Author's Note: This presumes Voyager gets home as a result of Janeway's thorny alliance with the Borg in "Scorpion," thus returning them to the Alpha Quadrant during a period in which the Federation is losing the war with the Dominion, and most of the Maquis have recently been exterminated by the new, Dominion-aligned Cardassian government.

For Kelly, who has reminded me - more than once and always at the most apt times - that the distinction between Best Idea Ever and Tragic Mistake is often razor thin, resting on an infinite set of events of which most are wholly out of our control.

We Few, We Happy Few

I. Thieves and saints

Tom tries not to watch the news feeds, but like anyone else on Earth, he isn't immune to their dark appeal. Images of the war are as captivating as they are bleak, and though he quits San Francisco for Marseilles in order to escape the crushing press of Starfleet and the constant beat of war drums, more evenings than not he finds himself in crappy bars, slowly nursing an Irish whiskey as he watches the newest depressing headlines.

He's been given a full commission, a fact that he cynically judges a testament to how desperate Starfleet must be for able, uniformed bodies. Granted, not so desperate as to offer the same to Voyager's Maquis, who received only clemency and a politically expedient acknowledgement of their 'efforts' in the Delta Quadrant. It's also already been made abundantly clear that USS Voyager will not be going back out, ever. It's a decision that could be read as the simple mothballing of a ship that racked up constant wear and tear while other newer, Dominion-era ships were making its technology obsolete. Dismissed as simple, so long as one fails to understand the very real political symbolism attached ships and their designations.

Is it arrogant for him to consider passing up the commission, the free ticket that people like B'Elanna and Chakotay have been denied? He isn't sure what else he would do, nor is he immune to the call of duty during wartime, but he and Starfleet principles have always had a love-hate relationship even before he royally fucked up his career. Serving on Voyager, being Janeway's pilot was one thing. But another ship, another captain and an arbitrary set of rules. . . Tom doesn't think he has it in him, Dominion threat or no.

He's been granted six weeks of acclimation leave like the rest of Voyager's Starfleet personnel, but he's down to his last two weeks now and he's yet to request an assignment. He wonders if his father will even be angry - if he'll receive a rousing lecture about duty and necessity. Perhaps the Admiral has grown so accustomed to being disappointed in Tom's choices that a resignation won't even a warrant comment at the next family dinner (if there even is a family dinner, his two older sisters both apparently choosing to keep a large chunk of space between themselves and their father's orbit).

He tries not to think about his future, reminding himself, yet again, that he still has time to decide. Pushes back from the bar and the images of the day's latest casualties; leaves payment for his two drinks before heading out, into the narrow alley and the damp night air.

He shuffles into the small apartment he's taken, heading to bed without checking the comm panel for any messages. He checked it religiously, his first few weeks here, but after dozens of unreturned comms to Kessik IV, he no longer goes to sleep with thoughts of B'Elanna coiled expectantly in his chest. He lays down with his shoes still on and falls asleep above the covers, his mind apparently shutting off all thoughts (hopes, fears, expectations) the second his head hits the pillow.

He isn't hiding from his life. He isn't. It's just that he doesn't know what his life is now or what he's supposed to do to fill it.

. . . . .

Another week of leave ticks slowly on, and it occurs to Tom that his window to request a halfway interesting assignment has long closed. Starfleet will of course still send him orders, but his procrastination has squandered any opportunity he had of being something beyond a glorified freight pilot (assuming such a possibility even existed, given his record).

The realization makes it even more tempting to toss in his pips, and laying awake in bed early one overcast morning, he tries to figure out how he'll word the comm to his father. No way in hell he'll tell the old man in person.

The cowardice of this last thought is enough to make him flinch with a belated sense of shame and self-loathing. Starfleet officer or not, he's not that man anymore, not that foolish idiot who runs away from problems and leaves others alone to unknot all the consequences. He'll tell his father in person, he resolves, and he'll tell Harry, too. Gods. Harry. He can only imagine how it will feel to look into his best friend's eyes and inform him he's walking away from everything the man believes in.

He gets out of bed with a sense of purpose he hasn't felt these several weeks planetside, dressing quickly if without a sonic shower (it's pissing rain now, so there really isn't a point). He has a comm to return to one of his sisters and then some errands to run, but after that he'll come back and start making arrangements for what comes next.

He takes his time, deliberately picking his way along the street even though he didn't take an umbrella. He stops, for the first time, at the small vendor he's passed every day since he took his apartment down the block; buys an espresso and a promising hunk of flaky bread that the man there wraps for him with care. It occurs to him that if he wants, this could be what his life is like from now on: a semi-crowded street, a ritual coffee to his start his day; an existence that's paced by sunrises and weather and all things foreign to a starship's corridors.

He goes about his business and then heads back to his apartment, his clothes now completely soaked by rain. His shoes squish and his hair's matted to his forehead, but he feels oddly good. He feels something like himself for the first time since his feet hit Earth's soil.

He jogs up the staircase to his tiny flat, waving to the owner of the building just as the old man turns his leathered face to call to him.

"Une jolie crevette est venue vous voir. Je l'ai ouvert votre porte, pour qu'elle puisse éviter la pluie, d'accord?"

Tom used to be nearly fluent in French, but that ability is now pretty rusty, especially when it comes to picking up on idioms in the thick Marseilles drawl. He catches something about his door being opened, and waiting in the rain, but that's about it, so he assumes it was some kind of maintenance issue. Perhaps he should have kept his translator with him, given how many people here insist on speaking only French?

"D'accord," he nods with a friendly smile, "merci."

His door is still unlocked, which doesn't really spook him. It's Earth, after all, and even then it's not like he has much to steal. He's barely managed to toe off one waterlogged boot when he realizes there's someone else in the apartment's small sitting room.

"Is everyone in this city so trusting as to let a stranger into an apartment that isn't hers?" Janeway asks him, perched on his couch as though she's been waiting for sometime just to pose this very question.

He hasn't spoken to her since he found out Starfleet was giving him his commission. She was standing in his father's office and really only talked to the Admiral - about the Borg, and the Dominion, and how satisfied she supposedly was to have gotten Voyager home. 'Satisfied', despite that most of the brass thought her a traitor for her alliance with the Borg, and Starfleet had essentially torn the pips from the collars of half her crew , and she may have quite possibly returned to the Alpha Quadrant just in time to witness the destruction of the Federation firsthand. Sure. Whatever you say, Captain.

But whatever his mental commentary, watching Janeway have to bullshit her way through the Admiral's polite questions, he'd stood to the side, without comment or expression, and smiled when she gave him a perfunctory pat on the back before she left. And that was that.

"I think it's more that the men here are easily swayed by attractive women," he retorts now, taking off his second boot. He might be shocked to see her here, and without warning, but he's recovered enough of his equilibrium today that he's able to meet her ambush with a bit of cheek.

She chuckles at this, which is better than he expects, because even if she's currently dressed in civilian clothes and technically trespassing in his apartment, her ideas about appropriateness are always a little one-sided.

"Hello," she says, and puts down the coffee cup she's holding.

"Hello," he returns, giving her a bemused look. He's certain she's here to talk to him about his place in Starfleet, the shining career she's sure he'll have. Somehow, the dread he feels at this doesn't eclipse the profound comfort he gets from seeing her right in front him. "If that's coffee from the replicator, you're bolder than I thought. What it produces might be better than the crap Neelix made for you, but just barely."

"It's surprisingly awful," she concedes, looking into her cup with dismay, and he hands her what's left of his espresso. It might be cold, but it's genuine, non-replicated coffee and she accepts it without comment.

"Did you help yourself to any food after you broke in?" he inquires, walking to the replicator. "The device might fail miserably when it comes to liquids, but it does okay with solids. I picked up some fresh bread while I was out. I believe I can make us some pretty impressive sandwiches."

"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?"

"Do I need to?" he shrugs. He might not be looking forward to the conversation, but he's not going to beat around the bush. If he's prepared to go toe-to-toe with his father, he can probably do so with Kathryn Janeway. 'Probably' being the operative word. "I haven't requested an assignment yet, and I'm sure word of this has reached you."

"Do you plan on taking a new new post within Starfleet?"

"No. I don't. I'm sorry if that disappoints you."

"Well. You're a fine officer and a damn good pilot, so yes, I do find that unfortunate. . . But that's not the reason I'm here."

"No?"

"No."

"Good," he nods decisively. "So what should I make us for lunch?"

. . . . .

"I do believe this is the best sandwich I have ever had," Janeway admits reluctantly. She'd watched him in amused silence as he approached the making of their lunch with great gravity, methodically and deliberately stacking each piece of cheese, meat, and vegetable on carefully sliced bread.

"Sandwich making is an art form," he insists. "I tried to teach Neelix, back when I held out hope for his cooking."

"I can only assume how well that must have gone."

"He had a great intuition for bread to topping ratio. Unfortunately my tutelage was no match for his insistence on the virtues of his leola root aioli."

"You're making that up," she accuses, dripping mustard onto her lap when she tries to wag a finger at him.

"You'll never know," Tom winks, and hands her his napkin.

They finish their lunch in companionable silence and Tom's mind begins to wander. Their banter has now made him think of Kes and Neelix, wonder how the two of them are getting on. Tom has spoken with the jovial Talaxian once, and it seems Starfleet is keeping him busy with their endless desire for tactical information on the Delta Quadrant. But Kes is a source of deep concern, HQ being a bit too interested in her newly emerged psychokinetic powers. Tom's own father has been awfully tight lipped, even when asked directly.

He thinks about things like Section 31 and a shiver goes down his back. He feels the steady prick of anger.

"Something wrong?" Janeway asks, and he realizes he's stopped eating and has been staring at his plate.

"Just worrying a bit."

"About the future?"

"Worse," he corrects. "About the present."

She flashes him a sympathetic look before a shadow of something else passes over her face. He's curious, but he also knows better than to ask. She's being awfully casual with him now, laughing at his jokes and encouraging his gall, but one surprise visit and a chummy lunch doesn't change the fact that Kathryn Janeway doesn't part with confidences easily. Tom is smart enough to know this, leaving her to turn over her own thoughts in peace.

"Is Sandrine's still around?"

Her question catches him off guard. They'd both fallen back into silence and Tom eventually began to clear the small table of dirty dishes. He puts their water glasses in the recycler and scratches the hair behind his ear.

"Honestly, I don't know."

"You've been living in Marseilles and you haven't been to Sandrines?" she demands, a little scandalized.

"I came here for quiet," he explains, "not to relive my past. Going back to Sandrines, revisiting old haunts. . . I guess I thought it would feel a little morbid?"

"Understandable," she nods. But Tom can see her face fall, just a little.

"Did you want to go?"

"No," she says, too quickly, and Tom crosses his arms. "No. Not if you think it would bring back bad memories."

"It would if I was going alone. It might be different with a friend."

"A friend, huh?" she arches an eyebrow and leans against his couch.

"Look, you let yourself into my apartment without permission. The way I see it, that either makes you a friend or a burglar. And as you've yet to steal anything here, I presume that you're here as a friend... Unless you're simply a burglar who's yet to master even the fundamentals of burgling."

She shakes her head at him, curling a hand over upturned lips. "How have you not changed at all?" She she sounds a bit mystified when she asks.

"Changed? It's only been five weeks!"

He feels guilty for being cavalier even as he puts on the act. Five weeks might be one thing, but five weeks and an entire quadrant is another. His two dozen unreturned comms to B'Elanna prove that, as has more than one awkward meal with erstwhile crewmates.

"A lot can change in five weeks," she sighs, and with an open sadness that surprises him. "I guess I wasn't sure if you'd still be Tom."

"I am," he assures. "Would you rather I were someone else?"

"No," she smiles, still sounding unmistakably sad. "I can honestly say that you are exactly the person I was hoping to find today."

He isn't sure what to do with such a delicate admission, so he reaches for his wet boots and throws a toothy grin over his shoulder.

"That's awfully kind of you, ma'am. I hope you still feel that way when I'm beating you at pool."

"Well, friend, you're welcome to try your luck. But I suspect at this point you should start calling me Kathryn. It's not like you're a Starfleet officer anymore."

"I reserve the right to call you 'ma'am'. If only for my own childish pleasure."

"Hmm. Is it too late to revisit the option of my being a horribly inept burglar?"

As he shrugs into his coat, Tom worries to himself that there's nothing of his that Janeway could ever steal. Anything she could want from him, he would most likely give her. Or die trying.

. . . . .

"Tom, this is far more. . . sophisticated than I expected."

"The lighting is certainly brighter than I remember. They've done a fair bit of remodeling, too."

Sandrine's is still open, even if Sandrine is nowhere to be seen, and it had taken Tom a bit of time to find the bar's exact location. He hadn't bothered to check the computer before leaving, and they'd wasted twenty minutes walking up and down the wrong street. He's grateful Janeway didn't take the opportunity to needle him, even if he is fairly certain it's because she doesn't want to be reminded of that time they were half an hour late for beam-out on a food gathering mission and Tuvok blew a Vulcan fuse, all because their tricorders wouldn't work and a certain Captain was positive a particular grove of trees was directly east of where they beamed in.

"Has it really changed that much since the last time you were here? Or was the seediness of the holoprogram all part of the Paris touch?"

"Ouch. I think."

She nods to a table in the far corner of the bar and he trails behind her, his arm brushing the back of hers when they stand to the side to let others pass.

"I think we have bigger problems than lighting changes."

"The pool table," she sighs. "I don't see it."

"It used to be over there," he gestures, pointing to where an ornate fireplace now stands.

"I know," she says. "Well. I assumed anyway, from your program."

"There's a back room. Maybe they moved it in there? It used to be mostly storage, but they could have converted it."

"You think?"

"No," he shakes his head. "But I prefer to nurse my delusional hope."

She pats his shoulder affectionately and he waits, allowing her to slide into the booth first.

"Well if you want some consolation, it looks like they've adopted a rather impressive wine list."

"Isn't it a little early in the day for us to be drinking?"

"You have a bridge shift you need to stay sober for?" she challenges. A fair point.

"I haven't had wine since we got home," he confesses. Watches with approval as Janeway's eyes immediately track to the side of the menu where the reds are. "Which now strikes me as a bit of a sin, being in France."

"You haven't been to Sandrine's. You haven't partaken of locally produced spirits. What have you been doing since you got here?"

Her tone is light, and he knows that she's only teasing him. But they're in a building he used to spend a lot of time in, drinking himself half blind. He feels suddenly reflective and ignores the urge to hide his feelings with a smartass quip.

"I guess I've been trying to remember how to live a normal life," he admits. "First I was in Starfleet. And later the Maquis - and jail. But the time in the middle, the only time in my life I was a free agent, my life was a complete mess. I didn't know how to live with myself without a drink in my hand, to say of nothing making myself happy."

He looks up from the menu he's been perusing to see Janeway staring at him intently. She doesn't say anything, and Tom feels immense relief when a server chooses that exact moment to appear at their table.

"Do you like merlot?" he asks across to Janeway.

"Not really," she makes a face. "Sorry."

"Don't be. That makes two of us." He points to a particular vintage for the server. "May we have a bottle of this pinot noir please?"

The server disappears, and Tom counts the seconds of silence, estimating how badly he's fucked up the light mood of their outing. "I'm sorry," he says, feeling like an idiot. "You were making a joke and I turned it into - I don't know. Gloom and doom."

"You didn't," she waves him off. "I was just surprised by your level of honesty."

He laughs, deflecting a little. "I'll try to rein in my honesty for rest of the afternoon, okay?"

"Tom. Hey." She leans across the table, grasping for his arm. Invades his personal space in the manner she always does when she wants to drive home a point. "I don't want you to bullshit me, okay? What you said just touched a little close to home."

"Reminded of you of all your drunken benders?" he asks darkly. "Or was it your time in jail?"

She's being sincere and doesn't deserve his dismissal, but one awkward moment is enough to make him gun shy for the rest of the conversation.

The server reappears with their wine, clearing her throat to signal her presence, and Janeway looks down at her hand, placed on Tom's forearm, and pulls it away.

"We can handle it," Tom smiles, when the server moves to open their bottle. It's a menial task Tom enjoys doing himself, even if the request makes the server eye him warily before departing. "It's a proper corkscrew," he shows Janeway, and twists it into the yielding cork. "None of that variable pressure carbon bullshit that changes the taste of the wine."

Janeway indulges him, watching him open the bottle and then slowly fill her glass.

"It this another artform? Like sandwich making?"

"Yes," he deadpans, and the previous tension evaporates. He pours himself a glass, takes his first wonderful sip.

French pinots can be difficult to appreciate. They're complex, earthy, and rarely finish in predictable ways, which is why is so many people find them challenging, even unyielding to the palate. They become the kind of bottle people acquire for bragging rights, keeping them on public display until they peak and then, sadly, rapidly decay.

Tom might be biased, pinot noir being the first wine he ever tried and liked, but he thinks it tragic that anyone would leave a thing of beauty - wrought from soil and years of constant labor - to die, sitting on a shelf.

"Did you know I was engaged when Voyager left to find Tuvok and the Maquis ship?"

Tom's eyebrows shoot up at this sudden turn of conversation. He knew a fair bit about Janeway, even back then. And what he didn't know from his father, he most certainly tried to find out while on DS9, waiting to board her ship. But a fiancé? No. This he didn't know.

"I didn't," he shakes his head.

"Mark Johnson," she supplies. "Childhood friend. Brilliant philosopher. All around nice guy."

Tom already knows from her tone, from her being in Marseilles, this story doesn't end with her and the nice guy riding into the sunset, and so only speaks because it's clear she's waiting for him to do so.

"Where is Mark now?" he asks, and tops off her glass.

"Married. To one of his colleagues. The wedding was about four days before the Borg were kind enough to send us on our merry way through their transwarp conduit."

Ouch.

Tom holds eye contact without blinking but doesn't think to make physical contact across the table, as she's leaning all the way back in her seat, her hands pulled into her lap. She's sharing this confidence, this very personal admission, and yet there's only so much of herself she'll allow to be compromised. It's something Tom understands about Janeway on a fundamental level. Has from that first day, in Auckland.

"How long did he wait for you?"

"A long time," she breathes, after a long pause. "Longer than was probably healthy. . . Certainly longer than I expected him to wait, especially after Voyager's first year out there."

He doesn't say anything to this. Merely sips his wine and lets the idea of another man's devotion - how irrational Mark Johnson's wait must have seemed to others, the pain which likely accompanied him finally letting Janeway go - bloom silently between them. And when Tom's thoughts shift to B'Elanna, to his own apparently futile longing, the taste of the wine in his mouth changes. He puts down his glass, pushing it away.

He clears his throat, about to change the subject, when Janeway's eyes shift to someone approaching their table; a brunette girl as pretty as she is young and who looks mostly at Janeway, her eyes alight with curiosity and something else.

"I don't mean to interrupt," the young woman begins breathlessly, "I was just sitting across the bar with a friend when I saw you and, well, aren't you the captain of that ship that was lost for years?"

The story of Voyager's return to the Alpha Quadrant didn't last long in the newsfeeds, what with the constant cycle of the war's ever-changing images and Starfleet's desire to minimize any stories of Janeway's cooperation with 'the Borg menace.' It's something Tom judges one of the few benefits of coming back exactly when they did: the homecoming of a crew long declared dead would undoubtedly run ad nauseam in a slower news cycle, thus earning them all even more (unwanted) notoriety.

Tom glances at Janeway, watching as she shifts ever so slightly in her seat while the girl stands, now speechless with anticipation, beside their table.

"I think you must have my friend confused for someone else," Tom remarks casually, and deliberately giving every appearance that he thinks the girl a little off. And though Janeway, it seems, can't bring herself to deny who she is, she does summon a rather bland expression, glancing between the girl and Tom as he proceeds to lie his ass off for both of them. "I live here in town, and she's just here to visit me from California."

"I could have sworn I saw your face on the news last month," the girl maintains, now looking openly suspicious.

"You might have," Tom shrugs. "But not for the reason you apparently think. Really. We're just an ex-con and a failed thief out for a night on the town." The girl's eyes go wide, clearly horrified, which means she probably misses Janeway connect her foot with Tom's under the table. "If you can guess which of us is which," he finishes, undaunted by Janeway's silent warning, "I'll buy your next round at the bar."

The girl quits their table with the same haste as she approached it. Janeway's eyes trail her retreating form, and when it disappears, shift back to Tom, staring grey daggers.

"Glare at me if you want," he defends, "you can't argue with results."

She holds her consternation for a beat, maybe two, and then she folds, her expression splitting into a smile, and then slow, reluctant laughter. "I can't believe you did that," she sighs. "That was so. . . wicked."

"I didn't exactly lie," he says, and then starts to laugh himself. He's made Janeway laugh before. Oh, yes, he has. But this is her snickering, and of the many things that Starfleet Captains Do Not Do In Public, snicker is somewhere toward the top of the list. He feels deliciously light-headed, not bothering to gauge how much of it is the bottle they've already finished off.

"Perhaps we should see about that pool table? Before you get us run out of town?"

"Maybe," he allows. Thinks better of joking that she shouldn't worry, as he knows this captain who has a habit of springing convicts.

The server reappears, as if Tom's merely wanting her presence summoned her, and he decides that if the service is this good now, he might be willing to part with his beloved pool table.

"A gentleman at the bar has sent this," the server brandishes a new, expensive looking bottle, "if it pleases you."

Janeway flinches, obviously afraid that they're about to hounded by someone else who's recognized one of them from the news vids, and Tom angles his face around the booth to size up the men at the bar. "Sent it for the table?" he asks with a smirk, locating a portly, middle-aged fellow watching Janeway keenly, "or sent it for the lady?"

The server averts her eyes, her only response, and Tom whips his head back to Janeway.

"What a cocky bastard. Sending a bottle of wine to a woman already seated with a male companion!"

"Come again?"

"You're new admirer isn't interested in your explorations," Tom drawls, unconvinced that a woman so well-versed the finer points of careful flirting who could really be this dense. "Only his own desire for first contact. "

"Tom."

The server, likely relieved the male occupant of the table has a sense of humor rather than a jealous temper, favors Tom with an amused glance he decides on which to capitalize.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need two favors from you. The first is to tell me what happened to the pool table that used to be over there," he pauses, flashing a dazzling smile, "and the second would be to tell the kind gentleman at the bar that lady does not drink merlot."

"Mister Paris, is there a reason you're hellbent on making a scene?" Janeway demands, a little crossly, the moment the server is out of earshot. She's cheating a bit, calling him 'Mister Paris', but the wine flush in her cheeks cancels out her intimidating tone.

"Hardly a scene. If the guy really had guts, he would have brought the bottle over himself."

"And you know that how, exactly?"

"Because," Tom rolls his eyes, "that's what I would have done."

. . . . .

As it turns out, the pool table is still around, if only in storage waiting for someone to recycle it.

"I can let you in there," the server offers, "just take care around all the junk."

Tom settles their tab, adding another bottle for good measure, and Janeway looks on in wry amusement as the server discretely enters her code into the warehouse door, glancing around to see if someone (probably the bartender) can see them.

"Where does one learn the ability to talk your way into any place?" Janeway teases him, once they're left alone.

Pot meet kettle, Tom thinks, but says instead, "I've found the handier ability is talking oneself out of places. A skill I sadly never acquired."

Janeway murmurs her agreement as she circles the discarded pool table, her fingers gingerly tracing several deep scratches in the felt.

"Sad to see," he sighs, picking up a ball and curling his fingers against the cool, smooth resin.

"Nothing lasts forever."

Tom feels the lighthearted feeling of their outing slipping away, and promptly regrets coming in here to chase a memory. He decides that they should make the best of it, now that they're already here. "Well, we have a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a salvageable pool table. I think we should play a game. Just to say we did."

"We're missing the two solids," she points out, surveying the balls she's racked out of habit. "And the only cue stick is one that's seen better days."

"We don't have to keep score. Besides, I think we've both proven we can excel in non-optimal situations."

"Fair enough." She adds, pointedly looking around the haphazardly stacked boxes and random piles of clutter, "but the first sign of a single rat and we're out of here."

"Only rat in here is the one you already shared a bridge with," he winks. It's a bold lie, even for him, as this close to the water there are most certainly rats in a warehouse like this. She doesn't call him on it, just slides the rack to where it should be, grouping the misshapen mass of balls the best she can.

He lets her break, an offer she acts comically suspicious of. The truth is, he just likes to watch her play. Enjoys the way she approaches it with such gravity, like striking the cue ball in just the right way is the most important task she's ever set out to perform.

"Stripes," she declares confidently, walking arounding the table to find her next shot, "I guess with two solids missing, you might actually have a chance of winning."

"You think?"

Another striped ball lands neatly in a pocket after a complicated bank shot there was no need for her to attempt.

"No," she replies cheekily. "Not really."

He laughs so hard at this that he distracts her; she chuckles just enough along with him that she flubs her next shot.

"I missed this."

"Me too," he agrees, trying to remember the last time they played. They'd made a regular habit of it, but there at the end, with crisis falling on top of crisis, it felt like their last game was months before they left the Delta Quadrant.

"I can't even. . . When did we last play?"

"I was just thinking about that. I can't remember. I think right before I lost a shuttle in that interfold layer?"

"Of course you remember that game," she accuses. It's the only game he ever won, even if barely and only because she was distracted by an alarming comm from Tuvok. "But surely we played after that?"

"I remember now! We did. A day after that mess with the Nyrians trying to take over the ship."

"That's right," she snaps her fingers. "You kept raising the temperature on the holodeck while we played. I almost sent you back to the Doctor. Was afraid he missed some kind of illness after your prolonged exposure to the cold."

"Trust my luck to be trapped in the only icy habitat," he mutters.

"True. But I don't think you ever complained about the company."

Tom doesn't know what to say here at the mention of B'Elanna. He doesn't have it in him to lie, but everything that's honest hurts too much, is open and raw in a way that feels like it won't ever heal. It's a pain that's becoming familiar, if one that strikes him, for the first time, as possibly inappropriate. Because as much as he cares for B'Elanna, it's not as if she ever gave him any direct indication that she shared his feelings, and so while it's one thing to mourn the loss of a relationship, and yet another to grieve for a set of possibilities, Tom isn't sure what he had with B'Elanna was even something properly called 'possible.'

Maybe it's this uncertainty that hurts him the most?

He doesn't know if his silence is more meaningful than he intends it to be or Janeway's simply focusing on the table now that it's her turn again. Either way, she doesn't follow up on her last comment, grey eyes appearing to calculate trajectories as she surveys the dwindling balls.

"You're going to win," he announces, more to himself than to her.

"I was always going to win." It's a simple statement of fact.

"True. But with a two ball advantage, my loss is far more humiliating."

"I thought we weren't keeping score?"

"A lie you never believed for a second."

Her eyes sparkle with agreement and she pushes her hair off her shoulder. It's not as long as it was the last time he saw it down, back on the ship, and he idly wonders if she cut it before or after they got home.

"I could keep going," she says, sinking another ball, "but I fear it might be bad form to destroy every shred of dignity you have left, my being your guest and all."

This is a new level of trash talk, even for her. Not that Tom minds.

"Very bad form," he concludes. "You should leave me with the delusional idea that I could have come from behind."

"Thanks," she decides, raising her hands to her hips.

"For losing to you?"

"No," she laughs. "For making me play. For bringing me here even though it might have brought back bad memories. . . For treating me like a person and never once calling me 'Captain', despite that I essentially lied my way past your landlord and broke into your apartment."

"You lied to my landlord?" It wasn't the first thing to catch his attention, but it's the only thing he has any intelligent response to, no less so because she's being so uncharacteristically open with him right now, and has been the whole day, come to think of it.

"I told him I'm old friend and hadn't seen you in ages."

"You are an old friend. Sort of. And depending on one's perspective, it does feel like ages."

"Right," she smiles, and averts her gaze to the bottle they've barely touched.

"I didn't toss out the cork. We can take the wine with us."

"Is that allowed?" She takes in his expression and shakes her head. "Silly question. I forgot that you don't care."

"I am not compelled to break every rule," he pouts, forcing the stained end of the cork back into the bottle.

"Even if you were, I'm not sure that I have room to lecture."

It's an open invitation to ask about her own career, whether they're giving her another ship. He thinks, given her current mood and blood alcohol content, he has a good chance of getting a completely candid answer. He doesn't seize the opportunity, unwilling to break (again) the relative ease they've found.

"Ready to get out of here?" he asks, and she nods, putting down the cue stick and handing him the wine.

Tom turns toward the door, then thinks better of it. Places one palm flat on the peeling felt of the pool table and closes his eyes.

"Just wanted to say goodbye," he explains, when he joins her at the door, but it's clear she already understands. She has one hand shoved deep in her coat pocket and loops the other loosely through his arm.

"So what else is there for a failed thief to do in a town like this?"

. . . . .

It starts to rain on them about a half an hour after they leave Sandrines. They hadn't been walking with strict intention, merely milling about the docks in remarkably companionable silence until the skies opened up, catching them both by surprise.

"Shit," Tom sputters, when what starts as a slight drizzle turns into a deluge. Janeway nudges him toward a storefront with a substantial awning and they move to stand under it, each pulling their jackets tighter around themselves.

"I didn't realize it rained this much here in winter," she says idly, droplets glistening from her eyelashes as she blinks.

"It doesn't usually," he shakes his head. "This February's been colder and wetter than anything on record."

"It's odd."

"Nah. The city will just have to activate the weather controls."

"I mean weather in general," she clarifies. "Walking in the snow around my mother's house in Indiana felt nostalgic, but I completely forgot what it was like to get caught in a downpour."

"I thought about that this morning. It's a little weird to think my days will now be governed by temperature changes rather than spatial anomalies."

Her eyebrows shoot up at this, obviously shocked that he intends to stay planetside. But she doesn't ask, doesn't seize the opportunity to draw him into a conversation about the opportunities he still has within Starfleet.

It's a relief, sort of, but it doesn't change the fact that Tom still has a lot of decisions to make.

"There aren't any private flying jobs that would be of interest," he finds himself explaining. "I'm not even sure I would have been interested in any pilot assignment Starfleet would have given me." He sighs, if with a halfhearted smile, "kind of boring to do standard patrols after traversing an unknown Quadrant."

Her face becomes unreadable at this last part, her eyes shifting to the artwork in the gallery in front of which they've taken refuge. He isn't sure if she doesn't have anything to say or she's treading lightly in an effort to respect his decision.

"So what will you do now?"

"I honestly don't know," he admits, and sounding every bit as afraid and as hopeful as he feels. "But I'll figure it out."

"You will," she nods decisively. "You're smart. Tenacious. Creative."

"And charming. I'm very charming."

"So you've always claimed," she runs her hands through her damp hair, "though I'm not convinced enough to put it in any letter of professional support."

The rain breaks as she begins to tease him, and they seize upon the opportunity to navigate their way back to his neighborhood.

"What about you?" he finally asks her. "Where is Starfleet sending you?"

"Well, there's a war on."

"So I've heard. One we're losing, rumor has it."

Her features become hard at this. Tom watches a small convoy of raindrops move down her shoulder as she tucks her hands under her arms for warmth.

"Technically I have a week of leave left, just like everyone else. In actuality, I have to report to HQ in three days for tactical briefings."

"And then?"

"Another ship," she shrugs. "Another command."

"Another crew to fearlessly shepherd."

"Something like that," she says softly. "But you know the drill as well as I do, given your family."

"Indeed. My father will likely be on active duty until he dies."

"He's very proud of you." She says this holding eye contact, her voice confident even though (or perhaps precisely because) she knows she's now navigating in turbulent space. "I understand the two of you have never had an easy relationship, and I am far from an expert on parental relations, but please believe me when I say that he admires all that you achieved on Voyager."

"I do," he acknowledges simply. "I'm just not sure he'll feel that same way after I resign."

He voices the thought without bitterness, which is kind of a huge step. Because, yes, he understands that the strained silence that now stretches between himself and his father is now more awkwardness than residual anger. But what will that uncertain, cautious silence turn into when his name is no longer preceded by a rank?

"I am officially cold and waterlogged," she announces, perhaps by way of acknowledging that she has nothing helpful to say regarding his father.

"That makes two of us. So what now?"

"I guess I could stop monopolizing your time," she ventures. "If there's something I've been keeping you from."

He does have things he needs to get done, important comms to thoughtfully compose. But none of it is as enjoyable as strolling aimlessly with the woman next to him, to say nothing of doing so while still a wee bit tipsy.

"I am perfectly happy with your monopoly. But if there's someplace you need to be. . ."

"No," she smiles, but it's that same sad smile from earlier, in his apartment. "There's no place I need to be."

"So spend the rest of the day here. While you're still a free agent."

"The rest of the day? With you?"

"Do you have a better offer?"

"Maybe," she squints. "But that fellow did send me the wrong wine entirely."

He chuckles, relieved at her joke. His stomach lurched when he considered his own shortsighted question, how distinctly unwanted the indirect mention of her former fiancé would be, even if accidental.

And what of Chakotay? He thinks to ask after the man, perhaps use the information as an insight into the status of another former Maquis crewmate. He doesn't, if only because following his last question with one about Chakotay will be too presumptuous, even for him.

"Why don't we regroup at my place? At the very least it's warm and dry there." He means it to be a decision, but it comes out more like a question; he's too accustomed to following her lead to comfortably give directives, however casual.

"Fair enough. So long as you're willing to point me the in the direction of the vendor from whom you acquired that wonderful espresso you handed me this morning."

. . . . .

The day isn't particular eventful, though the very idea of spending a day palling around with her feels eventful for Tom. Back at his apartment, having dried their coats and boots, he suggests they go to a nearby museum, thinking it the kind of thing Janeway would enjoy doing. But when they get there, she appears as apathetic about the rooms of millennia-old art as Tom himself feels. He considers the possibility, really considers for the first time, that his image of her is a composite of assumptions, some of which might be quite misplaced.

"We can leave," he offers, "if you'd like some place that's less crowded."

It's afternoon now and the museum has quickly swelled with tourists. Tom's noticed that she sizes up every room the moment they enter it, a PADD containing the museum's various brochures used to obscure her face if she thinks that someone is staring.

"If you're bored," she agrees, without admitting any discomfort.

"A little. Guess I never had the patience to appreciate fine antiquities."

"Except for automobiles."

"Right. Except for automobiles." This earns him a smile, the first one she's shown since entering the building filled with art, hushed voices, and the sound of dozens of footsteps on centuries old marble. "Come on. I know a place that might be more our speed."

"Is there a pool table?"

"Um, not exactly."

He tell her it's too far to walk, especially in the damp air, but she asks him no questions as they board the transport, and so Tom drifts off in thought. Eventually, he tries to remember the last day he spent like this, just idly popping here and there with someone else, no ship to get back to and no chrono to mind. It feels a little indulgent, which strikes him as a silly. He's been living without the pattern of duty rotations and carefully scheduled days more than a month, there's no reason this should feel as odd to him as it apparently does.

He realizes he's smiling a little at the absurdity, and so Janeway must wonder what's so funny. She doesn't break their comfortable silence, merely presses her shoulder a little more solidly into his and taps her fingers in a gentle rhythm on the armrest that they share.

"This is us," he announces, and they both stand to exit the transport. It's a minute of walking down a large avenue, and then Tom's nodding with his chin. "Here we are."

"A church?" she asks incredulously.

"A cathedral, technically."

"Tom… I'm not exactly-"

"A theist? Me either. But I didn't bring you here to take in a mass. Although, if I'm not mistaken, there should be one starting in about an hour." He's completely thrown her, this much he can see. And though he had no intention of making her this uncomfortable, he revels a little in his ability to surprise her. "Come with me?" he asks, holding out his arm. "Please?"

She gives her ascent solemnly, like she's performing some kind of official duty. Maybe, in her head, she is.

"When I was stationed here in the Academy, Sandrines is where I went to blow off steam. But this is where I came to think."

"An odd choice. Given your sensibilities."

"Maybe," he whispers, "maybe not. This building is one of the oldest in the city, parts of it date back to the fifteenth century. It's been destroyed during wars. Rebuilt a dozen times."

"You like the history."

"Partly." He adds, "it also happens to be a place the very architecture of which was built to demand reflection, draw the mind up to something aspirational."

"Even though that 'something aspirational' involves metaphysical principles you don't believe in?" she pushes, sounding every bit the scientist.

"I don't believe in all-seeing god, or the Bajoran prophets, or anything beyond this physical existence. But I do believe in things greater than me, bigger than me." He continues, a bit more pointedly, "and as someone who's chosen a life of Starfleet service, I dare say so do you."

She tilts her head to the side in acknowledgement. Picks her way slowly down the center aisle, her eyes trained on the elaborate patterns in each of the large, stained glass windows: a dozen images of saints looking solemn and sometimes pained.

"I imagine the sunshine coming through those windows is quite lovely."

"It is," he sighs, sitting down gingerly in a pew. "Especially right about now, with the afternoon light hitting at just the right angle."

It's the first time he feels genuinely agitated with the rain they've had all day, but he keeps this to himself, watching Janeway size up the building, the angle of the windows and series of arches above them - as if she's estimating how aesthetically pleasing the sunlight would be at this hour.

He lets her explore and she lets him sit, quietly contemplating. When she returns to where he is after several minutes, her footsteps are so soft he doesn't hear her until she's right beside him, gingerly seating herself on the same pew.

"I understand it," she says simply.

"I thought you might."

"You should bring Harry here. He would appreciate it."

Tom isn't sure how often he'll get to see his friend once Harry's next assignment starts, but he likes that Janeway speaks of their friendship with such certainty, as if the bond between himself and the younger man is such that she assumes it will remain unchanged. Tom certainly hopes it does.

"One day," he agrees. "When he has the time."

"How is he? Still happy to be back in range of his mother's cooking?"

"I think so," he chuckles. "I admit we haven't spent a lot of time together. Though we do comm."

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom sees her cock a concerned eyebrow at his admission. He sifts through his thoughts, debating how to explain.

"This first week back," he begins, "the Kims invited me to a family dinner. Huge spread. Lots of relatives."

"I come from a big extended family. I know those dinners well."

"Me too, so I thought. Except that Harry's family - they're just so genuinely happy to be together, to have Harry back. They could spend days telling stories about all his Academy awards or the time he broke an ankle in the parrisses semi-finals."

"Please don't tell me they bored you," she teases.

"No! Not at all! They're great people. It's just, I mean, Harry came back and was immediately cocooned in this sense of homecoming and joy, and as much as he wanted to share that with me. . . I can't. Because . . . Well, I guess, because the only place I've ever felt that at home was on Voyager."

Janeway lets out a long, jagged at breath at this. Whether it's one of sympathy or something thornier, Tom isn't sure.

"There isn't anything wrong with wanting it back," she tells him, scooting a little closer. "So long as the wanting doesn't lead to dwelling."

It something she says with gravity, as if it's something she's been turning over for sometime on her own. And although he himself misses being out there, misses being stranded far away from everything in the Alpha Quadrant, realizing that Janeway, who left behind a fiancé and a life outside a prison cell, might also miss it makes him relieved and sick to his stomach all at once.

"I don't think I could ever have brought B'Elanna here," Tom says suddenly. He meant to think it more than say it, but doesn't react to hearing the words out loud. "I don't think she would understand it."

"I'm not sure you're giving her enough credit," he hears Janeway remark softly.

"Maybe I'm not."

"Have you spoken to her?"

"Tried for weeks to contact her before I gave up," he confesses, and feels a profound pressure build within his chest. "At first I thought she'd gone somewhere else after her mother's house on Kessik. But I've . . . I've left so many messages with so many people across a dozen planets. There's no way she doesn't know."

"Maybe they just need time," she sighs, and he immediately catches the 'they.' Understands, without a moment's reflection, that the plural form of the pronoun is rounded out by Chakotay.

He thinks back to how silent Chakotay was in the briefings during the cooperation with the Borg; the way the XO's back stayed ramrod straight during their first open comm from Starfleet upon getting home. As if he'd resigned himself to Janeway's deal with the devil, and how clearly he must have understood Starfleet's inability to accept the same when it came to the Maquis.

Tom wonders now if it's two men Janeway's missing, or whether it's actually just the one whose name she's yet to say out loud and only now allowed herself to reference.

"Time for what?" he demands, if more to the pale, forlorn faces painted above them than to her.

"Time away from us."

Ah. That.

. . . . .