Chapter Nine
I'd gone to bed after the captain left. I hadn't even bothered to change, just collapsed onto my bed and I was asleep in minutes. When I awoke I was groggy and disoriented, the way you are when you're not used to sleeping in the middle of the day. It was only fifteen-thirty, so that left me with time to get my wits together. I was hungry, so I ordered a sandwich and a glass of juice, and sat down and ate it at my desk, reading through my messages. There was one from Deanna, saying that Beverly had talked to her and asking me to make an appointment. Something to look forward to. And there was one from Jean-Luc, which read simply, "We are going to the beach. Dress appropriately."
I am not necessarily a beach person, although I do love the water. Sitting on the sand and getting it in one's suit, laying in the sun and getting burned are not exactly on my list of things I like to do. On the other hand, I do love to swim, and I know Jean-Luc's love of sailing (even if his idea of sailing is much more grandiose than mine) mirrors my own. He made no mention of what kind of beach, so I assumed I should just wear my trunks under my trousers and leave it at that.
I sighed. I kept replaying the meeting in Beverly's office in my mind, worrying at it, the way my dog used to worry at a stick or a bone. Jean-Luc had mentioned the word "trigger," when he was talking about my supposed illness, and so I went back to the site that explained PTSD and read about the concept. Assuming Jean-Luc and Beverly believed that my illness dated to childhood, my current symptoms would have been triggered by something – a smell, a sound, even a colour, according to what I was reading – that I associated with what the article called the inciting trauma. I'd started having the night terrors a couple of weeks before I'd fallen when I was hiking in the holodeck, so if Jean-Luc were correct in his assumption that it was childhood trauma that had precipitated this, there might be something I might recognise in my personal log. I still wasn't completely comfortable with the idea of him perusing my log, but then, after viewing my holodeck program, what could possibly be in my log that would be more embarrassing than that?
I shut the program down and then sighed again. There wasn't enough time to go back to the gym, so I went through my music and put on something smooth and light, Sarah Vaughan and the Cole Porter songbook. There was the nav class I was teaching and papers to read in that; also, Deanna had recommended a while back a new author from Betazed she thought I might enjoy. But the truth is, I like being busy. I'm good at multi-tasking. I hate sitting around and doing nothing. It makes me want to pick up a broom or a rag or something. And for some reason I remembered one year, when Mrs Shugak was still taking care of me while my father was away, that I was to be with her over the holidays. I must have been five or six, I guess. Usually the Shugaks stayed in my house, but, because it was over Christmas, I was staying with them instead. I remember standing on a chair in the kitchen, listening to music and smelling vanilla and cinnamon, helping Mrs S and her daughter Katya polish silver.
But then I felt a sharp pain in my gut, and suddenly I wasn't five or six. The smell of silver polish was overwhelming. It was in my nose and burning my eyes, sinking into my gut. I could feel the soft felt cloth in my hand, see the glint of my face in a small silver cranberry spoon, but I wasn't standing on a chair, I was sitting on the counter, my legs swinging down, and there was music playing, horns and bells, and the smell of silver polish, and cinnamon, and something copper….
I was in the head and throwing up, on my knees, cramped up against the wall, snot and food and tears all streaming out. I'd barely managed to get in there in time, and even after I'd thrown up everything that was ever in my gut for the last three years, I still hung over the bowl, my stomach heaving. For a minute or so I thought I would pass out, but then my stomach finally started to settle down and I was able to get up off my knees and clean myself up in the sink. I looked like shit. I cleaned up the toilet and ran the shower, using water this time, just allowing the head to fill with steam, so I could just stand there and force myself to relax.
When I came out of the shower I was startled to realise that it was almost time to meet Jean-Luc. Surely I hadn't spent an hour in the head, but it seemed that I had. I combed my hair and tried to make myself not look like I'd just gotten over some dreadful version of the 'flu. I found my pair of swimming trunks and put them on, and then pulled a pair of light khakis and a blue shirt on. I felt weird wearing sandals shipboard, so I just put on a pair of deck shoes; they would have to do.
He'd said something about dinner, and I didn't think I could look at food again, at least not for today, but perhaps I could just pretend to eat for his sake. Once again I could feel embarrassment creeping up on me. I really did need to get a grip. I've had about a half dozen relationships since I left the Academy, some serious and some just fun, and yet with Jean-Luc I felt like a fifteen-year-old. Not because, I don't think anyway, of his being male – I've had sex with men before, certainly, and one relationship that might have gone somewhere if he hadn't been posted to another ship – but because it was Jean-Luc. Stupid, because I'd wanted this, but there I was, feeling less than a hundred percent to begin with, and feeling like an infatuated kid on top of that.
I walked to the holodeck, meeting Geordi along the way. He'd heard that I'd taken some leave, and he was curious, but I told him I was just tired and needed to recharge my batteries. He'd thought that was an excellent idea, something that he might consider doing at some future time (yeah, right), and he'd be around if I wanted to hang out in Ten Forward. Was poker night still on? (Yes.) I walked on, acknowledging several other crew members, and ended up at Holodeck Four exactly at seventeen-thirty.
I walked in, not knowing what to expect. I was in what was clearly an outdoor hotel patio, completely devoid of guests, overlooking a smooth, sandy beach that seemed to go on for kilometres in either direction. There was a row of deck chairs below the café, at the beginning of the beach, brightly coloured with sunshades, and then maybe a kilometre or so of sand all the way down to a great expense of aqua-coloured sea. The waves came in steadily, glittering green water turning into white foam before it hit the sand and rolled back out. The sky was light and mackereled with clouds. It made me remember that Hopkins poem, how did it go, "…For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow…."
"Sir, would you like a drink?" A waiter had appeared at my elbow, speaking standard with an accent I couldn't really place. I wondered if Jean-Luc had set this program in France.
"I'd recommend Sangría, Will," Jean-Luc said behind me. "They make an awfully good one, here, very fresh and citrussy."
"Okay," I said.
"Dues Sangrías, per favor," Jean-Luc said to the waiter, who bowed and left.
"Where are we?" I asked.
Jean-Luc took me by the arm, and led me to a small table at the far end of the patio, so that we were overlooking the beach. There was a light wind blowing, and the temperature was quite mild, warm enough to have one's shirt off but not hot. He was dressed in light-coloured trousers and had his shirt open, revealing his still-toned chest with its sparse white hair. He had on a sunhat, which he took off when we sat down.
"This," he said, "is a little town in Catalunya called Sitges, just outside of Barcelona," he said. "We would sometimes come here when I was a child, and I came here several times myself, when I was younger."
"It's beautiful," I said, and it was. There were sun-lightened rows of stucco buildings along to my right, perhaps summer homes, and low mountains to my left.
He smiled. "Gràcies," he said to the waiter, as he set down our drinks. "The wonders of the holodeck," he said. "On a day like this one, the beach would be filled with people, as would this café."
"I've never seen the Mediterranean," I said.
"You're joking," he responded.
I shrugged. "I'm from Alaska, remember?" I said. "The other side of the world."
"You've been to Europe, surely," he said.
"Sure," I answered. "Meetings in London, once. I took a week off and visited Paris and Amsterdam."
"Amsterdam?" he asked.
"Riker's Dutch," I said. "I was curious."
"Of course. Although I must say you hardly look Dutch."
"Well, it was a long time ago," I said. "when the Rikers came to America. Back when New York was New Amsterdam."
I sipped the drink. He was right, it was refreshing.
"You were able to rest?" he asked. He took my hand, traced my palm with his thumb.
"Yes," I said. "I slept a couple hours."
"Good," he said. "I've got a blanket and a couple of deck chairs down by the water, Will."
"I didn't bring a towel," I said.
"I've got towels. The water is lovely at this time of year," he said, standing. "Bring your drink."
"What time of year is that, Jean-Luc?" I asked.
"Mid-September," he said. "The crowds are gone, the weather's mild."
I followed him down the stairs and we walked across the sand. I stopped once and took off my shoes, marvelling at how the program managed to get the texture and warmth of the sand exactly right. He'd spread out a checked blanket, as he'd said, and had several towels as well as a picnic. The deck chairs had a cup holder and I set my drink in one.
"I'd talked about supper," he said to me, "but I thought a picnic on the beach would be more fun."
I grinned at the idea of Captain Picard having the words "more fun" come out of his mouth.
"What?" he said.
I looked at him. He was happy; it was as if he were ten years younger. He'd stripped out of his trousers and was wearing a suit that left nothing to the imagination. I remembered his comment about riding, and felt myself colouring, hating – not for the first time – that I was so fair-skinned.
He grinned. "Come on, Will," he said. "Get out of your clothes. We've got the whole beach to ourselves, courtesy of the holodeck."
I nodded, and stripped to my trunks. I followed him down the sand to the water and found the sea refreshing but not cold. He dove in, and swam out a bit, waiting for me to join him. I swam out to him, and then we drifted out to deeper water.
"Did you program sharks in the water, Jean-Luc?" I said.
"Yes, and giant groupers too," he said, and laughed. "Sorry, Will. There's not one dangerous fish in these waters."
"You used to come here to swim when you were little?" I asked. "Why here, and not the south of France?"
He said, "One of my mother's closest friends was Catalan. She had a summer villa here. That's where we used to stay."
"Is that the language you were speaking?" I asked.
"I'm pretty rusty now," he said. "I used to be fairly fluent when I was a child."
Suddenly he dunked me, and then he pulled me to him and kissed me, and I could feel him pressing against me.
"Have you ever made love on a beach before?" he asked me.
We'd moved into shallower water, and I brought him to me, and kissed him back. "No," I said. "Have you ever seen what the beach looks like in Valdez? The only making love done there is by sea lions."
He laughed, and we swam back to the beach, and returned to the blanket. The tide was ebbing, and there were even small shells along the tide line.
He tossed me a towel.
"Here, let me help you with that," he said, and he began to dry me by rubbing the towel in circles across my back and then down to my trunks, which he quite efficiently removed. He applied a little bit of pressure so that I sank down to the blanket, and then he continued to dry me, circling the towel around me and then kissing me on the spots he'd already dried. I could feel him behind me slipping off his suit, and we made love, slowly, listening to the quiet lapping of the waves against the sand. When we finished, he lay beside me, and he wrapped me in his arms.
"Are you all right, cheri?" he asked.
"Yes," I said simply. "But I need to clean up."
"As do I," he said, sitting up. "Then we can have our supper."
We walked down the sand to the water, and he held my hand. The water was still the perfect temperature, one of the great accomplishments of the holodeck. In real life, it would have been late in the afternoon and the sun would be setting; the water would be cooler, but in the holodeck….The swim was refreshing, as was watching Jean-Luc swim. Somehow I doubted that I would look like that in my fifties.
"I did program the sunset, Will," he said as we walked out of the water. He shook himself, like a dog, and I laughed.
"Then we'd better eat before it gets dark," I said.
Back at the blanket we both put our trousers back on, without the wet suits, and dried off as best we could. He set out the picnic, which was quite Gallic, I guess – cold chicken, bread, cheese, some sort of chutney, it looked like, olives, and pears. Not an Alaskan picnic, that's for sure. He handed me a bottle of ale and I laughed in surprise.
"You aren't going to rat me out, are you?" he said seriously.
"Anyone would think you had a problem, Jean-Luc," I said, trying to calm down, "what with the Aldebaran whiskey behind your couch and Romulan ale."
"How did you know about the whiskey?" he asked, severely.
"I know everything that happens on my ship," I answered, "sir."
"Your ship, Mr Riker?" he said, opening a bottle and then handing me the church key.
"Please," I said. "Everyone knows the ship belongs to the first officer. I just loan it out to you."
"Indeed," he said, but he was smiling. "An annoying trait of first officers."
"One you undoubtedly shared when you were First," I said comfortably.
"Absolutely," he agreed.
We ate in companionable silence and the meal he'd prepared was surprisingly good. I was relieved to see that my earlier stomach problems had disappeared, and that, after the exercise of the afternoon, I actually had an appetite. As promised, the sun began to set in glorious colours, and I tried to picture him as a little boy playing on this beach in this shimmering light.
"You have something to tell me, I think," he said after a while. He took my hand.
"I don't know how to describe it," I said.
"Well, let me clean up," he answered, "while you think about what you want to say."
"Okay."
Efficiently he packed everything up, and then he put his shirt back on, although he left it unbuttoned. He handed me my shirt, and I put it on and buttoned it up halfway.
"It's difficult?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Why don't you let me hold you, then, and we can watch the sun set," he suggested. "You don't have to say anything at all if you don't want to."
"Okay," I agreed.
I lay down on the blanket, and he stretched out beside me, and pulled me to him, so that we were spooning, as if we'd been in bed. He kissed the back of my neck, and wrapped his arms around me, and we lay there quietly, watching the clouds and the play of the swirling colours in sky and sea.
I said softly, "Glory be to God for dappled things-/For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow…."
And Jean-Luc answered, "He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him."
He kissed the top of my head. "I didn't know you had the soul of a poet, William," he murmured against my neck.
"You don't know everything about me, Jean-Luc," I said, but I was smiling.
"I wouldn't mind learning, if you don't mind sharing," he answered. "Your favourite poet, then? Hopkins?"
"I have a fondness for the Victorians," I said. "And the Pre-Raphaelites."
"And jazz," he said. "An interesting combination."
I thought about Sarah Vaughan and the Cole Porter songbook. "Maybe I just like a good lyric," I said, and he chuckled.
"There was an incident, today," I said, "actually, there were two."
"Yes?"
"Before you came in to see me this morning," I said. "After the meeting. I was – I was thinking about what you said yesterday, about my father."
"And what did I say?" he asked. He was stroking my hair, and his voice was very mild.
"You said my holodeck injuries were mirroring ones that I'd had as a child," I said. "That was the word you used. Mirroring."
"Yes." He continued to card his fingers through my hair.
"When I fell in the holodeck program," I said, "I broke my collarbone. And when I thought of it – just the words – it was as if I were having another night terror, only I was awake. I couldn't breathe. It felt like I was having a heart attack."
"You were having a panic attack, perhaps?" he asked.
"I don't know. I've never felt that way before, I don't think. I felt trapped, like I had to get out, but there was no place to go."
"And that happened just before I came to see you?"
"Yes."
"You were fairly calm by then," he said.
"It went away pretty quickly."
"You didn't say anything."
I felt his grip tighten on my arm. "No," I said. "You're already too worried about me."
He sighed. "What exactly is too worried?" he asked.
I was quiet, watching the last bit of the sun sink below the sea. The stars were slowly appearing, and the lights had come on in the hotel behind us.
"There was another episode?" he asked. "A second panic attack?"
"No, at least I don't think that's what it was," I answered. "I don't know what it was."
"Can you tell me?"
"You'll relieve me of duty," I said softly.
"Is that something I should do? Will?"
I felt my eyes fill. "I'm where I want to be," I said. "I don't want to be anywhere else."
He kissed me softly on the back of my neck. "William," he said. He was using that voice again. "This is your home. Don't you think I know that? That you don't have anywhere else? Or that you don't think you do? I am not going to send you away," he said. "Not for any reason. If you need more time to heal, then there's more time. You do not have to be afraid."
Obviously I was ill, just as he'd said. I didn't want him to know I was crying, but he reached around and wiped my face anyway. I took a deep breath.
"After I woke up, I was feeling a little disoriented," I continued. "You know, the way you do when you're sleeping at an odd time, like when you've changed shifts."
"Yes," he said.
"And I didn't know what to do with my time," I said. "So I was reading about triggers. And I put some music on. And I was trying to figure out what I should do next, grade some papers or read a book. And I remember thinking about how I hate having nothing to do. How it makes me feel like I should at least be cleaning something, if nothing else…." I waited for him to comment on that, but he didn't. "And then it was like I was remembering something, except I wasn't. Wasn't remembering, I mean. It was like I was there. I was smelling silver polish, and something – something –"
"Breathe," he said. "That's it, just breathe. It's all right, you're right here now, I've got you."
My heart had started to race and I was trembling. "There was another smell," I said, and I had to fight myself not to get up and run. "It was – it was wrong, it was bad – there was cinnamon, and silver polish, and then –"
"Guillaume," he said, and it took me a minute before I realised he was speaking to me in French, "mon cher, mon chou, you are right here, with me, in Holodeck Four. You are not anywhere else. There are no smells. You are safe."
"What is wrong with me?" I said.
"You have post-traumatic stress disorder, I think," he said, "and Beverly thinks so too. We have talked to Deanna, and Deanna concurs with the symptoms. Something triggered this – we don't know what – but this is not an incurable illness, Will. It can be a chronic one, true, but it doesn't have to take over your life. It will be all right, I promise you. You trust me, yes?"
I nodded.
"Then trust me when I say you will be all right," he said simply.
"I don't want to be a burden to you, or anyone else," I said. "You have a ship to run."
He sighed. "William, there are times," he said. "If you were a burden, would I be here? Would I be holding you like this? Please."
I was quiet. Finally I said, "You're not mad at me?"
He didn't answer and for a moment I thought that he was. Then he said, as if I were some recalcitrant child, "William. Love. Mon cœur. I think you know me well enough to know that if I were angry with you, you would not have to ask."
I took a deep breath, and he kissed me on the top of my head.
"You are," he said, and I could tell he was smiling, "as you have always been, a royal pain in my arse. But I am not mad at you."
I could feel myself relaxing, and I snuggled into his arms. "I love you," I said.
"There," he said, hugging me tightly. "Je t'aime aussi."
"Despite my being a pain in your ass?" I asked.
"Mais oui, Guillaume," he whispered. "It's because you are a pain in my arse, not despite, that I love you. You keep me young," he said. "You make me laugh. You," he continued, "make me a better captain than I ever was. So don't ever talk to me about being a burden again. You understand?"
"Sir," I said, and he snorted in a very undignified way.
"Come, Will," he said. "Let's go back home."
