June 2363
Tom and Charlie left the transport station on Fillmore and started their walk up to Pacific Heights. His roommate was relaxed and chatty, but Tom felt like his stomach was in a vise. His mother had been harassing him for months to arrange a time for Charlie and his parents to come to the house for dinner. Tom had managed to put her off with a variety of excuses - his piloting exam, Charlie's Advanced Warp Theory project, Elizabeth's teaching schedule. But the Academy had just entered the two week break before the newly christened second year cadets left for physical training, and Harvard's semester was over as well. Finally, it's all managed to come together! his mother had commed him happily last week. Fantastic.
When Julia Paris had first proposed the idea back in January, Tom thought, Sure, why not? He wasn't expecting it to be a barrel of laughs, but he'd certainly suffered through plenty of dinners with his father's friends and colleagues before. At least at this one he'd actually like the people that were invited.
But that was before he found out the truth about Charlie's parents. Or more specifically, Charlie's mother.
Being enrolled in his father's section of Survival Strategies had gone about as well as he had predicted. His father had been exacting in his demands on his son - apparently the appearance of impartiality could only be achieved by making Tom work twice as hard as everyone else. There were not a few occasions during the semester that Charlie had been subjected to Tom railing against the unfairness of it all.
"You know, Paris," Charlie said calmly after a particularly heated venting session, "The grass is always greener."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Tom asked him, still fuming from the latest injustice done against him.
"Look, I'm not going to pretend that my relationship with my parents is nearly as fraught as the one you have with your father," Charlie started.
"I sure as hell hope not! Your parents are great!" Tom was being completely sincere. Since becoming Charlie's roommate, he'd felt like he had become an honorary member of the Day family. Both Mitchell's and Elizabeth's work brought them into the area not infrequently. They always made time to spend with both boys, and sometimes even Tom alone if Charlie was busy. Tom had found Elizabeth particularly a ready confidant and something of a mentor.
Charlie gave him an exasperated look. "Except when they're not, Tom. Listen, I'm glad you find my mom so easy to talk to, and you know I love them. But it would be nice if they were occasionally interested in what I do day to day. Neither one of them understands word one of the engineering stuff, and my mom doesn't want to understand the Starfleet part."
Tom looked at him, confused. "What do you mean, she doesn't want to understand?" He and Elizabeth had often discussed Tom's coursework and career plans, and she was known to give him valuable input on his command track papers.
"I mean she doesn't want to hear about why I'm choosing to study engineering here at the Academy, vs. MIT or Caltech. She thinks I'm being brainwashed." Charlie ran his hands through his hair, and gave a short sigh of frustration at Tom's continued perplexed expression. "You know my mom teaches ethics, right? Well, did you know one of her most popular classes is called 'The Fallacy of the Prime Directive and Its Impact on Developing Systems'? She started teaching it right after she turned down the job here. She's writing a book on the same subject."
Tom just stared at Charlie, wondering if he was joking.
"Yeah, exactly. So you can imagine how thrilled she was when I was told her I was applying to the Academy. We were so loud I think our neighbors called the police."
"She's never said anything negative about Starfleet to me," Tom insisted.
"Of course not. She knows who your family is, and what your last name means. She likes you a lot, Tom, she doesn't want to make you feel uncomfortable."
"But, your dad? He doesn't feel the same way?" Tom asked hopefully.
"My dad," Charlie said, swiveling back to his desk and his materials science text, "likes to drink a lot of wine, make up shit to say about it, and defer to my mom on all things political."
So to say that Tom was dreading the upcoming second meeting between his father and Elizabeth Cornwall was an understatement.
"Wow," Charlie was saying. "I've never been up this way before. Will you look at these houses? How many connections do you have to have to get live in one of these? I mean, look at that massive yellow one! It has a turret!"
Tom chewed on his lower lip. "Um...that's my house."
Charlie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "Seriously, Paris? You've been holding out on me! I'm burning with questions!" He paused to study the house, cocking his head to one side. "For example, what exactly does one do with a turret in the 24th century? Wait, I know! Is that where your Dad locks you up when you bring home a C?"
"Shut the fuck up, Day," Tom said good naturedly. His friend had a way of taking the piss out of him that made his problems seem significantly less important. It was a valuable skill that Tom frequently took advantage of (and Charlie didn't seem to mind wielding at a moment's notice).
"Whatever, Paris. All I know is now that I've seen your house, you're buying the first - and the second - round of drinks that we have to forget how terrible this dinner is going to be."
Tom made a face at him as they mounted the front stairs of his house. "You think it's going to be that bad, huh?"
"Does a Ferengi like profit?" Charlie replied.
It started out fine, as these things tend to do. There were introductions and re-introductions all around. The typical "What a lovely home", "New England must be beautiful this time of year", "Have you always lived in San Francisco," that sort of thing. They discussed Julia's work with various philanthropic organizations around the city, and Mitchell's work as a sommelier. And then things started to go south. It was minor at first, and Tom initially thought the evening might be saved. But it was just a portent of things to come.
"Tom, the bottle I brought is a real gem - it's a Cotes de Provence rosé," Mitchell told him as they gathered in the living room for hors d'oeuvres. "I thought we could open it to toast to your impending transfer to the Marseille campus."
"Actually, Mitchell, Owen and I don't believe in allowing the children to drink alcohol," Julia Paris said. "Canape?"
"Children, Julia?" Elizabeth Cornwall snorted. "They're nearly twenty years old. And Tom is one of the most considerate and responsible young men I've ever met."
"Mom," Charlie said, with a hint of a pleading tone, "It's not a big deal. Tom and I don't need to have the wine."
"Well, of course it's a not a big deal. And of course we'll honor any rules of the household," replied Elizabeth archly. "I just think it's a bit rich to call twenty year olds enrolled in a military academy 'children.'"
"Julia!" Mitchell exclaimed loudly. "These salmon puffs are incredible! You'll need to tell me your secret so I can pass it on to the chef at my restaurant!"
Tom internally sighed with relief that Mitchell seemed to provide adequate distraction and his father didn't take the bait. Too bad that was the least incendiary thing Elizabeth Cornwall said that night. And too bad his father was just biding his time, waiting for the best moment to launch his counter-attack.
"Elizabeth," Owen said suddenly over their entree of confit de canard, after having barely spoken for the entire soup course, "I get the impression that you don't think highly of Starfleet."
"I wouldn't say that, Owen," she replied coolly. "I just take issue with some of your policies."
"Some of our policies!" Owen laughed, but Tom was quite sure he found none of this amusing. "Like the Prime Directive? The cornerstone of our mission statement?" He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "I've heard about that class you teach."
"Well, then you'll know that I don't object to the basic tenet of the Directive. I only take issue when it's followed blindly, with no room made for compassion."
"Julia," Mitchell broke in, as he placed a hand over his wife's. "What a lovely Marcillac you've found to pair with the duck. Most people these days haven't even heard of this appellation."
"Thank you, Mitchell," Julia replied, her smile a bit over bright. "I fancy myself a bit of an oenophile. Very much an amateur compared to yourself, of course. Do you have a particular interest in French wines?"
Tom and Charlie, seated at opposite corners of the table, made eye contact. It was clear both were hoping that their more temperate parent would prevail and the conversation would turn.
"But who's to say what's compassion, and what's interference?" Nope, Dad's not letting this drop. "How would Harvard propose we even go about making a decision like that? I'm genuinely curious." Tom knew that his father was, in fact, not curious at all. This was not a new argument for Owen Paris. Tom suspected he'd been trained to defend the Prime Directive from the womb.
But this wasn't a new argument for Elizabeth Cornwall, either. "I think it's a matter of common sense and simple human decency when the potential for good outweighs the possible negatives. Take Nuegara II, for example. If the Federation had gotten involved, we could have prevented millions of lives from being lost during the earthquake. We had the technology to help them!" Ouch, thought Tom. His father hadn't been directly involved in that debacle, but no one in the 'Fleet had been happy with the outcome there.
"Except that their government declined our assistance!" Owen banged his fork onto the table. Simply being unhappy with an outcome didn't mean the Admiral wouldn't defend his colleagues' decisions with his dying breath.
"Would anyone like more duck?" Julia asked, as a last ditch attempt to redirect.
"A government that had gotten a vote of no confidence from almost fifty percent of the population! How can that not be taken into account?" Another score for the professor from Harvard, thought Tom. Poor Mom.
"And at what point does that number become irrelevant? Thirty percent? Twenty? Five? That is why we need a single policy with clear guidelines! Otherwise the process gets so bogged down in debate that nothing gets accomplished! History has shown that time and again!" Actually, Tom considered, the Admiral does have a point.
"History has also shown that the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing! How can we turn a blind eye to atrocities happening right in front of us, and not do a thing to stop them?" Elizabeth demanded. "How do we justify that? I mean, look at the Bajoran Occupation!"
Shit shit shit. Tom shot a desperate look at his mother. Her panicked expression told him she didn't have an escape plan either.
Owen's tone, not exactly toasty to begin with, dropped by several degrees. "What about the Bajoran Occupation, exactly?"
"The forced labor camps! The insane justice system! Have you heard what's being done to that planet? It will be uninhabitable within another decade. It's practically genocide! Do you even understand what the Cardassians are capable of?" Elizabeth's voice had risen considerably, and she was full on glaring at the Admiral.
Owen slammed his wine glass so hard onto the table that the stem shattered. "I am not going to sit here and have my life's work attacked in my own home. Excuse me." And with that, he stormed out of the dining room.
Julia left her place to go after him, "Tom…" she turned to give a pleading look to her son.
"Go, Mom," he said softly as he rose to standing. "I can take care of this." He turned to regard the dining room filled with dirty plates, half eaten duck, and newly unwanted guests. "So," he said with a forced smile. "I think we should probably skip dessert."
"Tom, I'm sorry." Elizabeth came around the table to where he was standing. "I didn't meant to upset him. It's just something I'm very passionate about. But considering who he is, the influence he has - he can't just walk away when someone challenges his views." She reached out to him, trying to make contact, but Tom backed away.
"I'm really sorry," he said to Mitchell, finding he was having trouble meeting Elizabeth's eyes, "but I think it's best if you leave."
"Of course, Tom," Mitchell replied and coaxed his wife towards the front door. Charlie followed close behind.
An hour later, after picking up the broken glass and helping their housekeeper Barra load what felt like a hundred dishes through the refresher, Tom emerged onto his front porch to find his roommate waiting for him.
Tom sat next to him on the steps and elbowed him. "Nice of you to wait out here. I absolutely didn't need any help cleaning up. You would have just been in the way."
"I do try to be as helpful as possible," Charlie replied. "Like when I didn't listen to my instincts and throw myself bodily in front of my mother to stop her from coming tonight. Just think, had I done that, we would have missed out on this lovely meal."
"That would have been a tragedy." Tom agreed. "After all, now that Survival Strategies is over, I needed a new reason to be pissed at my dad." He clapped Charlie on the back and stood up. "Come on, I think I owe you a drink or five."
"I don't know, Paris," Charlie said, "I don't like to encourage children to drink."
"I've said it before and I'm sure I'll say it again, Day: Shut the fuck up."
"Fair enough. And I'll only make you buy the first round." The two cadets started off down the hill.
"We should do this again sometime, don't you think?" Charlie said.
"Definitely," replied Tom. "Next century work for you?"
"I'll check my calendar."
A/N: I couldn't get all of the proper French accents to work, so sorry some are missing. In my head canon, I suppose because their last name is Paris, Tom's family has a decent amount of French heritage. Also, if anyone is interested - the story's title comes from the John Denver song of the same name. But you have to listen to the Evan Dando (formerly of the Lemonheads) cover - that specific version makes me think of Tom.