Paris Nocturne <paris at night> : A Star Trek : Voyager story, with subtitles by Sue Castle (1995). Rated R. No copyright infringement intended against anyone. Special thanks to the late Paul Verlaine for his artistry and to my French tutor, WA. Warning : Contains adult themes, including sex, violence and passionate poetry set to music.

Sandrine's didn't look quite the same tonight. Maybe it was because it was late, past two in the morning. The Captain shook her head and wondered at herself - it wasn't like her to evade sleep this way. But after another bizarre run-in with the Vidians and even stranger bacterial difficulties with cheese, she found herself unable to settle down. A quiet drink in a Paris bar might just do the trick.

There was no pool table. *That* was the problem. She was so used to coming in here and seeing the hustlers gathered 'round the game, it was odd to see couples on the floor dancing slowly instead. The program had been running when she came to the holodeck, so she hadn't had to activate it. Apparently someone else was an insomniac. She scanned the room for crewmembers, but didn't recognize anyone. Stepping along the shadows by the door, she spotted a dark-haired woman leaning against the bar, swirling a drink and staring off into the far corner. What was her name? Rickie. That's right. Ensign Kim had pointed the holographic woman out to her one evening. She was some sort of "special friend" to Lieutenant Paris. Maybe he was—

Her thought stopped mid-stream. She'd followed Rickie's gaze into the dimly lit corner, and finally realized that she knew the man sitting at the burnished old piano. He was oblivious to the crowd on the floor, his eyes unfocused as his fingers drifted over the keys. A soft, light tenor made heavy with sadness flowed over the dancers, and although she didn't understand the words, the emotion made her breath catch in her throat.

Revons, c'est l'heure.

Un vaste et tendre

Apaisement

Semble descendre

Du firmament

Que l'astre irise ...

C'est l'heure exquise.

"Let us dream, it is the hour. Vast and tender

An appeasement seems to lower from the firmament star-bedecked ...

Exquisite hour."

The soft whisper of a woman's voice translating the lyrics caused her to start and turn away from the sight of Tom Paris singing in a smoky bar, and looking completely at home. She looked askance at Sandrine, the blonde bar owner, who smiled sadly at her and inclined her head toward the young man.

"He does this often, you know." Her voice was barely a whisper. "He does not sleep so well at night."

Janeway shook her head slightly. "I had no idea." She kept her own voice low, not wishing to interrupt the mood in the bar.

"It is not the unusual, for him to relax in such a manner." She was looking at Tom, not the Captain, and Janeway followed her eyes. Paris had his eyes closed, his hands seeming to float over the keyboard, and his voice, still soft, carried through the crowd with no difficulty.

"I would never have expected him to be such an accomplished singer, I must admit."

Sandrine looked at her briefly, and lost her smile. "You may not know him as well as you believe, madame."

Janeway nodded once. "Apparently not." As the song came to a close, she made a quick decision. Obviously, Tom wasn't ready to share this part of his life yet, and everyone deserved whatever private moments they could get, all stuck together on this ship for who knew how long. "I'll leave him to it, then. Good night." With a polite smile at the Frenchwoman, Janeway ducked out of the bar. Standing on the sidewalk outside, she heard a husky voice call out, "Donnes-moi un chanson, mon coeur," and wondered which of the memories brought to life in the bar would consider Tom her "heart."

The doctor was not happy. Of course, a certain amount of testiness was not unusual, but he *was* trying to work on his bedside manner. He just had no patience with people interrupting every time he was in the middle of running a test. Even is it *was* the Captain.

"No, Captain. Mr. Paris has NOT come to me regarding any difficulties with insomnia. Some members of the crew have been having episodes of sleeplessness caused by stress and homesickness. This does not appear to be the case with Mr. Paris. At least to MY knowledge."

She didn't look satisfied, but he didn't know what else to tell her. After she cut the channel, he tried to salvage what was left of the spore samples, only to discover that the delay had irreversibly damaged the outer cell structure, and he'd have to begin again. "I don't *believe* this. Even when he's not actually *in* sickbay he manages to mess things up."

"Did you say something, Doctor?" Kes' gentle voice calmed him somewhat, and he managed a strained smile for his ... what exactly was she? Well, the nearest he had to a friend, that's what. The strain lessened and the smile became more natural.

"No, Kes. Just ruined another batch of Tripleain spores, and I'll have to re-set the monitors, but that's all right. At least there are no emergencies at the-" His words were interrupted by a crewman carrying another man into the room, blood pouring freely from several deep cuts along his arms and torso. With an almost silent sigh, he turned away from the spores. "It seems I spoke too soon."

Kes shared an understanding look with him and they got to work.

Janeway stared for a moment longer at the now empty screen, then shook her head slightly and sighed. She had a soft spot for the young Lieutenant, one she seldom acknowledged, but it existed nevertheless. She'd known his father professionally for too long and much too well to easily accept that young Tom could be so very different. Or perhaps it was too many long days spent trying to find a faster way home, and too few puzzles to distract her from how very much she missed her own home. She'd never been the type to pry, and with a decisive little nod she determined that boredom and probably misplaced concern would not cause her to change her ways. Although she had to admit, ever since the unfortunate incident when Paris had had false memories of murder implanted into his brain in order for aliens to use him as an unwitting courier of stolen military secrets, she had been watching him for signs of neurological damage. So far, he seemed all right. The door chime interrupted her wandering thoughts.

"Come."

Commander Chakotay peered into the brightly lit ready room, then stepped forward confidently and crossed to the Captain's desk.

"Shift's all quiet, Captain. Care to take a break from the paper work and get a bite to eat?"

"Is it shift change already?" She hadn't realized how quickly the time had gone. Perhaps a little distraction wasn't as bad as she'd thought, if it relieved some of the boredom. She rose and gave her first officer a quick smile. "Let's brave Neelix's culinary efforts, then."

"As long as it doesn't move too fast, I'll be willing to try it tonight. Missed lunch due to the recalibration of the secondary navigational systems."

Her answering look was wryly sympathetic. "You didn't miss much, Commander. It was ... light purple. And it smelled odd."

"Doesn't it always?" Their light laughter echoed slightly in the hall as they made their way to the common mess hall Neelix had set up. After perusing a strange combination of glop that the Talaxian asserted was nutritious, tasty food, none of which actually looked edible, they made hesitant choices and settled at a small table by the port windows. Looking out over the broad sweep of black space encrusted with specks of light, Janeway forced herself to relax. Chakotay smiled slightly at her, recognizing the almost imperceptible easing in her shoulders and back. The Captain didn't do that often enough.

"I should do this more often." Her voice echoing his thoughts startled him for a moment, then he grinned at her.

"Yes, you should." The grin disappeared and his voice softened. He had a lot of respect for this woman, but she was taking too much on herself, and they had a long way to go before they got home. Perhaps another visit with her spirit guide was in order. "Have you given any consideration to revisiting your Guide?"

She smiled at him again, more with her eyes than her mouth. "I'd like that," she responded quietly. He returned her smile, and they talked companionably for the rest of the meal, joking about the possible chemical properties of the mess on their plates and keeping a watch on the crew eating around them. Janeway was the first to notice Paris' arrival, and wondered at herself for her preoccupation.

Tom sat alone, not all that unusual when Harry had other things to do. Right about now young Ensign Kim was showing B'Elanna Torres the difference between a clarinet and a saxophone, in a holo suite program designed to let him show off for dates. Tom smiled to himself at the thought of his buddy's socializing. If he thought he had the chance of a snowball in hell with the lovely engineer, he'd try to catch her attention himself. But he knew better than that. B'Elanna thought he was a pig, recent comforting in a Vidian prison not withstanding. And he couldn't really find it in himself to disagree with her. He looked around at the clumps of people gathered throughout the messhall, then dropped his eyes to his plate and kept them there. One more little trick he'd learned in prison, along with picking locks and keeping his ass covered. Don't draw their attention and you won't have to deal with their attacks. Usually. A slight shadow fell over his table and he sighed silently. Usually, but not always. He raised his eyes to meet a belligerent Human face. It was going to be a long night.

"Paris." Not a friendly tone. Who was this idiot? Oh, yeah. LaCross, or something like that. Tom tried to think what he'd done to piss him off, then decided to hell with it, he'd find out sooner or later. Given the splitting headache he was fighting he hoped it would be later.

"What?" If his luck ran true to form it would be sooner.

"Heard you were in stir for fighting with the Maquis." The sneer in the man's voice confirmed his guess. His luck was out. "Weird thing for an *officer* in *Star Fleet* to be doing."

Paris looked at the bulky figure standing, glaring at him, and gritted his teeth. He really, really wanted to plant a fist in the guy's face and be done with it, because he just knew where this was leading, but he couldn't do it just yet. Even if the idiot hadn't noticed both the Captain and Chakotay over in the corner, *he* had, and he wasn't going on report if he could help it. He smiled coldly up at the Neanderthal in front of him. "I wasn't a Star Fleet officer at the time." Instinctively, his muscles tightened in anticipation of what was coming. He wasn't disappointed.

"So I heard. No wonder. Guess they didn't want a screw-up at the controls anymore, people get *killed* when you're the pilo-"

He really didn't remember standing, and he certainly didn't remember swinging. He'd been certain he was in control, that he could just shrug off the bastard's ranting like he usually did, but the man's voice had been getting louder and louder as he went on, and now here he was with split knuckles bleeding on the nice clean floor, an unconscious fool at his feet, and a total blanket of silence over the room. He didn't even need to turn to acknowledge Chakotay and Janeway coming up behind him, he just shook the sting out of his fingers and called sickbay. Two of the lout's friends came up and carried him off for treatment, and Paris silently followed the Captain to her ready room. It was going to be a very long night.

Chakotay watched the tense figures leave the room and shook his head. So much for a relaxing dinner. Leave it to Paris to mess things up.

Janeway eyed the man standing stiffly at attention before her desk and swallowed drily. This interview was *not* going the way she had planned.

"Mr. Paris, I don't intend to deal you until I know precisely what happened in there. By accepting all the blame for the incident and refusing to explain, all you do is open yourself to disciplinary action. We're not dealing with the cause of the problem. And if we don't bring it out into the open and take care of it, this sort of thing will merely continue to occur. It's not good for ship discipline and crew morale to have officers getting into fistfight over their dinners."

Her tone became whimsical for a moment. "Neelix's concoctions have a bad enough effect as it is." Not getting the answering smile she expected, her voice hardened again.

"If you won't talk to me, Mr. Paris, then you need to find someone you can talk to. I *will not* have this sort of behavior among the crew."

She stared at him, willing him to explain, to give her some sort of clue to why he was acting this way. Meeting his narrowed blue eyes, she saw the pain he was not successfully hiding, and lowered herself into her seat. She cupped her chin in her hand, and continued to stare silently at him. Unable to maintain complete composure under her intense regard, he fidgeted, and she nodded, coming to a decision.

"At ease, Mr. Paris." He relaxed fractionally, still unsure of her actions. "Sit down." He stared at her for a second, one brow quirked in query, then slid into the seat opposite her desk. "We need to talk."

He tapped idly on his crossed legs, ankle bumping lightly against the opposite knee, his foot bouncing almost imperceptibly. She noticed the little nervous movements, and responded more gently than she otherwise might.

"Tom, I'm worried about you." Startled sapphire eyes met concerned gray, and he was the first to look away.

"I'm okay, Captain."

"People who are 'okay' do not punch out other people without provocation, Mr. Paris." He flared at her dry words.

"I was provoked, Captain!" He leaned forward, ready to defend himself, and she moved forward as well, glad to finally get him to talk.

He froze, then slumped back into the seat, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from losing her temper and yelling at him. Steepling her fingers in front of her lips, she refused to say anything else. Let him be the one to say something. She wasn't going to make it any easier on him. Finally, with a little sigh, he looked down at the floor. Whatever he saw there must have fascinated him, because he wouldn't look anywhere else, even when he began to speak.

"I was out of line, Captain. He wasn't saying anything I haven't already heard from any number of people. There are a lot of guys on this ship who don't think I should be flying it. They've heard about the reason why I was cashiered, and they don't like the idea that I'm in the pilot's chair, because they think I can't be trusted, that I'm going to make some damn fool error and end up getting people killed again. I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth, so I should have been able to control it, I guess." His voice trailed off, and she leaned forward to hear him more easily. "I don't remember..."

"What? You don't remember what, Mr. Paris?"

Her peremptory question brought him back to the present, and he finally met her eyes again. The confusion she saw there mirrored her own.

"I don't remember hitting him, Captain."

Two days quarters wasn't really all that bad, considering. Tom sighed and sank into a comfortable sprawl on the bed. So he couldn't go on duty, and wasn't allowed to interact with the rest of the crew for a couple of days. At least he wasn't in the brig. And for the most part refraining from hanging around with the crew was no big loss. He did rather miss the holodeck, though. *Nothin' like getting sent to my room. Tommy's been a bad boy.*

For some reason the usual cocky grin wouldn't stay in place, and he leaned his head back against the pillows. Maybe the Captain was right and some reflection would be a good idea. Not something he was used to, but maybe a place to start. He had to admit the way he lost his temper back there was unusual even for him, and he wasn't the most stable personality around. He linked his hands behind his head and settled back, intent on rationalizing his actions to himself. Before he could get very far, his breathing evened out and he relaxed into sleep.

The images didn't take as long to form as they usually did. Shadowy forms, surrounding him, always coming closer, with nowhere to go to escape them. Sometimes he could count them, three, maybe four at the most, but other times it seemed like there was a whole army there, that he couldn't see the sunlight between their bodies. Never any noise. Not from them, and not from him. More afraid than he'd ever remembered being, but he didn't really remember this. Only in his dreams, in his nightmares, when he couldn't keep them away any longer. Couldn't run. Couldn't fight. Couldn't scream. Could only wait. And cry. And hurt.

Harry paused outside his friend's door, wondering if it would be okay for him to enter. He felt a little responsible, in a funny way. The more combatative members of the crew usually left Tom alone when he was with him, for some reason. Maybe it was because Tom reacted less violently to their attitudes, or because they were bullies and wouldn't attack when Tom had friends around him. As he stood, irresolute, at the threshold, he heard a strangled whimper, loud enough to hear through the door.

Reacting instinctively, he requested entry, and the unlocked door slid silently open. Following the sounds of distress, Harry ran into Tom's sleeping room, and stopped at the side of the bed. Tom was curled into a protective ball, one arm raised to shield his face from unseen blows, the other outstretched to push away whatever was attacking him in his nightmare. Harry gently laid his hand on Paris' tensed shoulder, speaking quietly in an attempt to waken him without startling him.

"Hey, Tom, wake up. It's okay, man, it's just a dream. You're okay, Tom. Tom, c'mon now, wake up now-"

Paris shook the restraining hand off and scrabbled backward on the bed, still not fully wakening. He curled up even tighter, if that was possible, and whimpered softly. Harry didn't try to touch him again, just called his name gently, over and over, until Tom gradually calmed down and drifted into a more natural slumber without ever waking up. Harry looked at him for a long moment, then quietly pulled the cover up to his shoulders and smoothed his hair back from his sweat-slicked forehead. Whatever demons were chasing Tom, right now wasn't the time to face them. He needed rest more than anything else.

Harry stepped softly from the room and engaged the privacy lock behind him. He'd talk to Tom later, and hope he could get his friend to confide in him.

Anger. A temporary loss of continuous memory due to over- powering rage. Tommy had a tantrum. Paris grinned sarcas- tically to himself, careful not to let the other bridge crew catch sight of his expression. At least the doc had cleared him for duty. If he'd had to spend another hour in his quarters, then they would *really* have seen one of Tommy's tantrums.

The duty rotation passed swiftly, with no further odd incidents, temper shortages, or memory lapses. Paris counted himself lucky to escape Captain Janeway's unwavering gaze and finally escape off duty. Waving off an invitation from Harry to join him and some of the others in a late poker game, he wended his way to the holodeck. Pausing outside the doors, he wondered at himself. It was a sad change when Partier Paris preferred the company of holoimages to real people.

But the music was calling him. Any more, it seemed to be the only other place he could relax and forget the headaches, either at the piano in the bar, or in the pilot's seat. There were a lot of similarities, in his mind at least. The feeling of control, of solitude and creation, whether plotting an intricate course through a minefield of space anomalies or coaxing a melody from the reluctant keys, losing himself in the complexities and beauty of the mathematics of his art. He snorted softly, laughing at his flights of fancy, then slipped into the bar.

Checking the floor for any crewmates, he saw no one other than holoimages and breathed a sigh of relief. It was late enough that others were probably in their own quarters, or in private card parties like the one Harry was hosting. He smiled at the thought of his young friend, whom everyone seemed to like, and sat down at the piano. His fingers rippled over the keys, and the soft tones of "Solitude" floated over the simulated crowd. Bending his fair head over the keys, the young man gave himself up to the music, and forgot his demons for awhile.

Harry was watching him a lot. So was Tuvok. Janeway was easing up a little bit, but he could really do without all the concerned glances. Shit. You'd think they cared about him. He knew better. The only thing they really cared about was making sure he didn't drive 'em into a planetoid. Paris swore under his breath when the replicator asked him for the third time what type of tomato soup he wanted. Hadn't they settled this already?

"PLAIN." A few people glanced over at the harsh tone, but his expression plainly did not invite enquiries. His better nature, what was left of it after weeks of barely remembered nightmares and the strain of not allowing them to affect his performance on duty, reminded him that he was being unfair, at least to Harry. The kid really did like him, for whatever strange reason, and he couldn't fault him for wanting to help.

The problem was, Tom wasn't quite sure what the problem was, so how could Harry help? Ever since those bastards had messed with his memories, the nightmares had grown stronger, and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to handle it before he had to go to the doc and ask for something to help him sleep. And as soon as he did, the hologram would be on the horn to the Captain, and he'd find himself out of the pilot's chair again. He did NOT want that to happen. Sometimes he thought that his duties, and the nights at Sandrine's, were all that was keeping him sane. As sane as he got, at least.

Settling into a vacant chair in the corner, out of the traffic flow, he let his mind wander, ignoring the rapidly cooling dill and pepper (not plain) tomato soup.

He hadn't known why it happened at the time. Still didn't. He'd been walking to the lift, Chakotay on his heels, when time had shifted.

The scent was different, yet the same. Sweat, and aftershave, and normal male spiciness. Sunshine on skin. He was frozen in place, his feet not willing to move, his heart racing in his throat, a vague warning klaxon sounding in his mind.

Get outta here, Tommy lad. Now. While you can. Hurry! HURRY! Ohdamnohdamnohnoohgods

then the feel of Chakotay brushing the side of his arm as he pushed past him, casting an irritated look over his shoulder at the pilot standing so still, not noticing the quiver running up and down the slender frame, the blank look in the sapphire eyes, the faint trail of perspiration running over one pale cheek, the trapped almost panicked look on his set features... then he shook it off, still unsure of the cause of the feelings freezing him to the deck. Shook it off and entered the lift after Chakotay, not knowing why he stepped to the far side, not knowing why he never looked at the older man. Not seeing Tuvok, dark eyes intent, missing nothing.

He came back to the present with s little gasp, feeling as if he'd been running, a silly feeling really, when all he was doing was sitting here trying to eat some ... soup. He looked with some disgust at the small bits of green herb floating in the red liquid and gave it up as a bad deal. Maybe Sandrine would give him some dinner. Funny how a holoprogram could turn out to be such a haven. Paris pushed himself up from the table and walked swiftly to the recyclers, dumping his tray and striding from the room. He didn't see Harry raise a hand to greet him, and didn't break his stride all the way to the holosuites.

<<Revons ... c'est l'heure...>>

The dream came swiftly this time, no welcome respite from the care of the day before slipping into the haunting night. The bodies pressing into him, nowhere to turn, no place to run, no one to help.

It was not one scene, but two, or maybe more. The faces changed, blended and swirled before his unbelieving, unaccepting eyes. Sometimes three men, sometimes four, sometimes only one. A tall man, big but not bulky, fair hair blending into white, stern face set in lines like stone, no love there, no forgiveness, God only knew no tolerance for anything less than the best, anything substandard, anything like him.

Sometimes it was only fists, he could deal with that. Shut off his thoughts, freeze his feelings, ignore the tears and the broken pleas he couldn't quite suppress. Those were the oldest hurts, the fuzziest recollections. Those dreams didn't have the strength of the others, the clearer ones. Bloody damned starfleet sonsof bitches how could they ever do something likethisgodithurt and then there were the other memories. He remembered them a little better. They were concrete, individual. They beat him, yeah, not like he wasn't used to it. Damned Maquis. Always thought they were so much better just because they had their fucking cause well he had a cause too didn't he and it was survival goddamned star fleet bastards how could they -- please, doc, help me. Somebody. Help me. Please. please please oh please

<Lasse de vivre>

please don't hurt me not like that please

<ayant peur de mourir>

how many? don't know how many why do i care please no

<pareille au brick perdu jouet du flux et du reflux>

how can they why do they what did i do please make them stop

<Mon ame pour d'affreux naufrages appareille>

The music drowning out the pain, putting such a dense, welcome mist between them and himself, hands fading away, hurts drifting, nothing but the music in his head...

Weary of living,

Fearing to die,

Like a lost barque a plaything of the tides,

A soul to dread disaster seems to ride.

<<C'est l'heure exquise>>

He tried to ignore the way his hands shook as he leaned against the door casing. Long night. Bad night. Too damned bad a night. He didn't really remember the nightmares, just the music, itching in his fingertips and at the back of his throat, driving him back to the bar, back to the piano. The music and the hands, and the pain ... his mind shied away from the last remnant of memory, and he decided it was enough. Time to seek out the Doc. Yet another holoperson who was closer to him than most of the other so-called real people stuck here with him, for who knows how long until the-

he didn't hear her voice.

"Mr. Paris? Are you al-"

Just felt her hand. A hand. A strong touch, fingers pressing in. On his back. Firm, low, too close to the thin barrier between the night- mare still lingering too fresh in his mind and the hands, the strong and painful ...

His instinctive backhanded blow caught her on the right side of the face, all the force of his back behind it, and she rolled with the unexpected punch. Her shoulder impacted the wall with a sickening crunch, and she slid bonelessly down in an ungraceful heap.

Tuvok, fresh from an early morning meeting with his latest crew of Maquis "recruits" and looking for his Captain, was unable to prevent the first blow, but with Vulcan speed he was able to stop the second. One dark arm rasped painfully around the enraged lieutenant's throat, holding him securely, the other arm snaking around to thrust Paris' clenched fist between the two men's bodies, high enough to strain the muscles, barely slowing down the slighter man. One longer leg thrust between two strong thighs, striving to keep him off balance, trying to stop the full frontal assault he seemed determined to make on the Captain.

The Captain, of all people. Deep cobalt, his eyes didn't seem quite Human, blazing with so much hate, unseeing, unfocused. Janeway looked on as her Security chief forcibly restrained her pilot, somewhat dazed from the force of Tom's fist and not quite able to believe what had just happened.

Not a sound. He hadn't made a sound.

"Tuvok to security-" as Paris suddenly sagged in his arms, offering no further resistance, apparently unconscious. Janeway pushed herself painfully to her feet.

One hand raised shakily to her commbadge. "Belay that."

Tuvok raised a brow, consternation in a less controlled being, mere query from a Vulcan. She smiled reassuringly, grimaced as she tasted the blood from her split lip. "Activate emergency medical program." She tried to take a step, felt her knees give. "Three to transpo..." Had to stop as her head swam and the wall began to waver in front of her eyes.

"Three to transport to sickbay," Tuvok finished dispassionately.

"-aftereffects of the neurological damage caused by the alien implants. Those false memories apparently did more severe damage than my original testing indicated." The Doctor's tone slipped subtly from merely aggrieved to faintly defensive, and Janeway shifted on the hard diagnostic bed. Sighing, she waved for him to continue. "There were no prior cases of such a manipulation of neuropathways prior to this-"

"Yes, Doctor. I know, you were dealing with an unknown." She consciously tried to keep an even tone, not willing to get her holodoctor into another counterproductive snit. "I just need to know what happened."

"Well," he continued in a mollified voice, "the neurological damage from the false memory implants and the attendant trauma may be causing some sort of flashback memories to a time when Mr. Paris was personally attacked, so he might have been reacting to a remembered threat instead of the current situation in which he found himself. These remembrances may also be caused by the breakdown of mental barriers Mr. Paris may have erected to keep himself from remembering difficult, dangerous or abusive incidents in his past."

Janeway's eyes widened and she shot an incredulous glance at Tuvok. He returned it with typical composure, and she turned back to the doctor.

"Are you saying that Mr. Paris was ... abused in some way, Doctor?"

He nodded sharply, eyes resting approvingly on her. This one was quick. "Yes, Captain. Complete physical examination yields indications of physical trauma, internal and external scarification, indicating one or more severe beatings within a time frame of eighteen to twenty four months prior to this date. There are no indications whatsoever in Mr. Paris' records of any counseling during his incarceration, beyond that required in his sentencing, although prison infirmary records do indicate two episodes of extensive rehabilitation. There are no records giving any indications of the cause of the injuries requiring the rehabilitation, merely a recitation of the extent of the injuries and the physical therapy required to restore Mr. Paris to health."

"Extensive beatings..." Janeway's voice was hushed, although whether with anger or disgust it was impossible to determine. "That sort of behavior went out with the advent of the new penal colonies, or at least ... it was supposed to ..."

"It is an unfortunate fact, Captain, that prison officials may at times turn a 'blind eye' to incidents in which unpopular inmates are injured. The nature of Mr. Paris' involvement with the Maquis would not serve to make him popular with many of his fellow prisoners."

A slight moan from the other diagnostic bed drew their attention, and Janeway stepped from her bed over to Paris' side. Tuvok made a move as if to intercede, and she glanced meaningfully at the restraints holding Paris firmly to the bed.

"I don't think he's going anywhere, Tuvok."

The Vulcan conceded the point, and she continued to the side of the bed.

Pain-glazed eyes met hers in confusion, and she was relieved to see that they were their normal clear blue, not the frightening cobalt she'd seen when he attacked her. Confusion twisted his aristocratic features, and he looked very young. She was unable to stop herself from lifting a hand to smooth the sweaty locks of hair back from his brow, and she unconsciously sighed with relief when he didn't flinch from her touch. His arms and legs tensed against the cuffs holding him restrained, and the confusion in his face deepened, although he didn't fight the bonds. His eyes traced the slight swelling still apparent in her cheek and lower lip, and his eyes widened with concern.

"Captain! What happened to your face?"

Dead silence met his question, three pairs of eyes looking at him with varying degrees of incredulity. He didn't understand, and didn't much like the situation.

"What's going on here? Tuvok? Captain?" His voice weakened, unsure of what was going on but somehow a little frightened. "Doc?"

Tuvok opened his mouth to speak, but a quick glance from Janeway forestalled him. He subsided and she leaned forward again.

"Mr. Paris. Tom. What do you remember about this morning?"

He looked at her like she'd lost her mind, then evidently decided to humor her. "Well, I got up, took a shower, got dressed..." His voice faded as he tried to think harder. For some reason, there seemed to be a sort of mist around his memory. Events got fuzzier, right about the time he ...

"I went out into the corridor. Felt a little light headed, didn't really get much sleep last night." His voice was softer now, almost as if he was talking to himself, unaware of his audience. "I remember leaning against the wall, then ... then I ... I don't remember." The final words were a whisper. He searched her eyes, hoping for a clue, some sort of reassurance that he wasn't losing his mind.

"This is not the first time that you have 'failed to remember', Mr. Paris." Tuvok's cold voice broke the connection between the Captain and Paris, and they both shivered for an instant. Janeway believed him. He really didn't remember. No one could fake the kind of torment she'd seen in his eyes.

"Doctor." She gestured toward the file the Doctor still held in his hand, and inclined her head toward Tom.

He tore his eyes away from the accusatory Tuvok, and stared at the Doctor as if he was his lifeline. The Doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably, and decided it was time to try out his newly acquired bedside manner. He couldn't help but wish for a moment that Kes was there, however, since she always seemed to know just how to say things so that people would respond. Not an unusual talent in an empath, but one he could have used at the moment.

Janeway huffed a little impatiently, and the Doctor sighed. Might as well get it over with.

"Mr. Paris," he tried to keep his tone gentle. "What can you tell us about the attacks that were made on you while you were at the penal colony?"

Tom looked at him now like it was the *Doctor* who had lost his mind.

"Attacks? What the hell are you talking about, Doc?"

So much for bedside manner. "Records indicate that you were the victim of severe physical attacks on at least two occasions after being incarcerated at the Auckland Federation Penal Settlement. Are you attempting to tell us that you have no recollection of these events?"

Paris was now staring at the Doctor with something close to horror. "No." His normally pleasant tenor sounded more like a rusty croak, and he swallowed heavily, trying to free up his voice. "No," he tried again, his words stronger this time. "I don't remember any sort of beating."

"Beatings, Mr. Paris. Plural."

Tom's wide-eyed glance slewed wildly around to the Vulcan standing so quietly at his shoulder.

"I don't remember. I really don't." Tuvok read the sincerity in those eyes, and found himself believing him. Since they had shared their thoughts in the mind meld, he found it easier to 'read' Tom Paris than he had ever expected. Tom didn't know what had happened, and he didn't remember the beatings.

"Selective amnesia," the Doctor pronounced, a slight scowl marring the satisfaction in his tone. "Mr. Paris, do you ever have nightmares?"

All three noticed the sudden stiffness in Tom's body, but his voice still retained a little life. “Nightmares? Sure. Doesn't everyone?"

None of them would let him get away with his flippancy.

"No," returned Tuvok, deadpan.

"Not usually," Janeway chimed in.

"Of course not!" the Doctor stated.

He looked silently from one to the other, finally resting his glance on Janeway. She pinned him to the bed with her best "serious" look and he sighed.

"Well, yeah. I guess I have."

"You guess?" She hardened her voice, and he responded as she intended, with more unwilling details.

"Yeah. I have nightmares. I don't really know what they are, 'cause I don't remember them very clearly. Just, well, people. Sort of, like, surrounding me, pressing in. Hands. Lots of hands. And then it hurts. But then there's music and the pain ... goes away. The hands go away."

His face had relaxed as he spoke, his eyes distracted as he tried to piece together the vague memories of the nightmares. At his mention of the pain, Tuvok leaned slightly closer. When he talked of hands, Kathryn straightened and her eyes widened. Tuvok noticed her reaction and cocked his head at her.

"Tom, do you remember me coming up to you this morning?" Her soft question cut into his determined recollection, and he refocused on her face.

"No, Captain."

"I ... came up behind you ... and put my hand on your back."

His eyes grew huge as he worked out the implications, her swollen face, his nightmares, the restraints holding him in place. A sound not unlike a whimper escaped his clenched lips.

"Oh damn." His eyes begged forgiveness even as he accepted what he had to have done. "I'm so ... sorry, Captain. I can't believe..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

She reacted to the pain in his voice, patting his hand and leaning forward to reassure him. "It's going to be all right, Tom. We just have to help you deal with this, so that it won't happen again."

Paris nodded weakly, then looked away, feeling oddly ashamed over something he couldn't even remember doing. But then, he seemed to not be remembering a lot of important things lately.

"Your recommendation, Doctor?"

"A combination of extensive counseling, drug therapy to halt and hopefully repair the damage to the neuropathways, and regressive hypnotherapy to attempt to restore the blocked memories. Oh, and he should be relieved of piloting duties until such time as his condition is stabilized."

Janeway felt Tom's fist clench under her fingers as the Doctor's sentence was passed, and she squeezed his hand reassuringly. Still keeping her gaze on his face, she gave her orders to the Doctor standing behind her.

"Very well, Doctor. Then begin immediately. We can't afford to be without Mr. Paris' talents for very long, and we want to get to the bottom of this as soon as we can. The sooner the causes for these episodes are uncovered, the sooner the damage can be healed."

With one final pat, she turned from the bed and addressed the doctor directly. "Keep me apprised of his progress, Doctor. Mr. Tuvok?"

"I believe the restraints may be removed, Doctor. If Mr. Paris loses control of himself, notify Security."

The Doctor nodded, and Tuvok exited sickbay without a backward glance. Cerulean eyes followed his progress with some bitterness.

"Thanks a helluva lot, Tuvok." The muttered phrase was very quiet, but not too quiet for the hologram's sensitive hearing.

"He *did* have to restrain you from attacking the Captain *again*, Mr. Paris." Seeing the stricken expression on the young man's face, the doctor relented. "Time to get to work on those memories."

It was like walking through a dream, only, more so. The colors were more vivid, he could smell the grass, fresh cut, taste the breeze in his face. Summer time. Baseball season. No need to make excuses for the cap covering his just-about-bald head, his father's annual chop job at it's finest. Game ran late, didn't get a chance to do the extra bookwork he'd had to do to make up for less than stellar marks in the last school term. Why couldn't Dad accept that he just wasn't very good at physics? All he really wanted to do right now was play second base and escape to the piano at Jake's house. Dad didn't understand that either, called it a timewaster. Called him a slacker.

The scene shifted. God, he hated grade time. Never quite good enough, so he stopped trying. He was gonna get the belt anyway, and for some reason it seemed to hurt more when he had really tried to do well and hadn't done well enough than when he'd just blown it off. At least then he could feel like there was some reason for the punishment. If it was his fault anyway he might as well have *been* at fault.

Disappointment. Keen, strong, not at all unusual. Pretty typical, in fact. Here it comes again. Wished he could be stronger. Could pretend it didn't matter, nothing mattered, why should it, couldn't let it matter. That just made it worse. Could only clench his fists and clench his jaw and try not to cry 'cause that was not what a man did but it really really hurt and he couldn't let him know it seemed to get some sort of weird kick out of - Hurting. Me. He. Won't. Stop. Hurting. Me.

<lasse de vivre, ayant peur de mourir>

what did i do please don't do this please stop hitting me

<Il vaux mieux rire que pleurer>

how can he why does he what did i do please make him stop

<quel dommage ... quel dommage ...>

So damned tired.

"Hm. 'Weary of living, fearing to die' ... hmm ... 'It's better to laugh than cry' ... interesting, especially in this context ... 'what a shame'? Yes. 'What a shame.' A shame indeed."

The Doctor looked over the top of his screen to glance at his now peacefully sedated patient, then shook his head at the results of the first three regressive hypnotherapy sessions. The Captain was not going to like what he'd found, but he believed he was on the right track. The newly configured drug therapy was making progress on restoring normalcy to Paris' brain functions, and the neural path- ways were showing decided improvement.

But this older series of memories were the basis for many of the defensive coping mechanisms Mr. Paris employed on an almost instinctual level, and in order to access and treat his underlying psychological problems they were going to have to deal with this first. Then perhaps Mr. Paris would allow himself to remember what happened to him in prison. So far he was having no luck trying to get his patient to access those particular memories.

"Captain Janeway to sickbay." He sighed and turned to face her image.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Have you analyzed the results of Mr. Paris' latest regression, Doctor?" Her voice was even, but he could hear the real concern so carefully hidden in her words.

"Yes, Captain. Perhaps it would be best if you came to sickbay."

She nodded and cut the channel with a brisk, "I'll be right there."

"Did you know Lieutenant Paris spoke French?"

That wasn't the question Janeway was expecting as she strode into the room, but she accepted it at face value.

"Yes, Doctor." Sings in it, too, she thought, but didn't say it aloud. "What did you find?"

"Mr. Paris has watched the recorded sessions, and agreed to share the results with you, Captain, as required in regulation 53-9, section 21, subsection 9 bet-"

"Right," she cut in, impatient to hear what he'd discovered. "Duly noted, results are being shared with the patient's permission. Now, is he all right?"

The Doctor stiffened slightly. "That would depend upon your definition of 'all right', Captain." She took a deep breath and he hurried on. "Memories uncovered in our regressive hypnotherapy sessions over the past five days have confirmed a pattern of physical and mental abuse dating from early childhood, consistent with the healed fractures and other scarring, as well as evidence in his medical records. Mr. Paris was beaten on a regular basis from approximately the age of three until adolescence, approximately the age of sixteen."

"Good god." Janeway's face had paled as the Doctor continued. No wonder Paris had so many self-defense mechanisms. He'd been using them most of his life. "Who could have done such a thing to a child?"

"My father."

"His father."

The Doctor's matter-of-fact voice nearly covered Tom's softer words, but the impact was just as great on Captain Janeway. For a moment she almost said she didn't believe it, and from the set, deliberately uncaring look on Tom's face, and the way his body seemed braced to accept another blow, he must have expected her reaction.

She held herself still for a moment, knowing that it would take some time to reconcile her image of Admiral Paris with the evidence she'd just been presented. Right now the important thing wasn't her mental image, though, but Tom Paris' mental health. She forced herself to cross the room to where he sat, perched on the edge of the cot. She lowered herself to sit beside him, and he watched her warily, waiting for her to call him a liar, accuse him of tarnishing his father's reputation for some self-pitying reason of his own. To his intense astonishment, she very carefully took his left hand between both of hers, and patted it gently.

"I am so sorry, Tom."

He stared at her in disbelief. She wasn't calling him a liar. She actually was listening to him. His throat tightened, and his eyes misted. He knew how close Janeway had been to his father, and he found it almost impossible to believe that she was on his side in this. No one else ever had been.

In that moment, Tom Paris would have done anything within his power for his Captain. The loyalty she had inspired by trusting him to pilot the Voyager, allowing him to be part of the team again, was nothing to the fierce allegiance he felt now, knowing that she of all people believed him when he told her truths that he had not been able to trust anyone with before. He smiled at her suddenly, and she was warmed by the brilliance of that smile, such a contrast to the sadness in his eyes.

"It's okay, Captain. Happened a long time ago." His attempt to comfort her, when she was the one who should be comforting him, moved her more than she wanted to admit. She raised a hand to pat his shoulder, and he smiled again, a wry twist of the lips.

"It doesn't address the reason for the most recent difficulties, however." The Doctor's dry voice cut into their small circle of comfort, and Janeway dropped her hand from his shoulder.

"Well, at least I can touch him now without him instinctively lashing out."

Paris flinched, and she patted his hand again. "It's alright, Tom. It wasn't your fault."

He nodded slightly, still not reassured, and the Doctor continued.

"He has not been able to access the more recent memories of assault, however, and it is these memories that are triggering the worst of the nightmares and the waking flashbacks."

"What do you suggest?" Janeway's voice was steady.

"If the Voyager was equipped with a ship's counselor, I would recommend regular, intensive counseling sessions combined with a continuation of the drug therapy I have instituted. The damage to the neuropathways has been greatly minimized and is nearly healed. Once the underlying cause of the nightmares, the assaults upon Mr. Paris while incarcerated, have been excised, he should be able to return to duty. Not to mention sleeping much better."

Paris grinned at the Doctor's final words. A good night's sleep would be a nice change. Then his brows lowered.

"But we don't have a counselor."

"Yes, we do." *That* voice wasn't one he'd expected to hear. Janeway slipped off the edge of the cot and walked across sick- bay to stand in front of Commander Chakotay.

"Commander. This was supposed to be a confidential consultation between myself, Lieutenant Paris, and the Doctor. Why are you here?"

She sounded more curious than angry, and Chakotay relaxed a bit. Paris, on the other hand, couldn't decide whether to be really pissed off or listen to what the big Maquis had to say. If Chakotay had some way to get him back in the pilot's seat...

"To volunteer my services, Captain."

Her head swung up and she looked at him strangely. Volunteer his services doing *what*?

He could almost read her thoughts. Ignoring the muttering from the holographic Doctor and the slightly choked noises coming from Paris, he concentrated on the Captain.

"In my previous postings I acted as ship's counselor when that position was not on the roster, due to crew allotment. Once I joined the Maquis, I spent a great deal of time helping people adjust to changes in life circumstances, battle stress and the loss of loved ones." His gaze shifted to Paris, who was watching him now with an odd mixture of distrust and hope. "If Lieutenant Paris is willing, I would volunteer to act in that capacity now."

"Why?" Tom's soft question underscored the lack of faith in his eyes.

"Several reasons." Chakotay stepped toward Paris, and Janeway moved back to allow the men room to confront one another. "First, you're the best pilot on the ship, and we need you if we're ever going to get home." Paris nodded, conceding the point. "Second, it's a job that I can do, and I may be the best qualified one to do it, if you'll let me." He paused, finding it hard to say the last reason but feeling compelled to be honest. "Third ... I owe you."

Paris met his eyes, startled at the difficult admission. "You don't owe me anything, Chakotay. If this is about that stupid life debt thing, I never really meant that-"

"No." Chakotay raised a hand to stem Tom's words. "Whether *you* meant it or not, *I* feel I have a debt to you. Helping you get to the truth about your past and dealing with it will alleviate that feeling of debt."

Paris looked at him for a long moment, sizing him up, trying to see through the stoic face into the man beneath, gauging his sincerity. With a short nod, he accepted Chakotay's offer, turning to the Captain and the Doctor standing silently by.

"Works for me if it works for you!"

The Doctor nodded, and Janeway, after a moment eyeing both her officers, gave her own agreement. "All right. Keep me updated and let me know if there is anything I can do."

She turned on her heel and exited the room, and Paris and Chakotay watched her go. With a sigh, Paris returned his gaze to his new shrink.

"So. Where do we go from here?"

Spirit guides. Who'd have thought he had a spirit guide. When Chakotay showed him the stone, the feather, the small piece of hide, the hand held hi-tech version of the peyote button, he had almost laughed. *Almost*, but not quite. Some part of him was so anxious to find out where these nightmares were coming from, he was willing to do just about anything to find out. So he took a little walk on the bizarre side, and talked to the animals. Maybe *they'd* have an idea what the hell was going on, and why he'd take a swing at the Captain.

"-someplace where you feel safe."

Chakotay's softly spoken instructions reached through his misgivings, and he concentrated on his "journey." Safe. That was a joke. When was the last time he'd really felt safe? He couldn't even remember ... oh. Yeah. The rainforest. He'd gone hiking there, on his own, a graduation present when he got out of the academy, before his first posting. Three weeks of him and the trees. It had been great.

"I remember this place! It's-"

"Just look. This is your journey. Concentrate on what you see, how you feel. The first animal that you see will be your guide."

Animal? That was funny. When he'd been here before there had been animals everywhere. Now, there didn't seem to be any at all. Hmph. Maybe his spirit guide decided it would rather not meet him after all. Then he saw it, a small blurry movement on the lowest tree branch. In the next instant the song trilled out, and he smiled with pure delight. A nightingale. A beautiful little nightingale. She was ... just perfect.

Chakotay was startled at the radiant joy on Paris' face. Maybe this was going to work out after all.

"Don't tell me wha