My Roxanne
By Laura Schiller
Based on Star Trek: The Next Generation
Copyright: Paramount
(The Cyrano quotes are from pages 159 and 164 of the novel Cyrano: for anyone who's ever been hopelessly in love by Geraldine McCaughrean.)
It had been such a lovely evening, thought Deanna Troi. Walking down the quiet paths of the Arburetum; admiring the flowers; talking about their origin and symbolism; laughing together over her memories of failed gardening attempts as a child. Walking arm in arm with a charming, intelligent man … who had been her counselling patient only a month ago. So far, she had been sensing nothing from him but joy in their conversation and the beauty of their environment, but as they approached the doors of the climate-controlled room – and the end of their 'date' – his emotions shifted: a river of contentment breaking against a dam of fierce determination. She sighed inwardly. Lieutenant Reginald Barclay paused near the doors, picked up a pair of shears from the tool rack and clipped a rose for her – a full-blown, fragrant, crimson rose with a heart as dark as her Betazoid eyes. One day ago, under the influence of the Cytherian probe, he would have turned an elegant compliment off the top of his head. Today he held it out to her with a shaky hand, looking rather red himself.
"Deanna … I … "
"Oh, Reg, please don't." She waved the rose away. Why couldn't this beautiful evening have been enough?
"Yes. I – I know you know it," he said, gesturing with both hands, including the one that held the rose, "At least I think you know … but – but I might explode if I don't say it. I love you, Deanna. Always have – tried not to – Patient/Counsellor and all that, like you said – " He interrupted himself with a shaky little laugh, looking everywhere but at her eyes. "But you and I are like Cyrano and Roxanne, from the play, you know. I meant every line for you. You're my Roxanne – and I need to know … if there's any chance, any chance at all that you might think of me as… "
He broke off, overwhelmed by his stutter and his emotions combined. They were as crimson as the rose to her empathic sense, dusted with sunset pink and gold – attraction, admiration, respect – with a black edge of sorrow abd longing, since he could guess just how small his chance was.
How like Reg Barclay to express himself this way: with the story of a misfit Terran soldier from the 18th century who cherished a lifelong unrequited love for his beautiful friend. The counselor in her noted that he still preferred fiction to reality; trust him to mistake his rapport with a pretty, attentive therapist for love. 'Transference' was the clinical term.
The woman in her felt like crying as she remembered Beverly's production of Cyrano. My love has need of colors never seen and words never coined. Aeons of time and even the edgeless universe are not room enough to hold it. I know at least that Death is too small to snuff it out, and that tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow it will still fill the sky above you and hide in the hollow of your hand, undiminished and unending.
No wonger Reg had had such trouble with Deanna in the audience during rehearsals. I meant every line for you …
She shook her head, barely enough to move her heavy crinkled hair.
He made a distracted movement as if to throw the rose away, but took it in both hands instead, glowering down at it as if it were the cause of all his trouble. He twirled its stem around his fingers over and over. Embarrassment; self-reproach; bitterness – all sharp and corrosive, like a rusty blade.
"You told me today that you wanted to earn my respect, Reg," she said, holding out both hands in a conciliatory gesture, hunting for the right words to say almost as urgently as he had a moment ago. "You've had it all along … it didn't take an alien probe to show me the best of you. You've worked so hard to overcome your problems … to make friends with your shipmates and even perform onstage … and just now, what you said to me … it took a lot of courage. You're an admirable man, Mr. Barclay."
The rusty edges of his mind gradually softened as he listened to her speech, meeting her eyes steadily.
"The truth is," she admitted, feeling that such a baring of his soul from him deserved nothing less in return, "That there's only ever been one man for me. He made his priorities clear long ago," (so long ago that it was almost painless to remember) "And they don't include a romantic commitment … but all the same, I'd rather be his friend than loved by any other man in the universe."
"Commander Riker," Reg confirmed.
She braced herself for jealousy, but none came – only a heavy dark blue blanket of resignation, as if it were inevitable that Deanna Troi, beautiful, brave and wise (as he saw her) would love someone as strong and charismatic as Will Riker. Will had been jealous today, hiding it behind amusement as he'd asked Deanna whether Barclay's "pass" at her had been successful. She had put on her best mysterious smile and sauntered past him without answering. It was all part of their game.
"So," said Reg, with a smile and a shrug. "You know how it feels, then."
Her love for Will compared, in a decidedly unromantic way, to a headache. Most days, she didn't have one at all and could enjoy life, work, chocolate and men without inconvenience – but when she had one, it came on with a vengeance. Sometimes she ached for him: his arms around her, lifting her off her feet; the scent of his skin; his warm mental voice calling her Imzadi, "first beloved". Sometimes she sat up late into the night re-reading his old letters and reproached herself the next morning. But most of the time, it was enough just to laugh with him, listen to his saxophone playing, tease him out of his dark moods and lean on him during hers, debate with him about everything in this universe and some things out of it. She could live with that and be happy. And if Reg's feelings were anything like hers, so could he, with both of them the better for it.
"I do know," she said, approaching him gently to take the forgotten rose from his fingers. "I'll put this in water, all right?"
He nodded and stepped back, just enough to open the arboretum doors.
"The friendship of a woman is a great blessing," he quoted from Cyrano.
"So is the friendship of a good man. Take care, Mr. Barclay."
"Good night, Counselor," he said, with a nod that was almost a bow, as the doors slid closed between them.