DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to Paramount. The story doesn't. And there's no money in this anyhow.
Forgotten
by Espalia
Tom sat at the helm, his eyes tracing the stellar coordinates but not really noticing them.
He closed his eyes. It had been two weeks, and he could not forget.
“Lieutenant Paris.”
He looked up. The captain stood not far from him, her eyebrows inquiring.
“I asked you to set course.”
He nodded grimly. “I’m sorry, I…”
“Never mind.” Her face was grim, but her thoughts were already on something else.
He turned back to the helm. Suddenly the thought of being at his duty station for the next four hours of his shift was unbearable. He turned back to the captain, opening his mouth to ask to be relieved of duty.
She walked forward, cutting his speech short with a wave of her hand, and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“I understand, Tom,” she said softly. “We’re fine for now. I suggest you get some rest.”
Tom stood up and barely regarded Tuvok’s brief glance as he stumbled to the turbolift.
Captain Janeway watched him leave, then turned back to the viewscreen.
“Ensign, you have the helm.”
* * * * *
Tom barely remembered the walk back to his quarters. It had been two weeks, and he could not forget.
He fell asleep fully clothed on the bed, his hair a mess, his eyes weary.
Then the dreams came.
They were on the away mission, he and Harry and Tuvok, and everything was normal. He and Harry were picking on Tuvok, Tuvok was cutting them short with a tight-lipped, sardonic reply.
It was sudden and unexpected, but the ride began to get bumpy as they hit some spatial turbulence, and they were flung into an unstable nebula.
Tom was sweating as he juggled the sharp turns and Harry tried frantically to read the malfunctioning censors.
The plasma burst came out of nowhere. Tom shut his eyes and yelled as the light blinded him. The last thing he could remember was Harry, shrieking with pain, lying on the floor of the Delta Flyer, his face bloody with plasma burns, spasm after spasm coursing through his body.
Then everything went black.
Tom woke up, sweating, and looked at the clock. 2300 hours. It wasn’t the dream that had woken him—it was the presence of someone else in the room.
“B’Elanna?” he said tentatively.
She emerged from the dark. “I didn’t want to wake you. You seemed—tired.” Her face was impassive, but her eyebrows drew together in a worried look.
“I was…dreaming.” He didn’t feel like telling her the dream.
She moved towards the bed and sat down on the edge. She hadn’t taken off her uniform yet. Tom felt her weariness, in the way she collapsed against the softness of the sheets. Her face was turned up to the ceiling, and in the dark her silhouette was haunting. She turned towards him.
“Tell me.”
He bowed his head. “It was—Harry. The Delta Flyer.” His voice broke slightly. It had been two weeks.
She nodded. In the dark he couldn’t see her eyes, but he could feel the loss emanating from her, the loss he, too, felt.
She moved towards him, her hair just covering her face. In a quick gesture, her arms were around his and his cheek rested against hers. He felt with surprise the sleek wetness of her face, and pressed his lips against it. She swallowed.
“I miss him too.”
* * * * *
The memorial service had been…inadequate. But that was Harry, wasn’t it? Ensign Eager. Homesick. Starfleet, as B’Elanna used to call him.
Was he anything more?
To Tom it seemed wrong that he walked through the corridors, smiling at people Harry had been friends with, people who barely felt his loss.
And the Captain. And Chakotay. He hardly thought he’d see it, but they behaving almost normally, laughing over cups of coffee in the captain’s ready room.
When they saw Tom, they’d stop short.
It was as if they felt they had to honor Harry’s memory, somehow.
It made things worse.
Was this Harry’s memory? A solemn service, a teary captain, a marginally emotional Chakotay. Suddenly, they have a new ensign at ops and all is well?
Poor, embittered Harry. He had given so much to the ship, and after seven years he was still an ensign, still desperately, almost annoyingly, naïve.
Tom had always wondered if there was more to it. Of that he was positive. There had been more to Harry. He hoped.
His own emotion, his own tears had surprised him. It had surprised B’Elanna.
They were the two of them, the happy couple that didn’t need to go home to feel at home. Voyager was home.
But Harry was different.
For all his—well, almost brave fronts, he wanted to go home badly.
Tom could understand it.
He cursed himself. Considerably older and wiser than Harry…if he had been Harry’s age, he probably would have been just as excited about going home. If he had a family that missed him as much like Harry’s.
Tom felt the familiar raw ache as he ate lunch the next day—alone.
B’Elanna was working in Engineering.
Neelix joined him silently.
“Neelix,” he said, in a dismissive, apathetic tone.
“Tom,” Neelix said. “How are things going?”
“Good, I guess.”
Neelix hesitated. “If it means anything to you, I miss him too.”
Tom was sick of hearing people say that. Especially when they didn’t mean it. He poked at his food and gave Neelix a halfhearted smile.
“Thanks. I’m not that hungry.” He rose.
“It’s funny,” Neelix said. “He was starting to feel a little less depressed about getting home, after that little problem a few weeks ago.”
Tom paused. “What problem?”
“Do you remember that, Tom? When you and B’Elanna made that jab about how easy it was to fool Harry into thinking they could get home?”
“Yes,” Tom said uncomfortably.
“Well…he was—a little unhappy after that. About getting home, about you guys being happy without having to get home…the usual.”
Tom felt the guilt swirling into him and he sat down with a thunk.
“He was starting to feel a little less disillusioned,” Neelix continued. “A little more at home…”
Tom stared at him, silently. He picked up his tray and moved away without a backward glance.
* * * * *
It was worth Harry’s memory, Tom decided, to resolve the guilt he felt, the loss he felt, and start anew.
Tom had dinner with B’Elanna that night. A silent, companionable dinner. Both of them wanted to be alone with their thoughts.
When they were finished, B’Elanna sipped her water. “Who’d have thought?” she mused.
“What?” Tom said without thinking.
“Who’d have thought it would turn out like this?” B’Elanna saw Tom’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know that considering the depressing conversations we’ve had for the past two weeks, you probably don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
Tom shook his head. “You know—he was envious. Of us. Of what we had. Of how we were happy without having to go home.”
“And now I’m envious of him,” B’Elanna said. “Of what he had to go home to.”
Tom looked up, startled. Their thoughts ran along the same line.
B’Elanna was the first to look down. She cleared away the plates as Tom started to put the table back in order, and replicate two after-dinner coffees for them. B’Elanna walked to the replicator and placed the plates underneath.
“Computer: recycle.”
She started back, but Tom stopped her. He moved to the replicator.
“Computer: two apple pies, recipe Kim Beta 6,” he said. “Dinner’s not over.” He looked at B’Elanna.
She stared down at the pie wordlessly.
“We owe it to his memory,” Tom said. “To—his—life. To his…wish to get home.”
“To his mother,” B’Elanna said. She smiled faintly.
Tom sat back down at the table. B’Elanna joined him. He held up his cup of coffee and she held up hers.
“To Harry,” he said.
“To Harry,” she replied.
They ate.
*END*