Keep Myself Awake

"It's a request for temporary transfer."

Not just anyone's temporary transfer, USS Enterprise first officer Commander William T. Riker thought gloomily. He hadn't looked her in the eyes yet. The writing, swimming on the padd in front of him, held him captive. He got as far as the name. He didn't need to read anymore to know what the request was.

He rubbed his face. "Even if I sign off on this there's no guarantee Command will see it in the same light."

"You're worried about how this will look?"

It wasn't just a question; the accusation stung. She continued her attack.

"Is that what you're going to tell Ensign Trashec or Lieutenant A'suofa? Tell them they can't return to assist their homeworld because it might look bad?"

Commander Riker struggled to remember the last time Commander Deanna Troi, ship's counselor, had stared at him with as much hostility. The echo of shattering pottery jogged his memory.

At least, on that occasion, the situation had been equal to the anger. A woman just jilted for the second time is justified in flinging about as many priceless ceramics as she wants, he figured. But those were personal circumstances. This time it was in a professional setting he had to disappoint her. As angry as she was, he knew she would keep her emotions under control. She knew it, too. Besides, it wasn't him she was really pissed off with.

"Counselor," he said, trying to keep the formality between them. "I know the war has taken a considerable toll on many of this ship's crew ... but with the Dominion force decimated and retreating, there is little left for Starfleet to do but mop up - a task better suited to ships fitted for that purpose. The Federation and Command are united in their determination for the fleet to put this behind it. It's time to rebuild. The mission to Ark11 is seen as a positive and necessary move and a chance for people to have something reaffirming to focus on."

Riker recited the mission statement as faithfully as he could, but didn't bother effecting any conviction. She'd see straight through it.

Come on, Deanna, he thought wearily. Don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to me.

Lost in his fatigue, he missed the start of her reply.

"… a shallow, ego-stroking exercise designed to draw attention from the obvious." She was just getting warmed up. "Well, people are hurting. And it's no weakness to acknowledge that. The last thing I'd want to see while I was surveying my wasted home is some perfectly attired, grinning Starfleet captain swanning around at some fancy soirée on some forgotten, two-bit planet."

Riker decided to ignore the more inflammatory parts of her speech. He would use his discretion when making record of the meeting, just as he had for several other crew members who had stolen a march on her.

"We could – should - be doing so much more," she said.

"You've done more than your fair share-"

"But there's still so much more to be done. And it's not about fairness or sharing a burden. Sometimes, shouldering more than your fair load is simply a thing to be borne."

"The rebuild will happen just as quickly without you, Deanna. I know you don't want to hear that, but it's true. I have more than twenty requests, much the same as yours, before me. I had hoped for your help convincing these people that the Ark mission is worthy."

Hoped? Who was he kidding? He had been counting on her help.

Troi shook her head. "If you force people to do something they believe is a frivolous waste of time and resources …"

"Can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me Ark11 is a frivolous waste of effort?" he asked, despite his own intense desire to avoid her eyes.

"Can you honestly tell me you don't harbor any reservations, either?"

She sighed. "Will, people can't help the way they feel. Morale can't be healed with a snap of the fingers, just because you want it. You, yourself, are-"

Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the desk: four half empty coffee cups around his padd.

He had wondered when the interrogation would start. He'd done a damn good job holding her off this long. She was sizing him up, assessing him in her inscrutable manner - only this time, she was frustrated. He was reading her emotions more easily than she was reading his. He could see it in the furrowing of her brows, a slight pinched look about the mouth. Riker felt too exhausted to delight in the sense of power this realization might once have brought him.

"You know I'm okay," he said.

Nothing she found in him could contradict the statement. "Nothing you're going to tell me about?"

"No."

A dull ache he had been trying to suppress re-emerged. She didn't miss his pained expression nor his fingers automatically rising to massage his temples. "How long have you had a headache?"

He swept his hand over the table. "Probably for about as long as I've been wading through this lot."

She seemed to accept his explanation. Sympathetic Troi was back, but only briefly. "Shouldn't sheer weight of numbers speak volumes?"

Riker wanted the conversation to be over. He needed it to end, and quickly.

"Look, Deanna. Do you think Starfleet is making a mistake?"

She hesitated. "Yes. No."

He contained his impatience as he waited for her to explain.

She got to her feet, pacing the room, looking for the words she needed.

"I understand how the opening on Ark11 provides people with the first real, post-war triumph." The emphasis was loaded with scorn.

"While the Federation quietly cleans up whatever active pockets of Dominion resistance remain, Ark11 opens in splendor, showing people that the war itself, with all its losses, was a temporary thing. An aberration. People throughout the quadrants must now pick up the pieces of their lives and worlds and get on with life again. We all want this. Some have already started - sweeping away the reminders." Her voice almost choked.

"But for many the memory is not so cleanly banished. Things have been lost, Will, and it hurts. It's going to keep hurting despite Command's insane assumption that applying a bandage equals instant healing."

She had turned away from him. "This may sound odd coming from me - but now is a time for doing. We've all had a chance to talk. What many of us need now is to do.

"Many who survived the experience will find guilt in their fortune. Many are seeking to wrest back some feeling of control. Wanting to help with the final clean up, with the rebuild - that's perhaps one of the most valuable contributions and atonements people can see making for themselves … But a peaceful mission when so much is waiting to be done - some of us don't feel worthy of it."

She was talking about herself.

He had heard enough: survivor guilt. It wasn't that he didn't understand it - he just didn't like seeing her this way. She'd explained away her anger, but he didn't believe action alone was the right thing for them to do without also seeking additional counseling.

The parallel with his own situation didn't escape him and since he didn't want to think about that he turned his attention back to the reason she was here.

"It would be very easy for me to simply dismiss every one of these temporary transfer requests. There's no way they would all be approved at once anyway, but-"

"Can you afford to let any of them go?"

"Command wants a fully operationally Enterprise. But perhaps I could pull a few strings … well, three or four maybe. Certainly no more than that. They won't be happy with the message the granting of so many requests would send. By dispatching the Enterprise to Ark11, it's hoped people will start to feel the war truly is over. Once people have accepted that perhaps life will be easier to return to."

They were rational arguments. Having its flagship resume peacetime duties, fully crewed and operational, Command wanted to send its own message of safety and reassurance. It was a pity he didn't quite buy it.

The opening of Ark11 coming at this point, a decade off schedule, must have been received as a sign, Riker thought.

It was to be the perfect post-war extravaganza.

More than half a century in planning and construction, the previously uninhabited planet had been Terra-formed into a potential cultural hub for the Federation - a place where every Federation member planet had a stake - a chance to display permanently its history, its cultures, its philosophies. Music, food, ecologies, live displays, a mix of recreated and authentic relics - huge complexes prepared for conventions, conferences, it could easily become the educational center point of the known universe. Every great university and college had reserved space for a campus. There were even holiday parks and culturally-themed vacation tours on offer.

Riker doubted Ark11 would ever top his list of all-time best shore-leave destinations, but plenty of other people would clamor to get to the planet. Federation lotteries held on every member planet offering the chance for lucky citizens to be at the opening month-long extravaganza had proven extremely popular.

Starfleet had seized on the opportunity to have a visible presence at the event. Archeology dilettante Jean-Luc Picard sailing in with all the majesty of the fleet's flagship was the perfect candidate for a fleet representative at the opening.

Plans to have the crew involved with the final sector clear ups were scuppered when it became obvious the museum planet was gearing up for its massive celebration.

Knowing the celebration was reasonable had not made it any easier to swallow. Once the crew had been briefed, Riker had noticed a tension building. Faces had become tightly drawn, undercurrents of resentment had swept through the ship. Riker had heard, for the first time ever, in the low speeches of fuming crew members, what could have amounted to open ship-wide mutiny.

He had faith in his team, however. He didn't doubt their ultimate loyalty to the ship's captain, but the stress of that loyalty was chafing. Riker had been relying on Troi's acute understanding of feelings on board. Her apparent defection to the other camp was a blow. He tried to ignore the ache above his eyes and set about presenting his case.

"Would it help if I said this was just another part of the war effort?"

Troi had stopped pacing. She sat in the chair opposite him, tapping her fingers in a tattoo of impatience. She contemplated him, even as he forced himself to meet her gaze.

Riker shifted uneasily. She was suspicious, but oddly confused as well. He had been strengthening the block gradually over the last few weeks. His actions weren't malicious. He discovered he could do it by accident. From meditations she had taught him. It wasn't a complete block - just a way of hiding part of himself from her. For her own good.

Distracted by other concerns she must not have noticed. He was glad. She'd had deep shadows under her eyes for too long. The relief at the freeing of her own planet had had a brief alleviative effect, but the heightened stress of the crew had taken a heavy toll. She certainly hadn't gained any weight since returning from Betazed. Her uniform didn't hang off her now - but only because she had simply replicated a smaller one.

Nothing he said seemed to help. At least she was no longer as listless as she had been. She had set her heart on returning to some of the worst affected areas. It had been expected. When that was taken from her, she had reacted angrily. Riker had been at a loss to know how to help his … friend.

When the dreams - nightmares, really - started, he'd had even more reason to keep his feelings from her. And he was succeeding.

But as pleased as he was, part of him was a little disappointed. Normally, his pathetic attempts at hiding from her failed - usually miserably. What did it mean that she could no longer read him easily?

Finally, she sighed. "Okay. What's your big idea?"

"We acknowledge the Enterprise drew the short straw. The crew's too good to openly rebel against a direct order. We allow three or four - from the most devastated areas of the quadrant - to transfer temporarily – maybe A'suofa and Trashec. However, we let it be known – unofficially - that Command understands how the crew might feel about being asked to take on an odious journey to Ark11. Essentially, this is the last and dirtiest of all wartime tasks."

"Drop the references to Command, Will - the crew needs to hear it from you."

"Does this mean you'll withdraw your request?"

She let him stew for several seconds.

"I suppose this means I'll have to work with you a bit longer."

His flimsy, specious argument had swayed her with barely a flicker of suspicion.

"You've just made an old commander very happy," he replied. The words slipped off his tongue. Old commander? Happy? The irony struck him too late.

If Troi had caught on, she wasn't giving anything away.

He'd got her on side, more easily than he had anticipated. He'd headed off a potentially damaging situation and regained an ally, but all he wanted was for this woman to leave before the strain of being around her became too apparent to hide.

He let out his breath in relief when she rose and moved to the door.

As it slid open she turned to study him. Somehow, something about this conversation had dissatisfied both of them.

"Are you sure you're okay, Will? You don't need to see Beverly?"

"I'm fine, Deanna." He made a point of turning back to his work.

She didn't press harder, and when the door had closed on her, he pressed back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling trying to will the tension from his shoulders. The cup of coffee he had replicated before she entered had gone cold.

Today had been the most difficult so far.

Go to Beverly, he thought sourly. He knew what Beverly'd say if he talked to the doctor. And talking it over with a counselor would be good advice. Trouble was … Deanna was the source of his problem, and central as she was to him - to the problem - he couldn't put this on her at the moment. Now was not the time.

The hum of the ship, the comfort of his chair, his own lost thoughts conspired against him, lulling him and preparing him for a luxurious, restful sleep. The caffeine, then, had been no help.

Sleep, please, he could have begged.

And, suddenly, sleep is with him, behind him, leaning into his neck, a warm breath against his skin. He can smell her perfume, musk and sophistication.

Light fingertips brush the skin on his shoulders. His chest burns where she lays a palm flat against it. Eyes closed, savoring her nearness, no memory of the concerns he's had - some other time.

Light whispers tickle his cheek. He murmurs his appreciation as she drapes arms over his shoulders and rests her head on his against his heart. He sighs. Sleep is heavenly. He imagines her fingers playfully engaged with his own, as she gracefully rounds the chair.

Leaning into him, floating fabric falls against body, electrifying him. He desires contact, the feel of her against him, as he stands, hungrily seeking the base of her neck, each fingertip, her mouth. His hands trace the contours of her back.

On the table he knows instinctively is clear, he gently folds her back, one hand tightly clutching hers. She arches into him, shivering as his hand grazes the sensitive skin along her inner thigh.

Heaven will be complete when he's complete - in touch with her body and soul. Greedily his mind opens to allow her in, eager for the feeling which will flood him when they entwine wholly.

His eyes open, seeking hers. And, suddenly, there is no air to breathe. Black holes repel him into himself. He screams and recoils. There is nothing. And, although they are so closely together and her body is flesh, he feels nothing but ashes.

She is there … and he is alone. No sense of her. Touching is useless. The woman closest to him is a stranger and the feel of her is disgustingly, sickeningly wrong.

Tears travel from her empty eyes down her cheeks. He wants to cry. They disentangle. They …

"Bridge to Commander Riker."

Riker shuddered awake at the chirping of his comm badge, breathing heavily and blinking as his eyes readjusted to the light.

"Bridge to Commander Riker." The insistent tones of the ship's android second officer were as effective as the red alert klaxon.

Riker knew the futility of acting on an uncharacteristic impulse to ignore the hail. He acknowledged Data.

"Commander, Captain Picard requests your presence in his ready room, sir."

The first officer rubbed the feeling of sand out of his eyes. His android friend would not detect anything in his voice indicating the terror which still gripped him, nor the sadness and worry which squeezed his heart.

The dreams were increasing in intensity and frequency, and they always ended the same gut-wrenching way. He should be prepared for it now, but when it came, it was as though he was in another world with no memory of the horror awaiting him.

He had no idea what it meant. He only knew he was scared, but of what, he couldn't be sure.

Talking to Troi was out. Not yet. Not until he understood more. The dreams' suggestive elements would probably amuse her, but what would she say about the other more frightening aspect - the threat to their tie, their bond?

Riker seldom felt inclined to discuss with anyone his relationship with Troi. The bond's invisibility and Troi's natural abilities usually accounted for the uncanny understandings they reached which may have garnered an outsider's attention.

Neither of them drew attention to their slightly peculiar arrangement. Even their friends knew not to question them directly, though some had their suspicions, Riker suspected. Somehow, the bond was as important to him as air, but like air not something that one regularly discussed - nor consciously thought about.

On the whole, Riker had rather enjoyed having a special metaphysical link to Troi. The thing was too pure, too sacred to be smug about. But it was a source of pride and a thing he basked in by himself. Sure, they never really did much with it, but at some point Riker had realized he was completely comfortable knowing it would always be a part of his life. Wouldn't it? Like air …

You only think about conserving air when there's a problem with your current supply, a wicked little voice whispered.

There was nothing wrong with the ship's environmental controls. Riker had started shivering for an entirely different reason.

Keep Myself Awake, by Black Lab