Chapter 7: Of things near and distant
Sitting in his quarters, Tom finds his examination of the motionless starscape broken by Amelia's impatient movements.
He tries to call the dog to him, patting the cushion beside him as he issues the command for her to sit. But she only looks at him with pleading eyes before stubbornly resuming her pace in front of the door that has been programmed not to respond to her movements.
Tom lets out a sigh as he watches the creature. He knows that he should take her where she wants to go, the chore having been forestalled all evening. It being one that would require far more energy than the three-deck lift ride to Kathryn's quarters.
Hearing Amelia let out another low whine, he tries to summon the will to rise from the couch. And failing yet again to do so, Tom casts his gaze once more upon the system he fears some of them will never really leave behind.
. . . . .
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Kathryn asks him hesitantly. The man beside her now looming protectively closer as Tom takes a step toward her.
"I'm a friend," he replies vaguely. Dismissing the urge to introduce himself and, with it, the irrational conviction that the mere mention of his name should magically beckon forth her blocked memories.
"We've never met," she says flatly, and crossing her arms in accusation.
"We have," he counters softly. "In fact, you know me well."
At this, Kathryn's companion steps forward. His tall form- even taller than Tom's- now looming between them. Not angry. Not yet. But defensive; vigilant.
"Perhaps you've confused her for someone else," the man offers, his voice cordial but his expression bearing a clear warning. "As she just said- quietly clear- she doesn't know you, Mister. . . ?"
"Paris," he offers immediately, and searching Kathryn's face for any trace of recognition. "Tom Paris."
The older man looks behind him to Kathryn, who in turn offers only a bewildered shrug.
"As I said," the man continues, softening a bit as he seems to sense Tom's subtle deflation, "perhaps you're thinking of someone else."
His mind filling with rapidly altering strategies, Paris nods slowly as he begins to turn away. But before he does so, he stops, remembering the item under his arm.
"Maybe," Tom says, affecting a smile, though conflicted. "Or maybe not." He pulls the book from under his arm, handing it to the companion-turned-security detail with a nod in Kathryn's direction.
The man takes it, and turning it around a few times, hands it to Kathryn with an expression Tom doesn't see.
"I gave it to a friend once," Tom explains, "when I was worried she might get lonely. I hope you'll find in its pages the companionship she once did."
He watches as Kathryn looks at the book with masked interest, but nothing else. And feeling a pain crystallize in his abdomen, Tom turns from the twosome, stealing his way down the Quarren streets to contact Voyager.
. . . . .
There is a stack of PADDS on her coffee table. All requiring her immediate attention. But unlike any other night on board her ship, Kathryn doesn't even go through the motions of pretending to work.
This apparent disinterest frightens her a little. And staring out at the stagnant expanse of space beyond her window, she hopes this detachment will fade soon, shifting back to her normal determination. The thought occurring to her that the word 'determination' is just a euphemism for 'tunnel vision' (or else worse), her breath catches in her chest and she becomes dimly aware of the dull ache forming in her neck.
Trying to compose herself, she considers taking a sonic shower. Or maybe even a bath. Without Amelia in her quarters, she could actually get through the latter without interruption for a change.
Casting a lingering look at a collection of the dog's toys on the other side of the room, she gives herself a mental reprimand for having put off fetching Amelia earlier. Seeing her dog's current caretaker isn't going to get any easier tomorrow, and now that it's well past 23:00, all her procrastination has accomplished is a night of sleeping in a bed devoid of even a pet's warmth.
Rubbing her face, she sits up on the couch. And reaching for one of the reports she doesn't want to read, she freezes upon seeing the volume of Joyce at the far end of the coffee table. After a moment's pause, she picks up the book delicately.
She doesn't open it, allowing herself to feel the familiar weight of it in her hands; runs a finger along a crease in the book's spine before peering intently at the bound pages, their edges worn down or dog-eared from years of use.
After minutes of contemplating it, she finally cracks the cover, allowing herself to skim the first page of a story she's read a hundred times.
. . . . .
Standing in the living room, she turns the book over in her hands. Books are a rare commodity here, and if nothing else, she'll get a bit of leisure reading out of her strange experience.
"You alright?" Jaffen murmurs softly, nuzzling her ear.
"Fine," she replies. Realizing her distracted tone isn't really all that convincing.
"Are you thinking about that strange man from this afternoon?" he asks, his arms settling around her waist.
Feeling his chin settle against her cheek, she closes her eyes and gives a shallow nod.
"Crazy or not, he was handsome," Jaffen teases, likely trying to lighten her contemplative mood. "Maybe I should worry about this youthful, book-bearing stranger?"
Something about the remark stirs a phantom of something in her, though for the life of her she doesn't know what. And against her tightly closed eyelids, the image of the man from earlier- his blue eyes filled with such sadness- flares up before her.
Know him? Surely not. But embraced by the arms of a man she loves, she can't help but think it impossible that she (or any woman) would ever forget those blue eyes after seeing them even once.
It's hours later that she wakes with a start in bed. She doesn't move for fear of waking the man whose limbs are tangled up with her own, but lying against her lover's chest, her mind tries to piece together the images and sounds of the dream that woke her.
A lab- perhaps a medical facility of some kind? The image of blue blanket with something moving under it. The glimpse of red fur and something else- a wagging tail. And then voices. Her own voice. Agitated. Torn.
"Tom, this isn't a position I revel being in. We can't exactly allow every crewmember to have a pet."
"You aren't 'every crewmember'. You're the Captain. And besides, I may have done some unofficial surveys of the crew on the matter. You know, as per my duties as XO."
The clarity of the second voice- the voice of the man from that afternoon- surprises her. So, too, does the accompanying image of his mirth-filled eyes. A kind of lightness that seems contagious, even familiar, radiating from their blue depths.
"Perhaps I should let the two of you discuss this."
The disembodied voice is male; dry to the point of courting haughtiness. Her own frustration apparently compounded by this third-party's implied commentary on the exchange.
"Tom. . ."
"Come on, Kath. Tell me you don't love those little puppy paws and tail. Or those pleading eyes."
"Pleading eyes aren't something I consider a strength. Annoying, maybe. Like when they belong to a certain First Officer."
Sinking heavier into Jaffen's now familiar warmth, the sound of her own voice- the sarcastic retort so obviously for show- rings in her ears.
Sighing, she pushes the dream away. Reminding herself that the fair-haired man she met earlier was mistaken. Or simply crazed.
. . . . .
The path that Tom takes to make his way to deck three could only be more circuitous if he took the Jeffries tubes instead of the turbolift.
He allows Amelia to stop wherever she wants, sniffing a bulkhead or piece of deck plate she has sniffed dozens of times before. The only time he prods her a long is when she seems a bit too interested in one particular bulkhead, but she moves along quickly when he fixes her with a steady glare that accompanies a clipped command.
They are twenty minutes into their journey, and only halfway to Kathryn's quarters, when they pass by Mike Ayala in a back section of corridor.
It will never cease to amaze Tom how quickly the serious security officer reverts to boyish joy when encountering the Captain's dog. And though Ayala is hardly the only member of the crew to have this particular habit, Tom still smiles when he sees Mike immediately stop and crouch down to play with the animal.
"How are you?" Mike asks, with comical earnestness, as he peers into the dog's brown eyes and rubs her ears.
"Oh, I'm fine," Tom breezes, pretending (per a long-standing habit) that Mike's address was to him.
The security officer chuckles, casting his gaze upward to Amelia's present chaperone. It's only because of the training of his position that the smile doesn't slide from the officer's face at seeing the XO's drawn features.
The reclamation of the ship and rescue of crew on Quarra has taken it out of fairer man, once more thrusting him into the chair normally occupied by Janeway. And though Mike has witnessed the steady arc of the naturalness with which Tom claims that chair in times of necessity and crisis, he can't help but think that this last time there was a sense of unease that clung to Tom. And of a kind altogether different from that of Paris' younger days as XO.
Setting aside the memory of Tom's haunted expression only a few days earlier on the bridge, he shoots the Lieutenant Commander a full smile that produces dimples in his bronze cheeks.
"Out for a stroll?" Mike asks, continuing their easy banter.
"Returning Amelia here to the Captain's care," Tom says, adopting the same light tone.
"Ah," Mike comments, rising from to his feet. "Well, I'll let you get to it then. I need to turn in anyway. . . I've decided I want to practice my next recording for home. Think my last one for my family didn't really say everything I wanted to. "
At this, Tom stops short. He's been so distracted with the month's events he'd entirely forgotten the next round of transmissions to the Alpha Quadrant was coming up. He spares the man across from him an appraising look, knowing how much the contact with home has meant to him. And how disappointed he'd been when his young sons seemed uncomfortable with the man they know as their father, but whom they haven't seen in seven years.
"How's it going?"
Tom poses the question carefully. Mike is a straight shooter, but also deeply private. He only reveals what he wants to reveal- and when he wants to reveal it.
It's a trait, Tom realizes, that most of the senior officers share.
"Difficult," Mike allows, casting his eyes one more to Amelia's expectant face. "I've wanted so much to get home to them that I didn't think about all the things they wouldn't remember. My oldest was only six when I left. . ."
Taking note of the officer's muted sadness, Tom fills with a new sympathy. And a long-familiar sense of responsibility.
"We're going to get home, Mike. . . It won't be easy when we do. For any of us. But I have faith that the people we left behind haven't forgotten how much we love them."
Tom voices the assurance sincerely and confidently. And after a few beats, Mike reaches down to pet Amelia's head once more, favoring Paris with a cryptic smile as he does so.
"You're right," Mike nods. "I know you are. . . After all, you never really forget anyone you've loved."
Turning away from the XO with the same mysterious smile in place, Mike nods his goodbye to dog and walker. Tom's eyes- at once questioning and contemplative- trailing the retreating the man down the corridor.
. . . . .
Kathryn isn't even close to sleeping when her door chimes. Still, she's in her bed, staring at the far wall of her bedroom and willing her mind to rest.
She's so relieved by the interruption that she doesn't hesitate to throw the blankets off and pull on a robe, calling for lights as she makes her way to the living area.
When the door parts and Tom sees her clad in her nightgown, he's somehow surprised by the idea that she was in bed.
"I'm sorry," he immediately offers. "I didn't think of the time. . . I just thought you might be missing-"
His stilted explanation is interrupted by Amelia bounding forward to Kathryn, who greets the dog with a wide smile, even when her pet breaks her training, leaning on her owner with her front paws.
"Hi, baby," Kathryn says. Surprised by the strength of the emotions welling within her.
She blinks away the tears that have formed in her eyes. Trying as well to push away the thoughts of other homecomings with another bounding Irish Setter. The thought of the last homecoming that never happened; another patiently waiting man, but one to whom she never returned.
"Thanks for bringing her by," she manages, when she's recovered enough to be confident her voice won't break.
"No problem," Tom says with a nervous smile, and backing slightly toward the door. "I should go. Let you rest now. . ."
She doesn't dismiss the comment or else invite him to stay. But still, he finds himself not continuing his journey to the door. Rooted to the deck by her being so close to him again. Pulled to her, with unconscious concern, by the waves of sadness and confusion she's throwing off.
She feels a mix of relief and unease at his continued presence. And as Amelia finally calms down, Kathryn straightens up, smoothing her robe as a distraction from the silence that stretches in the room.
"Interested in a cup of coffee?" she asks. Her tone casual, almost natural.
"Coffee at this hour?" he says, arching an eyebrow. "Then you'll never sleep."
She opens her mouth to say that she was already unable to sleep, but closes it when she decides the admission more revealing than she would like. So instead she stands awkwardly before him, continuing to fuss with her already straightened robe.
"I should go," he says again, this time deflated if resolute as he turns toward the door.
She can't explain it, but something in her breaks at the sight. Perhaps because it reminds her of him looking at her with the same deflation days earlier, and with a similar sadness filling his eyes.
"Tom," she says reflexively. "Wait. Stay. . . Please."
When he turns around again, his face is completely open. And the unmasked pain there- the idea that somehow, even through mind control, she could forget this man- pries loose her own façade. They stand staring at each other; this breathing, growing thing that has long pulsed between finally being laid bare, however wordlessly.
If it were a story or holodeck fantasy, they would rush into each other's arms, declaring love amidst a display of passion. But the limits of real life mean the duties and barriers that have governed them don't suddenly fall away here, remaining firmly place, even if with acute pain now.
Her eyes filled with tears she can no longer hide, Kathryn stretches out her hand and clears her throat.
"Sit with me for a while?"
The fear on her face when she asks it- her open worry that he might reject her company- is enough to rob him of breath. He takes her hand quickly and firmly, squeezing it as she leads him to the sitting area.
Once they settle on the couch, Amelia immediately stretching across both of them, Kathryn inclines her head until it barely rests on Tom's shoulder.
"It might not have been home, but it felt like it," she confesses eventually. "I don't know that I would have ever left if you hadn't come for me."
He doesn't ask her if she wishes he hadn't come, spiriting her back to her life of duty and sacrifice. He won't force her to lie to him, denying her desire to shed the burdens of command and the accompanying loneliness.
Instead he rests his head against hers, covering her hand with his own. Her loss of a love, one that was real if built on illusions, juxtaposed by their own painfully concrete self-denial.
Sucking in a deep breath, Tom wishes, if only with a small part of himself, that he could have allowed her to go on living that quiet, contented life on Quarra. Thinks it cruel, and perhaps even a bit selfish, that he ripped her from it.
"Tell me about him," he says, resting his cheek against her temple when she shifts her head.
She remains silent. Attempting to strain the depth of sincerity in his offer, Tom surmises. Likely also trying to gauge her own strength and its ability to withstand such a confession.
"I think he's better left there. . ." she whispers, a small lilt to her voice.
Tom's mouth tugs upward. A cryptic smile she can feel against her own face, though she can't begin to guess what it means.
"You never forget someone you've loved," he says, his voice surprisingly even to his own ears. "Tell me about him. . ."
Their backs to the stars that have slowly begun to move behind them, Kathryn squeezes Tom's hand tighter as she begins to speak.