#riker is the exasperated one out of these 3

[crayonverse]

Roman: who ate my mnms . i swear To God.

Reese: i did, fucker. what’re going to do about it? huh?

Roman: what if i stole your kidneys. what would you do then

Reese: id eat them straight out of your hands, now you have no leverage. loser.

Riker: for the love of god can you two have a normal conversation PLEASE

[ashdoesfandomarchieved]

Hey!! Could you write something shippy about Boimler and Mariner? What if Boimler regularly spent time in the holodeck acting out certain scenarios and situations with Mariner? 👀

A/N: This was way angstier than I meant it to be. And way less sexier. I apologize in advance.

ao3

She glares at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. “What happened to having each other’s backs? I put my ass on the line for you. Repeatedly.”

He winces. This conversation is not going how he’d planned. “Mariner, I-”

Mariner clenches her fists and straightens. “No, you don’t get to say anything after what you pulled. Fuck you.”

The image freezes and Boimler resets the simulation.

What seems like years ago, he remembers lecturing Tendi overusing the Holodecks for fun. The details are fuzzy. It was before the “GUYS I MADE US INTO A MOVIE'' incident with Mariner, but after that weirdass thing with Rutherford and his rogue program. He thinks she and Mariner had been using it to watch Ransom in an array of—what he now admits-hysterical situations—but can’t be sure.

She and Mariner have gotten up to so much shit, he can’t keep track.

He doesn’t know why he’s remembering it now. It was a random conversation that happened a long time ago—a few months after Tendi was assigned to the Cerritos? –so there’s no reason why he should be thinking about it right now.

Liar, a smug voice intones in his head. It sounds vaguely like Mariner. Boimler aggressively shoves it down.

This isn’t for fun, he anxiously tells the voice in his head. The voice is quiet. It does nothing to soothe the turning of his stomach.

It’s been three months since Boimler requested a transfer back to the Cerritos. Three months since he’d run into Rutherford and Tendi on shore leave and the three of them got swept up into a ridiculous, interplanetary civil war that took three different starship crews to settle out. Three months since he’d almost died more times than he can count on all his fingers and toes, three months since he thought Tendi had died, miles away from her home, on a world which would never remember her name, three months since Mariner swept in and fixed everything.

It’s been three months.

Not that he’s counting.

Somewhere between being in a remote alien prison with Tendi and hiking for a month in a perpetually dark wilderness with Rutherford, Boimler had come to the belated conclusion that his career didn’t take precedence over his friends.

(Also, if he’s being completely honest, he missed the chaos of being a lower deck ensign. Not that he still doesn’t want to be in the upper ranks. Just not without his dumb, dumb friends.)

After it was all over—and he’d realized that Tendi was alive—he put in his transfer request, surprising all his peers.

“This just isn’t a good fit for me,” was his official statement.

Captain Riker gave him a bland look. “You worked with Beckett, didn’t you.” His voice was flat, but his eyes were amused.

“Is it that obvious?”

“She rubs off on people. Don’t let her give you a hard time,” he added, signing off on the request. “It was nice working with you, Boimler. If you ever need anything, let me know.”

And so here he is, a newly minted ensign again, on the lower decks of the Cerritos.

(Captain Freeman is thrilled. “All operations have been down by 18% since you left. Good to have you back, Boimler.”)

Tendi and Rutherford seem hyped to have him back-Tendi especially, who’s been a little clingy with everyone since her near-death experience-but are acting uncharacteristically nervous around him. This isn’t a surprise. The tension between him and Mariner when she’d shown up on Roxadt II was insane and was only getting worse with every day. It’s been six weeks since he’d transferred, and she’s found a reason to be in a different room for all six of them.

Hence the simulations.

That makes absolutely no fucking sense, the Mariner-esque voice in his head sneers. Just talk to her you fucking wimp.

Boimler ignores it.

“Scenario A-187,” the clinical voice of the simulation intones. The simulation restarts.

It goes exactly the same way 186 other scenarios had gone. He corners Mariner. She stays quiet. He apologizes. She explodes.

Mariner’s anger had always burnt red hot. He’d first experienced it when an ensign got a little frisky with Tendi after she’d repeatedly told him no. Mariner’s fury at the situation felt justified. Vindicated. The ensign had been demoted so hard, Boimler was certain they’d seen the last of him for like. Well, forever.  At the time he’d been astonished that she’d managed to pull it off, but after finding out about her familial connection to the Captain, it made sense.

He’d seen a glimpse of that anger a few more times—when Captain Freeman had forced her to go to therapy, after Rutherford had been captured by rogue Klingons, that one-time Ransom tried to promote her.  But never toward Boimler.

Oh, she’d get irritated with him.  “Loosen up, Boimler, it’s not that bad.”

“Look, the worst that’ll happen is that we get a note to file-stop yelling!”

“Dude if you don’t chill the fuck out I might actually throw you out of an airlock.”

Standard Mariner reactions, right? Yeah, she’d been pretty pissed when he took the promotion (his voicemail had been blowing up for the first 48 hours after he transferred), but it had died down fairly quickly so he had logically assumed that she had gotten over it.

He assumed wrong. If her icing him out was to be taken into account. So here he was, six weeks in, desperate and stressed from his friend’s apparent dismissal. The obvious solution, his sleep deprived brain decided, was to simulate a conversation with her using his high-tech program on the holodeck.

This may have not been the best idea. But he’s calculated the probability of anything going wrong and it’s under 3%, so he’s almost guaranteed success.

(So, of course, it blows up in his face, in true Boimler fashion.)

“Okay, I have a pretty high threshold for weird, but this might take the cake,” a voice slowly says.

Boimler startles. Whirls around. Shuts down the simulation. “Ohhh shit-”

“Yeah shit,” Mariner says, stalking into the room. “What the hell, dude?”

“This isn’t what it looks like!” Boimler sputters out, panicked. The simulation is shut down, leaving them in the empty holodeck room, but the echoes of Holo-Mariner’s rage still resonate between them. Actual Mariner is staring at him, face somewhere between completely shocked and furious.

“Did you use your dumbass hyper realistic program to simulate a situation with me so that you could cheat later?”

“I mean, kinda?”

“Then it’s exactly what it looks like!” Mariner slaps a palm over her eyes.

“Well what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know—maybe talk to me like a person? Not use your creepy, hyper realistic simulations to roleplay it?” She drops her hand and glares up at him.  

Boimler rolls his eyes. “You literally created a simulation to kill the entire crew because your mom made you go to therapy.”

“Yeah and it fucking worked.”

“Then why are you yelling at me?!”

“I’m not!”  she shrieks. “I’m very calmly telling you to fucking talk to me next time!”

“There’s not going to be a next time!”

Mariner stops, mouth open. “What?”

“Look, I get it. I fucked up and you apparently don’t do second chances! I was trying to make things right but clearly it isn’t working. I’ll stay out of your way now.”

Instead of pacifying her, this seems to make Mariner even more furious. “You fucking asshole. what am I supposed to say to that?” she shouts, stomping up to him.

He groans in exasperation. “Apparently nothing, considering you don’t want to talk to me!”

Her hands grab his collar, pulling him down to eye level with her. “I literally just said to talk to me next time!”

“And how was I supposed to do that if you’re avoiding me?”

“You’re the one who fucked off in the Titan to god-knows-where,” Mariner grits out.

So they’re actually doing this. Boimler swallows hard. Takes a breath. Tries to quell the anxiety welling in his gut. “I’m sorry.”

“Right after you said you didn’t care about rank or shit,” she adds, twisting the knife.

“Yeah. It was really shitty of me.”

“And then you ghosted me for like six months.”

Boimler winced. “Yeah—I. Yeah.”

Mariner’s iron grip on his shirt loosens, but she doesn’t let go completely. “That was really shitty of you.”

Not sure what to say, beyond apologizing again, Boimler gives a jerky nod.

“You came back.” She stares at him, eyes unfathomable. “The Titan wasn’t everything you dreamed it would be.”

It’s not a question.

Boimler still has an answer, though. “It was.”

She stiffens. He pushes forward, intent on getting this out while he still has her attention. “It was everything I wanted in a career. I was doing what I wanted, everyone took me seriously. Our missions came straight from the Admiralty and they treated us like we weren’t a joke. I loved it.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I care more about my friends then I do about people taking me seriously.”

Mariner freezes and then lets out a strangled laugh. “Now I think you’re the simulation. Who are you and what have you done with Boimler?” She pokes at his cheek.

He grins. And then falters. “For what it’s worth—and I know it’s not worth much—but. I am sorry. I wasn’t a very good friend.”

“Yeah you weren’t.” She lets go of her grip on his shirt completely and draws back. “You said you were my best friend and then you left. For Riker.”

“That makes me sound like the love interest in a cheesy drama. And like I’m hooking up with Riker.”

“I said what I said.”

Boimler laughs. It feels real for the first time in a long while. “Are we good?”

“No.” Mariner smiles. “I’m going to give you so much shit and you’re gonna grovel for like months and then I’m going to tell my mom that you used to holodeck to simulate certain situations with me.”

“If you do that I’m transferring back,” Boimler tells her. “Your mom finally likes me; I don’t need her ejecting me out of an airlock.”

“She wouldn’t do that.” Mariner waves him off.

“She totally would.”

“Yeah, she totally would,” she agrees. Grabs his arm and begins dragging him out of the holodeck. “So maybe I won’t tell her. I am telling Tendi though and she’s gonna give you so much shit considering you reemed her out over misusing the holodeck.”

Boimler makes a face. “I’ll probably let her too. I’m such a hypocrite.”

“You are, but it’s super weird to hear you be honest about it. Stop being all apologetic, it’s weird.”

They’ve reached the corridor. Mariner steers them in the direction of the bar. “Only if you promise to deck me if I ever make a dumb decision like that again,” he says, giving in and allowing himself to be manhandled. It’s the least he owes her.

“Deal. And the next time you use your weird, hyper realistic simulator—which doesn’t even fucking work by the way, I’m not that much of a bitch—you gotta promise you’ll use it for sexy reason only.”

“Sexy reasons only,” Boimler deadpans. “You know they log everything we do down there.”

Mariner wiggles her eyebrows up and down. “I know.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re uptight, but you’re the one who was playing with simulations of me.”

“That sounds way worse than it actually is,” he cringes.

“No, it doesn’t. I would take some sexy action over your sad, sad trauma simulations any day. Next time I catch you, you’d better be having fun with it.”

“Mariner, what the fuck—”

They dissolve into good natured bickering. She says something lewd and he rolls his eyes and elbows her and she squawks in protest and threatens to get him thrown in the brig. It’s normal, but it’s also not. There’s something new in the air between them that wasn’t there before. Tension, but not negative. It’s charged with. Something else.

Boimler doesn’t examine it too closely. Better to let it work itself out naturally. After all, he has all the time in the world now.

[halfwayinlight]

Series: Precious Commodities Chapter: 4. Denouement Fandom: Star Trek TNG Pairing: Will Riker/Deanna Troi Rating: PG, hints at PG13 Notes: final chapter in the fic for @nothingeverlost based on TNG season 3′s episode “Menage a Troi.”

Family is a precious commodity, and Deanna has so little of hers left. Everything—everything—in her being is screaming to fight for it. She can barely breathe as her mother is so calmly asking her to leave with Will. To let her make this sacrifice.

It’s horrifying. The only parent she has left is asking her to do this of all things. Just this once. As if leaving her mother here isn’t a life imprisoned. As though she might have some sort of future visitation rights. But she knows too well that the moment she leaves this ship, she has little hope of seeing her mother again.

And Deanna Troi has already lost all of the other biological family she has. A father. A son. There’s not enough time for any of these thoughts to process. And she’s too stunned by all of her regrets about how she has spoken to her mother over the last days. Over her exasperation with this only parent she has left, who only wanted to see her happy in the way that had most made her mother happy. As a wife. As a mother.

She could’ve—and maybe should’ve—tried to explain about her little Ian. About how much it had hurt to see him leave. About how it had been real, fully real, and she had been a mother. But now she wasn’t. And she’s had too many Troi family taken from her.

She feels like she’s on autopilot, letting herself be directed back to Will. It’s only Will’s arm on her back that feels real. That keeps her from throwing a fit. From objecting as ardently as Farek.

It’s worse that the last words she’s hearing are about oomox, and it makes her stomach turn. She expected… something. Anything else. It’s like some holonovel. Or holodeck program. Deanna turns and strains for one last… something? A moment. Another look. One more word.

There is no goodbye.

There wasn’t a goodbye with her father, either. Ian Troi had given her a hug and a kiss and said he would see her soon. She’d cried quietly and tried to be brave. When she was older, she’d wondered if it had been a premonition. But Deanna knew too well to really think such things. She had simply been a little girl who didn’t want her favorite parent to leave her.

She knew her mother had been aware that her father was her favorite. And Deanna had felt plenty of guilt about that later. There was no hiding those thoughts and feelings from a telepath as adept as Lwaxana Troi.

It takes the nudge from Farek to bring her to the moment, and she shudders away from his touch. By the time she gains the corridor, Will’s arm slides around her, putting himself between her and the Ferengi. And it’s meant to comfort her, to protect her.

William Riker is the first person to make her feel safe since her father died. She’s not naïve, though. The innocent security of her childhood is something she cannot ever regain. There’s no planet or cave or corner of a galaxy that is truly safe. Disasters happen. Loss compounds.

Imzadi, we’ll find some way, Will is urging. She can feel the concern cresting as he guides her toward the transport area. He’s unsettled at the idea of leaving her mother behind, too. But he’s also desperate to return her to the relative safety of the ship. And Will is all too aware of the toll the last, well, whatever it has been, has taken on her. It feels like months. But she’s sure it’s not been more than a day. They’re both well past exhausted. In need of food. Their bodies strained by far too long without sleep. She wants to hold his hand through the whole transport process, but it has already started and completed before that thought has time to make itself known.

The increased warmth and ambient light of the bridge should be a comfort. Will’s hand on her back urging her toward their familiar seats is a small comfort. It reminds her of her purpose, and it’s meant to do that. To pull out the last strength that she needs right now. When the captain asks them if they’re alright, she finally has the words.

It’s jarring to see her mother on the screen. In the performance of her lifetime, and there’s a moment of promise. A strategy to be leveraged, and it might not be the Queen’s Gambit, but it’s a strategy. And one that Deanna desperately hopes the captain can play out. As the Shakespeare begins, she finally relaxes into her chair. And certainty built that they were on the cusp of regaining her mother’s freedom.

There’s embarrassment when her mother makes herself at home so literally on the captain’s lap. And it is frustrating to no end that Tog is getting away with abduction. But they are off of the ship. They’re home, or at least she and Will are home. And her mother is safely on board.

It’s a relief when the captain steps to the helm to set the course for Betazed. And a reminder of the shore leave that wasn’t. Deanna can sense that they won’t have much more time than it will take to return her mother to the planet before they need to go. And she’s increasingly aware of her exhaustion. It’s terribly tempting to fall asleep in her chair.

“Ladies,” it’s Will, offering a hand and an understanding smile. Using that voice that is firm enough not to be ignored. It’s so much easier to follow his lead in this as he gives command to Data. The captain has retreated to the Ready Room, and she’s certain that the captain knows that neither of them are in any condition for bridge duty.

Even her mother grows quiet now, which is a testament to how much this has taken out of all of them. It doesn’t take long to gain Deck Eight and their quarters. It seems unnatural to part here, and for once in her life Deanna is actually glad to see Dr. Beverly Crusher waiting in her lounge to scan them for injuries. It’s an excuse to keep Will close for a little longer without having to specifically ask him to stay.

Beverly is already fussing over them before they can get through the door. If she wasn’t so tired, Deanna would find it comical as her friend tried to decide which of the three she should scan first.

“Deanna first,” Will insists, folding his arms across his chest and giving her a look as though daring her to disagree with him.

“Mother—”

“Doesn’t have a single scratch on her,” Lwaxana counters over her shoulder as she’s already moving toward the bedroom. “I’m going to make use of your sonic shower, Little One, and I’m sure between your replicator and your closet, we can find something that will be appropriate for the journey home.” It was a retreat to privacy, and the counselor in her couldn’t help but note it.

Whatever Beverly is saying is lost on Deanna because she’s finally hitting the end of her reserves. Every sense is suddenly dulled, and she can feel Beverly’s arm around her, guiding her to her sofa. She could’ve sworn the doctor was across the room moments ago. As she settles in beside Will, who wasted no time in gaining the sofa. He’s reaching for one of the trauma blankets and tucking it around her.

“Leave her lef arm free,” Beverly instructs as she finishes her scan. There’s the slight not-quite sting of a hypospray at her neck, and now the doctor is sitting beside Deanna and digging out instruments. “… dehydrated, in need of a good meal, and this arm…”

Deanna shook her head slightly and both attempts and fails at a smile. “I don’t really know what happened to it… I woke up in the brig and it was tender.”

Two sets of blue eyes are scrutinizing her, but when Beverly glances to Will for answers, he simply shrugs. “No breaks, but there’s soft tissue damage,” the doctor tuts, “tendons, ligaments, and some minor muscle tears. I’m sure it’s been bothering you.”

The comfort of the blanket and the analgesic in the hypospray is almost Deanna’s undoing. In a short time everything has upended, and now it’s all back so neatly together. Securely. Her mother spared. But it’s like mental whiplash, and the reality and certainty hasn’t caught up with her. She’s reeling, and there is nothing to distract her anymore. She doesn’t have the capacity to even cry or laugh.

“Deanna?” Will is shifting closer as Beverly continues to restore the body with her various instruments. When the doctor is finished, Will gently tucks in her mended arm and lets his finger trace her collar bone as though they had spent shore leave together. Like the last days hadn’t happened at all. Like Dr. Beverly Crusher wasn’t busy running a scan on Will. Like her mother wasn’t a room away.

The dark head shook slightly as though to throw off the tiredness that clung to them. “I’ll be fine, Will, I just need a nap,” she murmurs, feeling the ragged edges of the ordeal tugging at her. Her fingers curl into the blanket, and she pulls it a bit closer.

“You need a solid meal and naps and some full nights of sleep. And I’m not clearing either of your for duty for at least two days,” Beverly counters. “Ah, don’t you dare move that hand, Will Riker. Like you don’t have bruised knuckles. What, did you get in a bar fight?”

Deep blue eyes narrow to a glare as he glances out the port to the now-empty view. “Something like that.” Will sighs and relaxes a little deeper into the seat, his head dropping to rest against the back cushion. “I shouldn’t have sat down. It’s too comfortable.”

“Mother’s going to need something to wear,” Deanna murmurs, trying to gather some non-existent reserves and convince herself to get up and figure out what options the replicator has. But Beverly’s hand on her shoulder stops her.

“You’re going to tell me what you want to eat, and then you can nap there on your couch or go to sleep properly in your own bed.” Beverly crosses the room and when no actual order is forthcoming, she takes a minute to examine the last meals ordered and programs in something suitable.

As quiet settles over her quarters, it strikes Deanna how much she’s missed the calm. How much she craved the warmth of her cabin and its own environmental controls. Later, she’s not completely sure what she even ate. If Beverly hadn’t mentioned the hot toddy, she wouldn’t have much noticed it, either. But it’s warm and filling, and in the end she doesn’t even bring herself to use her sonic shower. Because by the time she eats, she’s doing good to make it to her own bed and curl up beside her mother, who is already in a deep meditation that will probably do her more good than sleep.

It doesn’t surprise her to find her mother asleep beside her and Will asleep on her couch when she finally wakes up six hours later. She takes a few moments to send a quick message to her own therapist. She’s going to need to debrief in a few days. No doubt there will be some reports to complete.

But for now, she allows herself the luxury of a hot bath, and both it and sleep and a meal have gone far to soothe the frazzled edges of her soul. Her lavender outfit is more appropriate to the rest of the ship’s environment, and she’s aware that her mother is awake by the time she finishes her bath.

Doesn’t that feel better, Little One? It’s a question, but it’s more of a statement. Lwaxana Troi is seated at the small table in the corner of Deanna’s lounge with a plate of barely touched oskoids and some other salad of sorts. She doesn’t blame her mother for leaving part of the Betazoid meal untouched—the replicator can’t seem to get the dish quite right.

She’s a little disappointed to see the couch is empty, save a neatly folded blanket. It makes Deanna wonder if Will moved back to his cabin to clean up, or if he got called out on some ridiculous or legitimate call. A thousand beings could certainly find a few ways to keep the First Officer on his toes. A ship’s counselor, too, for what it was worth.

“Darling?” her mother prods, drawing her attention back to the moment before taking another bite of her food.

“Much better,” Deanna finally answers with a small smile. “How are you?” She knows the questions will be brushed aside, but she also knows that she’s as good at sensing her mother’s emotions as her mother is at reading her mind. And so the question is more of an invitation or at least an acknowledgement that she’s turning her attention to her mother now.

Lwaxana’s head bobs slightly. Nothing that won’t sort itself out in a few days. A little meditation, a little of letting my mind do its healing, and I’m good as new. She finishes the last bites of the salad and took a deep drink of water before patting her mouth neatly with a napkin. “That much too serious fellow that runs the transporter called a little while ago to say we’ve entered orbit around Betazed. Now you and Will must beam down with me and enjoy a little holiday. You both could use it so badly, and no doubt that doctor, too. I can think of a few friends I’d like to introduce her to. You remember Xander—”

Her head shakes slightly, though she offers up a small smile at the thought. She really does wish she and Will had time for such things. “It’s Chief O’Brien. And that window of opportunity for shore leave is closed, mother. Unfortunately, we have other obligations with the crew.”

“But surely the Captain can see you both need this holiday!”

“Mother,” she crosses the space between them and places a gentle hand on her mother’s forearm. “I miss the Fifth House, but it will have to wait until the next time we are in the system. We’re both sorry things turned out as they did, but next time I will come to visit you.”

Lwaxana’s smile emerged at those works, and she enfolds her daughter’s hand in both of hers. “You’ll stay at the Fifth House with me next time?”

“I promise,” she assures.

“And you’ll bring William with you?” she presses, eyebrows raising.

Deanna’s head cants slightly as she considers it. “That’s going to be up to Will. If he wants to come along, that’s his choice. I’m not promising for him.” She is absolutely on to her mother’s game, but she isn’t going to put Will in a position where he can’t make his own choices. “And maybe I can convince Beverly to join us as a guest, too. But I think she’d enjoy getting to know Darius far more than Xander’s company.”

Her mother’s sly grin tells her that she’s found the right compromise. “And you must invite Jean—”

“No, mother,” Deanna counters firmly. “The Captain has his own holidays. That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“But you ought to ask. He shouldn’t be excluded simply for being the highest officers on the ship.”

She shakes her head again and gives her mother’s hand a squeeze for emphasis. “Mother, you aren’t really interested in him.” Of this she is fairly certain. Her mother can be capricious, but Deanna remains hopeful that she is right in this. Or she hopes she can maintain self-delusion if she’s wrong.

“Humans are so easily ruffled, especially the men,” she pouts. “Spending so much time around them is making you downright prudish… Oh, let’s not argue about it. Especially not when that ruffled fellow is going to call back any moment now.” She huffs slightly. “I don’t suppose I could convince the Captain that I have a pressing diplomatic mission to… where were you heading?”

Deanna shrugs, but she can’t help the indulgent smile. “I suppose that would be stretching it, even for you. Come on, I’ll walk you to the transport room.” She offers her arm and is warmed when, instead of taking it, her mother draws her into a hug.

“So like your father, he did his best to indulge me, too.” Lwaxana cups her daughter’s face and presses a kiss to her forehead just as she did when sending a young Deanna to bed as a child. This time she doesn’t chafe at the affection like she did days ago. “He would be so proud of you.”

“He would’ve been proud to see how you handled the Ferengi,” Deanna answers. Her smile is warm but watery, and Deanna takes her mother’s hand and doesn’t mind the usual parting chatting all the way from her quarters to the last moments before transport.

Lwaxana wraps her arms around her daughter and indulges in one more a kiss to both cheeks. “Promise me you’ll send word soon on subspace?”

“I promise,” Deanna agrees with a smile, particularly amused as O’Brien is increasing preoccupied and fascinated with the console in front of him.

Her mother steps onto the transport platform. “And give it some thought. Maybe you can convince the captain to circle back on the next mission. There are always plenty of spare rooms for all the guest.”

“I’ll put in a good word,” she chuckles, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. After everything, she is simply grateful her mother is back to her old self.

“I may be old, but I know how to capitalize on a good thing when I see it. Just remember that William is more than welcome—” Whatever else she was hoping to add, Lwaxana has de-materialized and is on her way back to Betazed.

Deanna carefully avoided eye contact with their transport chief, but she gives a nod when he mentioned that the captain was requesting her presence on the bridge. Apparently catching up on more sleep will have to wait. Her nap has helped tremendously, though she’s aware it will take at least a few more days to pay back some of her sleep debt. Beverly wasn’t wrong to say they were in need of sleep. Hopefully the doctor will forgive her visit to the bridge in the name of following orders.

The familiar scents and slightly-dry air of Enterprise are soothing. The turbo lift is familiar, and she can feel herself easing back into routine as though the last days hadn’t happened. Eventually she will take some time to process everything. But for now, even a short shift on the bridge is welcoming.

If it was worth summoning her, she is sure Will would be there, too. With any luck, it won’t be anything too out of the ordinary. Maybe they would even have time to grab another meal in Ten Forward and start their plans for Angel Falls. The emotion is elusive, and she nearly gains the bridge when she realizes that she is actually missing Will. It’s almost laughable. They often have split shifts and don’t see each other for half a day or more.

She isn’t going to think about what it meant right now. Or how when she emerges from the turbo lift, he twists in his seat and looks as glad to see her as she is to see him. Or that when his eyes meet hers, there is something like emotional resonance between them. This bond they still share. Missing each other. A small joy at this reunion. Lingering tiredness. And a refocus on the next mission. There will be time to sort it all out later.

[celestialholz]

Riddle Me This

So, uh... casually reblogging on the train yesterday morning, and there was this:

(Find the original over here: https://anxietyproblem.tumblr.com/post/184795738758)

And well, Qcard inspiration, basically. I’m beginning to think I can literally Qcard anything ever, to be perfectly honest, but have some dumb, wholesome and warming fun for your Wednesday evening anyway, because I write far too much angst and sometimes I think I need to lighten up a little lmao

This is dedicated to @q-card​ as we had a bit of a crap day yesterday and we deserve some silliness and love, as do you lovely people. <3

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It’s not even a full minute into his shift when he hears an echoed ping; he spins, baffled, almost coating himself in the first tea of the morning, ready to reestablish boundaries in as few syllables as possible, but to his surprise, it isn’t Q. Instead, it’s simply an ancient piece of parchment, and he makes for it in mild intrigue, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes - what in the cosmos could be so important that he couldn’t have said ten minutes earlier, when they were still half-dressed and making their way through overly sugared pastries? If the god thinks this new relationship is about to devolve to the level of note-passing -

He stares at the elaborate cursive for a moment, brilliant in scarlet ink, and purses his lips.

“‘I am the beginning of everything, the end of everywhere. I am the beginning of eternity, the end of time and space. What am I?’” He reads aloud in disbelief. 

... Dear galaxies, it’s even worse than notes.

He considers it for a moment, chiding himself for even humouring the riddle - it’s hardly the conundrum of saving three Enterprises simultaneously, or proving humanity worthy of continuing. He’s a Starfleet captain, for pity’s sake, and he’s fairly certain that the kindergarten population of the ship could come up with something reasonably accurate in response.

“Do you want to know now?” He questions thin air dryly, narrowing his eyes in anticipation of an amused Q’s appearance; handwriting further writes itself across the page instead, and Picard can almost taste the self-satisfaction.

No, no. I can see you’re incredibly busy, wouldn’t want to disturb your vital mission. 

He consults the ready room ceiling in palpable exasperation and takes a seat, surveying the latest duty roster just so he looks suitably preoccupied to any casual, omniscient observer. It takes him a moment to realise something profoundly annoying: this is a riddle from an ancient entity, known for his complex tests, and therefore it can’t be that simple.

... Can it?

-------

“All ahead, ensign - warp five,” he instructs mid-morning, a proud, “aye, Captain” setting them off towards the closest starbase to meet a Risan diplomat. He settles into his seat, glances across at his first.

“Number One,” he begins, “may I ask you something?”

“Of course, sir,” Riker replies goodnaturedly, brow raised. “Do we need to adjourn?”

“Oh no, we’re just fine here. A simple example of wordplay for you, if you’ll indulge me.”

The brow hitches further, and the beginnings of a grin form on his friend’s lips.

“A riddle, Captain? Haven’t humoured those in a while. Go ahead.”

He recites Q’s riddle verbatim, and Riker stares at him for a moment, expression bemused.

“... I’ll be honest with you, sir,” he says eventually, “was kind of hoping for something more elaborate.”

Picard blinks for a second, nodding.

“Mm, so was I,” he replies dryly, staring up at the viewscreen. “It really isn’t any more interesting than the obvious, is it?”

“Don’t think so, no. Sorry to disappoint you.” Riker grins, shrugging, and Picard smiles back.

“Forget I asked, Commander. Thank you anyway. You have the bridge.”

--------

He finds exactly who he’s been looking for for a while in Engineering; Data’s halfway up a Jeffries tube, reciting conduit issues to the computer, and Picard crouches down, glancing up at his second.

“Mister Data,” he greets, “you’re quite the poet, I’m sure you’ll enjoy a riddle I’ve been pondering.”

Data’s head quirks to a curious angle given the lack of space, bewildered.

“Would you prefer we discussed this out in the open, Captain?” He enquires mildly, and Picard barely represses a smirk.

“No, no need - I won’t take up much of your time.”

“As you wish,” says the android, voice echoing around the tube. “I must confess to being intrigued at the prospect, sir.”

“Knew you would be.” Picard smiles quietly, and plays the words back aloud.

“... There are eight hundred and sixteen potential responses in Federation standard,” he replies simply, “ranging from the metaphysical to the -”

“Alphabetical?” Another voice answers fondly, and Picard glances up at his grinning chief engineer. “Sometimes, Data, an egg is just an egg.”

“... I am perplexed by your choice of vernacular, Geordi. What do dietary requirements have to do with the Captain’s riddle?”

Picard doesn’t even need to stare up at the familiar puzzlement of the Commander to acknowledge it. 

“Although Commander La Forge is most likely correct, sir - the most logical option is the most plausible in this instance. Riddles do tend to have simple conclusions, and none of the alternate options fit quite as well.”

Amusement fills Picard as he quietly excuses himself with a nod, leaving his colleagues exchanging confused glances.

-------

“Guinan,” he questions, half an hour from the starbase, “how are you with riddles?”

“I prefer my words less shadowed,” the El-Aurian replies from nine decks hence, matter-of-fact. “Why do you ask, Captain?”

“Personal curiosity,” he answers not untruthfully. “What do you make of this one?”

He recites it lightly, unconsciously leaning forward onto elbows as he awaits her response - if anyone aboard could have any manner of higher wisdom, it’s surely his old friend, her mostly eradicated race largely a mystery even to him -

Guinan clears her throat, and he can clearly visualise her dry expression.

“You’re a deeply intelligent guy, Jean-Luc,” she answers in exasperation. “You can’t tell me you don’t already know the answer to that.”

“Well of course I know it,” he exclaims woefully. “But I can’t help feeling it isn’t so easy.”

“... I mean, could be ‘nothingness’, I guess, but that’s even more ridiculous than the answer.”

“Mm,” he mutters in agreement, hesitating - his new relationship with Q isn’t something he ever wants to reveal to anyone, and especially not to Guinan, but perhaps a vague hint couldn’t hurt...

“If I told you this was set by someone known for being, well... difficult, would it alter your solution?”

“That’s most of the known galaxy in my experience. Are they also known for being stupid?”

Picard almost chokes on tea at the very idea. “Good lord, no.”

“No, then,” she replies honestly.

“... Ah.”

------

His afternoon of diplomacy having gone as well as it ever can with such an awkward ambassador and his mind as plagued as it’s become over the course of the day, Picard finds he can’t quite help himself as they arrive in transporter room one. The Risan’s clearly intelligent, has spent the last few hours desperately trying to prove as such, and amiable enough.

“Ambassador,” he asks as he nods at the chief, “perhaps a parting gift, as a show of good favour towards our new trade agreement. What humans would call a ‘riddle’; lateral thinking, in the form of wordplay.”

“I did think I’d had quite enough of your wordplay today,” replies the man indulgently, and Picard internally winces, “but as it’s an intellectual custom, please feel free.”

“Wonderful. Now...”

The Risan glances at him in disbelief a moment later.

“... Do they tend to be so simplistic, Captain?” He asks in amusement.

“Usually, yes,” he murmurs almost to himself. “Thank you, Ambassador. I’ll inform Starfleet of our conclusions post-haste, don’t let me keep you any longer.”

“Good show, Picard. Travel safe.”

“And you, Kanfla. Engage.”

Miles stares at him as he leaves, agape.

“... You do know that the answer, right sir?”

Picard rolls his eyes. “Yes, chief.”

------

He’s rather exhausted his options at this point, he realises darkly shortly before he clocks off. Beverly, whilst an invaluable friend and exceedingly helpful, is a woman of science and logic who will consider him likely in the first throes of something nasty and neurological if he starts questioning simple conclusions; Deanna, he acknowledges warily, is likely to assume him troubled and attempt to pry the depths of his psyche, and he takes little joy in being his dear counselor’s subject even when he needs to be. So that leaves -

He takes a subtle breath, and spins in his seat, glad the bridge crew’s on a split shift today and therefore that no one has to hear this twice.

“Mister Worf,” he begins primly.

“Captain?” The Klingon asks attentively.

“... May you indulge me for a moment?”

“Of course, sir.”

“A... riddle.” He almost grimaces, hides it admirably - he doesn’t doubt his lieutenant’s intelligence, but Worf is hardly known for his verbal subtleties or affection for the lateral; indeed, he looks mildly annoyed at the very notion.

“... Captain, with respect, I am not certain I would be of much use to you. Perhaps Counselor Troi would be a more... suitable choice.”

Picard’s lip twists for a split second, and he nods, pulls down his shirt promptly, and stares blankly out into space.

“... Mm,” he answers fairly. “As you were, Lieutenant.”

“... Yes, Captain.”

-------

He finds Q sipping something luminous from a spiral-shaped flute upon his return to his quarters, periwinkle blue sequins shimmering upon the evening robe he’s adopted, and the god grins at his appearance.

“Ah, mon capitaine!” He greets in delight, and damn his cursed riddles, but Picard admits privately that there’s something distinctly warm in his chest at the sight of him - of having someone he cherishes to come home to.

... Not that he has any intention of showing him as such, of course; their kiss is perfunctory at best, and his withdrawing look could sour honey.

“Oh, come now, dearest - you aren’t stuck, are you?” He teases, amused. “Do give me your answer, won’t you? The anticipation’s been driving me mad.”

Picard stares at him, trying desperately to cling to irritation rather than silently melt at the excitement in those eternal eyes. 

“You challenge me,” he’d said not two nights earlier against a pillow, fingers trailing across his captain’s cheek. “IQ of two thousand and five, darling. I see everything, I can do everything; do you have any idea how rare that is?”

He valiantly maintains his exasperated countenance, and answers dryly, “The letter ‘e’.”

Q’s face falls with an almost comical suddenness. 

“... What?” He says in disbelief. “What in the galaxies -”

He snaps, summons back the paper that’s spent its day upon the ready room desk, scanning it for a half-moment before raising disappointed eyes back to Picard’s bemused ones.

“Well yes, alright, fine,” he dismisses, “admittedly that does fit quite nicely, but did you really think I was going to offer you something with such a depressingly basic solution? Think about it, man!”

This is their acquaintance, Picard notes with a quiet thrill; the permanent game, ramped up to warp ten now that they’re lovers, every touch and night cycle whisper a tease, a promise, an idle nothingness laced with potential meaning.

He has no intention of failing, however little he has to prove any more, and so he thinks through that brilliant stare, mulls the words over his mind.

Beginning of everything; end of everywhere. Beginning of...

“... Ah,” he murmurs, humoured despite a certain weariness. “Ought to have realised it was self-indulgent.”

“’Self -’? Oh,” Q answers softly, smirking. “Well obviously it could be me, yes, but I was thinking rather, er... closer to home, Jean-Luc.”

Picard’s mouth opens, though he realises belatedly that he has nothing of note to say. 

“You... meant me?” He asks dumbly, baffled. “How can I possibly be -”

“Perspective.” Q smiles warmly, dots fingers across his uniform before clasping a hand quietly. “You begin and end everything for me, my dear. Honestly, your colleagues are morons - you’re right here! How could that not have occurred to th -”

Picard embraces him spontaneously, buries himself in a warm chest, treasures the arms that encircle him fiercely in response.

“You’re an overly dramatic fool,” he scolds tenderly, no heat at all to the words. “You can just say things sometimes, Q.”

“Too dull,” he drawls, grinning from somewhere above his favourite mortal. “We don’t do dull, dearest.”

He presses a soft kiss to Picard’s skull, and the captain wonders idly how he could ever have been annoyed.