Posted by Captain Eela Dasca (Lt. Governor) in Paging Dr. Kale- A New Patient

Posted by Lieutenant Bryson Kale (Psychiatrist) in Paging Dr. Kale- A New Patient

Posted by Captain Eela Dasca (Lt. Governor) in Paging Dr. Kale- A New Patient

(snip)

She didn’t block his assessment, letting him sense the fatigue and weight that she carried, but also the layer of joy that could rise to the surface far more easily these day.

A tiny smirk tugged at her lips. “We begin with a getting ourselves drinks. Feel free to leave your bag in the foyer or bring it with you.”

“The kitchen is this way.” Eela said. Turning very precisely and slowly on the ball of her foot to avoid vertigo, she veered left into the hallway. The right side of the available wall space was taken filled with framed images that documented the six decades and of Dasca’s life. Family, friends, three quadrants of travel- the highlights of much of her life where there. The images on display were deeply important, like those of all her grandparents and her late parents, or her promotion ceremony when she made Captain. There was nothing from her wedding, but there were some new additions to her collection that a observant person might recognize as being from her time on Oed, including an image of her, her daughter, son-in-law, and grandaughter from the welcome banquet for the Vren delegation that happened recently. Eela was beaming, standing tall and proud in a beautiful magenta gown.

On the left side of the hallway was filled with recessed bookshelves entirely full of books with protective doors. Some looked newer and many appeared old. There was poetry and many volumes of literature in a myriad of languages. This all seemed to be works of fiction.

The hallway led to the side of the apartment with the spare rooms, her office and the family area that included the kitchen, that was open plan to a small casual eating area and a cozy sitting nook. The room immediately at the T of the hallway was clearly a workout room that had a massage table still out in the middle. A large fractal style painting in greys and yellows was hung prominently on the right wall. Next to that room was her office and library that had a large standing desk in the far right corner and the left side was covered in more of the recessed bookshelves. A spiral staircase sat near the middle of the room and wnent down somewhere.

She hung a right at her office and stepped into the large and well appointed kitchen. In the floor to ceiling windows that spanned the whole side of the apartment, the spacious patio looked lush with plants, though from this angle, a sitting area and pergola covered in a flowering vine blocked most of the view.

The kitchen had a large island that separated the ‘hall’ from the cooking area. She moved to the counters and pulled a kettle over. “I just boiled some water, so I can make coffee, or teas- I have a variety. I also have lia in the fridge.” She stopped and turned to him, a quizzical look sweeping over her face. “I’m trying to figure out how to describe it and the best I can come up with is if jestral tea and a mai tai had a non-alcoholic baby.” She grinned, her hazel eyes lighting up. “It’s an adventure, what can I say.”

~Eela Dasca, Lt. Gov.

Bryson let his satchel rest just inside the foyer, unhurried in following her down the long hallway. His gaze lingered briefly on the framed images that marked out the decades of her life — family, Starfleet, milestones, the recent banquet with her daughter and granddaughter. The absence of wedding photographs registered too, though he filed it away without judgment. What was present seemed far more intentional than what was not.

The recessed shelves of books drew his attention as well. Fiction, layered and diverse. A different kind of archive — not of facts, but of lived imagination. He found himself quietly appreciating that she’d made room for both kinds of memory in the same corridor.

Stepping into the kitchen, he took in the light from the windows, the greenery spilling across the patio beyond. It struck him how much it resembled the hospital gardens at Sacred Heart, but softer, less curated. A personal oasis, not an institutional one.

Her description of the lia drew an easy smile to his face. “That might be the best invitation I’ve had all week,” he said, tone warm, letting a hint of humor thread through. “Though now you’ve set the bar rather high. If it tastes like jestral tea with delusions of a mai tai, I’ll consider it an adventure worth the risk.”

“Most adventures usually are,” Eela said with a smirk. The quips came naturally- they always had- but even after recent events her humour had never quite dissipated.

He moved toward one of the stools at the island but didn’t sit yet, instead allowing her to set the pace. “Tea, coffee, even brandy all have their own meanings depending on when and where they’re offered. Something tells me you don’t serve lia lightly.” His eyes met hers again, steady but not invasive. “So yes — let’s begin with that.”

Bryson Kale, PhD
Psychiatrist

A smirk played on her lips as her eyes lit up. “I don’t, but since we are both psi-positive and both highly trained to assess people, our being able to suss each other out quickly is not a surprise, now is it?”

Eela moved over to a tall cupboard and pulled open to the door to reveal the fridge. Stooping, she reached for a large glass pitcher with a lid, and as she rose, her anti-grav brace let out a quiet whir as it helped her motion upwards.

She set the pitcher (which was etched with tiny flowers and filled with a pale orange liquid) on the island and grabbed a couple glasses from a cupboard behind her. In the next cupboard she pulled out a couple small white plates and set them on a tray already rested on the back counter along with a white box. “Grab the pitcher, will you?” she said as she set the glasses on the tray and carried it out of the kitchen.

Veering to the right, it was clear that there was a passageway down this backside of the apartment that paralleled the front hallway and led along the floor to ceiling windows. At the open patio door, Eela stepped out.

The patio was essentially a large L-shaped space that Eela had divided into rooms of sorts. The doors opened out onto a dining area and cooking area. To the left was a large pergola with a sectional and large coffee table. To the right was a pair of lounge chairs, and beyond that disappeared out of sight. The sides of the patio were protected by an almost imperceivable glass like structure that served to protect Eela from any attempts to intrude on her space or threaten her safety. A necessary precaution. Amongst all of it were raised beds set at a different heights, with many such that Eela wouldn’t have to bend too far. Everything was lush, in bloom, or producing fruits or vegetables. It was a riot of colour, with no specific theme. Eela just grew what she wanted and loved.

She headed for the pergola and set the tray down on the coffee table that was sat in front of a L-shaped sectional. From beneath the shade of of a lightly scented purple flowering vine, they could admire the various views of the city. They weren’t so high up that they could so over the city, but Sloane Square was in view and if one were to stand at the blocked-in railing and looked up, the tall Government Tower rose above them a block-and-a-half behind them.

Opening the box, she smiled at the variety of breakfast pastries from various cultures and took a seat, pouring them each a glass of the lia. “These come from my favourite store slash cafe, Quill and Parchment Books. It helps that I am close with the owner, so I barely have to give an order. I just tell them that I want treats for a certain time of day.” Amusement played under the surface at her calling her and Karilan close. An understatement, but also inadequate.

Eela lifted a glass of juice and sipped without any ceremony. The familiar burst of floral and citrus hit first followed by a sweet nut and slightly earthy taste. It was layered and complex, but equally refreshing. She let out a sigh as she smiled and carefully leaned back against some pillows. She had done therapy out here before and she chose her sanctuary since he had specifically asked her to ensure she was somewhere she was comfortable. It was hard to beat this patio.

~Eela Dasca, Lt. Gov.

Bryson carried the pitcher as asked, the cool weight of it balanced easily in his hands, and set it down on the coffee table beneath the pergola. He took a quiet moment before lowering himself onto the sectional opposite her, the kind of pause that signaled ease rather than hesitation.

He let his fingers rest lightly on the etched glass before lifting it, watching the way the pale orange liquid caught the ambient light through the vine’s blossoms. The first sip was unhurried, his expression shifting as he let the layered flavors settle. “You undersold it,” he said with a soft exhale, amusement curling at the edges. “This could make a convert out of me.”

When he set the glass down, his gaze drifted outward — over the raised beds, the riot of color, the softened skyline beyond. There was something grounding about spaces that carried the unmistakable imprint of their owner, and this one felt curated not for show but for solace.

The emotions he brushed against were familiar in their complexity: the ache of fatigue, the tensile strength of someone who’d carried weight long enough it had become part of their bearing, and the quicksilver lift of joy — close to the surface now, like a current rising through stone. He received them without intrusion, the way one might listen to music through a wall: present, but never his to claim.

His smile returned when she mentioned the café, light but sincere. “A bookstore that sends you home with pastries… I think that’s the sort of arrangement most of us secretly wish we had.” A glance back at her, steady, open without being probing. “And it sounds like they know you well enough to anticipate more than your sweet tooth.”

He reached for one of the smaller pastries from the tray, breaking it in half without ceremony. “The best places — the ones worth returning to — they always find ways of seeing us a little clearer than we expect.”

He didn’t frame it as a question, didn’t lean forward to press the thought. Instead he let the observation rest between them, his posture comfortable, the patio’s stillness doing the rest.

Bryson Kale, PhD
Psychiatrist

She filled her lungs slowly, breathing in the air that in many ways should not exist on this planet but was now able to remain. It was the same clear and sunny day it always was, but Eela most looked forward to the day there was their first rain. She missed weather, missed revelling in the changes. She reached forward, taking a lemon danish from the box.

“Oed continues to surprise me and that surprise is quite delightful. In some ways coming here has allowed me to take the fullest breath I have in perhaps years. My days are often organized chaos and yet I feel like I can breathe. And there are many reasons for that, but it all comes down to people,” she said, turning her head to gaze at him fully.

“I don’t know how many Haliians you’ve served with or treated before, but there is something very important you need to understand about my people, and thus me. If you know this already, that’s fine, but hopefully I can help you see it they way I do.”

Eela drew in another deep breath and looked back over the city, closing her eyes. Her mind opened to the whole that was Oed- the cacophony of feelings and energy. She did not hear the collective voices the way other telepaths did (she could not without touch), but their essence, their vibration and how it mingled with the live thing that was the planet itself. It buoyed her and brought her comfort.

“Haliians suffer in solitude. We are not meant for it. Everything about our physiology and thus the culture that we created to support our bodies and minds is about connection. Connection to ourselves, to each other, and to everything around us. It’s as much a physical need as a spiritual one.

“After forty years in uniform and a dying marriage that lasted a similar length, I realized only recently just how much I had to give up pieces of that connection, was asked to in ways I didn’t understand. Most of it wasn’t out of malice, but necessity. I was pragmatic and I compromised where I felt I needed to. To protect myself, to make an existence in Starfleet possible.

“But when my ex,”-she blew out a breath-“when Cory assaulted me n this very apartment, in that terrible aftermath those I had begun to forge connections with me gave me more hugs, more physical reassurance than I had felt in years. It was like a tsunami of connection and love and comfort. It was overwhelming in the midst of profound grief in learning how much of my marriage had been a lie.” She fixed her intense hazel eyes on Kale again. “All of it broke me open in a way I could not have predicted, and once it did I saw how beautiful it all was. Even the painful bits. Because I felt truly connected again. And now that I have reclaimed this essential piece of me I refuse to give it up for anyone or anything.”

~Eela Dasca, Lt. Gov.

Bryson inclined his head slightly as she finished, letting her words settle before he answered. His tone remained even, measured — not detached, but carrying the steady cadence of someone accustomed to holding space.

“You’ve articulated it with striking clarity. What you describe as connection isn’t simply cultural preference — it’s an embodied necessity. When that’s withheld, by circumstance or by expectation, the cost isn’t just emotional. It reverberates through health, stability, resilience. What you experienced in those aftermath moments — the sudden return of touch, presence, reassurance — it makes sense that it would feel both overwhelming and profoundly restorative. The body doesn’t forget what it needs, even when the mind learns to ration it.”

He set his glass carefully on the table, dark eyes steady on her. “Starfleet demands a great deal of adaptation from every species it welcomes. But the adaptations that ask us to silence our most vital needs… those are the ones that exact the greatest toll. You’ve recognized that, and claimed it back. That in itself is no small achievement.”

A pause, deliberate, but not uncomfortable. Then: “You’ve spoken of connection as essential. How do you imagine protecting and sustaining that in the future — not just here, but when the demands of duty inevitably press in again?”

Bryson Kale, PhD
Psychiatrist