Prompt 49: "Call me when you get home." (Owen & Tom Paris, P/T)

Episode: "Author, Author"

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It's about damn time, was Tom Paris' involuntary thought as he waited for Seven to set up the call with his father. Admiral Owen Paris had been giving that comm line quite a workout for the past few days, but only to witness the Doctor's legal hearing in regards to that ridiculous holonovel. How exactly like Dad, to throw himself into Starfleet business and put off speaking to his son as long as possible … not that Tom himself was entirely innocent in that respect. He'd even traded isolinear chips with Harry so his friend could take the earlier time slot. There was no putting it off any longer, though.

What in the galaxy were they supposed to say to each other?

"You got this," said B'Elanna, standing next to him for moral support, just as he'd done for her when John Torres had called.

"Thank God you're here, Bee." He linked arms with her and she leaned on him, grateful to take some weight off her swollen feet. "If he and I start to fight, change the subject, okay?"

"You're asking me to be diplomatic?" She smirked up at him, her hazel eyes sparkling, and the familiar irony made him feel at least a little bit braver.

Before he could answer her, however, the static cleared up and Admiral Paris became visible, sitting at his desk at Starfleet Headquarters.

His office had the same minimalist, blue-and-gray look as Voyager and most other modern starships; the only way to tell that he was on a planet was the sunlight coming in from the window. It made the old man's white hair look even whiter and illuminated all the lines on his round, ruddy face. His blue eyes, the same eyes Tom had inherited, looked the same subdued shade of navy as the shoulders of his uniform jacket. He sat with his hands clasped in front of him, his face unreadable, just as Tom must have seen him hundreds of times when his father summoned him to discuss his latest misbehavior. His spine stiffened. If he hadn't been holding on to B'Elanna, he would have snapped to attention.

"Hello, Tom."

"Hello, Father."

"And you must be my daughter-in-law." The Admiral unbent noticeably as he smiled at B'Elanna. "My wife and I were so pleased to hear the news. How far along are you now?"

Tom knew what his wife – pregnant, half-Klingon, a frustrated engineer who couldn't crawl around her ship's systems anymore, surrounded by well-meaning but nosy shipmates and an overprotective EMH – would say before she said it, and prepared for the upcoming explosion.

"If one more person asks me that, I swear to Kahless, I'll - " To Tom's surprise, however, she swallowed down the rest of that sentence, looked down at her hand with its wedding ring tucked into his arm, then back at the Admiral, and blushed. "I'm sorry, sir. It's twenty-three weeks. I just … I've been hearing that a lot."

Tom kept a narrow eye on the Admiral. If he reacted badly to B'Elanna's outburst, Tom would know that his father was the same rigid, closed-minded, judgmental piece of work he remembered.

To his astonishment, however, the older man actually chuckled.

"Fair enough," he said. "My Julia was just the same when she was expecting. She'll be sorry to miss you, by the way, but the next call will be all hers."

Tom's parents had a close relationship, but they had been in the habit of communicating separately with their son for so long – rather, Tom would call his mother and she would repeat the news to his father – that it sometimes felt like being a child of divorcees. Standing beside B'Elanna, who really was a child of divorcees, it struck Tom that this was both impractical and sad.

"Or you guys could call together," he said, with his best casual shrug, not wanting to show how much the prospect meant to him.

"We can do that," said the Admiral in the same tone, as if they hadn't just broken a habit of more than ten years.

Silence fell.

The seconds ticked by in the corner of the screen as Tom frantically tried to think of something to say. It would be too ridiculous if, after so much time estranged, they finally started talking to each other again only to give up due to sheer awkwardness. The trouble was that most of the questions he had for his father were far too heavy for a three-minute call: Can you really forgive me for what I did? And can I forgive you for the way you reacted? Do you still think I'm a disgrace to Starfleet and the family? If you do, can I live with that?

But most importantly: Is there any way to make sure we don't pass our baggage on to the baby?

It was B'Elanna who broke the silence first, committing to her role as diplomat in a way that both amused and touched her husband. "So," she said brightly, "The Doctor's hearing - that should be one for the history books."

"It certainly is. Who'd have thought that the silliest holonovel I ever played would turn out to be a landmark moment in holographic rights?"

"Wait, you played it?" Tom burst out, mortified beyond belief. "Please tell me it wasn't the first draft."

"Oh, yes. It crossed the line so far, it was almost funny."

Definitely the first draft, then. It was bad enough to think of strangers playing it, but for his own father to find that scene in Sickbay with the two pretty ensigns … even the character's name would bring up bad memories, as he was named for the same city where the real Tom used to get drunk at Sandrine's.

"Guess Lieutenant Marseilles looked pretty familiar to you, huh?" he drawled, and he recognized that snide, sarcastic voice the moment it came out of his mouth.

It was the voice of the insubordinate officer, the ungrateful son, the worst possible version of himself; the same role he'd played to provoke Chakotay and unmask the traitor on board; the same role he'd been playing with his father since he was a teenager. Back then, it had been so much easier than showing them who he really was and how their disappointment hurt him.

Not today, though. Today using that voice left a distinctly sour taste in his mouth.

"Absolutely not. That character had nothing to do with you."

The Admiral frowned. It was such a familiar frown – white eyebrows bristling as they snapped together; lips pressed into a thin line; leaning forward with his palms down on the desk until it creaked from the weight of his disapproval – that Tom felt sixteen years old again and red-faced with frustration. The actual words his father spoke didn't even register.

"Is that why you finally called, to tell me how embarrassing I am? News flash, Dad, I knew this already."

"Thomas - " The Admiral's face reddened and he half rose to his feet.

Whatever he might have said next – by the sharp tone of his voice, it was nothing good – they never found out, because once again, B'Elanna came to the rescue.

"Well, I couldn't agree more, sir," she said loudly, squeezing Tom's arm until it almost hurt, as if to say shut up and let me handle this. "We both know Tom better than that. That holocharacter is no more like him than … than that petaQ Broht is like an honest businessman."

The older man sat back down. His frown eased, if only a little. He locked eyes with his daughter-in-law over the screen and gave her a short, firm nod.

"You're quite right, B'Elanna." He didn't hesitate for a moment in pronouncing the Klingon name. "A publisher with no regard for his authors, or the quality of their work, won't last long in the industry. And, yes … " He turned his gaze in his son's direction and, unless Tom was very much mistaken, there was regret in those tired navy blue eyes. "I may not know you as well as I should, son, but I know enough to tell the difference between you and that character."

"You do?"

This wasn't the first time since the beginning of the Pathfinder Project that his father had expressed confidence in him, but it felt like the first time that mattered. This wasn't on the bridge with the entire crew listening, or in a letter; this was face to face, with only Tom's beloved wife as a witness. (And Seven, of course, but she was always so discreet while overseeing these calls that he trusted her implicitly.)

"I, uh … Thanks, Dad." Hearing that his father believed in him meant more than he could possibly say. Instead, true to form, he shrugged and said: "That mustache was classic, though. Think I should grow one?"

"You do that," B'Elanna said, smiling dangerously, "And I'll shave it off with a bat'leth."

The Admiral let out a hearty laugh. Tom could almost see him as a future grandfather. "I like this one, Tom. She'll be good for you."

"I know. That's why I married her."

Seven startled all three of them by announcing, from her station at the back of the lab: "Thirty seconds remaining."

"Tell Mom and the girls I said hi," said Tom, referring to Moira and Kathleen, his older sisters. "Group call next time?"

"I'll tell them. Keep me informed about my grandchild."

"We will," said the parents-to-be in unison.

They were not, and never had been, the kind of family that said I love you at the end of every conversation. There were times Tom wouldn't have believed it even if he'd heard it. Today, on the other hand, it would have been superfluous. What he did say was more than enough.

"Call me when you get home."

When, not if. Me, not Starfleet or the Pathfinder team or anyone else.

This was the same thing his father had always said, however grudgingly, when Tom had taken off on impulsive weekend trips as a teenager, and later a cadet. He'd even said it at the end of Tom's last call with him in Auckland, and while Tom had taken it as an insult at the time – Don't call me until you've taken your punishment – he could now see it as the sign of faith it really was.

He just about managed to nod before the comm line dissolved into static.

Seven bowed her head over the console, giving him privacy, which he appreciated. B'Elanna hugged him, baby bump and all, which he appreciated even more. He pressed his face into her sleek brown hair and sighed.

"Did I ever tell you," he murmured in her ear, "How much I admire your diplomacy? Only you could talk to a Starfleet Admiral that way."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut up."

"No, seriously." He kissed her ridged forehead for emphasis. "You broke the ice like no one else could have. Thank you."

"Well, I know one pigheaded Paris. Stands to reason I'd be able to handle another one."

"Pigheaded, huh? At least that's better than 'pig'. I'll take it."

Her laugh as she turned to leave the room was sweeter than any term of endearment he'd ever heard.