Bitter

A/N: This is set only hours after the end of "Basics: Part II" and can be seen as an indirect sequel to "Jagged". After reading a healthy dose of Janeway/Paris (thank you Runawaymetaphor and Alpha Flyer) I've decided to venture into this part of the Voyager fandom. This is for Alpha Flyer, who asked for a sequel to "Jagged" with some J/P.

Thanks goes to my fantastic beta, Uroboros75.

Music: Forgiven – Bear McCreary (Battlestar Galactica – Season 1 OST)

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It's been four hours and he can still feel the grit rubbing against his skin, the dust settling on his tongue and making the texture akin to parchment. He's not that keen on remaining here that much longer, but the call of duty presides and he's not one to question the chain of command. He taps a few keys, the smoothness comforting beneath the pads of his fingers; he's almost disappointed when everything reads as normal. He hasn't exactly been counting, but by the number of scans he's run in the past few hours, he feels as if he'll perish from tedium before he's let off the hook for a few hours.

It's almost unsettling (more so now than before) how he has this need to be on constant alert, always the proverbial watchdog at his post. He doesn't like having nothing to do because that feels like he's letting his guard down and revealing his vulnerabilities. It's an unsettling notion; but with Kazon ships still on the prowl, Tom prefers to keep his mind alert.

He stifles a yawn as the comm system chimes over the bridge.

"Mr. Paris," Janeway's voice rings over the comm. "May I see you in my ready room?"

Tom stands silently from his console, knowing that when the Captain requests something it is better to oblige than question. He gives a casual whatever-it-was-I-didn't-do-it shrug in Chakotay's direction as he strolls across the bridge towards the Captain's ready room.

He finds that the door opens for him when he strolls up, and he gives the space a strange (albeit brief) glance of curiosity; he's always been under the impression that he's supposed to ring the chime first.

He doesn't delay and immediately steps inside, hearing the doors whoosh closed behind him. He sees the captain immediately by her desk, hair slightly disheveled but unsurprisingly with a cup of steaming coffee perched in her right hand.

"You wanted to see me, Captain?" Paris says casually, still keenly aware of how he must look at the moment.

"Yes, Mister Paris," she says as she motions for him to step closer to her desk. He politely declines her offer for coffee because he already feels jittery, and because caffeine won't help the sleeplessness he's sure will haunt him for the next few nights.

"I wanted to thank you personally," Janeway begins, her light blue eyes meeting his. "You rallied some of our allies and created a force to re-take Voyager; I'd say that's an impressive accomplishment."

He shakes his head with a subtle half-smile; keeping his modesty in check has moved up a few places on his priority list since he came aboard Voyager. "Thank you, Captain," he says, and a moment later, adding, "You know I never thought I'd say this, but it's good to be back on Voyager."

"I don't think you're the only one, Mister Paris. A few weeks on a dry desert of a planet can make many, many things appear more appealing." She takes a sip from her coffee, and Tom actually notices a few creases that have appeared beneath her eyes. Her lips are pale, and Tom thinks that they even look a tad lackluster without their usual touch of red.

"That or a few weeks cooped up in a shuttle craft," he adds dryly, to which Janeway gives him a slight scowl. The conditions of their respective paths had differed quite noticeably, and Paris thinks that the lack of coffee has gone to the captain's head.

"Under other circumstances, I would agree," she drawls. "But in this case I think I would have chosen the shuttle craft."

There's a moment after Janeway clips her sentence that the room falls into silence, and Tom notices the lack of tension held in it. Most of the time an audience with a superior officer would set him on edge, but in this case it's quite the opposite. Maybe it's the fact that Janeway's distracting him from the tightly wound cords of alertness that tie him to helm, or perhaps it's something in the way she speaks, a sort of inviting calmness that doesn't invoke a single fear in him.

He sees the look in her eyes, a gentle compassion that blooms into the pale blue of her eyes in the monumental silence that passes between them. He won't admit it, but there is something appealing about the many shades of blue that he sees wrapped up in this enigma of a woman.

After a moment, Janeway speaks.

"I want you to know that I'm putting a personal commendation in your file, for service above the call of duty. Without you, we could still be stranded on that planet and the Kazon would be using Voyager to whatever violent ends."

He nods, watching the steam waft up from her mug of coffee and curl beneath the tip of her nose. He stands there for a few moments, studying Janeway in her position with the coffee mug like a silent parrot in her hand; apparently benign but deceptively cunning.

A few more minutes of silence passes and Paris wonders if she too is studying him, grazing her critical captain's eye over his tainted persona. His record is a treasure trove of imperfections and transgressions, but he's learned to live with the majority of them. As for the others, the few renegades that occasionally whisper into the depths of his sanity... they occasionally have him requesting something a little stronger than coffee from the replicator.

"In the meantime," Janeway interjects, yanking Paris back into reality, "I want you to go to sick bay and have the Doctor check you out; we wouldn't any sort of misfortune befalling you after all this, now, would we?"

Paris smiles (a little more broadly than expected) and nods.

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, but there are other things that he wants to say to her. He can see the stress creasing her face, the tension in her shoulders as she grips her mug of liquid strength. She's always putting herself last in matters such as these, where personal health rank at the top of the list. He supposes that it's one of the hazards of being a Starfleet captain; you don't allow yourself to become sick or simply pretend that you're not.

She's moving back to her desk now, hand grazing the surface gently as if skimming over water; he wonders if it's her way of reassuring Voyager of her return after the handling by such a ruthless force. She stands next to her chair, draping her arm over the top of it before going to take another sip of coffee. She stops when she sees him, but with a strange lack of surprise.

"Something else on your mind, Tom?" she asks, dropping formality.

He swallows slightly, because he's not usually one for this much boldness and the grit in his mouth is really starting to get him. He drops his hands to his sides, the tension his shoulders easing instantly.

"Permission to speak freely?" he asks calmly.

This time, Janeway does take a sip of her coffee. "Granted," she answers swiftly, her form casually leaning against her chair.

"With all due respect, Captain," Tom says, his mind on alert for any signs of trespassing, "you were trapped on an alien planet for weeks under what I would guess are some pretty high-stress conditions, as well as malnourishment. I'm no doctor, but I'd say that maybe you should consider a trip to sick bay yourself."

He expects her to recoil, to see her features harden into the infamous Janeway glare and her eyes lose that quiet mysteriousness he's come to admire. Instead, there's softness to her features and a kind smile breaks out on her face as she drums her fingers on the head rest of her chair. She fiddles with her coffee cup slightly, jostling it a little in her hands before setting it on her desk and walking over to him.

"You know, Tom," she says calmly. "Being the Captain of a starship bestows many things upon your shoulders. It grants you privileges and rights, but it also sets a certain duty on you, a duty that no one else can fulfill. The crew looks to those who are superior to them for guidance because they perceive us to have more experience than they do, and in some cases, they may be right." She pauses and moves her gaze from him towards the window, gaping wide into the maw of space. "Out here," she continues, now moving away from him, "there are thousands of unknowns that none of us can plan for." She pauses, and the air feels heavy like lead. "Not even me."

In that moment, he sees another layer of Kathryn Janeway beneath the pips and the uniform; he realizes that he's pulled back a few layers of the onion to uncover something a little rawer. He isn't entirely sure as to why she's granting him access to such knowledge, as he suspects that Chakotay is often her counsel for such matters.

"With all due respect, Captain," he says gently, trying not to force his voice. "What does this have to do with me or a trip to sickbay?"

She looks over her shoulder at him then, a sort of bewildered expression curling over her skin before she walks back, stopping at the railing so that she stands above him.

"When you took that shuttle back to find the Talaxians, you knew that there were a plethora of deadly variables at work, but you did it anyways. Out here we cannot predict any chain of events; we can only take them as they are presented to us."

"And how do you propose we plan for another Kazon takeover?" he asks, knowing that the question toes the line of courtesy quite noticeably.

She places both her hands on the rail, fingers curling over the edge as she leans forward. She leaves more than enough space between them, but Tom still feels a few hairs on his neck prickle under her gaze. "I'm sincerely hoping that we never have to face a scenario like this again, but I can assure you that there will be precautions, because no one takes Voyager and goes off laughing afterwards."

Tom realizes that he's struck a sensitive nerve and swallows as a few wisps of Janeway's hair fall over her forehead. "It's not that I doubt you, Captain," he says. "I'm only concerned for your well-being. What you went through – what we all went through – isn't something that we can just forget." He moves a little closer, all the while resisting the urge to place his hand on her forearm. "I just don't think that anyone should have to deal with that alone."

Janeway's face turns into a sort of half-smirk and she reaches an arm out to him, clasping his shoulder firmly. "I may create the impression that I'm alone in a lot of things, but I've always believed that a captain has a support system in their crew whether they believe in it or not. There is always a face to turn to on this ship."

Tom smiles and wonders if the face that she turns to most often is one adorned with a particular tattoo.

"I'm glad to hear that, Captain," he says genuinely as she removes her hand from his shoulder. Janeway moves off again, back towards the window and Tom is about to make for the door when one last question slips from his lips.

"Captain... What do you think is out there?"

She turns back quickly, and there's a moment of near stoicism on her face before she answers. "I don't know, Tom," she says, her tone optimistic but tinged with something darker, "but I think that's the beauty of it."

Just before he leaves he looks back at her; she's still slightly disheveled from the past few weeks, but he imagines that she has the same bitter taste in her mouth as he does. It's the aftertaste of defeat, harsh and sharp on the tongues of the fallen. It's even more noticeable to them because of what it means for their future; if they can be overtaken once, who's to say that it won't happen again? Their future is uncertain, fluctuating against the backdrop of this uncharted space; they have no idea of what horrors may appear on their doorstep.

His eyes meet hers for a moment, a clear and crystalline blue, and he sees a mirror of what he's felt the past two years.

Fear, along with an unspoken worry of what is to come.

This quadrant has the potential to be their end, and that's occasionally kept Tom up at night nursing a glass of whisky or two. He wonders if she does the same, only with a little more coffee.

Almost as an afterthought he hears her say 'dismissed' and has to snap himself out of his contemplation. He nods and walks out onto the bridge, nodding to Chakotay before reaching the turbolift.

"Deck five," he says once inside as he pulls at his collar; refreshing his uniform is the first thing he's doing once he's done in sickbay. For a moment, he thinks back to the Captain and the demons he'd seen lurking in her eyes; he knows one of her secrets now.

As the turbolift zips through the ship, Tom thinks of the road ahead of them and briefly wonders what other secrets lay in the sapphire vault of her eyes.

Fin