His whole body felt heavy; the weight of it all pressed him down as if he were being detained by several security officers. It wasn’t as if he truly had the desire to get up, but as he squinted his one free eye open, he could see the sunbeams pouring into the room from behind the partially open curtains. The bed was so soft, it was almost criminally addictive. Michael blinked with the one free eye that was not buried into the pillow, adjusting to the light levels. The air was crisp, caressed by the soft sounds of waves crashing outside and the melody of the local songbird. By the divine, how long was he asleep?

When people think of shore leave, it’s always about the parties, food, alcohol, and entertainment. But this was the golden reality of shore leave that no one talked about. Sleep: pure, uninterrupted, blissful rest. No duty alarms, no drills, no klaxons, or random Zero-300 Red-Alerts because someone on the bridge got spooked by an approaching vessel. Fighting against the pseudo-gravity of waking up, he raised his left hand to wipe his face, only to find a small puddle of his own saliva had formed on the pillow. ‘How demure.’ he thought to himself as he fought to sit upright.

This proved to be a challenge, not only because the bed itself was luring him to remain like a siren at sea, but because his right arm was effectively not working. He had lain on it all night and cut off the blood flow. As he rolled over onto his back, he lifted the limp limb with his other free hand and watched it drop dead onto his chest with absolutely no control. He could feel the pressure of his prodding, but nothing else, a sensation that was very soon to be replaced by the millions of pin-pricks as the circulation resumed in his unresponsive arm.

Michael rocked himself upright onto the bed, begrudgingly, and rubbed his eyes once more, letting out a very long yawn, running his fingers through the back of his head. “Computer, what time is it?” he inquired, stretching and placing his feet over the bedside, his ankles popping in protest. “The time is currently 13:47 hours. You have been asleep for approximately 15 hours.”

‘Jesus…’ he thought to himself. No way he would have gotten away with that on duty; they would have sent a wake-up crew to your quarters by then. As he sat on the side of the bed, he slowly twisted his upper torso, using his arms as leverage to stretch on each side, his mid to lower back popping loudly with each twist. He then did the same to his neck, feeling the tension along the base of his skull pop and release. Gods, he could use a massage, but before anything, he needed food.

There were plenty of dedicated restaurants around the island, but Michael felt it best to start with the basics and then branch out. The main resort’s dining hall was a rustic restaurant of the same size and caliber as the Golden Apple, from what he could approximate, albeit with a more tropical and open patio theme. As he sat down, a living hostess was already closing in to tend to his needs.

Menu in hand, she slid it down on the table, flashing Michael a flirty smile, ‘Someone just woke up.’ She initially thought aloud, taking note of his bedhead. “Hello, Sir! My name is Sandra; I’ll be your attendant for today. Can I get you started with a drink while you peruse our menu? We have a full replicator on tap, but these items here are made fresh in our kitchen, if you’d like to give them a try.” She recited, in her perfect customer service voice.

‘I could definitely use some coffee,’ he thought aloud, not meaning to project. The hostess made a small flinching jolt at his telepathy, not realizing he, too, was a Betazoid.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. Are you from around here?’ she asked mentally.

Michael looked up, and once again his solid black iris locked with another’s. “Oh no…Sorry, I mean…” he shook his head. He didn’t get much chance to flex this side of himself, so might as well capitalize on the opportunity. ‘…No, I’m Starfleet. Just here on shore leave.’ He finished psychically.

The waitress giggled. She didn’t have to ask to understand his naivety with his telepathy, “Well, I’ll get you that coffee to help you wake up, and when I get back, you can explain to me that breakfast item you have in your head.” She said aloud, taking the menu back and leaving him with a wink.

He was about to protest, but then remembered he was sitting in a restaurant full of telepaths; of course they would know what he wanted, because he was thinking about it. He sat back and watched the room move about; waitresses, patrons, even took in the tiki-decorum a little more. He lamented just how out of his element he was here, which was unorthodox given that he was always ‘the telepath’ of the group. Sure, he had been around telepaths before, but never in this range of volume. Even then, when he did use his powers, it was more reactively for duty’s sake than a natural extension of himself.

The hostess returned with his coffee in hand, as well as a small cup of cream and sugar to add to his taste. Surprisingly enough, she then took a seat across from him and rested her chin on her hands. “So, tell me all about this breakfast crepe you’re hungry for.”

Michael chuckled as he poured half of the creamer and sugar into his cup, as he envisioned a home recipe his father would make for him as a child.

“Crepe stuffed with scrambled eggs and cheese.” She began to repeat, as if reading the thoughts from his mind, keeping direct eye contact. “Smothered in…sausage sawmill gravy?” She perked her eyes at that one, as the concept was as alien to her as a Ferengi on Earth in the 1940s.

Michael was in the middle of his first sip of coffee as she perused his mental image of breakfast. And snorted a little at her question. “My father loved this thing called biscuits and gravy for breakfast, but my mother loved crepes. So, for me, they blended their favorite foods together.” He explained.

“Aww, that’s so sweet. Your father…” she started saying, pausing to scan his mind, “Oh, you’re half human! That explains it!” she snickered. The laughing and flirting were a little forced due to her occupational training, but Michael could sense genuine interest in the conversation from her, which was welcoming.

“Yeah, the trial and error of that fusion wasn’t so nice. My mother liked Fruit Crepes, and Gravy does not blend well with jams.” He described. The two shared a laugh as the waitress rose, pushing the seat back in. “Well, I’ll go program that into the replicator and get it out to you. It might be missing a bite, though!” she teased, leaving him to his coffee.

Michael looked out to the horizon, watching the waves rise and fall over the water. Maybe he did need this; usually, discussing his mother was a somber affair, but here he had talked about her like it was nothing. The sense of calm he felt was almost concerning. He knew Betazoids could project their emotions, as well as feel them. His father had told him as much when the discussion came about visiting Betazed once. It was intended to ease concerns Michael had about ‘darkening’ the atmosphere, but instead he took it as almost a pre-emptive attack, to suppress who he was to conform to Betazed standards.

He wondered if maybe they were projecting on him now, the poor concierge who registered him got a full feel for his mental condition when he checked in, maybe they were doing what they could to help him relax. Or maybe he was, like he always did, overthinking things. The idea was not to think, to decompress. Not think of his abrupt re-assignment, not think about the Nakatomi Incident, not think about his current investigation, his demotion, or about how he missed his mother and the connections he failed to make with his family…

The audible ‘clank’ of the plate being placed on the table snapped him out of his train of thought. “You know, they make alcohol for that.” The waitress said, in a more informal, but still caring tone. “I can even add it to your coffee, if you like.” She further advised, once again taking a seat across from him. Michael smiled and nodded, taking a look at the 5 stuffed crepes before him, steam rising from the hot gravy.

“Since you’re ‘human’ to this, can I give you some unsolicited advice?” she asked bluntly. Michael took the fork and cut into his first crepe, looking up at her. She continued, already detecting his approval. “In betazoid culture, we hear and feel everything. Because of that, we have a pretty open and honest community. When one hurts, we all hurt, because we can feel what they feel. But we don’t rush to fix things because it’s an inconvenience to the whole. We do so out of love and because we don’t want the sorrow we feel for the one hurting to echo or compound back onto them.”

Michael contemplated her words; it made sense. Human culture, at least his father’s upbringing, was ‘Keep your chin up, and don’t let others down.’ Which was a stark contrast to how things went on Betazed. He wondered how his mother even put up with the old geezer, or if maybe, his father, too, had changed drastically to shield him from his sorrow, the only way he knew how, through suppression. Just as he was about to start back down an internal spiral, the waitress snagged the fork from his hands and took the first bite of the Crepes. She pondered the taste for a moment; he could sense both an interest and dislike from her as she swallowed. “I like the crepes, I don’t think I’m a fan of gravy. Too viscous for me.”

“Well, it’s an acquired southern earth taste for sure!” he responded, taking back the fork and shoveling in his first bite. It wasn’t just the flavor profile for him; it was the nostalgia that made this dish so great. His father was a horrible cook, so there was very little difference between the real thing he remembered at breakfast and the times he had replicated the dish for himself. Finishing his mouthful, he bowed his head to the woman who was already getting back to her feet. “Well, thank you for the meal and the perspective. It really helps.”

They shared another moment of eye contact before her signature customer service flirtation flared back up, “Yeah, I’ll get you that shot of Kahlua as well! And when you’re done, you need to check out our massage parlors. If you’re this uptight in the head, I’d hate to see how tense your muscles are.” She paused, and he picked up on brief sensual thoughts from her as she eyed him up and down, before noticing his gaze. “Well… maybe.”

[To be continued]