Complications of the Heart
Summary: When it comes to his heart, Picard and Crusher have differing opinions on the best approach to take. Set some time after Generations. Picard/Crusher
A/N: This was written in response to a Christmas offer I made to write stories for anyone who asked for one. Cincoflex (aka CSI Clue) provided the prompt, which I'm using as the opening line. Thanks to Wander52 for the beta; all remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: My first ST:TNG fic, so feel free to let me know if I screwed up any continuity or characterizations. And, no, I don't own Paramount, so I have no rights to any of these characters.
Picard felt he was, above all else, a fairly tolerant man, but this new interest of Beverly's was giving him some odd ideas, and he wasn't sure yet if he liked them or not. But her "request" had come as the Chief Medical Officer, so he felt he had no choice but to comply.
For now.
With a resigned sigh, he picked up the felt hat with distaste, tempted to ask the computer – yet again – if the replicators had provided the correct attire. He rather liked the hat he wore in his Dixon Hill adventures, but nothing Beverly could say would convince him that this monstrosity was "just a fancy fedora"; it was black, true, but with white trim around the edges and a wide white band that had a large, bright feather sticking out of it.
The hat was nothing compared to the suit itself. The jacket was far too long and baggy, and the shoulder padding was enough to cushion a blow from Worf's bat'leth. If anything, the trousers were worse – a waistband that was closer to his armpits than his waist, billowing at the top and tapering to a tight fit around the ankles. And what was the point of a watch chain nearly two-meters long? Picard felt like he was going to step on the damn thing whenever he walked.
He was well aware of the whims of human fashion throughout the ages, but he felt like a court jester in this outfit. Whoever Mr. Zoot had been, he certainly had questionable taste.
Exiting his quarters, he made a beeline to the closest turbolift. The sooner he got this over with, the better. He had just reached the doors when his chief engineer rounded a corner, smiling broadly when he noticed the captain. "Joining Data in the holodeck again, I see. Have fun, sir," Geordie said.
Picard kept his displeasure hidden, but inwardly he cringed. His current attire was nothing like Edwardian dress. You'd have to be blind to confuse … well, yes, Geordie was blind, but that was no excuse; his artificial vision far exceeded natural human abilities.
"I'm meeting Dr. Crusher, actually," the captain replied dryly.
Once on the turbolift, he encountered Dr. Selar, and the Vulcan physician regarded him with the neutrality typical of her species. But she had been spending far too much time around Beverly, because Picard swore there was a trace of amusement in the doctor's voice when she bid him good day as he left.
The holodeck was already running when he reached it, and he had to smile appreciatively when he entered. The setting could easily pass for one of his Dixon Hill adventures, although there were an abundance of other hideously dressed men on the dance floor. The women wore the typical clothing of the period, as did Beverly.
Ah, yes, there was an upside to this insane idea of hers.
She had on a dark blue gown that highlighted her features wonderfully. It was loose enough to allow free movement on the dance floor, yet still managed to cling in all the right places. She had even mastered walking on the high heels of her shoes; apparently men of the period weren't the only ones with strange fashion sense.
When he continued to enjoy the view, Crusher gave him a mock-scowl. Crossing the room to join him, she tugged on his jacket sleeve to make him move onto the dance floor. Once there, though, he stood stoically.
"Not that I mind sharing a holodeck adventure with you, Beverly, but is there any reason for this particular madness?"
"Your heart," she said pointedly. "The operational levels of your cardiac implant …"
"Are within acceptable limits," he interrupted.
"For someone who isn't in a high-stress job, like captaining the flagship of the Federation," she continued without pausing.
Picard put on his most charming smile. "Bev, if I may be so bold, you always make too much of a fuss over me."
The look she directed his way was immediate proof that that had been the wrong tactic. "If you don't trust my judgment, I'll gladly arrange a visit to Kate for you."
He held up his hands in defeat; he hadn't meant to insult Dr. Crusher, and he certainly didn't relish the idea of visiting the cantankerous Dr. Pulaski. "You know there's no one I trust more with my health than you."
"Then listen to me! You need some more exercise. It'll lower your stress levels and help with your cardiac output," she said sternly.
"I exercise."
"Fencing is an anaerobic sport. It doesn't count. Besides that, you get too competitive in your matches, and that doesn't help your stress."
"And this does?" Picard asked, carefully escorting her to the side of the dance hall; theoretically, the safeguards built into the holodeck should prevent any of the dancers from running into them, but he had enough experience with the holodeck not to trust it that much – especially with the way the men were literally throwing their partners around the floor.
"Yes."
"Beverly," he said, pointing to the dancers. "I'm not doing that."
"Would you rather join Worf's exercise program?" When it looked like he was considering agreeing, she added wickedly, "I can let Will know about the results of your last cardiac function test so he can arrange your exercise program."
Picard stared at her; she wouldn't dare – who was he fooling? He was surprised she hadn't told Riker yet. While he liked him well enough, the man was a mother hen of the highest order. If Number One learned of the results of his latest physical, he would mollycoddle him to an early grave. "That is blackmail."
"No, it's the CMO informing the first officer of a health condition that could impact the captain's ability to function."
"I appreciate your concern, Dr. Crusher," Picard said formally, automatically reaching to tug on his tunic. When he realized the bottom of his jacket reached his knees, he settled on smoothing the material instead. He also chose to ignore her snickers. "However, I am fine. If you want me to get some more exercise, I will. But I won't do that."
"Well, of course, you won't. I don't want you breaking my neck," she said with a smile. "We'll start with something simpler. You're not ready to do an all-out swing dance yet."
He let out a short huff of breath as an eyebrow climbed up his forehead. Spending time with Beverly was always a pleasure, especially given the way she was dressed, but he was a starship captain; he couldn't be seen dressed in an outfit that even Lwaxana Troi would find garish.
"I don't think your threat to tattle on me to Will is enough to get me to agree to dressing like this on a regular basis."
"Okay," she said quickly – far too quickly. "Computer, arch. Chief Medical Officer's log. Addendum to the report on Captain Picard's health status…"
"Computer, disengage arch," Picard sighed, frowning when the computer didn't comply.
Beverly rolled her eyes at him. "Pause. Ship captains can no longer override the CMO when it comes to making a report on said captain's health."
"Why do I have a feeling a certain former head of Starfleet Medical is responsible for that?" he asked, amused in spite of himself.
"Of course I am. Most of the staff there work under the assumption that Starfleet captains are reasonable. Computer, resume CMO's log. It's the considered opinion of the Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer that …"
"Fine, Doctor."
"…Captain Picard's 'reasonable' approach to reducing his stress will lead to immediate and long-term improvements in his cardiac implant's performance. End log," she said with an impish smile.
He returned it with one of his own. "Computer, Captain's personal log. Addendum – despite knowing full well that entering the holodeck in period dress leads to an increase in spatial and temporal anomalies, Dr. Crusher has effectively blackmailed me into joining her. If the Enterprise should encounter any such anomalies, let it be known she is fully and solely responsible. End."
"Jean-Luc!"
"Turnabout is fair play."
"I'm just doing my job. It's not my fault I'm stuck with a ship's captain who is stubborn and has a history of cardiac issues."
"You'd think the Borg could have at least had the courtesy to upgrade my heart when they created Locutus," Picard sighed as he let Crusher lead him to an isolated corner of the dance floor.
"I'm not! There is a limit to what medicine can do. I don't even want to think about you having to have more cardiac surgery, and certainly not on Borg technology. Now pay attention to the steps."
Picard was silent as she called up a holographic partner to demonstrate the dance, but he soon lost himself in her graceful movements. She was a natural dancer, moving with a poise honed by a lifetime of practice. Her lithe figure belied a solidly muscled form that did nothing to distract from her beauty. It was a sensual delight to watch her.
Which was the problem.
She thought dancing together would be good for his heart. That might be true in a physical sense, but otherwise? He wasn't so sure.
He loved her, but he didn't. It was a contradiction he'd been trying to reconcile for ages. He'd been passionately in love with her while she'd been married to his best friend, and the guilt from that had most certainly caused a permanent effect on their subsequent relationship.
Over time, she became his new best friend, and he settled into the knowledge that was how he loved her. He believed that with all his being, and when they were mind linked, he was able to convince Beverly it was the truth.
He'd been happy with the compromise, although he'd had his share of visits from the green-eyed monster when some other male showed an interest in the comely doctor. It was a workable solution, and one that he felt settled everything.
But in the years that followed, seeing alternate futures and the lost of his family, made him question just how true that was. The simple truth was he'd spent most of his life alone, and Picard was no longer sure that was how he wanted it to end.
He still loved Beverly, but as a potential mate? Or a definite and dear friend? More than once, he wondered why it had to be one or the other. Was it possible to have both without destroying what they had?
Did he want to risk it?
For all his professional success, his dealings with the opposite sex had been less than stellar. Not that his prior lovers ever complained, but he'd never been willing to make the sacrifices necessary to ensure a long-term relationship. Picard wasn't even sure he was capable.
And Q only knew how Beverly would react if he ever told her. He'd sensed the disappointment when he told her he was no longer in love with her when their minds had been attached, even though she tried to hide the feeling. It was hardly fair, years later, to say maybe he'd been wrong.
To say the least, it was confusing.
"Jean-Luc."
The disappointed voice caused him to snap his head up. "Yes?"
"You weren't paying attention, were you?"
"I got lost partway through," he admitted, though he didn't offer the reasons why.
"I know you like to dance. I know you're good at it," she said, eyeing him carefully. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was me you didn't want to dance with."
He took her hand gently; the thought of hurting her was painful. "I don't mind dancing, Beverly, but why this? I feel like a fool in this outfit. I strongly doubt that is part of standard medical protocol."
"It's part of the experience, Jean-Luc. You dress up for your other holodeck adventures."
"None of those outfits were designed by Mr. Zoot."
"Mr. Zoot?" Beverly broke out laughing. After a moment, she composed herself – almost. "Why, Captain, I had no idea you were so vain."
"It has nothing to do with vanity. I'm thinking of my safety. If I trip over this damnable chain, Doctor …"
"I'll fix you up," she said, giving him a smile that carried some hint of … what exactly? "You can trust me. I'll never let you get hurt."
"Right," he answered, pondering her words and the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Was she serious or playing with him? Hell, this was Beverly; she could do both simultaneously.
This time he focused on her steps, and as she instructed the computer to restart the music, he was again reminded how natural it felt to have her in his arms. He'd had more dreams about moments like this than he could remember, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want her on a physical level.
She knew him better than anyone alive, and she trusted him deeply. They shared so many interests and had a friendship that had survived numerous upsets. She had a fiery intellect and overwhelming compassion, not to mention a wicked sense of humor that hid lingering pain from a traumatic life.
No, his desire went beyond physical where Beverly was considered.
Beverly – the CMO of the Enterprise, the one person who could override him on the ship, a serious professional conflict of interest, the widow of his former best friend.
He loosened his hold as they moved into the next series of steps, but he gave her a defeated smile as she encouraged him. The dance was definitely doing something to his heart, and he wasn't sure it was all that healthy.
Yes, it was all confusing to say the least.
The End