Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 11 Jan 2004 18:27:52 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keeroth@startrek.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 150/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 150 Picard lowered his head into his hand, slowly rubbing the bridge of his nose as he let out a long, frustrated sigh. Finally, he looked up and transfixed his Security officer with a hard stare. "Mr. Worf, we've been over this a half dozen times - and nothing's changed. This meeting is going to happen, with or without your approval. Make whatever arrangement you feel necessary - but make them!" He reached for his tea cup, only to find the brew cold - again. Twice he had replicated a cup of the liquid for himself - and twice they had gone from deliciously hot and soothing to cold and bitter - and both times without his having the opportunity to enjoy even the briefest sip. Rising, he strode to the replicator slot, set the chilled cup back in, then announced, "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot," then added in a softer voice, "in a thermal cup." After all, he reminded himself, arguing with his Chief Security officer was one thing - but being deliberately rude was quite another. And, he added, as he took the cup back to his desk, taking as hasty sip as he did so, it wasn't as though Worf was being deliberately belligerent; he was doing his job, trying to protect the ship, the captain - and, Picard admitted, the Federation - all of which, as far as the Klingon knew, were still at risk. And he might be right, Picard added, taking another sip as he settled in behind his desk, savoring the path of warmth that traveled down his throat and into his stomach; for all I know, for all the mental contact I've have with Jemat, they may have duped me - and the only reason they want to have a face-to-face meeting was to finish their initial mission - or to seek revenge on me for the death of their captain. Still... "Worf, I am not going to ignore this opportunity to discussions with the Breen." "Sir, they are our enemies!" Worf protested - again. "Were, Worf," Picard sighed, repeating his protestation for what seemed the hundredth time. "They were our enemy; now they are an unknown - and how we address that state will shape our fuiture together," he reminded the Security officer. "They kidnapped you once before..." "Which is why we're having the meeting here, Worf, and not on their vessel - as you requested," Picard reminded him. "Yes, but Data's report suggests that the nature of their transporter system is such that they could use them, regardless of whether our shields were in place or not," the Klingon continued. "If kidnapping me - or anyone on this ship - were their goal," Picard sighed, catching another quick sip of his tea, "they could have done so long ago. It's been five days since we've returned," he added. Five days, he thought with a smile; was that all? It felt like a lifetime. It had been a lifetime, he amended a moment later - but a lifetime lived out in reverse, starting with the dissolution of everything he had once deemed important: his career, Andile's life... his relationship with Beverly - and ending with a new beginning: a renewed sense of hope for the future as Zumell and Tiron had convinced him to begin negotiations, as Jemat had made formal contact with him in the first step to open discussions between their races, as Andile made the first steps toward healing, and Beverly... Beverly, he thought soberly. She could never forgive him, he knew; he doubted he would ever forgive himself for his barbarous behavior that day. And yet, when they had looked at each other in the operating room, there had been something in her eyes... Or perhaps it was merely the reflection of hope from mine, he admitted; they had had no direct contact since the moment Andile had been taken from the surgery, with her absence from the morning staff meetings continuing - and now, even her reports being written by Alyssa Ogawa or Greg Matthews. That could be explained away, he insisted to himself, by Beverly's dedication to her work, knowing that though Andile's condition had improved, it had only improved fractionally - and that she was still spending every hour of every day in Sickbay, monitoring her condition, formulating and adjusting the nutrients that were being fed into her veins, watching the slow changes in her body's chemistry, directing her therapy even now in the first few days after her surgery, governing the physical therapists who were manipulating her limbs, preventing the muscles from atrophying further, guiding the reformation of the glial cells that had been transplanted to her damaged spinal cord, even setting up schedules of volunteers to read to the unconscious form in the hope of providing the stimulus needed to reform and reconnect the neural circuitry of her damaged brain... He took another sip from the cup, savoring the flavor - and the memory. My God, he thought to himself: How does she do it? Standing in the operating room, watching her - he had never been in a surgical suite before - at least, not as a participant, he added, knowing he been on the receiving end of a phaser scalpel more times than he cared to remember - he had found himself amazed, astounded, dumb-struck - and impressed beyond anything he had known before. It was impressive enough that she - that anyone! - knew that much about the intricate workings of the human body - not the mention the fact that she was equally well-versed in the physiology of a half-dozen other species - but add to that the fact that she understood how to diagnose failures in that complex structure, the pharmacology related to it, the surgical repair of the internal organs, the process and reactions needed to keep someone alive, the equipment involved... And yet, in the midst of all the chaos, she had never lost her humanity, her gentleness, leaning down to murmur a word of encouragement to the unconscious body or to gently pat a drape-covered shoulder - or to offer a word of positive reinforcement to the others in the room. She even talked to me, he remembered - as though I was anything except a hanger-on, as though I had a useful function amidst the well-choreographed dance that was the operation. In a way, he admitted thoughtfully, it's not that different from what I do - I understand this ship and all her complexities, I understand everything about her operations, her functions - and I use that knowledge to fulfill my training, to complete our missions, to make and keep the peace in the quadrant... Our work is related - and they're both important - but somehow, what she did was different, he knew. She keeps people alive. Amazing, he thought. Just amazing, he repeated - then smiled. _She_ was amazing. But she was also working herself into exhaustion, he added. So many of the tasks she had undertaken to herself could have been done equally well by others, he knew; Beverly had no need to oversee every moment of Andile's recuperation personally - let alone taking to eating and sleeping in Sickbay, leaving only long enough to bathe and change clothes. It transcended dedication, he thought to himself; it went beyond commitment, verging on monomaniacism - or obsession. Or fear, he reminded himself painfully. Of me? Of what I did - and said? he asked himself again - as he had so often in the last two days. Did I terrify her so badly that she feels she must drive herself to exhaustion watching over Andile, lest I... what? he asked himself. Do what I threatened to do? Remove her from duty - and charge her with malpractice or incompetence? She was neither, he knew; even in those moments of rage, when he was striking out at the person he held most dear, he knew that there was no finer physician in the Federation, no one who had a better chance of saving Andile's life than she did - but just because he had absolute faith in her knowledge and abilities, that didn't mean that she had the same faith in herself. Did I shatter that self-confidence? he wondered. Did I hurt her even more deeply than I was aware - and is this her way of answering my threats - and her own self-accusations? By working herself to the point of exhaustion - and beyond? I'm sorry, he told her silently, feeling his so-recently sense of optimism fading once again. And surging back as he looked at his stony-faced Security Chief, and remembered the reality of his position - and the potential it offered them all. "I appreciate your concerns, Mr. Worf - but I will not pass up this opportunity to start peaceful discussions with the Breen. This meeting _is_ going to happen," he said firmly. "It's up to you to implement sufficient Security precautions to ensure that there is no untoward outcome from those discussions." "Which I could do - if you were not simultaneously trying to negotiate with the Cardassians and the Romulans!" the Klingon countered. Picard smiled. "No one said this was going to be easy, Mr. Worf," he jibed gently. "It is impossible!" Worf roared back. "No. What is impossible is creating a perfectly safe enviroment for these discussions. What is impossible if guaranteeing the absolute safety of me, the ship, the delegates - or the Breen themselves. But we will do the best we can, Worf - because the one thing that is possible is seizing the opportunity that has been presented to us - and chance to open a dialogue with a species we barely know - and creating a peaceful relationship with them. "And that, Mr. Worf, is what we will do; what we must do. The question is: how do we do it?" Worf stared at Picard, gave a low growl - then let out a long breath. "We must begin with your safety, Captain," he declared. "Worf..." Picard sighed frustratedly. "Captain, I accept that your tasks include finding a peaceful association with the Breen and a creating mutually acceptable treaty with the Cardassians and the Romulans," Worf said, his voice low and earnest. "However, the successful completion of both those missions revolves around a single point - that is, that all parties have deemed your involvement as incontrovertible. Therefore, if these discussions are as critical as you claim they are, then you must allow me to place your safety above everything else." Picard glared at the Klingon - then gave a reluctant nod of agreement. "All right - but within reason. What do you suggest?" Deanna refused to laugh, deeming the behavior inappropriate for the bridge - but she was utterly unable to conceal the smile from her face - and equally incapable of hiding her mirth from the man sitting beside her. "What is it? Someone telling a good joke, somewhere?" Will asked as he watched her face light up with a genuine pleasure and joy he hadn't seen since... Well, since this morning, he conceded, sending a wicked leer at her. She looked back innocently - then let her eyes widen. "Will!" she gasped in mock indignation and outrage. He grinned at her, then let the smile fade. "That wasn't why you were smiling?" he asked in a hurt tone. "That's why I was smiling... earlier," she countered primly, then smiled letting the stern look fade. "Now... Now I'm sensing the captain...," she informed him. "And he's in a good mood?" Will said, surprised - and relieved; it had been far too long since the man had had a good day. "Actually, he and Worf are arguing," Deanna countered. "They're fighting? And you find this amusing?" Will asked in surprise. She shook her head. "Not amusing. Just..." She let her focus drift, attuning herself to the emotions surrounding her. "Refreshing. Healthy. Hopeful," she added with a soft sigh - then met Will's eyes once again. "It's been a long time since I've felt that sort of hopefulness from the captain - or from anyone else on the ship, Will," she informed him - then reached for his hand. "It's been hard on everyone, Will; the realization that the Federation was willing to sell out the Ba'ku people, the length of time the war seemed to drag on, our inability to become involved - we've been trapped, Will, impotent to act on the what we feel is important, meaningful - and for the captain, that powerlessness has been doubly cruel, in part because he felt the same inability to act as we did - but more so, because he knew that the acts that led to our frustration were his fault, his responsibility. "Now, after so long," she told him with a smile, "he has the opportunity to act in a meaningful way once again - and through him, so do we all." She gave a laugh of exquisite delight. "And I can feel that same joy radiating throughout the crew, Will; there's a hopefulness among them all I haven't felt in a long time." "I hope having the Breen come aboard isn't going to change that," Will said, a dour grimace crossing his face. "There are a lot of people who lost friends and family when the Breen attacked Earth," he reminded her soberly, his face carefully blank. "Including you," she answered softly, reaching for his hand and squeezing it sympathetically. "I know you lost friends in the attack..." "And in some of the battles near DS Nine," he said quietly. "As there must be many Breen who lost friends and crewmates, and who suffered through our acts in the war, Will," she countered. "War doesn't take sides, Will; it brutalizes us all, not caring if right exists on either or both sides. All war is is death and suffering - and we need to remember that when the Breen come on board," she chided him gently. "_If_ they come on board," Will countered sternly. "If Worf has his way..." She smiled. "He's not going to," she answered. "Whatever objections Worf might have, these talks are going to go forth; I can sense the captain's absolute resolve in this matter, Will - and I think he's right. We've had have war long enough; we need some better, something hopeful - for all of us." Will nodded - then looked forward, staring at the perfectly coifed head that sat at the ops position just ahead of the captain's chair. "Including Data and Biji?" he asked Deanna softly. She followed his gaze - then looked back solemnly at her lover, dropping her voice to where only he could hear it - though, she reminded herself silently, Data could overhear anything he wanted to - if he would allow himself the breach of good manners. Which he wouldn't, she knew equally well; he was a gentleman - even if he wasn't a human, she thought. "I have to believe there's hope for her, Will - for both of them. But even if... when... she recovers, they're going to have a long row before them - and there's no guarantee that they'll regain what they had. Life isn't a fairy tale, Will, and all the endings aren't always good." He met her gaze - and realized she was no longer speaking of just Data and Andile. He raised a brow in silent inquiry - but her only answer was a small shake of her head; she would never reveal a professional confidence, he knew - nor would he ever ask her to do so - but this was more than a professional issue, he argued to himself. The captain's mental and emotional health affected the entire ship - and would certainly have some bearing on the negotiations ahead - and certainly Beverly's health was crucial to their own survival; if she was emotionally debilitated, all their lives were at risk! No, he decided, this was too important to keep hidden under the covering of 'professional confidentiality'! He drew a deep breath, steeling himself for the argument he was about to launch. "As first officer..." he began - then fell silent as he met Deanna's eyes. She didn't know, he realized. "They're not talking," she confirmed. "To me - or to each other." "You would have thought they'd have worked it out by now," he grumbled. "It's been almost a week..." "Will, they're both strong-minded..." she reminded him. Stubborn, pig-headed fools, he thought to himself. "... and they've never been the fastest at healing wounds between them..." Because neither of them was ever willing to admit they were wrong - at least, he added, not to each other. "... but I'm not sensing the usual animosity between them," she continued. He frowned. Not good, he thought, preferring his fights to be out and in the open - and over with. Beverly and the captain, however, kept their arguments - and their disappointments - hidden, pushed into the dark, moldering and festering in their hearts until someone intervened to set things right... until the next time. This time however, they were both acting as though there was nothing wrong, as though nothing had happened between the two of them - except, of course, he added, that it had. Though what it was, he confessed silently, he still didn't know. And neither, he added unhappily, did Deanna. Then again, as ship's Counselor... "No, I'm not going to ask them - either one of them," she replied indignantly to his unspoken question. "There's a difference between counseling - and prying," she reminded him. "It would be for the good of the ship," he reminded her. "Will, the ship's morale is better than it's been for months - maybe for years," she protested. "And neither the captain nor Beverly is exhibiting any outward manifestations of stress related to their personal relationship," she added. "I can not, and will not, abuse the privileges and obligations of my profession by... snooping into something that is none of my business!" she snapped, then rose to her feet. "If I may be excused, Commander?" she added. Will's brow raised in question. "Leaving, Counselor?" he asked. "Yes," she replied haughtily, adding, "I have a headache. Brought on by arguing with my superior officer," she added. "Ah," Will said, a knowing smile flickering across his face. "And since even the ship's counselor occasionally needs to talk with someone, who better than the one person who can both understand her issues - and treat her headache?" "Commander! " she said indignantly. "You make it sound as though I was scheming, as though I was plotting something unethical in order to circumvent the ethics of my profession. You make me sound... Machiavellian." He grinned at her knowingly. She grinned back, leaning close to him once again. "You make me sound, Will, as though I were you." "Hi." Beverly looked up from her patient - and smiled. A genuine smile, Deanna realized immediately, born as much of the woman's nature good humor as from the positive turn of events in the last few days - though it did absolutely nothing to offset the dark circles that underlined her eyes - or the hollows that showed beneath her cheekbones - or, Deanna added, the sallowness that stained the usually fair complexion. She looked awful, Deanna decided - but no worse than she had looked when dealing with any of the other difficult cases that had passed through her Sickbay, she realized. Or rather, she amended a moment later, she looked no worse than she had looked when dealing with her most difficult cases - namely those where the captain was her patient. And in a way, Deanna thought to herself, maybe he was. She looked down at the recumbent form on the bed and smiled. "Hello, Andile." Beverly followed her gaze to the unconscious woman, then gently moved the single errant black hair from her face, carefully positioning it alongside the others, splayed out over the mattress behind Andile's head, a black fan of luxurious tresses, framing her pale skin. Her pale, unbruised, un-mottled skin. "You're looking better," Deanna informed the engineer - then looked at Beverly. "Can she hear me?" "Yes - and no," Beverly replied unhappily. "While her senses are working, the last neurological scan indicates there are no functioning higher cognitive processes. Technically, she _can_ hear - but her brain can't process the information." "Is it permanent?" Deanna asked worriedly. The physician drew a breath to answer - then stopped, letting the air out with a sigh. "I don't know, Deanna," she admitted quietly. "I have no idea how much is trauma from the infusion, how much is damage from the lack of oxygen, how much is just a degree of protective mental fugue, trying to insulate her from the trauma of what happened. It could be permanent; it could also just be a matter of time - but if it is, it might be a day, a week - or a year," she said. Or a century, she added silently, feeling her anger and shame at the fate to which she had condemned the woman welling up in her heart once again - and feeling the hot sting of tears. "Beverly? Beverly, what's wrong?" Deanna asked, reaching out for the woman's arm. Beverly allowed the touch - but only for a moment, then gently shook it off. "Oh, don't mind me, Deanna," she said, brushing away the tears with her hand, plastering a false smile on her face. "Write it up to fatigue. I haven't had a good night's sleep since... since I don't know when. Before this all started," she thought. Since that day I slept in his room, she admitted to herself, still able to remember the faint scent of his cologne, his clothes, his possessions - of him! - that pervaded the room, filling her dreams and her dreamless rest with a contentment she hadn't felt, since... Since Jack died, she thought. No. Since before he died, she corrected himself, remembering... Deanna looked across the room, noting the extra bed that had been added to the room that Geordi had created for Andile. "Maybe if you slept in your own quarters?" she said quietly. "Alyssa and Greg _can_ watch her, you know." Beverly smiled, but refused to blush at the suggestion. "Andile may have damaged cognitive processes - but she is aware at some level; her blood pressure rises - sometimes alarmingly - when Greg's in the room. I've excused him from her care for the time being." "And Alyssa?" Deanna prompted. "Andile does fine when Alyssa's attending her - but she's got to assist Greg in the others duties in Sickbay," she reminded the empath. "And Andile requires constant attention?" Deanna asked skeptically. "For the time being," Beverly replied quickly - and, Deanna thought, a little too insistently. "Until when, Bev? You can't be her guardian forever, you know." Beverly met her friend's eyes, then looked down. "Not much longer," she admitted - to both Deanna and to herself. "Now that we've found the correct balance of neurotransmitters, her healing is progressing at a remarkable rate. We'll be weaning her off the dialysis tomorrow - and if she stabilizes, we'll implant the regulator for her diaphragm, so that she can resume independent breathing - at least to a small degree - on her own. She'll be dependent on the oxygenator for the rest of her life - but at least she'll be able to speak... if she can," she added miserably. "She recovered before," Deanna reminded her. "No, she didn't, Deanna; she survived - but she never recovered," the doctor said bitterly. "Oh, Deanna, what have I done? I was trying to save her - but all I may have done was to condemn her back to that hell!" she cried. Stricken by the doctor's unbearable pain and guilt, she reached out, pulling her friend into her into her arms, holding her - and waited for tears that she knew Beverly would never permit herself - not on front of her patient - even if that patient would never know she was crying. The empath sighed as she gently stroked the physician's back. "You really need to get some rest, Beverly," she counseled her friend. Beverly held the embrace a moment longer, then pulled back, nodding wearily. "And I will - in a few days. When she's a little more stable." She sniffed back an invisible tear. "Geordi's going have the extra bed taken out, and bring in some chairs and a reading light. I know Biji isn't aware of our presence, but she can still hear - and there is ample evidence that patterning can help reestablish or recreate neural circuits. I've started a sign-up sheet for people who want to help by reading to her around the clock, giving her constant input - just as she'll be receiving twenty hours of physical therapy a day to try to repattern the new neural paths in her spine. Greg damaged them when he placed the line - but we have been treating the damage very aggressively. I think that with the glial cell transplant, the medication - and the patterning, she'll be able to recover full sensory function in both legs." "But she'll never be able to use them," Deanna said. "No," she said quietly, then added, "Maybe." Deanna's eyes widened at the faint concession. "Beverly?" "I been researching some early work on autologous cell transplants - regrowing organs for transplantation into the donor/patient. The work fell into disfavor in light of new techniques of transgenic organ transplant - but Andile's not a candidate for that. There were multiple attempts to transplant transgenic hands onto her arms after the accident - and they were rejected. But if I can clone Andile's own lung tissue..." "Beverly! That would be wonderful!" "If it works," Beverly conceded grimly. "If it doesn't... I don't want to offer her hope only to have to take it away again," she explained. "Beverly," Deanna said firmly, "five minutes ago, you were telling me she might never regain brain function; now you're telling me you think you can give her back everything she's lost! I know you would never offer Andile false hope - but she needs to know you'll never stop trying to find a way to give her back everything she lost - and then some." Beverly felt a small wave of hope and confidence wash back over her then rubbed at her eyes, sniffed back the threat of a runny nose - and looked at Deanna curiously. "Please tell me you didn't come all the way down here because you could tell I was having a bad day," she begged the empath. "Hardly. I'm here because I was having a bad day - and a worse headache." Beverly narrowed her eyes, allowing herself a flash of suspicion. Deanna rarely got headaches - except when they were convenient to her as a counselor. "I didn't intend to bother you with it," she continued. "I thought Alyssa or Greg would be on duty..." "Greg's on the night shift for the time being - and Alyssa went on meal break," Beverly replied, the suspicion fading from her face - and her emotions. Deanna nodded understandingly, hoping Beverly wouldn't realize that she had been waiting outside Sickbay for the last half hour, waiting for precisely that turn of events to occur before entering the room. Instead, she allowed herself a slightly pained frown, then murmured, "I'm sorry. I'd wait - but it's been bothering me for the last hour, and it's getting worse..." "Of course," Beverly said, rising from her desk, reaching for Deanna's hand and guiding her to the now deserted triage area in Sickbay. "Quiet in here," Deanna noted. Beverly smiled. "Andile's is 'her' room now. I know it sounds callous, but having her out here, where everyone could see her - and be reminded about her prognosis - was taking a terrible toll on my staff. You couldn't walk past her without wondering when - not if, Deanna - but when! - she would die. Moving her into her own room has reduced the stress level in Sickbay considerably - and I think she's showing some response to it as well. We've been able to stabilize the temperature so she isn't cold all the time - or at least, she isn't displaying a shiver reflex," Beverly conceded. "I hope she's not cold," she repeated softly. "I remember what she said..." "About always feeling so cold when she was at Starfleet Medical - but she couldn't tell them," Deanna said sympathetically. "She couldn't tell them anything," Beverly repeated, her eyes growing misty as tears began to form. "Trapped in a body that wouldn't work - but her mind still active, still functioning... I didn't want that for her here," she said softly. "And it won't be that way, here," Deanna said firmly, taking Beverly by the shoulders and looking at her friend. "I'll make a point of coming by to visit her a couple of times a day, Beverly. I'll try to see if there's even a glimmer of conscious thought in her mind - and if there is, I'll find a way to get in contact with her, to let her know we're here - and that we know she's there. It won't be like it was before, Beverly," Deanna said firmly. "We won't let her go through that again." Beverly stared into her friend's eyes for a long moment, then forced a tired smile to her face. "Of course. But I'm forgetting you," she added. "Sit down," she said, then moved to one of the consoles, grabbing a medical scanner before moving back to Deanna's side. "Where is the pain focused?" she asked as she began passing the scanner over the empath's head and neck. "Right here," the empath replied, touching the back of her neck, rubbing at it, then slowly craning her neck as though trying to stretch a recalcitrant muscle. "I'm not seeing anything," Beverly replied a moment later as she studied the scanner's read out, "but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Are you sure this is your headache?" she added. Deanna looked at her in surprise. "Pardon?" Beverly smiled. "You're empathic, Deanna; normally that limits you picking up emotions - but more than once, I've seen you react to other people's headaches. Are you sure this is yours?" Deanna nodded, her expression a blend of certainty and misery. "Oh, yes; this one's mine. The captain's headache is here," she explained, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "The captain has a headache?" Beverly said, unable to mask the worry in her voice. "A little one," Deanna demurred. "He and Worf have been arguing all afternoon about the details for the Breen coming aboard - and I know he hasn't eaten all day - and you know how bad his headaches get when he does that - but as I said, his is all focused here," she said, touching her nose once again. "My headache's in the back of my neck - though if there's a real pain in my neck, it's Will," she added with a sigh. "Trouble?" Beverly pressed gently, moving away to retrieve one of the devices displayed on the console. "Not trouble really, Beverly," she sighed. "Or rather, no more trouble than you'd expect from two people who have spent a lifetime developing their own personal habits and behaviors start sharing aspects of their lives with one another." Beverly smiled. "Such as...?" "Oh, just little things. They seem trivial when I'm talking to you..." "But they're not trivial when they happen, are they?" Beverly said. "No." "Like leaving wet towels in the middle of the bathroom floor?" Beverly said. "Not putting away his dirty dishes? Insisting everything be 'just so' - and complaining when it isn't?" Deanna's expression turned to one of complete astonishment. "How did you know?" "I was married, remember?" "And Jack did all that?" Beverly smiled. "No; I did. Jack and I married when I saw young - but I had been on my own for some time. I was set in my habits. Oh, I wasn't a slob; I knew I'd pick the wet towels and put them in the refresher as soon as I was finished dressing - but it drove Jack crazy! He'd follow along behind me, picking up the towels, grumbling the whole time - then I would start grumbling - and soon we'd be shouting at each other." "Well, we don't shout," Deanna said, "but it's gets pretty tense, sometimes. I may be the ship's Counselor, Bev - but I didn't have anything in my training to be a psychologist that covered sloppy men!" The physician smiled again. "Deanna, I'm going to tell you something I learned just before Wesley was born - and it has been the best piece of advice I've ever received." "Yes?" Deanna said anxiously. "Pick your fights." "Pardon?" "Pick your fights. There's going to be enough things in your life that you can argue over - but it will make you both miserable if you're constantly fighting over nothing. So decide what's important to you; if it's critical, then fight for what you believe in, or what your think is right. If it's not important, then let it go," she advised. Deanna nodded, mulling over the advice. "I'll keep that in mind, Beverly." Beverly studied her scanner. "You're crit's still a little low - and that might well be triggering your headache. I'm going to give you an analgesic, which should help for the time being. I also want you to take it easy for the balance of your shift - and get plenty of rest tonight. Early dinner - then straight to bed." "Will's going to be delighted to hear that," Deanna smirked. Beverly grinned back. "I'm sure he will. He'll probably be sending you down here every day, just so I can make it an official order." She stepped back to the console, searched for a hypospray, then filled it, then pressed it against Deanna's neck. The empath raised her hand to the cold spot where the spray was administered, rubbing at it for a moment - then sighed relievedly as the muscles began to relax. "For the rest of the day, drink plenty of fluids," Beverly continued, "and no skipping any meals. If your headache comes back, I'll do a complete work up, just to make sure that everything's healing the way it should. But I don't think you have anything to worry about - including wet towels, dirty clothes - or anything else. You'll find a way to work it out." Deanna nodded - but didn't get off the bed. Instead, she affixed her friend with a firm gaze. "And you?" Beverly raised a brow in question. "Me?" "Yes, you. Will you - the both of you - find a way to work it out?" Deanna asked solemnly. For a moment, the physician stared at her in confusion - then understanding registered. She looked away, then gave a small shake of her head. "It's not the same thing, Deanna. This... I can't let this just go." "No, I wouldn't think you could; you said the things you fight for are the important ones - not the trivial ones. But your relationship with the captain, Beverly - that's important, to both of you. Isn't it worth fighting for?" For a moment, Beverly remained silent, staring at the empty hypo in her hands - then looked at her patient, her professional face back in place once again. "I need to get back to Andile," she said softly. "Let me know if the headache comes back," she added, then turned and walked away. -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! 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