Chapter Text
There was a child crying in sickbay.
“Her name is Emily,” Crusher explained with a mild eyeroll. “Her father is more upset than she is. It’s just a cut on the forehead. But you know how it is — when the parent gets hysterical, the child does, too.”
Riker clenched his jaw tight and kept his eyes forward. He seemed determined to ignore everything around him, including Beverly — but when Emily wailed again, from the other room, Riker clutched at his own trouser legs so tight his knuckles blanched.
“Easy,” Crusher chided. “You don’t want to be grounded just for high blood pressure, do you?”
Riker made an effort to relax — his hands, at least, if nothing else. Shoulders still tense, he allowed Crusher to run the scanner over his body from head to toe. His eyes darted sideways, toward the door that kept Emily and her screaming at bay.
Crusher studied her scanner. Her face was a little too blank to be casual. “I’d like to perform a routine blood test,” she said mildly.
Riker’s head snapped around. “What for?”
“To test your blood,” said Crusher, deliberately bland. Donovan guessed that, a year or so ago, this type of comment — this type of tone — might have elicited a smile. But now Riker just stared back at Crusher. Reluctantly, he proffered his index finger, and didn’t wince when Crusher pricked the pad.
Blood welled up in a bright, unbroken bead. Crusher’s needle siphoned it away, and she knit the minor wound back together one-handed, with a blind sweep of her regenerator.
“That kid is still crying,” Riker said, his voice tight.
“Well, she’s hurt pretty badly, for a four-year-old. In the old days, she’d need stitches,” Crusher said, eyes on her med-reader. “Ogawa’s got her resting with an orange slice on her head.”
Some of Riker’s tension softened, turning into confusion instead. “An orange slice?”
Both Donovan and Crusher stared at him. It was Donovan who recovered first.
“Slang,” he said. “It’s a regenerator for deep wounds. Brightly colored, like an orange slice.”
Riker waved him off halfway through the sentence. “Right, I remember now. I—” He bit back whatever excuse he was going to make with a shake of the head. “I wish I’d had one of those last month,” he said instead, then seemed to realize this was even worse than an excuse. Weariness descended over him and clung to his shoulders. He gestured at Crusher’s med-reader. “What’s it say, Doc? Am I cleared?”
They both pretended not to hear the shy hint of hope in his voice.
“Not quite,” Crusher hesitated. She turned the med-reader so Riker could see it. “Physically, you’re almost fine. But I can’t clear you, even for limited light duty, until we take care of this.”
Riker’s face had shuttered as he read the screen. Crusher gave him another moment to read it, but it was clear his eyes weren’t moving anymore. She swung the screen around for Donovan instead.
“What am I looking at?” he asked softly, tracing the lines of medical jargon with one finger.
“He’s…” Crusher glanced apologetically at Riker, but he’d gone deep inside himself, too deep to see her expression. “He’s still dryhaxalyn-dependent. I’d estimate he only has seventy-two hours, maximum, before he goes into withdrawal.”
Riker slid off the examination table and wandered away. Donovan kept a sharp eye on him, but all Riker did was go to the door and peek through the window at Emily, whose wailing had turned into a quiet, hiccuping sob.
“I’ll have to report this to the captain,” Crusher whispered.
Donovan dug his fingernails into his palm. He resisted the urge to comfort her — to pat her on the shoulder. Something. Instead, he crossed the room to Riker, who was still staring through the window. Riker had wrapped his arms around his stomach, almost like giving himself a hug. The cool sickbay air crept up his sleeves and raised the gooseflesh on his arms. Or at least, that was what Donovan blamed Riker’s shivering on — cold air, nothing more.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said quietly.
Riker nodded, but he didn’t move. Through the window, Nurse Ogawa had removed the orange slice and was gently wiping the blood out of Emily’s blonde hair.
“There now,” Ogawa said, voice muffled by the door. “That’s not so bad, is it?”
Emily sat up with a sniffle. She passed a palm over her now-healed forehead, where all traces of the deep gash had faded away. Her eyes tracked to the door, to the hollowed-out man watching her on the other side.
She burst into tears again, and Riker turned to Donovan with a pale smile.
“Yeah,” he said a little unsteadily. “Walk me home.”
“Will—” said Crusher, her voice full of emotion as he walked past. She reached for his hand, their fingers hooking together just briefly, almost accidentally. Then Riker jerked his hand out of her grasp. He stumbled into Donovan, pale and trembling.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Alright,” Donovan cut in, tugging lightly on Riker’s arm. Riker jerked away from him, too, this time unbalancing so hard that he sat heavily on the examination table.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, but it came out in a stammer: three helpless ‘don’t’s before he managed to say ‘touch me’. Crusher’s lips parted, but instead of speaking, she turned sharply away and studied her medscanner, her hair falling forward to hide her face. Donovan folded his hands behind his back.
“No touching, sir,” he said with stiff professionalism. Riker leaned forward, dry-washing his face with both hands. When he sat up, his eyes were watery, but the only emotion on his face was weariness.
“I’m sorry, Beverly,” he said almost inaudibly. To Donovan, before Crusher could answer, he just said, “Let’s go.”
Now that was interesting. Would he apologize to Donovan, too? Not about today — about the bridge. Donovan wondered about it idly as they wound through the halls. Lower-ranking officers and enlisted crewmen passed by, all of them doing their best not to stare at Commander Riker. Every now and then, as if marshaling his efforts, Riker would meet their eyes and offer them a grin. But on average, after managing a smile, it took him seven more crewmen before he could do it again.
Donovan glanced sideways, at Riker, and saw Lovu. He glanced sideways, at Riker, and saw himself after the Battle of Jawal. This was different, of course. This was worse. But he tried to imagine Jawal without the respect of his colleagues, without the friendships he’d made (and ruined) in the aftermath. And he couldn’t imagine it. He could see Riker doing the same; insulting Deanna, snapping at Beverly, ignoring Captain Picard.
He took a deep breath as they approached Riker’s quarters.
“I knew your father,” he said.
Riker typed in his access code without glancing up.
“Kyle,” Donovan said.
“I know his name.”
Donovan smiled a little, despite himself. Riker glanced over at him, hostile, then softened a little. “You knew him how?” he asked. Then, without emotion, “Knew? Past-tense? Is he dead?”
“No! Not at all, not to my knowledge.” Donovan hesitated on the threshold as Riker stepped inside. “Do you mean you haven’t contacted him?”
Riker shrugged. He headed for the replicator and tapped his palm against the screen. Then he hesitated. His eyes slid, subtle and slow, to Donovan.
He’d meant to replicate something — maybe alcohol, maybe something else — and he didn’t want Donovan to see. Delicately, Donovan turned away. Some of Riker’s belongings had ended up in these new quarters despite his less-than-stellar reunion with Troi. The trombone rested on Riker’s dresser, a smear of fingerprints on its polished slide. Unpacked boxes had been pushed against the wall.
“I guess I should contact him,” said Riker tonelessly. Something clattered out of the replicator and into the tray. There was a suck of air, a click of plastic, a rustle of Riker’s sleeve. Donovan sneaked a peek and saw Riker applying a painkilling patch to his inner arm. “But I’m sure someone else has taken care of it.”
“He’ll want to hear from you, won’t he?” Donovan said. He waited until Riker tugged his sleeve back down, and then he turned around fully. “He spoke of you often.”
“Oh?” said Riker, voice flat.
“He was proud of you.”
In Riker’s left hand, he held the discarded packaging from the painkiller patch. He rubbed it between two fingers, letting the edge catch on a callus. Then he tossed it into the reclamator without a backward glance.
“How exactly did you meet my father?” Riker asked.
Donovan hesitated. “We were both stationed on Bajora Prime for a while, during my summer program, junior year. Our paths crossed more than once.”
“He was a consultant there?”
“Yes. And he didn’t care much for all those cadet archaeologists hanging around.” Donovan wasn’t sure how much to add. He took a risk. “He compared us to you. Often. I suppose all of us knew your name without ever meeting you. This was before my time on Kallonia, so—”
“You don’t need to repeat that to me,” said Riker softly. He made a dismissive gesture that didn’t match his gentle tone at all. “I’ve heard.”
“Thank you,” Donovan said. He shifted his feet. Guinan and Deanna always acted the same way when he brought up Kallonia — or when someone else did. But he was far more accustomed to people like Picard (brusque and jarring, bringing up those old battles like they didn’t still sting) or Ro (sneering, eyes flashing, a living reminder of all the children he’d failed to save, directly killed). Donovan swallowed against a tight throat.
“What did he say about me?” asked Riker.
Donovan assessed him. Uncomfortable with the subject, but willing to pursue it. Not out of his own curiosity — his eyes were too flat for curiosity. Maybe just to distract Donovan from the painkiller. Or from his own memories. Donovan decided to lean into it.
“He told me you started Parrises Squares at age seven,” said Donovan lightly. “And anbo-jytsu at age eight. That you took your first solo flight at age eleven and you graduated eighth in your class at the Academy. That you set out on your own before you even hit high school. He made us all feel quite sheltered and inadequate, I remember.”
Riker’s eyes swiveled to the left, as if checking his memory. Donovan had seen Data do the same thing. “That’s all correct,” said Riker. “And he was my sparring partner for anbo-jytsu, most of the time. Beat the hell out of me.”
“He didn’t mention that,” Donovan said, allowing himself a smile.
“I guess he wouldn’t.” Riker scratched at his inner arm, remembered the patch, and let his hand fall. “Set out on my own, huh? Interesting way to phrase it.” He crossed to his subspace comm, a little dusty, like he hadn’t touched it once since he was rescued. “You think he remembers you? From Bajora Prime?”
“I’m sure of it. He took a particular disliking to me,” said Donovan with a half-smile.
Riker was silent for a long time. “He can get that way,” he said finally. “Around children.” He shrugged. “Anyone younger than him, really.”
“It’s fine.” Donovan took a breath, feeling like he’d misstepped, been too candid. “He’s your father. He’d want you to call.”
Riker hesitated. His fingers hovered over the contact list. “Then let’s see if he picks up,” he said. He tapped Kyle’s name and waited, watching the soothing pulse of the subspace comm. The longer it chimed, unanswered, the more Donovan wished he’d bitten the bullet and just talked to Riker about the incident on the bridge instead. A minute ticked by — then two — before Riker gently tapped the screen again and ended the call.
“It’s fine,” Riker said with a shrug. He gave Donovan a brittle smile, eyes sparkling with a sharp, bitter mirth that cut Donovan to the quick. “I don’t really know him, anyway.”
Dryhaxalyn dependence. Donovan paced around the empty table in Picard’s ready room, one hand rubbing the short hairs at the back of his neck. That would explain the painkillers. Did Beverly know he was taking them? She must; they would show up on his scan; she was just sensitive enough not to mention it in front of Donovan. She couldn’t have known that Riker himself would let Donovan know.
Donovan heaved a sigh. The painkillers were a good thing, most likely. They would alleviate the symptoms of withdrawal — at least for a while. As he paced, he called up the controls on Riker’s replicator and saw, with a short breath of relief, that Beverly had already placed a med-hold on his machine. He was in no danger of overdosing, then. Donovan banished the results, wished he’d memorized them, called them up again—
The door slid open. Data stepped inside, head cocked.
“Commander,” Donovan greeted. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“It is no trouble.”
Donovan gestured for Data to sit. As they circled each other, Data said,
“I have noticed humans often neglect the ‘lieutenant’ in ‘lieutenant commander’, presumably as a show of respect.”
His lilting speech always made it sound like he had more to say. Donovan waited a beat, then nodded. “It is considered respectful,” he said. “The same way we drop the ‘junior grade’ in ‘lieutenant junior grade’. Would you prefer I call you ‘Lieutenant Commander’, then?”
“In most cases, I have no preference,” Data said mildly. “However, over the course of the last forty-eight hours, I have come to reconsider.”
“Because of Commander Riker?” Donovan guessed.
Data paused, pursing his lips. “There is only one commander on the Enterprise,” he said, which was as close to a ‘yes’ as Donovan figured he would get.
“Are you telling me you’d like to call me Lieutenant Commander from now on?” Donovan asked.
“If it is permissible.”
“Of course it’s permissible, Data,” said Donovan softly. “It’s my rank. But you know, you can call any of us by name, too, if you prefer.”
“I am aware, sir.” Data sat up a little straighter. “Commander Riker has made that same offer to me several times over the past seven years.”
“Maybe you should take him up on it.” Donovan thought back to his time in Riker’s quarters — the failed phone call to his father — the botched reunion with Troi. “Many humans reserve first names for their friends. You call Mr. La Forge by his first name, don’t you?”
Data inclined his head. A shadow crossed his face.
“What is it?” Donovan asked.
Data hesitated. “I have, in fact, called Commander Riker by his first name,” he said. “Quite recently, sir.”
“How recently?”
Data’s golden irises shifted at a rapid pace as he calculated the time. “Ten hours, forty-three minutes, sixteen seconds ago, sir.”
Donovan recognized the time at once. “You mean when he ordered you off the bridge.”
“Shortly afterward, sir. As you said, I believed the usage of Commander Riker’s given name might put him at ease.”
“But that didn’t happen?”
Data’s lips parted. He rethought whatever he was going to say and closed his mouth. A line appeared between his eyebrows.
“Data?” Donovan prompted.
Data shook his head. “I apologize, Lieutenant Commander.”
“You can’t tell me?” Donovan asked.
“I believe it would be optimal to refer to Commander Riker by his rank, sir,” Data said. That was probably the closest thing to an answer Donovan was going to get. He nodded his understanding. He let the silence breathe for a moment, and then, in a gentle tone, he said,
“Tell me about what happened on the bridge, Data.”
Data cocked his head.
“You disobeyed my order,” Donovan reminded him, without any reproval. He wanted to make it clear that Data wasn’t going to be punished. “I thought your programming required you to follow orders from superior officers. My question is this: was there some confusion over who was higher-ranking?”
“No confusion, sir,” said Data at once. “Commander Riker is higher-ranking.”
“But I am higher-positioned,” Donovan pointed out. “He’s a commander. So yes, he’s higher-ranked than me. But I am first officer of this ship, and he…” He searched for a delicate way to put it. “He’s not approved for active duty yet,” he said.
“That is correct,” said Data.
And that was all he said. They stared at each other, each waiting for the other to go on.
“So…” Donovan struggled to understand. “Does your programming not allow for instances where a lower-ranking officer is in a position of authority?”
“It does, sir,” said Data simply. “However, my programming also allows me to assess situations as they arise and make my own decisions. I assessed the situation on the bridge and decided it was more prudent to follow Commander Riker.”
“Why?” asked Donovan.
“Because he required assistance,” Data said.
“So it was a simple matter of where you were needed most?”
Data inclined his head. With a sigh, Donovan sat back.
“Data, when you’re stationed on the bridge, you’re expected to stay on the bridge. You know that.”
“I do, sir,” Data acknowledged. Donovan felt he was getting nowhere fast. He changed tracks.
“Tell me what happened when you left. What did Commander Riker need from you?”
Now, if it was possible, Data’s face became a little more animated, as if he’d been holding back. “Commander Riker was physically weak, sir,” he said promptly. “When the turbolift doors closed, he collapsed against the forward wall. I assisted him to his feet and supported him on his way to his quarters.”
“Supported?” Donovan asked.
Data blinked. “Carried,” he said.
Donovan’s gut tightened. He scratched at his cuticle, letting his thoughts churn. “And in his quarters?” he asked.
“Commander Riker requested my help with a complete database search,” Data said. “Our target was a particular Romulan D’deredex-Class ship, also known as a warbird. Communication was quite difficult, sir. Due to Commander Riker’s stammer, I could not be certain what I was searching for without significant clarification.”
Slowly, Donovan stopped picking at his cuticles and curled his hands into fists. “Did he always stammer? I only noticed it today.”
“No, sir. It is a new development. I have recorded twenty-four instances of stammering within my earshot. Would you like to hear them?”
“No.” Donovan pulled up his own PADD and handed it to Data. “I assume you found something.”
“Schematics, sir. We did not find the particular ship Commander Riker was looking for.”
“Well, do me a favor,” Donovan suggested. “Pull up the schematics anyway.”
Data obliged. They were industry-standard, cobbled together from the Enterprise’s own encounters with Romulans — and a few helpful reports from their Klingon allies as well. Donovan studied the blueprints, paying particular attention to the shuttle bay. Then he accessed his own personal files and opened a visual aid: a photo of the crashed Romulan shuttle he’d found outside Riker’s farmhouse on Ipsand.
Even in this state of disrepair, it was clear. This shuttle belonged to a D’deredex-class warbird. Donovan met Data’s calm eyes and thinned his lips.
“Commander Riker escaped from a D’deredex-class,” he said. He took a slow, grounding breath. “I’m going to ask you to speculate on something, Data,” he said.
Data squared his shoulders. Donovan tilted his PADD, making the holographic blueprints warp.
“Why do you think Commander Riker wants to find this ship?” he asked.
It was a long time before Data spoke.
“Perhaps,” he said simply, “he wants to go back.”