Chapter Text
Riker was waiting in the transporter room when Donovan arrived, one pair of plastoid gloves dangling from his clenched teeth while he adjusted the bulky sample shelf strapped to his back. When he caught sight of Donovan, he yanked the gloves out of his mouth and used them to wave hello. Dr. Yazzi, a small-boned guest from the mycology department on Station 83, flitted around Riker and tugged at the buckles over his chest.
“I feel like a workhorse,” he complained, a sparkle in his eyes.
“Commander Donovan is too small to carry a pack,” said Dr. Yazzi. “As am I. The mushrooms themselves aren’t likely to weigh much, but the pack is made of a sterilized glass frame–”
“Glass?” Donovan said, eyebrows raised.
Dr. Yazzi glanced sideways at him. “Six months ago, an unmanned Federation scout ship got caught in an ionic storm and crashed to the surface of Terras Four. Five months later, the titanium frame was completely gone. The only thing left were the glass windows.”
“Gone? ” Donovan said, one eyebrow raised. “I thought Terras Four was deserted.”
“It is,” said Riker with a grin.
“Then who scavenged it?”
“No one did,” said Dr. Yazzi, and her serious face cracked into a smile to match Riker’s. Excitement glimmered in her eyes. “The mushrooms ate it.”
“Ate it?” Donovan said, unable to hold back a smile – and a spark of anticipation.
“That’s our theory. It’s called biosorption. If we’re right, we can use the mycelia of these fungi to break down heavy metals left behind on Cardassian colonies where they set up shipyards.” Dr. Yazzi tapped the screen built into Riker’s backpack to check the temperature inside. Cardassian colonies! Donovan thought. Now there was a remediation project worth undertaking. He circled Riker with a new bounce in his step, examining the backpack in more detail.
“Is this pack refrigerated?” Donovan asked, eyeing the blue tubes that circulated inside the glass.
“Yes,” said Riker.
“Isn’t that cold?” asked Donovan, concerned.
“Yes,” said Riker, and he rolled his shoulders slightly, flinching when the cool glass touched the back of his neck. But he was still grinning, too excited about his first away mission to let the drawbacks get to him. “Who else is on the away team?” he asked.
Donovan turned to his PADD with a frown. “From the Enterprise, just us,” he said. “From Station Eighty-Three, two mycologists in addition to Doctor Yazzi. And as a consultant and guest–”
The door slid open, admitting one towering woman the same height as Riker. At her side was her fellow mycologist, a slim elderly fellow who would buckle under the weight of a sample collection pack. And behind them, already strapped into a pack of his own…
“Dad,” said Riker, his smile fading.
“I thought I’d join the fun,” said Kyle Riker, adjusting his straps. The tall mycologist lifted the glass shelving for him so he could tighten the buckles. She wore a pack of her own, bringing their sample collection group up to three.
“Are you cleared for combat?” Riker asked his father.
“If I can beat your ass in anbo-jytsu, then I can handle myself in a fight,” Kyle said. Riker’s forehead creased; his gaze followed Kyle around the transport room.
“You cheat at anbo-jytsu,” he said.
“Commander Riker?”
He looked down at Dr. Yazzi, eyebrows still furrowed.
“It’s not a combat mission,” Yazzi reminded him. “If combat readiness is a requirement, then I and my fellow mycologists must step down.”
Donovan and Riker flashed each other a concerned look.
“Even you?” said Donovan to the tall woman, whose biceps were practically bursting out of her shirt.
“Haven’t put in my combat hours lately,” she said with a shrug.
Donovan scratched the back of his neck, faintly embarrassed for the four civilians. He edged closer to Riker and pulled out his PADD, angling the screen so only they could see. Together, they studied the orders for this mission and the planet specs.
“Wildlife,” Riker murmured.
“Small animals only,” Dr. Yazzi said. “We’ve been observing them for months.”
Donovan chewed the inside of his cheek. With a subtle raise of the eyebrow, Riker skimmed one hand down to his own hip and tapped his phaser. Fair point, Donovan thought. He nodded his approval while Riker carefully hefted his glass backpack and shook hands with the newcomers.
“You must be Guirguis,” he guessed, assessing the tall woman. “The Parrises Squares champion, right?”
“Right,” she said with a dangerous-looking grin.
To the elderly man, Riker said, “And you must be Doctor Hsu; I was up all night reading your paper on bioremediation.”
Dr. Hsu’s eyes lit up as he shook Riker’s hand. Kyle Riker gravitated to the group, effortlessly joining the conversation while Dr. Yazzi did a final check of their equipment. Donovan stood on the sidelines, unable to separate the three threads of voices – Guirguis and Kyle with their discussion of martial arts; Riker and Hsu with their debate about plastic-eating fungi; Dr. Yazzi gracefully interjecting here and there, always receiving a response.
Donovan, tongue-tied, just nodded when the transport chief asked if they were ready. They took to the pads, everyone else still talking, a quiet clatter of glass backpacks and easy conversation. Then the molecular tingle crept up their spines and through their skin, freezing them in place.
The voices faded.
Donovan opened his eyes on Terras IV.
The earth beneath Donovan’s feet was thick and white. He blinked, inhaling dust – no, inhaling spores – and clamped a hand over his mouth.
“It’s okay,” Riker murmured, his eyelids low as he studied his PADD. White spores clung to his lashes. “It’s safe to breathe.”
It didn’t feel safe. A rasping cough settled in Donovan’s throat as he inhaled. Beside him, Riker scraped his foot over the ground and raised an eyebrow as the whiteness crumbled. Wet strands of it clung to Riker’s sole.
“Mycelia,” said Dr. Yazzi. “The roots of a mushroom.” She knelt and brushed her gloves over the soil. “It must be very fertile – totally colonized, yet totally exposed to the air…”
Guirguis rattled her glass backpack, and as if hearing some voiceless command, Dr. Hsu reached inside the shelving for a petri dish. While he and Yazzi collected a sample, Donovan and Riker raised their tricorders, scanning the area for threats.
“Some small scattered lifeforms to the north,” Riker said quietly.
Donovan had noticed the same thing. But that was all. He tucked his tricorder away and glanced around, allowing himself to see the beauty of the mushroom forest for the first time. Lush vegetation covered every centimeter of land. Where the great trees had fallen, rot-blackened logs remained, their surfaces peppered with soft shelves of polypore mushrooms. Insects buzzed over the sweet fruit of a broken fungus, their proboscides dipping into the open pores, where an amber substance almost like honey oozed out from the mushroom’s stem. Riker moved silently through the brush, his head on a swivel; he stopped to examine the bright orange globules of a slime mold even as Donovan drew up short, enraptured by the luminescent blue fingers of a fungus that pushed through the fallen leaves.
“Donovan?” said Riker softly.
Donovan glanced up and found Riker handing him a knife, blade-first. Deftly, Donovan flipped it over and crouched down next to the sample Riker had found.
“It matches the description from Dr. Hsu’s paper,” Riker said. “I’d get it myself, but…”
He bent his knees a little, demonstrating how the glass cabinet strapped to his back rattled when he tried to kneel. Donovan huffed out a laugh and pressed the knife blade to the mushroom’s stem, right where it disappeared into the earth. It was a sturdy little thing, the color of pale flesh, with a cap spanning the length of Donovan’s hand. When he turned it over, the underside was lined not with gills but with a thousand tiny holes, each one smeared with a sticky orange substance.
“Those are the spores,” said a voice behind them. Donovan turned to see Kyle and Yazzi picking through the brush. Yazzi brushed her hair back and said, “Most theories point to the mycelia doing the hard degradation work, but there are a few fringe theorists who focus on the spores themselves.”
“Really,” said Donovan. She plucked the mushroom from his hands.
“Watch,” she said.
She bit one of her plastoid gloves off and set it on the forest floor. With her other hand, she squeezed the mushroom cap between thumb and forefinger, its pores pointed straight at the glove. As Donovan watched, a dribble of orange goo dripped onto the plastoid glove…
…and burned right through it.
Donovan’s expression twitched. He caught Riker pursing his lips to bite back a laugh at how close they’d come to losing their fingers.
“This is another reason why we put our samples in glass,” said Yazzi with a grin. She placed the depleted, slightly crooked mushroom cap into Riker’s cupboard, the lone specimen on the top shelf. Beside her, Kyle’s backpack was significantly more full.
“You look queasy, Donovan,” he said lightly.
Donovan got his face back under control. “No, sir.”
“Remember when we were stationed together,” Kyle continued as Dr. Yazzi pushed on, “and I told you that story about the Tholians?”
Oh, yes, Donovan remembered. Kyle had been the sole survivor of a Tholian attack, and he’d worn his healed wounds like a badge of honor. Back then, the stories of burn blisters and dead skin had turned Donovan’s stomach purely from lack of experience. Now, he thought of the Battle of Jawal, the bodies swelling beneath a hot Kallonian sun, and had to struggle not to scowl. As he hiked after Yazzi, he heard Riker say,
“Leave him alone, Dad.”
But Donovan was determined not to think about it. He tuned out the rising argument behind him and crouched beside Dr. Yazzi, still holding Riker’s knife.
“Check this one out,” Dr. Yazzi murmured. A slight smile tugged at her lips, her hands hovering over a bulbous blue specimen not unlike a gravball.
“That’s a mushroom?” asked Donovan softly.
“On Earth, we’d probably classify it as a puffball,” Yazzi said. “Ball-shaped fungi that burst on impact. They keep their spores inside, but when they’re broken…”
She used her own knife to slice the flat surface of the blue puffball. Inside, a spongy flesh flexed and coughed, releasing a cloud of white dust not unlike the spores Donovan inhaled when they beamed down. He held his breath and inched away.
“You don’t like mushrooms?” asked Yazzi, sounding amused.
“On the contrary. I think they’re delicious.” When cooked, he added mentally.
“Would it surprise you to learn that I don’t care for the taste?” Yazzi smiled. “Never have. But in pure scientific terms…”
Fascination glinted in her dark eyes as she pried open the wound she’d made in the mushroom’s flesh. Donovan stood, his knees creaking, and glanced back the way he came. Guirguis and Hsu had joined the Rikers, watching the father-son spat with alarm.
“I should break that up,” said Donovan wearily.
Yazzi paid him no mind. He took one step back, just as Kyle threw his hands up in exasperation and marched Donovan’s way, maybe intending to apologize. He shoulder-checked Riker as he walked, and their glass backpacks rattled. Quick as a whip, Guirguis jumped forward, catching Kyle’s cabinet door as it swung open, the latch springing apart. Empty petri dishes shattered on the forest floor, but most of the specimens were caught, albeit squished.
Chagrined, Kyle and Guirguis knelt to scoop up the petri dishes.
“I thought it was closed,” Kyle said, looking more humiliated than Donovan had ever seen him.
“It was,” Guirguis assured him. “That fat polypore you collected just nudged the latch, that’s all. It could happen to anyone.”
Hsu gave Donovan an awkward wave as he entered the clearing. “Should you be touching that?” Donovan asked, eyeing the slivers of broken glass.
“It’s fine,” Kyle grumbled.
“If these fungi are so good at biosorption, maybe you should just leave it here.”
“It’s glass,” said Guirguis impatiently. “They can’t absorb glass.”
“Right,” said Donovan, abashed. Guirguis had a small handful of shards now, and a few fresh tears in her gloves. As she stood up, Riker gently took her hand and studied the tiny cuts that lined her fingers.
“You should get back to the ship,” he said, smearing an upswell of blood from her fingertips.
“Sir, I–”
“He’s right,” Donovan cut in. “Any open wound could get contaminated. Mr. Riker–?”
Kyle stood up with a scowl. “No cuts,” he said, presenting his hands. Guirguis’ face twisted into something like a pout, and Riker shot her an understanding grin.
“Go see Doctor Crusher,” he advised, still holding her hand. “She’ll fix you right up and you’ll be back in Mushroom Heaven in no time.”
Reluctantly, Guirguis turned to go. Riker wiped her blood on his thigh and nodded to Dr. Hsu.
“Go with her,” he said. “Just in case something goes wrong.”
“Oh, for…” Grumbling lightly, Dr. Hsu marched off after her. Riker and Donovan watched, each of them flanking Kyle, as the pair cleared the trees and waited for a beam up. As soon as their forms sizzled out of existence, the three onlookers turned away.
“Hey, fellas?” Dr. Yazzi called.
Donovan’s eyes sharpened. Something in her tone struck him right in the gut.
“Yes?” Riker called, even as they pushed through the brush to reach her side.
She wasn’t where Donovan had left her. She’d moved on by several meters, nearly out of sight, to a crop of man-sized mushrooms climbing up the trunk of a massive tree. Yazzi took a careful step back, her eyes trained on something Donovan couldn’t see.
It was Kyle who put a hand on his arm and stopped him. Riker kept going, just a few steps, and then he stopped too, reaching out with his long arms to grab Yazzi and pull her sharply to safety. The enormous mushrooms circled the tree like rope vines, and as Donovan watched, the pores lining the underside of each sprawling cap seemed to pulse. The holes widened, the darkness inside them growing a little brighter, a little sharper, until it was undeniably clear that something was nestled deep inside, waiting to come out.
“It’s acidic,” said Dr. Yazzi softly, barely breathing. “And I think it’s triggered by movement.”
Silence. The four of them watched as the caps seemed almost to breathe, pores expanding and narrowing. Bright fuzzy spores released like snowflakes on the exhale, hovering in the air overhead. Donovan picked a particularly thick clump to track with his eyes, and when that clump descended on a nearby bramble, the thorns sizzled and curled in on themselves like burnt strands of hair.
“Okay,” said Kyle calmly, the weight of authority in his voice. “Slowly. Doctor, you first.”
She didn’t move immediately. Riker’s grip on her arms tightened, and very slowly, he maneuvered her past him, away from the giant mushrooms. The caps pulsed again, as if sensing her movement.
Kyle’s eyes flicked to Donovan, a silent order for him to go next. Why? Because he was the smallest, with Yazzi gone – and smaller people had a better chance of getting away untracked? It made sense, but his heart clenched, screaming at him not to leave his men behind. He watched another burst of acidic spores release into the air and took a slow step backward, keeping his arms and torso still.
As he retreated past Riker, he saw the bright smear of Guirguis’ blood on Riker’s trousers. He remembered the small creatures on the tricorder – wild beasts located on the north side of the forest. This side of the forest.
He didn’t have time to piece a coherent thought together before he heard it snuffling. Kyle and Riker came to a silent agreement, stepping backward in unison to join Donovan’s retreat, and somewhere behind the giant mushrooms, a living creature sniffed deeply, rapidly, and scraped its claws against the tree.
“Phasers,” said Donovan through clenched teeth. He used Riker’s body to shield himself, twisting his fingers in Kyle’s sleeve. “You. Go.”
Kyle clenched his jaw and stayed where he was.
“You don’t have a phaser,” Donovan hissed.
Kyle and Riker took another simultaneous step back, forcing Donovan to move too. He kept his grip on Kyle’s sleeve and yanked hard, the movement hidden by Riker’s broad back.
“My son,” said Kyle calmly, “is slathered in that woman’s blood. I’m not running away and leaving him to some–”
Riker swept his arm out in a sudden, sharp blow. It landed across Kyle’s chest and sent him stumbling backward, straight into Donovan. The glass cabinet rattled and fell open again, pouring its fungal contents onto the forest floor. Donovan tripped over them, breaking the soft flesh and releasing multicolored clouds of spores – and at the same time, Kyle reached for him, half-using him for balance and half-pushing him to safety – and Riker raised his phaser, and through the trees, through the acidic giant mushrooms with their shivering caps, came a beast.
It was small. Its flesh was hairless, smooth like leather. Its mouth was packed with needle-sharp teeth. It had no eyes, only nostrils, wide and cavernous.
And wherever the acidic spores landed, they sizzled, raising bright red sparks, but they didn’t burn this creature at all.
“Acid-resistant,” said Riker softly. “Of course.”
That was all he managed to say. Before Donovan could raise his phaser, before he could run, the creature leapt for them, plunging straight through the tall mushrooms and kicking up a cloud of acidic spores. Riker lunged forward with a snarl and caught the creature’s claws across his chest even as his phaser whined and pushed the little ratlike beast backward. A plume of acidic dust kicked up and the creature scrabbled to its feet again, back on the attack. Needle teeth plunged into Riker’s arm – acid descended on his uniform, and he ducked his head and hurled the beast up over his face for protection, exposing himself to the biting claws rather than face the corrosive liquid gelling onto his clothes–
And Kyle grabbed him by one shoulder, and Donovan grabbed him by the other, and the flimsy blade of the mushroom-hunting knife plunged into the creature’s gaping nose.
Donovan’s heartbeat filled his ears. He heard the squeal of animal pain, saw it stumble away, but all he was really conscious of was the weight of Will Riker’s body falling back on him, the bared teeth and the eyes squeezed closed, the acid eating into his skin. Instinct took over. Kyle hurled his glass backpack to the ground and knelt at his son’s side, dragging him far away from the acid-spewing mushrooms. On the other side of Will’s body, Donovan used his gloved hands to tear at the burning uniform, words spilling from his mouth.
“It’s okay,” he said, and he heard his own voice as a floating sound, calm and distant. Across from him, Kyle cut into Will’s belt with the blood-soaked foraging knife and tore the uniform free. Acid had already eaten through much of the fabric, burning away Will’s chest hair and chewing holes in his flesh.
“Ahh–” Will said, more a groan than a word, his voice collapsing in on itself. As the uniform was stripped away, his old scars came into view: whip lashes and brands, shiny-smooth scars and ugly keloids. Kyle froze, his eyes tracking over each one.
“Shh, shh,” Donovan said. There was an ugly near-castration scar on the side of Riker’s sex, and he reached instinctively to cover it from Kyle’s prying eyes. He placed his palm over it, weathered through the jerk of Riker’s body as he flinched away. With his other hand, Donovan tugged his own uniform top off and whipped it over Riker’s groin. As if waking from a trance, Kyle hurried out of his own jacket and eased Will into a sitting position, wrapping the jacket around his torso for warmth.
“We’ve got you,” Donovan said, clasping Riker’s hand. “Kyle–”
Kyle smacked his combadge, almost missing it entirely. “Three to sickbay!” he barked.
Riker’s grip on Donovan’s hand was hard enough to hurt, his skin slick with blood. Jaw clenched, he glanced down his own body and quickly turned his face away, burying his head against his father’s shoulder.
He reached down and adjusted the uniform top just as the beam froze him in place. Seconds later, the light faded and Donovan blinked against the harsh overheads of sickbay. He squeezed Riker’s hand even as he scooted away, letting the medics rush in. Kyle stayed where he was, refusing to budge from Will’s side.
A swarm of nurses blocked Donovan’s view. The sound of Riker’s pained breathing filled his ears – almost silent gasps, never crossing the line into a moan or whimper. Kyle was nudged firmly away, his face tight, and he watched closely as three of the medics held Riker’s limbs in place while a fourth ran over the acid wounds with a regenerator. Riker’s chest rose and fell in a quick, deep breath, his lungs stuttering, the curls of dark hair on his chest matted with blood.
“Alright?” asked Kyle, his voice gruff.
“Fine,” Riker managed between clenched teeth. A second later, the last of the wounds knitted itself together and the medics moved in with alcohol swabs, wiping the last remnants of acid and blood away. Riker’s muscles relaxed, his head tipping back against the floor.
“Can we get him off the ground, please?” Kyle said, just the right side of a snap. The medics acquiesced without a word. They hauled Riker to his feet – bare skin slipping on the tile floor – and Donovan hurried into the fray, one hand on Riker’s waist, the other between his shoulders. With the medics, he guided Riker to the nearest bed and propped him up on the edge.
“A painkiller, sir,” one of the medics said, leaning in with a hypospray. Donovan tensed, unsure if he should deny it. But Riker himself reached up, casually, with his eyes closed, and pushed the hypo away. He took a weary breath and leaned hard against Donovan’s shoulder, his breath a warm cloud on Donovan’s skin.
“Thanks,” he said, barely audible. He still clasped Donovan’s uniform top over his groin, his grip loose from weariness. The adrenaline crash looked like it had almost wiped him out. Donovan’s heart skipped a beat, hyper-aware of Riker’s lips dragging against the bare skin of his shoulder – he cast a quick glance toward Kyle and caught him glaring, his face dark. With a gentle shrug, Donovan moved Riker away.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, steadying Riker before he stepped back. He gestured for one of the medics to bring him a blanket. “I’ll get a fresh uniform for you. Or civilian clothes?”
Riker brushed a hand over one of the healing acid wounds and winced at the tenderness of the skin. “Civilian clothes,” he confirmed with a grimace. “Loose.”
Donovan wheeled away. There was a general-use replicator in the waiting room, out of Riker’s sight. He’d already punched in Riker’s measurements when he sensed someone approaching from behind. He recognized the quiet footfalls, the distribution of weight. Kyle.
“Those were quite some scars,” Kyle murmured.
Donovan kept his eyes on the read-out screen. He stepped back as a beam of light appeared in the replicator tray, knitting together a set of civilian clothes so loose they were practically pajamas.
“Castration?” Kyle asked.
“Clearly not successful,” said Donovan a bit stiffly, shifting position as Kyle was clearly violating his personal space.
“Oh, you noticed that?” said Kyle, his voice too light as he leaned in.
What was he trying to imply? He’d noticed the scar, too. Donovan touched the clothes, discovered they were cold, and set the replicator to warm them up. It would help combat the symptoms of shock, if there were any. Behind him, Kyle circled Donovan, edging a little closer.
“When a man is in control of his mission,” said Kyle, voice low, “he doesn’t come back with scars like those.”
Donovan said nothing. He touched the clothes again and found them warm enough to serve.
“What really happened while he was missing?” Kyle said. “He’s been lying to me, hasn’t he?”
“Mr. Riker, that is a question for your son.” But Donovan’s stomach tightened when he imagined Kyle interrogating Will about it. He hesitated, the clothes folded in his arms. “Ask him later. Give him a chance to recover.”
Kyle, to his surprise, actually laughed. “You don’t know us Riker boys very well, Lieutenant Commander. He has recovered. I’ll ask him now.”
“Sir, he–”
“Is he dying?” asked Kyle pointedly. “Are his wounds healed?” Kyle moved to block Donovan’s path.
Donovan pursed his lips. He searched Kyle’s face and saw a glint of desperation in his eyes. He remembered the Tholians, how Kyle had bragged far and wide about the speed of his recovery, the extent of his wounds. How he’d relished beating the younger men on a long march or a feat of strength, as if it proved something.
“I just stood in there and watched the medics run a regenerator over his wounds,” said Kyle. “That means he’s recovered. The Riker boys don’t need a long debrief, Donovan.”
By ‘debrief’ Donovan supposed he meant such unmanly things as ‘recovery periods’ or ‘rest’ or ‘psychological evals’. He brushed past Kyle, his jaw tight, determined to deliver the fresh clothes before they cooled down. Kyle followed close behind. By the time they reached Riker’s bed, Kyle had liberated the clothes from Donovan’s arms.
“Let me help you,” he said to Riker, his voice brusque.
Donovan almost protested, but Riker submitted to his father’s help with a grunt. With surprising gentleness, Kyle guided his arms through the shirtsleeves and his head through the collar, one hand tugging the hem down over Riker’s bare stomach. His palm skimmed over one of Riker’s scars, maybe accidental – maybe not. But either way, it resulted in a flinch.
“Quite the scar,” Kyle said conversationally. Donovan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as Kyle helped Riker into his pants. “You neglected to mention those in your stories.”
“Did I?” asked Riker.
“Yes.” Kyle slid Riker’s sleeve up and turned his wrist, exposing the tattoo of a Ferengi hammer. “This too. Interesting design.”
Riker jerked his hand out of Kyle’s grip.
“Well, no matter.” Kyle slipped his hands into his pockets and sat on the edge of Will’s bed. “I wouldn’t want to talk about it either, tell you the truth. And in my experience, talking isn’t much help.”
“That why you never told me about the Tholians?” asked Riker, pulling his knees up to his chest.
“That, and it wasn’t any of your business,” said Kyle lightly. “We weren’t speaking at the time, remember?”
“I was seventeen,” said Riker, voice bland.
Kyle patted Riker’s leg. “If you don’t dwell on it, you’ll get over it faster,” he said. “Trust me. Maybe have the doctors take a look at those scars – I’m sure Kate can catch a transport here if you need a scar removal expert. She’s the best of the best.”
Riker stared down at Kyle’s hand on his leg. With dead eyes, he laid back on the mattress, his facial expressions shut off. “I’ll look into it,” he said.
Kyle peered down at Riker so closely that it made Donovan’s skin crawl. He flexed his hands into fists.
“Will,” said Kyle softly, chidingly, “it’s been a month. It’s time to let this go, don’t you think?”
Riker said nothing.
“By the time my physical wounds were healed, do you think I wanted to lie in bed and mope about the Tholians?” Kyle asked. “I lost everyone I knew on Station 311. Did I let it stop me from reaching my goals?”
Donovan grit his teeth and stepped forward. He came around the other side of Will’s bed, giving him an excuse to look away from Kyle. Will’s gaze called out to him, strained and begging for help.
“Commander,” said Donovan firmly, “it will take you some time to get back on your feet. That’s only natural.” He could see Kyle bristling, so he pointedly gestured toward Will’s body, to the fresh acid burns still marring his skin. “I’ll network with Doctor Crusher to see when we can expect you back, but I imagine she’ll want you to rest–”
Kyle pushed to his feet, a frisson of tension in the air.
“--and run some tests–” Donovan continued.
“He’s fine,” Kyle said.
“Sir, we are discussing his acid injuries,” said Donovan evenly. “As a member of the command team–”
“Tell him, Will,” said Kyle, exasperated. He gestured to Donovan and waited for Will to back him up, but Riker’s hands were twisted in the fabric over his stomach, his eyes fixed dully on the ceiling. “Rikers don’t give up that easy,” Kyle said. “If he says he’s good to go, then he’s good to go.”
“He hasn’t said–” Donovan started.
“Give him a damn chance to speak and he will!”
Donovan fought for patience. Keeping his voice calm, he said, “Mr. Riker, recovery doesn’t happen in a matter of minutes–”
“Oh, what the hell would you know about recovery?” Kyle burst, rounding the foot of the bed. “What do you know about physical strength, Donovan? I remember you before you had that damn rank to hide behind and I doubt you ever lifted anything heavier than a book.”
The sheer venom in his voice rendered Donovan speechless. He blanched, running backward through his memory to see where he’d miscalculated – which signs he’d failed to read. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Will wince, eyes closed tight against a lance of pain, and searched for a way to de-escalate.
“My apologies for overstepping,” he said. “I only meant–”
“Overstepping?” Kyle snapped. “How about butting in where you don’t belong? Let me ask you something, you ever play nursemaid to the woman you love while she rots in a hospital bed? You ever wake up in a slaughterhouse with a Tholian heat-gun aimed right at your gut?”
At a loss for words, Donovan did the only thing he could. He backed out of the room. Alone now, Kyle huffed to himself, still agitated, his color high. Will’s head pounded, a lance of pain entirely unrelated to his injuries.
“That was out of line,” he said, his voice low.
Kyle shot him an absent glance. His eyes fell on Will’s hands, white-knuckled and sweating where he grasped at his pajama shirt. “You alright, son?”
“That was out of line,” Will repeated, louder this time, the full weight of command in his voice. He forced his weak muscles to move, sitting up with a pained gasp for breath. “Donovan is my crewman, not yours. If you think he needs disciplined, you don’t do it yourself. You come to me.”
Kyle tipped his head back, exasperated. “Because you’re in prime condition to do it. You can barely sit up!”
Will leaned heavily on his elbows, his vision blurred. Ice traveled down his chest to his groin and turned his hands numb. When Kyle approached the bed, he towered over Will, as tall as he’d seemed when Will was a little kid – and suddenly Will was a little kid, half-listening to Kyle in the present as he ranted about Donovan, half-listening to a scene decades earlier. Will, as a child, too tired for another session of anbo-jytsu. His mother calling out from her daybed: Kyle, leave him alone! And Kyle’s sneer, a half-remembered comment about Mom’s frailty, her endless naps, lying on that bed all day being catered to like a queen–
What do you know about resilience, Elisabeth? What do you know about physical strength?
“He’s a lieutenant commander and he’s a member of my goddamn crew,” Will said, his voice low and shaking. “I’m not going to let a civilian consultant drag my crew’s wellbeing to the ground. You want to exorcise your demons, you want to prove your masculinity, do it on someone else.”
Kyle went silent. He took a step forward, placating this time, but as soon as he was within reach, Will’s thin grasp on calmness snapped. He surged forward, past the pain in his ribs, and shoved Kyle away with both hands. In an instant, Kyle’s concerned expression fractured into a scowl. He grappled with Will’s burnt hands, trying to hold him still even as Will broke free and pushed him away again.
“Will–”
“No!” Will’s heartbeat pulsed in his ears, mixing with the sound of his own shouting until he couldn’t even make out what he said.
“Will–”
“Get the hell away from me!”
Kyle had drawn too close, determined to fold Will’s hands flat against his chest. With what little strength he had left, Will drew his knee up and drove his bare foot straight into Kyle’s ribs. With a whoosh of breath, Kyle doubled over and backed away. With a gasping curse, Kyle stumbled over to the door and hit the lock. Silence swooped into Will’s ears, chasing his own heartbeat away, until all he could hear was the ragged roar of a distant ocean. A chill settled over his skin, making his pajamas stick to his still-burnt flesh. Kyle made his way back to the bed, his face grim. He lifted a hand, and by instinct, Will flinched.
But all Kyle did was brush Will’s hair back from his forehead.
“God almighty,” said Kyle heavily. “You pack a punch.”
He turned, rooting around in his pockets while Will just sat there, frozen and stunned. Kyle procured a gray pocket square and used it to mop the cold sweat from Will’s face. There was no gentleness in the gesture, just a business-like, matter-of-fact briskness, the same way he used to care for Mom when she was sick. Will closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.
“I knew you were lying to me,” said Kyle quietly. “When you told me those stories in Ten-Forward, there was a part where you started stammering. You’ve never stammered before.”
Will said nothing. There was a shift of the mattress underneath him as Kyle sat on the edge of the bed.
“You remember when you broke your leg?” Kyle asked. “You were eleven or twelve.”
“I remember,” Will murmured.
“Bad winter that year. Couldn’t get you to the hospital in Anchorage.” Kyle chewed the inside of his cheek. “You had to heal naturally. You were pissed as hell. Was it eleven or twelve, Will?”
“Twelve,” Will said.
“Perfect age for a broken leg, right? Just when you want all the independence in the world, and you can’t even walk on your own. That first night you were sick in your bed and you didn’t even call for help.”
Will remembered. The burn of vomit in his esophagus – a bad reaction to the expired pain meds Dad had given him, from Mom’s old stash. The reek of it staining his pillow and clinging, cold and sticky, to his cheek. But he couldn’t force himself to call for Kyle’s help. Couldn’t stand it. So he slept in his own vomit all night. Now, he kept his eyes closed, a wave of coldness settling behind his eyelids, juxtaposed against the sting of heat in his cheeks. He wasn’t embarrassed at the memory. Just numb.
With a sigh, Kyle stood up. Whatever point he’d wanted to make – whatever narrative he wanted to force on Will – he’d abandoned it. He was almost out of reach when Will reached out and grabbed his hand.
Kyle twisted his fingers around Will’s. Maybe it was just instinct. It was quick, and crushing, and tight – a fierce squeeze of the hand – and then, like he’d been burned, Kyle shoved Will’s hand away.
He left without another word.
They met in the observation deck closest to the sickbay. Beverly had given Commander Riker a sedative; he couldn’t say what had set him off, but a quick review of the medical logs showed an altercation of some sort, followed by a reconciliation, but in any case, now Kyle Riker was banned from his son’s room. He’d been holed up in the observation deck ever since, curled on the couch closest to the window, with his features tugged into a meditative scowl.
Maybe he was thinking about the Tholians, Donovan thought. About his own slow recovery, his battle with flashbacks and chronic pain. It was all there in Kyle’s record, but Donovan wondered if he had the introspection to see the similarities between himself and his son. He eased into the room silently, and he stood at the side of Kyle’s couch rather than taking a seat.
“He’s sleeping,” Donovan said.
Kyle’s only response was a slow, close-lipped sigh. He brushed a hand through his hair, eyes shadowed.
“I fucked that one up, didn’t I,” he said finally.
Donovan searched for a polite way to agree. “He’ll recover,” he said, his voice a little clipped. He hated himself for fleeing from Kyle earlier, the same way he would have fled the room when they were stationed together years ago, before Kallonia. He’d thought the years of freedom-fighting gave him some resolve, some steel. He knew they had. But in the face of a man like Kyle Riker, all that steel melted into a white-hot pool.
He circled the couch slowly, until he stood directly in front of Kyle, shoulders squared.
“You’ve been asked to leave,” he said.
Kyle raised his head.
“Captain’s orders,” said Donovan firmly. “We’re close enough to beam you back to Station Eighty-Six if that’s your choice. If not, we can requisition a shuttle for you, to deposit at any Federation station in the Alpha Quadrant.”
“I’m being barred from visiting my own son?” Kyle asked.
Donovan refused to see the furrow between Kyle’s eyebrows, the slightly wounded dip in his voice. “You have twelve hours to get your things together,” he said. “That’s awfully generous, in my eyes.”
Kyle rose. He towered over Donovan, not quite as tall or solid as his son, but still imposing. His face was a polite mask.
“You don’t know Will,” he said flatly.
Donovan raised an eyebrow.
“You’re kicking me out because of a fight,” Kyle said. He gestured back to the door, to the hallway leading down to sickbay. “That boy lives on fighting. He was bred for it.”
“I don’t doubt that,” said Donovan softly. Kyle took a step closer, his chest bumping against Donovan’s.
“You know what I got after Station Three-Eleven?” he asked. “I had a data package waiting for me. From Valdez, Alaska, our hometown. You know what was in there?” He leaned a little closer. “Not a single letter from Will. But dozens from his high school, detailing the fights he got into while I was gone. I had no idea he was in the Academy by then – hell, I never thought they’d let him, record like that. What do you make of that, Donovan? I want to hear your theories.”
Something turned inside Donovan’s chest, hot and hard. “I think that when you leave a kid alone in Alaska, to fend for himself, he’s bound to get into fights,” he said.
Kyle’s face tightened, not into a smile, but into something beaming and hard, triumphant. “No,” he said. “You leave a kid alone in Alaska to fend for himself and he dies, Lieutenant Commander. You leave a Riker alone and he gets into fights.”
“He was fifteen,” Donovan said.
“And he knew what he was doing,” Kyle said. “I made damn sure of that.”
Donovan turned away with a shake of the head. He was a fourth-year cadet again, fighting to hold his tongue while Kyle lambasted the whole archaeological crew – slower than ‘my Will’, weaker, less flexible, less independent. But none of them knew then that ‘my Will’ was a teenage boy who hadn’t even hit puberty yet, left to fight the Alaskan winter and repair a broken replicator, all alone. Behind Donovan, Kyle took a deep breath and started over, his tone more reasonable.
“Will is, if nothing else, resilient,” he said. “I was in his life for thirteen years, and I used every single one of them to prepare him for the missions he’d face in Starfleet. He’s been training for everything the galaxy can throw at him since was a child.”
“Including this?” Donovan asked, whipping around. “A year as a sex slave? Did you prepare him for that?”
Kyle’s expression fractured. He turned away.
“Maybe he is a fighter,” said Donovan quietly. “But why do you need to see him fighting so badly? Because his mother didn’t? Or because you suspect you didn’t, back when the Tholians got you, and if you see Will fighting, maybe it proves that you fought, too?”
Silence.
“I was leaving anyway,” Kyle said finally, his voice rough. “I’m not doing him any good here, and I know it. He wants time and space, right? Well, that’s what I’m best at giving him.” He gave a harsh shrug. “That kid doesn’t need me. Never has.”
Donovan bit his tongue.
“What he needed was his mother,” said Kyle simply. He surveyed the empty observation lounge, pale now, and weary. “And she did fight, Donovan. Much good that it did her.”
He let his breath out in a sigh.
“I don’t have anything to pack,” he said. “I’ll leave right now.”
It was well into night cycle by the time Donovan visited sickbay again. He knew somehow that Will would be awake, and he wasn’t disappointed. The commander stood at the side of his bed, a scarecrow in hospital pajamas, testing the strength of his legs. They met each other’s eyes, each unreadable to the other.
Reluctantly, Will said, “Kyle–?”
“Departed early this morning,” Donovan said.
Will’s whole demeanor shifted, his square shoulders relaxed, his stone mask softening at the edges. Like an actor exiting the stage. Donovan hesitated, part of him wanting to apologize, the other scared to admit to any wrongdoing, to open up a new can of worms. He wanted to squeeze Will’s arm as a goodbye, but he was too far away, couldn’t think of an excuse to cross the room. Already regretting his visit here, he turned to leave.
Will’s voice stopped him dead.
“Thank you, Donovan,” he said. “For everything. I’m glad to see him go.”