Only Human by Alara Rogers 
 
Part III: Yamato 
 
With minor revisions to the parts posted before, here is all of 
Only Human Chapter III.
 
Paramount owns Q and the universe; I own the original characters.
No copyright infringement is intended.  Not to be sold for profit.  

ONLY HUMAN (for those who haven't caught the story thus far) is an 
alternate universe, based on the premise that Q lost his powers for 
good in "Deja Q."  In exchange for protection, he offered the 
Federation the benefit of his advanced knowledge, and was transferred 
to Starbase 56.  Three years later, miserable beyond endurance, Q 
attempted to kill himself. 
 
Dr. T'Laren, Vulcan xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor, 
turned up at this point, claiming that Starfleet had hired her as Q's 
therapist.  In fact, it turned out that she was really hired by the Q 
Continuum, in the person of the Q who got Q thrown out, whom T'Laren 
refers to as Lhoviri.  T'Laren persuaded Q to accept her help and 
allow her to counsel him through his depression.  To that end, they 
left Starbase 56 on T'Laren's ship Ketaya-- a gift from Lhoviri, with 
some surprising capabilities-- and headed for the starship Yamato, 
which was currently hosting a physics conference. 
 
Over the course of the past weeks of travel, Q has come to trust 
T'Laren, more or less, though they've had some knock-down-drag-out 
fights in the process.  At the end of Part II, Q decided that he no 
longer wanted to die.  Part III details 's adventures at the scientific 
conference aboard the Yamato, T'Laren's problems as her 
somewhat shady past comes back to haunt her in the forms of her 
young sister-in-law and her former lover, and the ups and downs 
of Q and T'Laren's relations with one another.  Section 14 also 
deals explicitly with sexual themes, though I consider it suitable 
for teens and mature Congresspersons (like Patrick Leahy, who 
opposed the CDA.) 
 
Note that elements of this chapter and previous ones contradict
the Voyager episode "The Q and the Grey."  I remain convinced
that my version of the Continuum is more interesting than the
vision we were presented with in that episode, and so I have not
revised to fit that episode, as it's too stupid to be canon. :-)

Parts I - III are all available at the following sites:

FTP:

ftp://ftp.netcom.com/pub/al/aleph/trek
ftp://ftp.europa.com/outgoing/mercutio/alt.fan.q
ftp://aviary.share.net/pub/startrek/tng

Web:

http://www.europa.com/~mercutio/Q.html
http://aviary.share.net/~alara
http://www1.mhv.net/~alara/ohtree.html

Send comments to aleph@netcom.com.
             *                   *                    *  

	T'Laren expected and feared that the argument would continue after 
Sovaz left.  Instead Q went into his bedroom and occupied himself with 
removing various articles of clothing that he'd just packed, trying 
them on, and staring at himself in the mirror as if his appearance were 
a painting he was thinking of revising heavily.  She retreated to her 
own room, requested the computer to shut the door-- individual rooms in 
the suite apparently didn't shut their doors automatically-- and 
unpacked the few items she had bothered to bring aboard.
	The door to the bedroom opened.  Q stood there in a black jumpsuit 
with glittering gold piping and a short gold jacket.  "What do you 
think?"
	"What do I think of what?"
	"Of the *outfit*, of course."  
	"I think it's a bit flamboyant, actually."
	"Flamboyant?  *Flamboyant?*"  Q shook his head rapidly.  "No no 
no.  What a deprived young woman.  Do you want to see flamboyant?"  He 
departed and returned a moment later with a medieval Renaissance 
costume held up to him.  "*This* is flamboyant."
	She was certainly not going to contradict him.  "Why do you have 
that... outfit... with you at all?"  T'Laren asked, trying not to sound 
overwhelmed with incredulity.
	"Well, in case I felt like wearing it, of course.  Why do you 
think?"  He put the costume down and glared at her.  "Are you going to 
wear *that*?"
	T'Laren was dressed in a formal gray shipsuit with darker gray 
quilted shoulders and some black edging.  It had served perfectly well 
for coming aboard the Yamato, and she couldn't see why it wouldn't 
serve for the formal reception.  "Yes."
	Q rolled his eyes.  "Fate spare me from the fashion-illiterate."  
He shook his head.  "You can't wear that.  Please tell me you're just 
trying to get back at me and you actually had no intention of wearing 
that."
	"I really don't see what's wrong with it."
	"It's *boring!  *It's dull, it's stuffy, it's hideous, it turns 
your skin gray and it makes you look at least fifty years older.  Would 
you wear something with a little color in it, at least, so I needn't 
die from mortification that I'm associated with you?"
	"It is perfectly acceptable," T'Laren said, with just a touch more 
sharpness than she'd intended.  "I hardly see the need to take fashion 
advice from a man who's been known to dress as a 22nd-century starship 
captain, a 16th-century fop-- and a 21st-century judge."
	"Oh, you're going to blame me for the judge?  Blame humanity; *I* 
didn't come up with the costume."
	"But you dressed in it."
	"To make a point."
	"What sort of point did you intend to make by dressing as a 
Starfleet captain from two hundred years ago?"
	"I was protesting that they wouldn't let me wear a Starfleet 
uniform.  Besides, I freely admit those things were flamboyant and 
silly.  They were always intended to be.  But this-- this is just a 
disaster, T'Laren.  It makes you look like-- like--"  He paused, as if 
at a loss for words, and finally sputtered, "like a *Vulcan!*"
	"I am a Vulcan."
	"That's no excuse.  Look."  He strode into her room and walked 
over to the clothing replicator.  "Menu."
	"Q--"
	"This one looks nice," he said, scrutinizing the menu.  "And this 
isn't half bad.  And the green in this one would go marvelously with 
your bloodshot eyes--"
	"Q!"  T'Laren walked over to him.  "I have no intention of 
changing my outfit to please your outrageous sensibilities.  Will you 
get away from my replicator, or will I be forced to bodily remove you?"
	He wagged his finger at her.  "Touchy, touchy, touchy.  And here I 
thought I couldn't offend you."
	"I was wrong."
	"You certainly were.  That shade of gray was *never* meant to be 
worn by a humanoid-- except perhaps a Cardassian, but then they hardly 
count as humanoid, do they."  He turned back to the replicator.  "A 
401A, in my friend's size."
	"It doesn't have my size.  I haven't stepped into the measuring 
unit."
	"Ah, but *this*, my dear, is a *Galaxy*-class starship.  Not one 
of those little bathtub tugs you're accustomed to serving on."  The 
replicator produced an outfit.  Q removed it with a flourish and 
unrolled it in front of her.  "Voila!"
	Despite herself, T'Laren was forced to admit that the shipsuit Q 
was presenting her with *was*, in fact, better-looking.  Her current 
attire was conservative and sedate; this was professional, sharp, 
attractive without the excessive flashiness she'd have expected from 
something Q would pick out.  It was in gray and dark green, not much 
more colorful than what she wore, but she could tell that it would, in 
fact, flatter her coloring much better.
	She studied Q for a moment, trying to decide whether this was a 
power game or a particularly obnoxious way of making a peace offering.  
"It's quite attractive," she finally said.
	"So you agree with me!  Go on, try it on.  I'll go in the other 
room and cover my eyes."
	"No."  She took the shipsuit from him and hung it up in her 
closet.  "I will wear what I'm wearing."  She turned to face him.  "I'm 
not your dress-up doll, Q."
	"No, of course not.  But I *had* thought we were friends."
*	After your performance today?  I wouldn't wish to see the way you 
treat your enemies.  *"Perhaps we are," she offered evenly.
	"Well, as a concerned friend, it would ill behoove me to let you 
go out like that.  Friends don't *let* friends dress like Vulcan 
schoolmarms."
	"Vulcan schoolmarms wear dark brown robes.  And I don't think you 
intend a gesture of friendship, Q, not after your behavior today."
	"What, because I argue with someone means I can't be their 
friend?"
	"When you repeatedly bring up points that obviously cause another 
person pain, refusing to back off when you're asked, and make light of 
an evidently traumatic situation, it is hard to imagine why the other 
person would want to call you friend."  She turned away quite 
deliberately and crossed the room, turning back only when she had 
placed the bed between them.
	"Ah."  Q's expression had gone very masklike.  For a moment she 
regretted the harsh words-- but he had to learn.  "In that case, I'll 
leave you to your no doubt vital activities, Doctor."  He turned and 
pivoted back through the door into the suite, which swooshed shut 
behind him.
	Either he was giving a remarkably good show of wounded pride, or 
she had actually hurt his feelings.  Could it be that after all this 
time, he still didn't realize that being obnoxious was not a good way 
to reach out to people?  That if he wished to be another person's 
friend, he should refrain from harassing them?  *Had* this been Q's 
idea of a peace offering?  If that was the case, she really had a lot 
further to go with him than she'd thought back on Ketaya-- unless he'd 
backslid.  That could have happened, too.
	The trouble was that she had no objectivity right now.  She 
remembered telling Anderson that Q couldn't offend her unless she 
allowed it... but she hadn't thought she might be faced with Sovaz.  
Fate was capable of cruel jokes.  Or perhaps Lhoviri had arranged this?  
Sovaz's presence could be explained by Lhoviri's sick sense of humor.  
Or by her own carelessness.  She should have checked the crew listings.  
But then, who could have expected this?  To have both Sovaz and Tris on 
the same ship, and then to have T'Laren come to that ship unaware-- 
that had to be someone's idea of a joke.
	She had barely managed to maintain control.  The moment she'd seen 
Sovaz, all her carefully constructed barriers against her own memories 
had begun to crash, and she remembered the last time she'd seen Sovaz--
		--Her hands were dyed green, her clothing splotched 
	with emerald.  She stared stupidly at her hands, unable to 
	understand where all the green had come from.  The acrid 
	smell of copper and salt tickled the back of her throat, and 
	she trembled, an atavistic reaction to the scent of blood.  
	Where had the blood come from?
		Her eyes followed the green drops down to the floor, 
	where they pooled.  Her face reflected in the pool, her 
	expression confused.  Something had happened.  What had 
	happened?
		Then she tracked down to Soram, lying still in the 
	center of the pool, and time stopped.
		The door opened.  She looked up, a frightened animal, 
	and saw Sovaz.  A look of horror shattered the girl's calm 
	features, to be replaced by a cold mask that denied all 
	emotion, all innocence, all goodness in the universe.  The 
	innocence, the sense of wonder in the girl's eyes shriveled 
	and died.
		 "You have killed my brother," Sovaz said, and it was 
	the death knell for her childhood... and T'Laren had killed 
	it...
	She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to shut out the 
vision of Sovaz's shattered innocence.  It hadn't happened.  Sovaz 
didn't remember how her older sister had betrayed her, destroyed her, 
because it hadn't happened.
		"All right!" The entity flung his arms in the air. 
	"What do you need?  Tell me what you need to want to live.  
	I can do anything you want.  What will it take, for you to 
	agree to live?"
		She hesitated.  He asked for impossibilities.  But he 
	had already demonstrated that he could do impossibilities.
		"My husband," she whispered.  "I cannot live so long as 
	he does not."
		"You want me to bring him back?  Like I did you?"
		"I want him to have never died.  I want to have never 
	killed him."
		He paused, seeming to think about it.  "Okay," he said 
	finally.  "That's what you want?  That's what you'll get.  
	It'll never have happened."
	...never have happened...
	But it *had*.  She remembered it if no one else could.  She 
remembered how Sovaz had looked, and the awful feeling of desolation 
that had overwhelmed her when she saw the girl's expression, worse even 
than the horror of realizing what she'd done to Soram.  And she 
couldn't stop remembering.  How was she supposed to face Sovaz, knowing 
what she'd done to the girl?
	How was she supposed to face Sovaz after the cruel way she'd 
rejected the girl today?
	*But I didn't want to hurt her.  I just wanted her not to-- not to 
look at me so worshipfully, so happily, as if she were overjoyed to 
find me alive, when I don't deserve--*
	It hadn't happened.  
	"Lhoviri," she whispered.  "I can't do this."  She sat down 
heavily.  "You're supposed to be omnipotent," she told the air quietly.  
"You could have fixed me better than this, surely."
	*Do you expect me to do everything for you?  You have to stand on 
your own feet sometime, T'Laren.*
	She had no idea whether the reply came from Lhoviri or her own 
mind.  But whoever had said it, they were right.  *This incident has 
destroyed my objectivity.  I should be concentrating on helping Q, not 
wallowing in my own pain.  That's what Lhoviri is paying for, anyway.  
That is *why* it didn't happen.*
	*Physician, heal thyself.*  T'Laren stared at the outfit Q had 
given her, replaying the scene with Q in her mind and analyzing it.  He 
had expressed interest, amusement, even glee at the situation with 
Tris, Sovaz and herself.  He had mocked her for her relationship with 
Tris-- but he was right on one level.  She had told Q she was not 
attracted to him, nor would she pursue him if she was, and that much 
was true.  But she had also told him she was capable of resisting 
temptation, and that she had no desire to have sex with a man she 
couldn't meld with-- and that was demonstrably false.  T'Laren 
remembered the humans she'd picked up in seedy bars on out-of-the-way 
starbases or planetary shore leave, desperately trying to convince 
herself that if she didn't meld with them she wasn't betraying Soram.  
She remembered Tris, and how close she had come to divorcing Soram for 
him.  And while she was torturing herself, why didn't she go ahead and 
remember Melor?  How many people had she betrayed by going to bed with 
him, and in how many different ways?  
	No.  This was counterproductive.  Q had hurt her because, on this 
topic, she felt a great deal of guilt and could easily be hurt.  It was 
Q's nature to probe for weaknesses-- he could hardly be blamed for that 
at this stage of his development.  If she had truly thought for a 
moment that she had made great strides with him, she was a fool.  She 
*knew* better-- psychological treatment involved no miracle cures.  Q 
trusted her and would probably not be a complete ass to her in the 
absence of other social stimuli, most of the time.  Give him other 
people to interact with, however, and he would... be himself.  And if 
that hurt her, that was her failing for allowing it.
	So.  Q had been amused by the fact that she'd turned out to be 
fallible.  This was understandable.  He had tried to charm Sovaz at 
T'Laren's expense.  Given how T'Laren had behaved toward Sovaz, 
however, he wasn't even entirely wrong to do that.  He had found the 
whole situation with her past coming back to haunt her entertaining-- 
but he was right; it was a natural human reaction and it was only 
because Q was completely tactless and allowed his amusement to show so 
blatantly that it had been so hurtful.  Which meant... he was being an 
ass, but probably not maliciously so.  And so the offer of the suit 
might not have been the opening move of a power game.  It might have 
been a peace offering.  
	But this brought her back to the beginning, because she *still* 
couldn't tell which.  So she considered consequences.  If she rejected 
a peace offering, Q would be hurt-- and he had seemed to be hurt; 
surely it couldn't have entirely been her comment about friends that 
elicited that reaction-- unless it had been faked?  But why would he 
fake being hurt?  Q might ostentatiously play at being wounded, but he 
always made it obvious that it was play, a defense against the notion 
that she might actually hurt him.  There was nothing for him to gain by 
a sincere pretense at pain.  And Q would not be hurt if she rejected a 
power gambit.  He would shrug, smile and try again.  If he backed off, 
he'd do so in such a fashion to imply that he was conceding 
temporarily, or the game no longer amused him-- not that he'd gotten 
hurt.
	T'Laren picked up the outfit.  It *was* better-looking, and Q's 
obsession with clothing was quite genuine.  He could mock or parody his 
own obsessions-- as witness the Renaissance outfit-- but they were no 
less real.  Q might really have considered the question of her attire 
to be important, and have been trying, in  his typical obnoxious 
fashion, to save her from what he perceived to be an embarrassment.  It 
seemed likely that she had assumed it was a power gambit simply because 
she was annoyed at him, and because she considered clothing a trivial 
issue.
			*				*				*
	Ten minutes later she went to the door of Q's room and pushed the 
door chime.
	The door swished open.  "Fancy meeting you here," Q said, and then 
his eyes fell on the outfit.  "Aha.  I see you had a sudden attack of 
fashion sense."
	"I decided I would take your word for it," she said.  "One as 
obsessed with clothing as you can hardly help but have a better sense 
for such things."  
	He nodded approvingly.  "It's quite attractive, if I do say so 
myself.  You could still do something with your hair, but then I'm not 
about to push my luck."
	"A wise decision."  As T'Laren stepped further into the room, Q's 
own appearance registered on her.  Her eyebrows went up.  He had 
changed clothing again, this time choosing a suit in dark red and grey 
that was far less flamboyant than the previous black and gold.  He had 
also done something to his hair-- made it less obvious how little of it 
there was, and gotten the gray in it to concentrate at the temples 
instead of being scattered throughout.  The most startling change, 
however, was that he seemed to have gained back all the weight he'd 
lost over the past three years.  Q had never been built bulkily, but 
when he'd been omnipotent his mass had been enough, combined with his 
height, to make him formidable-looking.  Over the past three years, in 
the holos she'd seen of him, he'd grown more and more gaunt, and less 
and less impressive-looking, until finally he'd wound up in sickbay 
looking like a matchstick.  He had always been able to lessen the 
gauntness with clothing somewhat; now, though, he seemed to have 
actually gotten rid of it.  Only his hands betrayed him.
	He noticed her stare.  "Impressive, isn't it?  It's taken me close 
to an hour just to get to this point, and I still haven't put makeup on 
yet."  Q turned to the mirror, where he had ranged a large number of 
cosmetics.  "You can watch if you want, it won't bother me."
	"It is impressive.  It must be uncomfortable, though."
	"Oh, astonishingly.  I can't sit down."  He took what looked like 
a surgical scanner and ran it over his face, leaning against the 
mirror.  "Beauty is pain."  This was intoned with such solemnity that 
she knew he would have to turn around and grin at her.  He did so, 
satisfying her faith in her ability to predict Q.
	"Why do you do it, then?"  she asked.  "I would think you would 
consider physical appearance to be completely superficial."
	"Absolutely.  By definition, even.  Couldn't agree more."
	"So why--"
	"Because, except for Vulcans-- and you people are extremely weird; 
I don't think you have any idea how much of an aberration Vulcans are-- 
nearly all species on this evolutionary level judge others by 
appearances.  And humans are among the worst of the bunch."  He turned 
to face her.  "When I was on Starbase 56, it was in a sense my 
territory.  People came there to see me.  I was by definition the 
center of attention, the most important person there, whatever you want 
to call it, so it hardly mattered what I looked like, people were going 
to respect me and listen to me anyway-- at least to the extent that 
they ever did.  Not to mention I was utterly miserable, and so it 
seemed appropriate that I look the part."  Q turned back to the mirror, 
using several specialized tools to apply cosmetics to the top half of 
his face.  He seemed to be flattening wrinkles and then recoloring the 
skin.  "Now, though, I am no longer on my own territory.  If I want to 
receive the sort of respect I've grown accustomed to, I need to use 
every tool at my disposal-- which includes making my physical 
appearance as impressive as possible."
	T'Laren nodded slowly.  "That's very interesting."  
	"I detect the drawing of a dissection scalpel.  What's very 
interesting?"
	"You recognize the necessity of using superficial appearance to 
manipulate others.  But it doesn't seem to have occurred to you to 
develop the same sort of techniques to improve your social appearance."
	"Oh, don't.  Puh-*lease*."  He glanced over at her.  His face 
seemed not to fit together properly-- the top half was evenly colored 
and largely unlined, the forehead and eyes of a man in the prime of his 
life.  The lower, unfinished half, however, was even more pale and 
drawn than usual in comparison, and the effect was that of a man with a 
very lifelike mask over one half of his face.  Which half was the mask, 
though, was indeterminate, since he'd already brought his hair and body 
in line with the lies his upper face told.  "Believe it or not, 
T'Laren, I am capable of being socially competent when I want to be.  I 
have even on occasion been called charming.  I realize this must be a 
shock to you."
	"You can't sustain it.  And you seem to have very little desire to 
do it as a general rule."
	"You're right, but then I don't usually go around in such an 
elaborate costuming job that I can barely move, either."
	"You do realize that you are not going to be the constant center 
of attention.  The conference attendees all have more or less equal 
status.  If you came here expecting they would hang on your every word, 
I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."
	"Oh, I don't need to be the *constant* center of attention."  He 
turned and grinned at her.  "Merely semi-constant."
	"Even that much might be too much to hope for."
	"It's not, I assure you.  I can easily ensure that people pay 
attention to me.  I can even do it without being excessively annoying."  
His grin broadened.  "Shocking, but true."  
	T'Laren raised an eyebrow.  "You seem to be in an unusually good 
mood today."
	"Oh, I am."  
	"Do you have any idea why?"
	Q lost the smile.  "Let's not dissect my mood until it's dead, 
shall we?"
	"As you wish."
	He stepped back from the mirror, examining himself.  The makeup 
job seemed complete to T'Laren, but Q was apparently unsatisfied, 
leaning back in to do minor touch-ups that seemed not to produce any 
appreciable change.  "How does it look?"
	"Very thorough.  One would never imagine you spent two weeks on 
life support a mere month ago."
	"No, one wouldn't, would one?"  He turned to her.  "Is it 
necessary to say you're my psychologist?  I realize you've already 
blown it in front of the crew, but then I don't really care what 
Commander Clean-Cut and his band of merry men think of me."
	"There's no stigma attached to having a personal therapist, Q."
	"So say personal therapist.  Not psychologist.  Not psychiatrist, 
either, which is actually what you said you were."
	"Did I?"  She thought back.  He was right.  "I'm sorry.  I was-- 
distraught.  It was an inaccurate description, since I'm not in fact a 
psychiatrist, and it was unnecessary even had it been true."
	"For once I won't argue with you."
	The door to the suite chimed.  T'Laren started toward the door.  
"It's most likely Sovaz," Q pointed out.  As she held back, he stepped 
ahead of her and went to the door.  "Come in!"
	It was, in fact, Sovaz.  T'Laren noted that the girl's hair had 
gotten overlong again.  Sovaz tried to keep her hair in a bowl cut, for 
the eminently logical reason that she didn't want to fuss with it, but 
she was constantly forgetting to get her hair cut.  Her straight bangs 
were starting to flop into her eyes.  She almost opened her mouth to 
say, "Sovakam, you need a haircut," out of habit, but her mind caught 
up with her in time.
	"Will you need an escort to Ten-Forward?"  Sovaz asked.
	"Ten-*Forward?*"  Q hesitated.  "Right.  This is a Galaxy-class 
starship, isn't it.  You frightened me there for a moment."
	"Why would you be frightened of the presence of Ten-Forward?"
	"An old... acquaintance of mine runs the Ten-Forward lounge on the 
*Enterprise*.  Someone who I would much prefer never to see again in my 
life.  And certainly, if you want to escort me, by all means do.  I've 
never had to find my way from VIP quarters to the Ten-Forward lounge on 
a Galaxy-class starship before."  He turned to T'Laren.  "Come along, 
entourage."
	As they headed for Ten-Forward, Sovaz began talking.  "The 
conference doesn't officially start until tomorrow at 1500 hours.  
Nearly everyone is here; the only exceptions are Professor Yalit and 
Dr. Pergiun.  Have you ever met either of them?"
	"Pergiun I've met.  He's a pompous ass.  Yalit I've never even 
*heard* of."
	"There's widespread speculation as to her race.  Since she hasn't 
been seen in person in sixty years, all anyone has to go on is records 
from her time at the Makropyrios.  She bears some physical resemblance 
to Ferengi, but of course Ferengi females are forbidden by law from 
leaving the Ferengi homeworld, except to go to a colony world, of 
course, which in any case the Makropyrios is not.  I believe they're 
also forbidden from learning to read, or any other form of higher 
education.  I had a fascinating discussion with a Ferengi, in which he 
was trying to explain to me the reasons why his species organizes their 
gender roles in such fashion.  I thought it was a highly illogical 
system, myself.  He wanted information on Vulcan mating habits in 
exchange, in particular my personal experiences, and I had to tell him 
I had no personal experience in that particular area.  I believe he 
thought I cheated him.  This is considered a grave offense among the 
Ferengi.  I find this hard to reconcile with the fact that they are 
well-known for cheating other species, but he assured me that this was 
not so."
	"Lieutenant?"
	"Yes?"
	"I *really* don't care about the Ferengi."  
	"Oh.  If I am discussing a topic of little interest to you, feel 
free to tell me to be quiet.  Everyone else does."
	"I'll keep that in mind," Q said.  They reached Ten-Forward, not a 
moment too soon in T'Laren's opinion.  "Oh, and Lieutenant?"
	"Yes?"
	Q shook his head gravely.  "Do *something* with your hair."
			*				*				*