Captain Janeway's hand paused before she pressed the door chime of Tom Paris' quarters. It was rare for her to feel anxiety when going to talk to a subordinate, but this was an unusual case. She had known full well going into this the magnitude of what she had been asking him to do, and she also had known he would say yes without hesitation. She had known why he would say yes, as well. The "why" was what was making her feel so guilty.

Over two years ago, when she had been assembling her crew for this ill-fated mission, she had been surprised to have a late night visitor to the temporary office Starfleet had assigned her. She had been even more surprised to see her old friend and mentor. "Admiral!" she had exclaimed. "What are you doing here so late?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Katie," he said, smiling at her. "Didn't I train you to be much more efficient than this? And I've told you before - after 1800 hours, it's Owen." He settled in the chair across from her desk, placing a very nice bottle of Cognac and two glasses in front of her.

They shared a drink and exchanged pleasantries to start, but it soon turned to Janeway getting the older officer's advice on the specifics of their mission to recover Tuvok and apprehend the Maquis. "I'm concerned about navigating the Badlands once we get in there. Stadi's an excellent pilot, but this is like nothing else in the quadrant."

"You're making this a little too easy for me, Katie," Owen had said, staring into his glass. At Janeway's questioning look, he continued. "I've made a terrible mistake. A series of them, really. And I'm not sure how to fix it, or even if it can be fixed. But I'm hoping you can help me try."

Of course she knew what had happened with Owen's son. There wasn't anyone in Starfleet that didn't. No one had put any blame on the Admiral, though - at least not openly. It was assumed Tom was weak, or rebellious, or deficient in some other way. A few gossipy types had blamed Julia. No one thought Owen held much responsibility at all for how the youngest Paris had turned out. Except, it turned out, Owen himself.

He had pushed him too hard, Owen told her. Spent too much time trying to turn him into the son he wanted, instead of trying to understand the son he had. Now Tom was returning all the letters the Paris family sent to Auckland, unread; he was refusing their visits as well. Kathryn was sympathetic, but wasn't sure Owen's idea was the answer. "Even if this mission goes well, Owen, you know that he won't get his commission back," she told him, as kindly as possible.

"I know that, Katie. I don't think Tom would want it even if it was offered," Owen said sadly. "But I have to hold out hope that he isn't completely lost. That he can still have some kind of life after his release. I just think...maybe if someone showed a little faith in him, someone that isn't me - maybe that will be enough to get him back on track." And so three days later, Kathryn Janeway traveled to New Zealand, and met a young man far more cynical than his age should have warranted.

And Owen had been right. She had seen it that first day after she destroyed the Caretaker's array, when she made him chief helm officer. His face had transformed - it was like ten years had dropped away. He had flourished under her guidance and approval, and was becoming a great officer - the one her old mentor had always hoped he would be. And it was all because Kathryn Janeway had shown Tom Paris a little faith, just as his father had hoped.

And then she'd taken the loyalty and trust she'd earned, and used it to her advantage. Exploited it to uncover a traitor on her ship. The ends justify the means, or so they say. Janeway hit the chime, and entered the pilot's quarters when the door opened.

"Captain!" Paris didn't look or sound too worse for the wear. In fact, he seemed downright jaunty. "Come to welcome back the returning hero?"

"Something like that," she said as she smiled at him. "I thought I'd find you in Sickbay. But the Doctor said you left against medical advice."

He shrugged and turned back to his unpacking. "Sickbay's like a fishbowl. I can sleep off a concussion here just as well as I can there. Better, probably." He turned to look at her again, a bit stiffly, Janeway thought, as if he were sore. "Thanks for getting my stuff back from the Talaxians, by the way. It's not much, but it's all I've got. And considering how much I've pissed Chakotay off lately, I don't think he's going to be in any rush to reinstate my replicator rations."

"I can help you with that," she said.

"Thanks."

The Captain approached him then, touching him on the arm to get his attention. As she drew closer, she noticed the shadows under his eyes and lines of exhaustion on his face. "Tom…" she started.

He shook his head then, his expression changing to something unreadable. "Don't. It's not necessary."

"What isn't?" she asked in concern.

"An apology," he said. "You asked me because you didn't have a choice, and because it was the best thing for the ship. That's all a Starfleet officer should need from his Captain. You of all people should know that. That's all my father would expect, or give in this situation. Definitely not an apology."

"I don't know if that's entirely true," she said. "In fact, I've been wanting to tell you about a conversation we had-"

"With all due respect, Captain," Tom interrupted her quietly, "I'd rather not hear about it. I know you have, or had, a much different relationship with him than I did. And I'm glad for you. But I'd rather not hear about it."

Janeway dropped her hand back to her side. "All right, Tom." Maybe she'd try again some day, to talk to him about the Owen Paris she knew, and how much that man loved his son. But now clearly wasn't the time. "Even if I don't owe you an apology, I certainly owe you my gratitude. The whole crew does. You did a good job out there, Lieutenant. If there's anything I can do to help you settle back in, don't hesitate to ask."

She should have been more concerned by the gleam that suddenly appeared in his eye, but she couldn't for the life of her come up with a specific reason to worry.

"Anything, Captain?" he asked.

"I suppose," she said cautiously. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," he drawled. "There's something I've been wanting to give you, but I wasn't sure if you'd take it the right way. I promise you, though, it would make me very happy if you would accept it."

"All right, Mr. Paris," she replied, still suspicious. "I'll try to keep an open mind. Give it here."

"It's kind of packed away right now. Can I drop it off at your quarters later?"

"I'll be on the bridge for the next few hours, but I can give you authorization for entry," she said, still wracking her brain to figure out why she shouldn't be agreeing to this. "Or would you prefer to give it to me in person?"

"No," he assured her. "Your quarters are fine. I'll leave it somewhere you'll find it."

After four hours of reviewing various reports about the latest Kazon attack, checking sensor logs to determine their upcoming course, and enduring the seemingly endless waves of anger quietly radiating from her first officer, the Captain returned to her quarters ready for a long bath. She had completely forgotten about Tom's promised delivery. Then she opened her door, and detected an unfamiliar, and decidedly unpleasant, odor.

There it was, Neelix's "gift," sitting bold as you please on her dining table, with a folded paper note tucked beneath it.

Dear Captain,

I'm so glad you offered to take this off my hands. It's been buried under some old socks at the bottom of my closet since you charged me with its care, and that seems to have triggered some kind of fermentation process. (I think?) Sorry about the smell!

Tom

He had drawn a smiley face next to his name. On an actual piece of paper. That he must have replicated using the rations she had just authorized be returned to him. That little shit, she thought, laughing out loud.

This meant war.