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. 
             *                   *                    *   

	"Well, that was fun," Tris murmured.  "This kind of thing happen 
often?"
	"I'm not sure," T'Laren murmured back.  "I've never seen it 
before, but I'm afraid that proves little."
	At this point a middle-aged Japanese man with short-cropped, solid 
gray hair approached.  From a glance at the pips on his dress uniform, 
T'Laren realized he had to be Captain Okita.
	Q seemed to notice him at the same time.  "Ah, the mysterious 
Captain Okita," he said.  "I'm so glad you've finally come to say 
hello."
	Okita smiled genially.  T'Laren had a definite feeling that 
nothing whatsoever would appear to offend this man unless he chose to 
let it.  He nodded at the three scientists.  "Dr. Markow.  Q.  It's an 
honor to have individuals of your distinction aboard Yamato," he said, 
still smiling.  "And Dr. Roth, I believe we met a few days ago?  How 
are you enjoying your stay thus far?"
	"Well, I can't say it's been boring," Roth said, grinning.
	"I suppose a little honor must go a very long way," Q said to 
Markow.
	"Don't be an ass, Lucy."
	"Ah, the day-to-day running of a starship is a time-consuming 
business,"  Okita said.  "One can't allow as much time for pleasure as 
one would hope."  He turned to T'Laren.  "Dr. T'Laren.  So glad to see 
you well.  Your young sister Sovaz is shaping up into a fine officer."
	"She honors her family," T'Laren said.  "But I'm afraid that 
family is no longer mine, Captain.  Sovaz is no longer my sister."
	"It's a shame to hear that.  I'd be proud to have her as a sister, 
myself."
	"Do they teach you that in command school at the Academy?"  Q 
asked.  "Or is it a little trick you've picked up along the way?"
	Okita turned back to him, still smiling.  "Teach what?"
	"How to insult people while sounding as if you're complimenting 
them.  It's a neat trick, wherever you learned it."
	Markow rolled his eyes, and Roth pressed a hand to his forehead.  
Okita's smile broadened slightly.  "I've been told you take pride in 
being difficult, Mr. Q," he said.
	"A scurrilous rumor."
	"I'm sure it is."  He nodded at all five of them.  "It's been 
pleasant talking to you, but duty calls, I'm afraid."  He left.
	"Well, that was a rather astonishing fellow," Roth said.
	"He does that," Tris said.  "It's his 'man of mystery' act.  Ride 
into town, greet the diplomats warmly, then ride off into the sunset 
again."
	"He doesn't sound very fun at parties," Q said.
	"As if you ever get invited to parties," Markow said.
	"I get invited to all the best ones."
	"Define best."
	"The ones I'm at, of course."
	"Anyway," Tris said to T'Laren, ignoring the interplay between the 
physicists.  "I'm kind of supposed to circulate.  If you feel like 
talking, look me up after the reception."
	"Of course."  
			*				*				*
	T'Laren spent the rest of the reception watching Q.  There were no 
more near-disasters as there had been with Morakh; he spent most of the 
time trading witticisms and technobabble with Roth and Markow, 
occasionally breaking stride to chat with someone else who showed up 
but making no attempt to circulate.  The three of them seemed perfectly 
content to be a monobloc, indivisible by the conversational sorties of 
others.
	It grew late.  The reception started to fray, bleeding off people 
to their rooms for the night, and T'Laren could see that Q was tiring.  
When she suggested to him that he might wish to leave, however, he 
laughed her off.  Finally Markow said, rather abruptly, "I'm going to 
bed.  Goodbye."
	"You can't leave *now*, Daedalus," Q protested.  His tone was 
light and joking, but there was a faint desperate edge to it.  "The 
night is still young!"
	"The night is, but I'm not.  Just because you can go 72 hours on a 
catnap doesn't mean we mere mortals can duplicate the feat.  Good 
night."
	As his chair floated off, Roth said somewhat apologetically, 
"Perhaps we should both get some rest.  The conference starts at 1100 
tomorrow, you know."
	"Oh, I scoff at sleep.  Try spending three weeks in Li's sickbay 
and you'd be sick of sleeping too."
	"Agreed," Roth said, grinning.  "But I'm beginning to think the 
caterers would like for us to get out of here..."
	"Well, perhaps we should find a more congenial location.  T'Laren!  
You know a bit about starships.  Where would you suggest we go?"
	"Why not to our rooms?"  T'Laren suggested.  She was tiring 
herself, and could see that Q was exhausting himself-- his voice was a 
little too manic, his movements suggestive of punchiness, his laughter 
a bit shrill.  
	Q blinked at her.  "T'Laren.  Are you seriously suggesting I take 
Roth to my *room?*"  he asked.  "What*ever* would the neighbors think?"
	"Probably the wrong thing... more's the pity,"  Harry said.
	"I know, I know, one of the great tragedies of your life, right?  
I can't help it that I find your silly human sexual customs quite 
nauseating.  It's nothing personal, you know."
	"Well, you can't say something's nauseating if you haven't tried 
it, now can you?"  Roth was definitely punchy, and maybe, T'Laren 
thought, a bit drunk-- synthehol rarely impaired one's motor 
coordination, but it was just as good as real alcohol at lowering 
inhibitions.
	"I can.  I know everything, remember?"
	"You *used* to know everything.  You forgot most of it."
	"I can still say something's nauseating," Q said lightly.  
"Besides.  As flattering as I find the attention, I assure you, Harry, 
if you knew what I looked like under this monkey suit at the moment you 
would be considerably less interested."
	"Oh, but I saw you in the hospital," Roth said.  "I doubt you 
could look worse than that."
	"And you're still interested?"
	T'Laren wondered just how serious this was getting.  Roth sounded 
almost as if he meant what hg was saying-- if he was drunk, he probably 
*did* mean what he was saying-- but did Q know that?  Or care?  "Most 
certainly," Harry said/
	"Well, there you have it.  I couldn't possibly be seen in the 
company of a man with such terrible taste.  Harry, I'm ashamed of you-- 
I thought you had *some* sense of aesthetics."  Q snapped his fingers.  
"I have, as usual, a brilliant notion.  We can go to *your* room, 
Harry, and we can take T'Laren along as a chaperone."
	"We actually need a chaperone?  Should I be encouraged?"
	"I'm actually rather worn out,"  T'Laren said.  "I would prefer to 
retire."
	"But you still have a brilliant career ahead of you," Roth 
protested, grinning.  T'Laren blinked.
	"Forgive her, she's humor-impaired.  It's a hereditary disease-- 
you get it from being born a Vulcan," Q said.
	"I was just remarking that Lt. Roth must be more tired than I 
thought," T'Laren said.  "Q, you need to get to bed.  It's late."
	"Oh, but I'm having fun."
	"We could solve several problems at once if you took my 
suggestion," Roth said.  "You could go to bed *and* have fun.  Everyone 
would be satisfied."
	"I'm horrified, Harry, exactly how many glasses of synthwine do 
you think I *had?*"
	"Not enough, obviously," Roth said mournfully.
	"Q, kindly make up your mind.  You can stay here and flirt with 
Lieutenant Roth if you wish, but *I* am going to bed.  Are you coming 
with me or not?"
	"I think she just asked if you were going to bed with her," Roth 
said.  "Should I be jealous?"
	Q shook his head sadly.  "To think how advanced the human race 
might be if they didn't devote 90% of their thinking processes to the 
sordid pursuit of sexual encounters.  You know, Harry, if I weren't 
such a tolerant and forbearing individual I might have become quite 
disgusted by now."
	"Well, either that or you're more human than you thought."
	"Please don't insult me like that again."
	"Good night, Q,"  T'Laren said.
	"Good *night*, T'Laren!  Sleep tight!"  Q caroled.  "So long, 
farewell, *auf wiedersehen*, good night!"
	T'Laren raised an eyebrow to herself as she headed for her 
quarters.  Q was considerably less naive now than he had been during 
the incident with Amy Frasier-- she had to assume that he knew what he 
was doing.
			*				*				*
	She had barely gotten out of her clothes and makeup when he showed 
up back at the room, though.  He had an origami bird, apparently made 
out of a napkin, in one hand, and was tossing it up and catching it 
again, whistling.  T'Laren came out in her nightgown and bathrobe.  
"You seem cheerful."
	"I hadn't noticed."  Q plopped himself down in front of a console.  
"Computer, display gravitometric map of the singularity."  His voice 
was hoarse and rasping, and even through his makeup he looked pale and 
drawn.
	A bizarrely warped image flashed into existence over the console.  
"Q, you're exhausted.  You should go to sleep."
	"Nonsense.  I'm enjoying myself far too much to sleep.  Computer, 
rotate image by 90 degrees."
	"You're really frightened of going to sleep, aren't you?"  T'Laren 
pulled up a chair and sat down near him.
	Q glared at her.  "*Frightened?  *Why would I be frightened of 
going to *sleep?  *I simply don't *want* to, T'Laren, and *please* stop 
making mountains out of molehills, will you?"
	"You're afraid of having nightmares.  And perhaps you're afraid 
that when you wake up, you won't be in as good a mood."
	He smiled wryly.  "The odds of me being in anything that remotely 
resembles a good mood when I wake up tomorrow are practically 
infinitesimal.  I admit it.  Why should I spoil a wonderful night by 
sleeping through it?"
	"Because you will feel terrible in the morning?"
	"It hardly makes a difference if I go to bed now or in an hour or 
don't go to bed at all, I'll feel terrible in the morning.  So it 
really doesn't make much of a difference at all, does it now?"
	"I suppose not."  She got up and went to the room's replicator.  
"Would you like a hot chocolate?"
	"I'd like a cold chocolate.  Heavy on the caffeine.  In fact, make 
it a mocha."
	T'Laren shrugged and ordered a hot chocolate and a cold mocha.  He 
glanced up in surprise as she handed it to him.  "You're actually 
giving me what I asked for?"
	"I don't think you're going to be deliberately self-destructive 
again for some time, if ever.  And if you want to abuse your health..."  
She shrugged.  "You're in sufficiently good shape now to tolerate a few 
nights without sleep.  You won't like the results when you wake up, but 
it's your decision-- I'm not going to make an issue out of it."
	"Hello?  Exactly where did you come from and what have you done 
with T'Laren?"
	Despite herself, she smiled slightly at that.  *More tired than I 
thought!  *"We're in a different environment now, Q.  Of course I'm 
going to change tactics."  She sat down again and sipped at her 
chocolate.  "You enjoyed seeing those people again, didn't you?"
	"Which ones?"  He turned away from the display and faced her, 
showing a certain amount of interest in the conversation.  She 
suspected that he would rather talk to her than try to make his tired 
brain make sense of the display.
	"Roth and Markow, in particular.  Actually, from the way the three 
of you behaved, I would have assumed them to be your friends.  I 
thought you said you hardly knew Roth."
	"I don't, really.  But he's amusing to trade conversational banter 
with."
	"And amusing to flirt with as well?"
	Q choked on his mocha.  He put the glass down, an expression of 
mingled embarrassment, outrage, and amusement on his face.  "I was 
*not* flirting with him!"  The amusement took the upper hand for a 
moment, his face twitching into a slight smile.  "*He* was flirting."
	"And what were you doing, then?"  T'Laren asked, amused herself.
	"Responding, of course."  The slight smile turned into a brief 
grin.
	"That's generally referred to as flirting where I come from."
	"Well, you're all barbarians in Texas."
	T'Laren sipped at the drink again.  "Seriously.  Given what you've 
told me about your troubles with human sexuality, does that bother 
you?"
	"What, that he flirts?  Harry does that with *everybody*."
	"I have a feeling that it's a little more serious when he does it 
with you.  In fact, I wasn't at all sure he was joking, before."
	Q shrugged.  "He was a bit drunk, I think," he said.  "Harry 
enjoys handing himself over to the synthehol and acting silly."
	"But you don't."
	"I prefer acting silly without external aids, myself.  But then, 
of course, I have a much bigger ego than Harry."
	"Do you think there was any kind of element of seriousness in 
there at all?"
	"Oh, almost certainly.  At least an element.  Possibly an entire 
row of the periodic table."
	"Does that bother you?"
	Q picked up his mocha and looked into it for a moment.  "You know, 
it used to," he said.  "After the, mm, incident with dearest Amy, I 
became very nervous about humans finding me attractive in that sense-- 
in an aesthetic sense, of course, I had always intended to be 
attractive, but I think I began to be unnerved by the relentless human 
confusion of the aesthetic with the sexual.  For a while, the idea that 
people would even contemplate me in a sexual sense was rather 
disturbing.  And disgusting, as well.  But--"  he shrugged-- "then I 
became too involved in my work against the Borg to care, and shortly 
after we'd finished that I was too depressed to care, not to mention 
that people had come to despise me too much to want me whatever I 
looked like... and finally I ended up looking terrible as well.  So... 
actually I find it a little flattering.  I've been so terribly 
unattractive for so long that I admit it's pleasant, to have someone 
find me otherwise... Oh, yes, I know that Harry probably would be as 
disgusted as everyone else is if he didn't have such a fetish for 
intellectuals, but then I've *always* found appreciation of my 
intellect an enjoyable quality in someone else."
	"I don't see why anyone would find you disgusting to look at, Q," 
T'Laren pointed out.  "You spent several hours today on your 
appearance.  It would be better if you were healthier and less thin, of 
course, but I don't see anything anyone could object to in your 
appearance tonight."
	He shrugged.  "No, maybe not tonight, but I'm not going to get 
quite this gussied up every night."
	"Have you been aware of Roth's feelings before?"
	"In a rather abstract sense, yes... He was never quite this 
blatant before, I'll grant.  The closest he's come was the night after  
the Borg defeat... Starbase 56 more or less turned into a giant party.  
We'd suffered no casualties personally, you realize.  And the Borg had 
been headed our way before the virus we developed finally took hold."
	T'Laren frowned.  "I was... indisposed at the time, but I'd heard 
that the Borg retreated from Wolf 359."
	"They didn't retreat.  They found another target.  After they 
completed assimilating Langan and realized what humanity was up to, 
they realized that Starbase 56-- or more specifically, I-- was a much 
bigger threat to them than the armada at Wolf 359.  That's really what 
kept the casualties down there.  Oh, we improved shielding, and 
developed some rather unique methods for getting around their defenses, 
but that one ship had regenerated all the damage it had taken by the 
time it decided to 'retreat.'  No, they were coming after me.  And the 
rest of the scientists and tactical staff on the starbase."  He stared 
off into the distance.  "I really didn't think the virus would work 
before they got here-- we were quite far from Wolf 359, but Borg ships 
are fast when they want to be.  Starfleet ships kept attacking, trying 
to slow them down-- the Borg brushed them off like, oh, not gnats, but 
maybe flies.  Something that's a definite nuisance, and hard to hit, 
but a small insect nonetheless.  I was quite convinced they'd get here 
before our virus stopped them."  He grinned up at T'Laren.  "I 
suggested to Anderson that she send me out to them.  With a suicide 
capsule, of course, I had no intention of letting myself be 
assimilated.  But Langan didn't know much about the total war effort-- 
he knew about me, everyone knew about me, and I thought the Borg would 
be satisfied to make sure I was dead, and would consider the rest of 
the base irrelevant if I wasn't on it.  She told me I was being an 
idiot and there was no way Starfleet was going to sacrifice me after 
all I'd done.  I told her *she* was being the idiot... but it felt 
rather nice nonetheless."
	"Q, this may perhaps be a very stupid question, but who was 
Langan?"
	"Where were *you* during the Borg War?"
	*Dead.  *"Indisposed, as I said."
	"Ah.  Stark raving nutty, you mean.  Well... it became obvious to 
me very early on that there was no way I could make Starfleet into a 
technological match for the Borg without forever destroying the balance 
of power in this sector of the galaxy, which I suspected my own kind 
would not overly love me for.  And which I suspected they wouldn't let 
me get away with doing in the first place.  Besides, if Starfleet 
became a technological match for the Borg, the Borg would adapt to the 
technology they saw, and a century down the road, when the Federation 
didn't have me around to help anymore, they would come back stronger 
than ever.  I realized we would have to exploit the natural weaknesses 
in the Borg... which are few and far between.  So I came up with the 
notion of a computer virus, as it were.  Something to completely 
destroy the operating system that links the Collective."  Q shrugged.  
"I wasn't the one who implemented the idea, of course.  I have made 
myself into a fair little programmer, but I'll never have, nor want, 
that sort of skill.  Cyberneticists, scientists and engineers all over 
the Federation were involved in the project-- including Data and 
LaForge; I always found it amusing how LaForge would try to avoid 
talking directly to me whenever we ran conference calls.  I was the one 
who gave them some insight into the theoretical underpinnings of the 
Collective, since it's something I've researched extensively... and in 
some ways I was responsible for the direct implementation."  He looked 
down, as if ashamed somehow-- but why?  Ashamed of what?
	"How so?"
	"You asked about Langan."  Q looked directly at her.  "It was 
obvious to me that if we were going to destroy the Borg with a computer 
virus, we needed a Borg to feed the virus into.  As it happens, the 
Borg have a nasty habit of taking people from the cultures they plan to 
assimilate and making them into pseudo-Borg.  Borg spokespersons, as it 
were; Borg with a remnant of personality, or rather a constructed 
personality, built on the ruins of what the person used to be.  The 
Borg originally intended to use Jean-Luc for this purpose.  My fault, 
in a sense-- he was familiar to them, they had encountered him and 
analyzed the records of his ship before.  They knew him.  So I warned 
him that the Borg were going to try to take him, and he was kept under 
intensive enough shielding during the critical period that the Borg 
went to Plan B.  They grabbed a different starship captain.  Robert 
Langan of the *Exeter* became Locutus of Borg."  Q looked at the table.  
"I never told Starfleet that the Borg would simply go to Plan B, you 
know.  Because someone *had* to be taken, to give us a link into the 
Borg.  We wouldn't be able to infect a drone with the virus-- we needed 
someone who would be interfaced directly into the main stream of their 
processing, someone whose brain *we* understood, who we would be able 
to sustain as we fed the virus directly into his brain.  We would only 
have sufficient familiarity with a member of a Federation race.  And 
besides, what I knew of the Borg's plan was based on their making a 
Locutus.  If they were thwarted entirely, they would switch to a backup 
plan, one that I didn't know-- and while I could imagine such a plan, I 
could imagine far too many to figure out which they'd use.  So.  
Someone needed to be Locutus.  Someone needed to have his sanity and 
individuality destroyed forever."  He looked up at T'Laren seriously.  
"It was my gift to Jean-Luc... both that I made sure he was spared 
that, and that I made sure he never knew I knew that someone else would 
have to go in his place.  If Picard knew only that Langan had been 
taken... well, those are the fortunes of war.  But if he'd known that 
I'd known that someone *would* be taken, that someone would have to 
be... he would *know* that I arranged for someone else to go in his 
place.  And I never wanted that."
	"Because you didn't want him to know you were ruthless enough to 
sacrifice someone to the Borg?  Or compassionate enough to spare him?"
	"Neither.  Picard knew just how ruthless I can be.  And I could 
care less if he thought I was compassionate.  I didn't want him to know 
because it would hurt him to know.  He would torture himself for years 
about how it should have been him.  Every time he heard Langan's name 
mentioned it would be a knife in his heart.  Jean-Luc wasn't the sort 
of man who could calmly accept that another should die in his place."  
	"You cared about him a great deal, didn't you?"
	Q shrugged again.  "When I was still Q, he amused me.  Intrigued 
me.  Infuriated me.  Did I care?  I... don't know.  I tried to avoid 
caring about mortals, if you must know.  They always die.  I know one Q 
who's had her heart broken on the average of once a century because she 
can't help loving mortals, and they always die on her... and you have 
to let them die, they turn warped if you keep resurrecting them.  But 
when I became mortal myself... I think I did care about him.  He went 
out of his way in a lot of ways for me.  For some time I resented the 
fact that he wouldn't let me stay on the *Enterprise*, of course, 
but... you know,  originally Starfleet was toying with the idea of 
putting me on trial for crimes against humanity?  Attempted murder, 
committing acts of war against the Federation, etc.  Picard talked them 
out of it.  The very person I committed those 'crimes' *against*.  If 
it weren't for him, I might have died in a penal colony two and a half 
years ago."
	"Starfleet would never have sentenced you to death, Q."
	"No, but I couldn't have lasted more than six months at the 
outside in one."  He stared into nothing.  "I thought it was safe... 
because I was mortal myself, you see?  I, too, would die.  Probably 
before him.  So I allowed myself to feel... gratitude.  A certain 
amount of... warmth.  He would never have allowed friendship-- for 
obvious reasons, he was a lot less pleased with our past history than I 
was-- but we had occasionally achieved something of an understanding.  
And then he died."  Q's gaze dropped to his hands, uncharacteristically 
still and folded in his lap.  "Thus proving that it's *never* safe to 
care about mortals, I suppose."
	This had probably been a bad idea to bring up.  Q was more prone 
to depression when he was tired.  T'Laren tried to bring the 
conversation around to something more cheerful.  "You seem to have some 
feeling for Roth and Markow.  Is that anything more than being 
entertained by their company?"
	"With Harry, no... well, admittedly as I said I find his feelings 
toward *me* rather flattering, but I suppose being flattered is a form 
of entertainment... so no, I'd say not.  Daedalus, on the other 
hand..."  Q thought about it.  "I have a lot of respect for him.  He 
did not fall quite so far as me, no, but he didn't start as high, 
either... and for a human, he's fallen hard indeed.  You know that he 
wasn't born that way, of course."
	"I know nothing about Dr. Peter Markow, except that you seem to be 
friendly with him and he appears to be confined to a floatchair.  And 
he is well-respected."
	"Daedalus got that way by trying to interface with... oh, the name 
wouldn't mean anything to you, but a long-dead species created devices 
for speed-teaching.  You press against them and they feed the secrets 
of the universe into your brain.  Given the fact that these creatures 
were energy lifeforms and could tolerate the intense stresses of the 
feed, this worked well for them.  It worked less well for Markow.  He 
burned out most of his neural pathways doing it... after a few years in 
therapy, it turned out that oddly, his actual mind was unaffected.  He 
could still think as clearly as ever.  But there hasn't yet been a 
neural regeneration technique invented that can repair the damage he 
did to the nerves in his body."
	"Did he retain any of the knowledge?"
	"He says it comes to him in dreams... Occasionally I'll tell him 
something and he'll claim he knew it already.  But I think he's trying 
to console himself for his loss by pretending he got something out of 
it."  Q turned morose again.  "If he can fool himself successfully, 
more power to him.  It's an ability I wish I had."
	"Would you call him a friend?"
	"I don't call anyone a friend, T'Laren."
	"You called me a friend.  This afternoon."
	"Then you're the only one."  His mouth twitched slightly.  "I like 
Daedalus, I have a certain understanding with him, and we don't get on 
one another's nerves to nearly the extent that either of us get on 
everyone else's.  I'll miss him if he dies before I do.  But my 
impression of 'friendship' was that one is supposed to be able to 
confide in the other.  And I could never confide in him-- less so him 
than others; he's the one person I've met who I can't be self-pitying 
around because the magnitude of his loss is as close to mine as a mere 
human can get."
	"Have you ever met anyone you thought you could confide in?"
	"I'm talking to her."
	"Besides me."
	"No."  No hesitation.  "The one time I thought I had, I... well, 
let's say I haven't had very good experiences with confiding in 
people."  He stared into space, glowering, storm clouds visible in the 
set of his face.  "Are you sure I can't have a sedative?"
	T'Laren did not quite sigh.  "Q, this is just your body's reaction 
to exhaustion," she said.  "You know by now that you get especially 
depressed when you let yourself get overtired.  You're not going to 
solve the problem in the long run by running away from your troubles 
with sedatives."
	"Fine.  Then I'd better go to bed."  He stood up.  "This wasn't 
one of my more brilliant ideas.  I thought if I could just stay up 
while I was still feeling good, it would stay that way... stupid of me, 
I suppose."
	"It's perfectly understandable.  No one wants to go to bed when 
they're having fun.  Do you need any help?"
	"Help?"  He raised his eyebrows at her.
	"You're exhausted, and that outfit took you an hour to put on.  Do 
you need help with it?"
	Q smiled sardonically.  "I do believe you're as bad as Harry, dear 
counselor,"  he said.  "No, no, I'm not such an invalid-- or such a 
child-- that I require help getting my jammies on.  You don't need to 
tuck me in, either."
	"How about a lullaby?"
	Q grinned.  "How about--"  he began to sing, rocking an imaginary 
baby in his arms with elaborate, exaggerated facial gestures intended 
to indicate fatherly concern, or maybe epilepsy-- "Go to sleep/go to 
sleep/go straight to sleep/ and don't wake up/ and don't wake up/ until 
at least mid-morning..'?"
	His singing voice was hardly the best to start with.  It was made 
considerably less lovely by being cracked and hoarse with exhaustion 
and giddiness.  T'Laren came awfully close to laughing out loud.  "You 
are terribly silly."
	"An effect achieved by long years of practice, I assure you."  The 
smile faded.  "In any case.  Good night."
	"Sleep well."
	"Not likely," he said, and stepped into his bedroom.  The door 
swooshed closed behind him.
			*				*				*