Yay - Paramount owns everything.
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Morning of the Magicians
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"It's your birthday, Jean-Luc. Indulge a little bit - who knows when you'll get the chance again." Beverly Crusher gave Jean-Luc Picard a wink and an impish grin as she leaned forward to kiss him chastely on the jaw. Her thick red hair fell toward him as she did so, silken curled locks gently brushing Picard's face. His breath caught in his chest and his mechanical heart leapt as she pulled back and stood to clear plates from the coffee table. Picard reclined with the second piece of cake he'd been deliberating over with so much agony.
He smiled bashfully. "I suppose you're right." He gazed at her willowy form, wistfully thinking of birthdays past and indulgences he had not allowed himself. He thought that perhaps tonite might be the last he dwelled on those regrets. He had watched Beverly closely, carefully all evening. Their eyes met constantly and she had never been more than a step away from him. She was like his shadow; ever present but never invasive or unwelcome. And one would find himself incapable of explaining if it were ever absent. He remembered with a slight thrill how she'd touched him frequently - familiar, lingering grazes that seemed to invite more.
Beverly reflected on the subtle messages she'd been sending all evening, hoping Picard had picked up on them. Only moments earlier the remainder of the Enterprise senior staff had departed, merry and full of well wishes. The feel of joy still hung in the air of the cabin, as did several loony party favors selected and arranged by Data and Geordi. She could still hear the wail of Riker's trombone as the unavoidable 'happy birthday' dirge evolved into a festive ragtime number. Crusher had been planning a celebratory dinner for Picard's birthday the past week, but duty had prevented them all from getting together until this evening. She was glad to have this time with Jean-Luc, and in fact had a very specific agenda for the rest of the night. Beverly almost giggled nervously in anticipation. She felt like a schoolgirl with a major crush - one that was in fact returned and about to become something real.
She finished with the dishes, but before moving back to the sofa she paused to press a button on the desk. An ancient Terran melody from the classical period filled the air and the lights came down almost imperceptibly.
She stalked purposefully back into the dimmed living area and her eyes met Picard's instantly. From what she saw in them it was clear he had not missed her point. She began to sit but noticed she still had not cleared the cake plates. Half of her wanted to ignore it, but the other half of her perfectionist personality insisted that the ambience be absolutely right. Clanging silver and cake crumbs were not part of the plan.
She began gathering them up and Picard stood to assist her. She waved him off. "It's OK Jean-Luc. I have another task in mind for you." His eyes twinkled in surprise. She smiled easily, beautifully, her features lighting up. "We're out of wine. Could you find us something suitable from the reserve?" She inclined her head toward the bedroom, where she knew he kept his best bottles.
Having already guessed at her intentions, Picard was now certain Beverly had something quite special planned for the rest of the evening. He spoke infrequently and with reverence of the vintages he kept hidden away, and knew she would never flippantly request he bring out a bottle. He happily stole away to the bedroom, his thoughts racing. He quickly catalogued what he had on hand, racking his mind for the most appropriate and symbolic choice.
Crusher's smile stayed firmly in place, only widening slightly. His demeanor was always joyous when dealing with wine - its selection, consideration, or consumption. She knew he was thrilled with his task. The fact that he might be more excited about the wine than about what she had in mind afterward only endeared him to her more. She hummed quietly as she finished clearing the table. She stowed the plates away and turned her attention to the cake. Troi had been in charge of it, and was quite proud of the masterpiece she'd created. It was, of course, chocolate. Sinfully dark and decadent, she had managed to find a recipe that was at once rich and light. The texture was incredibly layered - the body firm and the frosting whipped and creamy. The overall result was absolutely intense and left you aching for more. Beverly looked forward to her own second slice, hopefully to be enjoyed in the approaching early morning hours and not alone.
Still preoccupied with the cake, Beverly did not notice that the tune she was humming did not match the music playing in the Captain's quarters. It was one that had haunted her waking and sleeping for weeks, the first few bars repeating over and over in her head. She was rarely conscious of its presence, but did find herself either singing or humming it under her breath on several occasions. Slow, lilting, and rich, the version she heard was a string arrangement. It always gave her a sense of déjà vu and she knew that it was a very old, very ceremonial piece from Earth - from its sound she guessed perhaps around the 17th or 18th century.
Returning to her task, she jumped and started, almost reeling as starlight from the nearby portal filtered in and brightly flashed on the cake knife she held. Suddenly the rest of the melody came rushing into her head. It was loud, almost overwhelming. Realization swept over her as she recognized the piece, Schubert's 'Ave Maria,' and where she had heard it. She gasped and grasped the knife tighter in her fist.
Picard emerged from the other room and began speaking. She could not distinguish his words, only registered the deep sound that rumbled from his chest. Her vision became sharp and pixilated. From a great distance she heard the clang as Picard set down the wine. Each sound came through to her, but was muffled by the music that was now reverberating through her mind. The composition swelled, and more instruments joined the arrangement. As the piece moved to a crescendo a cello began to play what she recognized as the central melody. It was all she could do not to begin crying. She turned toward Picard and clutched the knife tightly at her side, still humming quietly.
She saw that he was speaking to her, but she could hear nothing of what he said. As she walked forward she feigned a stretch, moving her arms behind her waist and masking the weapon in her right hand. Picard offered her a glass of wine, proudly showing her the bottle. It was of course from the Picard winery, some twenty years old - clearly one of his finest. She smiled approvingly, seductively, and continued to advance. Perplexed, Picard set the glass down and moved against the bulkhead adjoining his bedroom.
Arms still behind her Crusher moved assertively against him, pinning Picard against the wall. Violins, harps and cellos echoed in her mind, repeating the primary chorus of the song ceaselessly. It was beautiful, haunting, tragic and commanding - and it was everywhere. She searched Picard's eyes intently, but could not find what she needed there.
Jean-Luc melted under Beverly's piercing stare. Her sapphire eyes were profoundly intense, dilated and fixed. They were filled with passion, but somehow unfocused. He could not ignore her physical presence, but instinctually began to resist her. He began to feel claustrophobic. She was humming eerily to herself. She had responded to nothing he'd said since returning from the bedroom. He spoke her name. "Beverly." She still stared at him, but did not respond. His tone became authoritative. It was one that he reserved for the bridge and signaled they were no longer off duty. "Beverly." Again, it was as if he had not spoken.
For her part, Crusher's ears registered nothing. A clear, crystalline voice was now singing, perhaps the most pure and beautiful she'd ever heard. It was all that she was aware of and the world outside her began closing in. Picard was now the only thing she could see, and all she could hear was the song, a great orchestra crashing in her mind. She pictured an ancient church with great towering marble walls and devastatingly beautiful stained glass windows. She could see the various colors of light filtering in, muted as though she were underwater.
She then felt Picard tense against her and responded instantly. Her first strike was lethal. She knew his body inside and out, every square inch. She had worked with it for years, placed her hands inside his chest to touch and heal the quivering tissue, and then closed the wounds herself. There was nothing of his physique she did not know, and her surgeon's precision did not fail. She struck smoothly and swiftly without looking down, her ice blue eyes locked on his dark hazel.
They turned even darker and his mouth opened slightly as the knife slid at a murderously artful angle between his ribs and through his lung, penetrating and mortally damaging his artificial heart. His expression was pained, shocked, confused. Everything slowed down. While Picard could no longer feel his heart beating, he could feel every fiber of her body against his own. He studied each pore on her alabaster skin, each strand of scarlet hair. He tried to understand what was happening and could not - he could not focus or think properly for some reason. Reflexively he grasped her left arm as tightly as he could, struggling to free himself. With the effort escaped a soft groan. He tried to speak her name, but his voice was barely above a whisper. "Beverly?"
Without stepping back she slid the knife out. The sound of the composition was massive, hypnotic. Still pressed firmly against him, she felt a hot rush of blood on her own chest. It was as though she were on fire. She felt it spread to her abdomen. He was bleeding profusely now, but it would not be for long as his heart was no longer pumping. Though the volume of the music in her head was now slowly decreasing, the cello still played the agonizing central theme. The angelic voice of the woman was silent, and Beverly longed for it to return.
She focused again on Picard. His face was ashen and his eyes almost black. He remained standing only by virtue of the weight she pressed against him. He was wheezing now, a reedy and high-pitched whine. He was trying desperately to draw air into the lung that still functioned. It would only be seconds now before he lost consciousness. Very little air was reaching his still heart, no blood was traveling to his head. She guessed he would be alive for less than another minute. Still the music played in her head and she hummed quietly, studying his eyes curiously and intently as they dimmed. She had seen life steal away from a person before, but had always been too distracted by efforts to bring it back to every truly savor and understand the moment. She waited patiently until she saw the very last of the light flicker out of his eyes. She stepped back and watched as he slid down the wall and crumpled on the floor. He did not move.
"Computer, secure doors." It was very late in the evening, but she did not want to risk being disturbed quite yet. Now singing she turned and walked back over to the dining table. She held the darkened knife up to the starlight and considered it before placing it on the table. Stained a deep crimson, the blood on the blade had already begun to thicken and fat drops plopped onto the glass. She casually picked up a towel and wiped at the blood on her hand and arm. She then returned her attention to Picard. She walked slowly back over to him and bent before him, arms around her knees like a child. He did not move. She reached to feel his neck. It was cooler than usual and the rough feel of stubble grazed against her fingertips. There was no pulse. Satisfied she stood and turned to the sofa.
She picked up the glass of wine Jean-Luc had poured only moments earlier. She sank down lightly on the sofa and crossed her long, slender legs. She gazed at the far wall and took a sip. It was indeed an amazing vintage, and she held it up to the stars to study the patterns of light it cast off. A full-bodied merlot, it was almost exactly the color of Picard's blood- soaked tunic. She glanced again at his still form. The voice of the woman had returned and the music filled her. Closing her eyes, she sighed. She leaned back against the sofa and let oblivion wash over her.
*********
"As the dawn began to break, I had to surrender. The universe will have its way, too powerful to master. Oh, what is love and what is hate? And why does it matter? Is to love just a waste, why does it matter?"
In the Morning of the Magicians - The Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots - www.flamminglips.com
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*********
Morning of the Magicians
*********
"It's your birthday, Jean-Luc. Indulge a little bit - who knows when you'll get the chance again." Beverly Crusher gave Jean-Luc Picard a wink and an impish grin as she leaned forward to kiss him chastely on the jaw. Her thick red hair fell toward him as she did so, silken curled locks gently brushing Picard's face. His breath caught in his chest and his mechanical heart leapt as she pulled back and stood to clear plates from the coffee table. Picard reclined with the second piece of cake he'd been deliberating over with so much agony.
He smiled bashfully. "I suppose you're right." He gazed at her willowy form, wistfully thinking of birthdays past and indulgences he had not allowed himself. He thought that perhaps tonite might be the last he dwelled on those regrets. He had watched Beverly closely, carefully all evening. Their eyes met constantly and she had never been more than a step away from him. She was like his shadow; ever present but never invasive or unwelcome. And one would find himself incapable of explaining if it were ever absent. He remembered with a slight thrill how she'd touched him frequently - familiar, lingering grazes that seemed to invite more.
Beverly reflected on the subtle messages she'd been sending all evening, hoping Picard had picked up on them. Only moments earlier the remainder of the Enterprise senior staff had departed, merry and full of well wishes. The feel of joy still hung in the air of the cabin, as did several loony party favors selected and arranged by Data and Geordi. She could still hear the wail of Riker's trombone as the unavoidable 'happy birthday' dirge evolved into a festive ragtime number. Crusher had been planning a celebratory dinner for Picard's birthday the past week, but duty had prevented them all from getting together until this evening. She was glad to have this time with Jean-Luc, and in fact had a very specific agenda for the rest of the night. Beverly almost giggled nervously in anticipation. She felt like a schoolgirl with a major crush - one that was in fact returned and about to become something real.
She finished with the dishes, but before moving back to the sofa she paused to press a button on the desk. An ancient Terran melody from the classical period filled the air and the lights came down almost imperceptibly.
She stalked purposefully back into the dimmed living area and her eyes met Picard's instantly. From what she saw in them it was clear he had not missed her point. She began to sit but noticed she still had not cleared the cake plates. Half of her wanted to ignore it, but the other half of her perfectionist personality insisted that the ambience be absolutely right. Clanging silver and cake crumbs were not part of the plan.
She began gathering them up and Picard stood to assist her. She waved him off. "It's OK Jean-Luc. I have another task in mind for you." His eyes twinkled in surprise. She smiled easily, beautifully, her features lighting up. "We're out of wine. Could you find us something suitable from the reserve?" She inclined her head toward the bedroom, where she knew he kept his best bottles.
Having already guessed at her intentions, Picard was now certain Beverly had something quite special planned for the rest of the evening. He spoke infrequently and with reverence of the vintages he kept hidden away, and knew she would never flippantly request he bring out a bottle. He happily stole away to the bedroom, his thoughts racing. He quickly catalogued what he had on hand, racking his mind for the most appropriate and symbolic choice.
Crusher's smile stayed firmly in place, only widening slightly. His demeanor was always joyous when dealing with wine - its selection, consideration, or consumption. She knew he was thrilled with his task. The fact that he might be more excited about the wine than about what she had in mind afterward only endeared him to her more. She hummed quietly as she finished clearing the table. She stowed the plates away and turned her attention to the cake. Troi had been in charge of it, and was quite proud of the masterpiece she'd created. It was, of course, chocolate. Sinfully dark and decadent, she had managed to find a recipe that was at once rich and light. The texture was incredibly layered - the body firm and the frosting whipped and creamy. The overall result was absolutely intense and left you aching for more. Beverly looked forward to her own second slice, hopefully to be enjoyed in the approaching early morning hours and not alone.
Still preoccupied with the cake, Beverly did not notice that the tune she was humming did not match the music playing in the Captain's quarters. It was one that had haunted her waking and sleeping for weeks, the first few bars repeating over and over in her head. She was rarely conscious of its presence, but did find herself either singing or humming it under her breath on several occasions. Slow, lilting, and rich, the version she heard was a string arrangement. It always gave her a sense of déjà vu and she knew that it was a very old, very ceremonial piece from Earth - from its sound she guessed perhaps around the 17th or 18th century.
Returning to her task, she jumped and started, almost reeling as starlight from the nearby portal filtered in and brightly flashed on the cake knife she held. Suddenly the rest of the melody came rushing into her head. It was loud, almost overwhelming. Realization swept over her as she recognized the piece, Schubert's 'Ave Maria,' and where she had heard it. She gasped and grasped the knife tighter in her fist.
Picard emerged from the other room and began speaking. She could not distinguish his words, only registered the deep sound that rumbled from his chest. Her vision became sharp and pixilated. From a great distance she heard the clang as Picard set down the wine. Each sound came through to her, but was muffled by the music that was now reverberating through her mind. The composition swelled, and more instruments joined the arrangement. As the piece moved to a crescendo a cello began to play what she recognized as the central melody. It was all she could do not to begin crying. She turned toward Picard and clutched the knife tightly at her side, still humming quietly.
She saw that he was speaking to her, but she could hear nothing of what he said. As she walked forward she feigned a stretch, moving her arms behind her waist and masking the weapon in her right hand. Picard offered her a glass of wine, proudly showing her the bottle. It was of course from the Picard winery, some twenty years old - clearly one of his finest. She smiled approvingly, seductively, and continued to advance. Perplexed, Picard set the glass down and moved against the bulkhead adjoining his bedroom.
Arms still behind her Crusher moved assertively against him, pinning Picard against the wall. Violins, harps and cellos echoed in her mind, repeating the primary chorus of the song ceaselessly. It was beautiful, haunting, tragic and commanding - and it was everywhere. She searched Picard's eyes intently, but could not find what she needed there.
Jean-Luc melted under Beverly's piercing stare. Her sapphire eyes were profoundly intense, dilated and fixed. They were filled with passion, but somehow unfocused. He could not ignore her physical presence, but instinctually began to resist her. He began to feel claustrophobic. She was humming eerily to herself. She had responded to nothing he'd said since returning from the bedroom. He spoke her name. "Beverly." She still stared at him, but did not respond. His tone became authoritative. It was one that he reserved for the bridge and signaled they were no longer off duty. "Beverly." Again, it was as if he had not spoken.
For her part, Crusher's ears registered nothing. A clear, crystalline voice was now singing, perhaps the most pure and beautiful she'd ever heard. It was all that she was aware of and the world outside her began closing in. Picard was now the only thing she could see, and all she could hear was the song, a great orchestra crashing in her mind. She pictured an ancient church with great towering marble walls and devastatingly beautiful stained glass windows. She could see the various colors of light filtering in, muted as though she were underwater.
She then felt Picard tense against her and responded instantly. Her first strike was lethal. She knew his body inside and out, every square inch. She had worked with it for years, placed her hands inside his chest to touch and heal the quivering tissue, and then closed the wounds herself. There was nothing of his physique she did not know, and her surgeon's precision did not fail. She struck smoothly and swiftly without looking down, her ice blue eyes locked on his dark hazel.
They turned even darker and his mouth opened slightly as the knife slid at a murderously artful angle between his ribs and through his lung, penetrating and mortally damaging his artificial heart. His expression was pained, shocked, confused. Everything slowed down. While Picard could no longer feel his heart beating, he could feel every fiber of her body against his own. He studied each pore on her alabaster skin, each strand of scarlet hair. He tried to understand what was happening and could not - he could not focus or think properly for some reason. Reflexively he grasped her left arm as tightly as he could, struggling to free himself. With the effort escaped a soft groan. He tried to speak her name, but his voice was barely above a whisper. "Beverly?"
Without stepping back she slid the knife out. The sound of the composition was massive, hypnotic. Still pressed firmly against him, she felt a hot rush of blood on her own chest. It was as though she were on fire. She felt it spread to her abdomen. He was bleeding profusely now, but it would not be for long as his heart was no longer pumping. Though the volume of the music in her head was now slowly decreasing, the cello still played the agonizing central theme. The angelic voice of the woman was silent, and Beverly longed for it to return.
She focused again on Picard. His face was ashen and his eyes almost black. He remained standing only by virtue of the weight she pressed against him. He was wheezing now, a reedy and high-pitched whine. He was trying desperately to draw air into the lung that still functioned. It would only be seconds now before he lost consciousness. Very little air was reaching his still heart, no blood was traveling to his head. She guessed he would be alive for less than another minute. Still the music played in her head and she hummed quietly, studying his eyes curiously and intently as they dimmed. She had seen life steal away from a person before, but had always been too distracted by efforts to bring it back to every truly savor and understand the moment. She waited patiently until she saw the very last of the light flicker out of his eyes. She stepped back and watched as he slid down the wall and crumpled on the floor. He did not move.
"Computer, secure doors." It was very late in the evening, but she did not want to risk being disturbed quite yet. Now singing she turned and walked back over to the dining table. She held the darkened knife up to the starlight and considered it before placing it on the table. Stained a deep crimson, the blood on the blade had already begun to thicken and fat drops plopped onto the glass. She casually picked up a towel and wiped at the blood on her hand and arm. She then returned her attention to Picard. She walked slowly back over to him and bent before him, arms around her knees like a child. He did not move. She reached to feel his neck. It was cooler than usual and the rough feel of stubble grazed against her fingertips. There was no pulse. Satisfied she stood and turned to the sofa.
She picked up the glass of wine Jean-Luc had poured only moments earlier. She sank down lightly on the sofa and crossed her long, slender legs. She gazed at the far wall and took a sip. It was indeed an amazing vintage, and she held it up to the stars to study the patterns of light it cast off. A full-bodied merlot, it was almost exactly the color of Picard's blood- soaked tunic. She glanced again at his still form. The voice of the woman had returned and the music filled her. Closing her eyes, she sighed. She leaned back against the sofa and let oblivion wash over her.
*********
"As the dawn began to break, I had to surrender. The universe will have its way, too powerful to master. Oh, what is love and what is hate? And why does it matter? Is to love just a waste, why does it matter?"
In the Morning of the Magicians - The Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots - www.flamminglips.com
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