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The observation lounge was quiet, the hum of the Enterprise’s engines a distant, steady heartbeat beneath the floor. Will Riker had chosen this spot deliberately. It was off-cycle for most senior staff briefings, the long table empty, the starfield scrolling lazily past the wide windows. He’d brought two trays from the replicator, hasperat for himself and a salmon salad for Beverly, and settled into the chair across from her.
Beverly Crusher smiled as she sat down, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “You didn’t have to do this, Will.”
“I wanted the company,” he said, his own grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Jean-Luc’s been stuck in diplomatic briefings all week. I’m starting to forget what he looks like.”
She laughed, a warm, genuine sound that had been absent from sickbay for a year. It was good to have her back. The whole ship felt more like itself, Wesley was less adrift, the medical team had fallen back into their old rhythms, and Jean-Luc … well, Jean-Luc had his oldest friend back and that meant something. Something real.
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, trading small talk about the latest stellar cartography updates and the ongoing debate about whether the coffee tasted different after the last replicator recalibration. It was easy. Familiar.
Then Will mentioned, casually, that the away team rotation for the upcoming survey of Staxim IV had been finalized. “Deanna’s coming along this time. So’s Geordi, obviously. And I’ve asked Ensign T’Ral to shadow me, she was assigned to sickbay under Dr. Pulaski, but she’s got a knack for geological analysis that I think --”
“That’s a good team,” Beverly interrupted, her tone pleasant but with an edge so fine it was almost invisible.
Will paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. There it was again. That flicker. Kate Pulaski's name hung in the air between them like an afterimage.
He’d noticed it a dozen times over the past three weeks. In staff meetings when someone referenced a medical procedure from the previous year. In Ten-Forward when a crewman mentioned the time Doctor Pulaski had treated their plasma burn. In the turbolift when Jean-Luc had offhandedly said, “Dr. Pulaski would have had opinions about the new post-away team screening guidelines.” Each time, Beverly’s expression didn’t change exactly, she was too much a professional for that, but something behind her eyes cooled. A door closing. A shutter drawn.
Most people missed it. Will Riker had built a career on not missing things. Especially things about people. Especially things about the people he loved.
He set his fork down and leaned back, studying her with open curiosity. “Beverly, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” She looked up, her expression open.
“Did Kate Pulaski screw up your filing system? Rearrange the sickbay inventory? Put the hyposprays in alphabetical order when you’d had them sorted by frequency of use?”
Beverly blinked, caught off guard. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?” He kept his voice gentle, free of accusation. “Every time her name comes up, you get this look. Like you’ve just bitten into a lemon you were told was an apple.”
She looked at him for a long moment and he could see the calculation behind her eyes, whether to deflect, whether to brush it off with a joke about professional rivalry. But this was Will. He’d held her hand after Tasha's funeral, danced with her at diplomatic functions, and loved the man she considered her closest friend. They were family, in every way that mattered.
She sighed, setting her own fork down with a soft clink. “I don’t like lazy doctors.”
Will’s eyebrows rose. Of all the criticisms he’d heard leveled at Katherine Pulaski -- abrasive, old-fashioned, stubborn -- lazy had never been one of them. “Kate?” he said, incredulous. “The woman who performed a memory-restoration procedure that Starfleet Medical said had a fourteen percent chance of success? That Kate Pulaski?”
“The same.” Beverly’s voice was steady. “I didn’t say she wasn’t brilliant.”
He leaned forward, genuinely puzzled now. “Then help me understand. Why do you think she was lazy?”
Beverly met his eyes and there was something fierce in her gaze now, something protective and adamant. “A doctor on an active starship,” she said, each word deliberate, “should read the full medical records of every officer cleared for away missions. All of them. Not just the current chart. Not just the last five years of physicals. The full file. So if there’s an injury or illness in the field, they’re already familiar with everything, preexisting conditions, childhood illnesses, psychological profiles, family history. Everything.”
Will nodded slowly. It made sense. It was thorough, the kind of thoroughness that Beverly herself practiced religiously. He’d seen her spend off-duty hours reviewing crew files, memorizing allergies and old breaks and the names of spouses and children. She knew her patients before they ever set foot in her sickbay. “Okay,” he said. “That tracks. But what makes you think Kate didn’t do that?”
Beverly was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “You told me once, when I was catching up on everything I’d missed, that Doctor Pulaski encouraged you to reconcile with your father. When he came aboard. When you were offered the Aries.”
Will went very still.
Kyle Riker’s visit. Kate telling Will it was time to get rid of his emotional baggage about his father. She’d meant well. She’d been trying to help him heal.
He tilted his head, not quite seeing where this was going. “She did. It didn’t take, I wasn't ready for that. But she meant well, Beverly.”
“I know she meant well.” Beverly’s voice was soft now, almost sad. “That’s the worst part.”
“Then I don’t --”
“Will.” She reached across the table, not quite touching his hand, but close. “I’ve read your medical file. Your full medical file. The one that goes back to childhood. To Valdez, Alaska. To the years after your mother died.”
The words settled into the air between them like stones dropping into still water.
“I know what your father did,” she said quietly. “I know about the broken arm when you were seven. The broken clavicle when you were eight. The concussion when you were ten. The bruising documented by your school nurse over and over again. The referrals to Child Protective Services that went nowhere until you finally ran away at fifteen. I know that Starfleet Medical flagged your file when you entered the Academy and I know why.”
Will couldn’t breathe.
He hadn’t thought about those records in years. They existed in the bowels of Starfleet Medical’s database, sealed and confidential, accessible only to attending physicians and CMOs. He’d never discussed them. Not with Deanna, not with Jean-Luc, not with anyone. He’d buried it all so deep that sometimes he could almost pretend it hadn’t happened.
But Beverly had read them. Because that was her job. Because she was thorough. Because she was diligent enough to know everything about the people under her care.
“You never said anything,” he managed.
“It wasn’t my place to bring it up unless you did. It’s still not my place.” Her voice was achingly gentle. “But I knew. So when you told me that Kate had pushed you to forgive him, to reconcile, to let go of the anger? I knew she hadn’t read your file. She couldn’t have. Because if she had, she would have understood that forgiving your father wasn’t the point. Surviving him was. You didn’t need to be told to let go of anger, Will. You needed someone to tell you that what he did to you was wrong and that you never deserved it.”
The observation lounge was so quiet. The stars drifted past the windows, indifferent and eternal.
“A doctor who doesn’t read the full file,” Beverly said, her voice barely above a whisper, “is a doctor who walks into a room blind. And a blind doctor on a starship can do terrible damage with the best of intentions.” She pulled her hand back, folding it in her lap. “That’s why I think she was lazy. Brilliant, yes. Skilled, absolutely. But lazy where it mattered most. She looked at you and saw a man estranged from his father and she applied a generic prescription for reconciliation without checking the wound. And that is not the standard of care I expect on this ship.”
Will exhaled, a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His chest felt tight, his throat raw. He looked at Beverly -- really looked at her -- and saw the fierce, unwavering compassion in her eyes. She hadn’t told him this to hurt him. She hadn’t told him to disparage a colleague. She’d told him because he’d asked and because she believed he deserved the truth.
“Does Jean-Luc know?” he asked, his voice rough. “About the file?”
“No. And he never will, unless you tell him. That’s your choice, Will. Always.” She paused. “He loves you. You know that, right? Not despite the things you’ve survived. Because of them. They’re part of who you are and he loves who you are.”
He nodded, not trusting his voice. Later, he would go find Jean-Luc. Later, he would let himself be held, let the familiar warmth of his partner’s arms anchor him in the present. Eventually, he might even talk about it and Jean-Luc would listen with that quiet, absolute attention he brought to everything that mattered.
But for now, he sat across from Beverly Crusher in the empty observation lounge and he let himself be seen.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “For reading the file.”
“It’s my job,” she said simply.
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s why you’re the doctor this ship needs.”
She smiled, a little sadly and picked up her fork. “Eat your hasperat, Commander. It’s getting cold.”
And because she was Beverly and he was Will and they were family, he did.