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The Enterprise-E has a different hum than the Enterprise-D and just when Deanna thought she’d gotten used to it, it became a pressing, piercing noise again. The awareness of the cold engine sound of the E , the way every corner of it feels ready for battle, reminds her of how warm and homelike the D was, and that reminds her of how she clung onto its console while a planet came closer and closer and there was nothing she could do.
Great. Another thing to keep her up at night.
It’s not as if she was anywhere close to falling asleep anyway, but there’s no space for this trauma now. Her working memory is full. Miinthada . Occupado , as Will would say. She gets out of bed.
“Computer, fill this mug with hot water, ninety-five degrees Celsius, please.” It’s important to be polite to the computer – it trains her mind to be polite to her mother and other people she sometimes wants to be very impolite to. She scoops the dried herbs out of their designated glass jar and lets them float in the water.
It’s not common to have food in storage, nor to keep it in a glass jar, since the replicator can make anything and the glass could break when they hit a storm, or something. But Deanna is one of those people convinced that tea tastes better when she brews it herself, so she put the jar in a carefully carved out space in a cupboard that, Julie from the maintenance team ensured her, would minimise the risk of it falling and breaking by about 93% compared to leaving it out on the table.
It’s also not common to have simple possessions like mugs, but this one was hand-made by a good friend who died at Wolf 359. To Deanna, it recalls both the collective trauma as well as the collective healing. They’d all felt broken, but she’d seen people regain their sense of self, their confidence in a future that would be brighter – she’d seen how strong people are. She needs that reminder right now.
*
“Who did you lose today?”
The first time, it was Beverly’s effort to make her laugh by being extra morbid – or not laugh per se, but at least be down-to-earth enough to shock her. Deanna had looked bewildered, then burst out laughing, then started crying. Fortunately, on that day, there was no one for Deanna, and only a vague acquaintance of Beverly’s. But they’d both felt the cloud of grief hanging over the ship like it had been from that first time when there were too many names for an all hands announcement and they’d resorted to posting casualty lists. It was almost tangible for Beverly, so it must’ve been gut-wrenching for Deanna.
The second time, the question was more tentative, an effort to lightly tread the ground of opening a conversation. Deanna broke down when she saw Mr Homn on the list, the grief for her mother almost more than her own. Beverly recognised three names of former colleagues who had, at least until now, served aboard the Apgar . They’d both encountered too many familiar names on the casualty lists over the past weeks. Since then, Beverly hadn’t asked again.
Beverly knew that Deanna had lost someone every single day for the past twenty-three days. Twenty-three days since the Dominion had occupied Betazed. Every day when they walked into that crowded but quiet room, just one look, a raised eyebrow, a slightly tilted head, was enough to prompt Deanna to tell her.
But at noon on day twenty-four, the usual time when the casualty lists are posted, Deanna is not in the room. It strikes Beverly as ridiculous that they’ve had to assign a specific memorial room for this, and even more ridiculous that she’s only now realised the absurdity of it, now that she has to stand there alone rather than with Deanna at her side. Deanna has been her constant throughout all this and she almost misses her presence more than she misses the people on the list.
She doesn’t even have to press the buzzer, the door just opens as soon as she comes close to it. That’s how she knows it’s bad.
“Deanna.”
There is no one in sight when she enters, but Beverly knows where to look. She finds Deanna in the bathtub, the lights almost fully dimmed but the sounds and scents overwhelming. There is a second of not-knowing-what-to-do before Beverly starts to unzip her uniform. They don’t need to talk. But Deanna does need to not be alone right now. So she gets over herself and her dislike of scented candles and of sauna-like experiences, and gets in the fucking bath with Deanna.
It’s easier when they’re not facing each other, Beverly knows that. It’s also easier in the dark. Deanna often feels that she has too many senses that have too many impulses to process at once.
“I can’t feel my own pain for all the screaming around me. It’s too loud. They’re too loud!”
Beverly wraps her arms around Deanna, pulls her to her chest until the sobs subside. That happens too soon for her liking and she knows that Deanna is pulling back, blocking out the screams right along with her own voice.
It’s alright. It’s a band-aid for now, for as long as it takes until the wound can be examined and treated. It’ll leave a scar, but that’s unavoidable.
*
Deanna has a habit of hugging not by wrapping her arms around someone, but by resting her hands on someone’s chest and nestling against them. It’s less intense, but much more intimate. She basically gives herself over to another person’s care.
They haven’t exchanged any words since the moment Beverly got into the bath. Beverly has said a few things to the computer to change the lights and the environmental controls after they got out, but she knows not to speak to Deanna right now and to try to shield her thoughts as much as she can. Physical touch is their lightest form of communication and they’re just fine using that.
Deanna is still nestled into her chest and stays there, naked, until she starts to shiver despite the warmth. “I need some fresh air.” She starts to pull on some random combination of clothes.
‘Fresh air’ on the Enterprise-E means its uncomfortably small arboretum. Beverly knows that it’s more about being as far away from people as possible than it is about the air quality.
“I’ll be right back.”
This statement includes two important messages: 1) She’ll come back when she’s ready – don’t follow. 2) She’s expecting Beverly to still be there when she comes back. So Beverly tidies the bathroom and grabs her set of loungewear from the drawer underneath Deanna’s bed, pulls them on, and tries but fails to read a book.
*
It’s not even a nod; other people would probably mistake it for a muscle twitching or simply not notice it at all. But to Beverly, it’s the permission to finally ask.
“Who did you lose today?”
“Liari.”
And that’s a stake through Beverly’s heart, too. Liari is – was – such a lovely person. Deanna’s oldest friend, long-term roommate, and the only person she’d really stayed close with after leaving for Starfleet and the rest of the universe. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. The house was destroyed. The whole family is gone, too. The children – my godchild. I thought I was going to see them grow up, be by their side at their imatiru .”
Beverly knows what imatiru means: that’s the conversation even Lwaxana has been avoiding ever since their unofficial wedding. So it must be serious. “Fucking hell,” she says again. There’s not much else to do but swear and let the grief take up the room.
*
On day twenty-five, at noon, Deanna is already there when Beverly walks in. A part of her knew that she had to be there first, show up and show that she wasn’t going to run. They’d decided that, if she got overwhelmed again, she’d use one of their shorthands so that Beverly would know where she stood and what to do.
Their fingers tangle as they both read through the list. Gasps and shudders are the only sounds that echo through the room which is thick with tension and they both know they need to get out of there as fast as possible. So they stay quiet until they reach Deanna’s quarters.
“Who did you lose today?”
There’s a thin, teary smile. “No one I knew personally.”
“Oh, that’s… good?” It’s clear that Beverly is as torn as her own emotions.
“I guess I’ve had my share yesterday. But those people I didn’t know were someone else’s Liari, so I can’t feel too relieved.” She can’t feel relieved when there’s lives that are lost, when there’s losses to grieve. Betazoids share grief – as much as it used to cause her distress as a child, she can’t not do her part in this. Especially not if she’s left her planet behind and everyone else is fighting for their lives.
*
Deanna enjoys night shifts. They’re quiet, save for the hum of machines and the people focused on the ship’s operations. Every once in a while, something startles her, a sound or a person waking up from a nightmare. But it’s easier for her to block that out when she’s on the bridge and has something more urgent that demands her attention – like the exact course of the ship, or that faint purple-ish cloud in the distance.
But even the night watch is tense these days: more officers on the bridge to coordinate the rescue missions, more possibilities of being under fire, more need to stay alert.
When she focuses on that stupid purple cloud, the horrors finally start to sink in.
Who did you lose today?
It should be: What did you lose today?
Betazoids have lost more than individuals. Their home. Their together-ness. Their trust. There isn’t a single Betazoid who hasn’t lost a relative or a friend or a neighbour or a teacher or a bucket full of all of those. Of the thousands lost in battle and its aftermath so far, there were eighteen people who attended her wedding. They can’t even have proper memorial services for all of them.
With one check around the clock of bridge systems, Deanna gets up and nods to Tamar. “You have the Bridge, Lieutenant.”
This is the first time she comms Beverly in the middle of the night, but she’s cheating, because she knows Beverly isn’t asleep.
“Do you need me to come?”
“No, it’s okay. I just wanted to hear your voice and focus on you.”
This is something Deanna has been doing since the moment they met, seeking out the comfort of Beverly’s presence, her mind. It calms her down, even though Beverly feels like her mind isn’t orderly enough for that. Deanna doesn’t dare tell her that she has a more organised mind than half the Betazoids she knows.
Knew.
Shit.
“Actually – are you dressed?”
“Sort of.” There’s a rustling of sheets and Beverly’s adorable, slightly embarrassed chuckle. “My top half is, but it seems that I forgot to put on my pyjama pants.”
Deanna laughs – briefly, but she does, for the first time that day.
“I’ll put something on and come by the ready room.”
“Thank you.”
*
Deanna waits for the doors to close behind Beverly before she reaches for her – despite the fact that they’re aware of what’s happening to her home planet, she doesn’t show her grief to the crew when she’s on duty. It’s important for senior officers to set that example and they've all gotten pretty good at keeping up appearances when in the company of other officers. No PDA, no crying, no shouting or storming out. They save that for later, on the couch or in the bathtub. Or in the ready room. She curls her fingers into that spot underneath Beverly’s collarbones and tucks her head underneath her chin.
“Do you want to talk?”
“No, it’s okay. You should get some sleep,” Deanna mutters into the soft fabric of Beverly’s shoulder.
She huffs. “I wish I could.”
Beverly lost Sam, her good friend and academy roommate, and her mentor, and a handful of other friends, and more than a handful of people she’d served with for years. And despite the enormity of her grief, she’s still making an effort to exude calm, so that Deanna can get through her shift. The strength of this woman is incredible.
“You can sleep in my bed if you like.” Beverly dislikes the herbal candles, but the scents that linger from them in Deanna’s quarters calm her down. And the fact that they’re her quarters helps, too.
Besides, Deanna needs at least one of them to stay afloat.
“I would like that,” Beverly admits, half-suppressing a yawn.
*
The faint, purple-ish cloud on the viewscreen hasn’t changed much. Neither has the cold leather of the captain’s chair, nor the cold hum of the engine, the pounding in her head, the tension in her shoulders, the pit in her stomach.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise to her when Guinan walks onto the bridge. It doesn’t, really.
Guinan is the only one outside of the senior staff who gets to see the intensity of her grief, who knows more about loss than anyone ever should. And her intuition is better than any Betazoid’s.
She doesn’t say anything and from Deanna’s nod, the rest of the bridge officers understand that she’s a welcome guest. So Guinan sits down in the first officer’s seat.
Without words, they stare into space for a while until Deanna finally looks at her. “Did my wife send you here?”
Guinan shakes her head. “I just thought you could use the company.”
Against a backdrop of humming machines, Guinan exudes warmth and safety and calm despite how much Deanna must be scratching at her old scars here.
“Guinan,” Deanna starts tentatively, “how does one heal from loss like this?”
“I don’t know,” Guinan says, and it’s more genuine and vulnerable than all of her cryptic advice combined. “What have you lost today, Deanna?”
Deanna takes a shaky, shallow breath. “Home.”