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Tom Paris twirls the padd in his hands. He’s been staring at the blinking cursor for half an hour. His room was too quiet, so he put on some music. Then it was too dark, so he increased the light levels. But then the music had felt too loud. The real problem, he realizes, is that his quarters aren’t too much of anything - he’s caught in his own microcosm, like he’s already left Voyager.
One more box to check, and then he can try to catch a few hours of sleep. He needs to focus. He puts the padd in his pocket and steps into the hallway.
Where he really wants to go, more than anything, is the bridge. Take a last look around. Maybe give the helm a pat for good luck. That’s off the table, though, so he heads aft.
It’s a quiet night, the deck practically deserted, so he risks it; he runs his hand absently along the side of the corridor, tracing the smooth edges of the display panels, feeling the steady hum of Voyager as it pushes space under and around it. He could play it off as unconscious, if he had to. He just wants to feel connected to the ship tonight, for one more time.
For weeks, he’s been systematically pushing away the things that are most important to him, the things that hold him together - his friends, his job, even the ship itself - and the awful part was how easy it had been. The Loner Paris character, who didn’t care about anyone but himself, had come out of mothballs, and he’d found the role still fit him. But the worst part was the way that everyone else had bought it, too.
He’s reached the port nacelle. He climbs up to the warp coils and settles himself against the wall. He can feel their pulse against his back, and he makes that ebb and flow a part of himself. He starts typing.
Harry-
A large part of him had wanted to bypass this letter entirely, to say he ran out of time or he’d never been good at expressing himself in writing, to ask the captain to come up with something on his behalf. But leaving no explanation would be worse than all the lies he’ll have to tell tomorrow. He has to get this right.
The captain said she’d give this to you if I don’t have the chance to explain myself in person.
Thing is, looking back on it, he’s not sure Loner Paris ever really existed. First growing up, then in Starfleet, and then with the Maquis, he’d been surrounded by true believers, people who had found a cause to live and kill and die for, and it had been easier to claim he was looking out for number one than admit that he felt he was missing something, that all he wanted was that blind devotion they took for granted.
First off, sorry we had to keep you in the dark about all this, but I think we both know you’re a terrible liar.
He’d thought he’d found it for a semester or two at the Academy, when he’d had his squadron. He’d thought that if he couldn’t wrap his head around loyalty to a concept, at least he had figured out loyalty to people. He trained beside them, studied beside them, flew beside them; he knew he’d die for any of them and suspected they would for him, and so lying for them had been such a little thing. He’d been a selfish asshole; he’s under no illusions about that now, but at the time he’d been so certain: His values were objectively correct, his consequentialism unimpeachable, his unmitigated loyalty worthy of the same in return. And he’d been blindsided when it all blew up in his face.
Also, sorry for being a total dick the past few weeks.
No, that’s not enough. Too vague, too insincere, practically anonymous. He drums his fingers against the padd, feels the rise and fall of the warp field against his back.
He'd learned at the Academy not to rely on instinct when it came to relationships. He’d felt everything too strongly, developed blind spots that grew to cover his entire field of view. So he’d made one or two feeble attempts to push Harry away. It wasn’t like they’d ever see each other again after they found the Val Jean. But then he’d been looking at spending the next seventy years on Voyager, and he’d figured neither of them had much left to lose.
Honestly, keeping you at arm’s length was the hardest part of the whole thing. I was denying myself something that makes me happy. And I knew you were hurt and confused, and there was no way to tell you that you didn’t have to be. I’m sorry.
Better. It dawns on him then that if Harry does read this, then the past month will have been how they end. A month spent sulking and bitching about Chakotay and standing Harry up. And this is why Tom had been right about keeping his distance, when he’d first made the plan with the captain; he’s losing objectivity, forgetting that what he has to do now, he does for Voyager and not for Harry.
I need you to look after yourself. I’m worried about what trouble you’ll get into if I’m not around to watch your back. But I want you to understand why I took this mission.
Because after a lifetime spent drifting, he’s found his cause. Those first few days in the Delta Quadrant, everyone else had been scared, distrusting, grieving the loss of the lives they’d built for themselves, but Tom had felt himself, unexpectedly, on solid ground. His job was to get Voyager home. For a while that had meant flying, the thing he does best, but now Voyager needs to get out of Kazon space, and that requires something very different from him.
I had to do this, Harry. Voyager can find itself another pilot. I had to be sure there’d be something left to fly.
Tom’s usually confident in his own abilities - some have used the word “arrogant” - but he has to admit that he’s not sure how this is going to end. There are a lot of moving parts to this plan, a lot of improvisation, and Seska has a sadistic streak a mile wide. But Tom would gladly give his life for Voyager, even just to move the ship marginally closer to home, if only as an affirmation of the virtue of the quest itself. To prove that he gets it now, that he’s found something worth dying for.
I may be the only person on this ship who feels this way, but the past two years have been the best of my life. And you’re a big part of that, but it’s not just you. It’s Voyager. I think I’m finally the person I’m supposed to be. Obviously I hope you never read this, but if you do, I hope you can remember me as that person. Seems like you never had trouble seeing him, even when I couldn’t.
You’re the best friend I ever had. Get home safe, okay?
He hesitates on the next word for a second, then two. One last chance to tear down the walls he’s built around himself, the Loner Paris holding pattern he’s let himself fall back into. To say what he means, show who he is, when it’s all long past mattering anyway.
Love,
Tom