The BLTS Archive - Even in Memory
by Sasscat Bu-to-y (fitchett@netaccess.co.nz)

---

Based on JuPiter Station Challenge #10.

Disclaimer:  Paramount owns 'em; I just make 'em forget it.

Feedback welcome.

(c) Sasscat Bu-to-y 1999

---
"Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common."

   -- Jane Austen, "Emma"
---


Paris looked warily at the light grey walls staring back at him.  The
floor hummed lightly; he must be on a starship.  In a sickbay; not too
shabby a sickbay either, judging by the tech.

He heard footsteps behind him and whirled.  Janeway.  Of course.  "If
I'd known you were going to sedate me I'd never have agreed to your
little mission," he snapped.  "I don't appreciate being confined."

Janeway looked almost startled for a moment then glanced behind her at
the doctor.  She'd cut her hair, he noted, and realised soon after
that the doctor wore no pips.  Paris wondered if it was that new hologram
he'd heard about.  If they'd wanted him to field test a medic they
could have just said so - though *why* they'd want him to do that was
another question entirely.

"Captain," the doctor said quietly, "Mister Paris' memory loss extends
back to your recruitment of him to track down the Maquis vessel."

"That far?" Janeway whispered back.

"Wait a minute.  What memory loss?"  Paris looked from one to the
other suspiciously.  "What's going on?"

Janeway walked towards him.  "Tom, what I'm about to say may seem a
little difficult to believe."

*Tom*?  What was this?  Paris folded his arms and leaned back against
the biobed.  "Why don't you try me, Kathryn?"

She looked taken aback then grimaced slightly.  "You were in a shuttle
accident.  The others were only mildly injured, but you...  The Doctor
has been able to treat the worst of it, but you've lost some of your
memory."

Paris paused, absorbing this.  After a moment he looked up at her.
"How much?"

She hesitated and glanced at the doctor, who shrugged and hmmphed
slightly.  "Five years," Janeway said.

Five *years*?  Janeway's expression betrayed the fact that there was
more, and his eyes flicked between the two of them warily.  "What
else?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" she asked, in lieu of a direct
answer.

"Getting on the transport for DS9 to help you track down your missing
security officer," he said, seeing no reason to lie about that.
"Why?"

Janeway grimaced at the floor before meeting his eyes.  "When we
reached the Badlands, we hit a displacement wave.  We didn't know it
at the time, but that wave was under the direct control of a being who
brought us to his area of space for--  Well, it's complicated," she
sighed, "but the important thing is that Voyager was transported to
the Delta Quadrant."

Paris untensed in scorn.  "You had me going there for a minute, you
really did.  Who put you up to this?  My father?"

"Everything I've told you is true," Janeway said firmly.  There was
something else in her stance; something he couldn't quite identify.

"Do you really expect me to believe we're on the other side of the
galaxy?" he demanded.  "And I suppose in the five years of memory you
say I've lost, I've become a valuable and trusted member of your crew.
Hell, I suppose you even made me Chief Conn Officer!"

"As a matter of fact, yes," she said coolly.  "Tom--"

"Come on, *Kathryn*.  I don't know what this is about, but you can't
really expect me to believe any of this rubbish."

"I suppose I can't," Janeway sighed.  "I'll show you your quarters.
Maybe something there will spark your memory.  --If that's all right
with you, Doctor?" she added belatedly.

"I don't see why not," the doctor said.  "You can get him a fresh
uniform from the replicator."

Janeway nodded, casting Paris a brief glance before heading over to
it.  The doctor walked into his office, and a moment later Janeway
returned with a clean uniform.  "You can change through there," she
said, gesturing with her free hand at a small room off Main Sickbay.

He nodded and took the pile of clothes.  As he moved into the room
she'd pointed out, he wondered what this was about.  Starfleet wasn't
the sort to waste money on an elaborate simulation - okay, so it was
hardly elaborate.  There was still no point to it, as far as he could
see.  Messing with his mind as part of his rehab?  It didn't seem
particularly likely.  Still, it was the only explanation he had.

Paris sighed and put it out of his mind.  He wasn't going to get
anywhere until he knew more.  And that meant getting Janeway on his
good side.  So, right now, he should finish getting dressed and get
out there.

Pants, singlet...  On second thoughts, he tossed the itchy singlet
aside and slipped on the soft blue under-jacket instead, then frowned.
It didn't seem to fit quite right - all right, Starfleet uniforms were
never comfortable, but this was even more strangely shaped than usual.
He pulled it off again and strolled out into Main Sickbay.

"Whose bright idea was it to redesign the uniform?" he asked.

"That's standard uniform these days," Janeway answered, looking up.
Her eyes seemed drawn to his bare chest, Paris noted with interest.
*That's* what had been in her eyes earlier.  Okay, he could use that.

"So how does it work?"

She stood up and followed him back into the smaller room he'd been
changing in.  "Put your arms in.  Not like that," she said when he
started to pull it on jacket-style.  "It fastens at the back."

No wonder the shape had been wrong.  He turned it around and slid his
arms in.  "Yeah?"

"Then you reach behind and fasten it," she said with a shrug in her
voice.  He twisted his arms behind him but couldn't make it work.

"It's a stupid design," he grumbled.

She moved behind him and attached it, sliding her hands up his back.
"It's designed to be able to be removed in a hurry.  You'll get the
hang of it."

"Is that so?" he said with a smirk, turning to face her.  "So, how
much of a *hurry* can it be removed in?"

Janeway gave him a sour look, but the same attraction hiding in her
body language was lurking in her eyes.  He smiled innocently.

"A couple of years back a macrovirus infected the ship," she said.
"Life support was virtually non-existent, and the residual heat from
the warp core was..." she shrugged, "*hot*.  They can be removed in
enough of a hurry so that you're not caught and eaten by giant
viruses."

Paris spent a moment picturing her without her turtleneck, blasting
macroviruses to pieces.  It was an appealing image.

Janeway's hand was moving towards him and he flinched instinctively.
Her eyes widened, but she didn't comment.  She pressed something
against his neck, and he reached up to touch it the moment she drew
her hand away.

It was a pip.  A solid pip.  Ensign.  He looked at her, wide-eyed, for
a second or two - no, he reminded himself sharply; it was just some
bizarre hoax.  Five years in the Delta Quadrant.  Ensign.  Sure.  He
had to find out what was really going on.

"Your hair looks nice short," he commented, non sequitur.

Janeway looked at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes cleared in
understanding.  "Thanks," she said with what was almost a shy smile.

So, she was a good actress.  That blank look would have been hard to
fake.  Or maybe it had been five years.  That still didn't explain the
Delta Quadrant line.  Anyway, it was time to push his luck.

He brushed her hair back from her face, watching her subtly as he
twined his fingers in it.  Hm, yes, that was definite desire.  He
leaned down, as if to brush his lips across hers, but twisted his head
away at the last instant.

"I'm sorry," he lied in soft calculation.  "I shouldn't have...  I was
out of line."  He took two small steps backward.

The apology in Janeway's eyes was laced with lust for a moment, before
she got herself under control.  "Well," she said awkwardly.  "I should
go... wait for you out there."  Her eyes lingered, then she turned her
head sharply and left.

Paris smiled.  This was going to be almost too easy.

---

They were walking along what was supposed to be a corridor on
Voyager's fourth deck.  After everything Janeway had been telling him, he was
beginning to wonder if this amazing prototype had even existed in the
first place.  Fluidic space?  Defeating the *Borg*?

And - even more difficult to believe - the idea that he could have had
any kind of relationship, however brief, with that half-Klingon from
Chakotay's ship.  Even in five years, there was no way the Maquis
would thaw to him that fast.  And him saving Chakotay's life?  Yeah,
right.

Something Janeway was saying caught his attention, and he looked at
her sceptically.  "A Borg drone."

"Seven of Nine," Janeway nodded.  "We rescued her from the Collective
almost two years ago, and she's in the process of learning how to be
human again."

"You have a Borg drone working for you," he repeated.  How the hell
did they expect him to believe this crap?  You couldn't just 'rescue'
a drone from the Collective.  Christ, this was beyond insane.

"I realise this is difficult for you to believe," Janeway said with a
sigh.  "We've encountered some unusual things out here.  Tom, I don't
know how to convince you of what I'm saying."

"Kathryn, I don't know how you could expect me to be convinced," Paris
mimicked.  "I mean, you tell me you started out seventy thousand light
years from home, and in just five years you've managed to cross almost
sixty thousand of those light years?  No one could be that lucky."

"You want believable?" Janeway demanded, stopping to face him angrily.
"All right, how about this one.  When I first gave you a field
commission, I made you a lieutenant.  But you refused to obey my
orders, jeopardising this ship and engaging in what I can only call
terrorism, so I had to bust you down to ensign.  And even then I liked
you better than the way you're behaving now."

"Now *that*," Paris jibed, "I can believe."

Janeway let out a frustrated sigh and started walking again.  "This is
ridiculous," she muttered.  She stopped again in front of a door with
his name emblazoned on it.  "These are your quarters.  Touch the
pad--"

"I know how to open a door," Paris interrupted, letting it register
his fingerprints.  It slid open and he wandered inside, looking around
the spacious quarters.  "Well, it's certainly better than prison."

He roamed the room, studying the ornaments.  Whoever had arranged this
had done their research; the place was pretty close to his tastes.
Maybe a little too legal, but what could you expect?

Janeway's voice came from behind him.  "Do you remember anything?"

Paris turned an alien artefact over in his hands, wondering what
little-known world in the Federation it had come from.  "Nada.  What
are you going to do now, introduce me to the omnipotent alien who
brought you out here?"

"That's enough!"  Boy, was she pissed now.  "You may not be able to
believe me, Tom, but you're still a Starfleet officer and I'm *still*
your captain!  It's about time you began to act like it!"

He dumped the artefact back on its shelf and turned to look at her.
"What, you don't think I'm giving you the respect you deserve?  You
could always take me back to the penal colony.  No, that's right," -
he put on an expression of sudden remembrance - "we're on the other
side of the galaxy!"  He cast her a pitying look and continued on his
course around the room.

"I'm going to see how the Doctor's getting on," Janeway said, voice
low with controlled anger.  "If you need me-- well, I assume you know
how to use a commbadge."

Paris sighed, realising that this really wasn't the best way to keep
himself on her good side, and moved to catch her eye.  "Wait--  Please
don't go.  Look, I'm sorry I've been such a jerk."

Janeway folded her arms but stopped moving towards the door.  "Uh huh.
And why exactly is that, Mister Paris?"

So much for 'Tom'.  But she was still here, and that was a start.
Paris knew about the hardships of captaining a starship; out in deep
space for years at a time, with no one around but your own crew, who
were all off-limits.  Even a brief liaison with a passing alien only
eased the loneliness, and for women, only if they didn't care about
their reputations.  And if this crazy story of Janeway's *was* true...
Well, five years without even *seeing* a familiar species would push
the limits of even the most frigid captain in Starfleet.  This was
going to be almost too easy.

Paris crossed the room to stand in front of her.  "Because it wasn't
fair," he answered.  "I lashed out at you because I didn't understand
what was going on, and I was scared and angry.  I didn't mean to hurt
you--"

She raised an eyebrow, face bland.  "What makes you think you hurt
me?"

"Because it hurt *me* when I pushed you away."  He could see a flicker
of weakness in her eyes and brushed her cheek lightly, pitching his
voice in the low murmur that had always worked well with women.
"Forgive me?"

She leaned into his touch ever so slightly, eyes almost closing.  "Of
course, Tom," she said with a gentle smile.

And now was the time.  "Thank you," he murmured, and bent down to kiss
her.

She didn't pull back immediately, but after a full second slid her
lips
away.  "Tom, this isn't right..."

Not "how dare you" or similar sentiments.  Just a little more tweaking
and he was in.  Literally, he thought with an inward smirk.  "Why
not?"
he whispered aloud.  "I'm not 'Fleet, I'm not Maquis.  After this
mission we can go our separate ways, but for tonight...  I need you,
Kathryn."  He kissed her again and felt her lips begin to part before
he drew back.  "Please," he whispered.

"Tom," she said in a low voice, almost a moan, "I want to..."

"No one has to know," he said huskily.  He brushed her cheek again,
trailing his fingertips down her neck to push gently at the top of her
turtleneck - who designed these things, he wondered again.  Janeway
shivered as he slid his hand away, expression wavering.

"I need you," he repeated, and when their lips met he wasn't even sure
who'd leaned forward first.  He brought his hand back up to unzip her
jacket.  She tensed for a brief instant, then melted under his touch.

---

"I should go see how the Doctor's getting on," she whispered, some
time later.  Paris finished pulling on his boot and stood up to join
her.

"I'll walk you," he offered.  Maybe now he could find out what was
*really* going on.

Janeway smiled at him warmly, although she didn't speak.  Paris was
content to let the silence rest, biding his time.  He didn't want to
push her and ruin everything.

Just when he was beginning to wonder if Janeway was ever going to
speak, his attention was caught by an approaching crewman.  She was
tall, startlingly blond with a glittery blue and grey catsuit.
Stylised silver jewelry adorned her face, and her left hand was
supported by some kind of metal framework, maybe something medical.
And that figure...  Nice.  Very nice.

The woman nodded as she passed.  "Ensign.  Captain."

What a *voice*!  Okay, strangely monotone, but dead sexy.  Paris
twisted his head to mark her passage down the corridor, grinning at
the view.  "Who's *she*?" he asked Janeway when she was out of sight,
appreciation in his voice.

There was a slight pause before Janeway answered, in a strangely
formal voice, "Seven of Nine.  Our resident ex-Borg."

Sure.  Whatever.  Didn't look like any drone Paris had seen pictures
of, but he didn't point that out.  "Wouldn't mind joining *her*
collective," he smirked instead.

Janeway made no response and he looked back at her curiously, pausing
in the middle of the corridor.  "What's up?  Jealous?"

Her face remained neutral as she stopped with him.  "Why ever would I
be jealous, Mister Paris?"

She *was* jealous.  What the hell?  "Kathryn, you didn't think--  Oh,
this is too much," he laughed.  "You really thought I meant anything
I told you?  Your 'Commander Chakotay' should have been *more* than
willing to tell you what a bastard I was, even if the rest of your
colleagues weren't - which I doubt."

"I don't believe you mean that," Janeway said, face relaxing slightly.
"I've spent five years with you, Tom.  I can see past those defense
mechanisms of yours, and I don't think you believe what you're saying
any more than I do."

Was there no end to this woman's ego?  "Sure," Paris said derisively.
"I've known you for a few hours, in which time you've consistently
lied to me and fed me some cock-and-bull story about beings with
strange magical powers transporting us across the galaxy, and this has
led me to fall madly in love with you, which I am now trying to cover
up for fear of my own inadequacy."

Direct hit.  Janeway stiffened, regarding him with a mixture of anger
and pain, then stalked off down the corridor again.

What had she expected?  Life-long devotion?  Paris hurried to catch up
with her, studying her angry stride.  "It wasn't even that good," he
said harshly.  He couldn't believe they let someone as naive as her
captain a starship.

Janeway clenched her jaw, cheeks flaming and eyes suspiciously watery.
Paris shook his head incredulously.  His father, at least, could have
given her a word or two to keep her out of trouble.  No, she had to go
get all lovestruck teenager on him.  Why the hell should he care if
another woman hated him, anyway?  It was hardly anything new.

Janeway stopped abruptly outside the turbolift and hit the panel
beside it vehemently.  "You may as well go back to your quarters," she
said, voice tightly controlled.  "Maybe you can get Seven to pay you a
visit."

Hmm, maybe he could.  In the meantime Paris rolled his eyes in disgust
at how pathetic Janeway was.  What an idiot.  "Don't I get a goodbye
kiss?"

Janeway flushed angrily and glared at him, then walked into the
turbolift without another word.  Paris rolled his eyes again and
started walking along the corridor, back the way he'd come.

---

He rummaged around 'his' quarters some more, wondering if they'd
studied him well enough to stash some alcohol in here somewhere.
Probably not, knowing the sanctimonious types in Special Ops.  It had
to be Special Ops, he'd decided; the story was too flawless, the
actors too well in character, to be an amateur job.  --There was a
point; he wondered if Janeway had been acting out that little scene.
But no, he knew her type.  That had been real female ego, right
through.

Still no alcohol, not even synth.  Paris muttered darkly and tried the
drawers by the bed - the last place he'd keep that sort of thing, or
maybe the first.  Clothes, PADDs, personal hygiene stuff.  A few
trinkets, supposedly of alien worlds.  A picture of the Admiral - so
much for good research, then; there was no way Paris would have a
photo of his father within ten parsecs of his quarters.

He tried the last drawer.  A dermal regenerator on top; he tossed that
onto the bed.  Could come in handy.  A vial containing what looked
like a tiny piece of dilithium.  Strange.  Some fragments of broken
eggshell.  Eggshell?  Why the hell would he keep bits of an egg in his
drawer?

He glanced briefly at the stack of PADDs.  Commendations, missions
he'd supposedly been put in charge of in the last five years--  "Warp
ten?" he said aloud, pulling out one of the PADDs.

Stardate 49360, Lieutenant Tom Paris had apparently broken the warp
ten threshold.  Paris raised an eyebrow as he skimmed the PADD, and
almost dropped the PADD on the floor when he reached the part about
evolving into some kind of amphibian and... having kids with the
captain?

"Eggs," he said, staring at the PADD.  "Oh my God...  Someone's got a
psychotic sense of humour," he snorted, dropping the PADD back into
the drawer.  He stood, spreading his arms and turning in a circle as
if that would help him see whatever scanning devices had to be in the
walls.  "Can you hear me, guys?  You're insane...  If you're looking
for jobs in the practical joke industry, I can provide a reference."

He snorted again, wandering back into the main room.  "Yeah, like
anyone would want a reference from me.  Computer, Saurian brandy."

The computer bleeped at him.  "Unable to comply.  Item is unavailable
from this replicator."

"Then how about an Aldeberan whiskey?" Paris said irritably.

"Unable to comply.  Item is--"

"I get it, I get it.  Can I get *any* alcohol?"

"Negative."

"Swell," Paris muttered, kicking at a stretched out chair.  A sudden
thought hit him, and he looked up.  "Computer, by whose authority are
those items locked out?"

"Ensign Thomas Paris."

So much for that idea.  Paris had been hoping he'd be able to find out
who was really behind this.  He kicked at the chair again and
remembered Janeway's comment about getting 'Seven' to pay him a visit.
That could be fun.  He tapped his commbadge.  "Paris to Seven."

"Ensign Paris.  How may I be of assistance?"

"The captain says I've lost my memory.  I thought that if I spoke to
some of my friends, maybe I could... spark something."  He smirked.

"Very well.  State your location."

Christ, someone should teach this girl some English.  "I'm in my
quarters."

"On my way.  Seven of Nine out."

"'State your location'," he mimicked to himself.  "Maybe she is a Borg
drone.  Ha."

He wandered around the room, straightening a few ornaments, and paced
impatiently until the door chimed.  He walked over and opened it
manually, smiling when he saw Voyager's supposed Borg.  "Seven, hi.
Come in."

He moved back into the room, sprawling himself onto the la-Z-boy.
Seven was still standing, and he waved a hand at the sofa.  "Sit down,
Seven.  I don't bite."

"I prefer to stand," she said flatly.  Paris rolled his eyes.

"I prefer you to sit."

She regarded him for a moment, then perched herself on the very edge
of the sofa, like some kind of wild blue bird.  "What do you wish to
discuss?"  She certainly looked as though she might fly away at any
moment.

Paris shrugged.  "Tell me about us.  Are we good friends?"

She looked at him, unblinking.  It was very disconcerting.  Paris
hoped this was going to be worth it.  Finally she said, "I consider
you a friend."

Oh, he was just jumping for joy.  Paris smiled, prompting her to
continue.  "Uh huh."

"You have assisted me in socialising on several occasions.  Although
at one time this year you engaged in a wager over me that I found
troublesome."

Paris raised an eyebrow, curious.  He stood up and moved to sit beside
her on the sofa.  "I'm sorry if I... troubled you, Seven.  Would you
mind talking about it?"

"Of course not," she said calmly.  "The Doctor was instructing me in
the arts of dating.  You believed I could not successfully maintain a
cordial relationship of that sort.  You proposed a wager."

He rested his arm behind her on the back of the sofa, and leaned
forward intently.  "That was horrible.  I'm sorry I did that to you."

"No apologies are necessary," Seven said.  She studied his face for a
moment, then came to a conclusion.  "You wish to copulate."

Paris jerked back in surprise, staring at her.  Who had invented this
character?  Someone needed to get a life.  Still, he might as well
take advantage of the opening.  "Very much so."  He smiled brightly.

She regarded him a moment longer, then stood, deciding, "It would not
be appropriate."

Paris rose to join her, and took her arm to stop her leaving.  "It's
not that big a deal, Seven."

"You are not yourself.  Captain Janeway would disapprove."

"Captain Janeway," he snorted in disgust.  "Captain Janeway is a
moron.  Look, are you attracted to me?"

She raised her jewelry-coated eyebrow.  Borg implant his ass.
"Remove your hand from my arm," she said.

Paris sighed and pulled his hand away.  Blown it.  Well, maybe not
completely.  It would help if he knew anything about the woman
pretending to be Borg.

"I should leave," she said.  She didn't move, and Paris felt hope -
among other things - begin to stir again as he watched her face.

"Please don't go," he said quietly.  He lifted his hand to brush her
cheek.  Her eyes flickered towards his touch, wide with artificial
wonder.  Paris held his breath, studying her expression, and decided
to risk it.  He leaned forward and kissed her gently, moving his hands
to her shoulders.  She was taller than Janeway, almost as tall as him.
He decided he preferred it that way.

Seven simply stood there, and after a moment said flatly, "Ensign--"

He ran his hand to the side of her chest, feeling her catsuit scratch
like mica beneath his fingers.  He circled his thumb over her breast,
letting his breath caress her face.  Seven looked down at his hand
with an unreadable expression.

Then she lifted his hand away and placed it by his side, shrugging the
other one off her shoulder.  "I said no, Ensign.  Do not persist."
She walked out without another word.

"Dammit," Paris muttered.  "Persistence is futile."  He pulled a face
and plonked himself in front of the computer terminal, calling up a
crew manifest.  There had to be someone in here... nice, friendly, and
most importantly, informative.  But then, Special Ops would hardly
choose someone for this who was at all likely to blab their brains
out.

Paris leaned back in the chair with a sigh.  Special Ops?  Why the
hell would they bother?  Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate
hologram... a parole test, maybe.  Well, he'd probably blown that.
His behaviour towards Janeway hadn't exactly demonstrated his
rehabilitation into society.

Christ.  What the hell was going on?  Could he really be stuck out in
the Delta Quadrant with a shipful of Starfleet and Maquis who somehow
didn't hate his guts?  Losing five years of memory, okay, that was
plausible.  But the rest of it... the Borg, the time travel, the
miraculous transformation into captain's pet - and the affection in
Janeway's eyes had been pretty convincing at times.

How the hell was he supposed to believe all that?  Paris let his head
roll back, staring miserably at the ceiling.

---

Paris woke up the next morning to dark hair and dark eyes.  He bolted
upright in bed, shaking the stranger away.  "Shit!  What the hell are
you doing?"

"It's about time you woke up," the man said, unperturbed.  "Do you...
remember me, at all?"

"No."  Paris frowned.  "How'd you get in here?"

"You gave me your access code a few years ago."  Uh huh.  "I'm Harry,
I'm your best friend."  He paused.  "You really don't remember...?"

"No," Paris snapped.  "I don't remember you, I don't remember being
stranded in the Delta Quadrant, I sure as hell don't remember doing
any of the shit the captain's been saying.  I'm not a morning person,
so would you mind telling me what you want?"

"I, uh--"  Harry (what had the captain called him?  Kim, Harry Kim)
floundered for a moment then remembered, "Captain Janeway said you
should come back to duty.  She thought it might help you remember
something."

"Back to duty," Paris repeated slowly.  "You mean-- flying?"  Then
maybe she wasn't so mad at him.  --Of course she wasn't, she was a
professional.  They all were, had to be.  He mentally kicked himself
for almost falling for their little deception.  He'd be more careful
today.

"Yeah, flying," Kim said.  "Unless you'd rather work in Sickbay."  He
seemed amused by the idea - just acting, Paris reminded himself, and
remembered that the captain had said something about extra shifts in
Sickbay.  Volunteering for extra work.  Riiight.

"I'll get dressed," Paris eventually said.  "Um...  Meet you on the
bridge?"  He needed time to think, try and figure out what this was
about.

"Sure you know the way?" Kim said with a grin.

Moron.  Paris masked his irritation and smiled back, "I'm sure it's
not hard to find.  The ship's only so big, after all."

Kim laughed and nodded goodbye, finally! walking out the door.  Paris
looked at the wall for a moment before slipping out of bed and hunting
up a uniform.

So, Janeway was...  She had to still be mad at him, no matter how
professional she was.  Somehow, he'd gotten under her skin the day
before, found a weak spot.  Never a safe thing to do.  But putting
him back on duty was hardly the reaction of an angry woman.  What if
she... was overcompensating?  He nodded thoughtfully to himself.
Didn't want her superiors to know she'd let him get to her...  Tried
to act neutrally, but misjudged how soft she'd have really been...
Yeah, that fit.

Okay, Seven whatshernumber.  Paris scrunched his face up, struggling
with his turtleneck.  There was no explaining *that* girl.  Maybe she
was a Vulcan, surgically altered.  A Vulcan with lousy emotional
control, sure, but it was possible.  And if it was true... he wasn't
getting anywhere with her.  Damn, he thought glumly.  Why were the
aliens always the best-looking ones?

And the Maquis he'd met, walking with Janeway in the corridor?  Paris
paused for a moment, trying to explain that one.  Maybe Janeway was
telling the truth...  But no, they had to be holograms, which meant
he wasn't getting any information out of *them*, either.  He nodded,
confident with his explanation, and finally got his turtleneck to
attach at the back.

So, who did that leave?  The Harry kid.  The Doctor...?  No, why
bother adding another actor when they could field-test the real EMH
prototype instead.  Janeway was going to be overcompensating like
crazy; she'd die before telling him anything remotely useful, to
avoid antagonising her superiors further.  No help there.

So out of nine senior staff, that left only one who wasn't a hologram,
a Vulcan (or a holographic Vulcan, Tom thought, wondering about
Janeway's 'missing' security officer) or antagonised beyond repair.
Kim, then...  But the kid was too puppyish; he had to be either a
*total* professional, or a fresh recruit to Special Ops.  He'd be
either too experienced, or too anxious to do well to be any help to
Paris.

Things were looking bleak.  He pulled on his last boot and called up a
schematic of deck four on his computer terminal, quickly re-memorising
the route to the turbolift.  What could he do?  There was no hope of
salvaging anything with Janeway - if only she wasn't such a naive,
egotistical-- of course, she'd been his father's prize pupil.  What
had he expected?

Paris swore quietly.  It looked like the only thing he could do was to
play along with whatever this was.  He hated not knowing what was
going on.  It was too reminiscent of not being in control, and that...
did not hold happy memories.

He shut that thought out of his mind, and headed out the door.
Halfway down the corridor he slowed, then stopped and frowned at the
cargo bay door.  Hadn't Janeway said Seven lived in a cargo bay?
"Computer, locate Seven of, um... Nine."

"Seven of Nine is in Cargo Bay Two."

The bridge could wait a few more minutes.  Paris walked in - no locks;
some quarters these were - and looked around.

Dark.  And green.  Seven-whatever was standing in some kind of Borg-
looking alcove, chest moving slowly and steadily with her breaths.
Asleep.

He admired the movement for a moment, looking her up and down.  "You
still don't look Borg, sweetheart," he said softly.  No response;
good.  He leaned against the wall while he studied her further.  If
this girl *was* a Vulcan, he wondered, what was with the look on her
face when he'd touched her?  It was worth thinking about, at least.

And Seven was worth looking at.  *Shit*, but she had the most gorgeous
body he'd seen in... six years, if Janeway was to be believed.  Soft,
full lips that begged to be kissed - Paris grinned as he remembered
the day before.  Yeah, great lips.  Beautiful eyes...  They were
closed at the moment, as Seven slept in her 'regeneration' chamber,
but he could remember their wide innocence.  Startling crystal blue...
He thought they were blue.  Unless he was confusing them with
Janeway's.  He pulled a face at that thought.

"Can I help you, Ensign?" Seven asked flatly, making him jump.  She
opened her eyes to look at him with that unnerving stare.

His hopes sagged at the stare and flat voice.  If she wasn't a Vulcan,
she was a hologram; no one could fake that emotionless demeanor.
"No," he sighed.  "I was just leaving."

"Curious."  Seven's words - word - stopped him halfway out the door.
He turned back to see her standing outside her chamber, head tilted
slightly to one side as if she was trying to figure something out.

"What?"

"You aren't usually so... lacking in persistence."

Paris blinked, wondering if that was the invitation it sounded like.
Seven's voice wasn't really all that monotone, and he could have
sworn...  "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, walking towards
her.

Seven looked at him as if he was dim.  "That usually you are more
persistent.  I've been informed that you pursued Lieutenant Torres
for over a year before she would even acknowledge your attentions.
Accepting defeat after only one day does not seem like you."

It *was* an invitation!  She was subtle...  He could live with subtle.
Especially when it came in such great packaging.  "I'll try harder,"
he smiled.

Her eyebrow, the one with the jewelry, quirked.  "That would be more
consistent."  A smile flirted with the corner of her mouth - a small
one, but the first one Paris had seen.  It looked good on her.

"So..." he drawled, brushing his fingertips along her cheekbone, "why
don't we pick up where we left off yesterday?"

Her smile vanished, as secretly as it had appeared, and she looked
away ever-so-slightly.  "It would not be appropriate..."  She didn't
sound like she really believed it, or wanted to.

"Why?" Paris asked softly.  Seven blinked, delicate eyelashes dancing
off her cheek.  He'd surprised her.

"Captain Janeway--"

"Isn't here," he interrupted smoothly.  "Seven...  We aren't Borg."
He phrased his words carefully, unsure what would work with Seven's
actress.  "We don't have to cater to the whims of our Queens all the
time."  Oughta work.  Everyone had trouble with their superiors.

She wasn't pulling away.  He took that as a good sign and let his head
drift closer, eyes dropping to her lips.  "Sometimes..." he murmured,
resting his hand on her waist, "we can take a few... liberties..."
His lips hovered millimetres from hers, close enough to taste her
breath.  He searched her eyes for a sign, unwilling to push too hard.
Not when he was this close.

He didn't have to wait long.  Her pale blue eyes looked even paler in
contrast to her dilated pupils; he doubted she even noticed she was
leaning forward until their lips met.  She traced the contours of his
mouth with her tongue.  Oh, yeah...  Life was good.

She grew more confident, slipping her tongue past his lips to meet his
own.  She wasn't a great kisser... but not terrible, and Paris had no
doubt she could make up for it in... other ways.  He inched his hand
up her side, painstakingly slow, hopefully so she wouldn't notice.

"Chakotay to Paris."

"*Shit*!"  Paris broke free, wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand.  "Damn, damn, damn."  He took a deep breath, and closed his
eyes.  God.  It was just a hologram.  Everyone liked him on this ship,
remember?

"What's wrong?" Seven asked, voice tinted with concern.

"Nothing."  He refused to acknowledge the fear that coursed through
him at the sound of Chakotay's voice.  Just a hologram...

"You're distressed."  She sounded a little distressed herself.

"I'm fine."  But the moment was broken.  Paris sighed, realising
they'd probably rigged it that way.  So much for being less gullible
today.

"Chakotay to Paris?"

"Paris here," he said tightly, raking a hand through his hair.

"Are you all right, Tom?  Harry said you were coming to the bridge."

Paris raised his eyebrows at Chakotay's friendly tone.  That was
*definitely* a hologram.  The real Chakotay didn't have that much
restraint in him.  "I'm with Seven."  They'd undoubtedly checked his
location anyway.  "I thought I remembered something, but..."  The lie
came easily to his lips.

And why wouldn't it?  Christ, two days of nice people and he was
already going soft.  Get a grip, Paris.

"Give the Doctor a little more time."  Was that sympathy in Chakotay's
voice?  The power of computer manipulation.  "I'm sure he'll find a
way to restore your memory...  And brag about it for a month
afterwards."  Sympathy *and* humour, and the wrong one directed at
Paris.  Incredible.

"I'm sure he will," Paris said, suddenly reminded of the time he'd
visited his father's office, and all those Starfleet officials.  Just
say want they want to hear...  "I'll be right up.  Paris out."

He forced himself to turn to Seven before he left.  Just in case...
But she hesitated before meeting his eyes.

"It wasn't appropriate," Paris anticipated.  Damn...  He turned away,
heading for the door.  "See you."

"Have a good shift, Ensign," she said softly.

"Whatever."

---

They were waiting for him on the bridge.  It was eerie, the way they
all turned to look at him as he stepped off the turbolift.  Chakotay
and Culhane from the Maquis.  Kim.  A Vulcan that had to be Janeway's
missing security officer.

That was a point; where was Janeway?  Hiding from him.  He smirked.

"Welcome back, Mister Paris," Chakotay smiled - *smiled*; God, that
was even more creepy.

"It's good to be here," Paris said breezily.  He moved down to the
helm and motioned for Culhane to get up, waiting for a dirty look
that never came.

Holograms, he reminded himself.

He slid into the seat and studied the console.  It looked vaguely
familiar...  Well, of *course* it looked familiar, it was a Starfleet
helm station.  God knew Paris had seen enough of those over the years
to know what they looked like.

And yet...  He ran his hands along the edges of the console, feeling
the extra-smooth spots where it was quite possible that five years of
pilots had rested their hands.

"Getting reacquainted with old friends, Tom?" Chakotay teased.
Chakotay trying to be humorous; that was probably the scariest part
of this whole thing.

"Yeah, I--  Igh."  Paris pulled a face as his fingers encountered
something disgustingly hard and smooth attached to the underside of
the console.  If that was what he thought--

Uh huh.  Used chewing gum.  Igh.  He wondered whose idea it had been
to put it there--

/Paris spat his gum out as the ship rocked, unwilling to fend off
three Ngalesh raiders only to choke to death on his own chewing gum.
He hastily stuck it under the console as the raiders stepped up their
manoeuvres; he was definitely going to need both hands for this one./

"No..."  Paris pushed his palms against his head.  He was going crazy.

"Tom?"  Chakotay.  "Are you okay?"

"What do you care?" Paris demanded, spinning around in his chair.
/He used to do that with Naomi, until they were both dizzy./  "This
isn't *real*!"  He didn't know who he was trying to convince.

"Tom, what--  Do you remember something?" Kim asked urgently.

"It's not real.  You're--  I don't know what you are.  This isn't
*real*--"  He gripped his head fiercely, trying to pretend he'd never
seen those images.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chakotay nod
to someone.  It was a trap--  The transporter beam was enveloping him
before he could move.

---

Paris glanced up as the Sickbay doors opened.  When he saw who it was,
he dropped his head again, staring at his swinging feet over the edge
of the biobed.  Hell...  What was he going to say to her?

Janeway barely looked at him, moving to the doorway of the Doctor's
office.  "You called, Doctor?"

"Captain," he called quietly, a fresh pang of guilt stabbing him as
she stiffened.  "It's me."

She slowly turned, taking a few small steps towards him.  The Doctor
followed her out.  "You have your memories back?" she asked.

Paris nodded miserably.

Janeway let out a soft breath and glanced at the Doctor.  "Could I
speak to Mister Paris alone?"

Mister Paris.  He winced.

"Of course," the Doctor nodded, already moving back into his office.
He probably had some cells to study, or something.

"Captain," Paris said before she could start bawling him out, "I am...
so sorry.  I know, I can't excuse my behaviour, but--"

"Tom," she interrupted, coming to sit next to him on the biobed, "you
don't have to apologise.  It wasn't you--"

"Of course it was me!"  And if she thought it wasn't, how come she
wasn't looking him in the eyes?  "Everything I've done in the last
five years was... nothing.  I thought I'd changed, but I *haven't*.
If I had, something would have stopped me.  I wouldn't have..."  He
swallowed and shook his head.  "I'm sorry."

"Tom..."  She touched his cheek with silk-soft fingers, looking at
him tenderly.  Her eyes hid nothing - how come he'd had to lose his
memory to see this?  "Maybe there's another explanation," she offered.
"Maybe you did it because some part of you remembered... feeling..."
She trailed off, looking up at him.  "Maybe...?"

Maybe he was just a sleaze.  God...  He wanted to believe it almost as
much as she did, but then why had he gone after Seven?  As if some
part of him remembered... feeling...  No, he refused to think that was
it.  He was a cad, plain and simple, and-- oh god, he was going to
have to talk to Seven, too, and try and explain it to her.

"Yeah," he said finally.  He couldn't hurt the captain.  Not again.
"Maybe I did."

Janeway smiled, leaning towards him slightly.  Paris took her cue and
kissed her, feeling her warm body respond to his touch.  It wasn't as
if she wasn't good company...  He could learn to love her.  He hoped.

When they drew apart, Seven was standing in front of the door.

"Oh no," Paris groaned.  "Hell...  Captain, can I...?"

"Go ahead."  Janeway slid off the biobed, suspicion lurking in her
eyes.  "I've got some things to clear up with the Doctor."  She and
Seven passed each other in the exact center of the room, eying each
other in a way that suddenly reminded Paris of himself and Chakotay.
Hell...

"Seven," he started, as Janeway disappeared into the Doctor's office,
"we gotta talk."

She settled in front of him with her hands clasped loosely behind her
back.  "Commander Chakotay informed me that you had regained your
memories."

"Yeah."  He swung his feet again.  "Look, Seven, how I behaved...  I
want to apologise.  It was...  You were right; it was inappropriate."

She held his gaze.  "I was not disturbed."

Oh, hell.  They both...  "Seven...  You should hear this from me.  The
captain and I... we're..."  He trailed off, gesturing vaguely with one
hand.

"That much was apparent when I entered Sickbay," she said dryly, her
optical implant lifting just a fraction in that sweet way she had.
"What I do not understand is why."

Paris didn't like where this was going - but then, conversations with
Seven seldom went according to plan.  That was part of her charm.
"Why not?  We get along fine."

"But you don't love her," Seven stated softly, eyes resting on his
face.

He began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.  "How do you know?"

"By your body's reactions when you're speaking to her," she said,
unfazed by his defensive tone.  "You are attracted to her, undeniably,
but you are not in love with her."

Paris folded his arms.  "Well then, if you're such an expert, who *am*
I in love with?"

Seven regarded him for a moment, then opened her mouth.  He didn't
think he wanted to hear her answer.  "Look," he pre-empted her, "it
doesn't matter now.  The captain... I can't hurt her.  I won't.  We
shouldn't even be having this conversation."

Seven cocked her head endearingly.  "What conversation should we be
having?"

"I mean that we shouldn't talk about this," Paris said, jumping off
the biobed to distract himself.  'Endearing'.  'Sweet'.  These were
not thoughts he should be having.  "It's not..."

"Appropriate?" she suggested.  It seemed to be their motto.

"Yeah," he agreed glumly.  "Please, Seven.  Can we just drop it?"

She looked at him, faintly sad.  "If you wish."

Paris didn't respond, but walked slowly to the door of the Doctor's
office.  Janeway was leaning patiently against the wall, letting the
Doc talk at her.  "Captain?" he called.

She smiled in welcome relief, nodding briskly at the Doctor as she
joined Paris.  "Please, Tom.  Call me Kathryn."

"Kathryn," he acknowledged.

She leaned up and kissed him lightly.  "The Doctor says it's all right
for you to leave.  I wondered if you'd like to join me for lunch?"

"I'd like that," he smiled, but as they left together he couldn't help
feeling that he was walking out with the wrong woman.

---

The End