a/n: We are very near the end now! I'll be doing something a little different this week and posting the final story, which is more of an epilogue, tomorrow. Here are the preceding stories for your convenience:

1. Fresh Start

2. Running to the End

3. Growing Pains

4. Grounded

5. Preferences

6. Release

7. Falling

8. Support System

9. The Hard Way Down

10. Wintercaerig

11. Coming to Terms

12. Relic

13. Unconditional

14. Together

Just shy of one hundred years of age, it was impossible for B'Elanna to provide all the care her husband needed. But she liked to do what she could.

They'd had round-the-clock health aides at the house for months — Tom had wanted to spend his final days in the same room in which his father and Harry had — but when even that arrangement wasn't tenable anymore, the Doctor said the only thing left to do was move him to the hospice wing of Starfleet Medical.

Tom had fussed and complained when the EMH had broken the news three weeks ago, but B'Elanna wasn't having any of that. If the Doctor felt that this was the best way to keep Tom going, then that's what they were going to do.

She carried a plate of scrambled eggs and soft, buttered toast over to the biobed. Tom's eyes were closed.

"Uh-uh, Flyboy," she said, putting down the plate and shaking his shoulder. "No sleeping yet. You have to eat something."

His lids cracked open, but only just. "Jus' gonna sleep a bit," he murmured. "Eat later."

B'Elanna nudged his shoulder again. "No, Tom." Her voice was firm. "You'll eat now. You can sleep when you're done."

Tom sighed and opened his eyes wider. "That's it," B'Elanna said, pleased her stubbornness had won out again. She placed the napkin over his chest and moved the bed's tray table into position. "Open wide."

It had been a low point for Tom, when his hands no longer had enough strength or coordination for him to feed himself. His mood had been dark for days, but B'Elanna had wheedled and teased and plied him with all his favorites until he rallied. Mostly soft things now, of course — eggs, applesauce, pureed soups. It was hard for him to chew much.

He did a fair job this morning — several bites of toast and half the eggs. B'Elanna decided it was all right to not press him further. He got most of his calories parenterally now, anyway. But the Doctor had told her the longer Tom was willing to take food the conventional way, the better; B'Elanna made sure to get something into him at least three times every day. She could feed him more later, assuming one of her children or grandchildren didn't show up and try to force her home.

It pissed her off, when they came — acting like they had no ulterior motives and were just there to visit Tom. She was old, she wasn't an idiot. B'Elanna knew how much she needed to eat and sleep. She also knew that when Miral or Joe or one of the grandkids showed up, they would pressure her to leave the moment they were out of Tom's earshot. One time Miral had the temerity to send her aide to escort B'Elanna home. The hapless lieutenant found out that Miral came by her temper more than honestly, and her daughter hadn't made that mistake again.

Concern noted but not fucking necessary, was the message B'Elanna had sent back to Admiral Paris' office. B'Elanna could eat from the room's replicator just as Tom did, she was fine sleeping on the bed the nurses had set up for her. Tom needed her here, and she would not allow anyone to separate them.

"Are you warm enough?" she asked Tom now, as she cleaned his face with a damp towel. Even with the environmental controls and bed's settings tailored to Tom's needs, he often complained of being cold. She pulled the blanket up to just under his chin, not waiting for a response. "You need a shave," B'Elanna noted, letting a hand linger on the white stubble on his cheek.

"I'm tired," Tom mumbled.

"That's OK," B'Elanna replied. He fatigued quickly these days, often only managing to stay awake for twenty or thirty minutes at a time before he drifted off again. "We can shave later. Go ahead and sleep." She got the plate from the table and turned to bring it to be recycled.

B'Elanna felt a hand on her arm. She dropped the plate with a clatter. Tom's grip was the strongest it'd been in days. She smiled and leaned towards him, encouraged by his newfound energy.

But his eyes were somber as they looked back at her. They were one of the few things not affected by his age or illness, the irises still as blue as the day she'd met him. "No, B'Elanna," he said, pronouncing each syllable carefully. "I mean… I'm tired."

His hand slid off her arm and fell back onto the bed. B'Elanna immediately tucked it under the blanket — his hand was ice-cold. She started to respond, to tell him she understood what he'd said despite how his words sometimes slurred now, that he should just take a nap if he wanted. Then she realized what he was saying.

"No, Tom. We're not doing this." She lowered herself to the floor with a grunt and started to put the remaining bits of egg and bread back onto the fallen plate. "You're fine — your condition has stabilized since we had you admitted and started the isophosphenyl. You're just a little depressed, that's all. Anyone would be, stuck in this room all day. I'll talk to the Doctor about it. Maybe we can have you talk to a counselor. Or take you outdoors! Would you like that? Maybe the next warm day?" She had to place the dish on the chair next to Tom's bed so she could use both hands to push herself back to standing. Perhaps Miral was right — maybe a night in her own bed would do her some good. Joe would stay with Tom, if she asked him.

"Doc said…" Tom took a few shallow breaths. "Still getting worse…. Just slower now. He said... I'd need respiratory support soon." Tom shook his head. "I don't want that, 'Lanna. Please. I'm tired."

Fucking Doctor, B'Elanna cursed to herself. He wasn't supposed to do that — talk to Tom when she wasn't present. It must have been yesterday, when Juuli had come and dragged her to a café nearby. ("Just for an hour, Abuela. He's sleeping, and you need some fresh air.")

"Let's just cross that bridge when we come to it, Tom," she said, keeping her voice calm and stroking the few remaining wispy strands of hair on his head. She didn't want to yell at him. Tom wasn't the one she was angry with. "Soon doesn't mean today, so let's not worry about it yet."

He shook his head again, dislodging her hand. "I am worried. We need… to talk about this. Now. It can't wait." He closed his eyes for a few breaths and B'Elanna thought he might have worn himself out.

But, with visible effort, he forced them opened again. His gaze was steady despite his exhaustion. "I need to stop, 'Lanna. I never wanted this… To be here. I need to stop."

"What you need is sleep — you've done a lot this morning," she said, finally bringing the damn leftovers back to the replicator on the other side of the room. They'd been through this before — it was just like when he started needing help getting dressed, or when he'd been unable to walk anymore. He was feeling a little down, that's all. Although maybe a counselor wasn't a great idea, after all. He didn't have the energy to talk much these days. But surely there was a medication that would help. She'd ask the Doctor about it as soon as Tom was sleeping. "You'll feel better when you've gotten some rest. That's all you need."

"No, B'Elanna."

"Yes, Tom!" she snapped, slamming the plate down into the replicator. "This conversation ends now! I am not letting you give up!"

Her words echoed in the quiet room, lingered amongst the beeping of the monitors and Tom's rasping breaths. B'Elanna closed her eyes, taking a deep inhale through her nose and releasing it slowly. The last thing they needed was the nursing staff to burst in here to find out what all the commotion was. Maybe she did need a break for a little while. Clearly being in this hospital room was getting to her, too. "This isn't you," she told Tom, her tone even again. "You aren't a quitter. We're going to keep fighting this, until we can't anymore. End of discussion."

Tom picked his arm up again, knocking aside the blanket and reaching for her. "I can't, 'Lanna… Keep fighting. I'm sorry."

B'Elanna stared at the trembling hand he held extended towards her, but didn't move closer to the bed. Exhausting what little strength he had, Tom let his arm drop. It slid off the mattress and hung, limp and pale, off the side of the bed. She did nothing to cover it this time.

"You're sorry," B'Elanna spat at him as her eyes burned. She wrapped her arms around herself and fought to keep her voice steady, to stuff down the sobs that threatened to choke her. B'Elanna had not cried once since it had started: not when she'd first noticed the tremors in her husband's movement, not when Tom was diagnosed with the same neurodegenerative disorder that had killed his mother, not when the Doctor said they'd be lucky to have six months. She sure as hell wasn't going to start now. "Well, sorry's not fucking good enough, Tom! When did you become such a coward? This is your life we're talking about! How can you just quit like this?"

"I'm sorry," he said again, tears now streaming down his cheeks.

You promised me, you son of a bitch, B'Elanna thought as she turned away from his bed and his crying. You said you would never leave me. She fled the room as quickly as her aged legs allowed her, pushing past the nurses that had finally arrived to see what of sort of person would rage at a dying man.

Fucking San Francisco weather, B'Elanna thought as she regarded the clouds that covered the Bay from the 'sunroom' on the hospital's northeast corner. She could tell by the swaying eucalyptus trees and the heavy jackets on the people walking around outside that it was blustery and cold. Maybe she could move somewhere warm, finally, once…

No.

"I brought you some mint tea."

B'Elanna glanced over her shoulder at the Doctor, who was carrying a steaming mug in his hand. She still couldn't think of him as Leonard. "Why?" she muttered.

"Because Tom told me it's your favorite," he said, coming around her left side and pressing the warm cup into her hands. "At least since you gave up raktajino."

B'Elanna sipped at the hot drink. It was good. Apparently Tom had told the hologram her preferred blend as well. But her appreciation of the tea and the two men that had conspired to get it to her disappeared when she remembered how angry she was. "What the hell is the matter with you?" she asked the EMH, turning to glare at him.

"I thought I'd ask you the same thing. The nurses said you were creating quite the uproar." The Doctor's face was composed but disdainful as always. It was disconcerting at times, how his appearance never changed. B'Elanna found that after talking to him, she'd be startled when she next looked in a mirror — having forgotten that her skin was no longer smooth, her hair was no longer dark and lustrous.

"You shouldn't have told him he'd need respiratory support soon." Her hands tightened around the mug. "You scared him. Now he's giving up, says he doesn't want to fight anymore. Do you know how hard it is to get him out of these moods now? From now on, I don't want you talking to him if I'm not there."

"Tom's mental faculties are largely intact, B'Elanna. He's capable of making his own medical decisions, so his preferences still supersede yours. We've been meeting without you regularly since his diagnosis."

Her eyes widened and her hands shook. "What? You've been— !" B'Elanna dropped the cup onto a nearby table to stop herself from throwing it at him. "That bastard. He never said a word. Of course, he didn't. Why would he share anything with me? I'm just his fucking wife."

All those pleas from her children — to take a break, get out of the house for a while, leave the hospital — took on a new, sinister air. They weren't about their concern for her after all. They were about letting Tom make decisions for his future without her.

The Doctor tried to take her hand, but she snatched it away from him. "I don't want to hear it — you making excuses for him. Fucking petaQ! He should have included me!"

"Clearly," the Doctor remarked. "Since you're handling everything so well." He gestured to the small empty couch next to them. "Sit. Please," he said, his voice softer now. "We need to talk, B'Elanna."

She stared out the windows as the hologram prattled on: "He's lived months longer than my original projections." "He's getting weaker every day." "There aren't any more drug trials." "You don't want him to suffer, do you?"

That last one got her attention. "Of course, I don't want him to suffer! If he is, it's on you. You're his doctor. If he's in pain, then treat it."

The Doctor heaved a sigh. "I can't treat this kind of pain, B'Elanna." He went to take her hand again but withdrew when she bristled. "From the very beginning, Tom made it clear to me: no extreme measures. No experimental treatments, no intravenous feeding, no indefinite hospital stays. And no respiratory support. I've watched him take back every single one of those decisions, save the last. All we're doing now is delaying the inevitable; meanwhile, we're getting farther away from Tom's wishes each day. I can't let you keep doing this to him."

B'Elanna pressed her fingers into the firm cushions of the couch. She wished her damn hips and knees weren't so achy — she longed to pace. She needed to move. How long had it been, since she'd been able to run? Twenty years? More? God, she missed it.

"What are you accusing me of, exactly? Do you think I'm making him get these treatments? That's he's been forced into the hospital against his will?"

The Doctor shook his head, his voice dropping as hers rose. "I'm not accusing of you anything, B'Elanna. The decisions have all been Tom's own. If I believed otherwise, I wouldn't have allowed any of it to proceed." He stood then, blocking her view of the windows. "I should go check on him, actually. But I'd like to ask you to do one thing before I go."

"What?" she snarled.

"You know and understand Tom Paris better than anyone in the galaxy, B'Elanna. Somewhere, deep down, you know what he wants. I'm sure of it. So what I'd like you to consider is this: all these things he's allowed — the feeding, the hospital, the drug trials — do you really think he did them for himself? Or do you think it's possible he did them for you?"

The hologram walked away without another word, his footfalls making no sound on the soft carpet. B'Elanna imagined hurling couch cushions and side tables to the floor, but she resisted. She didn't need the attention: concerned orderlies wondering if the elderly half-Klingon that came every day had finally gone off her rocker.

Fucking hologram. What did he know anyway? Tom was his own person and always had been. How many times had they battled, over their seventy-odd years together, because they couldn't agree on something? He wouldn't agree to medical treatments he didn't want, just for her sake. Tom was resilient, that's all it was. There were countless difficult times in his past, especially in his younger years, when a lesser person would have given up. But that wasn't who her husband was. They'd both made the joke over the years — that in many ways Tom was more of a Klingon than she was. He was brash and bold, a fighter, fiercely loyal to his family and friends.

And he didn't break promises.

She smiled a little. To think that at one time she had feared Tom would abandon her, like her father had. It was laughable to think of now — that Tom was anything like John Torres. It's not that she was still angry with John. He'd died so long ago now; even B'Elanna could gain perspective over nearly half a century. But John was the polar opposite of Tom. Her father had always feared conflict, would deny a problem existed until it was so massive it would overwhelm him. John had meant well — had loved the older Miral, and B'Elanna, too, in his own way. She knew that now. It's just that he'd been… afraid. John had always chosen to hide, to run away instead of facing his battles head on.

B'Elanna stared at thin slip of gold that encircled her left ring finger. But no one could fight forever, could they? Even the bravest Klingon warriors lost eventually.

I can't keep fighting this.

I need to stop.

I'm tired.

How many times had Tom tried to tell her this in the past ten months? Maybe not in so many words, but on several occasions he'd expressed concern about being stuck in a biobed, about not being able to enjoy even life's simplest pleasures any longer. He was no longer well enough to visit the holodeck, of course, or to hold their great-grandchildren. His vision had yet to fail him, but two months ago he started finding it too tiring to read and now could only stay focused long enough to follow the simplest of stories. No matter what she made him to eat, he never showed any interest. What had he said to her three days ago, as she'd spooned garlic soup into his mouth?

"I wouldn't do this for anyone else, you know."

It had been a good day, relatively. B'Elanna had been focused on how bright his eyes had been, the now-rare grin that he'd had on his face as he'd said it.

But she hadn't bothered to listen to his words. "Oh, Tom," she murmured as a fat, hot tear splashed onto her hands. "I'm so sorry."

When B'Elanna arrived back at Tom's room, she paused in the corridor. The Doctor was in with him. Tom's voice was too weak to carry very far, but the Doctor's, of course, was as vibrant as ever.

"I'll wake you myself. The moment she returns."

A pause.

"Of course she's coming back, Tom. She just needs a little time to cool off, as you like to put it. She'll be here very soon, I promise. But you need to rest now. It won't do anyone any good if you wear yourself out."

How had she missed it — how the gentle the Doctor was with Tom now? No more snarky jibes, and when was the last time he'd called him 'Mr. Paris'? That, more than anything else, should have signaled to her how close they were to the end.

B'Elanna slipped through the door and cleared her throat. "I'm here now, Doctor."

The hologram was sitting on the edge of the biobed, his back facing her. He had Tom's right hand clasped tightly in his. "See?" the Doctor soothed. "I told you she'd be here soon."

Tom's lips moved in response, but even the Doctor had to lean in to hear him. "I am always right. I'm gratified you've finally decided to admit it."

B'Elanna had allowed herself a few minutes' cry in the sunroom before she'd collected herself enough to return to her husband, but what the Doctor did next nearly made her tears start anew. The hologram leaned over as he stood, and placed a gentle kiss on Tom's forehead, murmuring something inaudible before he straightened.

The Doctor locked eyes with her as he moved towards the doorway in which she still stood, and placed a hand on her shoulder. He kept his volume low, but the kind tone he'd used with Tom had vanished. "I will not allow you to challenge him further, B'Elanna. Tom's made his decision — no respiratory support, and I'm discontinuing the parenteral feeding. He wants you here. I want you here. But I will have you removed if you fight him on this."

She shook her head. "No more fighting, Doctor. I promise."

The Doctor gave her a single nod, then turned back briefly to look at Tom. "He's my oldest friend." He left the couple alone.

B'Elanna took over the spot the Doctor had just vacated, using her right hand to hold Tom's, as the hologram had done, and the left to stroke his sunken cheek. "Hi there," she said, smiling at him.

"I'm sorry," he murmured and B'Elanna shook her head.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," she assured him. "This was about me. I'm not sure you've noticed before, but sometimes my emotions can be a little… intense."

Tom grinned and let out a wisp of a laugh. B'Elanna kissed him lightly on the mouth before she continued.

"I'm the one who should be apologizing. For pressuring you into things you didn't want. I should have been better at listening to you." Her tears began to fall again and her voice grew thick. "I just… I wasn't ready to lose you, Tom. I'm still not. But… But you don't need to worry about me, OK? I'll be fine. The kids and the grandkids — they'll be here. I won't be alone. So, you… You can… "

"Shhh," Tom said, and B'Elanna felt him squeeze her hand. "You don't need… to say it."

"I love you, Tom."

"Love you, too."

They sat in silence for a time, just looking at each other, the only sounds that of the soft hum of the biobed and Tom's shallow breaths. "Are you scared?" she asked him.

"Nah," he breathed out. "Not if you're here." He paused a moment. "Are you? Scared?"

Terrified, B'Elanna thought. "No," was what she said. "We'll be together again."

"In Sto'Vo'Kor."

"In Sto'Vo'Kor." She started to stroke his head again, placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Sleep now, parmaqqay. It's time for you to rest."

"B'Elanna," Tom whispered, and his eyes closed.

It took two more days. Miral and Shovar, Joe and Aatto — they all came, the grandchildren, too. They each took a few minutes to hold Tom's hand, to say their last good-byes and 'I love you's.' Tom hadn't been able to speak anymore — his wife's name has been the last thing he'd uttered — but he'd opened his eyes when each new person sat with him, and the Doctor promised he could hear them.

As she requested, B'Elanna was the only one there at the end. The Doctor had not left the hospice wing in thirty-seven hours — knowing his friend's death was imminent and not being inconvenienced by a need for food or sleep. He wanted to be close by for Tom, in case he experienced any pain or other distress, and for B'Elanna, too.

Twenty-eight years prior, the Doctor, or Leonard Zimmerman, as he now preferred to be called, had spent eight months on Qo'noS with Miral and Shovar. The two men had worked together with the Klingon Medical Authority in an attempt to bring Klingon medical care into the twenty-fifth century. ("I'd settle for the twenty-third," Leonard had said in an aside to Shovar after the first meeting.) On one occasion, he'd been deeply honored by being allowed to witness a Klingon death. So, unlike much of the nursing staff, the Doctor was not surprised by the cry that echoed through the hallway late that night.

The hologram closed his eyes at the keening, anguished sound, then wiped at the tears that had started to fall. He was glad that he had asked the holoscientists at Jupiter station to create a crying subroutine for him five years ago. The tears felt appropriate — a visible way to honor the passing of his friend. He put out a hand to stop the nurse that was about to rush down the hall towards Tom's room. "There's no need, Ensign. I believe Ms. Torres will want some time alone. Could you contact Admiral Paris and her brother for me?"

"Of course, Doctor Zimmerman," the young man answered, but his worried eyes were still aimed down the now silent corridor. "But shouldn't we check on them? That noise…"

"Means there's nothing left to be done. It was a warning."

"A warning?"

"To the dead. To tell them that a warrior is about to arrive."

Safe travels, Tom.

The End