"Captain's Log, stardate 93353.5," said a twenty-five-year-old Keaton Lyle, barely suppressing a smile as he faced the computer console before him. "Normandy is en-route to Romulus at the behest of a rather insistent ambassador by the name of Hosa. Despite my personal excitement, I'm anticipatory of the challenges to be faced. As we all know, the late Captain Picard had his own challenges in peace talks with the Romulans, but to actually be invited by a Romulan ambassador, rather than a Reman Praetor, allows me to think of my own misgivings." Keaton Lyle, always the steadfast one in both combat and diplomacy, allowed his visage to slip. He leant forward and put his forehead in his hand, feeling the headache coming on. "I can't help but think of the time that Picard found himself trapped on Romulus. But with Commander Donatra in the Romulan Senate helping to draft a less isolationist policy, and her fast friendship with one of our greatest commanding officers, I think that we might actually stand a chance at a lasting peace."

He debated continuing his log entry, but Keaton found himself tapping the command on the computer terminal and telling the computer to save and store it in the appropriate file. He stood, stretching, and on removing his outer uniform tunic, he drained the cold dregs of his coffee and stood for a while in the sonic shower, allowing the acoustic vibrations to sweep away the dust and debris of a long, stressful day. Even in the years leading up to the impending twenty-fifth century, Keaton had always been amazed that in one day, he could accumulate so much dirt not only on his uniform, but on his person. He had never feared getting his hands dirty, but it always gave him pause to think that anyone, let alone his own, meticulously-clean self, could ever produce that much detritus. He sighed, closing his eyes and simply listening to the shower. It was only his fourth day as Captain of Normandy, an Intrepid-Class vessel carrying one-hundred fifty-seven crew. He even thought of the fateful irony that so many in Starfleet had pointed out to him - that her registry number, NCC-661944, was the exact date of the beginning of a new era, the ousting of the Third Reich. He thought it had some fateful poetry in it, and he argued as much whenever someone complained to him of this fact.

"You look relaxed, Keaton," purred a long-familiar voice. Keaton looked over at the bed, where his wife of just under a year had already pulled off her boots and was removing her uniform tunic. He smiled at her as her long, copper-coloured hair fell from the tunic. She smiled tenderly at him, batting an eyelash, knowing that she was drinking him in as much as she had the first day he had met her. "You're too calm."

"Too calm?" he said, startled by her observation. He knew that his lack of apparent emotion made him an outsider in certain circles, but to some degree it had earned him a commission far earlier than it ought have. "What do you mean, Naomi?"

She laughed, pulling off the blouse which went under the grey-shouldered tunic. "I guess I should've known better." She glanced sidelong at him as she headed for the shower. "Care to join me?"

"Mm," he said, considering the prospect. He kissed her forehead, next her Ktarian horns. "I'm tempted, but no." He found those enchanting eyes, gazing at them and finding something new, as he always did whenever he looked at her. "So will you be joining us for the Doctor's performance tonight?"

Her eyes widened. "That's tonight?" she said, putting her hand to her head. "Why do his performances always coincide with long duty-shifts?" she said. A laugh followed her words. "Yes, I suppose I will. I need to relax after that..." She shook her head. "Forget I said anything. And if you see him, tell him I'm going to be wearing that black gown, the one that complements my hair?"

Keaton smiled, picturing Naomi Lyle in the plain, midnight-coloured, Victorian-style gown which Naomi had worn in annual celebration of the return of Voyager to the Alpha Quadrant nearly ten months earlier. She had looked stunning - her hair she had worn to the middle of her back. With her every turn, he could only watch and feel that every time she smiled, another star was born somewhere. "I think he'd like that," he said, imagining the ship's physician complimenting her on her choice of attire. He thought that perhaps it might have further inflated his personality, knowing that one of his greatest friends was celebrating inn exactly the manner he had planned. Still, he was perhaps one of the surgeons most qualified to handle Starfleet's most complex cases, and it had been by sheer luck that he had volunteered for the maiden voyage of Normandy. "2200 hours," he said, taking note of Naomi's slightly startled expression.

"But what're you going to wear?" Naomi said, suddenly picking up on Keaton's thoughts. She had slowly but surely begun to know his moods, which in most instances helped him to realise just how vulnerable he truly was. In this, however, he felt his heart sink. "You should replicate a nice bowtie. He'll love that."

"That's what I'm worried about," Keaton laughed, kissing Naomi properly. "But if you insist..."

"You know I do, Keaton," she said, clapping a hand on his buttock and turning seductively. It was clear that she was ready for sex, but he had other things on his mind. Maybe, though, after the Doctor performed, they might just start acting like teenagers in the back of a borrowed car. She was a serious professional, and it continually surprised him that such a woman could have such an appetite. "See you when I get out."

"Actually, I was thinking about taking a walk to sickbay. I've been feeling stressed lately, and I think the Doctor might benefit from my visit just as much as I will."

"Alright." She smiled. "See you later." She walked up to him and kissed him again, wrapping her arms about his neck. "I love you."

"I love you, Naomi," he said, running his fingers through her hair and smiling as he did so. "I'll see you."

He donned a considering frown, an expression which somehow did not drive people to the other side of the corridor. He felt that not only did he not deserve the commission he had been given, he was far too young. True, many commanding officers had been given their own commands early, but the average age for a CO in Starfleet was mid-forties. Vice Admiral Janeway, on the other hand, had been thirty-five when she took command of Voyager. At the age of twenty-fie, therefore, he should have a mere two pips on his collar, but after the action at Boor'Va, where he had taken command of Titan after the injury of her commanding officer and much of the bridge crew, these pips had seemed to multiply of their own accord. Still he heard the screams, but still he reminded himself that he had done the only thing he could. It would never bring them back, it would never settle their spirits, but it would keep him fighting.

"Captain, this is unacceptable!" Immediately upon entering sickbay, Keaton found himself face-to-face with ship's surgeon. "It's as though the crew are complaining of half the ailments in the Federation database! First it's tension headache or influenza, and by the time I'm done ascertaining that there's nothing wrong with the patient, everyone in Engineering is coming down alternately with Rydonian fever, Atlantean blood blisters, and I believe that our new Vulcan friend attempted to claim that he was going through the beginning stages of the Pon Farr..." The Doctor, whose face had been contorted in sheer rage, stopped suddenly at Keaton's amused expression. "Captain? Why are you laughing? This is not amusing!"

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Keaton said, wiping his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and knowing that he had been caught. "Doctor, you know that both myself and Naomi think your performances are wonderful. I, personally, could never tire of them." He paused, a grin still spread on his face. "I'm sure you're aware," he said, putting an arm around his newfound friend and leading him back into the physician's office, "that many of the crew don't necessarily feel the same way?"

"They just don't know good music when they hear it," the Doctor said diffidently. He sighed and turned to the young commanding officer, holding up his hands as though pleading with him. His eyes were wide with sudden fire. "But why can't they just tell me that they don't want to attend?"

"Doctor, you're also a trained psychologist, correct?"

"Yes..." the Doctor said hesitantly.

"I know you love the opera. Frankly, I love that you're enthusiastic about your ability. I envy you, as a matter of fact. And when I say this next thing, I want you to wait until I've finished to make a reply." He hesitated, looking at the hologram and knowing that he would indeed be instigating a firestorm. "You're a wonderful person, Doctor. That I can't deny. But sometimes your personality is a bit forceful. You're a bit too enthusiastic, and even people who enjoy your performances don't want to be pelted with advertisements for anything. They want to be able to attend at their own leisure." Keaton took on an apologetic expression. "You do sometimes get in peoples' faces about things, Doctor. I hate to have to tell you, but I don't think you're going to get that honest of an opinion from very many people."

The doctor sighed, realising that the Captain spoke the truth. "Perhaps you're right, Captain," he said. "Thank you for telling me."

Smiling, Keaton nodded and folded his arms over his chest. "I'm glad I could help, even if I had to rip the band-aid off."

The Doctor looked up, puzzled. "'Rip the band-aid off?' Is that an old Earth expression?"

"Yes. It means to get it over with and give an honest opinion, no matter how hard it is to deal with."

"Ah." The Doctor smiled. "I'm surprised I haven't found that in my matrix." He smiled and picked up a PADD. "Thank you, Captain."

"In the meantime, if there's anything I could help you with...?"

"No." The Doctor hesitated. "If I may ask, why did you come to sickbay in the first place?"

Keaton smiled, flushing suddenly. "I suppose you've caught me, Doctor. I know I've been working too hard, and I was wondering whether you had any recommendations to make?"

"Let me see..." The Doctor picked up a medical tricorder and ran the scanning device over Keaton's body, humming an opera he did not recognise. "Ah, yes. Well, the good news is that you're no less healthy than you were when you came aboard. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to agree with you on the stress assessment. I recommend taking the next forty-eight hours off and just enjoying yourself."

"I was never one to argue with the Doctor," Keaton said, immediately catching his mistake. It's too late to correct yourself, Keaton thought. He glanced at the Doctor, who was grinning broadly. "Oh, dear God. That's just unnerving."

"I think we're going to get along just fine, Captain," the Doctor said.