Chapter Text
Will’s last class was out for the day, and a dusty silence had fallen over the instruction pods. He ought to be going. The next piloting course was scheduled for an hour from now, but until then, the pods were empty, and Will couldn’t force himself to move. Not for the holodeck session he’d promised to attend with DeWalt. Not for his therapy call with Dr. Macnair.
Nothing.
He propped one knee up, his foot planted on the dashboard, where he could idly move the steering stick. The stars onscreen shifted obediently every time he did, rotating to reveal a new constellation, a distant planet, a starship hanging far ahead. Will balanced his PADD on his knee and dragged numb fingers over a directory of Enterprise personnel, listlessly searching through the names.
His legs felt like the old felled tree he used to cross Curtis Creek when he was a kid, cold and thick and water-logged. He curled one hand around his dick, a useless and insensate piece of flesh, and scanned the names before him.
VISITORS, one heading read. Will tapped it. He called up their personnel photos, chewing the inside of his cheek. None of them were particularly good-looking — but there was one man, tall and burly, whose broad hands were visible in his photo: long, thick fingers knotted together over his stomach, knuckles like scarred knots on a tree. The longer Will eyed him the more right he seemed. Dark crescent eyes, like Picard’s, and a Roman nose, and a shock of gray hair like Kyle’s. Mouth dry, Will elbowed the computer screen built inside the pod.
“Computer, locate…” He read the name from the list. “...Ambassador Luckett.”
“Ambassador Luckett is in Guest Quarters Alpha One.”
No knowing if he’d be receptive, but it was worth a try. Will gave his cock one last pointless squeeze and hauled his feet off the dashboard. Outside, in the empty simulation room, he raked his fingers through his hair and smelled his clothes, senses tuned to the faint whiff of dry sweat. He’d have to change first. And that meant walking all the way to his quarters first, then all the way back here, because guest quarters were on Deck Five.
Will squared his shoulders.
He exited the room.
He faced the crowd.
They were all staring at him.
They couldn’t help it, Will knew, so he kept his face frozen in a pleasant grin, and whenever a crewman accidentally made eye contact with him, he did his best to nod. He remembered being an ensign on the Pegasus, trying not to stare at the first officer after Captain Pressman dressed him down. This was the same, really. Only ten times worse.
By the time he reached the turbolift, Will was hyper-cognizant of his reflection in the shiny mirrored walls: waxy skin and shadowed eyes, a too-thin frame swallowed up by civilian clothes. Beneath his loose trousers, his knees were trembling just hard enough to be visible to anyone who glanced down. He swept a hand over the back of his neck and felt warm skin, almost feverish, coated in a fresh layer of sweat.
Change, he told himself. Shower. He pictured Ambassador Luckett’s stern face, that no-nonsense body type. It’ll be fine.
But what did his students think of him when he taught them how to fly? Look at this walking skeleton — this mental patient — that’s our instructor?
Will left the turbolift on Deck Eight, legs numb.
What did his crewman think of him when they passed him in the halls? Three sickbay stays in the last month, each longer than the last — rumors of suicide attempts — night guards and holodeck escorts, and I heard his father—
Will pushed through his bedroom door, already removing his shirt. Sweat had soaked through the material, leaving it so sheer that you could see his skin tone and chest hair underneath, but only when he pulled it over his head could you see the ridges of each rib.
Cut the self-pity, Will told himself calmly, and like magic, the knot in his throat packed up and moved away. He studied himself in the mirror. Skin tight over muscle and bone. Actually, not bad, he decided. He’d needed to lose some weight, to cut down a little. Not because he looked bad naked, but because the uniform wasn’t all that flattering to athletic types — small-boned people like Deanna could look gorgeous in it; Captain Picard, compact and trim, didn’t look bad. But for Will, for Worf, that uniform was a nightmare, and he was glad to have changed. He smoothed a hand over his rib cage — down to the narrow ridge of his hip — and decided he looked younger. Twenty-three again, limber, athletic, ready to go.
In the shower, with soap sudsing up his hair, Will re-assessed the situation. There was no way Ambassador Luckett would say no. In his file it said he was from Telemaque. On Telemaque, marriages customarily included two men and one woman, so Luckett would be open, willing. And Will had faith in his own charm, his ability to ‘play cute’ — he’d been doing it since he was a toddler. As he wiped the grime of sweat from his arms and legs, Will made an effort to visualize himself walking out of Luckett’s quarters a little taller, chest puffed, head up, a spark of vitality in his eyes, of color on his cheeks.
Just what he needed. Just what he wanted. Just the thing to wash the bitter aftertaste of weakness away.
On the bridge, Captain Picard’s combadge chirped. He tapped it by habit, then ducked his head to the ambassador and stepped away with a muttered, “Excuse me.” Over by the command chair, he said, “Picard here.”
“Sir. Captain. Uh.”
He didn’t recognize the voice. Cognizant of the ambassador’s eyes on him, Picard snapped, “Name and rank.”
“Lieutenant Bixley, sir. I was supposed to meet Commander Riker for kickboxing on Holodeck Three.”
“And?” said Picard.
A nervous pause. “He’s not here, sir.”
Picard stuffed his concern deep into the back of his brain. Next to him, Counselor Troi stood up as if compelled to by some unseen puppetmaster, and drifted over to Picard’s side.
“Do commanding officers typically report to you, Lieutenant?” asked Picard calmly.
“Er, no, sir. I just thought—”
“Commander Riker is not your responsibility, Lieutenant. You are his.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then resume your kickboxing session,” said Picard impatiently, “and next time you consider calling me, consider your chain of command. Picard out.”
He met Deanna’s eyes, both of them carefully blank. With a nod, Picard dismissed her. He already regretted his sharp tone with the lieutenant — it was sure to dissuade him from reporting in the next time something like this happened — but it had been necessary, both to preserve Riker’s dignity as first officer and to establish proper Starfleet conduct in front of the guests. He would have to lock up his concerns and let Deanna take charge of Riker’s health.
His heart was hammering in his chest when he rejoined the ambassador, but he forced a smile and clasped his hands together.
“Where were we?” he asked.
She didn’t need the computer to find Will. His emotions left a blood trail straight down Deck Eight to his closed bedroom door. By the time Deanna reached it, he’d noticed her coming, and his mind stretched out to greet hers: sunlight bathing the pleating of her brain, bringing with it all the dark shadows and quick, chill breezes of a summer day on Betazed, just before a thunderstorm. But it was gentle, welcoming, and when Deanna entered Will’s bedroom, her first thought was:
He looks good.
Her second thought was, He’s manipulating me.
“Deanna,” he said. Warm fingers wrapped around her own and pulled her close — a quick kiss on the cheek, dry lips, the scent of soap. Deanna dipped into his emotions again, this time pushing through the veil of sunshine.
“Will,” she said, “you didn’t show up to your holodeck appointment.”
“I’m not allowed a little flexibility?” He shifted the kiss into a hug, holding her close against him. Probably so she couldn’t read his face.
“Lieutenant Bixley was worried about you,” Deanna said, with a tight mental grip on the thread of darkness in Will’s mind. At her words, the blackness pulsed and vibrated, growing thicker in her hands. That was the key, then. She pushed a little harder, just to test it. “He called Captain Picard on the bridge.” Another pulse. “In front of the ambassador.”
“Ambassador Luckett?” Will asked, his voice a little rough. His grip on her remained impossibly gentle.
“Yes,” Deanna said, and the thread between her thumb and forefinger practically sang. A discordant note. A bow scraping the wrong way across a violin’s strings. She sighed against Will’s chest and pulled away so she could look him in the eye. “Will, did something happen?”
He studied her face. Affectionate blue eyes. Curving lips. Distracted. She knew he was going to lean in for a kiss before he did it, so she ducked away, gave him a warning look.
“Will,” she said.
He relaxed his grip obediently, from a lover’s hug to the close platonic comfort of a friend. “Nothing happened,” he sighed. “I was in the flight simulation pods, and when class was over, I just … didn’t feel like kickboxing.” She could sense the lie coalescing in his brain before it crystallized. “I was just sore,” he said. “That flight simulator really knocks you around.”
“You weren’t sore,” Deanna said. Begrudgingly, she added, “But I’m impressed by how convincing that was.”
Will smirked.
“Walk me through it,” Deanna requested. “The class. How did it go?”
“Seriously?” He checked her expression, saw that she meant it, and put on a pout. But at least he listened; she could sense the wheels turning as he examined his memory. “We started out with the standard cargo delivery course modeled after Jupiter Station.”
“The one you did junior year at the Academy,” Deanna remembered.
“Don’t remind me.” He grinned a little. “You know, I was supposed to go on an away mission all the way out to Parthos Two? One of only two cadets accepted into the program.”
“No, I didn’t know that. What happened?”
His smile fractured. “Got into a fight with my fellow cadets at the end of the year,” he said. “That was sixty demerits. Then I got caught, uh, with a different cadet, on Forger’s Field…”
“How many demerits was that?” Deanna asked.
“Another forty. One hundred demerits in less than a week. My slot got canceled and I was sent to Jupiter instead.”
He sighed again — deeper this time, yet quieter — and rested his chin on top of her head. Deanna thought back to Betazed, those early weeks when they could talk for hours, because neither of them had heard each other’s stories. He’d mentioned his junior year before, but never the fight, never getting caught on Forger’s Field or losing his prestigious spot at Parthos II. What he had mentioned was that one day, close to the end of the spring semester, he emerged from his survival class into the Academy gardens — and saw his father chatting with the commandant. He’d frozen where he stood: hadn’t known his dad was in San Francisco: never imagined he’d have to see him here, didn’t know what to say, what to do. But in the end his father had turned away without even seeing him, and Will had been spared the ordeal of smiling or waving hello.
Interesting that he failed to connect those events back then. Interesting that he failed to connect them now. Gently, Deanna nudged him to take a seat, and she allowed him to keep a grip on her hand as retreated to the edge of his bed.
“You were simulating the Jupiter run,” she reminded him. “Then what?”
Will smiled a little. “We finished early. Lopez wanted to run some battle simulations—”
“You call the children by their last names?”
“They like it,” said Will defensively. “It makes them feel like cadets.”
Deanna shook her head with a grin.
“I programmed something from my time on the Pegasus,” Will said. He stared down at the floor, his humor dying. “It was a tricky little maneuver to break free from a tractor beam. It takes a lot of toggling with the steering stick — and a good sense of balance. Lopez got it on the first try, failed on the second. No one else got it at all.”
His emotions spiraled.
“No one?” Deanna prompted. “Even the instructor?”
Will’s lips lifted in a half-hearted grin. “I tried to show them the trick to it,” he said, eyes on the ground. “You have to turn your shields off with your left hand and slam your left elbow hard port at the same time. And keep your right hand on the steering stick, even if it hits you in the face.”
“Difficult to pull off,” Deanna said.
“But foolproof. Lopez found the easy way, but she couldn’t replicate it. This way, you get it right every time.” He shrugged. “Only I couldn’t get it. My right hand cramped. I kept letting go.”
Deanna skimmed a hand down his arm and examined his right hand. It still had a deep scar over the palm where he’d sliced his hand open just days ago. He hadn’t gone to Beverly yet to get it removed, and soon, he’d lose his chance. She rubbed a circle on the scar with her thumb, gentle pressure, rhythmic motion.
“So,” she summarized, “you felt inadequate.”
“Me? Never.”
“And you felt conspicuous. Because everyone says you’re the best pilot in Starfleet, and here you are, struggling with a maneuver you perfected as an ensign…”
“I wouldn’t say perfected,” Will protested. “It’s kind of a messy solution—”
“And all those cadets watched you fail,” Deanna continued, her thumb still stroking that gentle circle on Will’s palm. He stopped arguing with her. His head was down, his long dark lashes hiding his eyes. He watched the slow, predictable motion of her thumb. “Did you stay back to try to perfect it?” Deanna asked.
Will’s chest rose in a slow breath. “No,” he said. “I stayed, but I just watched the stars.”
Deanna tilted her head to the side. She studied Will’s face, the hollow cheeks and stress lines, the visible ridge of his collarbone peeking through the neck of his shirt. Conspicuous. Everywhere he went, he ran into crewmen, and he couldn’t hide what he’d become. They could see the weight he’d shed, the trembling in his hands or in his smile; some of them had read the news from Risa; others had heard the rumors that he’d been found in the holodeck, half-drowned, or that he’d instigated a fight between Worf and Ibsen, or that he’d checked himself into a psych hold for two weeks. There were rumors that he’d be grounded, or permanently relieved of rank.
“I think,” said Deanna quietly, shifting her grip to hold Will’s hand, “that right now, you feel as though your weaknesses are on full display. Secretly, you wonder if your crew has lost respect for you. You suspect that Starfleet will cut you loose any second now. Abandon you.” She squeezed his hand. “So you came back here, you showered, you selected your best clothes, and you were going to go seduce someone. Is that right?”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Will, his voice rough.
“Doesn’t it?” Deanna dipped a finger into his open collar. His chest hair brushed her skin as she tweaked the silky fabric. “Who did you choose?”
“Is it any of your business?”
She just raised an eyebrow. No, she said, letting the word soothe over his tense mind. But you’ll feel better if you tell me.
His shoulders relaxed a little. He could see now how ridiculous his choice had been, and he admitted it with a faint air of embarrassment and self-deprecating humor. “Ambassador Luckett.”
Deanna wrinkled her nose.
“What?” Will asked. “He’s not that ugly.”
“No,” Deanna said. But he looked an awful lot like Will’s father. And like Picard. She boxed that thought away to examine it later. “I think it makes sense. You enjoy making love — you like to give pleasure.”
“I’m not opposed to receiving it,” he murmured. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the heel of her palm.
“And it makes you feel loved,” Deanna said.
No answer.
“It makes you feel like you’re worth something,” Deanna said. She tried to say it without any moisture in her eyes, without a knot in her throat, but she didn’t quite manage. And Will, sensing her tears, huffed out a choked laugh, reacted physiologically, like he always did when she cried — with a sympathetic rush of sadness to match hers. He kissed her palm again, a fierce press of the lips.
“Lie down,” Deanna said, her voice shaking.
His eyes flashed. He lowered himself down without letting go of her hand. Easily, Deanna fell over his chest — the familiar warmth of his body, the rise and fall of his steady, even breaths. She tucked her face against his neck and let her lips drag over his pulse point, fingers skimming under his shirt to touch bare skin, to curl in his chest hair. Each kiss was slow and languid; every touch coaxed her nerves to life. But when she straddled his hips, when her thumbs stroked over his nipples and her teeth nipped at his throat, she could feel the softness of his cock against her. No amount of rocking, of gentle, teasing touches or sharp nails raking against skin, seemed to help it. Deanna broke off the kiss and leaned against him, their breathing synced.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
She couldn’t think of anything to say. Her mind enfolded his, a wordless rush of comfort. He let it happened, but his soul was like a hard impenetrable stone; her warmth, her light, brushed over it and formed a fragile shell, but she couldn’t sink inside. Every time she examined the porous surface and thought she found a way, she’d dip inside and discover nothing there. Just pits and jagged surfaces. An empty cave, no light, no living beings, just cold water and the sound of insects scuttling over rocks and the damp scent of wet earth, packed tight.
“Deanna,” Will said softly. He shifted beneath her, one hand intruding between their bodies to cover himself between the legs. His knuckles poked against her body, so uncomfortable that with a sigh she slid off him and lay at his side.
“Can I stay?” she asked.
Eyes closed, he pulled her closer. He didn’t answer verbally. Just with a wave of emotion, a barrage of images: the blankets tangled around their waists, the warmth of her body against his own. Stay. Beneath that, there was the sense of inadequacy again, of weaknesses on display, muted but still there, so when he kissed her sleepily — down her throat, over her breasts, his lips lingering on the ticklish spot where her waist met her pelvis — Deanna wasn’t surprised. She let him slide lower, between her legs, slow and wet and warm, his tongue exploring every inch of her—
And then, fingers curled in the sheets, hair damp with sweat, Deanna glanced sideways and groaned.
“Your PADD’s lit up,” she said breathlessly, through clenched teeth.
Will kept working, a soft sweep of brown hair hiding his face. Deanna twitched her thighs to get his attention.
“Will. I forgot to—”
He turned his head, wet lips brushing against her inner thigh.
“—alert the captain—” Deanna said, and she was still trying to grasp the loss of warmth, of touch, when Will climbed over her to check his PADD. His thoughts slowed, swirled, concentrated on the message there. He turned to look at her, cheeks still flushed, lips still swollen.
“What is it?” Deanna asked, reaching for him.
He eased down at her side. One hand dipped between her legs while the other pulled her closer, her back against his stomach, his PADD propped up where she could read it. Deanna leaned into his touch, hips rocking, and read the orders Picard had sent.
“He has a mission ready for me,” Will murmured, his breath warm against Deanna’s throat. He kissed her slowly, to the same steady rhythm of his fingers, of her hips. “When I’m released to active duty.”
A mission. Deanna read the orders again, start to finish, and closed her eyes. In Will’s mind, where there had been numbness, something new was budding New, familiar. A rush of relief, desperate, soothing. A sense of self-worth. An eagerness to please.
Deanna twisted around in his arms and grasped his cock.
“I swear, Will Riker,” she said forbiddingly, “if you get hard from Captain Picard’s orders—”
He just laughed.