Sessions: Initial Encounters
Dr. Selsinger [S]
Patient 237 [P237]
Session 1/3.9.72635
[excerpt: 4 m. 23 s.-?]

S: So, tell me when this all began?

P237: This?

S: This.

P237: Oh...

S: I mean the very beginning. The start of things.

P237: That would be long time ago. Fifteen years? Fifteen years, three months.

S: Tell me about it.

<<|/\|>>

Jesus Christ. That was the first words that sprang through my mind when I saw him. Jesus H. Christ. They're kidnapping children now. Kids. He was fresh, still had the smell of bubble baths and band-aids about him. No lines on his face, not even sun-squint lines or smile lines. No doubt fresh out of the Academy--first mission into space? Wonder where the Caretakler snatched this one; to the best of my and the sensor's knowledge, there were no more of that kind for about another hundred million light years or so.

"I'm sure I have a phaser somewhere." he grinned, patting about the skimpy hospital robe. I laughed; those things wouldn't conceal an anorexic Vulcan. It's length was decent enough. Fell to midthigh, and began at midcollar, but it was made out of a thin, papery material that didn't do jackdiddly for concealing a flabby belly, not even to talk about real coverage. Of course, he didn't have to worry about that, with his body fresh from Starfleet Academy training. Contrary to popular concept of Terra's Asians, he was tall, nearly six-foot. His shoulders were strong and broad; their flickering was clean under the flimsy cloth. They were remnants of hours spent hanging on hooks in the zero-G bays or on the bars under Karlman's exhortions. And I could see the chest flowing into a strong waist and tight hips that moved with a fluid grace. Had soccer player's legs; hard defined muscle under taut golden skin, smooth as syrup. As he bent down to 'search' for the phaser, his dark hair fell across his forehead, shading his eyes which gleamed with gentle mirth and were the color of expensive chocolate. I suppose some women would have found him attractive, what with his sense of humor and his body.

No, I decided, studying the calmness as he met my eyes. He wasn't a child, but rather something flowing between the two states. Young, yes, but child, no, even with the inexperience stamped so clearly. But time would remedy that, as it was doing now, and he'd become a full adult.

He proved he already was, later, on that long climb through the Ocampan tunnels, over the concrete blocks, through the shifting grounds, always that sense of nearly being crushed with every step. I swear, I would have given up if it hadn't been his hand around mine. Every time he felt me falter, he'd squeeze, lightly, but just enough to tell me that he was there. We would get through, it said, and we'd live to laugh about it over good food in a fine Terran restauraunt in San Fransisco.

<<|/\|>>

S: Is that all that happened in your initial encounter?

P237: If you want full details, go look in the damn history books. They tell it much better than I do.

S: I see. The record has that the Maquis and the Starfleet crews joined together--did you remain friends after that?

P237: [laughs] Yeah. At first, he was the only one of the Starfleet crew that accepted me, that would even speak to me. For all their noble intentions and statements, they're only mortal. They I'm going to be your therapist from now on...Judged me before I'd done a thing, and at that time, I have to say I really didn't expect much else.

S: And Harry?

P237: He just stuck right by my side. He'd come over and eat lunch with me, bring Tom along. Usually, after work, we'd go to Sandrines, eat dinner there, shoot a couple racks of pool. Spend a couple hours just talking, relaxing. Harry and I listening to Tom attempt to flirt with women. Or when our replicator rations ran low, we'd hang out in one of our quarters--usually Harry's--and he'd play his clarinet while Tom and I pelted each other with pillows. Or cashews. Or anything that happened to be around. One of us would accidentally smash Starfleet in the head, and there'd be a full scale war. Stuff would be flying and we'd be screaming like idiots until the upstairs or downstairs pounded on the ceiling or the floor and yelled at us.

S: I see. At this point in time, were you attracted to him at all?

P237: Who? Tom?

S: Harry.

P237: Christ, no. He was my friend.

S: Are you sure?

P237: [pause] No.

S: None at all?

P237:[pause] No...[pause] Well, maybe. [pause] A little bit. I mean, he was good-looking. Anybody'd admit that. A gorgeous smile and sweet, but I just didn't see him that way. He was Harry. I mean, I trusted him with my life; he was absolutely trustworthy. Friends with everybody; he and Tom were good friends for long, so long, you know? But I mean, this was Harry. Solid, but he was Starfleet. Starfleet--y'know?

S: I see. What about Tom?

P237: [laughter] Any woman with blood in her veins would. He was tall, with hair the color of April sunshine and the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. He was funny and charming, with this little lopsided grin that tugged at your heart, and he smelled like...like...cinnamon and aftershave and leather.

S: Care to elaborate on that?

P237: Are you sure?

S: This is your therapy. However, I'd suggest that you do; the more painful a memory is, the more it'll do you good.

P237: Oh, I wish it worked that way. I wished it worked like that.

* * *

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