Thirteen days.

Thirteen days and approximately six hours. That is how long it had been since Doctor Crusher and Counselor Troi had maintained a real conversation – something that consisted of more than one or two offhanded sentences during staff briefings or professional transactions. Yes, Beverly Crusher – the woman who was supposed to be Deanna's closest confidante – was actively ignoring her. And, yes, Deanna absolutely was counting. Every hour that passed felt like one more needle driving itself deep into her heart. At first, she was sympathetic towards her friend; half of her consciousness experienced the same longing and hesitation that any other human would. Her Betazoid half, however, was only frustrated by the situation. Betazoids were far more insightful emotionally – so much so that they often frowned upon other species' trivialities. Deanna considered herself lucky to see things from both angles, but it seemed that her Betazoid genes were getting the best of her.

She was sitting before her mirror, just as she was that night – the night that she couldn't stop re-experiencing. The memory carried with it a beautiful torment akin to the Douwd music… If only the counselor could rely on the Enterprise's chief medical officer to provide her with the same relief she was granted back then. If only she could feel the calming caress of a healer's hand. Why won't Beverly just be honest with me? If she would just talk to me, maybe… Deanna sighed. Less Betazoid telepathy meant more Human tiptoeing around the truth. Even if Beverly wasn't interested, which Deanna knew wasn't the case – why else would she put up that wall every time they made eye contact? – she saw no valid reason why they couldn't at the very least reignite their friendship.

"Computer," Deanna started, maintaining the staring contest she had initiated with her reflection. She couldn't help but notice the saddened tilt of her brows. It seemed that they had been fixed that way since around three days following the masquerade – approximately the same time she started counting the hours. "What is the location of Beverly Crusher?"

"Doctor Crusher is located in sick bay."

Was she really going to do this? Yes, Deanna mentally confirmed it – something she felt she had to do lest she avoid confronting the issue any longer. She stood, running her hands down the sturdy fabric of her light purple uniform and adjusting her headband so that it was just so. Thirteen days was long enough. She couldn't even think about waiting another day, let alone another two weeks, to see Beverly. At that point they might as well cut off the friendship altogether, and Deanna would do anything to avoid that. She wasn't sure how much longer Will was, well, willing to be her outlet, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could go without a more prominent female presence in her life. Admittedly, Deanna hadn't put much effort into making friends beyond the other senior staff, and as counselor she didn't have any close coworkers. Her office was a rather lonely place when it wasn't filled with the anxious energy of patients in distress. It really wasn't fair at all: Beverly had Alyssa and the other medical staff to talk to. Deanna had once been close with Tasha Yar, but… it had been years since… she still blinked back tears thinking about it.

Don't think. Just do.

With a sharp inhale, Deanna kicked herself into gear and nearly ran out of her room. One more moment in there and she might have induced brain damage: suffocation by her own miserable contemplation. Somehow, she managed to make it down the hall without her legs giving out, finally allowing herself to take a breath in the turbolift. "Deck Twelve," she exhaled, leaning against the wall. When the doors opened, she remained in that position. How funny it was that she had thirteen days to mull over all the ways this interaction with Beverly might go and she still had no solid plan.

By grace – or something – a yellow suit rounded the corner and approached her. "Counselor?"

"Data! It's good to see you. What are you doing on deck twelve?"

"It is curious that you should ask, Counselor. Doctor Crusher has requested that I run some patient files to you."

"Oh, really?" Deanna raised a brow. Just when she thought Beverly couldn't be any more recluse.

"Yes, and-" Data stopped mid-sentence, his face adapting that familiar, mechanically perplexed expression, "Counselor? Are you going to step out of the turbolift?"

"The question isn't if I'm going to step out," Deanna beckoned to him and held out her arm for him to take, "The question is how I'm going to step out." Indeed, stepping out of the turbolift meant embarking on a mission perhaps more dangerous than touching down on an uninhabitable planet... It only took a moment for her to dismiss that Beverly-esque hesitation.

"Ah," Data assisted her out of the turbolift and began walking her down the hall, "Are you experiencing symptoms of illness?"

Deanna pondered the question for a moment before responding, "I guess you could say that. It's more of a… mental ailment with effects that are physically taxing. It involves more of my emotions than it does my immune system."

"Curious… Would you be referring to your relationship with Doctor Crusher?"

"Yes, Data. How could you tell?"

"I do not mean to be intrusive in relaying this information, but I have noticed that for the past thirteen days you and Doctor Crusher have spent a total of approximately five point three hours in the same room – a seventy-one point five percent decrease from the average eighteen point sixty-four hours you would normally spend together in the same amount of time," the android glanced down at the woman beside him, only to find her staring, jaw dropped in awe.

"Data, how could you possibly know this?"

"Geordie and I were conducting a few experiments – as he would call them – this morning, and there was a moment during which my neural network was synchronized with the Enterprise's tracking records. Simple observation would also lead one to the same general conclusion."

"Hm," Deanna nodded in acknowledgment, "Interesting." The pair of them took their final steps toward the entrance to sick bay. Mostly sarcastic, she asked, "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about my relationship with Beverly?"

"If you do not mind, Counselor," the two of them stopped next to the doorway, "I have noticed that Doctor Crusher does not smile when your name is mentioned," Deanna hoped that Data's positronic nervous system couldn't pick up the vibrations of her heart dropping, "whereas in the past she has often been excited, or at least pleased, at the sound of your name. In fact, her voice seems to lower by approximately twenty decibels when speaking about you… I would almost say that she is portraying what have been described to me before as signs of shame, or perhaps embarrassment. I must inform you that some of the other senior staff members have also observed this change – for example, Commander Riker has suggested that-"

"Thank you, Data, that's quite enough," Deanna cut him off. Note to self: ask Will if he has any business making assumptions… Then ask what those were, exactly. She took a deep breath – something she would tell her patients to do if they were feeling stressed. Now, it felt a bit silly. "But I appreciate your help. Could you just put those tabs in my office?"

"Of course, Counselor."

Beverly was alone in sick bay. She must have given her staff some time to rest. Deanna knew she did this from time to time; it was that compassionate side of Beverly that would get her into trouble sometimes, but Deanna always found it admirable. She was sitting in her office chair, one hand supporting the side of her head with an elbow on the table, the other's slender fingers lazily tapping away on a tablet. Deanna took a moment to gather her wits (and gaze at the vexing beauty) before knocking on the doorway. She had come with a prime directive of her own and she planned to adhere to it.

"Yes?" Beverly glanced up from her tapping, "Oh. Counselor Troi." That wall was erected almost immediately.

"Oh?" Deanna smirked. She leaned against the doorway and folded her arms, projecting confidence and composure despite Beverly's dismissive tone. How else could she react without going absolutely batshit? "Counselor Troi? Beverly, I thought we were on a first-name basis."

Beverly leaned back in her chair, folding her arms and crossing one leg over the other. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Deanna mimicked the doctor incredulously. She threw her hands up in the air and scoffed. How dare Beverly be so shallow? "Beverly, I want to know why you've avoiding me! Is there something I did, or said? Please just tell me what I possibly could have done to ruin our friendship, I-" Deanna stopped herself; her voice was rising, and she could see a blush beginning to appear in subtle blotches on the doctor's cheeks. So much for not going batshit. The counselor was getting ahead of herself, and if she couldn't keep her emotions under wraps how in the world could she expect Beverly to? She decided to slow down and take a deep breath and a seat in the chair opposite the redhead, extending an apologetic hand across the table. "Beverly, I just want to know if there is anything I can do to help. You've always been so open with me… I need to know how I messed up. I-" her tone softened, "I miss you. I miss us… together."

That brilliant brain of Beverly's was moving at a light year a minute, and it was obvious. Deanna could see that her wall was beginning to crumble – at least, wishful thinking would lead her to believe so. Blue eyes darted around the room, a side-eye towards the wall, a contemplative stare at the ground, a glance, if that, at the peace offering that was Deanna's hand – anywhere but across the table at the counselor, who was willing to wait through her shift if need be; willing to wait for the three words that would solidify her hypothesis. Only then could she feel comfortable with her own inclinations. There were a couple times that Beverly's lips parted slightly, as if she were about to say something, only to return to a tight purse the next second.

"Beverly," Deanna piped up after a minute of this – in her opinion – nonsense, in a voice that was soft, encouraging, but carried an air of annoyance, nonetheless. She retracted her peace offering and loosely mimicked the doctor's pose, "It's alright if you can't verbalize everything that you're feeling, but you need to at least do something, anything, to help me better understand what you're going through."

"Don't use that voice."

Finally, Deanna thought, but it was all she could do not to roll her eyes, "What voice?"

"You know the one. I'm not a patient, Deanna."

"Then stop acting like one!" Whoops.

It was only then that Beverly looked up from the floor and glared at the counselor. The eyes that were once crystal blue oceans adopted a stormy grey tint and narrowed into fierce slits. The wall was definitely crumbling, but the counselor wasn't sure if sifting through the rubble would satisfy her in the ways she had anticipated. Voice husky, Beverly nearly hissed, "Deanna, I think you already know exactly what I'm feeling."

Deanna's breath hitched; she couldn't help it. Her chest tightened. She could have melted. A sudden, small burst of light shone through the wall in Beverly's mind and it nearly sent Deanna's extrasensory abilities into hyperdrive. It took every muscle in her throat to scrounge up an, "Oh, really?" and when it came out as something stronger than a whimper, she was grateful.

Beverly stood. Her arms remained crossed and her eyes, dark and stormy – a force of nature. Slowly, she began to step towards Deanna, and with every step another brick fell from Beverly's wall to reveal a pocket of white light. Her voice was hushed yet combative – "Yes, really," step, "Deanna," step, "I am so sorry if you feel I've been avoiding you," a sarcastic step, "But I really have been quite busy," with one more step, Beverly was not more than half a meter away from the counselor, looking down, "and if you can't figure out why I've been so busy, you really have no business being here at all."

How symbolic, Deanna thought, frustrated. That was not the Beverly she knew, and certainly not the one she liked. It was time to quite literally take a stand. So, she did. And although she wasn't quite tall enough to be eye-to-eye with her friend-turned-foe, she would no longer be the prey.

"Beverly Cheryl Howard Crusher," Deanna started, her voice soft but severe, "if you don't tell me exactly what you're feeling, I am never going to know;" only a partial truth. Like a bubbling volcano ready to erupt, or a wall on the verge of collapse, Beverly was barely keeping her sentiments strapped down, and the empath could feel their faint tickle. "And I have a feeling you wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"

The ginger edged even nearer – a feat Deanna had not thought possible – and leaned in close, so close that their noses almost touched. "I want you to know," the doctor shrugged, the hem of her lab coat brushing the side of the counselor's right leg. She was so close that even breathing was difficult; the scent of that Arvadian herbal shampoo she was known to replicate was intoxicating. Beverly leaned in and Deanna closed her eyes, beyond ready to break the tension, and felt not the softness of Beverly's lips, but instead a breathy whisper tickling her left ear, "But I'm not going to tell you."

Finally, Beverly's damned wall was struck by some colossal wrecking ball, giving way to a bright light so blinding that Deanna had to physically clamp her eyes shut. A flaming surge of energy racked her body. Her knees buckled and she fell back into the seat behind her, gripping the armrests for fear that she'd collapse onto the office floor if she didn't. Deanna could drown in it all – the anger, the fear, the confusion, the worry... the wanting, the needing, the excitement, the desire. A high-pitched whistle penetrated her cerebellum. It pulsed through her veins and limbic system and all she could do was sit in that office chair, writhing, shaking, letting out agonized sounds that were somewhere between cries and groans and –

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

Deanna could barely make out the muffled voice through the fog that had infected her every brain cell. Then, she heard a familiar hiss and in all of a second the pain dissipated, her heart rate slowed, and her muscles relaxed tremendously.

"…Deanna?"

The counselor forced her eyes open and found her friend kneeling beside her with one hand on her own, the other clutching a hypo. Deanna tried for an, 'I'm okay,' but what came out instead was something more along the lines of, "M-nmohay..." Good enough.

"Oh, thank God," Beverly squeezed Deanna's hand, bringing her forehead down onto them both in relief. In a moment she looked up again with watery eyes, "Deanna, I… Your psilosynine levels, it was too much… I should have known, I did know, I'm sorry, I-"

"Beverly, it's okay." Quiet, but clear.

"Deanna…" A tear trickled down Beverly's cheek. She withdrew her hand and stood up, backing away like an inexperienced cadet realizing they've just crashed the simulated starship that would have earned them their degree. She tapped her combadge, "Doctor Crusher to Doctor Selar," Beverly's voice broke, "please report to sick bay."

"Beverly, wait!" Deanna sat up straight in her chair, but it was too late, Beverly had already escaped.