"No," he said. "No. It wasn't my--not my fault. The gauges were--god, everything was-- She gave me the wrong coordinates."

"Yes," he said. "I was--I couldn't do anything. It was all falling apart. I couldn't-- It was me. It was my fault."

Because it didn't seem to matter that it was a lie. Except--well, maybe not a lie. Surely not a lie, because Tom Paris was a pilot first class; Tom Paris was a natural--born in a docking bay and teethed on an o-ring, that kind of natural--or so his father told him; and if a shuttle flailed apart under Paris's piloting, shed bits of itself as it did a dreadful cartwheel across the landing field at Caldik Prime, why it must be someone else's fault.

Except that Paris knew it wasn't. It was his fault; he'd killed them; he'd lied about it; they were dead because of him. And he'd lied to save his own ass.

The kindly face of the commanding officer who welcomed Paris into her office and seemed prepared to pep-talk him through the usual how-did-I-screw-up? gradually hardened as she realized what he'd really come there to say. The voice grew cold as Pluto. He straightened his shoulders as she interrogated him, stiffened his back.

Took it all, chin up through the whole damned ritual of recrimination and retaliation. Took the cashiering out. Took his father's contempt.

Drink helped of course. Booze softens anything.

But that wasn't all. What really helped was the knowledge that they were right, that they'd finally found out what a fuck-up he was and were acting on it at last. They'd finally realized that he was damaged goods--shit, his father'd hinted at it enough.

Actually, it was a kind of relief, looked at the right way.

Still, it cut in a way liquor didn't smooth over. All those damned upright Starfleet types turning their backs, sneering, cold. Wide-eyed cadets staring queasily at the Admiral's fallen son as the trial progressed. His father's rage.

So he showed them he didn't need them, that he was a pilot no matter what.

Found his way to the Maquis.

And, sure he wasn't much of a recruit, sure he was basically in it for the flying, sure he was there because-- Well, yeah, he was showing all those people who'd made his life miserable. But it was flying; and just about every Maquis he met had been betrayed by the very Starfleet that had betrayed him.

Even that damned stubborn Chakotay--the untrusting bastardsonofabitch. Father murdered by Cardassians on a planet the Federation basically abandoned. He'd been in Starfleet himself, left it for a principle.

That he was fucking amazing-looking was--well, just one of those pluses life occasionally hands you. Even in that little dive on K'laut'k II, he looked upright and confident. Paris took one look and lost what was left of his soul.

Shiiiit. He'd fight for this guy; he'd show this guy; he'd make himself indispensable to this guy, be the best pilot this guy could want. Defeat everybody who'd betrayed them both.

So of course what Paris really showed Chakotay was what a fuck-up he was. First mission, and Paris hot to show his stuff--and Starfleet just reached out and nabbed him without breaking a sweat.

But surely-- All through the interrogation, all through the trial, Paris waited. Surely they weren't going to--surely Chakotay would rescue him. Surely the Maquis wouldn't just leave him.

When the Federation shipped him off to Auckland, Paris was still waiting. When his father refused to see him, and his mother didn't make contact--he was still waiting.

But he took it. Took it with squared shoulders and straight spine, the way he'd been taught. Took the veiled contempt of the Federation guards and not-so-veiled distrust of the other prisoners.

Because it didn't seem to matter that it was the truth. They were gentle--everyone was so gentle around him. Doctors. And then counselors. His parents. All so fucking gentle, and he had killed three people; he was responsible for the deaths of three people--people who'd cried out in terror as the shuttle did its terrible cartwheel, shedding bits of itself across the field at Caldik Prime--and everybody was acting like Tom Paris was a victim, when, really, he was a murderer.

The worst was his mother, who seemed to treat it as some sort of accident, something that couldn't have been avoided; who just kept saying over and over, "You're alive. That's the important thing. Oh, Tom, you're alive"--like that was something to be proud of.

Except the worst were the counselors, who listened to the details and then listened to them again and then listened to them again; and then questioned him; and then unfolded for him an exquisite proof that he was somehow not to blame.

But the worst was his father, who acted like shuttles crashed for reasons other than inept piloting; who embraced him and spoke of other pilots and other crashes--but whose eyes held disappointment.

Still, the worst was the review board, who listened to the details and then listened to them again and then listened to them again; and then questioned him; and then drew charts and graphs and maps; and then explained in exquisite detail that he was not at fault.

Worst of all were some of his senior officers, who couldn't seem to hear enough about the crash and made him repeat the details and ran him through simulations and steered him through the maze of what he was could learn--which mostly was that shuttle crashes weren't always the pilot's fault.

"Yes," he kept saying; "yeah. I see that. You're right." Which seemed to satisfy them. But not his fault didn't mean not a murderer. Three people dead, and Tom at the helm, and three dead.

Oddly enough, the ones who got it were some of the other lieutenants, who generally treated him like he was Death at the banquet: be polite, but don't make eye contact. They backed off and let him alone; and once he proved that time-differential trigonomics didn't kill just because he'd done the formulas, or that advanced Klingon law wasn't lethal because he remembered the cases, they moved back to being friendly and competitive. But there was an edge of mistrust.

And things moved on; and he moved on to another assignment; and he saw a counselor once in a while. He broke the back of some of the toughest flight simulations. And he flew. And things were okay.

Really okay when he found a good club and could drink and dance and drink and drink with people who'd never heard of him or of Caldik Prime.

Really the best when he could get a little tight and then get a lot loose in an alley somewhere, with some guy's cock up his ass or down his throat.

Two guys was better.

Male, female, something of both--didn't matter. Alley or bed. He would fuck or he would suck, and he would dance, and he would feel hands on him and arms around him, he would loosen in the heat of bodies crushed against him, hear music and moans, smell sweat and musk, be filled, be bruised by passion or by a well-placed fist--and, shit, it was so good, it felt so fucking good, because he was alive and strong and young; and the alcohol and the music or the alcohol and the fucking would fuse in a white-hot, ecstatic instant that burned out any doubts, like some exquisite proof by the universe that even murder could be forgiven. And he would coast on that for a few days, until the shadows gathered again.

Of course, when his counselor found out, there were sessions and recriminations and sessions and those drugs that took the edge off everything. And more sessions.

But they didn't kick him out, because he was one of their own, a Starfleet baby; and besides, he was about the best fucking pilot in the Fleet; and his counselor pointed out that for Tom piloting wasn't just a skill, it was woven into who he was. He needed it, like he needed food or air.

So he stayed on, stayed sober, stayed chaste--well, mostly. A few sweet interludes with a mixed bag of homesick ensigns and between-assignment officers. T'el, who started losing it and tried to control Tom since he couldn't control anything else. It got boring even as rough sex; and Tom dropped some hints, and the counselors found T'el.

Things moved on. Once or twice he lost himself in the clubs. Time and counseling dulled the razor-sharp edge of knowing that he was a murderer. His piloting skills became the stuff of legend. In his heart he nurtured the strong and certain knowledge that he was damaged goods.

Captain Kathryn Janeway. Petite no-nonsense sizing him up, cold calculations flickering behind the steady gaze. Asking him to betray his "friends" in the Maquis, so she could rescue her own old friend. Must be nice to have friends, to have people who trusted you, people you'd rescue if they were lost to the other side, people who'd rescue you in the same situation.

Naturally, he said, "Yes."

And the Badlands--well, no Federation ship had flown through them, but that didn't mean Voyager couldn't. Because she was one sweeeeet ship. In Paris's mind he sat at her conn and flew her a hundred times. It was great. He saved them; he saved them all, a miracle speeding silently through the vortices and the sensor-blanking plasma storms, weaving a net of phaser fire and justice. The untrusting sonofabitch would learn: learn who he was dealing with, what Paris could do when he had the chance--nothing could be better.

Better went worst faster than light speed, on the crest of a tetrion wave that the pretty Betazoid at the helm couldn't handle. With Paris there, who knows? He was born to fly a ship like this, a ship this sweet; he was born to lose himself in her circuits and responses, to keep her on course no matter what.

Captain Kathryn Janeway. Petite no-nonsense sizing him up. Considering him. Hesitating. He felt a prickle of annoyance that she'd even stop to think about adding him to her crew, that she'd have to stand there and figure the fucking odds before welcoming him onto Voyager. Best damn pilot in the Alpha Quadrant, and he could see the damn calculations going on behind her smile.

So he showed her. Showed everyone. Put Voyager through paces that even the ones who dreamed her up hadn't imagined. Sweet ship who knew her master the minute he touched the conn. By the time they'd reached Deep Space 9, the calculations in Janeway's eyes had reached a solution.

And the Badlands--well, no Federation ship had flown through them, but that didn't mean Voyager couldn't. In Tom's mind he'd done it a hundred times. It was great. He saved them; he saved them all, a miracle speeding silently through the vortexes and the sensor-blanking plasma storms, weaving a net of phaser fire and justice. Piloting the sweet ship he'd fallen in love with through the worst place in the galaxy--nothing could be better.

Better went worst faster than light speed, on the crest of a tetrion wave that for 6.734 seconds he was handling, that for 6.734 triumphant seconds the ship was surfing the way he'd surf an ocean wave.

But he wasn't at the helm; and then it was smoke and blood and the sourness of failure. Quick flashes of Caldik Prime.

Not your fault. He hadn't fucking done anything but stand around. So now he got down to cleaning things up, helping through shutdown of nonessential systems, through the cataloguing of malfunctions. Through the realization that they were now in the unknown Delta Quadrant. Not YOUR damn fault.

Through the shouting on the bridge and all the rest of it. Janeway, her hair down and her chin up, glaring and snapping out orders. She caught his eye for a nanosecond of sympathy and approval that pierced him to the soul. Starfleet captains. Shit--he'd die for her.

But the mistrust hadn't actually gone away: it was there all through what happened next, through a surreal hoedown on an illusory farm, through the cold terror of a Frankenstein laboratory where he was tested and again found wanting, through the chaos of waking out of a mad dream. Not your fucking fault. With Ensign Kim gone, and, sure, Paris really didn't know him--had barely talked to him--but he'd been stubbornly loyal and was touchingly naive and stood his post on the bridge, rattling off sensor readings within seconds at the end of that horrible ride. --your fault. Paris was pretty hot to find him.

But then his sweet ship torqued her way right out of his hands; and then it was smoke and blood and the sourness of failure. Though he managed to shut down the conn before it completely overloaded and blew. But not everybody was that fast or that fortunate. Screaming and blood and the fucking ceiling falling in. Quick flashes of Caldik Prime.

Not your fault. In his mind he heard his counsellor saying just those words. Not your-- Heard his mother. Heard the review board. --fault. Not your fault. Heard it as he swore his way through shutdown of nonessential systems, through the cataloguing of malfunctions--his sweet ship gone haywire, her synapses frying. Through the realization that they were now in the unknown Delta Quadrant. --your fault.

Through the shouting on the bridge and all the rest of it. Janeway, her hair down and her chin up, glaring and snapping out orders. She caught his eye for a nanosecond of approval and respect and regret that pierced him to the soul. Muted the voices to a bare whisper. Starfleet captains. Shit--he'd die for her.

But the voices hadn't actually gone away: they were there all through what happened next, through a surreal hoedown on an illusory farm, through the cold terror of a Frankenstein laboratory where he was tested and again found wanting, through the chaos of waking out of a mad dream. --your fault. With Ensign Kim gone, and, sure, Tom really didn't know him--hadn't even really talked to him, just sized him up as a bed partner: cute, but scared and too innocent, and probably not that good in bed--but he'd been on the bridge, at his post, rattling off sensor readings all during that horrible ride. --your fault. And they'd lost so many crew members already; so Tom was hot to find him.

Found that bastard Chakotay, still spitting insults: "What was your price this time?" Well, screw him: Paris had new irons in the fire.

That one of Chakotay's crew had turned out to be a spy was just sweet reward. But Paris could be magnanimous.

Still, you'd think there'd be some gratitude when Chakotay broke his leg escaping the Ocampan homeworld and Paris went back for him.

"Get out of here, Paris," he snarled as Paris started down the creaking, swaying metal staircase, "before the whole thing comes down."

Shit. You'd think a guy hanging on for dear life to a stairway about to drop into an abyss would be less mouthy. "I intend to. Just as soon as I get you up."

He could pretty much hear the disbelieving snort Chakotay probably thought.

The fucking shaking staircase, groaning and about to fall into the abyss--and Chakotay never letting up. Well, while he was talking, he was still alive; and while Paris was returning insults, he wasn't shaking so badly he'd humiliate himself.

Found one hell of a hotstick-looking bastard of a Maquis captain. --your-- Chakotay--that was his name. With a major chip on his shoulder--no wonder, given that one of his crew turned out to be a spy. But, intense and fucking amazing-looking.

And not all that very grateful when he broke his leg escaping the Ocampan homeworld and Tom went back for him.

"Get out of here, Paris," he snarled as Tom started down the creaking, swaying metal staircase, "before the whole thing comes down."

Shit. You'd think a guy hanging on for dear life to a stairway about to drop into an abyss would be less mouthy. "I intend to. Just as soon as I get you up."

He could pretty much hear the exasperated snort Chakotay probably thought.

"Besides," he added lightly, "if I save your ass, your life belongs to me. That's an old Indian custom, right?"

He did hear the snort now. "Wrong tribe."

"Had to try." He was within reach now, could see those those bright, untrusting dark eyes. Stubborn sonofabitch.

"I thought," Tom said breathlessly, hauling, trying not to hear the groaning of the metal staircase about to collapse, "you guys had some way of--" He heaved. "--turning yourself into some sort of--" Fuck, he was heavy. "--bird and flying us both away."

"You're too heavy." Said with a surprising amount of humor, given the circumstances.

The bit of metal tread Chakotay had been clutching fell as Tom hauled him up: clang, clangalang. The ringing muted as the metal disappeared into the void. --your fault.

All that long struggle up the groaning staircase--everything swaying, falling apart. All that long way, Chakotay kept it up, insult for insult, smart ass remark for smart ass observation.

Through the sheer terror of what was happening, Paris felt an unexpected rush: anticipation. This time he'd done it. This time he'd saved them all, shown them all. Shown Chakotay. Something new in his life was about to be born.

All that long struggle up the groaning staircase--everything swaying, falling apart--hauling Chakotay on his back, that other heart beating hard against him, little hisses in his ear when the pain from the broken leg became too much to bear. All that long way, Chakotay kept it up, insult for insult, smart ass remark for smart ass observation.

Through the sheer terror of what was happening, Tom felt an unexpected rush: anticipation. Fucking erotic anticipation. The voices in his head silenced.

Of course, the fucking Kazon had to ruin everything by attacking them, the Maquis ship, the Array that could send them all back to the Alpha Quadrant--every damn target in the area. Paris found himself appreciating again just how amazing Chakotay and his crew were: dart in, sling phaser fire, dart out. Damn beautiful.

The biggest fucking Kazon ship in the Delta Quadrant had to arrive and mess that up, too.

And then that stubborn ass transported his crew to Voyager and rode his own disabled ship straight for the enemy.

Paris snatched him out of it just as the Maquis ship found its target. That's TWO for me, he thought.

Good thing he didn't expect Chakotay to be grateful.

Of course, that wasn't the end of it, and that didn't save them. Didn't get them back to the Alpha Quadrant. The Array had to be destroyed, and they had to do it--doom themselves to a lifetime 70 lightyears from home. That just dropped the bottom out of everything.

But, he was back in the bosom of Starfleet, chief helmsman of a ship he was just about ready to marry, right back to lieutenant.

Another chance. And, behind him on the bridge, giving orders and back in Starfleet red, that bastard Chakotay, still looking like one fucking hot ride.

Back on Voyager, the stubborn sonofabitch wasn't much more grateful, glaring mistrustfully at everyone while the holographic doctor worked on his leg. Well, not so suspiciously at Tom. More speculatively, as in How much can I trust you? Why did you rescue me? Then, "Thanks," Chakotay said shortly to him.

Shiiiit--from him, that was tantamount to foreplay. "Any time," Tom said.

Of course, the fucking Kazon had to ruin everything by attacking them, the Maquis ship, the Array that could send them all back to the Alpha Quadrant--every damn target in the area. Chakotay and his crew were simply amazing: dart in, sling phaser fire, dart out. Damn beautiful.

Damn disheartening when the biggest fucking Kazon ship in the Delta Quadrant arrived to join the fight.

And then that stubborn ass transported his crew to Voyager and rode his own disabled ship straight for the enemy ship.

Tom snatched him out of it just as the Maquis ship found its target.

"Two," he mouthed to Chakotay when he saw him next; and under the frazzled and the frustrated and the fed up, Chakotay looked amused.

"Thanks," he said. He looked for a minute longer than usual, as if looking past the uniform to the man underneath.

Tom felt the rush again. "Any time."

Of course, that wasn't the end of it, and that didn't save them. Didn't get them back to the Alpha Quadrant. The Array had to be destroyed, and they had to do it--doom themselves to a life in the Delta Quadrant. That just dropped the bottom out of everything. --your fault.

Glancing back at Chakotay--new First Officer of Voyager--trim in his new uniform, solid at his new command post on the bridge, Tom Paris heard the voices fade.