This One
(Laris/Zhaban)
"Take this one with you!" Laris yelled at Picard, jabbing her finger in Zhaban's direction. "You can die together!"
She stormed out of the room. Zhaban, after sharing a commiserating glance with their employer, followed her.
Romulan secrecy has its reasons. Unlike their distant cousins the Vulcans, who can control themselves through telepathy, Romulans rely on locked doors and soundproof walls to keep their emotions private. Part of being married, however, is knowing when and how to breach those walls.
Their bedroom door was open. He entered without knocking.
Laris sat on the edge of the bed, her face buried in an embroidered handkerchief that had once belonged to Picard's mother. She crumpled it into a ball and glared up at her husband with bloodshot eyes.
"This one?" he said lightly, pointing at his own chest.
"Oh, you know I didn't mean it." She threw the handkerchief at him.
He caught it, shook it out and put it in his pocket for later laundering. "You don't want me to go with him?"
"I can't lose you too."
Laris stared out the window, through which they could see the rows of vines bathed in afternoon sunlight. Zhaban could see by the blank look in her eyes, however, that she was seeing different leaves, different soil, and the light of a different star … all of it now irretrievably lost.
"We are losing him," Zhaban said quietly. "You know what that doctor said. This way … if he goes out fighting, at least he wouldn't lose himself."
"You've been a civilian far too long if you can say that," Laris retorted, but she leaned her head against his shoulder anyway and wrapped one arm securely around his waist.
"Maybe." He kissed the top of her curly head. "But this civilian's planning to stay with you for a long, long time."
"You'd better," she sniffed, fishing in his pocket to take back the handkerchief. "I'm not looking after this ramshackle place all by myself."
Zhaban had no trouble decoding this.
"I love you too," he said.