Jefferson Square

Sydney Alexis

One thousand, six hundred and forty three days. It had been one thousand, six hundred and forty three days since I had last laid eyes on Thomas Eugene Paris. The years had not been kind to him. Too much time spend drinking and doing god knows what all else had led him here. Heavy eyelids ringed with black marks, hands shaking from withdrawal from what I don't know and am afraid to ask.

His eyes dart nervously around the open air cafe, watching others watch him. He'd ordered coffee and beignets and I can't help but think that the caffeine will only make him more jittery.

I approach cautiously, making each step purposefully slower. The last time I had dealings with Tom I ended up answering to my superiors.

A street performers stops me, motioning for my to take his hat as he twists balloons into animal shapes. I'm in no mood for games. Shaking my head, I walk past him toward my target.

He stands as I approach, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Eyes that are dull and expressionless. He holds his hand out, motioning for me to sit across from him. Coffee is ordered and received. It's dark and thick and tastes of hickory. It's a taste I haven't had in those four and a half years when I last met him here.

I take a sip, testing the temperature, waiting for him to speak. He's opened his mouth a few times to speak then promptly closed it. Never a good sign.

"Kathryn, I...I..." his hand threads through his hair. A hand that is shaking. He's usually so sure of himself. Cocky, arrogant. It's what makes him so good at what he does.

"I messed up bad this time. Didn't mean to do it. It was just a mistake. A stupid mistake. He wasn't ready. I knew it, and I pressured him into it."

His shaking begins anew, and I can see it. The undefinable expression in his eyes. The same clouded blue eyes that revealed so many secrets in the past are telling me now. I cover his hand with my own. I know that expression because I had it myself not that long ago.

"The news reports said it was an accident. That is was pilot error. There was nothing that you could have done to prevent it."

He shakes his head. "I made him go up. He wasn't ready, and I made him go up, " he started, pausing to bury his head in his hands.

"I killed him," he forces out, his voice strangled.

My eyes leave the miserable man in front of me long enough to look over the patrons, gauging whether or not our conversation was overheard. Spotting an elderly woman trying a little too desperately not to appear interested, I stand, pay the tab, and motion for Tom to follow. He does so with no resistance. This I find more than a little worrisome.

I direct him toward the riverfront and a bench overlooking the Mississippi River. The water turns from a deep brown to inky black as the sun sets while I listen to him tell me about the boy he claimed he killed and the accident in detail. Then he is silent for a long moment before turning toward me.

"Will the pain ever go away?"

I can't offer him what he wants--forgiveness and to take it all back. I can't take away the nightmares that he's having and will continue to have to years to come.

"No," I reply, voice heavy with disuse.

He raises a quizzical eyebrow, and I explain the Tau Centari. The choice...the selfish choice that I made that cost me my first real love and my father their lives. He covered my hand with his own rather than uttering a litany of platitudes or reassurances that everything would be all right. He knew the truth. His darkened eyes told me without words. We both knew what it was like to life even if it was inadvertently. Vanity, arrogance, hubris-- the most grievous of sins-- had seen to that. And so, we sat, contemplating our situations and each other. Neither saying a word nor moving.

"Did my father send you?" No accusation, just curiosity. I nod my head. Truth for truth.

"He asked me to find you and bring you back to stand trial. I was in Paris when I got your communique."

A slight smile tripped across the barest reaches of his mouth. "Guess that means you met Sandrine."

"She tried to get me drunk and ply me for information. Fortunately, I play a convincing actress."

"I see. Pity I missed the show," he said, laughing.

"Are you coming back?" I asked the question softly. The smile faded as he cast his eyes out onto the Mississippi.

"You going to force me back?"

I shook my head, knowing just by sight that he was suffering.

"You'd just let me walk away. No questions asked. No phaser rifle stand off." Voice incredulous. The unspoken question rested beneath-- why would Owen Paris' star graduate let him escape so easily.

"I suppose you have a plan? Somewhere to hide?"

"Got a few 'friends' in this city. Thought I might hide out here until I can secure a ship."

I nod, noting the twang of irrational jealousy at the mention of his 'friends.'

"You know you can't hide indefinitely."

"Yeah. I know. I just need to get my thoughts together."

I nod. "Just be careful," I reply and begin to stand. He stopped me, reaching his hand out to cover my own. My eyes flew up to meet his and I saw him laid bare in his expression--gratefulness at my presence, fear at what was to come, and guilt. As quickly as it was there, it disappeared. I idly wondered if it was for my benefit or a slip in his facade.

"Thank you," he whispered, before releasing his grip.

I nodded mutely once again before turning and leaving him there on the riverfront.

A/N: Response to the following challenges:

Challenge #292: [from Amiroq aka Gypzy] First line: "One thousand, six hundred and forty three days." (about four and a half years, if you must know.)

Challenge #332: [from Grey-eyed Athena] Write a story where Kathryn, due to her experiences with the Tau Ceti accident, helps and comforts Tom after Caldik Prime. In what ways would this affect them and how would their lives be different afterward? [Sequels will deal with how this affects their lives afterwards]

Challenge #375: [from Sydney Alexis] Write an uber set in New Orleans. Could include the Natchez which is the steamboat Mark Twain served on. The French Quarter, The Cafe du Monde (home of the famous beignet--a fried pastry topped with powered sugar and served with strong coffee) and the French Market (has everything from clothes to scarves, fruit and vegetables to baked goods, hand made necklaces, etc). Voodoo is a common practice there as is street art (mimes, corner musicians). It also has the highest crime rate in the south. Make it sappy, bittersweet, or full of angst.

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