Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

privilege to serve with her these past seven years.” Why were his eyes stinging so? And that lump in his throat . . .
    Later, Tom would never be able to remember just which of them had made the first move. Maybe both of them did. But the next thing he knew, he was in his father's arms. It was a sensation he had not experienced since—he couldn't remember. Had his father ever embraced him so freely, so tightly, before? Had
he
ever wanted to open his arms to the rigid authority figure the untouchable, aloof Admiral Paris had always represented?
    It didn't matter. His head resting on his father's shoulder, Tom smelled the familiar scent of aftershave, and for the first time, really believed that, finally, he was going home.
    “Dad,” he whispered, brokenly.
    “My boy,” Owen Paris replied, his own voice hoarse. “My boy. I'm so glad you're home.”
    They sat and talked for a long, long time. Paris noted that they avoided anything of real import, like whether or not he'd be put back in jail or the fact that Admiral Paris was a grandfather. Tom was shocked to learn that, on a whim, his father had decided to take a cooking class and was laughing out loud at an anecdote about what “blackened chicken”
really
meant when the door hissed open.
    Janeway stood there, smiling. “I wanted to give you some time alone together before I called the senior staff for Admiral Paris's preliminary debriefing. Tom, does he know . . . ?” She lifted an eyebrow in question.
    “Before we begin, Captain,” said Tom, standing straight with pride, “is there time for my father to meet his daughter-in-law and granddaughter?”
    Admiral Paris came as close to openmouthed gaping as Tom had ever seen in his life. Tension raced through him. Time to drop the other shoe: “B'Elanna will be so happy to see you, sir.”
    He knew Admiral Paris knew who B'Elanna Torres was. A half-Klingon, and, like his son, a former Maquis. Silently, Tom pleaded that the fragile new camaraderie they had just established would weather this new storm.
    There was a long, taut pause. Then a slow smile spread across the lined face. “It would be a pleasure.”
    When Tuvok reported to sickbay per the Doctor's orders, he felt a rush of surprise, which he quelled at once. Standing there calmly, his hands folded behind his back, was his eldest son, Sek.
    “Greetings, Father,” said Sek calmly. “It is good to see you.”
    “And you, my son. I assume that the Doctor requested your presence to administer the
fal-tor-voh?”
    Sek nodded. “Admiral Paris contacted me approximately fourteen hours ago. I studied the disease extensively during my voyage to rendezvous with
Voyager.
I believe I am adequately prepared to meld with you, Father.”
    Privately, Tuvok wondered. A few hours spent reading material on such an intricate, complicated procedure hardly rendered his son, intelligent though he was, “adequately prepared.” But he knew the situation was worsening. He looked over at the Doctor, who answered Tuvok's wordless question.
    “The genetic link is more important than actual familiarity with the procedure,” the Doctor said. “And frankly, Commander, time is of the essence. I don't think anything would be served by waiting until Sek has learned more.”
    “Very well,” said Tuvok. To Sek, he said, “We'll return to my quarters.”
    “If you don't mind,” said the Doctor, “I'd rather have you here, so I can monitor your response. Not to insult you, Sek, but there's a chance that something might go wrong.”
    “It is impossible to insult me, Doctor,” Sek replied. “I have no emotional response to critiques or commentary on my skills or lack thereof. Therefore, I can neither be flattered nor insulted.”
    “Vulcans,” the Doctor muttered, rolling his eyes. Tuvok hesitated. This was an intimate, private ceremony. And yet, he was forced to admit that the Doctor had logic on his side. Reluctantly, he lay down on the biobed. He glanced over to see B'Elanna watching him; then she quickly looked away and returned her attention to nursing her child.
    “I offer my congratulations on the healthy birth of your child,” he said, somewhat stiffly.
    “Thank you, Tuvok,” she replied. She offered no question or commentary on what she was witnessing, for which Tuvok was silently grateful. “Doctor,” she said suddenly, “Tom and his father are coming down to meet me and Miral. I'd like to receive them in my quarters, if that's all right.”
    “As