Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Is he going to be alright?” Brad Harrison hovers nervously over his friend, Noah Mannick, who is being treated for a badly sprained ankle. Or at least the Doctor is attempting to treat him. Despite his reassurance that Ensign Mannick’s injuries are easily treatable, he is finding it difficult to attend to Mannick, instead having to focus his attentions on Harrison and his protectiveness for his partner.

Mannick sits up on the biobed and tries to reassure his lover, but a momentary expression of pain crosses his features and counteracts his attempt. Harrison seizes upon this validation of his concerns and begins to question the Doctor with renewed vigor.

“Mr. Harrison,” the Doctor interrupts firmly, “if you will allow me to perform my function, Mr. Mannick’s ankle can be treated in a matter of minutes. Now if you would please leave sickbay immediately, I will finish my work, and he will be returned to you shortly.” With this, he turns away abruptly, a response suggested by his behavioral subroutines to preempt any further interruptions from Harrison.

The Doctor notes with satisfaction that this behavioral combination forces both men into shocked silence, and he quickly runs the bioscanner over Mannick’s ankle to ascertain the extent of the damage. Harrison recovers himself quickly, however, and is about to question the Doctor again when Tom Paris intervenes.

Paris puts his arm reassuringly around Harrison’s shoulders and subtly steers him away from the biobed as smoothly and effortlessly as he would have guided a shuttle into the hangar bay. “Now Brad, you know the Doc can fix just about anything you can think of if you give him a chance to concentrate. He’ll have Noah fixed up in no time.” Paris continues to murmur reassuring platitudes to Harrison, effectively distracting the agitated man so the Doctor can work.

With a start, the Doctor realizes that he no longer has his attention properly focused on his patient, having allowed himself to be distracted by Paris as well. He adds a systems check to his pending actions cache to determine the reason for this lapse, then mentally refocuses on the task at hand.

He quickly analyzes the bioscanner readings on the tricorder screen and determines that his original diagnosis was correct. His vocalization subroutines produce a satisfied noise at this confirmation, and he quickly recalibrates his equipment to reduce muscular inflammation. He nods at Mannick’s worried face and runs the instrument over his ankle.

“There we go. I have repaired the damage. You are free to go, Mr. Mannick. However, I would suggest that you be a little more careful on the holodeck in the future.” Mannick looks guiltily down as he flexes his ankle, ensuring himself that the pain is gone. The Doctor’s social interaction subroutine, which he began compiling shortly after his permanent activation, suggests that this statement may be a little harsh for the severity of the injury. He produces Response 46.2 as indicated, a reassuring smile, and adds, “After all, Velocity is intended as much for relaxation and enjoyment as for physical exercise.” He pauses, smiling, until he successfully elicits a weak smile from Mannick. Then, confident that his patient has been successfully reassured, he turns and signals Paris.

As skillfully as he had deflected Harrison’s attention away from his lover, Paris takes his elbow and guides him back toward the biobed, still softly chatting with him. Harrison stops in midsentence, surprise flashing across his face, as he realizes that Mannick is no longer on the biobed. Mannick looks up from where he is gathering their equipment together and flashes his lover a dazzling smile.

“See, good as new.” Harrison looks toward the Doctor for confirmation. At his silent nod, Harrison’s expression instantly changes to one of relief and joy, the slight lines of worry and tension falling away as if they had never been there. He returns Mannick’s smile with a delighted smile of his own and helps him pick up the last of their Velocity equipment. “It was just a sprained ankle. You worry too much, Luv. And it’s not like you made me do that rolling phaser shot on purpose.”

They start out of sickbay, Harrison whispering something about winning a round for a change in a teasingly evil tone as they reach the door. They pause and turn back for a moment. “Thanks, Doctor.” This from Mannick, but Harrison’s bright smile expresses the sentiment just as clearly.

“My pleasure, Mr. Mannick.” They nod and continue out the door, still whispering and laughing to each other. Paris watches them leave, an amused smile tracing its way across his fair features. The Doctor accesses his Paris interpretive subroutine and decides that this is Smile 187.5, one reserved for fondly watching others engage in romantic activities, most often seen while watching Harry attempt to interact with Seven or the Delaney sisters. Realizing that this smile is one of the rare smiles with no defensive function, the Doctor relaxes and disengages the subroutine while he waits for Paris’ attention to return. Shortly after he began his in-depth analysis of psychoanalytic and therapeutic practices, he realized that Paris’ easy-going manner and constant humor worked as a defensive mechanism of some kind and has begun compiling a subroutine to uncover the cause of this subterfuge. While he has not yet ascertained the root cause, he finds that the subroutine both helps him refine his general counseling subroutines and allows him to work more productively with his primary medical assistant.

Paris turns back toward the Doctor, the suggestion of a smile still evident in his features. “And thank you, Mr. Paris, for your timely assistance.” Paris looks momentarily confused, his mind obviously on something else, so the Doctor adds “with Mr. Harrison.” He understands, and his eyes dance with amusement, the blue seeming to sparkle with bits of silver for a moment. The Doctor, realizing the rather poetic nature of his thoughts, blushes slightly, to his amazement. He quickly accesses the pending action cache and upgrades the priority status of the systems check.

This completed, he returns his attention to the conversation in progress. To his distress, Paris is looking at him with curiosity. “Are you feeling alright, Doc? I could’ve sworn you just….”

“I assure you, Mr. Paris, my program is functioning properly.” He replies quickly, before Paris can continue his speculation. But he notes with dissatisfaction that his prompt answer seems to have interested Paris further. The curiosity has deepened into a look of intense concentration, and he can see Paris’ mind working to find an explanation. Determining the necessity of distracting Paris from this process, the Doctor waits approximately 4.372 seconds before continuing in the softer tone deemed most reassuring by his social interaction subroutine. “I have recently experienced a few minor fluctuations in some of my supporting subroutines and have not yet had the opportunity to analyze them properly. I assure you, it is not significant enough to affect my diagnostic or technical abilities. I will engage my internal systems analysis programs as soon as I am able, and these should correct the fluctuations easily.” He accompanies this with Response 46.9, his most reassuring smile, but Paris’ curiosity does not yet seem satisfied. “If I cannot determine the cause of the fluctuations immediately, I will request that Ms. Torres perform a diagnostic check of my programming before any possible errors could affect my primary functions. I assure you, Mr. Paris, I am fine.”

Paris does not seem entirely convinced, but he smiles and shrugs as he turns away. “Sure, Doc. Well, I guess I’ll just finish up the bioanalysis on Neelix’s newest fruits. Just let me know if you need anything.” He turns back to his work, and the Doctor accesses the Paris interpretive subroutine to identify this newest smile as number 84.7, his ‘if you say so’ smile. He frowns slightly. This is not the most desirable outcome, but it should be sufficient to allow him to complete his systems check before having to address Paris’ curiosity again.

He goes into his office and sits down at his desk. He accesses his pending actions cache and decides to finish his data processing duties before concentrating on the systems check. In a matter of minutes, he has finished appending his notes into both the medical log and Ensign Noah Merrick’s personal medical file. Deciding that the medical department’s weekly status report can wait until morning, he double-checks that Paris is indeed busy with his duties before accessing his self-diagnostic subroutines. The Doctor shuts down all nonessential systems for approximately 8.295 seconds while the self-diagnostic performs its sweep. Much to his surprise, the diagnostic finds no errors or anomalies present in his program. He reviews his memory records for both the attention lapse and the poetic digression, but is unable to find any logical explanations for his reactions. He quickly repeats the diagnostic procedure, but the results are identical.

He leans back in his chair with a slight frown on his face, the response indicated by his body language subroutine for frustration. If these odd behaviors are not the result of a program malfunction, then what could be the cause? His vocalization subroutines produce an annoyed grunt as he realizes the only possible cause. His program contains the memory engrams of over fifty Starfleet medical personnel, designed to provide him with first-hand experience and flexibility. Unfortunately, the engrams carry traces of their owners’ personalities as well as their experiences, resulting in unintended and sometimes contradictory personality quirks. While he cannot identify individual engrams or eliminate their influence on his own personality, he can sometimes trace specific reactions down to their origins given enough repeated occurrences. He can then compile subroutines to counteract their influence, as he had done once he realized his initially poor bedside manner was the result of an unplanned interaction between the memory engrams of a compassionate, but stubborn curmudgeon and a technically gifted surgeon with little interpersonal experience. His social interaction subroutine had been created to compensate.

Since he can design no remedy for the engrammatic interference until further occurrences provided a more exact identification of the problem, the Doctor relaxes and mentally reviews the day’s activities. The encounter with Harrison still troubles him. He had not realized his difficulty dealing with concerned loved ones until Kes’ premature Elogium had forced him to evict Neelix from sickbay. Kes had always provided a convenient distraction for them, as Paris had done with Harrison. He will have to address this shortcoming as soon as possible now that he has no full-time medical assistant. Although Paris seems quite skilled at dealing with people, his duties as helmsman interfere with his availability in sickbay. Now that Kes is no longer on board Voyager, he will have to find a way to fulfill this function himself.

The Doctor leans forward to access the week’s medical logs on his LCARS terminal, using approximately twenty-three percent of his processing abilities to prepare the medical department’s routine status report while he continues to reflect on Kes’ departure. Although there has been a certain emptiness since her departure, he finds that Paris provides a more than adequate replacement. Despite his somewhat aggravating defensive reactions to others, Paris demonstrates an amazing ability to understand and carefully influence other people when he so desires. What Kes achieved through guileless innocence and enthusiasm, Paris does through easy-going manipulation. While both get the job done quickly and efficiently, the patient remains aware of Kes’ sweetness while never realizing Paris has distracted them in the first place. Unfortunately, Paris has never realized that his true gift lies in medicine as Kes had. He unwisely wastes those gifted surgeon’s hands on the helm and avoids sickbay duty as much as possible. Thus he has become a competent medic and a valuable medical assistant, but will never realize his true abilities in surgery.

“Hey, Doc.” The Doctor looks from the computer screen to find Paris leaning into his office, one hand on the doorframe. “I’m all finished with Neelix’s samples. Surprisingly enough, they’re all okay. I’m going to go ahead and get out of here.” He brushes his golden hair back from his face with his free hand in a gesture that the Doctor diagnoses as indicating fatigue before continuing. “See ya at Sandrines later?”

“Certainly, Mr. Paris. I’ll see you there.” Paris gives him a wide grin and leaves quickly before the Doctor can say anything else. The Paris interpretive subroutine identifies it as Smile 17.2, the expression of relief seen at the end of almost every duty shift in sickbay. The Doctor completes the status report and programs the computer to reactivate his program at 20:55 hours, allowing him time to readjust his holomatrix for casual attire before joining Paris in the holodeck.

Paris has convinced him that the best way to refine his understanding of the interpersonal interaction patterns of biological beings is to observe them in their native environment. So he has agreed to join the crew in Sandrines at least once a week. Once he moved from the role of bartender to that of piano player, in part to escape the unwanted attention of Sandrine herself, he has found his excursions enjoyable as well as educational and has increased their frequency. Paris assures him that tonight will be especially interesting because Torres has agreed to bring some of the contraband alcohol created by some of the engineering personnel. Although the Doctor’s holomatrix will of course be unaffected by alcohol, Paris assures him that it will make the interpersonal observation opportunities more interesting than usual. The Doctor rolls his eyes, a smile on his lips, Response 127.3 as his social interaction subroutine suggests is appropriate for harmless biological behaviors that he can’t precisely diagnose. “Computer, deactivate emergency medical hologram.”

Chapter Text

“Please state the….” The Doctor looks around to confirm that his activation is not the result of an actual emergency. He is alone in sickbay. He retrieves his mobile emitter from its storage container and transfers his program from the medical bay holoemitters. He adjusts his projectors to change his uniform to a casual outfit consisting of khaki slacks, a simple white shirt, and a matching khaki vest. This completed, he exits sickbay and sets out for the holodeck. Although he could of course have transferred his program directly into the holodeck systems, he prefers the freedom offered by his mobile emitter. He has on occasion continued conversations off the holodeck and had once helped an injured crewman back to sickbay after an altercation. After that incident, he has decided that he would be neglecting his medical duties unless he allows himself as much flexibility as possible. One never knows what unusual things might occur during an evening at Sandrines, especially with Lieutenant Tom Paris in charge of the festivities.

He reaches Sandrines to find that the festivities already appear to be in progress. Although neither Janeway nor Chakotay are present, most of the regulars are there: Tom Paris, B’Elanna Torres, Harry Kim, and Joe Carey. The captain long ago decided that the best way to get a feel for the mental state of the crew was to regularly participate in the holodeck gatherings, and it was unusual for neither of the command pair to be in attendance. Judging by the number of specimen containers full of engineering contraband, the Doctor concludes that their absence was most likely planned. Although the still in engineering is a somewhat open secret, the command team would frown upon such blatant indulgence. After a contaminated batch sent several crewmen to sickbay with severe stomach cramps, he made a deal with Torres to trade his secrecy for the right to examine the product before it was available for consumption. So he has in effect become part of the ‘moonshine’ industry, as the biologicals like to call it.

He goes to his place at the piano and settles in for the evening. Although it is true he comes primarily to observe the others, he has to admit to a certain pleasure in exercising his musical subroutines. He flexes his hands before beginning a slow song, an unusual mixture of Terran and Andorian blues. Vorik makes his way over to the piano, seizing the opportunity to escape Madame Sandrine’s attentions. The young Vulcan never looks fully comfortable at Sandrines, but seems determined to learn how to ‘have fun’ as Paris and Torres keep urging him to do.

“Good evening, Doctor. I was not sure if you would be joining us this evening.” The Doctor smiles lightly at Vorik’s attempt at small talk. Although he has not been programmed to function in a purely social setting, he finds great pride in the fact that he has an easier time adjusting than do the Vulcans on board.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Mr. Paris promises that this evening will be even more entertaining than usual. And I have found it illogical to question his judgment in matters of entertainment.” He accompanies this statement with Response 93.6, intended to communicate friendly sarcasm. As expected, Vorik responds only with a raised eyebrow. This exchange brings him great satisfaction, and he wonders once again what part of his program so enjoys baiting Vulcans. Chell, who is just joining them from watching Neelix and Carey play pool, overhears and chortles with laughter.

“True enough.” The Bolian leans in closer, his bright blue face flushing slightly purple with excitement, to whisper to them conspiratorially. The Doctor, who has always been rather amused by Chell’s joviality, leans closer, still smoothly running his fingers across the piano keys. “Tom does promise to provide an interesting evening. But not in the way he thinks….”

Vorik, looking slightly flustered at Chell’s proximity, cocks his head to one side and provides Chell with the opening he has been waiting for. “I fail to understand the meaning behind your words. Is there some secret purpose to tonight’s festivities of which I am unaware?”

Chell waits a moment before answering, trying to make the moment last as long as possible, but is as usual unable to contain his enthusiasm for very long. He bursts out excitedly, “The drinks!” When Vorik and the Doctor fail to respond immediately, he continues, “We made Tom’s much higher proof than usual, but everybody else in the room is drinking ninety percent synthehol.” He looks extremely satisfied with himself, and Vorik’s obvious surprise only increases his pleasure.

“I had noticed the lower alcoholic content.” The Vulcan looks at his drink again, looking slightly displeased that he has not deduced the situation for himself. “However, I had incorrectly surmised that there must be an error in our calculations. I had resolved to work on them with B’Elanna in the morning.”

“Well, that certainly explains one thing,” the Doctor replies, pausing to give Chell the opportunity to gloat once more. “Why Mr. Kim seems to be winning the drinking match.” He gestures with his hand toward the table where Paris and Kim have about twenty shot glasses spread across the table. Paris is quite obviously intoxicated, gesturing wildly and making clumsy grabs at the bottle to fill the next rounds, but Kim looks like he is trying desperately not to laugh.

At this, Joe Carey, just joining the group after resetting the balls for another round of pool, adds, “That’s the genius of the plan. To ensure that Tom gets wasted before he can figure it out, B’Elanna keeps betting Tom that Harry can outdrink him. Harry acts just drunk enough to make it believable, but of course Tom keeps losing. Of course, he can’t stand to lose that kind of contest to young Ensign Kim, especially not if it meant losing face in front of B’Elanna. So he keeps drinking. By this time he would’ve probably figured it out, but he’s gotta be drunk out of his mind by now.”

Even Vorik looks slightly impressed by the detail of the plan. “An ingenious plan, I must admit.” They stand in companionable silence for a moment, before Carey motions an invitation for Vorik to join him for the next round of pool. The two depart to start another game. The Doctor begins a new song and is about to say something to Chell when a commotion breaks out from Paris’ table.

“I know more about twentieth-century music in my little finger than you’ll ever know.” The Doctor turns on the piano bench to see Paris standing over the table, stabbing his finger belligerently down at the surface to emphasize his point. This outburst of seeming nonsense is too much for Kim, who dissolves into laughter at the sight of his best friend waving the highly intelligent finger around defiantly. Torres quickly jumps in to cover for him.

“Prove it.” She stands and puts her hands on her hips, successfully distracting Paris before he notices Kim giggling helplessly. Paris takes a moment to refocus his attention on this new opponent, and then crosses his arms across his chest. He pulls himself up to his full height and glowers down at Torres, but her Klingon attitude is more than sufficient to make up for the size differential.

Paris’ face twists into a look of extreme superiority, somewhat marred by his extreme drunkenness, and he challenges loftily, “Pick a decade.” He holds the pose for a moment as the bar falls into silence. The Doctor realizes that he has stopped playing momentarily, but then decides that this is appropriate to the moment.

Torres decides to push Paris one step further. She snorts derisively and laughs, “And you’ll do what… Sing?” At this, Kim leans back in his chair and begins to chuckle softly, but Paris seems not to notice.

“Sure,” Paris replies. He looks a bit uncertain, but is too drunk to back down gracefully. “I can sing. Just pick a decade.” He looks more confident once he has repeated his challenge. He glares at Torres again as he makes his way toward the piano.

Chell quickly moves back to watch the fun, leaving the Doctor to watch Paris approach. “Fuck yeah, I can sing,” he is muttering to himself. “Easy as cake.” He frowns, apparently distressed by what he has said, but shrugs it off. He winks at the Doctor and says softly, “You’ll help me through it, won’t ya Doc?” The Doctor tries to offer Paris a supportive smile and nods.

Paris turns back to the audience and flashes a wide grin at Torres and Kim. The Doctor identifies it as smile 36.8, his ‘do or die’ smile, and grimaces. This is one of Tom’s most highly defensive smiles, seen only when he feels his facade threatened and can’t see any other way out. If he makes it through the song, everything will be fine, but if not… well, things could get messy. Both for the bar and for Tom’s psyche. The Doctor looks out at the audience and determines to help Tom get through it as well as he can. He sees the expression on Ensign Kim’s face and relaxes fractionally. Kim has recognized Tom’s expression and knows what is at stake. At least one other person will be guaranteed to try to help Paris out if necessary. “Well…?” Tom lets the statement hang in the air defiantly. There is no turning back now.

Torres seems to deliberate for a moment, wondering what would be the most humiliating. She looks at Kim for input, but he just shrugs. “How about… the 1940s?” She pauses for a moment, but doesn’t know twentieth-century music well enough to distinguish decades. “Yeah, the forties sound nice.” She sits down, satisfied, and waits for the show to begin.

Tom looks slightly relieved as he says, “Forties it is.” He turns back to face the Doctor, and whispers, “At least she didn’t pick the seventies. Don’t think I could do disco right now.” He chuckles to himself before continuing, “Hmmm… how bout Sinatra? You know Witchcraft?”

The Doctor accesses his musical subroutines for confirmation and then nods. That particular Sinatra song had not been recorded until 1957, but he doubts anyone lacking cross-referenced memory files of the musical database will realize the inconsistency. He gives Paris his most supportive smile, Response 54.9, before adding playfully, “Old Blue Eyes does seem rather appropriate.” He watches Tom’s eyes sparkle in appreciation of the light irony. He softly commands the computer to provide additional orchestration, timed to his piano, as Tom turns back to the audience.

The music starts, but when it is time for Paris to begin, his voice trails off after only a few words. The Doctor looks up, horrified that the end has come so fast, and the music abruptly stops. But Tom’s face reflects inspiration, not defeat, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “Wait… something’s missing.” Tom looks around as if searching for something, but the twinkle in his eyes demonstrates that he already has his next move planned. He moves abruptly toward the bar and grabs an unopened beer bottle. “This’ll work.” He flips the bottle upside down, and theatrically says over his shoulder, “Hit it, Doc.”

The Doctor starts the music again, relieved that Paris seems to be in control of the situation. Tom moves out into the audience as he begins twitching his hips to the beat, cradling the bottle like a microphone. He has apparently decided that the best course of action would be to emphasize theatricality rather than musical precision. The Doctor agrees, thinking that his intoxication will probably support the emphasis, but is unprepared for the extent of his performance. As he sings, he demonstrates his words on the audience. “Those fingers in my hair,” and he sits himself on Ensign Kim’s lap to run his fingers through Kim’s hair seductively. “That sly come hither stare,” as he arches his back, his arms still around a very surprised Kim, to gaze into Torres’ eyes with smoldering intensity. “That strips my conscience bare,” as he slides smoothly off of Kim and into the chorus of the song.

Paris prances around the bar, teasing most of the crewmen present as he passes. The Doctor notes with satisfaction that Kim’s cheeks remain a spectacular shade of red and Torres is laughing hysterically. Tom has his victory.

He arrives back at the piano as the instrumental section begins and gives a quiet computer command. The Doctor jumps as the piano changes under his hands, lengthening into a grand piano, but manages to continue playing. Tom jumps up on the lid of the piano, closed thanks to holodeck trickery, and begins to move to the music. The Doctor looks up to see what antics Paris is performing this time, and finds himself unable to look away.

Tom stands directly above him, eyes closed, as he moves with the rhythm. The Doctor has never seen a person look so enticingly seductive in his activation history. He crosses his arms across his chest and runs his fingers lightly across his body, one hand moving slowly up his arm as the other traces its way down toward his waist. He sways to the music, approximately 0.379 seconds behind the tempo, so that it seems as if the music itself is pulling his body, drawing forth a natural response.

As the Doctor watches, the percussion picks up, and Tom twitches his hips suggestively as he throws back his head, an expression on his face that the Doctor has never seen before. The crowd goes wild, hooting and laughing, but the Doctor finds himself suddenly unable to move. His hands freeze on the keys, and he stops playing abruptly, too spellbound to continue. The music continues, piano only an afterthought during the instrumental section, but Tom notices the change. He opens his eyes and looks down at the Doctor, his blue eyes flashing with something secret and mysterious. Their eyes lock, Tom’s filled with a slightly dazed curiosity, the Doctor’s with obvious fascination. The Doctor tries to look away, but can’t break away from Tom’s gaze.

How has he not seen the sinuous way this man moved before? The way he instinctively possesses the space he is in, moving as if the world around him is merely an extension of himself. He moves effortlessly, as if the universe is his to command, as easily as he controls the powerful starship.

The Doctor can see that power in his eyes. The power to take life or death into his hands, for the entire crew, and to wield it as easily as if it is his natural born right. So different from Kes’ gentle grace and ethereal beauty, but just as undeniable. The perfect balance of strength and beauty. He has worked with the man for nearly six years, but has never seen what has been there all along. Why has he never noticed?

Tom’s mouth opens, and he inclines his body gracefully toward the Doctor. With a start, the Doctor realizes Tom is whispering something to him. He tries to focus himself, as Tom repeats, “You okay, Doc?” He shakes his head in an attempt to clear the images of Tom from his mind and nods shakily. He looks desperately down at the piano keys and tries to focus. He begins to play again, unsteadily at first, then gaining strength, never taking his eyes off the keys.

Tom leaps gracefully down from the piano as he begins to sing again. He moves around behind the piano bench and places his hands on the Doctor’s shoulders as he sings. The Doctor can feel Tom dangerously close behind him, can sense his movement through the changing pressure readings being processed through his sensory net. Tom twitches his hips again as he sings, “When you arouse the need in me,” and it is all the Doctor can do to continue playing. He focuses desperately on his medical programming, approximating the strength of the alcohol, calculating the amount consumed by the number of glasses evident on the table, determining the consumption a man of Tom’s height and weight could endure before becoming dangerously intoxicated. Anything to avoid the thought of Tom moving behind him. Thankfully, Tom moves away for the final lines of the song, finishing with a flourish.

Sandrines erupts in applause, and the Doctor braves a look. Kim is clapping furiously, looking extremely proud, although still slightly red with embarrassed pleasure. Torres is grinning from ear to ear, stamping her feet on the ground to emphasize her clapping. Carey does a loud wolf whistle from somewhere in the back of the room, bringing a fresh round of laughter. Sandrine is blowing kisses at Tom, murmuring appreciatively to Neelix and Chell about her ‘Thomas’. Even Vorik looks impressed.

And Tom. He stands motionless in front of the crowd, visibly soaking up the applause. He has a delighted smile on his lips, almost blinding in its intensity. He wears an expression of ultimate triumph. Despite their attempted deceit, he has managed to surprise everyone. Far from humiliating himself, he has played upon them, using his voice and his body to control their every response. Now that the song is over, his victory gives him a compelling power over everyone in the room, and he knows it. He stays motionless a moment longer, timing the applause, then bows flamboyantly.

Tom motions for the Doctor to join him. The Doctor inclines his head, meaning to acquiesce gracefully, but finds himself responding to Tom as well. Before he realizes it, he is at Tom’s side, and they bow together. To his horror, he finds himself responding to Tom in another way. He can feel a faint throbbing deep inside him, rapidly growing stronger. He realizes with shock that he can feel the pudendal muscles in his pelvic region begin to tense as he stands dangerously exposed in front of the crowded room.

As the applause dies away, most of the crew gather around Tom excitedly, and he quickly slips out of the bar before anyone can catch him in conversation. He arrives at sickbay as quickly as possible, his analytical subroutines processing in confusion, frantically trying to comprehend his reaction. “Computer, deactivate EMH.”

Chapter Text

“Please state the nature of the….” His voice trails off as the Doctor realizes he is addressing empty space. Someone has to have activated him. He turns around to survey the rest of sickbay and finds Tom immediately behind him. The Doctor accesses his internal chronometer and verifies that nearly an hour has passed since he has deactivated himself. That makes it unlikely that Tom has come in response to anything he observed at Sandrines. Tom stands only a meter away, still wearing the blue silken shirt he had worn on the holodeck, smiling softly. The Doctor accesses his Paris interpretive subroutine and identifies it as Smile 24.6, innocence personified. This particular smile is very seldom used when he is actually innocent, so Tom is probably up to something.

“Sorry to get you up so late, Doc.” Then he reaches up and begins to unfasten the top button of his shirt. The Doctor finds himself staring, wondering what exactly is going on here. “I know it’s a little late – actually a lot early – but I didn’t want to wait until morning.” Tom’s speech is still slightly slurred, and his thinking seems to be disorganized. The Doctor’s diagnostic subroutines determines that he must still be somewhat intoxicated, although he no longer demonstrates some of the more dramatic physical indicators.

“Of course it’s alright, Mr. Paris.” He lets annoyance seep into his voice. Tom knows perfectly well that he does not experience the passage of time while his program lies dormant in the ship’s computers. “It’s not like I was asleep. As you know, I….” But Tom is still undressing. On the third button now. “What are you doing?”

Tom starts talking quickly, unfastening one button after the other. He is mumbling something about injuring his shoulder, but the Doctor is having trouble listening. Unbidden, his memory circuits begin playing back the images of Tom moving on the piano. Of Tom enjoying the applause, so utterly unselfconscious and in control. Tom gracefully leaning his slender frame toward the Doctor, asking if he’s okay.

And the Doctor is certainly not ‘okay’ at the moment. Tom’s shirt is completely unbuttoned now, and as he watches, it begins to slide off. The silken fabric glides easily over his shoulders, falling unhindered off his arms and down onto the floor. The Doctor stares in amazement at the body before him. He knows Tom’s slender physique is capable of surprising strength, but he has never realized just how physically developed the man is. The pectoralis major are clearly visible, but not so overdeveloped as to distract from the overall beauty of Tom’s body. The Doctor’s trained eye can see the clear definition of nearly every muscle in the abdominal and pectoral regions, yet none are developed enough to ruin the visual balance or overwhelm the slender frame. Never before has he seen a body so perfectly balanced between strength and grace. The rectus abdominis are equally defined, giving his abdomen a rippled texture and leading the eye irrevocably down to where the muscles disappear beneath the waistband of Tom’s slacks.

The Doctor swallows hard, trying to overcome the thoughts that this immediately brings to mind. He has a job to perform here. He has managed to listen just enough to determine that Tom wants him to examine his shoulder, where he believes he may have pulled a muscle. Have to focus on that and not think about the body in front of him as anything other than a diagnostic challenge. Tom, thankfully too drunk to notice his difficulty, hops up on the biobed. The Doctor can see the trapezius muscles of his back working to support his weight as he turns on the table. So graceful, yet such power.

He struggles to concentrate, picking up the bioscanner as he attempts to fulfill his medical function. He gently touches Tom’s arm, trying to ignore the heat of the other man’s body, as he moves it slowly, testing the muscle. He runs the bioscanner absent-mindedly over Tom’s shoulder, but can clearly see that there is nothing wrong with it. He can see the deltoid muscles of his shoulder gracefully controlling the humerus bone as he moves Tom’s arm, flexing, rotating, extending. Every muscle working perfectly, moving against and with each other just as they should.

Tom leans his head forward, stretching his head away from the Doctor and almost imperceptibly arching his back toward him. Every muscle in his neck, from the trapezius muscle along the back to the sternocleidomastoid connecting to his sternum, working in perfect harmony. Absolute perfection of form and function. The muscles of Tom’s triceps shifting smoothly under his hand as he moves, the skin hot to his touch. The Doctor pulls his hand away abruptly. This man is supposed to be his patient.

“So what do you think, Doc?” Has to pull himself together. He is a Doctor, and a holographic one at that. He has no excuse to be thinking what he is thinking. Only to diagnose and treat as necessary.

“You’re fine, Tom. Absolutely nothing wrong with you.” Tom turns on the biobed, the leg coming to rest against his arm. He looks up at Tom’s eyes, the shock of this sudden contact forcing him back to the present situation. Tom’s eyes shine with innocent confusion, looking unsure as he nervously runs long fingers through golden blonde hair.

“Are you sure, Doc? It just feels wrong.” The man radiates insecurity, something very rarely seen in Tom Paris. He is drunk after all. Has probably just imagined something and gotten the idea stuck in his head.

And it is his job, as his doctor, to try to reassure him. He reaches out to place his hand reassuringly on Tom’s shoulder. “Perfect, Tom.” And he is absolutely perfect. “Not a thing wrong with you.” He tries to move away, but finds his hand trailing helplessly down Tom’s chest, lightly touching his body, feeling the muscles beneath, the skin pulled gracefully across them, tracing its way slowly downward.

No! His patient. Nothing more. Cannot allow himself to continue. He pulls back sharply, turning away even as he speaks. “You’re fine, Mr. Paris. I suggest you go back to bed. Sleep it off. I’m sure you’ll feel fine in the morning.”

He tries to simulate business with the medical equipment, waiting until Tom leaves. But he can still sense Tom behind him, lingering for some reason. He reluctantly turns back and is relieved to find that Tom has put his shirt back on, covering the beautiful body that has so distracted him. “Thanks, Doc.” He waits a moment longer, studiously avoiding Tom’s eyes, but he still makes no move to leave. Curious, he looks up at Tom’s face. To his surprise, Tom is smiling at him, voice soft and low, as he continues, “Even if it is just my imagination, just having you look at it makes me feel better.”

His Paris interpretive subroutine is unable to identify this particular smile, giving it a new designation as 364.9, but it is similar enough to several other entries to determine that it is friendly, encouraging, and pleased, with a minimal probability of defensive use. He smiles, relieved. Although Tom has surely noticed his unprofessional behavior, he does not take offense. “Anytime, Tom.” If anything, he seems to find it somewhat pleasurable. The Doctor looks away in embarrassment at that thought. He hears Tom leave at last. The Doctor takes a deep breath, hoping the biological mechanism for maintaining control will somehow have the same effect on his holomatrix. No matter what Tom’s reaction, that does not make it acceptable behavior for an emergency medical hologram. He lets his breath out slowly, but his control is just as tenuous as before. Better go see Torres in the morning and make sure there is nothing wrong with his program. This decided, he deactivates himself, the room immediately fading to black.

Chapter Text

After completing his routine medical duties, the Doctor confirms that Torres is on duty and coms her. “Sickbay to Torres.” He waits only 1.273 seconds before Torres replies. She is always refreshingly professional when in charge of engineering.

“Torres here. What can I do for you, Doctor?” Her voice sounds positively gleeful. In Torres, that usually signifies an impossible scientific problem, successfully solved by Maquis innovation, Klingon persistence, and that unique Torres genius. The Doctor smiles to himself. He has to admit he is fond of the half-Klingon engineer. The way her mind works is fascinating: talking aloud, leaping from one insight to the next, solving things that no one else can. If she were in the medical field, he is confident the Phage would be solved in a week or two, along with every other remaining incurable disease.

“Whenever you have a moment, I’d like you to take a look at my program. I think there may be some kind of internal error affecting my behavioral subroutines.” He pauses, expecting a reply at this point, but Torres seems to be weighing this challenge against the necessity of leaving her engines in someone else’s care. “Whatever the cause might be, my medical and diagnostic functions seem unaffected so the problem is not immediate. Furthermore, I have completed my routine duties and scheduled appointments, so I can join you in engineering. Pending any medical emergencies, of course.”

These are apparently the magic words. “Oh! Well, in that case… Come down whenever you’re ready, Doctor. It’s kind of a hectic day down here, but I can fit you in, no problem.” Delight is clearly evident in her words. As he has suspected, she was having some engineering crisis and is too excited to leave, although the problem has been solved. Her voice lowers conspiratorially as she continues, “Had some problems with the warp core reacting to a gravimetric distortion we passed a little while back. Triggered some kind of weird radiation surge that was destabilizing the antimatter injectors. Never seen anything like it.” The Doctor has no doubt that if he could see her through the com line, she would be smiling like a puerile humanoid. “I think we got it taken care of, but I’d like to stick around and keep an eye on the core readings myself. Just come in when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Ms. Torres. I will be on my way shortly. Sickbay out.” He closes the communication line and instructs the computer to direct all sickbay calls to him in engineering. He activates his mobile emitter and walks to engineering, wondering what exactly he will say if he has to explain what the problem is. ‘Well, Ms. Torres, recently I find myself having the uncontrollable urge to touch Lieutenant Paris. I was wondering if you could tell me why my program is suddenly causing me to respond to my medical assistant in a sexual manner. And if you could possibly, uh… fix it.’ Not exactly his idea of a fun conversation. She’ll run a complete program diagnostic first, and hopefully that will identify the problem without him having to explain.

“Hey, Doctor. I’ve got the equipment all set up to analyze your program.” Torres immediately escorts him to a table piled high with an overwhelming quantity of equipment that he can’t identify. “I’ve added a couple of modifications to the diagnostic equipment since the last time we did this.” She picks up a small carbonite device with an attached viewscreen, pushes a couple of buttons, and briefly scans his mobile emitter. Good, she plans on letting her equipment do its work first. “There, I’ve just aligned the diagnostic frequency to match your mobile emitter. That will allow it to analyze your program while it’s active. If it’s only a minor glitch in the system, as you suspect, this should allow us to catch it more easily than the standard diagnostic.” When trying to explain something to non-engineering personnel, Torres gives sufficient detail to explain a problem without resorting to either insulting oversimplification or excessive technobabble. It is a technique he has copied into his own program to aid in the presentation of diagnoses to patients without medical knowledge.

“With your program active, it should take a little longer for the computer to complete its analysis.” She leans against the table, abruptly switching to interview mode, determined to learn as much as possible while she waits for the computer to finish. Not good. Torres has never been skilled at waiting patiently. “So, what exactly seems to be the problem?”

Wondering how much time he has to occupy before the computer finishes, the Doctor begins slowly. “At first I noticed only minor problems: momentary lapses of attention, abnormal thought patterns. Nothing quantifiably wrong, but outside of my standard functioning parameters.” He pauses. How much longer? “Then the behavioral fluctuations began to increase. I found myself mentally responding to certain stimuli in ways clearly outside of my original programming.” And physically responding, he thinks to himself. “While experiencing such an episode, I find it difficult to control my actions, as if my program were compelling me to act in a certain way. Although I have not yet lost control, it is becoming difficult to avoid acting upon these unaccustomed program commands.” If you count trailing a hand down Tom’s chest while performing a medical diagnostic as not losing control.

He stops, unwilling to continue. Torres looks at him in irritation. “Well?” He delays answering. “What stimuli? What exactly does it seem your program is commanding you to do?” The Doctor keeps his expression carefully blank. To touch. To feel the extraordinary strength of that body. To gaze in wonder at the innate grace. To know the meaning of that last secretive smile. To understand.

The Doctor waits, wondering how long he can make the silence last. The diagnostic equipment beeps, apparently signaling completion of its task. “I suggest we first see if the computer has come up with an explanation.” Torres glares at him, knowing that he is avoiding the question but not understanding why. She snorts in aggravation, then turns to her equipment.

“Doesn’t indicate any processing errors.” She focuses her frustration at the viewscreen, concentrating as she analyzes the data, looking for anything out of the ordinary. “Hmmm… that’s strange.” The frustration dies away, replaced by the curiosity that always manifests when she discovers a new challenge.

“What is it?” She has found the problem. Maybe it’s just a simple malfunction. The Doctor glances at Torres impatiently, but she seems too focused on the readout to hear him. He frowns. “Ms. Torres, what did you find?”

She is still deep in concentration as she speaks. “It looks like some kind of feedback loop has developed between your memory engrams and the rest of your program. No, a feedback loop isn’t quite the right idea. More like….” She frowns as she tries to find the appropriate words. Then she continues triumphantly, “an associative link. A new connection between subroutines.” He looks at her in bewilderment. What kind of programming connection would cause these kinds of impulses?

Seeing his confusion, she elucidates, “As you continue to evolve beyond your original programming, your experiences alter that program. You learn to think in new ways not conceived of by your creators.” No, he doubts they’d planned this. “Your program develops new connections allowing it to incorporate new data. In this case, a connection between your memory engrams and your….” Her voice trails off as she looks at her readouts in surprise. She calls up another display for confirmation, then continues, her voice neutral, “Your sexual subroutines.”

She looks up at him curiously. “Doctor, if you don’t mind, what kind of abnormalities have you been experiencing?” Despite his best efforts to remain neutral, the Doctor blushes furiously and looks away. Torres says in embarrassment, “Never mind. Sorry I asked.” She stands awkwardly, not knowing how to react.

Although the Doctor wants nothing more than to leave engineering immediately, there is one thing he needs to understand first. “So you’re saying that the… effects I’ve been experiencing are not a malfunction. Not an error in my program.” She looks appalled at his suggestion, but he has to make sure. He continues doubtfully, “Merely a natural progression in my development?”

Torres responds passionately to his doubt. “Oh yes, Doctor. Not an error. An evolution! It’s the result of your growth. Learning to open your mind up to new possibilities. Incorporating new information.”

“But if it’s just the influence of my memory engrams….” He trails off uncertainly. She seems finally to understand his hesitation. She reaches over and puts her hand on his, trying to reassure him.

“It’s not interference. Your memory engrams are fully integrated into your system. They provide first-hand experience. Knowledge. They are in essence the basis of your personality. What makes you who you are. And your sexual subroutines….” She blushes, the ridges on her forehead turning distinctly crimson, but continues softly. “When we added those subroutines, we incorporated your personal preferences. The feelings you have been experiencing, whatever they may be, are not a result of an error in your program. You’re not reacting because your program is forcing you to.”

She removes her hand, instead looking him in the eyes, trying to express her absolute conviction in what is to follow. “It’s more like you’re attracted to them because they remind you of someone you used to know AND because they’re someone you already like and care for. The engrams may suggest a possibility that you might not have considered before. But the connection couldn’t have formed unless your subroutine was responding to the same stimuli. The engrams just made you see the opportunity, but they do NOT control your reaction.”

The Doctor has to admit she’s right. Well… This will require some analysis. He thanks Torres absent-mindedly and turns to leave engineering.

“Doctor,” Torres says hesitantly as he reaches the door. He turns back to see her blushing again, but smiling kindly at him. “I don’t know what reactions you’re experiencing, and I don’t need to know. That’s your business. But I just wanted you to know, if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.” Although he finds he has difficulty meeting her eyes, he nods his agreement, and his thanks, before continuing out the door.

Chapter Text

“Chakotay to Sickbay.” The Doctor starts as the Commander’s hail comes over his holographic combadge. He has been analyzing his conversation with Torres. He is watching Tom from his office, predicting the probable outcomes of possible courses of action while he watches Tom work. The forced return to reality comes as something of a shock.

Despite his surprise, the Doctor manages to answer quickly, “Sickbay here. Is there something I can do for you, Commander?”

“The captain’s in pain, but of course won’t admit it. Every time she moves her head, she visibly winces. Since I know better than to try to get her to go to sickbay voluntarily, we’re both going to come by to check up on the condition of Lieutenant Ayala. Thought if I could get her in the door, you could take over from there.”

“But Commander, Lieutenant Ayala has already been released. The captain should have already received a report on his progress.” Because Janeway is notoriously negligent of her own physical condition, it has become standard procedure to use subterfuge to keep her functioning properly. As her command team and closest friends, it is usually either Chakotay or Tuvok who is responsible for this task. However in this case, Chakotay has conceived a well-designed but fatally flawed plan.

“I know.” Chakotay’s voice is tinted with laughter. “But I intercepted that report before she received it. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to get her into sickbay all day. Just get ready for us, and I’ll have her there within the next fifteen minutes.”

“Very well, Commander. I’ll be prepared.” Once coerced into sickbay, Janeway puts up minimal resistance initially. However, this docility lasts for only a short time. It is imperative to complete whatever treatment is required quickly, before she starts trying to return to the bridge. “Give me five minutes.” Chakotay acknowledges his request and closes the com line.

Chakotay is predictably true to his word. In approximately 6.924 minutes, he arrives with Janeway in tow. The captain does not seem surprised to learn of Ayala's prior release from sickbay. The Doctor suspects that she understands the true reason for the visit, but chooses to hide this fact for reasons known only to her. While the captain is often neglectful of her own health, forgoing sleep or food in favor of duty and coffee, she usually complies when Chakotay or Tuvok intervene.

“I assure you, Doctor, it’s nothing serious. My neck’s been bothering me a little bit, but it’s not anything worth bothering about.” She offers token resistance, slightly glaring at Chakotay, but does nothing to prevent him from running the bioscanner over her neck and shoulders. Chakotay leaves quietly, satisfied that she is receiving treatment, but hoping to avoid facing her afterward.

“Nevertheless, it is important for the captain to function at the peak of her ability.” He adjusts a hypospray to deliver a mild muscle relaxant as he continues, “Just a minor strain of the splenius capitus muscle in your neck. Easily healed, but a recurrent pain which can make it difficult to concentrate under stress.” He looks at her reproachfully, and she nods softly in response, acceding his point. Although stubborn, the captain is usually logical enough to defer to his medical wisdom when required.

He holds the hypospray over her neck, poised to ease the tension, but is suddenly distracted. Tom is whistling absent-mindedly as he returns all medical equipment to its proper storage location as his last task before going off duty. The Doctor stares, trying to place the tune, then blushes as he realizes it’s the Sinatra song from Sandrines. He studies Tom intently, wondering whether the song is merely a coincidence or if it is somehow intended for him. But Tom seems oblivious to his interest.

“He is rather distracting, isn’t he?” The captain’s words bring him back to his duty, and he becomes aware that he’s still holding his hand in midair. Janeway smiles laughingly at him, a strange sparkle in her eyes.

He immediately returns to his duties, completing his treatment in silence. When he again looks at the captain, her eyes signify distinct interest. As professionally as he can, he says, “There. That should relieve the pain.” He looks at her with an expression that his programming suggests is most conducive to inspiring patient confidence.

Her curiosity is evident, but apparently not sufficient to keep her in sickbay a moment longer than required. She hops off the biobed, obviously happy to be leaving so quickly. She thanks him and departs, flashing a curious look at Tom on her way out the door. Tom grins at the Doctor and follows her out the door, his duty shift ended for the day.

This is not an acceptable situation. Forgetting what he’s doing to stare at Tom in the middle of treatment. While treating the captain, of all people. While he accepts that this new fascination with Tom is a natural development of his program, he can’t allow it to affect his primary medical functions. If it was only an isolated instance, he could learn to ignore it. But the man is his medical assistant; he can’t risk distraction every time he works closely with him. What if he loses his train of thought in the middle of a medical emergency? Or while performing a surgical procedure? The possible consequences of a momentary lapse of attention could be fatal. Although he doubts that such an extreme situation will occur, the risk is too great to ignore.

He closes sickbay, which remains closed during the ship’s artificial night except for emergencies, and queries the computer for the location of B’Elanna Torres. She is still in engineering, probably staying late to refine some modification or resolve an anomalous reading. He transfers his program to his mobile emitter and walks briskly to engineering.

As he has anticipated, Torres is hunched over a computer console when he arrives, her brows knitted together in concentration. He stands near her until she looks up, not wanting to disturb her train of thought.

“Doctor, what are you doing here?” She seems surprised to find him there, quickly glancing around engineering as she realizes it is largely empty. There are a few crewmen scattered around the cavernous room, but only minimal personnel are required during the night duty shift. She grins up at him sheepishly, “Guess you might be wondering the same. Got caught up trying to figure this out, and I guess I lost track of the time.” She looks wistfully at the screen before shutting down the active program, apparently deciding it can wait until morning. “So what can I do for you?”

“Ms. Torres, I’ve thought about what you said the other day and have reached the same conclusion.” She grins triumphantly as he continues. “However, I was wondering if you could… That is, if it would be possible for you to add some kind of command to my program. One that would allow me to bypass this associative link when necessary.” Her grin fades away, and he continues before she has a chance to interrupt. “Only in case of a medical emergency, of course. I have no intention of using this reprieve to avoid the consequences of this new link, I assure you. But I do not think it wise to allow the possibility of having my medical or diagnostic abilities compromised by a lapse of attention or distracting impulse.”

She looks doubtful, but pauses to consider his explanation. “But Doctor, the chances of the link affecting your behavior during the middle of a crisis are impossibly small.” Not if Tom Paris is the one handing him the neural stimulator. “What makes you think there would ever be a conflict between the two functions?”

‘Well, Ms. Torres, simply that the person I am attracted to tends to be present during most medical emergencies, and I find their proximity dangerously intoxicating and impossible to ignore.’ “While the possibility may be slim, I do not think they should be ignored. However unlikely, I think the potential repercussions of such an occurrence are too serious to be taken lightly. I do not want to endanger someone’s life because I prioritized an evolution in my programming over my primary function.”

She remains skeptical but dips her head in acquiescence. “I guess you’re right. I’ll add a couple lines into your code so that the link is automatically bypassed during a medical emergency. That way you won’t have to realize the link has been activated in order to terminate it. So your abilities won’t be compromised even for the amount of time it takes you to realize they are being affected. I’ll finish them tonight, so the bypass routines should be in place by the time you’re reactivated in the morning.”

He nods his thanks. As an engineer, Torres is one of the few people who doesn’t anthropomorphize his deactivation periods. While treating him as a sentient individual capable of emotion and creativity, she also understands that he is at heart simply a computer program. She is one of the few crewmen who understands him as both an individual and a technological construction, without perceiving any contradictions between the two. While most of the crew has stopped treating him like a machine long ago, it is refreshing to have a friend who understands both views simultaneously.

She turns back to her work, calling up his program on the LCARS terminal. He starts to leave, but her voice halts him a few meters away. “And Doctor.” She smiles at him kindly, but there is a distinctly evil glimmer in her eyes. “It will also make it impossible for you to bypass the link manually. If the situation does not satisfy the parameters of a medical emergency, you will have to learn to control its effects. Just like the rest of us.”

Before he can object, she focuses her gaze back on the screen, effectively preventing further discussion. It was not as much as he had hoped for, but at least it should prevent any catastrophes. Of course, most of the medical duties he performs with Tom’s assistance will not qualify as emergencies. He will just have to learn to control this new link, just as Torres has suggested. He sighs as he leaves engineering. Hopefully the next few weeks in sickbay will be slow and uneventful. That’s always likely on a ship stranded in hostile territory many thousand light-years from reinforcements.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Paris, I believe it is time for us to take the next step.” Tom instantly looks up in surprise. The Doctor quickly adds “in your medical training” before Tom can say anything. He hadn’t intended to start anything yet, at least not in sickbay. Tom visibly relaxes, but grins at him evilly. The Doctor accesses his Paris interpretive subroutine and identifies it as number 203.3, his ‘just you wait’ smile. He has never seen this particular smile directed toward anyone other than Torres or Kim and has certainly never been the recipient before. This indicates that Tom is most likely responding to the recent changes in his behavior.

This is somewhat worrisome, but the Doctor is determined to remain the consummate professional. “It is time for us to progress to something a little more challenging for you. With your approval, I would like to begin training you in advanced surgical procedures. So that if anything ever goes wrong with my program, you will be able to perform all medical procedures as required until I can be brought back online.” The thought of losing the Doctor obviously troubles Tom, but he nods his agreement.

“That should never happen, but I guess it makes sense to be prepared just in case.” Tom pushes aside the paperwork in front of him, ready to begin immediately. He frowns lightly and queries, “Does this mean I’ll need to put in extra duty hours in sickbay?”

“No, Mr. Paris. I have talked to the captain, and she has agreed to transfer most of your routine medical functions to other personnel so that we can focus on your training without detracting from your other duties on the ship.” At this, Tom brightens perceptibly, the slight frown fading away. “I have also arranged my appointments to allow us as much time together as possible.” The Doctor neglects to add that he had done so before deciding to begin advanced training.

“If you agree, the change in assignments will take effect at your next duty shift. We may begin training at that time.” Tom is preoccupied with something, a slightly crooked smile tracing its way across his features. The Doctor identifies it as smile 34.6, a clear indication that he’s planning something.

“I agree,” Tom replies, his blue eyes glinting with mischief, “On one condition.” What is he up to? His expression reflects playful mischief, but he clearly conveys friendliness and acceptance as well. “If I’m going to take surgical lessons with you, the deal has to work both ways. That means you get to take piloting lessons with me.”

The Doctor nods his agreement, pleased with the suggestion. “Very well, Mr. Paris. That seems an equitable arrangement. We will have the chance to switch roles, taking turns as both instructor and pupil.” And will also have the opportunity to spend time alone together outside the confines of sickbay. The perfect way to begin exploring new possibilities in this relationship. “I agree to your condition.”

Tom beams at him with his ‘you won’t regret this’ smile, number 46.7. “Perfect.” The Doctor finds his obvious enthusiasm hard to resist, moving imperceptibly closer, but realizes his response in time to arrest the movement. There is much to accomplish before strict emotional control can be maintained around Tom. If such control is preferable. The Doctor has not yet reached a satisfactory prediction of Tom’s probable response to such a loss of control.

“You close down sickbay in a couple of hours, right Doc?” The Doctor nods. “Then how ‘bout we start the training tonight? I’ve got an hour or two of holodeck time tonight and hadn’t decided what to use it on yet. If you just meet me there at, say, 1900 hours, I’ve got some flight sims I can take you through. Think I’ll start you off easy. Probably a shuttlecraft sim.”

After confirming the time, Tom starts toward the door, his shift over for the day. He’s mumbling to himself, planning what exactly to show the Doctor, which simulations to use, and how best to begin training. The Doctor watches him go, admiring his slender frame and the graceful movements of his body. Even with no conscious thought allotted for movement, he possesses a natural control of himself and the surrounding space. The Doctor watches as Tom moves smoothly aside to let an entering crewman pass and just as easily resumes his course. No wasted energy, no jarring motion, no conscious effort. Just a natural possession and awareness.

The Doctor absently takes the proffered PADD from the crewman, who quickly exits. He glances at it automatically, but does not process the information. In only a few hours, he has a date with Tom! An appointment, he corrects quickly. For training. But despite these reminders, he finds himself eagerly anticipating the evening. It has been a long time since he has last been alone with Tom in private, for reasons not necessitated by their duties to the ship. They have started spending more time together as their friendship deepens, but these occasions usually took place at Sandrines or some other public place. But now, at last…

Alone. With Tom. And only a few hours to prepare. He needs to think of things to talk about, see if there is any way to safely develop the possibilities suggested by his evolving program. But this is after all a training simulation. He has to maintain a professional demeanor. However, Tom is also using his personal holodeck time for the session, something the biologicals considered a valuable commodity. He has to recognize the personal nature of this gesture. The Doctor frowns slightly. Surely it would not be appropriate to belittle such a gesture of friendship by arriving in his standard medical uniform. But it is still a training exercise and thus requires some degree of formality. The Doctor’s frown deepens. How exactly should he instruct the computer to project his appearance?

Chapter Text

“He’s a sensualist. I’d suggest something with an interesting texture. Something he won’t be able to keep his hands off.” The Doctor looks up, startled, to find B’Elanna Torres on the other side of his office console. He had been focused on the computer screen, reviewing the clothing section of the cultural library to find the appropriate mix of professionalism and something more, and had not noticed Torres’s entrance. Before he has time to recover, Torres leans down and puts both arms on the desk, leaning challengingly toward him.

“It’s Tom, isn’t it.” Her eyes flash aggressively, daring him to try to deny it. Her voice is low and flat, with just a hint of a growl, not a question at all but a statement of fact.

Intimidated in spite of himself, and thoroughly flustered by her directness, the Doctor stammers incoherently for a few seconds before he catches himself and falls silent. He knows Torres has been involved with Tom fairly recently, but thought it had ended mutually. He isn’t sure if he’s ready to fight a Klingon for a mate. Half-Klingon, he reminds himself. And he hasn’t even done anything yet. And besides, they’ve broken up. Who is she to accuse him? He isn’t doing anything wrong.

He looks up, prepared to answer her challenge. But he quickly realizes that she’s smiling. Her lips split open in a grin, which grows wider as he reacts with confusion and aggravation. “What’s the meaning of this, Lieutenant Torres?” he demands. This seems to be the breaking point. She stands upright again, abandoning the aggressive posturing, and laughs, softly at first, then growing to proportions only Klingons could achieve.

The Doctor restrains himself from speaking, unwilling to provide her with further amusement, until she at last stops laughing. “It’s okay, Doctor.” She smiles at him until he relaxes fractionally. “Kahless, it’s not like I don’t understand. Been there myself.”

“If I may ask….” His voice trails off hesitantly, still unsure what this is all about. “How did you know?”

“Couldn’t think of any other explanation for your recent feelings interfering with your medical duties.” Her eyes crease slightly with suppressed laughter. “Before we got together, I remember how relieved I was that Tom didn’t work in engineering all the time. And I just knew.” She places her hands lightly on her hips, leaning toward him with an evil smile on her lips. “He is intoxicating, isn’t he?”

The Doctor hesitates, tempted to deny it, but decides that Torres clearly intends no malice. “Well…” he clears his throat softly before continuing. “I suppose he can be a little distracting at times.” He can feel his expressive subroutines elevating his facial coloration and knows he’s blushing.

“I think that’s an understatement.” Her cranial ridges tint purple with the memory. She tilts her head sideways as she looks at him, a question in her eyes. “So you do intend to pursue it?”

He glances away, unwilling to answer so direct a question, but his expression serves as answer enough. “That’s what I thought.” She smiles at him again, still open and friendly. “I just wanted to say….” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “It’s worth it. No matter how defensive he gets or how angry he makes you. It’s worth all the aggravation in the long run.”

She begins to pace in front of him, caught up in finding the perfect way to express herself. “Too many people have given up on him too soon. Myself included.” She stops abruptly, whirling to face him. “If you feel tempted to stop trying. Think you don’t want to deal with it anymore. Or anything at all. Please come talk to me first, and I’ll help you through it. Whatever you do, don’t give up prematurely or you’ll live to regret it.”

The Doctor meets her gaze steadily. No matter how uncomfortable he is with admitting his attraction, he refuses to meet such open honesty with ambivalence of any kind. “I understand.” He extends his hand toward her across the desktop, Response 89.7 as suggested to convey sincerity and reassurance. She hesitates only a second before responding, reaching out to grasp his hand. She squeezes it with surprising strength before releasing it. “I won’t give up on him.” She looks relieved, but still seems unsure. “I promise.”

Torres stands silent, searching his eyes, but at last seems satisfied. “I hope you can keep that promise. I really do.” She holds his eyes for a moment longer, before dropping them guiltily. “Tom deserves someone to believe in him unconditionally. I hope you can do that better than I did.” The Doctor tries to think of a response to comfort her, but she turns away and is gone before he has a chance to speak.

He sits motionless for a moment, processing the conversation, but realizes he’s supposed to meet Tom soon and still hasn’t decided on his projection. Hmm… a sensualist. That seems consistent with what he has observed of Tom. “Computer, initiate new search of this database. Limit to Terran entries containing the word texture in the brief description.” Still several thousand entries. Tom has demonstrated an interest in Earth culture around the turn of the millennium. “Limit to twentieth or twenty-first centuries.” Still two thousand. “With a link to twenty-fourth century entries.” He doesn’t want to look like he’s stepped out of a historical holonovel. There, only 479 entries. “Display visual information.” His office terminal is programmed for his faster perceptual abilities, and the search results flash quickly across the screen in less than a minute. “Display entries 63, 248, and 412.”

Satisfied, the Doctor programs his mobile emitter to project his image accordingly. He then adjusts the colors to match his personal preference. He stands to glance at his reflection in the windows of his office. Off white dress shirt of rough wool, soft suede vest in a deep brown with burgundy satin lining, corduroy pants in a soft tan several shades lighter than the vest. He adds weathered leather loafers and admires his reflection thoughtfully. Quite handsome really, if he does say so himself, but of course he has a pleasing face to work with.

He leaves sickbay, his program predicting and analyzing possible outcomes of this evening. He is unsure how much Tom intends, but feels confident the evening offers more than simple piloting lessons.

When he reaches the holodeck, Tom is waiting for him. He’s leaning up against the bulkhead, arms crossed casually across his chest, softly humming to himself as he waits, one finger slightly thumping with the rhythm. He does not notice the Doctor’s approach and is looking idly down the corridor in the other direction, allowing the Doctor a chance to observe him.

Tom is dressed all in black, simple jeans and shirt, topped by an unadorned leather jacket. This bodes well for the evening. From the Doctor’s observations, Tom’s dress seems to be an indication of his expectations, albeit a sometimes inconsistent one. When he goes into danger or among people he doesn’t trust, as when he left the ship to identify Seska’s spy, he tends to dress as unattractively as possible, sticking to drab greens and yellowed earth tones that clash with his coloration. When he is relaxed, he uses soft blues and grays. These deepen to more vivid colors and dramatic blacks when he’s up to something. Perhaps that explains why Tom seems so comfortable in uniform: the black and vivid red are already part of his personal code for confidence and authority.

Tom looks up suddenly, cognizant of his presence for the first time. He drops his arms to his sides, immediately shifting from his relaxed position against the wall to greet the Doctor. “Hey Doc, glad you’re here. I’ve got the program all ready for us.”

Tom seems relieved to be done waiting and able to move into action at last. The Doctor quickly accesses his internal chronometer, confirming that he has arrived approximately 2.346 minutes early, just as he had anticipated. “Did I misunderstand our meeting time, Mr. Paris? I had not realized I was late.” He has learned to recognize Tom’s restlessness easily, but does not understand its occurrence in the present situation.

Tom shrugs sheepishly and grins. “Guess I got a little antsy waiting in my quarters,” he confesses. “I decided to go ahead and come down early. I wanted to make a couple of modifications to the program before you got here.” He moves to tap the control panel, calling up the training simulation as he speaks. The Doctor cocks his head sideways and raises his brows in what his body language subroutine suggests is an unspoken question.

Tom smiles mischievously. “Don’t worry, Doc. I just changed the program to assume the operator had an eidetic memory and the highest level of manual dexterity.”

The Doctor determines that this is Smile 63.2, reserved for friendly impishness. He responds with a movement copied from Tuvok, raising one eyebrow in feigned surprise. “I was not aware Starfleet shuttle simulations were so adaptable.”

Tom holds his hand to his chest in mock offense. “They aren’t, Doctor. I would never try to train someone with one of those programs.” Although still pretending to be offended, his eyes sparkle with pride. “This is my baby. This program can challenge a pilot of any skill level. I still use this program sometimes when I’m not running sims with Voyager or the Delta Flyer. And I’ve brought Naomi here for a piloting lesson.”

He extends a hand theatrically toward the door. The Doctor nods, quickly taking the lead, but feeling nervous for the first time. He reminds himself that this is, after all, supposed to be flight training. The nervousness is obviously unfounded considering his adroitness and adaptability, but he is nevertheless agitated. Despite his confidence, the Doctor is anxious to impress Tom with his abilities.

The Doctor passes through the holodeck arch and stops abruptly upon seeing the shuttle bay. All simulations he has seen or heard described open directly onto the shuttle. He scans the shuttle bay noting the level of detail with a modest grin of appreciation. The intricacies of the program are distinctly reminiscent of Sandrines. The perpetual hum of warp engines pervades the shuttle bay like the constant cloud of smoke that saturates Sandrines. There is even an unnamed crewman working to repair a damaged shuttle.

While the Doctor admires his holoprogramming abilities, Tom has moved to the nearest shuttle and now stands waiting, beaming with obvious pride. The Doctor quickly analyzes his own expression and replaces awe with confident determination as he steps up to the shuttle doors.

Inside, Tom leads the way to the front of the small shuttle. He moves gracefully into the pilot’s seat, gesturing the Doctor to his place before he lovingly runs his hands over the control panel. The Doctor stands watching his fluid movements in silent fascination. Realizing his distraction, he quickly moves to take his seat before Tom can pull himself away from the feel of his ship.

“Well, Doc. I guess class is in session.” Tom smiles at him laughingly, obviously enjoying the role reversal. His attention is focused on the Doctor, body turned to face toward him and eyes riveted, but one hand still traces its way across the control panel as he speaks, moving slowly in intimate familiarity and gentle possessiveness. “I figure I’ll run through the pre-flight checks and takeoff procedures, explaining what I’m doing, and show you the basics of maneuvering. Your memory records and fine motor control should allow you to grasp the basics quickly, enough to mimic the fundamentals. Then we’ll put you in the pilot’s seat and let you experiment with flight.” Tom smiles broadly, but the Doctor does not pause to identify the expression. He is finding it difficult to concentrate.

Tom sits motionless in the chair, focused on his instructions, but the pilot’s body is not accustomed to stillness. Even while Tom’s mental attention is focused on his words, the restlessness and inner tension of the man seeks an outlet. And finds it. One hand gently caresses the control panel, long slender fingers softly moving across the controls, exploring the panel instinctively. The movements are not strong enough to trigger the computer, but rather seem a subconscious expression of Tom’s restlessness, as if he is reassuring himself that the controls are there, claiming the shuttle as his own. The Doctor can see no physical evidence of anxiety in Tom’s body, just the ever-present energy that seems such a part of him.

“That’s where the fun part comes in. Anybody can learn to take off and land a shuttle safely. But flying….” Tom’s voice rises slightly, his cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. “That’s an art. Instinctively controlling the ship.” He takes his hand from the panel, gesturing with it as he tries to explain. “Becoming one with it, feeling its power around you and learning to direct it as naturally as you would your own body.” He shrugs helplessly, powerless to rationally convey the joy he feels in flying. “I don’t really know how to explain it. You can memorize every flight pattern in the manual, learn every technical parameter of the ship, and still be only a competent pilot. To really learn to fly, though… You have to find it inside you. Make the ship a part of you. So that you become aware of every centimeter of space outside the bulkheads as easily as you are of the controls in front of you. So that when you become aware of something, you respond instinctively, and the ship moves with your perception before you even consciously process the thought.”

Tom drops his hands to his lap and smiles awkwardly, realizing the intensity of his speech. “Not that you’ll feel it the first time,” he adds, not wanting to intimidate the Doctor before they even begin the lesson. “But I think you’ll understand what I mean once you get behind the conn. It works its way into your blood.” Tom turns back to the helm, his hands automatically returning to the panel and finding the proper position on their own. “Guess we should get started.”

The Doctor dedicates approximately fourteen percent of his processing abilities to recording and analyzing Tom’s verbal instructions, and another fifty-three percent to memorizing physical actions, what controls Tom accesses with his swiftly moving fingers, where he focuses his attention, the varying speed and pressure used on the controls. The rest he allows to wander freely, closely observing Tom as he begins to lift the shuttle off the hangar deck, pre-flight sequence complete.

The Doctor has no doubt that Tom really does experience flying as an extension of himself, despite the metaphysical nature of his description. There can be no other explanation for the way he pilots. The changes are imperceptible to the naked eye, but the Doctor’s enhanced perceptual abilities and diagnostic programs allow him to see distinct physical responses in Tom’s body. The engines of the shuttle thrum to life, growing stronger as the shuttle lifts off the deck, and the Doctor can see the slight acceleration of Tom’s heartbeat, blood pumping faster just under the fair skin, pulse fluttering at his neck. They begin to move toward the open shuttle doors, and the Doctor can see faint lines of tension growing in Tom’s body, muscles tensing slightly. Tom leans almost imperceptibly forward, every fiber of his body straining toward the doors, as if he is propelling the shuttle out into open space by sheer longing. A slight tremor passes through Tom’s body, muscles tensing and then relaxing completely, as they pass through the atmospheric forcefield into the vacuum of space, the shuttle vibrating slightly at the change in pressure.

At last they are in open space. There is a slight exhalation of breath, and Tom relaxes completely. He settles comfortably back into his chair, hands lovingly guiding the shuttle through a complicated series of loops and turns as he turns his attention to the Doctor. “See? Nothing to it. Take off is pretty simple really. You just have to pay attention to all the little details. After that, it’s just instinct.” Tom is clearly in his element now, a vague smile on his face as he effortlessly maneuvers the shuttle into a lazy roll that the Doctor knows few pilots can execute smoothly without placing undue stress on the inertial dampeners. Yet he does not even glance at the controls, pale blue eyes focused on the Doctor, as his hands move effortlessly across the panel face. “You have to get a feel for the way the ship moves, get to know her responses, how she reacts when you give her a command. Then it’ll all come naturally.” The Doctor can hear a slight acceleration of his breathing, see the tips of his ears turning a pale pink, as he turns his attention back to the viewport. “At least until it starts to get interesting and something goes wrong.”

Tom directs a command at the computer, and three alien vessels materialize, all larger and with much greater firepower than the Federation shuttle. Tom leans forward in his seat, his heartbeat fast once again as he begins to take the shuttle in wild arcs and tight curves, skillfully avoiding weapons fire even as he continues his instructions in a calm steady voice. “Now, ideally you have someone else at tactical, so that you just have to focus on flying, staying out of the way of their weapons and finding ways to get yourself into firing position at the same time. But in a shuttle, there are only a couple of people there in the first place. If someone gets injured or is making repairs you have to be ready to take care of the fighting yourself.” He smiles grimly, preparing himself for the battle. “Computer, transfer tactical controls to helm.” And the battle begins.

Tom moves his feet farther apart on the floor, distributing his weight to maintain his balance as the shuttle shakes from enemy fire. His hands fly across the controls, nimbly dancing from the primary navigational controls to the tactical console that has illuminated next to it. The Doctor watches him with fascination, amazed that Terran hands can respond with such speed. Tom guides the shuttle swiftly through the crossfire of the three ships, avoiding phaser shots from every direction and angle. He drops the craft into perfect firing position, each time managing to get in several direct hits against the heavily armored vessels, then fleeing for a new position before any of the ships can manage to get in a clear shot. He even manages to use their fire against them, maneuvering so that they fire at him in a seemingly direct hit, then moving quickly out of the way so they instead hit one of their allied ships. In a few minutes, Tom has destroyed two of his holographic opponents, leaving the last ship undefended. But instead of finishing it off quickly, he maneuvers the shuttle teasingly around it, taunting the ship with his lazy circles, firing only occasionally.

“Unless they’ve got you outnumbered though, ships like that really aren’t a challenge. They’re so much less maneuverable that you can just take your time and wear them down. Superior firepower doesn’t mean anything if they can’t hit you.” He settles back into his seat again, eyes on the viewscreen, but now seems more intent on teasing the ship than attacking it. He no longer fires on the enemy vessel, ignoring the tactical display as he focuses on outmaneuvering it. “I like to practice maneuvers with an enemy ship still alive and kicking. Makes it a little more interesting. And helps you hone your awareness of the space around you at the same time.”

Tom continues his narration as he takes the ship into more complicated maneuvers, all the while staying close to the still firing ship, but the Doctor finds it hard to listen attentively. Tom’s entire body is relaxed now, every line of coiled tension from the battle dissipated into pleased contentment. The only movement is the flicker of his eyes from controls to viewscreen to navigational display. And the constant movement of his hands on the controls. His movements are slow and gentle now, soothingly caressing the controls. His fingers move gracefully over the panel, skimming lightly across the surface, then dipping in to graze a control with his fingertip. Skillful hands teasing a response from the shuttle in a passionate caress, seducing the ship into doing exactly as he wishes.

The Doctor suddenly envies the shuttle, wishing those skillful fingers would run across his own holographic body instead. His vocal subroutines produce an amused snort at this thought. Of all the absurdities. He, the most advanced hologram ever created, capable of evolving beyond even what his creator had conceived, jealous of a holographic shuttlecraft in a training simulation? But the shuttle could not feel the loving caress of Tom’s hands. Has no emotions to respond to his touch. Is not capable of action, to take Tom into his arms and respond with a caress of his own. He snorts again. Now this is just getting silly.

Tom looks over at the sound and sees the barely contained laughter in the Doctor’s expression. He looks confused and says uncertainly, “Guess I should finish them off and let you have a turn.” He fires quickly, destroying the enemy craft and turning back toward the shuttle bay. The Doctor wants to say something, to let Tom know he isn’t laughing at him, but is afraid that if he tries to speak he will start laughing uncontrollably. He settles deeper into the co-pilot’s seat, trying to regain control. Honestly, the shuttle caressing Tom? He starts to laugh again, and is able to contain it only by refocusing his attention. He tries to imagine himself kissing Tom, taking the pilot into his arms and feeling those gifted hands running across his body. Imagines his own hands on Tom’s body, feeling the strong muscles under the skin, the slight perspiration from the excitement of combat.

Tom maneuvers into the shuttle bay, still providing on ongoing narration of his procedure, but the Doctor is no longer listening. He finds that the impulse to laugh is gone, replaced by intense desire, throbbing within him as he has not felt since Denara. Tom touches the shuttle down gently, then turns to face the Doctor. “Well, Doc? Are you ready to try?”

The Doctor quickly analyzes the situation, wondering how he should respond. Tom’s actions so far indicate a low probability of rejection. And no matter how Tom responds, the Doctor knows he desperately wants to try. He leans toward Tom, slowly closing the space between them. He brings one hand up, gently steadying Tom’s chin with his hand, as he brings his lips to meet Tom’s. He lets them rest softly there for a moment, not moving as he watches Tom’s eyes register surprise, then acceptance. Once he sees acceptance, he slowly tilts his head, brushing his lips softly across Tom’s as he moves.

He closes his eyes as Tom begins to respond, savoring the sensory input as their lips teasingly caress each other. He feels Tom’s lips part underneath his own and swiftly moves to take advantage of the opportunity. He darts his tongue inside, feels Tom stiffen slightly as their tongues meet, then relax as the kiss grows deeper. He moves his hand around behind Tom’s neck, pulling him closer as he moves from his seat to kneel beside Tom’s chair. The Doctor leans into the kiss, exploring Tom’s mouth with his tongue, bringing his other hand up to rest lightly on Tom’s waist as they kiss. Tom’s kiss is more urgent now, his mouth pressed hard against the Doctor’s, their tongues mating frantically. The Doctor can feel Tom responding to his touch, every nerve of Tom’s body focused toward the passionate contact, both arms coming up around his shoulders, pulling him down into the kiss. They embrace each other, the Doctor’s arm moving more firmly around Tom’s waist, pulling him slightly up out of his seat, Tom’s body rising to meet him, lips locked together, hands tentatively beginning to explore.

Then the kiss is broken, and the Doctor lowers Tom gently back into his seat. They gaze at each other, arms still wrapped in an embrace, both surprised at the intensity of what has just happened. The Doctor notes with satisfaction that Tom’s face is flushed with arousal, his breathing elevated. His lips are swollen with the fervor of their kiss. He notes the dazed look in Tom’s eyes, which he can only interpret as pleased surprise. This is enough. He has made the first step, and now there would be no turning back, for either of them. He would let Tom recover, reflect on what has transpired between them. There is no hurry. And he wants to take the time to do this right.

This decided, he rises slowly to stand by Tom’s chair, gently disentangling himself from Tom’s arms. He clears his throat and speaks, his voice slightly husky to his ears, “Well, I guess it’s my turn now.” Tom looks up at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then moves to vacate the pilot’s seat. “See if I can remember how to do that.” He takes Tom’s place, noting the slight residual heat from Tom’s body, and focuses on the controls in front of him. The Doctor can hear Tom dropping into the seat next to him, silent for the first time since they met outside the holodeck. The Doctor smiles to himself. If he has distracted Tom sufficiently to halt his running commentary, he must have made a strong impression. That part of the evening is a success. Now to see if he can manage to pilot the shuttle sufficiently.

He concentrates on repeating the movements of Tom’s hands on the controls, running quickly through the pre-flight checks Tom has demonstrated, and is pleased when the shuttle responds appropriately. Tom’s description of an eidetic memory is inaccurate, but the Doctor’s rapid processing speed and instant access to his memory files allow him to react in a similar way, at least as far as repetition and mimicry are concerned. He pilots out of the shuttle bay, copying Tom’s movements precisely. As he leaves the protection of the ship and moves out into space, he mentally prepares himself to react quickly. Whatever surprises Tom has planned for him, they would occur out here in the open.

The Doctor practices moving the shuttle in different directions, rolling it over, banking sharply left and then right. He frowns slightly as the shuttle jerks under his direction. Not nearly as smooth as Tom’s maneuvering, but the computer has not chimed in with any warnings about the inertial dampeners. Good enough. After all, he is a holographic doctor, not a pilot. He couldn’t exactly be expected to master piloting from watching Tom once. At least Tom is letting him get used to controlling the shuttle before springing anything unexpected on him.

The Doctor tenses as Tom speaks softly to the computer. Apparently that thought was premature. The space outside the viewscreen shimmers as an alien vessel materializes directly in front of the shuttle, weapons aimed and visibly drawing energy to fire. He swerves quickly to the side, sliding the shuttle under the vessel’s wing and to a safe position to its rear, narrowly avoiding the energy beam directed from its now ready weapons. The Doctor’s auditory sensors register a surprised grunt from Tom, and he allows himself a small, satisfied smile before focusing on the alien ship again. He has avoided the initial attack, but knows Tom well enough to assume that whatever is in store for him would be more complicated than that.

He maneuvers the shuttle around the larger ship trying to figure out what the trick is. The vessel’s primary weapons seem to be large turrets capable of emitting a phased energy beam, similar to primitive phasers, but not nearly as powerful or destructive. The weapons turrets are stationary, however, mostly facing toward the front of the ship, so that staying out of danger is relatively simple. The Doctor fires steadily at the rear turret, the only one that poses a threat unless he allows himself to be trapped in front of the ship, but his primary phasers seem to have no effect. Hmm. Although it would of course take time to destroy a target through active shields, Federation weapons technology has consistently proven sufficient to overcome Delta Quadrant shielding technology. Perhaps that is Tom’s surprise.

The Doctor accesses the sensors and quickly confirms his suspicion. The energy from his phasers is immediately and completely absorbed by the vessel’s shields. They seem to cause no drain at all on the shield’s power. No matter how many times he fires on the alien vessel, no matter where he aims, his weapons will never be able to penetrate its shield. He turns in frustration to Tom, not quite able to keep the aggravation from his voice. “Their shields are impenetrable.”

Tom smirks at him, thoroughly pleased with the Doctor’s consternation. “That’s right. Although that is an admitted long shot in this quadrant, at least for surprise encounters, it’s always possible.” The Doctor grimaces at the obvious smugness of Tom’s expression, disgusted with himself for not figuring out a way to overcome the alien’s shields and thus manage to impress his instructor. But he can see in Tom’s eyes a hint of pride that the Doctor has figured out the problem so quickly. If Tom had not expected him to see the trick so easily, perhaps there is still a chance to salvage the situation. He does not intend to let Tom down if there is still a solution. “As you figured out, you’ll never get through their shields with regular phasers. What you have to do is…”

“Let me….” the Doctor cuts him off quickly before Tom can tell him the solution, but finds he doesn’t know how to complete the sentence. He has no idea how to defeat the ship. “Let me see if I can figure out something.” Not exactly decisive action, but Tom seems pleased that he is unwilling to accept either defeat or assistance. He circles the ship, easily avoiding its weapons, as he considers the paradox. Weapons that are laughably ineffective, yet shielding that is impossible to penetrate. Well, he supposes its weapons would be remarkably effective if a ship was unfortunate enough to be trapped in the wrong place. But as long as you are quick enough and smart enough not to be caught in front of its primary weapons, the vessel poses no real threat.

Why would anyone design a space vessel with such limited weapons ability? Judging by their advanced shield technology, they are obviously capable of creating more flexible offensive strategies, yet they have chosen not to. All of the offensive weaponry is concentrated in the anterior section of the ship, as if they expect to encounter hostility only from the front. The Doctor pauses at this thought, quickly analyzing the probability of such an expectation. Perhaps that is it. Although it seems unlikely that any space battle would not include three-dimensional attacks, it seems the only likely explanation. If their primary opponent attacks only from the front, whether from limited conceptual abilities or from some strange code of honor, they would have no need of weapons facing any other direction.

But if this were the case, why would they need shields that protected them from every angle? But there is that solitary posterior turret, protecting the rear of the ship. Perhaps for retreat? And if they were forced to turn in retreat, the shields would have to provide protection while they maneuvered to leave. Thus three-dimensional protection, but still from a single point of attack. Testing a theory, the Doctor fires a sustained phaser beam at the alien vessel. After maintaining the beam for exactly five seconds, he ceases fire and studies the sensor readings. As he suspected, the shields actually grow stronger at the point of attack. He tries again, focusing primary phasers on one location in a sustained beam, then firing the secondary phaser at a different location while the primary phasers are still active. According to the sensors, the alien shields are significantly weaker at the second sight, allowing him to momentarily drain some of the energy from their shields. At last he is able to make some progress. But the vessel quickly compensates, shields still easily absorbing the combined energy of his phasers.

What he needs is some sort of anesthetic. To make the shield less sensitive to his phasers. To slow the shield compensation. But he can’t exactly numb the shield’s pain receptors, so to speak. The Doctor thinks for a moment, analyzing possible strategies. But perhaps he can overload them. He turns to Tom, to find the pilot studying him intently. “Tom, is it possible to control the phaser beam width?” He blushes, not really sure of the technical terms, but confident his treatment has a possibility for success.

There is a pause while Tom pulls himself from his thoughts to answer. “Yes, of course, Doc. But….” Tom’s eyes show surprise and puzzlement. Although he no doubt has a solution, it clearly has nothing to do with the Doctor’s question. Tom swallows his doubts, willing to let the Doctor follow his instincts. “How would you like to change them?”

“Make the primary phasers have as wide a beam as you can and still maintain firing power. And the secondary phaser on as narrow a beam as possible.” Tom studies him for a moment, obviously wondering the purpose, but the Doctor says nothing to explain. He prefers to see if his treatment is effective first. Tom shrugs and leans over to enter in the necessary commands.

“There. It’s ready.” Tom leans back in his seat, curiously watching the Doctor to see what he will do next.

“Thank you, Tom.” The Doctor smiles at him briefly, pleased that Tom trusts him enough not to require an explanation. “Now to see if this works.” He focuses his attention on the alien ship, maneuvering to stay in a consistent relative position hugging closely to the moving vessel, the shuttle pointed directly at the aliens. He engages the primary phasers in a sustained beam, directed off to the side so that they hit the shields at an angle and skim across the surface. He adjusts the angle slightly so that the beam touches the maximum surface area possible before reflecting off into space. Then he activates the secondary phaser, focusing it directly in front of him perpendicular to the shield’s surface.

As he has anticipated, the narrow beam cuts through the shields like an archaic scalpel, impacting the side of the ship where the computer has determined the shield generator is located. He quickly works to shut down the shields, managing to complete his task before the shields recover. Once the shields are inoperative, the Doctor shuts down the primary phasers and uses only the narrow beam of the secondary phaser. He slowly maneuvers around the ship, using the beam to carefully cut an incision around the base of each weapons turret, separating them from the primary hull without causing a hull breach. Once he has deactivated each of the weapons in this way, he turns the shuttle back toward Voyager and navigates back into the shuttle bay, precisely repeating Tom’s landing technique.

After landing the shuttle, he turns to Tom expectantly. “Well?” But Tom is speechless, staring at him with obvious bewilderment. While Tom is clearly impressed that he has figured out how to overcome the shielding technology, he does not understand the Doctor’s actions after the shield generator was destroyed.

“You did very well.” Tom quickly suppresses his confusion, stepping comfortably back into the role of instructor. “You handled the maneuvering very well, especially hugging their shields at the end. A little jerky at times, but very smooth for your first time.” He smiles encouragingly at the Doctor as they both stand up to exit the shuttle. “Quick reflexes, avoiding the first attack like that. And capable of improvising and following your instincts, figuring out how to get around their shields. Not the way I would have done it, but obviously effective. But Doc,” he pauses, cocking his head to the side, brows raised with curiosity, “Why didn’t you finish them off?”

The Doctor turns to face him, stopping in the doorway of the shuttle. He looks at Tom with affection, wondering how to explain himself. Tom is a man of action, always willing to throw himself into danger to protect his ship and her crew, to sacrifice himself willingly, and to kill if necessary. How to explain? He smiles gently. Perhaps the simplest way is the best. “I’m a doctor, Tom. I can do no harm. And now, neither can they.”