Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Sun, 01 Feb 2004 07:42:32 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: 3/5
Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com





Morning comes too early. I don't want to move. Last night started well and
ended miserably -- we played games, chatted, and then I confronted Will. I
recall lying awake until Jean came in to comfort me. I should have brought
some inhibitor.

My body wants to keep sleeping, but sunlight creeping in through the
uncovered top half of the window falls on me first. I listen to the rest of
the house, to the snoring from down the hall, and because it's so quiet I
hear the soft footfalls.

Our bedroom door was ajar, and now creaks open slowly. John's blond head
pokes into the room. He toddles over and looks up at me, leaning on the
mattress. He's like any two-year-old, all curiosity and energy, no sense of
boundaries.

"Hi." His fingers barely reach my arm.

"Good morning, John. Are you hungry?"

He nods, smiling briefly. His shyness with us is unusual, Bell said
yesterday, but it appears he's overcoming it.

"Your mama isn't awake?" I know she is. I also know she's upset already.

John shakes his head and sticks his fingers in his mouth.

It's difficult to move; I'm still tired and I could swear I'd gained more
girth in the past two days. But I manage, and notice on my way out that the
door at the other end of the hall is closed, explaining his wander into
ours. He follows me to the kitchen and clings to my robe while whispering a
preference. What a sweet child he is. While I'm replicating some cereal he
climbs into a chair and waits. I ask him to count spoonfuls for me. We're on
ten when Bell arrives, tying her off-white robe.

"Oh, Deanna. . . ."

"It's all right. I was awake anyway." I smile, and John mirrors it and opens
for the spoon after lisping "leven."

"He's counting? Jonathan," she exclaims, dropping to sit on her heels and
caressing her son's short blond hair. "What's after eleven?"

John pushes the cereal around his mouth before swallowing. "Twelb."

Why is she so surprised? I reward him with another bite and reach for the
cup of berry juice to give him another sip. After taking some, he says,
"Firteen."

"You're supposed to count the cereal, but that's all right. Yves, stop
hiding."

Yves bursts around the corner. He often makes a game of hiding from me. I
can sense his excitement every time. "Can I have yurgut?" He pulls up his
drooping pajama pants and runs for the replicator. Fidele follows and stops
at his master's shoulder.

"Enunciate for the replicator. Computer, suspend child lockout."

"I'll get -- " Bell begins.

"Thank you, but no," I interrupt as I wipe John's face with a napkin. Bell
stares at me as if I've lost my senses.

Yves stands on tiptoe, his hands on the housing of the replicator unit.
"Bloo-ber-ee yo-gurt," he says slowly. The bowl forms in a swirl of
molecular mist. Since Yves is not tall enough to reach the
intentionally-too-high replicator slot, Fidele stands upright with a paw to
the wall and takes the tray in his teeth, then brings it to the table. Yves
dodges around him and climbs into the chair to my left while Fidele places
the tray from the right.

"It's good practice," I explain to Bell. "He needs it."

"Firteen," John whispers for the third time, reaching for the spoon.

"Fifteen," I correct him. He's not hungry any more. "Do you really want
more?"

He studies the bowl and looks up at me with his father's blue eyes. At
least, I assume that's where he got them. He doesn't really resemble either
of his parents; he's a compromise child, a mixture of both, none of his
features readily identifiable as like either parent. In Yves' face I'm
seeing the beginnings of that twelve-year-old version of Jean-Luc that I
remember vividly. I think about Telix, about the men these two little boys
will be, and shiver.

The boys finish breakfast. We wash their faces, then send them off to the
living room with the dog. Once her son is gone, Bell's face falls into a
weary map of her tension.

I say nothing. When I return from the replicator with my own breakfast, she
is holding her face in her hands and leaning on the table. While my unborn
child wakes and moves about, I drink the thick concoction that's become my
morning last resort. I never have an appetite any more.

"Help me, Deanna," she sighs at last. In the background, the boys are
counting together, Yves first and John echoing him, solving the mystery of
how John suddenly started counting on his own. I can hear the click of
plastic blocks, which we'd replicated yesterday for them.

"Nothing I can tell you would make a difference."

Bell peered between her fingers at me. Her brown eyes, normally full of
warmth and smiles, were bloodshot. "Then nothing will."

"Pessimism isn't going to help, either."

The kitchen is done in straw-yellow tile with odd floral patterns in green.
Very reminiscent of some of my bouts of morning sickness. I suspect that
Bell's cousin doesn't spend much time in this house. I have half my drink
down, and wish I didn't feel so full.

"How do you do it?" Bell unfolds, crossing her arms across her chest and
sitting back. "A career, and you're having another child."

"I do it. I don't think about it." If I did, I would be tired all the time.

"I wish I could understand him."

I don't want to understand anything. "You can't expect perfection. It's not
going to get any better unless both of you want it to. You've talked about
this with him, I'm assuming."

"Over and over, in excruciating detail. I'm tired of talking." Bell actually
sneers, something I've never seen before from her.

"There are times when too much discussion only makes it worse."

Bell blinks, slowly. She can't believe she heard that from me.

"Sometimes it's not even necessary. Behavior speaks much louder than words.
Jean-Luc taught me that." I almost go into detail about it, but that would
lead to her comparing the two, and I don't believe that would be productive.

"Oh, I know that. Will's behavior has told me a lot about him lately," Bell
says sourly. It's a clue that I choose to follow.

"Was there something specific that precipitated this change in your
relationship?"

From the anger and despair, there was. Such intensity and focus often comes
after a transgression, in fact. "I knew it would come to this." Bell sat
back and raised her arms, cupping her head in her hands. "I should have
known it would. I suppose I imagined he would change, once we were married.
Bet you've heard that one a lot -- cliche of me to think so."

"Bell -- "

"She's nothing like me," Bell blurts out, not wanting to stop now that the
door's been opened and the emotions she's fought to contain are escaping.
"It figures she'd be another officer."

I'm angry for a moment, then remind myself -- there are two sides to every
story. Will has not shown any guilt, and he would. I know that right now, I
cannot say this, under the misconception that verifying his faithfulness
would solve the problem. Relationships are not mechanical devices with parts
that can be replaced. Before this marriage can be repaired, both sides must
be heard, and not simply listened to -- there's more to it than that. Of
course, the counselor in me must come forth to challenge the fallacy that
the only problem lay in Will's behavior.

"Is that all it is?"

My question elicits a stare of disbelief and outrage. "Is that all? What
else does it have to be?"

In spite of my desire not to be involved, within the span of a short
conversation, I am. I hate Counselor Troi at times, and never more so than
when she intrudes on my personal relationships. As if detecting my
desperation, Jean-Luc arrives, dressed for our planned activity of the day
in shorts and an open shirt. He hesitates long enough to brush my cheek with
the backs of his fingers, an odd and distracting way to greet me; his
reliance on body language in the past months is one of many new facets of
his behavior that I'm still adjusting to, and it surprises Bell. She stares
at me as he moves on to the replicator.

"I see the boys have built a wall around the living room. We're trapped," he
comments, picking up his coffee and requesting a croissant. The replicator
is an older model that only handles one item at a time.

"I hope I didn't wake you." He's a light sleeper; that hasn't changed.

"Not at all." He sits where Yves had been and holds out the croissant for me
to tear off the end. It's a long-standing habit for us, dating back to
shortly after we'd started to share quarters, and it's reassuring that we're
returning to our rituals. "I'm surprised you're up this early. Sleep well?"

"As well as I usually do."

He watches me nibble the bit of pastry to nothing. "Want anything?"

"No, thank you. I'm full."

"Amy?"

Bell's very curious, and I wonder how different we must seem to her since
the last time we saw them. "No change. How are you this morning?" Empty
filler conversation is an easy diversion.

"It's a bad hair day." He grins, as he usually does when making hair jokes
at his own expense, and smooths down his fringe. "Bell, would you like some
coffee?"

"I'm sure I look like I need it. But I'll just get some tea, thanks." She
does so, then leaves us alone. We wait until her bedroom door closes in the
distance. The boys must have gone to the room they share; it's quiet in the
living room.

"This isn't exactly what I'd thought it would be," he says quietly.

"Has the *Durant* been in any situations recently?" Jean-Luc would know
better than I what was taking place in the fleet at large. Since he's been
back on duty, he's spoken with captains and admirals from all over
Federation space.

"Nothing to do with the Alliance. Will's been patrolling Romulan borders for
a few months, and it's been quiet. He hasn't said anything to you, then?"

"She thinks he's been with someone else."

"And she wishes for a career." Jean-Luc reaches for me, leaning, and I do
the same. At least I'm still able to lean to the side. He kisses my hair and
lets my head rest on his shoulder. "I don't understand how it could come to
this."

{It's nothing we can help, Jean-Luc. It's already gone to bitterness and
emotional distancing. If they want to change things, they still can, but. .
. .}

I can tell this is making him think too much. We could have so easily
succumbed to the circumstances we recently survived; our relationship, and
our bond, could have been destroyed. Sitting up just enough, I kiss him once
to get his attention, and a second time when I have it. His response is
surprise and then self-consciousness. Simultaneously I sense Will's surprise
and pull away.

"Are we entertaining you sufficiently?" I ask, glancing up at our audience.

Will rolls his eyes, spins on a heel, and departs. The opening of a door,
his too-cheerful greetings, and the boys' responses tell us where he's gone.
Yves announces that he wants to play fetch with Fidele, and before long all
of them have gone outside. In the hall, I hear a door shutting, and a rush
of water through pipes in the wall indicates that Bell is in the bathroom.

"I'm going back to our room," I whisper.

Jean follows without comment. We have a visit to the local park planned, but
I need help in getting ready.

When we get to the park, which is just a short walk from the house, it's
full of humans and Betazoids playing games and lounging on the green. Many
are not wearing clothing. Will grins and glances at Jean-Luc, who is not in
the least perturbed. Old perceptions die hard. Will still thinks nudity in
general is what disturbed our captain, back when a Betazoid wedding might be
performed aboard our ship; I've since learned that it had more to do with my
mother's presence.

We wander along the shore of a lake until Bell selects a flat area in the
grass, half-shaded by some overhanging tree limbs. Will spreads a blanket
and Bell gives the children instructions, while Jean opens a chair and
watches me until I'm settled in it.

Before long, I'm alone. Jean doesn't go far, just wanders along the shore
with Will. Yves wants to go see a balloon man up near the walkway at the top
of the slope. Bell goes with him and takes John. In the warm sun, I close my
eyes and revel in having nothing to do and no one to worry about.

"Hello."

I open my eyes. It takes a moment to recognize that the greeting was in
Betazoid, and partially telepathic. There's a woman standing not far away
from me. When I don't discourage her, she approaches; she's thin,
small-breasted, completely naked but for the delicate blue tattoos
underlining her breasts, tracing her waist and hips, and spiraling down
around her thighs -- a "clever" dancer, or so the Betazoid word for her
occupation translates into Standard.

She raises an eyebrow, and we communicate briefly and wordlessly. It's been
a long time since I've done this. I can only manage if the other Betazoid is
willing to do most of the work; my ability to initiate telepathic
collaboration is so limited. In moments I know of four midwives and am
assured that any one of them would be forewarned and ready to come to my
aid, if I need help. I am also informed of Tei's comm code, Tei's address,
and Tei's family unit, and Tei is now aware of mine. And I know that she
approached me because she saw a similarity between us -- she, like me, has
hajira. Her husband, Kam, is participating in a concert on the other side of
the park.

Tei traces a symbol of blessing on my abdomen, her fingernail scraping the
pale green dress I'm wearing. Then someone else arrives, then another -- I
am soon surrounded by Betazoids, women and men alike, all curious and
interested in the newcomer. We are a social people, and in a smaller town
it's not uncommon for everyone to literally know everyone else. In seconds
they all know me, and I know them.

Ranj tugs my hand, and El helps me to my feet. They wish to perform some
ritual of blessing, more involved than what Tei has done. I'm surrounded by
performing artists who also ascribe to some of the old superstitions. I see
nothing wrong with it. Tei chats with two others about pregnancy as she
helps El remove my dress. El folds it neatly and places it in the chair.
Someone runs away to a picnic shelter and returns with a box.

"What's this?" Jean-Luc and Will have returned. Jean knows I am not afraid,
which quells his anxiety, but Will is alarmed.

All the Betazoids stop and look at my husband. "Hajira epan," El announces,
gesturing with her graceful dancer's mannerisms. It's an invitation.

"They want to bless the baby," I tell them in Standard, mostly for Will's
sake. "It's not harmful, and it feels wonderful to be surrounded by this
much goodwill. They're a troupe of clever dancers."

"We would include you in the ritual," Tei says, inclining her head toward
Jean-Luc. Will frowns; he never knew much Betazoid. Jean-Luc knows enough to
get the gist of it. He glances at me, dubious and probing to determine how
important this is to me, whether it's worth overcoming his anxiety over any
Betazoid ritual.

No nudity.

Tei smiles at my directive. I'm not going to force him beyond what we've
already explained to Yves; Betazoids sometimes take off clothes, humans are
more private. It's an agreement we've come to -- exposing the children to
both cultures, yet drawing a boundary between shipboard behavior and
homeworld activities, was the goal.

Tei dips her fingertips into the box her sister Erre has brought and dances
to Jean, tracing the contours of his head and leaving blue and green lines.
Meanwhile, the artist of the group is making a more intricate pattern in red
on me. Other hands work on my back.

I raise my arms high, stretching, and more hands tug the wire spiral that
holds my hair. Third house? comes the question, responding to the colors
of the hair spiral. Gentle fingers separate and begin to braid my hair.

Fifth. My status within the house is conferred by a sensation rather than
a word. Purple is added to the assortment of colors being painted on my
skin.

Will stands back, watching and mumbling an explanation to Bell, who's
returned with balloons, children and dog. Jean presses forward through the
semi-nude and nude Betazoids, looking like he's been playing with Yves'
finger paints.

"They're leaving soon, right?"

Everyone laughs, except me -- I smile because he is mostly serious and the
best way to tease him is to smile in such a way that he can't figure out if
I'm agreeing, if I'm happy to see him, or if I'm laughing at him. Most
Betazoids are quite aware of human preferences, and these can sense well
enough the discomfort he's feeling.

The corner of his mouth twitches; he can't figure out whether to smile, or
scowl. He watches Tei with raised eyebrow as she adds a finishing touch to
my kneecap. Erre leans over my shoulder, her tumult of black curls tickling
my shoulder, and whispers a provocative suggestion to him. She's teasing, of
course, but as is often the case, there's something more behind it.

"No, thank you." The response in Betazoid delights our new friends. Jean
turns away from her to meet the eyes of Kam, who has arrived at a run. Tei
straightens, and for the first time I see what others have seen in us.
Hajira is unmistakable. There's a glow, not of visible light but of
emotional energy. As I bring Jean-Luc into closer contact through the bond
so he can sense it too, I realize that the others are dancing on the edges
of my awareness, offering, and I draw on what they offer.

In an intense moment it's over -- but it gives him what I've had difficulty
translating for him since we've been together. His head snaps up, his eyes
widen, and I know that the clarity and understanding those seconds of
mind-to-mind contact, facilitated by a group of humming, dancing Betazoids
now in the rapture of their ritual all around us, will be with him for a
long time. Unlike the K'korll's overwhelming alienness, Betazoid telepathy
is powerful yet adaptable to human thought. This is nothing like my mother's
undisciplined nonsense; clever dancers aspire to a higher level of mental
discipline than the average Betazoid. Part of their performance is on the me
ntal plane.

As the group dances and leaps away across the grass, laughing and waving to
us, Jean laughs and drops to the ground, sitting on the edge of the blanket.

"That was interesting," Bell remarks. She watches the dancers jump up to
stand in each other's hands, tumble across the lawn, and leap past one
another in eerie synchronization. In her arms, John wiggles and whimpers to
be put down. Yves breaks free of Will's hand and runs to me.

"Clever dancers are not unlike religious zealots. They pursue their art with
that sort of fervor." I sit slowly, putting an arm around Yves as he leans
over the arm of the chair. He touches the swirls of green and red on my
belly. "We'll paint when we get back to the house."

"What's dat?" He traces an intricate design made up of red marks left by the
end of a fingernail, painted around my navel.

"That's a Betazoid symbol. It means they want the baby to be healthy."

Yves leans close to listen to Amy while I comb his soft hair with my
fingers. Sometimes, when he's calm and curious and all I can see is the top
of his head, it reminds me of another child of mine who had my hair, and my
heart hurts with the brief yet undiminished pain of missing a lost child.
Ian's memory lingers, and always will.

"Yves," Jean summons quietly. Our son turns and launches himself into Papa's
arms for the offered hug. Jean looks up at me with serious eyes; he knew
what I felt. There's a lingering closeness after the intense encounter we
just had.

"Clever dancers," Will echoes, sitting cross-legged on the blanket and
reaching for the box of food. "I remember seeing some when I was on Betazed.
They're not a religious group."

"Not in the sense of worshiping a deity. They're devoted to mental and
physical discipline and art." The paint is drying on my skin. I contemplate
the lake. Jean, who has distracted Yves and John by throwing a stick for
Fidele and telling them to play with the dog, reaches for John's bag. Bell
is confused until he finds the sealed canister of towelettes and asks if he
can borrow.

I decide I'd rather walk into the lake. The paint is water-soluble and
organic, and since this is a public park and the lake is meant for swimming,
I know the water's clean. The gentle slope into deeper water is deceptively
natural-looking; instead of silt, weeds and rocks, there's an aggregate
that's designed to give enough traction without being rough enough to hurt
bare feet.

The water's warm. I don't mind the reprieve from gravity, either; I float
for a while, balancing on my toes in water up to my neck. There are others
in the lake, on the other shore, but far enough away that only the sound and
slight rippling carries across to me. Happy cries from children, responses
from parents, and laughing are all quite welcome, as are the emotions
accompanying them.

Some of the cries are from Yves, who stripped to underpants and prances into
the shallows and back, repeatedly. He has had swimming lessons but he's
never seen a lake like this. I call to him and he leaps, belly-flops, and
pops up laughing and splashing. Jean-Luc stands at the ready on the shore as
our son wriggles and paddles through the water to me.

We touch hands and he treads water, sinking under briefly before pushing
closer and clinging to my neck. "Mama, Papa won' get in," he sputters,
spraying water from his lips into my face.

"Go back to Papa."

He launches himself clumsily, flailing and kicking my shoulder by accident.
When he reaches shore, he stands, catching his waterlogged shorts before
they can fall, and beams up at his father. I wish I had a way of taking a
picture.

Except, as I start to walk in, I notice what our friends are doing. Bell has
John, who wriggles and whines to go in the water. Will reclines on the
blanket nearby, eating a piece of fruit and watching me.

I would not want a picture of that expression.

I'll have to talk to him.

~^~^~^~^~^~



--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Stories Only Forwarding

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