Chapter Text
The support system around Will Riker, though he’d been too mired in his own grief to see it at first, was a formidable thing. It did not attack his sorrow head-on; it simply refused to let him drown in it.
The first assault was led by Beverly Crusher. She appeared in his doorway one afternoon, a PADD in her hand and a look in her eye that brooked no argument.
“We’re starting a new crew wellness initiative,” she announced, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “The new counselor, T’Lorin, is brilliant but her bedside manner is … logical. She needs a charismatic face to front the program. You’re it.”
Will opened his mouth to protest, to cite duty reports, to say anything to escape.
“It wasn’t a request, Commander,” she said, her smile sweet and utterly merciless. “The carnival is on Saturday. You’re in the dunk tank.”
And that was how Will Riker, first officer of the Federation flagship, found himself perched on a small plank over a tank of freezing water while a line of ensigns, petty officers, and even a few lieutenants took their best shot with a baseball.
He was miserably cold. He was a public spectacle. And he was, to his own astonishment, laughing his ass off.
He heckled Geordi until the chief engineer, grinning widely, finally nailed the target and sent him plunging into the icy water with a tremendous splash. He emerged, gasping and sputtering, to the roaring laughter of the crew, and found he was laughing just as hard. For a few glorious, shivering hours, he wasn’t thinking about empty quarters or silent mental prompts. He was just present, in the moment, cold and alive and surrounded by his crew.
Geordi’s approach was quieter but no less effective. He became a fixture at Will’s table in Ten Forward. No big speeches, just a second glass of synthehol pushed across the table, or a plate of fries to share.
“Heard the diagnostic on the port nacelle is throwing some weird harmonics,” he’d say, and they’d slip into a comfortable technical debate. Or he’d just sit, working on a PADD, offering the simple, undemanding gift of his presence. It was a quiet anchor in the storm, a reminder of normalcy and friendship that asked for nothing in return.
Then there was Worf.
The Klingon approached him after a shift with the grim solemnity of a warrior preparing for a sacred rite.
“Commander,” Worf intoned, his voice a low rumble. “You have been inactive. It is time to hone the body as well as the mind. We will begin training with the L’w Tuqjort.”
Will blinked. “The what?”
“The Bloodshed Glaive,” Worf clarified, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It is a weapon of great tradition. It requires immense focus, strength, and precision. It has six blades.”
It was, without question, the most brutally heavy, unnecessarily complex, and dangerously pointy weapon Will had ever seen. Learning to wield it without severing one of his own limbs was an all-consuming challenge. There was no room for melancholy, no space for grief when every ounce of concentration was required to parry Worf’s powerful, controlled strikes. It was exhausting, painful, and exactly what he needed. In the grunts, the sweat, the sheer physicality of it, he found a primal release. After each session, his muscles aching and his mind blissfully empty, he felt more settled in his own skin than he had in weeks.
He returned to his quarters one evening, muscles protesting from an hour with Worf and the six-bladed monstrosity, to find Jean-Luc waiting for him. The captain took in his disheveled state, the sheen of sweat, the faint smile on Will’s face. He didn’t say a word. He simply picked up a bottle of brandy and poured two glasses.
He handed one to Will. “To friends,” Jean-Luc said, his eyes holding a deep, knowing warmth.
Will took the glass, clinking it against Jean-Luc’s. “To friends,” he echoed, his voice full of a gratitude too profound for words.