Work Text:
Love is the fire at the end of the world
Love is a violent star
A tide of destruction
Love is an angry scar
The pain of instruction
"Inside," Sting
~^~^~^~^~
The annunciator interrupted the latest version of a treatment plan for Lieutenant Dobbs. She'd sensed that Captain Picard was close, and that he was upset, but he'd been upset since early that morning and she trusted that he would come to her if he needed her help. He wouldn't have accepted it if she offered, after all, so she'd waited. And now he was here.
Deanna sighed and saved the file. "Come in."
The captain entered her office, glanced around as she stood up, and didn't smile as she came around her desk and joined him on the sofa. She angled herself to face him and he mirrored the movement, tugging at his jacket. Already resorting to nervous gestures -- this was doubly worrying.
"I've been expecting you."
"I expect so," he replied softly.
"You didn't wait for the scheduled appointment." She had given him a week's interval between the first and second appointments. The first had been two days previous.
She sensed the jolt of realization as he felt it. "If this is disrupting your schedule. . . ."
"No. I don't have any more appointments today. You're very agitated." Normally, she waited for clients to start, but hesitance and preoccupation were not typical of the captain. She waited, taking the moment to gather her composure. His pain preoccupied him; it had driven him to suspend his usual deliberate consideration for others. He would have contacted her first to see if she had time, under less distressing circumstances.
Hands folded in his lap, he focused on a point in the air between them. "I don't understand why I feel this way. I don't understand why I dream. . . ."
When he wouldn't go on, she leaned slightly and tried to meet his eyes. The movement got his attention. He faced her directly then, determined. "The family I had -- that Kamin had -- "
"You feel the connection; it was your family. Technicalities are not the issue, here. Family is what you feel it to be. There's no need to correct yourself."
He nodded, almost smiling again, but refocused on the same point in midair. "I know that they were not alive, and that I feel otherwise. I know we talked about grieving, and why I should allow myself to process the experience. It makes logical sense to me. But it -- this isn't -- "
She allowed the silence to lengthen this time. When it was evident that he couldn't put it into words, she reached over and carefully placed her hand over his, then allowed her own tears to express what he felt. It wasn't something that she'd ever thought of doing before; certainly none of the clinical techniques she'd ever read while studying human psychology had suggested crying *for* the client. But there were times when creative solutions were called for, and intuition had stepped forward the instant the need existed.
A tear slipped from her cheek and fell to the floor, where it softly tapped the carpet. He blinked, turned his head as if in a daze, and winced -- as his hands moved she drew back and returned her hand to her lap. She didn't break eye contact. The last few tears dried on her cheeks while she waited for a response.
"It's as though I lost her yesterday," he whispered.
"I understand. It's confusing and very painful." She had to be careful about her tone with him when he was like this. Matter-of-fact was better than echoing the emotion.
"I grieved when I lost her, but then I lived for years after. I enjoyed being with my children. I don't feel the same sadness about the children, even, and I think. . . that would be less confusing. I would have thought I would feel the same sort of loss. Not the same -- you know what I'm trying to say. They were my children."
"Were they alive when you were brought back to the *Enterprise*?"
"Yes. But they're gone now. . . ."
"But they were alive when you left. You didn't experience their loss in the same way."
"No. . . but why grieve again, now? It doesn't make sense."
"I seem to recall that in our conversation in sickbay when you returned, you said something about Eline being there before you left. I thought you were disoriented then, because when we spoke again a day later, you described her death as having happened years previous. How are you remembering it now?" The discontinuity of his memories had concerned her. Perhaps it was part of what bothered him now.
The reminder brought an instant, wide-eyed response. "Yes. She was there. How did I forget? She was there, I wanted -- " He couldn't put it into words; his mouth hung open as the memory and emotions played and replayed. Deanna waited, unsure of where the escalating intensity of grief and dismay would take them. Some of the tears he hadn't shed before glistened in his eyes.
"It may be that the abrupt transition from Ressik to the bridge was traumatic enough to induce temporary partial amnesia." She regretted it at once -- the rational guess at a cause could have waited, but she'd let it happen, probably out of a wish to rescue a friend of whom she was genuinely fond from an experience she knew too well was painful. "Were the dreams about her?"
"This morning I woke. . . I expected her to be there. I dreamed she was here, or I was there -- it seemed to me we were in my quarters, and then walked outside to see how her garden -- I wanted it to be true. I couldn't understand why it wasn't for a few moments. And then it came to me that she wouldn't be there and why, and the dream made no sense to me, nor did the intense emotion I felt."
"Do they make sense to you now?" She was improving now, responding as she should instead of guessing. The rush of emotions he felt at the realization was on the ebb.
"I reacted with happiness at seeing her again. I was excited. It was as though losing her was a dream. And then she was there, and now I've lost her again."
Another silence ensued, and she let it happen. Theories coalesced in her mind -- she couldn't help it. She chose a promising one, and when he showed no sign of sharing his thoughts, she presented it gently. "You needed to understand why you were feeling as you were, and now that you do, it's easier to process the emotion."
"Yes," he said, meeting her gaze. "I'm sorry. I drifted off. Thank you. It should be easier to refocus on. . . what I was doing," he finished with a faltering attempt to avoid confession.
"You mean work. I believe the orders that you were given, by certain professionals who know you well enough to make them orders, were to take at least four days of medical leave." She sounded stern, but smiled at him as if sharing a joke. Which it was, really. Work was one of his preferred forms of therapy.
At last, the smile was genuinely for her, and not perfunctionary. "I suppose I should know better."
"You need to give yourself time to recover." No exaggerated sternness this time, just sincere concern and no smile. "Even if it's painful."
"You're probably right." He stood, and she followed his example. "Thank you, Counselor."
"I realize you have your own way of handling this sort of thing. I wonder, however, what way would best honor the memory of Eline?"
It stopped him as he turned. His lips tightened. With a barely-perceptible nod, he continued the turn, tugged his jacket, and bid her a polite good-bye as he departed with a purposeful energy in his step.
Deanna paid attention to the familiar process of Picard's post-session tidying -- the sensation reminded her of the process of cleaning a disorderly room, tucking away all the stray items until everything was regulation again. He had progressed significantly in his acceptance of the counseling process, but now that he really needed to work through the loss and the readjustment to his life, he went back to his old ways. Repress and retreat. It was, she supposed, entirely understandable. The most difficult issues automatically brought up the most entrenched and instinctive coping mechanism. Still, it was disappointing; she hadn't seen him react with such drastic withdrawal since his long recovery from assimilation.
"You have to let the client proceed at his own pace," she said aloud. She inhaled, took a moment to acknowledge the frustration of a curtailed session and let it go, and returned to her desk. Somehow, she had to rescue the train of thought that would result in a coherent treatment plan for Lieutenant Dobbs, who grieved the loss of his mother weekly and often seemed reluctant to leave Deanna's office. She never had to cry for him.
But before she returned to Dobbs, she recorded a quick note on her brief conversation with the captain. She hesitated, considering whether or not to follow her usual procedure, then decided that it might be of benefit to him. She forwarded it along to him. He could make of it whatever he chose.
~^~^~^~^~^~
The log entries he had been reading were still open and waiting on the monitor at the desk in his quarters. Picard started the first one from the beginning again; he'd been so distracted by puzzling over the events of the morning that he hadn't been able to focus. He absently picked up the cup he'd left to one side, and at the cold touch of the tea against his lip, rose to get a new one from the replicator.
When he returned, a new message waited for him. He snorted when he saw what it was. Pondering, he eyed the log entry, then asked the computer to open Troi's file instead. He skipped over the identifying data and stardate in the header.
The captain came to my office without an appointment. His distress was obvious; his pain was clear in his expression and in the apparent overwhelming need to seek help. Adjusting to being Captain Picard after the perceived years of being Kamin is taking more time than he would like; as noted in the first session he believes that he should return to work.
This session lasted only eighteen minutes, most of which was spent in silence as he tried to put his confusion and pain into words. Some gaps in his memory were apparent, as he did not remember telling me that he had seen Eline just before his awakening on the bridge. When I mentioned this, it seemed to release the memory and he appeared to relive it, with all of the joy and sorrow attached to it. This led to his understanding of a dream he had had this morning, in which he was with Eline in an environment that seemed to combine elements of both lives. Once comprehension was attained, he appeared to retreat emotionally and no longer felt the need to discuss his pain or the dream, or his experiences as Kamin.
I reiterated the recommendation that he allow himself time and opportunity to process the memories and emotions before returning to work. He offered no comment or agreement but acknowledged my suggestion.
Picard reread it before closing the file, then closed Riker's logs relating to the incident. He had intended to go over the formal reports as a way of picking up where he had left off as captain, but something else bothered him now.
"Computer, record message to Counselor Troi."
"Recording," the computer replied pleasantly.
But now it occurred to him what she would do -- the message would be attached to his file, rather than summarized as she did with his sessions. Also, this was too easy. "Cancel recording."
He had already run from the idea of talking about his feelings with her. This was another way of distancing himself. She would see it immediately. While that wasn't necessarily news to either of them -- she'd commented on the habit before -- it seemed to him somewhat irrational that he could be so mistrustful of the same counselor who had helped him endure the aftermath of assimilation. He remembered how insistent and patient she had been with his attempts to avoid confronting his feelings, and how so often, without really appearing to, she'd guided him through what he needed to heal. Going home to see his brother hadn't been something she expected, but he wondered now if what they had done in session leading up to that point had influenced the decision. If he hadn't gone, perhaps he wouldn't have faced his fears. He might have resigned, and as he looked back on that he knew it would have been a mistake.
There was something about working with the counselor that mysteriously led to positive change. Dwelling on pain and loss seemed so pointless, but in spite of his perception that all he needed was to return to work and let his experiences on Kataan sort themselves out, the counselor's continued suggestion was to do otherwise.
"Picard to Troi."
"Troi here, sir."
"Do you have a -- well, I assume it would take more than a moment -- do you have time? I think. . . ."
She didn't need him to finish. "Yes, I do. Would you be more comfortable discussing this in your quarters?"
"I don't know," he said, wondering what would lead her to suggest it.
"I only supposed that you would. It's the end of alpha shift, you see. The corridors and lifts will be quite busy and I know you prefer privacy, and -- "
"Yes, thank you," he interrupted. She was right. There were people who would stop him if they saw him and ask how he was. "No -- it's the end of your shift. I wouldn't want to -- "
"Captain. I don't always observe strict shift-bound hours. Otherwise, how would I see people who sleep through Alpha? I'll be there momentarily."
When he answered the annunciator she drifted in with her usual unhurried manner, refusing politely an offer of beverage and seating herself on the end of his sofa. She glanced around his neat living room, her gaze lingering on a few books piled on a corner of the desk, and watched him as he settled at a comfortable distance from her, placing his tea on the table before them.
"You received my message?" she asked.
"I realized that my behavior might lead you to believe that I don't trust you."
She leaned back slightly, head tilting away from him, and smiled. "Oh, no. Not at all. It led me to believe that what you experienced on Kataan is of such importance to you that you reacted out of instinct, to protect it and avoid bringing up the pain of losing it."
He stiffened, dismayed at how quickly the emotion welled up in response to her statement. She leaned forward again, smoothing and straightening her pale green skirt, then folding her hands.
"I consider you a friend, Deanna. I know you sense pain all too well."
Reproach showed briefly in her face before compassion and concern returned. "I believe the friendship is mutual, but I also believe that it can't get in the way of helping you as a counselor. If it did, you would need to transfer me and get a different counselor. I would insist on that. It isn't ethical to allow friendship to interfere with the counseling relationship, and that you feel it does worries me a great deal."
"I wasn't suggesting that," he exclaimed quickly, hoping to mend this before she did as she said. "I only meant that I regret inflicting it on you."
She actually laughed, a quickly-suppressed snort, and shook her head. "It's my job. I chose this career. Your concern is appreciated, but we've been through worse together."
"I realized that. It's not quite rational of me to hide from something that I found very helpful in extreme circumstances."
Something flitted through her expression. Dismay? Fear? It was gone before he could identify it. Deanna smoothed her skirt again, a gesture he now realized must be an indication of nervousness, and nodded. "I'm glad to hear you say that. I had hoped you would take advantage of your time off to resolve and assimilate your experiences. . . . I'm sorry, that was a poor choice of words."
"Not at all. In this case, assimilating is what needs to happen. I honestly don't want to forget what happened. I miss. . . ."
Deanna waited patiently for him to find composure and continue. It was what she did most in session. It still seemed a waste of time; he had always worked out his disappointments and frustrations privately before. However, he couldn't argue with the past. She'd helped him -- she could help him again. He didn't like feeling so indebted to her, but she kept saying it was her job. An odd sort of job, being battered with the pain of others, but he had to admit she was well suited to it.