A Ten 1/1 [PG-13] VOY (Humor) Paris

Summary: What if the Tom Paris creations of various fanfic writers visited the set of Voyager and spoke to a director in front of
a mortified Robbie McNeill? (Rating PG-13) 

Disclaimer: The character of Tom Paris as well as the others on Voyager belong to Paramount. The imaginings are mine. What
I do to other fanfic writers' versions of Tom Paris are also mine. What they do to him is the fun they provide us. If I missed
naming an author (besides counting your blessings!) it's not that I don't love you. There's just so much that can fit into one little
story. Whatever's left is copyright, 1997. Archive? Just ask and I'll probably say yes. Please keep disclaimer and name intact.
This is my first submission. E-mail is welcome!

A Ten 
By Judy 

The assistant director desperately searched for the director. Her eyes wild, her motions frantic, she bumped into one of the
talent on his way to make-up. 

"Oh, God," she breathed. 

"Hey. Everything all right?" 

The voice was as light as the hair, face, and eyes of the tall man who stepped back a pace to look down on her disarray. 

"Robbie. Uh. Hi," she acknowledged. "Don't go in there." 


"Make-up. Isn't that where you're headed?" 

"I was. But . . .?" 

"Don't go. Have you seen Woody?" 

"Our director?" 


"No." Robbie looked around. "What's wrong in make-up?" 

"Don't go in." 

He regarded her thoughtfully. Her short brown hair settled around her face, her blue eyes -- almost as blue as his own --
frantically darted around the set. She sighed, "Finally." 

To his bemusement, the AD flew off leaving the handsome young actor shaking his head at the very strange early morning
encounter. Shrugging, he headed on toward the make-up trailer. But before he reached it, the AD and the director charged
past him and hurried inside. He wondered what it could be and followed them inside the trailer. 

Oh, dear God. 

His knees almost gave out as he saw them. The AD had been trying to get him outside before that could happen, but it was too
late. She held him up by one arm as the director addressed the noisy group. From where he stood, trying to catch his breath,
Robbie saw a sea of blue shirts, punctuated here and there by the red and black Starfleet top all on men crowded into the small

"Quiet down. Quiet down," the director shouted. "What's going on here? Is this some joke?" 

Robbie had broken out in a cold sweat. He couldn't believe it. How many . . . how many were there? As the noises crashed
over him in meaningless sounds, his eyes began to sort them out. It was truly staggering. A dozen men, maybe more, who all
looked like him. Not completely like him. Some were older, some younger, some blonder (very blonder), some thinner, some
in costume. Those not in costume seemed to have chosen blue shirts. Oh, and there was one woman. He sucked in his breath.
Uh-oh. She looked like him, too. Sort of. 

Woody had things more or less under control. "All right. Now we'll go around the room. Each of you tell me who you are and
what you want. Let's start with you." 

He pointed to a shy looking, very slender, young looking Tom who was half hiding behind one who looked even younger with
silky clothes, a cocked hip, and pouty attitude. The flamboyant one asked. "Me, sweetie?" 

"No, you're next. Him." 

The shy one looked around, pointed to himself and mouthed 'me'? At the director's nod, he softly introduced himself. "Well. I'm
-- uh -- Brenda Antrim's Tom. And she . . . well . . . " he stammered, ". . . she had me beaten and worse in prison and made
me have PTSD. And I had to get counseling from Chakotay and Tuvok and even the captain." The young man had tears in his
eyes. "It was . . . it was really embarrassing." 

The director nodded. Gently, trying not to spook this scared looking Tom, he asked, "So. What do you want?" 

"I want . . . I want her to take it back." 

The flamboyant kid next to him sighed theatrically. "Oh, give it a rest, sweetheart. You should be Supercat's slut. She's made
me have sex with everything that moves." 

"Okay, beautiful," Woody told him, "You're next. What do you want?" 

"I want her to get Chakotay to make up his mind about me." The next words were spoken very softly. "And to make him see
that I'm not a whore." 

The young man's eyelashes fluttered at Woody, the mouth pouting prettily. In the back, R'rain's Tom spoke up. "Forget
Chakotay. What about Harry?" 

Another voice added, "Chakotay, Harry. Pretty soon it'll be Tuvok." 

"It already is," raku's Tom told him. 

Before Woody could respond to any of these sidebars, the woman pushed forward. "What are you people whining about? Do
you know how long I've been a woman?" 

Robbie sat down on a nearby chair. 

"And who are you, dear?" Woody asked reasonably. He'd seen out of the corner of his eye the stunned reaction of his talent to
this latest variation of Tom Paris. 

"Jennifer Pelland created me in a transporter malfunction. And then she stranded me on a planet for years with Chakotay while
I changed into a woman. Now, at first she brought me back and made me a male again. But," she looked about to join
Brenda's Tom in tears, "but now she's changed her mind and I don't know how long she's going to make me stay a woman." 

"Sheesh. All you have to do is read to the end of the story. Duh." Supercat's Tom taunted. 

She blushed, bright red flushing her fair skin. "It's . . . it's too much. I'm a male. No more messing around with my

A darker haired Tom stepped forward. "What's all this talk about Tom -- woman or not -- and someone else? Tom's only
romantic interest is B'Elanna." 

"And who are you?" 

"I'm Neetz' Tom, and DangerMom's Tom, and the whole PT Collective's Tom," he said somewhat proudly. He flashed a killer
smile at the director. 

Woody sighed. "And what do you want?" 

"These fanfic writers have to work overtime because you people don't pay enough attention to Tom and B'Elanna. I love
B'Elanna, but you haven't even let me say it on the air. What's she going to think? Probably what most people think. . . that I'm
just some shallow lightweight like this Supercat's Tom." 

"Hey, sweetie, you're as bad as Chakotay. You don't think I'm capable of anything but an exploitive, shallow relationship. But
let me tell you -- " 

"Wait. Guys. And lady." 

As Woody tried to sort things out a new Tom Paris moved forward. "You guys have it easy. At least you're experienced." He
blushed furiously. "My writer? Joanne Collins? Do you know what she did to me?" 

His voice was indignant, his blue eyes flashed. None of the others answered. Into the silence he almost spit out the words, then
faltered on the last word. "She made me a -- a virgin." 

There were gasps of genuine shock. Even Supercat's Tom was stunned into silence. 

Deciding he might as well accept this declaration much as he had the others, Woody asked, "And what do you want?" 

"I want to be a little more like the others. Even Harry is, you know. Experienced." 

"Any time sweetie, just say the word. Kiss, kiss." 

"Shut up, Supercat Tom." Collins' Tom blushed furiously. "This isn't funny! A 30 year old virgin in the 24th Century. What's
wrong with me?" 

Two very blonde, very bruised lips, very sweet faced Toms in the back exchanged looks and smiled knowingly. They were
perched next to each other on the make-up counter. The mirror and lights behind them refracted their golden heads brilliantly
into the room. Woody noticed their very characteristic Tom Paris smirks and called them out. "You two. Yeah. You two. In the
back. Who are you?" 

"I'm Amirin's Tom," one said, voice all musical and sensual. 

"And I'm torch's Tom," the other added, porcelain blue eyes expressive, heat radiating off his sleek, unselfconsciously sexy

Robbie buried his face in his hands. What was he going to tell his wife? 

Woody asked them what they wanted. 

"I like what Amirin does to my Tom. Well, except for that interrogation scene." 

"Do tell," torch's Tom urged. 

But an older Tom reprimanded him. "There may be children under 18 reading this." 

Although he flinched, Amirin's Tom continued on bravely, "So, I want to see more of the sexy Tom on the show." 

torch's Tom agreed. "Lighten his hair to golden blonde. Explore his sexuality and his capacity to love. He can you know. Love,
that is. Show him off duty more -- maybe in a Jeffries tube. And show others loving him. He's sensitive. He's lovable." Amirin's
Tom giggled as torch's Tom finished, "very lovable." 

A swaggering Tom sneered at the torch and Amirin Toms. "Jeez. Guys. I'm Darrell Beach's Tom and I know I'm God's gift to
women. You don't want to mess with that. It's my core, see." 

Robbie groaned. 

"So what do you want?" 

"I want you to see my heroic side." 

"As if you had one, muscle head." 

"Shut up, Supercat." 

"I do have one. But Beach just shows my cocky, arrogant, irritating side. Maybe I was once like that. But I've grown up. That's
gotta show." 

"Yeah. You were like that," Brenda Antrim's Tom spoke up softly. "I'm sorry, but you've got all these masks you use to keep
anyone from seeing the real you." 

"Whoa," sneered Beach's Tom. "You better watch that therapy stuff. They'll make you the ship's counselor next. You're already
the nurse." 

"Hey. The ship needs a counselor," rejoined the female Tom. "Believe me, I know." 

"Hold up, folks," an older Tom spoke up. "Listen to you. Like a bunch of teenagers. Oh. I'm Subha's Tom. Married to
B'Elanna. And we have teenagers. And that's what you all sound like." 

"Well, pardon me for breathing, You've gotten stuffy in your old age." 

Four voices told Supercat's Tom to shut up. 

Woody cut in and asked Subha's Tom, "And what is it you want?" 

This Tom looked down, ran a hand through thinning, grey flecked hair, and said, "Don't get me wrong. I love my kids. I love
my wife. But . . . I guess I'd like to have stayed younger longer, free of responsibilities. It's been hard, really hard." 

"I'll say," Carly Hunter's Tom agreed softly, arms crossed over his chest, his sparse hair totally grey. "I'm too young to be this

Woody sighed. "Okay. Has everybody introduced himself -- or herself? I think there's a few in the back . . ." 

A serious Tom spoke up. "I didn't want to say anything, cause a lot of you are going to hate me for this. But Janeway and I . . .

There were definite gasps of surprise and at least a few exclamations, one with a question "The Captain?" and another with a
declaration. "Damn. The Captain." 

"So. What do you want?" 

"I love Kathryn, and I want us to be accepted, to have a chance like Rhianna and Padovan write me. You know that all The
Powers That Be will allow is Kathryn and Chakotay. And I get so jealous." 

"So do I." No one was surprised at who said that. 

Robbie shook his head and talked to his knees. "Kate's going to kill me." 

Woody thought about the statements of these unhappy Tom Parises. He looked over the crowd, at their great diversity of
appearance, personality, and life styles. "I appreciate all you've told me. I know it's hard being a character on an ensemble
show like this, especially a show that inspires so much fan fiction. When you think about it, maybe you're the lucky ones." 

Robbie looked up with interest, watching the director talking so earnestly to this group of malcontents. He hoped Woody could
talk his way out of this. 

Not finished with trying out his hard-won therapy skills, Brenda's Tom said, "What do you mean, Woody? We're the lucky

"You're on the Internet, crafted by writers who love you. Maybe a few hundred, maybe several thousand know about you. But
our Tom Paris? He's out there with eight million watching him every week. And like your writers? Ours don't always see him
the same way either. But we try to be consistent. And sometimes we fail. Who was it? The PT Collective Tom? Yeah." Woody
smiled at the drop-dead gorgeous Tom who looked at him expectantly. "Yeah. At least writers like yours are out there. And
your readers get to see the holes plugged, get to see the Tom they want to see. You get my meaning?" 

Woody stared pointedly at Supercat's Tom, and then at the sensual pair in the back, and to Brenda's and Pelland's and the
other Toms who filled the room. There was some shuffling of feet, some nods at the beleaguered director, some sheepish

"All right, so for our part we'll try to do better. I'll speak to the Powers That Be. We'll get more Tom on the screen. But think
about this: You guys -- and lady -- you got it easy. You should be that Mulder on the X-Files." 

"Oh, yeah? Why's that?" 

"They've got a whole archive of fanfic stories called 'Mulder Torture Anonymous', rated from 1 to 10. You hit a 10 on that site
and you're in deep shit. So count your blessings. Now go on home to your URLs before your authors miss you." 

"Could I . . . could I say hello to Robbie?" Brenda's Tom asked hesitantly. "I mean. I think he really does do us justice. He
could pull it off if TPTB let him go through what we go through." 

There were nods of agreement around the room. One of the older Toms spoke up. "Yeah. He can put on the screen what we
deal with. Well -- all but losing his hair." 

"Very funny," Robbie grimaced, speaking up for the first time and then laughing good naturedly with the others in the room. 

"Come here, you hunk," Supercat's Tom pulled Robbie to him and gave him a hug, then passed the dazed actor along, first to
Brenda's Tom, then to the female Tom, and so on around the room. 

Woody turned to the AD. "What do you think?" 

"You bought yourself a little time. But I can already hear the fanfic writers gearing up a Tom Paris Torture site." 

"Oh, no. I gave them that idea." 

Supercat's Tom put an arm around the director and leered at him. He whispered gleefully, "I can hardly wait to see how we
rate. Supercat's gonna love it! Oh, and so will Amirin and torch and Emma Woodhouse and Mona R. and Margaret Berger,
and Walsvick and VoyWriter and TerriTrek -- " 

As Supercat's Tom puckered his lips, Woody backed away in horror. "Don't kiss me!" 

"A ten," he purred. "We're going to rate a 10." 

Robbie stood in front of Supercat's Tom. Something had to wipe off that wiseass smirk. "You get to go first. Real torture. Real

When the kid's mask crumbled and he whimpered, "I want to go back to Supercat," Robbie gave him a broad, genuine grin. 

"Go on, get outta here." 

One by one the Tom Parises winked out. 

And one by one, taking their places in the crowded trailer, holodocs appeared, altogether a very cranky looking group. The
AD screamed and pushed her way out, tugging Robbie along behind her. 

"I'm a doctor, not a fanfic writer's wet dream," could be heard. 

And then, "All right. Where the hell's Picardo?" 

The door to the trailer closed softly. 

The end.