Chapter Text
“You’re swaying on your feet,” Beverly said.
She only said it in a murmur, so quiet the nurses couldn’t hear, but Donovan still jumped at the sound of her voice. He gave her a narrow-eyed look – then over her shoulder, toward Riker’s private room, to the little circular window that allowed medics to peek inside.
“Is he stable?” he asked.
Beverly’s face softened. “He’s past the worst of it now. You and Geordi weathered the most extreme symptoms on your own, it seems.”
Was there a hint of reproach in her voice? Probably. And well-deserved, thought Donovan ruefully. One or both of them should have called sickbay much sooner. He rubbed the back of his neck and offered up his only defense.
“It seemed wise to keep his trust. He doesn’t have a lot to go around.”
Beverly pursed her lips, her face unreadable. “I know,” she said simply. She put a hand on Donovan’s arm and guided him to the small window in Riker’s door.
He’d showered recently. The sweat-matted hair was soft and clean now, his face still pale, his eyes still bruised. There had been a time, Donovan knew, when Riker raged at the medics – threw whatever wasn’t bolted down – swung his fists, kicked out at them, scrambled to get the wall at his back and lashed out at anyone who came near. He still bore some minor scars from those hours: scraped knuckles and swollen joints he wouldn’t allow Beverly to fix. But he sat cross-legged on his bunk with a comm lit up in front of him, his face serious and his eyes alert, speaking to his Fleet-appointed counselor for the first time.
“He’ll be fine,” Beverly said softly, pulling Donovan away. “He just needs rest. And he’s not the only one.”
Donovan sighed. “One of us just went through the most severe withdrawal period I’ve ever seen. I don’t think my insomnia really compares.”
“And you’re an expert on withdrawal now?”
Donovan’s features froze. He kept his eyes on the window, his face wooden. Out of the corner of his eye, Beverly was just a shadow of red hair and blue clothes, sharp and delicate. A living scalpel with the blade poised right over his medical file, ready to lance into the tender flesh and expose everything underneath. Beverly sucked in a slow breath through her teeth, as if remembering the details only now.
“Lieutenant Commander…” she started. Now would be the time to head her off – change the subject – but Donovan’s sharp brain had turned dull. And mercifully, before she could finish her sentence, Beverly changed her mind. Lips pursed, she said, “Maybe you should talk to Counselor Troi.”
“Why?” said Donovan roughly.
Beverly inched closer, forcing herself out of his periphery, into full view. “You’ve spent the last forty hours either directly caring for Commander Riker or waiting outside his room for updates,” she said. “It may not compare to the excitement of an away mission, but it does count as stress. You might benefit from a counseling session.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I know how to take care of stress.”
He said it quietly, without any tone, and Beverly held her breath for a moment before nodding. She left him there, with her words still ringing in his head and a perfect view of Riker right in front of him. He watched the light of a viewscreen play over Riker’s pale face, casting shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. Through the door, Donovan could hear the lilt and roll of Riker’s voice, the occasional stammer, but he couldn’t make out the words. He felt, again, Riker’s hands clutching at his shirt; heard again Riker’s broken voice begging to go back to Arbat, insisting it was what he wanted, what he needed. That he didn’t belong here. That he didn’t know these people. That the Enterprise wasn’t home.
He’ll be fine, Donovan told himself fiercely, desperately, and he forced himself to leave.
The holodeck was empty when Donovan showed up, eyeballs itching from lack of sleep. He checked the program list under his name. There was a catalog of archaeological dig sites and ruins – medieval British tombs where he could take brass rubbings for his collection — Crusader castles to sketch and explore, all scattered through the old Earth regions of Syria, Lebanon, and the still-thriving Israel. Donovan skimmed past the program for Carchemish and landed on the Bajoran sector. The art museum with its missing pieces. The dig site where he’d met Luvo for the first time. Where Luvo’s broken body was found, wrapped in nothing but the dusty tablecloth they used to display artifacts for cleaning.
Donovan swallowed past a dry throat. He exited his programs and opened Riker’s instead, idly curiosity driving him on. Idle curiosity and the burning desire for a drink. He eyed Riker’s jazz bar program for a second too long, imagined the burn of bourbon sliding down his throat, warming his lungs – no. What else was there?
Wilderness exploration. Mountain climbing. Exercise programs and combat arenas. All very masculine stuff; from what Donovan remembered of Kyle Riker, he’d certainly approve. But none of these programs had been accessed since the day Riker went missing over a year before.
Only one new program had taken their place.
Donovan scanned it. The title offered him no clues: Private Program #1, Locked. He accessed the metadata, but it had been scrubbed clean of anything damning. He couldn’t even determine what planet it was based on, if any, or what other programs it might have been cobbled from.
But he could access two crucial pieces of information. One: that it had been created just one week ago, when Riker was released from sickbay for the first time.
Two: That it had been accessed twelve times since.
Donovan’s dry tongue clicked in his mouth. This was useless. He closed the programs list and exited the holodeck entirely, giving it up to an anxious-looking engineering lieutenant who had been lurking in the corridor. Donovan let his baser instincts guide him through the ship’s passageways to the glittering lights of Ten-Forward, where quiet music and quieter conversation filled the air.
Instinctively, he scanned the patrons, not sure what he was looking for: a friendly face, a dangerous threat. But he found the last person he wanted to see. Ensign Ro. Donovan wavered, torn between staying (first officer dignity) and fleeing (arguably the right thing to do), and his indecision cost him the chance to make a choice at all. Ro cut through the crowd, her sharp eyes locking him in place, and leaned on the bar at his side.
“Nice of you to join us,” she drawled. Donovan went still; he could smell the alcohol on her breath, and the scent of replicated rye wine sent him back to Bajor. “Were you feeling nostalgic?” Ro asked. “Hoping to reminisce about the good old days?”
“Reminisce with whom?” Donovan asked, keeping his voice level. “With you?”
“Are there any other Bajorans aboard?” Ro asked.
She said it so casually, but her voice sliced right through him. Donovan leaned against the bar, all his weight resting on his folded arms. “What do you want, Ensign?” he asked, emphasis on her rank.
All traces of faux-casual friendliness disappeared. Ro leaned down to scan his face, her elfin features drawn tight. “I’d like to know when you’re leaving,” she said flatly.
“Leaving?”
“We got our first officer back,” said Ro with a trace of contempt, as if she didn’t much care for Riker, either. “Isn’t it time you moved on?”
“I’m not leaving,” Donovan said.
“Why not? That’s what you do.” Her voice dropped. Donovan kept his eyes lightly closed so she couldn’t lock gazes with him, his heart hammering in his chest. “You cut and ran when the going got tough. The Cardassians swooped in and the Killer of Kallonia was nowhere to be found – but all the Bajoran resistance fighters left behind were still there.”
Slaughtered. She didn’t need to say it. He knew. Ro studied his face a moment longer, then pulled back with a shake of her head.
“At least put up a damn fight,” she muttered to herself — disgusted, voice thick. It was that thickness, that sudden twist of emotion, that made Donovan look at her, but by then it was too late. She’d turned away by the time he thought to glance at her; she’d disappeared through the entrance to Ten-Forward by the time he thought to reach out.
Only then did he become aware of a gentle presence behind the bar, a blur of violet velvet at the corner of his eye.
“Water,” he said to Guinan.
He didn’t pay much attention to what she did next. He’d long grown past the watchful, defensive stage of asking for water at a bar — and Guinan had never questioned him about it, so Donovan was completely unprepared when she just splayed her hands on the counter and leaned forward.
“Just water?” she said, her eyes twinkling.
Donovan blinked. He hunched his shoulders. “Yes.”
“You sure? I make a mean Mai Tai…”
“I’m sure,” said Donovan, wounded. He watched her, baffled, as she shrugged and turned away. What the hell was this? Some kind of teasing effort to goad him into talking? He considered just leaving, but before he could move away from the bar, Guinan returned.
She set a glass of water by his right hand. By his left, she set a cocktail, tall and pink and vaguely glittery, a wedge of fruit and a fuchsia flower floating in the synthehol.
“This is a favorite,” Guinan said in her soft, slow voice. “Commander Riker calls it the Enterprise-D. You know why?”
Stiffly, Donovan nudged the cocktail away and downed a swig of water.
“Because everyone wants a sip of this when they see it going by,” Guinan said. She swept the cocktail onto a tray and pretended to be a waiter, doing a slow graceful circle behind the counter. The starlight caught on the glitter inside the Enterprise-D, making the drink sparkle and dance inside its glass.
Donovan turned back to his water, unamused.
“I guess you’re more of a bourbon man,” said Guinan easily. She took a sip of the Enterprise-D and set it aside. “I can whip you up something nice, if that’s the case. Do you prefer the real deal, or synthehol?”
“Synth–” Donovan bit his tongue. “Neither. Just water is fine.”
Guinan gave him a mild grin. “Did I tempt you for a moment there?”
“No, I just — synthehol is smarter,” Donovan said, desperate for the conversation to end. “But I don’t want either.” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax his hands. He left palmprints of sweat on the glass of water. “Guinan, I didn’t come here to talk. I was just thirsty.”
“I can tell.” She procured a cold pitcher of water from beneath the bar and topped off his glass. “Let’s change the subject. Is that alright?”
“Please.”
“I heard Commander Riker’s doing better.” She swept the mixed drink out of sight, and Donovan caught himself sighing in relief. “Is it true he’s already had his first session with his new counselor?”
Donovan tried to keep his walls up. It was hard; the removal of alcohol, the change of subject, had both done too much to relax him. “Are you trying to gossip with me?” he asked uneasily.
“You could call it gossip,” said Guinan, her voice even. “Or you could call it concern.”
Donovan elected not to answer. He sipped the too-cold water, relishing the way it settled against his gums and made his teeth ache.
“Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight,” Guinan said lightly.
Donovan shot her a sharp look.
“He’ll get his three signatures soon,” Guinan explained. “Once he has those, he’ll be back to active duty. And … is it presumptuous to assume he’ll be first officer?”
She said it so politely that Donovan had to answer. “No,” he said shortly. “Not presumptuous.”
“Is that why you’re upset?” asked Guinan gently. “Worried about your new position?”
“I’m not upset,” Donovan insisted. To his dismay, he said it with a little too much urgency. He clasped his hand tight around the glass of water, letting the icy walls sting his palm. He was at risk of crushing the glass. “It’ll be a slow hand-over, Guinan. Months, most likely.”
“But a slow hand-over is still a hand-over,” she pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter.” How to phrase it? He took a steadying breath. “I’m used to roaming from station to station. I’m a problem-solver; I like to see situations resolved and move onto the next. Does that make sense?”
Guinan dipped her head. “In this case, the problem was a missing first officer. And the solution…”
Donovan waved his hand. “Well, he’s been found.”
Silence settled between them. Guinan moved away, pouring drinks for two newcomers to the bar. The clink of ice and hiss of pouring alcohol wormed into Donovan’s ears and threaded through the coils of his brain. By the time Guinan returned, he had his shoulders hunched up so high it hurt. He dreaded her return.
“Well, for what it’s worth,” Guinan said, “I agree with you.”
“You do?”
She gave a lazy shrug. “It’s not like you have family here,” she said. “My impression is, you don’t have much interest in calling the Enterprise your home. Right?”
“Right,” Donovan answered slowly. The conversation had passed the point of pleasantness. It felt like an interrogation.
“Because you have a family,” Guinan continued.
This time Donovan didn’t agree. An acute feeling of unease was taking hold. Where was she headed? What did Guinan know? He stared intently into his drink, remembering Luvo and the Bajoran sect he once considered his brothers. The very same people he’d led to victory against the Cardassians and then abandoned to free the rest of their planet on their own. An image added to the torture: the servant-class boy he’d rejected, thrown from his tent half-naked, afraid to say yes. He could see it all: the naked body wrapped in a tablecloth, abandoned in the ruined dig site where they first met.
Donovan swept a nervous hand over his brow with a sigh. He was close to losing his composure. It hadn’t been Cardassians who killed Luvo. It hadn’t been a rival sect. It had been his own people. His family. Maybe they caught Luvo sneaking out of his tent that night? Did they punish kill one of them to punish them both? Perhaps they just never liked Luvo — always found him a little odd, a little out of step with the sect’s traditions. But Donovan had loved that boy. He’d loved the men who killed him. He had loved them all.
“You want that drink now?” Guinan asked lightly.
Donovan squeezed his eyes shut. His voice came out in a whisper. “No.”
“Well, take your time with the water.” A gentle hand passed over his forearm. “And Donovan?”
He forced himself to look up.
“Congratulations on your new assignment,” Guinan said. “Wherever that may be.”