#the pinned post in the comment section explains that the ''fix'' actually does tone down the facial expressions

[wolfsong-the-bloody-beast]

Modders out there just casually committing war crimes again.

[delwin47]

Fanfic (ST:Voy), Reckonings

One more early Voyager fic from me -- Happy Voyager Anniversary, everyone and thank you to @alphaflyer @rikerssexblouse and @pg1890 for joining the fun!

Summary: Voyager's first three days stuck in the Delta Quadrant: two crews, one ship and, of course, Tom Paris.

Originally posted on FFN and AO3

Reckonings

Stardate 48321.46: 12 hours after the destruction of the Caretaker's array...

He might as well paint a giant red X on his back.

After all, an X, no matter how large and how red, couldn't possibly be as conspicuous as the uniform in his hands.

Starfleet command red. The Paris legacy. And now the unmistakeable sign of Tom Paris's treachery to the three dozen or so Maquis with whom he will apparently be sharing Voyager's fifteen decks for the immediate future.

Sliding the silky material through his fingers, Tom's expression twists into a humorless grin.

He's so very screwed.

Mustn't forget to add to those Maquis a crew of over a hundred Starfleet personnel all of whom think that he is the worst sort of disgrace to that same uniform...

...except the Captain.

The captain who put him back behind the helm of a starship.

Tom's fingers twitch as he mentally runs through the series of banks and turns, twists and dives that he guided Voyager through as they battled the Kazon less than twelve hours before. Whoever developed that bio-neural circuitry knew their stuff: Voyager responded to his commands like no other Starfleet ship he'd ever piloted.

And her captain evidently makes command decisions like no other captain Tom has ever encountered – and he's known a few. Who but Kathryn Janeway would hand over her ship to a paroled convict with a more than checkered service record?

Tom shakes his head in bemusement as he pulls on first the uniform pants and then the shirt. At least he'll provide a subject upon which Voyager's crew and their Maquis...guests? passengers? prisoners? can agree – everyone (except the Captain) hates Thomas Eugene Paris.

As he pins the communicator to his shirt, it promptly chirps to life :Kim to Paris:

"Paris here," Tom responds. "What can I do for you, Harry?" And he can't help smiling to himself: make that 'except the Captain and Ensign Harry Kim'.

:Do you have an hour or so? I'm in the middle of trying to figure out how to adapt the navigational systems to our...current coordinates and I could use a second pair of eyes:

All crises having passed for the moment, Tom has nothing if not time. Answering Harry in the affirmative, he slips on his boots, does a quick check in the mirror (the empty gray collar still pulls his attention like the gap from a missing tooth) and heads out the door – eyes straight ahead, mouth firmly and wisely set shut.

As it turns out, the corridors of Voyager are next to empty. Tom passes two or three of the Voyager crew but not a single Maquis. Come to think of it, he isn't sure what happened to Chakotay, Torres and the others once Janeway cleared her bridge – he and Harry were busy trying to find a relatively safe section of space into which to move Voyager. Are the Maquis now confined to quarters? Or the brig?

Having spent more than his fair share of time in starship brigs, Tom feels a brief flash of sympathy for the possible fate of the Val Jean's crew, but mostly he's glad to be spared becoming walking target practice, at least for the moment. When the doors of his destination slide open, he exhales heavily.

"Tom!" Harry turns to greet him, pausing in his work at the sole terminal in the room to do so. "Thanks for coming down."

"No problem." Tom glances around the gridded room appreciatively. "They made them bigger."

Harry follows his gaze and frowns. "The holodecks?"

Tom nods, estimating. "It looks like they increased both the area and the height. That gives some interesting extra potential for programs with multiple participants."

"Are you a holo-programmer?" Harry sounds surprised.

Tom considers that as he walks to join the younger man at the terminal. "Only as a hobby," he clarifies. "And 'was', not 'am'. I haven't been in a holodeck or holosuite since...for a couple of years."

Harry glances over, obviously trying to decide which tack to take in navigating the hazardous topic of Tom's recent history. "Well, now you are," he tries with only somewhat forced cheer. Then, with a grimace, "And we're all certainly going to need some new entertainment over the next seventy years so you'd better brush off those programming skills."

There are any number of questionable assumptions built into Harry's comment, but Tom chooses to address one of the less personal ones. "Given the circumstances, Harry, I'm pretty sure Janeway's not likely to authorize the use of energy for holodeck entertainment."

Harry shrugs. "The holodecks are on a separate grid from the rest of the ship. Their energy is incompatible with the main systems." He turns back to the computer. "That's actually why I'm working down here: it's more energy efficient to run simulations through the holodecks than through the main computer."

Despite everything, Tom chuckles. "So we may all starve out here, but even unofficial crew might be able to score holodeck privileges? Hell, maybe I'll invite Chakotay and his gang down to play some Velocity."

"Now that may be more difficult."

Which is interesting in itself, but even more interesting is the tone in which Harry drops his hint – the tone of someone with a nugget of information that he is all too eager to share. The straight-as-an-arrow Ensign Harry Kim is, Tom surmises, a first rate gossip hound.

Given that this particular nugget is one in which he has a personal interest, Tom has no problem biting. "And why is that?"

As expected, Kim pauses in his work and gives Tom his full attention. "Well, according to B'Elanna..."

"When were you talking to Torres?" No, not 'Torres'. 'B'Elanna'. When had that happened?

"The Captain ordered us both back down to Sickbay so that the Emergency Medical Hologram could make sure that virus or whatever it was that the Caretaker put into our systems was completely cleared out," Harry explains offhandedly, clearly impatient to get back to his point. "Anyway, B'Elanna said that all of the Maquis had been packed into various crew quarters and confined there."

Which is good news for Tom as evidently the lack of Maquis roaming the corridors this morning wasn't just a coincidence. But he finds himself backtracking through Harry's statement. "So are you okay? With the virus, I mean?"

Harry shrugs again, unconcerned. "Oh yeah. The EMH fixed that right up." Then he looks at Tom more directly. "By the way, I never did thank you for coming after me – or us – down there. We were in pretty bad shape before you found us. You probably saved our lives."

Tom scratches at the back of his neck. "You and Torres are both pretty stubborn. I'm sure you would have clawed your way out of there eventually."

Harry just grins. "So there's that, plus the Ferengi thing on DS9, not to mention your...help on the bridge yesterday – that's at least three I owe you, Paris."

The tone is light and casual: this is part of the script, the usual back-and-forth between crewmates who are used to putting their lives in each other's hands on a regular basis.

But it brings Tom up short. Because he and Harry are not, in fact, crewmates. And he disqualified himself from this sort of banter more than two years ago. Which no one seems to have any trouble remembering – except Harry.

Speaking of owing someone...

"Hey, Tom?" Harry glances over at him quizzically. "You okay?"

Tom blinks away his train of thought and turns back to his friend. "Yeah, Harry." Then he grins and briefly clasps the younger man's shoulder. "I'm fine." He turns his attention to the console. "Weren't you looking for my help with something?"

They spend the next hour working out how to compensate for the Delta Quadrant's lack of Federation navigational infrastructure until Harry is due to report back to the bridge. Once they part outside the holodeck, Tom begins to make his way back to his quarters, passing through still quiet and nearly empty corridors.

So at least he is running good there.

.

Stardate 48324.2: 36 hours after the destruction of the array...

So much for running good – though it was nice while it lasted.

Tom walks through the doors of the mess hall to find it – as expected – crawling with a dozen or so leather-clad Maquis.

An attempt to replicate breakfast in his quarters an hour earlier had been frustrated by an inactive replicator and a cheerful explanation from the computer that all meals were to be taken in the mess hall in order to maximize power conservation and centralize ration distribution. His brief musing on whether that would include the Maquis was answered by playing back an obviously hastily composed message from Harry which strongly suggested that Tom might want to wait until the ensign's shift break to head down to the mess hall for a meal.

Maquis included then.

Tom had taken a moment to wonder exactly how the negotiations on that one had gone down. Most likely Chakotay had pledged the good behavior of his crew – a pledge, no doubt, made in good faith and one that would be largely effective.

With the notable exception of behavior toward a certain ex-Maquis-turned-rat.

Having sent back a quick note declining Harry's well-intentioned but ultimately futile offer – Tom couldn't exactly hide behind the younger man for the next seventy years – Tom had made the decision to head directly into the line of fire.

His entrance immediately draws the attention of every person in the room, including the two Starfleet security officers who have clearly been stationed there to maintain order.

Neither of them looks exactly glad to see him.

Tom nods in their direction anyway but doesn't bother to wait for their acknowledgment. Feigning unconcern, he grabs a tray and makes his request of the replicator before moving to an open table where his back will be to the replicator and the door but he'll maintain a clear view of the full room and its occupants.

His attention ostensibly on his food, Tom takes a census of his fellow diners. Henley and Jonas occupy one table with two other Maquis whom he doesn't recognize. At the sight of him, Henley looks somewhat obscenely like a cat who's just been presented with an unexpected bowl of milk – or perhaps more accurately with a mouse with which to play. On the other side of the room, Chell's blue head glows as he whispers animatedly to the fellow Bolian seated across from him, his pointing finger and equally pointed gaze leaving little doubt as to the subject of his commentary. At a third table, Ken Dalby sits alone, tray pushed away. Slouched against the back of his chair, his arms are folded tightly to his chest and his calculating eyes are locked on Tom.

The other half dozen Maquis are unknown to Tom, evidently having joined Chakotay's crew after his own precipitous departure. But, based on the glares they are aiming in his direction, that's not affecting their ability to take Tom's betrayal personally.

Thirteen.

And all of them with very little left to lose.

A glance over at the gold-uniformed Starfleet officers confirms that help from that corner will be slow to arrive at best. Both men have subtly turned their shoulders, suggesting that it might well take an extra few seconds for them to notice any trouble starting in the direction of Voyager's observer.

And Tom well knows that a lot can happen in a few seconds.

He scans the room once more for potential sources of aid...like whom? Unless Harry cuts out in the middle of his bridge shift for a snack of ration bars... Chakotay, maybe? Tom did save the guy's life and, whatever else one might say about the man, one couldn't really doubt his sense of honor. Torres? An odd twist in his gut reminds him just how thoroughly he's burned that bridge.

"Tom Paris?"

He jumps violently at the soft voice. Little good it does keeping a view of the room before him if he misses the entrance of someone from behind. Twisting around, he identifies the voice's owner and hastily stands to cover the severity of his reaction. "That's me, yes." And then, regaining his composure, he adds, "It's Kes, right?"

The young woman nods, smiling and, despite the roomful of Maquis, Tom feels some of the tightness in his back and shoulders ease.

Motioning with the food tray in her hands, she asks, "May I join you?"

Tom nods, indicating the other chair and going so far as to pull it out for her. Kes sits, her back now to the room. Looking over her shoulder, Tom doesn't fail to notice that the security officers are once again on full alert: Tom Paris might be an easy victim to sacrifice but the elfin newcomer who has somewhat unwisely chosen to join him evidently is not.

Although, as Tom surveys the rest of the mess hall, the officers' renewed attention may be unneeded. The Maquis have turned back to their meals and the tension in the air has abated. He finds himself unsurprised that Kes seems to have called out the better angels of the freedom fighters' natures.

She might as well be an angel herself, with that air of innocence and kindness that seems to emanate from her. 'Unearthly' might be a fair descriptor and perhaps appropriate for a species that only lives nine years.

"I've been looking for the chance to thank you," Kes begins, interrupting his thoughts.

"To thank me?"

"For helping to rescue me." At what must be his somewhat blank look, she clarifies, "From Jabin."

"Ah." He has somehow almost forgotten about finding her beaten and half-starved in the Kazon encampment – had that only been two days ago? The holographic doctor did its work well and quickly in healing her. Not quite so innocent, then, and that kindness is more hard won than he was giving her credit for. "That wasn't our intent in going down to the surface," Tom explains honestly, then adds, "but I'm certainly happy to have helped."

Kes smiles warmly and, without thought, Tom smiles back. It's such an easy, natural interaction, without calculation. When did that become so unusual?

They both take a bite or two of their meals and Kes's gaze moves to the mess hall's expansive viewports. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she comments, indicating the starscape outside those ports. "And it's so amazing to be traveling through open space like this."

Having spent far too much of the last year landlocked, Tom can agree with that sentiment wholeheartedly. "You've never been off-planet before, have you?"

"No." Kes's eyes are still on the stars. "Neelix told me stories – about his ship and all the different systems and planets – all the different species." She gives a self-deprecating shrug. "They seemed like fairy tales at the time."

"And now you're going to live that fairy tale," Tom points out to her. "You and Neelix can travel to all of those places."

"That's true," she agrees, taking another bite of food. "Still," and she looks back out at the stars, "I can't help but wonder what it would be like to see it all from this ship – to be a member of a starship crew." She turns back to him with another enchanting smile. "It must be a wonderful life."

Tom chokes a little on a bite of food that seems to have gotten caught in his throat. At the sound, Henley glances back in his direction, likely hoping to witness his untimely demise courtesy of a ration bar. Jonas says something to draw her attention back and she joins in her tablemates' laughter. To the side of the room, the two security officers are chatting quietly with each other. For the moment, Tom Paris is forgotten.

Which is about the best that he can hope for.

"Yeah," he agrees roughly. And his own eyes turn to the starscape. "It must be."

.

  Stardate 48326.94: 60 hours after the destruction of the array...

Two quadrants away from Earth and San Francisco, but "Hurry up and wait" is still evidently the unofficial Starfleet motto for those lacking in rank insignia.

How many times during their first weeks at the Academy did Tom and his cohorts sprint in order to arrive at designated place X at appointed time Y only to spend the next half hour cooling their heels and waiting on someone higher up in the Starfleet pecking order?

Of course, at that point, 'someone' could have been just about anyone in uniform: it was pretty much impossible to get lower in the food chain than a freshly arrived Academy cadet.

Well, pretty much impossible unless you happened to be Thomas Eugene Paris. Seems like he's managed to accomplish that feat quite neatly.

Across the bridge at the tactical station, the lieutenant on duty – Andrews, maybe? – hasn't stopped glaring at him since Tom walked onto the bridge.

Perhaps 'rushed' more than 'walked'. Old habits die hard and one wouldn't want to be late when summoned by the captain of the ship to her ready room. Particularly when that captain put the helm of that ship in one's hands three days before. Even more particularly when one hasn't heard a word from that captain since finally, reluctantly turning that helm back over to someone whose gray collar wasn't bare.

Not that he blames her for the lack of communication. Right now Kathryn Janeway has bigger issues to deal with than the ex-Starfleet-lieutenant, ex-Maquis-pilot, current-convict-on-probation who happens to be an observer on her ship.

Like what to do with the three dozen not-so-ex Maquis who also happen to be residing on that ship.

Andrews hasn't let up his glower, and Tom begins to wonder if he's managed to do something to piss off the guy personally, beyond the usual 'cashiered out of Starfleet and convicted felon' stuff. Doesn't he have a station he's supposed to be monitoring anyway?

"Lieutenant?" comes Harry's voice from behind Tom at ops. "Could you confirm that the energy signature in grid forty seven is just a pocket of ambient radiation? My reading is unclear."

At which Andrews finally looks back down at his board. The corner of Tom's mouth twitches upward into something between a smirk and a grin, but he resists the urge to look back at Harry, instead mentally adding to his tally of what he owes the younger man.

Tom's actually been doing a good bit of mental calculating in the last couple of days – and not with good results. The inescapable conclusion of his ruminations has been that Voyager needs the Maquis. Without them, she simply will not have the manpower she needs to function sustainably, not to mention to begin a journey home.

And, if he's being honest, Tom knows that most of the Val Jean's crew are good people with talents that could serve Voyager well. Hell, Torres by herself would probably cut the length of the journey back to the Alpha Quadrant in half if given a crack at the engines. A captain would be foolish not to utilize those talents and foolish Kathryn Janeway is not.

Which is not good news for Tom Paris.

The Captain will not ask him to leave, he knows that. For one, he's his father's son, and secondly, it is by her request that Tom is on Voyager and in the Delta Quadrant to begin with. The combination of loyalty and slight guilt will ensure him a bunk and rations. But, if his existence is going to be limited to draining Voyager's resources and staying one step ahead of a Maquis lynch mob, he might as well still be in that penal colony in New Zealand.

From the conn, Culhane calls over to where Tuvok sits in the captain's chair: "Sir, I have the results of the navigational surveys that you asked me to run."

Without meaning to, Tom looks over at the ensign and Voyager's helm. Had it been for an hour, maybe two that he had occupied Culhane's seat?

The chance to fly again had been an unexpected and incredible gift; even more so had been the act of faith which had put him at the conn – the particular type of faith that a captain must have in her crew and that Tom thought he had forfeited forever.

Tom's eyes move again to the helm, so tantalizingly close.

Yet still absolutely out of his reach.

He may have raced like a new cadet to answer Janeway's summons, but the news awaiting him in the ready room can only be bad.

Despite that, he'll take the opportunity to thank her for giving him one more chance to fly a starship and to feel – if only for that short time – like a member of a crew again. For that, she has his endless gratitude.

The ready room door slides open, and Chakotay walks out, distracted and thoughtful. He glances Tom's way, but his look is without acknowledgment and inscrutable. He continues without pause to the turbolift and exits the bridge without a word.

Drawing on years of practice, Tom tries to school his own features back to impassivity as he steps up to the ready room door and sounds the chime. But, even though he refuses to glance back at the helm one more time, there is a tightness to his jaw that he can't ease as the door opens before him and he steps through.

Time to be cut loose again.