Author's note: For the talented Photogirl1890. The prompt I got was, "Tom gives B'Elanna a driving lesson on the holodeck (as mentioned in Someone to Watch Over Me) – in a '69 Mustang or any other 20th/21st century road vehicle."
Many thanks to Sareki02 for being the best beta reader a girl could ask for. As the sharp-eyed PG didn't proofread this one for me, I am sure there are typos - they are all my fault.
"So, this is a Mustang, huh?"
B'Elanna eyed the gleaming red car from where she lurked in the doorway of the holographic garage, keeping her hands firmly tucked within her armpits. She hadn't been serious about the damn driving lessons. Riding around with Tom behind the wheel was fine - it was kind of fun, really. Her bluster over dinner aside, however, piloting anything (much less a vehicle powered by centuries-old tech) did not come naturally. But she sure as hell wasn't admitting her reservations to Tom.
"Nah, it's not the Mustang," Tom answered her with a sigh. "Thanks to Harry's atrocious driving, I have to replace the clutch."
"Well, it's not the Cam-." She caught herself when she saw Tom's smirk. Jackass. "The Ca-mare-oh."
"No. This one's special. This is a 1967 Pontiac Firebird convertible. It's got a 400 cubic inch V8 engine, 325 horsepower, and a four-speed Muncie M20 transmission."
B'Elanna moved into the garage, blinking as she adjusted to the change in light. None of the stats he'd rattled off meant a thing to her. She poked at the black vinyl roof. "Why fabric? That doesn't seem very safe. Did people used to wear helmets? What if it flipped over?
Tom rolled his eyes and moved to open the passenger side door for her. "No, they did not used to wear helmets. Just because it's four hundred-year-old technology does not mean it's inherently dangerous. Hop in." When B'Elanna didn't move to enter the car, Tom grinned at her. "I'm sensing a little reluctance here, Lieutenant. You're not trying to get out of driving, are you?"
B'Elanna settled into the passenger seat and arranged her features into a disapproving frown as Tom came around from the other side and got in behind the steering wheel. "Of course not. But how am I supposed to learn anything from this side of the car?"
He started the engine and backed them out of the garage. "Trust me, you don't want to start with going in reverse. I'm just going to pull it out for you. You'll get your chance."
Once they were out in the driveway, Tom gave the dashboard a firm pat. "So this little beauty is what I learned to drive in. Wait until you see this." He gestured towards her door. "Roll down the window."
"Who taught you? One of your parents?" She examined the antique window opening mechanism and frowned again. "Is this just a crank? I could motorize it for you - it would be a lot easier."
Tom waved a hand at her. "It's not supposed to be easy, it's supposed to be authentic. And no, neither of my parents would be caught dead inside an automobile. My grandmother taught me."
"Your grandmother, huh? Wasn't she the first Admiral Paris?"
"The third, actually. My dad is the fourth."
"So, Little Tom Paris learns to drive. That sounds like quite a story," she prompted, in a last ditch attempt to distract him from the stupid lesson. An hour of Tom pointing out all the things she was doing wrong was not her idea of a fun time.
"It is," Tom said with a fond smile. "And this," he flipped a switch on the dash, "is why the fabric." The black vinyl roof retracted and folded itself into the rear of the car. B'Elanna squinted at the bright sun now shining on them. Tom gave her a pair of cat's eye sunglasses and an eager grin. "Ready to give driving a whirl? I bet you'll be better at it than Harry."
B'Elanna took the sunglasses with a smile and shake of her head, annoyed yet touched by how well he knew her - a chance to lord something over Harry did hold appeal. "Let's go, Paris."
=/\=
"Well? Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"
Tom had plenty of things to say for himself. He could say, for example, that he'd made varsity on his school's parrises squares team - almost unheard of for a freshman. He could mention his Terran History essay on World War Three that won third place in their district. He could discuss the works of Jhumpa Lahiri at length. Too bad none of this was what his father wanted to hear.
"Nothing, sir." Tom kept his spine straight and his eyes locked on the antique map that was mounted behind the desk in Owen's home office.
"Nothing," Owen repeated before he read off the PADD in his hand. "B minus in Basic Astrophysics. B in Particle Physics. C plus in Multivariable Calculus." He slammed the PADD he carried onto his desk with a crack. "C plus! How do you expect to get into the Academy with these grades, Thomas? You have to work harder than this!"
Tom swallowed hard and glanced at his mother, who'd been sitting silently on the corner of the desk. Her brow was furrowed but she gave him a sympathetic smile. "Did you have trouble understanding the material, darling? We could look into a tutor, if you think that would help."
He wasn't sure which was worse - that his father thought he was lazy, or that his mother thought he was an idiot. Tom himself wondered if he wasn't a little of both. But the main issue, he knew, was that he was no longer sure he cared if he got into the Academy or not.
Why does it keep stalling?
Ease off the clutch, don't jerk your foot off like the pedal's on fire. You've got to find the catch point.
Yes, I understand the concept, but why does it have to be so finicky? Couldn't they have just automated it?
They did automate it. But manual's a lot more fun. You just need to get a feel for it. It takes some patience, is all.
What are you trying to say, Paris?
I'm not answering that for fear of incriminating myself.
Well, answer this then. Why didn't you ever just tell him? Your father, I mean. That you didn't want to join Starfleet.
It wasn't that simple.
Why not?
Because it got all mixed up. I did want to join, at one point. A lot. When I was little - my dad was my hero. But then, something changed. I didn't know where what he wanted for me stopped and what I wanted started. And my dad never gave me any space to figure it out.
"I don't need a tutor," Tom told his mother. "I just… need to manage my time differently. I'll do better next year, I promise."
"Yes, you will," his father said. "I've made sure of that."
That couldn't be good. "Dad?"
Owen came around to the front of the desk and handed Tom a PADD. "Your mother and I have discussed how we can help you focus. I considered making you drop parrises squares-"
Tom threw a panicked look at his mother. Give up his spot on the most coveted sports team in his school? He'd be a laughing stock! It would be social suicide! His mother shook her head slightly and he let his shoulders relax as his father continued.
"-but your mother pointed out that the level of discipline your coach expects is a positive. So I came up with another option. Usually this program is for students that have at least finished their third year of high school, but I've pulled some strings. You'll start on Monday."
Tom looked at the PADD his father had handed him. "The Starfleet Academy Secondary School Program: This six week course offers secondary school students a dynamic learning experience with specific training in various physical, mental, and academic disciplines as preparation for the demanding Starfleet Academy Entrance Exam." Tom looked up at both his parents in turn, his mouth hanging open. "Six weeks? But… what about your mission to Algol IV? Did it get cancelled?" The Al-Batani was leaving space dock in three days, and Julia would be on board as well, as a consultant. Given the peaceful nature of the mission, Owen had gotten permission for Tom to come along, too.
One look at his mother's face and Tom's stomach sank. "Your mission is still on," he said to his father. "It's just me that's not going."
OK, try to shift into second now.
Got it.
The clutch, B'Elanna! Use the clutch!
Oops.
Try not to break my car on your first lesson, OK?
I think you're being a little overdramatic. It's just a holoprogram.
A holoprogram that I've invested a lot of time and care into. Try again - with the clutch in.
There! See? I can do it.
I think I left my stomach back there, but sure, you're doing great.
Ha, ha. Back to your story - you wanted to spend time with your father?
I told you - when I was younger, he was like my hero. We used to spend a lot of time together, when he was planetside. But then my school work got harder, and my grades slipped, and things got tense.
So why were you so upset about not spending the summer with him?
It sounds stupid now.
What does?
I thought it would be different between us, you know? If we were away from Earth, and school, and Starfleet.
You were going to be on a starship.
I told you it was stupid. I guess I thought… At home, it was like the Academy cast this shadow over everything I did. Being away from that, on a planet a hundred light years away - I thought maybe we could reconnect.
Did you try telling him that?
What was the point? The decision had already been made.
"You'll be staying with your grandmother while your mother and I are away."
"What?" Tom blurted out. "My grandmother? But..."
"You're too young to stay alone all summer," his mother chided him, then added that both of his sisters had summer plans that didn't involve babysitting their kid brother, and Barra, their housekeeper, was spending the summer in Cork with her own family. "Plus, your grandmother could use the company. She's all alone down there."
"Because she's scared everyone off," he muttered, clamping his lips shut when he caught his father's glare.
Admiral Maryam Paris. The woman that had been known as "Mad Dog Maryam" during her piloting days. The woman that had once single-handedly fought a renegade Klingon man in hand to hand combat-
Your grandmother? Single-handedly fought a full-blooded Klingon warrior and won?
I didn't say she won. I said she fought him. Her crewmates had to bail her out and take him down with three phaser rifles on high stun. But she didn't die instantly, which is still a pretty big accomplishment in my mind.
Fair point.
Anyway...
Tom barely knew his grandmother. She had divorced her husband and left her children for a five-year deep space mission when her oldest, Sam, was only ten. Even as an admiral, she'd barely stayed on Earth long enough to visit much with her family. Tom's first conscious memory of meeting her was from only two years ago, at her retirement party.
His father considered Maryam Paris a hero and the epitome of a Starfleet officer. Tom just thought she was terrifying.
"I know you wanted to spend time with him," his mother said as they left Owen's office together, her hand squeezing his biceps gently. "But you'll still have a week of break left when we get back. And if you do well in the program, it would go a long way in showing your father that Starfleet is important to you. That's all he wants, darling."
Except what if I decide it isn't important to me? Tom wondered silently. What will he think of me then?
B'Elanna, that turn coming up is pretty sharp.
I've got it.
I think you should slow down.
It's fine, Tom.
B'Elanna!
…
Well, that's what the safeties are for.
OK, put it in reverse and get back on the road. Slowly this time.
Stop fussing and get on with your story. I thought it was about your grandmother.
It is. I'm getting there. Shift gears, B'Elanna! You're still in reverse!
Right, sorry. I've got it.
Two days later, he was standing on the flagstones in front of his grandmother's house in Monterey, bag in hand and waiting for her to let him in. He hit the buzzer a third time, leaning in heavily.
The door flew open. "For God's sake," his grandmother snapped. "I'm eighty-six years old! Do you expect me to run to the door like a dog the second you call?"
Tom took a step back. "No, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."
Maryam moved away from the doorway, silently gesturing towards the expansive main living area of her midcentury home. She had her slate-colored hair tight in a regulation twist, and her sharp brown eyes kept close watch on her grandson as he carefully wiped his feet before entering. "You can have the first bedroom on the right, across from the bathroom. The kitchen is that way. No replicator, so I hope you know how to cook." With that she walked towards the back of the house, passing into what Tom guessed was her office, and closed the door with a decisive click.
"Nice to see you, too," Tom said to the empty room with a sigh. "This is going to be a great summer."
The first few days he tiptoed around the house in near silence, afraid of incurring the retired admiral's infamous wrath. But by day three, he realized, she was either too deaf to hear him or too wrapped up in writing her memoirs to care, and he started to relax. He might see her for a few minutes in the morning, when she was lured from her office by the smell of the coffee he taught himself to brew, then again when he returned from the Academy campus in the early evening, while she was swimming laps in her pool. But all told, she'd said maybe a dozen words to him by the end of the first week.
So I was at the Academy all day, drowning in math and theoretical physics, and sitting alone in her house all night with nothing to do but homework.
Doesn't sound like Tom Paris' idea of a great summer.
Not hardly. But then one night my friend Zan sends me a message. His aunt owned a holosuite complex, and there was a new novel that had come in. The waiting list was weeks long, but he'd gotten us a block of time for the next night.
Did your grandmother give you a hard time about it?
Nope.
Really? She sounds like she was kind of a hard ass. She didn't say anything?
Not a thing - I didn't tell her I was going.
Tom glanced back and forth between his PADD with Zan's invitation and the closed door of his grandmother's office. Like the old crank even remembers I'm here, he thought as he typed his reply in the affirmative. Probably won't even notice I'm late.
And maybe she wouldn't have, if Tom had only been two or three hours late like he'd planned. Maybe if Tom and Zan hadn't decided to go to North Beach to see if anyone would serve them (no one would), or if they hadn't gone to find late night dim sum in Chinatown (because who could say no to char siu bao or har gow?), or maybe if Tom hadn't missed the last express train and gotten back to Monterey just after midnight, he would have slipped in unnoticed.
The house was dark when the hover cab pulled up and Tom thought he was in the clear. He crunched as quietly as possible over the gravel walk and tapped in the entrance code. It was only a few short meters to his room - if he was super stealthy his grandmother wouldn't hear him enter (he still wasn't convinced she had much hearing left) and Tom could claim he'd been home for hours if she was still awake.
A light clicked on as soon as Tom eased the door shut.
"Hello, Thomas."
Shit.
"Oh," he said, trying to look as innocent as a fifteen-year-old that was caught sneaking in hours late possibly could. "You're still up."
Maryam took a sip of the amber-colored liquid in her glass and crossed one leg neatly over the other. "Your mother is a very forgiving person," she commented, as if not hearing what he'd said. (Seriously, is she deaf or not?) "She's forgiven me for leaving her at four years old to go gallivanting across the quadrant. She's forgiven me for missing a dozen of her birthdays. I think she's even forgiven me for not being at her wedding to your father."
"I'm really-"
"But," she interrupted him, a steely edge to her tone. "I am quite sure she would not forgive me if I allowed something to happen to her youngest child on my watch."
Hang on, hang on. This is your maternal grandmother?
Yeah.
But… Her last name is Paris. I just assumed…
It's the twenty-fourth century, B'Elanna. The Paris line has been primarily matrilineal for over two hundred years.
And your father took it as his last name?
Starfleet is important to him. What would show that more than taking a name that's been associated with Starfleet for five generations?
Tom examined his shoes as he endured the weight of his grandmother's angry stare. "I'm sorry, ma'am."
"Stopping 'ma'am'-ing me," she snapped as she rose from her chair. "You're my grandson, not my subordinate." Maryam moved to the bar tucked into the corner and poured another two fingers of whiskey into her tumbler. "You want some?"
Some whiskey? "I...um… You know I'm fifteen, right?"
She regarded him as she sipped from her glass. "Do fifteen year olds not drink whiskey?" She waved a hand at him before he could answer. "Never mind, you're right. It's late. You should go to bed."
That's it? No lecture on upholding the honor of the Paris name? No guilt trip for being irresponsible and inconsiderate? Not a problem, as far as Tom was concerned. He was more than happy to get while the getting was good and headed towards his room with a hurried "Great idea. 'Night."
"Just a minute, Thomas."
So close, yet so very far away. Tom's shoulders dropped. No, of course it wouldn't be this easy. "Yes?"
"I want you up by 0630. We've got plans tomorrow."
He turned back towards her. "We do?"
"We do," she repeated, with another sip of her drink. "And don't worry about school. I'll give them a call. You've come down with a rare late-onset case of Mendakan Pox. You'll have a miraculous recovery by Monday. Now remember, 0630 and not a minute later."
Tom blinked as his brain caught up with his grandmother's. What is she going to do to me? "Yes, ma-" he started before he caught himself. "I mean, goodnight."
Are you finally going to tell me about when she taught you how to drive?
I'm crafting a story here, B'Elanna - setting the stage, developing a theme. There's a whole emotional gestalt I'm going for.
It's a story about learning to drive, Tom, not Great Expectations.
So are you saying I'm not going to be the next Charles Dickens?
...
OK, OK, I'll get to the driving lesson. Just keep your eyes on the road, will ya?
At 0615 the next morning, Tom woke up to his alarm and the smell of bacon cooking. His stomach rumbling, he rushed through his morning ablutions and showed up at the kitchen table at 0630 on the dot.
"Well done, grandson," Maryam said as she pulled a sheet from the oven filled with glistening strips of bacon still sizzling in their own fat. "Nothing demonstrates respect and conscientiousness like punctuality. I hope you like waffles."
Tom did like waffles. Aside from figuring out her ancient coffee machine, he hadn't made much progress in the "learning to cook" department and hadn't eaten anything beyond yogurt and fruit for breakfast since his arrival.
"Can't stand replicators," she remarked as she dropped a plate in front of him piled high with a stack of buttermilk waffles and a sizeable rasher of bacon. "They might make the food healthy, but it never tastes right. What the hell's the point if it doesn't taste right? A little cholesterol never killed anybody."
As Tom recalled from his biology class, cholesterol actually killed a lot of people at one point, but the bacon was really tasty and he wasn't in the mood to have it taken away from him. He nodded in agreement.
"Your mother says you're quite the pilot already. Flown even the most advanced sims at the Academy."
"Yes, ma-," he swallowed down a chunk of waffle. "I mean yes, Grandmother."
You called your grandmother 'Grandmother'? That's a little formal, isn't it?
I didn't call her anything. I'd met her a handful of times before this.
She wasn't involved in your lives at all?
Not really. She and my mom would see each other at least once a year, she'd send stuff on our birthdays, but that was about it. Sometimes I wonder if she avoided us - me and my sisters, that is - because we were a reminder.
A reminder of what?
Of everything she gave up.
"God." Maryam rolled her eyes. "I'd almost rather you called me 'ma'am' than 'Grandmother.' Can't you think of anything better than that? What would you like to call me?"
'Admiral' was the only thing that immediately came to Tom's mind as he regarded the intimidating woman staring at him from across the table. "Uh… Grandma? Nana?"
"Those both sound like I sit in a rocking chair and knit scarves by the fire. Do I look like I know how to knit? Try again."
"Grams?"
Tom tried not squirm as Maryam's eyes narrowed. "That'll do. Now finish up. If you like to fly sims, you're going to love what I've got planned."
Ten minutes later they were standing in front of a small outbuilding set off from the house. There was a large door on the front - clearly it was meant for storing something pretty substantial - but it was still too small for even a personal shuttle. The newly christened Grams keyed in a series of numbers and the door rose.
"Is that an automobile?" Tom asked, making no effort to hide his excitement.
"That is not just an automobile. That is a 1967 Pontiac Firebird convertible."
Tom passed a reverent hand over the glossy finish. "In command red," he said with a grin.
"Actually it's 'Regimental Red,'" she corrected him. "Your grandfather and I built it, oh… probably sixty years ago now. Before your uncle and your mother showed up."
"The two of you built this whole thing? From scratch?" Tom regarded his grandmother with a new level of respect.
"We did. We even started with an original chassis frame. Had to replicate most of the powertrain, of course. But we used the original specs for every last bit, including the paint. Albie gave it to me in the divorce and it's mostly been sitting in storage since."
Tom had only the fondest memories of the gentle man he and his sisters had called 'Pops.' He'd been generous with smiles and hugs, as well as the toffees he always carried in his pockets. It had been a twelve-year-old Tom's first funeral, when Pops had died suddenly in a work accident. He'd been an engineer - deep sea submersibles - and the new hull material they'd been testing had failed. There had been no survivors.
Your grandfather was an engineer? And your grandmother was a pilot?
Yup. I guess the two of us are just fated to be together.
Or cursed.
Nice.
It was a joke. But back to your grandfather. He worked on marine vessels? Is that who got you into the ocean?
Yeah. He was.
"I didn't see you at his funeral," Tom said, trying to keep his tone neutral.
"No. You didn't. I… Well. I don't believe in excuses." She cleared her throat. "Think fast, grandson."
Tom looked up to see a glint of metal flying towards him. He instinctively put out his hand and closed it around the object. A key. "Grams?"
"Good reflexes, I see." She moved over to the passenger side of the car and climbed in. "Important in a pilot. Now get in and I'll show you how to work this baby."
Tom just gaped at her. "I'm going to drive?"
"My eyes aren't what they used to be," she replied. "It's a piece of cake. A child could do it. Come on, let's see that sense of adventure that kept you out all hours last night! Just you, me, and the open road!"
Never one to turn down a challenge or the potential for a fast ride, Tom grinned back at her and settled himself at the steering wheel. Grams walked him through the basics of how to work the clutch and shift gears, then told him to start car. He inserted the key into the ignition and started to turn when he felt a firm hand on his.
"Just so you know," Grams said, in the voice that had likely set fear in the hearts of a thousand ensigns, "I hold this car in higher esteem than I do you at the moment. I've known him a lot longer, after all. Now depress the clutch, turn the key, and be very, very careful."
With a gulp and a nervous laugh, Tom started the engine.
His heart nearly beat out of his chest as the car lurched its way out of the garage, the clutch being an entirely alien concept to him. He took out a decent swath of the hedge roses that lined her driveway as he tried to turn the car to face the street. Bile climbed up his throat as the car idled.
"I guess I'm going to have to teach you how to buff out scratches this weekend," Grams muttered. "Go ahead and pull out."
The residential streets of her neighborhood were doable once Tom figured out how to coordinate his left foot on the clutch and the other alternating between the gas and the brake. The RPM's had climbed well over three thousand when his grandmother barked an exasperated, "Put your foot on the clutch and shift into second, for God's sake!" but he soon got the hang of things. He only ground the gears twice (the noise Grams made was far worse than the car's) and the thing with the pedestrian was just a close call, really. The man was never in any actual danger.
Ha!
What?
I'm a better first time driver than you were!
I don't know that I'd say that.
I haven't taken out any rose bushes.
You've grinded the gears way more than twice.
No close calls with pedestrians.
Because I didn't put any in the program!
It's all right to be jealous, you know. It's a perfectly valid emotion.
Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?
After about fifteen minutes of driving in circles, Grams gestured ahead. "Go on up to the end of this street and take a right onto Del Monte."
"Del Monte?" Tom said, sparing his grandmother a panicked look. "That's a pretty major road, isn't it?"
"The hover cars are programmed to get out of your way," she scoffed at him. "You'll be fine. Just stay off the sidewalk. Besides, how else are we going to get on Highway One?"
Tom slammed on the brakes at that. "Highway One?" he squeaked. "Are cars even allowed on that?"
Grams adjusted the sunglasses that Tom's sudden stop had knocked askew on her face. "I guess we're about to find out, aren't we? You need to see what this baby can really do! And you'll never know if you're afraid to shift out of second. Berim, grandson!"
Tom just stared at her, trying to figure out what part of the car she was talking about, when she rolled her eyes.
"It means 'Let's go,' in Farsi. Your mother didn't teach you any?"
Tom shook his head. "She taught me French," he offered in consolation.
"The woman knows nine different languages and she teaches her son French." Grams shook her head. "Well, allons-y, then." She waved her hand impatiently. "Go, go!"
Nine different languages?
Standard, of course. French, Farsi, English, Cantonese. Vulcan. Romulan. Denobulan. But just a smattering of Klingon. So maybe nine is an exaggeration.
But…? What does your mother do?
Uh… a little of this, a little of that. She was in Starfleet for a while, but she resigned her commission around the time my parents got married. She's written some papers, a couple of books. She has a degree in diplomacy, too, so she does a lot of consulting work with first contact situations, potential Federation members, that sort of thing. That's why she went on the mission with my dad. When we were little, though, she only took jobs that meant she could stay home with us.
What's wrong?
Nothing. I just realized... I haven't spoken to my mother in almost seven years. I've never put a number on it before.
You don't talk about her very often.
No. I guess I don't. Watch the road. Lots of turns ahead.
Tom white knuckled the steering wheel as he moved down Del Monte and towards the on-ramp of Highway One, a corner of his brain worried his fingers were leaving indentations in the leather. Once they were on the highway and heading south past Carmel, Grams finally showed some satisfaction with his performance. Her comments took on a more encouraging tone as Tom guided the car deftly around the winding curves: "That's it. You've got the feel of it now. Take him through his paces a bit." As the road opened up, she began to pressure him to go faster. "Pedal to the metal!" she yelled over the wind. "This baby's got over three hundred horsepower behind him!"
He couldn't help but grin as the engine roared and they zipped between the cliffs overlooking the crashing surf and the mountains that climbed to their left, neatly dodging the occasional hover car and sightseeing bus. This was not what he had pictured when his parents had told him he'd be spending six weeks with his admiral grandmother. Of course, he also hadn't pictured his grandmother releasing her seat belt and standing up in the car, her hands gripping the windshield. "Grams!" he yelled. "What are you doing? Sit down!"
"I forgot how much I missed this!" was her only reply.
He laughed in spite of himself, picturing the look of horror and disappointment on his father's face if he ever found out one of his personal heroes let his son play hooky to do this. "How fast are we even going?" he called out, the speedometer only reading out in miles per hour.
"Still not fast enough!" she cried, clapping a hand on his shoulder as she returned to sitting and the Bixby Creek Bridge loomed before them. "Floor it!"
That's when they heard the sirens.
"Shit," Tom and his grandmother said in unison. Tom eased his foot off the gas and gradually slowed the car to crawl as the police car closed the gap between them. He glanced over at his grandmother only to see her sliding downward in the seat. She was practically in the foot well by the time he pulled to the shoulder. "Grams? Are you OK?"
"Keep it down!" she hissed. "Don't let it know I'm here!"
What the hell? "Grams," he sputtered as he watched the traffic 'droid's steady approach in his side view mirror. "I'm not supposed to be driving a car by myself! I'm only fifteen!" She had cracked open her door and was backing herself onto the pavement. Mixed in below his terror and panic was a brief sense of wonder that someone of her age could be still be so flexible. Must be all that swimming…
"I know how are old you are! Just keep it busy for a few minutes!" his grandmother whispered before easing the door shut. Tom was now left with nothing but his burgeoning nausea for company.
"Please present your identification."
Tom looked up at the expressionless, gunmetal face of the traffic 'droid that loomed over the car.
"Identification?" His hands, slick with sweat, fell from the steering wheel.
"All vehicle operators must have identification available at all times."
"Oh, right. Right!" Tom plastered a smile on his face and made a show of patting his pockets and looking around the seats and in the foot wells. "I'm sure it's around here somewhere." A glance into the rearview mirror revealed Grams jogging towards the 'droid's vehicle. Tom swallowed hard. "I'm just going to check the glove box."
"All petroleum-fueled vehicles must display a permit during operation. Please present your permit in addition to your identification."
"Permit. Yes. Permit. That's… um… that's… Let me check the back seat." Tom now crammed himself between the bucket seats and started to shove his hands into any crevice he could find as he looked for the identification that was safely ensconced in his back pocket as always and the permit that he was quite certain didn't exist. He was torn between keeping an eye on his grandmother - who was now inside the traffic vehicle - and hedgehogging himself in the back seat in an attempt to confuse the 'droid and convince it to leave.
"If you are unable to produce a permit, you are in violation of Federation vehicular code seventy two, section five B, subsection seventeen. This is a misdemeanor and you must present yourself to traffic court for sentencing. If you are unable to produce identification, you are in violation of Federation vehicular code two, section one L, subsection one. This is a misdemeanor and requires you be detained until your identity is confirmed."
Detained? He was going to be detained?! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She said keep it busy for a few minutes. Why? So she could steal the traffic vehicle and throw her grandson to the wolves? He barely knew this woman, after all, and she was clearly not the most stable of individuals. What kind of person tells their grandchild to drive a car illegally onto a highway? Who even knew what she got up to in that office all day? Sure, everyone said she was writing her memoirs, but had anyone actually seen them? She could have been typing All work and no play makes the Admiral a dull girl over and over again in that damn office and no one would know. And now Tom was going to be detained, which meant someone was going to call his parents, which meant they would know he skipped school today, and he was one hundred-percent sure not a single person alive would believe him when he claimed 'My grandmother made me do it.' Fuck!
"If you are unable to produce a permit, you are in violation of Federation vehicular code seventy two, section five B, subsection-"
The 'droid fell silent.
Tom's head popped up from where he'd buried it in the back seat. The 'droid was now frozen in place, its blank eyes staring out over the Pacific.
"Get back behind the wheel!" Grams barked. Tom startled and fell hard onto the gear shift with a pained grunt. One look at his grandmother's flinty countenance, though, and quickly recovered himself and slid into the driver's seat.
She climbed back into the car and waved a hand at the traffic 'droid, where it remained, stock still, by the side of the car. "'Droid!" she called. "Hey, 'droid! This isn't the vehicle you're looking for!"
The 'droid's face turned towards them. "You are not the vehicle I am looking for. Have a pleasant day." And without further ceremony, it turned back to its vehicle, climbed in, and turned north, speeding back towards Monterey.
Tom stared at his grandmother. "What just happened?"
"Are you ready for lunch?"
"It's 8:30 in the morning."
"Coffee, then," she said. "There's good coffee down the road a bit. Let's go."
Tom shook his head as he started the car. His grandmother clasped his forearm and he looked at her.
"Just… uh... Keep it under sixty this time, OK? No reason to call attention to ourselves."
So what did she do?
She hacked it.
She hacked a traffic 'droid? Your Starfleet Admiral grandmother broke, like, five different Federation laws and hacked a traffic 'droid?
Yup.
I wish I could've met this woman.
Me, too. She would've liked you.
"I can't believe this. You re-programmed a traffic 'droid."
They'd driven another forty minutes or so, stopping at the park that contained McWay Falls. Coffees were acquired from the little hut located at the trailhead, and Tom and his grandmother now sat on a terrace overlooking the spot where the creek emptied into the Pacific.
"It's not difficult. The tech's probably twenty years old. They should really update the firewalls on those things."
"I'm pretty sure we just committed a felony."
"Keep it down, will you? Drink your coffee."
Tom assessed the scene for eavesdroppers. It was still early, and their only company was a lone photographer and some curious gulls and albatross. "What if we get caught?"
"We're not going to get caught. And I committed a felony. You… were there under duress. That's my story and I'm sticking to it." She patted his knee. "I wasn't going to let you take the fall. A thing like that on your record would be a serious blight on your Academy application."
Tom sighed. "God forbid."
She gave him a sharp look but didn't comment. After a few quiet moments, she thrust her coffee at him. "You sure you don't want to try this? It's good."
Tom raised an eyebrow at the fluffy white confection in her cup, sprinkled with candied nuts. "That's not a coffee, Grams, that's dessert."
"I'm eighty-six! What, you think I should be concerned about my figure? If I can't eat and drink what I want now, when am I going to start?" She shoved the cup under his face. "Drink some! That's an order!"
Tom took a tentative sip as he rolled his eyes, then gave her a sheepish grin. "It is pretty good."
"Told you," she said as she took the cup back. "It's also all over your upper lip. Finish up so we can get back on the road. No food or drinks in the car!"
They continued south for another two hours, at a much more mannered pace, making stops along the way at Ragged Point and to walk the grounds at Hearst Castle. Grams insisted on going into Cambria, claiming a restaurant there had both the best oysters (non-replicated, of course) and views, before she had Tom aim the car north again for home. She directed Tom to take the off-ramp at Carmel. "It's not a trip on Highway One if you don't make at least one stop at the beach."
They spread out a worn tartan blanket and settled in next to each other. "This is what I missed the most, when I was in space," Grams said, wrapping herself in a heavy jacket to guard against the wind. "I have always loved the sea."
"Yeah," he smiled at her. "Me, too."
"How's that program your father signed you up for?"
Tom shrugged. "Fine. Lot of work."
Grams nodded. "I thought you might need a little break. I took a look at one of your PADDs. Pretty advanced stuff for a fifteen-year-old, I thought."
Tom pulled up his knees and rested his chin on them. A small boy was running up and down the beach trying, and failing, to get a bright green kite aloft. A man Tom assumed was the boy's father caught up with him, patiently rewinding the kite's unfurled string. After a moment's conference, he put the boy up on his shoulders and stood, handing him the kite. As his father ran down the beach, the boy tossed the kite into the sky and unspooled the string, the kite playing out until it caught the wind and soared, bobbing amongst the seagulls.
"Can I ask you something, Grams?"
"Ask away. No promises on answering."
"No offense, but you… uh… you're not much like the other admirals I've met."
Grams threw her head back with a laugh. "No, I'd say not. But that's not a question."
"Do you ever regret it? Joining Starfleet? Did you ever feel… stifled, I guess? Like all your choices were already made for you and you didn't have a say in them?"
She cocked her head and looked at him for a moment before turning her attention back to the sea. "Have you ever heard one of those people that claims you should have no regrets? That your life turns out the way it's supposed to? No reason to dwell on other choices you could have made?"
"Sure."
"Those people are idiots." She gave Tom a thoughtful smile he hadn't seen before. "Everyone has regrets, thinks about other choices they could have made in life. I think about it all the time. How I could have been a better parent to your mother and your uncle. A better wife to Albie. I have a lot of regrets on that front. But having regrets doesn't mean you didn't make the right choice. No matter what you say yes to, you're going to have to say no to something else."
Tom fidgeted on the blanket. What was that supposed to mean? He could count on being miserable no matter what he did? What did any of this have to do with whether she found Starfleet as oppressive as he did sometimes?
Sensing his disquiet, Grams reached a hand out from her coat and placed it on his knee. "I'm not going senile, grandson. You live as long as I have, it'll take a while for you to get to your point, too. For some people, staying planetside, being a good mother and wife - giving in to Albie's ultimatum - that would have been the right choice. But if that's what I had done - would I have been any good at it? Or would I have just resented every minute I wasn't in space, not exploring the galaxy? I don't know, honestly." She gestured at the sky in front of them. "I do know I lived some of the best years of my life out there. I know I saved a lot of people's lives - when we intervened in natural disasters, carried refugees away from war zones. I also know I had a lot of fun," she added with a laugh. "Regret is natural and shouldn't be denied - but you can't let it consume you. You can't spend so much time worrying about what went wrong that you forget what went right."
Tom scratched his head. "Grams, that's great advice and all, but-"
"Let a person finish. You asked me if I ever found the 'Fleet stifling. Now, I broke my fair share of rules, complained about even more of them, and paid the price a few times, too. But I never felt stifled. Because being in the 'Fleet was my choice, Tom. Not my mother's or father's, as much as they both loved it. Certainly not my husband's. It was mine. And that is my point, grandson. Regret is unavoidable. But it's a lot easier to live with if it's your own decision you regret, and not someone else's."
"Easy for you to say," Tom muttered, picturing his father's patrician features and the stern glare that he directed on his son more and more lately. "You didn't have Owen Paris for a father."
"You don't know much about your other grandfather, do you?"
He frowned at the sudden subject change and shook his head.
"I only met him the one time, myself. I taught a year at the Academy. It was a punishment, really, although no one called it that. One of those rule-breaking incidents I mentioned," she said with a wink. "Anyway, it was your father's first year, and your mother's. Your grandfather came to campus only once that I know of. He essentially disowned your father after that. A right asshole, I'm sorry to say - your grandfather, that is."
She then told Tom a story he had never heard. One about an angry, xenophobic man that was afraid of non-humans and space travel and leaving Earth, and about that man's son, who wanted nothing more than to explore the stars. "Your father, Tom - no one ever encouraged him to chase his dreams. No one ever helped him one bit get to where he wanted to be. He had to do it all himself, and he somehow managed to take the hard way every damn time. He certainly didn't have much of a role model on how to be a parent. Not that I should judge anyone on that score." She clapped a hand on to Tom's shoulder. "Everything I've heard about you - from Owen, from your mother - says you have the makings of a great officer. I'm sure that's what your father sees. Why he pushes you so hard."
Tom nodded, resigned. "So you think I should go to the Academy, too."
The hand that had clasped his shoulder now smacked him in the back of the head. "No, you idiot! Haven't you heard a word I said? What I'm saying is, Owen just wants to help you succeed - the way his father never did. But if that doesn't mean Starfleet to you, if that's not what you want - you have to tell him. He can't read your mind. And the Owen I know will understand."
Tom nodded and gave her smile, not entirely convinced his father was the same Owen she knew, but appreciating her understanding all the same.
"All right, grandson," she said, nudging him to standing with her foot. "Help an old lady up and let's get home. Seeing as you'll be recovering from the Mendakan Pox for two more days, I think there's one more thing I have need to teach you tonight."
=/\=
They were parked on the side of the highway, snuggled together in the back seat, wrapped in a blanket to protect them from the chilly ocean breezes. B'Elanna rested her head on Tom's shoulder, unable to pull her eyes from the rose-gold sky as the sun melted into the horizon. She was amazed, not for the first time, at the detail and beauty Tom always built into his holoprograms. "This was fun," she said.
"You sound surprised." B'Elanna could hear the laugh running under his words.
"I am," she admitted. "I've been dreading this all day."
"I knew it!" Tom declared, turning towards her so suddenly that her head fell from his shoulder with a jerk. "I knew you didn't want to learn how to drive! I kept waiting for you to admit you wanted nothing to do with this. I forgot to take Klingon stubbornness into account."
She bristled automatically at the crack, but when he refilled her mug of hot chocolate and replaced his shoulder under her cheek, she decided she could forgive him. This time. "So what was it?"
"What was what?"
"The 'one more thing' your grandmother had to teach you. Is it that 'double clutching' thing you were going on about?"
Tom laughed. "No, it had nothing to do with the car. She wanted to teach me the finer points of whiskey drinking. Unfortunately, it didn't involve eating dinner first. I was sick as a dog that night. And most of the next day. She felt so bad she didn't make me buff the scratches out of the car. Or replant the rose bush."
"Did you spend more time together after that summer?"
"We did. I used to spend a lot of my breaks with her after that. She took me driving, taught me how to cook, showed me B movies on her television..."
B'Elanna let her mind drift as the first, early stars winked into sight above them and Tom explained the finer points of twentieth-century entertainment systems. She'd been running through her to-do list for the next day when she realized it had been several minutes since he'd last spoken. "You OK?" she asked, sitting up to check his expression.
"Sure," he said, with wistful smile. "Just thinking about Grams, my own regrets."
"Do you regret not taking her advice? About joining Starfleet," she added at his questioning look.
"I thought I did take it," he said with a self-deprecating laugh. "At the time it seemed like I was joining for the right reasons." He sat up, taking her empty mug. "But that's a story for another time. We should go. We only have a few more minutes."
After over a year together, B'Elanna was well familiar with the variety of ways Tom announced he was done discussing a particular topic. So she was surprised when, as he carefully folded the blanket that had been wrapped around them a few moments prior, he started talking.
"I probably shouldn't have gone to the Academy," he started, his gaze fixed on the car. "Or… at least I should have waited, made sure I was doing it for me and not…" His arms tightened around the blanket. "If there was a way I could take back what happened at Caldik Prime, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But…" He looked up at her then. "Maybe then I would have never found a place where I fit, like I do on Voyager. Maybe I would have never known Harry. Or you."
B'Elanna came around to his side of the car and pulled the blanket from his hands, putting it in the back seat before wrapping her arms around him. "But you are here. And you do know us."
"I do," he said as he rested his chin on the top of her head. "It's funny. At the time, she really just wanted to tell me that I should make my own choices, not worry so much about what my dad wanted. But all that rambling she did about regrets and not dwelling on what went wrong - that's what resonates with me now. It's like she knew what was going to happen."
"Or she just knew her grandson was human, and would be faced with the same difficult choices we all are." They stood together in silence a few more moments, B'Elanna breathing in Tom's familiar, comforting scent. "When did she die?"
"About a month after I graduated from the Academy. I was on the Exeter at the time. Too far away to make it back for the funeral. But," he added with a sad smile as he pulled back from their embrace, "no excuses, right?"
"I'm sorry," B'Elanna said, squeezing the hands she still held in hers. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened, exactly." He shrugged. "She didn't take very good care of herself, as you might have surmised from my story. She was well enough to make to my graduation, though. That was the last time I saw her."
=/\=
"Well, look at you."
Tom smiled down at his grandmother. She'd been given a place of honor at the graduation ceremony, given her status as a retired admiral, and he'd caught her wry grin as the commandant pinned Tom's very first pip onto his collar. He started to kneel down to her level when she waved at him irritably.
"I'm not in my grave yet, grandson. I can stand up to give you a hug."
He risked her wrath and took her arm to support her as she rose. When she did nothing to dissuade him from helping, Tom felt a pang, but grinned to hide his concern. "Thanks for coming, Grams. I know it takes a crowbar to get you of your house these days."
"You're a regular laugh riot," she pronounced, as she wrapped rail-thin arms around him. "I think I liked it better when you were fifteen and still terrified of me."
"Please," he countered. "If I was still scared of you, who would take you driving?"
"Touché. You have any time, by the way, to take an old lady for one more ride before you ship out?"
Tom shook his head. "I leave in the morning. I have to rendezvous with the Exeter at DS7 by Tuesday." He gave her a sad smile. "Next time I'm back on Earth, though. You're my first stop. I promise."
"Sure, sure," she said, as she gripped his forearms and lowered herself back down to her chair. She gestured at the vacant seat next to her, and Tom sat. "You nervous at all? Finally getting out there?"
He shrugged. "The normal amount, I guess."
"Ready to crap your pants, then?"
He laughed. "Not quite."
She patted his knee. "Good. You'll be a good officer, Tom. And I'm not the sort of person that says things just to be nice."
"I've noticed."
A sharp punch to his shoulder revealed Grams wasn't as frail as she looked, after all. "As long as Starfleet's what you want. That's what's important in the end. If you're doing something you're not really committed to, if you're doing it for the wrong reasons - it'll always show in the end."
Tom looked around at the happy graduates and their families as they milled around the graduation stage and wandered off towards the reception. He wondered if any of them felt as lost as he did sometimes. "You really think so?"
"I said it, didn't?" She sighed and her voice softened. "Or maybe I'm just a delusional old lady who tells herself that because it's better than thinking about how I should have been there more for my family."
He reached an arm around his grandmother and pulled her close. "I don't know. You've gotten pretty good at being there for some of us, at least."
"Better late than never, I suppose." She nodded towards the reception area. "We both need to make an appearance over there. Get my damn walker."
They made their way across the Academy grounds, Tom matching his stride to his grandmother's much slower pace. "Say your hellos to Hayes and Nechayev, that'll be enough to satisfy your father. Then you can go off with your friends. I'll cover for you."
"Thanks, Grams."
She stopped short as the voices of the reception goers rose in volume. Tom touched her arm, worried. "Grams? You OK?" He was reassured when she smiled at him, but it was several moments before she spoke again.
"You're a good man, Tom." She patted his chest. "Remember that. Trust yourself, and you'll be all right. And in case I don't see you again-"
"Grams!"
She glared at him. "It's just death, grandson. It happens to the best of us. Anyway, as I was saying - in case I don't see you again, there's something I want you to promise me."
"Sure. Anything."
"Take good care of my car." She tucked her left arm into his, giving the walker a decisive kick. "Oh, fuck this thing anyway. Berim, grandson."
The End