Jean-Luc sighed and closed his eyes. Forcing himself to talk about issues he'd left long-hidden, and allowing himself to be vulnerable rather than stoic in front of another, was taking its toll. His body ached, and his mind begged for the release of sleep.
Beverly leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder, draping her arm across his back. She held her hand against his waist and he enjoyed the closeness of her.
"You need to rest," she said quietly. Her words were warm against his jaw as she nuzzled in closer.
"And you need to report for duty," he replied, noting the time on the chronometer.
"I have enough time to help you get settled," she said. She gave his waist a gentle squeeze before pulling away. "Let's get you back to bed."
He wanted to protest, to say he was well enough to putter about their quarters and didn't need mollycoddling, but he knew he needed more sleep – and he doubted she would listen to his arguments anyway.
He sighed and bent over to remove his shoes and socks. When he sat back up, Beverly helped him slip out of his shirt. She made him sit, bare-chested, while she ran her tricorder over his injury sites, checking for who knew what. He had no doubt she'd patched him up just fine, and it bothered him to see her so dissatisfied with the excellent job she'd done.
"I'm fine," he said when she finally let him stand. He undid his trousers and let them fall to the floor. Clad only in his briefs, he gingerly stepped out of the puddled clothes, using her shoulder for balance.
"You're not fine until I say you're fine," she said as she drew the covers back on the bed.
He lowered himself onto the mattress and closed his eyes as his head hit the pillow. He allowed her to tuck him in, adjusting the covers so they kept him warm but wouldn't cause him to overheat.
He felt her sit on the side of the bed and wasn't surprised when she leaned in and kissed him gently on the forehead. She drew away and he opened his eyes to study her.
"And just what do you have to say about my condition, Doctor?" he asked.
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "That despite my less than stellar job, you're somehow going to be just fine."
"Beverly, I wish you wouldn't beat yourself up over this."
She shook her head. "How can I not? It's barbaric," she replied. "It's like practicing medicine at the turn of the twenty-second century."
"You said yourself that the pain and inflammation is the body's natural response to injury and damage," he said, trying to use her words to prove his point.
"Yes, and death is the body's 'natural response' to internal hemorrhaging," she said, somewhat acerbically. "Just because it's what your body would do on its own, doesn't mean it's a good thing."
"Be that as it may," Jean-Luc said, "I think you did an admirable job, given the circumstances."
Beverly rolled her eyes.
He withdrew his left hand from under the covers and reached for her cheek. His pulse spiked when she turned into his hand and kissed his palm before allowing him to pull her toward him.
He had one more thing he needed to tell her before she left him for the morning.
However, he mused as he gently explored her mouth with his tongue, the words might have to wait until we catch our breath.
-P/C-
Beverly entered the Ju'H Qach's sickbay and pursed her lips. She placed her hands on her hips and surveyed what would be her domain for the next twelve weeks. Little larger than one of her research labs on the Enterprise, the room contained one biobed—with the screens calibrated in Klingon—and a wall of storage units.
A small desk was tucked into the corner behind the biobed, and based on the dust on the computer monitor, she assumed the crew records hadn't been updated in some time.
This is going to take some work, she thought as she slowly stepped toward the storage units. She activated the sensor on each unit and peered into every cupboard, trying to get a sense of what she had to work with. When all the units were open, she stepped back and gazed at the sum total of her supplies.
The shelves were neatly organized and seemed to follow a rudimentary logic. She suspected the layout had come from experimentation—trying to find what was needed as quickly as possible—rather than from any specific protocol or formula.
The sound of footfalls in the corridor outside pulled her from her contemplating and she turned in time to see Kyndra Oroha—the medic—step nervously into the room. The girl met Beverly's gaze then glanced at the open storage units.
"I know, now, that this is not the most efficient way to organize medical supplies," Kyndra said, her voice small, even in the tiny room. "If you wish to rearrange everything according to Starfleet protocols, I will gladly assist you."
Beverly smiled to put the girl at ease. "This is your space, Kyndra," she said. "I'm only passing through. There's some good logic here, and I'm happy to work with it."
Kyndra shook her head. "I would like to learn from you while you're here. I haven't worked with many humans, and never with Starfleet personnel, and I would like to improve my skills.
"When Captain Parlas informed me that you'd signed on, I began reading."
"Reading?" Beverly asked. She sidled over to the biobed and leaned against it. "Reading what?"
"Starfleet protocols, news articles about you and your ship, your published research, your awards." Kyndra shrugged. "Everything."
Beverly was impressed. And a little stunned.
"I was correct when I made my initial assessment of you in the Ferengi shuttle. You are a talented physician," Kyndra said. She smiled shyly and added, "I am looking forward to working with you. It has been a long time since I've had someone on board I could learn from."
"How long have you served with Captain Parlas?" Beverly asked. If she had to guess, Beverly would say the girl looked to be in her early twenties, but the only Bolian she'd ever had much contact with was Mott, the Enterprise's barber, and one subject was a poor sample size for building a frame of reference.
"Three years," she replied. "I came on board with Dr. Phalchas. He was my supervising physician during my military training, and when he decided to leave Bolarus IX, he asked me to come along as his assistant."
"What were you training to become?"
"I was training as a field medic, but I had hoped to pass the exams necessary to be selected for training as a surgical nurse, or even a field doctor." Kyndra shrugged and wandered over to the supply units.
Beverly watched the girl as she began to pull items off one of the shelves.
"Why didn't you stay to finish your training?"
Kyndra paused in her work and glanced over her shoulder at Beverly. "Dr. Phalchas and I were… close."
Ah, thought Beverly.
"But you didn't leave with Dr. Phalchas when he left the Ju'H Qach," Beverly said, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. She didn't want to appear to be prying, so she gave Kyndra the option of simply acknowledging the statement rather than answering what might be a personal—or painful—question.
Kyndra shook her head. "He was killed in an explosion in the cargo hold when Captain Parlas salvaged a leaky plasma coolant system from a derelict vessel. One of the crew collapsed from radiation exposure and Dr. Phalchas was tending to him next to the container when it lost structural integrity and exploded."
"I'm sorry," Beverly said.
"Me too," Kyndra replied.
They worked in near silence for close to an hour. Beverly marvelled at Kyndra's recall; the girl rarely referred to a PADD or asked for clarification while restocking the shelves. Her quick grasp of the logic behind the Starfleet protocol suggested she could very well have risen beyond a field medic if she'd completed her training.
Beverly let her mind wander as she shuffled the supplies around. After decades of service—and having revised several protocols while heading up Medical—she could complete the task on auto-pilot.
I'll contact Worf after lunch, she thought as she re-stocked the dressings. He'll tell me the apology is unnecessary, but Jean-Luc won't forgive himself if Worf doesn't forgive him first.
Jean-Luc had told her about his efforts to convince Worf not to leave her behind. He hadn't gone into much detail when he'd described his actions but he hadn't needed to, she could see the memory of the blind terror in his eyes.
He knew I was in his cell.
She shivered.
Worf and I made his worst nightmare a reality. No wonder he snapped.
Whatever he'd said to Worf was now a source of shame and embarrassment for him, and she couldn't for the life of her figure out what it could have been. Jean-Luc had been in no condition to threaten Worf physically, that much she knew.
Of course, what had been most puzzling about the conversation was Jean-Luc's demand to hear the details of her time in his cell. She hadn't wanted to tell him about her injuries, but he'd begged her.
"I need to have the truth to cling to, otherwise my mind will never stop conjuring the worst," he'd said.
Never had she missed her friend's advice more than at that moment. Deanna was the one person who would know how to help Jean-Luc through his psychological trauma. Beverly was exemplary when it came to physical repairs, but when pressed to deal with matters of the mind—and heart—she felt totally out of her depth.
"Are you sure this will help?" she'd asked. "Isn't it better not to know the details? To know only that I'm here with you now?"
He'd shaken his head. "Only reality can erase the imagined," he'd said. "And the images my mind creates when I think… when I…"
She'd propped herself up on one elbow alongside him—wanting to be as close and real as possible to him—as she'd related her fight with the guards. He'd run his fingers over her injury sites with each wound she'd described, as if proving to himself she really was healed and bore no lasting scars. She'd provided him with enough detail to allow him to visualize it; hopefully without being so graphic as to cause more trauma.
Her heart had ached as he'd shakily thanked her and then quietly asked to be sedated.
"I don't want to be left alone with my thoughts," he'd said when she'd expressed reluctance at drugging him. "Not yet. Please."
"We're not going to make a habit of this," she'd replied, still unsure of the wisdom of the act.
He'd nodded. "Thank you."
"Doctor Crusher?" Kyndra asked, breaking into her reverie. "Is there a problem?"
Beverly pulled herself from her memories and blinked. "A problem? No. Why?"
"You've been staring at that storage unit for almost five minutes," she said.
Beverly felt her cheeks warm. "I was lost in thought," she said. "I apologize. It had nothing to do with you or our work."
Kyndra nodded. She stared at Beverly for a moment longer before turning back to re-stocking.
Beverly absently picked up a container of surgical pliers and placed them on the shelf to her right.
"The male," Kyndra said, not looking at Beverly. "He is healing well?"
"He is experiencing some discomfort, but he should make a full recovery."
"You and he are… close."
"Yes," Beverly whispered. Very.
"You should get him off the ship as soon as possible," Kyndra said. "He's not safe here."
Beverly's heart leapt into her throat.
"What do you mean?"
"A man whose silence can be bought is a man whose words can also be purchased," Kyndra replied. "Captain Parlas is not a stupid man. If he does not already know who is in your quarters, he, at the very least, suspects."
"I don't know what you're talking about. He's no one—"
"He's only 'no one' so long as the universe believes he's dead, yes?"
Beverly's blood turned to ice and she gripped the biobed to steady herself.
No, she thought, this can't be happening.