Author's note: This rarepair to end all rarepairs came about because Sareki02 asked me who I'd pair Tom Paris with if he couldn't be with B'Elanna. I know all the usual suspects: Janeway, Chakotay, Harry. I myself ship him with Tuvok, just a little bit, if Gravity went a different way. But I couldn't imagine any of those as long relationships. This one, however, just felt right. Or I may be crazy, one or the other. I know technically speaking this is probably a crossover, but I think this will appeal more to Voyager watchers than TNG-only watchers, so here it is
Endless thanks as always to Sareki02, not only for the idea this time but also for her patient beta reading of all my stuff, weird and otherwise. And also to Photogirl1890, the best amateur copy editor in existence! (They are also both damn good writers, to boot). I'd also like to give a shoutout to Sasha and Quixotichealer, if they are reading this. They have both been doing a lot of commenting and favoriting my stories in recent months, but don't have accounts I can contact directly. Thanks so much - I really do appreciate hearing from people!
This nutjob story takes place roughly two years prior to Caretaker.
Tom Paris directed what he hoped was a winning smile at the man on the other end of the bar. He was Concolorian and richly dressed — a long, bespoke suit jacket draped elegantly around his tail, and the cloth appeared to be a subtly patterned Bolian silk. When Tom had first shown up at the Milliway Arms a year ago, he'd heard rumors about the alien race from the other pilots. They'd warned him to stay away, that Concolorians' tastes ran towards the deviant, and they often asked more from their hires than just piloting. At the time, Tom had felt ill at the idea of anyone having to degrade themselves in such a fashion. But that was then, and this was now. The Concolorian looked wealthy, and Tom was desperate.
Apparently it wasn't a good look on him. The Concolorian curled both of his upper lips in disgust when he caught sight of Tom and he quickly turned away. The pilot picked up his drink with a sigh. When he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, he couldn't really blame the guy for rejecting him.
He was a fucking mess. It didn't help that Milliway's was the only bar in the galaxy that was well-lit. The way his worn (and not particularly clean) clothes hung off his too-thin frame, his grimy fingernails, two days' worth of stubble — it was all glaringly evident in the pristine white and red room. Shit, Tom thought, as he regarded his rheumy eyes and the numerous capillaries that had ruptured across his cheeks. You know you've hit bottom when you can't even manage to sell yourself anymore.
After he'd come clean, after Starfleet and his father told him that neither one wanted anything to do with him, he hadn't known where to go. He'd tried to hide in France, where he'd still had something resembling friends, but his sister had tracked him down within weeks. Tom knew that Kathleen or his other sister, Moira, would have put him up for a while. His mother would have helped him, too — discreetly pulled a few strings on his behalf. But what was the point? So he could disappoint them even more? Set himself up for failure once again? No. He wasn't going to do that, not to them and not to himself. Better to just disappear, go far away where he couldn't hurt anyone. Or least not anyone that mattered.
Which is how, several weeks after he'd left Earth, he'd found himself on Quatal Prime — a non-Federation colony that had an active role in trade both legitimate and otherwise. Milliway's was a known clearinghouse for unemployed pilots. If you sat your ass on a stool and were able to keep a ship in the sky, someone would hire you before too long: merchants, NGO's, some more nefarious organizations.
Unless, of course, you'd developed a reputation for fighting with your shipmates. Or having sex with the most inappropriate person on board. Or showing up to the helm hungover, and occasionally still drunk, which was the latest reason Tom had been fired. He'd been stuck here ever since — nearly a full week now, racking up his bar and room tab — with not even a whisper of a job prospect. If someone didn't hire him soon, Gillissen, Milliway's proprietor, would throw him to the wolves — maybe literally. The Quatal Prime penal code was not a merciful one.
God, Tom thought, rubbing his hands over his face, it looks like I'm down to the Tattooed Terrorist.
That's what the pilots called the broad, dark-haired human that had shown up at Milliway's three days ago. The moniker was due to the elaborate tattoo that took up half the man's forehead. He was some kind of 'freedom fighter,' apparently; this was only relevant to Tom because it meant the pay would be shit. Ol' Inkface had approached no less than a dozen of Tom's fellow pilots — clearly whatever he had to offer them wasn't very tempting.
But beggars can't be choosers, not even beggars that had once trounced every piloting record Starfleet Academy had. Tom squinted at himself again in the mirror. Maybe he should go shave before he approached the other man. Or at least take a shower. Even freedom fighters, or maybe especially freedom fighters, had their standards.
But before he could slide off the stool, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Gillissen.
"Hey there," Tom said, swiveling towards him and plastering his most charming grin on his face. "I know I haven't put anything down on my tab lately, but I swear: I've got a great lead on a new—"
"Cut the crap, Paris," Gillissen grunted, his central eye glaring at him. "I've got your job right here. This man says his boss needs a pilot, and for some unfathomable reason, he's interested in you."
Tom looked past Gillissen to see who this job offer was coming from. Then he looked up. The guy was massive. Not bulky, and given the cow-like expression on his face, not particularly intimidating. But very tall. Also, Tom noted with interest, very well-dressed. Things are looking up, he thought, smiling in anticipation and at his own crappy pun.
"Thanks for the offer," Tom drawled as he leaned back against the bar. "But as I said, I've got a real promising lead I have to follow up on. So I'd be hard pressed to walk away from that unless the terms are favorable." He blinked bleary eyes at the giant and directed a smile upwards. "What sort of compensation is your boss offering, friend? I've gotta tell you — I don't come cheap. I've got Starfleet credentials, after all."
The pale man just continued to smile at him blandly and made no reply. What the fuck? "Uh, Gillissen," Tom muttered, "is he OK? Does he not have translator?"
"He doesn't talk much," Gillissen replied. "But he doesn't have to. The terms are, Paris, you're going to take the job, he's going to pay your tab, and I'm not going to have you arrested for delinquency."
Tom's stomach dropped to the floor. He'd seen them. Everyone on Quatal Prime had: the debtors' prison work crews. What he hadn't seen, he'd heard rumors about. Confined to tiny, windowless cells for months, only allowed out to labor through the bitterly cold winters and grueling humid summers. It was the absolute rockiest bottom of all rock bottoms.
Gillissen had all five eyes trained on him. Not a single one blinked.
"Those are good terms," Tom agreed as he slid off his bar stool. He looked up at the tall alien. "Looks like you've hired yourself a pilot."
On the bright side, he thought as he left the bar with the man that Gillissen said went by 'Mr Homn,' At least I'm not stuck with the Tattooed Terrorist.