Work Text:
I.
“Is there room in this bottle for more than one person?”
Tom’s head flies up at the familiar, gravelly voice, and his eyes narrow. Surely, she must be joking.
It’s been eight days now, and he still wants nothing to do with her. Probably even less so now than when he was still sitting in the brig, desperate for company – any company. And no one could blame him, he’s convinced, after that stunt she pulled with those telepaths and that smarmy inspector type …
It’s not that he objects to saving the lives of a bunch of decent, peaceful people and their children from those fucking quasi- Cardassian Nazis. Hell, no -- quite the contrary. He would have done exactly the same thing, with bells on, and under normal circumstances he’d have been the first to stand up and applaud her.
Except for … for the sheer hypocrisy of it, against the backdrop of Monea. That he can’t forgive.
And it’s that, more than anything, that has led him to ask Sandrine for a bottle of the real stuff, the Saurian brandy she keeps hidden just for him behind the bar. (Being the programmer has its privileges.)
He knows that B’Elanna will be late; keeping the transporters going the way they’d had to was an enormous drain on the ship’s systems and she’s just commed him that the Captain has found another problem for her to deal with. But he doesn’t want to be in his quarters, not by himself. There’s been too much of that in his life lately, thank you very much, and here in Sandrine’s there’s always someone to talk to. Even if it’s only a hologram.
But the last thing he expects as he sits there waiting, washing down his anger with stuff that burns almost as much as his thoughts, is the object of his ire turning up out of the blue and – at least so it would appear – asking him to share his drink, this particular drink.
His mind flashes back to how things have been going, this first week back, and whether he needs to say yes.
Or can he afford to say no? Let’s see.
All things considered, things didn’t go too badly, at least not as seen from the standpoint of a repeat offender and apparently chronic Starfleet discipline case. Janeway herself made a point of ignoring him of course, and he her, except for a few dutiful “yes, Captains” at appropriate moments, to show proper professional respect and all that. After all, he does want that fucking pip back, and preferably before his father gets the letter.
But being dutiful doesn’t mean he has to resume his role as her wise-cracking, stress-relieving personal comic relief. She may be pissed off and disappointed, but at least he’s never waved the rulebook at other people minutes before ripping out the inconvenient pages. So, yeah. Pissed off and disappointed cuts both ways, and she has it coming, his ostentatious indifference.
Harry, of course, had given him a huge toothy grin and very audible “great to have you back, Tom.” His best friend is finally getting a spine, that’s for sure. Good to see, that. Of course, he may also just be happy that there’s another ensign on the bridge now.
Tuvok had been his usual self of course, taciturn and professional. But now that he thinks about it, his imagination fuelled by the glass of brandy he’s already outside of, the good Lt Commander’s greeting when he sprang him from the brig that morning (“Rise and shine, Ensign!”) was rather un-Vulcan. Almost Parisian, in its colloquial cheeriness. Maybe Tuvok has been trying to send him a message?
And Chakotay? The XO has been going out of his way to make him feel like he belongs back on the bridge, lauding his flying, even clapping him on the shoulder a couple of times – is he, too, trying to make a point? In his case to the Captain, who for the first time since, like, ever hasn’t touched him at least once per shift while he was sitting at the helm? Hasn’t even come close enough to peer over his shoulder, when he was maneuvering them through the real and virtual landmines of Devore space?
At lunch a couple days later, Harry had confirmed – and this time he had whispered because the Captain was sitting only a couple of tables over in the mess hall -- that yeah, everybody’d been unhappy with his sentence, especially after Culhane almost crashed the ship into some alien vessel during a botched evasive maneuver Tom could have executed in his sleep. But even more so because it had seemed so … so … Harry had glanced nervously at the table where Chakotay and Janeway were pretending to enjoy Neelix’ latest experiment in colour-texture-taste fusion, clearly fishing futilely for the right word.
“Arbitrary?” Tom had supplied helpfully, not keeping his voice down at all, and enjoying the opportunity to uncork a stream of adjectives he’d rehearsed a few times over the last couple of days. Okay, more than a few times.
“Disproportionate? Unjustified? Medieval? Unprecedented? Hypocritical? Dare I say it … personal?”
“Tom!” Harry was scandalized, of course, but Tom had only shrugged even as Janeway’s head had flown up and he'd found himself considering whether ‘arbitrary’ and ‘personal’ wasn’t actually mutually exclusive, now that he’d said it out loud.
Janeway had lashed him with a grey-eyed glare that mere weeks ago would have turned him to ash, the volcanic version of the absolute zero one she’d given him when she’d ripped off that pip. But he knows who he is now, and so he had let it bounce right off, with a reciprocal hard stare. Duranium was what he’d been aiming for, seemingly successfully so. She looked away first.
And yet, here she is, in Sandrine’s, on his turf, those same grey eyes focused on the fluted bottle as if contained liquid latinum. He supposes it is probably a more attractive sight to her than he is, at this point.
Tom knows, of course, that they can’t go on like this forever. The ship is far too small, and space far too big. He has been figuring that he’d wait until some crisis or other, though -- something that’ll frazzle her sufficiently that a good wisecrack might break through and tap into her sense of humour, and then she’d chortle and then he’d smile, and they’d be able to at least pretend that things were fine. And eventually they would be.
Maybe in another, oh, thirty days or so he might consider looking for an opportunity like that to hoist the white hanky.
But not yet. No, not yet.
Not when she’s just added to his sentence by making it all so … so completely irrelevant and meaningless. Yet here she is, weeks early even by the usually pretty flexible Tom Paris grudge-o-meter.
And she wants to drink with him. Wants to drink. With him.
Wants it badly enough to ask for it in a funny way, one that he might have used himself. Probably has, once or twice. Is there room for more than one person in this bottle?
The words rattle around in his skull, practically looped, and he realizes she’s been waiting for his answer long enough that he’s being rude. Now a very angry Tom may be snide, calculating, and vindictive. But he doesn’t like being rude, his mother made sure of that. So he rarely is. Not unless he wants to be, that is, when it’s part of the plan. But right now he’s too tired to plot, and somehow being rude to the Captain goes against the grain no matter how much he feels like throttling her right now.
Fine.
He turns to Janeway, his voice polite but deliberately drained of his usual warmth.
“Depends on how well you can swim, Captain. This isn’t synthahol.”
“I didn’t think it was,” she says, pulling up a chair.
II.
“You first.”
“First what?”
She swishes the liquid around in her mouth as if she’s trying to clean her teeth or kill some Cardassian germs with it, scrunches up her nose and swallows.
“Say what you need to say to me. Let’s get this over with, Tom. This,” she points to the bottle, “should help. Both of us. So go for it. Permission to speak freely.”
He stares at her, momentarily not knowing what to say. After four-and-a-half years, dozens of battles, multiple alien possessions, scores of explorations both necessary and frivolous, countless arguments that leave the rest of the bridge crew scratching their heads, more no-holds-barred billiard games than he can shake a cue at, a suicide mission she had no right to expect him to come back from, and a breathless encounter neither of them should probably ever think about again, certainly not now – after all that, she can still render him speechless. And that really pisses him off.
So she wants to talk, is practically ordering him to spill his guts. Now?
He masks the momentary paralysis to his brain’s language centre by taking a swig of his brandy, unconsciously mimicking her by holding it in his mouth for some time before swallowing. His ability to articulate his thoughts returns as the liquid burns a trail down his esophagus.
So she wants him to say something she thinks he needs to say? Fine.
“I’m glad you helped those telepaths, Captain. Really glad, as a matter of fact. That was a brave thing to do. The right thing, too.”
Of course his statement is dripping with irony and not a little bitterness. This isn’t the time to be subtle, he’s decided. Even assuming he could be, at this stage. He leans back in his chair, cradling his glass, waiting for what she’ll do with it; he knows that she knows that he’s done for now, and that it’s her turn.
Another swig; hers.
“You have it within you to be one of the finest Starfleet officers of your generation. You just have to decide that this is what you want.”
Not what he expected, although he was ready for a spit-polished, elaborate non sequitur of some kind. And so he’s neither disconcerted nor speechless. He’s pissed off though, in a totally new way, and unable to hide it. Unable to stay on the high road that he thought he would have to take to throw her off her own high horse. And this is only her first volley…
“You’re throwing my father at me?”
“Not your father, Tom. My opinion.”
“Ah, I see. That makes it alright then, I guess. And throwing me in the brig and knocking me down a pip is going to make me want to be a fine officer? I suppose that’s like wanting to ensure the Prime Directive is being observed, by enrolling the entire crew in breaking it?”
Her eyes are on him for a very long time, but he has the feeling she’s really looking into a mirror. When she speaks next, he wants to believe there is just a touch of defensiveness in her voice, maybe even a crack, but he can’t be sure.
“It was the right decision. And it was my call to make.”
He doesn’t know which part she’s referring to, the throwing in the brig part or the breaking the Prime Directive part, but it probably doesn’t matter.
“Of course, that’s it, isn’t it. Your call. That’s what this is about, isn’t it – you can’t stand someone else having an opinion. Or, heaven forbid, being right.”
The door to the holodeck opens just then and there’s B’Elanna, her face smudged with something that leaked from Voyager innards. Her eyes flash angrily when she sees whom he’s sitting with, but that’s okay. He doesn’t feel like continuing this – what was it? it sure wasn’t a discussion -- anyway.
He knocks back the glass this time, empties it and sets it down on the table, hard, before getting up. He doesn’t ask to be dismissed; this is a bar, after all -- his bar, where patrons can leave when they bloody well feel like it.
“Guess there’s really only room in this bottle for one after all. Enjoy, Captain.”
III.
Two weeks later
Alone and in the privacy of her quarters, Kathryn finally gets to peel off that ridiculous dress. As she does so she scrapes her wrist on one of those ridiculous stays that are supposed to make that ridiculous collar look like a spider web, and curses Tom Paris and his ridiculous program.
So he has finally decided to speak in her presence again, right there in front of everybody in the briefing room, even turned one of those … those looks of his on her, and to do what? To make her play an overblown vamp in a trashy holonovel, to take out one of the most ridiculous and pompous villains she’s ever seen.
Her mind drifts to the last few hours, and she runs the events of the afternoon through her mind like a black-and-white … movie? Is that what he calls it? More irrelevantly, she wonders how on Earth he ever came up with a character like that. Authors are supposed to write what they know, but surely there is no human being in the Alpha Quadrant …
And then it comes to her: didn’t her wannabe paramour bear a rather uncanny resemblance to the late Admiral – what’s-his-name? Oh yes: Tarantino. Especially those dramatically rolling ‘Rs’? She and Tom were raised in the same circles, so it would stand to reason that he must have met the man at some point … Kathryn fights down a giggle, as she mentally tots up the similarities. She must ask him some day, when they’re capable of having a civilized conversation again, and the context isn’t quite so obvious. She wouldn’t want him to think …
Damn.
She misses Tom; she really does. He is a child of her own world, more than anyone else aboard Voyager, and he’s always had an ease with her that others, like Chakotay, might have regarded as impudence, but that she knew to be an acknowledgment of her fundamental humanity. The rift that has opened up between them over that cursed water planet ...
It would be easy to say it has been one exclusively of his making, the result of a sudden and unexpected return to irresponsibility on his part, but she has to concede at least one of the points he made the last time they spoke: She does not, always, hold herself to the same standard as she does the crew, when it comes to regulations.
She is, of course, prepared to defend and stand by her actions, every last one of them, including her administration of discipline. After all, she is the Captain, and Voyager cannot afford democracy, not out here where there is nothing to hold them up. But she can see how some apparent inconsistencies, based on -- she is convinced -- a need to treat each situation as it comes, can grate on someone with such firmly held principles as Tom Paris. Or Chakotay, for that matter. Her XO has been on her case more than once about her approach, and she knows one of these days one of their arguments, too, will reach critical mass.
Her eyes fall on That Dress, now lying on the floor in an unsurprisingly three-dimensional heap. Hell, what she needs after all this -- the day she's had, the matters running unbidden and seemingly uncontrollable through her head -- is a drink. A real one. Where do you find such a thing at this time, without telling Chakotay you know where he keeps his Antarean cider?
One quick check with the computer tells her that Sandrine’s is running in Holodeck Two. Good. After what happened on the holodeck earlier, the best thing is like getting right back in the saddle -- a philosophy her crew has lived and breathed for the last four-and-a-half years. And she’s not surprised that someone turned on the old watering hole again for that first time back; there’s safety in the familiar. Besides, its dark and smoky atmosphere has been enjoying a bit of a resurgence over Neelix’ too-cheery-and-bright resort lately. Fine with her.
She wonders, as she heads for the turbolift, if Sandrine would let her have some of Tom’s stash of Saurian brandy. He’s the programmer, true, and enjoys a special relationship with the proprietress -- but she’s the Captain and could terminate the entire thing with a single command.
Do holograms have a sense of self-preservation? Those people they just saved from annihilation by ‘Chaotica’ and his minions sure did, as does the Doc; there’s enough of Arachnia left in her to try and see if ordinary run-of-the-mill holograms do as well. She will have that glass of brandy.
She throws on a loose sweater and heads for the door.
IV.
When she gets to the Holodeck, she briefly wonders whether she should ask the computer who is inside, just so she can be prepared. Before she can do so, though, the door hisses open and Mike Ayala emerges. He sees her standing there and nods a brief, silent acknowledgment as he passes. She straightens her shoulder and walks in.
There are quite a few crewmembers in the bar in fact, intermingled with the holographic patrons. The gigolo is still there, but the pool hustlers have been gone for some time; probably Tom Paris’ first concession to Torres when they got together.
Speaking of whom. There they both sit, with Harry Kim as usual, three heads together in a corner by the bar. The pilot is still sporting that leather jacket he wore in the program – obviously more than a costume to him -- and Torres is giggling over something he said, in that totally un-Klingon way she sometimes has around him. Harry is helplessly wiping his eyes, looking about fifteen years old. A couple of the other crewmembers shoot amused glances into their corner, and one tosses a remark into the mix that she can’t hear. The laughter gets raucous as Tom flings back a retort.
Two questions cross Kathryn’s mind. The first is, what is it about Tom Paris, who started out on her ship as the one guy everybody found so easy to hate, that they all love to laugh with him now?
And the second: Are they talking – and laughing -- about her?
The rational side of her dismisses the thought; it’s been a tough day and surely they’re just letting off some steam. But then Tom looks up and sees her standing there, and the laughter drains out of his face – or at least that’s how it seems to her.
B’Elanna and Harry pick up on his changed mood immediately and follow his gaze across the room. The engineer grips his arm and whispers something to him that obviously even Harry is not supposed to hear but Tom shakes his head, smiles softly as he answers. Whatever he says, it causes both his companions to shrug, drain their drinks and get up.
Torres briefly grips the pilot’s shoulder and kisses him on the head before taking her leave, throwing a possessive glance at Kathryn as she does so. Harry, too, gives her a long, inscrutable look before heading for the door with the engineer.
What has he told them?
It doesn’t take long for her to figure it out. He wants to talk to her. Now.
His eyes fixed on Kathryn, Tom gestures with his chin to the now empty seats at his table. She hesitates for a moment. He has invited her to his table before, of course, but this seems more like … a summons, and she isn’t quite sure whether she should accept.
Yes, she definitely needs a drink; it’s why she came here. And yes, it was Tom’s bottle of Saurian brandy that she’d been thinking about. Or was it more him than the brandy?
Whatever it is that brought her here though, she’s the Captain, and she knows that unfinished business between her and one of her senior officers is a Bad Thing. So, it appears, does he. Clearly the pilot hasn’t been on the same schedule as herself in that regard, but the scene in the briefing room today may have opened the door that he had slammed shut a couple of weeks ago – opened it at least sufficiently to let a bit of light back in.
She takes a deep breath and heads over to the table, tossing little nods and the occasional phrase, like “good job today, crewman,” over her shoulder as she goes like the good, conscientious leader she is.
Tom signals Sandrine as Kathryn approaches, and the holographic proprietress nods and ducks behind the bar.
“Wanna try that bottle again, Captain?”
The question is simple; the look in his eyes as he asks is not. A mixture of defiance, challenge, and … hope? Funny, she doesn’t see any anger, and no fear of rejection. Hope, she decides, because it’s what she realizes she wants, too.
“By all means,” she says. “We didn’t finish it the last time.”
V.
She ignores the curious eyes of the assorted members of her crew, who seem to see something remarkable in the sight of Paris and the Captain sitting down at the same table. Kathryn is used to being the centre of attention, of course, but she also knows this is somehow different. They are being scrutinized, measured. There is, as always, both a curse and a blessing in meeting in a public place.
Right now, having vanquished the likes of Satan’s Robot, she is willing to discount the possibility of a curse.
She sits down opposite the pilot and she can tell that he knows, without her having to say anything, that she expects him to fire the first shot. Or to open the door, whatever the more appropriate metaphor might be today.
He did the last time too, of course, but only because she’d practically ordered him to speak. In retrospect, that may have been a mistake. They’d both still been too angry with each other. This time, she will let Tom open on his own terms, and see where he takes it. But she can’t help but wonder whether he will go straight for his Captain’s jugular – knowing better than just about anyone on this ship where it is -- and asks herself what she might do then. The crewmembers by the bar, Dalby and Henley in particular, seem eager to mop up the blood, whose ever it might be.
In the face of her silent trepidations the pilot’s opening salvo surprises her, even as she expected to be surprised by him. He goes right for the civilian target, and with a smile, at that.
“You looked great in that dress. I didn’t know holograms could drool.”
Her eyes fly up, and she searches his face for evidence of dripping irony, but it hasn’t changed from a minute ago. In fact, he seems to mean it. Luckily, Sandrine arrives with the bottle just then, and for a moment Kathryn is spared the need for an immediate reply.
“It was ridiculous,” she states flatly. “I could barely move.”
He shrugs, somewhat less than sympathetically, and a gleam steals into his eyes.
“You were the one who asked for it in a Size 4,” he replies, his response no more welcome because she knows it is true. Men aren’t supposed to know about these things, let alone point them out. Then he digs a little deeper.
“When was the last time you asked the replicator for something other than a uniform, Captain?”
“None of your business, Mister,” she snaps back, and just like that, the ice that had built up between them cracks, just a little. He really is good at that, she realizes.
“Well, you should do it more often.”
He tugs on his leather jacket and gives a small smile. “Like this thing here. It’s grown on me, and I think I’ll keep it. Even if I won’t run the Proton program again. Besides, B‘Elanna likes it.”
Tom nods his thanks to Sandrine, who has filled his and Kathryn’s glasses rather generously. The hologram leaves the bottle on the table and retreats; Sandrine can be obnoxiously attentive at times, but like any good barkeep she also knows when to make herself scarce.
Kathryn chooses to ignore the unconsciously delivered reminder of her pilot’s deepening relationship with her chief engineer. It isn’t that she really resents it – except when they are making out on top of expensive and finely-calibrated Starfleet instrument panels – but she thinks this discussion, now that they’re having it, should be just between him and her; B’Elanna has no place in it.
“You were serious about that? I mean, dropping the program?”
Kathryn decides that he’s right -- for now, it’s better to stay on neutral ground, talk of inconsequential things. Or, as Tom himself might say, when he’s in a mood to let on just how well-read he is:
The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things -- of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.
Or Queens, as the case may be.
But that said, she is already starting to head for the hill she wanted to climb the last time. This time she’ll take safety equipment, though. Too many things saying eat me on the way up …
“Yep. Don’t tell me you think that’s a shame. Because I wouldn’t believe you.”
She weighs her words carefully now, knowing – especially after the previous misfire – that she is heading for thin ice with the direction she is about to take.
“Well, it is an odd program,” she says, “but I can see how and why it appeals to you and Harry. Besides, it’s good practice for strategic command.”
Luckily, Tom just snorts, rolls his eyes, and takes another sip of his brandy. “Yeah, right.”
“No, seriously, Tom. It’s had an effect already. You mapped out the battle plan for today perfectly. I’m thinking of entering a commendation in your record for your contribution to saving those photonic beings.”
That gets his attention.
“You’re kidding, right?” The thing he doesn’t say – less than two months after throwing me in the brig?? – hangs in the air between them, but it evaporates quickly.
“I don’t kid about things like this, Mr. Paris.”
She could have said Ensign, of course, but she doesn’t, and she relies on him to hear the difference.
“You did a remarkable job today, based on your knowledge of the adversary, his objectives, and the overall tactical environment.”
He thinks about this for a moment, then shakes his head. “It’s easy when you’ve written the characters and the basic story line.”
It’s his usual flight into self-deprecation when praised, but she won’t let him get away with it this time. There’s too much at stake.
“Not exactly, and you know it. You took what you knew, worked with the tools at your disposal, deployed the necessary troops,” she resists the urge to bat a pair of Arachnian eyelashes at him, “and turned it into a viable battle strategy. In the face of a certain amount of … pretty ferocious skepticism on everybody else’s part.”
It is her turn to snort, as she remembers, and somehow feels the need to say it out loud.
“And what tools they were, too. The lightning shield. The destructo beam. Ray guns. Pheromones, for crying out loud. Against …”
She loses her thread here, not because she’s had too much to drink – she’s still only on her first – but because she is starting to giggle, in a most un-Captainly way.
“Chaotica’s army of … army of …”
She can’t say it out loud, however hard she tries. Kathryn Janeway has faced the Kazon, the Hirogen and the Borg, but Chaotica’s minions may well end up in her catalogue of notable adversaries as They Who Cannot Be Named.
“His Army of Evil, ma’am,” Tom supplies, with the same deadpan expression he’d used on her in the briefing room. But watching his Captain’s shoulders heave he, too, loses it, and together they dissolve into a helpless laughing fit that has the remaining bar patrons stare at them in bewilderment.
The sight of the Captain and Tom Paris laughing together over some joke only they seem to get is not new, of course, but there have been quite a few bets as to whether it would ever be seen onboard Voyager again. The odds in favour that Jenny Delaney has set for the pool are pretty … long.
A few knowing nods, smiles and sage glances are being exchanged at the bar, as people lose interest in the conversation in the corner and start to drift away. There will be no fireworks tonight.
VI.
Tom is the first to recover. He wipes his eyes, takes another deep draught of that brandy, and prepares to change the subject. Kathryn watches the process play out across his face. She suspects that he hasn't forgotten their last conversation, such as it was, but she also notes that the last few days do appear to have taken the edge off his anger. This could be interesting.
He turns his clear gaze on her now, blue eyes flashing – she’s still not sure with what – and drops his shields. And just like that, they are where they left off a week ago, except for the shared laugh that still rings in her ears.
“Okay, so I have that question for you now, Captain,” he says. “You wanted me to ask it before, I think, but I don’t think either of us was ready for a proper discussion then. I know I wasn’t.”
It’s probably as close to an apology as he is likely to come for walking out on her, but it is with considerable relief that she fails to detect any bitterness in his tone now. She is nonetheless a little wary as she invites him to continue with a little nod.
He puts his chin in his hand, to signal that he is quite relaxed about his question. A good reader – and writer – of body language, is Tom Paris. Because now, when he asks the question he does, she is convinced that he just wants to know. Really wants to know. Not just to challenge her.
“Why the demotion and brig time, for doing what other people on this ship have done, without any punishment at all?”
His emphasis interests her; it seems almost as if he is accepting that some kind of punishment was justified for his actions. Progress?
She looks at the bottle of Saurian brandy between them, picks it up and tops off her glass, which wasn’t actually empty. At least he left the underlying Prime Directive issues out of it -- for now. Finally, she turns her clear grey eyes on him to give him her answer, similar to the one she tried out before, but better. Much better. She has, after all, thought about it a few times since, and sometimes how you say it is just as important as what you say.
“Because I needed you to understand that even if you are convinced you are right, you cannot ignore the basic structure of command on this ship. We can’t afford that. Not out here.”
“Okay, I kind of get that. And I’m fine for now ignoring the underlying reasons for your order, and mine for ignoring it. But why punish just me? Why not … oh, I don’t know … Tuvok? Chakotay? Seven? Even B’Elanna and Harry. They’re all superb officers, much better than me in fact, and they’ve all disobeyed your orders. Wouldn’t they need to get that same lesson? But only I got thrown in the brig. Was it my prior record? What?”
She has thought about this for weeks now, and at times her justification almost seems as if it has been rehearsed in retrospect. But she also knows, deep down, that it is true – and that it was exactly the reasons she is about to give him that fuelled her visceral anger when Tom Paris refused a direct order.
“Because I believe that you are destined to command a starship some day, Tom. But to do that, you need to learn how to be the officer I know you can be, and what it means to honour the responsibilities of command. I felt that you needed some time to reflect on what all that means, and whether it was in fact something you want.”
She doesn’t really want to get into it, but the brandy is having its effect and she knows – despite what he did just a few weeks ago on Monea – that she can trust the man across from her with her confidences, including her very personal views about his fellow officers. He has proven his trustworthiness with intimate confidences more than once, and she needs him to understand.
“As for the others – take Tuvok. He should have been a Lieutenant Commander when we arrived in the Delta Quadrant. I kept that third pip in a drawer in my desk for an extra three years, so yes, he was in fact punished, if not as publicly as you. But when we get home, he will go back to teaching at the Academy. Chakotay has already told me that he is wearing the uniform only for the duration of our journey; he wants to follow his heart into anthropology. The reason you never see him here in Sandrine’s is that he is already starting to catalogue all the races we’ve met here in the Delta Quadrant for that day.”
This has been a long speech and she takes a sip of her drink, but she knows she must continue, to make him see.
“Harry, in time, will be able to go into command if he wishes. Once he’s stopped looking over his own shoulder to make sure someone approves of what he’s doing.”
“And Seven?”
Janeway smiles at that; this one is easy. “At the time she committed her worst infraction and stole that shuttle, she was under the influence of powers beyond her control. I didn’t hold you responsible for what you did when that alien took over your body, either …”
Tom has the grace to look deep into his glass at that; playing musical chairs with people’s bodies, including the Captain’s, is definitely up there on the list of Delta Quadrant experiences he doesn’t care to be reminded of. But of course Kathryn knows that, and she glosses over the moment gracefully by continuing right away.
“Seven has the potential to be the greatest science officer in the history of Starfleet. But can you see people following her into battle? She would have to accept her fundamental humanity first and I don't see that happening yet. Not for a long time.”
Kathryn pauses for effect this time, making that particular little insight stick, and watches as an appreciative smile briefly curls Tom’s lips. He’s had a ringside seat at far too many fights between B’Elanna and the ex-Borg drone on matters of basic communication not to see her point.
He looks thoughtful now. He knows that B’Elanna is only happy when up to her elbows in plasma, so he doesn’t even bother to ask about where she fits on Janeway’s scale of suitability for command. She’s just not interested. But he knows there’s more to the Captain’s point, and so he waits.
It comes almost immediately.
“But as for you, Tom – all you need to do is decide that command is what you want, and it will be yours for the taking. Starfleet is in your blood, and not because you’re Owen Paris’ son. That is one anvil around your neck you better get rid of sooner rather than later, by the way, because it’s been dragging you down far too long.”
He looks pretty skeptical, almost as if he thinks she’s trying to pull the wool over his eyes in some ways, and he never likes it when someone mentions his father, regardless of the context. But she’s started this now, and she won’t stop until she’s said everything he needs to hear, even if he doesn’t believe her. Eventually some of what she is saying may sink in; she’ll take that.
“You’re a brilliant pilot, Tom Paris, but you’ve shown time and again that you could be even more. But whether you’re ready to accept the responsibilities that come with command, and the structure we have work within, that is a choice you will have to make for yourself.”
“And throwing me in the brig was supposed to make me realize that I want to go into command?” He still sounds doubtful, if not downright incredulous.
Kathryn shrugs, a rare gesture of equivocation from a woman accustomed to making firm pronouncements.
“Not necessarily. But that sentence was supposed to remind you of the responsibilities we have within Starfleet. And it was necessary to keep you in the position of a senior officer, so you can exercise the necessary choices when you’re ready for them.”
Tom seems to know that she won’t give him any more than this, and that he’ll have to think about her words for a long time. And he will, she can see that, because regardless of what has happened between them, he trusts her as much as she trusts him.
He nods, slowly, as a few of the choicer adjectives – including the one that really galled her when she heard it in the mess hall, “arbitrary” -- seem to be fading from his vocabulary relating to the Monea aftermath. Not gone, but fading, or at least endowed with possibilities for pronunciation that go beyond spitting nails.
He’s probably still pissed off about what he perceives as her double standard about the Prime Directive, but he seems to know better than to raise that. It cuts too close to the very essence of the prerogative of command, and he seems to sense that; it’s a battle he can’t win. She has lost it a few times, too, not least to her helmsman’s father. Her other explanations seem to have helped though -- quite a bit, actually, and she’s glad they had this talk. But he has one more question.
“And that whole solitary confinement thing, and the leola root diet? What was I supposed to learn from that, exactly?”
That one is easy, especially now that she has reached the bottom of the second – or is it the third already? -- glass of the second-most intoxicating substance that is legally for sale in the Federation.
“That I was seriously pissed off at you, of course. Because it was you who had disappointed me like that.”
“Me, as in your … your own personal reclamation project?”
He fills their glasses as he speaks but she hears the pause anyway, and the memory flashes unbidden into her mind even as she is grateful that he does not give it voice. Trustworthy. Yes, he is that, and more. Even as between them, he will not remind her of certain things.
“Where did you hear that?” She gratefully seizes on what he did say, even managing to sound a little indignant, and gulps down half the glass.
“B’Elanna says it’s what Chakotay used to call me. True, or false?” He grins at her now, and follows suit with his drink.
Kathryn shrugs, again. “Possibly. Who knows. You ignored my direct order in front of the entire bridge, an entire planet, and I was angry. Does it really matter why?”
But then a thought occurs to her, and her next admission may well be fuelled by all that Saurian brandy, or perhaps it’s just because it’s Tom, or because of the kind of day they’ve had.
“And besides, I’m the Captain, and have vested in me the right and the power to give that kind of order and make it stick when one of my minions misbehaves and I feel aggrieved. What did you think?”
Luckily, Tom is almost as inebriated as she is, despite his far larger body mass, and for some reason finds this last bit hilarious.
“Just that,” he chortles. “You are the Queen, after all. I just needed to hear you admit it. Thank you.”
He raises his half-empty glass vaguely in her direction.
“To Queen Arachnia of Voyager, her faithful henchman Neelix, and his many inventive uses for the vilest vegetable in four Quadrants!”
Kathryn joins him in the toast, takes the obligatory swig, but then sobers a little. Well, not actually, she’s too far gone for that, but figuratively speaking she does. A little. Whatever. She has done a lot of explaining in the last half hour, and now she feels that it should be her turn to get one.
“Tell me something, Tom. I tried to tell you pretty much the same things last week, and you blew me off and walked out on me in a huff. What changed? Apart from the fact that maybe you’re a little better than me at starting this kind of conversation?”
“Well, I was still really pissed off, for one thing. I’m not a nice person when I’m really mad. But here’s what.”
He weighs his words carefully now, turning the glass around and around in his hands before draining and refilling it as well as hers. Courage in a bottle, they call it.
Finally, he raises his blue eyes to her gray ones, and says his piece. He does so very carefully – because he doesn’t really want to end up in the brig again, and because he knows he’s skirting pretty damn close to the line. But he also trusts that she won’t hold an honest answer against him when she has asked for it in the first place.
“I still don’t agree with you on that whole non-interference thing you laid on me over Monea. I think there are times where not doing something is morally wrong, no matter what the rules say. And I believe that if I’d done what I did in Monea this week, instead of four weeks before we met those telepaths, even you couldn’t have claimed that those situations were all that different, and you might have agreed to let us take action. But now that thing with the telepaths makes me think you actually agree with me, and I guess this whole thing was really just about when, where, and how to do the right thing, not so much whether.”
He holds out his hand to stop her when she wants to weigh in with a reflexive protest.
“No, that’s alright. I guess I just have to settle for the fact that out here, it is your prerogative to make the calls, even if it means one thing one day and another another.” He’s losing his ability to be as articulate as he can be at times, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, and she gets what he’s saying anyway.
“And we – including me – will have to live with your decisions, even if they sometimes don’t make immediate sense to us. Maybe some day, if you’re right, I’ll get to make decisions like that. And then I’ll piss people off. Probably more than you are now.”
Obviously, not all is well yet between them; she also realizes she would have been a little disappointed if it had been quite that easy. Or if he had pretended that it was.
Again she wants to say something, but her tongue is getting a bit slow and this brandy-sodden binge of mutual truth-telling is a little addictive. And so she just downs the rest of her glass before filling it up again, topping his up in the process, and waits for him to continue. He doesn’t seem to be done, and she may as well hear him out.
“But then, just a few days ago, you admitted that you’d made a mistake, when you lobotomized the Doc after Ensign Jetal’s death last year. And so …”
She sputters in indignation now, incapable of not interrupting. “I did not lobotomize the Doc. All I did was change some of his memory circuits …”
He holds out his hand to stop her, and oddly, she does. Saurian brandy is a powerful thing.
“I don’t think there’s a proper word for what you asked B’Elanna to do, but that’s just technical stuff we don’t need to sweat. Fact is, you interfered in his life, using your authority, because you thought it was the right thing to do. But then you realized you’d made a mistake. And you admitted it, and took the hit for the consequences. And so …”
Kathryn is trying to focus on what he is saying now, because it isn’t very often that her officers tell her about her mistakes. Chakotay tries most often, and valiantly, but he allows himself to be overruled easily. Tuvok does it in his quiet way but he, too, never insists. Tom does it relatively rarely, but when he does, he grabs on to his convictions and refuses to let go – it’s what landed him in the brig in the first place. So she is curious what he’ll come up with now that he knows she’s capable of putting him there.
“So I figured that, maybe, if you were able to admit that you were wrong even just once in a blue moon, that we could actually have a discussion about all of this …” he gestures vaguely, but she knows what he means, “… and have it be real. And have it mean something.”
He lifts his glass in her direction.
“To imperfection.”
She’ll drink to that.
VII.
By now, Tom and Kathryn are the only organic patrons left in Sandrine’s. They sit in silence for a while, but it’s no longer an uncomfortable one. Even if they haven’t perhaps agreed on all that much, and mostly just told each other things to take away, to be looked at and considered when no one else is around. But the air between them seems less heavy now, and the sips they are taking of that disappearing brandy are getting smaller, more often than not now preceded by an appreciative inhalation of its bouquet and a small smile.
Then, suddenly, Tom’s face gets a bit sly and he pushes his chair back so that he can get his long legs out from under the table. He gets up with the deliberate dignity bestowed by just enough alcohol to have had a serious impact, but not so much that he wouldn’t want to conceal its effects.
Janeway isn’t fooled, though, and watches his slow, very straight-backed progress across the floor with amusement, until she realizes that she is slumping over the table with her chin in her hand while she is doing it. She clears her throat, although there is no one near to hear, and straightens up in her chair.
Tom has reached his goal, and there’s a clattering followed by a slightly slurred French curse. He bends down to pick up whatever it was he dropped and heads back towards Janeway. She focuses, with some difficulty, on the objects in his hands.
“Pool cues?”
He gives her one of his lopsided grins.
“Yep. Ready to be taken down a notch, My Queen?”
She glares at his impudence, sets down the glass so hard that the remaining contents threaten to slosh over the side, and gets up with somewhat less dignity than he did; or at least so it seems to her. She actually has to grip the sleeve of his leather jacket to steady herself before she can take the cue from his hand.
“Rack ‘em, Captain,” she says.