Author's note: Written for the lovely Crlkseasons as part of the Deck Nine title exchange. As always, many thanks to Sareki and Photogirl 1890 for the beta-reading.

(I can't pull up! Brace for impact!)

(Thomas Eugene Paris, you are hereby relieved of your rank and all the rights and privileges accorded to a Starfleet officer.)

(You get your friends killed and you lie about it, and you think I'd let you step foot in this house again?)

(Let the record show the defendant has been sentenced to eighteen months at the Federation Penal Colony in Auckland, New Zealand.)

"Rise and shine, Mr. Paris."

Tom awoke with a start. He felt a hand on his shoulder (Kazon. Seska. Phaser fire. The spy - it's Michael Jonas!) and instinctually threw a right hook out to defend himself. His fist was caught by a strong hand.

A holographic one, as it turned out. "You're on Voyager, Lieutenant; in Sickbay," the EMH said. (Was that a note of kindness in the hologram's voice? Nah. Couldn't be.) "And while I do frequently find you infuriating," he continued as he released Tom's hand, "it's against the Hippocratic Oath to engage in fisticuffs with my patients."

"Sorry," Tom muttered as he started to push himself up. He didn't get very far before the room started to spin.

"Stay," the Doctor commanded, as if Tom were an errant dog. The hologram pressed a hypospray against the pilot's neck. "This will relieve your vertigo; but you need to lie still. I have a few more scans to run now that you've regained consciousness."

Tom closed his eyes against the dizziness he was still feeling and fought an urge to grip the sides of the biobed. "Jonas?" he asked.

"Dead, I'm told," the Doctor said. Tom could hear the whine of a tricorder wand buzzing around his aching head. "I've not been made aware of the details. I'm essentially a part of the senior staff as the primary, really only, member of the medical team on board. Why the Captain doesn't feel the need to keep me informed…"

Tom tuned out the rest of the Doctor's indignant rant as the worst of his headache and dizziness subsided. He'd made it. This crazy mission hadn't gotten him killed. When he'd left Voyager last week for the Talaxian freighter, he really thought he would never see this ship again. He never could decide if his tendency to survive events most would not was extraordinarily good luck, or extraordinarily bad. (I'm sorry, Tom. The others didn't make it.)

Over two months ago, when he and Janeway had been recovering from The Incident (Not going to think about it. Not going to think about salamander sex with your captain.) she had locked down Sickbay, deactivated the Doctor, and told Tom she needed to ask him something.

"I won't order you to do this, Tom," she'd said once she'd made her proposal, her gaze unwavering.

But she didn't have to, did she? Tom knew what he owed her - the woman that had given him a second chance to fly, a second chance to be a person he could actually look at in the mirror every morning without feeling like he was going to be sick. It was never a question of whether he would do it, not to Tom. He suspected not to Janeway, either. She was not a woman who asked for something unless she was dead certain she would get it.

"Why wouldn't I do it, Captain?" he had drawled, a well-practiced smirk plastered firmly in place. "A sanctioned opportunity to be a pain in Chakotay's ass? Sign me up."

It had been like an old, ill-fitting suit at first. He'd reach the door of his quarters, and have to remind himself to sit back down for five minutes so he'd be late. He'd get as far as picking up his shaver before he'd remember to let himself get a bit scruffy. He'd have to avoid Harry's confused and hurt look when he'd mouth off in response to the younger man asking him if something was bothering him. (I'm sorry, Harry. I want to tell you. I wish I could tell you.)

But it didn't take long at all before it became second nature (again…). Before he didn't have to consciously mess up his hair. Before he'd learned exactly which protocol mistakes most irritated Chakotay in his conn reports. Before he stopped filing the damn conn reports at all. And before he was glad, really, that he didn't need to bother to shave regularly anymore. It was a lot easier to avoid the mirror when you didn't shave.

He'd written letters before he left. For Harry. Neelix and Kes. Chakotay. Janeway. And B'Elanna. (There's so much I want to say. That I can't say.) He'd taken a chance on asking the captain if she would see him once, before he left. Half afraid she'd say no, half afraid she'd say yes.

They had met in the airponic bay, late in the ship's night.

"I'm so grateful, Tom, for what you're doing for Voyager. And I'm proud of you," the captain said, her hands clasping his upper arms. She hadn't touched him in weeks. "Your father-"

(Nonononono. I can't hear that now. Not right now.)

"Captain," he interjected, taking a step back from her. "I know we don't have a lot of time. I just wanted to see you so I could give you this," he said, handing her the PADD on which his letters were stored. "Can you deliver these, if I…" (die a horrible death at the hands of the Kazon? Do you think Seska has taught them the fine art of Cardassian torture yet?) "If I don't make it back?"

He saw her hesitate. She didn't want to take it. Like refusing his request would be some sort of totem against a bad outcome. But Janeway was nothing if not a realist. A true scientist through and through. Wishes and prayers weren't going to get Tom Paris out of this one. "I fully plan on returning these to you in a few days," she said, as she clasped the PADD, her voice stern. (Was that to keep it from wavering?)

"Yes, ma'am," he had said, forcing a smile. (It's OK, Captain. I don't mind doing this. For you. For Voyager.)

And then Thomas Eugene Paris, he of the nine lives more typically attributed to cats, had made it through. Those letters would go unread, deleted as soon as he had the opportunity. (No reason for anyone to read them now. No reason for them to know what I wrote.)

"You'll be fine, Mr. Paris," the Doctor pronounced as he snapped the tricorder shut. "But my recommendation is that you stay overnight for observation. And I'm relieving you of duty for at least the next twenty four hours."

Normally he would argue and complain: "Observe me for what? I won't be able to sleep here! The beds are too hard! The pillows are weirdly shaped!" But he didn't have it in him tonight. (I don't want to be alone. I forgot how to be alone.) "OK," was all he said.

He heard the soft hiss of the doors sliding open. Nearly everyone on Voyager wore the same boots - it was hard to tell who was who just by listening to their footfalls on the standard issue carpet that ran through the halls and rooms. But there was only one half-Klingon that quick, angry step could belong to. B'Elanna's irritable visage soon loomed over his bed.

"Is he going to be OK?" she barked at the Doctor even though she never took her eyes off Tom.

"Just a concussion," Tom answered, sitting up. No room spinning this time, so that was good. (She looks worried. And pissed. But definitely a little worried. Is she worried about me?) "A little nap and I'll be fine."

"I didn't ask you," she snapped at him. (More pissed than worried, then.) "Well?" And now a glare for the EMH. At least she believed in equal opportunity tongue lashings.

"He has a cerebral contusion," the Doctor said with a raised eyebrow at B'Elanna's livid expression. "Rather more serious than a simple concussion, Mr. Paris. But he'll be fully recovered within a day or two."

"Good," B'Elanna said, returning her glare to Tom. "Can we have a minute alone, then?"

Tom sat up the rest of the way. He had a strong suspicion a welcome home hug was not on the schedule. (A boy can dream…) He almost asked the Doctor to stay.

"So it was all bullshit?" she demanded as soon as the hologram was in his office. "Being late, the crap attitude, your improper punctuation? It was all an act?"

Tom swallowed hard. (I was under orders. I had to do it. Didn't I?) "Pretty much," he said, not able to meet her eyes.

"Was it fun for you?" she practically growled. "Did you have a good laugh with Janeway at our expense? At what a good job you were doing pulling one over on your friends?"

"No!" Tom insisted. (Is that what she really thinks of me?)

"Do you have any idea how worried people have been about you?" she asked him, slamming her palms against the biobed. "Kes? Neelix? Harry? My God, Tom. When you left he looked someone had killed his dog. And it turns out it was all part of an elaborate ruse? How do you think that makes us feel?"

(Us?) "The captain didn't want me to tell anyone," Tom explained. "She wouldn't let me-"

"Because we were all under suspicion? Or just all the Maquis?" B'Elanna pressed. "Did she think I might be the spy? Did you think that?"

"B'Elanna, please," he begged. "It wasn't like that. The more people that knew, the more likely the plan would fail. She didn't even tell Chakotay!" (What is the matter with you? Why did you tell her that?)

He could practically see the metaphorical steam coming out of her ears. "Well. It's good to know how sincere Janeway was about that whole 'one crew' bullshit," she said through clenched jaws. "And it's good to know which side you're on, too."

"B'Elanna, wait!" he said to her retreating back. (I'm sorry.) She didn't even slow her pace.

"That went well," the Doctor commented dryly as he approached the biobed. The one Tom wasn't staying in tonight.

He swung his long legs over the side and slid off. "Your scans are done, right?" Tom asked. (I'll get used to it again. I did before, after all. Might as well start tonight.)

"Yes," the Doctor replied, frowning. "But my recommendation is you stay overnight for observation. Traumatic brain injury is nothing to fool around with."

"Recommended," Tom said, bouncing on his heels in his anxiety to get away. "Not ordered."

"No, Mr. Paris," the EMH said quietly. "Not ordered."

"OK, then," Tom said, already moving towards the exit. "Thanks, Doc."

"Ensign Kim is in the mess hall," the computer told him in its dispassionate voice. Would it be better, maybe? If the first time Tom saw him was with other people around? (No. Nothing is going to make it better. He won't want to see you. He trusted you, and you lied to him. You lied again.)

He called for lights when he entered his quarters - his very empty quarters. Hungry, he moved over to the replicator - only to find he'd been stripped of his rations after he left the ship. (I'm sure Chakotay will be just thrilled to reinstate them as soon as he gets a chance.) That's when he noticed the PADD on the table.

He powered it up to find it was the one he'd given Janeway. She'd added a short note.

"I'm very happy that I have to return these to you, Tom. Let me know if you need anything."

It made sense, he supposed, that she'd need to distance herself from him right now. That she'd had the PADD transported to his quarters rather than delivering it herself. Chakotay was probably royally pissed at her, for keeping him in the dark. A lot of the crew was probably pissed - that none of them were above suspicion, yet Tom Paris, ('Fleet washout, ex-convict, betrayer of the Maquis), of all people, could be trusted. Right now it was probably best that she stayed away - for her sake and for his. Prove to everyone that he was a practical choice for the mission, Captain Janeway didn't have favorites, he wasn't anything special to her. (Because you aren't. She picked you because it was believable. And because you owe her. That's all it was.)

He deleted the letters with a few quick taps and tossed the PADD back onto the table. He was about to head to his closet to see if anyone had thrown out his uniforms when the door chime rang.

It was Kes. With a tray.

"You should still be in Sickbay," she said gently. Even when she scolded him she was kind. (Because she's a kind person. Because she's this way with everyone). "I brought you something." She placed the tray on the table and removed the cover. It was soup and a sandwich. Replicated, given the distinct lack of eau de leola root. "I thought you might be hungry. And that you might not be ready for the mess hall yet."

"Thanks," he said, remembering belatedly to smile. (thankyouthankyouthankyou)

"Neelix wanted to come as well," she continued, "but he's busy with the dinner crowd. He does want you on A Briefing with Neelix tomorrow. If you're feeling up to it."

"Sure." He smiled again. It came a little easier this time. "I'll be there with bells on."

"Good," she said, and squeezed his arm gently. "Now eat this and go to bed. You look tired."

Despite never having been to Earth, Kes had managed to coax the replicator into making some of the best tomato soup he'd had in years. He lingered over the bowl, scraping at the sides. Not because he was still hungry, but because the taste, the smell, the mouthfeel - it all reminded him of home. (A home you haven't seen in a long time. A home that was lost to you long before you ever got stuck in the Delta Quadrant.)

The door chime rang again. (Neelix, done with the dinner rush? Kes, wanting to check on me one more time? Chakotay, wanting there to be no witnesses?)

Harry.

"I brought you your stuff," he said with a grin, tossing Tom a duffle bag. "The captain got it from the Talaxians. Good to be back?"

(As if it had been shore leave.)

"Yeah," Tom said. "It is." (Just say it. He's here, he's not yelling at you, and he deserves to hear it. So just say it.) "Harry," he began, haltingly. "I'm sorry. For having to lie to you. For making you worry. If I made you worry."

Harry had made himself at home on his usual spot on the couch, (like good friends do), and looked up at Tom with a confused smile. "You don't have to apologize, Tom. You were under orders. I understand."

"I don't think B'Elanna does," Tom replied with a sigh, now sitting in his usual spot. (Don't move closer to him. That's weird. Don't be weird.) "She seems pretty pissed off about the whole thing."

Harry laughed and shook his head. "Of course she is! She's pissed at Jonas for betraying us. And at Seska all over again. She's pissed at Janeway for keeping secrets and putting you in danger. And you - well, you're the worst of all. You made her worry. B'Elanna does not like to be worried. You're also the only safe and available target. Give her a couple of days. She'll cool off. She's only mad because she cares, you know."

(Because she cares.)

Tom looked at him with new eyes. Funny that he used to think he needed to take Harry under his wing, show him the ropes. That he had thought Harry was the one that had so much to learn. "When did you get so insightful?" the pilot asked with a yawn.

"I don't plan on being Green Ensign Kim forever, hotshot," Harry said, and slapped Tom's knee as he rose. "You look beat, and Kes made me promise not to stay too long. Breakfast at 0700 in the mess?"

"Of course," Tom said. "It's Tuesday, isn't it?" (What day is it?) "I mean, is it? I'm not really sure. It's been kind of a long week."

Harry grinned at him. "Yes, tomorrow is Tuesday. See you then." He paused in the open doorway. "And Tom? I'm glad you're back. And I mean I'm glad you're back. Not that other guy. He was kind of a dick."

(I don't need anyone to choose my friends for me.)

"Thanks, Harry," Tom said from his couch. (Dear God, Paris, are you going to tear up over that? What the hell is the matter with you?) "I… Just thanks."

It took several minutes before Tom could coax his tired and aching body off the couch. It wouldn't do to fall asleep sitting up - he'd be crippled by morning, and the last thing he needed was a round of lectures on not following medical advice and orthopedically appropriate locations for sleep. Besides, he should really unpack the bag Harry had brought him. It would feel good to have his things again, to put everything where it belonged.

It felt good to be back. (To be home.)

The End

A/N: One last thing - if you are annoyed with Janeway here for not checking on Tom after he got back, please see Chapter Two from my story "Never Look a Gift Talaxian in the Mouth." That scene takes place directly after this story ends.