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He looked down at the food tray with a distinct note of disappointment.
“C’mon, Neelix, can’t you replicate me something? Tomato soup perhaps?” Tom begged as his stomach growled.
The Tallaxian shook his head, having the grace to look mildly apologetic, “Sorry, Tom. Basic nutrition only, Captain’s orders.”
Tom sighed, leaning back against his uncomfortable bed and running a hand through his now tousled hair. Five days. Five days of torture and he still had to endure another twenty-five more.
“I better get going now, Tom. No unnecessary conversation with the prisoner and all that.” Tom watched as the cook put his head down and walked away, disappearing from his view behind the forcefield.
Tom looked down at the “food” again with distaste. There was some sort of purple mush, and next to it a kind of broth that had unidentified floating… bits. Tom didn’t want to know what they were.
Thus began another taxing analysis of the supposed nutrition in front of him. Tom almost laughed. They throw him in the brig for being insubordinate and now they were going to kill him via starvation. The pain in his stomach was almost enough to make him consider putting the purple mush in his mouth, but despite his depressive state, he didn’t actually want to die thank you very much.
Tom didn’t know where the miscommunication lied, but he’d like to speak to the manager, please. He wasn’t a picky eater for fun, he was allergic to a million things. What, did they think he ate the plainest food in existence because he enjoyed it? Well, admittedly he did love tomato soup, but it’s not like he had many options open.
The pilot nudged the food on the tray with his provided fork. There was no way of knowing what was in the stuff. Occasionally he’d brave a bite of something that looked like a vegetable, but today he couldn’t find anything identifiable. If he put the mush in his mouth, he could very well die, and that would suck.
He knew he was gambling with his health over the last few days, but he didn’t seem to have many other options. He’d tried to explain his predicament to Neelix on his first night, but the cook thought he was trying to engage in “unnecessary conversation” and immediately cut Tom off before leaving quickly. He’d even tried to tell the guards, but the damn stony-faced bastards wouldn’t respond to him. After a while, he gave up trying. Flirting with anaphylaxis it was then.
He sighed again. His food allergies weren’t exactly well known to the crew of Voyager. He certainly hadn’t told anyone. The only other person who probably knew was the holographic doctor who had access to his medical files, but clearly nobody briefed him before throwing Tom in the brig.
Tom kicked the food tray away petulantly and marched over to his cot, ignoring the painful knots forming in his stomach and the walls that seemed to close in on him at every turn. He laid down, closed his eyes, and desperately tried to fall asleep to the loud thrumming of the ship’s engines around him.
Ten days. It had been ten days now and Tom was going crazy. Not only would no one talk to him, but he was really beginning to feel the effects of hardly eating for over a week. His stomach no longer growled, having long ago given up on him just as the Captain clearly had, and he was feeling weak and dizzy more often than not. He knew he’d already lost a fair amount of weight; he estimated about eight to ten pounds had been shaved off his form. Evidently, no one had noticed that yet.
He stood near the forcefield, head leaning on the metal frame and eyes closed as he tried to breathe through another wave of dizziness that had washed over him. God, he was pathetic.
Tom was broken out of his musings as the ship suddenly rocked dangerously and he stumbled into the forcefield. His eyes opened, startled at the sudden impact and he looked around frantically.
The current guard to his cell was receiving orders through his commbadge that Tom couldn’t hear and a second later had begun to run from the room.
“Hey!” He called out fruitlessly, “Hey, you can’t leave me here!” He banged on the forcefield with his fist.
Another impact hit the ship, and Tom stumbled again, trying to catch himself but ultimately slammed into the wall. The ship rocked again and, momentarily disoriented, Tom began to fall over. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the sharp corner of his stupid prison bed.
He came to awareness slowly, though immediately cognizant of the pounding in his head. His body felt heavy as he attempted to regain his faculties and open his eyes. The first thing he noticed as his eyes fluttered open was that his vision was incredibly blurry. The second was that he was on the floor of his cell, and the third was a sensation he recognized instantly from the very first few days he’d been forced to starve in here, nausea.
As Tom tried to lift himself up, he thanked whatever God was out there that there was absolutely nothing in his stomach that could come up, though his insides did roll dangerously nonetheless. Tom latched his hands onto the side of his bed, but he slipped as the surface was mysteriously wet.
He turned to his right, squinting at the corner and finding it was tinged red. Oh. That was blood. For some reason, that thought made Tom’s stomach roll again and he leaned over to gag, but nothing came up just as he suspected it wouldn’t.
Tom attempted to claw his way into a standing position once again, this time using the dry, not blood-covered portion of the bed. His body protested at the effort and his head pounded harder than before, but eventually he managed to get up, admittedly with a slight sway.
He looked around slowly, cataloguing his now blurry surroundings. He distantly heard the warning klaxons of the red alert alarms on the other side of the door as he stared at the blood on the corner of his bed, then to a red smudge on the floor at his feet where he’d just gotten up from. He turned his head to the dim room on the other side of the forcefield, but couldn’t see any guard.
Great, he was alone, captive, and injured (probably concussed) while there was a ship-wide emergency going on. He was thankful the ship no longer seemed to be physically rocking, but his vision was swimming enough that it might as well have been crash landing. If they were boarded, he was so screwed.
Suddenly, without warning, the klaxons in the distance stopped, and Tom let out a sigh in momentary relief, though not yet totally off guard. Standing was becoming difficult, so he elected to sit down on his now dirty bed, leaning his head against the bulkhead behind him.
A few minutes later, he heard the tell-tale swish of the doors, and he opened his eyes in a flash. He watched as a guard retook their station, but for the life of him he couldn’t discern who it was.
He stood up, ignoring the pulsating behind his eyes and flash of pain the action provided, and moved to the edge of the forcefield, “Hey,” He strangled out weakly, “Hey, you. Wha’s goin’ on? What happened?”
His vision was teetering and he sagged against the frame of the forcefield, but the guard did not respond.
Tom clenched his teeth and pushed himself into more of an upright stance, “Look, I need help, please.” He begged pathetically, “I need the doctor.”
Once again, there was no response.
Tom began to get irritated with the ignorance, “Hey, are you even listening to me? I said I need the doctor!” He pounded the forcefield with his fist, albeit not with his usual strength.
Only this got the guard to react as Tom watched him step out from behind his station and pull out the blurriest phaser Tom had ever had the pleasure of looking at, “If you do not calm down, I will have to call security.” The steady tones of the guard’s voice grated on Tom’s nerves.
“Fine, call them. I don’t care, just get the doctor too. Can’t you see I’m hurt?” Tom rubbed his aching temple and when he brought his hand back down, he saw it was stained red, “Look, I’m bleeding. I need medical attention. Call the doctor, please.” He all but demanded.
The guard was silent for a moment before responding, “Very well,” he tapped his commbadge, “Ensign Barry to sickbay.”
The device crackled to life, “Sickbay here, what can I do for you?” Tom had never been more happy to hear the doctor’s ever sardonic voice.
“The prisoner claims he’s injured. Can you report to the brig?”
Tom couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the doctor suck in a quick breath before answering, “Tom? What’s wrong with him? No, wait, never mind, yes I’ll be right there.” The communication cut out quickly.
The pilot was touched by the obvious concern in the doctor’s voice, not to mention the use of his first name. He’d only been referred to as “the prisoner” for ten straight days. Tom sagged again as relief flooded through him, “Thank you.” He choked out, suddenly emotional.
The guard did not grace him with a response.
Mere moments later, the doors swished open once again and Tom looked up sharply, smiling at the familiar medical blue of the doctor’s holographic uniform as the man approached.
“Doc!” He straightened quickly only to sway on his feet and stumble backwards a bit.
He heard the doctor’s voice then, and Tom couldn’t remember ever hearing the doctor so angry, “Good God, Ensign!” Tom hoped he wasn’t talking to him, “This man can’t be treated here! Look at all the blood! He should have been beamed directly to sickbay!” Guess he wasn’t talking to Tom.
“Sir, the prisoner has been known to try to talk to crewmen under false pretenses before. This could have been a trick.” Tom guessed he was referring to the times he tried to inform Neelix and the other guards of his food allergies.
The doctor sounded incredulous as he responded, “Do you not have eyes, Ensign? Mr. Paris is clearly very injured! How on Earth would he have faked this amount of blood?”
A ringing in Tom’s ears was beginning to grow as his vision swam before him. He suddenly felt very dizzy, leaning heavily against the forcefield frame, “Doc…” He called out weakly, “I don’t feel so good.” He started to slip down the wall, eventually collapsing into a heap on the hard floor below.
He heard the doctor yell for Ensign Barry to lower the forcefield and Tom shut his eyes tightly trying to escape from the noise. Soon there was a gentle presence next to him and a soothing hand on his forehead, “Don’t worry, Tom. Everything is going to be alright.” The hand left and Tom heard the tell-tale tap of a commbadge, “Doctor to transporter room. Medical emergency. Beam Mr. Paris and myself directly to sickbay.”
“Aye, sir.”
Tom was beginning to slip as he felt the familiar wave of the transporter beam wash over him and soon he was on a much softer surface. He could hear the doctor’s voice speaking harshly, but it was becoming more and more indistinct as he traveled further from consciousness. After a few seconds, he embraced the inky blackness of sleep.
Awareness came more quickly this time, but his head still pounded nonetheless. Tom groaned and pried open his eyes, momentarily shocked to not see the drab grey of the brig ceiling, but instead the soothing oranges and blues of Voyager’s sickbay. He sat up quickly and instantly regretted it as his head pounded harder and dizziness overwhelmed him. The pilot fell back onto the bio-bed beneath him.
“Mr. Paris?” Tom recognized the doctor’s voice instantly and he braved raising his head to look around. The doctor was approaching him from the control console on the outside of the surgical bay. As he got closer, Tom watched as he passed through a forcefield surrounding his bed.
“Doc?” Tom muttered weakly, “What happened?”
The EMH pulled out a medical tricorder and began scanning over Tom’s head, “You don’t remember?” He asked, sounding somewhat concerned.
Bits and pieces of memories flashed through Tom’s mind as he tried to piece together why he was here, “I remember…” Tom shut his eyes tightly as the pain in his head increased.
“Don’t strain yourself Lieut- Tom.” The pilot tried not to let his heart beat too fast at the doctor’s slip up, “You sustained a severe head injury. I had to operate. You lost a fair amount of blood too.”
“My head still hurts.” Tom put a hand to his forehead in a self-soothing motion, “And ‘m dizzy.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s to be expected, I’ll prepare an analgesic for you.” Tom watched the man program a hypospray with practiced ease and then push it into his neck. The pilot instantly sagged in relief as the painkiller took hold, “Though you would recover much faster if you were properly nourished. I thought the Federation had strict guidelines about the treatment of prisoners. They aren’t starving you in there, are they?”
Tom tried to keep his face neutral, “They feed me every day.”
The doctor stared at him, “Then pray tell me why you are sporting all the signs of a classic case of malnutrition. Don’t think I didn’t notice your concerning weight loss. This much weight gone in the amount of time you’ve been in there is borderline dangerous. Any more and I’ll have to start feeding you intravenously.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Should what, Mr. Paris?”
“Feed me intravenously.”
The doctor looked at him incredulously, “Why would you want me to do that?”
Tom was quiet for a moment before speaking softly, “I can’t eat Neelix’s food.”
The doctor scoffed, “I don’t think being confined to the brig is exactly the time you should choose be picky about food, Mr. Paris.”
He shook his head, “I’m not being picky. I can’t eat it.”
The doctor looked puzzled before a look of dawning realization appeared on his face, “Your allergies. Good God, why did no one consult me before providing your food?” The hologram threw up his hands in anger, “An outrage, I tell you! Outrage! Don’t you worry, Mr. Paris. I’ll have this resolved immediately.” The doctor’s face was set in firm anger as he marched to the sickbay replicator and spat out, “Plain tomato soup, hot.”
He came back with the steaming bowl of soup and placed it at Tom’s bedside before helping the man to sit up. He firmly deposited the bowl into Tom’s grasp and handed him a spoon, “Eat. I’ll be back shortly.” And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of sickbay.
Tom watched the whole display with wide eyes, silently vowing never to cross the hologram that just handed him his favorite meal.
He stared down into the soup, relishing in the aroma it gave off and gently dipped the spoon into the liquid. He carefully pulled the spoon up to his mouth with a shaking hand and hesitantly took a sip.
It was the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted. He felt sorry for ever insulting the replicator’s version of tomato soup in the past and greedily dug in. However, after a few bites, nausea rolled through his stomach and he dropped the spoon with a clatter. Tom quickly set the bowl at his bedside, soup sloshing within, and leaned over, breathing heavily and trying not to gag.
He pulled his knees up to his head, ragged breaths his only companion as he tried to force the nausea down.
Such is where he stayed for the next several minutes, waiting anxiously for the doctor’s return.
Kathryn Janeway was sitting at her desk in her ready room when she heard her door chime.
“Come in.”
The door swished open and revealed the EMH, and he looked absolutely furious. Kathryn wasn’t sure if she had ever seen such malice on the hologram’s face before and was suddenly wary.
“Captain.” He bit out.
“Doctor,” She countered, “What can I do for you?”
The doctor was shaking, his hands in tightly clasped fists at his sides as he paced the room, “I thought I should inform you that Tom Paris is currently sitting in my sickbay recovering from a serious head injury.”
Her eyebrows rose into her hairline, a sudden feeling of concern for the disgraced pilot unwillingly filling her abdomen, though she kept her face composed, “How, may I ask, did that happen?”
He continued his pacing, “You should demote Ensign Culhane too since you seem to be in the mood to do such things. His idiotic and erratic evasive maneuvers threw Mr. Paris around the brig hard enough to crack open his skull!”
Kathryn’s eyes narrowed, “Doctor, need I remind you that it is not your place to question my decisions. I did what I had to after Monea. It is not my fault that Mr. Paris is injured as sorry as I am that he is.”
The doctor seethed, “Fine. But you are in charge of your crew. The guard assigned to his cell would hardly let me see to him even though he was bleeding out! You should have seen how much blood was covering the room. If I had seen it without context, I would’ve thought somebody had died!”
Kathryn clasped her hands, “Alright, very well. I’ll see to it that Tuvok disciplines that guard, and he won’t be allowed to man that station again for the foreseeable future, now, is that all, doctor?”
The EMH looked incensed, “No, Captain. Because, far more worrying than the borderline fatal head injury, I discovered that Tom is woefully malnourished. He’s lost a worrying amount of weight since being in the brig. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t eaten the entire ten days he’s been in there!”
She raised an eyebrow, “Some form of protest?”
“No, worse.” The hologram wrung his hands and looked like he was ready to choke someone, “He couldn’t eat. And you know why? Because the poor man is allergic to everything under the sun and no one thought to consult me before providing his basic nutrition.”
A bad feeling was beginning to form in her gut, but she ignored it, “If that’s true, why did he not tell Neelix or the guards of his medical needs? This might have been an act of self-pity or an attempt to gain sympathy.”
The doctor was shaking with rage, “Based on what I saw, the guards hardly acknowledge him and you ordered Mr. Neelix not to speak with Tom. He probably did try to tell them, but was ignored.”
She felt angry at the statement he was making, “Doctor, I hope you understand that that is a serious accusation.”
“I understand, Captain. I also believe in Tom. He’s not the vying for sympathy type. If anything, he avoids sympathy like the plague, which suggests a whole host of other psychological issues. What I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?”
She stood up and walked slowly around her desk, never taking her eyes off the doctor as she did so. She stopped in front of him, leveling him with what she hoped was an intense stare, “I will inform Mr. Neelix that he will need to change Mr. Paris’ nutrition under your guidance, but there is little more I can do. Tom has a sentence to carry out and he will do it, no special treatment. Is that understood, doctor?”
The hologram’s jaw was clenched tightly before he spit out, “Perfectly, Captain.” And he moved to march out of the room.
She stopped him before he could leave, “Oh, and doctor?” He turned around, “I’ll see what I can do about getting some restraints placed in the brig should the ship be attacked again and Tom needs something to hold onto.”
He gave her a tight nod and exited the room.
Kathryn slumped immediately, crashing into the chair behind her desk with a new feeling of exhaustion. This whole “Tom Paris get’s demoted and arrested” thing was really becoming more than she could take. There was a not insignificant part of her that wanted to amend his sentence to being confined to quarters, but what would that look like to the rest of the crew? She had an image to uphold, to make sure the crew understood the consequences for disobeying orders, no matter who they are to her.
A small part of her wondered if she was being so harsh on Tom because he was so close to her. She sighed and placed her head in her hands before ordering a black coffee from her replicator.
Tom was laying back down on the bio-bed. His insides still felt weird, but he wasn’t an active puking risk anymore.
He sat up and straightened when he heard the sickbay doors open. In walked the doctor looking absolutely enraged. Tom wondered where the hell he had just come from. He looked like he was on a warpath.
The doctor suddenly calmed when he looked at Tom, tension replacing itself with gentleness as he approached his patient, “How are you doing, Tom?” He looked over at the unfinished soup at the pilot’s bedside and furrowed his eyebrows, “You didn’t eat?”
Tom squirmed, “I managed a few bites, but… I started to feel sick.”
The doctor looked sympathetic, “I should’ve known. I’m sorry, Tom. With how long it's been since you’ve properly eaten, your body will need some time for adjustment before you get back into eating more regularly. Here,” He handed the soup back to Tom, “Try eating again, this time slowly. If you can’t finish, that’s alright. We can try again later.”
Tom hesitantly followed the man’s orders, slowly taking spoonfuls of the soup and bringing them to his mouth. He managed to eat more than before, but soon the nausea returned and he placed the bowl down with a sigh.
He felt a hypospray at his neck and looked up at the doctor.
“An anti-nausea medication.” He explained as he pressed down on the device.
Instantly, Tom felt better, but still not hungry.
After a beat, Tom asked a question that had been on his mind for a minute, “When do I have to leave sickbay?” Not when do I have to go back to the brig? That felt too real.
The doctor hummed, “Well, I’d like to keep you for observation for another day or so to make sure there’s no lingering swelling in your brain as well as I would like to monitor your food intake before you have to go back… there. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to constantly watch over you while you’re down there, so you’ll just have to remember to take it easy and slowly. I’ll try and see if I can’t get the guard to administer anti-nausea medication should you need it.”
Tom felt tired, “And will I be able to?”
“To what?”
“Eat.”
The doctor patted Tom’s hand, “I just spoke with the Captain. Neelix will prepare food you can consume without dying from now on.”
Tom tried to not let on how much his heart raced at the mention of the Captain, and leaned back onto the bio-bed, staring at the sickbay ceiling, “That’s good…” He yawned.
The doctor understood his cue, “I’ll let you get some rest, Mr. Paris. Sweet dreams.” And he walked away, dimming the room’s lights as he did so.
Soon, Tom was asleep, the last peaceful sleep he’d get for a while.
His stay in sickbay was over too soon as Tom was shoved harshly back into his cell. He noticed it had been cleaned at some point as the blood stains were no longer apparent, but his sharp eyes caught onto a small, crusty patch on the corner of his bed that had obviously been missed. Or maybe it had been left there on purpose, he didn’t know nor did he care.
There was also a new addition to the bulkhead. It looked like some form of grab handle like what you’d find in an old 20th century car. Tom was puzzled for a moment before realizing that it was probably added in response to his unfortunate fall two days prior. He was almost touched, but immediately sobered as it came crashing down that he was back to being a prisoner.
A very small, and very wrong portion of Tom’s mind considered, just for a moment, getting himself hurt again so he could go back and visit the doctor. He shook it off. He’d never actually do something like that, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t tempting to think about.
Several hours later, Neelix showed up with his food. He handed it to Tom quietly, his head down. Tom accepted it without a word as the forcefield went back up.
Neelix stood there silently for a moment, just staring. It started to grate on Tom’s nerves, “Did you need something, Neelix?” He spat.
The other man startled, having the good sense to look moderately ashamed, “I just… I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Tom.” He was wringing his hands nervously, “You tried to tell me about your dietary needs and I ignored you because I thought that was the right thing to do. I was wrong, and you suffered for it. Please… forgive me?”
The Tallaxian looked so pathetic and repentant that it softened Tom’s heart. He sighed as he grabbed the food tray, inspecting the elements, and was pleased to recognize most of what was before him, “Your forgiven… Thank you for the food.” He dismissed the man.
Neelix gave him a curt nod and walked away.
For the next four days, Tom did as the doctor said and ate slowly, giving himself time to get used to eating again. At times, he would become nauseous and be unable to stomach anything, but he was improving, though he wasn’t gaining any weight back he could tell. In fact, he seemed to still be losing weight, just at a slower pace, probably due to his limited intake
On day seventeen of his confinement, a new face entered through the doors of the brig. It was a crewman he couldn’t recognize and he was carrying a food tray.
The guard let the forcefield down as the crewman handed Tom the tray.
“Where’s Neelix?” He asked.
The forcefield went back up and the crewman looked up at him, “Neelix is preparing food for a group of diplomats who will be here on Voyager for about a week. I’ll be your food liaison during that time.”
Tom looked down at the tray, shocked to notice several of the food items were inedible to him, meat, sunflower seeds, and something that looked somewhat like sesame, “I can’t eat this.” He stated factually.
The crewman’s blank face transformed into a smirk, “Now now. Don’t get picky, Ensign.” He stretched the acknowledgment of Tom’s new rank out longer than he needed to.
Tom was starting not to like this guy, “It’s not about being picky. I’m allergic to about half of this stuff.”
The smirk never left the other man’s admittedly slappable face, “Well, then I guess you’ll just have to be careful about what you put in your mouth.” And with that, he turned to leave, but not before leaning close and lowly snarling, “Traitor.”
Dread pooled in Tom’s stomach as he watched the doors close behind the man who would be responsible for his food for the next week. How am I going to survive? He wondered. Sure, the human body could technically withstand a few weeks with no food, but not without serious medical repercussions.
He looked down at the tray again, toying with the food that taunted him. He considered eating it for a moment, self-inducing anaphylaxis to be able to get out of here and go to sickbay, but if the guard reacted too slowly, well, he could die. And Tom didn’t want to die.
He set the tray down and wondered what the hell he was going to do for seven more days.
It had been six whole days of pure starvation, and before that he had already been weak. Tom didn’t know how much weight he’d lost by now, fifteen pounds? Twenty? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he was starting to be able to feel his ribs protruding from his torso. He was sure that, if he had a mirror to look into, his face would be gaunt and hollow.
He sat back on his uncomfortable bed, the discomfort now compounded by the fact that his ass was significantly bonier than it had been twenty-three days earlier. Twenty-three days… That was a long time to have basically eaten nothing. Just seven more. Seven more and then you’re home free, Tom. He soothed himself.
Just then, the doors opened and his least favorite crewman entered, carrying a food tray of what was probably another wasteful meal Tom would only be able to look at.
“You know this is a waste of food.” He growled, feeling a bit feral, like a caged animal.
The crewman threw that damned smirk at him again, “It’s not a waste to me.” The forcefield came down, “I’ve brought you something special today. Call it a thank you for… being such a cooperative prisoner.”
He kicked the plate at Tom, and the pilot noticed that the meal seemed to be some sort of salad. Something he could actually eat? That seemed impossible, “What is this?” He looked at the crewman suspiciously.
“Again, it’s a thank you present, traitor.” He sneered, quietly enough that the guard couldn’t hear “Now eat up before I change my mind and go to get you something else from the kitchen.”
Tom glowered at him as he left, but looked back at the salad with longing. Could he even eat it? His stomach might reject it… but the pain he was in made him reconsider. He grabbed the fork and scooped up a fair amount of the green leaves, hesitantly bringing it towards his mouth.
It tasted strange, but admittedly he hadn’t tried food in quite a while, anything was bound to taste a little off after so long. Tom managed a few more bites before taking it easy and leaning back.
Neelix will be back tomorrow, he soothed himself once more, He’ll treat me right.
After a few minutes, Tom’s tongue felt funny, tingly, and cold dread swept through him. Suddenly, it was becoming a little more laborious to breathe and a headache was forming in his temples. He recognized all at once what the strange flavors of the salad had been, fish oil… and sesame…
Tom scrambled up, breathing harshly, “Crewman Cory!” He called out to the guard, “I- I need to get to sickbay. I need the Doctor, immediately!”
The guard turned to look at him with a neutral expression, “What is wrong with you now, Ensign?”
It was really becoming hard to breathe now. Tom could feel his airways swelling and beginning to close, “Please. I’m having an allergic reaction. I need help.”
The guard nodded, “I’ll see if I can get the doctor down here.”
Tom felt helpless, his weak legs hardly able to hold up his own body weight, “Please, Cory…” Tom wheezed, struggling to get air into his lungs, “I need to get to sickbay. Comm the-,” He sucked in a harsh breath with desperation as the edges of his vision were beginning to blacken, “Comm the transporter room, I need-,” Tom gasped for air and clawed at his throat.
His actions seemed to spur the guard into action as the man leaped out from behind his console and approached the forcefield.
Tom’s weak legs failed him then as they collapsed underneath him and he was sent tumbling to the floor. Sound was becoming more muffled, but he heard the forcefield deactivate and felt the ensign approach his side.
“Cory to transporter room! Medical Emergency! Beam myself and Ensign Paris directly to sickbay!” Tom had a fleeting sensation of deja vu as he felt the transporter rings come over his body.
When he rematerialized, he was still gasping for air and he could feel himself slipping. I’m going to suffocate to death. He thought to himself.
The doctor’s voice broke through as Tom was losing his battle with consciousness, “Get him to the surgical bay! He’s going into shock and respiratory arrest! Hand me the epinephrine, quickly!”
This sounds bad. Was Tom’s final thought before slipping into peaceful nothingness.
Kathryn Janeway was once again sitting in her ready room going over crew reports when her commbadge went off.
“Sickbay to Captain Janeway.”
She tapped the device on her chest, “Janeway here. What can I do for you, doctor?”
The EMH spoke with an uncharacteristically subdued tone, “Mr. Paris is… Well, I think you should just come down here, Captain.”
A cold spike of fear struck through her chest at the doctor’s somber mood, “He’s not… please say he’s not…” Her heart was racing.
“No, he’s not dead, Captain, but,” She heard him take a breath, “he’s not doing well either. You ought to just see for yourself. I should warn you, it’s not… pretty.”
She tried to ignore her mounting anxiety as she rushed out of her ready room, not even looking at the crew members on the bridge as she passed by in a hurry. The turbo lift ride to Deck 5 seemed to be the longest of her life and she practically sprinted out of it as the doors opened. Kathryn Janeway was hardly one to ever be described as “harried”, but she knew anyone passing by would see her as such as she undoubtedly had all her emotions on display while her gut churned at the thought of her helmsman in trouble.
She entered sickbay without hesitation, marching over to the doctor’s form, “Where is he?” She demanded.
He looked at her calmly if not downright sad, “He’s right over here, but before I take you to him… Captain, whatever has happened to him is a result of gross negligence. His current condition is appalling if not disturbing. I would ask of you to, when you see him, restrain yourself from becoming too alarmed. I had difficulty maintaining composure myself.” The speech did nothing to quell her anxiety as the doctor directed her towards the surgical bay.
As they got closer, Kathryn noticed a clear bag on a long pole standing next to the bed, an I.V. bag, it seemed so old-fashioned that for a second she wondered what business it had even being in a modern sickbay. That is, until she saw who it was attached to.
“Oh my god.” She whispered.
There, lying unconscious in the surgical bay, was Tom Paris, or what was left of him anyway. He was as thin as a sheet of paper, and as pale as one too. Kathryn noticed with some horror that his hips were protruding out of his skin so widely, it was evident even underneath the uniform he was wearing, a uniform that now hung loose on his emaciated form. He was wearing some sort of breathing mask over his mouth and nose. And oh god, his face. His cheeks were sunken in so deep they looked like canyons. His normally full, boyish looks were hollowed out. It was dreadful to behold.
Kathryn felt tears forming in her eyes, “What…” She swallowed thickly, “What happened to him?”
The doctor spoke softly, “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself. I interrogated the guard that brought him here a bit, but I was ultimately more focused on Tom at the time. As for what actually landed him here? Anaphylactic shock.”
Anaphylactic shock? “You mean he had an allergic reaction to something?”
“Indeed.” His voice was grave.
“But I thought his food had been altered to suit his needs thirteen days ago. Are you telling me Neelix disobeyed orders and deliberately poisoned Mr. Paris?” She was raising her voice.
The doctor put up his hands in a placating gesture, “I do not believe Mr. Neelix would do such a thing. He was very receptive to the menu changes I ordered, not to mention extremely remorseful and apologetic about Tom’s predicament. If I am to understand what Ensign Cory told me, for the past six days, it has been Crewman Dennis who delivered Tom’s food instead of Neelix, who was apparently preoccupied with cooking for the diplomats that were aboard the ship.”
She approached Tom’s bedside, reaching a hand up to brush a lock of hair off his forehead, “He was already weak after the original ten days of starvation, not to mention hardly able to stomach solid food.” The doctor continued, “He had little time to make progress before I suspect Crewman Dennis to have purposefully begun to deliver food he knew Tom couldn’t eat.”
“How would he have known?”
The doctor shrugged, “I imagine Neelix told him. If he was to be delivering food to Mr. Paris in his stead, Neelix probably wanted to make sure Dennis was aware of the restrictions.”
Kathryn was internally seething as she pushed down on her commbadge, “Janeway to Tuvok.”
“Tuvok here. What is it, Captain?” His voice came through the device.
“I need you to detain Crewman Dennis until further notice.”
“Aye, Captain, but may I ask what he is being detained for?”
Her voice was tinged with a burning anger, “Attempted murder.”
His face felt weird, like there was something covering it, and he felt a small pinching sensation in his arm, but it was dull, as were most sensations. The one other thing he did notice, was that he could breath again.
Am I dead? He wondered while attempting to lift his arm to reach up at his mouth, intending to remove whatever was making it feel so strange.
“Don’t touch that. Tom. It’s helping you breathe.” A hand pushed his own shaky one back down, but Tom would recognize the Captain’s voice anywhere.
He pried open his eyes, startled by her presence, and was greeted by the view of Voyager’s surgical bay. Janeway was standing over him and he sharply looked to the side to avoid taking in her form. It was too painful. This couldn’t be real.
“Doctor.” The Captain called out, “Doctor, He’s awake.”
He heard footsteps approaching, and soon the doctor entered his field of vision, tricorder in hand. The EMH ran it over Tom in a clinical fashion, but the pilot could see worry lines creased into the hologram’s forehead.
“Am I dead?” Tom’s broken voice sounded muffled underneath whatever was on his face.
The doctor put down the tricorder and spoke softly, “No, Mr. Paris. You’re too stubborn to die.” The doctor repeated the line he’d told Tom back when he’d broken the warp 10 threshold. If he recalled correctly, he did die then, so his fears weren’t exactly abated.
Tom lifted his hand back to his mouth, the sensation there really beginning to bother him, but the doctor pulled it away again, “You’re on a respirator, Mr. Paris. You can’t take that off.”
The pilot stared off, choosing a spot on the ceiling to focus on and greedily breathed in another lungful of oxygen, “When do I have to… leave sickbay?”
“Angling to get out of here already?” The doctor lifted an eyebrow.
Tom sighed, ignoring the comment in favor of urgently rewording his question, “No, when do I have to,” another breath, “go back?”
He felt another hand grab his left and the doctor looked over, “You aren’t going back there, Tom.” The Captain’s voice was thick.
“But… my sentence…”
She continued, soft and sad, “I think you’ve been punished enough.”
He looked over at her then, and whatever anger and resentment he had felt towards her during his stay in the brig vanished as soon as he caught a glimpse of her face. Her hair was in disarray and her eyes shone with unshed tears. She looked like she hadn’t been sleeping. Because of me? He wondered.
Tom’s own vision blurred as tears climbed into his eyes and he let out a sob that had probably been building up for about twenty-three days. His body shook as he was wracked with more convulsive gasping and he felt someone embrace him deeply, a hand falling onto his head and brushing his hair back in a soothing motion. Tom could feel his protruding bones digging into the Captain’s body, reminding him of the personal hell he had just endured and he cried louder.
They sat that way for a while, Janeway rocking him back and forth as he continued to let out the tears he’d been holding in for so long. Eventually, after several minutes, he began to regain his composure and the pathetic gasps ceased as he leaned back down onto the bio-bed.
“Captain…” The EMH spoke softly, “I think it’s time you got some rest of your own. Tom will be perfectly fine here with me.” How long has she been here? Tom stared at her.
The Captain immediately sobered and straightened up, “Yes, of course, doctor. I’ll leave Tom in your capable hands.” She sat up, but not before taking Tom’s hand once again, “Before I go, Tom… I want you to know how sorry I am that this has happened to you. This never should have happened. Crewman Dennis, the one who’s been delivering your food, is now in custody. You’ll never have to worry about him again, but he was my subordinate and I was negligent to his actions, and for that? I am truly sorry, Tom. I hope one day you can forgive me.” She squeezed his hand before turning to leave.
Tom stopped her, “Just… promise me one thing, Captain…” She turned to look at him.
“Anything, Mr. Paris.”
He sucked in a breath, “Make sure he’s fed.”
Her lips trembled, but she maintained her composure, “Aye, sir.” And then she was gone.
Sickbay was quiet for a moment before the doctor spoke up, “I hope you enjoy my company, Mr. Paris, because I’m afraid you’re going to be in sickbay for a while this time.”
Tom leaned back and let out a laugh, “Just let me have tomato soup every day and I’ll be a model patient.”
The doctor gave him a real smile, “You can have whatever you want, Mr. Paris.”
His eyes lit up, “Ice cream too? How about cherry pie?”
The doctor’s eyebrows rose, “Settle down, Tom. You won’t be ready to eat solid food for a while, but…” He placed a hand on the pilot’s shoulder, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Two weeks after witnessing the consequences of Tom’s horrendous treatment while in the brig, Kathryn Janeway was once again sitting in her ready room, twiddling her thumbs in anxious anticipation of her guest’s arrival.
Her door chimed and her head whipped upwards.
“Come in.” She valiantly kept her voice from trembling.
In walked the man that had occupied her thoughts for the past fourteen days. He was still far too skinny. He looked a little unhealthy as the pallor of his skin was harshly illuminated in the recessed lighting of the room. She noticed, with a small glimmer of hope, that his cheeks were a little fuller than she had last seen, and with great personal relief, that his uniform had been altered not to hang so loosely off of him. It accentuated his thinness, but he didn’t look so small like he had in his original uniform.
“Mr. Paris… welcome in.”
“Thank you, Captain.” He nodded curtly.
So that’s how they were playing it. Impersonal and professional. She couldn’t say that’s how she hoped this would be.
She gestured to the seat in front of her desk, “Won’t you sit down?”
He nodded once again, eyes downcast as he took a seat across from her.
There was an awkward beat of silence before she spoke, “How are you doing, Tom?”
He wouldn’t look her in the eye, “The doctor says I’m doing good. We’re back to solid foods now, so that’s nice.”
Her heart broke a little, “I’m glad…” Another awkward beat, “Everyone was worried about you. Chakotay even replicated flowers. Did you get them?”
He hummed, “Yeah… they were pretty. I’ll have to thank him next time I see him.”
More silence ensued before Tom spoke up, this time looking at Kathryn in the eye, “What am I really doing here, Captain? I don’t think you summoned me just to catch up.”
He really was more perceptive than he let on. She sighed and reached below her desk, feeling for a small wooden box she’d been storing there ever since she'd sentenced Tom to the brig. It was heavy in her hand as she pulled it out and handed it to the pilot, “I believe this belongs to you, Mr. Paris.”
He looked at her curiously before accepting the box, turning it around in his hands and inspecting it.
“It’s typically customary to open it.” She stated.
He startled before looking back at the box and softly cracking it open. Inside, on a little bed of fabric, sat his Lieutenant’s pip. She watched as he stared at it for a while with an unreadable expression before closing the box and practically slamming it down on the table.
“No thanks.” A fleeting look of anger crossed his face.
“Mr. Paris-,”
“I said no thanks, Captain.” He stood up as if to leave, “Call me back when you’re ready to promote me for real and not out of guilt.”
“Mr. Paris, wait!” He paused, “Please sit down and let me explain why you have earned this.”
He leveled her with a calculating look before hesitantly turning around and slowly retaking his seat. He was looking down again, unwilling to meet her eyes.
“Mr. Paris… Tom.” She took a breath, “I wanted to promote you back to Lieutenant as soon as I took away your pip. I regretted it immediately. I punished you harsher than anyone before when you have caused less damage than others have in the past. Hell, Neelix got someone killed on that station before we went into the Nekrit Expanse and all I made him do was scrub conduits for a couple days.”
She clasped her hands, “What I’m saying is… is that I was wrong.”
He looked confused, “I violated a direct order.” He stated plainly, as if he were stating the weather and not the inciting incident that lead to his month of hell.
“Yes, to save a planet, and…” Her hands were shaking, “I sent a transmission to Riga after you were in the brig, asking for his version of events. His recollection was that he specifically asked you for aid. Not only were you about to attempt something noble without physically harming anyone, you had been requested for help by the effected people. You were right.”
Tom looked stunned, shell-shocked, “But… but what about no conflict laws and the rules of first contact? The Prime Directive?”
“To hell with that.” She spat and Tom looked like he was about ready to fall out of his chair, “We’re a long way from Starfleet, Mr. Paris. We’re gonna have to be a little more adaptive with our rules if we want to survive out here in the Delta Quadrant.”
Tom’s mouth hung open and his eyebrows had climbed into his hairline. After a moment, he seemed to sober, shaking his head and clasping his mouth shut.
“Need I also mention, Tom,” She continued, “that during your confinement, you demonstrated poise in the face of danger, resilience against adversity, and incredible endurance in near unsurvivable conditions. Conditions you shouldn’t have been subjected to in the first place. I think it speaks to your character, and your ability as a potential leader, that you handled yourself with such grace under insurmountable pressure.”
She walked out from behind her desk and lowered herself to the helmsman, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Tom, let me put this pip on your collar, please? You’ve more than earned it.”
He looked her in the eyes then, and she realized he was tearing up. An overwhelming urge to hug him came over her and she gave in, embracing the young pilot in a tight grasp.
After a moment she let go and Tom was back to looking at the ground.
“…Okay.” He spoke up quietly.
Kathryn’s face grew into a smile as she reached for the box on the table, “Stand up, Mr. Paris. This is not a sitting down affair.”
“Aye, Captain.” He stood up swiftly, towering over her with his tall stature. After a moment, he looked up, exposing his neck to her.
She fingered the pip in her hand, “Ensign Paris, I now bestow upon you the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade, effective on this date. Congratulations, Lieutenant.You’ve earned it.” She let her hand rest on his shoulder as he once again looked down into her eyes.
“Thank you, Captain.” He gave her a small smile before looking contemplative.
“What is it, Mr. Paris?”
He startled, “Well, it just seems like we should celebrate… I think I have a fair amount of replicator rations saved up. Maybe I’ll do dessert. Would you join me, Captain?” He looked expectant and hopeful.
She relaxed, “I’d be happy to join you, Tom. What did you have in mind?”
He steered her out of the room, “I was thinking… cherry pie.”