Chapter Text
The blink of an incoming message roused Donovan from his half-asleep thoughts. He forced his numb limbs to unlock and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He’d been curled up for so long that he couldn’t feel his feet – mind distant, blunt nails scratching idly at bare arms. He hit the ‘receive’ button and leaned in close, squinting through the light.
“Figured you’d answer me,” said a familiar voice, “since my son can’t be bothered. I hear he’s been found?”
Donovan narrowed his eyes as the voice clicked into place. Kyle Riker. His gut tightened in that heavy, rock-hard way he remembered from adolescence: caused by his first solo mission, or by the hard glint in a commanding officer’s eyes. Or by Kyle Riker. He hit the transmit button with a sigh.
“Donovan here,” he said wearily.
“I know who I called,” said Kyle with a hint of wry humor. “Give me a status update, kid. I conferenced with Admiral Ugwe and she tells me Will’s not in the brig, so…”
At thirty-eight, it rankled a little to be called ‘kid.’
“No charges have been brought against him,” said Donovan calmly. Then, because it was infinitely more important than Riker’s legal status: “You’ll be glad to know Commander Riker is recovering from his injuries nicely. He was recently signed back to active duty.”
“Injuries?” asked Kyle.
Donovan chewed the inside of his cheek. He elected not to respond.
“You want to clue me in?” Kyle asked. “What injuries?”
Damn it. Donovan kept his voice measured and professional. “Commander Riker’s medical record is protected information, sir.”
He expected a strained pause, a push for more, but Kyle moved on briskly.
“Well, I’d like to see him,” he said. “My god, he’s been missing for an entire year now! I think it’s about time we met up.”
Donovan leaned against his desk and picked at his cuticles. He wanted to see if the tension in Kyle’s tone would snap.
“You’re heading to Terras Four, yes?” Kyle asked.
“Yessir. Routine horticultural mission.” Donovan paused, listening to the silence, and volunteered a little more. “Collecting fungus samples.”
The height of boredom to a man like Kyle. When he spoke again, there was a tight line of frustration in his voice. But he sounded resigned.
“Alright, I’ll join you. I assume you’ll be stopping at Space Station Eighty-Three on the way there?”
It went without saying. They had a dozen crewmen and their families waiting for shore leave.
“I’ll be there, then,” Kyle said. Donovan reached for the ‘off’ button. “Hey, kid!”
Donovan paused. “Yes?”
“It’s good talking to you again. Can’t wait to catch up, hear all about Kallonia.”
And he could tell just from his tone that Kyle was smiling.
Guinan had heard through the grape-vine that while half the crew sauntered off to Station 83 on shore leave, Will Riker was volunteering for extra shifts on the bridge. It wasn’t hard to see why. From the bar in Ten-Forward, Guinan had a pretty good view of the problem: six feet tall, grey-haired and bull-faced, Kyle Riker was sitting at Will’s favorite table, holding court.
Guinan studied him with hooded eyes. It was easy; he sensed her gaze, of course, but whenever he glanced her way, she just lowered her head and worked on drying her cocktail glasses. He knew it was a facade, but that was kind of the point – get him tense, rile him up, see how it changed him.
But first…
The gentle hum of warp engines kicked into gear beneath Guinan’s feet. Her glass bottles vibrated against each other on the shelves, stopped only when she pressed a button and their velvet shields slotted into place. The Enterprise was on its way to Terras IV, then–
–and the door to Ten-Forward slid open, and Commander Will Riker stepped inside.
Across the room, Kyle Riker glanced at his son, and for a split second – despite the uniform, despite the haircut, despite the beard – there was no recognition on his face. Then his eyebrows twitched and he took a hasty gulp of synthehol to hide his reaction. Was it Guinan’s imagination, or was there a new tinge of paleness to his jowls, a tremor in his fingers as he set his glass down?
“Will!” Kyle called with a smile, waving his son over.
Riker faltered. He was still too thin, too haggard – that, Guinan decided, was probably what made Kyle hesitate. But Riker rallied himself, and he forced a single step forward, and then suddenly his shoulders relaxed and a bright smile lit up his face. The game had begun.
“Dad,” he said simply, holding his hand out for a squeeze. Good grip, thought Guinan wryly; she could see Kyle’s forearm muscles tensing and Will’s knuckles going white from across the room. “How the hell are you?” Riker asked.
Kyle couldn’t hide his surprise at the warmth in Will’s voice. “Good,” he said. “Sit down – god’s sake, you look like a stiff wind could–”
The scrape of Riker’s chair against the floor drowned out the rest of Kyle’s sentence. Did he notice that his son didn’t sling a leg over the back of the chair when he sat? Not anymore. Not since he was rescued. Guinan had seen him pull that over-the-chair move a hundred times, sometimes to ease the pain in his lower back, but mostly, he did with as straight a face as possible to see if his shipmates would laugh.
“Well, how are you?” Kyle said as Guinan prepared one of Will’s favorite drinks at the bar, unasked. “I heard all about it from Donovan. He didn’t say where you’d been, just…”
“Yeah…” A grin tugged at the corner of Will’s lips. “Well, it was quite the adventure. Just about rivals the stories you used to tell me when I was a kid.”
“Oh? What stories are those?”
“You know – you’d come back from a mission and I’d hang off your arm asking all about it. Where’d you go, who’d you see… Remember that story you told me about the Orions?”
Kyle’s face lit up. He fought the grin on his face down to a self-satisfied smirk. Will leaned forward, his eyes dancing, and lowered his voice.
“It was a lot like your story with the Orions,” he whispered.
Kyle barked out a laugh. When Guinan came over with Will’s drink, the elder Riker scarcely seemed to notice her. Good. It gave her a chance to look Will in the eye, to ask him silently, with her disapproving expression, what the hell he was doing – why he was lying, or sort-of-lying – why the braggadocio, why the charm–
But Will took his drink and avoided her eyes. “Thanks, Guinan,” he said with a false note in his voice, intentionally locking her out of the conversation.
“Any time,” said Guinan softly. She lingered a moment later, just to get her message across, and then she drifted back to the bar. There weren’t many other patrons. No matter where she went, she could hear Will’s conversation, his stories about his year away.
His adventure.
“--best sex of my life,” Will said, and affected a look of innocent shock when the bystanders laughed. “I swear!”
“With a Ferengi?” said Kyle disbelievingly.
“I swear on my life! Don’t knock those ears until you try them–”
It was evening, and Ten-Forward was as lively as it ever got. A crowd of onlookers had gathered around Will’s table, listening to his stories even as his voice grew hoarse. Guinan didn’t like it, but she couldn’t blame them. For most of the crew, this was all they would ever hear about Commander Riker’s disappearance. Of course they wanted that information; of course they made for a willing, eager audience. Riker gave them what they wanted.
“Wait,” said Kyle, “so what happened with the Chandrilan fellow?”
“Oh, that guy.” Will sat back and pulled a face. “Let me tell you about that guy!”
He punctuated each sentence with a shot of synthehol. It wasn’t getting him drunk, Guinan could tell. He rode the line carefully: sober enough to keep his embellishments straight, drunk enough to numb the wounds and force himself to appreciate the spotlight. From a distance, she could tell his hands were shaking, his smile twitching around the edges. The facade was stretched to the limit.
“Tell me you’re going to put a stop to this,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.
In the shadows near the edge of the bar, Donovan’s expression flickered. He hadn’t realized Guinan could see him there; too used to sneaking around unnoticed, she supposed.
“What can I do?” Donovan asked, a little defensive. He took a hesitant step into the light.
“Go over there,” Guinan shrugged. “Tell him he’s wanted on the bridge.”
“It’s his father,” Donovan said. “He’s entitled to a reunion…”
“You're right. And he's clearly having so much fun. Isn't he?”
Together, they watched as Will stood, nearly knocking back his chair as he made a wild gesture – arms swinging, face twisted in a mawkish grimace as he acted out whatever nonsense he’d made up about the vengeful Chandrilan. Who was the Chandrilan, really? In Will’s stories, he was a dirty abusive pimp, a caricature villain for a clever Starfleet officer to outsmart … or outrun. Will’s stories toed the line between Federation machismo and self-deprecating humor; his protagonist bumbled into bad situations and scrambled his way out. He told the stories like he had watched the action from the sidelines, rather than lived it. But in real life, the Chandrilan – if he was real – might have been a friend. A business partner.
A client.
“No,” said Donovan softly. “He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it.”
Guinan gave him an expectant look. She jerked her head meaningfully toward the Rikers, and with a grimace, Donovan trudged out there like a man going to war.
Interesting. She’d pegged him as Will’s protector. Why, when Kyle was here, did that status have to change? What power did he hold over Donovan?
Across the bar, Donovan inserted himself into the crowd. No one seemed to notice him there, not among the gathered officers – but Kyle’s smile became fixed, his shoulders tight, and when Donovan put a gentle hand on Will’s arm, the commander’s voice faltered and died. He looked down at Donovan, lips parted, face suddenly white. The blue lights of Ten-Forward danced over his pale skin. The game was over.
“The captain would like your assistance on Deck Eight,” Donovan said levelly.
For a heartbeat longer, Riker just stared at him. Then his forearm flexed beneath Donovan’s hand and he nodded. That easy smile slid across his face as he said his goodbyes, but he didn’t make eye contact with any of the people gathered there.
And he forgot to say goodbye to Kyle when he left.
“Deck Eight?” Riker asked casually as soon as he and Donovan cleared Ten-Forward.
Donovan grimaced. Obviously, the captain would never call Riker for assistance on Deck Eight – Deck Eight was purely crew quarters and recreation. But Kyle Riker wasn’t likely to know the exact layout of the Enterprise, and even if he did … most people would assume there was some secret they weren’t party to, some hush-hush official reason for Riker to leave.
“Counselor Troi said you might want an out,” Donovan said.
Riker’s eyes tightened. “Counselor Troi said that?”
“Yes,” Donovan lied blandly.
“Then I assume we’re not just going to my quarters?” asked Riker, looking amused now. “Counselor Troi’s office is also on Deck Eight.”
“Well, I never said we were going to your quarters,” Donovan said. He shot Troi a quick message on his handheld, praying that she was free. He kept his face blank as he did it, but he sensed Riker studying him, searching every feature for signs of a break. His charade was about to be blown.
“You know,” said Riker finally, “I don’t think Counselor Troi would approve a session right after I pulled a triple shift.”
“If you keep pulling triples, then she has no choice,” said Donovan, but he knew he’d lost Riker already. He was just going through the motions.
“I don’t think she’d mandate a session, either. She’s not my counselor.”
“It’s not mandatory,” said Donovan begrudgingly.
Riker stopped walking. He tilted his head to the side, looking down at Donovan expectantly. Like a commander waiting for a wayward ensign to explain himself. Donovan couldn’t help but smile, and he was lucky Riker was the type of guy who liked to see his shipmates smile.
“Okay,” Donovan sighed as he continued. “Commander, your behavior in Ten-Forward concerns me.”
The vague way Riker’s face had lit up at the sight of Donovan’s grin faded. “I don’t believe there was anything untoward about my behavior...” he said leadingly.
“I didn’t say untoward, sir. I said concerning.”
The smile came back, feigned this time. “If my behavior concerned you, put it in a report, Donovan.”
Donovan clenched his teeth. After a year of serving on the Enterprise, he could see clearly how some of his crewmembers might respond to this jab – Counselor Troi, Worf, La Forge. But they were Riker’s friends; he was Riker’s replacement. He was the outsider.
And Riker had just pointedly reminded him of that. When Riker barged onto the bridge all those weeks ago in his pajamas, who reported him? Not Troi, not Worf. Stiffly, professionally, Donovan said,
“Starfleet integrity, sir.” He waited for the words to sink in. “It’s something we all vow to uphold upon acceptance to the Academy. I hope you display more of it on our upcoming mission.”
“What mission?” Riker asked, eyes narrowed.
Donovan handed him the slim handheld PADD he’d been carrying around. “You’ve been approved to go planetside on the next away team, collecting fungal samples from Terras Four.”
Riker scrutinized the PADD, his expression unchanging. “It’s not a matter of Starfleet integrity,” he said, distractedly continuing the conversation, even as his face softened. Orders, away teams – that was bound to lighten his mood no matter what Donovan accused him of.
“What is it, then?” Donovan asked. “All I heard was you lying to your father about the year you went AWOL. You made it sound like an adventure. A vacation.”
“And how exactly do you know I was lying?” Riker asked, glancing up from the PADD.
Because I saw you naked, dying, Donovan thought. Because I saw your scars.
But he kept his professional mask in place and let Riker study him. Slowly, Riker stepped forward, and when he handed the PADD back to Donovan, it tapped lightly against Donovan’s chest.
“Maybe I did enjoy it,” Riker said softly, watching Donovan for a reaction.
Ambivalently, Donovan said, “Everyone enjoys an adventure, sir.”
A line appeared between Riker’s eyebrows. “Don’t call me ‘sir,’” he said, stepping back. “You’re first officer, Commander. Not me.”
“Aye, sir.”
The fight had gone out of him; he didn’t look weary, just lost, like his interest in the argument had fled all at once and left him cold. And he didn’t protest the second time Donovan called him ‘sir’. He just nodded, lips twisting in a humorless imitation of a smile. His eyes stayed distant, locked somewhere between Deanna’s office and his own quarters.
In this space, halfway between first officer and friend, Donovan awkwardly clasped Riker’s hand.
“I’ve read a lot about your missions,” he said gruffly.
“I’ve read a lot about yours,” Riker said, jerked back to the present with his eyebrows raised.
“Well, I’m looking forward to working with you. That’s all.” With a quick, rough shake, Donovan let go of Riker’s hand – and watched a real smile, slow and easy, take the place of that hollow ghost from earlier.
“We’ll be the very best mushroom pickers in Starfleet,” Riker assured him.
Donovan nodded. When he left, there was a spring in his step, part-real, part-affected. But he was very aware – how could he not be? – that he left Riker behind, still caught between the counselor’s office and his bedroom, still staring distantly at the floor.