REV All That Matters [R] P/T, R 3/12

[Lori]

Title: All That Matters
Author: Lori (zakhad#earthlink.net)
Series: TNG
Rating: [R]
Codes: P/T&R
Parts: REV 3/12
Archive: ASC
Feedback: yup
Disclaimer: I claim this story in the name of Mars! But the characters
belong to TPTB and I can't get paid for borrowing them. I can however accept
bribes of chocolate to write sequels.

Missing a part? http://home.earthlink.net/~lpon/fanfic.htm will help.

Time, Deanna told herself, staring at the watercolor painting of flowers
hanging over her desk. A patient had given it to her as way of saying thank
you for her help with his nightmares. She studied it anew, counting brush
strokes in pink petals and the contour of the gold vase. It didn't distract
her long.

Fickle, reckless time, rushing by then slowing to a crawl at the wrong
moment.

She had more appointments, but couldn't stop thinking of her conversation
with Jean-Luc. Breakfast in the ready room. He'd said not to expect it
again -- did he mean not to expect it in the ready room, or not at all?

That was stupid. Of course they'd have breakfast again. Unless what he'd
said last night was just talk -- maybe he'd change his mind and back off,
seeing that he'd rushed into the assumption she'd move right in with him.
Maybe in time he would lose interest and they'd drift apart, and they'd
never live together at all.

Why was she doing this to herself? He'd said that morning that he wanted her
to stay. All that talk with Data meant something.

But did it mean he was deluding himself?

Twiddling the brilliant geode one of her other patients had given her, she
sighed and chewed her lip. She could sense him, occupied with his duties.
Every now and then a familiar turn of emotion told her he'd thought about
her.

If only she could turn it off. Ignore him, the way she'd practiced for
months until the Zibyan mission -- if only she could keep herself from
drifting his direction in between appointments. She'd opened herself to him
too much too soon. An indicator of how much she really trusted him -- she
hadn't opened herself like that with anyone else. As long as she had someone
occupying her, she could think straight enough to keep him out.

All those years, knowing too well how he felt about too many people. She was
Betazoid -- accepting things she sensed around her without judgement or,
most of the time, reaction. All those women -- not so many as some other
officers had had, but she could list them. She could even guess what
attracted him to each of them, though love was never that simple a thing
that music appreciation, intelligent conversation, or any one shared
interest would be enough to turn his head.

And now there was Deanna Troi. Another name on the list?

She had to quit thinking this way. It would never work unless she could stop
predicting the end before it even had a chance to begin.

Rising, she wished there were a replicator in her office -- this ship being
less luxurious than the last, she had to go elsewhere to replicate anything.
She went down the corridor to main sickbay and bore left as she entered,
heading for the small room where medical staff could sit down for staff
meetings or breaks. There weren't any patients but she noticed Dr. Mengis
and three of his subordinates standing over some equipment at the opposite
end of the room.

Her supervisor bothered her, she'd told Jean-Luc as much not long ago, but
she hadn't told him the details of why. Gregory Mengis came into the break
room while she requested raktajino and stood to one side as if waiting for
her to move out of his way. She could feel the heat of his attention, his
admiration, and she wanted nothing more than to give him a short
demonstration of a self-defense technique she and Beverly had called the
Klingon nutcruncher, taught to them by Worf. She'd never used it on
anyone -- it would hurt, regardless of the gender of the opponent, and
causing physical damage had never been her preference. However, she was
positive she could manage it effectively, given the right motivation.

She could tolerate the occasional admiring glance. This was different, and
she wished she could break her intentional silence on the extent and nature
of her empathic ability to tell him to stop. But he'd never said a word to
her or done anything out of line, thus landing her in the miserable position
of ignoring it as best she could. She knew from hard experience when she
could and couldn't talk to someone about what she sensed; this was the
latter.

So tempting to react to the ogle in progress behind her as she took her time
picking up the hot beverage and carrying it from the room. She smiled
pleasantly at the doctor, her professional 'you are a coworker on good
terms' smile, as she passed him.

Back in her office, she folded her hands on the desk, eyed her raktajino,
checked the chrono, and waited impatiently. Data was late. That meant
someone was holding him up, and the only person he would allow to do that
was the captain. Which brought her back to thinking about him.

She closed her eyes, focusing on more pleasant aspects of the man rather
than on the officer, and ended up fighting the giddiness -- damn if she
didn't feel like a silly schoolgirl! She laughed at herself, letting her
mind play with that. Relatively speaking, she was that much younger than he,
now that she thought about it. Not that it mattered to her, really, but
human men could be silly about things like that. Will had already shown
obsessive preoccupation with those streaks of gray in his beard. Jean-Luc
showed no signs of concern, however, and hopefully that would continue.

He had to mean what she thought he'd meant, earlier in the ready room. He
wouldn't take this lightly. That rush of emotion from him as she'd left the
bridge should be all the proof she needed -- this insecurity of hers had to
go. He felt strongly about her, and he voiced no doubt. Concerns, yes, but
she would expect that. But it was so unbelievable to her, that suddenly
after all that time she spent wishing for it, he would welcome her into his
bed without hesitation. Captain Picard had done that? It only proved that
the side of him she was only just starting to see was truly uncharted
territory for her.

The annunciator brought her back from musing. Data came in and took a seat,
then relaxed his formerly-stiff posture as he'd practiced, his shoulders
lowering a few millimeters. He smiled, not the mischievous one from that
morning, and said, "I am sorry I was late, Counselor. The captain wished to
speak with me, and given the nature of our sessions, I wished to experience
the phenomena of being late. I forgot the time."

"I see." As often happened with Data, she found herself trying not to laugh.
These sessions were a crash course in the subtleties of things like tone of
voice and turns of phrase. He'd asked her help in trying to find a happy
medium between his unique personality and a demeanor that would put new crew
and visitors more at ease with him. Practicing human impreciseness when
appropriate was part of it. "How did the experience make you feel?"

"Apologetic. Mildly guilty. I did have an appointment and I was seven point
two four. . . seven minutes late."

Deanna crossed her legs under the desk and settled back in her chair. "We
left off last time discussing an encounter you had with Lieutenant
B'nai'gar. Did you have any further concerns about that?"

Data hesitated, and not for the first time she wished she could sense what
was going on with him -- his emotions weren't organically generated, and the
best term to describe what she sensed from him was 'smudged.' She thought he
might be worried.

"Data?"

"A question -- as a friend?"

No telepathy needed to know what this was about. Bracing herself, she
knitted her fingers and rested them over her knee. "As a friend."

"The captain is perhaps not aware of the rumors that have started about the
two of you," Data said, in his usual matter-of-fact tone he used for
discussing everything from playing his oboe to in-depth analyses of
interstellar phenomena. "I have, with my superior hearing, detected -- "

"What's the question, please?" She tried not to sound strident. Right then,
she did not want to hear the rumors. She'd heard a few about bridge officers
before, including Jean-Luc and Beverly.

"In the past he has displayed a great deal of discomfort when the crew has
any knowledge of his. . . interests. The bridge officers are all aware, and
it will not be long before the remainder of the crew knows. He does not seem
to recognize the curious looks from Mr. Carlisle and the others, however."

"Are you concerned for his feelings, Data?"

Data mimicked discomfort very well -- shifting in his chair, repositioning
his hands on the arm rests. Or perhaps he was simply mastering human body
language to match how he felt, at long last. "Captain Picard is my friend.
As are you, Deanna. Is it incorrect of me to feel concern?"

"No, and I think I speak for both of us in saying we appreciate your
concern. He can manage. He's more aware of the crew than you seem to think.
What you may be seeing is that he's chosen to ignore their reactions."

"I had not thought of that." Data smiled again, faintly. "I have observed
that for the last few months, he has not been very happy. I was pleased to
see that has changed drastically over the course of the past few days. I
hope that will continue -- you also seem much happier than you were."

"You are becoming later for your appointment all the time."

His smile widened. "I am sorry, Counselor. I. . . lost track of time again."

"As I was saying, your difficulties with Lieutenant B'nai'gar -- Data. Stop
grinning like that."

"I cannot seem to help it. I find it amusing that you are blushing."

Deanna hid her face in her hands. "Next lesson -- when not to point out to
someone that they're embarrassed."

"I believe I can extrapolate from existing data and hypothesize that one
should not point out someone is embarrassed when they have just begun a
relationship with their -- "

"Reference this in your databanks," she exclaimed, dropping her hands and
glaring. "Butt out."

Data blinked. The corners of his mouth dropped. "My difficulties with
Lieutenant B'nai'gar have been resolved," he said.

Deanna sighed, hand to forehead, and composed herself. "I'm sorry. I'm
afraid I'm a bit sensitive about. . . things."

"Would you like to talk about it, Deanna?"

She peered through her fingers. Data was as straight-faced as the day she'd
met him, and the question had sounded sincere. It occurred to her that of
all people aboard, he was most trustworthy -- all it took was a quick
sub-routine initiation and he could selectively forget. Then she realized
how desperate that thought was. How lonely she'd become, that now she was
thinking of venting her private life to Data, whose ability to commiserate
was so limited. He couldn't even really enjoy a chocolate sundae with her.

And then it struck her, she couldn't call Beverly for a chat. Her contacts
with the doctor had been few and far between since she'd left the ship.
Deanna knew that eventually Bev would work her way through things and open
up to her again -- or she would have, if not for this sudden change of
circumstance. Given the motivation for Bev's departure, as narrated by
Jean-Luc, the revelation of his relationship with Deanna might cause a
permanent rift between Beverly and both of them. And calling up Will, her
other former listening ear, would be uncomfortable for a variety of reasons;
that heated disagreement they'd had prior to his taking off on his own ship
may have been forgiven in word, but the hesitance and the distance remained.

She had no confidant any more. Guinan was gone, too, to who knew where. The
idea of discussing any of this with her mother was enough to put permanent
knots in her intestines. There was Jean-Luc, but the relationship was so
new, and part of the problem now was the difficulty of romancing one's own
captain -- this was uncharted territory.

"Data, thank you -- but I don't feel up to that right now." She paused,
groping for her dwindling composure, and straightened her shoulders.
"However, there is something I'd like to ask you."

"Yes, Deanna?"

"If you are asked any questions about whether or not the captain and I are
together, I'd like you to be honest, but in a vague way. Like the way you
estimate lengths of time in an informal situation."

"But if the question is asked by a subordinate there would be no need to say
that much."

She smiled into her raktajino, now lukewarm, and set aside the cup. "I
suppose not."

"Details of the romantic relationships of others are private personal
business," Data added. "Idle gossip is not becoming of an officer."

He wasn't mimicking the captain, but something about the word choice
reminded her of him. "Just what did you discuss with the captain that made
you late?"

"I asked him for clear instructions on how I should react when asked
questions. Mr. Carlisle said we should expect it. Some of the ops staff have
already commented. Apparently the sudden increase of the off-duty time you
have spent with the captain has not gone unnoticed in the lower decks." Data
tilted his head, studying her more intently. "Have I upset you?"

"No, I'm fine. Let's get back to why we're here, shall we?"

She made it through the session, tutoring him through interpersonal
scenarios that might take place between officer and subordinate, slowly
describing the nuances of facial expression and discussing cultural
differences. Data was already well-versed in much of it, having been in
operation for so many years among humans, but he'd never asked for specific
definitions and descriptions -- what he had requested from her in these
sessions was confirmation and clarification, to build an accurate database
for his future reference.

If he'd been anyone else she might have rescheduled. Data didn't react to
the emotion probably showing through her shaky composure. She thought it was
due to his inexperience -- he couldn't have been exposed to too many silly,
weepy females. He'd been in Starfleet all his life. From cadet on up,
setting aside personal concerns on duty was expected. She was grateful that
it was only him seeing her this way, so caught up in her struggling with her
own emotions that it couldn't be set aside in a session.

But as he turned to leave, he stopped, tilted his head, and looked over his
shoulder at her. "I do not think the crew will react badly to your
relationship with the captain."

"Thank you," she murmured, not knowing what else to say. After he'd gone,
she crossed her arms on her desk and let her head fall against them.

What was that old saying? She had made her own bed, and now she must lie in
it. Though technically, after she'd dragged herself out of it, she'd made
the *captain's* bed.

Chuckling drily, she rubbed her eyes and tried to be less edgy. This wasn't
good. Jean-Luc was busily instructing his officers on how to deal with this,
and here she was, quietly falling to pieces. She was his officer, too. She
should have better self control. She'd told him he could handle it, and he
was doing so -- now if only she could be as brave about things on her own as
she could in his presence.

Allowing herself to find him and read his emotional state, she discovered
that he had that familiar preoccupied fuzziness -- he was thinking hard
about something. Suddenly pleasure twined throughout, and the mental
equivalent of a pointing finger. He'd thought of her. She couldn't sense his
thoughts, that would take telepathy, but reading emotions was nearly as
effective when it was someone she knew well.

His feelings had fluctuated all morning, and during lunch. He'd run the
gamut of incredulousness and disbelief to dismay. Now all of the turbulence
had settled -- now he was happy, just as Data said.

Her next appointment arrived, and by the time the doors opened, the
counselor's face was back to normal and hiding her happiness behind her
professional demeanor as much as she could manage.

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