Chapter Text
There was someone in the guest suite who wasn’t supposed to be there.
Barclay knew this because this was his guest suite — his secret safe space that he retreated to whenever work got overwhelming and he needed to — well, not cry, exactly, but not not cry. Anyway, it was a good place to lose one’s dignity without anyone noticing or judging.
Usually.
Today, the guest suite was occupied. The door was closed; Barclay listened at the seam and caught a few muffled sounds — a deep, familiar voice groaning in pain, a creak of the mattress — and he flushed beet-red. Someone had stolen his hiding spot. And if they were anything like him, they weren’t there for good reason. That groan … was it possible someone had hurt himself in there? On the Enterprise? He didn’t want to believe it, but when he turned on his heel to leave, something stopped him. Stomach tight, he made his decision.
“Computer,” he said, turning to the black display panel on the wall. “Show me the occupants of Guest Suite Xeta.”
“This guest suite is not reserved,” said the computer’s melodic voice.
He knew it. And inside, there was another soft moan. Images of blood and razor blades flashed through Barclay’s head. “Computer, override guest suite lock!”
The doors slid open.
Barclay regretted his decision immediately. There was a slow rustle of bedsheets as the doors opened and bright lights spilled from the hallway to the room inside. Commander Riker sat up on his elbows, the blankets pooled around his hips. Beneath him, undressed and with a smile dying on her lips, was a woman Barclay only vaguely recognized — a visiting officer who’d joined them at Risa and was due to beam out as soon as the Enterprise got close enough to her space station.
“Sorry, sir,” said Barclay with an ugly flush. He averted his gaze, but he didn’t leave. Part of it was the shock — he’d been so certain someone was hurt in here. But part of it was a sense of unease. Everyone knew about Commander Riker’s proclivities … but his firm refusal to fraternize with the crew was well-known too. This woman represented a gray space — on their ship, but not of their ship — that previously, Commander Riker had never violated. Visiting officers were his officers. There was always a possibility, however faint, that the Enterprise could stumble into conflict on their way to drop this woman off, that Riker might be called upon to order her into danger, to risk her life. And if that happened, if his objectivity was compromised…
“Barclay,” said Riker steadily. “Are you gonna stand there all afternoon?” A devilish grin spread across his face. “Or are you gonna join us? There’s plenty of room in this bed.”
Barclay stammered out an aghast refusal even as Riker’s partner slapped him on the chest. The sound of Riker’s laughter followed Barclay out as he retreated. In the corridor, with the doors closed behind him, Barclay crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the carpeted floor.
And stared.
And stared.
Finally, with a weak shake of the head, Barclay left the guest suite — and Riker — behind.
It was late, and Worf’s eyes were itching as he made his way to his quarters. He heard, of course, the rapid footsteps behind him in the hall. A warrior is always on-guard. And he recognized, of course, the gait — because a warrior learns to memorize the sounds and habits of his allies as well as his enemies. So he knew it was Commander Riker jogging to catch him long before Riker raised his voice and called out,
“Worf!”
Worf was almost tired enough to pretend he didn’t care. Riker would want to talk about Risa. Not the trial, but … Troi’s quiet plea for Worf to join them planetside, the strange quiet night he spent playing cards with Riker, the night they shared a bed together as brothers …He took a deep breath and turned around to face Riker.
“Commander,” he said neutrally as Riker caught up to him.
“Our session,” Riker said. He adjusted his uniform jacket and looked at Worf expectantly. “Calisthenics?” Riker reminded him.
Worf furrowed his brow. It was an intimidating gesture — all his ridges wrinkling into one big knot. “Sir,” he said, emphasis on sir, “we do not meet on the second and fourth days of the week.”
“I know.” Riker gave him one of those big, dazzling grins that humans considered charming. “I thought we could meet anyway. Blow off some steam.”
Worf chewed on that, thinking back over his behavior today. Had he done something to necessitate ‘blowing off steam’? Had he been especially — what was the word? — ‘prickly’? Had he snapped more than usual? Been atypically aggressive? He didn’t think so. If anything he had been more subdued, still recovering from the obnoxiously soft parade grounds of Risa. Maybe that was the issue. Perhaps Riker had noticed Worf’s fatigue from all things beautiful and weak — and decided to cheer him up with an invigorating round of bloodthirsty battle between friends.
Or maybe it had more to do with Riker. But just like he’d shied away from Riker’s emotional state when they were planetside, Worf shied away from it now.
“Come on,” said Riker, like he could sense that Worf was considering it. He tugged playfully on Worf’s arm and headed for the holodeck.
“We are not scheduled for today,” Worf said, already following.
“That’s okay. Nobody’s got it booked. We can squeeze in for a quick round.”
“How quick?” Worf asked.
Riker shot him a grin over his shoulder. “Fifteen minutes?”
Most humans wouldn’t even last two, but Worf knew from experience that Riker could handle it. He gave a grave nod of assent and made his way down to the holodeck in silence. Riker bounded ahead of him, energetic and eager — as always — when it would be smarter to conserve his vigor for the fight ahead. Riker was so enthusiastic that he reached the turbolift a full forty seconds before Worf and had to hold the door.
“We could meet every fourth day too, if you want,” Riker said when Worf joined him.
“Then you wish for a permanent change to our schedule?” asked Worf.
“If you don’t mind. I mean, if you’re busy…”
“I am,” said Worf firmly.
Riker said nothing, and his expression stayed cheerful. He hit the button for the nearest holodeck and clasped his hands behind his back.
“It would damage you,” said Worf reluctantly.
“You don’t have to make excuses, Worf,” said Riker, his voice light. “You’re entitled to your free time. I’m just glad you said yes for today.”
Worf accepted this with an uneasy nod. Still, he couldn’t help the impression that Riker was hurt. There was no physical evidence of it. He was still smiling a little — and still had that anticipatory gleam in his eye — and as the turbolift whisked them horizontally to the holodeck, Riker kept up a steady stream of chatter. How was Alexander? Did he enjoy school? What was his favorite class?
“I remember that ceremonial pot he made you,” Riker said. “Do you still have that?”
Worf huffed out a sigh. “The point of the ceremony, Commander, is to destroy the pot. Had I not smashed it, young Alexander would have been highly offended.”
Riker laughed. The doors slid open and together they stepped into the holodeck programming room, where Riker’s fingers danced leisurely over the computer in tune to some jazz melody only he could hear. He called up their usual program and gestured for Worf to lead the way.
“Did you ever make anything like that for your parents?” Riker asked.
Through the holodeck gate, Worf emerged into a fiery Klingon landscape. “Occasionally,” he said, “I crafted coasters for their drinks. It was part of my elementary school programming. Arts and crafts.” He wrinkled his nose. “They did not smash my gifts.”
“Ah, parents,” said Riker with a twinkle in his eye. He plucked a roll of tape from the equipment rack provided for them and wrapped his knuckles, jaw tight now, face expressionless. “I don’t think I ever made anything like that,” he said.
“No?”
Riker shrugged. He tossed the roll of tape to Worf, who cast it aside unused. “Not that I remember,” said Riker, getting into the defense position, his hands up to guard his face. “Definitely not for my mother, unless you count artificial flower arrangements. You ready?”
Worf hesitated. The sense of unease was back. Instead of sliding into offense, he looked at Riker — really looked at him. The slight shadows beneath his eyes, the blankness of his face. Why was he doing this? He liked their sessions together, Worf was sure of it, but he’d never pushed for extra. Even Riker had trouble keeping up with their schedule as it was, and frankly had to push himself to finish on time. As a human, he could never get fully accustomed to Klingon calisthenics; certainly not enough to take on further strain.
So why? The question rattled around Worf’s head unanswered. Slowly, he slid his feet into the offensive position and raised his hands. Riker flashed him a smile and an approving nod, and inexplicably Worf thought of Risa, of the trial — and remembered his own father’s trial, the conflicted feelings that came with it, the uncertainty and pain. Worf squared his jaw and shoved those thoughts away.
“Ready,” he said, and the fight began.
“What about a Samarian Sunset?”
“No,” said Guinan.
“An Irish Raktagino!”
“I don’t think so.”
Wesley studied his notes. He’d scribbled down a dozen different drinks to try, and Guinan had shot each and every one of them out of the air. She didn’t stop him, though; a smile was playing over her lips and she was interested to hear what he’d come up with next. Finally, hopefully, he met her eyes.
“Plomeek tea?” he asked innocently.
Guinan pushed away from the bar with a chuckle. “I’ll get you a Bloody Mary. Virgin.”
Wesley blushed a deep red and stammered, his eyes wide.
“The cocktail, not you,” said Guinan, and he sagged in relief. Then he realized he wouldn’t be getting any alcohol and his face creased.
“Oh, come on, Guinan!” he protested. “It’s just plomeek tea!”
“Kid, for a boy your age, the concentration of aminatrox in the plomeek leaves would get you higher than— well, you don’t need any more ideas,” Guinan said. “And I know you know about plomeek, otherwise it wouldn’t be on your list. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
Despite himself, Wesley looked almost scandalized at the language. Guinan turned away to fix him a virgin cocktail and hide her chuckling. She mixed the tomato juice and sour Flemis sauce with an old Earth substance called ‘Tabasco’, not to be mistaken for the noxious substance outlawed centuries earlier (and sometimes still indulged in, when Orion cigars came through). A dash of black pepper and a squirt of citrus topped it all off. Not great without the vodka, Guinan thought, but it would do for Wesley.
“What are you doing in here, anyway?” she asked when she turned back. A tall, sweating glass of non-alcoholic tomato juice slid across the bar to brush Wesley’s fingers. He looked down at it glumly and crumpled his list of cocktails into a ball. “Waiting for someone?” Guinan asked.
“Commander Riker,” Wesley said. He took a sip of the Bloody Mary and made a face. “What’s in this? Why is it so spicy?”
Guinan just chuckled. Across the bar, Commander Riker strode through the door and glanced around, raising an eyebrow when he spotted Wesley with a Bloody Mary in his hand. He approached with a faint smirk touching his lips.
“Do I have to write you up for drinking on duty, Ensign?” he asked.
Wesley, to his credit, didn’t jump. He covered his drink with a coolly adult sniff and made room for Riker at the bar. “It’s virgin,” he said with great dignity, only blushing a little.
“I see.” Riker managed to swallow his grin and met Guinan’s eyes. “I’ll take one, too.”
“What’s on the menu, Guinan?” Wesley asked as she prepared a second drink.
“You haven’t eaten yet?” she asked. Riker was watching her line up the ingredients and she could see that he’d somehow miscalculated — he looked vaguely overwhelmed by the sheer amount of substances going into his glass.
“Neither of us have,” said Wesley. “We’ve been on the bridge for twelve hours.”
Oh, youth. To work a twelve-hour shift and then show up at Ten-Forward, bright and perky. Guinan shook her head and passed Riker his drink.
“I’ll see what I can whip up,” she said. In fact, she’d been preparing the spicy brine for hasperat for over a week now, and it was finally ready to go. She kept half an ear on Riker’s conversation with Wesley as she prepared the wraps, each one eye-wateringly hot. She’d heard plenty of Riker’s check-ups before, and this one was no different. He always started with a casual lead-in: questions about family and hobbies, little details tossed in to show that he remembered each individual and cared about their lives. He always knew who had a niece in the hospital or a special local custom to celebrate.
Then, masterfully, he guided Wesley to segue the conversation into work. None of Riker’s conversation partners ever seemed to notice that he did this. If asked, they would probably say they were the ones who wanted to discuss work. One moment they’d be discussing music or sports and the next they’d be consumed by the desire to open up to him, to discuss their professional worries and seek advice. Really, Riker was an expert at maneuvering people; it was a combination of subtle leading statements and body language, and of course the relaxed atmosphere and the excellent food and drink.
“It’s not that we don’t get along,” Wesley was saying as Guinan deposited a plate full of hasperat and Cardovian eggs at his elbow. She doled out soup and salad to both Wesley and Riker, but only Riker noticed and nodded at her. “I mean, we work together just fine on-shift,” Wesley said. “But … I just get the impression he doesn’t like me. The other day, we both got called up to the bridge at the same time, and when the turbolift opened, he walked away so fast I had to run to keep up. It was like he didn’t want to be seen with me.”
Riker, seeing that Wesley was done, gestured for him to eat. “Ensign Mendillo is a fairly recent graduate, Wesley,” he said, poking at his hasperat wrap with a fork. “It’s not a lot of recent graduates who get stationed directly on the Enterprise. To get here, you have to be extremely talented, distinguished, and highly recommended. A personal commendation from a high-ranking officer is really the only way to get it.”
“I know,” said Wesley, his mouth full and his eyes already red-rimmed from the spice. “He is smart. And competent. It’s an honor to work with him. But…”
“You misunderstand,” said Riker gently. “I’m not admonishing you about a lack of respect, Wes. Just try to see it from his point of view. You’re the only cadet from your class to nab the coveted opening on the U.S.S. Enterprise. It’s a new ship, a chance to reinvent yourself. To prove your worth. And you know you don’t have much experience, and you’ll have to work hard to prove you belong here — but you have one advantage, right? The very fact that you got here so soon is an indicator of your skill. You’re the youngest officer aboard. That alone should prove that you belong here.”
Wesley’s brow furrowed as he realized where Riker was going. “Only he’s not the youngest officer,” he said.
“Exactly.” Riker had picked his hasperat apart, the doughy shell laid open to reveal pickled vegetables and rice inside. Still, he hadn’t taken a single bite. He stared down at the hasperat blankly and picked at his salad instead. “You get here and suddenly you find out there’s a kid who’s younger than you — smarter than you — already known and loved by everyone aboard. And worse, he’s been working on this ship the whole time you’ve been in the academy. That means he knows his way around, he’s got mission experience. He’s had two field promotions while you were struggling through orbital mechanics classes and early-morning PT.”
“So I’m a threat,” said Wesley glumly. He’d wolfed down all his food while Riker was talking and now he sat back, scraping his fork over an empty plate.
“He’ll get over it, Wes,” Riker promised. “All he needs is to settle into the ship. Make some friends. When he feels comfortable, he’ll relax around you.”
“I just hope it happens fast.”
“It will … if you make it happen fast,” said Riker with a twinkle in his eye. “Invite him to the holodeck with you and your friends, Wes. Take him skiing. Get him one of these—” He picked up his Bloody Mary for the first time and sniffed it, his nose wrinkling. “—jeez, is this what the kids are drinking these days?”
“Guinan picked it.”
“Well, invite Ensign Mendillo and all your other friends … and let Guinan pick something for all of you,” Riker said with a smile. “You and Mendillo might not ever be best friends, Wes, but the more people he meets, the more comfortable he becomes. And the more comfortable he becomes, the less he cares that he’s suddenly a small fish in a big pond. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Wesley, still staring at his plate. He took a deep breath. “Yeah. It makes sense. Thank you, Commander.”
Riker just shrugged, twisting his still-full plate in a circle. “You still hungry?”
Wesley’s eyes lit up. With a laugh, Riker pushed his plate over and stood. He nodded again at Guinan to thank her for the meal, the drink. But he left his Bloody Mary on the counter, dripping condensation, untouched. And he hadn’t eaten a single bite of his meal. He’d just pushed it around and waited till he found a chance to push it off on Wesley.
Grimly, Guinan watched him go.
There was something amiss with Commander Riker.
Data was an excellent analyst. He could often pinpoint symptoms of illness in his human comrades days or weeks before they noticed it themselves. They rarely appreciated Data saying anything, though, so he kept his mouth shut.
For Commander Riker, the symptoms could be illness or they could be something else. Mild exhaustion, Data surmised, or perhaps a simple touch of distractedness, which he’d learned could be caused by high emotions. With Commander Riker, these ‘high emotions’ usually centered around Counselor Troi. And Counselor Troi had seemed particularly withdrawn since they returned from Risa, so Data was comfortable chalking Riker’s oddities up to that.
The oddities themselves were small.
Stardate 44167.3. Commander Riker lapsed into silence while giving routine orders. His features, when checked, indicated no particular emotion. His eyes, as noted by Data, were somewhat glassy.
Stardate 44168.7. Commander Riker stepped over his chair from behind, as was his custom. Upon sitting, his left foot slipped out from under him. The manner in which he sat could best be described as ‘collapsing.’ He caught himself, chuckled slightly at his clumsiness, and sat up straight — or as straight as Commander Riker ever did.
Stardate 44169.2. Commander Riker was afflicted by faint discoloration, just beneath his lower eyelids. The hue was best described as a light purple, somewhat darker than lavender. When questioned, Commander Riker wiggled his eyebrows “devilishly” (to use Geordi’s term) and implied he had been up all night.
(Meaning: unknown. But several members of the bridge either scoffed or blushed, which Data took to indicate embarrassment.)
And now, Stardate 44170.6, as Data wound through the corridors of the Enterprise to his personal quarters, he discovered another oddity. Before him was a storage closet. Behind the storage closet door was a heat signature he recognized as Commander Riker’s.
Conclusion: Commander Riker was inside the storage closet.
Query: Why?
Data cocked his head and took a step closer. On occasion, he had seen humans knock their opponents unconscious, tie them up, and place them inside closets for storage. In fact, Lore had done this to him once, although rather than knock Data unconscious, he had simply switched Data off and removed his head. But Commander Riker’s life signs indicated he was wide awake, with an elevated heart rate and body temperature. He was standing upright, not sitting down, and his hands were free, not tied. Data could tell because Commander Riker’s hands were in motion, one over his chest, the other…
Data knocked on the closet door and inside, Commander Riker went still.
“Sir,” Data said, “I must inquire after your general health.”
“Data?” said Riker, his voice strangled.
“Your respiration is elevated to 25 RPM,” Data said, “and your resting heart rate has exceeded 110 beats per minute, indicating potential tachycardia.”
“I’m—” Riker huffed. Perhaps it was a laugh. “I’m fine, Data. I’m not in danger. Go away.”
Auditory evidence: Commander Riker was breathless. Visual evidence: Commander Riker’s heat signature was still elevated, and his hands were still moving at a slower pace, especially between his legs. The motion there was up and down on a short range of roughly 6.6 inches at a time.
“Sir, I insist you accompany me to medbay,” Data said.
“I’m not sick, Data,” Riker said. “I’m…”
He muttered a curse. Inside the closet there was a flurry of movement which Data would hesitantly label ‘exasperated.’ He cataloged a rustle of clothing, a clink of a belt buckle, and a quiet sigh before Riker opened the door. Here there was more visual evidence to analyze. Riker’s hair was disheveled and beaded with sweat. His cheeks were flushed. Olfactory data suggested he had been mating, but there was no one in the closet with him.
Surreptitiously, Data glanced between Riker’s legs for more evidence.
“Eyes up here,” said Riker drily. He put a hand between his legs to cover his erection and gave Data a baleful look. “Are you satisfied? Do you mind?”
“Of course I do not mind,” said Data, puzzled. “But Commander—”
“Can I get some privacy, then?” Riker asked.
Data hesitated. He considered saying nothing. But protocol won out.
“Sir, this is not an authorized location for … self-pleasure,” he said, and even an android could sense the awkwardness in the air.
“I know,” said Riker patiently.
“A more appropriate location would be your own quarters,” said Data.
“I know, Data. I can’t go to my quarters. I’m on duty.”
“Then you should not be in the storage closet, either,” Data said, more puzzled than before. Riker glanced over Data’s shoulder, apparently to check that the hallway was still clear. He leaned on the doorframe and lowered his voice, eyes boring into Data’s.
“Five minutes,” said Riker softly.
Internally, Data’s systems whirred as he processed this.
“Are you…asking me for permission, sir?” he asked, genuinely unsure.
“I am asking you,” said Riker, his eyes closed, “for some alone time and some discretion. I will be back on the bridge in five minutes, okay? No one will notice I’m gone.”
“I noticed,” said Data, “and I am not even on-shift.”
Riker’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He searched Data’s face: two expressionless men studying each other. Then, slowly, Riker removed his hand from between his legs and adjusted his uniform. His erection had flagged enough that it was no longer visible, and the flush on his cheeks had faded.
“Forget it,” he said, combing his fingers through his hair. He shook his head, and suddenly to Data he seemed pale and drained. “Don’t tell anyone you saw this, Data. That’s an order.”
But perhaps not a lawful one, Data thought. If a bridge officer was breaking regulations, particularly for something so minor, then it was Data’s responsibility to let the captain know. Geordi told him it was human prerogative to question orders. And Riker himself had counseled Data that as an officer he was expected — encouraged — to consider the dignity and, yes, discretion, of his men. Sometimes, Riker told him, rules could be bent to preserve a crewman’s health and comfort.
Was this one of those occasions? Data wasn’t sure. He was still trying to figure it out when Commander Riker nodded at him and headed to the bridge, his shoulders hunched.
So Data said nothing as Commander Riker walked away.