III.
Two weeks later
Alone and in the privacy of her quarters, Kathryn finally gets to peel off that ridiculous dress. As she does so she scrapes her wrist on one of those ridiculous stays that are supposed to make that ridiculous collar look like a spider web, and curses Tom Paris and his ridiculous program.
So he has finally decided to speak in her presence again, right there in front of everybody in the briefing room, even turned one of those … those looks of his on her, and to do what? To make her play an overblown vamp in a trashy holonovel, to take out one of the most ridiculous and pompous villains she's ever seen.
Her mind drifts to the last few hours, and she runs the events of the afternoon through her mind like a black-and-white … movie? Is that what he called it? More irrelevantly, she wonders how on Earth he ever came up with a character like that. Authors are supposed to write what they know, but surely there is no human being in the Alpha Quadrant …
And then it comes to her: didn't her wannabe paramour bear a rather uncanny resemblance to that late Admiral – what's-his-name? Oh yes: Tarantino. Especially those dramatically rolling 'Rs'? She and Tom were raised in the same circles, so it would stand to reason that he must have met the man at some point … Kathryn fights down a giggle, as she mentally tots up the similarities. She must ask him some day, when they're capable of having a civilized conversation again, and the context isn't quite so obvious. She wouldn't want him to think …
Damn.
She misses Tom; she really does. He is a child of her own world, more than anyone else aboard Voyager, and he's always had an ease with her that others, like Chakotay, might have regarded as impudence, but that she knew to be an acknowledgment of her fundamental humanity. The rift that has opened up between them over that cursed water planet has left her as bereft as it apparently left him bitter.
It would be easy to say it has been one exclusively of his making, the result of a sudden and unexpected return to irresponsibility on his part, but she has to concede at least one of the points he made the last time they spoke: She does not, always, hold herself to the same standard as she does the crew, when it comes to regulations.
She is, of course, prepared to defend and stand by her actions, every last one of them, including her administration of discipline. After all, she is the Captain, and Voyager cannot afford decision-making by committee. But she can see how some apparent inconsistencies, based on - she is convinced - a need to treat each situation as it comes, could grate on someone with such firmly held principles as Tom Paris. Or Chakotay, for that matter. Her XO has been on her case more than once about her approach, and she knows one of these days one of their arguments, too, will reach critical mass.
Her eyes fall on That Dress, now lying on the floor in a three-dimensional heap. Hell, what she needs after all this - the day she's had, the matters running unbidden and seemingly uncontrollable through her head - is a drink. A real one. Where do you find such a thing at this time, without telling Chakotay you know where he keeps his Antarean cider?
One quick check with the computer tells her that Sandrine's is running in Holodeck Two. Good. After what happened on the holodeck earlier, the best thing is getting right back in the saddle - a philosophy her crew has lived and breathed for the last four-and-a-half years. And she's not surprised that someone turned on the old watering hole again for that first time back; there's safety in the familiar. Besides, its dark and smoky atmosphere has been enjoying a bit of a resurgence over Neelix' too-cheery-and-bright resort lately, for whatever reason. Fine with her.
She wonders, as she heads for the turbolift, whether Sandrine would let her have some of Tom's stash of Saurian brandy. He's the programmer, true, and enjoys a special relationship with the proprietress - but she's the Captain and could terminate the entire thing with a single command.
Do holograms have a sense of self-preservation? Those people they just saved from annihilation by 'Chaotica' and his minions sure did, as does the Doc; there's enough of Arachnia left in her to try and see if ordinary run-of-the-mill holograms do as well. She will have that glass of brandy.
She throws on a loose sweater and heads for the door.
IV.
When she gets to the Holodeck, she briefly wonders whether she should ask the computer who else is inside. Before she can do so, though, the door hisses open and Mike Ayala emerges. He sees her standing there and nods a brief, silent acknowledgment as he passes. She straightens her shoulder and walks in.
There are quite a few crewmembers in the bar in fact, intermingled with the holographic patrons. The gigolo is still there, but the pool hustlers have been gone for some time; probably Tom Paris' first concession to Torres when they got together.
Speaking of whom. There they both sit, with Harry Kim as usual, three heads together in a corner by the bar. The pilot is still sporting that leather jacket he wore in the program – obviously more than a costume to him - and Torres is giggling over something he said, in that totally un-Klingon way she sometimes has around him. Harry is helplessly wiping his eyes, looking about fifteen years old. A couple of the other crewmembers shoot amused glances into their corner, and one tosses a remark into the mix that she can't hear. The laughter gets raucous as Tom flings back a retort.
Two questions cross Kathryn's mind. The first is, what is it about Tom Paris, who started out on her ship as the one guy everybody found so easy to hate, that they all love to laugh with him now?
And the second: Are they talking – and laughing - about her?
The rational side of her dismisses the thought; it's been a tough day and surely they're just letting off some steam. But then Tom looks up and sees her standing there, and the laughter drains out of his face – or at least that's how it seems to her.
B'Elanna and Harry pick up on his changed mood immediately and follow his gaze across the room. The engineer grips his arm and whispers something to him that obviously even Harry is not supposed to hear but Tom shakes his head, smiles softly as he answers. Whatever he says, it causes both his companions to shrug, drain their drinks and get up.
Torres briefly grips the pilot's shoulder and kisses him on the head before taking her leave, throwing a possessive glance at Kathryn as she does so. Harry, too, gives her a long, inscrutable look before nodding a greeting and heading for the door with the engineer.
What has he told them?
It doesn't take long for her to figure it out. He wants to talk to her. Now.
His eyes fixed on Kathryn, Tom gestures with his chin to the now empty seats at his table. She hesitates for a moment. He has invited her to his table before, of course, but this seems more like … a summons, and she isn't quite sure whether she should accept.
Yes, she definitely needs a drink; it's why she came here. And yes, it was Tom's bottle of Saurian brandy that she'd been thinking about. Or was it more him than the brandy she was looking for?
Whatever it is that brought her here though, she's the Captain, and she knows that unfinished business between her and one of her senior officers is a Bad Thing. So, it appears, does he. Clearly the pilot hasn't been on the same schedule as herself in that regard, but the scene in the briefing room today may have opened the door that he had slammed shut a couple of weeks ago – opened it at least sufficiently to let a bit of light back in.
She takes a deep breath and heads over to the table, tossing little nods and the occasional phrase, like "good job today, crewman," over her shoulder as she goes like the good, conscientious leader she is.
Tom signals Sandrine as Kathryn approaches, and the holographic proprietress nods and ducks behind the bar.
"Wanna try that bottle again, Captain?"
The question is simple; the look in his eyes as he asks is not. A mixture of defiance, challenge, and … hope? Funny, she doesn't see any anger, and no fear of rejection. Hope, she decides, because it's what she wants to see.
"By all means," she says. "We didn't finish it the last time."
V.
She ignores the curious eyes of the assorted members of her crew, who seem to see something remarkable in the sight of Paris and the Captain sitting down at the same table. Kathryn is used to being the centre of attention, of course, but she also knows this is somehow different. They are being scrutinized, measured. There is, as always, both a curse and a blessing in meeting in a public place.
Right now, having vanquished the likes of Satan's Robot, she is willing to discount the possibility of a curse.
She sits down opposite the pilot and she can tell that he knows, without her having to say anything, that she expects him to fire the first shot. Or to open the door, whatever the more appropriate metaphor might be today.
He did the last time too, of course, but only because she'd practically ordered him to speak. In retrospect, that may have been a mistake. They'd both still been too angry with each other. This time, she will let Tom open on his own terms, and see where he takes it. But she can't help but wonder whether he will go straight for his Captain's jugular – knowing better than just about anyone on this ship where it is - and asks herself what she might do then. The crewmembers by the bar, Dalby and Henley in particular, seem eager to mop up the blood, whose ever it might be.
In the face of her silent trepidations the pilot's opening salvo surprises her, even as she expected to be surprised by him. He goes right for the civilian target, and with a smile, at that.
"You looked great in that dress. I didn't know holograms could drool."
Her eyes fly up, and she searches his face for evidence of dripping irony, but it hasn't changed from a minute ago. In fact, he seems to mean it. Luckily, Sandrine arrives with the bottle just then, and for a moment Kathryn is spared the need for an immediate reply.
"It was ridiculous," she states flatly. "I could barely move."
He shrugs, somewhat less than sympathetically, and a gleam steals into his eyes.
"You were the one who asked for it in a Size 4," he replies, his response no more welcome because she knows it is true. Men aren't supposed to know about these things, let alone point them out. Then he digs a little deeper.
"When was the last time you asked the replicator for something other than a uniform, Captain?"
"None of your business, Mister," she snaps back, and just like that, the ice that had built up between them cracks, just a little. He really is good at that, she realizes.
"Well, you should do it more often."
He tugs on his leather jacket and gives a small smile. "Like this thing here. It's grown on me, and I think I'll keep it. Even if I won't run the Proton program again. Besides, B'Elanna likes it."
Tom nods his thanks to Sandrine, who has filled his and Kathryn's glasses rather generously. The hologram leaves the bottle on the table and retreats; Sandrine can be obnoxiously attentive at times, but like any good barkeep she also knows when to make herself scarce.
Kathryn chooses to ignore the unconsciously delivered reminder of her pilot's deepening relationship with her chief engineer. It isn't that she really resents it – except when they are making out on top of expensive and finely-calibrated Starfleet instrument panels – but she thinks this discussion, now that they're having it, should be just between him and her; B'Elanna has no place in it.
"You were serious about that? I mean, dropping the program?"
Kathryn decides that he's right - for now, it's better to stay on neutral ground, talk of inconsequential things. Or, as Tom himself might say, when he's in a mood to let on just how well-read he is:
The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things - of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.
Or Queens, as the case may be.
But that said, she is already starting to head for the hill she wanted to climb the last time. This time she'll take safety equipment, though. Too many things saying eat me on the way up …
"Yep. Don't tell me you think that's a shame. Because I wouldn't believe you."
She weighs her words carefully now, knowing – especially after the previous misfire – that she is heading for thin ice with the direction she is about to take.
"Well, it is an odd program," she says, "but I can see how and why it appeals to you and Harry. Besides, it's good practice for strategic command."
Luckily, Tom just snorts, rolls his eyes, and takes another sip of his brandy. "Yeah, right."
"No, seriously, Tom. It's had an effect already. You mapped out the battle plan for today perfectly. I'm thinking of entering a commendation in your record for your contribution to saving those photonic beings."
That gets his attention.
"You're kidding, right?" The thing he doesn't say – less than two months after throwing me in the brig? – hangs in the air between them, but it evaporates quickly.
"I don't kid about things like this, Mr. Paris."
She could have said Ensign, of course, but she doesn't, and she relies on him to hear the difference.
"You did a remarkable job today, based on your knowledge of the adversary, his objectives, and the overall tactical environment."
He thinks about this for a moment, then shakes his head. "It's easy when you've written the characters and the basic story line."
It's his usual flight into self-deprecation when praised, but she won't let him get away with it this time. There's too much at stake.
"Not exactly, and you know it. You took what you knew, worked with the tools at your disposal, deployed the necessary troops," she resists the urge to bat a pair of Arachnian eyelashes at him, "and turned it into a viable battle strategy. In the face of a certain amount of … pretty ferocious skepticism on everybody else's part."
It is her turn to snort, as she remembers, and somehow feels the need to say it out loud.
"And what tools they were, too. The lightning shield. The destructo beam. Ray guns. Pheromones, for crying out loud. Against …"
She loses her thread here, not because she's had too much to drink – she's still only on her first – but because she is starting to giggle, in a most un-Captainly way.
"Chaotica's army of … army of …"
She can't say it out loud, however hard she tries. Kathryn Janeway has faced the Kazon, the Hirogen and the Borg, but Chaotica's minions may well end up in her catalogue of notable adversaries as They Who Cannot Be Named.
"His Army of Evil, ma'am," Tom supplies, with the same deadpan expression he'd used on her in the briefing room. But watching his Captain's shoulders heave he, too, loses it, and together they dissolve into a helpless laughing fit that has the remaining bar patrons stare at them in bewilderment.
The sight of the Captain and Tom Paris laughing together over some joke only they seem to get is not new, of course, but there have been quite a few bets as to whether it would ever be seen onboard Voyager again. The odds in favour that Jenny Delaney has set for the pool are pretty … long.
A few knowing nods, smiles and sage glances are being exchanged at the bar, as people lose interest in the conversation in the corner and start to drift away. There will be no fireworks tonight.