Chapter V: The Haven of the Heart

Café Saartik was nestled in a corner shopfront not far from the Palais Garnier. The owner and chef de cuisine was a Vulcan lady of indeterminate middle years, and she was indeed very fond of Palis — if "fond" was the right word. She would probably have said she was "accustomed" to Palis, and would feel her absence if the danseuse ever ceased to patronize her establishment. The wait staff liked and knew Palis, too, and although the café was indeed crowded, she and Julian were ushered to a table immediately, tucked away in a quiet corner of the dining room where they could enjoy a little serenity while they ate.

Madame Saartik's spécialité de la maison was Vulcan cuisine prepared and presented in the classic French fashion. The entire menu was vegetarian, produced with a combination of fresh ingredients, traditional techniques, and proprietary replicator patterns. The café also had the best Tarkalean tea that Julian had ever tasted, and he ordered a cup as Palis perused the wine list.

They talked about La Naissance de la Fédération while they waited for their plomeek soup, and then Palis asked after Julian's studies. He told her about his research projects, eagerly but in less detail than he had offered Docteur Delon, and then enthused for a while about his residency work at the Academy Infirmary. He couldn't disseminate any confidential information, of course, but there were always a few nonspecific anecdotes to share, and Palis seemed to enjoy them.

"I heard about the cadet killed in the flight accident," she said presently, just as their main course arrived. She had the redspice soufflé with braised peppers, and Julian had chosen the more traditional pok tar. "Such a tragedy. He was only twenty-one?"

Julian nodded. "I didn't know him," he said; "but there was a memorial for him on Wednesday evening, and there was some talk about cancelling the commencement proceedings. Admiral Brand decided to go ahead, though, in consultation with the victim's family. Life — and duty — must go on."

Palis nodded solemnly. She reached across the table to curl her hand over Julian's, and she gazed into his eyes. "I'm glad you're not a pilot," she said earnestly.

He laughed a little, thinly. Sometimes he felt uneasy with the idea of asking such a wonderful young woman to tie her life and her hopes to a Starfleet officer. It wouldn't be very long before he'd be out there in the Galaxy, prepared to defend the Federation with his life if need be. Even if they found a way around the choice between her dreams and his, he still might be wounded in action someday — even killed. The Federation wasn't at war with anyone at the moment; the Cardassian conflict was resolved, and the Tzenkethi war was almost forgotten. Tensions ebbed and flowed along the Romulan Neutral Zone, but for the most part the two great powers had managed to keep skirmishes to a minimum. The Tholian entente looked stable, and the Klingons were staunch if sometimes disgruntled allies. But Julian has learned enough in officers' training to know that the balance of peace and power in the Alpha Quadrant was a fragile thing. There was no telling what the future might hold.

"Palis," he said finally, very quietly. "If you've made up your mind about the kind of life you want, it's all right for you to tell me."

"Made up my mind?" Palis looked perplexed. Then she pursed her lips, withdrew her hand, and rolled her eyes. "C'est Papa! Il t'a dit quelque chose, n'a-t-il pas? L'homme têtu!"

Julian opened his mouth to protest, but he really couldn't do so honestly. He sighed. "All he said was that if you got a lead role in one of the flagship productions next season, it would be good for your career. To do that, you'd have to stay on Earth."

Palis seemed to wilt. She picked up her fork and stabbed the perfect, frothy dome of her soufflé, watching it collapse. She didn't make any move to actually taste it, however, and she curled her fist around the utensil. "Julian…" she murmured. Then she shook her head vehemently. "C'est impossible."

"Non!" Julian argued. He couldn't let her think that. "Ce n'est pas impossible! Nous avons beaucoup de possibilités. Il faut trouver un équilibre, c'est tout."

She raised an eyebrow in a lofty arc that would have done their hostess proud. "C'est tout?" Palis said skeptically. "I want to dance, Julian. I want to be the best at what I do, and L'Opéra can offer me that. You want to be the best at what you do, too. But not on Earth."

"It isn't…" Julian began. Then he reconsidered his phrasing. "Until last month, I didn't even consider if I could pursue a career on Earth. For as long as I can remember—" He stopped, because that wasn't quite true. Once upon a time, his ambitions had not reached so far. "Since I was a boy, Palis, I've dreamed of being a Starfleet officer. When I decided I wanted to take up medicine, it seemed like the most natural way to do that. I never thought of setting up practice as a civilian. Not until your father—"

"Until my father offered you the job," Palis said heavily. She shifted her fork into a less threatening position, and took a few peppers. Julian, who had missed breakfast and was now overdue for lunch, was glad of the excuse to help himself to his own plate. Plomeek soup was delicious, but the small taster portion provided as an aperitif was hardly filling. "Julian… I didn't know ahead of time that he was planning to do that. You've got to believe me."

He did believe her. At least, he wanted to. But although perhaps she hadn't known her father would make the offer, he knew she'd been hoping he would. She'd hinted at the idea more than once when the three of them were together, and that meant she'd probably been a lot less subtle with the suggestion when she and Docteur Delon were alone. Julian couldn't begin to imagine where Maxime stood in all of this, but he doted on his daughter: he probably wanted to encourage her to stay on Earth just as much as his husband did.

There were eddies within the unified river of the Delon family that made Julian uneasy. He wasn't at all sure the layers of unspoken implications and subtle emotional pressure were healthy. But then again, he wasn't the one to pass judgement on what constituted a healthy family dynamic. He doubted he'd know a healthy family if he saw one: he had absolutely no experience in that regard.

"I know you wouldn't ask for something like that, Palis," he said, trying to reassure her. "And I know you wouldn't have kept it a secret if you'd known. I just… it's a complicated decision. I've dedicated the last eight years of my life to earning my commission and my medical degree, and I'm so close to the finish line. It's… it's hard to imagine going in a different direction when I haven't even really started on the one I planned for."

She nodded effortfully. "I also… you should know that I'm not married to the idea of headlining for the anniversary season," she said. "I want to, of course I want to, but I'd be willing… I'd let that idea go, if I had to. But I can't give up dancing."

It was on the tip of Julian's tongue to tell her that she wouldn't have to, whatever happened. If he took a remote posting, as he'd always privately dreamed of doing, and she came with him on a research vessel or a deep space exploration mission, or to one of the outposts on the edge of the Federation, she could still dance. Starships had holodecks. Some of them even had studio space. And they were full of families, with children very much like Analise and her friends, who would probably love to take ballet lessons.

Only it wasn't the same, and he knew it. He'd seen Palis on stage, flushed with the exhilaration of her performance and blushing with gratification at the adulation of her audience. She wasn't ready to take up teaching; that was something for fifteen or even twenty years down the line. Even then, she wouldn't be interested in tutoring dabbling beginners. She would want to teach at a proper ballet school, training young dancers who aspired to become what she was now: a Danseuse Étoile, one of the best in the world. He couldn't ask her to give that up, to bargain her profession down to a hobby. She wouldn't be content with holographic audiences, any more than he could be content with holographic patients.

"I wouldn't have to take a remote assignment," he tried. He yearned for adventure; it was one of the things that had brought him to Starfleet Academy. But for the sake of the woman he loved and their life together, he might be able to learn to let that yearning lie dormant, at least for a time. "I'm top of the class. When I make valedictorian, I'll have my pick of any job in the fleet. Maybe, if I was stationed somewhere like Starbase 12, and you were here on Earth…"

Palis grimaced. Even with her face crimped like that, she was indescribably lovely. "A subspace relationship," she said. "You know those don't even work in holonovels, don't you?"

Julian looked down at his plate. "I'm trying, Palis," he said softly.

She sighed. "Je le sais. Je sais," she murmured. Then she looked at him with impassioned eyes. "What I don't understand is why you can't take a posting on Earth. Or at least in the solar system. There are dozens of Starfleet installations. Don't they have sickbays? Don't they need doctors? Spacedock, New Berlin — even Jupiter station wouldn't be so bad! It's only three hours away at impulse."

Julian wished he could offer her something encouraging in that respect, but it wasn't realistic. "Postings on Earth very rarely open up," he said. "When they do, there's almost always a senior officer waiting to be rotated home. They aren't the kind of assignments they offer to new graduates."

"Not even the valedictorian?" Palis asked bitterly.

From her tone, Julian knew she was well aware of the answer. He gave it to her anyway. "Not even the valedictorian."

Seconds slipped by as Palis stared at her soufflé as if she would very much like to stab it again. Her slender shoulders, shapely with hard muscle, sagged perceptibly. Then suddenly they squared off, and she raised her head, obdurately cheerful.

"Let's not talk about it anymore," she said. "You still have two months of school, and then your postgraduate residency assignment. We can see how we make out when you're on Ligobis X: give the subspace relationship a try. You won't need to make a decision for a while yet. We won't need to make a decision. Now, can I tell you about the Christmas production?"

Julian could not help but smile. Her determination to move on so that the looming life choices didn't spoil their brief time together was admirable, and the glint of excitement in her eyes was genuine. He nodded. "Please do," he said earnestly.

"Well, then!" Palis said briskly, finally taking a forkful of her soufflé and tasting it before she went on. "They've decided on Don Quixote, which the company hasn't done in ten years. I'm probably not the right type to dance Dulcinea, but I've got my eye on Kitri, and…"

(fade)

They didn't order dessert. By the time their plates were empty, the hour was getting late for Palis, and both of them were at the point where they wanted to do more than talk. Madame Saartik herself came out to ask how they had enjoyed their meal, gathering up the dishes as the young couple praised the food and thanked her. Then Julian got up and rounded the table so he could draw out Palis's chair for her. It was an old Continental custom that not everyone appreciated, but after a vigorous performance on stage, Palis was tired and didn't really need to expend any more energy than necessary. She smiled up at Julian as he pulled back the chair, and his decision to do so was vindicated a moment later when she stood up — and promptly stumbled.

He reached swiftly and deftly to catch her, even as she grabbed for his arm. Her face contorted in surprise and sudden pain, and she already had her right foot off the ground and tucked behind her left calf. She was practiced in this sort of thing.

"What is it?" Julian asked, instantly appraising. He didn't have time to feel his dismay before his clinician's instincts took hold. "Here, sit down—"

"No," Palis said resolutely. She tightened her grip on his forearm and straightened up, letting her toes skim the floor but still keeping all of her weight on her left leg. "I thought there might be something… I told you my landing was off on that jeté."

"Why didn't you say something?" Julian asked. "The troupe doctor could have taken a look, or we could have gone straight to your flat."

She shook her head and looked fondly up at him. "I didn't want to go straight to the flat," she said. "I wanted to have dinner with you. As for the troupe doctor, she's very good, Julian, but I'd rather you take care of it. Let's go. The transporter hub is just around the corner. Papounet says it's for emergencies only, but we don't need to tell him."

It seemed like an emergency to Julian, but that was only because he was feeling protective. He needed to step back from that, and respect her judgment. Dancers were no strangers to such injuries, and ballerinas who danced en pointe had a higher tolerance than most. Clearly, Palis had been taken more by surprise than by debilitating pain: as they left the café she was walking almost normally, favouring her right side only a little and leaning on Julian more out of affection than a need for support. Still, he kept watchful eyes on her face and her gait as they walked, and he insisted on standing beside the steps to anchor her as she mounted the transporter platform.

They materialized in the corridor just outside her third floor flat in the Fifth Arrondissementmoments later. Julian helped Palis into the living room and settled her on the divan by the window. He relieved her of the branch of cherry blossoms, and went to the bedroom. On the dressing table stood the vase of Bolian crystal, already full of water in anticipation of the evening's token. Smiling a little at Palis's foresight and pleased that she had probably been expecting a rose instead, Julian slipped the branch into it before stepping into the bathroom to fetch the medkit.

Palis's medkit was not of the basic first aid variety that most civilians kept in their homes, with a dermal regenerator and a handful of other easy-to-use essentials. She had a full field kit of the kind physicians took on housecalls. It was very much like the one Julian had been issued at the start of third year, the final upgrade to the full Starfleet field kit he could expect to carry for the rest of his career. Strictly speaking, some of the instruments in Palis's case weren't supposed to be in civilian hands. But a man in Docteur Delon's position had easy access to such equipment, and he'd made sure his daughter's home was fully supplied. The only thing missing from Palis's kit were the vials of prescription medications.

Julian came back to find Palis had already removed her shoes and tights, and propped her heel up on a tasselled stool with an embroidered cushion. Her whole flat was furnished with antiques in the classical French style. Even the desk that housed her computer console was made of teak, and the replicator in the kitchen was set in an Empire-style cabinet. Julian knelt down on the lush Turkish rug, and opened the medkit.

"Now, then," he said, putting on his Doctor Voice just for her. Palis smiled at the change in tone, appreciative of the shift. She didn't often get to see him in his professional capacity, and she professed to love it. "Let's see what we have here."

He did a visual exam first. Palis's feet were narrow and slender, with high, perfectly formed arches. They were not the most elegant-looking part of her body, hard with calluses and stippled with bruises as they were. The first time Palis had asked Julian to check them, after having broken a toe in rehearsal when they were first dating, he had offered to remove the calluses for her. They covered the ball and heel and sides, and the knuckles and tips of her toes. Removing them was a simple procedure, one he'd recently learned in his podiatry unit. He'd thought it would improve her comfort: it certainly didn't look very pleasant to walk around with those mounds of keratinous tissue to contend with. A couple of passes with a dermabrasion tool and a little detail work with the dermal regenerator, he'd told her cheerfully, and he could have her feet as soft as her hands in no time.

Palis had almost thrown the medkit out the window. In retrospect, Julian was a tiny bit astonished that she hadn't threatened to do the same with him. After her initial reaction, springing to the defence of her coarsened feet, she had calmed down enough to explain. A ballet dancer's calluses were like a suit of armour, built up over the years to protect the hard-working appendages from chafing, damage, and the pitiless toeshoes that enabled much of the gravity-defying magic of the art. Palis's represented the cumulative adaptation of nineteen years of discipline and skill. Suddenly bereft of them, she would not have endured even a few minutes en pointe. What Julian had offered, albeit with the best of intentions, was an opportunity to set her back months in her work, and to claw herself back through pain and frustration. Dismayed and a trifle embarrassed by his ignorance, Julian had apologized and meekly done only what she had asked of him: checked the ligaments and tendons for damage, fixed the fracture, and healed the bruises. And ever since then, he had seen Palis's feet in an entirely new light.

They were the great tool of her art, as essential to her work as Julian's surgeon's hands were to his. Skilled and strong, they represented the years of dedication she had put into gaining mastery of her craft. The calluses and built-up nails — all the battered signs of wear that made them, perhaps, less aesthetically pleasing than those of many young humans — were a testament to the sacrifice and determination it had taken to get Palis where she was today. When Julian looked at them, he saw her tenacity and her brilliance. Nothing could be more beautiful.

Examining them now, he saw no gross anatomical deformity: whatever the problem was, it was probably not severe. That made Julian feel a little better about the fact Palis had kept it to herself instead of seeking treatment immediately. He unclipped the probe from the top of the medical tricorder, and began to scan, starting at the talocrural joint and working down. Tendons and ligaments were all intact, the well-defined musculature sound and strong. Once again, Julian was awed by the inner mechanics of Palis's feet. From a kinesiological perspective, they were exquisite: perfectly adapted for the demands placed upon them. There were dancers who had trained just as faithfully who would never be capable of the accomplishments Palis was, because they hadn't been born with such well-suited infrastructure. Palis had won the genetic lottery.

That thought caught him unawares with a sickening wrench of guilt. Palis had won it — and she thought Julian had, too. She didn't realize that he had cheated.

"Alors?" Palis asked, peering down at him in mild concern. There was a subtle but unmistakable crease of worry between her dainty brows. "How bad is it?"

Julian forced himself to shake off the ghosts, unwilling to plunge back into the freezing depths he'd been so happy to escape this morning. With his affable, professional voice, he said; "You've got a compression fracture of your fourth tarsal. It's not serious."

"Ah, zut!" Palis snorted, rolling her eyes. She tilted her chin at him. "Be a dear, and fix it, would you? How tiresome."

"As you wish, Mademoiselle," Julian said playfully, doing a quick sweep of her toes with the tricorder before laying it aside for the osteogenic stimulator. He gently repositioned her ankle, and set to work. The fracture wasn't misaligned, so he had no need of the transdermal tractor.

Palis laughed airily. "That tickles," she said.

Julian grinned at her. "It does not," he said. "You shouldn't even be able to feel it. Just a little warmth, that's all."

She pursed her lips into a brief little pout. "You're no fun," she said.

"I can tickle you later, if you like," Julian said, in an intensely suggestive tone. Palis shifted her hips flirtatiously on the divan, somehow managing to do so without moving her injured appendage at all. Her thighs shifted, but her knee absorbed all of the motion so that her lower leg remained still. It was a complex display of sublime muscular control, and Julian was suitably impressed.

"Peut-être," Palis murmured with a slow, intoxicating smile. Then she fell silent, watching thoughtfully as Julian finished his work.

"How's that?" he asked when the time came to switch off the instrument.

Palis wriggled her long, limber toes, then slipped her foot off of the stool to test it against the floor. "Much better," she said, rising fluidly from the couch. She stepped around Julian and out into the centre of the room where there was a stretch of polished oak flooring. Her bare soles seemed to caress the smooth surface for a moment before she rose elegantly onto her toes, swaying into a slow turn that rose into a pirouette on the ball of the lately-injured foot. The skirts of her frock swirled around her as she dipped into a coy little révérance. Julian, sitting back on his heels and smiling, applauded.

"Very nice," he said. "Not many of my patients give me quite such artful proof of recovery."

Palis laughed, skipping across the floor towards him. She slid down onto the stool and kissed the tip of his nose, twining one arm around his neck while the other toyed with his hair. "Tu es un docteur merveilleux," she murmured, and her lips plucked at his.

"Et tu," Julian said, pausing mid-sentence as they kissed again; "es une danseuse exquise!" She was stroking the fine hairs at the nape of his neck now, and he slipped an arm about her slender waist. Palis shifted her knees so she could nestle closer to him, now almost in his lap. He bowed his head as she pressed his parietal plate with her fingertips, and let her kiss his eyelids ever so delicately. His whole body was warming with pleasure and desire, but he did still need to give her the aftercare he'd provide any other patient. "You should rest for twenty-four hours, and try to go gently when you're back in rehearsal."

Palis pulled back from him a little, disappointed. "Rest?" she echoed reproachfully.

Julian grinned. "Just the foot," he said.

"Oh, well, then," she murmured seductively, nuzzling nearer still. "We don't need the foot."

He laughed, rising nimbly and drawing Palis with him. Arms still entwined, mouths making unhurried passes at one another, they took a meandering, side-stepping journey to the short hallway that opened on Palis's spacious bedroom. Once they were over the threshold, Palis drew back, planting two tender fingers on Julian's lips when he didn't disengage swiftly enough for her liking. She slipped from his arms, trailing one hand behind to caress his hip for as long as she could.

"I'll be right back, mon trésor," she said, as she moved towards the door that led to her ensuite. "Reste là!"

"D'accord," Julian acknowledged absentmindedly, admiring the sway of her hips and the curve of her lithe back as she walked away. When she shut the door, he was released briefly from her delightful spell so that he could focus on his own preparations.

He closed the bedroom door, hearing the all-but-inaudible click of circuitry as the lights in the rest of the flat switched off at that signal. Julian sat down on the spindle-backed chair by the door, reaching down to remove his meticulously polished boots. He stripped off his socks, draping one over the back of each boot so they could air, then slid the whole arrangement neatly under the chair. He rose again to remove the rest of his clothing, stepping out of his jumpsuit and folding it neatly. He laid it, combadge up, atop his tidily-arranged undergarments, and padded naked to the bed.

Palis wasn't nearly as diligent as he was about bringing order to her sleeping area in the mornings. In fact, she rarely bothered to so much as straighten the covers, much less actually make the bed. Today, however, she had exerted the effort for his sake. Julian folded back the comforter over the wrought iron rail of the bed, so it rested on the long, antique chest beside it. The sheets were crisp and fresh, and he slipped beneath the top one, plumping the pillows on his side so that he could lean back comfortably. He could smell the San Francisco cherry blossoms, and the warm scents of the Parisian night wafting through the open window.

When the bathroom door opened, Julian's eyes moved hungrily to Palis. She had traded the fashionable clothes for her lavender satin dressing gown, and she stood with one hand caressing the doorframe high above her head. The other held one side of the robe so that it parted to reveal her sculpted, muscular leg. Sometimes, Julian was stricken with awe that such a petite woman could harbour such strength in her limbs. This was one of those moments.

"M'apprécies-tu?" Palis asked in a low and sultry voice tinged with playful innocence.

"Oui…" Julian breathed. Now the awe had shifted to fragile wonder. How was this his life, with this beautiful, brilliant, intelligent woman who loved him and trusted him and wanted to spend her life with him? What had he ever done, in his troubled quarter-century of fragmented existence, to deserve such happiness? "Tu es parfaite, Palis. Parfaite…"

She came to him, letting the garment slither from her shoulders as she approached. Julian lifted the edge of the sheet to welcome her, Palis's supple nakedness slipping in towards his own. He wrapped his arm around her, drawing her to him, and their lips met again in the prelude to bliss.

(fade)

French Translation Glossary

chef de cuisine: the head chef of a restaurant or café
spécialité de la maison: specialty of the house.
"C'est Papa! Il t'a dit quelque chose, n'a-t-il pas? L'homme têtu!":"It's Papa! He said something to you, didn't he? The stubborn man!"
"C'est impossible.": "It's impossible."
"Non! Ce n'est pas impossible! Nous avons beaucoup de possibilités. Il faut trouver un équilibre, c'est tout.": No! It's not impossible! We have plenty of possibilities. It's necessary to find a balance, that's all."
"C'est tout?": "That's all?"
"Je le sais. Je sais.": "I know it. I know."
"Alors?": "Well?"
"Ah, zut!": a mild French expletive, roughly equivalent to the English, "Oh, darn!".
"Peut-être.": "Perhaps."
"Tu es un docteur merveilleux.": "You are a marvellous doctor."
"Et tu… es une danseuse exquise!": "And you… are an exquisite dancer!"
"Reste là!": "Stay there!"
"D'accord.": "Okay."
"M'apprécies-tu?": "Do you care for me?", a classic French flirtation.
"Oui… Tu es parfaite, Palis. Parfaite…": "Yes… You are perfect, Palis. Perfect."

Medical Terminology Glossary:

talocrural joint: the ankle joint, where tibia, fibula, and talus meet.
aftercare: instructions given to a patient when a medical procedure is complete, to be carried out at home.