Chapter Text
Thomas pulled the pillow over his eyes. The overhead lights were set to a soft yellow glow that was meant to be soothing, but it was still too sharp – and he could hear the hum of electricity in the bulbs, a pattern-less rhythm that dug into his eardrums and scraped at the skin. His pillow, at least, blocked some of that light out.
It did nothing for the sound.
With a sigh, Thomas stretched his legs out and spread his feet. He had to be careful about it. If he kept them still for too long, they locked into place, and it was hell on earth to get them to move again. But if he stretched too far, too fast, the muscles bunched and an agonizing cramp shot through his nerves, so bad that it left him writhing. Tentatively, he spread his toes, felt the tug of tension on his muscles, and quickly pressed them together again.
Not bad. If he could just stay like this, without interruption, for the next few hours, maybe he could stomach a meal. If he focused on the arrhythmic hum, tried to find a pattern, he could take his mind off Gul Dorr Rik. One of the musical languages he’d created on Nervala Four consisted of hums, both thin and guttural; if he listened long enough, he could almost parse the electric whine into a message.
Into a voice.
Into a tap of fingers on his thigh.
Into Gul Dorr Rik’s breath, warm against his ear, whispering–
The privacy field flickered and the soundproof curtain rattled on its hooks. Thomas sat up with a jerk and an embarrassing, flinchy-sounding grunt. His pillow fell off his face, to the floor, as Kyle stepped inside.
“Thought you might want a breath of fresh air,” Kyle said. He bent down to retrieve the pillow and slung it on the bed, near Thomas’ feet. “I commandeered that wheelchair for you.”
Fresh air? Thomas pressed a palm to his eyes until all he saw was the red tint of his lids. “It’s cold out,” he said.
In response, something soft and heavy struck him in the arm. He shook it off and opened his eyes to see a winter coat crumpled over his lap. Underneath it, tangled together, were warm-weather clothes he could slip right on over his pajamas. A sweater, thick trousers, wool socks…
“I accept your gifts,” said Thomas with ironic regality, “but that does not mean I accept your proposal.”
Kyle’s lips quirked. When he was a kid, Thomas used to put on what he called the Royal Highness voice, part of a special repertoire designed to make his dad laugh when he came home from missions. He had a Rat Pack persona too, and a Vulcan Scientist voice, and a host of others. But he hadn’t done the voice in years, and attempting it now just made him cough.
“Help me put this on,” he requested, struggling with the sweater.
Kyle sat on the edge of Thomas’ bed and guided his arms through the sweater sleeves. The tight collar ruffled his hair as he poked his head through. It was growing back fast, he thought – soon it would flop down over his eyes, and he’d have to push it back off his forehead, like Dorr Rik had done not long ago, when the sweep of brown hair was matted with blood.
Before he could process this image – or the startling, physical sensation of a damp, hot palm against his forehead – Kyle was gently guiding Thomas’ legs over the edge of the bed. Thomas watched numbly, his fists clenched in the bedsheets, as his dad rucked the winter trousers up over Thomas’ pajamas.
“Where are we going?” Thomas asked finally, his voice sounding distant.
“You’re an extrovert,” said Kyle simply. “You stay in bed another day, your brain will rot.”
“I’m not arguing, but I don’t think the two are necessarily related…”
Kyle wheeled the chair around the side of the bed. He sat heavily in it and unfolded the wool socks. “The doctor,” he said gruffly, “I mean, your counselor – he thinks you could use some human interaction.”
Thomas said nothing. He watched as Kyle took his fragile left foot in hand and eased the sock over his toes, up to his ankle. Thomas tried not to wince at the scrape of wool over still-tender skin. His toes twitched, sparking a lance of pain that shot all the way up to his knee and faded before he could make a sound.
“Ready?” Kyle asked when both socks were in place.
Thomas shrugged into the coat with slow, careful movements. “When you say human interaction…”
“Relax, kid. I’m not gonna put you on a stage or anything. We’re just going for a walk.”
Thomas could feel his eyes growing strained. He squinted up at Kyle, willing the blurred features to coalesce a little better. “But are we talking to Starfleet officers? To prisoners?”
“Ex-prisoners,” Kyle reminded him, voice gruff. He brushed a single finger against Thomas’ sleeve, as if to soften the word.
“Ex-prisoners, fine,” Thomas said. “But is that who we’re talking to?”
Kyle stared down at him, his face too far away for Thomas to get a good read on it. “I’m taking you out into the common area,” he said finally, almost reluctantly. “Are you going to fight me on it?”
Thomas caught his breath for a laugh. But the laugh didn’t come. The air stayed locked into his lungs, where it started to burn. “I’m not going to fight you,” he managed, his voice strangled. “But I gotta say, it’s not one of your better ideas.”
“You wanna air your concerns, or you wanna keep talking in code?”
Code! Thomas’ features twitched, his forced smile fracturing. A sudden heat flooded his ears.
“It’s – it’s not–” he said, and then fell silent, frustrated by the sudden stammer. In his left ear (two years ago, they’d forced him to his knees, and they’d held an old fashioned concussive grenade right next to his ear, let him listen to the crackle of energy inside, let him smell the chemical stink of a reaction that might kill him if they held the grenade too close) – in his left ear there was a hum, thin like the whine of a mosquito, a soothing song he’d taught himself on Nervala IV. He held his shoulder against his ear to trap the noise inside his ear canal, where it drowned out every other sound. Dimly, deep in his throat, he felt the catch and click of his vocal cords trying to hum along, inaudible.
“Thomas?” Kyle prompted. He kicked the wheelchair a little, gently, as if to rattle some sense into his son.
“I’m fine,” said Thomas, his voice tight, the hum overwhelming.
“If you don’t want to go–”
“No. You’re right.” He forced himself to think of his favorite places: the crowded resort on Risa; the happy chatter of the galley on the Gandhi; the low lights and human body heat of a planetside jazz bar. The common denominator was people, other people, warm and vibrant, full of energy that he could feed off, learn to rest from. “You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “I’m a goddamn extrovert. Let’s do this.”
Kyle studied him first, his eyes narrow, but in the end, he didn’t argue. He hooked one arm under Thomas’ legs and eased him down into the chair. There, he placed his hands firmly on Thomas’ shoulders and looked him in the eye.
“You’ve got more of a spine, more honor, than any of those pathetic little criminals out there,” he said flatly.
Thomas grimaced. “Some of those ‘criminals’ are innocent political prisoners, and you damn well know it.”
“Nonetheless. They think they’re better than you?”
Why did he say that? What did he know?
“They’re not,” said Kyle before Thomas could question him. “You’re a Riker. You’re Thomas Thaddeus Riker! You come from a long line of red-blooded survivalists and hard-nosed soldiers, and don’t let those sniveling smugglers and puerile pirates take that away from you.”
God, he was bad at comforting people. Thomas shrugged Kyle’s hands off and passed a palm over his eyes. “Let’s just go,” he said. As Kyle circled around behind him to grab the handlebars, Thomas managed a weak, “I appreciate the alliteration, though.”
“I thought you would,” said Kyle with arch dignity.
And he wheeled Thomas out into the unforgiving light.