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1000 Ships

Four

"Your heart like a dam when it breaks."

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Picard sat in the Quarterdeck, a watering hole far from campus. He nursed his fifth whiskey, as always maintaining a respectable drunken haze. He had been teaching command classes at the Academy for a few months now, and was wildly popular as an instructor. In class he was jovial, dashing, and full of adventurous stories from his days on the Enterprise and Stargazer. Many of his peers in the Admiralty mistook his vigor for exuberance. Indeed, he seemed young again, a reprise of the Picard they had graduated with – hard working, hard drinking, and always with a beautiful young woman on his arm. Johnny Picard had returned. He was never late for class, and he was never a public spectacle. He stayed away from campus when he went out, and when he was seen on the grounds of the Academy he was as indomitable and respectable an Admiral as you could want. But from now on his down time was his own. He had sacrificed enough to the fleet.

Picard recognized the self-destructive nature of his behavior, and he abhorred it. It was not a permanent solution, and he loathed it for the self-pitying folly it was. He would not indulge in it for much longer. Soon he would have to face his demons. But for the time it took the edge of his thoughts – Beverly in another man's arms, finding in him what she had not with Jean-Luc. Why could she not love him? Picard was not yet ready to face that reality.

As he sat contemplating the dregs of amber liquid before him, a young woman approached his table. Pushing sixty, Picard was still an attractive man. His physique was toned, and as always he had an air of power about him. She sat down with her own glass of wine and another whiskey for him. He looked her over appraisingly. She clearly wasn't a cadet, and that made her a solid prospect. Picard was careful never to engage any students from the academy.

She was good looking enough, brunette, warm brown eyes. She'd do. Picard never hooked up with redheads, and never a woman with blue eyes. But every other firm body in a skirt was – and had been – fair game.

"You come here often?" Had Picard not been five drinks into the evening, he would have groaned. The company he kept had certainly deteriorated. As it was, he didn't care. He wasn't looking for conversation. He was looking for a distraction.

"I do. Which is why I know you do not." Picard raised his glass in salute as he drained the remnants. The woman did not respond, only smiled. He was not sure she'd even understood his rejoinder.

"What's your name?" He started the new whiskey, his eyes intense on hers.

She looked sideways as she responded and smiled coyly. "Felicia."

Picard winced and threw back the entire contents of his fresh glass. That had cut a little close to home. He was going to need reinforcements.

"Well, Fel – young lady. What do you say we get out of here?" He cocked his head and gave her a charming wink.

Felicia smiled. What an easy score. She was looking forward to telling this story to her friends. This guy looked like a good time. As they stood and walked out, she turned to him. "Hey, what's your name?"

Picard laughed heartily. "It's not important."

In the corner of the dingy bar, a shadowed figure watched closely as Picard and the young woman stumbled into the night. Some minutes later, she finished her own glass of wine and left.

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Beverly Crusher sighed as she finished reading the communiqué. Part of her resented being dragged into this, and part of her knew Marie would not have contacted her if she were not desperate. Apparently Picard's sister in law had been watching him on and off, alarmed by the fact that he had not been home to the vineyard but for a handful of nights in the past few months. Picard had gotten a small flat in San Francisco, not far from Starfleet. He was spending the majority of his time there, and Marie said that on the rare occasion he'd returned to the vineyard he had looked haggard, spent. He had been irritable, silent, and altogether unlike himself

Crusher wondered briefly at how they had never run into each other on the Starfleet grounds. She suspected it was because Picard had not wanted to. She was humble enough now not to pretend she hadn't broken his heart when she'd remarried.

She'd sent him a note after their last meeting, which had ended on such a strained note. He had not responded. Beverly had the feeling Picard was trying to erase her from his life. Marie's note had confirmed her suspicions. It was not just her he was attempting to purge, but ties to anything from his past.

But it was not her problem. What was she to believe, that she had single- handedly driven him to drink? Her ego would not allow for that possibility. Whatever Jean-Luc's problems, they extended far beyond the implosion of their friendship. Perhaps the fact that he could not form lasting intimate attachments with anyone had something to do with it. Friendships yes – he had plenty of those that he truly cherished. But closely personal relationships – the ones that demanded he relinquish that last bit of control he cherished – those were beyond him. Knowing that, she had chosen to leave him. What she had with Andrew was common, but comfortable and secure. He loved her openly. True, Andy spent most of the month on assignment in another solar system. But it allowed them both to pursue their own lives. She was far too old to long for a star-crossed, wide-eyed love affair. She was content with what she had. Why couldn't Jean-Luc just take care of himself?

She gazed out at the gunmetal sky. Dark clouds had gathered that afternoon, and occasionally squalls of rain would violently smatter the window. She simply stared for a few moments, then turned back to the computer. She clicked at it, and after a while a trim Frenchwoman's gently smiling face appeared before her.

Beverly's eyes were flinty as she spoke. "I really don't know what you expect me to do, Marie."

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Once again Picard was entranced by a half-empty glass of whiskey. It had been a particularly hard week for him, and he had been constantly assailed with thoughts of Beverly - her voice, her skin, her touch, her laugh, her wit. It had all plagued him the past few days, try as he had to drink the memory away. He'd spent a few nights with Felicia before her droll lack of personality had driven him to distraction. They had parted unceremoniously the previous evening.

He turned as a familiar voice over his shoulder broke his clouded reverie.

"Mind some company, sailor?"

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