Headaches
The headaches have been getting more and more severe as time went in. She was starting to feel like she was never going to get relief from it. Without the ability to tell anyone about the condition she was in, she wouldn't find a cute or at least a way to deal with the changes. And maybe if they could work on it the headaches might stop
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It was bad enough when it was just the occasional headaches, but now it's affecting her social habits as well--she seems to be getting more reclusive, which just isn't right for someone who's as outgoing as she is. That's what concerns him more than anything. That has to be a sign of something deeply wrong, and though he keeps trying and trying to avoid this particular conclusion, the evidence of the situation points to some severe, perhaps even terminal illness on her part. And she won't tell him, or seek help, no matter how he urges and persuades.
They've been having as normal a lunch as they ever do, but when she lets out that painful breath, he looks sharply up at her, monitoring every sign she's showing. He recognizes the headaches instantly by now, but this seems worse than usual.
"You're in pain again," he observes, eyes never leaving her. "It looks severe."
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"It certainly doesn't feel good," she answers sarcastically. She doesn't know if there is a better way to go about this but perhaps it's time to leave. "I can't eat anymore. I have some work to get caught up on." The lie is transparent. She needs an excuse to get out of this room with this many minds. She stands, taking her tray to clear her place, but she stops when she feels slightly lightheaded and sits down again.
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He doesn't understand why she's leaving so abruptly, unless perhaps she's angry at him for prying, but if she is, that's too bad, because he's going to pursue her anyway. He gets up to follow, meaning to argue some more, but when she sits down with what looks like a rush of dizziness, his concern grows sharply more severe.
"Doctor, you are obviously unwell. Your judgment regarding your own health is clearly compromised. I will be escorting you to sickbay." There will be no argument. He'll carry her, if he has to.
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Her telepathy is her secret. She doesn't want anyone to know and she doesn't want to burden him.
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He weaves through the corridors, dodging a timid sublieutenant who's trying to ask him something, and while he doesn't manage to overtake her, he catches up quickly, turning the corner to where she's leaning against the wall and there's only the two of them there for now.
He folds his arms, standing closer to her than most polite Vulcan personal-space rules allow for, and stares sternly and unblinkingly, trying to catch her eye.
"Are we not friends?" he asks, just to start.
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"We are friends, but that has nothing to do with this and why I won't tell you and why I can't go to sick bay," she says, "They aren't the same thing and my... whatever this is, is not something you have to worry about." Which, of course, he was. Naturally he was worried. She could see it in his eyes every time she winces in front of him. He's probably done research on every brain disease humans have and come to the conclusion that hers is so severe it's going to kill her. Lately it's felt like it would.
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There are very few reasons he can think of why someone would act in such a way, and all of them are equally terrible. At this point, it's hard to come to conclusions that don't involve terminal illness, and he doesn't want to lose her, when she's the only person he's felt close to at all since the Immeasurable Loss. He doesn't want to lose her when he's lost everyone else he's ever cared for, except for T'Pani.
Her snarl alarms him, almost makes him want to step back, but he stands his ground. He won't be put off so easily. His arms remain folded tight across his chest.
"...How much more time do you have?" he asks finally, quietly. It's a calculated question. If she is incurably sick, even if she won't tell him anything else, maybe at least she'll tell him that. And if he's wrong, and she isn't terminal, he would think she would at least correct him.
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His next question leaves her speechless. "Time?" she doesn't know what he must think this is. He can't possibly have figured it out. Maybe he means before she returns to earth?
"I don't... I don't know," she's too confused to really respond in any better way. "I should go lie down."
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Before she can leave, he reaches out, almost as if to touch her arm, a gesture far more dramatic for a Vulcan than it would be for a human. "Elizabeth--" She's addressed him by name before, in rare moments of deep seriousness, and he can do the same, even if, for once in his life, he doesn't know what to say.
"It has...been a great benefit to me, to have made your acquaintance, even if...only briefly." What is he even saying?
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"I... what are you talking about? Solin, I'm not..." She gets a subtle flash of the emotions, grief stronger than anything else. She looks startled by that more than him using her name. She shakes her head, turning back to him.
"No, I'm not... I don't know what this condition is going to end with. All I know is that it's not something that has a cure. There's nothing to do but wait it out at this point and take it as it goes."
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"Then as far as you know, you aren't imminently dying?" That's something, but the rest of it is a thoroughly unsatisfactory answer.
"Elizabeth--" She'd responded favorably to his usage of her name, and because he still has more intimate questions to ask her, he's going to keep doing it. "What is this condition? Do you know what it is? Perhaps there is a cure, of which Starfleet doctors are unaware. Perhaps Vulcan medicine can provide a breakthrough. It is simply illogical to resign yourself to letting it run its course, when there are still many potential options. You must know that my people would help you without hesitation, were you only to ask." And by 'my people,' he means 'me,' though he also means the ship's medics.
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"I know what it is and I know what caused it, or technically what made it worse and there's nothing I can do. It's... I can't tell you here," she says, unable to shake the feeling that someone is watching. She doesn't want to be out in the open when she inevitably breaks down in front of him when she finally says it out loud for the first time.
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"Then where can you tell me?" he asks, not missing a beat. "Can we discuss it further in private? We can go to my quarters, or to yours. If discretion is your concern, understand that I'll keep everything you say in the strictest of confidence. I only want to help you, if at all possible. If not to cure your condition, then to help you manage it."
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"My quarters are closer," she says softly, turning to head towards them. She doesn't say anything the whole walk back to them and once she gets there and steps inside, she lets him in as well. There's another tense moment in which she has no idea how to break this news. Perhaps something simply scientific.
"Have you heard of an ESP rating in humans and how they are measured?" Elizabeth asks as carefully as she can, trying to keep her tone level.
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He waits inside the door of her quarters, hands folded in their usual position behind his back, as he lets her speak. When she asks that question, it's nothing like what he'd expected, and his mind races as he factors this new small bit of information and all its possible reasons and implications into his theories and plans. It doesn't otherwise faze him, and he keeps his eyes on her, carefully listening.
"It isn't my field of expertise," he explains. "I am familiar with only the basic idea, nothing more."
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"ESP is measured by varying tests, all meant to indicate the level of psychic ability in a human. We are not inherently telepathic or empathic, but we do have varying levels of what seems to be a form of it. Every Starfleet member is out through these tests. Things like guess cards, associating words and other varying tasks. The individual is scored and it's kept on record. It has been theorized that given the right circumstances, an individual with a high score could develop stronger psionic abilities. The studies have been few and far between with almost none coming out conclusive," she explains, feeling herself tense up.
"I have one of the highest scores recorded," she says. Maybe he can figure this out on his own.
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