TOGETHER AT LAST

by ardavenport

- - - Part 1

"Jean-Luc?"

Gray light. Captain Picard moved his head. The gray he saw throbbed light to dark with the pain in his head. He felt a hand, an arm under him and he struggled to support himself on his elbows.

"Drink this." Something hard and plastic touched his lips, bumping into his teeth. Flavored water trickled into his dry mouth.

"Ugh." His tongue managed a couple swallows, then the moisture was gone and his mouth was dry again. The arm supporting his back lowered him back to the firm padding he lay on. He grabbed for it, his hand fumbling through smooth, sliding cloth and his hand groped up a sleeve, a slender arm. He squinted up at blue and black, shadowed hair and far away gray.

Beverly Crusher. She touched his forehead. Her fingers were cool and his headache receded.

"Uh-ah, wh-wha-"

"Shhh, don't try to talk yet." She freed herself from his grip and gently laid his arm over his chest. She produced a medical scanner from a pocket in her medical jacket while he tested his lethargic limbs. There was no overt pain or numbness, just cramps and twinges, and . . .

He was in his uniform. He was still wearing his boots under the blanket that covered him. A dark gray ceiling arched above. It was the wrong color.

They were not on the ship. The air was cool and smelled faintly of something like cut wood, nothing at all like the neutrally filtered atmosphere aboard the Enterprise. Were they on a planet? The gray wall next to him was carved with an intricate vertical pattern, Light escaped from under dark coverings above him and in other parts of the room. Crusher's tricorder hummed over him while he turned his head to look around.

The room was roughly circular, gloomy and gray, like a dungeon. A huge, imposing circular table sat in the middle of the room. A conference table? That was the first thought that came to him and it stuck. Had he been there before? He could not remember ever entering this room. A few matching chairs, like squat thrones, were near it, but more of the chairs were clustered around him. Beverly Crusher sat in one and several blocky pieces of medical equipment were in some of the others. It was field medical equipment.

He shut his eyes. A new pain had emerged in his temple, worse than before. The doctor's hand pressed his head back down on the pillow.

"Don't move around too much."

"Ummmm, what happened?"

"How do you feel?" she asked him.

"Terrible," he answered without opening his eyes, the pain in his temples beginning to make him nauseous. His skin felt warm and flushed, the air in the room chilly. "What happened?"

"Do you remember anything?"

Picard felt two faintly sticky squares touch his forehead; a relieving hum started up and his headache retreated again.

"Um," he started, trying to think of the last time he'd seen her. Was it breakfast? He couldn't think of what they'd eaten. But they had discussed their mission. He went down with Troi to speak to . . . "We're in the conference room on Lutis," he realized, his eyes opening again. She gently pressed down on his shoulder, keeping him from rising. "I was at a reception with Troi. We hadn't started yet, but I remember Ambassador Yaido falling . . . "

"Do you remember anything else?"

He shook his head weakly, tempted to close his eyes again. Why was she asking him? Didn't she know?

"Where's Troi?"

"She's fine. It's all right. You're going to be fine."

"What are we doing here?" he mumbled, his headache was gone.

"Shhhh, I want you to rest for now." His body felt all too willing to comply with her instructions, but their odd situation kept his fuzzy thoughts focused for a few moments. He was apparently lying on a cot in the official meeting chamber of the Lutii council with his chief medical officer and a full selection of portable medical equipment. No other people around, no Troi, no starship.

"Ungh," he complained inarticulately, his eyes closing, his will losing to Crusher's instructions and he slept.

-o*o- -o*o- -o*o- -o*o-

He'd been awake five minutes now. Listening to her. Occasionally peeking in her direction. In the gray, shadowy light, the sky blue medical jacket that she wore over her uniform appeared dull and dingy in the gloom. He hadn't tried to rise, just lying there, covertly trying to figure out what had happened on his own.

Why were they here? If he was injured, why weren't they on the Enterprise? She had obviously been in contact with the ship, as evidenced by all the equipment around them, the shiny blanket covering him. But why was she treating him here? He organized the mystery into a list of inquiries and actions in his mind.

The tricorder which commanded her attention chirped and the doctor let out a sigh of exasperation. He lifted his head, rose to his elbow, the blanket rustling and sliding down, its warm leaving him in the chilly air. But he was wearing a body suit under his uniform, so at least he'd properly dressed for the weather, whenever that had been. He rubbed his chin and found more than a day's worth of stubble, which surprised him. How long had it been? He had no impression of time passing; it felt to him as if he might have been on the ship only just that morning.

His stomach growled. She looked up. Irritated, he tossed off the blanket.

"You shouldn't get up, Jean-Luc."

"Why?" He rose, going to her. His body and joints were stiff. How long had he been lying down? His skin flushed; the air was still cold. She closed the tricorder with a "snap," then steadied him when the dizziness caught up with him. "I'm fine." He shrugged out of her grasp.

"You shouldn't be up yet."

"Why? Why shouldn't I be up yet?"

She bowed her head, looking away from him. She flipped open the tricorder, and studied the readings and he studied the top of her head. She moved away from his scrutiny. Her hands laid down the tricorder and removed packets from an open box on one of the chairs. Starfleet rations.

"You should have something to eat."

He didn't even acknowledge her offer.

He stalked over to the door; gray as the faintly patterned walls, but smooth and featureless with no obvious lock or opening mechanism. It remained closed to his approach. He carefully examined the edges of the doorway that sealed them in. His fingertips probed the hairline that divided door and frame. He flattened his palms against it and pushed, but the portal remained as solid as if it were a mountain. "Of course," he muttered.

He flung a glance her way, then examined the equipment on the conference table: several different types of bioscanners, assorted hyposprayers, blockish gadgets, triangular gadgets, lighted oblongs and silvery cylinders. His eyes stopped at a largish one, sitting apart from the others. He frowned and reached for the latch of this particular piece of Starfleet standard field equipment. Equally unpalatable and minimal for all species, It was nobody's first choice for a privy, but it worked. He finished as quickly as possible and cleansed his hands. Not that Beverly Crusher would care-she was a doctor, after all-but the lack of privacy truly irked him.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, his voice fell flat with barely an echo in the gray, timeless room. He turned back to her. She had sat down in one of the chairs.

She tilted her head from her tricorder and met his eyes. For a fleeting moment he got the impression that she was about to tell him. "You should lie down. Or have something to eat." She nodded again toward the rations she'd picked out for him, lying alone on another chair.

Picard narrowed his eyes back at her. What was she doing? Why were they here in this gray bubble chamber and not on the Enterprise? Where was the Enterprise? She and the field equipment were the only familiar things in this cell. Were they even on a planet? He'd subconsciously assumed that was the case; the room was so still, the air had an organic taste to it that made him think of growing things that would not be on a starship. But he didn't really know that any more than he knew how long he'd been there.

Picard looked around, up the walls to the ceiling, so gray and featureless that the eyes wouldn't focus on it. No lights, no lines, no air vents . . . He sniffed. The air smelled chill and clean, like an early morning outdoors. It was being recycled somewhere.

His eyes again rested on the doctor. She at least looked like Beverly Crusher; nothing suspicious or stiff about her movements, but that didn't mean anything; he'd been fooled before. He frowned. That was a plausible explanation, that he'd been spirited away and held captive by alien observers. That had actually happened to him before.

He went back to the medical equipment and activated one of the scanners. Brainwave patterns-ten, eleven readings, all different; body temperature readings, again ten, eleven readings, with temperatures ranging from normal to a few degrees above; cardiograms; electroencephalograms . . . She was watching him closely . . . but why? He flicked off the switch and eyed the gray room slowly. Muted lighting stuck in perpetual gloom and no way to tell if it was night or day.

His stomach growled again. His back to her, he picked up the rations. He returned to the bed and sat down, his eyes coming to rest on her again, her attention now back on her tricorder. He bit off the tabs, nibbled something crusty and sipped something fruity and liquid.

It would be a simple explanation that the Beverly Crusher he saw was actually an alien imposter; that would explain her behavior. But he couldn't honestly say that the real Beverly Crusher wouldn't do the same things, if she had a life-and-death reason for them. He sipped and nibbled, and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a faint reminder of his earlier headache.

"How long have we been here?"

"You were unconscious for two days." She didn't look up.

"Mm. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me how that came about?"

This time she looked up and locked eyes with him. He read reluctance and . . . fear? . . . before she broke contact and continued on with her work.

He mouthed a silent, "No."

"Can we contact the ship?"

She shook her head. "Force field."

"I suppose expecting an away team to beam down in the near future is wishful thinking as well?"

"I'd say that."

He was beginning to feel unwell again, fatigued. His fingers closed on the tabs of his half eaten rations, sealing them and he put them aside. He knew he should begin investigating the walls, the light fixtures that he could reach, but he had no energy for it. He sat on the cot, his hands on his knees, his thoughts spent. He frowned, his lethargy adding to the puzzle. If he escaped this room, where would he be escaping to? His eyes rested on the other person in the room. Or escaping from?

He sat and watched her work, a kind of dream-like tranquility settling over him like a depression. What was wrong with him? he wondered with no energy to act on the question. His inquiries into his present state had come to nothing, but if he could remember how he'd gotten here on his own . . . .

Memory tickled at his thoughts and he closed his eyes-Ambassador Yaido standing with him in this room, her bejewels shoulders, her vertical slit eyes, her hand reaching toward him. Troi talking, but he couldn't remember what she had said. A room full of Lutii, metal and jewels decorating their broad shoulders. Long, plain, straight skirts wrapped about their waists. Tasteless food at the reception. The images came to him with no sense of order of when they'd come.

"Jean-Luc?" He started. Crusher sat next to him, her hand touching his shoulder. The air, he realized; the scent and coolness of the air in this room was the same as that at the reception.

"Tell me what you remember."

"About what?" He saw the frown on her face and was tempted to smile.

"About the mission. About why we're here."

"Why don't you just tell me?" he demanded.

"I can't." She actually looked sorry about her lack of cooperation.

"Why?"

"I can't tell you that, either. But there is a reason. You just have to trust me."

Are you giving me a choice? He wondered. But why would Beverly Crusher ask him for this kind of trust? What lives were in the balance for her silence? Her hand, still touching his arm, was warm. It felt right. Her face, her expressions, the sound of her movements and his own lethargy took away his motive for making any more demands, and made him even want to answer her.

"Um . . . I came here to deliver the Federation's decision about exchanging technology with the Lutii. I . . . was in here . . . with Ambassador Yaido. I . . . I must have passed out. I heard people arguing about . . . my species. Riker and Troi were here. They . . . " He winced suddenly and leaned into her, his head contacting the blue material of her medical jacket.

The pain. This is what it felt like when . . .

He lost it, the momentary link to his memory. He heard the tricorder and glimpsed its colored display at his temple. Then he felt the hypospray against his neck and everything blurred.

"Doctor. I'm-"

"You are not 'fine,' Captain." She pushed him down onto the cot and covered him with the blanket. "We'll talk later."

"Hmph," he mumbled, weakly objecting to what she was doing to him, and fighting his own desire to just obey her voice and lie down. He had a fleeting mental image of her lying down next to him, the blanket covering both of them.

The ability to speak left him then. He closed his eyes and everything went black.

- - - End Part 1