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Subject: [ASC] NEW: TNG Midwinter 1/2 (P, T, R) [G}
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On Sun, 27 Jun 2004 15:16:17 GMT, in alt.startrek.creative, Lori
<zakhad@att.net> wrote:


Title: Midwinter
Author: Lori (zakhad at att period net)
Series: TNG (Captain & Counselor)
Code: P, T, R
Rating: G
Part: 1/2
Date: June 27, 2004
Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com
Feedback: would be nice

Summary: a coda/fanfix - Encounter at Farpoint introduced Bill, who was

There is, by the way, no basis for believing Picard had chosen any of his
officers; he appeared to have trusted such choices to Starfleet, if you go
by what's said in the pilot episode. I altered that somewhat to suit my
series.


~^~^~^~^~


Inside the doors are sealed to love,

Inside my heart is sleeping

Inside the fingers of my glove,

Inside the bones of my right hand

Inside it's colder than the stars,

Inside the circus of the winds

Inside the clocks are filled with sand

Inside the winter's creeping


Outside the stars are turning

Outside the world's still burning


I climb this tower inside my head

A spiral stair above my bed

I dream the stairs don't ask me why,

I throw myself into the sky.


"Inside," Sting.


~^~^~^~^~


The report from engineering showed that repairs were coming along. Picard
set aside the padd and sighed. MacDougal -- or was it MacDuff? MacSomething.
The chief engineer he'd listed as third choice and gotten by process of
elimination, by any other name. Why the two choices he'd known personally
had opted for other postings escaped him; this was a marvelous ship, in
spite of the few less positive aspects of it all. Whoever had thought
children belonged in space should have come along for the journey to
Farpoint. Although he agreed in principle with the idea of humankind making
long-term forays into the galaxy, and allowed that concessions had to be
made to entice good crew to go on the journey, in practice it was dangerous
and risking the lives of children made little sense.

His senior officers were all green. Oh, the first officer had some
experience -- he had some of the resolute professionalism of a seasoned
Starfleet officer, yet there was something about him. . . . Pride? Yes. But
not in such quantity that it would interfere with duty, Picard thought. And
Dr. Crusher -- Beverly. Such an unusual turn of fate that she would request
this posting. Had she been thinking of him when she'd done it? Yar would be
efficient and eager to defend, almost to the point of foolhardiness; Worf
was rougher, less disciplined, but also determined to be honorable. And the
counselor -- how young she was, how warm and pleasant and yet she had some
polish, when not overwhelmed by sensed emotions.


His brief contemplation as he gazed at his lion fish making its stately way
around the curve of the tank was interrupted by the annunciator. "Come," he
exclaimed, before he remembered -- this would be the counselor, sitting down
with him for the first actual appointment as such. Sitting with her on the
bridge had been different; their roles were clear to him there.


She came into the ready room at a stately pace, her barely-standard-issue
uniform having been set aside for a form-fitting blue dress; her comm badge
was affixed to her shoulder, above her left breast, higher than usual.
Regulations were explicit about the location of the comm badge, not to
mention the necessity of uniforms, but he couldn't bring himself to mention
it to her. This was a ship of many luxuries and departures from what he had
come to expect as normal aboard a starship. Besides, she looked better this
way, with her hair pulled up into some sort of ornament and her skirt long.


"Good afternoon, Counselor Troi," he said, finding the practiced polite
smile he usually adopted in diplomatic situations quite useful. He stood
automatically, minding his manners, and gestured at the chair across the
desk, where his first officer had been sitting an hour before while
discussing the ship's status. "Please make yourself comfortable. Would you
care for something to drink?"


"No, thank you, Captain." She sat, smoothing her skirt. With her hands
folded in her lap, she smiled in a serene, yet somehow opaque way that
unsettled him. Immediately a wrinkle appeared in her brow. "Is there
something wrong?"


"Not at all." Then he met her eyes and remembered she could sense what he
felt. "It's just, well, this is not something I am accustomed to -- the last
counselor I saw was the one who did the assessment following the Stargazer
incident -- " He tugged his uniform and sat down.


"Yes, I have your file. I understand that this will be the first time you've
had a counselor aboard full time. What do you think about that?"


"I think it's a sign that Starfleet is taking the well being of its officers
more seriously, and that it will make a difference in the outcome of our
mission -- keeping the crew at optimum efficiency would of course include
facilitating their mental well being, and mental health personnel aboard
starships is a logical next step in providing a well-rounded health
program."


"I see. How do you feel about having a counselor aboard?"


Picard blinked. "I believe I just told you."


"No, sir," she began slowly, smiling as if about to laugh, "you recited
Starfleet propaganda about having a counselor aboard. There were no
feelings, implicit or explicit, in your words."


"Well, I -- I feel that it's a good idea."


Her smile faded somewhat. She sat back slightly, crossed her legs, adjusted
the slit in her skirt so as not to expose too much leg, and met his gaze.
"That is an assessment, not a feeling."


"How are my feelings germane to the -- to anything?"


"Your feelings are germane to you, and your mental health. Which is in turn
germane to the proper and efficient functioning of an entire starship."


He leaned back in his chair, staring at the now-sober little woman he'd
picked from a list several months before, based on some letters of
recommendation from a psychiatrist and a starship captain he'd never met. It
didn't matter who he picked, he'd reasoned, assuming a counselor would be
there primarily for the crew's sake and not really thinking much beyond
that. He'd never heard a counselor confront him this way. They'd all
accepted his answers and gone away to write their reports.


The smile came back, formal and opaque again. "You don't like the idea of
having a counselor aboard very much, do you?"


"I said no such thing!"


"You didn't have to, really. Even if I couldn't sense it, the distaste shows
in your eyes and in the tightness around your mouth." She paused, waiting
until he stopped silently berating himself for forgetting the difference
between her and other Betazoids he'd met, and just as he recovered she said,
"I won't make a habit of making observations based on what I sense if you
will be honest with me. Is that fair?"


He exhaled loudly, shaking his head. "This is not what I expected,
Counselor."


"I understand. This is our first meeting in this capacity, Captain, and
while it won't be a regular, ongoing series of sessions, we will have many
others. They will not all be assessments intended to placate concerned
admirals. Therapy is not necessarily about analyzing and assessing -- the
primary purpose, throughout the history of mental health, has always been to
help people. I would prefer that you think of it as something other than a
necessary evil, as it would be more efficacious if you did so, but this is
as good a place to start as any. What do you think counseling might help you
with?"


Picard stared at her again. She was quite pleasant to look at, really. He
found himself comparing her to the last counselor he'd met, also Betazoid
but taller and more angular in the face, not so feminine or --


"Distracting yourself isn't going to help," she murmured, eyes narrowing.


He panicked. Had she read his mind? Could she do that? He thought he
remembered her saying otherwise. He sat still, hopefully stone-faced and
trying to tamp down the anxiety.


She looked at the floor and cleared her throat softly. "I want to reassure
you that anything you say in a session with me will remain confidential,
even if you wanted to discuss illegal or unethical acts. The only exception
to this would be if something you said led me to believe you intended to
harm yourself or others." She raised her eyes slowly, meeting his gaze again
as she finished. "I promise that this confidentiality extends to anything I
sense, as well. Assessments I may make on behalf of a third party, in this
case Starfleet, are the only exceptions, and even then they would see only a
summary of pertinent information. Do you have any questions?"


"I don't think I can do what you want."


"What do you mean?" She tilted her head inquisitively.


"My feelings are not important in this context."


One of her eyebrows twitched. "I can think of several contexts that would
apply. To which are you referring?"


"This context. The ship. I fail to see how my feelings have anything to do
with -- "


"Captain," she chided, softly yet firmly.


She'd already addressed that, hadn't she? "I understand the point -- but
really, I don't need counseling."


"What would have to happen for you to need counseling?" She crossed her
arms.


"Something. . . problematic. I suppose."


"Such as?"


Picard glanced down at his desk, at the screen he'd darkened not so long
before, at the padd he'd set aside, at the fish, and finally back at her.
She waited with her hands once more folded in her lap.


"Captain, you understand the reasons I am here in an abstract fashion, but I
am unconvinced that you accept them. You're very uncomfortable and I feel I
should apologize for that; it certainly isn't my intention to cause
discomfort. I had hoped we could come to an understanding of what benefit
counseling might have for you. At the very least, I hope that we can
establish a relationship -- Captain?"


He swallowed, nodded, and swallowed again. "I am the captain of this vessel.
I expect to maintain professional relationships with my officers."


"I'm a licensed psychologist as well as an officer. The relationship I refer
to is a therapeutic one, and in that respect a professional one. I could
hardly be an effective counselor for you if I encouraged a close personal
relationship."


"Oh." Picard regained his equilibrium somewhat. "I see. Thank you for
clarifying."


"So the question -- what do you expect counseling to do for you?" She smiled
again, polite, restrained.


"I suppose I've not thought about it. Other than not liking the experience,
it seemed to me that it only wasted time. My last encounter with one, for
example, was after we lost the Stargazer. I could have told any admiral, I
wasn't debilitated by losing my ship, or the losses of crew members --
saddened, dismayed, perhaps angry at myself, and it may have been that I
blamed myself. But it was my responsibility to see to the ship's safety, and
that of the crew." 


"It must have been difficult," she said.


"For a while. But by the time we got back to Earth I was adjusting,
accepting the loss with less anxiety and a more realistic perspective of
what happened."


"And how did you do that, I wonder?"


Picard tried to decipher this, but her tone was genuinely curious and
interested, hardly demanding or prying; only the question itself bothered
him. "The same way anyone else does, I suppose."


"But there are so many ways of handling grief, or guilt, or fear."


"How do you handle such emotions?"


The blurted question didn't disturb her in the least. "I have a variety of
ways. Sometimes by talking to friends, or my mother. Sometimes I see another
counselor. I find that meditation helps as well. It depends on how and what
I feel. Do you have friends you talk to?"


"I have friends. Most of them are on other vessels now."


"Does that make you sad?"


He snorted, then caught himself. "It's like that in Starfleet. I'll hear
from them once in a while."


"What about family?"


"I haven't spoken to my brother in quite some time. I have no other family."


"I see anger in your face when you mention him."


"We were talking about Starfleet, I believe."


"Yes." Troi uncrossed her legs and smoothed her skirt again. "Have you
always wanted to be in Starfleet?"


"You know, this is really rather pointless," Picard exclaimed, leaning
forward, elbows on the desk.


The counselor's dark eyes hardened and her head tipped forward slightly. She
recrossed her arms. "Really?"


"I don't mean the counseling -- this line of questioning, it doesn't seem to
have a purpose."


"If I know nothing about you, how could I possibly assess changes in the
future? If each individual is unique then there can be no objective measure
of normality I can refer to when -- "


"Yes, I understand. But there are some topics. . . ."


"Personal ones. I'm sorry I caused discomfort." She paused and seemed to be
thinking. "I think it might be best to set another appointment for next
week. It might be helpful if you took the time to consider what we might
discuss."


"All right. Thank you for coming, Counselor." The diplomatic smile returned
in full force.


"Perhaps we could talk about how you felt when Q captured our ship and
forced us to stand trial." Her tone was cheerful, as if she spoke of an
innocuous topic he would have no trouble with. She rose, smiling to match
her tone, and took several sweeping steps around her chair toward the door.
"Good day, Captain."


He said nothing, only watched her leave. He thought about this new and
unexpected development, shrugging it off at last -- he decided to head for
the gymnasium. He hadn't yet checked out the facilities, and staying on top
of his physical fitness was a priority. Dr. Crusher had scheduled first-time
physicals for everyone, though most had had a recent physical on record; it
was her way of getting to know her patients. He had a long history of
excellent health and he intended to maintain it.


~^~^~^~^~

-- 
Constable Katie, ASC* Archive team
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On Sun, 27 Jun 2004 15:16:21 GMT, in alt.startrek.creative, Lori
<zakhad@att.net> wrote:


Title: Midwinter
Author: Lori (zakhad at att period net)
Series: TNG (Captain & Counselor)
Code: P, T, R
Rating: G
Part: 2/2
Date: June 27, 2004
Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com
Feedback: would be nice

Summary in part 1


The office she'd been given felt too big. Two sofas, a low table, plenty of
space to have entire families in if she wanted. Lots of soft pastel colors
to soothe and relax people. In the corner, her desk, as if it were an
afterthought.


She considered the arrangement. Would it be better to sit at the desk, or on
the sofa? The sofa might be more conducive to relaxing, thus freeing the
conversation from expectations. Or the desk, where he would be more at home
-- somewhere with a more official context. The desk, then.


When the annunciator sounded, she'd settled in behind her desk and begun to
meditate. She jumped, caught her breath, and said, "Come in," noting as she
did so that it was early. It probably wasn't the captain.


It was worse -- the first officer came in, smiling at her as he approached
the desk. "I haven't seen you around much over the last couple of weeks. Got
a minute?"


"Hello." She stopped short of his name, trying to honor his request that she
not call him Bill again. He preferred to be called Will now. But it was so
automatic for her -- she'd thought of him that way for a long time. "I can
spare a few moments, but I have an appointment soon."


"I just wanted to check in, see that everything's all right." There was a
distance in his voice she found uncomfortable. It was the same distance he'd
had each time they met, and she wondered whether it was his rank or meeting
her again after all this time that caused it. Certainly he wouldn't have
expected to see her again, and the awkwardness of finding her aboard his
assigned ship had been a complication he mostly ignored. Was it something
they taught them in command track classes?


"Everything's fine," she lied, looking at him, smiling, and it was at that
point that she decided -- everything would be fine. She would give up this
idea that he would see her as anything but his subordinate. "I've been busy,
that's all." Busy thinking about her job, about him, about her own feelings
-- nothing he needed to know about.


"Settling into the job, then. Good." He sat in the chair she'd placed facing
her desk, readjusting it to face her more directly. "I was hoping giving it
a little time would help. I know it was a shock to see me -- you probably
thought you'd never see me again."


"I was surprised," she admitted blandly.


He raised his eyebrows and sat back. "You were more than surprised."


"What would you like me to do, Commander? What can I say?"


Sighing, he slumped forward again. "Deanna. I'm sorry about what happened
between us, but it's in the past. I would like for us to be able to work
together."


"Good. I intend to do whatever is necessary to that end. I think that it
would be best for both of us to maintain a strictly-professional
relationship."


Bill -- Will, she corrected herself -- stared at her in disbelief. "That
isn't what you seemed to expect."


"What I did and said when you came aboard was unprofessional and automatic,"
she exclaimed, careful to keep her voice even, determined to avoid an
emotional outburst. "When you left Betazed, I believed you would meet me at
a specific time for our wedding. That you accepted a posting on a starship
and left without telling me you wouldn't be coming back -- "


"I tried to -- "


"But I didn't hear from you," she continued. "And now it really doesn't
matter. Because you are the first officer, and I'm the ship's counselor, and
I know, however much I wished otherwise, that I will never be so important
to you as Starfleet. So it makes no sense to continue to hope for anything
but friendship. I hope that we may be friends, Will." There. She'd said the
name, just the way he wanted. And the rest -- closure to a part of her life
that she had never wanted to end, worded carefully to avoid bitterness or
anger, just as she'd rehearsed.


He inhaled, exhaled, seemed at a loss for words. At length, he said, "I
never considered you less important to me than Starfleet."


"I waited for you," she murmured. "You were on a starship. How many messages
did you send? One. An apology, then silence. That in the month after our
supposed wedding I did not receive anything more tells me more than the
message you did send. I don't doubt you meant well, but I think you
overestimated your feelings for me."


"How -- you -- " He rose straight up from the chair, stood over her desk
like a vengeful god, and then, remarkably, as his face reddened he spoke in
nearly-normal tones. "I loved you, Deanna. How could you doubt that? You
could sense how I felt!"


The past tense struck her through the heart like a hot, sharp knife. "I
sensed how you felt, yes. Which was why your behavior broke my heart then,
and why I say this to you, sensing your feelings for me now. I don't want to
dredge up the past. I only wanted you to know that in spite of my feelings,
in spite of the past, I would like to be your friend, Will. I don't intend
to be vindictive or hurtful. I thought you should know my feelings as well.
May we please start over?"


He struggled through his reaction to this, taking his time, staring at the
floor, and she watched the time with growing anxiety. The captain would
arrive soon. 


At last, Will raised his eyes and held out a hand. "All right. Friends." She
shook it firmly, and he recovered some of his smile. "I won't behave that
way again."


"I'm positive that you won't." She smiled, resolved to prevent it herself.
"I have an appointment in a bit -- perhaps lunch tomorrow?"


"That sounds great. Who's coming in already for counseling?"


"I can't tell you that. Confidentiality must be preserved."


His smile turned anticipatory and he put a foot on the chair, propping an
elbow on his raised knee. "And speaking of appointments, when am I supposed
to come in? You said you intended to have all the senior staff in at least
once, as a kind of introduction to counseling."


"You'll be seeing Lieutenant Javaius. Ethics prohibit a mental health
professional from counseling a former lover. Sex and therapy don't go
together." She sat back in her chair, hoping she didn't seem smug. "I'll
only be present during official annual assessments, which he will also
perform."


"But it was years ago," he exclaimed, putting his foot down. "You aren't
just making this up to get even, are you?"


"I suggest that you review the Federation Association of Mental Health Code
of Ethics, section two, if you have any questions. If you'll excuse me. . .
." She glanced pointedly at the chronometer displayed on her terminal.


"All right," he said with a sigh. He turned and headed for the door. "Lunch
tomorrow. I'll look that up. Thanks."


With Will gone -- it was easier now to use the name, especially if she
thought of him as a different man than the one she'd known -- she tried to
meditate again in what little time she had left. The captain was on time,
down to the second.


He entered her office as she opened her eyes. He, too, was at peace and in a
relatively good mood. "Good afternoon, Counselor."


"Captain. Thank you for coming."


"I've been thinking about this," he exclaimed, dropping into the chair Will
had vacated, "and I believe I owe you an apology."


"Sir?" This was the last thing she expected. More resistance, perhaps
further denial, anything but a request for forgiveness.


"You have a job to do. I've made that difficult for you. I believe that a
captain has a responsibility to his crew to help them in any way possible to
become better officers. I'm not quite certain what to do in here, and I
really don't see how dwelling on the past would be of any use to either of
us, but if it's what you require. . . ."


"No." Suddenly, she had a knot in her throat and her eyes were stinging. "I
actually wanted to discuss this with you first -- last time we got off to a
rough start. What I require is only time to acquaint ourselves with one
another. As you say, you don't really need any sort of intervention -- but I
didn't know that at first. My only goal now is to achieve a level of
comfort, a base for us to work from should a need for therapy arise. You
value expediency and efficiency. This seemed to me the best way to plan for
any future interventions that may be necessary."


He nodded, making internal adjustments to her new narrative. He liked what
she suggested, she could tell. "Where should we begin, then?"


"Anywhere you would like. Whatever you think I would need to know for future
reference."


He met her gaze, and she saw in his clear hazel eyes what she hadn't seen
the previous week -- acceptance, appreciation, openness. Now that he had
found a way of viewing these sessions that agreed with his chosen
principles, he had no fear, only a minimal lingering anxiety that evaporated
when she gave her new definition of their time together. This was her duty,
and his duty was to facilitate her growth as an officer.


"Future reference," he echoed. "Well. Let's see. I applied for the Academy
early, took the entrance exam at sixteen. . . ."


She listened as he summarized his file, in his own words. That only made
sense; his career was his identity, all else was minimized, put away where
not even he could find it. It wouldn't last; there would come a time when
actual therapy had to happen. He would be uncomfortable and reluctant,
perhaps even refuse to participate at first. She might have to appeal to
regulations and his sense of duty.


But it was a promising beginning. She smiled encouragingly, and enjoyed the
return to the role of counselor, in which she was to remain empathic,
genuine, and yet detached enough to function professionally. In this office
she could survive any emotional turmoil, because it would not be her own.


It wasn't unlike the captain's approach to his own career, come to think of
it -- his intentional boundary between work and personal issues was an
adjustment he had made to further his career. The realization must have
shown in her face; he faltered in describing his experiences as a
lieutenant. "Counselor?"


"I'm sorry. You reminded me of something. Please, continue."


He eyed her dubiously but complied, falling into his own narrative easily.
Relating events wasn't difficult for him. She listened attentively, letting
his unspoken emotions flow around her like a gentle current, noting the
occasional rise and fall of stronger feelings in certain instances and
asking an occasional question to keep him going. Though he discounted his
own emotions, he felt quite strongly about what he'd been through. About
people he knew, even though in his stories they only played roles. This was
a man with determination and discipline like she had rarely seen before,
whose attention remained focused entirely on what he deemed necessary to do
his duty. 


Without a doubt, she would learn a lot on the Enterprise -- from her
experiences as a member of the crew, from working with Will Riker, and from
the captain. If she could manage the calm she had in therapy sessions while
on the bridge or an away team, the calm demonstrated by Captain Picard, she
would feel like an accomplished officer. She might have a later start than
the captain, but she could do it. It would make him proud of her.


"Counselor?"


"I'm sorry," she said again. "You have an impressive history. I'm enjoying
your version of it -- all the details that aren't in your file. Thank you
for being willing to come."


He blinked -- that had caught him off guard. He still didn't understand what
she learned from all of this. "I don't see. . . you're welcome."


"Is there anything else you think I should know?"


His eyes drifted down, appeared to settle on her chest, and jerked up again.
"I don't believe I've said much of anything of importance, really. I'm not
sure what else I could say."


"You've told me more than you think."


Nervousness crept in, and his next smile was forced. "Should I return next
week?"


"I don't believe that will be necessary, but thank you." She paused, then
decided that this may be an instance in which her transparency might help.
"Would you like to hear my notes from last session?"


He blinked at her, clearly stunned.


"You do have a right, as my client, to see your file. Unless I think it will
be detrimental, and in this case we don't have that problem."


"Well. If it isn't a problem. . . ." His curiosity piqued, he sat forward,
expectant.


She touched a few controls and started the recording she'd made following
their last appointment. Her recorded voice always sounded odd to her. "The
first session was uncomfortable, as it often is with any client who has had
little experience in therapy and doesn't know what to expect. Consequently,
he spent the majority of our time avoiding any expression of self,
preferring instead to argue whether or not this was useful, or relevant. He
seems most concerned with duty, and with facilitating the performance of his
crew. Currently, he denies himself the experience of emotion in dealing with
crew; remaining in control of himself is his priority. His discomfort with
the thought that I, as an empath, can sense his feelings seems to further
indicate his unwillingness to face his own emotional reactions. Deeming them
irrelevant may be his way of rationalizing the repression, which in turn
frees him to handle his responsibilities without the burden of processing
his own feelings. Further assessment would be necessary to determine if any
pathology is present. Thus far, I see nothing that would indicate that it
is. End entry."


She waited for a few breaths. "Do you have any questions?"


"It seems straightforward, and not what I expected at all. Is that a typical
entry?"


"Fairly typical. I prefer to defer diagnosis until I have enough
information, and in your case a diagnosis is not required if no dysfunction
is present."


He smiled, this time more genuine and definitely more at ease. "And you
don't think you'll find any?"


"I couldn't say."


"You don't think you should be certain of that?"


"Perhaps I should be certain. But that would require further sessions, and
you don't appear to want them -- there is a point at which a counselor
cannot progress in the face of resistance, and though you express the
willingness to come here for my sake, the sessions will be of little use
unless you are here for yours."


He pondered, eyes drifting to his left and losing focus briefly, then
decided. "I'll see you next week, Counselor."


"Very well. I'll see you on the bridge in the morning, Captain."


"Thank you, Counselor." The response was automatic; he immediately reacted
with awkwardness and slight embarrassment, but recovered quickly. Tugging
his uniform, he strode from the room as if released from captivity.


The return to their roles as officers had shaken him from the role of
client, but she had made a connection. The therapeutic relationship could
take several sessions to establish; in two, she had the beginnings of one
with probably the least expressive client she had had. Smiling, she said,
"Computer, record today's entry for the file of Captain Jean-Luc Picard. . .
."


-- 
Constable Katie, ASC* Archive team
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