Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Sun, 01 Feb 2004 07:42:21 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: 1/5
Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com

Summary: Two couples, two paths, one leave.
Referenced: Actions Speak Louder, Omega Doorstop, On the Madhouse Boards,
Girl Mad as Birds --  a sequel to Test of Focus






The waiting area on the starbase is crowded at intervals. Right now it's
quieter than it's been. Jean took Yves to find a restroom, so I'm catnapping
and thinking, with Fidele at my feet.

We decided to take a civilian transport for a couple of reasons, the largest
one being that we were just too tired to fly ourselves. When Will's
invitation came, we almost turned it down because we were so tired. Jean
said we needed time away, however, and that convinced me it was needed. He
doesn't take time away from his ship of his own volition often. That he's
been on medical leave for months hardly matters. He's invested so much of
his identity in his captainhood that it often worried me. I think I only
stopped worrying as a counselor when I started worrying as a wife. Of
course, it's only gotten more complicated than before.

They've offered him a promotion. He hasn't told me, but he has the same
reaction each time, a contemplative mood for a little while, brooding looks
at me and our son, and then he moves on. It's funny, they offer but don't
force the issue, with him or anyone else. I wonder if that's because
enrollment lagged and they need people in uniform. I think back to my
commanding officers -- the few and barely-remembered pre-Enterprise captains
and commanders -- and see how outdated their attitudes and behavior would be
now, in the era of self-determination in Starfleet. Command's attitude must
reflect their awareness of social dynamics in space and the unique
challenges we face.

One aspect of said dynamics -- the two-edged sword of the faithful officer.
If one views the operation of a starship and the best interests of a mission
in terms of objectives being accomplished without undue turmoil, a
professional group of officers who have just been assigned to a vessel can
be more effective than a professional group of officers who have been aboard
for six years and spent time playing cards together. A captain sending
someone in to sacrifice himself for the survival of the crew can be more
detached without that personal connection.

Yet, if there is no personal connection, one has a crew of loners whose
psychological health is at issue. Going home to family and friends at the
end of the day isn't possible for starship crew, who spend years in space
sometimes. The statistics on the high incidence of depression in career
officers were significantly dire, just a decade ago; the numbers drove
Command to reconsider policy on allowing families aboard starships, and to
assign ship's counselors.

But there were, and are, still holdovers from before counselors were
assigned to starships. Jean-Luc Picard had detached himself and though he'd
spoken to counselors before, I was his first ship's counselor. I count my
blessings that his upbringing made him a gentleman; I sensed his discomfort
from the very beginning. He didn't like the idea of my being able to sense
things about him that he did not want to reveal, but humans who are also
'gentlemen' pride themselves on their manners and he could hardly argue with
me if I quoted regulations. After a while, he learned that I wasn't going to
reveal everything I sensed and began to relax.

I think about that phase now with a smile. He used to look at me and see the
pretty counselor. Then he would remember I'm Betazoid and nervousness would
creep in. He got used to me then went through it all over again years later,
only then, he had known me and trusted me for so long that it wasn't new,
just a reminder and a revelation that I knew more than I would ever reveal.
I remain in awe of his willingness to embrace me as I am. 'Accept' is a
limited term. He embraced me, at times pursued me, with the same drive that
pushed him to command, assuming very little.

I am jarred from my thoughts by a presence coming closer and footsteps
nearby. It's only a woman -- a very pregnant one, like me. She flashes an
uncertain smile. She's chosen my mostly-empty row of seats for the same
reason I have, it's on an aisle and maneuvering is easier. We're a minority
of two. I haven't seen another pregnant person in our stopover at this
starbase until now.

Short mahogany hair, unlined heart-shaped face, sweet smile. There is a
quality I can sense from her that I only find in the young. 'Simplicity' has
a derogatory nuance in human cultures but the stricter definition of it
suits my purposes. Uncomplicated. Human minds acquire texture over time. In
that part of them I can detect, there are ripples and edges of their past,
left while processing input continuously over the years. I've slowly learned
to read some of these -- it's a process I would imagine to be like drawing a
map of all the processes and connections within a ship's computer. There are
constants but the variances from one person to the next are so. . .
variable. Drastically different, in some cases.

In some specific, wonderful cases. I can tell he's returning, as he and Yves
have been in the back of my mind all this time, and his frustration has
ebbed with the completion of the task of getting an inquisitive
four-year-old boy to a socially- acceptable place where he can relieve
himself.

Fidele stirs, probably picking up my response to their return on sensors
we've learned are keener than one would expect. He glances at me, his long
tail thumps on the deck plates, but he remains as we have ordered him, lying
at my feet and vigilant. On our set of boarding passes, he's listed as a
'belonging' due to his synthetic nature, and a quick scan from security
personnel can confirm this as needed. It's the only reason he's allowed to
travel with us instead of in a pet container.

As I check the bags visually, though I know none have been disturbed, the
rest of my family arrives and Yves picks up his little bag, which we gave
him mostly because he always wants to feel included. It's his frivolous
bag -- it contains his favorite shirt, a supply of Guinan's cookies, his
favorite books, and his little Starfleet officer pajamas that he would wear
around the clock if we let him. Mr. Tiggles is too big to be stuffed in a
bag so the plush targ is jammed under his arm. He insisted on fastening his
own pants and did so crookedly.

He informs me in high-pitched syllables of his successful completion of
'yoowination.' That's going to be a short-lived word in his vocabulary. He
must have overheard it in the restroom. The girl sitting nearby smoothing
her tentlike tunic over her swollen abdomen glances our way -- I don't have
to look to know that, as I can feel her amusement and interest, prickling
like fingernails dragged along the back of my shirt. She'd fallen into a
broody contemplation as I had, but Jean and Yves startled her.

Jean's emotions get fuzzy when he's tired, but as he touches my arm, the
interference clears and his affection focuses on me. A greeting of sorts.
The fuzziness returns slowly as we gather our things and head for the
terminal to wait in a line forming under a red-lettered sign, 'Gate A2,'
where we will board the transport. From behind us I can tell when the girl
recognizes Captain Picard at last -- a flicker of shock, recognition, and
brief regret. She wishes she had spoken to him. Someone, herself or her
husband or brother perhaps, read about Captain Picard, studied his career
even.

It would be easier for me if he were some other captain. Not everyone
recognizes him, but even one instance in a thousand can be irritating when
one is traveling through the Federation. In so many ways, I am overshadowed
and ignored. It isn't his fault, though, and I never went into Starfleet in
search of notoriety. It's only bothersome because it bothers him. Several in
the line have recognized us, or perhaps they are curious about the oddity of
a dog traveling loose; their interest registers as intruding blips against
my mind, and with  effort I could determine who of the crowd are paying
attention, but instead I grip my son's hand and try not to be too anxious.
My reflex reaction whenever I sense excessive unwarranted interest from
strangers is vigilance, which isn't conducive to a peaceful vacation.

We stand together, pressed in by the others in the line, and unexpectedly I
find my free hand enveloped in Jean's. He doesn't do that, or didn't. But
things have changed. He's thinking about me now and his feelings run high,
as they did at the beginning of our relationship. He stares at the floor
with that carefully-blank expression, but his fingers cradle mine as if he
doesn't want to break them and I sense that he wants to hold me in his arms.

It's been this way since the Babel conference -- since he experienced terror
upon finding me bleeding due to placenta previa. He would think of me; I
could feel it across the ship. And a while later, if he continued to think
of me, he would seek me out and make small talk, while leaning invitingly
until I gave in and hugged him. I can't figure out who he's reassuring. I
think it's him, but I feel better too, afterward. If it weren't so out of
character I would think nothing of it, but it's one more phase in the long
healing process we've been undergoing.

Jean has all our bags and is nearly swept along by a large man forcing
himself back through the line. Fidele stays close to my legs without getting
in the way, amazing in this crowd. Yves tries to free himself from my grip
on his hand, and again I regret not getting a tether as Malia suggested. I
don't want to let go in this crowd. I don't want to hurt him, however, and
he's stronger than I'd think a child his size could be.

"Yves," I chide at last. "Stand up. Stay here."

He stops dangling and leaning in the direction he wanted to go, toward the
viewports, and looks up at me with that smile. Just an immature version of
Papa's most charming smile, but even if he didn't add the childish giggle
and a dimple, it's enough to melt Maman. To make matters worse, Papa leans
and murmurs French complaints in my ear, something about the floor being too
red and the ceiling too low, neither of which is true. But the woman in
front of us elbows her partner and mutters something about how romantic the
French language is, and he replies that he thought it was Betazoid.

Which is ridiculous because French is off the tongue and out of the throat,
and Betazoid comes from the tip of the tongue and from just behind the
teeth -- our attempts to help Yves with speaking both resulted in this
summation, anyway -- and the two languages sound not at all alike. But Jean
makes it worse by switching, and murmurs about the flexing of the walls in
Betazoid, the odd smell of his hair, and it becomes obvious that he's lost
track of what he's saying but rambling on, stringing together the words he
knows without regard for grammar. It pleases the woman anyway. She still
thinks it's French and romantic.

Yves looks up at me with a furrowed brow, confused. "Papa's being silly!"

"Papa is French. He can't help it."

"I love to listen to spoken French," the woman says, turning to address us
directly and ignorant of the fact that Yves has spoken in Betazoid and I
have responded in the same. "Are you from Paris?"

It's commonly presumed that France equals Paris. Jean has said that most
people who recognize his name as French ask him this same question, and I
know how he feels. Those unfamiliar with Betazed assume that I speak the
same language as every other Betazoid. My regional dialect has little in
common with the other ten, we make up for it by speaking telepathically, but
it's incredibly common for offworlders to presume that all of us speak one
language.

"We are from a small village near the Rhine," Jean-Luc tells her in
Standard, with the thickest French accent I've ever heard.

Not believing that he's doing this, I have to push it further, to see what
else he would do. "Your hair reminds me of a large weed that grows in the
oceans at home," I tell her in Betazoid.

Six people ahead of us, someone bursts out laughing. There is a translator
in the crowd. Several others standing near enough to reap the benefit of it
lean to peer back at us, grins on their faces.

The line moves another increment, then another. Jean's hand shifts palm to
palm with mine and he smiles, his grown-up version of Yves' heart-melting
charmer, and this time his French is whispered low so no one can hear. I'm
glad for that; my toes are nearly curling in my shoes and I am wishing for a
fan by the time we reach the podium where Jean innocently asks me in
Standard to get the boarding pass out of one of the bags.

I'm going to like being on leave so far from the ship.

~^~^~^~^~


She seems happy enough. It's been quite a trip, for all that we've not even
left the sector; two transports seems excessive for such a short journey.
But the change in her attitude started when Geordi left us at the starbase,
really, and it's nice to see her relax this way. Although there had been
moments of brief reprieve from her sadness over the past months, she had not
been herself. She's beginning to unfold, to open her defenses and blossom, a
welcome occurrence in spite of my not knowing what changes have really taken
place through the last months.

Will meets us at the transporter when we beam down from the orbital station.
He's alone, and beaming as if he's never been happier. Yves is shy at first,
but at the sound of Uncle Will's voice he quickly thaws.

"The house isn't far from here," Will says as we leave the building. Other
tourists disperse around us, ignoring us. "But we can get a taxi if. . . ."
He glances at Deanna pointedly. She's waddling and trying to keep up.

"I'd like to walk. Maybe it'll induce labor," she announces cheerfully, with
a slight twist to her smile that usually indicates teasing.

Will stops walking. He laughs after a moment spent deducing the seriousness
of her statement. "Right. I'll get a taxi."

"I'd rather walk." Deanna heads down the ramp and hesitates on the walk,
looking back for direction. She was only teasing about labor; she does want
the exercise. She didn't do well on bed rest.

"All right, then. That way." Will gives me a look of disbelief that I'm not
trying to talk her out of it.

On the way down the street, Yves runs ahead greeting strangers, his bag
banging the ground at times. I let Deanna take the lead on calling him back;
she can sense intent before anything can happen. Our child, so shy when
addressed directly by name, has no difficulty speaking to a trio of
Betazoids, who laugh and speak to him in their language, and laugh again
when he responds in the same.

"He's getting big," Will comments. He walks with me, the largest of our bags
over his shoulder. We're puttering along at a slower pace than Deanna.

"They all do, eventually."

A pause. "Too fast."

"It's a false perception. There's too many distractions, too much work,
which makes it appear they grow too fast -- but I understand what you mean."

Fidele bumps the back of my leg with his head. What is he doing back here
when Yves and Deanna have gone ahead? I hesitate and glance down, and Will
follows my lead. Fidele barks once.

"Did you want something? Will knows you're an android, by the way." The
reassurance will free him from our restriction on speaking around others.

"You requested that I monitor Deanna . I detected a contraction."

Ignoring Will's expression of surprise, I sigh and shift the straps on my
left shoulder. "That happens. It doesn't mean labor until they're stronger
and more frequent. Remember the parameters the doctor gave for labor onset?"
I almost regret making the request. I had worded it specifically to take
advantage of Fidele's sensors, to detect a long list of symptoms Deanna
might have without knowing it. What I hadn't expected was the burst of
initiative that led him to uplink with the computer and make a study of her
condition. Data has programmed this creature well, indeed.

A few seconds pass, and Fidele blinks. It takes that long sometimes, and I
wonder if it's a forced hesitation for our sakes. "Yes. I will remember." He
trotted past us and caught up with Deanna, who'd reached a corner and waited
for us.

"He's a dog with the functionality of a tricorder, more or less. Still
developing his ability to reason, and programmed to be eager to please," I
tell Will in hopes of his dropping the eyebrow again.

"He sure sounds like Data -- his voice is a little higher-pitched, maybe,
but there's something about his diction. Can't wait to see what John makes
of him. We've thought about asking Data to come up with a cat for us."

Ithica is a beautiful planet. The sky is a shade darker blue than Earth's,
but most other details are reminiscent of home -- something that's
surprisingly satisfying. I don't quite understand Deanna's insistence that
this would be acceptable; I didn't mind sharing leave with Will and Bell,
but the house they've borrowed is in a small town. I wish she had allowed me
to rent something closer to the hospital in the nearest city.

Will and I fall silent, which is unusual, considering it's been months since
our last face-to-face encounter. For me, it's the last six months of
strain -- on me, on my marriage, on my career, on Deanna. She looks better
now than she has in past months, waddling down the street and calling to
Yves, her gray dress making her stand out from the rest of the pedestrian
traffic. I pay close attention to her movements, looking for signs of pain.

"You're quiet."

"A bit tired, perhaps. It's a long trip on public transports with an excited
four-year-old."

Deanna goes across the street -- it's not very wide, barely one lane, and
there doesn't seem to be much traffic -- to admire some flowers in someone's
front yard with Yves, who's picking them. I notice her wince as she
straightens again, but before I can alter course, she glances at me and
smiles, turning on That Look. Her eyes meet mine, her love for me lighting
up her face, and just as swiftly it's gone as she turns back to Yves, who
holds up a flower for her. Her expression softens to maternal affection and
pride.

"How is everything, Jean-Luc?" Will asks, more serious than casual this
time.

I almost say fine, but that has been the automatic answer too often. "As
well as can be expected. It's been worse, but it's getting better."

Will looks at me, brow furrowed, and chews his lower lip briefly. "I wish I
could say the same."

"Starfleet?"

"Not directly. Bell has been a doctor for a year. She wants to stop being an
intern and that won't happen on *Durant.* Can't rearrange the medical staff
just for her."

His last comment is too carefully-casual. "Did she want you to try?"

Will watches Deanna moving along the street ahead of us and holding out her
arms as Bell rushes across a yard to greet her. "She understands that I
can't manipulate staffing directly, but there was a situation -- she wanted
me to encourage or somehow maneuver someone who had been offered a position
elsewhere, and I refused. I wish she'd understand we can't all get exactly
what we want like you and Deanna."

I smile, hopefully appearing more sympathetic than ironic, and stride
forward to join Deanna in greeting Bell. The toddler coming down the walk is
John, with wide blue eyes and blond hair as expected from the holos we've
gotten; he's hesitant but all eyes for Fidele, who stands apart from the
commotion with waving tail.

Will hangs back and watches. I glance at him after I pull away from Bell's
embrace, and he's crossed his arms. I could tell him that nothing is ever
exactly what we want, that my own situation may appear to be ideal but that
it's an outward appearance we cultivate -- everything that happens within
the bounds of our relationship is no one's business but our own, and to
continue in our careers as we have guided them, we must have that unity and
solidarity. I could tell him that I have considered other options --
retirement from Starfleet for one or both of us, to either Betazed or Earth
or some compromise splitting our time between the two. I could tell him all
that's happened to us recently and how our lives have changed.

There is nothing I could tell him that would explain the emotional truths I
have learned, however. I have discovered that some things are not easily put
into words, and must be learned first-hand. A marriage is one of those
things. I think too that they have not yet begun to experience the levels of
pain and anxiety that Deanna and I have suffered. I wonder if it would break
them apart, or bring them together. I fear it would be the former.

But, humans have a long history of unpredictability and surprising strength.
One never knows. So, as we head into the house single file and Yves calls
Fidele loudly, jealous of the dog's patient acceptance of John clinging to
his collar, I do my best to ignore the chill in the air between Will and
Bell, who do not look at each other's faces if they can help it and speak in
careful, polite tones to one another.

I know that Deanna senses something; once inside, she takes my hand and
turns toward me, cheek to my shoulder. A surge of affection and gratitude
reaches me through our renewed bond. I brush my lips along her forehead and
return the emotion. She tastes salty -- the walk in the sun was warm, and
I'm concerned.

"A nap," I say, glancing at the hall that leads to the back of the house.

"I slept on the transport." She leans her chin on my shoulder.

"Not very long. At least sit down. Yves, stop that -- let John pet the dog.
He won't hurt him. Show John how to be gentle."

Yves scowls, but stops trying to pull John's chubby hands from Fidele's
head. "You do like dis, not so hard," he exclaims, stroking the dog's neck.
"Don' pull his ears."

"Anyone want something to drink?" Will heads for the kitchen through an open
door and asks for a glass of water.

Bell glances at the bags we dropped near the door, at the kitchen door, and
after a shake of her head, picks up one of them. I meet Deanna's eyes
briefly, nod at the nearest chair, and go to help move the luggage.

It's not going to be an ideal vacation, but as with everything else we've
been through, we will manage.

~^~^~^~^~



--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Stories Only Forwarding

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