Icestorm (part 2) written by Maddie Mumford

Note :
This story was originally printed in the 'We'll Always Have Paris', Vol. 2 fanzine available through Unicorn Press

Reaching out she lay her hand on his arm,

"It's a long walk." Turning him, she started out in the direction Melchor had indicated. "I can listen."

Paris followed as Kes passed effortlessly through the underbrush, her sense of direction uncanny and unerring. He wondered how a species that had spent most of the last five centuries buried underground in rigidly controlled environmental conditions could possess such an innate ability to deal with the natural environment. They had traveled a little more than half a kilometer when the shrub and low growth thinned and Kes slowed her pace, allowing him to walk beside her. As they walked she had continued to collect and catalogue plant samples, the soft bleep and whir of her tricorder the only unnatural sound.

"So?" she asked at last, breaking the silence.

Paris shrugged, looking down into her concerned blue eyes and feeling decidedly uncomfortable. Kes did not need to know what Melchor thought of him, and vice versa.

"It really was nothing," he said smiling his most disarming grin. "A misunderstanding."

He felt Kes' hand on his arm, the slight squeeze of her fingers. Then she stopped, and pulled him to a stop as well.

"You forget, Tom, I may be very good at observation, but I'm also an empath, even if only a latent one. What I saw... what I *felt* was not nothing. Melchor's resentment runs deep."

"Yes," Paris agreed. "But that isn't so different, now is it?"

He saw the sadness shadow across her face, darkening the clear blue of her eyes and turning her mouth downward.

"I thought things had gotten better since... the incident with Michael Jonas?"

Paris shook his head, a sardonic half smile creasing his handsome features.

*I had hoped they would,* he though silently, aware he was doing a poor job of hiding his feelings from Kes. The concern in her face was more cutting than Melchor's attitude or words.

"Some people will never stop thinking of me as an outsider, Kes. It doesn't matter what I do or say." *So I've stopped trying to convince them otherwise,* he added to himself.

"Melchor is one of those." Kes asked, her hand on his arm tightening slightly.

Paris nodded.

"Tell me."

Kes eyebrows drew together, her expression that of an old fashioned school marm, stern and demanding. Paris was not going to get out of telling her that easily. With a sigh, Paris shook his head again, then smiled, a warm genuine smile, touched by Kes' heartfelt concern.

"It goes back to the Alpha Quadrant, Kes. Back to when I first came aboard Voyager. Things were different. Attitudes were different. It wasn't Maquis versus Starfleet then, it was more like Starfleet versus Tom Paris." *With rare exceptions,* he thought. *Like Harry.* "Everyone seemed to know who I was and what I'd done. Some were more blatant in about expressing their dislike. Doctor Fitzgerald, Cavit, even Stadi. Others were more subtle, but the feeling was there. I was the outsider, an 'observer' and nothing more. Forever watching what I couldn't have."

Paris cut off the words, stemming the bitterness, that never quite went away, the burden he would never completely shed, as long as someone remembered the Alpha Quadrant. He did not want that to sour his relationship with Kes. A relationship he had come to cherish, even though, he was, once again, all too much the outsider, observing what he could never possess. The touch of Kes' fingers on his cheek, a feather light brush of fingertips, yet as jolting as a phaser on full stun, brought him back. She still waited patiently.

"Melchor," he said simply, as thought the name itself was explanation. "I had a hard time figuring him out. He's one of those people who fade into the background. You never know they're there. Never know what they're thinking."

"He's Starfleet." Kes commented when he paused again.

"Yeah. A good 'fleeter. Steady. Dependable. But nothing outstanding." *The kind of loyal, unquestioning crewman Dad would have loved,* he thought. *A model officer. Never out of line.*

"A follower." Kes said again.

Paris nodded. "That's how I always read him. He was one of Cavit's puppies. Liked what Cavit liked. Disliked what Cavit disliked."

"And Cavit disliked you?" Kes forehead creased with concern.

"Look, Kes," Paris smiled, trying to lighten her dismal mood. "That's all ancient history. This is the Delta Quadrant. Cavit is no longer here."

"But the resentment and anger are."

Paris cocked his head to one side, took a deep breath, and continued.

"I don't know. Maybe he blames me for Michael Jonas' death."

He tried to make the statement sound flat, emotionless, as though the possibility was of no concern. The last thing he wanted was for Kes to worry. As soon as he had said the words he knew he had made a mistake.

Kes stepped back, "But you had nothing to do with that. Neelix..."

"Yeah, Neelix may have been the one who pushed Jonas into the warp core, but I'm the one who pushed until Jonas' activities were exposed. Neelix just came in on the tail end of things. Wrong place at the wrong time."

"I didn't know Melchor and Jonas were friends."

"Surprised me too," Paris said.

"Seems they were extremely close friends. Jonas never struck me as the charismatic type, but Melchor was stuck to him like an old coon hound to its master."

Kes walked a few paces away, then turned to face Paris, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her body stiff with tension.

"Do you think he knew what Jonas was doing? Transmitting information to the Kazon."

Paris shrugged. "Melchor was too loyal to Starfleet to be a spy. And in all honesty, I doubt he had the imagination. But, I don't know. I just know he isn't too fond of me. Probably wishes Neelix's allegation that I was the spy was the truth."

Stepping closer to Kes, Paris took her firmly by the shoulders,

"Now let's forget him. Enjoy what's left of the day. We may not see planetside again for weeks."

Kes, smiled, then nodded. Taking out her tricorder she slipped free of his grip and quickly scanned the area.

"That stand of Aramaecae is just on top of a slight rise. A few minutes more in this direction."

Turning, the Ocampa moved off in the direction they had been walking, her step light and apparently carefree, caught again in the joy of exploring. Paris watched for a moment, envious of her ability to find pleasure so easily in simple things. He tried to convince himself the incident with Melchor was a passing irritation, something that might never go away, but need not hang like a dark cloud over his every move. He was not very successful. Breaking into a dog trot, he jogged after the receding back of his companion. Kes heard the soft crackle of footfalls on the dry leaves littering the ground, and resisted the urge to turn around, concentrating instead on the readings she was taking, pretending her heart did not lurch each time he came close. She did not want him to see how upset she had been by the encounter with Melchor. Paris had brushed off the incident, but she knew it had bothered him more than his casual manner belied. Although she could not read his thoughts, she sensed his emotions with uncanny accuracy, an ability she had acquired as their relationship developed, and which had intensified when she had realized how deeply he cared for her. The same emotional affinity existed between her and Neelix, and also, to some extent, with Captain Janeway. But it was Melchor, more than Paris, who had disturbed her. His animosity was almost palpable, focused directly at Tom, and so intense, the emotion was painful even to her immature senses. Mixed with the anger was a great sense of loss and pain that twisted the anger into a smoldering rage. Paris did not appear to feel threatened, in fact he seemed resigned to Melchor's attitude, yet it made her strangely uneasy, even fearful. It was the fear she wished to hide from Paris. He had dealt with the reactions of his fellow crewmen far longer than she had, and she knew she must trust his judgment in this case. If he felt there was no danger, that the anger would eventually fade, then she must calm her own inner misgivings. Carefully schooling her features so that none of her apprehension showed in her expression, she turned to Paris. He stood quietly behind her, hands behind his back, the rate of his breathing slightly elevated, his demeanor relaying a patient, yet expectant boredom.

"Just a few more feet," she said brightly continuing to monitor the read-out from her tricorder.