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I'd like to see you, if you have the time. Do you think you could spare some leave for an old friend? I've been meaning to take some myself but it's gotten tiresome going it alone. We could go riding together, maybe, or just hiking. There are some excellent trails on Risa.
This is quite sudden. I haven't heard from you in almost a year, and suddenly you want to go riding? And without so much as a 'how are you' to cushion it.
How are you, by the way? You sound a bit lonely.
Lonely comes with the job, as you know. I'm doing well. We just pulled through a scrape with the Romulans. It's the counselor's job to make sure I'm adequately sane, so she's suggested leave. The only thing she can't help me with is company for the trip. Which is why I sent you a message.
So how the hell are you?
I'm doing as well as always. We're a bit far from Risa at the moment -- in fact, in two months we're supposed to head for the Gamma Quadrant. I'm looking forward to some exploration in new territory.
I understand you're being called in for repairs. That must have been some scrape. You seem to have gotten through it just fine, as I'd expect from an officer of your caliber. I hope you enjoy Risa. I do wish I could be there, but it's not likely I'll be able to get away. I'll have to settle for riding on the holodeck for now. Thanks for inviting me, though.
We were giving humanitarian aide to a Romulan colony. Of course, as you've noted in the past, having anything to do with the Romulans is like playing chess, and they turned it around on us. Anyway, I'm tired of talking about it -- it's over with. I can detour for leave without repercussions. Command has my reports and I can take a shuttle while the ship's at starbase.
Confession time. I wasn't just asking you to Risa to go riding. I heard about your future journey to the Gamma Quadrant, and it got me to thinking. . . . I want. . . need to talk to you. I'd like to do it before you go. In person. Because I think there could be more to us than there's been, and I hope you'll give me the chance to find out.
There are too many years between us. I don't mean in the sense of age -- there are too many years of disciplined friendship for me to consider it.
I'm sorry. You would probably be disappointed in my performance, in any case.
If it's any consolation to you, I've missed you. I find that lately, loneliness is a very real entity, lurking in my empty rooms, ever the invisible and silent companion. Sometimes she wraps her arms around me as if to keep me warm, but we all know that she is a cold, cold bedfellow.
Don't we?
What performance would I be disappointed in?
I'm not what I was in my youth -- traveling from one sensual pleasure to the next with little regard for permanence. It's not something Starfleet instills any respect for, we're kept on the move from one post to the next, expected to strive for promotions and excellence in our work that takes personal sacrifice to achieve. I did my job damn well, and you never expressed any expectation that I'd do anything else. Neither did you hint at jealousy or any desire for anything more than friendship from me. So how can you say it's 'too late' when it was never possible? Or was there something you never told me, all those months and years of working together and spending off-duty time together?
Why the hell isn't it possible for friends to become something more?
And if you're hinting that I'm offering out of loneliness and depression, forget it. I'm neither. At the end of my patience with my solitary state, perhaps.
I suppose it is possible to become something more, if both friends want it thus.
As for hints, you never threw any my way, either. Don't play the martyr. I find it quite beneath you and I'm surprised at you for the attempt.
You're right about Starfleet. I've always wondered why you stayed aboard for so long -- hell, I wondered about all my senior officers at various times. You could all have had promotions earlier in your career than you did. Any bitterness about that should be directed at you -- I did nothing to influence your choices in that area. I never asked you to stay. I never. . . .
I never asked anything of you, did I? There were Starfleet's orders, and my orders, and sometimes you disagreed with them -- sometimes you rebelled, others you gave in to, as if deferring to me. Was I to read anything into deference? What in all our interactions was I supposed to construe as desire?
I can't believe you would be that oblivious. Surely you noticed the times I watched you. You're far more perceptive than to not notice.
Why would I notice? I always believed your interests lay elsewhere. You did show a pattern in the sorts of people you preferred. I don't match that preference, in case you hadn't noticed.
I find it interesting that we're communicating in text messages about this. Are you afraid of speaking about it? Perhaps this is your way of distancing yourself from it, so you'll be able to pretend the next time we meet that this conversation never happened. Just in case it doesn't go as you hope it will.
My preference is to present a public persona, and keep that which I hold most dear private. My friendships are important to me. I have so few of them anymore, and the handful of truly close friends are most important of all. Excuse me for not wanting to share that with the entire universe. As we've observed there isn't much permanence to Starfleet and I cling to those close friends in the absence of family.
We are communicating, that's enough. For now. It's more than we've had for quite some time. Perhaps there is some safety in the medium -- perhaps I'm keeping the distance to protect myself, but also to protect you?
Strange, how that happens. The lack of family, I mean. How many starship captains truly have family intact any more? Perhaps we channel our energies to our career to distract us from loneliness.
You shouldn't feel the need to protect me from anything. I'm not in need of protection.
Am I to assume then that I am counted among those close friends?
You may be assured that you are.
I never would have made the suggestion if you weren't. Privacy, remember. I trust that this conversation will remain private. I trust you. I always have. It's been my habit to display confidence in any fellow officer, but there honestly are only a half-dozen or so people I could ever completely trust with my feelings. You probably know less about that side of me than you think. You've not presented yourself as someone who was comfortable with the sharing of feelings.
So why the suggestion? Meeting on Risa carries with it a certain. . . connotation. Why suddenly this outpouring of feelings?
I realized that command is lonelier than you ever let on. That after the shift is over, you can play poker or whatever with the crew, you can work out, you can attend concerts, you can read and keep up with correspondence and do all the normal things one does in the service -- but you can never cross that barrier between the third and fourth pips. That you can order any of these friends on your ship to their deaths, and they will go. That there are some things you will never be able to tell them. It makes me wonder what you never said, all those years I served with you.
It makes me want to give you the chance to say it. Whether I think you want to or not. Because there are things I want to say, now that I'm over that barrier myself and see how lonely you've been.
You know nothing about how lonely I've been.
This imaginary barrier -- an interesting theory. By now I'd think you realized that any distance between myself and the crew, or myself and anyone, has more to do with my own preferences than any trumped-up psychological nonsense you could concoct to explain it. People disappoint. It's a fact of life. The only person upon whom you can rely completely is, in the end, yourself. And sometimes we betray ourselves in ways we can't see until the choices are made and the destiny is shaped and in motion, and there's nothing we can do to stop it.
I would disappoint you. I know that. You would disappoint me. What would make your suggestion worth the effort?
Accepting that we disappoint sometimes and enjoy those times when we don't? You can't spend the rest of your life alone. There has to be someone you can depend on. That's part of what I wanted to discuss with you.
I can depend on dying some day. I can depend on the fact that everything changes, that we lose loved ones, that nothing will stay the unendurable, ongoing pull of entropy. I can depend on the bureaucracies around us to endlessly tie us down to procedure and policy. I can depend on myself to never be able to stop thinking about these things and always attempt adherence to a higher standard.
There is nothing to discuss. Nothing left for me to wish for, other than completion of a long and eventful career and then retirement.
You really are depressed, aren't you? And you're performing as expected. Do you ever get tired of words, words and words? Why not just do something because you want to? Who would you be hurting? Starfleet owes you more than you could ever expect to gain -- you probably have enough leave accumulated to just go on leave and stay on payroll for the rest of your life.
I refuse to abandon you to entropy.
Refute that.
You won't give in, will you?
Hell, no. Any more than you will. I'd really like to continue this on Risa, in person. Tell me when you've gotten approval for leave. I'll make the arrangements.
Just what is it you want from me? What could a burned-out officer who's on the downward spiral have that you'd want? I'm not sure I have it in me any more.
Trust me. There is more than you know that I'd want.
I can't do this. I have too much to do. And I know that I'd be a complete disappointment to you.
What if I'm more concerned about what I could do for you? I owe you. And I could love you.
There was a time when I couldn't have said that, but I've grown up since then. Like I said, you realize a lot of things too late sometimes. I don't want this to be one of them. It isn't too late. I don't care how much you don't say it, it *isn't* too late. It's only too late when you're dead.
I could love you, Jean-Luc.
I love you, Jean-Luc.
You could love me. If you dare.
I can't do this.
I need reasons. I won't let you give up. The only weapon against entropy that we have is tenacity. If you can't give me one good reason why you shouldn't meet me on Risa, I'm going to come after you. That is *not* an idle threat.
I'll circumvent some more squabbling by saying that there are NO good reasons for not meeting me.
You have a week to deal with insecurities and pessimism. If I don't get an answer by then, expect me to show up in four days.
Don't you dare.
And don't call me insecure and pessimistic. I have always been an optimist. I have also retained a firm grasp on reality, and I know you, and I know me. There is very little you can say to change my mind.
Well, at least you left me just a little I can say, so I'll say it.
You know you want to.
What I want is beside the point. What is realistic and sensible is the issue.
The issue is what you want, and realistically, you could have exactly that. I'm being perfectly sensible about this. I gave you a deadline. I issued the offer. I spared you that much discomfort -- I made the first move. I know you well enough to understand that I would have to be the one to do that. I also know that the fact that you've continued this exchange for so long means you're considering it.
Stop thinking about it. Take leave, Jean-Luc. Meet me on Risa.
It's not like I'm issuing a marriage proposal. I only want to talk about this.
If all you wanted to do was talk, Rigel 10 would do as well.
Do you have to read so much into everything?
Look. All I really have to say is this. I understand. I think we could be answers to questions we don't dare ask ourselves. I don't think we need to waste a lot of time talking about it, either. I don't expect that either of us will alter our lives radically to suit the other. I'm suggesting an alliance to make the leave less unendurable. We both need this. And when retirement comes along, there are postings closer to home for me, and I'm sure we could come to some sort of consensus on living arrangements. This isn't just a mad impulse.
I just wanted to say that in person, that's all. We could have gone our separate ways from Risa if we wanted to. We still can, for that matter.
Can't you stop being so stubborn just for one leave on Risa with me?
There's a small bar four blocks west of the landing field in Kajaran. I'll be there in ten days, twenty-hundred hours, at the table in the southeastern corner.
If I'm not there, there's nothing further to discuss, and you can go out and enjoy Risa in the usual fashion.
Understood.
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I took advantage of being early. When he came in the bar, I already sat at a table that matched his description of his destination. My heart skipped a beat and remained suspended in my throat as he approached slowly.
He hadn't changed. He was getting older, but you wouldn't know it to look at him -- under the loose linen shirt he still had muscle tone that most men half his age would envy. I knew he'd wear those nondescript brown pants, the same sort he usually wore on leave, utilitarian and suitable for riding or digging in archeological pits. I knew they'd be tight. I knew that in the bar, under lighting intended to be intimate but managing only to be dim, a sheen of perspiration would gleam on his brow. I didn't expect the bright glint of anticipation in his eyes, or the wry twist of his smile.
He paused, hands clasped before him, then sat across from me.
"I ordered you a drink," I said, breaking the silence for him.
"Thanks." He glanced around, not seeming nervous, but I knew he was. "Are you surprised to see me?"
A warm feeling coiled in the pit of my stomach. Anticipation. Now that he was here, I could nurture it. "I'm glad. I'm not surprised to see that for all your complaining, you look just the same."
He looked at his own hand, at the palm, as if searching for lines with which to read his own fortune. I reached over and took it. His eyes met mine, surprised and anxious. Then, responding to my own smile, his lips trembled and thinned into the warm smile I had been hoping to see.
"I did try to tell you, once," I murmured.
"You did not."
"I did. You took it as a joke. Think about where we are. About the time you took leave here."
He laughed, a low rippling velvety chuckle that stroked and teased that knot of anticipation in my stomach until it purred. "You mean the hor'ghan. I got you another one. I left it in my room."
"Then why did we meet in the bar?"
"I had a reason for that, but at the moment it escapes me. The room service on Risa is excellent, you know."
"Prove it."
He waved away a waitress as he stood. "In a while."
"For someone who put up such a fight about this, you're being terribly easy."
"You think so?" He leaned close to ask, his voice low and intense, accompanied by a dark-eyed gaze sifted through his eyelashes. "I thought you said you knew me well. Nothing is ever easy, Will."
"I changed your mind once. Let's see if I can prove to you there's one thing that's easy."
As we left the bar, he gave me a sly, sideways glance. "Not if I can help it."
I couldn't help grinning. "I've always liked your streak of unpredictability, Jean-Luc. It always shows up when I least expect it."
"The nature of the beast."
We reached the door to his room. He'd chosen one of the hostels off the beaten path, a small place with a spa as its main attraction. He paused with his palm on the ID plate. "If you want to back out of this, I'll understand."
"Back -- what the hell are you talking about? This was my idea."
"I'm only giving you the option. Just in case."
I shook my head, jaw clenched. "Are you going to open the door?"
I ignored the hor'ghan on the table, glanced at his open bag on a chair, sat on the end of the bed so garishly draped in red. He stared at me and offered a beverage; I refused. He put his bag on the floor and sat in the chair, facing me.
"I didn't realize," he said after a long silent contemplation.
"I was your first officer. I'm not, now. I missed you."
"So much that it's made you candid?"
"Life is too short. We all say it, but we do nothing about it. I decided to do something."
"With me. As opposed to with, say. . . Deanna?"
"Look, this doesn't have to be so difficult. I'm not here 'as opposed to' being anywhere else. I don't think I need to tell you that."
"You said you didn't think much talking was necessary." He put the cup he'd gotten from the replicator to his lips and drank. So calm, almost lazy, slumping in the chair -- I felt like I might jump out of my skin and he looked more relaxed than I'd ever seen him.
"I suppose you disagree?"
"I told you I wasn't easy. You were the one who brought emotional ties into this."
"You don't feel the same."
He considered, bracketing his chin with his fingers, just as serious as the last hundred times I'd seen him contemplate something of great import. I took comfort in that. Regardless of his answer, he still accorded me that much respect. There were men who wouldn't, under these circumstances.
"That depends. There are many kinds of love, and many ways of expressing it. You know this will likely be the last time we're together for a long time. Perhaps I'm simply not yet completely certain of your expectations."
"My expectations are in keeping with the knowledge that we both have ships to run. If there's time to spend on leave, however. . . ."
"You get dibs on it?"
"I would have said you did." Now we were both grinning.
"A peculiar kind of arrogance, Will. Presuming that I'll even have time off."
"I could claim to have the wherewithal to make you want time off."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees and eyes lidded. "I suppose that might be possible."
"I suppose I'll have to prove it to you."
He smiled at that, raising an eyebrow. "Make it so."