Author's notes:
- This is the continuation of a passage from John Vornholt's "A Time to Be Born" (Simon and Schuster), which means that it's set sometime between "Insurrection" and "Nemesis".
- Everything that is part of the book and therefore was written by Mr. Vornholt is in bold.
- I mean neither copyright infringement nor any disrespect for Mr. Vornholt. As a matter of fact, he's becoming my favorite Star Trek author and I really want to hug him tightly.
- If you haven't read the book and wish to know exactly what was going on, please read a more thorough explanation at Memory Beta. However, if you only need a brief synopsis, all you have to know is that the Enterprise is returning to Earth, where Captain Picard will be committed to a hospital to undergo psychological evaluation before being (unjustly) court-martialed. He was not supposed to know what was going to happen, because the head of Starfleet Medical informed Doctor Crusher and ordered her not to tell him. Yeah, she told him anyway. That's why she went to his quarters.
- It's delightfully out-of-character, but then alcohol sort of does that to people (see "The Naked Now").
- As always, what you can expect from me is a whole lot of mindless fluff. I hope you enjoy it. :)
You Go to My Head
"We have one night left before we get home. You're off duty, and so am I," said Doctor Crusher, hoping that Captain Picard would understand exactly what she was implying.
Apparently, he did, because the captain jumped to his feet, took her arm, and conducted her to the couch.
"Yes, and I'm being a terrible host. Make yourself comfortable, Beverly."
He paused, as if remembering something, and with a smile, he continued.
"Since we're going home early, I can stock up on wine from Chateau Picard, so we might as well drink what we have left."
What we have left?, she thought. Well, they had indeed shared a number of bottles of wine over the years, a habit that had become more frequent during the past few months. But the wine was his, not theirs. And still, she rather liked that he'd used the plural pronoun when referring to the two of them.
"I have a splendid Shiraz, vintage 2370. Dark, supple and particularly spicy that year."
"It's my favorite," she told him.
"I know that, doctor," he said, teasing. "I've noticed."
Doctor Crusher smiled in return, a bit flushed.
"So," he continued, with a very charming smile. "Will you stay, Beverly?"
"Whatever you want, Jean-Luc," said the doctor with a glint in her eye. "Let's make this last night memorable."
The captain had excused himself and was then in his bedroom, changing into something more appropriate than the robe he had put on to answer the door. He had been asleep before she came, but that seemed hours away, because he felt wide awake.
Now, Captain Picard was a sensible person. He liked the image he had carefully constructed over the years, that of a reasonable and unexcitable man. Those really were traits of his personality... most of the time. He wanted that night to be one of those times, and so he knew not to expect; he knew that nothing was going to happen, not really. And yet his treacherous body insisted on believing otherwise, because he could feel how his heart rate had increased.
Typical Beverly...
She wouldn't say things like "whatever you want" if she knew what he really wanted. But then, if she didn't, why had she looked at him like that, as if she knew, as if she knew exactly?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the cork popping. When he got back to the living-room area, she was half-reclined on his couch, always a welcome sight.
"The wine is breathing," she announced.
Captain Picard chuckled. He remembered one particular evening, many years before, when they had argued about whether or not to let the wine breathe before drinking it. She'd kept teasing him about it, saying that it made absolutely no difference and accusing him of trying to impress her. He, in return, had gone about it most diplomatically, explaining how the process was aimed at accentuating the wine's aromas and flavors. Because she'd remained unconvinced, he proposed a little experiment. He let the wine from one bottle breathe and, when that was done, he opened an identical bottle (same wine, same year) and poured two glasses. "Now close your eyes."
But right then, at their present, the situation was reversed: she was letting the wine breathe, and he didn't want to wait. He felt in urgent need of a drink and, from the way she'd been wringing her hands when she arrived, he assumed she shared his state of mind.
"Let's not wait," he said, sitting beside her and handing her one of the glasses. "We only have a few hours."
Her expression changed from a pleased look into a sad one, even if she did keep smiling, as if trying to hide her reaction. He took one of her hands in his, rubbing the back of it with his thumb.
"Do you think you can forget about tomorrow?" he asked. His voice was very soothing, low-pitched and slightly breathy. She couldn't resist giving him an honest answer.
"Jean-Luc, how can I forget, knowing what you'll have to go through? And you shouldn't have to. I guess... I'd be more at ease if I knew they'd let me be with you whenever you needed me. But we both know that's not going to happen."
"I'll have legal counsel, and I'm fairly sure I won't have any difficulties with the psychological evaluation. I'll be fine. Right now is when I need you." He kissed the knuckles of the hand he was holding. "Beverly, this is our last night together. At least, for a little while. I don't want either of us to remember it as something negative. Besides," he added, smiling, "you did promise me something memorable."
She smiled back at him, as usual, and took another sip from her glass. He was right, and she didn't want to waste the little time they had alone together. So she tried to forget, and to feel content just to be there with him. But oblivion only came later, sometime during her third glass of wine.
By then, they'd already talked about Deanna and Will's somewhat recent status as a couple and about how it affected their lives and, consequently, their jobs. They'd also discussed the last book he'd lent her (a 23rd century novel from Earth which retold the story of Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta). And, strangely enough, particularly because it followed that previous topic of conversation, they'd talked about Jack.
While Jean-Luc poured that third glass of wine, after opening a second bottle, Beverly got up and paced once again towards his desk. Sitting on top of it, she picked up one of the pictures of the three of them together.* He followed her shortly after, giving her now full glass back to her.
It wasn't difficult to understand why he had been looking at those. It was obvious that he was apprehensive about the upcoming court-martial, despite how noncommittal he tried to appear to her. He had been through all that before, when he lost the Stargazer. She knew he couldn't remember the Stargazer without thinking about Jack. She also knew that he couldn't remember Jack without thinking about her, but that was another story.
Beverly remembered when the picture she was holding had been taken. It was months before Jack's accident, not even a whole year before Jean-Luc was court-martialed.
By then, the three of them had been inseparable.
"Sometimes I forget how young we were back then," she said, sighing.
"Do these upset you? I can put them away," Jean-Luc offered, his tone of voice giving away genuine concern.
"No, they don't bother me. Do they upset you?"
"No. Not anymore," he replied. He put his hand on the desk, to the right of where she was sitting, and leaned in to have a better look at the picture in her hand. "You're right, we were very young. Especially you." He took another sip of wine. "You were so pretty," he added, as if to himself.
Her eyes widened, not because of the adjective, but because of the tense of the verb. He caught the offended look on her face, which she exaggerated because she wasn't really offended.
"Oh, Beverly, come on, you know I prefer you the way you are now. Do you really need me to say it?"
"Yes! Women have midlife crises as well, you know," she replied, suppressing the urge to laugh.
"Oh, yes, some women do, but you're not one of them. You just want to hear me say it."
"Fine, fine, I admit it. You don't have to say anything. Happy?" She blinked, a perfectly innocent look on her face.
"Fine!" He adjusted the top of his uniform by tugging on the waist. "You were a pretty young lady then. Now you're a beautiful and an attractive woman." He was hiding his embarrassment by appearing to be crossed. The wine was definitely having an effect on him, but not so thorough an effect as to strip him of all his sense of propriety. "Happy?", he asked, mimicking her.
"Yes." She put a hand on his arm and kissed his right cheek. "Thank you, Jean-Luc," she said, hopping down from his desk and grabbing their drinks. Her back was turned to him while she refilled their almost full glasses, which gave her something do to with her hands. Still, she could hear him putting the pictures away.
"I still think about Jack, you know."
Beverly turned around, somewhat surprised that he would choose to talk about that.
"Jack was my best friend and I loved him. But he's a bigger part of my life than he would be now, I imagine, if he were still alive." Jean-Luc let out a sigh. "Because of you," he added, as if he had just reached that conclusion.
"I know, Jean-Luc".
She walked to where he was standing and took one of his hands in hers, guiding him to the couch. It was her turn to try to cheer things up a bit.
"Jean-Luc, do you remember the day that picture was taken?"
He laughed.
"Yes. It was Jack's birthday, I think. And he made us go to that awful place."
"It wasn't so bad. And I like your voice: you sing beautifully." Even if she was telling the truth, she still couldn't miss out on an opportunity to tease him. "You know, Jean-Luc... If only I told any of the crew about half of what I know about you... Do you think they'd ever believe that their captain was once in a karaoke bar where he singed three songs in a row?"
"You wouldn't dare! But if you did, I'd want you to consider that I know quite a few things about you that you'd rather not make public," he added, with a knowing smile.
"You're bluffing. You don't have anything on me and you know it," she told him, trying to keep a straight face.
"Oh, all right then. Suit yourself," he paused, for effect. "Dancing doctor."
She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. It took her a few moments to close her mouth and muster speech.
"Oh, look! Someone put some sense of humor in the wine," she said, pretending to be angry.
"Oh, no, you don't," the captain started. "You always get me to do anything you want when you're like that. I don't think it's very fair to me."
"I don't even know what you mean, Jean-Luc" she replied, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
"Yes, well... Whenever we have an argument, for example when we disagree about the Prime Directive, or when you boss me around your Sickbay..."
"Boss you around?!" she asked with alarm.
"Yes, well, whenever we do argue, you tell me what you think; very eloquently and passionately, I must point out. And you throw argument upon argument on me, until I lose my patience; because, you see, you are the most infuriating woman I've ever known, even if I do mean that as a compliment. But then I usually fall back on my position, I mean as captain, to end the discussion. And, by that time, I'm very confident that I'm right. That is, until you purse your lips and cross your arms, exactly like you're doing now. Whenever you do that, I know I've lost. Because I can't resist giving you exactly what you want. And, when I do, I realize you had been right all along."
He knew then that he'd irrevocably crossed every line they'd ever created between them. But at least it made her smile again.
"You would never have told me that if it wasn't for the wine."
"Well, it's the truth, nevertheless," he said, raising his glass. She repeated his gesture and they both drank.
"I think that the night has just become memorable to me," Beverly said, triumphantly.
"Yes, what did you mean by that, doctor?"
She was taken by surprise. When they started serving together, he used her title to put some distance between them. But that changed, as the years went by. She didn't think he was aware of it, but his use of her title always meant that he was flirting with her.
Beverly suddenly realized that her lips were still slightly parted, and so she forced herself to say something.
"Well, what did you think I meant... cap-tain?" The glint was back in her eyes.
"That was my question, doctor. Perhaps our ideas of what a memorable night should be are the same. But then again, perhaps you have no idea of what my idea really is." He intended to fully blame that sort of talk on the wine.
"You know I could make your night memorable if I wanted to, don't you? Regardless of what your expectations might be, or mine..." She was striving to give the appearance of being calm. It was enough that he could see how flushed she probably looked.
"Oh, so now you don't want to?"
"I didn't say that," she replied.
They both knew that the wine was partly responsible, but it wasn't all. There was also that sense of foreboding, the notion that those could be their last hours together in a very long time. He might even be forced to retire. And then what? He would never hold her back; he would never ask her to give up her career. He didn't even have that right: for all purposes, they were just friends. But that only left in him an even stronger urge to transgress. He pressed the matter further.
"So what did you mean, Beverly?" His hand found its way to her left shoulder, sliding up her arm.
Dammit, Jean-Luc!
"I just said it. I don't know what I meant," she replied, finally, trying to sound as casual as she could.
"I doubt that very much." He slid his hand up and down her arm, wishing he could feel her skin and not the coarse fabric of her uniform. "I doubt that you've ever said anything without knowing exactly what you meant by it. I'm not over-analytical, but I often find myself over-thinking our interactions, because I know that you don't "just say" anything."
"So, what you're saying, Jean-Luc, is that I can't be spontaneous?"
"Well, Beverly, you can do anything once your mind is set. But I'd be lying if I said that-"
He stopped talking because she drank the wine in her glass all at once, and then she picked up his glass from the coffee table and drank the contents of that as well. She kept her eyes closed for a while, head still tilted back. Then she licked her lips and smiled, thinking of what she was about to do. When Beverly opened her eyes, she saw that he was staring at her.
Concentrating on the tingling sensation left in her mouth by the wine, she placed a hand on his neck to steady herself. Then she leaned in and kissed him, brushing the space between his parted lips with her tongue. After that, she withdrew a little, to give herself space to talk. That had been the extent of Beverly's capacity to be spontaneous and to keep from over-thinking. She needed to say something.
"For good luck," she added.
For a few seconds, he couldn't do anything. His hand was still on her arm, while her hand was pressed against the back of his neck. He couldn't stop staring. Her eyes were still closed, and her lips were parted. He noticed how the rhythm of her breathing had changed, and how her lips were tinged with red from the wine. It was too much.
"I'll need all the luck I can get," he whispered, catching his breath.
That time, he was the one who initiated the kiss, and it was much more fulfilling than her previous shy attempt.
He hoped that, the following day, neither of them felt that their positions mandated that they pretend to forget what was happening. At that moment, however, none of it mattered. He knew he could never forget.
the end
* This was in the book, I didn't make it up.