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Overworked and Underappreciated
Part 1 of 1
Synopsis: Set during "Night." Tom Paris' constant companion
gives her side of the story.
Overworked and Underappreciated.
"Overworked and underappreciated," she said.
"Excuse me?" I asked. My companion and I hadn't even been formally introduced and she was already giving me her tale.
"I'm overworked and underappreciated," she repeated.
"Well," I said, noting her complaint, "after today, I don't think you'll be underappreciated, at least."
"You're the assignment of Constantine, right?"
I paused before remembering that chubby-cheeked Constantine was my Guardian Angel. One of the few times we'd actually sat and talked, he told me how the other Guardians teased him about getting fat.
At my nod, my companion sighed. "Constantine keeps bragging to me how you haven't so much as broken a bone."
Which was, of course, true. It's not that I've lived a sheltered life, but rather that I like making other people's lives dangerous through my stories.
"My assignment has died once--through no fault of mine--and probably wouldn't have survived past his third birthday if it hadn't been for me," she declared. She deftly crossed her legs, which looked strange hanging in a total void, a gleaming starship the only interruption in the blackness.
"If scissors hadn't become obsolete 300 years ago, I swear--sorry, Father--that little imp would've been running with them. Would you believe he learned how to climb out of his crib when he was only 8 months old?"
Considering the object of discussion... "Yes."
"Exactly," the Guardian Angel said. "And he's been constant trouble ever since."
Despite myself, I began to chuckle. She frowned.
"You try going 35 years without blinking. If I so much as bat an eyelash, he gets a couple of bruises and broken bones!"
Wiping the grin off my face, I leaned back-- interesting thing to do in the middle of nowhere--and opened my notebook.
"Why don't you start at the beginning?" I asked.
* * *
My name is Xanthe, which means blonde. Yes, I know I'm probably the first angel with gray hairs you've ever seen, but I'll explain those later.
I've been a Guardian Angel since Creation. Alexander the Great was my first tough assignment, and Ulysses S. Grant wasn't much better. But nobody and nothing--not even guarding gullible young Pavel Chekov--ever prepared me for my current assignment.
One of the higher-ups (Michael, I suspect) thought it would be cute if an angel named Xanthe guarded a baby boy with blonde hair. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, my new assignment looked like a cherub when he slept. The angel unemployment rate had skyrocketed over the past two-and-a- half centuries, when humans began to favor science over religion. I considered myself lucky to still be a Guardian, rather than forced to flit from cloud to cloud, uselessly strumming a gilded harp perfectly capable of playing itself.
At least, I considered myself lucky until, when not even eight months old, Tom Paris climbed out of his crib.
As I summoned Grace Paris into the room in time to catch the giggling infant before he fell, I thought to myself, This one'll be a handful. But I was wrong.
He was two handfuls and a bent halo.
Tom went directly from crawling to running, with no walking or toddling between. I once injured a non-corporeal ankle rushing ahead of him to knock a stray toy out of his way before he tripped over it. And, yes, I once sprained a wing slowing his descent when he fell down a dried-up well. He ended up with a concussion and a little easily repaired spinal trauma, but I ended up with a sprained wing, bruises on my arms, a muddy robe, and a crooked halo.
Yes, my halo is still bent. I haven't had the time to properly straighten it out. He won't give me the opportunity!
If I ever find the devil Lucifer ol' chap assigned to Tom, I'll tie his horns in a love knot and braid his tail with lace ribbons. Then I'll bathe him in scented oil and paint his cloven hooves pink. That'll teach him to mess with me...
Anyway, Tom somehow survived adolescence and I kept him physically in one piece after a couple of skiing accidents and a shuttle crash. (I still don't know how I managed.) But circumstances were cruel and poor Tom was left directionless.
I did the best I could for him, even calling in an 800 year-old rain check from Fate. She sent help for him in the form of a slightly older Tom Paris. At least I knew he'd live for a couple more years. I gained a couple gray hairs when he joined the Maquis and several more when he was sent to prison.
Apparently, I'd forgotten how much trouble Starfleet officers could get into. When he Kathryn Janeway asked him to help her find some missing Maquis, I allowed myself a sigh of relief and actually indulged myself in a clean robe!
Come to think of it, maybe Lucifer and Fate have it out for him. Somehow, Voyager, with Tom Paris on board, ended up in the Delta Quadrant! I arrived in time to help Rebecca (who'd been spending a lot of time in the shape of a coyote or wolf, I never remember which) hold up a crumbling set of stairs while Tom carried her assignment up them.
And it's been Hell, um, trouble ever since.
My remaining blond hairs almost turned white when young Paris took that insane warp-ten flight. Then, when he died of complications, my heart ached, but playing harp no longer seemed quite so boring. I think I was ready to retire.
But none has ever been so stubborn as Tom Paris! I should've known a little thing like death wouldn't keep him from getting into trouble! Following his rather unusual resurrection (which Father says He had nothing do with), he was back to his normal duties, which included getting himself hurt.
I admit, I carried oxygen to his and B'Elanna Torres' pressure suits, because I just couldn't bear to leave him. It's in the Guardian Angels' Golden RuleBook somewhere that you have to take extreme measures to keep your assignment alive. Since he couldn't bear to live without B'Elanna, I had to keep her alive, too. Since Lieutenant Torres is half-human, Michael consented and assigned an angel to her.
There really is no rest for the weary. Even Maureen and Anthony, who guard Captains Janeway and Picard, respectively, pity me. I've been voted "Angel of the Year" unanimously four years straight.
"There never was a man more in need of a Guardian Angel," Archangel Michael told me as I deflected a shot from a Hirogen hunter just enough so that Tom's pressure suit took most of the damage.
And his relationship with B'Elanna Torres? I've never seen so many cuts and bruises I couldn't prevent. Maureen just drifts aimlessly about the ship, chatting with Simon, who has the task of watching Harry Kim. Simon has had a small share of hair-raising experiences, mostly caused by Tom Paris.
Voyager left the Hirogen behind, but not before I kept Tom from being murdered on the holodeck a few times. Fairly smooth sailing ensued afterward, with the sole exception of that Silver Blood mess, which brings you up to date.
* * *
As Xanthe finished, I tapped my pencil against my teeth.
"If you've had so much trouble with Paris," I began, "how come you can take the time to do this interview?"
Xanthe swept her arm in a circle. "You see that? It's known as 'the Void'. You saw the meeting this morning, right?" I nodded. "It's like Harry Kim said, 'it'll be like a two- year vacation.'"
"But Tom's notorious for finding trouble in the least-suspecting places!"
"Only since you fan fiction writers got a hold of him!" she retorted, then sighed. "Yes, I've been keeping an eye on--"
Suddenly, Voyager's lights began to die. One by one, every light on the ship went out, ending with the deflector dish.
"--Him," Xanthe finished weakly. With a flash that was a dull imitation of a Q, she disappeared, heading for the holodeck, where Tom Paris was getting himself injured. Again.
Definitely overworked.
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