If what she'd felt in the hospital after the Icarus was like the first flash of a firefly, then what she feels now is a wildfire, like it could decimate her if she doesn't contain it. So that's what she does: she bottles it up once more, locks it down tight. All neatly compartmentalized, or so she thinks, right up until she hears that Tom might be dead.
Word of the accident comes barely a month after the Amargosa gets underway. It's just a news bulletin, the bare minimum of information sandwiched between half a dozen other incidents: Caldik Prime. Shuttle accident; three dead.
She just makes it back to her quarters in time. The shaking comes in waves and once it starts in earnest she cannot hold herself still, or upright. There is a wall behind her so she backs herself into it and slides down to the floor, her breath coming in panicked gasps. She leans forward until her head rests on her knees, and with blinding, unwanted clarity, she squeezes her eyes shut and thinks, oh my god, I'm in love with him.
Her fingers are ice as she taps out a hasty message to Owen, and then her mother, just in case he's… just in case Owen isn't available to respond right away. And then she steels herself, and sends another to Tom that reads only, Tell me you're all right.
Her mother responds first, to say that Julia isn't answering her messages.
When Owen writes back, the reason for this becomes clear.
Tom is alive, he explains. The accident was his fault.
"God damnit, Tom," she snaps in her next transmission. "Will you please just let me know you're okay?"
She wants to turn this ship around and head straight back to the Alpha Quadrant. If she takes an emergency leave of absence maybe they'll give her a shuttle—it's not too late, they're not so far out that she couldn't make it. She could rendezvous with another ship. She could just resign.
She does none of these things, of course.
For two weeks, Tom doesn't reply. She throws herself into her duties, pulling double, triple shifts to minimize the time spent alone with her own thoughts. She receives Mark's weekly transmission but does not watch it. Owen does not update her again.
And then, finally, a message arrives.
Tom looks… awful. His eyes are bloodshot, face shadowed with stubble. She's not sure she has ever seen him look so sad.
"So. I guess my dad was right," he says, without preamble. "I don't know what you've heard out there, but it's all true, probably. I fucked up, Katie. I fucked up a lot of things." He pauses, drags his hand roughly through his hair. "So I'm out. You probably haven't heard that part yet. Starfleet's sending me on my merry way, and I'm—well, I'm thinking I might disappear for a while, and I didn't want you to worry."
He stops again. She aches to reach through the screen and make this better, somehow. After a long moment, he looks up, grimacing. "I'm so sorry, Kathryn. You deserve… Well. I'm just sorry."
The screen goes black.
"Wait," she gasps, as though he can hear. There is a finality to his words that sends a pulse of dread through her, and immediately she records her reply—Tom, we can figure this out—
But her message is never received.
She doesn't hear from him, or of him, for almost three years.
.
After the Amargosa, there is the Billings. She is promoted, and then promoted again, for all that it matters. Or maybe it's all that matters.
Periodically, she returns home.
"Marry me," Mark says, popping his head around the kitchen door while she cleans up. She forces a laugh. Kisses his cheek and finds a reason to be in San Francisco the next day, where she plays pool alone at a place on Mission street and the felt is blue, not green.
Owen insists, every time she asks, that he does not know Tom's whereabouts. After a while, she believes him.
"Marry me," Mark says in bed one night, so she shifts in his arms, her back to him, and hums noncommittally.
She believes Owen, but she considers asking Tuvok to try to follow Tom's trail—if there even is one, anymore—because she's not sure she believes that he has tried to locate his son.
But this would feel too much like a betrayal. Tuvok doesn't know Tom. And Tom does not want to be found.
"Marry me," Mark says, actually pulling a ring out of his pocket. There's an air to him this time that's more serious, and so harder to wave away. She should say no, of course. She should've said no a long time ago. She should convince him that he deserves better. She should warn him that she will leave him over, and over, and over, until he finally stops letting her.
But she remembers walking into that storm all those years ago, half-hoping for it to envelop her, and she thinks: Mark is a blizzard. Maybe he will blot out all the hopeless things she can't let herself want.
She considers the offering in his hand. It's a simple, gold band. Unembellished. Something that she can wear on duty, if she chooses. It's considerate of him, which is no surprise; Mark is nothing if not thoughtful.
Mark is a good man.
"Okay," she says, at last.
Very little changes. They don't move in together, though he starts looking for places with 'room to grow'. He wants to plan the wedding sooner rather than later, not knowing when her next assignment will come. He suggests venues, music, things she ought to have opinions about—doesn't she always have an opinion? She takes each PADD from him and promises, "Soon."
She feels paralyzed, in a way that she knows in her bones she should not. Because she does want to be happy. More than anything, she wants this to be enough. But her mother offers to let her wear her own wedding gown, the one she'd married Kathryn's father in, and Kathryn can't quite hide her horror as she blurts something about her dress uniform being sufficient. And when Starfleet offers her the Voyager mission, it feels like an escape hatch. She takes it.
"It's just three weeks," she tells Mark. "We can have the ceremony when I get home."
"Sounds perfect," Mark smiles. Patient as ever.
Three weeks, Kathryn thinks, a timer ticking down. She decides on the spot that if she's still feeling this sinking dread after three weeks away from it all… she'll call it off. She'll find a way to make this right.
The next day, while Mark tries to extract from her a tentative guest list, her mother comms.
"It's Tom," she says, her face hard to read through the screen. "I've just heard from Julia. He's in prison."
.
"How long have you known?" Her voice is low and dangerous and plainly insubordinate, and she does not care. Owen Paris stands before her, unmoved by her incandescent rage.
"Sir, I'm sorry, she just barged in—"
"It's fine," Owen says, waving his aide away. "Close the door. Sit down, Kathryn."
She doesn't. She places her hands on her hips, jaw set. Owen sighs.
"I didn't want you to be distracted," he says.
"Distracted?" she breathes, appalled. Owen hadn't even had the decency to warn her, prepare her for a world in which Tom would be convicted of treason. There would have been a trial. He would've had to actively keep it quiet for her to not hear about a trial. Because, what? He wanted her focused on her career?
Her hands shake.
"I want to see him," she says.
"Tom is not currently receiving visitors," Owen answers steadily.
"He's not, or you're not letting him?"
They stare at each other for a beat.
"Go home, Kathryn," he says. "Spend time with your fiancé. I understand you're shipping out again soon; we can talk more when you get back."
She does not go home. She turns on her heel and marches out of Owen's office without another word. She checks the time and curses when she realizes she's going to be late for Patterson. But Patterson will understand, Patterson…
Patterson loathes Owen Paris…
A plan, fully-formed, seems to beam itself into her mind, and she stops dead, sucking in a breath. She'll only have one shot at this, yet if anyone would be willing to help her...
It takes most of the trip out to Utopia Planitia for her heart to stop racing, but by the time Patterson orders her to give him a hug, she has firmly stored any guilt over going behind Owen's back. In the ready room—her ready room—she bolsters herself with a strong cup of coffee and then, as the conversation finally turns to the Maquis, she risks it.
"Catching up with Chakotay in the Badlands is going to be tricky, even in a ship as quick and smart as Voyager," she says, aiming for a casual tone. "I've… heard about a pilot who might make the job easier."
"Oh?" Patterson asks. "Who's that?"
"Tom Paris."
Patterson looks truly taken aback. "Admiral Paris' son? Correct me if I'm wrong, but he's serving a sentence for—"
"He's made some mistakes," Kathryn cuts in quickly. "But everyone deserves a second chance."
She forces herself to stand still while he eyes her curiously. He'd always known her best of all her professors at the Academy, aside from Owen, which was a point of contention between them—science versus command. He'd taken the time to talk with her, treated her as an equal. There's no way she's fooling him now. The question is, has she given him enough plausible deniability.
After another moment, he smiles. "I'll look into it," he promises.
.
It comes down to the wire. Patterson contacts her with only a week before she's due to head into the Badlands, and when his face appears on her screen he look so apologetic, she thinks he must have failed.
"An advisory position was the best I could do," he tells her. "I know you wanted him at the helm."
She can't help it: she laughs out loud with relief. "I'll take it. Thank you, sir."
"I let them know you'll be coming. But I thought we'd, ah, wait to give Owen the news until after this mission is over. That sound about right to you?"
If he were standing in front of her, she might throw her arms around him. "Agreed, sir. No need to bother him with this."
"Good luck, Katie," he says, his eyes twinkling. "With whatever you're doing here."
She pushes back from her desk and snatches her uniform jacket off of her sofa, tugging it on. Without leaving a note for Mark, she makes her way to the transport station, and relays to the other side of the world.
At the penal settlement, a guard hands her a PADD with a map on it. "Paris is assigned here today," he says, pointing to a work area. "It's a bit of a walk."
Which is fine with her, frankly, because now that she's here doubt begins to creep in, and nervousness. The years have not dulled the pull Tom has on her, the connection they share, only… only, there is every chance that she is alone in this feeling, after all this time. He disappeared on her, after all. Intentionally, methodically. She's not even giving him the chance to refuse her visit; does he actually want, now, to be found? And by her, here, of all places?
She spots Tom long before he sees her. He's crouched behind a disabled shuttle, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sweating as he works under the punishing sun. Her breath catches but she keeps moving, until she's standing just above him.
She braces for impact.
"Tom Paris?" she calls.
Tom startles. His eyes track upward from her boots to—she realizes too late—her engagement ring, and then her face. She clasps her hands behind her back and plows ahead before he can interject.
"Kathryn Janeway. I served with your father on the Al-Batani." She waits for this to land, her use of the official name for the covert Icarus mission. Tom frowns, but holds his questions. One hurdle crossed. "I wonder if we could go somewhere and talk."
"About what?" he asks, cautiously.
"About a job we'd like you to do for us," she says, and in her head she chants, don't be an idiot, don't be an idiot. It has to be this way—she must seem totally impartial—or else they'll never give him to her, not even as an observer. Just the fact that she's taken on an assignment that aligns so specifically with his experience could be cause for suspicion to anyone paying attention, never mind the sheer dumb luck of it all. And she is certain, eyes darting to the device clamped around Tom's ankle, that someone, somewhere, is monitoring them.
But Tom's reaction is as unsubtle as it is infuriating.
"I'm already doing a job… for the Federation," he drawls.
She purses her lips.
"I've been told the Rehab Commission is very pleased with your work. They've given me their approval to discuss this matter with you."
She lets it hang between them, the unspoken implications. And this is what it all comes down to, really: whether they, Tom and Kathryn, are still them. Whether it's still enough to say to him, do this for me; let me do this for you.
"Well then," Tom says, never taking his eyes off hers. "I guess I'm yours."
She feels something kick, hard, against her ribs.
It's difficult to leave him again, after that. After she explains the mission and he accepts it all, without question, which might be the hardest part of this whole gambit. She badly wants him to understand. She'd considered pressing a note into the palm of his hand on her way out, but if it had been found on her at the gate, or worse, in his possession after she's gone… No. There's too much on the line now, too much to lose if she plays this wrong.
There is a part of her that worries he'll disappear again if she lets him out of her sight. But it will take time to discharge him, and she has preparations to make aboard Voyager, and anyway it's not like she can stay here, at the settlement. She tells him that her conn officer will pick him up—a nod to his expertise she's not sure he understands. An apology.
"Ka—Captain…." He parts his hands, like he doesn't quite know what to say.
She understands. "I'll see you in four days," she says, and with effort does not touch him as she turns to go.
Three weeks, she thinks again, by now a mantra. Three weeks and then Tom will be free, and she can tell him everything.
And Mark, as well.
Walking slowly back to the front gates, she slips her engagement ring off of her finger, holds it between her thumb and forefinger. Slim and light and unobtrusive, it truly is perfect for a career Starfleet officer. She imagines that someone else, someone not her, could even forget that it's there.
She knows that she will not wear it on duty.
Carefully, she pockets it. Runs her thumb across the now-empty space on her ring finger.
Three weeks.
And then maybe… maybe she and Tom can begin again.
A/N: In that high place in the darkness the two oddly sensitive human atoms held each other tightly and waited. In the mind of each was the same thought. "I have come to this lonely place and here is this other," was the substance of the thing felt.
― Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio
(Okay, okay, I know I said this can stand alone - and it can! Or, you can go back and read Play It Again, Sam to find out what happens next, in lieu of canon.)