Le Rossignole by Sue Castle(1996)
Follows Paris Nocturne.
<rossignole -
nightingale>
Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been what he saw, or what he
felt. At this point, he wasn't sure of either, so he tried not to think about
it.
<<Rossignol, mon mignon, qui dans cette saulaye>> {Nightingale, my little
one, in this willow tree}
He'd never chosen the safe route, and he often set himself up to fail.
Perhaps he knew, deep in his subconscious where he didn't have to examine it
too closely, that it was the only way he could justify feeling like such a
failure to himself, give truth to his father's words. Imagine them, again,
here, years from his accusatory eyes, the weight of disappointment in his
voice, over and over and over ... you're no son of mine. I came to you for
forgiveness, Dad. I came to you for acceptance. Toleration, even if I couldn't
find love. And got what I always got.
Nothing.
<<Toutesfois, Rossignol, nous differons d'un point. C'est que tu es
aime, et je ne le suis point...>>
{Always, Nightingale, we differ from a point. It is that you are loved,
and I am not at all...}
The ship rocked under the Vidian ship's fire, and his hands dove over the
controls, expertly whipping Voyager over and around the smaller but still
deadly enemy ship. Without any effort, his hands slipped into the cadence of
the song filling the back of his mind, and his movements took on an effortless
choreography in perfect timing to the rhythm in his head.
It was a knack he'd always had, and one he was counting on to keep
himself and his crewmates out of another hell hole prison. When others had
asked how he could do it, how he could calculate maneuvers so quickly when it
was well known he wasn't particularly brilliant with physics or quantum
mechanics or any of the things that were supposed to go into making the Perfect
Star Fleet Pilot, he'd just smile. They'd think he was trying to be cocky and
mysterious, but in truth they wouldn't understand. Not unless they heard the
music too, not unless they had ever felt what it was like to merge with a ship,
feel her responses almost before she made them, work with her, feel her come
alive under his hands and do everything he asked, coaxed from her like notes
from a keyboard. Like the notes running through his mind.
Chakotay and Tuvok, working in tandem with an effortlessness that belied
their personal animosity, lay down a combined weapons shower that finally cut
through the last of the Vidians defenses. The Captain was almost too tired to
react when the crew gave a small victory cheer. One sweeping look around the
bridge restored order.
Face safely to the front, he allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk, but
it faded into something softer, something dreamier, as he realized that the
timbre to the notes he heard had changed. He felt the phantom wings stir his
hair, could almost feel the tiny beak touch his cheek affectionately, then the
sweet trilling mellowed back into the previous sound, and he wished his spirit
guide good luck, wherever she was going. In the heat of the battle, she'd been
at his side, and he hadn't truly noticed her until it was over. He smiled again,
sweetly this time, and shook his head. He wanted to see her again, talk to her.
But not here. Not now. And not until he was sure she wasn't some sort of
delusion.
<<Vas seul de branche en branche a ton gre voletant,
Degoisant a l'envy de moi, qui vois chantant
{Soar solitary from branch to branch, at your pleasure, fluttering,
Trumpeting to my envy, watching you sing
What must always be in my mouth}
"Damage report, Mr. Paris? Is there something you're not telling
me?"
The faintly sarcastic edge to Captain Janeway's voice brought the pilot
out of his reverie, and he heard a choked sound from behind him. Harry hadn't
quite managed to stifle that one. That was okay, he'd get him for it later. He
straightened in his seat and relayed the good news from the conn.
"No damages, Captain. Navigational controls are stable, all systems
operating at full capacity."
"The weapons systems bore the brunt of the attack, Captain."
Tuvok's dry, precise voice joined in the conversation, and Tom monitored
the rest of the report with only half of his attention. Other than keeping an
eye out for more harvesting Vidians, not much had been going on lately. He
hated to say it, but in a way, the battles were a godsend. They kept him from
thinking too much, and tired him out so he could usually sleep.
He glanced up to find Chakotay watching his solemnly, and winced before
he could catch himself. He really did have to talk to the commander. He
couldn't avoid it much longer. Their counseling sessions were keeping him in
the pilot's chair ... but he still couldn't quite bring himself to talk about
all of it, the nightmares in his past that were knocking his present out of
kilter. He wasn't even all that sure he had remembered all of it. He wasn't
sure he wanted to.
Too any people were privy to too many secrets. He had never been good at
trusting. If you trusted someone, you gave them a little piece of yourself, and
he'd been hurt too many times to easily allow others in. His thoughts skittered
around the bridge, to Harry, his best friend, who didn't know him at all, not
really. To the Captain, who knew much more than he wanted her to know, but he
was willing to accept that, because she had accepted him. Chakotay, an unexpected
source of comfort, and one that still made him uneasy, no matter his motives.
And Tuvok, who had actually seen his thoughts, shared his mind, and whom he
couldn't read at all. An image of B'Elanna Torres flickered before his mind's
eye, but he steadfastly refused to think of her. Ever since that bar fight,
when she had taken him back to his quarters and patched him up, they had
maintained a cautious distance. He didn't want to think of her reaction to his
music ... or the way she had held him when he freaked out and lost control of
his emotions. Too many people. Too close.
The rest of the shift was almost routine, taken up with damage reports
and patching systems up and trying to get themselves back on course. When it
finally ended, he gave the conn over to his relief with a concise briefing, and
headed quickly for the lift. Before the doors shut, Chakotay slipped between
them. Great. Just what he needed.
They stood in silence for a few moments, each waiting for the other to
speak. Tom resolutely kept his eyes forward, shifting slightly, uncomfortable
in the silence. He took it as long as he could, then glanced at Chakotay. The
big Maquis was just waiting, watching him. Tom sighed, and one side of his
mouth quirked upward with a twitch that might have passed for a smile.
"So." Not much of a conversational gambit, but all he could
think of to say.
"Free tonight?" That was Chakotay. Straight to the point.
"Yes." He might as well get it over with. "2100
okay?"
Chakotay nodded. The silence descended in the turbolift again, until the
doors swished open and Tom stepped out.
"Don't look like you're heading for the executioner, Paris. It's not
that bad."
He kept walking, a slight dip of his head the only indication he had
heard. The commander should speak for himself, he grumbled internally. Bad
didn't even begin to cover it.
"I haven't been told the results from your talk with the Captain,
Paris. She left that up to you. You can talk to me, or not, that's your
choice." Chakotay's soft, impassive voice was calming almost in spite of
what he was saying. Tom nodded, and waited for the commander to continue. For a
pinch-hitter ship's counselor, Chakotay wasn't half bad. He smiled at the mix
of images, then tuned back into the other man's words. "But you do need to
talk about your experiences with someone. Your emotional well being is tied
directly to your physical performance, and we need you healthy if you're going
to be able to help us all get home."
Yeah. Right. He needed to talk to an imaginary bird before he could
confess all to Chakotay. Why was he here? Sure, he'd felt better last time
after this weird walk in the spirit world, but maybe it was some sort of self
induced hypnosis brought on by too many nightmares and not enough sleep? Before
his self doubts could drive him completely from the room, Chakotay guided his
hand to the small black device. Tom took another deep breath, and with a mental
shrug, let his mind wander.
Back in the rainforest. God, it was beautiful. He could hear birdsong,
but he saw no animals, either in the branches filtering the gentle sunlight
overhead or the dense mossy undergrowth beneath his feet. He made his way to a
stump that looked familiar, hearing Chakotay's voice droning in the back of his
mind, something about being safe. He heard her before he saw her, drifting
lightly down, riding the faint air current to circle his head. Her previous
playfulness was missing, and she seemed to sense his somber mood. She chirped,
an interrogatory sound, then landed lightly on his shoulder. Once more, he felt
the soft head rub against his cheek, felt the hard edge of her beak as she
groomed the short hair behind his ear. A smile forced its way to his face, and
he finally began to relax.
<<Nous soupirons tous deux, ta douce vois s'essaie
De flechir celle-la, qui te va tourmentant
Et moi, je suis aussi cette-la regrettant
Qui m'a fait dans le couer une se aigre plaie.>>
{We sigh together, your sweet path tries
To sway that which is distressing you
And me, I am regretting that as well
Which makes in my heart a bitter pain}
He glanced to the side, and saw bright dark eyes peering at him from a
tiny, sweet face. His nightingale. Or was he hers? He didn't know for certain.
Without conscious volition, his mind began to replay the nightmares of the past
several nights. Different than those he had had before, those dreams of helplessness
and pain. These dreams horrified him, partly because he didn't see clearly what
had happened in them, and partly because he knew that they were true. What he
had done was hidden in these dreams. And he was afraid to face it. To deal with
the consequences of his actions. He had never been very good at that.
A soft, insistent trill began to weave through the air, and he let
himself fall into the web of melody. As he rested there, safe in her care, the
shadows gradually solidified. She led him through a familiar place, cold,
frightening, the thin strand of light that was her song guiding him through the
darkness. A building, an office. Bright sunlight outside the window, but not
bright enough to cover the darkness inside. A man, with power over him, one who
had hurt him. One who would hurt him again, and allow others to hurt him as
well. The powerlessness, stealing over him, paralyzing him, the sure knowledge
that it was going to happen another time, and more times after that. Until he
was broken. Until he was dead, inside if not in actuality. He was a commodity
here, for others, not even for himself. He had to stop it. Could not, would
not, allow them, allow him, had to end it before it all began again
noyoucan'tyoumustn'tyouWILLNOT
<<quand la jongle s'obscurcit>>
{when the jungle
shadows fall}
<<la tu te degages>>
{you free yourself}
The melody was drowned out by his screams, rage and fear and hatred
intermingled. The fragile cradle of her song was crushed.
"Tom!"
Chakotay reached out for the shaking figure of the pilot, but
"Oh, shit, I'm sorry."
He forced himself to look at Chakotay, who was staring at him with the
most expression he'd ever seen on the normally impassive face. Chakotay's mouth
was slightly open, his eyes wide. He swallowed, and visibly gathered his
composure. Tom waited, half afraid of the Indian's reaction. After all, he'd
just flipped out and crushed Chakotay's high tech peyote button. God only knew
what he'd do. He stared at him and wondered if he should run for it while he
had the chance. Finally, Chakotay cleared his throat and addressed the younger
man.
"You want to tell me what happened?" His control was back, only
a slight tremor in his voice betraying his shock.
"Can you replicate another one?" Tom started toward the small
pile of metal fragments, kneeling to gather them up.
"What *happened*,
Tom ignored the implied command and concentrated on gathering up the
debris. Chakotay reconsidered his approach.
"It really seems to have gotten to you, Tom." Coaxing now, as
if the pilot was a wild animal who's confidence he was trying to win.
"Perhaps if you could tell me what it was you discovered, or
remembered-"
"Nothing!" Tom's hand clenched around the mess in his hand, and
he flinched and cursed softly under his breath when a ragged edge bit into his
palm. "Damnit. That's sharp." He looked up at Chakotay, and the older
man sighed in frustration when he saw the defenses firmly back in place behind
those deceptively clear blue eyes. "D'you think it can be salvaged?"
"Leave it,
"Use my replicator rations," Tom offered, insisting when
Chakotay started to shake his head. "I broke the damned thing, I'll pay
for replacing it!"
Chakotay stared at him for a long moment, then set his jaw and nodded.
"This is getting us nowhere," he admitted. "Why don't you go
ahead and get some rest. I'll discuss with the Doctor what he recommends we try
next."
The commander's report of his aborted counseling session with Lieutenant
Paris gnawed at Captain Janeway's mind. She found herself staring at the back
of Paris' burnished head, wondering what was going on in there, almost as if
the weight of her desire to help could psychically burrow into his brain and
force him to open up to her. It wasn't working. With a silent sigh, she nodded
to Chakotay.
"You have the bridge, Commander. I'll be in my ready room."
"Yes, Captain." He'd seen her concerned looks. He knew what she
was heading off to do.
Once in the privacy of her 'office', Janeway quickly opened a channel to
sickbay. The Doctor gave the screen a peculiarly intense stare, and she
realized she had interrupted one of his tests. Again. Too bad. She felt some
measure of sympathy for the hologram, but her concern over her pilot was
stronger.
"Have you reviewed Commander Chakotay's report on his most recent
counseling session with Mr. Paris, Doctor?"
"Yes, Captain, I have," he returned, looking vaguely insulted
that she would even ask.
"Your recommendations?"
"I have done everything medically feasible to assist Mr. Paris in
the healing process, Captain. All of the damage caused when the false memories
were implanted into Mr. Paris' brain has been healed, the neural pathways are
strong and whole. He is in possibly the best health he has enjoyed in
years." He paused at her look of patent disbelief, and sniffed.
"Aside from the continuing problem with the nightmares and insomnia
associated with same, of course."
"What can we do about that, Doctor?" She tented her fingers in
front of her chin and stared at him. "Surely there is something that can
help him."
"Other than mild sedatives, no. The only thing that can help Mr.
Paris at this point is if and when Mr. Paris decides to confront the root causes
of his emotional dysfunction and deal with them. Until that time, medical
science has nothing further than can be of any assistance." His firm tone
brooked no argument, and she sighed deeply.
"In other words, it's up to Mr. Paris." Her tone was pensive.
"Precisely. Now, Captain, if that is all?" He was abrupt, and
somewhat irascible. Typical, she thought. She nodded and cut the connection.
Perhaps it was up to
Another long day, filled with trying to make one part stretch to do the
job of three. There were times when she was thankful that she had so much experience
in the Maquis. If nothing else, she had learned to jury-rig with the best, and
the knowledge was coming in handy.
B'Elanna gave the now-humming tube an affectionate pat, then looked
around Engineering. Shift change had come and gone long ago, while she was
involved in replacing the harmonics modulator. Harry would have long since
retired to his quarters, and she had a feeling that Chakotay would be busy ...
with the Captain, if she guessed right. She absently swiped the last of the
hydraulic fluid from her hands and waved good-night to the night OIC. She
supposed she could look up Marika, or L'renm, or one of her handful of friends,
and wind down from a stressful day. She mentally reviewed her options as her
steps found their way automatically to the holosuites. Stopping outside the
doors, she took a deep breath.
She wasn't going anywhere except Sandrine's. She and Paris had been
tiptoeing around one another like targs at a feeding pit, and she was tired of
it. Patience had never been her strong suit.
"Computer, locate Lieutenant Paris."
"Lieutenant Paris is in Holosuite Two." That answered that
question. He was here. Now, if she could just get him to talk to her.
Unconsciously, she squared her shoulders and stepped through the door.
He hadn't put on the privacy lock, and glancing at her chronometer she
could see why. 0127. Most people were sound asleep by now. She paused outside
the door to the bar, breathing in the foggy pseudo-Marseilles air, and
listened.
The clear notes drifted through the still air, and her lips curved in
anticipation. He was singing. Maybe, if she was very, very quiet, he wouldn't
notice she was there until after he finished the song. Last time she'd
surprised him in the middle of singing he'd nearly broken the piano shutting the
keyboard up. She wanted to listen to him, and this might be her only chance.
She slipped as silently as a shadow into the dim bar, staying along the
walls, out of the light. She didn't understand why he was so secretive about
his music. He was good. Even with her limited knowledge of the art she could
tell that he had talent. He just didn't seem to want anyone else to know about
it. She found a small table near the side of the bar, screened from the stage
by the holopatrons swaying on the minuscule dance floor. Fixing her eyes on the
shining head bent over the gleaming old piano, she waved away the waitress and
concentrated on the music. She didn't understand a word he was saying, but she
didn't need to. The longing in his voice and the trembling of the notes his
skilled hands coaxed from the worn keys were all she needed to understand.
Nuit et jour tu es mon choix
Rien que toi sous la lune d'or ou sous le ciel bleu
Eloignee ou pres de moi
Peu importe 'darling' ou tu es,
Je songe a toi, nuit a jour, jour et nuit
His fingers rippled over the keys, and she could have sworn the
instrument was crying. A complicated series of notes, like an audible
waterfall, surrounded her, and his voice blended in naturally. When the cool
perfume of the bar owner, Sandrine, settled beside her, she didn't spare her a
glance, too caught up in the magic of the music. The whispered translation wove
itself perfectly into the melody.
<night and day,
you are the one,
Only you beneath the
moon and under the sun.
Whether near to me
or far
It's no matter,
darling, where you are
I think of you night
and day, day and night>
B'Elanna's tense muscles began to relax under the soothing influence of
the music. Her face softened into a smile, and she dropped her chin to rest it
in one hand, completely captivated. This brought back memories, good memories,
of the one thing she and her mother had been able to share and enjoy together.
Pourquoi, dismoi,
Fautil qu'un desir brulant me poursuive partout?
Dans le bruit de la ville,
Dans le silence de ma chambre
Je songe a toi, nuit et jour,
nuit et jour
<Why is it so
That this longing
for you follows wherever I go?
In the roaring
traffic's boom
In the silence of my
lonely room
I think of you,
night and day, night and day>
She found herself drawn forward, the sad words pulling at something
inside herself that she didn't recognize. The movement caught his eye, pulling
him away from the pool of concentration he was maintaining, and she froze. He
saw her face clearly through the dancers, and easily read her expression,
letting his hands wander through variations on harmony as he made up his mind.
She knew, already, and he didn't know if he could explain why he felt so
hesitant about sharing this part of himself. For a moment, he felt the silky
caress of a small round head along his jaw, and he gave in. Holding her eyes
with his, he slid gracefully back into the melody. He could swear he heard a
trilling voice weaving in counterpoint through the music.
Les jours se succedent plus troublants les uns que les autres.
Mais ce tourment cessera,
Quand je pourrai te tenir dans mes bras, cherie
jour et nuit, nuit et jour, Nuit et jour.
This time she didn't need Sandrine's whispered translation, as Paris
muted the underlying piano and allowed his voice to carry the final verse, in
Standard, so she would understand him.
There's such a
hungry yearning, burning inside of me.
And it's torment
won't be through
'Til you let me
spend my life making love to you
day and night, night
and day, Night and day
He trailed his right hand almost languidly across the upper keys, sending
a cascade of tinkling notes over the dancers, then finished with a diminishing
chord with his left hand. The final reverberations seemed to fade for a very
long time, allowing the listeners to gradually come out from the spell they had
been under. A softly spoken command from
"I think perhaps you will do well for my Thomas." B'Elanna gave
the holograph a brief, confused look, and Sandrine smiled softly. "You are
much alike."
Before B'Elanna could respond, the blonde woman swayed past the table,
pausing only briefly to caress Tom's cheek with the palm of her hand.
"This seat taken?" He gestured at the chair Sandrine had just
vacated.
"It's your program," she shrugged, feeling a little
uncomfortable, but determined to stick it out. He grinned again, and relaxed a
little.
"I was surprised to see you here ." A glass of red wine appeared
on the table in front of him, and he cocked his head at B'Elanna. She looked up
at the hovering waitress.
"I don't suppose you have any blood wine?" The waitress nodded,
and B'Elanna pursed her lips. "That'll do." The drink appeared almost
before she closed her mouth on the words.
"Benefits of a bar in a holosuite, B'Elanna. Best service
around." He lifted his glass in a quick toast, and she did the same. After
they had both sipped, she put her mug down and began to fiddle with the handle.
He watched her for a moment, drawing one fingertip around and around the rim of
his glass.
"I didn't mean to-"
"What did you think of-"
Their voices overlapped, and they stopped speaking simultaneously. With a
slice of grin, he waved his hand in invitation.
"Ladies first." She snorted indelicately, and the grin widened.
"I didn't mean to butt in." Her tone was truculent, her
expression guarded.
He licked his lips and took a deep breath. It was no wonder she felt that
way ... the first and only time she'd wandered in while he was playing he'd
closed up the piano so fast it was a wonder he hadn't cracked the keyboard.
"You didn't." To his own surprise, he realized he meant it.
"You're really good." At his instinctive head shake, she
pressed forward. "No, you are. I don't know a lot about Earth classics,
and I don't know French from Andorian, but I ... my mom and I used to watch a
lot of musicvids when I was a kid."
Her voice softened, and he leaned forward a little to hear her. "It
was one of the few things, maybe the only thing, that we could actually do
together, without one of us pissing off the other and getting into a screaming
match." She glanced up, and saw his intent expression. Suddenly
embarrassed, she continued gruffly, "So I know good when I hear it. How
come you're so touchy about it?"
He was silent for so long she didn't think he was going to answer. When
he did, his voice was as quiet as hers had been.
"My mother was a nightclub singer. She gave up her career when she
married my father, because even then there were just some things that the wife
of a rising Star Fleet officer did not do."
The bitterness underlying the words told her much more than he intended
about his relationship with his father. She sipped her wine and kept her eyes
fixed on his face.
"I never did figure out why she thought he was worth the sacrifice.
I don't remember very much about her, she died when I was three. But I heard
enough when I was growing up. Couldn't speak French in the house, because she'd
been French, and he didn't want to hear that language."
"So of course you became fluent in it," B'Elanna interjected
dryly. His eyes gleamed in the semidarkness of the bar.
"D'accord. Learned to play the piano, too. And sing. 'Though I
couldn't do that around the house, either. God forbid I should do anything that
was not the model of a proper admiral's son." An expression of distaste
wrinkled his nose, and for a moment she thought he'd actually spit. "No
hanging out in the clubs, no wasting my time on that stupid music when I should
be drilling myself on physics and tactics and history and, oh god, can't forget
the protocol."
She shook her head in sympathy, and he laughed at himself.
"So I became a barfly when I was supposed to be in class. Still
don't really understand physics, 'specially the temporal kind. Tactics must be
in my genes, because I sure as hell didn't learn them at the academy, but I am
a damned good pilot. History? Who the hell cares, they're all dead anyway. As
for protocol," he lifted his glass to her one more time, "we all know
how adept I am at *that*!"
He poured the rest of the wine down his throat, and wagged the glass at
the bar. When the waitress brought the wine jug over, he caught her wrist.
"Just leave it, darlin', and bring over the lady's bottle, too." He
stared at B'Elanna, almost challengingly. "So, that's my tale of a
misspent youth. What's yours?"
She grinned. "You name it, I beat it up." She surprised a crack
of laughter out of him, and he grabbed the newer bottle and filled her mug.
"This I've got to hear."
They talked for over three hours, until the wine was gone and they had to
report for duty in just a few more hours. B'Elanna stretched and rolled her
head from shoulder to shoulder, loosening the muscles in her neck.
"If I'm not going to sleep anyway, this is the best way to not
sleep," she sighed.
"What, yapping 'til all hours of the night in a bar?" he
teased, and she grinned at him.
"Might as well. At least it's better than pool!"
He terminated the program, and they walked slowly down the corridor
toward her quarters. Their tongues were tired, and they felt more relaxed
around one another than they ever had. Stopping in front of her door, she
turned to him with a serious expression.
"Thanks for not stopping when you noticed me, Paris."
He swallowed, still not quite able to explain why he had kept singing.
Sucking in his lower lip, he lifted one shoulder in a half shrug.
"Glad you liked it," he offered.
"Yes. I did," she stated firmly, hooking one finger into his
collar.
Before he could quite figure out her intentions, she pulled his face
easily down to her level, and captured his mouth in a kiss. Almost as soon as
it began, it was over. Wide cerulean eyes locked with deep brown, and she let
him go with a satisfied smirk. The door closed behind her before he could
gather his scattered wits enough to respond. He stared at the closed door for a
long moment, half lifted a hand to press the chime, then absently pressed his
fingertips to his lips, instead. He had to think about this.
If it wasn't one mad enemy, it was another, Paris thought, then felt the
ship shudder around his body as one of the Kazon phasers cut a little too close
to the engines. Like he needed this, coming off of a sleepless night. Damage
reports were streaming in from all sides, the shields were beginning to fail,
and there were reinforcements coming. For the Kazon, of course. Just once, he
groaned to himself, just once I'd like to see *us* with an ally out here.
A sparkling shower of fire from a nearby console distracted him for a
moment, but he couldn't worry about it right then. Two Kazon warships were
pincering the Voyager and a third was arrowing up under her belly. He didn't
have time to call out warning, and Janeway must have read his mind, because she
gave Tuvok the order to fire at will at the same moment he abandoned the
programmed evasive maneuvers and tossed the ship into a corkscrew pattern,
erupting from the hostile web of fire to flip and come back over, giving Tuvok
a free range of fire that allowed him to quickly disable the largest of the
ships.
He shot through the remaining two warships, the inertial dampers
straining to keep up as he put her through maneuvers she was never intended to
perform. But his Voyager didn't let him down. Coming across belly up, Tuvok
raked the remaining warships with sustained phaser fire, and another ship
exploded. Paris sent them careening through the remains of the second ship,
exploding out from the debris at the perfect angle for Tuvok to fire one
compressed burst at the main weapon battery of the sole remaining Kazon ship,
and it joined its brothers in oblivion. It was almost as if Tuvok and Paris
were sharing their thoughts, they worked so smoothly together.
Clear of the immediate threat, bearing in mind Harry Kim's warnings of
more on the way, Janeway ordered a tactical retreat, and B'Elanna pushed her
abused engines to their limits, taking them to relative safety. The crew
breathed a sigh of relief when it was over. It had been close.
"Inspired flying, Mr. Paris," the Captain complimented him
wryly, patting him on the shoulder. "I'm not sure B'Elanna will ever
forgive you, however."
He shared an exhausted smile with her. When he turned back to the screen,
she frowned with concen at his pallor. When they had time ... always when there
was time ...
Repairs took most of the day, and
Kes shadowed the doctor, handing him instruments before he had to ask,
calming frightened crewmen, and keeping a close eye on Tom. He was patently
exhausted, and her empathic antenna were quivering. Something was seriously
wrong with her friend.
Six hours and almost seventy injured crewmembers later, Kes and Tom
finally finished up with the last of the patients. Those who needed further
care were safely in their biobeds, and the rest had been patched up and sent
back to their quarters. After ascertaining that Kes was all right, and asking
after
"Tom?" The concern in her gentle voice caught his attention,
even as spaced out with fatigue as he was. "Are you all right?"
He looked at her for a heartbeat. "Uhm, well," he started, then
shook his head. "I'm fine, Kes." He tried to smile at her, but it
didn't quite work. "Just tired. I'll be okay once I get a little sleep.
Been a hel-- a long day." He reached out and patted her hand as it rested
on his arm, and she smiled at him. She didn't believe a word of it, but she
wouldn't pressure him.
"If you ever need to talk..." she trailed off, allowing him to
take the initiative. He smiled with tired gratitude, but didn't take her up on
the offer.
"'Night, Kes," he squeezed her hand gently and let her go. Her
gaze followed him as he wandered down the corridor toward the lift, worry
shadowing the normally sparkling blue eyes. She couldn't help unless he asked,
she decided, but he had better ask soon. Before something gave and he got
caught up in the emotional backlash.
He hadn't been this exhausted since those first few weeks at the penal
colony. Barely finding the energy to strip off his uniform and kick off his
boots, Tom fell into bed and rolled over onto his back. If he was very, very
lucky he would sleep through the night ... but then, his luck always had
sucked, he admitted to himself. Staring at the ceiling, he repeated his nightly
mantra in hopes of staving off the nightmares and finally getting some rest. 'I
am safe. On the Voyager. I am safe here.' Gradually, the cadence of the words
soothed his restless mind, and he slipped into sleep.
It waited until he was in the deepest pattern of sleep before it came
upon him, at his most defenseless. Thought the horror was over, was just
starting to feel sort of safe again. Then the bastard got promoted. The one who
had helped them, who had joined them. The guard who had let them into his room
and had cuffed his hands to the bedframe, who had held him down, who was one of
them. Now he was more than a guard, he was warden of the whole fucking cell
block. And he was currying favor with some of the hard core prisoners, the
longtimers who were the real power structure in the penal colony. And
It had happened once, to put him in his place, to punish him and teach
him where he stood in the pecking order. But this was more than that. This was
a planned continuing abuse, and he was a pawn in the middle, a prize for
others. The vulnerability from the first time rocked him to the core again, and
he knew, then, that he couldn't let it happen.
Star Fleet wouldn't help him, those who were supposed to protect him and
hadn't. He could seek out an inmate protector, but he wasn't willing to sell
himself to another, and that was the only payment he could give. Besides, why
would they want to protect him when they could all share him, with the block
commander's blessing? No. It was up to him. He had to stop them. Had to stop
*him*. Had to make them afraid, as afraid as he had been. It was the only way
he could ever be safe.
He had a friend. An old prisoner, irredeemable murderer, been there for
thirty years. He took care of the gardens, a funny task for a killer. But Tom
liked him, and he liked Tom. And he would help.
The scene shifted, and he was there again, in the bright dark room with
the man who would hurt him. Playing along, pretending acquiescence. He didn't
have to fake the fear. Lying to him, telling him he'd go along, just don't hurt
him, don't make him go through that again.
<<quand la
jongle s'obscurcit>>
Begging, all the time drawing him up from the desk, over to the open
window. Gritting his teeth, allowing the touches, distracting him with his body
while his hand slipped below the sill to the small containment box his old
friend had left for him. Drawing him nearer, all his attention on what he was
holding, bringing his arms up as if to pull the bastard closer. One hand at his
neck, tugging at his collar, he could play passion even with the bile rising in
his throat. The other hand, index finger flicking the tiny button, the precious
cargo dumped so quickly down the gap in the back of his collar. One arm now
holding the collar tight to his neck, one arm in an iron grip around his waist,
holding the son of a bitch so that the spider could do it's work.
{when the jungle
shadows fall}
Seeing the cold light eyes, greedy with lust moments before, widening in
shock, the jerk of his body against his own as the bites began, couldn't let
him scream, couldn't take the chance that the medics would get there in time,
covering his mouth with his own to muffle the screams, gagging but forcing
himself. The convulsions began then, anaphylactic shock squeezing the life from
his enemy. He drew back, no danger of screams now, dropped the corpse in front
of the window, hit the second tiny button on the little box and watched it self
destruct.
<<la tu te
degages>>
Swallowing the gorge rising in his throat, slipping out the door, glad
the bastard had insisted on this meeting being private, had to protect his
little schemes, as if anyone would care what happened to a prisoner, especially
one like him.
{you free yourself}
Making it to his quarters, biting back the scream trembling in his
throat, stumbling to the head and vomiting, waiting for them to come. They
knew. Now, he would be safe.
Please.
Another secret to stain his soul, one so close to the lie that had been
forced on his mind, but this one was true.
One deck above Tom Paris' haunted quarters, another shared his ghosts.
Tuvok's eyes shot open, and he sat upright in bed in one swift,
controlled jerk. His breath was coming rapidly, and a fine sheen of
perspiration covered his dark skin. He stared into the darkness, his mind
sorting through the images he had been unwillingly sharing, trying to make
sense of what he had seen. And why he had seen it.
Drawing a deep breath, he imposed discipline on his rioting thoughts,
sitting perfectly still until his heart and respiration rates were normal. The
details of the dream were not completely clear, as if he had seen them through
a scrying mirror or in the reflection of slowly moving water. But the emotions
were sharp, the acrid taste of Human fear, the stone cold determination, the
sick horror.
Something would definitely have to be done about Lieutenant Paris.
Janeway sighed to herself, concern showing in her clear gray eyes. Tom
looked, if anything, worse than he had the previous day. True, they could all
stand a little break between hostile aggressors, and some R & R would
certainly help, but the finely drawn tension in her pilot's shoulders and his
drained face worried her. Near the end of the shift, a blissfully uneventful
one, she stood.
"Commander, you have the conn. Mr. Paris, my ready room." Her
command voice gave no indication of her trepidation. She didn't want to force
any sort of confrontation, but something had to be done. With
"Would you like anything, Mr. Paris? I could certainly use some
coffee after this shift." Her smile encouraged him to relax, and he gave
her a tentative smile in return.
"Nothing for me, thanks, Captain." As he stood there
indecisively, she wrapped her fingers around a steaming mug and lowered herself
onto the end of her couch.
"Have a seat, Mr. Paris," she invited, patting the cushion
beside her.
He stepped forward with some hesitation and gingerly perched on the edge
of the seat. She was irresistibly reminded of a feral cat that had lived by her
parents' apartment, a wiry, underfed beast with a coat the color of a lion and
eyes that held only wariness. She never had been able to get it to come close
enough to pat it. Her father had told her it was just as well, that it probably
had fleas or a disease of some sort, but she had always been disappointed that
it had not learned to trust her. Shaking herself from the memory, she gazed
solemnly at the young man beside her.
"You don't look like you've been getting much sleep, Tom."
He dropped his eyes, looking at the strong hands twisting together in his
lap. She followed the movement, and he noticed her watching him. Forcing his
fingers to stay still, he attempted a nonchalant shrug. "Been a busy
couple of days, Captain."
She chewed the corner of her mouth for a moment, then set the cup down,
leaning slightly toward him, inviting confidence. "This has been going on
for longer than a couple of days, Tom. Are you still having the
nightmares?"
He took a deep breath. "No, Captain. Not ... those nightmares."
As far as he knew, she was the only one who knew the full truth about the
attacks he had suffered at the penal colony. And he wasn't actually lying. His
recent nightmares weren't specifically about the ... his mind shied from the
word rape.
"Have you talked to the Doctor about getting a sleeping aid?"
"Oh, that's no good, Captain. Just makes it even harder to wake up
from the-" He stopped abruptly, realizing what he had just let slip. He
must be tired, he groaned to himself.
Of course, she caught it. "So if you're not having the type of
nightmares you were plagued with before, then what are you so anxious to wake
up from, Tom?" Her tone was gentle, concerned. He stared at her for a long
moment, face drawn with the conflicting need to tell her and the need to protect
himself. In the end, as it always had, self-preservation won out.
"I'm not really sure, Captain," he lied through his teeth,
feeling like he was betraying her trust in him but unable to admit the truth to
her. "Just emotions and flashes of memory."
"Would further regressive hypnotherapy sessions help uncover these
memories?"
He shuddered involuntarily, and she reached out to lay a comforting hand
on his shoulder. "I ... don't think I'm quite ready for that,
Captain." His voice shook slightly.
"Well, think about it, Tom. Talk to me, or Chakotay, or one of your
friends. Talk to Harry, he cares about you and he has a good head on his
shoulders." She squeezed his shoulder briefly and let him go. "This
can't go on much longer, Tom."
He smiled lopsidedly at her and nodded acknowledgment. Somehow, he really
couldn't see talking this over with the kid. But she was right, he had to do
something. He was just damned if he knew what. "Thanks, Captain, I'll work
on it."
"We are your friends here, Tom. Let us help." He rose, nodding
again, and she watched him until the door closed behind him. Picking up her
nearly cold coffee, she swished the liquid thoughtfully. Maybe it hadn't helped
much, but at least he knew the door was open.
Tuvok caught up with Commander Chakotay as the big Maquis was sitting
down to lunch. Chakotay looked up at him with some surprise. Tuvok typically
ate alone, and normally avoided him like the plague, but here he was, standing
at the side of the table holding a tray.
"May I join you?" No telling from the typical lack of
inflection what the purpose behind this visit might be.
The commander raised a brow, then gestured with one hand. "Be my
guest."
Tuvok settled himself with a minimum of fuss across from Chakotay, then
contemplated the stringy mass of light yellow mush on his plate, perfectly
complimented by the chartreuse boiled root laying beside it. The other man
looked at that offering, looked at his own strange concoction of pale brown
spongy stuff with light purple specks, and sighed.
"Well, the food isn't a good topic of conversation, so what do you
propose we talk about, Tuvok?"
Tuvok managed to stifle his instinctive distaste at the first bite,
forcing his throat to swallow, then laid his spoon aside. He really wasn't all
that hungry. Looking up to meet Chakotay's curious gaze, he ignored his tray
and addressed his reason for forgoing his usual solitary lunch.
"I do not mean to pry, Commander, but I was curious about the progress
of your counseling sessions with Mr. Paris."
"What were you wondering about, Tuvok?" This, a little
suspiciously. Chakotay's rivalry with and slight distrust of Tuvok had only
grown over the course of the last several months.
"It is not necessary to betray any details or confidences, but I
would like to know if you feel that any progress is being made in assisting
Lieutenant Paris to face the events in his past which have caused him emotional
trauma."
"Why?" A little more blunt now, but he had the feeling there
was something the Vulcan wasn't telling him.
"He is our most competent pilot. I am concerned that his emotional
state may affect his performance. Also, as head of Security, it is my duty to
ascertain whether crew members with a past history for emotionally-motivated
violence are dealing with those emotions in such a way as to avert future
incidents." Serene dark eyes met suspicious ones, and the suspicions
gradually softened. That explanation made perfect sense.
Chakotay poked fitfully at his, what, casserole? He shook his head and
gave up the attempt to classify his lunch. Glop would have to do. "I think
we've hit a stalemate, Tuvok. He has issues he can't comfortably discuss with
me, and trying to force him to open up will only drive the pain deeper. At this
point, I think he just needs some time." Glancing at the wall chrono, he
gathered up his tray and rose to leave. "You'll have to excuse me, break's
over. Back to the bridge."
Tuvok nodded acknowledgment, and slowly wound some yellow strings around
his fork. Perhaps Lieutenant Paris did need time, but he also needed help. And
it appeared as though he would have to be the one to offer it to him.
Captain Janeway was surprised to see Tuvok at her door after dinner that
evening. She'd known him a long time, and she could see the concern beneath his
calm mien.
"Tuvok! Come in. Is something wrong?" She waved him to a chair,
pouring a second mug of creamy
"Captain, I am ... disturbed about Lieutenant Paris." When he
didn't go on, she nodded encouragingly.
"So am I. He's not sleeping, and while it hasn't affected his
piloting yet, it is worrisome. I think his nightmares have come back, if they
ever really left."
"That is precisely what worries me, Captain." He took a single
sip of tea, then set the mug down on the side table and bent forward to address
Kathryn. "I have spoken with Commander Chakotay. Without going into any
detail that would be unacceptable under patient/counselor confidentiality, he
has made it plain to me that he and Mr. Paris are at an impasse. He believes
that Mr. Paris needs time to process the memories that he has recently
accessed. However, there is a factor that Commander Chakotay is unaware of, as
is, I believe, Mr. Paris himself."
The captain sat wide-eyed. "What is that, Tuvok? If it will
help..."
"There is some sort of psychic connection between Mr. Paris'
subconscious and my own."
She sat bolt upright, and he continued. "I have been privy to the
contents of Mr. Paris' nightmares in the past few weeks, since the inception of
his regressive hypnotherapy sessions with the Doctor. As time passes, the
images are becoming more vivid and more urgent. I am, in essence, dreaming Mr.
Paris' dreams."
"How is that possible?" Janeway asked quietly. "And why
Tom?"
"It is my hypothesis that there was a connection formed between Mr.
Paris' mind and my own when we engaged in the mindmeld to determine his
innocence in the murder of the scientist several weeks ago. It would seem that
my entering Mr. Paris' mind when he was both physically and psychologically
torn by the neural implants has had an unexpected side effect."
"But the Doctor said that all the damage to the neural pathways had
been healed. Could this be some sort of residual aftereffect?"
"I do not believe so, Captain. I took the liberty of accessing Mr.
Paris' psychological evaluation and the psychic profiles taken while he was at
Star Fleet academy. Mr. Paris scored unusually high in telepathic psi, not
highly enough to be classified as a functional telepath, but certainly within
the range to where a subconscious connection with a telepath with whom he has
shared a meld is not only feasible, but quite likely. There is also some
indication that his mother was a low level telepath. It is unusual that no
attempts were made when he was young to explore this possible genetic
talent."
"Given what we have discovered about his childhood, Tuvok, it might
not be that surprising." She took a long swallow of tea, and cocked her
head at Tuvok. "Would you be willing to approach Mr. Paris and offer your
services as a listener, Tuvok? He won't open up to me, or Chakotay, and as far
as I've been able to tell he won't talk to any of his friends about it
either."
"It has come to my attention that, contrary to Mr. Paris' reputation
as a social being, he spends most of his time either with Ensign Kim,
Lieutenant Torres, or alone. Perhaps he does not feel comfortable delving into
these memories with either Mr. Kim or Mr. Torres."
He paused to finish his tea, not completely comfortable with the idea of
sharing these memories with Paris himself. On the other hand, he already was an
unwilling participant. If speaking with
"Excellent. And Tuvok, use your judgment. If what Mr. Paris tells
you doesn't affect the crew or the ship, you will of course keep it in
confidence. Let him come to others in his own time, as much as possible."
The Vulcan nodded his agreement, then rose and took the mug over to the
replicator to be recycled. "Thank you for the tea."
"You're welcome, Tuvok." As he reached the door, her voice
followed him. "Let me know how it turns out, and ... good luck."
The ship could use the break, he didn't doubt, but these long, dull
shifts with nothing to do but steer her in a straight course very nearly made
him crazy. Tom slouched against his bed, idly flipping cards into an impromptu
basket he'd fashioned out of his discarded tunic. One thing was for certain. He
was bored out of his skull. Maybe talking to somebody might not be such a bad
idea. True, he didn't want to freak Harry out, but maybe if he skipped the
particulars and sort of brought it up in a round about way ...
Without giving himself time to think of all the reasons he did *not* want
Harry to learn the details his time in the penal colony, Tom grabbed a raw silk
shirt from his closet, stuffing his arms in the sleeves and pushing the tails
into the waistband of his pants. Might as well see what ol' Harry was up to.
He could hear the piercing sweetness of the clarinet as soon as the door
to his friend's quarters slid open. "Sorry, Harry, I didn't mean to
interrupt-"
Harry dropped the end of the instrument down and gave Tom a 'don't be an
ass' look from under his brows. Tom grinned in response and flopped on the
couch in his customary spot. He stayed unusually silent as Kim worked his way
through the melancholy second movement of the Mozart piece he was working on,
then dropped the mouthpiece from his lips. Taking a soft cloth and efficiently
breaking the clarinet down to clean it, he folded his legs under him and sat
next to Tom on the couch.
"I was nearly finished anyway. That second movement is a real
challenge."
"I liked it." Tom's voice was soft, his eyes not quite focused.
"Oh, no," Harry laughed slightly, "This isn't about Kes,
is it?"
Tom came back to the present, and grinned back at him. "Nah, that's
been hashed out. Me and Neelix, we're buddies now."
Harry considered this for a moment. "Does that mean he cooks
specially for you?" The mischief in his tone was mirrored in his eyes, but
he managed to keep a straight face.
"God, no!"
Both men laughed, and for a little while they were content in the
silence. Harry finished cleaning his instrument and carefully placed it on the
plain wooden stand Chakotay had helped him carve. He looked down at his
friend's distracted countenance, and licked his top lip. Wonder how long it'll
be before he spills, he thought, and Tom reacted as if he'd spoken aloud.
"Harry," he began slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I
... know this guy." God, Tom, oldest cliché in the book,
"Kimshee?" Harry interjected. "Isn't that some kind of
Korean food?"
Tom sighed. "Well, it, um, smells, if you're not used to it, and it
sounds better than saying he'd be in deep shit. Okay?" He glared briefly
at Harry, and the younger man nodded for him to continue. At least his
interruption had gotten Tom to look at him.
"Anyway, he was in a bind, and he took some ... drastic steps to,
sort of, protect himself. And nobody knew, well, actually, they did know, but
nobody said anything, and it's not like there's any official record, because if
they started digging into it they'd turn over way too many rocks and who knows
what might come crawling out, and they sure as hell wouldn't want some of their
dirty little secrets to see the light of day." He stopped, tangled up in
his own words. This wasn't going to work. "Oh, forget it."
"What did you remember, Tom?" Harry's voice was very gentle.
Tom lifted startled eyes to his face, taken somewhat aback by the understanding
he saw there. He took a deep breath, and let it out all at once.
"I don't think I can tell you, Harry." He closed his eyes for a
moment at the hurt in his friend's face, then tried to explain. "Not just
you. Anybody. I ... did something. It was something I had to do at the time,
but no one else will see it that way. I know they won't. There's ... too much
goes into it, too much I don't want to explain to anyone. If people find out,
then all the work I've been trying to do to change, to start over, it'll be no
good, I'll be an outcast again."
His eyes had darkened until they were almost cobalt, and Harry could feel
the pain the older man was trying to suppress. "I don't know what to
do," Tom almost whispered.
Harry was silent for a long time, letting the words sift through his
thoughts, trying to find some way to help. Reaching out to push Tom's hair back
from his forehead, feeling at a loss, he gave the only advice he could.
"It sounds like it comes down to trust, Tom. Who do you trust with this
information? And what do you think they'll do with it? Do to you?"
From the involuntary shudder that went through
"I don't know if I can, Harry."
Kim watched him rise and head for the door. As he disappeared into the
hall, he murmured, "Try."
Tom wasn't paying much attention to his steps, so of course they led him
directly to the holodeck. He leaned one hand against the wall outside the door
and dropped his head. He wasn't in the mood for Sandrine's ... it wasn't late
enough, there would be crewmembers there, he wouldn't be able to get lost in
his music. He didn't want to go back to his quarters. Harry sure didn't need
him dumping any more on him. Before he could come up with a viable alternative
to acting like a door guard to the holosuite or giving up and running away to
hide in the hydroponics bay, he heard a firm step behind him.
"
"Whatcha doing?" He grinned. "Going for a picnic?"
She stared back at him, one corner of her mouth curling up. He
undoubtedly knew just how the sapphire of his shirt brought out the color of
his eyes, and how that particular combination of silk and skin would make most
females in the area react, as well as a lot of the males. But he wasn't
pushing, tonight, and she decided to invite him along.
"Yeah, actually, I am. Want to join me?" His eyes widened with
surprise, then the grin softened into a sweet smile. Her mouth went a little
dry. This could be fun.
"Sure. I'd like that," he nodded. "Thanks."
"I was wanting to continue our conversation from a f