Author's Note: Because I have been reading and re-reading Alpha Flyer's drabbles for the last two weeks. . .

Endings

I.

"I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this," the apprehensive cadet apologizes, her young charge looking on with eyes that are too sad and too blue to belong to a boy of only nine.

"It's alright," he says diplomatically, and takes the model boat from her fumbling fingers. "The sails are the hardest part . . . It's why Dad was supposed to help me tonight."

"He'll be home soon," she says, and hates that it's a lie. Regrets that she's a shoddy replacement for the parent who's chosen to quit his home and family in order to do work that could clearly wait.

"Right," the boy nods, cradling the fragile boat in his hands. "Soon."

He ascends the stairs to his room without further comment, leaving the cadet to wonder how many times a child can hear the same lie over and over again before truth and falsity come to have no distinction.

. . . .

II.

"You don't believe me."

"I want to believe you, Tom. . ."

Her statement dangles helplessly, and his face falls in understanding. She wants to believe he didn't kill Tolen after pursuing the scientist's wife. But she isn't sure. Which means she believes him at least capable of it.

"If you'll pardon me, Captain," he begins weakly, "I'm feeling suddenly ill."

It's a sad retreat, excusing himself to Sickbay's lavatory, but Paris knows Janeway still needs to talk to the Doctor, and he can't bear to stand there and watch the specter of doubt in her eyes any longer.

He hobbles slowly to the small room, his body drained from continuously reliving another man's death. And then he waits, slumped against the sink, until the gravelly voice can no longer be heard on the other side of the wall.

. . . .

III.

"Have you not been able to sleep?"

She asks him the question in the deserted mess hall, her voice laden with concern, as well as other things. He looks up from his steaming cup of tea to consider her motives, and maybe, too, to ponder some of his own.

In truth, he hasn't been sleeping, not unless B'Elanna's with him. The solitary confinement didn't exactly bring back pleasant memories, what with flashbacks of Auckland; the horrors that awaited him in the night there.

But of course, he thinks, Janeway had to know this. Likely considered it when she handed out his sentence.

"You didn't come to see me in the brig," he observes neutrally. But then, before she can reply, his tone grows caustic, continuing with a dismissive gesture, "I guess the Captain can't bend her own rules even for herself. Right, sir? The great Kathryn Janeway would never, not in seventy thousand light years, dare create a double standard."

The remark stings her more than he expects, watching as she allows the hurt it causes to bleed through to the surface.

She clears her throat and averts her eyes, her voice small when she finally speaks.

"I thought about coming to see you. . . . in the brig. But I decided against it because. . . in there you wouldn't have the choice of turning me away."

It's a unique revelation, one that Tom is taken back by. He sets down his mug, contemplating its contents in silence before he joylessly affirms, "you're right. And thank you. The freedom to choose is a. . . . very powerful thing."

And pushing away the mug, he gets up from the sofa on which he sits, leaving Janeway to stand alone in the darkened room.

. . . . .

IV.

"Congratulations," she says slowly, and with practiced ease, "I'm very happy for the two of you."

"Are you?"

From her seat behind her desk, she looks at him with bewilderment. And then with hurt. A pain that's now years old.

"I am," she says. "You're going to make amazing parents. Both of you."

This last part he takes to be sincere sentiment. But Kathryn Janeway happy about the birth of his first child? He wishes he could believe it.

"I'll get that report to you by morning," he says, changing the subject.

"No need to rush," she gestures vaguely. "Take the evening to bask in your excitement."

He opens his mouth to say something, but then quickly changes his mind. There isn't any one thing he can say that doesn't lead to a million others, and at this point he judges it better never to start. The truth is always expendable.

He turns on his heel with a polite smile, giving Janeway a little salute with the PADD in his hand.

"And Tom ," she calls. "I really am thrilled for you."

But before she can finish the statement, the ready room doors have already closed behind him.

. . . . .

V.

"I swear, Kath! If you go on this mission, I'm not going to be here waiting for you when you come back!"

Standing in the living room of the home they've shared for several years, she fixes him with eyes that are already bloodshot from crying.

"It's the Borg, Tom. I have to go. This isn't a choice!"

Predictably, he throws up his hands in anger, turning away from her desperate expression. Desperate to make him understand. Desperate to take away the betrayal he feels.

"Christ," he curses. "'No choice.' 'No choice.' Do all Admirals have to use the same fucking refrain!"

"Tom," she shouts, her anger now cresting to meet his. "Just for once be rational about this."

It's an argument they've had so many times in their relationship that there's absolutely no need to finish it. He stalks out the front door, down the steps of their porch, and into the chilly air that ensnares San Francisco every summer.

He'll walk for an hour. Maybe more, if he's still boiling. But then, eventually, when he runs out of anger (new and old), he'll walk back.

And just like every time before this, Kathryn will still be waiting for him when he does.