Chapter Two

At the sound of the door shutting with a soft but entirely intentional, metallic clang, Kathryn discovers that she doesn't need to move, instead using just her peripheral vision to identify her visitor. Half expecting Deanna, it is fair to say that the sight of Tom is unexpected. What it is not however, is totally beyond all reason. His familiar long legged stride still borders on a swagger, although common sense would dictate that isn't a good idea to sneak up on someone sitting on the edge of a rooftop and he has known her long enough to know just how much she dislikes surprises.

She wonders with a trace of irritation, just whose bright idea it was to send him up here, it wasn't as if he was likely to be passing. Surely Deanna wouldn't have contacted Tom, although if there is one thing she has learnt during her two meetings with the Counselor, it is that you should be wary of putting that particular Betazoid in a box.

She considers what his presence says about him, or her, or the both of them. If her career isn't in tatters already, she could now very well become known as the crazy Starfleet Captain who sat on a rooftop. The very last thing she wants is to tar him by association, although she suspects that if asked, he would grin sarcastically and remind her that he needs no help in that department.

If it wasn't all so tragically unfair, it would be vaguely humorous.

Allowing her gaze to dip once again to the beauty of the ceaseless movement and colour of the humanity below, she decides that if you are going to sit and contemplate your life anywhere, there might as well be something beautiful to look at. Of course she had clocked the surveillance cameras, but this was the best out of a limited selection of options and she chose to imagine a middle-aged security guard, peacefully slumbering, feet propped up on his desk, head nodding gently.

Reality has inconsiderately refused to mirror this carefully crafted image. Thanks to the recent glut of publicity, her face has been all over the media once again and apparently even out of uniform and with her hair coloured two shades darker than usual, she has been recognised. Strangely, she finds herself eternally appreciative that it is not Chakotay who is approaching, as Deanna would no doubt remind her if she were here, however bad things seem, there is always something to be grateful for

Tom is now too close to see in any detail, although she imagines that he looks tired and more than a little stressed. His sandy hair will be tousled from where he has been running his fingers repeatedly through it and at this time of night, he shouldn't be in uniform, but he is. He's been working hard at the flight school and no doubt was headed home for a meal and a well deserved break. All in all, this is surely no improvement to his day and guilt now adds to the mantle of emotions already covering her like a blanket; the familiar added weight pressing down on her shoulders.

A sigh escapes her lips and she concentrates again on the ant like citizens in the street far below, perhaps if she watches intensely enough, he will disappear altogether like a fragment of her weary imagination.

The solid version of Tom doesn't stop until she can hear his breathing, steady, but slightly faster than usual. He comes to a halt beside her, facing in the opposite direction, his back to the bright city skyline. He leans against the wall that she has come to see as hers and perches his bottom a little too close for comfort. Never exactly subtle, he is invading her personal space, whether deliberately or not, she can't be sure, but she would wager that it is a tactic.

There is a long silence, during which she imagines the one hundred and one things that he is considering as a conversation starter. She wonders idly if Deanna has briefed him and waits for his predictable fail safe - humour. He is going to make a joke and probably a highly inappropriate one at that. She almost looks forward to it, whether for its comforting familiarity, or possibly for the chance to smile.

"Kathryn, you scared me."

The words are gentle and full of a sincere emotion, so unlike his trademark teasing that it catches her off-guard and in her surprise she almost turns towards him. He doesn't say anything more, instead moving one hand slowly and placing it atop of hers. She winces, unable to stop an instinctive recoil as the pressure sends a short, sharp jolt of pain shooting up into her wrist. Instantly, he removes his hand and wheels around, sliding his palm underneath hers and raising her badly bruised extremity for close inspection. He runs his fingers methodically over the bones, pressing each with care, before silently moving onto the soft tissue around her swollen wrist. On sure ground, he flexes and then gently rotates the joint, much like a drowning man thrown a lifebelt, finding his stride.

She can't blame him for that.

"It's badly bruised and I can't rule out a fracture. What happened?"

She stays silent as he swings one leg over the edge, sitting astride the narrow beam and facing her without relinquishing her hand. He tries again, with a little more focus, but no less kindness in his voice.

"Kathryn, what did you do to your hand?"

She closes her eyes, recalls this morning; runs the sequence of events over in her mind. She clearly remembers the distinctive outline of the two Starfleet uniforms through her opaque front door. Even now she is no longer an Admiral, it is not unusual for Starfleet to send messengers and she ordered the door to open without giving it any real thought. As soon as she saw the two faces standing before her however, she had known that something was very wrong. Her initial reaction was to throw her entire weight forward in an attempt to hit the alarm panel, but she was a second too late.

Her second thought was her Comm badge, but seizing the element of surprise the larger of the two pinned her hard against the wall, head and her shoulders immobilised as he ripped it from its place on her chest. She had fought back then, attack being the only defence. Her recent years in the Delta Quadrant had the advantage of ensuring that she was still fairly sharp. Outnumbered 2:1, it was never going to be a fair fight and although she landed a few good blows, it was for distraction rather than any hope of getting free. Fortunately for her, their intention was apparently to give her a beating that she wouldn't forget and in the blur of tangled limbs, shouts and pain, she isn't sure that she actually feared for her life

The attack was a message, a reminder of the twenty-eight lives lost; of her transgressions. It was short and brutal, leaving her in no doubt that her deeds would not be readily forgotten. A final blow to the head had left her stunned and she had come around curled into a protective ball on the floor, looking at her apartment from an unfamiliar and rather disorientating horizontal perspective. She had watched their imitation Starfleet boots troop back out of her front door and then heard it close behind them, tasting blood on her lips.

The Tom Paris she knows isn't an especially patient man, but he waits and she senses that he's not about to admit defeat and is correct. After another silence, he places one hand on the tip of her shoulder and with two fingers carefully traces upwards along the curve of her neck until he reaches her chin. There he stops, applying just enough pressure to encourage her face towards his. Briefly, she considers resisting, but allows her head to move approaching ninety degrees in his direction. She looks past him, into an imaginary, more interesting distance.

He doesn't say anything, but even in this partially illuminated dusk, she knows only too well what he sees. The left side of her face took the brunt of the force and she feels his touch lighten as he holds her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tucks wayward strands of her hair behind her ear, allowing his fingertips to lightly explore her swollen jaw, before moving up to her cheekbone, carefully palpating her eye. Finally, his fingers travel to the base of her skull where he presses the sizeable lump there. She winces again as the pain radiates around her face, settling in her teeth; her tongue probing the jagged edge of a fragmented molar, sharp and unfamiliar.

"Someone attacked you didn't they? This was about Ibiriis..."

Unwilling to leave another question unanswered, she sees no alternative but to nod. For the first time she allows their eyes to meet. There isn't any judgement in his expression, but she feels the warmth of the hand that has come to rest on the small of her back leave as he moves it to rub his chin and she hears him sigh heavily. Slowly, she turns her head and fixes her gaze once more on the now familiar street. She's not sure why, but she feels safe up here, distanced from everything and everyone. Now Tom knows, they are on equal footing and with any luck he will be as angry as Chakotay and will decide to leave her alone with the view she now considers as her own.

She doesn't wait long. Tom swings one leg back over the wall and plants his feet on the floor. He straightens his uniform with a tug and she thinks she hears him crick his neck. She awaits the sound of his retreating footsteps, relieved that he no longer considers her, and any part of this mess to be his responsibility. But when he does move, confusingly it is to come and stand behind her. She feels his warm body make contact with hers; then his hands come to rest first on the tops of her arms before sliding slowly downwards, skirting around her bruised ribs. She stiffens at the contact, but he doesn't stop until he reaches her waist where he folds his arms around her and joins his hands. Her eyes cast downwards, she watches as he purposefully interlaces each of his long fingers. A gesture of such permanence that it reminds her exactly why she considers him family.

Tom isn't going anywhere, he stands so close that she suspects not even a strand of the cold night air can flow between them and as she lifts her head, it makes a slightly uncomfortable contact with the centre of his chest, the hair on the top of her head catching in the stubble on his chin.

"I've got a really inappropriate joke about Chakotay, a female Bolian dancer and a chicken if now is a good time?"

He breathes the question into the hard, thin air and she can almost see it vanishing like a playful cloud into the dark sky. She wants so much to smile, to laugh out loud, but her throat constricts. The tears that course down her cheeks are unbidden, but originate from a source so deep that try as she might, she can't stem the flow. The moisture blurs her vision and the sky becomes a sea of midnight blue, punctuated with a multitude of starry silver streaks.

She wonders if like unwelcome raindrops, they are steadily falling onto Tom's clasped hands. Her chest heaves painfully with the effort of suppressing a sob, as by way of an answer, he leans forward and lightly plants a kiss on the top of her head.