“Look baby, I brought your dinosaur pajamas!” Raffi said with enthusiasm. She slipped the pants and long sleeve shirt onto the freshly washed Gabe. Although Gabe was on the precipice of turning 4, and Raffi knew she was supposed to encourage him to shower and get ready independently, she was not ready to let go of their well-crafted nighttime routine.
Gabe looked down at the dinosaurs on his shirt and recited the types with their corresponding colors, “Mommy, look, green stegosaurus, red t-rex, yellow brontosaurus,”
“Great job Gabe, let’s fix your hair,” Raffi smoothed his pajamas and placed the towel on rack.
“Mommy, mommy, my turn, I put,” Gabe jumped on the stepstool in front of the bathroom mirror. He grabbed an unnecessarily large handful product from the opened container and reached up towards Raffi’s curls.
Though it would make things harder during Raffi’s winddown routine, she still smiled and leaned her head within Gabe’s toddler reach, “Okay baby.”
Screeching with excitement, he messily ran his hands through Raffi’s curls. Although the product was distributed in large messy clumps in her hair, for a brief moment, Raffi luxuriated in the feel of his uncoordinated little hands showering her with affection.
“Alright, mommy’s turn,” Raffi stood up, dabbed a bit of product in her palms and rubbed them together.
As Raffi applied the product through Gabe’s long curls, they smiled at each other in the mirror, their eyes bright and filled with love. Even the most mundane of tasks were an exciting affair when it involved mommy’s undivided attention. No communicators, PADDs, or delta shields in sight. Just a mother tending to her son in a short-lived moment.
Once Raffi was satisfied that the product was evenly distributed in his hair, she turned towards Gabe with her hands up and palms forward. Gabe faced his mother, giggled, and met them with his own. Raffi’s heart warmed as she flexed her fingers around his tiny hands, 3/8ths the size of her own.
___
Despite Worf’s chamomile tea, Raffi tossed and turned in bed. If her mind wasn’t buzzing with paranoid thoughts, the deafening silence aggravated her anxiety. If her anxiety dissipated, she was either sweating or shivering. Raffi laid on her side and hugged her knees tightly, trying to give her nervous system something else to process.
Perhaps she could count the length of the intervals between hot flashes and cold sweats. Program the environmental controls to oscillate with her withdrawals. If she could just finish a complete thought, if she could feel just a few moments of calm, if she could just…
self-medicate with alcohol. Nothing numbed the racing thoughts and put her to sleep quite like finishing a fifth of bourbon. Besides, a dehydration headache was a lot easier to treat than withdrawals.
Months and months of maintaining cover, controlling every word from her lips, internalizing the tension, constantly looking over her shoulder. The solitude was overwhelming. Before Worf showed up, Raffi had been two days away from loading holographic versions of her motley crew on La Sirena. Adding holo-addiction to her list of problems was a drop in the bucket at this point.
Is it cheating if it’s with a holodeck version of…wait…would it even be cheating if we haven’t…
Frustrated, Raffi groaned and threw the covers off of her body. Now was definitely not the time for this. Starfleet problems always took precedence over, well, everything in her life.
Fuck it, I need to occupy myself with something until I’m finished kicking.
Raffi got up and stormed into the holodeck. Though Rios was stranded in the 21st century, his ghost lingered all over the ship. Aside from the obvious presence of his holograms, Raffi and Rios had spent a lot of time on La Sirena together. She had helped him create hidden comms channels, secret compartments, and custom programs. Raffi’s obvious problem with anger management had been very apparent early in their partnership and together, they had programmed the perfect outlet with Rios’s nostalgia.
“Computer, load Sugar Ray Robinson’s training facility,”
Flashes of light began to build the mid-20th century boxing ring with dim metal shade lights hanging above, championship belts and golden gloves in a dusty case, and a heavy bag with a metal chain hanging in the corner. She inhaled deeply, smelling the scent of sweat, mold, and MRSA. Rios was always a slave to 20th century authenticity, even if the scene dictated unsanitary conditions.
Raffi picked wraps off the table and hurriedly wrapped her wrists taut. She rolled her shoulders back and forth, windmilled her arms forward, and stretched her neck to prepare her body for the blunt force it was about it to inflict.
Raffi’s jaw clenched with tension as she eyed the heavy leather punching bag. Between meeting with Jae, relapsing under duress, and dealing with Worf, Raffi was about to explode. She picked up the red bag mitts, secured the Velcro, and slammed them together in front of her chest several times for good measure.
Somebody, or rather, something was going to get it.
Raffi warmed up with slow lateral movements, gently sticking her left hand out to range the bag.
Fucking Jae.
Minding her head movements, Raffi threw several delicate jabs as she analyzed her plan of attack.
Even after all this time, he still has to prove he was the better parent.
She began to throw sharper snaps into her jabs.
I’m sorry baby boy, I know it seems like hubris,
Raffi pivoted to throw a cross with her dominate hand.
But I really am one of the few Starfleet officers that sees the bigger picture,
She smirked as she felt a satisfying sting in her knuckles and watched the bag sway away.
The things I do really do save the universe, the universe that you live in, that baby girl lives in.
Dancing around the heavy bag, Raffi placed her weight into the balls of her feet and picked up the pace of her foot movements.
Why do I have to choose between you and the universe.
Raffi threw a quick feint and a right cross.
I know that choosing the latter makes me a bad parent.
She circled the bag as it swung back towards her.
“Do not seek blame,” Worf’s words echoed in her mind.
Raffi’s jaw clenched and she threw her bodyweight into a haymaker. With a loud thud the bag flew forward in a zig zag motion, the chain creaking against the force of her will.
Of course I blame myself, the answer was right there. Am I so self-involved that I miss the giant red statue in front of my eyes?
The bag swung back towards her and she switched to a Southpaw stance to dodge the weight of the bag and watched it swing away.
No, that’s not it. “You’re angry about Elnor…about Gabe,” Seven’s words stood out in the back of her mind.
Raffi grit her teeth and threw a hard hook as the bag swung back towards her. Thinking about Seven was not an option, she could only deal with one emotional landmine at a time
“Do not seek anger,”
Defying Worf’s sagacious advice, Raffi sharply inhaled through her nose, the extra oxygen fueling her fury.
Easy for him to say, Klingons, hell, fathers aren’t perceived as deadbeats when they choose their careers over their children.
When the bag swung back towards her, Raffi’s anger overflowed and she threw her bodyweight into a haymaker.
They’re looked at like providers.
The tenuous dam on her emotions broke. Despite her intent to throw a left jab, Raffi threw a hard straight.
They’re altruistic heroes and I’m called a deadbeat mother.
With that thought, Raffi began to furiously throw hateful, alternating punches at the bag. Without regard for the pain in her knuckles, without technique, without care for the consequences she would feel tomorrow.
What a double standard.
Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she bared her teeth at the bag and threw one last haymaker. The bag rocked back and forth, struggling with the momentum of Raffi’s punches.
Emotional and physical exhaustion set in once Raffi ran out of steam. The bag swung back towards Raffi and she opened her arms, bear hugging the bag. She inhaled the smell of sweat and salt from her tears, burying her face into the leather. An ache spread through her chest as she clutched desperately to the bag, wishing she could bury her face in the leather of Seven’s ranger jacket instead. It might have smelled like phaser soot and other chemicals, but those days were somehow simpler than the present. How many rock bottoms did Raffi have to go through until she found…
“Raffaela, report to the common area,” Worf’s terse voice interrupted over comms.
Raffi grunted in frustration and she let go of the bag, “Not right now, I need to be alone.”
“This is not a request.”
Her eyes rolled, “Fine, but I’m not going to shower,” she threatened.
“I have smelled expired gagh,” Worf’s deep baritone added, “you will smell fine.”
Raffi let out an exasperated sigh, “Computer, arch,” she said and walked towards the common area.
From the second floor, Raffi hoisted herself up on the ladder, straddled the rails on her ankles, and slid down with ease.
Worf’s eyebrow raised at Raffi’s contemptuous behavior and clear disregard for protocol.
“What do you want Worf? I’m on the tail end of withdrawals and I haven’t gotten laid in a while. I’m not great company right now.”
“Raffaela, you have spent too much time alone these past few months. Sit,” Worf gestured towards a tray on the table.
Raffi looked at the ornate tea kettle, the delicate cups, and silver tower with cucumber sandwiches. She forgot that she and Rios and had drunkenly programmed this into the replicator and did her best to swallow the pain of nostalgia.
“I’m a bit under dressed for high tea, but those sandwiches do look appealing.” She shrugged her shoulders, picked up a sandwich and took an ungracefully large bite.
Observing Raffi’s intentionally uncouth behavior forced Worf to comment, “You are masticating like an animal on purpose,”
“Who said I was a lady?” Raffi’s mouth opened slightly to display the partially digested sandwich.
Raffi swallowed her sandwich, mockingly straightened her posture, crossed her legs, and smugly smiled at Worf as she daintily picked up a cup and took a sip of the tea.
For an instant Worf’s eyes flashed with frustration. On the Enterprise, he would have bellowed and thrown a tantrum at Raffi for her insolent behavior.
But Worf hadn’t been on the Enterprise in a long time. Hell, even Deep Space 9 was a distant memory at this point, but the quick-witted woman in front of him reminded him of Jadzia.
Worf slowly inhaled through his nose while he gathered his words, “Why do you insist on fighting even when the occasion does not call for such behavior?”
“You’ve gotta be pugnacious if you’re going to survive alone in this galaxy.”
“But you are not alone, I am right here.”
“Hmph,” she huffed and placed the cup back down on the table, “Until the next mission right? Or whenever I cease being useful to you. Or maybe I’ll beat you to the punch and throw myself out of the airlock. Do everyone around me a favor, I hate it when people look at me with pity.”
“Warriors do not engage in self-loathing Raffaela,” Worf slightly raised his voice for emphasis.
“I’m not a Klingon warrior,”
“But you are a warrior nonetheless.”
“Am I?”
“Have you not saved the galaxy on several occasions?”
“Thought I was an animal?”
“Do animals save the galaxy?”
“Oh, what good that ever did me.”
“Then what good did it do you?”
“Nothing!” Raffi’s eyes widened with shock at her emotional response. With a quick inhale, she wrestled control over her emotions, but the embarrassment of losing to Worf’s questioning techniques lingered. Raffi tried to save face, “no amount of notoriety, nothing I do…”
Remaining motionless, Worf watched Raffi’s eyes dart back and forth as she resisted the inevitable truth coming out. He spoke only to move the conversation forward, “I too understand anger and loneliness.”
“Ha!” Raffi let out a haughty laugh, “what could possibly make you feel angry and lonely? Not enough glory on the battlefield? You’re a legend, and I’m a deadbeat parent to my only child.”
“I was, as you would say, a deadbeat parent. My parents raised my son, and my wife had a better relationship with my son than I did.”
“But I bet your kid didn’t hold it against you. I bet everyone around you didn’t judge you for your choices.”
“My circumstances were…different than yours. But the judgements of others do not matter. Eagles do not fly thinking about the opinions of those beneath them.”
Stupid Worf and his platitudes. Raffi opened her mouth, ready to deliver a witty comeback, but she found no words. Her shoulders slumped. She was tired of beating around the bush, tired of deflecting with humor, tired of rationalizing her bullshit. Carrying her pretensions had already cost her everything. She relented to the truth.
“I have always loved my son, but my favorite time I spent with him was as a toddler,” Raffi smiled at the reflection.
“I used to love holding him close to my hip, holding his small hands, seeing the best parts of myself in a tiny package.”
Raffi became somber, “But he had every right to reject me, all of his reasons sound. I deserved it, I deserve this,” she motioned to the cold empty halls of La Sirena.
“And now I operate in this world without 3/8ths of my heart,” Raffi hung her head low and created a visor with her hands to conceal her contorted face and quiet tears. She had finally admitted the truth
Worf looked at Raffi’s emotional display with calm, “You might be 5/8ths of a person, but you are 100 % warrior.”
Worf stood up abruptly and reached for Raffi’s hand, “I swear an oath to you, that after this battle is finished, we will seek out your son. You will either learn to live it or you will reconcile with him.”
Raffi sniffled several times and wiped her tears with the back of sleeve, “Why?”
“Because, either way, you will stop, as you humans say, throwing yourself a pity party.”
While history had taught her that most promises were false, she knew the magnitude of a Klingon’s oath. Raffi let out a small laugh at Worf’s gallant attempt at humor, “Fine, but we need start drinking something other than chamomile tea.”