Disclaimer: Voyager and those that serve aboard her, or visit her, are Paramount's. The text is mine; inspiration, however, is my Muse's.
Tom Paris was puttering about in sick bay, putting in his required hours a week. Almost everyone on Voyager did two jobs; it was just a way of making more resources available. Some people worked the ship's laundry or housekeeping as their second job, but Tom was the relief medic.
The others had it better.
They didn't have to spend so much time with the Doctor.
Normally, Tom's duty shifts were tolerable, but this one especially was no picnic. Morose and sullen after his little adventure with the Qomar, the Doctor spoke only when spoken to, and even then didn't bother to even try to defend himself when Tom tried to involve him in some verbal jousting.
Let there be no mistake, Tom was actually quite fond of the hologram, and thought it was remarkable how far the Doctor had evolved since he was first activated. Although comprised of photons, he was a real person. He felt, he wanted, he thought, and he did everything that anyone else on the Voyager crew did. In short, he was a fantastic piece of work; but did he have to be so damn moody all the time? Why couldn't they program up a happy hologram that was much more fun to deal with?
That was an extremely disloyal thought. Moody, irritable, pompous, or not, the Doctor was still their doctor, and they wouldn't give him up for anything.
Of course, it wasn't like Tom was ever going to tell the Doctor that. The closest he'd ever come to expressing his true feelings for Doc was right before Doc left for the Qomar homeworld -- and even that had been sifted through a filter that removed virtually all the emotional content.
Doc sighed again.
Tom noted it, and also noted that he needed to talk to the captain about the present situation in sick bay.
Kathryn Janeway was going over crew evaluations in her ready room when the doorbell rang. Glad of any sort of distraction, she called, "Come in."
The doors parted to reveal Tom Paris, looking as worried as he ever got -- which was, to say, not much. "Captain," he acknowledged her.
"What do you need, Tom?" Janeway asked, to start the conversation.
Tom exhaled a little bit. "Oh, no, Captain, it's not about me. Personally, I'm fine. No, Captain, it's about the Doctor."
Janeway frowned slightly. "What about the Doctor?"
"He's not taking this whole Qomar thing well." Catching Janeway's frown, Tom said, "Look, Captain, I know he made a real pest of himself during the whole thing, but he's starting to get really depressed now."
Janeway sighed.
"Look at it this way, Captain," Tom offered. "It's another rung on the ladder of humanity."
That provoked a smile. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were fond of the Doctor," Janeway teased mildly.
Tom looked horrified, but Janeway knew it was all feigned. "Well, it's just with the Doctor so depressed, it's no fun teasing him," Tom explained.
"Yes, well," Janeway said. "I'll call the Doctor in later."
"Thank you, Captain," Tom said.
Janeway nodded once, saying dismissed. Tom knew the signal and departed as quickly as he had come.
Finding a message from Captain Janeway on the console in his office requesting a meeting as soon as possible, the Doctor quickly wrapped up the tissue analyses he was working on and reported to the captain's ready room. Entering the room at her "Come in," he found her gazing out the windows. She turned around and said, "A little bird told me that you're not at peak efficiency today."
An involuntary self-diagnostic returned true, meaning that technologically, he was working fine. But after their debates about his being just a piece of technology, he was sure that wasn't what the captain meant. "I'm fine, Captain," the Doctor said stiffly.
"No, you're not," Janeway challenged.
She knew him too well. In three words, she'd called his bluff. What to do now? Decision subroutines said to maintain the bluff in the interest of patient relations, but his gut (not that he really had a gut, thanks to Zimmerman's fine physique, but this was definitely some instinct) told the decision subroutines to shove it and tell the truth.
Instinct was always better. "No, Captain, I'm not."
A small pause. "It hurts, doesn't it."
"I can't hurt. I'm a --"
"Yes, Doctor, I know, you're a hologram. Quit telling me that. For one, I am perfectly aware of the fact that you're a hologram, and second, you are much more than your garden-variety hologram, and even they have emotions. The fact that you're a hologram is no longer an excuse to avoid talking about things."
Peevishly, the Doctor said, "First you treat me like a toaster. Now you're insisting that I'm much more than just a talking tricorder."
Janeway fixed him with The Look. "Quit stalling, Doctor."
The Doctor sighed. "I thought Tincoo loved me, not just for the fact that I could sing, but for who I am and what I am. But come to find out, all she wanted was the music. All they wanted was someone to sing for them. I was the first one they found, but when she invented a new one, they dropped me. Captain, her creation looked like me, sounded like me -- well, except for the range -- but because it could sing more notes than I can, it was automatically better. I feel so . . ." He trailed off, searching for the proper word.
"Used?" Janeway prompted.
"Yes."
"Like a dirty dishrag?"
"Yes!"
"It happens, Doctor. I remember how betrayed I felt in sixth grade when I found out that Christopher Collins was only interested in me because he wanted someone to do his math homework for him."
"But they loved me, Captain!" the Doctor cried.
This, Janeway knew, was the heart of the Doctor's problem. Still some areas existed in which he was an innocent, and knowledge of how capricious people's tastes were was one of them. All he knew was that he had been popular one moment, and then shelved when the new improved "Doctor" came out.
"We all have our fifteen minutes of fame, Doctor," Janeway said. "Some of us don't even get that much time. You have something unique: the veneration, however temporary, of an entire planet. I think there are a lot of reasons why the Qomar liked 'their' doctor so much more than you. You know they felt that their technology was superior to ours. Therefore, because one of them had created the new Doctor, it was better, and they always liked better. Their Doctor was able to do more of what they wanted. That's no shame, Doctor. You and Tom Paris both work in sick bay, but in truth I feel about as comfortable with Tom Paris running sick bay as I do with you at the helm. Tom was born to pilot; you were born to practice medicine; their Doctor was born to sing. And also, people's tastes change. What do you know about the late 20th century?"
"I went there, Captain."
"So did I. What do you remember about it?"
The Doctor searched his memory banks. Finding nothing in his personal experience, he searched the ship's records and finally found what he thought the captain might be getting at. "There was a class of people known as celebrities, mostly film and TV actors and actresses. They were commonly venerated by society."
Janeway was nodding. "And different celebrities experienced fame at different time."
"Correct, Captain."
"I'd say you counted as a celebrity, wouldn't you? Among the Qomar?"
The Doctor considered. "I suppose so, Captain."
"Well, there you go. You were famous then. You're not now. It happens."
"But . . ." the Doctor struggled to find the words, "I would like to think that I'll be remembered for more than just coming to their planet and singing for three days!"
Janeway laughed. "Of course you will, Doctor! You brought music to their planet! It's not every day one person is able to revolutionize the culture of a planet. And now, they have the ability to make their own music. They'll never be the same, and you're responsible for that. As first contacts go, it was wonderful. And entertaining, too. If you haven't already made the history books, you're guaranteed a spot now."
"Small consolation," the Doctor said stiffly.
"Oh, Doctor," Janeway said, "I know you're hurting too much now to realize it. But 'tis better to have been loved and left than never to have been loved at all."
Dryly, the Doctor said, "And 'tis better to be loved and stay than it is to be loved and fly."
"You took a risk, Doctor, and it didn't work out. It's okay to take a risk. You just have to beware burning your bridges behind you."
"Which I almost did. But I'm glad to be home, Captain."
"We're glad to have you back, Doctor."
"Thank you, Captain. Now, if you've finished, I have some tissue analyses to attend to . . ."
"Dismissed, Doctor."
The Doctor strode out of the ready room.
He was safely ensconced back in sick bay and working his tissue analyses when his commbadge went off. "Seven of Nine to the Doctor."
"Yes, Seven?" he asked.
"Please join me in Holodeck Two for a concert at 1830 hours," she requested.
The Doctor frowned. "A concert? I've had enough of concerts."
"Please, Doctor," Seven said. "I require your presence."
Sighing, the Doctor said, "All right, Seven, I'll be there. Who's singing?"
"I cannot tell you at this time," was Seven's crisp response. "I will see you there. Seven of Nine out."
The Doctor transferred himself into Holodeck Two at precisely 1830 hours, expecting to see -- well, he wasn't sure what he was expecting to see, anything but what he found, which was an empty Sandrine's, with a piano instead of a pool table. As he looked around, Seven stepped away from the bar, where she'd been waiting for him. "Hello, Doctor," she said.
"Hello, Seven," the Doctor returned. "I ask you again: who is performing tonight?"
"You are."
"No, Seven, I can't --" the Doctor began.
"Comply," she said firmly.
The Doctor decided to use a stall tactic. "Shouldn't we wait for the audience to arrive?"
"Your audience is already here." Seven handed him a padd. "Sing this."
He quickly scanned the music on the padd, then began to sing. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . ."
Seven joined in. "You make me happy, when skies are gray . . ."
Together they finished the song. When done, Seven said, "Thank you, Doctor. I wished to hear you sing that."
"Isn't singing . . . irrelevant?" the Doctor asked, half-kidding.
"The song is a trivial ditty, irrelevant in itself," Seven said. "It is the act of singing that is relevant, and in singing it, the song becomes relevant. Good evening, Doctor. I must recalibrate the Astrometrics sensors before I regenerate." She strode out of the holodeck, leaving the Doctor with his mouth hanging open. It took him a second to close it.
Seven, enigmatic as always, had given him something to think about, again. Given the amount of time he spent thinking about her in the first place, though . . . ah, it was no use pretending that he wasn't attracted to her. He didn't think she felt even remotely the same way, but given her "fan mail" and her comments just now . . . could she?
The Doctor mulled over the possibility for approximately one point three seconds, then came to a conclusion. Naaaah. It was just another daydream of his, wishful thinking.
Still . . .
Dismissing the possibility from his mind, the Doctor exited the holodeck.
~end~