Homecoming - Christie Golden [2]
Tom grinned and gave his wife the baby, and his arms felt oddly empty as B’Elanna guided the child to her breast. He could get into this whole father thing, he thought.
“Janeway to Lieutenant Paris.”
Tom grimaced, then replied, “Paris here.”
“Report to my ready room.”
He looked at B’Elanna, “Aye, Captain.” Reluctantly he rose. “I thought we were on parental leave, but apparently duty calls. Sorry, girls.”
B’Elanna gave him a strange look that he couldn’t read. She reached out and touched his face tenderly. “I love you, Tom.”
Now, why would she pick this time to say that? What was going on in that head of hers? “I love you too,” he said, taking the hand that caressed his cheek [5] and kissing it. “Both of you. Be back as soon as I can.”
When he reached the bridge, he was surprised to see Captain Janeway sitting in her command chair, not in the ready room. He raised an eyebrow in question. In response, she nodded toward the room. “In the ready room, Mr. Paris.”
This was getting downright confusing. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
The door hissed open. An imposing-looking, white-haired man rose from where he had been sitting at Janeway’s desk. Tom’s throat went dry.
“Dad,” he breathed. Then, snapping to attention, he said, “Your pardon, sir. I mean, good day, Admiral Paris.”
Of course, this was going to happen. Admiral Owen Paris had been heavily involved in Project Voyager. Tom knew that. Of course, as the project’s nominal head, Paris would be the first to board when the lost vessel finally returned home. But Tom had been so thoroughly engrossed in thoughts of his wife and child that the likelihood that he would soon be reunited with his father had completely slipped his mind. Now he understood B’Elanna’s peculiar look as he had left. She had figured it out before he had.
Admiral Paris’s face was carefully neutral. Damn, thought Tom, he looks so much older, so much more careworn. The years that had passed since they last spoke had not been kind to him. Tom wondered how he appeared in his father’s eyes.
Admiral Paris folded his hands behind his back, mirroring his son’s formal stance.
[6] “Lieutenant Paris. It’s ... it’s good to see you. I’m glad you completed your mission so successfully. Your captain has many glowing things to say about you.”
“No more than I have to say about her, sir. It’s been a privilege to serve with her these past seven years.” Why were his eyes stinging so? And that lump in his throat. ...
Later, Tom would never be able to remember just which of them had made the first move. Maybe both of them did. But the next thing he knew, he was in his father’s arms. It was a sensation he had not experienced since—he couldn’t remember. Had his father ever embraced him so freely, so tightly, before? Had he ever wanted to open his arms to the rigid authority figure the untouchable, aloof Admiral Paris had always represented?
It didn’t matter. His head resting on his father’s shoulder, Tom smelled the familiar scent of aftershave, and for the first time really believed that, finally, he was going home.
“Dad,” he whispered, brokenly.
“My boy,” Owen Paris replied, his own voice hoarse. “My boy. I’m so glad you’re home.”
They sat and talked for a long, long time. Paris noted that they avoided anything of real import, like whether or not he’d be put back in jail or the fact that Admiral Paris was a grandfather. Tom was shocked to learn that, on a whim, his father had decided to take a cooking class and was laughing out loud at an anecdote about what “blackened chicken” really meant when the door hissed open.
Janeway stood there, smiling. “I wanted to give you [7] some time alone together before I called the senior staff for Admiral Paris’s preliminary debriefing. Tom, does he know ... ?” She lifted an eyebrow in question.
“Before we begin, Captain,” said Tom, standing straight with