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“So,” Will says as her mother finally beams away and Deanna takes her first deep breath in days. “Drink?”
“Spirits, yes,” she agrees, and takes the arm that he offers her.
“Ten Forward? Or a more private bar?”
“Are you offering?” She asks. She wouldn’t be surprised if Will never lets another Troi woman near his bedroom again.
“Glad to be your personal bartender anytime, Dee.” The two of them make their way to Will’s quarters and she collapses on the couch. “Synthehol? Or the real stuff?” He looks at her appraisingly as though he’s trying to determine what she needs.
“Anything,” she answers. “As long as it’s not from Betazed.”
He laughs and goes to the replicator. Deanna doesn’t really drink, and sad drunk never ends well for anyone. “Irish cream with chocolate milk. Irish whiskey, neat.” He brings both drinks over, handing Deanna hers and setting his on the table before he pulls her legs over his lap and pauses with her feet in his hands. “May I?” He pushes his thumbs into the arch of her foot for emphasis.
“Please,” she breathes into his mind and he smiles at her as he get to work.
“Wanna talk about it?” He suggests it casually, digging into her sore feet as he asks.
“My mother?” She rolls her eyes. “What is there to say?”
He shakes her foot slightly before returning to his self-appointed task. “C’mon, Dee. She was even more… Lwaxana… than usual this visit. She tried to marry me, for God’s sake. Does she not remember me? Or is she losing her mind…?” He breaks off, realizing he’s being insensitive.
She sighs. “This phase my mother’s going through does affect judgment and telepathic clarity.”
“Captain Picard will be happy to hear that,” Will cuts in, and Deanna grins at him.
“Indeed,” she agrees. “But what she did with you on the Bridge – that was a display for my benefit.”
“Oh?” Deanna has always been impressed with how much Will can convey in a single syllable.
“Yes.” She sounds resigned. “She was trying to force me to claim you as mine.”
Will sucks in a breath, then considers. Deanna shielded him from as much of the Betazed aristocracy as she could when they were together, but he understands the foundational principles. He looks up at her. “Why didn’t you?” The question is gentle and holds no reproach, just curiosity.
“What?” She laughs a little, but stops when she realizes he isn’t joking. “Will. Be serious. You don’t belong to me.”
“Don’t I?” He has stopped rubbing her feet now and his hands have drifted to her calves. He gives them a light, loving squeeze and holds her gaze as he speaks to her. “Adore. Honour. Serve. Obey. In that order. Isn’t that what you told me Betazoid men swore upon bonding to their mates?” She nods; she’s incapable of words, even mind-to-mind. “And do I not fulfill those duties, Deanna? Do I not adore and honour you? Serve you?” He gestures to her feet in his lap, the drink in her hand. “Willingly and enthusiastically?”
“Obey me,” she manages to send with a hint of amusement.
“I am yours to command,” he swears, and she laughs. He raises an eyebrow. “You told me obey comes last because when service comes into conflict with obedience, service must be the priority. So that when stubborn Betazoid women try to overwork themselves and exhaust their minds, their men serve them by demanding they care for themselves and do not give into the commands to let them keep overextending. I believe, in fact, that was the exact example you provided.” He looks at her knowingly.
She blushes. She remembers this fight all too well – and how it ended. “And if obedience were not in conflict with service?” She prompts, nudging him with one of the feet he’s been caring for.
“Deanna. I would do anything for you. You know that.”
She opens her mouth to respond and then closes it again. She does know that. And she also knows… “Do you remember what Betazoid women swear in return? Trust. Adore. Respect. Heed.”
“Heed could use some work,” he comments dryly, and she kicks him lightly. “But yes. You are mine in return.”
“Where is this coming from?” She asks. “You didn’t want this, before…”
“Folly of youth. Didn’t know what I was turning down. Now I have it, and I can’t imagine my life otherwise.” A pause. “So. Am I yours, Deanna?”
She shifts until she's pressed against him. “Ani imzadi ya imazdi niha.”
“I don’t remember that Cyndri phrase,” he admits, holding her close.
“You woudn't,” she answers. “It's not Cyndri. Well, it is, but it’s not a Betazoid saying. It’s a translation. I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine. A blend of Earth and Betazoid.”
Unbidden, a vision of a wedding on the Risian beach rises up in his mind as he realizes why she would have translated that particular phrase. He knows from the way she kisses the spot over his heart that she sees what he’s seeing. She says nothing; there is nothing to say.