Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Sat, 31 Jan 2004 23:35:05 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: "Lori" zakhad@att.net 
 

Title: Test of Focus
Author: Lori (zakhad at att.net)
Series: TNG (Captain and Counselor)
Code: P/T
Rating: PG
Date: 1/31/04
Parts: 3/5
Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com

Summary: After trauma, there must be a period of healing. Sequel to Girl Mad





*"Captain, there's a Klingon warbird decloaking! They're powering up
phasers!"

Captain Eliadri moved across the bridge to stand between ops and helm, and
crossed her arms. Avitz glanced at her nervously, then met Claiborne's eyes.
Claiborne's palms started to get damp.*

The annunciator sounded. Geordi put aside the padd and admitted his guest,
and the counselor came into the first officer's office, which suddenly
became much too small. They would arrive at Starbase 213 in four hours, and
Geordi had hoped for some peace and quiet before his scheduled visit to
Deanna, which would be closely followed by having to welcome more diplomats
aboard. That it was the counselor interrupting only made it worse. He'd
never gotten used to having Davidson ask some of the questions he'd always
gotten from Deanna.

"Geordi," he exclaimed. "Do you have a moment?"

"Sure." Geordi closed his mouth and indicated the single guest chair.
Davidson took it, smiling in his usual practiced-pleasant way.

"So how are you doing? I haven't seen much of you lately."

"Busy trying to keep up with everything, that's all." Geordi gestured
vaguely at the office.

"How are the crew adjusting to the change, do you think?"

"I haven't heard any complaints. Some of them didn't even realize anything
had changed, at first."

"What about the captain?"

Geordi's brow furrowed. "What about him?"

"I'm only curious how well the two of you are working together. I can't
assume much from senior officer's meetings -- there's not much to disagree
on when it's all about housing arrangements and reception details. But it
does seem to me there's something going on."

"Nothing that I can't handle."

Davidson nodded, his focus drifting left of Geordi. "I see."

"He's probably still recovering. It's no big deal. Mood swings are part of
the leftovers from severe brain injury, right?"

"In a manner of speaking." Davidson wasn't as easy to read as Deanna. Maybe
because he hadn't known Davidson as long as he'd known her, but he found it
difficult to see any hint of what Davidson was thinking in his face. "How
about you? Transitions from one position to another can be difficult."

"I'm managing."

"Geordi." Davidson smiled and became less inscrutable. "I'm not here to
judge you."

"I understand that, Counselor. I'm fine, really. I do have a question for
you, though." All the better to distract the counselor from questioning him.
"How do you think the captain is?"

The counselor's face changed; dismay tightened his lips briefly before he
could attain a neutral, less-interested expression. "Isn't it obvious what I
think? He's back on duty."

"That's true, but I also know he's given you trouble in the past. I also
don't believe he would make a very good patient. I don't envy you." Geordi
forced a polite, all-business smile. "But it's part of my job to be aware of
his well-being, and I have concerns. Commander Troi doesn't seem happy, and
I suspect that has something to do with the captain's preoccupation and
moodiness -- I want to know, as a friend and fellow officer, if there's
anything that can be done for either of them. You seemed the person to ask."

The counselor's brown eyes studied him. "If there were anything you could
do," he said after long consideration, "I would certainly let you know. But
I don't believe there is. Excuse me, Commander, I have an appointment in a
few minutes."

Geordi watched him leave, then turned to the duty rosters. If he had to
suffer tension, he may as well be productive. Arranging the engineering
roster had been a familiar and routine task, but overseeing the entire ship
down to the non-commissioned and ancillary personnel put new depths of
frustration in his days. The ops department in particular seemed prone to
bickering; there were two appeals to the first officer's attention
disagreeing with their assignments. He needed a new ops manager.

Though he was determined to focus on scheduling and trying not to think of
battle tactics to use in his novel, his thoughts seemed to drift to them in
spite of it. At length, he gave up, set aside the rosters for later, and
picked up his novel again for the last half hour prior to his visit. After
losing track of time, he ended up running through corridors.

Deanna was in her usual spot when he came in fifteen minutes late. She
started rearranging pillows and trying to sit up. Instead of falling into
the routine of drinks and chat, he asked, "Would you like to sit at the
table instead? Would a chair help your back?"

"That might. Thank you." She grabbed his offered arm. Between the two of
them, they brought her up from the couch. He let her lean on him heavily and
stayed with her for the short distance to the chair, then gave her an arm
for balance. "I can't believe I'm this unbalanced," she said, sighing. "It
wasn't like this with Yves. I'm beginning to wonder if Dr. Mengis isn't
giving me more than vitamins and inhibitor."

"He can't tell you what's making you dizzy?"

"He thinks it's something to do with the way my metabolism changed this
time. He's being very careful about medications because he doesn't know how
I'll respond -- he doesn't want to take chances with the baby, especially."

"That hybrid thing again?"

She looked tired, her lips pressed together and lines showing around her
eyes. "Did you write the next chapter?"

They swapped padds. While they read in silence, Geordi found himself
glancing at her and seeing things he hadn't noticed before. He'd adjusted to
seeing her out of makeup, but she seemed more tired today than yesterday.

"Whose point of view is this written in?" she asked, startling him. He
smiled nervously.

"Point of view?"

"I'm finding myself distracted by the shifting from the thoughts of one to
the thoughts of another. Your captain's a Deltan empath, there aren't any
telepaths, so how can we follow everyone's point of view?"

"But I don't mention anyone's thoughts."

Deanna cleared her throat. "'Eliadri considered her words carefully.' Then,
the last line of the paragraph: 'Avitz wished he had taken the posting
aboard the *Ulysses.*' Those are insights into the thoughts of the
characters. It seems to me that the point of view character would not know
Avitz was wishing, or what Eliadri was considering. I had thought until that
point that we were in the point of view of Keph, the second officer."

"Okay, I see what you mean." He glanced at the final few paragraphs she'd
added. Her output was lagging behind his. "I hate to say this, but this is
one of the most depressing stories I've ever read."

"It's what the story is about, though."

"But I -- " He met her eyes and wondered, had he been so focused on the
story that he couldn't see her? "It's not what the story is about. You're
putting your own feelings into the girl, aren't you? The last two pages are
about nothing but how she's feeling, how horribly lonely she is."

She turned away briefly, then refocused on his story. "It's also interesting
that you put a Klingon warbird in the mix. Is this set in the past? I didn't
have that impression -- in chapter two, you mention multiphasic shields and
they didn't have those while the Klingons and the Federation were still at
war, so there needs to be some explanation of why the Klingons are
attacking, or more consistency in the technology."

"I'll fix it. Deanna, are you all right?"

Her smile was a pale ghost of what it should have been. "Of course. Tired,
and -- oh, I'm sorry. I'll be right back." She gripped the edge of the table
and rose slowly, wincing. "I shouldn't have had another glass of tea."

While she waddled off, he scrolled back to the top of her story and skimmed
through it. The progression was obvious, now that he looked for it. When she
came back, he noticed a slight redness about her eyes that hadn't been
there.

"I think I'll have another chapter done by tomorrow -- I'm on a roll. How
about we move tomorrow's visit to thirteen hundred?"

"I don't see why not. My appointment book is clear," she replied, attempting
a lightness that defied her. "You've been much more productive than I have.
I'm starting to feel guilty."

"Don't be. In fact, if you don't mind, I have a request. I'd like to see you
start another story. Something real, autobiographical." Not depressing, or
so he wished he could add.

"What do you mean?"

"Something adventure-oriented, like the story of what happened that time you
were forced to impersonate a Romulan. I know you told us the story, but it's
different writing it down in dramatic format. It'd be more helpful if we
were writing the same sort of fiction, I think, because we'd both be in the
same genre."

"Are you saying this is autobiographical? You're a Deltan?" Her amusement
was brief but genuine.

"No, it's just the same sort of focus, on the adventure of being in
Starfleet. I think it would be fun."

"All right. I'll give it a try." She wasn't enthusiastic, but there was
hope.

Geordi went to the replicator. "You don't mind if I have a snack?"

"Of course not."

He returned with a plate of chocolate cookies. Taking one, he munched while
re-reading her meager addition once more. "You know, it really is a very
good description of what it's like to be depressed. But I'd expect that from
a former counselor. I can't wait to see what you do with a Romulan ship."

"Romulan uniforms aren't comfortable, for one thing." She took a cookie and
nibbled, just as he'd hoped. "What are these called again?"

"Fudge Nut Surprise. My mother's recipe." He patted his midriff.
"Unfortunately, one of my favorite comfort foods."

"I can see why," she said, licking crumbs from her finger. She reached for
another and looked again at the padd.

"Do you mind if I bring someone else along, too? I know this lieutenant. . .
."

~^~^~^~^~

At the reception, Picard made the rounds and tried to be authentically happy
to see everyone there. They were, after all, proof of his return to duty. He
was Captain Picard. When he moved on from the Vulcan delegation, he found
himself in the far corner of Ten Forward, where Kamala sat at a table with
two of her three companions. She gracefully invited him to sit down.

"This is Gruna," she said, touching the sleeve of the man on her right. "And
this is Bilan. My escorts. Bilan, please get me another drink."

Bilan scowled at Picard, but took the empty glass away. Gruna smiled
blandly.

"Gruna cannot hear. He is a sensitive, not quite an empath. When this occurs
in men they are always deaf." Kamala smiled and nodded to Gruna, who dropped
his gaze and crossed his arms. "He is my bodyguard."

"I had heard of the dissidents remaining on Valt. I'm not certain I
understand how they would prefer conflict with Krios to peace."

"It is something we must handle with care," she replied. "We do not wish the
dissidents any harm. We simply do not want them to continue the violence."
She touched the gold braid on his sleeve and contemplated his hand. "I don't
remember this. What is it?" Her fingertip brushed the ring, probably
detecting the minute engraving on it.

"In my culture, wearing a ring can be either decorative or signify an
attachment." He paused, disliking the reluctance. Disliking himself. "My
wife gave it to me." Which was, technically, wrong. He doubted Deanna would
have expected him wear it. Rings meant quite a different thing on Betazed.
The jeweler had asked if he wanted one when he'd ordered hers, if he wanted
them to match, and it had seemed a good idea.

Epiphany, then gentle sadness, showed in Kamala's eyes. "I look forward to
meeting her. She isn't here?"

"No, she isn't feeling well." He placed the drink on the table, absently ran
his palm down the front of his jacket, and glanced at Gruna. "I have heard
that you are responsible for the good relationship between Krios and Valt,
and for attaining membership in the Federation for your people."

"It's not something I've done alone. There are many others who deserve more
credit than I." Her pride in her countrymen brought a smile. "You have
different officers. A new ship."

"Also not something one does alone."

Her quiet chuckle reminded him that he rarely heard her laugh, in the hours
he spent with her preparing her for an arranged marriage with a man whose
only real concerns were the trade arrangements and economic benefit. Hours
in which he learned that appearances mean little, and 'gentle' is not
necessarily a weakness.

The dress she wore reminded him of something Deanna had, except Deanna never
wore white. On Kamala, the loose-fitting, formless, floor-length gown became
elegant. There were no revealing slits, no glittering sequins, simply soft
folds and fancy stitching in red along the shoulders and down the tops of
the sleeves.

The murmur of other conversations filled the pause in their own. He nodded
thoughtfully, turning his ring under his thumb. "You told me once that you
had chosen to bond with me."

"Yes." She kept her voice as low as his. Gruna did not look up, and Bilan
remained absent, either remarkably slow in bringing her drink or wisely
interpreting his mistress' intent.  "It was to my advantage, as it turned
out. I owe you a great deal, Captain."

"I don't believe I understand what that process meant."

Her hand closed over his wrist as she leaned close. "You're worried."

Their eyes met. There had been so much unspoken between them; he wondered
what she had known, what she had guessed, if empathic mesomorphs had much in
common with Betazoid empaths.

"Concerned," he amended. "I was concerned when you departed. I thought of it
at times, over the years."

Inclining her head as if conceding a point, she sighed and brought her hands
together in her lap. "It did not bind you in any way. Obviously."

His first impulse, an apology, struck him as wrong for several reasons. "I
hope it did not inconvenience you."

She raised her head, almost haughty. Her eyes warned him. She was
different -- but why would she be the same? After all she experienced,
change was logical.

"My wife is an empath."

"A Betazoid, perhaps? I've heard much about them. We have Betazoid visitors
on Valt from time to time."

"Yes. She is also my first officer." A pause, and he smiled sheepishly. "I'm
sorry. This is very awkward."

"I do not intend it to be. You've changed -- you aren't the determined man I
met so long ago." She studied him solemnly. "Are you happy?"

Picard stared down at the backs of his hands, which sat in his lap.

"I see."

"I have been happy, since I married Deanna." Reaching for his drink, he
sipped to give himself time to think. "Not so long ago, a few months, I was
badly injured on a mission. Since then I have been recovering. She is
pregnant. The stress throughout the time I was. . . ill, was not good for
her, and now she is on medical leave herself."

"You feel guilty for this, yet I do not see where you carry any guilt. A
mission is your duty, and if you are injured -- it was not as a result of a
decision you directly made?"

"No. We didn't have enough information to even suspect anything would go
wrong, other than the general knowledge that it was a dangerous region of
space."

Kamala nodded, smiling faintly. "She must have wanted the child as well. Her
stress was due to a situation over which you had no control. You shouldn't
feel guilty."

"It's easy to say that, but it's a larger issue. If I hadn't started a
family while aboard a starship it would not have come to this."

"But it is your duty," Kamala exclaimed. "Being in Starfleet is what you
chose over all other options."

He realized, not because of her words but because of his own, that having
Deanna as a wife had saved him from a dismal fate. It wouldn't have come to
this; it would have been worse, he would be dead, or permanently insane or
disabled. She hadn't been the counselor, but it hadn't been a counselor he
needed. He'd needed grounding, a stable reference point, a guide to reality.
However, that she had lost her own footing in the process bothered him.

"Why do you feel guilty?"

He looked up from the pulpy green dregs in his glass and learned all over
again the problem with talking to an empath. "I have managed to be more of a
burden than a help to her."

"But she made choices, too. We must all live with the consequences of our
choices." Kamala smiled sadly. "Especially those of us with so many
responsibilities."

"Kamala. . . ." It took him a few moments to put his thoughts into words.
"It isn't that I take my responsibilities as captain less seriously, but my
family -- "

When he couldn't continue, she nodded. "I can tell they mean as much to you
as your career."

"No. More. I've been in Starfleet for more than fifty years, did you know
that?"

"I did not," she said faintly. "I did not realize you were that old."

"Fifty years of working toward captain, achieving it, then striving to keep
up with my own standards as I grew older -- it will only become more
difficult from here. But I have a family, and my wife has her own career,
and while she would support a decision to retire if she sensed it was what I
wanted, Starfleet is still important to both of us."

As he spoke, he found the resolution he'd sought, the direction that had
eluded him, and nodded. Kamala's lost expression prevented further
explanation. After a pause, she smiled benignly and rose, Gruna springing up
after. "I should see what has happened to Bilan. Good evening, Captain, and
once again, I thank you for your hospitality." She glided off toward the end
of the bar, where Bilan stood at attention.

He sat pondering for another few minutes. After noting that most of the
ambassadors had either joined together around the bar or left the room, he
departed as well.

All was quiet in his quarters. Yves could spend the night with his
babysitter, Picard decided wearily, fumbling with the collar of his dress
uniform as he muttered for the computer to shut off the quarter-intensity
light remaining in the living area. The bedroom was more dimly-lit, and a
whisper darkened it.

He undressed as he had many times before, in darkness, with the streaks of
stars overhead for company. Leaving the pieces of his uniform, the
undershirt, the boots, and the socks in a corner to be dealt with in the
morning, he went to the bed. Listened to her breathe -- she wasn't sleeping
deeply, no snoring. He found the covers' edge and raised it, turned to sit
and then slide under, but leaped to his feet again.

"Computer, lights."

After a blink or two to adjust his eyes to the full intensity of the light,
he identified the moisture he'd felt on his upper thigh. Blood.

All the air left his lungs. He snatched away the blanket and sheet, then
leaned in to feel along Deanna's neck for a pulse. Adrenalin-generated
anxiety resulted in too many thoughts crammed into mere seconds. Under his
fingers, her pulse beat on, slow and unaffected by his panic. Strong.
Rhythmic. Her breath trickled along the heel of his hand. She wore one of
his undershirts, the gray falling far short of her hips because of the
pregnancy, and her panties appeared to be red with a white side panel. The
dark puddle of blood around her hips had spread unevenly, a long peninsula
making its way to his side of the bed.

Several more seconds later, an eternity to his frantic mind, he inhaled
roughly, forced to do so by involuntary reflex. "Dee!"

She woke, peered up at him through weary eyes, and started to sit up. Then
she sensed his alarm, which did away with her grogginess. "What -- Jean,
you're bleeding!"

He pointed at the bed. She stared, going pale as she realized what was
really happening. Immediately she put her hand over her abdomen. "I'm not in
labor," she said after a moment of introspection. "I don't feel anything
unusual. She's fine."

He found his voice again at last. "Picard to sickbay!"

It took too long for someone to get there. Deanna lay still, settling back
into the pillow with closed eyes and holding her abdomen. When the
annunciator sounded Picard shouted out for them to enter, pacing
impatiently. Dr. Mengis ignored him the instant he saw the blood stain.
However, after taking a quick reading, rather than bark an order at the
assistant who'd followed him in, he snapped his tricorder shut and nodded.

"No pain?"

Deanna looked up at him, relieved and weary. "No. Why am I bleeding?"

They were all too calm. Picard was on the verge of shouting when Deanna,
sensing the impulse, reached for him; she kept her arm outstretched until he
came to the head of the bed and took her hand. Mengis eyed this silent
exchange and waited for it to conclude before speaking.

"Placenta previa. It's not serious."

"Not serious?" Picard blurted. "Not serious!"

"The blood flow has stopped, and the staining is misleading -- there only
appears to be a lot of blood there," Mengis said. "It's caused by the
placenta being implanted partially or completely over the cervix. Late in
pregnancy as the uterus prepares for labor, the cervix expands and any part
of the placenta near it is torn loose. The result is painless bleeding from
the vagina. The baby's oxygen levels are fine; there's really no cause for
concern."

"What if it happens again?" Picard stared at the stained sheets.

"It's not likely, but if she bleeds again, notify me at once, of course.
Otherwise she should continue to rest as much as possible and all should be
well."

Deanna squeezed his fingers. At that point, Picard realized that the doctor
and a lieutenant were standing in his bedroom, staring at him while he held
his wife's hand and wore only underwear. "Thank you, Doctor. You are
dismissed."

Mengis' mouth twitched, causing the end of his mustache to jump, and he
herded the lieutenant out of the room.

"I hope this hasn't soaked through," Deanna said, beginning the lengthy
process of sitting up.

Picard unfroze, leaped to help her, and shifted into cleanup mode with all
the skills having a son had taught him. He was smoothing down a clean sheet,
grateful that standard-issue bed linens had an inherent stain-resistant,
absorbent, and mattress-protecting quality, when he noticed Deanna's
expression. She had gone to change clothes and returned to watch, standing
behind him with a bemused expression.

He almost came to attention, caught himself, and glanced down. "I should
change," he muttered. The blood on his thigh was drying.

First, however, he waited for her to settle again in bed. He took his time
in the bathroom, hoping she would be asleep when he emerged. He came out
quietly, pulled on a pair of shorts, and crept to the bedside table for the
book he had been trying to read. Deanna, curled up under the covers with
only her hair and forehead showing, seemed to be asleep. He went to the
chair in the far corner and started over with chapter one.

He reached page forty without retaining a thing. Deanna's murmur reached him
easily in the silence. "You don't have to stay awake. I'm all right."

Picard stared at the pages before him. Kamala's words floated in and around
his memory of Deanna's logs and reports, his vague recollection of pain and
frustration, and Yves' childish assertions that he would take care of Mama.

"Jean-Luc."

He closed the book. "Am I disturbing you?"

A moment, perhaps to collect her composure, word her response, assess his
emotional state, or perhaps, he could not dispute the possibility, she was
simply tired and slow. "You won't come to bed. That disturbs me. You're
tired."

Turning off the lamp, he did as she wished, sliding into bed between clean
sheets and trying not to remember the stains.

"Cygne, I'm so sorry. I -- " Should have been there? Duty required his
presence at the reception. There would have been nothing he could have done
to help her, other than call for assistance, which he had done. After a
hesitation that disturbed him -- but nothing dire had happened as a
consequence.

Bereft of anything to say, he responded automatically to her touch, put an
arm over her and let her drape arm and leg over him as she pleased.

"I'm all right," she sighed against his cheek. Her fingers tightened in his
chest hair.

"I should have -- "

When he couldn't continue, she sighed again. "Meditation?"

"I'll be all right."

Eventually, he fell asleep, but long after she did.

~^~^~^~^~


--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Stories Only Forwarding

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