Even now, weeks later, the crepuscular air smelled of charred wood. The stench replaced the subtle scent of wet earth and plants that usually filled the air this time of year. Somehow, its absence was fitting, though. The tender of the vines was gone, it seemed only right that the vines themselves should mourn his absence.
Beverly Crusher felt the mud squelch beneath her shoes as she left the paved drive in front of the house and she wished she was wearing her boots. A breeze chilled her and she pulled the shawl she wore closer around her shoulders.
The skeletal remains of the barn loomed on the horizon, still seeming to smouldering in the scant fog. Beverly knew that was impossible. Another shudder ran down her spine nonetheless, this one entirely unrelated to the odd weather.
As she approached, she saw him standing there, head bowed, in the center of the ruined structure. It had been a difficult day for Jean-Luc. He had made it through Robert's eulogy with difficulty, but Rene's had taken its toll. Anyone who did not know Jean-Luc would have seen a man in extreme grief over the death of his nephew. Beverly knew, though, that his lack of composure was a sign of how near to his breaking point he'd been stretched.
"I don't want company right now, Beverly." His voice was gravelly, hoarse from lack of use, from grief, from the acrid stench around him. She knew he didn't mean what he said. Kneeling beside him in the muck, she placed a hand gently on his shoulder. He shook it off, standing. "It's not fair. It shouldn't have happened!"
Dropping the handful of dirt he clutched in his hand, Jean-Luc pressed his lips together and looked around himself at the building around him. Sorrow flashed across his face, followed by anger. The more he stared, his anger turned to rage.
"Dammit!" he shouted. "Dammit, it isn't fair!"
An anguished roar let loose from his chest and he swung his fist at the blackened remains of what had once been a door post. The rage in his shout turned to physical pain and Beverly heard the cracking of his knuckles against the wood. He sank to his knees, holding his injured hand. Ignoring the mud, she crawled over to him. Tears filled his eyes, but he wasn't going to shed them. Beverly knew that.
She reached out to him and took his hand in hers. The fine hairs on the back of his hand tickled her palm and his thumb settled between two of her fingers. The pad of her thumb brushed across the deep gashes scored into his knuckles and breath hissed through his teeth.
"It hurts like hell," she said simply. "And it's going to. But it will heal."
In the darkening night, his eyes shone, neither green nor grey nor brown nor blue, but all four at once. Beverly loved him. It was rare that she let that show through, let him see, but now she would. There was no conscious decision made-simply instinct.
Raising their joined hands to her mouth, she kissed each injured knuckle. The metallic taste of the rapidly drying blood was present, but she ignored it. Moving deliberately, she placed their hands in her lap. His lips were hard, stiff beneath hers. But as she moved her flesh across his, she felt him soften and eventually he took over, sharing his raging emotions with her. Her mouth opened, his tongue gently, almost tentatively slid against hers. Their friendly, comforting kisses had never gone this far and Beverly could feel his hesitancy to invest too much of himself.
Her fingertips curled around his neck, caressing his hair, feeling the softness of it. She wondered if this was more than a friendly kiss, wondered if she wanted it to be. Perhaps their timing was right, finally. Perhaps not. At the moment, it didn't matter. If now was not the right time, that time would come. For now, this was what the needed. Their relationship was what it was. It didn't need a name- a definition only limited it. This kiss was within its scope and that was what mattered.