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Book One -- Part III:

When The Going Got Rough ...

Stardate 51721.1

With a half-hearted snarl, B'Elanna Torres skipped the PADD across her desk, watching with interest as it flew off the end, coming to a halt on top of all the others she'd relegated to the corner over the preceding four days. PADDs were built to be virtually indestructible, and to function independently when necessary. The same could not be said for the main computer, which -- in the optimistic words of Harry Kim -- was "sort of working". Sort of working was right. The only systems that had proven reliable were life support and the lights. So, for now, all B'Elanna could do was fill up PADD after PADD with large lists of repairs to complete, and far fewer reports on repairs completed. She'd keep piling them in the corner until the main computer was once again dependable. Whenever that was.

With a frustrated sigh, she dropped into her chair, scooting it away from her darkened desk console, and toward the stack of priority PADDs. Balling her hands into fists, B'Elanna pressed them to her eyes. For a moment, she concentrated on the almost hypnotic pressure-induced swirls of red and black light. Anything to delay the inevitable. What the hell is wrong with me? she wondered, giving herself a mental shake. While it was true that the administrative duties of chief engineer often got to her, B'Elanna normally enjoyed the actual engineering. But, not today. Not since they'd regained Voyager from the Hirogen, really. Her stomach was in knots, her attention drifted at the most inopportune times, and no matter how hard she tried, B'Elanna couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom.

About to give in and reach for the next PADD, B'Elanna was saved by Susan Nicolleti's interruption. "Lieutenant," the other woman called from the doorway, waving yet another of the offending gray PADDs in B'Elanna's direction, "I've got that report for you on the structural damage to deck eight."

B'Elanna waited silently, wondering if Susan would go away if stared at long enough. "How's it look?" she ground out finally.

"How does any of it look?" countered Nicoletti, grimacing. "We're lucky that the cease-fire came when it did. The Hirogen were less than a day away from re-engineering Voyager into being uninhabitable."

"Yeah, I know," B'Elanna agreed, drumming her fingers on the desktop. This was crazy. A thirty second conversation, and she was already about to scream. I've got to get out of here, she decided. Standing up, B'Elanna came around the desk to take the PADD. "Thanks, Sue. I think I'll take this with me."

"With you?" asked Nicoletti dubiously. "Where are you going?"

"The mess hall," she answered. "Except for a ration bar I had to split with Joe Carey, I haven't had anything to eat in ten hours. I need a break." Pointing to the pile on her desk, B'Elanna instructed, "Pick a PADD, Susan. Any PADD."

"Aye, Lieutenant," Nicoletti sighed, watching as B'Elanna headed for the door.

In the turbolift -- one of only two that were working at present -- B'Elanna had to force herself to not pace. Turbolifts weren't conducive to pacing anyway, a fact that B'Elanna had discovered years before, back when she'd felt like this all the time. Disenchanted, jittery, awkward. Feelings she didn't associate with Voyager. Not anymore, anyway.

The 'lift wobbled to a stop, and B'Elanna had something else to focus on for a minute. Should she call Carey and let him know? Have him get a team on it? They really couldn't afford to lose the turbolift, but B'Elanna couldn't bring herself to page Joe. There was no guarantee that Voyager's internal communications were working, anyway. Harry had only brought the comm system back up that morning, and it had crashed three times already. Even contemplating having to turn around and go back to Engineering made B'Elanna feel slightly ill. All she wanted was a half hour when she wasn't responsible for everything. Taking a deep breath, she decided to chance it, and exited the car.

As she walked down the corridor to the mess, B'Elanna couldn't help but be irked by all of the Hirogen-inflicted damage going unrepaired. Although this deck was far enough from the holodecks that the Hirogen hadn't had time to begin converting it, it still bore substantial scars from their three week occupation of Voyager. Apparently, before the holodeck conversions had begun, the mighty Hunters had put the corridors of Voyager to good use, engaging in small practice skirmishes with each other, and ship's personnel not lucky enough to be included in the initial holodeck games. The walls of the corridors were pitted and blackened from phaser fire, and, from the looks of the damage, cosmetic though it was, B'Elanna knew that their phasers hadn't been set on stun.

Still feeling restless, B'Elanna jogged down the corridor. Quickly, she reached the mess hall, and stepped through the open doorway. Door sensors throughout the ship had started malfunctioning almost the second the last Hirogen hunter had disembarked, and B'Elanna's only option had been to detail a team to manually lock all regular corridor doors open for the duration. Privacy, always a joke on Voyager, now seemed like a far, distant dream.

The room was dark, the lights at quarter illumination. It was quiet -- and peacefully so -- especially when compared with the rest of Voyager. Although it was the middle of the night, and most of Voyager's crew were asleep, repair work continued throughout the ship. The more exhausted the crew became, the louder they were as they went about repairs. The mess hall, however, was calm. B'Elanna hoped it would help her mood.

The mess hall was also . . . a mess. A third of the tables and chairs -- broken and battered -- were piled in the corner. In front of the view port, there was a patch of deck plating that had been pulled up at some point, and never replaced. Superficial damage which would have to wait.

As always, the rubble had drawn her eye first, and so B'Elanna was surprised to spot him there, on the far side of the room, sacked out across four chairs, snoring softly. Her heart rose in her throat as, unbidden, the memory of the firing squad swam before her eyes. Although she had feared for all of her friends and colleagues, it had been his gaze she'd searched for in those terrifying moments when it seemed that they would all be murdered in front of her. Tom. With effort, B'Elanna pushed the recollection from her mind, and, almost running, made her way across the room to his side.

As B'Elanna knelt down, she could already tell that there was nothing wrong with Tom. He was merely sleeping, though why he chose to do so here, in the mess hall, was anyone's guess. Gently shaking him on the shoulder. B'Elanna called out, "Torres to Paris. Wake up, Tom."

"Wha?" Tom's reply was strangled as he struggled awake, pushing himself up from the makeshift bed, eyes blinking rapidly. "Oh, B'Elanna," he breathed, finally focusing on her face. "Hi."

"Hi, yourself," she replied, brushing a loose curl of hair back off his forehead. He needed a haircut. Another thing which would have to wait for better times. Already B'Elanna felt herself calming down. Maybe this was what she'd needed. Simply to see Tom. "What are you doing here? All the men are supposed to be sleeping in cargo bay one. Besides, this morning I personally cleared your section for habitation."

"Oh, the Wildmans are in my quarters," Tom replied easily, rubbing his eyes as he finished sitting up. Tom scooted over a chair, and pulled B'Elanna into the seat next to him. "We made a deal. Samantha got tired of the perpetual slumber party in cargo bay two, so now she's taking all of my sickbay shifts until we're done with repairs."

"Slumber party, ha!" B'Elanna contradicted, rolling her eyes. "Everyone's too exhausted for a slumber party, even the Delaneys. I'd bet it's the creepy Borg alcove at the end of the bay. Probably giving Naomi nightmares. Poor kid."

For a second it looked like Tom was going to argue with her, deny the fright factor of a Borg alcove. B'Elanna could always count on Tom for a good argument. It was one of the reasons she loved him. Superficial, to be sure, but, honestly, just as important as his humor or the solid core of personal honor he hardly acknowledged, yet always seem to display when they most needed it.

Yes, Tom would fight with her. Sometimes gleefully, sometimes in utter frustration. But he never walked away. Or, if he did, it was only long enough for them both to cool down a bit. And, if he wasn't up to a fight, well, he deflected, dodged, smoothed her ruffled feathers, and moved on. Not like Harry Kim, who, often as not, visibly cringed, all the while searching for an escape route. Not like Chakotay who refused to be baited, always remaining unnaturally calm, and, most maddening of all, never failing to teach a lesson in self-discipline.

Tonight though, Tom didn't argue or chide. Throwing her a lop-sided grin, he simply remarked, "Well, whatever the reason, I'm free of sickbay, but still homeless."

For a moment, B'Elanna was disappointed. An argument would help, wouldn't it? Offer her the chance to purge all of these agitated feelings . . . . But no, an argument was her old habit. Still much more comfortable in many ways, but not necessary. Or wanted. Given, perhaps, twenty minute alone with Tom -- twenty minutes which might have to sustain her for two weeks or more -- the last thing B'Elanna wanted was a fight. Her comment had been nothing more than an automatic response, really. And, somehow he had known, or guessed, or just hadn't felt like arguing himself.

Returning Tom's grin, B'Elanna accepted all of this. Taking his hand into her own, she even allowed a small chuckle. "Homeless, huh? So you've decided to live in the mess hall? I don't think Janeway would approve. She moved all of us 'homeless' into the cargo bays for a reason."

"Well, actually, I'm on duty here," he explained with casual confidence, draping his free arm over a chair back. "Neelix took a shift in security. He's running around setting off proximity alarms for Simms and Hudson. Making sure they all got reset properly. Since I'm not needed in sickbay, and I'm not needed on the bridge, Chakotay asked me to guard the fridge for the night. Besides," he continued, stifling a yawn, then stretching, "Harry offered me a piece of his floor. You, too, if you're interested. You wouldn't believe Joe Carey's snoring," he finished with a mock shudder.

Well, at least he doesn't talk in his sleep!" B'Elanna declared, casting Tom a sour look. It was the least she could do for her second.

"I do not!"

"And, how would you know?" B'Elanna interrupted, finally letting go of his hand to fold her arms over her chest.

"I just -- I just don't," he declared lamely, mirroring her posture.

"Whatever you say, Paris," B'Elanna dismissed with exaggerated lightness. She stood up, changing the subject. "So, Mr. Mess Hall Monitor, what do you have to eat 'round here? I'm starving."

"So you aren't here looking for me?" Tom asked with a disappointed sigh. "You just want . . . food?"

"Sorry," B'Elanna called over her shoulder, heading for the galley. "But, I'm here for dinner. You've got to have something which will beat the ration bar and nutri-beverage I had earlier."

"Ugh," Tom grimaced, coming up behind her. He reached out to stop B'Elanna from going around the counter, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. "We aren't exactly serving haute cuisine here, but I know we can beat that," Tom assured, pulling B'Elanna back against his chest for a quick hug. "But, I'm going to have to get it for you," he whispered against her hair before reluctantly letting go, and stepping around B'Elanna into the galley.

"Service with a smile?" B'Elanna inquired, a hint of amusement tingeing her voice. "I really could get it for myself, Tom," she argued, resting her elbows on the counter as she watched him move around the small space.

"Ah, but tonight you don't have to. My name is Tom, and I will be your waiter," he teased, looking back over his shoulder to flash a quick grin. Manipulating the lock control on the side of the refrigeration unit, Tom continued. "As Neelix explained at the staff meeting, our food stores are pretty low at this point --"

B'Elanna cut him off with a tired sigh. "And, since we're hanging dead in space and not going anywhere for awhile --"

"Chakotay thought it might be a good idea to lock the kitchen, yes," Tom finished for her. "So, that's why I'm here. To dole out dinner."

Silently, B'Elanna nodded in miserable agreement. She huddled closer to the counter, almost folding her torso over it, as she contemplated his meaning. They were waiting on her warp core. Waiting for her to perform another miracle in engineering, and B'Elanna didn't even feel competent enough to repair a replicator at the moment. Not that she could, since replicators were still low priority. Guilt washed over B'Elanna in roiling waves so strong she felt close to panic. Would this be the time she let them all down? What would happen if she couldn't fix Voyager?

"B'Elanna, we're going to be fine," Tom said, somehow reading her mind. His voice was strong. Definite. Reassuring.

Grateful for something else to concentrate on, and wanting to believe him, B'Elanna raised her head, her eyes immediately locking with his. Blue pools of compassion and confidence. "How much -- how long do we have?" she was finally able to ask.

"We have enough. Chakotay started rationing now to make sure we'd have what we need later," he assured, taking the last two steps to the counter. Tom's eyes never left hers, and with a nod B'Elanna willed herself to believe him. he set two covered dishes on top of the cabinet in front of B'Elanna. "Your choices are -- unfortunately -- pleeka rind casserole and something called somsbi vegetable stew. Just remind yourself that it's not a ration bar or synthetic protein," he advised.

Looking back and forth between the two dishes, B'Elanna considered her options. She was overwhelmed by the choice before her. It was unbelievable. Although B'Elanna normally trusted her instincts, now she found that she couldn't even pick a meal. It's just dinner, she reminded herself.

"B'Elanna?" Tom murmured, prodding.

"I'll take the pleeka rind casserole. At least I know what that tastes like," she decided quickly.

"Okay," Tom agreed. "Have a seat. I'll just warm this up and get us some tea," he offered with a tired smile.

Nodding, she turned away and walked to the nearest table. It was front and center, normally her last choice of seating. But, it was also close, and the mess hall was empty, making it -- for the evening -- the perfect choice. B'Elanna dropped into the first chair, forcing herself to sit up straight when all she really wanted to do was lay her head down and close her eyes. Tom's puttering in the galley gave her something to concentrate on, something to keep her awake. Soon though, he was at her side, leaning over to place the plate in front of her.

"Here you are," Tom declared with a flourish. Stepping back, he practically bowed, and B'Elanna allowed a small chuckle when she finally noticed the dish towel he'd draped over his arm. "Can I get you anything else, ma'am?" he asked, the epitome of the over solicitous waiter.

"Just sit down," she ordered, shaking her head at him in reluctant amusement. Tom complied, easing into the opposite chair with his usual casual grace. He leaned back, his full concentration on her, causing a cold shiver of deja vu to race up and down B'Elanna's spine. She couldn't quite place it, but this was all too familiar. "I'm eating!" she declared, hastily taking a much larger bite of the casserole than anyone in their right mind ever did.

"B'Elanna, I didn't say anything," Tom protested, eyeing her warily.

"I -- I -- Never mind," B'Elanna mumbled around the greasy lump which stuck in her throat. "I just -- It's not important."

"Okay," Tom agreed, sitting forward, to retrieve his mug of tea from the middle of the table. "So, how're things in Engineering these days?"

Swallowing, she shrugged. "I don't know. Busy." B'Elanna made three futile stabs at her casserole, then asked, "Do we have to talk about the ship? I came here because I wanted to get something to eat, get a moment to myself. I don't want to talk work," she sighed, finally scooping a bite of casserole onto her fork.

"Do you want me to leave?" Tom asked, beginning to edge off his chair. "I mean, if you need to be --"

"No!" B'Elanna cried in protest. "Tom, I don't want you to leave. Actually, it made my day to find you here. I -- I'm just tired." Releasing a deep breath, she flashed him a watery smile, and inquired, "So, what's going on around here that isn't related to Engineering?"

"Oh," Tom answered, scooting back into his seat. "Okay." He was silent a moment, studying her so intently that B'Elanna could feel the small hairs on the back of her neck rise. "So, you really want to know the latest gossip?"

"Yeah. What's going on? How's the Doc? And Harry? I know he and Seven are working on the computer core . . . ."

"Harry's good, I guess. Still a little shaken up from everything," Tom admitted. "But, apparently he did a super job while we were all on the holodeck. The Doctor's the Doctor," he grumbled, shifting in his seat. "I'm just glad to be out of sickbay for awhile."

"So, what will you be doing now?" B'Elanna asked, suddenly able to focus. This is good. This will work, she thought, relieved. "Semi-permanent assignment to the mess hall?" she teased, taking another bite of her dinner.

"Oh, no," Tom declared vehemently, shaking his head. "No way. I still remember what happened last time I was in charge of the mess hall. No, Neelix will be back in the morning, and then I guess I'll end up on an Engineering team."

"Well, I've got plenty that you can do," B'Elanna promised with a small grimace. "There's this stack of PADDs in my office. I swear, they're like tribbles. Every time I turn around, there are more of them!" B'Elanna leaned back in her seat, both hands wrapped around the warm mug of tea. It almost felt as if she were drawing a sense of peace from the cup. And from Tom. "Believe me, when you show up, we'll have something for you," she sighed.

"Holodecks?" Tom asked, staring down at the table top. He traced nervous squares and triangles in the fine coat of dust which seemed to pervade Voyager with the automatic environmental filtration system currently offline.

"Holodecks?" B'Elanna repeated, resting her mug carefully on the edge of the table. "What about them?"

"Do you need someone to work on them?" Tom clarified. His hand stilled, and he looked up to gift B'Elanna with his most charming smile. "I'm kind of a holodeck expert, and since I happen to know the chief engineer pretty well, I thought maybe I could get assigned there."

"Well . . . ." The good mood which had started to steal over B'Elanna disappeared in an instant. Unsure of how to answer Tom's request she stalled. "Maybe. I suppose," she hedged. "But, the holodecks are very low priority. After all, they still work --"

"Not completely," Tom contradicted immediately. "The Doc had me, uh, researching, I guess you would say, the programs the Hirogen were running. He needed some information about them. Anyway, I've already done a cursory review of the ship's program library and the actual holodecks. They definitely need some work," he declared. "And, I've already done some of it. I'm the perfect choice."

"O--kay," B'Elanna granted slowly. She found herself nodding, although she knew she didn't agree. Even if the holodecks weren't usable at the moment, they still rated the lowest of priorities as far as B'Elanna was concerned. She found herself mimicking Tom, tracing PADD-sized squares in the dust on the table. Angrily, she wiped them away, noting that her stomach was in knots again. Pleeka-rind casserole. Great choice, she thought sourly. "I'll run it by Chakotay in the morning. To clear it. And, I guess we'll see," she told him.

"Clear it with Chakotay," Tom repeated skeptically. "What for?" he demanded. "You're Chief Engineer. It's your department, your decision."

"Because it might not look right," B'Elanna returned in badly veiled annoyance. "I don't want anyone thinking that this is an instance of favoritism. We have to be careful about appearances, Tom," she reminded. "We agreed on that."

"Oh, please," Tom declared, crossing his arms in annoyance. "How would it be favoritism?" he demanded. "I'm good at holodecks. You've had me repair other holodeck programs. It wasn't favoritism then."

"I also didn't have half the crew crawling through the Jeffries tubes then," B'Elanna explained, her eyes searching his face for understanding.

But Tom didn't respond. Instead he sat, arms still crossed, jaw set, staring at her. B'Elanna returned his gaze, wondering how their conversation had suddenly turned so adversarial. "We've had this discussion before, Tom," she reminded with an exhausted sigh. "We're both senior officers on this ship. We've got to avoid the appearance --"

"Of impropriety," he sarcastically completed for her.

B'Elanna took a calming breath, allowing time for the oxygen to fill her lungs completely, perhaps even reach her brain. "Exactly," she agreed, refusing to acknowledge his petulant attitude. "We need to avoid the appearance of impropriety. Like I said, I'll clear it with Chakotay, and then --"

"Whatever," Tom dismissed with a grunt, slouching further down in his seat. "I'm sure you know what's right, B'Elanna."

Unbelievable as it was, B'Elanna felt as if she might burst into tears at any moment. Her throat tightened painfully, and she found herself gripping the table for support. Why is he being like this? What's gotten into him? she wondered as Tom's face and the room behind him swam momentarily out of focus. When she finally felt as if she were regaining control over her off-balance and recalcitrant emotions, B'Elanna murmured, "Tom, I said that I'd look into it. That's all I can do. I don't want to argue right now."

There was a loud thwump above them, and B'Elanna jumped in her seat, obviously startled. "What the hell!" she demanded with a gasp, twisting in her seat to look up at the ceiling.

"Whoa, B'Elanna. It's okay," Tom assured, reaching across the table to place a calming hand on her arm. His sour expression had been replaced with one of concern, and B'Elanna was almost able to convince herself that she'd imagined their whole argument. Tom lightly stroked his fingers up and down her arm, and his voice was low and soothing as he explained, "That's Joe Carey's team. They're pulling that big Hirogen 'trophy' out of the conference room, remember? They can't reinitialize main computer connection to the bridge without getting to the junction in the wall behind it. Joe warned me that there might be some banging. It's okay," he repeated, flashing her a comforting smile, and giving her forearm an encouraging squeeze.

"Oh, right. Joe's team," B'Elanna echoed, settling back into the comfortable support of her chair. "I've got a lot on my mind. I forgot, I guess . . . . There's so much going on right now. The repairs. Janeway wants to know when we'll have the warp core back up, and I don't know. I can't concentrate," B'Elanna admitted with a strangled sigh. "I'm easily distracted, I find myself upset and agitated, but I don't know why --"

"How long?" Tom interrupted sharply. Taking B'Elanna's hand into his own, he continued with uncharacteristic urgency. "You feel strange? Like your emotions -- your feelings -- aren't really yours?"

"Yes," B'Elanna agreed slowly, wondering how he could know. "I've felt like this for days. I --"

"Since the Hirogen? Since the holodeck?" Tom continued to question. He peered at her closely, and B'Elanna found herself looking down at her lap to avoid the intensity of his gaze. "B'Elanna, what's your psi-rating? The empathic portion, specifically."

B'Elanna's head jerked up at the odd question, and she stammered her reply. "What -- what -- my psi-rating?"

"Yes," Tom confirmed. "Your psi-rating. It's one of those things they check when you start at the Academy," he tried explaining. "Sometime between the Commandant's welcoming address and your first squad meeting. A twenty minute interview with some master Betazoid --"

"I know what you're talking about, Tom," B'Elanna cut him off. "I just don't know why."

"Because it's not in your medical file. You didn't exactly come onto Voyager straight from the Academy, after all," Tom reminded. "What was your rating? What did they tell you? It's important, B'Elanna," he vowed.

"Well, if I remember correctly, it wasn't anything special," she replied. "Abnormally high for a Klingon, especially in the empathic range. But, my interviewer was a Betazoid, and he was very surprised that he could even read me, since they say Betazoids have a hard time with Klingons. The mental structures are too different or something. I was about average for a human," she continued. "The evaluator said he didn't have anyone to compare me with. They don't see a lot of half-Klingons at Starfleet Academy," B'Elanna explained in exasperation. She still couldn't think of a reason for his sudden interest. "There certainly wasn't anything they thought they needed to watch, so I was sent on for the next part of the psych exam."

"Average," Tom muttered, shaking his head. "You're average for a human. Does everyone have a higher psi-rating than me?" he complained.

"You're kidding, right?" B'Elanna asked. "You . . .You understand people. Better than me, and more than you let on, most of the time," she murmured, adjusting their linked hands in order to lace her fingers through his. With her free hand, she massaged her index finger up the bridge of her nose, and over the vee of her brow ridges. "I wouldn't nominate you for ship's counselor or anything, but you've got to have a higher empathic rating than me!"

"Nope," Tom denied, taking a sip of his tea. "Don't get me wrong, I do well with people I know, when I can see them, or at least talk to them. It's a talent which comes in handy when you spend too much time with Starfleet brass. Or convicts," he snorted. The joke, however, fell flat, and Tom cleared his throat, continuing seriously. "When it comes to the standard measures of empathic ability, I fail every test. During the empathic assessment they had four different evaluators project simple emotions at me. They said it was quite obvious I was blindly guessing -- and badly," he shrugged, dropping his mug loudly on the table.

B'Elanna studied his face for a moment. It was perfectly expressionless, and she suddenly found herself understanding why some empathic ability was desirable on occasion. Normally, the idea of anyone mucking about in her mind angered B'Elanna, doubly so since her experiences with the Mari. Now, however, she wouldn't mind knowing what was going on in that mind of his. Why was he suddenly interested in empathic ability? And, how concerned was Tom about his low psi rating? "Does it really matter?" she finally asked. "So, I have a higher psi rating than you. What's it getting me?" B'Elanna demanded, taking a sip of lukewarm tea.

"More than you know," he responded with a humorless chuckle. "B'Elanna, if you're having strange feelings, it may be because of some normally latent empathic ability which has been stimulated by your Hirogen neural implant."

"My implant? But it's gone. You removed it yourself three days ago," she reminded, her hand unconsciously going to the small, raised scar on her neck. A ghost of a smile touched B'Elanna's lips as she recalled the Doctor's reaction when she'd reported to sickbay for it's removal. He'd made a few sarcastic remarks about allowing Tom to treat B'Elanna, and then had disappeared into his office, giving them ten precious minutes alone. That was the last time she'd felt even halfway normal. B'Elanna understood all of the feelings she'd been experiencing then. "What does the Hirogen neural implant have to do with empathic ability?"

"Well, the Hirogen neural implants weren't all they're cracked up to be," Tom answered, clearing his throat. He leaned forward, fiddling with his now empty mug, as he continued his explanation. "Apparently, there were . . . data leaks, I guess you would call them. Even during the 'games' the Hirogen reported instances when they thought we -- the participants -- were aware of our actual identities. Additionally, over the past few days, a few people have reported odd feelings which they can't place. Hints or flashes of memory, too, but mainly the feelings. 'Residual empathic impressions', the Doc's calling them."

"But, only a few people?" B'Elanna demanded. "Why would it be happening to me?"

"According to the Doctor, everyone suffering from these residual impressions had an emotionally intense experience in one or more of the holodeck simulations, coupled with a higher than average psi rating, especially in the empathic range," Tom recited as if from rote. Pausing a moment, he swallowed hard before continuing. "The Doctor also believes that brain structure may play its part. A high percentage of crew members reporting symptoms are of non-Terran or partial Terran ancestry. The Hirogen only used one test subject --"

"A Terran test subject," B'Elanna guessed.

"Me, actually," Tom clarified, smirking unpleasantly.

"They tested it on you. They tested what on you?" B'Elanna demanded, reaching for his hand. She gripped his fingers tightly, while her heart pumped faster in her chest, once again churning up all the unsettled emotions which plagued her.

"The neural implants, and the personality programming," Tom responded with a shrug. "I was in sickbay when they attacked, working on my studies like a good little medic. Where I should have been is at the helm, trying to fly us out of this mess," he grumbled, yanking his hand from her grip to wave it around at the battered mess hall. "Instead, I was in sickbay, and the Hirogen thought that made me the perfect guinea pig. After all, to the Hirogen, we're just prey. Easily interchangeable."

"Oh Tom," B'Elanna breathed miserably. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged again and threw her a sour grin. "Well, I --"

Well, you what? Tom demanded of himself, breaking off from whatever smart comment he'd been about to make. He was doing it again, Tom realized. Like always. Out of instinct or habit, he was playing the sympathy card. Tom's "I'm a little T-POT" song and dance, his sister had taken to saying when he was a teenager. Take Pity On Tommy. And, she always had, just as long as he'd provided the right sob story and a hang-dog look.

Matter of fact, they all had. From his mother, with a hug, kiss, and another cookie for every tale of a playground bully, to Susie Crabtree, who had indulged him with a lot more than an extra snack when she'd consoled him over a close loss at hoverball. Rickie, Sandrine, even Kes and Captain Janeway. They had all taken pity on him at one time or another, offering Tom their friendship, or trust, or simply the chance to not be alone for awhile.

But, Tom realized, that wasn't what he wanted from B'Elanna. Not B'Elanna, whose friendship, affection, and love were too hard won to squander on momentary and admittedly manipulative victories. It embarrassed him, but Tom was forced to acknowledge that he wasn't sure what he wanted from B'Elanna . . . with B'Elanna. He'd spent so long pursuing her, never daring to contemplate the future. Even now, six months into some sort of relationship, he wasn't sure where they were headed. But, wherever they were going, the surest way to blow it with B'Elanna was to keep playing her like this. Picking a fight with her, only to turn around and get her all upset and worried about him? What was he doing? This was the reason B'Elanna had kept him at arm's length for so long. To avoid this very situation.

It was a scary realization. A heavy responsibility which he didn't even want to contemplate. How easily he could hurt B'Elanna now, and how desperately Tom didn't want to. Yet, the closer they grew, the deeper into their relationship they allowed themselves to go, the more Tom found himself relying on old habits, working to keep some small piece of himself protected. So, how did he protect himself without --

"Well, you what?" B'Elanna asked, reaching across the table to re-link their hands. "Well, you what, Tom?" she repeated, her voice cautious, but encouraging.

"Um," Tom answered, startled out of his inner reverie. "Uh, it doesn't matter. Really," he assured, giving her had an absent squeeze. "The Doc explained everything that was done to me, and I'll be fine. I am fine. But, B'Elanna," Tom insisted, "If you're having problems with residual empathic impressions, then you need to have them taken care of." This he could do. Get her pointed in the right direction. The rest would just have to work itself out. "The Doc's worked out a regimen, and you need to go through it."

"Taken care of?" she questioned. "There's a cure? The Doc's developed a hypospray for this?" she joked, nervously folding and refolding her dinner napkin on the table.

"Well, it's not a hypospray," Tom admitted, stretching his arms high above his head. "You'll have to go back into the holodeck program causing the empathic leaks, and re-experience the situations which are producing the residual emotions. It's the only way the Doc knows to accurately integrate your true feelings with the feelings introduced by the neural interface."

"You're kidding, right? Go back through three weeks of Hirogen holodeck programs? I don't think so," she denied flatly. "I don't have time for that. I have a ship to put back together, and keep running after that. At least I know now that I'm not going crazy," B'Elanna decided with a yawn. "Or, I'm going crazy, but there's a reason."

"You don't have to go through all of them," Tom argued. "Not if we can identify the actual personality feed which leaked through. Then, all you have to do is re-experience that simulation. That's how the Doc's handling the others."

B'Elanna carefully considered this new information. Identify the personality feed. It sounded innocuous enough, but B'Elanna wasn't so sure. The hard pit in her stomach, which should have eased with Tom's diagnosis, was growing as she contemplated having to re-experience the Hirogen holodeck programs. "How?" B'Elanna asked warily.

"Well, that's been my main assignment in sickbay. After we removed all of the neural interface implants, the Doc had me go through the records from each of the holodeck games to figure out who was where, when. You weren't in that many of them," Tom explained. "They kept you in the Klingon Warrior simulation for over a week, more than anybody else except Captain Janeway and Tuvok, actually. And, then you were in the Crusades, the Cardassian invasion of Bajor, and the World War Two simulation," Tom ticked off on one hand.

"The one we were in when Janeway deactivated the interfaces," B'Elanna mumbled. "So," she asked, clearing her throat, "The invasion of Bajor?"

"Yeah," Tom acknowledged with a grimace. "The Hirogen have a sick sense of humor. They began by using the Bajoran crewmembers, and moved on to the Maquis when they ran out of Bajorans. That's the program which seems to have the most empathic leaks. We've got four people re-living every nightmare they ever had about the Cardassians -- and some new ones -- courtesy of the Hirogen," Tom sighed in disgusted resignation. "So," he asked quietly, "What are you feeling? Does it feel like something . . . something related to the Cardassians?"

B'Elanna bit her lip, contemplating Tom's question. How did she answer? Her feelings were vague enough that she supposed they could be related to the invasion of Bajor, but she just didn't think so. "No," she answered, almost inaudibly. Sighing, B'Elanna started over. "No, I don't think so. I'm not feeling angry, or persecuted. Not really. It's there, but it's not the overwhelming part of what I'm feeling."

B'Elanna allowed a dry, disgusted chuckle before continuing. "I didn't have as much contact with the Cardassians as most of the Maquis. I didn't grow up in a Bajoran relocation camp, or watch as they murdered my parents or children. But, I know people whose lives were ruined, and I had friends who never returned. For that, I hate the Cardassians. But, this -- this doesn't feel like that," she decided.

"Good enough," Tom agreed, nodding. "Then the Crusades? Or the Klingon battle program? Are you feeling extra Klingon?" he teased.

"No," B'Elanna denied again, rolling her eyes. "If anything, I'm feeling exactly the opposite of how my mother always said a Klingon in battle feels."

"The Crusades?" Tom persisted, propping his elbows on the table. "They were, uh, religious wars, campaigns, whatever, on Earth a thousand years ago," he explained.

"No," B'Elanna rejected, throwing her hands up in obvious frustration. "The Hirogen programs were all battle scenarios, and I'm not having battle emotions. I don't know how I'm supposed to figure this out when everything is so vague," she complained.

"You can't give up yet, B'Elanna," Tom admonished. "And, we haven't even gotten to the World War Two program."

The World War Two program. The one simulation she definitely didn't want to talk about. Biting her lip again, B'Elanna didn't answer. Ever since Tom had mentioned the empathic residue from the holoprograms, she'd feared that her feelings were related to the World War Two simulation. Even now, as B'Elanna considered the little she knew about the program, her gut clenched with feelings of abandonment and betrayal. It had to be it.

From the moment she had first been aware of the change in her surroundings -- first realized that she was no longer in Engineering -- B'Elanna had felt uneasy in the simulation. It was, she knew very well, the pregnancy. B'Elanna remembered Seven of Nine telling them that they were on the holodeck, under attack. The former Borg, however, had failed to mention a time frame. So, B'Elanna had been left to nervously contemplate the sudden swelling of her girth, uninformed. To conclude that she was --

Shaking her head to clear it, B'Elanna demanded, "Why? It's all the same thing. Another battle simulation --"

"No. It was different," Tom argued, leaning forward in excitement. "Your role was different in the simulation. Your -- your character, I guess, wasn't involved in a physical battle so much as a mental one. You were -- she was . . . a spy. Not a soldier."

A spy. Yes, I was a spy. The iciest twinge of deja vu yet rolled over B'Elanna, paralyzing her. Someone had called her a spy . . . . And, Tom! He'd been there . . . so disappointed. Guilt, intermixed with sorrow, flowed through B'Elanna in such powerful waves that she almost felt space-sick from the churning of her stomach. She caught herself gnawing on her lip again, looking away. Anything which might help stabilize her out of control emotions. It still didn't make sense, but at least she had a reason now, B'Elanna reminded herself. She had an excuse. The Hirogen. There should have been some comfort in that, but B'Elanna couldn't find it.

Tom paused, waiting for B'Elanna to respond, catch his excitement. He knew that he was on to something. It had to be the World War Two simulation. B'Elanna, however, didn't appear to have even heard him. She wasn't looking at him, concentrating, instead, on her lap. Or her stomach.

"I suppose though, that there's not much difference between fighting and spying, is there?" he asked with a quiet sigh. Shaking his head in frustration, Tom allowed a small, frustrated chuckle before slumping back in his chair quietly. "I guess the real difference with the simulation is that you were pregnant," he observed, his voice perfectly and suspiciously neutral.

B'Elanna's head snapped up in time to see him gesture at her middle. Embarrassed, She realized she'd been looking down at her once again flat stomach. He'd caught her. Tom knew -- or at least suspected -- and B'Elanna didn't know what to do. "Tom I --"

"That's why the World War Two program affected you more than the others," he postulated, shifting restlessly in his seat. "When Captain Janeway disabled the neural interfaces, and we all woke up . . . ." Tom trailed off momentarily, then declared sheepishly, "You sure looked pregnant."

"Yeah," B'Elanna agreed, loudly expelling a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "And, I didn't know what the hell to think," she muttered. "I remembered Voyager being boarded, and I remembered the Hirogen storming into Engineering. I got off two, maybe three good shots . . . ." B'Elanna's voice petered out momentarily, her eyes narrowing as she tried to focus on something unseen behind Tom. With a shake of her head, she was back in the present, her eyes locked with his. "The next thing I knew, I was on the holodeck. It was obvious that some time had passed . . . I had a horrible headache. . . There was this . . . growth kicking me," she ground out from between clenched teeth, her voice rising in volume and pitch. "And -- and --" B'Elanna broke off, forcing herself to breathe. "Even then," she sighed, running a hand over her ridged forehead, "I was having these weird feelings."

"What were they like?" Tom demanded, edging forward in his chair. His voice was sharp, and B'Elanna might have interpreted it as a sign of anger had he not covered her hand with his, gently smoothing out the fist she hadn't even known she'd made. "The feelings. What did you feel like?" he asked, stroking his thumb from her wrist to her knuckles one last time before withdrawing.

"I don't know," she mumbled, looking down at the remains of her abandoned dinner. "It was weird," B'Elanna repeated, shaking her head. "While the thinking, rational part of my brain was trying to figure out what was going on, the feeling, emotional part of me was . . . relieved. But also scared and unsure." B'Elanna straightened in her chair, her voice still betraying her uncertainty as she declared, "It was confusing. I didn't know what had happened."

They fell into a strained silence, each willing the other the speak first. Tom fiddled with his mug, while B'Elanna studiously moved the last two bites of cold casserole around on her plate. Finally though, she looked up, her wide, chestnut eyes locking once more with his piercingly blue ones. "I gue -- I guess when I --" she stammered. "When I woke up I thought --"

"You thought you were pregnant," Tom completed for her. "You hardly knew which end was up, and for a moment you thought that you might actually be pregnant."

"Yes, that's what I thought," B'Elanna hesitantly affirmed, searching Tom's face for some hint of what he was thinking, how he felt. A mask of indifference had settled over his handsome features, and although she'd gotten into the habit of calling Tom on it when he shut himself off like this, B'Elanna didn't think she had the right to do so this time.

More guilt. Only this time, she didn't know if it were her own or the character's. Brigitte's, B'Elanna reminded herself, even as she acknowledged that this guilt was all her own. All he own, because she'd known that the possibility existed, and she'd never told Tom.

"Your chances of pregnancy are, by my estimation, three hundred times greater than those of the normal population," the Doctor had said. It had been a week or so after their discovery of the alien medical experimentation on Voyager, and B'Elanna had been in sickbay, running the Doctor's weekly diagnostic. He'd asked her into his office for a "private consultation," and B'Elanna had assumed that it was about the appointment to check her lungs which she had missed the day before. Instead, he'd dropped that bombshell, continuing with, "A ballpark figure, as Mr. Paris would say, but close enough."

"It's hard to estimate," the EMH had acknowledged once he had decided that B'Elanna was not going to respond. "What, with your mixed heritage, and the genetic anomalies which I can only assume have been introduced by your experiences in the Delta Quadrant. Both yours and Mr. Paris's," he clarified helpfully. "As I am sure you can imagine, I cannot be certain that your genetic separation at the hands of the Vidiians, followed by my brilliant, but completely experimental, re-integration of your genome, did not introduce minute inconsistencies into you DNA. These inconsistencies may very well affect your reproductive system, as well as the efficacy of all standard birth control methods."

The Doctor was almost cheerful as he continued to run through her recent medical history. For her part, B'Elanna was stunned. This was an issue she hadn't considered. Like everyone else on Voyager, B'Elanna was used to -- confident in -- the yearly routine of "boosters". All your basic medical needs handled in ten minutes. A single hypospray to protect against all common viruses, most bacterial agents, and -- an additional option -- unintentional pregnancy. Or, so B'Elanna had always believed.

"As for Mr. Paris," he had continued his lecture, "I do not consider it a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality to remind you that he has also experienced a few genetic mutations --"

"What exactly does this all mean, Doctor?" she had demanded then, wholly uninterested in hearing any more of his recital. B'Elanna knew the Doctor's pattern, and wasn't up for the standard plug regarding his genius which was due at any moment. "What are the chances that . . . that I'm pregnant now?" B'Elanna had asked, unable to look him in the eye.

"I assure you, Lieutenant, you are not pregnant," the Doctor had answered, emphasizing the negative nature of his diagnosis. "This is only a precautionary consultation," he explained. "Starfleet Medical estimates a yearly failure rate of point zero-one-three percent for the boosters," the Doctor had answered. "Given my prediction regarding yourself and Mr. Paris --"

"About four percent," B'Elanna completed the quick calculation in her head. "That's not much of a risk. The boosters are still ninety-six percent effective," she'd argued hotly. However, to herself she had conceded that, If it were the engines operating at ninety-six percent efficiency, I'd be trying for ninety-eight or ninety-nine.

"True," the Doctor had nodded, obviously unconvinced. "Still, it is my duty as your physician to make both you and Mr. Paris aware --"

"Leave Tom to me, Doctor," B'Elanna had interrupted brusquely, standing up from her chair. She'd moved toward the door, eager to get away, still talking. "I should be the one to tell him. This is our problem, really. Nothing for you to worry about."

"But, Lieutenant --"

"Thank you Doctor," B'Elanna had continued, ignoring his protest. Thank you for your concern," she had repeated, beating a hasty retreat from sickbay.

But, B'Elanna had never gotten around to sharing the Doctor's information with Tom. For a number of reasons, none of them good. The right time never presented itself, B'Elanna thought miserably, knowing that was no excuse. It didn't matter that during the intervening months life on Voyager had been hectic and full of hazard. Or that they had spent weeks assigned to opposite shifts, with only brief snatches of time together. She should have made the time to tell him. But, our time together was too precious, B'Elanna tried to justify. I didn't want to ruin it --

And that, she realized suddenly, was the crux of the matter. She'd felt all along that their relationship was too new, too precarious for that discussion. Besides, B'Elanna acknowledged, she hadn't wanted to be quite so serious yet. It had taken her months to build up the courage to tell him she loved him, after all. She wasn't ready to discuss the future, to talk about the possibilities of children and marriage.

Tom wasn't ready to either, B'Elanna was certain, despite his occasional hints about a long-term relationship. She still practically had to threaten him with bodily harm if she wanted to know more than the most superficial of facts about his life before Voyager. Whenever they had a discussion which began to touch upon Tom's deeper thoughts and feelings, he always changed the subject or found some other way to distract her. B'Elanna certainly hadn't imagined that he would handle a discussion about potential parenthood -- no matter how unlikely -- very well. So, time and again, she had put off telling him, and then, on the holodeck, it had suddenly seemed too late.

"That's kind of what I thought, too." Tom's admission brought B'Elanna back to the present. She stared at him, and then past him, as he continued. "At first, that's what I thought. It was a shock, you know," he added nervously, almost giggling. "I came to, and . . . . Well, there you were. You sure looked pregnant. I didn't know what I --"

Tom stopped, knowing that he was revealing far too much. Knowing that nothing he was saying made him look good. Tom didn't want B'Elanna to know how much the sight of her holographic pregnancy had affected him. How it had scared him as much as it had intrigued him. The fact was, Tom didn't know how he felt about the idea of children. Sure, he'd dandled Naomi Wildman on his knee as often as anyone else on Voyager, but that was a far cry from contemplating fatherhood. No, he couldn't tell B'Elanna anything until he'd figured it out for himself.

Glancing uneasily at B'Elanna, Tom was relieved to see that she hadn't even heard him. Her chestnut eyes were clouded with a far-off look, and she'd gone pale. She's scared. It scared her, too, he realized, and it eased some of the pressure which had begun building in his chest. Wanting to make her feel better, too, he reached across the table to lay his hand on top of hers, offering whatever comfort she was willing to take from him.

Startled by the sudden warmth of his hand upon hers, B'Elanna looked up to see Tom smiling in encouragement. Still, she could see the apprehension behind his grin, and she found herself, dry mouthed, wanting to tell him how much she appreciated his solid support, and how much she loved him. This was the Tom Paris most people never saw, not really. The one B'Elanna had selfishly come to consider her own. The Tom Paris who would -- as he had in the Vidiian mines, on the Day of Honor, and on so many other occasions, big and small -- offer her comfort and support, even as he struggled with his own fears and doubts.

But, B'Elanna found that she couldn't say anything. Her throat was blocked by the guilt which still coursed through her, ringing loudly in her ears, a massive weight in her chest. She couldn't bring herself to tell Tom again that she loved him. Not while continuing to omit the truth about the Doctor's warning. Of course, he seemed to be handling the whole holographic pregnancy scare better than she would have imagined. Perhaps now was the time to tell him. Tom Paris didn't frighten easily, after all. Maybe she could tell him. They would share a relieved laugh, and vow to be more careful. Easy enough. "Tom I ne --"

"But, then I realized that the odds you would actually be pregnant were astronomical," Tom continued with a chuckle. "The failure rate on the boosters is so low. Sure, there are people who, for whatever reason -- allergy, biochemical incompatibility, rare genetic anomaly -- can't take the boosters. But, outside of those cases, everyone's protected," Tom lectured. He was talking too fast, gesturing about nervously -- obviously ill at ease. "A good thing, to be sure," Tom added with a quick laugh. "After all," he found himself adding against his better judgment, "A baby is about the last thing we're ready for, right? I'm just glad it turned out to be so much holographic nonsense."

Stunned, B'Elanna just stared at Tom, who smiled sheepishly at her in return. Another opportunity lost, she realized, clenching her free hand in frustration beneath the table. Out loud, though, B'Elanna agreed with Tom. "Right," she nodded. "So much holographic nons --"

"But," Tom continued, not even waiting for her to finish her reply, "I think the important thing here is that we identified the program. You can run it now, explore all of these artificial emotions you've been experiencing, and get back to normal."

"Tom, that's the last thing I'm interested in doing right now," B'Elanna argued, rearing back, her chin jutting out defiantly. She was suddenly very alert, Tom realized. Her eyes intense, her voice strong, her posture rigid. She was ready to fight. "I'm not going back to the holodeck. Especially for a Hirogen program."

"Well, it's not a Hirogen program, actually," he tried soothingly. "It's an entertainment -"

"Then you've got a strange concept of entertainment," she interrupted, snorting derisively.

"Not me. The Hirogen," Tom contradicted, chancing a weak grin. B'Elanna continued her stony stare, and he continued with a sigh. "They took a historical romance program and adapted it for their needs. They adapted lots of programs," he explained. "And, if they couldn't find what they needed in the program banks, then they used holo-footage from the tactical and historical databases. But, the World War Two sim was a romance, originally," Tom repeated. "A holo-novel titled, The Memory of You."

"That was a romance novel? I don't think so!" B'Elanna allowed a harsh bark of laughter at the thought. She could not -- would not -- believe that these troublesome emotions were the result of a romance novel. "Tom," B'Elanna argued obstinately, "There's no way what I'm feeling is related to a romance novel!"

"But it is," he insisted. "Sure the Hirogen cut a lot out. Like you said, they were after battle scenes," Tom admitted. "But, the program was a romance novel first. A written one. Four hundred pages, that they later adapted to be a holoprogram. It's actually a very interesting story. Especially this one minor thread about the first officer of a Navy PT boat in the Pacific --"

"Fine. It's a romance novel," B'Elanna conceded with a grunt. "I don't see it," she groused, "And, it sure doesn't feel like I've been through a romance novel . . . . That's another thing," she declared, leaning forward to point a challenging finger at Tom. "Who are the romantic figures in this romance?"

"Well, your character and mine," Tom answered. "Brigitte and Bob --"

"Bobby," she whispered ahead of Tom. B'Elanna slowly sank back in her chair, nodding. "You were Bobby, and my name was Brigitte," she murmured, jolted by what she could now identify as a residual empathic impression. A memory, actually, she decided, as the fuzzy image of Tom -- but not Tom -- flashed before her eyes. B'Elanna could see him in front of her, breathing heavily, a stunned expression on his face . . . . The memory faded as quickly as it had come upon her, but the feelings remained. Joy and pain co-mingled, and B'Elanna knew that she didn't want to know any more.

"Right," Tom agreed slowly. "You were Brigitte and I was Bobby. Our characters were involved in some sort of long-distance romance --"

"I don't want to run the program," B'Elanna announced. "I don't think it will help." It will just make things worse, she decided for herself. "There's got to be something else."

"B'Elanna --"

No!" she shouted, bringing a balled up fist down onto the table. The dishes rattled, startling them both into momentary silence. "It's not going to help," B'Elanna insisted seconds later, her voice tautly controlled.

"Yes it will, B'Elanna," Tom argued softly, reaching across the table to grip her hand. "This is the only way. You have to exorcise Brigitte's emotions. And that means running the program. You need this more than anyone else, actually. You're the only one who stopped receiving the personality feed before the program completed. You need to work through to the conclusion."

"For whatever pat happy ending the programmer tacked onto the end?" she spat out in return. She was leaning forward again, agitated. "No. I don't think so."

"It does have a happy ending, but it's not pat --"

"Yeah, right," B'Elanna snapped. "If I -- if she -- ends up with you -- him -- Bobby -- whoever . . . . It's not realistic," she cried. "That . . . Nazi, right? That Nazi kept saying he was the father of her child. How the hell can that work out?"

"It's a fifty hour program, B'Elanna," Tom answered, reaching for her hand. She pulled away from him, and he leaned back in his chair, his own frustration beginning to build. "The story spans ten years," he tried explaining. "It all works out, but it takes time. I'm not sure how, but --"

"A fifty hour program!" B'Elanna protested, throwing her hands up in disgust. "I don't have time for that. It'll use up all of my holodeck time for two months!" she argued desperately. Anything to avoid running the program. All she knew was that she couldn't go back into that program. Especially not on the flimsy promise of some unknown happy ending.

"The Doctor can authorize the time for medical reasons," Tom countered. "He's very concerned that everyone get the proper treatment. You have to do this, B'Elanna."

She didn't answer. Just sat staring at him defiantly, as if she were trying to bore through to the back of his skull. Her eyes were bright with anger and pain, and Tom felt distinctly like a bully. But, he knew that he had to get her to do this. "C'mon, B'Elanna," he cajoled nervously. "It won't be so bad. At least you get an entertainment program, and not some boring documentary. A romance, complete with a first kiss . . . love letters . . . a wedding . . . . Hell, I'd love some holodeck time about now," he cajoled.

"Great," B'Elanna answered, her voice clipped. "Then you can have it. You were working on a new program the night before the Hirogen attack, right? You take my time," she offered.

"That's not going to work, B'Elanna," Tom reprimanded with a heavy sigh. "You need to go through the program."

She sat staring at him for a few moments, then, shaking her head no, simply stated, "I'm not doing it."

"B'Elanna," Tom began, trying to modulate his voice to a reasonable tone. "You need --"

He was cut off by the sound of a spectacular crash at the mess hall entrance. Startled, they both looked over to see Ensign Hickman sprawled across the floor, the contents of an engineering toolkit fanned out around him. "Aw, dammit," the miserable ensign groaned.

Immediately on his feet, Tom was halfway across the mess hall before he asked, "You all right, Hickman? What happened?"

"My toe caught in the carpet," Hickman admitted with a frown. "Stupid thing is, I knew it was loose. I'm the one who tacked it down yesterday."

He struggled to stand, only stopping when B'Elanna ordered him not to. "Hold on Hickman. Let Tom check you out."

"I'm fine, really. Nothing injured but my pride," the embarrassed ensign vowed, blushing. "I certainly didn't mean to barge in like that, Lieutenants. I was just stopping by for a cup of coffee or tea. Something to keep me awake."

"You weren't barging in, Ensign," B'Elanna contradicted quickly. "I've just been having my dinner. And now, I need to get back to engineering. Just as soon as I get my PADD."

As B'Elanna turned back toward the table, Tom helped pull Hickmam to his feet. "Let's see about that coffee, Ensign," he offered.

"I'm really sorry, sir," Hickman whispered, trailing closely behind Tom. "I didn't know --"

"It's okay, Hickman. I promise," Tom interrupted in exasperation. It really wasn't, but that had nothing to do with Hickman. He glanced back at B'Elanna, taking in the tight rigidity of her spine, the obvious anger with which she assembled her things. Sighing, he grabbed a mug from beneath the counter, and poured the hapless young ensign a cup of coffee. "It's absolutely horrid," Tom promised, handing the mug over. "Not only is it one of Neelix's substitute blends, but it's five hours old. At least it will keep you awake."

"Thanks, sir," Hickman replied, taking his first sip and grimacing.

Tom, halfway back to the table, didn't hear him. "Got everything?" he asked softly, coming up behind B'Elanna. He wanted nothing more than to lay a hand on her shoulder, but he resisted. There was no way she'd take it as a friendly gesture. Right now she was so mad, she'd probably bust his nose.

"Um, yeah," B'Elanna answered distractedly, turning around, a PADD clutched to her chest. She found herself too close, and backed up a step, bumping into the table. "It's all here. I was supposed to read this while I was eating, but . . . ." Rather that glare at Tom, she looked away. "But, I'll get to it eventually," she decided with a shrug.

"Sounds good," he returned softly. How did everything suddenly get so out of control? he wondered miserably, watching B'Elanna look everywhere but at him. "B'Elanna, I'm sorry," he rushed, hoping that somehow an apology might make things better. "I didn't want to fight with you," he whispered, mindful of Hickman, not twenty feet away.

"Fine," B'Elanna replied, shaking her head in vigorous agreement. "It's okay, really. We're both tired and under a lot of strain, right?"

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, awkwardly folding his arms over his chest. "I guess."

"And, I'm sorry, too," B'Elanna added, glancing at the ceiling. She knew that whatever Tom thought she was apologizing for, he was wrong. That thought was enough to make her feel guilt all over again. Shaking her head, B'Elanna began to inch away. "I really need to get back to engineering."

"Right. Okay," Tom nodded. He reached out toward her, then stopped, knowing that as much as he wanted to touch her -- as much as he knew that would somehow solve whatever had gone wrong -- B'Elanna would not welcome it.

Surprisingly, it was B'Elanna who grabbed Tom's hand, finally allowing herself to look at him. She was gratified to at least see the same confusion she felt mirrored in his expressive eyes. "Thanks -- Thanks for dinner," she tried.

"You're welcome, B'Elanna. Always," Tom sighed as she let go of her loose grip on his fingers. "I just wanted to --" Tom stopped as she turned away, obviously not interested. I just wanted to help, he finished silently. But, instead, he'd hurt her. Hurt them. Like he'd known he would.

"I'll see you later," B'Elanna called over he shoulder as she neared the exit.

"Yeah. Later," Tom answered after her retreating form. For a minute he considered going after her. Telling her that they needed to work this out now. Dragging her to sickbay so that the Doctor could explain the importance of re-running the holodeck program. But, he knew that would more likely make things worse. And, that was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

Tom turned back toward Hickman, nervously sucking down his coffee substitute at the counter. "Anything else I can get for you, Ensign?" he called, making his way back to the galley. We just need some time. Time, and some space, he assured himself, going around the counter to pull out more leftovers.

Her PADD clutched tightly in her hand, B'Elanna hurried down the corridor toward the turbolift. This time she didn't notice the damage to the walls or the somewhat rank smell of the Hirogen which still pervaded the ship. No, all B'Elanna could think of was how important it was to get away from the mess hall, and from Tom. Her stomach clenched tightly at the thought she would have to see him again soon -- at a staff meeting, or in engineering -- and she wondered how long she could avoid him.

 

Forward to The Memory of You: Book Two

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