"What's with her?" Will jabbed a thumb in Beverly's direction. His tone was sarcastic, but Deanna could sense that he really did mean well. Though he and the doctor didn't always get along (usually it was a matter of one of them being too stubborn to admit that the other was right, whether that be on an away mission or during a particularly heated game of poker) Will always put the wellbeing of the crew before himself. Naturally, as a healer, so did Beverly. Deanna was beginning to think she had a type.

"I don't know," Deanna lied through her teeth. "Something's changed in her."

"I'll say," Riker let out a snarky puff of air, rolling his eyes.

Deanna couldn't help but smile at his juvenile behavior, "Your tone couldn't be more pointed."

Will shrugged, and shook his head once, a smile returning to his face, "What can I say? Speaking as a man, sometimes women…"

"Yes?" Deanna put her hands on her hips, leaning forward, challenging him to choose his words carefully. The counselor knew that she could be assertive when she wanted to despite her small build, and this was one of those instances where her intimidation tactics could make a man much larger than her shrink in chagrin. She'd be lying if she said that it didn't satisfy her from time to time.

"Elude me?" he finished with a wince that functioned in contrast to the intense red of his mask, realizing just how insensible he sounded.

It was Deanna's turn to roll her eyes, "Charming, Will, really." Deanna took pride in the knowledge that only she could elicit this type of response from William Riker, a man whose honor generally stood between him and resolving personal conflicts by facing them head-on. Instead, he often chose to smooth things over with his sense of humor and call it a day. Deanna knew this game well, and Will knew not to play it with her. "Now go up there and make your speech before you say anything else without thinking," Deanna smirked and crossed her arms, "I hope you've rehearsed."

As Will sauntered over to the vinyl, tapping a fork on his champagne glass to call attention to himself, Deanna turned her own attention to the back of the ballroom. She saw Beverly's slender arms wrap around the captain in what she knew was nothing more than a friendly hug. If she had wanted to pursue a relationship with him, Deanna would have been the first to know. Now, though, Deanna was having a hard time reading Beverly at all. Most of the time, interpreting Beverly's emotions came almost too easily. They were as orderly as you'd expect from a person who possessed a talent for looking at things through a logical lens, and the doctor rarely had a problem relaying her concerns – no matter how harsh they were. It was simply the nature of a physician.

That said, Beverly had a method of avoiding internal turmoil unlike any other human Deanna met. She built up this wall sometimes, a sturdy brick wall with mortar filling every crevasse, a wall that Deanna could not seem to chip away at no matter how sharp the chisel. The counselor suspected it was because Beverly had never been granted the opportunity to properly grieve Jack's death with a son and a career demanding her attention. Every moment that she had been given to reflect on her late husband's untimely passing was swiftly confiscated from her, and with time she had grown so used to deflecting those negative emotions that she subconsciously added a brick to her wall any time his name even popped into her head. By now, she had the skills to erect that wall whenever she felt she needed it. It didn't take Deanna's empathic abilities to see that, it only took some perception. Deanna – being the ship's counselor – had, of course, offered to talk things through with Beverly some months ago following Wesley's acceptance to Starfleet. It seemed an appropriate time. Beverly, however, had immediately refused, insisting she could "handle it on her own," that she was "used to change," and that she, "would rather be a friend and not a patient." The counselor hadn't referred explicitly to Jack's death, but she was sure that she had alluded to it. If Beverly had agreed to counseling there would be no avoiding the topic, no matter how sensitive. Maybe she didn't realize. Maybe she thought that their discussions would be solely about Wesley… Yeah, right, Deanna thought. Beverly was smarter than that – cunning, even.

"Thanks again, everyone, for joining me this evening. A special thanks to Lieutenant Commander Data for constructing these masks…"

Deanna phased back into reality, just in time to catch the end of Will's impromptu speech and a glimpse of bright red hair before the door to the holodeck hissed shut.

"And a very special thanks to our star performers of the night, Counselor Troi and Doctor Crusher." Will winked at Deanna, who offered a bashful smile to the clapping crew before shooting him a look that existed somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed. "Goodnight, and get some sleep, everyone. Tomorrow we'll be visiting the Gariman sector to do some negotiating with our Klingon friends. Business as usual." The crowd stifled a collective groan and instead murmured amongst themselves, a response that she knew filled Will with great pleasure.

As the crew filed out of the holodeck Deanna cleared her thoughts and opened her reception to her crewmates' feelings. Occasionally, the sound of so many emotional frequencies would set her off-kilter, but she found that after any large event only a sleepy buzz remained. Was she selfish for taking advantage of their emotions? Perhaps, but it was the only way she could think to slow her thoughts before succumbing to the sleep she already felt encroaching on her; that is, if she could keep a certain ginger off her mind while she prepared for bed.

As soon as Deanna returned to the privacy of her quarters, she ditched the pearls and removed the regal blue mask she had sported that evening, carefully setting it on her bedside table. Unlike her mother, Deanna was generally not one to place emotional value in objects. She found liberation in trusting memories as opposed to materials. In her closet, however, laid a compact box of keepsakes from her escapades while aboard the Starship Enterprise – for example, a small pot that a Rakhari child had painted for her during a full contact mission to defuse an oppressive government. Deanna had yet to decide whether the mask would prove itself worthy of claiming a spot in her personal treasure chest.

The counselor was beginning to feel the effects of standing in high-heeled shoes for a long period of time. A dull ache crawled its way up from the balls of her feet, past her calves, and through her spine. She kicked them off, level with the ground once more, took a deep breath, and prepared to peel off the velvet that clung to her curves.

And as she released that breath, intent on banishing any tension left in her system after a long night out, she felt an unwelcome hot wind on her neck. Instinctively her hand flew to the back of her neck and she whipped around, fully expecting to confront someone or something that had followed her in. Instead, the counselor was left searching the empty space behind her in a near panic until promptly attributing the incident to exhaustion. Still, it caught her off guard and she was wary as she slid out of the dress and into her beloved silk nightgown. If given the option, Deanna would choose to spend the majority of her time aboard the Enterprise in her quarters, enveloped in pink silk with a chocolate sundae in hand. As she plodded over to her mirror to remove her makeup and the clip that kept her hair out of her face, she found herself unable to keep her mind from wandering in directions she had little control over. Again, she felt a breath on the back of her neck – hot, almost stinging, and this time she recognized it. Deanna tilted her head back, closed her eyes, leaned into the presence, and gave herself away to the fantasy.

Start at the waist. Deanna could barely hear it – a faint whisper – but she recognized that breathy timbre. It was accompanied by a touch, a gossamer stroke – one that sent a shiver all the way up her spine and into her neck. It nearly made her moan, but she caught herself. It's just a fantasy, she repeated, Just a fantasy. She had experienced this same caress not more than an hour ago, and she failed to understand just how the emotions associated with it had shifted from friendly to whatever this was. That perplexity didn't stop those familiar, tingly fingers from trailing up her rib cage, agonizingly slow. They brushed against the sides of her breasts and this time she did moan with an airiness akin to the ghost that had whispered to her just moments ago, soft and sweet. The touch traveled down her arms to her hands and pricked her fingertips. The tickle that had assumed position at the top of her spine traveled down as well, down to her lower back and curled itself into the front of her lower abdomen and it made her head roll back and her fingers clench into tight fists but, oh, how she loved it-

Deanna.

Her eyes flew open and in an instant the feeling was gone. That burning touch dissipated, and Deanna found herself gazing at only her own reflection, a red-hot blush peeking through the light layer of foundation on her cheeks. She dislodged the breath caught in her throat and let out a shaky sigh, rubbing her hands up and down her upper arms as if that pleasurable shiver had left an icy cool in its wake – and yes, she did have goosebumps. She squeezed her eyes shut and gave her head a vigorous shake in a perfunctory attempt to erase the image of her friend's hands tracing up and down her body. There was a chance that she had just committed a crime against her friendly bond with Beverly. As much as it frightened her, a foreign excitement still lingered in the pit of her stomach. Did she risk changing the very nature of their relationship? Did I go too far? she wondered briefly before piecing together a (rather lame) reasoning: No. Betazoids cave into the occasional daydream without remorse. It's in your blood to feel this strongly. If the rest of her species could justify such an event, she could, too.

Deanna had to be honest with herself, however. Deep down, she knew exactly why she was battling such intense tactile memories. It was much like the Ullian intrusion, but not nearly as unpleasant. The counselor should have foreseen the affects that a full-contact experience with her best friend would have on the both of them. (And maybe she did, but she was going to avoid delving into that possibility. She was already in over her head as it were.) Beverly was an extremely attractive woman in Deanna's eyes and she always had been. She was headstrong without lacking emotional depth and foundational compassion – a trait that she hadn't found in any of the human men she had been with, including Will. Though at one point he had been Imzadi, (beloved, her first) she couldn't ignore the tempting notion that Beverly presented a new "first." Now, it seemed that she was much more than just attractive. Admittedly, Deanna had not been as subtle as she would have liked during her conversation with Beverly earlier that evening – she knew it then, and she knew it now, but at this point she couldn't help it. The counselor wanted so badly to blame the dress – that damned green dress, accentuating every structured curve of her body and leaving so little to the imagination with the slit revealing a toned leg, the criminally low neckline, and an open back that demanded attention – but she couldn't do that and stay truthful to what happened at the masquerade. When Beverly experienced the anxiety that accompanied Deanna's lingering gaze, Deanna felt it, too. When Beverly experienced the brief bout of lust that accompanied running her hands up the velvet of Deanna's dress, Deanna felt that, as well. And she was sure of her assumptions as she gazed into the deepest oceans that were Beverly's eyes… until the song picked back up again. It was then that Beverly panicked and erected the wall that Deanna was beginning to loathe.

Deanna took a deep, stabilizing breath and decided to quit it before her theories got the best of her. Finally, she wet a cloth with cool water, wiping away the evening's makeup – attempting to sober up in the process – and pulled a routine comb through her hair before swiping her curls up into a halfhearted ponytail of sorts. It was the best she could do because suddenly, she was feeling drained. Deanna barely made it to her mattress before collapsing, and her final thoughts before succumbing to a dreamless Betazoid sleep consisted only of that familiar, delicate touch.