Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Sun, 01 Feb 2004 07:42:26 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: 2/5
Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com






This leave is not going to be quite what I expected.

When we arrived, I understood why Will had seemed so serious over subspace
when he contacted us. I sensed at once that Will and Bell are emotionally at
odds with each other, though their demeanor when we're all together is
polite. Their behavior is such that Jean-Luc has noticed. Neither of us has
said a word to each other or to our hosts about the emotional tension
between the adults. That will change soon. I dealt with relationships in
various phases of termination as a counselor, and I know that this
relationship is a jammed weapon in the process of winding up to overload.

I'd rather not be on leave in the company of a feuding couple, even if they
are close friends, given the months of strain on my own marriage and my
condition. Still, Ithica is a Federation colony with a significant Betazoid
presence. Giving birth on the ship can be stressful, and even if we must
abandon the care of our doctor to do it, I still want Betazoid assistance
this time. Jean-Luc doesn't understand completely why I'm willing to place
my health and our child's birth in the hands of strangers, but that's
cultural. Humans have different attitudes about relationships; even a
half-Betazoid like me can sense enough about someone to know whether or not
they are trustworthy and competent. Since we cannot return to Betazed in
time, this colony will suffice.

After dinner, on our first evening in the house we're renting from one of
Bell's cousins, Will and I are sitting on the porch. Inside the house, the
shrieks of happy children; outside, the sigh of the wind in the trees in the
front yard. Fidele reclines at my feet as usual. He's been put on pregnancy
watch with Yves' blessing, though not without some cajoling and continuing
reassurances.

"I wish," Will begins again, then loses the train of thought.  Or decides
not to finish. He glances down at the dog.

"Fidele, go play with the children."

The hound's head turns, tips back, and amber eyes regard me with detached
assessment. His tail thumps. "I am not required?"

"I'll call you if I need you." He has very good hearing.

Fidele rises, stretching and yawning, and pads to the other end of the
porch. Nosing the door open, he slips inside. A few seconds later the happy
cries of the children acknowledge his arrival.

"She doesn't really talk to me any more," Will says. He's wistful -- how
many times has he been this way over the years? How many times will he look
back at his life and regret things that he's brought upon himself?

"Do you listen?"

He stares at me as if he doesn't believe I said it. "Yes. I would, if she'd
just. . . ." He sighs, meshes his fingers, leans forward with his elbows on
his knees. "I'm glad to see you're still together, anyway. At least that's
working out."

I think about the months of awkwardness and guilt, my reactions to
Jean-Luc's behavior, my failures, our fears and miscommunications, and
decide not to respond. Will is not wanting my advice; I can read his mood
too well. There are times when he will accept my criticism or suggestion,
and this is not one of them.

The pull of the baby takes precedence; I feel myself slipping away from the
conversation (what little there is) and adrift in awareness of Amy, three
weeks from full term and more coherent emotionally than she has ever been.
Unborn children have minimal cognition, but they do feel, and they do
register to my empathy as individuals once the brain has developed. The
difficulties with Jean-Luc and our bond had made it possible to fall into
the gestational trance I had read about but hadn't experienced with Yves.
Though we've recovered our bond, this habit of drifting continues.

"Deanna?" Will's worried. Before he can touch me, I raise my head, the
habitual smile already there.

"Yes?"

Concern recedes from his eyes, puzzlement replacing it. "Sleepy?"

"Not at all. Thinking." And realizing that Jean-Luc is returning, I look
down the street. This house is in a rural area, and the nearest market is a
kilometer away. Jean-Luc comes into view around a corner, carrying a box,
meaning he'd actually gotten something more than just the look around town
he claimed it would be. While he strolls up the short walk to the porch I
see again how different the husband is from the officer. Though no less
poised, he smiles more often, meets my eyes without immediately looking
away, and as he comes into the shade he gestures with his free hand toward
the neighboring houses.

"The commercial part of town isn't far from here," he announces, putting the
box on the floorboards. "And there's quite a tourist trade."

"What did you get?"

Rather than answering, he pulls out a parcel, which when unwrapped proves to
be a wind chime. He hangs it along the front of the porch awning, where the
rings in all sizes tinkle pleasantly.

"Oh, my," I exclaim, grinning. "You're trying to make me feel at home."

"Betazoid colonists make and sell souvenirs, apparently." Jean smiles,
touches the chime, and the rings sway and collide in melodic combinations.
"And they tune them to more pleasing harmonics."

"That's my grandmother's doing, actually. She trademarked the Holy Rings."

Surprise, from both Will and Jean, and shown so differently -- Jean raises
an eyebrow and inclines his head more my direction, and Will openly gapes
for a few seconds before sitting back in his chair and grinning at me.

"She noticed people were making copies of them. She went to court, stopped
the manufacturing of the copies, and after many weeks of dickering with
attorneys, won all rights to the Holy Rings and any likeness or recording or
facsimile of them. Which is why these are in a different key, and more
pleasing to the ear, not to mention the rings are made of different metal.
They can make copies as long as they don't sound exactly like or look like
the real thing, and as long as the appropriate fees are paid to the Fifth
House for the right to do so."

"You never even mentioned that," Will exclaims, leaning away from me and
eyeing me accusingly.

"I didn't see any reason to mention it. Most of the income goes to
maintaining the House." I can't quit smoothing the dress I'm wearing over my
abdomen. Calling it "my dress" is depressing; it's one of the dresses I wear
because I'm temporarily forced to, and somewhat like a uniform in that
respect. The soft pale gray material doesn't snag and is quite comfortable,
but I hate it.

Jean produces a box of chocolates, which is perhaps predictable, given how
smug and anticipatory he is, but there's more in there yet and he doesn't
get this excited over just chocolates. He follows the box with a selection
of frivolities he thinks I'll like, hair ornaments and different shades of
nail polish and a lotion scented with Betazoid flower fragrance. It doesn't
escape me that he's trying very hard not to react to Will's presence as he
gives me these things, and this determination to please me makes me
appreciate his efforts more than the items themselves.

While I pull back my hair and wind in a spiral beribboned hair wire, no
doubt imported from the third province as it's in Third House colors, I ask
what else is in the box.

"It's an antique I found," he replies. "Nothing much."

Which tells me he thinks I won't like it. I probably won't; it's likely one
of those human artifacts that's profoundly unappealing even to modern human
aesthetic standards, never mind my own Betazoid-influenced taste. But Will
is highly amused by all of this, in a wholly human way that I find
infuriating. As if Jean-Luc has somehow violated some sort of code by giving
me these things. Jean dislikes having Will there to witness it, and Will is
too entertained to bother with the idea of going inside. I'm upset by the
undercurrent of this non-verbal competition -- it's something I've seen
before, between Will and Worf too. They'd deny anything I said about it.

"Can I see it?"

When Jean raises it from the wrapping material, Will sniffs. I'm careful not
to react at once. It's truly a hideous thing, a clock in the shape of a man,
the hands and numerals in its belly. Faded and peeling paint, odd clothing,
corpulence depicted in wood -- it appears to have been carved just to annoy
me, quite successfully.

"Only twelve numbers," I say. "He looks rather unhappy."

"It's at least two centuries old. Probably from the estate of some colonist
who didn't know what it was and didn't bother to check." Jean holds the
clock awkwardly and scrutinizes it. "I had to wonder if it was a fake, but
it was priced low enough that I thought it was worth the chance. We should
be able to date it accurately with the ship's laboratory equipment. It's a
replica of a winking eyes John Bull clock -- the eyelids are supposed to
move with the ticking of the clock."

"Is it functional, then?" I want to ask who would fake something so hideous.
I'm quite sure I don't want to know, however.

"I'm not certain." Encouraged by my apparent interest, he moves to sit at my
left, on the small bench I occupy.

"Are you intending to restore it? It could use some paint."

"Merde, no. I wouldn't want to do that. Anything I do would decrease its
value.  If it's authentic, I might be able to get enough for it at auction
on Earth to finance the renovation of the winery."

I smile, noting the reluctance as he speaks, but I react to the words rather
than the emotion. "You don't want to keep it?"

He's never so like a little boy as when he is involved in the pursuit of his
hobbies. The delight he takes in old, ugly things like this one has been
tempered over time by the veiled criticism of others; the suggestion of my
support paints a subtle smile over his resigned expression. This was an
impulse buy, and he's having second thoughts.

"It's not exactly something one would put on display, and we hardly have the
room in our quarters."

"I was thinking it would require more careful keeping, if it's so old. A
climate-controlled case, like the ones we use in the House, perhaps. I'm
sure Mother has a few empty cases in storage. She bought more than she
needed when we were renovating twenty years ago. We could ask her if she
would ship one to the chateau for it. He'd be right at home there."

I touch Jean's thumb, and he shifts the clock to his left hand to free his
right to take mine. "If you asked, perhaps. She's less likely to tease you
about it."

"You underestimate her interest in antiques. I'm continually surprised that
you and she never discuss it -- it's a common interest, after all. But if it
would satisfy your need to avoid contact, I'll call her when we return to
the ship."

He hasn't looked at my face once since this conversation about the clock
started. Will's still there, and to look at me would expose his expression,
and therefore his emotions, to Will's scrutiny. He says nothing more, which
is fine; I understand completely and tighten my grip on his hand.

"Could you check on Yves?" I can tell our son is frustrated, and John is
howling up the scale to mezzo-soprano heights.

"Certainly." Jean-Luc takes the clock and the box with him.

Once the front door closes, shutting off a brief burst of full-volume
screaming, I finally glance at Will. "I'm glad we're so entertaining."

Shock replaces all else. I have done him a disservice over the years in
letting things go unchallenged. He's not used to that from me.

Yves has calmed -- Papa is there. John, however, remains upset, as does his
mother. Bell's frustration is undergirded by anger; I wonder if it's at
Will. He's been out here a long time.

"I'm sorry," Will says. It's a token apology.

"No need to be. We're accustomed to such scrutiny," I reply loftily, moving
the chocolate box to the place Jean-Luc vacated, then the bag of vanity
items. Picking one of the softer shades of nail polish, I add a layer of
mauve over the clear coat on my thumbnail.

"Now you're being difficult."

"Tell me you don't have the same sort of disdain over buying Bell such
gifts. I'd like to think better of you than I do. I suppose you found it
amusing simply because you couldn't imagine him buying hair clips?"

"Deanna," he grumbles, then waits until I look at him again. He's quite
serious. "Why are you angry at me?"

"Perhaps I'm upset because it always returns to the same issue -- what you
want, what you've been deprived of, what you need. I don't imagine the
problem in your relationship with Bell isn't mutual, but it disturbs me that
you haven't done anything to change things."

"Counseling hasn't -- "

"It won't fix anything you refuse to fix," I exclaim, frustrated. "It's a
tool, not a means to an end."

"You don't even know the details. Yet you judge and condemn me," he says
coolly, beyond irritation into anger.

"You didn't even bother to consider any of my details before you decided all
was well with Jean-Luc and I. It completely escaped you that under normal
circumstances, he wouldn't take leave this way -- you didn't consider for a
second the possible reasons I haven't sent you a message in over six months,
when the normal interval was at most two. You're in pain, thus you're all
you think about. And that's all you expect me to think about."

I struggle to my feet, snatch up my gifts, and run my fingers down the wind
chime to hear its faint chord. Will says nothing as I go inside.

Bell is in a chair near the window, John in her arms as she sways and hums
to him. She's let her hair grow in without coloring it, and in the sunlight
it glows with reddish highlights though in normal lighting it's brown. On
the thin blue-green carpet of the living area, Yves has emptied his bag of
toys and is setting up a long line of action figures. I smile, though I
don't care for the reminder of the little Starfleet uniforms and tiny
phasers forever in tiny hands, and pat Fidele's head; the dog thumps his
tail and keeps his attention on Yves' project.

"We pwotect you, Maman," Yves says with his usual cheerfulness.

"Who are we in danger from?"

Yves points at the shelf along the inside wall of the living room. "Him!"

The clock stands there, in all its faded and peeling glory, the hands
forever on the one and the four, eyelids half closed. All the little phasers
are aimed at it. I laugh. My son has my taste.

~^~^~^~^~^~


As I pick up the glass that's materialized in front of me, I hear Deanna's
laughter and smile myself. That's been a rare sound lately. I've missed it.

When I return to the living room with my Tarkalian tea, Will is inside as
well. Deanna retreats, skirts rustling, to the back of the house, a hand to
her back.  From her stiff posture, I gather all is not well. Will quickly
hides the frustration that flits through his expression and grins at Yves,
holding out his hands. "Want a lift?"

Yves charges into his hands and laughs wildly as he's propelled toward the
ceiling. He's in his uniform pajamas already, a little red and black
coverall that closes up the front.

Bell watches, a frown creasing her brow, until she notices my glance her
way; she flashes me a smile and glances after Deanna. "I'm going to get my
medkit and give her a check before bed."

Will, dangling Yves upside down, watches her go. With a shake of his head,
he looks at me, mirrors his wife's false smile, and swings my son up, then
deposits him on his feet. "I think it's bedtime, kiddo. John's already
asleep."

"Awww," Yves cries, clinging to Will's leg. Will pulls away and goes to the
deep, heavily-padded chair in the corner, where John has somehow draped
himself over the arm, head and one arm hanging, a string of drool dangling
from the corner of his lip.

"It's late. Go clean your teeth."

Yves scowls at me, throwing both arms over his head. "I'm not tired!"

"I said nothing about being tired. I'll help you, if you want."

"NO!" Yves races off, not toward the hall but the kitchen. "I want
chocwatt!"

Catching him is a matter of leaning to my left and wrapping my arm around
his waist.  While he wails, I carry him toward the bathroom.

Once in front of the sink he does his best to clean his teeth on his own.
Since there's nothing for him to stand on, I pick him up so he can spit.
"Now can I have chocwatt?" he asks as I put him down.

"Tomorrow. If you go to bed now."

His expression of agony would make me relent, if he didn't use the same
tactic so often. I escort the writhing, whining, over-tired, stubborn child
of mine to the room he would share with John.

"Papa," he begins, as I tuck him into the one bed in the room. In the
corner, in a portable crib, John snores lightly.

"Yes," I murmur when Yves doesn't continue.

"When Amy coming?" A yawn proves he's really ready for bed.  "Tomowow?"

I wonder what he's overheard. "Soon. It's a surprise. Good night."

"Ni. . . ." He yawns, rubs his eye with a fist, and appears to drop off. I
wait a moment before going to be sure he's really asleep.

Will has collapsed into the chair in the corner, shoulders sagging, head
propped on his fist, one elbow on a chair arm. He's watching out the window.
I glance out as I take the nearest chair; there are people on the porch of
the house next door, sitting in the faint glow of a candle that's fluttering
in the breeze.

"She's upset with me," Will mutters.

"Both of them, I think. I'm not certain about myself, either."

"Why is everyone blaming me? I'm not the only one at fault!"

There are all sorts of things I could say, none of which might help. "Aren't
you being short-sighted about all of this?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What did Deanna say to you before she went in?"

Will sighs, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes. "Is everything
all right? She's not herself at all. Neither are you."

"Everything isn't all right, but we're doing as well as could be expected."
I pause, consider not saying anything, but before I'm even thinking about
how to say it, I'm saying it -- I begin with a description of the mission
going wrong, continue forward through my memories and include things I've
since learned second-hand. The Asili, the Khevlin, the nightmarish K'Korll
who haunted me in my sleep. The way Deanna had to take care of the captain's
responsibilities, our children, and me. The admirals. The mission. The
recovery of missing crew. The losses. Though I do not go into great detail,
by the time I'm finished explaining what needs to be explained to provide
context, then the story itself, Will is leaning forward and gaping at me in
the near-darkness. Our neighbors have gone inside. The only light in our
house is one left on in the hallway.

He realizes he's staring, turns away, and coughs quietly. "Well."

We sit for a while in silence. A soft ticking surprises me, then I
realize -- it's the damn clock I'd purchased in the market. What was I
thinking?  From the porch comes the soft tinkling of the chimes. At least
there'd been one success. Deanna's smile had been worth it.

"Well," Will repeats. He shifts about and slumps back in the chair. "I see
why she wouldn't have any patience left for me. I'm sure our problems seem
quite trivial."

"That isn't what -- "

"Because they are, aren't they? The most serious thing we've been involved
in was the *Lexington*'s capture four years ago. Since we've been on the
*Durant* we've done nothing but patrols, surveys, the infrequent away
mission, a few low-key diplomatic endeavors -- no battles or serious
casualties in the line of duty, no danger so great that the entire ship is
threatened. My first officer handles most of it, frankly because there's not
so much going on that I find it interesting enough to take it on myself. I
kept telling myself that was best -- with John on board I felt better on
scientific or diplomatic assignments. I don't know how you do it, Jean-Luc.
All the risk and pain. But it seems to be working your way better than mine.
She still looks at you with a smile."

I think about all the times since being declared fit for duty that I've
considered retirement. Promotion. Anything but what we'd been doing,
anything but take another chance that I would be killed, or Deanna, or that
the ship would be destroyed with all of us on board.

"It works now." I glance outside. Stars are visible in the gap between
houses.  "I had my doubts. She likely had hers, considering my condition. It
came very close to not working out at all."

"But."

"She wouldn't give up hope."

"I think Bell has," Will whispers.

"That may be. Have you?"

"Not yet." He sighed heavily. "I don't think so, anyway. I'm still trying."

"I'm not good at advice. I can't tell you anything that would help you,
Will -- we have different situations. But if you still have hope, I think
it's worth the effort to keep trying."

"You know, if I brought Bell a box of gifts that way, she'd start throwing
them at me. I don't know what to do or say with her any more. Deanna's angry
at me now, too, because she thinks I wouldn't do the same for Bell. I would,
if it would help."

"What do you think might help?"

He snorts, shakes his head, and runs his fingers through his hair. "I have
no idea. I guess I assumed talking to Deanna would. I didn't really think
about it -- that wasn't why I invited you along.  I wanted to see you, maybe
because it would give us someone else to talk to who isn't crew, someone we
don't work with, friends who would. . . I don't know."

Provide a buffer zone, I think, but leave it unsaid. We're quiet until Will
speaks again.

"Why did you agree to come? She's got to be almost ten months."

"One week from her due date, actually. I wanted to be nearer to a hospital.
All she cared about was that this was a Betazoid community. This has
something to do with having another Daughter of the Fifth House about to
arrive. She wanted to be among Betazoids this time, so we are." The
increased frequency of calls from Lwaxana over the last few weeks and
Deanna's harried looks afterward seemed to indicate a disagreement. I had a
few unopened messages from my mother-in-law, as a result of being "too busy"
to take her calls to me. I didn't feel up to mediating, and it wasn't my
place anyway -- House business was not my business. Deanna had said nothing
about Betazed, which had, prior to the Khevlin incident, been where she
wanted to give birth. But she jumped at the chance to come to Ithica, which
meant Betazoid heritage played a part in her choices, yet something
prevented going to the homeworld.

There's a sound in the hall; a door opens, followed by slippered feet
scuffing along carpet. Yves stumbles into view, hesitates, and runs to me.
"Papa, why Mama angwy at me?"

"What?" Yves' sleepy complaint doesn't make sense. He was in bed. If he'd
been in the bedroom with Deanna, we wouldn't have heard the door open.

He tries to climb in my lap, his foot sliding along my shin. I catch him
beneath the arms and lift him up. Clinging to the front of my shirt, he
snuffles and falls limp.

"A bad dream?" Will asks.

"No, more likely an observation taken personally. Good night."

Yves goes down again without a fuss. In our bedroom, I find Deanna curled up
in bed, barely awake, crying. Rather than undress and join her, I sit on the
edge of the bed and touch her cheek.

"I feel. . . ." She catches my hand and holds it, kissing my knuckles. "I
just feel. I don't understand all of it. Can't sleep."

"What can I do?"

"It's not all mine," she whispers. "It's them, and me, and -- I can't
meditate."

"Let's see if heart fire can help you." I don't want her to have another
nightmare; perhaps some joint meditation will prevent it. It's difficult at
first to connect, but after we do, we lose track of time. Eventually we
sleep.

~^~^~^~^~^~




--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Stories Only Forwarding

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