Star-Struck 6

[A/N: I know, I'm stretching some things, such as ages. Sorry. I'm an imaginative person. :)]

The orchestra was preparing for the first of two performances in honour of the Enterprise' maiden voyage. It was done in this way so that everyone on board would have the chance to attend, in shifts. The first performance, the grand opening, was done in holodeck 2, in a large open-air amphitheatre.

It was Deanna's idea to dress in time to the music, and had the attendees select a costume from the 18th or 19th century Earth. Everyone was pleased to have a chance to wear something so unusual, except one person. Data, of course, had no emotions regarding costume and would just as willingly gone without anything at all.

The performers gathered behind a curtain, preparing to step outside and take their seats. Data, violin in hand and wearing a pale brown coat and britches, was standing beside Keiko Ishikawa and Melisandre, both of whom were dressed in elaborate Victorian dresses, the former holding her clarinet tightly in white shaking hands. Lieutenant Commander Ilya Raskovitch, an accomplished composer and conductor who worked in Security, was standing near the edge of the curtain, ready to take his place at the front. Everyone was tense, but excited. This was going to be a fantastic opening.

The lights set into the floor of the amphitheatre dimmed, and the audience, a group of nearly 500, applauded loudly. The musicians filed out and took their seats, and then Raskovitch stepped out. He was a talented, jovial, well-liked young man, and when the audience saw him they erupted into cheers. He grinned widely and waved. A startlingly large percent of the audience waved back.

He took his place at the stand, raised his baton, and the music started. It was going to be a memorable evening.

Jean-Luc Picard lounged around the refreshments table, relaxing. He had had a lovely time at the concert, and had then met up with Data to applaud his performance playing the lead in Sibelius' Violin Concerto, a daunting and easily botched part. He swilled a glass of wine – real wine, not synthohol – and sighed. It was a lovely moonlit holodeck night.

Melisandre, Data, and Geordi were sitting at a table and talking quietly over drinks. Geordi finished his glass and moved to get up, but Melisandre waved him down. "I'm going to get some food. I'll fill your glass."

"Thanks!" he said brightly, settling back into the chair. "I'm just so," he sighed happily, "comfortable."

She smiled and got up, and then promptly tripped. "Damned skirts," she said irritably, and then grinned.

Data stuck his two cents in. "Ladies wearing dresses of your kind would hold the skirt up in their hands."

"I know, Data, I know – I just keep forgetting! It's not like I do this every day," she said, and with a tight grip on the sage fabric, she stomped off to the wine table.

Upon reaching it, she reached for the bottle of red wine for Geordi, and tripped again, this time falling onto someone next to her, who instinctively caught her. She looked up embarrassedly in the surprised grey eyes of Jean-Luc Picard.

"Oh gosh!" she exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth and quickly straightening up. "I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't watch where I was stepping, and in any case, sir, I can't manage this skirt, and I'm sorry, I really am, sir, it's just so hard to keep remembering to hold it up and—" She noticed they were still holding each other's arms. She quickly let go and stepped back.

Picard couldn't decide whether to laugh or to blush. He ended by doing both. "It's quite alright, no harm done." He looked at her flushed face, framed with tendrils of red hair creeping out of her Victorian-style updo, stood helplessly as his eyes of their own accord moved to her shoulders, hands, waist, and came to the conclusion that she was decidedly lovely that evening. He raised his glass – his fourth, he had forgotten the effect real alcohol had on him – to her. "Lovely..." he sighed, and then mentally slapped himself, "...performance, Melisandre. I particularly liked the third movement of Partolli. A nice surprise you did to add her in the programme – I didn't expect a 23rd century composer with all the older classics."

Melisandre beamed. "It was Data's idea, sir. He thought the style was complementary."

"It was indeed. May I pour you a glass of wine?" he gestured at a smaller bottle hidden behind the others. "Genuine Picard Vintage."

"Sir?" Melisandre stared at the bottle, and traced the name with one thin tingling finger. "Picard vintage?"

"Grown by my father in France. I trust you wouldn't object to a toast?"

"Of course not." She took the glass he poured, and attempted to not touch his fingers. It didn't work, and she grew warm in the face.

"To the Enterprise," he said quietly, and gently clinked glasses. She sipped, and nodded approvingly. "Very good, sir."

"Please, Melisandre, let's loosen up a bit. We're off duty, you don't need to lace your every word with 'sir's." He smiled. She smiled back, and then pinched herself in the side when she felt her already-warm face further redden. She needed to get out of this situation, fast.

"Well, sir, I mean, not sir, sir, but..." she frowned. "Damn." Then she looked up and saw Picard fighting with himself not to laugh. She laughed too, and when the moment passed continued to fidget nervously. "I need to give the Geordi to wine – I mean, the wine to Geordi – and he asked, and won't know what happened, and I..." she faltered. "I need to go, sir. Thank you for the wonderful wine." She backed away, nodding, tripped again, and disappeared into the crowd. Deanna saw her and tried to talk to her about the performance, but she brushed her off and ran on. Only stopping momentarily to give Geordi the glass, she flew out, tripping, as fast as she could. "Damned moonlit evenings!"

Picard remained alone, staring at the place where she had stood almost wistfully. "Damned moonlit evenings!" he thought. He drained his glass and went to mingle with the rest of the crowd.

Melisandre collapsed in a pile of green fabric on the floor of her quarters. She covered her face in her hands, and moaned. "What's wrong with me?" she mumbled. "Why did he suddenly become so attractive? Why now? Why me? Why him!?" She tugged at her hair and it tumbled down to her waist in smooth dark red waves. She picked herself up, and ran pell-mell to Deanna's office, where she fell into a chair, and waited.

An hour or so later a very happy, rosy-faced, giggly Deanna Troi entered her office to close up for the night, and was very surprised to see Melisandre there, looking as if the world was going to end. She had sensed very strong emotions from her earlier that evening, but had dismissed it as a side-effect of the passionate music she was performing. "'Lise! How long have you been waiting?"

"Almost an hour," Melisandre said, still with the stricken look on her face.

"What are you doing here? You should've been enjoying yourself in holodeck 2. Come, sit here, tell me what's wrong."

Melisandre moved to sit beside Deanna mechanically, and then buried her face in her hands again. "It's…he's…we…aaaaargh!"

Deanna suddenly understood what the emotions she was feeling from her were. Then, she realised, with growing confusion, that she had felt the same kind of emotion from Captain Picard, who normally does not let his emotions out of the tight wall he kept them in.

"...He?"

"It's Captain Picard. The way he looked at me tonight...the way I felt when our hands touched on the wine glass...the way I couldn't tear myself away from being caught in his arms when I tripped..." She sobbed incoherently, "I don't understand what's gotten into me!"

Deanna's mouth fell open. Things were really weird. She made a mental note to ask Picard how many glasses of wine he had had, she figured that would be the cause of the lapse in his mental wall. She then smiled at Melisandre. "What's gotten into you? Did you not think about him? You stunned the poor man – god knows, he must be losing sleep over you now. You think I didn't notice what he was feeling? He was projecting so strongly I was half-surprised the crew didn't feel it."

Melisandre sobbed miserably and shook her head. "I can't do it. It's overwhelming!" She grabbed Deanna's arm and hugged her.

Deanna hugged her back. "It's really not all that bad, 'Lise. Love comes for a reason. Sleep on it – I can guarantee you'll feel better tomorrow after a nice warm tea."

"Tea!" she wailed. "Tea!"

Deanna flinched. Oops. "Not tea, then. Strong espresso. Or maybe a chocolaty mocha – I'll join you if you go for that." She smiled, and then relaxed as she simultaneously saw Melisandre smile weakly and felt her cheer up even that little bit.

"You got yourself a date. My quarters, 0730, and I'll provide the drinks." She got up, and smoothed her skirt. "Thanks, Di, I really fell to pieces. I guess," she giggled, "it was the Picard vintage." She left, leaving Deanna standing there, terribly confused.

Will had noticed Picard was rather out of it all evening. He kept looking over at the door, as if expecting someone, and was stuttering and red-faced all evening. Beverly, too, had been puzzled, but felt in her bones there was something more than a few glasses of wine too many to this. Neither of them, though, had any idea what was going through his head.

He lay in bed, without having bothered to change out of his suit. He ran his hands over his head, and sighed. Her eyes. Who said brown eyes couldn't be captivating? Her smile. I'd do anything for that smile. Her face when she looked at me. When I held her when she tripped. Her fingers, touching mine on the glass. How her eyes looked for mine when she was talking with Deanna...Deanna!

He got up with a sudden movement, and ran to the replicator. "Computer, standard dosage of trichloriletharic acetylate!" he cried. The pills appeared. He downed them and then felt better as he felt the effects of the alcohol in his system subside. He sighed, walked back to his bed, groaned and flopped backward onto the pillows. He grabbed one and hugged it, and then, visualising himself, tossed it aside with another groan.

He got up, and walked to the mirror. He looked himself sternly in the eye, and attempted to reconstruct his "Captain's face". It didn't work. He poked his reflection on the nose, and berated himself. "This, Jean-Luc, is not right. Not only is she a subordinate officer, she's younger than you by goodness knows how many years... Computer! What is the age of Lieutenant Commander Asimov?"

"Lieutenant Commander Melisandre Asimov is thirty one years of age."

"Thirty one? Damn." His main argument had been blown out of the water. She was only 9 years younger than he, and in the liberated customs of the 24th century, that was still acceptable. Even Beverly and Jack Crusher had been more than 9 years apart! He shook his head, and buried himself in his beloved Shakespeare.

The next morning, Melisandre woke up, wrapped herself in her robe, and replicated two decadent mochas. Deanna appeared, just as she said she would, and the two curled on Melisandre's sofa with blankets.

"So. How are we feeling this morning?" Deanna asked.

Melisandre made a face. "Just. Don't. Go. There."

Deanna shrugged. "I was just trying to help. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. We can talk about something else..."

"YES." She scanned the room for a subject, and her eyes lighted on the gift her parents had given her when she was accepted to Starfleet – a large, gold-trimmed, leather-bound edition of Shakespeare. It was from the 21st century and been handed down in the family, despite the fact that most of its owners never read it. Melisandre loved it. She got up, retrieved it, and opened it reverently. She passed her fingers on the yellowed pages, and said softly, "'There is not anything of human trial, that ever love deplored or sorrow knew, no glad fulfilment and no sad denial, beyond the pictured truth that Shakespeare drew.'"

Deanna stared. "That's... lovely, 'Lise."

She looked up, a soft smile gracing her face. "I saw it written on a wall of an old library back on Earth. It was carved in the stone wall above a great doorframe. It made my heart tremble, and I have always remembered it since."

"I wish I had such a connection to something. I think us Betazoids, because of our ability to pick-up emotions and thoughts, see more in the abstract than the real. We don't develop connections like that." Deanna took the book, and weighed it in her hand.

The computer chirped. "Senior staff meeting in 30 minutes."

The girls got up, stretched, cleaned up, and left together.