"You can't sit there all day just staring at the wall."

He didn't look away, but he responded to her voice. "And who said you could make the rules?"

"Beverly gave me permission. This is her sickbay, but she said I could play on her court anytime I wanted to."

He felt her lean against the edge of the bed, could hear her breathing. "Yeah, well, there's not much to do around here."

"You could try eating a little more."

"I'm not hungry."

"I know. But you need to build up your strength." She laid her hand on his arm, fingers rubbing along his wrist. "Beverly says you'll need to start some physical therapy for your leg. It was broken badly in several places."

"No wonder it hurts like hell," he said dully, his face still turned away from her.

"Are you in pain, Will?" Her voice suddenly edged with concern.

"A little bit," he lied. Now that they no longer sedated him, the pain had grown worse. But he didn't want to take anything for it. He wanted to feel it. Needed to feel it. That's why he'd been doing his best to hide it from Deanna. And somehow he'd succeeded up to that very moment.

"Oh, Will." Her hand grasped hold of his. "I should have known. You should have told me or Beverly." She reached over to the bedside table where there was still a hypospray.

Sensing her move toward the instrument, Will looked away from the wall, turned a full blue-eyed gaze on her. "No," he said firmly. "I want to feel it."

Deanna stood there, the hypo in her hand. She stared at him. "Will, don't be foolish. You need all your strength to get well. You shouldn't have to be bothered by any pain."

He laughed suddenly, shifted his eyes up toward the ceiling. "It doesn't matter, Deanna."

"It most certainly does."

"I'm not even sure I want to get well."

"Will..."

"I'm not sure..." His voice broke, and tears slid from his eyes. "I'm not sure of anything. Oh, god, Deanna, why did I let them take him?"

"You didn't let them, Will. They just did it. You were injured; you didn't know." She took hold of his shoulders, felt the tension of tight, hard muscles under her fingertips. "You couldn't have stopped them."

He tilted his head forward, looked into her eyes. "But I should have anyway," he shouted. "I was supposed to take care of him, and now..." His face crumpled, the tension broke, and he sagged into her arms, started to cry, wrenching sobs shaking his body.

Deanna cradled him against her shoulder, her hand stroking his hair and back. She whispered soothingly into his ear. "It's all right, Will. It's all right."

But it wasn't. They both knew that.

~vVv~

It was the last time Will Riker cried for the man who was more like a father to him than his own. He concentrated, instead, on getting well. And after a few days of pushing himself to the limit with his physical therapy, both Deanna and Beverly figured out why. They stared at each other over the short expanse of the doctor's office.

"He thinks he can make a difference," Deanna stated simply.

Beverly shook her head and leaned back in her desk chair. "All of Starfleet can't make a difference," she said bitterly. It had been almost two weeks now, and Jean-Luc still had not been found. She knew that sometime during the third week they would probably declare him officially missing; in Starfleet's eyes, he would be dead. But not in hers. She wouldn't accept that. And, apparently, neither would Will Riker. Beverly sighed, realizing that both of them might have to face that acceptance whether they wanted to or not.

"It's not so much hope he's holding onto, as it is this quiet determination to get better and find the ones responsible for Jean-Luc's disappearance," Deanna continued.

Beverly raised her eyes from the center of her desk where they'd settled. "He's told you this?"

The counselor frowned. "Not in so many words. He's been... unresponsive lately."

"Even more so with me," Beverly agreed. "He won't even look at me."

"He feels he's let you down. That it was his responsibility to take care of the Captain, and he failed. I've tried talking with him."

"I haven't." The words were soft, and yet they echoed in the small room.

Deanna looked over at the doctor. She didn't say anything.

Beverly pushed a stray lock of hair away from her eyes, allowed her gaze to shift back to the desktop. "I seem to have lost my bedside manner. I go into his room; I do all the things a chief medical officer is supposed to do. I just can't seem to talk to him. No wonder he doesn't bother to look at me."

Deanna studied her carefully. She'd seen Beverly's behavior around the First Officer, her unwillingness to discuss anything other than his medical condition. She thought she understood the reason. "A part of you does blame, Will."

Beverly instantly looked up at her. "I do not. That's... that's ridiculous, Deanna."

"Is it?" Deanna asked quietly.

"Of course, it is." Beverly pushed her chair back and stood, began a nervous pacing in the small area behind her desk, her arms folded tightly across her chest. "Will was seriously injured. He was unconscious. There was no way he could have prevented what happened."

"Just like Jean-Luc couldn't have prevented Jack's death fifteen years ago."

Beverly stopped walking, stood there, barely breathing, unable to respond to Deanna's words. It wasn't the same. It wasn't. Damn it, it's not the same. And yet, it was. She reached out and grasped the back of her desk chair, held on to it for support as she felt herself begin to tremble. Jean-Luc came back fifteen years ago, and Jack didn't. Will came back two weeks ago, and Jean-Luc didn't. She felt Deanna's hands on her shoulders. She'd been unaware that the counselor had gotten up and come over to her, but she was relieved that she had.

"Beverly, talk to Will. You need to, and he needs you to. Whatever happens, don't let the silence build up between you."

Beverly slowly nodded her head in response.

~vVv~