be clear to leave.
Do you feel up to piloting the shuttle?"
"Of course, Captain."
"Because if you don't, Commander Chakotay will be able to
get us back to Voyager. You could rest."
Tom didn't like the way this conversation was going. Not at
all. "Really, Captain. I'm fine. I'm great."
"Are you sure?" She looked concerned.
Shit. She's thinking of pulling me off duty. "I'm positive,
Captain. What happened last night, it was just a nightmare. It
won't affect my performance." He tried to keep his voice steady
and confident, and held her gaze without flinching. He waited for
an eternity until the searching expression in her eyes softened into
one of acceptance.
"All right, then, Lieutenant. You can pilot the shuttle. But if
at any time you feel you can't handle it, tell me immediately. I
don't want any stupid heroics."
"Yes, ma'am." Tom said with a mock salute and a cocky grin.
Janeway rolled her eyes and walked away.
END PART 3
----------------------------------
PART 4
The next few weeks were difficult for Tom. The nightmares
were getting worse, in intensity and frequency. Not just three or
four times a week anymore, they were coming predictably every
night, sometimes twice a night if he was really stressed. The
strain was getting to him. He was losing weight, although so far
he'd been able to hide it. More worrying, his response time at the
conn, although still well below Starfleet benchmarks, was starting
to falter.
Late one evening, he found himself in the hydroponics bay,
helping Kes replant some seedlings.
"How are you feeling, Tom?" she asked casually, her
concentration seemingly focused on the tiny plant in front of her.
"Fine." he said. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. You seem a little depressed lately. This is the
third night this week you've spent here. Neelix is getting jealous
again."
"What? He is? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to monopolize your
time."
"Stop apologizing, Tom. I was kidding. Neelix knows that
you and I are just friends. But seriously, no one ever sees you at
Sandrine's or the resort any more. People are starting to notice."
"Notice what?" Tom was getting panicked. His fingers
played nervously with the soil. Gods, could they tell he wasn't
sleeping? Did Janeway know?
"That you're always alone, Tom. You're on edge all the time.
You never spend any time with Harry or B'Elanna. You never go
out at night."
"You're imagining things. I see Harry and B'Elanna every
day. And I'm not always alone, I'm here with you now, aren't I?
I'm just a little bored with Sandrine's and the resort, that's all."
"That's all?" Kes's tone was disbelieving.
"That's all. Really." Tom started wiping the dirt off his
hands. "Look, I've got an early shift tomorrow, so I think I'm
going to get some sleep." He started towards the door.
"Tom," Kes called to his back.
"Yeah?" He turned around halfway.
"You know I'm always willing to listen if you need to talk
about anything."
Tom stiffened for a moment, then forced his muscles to relax,
and willed a smile to his face. "Thanks, Kes. I appreciate the
offer. But there's nothing to talk about. G'night."
Out in the hall, he leaned against the wall for support. Shit,
who put her up to that? Captain Janeway? Talk, right.
Counseling is more like it. They think I'm nuts, that I need help.
Well, too fucking bad. I've been to counseling before; it didn't do
shit. Talking never solves anything; just makes you tell people
things they have no business knowing about...
*****
"That's it. I'm leaving."
"Please don't. I'm sorry I upset you. Sit down, Tom."
"I don't want to talk about this any more."
"I know. But you'll have to, don't you see that? They'll force
you to keep coming here until you talk about it."
Tom sighed, and paced around the small room restlessly. "I
know that. Doesn't mean I have to like it."
"Please sit down."
Tom looked at the counselor for a minute before complying.
It was so hard to think straight; the anti-depressants they'd put
him on made him feel like half the neural pathways in his brain
were short-circuiting. It took twice as long to complete a thought,
and sometimes he couldn't manage it at all. He didn't even need
the drugs -- he wasn't depressed. He was just so tired. Every day
was more of the same shit and he couldn't take it anymore. He
had just wanted it to be over.
"What are you thinking about, Tom?"
"You're the Betazoid, you tell me."
"I can't read your mind."
"Why not? I thought you guys were telepathic."
"We are, but it's not a perfect science. Anyway, you seem to
have unusually strong telepathic shielding for a human. What
does make it through is muddled by the drugs."
"Good. I'm glad they're fucking up someone else besides me."
"Are they bothering you?"
"I just can't ... think. They're messing up my brain."
"Really? Modern anti-depressants shouldn't have that effect
on you."
"I guess they use the cheap stuff on convicts."
"Hmmm. That's interesting. You may be right. But we've
wandered from the point."
"And what *is* the point, exactly?"
"We need to figure out why you tried to hurt yourself."
"Hurt myself? That's a little bit of an understatement."
"Maybe so. If Warden Hollinger hadn't come looking for you,
you'd be dead now."
"I know. I'm never going to forgive him."
"You see, it's comments like that one that make the
authorities insist on further counseling."
"I don't need it. I'm not going to try it again."
"Oh?" The counselor was silent for a moment. "I think you
really mean that."
"I do mean it."
"So what's changed?"
"What do you mean?"
"What's different about your life now? Why are you content
to live it now when you weren't prepared to before?"
"Because I thought it couldn't get any worse. Now I know I
was wrong."
"It's worse now?"
"I thought counselors weren't supposed to be shocked by
anything."
"Sorry. It's just that I don't understand what you're saying."
"I'm saying that I thought I'd hit rock bottom before, but I was
wrong. So if I try it again and fuck it up again, my life will be
even *worse*. I'm not going to risk that."
"Why is it worse now?"
"Because I'm on these fucking drugs that are turning me into
a fucking zombie. Because I have to sit here and talk to you about
my fucked up psyche. And all the same shit is still going on."
"There's no need for profanity."
"It makes me feel better."
"Why?"
"Because it bothers you."
A short silence. "You're being extremely uncooperative
today, Tom."
"Too fucking bad. I told you I don't want to be here."
"Let's go back for a minute. What's all the ... shit ... that's
going on?"
"What?"
"You just said all the same shit is still going on. What
exactly are you referring to?"
Tom barked a short sarcastic laugh. "Are you as stupid as
you look or are you just pretending?"
"Please, Tom. Try to work with me on this."
"I can't believe you don't know what I'm talking about."
"Assume I don't. Tell me what's happening."
"Fuck you. I don't want to talk about it."
"You're not leaving until you do."
For a minute Tom shivered. He'd heard that comment too
many times. Be a good boy, blondie. Don't fight us, it's pointless.
You know you're not getting out of here until we get what we
want. He gave a short anguished cry and dropped his head in his
hands.
"What is it?"
"Please don't make me say it. I can't...I don't...If I don't say it
it's not as real, don't you understand? If I say it, it's happening, I
have to believe it's real."
"What's real?"
"The things they do to me. The things they make me do to
them."
"What things?"
"Please don't make me say it."
"I won't tell anyone, Tom. You can trust me."
"Bullshit."
"Tom, I promise. I won't tell anyone. This session is strictly
confidential. Tell me what's been happening to you."
"They come for me..." Tom whispered. "They beat me so I
can't fight them. And then they, they --"
"What?"
"They --"
"What do they do, Tom? What do they do to you?"
"They make me touch them." Tom was whispering so softly
the counselor had to lean forward to hear him. Tom's eyes were
dry, but the counselor noted the tremors running through his
body. "They take their clothes off and I have to do whatever they
want, with my hands or ... or with my mouth. And then they force
themselves inside and it hurts so much each time; I try to pretend
I'm somewhere else but it's too hard because it hurts so much.
And then they're done and they laugh and tell me what a good boy
I am and they go away but I know they'll be back. The doctors
don't care, they fix me up but there's no point because the others
just hurt me again anyway. It's worse than with Daddy because
Daddy always had a reason; I'd always fucked up and so I
deserved it, and anyway he never hurt me like *that*, and these
guys don't have a reason they don't even need an excuse, just a
room with a door they can lock."
Merciful gods. The counselor reached a comforting hand
towards Tom, but the younger man jerked away violently and
whispered, "Please don't touch me."
"It's o.k., Tom. This isn't your fault."
"It *is* my fault." He breathed shudderingly. "I should be
able to stop them. It's my fault if I can't stop them."
"No. No, Tom, that's not true. How can you fight off two
men at one time?"
"Four. Or five, sometimes. I try to fight, but I'm not strong
enough, there's too many of them..."
The counselor felt ill. "This is *not* your fault." he said
firmly. "Is that why you tried to -"
"Kill myself? Yes. Because I couldn't face it, the whole rest
of my sentence being like this, every day wondering when it's
going to happen and how bad it will be. I just wanted it to be
over. Can't you understand that?"
The counselor nodded, silently. After a short pause, he asked,
"How long is your sentence, Tom?"
"Five years."
"How long have you been here?"
"6 months."
"With parole, you could be out in two more years."
"I won't get parole. My father will make sure I don't.
Anyway, they want to make an example of me, to prove that 'Fleet
brats don't get special treatment. That's why they threw me into
maximum security." He sighed. "I won't make it."
"You said you weren't going to try to kill yourself again."
"I'm not. But I'll die in here anyway. I'm dying already. A
little more each day."
"This shouldn't be happening. I'll try to help. I'll see if
there's anything I can do."
"Are you new here? Is this your first time counseling
convicts?"
"Yes. Is it that obvious?"
Tom didn't answer; he just shook his head wearily. "You
can't help me. Don't waste your time. I just need to find another
way to survive in here."
*****
Tom came back to himself with a start. Voyager. He was on
Voyager. In the corridor outside the hydroponics bay.
Fragments of memory continued to flash in his mind. 'I just need
to find another way to survive in here.' There wasn't one. Oh,
sure, he'd found a way that kept his body more or less intact, but
his soul had shriveled away slowly and steadily, until there was
nothing left, and he was just a walking shell with a bad attitude
and a worse temper. What was he now? An imaginary construct.
So many lies; he was just one big lie walking around in a Starfleet
uniform that he didn't deserve to be wearing.
He forced himself away from the wall and started walking
towards the turbolift. Someday, he kept swearing to himself,
someday he'd tell Janeway the truth. And if she took away his
commission, if he couldn't pilot Voyager anymore, well, he'd just
have to live with it. Someday he'd tell her. When he was strong
enough.
Back in his quarters, he stripped and threw his uniform in the
'fresher. Shower. He'd take a nice, hot, real water shower, then
read a book and go to bed. He ordered up some loud music so he
wouldn't have to hear his own thoughts, and stepped into the
water. Oh, this was nice. One of the few pleasures he allowed
himself. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and let the hot
water wash over him.
Outside his quarters, Harry and B'Elanna were talking.
"Should we go in?"
"Maybe he's sleeping."
"It's not even 2100 hours, Harry. I guarantee you he's not
asleep. He never goes to bed before midnight."
"Maybe he's not alone."
"Maybe. Computer, identify current occupants of Lieutenant
Paris's quarters."
"Lieutenant Paris is the only current occupant."
"So let's go in, Starfleet."
"But he's not answering his door chime."
"What are you afraid of, Harry? Think you'll find him
strangling his pillow pretending it's you?"
"No. Don't be silly."
"You've been tiptoeing around him ever since we got back
from Helvast III. For god's sake, he's not going to attack you."
She patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Harry, I'll protect
you."
He sighed, and entered the Level I security code. The door
swished open, and loud rock music echoed through the hallway.
B'Elanna stepped into Tom's quarters, closely followed by Harry.
"Tom?" she said, loudly, trying to be heard over the music.
When there was no answer, she disappeared into the
bedroom, emerging seconds later. "He's in the shower." she
explained. "Let's wait."
"I don't think this is such a good idea." Harry said nervously.
"He'll think we're trying to ambush him."
"No, he'll think we're worried about him and that we want to
help him. Face it, he's been hiding out ever since we got back and
I think it's time we found out why. Have you seen him lately? I
mean, really seen him? He looks awful."
"Yeah, I noticed. I meant to talk to him, but I-"
The music stopped suddenly. "What the hell are you two
doing here?"
Harry and B'Elanna turned around to find Tom standing
there, dripping, a towel wrapped around his waist. They stared at
each other for a few seconds, and then Tom came to his senses
with a start and grabbed for a robe. Not fast enough, though.
Harry and B'Elanna had already seen his chest, uncovered, red
scars made vivid by the hot water, flashing like lasers across pale
skin.
"Oh gods, Tom. What happened to you?" B'Elanna was the
first to recover her voice.
"Get out."
"Tom, please..." Harry began hesitantly.
"Get *out*." His voice was cold, hostile.
"We're only trying to help. We're your friends." Harry's
voice was desperate. Oh, he'd known this was a bad idea!
"If you were my friends, you wouldn't sneak into my quarters.
I'm so *stupid*. I can't believe it; I knew I shouldn't, but I let
myself think I could. Fuck, I'm such an idiot. I *knew* I
shouldn't!"
"Shouldn't what?" Now Harry was confused.
"Shouldn't trust you. I let myself believe I could but I should
have known that I couldn't. I let myself believe you were different
but you're not. You're just like them, just like everybody else. Get
out of my quarters."
"Tom, please, we *are* your friends. We weren't trying to
sneak in. We just wanted to talk to you. We want to find out
what's wrong." B'Elanna's voice was soothing, gentle. Harry
hadn't known she could sound like that.
"There's nothing wrong. If there was I wouldn't tell you
anyway." He turned away, angrily. "I'm getting tired of saying
this. Get out." Harry and B'Elanna didn't move. "Don't make me
call security."
"Calm down, Paris." B'Elanna said firmly, trying another
tack. "You're not thinking clearly. You know you can trust us.
You know we're your friends. Tell us what's wrong."
Tom collapsed into a nearby chair. They weren't leaving, and
of course he wouldn't really call security. So he would lose this
battle too. "There's nothing wrong." His voice was unconvincing.
"What are those scars, Tom?" Harry asked softly. "Did you
get them in prison?"
Tom laughed softly to himelf, without humor. "No, Harry.
The scars I got in prison, you can't see."
"Then from where, Tom? Who gave them to you?"
Could he tell them? If he told them, maybe they'd leave him
alone, and after these few most recent months, all he wanted,
wanted desperately, was to be left alone. He could make them
promise not to tell anyone else, especially Janeway. He'd never
told anyone, not even those assholes in New Zealand when they'd
tried so hard to make him tell. But this was Harry and B'Elanna,
and they were his friends so maybe it would be o.k. On the other
hand, if he told them, and they got home, and Dad found out Tom
had told them,he'd kill them all, he'd make them all pay and it
would all be Tom's fault, again. Unfocused thoughts ran in
dizzying counterpoint through his mind at an ever-increasing
tempo. His heart started pounding and his breath came faster and
faster. He dropped his head in his hands as the room started
spinning. Slow, deep breaths, Tommy boy, come on, don't lose it
in front of them.
Tom was having a panic attack. That's what was happening.
Harry had heard about them, but he'd never seen one before.
"Hey, Tom, calm down. You're hyperventilating."
"Tell me something I don't know, Harry." he gasped out.
Shit. This was bad. His pulse was continuing to accelerate and
he was starting to sweat.
"Put your head between your knees, Paris." B'Elanna ordered.
"Harry, go replicate a paper bag. Come on, Tom, breathe with
me, slowly. That's right, one, two, three, four. One, two, three,
four."
Harry handed Tom a bag. "Here, breathe into this."
Fuck it. This was so stupid. He didn't need to do this; he had
medicine he could take for the really bad attacks, but then they'd
know it happened pretty regularly and he didn't think he wanted
them to know that. Tom obediantly breathed into the paper bag
until his breaths started coming more slowly, and he felt his heart
rate slow down.
"Thanks." he said, weakly, sitting up and falling backwards
into the chair.
"Are you all right now?" Harry asked.
"Fine." His fingers played nervous patterns on the arms of
the chair.
"Was it talking about the scars? I'm sorry if I panicked you. I
didn't know..."
"It's o.k., Harry. You couldn't have known." Tom paused,
then took a deep breath. "If I tell you -- about the scars -- you
have to promise me you won't tell anyone. You have to swear it.
Not Chakotay, not the Captain, not *anyone*. No matter what,
you won't tell anyone."
"But why, Tom?" B'Elanna asked.
"Don't ask me why. Just promise me you won't ever tell."
His eyes were pleading. "I don't even know if I can do this. I've
never told anybody. No one knows. The only way I might be able
to -- to do this is if I have your word that you won't tell anyone. I
have to *know*."
"O.k, o.k. I promise. I swear I won't tell anyone." Harry
gripped Tom's hand and looked into his eyes. Tom searched for a
few seconds, then, satisfied, he turned to B'Elanna.
"I promise too, Tom. I'll never tell."
"All right." But he was silent, then, for long minutes,
twisting his hands nervously around the belt to his robe.
Finally, B'Elanna broke the silence. "Tom," she whispered,
holding his hand, "please talk to us. Where did you get the
scars?"
Tom gripped her hand so tightly she knew if she'd been a full
human a bone would have broken. Then he lowered his eyes so
he was looking at the floor and whispered two words, so softly and
so hesitantly, B'Elanna and Harry had to strain to hear them.
"My father." he said. He let go of B'Elanna's hand and
wrapped his arms around himself tightly. "My father did this to
me."
END PART 4
----------------------------------
PART 5
"Your father?" Harry's voice was stunned. "You're saying
your *father* gave you these scars?" Tom nodded mutely. "Does
Captain Janeway know?"
"No!" Harry could hear the panic rising again in Tom's
voice. "No, Harry, you promised! You swore you wouldn't tell
anyone, you promised, Harry!" His eyes were wild, desperate.
"You promised!"
"Shhh, it's o.k. I know I promised. I won't tell anyone.
Relax, Tom." He patted Tom's hand gently.
Tom took a deep breath, and shuddered. He dropped his face
in his hands. "I shouldn't have told you. I've never told anyone. I
shouldn't have told you; he'll find out somehow and we'll all get in
trouble. Something bad's going to happen, I know it. He'll make
something bad happen."
Harry and B'Elanna exchanged worried looks. They didn't
know what to do with the information they'd just been given, but
more, they didn't know what to do with Tom. Finally, B'Elanna
decided the best thing would be to get as many facts as Tom was
willing to share, so she pressed on.
"Why did he do it, Tom?"
Tom still had his face in his hands. His voice was muffled.
"Because I was bad."
"Bad???" B'Elanna couldn't believe she was hearing this.
"Yeah. I was always fucking up, making mistakes, doing bad
things, so he had to punish me. He tried to teach me to be better,
but it didn't work, I was still a fuck-up, I wasn't ever good
enough."
Harry stared at B'Elanna, wide-eyed. She shook her head in
disbelief. "What do you mean, you weren't good enough? What
could you possibly have done to deserve this?"
"You don't understand. It wasn't all at once. It wasn't for one
thing. Each scar, it's for something else, some other time I
screwed up."
"Like what?"
"You know the one on my back? The one you said is from a
Tarkesian laser whip? That was bad, that time. I was running in
the house, and knocked over a Cartegian vase that was on display
in the living room. It shattered."
"And he laser whipped you? For that?"
"I deserved it. That vase was hand-made." he said, willing
them to understand. "It was a gift from the Carteji emperor after
they joined the Federation -- irreplaceable. I shouldn't have been
so careless. He always told me not to run in the house, but I was
stubborn, or stupid, I don't know. I didn't listen." He was staring
at the ceiling, remembering. He shook himself to come back to
the present, and said speculatively, "I looked up Tarkesian whips
in the ship's database. I think you're right; the scars they leave
look the same as mine. You know those things have been illegal
for over 50 years? Dad always managed to find stuff like that,
though. Every time he came back from a mission, he'd have
something new... When he really had to teach me a lesson, when
just beating me wasn't enough, he'd pull them out."
Harry finally managed to get his voice back. "Jesus, Tom!
No one knows about this? How -- how is that possible?"
"I dunno. I've never thought about it. I guess he had the
doctors on his payroll, or something. Whenever I had to go to the
hospital, it was always at this private place in San Francisco,
where they all knew my dad."
"How many times did you have to go to the hospital?"
B'Elanna whispered. Gods, she did not want to be in this room
anymore, hearing this, but it had been her idea to come, and now
Tom had really started talking and she felt she had to listen.
"Not too often. Maybe once or twice a year. You know, just
when I'd *really* fuck up, and Dad would get absolutely out of
control. Like that time I quit the swim team without telling him,
when he found out he went ballistic. Shattered half my face with
a baseball bat. It took 3 operations to get my skull back in one
piece. " Tom was staring out the viewport, so he missed the
horrified expressions on his two friends' faces. "I got to stay in
the hospital for a couple of weeks that time. They were nice to me
there. They never yelled at me, and they let me have ice cream
after every meal. And then, when I got home, Dad was gone
again for a couple of months. So it worked out o.k."
Worked out o.k.? Jesus! Harry thought he might be sick. All
this time he'd thought, well, who knows what he'd thought, really?
It didn't matter. What worried him more was what he might have
said. Gods, like that second day on Voyager, in this mess hall,
when they were first talking about Caldik Prime, when Tom was
talking about getting caught on his first mission for the Maquis.
What had Harry said to Tom? Oh yeah, "It must have been
especially tough for you, being the son of an admiral." And Tom
had gotten the most peculiar look on his face, as if Harry didn't
understand a thing about it, and why was he wasting his time
trying to explain it to him? Harry thought, despairingly, I really
didn't know a thing about it. How many other comments had
there been? How many times had people said thoughtless things
about silver spoons and silver platters?
B'Elanna had taken hold of Tom's hand and was stroking it
gently. He turned to her, and his expression was wide-eyed and
innocent. He looked all of about 10 years old. "Now that I've told
you, now that you know, you still have to keep your promise. You
can't tell anyone. Ever. You can't ever tell them." It was almost
like a child's chant, the way Tom was saying it.
"O.k." Harry said, quietly. "O.k., Tom."
"Promise me. Promise me you won't ever tell." Tom knew
he'd already made them promise, but he didn't think he could
emphasize it enough. He knew he shouldn't have told, he knew he
shouldn't have done it, but it was too late now, so the best he could
do was make sure that no one else would find out. "Promise me."
"I promise, Tom. You can trust me." Harry said, quietly.
Tom looked at him, briefly, then looked away. He couldn't
trust Harry, couldn't trust anybody, but he could at least trust in
Harry's word on this.
"Tom," B'Elanna said, hesitantly. "I don't understand. You
say no one else knows about the scars -"
"I guess that's not exactly true. Some other people know
about them, but they don't know where they came from. Those
guys aren't here, anyway, so they don't count.."
"But -" B'Elanna was determined not to be sidetracked. "But
Tom, what about the women?"
"What women?" Tom looked confused.
Now B'Elanna was embarassed. She was going to have to
spell this out? "You know, like Megan Delaney, and Sue
Nicolletti...I mean, when you were, uhhh, you know, together,
wouldn't they have seen the scars?" She thought she was going to
die of embarassment.
"Together?"
B'Elanna could hear the quotation marks around the word.
"You know what I mean. The marks are pretty noticeable, Tom.
Surely *someone* would have noticed. If you weren't...errr,
dressed."
Tom was silent for a few seconds. Then, "I don't know why
I'm telling you this, 'cept I guess if I'm sharing secrets there's no
real reason to hold it back. B'Elanna, I've never been 'together'
with Megan or Sue. Or anybody else on this ship, for that
matter."
Even Harry was surprised. The things you find out about
people! Here he'd thought he'd known this man.
"I don't understand. You flirt with every woman on the
ship!" B'Elanna was thinking to herself, I always thought you
were such a pig! And she thought, I was so jealous!
"Protective coloration, B'Elanna. Helps me blend in with the
woodwork. No one really wants to go home with a flirt, so it's
pretty safe. To be honest, if Sue or Megan ever *did* want to, I
wouldn't --" He broke off abruptly, and shook his head.
"What?" Harry was dying to know the end to that aborted
sentence.
"Nothing."
"You can't leave us hanging like that, Paris." B'Elanna fumed.
"If Megan ever wanted to, you wouldn't what?"
"Well, shit. How can I say this? If I ever woke up with a
woman in my bed, I wouldn't know what the fuck to do."
Embarassed pause. "No pun intended."
"What?" Harry squeaked. Then he coughed, embarassed.
"What are you saying? That you've never..." Tom nodded
morosely. "Tom, I get my advice on women from you and you've
never even..."
"No! I've never even. Jeez, Harry, what do you want, a
written confession?" He looked away, then looked back at Harry,
speculatively. "Of course, if I woke up with a man in my bed, I'd
know *exactly* what to do." Harry got a weird feeling in the pit
of his stomach, and tore his eyes away from Tom.
"Are you trying to tell us you're attracted to *men*, Paris?"
B'Elanna asked, thinking, well, dammit, now I'll never get him.
"No. Not particularly. I mean, not to men more than to
women." Tom didn't seem the least bit embarassed anymore. He
was leaning back in his chair, hands resting casually on his
stomach, his eyes staring blindly at the ceiling.
"Then what-?" O.k., B'Elanna thought, all hope is not lost.
"Just that I've had experience with men, and not with
women."
"If you're not particularly attracted to men, then why would
you...?" Harry was thinking, I don't think I know this man at all.
Not at all.
Tom looked away again. For a minute he thought he
wouldn't answer; this conversation had really gone quite far
enough, but then he thought, what the hell, might as well go for
broke. So, finally, "You learn all sorts of interesting things in
prison, Harry. Most of which you don't want to learn. But you
don't have a choice, because the other prisoners, they want to
teach you." He leaned forward, and placed one hand on Harry's
thigh. His voice dropped half an octave and became almost
husky. "F'rinstance, Harry, given five minutes, I could have you
down on your knees, begging and screaming. With pleasure."
Harry pulled away, startled. His stomach was doing nervous
flip flops and he had the distinctly unnerving feeling that he was
starting to get aroused. He shifted uncomfortably.
Tom laughed, humorlessly, and slid back in his chair. He
had a grin on his face, but his eyes were empty. "Relax, Harry,
I'm not gonna go down on you here. Or anywhere else. You're
perfectly safe with me; when Janeway got me out of prison, I
swore off sex completely."
"Sw-swore off sex?" B'Elanna stuttered. Tom Paris? The
walking hormone? Impossible.
"Yeah. I'm not doing that ever again. Done it enough for
three lifetimes. Besides, there's something kind of tidy about it,
all my sexual experiences neatly wrapped up into a year and a half
in prison."
"All of them?" Harry said sadly, catching the implication.
Tom gazed at him, briefly. "All of them. First and last." He
forced a parody of a smile on his face. "Don't worry about it,
Harry. It wasn't so bad. I got used to it, after a while. I just --
don't want to do it anymore."
Silence fell for a few minutes. Tom suddenly realized what
he'd just told his friends, what secrets he'd shared. Shit. You
idiot. What the fuck were you thinking, telling them this stuff?
They don't want to hear about your shitty life. They'll probably
never want to talk to you again, afraid you'll tell them more horror
stories. They're probably sitting there trying to figure out a way to
get out of here and be polite about it.
Tom figured if he had an ounce of decency left in him he
should let Harry and B'Elanna off the hook, so he yawned,
conspicuously. "Hey, guys, I'm pretty tired. I think I'm going to
go to bed."
Harry and B'Elanna eyed him suspiciously. "You o.k., Paris?"
B'Elanna queried, rising from the couch.
"Yup. Fine." He yawned again. "Just tired." Look at them,
practically running to the door. I knew it.
"O.k., well, then, good night. We'll see you in the morning?"
"Yeah, I'll see you at breakfast." He showed them to the door
and watched it shut behind them with a feeling of relief. Gods,
what *had* he been thinking?
He got into bed with a feeling of impending doom. After this
conversation, he could just imagine the kind of dreams he was
going to have. But he needed to sleep, and he wasn't going to give
in to the dreams. He considered using a sleep aid, but decided
against it. Don't want to become too dependent on them, Tommy
boy. You know what that's like...
*****
Tom walked slowly down the corridor towards his cell. He'd
just been released from the infirmary, but his body still ached. It
wasn't the beatings -- the doctors erased all evidence of that -- as
much as the drugs. The damn stuff was addictive. 'Course,
nobody thought of that before they made him take them twice a
day for 8 weeks. He was off them now, had been off them for two
weeks, and he wasn't having convulsions anymore, he'd finally
stopped throwing up every time he tried to eat, but his body ached
all the time and he got the shakes a couple times a day. He wasn't
sleeping either, just kept lying there in the dark thinking that if he
asked nicely, maybe they'd give him one dose and he'd feel better,
but then it would start over and he was *not* letting them hook
him on something, he'd be in their power forever, but gods, he
wished he didn't ache so much.
Oh, here we are, home sweet home. Enough time to change
into a fresh jumpsuit before dinner. He walked into his cell, and
cursed as he realized he wasn't alone. They'd been waiting for
him.
"Come on, Bert. I just got out of the infirmary." Shit. Not
now, assholes, I'm too tired for this.
"Not my problem, Paris. Wasn't me that put you there." Tom
felt warm breath on his neck an instant before a beefy hand
clamped on his shoulder. He craned his head to take a look.
Fuck. Kristoff the Neanderthal. And his little pack of friends,
always ready to party.
Gordon shut the door to the cell. "Wouldn't be so bad if you
didn't put up such a fight, blondie. Then we wouldn't have to hurt
you so much." He was already fumbling with his pants. Guess
they'd decided to let him go first.
Tom's heart was sinking. If only he didn't ache all the time.
If only they'd leave him alone for a couple of days. If only they
didn't beat the shit out of him every single goddamn time. He felt
a flash of familiarity, and knew exactly where he was going to be
in an hour or so. Curled up on the floor, beaten and bloody,
bruised inside and out.
Gordon reached for him, one hand curled into a fist, ready to
fight. The other men shifted in anticipation.
"Wait." Tom's voice was so low he could barely hear it
himself.
"I ain't in the mood to wait, blondie. Don't make it tougher
on yourself." Familiar patter. They said it every time with no
expectation that Tom would give in.
"O.k."
Gordon paused. "What?"
"O.k." A flash of insight, a sudden decision, and he turned
down a new path. Well, shit, they were gonna fuck him raw
anyway, weren't they? There was no way around it, but it didn't
mean he'd have to end up with the crap beaten out of him also.
No, that was his own choice. Had been his own choice, he
amended, because he wasn't going to do it anymore. He'd told the
counselor he'd find another way to survive in here, and if this was
what it took, so be it. "Whatever you want; I'll do whatever you
want. I just don't want to fight anymore."
Gordon eyed him suspiciously. "You ain't gonna fight us?"
"No." He started unfastening his jumpsuit without being
asked. "Let's just get this over with."
45 minutes later, he cleaned himself up and put on some new
clothing. Still time to make it to dinner, oh joy. Not that he felt
much like eating anymore, but he'd lost a lot of weight in the last
couple of weeks, and he didn't think he could afford to lose any
more. He winced as he stood up from his cot after putting on his
boots. His ribs were bruised. The guys hadn't been exactly gentle,
but hey, he could still walk, and they'd mostly stayed away from
his face, so at least he didn't look like an overused punching bag.
Fuck, this was nothing compared to the usual treatment. For all
he knew, maybe sex was always like this, a little bit rough, a little
out-of-control.
The next time they came for them, he realized that he didn't
have to just lie there and be passive. If he listened to them, if he
figured out what they wanted him to do, they'd enjoy it more,
they'd come faster, and it would be over sooner. Hell, he was a
pilot, wasn't he? At least, he had been. Sex was just like flying a
ship. Observing details, anticipating movements, coaxing
reactions, these were all a pilot's skills. With single-minded
determination, he applied himself to the task. Hand jobs, blow
jobs, straight sex, it didn't matter; he was equally focused, equally
intense. If he'd studied this hard at the Academy, he figured, he'd
have graduated first in his class.
Word began to get out. He didn't get beaten any more, thanks
to whatever gods watched over him in this godforsaken place.
Q'atakh, a huge Surellian who didn't know any better, was the last
guy who tried that. Put Tom in the infirmary for three days.
Kristoff and Gordon and Mickey beat the shit out of the bastard,
and told him if he so much as layed a finger on Tom again, they'd
cut off his dick and serve it up at lunch. How 'bout that, Tom
mused, when he heard about the incident. He had protection now.
And every once in a while when he said, no, I'm too tired tonight,
they actually left him alone.
Tom started to take a perverse pride in the whole set-up.
Here were these guys, murders, rapists, terrorists, and general
assholes, and he could have them begging and pleading with him
to let them come. If only he didn't hate it so much, didn't hate all
of them so much, it would have been kind of fun. But he did hate
it, loathed it with an intensity that seared his soul, and deep down
inside, every time one of them showed up at his door, a part of
him was screaming. He ignored it, shoved the anger even deeper
down where it couldn't hurt him, and did what he had to do.
It was one of the guards who finally got to him. "Hey, Paris,"
Peterson called. "Come here for a minute."
Tom looked up from the sewage hose valve he was working
on, to find Peterson beckoning him over to the guard house. Shit.
What now? He walked over, resignedly. "What'd I do this time?"
"Nothing. Nothing. Come inside for a minute." Peterson
looked nervous, Tom thought. He went in to the small room.
Peterson shut the door behind him. Uh oh.
"What's the problem, sir?" Tom asked subserviently. Always
had to suck up to the guards if you didn't want to get transferred to
latrine duty, or cesspit maintenance.
"I already told you, nothing. It's just that I heard some of the
other prisoners talking about you."
"Oh really? What did they say?" Tom leaned against the
wall, wearing his usual look of bored indifference.
Peterson was fidgeting, fingering his billy club. Finally, he
took a deep breath. "They said you give the best blow jobs this
side of Saturn. Make 'em come so hard they see stars. And I
thought -"
"You thought what?" Tom kept his face impassive, but he
was thinking, no way in hell, fuckhead, I have to take it from
them but I do *not* have to take it from you.
Peterson plowed on. "It's just that -- a position opened up on
the day shift. I could get it for you. No more working through the
middle of the night. I'll do it, if you'll give me, well, you know."
Tom thought sardonically, boy when I said I had to suck up to
the guards I wasn't kidding! I don't want to do this. I do not want
to do this. Yet a part of his mind was saying, insistently, day
shift, day shift, day shift. He hadn't been here long enough to
qualify, it might take another couple of years, and what if Peterson
could really get him transferred?
"If I find out you're fucking with me, *sir*, you're dead. I just
want you to know that before you start making promises you can't
keep." He stood over the guard threateningly. Tom was about 4
inches taller than Peterson, and had recently started working out
in the weight room with Gordon. He meant it, every word. If
Peterson was lying just to get sex, he'd kill him without thinking
twice.
"No, no. No bullshit, Paris. Gianelli's getting out next week.
I can get you his slot. If you're good enough." Tom looked at him
for a minute before dropping to his knees. And that was that.
Peterson screamed so loudly Tom was glad the walls to the shed
were soundproofed. The second time, Peterson passed out, and
Tom was worried for a few minutes until the guard came around.
Then he thought, wow, none of them ever did *that* before. Must
have been the bit with the tongue. He filed the maneuver away for
future reference.
When he went back to his cell early in the morning, he
looked in the mirror and couldn't even recognize himself. Who
are you? he thought bleakly at the image. What have you
become? The answer came to him, one word which he'd been
trying so hard not to use, but he couldn't help it now because he'd
really and truly sold himself, not just given himself away so they
wouldn't beat him up; this had been an exchange of services, pure
and simple. Whore. That's all you are, all you'll ever be good for
again. He smashed his fist into the mirror over and over until it
broke. Red sticky blood dripped to the floor but he didn't care,
just cradled his wounded hand and crept into bed, too dirty, too
tainted to bother cleaning up. Don't cry, Tommy boy, they want
you to cry; but it didn't work tonight, it was too much to take.
Tom never cried, hadn't cried since his mother died, but the tears
ran down his face now and mingled with the blood on his shirt.
You're a whore, Tommy, that's what you are, a whore and you're
dead now, really dead, there's nothing left of you, nothing left to
do but to sell yourself over and over and over...
*****
Tom sat up in bed, gasping. The sick sense of self-disgust
filled him, made him feel filthy and contaminated. Shit. What
was that, the third time tonight? A new record. That's what I get
for spilling my guts to Harry and B'Elanna. What an idiot. His
stomach did a familiar lurch. Uh oh. He catapulted out of bed
and made it into the bathroom just in the nick of time. He
couldn't imagine what he was throwing up; it felt like everything
he'd eaten for the last month had come up after the previous two
dreams, but he was retching anyway. Afterwards, he dragged
himself wearily into the shower. He couldn't wash enough,
couldn't ever really get clean on the inside where all the dirt was,
but he craved the illusion that the water was somehow cleansing
his soul.
"Computer, what's the time?" he asked as he stepped out of 20
minutes later.
"The time is 0417" the pleasant female voice answered
calmly.
The middle of the night. He didn't need to be on duty until
0800, but he wasn't even going to bother trying to go back to
sleep. Probably just have another nightmare. This was way, way
out of control. Work out. That's what he was going to do. He'd
go work out and release some of the stress he was feeling. Then
maybe he could sleep.
He made it to the gym without running into anyone; not
surprising, seeing what time it was. Three hours later, he wasn't
any more relaxed, but he was pretty exhausted, and hadn't thought
about prison or his father for a couple of hours. Wasn't that a nice
change of pace? There was just enough time to go back to his
quarters, take another shower and change, and grab some
breakfast before his duty shift began.
0740. Tom walked into the mess hall. Harry and B'Elanna
were already there, eating something purple and deeply involved
in a serious conversation. Full recollection of the previous night
came back, accompanied by the rushing warmth of a full-scale
blush. Shit. What had he been thinking? No way was he going
to be able to sit down with them and *eat*. No fucking way. He
had no idea how he'd avoid it; dammit, he should have skipped
breakfast entirely, but he was so hungry, nothing was staying
down lately, he'd had to get some food, and now there he was, in
the mess hall, trapped.
A hand fell on his shoulder and a pair of merry, high-pitched
voices said in unison, "Morning, Paris." Tom turned around with
relief to see Megan and Jenny Delaney standing next to him,
holding matching trays.
"Good morning, ladies. How are things in Stellar
Cartography lately?"
"Oh, you know, same old, same old. Tom, we've got a favor
to ask you." Megan's voice dropped down to low levels. She
whispered, "We need your help."
"Uh oh. I'm in trouble now." He grinned lasciviously at
them.
"No, seriously. We need your help with a holoprogram."
"Oh." He pretended to be disappointed. "All right. Let's eat
while we discuss it." How 'bout that? A perfect excuse. He could
eat and avoid Harry and B'Elanna at the same time! He sank into
a seat gratefully and took a bite of food. Repressing his first
involuntary shudder, he paused to consider it. Not too bad,
actually. Almost edible. Given how hungry he was, it would be
fine.
A few tables away, Harry and B'Elanna looked at each other.
"Do you think he's avoiding us?"
"What, you think he fixed it up with Meg and Jenny in
advance? Come on , Starfleet, even Paris isn't that conniving."
"I guess not. I wish he was sitting with us, though. We need
to talk." Harry hadn't slept a wink the night before. His mind had
been filled with awful images of Tom, as a child, being beaten by
that monster of a father, then with images of Tom in prison,
learning about sex in the worst way possible, thinking *that* was
what sex was all about. Other images, even more disturbing, of
himself down on his knees, begging and screaming, and -- whoa,
there, Harry. Get your mind out of the gutter! He felt a flush rise,
and thanked the gods for his dark complexion.
B'Elanna was similarly lost in thought. She hadn't slept
either, she'd seen the same awful pictures of Tom being beaten by
his father, being molested in prison. It was the other thoughts
that had kept her awake though, thoughts of taking Tom and
comforting him, and teaching him what sex could be, if you did it
right... Gods, stop it! she commanded herself. Poor Harry's
sitting right across the table from you and you're just ignoring
him. Sweet Harry. She'd used to think of him as sweet, innocent
Harry, but that had been before he'd been thrown in the Akritirian
prison. Ever since he'd been back, he'd been different, and the
few wild nights they'd had together had shown her a side of him
she'd never expected to see. Wild and sensual and exciting. She
smiled at him, and reached across the table to take his hand.
The contact brought Harry back to the present, and he
squeezed B'Elanna's hand back lightly. He felt obscurely guilty. It
wasn't as if they had a real relationship, or anything like one, but
still, they'd slept together enough times so that you could say they
had *something*, and yet here he was thinking about Tom. He
tried to hide it. "Come on, B'ela, we'll be late."
Across the room, Tom noted the linked hands and forced his
eyes back to Meg and Jenny. Stop it, Paris. You have no right to
be jealous. They look cute together. Why would they want
anyone like you, anyway, either one of them?
Harry sent B'Elanna off to Engineering with a smile, and
stopped over at Tom's table. "Let's go, Tom. Our shift starts in 5
minutes."
"Just a minute, Harry." Tom stood up, but leaned down to
talk to Meg and Jenny. "So tonight, after dinner? I'll meet you in
Holodeck 1 at 1900 hours."
"Sounds great, Tom." Jenny said, with a smile.
"Try not to get into too much trouble before then, sweetie."
Meg added, giving him a friendly pat on the butt.
"Hey, hey, hands off the merchandise!" he retorted cheerfully,
and left them with a wave and a grin.
When Harry and Tom were alone in the turbolift, Harry tried
to start a conversation, but all Tom would say was, "If you don't
mind, Harry, I don't want to talk about it. Can we just forget it?"
But of course Harry couldn't forget it, and he made up his mind to
get Tom alone and have a serious conversation.
END PART 5
----------------------------------
Part 6
Two weeks later, Harry was no closer to his goal of having
that serious conversation. He barely saw Tom anymore. At
breakfast, Tom would rush in and grab some toast with just
enough time to eat it on the way to the bridge. He'd sit with Harry
and B'Elanna at lunch and dinner, if Megan and Jenny Delaney
weren't there, but he always managed to drag someone else along
to sit at the table with them. He never showed up at Sandrine's
anymore, or the resort, and when he wasn't with Meg and Jenny,
in the holodeck, he was with Kes in the hydroponics bay, or was
working out alone in the gym. Harry had once tried to corner him
there, but Tom had gotten annoyed and said, "I can't talk and
work out at the same time, Harry, and I really need the exercise"
and he'd walked away to the weight machines.
B'Elanna was just as frustrated. They compared notes one
evening over dinner. Tom was huddled with the Delaneys at a
table in the corner. Rumor had it that they were having a wild
and passionate three-way affair, but Harry and B'Elanna knew that
it couldn't possibly be true. There was also a betting pool about
what kind of holoprogram the three could be working on.
B'Elanna couldn't begin to imagine, but with Meg and Jenny's
imagination, and Tom's superior holoprogramming skills, it was
bound to be a doozy.
"I was wrong, Harry."
Harry looked up in surprise. This was a rare event!
"He *is* avoiding us. He hasn't said two words to me that
weren't related to the helm controls since that night."
"I know. I get the feeling that when he sees me coming, he
looks for a way out of the room."
"Me too." B'Elanna was quiet for a minute. "He looks worse,
you know. Have you seen the circles under his eyes lately? And
he's losing weight -- his uniform keeps getting looser and looser."
"I know. I just don't know what we can do about it."
"We can talk to the Captain."
"No we can't. We promised."
"I know." She sighed. "It's so frustrating. It's like we're
losing him and there's nothing we can do to stop it."
"Losing him to what? We never did find out what was really
wrong. He just told us that other stuff to get us off his back."
"I don't know, Harry. But we'd better find out soon."
*****
"Mr. Paris."
"Yes, Captain?"
She walked casually over to the conn, and placed her hand on
his shoulder. "I hear you and the Delaneys are having an
unveiling of your new holoprogram tonight."
"You heard right, Captain." Tom grinned. Over a month of
working around the clock had paid off. This one was a beauty.
Even better than Sandrine's, because it wasn't from memory, and
it was much trickier to program something from scratch. "Are
you coming? It'll be a blast."
"Of course I'm coming. What's the dress code?"
Tom turned away from the conn for a second to glance at
Janeway. "Do you think I don't know what you're doing, Captain?
I know you're in the betting pool. You're trying to worm some
information out of me."
"Mr. Paris. I'm shocked. You know I would never condone
anything as non-regulation as a betting pool."
"Uh huh." Tom was obviously unconvinced. "You're placing
your bets through Samantha Wildman. She *never* bets in these
things." He grinned, again, and Janeway thought how good it was
to see him smile. He looked so haggard lately. Ever since they
got back from that planet, in fact, he'd been deteriorating. "You'll
get nothing from me, Captain. The dress code is comfortably
casual. Don't wear anything too -- restricting."
"If you say so, Lieutenant." Hmm, she thought as she walked
away. Nothing too restricting. Dammit, I knew I should have put
more rations down on the beach volleyball program!
*****
Just about 2100 hours. The crowd outside Holodeck 1 was
getting rowdy. Bets were still flying; Chell of all people seemed
to be running the pool. With Tom involved in the programming,
and so by default out of the betting, they'd had to improvise. The
doors to the Holodeck were locked. B'Elanna and Carey had spent
the last 10 minutes trying to unlock them, but whatever the hell
security program Paris had running, it seemed to be impenetrable.
"This is impossible!" B'Elanna fumed. "The control routines for
the warp drive aren't this well protected!"
"Maybe we should get Paris to take a look at them." Carey
suggested, only half joking. It was frustrating to be locked out of
the holodeck by a mere *pilot*. What did he know about security
lockouts? Apparently, too much. Carey kicked the door angrily.
As if on cue, the doors swished open. Everybody fell back a
bit, in anticipation, then swarmed in, to find ... a Terran dance
club. Flashing lasers, pounding music, and a large dance floor
beckoned. A bar off to the side looked to be stocked with real
alcohol, bootleg moonshine that the Engineering staff was
constantly brewing in their off hours. Tables of various sizes were
scattered around the dance floor, and a few holocharacters were
already dancing.
Janeway and Chakotay waited until most of the crowd pushed
their way into the holodeck, then followed. She looked around,
pleased and surprised.
Tom maneuvered out from a crowd of flurrying hands and
bodies and crossed the room to find them. "So, what do you
think?" He gestured around the room. "Pretty wild huh? One
thing this ship was missing was a place for a good party." He
looked around with fatherly pride. Well-deserved, too, Janeway
thought. You'd never guess you were in a holoprogram. You
couldn't see any of the usual giveaways.
Janeway looked back at Tom. He looked better than he had in
weeks. The sapphire blue of his shirt brought out the color of his
eyes, and the cut of the shoulders accentuated the fact that he'd
been working out. The pants, though, well, she could see how far
the belt went around his waist, and wondered how much weight
he'd lost.
Megan Delaney came running up to them and impulsively
threw her hands around his body. "It's a hit!" she enthused.
"Tom, you're a genius!" She planted a big, overenthusiastic kiss
on his lips.
"It was your idea, Meg. I just figured out how to code it." He
pushed her away gently.
"Oh, you." she complained, falsely. "You have no idea how
to take a compliment. Come on, let's do the Arcadian Rumba!"
She pulled Tom away and out on to the dance floor, where she
ordered the computer to play the popular dance tune. It was a
complicated line dance, and Janeway watched with amusement as
Tom tried, unsuccessfully, to teach B'Elanna the moves.
He knew how to dance, she realized. He was really quite
good. Somehow, his dancing reminded her of the way he moved
at the conn -- very fluid, his whole body connected and moving to
the same rhythm.
The song ended, and B'Elanna stomped off the dance floor,
dragging Harry with her. He'd fared little better in the dance, and
had no objections to sitting down. "Ridiculous!" B'Elanna
groused. "Stupid human custom. Dancing in a *line*." Tom
stopped by and handed them both a drink.
"Drink up!" he encouraged. "It'll help loosen you up. Your
problem is that you're too inhibited." He led by example, downing
his drink in one quick gulp.
Harry reflected, at least he's sitting with us. He and B'Elanna
had given up on trying to talk to Tom, and they'd reached an
uneasy settlement. They even ate together, every once in a while,
and as long as the talk didn't turn too serious, Tom would even
stay through the full meal.
"Nice program, Paris." The voice came from behind Tom's
shoulder, and he turned around to see who was speaking.
"Thanks, Sue." he said in some surprise. Susan Nicolletti
didn't talk to him much, despite what the rumors said. She was
wearing a skin tight, very short, electric blue dress with sparkling
blue stockings.
"You're welcome. It's really very nice. Great job with the
strobe lights." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Whose idea was it to put in mirrors on the ceiling?"
"Mine." Tom answered with a grin.
Sue shook her head dramatically. "I should have known.
You're incorrigible."
"You've got me all wro