Chapter 2: No apologies
Readying the table for dinner with Tom, the Captain clears the space of work while contemplating her working relationship with the officer who's on his way.
It's hard to define, the balance they've managed to find over the last year. Especially as she argues more often with him than any officer she's ever had.
It wasn't their pattern at first; Tom having originally voiced his opinions slowly, and thereafter pretending to ignore it when she completely disregarded everything he'd said. But that shifted five months into his tenure as XO, when he'd cut him off mid-sentence in a staff meeting. His body constricting with tension afterward as the briefing continued.
She hadn't though much of it when it happened. Realizing the gravity of her mistake only when he fell into a thorny silence on the bridge and then avoided her off duty. Worse, the rift had rippled out from there. With Tom ill at ease, the whole morale of the bridge seemed to deteriorate.
"I didn't mean to disregard your input," she'd said, sitting down in his quarters, a week into his silent treatment of her.
He only folded his arms. Looking at her with the same moody expression he did when she entered. She pressed on anyway.
"I value you, Tom."
When he locked his blue eyes on her searching grey ones, she wasn't prepared for the raw anger she saw there.
"Do you, Captain? Because I'm pretty sure that anyone could be sitting in my seat these days. Maybe we should make up a roster. Harry gets Mondays, Neelix can have Tuesdays-"
"Lieutenant," she stopped him, looking stern.
He turned away from her, standing near his viewport, but leaning against it rather than looking out.
"I don't know how to do this," he confessed with frustration. "I don't know how to have this title without you trusting me. To feel like every time I raise an objection or a concern, you've disregarded it before I've even finished."
"I do trust you," she argued earnestly. "Your opinions matter to me."
He didn't again question the statement in words, but the skeptical look he shot her voiced everything he felt. She settled deeper into the chair, suddenly feeling exhausted.
However petulant Tom's initial tirade, she'd understood his sentiment. She knew that as much as she trusted him, liked him, she made decisions on her own when things got tough. His tendency to defer to her as she rode roughshod over him had only made it worse.
"I'm not just your helmsman anymore," he said eventually, and sounding miserable. "But if you're uncomfortable with that at this point, it's time to make some decisions."
It wasn't a threat, she knew. But it inspired fear in her nonetheless.
"Things need to change," she agreed. "But those things are about us. How we work together."
They fell into a deep silence after that. Uncomfortable with one another despite the worries they had in common.
"You need to let me argue with you," he said finally, his arms still crossed.
"Now?"
"No," he corrected, shaking his head. "I mean in general. You need to trust me enough to listen to me, debate with me. And then know after all of that I'll still support you. Even if you decide on something I don't agree with."
"I don't' want our disagreements voiced in front of the crew," she said quickly.
"I don't want that either. " After a pause, he'd added, with a dry chuckle, "I'm pretty sure they'd side with you anyway."
She rubbed her hand over her eyes and began to laugh a bit. A hollow sound that betrayed her fatigue as much as her dark amusement.
"You should get some rest," he said softly.
She raised her head to see Tom regarding her with sudden concern in his eyes.
"I have to get through B'Elanna's report first," she replied wearily. "But I'll go to sleep in a few hours."
"You should rest," he repeated, this time looking stern.
She let out an exasperated sigh.
"Is this going to be our first argument?" she asked, looking at him evenly.
"No," he said, walking toward her. "We'll save that for some other time. . . This we'll just put under the heading of you listening to the wise advice of your First Officer. Without debate."
The smirk that had appeared on his face proved contagious, and she soon found the corners of her mouth betraying her as they flirted with a smile.
"Fine," she relented, rising from her seat. "But you're going to regret this whenever I'm fully rested. I'm much easier to argue with when I'm tired."
That conversation had ended in companionable banter. But half a dozen ones after it had ended in angry exchanges, impassioned debates. Arguments that they'd moved from her ready room to other locations, for fear that their raised voices would reach the bridge.
Strange that she learned to find it comforting, sliding into her seat next to Tom after those arguments. Her First Officer looking content, supportive.
She'd thought it an act at first, a show for the benefit of the other officers. It took a few weeks to realize that his ease was genuine; that once she'd allowed him to openly voice his concerns, he would accept whatever decision she made.
Almost any decision anyway.
"Hi," Tom greets, currently coming into the metal shelter.
"Hi," she echoes, placing the last utensil on the table. "What did you bring for dinner?"
"Leola root stew," he answers apologetically.
It takes her a moment to realize he's pulling her leg. He breaks out in a toothy grin when her face falls.
"Would I do that to you?" he asks, fetching a container of pasta from the bag slung over his shoulder.
"Sometimes I don't know."
He chuckles at her feigned disapproval, sliding into his usual seat at the table. His smile only widens when she places a fresh salad in font of him.
"Your tomatoes are finally ripe!"
"Yep," she confirms proudly. "And it only took a little help from what the Doctor sent down to bring them up to speed."
"Glad you're giving him a project," Tom quips. "It keeps him out of my hair up there."
They both know that the last thing the Doctor's needed the last six weeks is a side project. Not when he's been working night and day to cure the illness that will kill her if she leaves the planet's surface. But she smiles nonetheless at the joke as she sits down across from him. Suddenly grateful for his company.
It's halfway through dinner that she gets a contemplative expression on her face. And Tom tries to decide whether he should inquire as to her thoughts. Sometimes it's better to get it out in the open. Others it's just better to leave her be.
"What's wrong?" he asks eventually.
"I've just been thinking. . . about your refusal to leave orbit after I contracted the virus."
He looks at her cautiously, weighing his response.
In the previous weeks, her anger at his insubordination has faded but not completely disappeared. It's helped, of course, that he's her only company here. Beaming down to have dinner with her every night, as the Doctor works on a cure and Ayala's team plots ways to make contact with those who may have already developed one.
"What happens if it fails?" she's asked him three weeks earlier, staring at the portable device that B'Elanna and the EMH had rigged to repel virus-bearing insects from his skin.
"So it fails," he'd shrugged. "Then the Doc has two of us to cure."
His seemingly cavalier attitude notwithstanding, beaming down to the planet isn't a risk Paris allows anyone else to incur. Making him the only direct contact she has with the ship that now orbits their position.
Sometimes he comes late into the evening. Others he can't keep from his face the stress of being the highest ranking officer physically present on the ship. Even on these days, he feels renewed by Janeway's company. No matter what challenges conversation with her brings.
"Oh?" he says presently, and not meeting her eyes over the table. "What about it?"
"If the Doctor can't find a cure, Voyager's just wasted weeks of time sitting here. Babysitting me."
"This hasn't been a waste," he counters immediately. "We've had time to do half a dozen major maintenance projects while in orbit. Not to mention giving the crew a break from the threat of emergencies and red alerts."
Her lips press into a hard line, the rest of her face becoming taut. He decides to barrel on anyway.
"Most importantly, refusing to strand you here for the rest of your natural life is hardly a waste of the ship's efforts."
Her face further hardens at this, but she doesn't respond. It isn't as though they're having this argument for the first time, after all.
I know it's not something you've ever wanted, Tom, but I trust you to get them home.
She'd said it to him over a closed comm link to his quarters from the surface, several weeks earlier.
There'd been a long silence after that. And in it, she felt more for Tom more than she did herself. This younger officer who hadn't wanted the burdens of being an XO, let alone becoming his ship's ranking officer.
His response had taken her completely by surprise as she leaned against the stasis chamber, though looking back she isn't sure why.
I appreciate the confidence, ma'am. But we're not leaving without you.
Sitting across from her at the dinner table, Tom can still remember every word of the argument that ensued. Her brimming rage at his insubordination. The way he'd offered to step down- if she could find even one officer who didn't feel the same way he did.
Tom can't rule out that it was partly fear that drove him then. But beneath that, and everyday since, it's been loyalty. And for the that he'll make no apologies.
"I brought you a few books," he announces, trying to break up the silence they've fallen into.
"Oh?" she asks, perking up as he reaches into his bag.
"There's an anthology of stories by James Joyce. A few biographies. Nothing terribly exciting, but I can bring down whatever you want."
"I haven't read Joyce in years," she says, running her finger along the spine of the book.
He watches as she touches it with reverence. As though it's the first real book she's seen in decades.
"I though you might like a break from reading repair summaries," he shrugs. His casual manner attempting to disguise the thought that went into his gift.
It doesn't work.
"Thank you," she says, putting her hand on his arm.
The open appreciation in her eyes catches him off guard, and he finds himself momentarily stunned. When the words begin tumbling from his mouth, they do so faster than he can filter them.
"How you thought we'd leave you behind I'll never know."
Later in the evening, when she opens to the first page of the Joyce anthology, Tom's words keep her company in the otherwise empty shelter.
. . . . .
Nine weeks into Voyager's orbit around the planet, Paris sits working in Janeway's ready room late in the evening.
"Lieutenant," Torres greets, after he calls for her to enter.
He waves off the formality as he moves PADDs around the Captain's desk, B'Elanna taking the time to study his drawn face and red eyes.
"No offense, Tom, but you look like lukewarm death. You should get some rest."
"Thanks," he drawls. "I'll try to do that later. When I'm finished with work."
He's thrown off when she starts to laugh, casting a questioning expression in her direction.
"Be careful," she teases. "You're starting to sound like her."
"There are worse people to sound like," he points out.
"True," she concedes, adopting the same rueful smile that he does. "But don't look at me for extra rations when you develop her coffee addiction."
Their meeting passes quickly, B'Elanna silently noting Tom's trepidation when the topic turns to Voyager's plan to meet with a ship purporting to have a cure to Janeway's virus.
"Meeting with a mercenary ship is better than meeting with the Vadiians themselves. At least we know that these people are only interested in profit, not harvesting our organs."
Tom nods, but doesn't look convinced. He's heard all of this from Ayala already, and though he thinks the plan a good one, he's still nervous.
"I should go," he remarks, standing up, "I told the Captain I'd beam down after I finished with you."
Torres cocks an eyebrow at the later hour, but say doesn't anything. It isn't as though Paris sleeps anyway these days.
"B'Elanna. . . "
They're alone in the turbolift when he begins speaking. The mask that typically hides his worry and exhaustion falling completely away.
"Does the crew. . . Does everyone resent the decision I made? Staying here with her, I mean."
She looks at him with surprise. But then the surprise is replaced by an expression of resolve.
"She's the Captain," she states confidently. As though this answers every doubt he has.
He nods crisply as the lift doors open, striding toward the transporter room without a glance backward.
Before the lift doors close, B'Elanna's eyes trail his retreating form.
. . . . .
"How in the hell did you scratch my desk?"
Coming into her ready room with a fresh thermos of coffee, Tom wants to shake his head at the kind reception his CO gives him.
"You know what I miss?" he asks, sitting down on her couch. "Our quiet dinners on the planet. You thanking me for running your ship. . . Days when you didn't swear at me the second I walked into a room."
Kathryn wants to laugh at his dramatic proclamation, but she keeps her amusement in check; looking at him with a menacing expression, and her hands on her hips.
"This wasn't there when I left, Tom Paris. I expect you to explain yourself."
He reluctantly stands again, coming over to look at the offending mark she's talking about.
"It's barely two centimeters long, Kathryn. You can hardly see it."
She falls silent, staring him down. Instead of buckling, he mirrors her stance.
"It was probably when Neelix and I drug it into the holodeck and used it to sled down a snowy cliff. Or maybe it was when we threw that party in here, and Ayala started dancing on the furniture. . . You'd really be surprised how light on his feet Mike is."
Which image amuses her more, he doesn't know. Either way, she folds, starting to chuckle.
"Remind me to put a command lock-out on my ready room door the next time I leave," she quips.
"There isn't going to be a next time," he says, the attempted levity in his voice falling flat.
She looks at him searchingly, the smile on her face becoming soft.
"You did a good job, Tom. It's obvious the crew respects you. . . How hard you worked the last two months."
"It was a team effort," he dismisses.
It doesn't deter her.
"You've made a lot of sacrifices, even before this. . ."
She searches for words, desiring to communicate her understanding of how hard it was for him to give up the warp ten flight, however ill-fated, to Harry; to watch his friendships struggle or wither altogether.
The schoolboy infatuation with Kes that disappeared over night. The longing looks he now trades with Voyager's Chief Engineer, though artfully disguised; their silent exchanges always pushed away for the sake of his responsibilities.
"They haven't gone unnoticed," she concludes. It sounds like an apology as much as it does a token of thanks.
His shifting eyes meet hers, his shoulders going slack and the slightly indifferent expression falling from his face.
"Funny," he remarks, though his voice doesn't communicate even an ounce of humor. "That's what I've been wanting to say to you."
When she falls silent again, her face clouding with emotion, he moves past her, touching her shoulder.
"Come sit down with me," he says, "before the coffee I brought gets cold."
She nods, sitting beside him on the couch as he reaches for a PADD.
"Tom?" she murmurs, sometime later.
"Hmm?"
"Don't think I didn't see the tomato soup stain on the sofa. . . You get no prizes for stealth in simply flipping over the cushion."
She smirks darkly when he mutters a curse instead of an apology.