Chapter Text
The Borg implants were gone, but they still stung. Troi could tell — not just through empathy, but from the way Picard kept hunching his shoulders on the bridge, the twinge of facial muscles as he fought the urge to rub his shoulder against his cheek and grind the pain away. Emotionally, he was more stable now. It had been forty-five days since the attack, and ship-wide, nightmares and general anxiety levels had been reduced to a low simmer. Riker was one of two hold-outs. Picard was the other.
Troi glanced around Picard and met Will’s eyes. She felt his mind open up to hers, pushing a wave of concern through their mental link.
? he said.
Jean-Luc, Troi replied. I’m worried about him.
A line appeared between Riker’s eyebrows. He turned back to the viewscreen, but he kept his mind open so she could read him: agreement, mild worry, a conviction that Picard would be alright. A sense-memory of the tightness in his gut, the glint of light reflecting off metal, the hum of electricity coming from Picard’s implants…
It’s not about the Borg, Troi said. It’s something new.
? again.
He’s been getting better. But last week, I sensed a new flare of emotion. Unrelated.
And of course, she couldn’t tell him anything more detailed than that without violating Picard’s privacy. Riker looked at her from the corner of his eye and dipped his eyelids, his way of offering a knowing smile when he couldn’t be more open with his emotions — such as during a poker game, or when they were in the middle of a meeting.
“Something amusing, Number One?” Picard groused.
The smile wasn’t as subtle as Riker thought.
They’d been called to Picard’s ready room for a debrief. It wasn’t a particularly serious one; in fact, they’d gotten off topic twenty minutes ago when Geordi mentioned poetry, and now Riker was aimlessly swinging in his chair while Troi rolled a stick of local chocolate cream between her palms to heat it up. Data’s lecture on limericks had Picard’s temper spiking bit by bit, until it became a staccato headache in Troi’s temples, where her empathic powers always seemed to land. She crinkled the wrapper on her chocolate cream bar and let the lush, dark scent of chocolate and sharp citric fondant fill the air.
Riker stopped swinging and looked her way with interest. Troi offered him the first bite. Across the table, Picard’s temper softened somewhat, as if this sight had mollified him somehow, but he turned the bar down when Troi held it out to him.
“No thank you, Counselor,” he said wearily. “Mr. Data, enough.”
Data snapped his mouth shut in the middle of a recital.
“I believe we’ve gotten well-enough off-topic now,” Picard said. “Commander Riker, meet with the quartermaster to design a wardrobe for your away team.”
Riker pulled a long-suffering face as he said, “Aye, sir.” Troi watched him go with a grin. The quartermaster was known for producing only the itchiest costumes for away missions; he claimed the material he used was the lightest-weight, most durable in the galaxy, and it didn’t make any noise when it chafed between your thighs. It just so happened that most humans were lightly allergic to it, too.
“Bet he’s wishing he took the Melbourne now,” Geordi said.
Troi flinched as Picard’s temper soured again. “Why do you say that, Lieutenant?” he asked, his voice perfectly even.
“The Melbourne’s got a whole department of designers,” Geordi explained. “I bet they never have to deal with the quartermaster’s rash-inducing—”
“Dismissed,” Picard interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “This meeting has gone on long enough.”
A brief jolt of hurt emanated from Geordi, but it was nothing to worry about — he was an officer, and an adult, and he knew better than to take offense over a sudden interruption. Troi stayed in her seat as the bridge crew filtered out. She turned to Picard, eyebrows raised.
“Yes, Counselor?” Picard asked.
“You seem rather abrupt today,” said Troi mildly.
Picard glanced away with a scowl.
“It was that mention of the Melbourne that did it,” Troi said, scanning Picard’s face. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“There is nothing to discuss,” said Picard. He woke his PADD with a tap of the finger and threw himself into the latest reports from below.
“I sense a great deal of anger—” Troi started.
“No one informed me that my first officer was offered his own command,” Picard snapped. “I learned of it one week ago, when Admiral Jellicoe inquired after Will’s decision.”
Troi already knew the answer, but studying Picard’s roil of emotions, she decided to play dumb. “And what did Will decide?” she asked.
“He’s staying,” Picard grumbled. “Again.”
“You disapprove?”
Picard’s dark eyes flicked up to meet her gaze. “Of course I disapprove,” he said flatly. “He handled the Borg admirably. I’d say he’s more than ready to take his own command.”
Anger, in Troi’s experience, was a secondary emotion — a reaction, nothing more. She prodded at the tight ball of Picard’s emotions, imagining each stray feeling a piece of thread, each one color-coordinated. The ball pulsed with an angry, boiler-room red. But when she plucked the strings loose, when she scraped at the red with her fingernail, it flaked away like dry paint. Underneath, the real color of the thread was…
“You think he’s coddling you,” Troi realized.
Picard’s eyebrows shot up. He drew into himself, facing her with the same dangerous, quiet gaze he’d turned on so many incompetent officers and disingenuous diplomats. Troi took a risk and reached across the table, covering Picard’s hand with her own.
“Jean-Luc,” she said softly, “Will’s decision was influenced by our encounter with the Borg. I’m certain of that. But he didn’t stay on the Enterprise to keep an eye on you.”
“No?” said Picard roughly. “Then enlighten me.”
With a sigh, Troi searched her mind for evidence. What would convince him? He couldn’t read Will’s emotions the way she could. How easy it would be, if she could just show him — the concern when Picard was in sickbay; the fear that he might lose him; the loneliness that had eased one centimeter at a time when he joined the Enterprise, when he found his home. But all of that was off-limits for a human. Troi stood, making up her mind.
“Follow me, Captain,” she requested. “I have something to show you.”
Riker was trying on the scratchiest tunic ever made when the door to his quarters whooshed open. Troi and Picard strode through like they owned the joint, and Riker hurried to cover his chest. Sparkly sequins clung to his chest hair and started a lurid purple rash on his skin.
“Uh, hi?” he said, sending Troi a quick ???? through their mental link.
“There,” said Troi, ignoring him entirely. She marched right up to Riker’s bookshelf and crossed her arms, one eyebrow raised. Not at Riker, but at Picard, who looked like he’d swallowed something sour. “You know what this is, I suppose.”
“I do,” said Picard shortly.
Riker tugged his tunic all the way on. They were studying his childhood model of the U.S.S. Stargazer, one of the only keepsakes he’d brought with him when he was stationed here. Picard’s old ship, he remembered with a flush. It had been his favorite as a kid. He’d memorized the crew’s names and stats the same way other kids memorized gravball teams; he used to fall asleep with his eyes fixed to that model on the shelf across from his bed, imagining himself as Ensign Riker on the starship Stargazer, under Picard’s command. And he’d always been extremely careful not to let Picard know that this model even existed, let alone how deep the childhood hero worship used to run.
I could throw you in the brig for this, he thought, and he tried hard to project it to Troi, but he was pretty sure all she received was a wave of embarrassment. Next to her, Picard was studying the old chipped model of the Stargazer with a feigned expression of indifference. He cast Riker a considering glance, and no doubt noticed the blush.
“Commander Riker,” said Picard in the whip-crack voice of a schoolteacher. “You turned down command of the U.S.S. Melbourne. May I ask why?”
Oh, this was shaping up to be just like one of Riker’s worst dreams. Embarrassing clothes, childhood secrets on full display, Picard quizzing him in his bedroom… He glanced to Troi for help, but of course, none was coming. With his best professional voice — and posture — Riker said,
“Sir, I’m honored by the offer. But the Enterprise…”
…is your home, Troi whispered in his mind, urging him to say it.
“...is where I belong,” Riker said, stumbling a little and cursing her for it. “For now.”
“I see.” Picard turned back to the Stargazer, his eyes distant … and his face a little softer than before. “I apologize for the interruption, Commander,” he said finally. “You have preparations to make. Counselor.”
Troi accepted her dismissal with a nod — and a tiny smile that grew into a full-blown grin when Picard left them alone.
“He’s feeling better already,” she informed Will.