LESSONS LEARNED
by ardavenport
o o o Part 8
"Come on." Doctor Crusher put her instruments down.
"What?" Picard asked, lying on the examination table.
She motioned for him to get up. He stood, and tugged his gray uniform top and jacket into place. The other people in the room, doctor, nurse and patient, studiously ignored their leaving. She led him to a small, private examination room and then continued her scans. He seemed less stiff and nervous there than he had been in the main examination room.
"You didn't say it was this bad," she told him.
"It wasn't this bad last night." He jumped when she touched him. The room they were in seemed unnaturally dark and small to him. And he was getting a headache. He grimaced and squirmed. Doctor Crusher laid her hand on his forehead.
"Lie still."
He waited while she ran through her tests. She focused the brain scan on her restless patient. The levels of activity measured lower than expected. She leaned forward and adjusted the instrument. They went up again. The captain moved his head, again.
"Hey," she put her hand on the top of his head to remind him that she wasn't finished. The levels went down.
"Wait a minute..."
"What?" The captain moved his head, but his brain activity didn't change.
The doctor sat still, her fingers still touching him. Her indicators stayed down. Slowly, she withdrew her hand. He didn't move. His brain activity levels crept upward.
She picked up the tricorder, checked its link to the scanner and walked around the examination table. She passed it over his chest, as if that were the part of him that she wished to scan. At the same time she lightly laid her hand on his stomach, just below the rib cage. Obediently this time, the brain activity indicators went down again.
"That's interesting."
"What?"
"Lie still," she told him. She went back to the scanner controls and modified the scan. This time she let her hand rest on forehead.
He tensed his shoulders and then let them relax. The lights above glared down at him, perfect illumination for the physician, but uncomfortable for the patient. His scalp felt sweaty under the doctor's warm, dry palm. He shifted and stretched in place. The edge of his collar rubbed against the skin of his neck and he tiled his head back on the pillow away from it.
"Hey."
He opened his eyes and wondered when he'd closed them. He felt Doctor Crusher's hand on his cheek and without thinking about it he smiled up at the face he saw above him.
"Don't go to sleep here." She helped him to sit up.
He rubbed his temples and shook his head. "I've had sleepless nights before. I've never been this tired from it."
"The Minaran used your own bio-energy to create the empathic neuro-pathways and that pretty much drained your reserves. How do you feel?"
"Tired. You have a prognosis now, Doctor?"
"Your volume of affected brain tissue has gone down by almost three percent since last night."
"Gone down?" Surprised, he looked up at her. She nodded and put her hands in the her pockets.
"The level of activity has gone up about two thousand percent. But the affected area has fallen off as predicted."
"Hmmmmmm, I couldn't tell."
"It also seems that you have a primary empathic nervous system response that's quite similar to the Minarans."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that you're right about the emotions of people closer to you drowning out the others. But the effect is increased by about two orders of magnitude by physical contact."
"Why didn't you spot this last night?" he asked, annoyed that she'd sprung something new on him.
"Because your nervous system isn't actually involved. Your brain just thinks it is. Even the Minarans couldn't affect your cell structure that much." Her hand patted his knee. He stared down at it. Physical contact? He looked back at her.
"Does this mean you have to hold my hand to get me through this?"
"Maybe." She withdrew her hand and stood back, just out of reach. He slid off the examination table, straightened his uniform and without asking her permission, headed for the door.
He turned down an inner corridor and headed for the exit. A med tech brushed passed him, hurrying in the opposite direction. He stopped. Beverly Crusher approached from behind and touched his arm. He stiffened, but didn't turn. If he wanted to avoid emotional intensity, he thought to himself, then Sickbay was the worst place on the ship for him to be.
"Come on. I'll walk you to your quarters," she said quietly in his ear.
He resisted. "I have to go to the Bridge."
"I'll call and tell them you're unavailable." She locked her arm around his and guided him toward the door.
He didn't say anything in the turbolift, nor did he object when she led him down the corridor to his cabin. They entered together.
"Have you had anything to eat?"
"No. I'm not hungry."
"You've got to eat something," she told him. She left him to get breakfast from the replicator.
He sat down at the dining table and silently watched her set the table. She laid a bowl of grapefruit chunks and a plate of croissants and jam in front of him. He picked up his fork, took a bite of grapefruit and chewed it sullenly.
"Would you like some tea?"
"No." He'd had plenty of tea already that morning. "Water will be fine." She set the glass in front of him.
The croissant was more difficult to eat. Even with the jam it seemed hard to swallow. His nausea and headache were returning. He felt certain that somebody was angry at something nearby. He jumped. Doctor Crusher touched his shoulder.
"It's all right," she reassured him. She pulled up a chair and sat next to him. He brought his fists down, one of them still holding the fork, on the table. He sat there over his food, rigidly holding his temper in check. How could he even be sure it was his own temper? His fury subsided.
'It's not easy. Admitting you've been hurt. It never is,' he'd told the Minaran the previous night. Now it was his turn to take his own advice. He had no doubts that it was the physical contact with Doctor Crusher, still waiting patiently beside him, that at least partially shielded him from the emotional chaos around him.
He'd done this before, in a dream, in a twenty-five minute lifetime he'd received from a alien probe. He'd silently eat his dinner and then play his flute afterward, while an infinitely patient wife waited, waited for years for her marooned star traveller to notice the world around him, to share a love and intimacy that he'd never known or expected to ever want. That probe had been a time capsule left behind by a dying civilization, depositing its last gasp of hope into his mind. The people who'd built it had gone a thousand years ago when their sun went nova.
His eyes stared down at Beverly Crusher's hand resting next to his arm on the table. He wanted to place his hand over hers, but he didn't move.
Except for the voluminous notes and records he'd made of the experience, and what had been contained in the probe, precious little remained of that long gone civilization. The planet itself had been vaporized in the nova, like the Minarans' world had been. But nobody had been around to save the Kataan civilization that had launched that probe so long ago.
He took another bite of grapefruit and glanced at Beverly Crusher next to him, sipping her glass of juice. They'd had breakfast together so many times over the years that they had no need to make small talk. He smeared strawberry jam on another croissant and thought about the firelit night on Kesprit he'd spent with her, close, but not touching, their thoughts linked.
His empathy hadn't left him, it merely focused on one person, the doctor, dimming the nervous, emotional noise that would otherwise swamp him. Now his thoughts reflected those of the person sitting next to him. Or were they his own thoughts? He chewed another grapefruit chunk. At the very end of that imaginary lifetime on Kataan, he'd seen his wife, dead for many years. Even as she showed him the true nature of the probe, all he could think of at the moment was how much he wanted to be with her again. And now he felt the same dreadful desperate longing that he had then, and he suddenly thought of how similar it was to the emotions he'd felt from Beverly Crusher on Kesprit when he'd confessed his past love for her. He sipped his water and frowned at the washed-out, stale citrus aftertaste.
No. After a solidly bachelor career, it was unreasonable to presume that he could indulge an urge for companionship. Immediately after they'd returned from Kesprit and once the telepathic links had been removed, he'd suggested that they pursue the feelings that had been uncovered. But she had been cautions, not wanting to go any further than they had. He hadn't pressed her about it since then; not all the things that such a pursuit could lead to were good.
Nearly a year ago he'd foolishly plunged into a relationship and it had ended in bitter disaster. Without sparing any serious thought to how he could manage his captaincy around a love affair with a member of his crew, he'd allowed himself to fall in love. He'd been attracted to Lieutenant Commander Nella Darren when they'd first met. Nothing might have come of it if they hadn't started playing together, her on the piano keyboard, him with his Kataan flute. It had been the music that had so quickly and strongly rekindled the seductive yearning for companionship left within him by the Kataan probe.
He'd handled the relationship that had developed so badly.
The stresses and dangers inherent in starship duty had forced him to break it off. Lieutenant Commander Darren had left the ship. What had he been hoping for in the long run with her? A lover? Or marriage? At my age?
But his brother had surprised him when he'd married. He fondly remembered his sister-in-law, Marie. How had his brother ever found her? Jean-Luc had always thought of himself as solitary, but his older brother, Robert, was positively anti-social. Indeed, he had married relatively late in life; Robert had only been a few years younger then than he was now when he'd married...
He slammed his fork down next to his plate.
"Is something wrong?"
"No. No, I'm fine." He put his napkin over the few remains of croissant and grapefruit. Surely he'd eaten enough to satisfy the doctor.
"Feeling better?" He nodded. It did feel better to have food in his stomach. He could think. They both got up and silently cleared the table together. The activity seemed uncomfortably domestic to him.
"What?" He looked up.
Doctor Crusher pressed the disposal control on the replicator and the breakfast debris they'd loaded into it promptly vanished. "I said, I want you go to bed now."
He lowered his eyes to hide his initial shocked expression. He'd thought he'd heard her say 'come to bed'. But if she'd read the meaning of his reaction, she didn't show it.
He nodded.
She accompanied him to the door of the bedroom. He went to the bureau at the far end of the room, removed a set of pajamas and went into the lavatory to change. She sat down on the edge of the bed and waited.
It isn't that bad, she thought to herself, half-hoping that his unwanted empathy would catch her sentiment as she had all during the meal. But it hadn't worked, or perhaps it had backfired in some way. Every time he'd appear to relax, he would start from some mysterious introspection and tense up again.
Alone now, she relaxed the tight hold she'd kept on her own thoughts during the meal. He had been so affected by the Minaran. The night before, lying in Sickbay, he had told her what had happened, his self control cracked and bleeding with the tears he couldn't control. Every time she'd touched him, he had cringed away from her. Since then she had been mentally distracting herself from too intimate thoughts with Sickbay shift schedules and parasitic growth test results.
He was recovered from the initial shock, but the invasive empathy still clung to him, the stress of the emotions of friends and strangers pulling on him. At the dining table she'd sat quietly, waiting, afraid to get too close, but knowing she couldn't leave.
She wanted to take him in her arms, to hold him. She smiled to herself and looked down at the shadowed, carpeted floor of the bedroom. That would be quite a prescription for her to hand down to him. He might even accept it, if she forced the issue. She just wasn't sure how she would handle it, how either of them would handle it, now that they knew how they felt about each other.
She remembered the look in Jean-Luc Picard's eyes, his face in the firelight, when he'd confessed his secret love for her on Kesprit. But she remembered even more strongly his thoughts, the longing, the innocent and so seductive infatuation. She felt it herself. But Beverly Crusher had learned to mistrust infatuation. She felt intensely aware of how deeply love change would their friendship and she was equally aware from his own thoughts on Kesprit that Jean-Luc Picard was not.
He was so sincere in his affection for her and she was absolutely positive that he really didn't understand, on an emotional level that if they got involved, they could easily spend the rest of their lives together.
She had known him for a long time and she knew that he'd never been able to carry on a long term relationship. He had even, in his younger years, run out on them. He would never intentionally hurt her, but that was the way all relationships started. She knew with an absolute certainty that their mutual attraction would not be enough. But what did they need? They were already close friends; they were compatible; they shared meals together daily; they worked well together. He was extremely...desirable, she admitted to herself. Wouldn't a closer relationship be a natural development now that they'd admitted that they were attracted to each other?
She sighed. I'm acting like him, than he does about this. I'm trying to think this through with my head, so I don't get my heart bruised.
She crossed her legs and stared into the main room. So, neat and tidy, he kept his quarters the same way he maintained his personal life. They varied very little from the pastel-decorated standard issue Enterprise furnishings; no furniture out of place, nothing loose lying about, the relics and mementos permitted to be displayed in public precisely laid out. All these things revealed only a formal image of the man who owned them. She liked these rooms. She liked the image they portrayed. She loved the man who lived in them; she was sure of that. But would they really be able to share their lives together? The fact that he'd hidden his love for her for 20 years and had only revealed it to her when he was forced to only added to her uncertainty about how he'd share a relationship.
How many weeks did I make Jack wait for an answer when he asked me marry him? What am I waiting for now? For something to happen?
Well, something sure happened now.
Something was bound to happen, she realized, to him or to her, that would draw them together. Again. I'm just putting it off. If I start talking to him about how I feel, I won't stop at just 'friends'.
She jumped. Something brushed her hair.
Barefoot, wearing gray, short pants and a low V-neck top, Picard had snuck up behind her.
"I'm sorry I startled you," he apologized.
"No, no," she denied she'd been surprised by him, and then wondered why it mattered. She wasn't worried that he might have overheard her thoughts, was she? He sat down next to her.
"Beverly, I'm sorry I've been so difficult this morning."
"You don't have anything to be sorry for, Jean-Luc. This wouldn't be easy for anybody to deal with."
"I, um," he fished about for words. "I just wanted to say that I do appreciate your help. I haven't been making this any easier."
"It's fine. That's what I'm here for."
He nodded. As soon as he'd entered the lavatory, he'd been seized by a horrible claustrophobia. He'd mechanically done his business, changed clothes and washed his hands and face. He'd kept thinking about a prison cell he'd endured for four days when, as a lieutenant, he'd been captured on a dangerous away team. The cell had been so small he couldn't even lie down. It had been completely black with rough, damp walls, like a crypt. And the creatures who'd captured him, had known nothing of the needs of a humanoid other than atmosphere and gravity. He'd been a real mess when they'd found him. Anger, sadness, hopelessness had alternated rapidly within him while he had changed clothes in the small lavatory.
Walking back into the bedroom had almost been like stepping from the bright lights of hell into a blissfully quiet heaven. Emotions washed over him like a cool breeze when he saw her sitting there waiting for him. Were they his own? Hers? Some unseen lover somewhere else on the ship?
He swallowed hard. If his feelings had an unknown source unrelated to himself or the her, why did he think they came from a lover? He didn't really mind so much that they might be his feelings; she knew about them. But he hated that he couldn't seem to control them.
He sat silently, sitting next to Doctor Crusher, having her to focus on and screen out the other stray feelings on the ship. It was happening again, that quicksand of attraction.
"Jean-Luc, I want you to get some rest. Would you like something to help you sleep?" she asked.
"No," he answered automatically. Then he reconsidered and nodded without facing her. If he could barely stand to be alone in the lavatory, how would he sleep when she left? Unless she stayed.
He clinched his fists. What was he thinking?
"Would you like me to stay?" she asked softly.
He turned on her so quickly that she started back. His expression was unreadable, intense. Not angry, not surprised. Wary perhaps? She stared evenly back at him, waiting for him to speak. But he didn't say anything. Cautiously she slipped her hand behind his elbow.
"Come on." She inclined her head toward the pillows. "Lie down." He hesitated, then lowered his gaze and slid onto the bed and stretched out on his back. She unfolded the blanket, covering him with it and then she sat down next to him. Removing the hypospray from the pocket of her medical jacket, she checked the setting on it and then pressed it to his neck. Then she ordered the computer to lower the room lights.
He stared upward at the ceiling gathering half-formed thoughts. He felt tired, weary but not sleepy. He could see the outline of Beverly Crusher above him at the corner of his vision, but he didn't trust himself to look toward her. I shouldn't let this happen, he told himself. But his thoughts strayed back to his brief relationship with Commander Nella Darren and the beautiful sound of the music they'd played together. When Nella had almost been killed on a dangerous away mission, he'd come to the bitter realization that it couldn't work. When he'd thought she'd been killed he'd retreated in numb shock, and he'd resolved that he would never allow himself to become so emotionally entangled. He'd thought that he could get away with it, with balancing his command around the vulnerabilities of love.
Beverly Crusher shifted position on the bed, her weight slightly tilting the mattress under him toward her.
Now he was thinking he would try it again. When he'd asked her what they should do about how they felt she'd been wary. He'd put a great deal of planning into laying out the dinner the night after they'd returned from Kesprit; the place settings, the menu, the candlelight. He'd planned it to be intimate, maybe even seductive. After she'd left, he'd realized the potential hazards that a relationship could bring.
But he wanted more than a close friendship. The pseudo-life he'd gained and lost from the Kataan probe had given him a taste of what it had been like to share an intimate relationship. And he missed it. His own life of commanding a starship now carried an empty quality to it that he secretly wanted to fill. That had been the beginning and end for his tie of love to Commander Darren.
When he'd thought on it, he realized that he and Nella hadn't really known each other very well at all in the brief time they'd had. Their love had been based upon the music they'd shared and their instant mutual attraction.
He and Beverly Crusher knew each other so well. They shared each others thoughts. There certainly wouldn't be any of the staff frictions that had arisen when Darren had run hard into Commander Riker's authority. But how could he ever hope to predict or prevent the hideous threat that she might be killed in the line of duty under his command?
And yet...
What if I don't say anything more to her, and something does happen to one of us?
He could hear Beverly Crusher next to him. Occasional gentle sounds of motion next to him. Eyes half closed, he continued to stare up at the darkened ceiling and listen for the little sounds she made.
Crusher sat quietly over him in the gloom and the dim, pale blue glow from the light panels on the window arches. As her eyes adjusted she saw him staring up at the ceiling. She laid her hand on his forehead, his skin was warm and smooth under her fingers. The injection she'd given him would block out the excess neural activity.
He seemed to lie there for a long time. She gently stroked his forehead with her fingertips. He relaxed, his eyes half-lidded, his expression content, almost smiling. But he didn't once look up toward her.
It was nearly twenty minutes before his eyes finally closed.
o o o End Part 8
