ANNIVERSARIES

by mabb5

Between the Stargazer and the Enterprise, eleven years had passed. What did Picard do during that time? Picard remembers those years and their special anniversaries whilst contemplating his past with his favorite persistently annoying Betazoid.

Between the Stargazer and the Enterprise, eleven years had passed. What did Picard do doing that time? Picard remembers those years and their special anniversaries whilst contemplating his past, his future dreams, lovers and the great losses of his life, with his favorite albeit annoyingly persistent Betazed counselor.

This originally was a story published in the fanzine, ERIDANI 28 in 1997. Since Orion Press no longer is posting its TNG stuff, I am posting my story here. The story in ERIDANI had only eight years worth of anniversaries. But according to Memory Alpha and the professional TNG novels, there was an eleven year gap between captain's chairs. When I decided to post my story here, I added the missing three years, and considerably expanded the story.

As for the long lost love of Jean-Luc Picard's early years, she actually could be considered canon. Early writer's guides as well as the novelization of FARPOINT, mentioned in passing, that Jean-Luc Picard had lost either a fiancée/wife in a shuttlecraft accident, depending upon which version you're reading. But there were no formal particulars. And it never carried over to what was aired. Though such a loss would explain a great deal about Jean-Luc Picard.

This definitely is A/U but is not part of any of my other TNG A/U universes including my two novels, THE BEST LAID PLANS and THE SKY'S THE LIMIT. I did try to line up some of the years with what happened in the TNG books as well as the back stories from the comics and games.

All the usual disclaimers apply.

Feed the author! Any comments would be appreciated.

ANNIVERSARIES

(A prelude to ALL GOOD THINGS…)

The signal to the door to his quarters chirped. Before he even responded to it, Captain Jean-Luc Picard had an inkling as to the identity of the person waiting to enter his cabin. He frowned. But his expression quickly reverted to one of utmost composure as he responded, "Enter."

"Captain?"

He eyed her. At least Counselor Troi was wearing a rose pink floating chiffon pants dress instead of her regulation uniform. So, this was not an 'official' visit…At least, not yet.

Still, she was here. Somehow she must have sensed some of the feelings that this particular anniversary date aroused in him. Rigidly controlling his emotions, he asked with a mask of outward calm, "Counselor. What may I do for you?"

"Captain…"

She studied him, registering his sense of adamantine self-control. And also espying a newly-opened bottle of Château Picard Montrachet Grand Cru, the '51, sitting on the desk by his right elbow. She didn't see any glasses. So, with an attitude of impertinence that only could come from the lengthy experience of dealing with this most recalcitrant of captains, she walked over to his replicator and ordered, "Computer. Two white wine glasses. Baccarat. The 'Nancy' pattern." And then she smiled at him, almost to placate the rising irritation that she sensed within him. "I do hope that you intended to share a glass of your family's wine with me."

Since, by her actions she was declaring that this was not an official counselor-to-patient visit, Jean-Luc Picard relaxed just a wee bit. Though he briefly returned her smile, Deanna would not have described it as a very friendly, welcoming expression.

"I am not forcing myself on you, am I, Captain?" With a mischievous glance at her captain, she sensed that was exactly what he thought she was doing to him.

"You're not going to give me a choice, are you - Deanna?"

"No."

Since he had chosen to use her given name instead of a formal title, she decided that he was tacitly agreeing to the unofficial status of their forthcoming conversation. She handed him the two goblets, and then picked up the bottle of wine, moving over to one of the two armchairs near his sofa. She placed the bottle on a small table and then waited for him to join her.

Shrugging, as if he were conceding defeat, Jean-Luc Picard joined her, sitting in the grey armchair facing the star portals. With a steady hand he poured out the wine, then handed her a glass.

He watched her swirl the wine about the bowl of the goblet, check its 'legs' and then sniff it. "Excellent. Hmmm…" She took a small mouth full, letting the chilled liquid flow over her tongue. She analyzed it. "Apples. Almonds. A hint of honey mead. Nice glycerin."

He was surprised by her words and actions. He'd never noticed her expertly critiquing wine before. "Someone has introduced you to the art of drinking good French wine recently?"

She took another small sip, testing the wine again before she answered him. "I've always known how."

Picard raised an eyebrow.

"My mother." She drank some more. "And Mr. Homm's an oenophile, of course. I am the daughter of an ambassadress. I had to learn how to identify good wines to survive diplomatic functions. One gets so tired of discussing just the weather. Sometimes, I think that the predominant reason as to why I joined Starfleet was in order to escape my mother's endless rounds of diplomatic functions, dinners and matchmaking."

He swirled the wine in his glass

Her laughter was soft, filled with amusement. "Starfleet rarely serves at their functions, the quality of wine that deserves a wine connoisseur's respect."

"Merde. Now I know what you really think about the wines I've chosen…"

She smiled. He was relaxed enough to tease her. "Captain, you've rarely served wine like this at your captain's mess." She took another appreciative sip.

"The 'Nancy' pattern?" He just had to know how she knew the pattern name.

"In the diplomatic circles, I learned that the checkerboard cut crystal pattern on the side of the glass is practical. It helps the drinker hold the glass more securely - especially after greasy hors d'ouevres. And as for learning the pattern names - well, let's just say that when I became what you would describe as a debutante, there wasn't a bridal registry anywhere in the Federation and beyond, that my mother did not apply to, in hopes of encouraging my forthcoming marriage. I was hauled to every store, trailing in my mother's wake. In self-defense, I started picking out china and silver patterns, if only to keep her busy lamenting my deplorable taste in all things decorative."

"You were betrothed…"

"I may have been. But my mother always has contingency plans when it comes to my actually getting married. My mother was always looking for a better choice of husband for me. Thus I was dragged to every boring diplomatic function she could find in search of a potential spouse."

"You must have had a difficult childhood."

"Oh no, Captain. My childhood was wonderful. It was with the emergence of my Betazoid abilities when I became an adolescent, that I first encountered multiple difficulties."

"Multiple difficulties?"

"My mother. Then boys and their raging hormones, in my classes. Then at university." She took another sip of wine and sighed in appreciation of its smooth yet complex bouquets. "And with my mother trying to marry me off to every suitable male the moment I reached maturity…" She sighed. "I think at one point, my mother had actually set her sights on the President of the Federation Council for me."

Picard could only sympathize with anyone having to grow up with Lwaxana Troi as a mother. But he knew that her presence in his quarters had nothing to do with his counselor's desire for a glass of good wine.

"So, why are you here, Deanna?"

"You know, Captain. I do take after my mother, now and then. I can be very determined. Some might even call me stubborn." She ignored the sudden worried look that crossed over his face. "I was studying my records the other day…"

"And?"

"And… I realized that over the past seven years, I have always been off of the Enterprise for some reason or other, whenever your French Bastille Day occurs."

"Surely that is a coincidence." He hid his dismay at her discernment of this matter behind taking a sip of his own wine. "You should consider yourself blessed, Deanna. The first and only time that my Number One tried to throw a Bastille Day Barbecue on the holodeck, is a memory that I really would prefer to forget. So would Will."

She grinned. For she'd heard about what had happened when Commander Riker had thrown a surprise Bastille Day party for his captain. It was one of the major reasons as to why Captain Picard had given his Number One such a difficult time during their first year together on board ship.

Then she realized what he was trying to do. Divert her. And it didn't work. "Nice try, Captain." She was waiting for the right moment to confront him.

And he knew it.

"As for July 14th, itself…" She put down her glass on the low table. "When you suggested that I go on shore leave a few weeks ago…" She placed her hands, palms flat against the chair arms. "…I just thought that it was merely a coincidence of my being off of this ship every year at the same time. But then, I discovered another significance to the date in your personal files."

"And?" He was still projecting a cool, disinterested attitude. At least, on the surface.

"July 14th. It is the official date of your loss of the Stargazer." She watched him take another sip of his wine, drinking slowly. Yet, she could sense that he was not angry. He would capitulate, if she insisted.

"And from a coincidence and a date in my personal history, you have come to some sort of conclusion?" He shook his head. "Tsk. Tsk. Mr. Data would never approve of your circuitous logic."

Now, she knew she was on the right track…

She selected her words very carefully, trying to correctly identify all that she was sensing from this man, this very complicated Starfleet captain who was also her friend.

"There is nothing wrong in grieving for your lost friends and ship. At least, thanks to DaiMon Bok, you've even been given a chance for some closure to put some of your personal ghosts to rest."

"It's not just about the ghosts, Deanna. It is also about the traditions that accompany them."

"Traditions, Captain?"

He motioned for her to pick up her glass again.

She did.

He stood. "To the Stargazer. And to all of those who are dear to us, who have gone before us."

She stood. "They are the comrades that fight and fall…"

He touched the rims together. A pure, clear note rang out like a bell in a carillon.

He was startled by her words, almost pinpointing a quote from something that he'd once read.

"Sacco and Vanzetti." Deanna identified the citation.

"What?" He was surprised that Deanna would know anything about those controversial criminals from American history.

Deanna sat back down. "My father liked to read to me the yarns of the Old West, to tell me the stories of Elliot Ness - that sort of thing." She could see that he didn't quite understand, even as he returned to his chair. "I've acquired an interest."

"Deanna, are you trying to tell me that you read mystery novels, too?"

"Sometimes." She knew what he was going to ask her so she quickly added, "But the only reason as to why I've never joined you on the holodeck is because I just don't care for the hard-boiled period of Dixon Hill."

There was something that told him otherwise. A look on her face. "And is that the truth, Deanna?"

She nodded. She didn't want to confess to him that Beverly Crusher had once mentioned to her that she wished that no other woman would share that particular holodeck fantasy with her captain.

Changing the subject, she brightly asked, "So, what precisely is this tradition, Captain?"

He poured more wine into their glasses, and then settled back into his chair. "It all started the first year after the loss of the Stargazer…I'd just survived a brutal court martial trial. And my good friend J. P. Hanson had arranged for my posting to SB G-6. It was a diplomatic position…"

THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY

He hadn't thought about Miranda Vigo in years. He gazed into his almost empty wine glass and remembered what he could about her. He had a difficult time recalling her appearance. It was her lilting accent, her enthusiasm for life, her stubbornness, and her intense passion in all things of importance, that forever colored his memories. And tonight, he was thinking of her, thanks to her brother who'd been his former weapons officer on board the Stargazer.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard finished off his glass of wine, and poured himself a second glass, still lost in thoughts about Miranda. Vigo had sent him a sub-space message hailing the memory of a gallant, lost ship. A year ago today, the Stargazer had been declared officially lost - presumed destroyed - by Starfleet Command.

And Jean-Luc Picard was honoring the anniversary of his lost command by drinking alone, in silence to the memory of his vanished ship and crew. In a way, he was also reflecting upon his own life for somehow, in spite of everything from the court martial to the intense media scrutiny to the accusations from some of the families of its casualties, Jean-Luc Picard had survived. With his four pips intact. That, in and of itself, was a major accomplishment considering the number of admirals and politicians who had been screaming for his head. Preferably on a pike.

For a moment, he remembered one of those determined people - Phillipa Louvois. She'd had his body on a few occasions. And then betrayed him. He had objected when she'd requested only his head now.

With a sigh of regret he drank another sip of wine, wondering why he could not keep a constant lover. For Vigo's lone message of consolation had also made mention of his sister, and wondered if Picard might know where she was. He didn't. He hadn't seen Miranda for years now. And she certainly hadn't contacted Jean-Luc Picard at any point during this time.

He took a sip of his wine and grimaced. Synthehol just was not an acceptable substitute for what should have been a good French vin de pays. But it was all that he had available to him where he was stationed. He didn't have the political connections or a large enough bank of favors owing, to arrange for a bottle of real wine.

His comm badge beeped. "Picard here."

"Johnny, it's Hanson. Feel like losing a few fencing matches to me?"

Picard smiled, trying to imagine the day that would never come when Admiral John Paul Hanson actually won a fencing match against Captain Jean-Luc Picard.

"Admiral, have you been drinking?"

He heard Hanson chuckle out loud. "Not yet, Johnny. Come on down to the gymnasium, number two. I've commandeered it away from the Seldonians for the next couple of hours. They may be excellent diplomats but you don't ever want to experience what they do for 'fun', Johnny."

Picard could actually hear Hanson shudder. "Is that an order, J. P.?"

"You'd better believe it, Johnny," Hanson retorted, seemingly in high spirits.

Recognizing that he had nothing better to do during his next couple of days off other than to sit around with his morose thoughts, Picard readily agreed to join the admiral.

Almost two hours later, both men were gasping for breath sitting side by side on a narrow court bench. Picard was wiping down his foil.

"Ready to yield the match to me, Johnny?" Hanson asked between aching breaths.

Picard wasn't quite as spent as J. P. appeared to be. Considering that Picard had just won the last two matches, he could only laugh out loud at the audacious rodomontade of his commanding officer and friend.

"I would think, J. P., that you should be the one hoisting up the flag of surrender over our bout." He paused for a moment, then too-respectfully added, "Sir."

Hanson roared. "I knew that there was a reason why I liked you, Johnny. You're the only captain in Starfleet who dares to talk back to me. Or really plays to win." He shook his head sneering at the thought of some of his other officers. "The rest - they're sycophants. Toadies. Not an honest man or woman amongst them."

Picard handed Hanson another towel before he answered the man. "I've only wanted to be one thing in my life, J. P."

"A starship captain," Hanson interjected.

"Yes."

"A year ago…" Hanson softly stated.

"You remember?"

"Admirals have long memories, Johnny. I never forgot the loss of my first command," Hanson empathized echoing his own sorrow with that emotion he could see hidden in Picard's eyes. He still had that identical look at times, himself. He wiped down his foil, then casually solicited, "Why have you never asked me, Johnny?"

"What, J.P.?"

"Why have you never asked me for another ship."

Picard checked the safety tip on foil, before putting it away. Then he answered his friend. "If there had been another ship available, then I presume that you would have told me."

"You're a smart man, Johnny. In spite of all those years on board the Stargazer, you learned how to work your way around Starfleet's bureaucracy, too." He sighed. "The time's not yet right, Johnny. Too many people are still upset that I've even posted you to this cushy diplomat's paradise. There's no chance for a captain's chair right now."

"And when the time is right, J. P. - will I ever get another command?"

"Johnny, I can get you another command at any time. There are plenty of desks that need piloting. But getting you another ship, a good ship, a ship that is worthy of you - now, that is a problem." He looked at his friend and then slapped him on the back. "Come along, Johnny. I've got a couple of big bottles of authentic Romulan ale that an aide of mine confiscated from some ensigns trying to smuggle them on board my shuttlecraft. The fools. As if I couldn't smell Romulan ale a parsec away. The bottles are in my quarters, and they have our names written all over them. It's time I introduce you to an old admiral's tradition in Starfleet. Let's us continue tp drink to those friends and comrades that we have lost. And to the future where you'll be able to continue to tell me all of your exaggerated tales about them."

Picard stood, extending his hand toward his friend. "Thank you, J. P. I accept. I'll come to your quarters after I take a shower."

But Hanson didn't respond with conventional trivialities. He was deadly serious as he pledged, "If I have anything to say about it, you will have your own ship again, Johnny. I've said it before and I know that I will say it again to anyone who will pay attention - you are one of the best damn starship captains in Starfleet." Hanson took Picard's hand. "Starfleet cannot afford to lose one of her best starship captains. Again. You'll get another ship when the time is right, Captain Jean-Luc Picard. This, I do promise."

THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY

"He is a man without honor. He did not die with his ship. No Klingon captain would have so disgraced himself."

Picard stood still as he heard the other officers in the classroom he was about to enter, murmur in agreement with the angry Klingon cadet. "It's true what they say about eavesdropping," he ruefully admitted to himself.

He took a controlling breath, then opened up the door to his campus classroom, knowing that the inclusion of the Klingon sophomore cadet had suddenly complicated his beginning training classes on SB 324, more so than normal. Why did I volunteer to be a guest lecturer…

Entering the room, he ignored the four young men and two women in the room as he took his position, standing at the front of the room by a small, brown metal lectern. The Klingon was the only cadet. All of the rest of the class were newly-promoted ensigns, fresh out of the Academy. They'd been sent to SB 324 for further training in piloting Oberth-class or better ships. The Klingon cadet had also been included in this rotation for some reason.

He gave no sign that he'd overheard their condemning words. Instead his gaze narrowed as he studied each and every one of them. He looked as if he had found them all wanting. "You have been sent here because you all have achieved a rudimentary level of piloting skill. If you ever wish to fly something larger and more complicated than a shuttlecraft, you will apply yourself with diligence to your studies. The course that I will teach will be difficult. Adequate flying skills are not enough to pass this course. A comprehensive, thorough knowledge of each and every one of your assigned vessels is essential. If any of you pass this course, someday, a ship's captain might entrust you to a bridge conn position."

Picard placed his padd onto the lectern. "I am well aware that some of you have achieved the remarkable feat of having been Nova Squadron members. However, such an achievement does not matter in this course. With me." He observed all but one squirm in their chairs. "You will be expected to attain a higher lever of accomplishment if you ever wish to have a command of your own one day."

On their disbelieving looks, he touched a button on his padd. "You now have your assignments for tomorrow. I will meet with you here, at 0700 hours. Dismissed."

The class then stood, waiting for Picard to pass by, when he stopped in front of the Klingon. "Cadet Worf, meet me in the training center at 0415 hours." With that, he left them to further speculate about the kind of starship captain and teacher that he was.

At 0405 the next morning, Cadet Worf entered the large multi-level training center, and then realized that he didn't know exactly where he was supposed to meet Captain Picard. After he consulted the reception computer, he was directed to a small gymnasium on the far side of the main classroom floor.

He stood in the doorway of the shadowed gym, surprised by the lack of illumination.

"Captain Picard?" he called out into the darkness. There was no answer. He took several steps forward, not even noticing the closing of the automatic doors. He tried again. "Captain?" No answer.

The Klingon's attitude did not improve. He had no time for foolishness. If a Starfleet officer of questionable honor, could not be early for his own appointment, well, that was not Worf's problem.

So Worf stood there by the side of the gym under a lone spotlight. Waiting. After the passage of a few minutes, Worf began to relax his stance. He mentally started to count out the seconds, review his studies, decide what skill level of Mok'bara he should practice should Captain Picard not appear, and consider other such mundane pursuits as he tried to occupy his mind as he waited.

He was unprepared for what happened next.

The blows were hard. Vicious. Striking him across the back and then behind his knees. Worf fell in pain. He roared in anger as he tried to counter this unexpected attack. He rolled. But his opponent was too swift - too well-prepared. Worf was jabbed several times in the ribs with a Klingon pain stick. He twisted. He howled. He kicked. And struck flesh. Several times. But it was not enough. Worf found himself flat on his stomach on the floor, with the Klingon pain stick threatening to strike him across the nape of his neck as a braced leg held him forcefully to the floor.

"Surrender or die, Klingon!"

Worf grunted.

The pain stick touched his neck. Worf flinched.

"I surrender!" he grunted into the laminate gymnasium floor. Sweat puddled beneath his chin.

Still, almost a minute passed before the man with the pain stick relented. And then, Worf was even more shocked as Captain Picard assisted him, helping him to roll over onto his back.

"Why did you concede, Cadet?" Picard ordered.

Worf recognized that this was a command from a superior officer. But he really wasn't inclined to respond.

"Why did you yield, Cadet?" Picard commanded. If anything, Picard's attitude was even more threatening than it had been a moment before.

"I…" Worf leaned back onto his elbows, refusing to cooperate.

"Answer me, Cadet!" There was no room for forgiveness in the steely determination of Picard's voice.

Worf knew that he had little choice.

"It would be foolish for me to die for no good reason. There would be no honor in such a death."

The lack of respect in the way that Worf had answered him, told Picard everything about Worf's opinion of his captain's honor. Or its lack.

"I agree, Cadet Worf." Picard stated this with a firmness that surprised Worf. Picard put down his pain stick next to the sprawled Klingon.

It took Worf a moment to really understand what Picard had just revealed. "What?"

Picard's voice was soft as he spoke. "The attack on the Stargazer was unexpected. Unprovoked. Savage. I did not have the option to die with my ship, Cadet. My surviving crew was badly injured. It was my duty to keep them alive until we could be rescued. That is the duty of a Starfleet officer. If you cannot understand it, then you do not belong at the Academy, trying to become a Starfleet officer.."

Picard's words were harsh. But Worf understood. And reluctantly accepted them.

Picard extended his hand. This time, Worf took it. But he really didn't need any help to stand up.

"Captain Picard?"

Picard took a step back from the Klingon, instinctively wincing in pain, as he realized that the Klingon had managed to inflict a few near-crippling blows of his own upon his attacker.

"Yes, Cadet Worf?"

"Why?" And then, afraid that Picard might not understand the question, Worf admitted, "Before. Yesterday. You overheard." Picard nodded. "I spoke without respect to the others. I was wrong."

"Yes, you were, Cadet Worf."

"Then, why this lesson?"

"Because I had to know what was in your heart - what kind of warrior you were, Cadet. To see if there was an intelligence and wisdom behind your courage. I have been chosen to decide if you are capable of becoming a Starfleet officer - able to abide by Starfleet's rules. That is why you were sent here to me. It is my duty to determine whether or not you are to return to the Academy for your junior year."

Worf was quiet for a while. With great respect, he spoke out. "Understood, sir." Worf thought some more, then mentioned, "Admiral Brand."

"Yes." Picard was not that surprised that Worf had figured out that the head of the Academy had arranged for his unusual transfer to Picard's training class.

"I did not know that she was my enemy."

"Cadet, she will only become your enemy if I fail you." Picard limped toward the doors. "Cadet, your only problem, now, is me." Almost as an afterthought he ordered, "Dismissed."

Worf didn't move.

Picard stood on one foot, resting his injured leg for a moment. He stared back at the Klingon, assessing him. "What is it, Cadet?"

"Do you need any assistance in going to Sickbay?"

Worf's attitude was completely deferential and respectful, but Picard thought that he detected a gleam of satisfaction in the cadet's gaze. Picard was beginning to get the measure of this man…

"I would prefer not to answer any questions about our unofficial counseling session, Cadet," Picard ruefully explained, silently acknowledging to himself the extent of the damage that the Klingon could have done to him if Worf had been alert. He knew, without commentary, that Worf would never make such an elemental mistake again.

Worf's response was a grunt of approval. He waited until Picard had left the gym. And then, Worf tested his damaged muscles. The level of pain that he felt told him that he needed to go in search of the therapeutic massage pools, knowing that he would require their recuperative powers if he was going to make it to his first class.

But still, in the darkness, he stretched for a while, considering Picard's words and deeds. This Captain Jean-Luc Picard was not an obvious man. In fact, there was an almost Klingon guile about him. Picard had given Worf a lot to think about, much more so than what most of his Academy teachers had ever done.

=/\=

"So that's how you met Worf," Deanna laughed. "I'd always wondered. I'd sensed a certain familiarity between the two of you from the very first days of the Enterprise's maiden voyage." She held out her glass for some more wine. "Did you give Worf an 'A'?"

"No." Picard chuckled. "In fact, I think that Worf used to consider my name to be an epithet worthy of a Klingon for quite a few years afterwards." He shook his head as if he recalled some amusing memories. "The next year I became a mathematics instructor in Euclidean geometry at the Academy, for a few semesters. I think that Worf must have told some lower classmen about me. Because, before I'd even taught my first class, I had acquired a reputation for ruthlessness that some teachers strive for years to achieve. And rarely do." He poured some more wine into Troi's glass. "I received the distinct impression that it was Worf's way of repaying certain debts." He paused, then grinned. "That - and a case of Klingon blood wine." He added more wine to his own crystal goblet. "I inexplicably found a case of it in my quarters when I arrived at San Francisco."

Deanna suddenly choked on her own wine. "Your first captain's mast. The wine you served before dinner…"

"Just my way of showing Mr. Worf that I remembered."

"Did you thank Worf for his consideration?"

"Worf had already entered into his deep space rotations by the time I'd arrived at the Academy."

"Perhaps that was when he decided to study tactical," Troi innocently suggested.

"You are probably correct, Deanna." Picard drank some more wine. "After the courses at SB 324 were over, Worf came to my quarters with a bottle of Klingon firewine. He wanted to show me how to honor fallen warriors the Klingon way. I needed to take a shore leave to recuperate after he'd left. Then I didn't see him again for years."

"But you requested him for the Enterprise."

"Naturally. We understood each other. He knew exactly what his new captain would expect from him."

THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY

"I predict a checkmate in thirteen moves," Woody Nakamura prognosticated. He spoke with glee as he drank some of the family wine that Picard had provided.

Nakamura glanced about Picard's quarters at the San Francisco Academy. The décor could only be described as being rather austere. There were books scattered everywhere. A sextant from a 19th century sailing ship sat on a shelf. But there was nothing more personal. In short, these quarters seemed to reflect only a bit of the personality of its occupant.

Picard moved his rook. "I think you are in error, Woody," he remarked to his pudgy superior officer, between taking sips of a surprisingly fine vin ordinaire.

"What?" Nakamura stared at the board. It took him a moment before he realized the trouble that his white queen was now in. He thought for a moment, then remarked with a casual air as if he had just recollected something that Picard would really fancy. "You know, Robert is getting married in a month."

"How the devil do you know about my brother's forthcoming marriage?"

"I'm an admiral. I know everything." Jean-Luc sent the admiral a very skeptical look. Nakamura was delighted that he could bedevil Picard. "An absolutely delightful lady by the name of Marie contacted me to see if I could help arrange for an extended leave for you. She would like you to come and visit before her wedding."

Picard's composed expression didn't waver. But mentally, he was perturbed. Considering the lady's tactics, she could become a dame formidable.

"I have already informed my brother's fiancée that I can only attend for one day."

"Nonsense," Nakamura cheerfully contradicted. "Why, Jean-Luc, if you win this game, I am sure that I could arrange for you to take shore leave. Imagine an entire week - or maybe two - at home with your brother." He grinned as he watched Picard try not to blanch. "Who cares if it's the start of the new term? After all, privilege and power are what an admiral's bars are for. Don't you agree, Jean-Luc?" Nakamura moved to protect his queen. "And why shouldn't I bestow my largesse upon an old friend to help him attend his beloved brother's wedding?"

Captain Picard was not amused. A few moves later, Picard pronounced, "Check."

Woody Nakamura looked at the board. And then looked again. He woefully complained, "And checkmate. I know. I know. You would never do anything that was the slightest bit dishonorable - like deliberately losing a chess match to your superior officer." He poured himself the last of the wine. "I wonder what your price would really be if the stakes were great enough, Jean-Luc?"

Picard chose not to respond.

Nakamura emitted a long-suffering sigh worthy of an amateur thespian. "I'll cover your classes for two days. That way, you can attend the rehearsal and the family dinner over the weekend." He drained his wine glass, then waggled the empty goblet in front of Picard's nose. "If you time it just right, you won't even have to be alone with your brother."

Picard stood, and went to a cupboard, pulling out a larger bottle of wine. This time it was Haut Medoc. Picard uncorked it. And filled their glasses.

"The Stargazer…" Picard announced.

"And those who have gone before us…" Woody continued. When he sat down, he reset the chess board.

Nakamura continued to annoy his friend. "I remember that time I accompanied you to your home for a harvest when you were a junior cadet. What a trip that was. I've known Klingons and Romulans who were more likely to talk of peace than you and your brother."

Jean-Luc placed the bottle on the table in front of Nakamura. "Woody, you have a choice."

"And that is?"

"You can either share some of my wine as we continue to drink to our past. Or, you can continue to talk about Robert. To yourself."

Woody Nakamura didn't often get a chance to drink authentic French wine for free. The stuff that they called French wine that they served at the Starfleet functions didn't come close to the quality of Jean-Luc's table wine. He chose to reminisce about the ships that he'd once commanded.

Two weeks later, Picard had to forego attending his brother's wedding. There was a crisis. And for some reason, Admiral Margarita Hildago had assigned him to be the junior aide to the Starfleet liaison to the Federation delegation for the Elaasian crisis. From there he went to Domahk II. And before Picard knew it, he became a permanent fixture of the Starfleet diplomatic delegation.

THE FOURTH ANNIVERSARY

Jean-Luc liked being posted to Galor IV. Aside from being a highly hospitable and beautiful planet, it had very interesting archaeological digs and museums, exceptional universities and superb libraries, decent restaurants and fine wineries, and many symphonies and opera houses. When he was off duty, Picard actually admitted to himself that Galor rivaled France in amenities.

The local archaeological societies had welcomed the enthusiastic assistance of an amateur digger whenever he had time off. Which was quite often, thanks to Admiral Margarita Hildago.

Starfleet Command had decided that Jean-Luc Picard was a part of the Diplomatic Corps under the direct command of Admiral Hidalgo. After a while, Picard accepted the fact that he had little choice in the matter. He was now a Starfleet career diplomat.

He found the exposure to many different worlds through his diplomatic travels, to be fascinating. And of importance. Though he was not the kind of man to publicly admit it, privately he felt a sense of satisfaction when his negotiating skills would bring about peace - or at least create a truce. He'd found a useful purpose to his life that almost, but not quite, replaced the ever-constant, aching need to be a starship captain.

And now, he was stationed on Galor IV for the entire length of the scientific conference being held at the Daystrom Institute Annex. The conference and its classes was scheduled to last about eight months. Picard was looking forward to his continuing stay.

Unfortunately, he was not looking forward to this evening's events. A grand formal reception and ball was being held at the Daystrom Galorian Intergalactic Hall. All of the delegates and their adjutants had been invited. Not to mention admirals, officials, the academe, politicians, bureaucrats and the local hoi poloi.

As a member of the Ambassador's staff, he was required to attend. Picard also recognized what his real, unspoken function was as well. It was to dance. So, Picard danced with certain delegates or their spouses, according to Admiral Hildago's wishes. He also felt some obligation to project an image of congeniality.

This he would do, if only not to earn Admiral Hidalgo's displeasure. He'd found in Rita Hidalgo, a Starfleet officer of rare intelligence with a comprehension of duty which equaled his own. Besides, though it was not necessary to like the officers under which one served, Picard found that he did like as well as respect this woman.

So, Picard stood in front of his bedroom mirror in his spacious, elegantly decorated diplomatic level quarters, and inspected his white and gold Diplomatic Corps dress uniform, just to make sure that there weren't any left-over stains from a previous formal function that the cleaning unit might have missed. When he decided that he was presentable, he walked over to a stone ledge by the side of an indoor waterfall, with a koi pond and stream that meandered throughout his indoor and outdoor gardens and the various rooms comprising his commodious quarters. They were by far, the most luxurious quarters he'd had in years.

Picking up his hand-painted porcelain tea cup, he gazed down at the large golden and bronze-hued koi which shared their home pond with him. Though he'd felt little inclination to ever have a pet as a Starfleet officer, he found that he liked the fellowship of the goldfish carp. They were pleasant companions even if they didn't say too much.

With an audible, weary sigh, he finished off his tea, and then went to fulfill his duty at the ball.

When he could speak of it in the years to come, he would divulge how Celeste St. Georges literally waltzed into his life one magical evening under a canopy of glittering stars beneath a transparent aluminum ceiling.

However, to be accurate, this major love of Jean-Luc Picard's life was actually thrust into his arms. By accident. At the time, Picard was trying to be polite by dancing with the Velosian ambassador's teenage daughter, who just so happened to be part Orion.

The girl was acting as if her sole mission in life was to flirt with every virile male under the age of twenty-five in the ballroom. She ignored Picard for she had considered his age to be too considerable. Besides, she was a fool. Picard had been chosen as her temporary keeper by her father and her father's choice would never be her own.

Unfortunately, Picard accidentally collided into a young man on the cramped dance floor. This young man ogled Picard's partner. And he took their bumping as a sign from the beneficent gods that Picard wanted to exchange partners. Before Picard could quite predict the chain of events, he found himself standing next to Celeste St. Georges in the middle of an alien packed crowd of waltzing beings. The Velosian teenager and her young man quickly vanished from the sight of any chaperone.

Couples whirled by. Some laughed. Others stared. Feeling conspicuous, and loathing being placed in such an awkward position, Picard put his arm around his new partner's waist.

"The Velosian Ambassador is not going to like finding out that his daughter just left the dance floor with a Vegan attaché - a very minor Vegan attaché." The lady's observation was tart, even as she clamped her left arm on Picard's shoulder. She pulled him onto a path where couples were rushing dangerously close by on the overly-cramped dance floor.

Celeste St. Georges then tried to count to three.

That didn't work.

"You're stomping on my foot," he casually mentioned.

She counted to three again.

"You mind if I lead?" Picard asked with just a slight display of an attitude belonging to an acidulent captain.

Suddenly, he quickly shoved her behind him. A very big, mottled blue Mayoian and her mate tumbled by, enjoying their version of rhythmic gymnastics done to a ¾ beat. Unfortunately, the Mayoii had six long, semi-coordinated silver limbs apiece. Two of them thwacked against Picard. And another limb whipped across Celeste's behind.

Picard stumbled over very big turquoise shod claws.

Despite the loudness of the music, he heard the unmistakable sound of ripping pink silk highlighted by purple netting and rhinestone chainettes.

"Merde."

Startled by the curse, and by the curser's use of a French invective, it took Picard a moment to realize that his partner's purple ankle-length net overdress was now dragging behind her along the marbleized dance floor.

"Merde!" she blurted again, with a slight touch of panic to her voice.

Dodging dancers, she gripped his arm and hauled him off the dance floor to hide behind a row of tall purple Fygyahn ferns that disguised the entranceway to a balcony.

Normally, Jean-Luc Picard did not object to finding himself in a secluded balcony alcove with brilliant stars glinting above, exotic perfumes wafting by on a gentle breeze, and with a beautiful woman clutching his arm. However, during his brief acquaintance with Celeste St. Georges, he had judged that she was not exactly beautiful. Plain was the most charitable word that came to his mind. She had an aquiline nose and a stubborn look about her eyes. He would grant her that she had an impressive bosom. And also that she obviously liked to chatter - too much for Picard's tastes. She was babbling about something even as he hastily looked around the alcove trying to glimpse another way out other than back across that madhouse of a dance floor.

There was none.

The woman moved about, assessing the extensive damage to her ensemble, and crisply announced, "I hate this dress. I knew that I should have never bought it!"

This garnered his attention. Picard stepped back, and more thoroughly inspected her. Privately wondering if she had any fashionable style sense at all, he silently agreed with the woman, though he was too much of a gentleman to say so. The bilious pink satin with the purple netting had obviously not come from Paris. He privately wondered what hell hole of fashion design had originated it.

Picard recognized his companion. He knew that Celeste St. Georges was a civilian mathematician of some sort at the Daystrom Institute Annex. He'd seen her coming and going out of Admiral Hildago's offices several times. Along the way, he'd picked up the knowledge that she was the admiral's great-niece. And was probably about thirty years in age. But since he did not care for gossip, that was about all that he knew of her.

He had noticed her the first time that she'd stumbled by him in a hallway. He then had casually decided in a nanosecond, that she was too tall for him. At the time, she'd had that glazed look that some scientific theorists acquire when their minds are concentrating on something other than noticing how to put one foot in front of the other

She had nondescript brown hair pulled up into some sort of twist that was now threatening to come undone. He thought that her eyes were brown, but with the limited light that the distant torchieres provided, he could not be sure.

And as for her figure, the poufy voluminous overdress did nothing to disclose its curves. Picard felt little inclination to pat the lady down in order to ascertain what the dress camouflaged.

He was about to say something polite and helpful when she blurted, "Mon Dieu. The way you're staring. Do I really look that awful?" And then she completely surprised him. She laughed, clearly in good humor in spite of her fashion catastrophe.

For some inexplicable reason, he found himself drawn into laughing with her. "Please don't misunderstand me, Miss. St. Georges. But I do not think that I can truthfully answer your question."

She blinked for a second. And then she burbled into laughter again. "A friend of mine told me that you were not just an officer, but that you were a real gentleman too, Captain Jean-Luc Picard. I just found it hard to believe that one of my aunt's staff members actually could be a practitioner of that old-fashioned mind set."

"You do not have a high opinion of Starfleet diplomatic officers, do you?"

"Nope. I've been around too many of them most of my life. I know." A strange expression crossed over her face as she quoted, "Society is no comfort to one not sociable…"

"Cymbeline?" he whispered, surprised by her choice of words. For it had been a long time since Jean-Luc Picard had been in the company of anyone who readily quoted Shakespeare at the drop of a hat. Or, in this case, a dress.

She took a hesitant step towards him. And tripped.

Picard caught her as she tumbled into his arms. Time stopped as he held her close, one palm crushed against her ribs, the other pressed against her back. He was surprised to perceive nothing but soft, womanly flesh scented with lavender. Unless her dress was far more daringly designed than it had first appeared to be, major damage had been done to the hideous pink silk. Too much of it was missing.

He abruptly released her.

Shaken by the brief physical contact, but not about to admit it for a second, she looked at him and then smiled, a soft gesture full of self-awareness at the ludicrous picture that she presented to him.

For a fleeting second, he thought that she possessed a rare, fair smile. And he knew then, that he was going to like her.

"Please tell me that you have some spare pins tucked away somewhere. I've already used up the extras that I'd brought with me after my first two dancing attempts."

"I seldom have need for spare pins."

She eyed his faultless dress uniform. Even in spite of his exertions, there wasn't a crease or tear or stain in sight. "That I can believe," she mumbled to herself.

He thought for a moment, then reached up and removed one of the pips from his shoulder. "Perhaps we can secure some of the fabric with these." He held the pip out to her.

"You'd have to be the most decorated officer in Starfleet before you had enough pips and medals to actually do me some good," she ruefully remarked. She turned sideways to show him the extent of the damage. Ivory satin skin was exposed from the ample swell of her left breast to the full curve of her hip.

His reaction was purely visceral. Not that he would acknowledge it, of course. Picard had always prided himself on his ability to solve problems. His first solution was to tap his comm badge. It didn't beep.

She observed the gesture. Her words were blunt. "Nice thought. But your comm badge will only work once we get outside of the reception perimeter. This is a diplomatic affair, remember? The only messages in or out are by messengers. Comm badges and transporter beams are blocked in the restricted areas."

"You are correct, Miss St. Georges." Picard did not like having been caught at making such an obvious elementary error in front of the lady. He had a sense that she could be a merciless opponent if she so wished. He decided to counter her challenge with one of his own. "Do you have a solution, Miss St. Georges?"

He didn't mean to sound irritated, but he was. The sight of her flesh peeking through the various disaster areas of her dress was more of an arousing vision that he ever would have predicted. And he was bothered by the fact that she even had the capability of bothering him.

"She is not my type," he muttered to himself for the first time that night. It would not be the last time.

"Actually, I do have a solution, Captain. Come here," she ordered.

"What?"

She reached over and grabbed his right hand and draped sequined netting over his arm. "Hold the fabric over my right shoulder. I will use my two hands to keep the skirt from dropping to the floor." She moved. Something ripped. She cursed again. "Damn these Argellian dancing dresses!"

He froze. Which also happened to permit the palm of his hand to linger against the curve of her derriere.

"Argellian dancing dress?" he managed to choke out, shaking his head as if he did not quite believe what he was hearing.

"Yes. The boutique clerk assured me that it was the perfect dress for a memorable night…" She shut up when she realized that she had scandalized him.

"Mon Dieu… Don't you know that these Argellian dresses are designed to fall apart at close physical contact? Like dancing?"

"In public?" she gasped.

"Sometimes. Usually the wearer is dancing in private," was his curt explanation.

"Merde. So that's why my friend told me not to wear any underwear when I wore the dress."

He was not pleased to be the recipient of this piece of information. Then he began to grasp the fact that with her every additional movement, the greater the odds were that the dress would disintegrate into dust rags on to the ballroom floor.

He considered their problem. "How the devil did the dress last on you through three dances? It's been my experience that it can slip off well before the end of the first…" Now it was Picard's turn to shut up.

"I added the purple netting and obi sash. I thought it gave a little additional support to the dress," she confessed.

"Little support indeed," was his verbal criticism, as at least one of his mental questions was answered; he'd never seen an Argellian dancing dress that had looked this peculiar before.

"She is not my type!" was his silent personal reminder.

For a moment there was a hush between them as only the music intruded. Now, instead of a boisterous gallop, the soft seductive flutes to a Risian melody could be heard.

"Well, I can only thing of one way out of this mess," he angrily remarked, not sparing any thought for her feelings. His energies were focused on controlling only his own.

"I won't arrange for my great-aunt to damn you to an eternal diplomatic bureaucratic hell if you leave me." The words were bravely said, as she accepted his umbrage.

She could see that he was upset with her. She just could not quite believe what her instincts were screaming as to the reasons why. She'd heard too much about this fearless Starfleet captain who had a battle move named after him, to ever believe that he could be interested in an unadventuresome mathematician. "I can stay here until the ball is over. Then I should be able to return to my apartment." She thought of something else. "Merde. I left my purse on the banquet table." She stared him straight in the eye, trying to disguise any trace of the misery that she was feeling. "Could I borrow a couple of credits? Unless you want to go to my table and get my purse for me…"

"Don't be an idiot," was his next unkind remark. All of his diplomatic disciplines disappeared as he stared back at her, trying to fathom just exactly what it was that he should do with this aggravating young woman. He couldn't credit his immediate first inclination, which kept repeating like a Moebius band loop in his brain. It was the only suggestion that his passionate nature kept proposing. "You need a keeper," he unwisely observed.

"No thank you," she replied in a very prim, brittle voice. "I have already had one. I do not need another."

"Merde." This time Jean-Luc Picard cursed aloud. He reached over and picked her up in his arms. She was heavier than he had guessed, but he could manage carrying her.

"Put. Me. Down," she imperially ordered. She gave into her temper and swatted at his shoulder. This movement, coupled with the already tenuous hold of her dress seams was enough to cause her bodice to slide off.

"Be still!" He said it with his best captain's voice, even as he schooled his eyes not to look downward upon more unexpected temptation. He also warned, "If I have to carry you across that ballroom leaving behind a trail of purple netting, then I will!"

She settled into his arms, rearranged some fabric, put an arm around his neck, quickly decided that this was the best diplomatic function that her aunt had ever dragged her to, and then meekly observed, "Why do I get the feeling that you've had practice doing this before?"

"Pull up that netting around your chest. Let it cover at least something, unless you have no objection to the gossip that will otherwise result," he commanded.

She complied, then whispered into his ear, "I hope that being seen with me like this does not damage your reputation."

Considering the kind of near-celibate lifestyle he'd been living over the past few years, he couldn't help it. He laughed out loud. Again.

Stifling her laughter down to giggles, she blithely gazed about the dance floor with an innocent expression on her face as he carried her swiftly across the floor and out of the ball room.

In actuality, only a few people noticed them. Though it would be enough for the gossipmongers.

=/\=

"She sounds like a wonderful person, Captain," Troi commented as she observed her captain uncorking another bottle of his family's wine.

Somehow, Jean-Luc Picard intuited the direction of her thoughts. "We will be taking tomorrow off as personal time, Deanna. Captain's orders."

"Aye, sir."

After he refilled her goblet, he responded to her prior statement. "Celeste was one of the few truly magnificent women that I have ever known, Deanna. She had a brilliant, quicksilver mind, a wicked wit, an annoying, deprecating sense of self, and a wonderful, warm heart." He remembered, "I never defeated her in chess, even when she spotted me a couple of pieces. She loved all theatre genres - Shakespeare, Offenbach, Rostand, T'Palor, American musicals…" He tasted his wine before he added, "She was another woman who was foolish enough to love me…"

Though he didn't say anything more, Troi sensed an echo of Beverly Crusher and Eline's name as part of his ruminations too.

"And then what happened?"

He told her.

Troi sat there, listening to his story, grateful that the wine was lowering some of the barriers that he normally kept between them. She was finally beginning to understand everything that she needed to know about this man, though later on she would wonder why Celeste's name had never appeared in his psych files. Now, the more that she knew, the more she would be able to help him face his destiny.

=/\=

"Put me down," she protested again. But she didn't really mean it. No one had ever treated her to such extended romantic gallantry before. In fact, she was hard pressed to come up with any romantic gallantry that anyone had ever proffered before in her life. She schooled her face not to reveal how thrilled she was by his actions.

Picard carried her through darkened, empty corridors toward his quarters. He told himself that it was only because his rooms were closer than her apartment, that he had chosen this destination.

Sometime during their walk, she became really impressed with his stamina, for she knew that she was not exactly a lightweight damsel in his arms. Then she began to form a suspicion as to exactly where he was carrying her.

"Is that what they mean by 'the Picard Maneuver'?" she asked with a chuckle as he lowered her to the floor in front of his quarters.

"Yes. No." He spoke quickly, abruptly, as if he wasn't sure how to respond to her query. He held her for a while, as if he wasn't exactly certain what he should do with her.

When he finally did let her stand on her own two feet, she couldn't stop her instinctive, nervous reactions. She started blathering. "Why don't you let me borrow your comm badge? I'm sure that I can persuade whomsoever is on duty to beam me somewhere closer to my place… Or I can contact my…"

He tapped in his door code and stepped inside, holding out his hand to her. "Come along, Miss St. Georges. I am sure that I have a clean fencing suit that you can wear." He studied her for a moment, standing in the light cast by the hallway spots. "And if that doesn't work, there is always my running clothes."

She took his hand. "I knew you'd be a runner," she grumbled as she stepped inside his living room. "And, of course, a fencer." The swooshing of the doors as they closed startled her. "My apartment's doors are the old-fashioned, shut-'em-yourself kind."

She searched for an acceptable explanation for her nervousness other than the truth. He made her nervous. Very nervous. Twitchy. But what truly panicked her was the idea that he seemed to be feeling the same way too. She'd never been in a situation like this before. Not even on her honeymoon…

He left her. Going into his bedroom, he pulled out his silver fencer's jumpsuit from a chest. Considering that it was a skintight suit on him, he thought about how it would look stretched over her body for a long moment. Then he went in search of his old Academy sweatshirt and shorts.

He found them and returned to the living room.

Celeste was carefully inspecting the book titles in his bookcases. He handed the outfit to her. She barely noticed his actions. She was too busy trying to form an opinion of this man based upon what he kept in his library. She could tell by the way he kept his library, that he was a man who actually read his books, and didn't collect them just to be a display to impress someone. She was trying to understand a man who actually liked to read Shakespeare, classic mystery novels and obscure archaeology texts. He had eclectic tastes - quite similar to her own.

She spotted something of interest. With growing excitement, she asked, "What did you think of Hagaar's Demons of Air and Darkness? I've been working on a theory trying to prove that the Iconians were the real victims and not the aggressors…"

He hid his delight at the discovery that she too, was interested in one of his pet projects. But as much as he wished to continue this discussion, too much of her outfit was still dangerously drooping.

Her shoulder strap fell off.

For a second he compared her to an Amazon goddess.

"Perhaps you should…" He pointed to a place beyond the far waterfall wall. Speaking as if he were the most polite, proper host on the any planet, he explained, "The bathroom is over there. If you wish to freshen up…"

Appreciating his consideration, as well as understanding the reasons behind his gesture, she cautiously walked toward the bathroom. She only tripped over her dragging dress twice. Unfortunately, as she stepped along the way, the lights in each area automatically came on. As they were programmed to do, they highlighted the path of the person passing by. When she was almost there, she gave up trying to hold all of the pieces of her dress together. She simply dashed away.

It took quite a bit of his soon-to-be-legendary self-discipline to force himself not to dwell upon what the lighting had revealed. She was not the sylphlike sophisticated woman that was his usual preference for a sexual companion. But he could not shake his body's and mind's reaction to the knowledge that Celeste St. Georges was a woman of alluring feminine distinction.

He wanted her.

Then he heard multi-lingual cursing emanating from the bathroom. He could only assume that she'd stubbed her toes on something. He focused his thoughts away from wondering whether or not she was hurt… needed assistance… He forced himself not to think of coming to her aid. He had to believe that if she did need any help, she'd ask for it.

"She is not my type," he informed the attentive fish. Disappointed that no snack was forthcoming, they swam away.

For almost a minute he considered making some tea. For though his quarters were quite opulent, in the small work area that doubled as a kitchen, it only had a simple functional food replicator which could not, in his estimation, replicate a proper cup of Earl Grey. He usually had to actually boil the water on the cooker.

But when he went to the replicator, he saw the time and date on its controls. It was after this planet's midnight. Technically, in Federation Standard, it was now Bastille Day, his day of remembrances and atonement; his personal Yom Kippur as it were.

And even though he'd received some sub-space messages from Vigo and Hanson, tonight he would be lonely. But he did not have to choose to be alone…

He shook off his looming melancholy as he tried to logically figure out what to do with the woman in his bathroom. For she was his boss' great-niece after all…

Wishing to display the utmost in appropriate hospitality, he ordered up a pot of coffee, cream, sugar, and some biscuits. And then he opened up a bottle of the local version of an acceptable, drinkable wine, a chilled Vouvray-type white. He placed the coffee set, two wine glasses and two coffee mugs on a silver tray which he carried into the living room.

At first he set the tray down on the coffee table. But when he considered Miss St. Georges' bumblesome tendencies, he moved the tray to a side table, out of her harm's way. He could easily serve her something to drink if she chose to sit on the couch facing the garden.

He waited. After several more minutes had passed, he began to wonder if she did indeed need some assistance.

He had a vision of her slipping in his water shower, stumbling over some soap…

And then she showed up.

Picard openly stared at her, shocked by what she was wearing - his short grey robe, and blue slippers.

She faced him, putting his running clothes on the back of a tufted ecru upholstered arm chair.

"They, uh, didn't fit," she spelled out, as if she needed to give him some sort of explanation for refusing his hospitality. "You weigh a few kilos less than I do. I've got bigger…" She gestured at what she thought were the differences between them.

Seemingly unaware of the effect that she was having on his self-control, she continued nervously babbling. "I hope that you don't mind, but I took a shower. And then I stuffed that wretched, damned dress into your trash basket."

"No. I don't mind," was all that he was capable of whispering at this moment. He could not look away from her as he watched her unwrap a puce bath towel from her hair.

Her hair fell about her neck. And then seemingly continued to fall. He bit his lip as he watched her hair tumble below her shoulders and down her back.

"Uh," she continued, still seemingly oblivious, "do you have a hair dryer, Captain?" And then the absurdity of that question struck her. She laughed. And laughed, even as she plopped down onto the sofa. Even as she futilely tried to untangle a strand or two of her hair with her trembling fingers..

He found himself laughing with her again. "Uh, no…"

Later on , he would not be able to remember a time when there had been more laughter in his life, than when he was by her side.

"Allow me," he uttered in a voice so low that she had to strain to hear him. Before she could protest, he went around the couch. He stood behind her, picking up the towel to rub her hair. "I must remember to get you some hair rinse," he remarked without thinking, as he tried to gently work through some of the tangles with his fingers.

She'd never understood the phrase 'putty in his hands' before. She did now.

"Don't you have a comb?" she heaved, as she tried to keep a clear, sane head.

"Perhaps I do."

He left her. She tried not to feel disappointed. A moment later he returned, holding out to her a long metal thing with rows of varying length teeth which sort of resembled a comb. "A Minaan food pick," he explained. "It was the only thing that I could think of which the food replicator would know how to reproduce. If we use it carefully, it should suffice." And then, even as "She is NOT my type!" became his silent mantra, he added, "I have a portable fire. It does cast some warmth. If you promise not to dance anywhere near it without me to guide you, I will place it on the coffee table."

She was too tongue-tied to think of an appropriate retort for his unintentional insult. Especially since she knew that his assessment of her dancing skill was rather accurate. She was quite wanting when it came to graceful movements. She was a mathematician for heavens sake! She'd gone from boarding school to grad school to the Daystrom Institute with little else in her life other than a brief marriage in between. Only her Aunt Rita had tried to expose her to a so-called 'normal' life. Well, she'd heard enough gossip about this captain's kind of lifestyle to know that she was not the usual sort of woman that he invited back to his quarters.

The only man who had ever invited her anywhere, a long time ago, had been her math professor husband…

And then she considered that Captain Jean-Luc Picard, senior aide to the Starfleet diplomatic mission, had not exactly invited her here. For a moment she almost convinced herself that he was offering her nothing beyond polite pleasantries.

But then she noticed the tray with the wine bottle. The sight of the two waiting goblets rocked her. And as she watched him set up what was essentially a portable camping fire, there was also a glowing look in his eye which all of her self-deprecation could not chase away.

As impossible as it was for her to believe, Captain Jean-Luc Picard was attracted to her. Almost as much as she was responding to him.

"I'd better leave," she blurted out, standing as if she really wanted to escape toward the door.

"No, you don't!" he yelled, not knowing why he felt compelled to stop her from going. He just knew that she had to stay with him. Especially today. He needed her. But he mentally refused to face just how desperately.

"You can't keep me here." She sounded far more brave than she was.

"I have no intention of doing so." His voice continued to rise. There was a part of him that wondered how this impossible woman could so quickly bring him to such a great state of exasperation. And arousal.

"Oh." She took a step backward, feeling foolish.

He took a step back as well, recognizing that on some level, she might be misinterpreting his actions.

"I have a cloak. It's Vulcan wool. It will be rather uncomfortable to wear, but it will cover what is necessary when I escort you back to your apartment."

"There is no need," she firmly replied, unaware that this was not the wisest attitude to take with a former starship captain who as was stubborn as she was.

"I am not going to let you roam about a night dressed only in my robe barely covering your…"

"Ass-ets?" She knew that he had a point.

He nodded, not trusting his ability to make a verbal response.

"All right. You may accompany me - ten paces behind, like the Vidoran males do." She grinned, the sort of instinctual, purely feminine expression that all sorts of bedeviled male authors had attempted to write about for many a century.

Her smile went straight to his groin.

There was a part of him that truly believed that she had to know what she was inciting. At this point, he decided that he was not going to let her leave his life without kissing her at least once, if only to prove to himself how thoroughly inaccurate his active imagination could be.

He took a step toward her.

She moved, and found herself falling onto the sofa.

He reached to catch her.

But he was the one truly caught.

He held her with gentle hands. She could break free is she so wished. But she didn't. "You must go," he murmured.

"You right. You are probably the kind of man who is always right."

"Usually, I am." His smile was soft, reassuring. "But, not tonight…" He was lost in her starry-eyed gaze, wondering how she could suddenly come to be as vital to him as was his desire for the stars.

With great deliberateness, he slowly moved closer to her, touching her, lowering his lips down onto her soft lips. He was giving her every possible chance to save herself. The kiss was brief. But the conflagration it started, was something that only the fates would extinguish.

Finally breaking away from his arms, she whispered in an odd tone of voice, "Please, go and get that cloak."

He could not disguise his sense of disappointment. But he said nothing more, releasing her. And then he walked away.

Years ago, Guinan had warned him that there would be certain times in his life when his logic and sanity and belief in his duty would prove futile against mercurial fate. That at these times, the only thing that would ever matter, would be what he felt in his heart. He would have to trust his instincts. Picard now grasped the point of Guinan's lecture.

When he came back, he could only stare at her.

Bemused.

Amused.

Amazed.

Grateful.

Celeste was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the fire. The lighting was lower than it had been before. She had poured some wine. And she was struggling to comb her many strands of snarled hair.

"Last chance to throw me out," she announced, peering at him through meandering tendrils of curling silk strands tinted in subtle shades of mahogany and gold.

He would question his judgment from now until the day he died as to how he could have ever thought of her hair as a nondescript brown.

She smiled up at him, as if her heart were his for the taking.

He caught his breath. And when he released it, he was a different man from what he had once been. He now needed more than the stars to find fulfillment.

"You are beautiful…"

"You don't have to lie to me, Jean-Luc…" Her voice quavered.

"I never have. And I never will," he promised, sitting above her on the edge of the aventurine marble coffee table. "Celeste…"

The way he said her name calmed her rattled nerves more quickly than a thousand additional promises would have done. He removed the comb from her fingers and began to lightly straighten out the more stubborn tangles.

"I am not your typical date, Jean-Luc." She bravely said his given name without hesitation. Or permission.

"Considering that I have yet to invite you out, that statement is incorrect."

It took her a second to realize that he was teasing her.

"What? No witty retort?" His touch was still gentle as he continued to comb her hair. "Your percipience is something that I have quickly come to expect from you. And appreciate. He leaned closer, and softly spoke her name into her ear. "Celeste…"

She felt a thrill dance along her nerve endings. No man had ever said her name like that to her before. But she felt that she owed him some sort of truths. "It is just those others…your others… that is…"

"There will be no others when I am with you." He put down the comb for a moment.

"Me, too." Her words could barely be heard.

Even in the firelight, he could tell that she was blushing.

She tried to change the subject. "You never did tell me what you think of the Iconians…"

"I will." He bent down and placed a light kiss against the nape of her neck. He was pleased to feel her shiver in response. "But not now," he advised. Then he said nothing more. He just continued to comb her hair, lingering now and then to brush his fingers against her cheek or her neck.

"There's only been my husband…" She whispered the words and then waited for his reaction. When he said nothing more, she came to a conclusion. He either trusted her enough to know that she would not be with him if she were committed to someone else. Or else, it didn't matter in the slightest to him.

For a minute, she was afraid to see which it really was. Then she raised her eyes to look upon his face. And there was trust there. Tears welled, as she reached up to caress his cheek.

"Emile died four years ago."

"I'm sorry." He could think of nothing more to say or do other than to brush aside her stray tear.

"The time for sorrow is past," she whispered, sensing that in his own way, he carried a grief as great as hers. "Emile was more my mentor than my husband, but we did respect each other," she explained.

He then recognized the name. "The great theoretician." Then he thought of something else. "You're C. J. St. Georges, aren't you?" Suddenly he became excited as if recollecting something of great importance. "You wrote several papers providing further proof of Lorenz's nonlinear scientific theories."

She was thrilled and delighted with his knowledge of her publications. "You've read my work?"

"Of course. You're the foremost expert on…" Unexpectedly, he roared. His laughter was loud, but sounded forced as if it were something that he was out of practice doing. But it was genuine, filled with pleasure. "Of course. How apropos… You're an expert on chaos theories…"

"I specialize in it."

He took her statement quite seriously. "Yes. I believe that you always will…"

And though she prized his obvious respect for her field of research, and was impressed by the fact that he had actually read her papers, she had other more pressing needs that she wished to discuss with him.

Reaching over, he picked up the goblets and handed one to her. He still shook his head as if trying to clear it.

"C. J.?"

"Celeste-Josee…" she whispered.

"Celeste-Josee…" he murmured, pleased by the poetical sound of her name.

She drank her wine, finishing it off. Then, she waited until he put the glass safely out of her reach. Rising to her knees, she leaned into him. Softly, at first, she kissed him. But then, she demonstrated an enthusiasm that was all the more endearing to him because of her lack of sophisticated expertise.

For a while, they kissed as she wished. But then he spoke, his voice low, heavy with unfamiliar, unexpected emotions. "When it comes to this passion's dance, I will lead."

"Are you always this bossy?" But her actual acceptance was given with another kiss.

"Of course. I'm a captain…"

She bestowed on him a loving smile.

And then he decided that he had judged her to be plain only as a self-defense mechanism guided by his subconscious recognition of her potential power over him.

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"One 'aye' is sufficient," he instructed as he lifted her up onto his lap.

"We'll see…"

=/\=

"And then what happened?"

He raised an eyebrow, casting a mocking look in her direction.

"Other than the obvious," Deanna hastily added.

She had always known that there had been some sort of great personal blow hidden in his past. But he had always kept the walls up, preventing her from probing into something that he had deemed not pertinent to his functioning as a Starfleet officer.

He stared into his wine glass as if he could not look at Troi as he chose to decide how to answer her. "We lived together for almost a year. Two nights after we met, she took over my life. And my quarters." He looked away from Deanna, and whispered, "She liked my fish…"

Troi knew that everything that Celeste had done had been with his full permission and cooperation. She drank her wine as she listened.

"Celeste rather fancied the fish swimming throughout the ponds in our rooms. She kept adding various species to the pond. She also proclaimed that Starfleet officers were assigned better living quarters than civilians." He swallowed a large drink of wine. "The only times we were ever apart, other than when I was on a mission, was when she forgot to come home." His laugh sounded constrained to the counselor's ears.

"Forgot?"

"She used to get lost in thought, pondering a rebuttal to some abstract academic argument. I had to go to the Institute and find her in her office, to remind her to come home. Then she used to argue that she wanted to see my home - France." He wouldn't look at Troi. "She had never been to Earth. I promised to be her tour guide. One day… But I kept postponing it."

She knew what else he was remembering. "You were happy."

"Yes, Deanna. We were. In fact, I knew that I had never known such consummate happiness before." For a brief second he thought of Eline. "And in this reality, I have never known its equal again."

"And then…" Her voice was soothing, her concern obvious. For thought she sensed that Jean-Luc Picard had properly grieved for his love, his sense of loss was still enormous.

"I became a rising star in the diplomatic corps. A much touted, in demand rising star."

Deanna Troi understood that he wasn't boasting. She knew his record as a diplomat too well.

"I found myself assigned to more and more difficult negotiations. We'd been together about ten months when the Cygnia conflicts arose. I didn't want to go because it would have meant leaving Celeste alone for several months. But she insisted that I do go." He finished off his wine, as if he were forcing himself to remember the exact sequence of events. It had been a very long time since he'd spoke of it. "Celeste had been offered a teaching position at the Vulcan Science Academy. She was the first Human mathematician ever to be so honored. Naturally, I told her to accept. And that, after the Cygnian crisis was resolved, I'd take a leave of absence from Starfleet and join her on Vulcan."

He sounded bitter to Troi.

"Even though I'd never personally met him at that time, Ambassador Sarek had offered me a position in his delegation several times. I was tempted to accept."

"And…"

"A Vulcan pilot made an error…" His voice broke. "Can you really imagine any Vulcan making a beginning pilot's mistake? But this one did. And their shuttle crashed. She was the only one who died - my heavenly Celeste." He dropped his wine glass and didn't even notice it shattering.

"There's more," the counselor knowingly stated, even as she went over to his replicator and ordered up two large mugs of strong, black Russian tea. Then she found a whisk broom and pan for the glass shards.

"I sent her a subspace message asking her to marry me. I never received a reply."

Troi came over to him with the tea and two chicken salad sandwiches. "You paint a vivid picture of the woman, Captain. If she was intelligent enough, courageous enough, and yes, even wise enough to love you, then I think that you already know her response in your heart."

"Actually, knowing Celeste, she probably would have had several opinions and an argument or two, before answering with a simple reply such as a yes or a no." He attempted to smile. "One of the true regrets of my life is that I will never know her answer."

Deanna Troi could not describe what she was feeling from her captain. It was too complex, too full of pain and joy over his lost love's memory.

"You see, I didn't take Celeste with me because I thought that my mission would be too hazardous. She understood that I needed to only worry about doing my duty. I didn't need to have added worries about her safety. I believed that she would be safer on Vulcan." He stood and picked up his tea, turning around to face the unforgiving coldness of the stars. "I was wrong."

THE FIFTH ANNIVERSARY

She found him on Breenia Minor IV. Two months had passed since Picard had successfully concluded the Cygnia negotiations.

And since Celeste had died…

He never revealed to her why he'd gone to this Breenia colony. Considering how the Breen felt about Starfleet officers, much less Starfleet diplomatic officers, she was amazed that he was in one piece and almost accepted as part of the community at an outpost on the southernmost continent of this forsaken planet.

Though the locale where he was holed up was considered to be a settlement, in reality it was nothing more than a cold, muddy place with a few stone houses and two bars where almost anything could be had for a price.

Guinan moved into his residence, surprised by the evidence that, in spite of whatever hell it was that Jean-Luc Picard was undergoing, certain personal habits never changed. His cottage was a pigsty. But it was as clean and orderly a pigsty as this Starfleet officer could make it. It was also a one-room pigsty with primitive hygienic facilities and one small bed.

He was gone. There was nothing for her to do but cook until he came back.

Two miserable, soggy days passed before he finally showed up.

"You're not welcome," he said by way of greeting, dropping his ferrier tools in a corner.

"That's something I never thought that you'd ever say to me, Jean-Luc."

"You will hear it often enough until you go."

"I will live longer than you. You'll die first."

Her words shocked him. But he didn't tell her. Instead he took off his black greatcoat and hung it on a peg along with his smithy's rawhide apron. "I've been working." He felt no compunction to explain his actions.

But Guinan knew how strongly he'd reacted to the mention of death. "Do you believe that you were the one who should have died - not her?"

He nodded. He couldn't speak those words out loud.

"I thought that you were a better poker player than this, Jean-Luc."

He was cognizant enough to sense her disgust. "You are not wanted here, Guinan. Go away. And take your damn poker-playing metaphors with you!"

"I'll think about it. In the meantime, here's something else that I never thought I'd ever say to you: Coward! You are a coward, Jean-Luc." She pulled her brown cape about her and went out into the howling night winds, leaving behind a shocked man alone to think.

He ran out the door after her. "Guinan!" he roared against the wind.

She stared at him for a moment, then turned her back on him and walked away, down the mucky hillside toward the lights of the taverns in the distance.

He watched her disappear into the blackness, suddenly angry that she had dared to leave him alone. And when she didn't come back, reluctantly he went back inside of the cottage, noticing for the first time, that it was warmer inside than outside.

Hours later he was rudely awakened from a troubled sleep full of regrets… She was standing over him by the cot, poking him.

"Move over," she ordered.

When he finally inched his way to the wall, she got onto the cot, wrapping her cape over them both. "Sleep, now."

He resented the fact that she was still ordering him about, but the warmth of her body somehow seemed familiar. And he fell asleep. A deep sleep, the first that he'd known in what seemed like forever.

About two days of eating Guinan's lousy cooking and obeying all of her orders, since he found that it was better to work than to wait to hear another lecture, he began to notice the little annoying things that she did. And when he finally took umbrage, Guinan stopped. Somewhat. And paid attention to him.

That night, after they'd gone to bed, he kissed her. He knew better. She was not Celeste. She could never be Celeste. But he needed the warmth that she could provide. He needed to feel like a man again. And even as he cried in her arms afterwards, he knew that he would still need Guinan again. And again.

It took a while, but the next day after watching the rare sight of unfamiliar suns setting without the benefit of rain clouds, he started to actually listen to what Guinan was and was not saying. When he interrogated Guinan over his current status with Starfleet, she knew then, that he'd come back with her.

Over hard rolls, no-polite-name soup and hot drinks, they conversed into the night.

"Am I considered AWOL, Guinan? Or have they given me the benefit of the doubt?"

"You're not a wanted man, Jean-Luc. And least, not according to Starfleet. You're still on the extended personal leave that you requested when you wanted to go to Vulcan. You can return to your duty when you are ready."

"I stole a Federation shuttlecraft…"

"You borrowed a Federation shuttlecraft that was on loan to you on Cygnia II."

"The Cygnians know otherwise."

"I once lived on Cygnia II. I still have family there. I blackmailed the proper authorities. No one will ever dare make an accusation against you. They know I'd sic my Uncle Terkim on them if they did."

He drank the bitter brew that passed for coffee on this misbegotten world. Finally he observed, "You've lost people that you've loved."

"Many times, Jean-Luc. Many times." Her eyes finally held a touch of compassion for him. "One day I'll lose you too…"

"And yet…"

"I will continue to look for love. Whether you live to be a hundred or a thousand, the loss of love hurts like hell, Jean-Luc. That part never changes. Only the parameters of your grief change. But never the sense of loss." She sat across from him at the short wood table that they used for everything in the cottage. "Sorrow is always there, like a great beast."

"Meaning?"

"If you bathe it, feed it, and pet it, eventually you will tame it."

"Is that what you are doing to me, Guinan?"

She ignored this question. Instead she looked out the window into the rainy night. "Jean-Luc, one of these days you're going to have to tell me how you got that shuttlecraft all the way over to this wretched planet in one piece." And then she left him alone for a while.

An hour later, she returned with a dark crockery jug. "The local recipe for a Klingon killer." She pulled out a gooey stopper from the neck of the jug. "To the Stargazer," she announced as she took a swig.

"Aren't you afraid that I'll drink myself to death?" He avoided thoughts about last year's anniversary and how he'd spent it making love with Celeste.

"You'd have done that months ago, if that had been your intention." She passed him the jug. "I have to apologize, Jean-Luc."

He was mid-swallow, as he forced himself not to gag, then choked out, "What?"

"I thought that you'd handle Celeste's death as well as how you coped with the loss of the Stargazer and Jack Crusher's death. I was wrong not to be there for you when you needed me. You used the Cygnia mess as a mask for you grief. I should have known that you would cover up your feelings."

"Yes, you should have - but I won't hold it against you." He took another drink then spit some of the mushy stopper out. "I'd rather be drinking synthehol."

"Then it really is time for us to go home," Guinan softly stated.

He nodded. Silently accepting her words. "I will never forget this, Guinan."

"As if you think I'd ever let you."

He stood and went over to the stove, pouring some of the inky black liquid that some called coffee into his metal cup. The only good thing that he could say about this drink was that it was hot. And that it could disguise the taste of the liquor that Guinan had provided. He went back to his chair and poured the vile liquid into his coffee.

"You'd have liked her, Guinan, if you had met her."

"I knew Celeste."

Picard spilled some of the brew. "What? Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I didn't want to frighten you."

"

What?" He wasn't following her logic at all.

"I used to meet Celeste for dinner whenever you were off on one of your missions. To tell you the truth…" she admitted.

"Please, do." He was trying to control his sense of confusion.

"…I knew Celeste before you even met her."

"What?" This time he didn't disguise his discomposure. Then a sudden thought took hold. "Did you…" He could barely utter his next words." "…set me up?"

"Nope."

He breathed a sigh of relief.

Guinan continued. "I set you both up. When I first met Celeste, I just knew that she'd be someone that you'd appreciate too." She raised an eyebrow as she watched him sputter wordlessly. "I like my friends to get to know each other."

Focusing on the trivialities, another thought cropped up as he considered Guinan's taste in clothing. And he contrasted it with what Celeste usually chose to wear. "Are you the friend?"

Guinan did not pretend not to understand him. "Yes. I once took Celeste shopping for a ball gown." And she would admit to nothing more.

For a while there was strained silence between them as each mulled the other's actions.

But Guinan did have more to say. "I had to do it, you know, Jean-Luc. For both your sakes. If you'd kept going the way you were, you'd have refused to have a deep, loving relationship with any woman. Otherwise, you'd have never known what truths really matter in the universe…"

He was angry, though he controlled himself. "I knew what love was, Guinan!"

"No. You didn't. All of the women in your life prior to Celeste, were mere shadows; nothing of substance."

"Oh, really?" He started to think of a line of defense against her argument.

"Jenice. Miranda. Phillipa. Corlina," she recited with a too-knowing expression in her eyes. "Safe women all."

"I was… fond of them all." Considering what he'd shared with Celeste, he did concede that he couldn't call those relationships love affairs. "And what do you mean by safe?"

"Touched your mind or your libido, or both. But they never shot any arrows into your heart. I knew that Celeste would be different." Guinan raised a hairless eyebrow. "And so did you, even from the very beginning."

"Yes, Guinan. But you still don't know what you are talking about. I have loved before. Deeply. Passionately." He looked away from her, remembering that time,

"Oh yes, that great lady that you could love safely from afar - Beverly. Another man's wife. Your best friend's wife. She doesn't count because she was no threat to you or your precious career…" Guinan mumbled to herself, "At least, not yet."

He contained his anger, as he tried to comprehend the motives behind Guinan's actions. She never did anything without some purpose. "What are you trying to say to me, Guinan?"

"You needed to fall in love with Celeste. I deeply regret that Celeste died. Your future would have been completely different if she had lived." Guinan took another swig of her rust remover. "Besides, I had plans to baby-sit your kids."

Picard contemplated her words and eventually admitted, "You would not have been an acceptable babysitter," he grumpily stated. He paused, knowing that he owed her a great deal besides a nasty temper. Mere words would not repay his debts to her, but he had to at least admit to them. "Thank you, Guinan. I am glad that I was given the chance. I never knew…" He couldn't give voice to every intimate thought. "I doubt if I ever will love like that again."

"You're welcome, Jean-Luc." Guinan relaxed, deciding that matters would proceed as they should. "You'll love again, you know. But never like the first. Celeste will always stay in your heart."

He could not respond to her for a long time. He just slowly sipped his drink and thought about all that he had lost in his life. And all that he had gained. And about all that his future now held.

"And, Guinan."

"Yes, Captain?"

"You have never frightened me."

"Well, maybe I should every once in a while. Do you some good. There are some in Starfleet Command who are wise enough to be afraid at the mere mention of my name."

"And so they should," Picard amiably agreed. He stood, and went to pack up a case.

"Going somewhere?"

"Guinan, I thought that I'd go back to Earth with you."

Guinan looked around the dismal room. "Tired of this ambiance already?"" She gulped a bit more of the Breenian version of poteen. "Better that you should go to Vulcan instead," she suggested. "I'll drop you off."

"Since I am still on leave…" He waited until Guinan nodded in agreement. "…Vulcan sounds preferable to facing Earth at this moment."

"The VSA is looking for a math teacher." She watched the pain travel across his body as if it were a solid, vicious blow. He comprehended the justification behind her information. He also did not say no. "Good. We'll go to Vulcan. You could use some of their acquired disciplines." Guinan then stood, straightening out her mud brown robes before joining him to help him pack. "Besides, my Uncle Terkim is up to no good."

He forced himself to listen. "And?"

"You should join us, someday. Being around Terkim when he is up to no good is always a lot of fun. I think I'm going to go join him for a while."

When they were finished packing, Picard moved the case onto the floor and then sat down on the edge of the cot. He simply looked over at Guinan. "Thank you again, Guinan, for everything."

"You needed me."

She sat down next to him, straightening out the folds to her wool dress, then removing her miter-form hat. She unwound her braided crown of hair.

He watched her for a while before realizing that she was preparing for bed.

"And now?" He kissed her as a suggestion.

"Jean-Luc, do you still need me?"

"No." He considered her words for quite a few moments before he came to a conclusion. "But I do want you, Guinan."

Guinan bestowed upon him her most annoying grin as she kissed him back, pleased with his intentions. "In that case, let me give you a few friendly pointers…."

THE SIXTH ANNIVERSARY

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that, Picard?" Even as his opponent uttered this bit of character assessment, she slammed, with a racket, a pronged metal version of a Vulcan shuttlecock back over the net, aiming straight for Picard's hirsute chest. "And I bet that you're even proud of it!"

"I do my best." He had to roll out of the way before he could fire off another response. "Are you sure that you're all Vulcan, Selar? You sound more like a Romulan s.o.b. to me."

"Insult me, insult my family." She returned his serve.

"I win! Again, baldie!" she triumphantly crowed as the computer announced the final score.

"Please, Selar, I beg you. Return to active duty in Starfleet."

"What? And become a servile junior officer under your thumb? In your dreams! When my alternative is that I can live on Vulcan and share in all of its munificence?" In a very non-Vulcan-like maneuver, she pulled out the clips holding her long black hair in place. Then she tossed over to Picard a spare towel. She eyed the dripping lithe figure wearing only a pair of sweaty athletic shorts and shoes. "Cover up, Picard. The Vulcan sun will burn your pale skin into a crisp slab of your Smithfield bacon, if you're not careful. You should have worn a shirt." She mopped her own sweating forehead with another towel. "Hot enough for you, Picard?"

He managed to surprise her with a particularly quaint Vulcan expletive. Considering the way he was sweating, he grabbed his water bottle and drank. He wondered about the Vulcan sense of humor that caused them to build the only local sporting court without a shade, under the infernal, hot summer sun.

"I've never known a Vulcan quite like you," Picard observed as he went to sit on a courtside bench. In the shade. Selar joined him.

"That's because I spent my childhood being raised by Humans on the Divia Colony." She waved her hand about. "I never actually made it back to Vulcan until I was in my teens. By then, it was too late. My sense of the absurd had been formed and all of the Vulcan disciplinary forces to which I've been subjected, cannot eradicate it."

"There is a lot to admire in the Vulcan way of life," Picard observed as he passed her water bottle over to her.

"Only if you don't actually have to permanently live here. But, I've got to finish my medical residency before I can flee." She studied the man sitting next to her. "You should have been born a Vulcan, Picard. You seem more at home on Vulcan than me. You really like it here, don't you?"

"So much so that I do not wish to return to Starfleet."

"Damn. I was hoping that one day soon, you'd be a starship captain again, and want me for your ship."

"If that should ever occur, I will request you, Doc-tor Selar." He grinned.

"You're going back." This wasn't a question. It was an observation. He nodded. "I've never known a human quite like you."

"Since my sojourn as a professor here at the VSA is just about ended, and since Ambassador Sarek does not wish to have me join his diplomatic staff at the present time…"

She sensed that this matter was a sore spot to his ego. "Actually I'd heard some gossip."

Picard corrected her. "Vulcans don't gossip."

"Agreed. Vulcans call it an exchange of information. I call it gossip. Anyway…" She stood and headed over to a shaded terrace by a desert pool where several protected tables and benches could be found.

Picard trailed after her, going to a pottery lavabo to get two cool drinks in silvered glasses that were the Vulcan version of an effective citric acid thirst quencher. He handed one glass to Selar.

"You were saying?"

"Those non-gossiping informants during their ritual exchange of information say that an aide to Ambassador Sarek said that Sarek thought that you were too experienced a diplomat for the position that he originally had available. But they also say that you were not seasoned enough for the next available position." Selar drank her drink. "Nothing personal, Picard. You know that."

Picard proffered his best, diplomatic smile in response. "Of course, Selar."

"I happen to know of a few old Earth customs, Captain. And the significance of today's stardate." She clinked her silvered glass against Picard's drink. "To the Stargazer…"

With a start of surprise, Picard realized that it was indeed the anniversary of his lost ship. And of Celeste. But now, he could remember all of it with a semblance of internal peace. He'd learned that much from his time on Vulcan. He had accepted his fate.

He smiled as he returned the clink, pleased that this Vulcaness could be so thoughtful. "To the Stargazer…"

The Seventh Anniversary

Picard just knew he was going to die. He used his bat'leth as a brace as he pivoted, then swinging about against the unknown monster that was really trying to rip his head off. He lopped off a scabby chartreuse claw. Unfortunately his opponent had five hands left. And all were holding weapons of bodily destruction.

Picard wondered what had possessed him to accept Ensign Worf's challenge to join him in a battle in Deep Space Twelve's holosuite.

Picard and Worf were the only live beings engaged in the battle being held in some unrecognized swamp filled with mayhem-wreaking monsters, poisonous deadly snakes, really pissed off unknown alien warriors, really really large arachnids, and the occasional drunken Gorn.

Picard had literally run into his former student on the starbase's promenade. One moment he'd been ordering a hot tea, and the next minute he found himself bumping into a solid Klingon warrior's chest. It had taken a moment for Picard to regain his composure.

Miraculously, Worf had the reflexes to rescue the captain's tea before it completely spilt. And to keep the captain upright with his other hand preventing Picard from collapsing into an undignified sprawl.

After safely depositing the captain onto a café chair by a small table near an English style tea room café, Worf stood at attention, waiting for this captain to respond.

"Be seated, Ensign," Picard ordered, with just a touch of pride. For Worf had made it through the Academy. With honors.

Picard had watched from afar, this Klingon's progress. It had been a battle at times especially when dealing with a bureaucracy that didn't quite get Klingon sensibilities, but Worf had done it.

"May I buy you an ale? And lunch?" Picard asked, nodding toward the café.

"Tea," Worf grunted. Picard motioned to a waiter who came over. "Russian tea. Эрл Грей Чай?" The waiter nodded as if he understood Worf's request. Worf continued. "Black. " Then, acting as if he were well accustomed to ordering such things in front of a superior officer, Worf added, "With a spoon and a large pot of strawberry jam."

A few minutes later, Picard watched, fascinated, as Worf poured a large amount of the hot black tea essence from the small teapot on top of the samovar into his glass lined zarf. He opened the spigot from the samovar itself to dilute the essence with boiling hot water. Then Worf added several large teaspoons of strawberry jam and stirred until it was dissolved. He tasted it. "This is the way that we drink it in Minsk," Worf stated. "And when I was living on Gault."

Picard moved his now empty mug over to Worf's mug. "May I try it?" Worf repeated his actions with captain's mug, but only added a few ounces of the tea essence and did not add the jam

Picard tasted the tea. And was truly shocked by what he was tasting.

"Эрл Грей Чай" Worf grinned at the expression on this captain's face. "That means Earl Grey in Russian." His grin grew bigger. "A warrior should always try to learn his opponent's weaknesses. Or those of his superior officer."

Very surprised by Worf's knowledge of his personal preferences, he nodded his head accepting this Klingon's unusual way of showing respect. And then the captain added the spoon full of jam. And tasted. He was surprised by the way the jam blended in with the tea. "This sweet tea is very good, Mr. Worf. I'll definitely have it again. It's bracing."

"My father likes his tea with marmalade…" Worf admitted.

Picard recalled some vague details from Worf's personnel file. "Your adoptive parents are Russian, aren't they?"

"Yes."

They sat there in companiable silence drinking tea for a while.

And that was how Jean-Luc Picard ended up breathless, as a monster was trying to bash in his head.

"Freeze!" Worf ordered.

Picard wearily stood upright, gasping for breath as Worf walked over to him.

"I find this level of programming too easy. Shall I cancel the safety protocols?" Worf said it innocently enough. But there was an unholy gleam in his eye.

Payback's a bitch… Picard thought to himself, even as he admired this ensign for having the balls of doing it to him - his superior officer. Of course, he was still on official leave, so technically he wasn't a captain. But Picard felt in his bones that he would be returning to duty. Soon.

Then he realized that Worf was waiting for an answer. "There is a reason as to why the safety protocols are in place."

"I understand." Worf didn't bother to try and disguise his too-knowing grin.

Picard lifted his weapon. "Resume!" he ordered.

An hour later, he permitted Worf to help him to the infirmary. All told, Picard ended up with two cracked ribs, bruises on most of his limbs, and claw marks that required quite a few minutes of dermal regeneration. Considering what he'd been fighting against, Picard decided that he'd gotten out of the fight ahead of the game. And was now a much wiser man when it came to discovering what Klingons did for fun. The next time he battled with Mr. Worf, it would be on Picard's turf.

"We're staying at the same hotel," Worf announced, as he semi-carried this captain to a transporter pad. "Shall we meet at the steam room in fifteen minutes?"

All Picard really wanted to do was collapse on his bed and not move for the rest of his vacation. But he wearily agreed to meet with Worf again.

Fifteen minutes later, a wary Picard sat on a granite ledge, immersed in the bubbling hot therapeutic waters of the spa. Aches and pains were easing away. And then he saw Worf approaching, carrying what appeared to be an ice bucket. Picard sat more upright.

"Ensign?"

Worf placed the bucket by the edge of the pool, dropped his regulation grey robe and entered the bubbling waters. Much to Picard's relief, the Klingon was wearing swim trunks. He knew that on the Klingon home world, Klingons did not.

Worf still stood and reached into the bucket pulling out two tall, iced, cylindrical glasses with handles. He handed one to Picard. Then motioned for the man to stand.

"To the Stargazer!" Worf announced.

Startled to his core, Picard stood and whispered, "The Stargazer!"

Worf drank the entire glass in one breath.

Picard did the same. And then thought. between chokes, that battling six-armed Antarian monsters was child's play compared to drinking whatever this was.

Worf sat down midst the bubbling waters. Picard did the same.

"Two hundred proof, Russian vodka. A gift from my father." Worf grinned.

Picard had drunk Russian vodka before. Many times. But nothing this strong - not even during his cadet or embassy days.

Worf reached over and refilled Picard's glass. "To those we love…"

"…and those we have lost." Picard finished the statement. This time he drank more cautiously, slowly, letting the liquid fire trickle down his throat.

Worf deferentially nodded, as he filled both glasses again.

After this round, Picard mildly said, "Mr. Worf, I think it best that I return to my room."

"Shall I accompany you?" Worf respectfully asked.

"For another round of drinks, yes."

Worf knew little about this man and especially about his captain's personal life. Klingons were not one for gossip. He knew that Picard had suffered great losses above and beyond his ship. Everything beyond what he had learned convinced him that this was a true man of honor. And Worf would always respect and defend such a man.

But this night was different for a change, especially after the fourth round of vodka shots. Picard was in a talkative mood, discussing everything from his boyhood picking grapes, to his secret love for long-legged, red-haired women.

Worf sincerely hoped that one day, he would be able to serve under this man. It would be interesting.

THE EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY

Her not-quite regulation high heeled boots clacked as she walked down the empty hallway toward a small office at the very end of it. It was almost 2200 hours, local time, on Alpha Centauri. At the university. And this lieutenant, j.g., was determined to find one former Starfleet captain, Jean-Luc Picard.

She paused for a moment, listening. "Oh, non tremare o perfido", the first act duet between Norma and Adalgisa from NORMA by Bellini, could be heard echoing down the long, tiled corridor. She smiled. Not that she was an opera aficionado, but during her short time with her quarry, he had exposed her to quite a bit of opera whether it had been on board the Cleopatra's Needle, around a campfire, or returning her to her position on board the Mary Kingsley. (See TheBuriedAge by Christopher L. Bennett - author's note: a superb SF as well as TNG novel.)

She followed the music to his office. She could see him there through the glass panes of his door, though the lighting was low. Surrounded by padds, and papers, and books, and, of all things, some sort of gold fish in a rather large aquarium, he was seated at his desk. If it weren't for the occasional changes in the flickering glow from the screen of his padd, she would have thought that he was asleep. Lightly, she rapped against the window on his door.

Startled by the noise, he raised his head. And then smiled, motioning for Kathryn Janeway to enter. He turned down the music.

"Lieutenant Janeway. What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?" He automatically stood when she entered the room. Clearly he wasn't treating her as a subordinate at this moment. "Please have a seat." He motioned toward the mustard upholstered arm chair that was across from him.

"I thought it was time to further your education." Kathryn hoisted up a bottle of Jameson's Irish whiskey. "As I recall, Professor, you mentioned a while back, that you'd never tasted the real pot still whiskey."

"I am neither your commanding officer nor your professor. So please, call me Jean-Luc… Kathryn." She nodded in acquiescence. He went and got two glasses, then ordered a pitcher of ice water from his small office replicator. A moment later he was cracking the seal on the twenty-five year old whiskey bottle, then looked at the water pitcher.

She shook her head.

"Ah, a purist, like myself." He poured a generous shot into each glass. Still standing, he asked, "What shall we drink to?"

She stood, then whispered, "The Stargazer…"

For a moment he froze, shocked that she even knew. And then he wondered why he was even surprised that she knew. For Kathryn Janeway was the kind of Starfleet officer who would always look up everything she could when assigned to a mission. And she most definitely would look up everything about the commander of that mission.

He grimaced, before adding, "And to those who have gone before us."

She drank a bit, then raised her glass again. "To those we have loved then lost…"

"Lieutenant Tighe," Picard responded, remembering the name of Kathryn's deceased fiancée. Then he added, "And Edward Janeway." For her father had died in the same test craft accident too.

Kathryn drank a bit more, as if she needed the fortification. Then she calmly added, "Dr. St. Georges."

Picard drained his glass. Then sat down, motioning again to Kathryn to be seated.

"How long?" he quietly asked.

She didn't pretend not to know what he was asking. "Thirteen months ago they died."

"The Kingsley was your first posting after your recovery from the accident?"

"Yes. Working with you helped me keep my mind off things."

"Yes, saving the universe does help… with the pain."

They sat in silence for a while, then he added more whiskey to both of their glasses. This time, he added water to his glass. "I've no desire to get drunk tonight."

She nodded as if in agreement. "Though it is tempting to do so…"

"Yes… But it's too easy a way out…for people like us."

They were quiet for a few more moments.

"Are you on leave, Kathryn?"

"Yes, for the next forty hours. I'm looking forward to my leave here."

"You know the campus?"

"When I was working on my doctorate, I came here for a semester, Jean-Luc. I rather liked it here."

"So do I." He sighed. "I'm coming to the end of my time here. Starfleet has requested that I return to duty after the end of this semester."

"A ship?" She hoped so, for his sake.

"No." She sensed the deep regret and anger in his voice. "Apparently, the diplomatic branch of Starfleet requires my services again. I've been informally told that I'm to be a liaison with the Federation president. That may mean I'll be stationed on Earth for a while - Paris hopefully." He added some more water to his glass. "It's been a long time since I went home…"

"You could always tell them 'no'."

"One day I may actually do that. But not today…" He added more whiskey to his water.

"Jean-Luc…"

She didn't hesitate when she said his name, as if she were used to calling superior officers by their first names. Then he realized that she truly was a Starfleet admiral's brat. And probably had done so quite often, when she was at home.

"Yes, Kathryn?"

"I need your help."

"It must be quite a big favor if you come armed with a bottle of real Jameson's."

She laughed, a low throaty sound that had always pleased him. "I need to make up my mind about something."

He paused for a moment and studied her in almost an avuncular way, taking note of the slight tension about her eyes, and in the way that she gripped her glass. "Take the offer, Lieutenant. Go to command track school."

She put down her glass, surprised by his accurate guess as to her dilemma. "How did you know?"

"Who do you think recommended you? I may be temporarily gone, but I am most definitely not forgotten by some of my friends at the Admiralty. You belong at the helm of a starship, Kathryn. Starfleet needs command officers like you."

"But all my life I have thought of myself as a scientist."

"And that is why you'd be an excellent command officer. You'd be bringing your scientific mind to the military table. There are too many militarily inclined command officers who ignore those other aspects of Starfleet. Starfleet needs scientists in command, too."

"Yes, that is one of the things that I've always admired about you. In your heart, you're a scientist too."

"I prefer to think of myself as an explorer whether it be new worlds, or new discoveries."

"May we always be able to think of ourselves as such, in the future."

"Yes, Kathryn. That would be good." He gave her his warmest smile. "One day, Kathryn Janeway, I want you to serve with me. If I ever get another ship, I will request you as one of my senior line officers."

"And if I can, I'll accept, too." She put the cap back on the bottle. "What would you say if a new friend offered to take you out to dinner? I happen to know of a Vulcan restaurant nearby…"

He turned off his padd. Then he just simply looked at her for a moment. She was not asking him out on a date. She was still too numb over the death of her beloved Justin to be thinking in romantic terms. He remembered how Guinan's friendship had helped him. And, at least in some ways, maybe he could help Janeway too.

"I accept, Kathryn Janeway. It's been a long time since I've had dinner with such a beautiful woman on my arm."

She didn't really believe his words. He was a diplomat after all, and flattery was but a tool of his trade. Then she glanced down at her uniform. "Should I go to my hotel and change?"

"Not necessary. Tomorrow morning, I'll permit you to sit in on my lecture about the Iconians, and then I'll show you the archives of this university's museum." Her eyes were bright with excitement at this unexpected privilege. "There are some surprising treasures here. Then if you wish, we can go out tomorrow night to a fancier place. You can dress up then. The 'Starlight Room' boasts of excellent French food. Some of it is even recognizable - and edible - to this actual Frenchman."

She placed her arm around his. "Jean-Luc, have you noticed that on almost every planet where Starfleet goes for shore leave, there is a restaurant named 'The Starlight Room'?"

"I'm sure that there is a grad student somewhere that's written a paper about it. Fortunately, I will not have to read it."

THE NINTH ANNIVERSARY

"Jean-Luc?"

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"Sit down. Sit down." He motioned toward the down-filled couch, covered with ice blue silk upholstery. The seal of the United Federation of Planets, Office of the President, was embroidered in gold and Federation blue on the back cushions of the couch.

Sighing, he obeyed President Wescott's order.

Jean-Luc Picard was tired. In fact, he was bordering on near-exhaustion both mentally and physically. The tensions created by the Klingon Cold War between the Federation and Starfleet were giving him a monumental perpetual headache that no doctor in sickbay could relieve. There were so many self-centered egos involved that Picard sometimes despaired that none of the participants really had a clue as to what their actual duties were. Most of the points of conflicts were silly in his estimation. Yet lives were still held in the balance. There were too many officers in command, and politicians of importance, who knew nothing about the Klingon nature. And they did not care.

Picard had had his hands full trying to mediate, behind the scenes, truces between the different factions in the president's own office, much less between that of Starfleet and the politicians.

For the first time in his life, Jean-Luc Picard was thinking of retiring. He'd been stationed at the Palais de la Concorde, in Paris, for a year now. And he had yet to find time to make it over to LaBarre, or even meet his sister-in-law Marie for lunch. Though she did talk with him on a weekly basis. Robert however, had refused to come to Paris. Or to have anything to do with his younger brother.

Some things never changed…

Most of the time he was assigned to Earth, Jean-Luc Picard had been off-planet, on fact-finding missions for President Kenneth Wescott. Not that the results of those missions seemed to matter too much to the politicians who hovered around the president. Everything that Jean-Luc Picard had reported to the president, seemed to be filed as 'under advisement'. So far, nothing that he had suggested, seemed to have mattered to the president. Or been acted upon.

Hiding his disappointment behind the inscrutable mask that he'd perfected after years in the diplomatic service, he stiffly sat on the edge of the cushion, waiting to see what the president wished.

The president moved about, finally walking over to a marble topped credenza that held an antique inlaid locked wood cellarette. The president unlocked it, and picked up a squared crystal bottle, and two brandy snifters. Then he sat down next to Captain Picard, placing the liquor and glasses on the sofa table in front of them.

Picard warily eyed the amber brown liquid, idly wondering just exactly what the president was planning. Kenneth Wescott was a man who never did anything without at least one ulterior motive. Rumors had it that Wescott had begun negotiating and politicizing when he was still in kindergarten. Picard actually believed that this rumor might be true.

"You're off-duty, Captain," Wescott ordered as he poured several fingers full into the Baccarat snifters.

Since, technically, the president could order him to be off duty, Captain Picard slightly relaxed, and accepted the snifter when the president handed it to him.

For a moment, the man leaned back, studying his Starfleet liaison. Wescott knew that such a position had not been to Picard's liking. But the captain had done his job remarkably well with tact, skill and diplomacy - above and beyond what anyone would consider to be his normal duty.

"We may not speak often, Jean-Luc, but I do value your opinion. Including all the ones that you don't publish in your reports to me or the council. Or the assembly."

"Thank you, Mr. President." Picard still held the snifter in his hands, letting the warmth from fingers seep into the liquid.

The president sniffed his brandy. "Almost ready, I think." He lifted his dark brown eyes upward to meet Picard's steel green gaze. "To what shall we drink? Hmmm?"

"To the Stargazer… and those we have loved and lost…"

Picard had surprised him. For he'd read Picard's personnel files, including all the personal and secret ones as well. So he knew what the Stargazer was to this enigmatic man who served him so well, but revealed so little about himself. Maybe this man was finally unbending to him. It was about time.

"To the Stargazer…" Wescott touched his glass to Picard's glass, steadily met Picard's stare. "To those who have gone before…"

Picard nodded; and then they both tasted the brandy.

"Fine de la Marne brandy?" Picard whispered, not quite surprised by the superb quality of the president's liquor. But he was completely surprised when he recognized the brandy's origination.

"Château Picard. 22nd century, I believe."

Picard tasted the brandy again. "Yes, I do believe you are correct, Mr. President. Probably the '37 or '41."

"An oenophile with your respected expert reputation does not know for sure?"

"The last time I was in my family's cellars tasting the Fine de la Marne, I was still a cadet home on leave. My father only permitted me to taste a few of the ancient bottles. I've not experienced them at all since. And the few times that I've heard of this brandy since then, has been in auction reports from the business manager for the château."

"Yes, I have a standing order with all the Parisian and New York auction houses that whenever your brandy, regardless of the century, is offered at auction, that I will bid and buy it. Most of the time I succeed too. Though there is that Ambassadress from Betazed who has managed to outbid me on more than one occasion…" The president sounded vexed.

Picard knew the lady's identity. Though he had never personally met her, she had vexed many an aide or president, throughout the Federation.

"On behalf of my family, I do thank you, Mr. President." Almost to himself, he added, "To think that the fate of the Federation is some times decided over brandy my ancestors made."

"Life can be odd, eh, Jean-Luc?" The president recognized Picard's amused feelings.

"Yes, Mr. President." Picard carefully placed his snifter on the breche d'alep marble topped table.

"Don't you ever relax, Jean-Luc?"

Picard just looked at the man, wondering if he really should answer that question. For no one of the staff on the fourteenth floor of the Palais de la Concorde 'relaxed' around this president.

"What do you wish, Mr. President?"

The man laughed. He didn't think that anything got by the watchful eye of this attaché.

"I'm sending you to Qo'noS! You're to form a delegation. And you will be in charge. Do whatever it takes to resolve the issues. And take that Starfleet Klingon with you."

"Ensign Worf?"

"Yes, that's the one." Wescott took a sip of his brandy. "Can you trust him?"

"Yes."

"You don't think he'd spy for the Klingons?"

"He would be conflicted. But as long as he wears his Starfleet uniform, I will never doubt his loyalty."

"An honorable man, eh, Jean-Luc?" Wescott mulled Picard's ready defense of the Klingon. "Would you trust Worf with your life?"

"Yes." The captain picked up his brandy and savored some more of its warmth as it trickled over his tongue.

"So be it, then. Keep him in uniform when you see the Klingon High Council. It will annoy the hell out of them."

"That is not the way to deal with the Klingon High Council, Mr. President." Picard finished his brandy. "I will have complete autonomy?"

"My backing, for what it's worth. Do your damnedest. And do it quickly. I may not be in office for much longer. Maybe something you think of will work. Lord knows, everything I've tried hasn't."

"I will consider it." And when that time came, this captain did have a better way to alleviate some of the problems between the Federation Council and the Klingon High Council.

The president chuckled. "I think that I'd like to invite you to my poker game, Jean-Luc."

"I look forward to it."

Picard stood, as if asking permission to be dismissed. The president nodded. And he left.

Later that evening, Picard walked slowly through the Palais gardens on his way to his quarters. There was a koi pond that he liked to visit now and then by one of the more artistic fountains in the gardens. It had a Vulcan asceticism that pleased him. For a long time he sat there, watching the fish swimming about, and smelling the heady night perfumes of the flowers on this warm, beautiful, Parisian summer night. He relaxed a bit.

And he was thinking. And remembering…

Other fish. Other waterfalls…Of friendships long gone. Of a red-haired doctor that he still loved from afar for he had quietly kept track of her over the years. Of the ship he had lost. And of the great love that he had lost.

And for the first time, though the sadness was still there with these memories, the grief was missing. He had finally moved on. And he was actually looking forward to his future, even if the fates had made him into a diplomat instead of a starship captain. He could accept this change in careers.

He could still make a difference…

THE TENTH ANNIVERSARY

"Picard still on Krios?" Woody Nakamura casually asked as he drank some warnog, a black syrupy Klingon ale with the kind of kick that one should expect from a Klingon potable.

Hanson paused, shuffling the cards as he looked at the other people seated around the poker table in his quarters at Starfleet Command in San Francisco.

The players included Woody Nakamura, Margarita Hildago, Alynna Nechayev and Gregory Quinn. Admirals all, with deep pockets to be plucked.

Rita Hidalgo answered as she only sniffed at her warnog. "Yes. Jean-Luc is still stuck there. I think he sent me a keg of this Klingon poison just to remind me about the fun that he is having trying to modify Federation diplomacy to coexist with whatever it is that the Klingons refuse to call it. He has mastered some of the subtle skills necessary in order to be a diplomat. Not that those talents will necessarily work on the Klingons."

Hanson shook his head. "Somehow, I have difficulty picturing Jean-Luc acquiring subtlety. He was such an enthusiastic, boisterous young man as a cadet. I remember when he ran…"

Hidalgo laughed as she interrupted the garrulous Admiral Hanson again. "Shut up and deal, J. P. We've all heard too many of your stories, too many times. And don't worry about Jean-Luc. If he can survive amongst the Klingon, then he can work anywhere."

Several hours later, the piles of credits in front of Hanson, Hidalgo and Nechayev indicated who'd been lucky so far, this night.

As Quinn dealt out a third round of cards for five card stud, Nechayev studied her hole card one more time, eyed her pair of face-up jacks, and then looked straight over at Hanson.

"Confess, J.P.," she ordered.

"Only on my deathbed," he jovially replied, as he mentally figured the odds of drawing a heart flush against her pair.

"We're not here just because there is too much warnog to drink," Nechayev remarked as everyone bet. She still held the high cards on the table.

Hanson folded after the next deal for he'd been dealt a spade which ruined his shot at a flush.

More cards were dealt. Nechayev won the hand.

Ignoring her victory remarks for a moment, J.P. Hanson stood and went over to a side bar, pulling out a magnum bottle of champagne. He poured several glasses, served them to his guests, and then placed the bottle on the table, in plain sight of his poker playing friends.

"Château Picard!" Nechayev sputtered, even as she appreciated the taste of the brut champagne.

"Tsk, tsk," Hanson remarked. "Wait for the toast, Alynna." He lifted up his crystal flute. "To the Stargazer." Others joined in with, "The Winchester… The Reliant… The Exeter…" Hanson then mentioned, "The Enterprise C!"

It

is not that Alynna Nechayev had an overly suspicious nature, but she'd known J.P. Hanson for a very long time. He never did anything without multiple ulterior motives. She crashed her flute down onto the table felt. "Oh no, J.P.! Staffing the new ships are my concern. I want Jellico for the new Enterprise, and you know it!"

Hanson sat back down and faced her, knowing that he had to proceed very carefully if he was going to get his way. He began, "I've nothing against Eddie Jellico, Alynna. He's a fine officer and soldier. And I'm sure that he will be a superior starship captain…"

Woody Nakamura interrupted Hanson. "But the flagship of the fleet, and the new Galaxy-class starships are not intended to be solely military vessels, Alynna. You know that. They will be staffed with civilian personnel and their families, The Federation Council wants the new ships to project a different image from one of pure military might."

Alynna Nechayev looked at each and every one of them. She thought she could guess who was beholden to whom and why they were all here.

"I am aware of the requirements for the Galaxy-class starship captains. Edward Jellico is suitable."

Admiral Hildago moved her chair closer to Nechayev. "No one disputes that Jellico has demonstrated his superior military expertise during the Cardassian crisis, Alynna. But the Galaxy-class ships demand a different kind of captain other than a strictly military commander. There are going to be families on board. Spouses and kids. And you know how Jellico feels in particular about that. He has been very vocal to all of us."

"He'll change his mind."

"And when he does adapt," Nakamura replied, trying to reassure the admiral, "he'll get his captain's chair. In the meantime, we need to establish a new standard for the captains of the new ships…"

Alynna Nechayev stared at all of them, knowing what Hanson, Hidalgo and Nakamura were trying to bulldoze through.

"You want Picard for the Enterprise," she accused. "Why, he hasn't been an active duty Starfleet officer for years…"

Hanson shook his head. "He is one possibility for a Galaxy-class captain's chair. He certainly has the diplomatic background that those new captains must have." He smiled his best reassuring smile at Nechayev.

It didn't work.

Hanson continued, "And in spite of Picard's past record, no one here can doubt his military expertise."

"And Picard doesn't have a family that he'll want to bring on board," Woody added, after sending a fleeting glance in Rita's direction.

Nechayev stared at Rita Hildago, remembering certain things about Picard's relationship with this admiral that had not been common knowledge. Suddenly she didn't need her suspicions confirmed. She didn't need any proof. She intuitively understood what Hanson and Hidalgo and Nakamura had been doing all of the years that they'd been mentoring Picard. They had been preparing Captain Jean-Luc Picard for the captain's chair of the Federation's flagship.

"I still object." Her voice was firm, determined, as she silently drew the battle lines between all of them.

Quinn finally spoke up, breaking the tension. "Alynna, face facts. Jellico's own outspokenness against families on board Galaxy-class ships spoiled his chances for a command - at least at the present time." He glanced over at Hanson, who slightly nodded his agreement. "Send Jellico back to deal with the Cardassians. The sooner we have a truce with them, the better."

"He's right, Alynna, and you know it," Woody Nakamura calmly stated.

"If Picard stays with the diplomatic corps, he'll be a rear admiral in less than a year," Rita Hidalgo casually mentioned, as if this fact might be of personal interest to Rear Admiral Alynna Nechayev.

"There are a lot of other suitable captains…" Nechayev mentioned, prepared to argue some more. "I have a long 'A' list…"

"True. We all do." Quinn interrupted the admiral again. "I, for one, do not personally want Picard to return to being a ship's captain again. There are other important things that he really should be doing. He's quite a superior diplomat." He sighed mightily. "But, we should all present a unified front when dealing with the postings committee, tomorrow. And I believe that Picard is the best candidate for captain of the Enterprise, for now."

Hidalgo eyed Nechayev for a moment as she toyed with her champagne. This admiral was too smart to be arguing against Picard solely on a personal basis. "Alynna, do you have any specific objections to Picard?"

"Nothing official, no." She shook her head in disgust.

Hildago persisted. "But, there is something else?"

"Picard's too bloody perfect!" Nechayev admitted before taking a big gulp of champagne.

"Come again?" Woody blinked. He'd never considered perfection to be a fault - except when it came to playing chess with Vulcans.

"The man has no obvious flaws. I think that, in and of itself, is a potential problem. What if hidden defects surface while he is captain of the Enterprise? And too many light years away from here for anyone to be able to help?"

"Meaning?" Hanson asked.

"I just worry about a man without any obvious psychological flaws being in charge of the greatest ship that Starfleet has."

"Will you continue to object if his psych profiles are acceptable?" Rita smiled as if she'd just thought of something else to annoy Alynna. "You can even use your own people to conduct the exams."

Nechayev grudgingly admitted, "I know of a Betazoid officer who'd do a good job." She presented to them a tight, little smile. "In fact, she'd be an excellent chief ship's counselor, too."

"Picard would never stand for that," Nakamura opined. But he shut up when Rita shook her head.

Hidalgo stared at Nechayev, then decided that there was some room to negotiate. "Well then, how about if we assign that Betazoid counselor to the Enterprise after Picard gets his psych approvals? That way, if any cracks appear, she will notice them right away."

Nechayev shook her head. But it was not a particularly strong rejection of Rita Hidalgo's suggestions.

Quinn decided that this particular argument could last all night. So he picked up his champagne and finished it off before he glared over at Hanson. "I thought that we came here to play cards, J. P. And not to play musical captain's chairs."

"I still want Jellico," Alynna asserted. She knew how to make political bargaining points along with the best of them in the Admiralty.

Rita Hidalgo picked up the deck of cards, shuffled, announced that the game was Mudd's Hold 'em, and then decided to risk it all on a gamble. She casually asked, "Then, Alynna, would you care to make a little wager?"

Woody tried to control his grin. His friend would become the captain of the Enterprise.

THE ELEVENTH ANNIVERSARY

Captain Jean-Luc Picard glanced about the temporary quarters on Mars Colony Four, that had been his residence for the last seven months. He decided that everything that was of importance had been packed. He was ready to leave now. But his actual departure time was less than twenty hours away. A shuttlecraft was going to take him to his new command, the U.S.S. Enterprise 1701-D. A shuttlecraft was going to deliver her first captain to this brand spanking new ship in order to maintain a tradition started long ago by James T. Kirk, when it came to ladies named Enterprise.

Picard had already been to his ship several times over the past few months, but that was before he'd been officially and publicly declared to be her captain. The Enterprise was being finished off at Utopia Planetia. But he'd learned a long time ago to let the experts do what they did best without any second-guessing on his part. So, he'd let the engineers and builders alone as he watched from afar without meddling, as they finished putting together all of the details for his new ship. He had offered suggestions now and then, and had made a few changes. But as far as the builders were concerned at the space yard, Jean-Luc Picard was the kind of overseeing captain that they liked best. He respected their work and didn't meddle over minutiae. And when the time came, he would take good and proper care of the precious lady which they had just completed.

Jean-Luc Picard had spent quite a bit of his time reviewing his crew for the Enterprise. He was particularly pleased that the only Klingon in Starfleet had quickly accepted his offer of a position on board. But his staffing choices were not always easy. He did have some conflicts with certain members of the Admiralty and the officers that they tried to force him to take. For some reason, he especially ran into difficulty with Admiral Nechayev on a fairly frequent basis over his own choices.

One specific individual was a problem for him. Admiral Nechayev had insisted that Dr. Beverly Crusher be his CMO. Picard had fought this at first. But, when he realized that the price would be too high if he tried to win this particular battle, he conceded the round to Admiral Alynna Nechayev, without ever acknowledging the leap of joy that his heart had felt upon the official declaration of Dr. Beverly Crusher as his CMO.

His reasons for not wanting Beverly Crusher under his command were purely personal. Over the years, he had achieved a sense of personal inner peace, a balance that he feared Beverly Howard Crusher's daily presence would disrupt. Eventually, he would erroneously conclude that he had been mistaken.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't realize that someone was tapping on the door to his quarters, until the tapping turned into pounding.

"Come."

He automatically stood when J. P. Hanson entered, holding up a large bottle of something green. "Aldebaran whiskey," the admiral chortled as he sat himself down next to Jean-Luc Picard. "Time for a few toasts, Johnny."

Picard went to his tiny kitchen and returned with a pitcher of water, two tumblers and some ice.

Hanson eyed the ice. "Favoring the weaker stuff in your old age, Johnny?"

Picard put down the container. "No, J. P. I just thought that you might be diluting your drinking habits, considering that you are in your dotage."

Hanson laughed, even as he poured generous amounts of the straight liquor into both glasses. When he was finished he handed a glass to his friend. "To your Enterprise, Johnny!"

"The Enterprise," Picard cordially agreed, clicking his glass against Hanson's tumbler. Then he looked up at through the skylight in his quarters, and softly added, "And to the Stargazer."

"And all those who have gone before us. Amen." The admiral quietly agreed with his friend.

Picard raised his eyes toward Earth as he sipped some emerald fire.

They talked and drank for a long time before Hanson decided that it was either time to leave, or time to spend the night on Johnny's couch.

"One more thing, Johnny," Hanson mentioned, as Picard safely escorted him to the nearest transporter pad.

"Yes, J. P.?"

"Rita Hidalgo told me that she beamed over something for your ready room. She said that you'd understand." Hanson hoisted up the remnants of the Aldebaran whiskey that was still left in the bottle that he was toting. "I sent you a case of this stuff, too. There will be certain situations when your fancy French wines just won't do the trick, Johnny."

"Thank you, J. P." As the man took his place on the transporter pad, Picard added, "And thank you for keeping your promise to me…"

The hum of the transporter cut off any response that J. P. Hanson might have made.

The next day, after Lieutenant Yar had flown him to his ship and he had formally greeted his crew for the first time, Picard found himself in his new ready room, facing a great many official and unofficial subspace communications.

Eventually he got around to the message from Rita Hidalgo. She volunteered a few bits of captainly wisdom, and, most importantly, told him not to doubt himself. Or his ability to command.

When all of the immediate work was finished, Jean-Luc Picard went to the replicator and ordered, for the very first time in his ready room, "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot."

"Substance requested is not on file. Please provide a sample for analysis," the sterile asexual computer voice informed the new captain of the Enterprise."

"Harumph," Picard muttered. "Are there any listings for Terran teas?

Eventually Picard settled for a Russian black tea, sans strawberry jam. He decided that Mr. Worf was already making himself at home on Picard's ship. For which he was grateful when the day's first rush of caffeine coursed through him. He'd been missing his tea for most of this day…

Still drinking from his steaming cup, he walked over to the star portal and watched the activity going on outside. The final details were being finished, Shortly, it would be time for his ship to leave this safe harbor.

He watched for a while, and then decided that he liked having a star portal in his ready room. On board the Stargazer, the captain's ready room had been converted from former storage closets. There had been no starry view. Picard was delighting in the prospect of getting used to so much more space on board his new ship. And having so many star portals available for his personal viewing.

Returning to his desk, he left an order on a padd, for Mr. Argyle to transfer all of the Captain's personal preferences into the computer and the replicators. Neither the captain nor the chief engineer would ever figure out how the computer acquired a feminine voice after the captain's instructions were inputted.

When he finished his tea, and placed the empty cup in the replicator, only then did he notice a large case from J. P. Hanson in a corner. A few moments later, he found inside the case, two dozen bottles of green Aldebaran whiskey. Deciding to place a few bottles in Ten Forward, and a few more in this ready room, the rest he would store in his private storage.

He then found a crate sent by Kathryn Janeway. In it was a bottle of Jameson's. He smiled, and placed that bottle in his ready room's sideboard. He also vowed that when Kathryn made captain, he'd send her a case of her beloved Jameson's, as well as a case of Picard wine. He knew that once she'd accepted becoming a command officer, she was on the fast track to the admiralty. And he couldn't think of a better officer for such a promotion- especially since she was a friend.

Eventually sorting through the other gift boxes and cases, all of which seemed to contain something alcoholic to drink, Picard decided that they would all be sent to his personal storage, where eventually they'd be consumed at one of the diplomatic gatherings that the flagship of the fleet would be sure to host in the future.

Jean-Luc smiled when he discovered Woody's gift. For it was a poker set, complete with decks of cards bearing his face plastered on the hull of the Enterprise. Privately deciding that the only time he would use these cards was when Woody Nakamura was around, Picard fingered the finely inlaid wood case, and then ordered it transported to his quarters too.

There was but one unknown box left - a large box that seemed to be a stasis unit. Suspecting that this was the gift from Admiral Hidalgo, he ordered the box to be transported to his quarters.

Days later, after his mission to Farpoint was complete, and the Enterprise's new routine was beginning to approach levels of normalcy, he remembered Admiral Hidalgo's gift.

Finding it still unopened in the storage locker of his bedroom, he placed it on his desk. He carefully opened the box, to uncover some sort of clear aluminum glass display case, complete with individual atmospheric controls. Putting that aside, he found another case within. This he carefully opened, too.

"Mon Dieu…"

Reverently he touched the soft red Moroccan leather binding of the large book with beautifully rendered gold detailing. He opened it with a light touch in order not to crack the spine. Inside, he found a note.

He read: Dear Jean-Luc. This book was ordered from a rare book dealer by Celeste shortly after you left to go to Cygnia. Celeste wrote the inscription and then sent it out to be specially rebound. It was eventually retrieved by me some time after her death. It took me a while to look up the inscription. Then I realized that she had meant it as a gift for you - to be given to you on a very special occasion. I believe that becoming the captain of the flagship of the fleet qualifies. So, take care of yourself, mon ami. Rita."

At first he checked the inside cover pages, the jeweled watered silk page boards, and then the title pages. But he could find no instance of an inscription. Almost with a frantic desperation, he checked the pages of this rare, antique collected works of William Shakespeare. Still, he could find no trace of an inscription. Only when he placed the open book on his desk, and watched the pages flip of their own accord, did he finally realize that the attached bookmark might be significant.

"Computer, illumination 100%. Spotlight on my desk."

He fingered the odd, handmade bookmark, holding it up to the light. In his hand, he held a strip of burgundy leather with a sewn-in backing of hideous pink silk. It was a particularly virulent shade of pink silk. And it was a piece of silk that he remembered very well.

His breath caught in his chest as he considered its origin.

Tooled into the leather strip was the inscription, "Othello III, iii, 90".

He was not that surprised to discover that this was the page that the bookmark designated. His hands trembled as they touched the pages. It took him only a moment to find the citation.

"Perdition catch my soul,

But I do love thee!

And when I love thee not,

Chaos is come again…"

"Oh, Celeste…" he whispered as he continued to clutch the bookmark. He had grieved enough for his lost love over the years. Yet a few tears still trailed down his cheeks as he dreamed of all that should have been…

=/\=

"Captain…" Deanna Troi whispered. She couldn't help it. She looked over at the book that was always on display in her captain's ready room, and studied it again with new eyes. She now understood why he had always had an almost emotional attachment to the book. She had always thought that it was because it was the collected works of a writer whom he had always venerated. Now, she knew the other reason as well.

He stood, brushing aside a stray sandwich crumb from his lap. "I think that I am going to take a little stroll before I retire." He paused and thought for a moment. "Counselor, would you care to join me?" He saw the hesitation on her face. "Or, do you have other plans?"

"Actually, I do. Mr. Worf promised to introduce me to balalaika music on the holodeck tonight." She waved her hand toward the door. "I can always cancel."

"Of course not, Deanna. Go and meet Mr. Worf. I don't want him to send me another bottle of blood wine in retaliation for my keeping you." He offered his hand to the lady to help her stand. "I will still take my walk, and then retire. I haven't been sleeping too well, lately." He observed the worried look that could be seen again in her expressive dark eyes. "And no, my restiveness is nothing that I need to speak to my ship's counselor about." He could see that she was about to say something anyway, so he quickly continued, "And if I do need to speak with someone, I will bother my CMO. Not you. So, go off on your date with Mr. Worf."

"You don't object?"

"About you and Mr. Worf?"

"Well…" she hesitated.

"Deanna… It is not my place as your commanding officer to interfere. But, if you are asking for my personal opinion, well, as your friend I can only wish for your happiness. And happiness for Mr. Worf as well." He thought for a second. "And I consider Mr. Worf to be a far braver man than I."

Troi chuckled. "I'm still an empath, Captain. I know that you were just thinking about my mother!"

He reddened, retreating back into his reserved persona. "I apologize, Counselor."

"There is no need to apologize for something that Mr. Worf has said himself." She touched his forearm. "My mother, at best, can be described as a difficult woman of great charm."

"The same has been said of her daughter as well," Picard observed, "and especially by her commanding officer."

"I think that it's time that I go listened to Mr. Worf's idea of romantic music."

The way she spoke told Picard that she had never heard any Russian balalaika music before. "I think that you might be surprised by Mr. Worf's musical choices, Deanna."

She bestowed upon her captain a particularly gracious smile. "Think I'll like it better than Klingon opera?"

Picard grinned, as he moved to his desk chair. "It is slightly more romantic. Good night, Deanna. And thank you for your concern. I am appreciative of it."

She reached up and kissed his cheek. "Good night, Captain. And try to get some rest. Otherwise I will just have to come back and bother you in my professional capacity as ship's counselor."

When he finally reached his quarters a few hours later, he changed into his long, gray robe and wearily sighed. "I hope that I get more sleep tonight than I'd had during the past few nights," he remarked out loud, not realizing that Q had planned something special. And it was not a restful night sleep for the captain of the Enterprise that night.

The End.