He gasped in surprise and skidded back across the bed. "Karla, do you mind?!" he said.
She sat back on her knees. "Good morning, Wesley," she said brightly. She pointed. "I brought you breakfast." Over on a table was a cup of juice, and sunny-side up eggs.
"I could've gotten breakfast myself," he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He desperately tried to straighten his hair. It always stood up in the morning and he hated the idea of someone seeing him like this. He adjusted the blankets around himself.
"Why aren't you in your own quarters, anyway?" "My place is with you, Wesley," she said softly. "That is where Sehra wishes me to be." "And what about what you w--never mind," he sighed. He'd been through this with her before.
She looked downcast. "I thought you liked me, Wesley." "I do," he admitted. How could he get upset with her? At least she was wearing a robe and not walking around in the cheerful nakedness that he found so disconcerting. And she was serving him breakfast, after all. And her performance at the dance last night had impressed the others, that was for sure. And afterwards.
"Sure, I like you, Karla. I mean, isn't it obvious?" "Not really, no." "Look, I'm sorry, okay?" he said.
"I'm just a little new at this, you know? So... so look, breakfast sounds fine." She nodded eagerly, turned, and got the breakfast, which was on a glistening tray. She started back towards Wesley.
And tripped on a stray bedsheet.
The juice hit Wesley first, drenching him, followed an instant later by the eggs. They hit him full in the face, ran down his chest and onto the bedsheets.
"Oh!" cried out Karla. "Oh Wesley!
I'm so sorry!" She grabbed up the far end of the bedsheet and brought it around, trying to clean him off.
"It's okay! It's okay!" he said, trying to get the mess off him. "I always like to wear my breakfast instead of eat it. Keeps you thin." She dabbed at his back. "I'm so sorry." "Really, it's all right," he said in exasperation.
Her fingers dug into the bottom of his neck.
"You're so tense." "Now, I wonder why that is?" he replied, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
She brought her other hand up and started massaging his shoulders. "Let me take care of that." "No, please, that's..." And his head started to hang loosely. In spite of himself, he smiled. "Hey, that feels pretty good," he admitted.
"I'm an expert massage artist," she said.
"I can tell. I didn't realize how tense I was." "You're a very aggressive, very determined individual. I can tell these things. Someone like you always has tension. But I can keep you relaxed." His head swayed back and forth gently. "I can believe it." "Lie down," she said, "and watch what I can really do when I get started." Wesley did as she said.
And a few minutes later, anyone walking past would have heard incredible howls from within Wesley Crusher's quarters.
Ten-Forward was empty, except for Guinan who--as near as anyone could tell--never left.
She was checking over her stock in brisk fashion, when suddenly she looked up. "All right," she said in annoyance. "You might as well show yourself." There was a bright flash, and Q materialized in the middle of Ten-Forward. He stood there, smug and confident. "What does one have to do to get a drink around here?" he said.
She shook her head in disbelief. "I'm not going to serve you," she said.
"And you call yourself a hostess," he said.
"At least, that's what you call yourself now." "These are good people," said Guinan from behind the bar.
"Why do you insist on tormenting them?" "What torment?" said Q expansively.
"I have been on my very best behavior." The door of Ten-Forward hissed open and Deanna Troi entered. She stood there a moment, regarding Q. "I knew you'd come here," she said.
"And here is someone who can attest to my behavior, can't you, Deanna?" he asked silkily.
"It's over, Q," she said calmly.
He raised an eyebrow. "Whatever do you mean?" "I can read you." She took a step forward.
"I can sense every maggot-ridden thought that's crawling through your mind." "No, you can't," he said calmly. "My mind is a closed book to you." "It's an open book, and every page is torn," she told him. She continued towards him in slow, measured steps, the picture of calm.
"Obviously, whatever your powers once were, they are diminished." "Nonsense. I am every bit as omnipotent as I ever was," said Q.
"You are as omnipotent as a cheese wheel," she informed him, "and substantially less decorative." The carefully conceived mask that Q wore started to slip just slightly. Danger glimmered. "I do not take kindly to such words." "I know your every move," she said. "You intend to humiliate my mother. To torment her, for no other reason than that she had the poor judgment to be attracted to you. You are setting her up for a colossal fall, simply because you want to show that you can. Your pathetic existence has dwindled down to your ability to show your power over lesser life forms. But you've overestimated yourself this time, Q.
You, the superior life form... your every move is plain to me." "You're lying." His voice was harsh, his anger growing.
"I don't have to lie. I'm here to inform you that I'm not afraid of you." "Really." The air was starting to get dark.
"Yes. And I'm here to inform you that not only is my mother not helpless, but neither is her daughter. I love my mother, and if you cause her harm, if you cause her pain... I will make certain that you suffer." "You!" And he started to tremble with unrepressed fury. "You think you can threaten me! You... you..." "I will step on you," she said quietly, "like the bug that you are." He took a step towards her, his brow clouded, his eyes smoldering.
Immediately Guinan was in between them. Her hands were outstretched in a defensive posture. Deanna wasn't precisely sure what sort of defense Guinan could possibly construct against this creature, but the Ten-Forward hostess definitely seemed to have something in mind.
What that might have been, Deanna Troi would never know. Because as suddenly as the storm gathered, it passed.
Q collected himself, his fury ebbing, his anger dissipating as if it had never existed. Within seconds he had restored his placid, amiable exterior.
"You claim to love your mother," said Q, "and yet she is happy with me, and you would deprive her of that happiness. So this love business would seem to hinge a great deal on personal selfishness." "Loving someone means being concerned for their well-being," said Deanna.
"Does it also mean," he asked, "that you start making decisions for the one you love? That sounds rather patronizing to me. If you truly know what I am thinking, Deanna Troi, then you are aware that I believe you are having trouble believing in your mother's intelligence. And that, dear woman, sounds a great deal more like your problem than mine." With that parting shot, he vanished.
Deanna sighed and sank down into a chair.
Guinan walked slowly over to her. "You couldn't read him." "No," said Deanna.
"It was a bluff." "Yes." "And you were deliberately baiting him." "That's right," sighed Deanna.
"Mind telling me why?" "Because," said Deanna reasonably, "if he had attacked me, assaulted me... my mother would have been aware of it. She would have sensed my distress immediately, and the cause of it. The more heinous attack I could provoke, the more of a shock it would be to her. I wanted her to be aware of just what Q is capable of." "In other words, you were willing to sacrifice yourself. That took a lot of class, Counselor." "Thank you." "Not a lot of brains, mind you." "Thank you again," she said, a bit more sardonically this time. "Guinan... is it possible that he's telling the truth?" "I was wondering that earlier. Frankly.
I don't think so. The only question is, how much hurt is he going to cause while he's spinning his lies?" "I don't know," said Deanna.
"But at this point, I've done everything I can.
Matters are simply going to have to run their course now." "Let's hope we can all keep up with it," Guinan said.
"I'm sorry," Karla kept saying as she helped Wesley down the hallway.
Wesley had thrown a robe on over his pajama pants and was leaning heavily on Karla's shoulder. Pain was stabbing through his torso with every step. "It's okay," he gasped, for what seemed the hundredth time.
"You must hate me," wailed Karla. "You must detest me. You must loathe the very sight of--" "Karla, shut up," moaned Wesley.
"You're not helping." "I'm sorry, Wesley." "And stop apologizing." "I'm sorry for apologizing, Wesley." He would have sighed deeply, except it caused him too much pain.
And just as they rounded the corner to sickbay, there, naturally, coming from the other direction--displaying timing that bordered on the supernatural--was Ensign Charles.
Wesley moaned, partly out of pain, partly out of embarrassment. Charles's eyes widened as he saw the two of them, and Wesley said to him, "Don't say anything. Not a word. Not a smart remark. Nothing." "What the hell happened?" said Charles.
And Karla, all upset, explained, "We think I broke a couple of his ribs." With that, she ushered him into sickbay and the door closed behind them.
Charles watched them go and then whistled. "She's an animal," he whispered to himself enviously.
Wesley lay on the exam bed, his mother passing a tricorder over him. She nodded briskly and glanced at the concerned young woman standing just nearby.
"Second and third ribs, upper left," said Dr. Crusher. "It appears to be a clean break." "I'm very efficient," said Karla. When Beverly Crusher's expression demanded further explanation of that remark, Karla said, "That's probably why it's clean. I'm tidy that way." "Look, go tidy up somewhere else, all right?" Wes pleaded.
"Should I clean your room?" "Yes. No!" he quickly amended. "Don't do that. Don't do anything. Don't serve me.
Don't rub me. Don't... just don't. Go back to your quarters--your quarters--and wait for me there, okay?" "Whatever you say, Wesley," and she walked out of sickbay.
Wesley allowed his head to drop back on the medical bed. Beverly Crusher stared down at her son, not exactly sure what to say. "Look... Wes," she said, as she reached for the instruments she would need to heal the break. "As your mother, I know that there are certain lines that I just should not cross. At the same time, as chief medical officer, I have responsibilities for the health of this crew." "Mom..." sighed Wesley.
"Now, under ordinary circumstances, your..." She hesitated on the word a moment and then forced it out. "Your sex life is your own business..." "Mom!" She was speaking very quickly, anxious to get it out.
"But if you're getting injured as a result, then perhaps certain procedures should be reviewed to--" "Mom, it had nothing to do with sex." She stared down at him. "It didn't?" "No." "But then--" "Promise you won't laugh." "Wesley!" said his mother with mild annoyance.
"I am the chief medical officer ascertaining an injury to a crew member. It is hardly a laughing matter." "Promise." She looked heavenward and in an annoyed little singsong said, "I promise I won't laugh." "She was giving me a backrub." Beverly Crusher looked at her son skeptically. "You're joking." "I wish." "She broke your ribs giving you a backrub?" "She was doing it with her feet." Beverly sat down, the instrument forgotten in her hand. "How did she rub your back with her feet?" "By walking on it." Beverly Crusher put her hand to her mouth, and her sides started to shake.
"You promised!" moaned Wes. "What is it with women! Deanna promised she wouldn't laugh, and then you--" "Deanna? She was there too?!" "Yes, mother!" Wesley blew up, ignoring the pain in his side. "Deanna was there. And Guinan. And Sonja Mendez. And every female in the cadet class at Starfleet Academy was there, and the entire female population of Angel One. I just couldn't get enough, okay, mother?
Okay?" He sank back, exhausted, the pain a dull ache.
"I'm sorry, Wesley," said Beverly with only the mildest twitch of her mouth. "I didn't mean to upset you." "She's killing me, mother. Slowly.
Painfully. There she was, walking on my back, and then she started to fall off. I started to turn over, just out of reflex, and the next thing I knew I felt this cracking in my chest. And then she landed on me and..." "You'll be as good as new when I'm finished." She looked at him oddly. "What's that in your hair?" "What color?" "Kind of yellow." "That would be egg yolk. The white is the rest of the egg, and any orange is juice." "Busy morning." "Mother, what am I going to do? She's driving me crazy." The first thing that occurred to her was that he should wash his hair, but she knew that was hardly the advice he was looking for. "Can't you send her back where she came from?" "No," he sighed. "It would be an insult." "If it's a question of insult versus compound fractures, I'd risk the former." "Yeah. Yeah, so would I."
Chapter Eighteen
The bickering was becoming louder, more constant, and more incessant. It had gone from disagreements to cold looks to out-and-out fury. And everyone among the Tizarin was beginning to wonder whether this was far more than a case of simple pre-wedding jitters.
