The Line of Fire

Posted on Mon 12th Nov, 2012 @ 6:32am by Colonel Horatio Drake & Commander Paul Graves PsyD

1,424 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: http://sb109.sim-station.net/index.php/sim/missions/id/2
Location: SB Protector, Main Infirmary
Timeline: Post-Bretagne

ON:

Drake had been given the all clear by Dr. Nyx two hours previously and had returned to his quarters to try and get some sleep - this was something that couldn't be achieved. Instead he decided to reach for the bottle... his usual solution to most problems these days. It wasn't until he found the bottom of his second glass, that he thought about Paul. The situation on the Bretagne had seemed so surreal that he had almost put it down to a bad dream. However the truth was that it actually happened and he had actually shot his Chief Counselor. It was probably best that he visit him.

===

SB Protector had more than one Infirmary... naturally for so many people on board, many places were required to treat them. The biggest and primary was on Deck 83; In fact the entire deck was devoted to the medical department and was always a hustle of activity.

He knew exactly where he was going as his bed had been only two away from Paul's. On approach, an approving nod from a male nurse told him that he was cleared to speak to him and that he had clearly been stabilised.

"Hello, Lieutenant" He said, softly.

Paul had been drifting in and out of a light doze all day. He would fall asleep, and then some nurse would come by to check his vital signs every four hours with a medical scanner that couldn't do its job without making that annoying, high-pitched hum that grated on his ears. As if that weren't bad enough, they also had to take blood samples two or three times a day, measure his fluid intake and output, and on the whole make it impossible to actually sleep.

He was lying still with his eyes closed, flitting through the ambient emotions around him. Training since childhood enabled him to shield himself from the worst of the emotions usually encountered in a hospital--the pain, the fear, the worry. He knew they were present, but he could dampen them enough to not feel overwhelmed by them.

The one set of emotions he didn't expect to feel was someone's regret, uncertainty, and self-doubt.

Aside from the emotions, the voice of someone who wasn't a nurse cheerily announcing that it was time for another blood draw piqued Paul's interest enough for him to open his eyes.

It was Drake. Paul's eyes widened, and he sat up in the bed. "Good to see you, Colonel. I can't believe you're back here so soon after making your escape. I'd be halfway to Risa by now. Have a seat."

Accepting the offer, he sat in the sole seat next to Paul's bed. He chuckled, "If I had any sense, I would be... but I couldn't be done with the hassle of the journey!"

He suddenly turned stern, now that the pleasantries were out of the way. "I trust Dr. Nyx has informed you of what happened to us on the Bretagne? How are you feeling?"

"Very, very tired," Paul said. "They got me out of bed shortly after you were discharged, but I don't think I could make it across Sickbay, much less to my quarters. Nyx said it was something to do with Betazoid physiology, that I was raving when they brought me in here. I'm likely to be here another day or two."

He paused. "As for what happened on the Bretagne, most of it seems like a very chaotic dream to me. I remember feeling as if I had been climbing forever, something about a weird pasta dish with peas, terrified of the ship crumbling apart around me, and...a lot of horribly dead bodies."

He swallowed hard but forced himself to look directly at Drake. "And I remember that we almost made ourselves two more of them."

There, he'd said it. The gnawing knot of uncertainty, horror, and self-loathing in him at last had a voice. He'd been trained for too long as an empath and as a counselor to let his more negative emotions show in public, but it was very possible that he owed Drake an acknowledgement of that, if not of far more.

"Indeed" Drake looked down at his hands briefly - this was a very strange situation to be in. "I... I'm sorry that I shot you. My oxygen must have run out moments before as the shot was at such an angle that your EVA suit took the brunt of the damage. Dr. Nyx informs me that you still suffered injury from it.".

Perhaps some humour was needed at this juncture. "It's funny, so many times I've thought about shooting a fellow officer... I never thought I'd actually do it!".

Paul gave a snort of laughter. "There've been a few officers I wanted to shoot, too," he admitted.

Then Paul sighed and looked back at Drake. "Sir, I have no idea if I tampered with your suit's oxygen or not. But if I did, I don't really think saying 'I'm sorry' is enough. If I tampered with your suit, I'm the worst kind of premeditated murderer, and I shouldn't be trusted with a position in Starfleet, much less with counseling anyone. Just because I don't remember doing it is no excuse. For most of what I remember on the Bretagne, I couldn't swear to you what parts of it really happened."

Drake leaned back in his chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. "Neither can I, Paul... neither can I." He took a moment to reflect, once again, on the situation that had transpired on the Bretagne... at best it felt like a vague dream, something that didn't really happen.

Suddenly he snapped back into reality and put an arm on Paul's bed. "Yea, of course it could have been you... but equally it could have been me. There was also no excuse to shoot you... what's more, I didn't have it on stun... I clearly had the intention of killing you too." The words resounded through his mind for a minute... they were potent.

"Neither of us were in control of our actions... " He gave him a warm smile, not expecting this turn of events.

"You confronted me to my face, with your intentions clear," Paul said. "I remember knowing you meant to kill me, and I remember feeling so pissed off, I didn't care. If I tampered with your suit, it was completely underhanded and--torture, in a way, because you were in almost the same situation I am now--you didn't know if you did it or if I was trying to kill you."

Paul let out a breath. "I may be a counselor, but I'm damned if I know how to go forward from this, sir. I don't know what kind of man I am anymore, where I used to have no doubts."

"Well, I've got a bit of an idea... I'm going to be taking your black pip away" He reached round to a small black box that he had brought in with him, but hidden under his chair as he had initially sat down. He opened it in front of the Counsellor to reveal its contents.

"And replace it with this." Sitting on the black padding was a gold pip.

"Regardless of the fact that it is time that you were promoted... your actions on the Bretagne were for the best. From what I remember you managed to keep a clearer head than I did... where I was racked with paranoia and a fascination with tactical procedures... you were always trying to steer me straight." He smiled, once again, and handed him the box.

Paul gave Drake a stunned look. "I...I don't feel I deserve this, Colonel...but I guess when it's done right, the officer never does." He stared at the rank pip for a moment and then looked back up at Drake. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my utmost to live up to it."

"I know you will. You deserve it. I know it's a bit ironic, but if you ever need to talk... especially about what happened on the Bretagne... well, you know where to find me."

"I might very well take you up on that," Paul said. "And you can always come talk to me--not just because of my job but because we both lived through something and saw things that no one should ever have to see or live through. No one else will ever truly understand it but you and me."

OFF:

 

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