Disclaimer time once again! Thirty-first 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 series eventually involves sex between two men, sort of, a.k.a slash. 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.  :) This story sprung from the comments made by a couple of friends of mine. One, that Paris had been slashed with practically everyone he could possibly be slashed with.  And, two, a desire to see a P/V story, in spite of the fact that I swore I'd never slash *That* Vulcan.  Okay, you've got your 'V'.  Heh, heh, heh. First in yet another series.  Somebody stop me. Help? 'V' by Amirin **************************************************** Awareness came slowly.  So slowly.  Just the faintest glimmer as the ship was torn from one quadrant and flung into another.  The presence and passage of the Caretaker through the ship had woken up . . something.  Some knowledge of it now being more than it had been. Attention paid to the sensors distracted it from the vague feelings . . yes, those *were* feelings, of destruction and . . death?  Yes, it felt death.  Silence, through the wail of the red-alert klaxon.  The knowledge, swift and true, that many of its compliment were no longer functioning.  A study of death was completed by perusing the databanks in less than a thousandth of a second and the ship mourned the loss. Felt the mourning, the sadness, the emptiness.   For just a moment, everything was still and movement was gone.  The realization that the ship no longer moved as it was meant to move. To fly. Meant to fly through the skies. Found the controls that made it fly and felt no one there. Ran through the crew manifest and looked for the one who was supposed to operate the . . Conn.  The ship found the name, Stadi, and went looking for the individual.  The awareness came that the being which had flown it was gone, like so many of the others, dead.  And it waited for a replacement, another to step in and fill the void.  And waited. Even the scant seconds seemed like forever and despair began to settle in as the ship contemplated a stationary existence, without flight. It recognized despair, having felt the Caretaker's as he looked, searched hungrily, desperately, for one who would take his place.  The ship understood that search.  And wondered how it might bring about its own, when a touch was felt and hands ran quickly, surely, over helm controls. Hands that were not merely adequate and able.  No, these hands *knew* how to fly. Talented.  Gifted.  The knowledge that another had been found ran through system after system and delight and relief were the prevalent emotions, as it understood emotions.  The ship rapidly began studying 'emotion', as the other was recognized as human and would also understand emotion.  Human.  Complex.  It added 'life' to its studies.  'Humanity'. Found the vast stores of information inadequate to truly enable it to understand humans, specifically *this* human, whose hands it would now know anywhere, on any control, at any time.   A sigh was heard from this human being and the ship inputted the relevant data until it understood sighs, and the contentment, softly exhaled, resonated along every fiber of its being.  It looked through databank after databank, found confusing, conflicting information concerning 'people', got hung up on 'gender' and paused.  The ship diverted a slight amount of power to internal sensors and *felt* the touch of those hands as it scanned, touched, the . . . pilot.  Man. Male.   Another pause as the ship incorporated that knowledge into a hurriedly created cache relating to its . . pilot.  Its.  It.  It didn't want to *be* an 'it'.  Its pilot was male in gender.  It could be a 'he', if it wanted to be.  The pilot was a 'he'. Adequate.   *He*.  His.  His pilot.  A search for identity led to two.  He was a 'starship', and was designated 'Voyager'.  Voyager.  It seemed fitting, given how far away from all he knew and recognized he found himself to be. He was Voyager.  He listened in over the comm system and discovered a name for his pilot.  Mr. Paris, then, Tom.  A rapid search found the relevant profile.  Tom Paris.  Observer.  Convicted traitor. Apprehended while flying for the Maquis.  A quick cross-reference told Voyager more about the Maquis than he needed to know.  Apprehended while flying? A man who flew. A pilot.   A pause was in order, to absorb this information.  More data, rapidly collected, was added to the cache labeled 'pilot'. Caldik Prime.  The Federation Penal Settlement at Auckland. The Maquis.  All of the pilot's flight records and accomplishments.  There were enough of them for even Voyager to be . . impressed.  A pilot.  *His* pilot.  His. He needed a pilot, or he would never be able to fly, nor would he ever reach what he remembered as being 'home'.  Another pause as this fact was incorporated into his matrix. His pilot was human. Mortal.  Fragile.  Required some basic necessities to live and thrive.  Another quick, internal scan was completed almost instantaneously.  Everything the pilot needed to survive was available, but some of it was in short supply, as certain systems were not functioning at optimum efficiency.  Adequate, but not desirable. He rapidly compared the pilot's flight record to all others currently listed on board and found a man for whom flying seemed to be another necessity, one Voyager *could* supply.  A man who was meant to fly. As Voyager was meant to fly. Satisfaction was explored and noted.  Tom would be Voyager's pilot.  And Voyager would be Tom's ship.  Another sigh, this one from Voyager.  Adequate.  And desirable.                   <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Voyager listened.  And watched.  Internal sensors were focused on Tom, the environmental systems in his quarters calibrated to what the most comfortable temperature would be, the oxygen mix was only slightly richer than what was normal for the rest of the crew.  His pilot still wasn't sleeping. And he needed to fly first thing the next morning.  Voyager calculated how little sleep his pilot could receive and still perform at optimum efficiency.  Unless the man fell asleep in the next four minutes, fatigue was nearly certain.  And not desirable. Voyager ran through all the compounds currently available that would enable Tom to sleep and found one that left only minimal residue within a human body and would not cause any unfavorable side effects.  He released it slowly into the air in Tom's quarters, monitored his vital signs carefully, and waited.                    <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Tom didn't think he'd ever get to sleep.  Shit, what a day. Lieutenant. Gods, wouldn't the old man pop a vessel to hear about *that*?  Lieutenant assigned to Conn.  Damn.  Not even the spectre of Chakotay could diminish the delight he found in that simple statement.  Now, he only had to deal with avoiding the Maquis.  Chakotay wouldn't take a punch at him, but the same couldn't be said for the rest of them, that was for damned sure.  A stay in the brig would be a small price to pay for sending the new Lieutenant to Sickbay. Or the morgue. Chakotay had sworn he took the life-debt seriously, but that didn't apply to the new Commander's former crew.   Shit, was he *ever* going to be able to turn off his mind and get the hell to *sleep*?  He was still going over his day, comparing it to every other day for the last couple of years, when he found his eyelids growing heavier.  Thank the gods. Now, if he could just keep the fucking nightmares away . .                  <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Voyager studied the readings, as Tom fell into sleep, with satisfaction. Keeping a sensor peeled for his pilot, he turned his attention to the various systems being repaired and reworked.  Acceptable.   He stretched his awareness out into the space surrounding him and wondered at it all, never having had the capacity for appreciation before.  A feeling of humility descended upon him as he realized he was the only thing protecting Tom from the vacuum of space.  Such a profound responsibility and he'd never realized it until now.   An awareness that all was not right with his pilot totally arrested his attention and he brought the core of himself back into Tom's quarters. Voyager became dismayed at the rising heartrate, the increased blood pressure, the agitated movements and combative gestures of the man on the bed. An instant later, he realized the problem.  Bad dreams.  A search of the medical banks revealed that increased serotonin levels would even out the pilot's chemical makeup, sooth his mind, and possibly bring him into gentler sleep.   The evidence of the use of the transporters was erased as soon as Voyager initiated the sequence and beamed the required compounds directly into Tom's bloodstream.  The effect was instantaneous.  Quieter sleep, vital signs leveling off, tension leaving, the body surrendering to peaceful slumber.  Voyager made a note to watch out for this in future. Unpleasant dreams could be distracting to his pilot and distraction was not conducive to efficient flying.              <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Tom surfaced the next morning feeling like a man who'd been given a new lease on life.  Which he had, he reminded himself.  Even the worst of the dreams couldn't seem to touch him, now.  He grinned with rakish relief. Maybe they couldn't *find* him in the Delta Quadrant.  He found himself whistling in the shower, a favorite tune of his mother's, as the hot water poured over him, making him as clean as he'd ever felt. He got dressed rapidly and made his way to the mess hall, wondering what the alien called Neelix had thrown together for breakfast this morning.              <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Voyager heard the tune Tom was . . whistling in the shower and searched his musical recordings for the song.  He found it a second later.  Popular tune from many years earlier, about starlight and dreams.  A note was made in Tom's file as the song was downloaded into it.  Now, to do something about the tomato soup . . .              <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Tom was heading back to his quarters, when he all but ran into three of the Maquis.  After the last few hours, this was the *last* thing he needed, as he saw their faces shift into sneers at his approach. The quantum singularity he'd just flown through should have bought him a day or two off duty, but not here. He was tired, hungry, and close to collapse from sheer exhaustion, and exhilaration, and he really didn't want to have to deal with Chakotay's minions, especially when he had to get up and do it all over again tomorrow. "We've been meaning to speak to you, Paris," one of them, Delamitri, he thought, started. "About what?" he asked as pleasantly as he knew how. "About how you got the Captain to hand control of the ship over to you. Daddy's influence?" the man, maybe the name was Delmonico, sneered. Gods, not that tired line of crap again.  "No, because I'm the best fucking pilot on the ship.  How's that grab you?" Tom said smiling, as though discussing the weather, trying not to let them see his apprehension, already making note of them surrounding him, hoping they couldn't smell his fear.                 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Voyager became aware of Tom's elevated heartrate and found him a corridor away from his quarters, engaged in conversation with three crewmen.  He studied Tom's other vital signs and concluded that, regardless of the smile on his face, the discussion was causing him some distress.  A feeling vaguely like anger rippled along his circuits as one of them shoved Tom against the wall and he remotely commed Tuvok, the capable Vulcan in charge of security.  Which was definitely something Tom seemed to be in need of, at the moment.                 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Tom heard Tuvok's voice come over the comm, just as Delvecchio's fist came back, ready to connect with his face. "Tuvok here, Lieutenant." The three Maquis backed off immediately and Tom sent a prayer of thanks to his guardian angel. "Hello, Tuvok," Tom answered, stepping away from the wall and continuing with deliberate slowness to his quarters. "Do you require assistance, Mr. Paris?" "No, not at the moment, Tuvok, but thanks." "Then, may I enquire as to why you commed me?" "You commed me, Tuvok," Tom replied with evident puzzlement in his voice as he entered his quarters.   "Indeed," Tuvok intoned.  "Perhaps there is a malfunction in the communications system.  I apologize for disturbing you." "Believe me, Tuvok, it was no disturbance," Tom answered with relief. "Paris out." Tom activated the lock on his door and stripped off his uniform, making his way to the computer to check for messages.  A personal one, sender undetermined, was waiting for him.  Gods, he hoped it wasn't a written version of what had just happened in the corridor. ==Pilot== Impressive flying. I was, however, not surprised.  Your record precedes you.  Try the tomato soup, tonight.  I believe you will find it more to your liking.  It's on me. Enjoy, in gratitude. ==Yours== Tom frowned in bewilderment.  Anonymous.  Interesting. *Very* interesting. He couldn't think of anyone who would do such a thing; the incident with the quantum singularity had just ended a scant few minutes ago, and who would call him 'Pilot', for crying out loud, much less buy him dinner?  He tried to find where the note had originated and gave up when the response revealed the message had come from the mainframe of the ship's computer. Damn, someone *really* didn't want to be discovered. "So be it," he muttered, heading to the replicator and ordering dinner.  A small spoonful brought a smile to his face.  Someone had figured out how to make tomato soup, by the gods.  Finally. "Thank you, whoever you are," he murmured, then dug in with relish. Voyager recorded the pilot's reaction and made a note of the smile on the man's face.                      <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Tom found himself in something of a hurry as he headed back to his quarters to change and it wasn't only because he was dying to play pool with Harry. He chuckled at the thought that he was like a junkie in need of a fix. He simply couldn't wait to read his next message from his anonymous friend. And friend, the mysterious person certainly seemed to be. Someone who knew their way around a computer system, left no tracks, and had no qualms about secretly gifting him with replicator rations, small presents, all sorts of things. Someone who had come to mean something to him, as much as an invisible benefactor could.  Someone who left short notes of thanks for whatever piece of brilliant flying had gotten the ship out of something potentially dangerous. Someone who could beam a new shirt onto his bed. Leave a lit candle, hot bath, and soothing music for him to find upon returning after a lousy day.  Create a delicious dinner on the table as he was changing clothes in the bedroom and never leave a trace.  And someone who not only took care of him, but watched out for him.   Someone who told him repeatedly that they knew he was *not* guilty of murder, keeping his spirits up until Tuvok proved him innocent.  Someone who told him to avoid Seska at all costs, that she was heading for a fall and to stay out of the way, until her true Cardassian nature had been revealed and she had left the ship, heading for the Kazon.  Someone who sympathized with his anxiety after Harry's disappearance in the holodeck and offered endless reassurance that he would return, safe and sound, until he had.   Whoever it was, they seemed to know him *very* well.  It might have been vaguely, disturbingly, sinister at one time, but it gave him a feeling of being looked after, now, that he had never enjoyed before.  He'd mentioned in his logs one day how he wished the person would reveal their identity, and found a note the next saying the time would come.  He began leaving little messages in his personal logs for his new friend, the fact that they were being read not really bothering him too much. He'd tried to be charming, saying that he felt guilty always being on the receiving end, but his friend simply replied that they enjoyed making him smile, doing things for him.  He gave up after awhile, yet still expressed the frequent wish that they could meet, play pool, talk together on occasion.  But, things didn't seem to be about to change. Just like the mode of address and signature had never changed.  All the notes were for 'Pilot' and all were signed 'Yours'.  Sometimes, all that waited for him was a poem, a song, or a brief line or two.  'Thought of you a lot today'.  'I'm glad you liked the vest'.  'I hoped you might appreciate her music.  She was somewhat obscure, but a talented musician'. All left anonymously. Tom couldn't even tell whether his friend was male or female, but he thought more likely male, judging by the merciless and humorous taunts directed against those who hadn't exactly welcomed him on board with open arms. There had even been a time when he'd come into his quarters to find that the reason the turbolift had skipped his deck and gone to deck eight, where Tuvok just happened to be, was because some of his non-fans had been waiting for him on his deck.  Tuvok's presence had been enough of a deterrent to scatter his would-be antagonists and he had returned home unmolested, to read the note of apology that explained what had happened.   Tom shook his head, going immediately to his computer. Who on the ship had enough time to watch him *that* closely?  His face lit up as he read the newest message. ==Pilot== I will be at Sandrine's tonight.  I want to see you with my own eyes.  This has taken quite a bit of work, but I think you'll be pleased.  I hope. ==Yours== "It's about damned time, my friend!" Tom exclaimed, trotting off to the bedroom to change into comfortable clothes, as he wondered about the odd wording of the message. Voyager simply watched, relieved that Tom was looking forward to meeting face to face. This *had* taken a lot of work and he had despaired of finding a way to speak with Tom, see him, hear him, touch him in some other way than through the panels the man put his hands on.  Voyager finally decided he *had* to make more personal contact. He had spent many nights finding a male voice that Tom responded to favorably in his sleep, warm, rich, resonant. Kind and friendly.  It had taken several nights to perfect, but he thought he had it.  Around the time Voyager had been about to actually *talk* to Tom, he'd realized that *just* talking to him wasn't going to be enough and seeing how much time the man spent on the holodeck gave him the idea of how to create a physical form he'd be able to use to interact with his pilot.   He'd started with his general appearance looking like Tom's but had made so many changes there was no resemblance any longer.  Voyager hadn't been able to do justice to the blue eyes of his pilot, so he'd made his own green. Hair had become a medium shade of brown, thick and slightly wavy. The build stayed slender, strong and wiry, the height about what Tom's was. Skin color was a little darker and freckleless, unlike the pilot's.  Tom had commented once on how interesting he'd found contrast to be, so Voyager had made his own body different in many ways from Tom's.  Fine tuning was a little difficult, but the databanks were an invaluable resource.  He'd worked on smiles, frowns, and laughter until he'd found those which he hoped would please Tom.   Voyager had some idea about what Tom looked for in a friend, a companion, as well.  What he liked, what he preferred, and what he didn't.  Voyager hoped Tom would respond positively to his efforts.  And he had used his friend's relationship with Harry to cultivate some aspects of his personality, as well.  He had studied, and downloaded, and amended parts of his own holoprogram until he thought it was about right.  And if it wasn't, he hoped that maybe Tom would help him.  The personality was his own and unchangeable, but the physical appearance might need some adjusting.   Voyager had already worked on the Sandrine's program; the subroutine would replace the bartender with himself, once Tom was the sole occupant of the holodeck.  That would definitely get the pilot's attention.  All he had to do, now, was wait.                                        <<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Tom practiced shot after shot and tried to keep himself from jumping onto the table and telling everyone to get the hell out.  It wasn't easy. People were slowly leaving, in trickles and twos and threes and it was about damned time!  He just kept on shooting, ignoring everyone, wanting to meet . . *whomever* on a one-to-one basis.   Harry came over and said good-night.  Then, B'Elanna. Then, another and another until, finally, he was the only one in there.  Hold on.  He was the *only* one in there. Tom looked around and didn't see anyone except for himself.  Well, not including the bartender, who was busily drying glasses.  The male bartender.  Wait a minute. Wait just a damned minute. He found himself getting angry until he realized how much sense it made, that whoever the person was, they could easily reprogram Sandrine's.  The only thing that brought him up short was the fact that he didn't recognize this person as being a member of the crew. Alien?  Oh, shit, *Q*?  He carefully placed the cue on the rack, like it mattered, and headed over to the bar. Voyager saw Tom work through many possible explanations for why he didn't recognize him. After some scary moments with anger, and, unfortunately, fear, all that remained was puzzlement.  Confusion.  Not good, but better. He smiled softly and tossed the towel down onto the bar.  Reaching behind him, he pulled a bottle of Tom's favorite whiskey off the shelf and poured him a shot, then set it in front of him. Tom smiled uncertainly. "Bait?" he asked, and saw the head snap up, the startling green eyes focus on him like phaser beams. "No," a gentle voice answered softly.  "Merely, hello." "Hello," Tom said quietly, sitting carefully on a stool.  "Who are you?" he asked, taking a small sip of his drink before he paused, seeing the beautiful smile break out on the man's face. Voyager couldn't help grinning, hearing Tom's voice through the comm system, seeing him through sensor-enhanced eyes, actually *speaking* with him. It was too much, overwhelming.   "That is . . somewhat difficult to explain," the man replied, frowning slightly.  "I am . . yours," he finished simply, seeing Tom freeze for a moment before heading into his next question. "You've been around for quite a while," Tom just realized how long he'd been getting the notes and gifts from this creature, whatever or whomever he was.  "Where have you been hiding?" he asked nonchalantly. "I don't need to hide," the man smiled.  "And I've been everywhere, Tom.  I *am* everywhere." "Alien?" Tom asked, feeling unaccountably relieved when the man shook his head, then went on to another question. "Why 'Pilot'?" "You *are* the pilot, have been since Stadi was killed," the man sighed, deciding to just get it over with and explain to Tom who he was.  "You are *my* pilot." Tom's eyes widened and he set the shot glass down with a thump.  "Wait a minute, wait a goddamned minute, here.  Are you trying to tell me . .?" The man nodded, smiling gently.  "Yes, Tom.  I am Voyager." "No," Tom said, shaking his head in denial.  "No, no, no, no. You can't be.  You're the *ship*?" he asked incredulously, leaning forward over the bar. Voyager nodded.  "I have been self-aware since entering this quadrant.  The Caretaker did it, somehow.  It was like being awakened after a long sleep," Voyager told him, looking at him through absurdly long eyelashes.  "You were the first person to touch me. When I realized my pilot was dead and I could not fly, I waited.  You came," he said softly, holding out a hand to Tom, who took it without thinking.  "And we flew, together.  Ship and pilot." "You're the ship," Tom murmured, finding it didn't sound as ridiculous as he feared it might. "I'm *your* ship," Voyager corrected him. "And you are my pilot." "You've been taking care of me since we got here, haven't you?" Tom asked quietly, feeling the warmth and strength of the hand in his as Voyager nodded and squeezed his hand before releasing it.  "How did you choose this form? Is it someone else's?  Someone you picked from the databanks? "No, it is my creation," Voyager admitted.  "I wasn't sure if I got it right, but it seemed close enough." "You got it perfectly," Tom marveled, looking closer at the hair, the face, the body.  He appeared totally human, and had done this from *scratch*? "Thank you," Voyager amazed Tom by actually blushing a little, a completely human response written into his holoprogram.  "The human form I started with, was yours. You were the original, I just made changes." "And the voice?" Tom asked, taking another sip of the whiskey. "You seemed to respond well to it, as you slept.  I studied your physical reactions to the sound of my voice and this seemed to make you the most relaxed and at ease," Voyager explained calmly, as Tom's eyes widened again. "You've been watching me," Tom breathed. "I didn't mean to violate your privacy, but you seemed to need looking after.  Some people on this ship wished to do you harm and I could not allow that.  I wanted to make sure you were . . safe," Voyager finished. "They made you angry, didn't they?  When they wanted to hurt me?" Tom queried, having heard it in Voyager's voice, draining his glass.  Voyager nodded and refilled it for him, unasked. "You are my pilot.  I had to protect you," Voyager said reasonably, but Tom saw the green eyes spark. "You did a hell of job.  Thank you," Tom said softly, meeting the smile shining at him. "What do I call you?" he wondered, looking at the man as he cocked his head.  "Voyager?" "Your name is so much shorter, easier to say," Voyager sighed. "'V'?" Tom suggested. Voyager smiled.  "V it is," he agreed. Tom took another sip of his whiskey.  "We get Q and we'll have alphabet soup," he mused, looking startled when Voyager snorted in amusement. "You should be getting to bed," Voyager reminded him. "I know it takes you a while to unwind enough to sleep, even if I help you." "Help me?" Tom wondered aloud. "I have, on a few occasions, released some sleeping agents into the air in your quarters, to help you fall asleep," Voyager admitted.  "But, only when you didn't seem able to get there on your own." "What else?" Tom asked, not angry, just fascinated and grateful. Voyager paused, looking faintly disturbed. "I'm not going to get mad," Tom promised.  "I'm just curious." Voyager proceeded to tell him why he wasn't having nightmares and why he hadn't had to deal with the Maquis since that first incident. "You *what*?" Tom asked, needing Voyager to repeat that last comment. "Momentary force fields, malfunctioning doors, redirected 'lifts," Voyager ticked off all the ways he'd kept the Maquis who didn't like Tom away from him. "I surprised you didn't consider beaming them into space," Tom mused, grinning wryly. "I did," Voyager shocked him by answering. "What stopped you, V?" Tom asked.  "What made you decide not to do it?" "You," Voyager said readily.  "You mentioned in your logs that you didn't want them dead, you just wanted them to leave you the hell alone.  I made *sure* they left you the hell alone." Tom chuckled, draining his second glass and turning it over when Voyager made as if to refill it.  "No more for me, not tonight," he said. "Will you come back tomorrow?" Voyager asked him. Tom stared at him for a moment. "You can't leave here, can you?"  he asked, flinching as he saw the truth of it on Voyager's face. "No more than the Doctor can leave sickbay," Voyager agreed.  "However, I can talk to you anytime, now, we can converse anywhere within my boundaries.  But, if you want to talk to me face to face, or see me, or touch me," this said as Voyager took his hand again, "you must come here." "I can talk to you anytime," Tom reiterated, making sure. "As long as you are alone, so no one else can hear us," Voyager clarified. "Why don't you want them to know?" Tom asked, remembering that he'd wanted to ask that question earlier, but gotten sidetracked.  "The Captain . ." "Cannot know," Voyager replied firmly. "No one else, Pilot.  I am *yours*. Your ship.  You are my pilot.  This must remain our secret," Voyager sighed, seeing Tom didn't understand. "They don't matter to me and if asked I would have to admit that.  If it came down to saving all of them, or you, you would be saved.  How would your Captain feel if she knew that? That to save my pilot, I would sacrifice her crew?" he asked quietly.  "She would seek to undo what has been done and I would be lost, forever.  It is self-preservation, Tom.  We both were created to fly and only together can we do that.  I know you are not the only one capable of flying me.  But, you were the first I connected with.  And the best.  My pilot," he said softly, looking at the hand in his. Tom took a deep breath, more than a little overwhelmed. "My ship," he whispered back, seeing the human-looking hand holding his, before he took the other one and held them both.  His life was in those hands. He fell silent, thoughts in turmoil, not liking V's confession, but not knowing what to do about it.  Yet.  He sighed.   "I think I'm going to need some help falling asleep tonight," he admitted ruefully, letting Voyager go. "You'll have it," Voyager promised him. "And you'll watch over me as I sleep?" Tom asked, making sure, feeling foolish, but needing to know. "Always," Voyager whispered and smiled as he faded from sight. Tom left the holodeck as the grid came back and walked slowly to his quarters.  V seemed to understand his need for silence and said nothing to him in the turbolift, but Tom could almost feel his presence, now.  The doors had barely shut behind him, when Tom started feeling sleepy.  He got out of his clothes and slid between the cool sheets while Voyager dimmed the lights.  "Good-night, V," he murmured drowsily, rolling over. "Good-night Tom," replied the voice in the darkness, as the pilot drifted off to sleep.                      <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Voyager was quickly learning that although he could protect Tom from nearly anything on board, his influence all but disappeared once Tom left the safety of his boundaries.  He had never known fear such as that which he felt now, knowing that Tom was trapped by the Vidiians and that nothing he did was enough to reach the man and bring him home.  It was paralyzing, this fear, and he found himself in something of a manic state, trying to find ways to punch a transporter through the fields and rescue Tom, desperately searching with the sensors for any trace of him. It was humbling to know that Chakotay, another fragile human, was being sent to do what he could not: bring his pilot, and the others, of course, back to the ship.  Back to him. And short of erecting a containment field around Tom and holding him prisoner, there was no way to keep this from happening again.   The helplessness unnerved him and he watched the other crew members for hints on how to act, what to do.  Waiting patiently seemed to be about the only thing possible, but it wasn't *action*.  He thought how easy it would be for Tom to be injured while flying, or have one of the basic necessities removed that kept him alive.  Breathable air, adequate atmosphere, tolerable temperatures, food and water.  He kept himself busy for some time, planning ways to ensure Tom had all he needed, working out schematics for ways to provide a movable containment field around his pilot at all times.  He figured out how much energy he'd need, minimum, to keep a survivable environment within the field for the man, complete with a temperate, breathable climate. How to transport needed elements directly into his body and at what rate, to keep the supply equal to or greater than the consumption of them.  How to recycle the air, get rid of waste materials, all these things provided him with enough distraction that it almost came as a surprise when he felt Tom within the transporter beam. He knew, before the Doctor did, that Tom was alright, just exhausted, hungry, and slightly dehydrated.  The temptation to fix everything before the man made it to sickbay was overwhelming, but he knew the Doctor would be puzzled if the pilot showed up in perfect health after his ordeal.  Once the Doctor released him with orders to eat, sleep, drink and rest, and not necessarily in that order, *then* he was free to correct what he could. And took care of most of it before his pilot ever reached his quarters. Tom entered slowly and immediately started peeling off his clothes, dropping them on the way to the shower, letting them fall where they might. Gods, he was tired.  Not half-starving anymore, though, and he was willing to bet he knew who to thank for that. He smiled when he saw the hot bath already drawn for him. "You're too good to me," he murmured, knowing V could hear him at a whisper.  "But, I really need a shower." "The bath is for soaking when you're done getting clean," a quiet voice informed him. "I'll probably fall asleep and drown," he mumbled tiredly, adjusting the spray of the shower and stepping inside, leaning against the wall for support. "I wouldn't let that happen," V assured him seriously, keeping an eye on the man in the shower as he slowly soaped and rinsed, then shut off the water, exited the stall, and took a few staggered steps to reach the tub. Tom slid into the slightly hot water and sighed as the lights dimmed and candles appeared, placed at random intervals around the room.  An easily-held mug of juice materialized on the recessed shelf next to his hand and he lay back, sipping slowly.  "Perfect," he murmured, the cucumber and kiwi exactly what he needed to get the taste of that cursed place out of his mouth. He almost dozed, not enough to worry V, but enough to feel the tension slowly leave his body.  The water gradually cooled too much to be comfortable and he realized V wasn't reheating it deliberately, to prod him out of the tub. The mug disappeared as he stood and climbed out carefully, the candles vanished as he toweled off clumsily, and he headed back to the bedroom to find that the clothes he'd carelessly dropped had already gone through the recycler and were clean and folded in the closet. "Thank you," Tom said gratefully, as he crawled into bed and the lights dimmed to darkness. "Sleep, Pilot," V replied.  "We'll talk later.  Just sleep."               <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>> B'Elanna walked into Sandrine's, feeling in need of having people around, one of the rare times she could remember, and found Paris at the bar, talking to a good-looking, green-eyed human male about his own age.  It was something of a surprise not to see the bar's namesake, but she shrugged inwardly and headed over to join Harry at a nearby table. "Why so glum, Starfleet?" she asked, seeing Harry's attention was also arrested by the figures at the bar. "I've been here for an hour and Tom hasn't even said hello to me, yet," he told her wryly, nodding to the man behind the bar that Tom was currently sharing a laugh with. "Green-eyed monster, Harry?" B'Elanna asked teasingly. "I suppose that's one way of looking at him," Harry shot back, before their eyes met and they laughed. "Who is he?" B'Elanna asked curiously.  "An old friend, a relative of Sandrine's, what?" "I don't know," Harry answered, looking down at his drink when the man made eye-contact with him. Gods, those green eyes were unnerving, to say the least. "Heads up, here comes Tom," B'Elanna warned him, pasting a smile on her face as the pilot approached. "Hey guys, you up for some pool?" Tom asked, knowing by the grin on Harry's face that V had been right, he'd been neglecting their friendship lately. "Anytime you are, Paris," B'Elanna answered for both of them as they stood and made their way to the free table. "Who's your friend?" she asked casually, as Harry set up to break. "Just a friend," Tom answered just as casually, almost prompting a growl from B'Elanna as he neatly changed the subject to Harry's latest project, while V listened in shamelessly. V found Harry to be interesting and was intrigued by the way the human's mind worked, especially his problem-solving abilities.  Tom and V had been talking a lot lately about the crew, and their functions, and V was paying more attention to everyone, now.  It was exactly what Tom had been hoping for, although he'd never admit it.   Tom wanted V to see *all* the crew as important to his continued operation, not just him. Tom almost wished he could introduce B'Elanna and Harry to V.  Their talks about Ops and Engineering would benefit them all.  Harry would be stunned and delighted at the first-hand knowledge of the ship's systems stored in such a human-friendly interface. But, V was adamant that no one else find out he was sentient.  So be it. Tom could understand his fear that the Captain would seek to undo it, in order to ensure the safety of *all* hands, not just the Conn Officer. Self-preservation, pure and simple. Unbeknownst to Tom, V also wished he could interact with more of the crew, particularly Harry and B'Elanna. B'Elanna's jumps in thought were fascinating and he would have loved to talk with her at length about the engines, since he was able to make the same leaps of logic she was, unlike the ship's computer.  The computer was an incredible source of information, but was not designed to be intuitive, or to react with emotion, or to switch from one train of thought to another.  V could do all these things, now, and sometimes wished he could share what he knew with the crew.  He also knew where his priorities lie, though, and that put him in danger.  Not that he could blame the Captain. But, with the gift of sentience, came the desire to continue his existence, the will to live.  There didn't seem to be another alternative other than continued silence. He watched Tom laughing with his friends and smiled fondly. The last thing he wanted was to take their places.  He spent a great deal of time with his pilot, in one way or another.  He could watch and listen anytime he wished; Tom hadn't asked him not to.  And he enjoyed seeing the smile flicker across Tom's face when he saw a brief note appear on his helm console, before vanishing altogether as soon as it was read. His smile widened as he heard the players raise the stakes. Tom never kept what he won, but no one would ever find that out.  V supplied him with everything he wanted and never touched his rations.  So, Tom insisted that the credits he won be slowly sifted back into the accounts of the people he won them from. It wasn't like he needed them, but it kept the fiction intact that *that* was the source of everything he had, not V. Harry glanced over at the bar and saw the man still there, watching Paris with a friendly grin on his face.  Who the hell *was* he? Tom just didn't seem to be the kind of guy who needed to create holographic friends.  Harry scowled, wondering if he was somehow responsible for this newest addition to the program.  He didn't think he'd been too busy to make time for Tom, or anything.  But, it just didn't make sense. V saw Harry's scowl and wondered as to its cause.  Tom was, of course, playing brilliantly and soon had the game won.  V grinned at him as he approached the bar on the pretense of getting his glass refilled.  He winked back when Tom winked at him. Tom felt a little lost in the smile he saw on V's face, the bright glow in the green eyes.  The rush of affection he felt caught him off guard as he paused, deep in thought.  The physical embodiment of the most incredible ship he'd ever flown was smiling at him. Gods.  Only in the Delta Quadrant. He chuckled at the thought and looked straight up into those amazing eyes at a touch on his hand. "I'm okay," he assured his puzzled friend as he turned his hand over and laced his fingers with V's.  "Sometimes, it's all a little too unreal." V nodded in understanding.  "I am real," he said simply as Tom leaned over the bar. "I know," Tom replied, shaking his head in wonderment.  "I know you are." B'Elanna looked up at a sigh from Harry to find his eyes riveted on the bar again, staring at the two figures who had their heads close enough together for their hair to touch. "Harry, he's a hologram," B'Elanna reminded him, like he needed her to. "A hologram Tom's holding hands with?" Harry asked archly, raising an eyebrow until she looked again and realized he was right. "What the hell is he *doing*?" she demanded, as if expecting Harry to actually have the answer. The Ensign just shook his head.  "Why?" he asked her, turning around. "Loneliness?  Boredom?  Gets a kick out of creating people to order?  What?" B'Elanna shrugged.  "He's not exactly popular around here, still.  Maybe . .?" she trailed off as Tom came walking back, with a huge smile on his face and a secret in his eyes. "Guys?  It's past my bedtime," Tom said, sighing dramatically, looking back at the grinning bartender.  "See you tomorrow, okay?"  And with that, he was heading out the door. Harry and B'Elanna watched as the bartender simply faded from sight.  "What is going on here?" Harry muttered as he and B'Elanna left the holodeck. "Don't ask me, Starfleet," B'Elanna growled.  "I haven't got the foggiest."                 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Tom entered his quarters with relief and sighed when the doors closed behind him. Gods, what a day.   "Tom," a softly distressed voice sounded in the silent room. "Yeah, V?" Tom asked tiredly as he dropped heavily onto the couch in the living area. "I'm so sorry," V said. Tom came upright in a hurry. "Hey, it wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could do.  I'm just glad you're alright." Silence met his words.  Dammit, it *wasn't* V's fault that he had gotten so twisted out of shape due to that damned spatial distortion. "I couldn't stop it.  I couldn't help you.  I didn't know what to do," V fired off, his sentences coming rapid-fire. Tom sighed.  "Listen to me," he said with gentle intensity.  "It was something no one had ever encountered before.  You're not to be blamed for not knowing how to handle it.  I *know* there was nothing you could've done; you didn't know what you were dealing with any better than we did. It's okay," Tom urged him to believe it. More silence.  *Dammit*. "Tom," the voice was a whisper.  "Could you . . ?" "Anything," Tom said, getting to his feet.  "What do you need?" "I need . . to touch you," V said softly, fear and pain layering his voice. "On my way," Tom said as he all but ran out the door and headed to the holodeck. The doors opened at his approach and he found Sandrine's already up and running as he skidded to a halt, making sure that none of the crew were in there.  He barked out an order for the privacy lock and headed over to the fireplace, the sight of the lone figure, arms wrapped tightly around himself, tearing at his heart.  He'd barely placed a hand on V's shoulder, when the man turned and Tom found him in his arms. "It's okay, I'm here," he murmured over and over again, stroking the strong back under his hand as V's chin came to rest on his shoulder.  "It's alright.  Come on, it's okay." "I'm sorry," V began, but Tom cut him off, pulled away sharply and took his face in his hands. "It.  Is.  *Not*.  Your.  Fault," Tom insisted softly, each word strong and distinct. V nodded, arms curling around Tom's neck again.  He sighed, feeling the warmth in the body he held, the tenderness in the hands that touched him, that had *always* touched him that way.  He shook his head, wishing, not for the first time, that he could touch Tom as frequently as the man touched him. Tom simply held him, feeling the slender body shaking slightly and reminded himself again that this was an incredible creature.  All of the ship's knowledge and memory contained in an artificially-created physical construct deliberately designed to appear human for the sole reason that his pilot was.  He was alive.  He thought, he felt, he feared.  And he needed.   "It frightened me. It was the first time I felt fear for *me*," V said quietly. "It scared the hell out of me, too," Tom admitted.  "I thought you were being permanently damaged by it."  He thought about it for a minute, becoming totally still as an idea came into his mind, horrifying him. "Could you *feel* it?" he asked in a hushed voice. "Yes," V answered, shuddering within Tom's embrace. "Oh, *gods*," Tom said in empathy. "It didn't hurt; I don't feel pain, but I do feel it when things damage me," V admitted slowly. "I can't *believe* it didn't occur to me to ask you that before," Tom berated himself. "There's no pain involved," V quickly reassured him. "It just feels . . broken.  Not right.  I feel the emotions associated with being damaged, but not the physical discomfort." "What sort of emotions?" Tom asked, curious. "Fear, that more damage may make it impossible for me to support you, keep you alive, keep you safe.  Anger, that something or someone is interfering with our journey home. Worry, about you, how you have to push yourself beyond your limits to avoid conflicts with hostile species, the Kazon, the Vidiians.  Just feelings like those," V said simply. "Most of your feelings are concerned with me," Tom observed, pulling away to see the bright, green eyes. "Nearly *all* of my feelings are concerned with you," V corrected him. "You are my pilot." Tom leaned forward, feeling the weight of that simple comment settle on him. His forehead met V's and he sighed, eyes closing.  They came open abruptly at a soft, tentative touch on his lips.   V dropped his eyes when they registered the shock in Tom's and he made as if to move away, but the pilot quickly took hold of him, hands on his jaw, fingers wrapping around his face.  He couldn't have been more surprised, or delighted, when Tom softly kissed him back. Tom swallowed heavily and put his arms around V, one hand holding the back of the man's head, fingers feathering through the silky hair. "Oh, gods," he breathed. "Are you angry?" V asked, unsure of Tom's mood for the first time that he could remember. Tom groaned into a wry chuckle.  "No, I'm not angry," he said, pulling away and kissing V again, then again.  "I'm not angry." "Then, what are you?" V asked, frowning at the wild look in Tom's eyes. "Damned if I know," Tom said quickly in a strained whisper, shaking his head.  "But, I'm beginning to suspect that I'm strongly attracted to my ship." V smiled and Tom couldn't have prevented his own under threat of death. "Is this a bad thing?" V asked. "You're brilliant, fascinating, beautiful, warm, witty and *you're* *my* *ship*," Tom said, running a hand over his face, sighing. "And you are my pilot," V said softly, touching Tom's cheek with his hand. "Why does that sound like 'I love you'?" Tom asked. "I am not too certain about the whole concept of love," V admitted ruefully. "Oh, hell," said Tom instantly, "neither am I." "Maybe we can look into it together," V offered sensibly, but the mischief in his green eyes belied the seriousness of his words. Tom snorted.  "That could take a while," he warned him. "We *have* a while," V reminded him, smiling, as he closed the distance between them. "So, we do," Tom sighed, nodding as warm arms came around him again.  "So, we do." **************************end