He can recall the exact moment when he realised just how he'd let himself care for her, in a way that he never intended. It was something in her nature that made him feel responsible, and no matter the pain that was caused him by Tasha's death, he was determined that Deanna would not follow.

He had convinced that skin of evil to let him see her, and so he had found himself looking down on where she lay, one of her legs bent inwards and tucked closer to herself than the other.

She told him she was fine and he knew it was a lie.

And then the moment, the exact moment, the split second after she had asked how Tasha was - that was when he knew.

He had turned to her with awe, away from Ben whose pulse was faint beneath his fingertips, and the realisation had hit him like the mass of an entire planet.

That she was not isolated in that shuttle, that she had felt Tasha's death as though it were her own: and in her question he had found within him the truth behind their relationship.

He cared, he cared more than he thought was professional, maybe than he still thinks is professional, but there is nothing that he can do to change it.

And to realise that he had done it again, the clear parallel between the encounter at farpoint and that with Armus, of the things she could feel and the true power of her empathy, putting her in a situation where she herself could easily have died too - he had admitted it to himself.

He cares.

Now that she faces something he cannot control for her, as a captain or as a friend, he finds himself wishing that maybe he didn't care so much, that maybe it would be easier to watch how she struggles, and feel still able to continue in his duties.

But he is sitting on the bridge, and his heart is pounding as though he's just run a marathon, when really it is the adrenaline still rushing through him at the sound of her voice, the sight of her walking away from them all and into the unknown.

This ought not be a situation that has him flat on his back like this, it could be anybody, it should be anybody, but it is not. He can't understand what it is that has him reeling for her - it's not as though he is in love with her. Of course, in the beginning, he couldn't help but notice her body, her simple sensuality that seemed genetic almost; in his age though, these things begin to mean less and less to him, until he found himself not caring much how she looked, as long as she was well.

And it is this kind of platonic care that he thinks she must breed in others, that is the only explanation for how he has taken to her like no other member of his crew, not just for the simple fact of how she pushes him to look further within himself, but also into the minds of others.

She provides him insight, where previously he had none; she gives off a charm that is unprecedented at her age.

She is thousands of years older than she looks.

So maybe this is the culprit instead, the feeling that she could be any age at all, that to speak with her she reflects all the experience and all the feeling of himself, everything which he looks for in a confidant, a companion.

It could be that this is a cheap trick, then: to use her empathy to become a mirror for him, in order to get close to him in a short amount of time. But no - he is quite sure that's not it.

Regardless of what special quality she may possess, he cannot now change the fact that he cares for her, that he is starting to feel like one day he might look back and call her daughter, more than just friend or counsel, more than his god-given solace.

Then, maybe, he is giving her more credit than she deserves.

The problem is, he will probably never know.


She is afforded her solitude for only a few days after the meeting, and still the adrenaline hasn't worn off. But as the third day rolls over her, all it takes is one question from Geordi - who was just worried that she looked pale - to set the entire crew off on gossip.

It's horrible to suggest that she is hiding herself away, but somehow, that is what she's doing, having cancelled her appointments for the rest of the day, and drawing on the sympathy of the Captain to get out of bridge duty.

She feels like a sulking teenager.

That may be the case if she were not just sitting in the darkness and thinking about what to do with all the confusion she is carrying around, whether to terminate, trying to define what has happened to her. She started meditating on the sofa the second her mind landed on the word rape.

Nobody ever asked for a child that way.

There is a chime at her door, and she is too lost inside her own mind to discern who it is.

It's Beverly and her override codes, full up of some feeling that is conflicted, and the med-kit she has tightly in her hands.

The woman is saying a lot, but telling her very little at all, suddenly a whirlwind that has descended on her little piece of solitude, scanning her body and pulling her into all the feelings she had finally frozen away.

She is talking about blood pressure, and kidney function, and oh god I knew this would happen, opening out her med-kit whilst babbling on about all the terrible things that would happen if she hadn't arrived so soon.

Beverly does not want to listen to any protests, to I feel fine.

But when Deanna leaves the sphere in her mind where she is grasping for solitude, she can feel that her body has become weak, and she is shaking, unable to breathe quite right, the world spinning just a little too quickly.

Beverly tells her to lie back, but she can't quite get so far before she is launching back upwards, newly animated and retching sourly, leaning over the side of the futon. There is some kind of waste bag beneath her chin, and a slender hand sprawled at the small of her back, rubbing circles that follow a rhythm she just can't force her body to adhere to.

And how odd, she thinks, that she cannot hear either one of their voices over the blood in her ears.

She tries to reach for Will once more, but he has lost his serenity, replaced now by the jealousy he has been burning with for days, and she is forced to reel away from him. Deanna reaches instead for the physical world, steadies herself against the doctor's arms, braces herself until all of a sudden there is something cold against her neck, and the world slows down, all her muscles relax, and her mind is woozy.

She is lowered back against the futon, and she can no longer feel what Beverly feels, and the ship, for moments in time, is without her, and she is an island alone in a storm.

The doctor's hands on her shoulders, her forehead, the top of her leg, the side of her neck, but her eyes have become too heavy to do little more than simply register the warmth of touch against her. Beverly is speaking, maybe to nobody, or maybe to her, but whatever was in that hypospray, and all those that follow it, is sending her off into empty space, adrift but no longer spinning out of control, just still, and floating untethered to any other mind than the one being so tightly at her centre, like a coiled spring.

And suddenly she wakes, her muscles all aching, yet they are tucked up beneath her own woven blanket, and she is on her bed somehow, very little light filters through her eyelids. She is no longer alone, and there are minds seemingly all around her, buzzing away their own thoughts and emotions that permeate her awareness, so unprepared as she is to build up her walls, and fend them off.

Beverly is close by, behind the doors, and there is some calm, confidant soul beside her, speaking she thinks, but her ears have failed to hear any sound. And as in all things, she seeks out Will, whose conscience appears clouded now, confused and remorseful, though he is not close by.

There is a shrewd cloud of anxiety which hangs over the crew, and she wonders who knows, how many of them have learnt of her state, and how far has it spread this quickly. She tries to enter into Beverly's mind, to listen in on the conversation, maybe even just in bits and pieces, but she is clumsy, and obtrusive, pushing her own thoughts in front of her for maybe only just a split second, but it is enough.

The doors puff open, and she walks inside impatiently, leaving Picard on the futon beyond them before they close again.

"Deanna, I was thinking you might be awake,"

She finds herself trying and failing to respond, and her throat is dry, so she simply swallows once, the taste of sick gone somehow.

Beverly comes further into her room, a glass of water somehow in her hand, and she says - you're dehydrated - pulling her up to sit against the headboard without protest.

Deanna drinks greedily, slowed only by the Doctor's steady hands on the cup, withholding with such care it's like being a child again.

All of a sudden she desires her mother more than anything.

All of a sudden she misses everyone.

"How are you feeling?"

Beverly asks now that it's clear that all the water has gone, and the Counselor's face seems to draw together in thought, pensive and concentrated.

"I do not know - what happened to me?"

For a moment she is taken aback by the woman's lack of self-awareness, for a Betazoid to be so unsure of themselves is almost unheard of, and yet still, Beverly tells her about what she has found.

"I think this has to do with your pregnancy. It seems…"

She sighs, struggles to find the words, then looks back into the eyes of her friend, see's how they see right into her.

"Deanna, the speed of this pregnancy is - well, it's going to drain you. Hell, it's already started,"

Her hands seek out one of Deanna's legs beneath the blanket, where she sits on the bed beside her, a crease in the centre of her brow.

"The only reason I got to you so fast is because there's a permalink of your vitals to my office monitor, and I saw how, in the space of seconds, you lost blood pressure, your heart rate dropped, and you began to experience the early stages of organ failure."

Deanna blinks, seemingly unimpressed, still staring into her eyes as though they were nothing but windows into some second truth that even Beverly cannot know.

"This is serious stuff, Deanna - I did a sample analysis of your blood, and you're deficient in almost everything that is important to staying alive. You're liver was about to go into shock because your blood was becoming toxic."

"But you aren't surprised?"

The doctor sighs, knowing she has been speaking on deaf ears, to a girl who has such an intense hatred for sickbay that she would do almost anything to avoid going, to someone who has instead been following her emotions, the loose thoughts that have escaped her awareness without knowledge.

She tries to take a deep breath.

"No, no I'm not surprised. I didn't expect to see this kind of rapid progression, but given that 10 months of gestation is projected to take place in the space of six weeks, I'd be a fool to think this will be normal."

Deanna nods her head, feeling it rather than understanding, and her eyes pull away for a moment to look down over herself, assessing, calculating.

"But I feel fine now?"

There is agitated humour within Beverly, she moves her hand away to rake through the hair in front of her face.

"You feel fine because I am an excellent Doctor, and there are at least 7 different hypospray cocktails that have gone into doing that,"

Deanna smiles lightly, sorrowful and understanding.

"And I am very grateful for that, really."

There is blanketing silence for moments that are drawn out by the sound of deep breathing and the thrumming of the warp core in all the walls around them. Deanna looks around herself, looking almost as though she is sniffing the air, then she turns back, decidedly not wanting to take her own healthcare as a conversation, any further.

"Captain Picard is here?"

"He was worried for you Deanna, I called he and Will to let them know you wouldn't be on bridge duty for a day or so, and he came right down to help me out."

Deanna sighs into the familiarity of him, his essence red and gold, tries her hardest not to retreat into it.

"I'm worried too Deanna. We've been discussing how to move on from here, and you need to know that a termination would be completely viable in this situation, given the reaction you've had to the pregnancy already."

Her words are slow, but it is evident to Deanna that she means her support, and never any judgement. But somehow there is some part of her that begins to seethe at the thought of how they had spoken so intimately about her behind her own back.

"Beverly, surely the Captain has no influence here, this is me we're talking about."

The doctor's eyebrows crease her apathy, her understanding, but she makes no move to apologise, and Deanna can feel only guilt.

"I'm sorry but it isn't that simple, when it comes to the safety of the Enterprise, he is within his rights to have a say."

There is a silence as the Counsellor falls into her own mind, looking again for him in amongst all the chaos, hoping desperately that he himself is not a part of it. He is there, as he was moments ago, still full of apprehension, and yet somehow there is something more.

"Will, I think I want to talk to Will?"

Immediately she can sense the suspicion from Beverly, but yet there is understanding and sympathy, and she simply bows away, and out of the room, until soon she can hear Picard leave, in her mind or behind the doors she is so unsure.

But for the moment, she rests her head back down against her pillow, in the silence and noise of it all.

She opens her eyes again when she feels him near, then closes them softly as if in sleep, to shield herself from the Doctors thoughts ticking diligently - the sound of her heartbeat in the woman's head.

He crouches down in front of her face, at the side of her bed where she is curled up on her side, and his fingers come out, warm, to meet her forehead. He sweeps gently at the clammy skin there, at the mess of curls that have amassed on top of her head like a crown of thorns. She opens her eyes again, looks deep within his own from behind the snow that has been clouding her vision, and she opens her mouth to say feelings that she just cannot turn into words. Will nods, like he feels it too, only he has the power to ball them up and tell her:

"I'm so sorry for how I reacted, I know you didn't ask for this,"

And then tears start to gather in her eyes as she lets go of the strength she had held, just in-case he still couldn't understand, just in-case he should walk away again.

She cries because she is scared, and the universe has never been such a scary place as when she is alone without a tether; and now that he has returned, his hands warm with care, she is not so much frightened for herself anymore, but frightened for how she never wishes to be quite so alone again. Without the sense of comfort from a friend, one who can understand her if only a little, she thinks maybe she would be unable to go on, or at least, unwilling.

So she tells him this, flexes the worn out and rusted tethers of their bond and simply pushes a cart full of her fear, her terror, her uncertainty, down along the tracks in the hopes that it will reach him, that he has not closed himself to her.

He inhales sharply, closes his eyes, and for a terrible moment he can hear her heartbeat beside his own, his fingers shaking against her face. Then he relaxes as she takes it all back from him, all of the feelings pulled back along and out of his periphery, stored again in the recesses of her mind.

He reaches for her, and he reeks of sadness, of sturdy revolve.

He whispers to her. Gently, forcefully.

"You are not alone,"

They stay that way for so long that she begins to feel Beverly's mind on her alone, her heartbeat still pulsing away at the back of the woman's mind, like the increasing speed will be burnt into her. And she feels as though all the physical power in her is drained, and that if she were to try and move it would not end well.

Will she feels, can see in the fatigue on her face that she is fading, and he asks before she falls entirely.

"What do we do now?"

And her eyes come open, red like they have been crying phantom tears, and somewhere behind them another heart is beating, fast and frantic and new, beautifully clean slate.

"I don't think I can do this,"

Her voice is faint, and she feels almost the slightest flicker of disappointment within him, but she opens herself up to speak again, as much terror in her tiredness.

"But I don't think I can let it go either,"

"Oh, Deanna,"

There is more disappointment within him, and so he leans across to press his lips gently to her forehead, a sweat chaste kiss that leaves her feeling cold all along her spine and the back of her neck. She shivers, and he panics, standing abruptly to go for the Doctor, concerned always by her fatigue, her weakness. There are fingers snaking through his own and he is tethered to her side, pulling him back to her, her voice the plea of a child.

"Will?"

And in his head he hears Imzadi, and he could just fall at the foot of her bed and cry for the love of her. He instead follows the arm towards her on the bed, then slinks in behind her, drawing that hand towards her centre and cradling her close to him.

Though he is not tired, he shuts his eyes, and tries instead to think only of peace, and tranquillity, for her sake more than his own.


Will summons Beverly, when it's clear that she isn't waking up to his rousings, and goddamn him for letting them drift apart so far that he cannot know how she is anymore.

And the Doctor just smiles sadly with a tricorder in her hand, telling him Deanna's okay now, and her vitals have evened out, and all she needs now is to sleep and feel strong again, so that they can make a decision together. She tells him also to stay with her, to make sure she eats more than she has been, to keep her in the world and not retreated within her own mind.

So the two of them lie still together, and he's sure the Captain will understand when he does not report for duty, he's sure Beverly will have explained this to him.

The nighttime is peaceful until it is not, and she seems to slip into another level of sleep, where she keeps her mind awake with dreaming awful things, and wonderful things. Her arms pull him closer, but also push him away, and her legs twitch as though she is kicking, running, moving forwards on ground that neither can see.

When she wakes, it is the morning of a new day, and she can feel that Will has finally fallen asleep behind her where she is still curled up, waking slowly to the the alarm she never had the thought to cancel.

She flexes out her legs and splays her toes out, feeling all the music of a thousand waking minds humming into existence, vibrating in her head like a swarm of bees, yet she isn't sure she minds so much, only to feel for a moment that she isn't alone.

And so it is that she recalls the day before, and feels the smallest hum deep inside herself before understanding the feelings of fatigue that have now gone from her. She thinks to the hypospray against her neck, and she must thank Beverly for whatever the hell was in it.

She moves away from Will's embrace, to test the strength she feels anew in her legs, that they will hold her up as they hadn't before. Her feet pad against the cold floor, sluggishly over to the bathroom, all of a sudden desperate to go, and also peel herself out of the sweats she had slept in.

So it is that Will finds her with a mug of Valerian Root Tea, wearing a baggy hoodie and starfleet track pants, everything too large and long for her small frame; she is smiling lightly at the look on his face.

He is rubbing at those blue eyes of his, and he blinks several times against the light of the Nebula they are passing by. And she blinks back at him, through the steam of her tea, neither one of them quite knowing what to say to make this better, to communicate what they both are feeling.

There is something within him that wants to tell her, tell her he's dreaming of something other than this drama, and watching her now he wonders if maybe he could get used to the domesticity of it all. That is, until he takes a few steps closer to her and sees that her eyes, though they are deep and black, seem to be framed by these half moons of shadow, heavy with all the dreams she cannot shake.

"How long have you been up?"

He can see her confusion as she turns to the chronometer, then back up at him.

"Maybe a half hour, I'm sorry for worrying you,"

She has that knowing gleam to her, and he catches himself, sits opposite her at the table and tries to put a reign on all the emotions bubbling within him. He is not very good at it.

"I'm worried that you haven't been eating enough lately, Beverly said something about needing extra nutrition?"

He pauses for a brief, awkward moment, knowing that he wasn't really asking anything at all.

"And…it isn't healthy for the baby…to not eat, that is."

A sudden spike of jealousy within him, and in her weakness she has to try hard not to wince, as though a lance has been taken to her heart, at the memory of a night between them months ago lingering in his mind. Will blushes slightly, knowing she's seen him, and so he dwells in the thought of these casual encounters over the last year, frantic and desperate moments of passion between them.

She's sure he's remembering it differently to her, the greedy obsession of a Betazoid to share openly in the desires of another, and without him she may have gone insane.

And then, in a second, the thought is gone, and she can hear music playing in his mind, a slow and repeating piece of jazz music, which feels familiar only because it is to him. Instead, in her mind, it is strangled by the thoughts of others that compete, to the point that only the occasional note will permeate her awareness.

"So, have you eaten?"

Worry again, murky and brown.

"No, Will, I have not even finished my tea yet,"

For some reason, she is filled with a sense of irritation at his questions, and she is almost certain he feels it too, though she isn't sure if it is her own, or perhaps somebody else's.

Smoothly, he bypasess this.

"Well then, what can I get you?"

He grins, lopsided and charming, though there is something forced about it, and so she smiles softly back, thinks for a moment. She can smell warm pancakes, if only for a split second, and hears the exclamation of a child echoing without her.

She sighs, the sensation becoming confused.

"I suppose pancakes would be good?"

Her tongue is trapped behind her teeth, trying so hard not to tell him to make them how he used to, wanting to spare them both the memory of a more pleasant time, years ago.

With a pang in her heart like the tip of a spear, he has remembered it anyway.

Will's eyes seem glazed over when he returns from the replicator, two dishes in his hands, and she wants more than anything to know him, wants to scream at him for letting go of her when she could never let go of him.

They eat, in silence, and she is not hungry anymore.

Conversation picks up from the point of empty plates, but every word said is slow, low, and tentative. Questions of a right to life, of violations, of breeding; and Deanna tries so hard not to think of herself as an experiment, an instrument, but somehow the feeling of intrusion aches like the swell of a wave within her.

"Would you stop thinking of me that way?!"

Her exclamation is sudden, caught between his musings on termination, and artificial incubation. He quiets immediately, and in the same beat a rush of crimson engulfs her face, even her eyes seem to become red within pools of black.

"Deanna?"

Will seems to think she is becoming hysterical, and maybe he should call Doctor Crusher, and she groans in such a way that she could be anybody but herself.

"Why can't you see this is not the way I feel? Must you keep insisting I am some fragile thing that has been violated, that needs to be sheltered?"

He withdraws from the table in shock, leans back in his seat almost defensively, as though he is trying to pull away from her reach.

"Deanna, I never said anything to imply-"

"But you continue to think it!"

Her intrusion is so abrupt, so out of character in the fist she has balled against the tabletop.

Will's face falls into a frown, a crease set deeply in his brow as he turns inwards, and at once he is just a man in a uniform, wearing a blank expression, full of fear and prejudice as anyone is.

There is silence as Deanna calms, and tries not to listen to himself examine everything once more, picking apart each of his stray thoughts. And once again he is wearing that sorry expression, that anybody with half a heart might think is pity, but inside himself, she knows it is not.

"Oh, Deanna,"

And she's heard that voice before too, last night at the sight of her only half a woman.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I forgot.."

Words fail him, and he is filled with remorse, and she feels his forgetting in each one of her bones, cutting so deeply that she is sorrowful for a time when he could never have forgotten.

And how can one be so young yet regret so much?

"I think I'm keeping it Will, I think I might,"

She says now, resolute yet uncertain, a terrible dichotomy of decision and indecision. His face falls.

"But there's so much we don't know - I don't want to lose you to something like this Dee,"

She feels his plea in every inflection of his voice, his desperation, and tries not to let it wrap too tightly around her heart.

"And I told you, I don't think I can do this. I still don't Will, but I owe it to the parts of myself in this child to try."

"Deanna?"

There's confusion welling in his eyes, and if he doesn't blink soon it may form a sadness he won't be able to deny.

"Don't you think I'm scared too? Something has happened to me which I cannot explain, and nor can any number of medical professionals - I don't want to be alone with this. I wish I was somebody else, and I wish desperately that I didn't need you, but I still do,"

Her own eyes begin to cloud over with tears, and he seems to spin her words into a knot in his mind, round and round until he too is resolute.

"I'm here then, one hundred percent. You don't have to be alone, you don't have to face this alone, I'll be here whatever,"

Will pauses passionately, takes a brief glance at her whole body, drinking in the sight of her, just a girl in clothes too large and too comfortable to be anything other than loved.

"Whatever happens Imzadi, I am right here,"

Her heart skips at the word, and the feeling of a bird singing within her in response, calling in such a way that caged animals shouldn't be able to. Her heart is singing, and though her eyes shine with tears, there is a profound joy, morose and unsuspecting, rising within her.

It takes only a matter of hours for her to begin protesting her confinement, demanding that she be allowed to see patients, that Beverly will agree. Will is having none of it, but he is expected on duty too, if only for what is left of the afternoon on Alpha shift, at the Captain's request, and so it is a losing battle.

When he returns to check on her after dressing in his own quarters, she is standing neatly in the doorway to great him, her own uniform crisp and pristine against her frame.

He would care if she looked any better, screw her for being so fine, for being as tricky as a swan.

"I know what you're thinking,"

She begins, only a half metaphor,

"But I will be fine, I believe Beverly would not be so engrossed in her own work if she was worried I may keel over any second. And besides,"

She reaches two fingers up, sweetly, her eyes taking on the quality of a child's, her youth so evident in that one moment.

"I have only two patients this evening, a bereavement and a plasma-phobe. You would have to physically restrain me to make me cancel on them a second time."

Deanna's bottom lip kicks out in a pout that matches the expression in her eyes, and damn her for being 24 years old, for being a child.

He lets her past without arguing back, because he never could say no to her, never do much but say no.