Ad Astra :: Star Trek Fanfiction Archive ^{Beam me up, Scotty.}

Chapter Text

About half of the security team was staying planet-side tonight. They’d been set up in open-room barracks with the local security forces – mostly a ragtag group of Tritates whose homes had been destroyed in the initial attacks. No better motivation to join the security forces than homelessness: at least you knew you’d have a bed to sleep in every night, and meals so long as there was food for the taking. 

Picard closed his PADD. In the sudden darkness, he rubbed his eyes and willed the itch of exhaustion to go away. He checked his chrono – almost midnight – and tapped his combadge.

“‘Bout time you called, sir,” came Chief O’Brien’s reproving voice. “One to transport?”

“Belay that, Chief,” said Picard. His voice came out scratchy, and all he could think of was how much longer his morning routine would take if he started it on the Enterprise and ended it here. How little sleep he would get. “I’ll be camping out planetside for tonight,” Picard said. 

A pause. A trill of electronics. 

“You’ll alert the security team, sir?” O’Brien checked. 

The terrible thing about being a captain was that, just as you clawed your way up to authority, your underlings decided you needed babysat. “I will inform anyone who needs informed,” said Picard.

Another pause.

“I see Commander Riker is still down there,” said O’Brien grudgingly. To Picard’s ears, it sounded very much like, If your dad says it’s okay… 

“Thank you, Mister O’Brien,” said Picard, his patience wearing thin. “Picard out.”

He sighed into the silence. He didn’t bother to turn the lights on. There were fold-out cots stacked against the back wall of his makeshift office – extras, stored here just in case a new recruit came in during the night. Picard set one up, a little dismayed by the flat pillow, the scratchy army-issue blanket. He hung his uniform jacket on the doorknob and settled into bed, fully-dressed against the cold. 

Like any good officer, Picard was asleep within seconds.

And like any good officer, the moment he heard footsteps outside his door, he awoke again. His eyes opened; he didn’t move; he was too vigilant to make a move without assessing the threat first. Still outside. A familiar tread. Picard sat up slowly, his abs protesting, and when the office door slid open, he was upright in bed, arms crossed, face set in a scowl. 

“Number One,” he said, and Riker faltered, his eyebrows shooting up. “I assure you, I do not need an escort–”

“Sir, I–” Riker closed his mouth. They stared at each other, Picard with one eyebrow raised, waiting for a justification. But Riker’s shoulders relaxed an inch or two – some might call it a slump – and he let his hand fall. “Sorry, sir. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

Riker spun on his heel, and Picard’s sour expression faded. This wasn’t what he expected. He flicked the blanket off his lap and called, “Number One!”

Reluctantly, Riker turned back. “Sir?”

“Explain yourself.”

A long-suffering expression snuck into Riker’s eyes. “Awful lot of snoring out here, sir,” he said. “I didn’t realize you’d already called dibs on the office.”

“O’Brien didn’t put you up to this?” Picard asked. 

It was only then that Riker’s combadge squawked. He gave Picard a ‘wait one’ gesture and turned slightly away. “Riker here,” he said, tapping the badge.

“Just letting you know, sir–” came O’Brien’s voice. “--that Captain Picard has elected to stay planet-side.”

Riker shot Picard a look. “Noted, O’Brien.”

“I did try to convince him otherwise, sir.”

“I’m sure.” Riker ended the call. He stood just outside the doorway, halfway illuminated by the barracks’ red lights. The other half of him, namely his face, was cast in shadow. He looked at Picard, lips parted, ready to say something.

Picard beat him to it. With a yawn, he moved back to his cot. “Come inside, Number One, and close the door behind you.”

Riker scuttled inside. “Sir?”

“There are extra cots against the wall.” Picard lay down, pulling the blanket up to his chest. “God knows I wouldn’t want to sleep out there, either.”

There was a clank of aluminum as Riker unfolded a cot. “They say the red lights don’t impact your sleep quality at all,” he said, sounding amused. Picard muttered exactly what he thought of that while Riker located a pillow. “It’ll be better in here, anyway,” Riker said to himself. 

Picard squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Easier to keep an eye on you,” Riker said. 

“Thank you, Number One, goodnight,” said Picard, his voice tight. 

He heard a low chuckle, a creak of the cot as Riker lay down. He was asleep in seconds, far too fast to notice the way Riker turned to face the door, the strain in his eyes. And Picard’s breathing was slow and even, with just the slightest hints of a snore, when Riker stood on silent feet and crossed the room.

He locked the door.

The various away teams met early the next day, just before sunrise. Bleary-eyed, with many of the males neglecting to shave, they lined up before Dr. Crusher for a quick med-scan. Riker stood off to the side, eyeing the local food stands, where elderly Tritates were getting ready for a busy morning of customers. The smell of baking bread and sizzling meat filled the air, but Riker looked unusually bored by it, missing the usual sparkle in his eye. 

“Anywhere you want to try?” Troi asked in a low voice, nudging him. He shifted out of her reach. 

“Hm?” he asked. 

“You’ve been eyeing those meat buns for twenty minutes,” Troi said. 

Riker managed a smile at that, even if it was a distracted one. “Trying to figure out how they’re made,” he muttered. He turned his attention back to Beverly, whose eyes were dark.

“I’m not liking this air quality, Captain,” she said sternly. She kept her gaze locked on her medscanner as she walked down the line, tapping each crew member’s combadge. “I’m setting your badges to read and report all bio-metrics throughout the day. And everyone here is going to wear an oxygen mask the second you get breathless, understood?”

She smacked Riker’s combadge, took a step forward, and froze. Eyebrows furrowed, Beverly finished up the rest of the away squad as if nothing had happened. But when Picard dismissed them to find breakfast and report for their assignments, Beverly put a hand on Riker’s arm, silently ordering him to wait. 

“Your heart rate is high,” she said in a murmur as the squads dispersed. “Blood pressure, too.”

“Anything I should be concerned about?” asked Riker.

“Will,” said Troi, “if Beverly is telling you about it, then I think it’s worth being concerned.” 

He broadcast a wave of amusement toward her. Beverly, with her eyes on the medscanner, didn’t seem to notice the conversation at all. She studied Riker’s readings and slotted a hypospray canister into the dispenser. 

“I’m not seeing any physical cause for it,” she said, standing on tiptoe to press it against Riker’s neck. “This is an anxiolytic. It will lower your heart rate and maybe do something about that nausea.”

A flare of discomfort reached Riker’s face. “I’m not nauseous,” he said.

“Tell that to your esophageal lining,” Beverly said, waving her medscanner. “If you throw up again, come find me. Don’t try to hide it in the snow.”

Riker rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to hide the deep blush that had blossomed in his cheeks. He kept his head down until Beverly was out of earshot. She and Picard both drifted down an alleyway, in pursuit of the smell of coffee – or something like coffee. Troi and Riker stayed behind. She waited, sampling his feelings, until the embarrassment had cooled.

“An anxiolytic,” Troi mused. “Have you been feeling anxious, Will?”

He gave her a dark look at that. “You would know,” he said with little rancor. 

“I suppose I would.” She searched his face, her heart aching. “Will. You can talk to me.”

“I know.” But his hands were in his pockets again, his shoulders stiff. He turned away. “I have work to do–”

She caught his arm. Forced him to stop. He didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“You had six nightmares last night,” Troi said, pronouncing the words slowly, carefully. Without judgment. “Six.”

Her fingers had found his. She twined them together, squeezed a little, tried to tell him without words that she was listening. But Riker shifted his grip and raised her hand to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, offered her a gentle smile – just his eyes – and let her go. 

“I have work to do, Imzadi ,” he said.

The local structures needed to be reinforced. This was simple work; the kind of back-breaking, mindless duty that almost doubled as combat training. Worf relished it. Not just for the salt-sweat on his brow or the ache in his muscles: he relished it because it was just hard enough to keep Commander Riker from chatting. 

They worked in silence. 

“Over there,” Riker said at 1000, nodding toward a rubbish pile. He and Worf took the discarded support beams in their arms and lugged them onto the trash. At 1300, Riker said, “Water break,” voice clipped. He didn’t make eye contact with Worf; he just stood there, the wind cutting his parka and wrapping it around his ribs; he drank from the water bottle, eyes dark, and watched the trees. 

At 1500, Riker said, “Okay?” after a beam caught Worf’s fingers when it fell.

“Okay,” Worf grunted back, and that was all.

What had seemed like an honorable silence at 0800 became downright concerning by midday. Worf sneaked occasional glances at Riker. He seemed subdued. No, thoughtful. And in Worf’s experience, it was highly unusual to see a ‘thoughtful’ Commander Riker. He was a man of action; a quick leader who processed situations and did not hesitate to implement situations; this was why he fit in so well on a Klingon ship, and by ‘fit in’, Worf meant ‘survived.’ 

He was still surreptitiously studying Commander Riker when they took their final break. Leaning together against the wall, hands in pockets to protect them from the cold, Worf and Riker stared out at the trees. Children played on the edge of the forest, shouting at each other over the wind. Riker’s eyes narrowed; gradually, he lowered his head and stared at his feet instead. Maybe it was just to protect his exposed face from the breeze.

“Worf,” said Riker suddenly, and then hesitated. Worf turned to face him, his senses on edge.

“Yes, Commander?”

Reluctantly, Riker met his gaze. Sunlight sparkled off the snow and flashed in Riker’s eyes, giving them a glassy sheen that struck at some deep instinct inside Worf – it was uncanny, he decided, for someone to look straight at you; and even more uncanny when you got the sense they couldn’t see you when they did. Riker bit his lip, his gaze skittering away.

“What do Klingons do,” he asked finally, “when an adult … interferes with a child?”

In the distance, bark crackled and ripped as a child slipped from the tree. His playmates whooped and rushed forward to catch him. 

“The perpetrator is killed,” Worf said. “Swiftly.” He showed his teeth. “And savagely.”

He expected Riker to smile at that, but Riker just kept staring at his feet, his eyes dull.

“Do you think that’s right?” he asked. Over the wind, his voice was almost inaudible. Worf shrugged.

“What do Humans do?” he asked.

Riker glanced up at the playing children, his eyes strained. Worf waited for an answer, and when none came, he distracted himself with a nutrient bar. There was no telling if Commander Riker would call it a day soon or – in a mood like this – if he might keep going till midnight. And if he kept going, then Worf would be honor-bound to join him. Best to stock up on calories, just in case. He chewed mechanically, sharp teeth digging into the rubbery surface of the bar.

“Worf,” said Riker, “when all this is done, do you want to spar afterward?”

Worf paused mid-chew. “Today?” he asked, pushing a wad of unswallowed food into his cheek.

“Yeah.”

He considered. The work alone was plenty exhausting for a Human. To add a Klingon sparring match on top of that might just be dangerous. But if Riker wanted to…

“That would be … acceptable,” Worf said, and finally, a hint of life entered Riker’s eyes. He slapped Worf on the shoulder and pushed off from the wall.

“Good! You ready to work?”

Sour-faced, Worf choked down the rest of his nutrient bar in one gulp.

“Again,” Riker said, and their second match ended with Riker flat on his back, winded, his hair covered in snow. 

“Again,” Riker said, and ice against skin left a raw burn, a red patch where Worf had shoved his face against the ground and pinned him.

“Again,” Riker said, and when it was over, he spat blood on the snow and touched his nose gingerly, checking if it was broken. Worf watched him. The commander swayed a little, and dropped pragmatically to one knee, his face creased with concentration. There was a distinct click as he pushed something back into place. “I think I’m okay,” he said. He got to his feet with a wobble.

There was a purple bruise forming on his left eye. Blood streaked his beard. Scrapes mottled his skin. Melted snow and drying blood had turned his hair stiff and wet. He got into position, knuckles bleeding, and waited for the first blow.

“Enough,” Worf said. He brought his heels together, the ceremonial end position for a sparring match. Surprised, Riker dropped his hands.

“What, you’re tired?” Then his face darkened. “I’m fine, Worf. Don’t worry about me.”

“I am not concerned for you,” said Worf stiffly, even as Riker raised his hands again. “I am–” Kahless, it hurt him to say this; it hurt him deeply. “--merely concerned about my own stamina, for the day ahead of us.”

“We’ll sleep before then,” said Riker dismissively, but he gave it up. He wiped the blood from his nose. Head down, bundled in a parka, he looked oddly small. He eyed Worf over his own knuckles, face soft. 

Don’t thank me, Worf thought. After claiming to be too weak to fight another round, he couldn’t stand to be thanked too. His warrior’s pride would not allow it. But Riker’s eyes crinkled in a smile and all he said was,

“How bad did it hurt to give me that out?”

“It was agony,” Worf said. Riker gave an exhausted chuckle.

“Well, thanks for humoring me,” he said. “Do me a favor?”

Worf grunted … and watched with a beady eye as Riker turned his bio-metric reader back on. With a wink, Riker said,

“Don’t tell Doctor Crusher.”

He didn’t wait for a yes. He brushed past Worf with his head held high, more relaxed than earlier. More loose. But he staggered, and when he got close enough to the nearest building, he walked with his hand trailing on the wall. Worf watched him go. The commander, he decided, looked smaller because he was smaller – because he hadn’t been eating enough. They had worked together all day yesterday, and all day today. They slept in the same open-room barracks.

He hadn’t seen Riker eat once.

The third night, Picard slept on the ship, and Troi stayed planetside. 

She didn’t know their situations were reversed. They hadn’t planned it. But some internal sense compelled her to stay below. She went to bed while Riker was still outside, his silhouette visible through the foggy window glass, against the snow. He was sharing a drink in the cold with some of the local workers; they bowed their heads over a game of cards, numb fingers struggling to perform a Corgi shuffle. Riker’s gentle voice, low and unintelligible through the walls, lulled Troi to sleep. 

Hours later, with a flash of terror, Troi woke. 

She sat up straight, so fast she almost hit her head against the bunk above her. Heart pounding, Troi held her breath and listened. Terror faded. Shame crept in. Slow and steady, all emotion leaked away. Only exhaustion was left: muted, weary, ready to sleep – and none of these emotions were her own. Troi glanced around, the red lights illuminating sleeping soldiers all over the barracks. She climbed down from the middle bunk and padded barefoot across the hall.

Picard’s makeshift office was closed. A Starfleet digi-lock denied Troi access.

“Medical override: Counselor Troi,” she whispered.

The doors hissed open. The light didn’t reach inside … but still, Troi thought she could see Riker clear as day. It was their empathic bond: it lit him up, allowed her to see the shift of muscles, the palm that passed tiredly over his eyes. When the doors closed behind her and darkness devoured them both, Troi took just one step closer.

“Medical override?” he asked, his voice rusty. “Really, Counselor?”

At least he sounded amused. He didn’t feel it, but he was okay enough to fake it. Troi let her breath out in a sigh and sat on the edge of his bed, close enough to feel his warmth.

“Did you have a nightmare?” she asked.

“No,” he said automatically. In the darkness, Troi saw him blink: a skin sliding shut over the light in his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “But I’m fine.”

She laid a hand flat on his upper arm and pushed. Obediently, Riker shifted to the side, leaving enough room on the side of the cot for her. Troi slid into place, into his warmth, intoxicating. Her hand rested on his chest, palm flat over his heart, fingers splayed, absorbing his erratic pulse as it slowed down. A sigh pushed out from between Riker’s teeth. What would it be? Troi wondered: an honest conversation, or small talk?

“Beverly’s planning a toy drive,” Riker said to the shadows.

Small talk it is, then, Troi thought. 

“Not really a toy drive,” Riker amended. “She’s commandeered an extra replicator for them to use. Her plan is to station a few petty officers there – Henley and Croix.”

“Artists,” Troi said.

“Yes. The kids get to design their own toys. Henley and Croix will help.”

Silence. A shallow breath in; a slow sigh out. 

“It’s a good idea,” Deanna ventured.

Will made a noncommittal hum. 

“You don’t think so? A lot of them lost their toys in the war,” Deanna said. “Their homes. Their parents.”

“It’s a fine idea,” said Will, but there was a thorny tension in his voice that suggested otherwise.

“But…?” Deanna led him.

He glared at her from the corner of his eye. Knowingly. “But,” he relented, “I saw the sign-up list. There are kids as old as thirteen, fourteen, lining up for free teddy bears.”

Deanna smacked him heartily on the chest, earning an ‘oof!’

“So let them!” she said. “You awful sourpuss.”

Will massaged his chest. “It doesn’t strike you as a little strange?” he asked.

“I know for a fact there are grown men and women on the Enterprise who have stuffed animals in their bedrooms,” Deanna said. She eyed Will, and risked a poke to the cheek. “I’m sure you’ve seen plenty. You’ve been in more bedrooms than I have.”

“Low blow.”

“Compliment,” said Deanna innocently. But she felt the undercurrent of emotion – a genuine hurt, surprising but real. She examined it, circled the wound, and backed away. “Will,” she said, more seriously now, “these kids have just lived through a civil war. They could use a little comfort, don’t you think?”

A grunt.

“Even untraumatized people often keep their favorite toys into adulthood.”

Another grunt.

“Don’t you have any?” Deanna asked.

Will laughed a little at that. “No, I don’t have any,” he said, sounding practically scandalized. “My dad burned all my toys when I was … God, I couldn’t have been older than ten.”

“He burned your toys?” Deanna repeated in a whisper-shout, sitting up on her elbows. “When you were ten?”

Will gave a strained smile at her indignation. “He said if I was old enough to stay home by myself, I was old enough to throw away my toys.”

“You were staying home by yourself at ten?” Deanna said. 

“Oh, please, ten is plenty old enough.”

“By yourself while he went off on Starfleet missions,” Deanna clarified, her eyebrows raised. “By yourself for months, in the Alaskan wilderness, too young to drive the snow-skimmer, with no one to cook you meals or – or see to the heating unit if it broke down?”

Will caught her hand. “I survived, didn’t I?”

“Will, you were ten!”

In the darkness, stark new lines stood out on Will’s face. His voice, when it came, was harsh and low. “Yes,” he said, dropping Deanna’s hand, “I was, and there’s damned little I can thank that man for, Deanna. So let me have that.”

Deanna was shocked into silence. She stared at Will, at his dark, glittering eyes, uncomprehending. Thank that man – thank Kyle Riker? For what? For leaving him alone? All the time she’d known Will, all his hurt and anger surrounding Kyle had centered on being left alone. Now he claimed he liked it. Deanna hesitated, touched his hand.

“Will, I–”

“I was old enough,” Will said shortly. “I wanted to.” He rolled over abruptly, facing the wall. He whispered something she couldn’t hear – an oath, a swear – and ground the heel of his palm into his eyes. “Can you go back to your own bed?” he grumbled. 

She felt his sting of regret as soon as she stood up. Not because he wanted her to stay – Deanna could tell that he didn’t. But because he could feel her hurt emanating through their bond as surely as she could feel his. He caught her fingers before she left, squeezed them once, gently. An apology without words. 

“Will…” Deanna said, her heart aching. He let her go, his hand slipping back into the shadows.

“Go to sleep,” he said.