Only Human by Alara Rogers  
  
Part III: Yamato  
  
Brand new! Never before seen! A new section in the ongoing saga of ONLY 
HUMAN, the story that ate my brain! :-)
  
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/startrek 
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. 
             *                   *                    *   
	The first contact team returned three days later.
	The conference had essentially been derailed.  People were 
spending the days talking about their pet theories about everything, 
since Q had more or less revealed the secret of the singularity.  Q 
took great pleasure in sitting back and making fun of the various 
theories, but it wasn't as much fun as it had been to actually discover 
something on his own and then hold court as he imparted the knowledge 
to his faithful acolytes.  There had also been a pleasure in the act of 
discovery, something he hadn't known for millennia.  Most of the things 
he'd discovered as a human hadn't been at all pleasurable to learn 
about.
	He was easily as psyched as everyone else when the contact team 
came back.  Rumors flew even before they could make their debriefing, 
rumors about a highly advanced race on the other side of the barrier.  
By the time the actual debriefing was held, Q was intensely curious 
about the species, and why they would have built the barrier in the 
first place.
	"They call themselves the Mihara," Sovaz explained, having been 
chosen as the person to give the contact team's report to the 
conference and any other interested civilians.  "In their language, it 
means something like 'those who follow the holy one.'  Apparently, 
approximately 300 years ago, a member of a highly advanced alien race 
came among them and began to teach them things, mostly concepts of 
advanced physics and philosophy."  She displayed a picture of the 
aliens without following this up, making Q want to throttle her.  
"There are actually three separate alien races among the Mihara.  The 
primary race, in terms of percentage of population, is the Nator."  The 
image was of a humanoid, resembling a cross between a Metraxan and a 
Betazoid-- a man with white skin, not the pinkish color humans often 
called white but true white, and huge dark bottomless eyes.  "Nator are 
telepaths, and require the presence of other Nator to survive."  With a 
shock Q realized where he'd seen those people before.  They were proto-
Borg-- the beings the Borg had been before the Borg had turned to 
technology and a uni-mind.  How the hell had they gotten here?  The 
Borg originally hailed from the Delta Quadrant-- a long way away.  
	"Second are the Sarrin."  The image shown was of a very tall, 
slender not-quite-humanoid-- the general pattern was humaniform, but 
the neck was elongated and entirely too thin, the skin was deep gold, 
the eyes were long and thin and solid black, and the joints did not 
look articulated.  They weren't articulated-- Q knew of the Sarrin, and 
knew their entire bodies were cartilaginous.  He broke into a sweat, 
suddenly very anxious as he remembered where he knew the Sarrin from.  
"They are also telepaths.  While there aren't many Sarrin, they seem to 
form most of the original population of Mihara, and the language all 
the Mihara speak is based on theirs.  Sarrin are low-gravity dwellers, 
as you can see; their population is most dense on the second planet in 
orbit around the quasar, a small planet where the gravity is .43 gees.  
On the main Mihara homeworld, the third planet, gravitation is .79 
gees, and the Sarrin can move about there with about the same 
difficulty that humans experience on worlds with a gee of 2 to 2.5.  
Some Sarrin wear exoskeleton prosthetics to help them move about."
	"Are you all right?" T'Laren asked Q.
	"I recognize them, that's all.  I didn't think I'd see one of them 
again."
	"What are they?  Are they dangerous to you?"
	"The Sarrin?  No, they're not dangerous to anyone.  They evolved 
from herbivores with no natural enemies; they haven't the foggiest idea 
how to use violence.  I thought they'd quarantined themselves on their 
homeworld to prevent more violent species from finding them."  He was 
very much afraid he might know why this group of Sarrin would have 
left.
	"The third race are the Yvo."  An image of a lovely, androgynous 
but apparently male being who looked exactly like a human, with hair 
down to his ankles, appeared.  "The Yvo are humanoid hermaphrodites; 
most of the time they look more male than female, but when pregnant, 
they develop pronounced female secondary sexual characteristics.  
Children are furred; once fully mature, adults have hair only on the 
tops of their heads, where it is considered a secondary sexual 
characteristic and a determinant of sexual attractiveness.  Some 
caution should be taken in dealing with the Yvo, for humans and other 
races who are very similar in appearance to humans; the Yvo will judge 
obvious aliens by different criteria, but for any aliens who resemble 
Yvo, they apply their own cultural rules regarding physical appearance.  
As a result, bald humanoids are considered powerless, sexually 
unattractive and fit only to be followers, while humanoids with facial 
hair are considered childlike.  The Yvo instinct to protect pregnant 
Yvo also makes it difficult for humanoid women, who mostly appear to be 
pregnant to the Yvo, to perform any task that involves physical danger 
anywhere near an Yvo.  The Nator do not appear to have difficulties in 
dealing with the Yvo, but Nator coloration is strikingly distinct from 
standard humanoid coloration, and therefore the Yvo may not consider 
them to look enough like Yvo to evoke their cultural standards."
	"Right.  So we all shave our faces, bind our breasts, and make 
sure we're wearing big wigs when we talk to them,"  Q muttered.  "How 
long is she going to dwell on this?"
	"Q, she's giving a briefing about aliens and dealing with them.  
It seems like she's saying that the Yvo are harder to deal with than 
the other two races."
	"Yes, yes, I got all that. Why doesn't she just--"  He silenced 
himself as he realized what Sovaz had moved on to.
	"--credited their scientific and philosophical advances to an 
ancient being, presumed to originally come from some far older race, 
who came originally to the Sarrin in the form of one of their own 
people.  This individual is the spiritual leader, and in some senses a 
secular power as well, of all the Mihara.  She is referred to as the 
High Magister Azi Martikale.  Apparently she came to the Sarrin 
homeworld 300 years ago..."
	300 years ago.  300 years ago and he could still remember it as if 
it had only happened a few weeks ago.  The world spun around Q.  He 
wouldn't have recognized the name Martikale without the context, though 
now he recalled it as the name of her mortal lover.  But he knew the 
name Azi.  It was the name she had gone by to the man she'd thrown 
immortality away for.  He could more easily remember that, the last 
name she'd taken, than he could remember most of his own names.  
	Azi was alive.  
	He got up suddenly, the world still swaying around him, icewater 
and lava alternating in his veins.  He was going to be sick.  He had to 
get out of here.  Q staggered toward the door, ignoring T'Laren's 
concern and the eyes of all on him.  Azi was alive, alive, and she was 
there, he could even have spoken to her if he'd gone with the team, he 
could send her a message if he chose, run so far and so fast away, 
forbidden to think of her, and now she was right there within reach and 
he was definitely going to throw up.  He managed to make it to the 
nearest rest room, and spent the next several minutes vomiting up 
everything he'd eaten in the past twelve hours.  
	Q leaned his head against the wall, trembling, as the toilet's 
automatic purge cycle ran and disposed of everything he'd just dumped 
into it.  He had feared this, the moment he'd seen the picture of the 
Sarrin.  Azi was a Sarrin, now.  Had been one for 300 years, just as 
he'd been human for three.  He remembered her, remembered the graceful 
body she had worn, remembered how her head had snapped back and forth 
on its stalklike neck in the Sarrin expression of hysterical distress 
as she knelt on the ground, her robes covered in mud, pleading with 
him... no.  No no no.  He wouldn't remember that.  And he wouldn't 
remember the pain he had felt when Azi had betrayed him, when she'd 
attacked him savagely and... no.  No, he wouldn't remember any of it.  
Q got up shakily and went to the sink, intending to rinse his mouth out 
with water as he put the memories out of his head, as he'd done so many 
times before.  
	But this time they wouldn't go.  He clutched at the sink, 
overwhelmed by a wave of memory and overpowering grief.  He couldn't 
breathe.  Tears blurred his vision, a sob was caught in his throat, 
choking him, and all he could see was Azi, Azi as she'd been when 
they'd both been in the Continuum, his best friend, closer to him than 
ever two humans could get to one another, so entwined around his life 
and he hers that he sometimes felt she was his reason for existing, 
that he was created to take care of her, and he heard her voice 
screaming again as her head rocked back and forth and heard his own 
pitiless replies, and the dam broke.  Q wailed.  He dropped to his 
knees, huddled into a fetal position on the bathroom floor and sobbed 
hysterically, brokenly, unable to make the memories go away the way he 
had when he'd still been in the Continuum, the way they'd gone away for 
300 years.  
	The rest room door opened, and T'Laren entered.  She crossed the 
room quickly, without saying anything to him, and knelt beside him, 
wrapping her arms around him.  Q clung to her, more by the instincts 
buried in his human body than any conscious realization that she was 
offering comfort.  He pressed his face into her shirt, his sobs muffled 
by her breasts.  She rocked him slightly, stroking his hair and 
murmuring that it was all right, even though it wasn't, even though it 
could never be.
	As the sobs subsided, he realized where he was.  A wave of 
embarrassment overtook him.  "Are you aware that this is the men's 
room?" he asked T'Laren, in a pale imitation of his best sardonic 
voice.
	"Let's get you back to the room," she said.  "I know a route where 
we shouldn't run into anyone."
	He got to his feet and splashed water on his face.  "Did you make 
excuses for me at the briefing?"
	"I said you weren't feeling well.  Obvious enough."
	"Not good enough.  They're all going to be talking about me."
	"They have plenty of other things to talk about."
	She guided him around the corner and through a side corridor.  
They passed an occasional crew member, but no one Q knew, before they 
reached the room.  
	"Do you want to talk about it?" T'Laren asked him.
	"Why would I want to talk about it?"
	"It's clear that whatever happened between you and this Azi 
Martikale, it's extremely upsetting to you.  You are probably going to 
hear her name come up in conversation again, Q.  It's unavoidable.  If 
you break down like this every time you hear her name--"
	"I am *not* going to break down every time I hear her name!" he 
shouted.  "I don't want to talk about it, T'Laren.  The case is 
closed!"
	She shook her head.  "Q, you just staggered out of a briefing and 
broke down in hysterics in the bathroom.  That is not normal behavior 
for you.  I have never seen you affected so strongly or so violently by 
anything, and based on the strength of this reaction, I honestly do not 
think you can control yourself on this topic.  You are going to have to 
discuss it at some point."
	"No I don't."
	"I don't mean to push.  But it seems to me that of late, you've 
been unwilling to discuss anything with me.  You have been flip and 
dismissive any time I attempt to bring up the telepathic assault we 
both recently suffered, you have ignored my advice on dealing with 
others, in fact we haven't had a serious discussion about you and your 
feelings since we began work on the telepathic amplifier, with the 
exception of a brief discussion of the impact of such an amplifier's 
existence on you.  My only value as your therapist exists in proportion 
with your willingness to talk to me.  If you are not willing to talk--"
	"--then you'd have to get a real job, wouldn't you?"
	"I consider this to be a real job."
	"Yes, that's exactly it.  It's really your *job.*"  He began to 
pace.  "Stalwart T'Laren, the calm and rational Vulcan, can force 
herself to spend time dealing with the problems of someone she probably 
couldn't really care less about, because it's her job.  And we all know 
how big Vulcans and Starfleet officers are on doing their duty."
	"You feel that I don't care about you personally?"
	"Well, how am I supposed to avoid it?  Every time I turn around 
you're saying 'Oh no, Q, we're not friends.  I'm just your therapist.'  
It's hardly calculated to reassure me of your undying love."
	"I *am* your therapist, Q.  That doesn't mean I don't care about 
you personally.  It simply means that 'friends' is not a good 
description of our relationship."
	"Because people choose to be friends.  You're stuck with me 
because of some debt you owe to Lhoviri."
	"That is not the major reason--"
	"But it is *a* reason.  You just admitted it."
	"The main reason we are not friends is that friends implies a 
level of reciprocity which our relationship doesn't have.  I am here to 
help you, not the other way around."
	"Exactly!"
	"Does that bother you?"
	"What do you mean, does it bother me?  Of *course* it doesn't 
bother me.  Why should it bother me that here I am, pouring my heart 
out to someone who doesn't really have any *personal* reason to listen 
to it aside from some obligation to my brother, when you can't be 
bothered to share the tiniest bit of your own feelings with me?"
	"I'm here for you to talk to about *your* feelings and problems.  
You aren't here for mine."
	"You say that like it's written in stone.  As if our roles were 
cast by the gods the moment we were created, and never shall they 
deviate from what is written.  I can tell you from personal experience, 
T'Laren, the gods are not into that.  They could care less if people 
deviated from their roles."
	"Q, this has nothing to do with gods or a belief that things 
cannot change.  All I am saying is that I was hired as your therapist.  
This by necessity means I have to maintain a certain amount of 
emotional distance.  You can't talk to me about your problems if I am 
one of your problems.  I am supposed to be a sounding board, a mirror 
of sorts, allowing you to see yourself more clearly.  The more you 
perceive me as another person in your environment, the less you'd be 
able to see yourself through me.  And I realize I may have let things 
go too far in that direction.  The very fact that you think I *should* 
be telling you about my problems indicates I've let the boundaries 
stray."
	He shook his head.  "You think it would do me any good at all to 
know someone who isn't a person to me, just something that echoes my 
own words back at me?"
	"The analogy isn't exact.  I don't echo your words back at you, I 
give you guidance and advice so that you can see the things that are 
hidden from you in your current perspective-- the way others see you, 
or some aspects of your own feelings."
	Q waved his hands.  "I don't care about the analogy.  That isn't 
my point.  Years and years ago, someone suggested I go see someone who 
was supposed to do exactly what you're saying you're supposed to do.  
So fine, I didn't see her as a person.  I saw her as a self-righteous 
prig.  It didn't work at all well."
	"Just because a previous therapy attempt didn't work is no reason 
to dismiss the entire concept."
	"It isn't therapy I need!" he exploded.
	"Then what is it you need?"
	But that was too much.  That was admitting to her what it was he 
desperately longed for, what he knew now he'd never get from her.  
"It's too late for you not to be one of my problems, T'Laren.  So fine.  
You're fired."
	"What?"
	"You heard me.  I just fired you.  You're not my therapist 
anymore."
	"You can't do that."
	"I most certainly can."
	"I mean-- of course you can, that was poorly worded.  But you 
would be foolish to.  You need me, Q.  Or you need someone like me, who 
can view you objectively and help you to understand yourself.  
Otherwise you're going to end up in the situation you were in on 
Starbase 56."
	"What I *need* is not someone who tolerates me because it's their 
job!"  He spun on her.  "Maybe I needed that once.  When you got me off 
Starbase 56, I was so convinced misery was an integral part of being 
human that I had no way to *see* what it was I needed.  I'd never 
needed anything like it before, and I'd have laughed hysterically at 
any Q who did, and I was so far from having it that I couldn't even 
imagine what it would be like.  But I know what it is I need, now, and 
someone who has to 'maintain emotional distance' is *not* it."
	"So what is it you need?"
	"You're fired, remember?  I don't have to tell you."
	"Is it love?"
	He laughed harshly.  "Don't be a moron, T'Laren.  Can you see me 
getting all mushily romantic over anyone?  Or pining away because 
there's no *luuuv* in my life?  And *if* I needed it, I'd be, in a 
word, screwed, since there's no chance I could ever get anyone to love 
me.  No, my needs are much simpler.  And almost-- *almost*-- 
attainable."  He stared darkly at the wall.
	"You want a friend."
	"This isn't Twenty Questions.  I fired you.  Go away."
	She walked over to him.  "I thought Markow was your friend."
	He snorted.  "Oh, Markow.  I think we may have discussed something 
that wasn't physics and wasn't word games for our personal amusement 
*once*."  Q turned to look at her.  "Is it so much to ask that there be 
someone in the universe who gives a damn whether I live or die?"
	"Of course not.  But you already have that.  Markow, Roth and 
Elejani Baii all appear to care about you personally.  *I* care, 
regardless of whether or not you 'fire' me."
	"Markow can't admit to himself that he doesn't have any real 
friends either.  He'd shove my death to the back of his brain where he 
keeps stuff like how much he wants to walk again and how much he hates 
the fact that he never will because of his own stupid mistake.  
Frankly, he's even better at it than I am, and I'm talented enough at 
self-deception that I managed not to think about Azi for 300 years." 
His voice cracked.  Angrily he said, "I need something to drink," and 
stomped over to the replicator.  
	"If your throat hurts from dehydration, I'd suggest fruit juice."
	"Yeah yeah.  One of those orange passionfruit juice concoctions," 
he ordered, and then changed his mind.  "With a shot of synthevodka."
	"Is that wise?"
	"It's synthehol.  What's it going to do, get me drunk?  I'll just 
think poof, I'm not drunk.  Maybe I'll snap my fingers," he said 
sarcastically.  
	"Just because Markow cannot admit to you that he cares for you is 
not a reason to believe he doesn't."
	"Oh, I think he does.  That's not the point.  Markow can't admit 
to *any* human weakness, like grieving for a dead friend or his own 
lost abilities.  Rather like a certain starship captain I used to 
know."  He pulled his mind off that particular track.  "Roth just wants 
my body for some reason I can't fathom, and Elejani Baii thinks I'm a 
god.  None of these people give a damn about *me*."  He took a deep 
swig of his drink.  "And *you* only care about me because it's your 
job.  You'd do the same for anyone.  And I don't want that.  So you're 
fired."  He took another.  "So now you don't have to pretend that you 
care anymore.  Go get on with your life.  Make googly eyes at Tris.  I 
don't care."  
	"You're distraught.  I don't think this is a good time to make a 
decision like this."
	"I think now is the perfect time.  I'm tired of you.  I'm tired of 
you prying and interfering in my life."
	"It sounds to me like the real reason you're upset is that you 
feel that I don't care about you as a person.  That simply isn't true.  
I became involved in your life in the first place because I was hired 
as your therapist, yes.  But while I'm capable of working with someone 
I dislike or am indifferent toward, I could not have done the sort of 
intensive work we did for three weeks on Ketaya if I'd had no personal 
caring for you whatsoever.  I *am* concerned for you as a person.  I 
care about your welfare.  I want to see you as happy as it's possible 
for you to be, not simply because it is my job to do so, but because 
it's something I personally want to see."
	"But you aren't interested in letting me have any impact on *your* 
life."
	"What sort of impact did you want?  You've said this isn't about 
wanting love.  You've also said you don't want to be sexually involved 
with anyone, including me, so I assume that isn't it.  What did you 
actually *want?*"
	"Does it matter?"
	"Of course it matters."
	He stared at the wall for several moments, trying to decide if he 
did actually want to admit to this, and, if he did, to muster up the 
courage for it.  Finally he drank the rest of his drink in two gulps 
and set it down.  "You don't need me for anything."
	"I see."
	"Like when we were attacked by the Romulan."  It was easier to get 
the words out now that he'd started.  "You went on this whole thing 
with Tris about how you felt like you'd failed me.  Did it ever occur 
to you to ask *me* if you'd failed me?"
	She blinked at him.  "The answer would have been yes," she said.  
"Why should I have asked?"
	"The answer would *not* have been yes!  You didn't even *ask!*  
How do you know what the answer would have been?"
	"Because I *did* fail.  Regardless of whether I could have been 
reasonably expected to succeed or not, the fact remains that I failed 
to protect you."  Her voice had a slight brittle edge to it.  "I did 
not need you to tell me what I already knew.  And if you had not 
answered the question 'yes', it would only be because you didn't 
understand the situation."  T'Laren looked up at him.  "Is that what 
you want?  You've several times implied that you wish to give me 
advice, that you want to know personal details about my life.  Have you 
cast yourself in your mind as some sort of potential confidante, and it 
upsets you that I don't turn to you for such?"
	"Why would that upset me?" he asked savagely.  "Who would want to 
be entangled in your idiotic little personal problems anyway?  I don't 
need you or anyone to be bothering me with their petty little emotional 
problems.  I'd be an idiot to want something like that."
	"So that's it," she said.  "You are upset because no one turns to 
you as a confidante.  Despite the fact that anyone who did so would be 
taking their heart into their hands, since you would most likely be 
flippant, or cruel, or make any other number of inappropriate 
reactions--"
	"How do you know?  No one ever *has*.  So how do you know how I'd 
react?"
	"The way you reacted when you saw how upset I was at Sovaz' 
presence, and Tris' questions, when we first came aboard Yamato.  You 
gloated that you'd found a weakness in me."
	"I did not."
	"Does it matter?  That was my perception.  If I had turned to you 
after the assault we both endured, and I'd told you how miserable I 
felt for failing you, I felt it very likely that you'd respond with 
something like 'And well you should.'  I did not need to hear that 
right then.  I needed someone supportive to talk to, someone who hadn't 
just been torn apart by the experience himself and who didn't have a 
history of making fun of people when they are in pain."
	"You think that's all I am, don't you?  All I know how to do is 
make fun of people.  I have no higher emotions, no capacity for 
sympathy whatsoever."
	"I would certainly say you're one of the least empathic people I 
know."
	"Then why *would* you care about me?  You're saying I'm a selfish 
monster.  Why would that be the sort of person you'd care about, for 
any reason other than you're being hired to do it?"  
	"I'm not saying you're a selfish monster--"
	"Yes you are.  And I don't want to discuss this anymore.  Get 
out."
	"Q, this is not a constructive way of--"
	"I don't want to *hear* it!  No more psychobabble, no more 
therapist-speak, no more of you pretending you care so very much about 
me when you don't.  You couldn't.  No one could.  You said it yourself--  
I make fun of people in pain, I have no empathy for other people's 
problems, everything is me, me, me.  So get out."
	"These are also my quarters," she pointed out.  
	"Oh, of course.  Easily rectified."  He stalked into her bedroom.  
Foolish of her to leave it unlocked, Vulcan tradition or no.  Once 
there, he started scooping up her things-- she really had brought very 
little, since she relied on replicators, and carried it to the door of 
the suite.  He dumped it in the hall and went back for a second load.
	"I will do my own packing," she said sharply.  "You've made your 
wishes clear."
	"Good.  I'm so glad that for once I have."
	"I suggest you take a nap; you're still clearly overwrought.  
We'll discuss this tomorrow."
	"We'll do no such thing.  I fired you, remember?"
	Her voice was hard.  "*You* did not hire me, therefore you do not 
have the right to fire me.  And I refuse to stand by and allow you to 
self-destruct over an issue like this."
	"Throwing you out is self-destruction?  It feels more like self-
preservation to me."
	"Preservation from *what?*  Have I hurt your feelings so, by not 
running to you with my problems?  If so, that itself is a problem we 
need to work on.  Or you need to work on, with somebody."
	"If I hire myself another therapist will you consider yourself 
fired?  Or will you just keep stalking me?"
	"I'll consider myself fired now.  At the moment I am not speaking 
as a therapist."  She stood in front of him, her face composed into the 
cold mask that meant she was angry.  Good.  She should be angry.  "You 
claim you don't need therapy.  You say you do not want to be with 
someone who is not a close personal friend.  So what will you do, 
become a hermit?  You *have* no close personal friends.  Why is it so 
deeply offensive to you that I should not turn to you for emotional 
support that you must take my belongings and throw them in the 
corridor?"
	"Because!"  How could she be so dense?  "No one *else* *pretends* 
to care about me!  No one--"  He felt a sob well up, and forced it 
down.  "It doesn't matter.  Just get out."
	"It matters," she said implacably.  "Why now?  Why has this 
suddenly boiled over in you?"
	"*You* want to know about Azi.  To *help* me," he sneered.  "But 
you won't tell me a single, solitary fact about yourself.  You faked 
your own death, or else you nearly died and didn't tell your family 
you'd lived-- why?  Why were you so vicious to Sovaz?  What do you owe 
Lhoviri?  You haven't told me any of this."
	"It's not your business.  I've told no one any of this."
	"But you expect *me* to rip out my heart and hand it to you on a 
platter!  You want me to tell you about Azi?  You want to know all the 
gory details, want to know how much of a monster I really am?  Well, 
you're not going to get it by telling me 'oh, this is therapeutic, Q.'  
I went to someone else who wanted me to tell her the details because it 
would be *therapeutic* and I was supposed to get it off my chest, and 
the very little I told her convinced her that I was a monster and she 
had to hurt me, humiliate me in front of my people, *betray* me, *lie* 
to me--"
	"Guinan."
	"Yes!  Guinan the perfect, Guinan the sweet, Guinan the ancient 
and wise.  I went to her for help and she *spat* on me.  So you can see 
why I'd be reluctant to tell anyone else who thinks it might be 
*therapeutic*.  And the more I think about it, the more I think I don't 
want therapy anyway.  I don't want someone to listen to my problems 
because they're paid to do it.  I *want* someone to care, and if no one 
cares, which no one does, then I don't want to tell anyone anything.  
You could tear me to shreds with what you already know, and what do I 
know about you?"
	"I wouldn't tear you to shreds.  I thought you trusted me better 
than that."
	"I trusted the entire Q Continuum for millions of years, and look 
how *that* turned out."
	T'Laren nodded slowly.  "And that's why you feel you can't confide 
in me?  You have nothing to hold over my head, to blackmail me with if 
I hurt you, and you cannot trust that I won't hurt you?"
	"Everyone else who knows me really well has betrayed me," he said 
blackly.  "Why not you?"
	"All right," she said suddenly.
	"'All right'?  What's all right?  What are you talking about?"
	"I... cannot bear that you would not trust me, that you would 
throw me entirely out of your life, let me in neither as therapist nor 
as friend, because you don't have sufficient blackmail material.  If, 
after knowing the truth, you choose to throw me out because of what 
you'd then know, that is only what I would deserve.  If you wish to 
know the worst thing I have ever done, the greatest horror I know 
myself to be capable of... I will tell you."  She sat down on the 
couch.  
	He followed her, but did not sit.  "Why would you do that?"
	"Because I wish to remain a part of your life.  If this is your 
price, I will pay it."
	"You think you can buy my trust?"
	"Isn't that exactly what you said you wanted me to do?"
	Q shook his head, and sat down next to her.  "T'Laren... you don't 
*have* to tell me anything.  I'm quite sure I'll say or do something 
that makes matters worse, when you're done.  Keep your secrets."
	She raised an eyebrow.  "Then I am unfired?"
	"No, you're still fired.  I told you I don't need a therapist."  
He took a deep breath.  "If... you want to stick around, though, I 
won't stop you.  Just as long as you understand the rules have changed.  
I'm not your patient.  You don't have the authority to tell me what to 
do, what to eat, when to sleep, what drugs not to take, any of that.  
Give me advice, and maybe I'll take it.  But we're equals.  Do you 
understand?"
	"I believe the word you are looking for is 'friends'," she said.
	He smiled sardonically.  "I've used that word way too many times 
tonight.  People are going to think I've gone soft."
	She nodded, and looked away, toward the far wall.
	"It was two years ago," she said softly.
	*				*				*