Chapter 2: An old, familiar song
Janeway sat with Chakotay in her ready room, finishing the last of the personnel reviews. It had taken three days, but they'd finally gotten it done.
Chakotay had suggested, pending Tom's consent, that they change up the responsibilities on the helmsman's plate. He would still be Chief Conn Officer, as well as assisting the Doctor in Sickbay, but some of the more tedious aspects of running his department would be shared with Ensign Baytart. This would free Tom up to take on additional responsibilities relating to personnel and training.
At the start of their conversation, Chakotay had commented, "the crew have started going to Tom anyway."
She'd seemed surprised, but Chakotay had explained.
"He's proven a good source of advice, but he's a back channel. A few steps short of doing something official, like approaching me, even off the record." He'd added, "I rather suspect they'd been going to him before. . . But do so more now."
Chakotay never named Paris' experience when they spoke like this. Janeway wasn't sure if he was uncomfortable generally about saying it out loud, or only with her.
She had nodded in understanding to his words, had agreed with his suggestions. But now, her face was pensive.
"Are you worried that it's inappropriate to skip over Tuvok?"
Tuvok was the third in command. Technically, if Chakotay was going to be getting help with his duties from anyone, it should be him.
Janeway waved off this concern. She knew Tuvok wouldn't feel skipped over. More importantly, there was a difference between the letter and the spirit of protocol. Tuvok had enough on his plate. And even if he didn't, Janeway knew, despite her old friend's deep understanding of the human psyche, that he was the wrong officer to have as the face of personnel issues.
"No," she'd said, leaning back in her chair. "I'm just a bit concerned about approaching this with Tom."
"Well, I'm supposed to be having dinner with B'Elanna shortly. She and Tom have a weekly appointment on the holodeck right about now." Chakotay scratched the side of his face." I could show up early to meet her, mention to Tom that we'd like to talk him about his responsibilities."
"B'Elanna and Tom are on the holodeck now?"
Her face piqued with interest, and Chakotay misread it. He assumed she wanted to know if they were getting back together.
"Yes, they normally spar together once a week. I think it's helped keep their friendship on an even keel after things ended between them."
Janeway nodded, already rising.
"I'll go with you. Drop in to say hello."
Chakotay's eyebrows went up but he didn't respond. Instead, he followed her onto the bridge, nodding to the staff there as they entered the turbolift. When the doors slid shut, he tried not to smile.
Chakotay knew that Kathryn Janeway favored honesty and open negotiation. But when times got tough, when the odds were against her, she liked nothing more than a good, old-fashioned ambush.
The Commander thought silently that she would have made quite the asset to the Maquis.
"What is it?" Janeway asked, noting the smirk that had crept onto her First Officer's face.
"Oh, nothing," he said, his dimples becoming deeper.
She eyed him warily, but knew better than to push whenever he did this. She would get nothing out of him in the end.
. . . . .
Tom panted as he and B'Elanna moved around the ring.
"What's wrong, flyboy, having trouble keeping up?"
Tom dodged a predictable combination. He felt lucky that B'Elanna sometimes favored the same series of punches. It was the only edge he had on her other than height.
"Nah," he taunted, "just hoping you would change up your technique. It's starting to get staler than Harry's gym shorts."
She blocked a right hook, landing a quick but savage jab before he could get his guard back up. Tom's eyes narrowed as he staggered back.
"Nice music today, by the way."
B'Elanna's mouth twisted in a mocking smile.
"I'm so glad you like it, Paris. I heard this song and immediately thought of you."
Tom liked having background music while they sparred, but B'Elanna found it a distraction. As a compromise, he let her pick whatever she wanted. She'd sifted through his archive of ancient music, picking out things she liked. Eventually, however, she'd realized that her musical choices could become part of her strategy.
She began playing things that had explicit lyrics, or else selections that had played in more intimate moments between the two of them. It had thrown him off, but only for the first two weeks that she did it. After that, her tactics became more subtle. She used the music to needle him slightly, hoping it would give her an advantage. Not that she needed.
They both enjoyed her game. It was a sign that they still trusted each other. That, no matter what, they each would give as good as they got.
When Chakotay and Janeway entered the holodeck, they were both surprised by the lazy melody that echoed through the open space. It was rather slow for a sporting event. Through the ancient speakers Paris had designed, a woman's voice crooned about the vanity of her former lover, how he must assume that the song she was singing was about him.
After a few moments, the Captain and Commander picked up on the lyrics. Janeway looked at Chakotay with an arched eyebrow and the dark-haired officer stifled a laugh.
"B'Elanna gets to pick the music," Chakotay explained in a conspiratorial whisper.
Janeway shook her head in disbelief. Somehow though, it was strangely reassuring. Which was more than either of them could say about what was enfolding in the ring in front of them.
Before their eyes, Tom was getting the snot beat out of him.
When Paris and Torres had first started this ritual, this was the point. Tom knew B'Elanna was angry at him, no matter how friendly they were. How could she not be, after all? The whole thing had been his ploy for her to get the anger out in a constructive way rather than torpedoing their friendship.
It had worked. Initially, she'd said little during their sessions, content to shellac him in silence. But then she'd begun to taunt him. And then, in between the taunting, she'd started to open up to him about her day, the problems in her department. The uneasy silence dissolved, and they again spoke openly with each other, in and out of the ring.
But the taunts remained. As did the shellacking. Tom took it all in stride.
When B'Elanna landed another vicious blow, the computer chimed the end of the match. Janeway allowed herself to let out a low whistle.
"That's gotta hurt," Chakotay murmured, grimacing and closing one eye.
When Paris and Torres climbed out of the ring, they noticed the two ranking officers, greeting them both with surprise. If either officer was embarrassed about the savage beating one had inflicted and the other had endured, they didn't show it.
"Captain," B'Elanna greeted, before drinking from her water canteen. "You're a little early for dinner, Chakotay."
"Sorry, B'Elanna. I wanted to pop in to say hello to Tom."
The XO eyed the helmsman with interest. The blonde officer was panting, but didn't seem the worse for ware.
"Don't worry, old man," B'Elanna said with a smirk, "he'll be just fine."
"She never touches the face, thankfully," Tom added, a smile creeping onto the visage in question.
"Never," B'Elanna agreed. "I believe there's an old Earth saying about not damaging the goods?"
At this, Paris' smile widened and Chakotay snorted. Janeway looked on incredulously, and Torres suddenly found herself feeling uncomfortable.
"Besides, if I leave his eyes undisturbed, he can always see the helm." The Klingon's voice was distorted by her canteen again, her dark features barely flushing.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Janeway finally said, allowing herself to smile at the younger woman. "I do so appreciate that."
"Well, now that we've all thanked B'Elanna for sparing my better features," Tom quipped, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder, "I'm going to hit the showers." He nodded to the Captain, as well as the Commander. "You and B'Elanna enjoy your dinner, Chakotay. But don't make the mistake of letting her pick the music."
Tom headed for the holographic locker room, not seeing the look of disappointment on the Captain's face.
When he emerged, showered and in his uniform pants and shirt, he called for the computer to terminate the program before exiting the black and orange grid.
He didn't expect Janeway to be around the corner waiting for him. She easily slid in step beside him, smiling at him as he greeted her. He looked back at her with an unreadable expression. He knew this move of hers. She wanted something. He schooled his features, suppressing any hint of suspicion.
"Can I do something for you, Captain?" he asked politely, after they'd walked a few meters.
"That depends, Tom. Do you have any plans tonight? Other than regenerating your battered body, I mean."
He let out a small laugh and shook his head.
"Nope. I have the late shift tomorrow." Janeway knew this, he was sure. "I thought I might catch up on some work tonight since I don't have to be up in the morning."
"Oh, the work will keep, Tom. It always does."
She was the last person who thought this, and the look Tom shot her told her he knew as much. She fought the urge to sigh.
She stopped walking, and so did he.
"Look, Tom, I was hoping we might talk. About your responsibilities, and a few ideas Chakotay and I talked about." His eyes narrowed and she misread his expression as anger rather than doubt. "If you don't have the time tonight, I understand."
The small lilt in her voice stirred a phantom of pain deep within him. He knew that sound all too well.
"Of course I have time, Captain," he said, smiling. "But I haven't had dinner. Mind if we grab a bite in the mess hall while we talk?"
Dinner in a public place was the last thing Janeway wanted. The truth was, she didn't just want to talk about Tom's new professional prospects. She needed to clear the air with him.
"I don't know. I walked by the mess hall earlier this afternoon and the smell wafting from Neelix's kitchen was more pungent than usual."
She lowered her voice as she said this, and he looked at her without concern. He'd gone without replicators entirely his last six months in the alternate timeline, and Neelix's supplies had been far scarcer then than they were currently. His taste buds would have preferred assimilation to eating the food presented to him, but it had at least broken him of being a finicky eater.
Tom shrugged.
"I can't say I'm all that worried, ma'am."
Her eyebrows knit together.
"But I would remiss as an officer if I put my Captain in jeopardy."
She nodded, beginning to walk again.
"Good, we'll go to my quarters then."
He followed in step behind her.
Regardless of time and place, Tom Paris' instinct was to follow Kathryn Janeway without question.
. . . . .
Sitting at Janeway's dining table, Paris was uncomfortable. To Janeway's knowledge, he'd only been in her quarters three times before this. But in Tom's memory, he'd been here dozens of times. When he'd first entered, he'd tried not to appear too comfortable. It hadn't been too hard. Worrying about looking too comfortable had made him genuinely uncomfortable. Janeway was sitting across from him now, looking at him with concern.
Tom willed his arms and legs not to twitch, adjusting the napkin that was already perfectly settled in his lap.
"What's wrong, Tom?" she asked, putting down her fork.
They'd already dispensed with the professional matters, Tom having readily agreed to take on the proposed tasks. She'd brought up the matter of rank, the fact that she and Chakotay both wanted to promote him to full Lieutenant. He'd replied that he should at least be made a Lieutenant junior grade again first, not that he didn't appreciate the compliment profoundly. She'd hesitantly agreed that he may be right, and then they'd fallen into an uncomfortable silence.
He looked at her, trying to decide what to tell her. He didn't want to tell her the truth; it would make her feel awkward. Janeway was a warm person, but she was also profoundly private. Tom knew that it took a galaxy-class starship full of patience (and maybe a compression rifle or two) to get through her personal defenses. And that was on a good day.
As if reading his thoughts, she held up her hand.
"The truth, Tom."
He sighed.
"I'm uncomfortable."
She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and pain, and he quickly tried to explain.
"I'm uncomfortable because I'm too comfortable here."
She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue on. Despite himself, the words began to fall in a steady stream from his mouth.
"I'm uncomfortable because I've been to your quarters dozens of times. Because I know where the bathroom is, and that your replicator, though not a sentient being, genuinely seems to hate you. I know not to sit in the center of your couch because of that odd lump in the cushion, and that the picture of your father on the corner table falls off every time the ship shakes with enemy fire. But you refuse to move it, and just replicate a new frame every time."
He was babbling and she was watching him, her discomfort at his words melting quickly into sympathy as he continued.
"I remember countless meals at this table, even more meetings in the living room over tea. I remember waking up on that couch twice, a kink in my back both times from that damn lump."
Her eyes went wide, and he realized how his last statement sounded. He shut his eyes, his face coloring a shade that matched his uniform.
"The ready room was destroyed. It wasn't high enough on the list of priorities to rebuild."
"We met in my quarters?"
He nodded, his eyes still closed.
"Staff meetings tended to rotate. But you and I normally met here or in my quarters." He let out a deep breath. "The reports and to-do lists were never ending. A couple times I fell asleep on the couch, and you let me stay there. I wasn't sure if you thought I was too exhausted to wake, or you were just relieved to have some peace and quiet without me prattling at you."
She chuckled at his last, self-deprecating remark.
As the sound found him, he forced himself to open his eyes. When her face came into view, she was looking at him softly. She didn't say anything for a moment, but he could see the thoughts pass over her face. The discomfort that one of her officers knew so much about her. The relief that was it was him rather than Harry. Rather than B'Elanna. The guilt that she felt that way.
He knew how hard this was for her. He would undo it if he could. He hadn't done anything wrong, but he still felt guilty.
Silently, he told himself that he had, in fact, done something. He missed the other Janeway. The woman who'd suffered crippling personal losses and didn't have the energy to keep her officers at arms' length anymore; who dropped her guard around him; who, in private, used language that would make a Ferengi blush; who hugged him fiercely when B'Elanna ended their relationship, not letting go until his sobs subsided. The woman who patted his back when he began to fall asleep on her couch, kissing him affectionately on the forehead when she covered him with a blanket.
But it was so horrible to miss that woman given the cost of her existence. What it took for them to get to that point of friendship.
Despite himself, Tom's vision swam with unshed tears. He shut his eyes again, but the pressure of his eyelids only forced the moisture out of his eyes, spilling hot liquid down his cheeks. He didn't sob. He didn't make a sound.
In the silence of the room, he heard her chair scrape, and then her even breaths as she kneeled next to him. After a moment, he felt a tentative hand on his face. A gentle, tugging pressure on his left ear that forced him to open his eyes. Through the translucent veil of his tears, he could see her concerned face.
"I'm so sorry that I don't know you as well as you know me." Her voice was sincere, her eyes reflecting his own sadness. "But I want to learn about you, Tom. I want us to be friends."
He nodded, the movement casting a sprinkle of tears to fall into his lap. His eyes followed them, dropping his gaze from her eyes.
Her hand moved from his face and he felt bereft. He pushed the feeling away, wiping calmly at his cheeks. He had no doubt he was quite the sight.
"Well, that's one thing to check off the list," he said, when he finally trusted himself to speak.
She looked at him questioningly.
"Crying in front you," he supplied.
Janeway nodded solemnly.
"I suppose it's a long list."
He sighed, realizing they were past pretenses now.
"You have no idea."
The admission didn't make either of them feel any better.
. . . . .
When Janeway showed up at his door the next week, dartboard in hand, he eyed her with open suspicion. It was on the late shift again the next day, and so was she. She didn't comment on this, however. She just smiled when he opened his door, sliding past him into his quarters.
As she unwrapped the dartboard, he looked at her, obviously dubious of her actions. But then a thoughtful look crept onto his face.
Janeway noticed it.
"Care to share?" she prodded, as she looked around, deciding where to hang the board.
He knew that she would try different places over a series of days, weeks- on the wall by the replicator, above his desk console, next to the bathroom door- before settling on the wall next to the entryway. There would be barely enough room to stand, and they would have to move his dining room table whenever they played. But it would be the best option.
He didn't offer this; she would have to decide it for herself.
"I was just reflecting on the essential properties of Kathryn Janeway."
The corners of his mouth tugged upward, not a full smile, but the promise of one. Like the sun peaking out of the clouds on a rainy day. She realized that Tom was teasing her, but he was also being truthful.
"I'm listening," she said, eyeing the wall next to his replicator.
"One: she never ever asks permission."
She wasn't quite expecting that one, and her face shot up. He watched her.
She wasn't offended, just surprised. Usually people thought she was diplomatic to a fault. And in most interactions, she was. But with people she knew well, people she cared about, she charged ahead and very rarely worried about the boundaries she crossed. Except for those that were her own.
"Two: a stubborn streak that would put a Klingon to shame."
This one she expected. She smiled, looking past him to wall by the bathroom.
"So, my very essence is to be stubborn and rude. Got it." Her tone was light, without resentment. "Anything else?"
He leaned against the wall by the door.
"Three: never leaves a man when he's down."
The smile that was trying to form on his face finally appeared, though it was rueful in character.
Janeway looked at him searchingly before her eyes fell to floor. She hadn't expected him to thank her so quickly for reaching out to him, even in a round about way. She didn't think he would drop his defenses easily after the last time in her quarters. She was touched by his words but didn't know how to respond. She struggled to find her voice.
"Four: accepts compliments in an utterly unedifying fashion."
She snorted. The observation had the virtue of being true, as well as saving her from having to respond to his previous statement. She had no doubt Tom had intended it that way.
"Noted," she said, moving to stand next to the replicator. "I'll endeavor to work on that."
"I'm not holding my breath."
She rolled her eyes, holding up the dartboard.
"Here?" she asked, her voice hopeful.
"If you think so." His voice was non-committal.
She eyed him suspiciously. He didn't squirm.
"Mr. Paris, why don't you just tell me where we'll end up putting this, before both my patience and the feeling in my arms give out."
She was agitated for the first time in their conversation. She tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear before looking at him pointedly.
He looked at her with reluctance before tapping the wall he was leaning on.
"Really? There doesn't seem to be enough room to stand."
"We have to move the dining table," Tom confirmed.
She sighed.
"It almost doesn't seem worth it. Maybe we should just hang it in my quarters?"
The neutral expression crept back onto his face when she suggested this. She looked at him pointedly again.
After a moment, he shook his head.
"Won't work out." He could see her wracking her brain before he explained, "your father's picture."
"We manage to knock it down? Even though it's in the corner?"
"Every time," Tom confirmed, smiling.
She let out a small huff.
"Fine. But this is only temporary. I refuse to accept that there isn't a better option."
He nodded, knowing better than to tell her otherwise.
. . . . .
Janeway sat on her helmsman's couch, slouched slightly into the cushion behind her. Tom had invited her to shed her shoes when she first entered, but she hadn't done so until now, two hours after she'd charged into his quarters, dartboard in hand.
Tom sat an arm's length away from her.
Neither one looked at the other.
When they'd finally hung the board, Janeway proposed a bit of a game. She would have tell him things about herself, and if he already knew them, he would get to take a shot. If she told him something he didn't know, it became her turn. For every throw of hers that didn't hit her target, he would have to tell her something she didn't know about him.
"Normally, games of this kind come with a punishment, rather than a reward, for failing to meet one's goals," he'd said wryly. "It doesn't seem right that for every throw you miss, I have to tell you something."
"Ah, but I am but a novice, Mr. Paris. And the more you help me learn the game, the more painless this will become for you."
He'd looked at her incredulously, and she flashed him a mischievous smile.
"And you've also presumptuously assumed that learning things about you is a reward."
Her tone had been the same one she always adopted when they bantered. Still, leaning against the wall, he'd folded his arms in front of him. His eyes narrowed and she'd again misread his expression for defensiveness. But he'd realized it this time, forcing softness onto his face before he began to speak.
"This is a bad idea," he'd said with patient confidence. "You're going to become uncomfortable."
He'd thought that she was quickly going to become uncomfortable, but he'd chosen to omit the adverb.
She'd been undeterred, her wry grin staying put.
"We can make a few ground rules about what, exactly, you're allowed to disclose to me. If you're worried you're going to cross any lines."
He'd looked at her, unblinking. For a moment, her optimism faltered.
"Not what I mean." He'd stood up straight, dropping his arms to his sides when he continued. "You're going to become uncomfortable when you realize how much I know about you."
The smile fell from her face, replaced with a look of resolve.
"Do you really think my wondering what, precisely, you know about me is better that having concrete answers?"
"Yes," he'd replied with unflinching certainty.
But she'd pushed, and he'd acquiesced.
In the end, Tom had been right.
Sitting near him on the couch now, she struggled to accept how much Tom knew about her.
He knew that she'd been engaged twice; once to a man who died on the same frozen planet as her father, and then to a man who'd moved on, marrying another, when Voyager was declared lost. He knew that she secretly hated every coffee substitute that Neelix produced and that she wished he would give up the pursuit. (Tom warned her here, managing a lightness in his tone, that if ever they were without replicators entirely, she would be grateful for the Talaxian's preoccupation with her favorite beverage.) He knew that while she was close with both her mother and her sister, she'd always been closer with father, the other two women in the Janeway household possessing a bond that she seemed somehow on the outside of.
Tom even knew that when she was seven, she'd cheated on a history quiz. She hadn't been caught, and she didn't confess. After weeks, the guilt threatened to eat her alive, and she deliberately failed the next two assignments as an act of self-flagellation. The disappointment in her father's eyes when she brought home the abysmal grades had been a far worse punishment that anything she would have been subjected to if she'd just confessed to her teacher.
Tom must have known this, too; he'd briefly touched her arm when she'd glossed over the youthful indiscretion.
Of course, in the midst of her charting Tom's seemingly endless knowledge of her, she'd in turn learned about him.
He'd always loved music, but in the alternate timeline- without replicators, holodecks- it became a creature comfort that saved his sanity, as well as the rest of the crew's. On the other Voyager, they'd played music in the turbolifts, in the mess hall. Even in the corridors sometimes. Despite the other recreational options available to him now, Tom still felt grounded by music, playing it whenever he was able.
His favorite ice cream flavor was pistachio, but he didn't really care for actual pistachios. He knew how to water ski, though he preferred sailing. He had his first real girlfriend at the age of seventeen, later than she would have thought give his ease with women. He'd realized with dismay and confusion that she was more interested in the fame of his family name than in him. This had jaded him at an early age- both in regard to relationships with women and having the last name Paris.
He'd admitted, with a profound embarrassment she found amusing, that he hated that one of the bright and shining forefathers of the Starfleet was James T. Kirk. Tom thought the man a smart Captain and a brave man, but remarked that it was entirely too telling of Starfleet's recurring demons that they were all expected to look past Kirk's xenophobia in regard to the Klingons, his self-importance, the womanizing.
Janeway understood. It was sacrilege, especially in a Starfleet family, to speak ill of the pioneers who'd gone before them. But she also knew that if Kirk was her contemporary, he would try to bed her, and when that failed, would lose interest in her as a colleague. She hadn't said anything in response to Tom's comments, giving him a look of sympathy instead.
Now, staring at her as she sat on thought on his couch, he was giving her a look that was remarkably similar to the one she'd given him then. He understood why she was doing this and he appreciated her efforts. But he worried they were rushing things. Worse, he worried they were forcing a round peg into a square hole. She wasn't the same woman he became friends with before.
"There's nothing that says we have to do this all at once," he finally said, when too much time had elapsed without either of them speaking. "We don't have to force it. We can give it time."
She knew his concerns were largely for her rather than himself, that he understood she felt like her privacy was being invaded.
But Tom didn't know that before all of this happened, before he suddenly woke up on the floor of Flyer with a wellspring of intimate knowledge about her, Janeway had begun to feel isolated, alone. Five years in the Delta Quadrant had taken its toll. She had Chakotay and she had Tuvok, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to have to play the roll of Captain even in her off-duty time.
As much as Tom's new understanding of her made her feel uneasy, it also gave her hope.
Janeway wasn't trying just for him, she was trying for herself, too.
"You're right. But not matter what we do, you're always going to have a head start on me. There's no getting around that."
Tom didn't reply, his face twisting in thought.
A mournful song wafted through his quarters. Tom had let the computer choose music from his archive at random, and it was the second time this song had played that evening. Janeway remembered that it had also played in Sandrine's the night that they'd first talked about his memories.
"I rather like this song," she said, randomly. She wasn't trying to break the silence or derail their line of conversation. She said it just because she was thinking it.
He looked at her with an expression that was difficult to read. And then she realized he was trying to stifle laughter.
"What?" she asked, genuinely confused.
He stretched forward to the coffee table, plucking one of the discarded darts. Then he slouched back on the couch, lobbing the dart with remarkable ease at the board that was across from them. It struck just to the right of center, and Janeway sat incredulous.
He'd thrown the dart because she'd told him something he already knew. She rubbed her face, laughter overtaking her as she pondered how ludicrous this all was.
"You make the rules. I just play by them," Tom said, smirking.
She glared at him, but it wasn't one of genuine displeasure.
He suddenly felt optimistic. Laughing with her about the absurdity of their situation, feeling affection and frustration roll off her in waves; this was familiar territory to him.
"This is going to get old rather quickly." She shook her head, feeling her amusement begin to give way to fatigue.
"Maybe. Or maybe you'll like it." He smiled wildly at her; the smile he often wore before he was saddled with the memories of a struggling ship and dead comrades. "Just maybe, in time, you won't be able to remember how you ever lived on this ship without counting me as one of your closest friends."
His optimism was contagious. So was his dark sense of humor.
"Highly doubtful," she taunted. "But maybe when I get sick and tired of spending time with you, B'Elanna and I will have more to talk about. More in common."
He paused, and she worried her mouth had been faster then her brain.
"You know, you were much easier to get along with when you were dead, Captain."
They both chuckled darkly at his joke as the familiar song continued on.
. . . . .
Paris and Janeway sat in the Delta Flyer, waiting for the computer to finish running the analysis of the minerals they collected.
It would take almost three hours, but Janeway didn't mind the wait. The three hours were a welcome break from Voyager and her daily routine. Only Tuvok had tried to keep her on board when she said that she was going. Everyone knew the mission was barely a job for an Ensign, let alone the Captain, but it had been five years, and they all knew this mood. There was no sense fighting it.
When she'd looked at Tom and said, "you're with me, Mr. Paris," she'd expected him to look uneasy or at least flinch. The two of them hadn't been on the Flyer together since the anomaly and she was worried this was going to bring back bad memories for him.
She inwardly cringed at the word 'memories', even though she'd only thought it.
She'd been relieved when he'd flashed her a smile and said, "yes ma'am" in an almost boyish tone. She was grateful that her request was a painless one for him. She needed it to be Tom that kept her company on the Flyer. He would be comfortable with her, a pleasant companion who wouldn't rush to fill the silences with chatter.
He wouldn't question her need to leave the ship. He wouldn't look at her with thinly veiled concern the way Chakotay did, or thickly veiled reproach the way Tuvok did.
Paris had followed his Captain to the lift, and they stood in silence for half the journey to the shuttle bay. But then he'd turned to look at her, a seemingly solemn expression on his face.
"If I make it to Commander in the next anomaly, I only ask that I get to keep the rank."
The only thing that had thrown off his deadpan delivery was the twinkling of his eyes. She'd chuckled, immediately flooded with even greater relief that it was Tom going with her.
"Deal," she'd replied with a nod.
Now, sitting in the Flyer, they both sat doing work. Tom played music, rigging it to decrease in volume or else stop entirely if the computer needed to alert them of anything.
She thought Tom's music tastes were eclectic. He liked classical music, as well as jazz. Even Klingon opera. But she knew his favorite music came from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. It was what he played now, and she'd heard a great deal of this kind of music lately, as other members of her staff began to pick out things they liked from Tom's archive of ancient music.
She'd learned that Tom loved music that sounded a little rowdy, like it should be playing in a bar over the dull din of a restless crowd. She liked rowdy music, too, though she hadn't quite realized this until she started spending time with Tom.
I have waited all my life. You say you are bona fide, to be my judge. Lay your law down on me, love.
Seven devils, bring them on. I have left my weapons, 'cause I think you're wrong. These devils of yours, they need love.
Come and kneel with me, body and soul. Come and kneel with me, body and soul. Body and soul.
The beat of the song was raucous. Slightly dark. The woman's voice was sultry, but she easily changed her pitch to something unnatural, something alarming.
Janeway's foot began to tap, but she didn't look up from her PADD. Tom smiled, seeing her out of the corner of her eye. He kept plugging away at his work.
After another minute, Janeway's head began moving to the music, though only slightly. Tom tore his eyes away from the report he was tinkering with, looking at her with an open grin on his face. She looked up at him, not seeming embarrassed.
"Maybe I should change this to be our new standard greeting," she remarked, sipping her coffee and looking at him over the rim.
Her mood was interesting today. Dark. But not brooding. Tom rather liked it.
"I'm sure we could tweak the audio file. Work 'Captain Kathryn Janeway of the starship Voyager' somewhere into the refrain somehow."
They looked at each other. The song was full of sexual innuendos. And she was a female captain. An attractive one. It was a fact that caused more than one wrinkle in their negotiations with alien dignitaries. A fact that made Chakotay grip his chair like it was a bucking bronco when she was down on a planet with people they didn't quite trust. A fact that probably would have shaved years off her Security Officer's lifespan, if he weren't a Vulcan and, thus, equipped to handle stress well.
No one ever commented on this, not even in private.
"I'll let you take it up with Tuvok," she pronounced, as though seriously considering the change.
She went back to her PADD, and he to his report. They both smirked, an her foot kept tapping to the music.
When it was time to return to Voyager, lines appeared at the corners of Janeway's mouth, threatening a frown. She didn't say anything other than indicating for him to bring the Flyer about and head back to the ship. She leaned back in her chair, trying to get the kinks out of her neck. The silence seemed to stretch, and for first time that afternoon it wasn't a comfortable quiet.
"You know," he started, realizing he would have to take the initiative. "I'm always happy to go with you on these little jaunts, the threat of altered memories not withstanding."
Behind him, she snorted.
"But you don't have to kidnap me on a shuttle to get a little R & R. We can do things together whenever you like."
"We already do things together." Her tone was peevish, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes.
In truth, they had spent a great deal more time together in the last month and a half. When she ate in the mess hall, he would normally join her, his schedule allowing. She'd begun to drop by his quarters on his days off, or else when she knew he didn't have to be up early the next day. He still didn't show up at her quarters without invitation, a fact that didn't escape her, but they were more comfortable with each other. They were genuinely becoming friends.
"I meant things other than skulk around my quarters," he said, turning from the conn, his face earnest.
She gave him a withering look, but it didn't deter him.
"Seriously. We can go sailing on the holodeck. Play tennis with Harry and Chakotay."
Janeway had heard that Harry was quite good at tennis. She knew for a fact that Chakotay was just awful.
"We could run the Captain Proton program."
He smirked and the frown that was hovering at her mouth went away, the corners of her lips tugging the opposite direction.
"I think I've had quite enough of Captain Proton for some time, Tom."
The incident with the photonic aliens had been two week after his release from Sickbay. It had helped to ground Tom in a strange way. And it had been hysterical to see Janeway as Queen Arachnia.
Secretly, Janeway had enjoyed it, too.
"And I thought you'd like being Queen."
"I did. But I hated the shoes."
She looked at him with a genuine smile, and his earnest expression returned.
"I'm just saying you don't need an excuse to let yourself relax."
Her smile dimmed at this words but didn't disappear completely.
"I'll take it under advisement, Mr. Paris."
Tom turned back around, sitting back in his chair with a thud. This was what Janeway always said when she didn't want to say 'no' but had no intention at all of saying 'yes'. It was an old tune, and he knew it well.
Tom sighed, tapping his index finger in time to the music that played in the background as he plotted their course.