June 14, 2386

Starbase 47

Tom tried to listen to what T'Lassa was telling him, but the longer she explained, the harder it was for him to concentrate. He began to feel disconnected, outside his own body and watching the discussion from far away, like he was watching a play. After everything he had already lost, he knew, the knowledge that B'Elanna was now just as lost to him as if she had died, should have devastated him beyond imagination, but instead, he found he was numb…that he couldn't feel anything.

His mind scrolled backward years, to a very difficult time he'd lived through with B'Elanna, once he had discovered how she had been intentionally trying to hurt herself in the holodeck during their time on Voyager. All because her severe depression had shorted out her ability to feel, as a way of protecting her from her overwhelming pain. He himself hadn't noticed the moment when his pain had turned to numbness, only that now, he couldn't summon anything. And still T'Lassa kept talking, telling him how badly B'Elanna was injured, how incapacitated and disabed she had become.

"Did you at least explain to her the things she doesn't remember?" he asked. He didn't know why he asked her the question, hearing the futility of it once he heard it spoken. The walls of T'Lassa's office felt as if they were closing in around him, the air suddenly thick and harder to breathe.

"What little that I could do. She doesn't remember anything about being an adult. I had to tell her where we are, why we are here. Who I was, who she was. She's been able to retain most of that. She remembers who I am now, every time I see her. She remembers Aaron now as well. But she's frightened. I told her she was married, nothing else," the doctor replied, her face an unreadable mask. Usually, despite her Vulcan exterior, Tom had always found her relatively easy to read. He felt like a butterfly encased inside a glass bubble, frozen, looking at the world through a distorted lens.

"May I see her?" he asked quietly, fighting the urge to flinch, worried she would refuse him entry.

T'Lassa nodded. She thought of warning him, so acutely aware of how much time he had spent keeping vigil at her bedside. Preparing him for her demeanor would have been prudent, she thought, but T'Lassa knew hardly anything she had said had seemed to register at all, like he was in a perpetual state of shock. Instead, she just walked with him into the next room. He saw the flurry of motion first, the blue hospital gown flashing by him as B'Elanna jumped onto the biobed, covering her face and head with her arms, like a child. Another image of her, all human, cowering on the bunk in the barracks of the labor camp as he'd confronted their Vidian captor, played across his mind. That was another life, he thought now.

"B'Elanna, don't be afraid. This is Commander Thomas Paris. He is your husband. The man I told you about. He wanted to see you, to make sure you were ok." How odd she sounded, very Vulcan and precise, while at the same time gentle and patient, as if she were speaking to a child.

He saw one eye as she shifted her arms away, the blood collected in the white of the orb from vacuum exposure almost completely dissipated. She did see him, but the eye was darting back and forth in a panic. He watched her chest heaving, breathing as if she had exerted herself. He knew if he smiled he would be less intimidating, but, as hard as he tried, he couldn't even begin to do so. His face felt frozen, almost achy. "Look at him, B'Elanna. You have known him longer than any of us, almost 15 years. He knows you best. You don't have to be afraid of him."

"B'Elanna, it's ok. I just wanted to see you," he said gently. His voice was deep, resonating in his chest as the emotion surged briefly, before he felt it shut down again. Seeing her this way was like losing her again.

She pulled her arms away after hearing him speak. Her face was as always, but so utterly not B'Elanna it rocked him to the core. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a style he had never seen her wear, even when she was sleeping. It enhanced the hollows in her cheeks, new now because she had lost almost 15 pounds. The heart shape of her face was now exaggerated, the ridges on her forehead somehow more pronounced as well. Her lips were thinner, as he noticed she was clenching her jaw, jutting the bottom row of teeth outward so she could gnaw on her bottom lip, also something he had never known her to do. Her soft brown eyes were vacant, and instead of gazing into his soul as they had always seemed to do, now looked through him as if he wasn't there.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice unsteady. It reminded him of the way Tuvok had spoken on Voyager while he had been recovering from brain damage. "I don't remember!" she screeched, clutching at her temples and shaking her head.

He rushed to ease her strain, clenching his hands into tight fists as he fought the urge to touch her. "I know. It's not your fault. I understand," he added softly. But he didn't, he thought helplessly. He understood nothing, had no desire to understand. He just wanted his wife back. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, tell her what had happened, if only to not have to bear the entire burden on his own shoulders. But his wife, the woman he had shared his life with, was gone, most likely forever, and all that was left in her place was this shell. The desolation of that thought crushed his soul. "The Doctor will continue to help you. You just have to let her. Listen to her," he coached, pushing his emotions deep inside himself.

He didn't know what else to say to her, and shifting in his awkwardness, he turned to go. "When will you come back?" she called at his back.

He spun back to her, mildly surprised. "Whenever you want me to," he said gently.

"Will you come tomorrow?" she asked, sounding more like Miral than herself. The thought of his daughter tore at him, nearly taking his breath away. It distracted him from the moment, the hope he would have felt that she was asking to see him again.

"Of course," he managed to say, before his aching throat closed and he became unable to speak.

He made sure he had moved out of B'Elanna's field of vision before he crumpled against the wall, gasping with labored breath. He felt a strong hand grip his shoulder, holding him up with a firm grasp on his bicep. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his first officer was the one who had offered the support. "I'm all right, Aaron," he said.

"When was the last time you slept?" his friend inquired.

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. I can't sleep, no matter where I am, or what I do," Tom muttered aimlessly, lifting himself from the wall with great effort.

"On the couch in your office? With a chair cushion for a pillow? It's no surprise," Aaron retorted.

Tom's face was blank, expressionless when he replied. "I appreciate the nurse maiding, but it isn't necessary, Aaron. Really." He started walking away.

"Then will you have lunch with me? My quarters are put back together for the most part. You can use my replicator, so we won't have to mingle with anyone," Aaron offered, rushing to step in front of Tom before he turned.

"I have a lot of work to do--"

"Tom!" he asserted, applying gentle pressure against his friend's chest. "Please. I think the last time you ate was longer ago than when you slept. Will you please just come with me?"

Deep inside, he did miss his friend. Generally extroverted, spending as much time alone as he had within the past few weeks had been very isolating. It had become exhausting, fielding everyone else's questions and condolences. Worrying about how everyone had changed how they treated him, how they seemed to walk on eggshells. Aaron did none of that, instead just became a constant presence, never quite leaving him completely alone. Aaron came from a place of empathy, and not just sympathy, and it was apparent.

"All right," he relented. It was merely for the company, as his appetite was nonexistent.

}LS{

The work of putting the station back together was slow and tedious. The outer construction had been patchwork only, to repair the parts exposed to open space after the explosion. The majority of the test flight center was gone, demolished into space debris. What was left to repair, after huge chunks of infrastructure had been removed or replaced, were the internal workings, all the various systems that now barely functioned after the damage.

The station had been tractored back into its orbit by Endeavor. The repair work they were doing was emergency in nature. If Starfleet chose to maintain this Starbase, it would need a major overhaul, a project well over a year in the making. The design center, starting from scratch again like he'd done in 2378, would add on another year. The chance Starfleet would recommission was even more tenuous. In the meantime, the base still served interstellar travel, for both Starfleet and civilian commerce. The repair crews were allowing the base to function again safely, despite the fact almost a third of it had been blown off.

Voyager had been in pretty rough shape more than once during their seven year trip. Two very serious incidents had caused the most damage, first the proton bursts from the duplicate Voyager, the second from the Hirogen's hostile takeover. It had taken weeks, with every crew member working double shifts, to repair it, in both instances. Now, there was nothing so orderly. Starfleet had been vague with orders. They had been instructed to continue with repairs while Starfleet Command was due to decide the fate of the base and the personnel who were stationed there, particularly the crew members who had worked there as part of the design team. Both Tom and Aaron had wondered if there was anything left on the station even worth salvaging. Everything they had done for the past eight years was gone--all the prototypes, the schematics, every file and mechanical part wiped away as if they had never been. What purpose could Starfleet have in maintaining the facility now? Even if they chose to rebuild the base to its former functionality, his team's skills would most certainly be required elsewhere in the meantime.

Nothing like spending all your time piecing together broken junk, just so someone else could junk it again, Tom thought bitterly.

Today, Aaron was working with a team repairing the damaged circuitry in the main computer core. Supervisory tasks, though still part of Tom's wheelhouse, were not prioritized when so much damage still needed to be repaired. The two men were alone in the control room, with all the panels removed from the computer housing and most of the ODN conduits exposed.

Earlier in the day, Aaron had tried to get Tom to eat something. Two cups of coffee and half a bowl of tomato soup were all Aaron saw him ingest. T'Lassa had told him about the meeting in the Infirmary, when Tom had finally seen B'Elanna and got a chance to talk to her. She had explained her hopefulness, encouraged that despite her awkwardness, B'Elanna had expressed desire to see Tom again. Aaron had to be the realist, telling her that whatever positive aspects she was seeing, B'Elanna was now a different person, and nothing could ever be as it had been.

Aaron was increasingly worried that once the repairs were eventually caught up, that Tom would crash. He was running on empty, forcing himself to work to keep from thinking about his loss. He would work almost without a break for 24 hours at a time, then collapse, sleeping in four hour increments. Aaron couldn't shake the memory of Tom's haunted voice, as his friend had told him driving himself to the brink of collapse was the only way he could fall asleep at all. Aaron also was aware Tom hadn't set foot inside his quarters, despite the fact they had been primarily undamaged, since the day of Miral's funeral.

What they were doing today was the same as they had done for days, using the same pattern, as it seemed to work well for them. Aaron was the engineer, the best engineer left on the station now that B'Elanna wasn't fit for duty. The complicated tasks were left to him, while Tom basically acted as his assistant. Tom had spent years working with his wife, and he was used to assisting with the type of repairs he was doing. The two men had been working in silence all afternoon.

"What's Rocket Man?" Aaron asked out of nowhere, shattering the silence.

Tom turned his head abruptly, his brow furrowed in curiosity. "What? What are you talking about?" Tom asked.

"Is it a poem? Something like that?" Aaron asked.

"Oh, no, no, it's a song. Music," Tom stressed as Aaron's eyebrows creased. "From 1970s Earth." That song was a part of one of his playlists, music he would pipe into the construction bays where they had built their prototypes. One of B'Elanna's favorite songs from his 20th century music collection. The thought sliced into him like a blade. "What, uh, what made you ask?" he added.

"Pablo was talking about it this morning. I was just curious." After several minutes of silence, he added, "Is it about the space program? Moon shot, or something like that?" It was so far removed from the original questions it took Tom a moment to place his thoughts again. Obviously, Aaron had no idea of its significance, or he wouldn't have brought it up so casually, Tom thought.

"The song? Oh….no….it's not actually even about space." Tom firmly placed one of the panels back, careful to not disturb the mechanisms inside. "It's actually about a man who feels like he's wasting his life….while his kids are growing up without him."

Aaron watched as Tom's hands came down away from the panel, a slight slackening on his face betraying a concealed pain. He cleared his throat, raised his hands back to the panel. "Back then they thought about relativistic effects….that if you left Earth and came back, you wouldn't age….but everyone left behind would have. The man who wrote it used that idea….as a metaphor….living grandly, but missing what life is really about…." His voice trailed away. "'Burning out his fuse up here alone,'" Tom half whispered, quoting the song word for word. He continued working, struggling to disguise the break in his concentration.

The bleakness of his friend's voice, coupled with the meaning of the words, made Aaron's chest feel tight. Damn it, I did it again, Aaron chastised himself. There was so little he could discuss casually anymore, so many topics that before had been common ground that were now taboo.

Aaron was still straining his mind, trying to think of a way to change the subject, when Tom interrupted the uneasy silence with a few rambling words. "The primary motivation for writing a song…you know, a song like that, was love. It was unusual when a popular song wasn't about love in some shape or form. Lost love, broken hearts, new love, whatever."

Aaron used Tom's words, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "Even Vulcan has love poetry. Ancient texts before the Awakening that are still studied. I guess it's a universal language…at the end of the day."

Tom continued talking as if Aaron hadn't spoken. "I could always tell when a song was sung by the person who wrote the lyrics. You can just tell, you know? Really great songwriters of that era, they dug deep and put their own experiences into the words. You don't just listen to it, you can feel it." He paused as he searched through his kit for the next tool he needed. "Although, it's always songs about pain, loss, broken hearts…that are the most powerful. Anyone can write a happy bit of music, even a young child. It takes experience, real life lived, to write a song like that. Like Rocket Man."

"At least what Pablo said makes a little more sense, considering," Aaron explained. Something about it being depressing, Aaron recalled but didn't say. It broke his heart as he thought of it now.

June 17, 2386

Starbase 47

Echenna paused in the corridor, standing in front of the door to the holosuite. She knew Commander Paris was inside. His schedule was accessible to her while she was treating him, as per normal protocol. She also had the authority to enter, to override security lockouts if necessary. She was certain he had encrypted the access panel. His expertise with holosuite programming was known, even noted in his file, leftover from his days on Voyager.

Three weeks after the accident, the explosion that had damaged the base, Endeavor was still here. It was highly unusual for a starship to remain for so long after rendering emergency aid after a disaster, but not completely unheard of. Captain Chakotay had let her know, with what information he could, that Starfleet Command had ordered them to stay. Apparently, the crew of the Endeavor was assisting in the investigation of the accident. Again, it wasn't standard protocol, but under the current situation, she could understand why. Despite it all, it had allowed her to stay and counsel the crew here, who had lost their regular counselor.

Paris was one of her patients, her most critical patient, her most at-risk patient. She was haunting him, literally chasing him to get him to talk to her. And even then, he barely talked. He gave her vague answers, avoiding answering direct questions, and changing the subject at every opportunity. She was here, ready to barge into his private holosuite time, to confront him.

Echenna was Betazoid, a naturally born telepath. Being able to read minds, while convenient at times, was not the first tool she used to do her job. Probing the mind of someone in her care was unethical, unnecessary in order to provide insight and treatment. Betazoids generally made effective counselors for the reason that, because they used telepathy among other telepaths, reading body language effectively was incredibly effortless. Echenna had never dropped her mental shields while counseling Commander Paris, but, though she was not a technical empath, his emotional state frequently radiated off him, saturating her physical being despite the best defenses. That troubled her the most–how tremendously in pain he had to be for her to have this reaction to him.

She typed the panel quickly, taking a deep breath as the door slid open with a gentle hiss. The vista before her shocked her, sadness pummeling her insides as she heard the door hiss shut behind her. She stood on an endless, dark plane, with a faint, hazy light overhead, though the source was insubstantial. Even after only a few seconds, she was drenched, her uniform adhering to her skin, the water droplets dripping from the ends of her curls, against her cheeks and forehead. Paris had programmed a perpetual, hard rain, in an empty room, dark as space itself without the comfort of stars.

She braved the discomfort of the rain, and walked further to the interior. Eventually she saw him, in his uniform, on his knees, his head bowed forward, and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His uniform was sopping wet, his hair spiky and saturated, swept back in a slick from his forehead. She thought he might have been weeping, but silently. The tears, if they were present, would so intermingle with the raindrops, they were virtually undetectable. That was the point, though, she thought.

"Commander!" she called, shouting to be heard over the loud pattering of the raindrops against the ground. She braced herself, expecting that her outburst would have startled him. She knew he heard her, but he showed no outward reaction at all. She waited, counting, opening her mouth to yell again, when she saw him open his eyes.

"Computer, end program," Tom called softly, his eyes still fixed on a point somewhere on the floor in front of her. The dark room filled with rain slowly faded, replaced with the yellow and black grid of the holosuite. He still appeared just as wet as she did, despite the fact that the program was terminated. Once they exited, the sensation and appearance of the water would disappear. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Commander, I believe that was my question to ask," she replied. "This is…troubling. Compounded with the fact that you won't talk to me–"

"I told you, there's nothing I want to talk to you about. Nothing you can say to me that will ever make this better," he groaned.

"You're right, you know," she countered. "I can't make this better. You suffered an unimaginable loss. Losses that will leave you feeling incomplete for the rest of your life," she told him somberly. "But, you have to learn to live in your new reality, as dark and dismal as it is right now. That's what I want to help you start to do, if you'll let me."

Tom felt her dark eyes searching his face. There was pain there, deep inside her. How he knew, he wasn't sure. In the past, he had never been all that skilled at paying attention to how other people, especially people he barely knew, felt. Something about that knowledge made him able to tell her a little. "I can…scream…in here, and no one can hear me," he said weakly.

"Does screaming help?" she asked sincerely.

"No," he lamented. "But…it's the only thing that makes me feel…anything."

She stepped closer to him. "It's a defense mechanism, completely shutting down, when the pain is unbearable," she explained.

"I know," he replied, well aware of the reasoning, as well as the treatment, when it had happened to B'Elanna.

She took a deep breath, and plunged. "I think…you're screaming in here…because you're angry."

Confusion clouded his features, as he contemplated something he probably hadn't before her observation. "I don't–"

"It's ok to feel angry, Commander," she said gently. "Where is that anger directed? Who are you angry with?"

He choked, sobbed. "I…I…can't," he stammered.

"I think, once you figure that out, we can start to make progress. But you have to talk to me first," she concluded.

He bowed his head, closing his eyes. He didn't speak to her again, not that she had expected him to, not today. He was encased in a giant block of ice. Chipping away at it would take time, she knew. Instinctively, she knew there was enough anger inside him to melt it almost all at once. Her job was to prepare him for that onslaught, the coming flood of emotions left when the ice became water.

June 20, 2386

Starbase 47

"Captain," Paris said crisply as Chakotay walked into Tom's office. His stern accompanying silence was something Chakotay had never expected from Tom, but something he contended with on a daily basis now. Tom's joviality, his little quips, were painfully absent. True, Chakotay would have thought anything so light would be out of place, as dark and mournful as Tom's demeanor was now, but the silence only served to remind him of how different everything was, how much had changed irrevocably for the worse.

"Tom, I just came from the Infirmary. She was asking for you," Chakotay said gently.

Tom glanced quickly at the chronometer, shaking his head slightly, rubbing his tired eyes with both palms. "I told her I would stop by when I was finished. Only I'm never really finished. We just keep polishing trash for Starfleet." The last sentence dripped with bitterness.

"I know it feels that way, Tom, but…it's more than that," Chakotay said seriously.

Tom raised his eyes sharply, concerned by the tone of voice Chakotay had used. "What are you talking about?"

"Starfleet is waiting to dispatch the Corps of Engineers until they make a final decision about the status of this base," Chakotay explained. Tom nodded testily, already understanding what he was talking about. "Admiral Janeway is overseeing the investigation. That's why Endeavor is still here." Tom narrowed his eyes, waiting for the extra piece, the thing he knew Chakotay hadn't told him yet.

"What's with the secrecy? Conspiracy theory or whatever? What is really going on?" Tom drilled.

"Tom, the reason Endeavor was on the way here before the explosion…was to retrieve that piece of debris you recovered," Chakotay reminded him.

The neutronium debris, Tom thought with a shock. How had he completely forgotten about that? Because your life was sucked down a black hole in the meantime, he countered bitterly to himself.

"That piece of debris is nowhere," Chakotay stressed. "And you know as well as I do, that reactor explosion wasn't enough to obliterate a piece of neutronium that large."

January 24, 2371

USS Voyager

Tom struggled to keep his face neutral as the distorted hologram of the doctor ran the dermal sealer over the bleeding cut on his left hand. He had gashed it accidentally, sliding it across a broken portion of the helm console that had been overlooked in the initial repairs completed after the incident with the Caretaker.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing, Mr. Paris," the Doctor said, his voice comically high-pitched in his shrunken state.

"Who's laughing? I'm not laughing," Tom quipped, straight-faced, but with eyes that twinkled.

The doors to Sick Bay swooshed open behind them. Tom turned quickly, to see B'Elanna walk briskly into the room. "I'm here to repair your broken holo-emitters," she said gruffly.

"Thank goodness, Lieutenant," the Doctor squeaked.

"Wow, Doc, lucky you," Tom teased, smirking, but not looking at B'Elanna. "You got the Chief Engineer to make a house call for you."

Her face was stern, her jaw set in a hard line. She glared at him, instantly unsettling him in a way completely foreign to him. Perhaps it was because he didn't know of any specific reason why she should be so angry with him, when she barely knew him. The counterargument to that, the knowledge that she was just angry at any and everyone, meant as a reassurance, only seemed to make it worse. Why should it bother him that she was so angry with the universe? But no matter how hard he tried, he had to admit that, deep down, he was bothered.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant," he said quietly, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. His usual friendly, teasing tone seemed inappropriate with her.

She glared, several minutes too long, before she replied, "Thank you," tersely.

"That took guts, you know, to speak up in that meeting, after you'd been confined to quarters for…you know, breaking Carey's nose," he told her, wincing at the way he'd handled that thought progression.

The glare softened, confusion flashing across her face briefly. "I am part Klingon. Keeping quiet is a much more gutsy thing for us to do, Lieutenant," she replied.

Was she trying to joke with him? He almost did a double take before he replied. "Well, either way, that was amazing. You're one of the smartest people I've ever met. You floored me," he said, trying to sound casual, realizing too late the hint of wonder in his voice was still apparent.

She had already turned away, her hands deep in the console, while she was repairing the holo emitter. "Thank you," she said again, this time her voice resonating with true gratitude. Even just that quick break from her being furious at him was a comfort. Ironically, it was that very feeling of comfort that was so…disconcerting.

March 22, 2371

USS Voyager

B'Elanna had come to the mess hall to be by herself, after she had been thoroughly dressed down by Captain Janeway after her participation in the plan to use an illegally obtained piece of equipment to jump Voyager through space. She was unused to feeling this way, unsettled and upset. Guilty, she realized. Had she ever felt quite like this? She wasn't sure. Her life with the Maquis had never created this type of situation. There, you acted when it was necessary; you got results the best way you knew how. The situation was always the backdrop of the excuse, what made that type of thinking acceptable. Thinking like a Starfleet officer was still new to her, something that required conscious effort and thought.

She had known it was wrong to go against Janeway's wishes, her orders. Tom Paris, of all people, had almost lectured her about the breach of protocol, the dangerousness of her actions. It had been his voice in one ear, while Seska had been in the other. Seska was her best friend, one of the people she was closest to in the universe. Her knee jerk reaction was to just agree with Seska; it always had been. Why had this time what Tom said affected her so much, then? Because in her heart, she knew he was right. She had convinced herself the ends justified the means, like a true Maquis.

Only, this time, it hadn't. She hated that she had broken Janeway's trust, undermining her credibility with the Captain. Despite the rocky start, Janeway had always been on her side, offering encouragement in a way she had never experienced in her life before. Her words in Janeway's ready room were true. She had owned up to her own actions because she felt terrible for betraying that trust. B'Elanna had wanted to be better, to be the person Janeway knew she could be. The thought had floored her, but she knew it was the truth.

"Oh!" she heard behind her, spinning in her chair at the sound of a voice in the entryway to the darkened room. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean to intrude," Paris stuttered as he stopped his forward motion.

"Speak of the devil," she mumbled under her breath, her mouth pinching in a twisted grin at the thought.

"Uh…were you…talking…?" he asked slowly, looking over his shoulder in confusion.

"You were right," she said, only confusing him more. "About breaking the rules," she replied. "We were wrong."

Realization seemed to dawn. "Wait," he exclaimed. "That was you? I mean, you…you got that…"

"I was involved, but not in charge," she added. Under her breath she added, "Not that that matters all that much about the specifics."

"Oh," he added, suddenly uncomfortable, unsure of what else to say.

"I wish I could just undo it, you know? I hate that I gave Janeway another reason to distrust me," she replied. Looking over her shoulder, she said, "You were so straight and narrow. Is Harry rubbing off on you?"

He puffed out a soft chuckle. "Maybe," he agreed. "Or, maybe, I just don't want to screw up this time. You know, for once." He shrugged, a little self-consciously, and waved quickly as he departed.

Once she was alone again, she found her thoughts kept drifting back to Tom's words. He was smooth, funny, with a retort ready at every point. The fact that he was as insecure, as uncertain, as she felt, somehow was a comfort. They disguised it in very different ways, but the similarity was not lost on her.

June 24, 2386

Starbase 47

"Hey, Doc. How's everything?" Tom asked, standing and moving around his desk to greet the holographic doctor. "The Admiral said you were coming." A brief flash of annoyance crossed his features. "I thought in a few more days," he added. The weariness in his voice stood out sharply.

"There was a transport leaving earlier than I'd anticipated," he retorted quickly. An uncomfortably awkward silence hung between them. He folded his arms in front of him, then clasped them behind, trying to find a comfortable stance.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Paris," he said gently, in a tone the Doctor hardly ever used.

For missing her party after you told her you were coming? For not contacting her afterward to wish her happy birthday belatedly, instead just sending a generic greeting via subspace communication? For missing her funeral? The words swirled in a misdirected maelstrom of anger. He knew it, but couldn't hold it back.

"Things happen. What can you do?" he offered, the bitterness in this tone not lost on the Doctor.

"Mr. Paris, let me clarify. I--"

"I know, I know. Really. It's all right, Doctor. What brings you all this way, when you could have just communicated via subspace?" His irritation grated.

"Please, let me offer my sincerest condolences for your loss," he added, as if Tom hadn't spoken. Whatever else needed to be said, that was the most important.

"Losses," Tom sharply corrected him, indescribably bitter.

After another pause, The Doctor continued. "I tried everything in my power to attend the services, but I was simply needed too badly at Starfleet Medical. It was unacceptable of me, I know. You can't know how sorry I am, Mr. Paris."

Inside, Tom knew he was right. He was, after all, Miral's godfather. Had been, he corrected himself. "I know, Doc. Please understand." It was a small relief that the Doctor did understand, because he wasn't sure how strong his voice would be if he continued.

"Missing the party was my own fault, for overscheduling and not prioritizing correctly. It's just that…." He left the words unsaid as he saw Tom's jaw harden like a rock. You always thought there was more time. Only there was no more time, not even another week. Or day.

"You didn't know what was going to happen. How could you have? There's nothing you could have done." The Doctor stood in awkward silence again as Tom paced in front of his desk. When he looked back at the Doctor, he seemed startled, as if he'd forgotten he wasn't alone. "Have a seat." He motioned toward one of the chairs placed behind his desk. "All of the documentation is in place. She's ready to go with you," he said stiffly.

The Doctor had been in communication with him since B'Elanna had regained consciousness. He had been conferring with Dr. T'Lassa about her condition. They had agreed, given her current state of mental incapacity, and the lack of progression from her initial condition upon waking, that a specialized medical facility was the best place for her. The Rehabilitation hospital on Luna was renowned in this part of the quadrant, as they excelled in dealing with brain injury cases like B'Elanna's. T'Lassa had done everything she could, and continued life on the Starbase was not conducive to treatment that she would require. Reluctantly, Tom had agreed. The only comfort he had was that it was close enough that he could visit her regularly.

The Doctor nodded, and sat. He never needed to sit per se, being a hologram. But it made organics more comfortable, so he obliged.

"That's only part of this, Mr. Paris. There is another urgent matter that was just recently brought to my attention." He looked up, looked directly into Tom's half-dead eyes and said flatly, "This is about you, Mr. Paris."

Tom sighed in exasperation, having a strong feeling he knew where this was going. "What about me, Doctor? What did the Admiral say to you?"

"It wasn't Admiral Janeway. It was Counselor Hubron."

Tom bristled in anger. "Why is she telling you anything?"

The Doctor drummed up his chest, confronting the anger with truth. "Because you are in command of a space station and she reports her findings to her superiors as part of her duty. Dr. Kilpatrick referred the case to me, as per my request."

"Great," he countered. "Am I your latest case study?" Ten years ago, the Doctor would have taken a comment like that from Mr. Paris in the way that it was intended. Now, everything he spoke was humorless and acidic.

"Admiral Janeway is concerned. As am I," he said intently.

Tom leaned forward, heated anger reddening his otherwise pale face. "Echenna declared me fit for duty. Unless you're here to relieve me," he took a deep, shuddering breath, "there's nothing you can do." The despair under those words, his utter helplessness, was not lost.

"In the last three weeks, you have averaged three hours of sleep per day, 19 hour work days, one meal a day, although I use the term meal loosely. Some days you only drank coffee and ate nothing. And then there's about 67 visits to the holosuite in one program that appears to be a black background in a thunderstorm." His disdain was profound, as he sounded almost indignant at Tom's lack of personal care.

Irked by the Doctor's scolding, Tom added hotly, "You left out how many sonic showers and how often I changed my uniform. I don't see the point in this. I'm fit for duty, remember?"

"Echenna left it open for continuous review, as she concluded you were in shock, and that delayed symptoms may appear. It was her duty to track your personal habits." He paused, searching for the right words. "You are not yourself, Mr. Paris." Under any other circumstances, he would have added a typical barb, some derogatory comment. It no longer seemed appropriate.

"This is as good as I'm ever gonna be, Doctor." He was forcing levity into his voice, but the Doctor only heard the strangled hopelessness and defeat.

The Doctor began gently, "A long time ago, Mr. Paris, you gave me some sage advice." Tom's confused expression made the Doctor elaborate. "When my daughter was dying." Tom's harsh intake of breath let the Doctor know Tom remembered. "You told me about what it means to be in a family. About how, if I refused to face my grief, that I would never move past that point. That I was denying myself the love of my family to help me through it."

Paris averted his gaze, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. "I know," he said brokenly. "But it isn't the same thing."

Hurriedly, the Doctor added, "By no means was I trying to equate my situation with yours. My loss--"

"Was real," Tom insisted. "You loved her, and she died. Pain is pain. Sometimes it's just a question of whether you're swimming in it. Or drowning." The quiet in the room was deafening. "The difference," Tom stressed, "is that my whole family is gone. There isn't…" His voice trailed away, as emotion closed his throat, ending his sentence. He covered his face with his hand. What finally stirred him was the sensation of the Doctor's hand on his shoulder.

"There, you are mistaken. Voyager's crew has been, and always will be, part of your family. You also told me that at the same time. You were right then, too. We're here. Me, Captain Chakotay, Harry, Admiral Janeway. We want to help. You are not alone, Mr. Paris. Please let us help you."

He looked at the Doctor's earnest face for a long time, moved beyond the ability to speak. It took several beats before he was able to respond. "You know, Doc, I didn't think you listened to anything I ever said," Tom said lightly. It was the closest the Doctor had heard him sound to his usual self in a very long time. The smile Tom suddenly felt on his face was odd to him, a strange feeling in his cheek muscles, because it had been so long since he had used those muscles to do so.

"Neither did I," the Doctor deadpanned.