Author's note:
To Alpha Flyer, on her birthday: Despite its length, this story contains no character death or near death, and never once is B'Elanna in the slightest danger of losing her man. Feel free to consider this your birthday present. Or else a flipping fanfiction miracle.
Oh, and re the new FFN character tags... I hate them. Sorry if it confuses anyone that this story is tagged as Paris only, but, well. *Reasons.*
Ordinary People
"You learn eventually that, while there are no villains, there are no heroes either. And until you make the final discovery that there are only human
beings,who are therefore all the more fascinating, you are liable to miss something."
- Paul Gallico
Tom tries to smooth down his frustration that they're moving into a Starfleet building, however rational he estimates his reservations.
"I know you're going to hate the idea," B'Elanna says, when the topic first comes up, "but most people consider Fleet housing a perk. Especially in San Francisco."
We aren't most people, Tom thinks pointedly, but keeps the thought to himself.
He wants to be supportive of his wife keeping her commission, even though he had no interest in keeping his. Picking a fight about their living situation when she's already agreed, for his sake, to stay planetside would make him a bit of a jerk.
"I do have some concerns," he acknowledges carefully. Sighs a little when he thinks about the lack of privacy. And being surrounded, even in their home life, with a culture bent on advancement and promotion at all costs.
"It's not that I don't share your reservations, Tom. But think of all we're gaining! It's an amazing location in a brand new building. We're close to transport, shopping, and there's a park just three blocks away."
She's right about that. He knows she is. But he doesn't have to like it, even if he's decided he needs to go along.
"What made you turn so practical on me?" he teases her. Bends down to pick up Miral when she starts to fuss in her bassinet.
"Childbirth," his wife retorts, already smiling victoriously. Miral is only two months old, but this line of banter is already well-worn.
"It all comes back to that, does it?" he asks rhetorically, and B'Elanna hands him one of their daughter's blankets with a wicked look.
"Tell you what, flyboy. You perform the physical equivalent of pushing a warp core through a Jeffries tube. Then we'll talk."
He pulls the infant away from his shoulder, pretending to pout to her as he would if talking to Harry.
"Starfleet housing it is," he announces to the baby, and B'Elanna chuckles as she walks past him.
. . . . .
The morning they move into their new apartment, the weather is muggy and miserable, the sky a pale grey that won't quite commit to rain .
Miral keeps making disgruntled sounds against Tom's neck, unhappy with sound of the construction happening on the street they navigate, as well as how warm and sticky she feels, pressed against her father's body.
"Just one more block," B'Elanna coos to her daughter, and Tom bounces the girl a bit in the vain hope of preventing a full-out crying jag.
Any relief he feels at arriving at their building's entrance is usurped by the startle he's given upon seeing Kathryn Janeway waiting for them.
It's the first time he's seen her with the a bar pinned to her collar. And though she's dressed in full uniform, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, she holds three steaming coffees as if her being at their complex is the most natural thing in the world.
"I thought you could use the extra power," Janeway smiles, and B'Elanna murmurs a thanks as she accepts a cup with her free hand.
Tom adjusts Miral in one arm and accepts the drink with a nod. Wonders whether Harry commed their former CO about his friends' move date, and if so, why he thought doing so would be a great idea.
"I'd love to stay and help," Janeway breezes, "but burdens of rank and all that."
"Thanks for the coffee," B'Elanna says, Janeway pushing up on her tippy-toes to get a closer look at Miral.
"You bet," she replies, turning on her heel, "anything for the parents of my goddaughter."
She makes her way across the street without looking back. The quick appearance and swift exit makes Tom's head swim a little.
"What was that about?" Tom mutters, as the first load of their belongings materializes next to them on the sidewalk.
"She's happy we're here," B'Elanna shrugs. Begins to scowl as she surveys the haphazard way their personal effects have been thrown atop the anti-grav unit.
"Happy we're here?" he repeats. "In San Francisco?"
"No. Here," B'Elanna corrects, shuffling the coffee and PADD into her left hand. "In her building."
"What?" Tom shouts, causing Miral to cry and B'Elanna to scowl. "We're moving into Janeway's building?"
"Tom," she begins, frustratedly moving containers around with one hand, "you knew this."
"No," Tom says, taking a deep breath. "I did not."
"That's what you get for not listening. Who did you think pulled strings to get us into this building in the first place?"
Tom doesn't know what to say to this because, it's true, he's not the best listener, especially if he's in the middle of doing something.
But he also doubts he would let a little fact like their soon-to-be home being adjacent to Kathryn Janeway slip by him, even if he were rewatching the very end of a James Bond movie on their television set.
"Is it really that big of a deal?" his wife demands. She's now put down her coffee entirely, needing both hands to wrestle a heavy item into a less precarious position. It isn't working particularly well, and Tom wishes he'd worn Miral's hands-free carrier so he could help the effort.
"Well. . .Yeah. It is."
"We're on the tenth floor, Janeway's on the thirtieth. You lived in the same section of the same deck with her on Voyager. What's the difference?"
He wants to say that the difference is his two pips, or one quadrant, or thirty days. That, for better or worse, his entire life up to this point has been a series of intersections with Kathryn Janeway, and he would have made a different choice for their family, now that they're off her ship, with a child to love and protect.
But saying any of that now is selfish, because as they argue one fat splash of rain strikes the pavement. And then another. And as Miral begins to cry again, the container her mother's been struggling with decides to slide off, its contents making an ominous clatter of metal and glass and something in between .
"Who stacks things like this?" B'Elanna yells, at the absent transport technician. Let's loose a deeply personal barrage of Klingon insults about his/her parents, grandparents, great grandparents, and the dubious rapport some or all of them must have had with their livestock.
"Alright," Tom breathes, pulling himself together. One of them is going to have to be calm one in this situation, and at the moment it's unfair to expect it to be B'Elanna. "New plan."
B'Elanna stops what she's doing, giving him a murderous expression that, he knows, is not meant for him.
"I can handle this stuff. Why don't you go inside with Miral? Get our access codes set up, maybe make a 'friendly' comm to Starfleet Transfer Services?."
"You sure?" B'Elanna asks, sounding guilty. And as if to punish her for her hesitancy, the steady drops of rain turn into a downpour.
"Go," Tom says, and B'Elanna takes Miral. "Before someone named Noah shows up, collecting animals two by two."
It's a joke his wife doesn't understand, but she has no interest in asking. Zips inside with their daughter and throws him one quick, grateful look over her shoulder.
The second, teetering load of stuff materializes even though all the contents of the first still remain outside, on the street.
Tom kneels down in the rain to pull the storage units off the first anti-grav cart, deciding it's better to start from the beginning in piling everything up.
"I mean really," he grumbles, wiping water out of his eyes, "who the fuck stacks shit like this?"
. . . . .
They settle into San Francisco life without too many bumps.
It turns out none of B'Elanna's colleagues live in the same building, which Tom is grateful for at first. But then a month goes by, and he meets them, they have their spouses and children over for dinners, and he starts to regret none of them live any closer. They're all good people, kind people; most of them seasoned officers who saw too much in the war to worry about chasing pips.
Tom likes his job, too. Enjoys the pace of holo-programming and being able to work at home with Miral. But being of Voyager fame and working with civilians is different. Some just want gossip, others treat him like a celebrity. It's a job he likes enough to stay in, even if it will be a long time before he lets down his guard.
He mentally prepares himself for the fact that he'll being seeing Janeway daily. Expects to run into her in the building's lifts, politely accept dinner invitations he has no intention of keeping when they see each other waiting for transports or picking through the neighborhood's shops. In actuality, he doesn't catch a glimpse of her for three months after they move in. Perhaps it's strange, perhaps it isn't. Their building is huge, after all, and he can only imagine how much she has to travel in her job.
He doesn't question his luck either way. He even starts to forget that their household is in the realm of Kathryn Janeway's orbit, until one gloriously clear evening when he and B'Elanna decide to take a picnic into the park for dinner.
Miral is uncharacteristically calm, her joy at devouring a mashed banana relatively quiet. As if even her young mind recognizes that the gentle breeze and unclouded sky are worthy of reverence; her subdued, contented coos never eclipsing the rustle of trees and the low, steady rush of the city around them.
"Almost a full moon," his wife says, more to their daughter to him. Tom casts his eyes up in appreciation of the sight he missed for seven years.
It's then that he notices the top floor of their building is fully illuminated, the windows of Janeway's thirtieth-story penthouse aglow against the darkened sky.
It's an observation that shouldn't change anything, and yet in instant something shifts beneath him. A change as silent and seamless as feeling a ship jumping to warp beneath his feet.
A knot forms in his stomach. The ease and peace of the evening quit him.
"Tom?" he hears B'Elanna say, minutes later. From the concern in her voice, he guesses she's been talking to him already and he just failed to notice.
"I'm sorry," he offers sincerely. "What were you saying?"
"Nothing important," she shakes her head slightly. "Care to tell me what you're mulling over?"
He doesn't really consider lying. It's a habit he's no longer in the practice of in general, to say nothing of lying to his wife specifically. "Janeway must he be home," he points out, nodding his chin in the direction of their building.
He succeeds well enough at a neutral tone, but B'Elanna still quietly considers him before saying, "I assume you aren't contemplating the desirable view she must have."
It's a cautious remark; one that let's him bow out of the conversation ruining their evening. Tom mentally smiles at how quickly marriage has made diplomats of both of them.
"I kind of . . . forgot she was there," he admits. "Not sure why it's so jarring to realize she is."
It's a conversation they skipped, back when they moved in. First it was the actual task of moving, and then getting Miral settled, and then starting jobs, and soon enough they had slipped into a daily pattern of life and work and meals and having a kid.
Watching Tom's pensive face, B'Elanna seems to decide it shouldn't be skipped again.
"I don't understand - well, really when this aversion started? I mean when we left the ship everything was fine, right? Better than fine - because Tom, it was your idea to make her godmother."
"That was perfunctory," he says, rubbing his face. And here B'Elanna gapes.
"Perfunctory," she repeats. "As in, 'gee, thanks for getting us home in one piece, here's a title forever attaching you to my child . Have a nice life, don't plan to visit' ?"
It sounds stupid when she says it like that, but nothing about it is inaccurate either. He busies himself with one of Miral's stuffed animals as he wrestles with how to explain something he doesn't understand himself.
"Whether I liked or not, I grew up in a Starfleet family," he starts. "The man my parents named my godfather was an admiral my dad served under, back when he was just a commander. My sisters and I never saw the guy when we were growing up - he never came to the house or commed. I'm not even certain Mom and Dad liked him as a person. It was just … I don't know, a token of respect I guess."
Even hearing the words come out of his own mouth, Tom cringes a little. Which is why he's grateful when B'Elanna takes the time to collect her thoughts before responding to what he's said.
"Putting aside the issue of using our child as a token. . . Are you saying you don't genuinely like Janeway as a person? Don't trust her? Respect her?"
It's a set of questions that are entangled, if their own, unique puzzle; each with a complicated set of experiences and emotions difficult to piece together.
Yes, he trusted Janeway to get them home, to do what was right for the ship. To be stronger than any of them. And smarter. And braver. But he can't acknowledge any of that without also acknowledging the manipulations and deceptions. The pulling of strings, personal and professional, that may have been necessary as a captain in Janeway's position, but also coincided a bit too neatly with her ego, her love of playing god.
Why his awareness of all this is so heightened now, he really can't explain. But it bloomed in him as soon as Tom was standing in McKinley Station holding his newborn daughter, and it's a feeling he can't shake.
"I think she's a person who gets what she wants," he answers finally. Because it's a simple phrase that covers all of it, really.
B'Elanna looks away from him. Gazes at the line of light signaling Janeway's presence. "So she is," she sighs, now lost in reflections of her own. "So she is."
. . . . .
"B'Elanna?" Tom calls, poking his head into the little pastry shop.
There isn't anyone inside besides the shopkeep - an older Bajoran gentleman who returns Tom's apologetic smile.
"My wife and I split up a block ago," Tom explains. "Could have sworn she went in here."
"If you're married to that young woman with the baby, she did. Bought some larish pie and a half dozen groatcakes before she noticed something outside the window. Nice lady. Told me before she left that if I started selling banana muffins, she'd promise to buy a dozen every week."
"That's her," Tom chuckles. "Never met a banana pancake or muffin she didn't like."
"Well, then, she has good taste."
"That she does," Tom says, with a wave of thanks.
"And young man?" the shopkeep calls to him, Tom turning around just outside the door. "So do you for that matter."
Tom beams at the compliment, then goes on his way. And though the shopkeep's flattery was sincere, it's the smartest business decision he makes that day. For the next year, Tom will make sure to buy an arm full of baked goods there every week.
He checks the next three shops with no luck, decides maybe he should double back when he spots B'Elanna across the street. She's outside of a flower shop, Miral pushing back from her embrace to grasp at a violet hanging just barely within her reach.
It takes him a moment to realize that the woman beside them, standing so casually in a cream dress and sandals, is Kathryn Janeway. Her hair is down and long, for one, and never before has Tom seen her seem so completely … civilian.
"Tom," Janeway smiles upon seeing him. And on cue, he summons a polite smile of his own. Keeps it in place when Miral reaches for the spray of orange flowers in Janeway's hands, only for Janeway to take the grasping child in her arms, Tom's gut feeling like it's in a free fall the entire time.
"I was just wondering about you," she says to him, switching his daughter to her hip.
Miral is content to ignore all of them. Twists the fragile flowers in her little fingers and watches with interest as several petals flutter to the sidewalk as a result.
"Oh?" he asks, coming to stand beside B'Elanna.
"Kathryn was just debating between orchids and snapdragons for her balcony and window pots."
"And despite my preference for orchids, B'Elanna has succeeded in talking me into snapdragons!"
"Orchids are far less sturdy than marigolds. It was you who said-"
"That I am a murderer of plants? Yes. It's true. My mother's green thumb skipped me entirely."
Miral, unamused with the conversation, continues to bend and break Janeway's newly acquired flowers. As the Admiral wrestles the last survivors from the child's hands, Tom takes the opportunity to shoot his wife a look of accusation.
"Be nice," B'Elanna mouths, with all the sternness she would muster for combatting Miral's temper. And a bit later it strikes him as an odd thought, their relationship having evolved to the point of B'Elanna reminding him of his manners.
And perhaps she's right. He is being rude. He hasn't even said 'hello' to Janeway, after all.
"Looks like our daughter has destroyed your floral aspirations," he apologizes with a laugh that almost sounds natural.
"So she has," Janeway tsks. "Maybe she disagrees with orange as a decorating choice?"
Tom is saved from replying as his daughter begins to reach for him. Her eyes welling up with tears of frustration and her cheeks flushing an ominous shade of tantrum.
"It's okay, baby," he says as he holds her. She continues to eye the flowers now out of her reach and begins to quietly sob.
"Time to pack it in," B'Elanna sighs, and Tom nods in swift agreement.
Miral is already an hour late going down for her nap, and Tom has no complaints about an exit from their present company.
"Thanks for the chat," Janeway says, touching B'Elanna's shoulder. Then turns with an animated smile that makes the child stop crying for about three seconds. "And to you, my darling goddaughter, I commit to go back in and buy a flower that isn't orange."
Tom bids his goodbye politely, if with all expedience. Spends the rather swift walk to their building trying to calm his daughter's agitation.
His wife keeping in silent stride as she, no doubt, waits for the commentary she knows is coming.
"Kathryn?" he drawls, in the privacy of the turbolift. And B'Elanna moves her hands to her hips in solemn warning.
"We see each other on our way to and from Headquarters. We talk."
"About flowers?"
He knows he's being childish. Sounds childish. But he can't stop himself. Because that conversation he interrupted out on the street was obviously one of many, the others his wife never bothered to mention.
Which isn't quite a lie. But feels like one. A large one. A lie so irrationally scary to him that he has to work to keep his panic from rattling the infant he's still trying to sooth.
"About work mostly," B'Elanna corrects, her tone rapidly losing patience. "About my engine designs and all the ways her idiot colleagues try to alter them." The lift door opens here, and the conversation, by mutual agreement, stops until they make it inside their quarters. They've yet to feel that the walls have ears, living in a Starfleet building, but that doesn't mean they ever want to court the dark side of HQ politics. "We talk about everyone from Voyager," she continues, throwing the shopping bag onto the kitchen island with a fair amount of force. "How they're doing, who's moving where and with whom… We talk about you, too - not that you care, but she's very interested in the work you're doing. How happy it makes you."
"Huh." The one syllable replies to sound disinterested and accusatory all at the same time. It's a special talent of Tom's, if one he rarely practices anymore.
"Tom."
"I just don't understand why you don't tell me about it before," he says, pulling the package of groatcakes out of the shopping bag. They suffered a painful death at the hands of B'Elanna's ire, a third of them squashed, their sticky filling pouring out from every corner.
"I think you can guess why I didn't," B'Elanna sighs.
Tom can't really blame her there, especially as they're now in the middle of an argument he's hard pressed to defend.
He leans back on his heels and watches Miral, now playing on the carpet with her favorite toy, no trace of the near core breach she promised a few minutes earlier, out on the street.
"Does she spend time with Miral?" he asks, his voice hushed. As if he's afraid to hear the answer.
"Only when I happen to have her with me, and even then just in passing. But. I'm pretty sure the Admiral's tactical plans don't include provisions for weaponizing infants, so I think we're safe."
"I'm being serious," Tom shakes his head, and B'Elanna crosses and uncrosses her arms.
"So am I, Tom. And I'm also trying to respect the reservations you have about Kathryn Janeway-"
"Reservations I thought we both had about Kathryn Janeway-"
"But I'm not considering a commission under her," she continues, unphased, "or planning to make her Miral's guardian if a shuttle lands on both of us next week. So I guess I'm asking for a little perspective, or at least an explanation of why the mere mention of the woman now makes you come unhinged."
Tom doesn't say anything. Just keeps watching Miral play. It's not so much that he doesn't have any answers, it's just that all of them are emotions, mostly fears, none of them readily lending themselves to words.
"Well," B'Elanna concludes, because arguments, much like everything else, now run on an exacting schedule of meals and naps, the latter of which their daughter really, really needs to go down for soon. "I'm no Betazoid. But as a semi-reformed angry Klingon, I would submit that your feelings about Janeway might have a little to do with your feelings about the past. . . I mean, I know that she was your dad's student, and your relationship with her was more complicated than mine was, but just maybe this isn't entirely about her, hmm?"
B'Elanna waxes psychological as rarely as she does philosophical, and Tom has privately decided some time ago that she must save up all her observations. Always delivering her rare hypotheses like this, with deadly accuracy and a casual tone.
He makes no denial, and his wife fails to look victorious. Simply scoops up their daughter and heads to their bedroom, Tom trailing her in, a few minutes later.
They usually try to make Miral nap in the nursery, and if that fails, then the living room It's a routine that makes bedtime easier for everyone, even if it does take a little longer to get her to take a nap that way. This afternoon, however, everyone is just too tired. B'Elanna looks as sacked as Miral does, their daughter's breathing having evened out almost the moment she hit her parent's bed.
"Room for one more in here?" Tom asks, already moving the pillow B'Elanna placed on the other side of Miral, then sliding carefully onto the bed.
"The more the merrier," she breathes, Tom's long fingers entwining with her own.
"That used to be my dating philosophy, if you recall."
"Oh, I do. Just what would you have done if I hadn't saved you from an empty lifetime of Delaney twins and holo-vixens?"
"I have no idea," Tom whispers honestly.
He doesn't get the chance to dwell on the possibilities. Falls asleep a minute later, his hand in B'Elanna's, and Miral's warm breaths puffing into his ear.
. . . . .
"Dammit," Tom slams his hand against the keypad. "Munchkin. What did you do?"
Miral isn't there to respond him. Is on her way to Mars with her mother, both of them due back in about six to seven hours. Which is kind of a problem, given that Tom's code to their door doesn't work, courtesy Miral's sneaky little fingers.
Tom exhausts his vocabulary of swears. French and Klingon come the easiest, but the few he knows in Bolian are truly filthy and do the most to improve his mood.
He could just go to the ground floor and get a maintenance tech to let him. He has twice before, seeing as how his one-year-old's new favorite hobby is playing with their door's encryption pad.
It's just that B'Elanna would rather lose a finger to a bat'leth then agree to call maintenance in their building, the crew in question seeming to delight a bit too obviouslyin one of the Fleet's hotshot engineer needing her sonic shower fixed, the power cell in her replicator re-aligned, or (as of late) the lock to her own door bypassed.
Of course, Tom isn't a hotshot engineer, has not one qualm asking for such assistance. And though he would be more than happy to let his wife work her own technical magic, thus saving her honor, she isn't here to do so. Won't even know that Tom called maintenance in the first place, he starts to rationalize, which can't possibly damage her ego.
Right?
"Can I be of any assistance?"
The voice of the maintenance tech behind him startles Tom so thoroughly, he's grateful he doesn't still wear a phaser - he most certainly would have drawn. Stands, leaning against his locked door, as the Andorian maintenance tech continues to look at him, either unaware of, or unapologetic for, the shock he's just delivered.
"Can I be of any assistance?" the engineer repeats, and at Tom's look of confusion, points to the security imager down the hallway. "We could see downstairs that you were having a bit of trouble with your door."
It would seem convenient, one might may even say congenial, except that as the tech speaks, his antennae begin to do a victorious little dance.
It reminds Tom of a guy he used to play parrisses squares with at the Academy. The arrogant blue asshole would always look the same way, right before he smashed the ball down Tom's waiting throat.
"No help needed," Tom breezes. Punctuates the statement with his best toothy smile.
"But it seemed like you needed-"
"To make sure my door was locked," Tom finishes. Widens his smiles and makes sure his face is angled directly at the security imager.
A smile for all you bastards my wife wouldn't trust to hold her hyper-spanner.
The tech's antennae cease their sway, his white eyebrows drawing up and in.
"Well. . . If you're sure."
"I am," Tom says, and makes a clicking noise with his tongue as he points at the guy and winks. "Never can be too careful when it comes to security, now can ya?" Fucker.
The tech grumbles something and makes his way back to the service lift.
"Have a good day," Tom calls, because he just can't help himself. Contents himself with the petty little pleasure it brings him as he gets into the main lift, sobering only when he considers what he's going to do now.
He'd planned to spend the day doing work, but the particular holocode he's puzzling over is locked inside his quarters. He contemplates comming his office and asking them to send him the data, maybe work on it in a coffee shop. Then he dismisses the idea out of hand. The contract work he's been assigned is actually rather sensitize. There's no way his boss would consent to send it over an unsecured comm, and for that prudence he really can't blame her.
Of course, he could just go into work and get the bit of code. If only the idea of going into his office on a day he doesn't have to wasn't so profoundly unattractive . .
Playing hooky it is, he decides. Whistles on his way out the building as contemplates the idea of a free day without work or a toddler to mind.
He stops into his favorite coffee shop and orders a ridiculously large latte. He spots the pay-per-comm viewers as he collects his mug. Wonders if maybe he'd be able to get a hold of Harry.
He does, briefly, and Harry laughs deep and loud when Tom tells him what's happened.
"Is this the third time she locked you out?"
"Fifth," Tom corrects. "Two of those times were just easy 'cause B'Elanna was on her way home."
Harry shrugs, leaning back in his desk chair, and for a moment Tom can see the bright streak of stars being passed a warp behind the viewer.
Tom doesn't miss being on a ship. Not really. But the familiar sight still elicits a faint yearning, deep in the pit of his belly. The first six months on Earth, he'd wondered if it was a longing that would ever go away. Now he hopes it never does.
"Sorry to cut this short-"
"Duty calls," Tom excuses him.
"So what are you going to do all day without a wife and child to keep you in line?"
"Harry, Harry. You know firsthand that I am a man of many interests! What won't I do today is the better question."
"A free agent."
"Footloose and fancy free."
Harry doesn't try to get in the last word of banter. Tom will always have more jokes, more turns of phrase than he does, so he signs off with a shake of the head and a chuckle before he ends the comm.
"Footloose and fancy free," Tom repeats to himself, now smiling in the uncontrollable why he always does after getting off the comm with Harry. Stands up to recycle his finished latte, then walks out into the crisp air of a relatively clear day, swelled with the expectation of all the fun he'll have all by himself.
As it turns out, he isn't as a fun a person as he thinks, nor his interests as many as he's boasted. At least, when left alone, to his own devices. He kills an hour stopping into a public holodeck to peruse the latest titles, but only two of them are programs he doesn't judge as lazy, pedestrian coding, and neither are particularly enjoyable programs to run alone. After he leaves, he wanders into a bookstore, deciding it's been far too long since he read anything for pleasure, and leaves holding an ambitiously large novel set during Earth's second world war. He makes it maybe halfway through the first of the novel forty-two chapters, sitting on a park bench and reading, before he starts to zone out. He was really never much of an avid reader. Perhaps B'Elanna's also right about their television set having a negative effect on his attention span…
Once it hits 14:00, Tom tells himself it's an acceptable hour to have a beer on his day off. Is delighted to see that his neighborhood pub is just opening its doors when he passes by. It's odd to see the place so quiet; the few times he and B'Elanna have popped in there's been live music and people spilling gleefully into the streets.
"Guinness," he requests with a smile, sliding easily onto a barstool. There's a viewer playing the Academy's last Parrisses match. It's a recording from last week and Tom heard the Academy team was given a walloping, but he hasn't seen the actual match, so he watches the playback with interest.
He watches until he's finished his beer, and the bartender is asking if he'd like another. It's tempting, given the game, but he can't shake the odd feeling he gets from the idea of drinking alone, let alone drinking alone during the day.
An hour later, he's back at his building, sitting outside and feeling completely restless. He's forced himself to walk around the city. He's tried to enjoy the fresh air. And somewhere, between the park and here, he's managed to misplace his book.
All he wants is the company of his wife and his kid. Perhaps his television set. If nothing else, the familiar rhythm of his work.
"Enjoying the sunshine?" inquires a familiar voice, and Tom squints in her direction.
"Admiral."
"If the civilian life means you can sit outside on a day like this, I have to say I am envious."
He tries to locate some kind of barb in her tone, assumes there must be one there. When he doesn't find it, he chucks it up to the woman being a quasi-diplomat now.
"Truth be told," he says, "my darling daughter locked me out of my own apartment. I'm kind of killing time until she and B'Elanna come back."
"Can't you just comm maintenance and-"
He cuts her off with a shake of his head, hoping she doesn't press him to explain.
"I don't blame you," she says instead, sitting on the bench beside him. "If I had to choose between asking them to fix my bathtub and spending some friendly time with the Kazon, it would be a tough decision."
Tom laughs genuinely. Marvels, inside the privacy of his own head, at how charming he can find this woman even after all he knows.
For the life of him, he can't remember her being this animated on the ship. Was she and he doesn't remember? She must have been, as there were years when he enjoyed her company.
"So what have you done with your free day? Tom Paris, loose in San Francisco. I can only imagine."
"You would think," he sighs, looking up, into the afternoon sun. "But it seems I am now a more boring version of the man I used to be. I don't really enjoy drinking. I don't read. And apparently I only like holoprograms when I'm writing them or playing them with other people."
The part about not reading earns him a short scowl, which he accepts. Janeway otherwise appearing contemplative, brushing a fallen leaf off her dark uniform pants.
"There are worse things than enjoying your family," she says finally. And Tom completely agrees. "What do you say I break you into your own home?" she offers, a minute later.
"Would you?" he asks, sounding hopeful. He knows that she can, although perhaps not with the ease of his wife.
"Shouldn't be too hard with the access codes I do have. Besides. I've yet to break any regs as an Admiral."
. . . . .
It takes Janeway an hour of slow going work to break into the necessary subroutines. It's odd to watch her work again, to see the shadow of determination fall across her features. But it's also a familiar sight to Tom, and they actually chat while she slowly hacks his apartment.
They talk about his work, which she is surprisingly interested in, and she comments that Starfleet is talking about updating some of their flights sims. "Think how good they be if you did them," she remarks casually, as if it's fact more than compliment.
She's doing her work from inside her own apartment. It's massive, meant to impress. But then, most penthouses are. He can tell she doesn't spend much time here, though the parts that are decorated look less utilitarian than he expected.
"Your living room looks… cozy," he observes a bit later, and she laughs at the open suspicion in his voice.
"Honestly?" she shuts one eye, cringing. "That's calculated… I asked my sister to do it."
She says it by way of confession, but it's the kind of thing Tom would expect. Still, she admitted it, and the way she admits it even makes Tom smile.
They talk about Harry. And Seven. And Tuvok. And, eventually, his wife. How impressed Janeway is with the work B'Elanna has done and how happy it makes Tom to see B'Elanna so fulfilled.
"Miral has quite the act the follow," Janeway smiles, and Tom drops what he was going to say.
"We'll see," he says, non-committal.
"You don't want her going into Starfleet," Janeway ventures. There's a clear accusation in her voice, and it erases all the feelings of good cheer that Tom has found in talking to her the past hour.
"I want her to make her own choices," he says with gravity. "If that's Starfleet, fine. If it not, that's fine, too."
"Well, when she gets older and has questions about the Academy-"
"She can ask her parents," Tom cuts her off. "We both went, if you recall."
The edge in his reply appears to take Janeway by surprise. She grows silent, appearing to concentrate on the panel in front of her. Tom knows from experience she's just collecting herself and thinking about her next move.
"Would you want her to talk to Harry about the Academy? Starfleet?" she asks, a few minutes into their silence.
"I don't see why not," he replies honestly. He has no intention of ever keeping his daughter from information, or - worse - preventing her from asking questions. When Miral gets older, Tom may have to have a talk with his father when and if the man puts on pressure on the next generation, but even that he plans to handle without foreclosing honest conversations between his daughter and her grandfather. Only time will tell.
"And yet Harry's as 'fleet as they come," she observes. "So I guess your reservations are more about me."
It's more to-the-point than he expected her to be. They've been all been living in the same building for over a year, and B'Elanna speaks to Janeway frequently, but the Admiral has to have noticed sometime ago that Tom never invites her to dinner, never presses her to send time with her goddaughter. He assumed, some months ago, that she would never mention it, though whether out of disinterest or some more nebulous emotion Tom didn't hazard to guess.
"I want Miral to make her own choices," Tom repeats. "And I think… Well, I know, that people tend to fall into your field of gravity rather quickly. Make the choices you want them to make rather than the ones they want themselves."
He says without any rancor because he doesn't feel any at the moment. Wants to be honest, yes, but not brutally so.
"You think I don't realize the sway I have over people," she states, her eyes glued to the panel in front of her.
"No," Tom says softly, "I think the problem is that you do. You understand the influence you exert all too well."
She meets his gaze after that, scans for the signs of malice that are missing. She goes to work after another moment, now looking openly and indescribably wounded.
It doesn't bring Tom any pleasure. There was a time, a while back, that it would have. Still, he can't feel sorry about what he's said because it's the truth and he thinks lies would be more harmful.
"Did you resign your commission to prove a point to me?" she ventures to ask, and this time her voice is soft and low.
"No," he answers, after a moment of contemplation. "No. I left Starfleet because staying in it would have made me miserable. It would have made me a bad husband and a bad father. "
"Good," she whispers, more to herself than anything. "More people should follow their joy."
It's only a few more minutes and she's bypassed her way into his apartment.
"If you'll step over here," she tells him, "I'll let you reset your code."
She steps aside, giving him a privacy as he enters the digits. An unnecessary politeness, he thinks, given that she's demonstrated her ability to hack her way into any apartment in the building.
"Thanks," he says, and gives him a shallow nod.
"Happy to help protect the Torres family honor,"she quips, sounding like their exchange a few minutes earlier never happened.
She doesn't walk him to the door and he doesn't make any polite invitations he doesn't mean. He heads down the lift his quarters, grateful when his door swooshes open to reveal his living room.
"Just an hour," he tells himself, plopping himself in front of the television set. He puts on an episode of The Twilight Zone and smiles at the dramatic narration and hokey black and white effects.
The next thing he knows, he's blinking in the dim, artificial light of his living room, Miral playing a meter from him and B'Elanna's footsteps in the kitchen.
"Hey," she says, when she sees that he's awake. "Did you have a good day before your nap?"
"I'm glad you're home," he says instead, but she doesn't press after he stands behind her, wrapping his arms around her.
"Any votes for dinner?"
"Pizza?" She laughs at his hopeful voice, and he pulls his arms tighter around her.
"You vote the same thing every time," she chuckles. "But at least you're predictable."
"I am a man of simple tastes," he declares. Nuzzles his chin into the side of her neck.
"Whatever brings you joy," she shakes her head, and notes that he falls silent. "Tom?"
He doesn't say anything. At least, not yet. Just keeps her arms around her, his face buried in her hair.
. . . . .
The following year B'Elanna gets pregnant with their son. They name him Owen, a decision that makes the senior Paris tear up, hugging Tom longer than he did even when he greeted him that first day, at McKinely Station.
Tom almost never see Janeway, although he assumes B'Elanna must talk to her often enough. The few times they run into her in the building, the whole family, Miral's face doesn't light up with recognition and Janeway doesn't fuss over newborn Owen.
After that, Tom's life seems to speed up. One kid is work, but two are a challenge, no less so when their development is sped by partial Klingon ancestry. His daily routine becomes a constant, evolving loop of work and naptimes and daycare and meals, occasionally punctuated with the rush up to a large, crowded holiday.
Just before Owen's first birthday, Starfleet offers B'Elanna a liaison job on Bajor. The Federation is still courting the planet, and its pouring of scientific resources into the area has reached an all-time high. It's an amazing job, something B'Elanna has been desiring, but it's so far away that neither of them find it tempting.
"Let's go check it out,"Tom says, trying to be prudent. "We'll go for one week with the kids and see what it's like. You can look at the engineering facilities, we can both poke into schools and housing."
"What about your job?" B'Elanna frets.
"I'm one of the best programmers in my company," he points out, "they'll find a way to keep me so I don't go to work for one of their competitors."
They visit Bajor a month after they get offer. They don't travel this far very often, so Miral is excited and Owen a little fussy. B'Elanna looks openly worried the whole way, and when they hit orbit Tom wraps his arms around her shoulders and squeezes her as tight as she'll allow.
The planet is breathtaking. It helps that everyone they meet is kind to them, without exception. Granted, they've both been been before, but that was when they were in Chakotay's Maquis outfit. Not the best of times for any of them, including the still occupation- ravaged planet. Tom wonders how a people who have seen so much strife and suffering can still be so compassionate and open.
While B'Elanna tours the facility she'd be working in, Tom takes the kids outside to wander. Owen has started taking more and more steps on his own, and his big sister stands behind him protectively, waiting to catch him if he falls. Tom has just begun to wonder about their mother when she appears beside him, slipping her hand into his with a smile.
"I take it your tour went well."
"It didn't go poorly," she allows. She says it with a poker face, which means she really was impressed.
They start to debate logistics, weigh the cons of being so far from Earth, when the sky opens up and rain starts pouring down on them.
Owen shrieks, but it's with excitement rather than fear. Miral giggles and twists her arms around with joy - throws her head back and watches with big eyes as rain streaks through the massive tree branches she's standing directly under.
B'Elanna and Tom watch in awe as their children laugh and squeal and dance.
That night, they decide to stay on Bajor.
. . . . .
Thy move back from Bajor to Earth is poorly timed and difficult on the whole family. It's been fourteen years and they're deeply entrenched in the life they've built, but a looming war between the Cardassians and the Klingons makes Bajor a precarious place to be.
"We could wait. See what happen," Tom sighs in bed, late at night.
"I want to," B'Elanna says, turning to face him, "at least for the kids. And Miral has her entrance exams in three weeks! I just… worry that waiting might be unwise."
Tom knows his wife is right. As difficult as it will be to take their children away from their schools and friends, the sooner they leave, the better off they are . Bajor might be neutral, but it's never had the best luck with having its neutrality respected.
When they inform the kids, Miral (predictably) throws a dramatic fit, claiming this ruins everything, and Owen grows completely quiet. When his daughter stalks upstairs, his wife soon following her, Tom settles on the couch next to Owen and puts a hand on the fifteen-year-old's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Tom offers, pain apparent, "I know you're going to miss Hagan."
Miral and Owen both have boyfriends right now, but while Miral's affections seems to come and go, Owen is slower to get attached. He and Hagan have been dating for about six months now, and every time Owen hears Hagan's name he begins to smile uncontrollably.
"S'ok," Owen says, not at all convincing. "I can comm him from San Francisco."
"Right," Tom sighs, and ruffles the boy's dark hair.
It starts to rain outside, and Tom sits listening, his brokenhearted son quietly leaning into him.
Tom has never really cared about pomp and titles, but he's grateful that when they move back to San Francisco, his wife is enough of a bigshot to warrant special attention from Transfer Services. No do-it-yourself anti-grav units, just three polite looking crewmen who carry and then unpack the family's things with great efficiency.
They're back in their old building, which feels a bit strange to Tom, though this time their assigned quarters are absolutely palatial.
"I want you to be successful," Tom says to his son, as they both turn in circles in the massive living room. "Failing that, my advice to you is to marry someone who is."
Owen and Tom laugh hysterically while B'Elanna huffs from her project in the kitchen.
"Your father is successful," she maintains, needlessly.
"What all powerful people have said to their kept men," Owen whispers to his father, and Tom laughs even harder.
"This really isn't fair," Miral exclaims, emerging from a bedroom. "First we have to move, and now we have these huge bedrooms just when I'm going away to school."
"Guess that means I get the bigger room," Owen waggles his eyebrows, and his sister doesn't fight him on it. Miral might be dramatic, but she also has a strong sense of justice. She's very rarely petty.
"Speaking of school," Tom says, "we only have three days before you have to report to the Academy. How many errands do we still have left on the checklist?"
"A million," B'Elanna calls, and Miral pulls a face. "Hey Mir, look at all the space on the balcony outside. Would you like to put some of your art out there?"
"Can I?" Miral asks, looking between her parents.
"I think that would be great," Tom says.
"I permanent exhibit," her brother agrees.
For several years, Miral has been making metal and alloy sculptures out of found or discarded objects. They're large and beautiful pieces, always transforming the spent plasma conduit or broken power relay she started with as a canvas.
Tom thinks her art is getting better every month, which is why he was surprised when Miral set her heart on the Academy last year. He doubts she's going to find her passion there, but never pushes the subject with her.
It's her life and her decision. He reminds himself of this daily.
"That reminds me," Miral says, "I made something for Admiral Janeway. I need to get it to her before I report."
"That was nice of you," B'Elanna says.
"She read one of my entrance essays," Miral smiles hugely, "even though she was on deep space assignment."
Tom's accepted his daughter's hero worship of Kathryn Janeway by the time Miral was seven or eight. She hasn't spent much time with her, but she grew up listening to all her father's Voyager stories, not to mention Uncle Harry's tales of Janeway's courage and fortitude.
"You're not upset?" B'Elanna once asked Tom suspiciously. They were at the wedding of Jenny Delaney, six years earlier, and Miral spent half the time glued to the nominal godmother whom she almost never sees.
"Miral is drawn to the epic," Tom had shrugged. "And I suppose there isn't anyone more epic than Kathryn Janeway."
"That's big of you," his wife noted, obviously pleased.
"Not really. She lives in San Francisco, we live on Bajor. Tough to corrupt from that distance, don't ya think?"
In a way, Tom had been right, and in another, he had been comically wrong. Janeway hasn't been present much at all in Miral's life, and the woman barely knows Owen. But because of that distance, she's bigger than life to both of his children, especially to his daughter, who takes great pride in the fact that she was born on Janeway's ship.
Life never turns out the way you plan, Tom thinks, then smiles and shrugs it off.
"Does she still live in this building?" Tom asks his wife, and B'Elanna seems to consider it.
"She's never mentioned moving, but with her schedule, who knows."
"Kathryn Janeway lives here? In this building?" Miral demands.
B'Elanna smiles, likely remembering her husband asking something similar, although in a very different tone.
"She used to," her father answers. "I guess she might still."
"She's never going to sleep now you know," Owen rolls his eyes in Miral's direction. "How could she, with her idol so close by?"
B'Elanna gives her husband an amused look, neither of them pointing out that if Kathryn Janeway does live in the building, Owen will be first person to ride the lifts up and down, hoping to bump into her 'by accident.'
"I'll find out," Tom promises. "And if not, I'll set up a time for you to give her your present."
As it turns out, Janeway still lives in the building, but she's on deep assignment for two more weeks, so Miral doesn't get to see her before she starts at the Academy. A fact that the girl loudly laments.
"I promise to get your gift to her," Tom assures her, kissing her ridged forehead. "Now we've gotta get going or else we'll be late."
B'Elanna, Tom, and Owen senior all see Miral off her first day. Tom's dad is still on active duty, but he's had some health problems, and Tom is glad that he gets to see his granddaughter follow in the family tradition that's always meant so much to him.
"I'm sure you have mixed feelings about this," his father says, when they're alone. It's the type of concern Tom wouldn't have expected from his dad twenty years ago.
"I just want her to be happy," Tom replies. "I can support just about anything, as long as it makes her happy."
"You're such a good father," Owen says, and clasps his shoulder. "I'm sorry I wasn't as good a father to you as you are Miral and Owen."
It's true, he wasn't. But Tom's anger over that was long ago extinguished and he doesn't want to spend the last years of his father's life dwelling in the mistakes they've both made.
"You're a good dad now," Tom replies finally. "And you've never been anything but a stellar grandfather."
They have a huge family dinner, if without Miral, who isn't allowed to leave campus yet. It's at the Paris family home, the rooms filled with people Tom knows well and some he doesn't. Young Owen is a charmer and makes everyone laugh, but Tom notices that he sticks close to his parents, always within their line of sight.
B'Elanna has an early meeting, so she takes their son home earlier than Tom himself leaves. When Tom does go, he's the last one left and he feels a familiar guilt, leaving his father in the large house all alone. Maybe his father senses it, maybe he doesn't. Either way, he hugs Tom again, reminds him how proud he is of him, B'Elanna, their family.
Tom thinks about it the entire ride home. Wishes there was some way to share this particular and profound contentment with the younger version of himself.
He exists the Trans Francisco station walking at a slow, leisurely pace. Tries to step aside for those who are hurrying behind him when he spots a familiar face.
"Admiral," he says, loud enough for her to hear him. Janeway's a few meters away, carrying a duffel bag, and his voice takes her by surprise.
"Are you all back on Earth already?" she asks, and Tom gives a smiling nod. "I can only imagine the stress of moving your family so last minute, but I have to say I'm glad you're no where near Cardassia."
The news reports are already getting ugly, but Tom knows Janeway sees daily tactical briefings. He can only assume her worries, like his father's, confirm all his worst fears for Bajor.
He thinks about his friends, all the children who used to run through his home. His head fills with images of that house; he pictures every branch of the big tree in the front yard. It was the first one Miral ever tried to climb. She finally got to the top despite both her parents yelling for her to get down.
"I'm sorry," she says simply, after Tom's face becomes noticeably pained. "I know it was your home."
But home for Tom has always been about people, which is what he worries about most now.
"Miral and Owen are safe and sound," he says instead. "That's the main thing."
"I assume Miral already reported to the Academy?"
"Today," he confirms. "Probably the happiest I've ever seen my father."
She doesn't say anything to this, and Tom suspects it's because she thinks she's in a minefield. They've had conversations alone since their heated discussion sixteen years ago, but never about this. Never about his children and their futures.
She's kept her distance from his family, responding with great enthusiasm to any and all comms from B'Elanna or Miral but never initiating contact. Never once insinuating herself in their family's private life.
He used to think it was hurt feelings, but now he thinks it was just out of respect for his wishes. Feels a little stupid for not giving her that credit before now.
"Miral made you something," he blurts, to break the silence. "A sculpture. As a thank you for your help."
"Really?" she asks, and her grey eyes get wide and eager.
"I know it's late and you're probably just setting foot planetside," he gestures to her duffel, "but I can bring it up to your quarters if you're up to it."
"I don't want to put you out," she shakes her head. "I'm sure it's going to be work, lugging it across the city."
"No work," he assures her. "We're back in the same building."
"That's perfect," she says, and her face breaks out in a smile.
Despite the proximity, it's still a lot of work getting Miral's artwork just five floors up to Janeway's. The piece is big and unyielding, and the most natural ways to carry it would also serve to damage it. He works clumsily if quietly, his wife and son long asleep.
"Tommy, you're getting old and out of shape," he says to himself once he's onto the turbolift, panting and sweating with the sculpture standing beside him.
He manages to get it into Janeway's place with a bit more grace. He would normally ask her where she wants it, but it's so heavy that he just puts it down in an empty spot in the living room.
"It's gorgeous," she crosses her arms. And he can tell she's really struck.
"Part of the materials came out of a few dead replicators. Something about you telling her you never met a replicator that liked you?"
"I did," she says absently. "But that was years ago. We were all at a ceremony. I think Harry's promotion? Anyway, the replicator refused to give me coffee that was hot and Miral caught me cursing it."
She runs her fingers across the edge of sculpture, and Tom can see that she's tracing the pieces that likely came from the devices in question. He does the same thing when Miral tells him the materials she started with, because it always changes how he perceives the piece.
"Now the question is where to put it, and whether to put it next to the other piece of hers I have."
"She's sent you other artwork?" he asks, surprised. Especially given the logistics.
"Not quite," Janeway laughs, and points to the artwork sitting in a corner.
"This one!" Tom exclaims. "This was one of my favorites! Broke my heart when she told us to get rid of it."
It's a piece that's made of bright alloys, a composite of angles that draw the eye up and up and up. Miral made it for the boy she dated two boyfriends ago, but by the time she finished it, they weren't together anymore and he'd moved onto to one of their classmates.. She told her parents that she didn't want to see the sculpture ever again.
"I demanded she keep it," Tom explains, "and B'Elanna convinced me that it was no use arguing. That if it stayed in the house, Miral would just dismantle it. When B'Elanna told Miral she'd take care of it, I hoped she stowed it somewhere for safe keeping."
"She did," Janeway smiles, then looks to gauge Tom's reaction. "I hope you don't mind."
"Far from it," he assures. He's just glad to see it survived, living with someone who appreciates it.
"You know, my sister raved about this piece when she saw it," Janeway says, by way of conversation.
"She's an artist, right?" Tom inquires, wracking his brain for what he remembers about her family.
"She's been an artist in residence for sometime at the institute on Andor. The sculpture was the first thing Phoebe noticed the last time she came to visit. Demanded to know where I got it in fact."
"Did you tell Miral?" Tom asks, enthralled, and he watches Janeway wrestle with something before she shakes her head to indicate the negative.
Tom understands, and with painful immediacy. She wanted to tell Miral about her sister, about Phoebe's position at the Andorian Institute and the fact she would be a shoe-in for admission, but she didn't judge it her place.
It isn't funny, not really, but the absurdity of it strikes Tom with such force he starts laughing and rubbing his face.
"What's so funny about that?" Janeway asks, obviously startled. But she also finds Tom's laughter contagious, always has, so she slowly begins to chuckle, even though she doesn't know why.
"Parenting is the fastest way to find out how little wisdom you have," Tom shakes his head, still chuckling a bit. "There are times when I pretend to know exactly what I'm doing, but I'm pretty sure the universe keeps track of those incidents and pays me back."
"I'm not a parent," Janeway smiles, "but I think I still know that feeling."
They fall into a comfortable silence, and Tom uses the opportunity to scan her living room. It's pretty much as he remembers seeing it, just more photos on the wall. There's a whole row dedicated to children of Voyager crew, though Tom frowns when he sees she doesn't have any of the child Seven and Chakotay adopted.
Come to think of it, Chakotay never mentions Janeway, not even in contexts that naturally correspond to her. And abruptly, Tom begins to wonder if he's not the only erstwhile crewmember who's spent years punishing Janeway, intentionally or otherwise.
"Both handsome boys," she says, when she sees him staring at a picture of Harry's sons, and Tom quickly voices agreement. While Tom's children are a mix of their parents, Harry's kids are practically clones of him. They each have one or two features that are their mother's, but otherwise, they're all Kim.
"Miral used to treat Harry's oldest like another annoying little brother," Tom shares, thinking back to when all the kids were little.
"Sam? But he's so eloquent! That young man can hold a conversation about anything."
"And he keeps getting taller," Tom points out. "I warned Harry that one of these days Miral is going to change her tune and that three year age gap won't seem so big."
"Did Harry take that as a threat?"
"He said he laments the fact that he had two boys rather than two girls, whom neither of the Paris children would be interested in."
Janeway laughs, likely imagining Harry telling Tom just that. She goes into the dining room and comes back with a bottle and two small glasses.
"Scotch? Single malt?"
Tom doesn't drink often anymore, but right now the offer strikes him as perfect. He accepts the healthy pour that she hands him with a murmur of appreciation.
"Ice?"
"A crime," he says, by way of declining.
"Capital," she agrees, and settles on the couch, scotch in hand.
"So how are you?" he asks, really looking at her. He knows she must work herself to the bone still, and yet time is being kind to her. She's gone grey long ago, sports more wrinkles, but otherwise she looks the same. Angular face. Sharp eyes. Thin lips that tend to press themselves together when she thinks.
"Starfleet is Starfleet," she shrugs. "It's a little more complicated with a nearby war brewing, otherwise things are the same."
He considers asking about her mother because he's heard that her health took a turn for the worse at the beginning of the year. He decides against it, if only because he knows how painful it can be when people bring up a parent's failing health in casual conversation.
"My sister picked up a holonovel the other week," she offers. "She realized when she was finished that it was one by your company. Said it was the best one she's run in years."
Tom started his own holocoding company not long after the move to Bajor. His old company was (mostly) willing to work with him on the relocation, but he was less and less interested in the projects they were assigning him. In fact, he'd declined a few because he judged them ethically iffy.
He quit and started his own company shortly after. It was slow going at first, but the few people he hired were exceptionally driven and creative. After a few years, he got more contracts thrown his way. Developed a reputation for doing things from a perspective that had never been seen before.
"Which program?" Tom asks, excited to hear the feedback.
"I forget the title," she apologizes. "It was about twentieth century France I think?"
"Normandy," he says, and knows exactly the one she means. It isn't Tom's biggest seller but it's his favorite that he's produced. "I should have farmed out more of the research to employees, but I was having so much fun writing it, I pretty much kicked everyone else off the project."
He did, too. Got so behind in the business end of things his account manager threatened him within an inch of his life. Made his wife laugh when he came home looking dejected because one of his employees ordering him to stop playing and get things done.
"I might be biased," B'Elanna had said, "but I tend to think the smartest business decision you ever made was hiring a half-Klingon as your accountant."
Things certainly stay orderly under Arta's watch, this much Tom can agree. The memory makes him smile so much, he has to explain the story to Janeway.
"So basically," she gestures vaguely, one hand cradling her scotch, "your life is run by Klingon women?"
"Yes," Tom says simply. "More precisely, one Klingon woman at work, two at home, plus a surprisingly sneaky Klingon boy."
"How is Owen? Is he adjusting to the move?"
Tom wants to say his son is fine, but the truth is that the move has been hardest on the family's youngest member. Tom's gotten up more than a few sleepless nights to find Owen on the comm with Hagan, both boys looking miserable. Add in changing schools and his sister leaving for school, it's a lot for any kid to handle.
"He'd just gotten a serious boyfriend before we left Bajor," he confesses. "Owen's a good sport. Never threw a fit about coming to Earth. But. . . he's hurting. There isn't much I can do to fix it."
"I can't imagine how difficult that is for you," she says softly. But something in Tom tells him that she does.
It's late and the antique clock that chimes, an heirloom Tom can only assume, reminds them both of this.
"Well," she says, "I guess I should let you get to sleep. But thank you so much for bringing Miral's present up here. It means a great deal."
It does. Tom can see that. And meeting her gaze, he feels a burning need to chase that feeling down.
It isn't as if he's decided he was entirely wrong about Janeway, back when Miral was little. He wasn't, he recognizes. It just all . . . seems to matter so much less.
And perhaps it's because he's now older and has an infinite number of mistakes, professional and personal, under his own belt. Or else, because he's the parent of two teenagers and thus has grown quite comfortable with a certain level of necessary hypocrisy. Or, just maybe, it's because he's had a full day of feeling so proud and so scared for his oldest that his heart has moved permanently into his throat. But for any or all of those reasons, he thinks only of the profound disservice to his children it would be to continually exclude the woman in front of him from both of their lives.
"You should come for dinner," he says to her, when she walks him to her door. "Miral won't be able to come home for a few weeks, but you're welcome to visit when she does. Maybe even before, if you're up to it?"
Surprise is something he's seen on Janeway a hundred times before, and in a multitude of pleasant and unpleasant shades. But her current expression of complete shock - this is a first for Tom.
"I'd love to," she says finally. "Though my schedule might make planning a little difficult."
"B'Elanna's is hectic as well," he deflects. "We'll manage. We're resourceful people after all."
She smiles her agreement, touching his shoulder as he leaves.
But words are one thing, Tom knows, and actions entirely different.
. . . . .
"I'm sorry, Owen, you can't go out tomorrow. We're having company for dinner."
Owen isn't really a pouter by nature, but the plans he's made are with the new friends he's finally made and he's understandably disappointed.
"Dad," the boy laments, his head lulling back. A sign of resignation rather than defiance.
"I know," Tom says. "I know. You can reschedule your game for this weekend though."
Owen nods sullenly, flopping onto the couch, and B'Elanna gives Tom a meaningful look.
"Don't you want to know who's coming for dinner?" B'Elanna calls, sounding perfectly casual.
"Is it Uncle Harry?" Owen asks, a little hope creeping into his voice.
"Nope," Tom says. "His ship doesn't dock until the day after tomorrow."
"Then I don't know," Owen shrugs, tipping now into an out and out pout. "Do I really have to guess?"
B'Elanna shrugs at her husband, Tom leaving the kitchen to sit on the couch, next to their son.
"It's Admiral Janeway," Tom informs him. Watching with amusement as Owen's eyes go wide.
"No way," he says to his father. Then looks to his mother for confirmation. She nods, smiling broadly, and the boy begins hastily making plans. "Am I allowed to ask her Voyager questions?" He says it slyly, his voice already mischievous. His father throws a pillow at him.
"Why don't you start with polite conversation first, hmm? Before you pepper her with questions?"
It's a gentle reminder, but one that doesn't really bespeak worry from either of his parents. One of great joys of their life is that they managed to raise two polite children, so there's no real worry that Janeway will be interrogated.
"Does Mir know yet?" Owen asks excitedly.
It's the first weekend Miral is allowed to leave campus and she's coming home tomorrow morning.
Tom hasn't told her about Janeway because he wants to see it in person when she flips.
"Not yet," Tom replies, and Owen's eyes grow bright and devious.
"Can we just not tell her?" he asks. "Spring it on her right before the Admiral walks through the door?"
It's a funny idea because then, they all know, Miral will really flip. It's for this reason that Tom and B'Elanna should say no, as waiting to tell her is just a little bit mean.
If only Miral's brother didn't look so very excited at the prospect . . .
"Okay," Tom says, and B'Elanna begins to chuckle.
"Man," Owen remarks, splaying back against the couch. "This is going to be amazing."
Later, when Owen is doing his homework, B'Elanna catches her husband by the wrist and pulls him into a hug.
"I'm proud of you," she whispers to him, but he doesn't say anything in response.
He doesn't feel worthy of pride. If anything, he feels ashamed for having been at all petty when it came to Janeway and his children.
Still, Tom has learned that it's better to dwell in amends rather than mistakes. Smiles at the thought of how excited Miral will be to see her hero - and how very desperately she will try to hide this from Janeway.
"What should we make for dinner tomorrow?" he asks, and his wife feigns contemplation.
"Pizza?"
"Hmm. I knew there was a reason I married you," he teases, and B'Elanna lets him bite her ear.
"Really?" she says. "And here I assumed it was just a small ship."
. . . . .