********************************************* Disclaimer time once again! Thirty-ninth verse same as the first . .everybody *sing*: I don't own these characters, (chorus) Paramount does! I don't own this venue, (chorus) Paramount does! I am making no money off of this, (chorus) Paramount does not either! This story involves history between two men.  If that is *not*your cup of tea, sweet as it is, then don't read it! (simple, ain't it??) Feedback is *very* much appreciated, and always answered.  Flames will be passed around to friends and chuckled over.  :) Spoilers galore for 'Killing Game'. 'Comrade-in-Arms' by Amirin **************************************************** I don't know if it's a curse or a blessing that the Hirogen kept such exact records of everything we went through.  Time after time.  All those days, weeks, of logs and files and it was part of my job to go through them, extracting what I could, using it for Voyager.  To undo the damage, to keep it from happening again.  The work is done.  And yet, I still went through them, nightly, for weeks after.  For one reason and one reason alone.  Tom Paris.  The man was a hell of a Second-in-Command.  That had to be more than the 'programming'.  Maybe genetic, I don't know.  I don't care. Spirits, what a team we made. The one thing that stood out in my mind after looking through all of those entries was how *well* we worked together. Everything I needed from him, I got, no questions asked.  That should have been a clue that something was wrong, the fact that I didn't get any guff from him whatsoever.  But, he was the perfect soldier.  My right hand. I trusted him. I *liked* him. I know that, now. The hours we spent talking about our non-existent families, homes, lives. All made up, like any fictional characters' would be.  Not real.  But I really looked forward to the end of the day, when we'd sit side by side and talk well into the night.  I know more about the fiction of *that* man's life, than I do about the facts of *this* one.  Tom and I spent more time together in those few weeks than we have in the last few years.  And I enjoyed it, thoroughly.  The man became my friend.  A good one.  And for that reason, as well as several others, I've done what I have. The Doctor was intrigued by the idea, integrating the fact with the fiction, so I'd have the memories of those experiences, to call my own.  I had to do it.  I felt like I had these dark, empty places in my mind after viewing the logs, like something had been taken from me.  And I wanted it back.  It hadn't been as hard as he'd thought it would be, breaking down the barriers between my memories.  All the information was still there, locked away.  All we had to do, was retrieve it. So, here I am, head swimming with all the recent memories that feel like someone's done a data dump inside my mind. Which, I guess, is what's happened.  It's more than a little confusing, too, what with how many times we went through similar scenarios, set up by the Hirogen, and ended up with totally different results.  And it's all coming at me, now, too fast. Gods, almost overwhelming . . .   I can finally understand his fascination for history.  For the past.  It has become real, it breathes, and he was there with me through it all.  It amazes me, it really does.  How well we got along, in what is almost ancient history, without the memories of the *recent* history that kept us at a distance from one another.  In Nazi Germany, of all places, we became friends, he and I.  And the memory of that close friendship, forged in the heat of battle, real or not, is something I treasure.  My feelings are somewhat confused, as are the memories, but I do know one thing: He was the one I wanted to make certain made it home alive.  I felt more than just *responsible* for him.  Hell, I was responsible for *all* of them, but he was different.   I always looked to make sure he was okay when shots were fired, or explosions went off.  Always, he was my first concern.  And that grin and the nod . . Spirits.  As if to say 'Yes, Sir, I'm still here.' How many times do I remember offering thanks to a deity for that fact? Some parts of him were still Tom Paris, through and through. He was always the first one over the line, unless he had orders from me not to be.  It still haunts me, even now, how often I *gave* those orders, to keep him out of the line of fire, keep him safe.  And the guilt, when another soldier under my command would die in his place.  Oh, Sweet Spirits, the guilt.  It makes no difference that they were holograms, I didn't *know* they were holograms, not then.  All I knew was that he belonged at my side and I would do whatever it took to keep him there.   I recall how I grinned along with him when he told me about 'his girl'.  I nearly cracked a jawbone grinding my teeth together, but I smiled, anyway. I'm smiling now, but not for the same reason.  Tom is about as heterosexual as Torres is pregnant.  Wasn't that a shock?  Oh, my. Another thing that bothers me was the first thought I recall going through my head when I met her.  'Bitch'.    Not that I'd ever tell her, though she'd probably find it amusing. But, I couldn't help it.  And the stunned look on his face when he realized she was pregnant with another man's child. Ouch.  I didn't miss the way he kept looking over in my direction.  I don't know what for, maybe some clue on how to act, what to say.  I couldn't do much more than shrug.  I hated the hurt look in his eyes, though, gods above, I hated that.  Oh, the memories are flying through my mind at warp. But, I remember how *good* it felt to have him looking to *me* . . . Hmmm, that's something.  You know, he still does that, even now.  His eyes seek out mine, he watches me, waits for me to act or speak.  Has he always done that?  I feel his eyes on me constantly, now that I'm looking for it.   So many things are, now, as they were, then.  He's still the first to jump into something, unless I order him not to.  And he follows those orders, without question.  Don't get me wrong, he doesn't follow blindly, but he didn't then, either. He'd just look at me until I'd told him everything. Which is something in command school they tell you *not* to do - Don't ever explain yourself.  But, it worked with him. Like if the reasoning was sound, he'd follow without comment.  'I'm with you'.    Anyway, I think he just likes knowing what he's getting into.  I can't fault his caution.   Caution.  Paris and caution are not two things I'd normally put in the same thought.  And maybe caution's not the right word.  He doesn't fly with 'caution'.  Maturity?  He thinks things through more carefully, now, I've noticed.  When did that start?  Spirits, how have I missed so much? And how much *more* have I missed? Oh, how I wish he remembered what I remember.  The stories, the laughter. It was *war*, for the sake of the Spirits, and I remember the *laughter*.  The stories were a fiction, but the laughter was real.  And I want to hear it again. I want to hear the stories, *his* stories.  I want to talk *with* him, not *at* him. Maybe I want too much. I wish he'd been able to keep the memory of our friendship. Maybe he'd understand how much I miss him.  Some things, he *has* kept.  He's kept the grin and the nod, now that I think about it.  'Yes, Sir, I'm still here'. He doesn't have to remind me. I'm not going to forget. Not again. ************************end