Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Sun, 01 Feb 2004 07:42:38 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: "Lori" zakhad@att.net 
 

Title: The Fire and the Rose
Author: Lori (zakhad at att dot net)
Series: TNG (Captain and Counselor)
Code: P/T, R/f
Rating: PG
Date: 1/31/04
Part: 4/5
Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com




After our return from the park, Deanna fell asleep in the living room in one
of the reclining chairs, so we've ushered the kids into their bedroom to
play with Fidele on the alert and moved our conversation into the kitchen.
It's not a very interesting conversation, and it's obvious that Will and
Bell are both trying too hard to be polite to one another. After a while I
decide to take a walk.

This town is a fairly typical example of a small town on any planet -- it's
friendly, with a contingent of natives who watch newcomers with interest. I
notice people watching me from windows and yards. Most are Betazoid, judging
from the way they're dressed. I see a couple of people who smile and nod; I
think I recognize them from the park. Deanna makes friends so easily. I
always had friends, but never such immediate connection with people. My walk
takes me out to the edge of town, where the yards are increasingly larger
and eventually houses become estates, and I turn back. On my way I sense
distant anxiety, which increases as I walk faster and faster in reaction to
it. Deanna is upset about something, but in a vague way that I recognize --
she is dreaming, I think, as she has so many times in the past couple of
months.

My focus turns inward; I don't see anyone or anything, once within three
blocks of the house. Her anxiety draws me.  It's all a blur, and then I am
on the top step and inside. Yves wraps himself around my leg the instant I'm
in the door.

"Moo swing? Papa?" He's begging for it to be that familiar thing, a change
of mood which will go away quickly. Deanna has curled up in the chair and is
shaking with sobs.

"Go play with Fidele." I note with some relief that the dog is sitting
upright in the hall, paying more attention to Yves than his mother. If there
were physical symptoms involved, the android would be raising the alarm.
Yves looks at his mother, takes a few steps, glances at me, and runs to hug
the dog. I could spend more time comforting him, I suppose, but helping
Deanna will help him more quickly.

I ignore Bell, who is saying something about not even knowing she was awake
yet, and stare at Will, who is standing over the chair with his hands at his
sides, his stance familiar -- wanting to do something but unable to
determine what that should be, he waits at the ready. When I reach the
chair, Deanna moans. Her hair, still drying after the swim at the park, is
like a blanket of ropes over her face and shoulder. She's still in her robe
and the pair of socks she borrowed from me.

I drop to one knee slowly. She flinches at my touch, then lets me push her
hair back and touch her face. Her eyelids are puffy; her frown pinches her
features. When my hand closes over her shoulder she opens her eyes, which
exposes the misery I already know she feels. If she were truly awake there
would be more awareness and a quick gathering of control, an internal check
and an effort to contain what she will not allow to spill out when
conscious.

"Another bad dream?" I murmur.

She closes her eyes when my thumb brushes her temple and slips along her
scalp. A brief head massage seems to help. She lets me work down her neck
with my fingertips, winces, and curls in on herself more than she had been,
and I notice Will is hovering more perceptibly than before. Calmly, I catch
his eye and glare. He backs away.

"Cygne," I whisper. It seems to trigger something -- she frowns again. Then,
as more tears flow, she says brokenly, "I don't know if I can do this."

I've heard this refrain before. "Do what?"

"I shouldn't -- how will I go back to work? What if -- if -- They told me
you would never -- alone and -- and the admiral, and you were so. . . ."

I understand, despite the unfinished thoughts and choking sobs. I have had
the entire conversation with her before, in bits and pieces while awake and
also in instances similar to this. In her dream state, she's shortened it to
sentence fragments. "Do you want me to quit?"

Her fingers close on mine. "No-ooo," she wails. Hauling herself closer to
me, nearly breaking my hand in the process, she almost falls out of the
chair putting her arm around me. The only thing I can do is slide closer and
bear her weight while she cries. When I guess she has begun to drift, that
although she still breathes roughly and makes soft plaintive noises she has
begun to sleep deeply once more, I push gently until she's in the chair
again.

Yves has returned. When I put my hand on his head, he automatically leans
against me, moving into the curve of my arm. "Mood swing," I tell him.

"Okay." He pulls away, tugging at my sleeve. "Come pway!"

"In a minute. Why don't you take Fidele outside with the ball?"

He does so, and the instant the door closes behind him Bell crosses her arms
and steps toward me. "What is going on? Is there anything I can do?"

"No, but thank you." I glance at Will, who has obviously said nothing to
Bell about what I told him. Will glances at the floor. "We've been through a
lot recently, Bell," I continue, meeting her eyes. "It's been worse. We're
fine."

One of Bell's carefully-shaped eyebrows climbed higher. "I'm sorry, cher,
but I cannot believe that. She is not sleeping well."

I glance back at Deanna. "No. Neither am I."

Bell closes her mouth. For a bit, we are all looking at the floor, and
behind me Deanna snores softly. I turn and catch sight of the clock I'd
purchased, and sigh.

"Antiques," I murmur.

Bell's eyebrows come together and her lips purse. "Pardon?"

"I've always been fascinated by relics of the past and what they tell us
about the people who left them. Wondered what people will remember, if
anything at all, about me." I wander to the shelf and turn the minute hand
of the clock slowly. "I used to think Starfleet would be the way to be
remembered."

"Jean-Luc," Will begins, stepping forward. "Please."

I know what he means. No lectures, no lessons. I look him in the eye. "It's
not so important to me any more. I almost died, and it wasn't the first
time. Nor will it be the last. It took us apart, between my injuries and
what she had to do in my absence. We're still putting ourselves back
together. I'm sorry that our difficulties are so distracting and worrisome.
Perhaps we shouldn't have come."

"No," Bell exclaims, rushing to put a hand on my shoulder. "Please. I only
wish we had known -- "

"What would you have done differently if you had?" I catch her hand and hold
it. "None of us are at our best. All we can do is accept that and go on."

She glances at her husband and nods, then meets my eyes again. "Yes, I
suppose so. It's just alarming -- you both seem so quiet and solemn, and yet
you suddenly smile or laugh. I'm not used to it. And then she. . . ."

"She doesn't know about the nightmares." I pause, assess Deanna's state of
consciousness -- I can sense little, and it's so diffuse and vague I know
she is asleep -- and choose my words carefully. "She would be distressed to
know about them, since she continues to be so careful of me. She's not sure
I'm completely recovered mentally."

Bell's eyes widen. "You aren't the same. But you're not abnormal."

"I am not the same, and I'm not completely recovered. Mostly recovered,
perhaps." I notice Will's frown. "But as I told you, I'm fine. All things
considered. So is she."

Bell nods. "I'm going to the market. I'd like to cook tonight. Do you have
any preferences?"

"Surprise us. I'm sure anything you make would be wonderful."

"I'll go with you," Will says, drawing a surprised look from her. He only
smiles. She returns it, hers a puzzled acceptance, and squeezes my hand
before heading for the door.

After they are gone, I stand in silence, and hear a tick from the clock. My
idle prodding seems to have resurrected it somewhat. The minute hand jerks
forward, back, forward, then ceases and silence falls again. Deanna sighs.
By the time I reach her, she's sitting up.

"Jean?" Blinking, she swings her legs left and feints. I provide a hand and
pull slowly, until she's gotten the chair in the upright position and her
feet on the floor. The robe has gapped; I touch her smooth, bulging belly
and wonder again that her body can endure bearing such a burden. Now that
she's awake, the odd sensation that's lingered since the park returns --
it's as though her body has become an extension of mine. I can feel, as if
from faraway, her thirst and the uncomfortable ache of her lower back.

"I'll get you something to drink." I return from the replicator with a glass
and a hot pad. While she drinks, I hold the pad against her.

"You'll spoil me," she whispers, sliding her arms around my shoulders.
"Where are they?"

"Went to the market."

"Help me get some clothes on?"

"I can do that." I'm not going to tell her about the nightmares; I've
avoided it for weeks. That can wait for later, after the baby's born and
we've reached a level of comfort with our lives.


~^~^~^~^~^~

I find Will much later, after the children have been exiled to their room
for the night. Hopefully they'll sleep soon. Fidele almost follows me, still
obeying the directive to stay with me when not with Yves, but I ask him to
join the children and tell them a story.

Will is outside, standing in the middle of the yard. He doesn't look at me
but he knows I'm here. The moonlight is bright enough for me to make out his
pensive expression. He's thinking and as I approach he becomes angry.

"You're angry at me, now."

"I've always been able to talk to you -- then suddenly you fall for
Jean-Luc, and I haven't been able to have a decent conversation with you
since." That isn't completely accurate, but I don't contradict him.

"And the bitterness you felt over my abandonment of you continues."

"That's not -- "

"I know. Your point was that you miss having me to talk to, as a friend. I'm
sensitive, Will, and I'm sorry I'm snapping at you." Maybe I enjoy it,
though. Maybe it's fun to be expressive as I want to be, given the excuse of
recovery and advanced pregnancy. Or perhaps his issues are not something I
need to deal with right now, I've told him that once so far, and this is not
a good time for him to decide I'm part of his solution.

"And I suppose I'm still a little bitter, but I can see why you wouldn't
want to deal with me. You have your own problems." The mild sarcasm annoys
more than his previous assumption that I had none.

"Are we going to have this disagreement again, or are you going to tell me
what's really going on, in the present? I know your relationship with Bell
is. . . strained." I put my hands behind my back and stare at the rooftops
of the houses across the street.

He's silent. Scratching his three-day-old beard, he stares at the grass.
Finally he replies, "She thinks I slept with someone else."

His emotions are muddled, but as I thought before, no guilt. "What's her
name?"

That focuses him -- he's angry again, only more so. "The alleged affair
supposedly took place three months ago. She was assistant to an admiral we
were transporting. She was a fascinating woman, but nothing happened."

"Her name?"

"It doesn't matter!" A pause, while he comes to his own realization of what
this much protest seems to indicate. "Karen."

"Are you afraid I'll know who she is?"

"Karen Hertzberger," he replies, surrendering. I wanted him to say it so I
could sense any emotion associated with it, but there's nothing, other than
the misery and vague irritation.

"Hertzberger," I echo, amazed at the never-ending variety of human surnames.
"Dark hair, dark eyes. Not as tall as you."

"You know her." Now he's feeling totally defeated. Still angry, though in a
simmering way.

"I reminded you of her today at the lake." That was a hypothesis confirmed
by his jolt of surprise. It explained the look, and its accompanying
mixtures of sadness and anxiety. "But I know you didn't have an affair with
her. What did she provide for you that's missing?"

For a moment he does nothing, other than stare into the night sky and feel
what he hasn't since I arrived -- relief, appreciation, love. He turns his
head, then reaches for me. It's been a long time since he's hugged me this
way. He's wearing a thick scratchy shirt and my face presses into his
shoulder. I return the hug awkwardly, and Amy kicks -- she doesn't like
being squeezed like this.

As Will steps back, Jean comes outside and stands on the porch. He's
concerned, of course, but not upset by the embrace he's seen.

"Sorry. Are you. . . ."

"I'm fine, Will. Can you answer the question, or do you not know?"

"Karen listened to me, I guess. I feel like I'm not part of Bell's life any
more. She left the ship for six months for that position in the hospital on
Mars, and then after six months with me she took the other position on
Rigel -- I tried to talk to her about our family, what's best for John, and
she gets angry because I'm not acknowledging her career as important. Except
that's not what I'm trying to do. Not acknowledge her, I mean. I don't know
what to do." He puts his hands on his head and leans back, stretching,
probably trying to ease sore back muscles.

I'm reminded of Earth, suddenly, and not the present one, but the past --
standing outside the ramshackle open-air bar, listening to Zefram sing along
drunkenly with his jukebox. It was the night before I ended up drunk and
disorderly, and Will was having a nostalgic fit of space-going fervor. The
time, the place, the people, the Phoenix, reminded us of why we did what we
did, went where no one else had ever been, did the less-than-pleasant things
in the name of defending the Federation. It reminded me of the young man I'd
known, the optimistic and romantic lieutenant who'd run off into the galaxy
and left me to finish my degree in psychology in the robotic way of the
broken-hearted.

In the here and now, Will Riker is married, is older with longer hair shot
through with gray, has a child and a wife who thinks he has cheated on her,
and still does not understand what to do when a woman loses her faith in
him. Granted, there haven't been so many he's been with long enough that it
happened more than twice. He's staring at the stars as if he can't remember
why he ever bothered to go out there in the first place, and hurting.

"It's a difficult situation but it's not impossible to work things out."

"I realize, but it's harder when she doesn't even believe me when I tell her
Karen and I just talked about Starfleet and other officers."

"But you didn't just talk," I say without thinking, "you made a connection,
and Bell saw that -- there's nothing wrong with it, on the face of things,
but when there's a lack of connection with Bell, she perceives it for what
it is, a threat to her marriage."

Will tenses and struggles with my statement. Behind me, Jean-Luc wonders
what's going on, patiently waits to find out, or not, and wants to go to
sleep. He's tired and probably intended to say good-night, his usual cover
for checking in with his immensely-pregnant wife to determine if she showed
any signs of imminent childbirth, or foot cramps, or food cravings, or
anything else he understood as his responsibility to rectify. What is it
that turns a solitary officer like Jean into a devoted family man? That
turns a friendly, warm, personable officer like Will into a confused and
inadequate family man? Where in their shared experiences did the progression
from one to the other begin? Anyone who had known Will and Jean twenty years
before would have guessed the former would be the better choice of husband.

I do not understand this, any more than I understand how I fell in love with
either of them. I can blame falling for Will on being young and naive,
reckless, driven by emotions and hormones and little else. I can only guess
what it was that made Jean-Luc so appealing. Sometimes I think about it, but
I really don't care to know. It matters more to me that I am with him and
will be for however much time we are granted.

And currently, there are pertinent questions that remain to be asked about
someone else's relationship. Since Will wants help, I should try. He is a
good friend. I do not have to be soft about it, however, and since he
weathered the last salvo so well, I issue another. "Is Karen enough to make
you want to cheat on your wife?"

Will actually gapes at me now. "Deanna!"

"I didn't think so. The trouble is not that Bell thinks you cheated. Neither
of you addressed a deficit of some sort in your relationship, then you
showed some interest in Karen. I don't believe Bell would have paid
attention to it otherwise. While I'm not certain how to correct Bell's
mistaken theories, I am certain you're capable of figuring out what to do
about the situation."

When I start to turn away, he catches my arm. "Dee -- "

"Not your counselor. And the tuck-in patrol is waiting for me. I suggest
punching up number two fifty-nine on the replicator and using it, if you
want a quick way to begin to improve the situation. After you admit to Bell
that she does have cause for concern, apologize, and perhaps express your
own honest concerns rather than attempting to rely on technical innocence as
a defense." I turn away before he can respond. Long ago, I reconciled myself
as a counselor to unfinished business -- letting clients find their
solutions, whether in session or out. I'd pushed him, challenged him, and
whether I was right or wrong in assuming he'd clung to his
self-righteousness didn't matter. Let it be a catalyst, or a message to him
that I was not there to solve his problem for him. Either way, I'm done for
the night.

Jean meets me on the top stair. Nearby, in the pale moonlight, the wind
chime he bought whispers a soft chord. His hand finds its place in the small
of my back as he falls in step and follows me inside. Bell slows us down in
the hall; she backs out of the boys' room silently and closes the door
before seeing us. Startled, she stares for a few seconds.

"Good night," I whisper as I push past. Both children are asleep. I sense
Bell's surprise recede and her attention shift elsewhere as the bedroom door
closes behind Jean. The soft click of the lock tells me he's not going to
allow another child to pop in unannounced.

"What's two fifty-nine?"

"I left our isolinear module full of replicator recipes in the slot."

"Ah. The massage oil." Jean pulls his shirt off and tosses it toward the far
corner. "You think that will help?"

"If he uses it in the proper order, maybe. Apology, explanation, massage. .
. ." I pull at the sadly-rumpled and stained dress I've been wearing,
frustrated by my weariness. In spite of the nap after lunch, I'm still
tired, and my lower back is throbbing.

Jean comes to me and guides the dress over my head. He flicks a bit of paint
from my shoulder. "Will a massage help you?"

"It would."

He goes for oil, and I pull down the covers on the bed.  I don't like the
soft mattress but I can't be choosy. The bed's smaller than I'm used to, but
given his habit of finding ways of getting tangled up with me while we're
asleep, it's not a problem. When he returns and locks the door, he's
smiling.

"You should have seen Will. Standing in the kitchen holding one of these."
Jean waves the green, pear-shaped glass decanter, a Betazoid design and full
of distilled nut oil. "He asked what it was."

I can sense Will's disbelief well enough. "I hope he takes my suggestion.
It's hard to harbor a grudge against someone with such good hands."

The remark reminds Jean that I had firsthand knowledge of Will's hands, and
I immediately regret it, but it's done. I look at the floor, shaking my
head. But Jean touches my arm as he sits with me, the bottle cradled in his
other hand.

"He upset you at the lake."

"I reminded him of Karen."

A moment, and he puts it together. "Not an affair, but almost?"

"It's nothing that wouldn't happen to any man  -- some do it without
realizing what they're doing until they're propositioned. But he didn't do
anything wrong, and it obviously highlighted something that was already
missing." My eyes ache. I'm overtired, and rub my brow with my palm. Jean
breaks the tip from the top of the jar and the nose-tingling fragrance of
nut oil fills the air.

He orders the lights dimmed, and when nothing happens, mutters a curse and
goes to the switch near the door. I reach for the lamp at the bedside and
turn it on as the overhead light goes out.

"Such synchronization," he says, gesturing for me to assume the position.

I curl on my side. He stands over me for a moment, considering the best
approach, and suddenly a familiar band of pressure wraps around me. There's
a scratching and clawing at the door seconds later. Jean, muttering, goes to
check, and Fidele forces his head through the crack and squirms into the
room. He sits and stares into my face.

"He's detected something." Jean's voice cracks slightly.

"Go stay with Yves now," I instruct the dog. Obedient as ever, he strides
out calmly. "I didn't really need the warning."

"Should we -- I could call the -- "

"No. Close the door. I could still use the massage."

Excited, he returns to the bed after engaging the lock. "You're sure?"

"It's too early. We'll know when it's time to call someone." Unless someone
arrives before we call -- the people we met in the park all live near it,
and it's just down the street. All it will take is a single person sensing
my labor pains, and a consensus would be reached and a midwife dispatched.

Jean's not certain about touching me. His massage is too tentative, though
he works harder at my back when I complain. He frequently runs a hand over
Amy, and when he actually feels a contraction against his palm, he stops.

"Cygne?"

I sit up slowly. He's so wound up in panic that it's counteracting the
massage. "Hold me, and we'll meditate."

The bond is there, and strong, and he draws upon my calm. And then we are at
peace in a way that has eluded us for months, united in the joy of the birth
of our daughter -- this feels like a victory for us. There is no ship, no
crisis, no possibility of a red alert. Bell is a doctor, and there are
Betazoids who know us in the vicinity.

Jean is alarmed only when the contractions are stronger; the pain is
intense, but brief as I know it will be, and still not as bad as it will
get. By this time, we are so connected that he can sense the queries of
someone Betazoid. He gets my robe for me. I'm walking around the room when
the door chime echoes through the house. Moments later, there's a tap at our
door. I haven't paid much attention to anything but Jean-Luc and Amy, but
it's easy enough to see when Jean opens the door that Will had indeed taken
my advice and it had been well-received; he smells like he's taking a bath
in the oil, and his hair's mussed.

"You called a midwife?" he blurts.

"Not technically." El pushes past him into the room. She wears pale
rust-colored robes, quite proper for a midwife of her background. The
combination of clever dancer and midwife results in a more ritualistic
procedure than usual. She places a shallow bowl on the floor and waves her
hands over it, then lights the contents.

"It's a Betazoid ceremony," Jean-Luc explains, lacking the equivalent of the
name in Standard. Probably also in Betazoid, come to think of it. "We're in
labor."

Before Will can comment on the pronoun disagreement, El pushes him out.
"Tend the children," she commands. "And I will need privacy."

I hear Bell's voice, but can't understand what she's saying. No matter. Let
them find their own compromises on who will do what. Another contraction
grips me, and Jean's back to hover and let me crush his fingers.

~^~^~^~^~^~



--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Stories Only Forwarding

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