This is another derivitive story I wrote, inspired by 
Sarah's TRIOS series.  She was rather  
insistent that I post this <grin> so here it is. 
 
Dear Dad 
transcribed by R'rain
 
 
Dear Dad 
 
Yeah, it's me, the infamous wayward son, Thomas Eugene  
Paris.  Like you have any others.  I don't know why I'm  
bothering to write this, I know you're never going to get to  
read it.  Even if we weren't stuck out in the Delta  
Quadrant, you'd take one look at the sender and toss it into  
your growing file of unread mail.  I guess I just figured  
that it was about time. 
 
I know the stuff that you'd want to hear, about how she  
reinstated me in Starfleet, about how I've proven myself  
time and time again.  I bet you'd have wet dreams if you saw  
the number of commendations I've gotten since we got hurled  
out here.  But I don't want to talk about that.  I don't  
even *care* about that.  I want to have the conversation now  
that I wished we could have had years ago, when there was  
just you and I, before it was just me. 
 
Do you even know what it is to be happy?  I don't think I  
ever saw you smile at me.  Well I know what it's like now,  
to spend my days soaring through the stars, to spend my  
nights curled up with the loves of my life.  I'm sleeping  
with my Captain.  That's not the only Life Rule of yours  
that I've broken while I've been out here, and I doubt it  
will be the last. Then again, Lord knows how many of *your*  
crew slept with their Captain.  I never asked, and I'm never  
going to. 
 
I'm in love, Dad, and it's the most incredible thing that's  
ever happened to me.  I'll always remember the way it felt  
the first time she touched me, the first time he kissed me,  
the first time we all tumbled into bed in a tangle of arms  
and legs and made love for hours on end. Yeah, Dad, there's  
three of us, and I know precisely how you'd feel about that  
but I don't even care.  You always were too stuck in your  
ideal of one woman and one man.  It never worked for you and  
I don't know why the hell you thought it would work for me. 
 
I love the way her freckled skin feels against mine when I  
run my fingers along her body.  So soft, so supple.  I wish  
I could do it all the time, but I have to settle for our  
meetings in her quarters after hours and casual touches when  
we're out with the rest of the crew.  And the one time she  
took my hand on the bridge and gently caressed the back of  
it with her thumb before giving me my orders.  It sent  
tingling shocks through my whole body, and from the  
expression on her face it did the same to her.  She is so  
damn beautiful.  When we're off duty I can forget that she's  
Captain, forget everything except the fact that she's my  
lover and my friend. 
 
He came unexpectedly, loving her and loving me and needing  
to be with us so bad he ached.  Until he came into my life I  
didn't know I was missing him, and once he was there I  
couldn't imagine life without him.  His casual strength, his  
inner beauty, the way he makes me feel like a whole person  
again and not just the shell that you made me.  And when we  
make love it's as though we recreate the universe around us  
again every time. 
 
If you were reading this, you'd be sitting there with the  
most God-awful look on your face.  Your only son shacking up  
with his Captain and her First Officer.  I know that look.   
It's the look you gave me when they court-martialed me, the  
last time I ever saw you.  You weren't even there when I was  
sentenced to New Zealand--I think I would have liked to see  
the look on your face when I fucked up *that* time.  Yeah, I  
know I fucked-up, Dad, but that doesn't make me a fuck-up  
for the rest of my life.  You didn't teach me that, they  
did.  She taught me and he taught me and they teach me all  
over again every time we touch, or smile, or just spot one  
another in the corridors.  And especially when we make love.   
I see stars, Dad, and not just because the Captain has a  
nice big viewing portal in her quarters.  No one's ever done  
that to me before. 
 
There is so much more that I could tell you, all about my  
friends and my life here, but the more I write the more I  
realize that you wouldn't care and that you never did.  What  
I should be doing is talking to the people that *do* care.   
So good-bye Dad.  I'm not coming home again; I *am* home. 
 
Tom