Author's Note: As the estimable Alpha Flyer recently reminded me, Paris has a tendency to be bad. Even when he's done so well at being good.
From the Top
As Tom paces the small space of the turbolift, one thought consumes him, circling his brain in the same frantic pattern that his feet do the room that suddenly feels like a cell.
He's screwed. Completely and unbelievably screwed.
Sure to be demoted (again) if the Captain doesn't kill him first.
He pauses on this last thought, thinking that death would be more merciful than having to tell his very pregnant wife that their joint rations account has been reset because of her husband's idiocy and ensuing decline in rank. And with a ragged breath, he decides that this is exactly why the Captain will choose demotion over death.
For all her principles, she can be awfully mercenary when she wants to be.
With this, he resumes his pacing, cursing himself for his lack of impulse control.
He'd honestly meant it as just as joke, programming the ship's replicators to produce only decaf coffee when Janeway entered her code. Something that would last a morning, maybe a day, before he revealed the prank to her and they privately laughed about it together.
Three days into (unwitting) caffeine deprivation, his CO is going to be anything but amused. Nor will she feel the least bit of responsibility that it was her own taunt that spurred on this prank, having told him the previous week that he'd become 'as predictable as Mister Kim.'
They both knew, standing in Sandrine's with her smirking at him, that she'd meant it as a jab rather than a compliment. An insult to add to the injury of her having publicly beaten him at three straight games of pool.
Thinking of the comment now, he fails to be irked in the same way. Not when he is far too busy being irked at his own brilliantly stupid decisions.
To be fair, he tries to tell himself, it isn't entirely his fault that his little alteration has on gone for three days. The initial subroutine having been easy to pull off, but erasing it without detection proving impossible without help.
He hadn't thought much of it at first, being married to the Chief Engineer and all. Until the first morning after he made the change to the replicators, and he awoke to finding his loving wife replaced by a snarling She Beast. A venomous, threatening creature who hates all men and defends with equal vigor the women they may impregnate. Trust B'Elanna's worst hormonal mood swing to happen during the week he desperately needs her expertise. And her patience.
Beyond the absence of aid he could expect from his wife, no other co-conspirators have presented themselves.
Harry, good old Harry, is still his best friend. But the young Ensign, for all his gained maturity, also still worships the Captain in a way that Tom thinks can't be healthy. He can just imagine telling Kim over breakfast, and the younger man flushing with indignation. Perhaps going so far as to challenge him to a duel with swords. Or maybe bat'leths.
Despite that Harry has youth on his side, Tom is reasonably certain he could take the Ensign if it came down to it. As much as the pilot has changed for the better over the last seven years, he, unlike Harry, isn't opposed to cheating.
Pushing aside images of Harry's prone corpse, face frozen in surprise where he crumpled, Tom re-examines his decision not to seek out help from the rest of the senior staff.
Tuvok, Kahless bless him, is a good man. A thoughtful man. But for all of that, the Lieutenant Commander remains completely incapable of taking a joke.
Nor can he go to the Doctor, who, finally having emerged as something less than an ass, now looks at Janeway with the same moony eyes Chakotay used to.
Seven may understand, having come far enough in her humanity to appreciate pranks. But telling the former drone is as good as telling the ship's First Officer. And this, Tom decides again, is something he prefers only to going home and telling the She Beast. Borg girlfriend or no Borg girlfriend, Chakotay is just as protective of the Captain as ever. He just hides the moony eyes a little better now.
And unlike Harry, Chakotay is just as willing to go for the low blow as the ship's helmsman when it really matters. The dimples and ancient legends are just a smoke screen, Tom is convinced. With this, he shudders, his mind groping for someone- anyone- who can help him out of his present situation.
When his thoughts again locate no one, he returns to the top of his spiral of doubts.
He's screwed. Completely and unbelievably screwed.
When the lift doors slide open, he moves to his seat at the conn with a nod and false smile to those he passes.
Take a good look everyone, he thinks. It's the last time you're going to see Voyager's Chief Conn Officer alive. You better hope Pablo Baytart has been paying attention these last few years.
As he slips into his seat, he begins to write his own obituary, imagining people briefly skimming the item in the mess hall, before they direct their attentions toward more interesting conversation. Like what Chell is serving for lunch. He can almost see the bleak lines on the discarded PADDs, pushed aside amongst trays and napkins.
"Tom Paris: a man who died at the hands of a woman who didn't even come to his shoulder. His remains returned to his wife of less than a year, only to be unceremoniously recycled, rather than memorialized."
An hour into his shift, everyone is tense. The Captain has been in a downright awful mood the last two days, and she's been taking it out her First Officer. The good Commander accepting the undeserved punishment with the same silent devotion he always does, only to redirect his anger toward the officers beneath him when the Captain takes her leave to her ready room.
When Chakotay barks for his conn report, Tom winces in his chair. Trying for the life of him to remember the good old days, when Chakotay openly declared his hatred for him and preferred death to being in his debt.
He's only a few seconds into his reply when Janeway interrupts, comming the bridge to request Tom's presence in her ready room.
The request makes Chakotay madder- if that's even possible- and the only reason Tom doesn't flee from the bridge at maximum warp is the realization that a much worse fate likely awaits him in the ready room.
Walking in, he expects her to be waiting for him. Perhaps standing in front of her couch, arms crossed. Or worse, hands placed ominously on her hips.
Instead, she sits behind her desk, looking listless.
"Captain?" he asks after a moment, failing to keep the nervousness from his voice.
"Sorry to call you in here, Tom. But. . . I think I might be ill."
He looks at her, surprised and then concerned, as she hands him the medical tricorder she pulls out from her desk.
"I know I'm breaking regs, asking you to examine me unofficially." She pauses, slumping in her chair a bit. "But I just don't think I can resign myself to go down to Sickbay. . . And the Doctor's waiting lectures."
"Of course, Captain," he says, beginning the scan. "What symptoms have you been having?"
She leans back in her chair, looking defeated, and the sight worries Tom more than anything she's said so far. Even in bad times, she doesn't carry herself like this.
"It started three days ago," she responds. "I began feeling sluggish. Unable to jump to warp, as it were."
At this, he pales, fighting the urge to close his eyes.
"What else?" he asks, his voice almost cracking.
"I think I became irritable," she admits, with seeming embarrassment. "And I've had the worst headache."
Tom examines the tricorder as though deep in thought, rather than mentally berating himself.
Her addiction to caffeine, as she often jokingly refers to it, isn't one in name only. And now, thanks to his little prank, she's experiencing painful symptoms of physical withdrawal.
Snapping the instrument shut, he struggles to contain his self-loathing. His churning guilt that he didn't just charge into her ready room two days ago, despite her agitated state, and tell her about her coffee.
"Am I alright?" she asks, vulnerability in her face and voice.
The sight is too much and he gives into the desire to shut his eyes.
He cannot believe that he allowed his own self-absorbed thoughts to cause the woman in front of him discomfort and, even worse, fear. That for all they've been through together, all she's done for him, he couldn't find the courage to deal with the wrath of a certain Commander, or else a pregnant Chief Engineer.
"Captain," he says, sitting down heavily in the seat across from her, "I have to tell you something."
Her eyes go wide at the statement, and he reverses course, thinking he's further stoked her concern.
"You're fine," he hurriedly clarifies. "But I think I know what's wrong with you. . . Three days ago I - well, I. . . I. . ."
He finds himself unable to get the words out, feeling so nauseous he thinks he might wretch directly onto her desk.
"You what Tom?" she asks, leaning over her desk with a concerned face.
He feels his head spin, his eyes almost welling with tears.
"I programmed the replicators to give you only decaf coffee."
He expects her face to fall. For there to be a look of disappointment or betrayal before the flash of anger.
When the smile spreads across her face, he thinks she's actually lost it. That the lack of caffeine has been able bring about what seven years in the Delta Quadrant hasn't.
Sending her, finally, round the bend.
She gets up from her chair and calls for a coffee from the replicator. After savoring her first sip, she looks at him in silence before she begins to speak.
"Tom, I've been drinking coffee since you were toddling around your father's office. And as expert as your replicator recipes might be. . . I know the difference between decaf and regular when I taste it."
She watches as his tensed shoulder go slack with relief. She watches, too, when after a few beats the relief is replaced by wariness.
"You knew?" he presses cautiously.
"The first day," she confirms. "But it helped that I was expecting something like this after our time in Sandrine's last week. . . As I believe I previously noted, you've become terribly predictable these days."
It's the same barb. And the same damned smirk on her face.
Despite himself, Tom feels his eyes narrow. Considering, in the back of his mind, the possibility that the She Beast who has replaced his wife has a companion on board.
"You knew," he repeats, "and you put on a show, just for my benefit?"
The horror in his voice is understandable. Her charade didn't just involve making him feel guilty a few minutes ago, but essentially torturing Chakotay (poor, loyal Chakotay) and the rest of the bridge crew the last few days.
It's possible that someone, maybe Tuvok, knew. But there's no way the Chakotay did. The Commander's never been very good at lying. Or else, reading women.
The smirk on her face spreads wider as she perches herself gracefully on the edge of her desk.
"As your little joke was meant to be a private one, I thought the punishment should be appropriately calibrated to fit the crime."
His shoulders relax again, feeling relieved now that she isn't going to throw the book at him. Or else, that she won't hold it personally against him, damaging their friendship.
"Still," she adds, pausing only to drain her coffee cup, "I can't have people going around, mucking with the ship's systems without some kind of real repercussion."
When she gets off the desk again to go the replicator, she leaves him for a minute to drown in his own panic. His only distraction from his rising fear the thought that it's unusual, even in the best of times, for her to be so careless with the ship's energy.
"So," she resumes finally, "I've decided that as a private punishment, you will provide me with the substance you attempted to deprive of. Out of your own rations. And for the same period of time that your little. . . joke carried on."
Slowly, the fear that has left his body grips him once more. As does the realization that the coffee Janeway now sips, the first of many debits to his rations in the coming three days, is going to be a drain on his account that he will be hard-pressed to explain to B'Elanna.
How on Earth is he supposed to pacify the She Beast when she finds their depleted funds no longer support her cravings for banana pancakes covered in wriggling gagh?
As the Captain sits sipping her ill-gotten caffeine, Tom imagines the mug she holds hides protruding fangs.
"Anything else, Captain?" he asks, looking deflated.
"No, Lieutenant. That'll be all. I'll be out in a bit." She continues, smiling. "After I've had a few more cups of coffee."
Rising slowly, Tom moves to exit her ready room, pausing just before he trips the door's sensors.
"I really thought I had you this time, Captain."
His voice is somewhere between disbelief and annoyance, and he can't see her twinkling eyes behind him.
"I know you did, Tom. And that's the sad part. Going toe-to-toe with me, you were always destined to lose."
He says nothing in reply. Swallowing the dark retort that it would have been a supreme act of compassion if, seven years ago, she'd given her doe-eyed First Officer that same warning.
When Tom gets back to the bridge, Chakotay's mood seems to have gone even farther south.
"Care to take that report from the top?" the Commander asks, a dangerous but familiar clip in his voice.
As Tom begins to speak, he reflects on how much can remain the same in seven years.