Chapter Text
Donovan eyed the notification on his PADD. The new file came straight from Picard, and it had been uploaded straight to Donovan’s personal folder, signed and unsealed by the captain. The title blinked at him in glowing yellow letters, feeling almost like an accusation:
William T. Riker, AWOL report.
Donovan chewed his bottom lip and paced his quarters. He’d heard from the captain that it was happening; after a year of captivity, Commander Riker was finally considered well enough to report on where he’d been. What he’d done. Why he hadn’t made his way back. Despite the label, AWOL, Donovan was sure no blame would be laid at Riker’s feet. He knew Picard better than that.
“Computer,” Donovan said, “play audio file.”
His speaker pulsed with energy. Riker’s voice tumbled out a moment later, soft and stammering, a little breathless. Donovan listened to that deadened voice, the numbness in it, for only a second.
“Stop audio,” he said, feeling ill. Unnerved by Riker’s voice, Donovan felt his own vitals spiking. He crossed to his desk and pulled up the transcript instead.
A crick formed in his neck and the small of his back as he plunged into Riker’s report. The opening description of his shuttle crash, the details of what went wrong – Donovan knew all this from the after-action analysis, but he forced himself to read it in full, dutifully attentive to Riker’s point of view. His fingers itched, though. He wanted to know what had caused those ghastly scars. The whip marks up and down Riker’s back, the evil-looking gashes on his ribs and down his thighs, the bruised-looking mark around his neck where he must have broken the skin escaping a noose. His own thoughts were impeding his ability to process the contents of the report.
Donovan slowed. His stomach turned. He forced himself to read the gruesome details of Riker’s time as a planet-side slave, before he was … requisitioned to a Romulan ship. Only one escape attempt before then, he noted with surprise. But it was successful. There was a month of time glossed over in Riker’s report – after he killed his Ferengi slavemaster, but before he was captured by Romulans. What had he done during that time? Why hadn’t he left the planet, sought help? He made a quick note to pursue these troubling questions.
Donovan read on.
Here, with the Romulans, with the Tal Shiar … Donovan sucked a breath through his teeth. On a separate PADD, he pulled up a years-old report on Romulan torture methods, their aftereffects, translations of the terms Riker had put down in the native Romulan tongue.
Moht’soh yssri – Donovan typed the unfamiliar letters into his second PADD. “Stomach torture.” A diagram popped up, making Donovan wrinkle his nose. The victim was fed a long, wet length of cloth – forced to swallow it – and then, once it reached his stomach, it was ripped right back out through the mouth.
Lehyyak aoni'rhnniohsyrrhihdh – how the hell did Riker remember a word that long? Donovan cross-checked it with a grimace. There was a Romulan medical device, a sort of liquid balm that injured parties floated in, similar to the Federation’s biobeds. With electricity diverted through the fluid, it slow-broiled its victims even as the balm healed them – an endless cycle of pain, near-death, rejuvenation…
Kautparr – a parasite inserted into an open wound to eat at the dead flesh. Raydharaat – simple dehydration, prolonged until the victim perfects the pronunciation of the Romulan word for ‘water.’ Donovan glanced back up the list, at that long gibberish-sounding word from earlier. Aoni'rhnniohsyrrhihdh. It didn’t sound right coming from Human vocal cords; maybe they didn’t have the throat structure for it. He imagined trying to pronounce with a tongue thick and dry from lack of water, with dehydration shutting his mind and body down…remembered the Battle of Jawal, that long hot march across the desert, the desperate plunge for water of any kind, hot or salty, mineral or infected, even body fluids, even blood…
There was a knock at the door. Donovan closed the file on his PADD with a startled jab of the finger, like he’d been caught looking at something illicit. His heart hammered in his chest. A quick drag of his sleeve erased the telltale sweat from his forehead.
“Who’s there?” he called, fighting to keep his voice steady. He took a slow, deep breath to center himself.
A familiar, nervous voice answered him. “Geordi La Forge.”
Just La Forge. Donovan swept a hand over his face, as if to clear a slate. When he stood, his features were perfectly composed – and he answered the door with eyebrows raised, tilting his head back to study Geordi’s face. Lips pursed, corners trembling, cheeks hollow.
“Sir, it’s–” Geordi hesitated, clasping and unclasping his hands over his middle. “It’s Commander Riker.”
Donovan’s eyes sharpened. “What about him?”
Geordi glanced down the hallway to make sure no one was in earshot. He lowered his voice. “He came to my quarters last night. I think he was going through…” His chest expanded in a shallow breath. “Sir, he asked for my painkillers. He was sweating up a storm. Shaking. I…”
Donovan caught himself staring at Geordi’s pips, his breath frozen in his lungs. A commander visiting his subordinate’s quarters – in the middle of withdrawal, no less–
“He stayed the night,” said Geordi, and from the way he angled his head, Donovan got the impression Geordi was studying him. “But when I woke up in the morning, he was already gone. He hasn’t been answering my comms; so far as I know, no one has seen him.” His voice betrayed the poorly concealed anxiety. Geordi appeared as Donovan had felt only moments earlier.
Donovan took a step out into the hallway and faced the black screen built into the wall. Heart pounding, he said, “Computer, where is Commander Riker?”
“Commander Riker is in his quarters.”
“How long has he been in his quarters?”
The computer’s soothing voice came back at once. “Twelve hours, forty-five minutes.”
Donovan and Geordi exchanged looks.
“He … is allowed to stay in his quarters, if he wants to,” Donovan said awkwardly. “Knowing you, you already checked for life signs?”
Geordi worried at his fingers. “His life signs are … okay. But not the best, if I’m being honest.” His expression was imploring Donovan.
Donovan stroked his chin. “Did you speak with Dr. Crusher?”
“I did.” Donovan got the distinct impression that he was Geordi’s last resort. “She spoke to Commander Riker over comm. He denied medical assistance.”
“Then he is in need of medical assistance? But not dire medical assistance?”
Geordi squared his shoulders. “Sir, I suspect it’s a lot more dire than he lets on. You didn’t see him last night. I’m requesting permission to–”
“Granted.” Donovan waved a hand, gesturing for Geordi to lead the way. “I’m coming with you.”
Geordi jolted into action. He took off at a quick stride, and if he was surprised that Donovan could keep up, he showed it only mildly – with a brief sideways glance, a reappraisal. Donovan let his mind swirl, focusing on Riker. Having read the report, everything he went through with the Ferengi, with the Romulans – he could well understand Riker’s need to hide. He hurried along the hall to the diplomatic suite where Riker was ensconced, bracing himself for what they may find.
Before Geordi could knock, Donovan tapped his combadge.
“Donovan to Riker,” he said pleasantly.
No response.
“Requesting access,” Donovan said.
No response. Donovan tapped his combadge again to make sure it was awake.
“Donovan to Riker,” he said in the same pleasant tone. “I have Mr. La Forge here with me. He–”
The computer screen next to Riker’s door lit up with an array of glowing words:
Request Granted: Donovan.
Request Denied: La Forge.
Geordi and Donovan studied each other. Finally, with a curt nod (and crossed arms), Geordi stepped back. When Donovan passed his hand over the access pad, the door slid open to let him in.
He entered. Smooth jazz played at a low volume, just high enough to scratch his ears and flow, warm and welcome, over the lines of his veins. He had to squint through the low light, stalking from one room to the next – and suddenly he felt like he was bent low on a quiet battlefield at dusk, waiting for an ambush while the shadows half-hid his form.
There. By the window, where he could see the racing stars. Riker was bowed so low, so tense, that at first sight Donovan’s eyes skipped over him. Then he looked again, saw the white-knuckled fingers grasping at Riker’s ribs, clawing at his arms in slow-motion – the shivers wracking his body as he sank to his knees. He resembled a wounded animal. Donovan rushed forward, his palms skittering over Riker’s bony spine to support him, but with a mighty jerk, Riker flinched away.
“What–” Donovan started, and then he noticed the chemical stink emanating from Riker’s skin. The paleness. The glassy quality to his eyes. “Shit,” Donovan muttered. He tapped his combadge. “Dr. Crusher–”
He was on his back before understood that he’d been hit. Numb pain rippled over his lower jaw and one strong, broad hand clamped over his mouth; the other tore his combadge off. Donovan, stunned, forced his arms to lash out, his legs to kick, but it was too late – the weight of Riker’s body on his chest disappeared, the numbness faded, a thousand needles dispensing cold bruising pain into his jaw.
Riker paced the room on trembling legs. He twisted the stolen combadge in his hands.
“I need dryhaxalyn,” he said to Donovan, his voice hoarse, his tone ultra-reasonable, and his eyes wildly searching the room.
Donovan sat up slowly. He checked the back of his head for blood, the line of his jaw for swelling. “You’re in withdrawal, Commander,” he said, a little marble-mouthed. “You need to give my combadge back. The two of us–”
Riker shook his head in disgust. He beat a hasty retreat out of Donovan’s reach and swayed, knees buckling. He leaned against the far wall for support. With Donovan’s combadge close to his lips, he said, “Commander Data.”
A surprised-sounding Data answered, “Data here.”
“This is Commander Riker. What’s the status on that Romulan D’deredex-class ship?”
Donovan circled Riker slowly, trying to look nonthreatening. A wounded animal was unpredictable and potentially dangerous. Sweat had soaked through Riker’s clothing, turning the fabric transparent, so Donovan could see the moment a full-body cramp took over. It started in his legs, where his thighs tensed into iron, and shot up to his abs where every muscle clenched tight, but Riker didn’t make a sound. He just gritted his teeth and braced himself against the wall.
“Sir, I have not found–”
Riker ended the transmission with a vicious jab of his thumb. He hurled the combadge over Donovan’s shoulder, and by instinct, Donovan ducked his head. He heard the combadge clatter against the far wall. When he looked up, Riker had lost his footing. He’d slid down the wall until he was half-collapsed on the floor, his shirt rucked up to his chest, his whole body quivering with tension and pain.
“Sir,” said Donovan softly. He crouched nearby, just out of Riker’s reach. “You need to go to sickbay.”
Riker shook his head. His over-long hair fell into his eyes, hid his expression.
“We don’t know how severe dryhaxalyn withdrawal can be,” Donovan urged, keeping his voice gentle. “It could kill you.”
“Fine,” said Riker roughly. Donovan thought at first that he was agreeing to leave, but Riker didn’t move. The truth settled in like a greasy skin over Donovan’s stomach.
“It’s fine if it kills you?” he asked.
With Riker’s head down, Donovan couldn’t see his face. He pursed his lips and duck-walked a little closer. He bent his elbow until his hand hovered near his swollen jaw, palm out and fingers splayed.
“Show me your hand,” he said.
Riker shuddered, throat flexing as he swallowed back bile. Donovan guessed the sudden surge of nausea helped to make him a little more docile – more obedient – because without asking any questions, Riker raised his hand so that his palm almost touched Donovan’s.
“Mimic my movements,” Donovan said. He watched as Riker’s fingers trembled and knocked together, hard enough to bruise his knuckles. Donovan made a Vulcan greeting sign. It took Riker three tries to force his shaking hand to comply and do the same. Next Donovan formed a pistol shape. Riker’s fingers twitched – his thumb tucked – his hand spasmed and released. He slapped his palm against the floor and pulled away, curling up hard against the wall. The fight was going out of him.
They both knew the test results weren’t good. There was no need to say it. Donovan shifted, getting his legs under him, and sat cross-legged with a sigh.
“Can I beam you to sickbay?” he asked.
“No.”
A single syllable, miserable and rough. Donovan focused on his own breathing. Slow. Calm. A meditation, a psalm, a crackling fire with Luvo smiling at him from the other side.
“I read your report,” he said softly. “To Captain Picard.”
Riker wrapped shaking arms around his knees. When he swept sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, the chemical scent in the room strengthened, billowed, filled Donovan’s lungs.
“I understand you crashed your shuttle,” said Donovan evenly, watching Riker’s face for a reaction. “You were badly injured, right? But when you woke up, you were clean, healthy, cared for.”
Nothing. Just those same glassy eyes, those tight facial muscles pulling beneath the skin.
“It was the Ferengi who rescued you,” Donovan said. He paused. “Do you consider it a rescue?”
Riker bared his teeth. “Yes,” he said, his voice like iron.
“Even though they branded you?” He nodded down at the tattoo on Riker’s wrist. “Even though they sold you?”
“Yes.”
“You told Picard they drugged you. Broke you in.” Donovan steadied himself with a deep breath. “You said you contracted just about every sexually transmitted disease in the galaxy. But now you say they rescued you.”
A muscle cramp tightened Riker’s body and forced one leg to unbend, the calf knotting up even as Riker stretched it out for relief. “If you’re asking me whether I wish they’d just left me for dead–” he said.
“No.” Donovan retreated and ran back over the report in his mind, hyper-cognizant of the thin, shallow breaths Riker was taking, the way his lips parted and he fought for oxygen. “But you killed the Ferengi eventually, didn’t you? Her name was Fremat. Your slavemaster. And you snapped her neck.”
Riker didn’t deny it. He just sucked in another hollow breath, his eyes unfocused now.
“When did the Romulans find you?” Donovan asked.
No answer.
“Not long after. A month, maybe two. And ever since then, you were their captive.” Donovan recited the names flatly. “Arbat, the commander. Gurteen, of Tal Shiar. Ottradek, the visiting admiral. Who hurt you more?”
Riker’s breath wheezed out between clenched teeth. His eyes bored into Donovan’s, so dark now that if Donovan didn’t know they were blue, he’d never be able to tell. “They all hurt me,” he ground out. “I didn’t keep score.”
“Yes,” Donovan whispered. He inched a little closer. “So why do you want to find them? It’s Arbat’s ship you’re looking for, isn’t it?”
Without breaking eye contact, without blinking, Riker gave a shallow nod.
“You want to make them suffer like you suffered?” Donovan asked. He glanced down at Riker’s scars. “You want to emasculate them? Gurteen threatened to castrate you. Do you want to castrate him? And Arbat, Ottradek, they tortured you until your voice gave out from screaming. Is that what you want to do? Torture them? Make them scream?”
He saw Riker’s hand darting forward, but he made no effort to dodge it – probably didn’t have the speed to anyway. Trembling fingers closed around Donovan’s shirtfront and dragged him closer. With his nose almost touching Riker’s, he could smell the chemical sting of dryhaxalyn coming through his sweat, the bile on his breath. See the fire in his eyes.
“I want to go back,” Riker said, just above a whisper.
Donovan searched his face, uncomprehending. The grip on his shirt slackened.
“There’s nothing for me here,” RIker said quietly. He slumped back against the wall, resigned and still shivering, and folded his arms over his gut like it hurt. “ I want to go back.”
A cold chill ate at Donovan’s spine. He stood numbly, on shaky legs, and looked down at the broken man huddled on the floor before him. This time, when he crossed the room for his combadge, Riker didn’t try to stop him. He fixed it to his uniform and came back, unsure what to say.
He held out a hand. Riker, as if sensing it, lifted his fingers and let the tips brush against Donovan’s palm. “The only place you’re going,” said Donovan firmly, “is sickbay. You understand?”
No answer. He leveraged Riker to his feet, using all his strength to support the larger man. They took a stumbling step toward the door, where Donovan prayed Geordi was still waiting.
He almost missed Riker’s words. Quiet, miserable, almost confessional.
“Don’t give me any dryhaxalyn,” he said.