For the Record
Chapter 1: Trying times
When she sits through the first day of hearings at Headquarters, she tries not to concentrate on the anger she feels.
By the time Starfleet gets around to dealing with the long list of her infractions (her repeated bending of the Prime Directive, her complete disregard for the same at least once, her many actions that may have corrupted the timeline) it is three months since Voyager has returned home. Her former Maquis crewmembers have finally been exonerated, and most of her them are being given permanent commissions. Everyone is nearly finished with the personal leave they've all been granted, and Voyager is now in dry dock. It's anticipated that after receiving a much-needed overhaul, her ship will once more streak through the stars.
It's equally anticipated that when it does, Janeway won't be on it.
Sitting in her chair, listening to Admiral Hayes voice his concerns regarding the pact she made with the Borg, Janeway tries not to push away her brimming rage. Clutching the arms of her chair with white knuckles, she attempts to focus instead on how good, despite all of this, it is to be home.
She tries. But ultimately she fails.
"I find your decision short-sighted at best, Captain," Hayes pronounces, looking her dead in the eye. "Brutally selfish at worst."
Her face doesn't flinch, but her fingers dig deeper into the soft material of the chair. When she stands up, there will be small crescent imprints from her fingernails, as well as tiny crimson stains.
Despite the resentment that fills her, the blinding sense of betrayal, she doesn't feel surprised. She expelled a lot of political capital fighting for her crew once they hit Earth's atmosphere, and the repeated public comments she made defending them have not sat well with Starfleet Command.
When she first returned home, Starfleet had treated her like a favorite child. The heir apparent to some kind of throne. But then they'd considered casting the former Maquis aside; floated even more unsavory thoughts about Seven of Nine. And she, in turn, had fought them tooth and nail, seizing on every opportunity to publicly voice her criticisms, her profound disappointment. Their golden child chose to embarrass them publicly. And now, of course, they are making her pay. She would be able to find it all somehow tolerable if she thought even a secondary goal of the proceedings was the pursuit of justice. She knows, better than anyone, exactly how much she compromised to get her ship and her crew home.
Walking in the deep Bloomington snow with her mother, and then navigating the grounds of Headquarters in the damp San Francisco air, she knew that she should feel guilty. But she doesn't. Not yet.
She knows, too, that in the end they'll give her only a mild slap on the wrist. A note in her file. Perhaps not even that. But before that, they'll hold her captive to their displeasure. And afterward, they'll pull hard on the reins, make her stay close to keep a watchful eye on her.
When she hears the phrase "the eventual strain of command," her attention drifts. Though their needling remarks anger her, their speculation about what it was like to be in her position fails to retain her interest. She allows her eyes to wander the room.
The large room isn't very crowded, despite that these proceedings are open to all Starfleet personnel, as well as the media. There are a smattering of journalists. A few members of the brass, Owen Paris among. He sits in the center of the graduated auditorium, away from the other Admirals, and when her gaze meets his, his blue eyes are filled with pain. She looks away quickly, continuing to scan the room.
She expects to see the familiar faces of her former crew, despite that she's practically ordered them to stay away from the proceedings. She hasn't done so because she finds all this embarrassing. In truth, she doesn't really. It's just that she still wants to protect all of them. None of the commissions Starfleet has granted go into affect for another week, and it's possible for Command to yank them if they so choose.
She suspects, cynically, that this timing is deliberate, but either way, she doesn't want to tempt fate. Not when she's tempted it far too many times over the last seven years.
Still, she's surprised to note that only one person from Voyager has shown up.
Later, laying in bed, this observation will hurt her and she will try to brush those thoughts away. But at the moment, she's too struck by who it is to focus on either the vague sense of disappointment or the phantom of pain in her stomach.
Tom Paris sits at the back of the room instead of with his father, and when she spots him, he's watching Admiral Hayes rather than her. His blues eyes are filled with the blinding anger that has been her companion all day. She thinks it strange, watching him now, that she never noticed that he has the same exact eyes as his father.
Emotion, she muses, can transform any gaze into something unfamiliar.
She's watched countless times as Tom's countenance has transformed over the years. After the destruction of the Caretaker's array; the loss of Kes; his marriage to B'Elanna and the birth of their child. Before that, the encounter with Moneans and the ensuing consequences.
In front of her, she hears Admiral Hayes make another dig at her expense. She sees Tom's barely-contained anger break through, his chin lifting defiantly and his eyes gleaming at the older man with accusation. She realizes then that the anger she sees broadcast across his features isn't the same cynical one that must be faintly etched on her own countenance. His anger is decidedly righteous; the estimation that what is transpiring in font of him is marked injustice.
The resolve that though he can do nothing to stop what's happening, he'll be damned if he'll accept it quietly.
She knows that her crew must have seen this same expression on her own face hundreds of times, and she feels suddenly jarred by the reflection of her own stubbornness, her own unyielding determination, on this man. An officer who she put as much pressure on as she put faith in. A man who is as much a product of her disappointment as he is her hopes and expectations.
Was this the same anger he saw in front of him when she'd pulled the pip from his collar? Had he internalized her disapproval back then, despite his appearance of distance afterward, reaching within himself now to produce the same outrage on her behalf?
This question shakes her more than all of Hayes' insults, and when she finally turns her face from the pilot, she realizes that the day's proceedings are wrapping up. When Owen Paris moves to meet her, her eyes look to where Tom sat, but he's already gone.
Coming out of the building, flanked by the older Paris and her counsel, she sees that her former helmsman is surrounded by journalists. She can't make out their voices, exactly, but one asks him a question, while others shove holo-imagers in his face. She can see the look of pain cross his face though she can't hear his reply. She assumes it's the standard refusal to comment that the rest of the crew has gotten used to giving since arriving back on Earth.
Neither his father nor her lawyer notice the scene, and she's whisked away to the privacy of Owen's office before either her gaze or her thoughts can linger too long.
. . . . .
The next morning, before leaving for Headquarters, she scans the Federation news. Everyone has advised her not to do so. They've told her that the speculation and random bits of information will make her crazy. But she can't help it. She worries that Starfleet will take out its frustrations with her on Voyager's crew. She fears that Chakotay will launch into a public tirade and renounce his commission. That others will follow suit.
Again, she's surprised to see Tom's face instead.
The comment he apparently gave the reporters the day before is eloquent, though obviously unprepared. But it's the look on his face- the sadness and anger that swim in his blue eyes- that makes the vid pure latinum to the media. It plays on loop continuously for hours.
"Do you have anything to say off the record, Lieutenant?"
The reporter's question is downright laughable. Nothing is off the record when it comes to Starfleet and everyone, both inside and out, is acutely aware of this.
Tom shakes his head perceptibly, but then appears to change his mind, looking at the woman and the holo-imager directly.
"Morality isn't a calculation, nor is the admirable person the one who simply does the right thing. Sometimes there are no right actions available. And in those moments . . . the person who proves moral is the one who does what they can with both silent grace and an unflagging responsibility for their actions. "
He pauses, casting his eyes away from the imager.
"For the record, never have I met someone who inhabits life with greater grace or sense of responsibility than that of Kathryn Janeway."
Janeway allows herself to watch the vid half a dozen times before she finally shuts it off. Each time, she feels a different emotion.
When she arrives at HQ grounds, her representative seems in good spirits. Tom's quote has bolstered the public opinion of her as a hero, and even if Starfleet proceedings were more detached from public opinion than everyone knows they are, this is going to make it more difficult for the brass to publicly flog her.
Walking with her to the day's proceedings, Owen seems angry. His anger, however, is obviously tempered by pride.
When things get under way, she doesn't see Tom in the audience, and she wonders whether he's hiding out or has simply left San Francisco for Mars.
B'Elanna has already accepted an engineering position at Utopia Planitia, and Janeway suspects Tom will likely take a position there as well. The more cutting edge ship design is now being done in Australia, rather than on Mars, but she can't imagine Tom will be willing to make the daily commute with a baby in the mix.
Eventually, she gives up looking for him, sinking heavily into her seat as Admiral Nechayev begins, with characteristic coolness, passing harsh judgment on her actions during the Equinox affair.
Just before lunch, she spots Tom in the audience. He's all the way in the back again, but today he's taken a seat directly behind her. She catches sight of him only when her counsel leans in to ask her something, and she turns her head to reply.
This time, his eyes meet hers. And though he initially wears the same angry expression as he did the day before, he forces himself to smile when she looks searchingly at him.
She isn't sure if he slipped in late, or she missed him earlier when she examined the crowd. His position is one that's almost entirely obscured from view by a pillar, and she knows immediately that he chose it for that reason.
She suspects he's either hiding from her or from his father, but when the proceedings break and he lingers in his seat, she guesses it was the latter. She manages to disentangle herself with relative speed from Owen's worry and her counsel's questions, and she makes her way up to the room's exit, where Tom stands waiting.
Immediately, they're both engulfed by media, but Tom remains silent, as does she, until they reach the quiet safety of a turbolift.
"Lower level 3, Section 5," Tom calls, not looking at her.
Their silence could be construed as awkward. In some ways, it is. But strangely, Janeway also finds it reassuring.
She has been forced to listen to long, pompous speeches for almost two days. Peppered with questions for over three months. And as content as she is to be standing next to Tom Paris, she's also happy he isn't expecting her to make conversation.
When the lift doors open, they're on a subterranean floor Janeway has never been to before. It's obviously used for storage, and Paris easily picks his way through the dark corridor as his former Captain trails behind him.
When they turn a corner, another turbolift comes into view and Janeway again follows him without question as he gets on. When they emerge at the back of the main floor, just in front of an auxiliary exit, she gives him a knowing look.
"I guess there are perks of having spent my childhood playing in these buildings," he says, a rueful smile appearing on his face.
For the first time in days, Janeway laughs. It's a small laugh, and more due to the relief of avoiding the waiting crowd than because of his dark joke, but she doesn't care. She feels as though part of the crushing weight has been lifted off her chest.
As they emerge into the afternoon sun, she inhales deeply before angling her face to his.
"Thanks," she says simply, squinting her eyes as she adjusts to the sunlight.
They both know she isn't just talking about the escape he just provided, but neither will acknowledge his other act of loyalty.
Neither is especially good at handling softer emotions, and the two of them have a downright awful track record when it comes to such emotions and each other.
"Anytime," he responds breezily, not meeting her gaze.
Making their way through HQ's back grounds, she realizes he's again leading her somewhere.
"Interested in lunch?" he asks, just as she's about to query where they're going.
She isn't particularly hungry, despite that all she's had so far is coffee. But she finds herself agreeing anyway.
"Where?" she asks, as they enter one of the buildings containing transporters.
"Somewhere far way from here," he breathes.
Next to him, she nods solemnly. She couldn't have said it better herself.
. . . . .
Sitting across from Tom in the small restaurant, she knows their silence has now moved solidly into the domain of the uncomfortable. Working slowly on his soup, he looks out at the bay that stretches outside the window, and she looks down at the pasta she's moving around with her fork.
She wasn't particularly surprised when they materialized in Marseilles. Tom had input the coordinates manually, perhaps to avoid the accidental broadcasting of her whereabouts to waiting ears, but it's a place he's familiar with, as well as a city that doesn't have an especially large Fleet presence.
"How's B'Elanna liking her work on Mars?" she finally asks, when the silence becomes unbearable.
"She hasn't started yet," he replies, putting down his spoon.
He knows that this isn't news to her, that she's simply trying to make conversation. The tone of his reply doesn't betray this, however, and looking at him, Janeway again feels grateful.
"But the work seems to be right about her speed." He frowns. "Which is to say frantic and crushing."
The ghost of a smile appears on her face at his statement. B'Elanna's workaholic tendencies rival her own.
"Are you going to take a job in ship design there? Quite a few inquiries about you have passed through my message service."
He sighs when she asks this, and her face shifts from the polite mask she's worn to one of genuine interest. She eyes him intently as he begins to speak.
"No. We've decided that we want to raise Miral on Earth rather than on Mars. It's going to be hard with B'Elanna having to take the transport back and forth everyday, but it makes even less sense for both of us to do it. Not to mention the impossibility of caring for Miral if we did."
His face scrunches as he finishes, but he drops his eyes when he realizes she's watching him.
"So what are you going to do? Have you accepted a position yet?"
"No. I'm still weighing my options."
He swirls his spoon in his soup, though he doesn't take a bite.
"To tell you the truth, I've been a bit more preoccupied with where we're going to live."
At this, she crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing.
"You just said you were going to live on Earth."
He smiles, though the mirth doesn't make its way to his eyes.
"Earth is an awfully big planet." The smile slides from his face. "B'Elanna wants to live in San Francisco. She thinks it will be easier for Miral, being of mixed heritage."
"And what do you think?"
Her tone is neutral, but he knows to be cautious. He came to understand long ago that she could come by impossible confessions with that nonchalant tone and those searching eyes. Still, he doesn't think to be anything but honest.
Righteous anger isn't the only thing the woman across the table has taught him.
"I think. . . Klingons, mixed heritage or not, are more common on Earth now than when B'Elanna and I were kids. I think there are plenty of other cities that would be desirable in atmosphere."
He doesn't vocalize the fact that he himself spent a very painful childhood in San Francisco. That living there, close to his father and all the accompanying memories, will be difficult.
She doesn't expect him to say any of this, and understands what he fails to voice.
"What other cities would you consider?"
It's the same neutral tone, and this time, Tom fails to suppress a knowing smile when he answers her.
"I've always found Sydney lovely."
Now, it's her turn to smile at him.
"And it's so conveniently located near Starfleet's new research center for flight design."
Putting his napkin on the table and throwing back his head, he laughs.
"Well it would be a pity for both of us to have to commute," he says finally, retaining his wry grin.
She chuckles, too. And when the silence resumes between them, it feels companionable rather than awkward.
Walking back to the transporter station, Janeway is shaken from thoughts of the day's proceedings by Tom's voice.
"You know, when this is all over, they're probably going to make you an Admiral."
His voices his prediction without warning. Surprised, she stops and turns to look at him.
His face, as well as the tone he'd used, fail to mask his disdain. Disdain at the hypocrisy of it all. Disdain that they were going to yank her from her ship and tie her to a desk.
"I don't know."
Her reply is non-committal. She doesn't let on that she's had the same thought. Felt the same disdain.
Walking beside her again, he only nods, his face expressionless, even when they beam back to San Francisco.
. . . . .
After three days of hearings and another week of waiting, Janeway receives her slap on the wrist.
It's less than a month before her promotion comes through, and when she looks at Owen with sadness rather than pleasure, he looks at his former protégé with measured affection.
"You don't have to take it, Kathryn."
He's right, of course, but she also knows that it doesn't really matter if she takes it or not.
Either way, Starfleet will find a way to keep her close, to bar her from taking another ship. If she accepts the promotion, her punishment will just come with a nicer office and a few more privileges. When she sends her acceptance to Nechayev, she tries to push away cynical thoughts about gilded cages.
She tries. But again she fails.
The same day her promotion is made official, Owen tells her, concern apparent in his voice, that Tom has yet to commit to a position within Starfleet. He thinks that his son may even be considering resigning his commission altogether.
"He's not taking a position in Australia?" she asks, her voice tipping into concern.
Rearranging PADDs on his desk, Owen shrugs.
"They decided to live in San Francisco. I think Tom now thinks it would be too much hassle with the baby for both of them to have to come back and forth from work."
Janeway's concern follows her all the way home, but as she settles into her evening and her new work, her mind is quickly derailed by other worries.
Two days after her conversation with Owen, she runs into Tom, quite literally. He's standing in front of his father's office, and he turns around to leave just as she comes striding down the hall, her eyes locked on one of the reports in her hand.
"I'm sorry, Admiral," he says, steadying them both before he bends down to help her collect the PADDs that have clattered to the floor.
At the use of her new title, there's no trace of his previous disdain. She eyes him carefully as he reaches for the last PADD.
"Your father told me you haven't taken a position yet," she remarks, after he straightens up and they exchange pleasantries.
He meets her neutral tone with an expressionless face.
"I'm still weighing my options."
"You said that a month ago," she retorts, her tone now sliding uncomfortably close to chiding.
"And it was the truth."
His face shifts slightly, the ghost of a frown appearing.
"But now my options have changed, and I'm weighing them again."
When he finishes, she takes in his expression, as well as his posture. He seems tired, and it's a fatigue she recognizes from the last four years on Voyager.
It's the exhaustion, the faint sadness, that always clung to her pilot whenever he'd finished a fight with her Chief Engineer. He got better and better at hiding over the years, but even once he and B'Elanna were married, the small, tell-tale frown always gave it away.
No matter how much he tried to hide it.
"Buy you a cup of coffee, Mister Paris?"
The look he gives her is one of thinly-veiled suspicion.
"I thought you were just going in to see my father."
"Oh, it can wait." She smiles. "Unless, of course, you're turning down the invitation of a Vice-admiral. Which, I warn you, doesn't bode well for your options."
His look of suspicion disappears, replaced by a small smile. She suspects, correctly, that the original sentiment is still there.
"After you, ma'am."
. . . . .
When she offers him a position in her new office, she expects him to turn her down. She expects him to balk, or be offended. Anything, but sipping his coffee with disinterest and agreeing without a fight.
"Sure," he says, and she looks at him incredulously.
"You're agreeing?"
He shrugs.
"Though Janeway hours aren't especially short hours, it'll at least be a standard schedule. Headquarters has amazing child care facilities." He pauses, adding, "I'm also rather certain that I've already committed to memory all of the boss' pet peeves."
He finishes his statement with a smile, but Janeway can tell it's forced and looks at him with concern. He's right about the advantages of an HQ job, but it isn't like Tom to be drawn to desk work. His interest in the entire conversation has been half-hearted.
Everything about him today seems half-hearted.
"Are you sure?"
Over his coffee mug, he looks at her with a wry expression.
"No offense, Admiral. But first you offer me a job, and now you seem upset that I'm taking it. If the offer really stands, I accept. But if you'd rather have someone else in the position. . ."
She shakes her head and he looks at her questioningly.
"I honestly didn't expect you to agree." She squints. "I thought I was going to have to fight you."
He chuckles, but the sound is somehow devoid of genuine amusement.
"No fighting necessary." He puts down his mug. "I long ago decided it saves everyone a lot of time if I just give you whatever it is that you want."
The comment isn't a jab, she knows, but something about it stirs the concern that's already churning within her. She doesn't engage whatever is troubling him directly though. She, too, has learned to save time over the years.
"Let's see if you feel that way once you work for me."
"I've already worked for you for seven years. I suspect there won't be many surprises."
She smirks at this.
"Ah, yes. But now, you see, I have new-found privileges of rank to lord over you."
For the first time since they sat down, he meets her gaze in a serious way. He searches her face, and she looks at him with expectation and masked discomfort.
"Is that how you feel now. . . privileged?"
His tone is free of rancor or judgment and, looking into his eyes, she sees only sympathy. A reflection of her own concern.
"No," she admits in a low voice, resting her chin on her hand. "But I'm trying."
Across from her, he exhales heavily.
"Me, too."
