37.

"Is that going to take care of everything I need?"

"It'll have to. I'm not rebuilding anything else for this space until it's on the top of my list."

B'Elanna found herself in much better spirits after they finally plowed through the last install and got the Sygran systems linked up again. Both she and Tom stayed only long enough to accept the thanks of a couple colonists and arrange for a small pick up. She did not ask what it was. They were in the shuttle and back to the Maquis ship within ten minutes. A minute after that, they were looking at Ridge's unabashed relief. She couldn't help but smile to see it, and then to thank him as she and Tom moved off the transport pad.

Not so happy in months to get clean, B'Elanna forgot about her power restrictions and indulged in a long, warm sonic shower and a night off in comfortable pajamas with a real book. It'd been ages since she'd enjoyed a novel. The one she downloaded wasn't very good, but it was a mindless diversion that did what she needed it to do. She was fast asleep within an hour.

She was up the next morning ready to get back to her job, right down to installing an independent subspace comm panel next to Maryl's station. The former unit, a geological scanner, was not only useless to the contract liaison, but also long broken. The "new" comm station, collected at the Migan scrap yards, would allow Maryl to make contacts outside the ship's general communications grid-"Her own phone line," Tom had called it when he requested the side job. While they wasted their time on Sygra, Nadrev finished setting up the spare subspace transceiver and running the lines through the access ports to Maryl's station within the day.

Popping the old unit loose with a photonic wedge, B'Elanna yanked it out, disconnected its cables and set it on the floor. Then, digging into the hole, she quickly found the new connection rods. Pulling them up and setting them aside, she went to work on closing out all the old cables.

She almost ignored the beep that sounded at the station, but then Maryl acknowledged it. "Captain Chakotay's on the comm," she reported glumly.

B'Elanna looked up from her work to see Tom, who had just sat down, draw a breath and lean forward. He'd gotten some sun on Sygra, tinting his skin enough to make him look healthy-robust, even. B'Elanna noticed his improved diet and increased activity had helped him everywhere else, as well...though she tried not to think too much about that. For that matter, his discouragement and growing disgust easily marred his features there. Clearly, he knew what was coming.

"Let's have it," he finally said.

A few seconds later, the captains had greeted each other. The Maquis looked upbeat, probably for the sustained state of getting what he wanted from them. In his turn, Tom did not bother to hide his contempt for the man.

"Where is your next shipment taking you?" Chakotay asked.

"Gimol station," Tom answered.

"Then?"

"DS-Nine."

"That's what I was hoping to hear," Chakotay told him, another brush of pleasure crossing his face. "Go through with your Gimol drop-off and pick up. You'll get our signal before you get there. En route to DS-Nine, you'll find a runabout. It'll be bigger than the pod you flew here. Pull it into your bay and transport the cargo into its hold. You'll find an itinerary in the main control panel with all your coordinates preset. There are four drop offs. At the second to last location, you'll have another pickup. You'll drop that load of cargo at the last colony base, then beam a stack of flats into the holds, drop the runabout where you found it. Transport the flats into your holds and deliver the shipment to our contact at DS-Nine."

"Can't wait," Tom muttered and waited for the other man to show some hint of mercy. He did: The comm was cut a few seconds later. Tom closed his eyes. "I'm going to get nailed for this and that son of a bitch'll be flying free."

Still standing with the comm station board in her hands, B'Elanna watched Tom lean back in his seat, his eyes still shut, breathing through his frustration. He tried to pass it off a lot, she knew, but he did not lack pride. The Maquis captain ordering him around like a subordinate, despite where Tom had been and what he'd done, couldn't be anything less than humiliating. As he leaned back again and willfully relaxed into whatever appeared on his private viewscreen, she felt sincerely glad there was no chance of her ever becoming a captain.

"More tinker toys," he said to himself as he stepped into the dark and stripped down runabout that might have echoed his heartbeat if he'd stand still, it was so hollowed out. Not that decoration was anyone's priority there. The stats showed it could go fast, get between the close colonies around Solosos in little time. It was even faster than the Guerdon-though Tom was certain the rig wasn't safe at its top speed. He'd need to use it to get the runs done in time, though.

He knew the wise-eyed Maquis captain would get him behind a conn of his choosing eventually. Now he'd done it twice.

"Damnit," he hissed to himself, but blew the rest out through his teeth. There wasn't anything else he could do but get it done, and he'd start doing that sooner than he wanted, too.

Sinking into the pilot's seat, Tom felt his face fall further when he tapped on the itinerary. The Guerdon would indeed be coming in close this time, only a light year from Fidalis-Two, then running along the anterior territory line to two light years away from Solosos, where Tom would meet them again. It was a far safer trajectory than what he'd have to fly, he noted, seeing the updated sensor net data. The Maquis' galvanizing enemies were obviously on the hunt inside the colony route. He would need to pull some tricks to get around them.

Yet another reason he needed a Starfleet expatriate, Tom grumbled, rethinking his dislike of dealing with stupid people. Worse was the plain fact that he was being played, along with his crew. In the end, they meant nothing to the Maquis. And I'll bet I haven't even begun to hang.

Tom shook his head briskly and got up. Getting pissed off even more over things he mulled over a hundred times already wasn't going to make his week any easier. Going aft, he ducked down into the little bay and found B'Elanna and Nadrev still at work on the shields.

She only glanced at him. "We'll be able to boost your signal disbursement with a few more tweaks, but you'll have to manually rotate your emission pattern. After a couple hits, they'll figure you out. The same applies to your shields when you use them."

"Better than nothing," Tom nodded. "Thanks."

Nadrev sat back as B'Elanna dug into another node column. Looking up at his captain, he rubbed his neck and asked, "How long are we out here again?"

"Eight days," Tom frowned, unhappier still to be reminded. Getting pulled off the route was also bad for business. For all their supplying the colonies, they needed parts and supplies as well; they wouldn't be able to afford half of them even with a few moderate deals. Nadrev seemed to understand, though he could offer no reply but a resigned nod. Tom didn't have anything more to add, either.

Turning, he left the runabout through the hatch and strode out of the bay. He had six hours until the Guerdon was in position and he would need to take off. He needed some coffee, some dinner, a shower and maybe a quick shot of sleep-all and anything to prepare for a lousy week ahead of him and perhaps temporarily distract him from the very certain feeling of two hands firmly grasped around his neck...and twisting.

"Code two-two-theta-nine-epsilon!"

A crackle came back first. "Didn't get that! Say again!"

Tom continued to wrestle the controls as he sat in a tremulous hover above the stormy colony site. "Two-two-theta-nine-epsilon-damnit!"

"The beacon's set!"

Tom found it immediately and pulled the runabout's thrust pattern forward to fight the winds. Tipping and buffeting around, he rattled the small ship down through the atmosphere and shakily onto the landing pad.

He slapped off the controls, blowing his breath and checking his nerves. Bad enough that so-called runabout drove like a truck without shock absorbers-or a wheel alignment-but the flight to Solosos from Bakkach was spent mostly veering away from Starfleet and Cardassian sensor nets, which had easily spotted the craft and tuned in to track it. To say he'd taken the long way around barely touched his procedure that week.

At least he didn't have to deal with the Maquis themselves that time. He just needed to wait for the people on the ground to get the supplies, then take off again. No questions, no stares, no having to repeat security codes or help with cargo. All of those extra duties had been expected of him at all but one of the stops, and all of them proceeded with a phaser pointed at his side. This time was just the drop off, then a quick pickup before leaving.

He'd be back to the Guerdon in forty hours, given the engines didn't putter out with that last burst of speed. Finally on the ground, he was watching the clock again.

"Open your hatch!" came an order over the comm.

Tom hit the controls. A minute later, the thudding boots and cargo flats scraping echoed up into the cubicle bridge. He waited, tapping a foot, piecing out the sounds as they pulled their wares out the hole in the back. There was enough firepower to blow up a moon, Tom knew; enough provisions to hold out a year, sensor equipment and medical supplies. Everything he didn't want to support or get involved with even before he got the Guerdon.

Guess I thought too soon that I'd stay clear of this mess, he smirked to himself. Dad was right: I can't walk out of the house without attracting trouble. At the same time and on another note, he had to admit he was impressed with himself. That landing was not an easy one, and he'd managed to set that alien bucket down on the buffers without any warnings. He still had that much going for him, just in case he would ever give up his glamorous job, shark a slobbering drunk at the next base bar and plunge full throttle into a life of crime.

Those lighter thoughts sank, however, when a set of boots sounded in the upper corridor, then pounded up to the bridge and stopped behind him. There goes that. Tom didn't move. "Yeah?"

"You're Captain Paris?"

Tom did not stand for the person who'd come in behind him, but finally glanced around to see a typically angry-looking Maquis, with brown skin and a canvas vest buckled tightly against his muscular body. Shouldn't have hoped I wouldn't get company, either. "Yeah, that's me."

The presence did not move.

Blowing a breath, Tom stood and turned to face the Maquis who'd entered. He was about his height and even broader up close. The man's brow seemed permanently knitted into his nose bridge. "Do you need something?" Tom asked him.

"So you're Paris," the man said, looking him up and down. "I wanted to see if it really was who I thought."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Seen enough yet?"

"Not yet." Pulling out a tricorder, he gestured toward the bulkhead. "Turn around. Hands on the wall, Captain."

"What the hell is this about?"

"Do it or you're not getting back to your piece of crap freighter in less than three pieces," the man growled.

Staring at the Maquis' tricorder-a medical scanner, he identified-Tom warily did as told. The scan took over a minute for the Maquis' thoroughness, and it hit Tom that the man was probably looking for implants. Done, the man grabbed Tom by the shoulder. Tom slapped his hand away as he was whirled back around to face him. "Done?" he snapped.

In a beat, the Maquis' fist flew around and caught Tom in the cheek, instantly sending the young captain flying back around and onto the pilot's couch with an "Umph!"

"Chakotay wants you alive," the man spat, "but you'd be a pool of blood hosed into our gutters if I had my way about it, coward."

"Rodrigo, we're done," said a woman as she came forward. She snorted at the sight she found. "Guess our welcoming committee's had their turn," she grinned.

"Just taking care of some old business," the man told her, backing off from his prey.

Oh hell, was he at Caldik, too? Tom thought muzzily, feeling his eye and jaw and everything in between swelling and pounding in time with his increased pulse. The taste of blood swirled over his stinging tongue. Slowly pulling himself back to his feet, he watched the other man and disturbingly amused woman back off to the access corridor.

"Let's not have any more run-ins with friendly starships, either," the Maquis warned, looking back from the door. "We know where to blow a hole that can't get fixed by that cute little mechanic of yours. And we will."

"Slap me around all you like," Tom snapped, with an effort now that half his face felt like a hot water balloon, "but leave her and the rest of my crew the hell out of it!"

"You might get away with slippery loyalty with Starfleet, but the Maquis handle those kinds of problems head-on. We'll have your ship and whatever crew we like. Do your job right this time, Paris, and you won't have either of us to worry about."

Tom did everything he could to keep his mouth shut and his eyes on the other man's glare until the Maquis had no choice but to break it first for better things to do.

"Jeez, Tom, what'd you say this time?" Ridge queried only moments after his friend materialized on the deck four transport pad.

Tom immediately began a steady stride across the bay to the ladders. "Another fan of my last gig," he slurred, frowning below his bruised jaw and eye, the latter he couldn't open since the day before, when the swelling really set in. "I need to see Savan before my damned head explodes. All the medical equipment I had on board they took off at Solosos."

"I'll comm her," Ridge offered and doubled back for the unit in the transport base.

Coming to the access ladders, Tom took the opportunity to make a call, too. "Maryl, I'm on. Transport the material flats to hold four-nine-beta per the plan and get us the hell out of here-preset coordinates and speed."

"Got it."

He punched the comm off and began to climb, stopping only to let B'Elanna and Nadrev get by with their iso-junction sheet on deck two. Following them forward to the main deck, they moved aside to a table, allowing him to pass and giving them a good view.

"Don't ask," he muttered. Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he stomped across to the stairs.

Deep Space Nine was the station the crew generally loved to hate.

Inaccessible when the Cardassians had control of it due to Maryl's "fugitive" status, it now boasted a complement of not only Bajoran ranks, but also Starfleet officers and Cardassian expatriates, among many others. Excellent parts, repairs and provisions could be gotten there at an enviable price-and there were ways to get other items under the table when needed; however, its supply was notoriously inconsistent and simple deals could turn dangerous. Tom blamed it on the Starfleet presence. "Anything coming out of San Francisco is bound to precede some kind of insanity," he told them after losing a deal for deuterium to a group who insisted at the other end of their disruptors that they'd paid first. The Starfleet people could do nothing about the matter but see that Tom was reimbursed and send him along his way. He, Maryl and B'Elanna grumbled about it for three more legs before they managed to get what they needed and at a far higher price.

Worse than the rest, Maquis, Cardassian and Bajoran terrorists now crawled all over the ringed station, making it impossible to trust any dealers there lately.

Now, another black mark could be added to the list.

"Nothing. Just nothing."

Maryl leaned forward, her cheek on a fist as she scrolled grumpily through the contents of the latest blue PADD, which she'd picked up from B'Elanna before joining her husband and their recently returned captain at the murky little bar off the station's promenade. She'd asked for the newsfeed so she might sniff out some deals around the area. She needn't have bothered. It was only another reminder of the reality setting in for ships like theirs. When she got a refill on her drink, she sucked down nearly half of it to see the next news topic.

"Oh great, and now the Tagrans have locked up all new licenses due to the instability in the region." She snorted derisively and set the PADD on the table. "I just wasted three months in arrangements with that idiot Liodris."

Pushing his cold coffee around on the glossy little table, Tom exhaled. The happy thought of the Tagran license always did seem too good to be true, much as their reasoning for closing shop made perfect sense. He'd still wanted it, almost as much as Maryl had. It easily would have set them up for the next year, allowing them to make the repairs they needed on the ODN and warp drive. "Did you hear back from the Fidlor Group?"

"They're pausing operations for the same reasons. They have enough to maintain the study for a couple months, then they'll get back to us."

Tom frowned. "Did you tell them we'd be back on the Hidirin route then?"

"I did, though it doesn't really matter right now. No Ulinas run right now means we've got nothing to do."

"We have nothing?" Tom asked.

"Just a couple parts relays to Miga," Maryl told him. "Nothing worth the dilithium, but it'll keep us out there. -And it's not for lack of trying, Tom. I've been at it all week. No one's touching independent freighters right now. Too much liability and suspicion."

"I know," Tom said, following it with a hard sigh. The call of dabo echoed behind him and he wondered if he had it in him to run the back tables that night, but knew he was too angry and distracted-Hell, probably too sober-to do any good there. Rather, the opposite would probably be more like it. Unnerving as it had been, he wished he still had that post-treatment glow. His energy level was the same and better managed now that he had some physical routines back in his daily schedule, but once it'd been killed on Ulinas, the upbeat mood that came with a sudden return to health could not be resuscitated. Reality had a way of doing that. "Maybe we need to move our concentration back to the Mingauan region," he mused aloud. "I can't see this area getting better in the next few years at least. Once our obligations are up here, maybe start looking in that direction?"

Maryl shrugged. "I'm not sure which side of the border's going to be worse at this point. I'm reading news from every end of the DMZ, and as you know, we're usually picking up on that end of the region and bringing it here. There's just not enough there to trade for exclusively now that Tagra's off our list."

Ridge gave Tom a look. "Maybe thinking about licensing with the Federation would...?" He left it open. It wasn't his arena, though he'd heard Maryl mention it offhand.

"Even if I didn't think that was a last resort," Tom answered, "with our current obligations and all the pots Trusket dipped into, I'd be an idiot to invite a full investigation of the Guerdon's trade practices for the last five years. This beside the fact that Starfleet's generally not fond of me... Hell, it seems I have all kinds of people waiting to beat the crap out of me. Starfleet just likes to do it officially. I'd hate to give them another excuse."

"Yeah, probably wouldn't be a good idea, then," Ridge nodded.

"It was worth asking," Tom said, half felt but still honest. "I'd thought about it, too."

Looking up, Tom saw Savan approaching the table, her smooth gait swishing the hem of her ruddy tunic against her thighs with machinelike accuracy. The Vulcan moved to the fourth seat and gestured to the bartender. He instantly turned for her usual. "I have left Nadrev with the Guerdon," she reported, looking at Maryl. "You are expected there in fifteen minutes."

"It's as good a place as any to scrape the bottom of the ocean," Maryl said, then lifted her drink to finish it.

Savan looked at Tom. "Our 'contractor' has left another set of coordinates for a pickup. I will need to review the materials list with you before we leave, Tom."

"Yeah, whenever that'll happen," he grumbled.

"It will need to happen soon. He requested our pickup be scheduled in five days."

"Not that he'd let us enjoy the suspense."

With that, Tom pushed himself to stand and turned to leave. He wasn't enjoying being in a bar without a tumbler in his hand, anyway, and there was only so much more gloom he could take without wanting to crawl into one. Making his way from the back tables to exit via the bar, he stopped to pay the tab. The bartender instantly slid up to collect it.

"Leaving already? But it looks like you could use a break, Captain."

Tom peered at the Ferengi bartender askance, then shook his head as he slid the latinum across the slate. "Not tonight, thanks."

"Well, if you're not up for sleep, the game tables are always open. -Ah, but you're a discerning customer. Pity dabo's not your taste."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Not for a long while, Quark. Let me know when someone's wandering around the back room, though. I might be able to make that worth your while."

"Always a pleasure, Captain," replied Quark, showing his teeth. "But why not take some leave right now? You've never been one to part without trying my newest imports."

"Unfortunately, they've had to leave me."

The Ferengi was not deterred. "Come on. You look not nearly like yourself. Why not try this new Devanian ale? Try one on the house, just a taste to see if you like it. Let me know if it's worth my investment."

Furrowing his brow, Tom looked over the bar to the cask on display. The symbols looked all too familiar, but the container did not. "I didn't know Devanians made ale."

"It's a new process," said the bartender, well pleased and swinging around to a separate tap. "They take the sap from sargor tree and ferment that into the finest nectar..."

The words faded. They didn't really matter. Rather, Tom watched the ale fill the tall glass, falling into a sudden daze as the familiar whispers echoed within him. What would a touch hurt? Suddenly, he couldn't move, and honestly didn't want to. It was attractive ale, in what ways it could be. The deep red liquid boasted hardly a spray of foam, just a few bubbles from the force of the tap. He could probably guess what it tasted like. Devanian liqueur was strong and heady. And good. Quark knew how much he liked it.

And it's not like it'll matter when Starfleet buries me under the most convenient penal resort. If they don't, the Maquis'll take care of it. God knows they want to.

"Tom?"

And it wouldn't change the fact that I'm trapped-again and sixty light years away. Why would it matter in the end, getting some relief from these damned walls, always closing in-

"Tom!"

He blinked and turned to see B'Elanna standing right next to him, staring up into his eyes with some urgency. "What?" he blurted.

She started a bit, suddenly seeming to forget what she needed to say. Recovering quickly, she said, "You need to come with me."

"Something wrong with the ship?"

She rolled her eyes. "There's always something wrong with the ship."

He coughed a laugh. Watching her lips turn up, too, he barely heard the clink of the glass as it was set on the bar behind him. "Yeah. But you've got that, right?"

"I'm getting there," she returned, straightening.

The bartender sniffed, trying to regain Tom's attention. "Here you go, Captain."

Tom glanced back.

"I need you out here," B'Elanna pressed again, purposefully ignoring the troll behind them.

"Why?" he asked, but her stare did not waver, her boots remained planted in their spot. Then, she tilted her head, pressing her meaning with a breath, the tiniest gesture toward the promenade. Finally, his lips fell open, and he realized where he'd almost gone-again. For the second time in as many visits to that station, he'd been tempted to relapse. Just a bundle of bad luck, this place, he grumbled to himself, making a mental note to stay on the Guerdon next time they had to dock there.

For the mean time, though, he dumbly followed B'Elanna out of the bar and into the corridor despite the protests of the bartender about a wasted drink.

"Damnit, how do I do that?" he reproached himself. "How do I keep letting that happen?"

"Force of habit?" she offered.

"Maybe," he admitted. Sighing, he peered over at her. "Are you training to be my guardian angel now?"

B'Elanna colored slightly at the question, playing it off successfully by fussing open her jacket. "Is that what you call being a friend?"

"I appreciate it, B'Elanna," he told her quietly, wishing he didn't have to say it, to thank anyone for something like that. "It's been a long time since anyone's looked out for me like that, and now you've done it twice."

"Savan and Dejin look out for you."

"Savan doesn't follow me and Dejin's not here," he pointed out, then tried again. "Thank you for helping. Really, I don't know why my brain keeps doing that, like it's on autopilot to get me screwed up again every time I hit a bump or get bored."

"Everyone has something they're trying not to do." She shrugged. "And, you're welcome."

Looking down into her eyes that time, he grinned, nodded and continued to stare at her until she turned her gaze elsewhere. Drawing a deep breath, then blowing it out as if to start the entire day anew, Tom cast his stare down the promenade. "Let's get something to eat. Food helps sometimes, too. You hungry?"

"That's what I came here for in the first place," was her ready reply.

He needed no more to set them off towards the food kiosks. "Great. What are you up for?"

"Anything," B'Elanna said, then remembered the venue she saw when she first stepped off the lift and corrected herself: "But not Klingon food."

He snorted. "Yeah, I didn't think you were much for it."

"Why do you assume that?" she demanded.

Her sudden defensiveness made him frown at first, but then he relaxed, remembering what demons she had been forced to deal with. "If I haven't judged you yet, B'Elanna, I won't now," he told her. "I've never seen bloodworms programmed in the replicator. The rest was guesswork."

She rolled her eyes at herself. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he said easily, steering them around a collection of tables to the next section, picking up his pace and scanning the venues. "What's to eat, then? You're just up, aren't you? How about breakfast? Waffles and coffee?"

"I haven't had waffles in years," B'Elanna smiled.

An hour later, they were three quarters through their servings, his with butter and a pool of syrup, hers with raspberry jam; each was on their third cup of coffee, which was surprisingly good. They credited it to the station actually being a Starfleet base. Alien attempts at replicated coffee were usually awful. They both had finished their eggs-or at least what had doubled for them. They agreed their waffles were far better.

"Replicated eggs just aren't the same after you've had the real thing," she commented upon completing her serving.

"They aren't," Tom agreed. "Then again, not many things are."

"What's the food with the biggest difference to you?"

He thought about that for a moment. "Probably minestrone-tomato anything, really, just doesn't taste right from a replicator. Good bread and brie, too. I won't replicate them."

"Brie cheese?" B'Elanna grinned. "That's a little surprising for someone with a love of pizza and popcorn."

"I got a taste for it when I lived in France," Tom told her. Not to mention wine, he added to himself with an inward smile. "What about you?"

"Fruit-almost any kind of fruit. My grandmother used to bring us oranges from Earth when I was little. I could eat a crate of them in a sitting."

Tom sighed. "You had to remind me of oranges."

"Grapefruit, bananas, pears-you name it, she brought it. I refused to eat replicated fruit, except applesauce. Mother would get so frustrated..." She stopped at that, leaving the rest of her thought to a wedge of waffle, which she smeared in the compote and popped into her mouth.

Tom let her have it by forking off another wedge of his own. It easily weakened his determination not to come stationside again. Maybe he should just remember to go right instead of left. He mad a mental note of that place, which had been geared to the human contingent now living there with the intention of making them miss home less... And it occurred to him that he missed Earth fare. But then, he had also forgotten what it was like to have a brunch for no reason but to eat, with a smart, good-looking woman he genuinely liked and trusted, and with whom he enjoyed working. It made the food even better.

"It's good when they get the edges crispy like that."

"Mm, yes. That is good."

Tom spun another piece in the syrup. "So, do I need to make some runs on the station for you?"

"I think I've got it this time," B'Elanna said, not looking up. "I'll let you know."

"But bring Maryl if you see Treg. Aside from security, he owes her a couple favors. With the lack of business, we're going to be shaving it really thin until we're back to Hidirin."

"We need a few of my list items if we're making it back to Ulinas within a year, Tom."

He laughed quietly, nodding. "I'll have to warm up my dom-jot stick, after all, then. Can I bet the tricorders?"

She snickered at the memory, then flatly said, "No."

An hour ago, he was very close to ditching everything he'd achieved, had maintained and finally had come to really want. Indeed, he wanted to be healthy. He wanted to move forward in what ways he could. He'd even pulled out his wish list after months of being unable to stomach looking at it, started looking ahead again, hoping for something again. He did not want to go back to the haze and stench he'd been living in for nearly four years-all the more reason he just could not understand why he still could lose himself at the sight of a drink. Bad mood and vulnerability couldn't be all of it. Maybe it was a force of habit-the temptation to shirk off his unwanted burdens and worries. He hadn't been doing badly, though, dealing with his issues. He'd been getting better...

And now he was sitting across from B'Elanna Torres, talking at random and eating waffles, like any other person having a meal out with a friend and he felt fine...aside from his musing about it. He almost wished the temptation still nagged at him, bothered him more. He was so used to abnormal that normal felt foreign now. Or maybe he really did just need to keep busy...or at least diverted. B'Elanna had always been capable of being that, in one way or another...

"Still, a couple more trips and we'll be on the other side of the border for a while, between Hidirin and Irtrin," he noted, picking up the carafe and swirling around its remains. There were a few cups left. He poured himself another. "I have to admit, it'll be good to get away from the uniforms again."

B'Elanna nodded her agreement, then said, "I think there are more Starfleet here than at the Academy."

Tom snorted. "You're probably right."

And I thought I should avoid him, B'Elanna thought as he offered to refill her cup. She gave him a nod. It's not impossible to be a friend, especially when he really seems to need one stationside.

She knew it was just her romantic tendency getting to her again, her dreams and imaginings. All the crew worked very hard, around the clock-and worked even when they weren't working, like she and Tom did on that old shuttle, still half in pieces but just something to be done. So, she really couldn't blame herself for a bit of subconscious fluff rising from time to time. It didn't mean anything. She'd come to enjoy spending time with him, now that he was neither a drunk nor a basket case. Rather, since their experiences on Ulinas, he'd really settled down, even while he could be silly with Ridge and still enjoyed poking at Maryl. Her imagination didn't have to mean anything more than that.

She still felt like what she saw wasn't all of him, though. For all she'd gotten to know, she couldn't help but wonder what he was holding back. There was always something there, something he kept tucked away, put aside, but didn't forget. It wasn't the accident and expulsion. That threw different shadows upon his face. It was something...deeper.

And she stopped herself there. Yet again, that romantic tendency was getting the better of her.

She remained curious, however.

"Ridge said your father was a high ranking Starfleet officer."

Tom gave her a look. She glanced briefly up from her work on the last bits of her waffle, checking his reaction. "He's an admiral," he confirmed, thinking she probably already knew that, but wanted to ease into a topic. B'Elanna could be forthright on reflex-but wasn't always.

"That must have been interesting."

"I think it's more interesting to him," Tom replied coolly, then blew his bitterness out in a sigh. Leaning back in his seat, he continued, "No, I'm not being fair. You see, I was supposed to follow along in his footsteps, be the next Paris in a long line, all that." He shrugged. "My cousin should take the honor in another decade, the way he's moving along. He's fit for the part. I never wanted it, and I couldn't have lived up to any of that."

"Couldn't have been easy," B'Elanna ventured.

"It wasn't," Tom admitted, adding in a second thought, "I mean, I can't complain about what I had. I had a lot, growing up, maybe too much. I didn't know what it was like to struggle for anything until I had to start over."

"Out here."

"Yeah," Tom said softly, gazing back at her inquisitive stare. "All the way out here, stuck with nothing and consigned to be nobody, and I finally got the point. The irony's great, isn't it?" Chuckling, he set down his coffee, rolled his shoulders to let out the remaining tension. "Anyway, if he knows what I'm doing, my dad's probably not too happy about it."

She peered at him askance for that one. "You don't talk to yours, either?"

"I write sometimes," he said, reaching out to stir some sugar into his coffee. "I write Mom, tell her about the sights, tell her I'm okay. Not much else. She's great and I miss her, but...it's easier to write, keep it simple."

"It is," B'Elanna agreed and leaned back, too. She laughed a little at his responsive look. "Yes, I have. He even wrote back."

He was glad to hear it. "Any progress?"

"A little. It's communication."

"Yeah," Tom said softly, smiling to himself. As always, he owed his mother another letter. Maybe he'd get around to opening up to her that time, tell her exactly what he was doing instead of sliding around the topic, tell her how much better he was doing-though not about his illness. If she knew he'd been very ill, she would be all over him. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled out his PADD and quickly tapped in a reminder to write when he got back to the bridge-and told himself to follow through on it this time.

For a time after, the two finished their meal in silence, finally clearing their plates, taking the last of the coffee, watching the people pass by. Tom gave a nod to a few he knew. B'Elanna watched him do it, glanced at the person to see if she knew them yet. She'd dealt with a couple, had seen a few more in passing elsewhere. Most of them remained complete strangers to her.

From time to time, Tom felt B'Elanna's eyes drift back his way, trying to see what he might be looking at. Since she'd diverted him at Ulinas...but it had started before then. On the Berlin, she'd looked out for him, too, going as far out of her way as Dokaru's ready room. It was such a departure from how she'd apparently thought about him, he hardly knew what to make of it at first. Only a few months ago, when she seemed determined to rip him apart at every convenience, he'd have gladly dumped her stationside if he had anything resembling a replacement. Now he could honestly count her among his very good friends-and not just for the save. When her resentment faded, and when he sobered, he started to know her better. The more time they spent together, to more they worked well together, could talk and joke and even relax...

Not for the first time, he was glad for the change.

Especially today, Tom mused, glancing her way once again and catching her stare that time. For several seconds, he held onto it, allowing himself the luxury of a full appreciation of her features, her wide, brown eyes and full mouth. She really was a beautiful woman; he rarely was able to notice it as much as he thought he should. To his surprise, however, when a small grin touched his lips, she reddened, frowned and pushed her empty plate away.

"I need to get back," she said abruptly. She got to her feet and threw a couple credits on the table. "I left the sensor manifold diagnostic running without a solution index, and Nadrev doesn't know how to code that yet on the main deflector. I'll contact you later about how much of the parts list we'll still need fulfilled."

"Uh, yeah, see you later," Tom said, quickly trying to catch up with the fact that she was going away, much less why and what her excuse was. Within seconds, she left with a brisk nod back to him. Her determined stride was just the same, though, and her tone wasn't anything but businesslike. If he'd been too intrusive by looking at her as he had, she'd have called him on it, or at least asked him why he was doing it. So, he simply shrugged and leaned back to let his meal digest.