Chapter 3 They were two striking figures, or at least Paris thought so from the looks he and Seven were getting. Paris with his vest and earring and very human features, and Seven of Nine with her implants and statuesque bearing garnered a few double takes. Despite their frequent technical communications over the last year, Tom had never been in her presence outside the context of Voyager. He shouldn't have been surprised that even in a station that had seen everything, the Borg was noticed. They walked the promenade slowly, talking in inconsequential tones. It was late in the afternoon, station time, and Colonel Kira had not been available. Tom had an appointment the next morning. Now he had to kill time and not think about Chakotay. While Seven was no gossip, he'd managed to get the current news on B'Elanna, Janeway, and Tuvok. He'd been surprised to learn that the Voyager's EMH was considered a computer virus, something that seemed to annoy Seven. It bothered Tom, too. "His status as a sentient being has never been legally explored, and Admiral Janeway has been prevented from pursuing it. "It has been typical of their behavior," Seven continued. "For the first few years Starfleet treated me as the sole example of a unique species. The longer I remained in Starfleet the more they began to see me less as a person and more as a machine." "I heard you tell Chakotay why you resigned. That must have been the final straw." "It was not a simple decision, and I am unaccustomed to living with no collective identity." "You could join the Runners," Tom suggested, expecting a flat refusal. She surprised him. "I wished to discuss that possibility with you." Then in an apparent non-sequitur: "What did you mean on the comm link from Wolf Raider when you told Ba'ruq to 'Take the usual tack'?" Tom took on a tone between brag and deprecation. "Beautiful women want me. It's a problem sometimes." "I can understand." Her voice was dry, an only when Tom looked at her did he realize she was intentionally joking. "I'll bet you do." Tom smiled and pulled on the sleeve of her jacket. "So what did you do, ask for a Starfleet uniform in solid color?" "Essentially, yes. The design is acceptable, and is rarely inappropriate." "And less revealing than those outfits the Doctor designed. I always wondered why you wore the jump-suits for so long." Tom raised his eyebrows briefly. "It was a bit distracting to your average male." Seven shrugged slightly. "I missed my Borg armor. The jump-suit provided the nearest sensation." "And the Starfleet uniform?" Tom asked seriously. "Did that feel like armor, too?" "In its own way." "I was talking with Harry and Chakotay about this, and I wondered if you..." His thought was interrupted. "Paris!" The name rang out from a deep voice to their right. They turned to see a figure in a Command uniform striding toward them. The man stopped and folded his arms, and Tom found himself looking at a dark face wearing a speculative expression under a shiny, shaved skull. "Paris, Thomas Eugene." The man's bass rumble stretched out the name as if his pronouncement made Tom somehow more real. "You can't seem to stay out of the newsfeeds, can you? If you aren't getting drummed publicly out of Starfleet, or caught with the Maquis, you're getting praise for tweaking the nose of the Dominion." Paris raised his eyebrows slightly at this recitation, and the two men stood looking at each other for a few seconds. The broad, solid man finally spoke, lips twitching under a goatee. "I can't decide if you should be real or fiction, but I *think* I'm glad to meet you. I'm Benjamin Sisko, station commander." The threatening grin broke, and he took Tom by the arm. "You're just in time for a Deep Space Nine tradition." Tom resisted the pull and retreated to formality. "Captain Sisko, may I present Seven of Nine." Everyone in Starfleet knew that name, and Tom wondered how this man would react. Sisko's response was to broaden his grin. "Tertiary adjunct to unimatrix zero-one herself!" He sounded delighted. "I've heard great things about the Torres-Hansen warp modifications. Will you join us?" She nodded her assent, and they walked in the direction he indicated. Tom leaned into Seven. "Torres-Hansen?" "B'Elanna insisted I use my birth name. She thought 'Torres-Nine' would sound as if she had already tried eight that failed." He grinned at her. "I can imagine." Apparently B'Elanna's stubborn pride was intact. They followed Sisko, the crowd thick enough that Tom's slow pace wasn't a problem. Their destination wasn't far, and Tom recognized the bar where he'd first met Harry Kim. Sisko ushered them toward a mixed group of uniforms and civilians. The Cardassian tailor was among them, as were several 'Fleet officers and Bajoran military personnel. Tom spotted a red-headed Bajoran with colonel's insignia, who must be the station's first officer, Kira. Perhaps he wouldn't have to wait till morning. Sisko commandeered the Ferengi behind the bar and brought back drinks for them, then turned to crowd. "We have a new twist on our afternoon tradition today," he announced. "The man himself is with us. Chief O'Brien, will you do the honors?" A round-faced officer raised a mug and smiled at Tom. Hands clutching drinks went up all round. "To Tom Paris," he said in an unexpected brogue, "for giving the Dominion a good run for it." "Hear, hear!" Toasting Tom was a tradition? That felt uncomfortably weird. Tom raised his own glass and added seriously, "And to all of those who didn't make it back from the run." "Hear, hear." The tone was more subdued this time. Sisko didn't let the threatening gloom descend. "Our station is also complimented by the presence of one half of the Torres-Hansen engine development team: Seven of Nine. Tom, Seven, this is just about everyone." Sisko searched the gathering. "Worf's out with General Martok, and the Constable seems to be missing." There were enough people there that Tom didn't worry about who was missing. He glanced over the faces, pausing at the Bajoran colonel. She caught his eye and nodded with a slight smile. He looked over at Seven, and saw that a Ferengi in a Starfleet uniform was already trying to engage her. Tom mentally wished him luck. After a moment Paris excused himself from Sisko and made his way to the dark-haired Bajoran. "You must be Kira." They shook hands. "I owe you a lot." "Thank a certain anonymous Starfleet admiral." Her smile was gracious, and she gestured towards his ear. "You pay someone a great honor, I've heard." "The honor is mine." Tom tried to match her tone, but he couldn't keep a bitter sadness from his voice. Kira didn't pursue the subject. "How are the ship repairs coming along?" "Pretty well, thanks to your people." Tom had the grace to look abashed before continuing. "I need another favor." "We'll see what we can do. What is it?" "I need access to medical facilities." She didn't ask why, she simply gestured toward the bar. "I'll introduce you to Dr. Bashir." Kira led him over to where a slim, dark- haired man was talking to the one who'd raised the toast. Their faces were a study in constrast, the darker one all angles and planes, the lighter one round with indistinct features. Tom could hear their conversation as they approached. "She's magnificent, Miles," said the smooth voice of the thin man. He was waxing rhapsodically in the general direction of Seven of Nine. "Those implants are so... exotic!" "Aye, but who knows what's under that skin." There was distaste in the answering brogue. "I do. I've looked at her medical records. It's really astounding." He punctuated his enthusiasm with a dramatic sigh. "Her image doesn't do her justice." Kira coughed, and the men broke off. "Miles, Julian, this is Tom Paris. Mr. Paris, Dr. Julian Bashir. I'm sure he can help you." Bashir shook Tom's hand, instantly professional. "Pleased to meet you. What seems to be the trouble?" "I'll let him explain," Kira answered. "If you'll excuse me." With Kira's departure the other man stuck out his hand, eyes crinkling under thinning pale curls. "Miles O'Brien, and very pleased to meet you." He gave Tom's arm two hearty pumps and then let go to pick up his mug. "I'll let you two talk shop, but I'd love to hear a few stories before the evening's out." Tom shook his head. "I'll trade stories with you. You've got a reputation of your own." O'Brien gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Don't believe anything *he* tells you," indicating Bashir. "See you soon, then.". Tom turned back to Bashir, who was all business. "Can we talk here, or do you want to go to the infirmary?" "Here is fine." Tom took O'Briens's abandoned barstool. "What can I do for you?" Tom pulled up the leg of the trousers to show the bottom part of the brace. He called upon his hours with Voyager's Doctor to let himself speak concisely. "I took a bad spinal hit, lumbar-sacral enlargement I think, and it was too long before the local connections were repaired. This brace helps me walk, but..." "Axonal degeneration." "Yes, probably." "I can make you a better prosthesis, but I can't guarantee I can do anything about the long nerves. Not out here." Bashir spoke with some regret. Tom let the pants leg back down. "I've got a better prosthesis available," he answered, "but I need the implants from this one removed." "Easily done, sir. What sort of replacement are you getting?" "Borg." That got Bashir's attention. "You're going to let her assimilate you?" he asked, nodding in Seven of Nine's direction, only half joking. "It's not like that." Tom shook his head. "She's developed ways to use Borg biomechanical technology on normal people." "Why haven't I heard about this?" Bright eyes danced in the doctor's lean face, and he spoke in the same tones he had used to describe Seven of Nine's appearance. Bashir seemed as enthusastic about medicine as more obvious interests. "The possibilities are marvelous! Just think..." Tom interrupted, "It's not that easy. The technology can't really be replicated." This wasn't precisely true, he knew, but he left it at that. "What do you mean?" "They're like little living things. She produces them." "Them?" Bashir's brows furrowed in question. "I'm sorry. Nanoprobes. They're sort of the Borg equivalent of white blood cells, but she can consciously program them." Tom enjoyed the reaction this revelation produced. "That's amazing! None of this is in her medical files." "Starfleet considers it a matter of top security." "But you just told me." Bashir was confused. Tom looked at the doctor from beneath his brows, the corners of his eyes creasing in a smile that barely touched his mouth. "I'm not in Starfleet." "Ah." Bashir's eyebrows jumped. "So you're not." Tom sensed a certain understanding, and a desire to ask. The man scented intrigue, but Tom didn't let him follow that thought. "So, can you remove the implants for me?" "On one condition." Bashir indicated Seven of Nine. "I get to watch the attachment of the new prosthesis?" His voice was friendly, eager. "As long as you don't try to get any samples. She's touchy about that." The doctor's hands went up in a gesture of denial. "Wouldn't dream of it." "Just like you wouldn't dream of reading a confidential medical record for a patient you aren't currently treating?" "Touche." Bashir raised his glass in salute, and changed the subject. "Now, do please tell me where you got that twenty-first century contraption." Tom told him, and over the course of the hour O'Brien returned, Sisko joined them, a small Trill came and went. People drifted in and out of conversations, stories were told, and jokes traded. Tom found he liked this group, but was disappointed that Kira never returned. Even so, it was a rare evening of fellowship for him with people who did not look to him as a leader. It nearly ended suddenly. The disruption came when all attention was focused on Tom, who was describing how he'd managed the run on Cardassia Prime herself. The tailor was just asking how Tom had gotten around a particular security system when the bar was disrupted by a drunken shout. "Traitor!" The only sound that followed was the turning Dabo wheel. The silence was broken by the same call that had hushed the bar: "Traitor!" The shout came from a Bajoran several meters away from the gathering at the bar. He was pointing at Tom Paris. "You betrayed the Maquis!" Tom felt like laughing. This kind of accusation was more what he was used to than being toasted. The drunk began to circle where he stood, addressing the crowd. "The only reason he's not fighting for the Dominion is that they haven't met his price yet!" Someone took the man's arm, trying to pull him away, but he shook it off violently. He was screaming now. "How can you drink with this man when he betrayed the Maquis *twice*." The man almost fell over, but he was pulled upright by a rich tenor voice from the balcony. "Only once, Kostin Bonyer." The voice was commanding. "Only once. And even once I can't hold against him." All eyes looked up to the tattooed face leaning over the balcony rail. "Captain!" called the man, in evident surprise. Chakotay nodded, and made his way to the spiral staircase. A low murmur spread through the bar as he walked over to the Bajoran. * "Kostin Bonyer." Chakotay's voice held an edge of wonder. "I thought you were dead." He took the drunk by his shoulders. "Might as well be to hear a Maquis defend *that*." An arm waved in Paris' general direction. "He let himself get caught so they could use him to chase you down." Kostin was nearly crying in frustration and anger. "No." Chakotay shook his head. "He let himself get caught so they wouldn't find us. We sent him to get help in that old ship, remember?" He spoke gently. The man was but a shadow of one of the best of the Maquis Chakotay had ever known. "And he ran it straight to Starfleet!" Kostin replied, refusing to be calmed. "No, it wasn't like that. We were damaged, had wounded, and he got an anonymous message through for help. Then he sacrificed himself and that piece of junk we gave him." He shook the protesting drunk. "Listen, he led them away from us. We were nearly crippled. He gave Starfleet another target, and if he hadn't done that, we'd have *all* been captured." "Not a traitor?" Disbelief. "Not a traitor. He saved our whole crew." Chakotay pulled the man in for an embrace. "Kostin Bonyer," he repeated almost tenderly, "I thought you were dead." Kostin's companion, the one who'd tried to pull him away, cleared his throat. "I'll take him home, sir." The captain released his former crewman. "I'll look for you tomorrow, Bonyer." He stood nearly at salute, watching the two men leave the bar. He moved to follow them out, but a hand restrained him. "Adding to my legend?" Paris' voice was sarcastic. Chakotay was shaken by the exchange, and Tom's biting tone pushed him toward anger. "It's the truth, Tom, and you know it." Tom nearly snorted his reply. "How do you know?" "Kathryn." Blue eyes rolled to the ceiling. "When did she tell you that whopper?" "On New Earth." Chakotay calmed himself with the memory. "When we were stranded there we used to tell each other stories. She told me about a young man who tried to redeem a mistake, and the price he paid. She told me how he paid more than required because he kept it secret." Chakotay rested a hand on Tom's shoulder, but lightly, afraid he might be rebuffed. Tom only stood there, his mouth twitching with something suppressed. Chakotay finally asked him a question he had held inside for years. "Why didn't you tell anybody?" "C'mon, Chakotay. Who'd've believed that one?" The earring swung as Tom shook his head. Chakotay took the chance of letting his hand caress the shoulder. "Can we talk?" Tom's guard dropped momentarily, then sarcasm reigned again. "It's all I'm good for, apparently." Chakotay winced inwardly, but he didn't back down. "I deserved that." Tom ignored the implied apology. "Maybe you just came for more of this," he said, flexing his lower lip showing the suggestive tip of a tongue. The hand on Tom's shoulder tightened in anger. Chakotay knew he was being deliberately baited, and he became acutely aware of their public position. The routine of the bar had resumed with the exit of the former Maquis, but Chakotay couldn't help but feel they had an audience. "Tom, please." "Please what?" There was a sneer in the voice. He dropped his hand from Tom's shoulder. "Please let me fix this." Tom slapped one hip angrily. "You can't fix *this*." Chakotay closed his eyes for a moment, and called up every reserve of spirit and of resolve. He had to do this, and this was not a game. He would not give in to Tom's manipulations. The glimpses Tom had given him back in his quarters showed what kind of man he had become, how much closer this was to the man he had loved on Voyager, but also how far he had come. Life as a Runner had changed him as the Maquis had once changed Chakotay, and he wanted to know the changes, wanted to be connected. Tom had every right to push him away, but he didn't want to let that happen. Chakotay had never abased himself in front of Tom before, and to do so in public was more difficult than he imagined. He'd come to the bar hoping to talk to Tom when he had the chance, to apologize, but was not going to be allowed to choose his moment. His moment was now, and now that it was here, he acted on instinct. He raised his right hand to his chest and opened his eyes. Tom was simply staring at him, his regard that of an observer in a distasteful display. Chakotay swallowed, felt something move down his throat. In his mind his hand reached into his chest and pulled out his beating heart. He held his palm, empty to any other eyes, before him, offering it to Tom. Tom's expression changed to quizzical. He looked at the proffered hand as if trying to see something. Chakotay reached forward, reaching inside the Klingon vest to press his palm flat on Tom's shirt. His inner eyes saw his heart sink into Tom's chest, saw it beat in concert with the heart already within. Tom's face opened, his eyes widening. "What?" A breath, a question, a prayer -- Chakotay couldn't tell. The blue eyes seemed to search his face as they had that afternoon. Chakotay wondered if Tom would find what he was looking for, would see the fear he felt. Chakotay watched the eyes narrow again, and Tom spoke with a wary edge. "I don't know what that was all about, but if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my hosts." He started to turn, but stopped. Without facing Chakotay he said, "You're welcome to join us." It was a small acceptance, but Chakotay took it. The group at the bar was waiting with affected casualness. "I think you all know Captain Chakotay of Wolf Raider." Voices answered in familiar greeting, and Tom re-assumed his barstool. "Now, where were we?" "You had just silenced an observation post," supplied the Cardassian. "Ah, yes." Chakotay made his way to an open spot a bit further down the bar as Tom continued a story he'd heard before. "Bourbon, neat." "Captain?" He looked to see the small Trill. Station counselor, he remembered, but her name escaped him. "Lieutenant," he returned. "That was quite... dramatic." "I couldn't let that stand. I couldn't let someone call Tom a traitor." "Is all that true? Is that really what he did?" she asked. "Captain -- No, Admiral. Admiral Janeway told me, and I believe it." "Why?" she asked bluntly. Chakotay looked at her sharply, then was distracted by the arrival of his drink. "It's Ezri, right?" he suddenly remembered. She nodded. "Ezri, have you ever known anyone who acted like a person you couldn't respect, but when it came down to what they actually did, you had to admire them?" The Trill glanced at the bartender. "I think so, yes." "When I first recruited Tom to the Maquis, I thought I saw something behind the arrogant flyboy. When he was caught so quickly, so easily, I thought I'd been wrong." Chakotay picked up his glass, smelled the liquor, but did not drink. "On Voyager, he did everything to make me keep thinking I'd been wrong about him, except when it mattered." Chakotay finally sipped, thinking an old thought: Except when it well and truly mattered. "You couldn't reconcile how he acted and how you thought he'd betrayed you with what he gave when it really counted." Ezri's voice had that familiar counseling tone, and he smiled sideways at her. "Concise and accurate." Chakotay put the glass down and spoke toward the bottles behind the bar. "My instincts about him told me it was all an act, a put on, except for those two times. Once he ran away, and once he led them after me. When Kathryn told me what really happened, I finally felt I understood his front for what it was." He shook his head to clear the moment of confession. She smiled, but she didn't back down. "So what's wrong now?" In the same tone, but colored with bitterness, he answered, "He's not what he pretends to be, but neither am I." Chakotay sipped his drink again. "Now, Counselor, I think you're off duty." "So I am," she admitted, "but you want my advice? Tell him what just happened over there. I don't think he understood." "Professional opinion?" She shook her head. "Personal, but based on years of experience. Good night, Captain." Chakotay raised his glass in farewell, regarded it a moment, then drained it. Part of him always made grim 'Fire-water' jokes to himself when he did this. He moved to rejoin the little group around Paris, stepping up between Tom and Sisko. At a lull in the conversation he put a hand on Tom's shoulder. "I'm getting hungry. Join me for dinner?" A moment's hesitation before Tom answered, "Sure. Captain Sisko, care to come with us?" Sisko made his excuses, and reminded Tom of his promise to give his son an interview. Tom rose to go with Chakotay. "Tomorrow, doctor?" "Oh nine hundred. Wouldn't miss it." The doctor bent in a courteous imitation of a bow. They passed Seven, who was deep in a technical conversation over a padd of schematics with the Ferengi. Tom put a hand on her shoulder. "Do you require nutrition at this time?" She looked up at him. "I do not. I will see you in the infirmary in the morning." "G'night then." They left the bar with a wake of good-byes, and Tom's public goodwill vanished with the last step onto the Promenade. "Now what?" His voice sounded both edgy and resigned. Chakotay was at a loss. He hadn't thought this through. "Can we have dinner in my quarters?" He sounded half-hearted, even to himself. "I didn't feel so welcome last time I was there." Tom's voice was flat. Chakotay offered no defense. They walked to be walking, without direction, without speaking. They ended up on the upper balcony, and Tom halted, leaning over the railing to look at the shops and people on the promenade below. Chakotay stopped beside him. Elbows on the rail, they regarded the scene. "What the *hell* happened back there?" Tom's voice grated out between his teeth. The tattooed head dropped to the support of praying hands. "My heart. I gave you my heart." "What if I don't want it?" "Too late." With the words an enormity of realization hit Chakotay: He simply loved the man, no matter what. His fear rose up again, fear that it was too late to make it right between them, fear that the true betrayal all along had been his. He had never before seen Tom uncolored by his own projections. Silently he shouted to himself, "Spirits, why am I so blind?" Somewhere inside the spirits answered with his father's voice, "You're looking out of the wrong eyes." Chakotay answered the voice out loud, "What does that mean?" "I don't know," Tom muttered, assuming the question was for him. "I didn't ask for your heart." He stood upright, rubbing his face with his palms, unconsciously demonstrating his exhaustion. "Well, what do you want me to do with it?" Chakotay turned to lean with his back against the rail. "Keep it." He was equally tired. Tom raised his arms in a gesture that embraced the station, the day, the last few weeks. "I don't need this." Something snapped in Chakotay He had itched all afternoon with an unfamiliar and uncomfortable self-loathing, and his irritation turned outward. His voice took on a rasp he didn't recognize, a snarl. "I don't care if you need it or not. Keep it, because I won't need it either. I'll just go back out there and do my job, and being a heartless bastard will make it that much easier." He knew he was attacking as a form of defense even as he spoke, but he didn't stop himself. He had made a true gesture in the bar, but if Tom wanted to ignore it, Chakotay could try to prevent a mere dismissal. He said deliberately, slowly, "Owen Paris school of command." Tom grabbed his arm, fury rising. "Don't push my fucking buttons, Chakotay!" The grim wolf-smile he got in response made Tom jerk back. "Why not?" Chakotay nearly sneered. "It always works when you do it to me." Tom's eyes searched his face with amazement, anger seemingly lost to surprise. "Who *are* you?" Chakotay's face blazed back at him, and Tom backed down. He turned away and leaned on the railing again. "Don't do it, Chakotay." "Do what?" Defensive. "Don't go heartless. Don't even try. It's not you." "Who am I, Tom?" Mocking. Tom shook his head and turned back to stare down at the crowd, exhaustion again taking over his voice and his posture. "It's my turn, I guess." "For what?" Chakotay's guard dropped a centimeter. "You've always been this rock for me, the one constant in the universe. Predictable." Tom laughed without humor, without looking up. "Today you are full of surprises." Chakotay stared at the planes of Tom's profile a moment, some part of him remarking that the soft good looks he remembered had taken on the wild beauty of a hawk. The drink he'd taken earlier had gone straight from his empty stomach to his emotions, and he was flooded with images of a wolf on the ground, a hawk in the air. Neither could know the other's element. Earth and air, like some tragedy out of legend. With these thoughts, with the betrayal of alcohol, his anger dissipated as swiftly as it had risen, leaving behind an equally surprising sadness. He stared out the window at the stars, but they blurred into streaks as unshed tears began to rise. He didn't sob and wouldn't actually cry, but the facade had cracked. His knees gave out slowly, and he slid with his back on the rail until he was squatting on the floor of the walkway, looking straight ahead at nothing. "Chakotay!" Tom started at the sudden change. He reached out for the stricken man, but the brace kept him from bending easily. "Chakotay, dammit!" He could hear the panic in Tom's voice, but he couldn't trust himself to respond. Chakotay had tried to make the strongest gesture he knew, and it was being rejected. Tom's frustration come out in a terse pleading. "If you don't pull yourself together, I'm selling your goddamn heart to the nearest Ferengi." The absurdity of the thought broke through Chakotay's wall. He reached for the railing and pulled himself to his feet, regaining command of his voice. "Won't get much for it," he answered, clinging to the kind of humor they had once shared. "It's used." Chakotay could see that Tom was uncertain what to do, and to his complete surprise, the taller man leaned forward and kissed his barely responsive lips. "Come on," Tom said. "You're sorry. So am I. How about that dinner?"