"Where are we going?" I lean in as he leads me away from the house.
He points into the distance. "I remember when I came home the first year from the Academy." He pauses, knowing that I'm growing antsy. "It was one of the worst homecomings I've ever experienced. So much so that I stopped coming." The path narrows, surrounded on either side by flowers and tall grass. He steps onto the brush while giving me the path. "Papa said that if I didn't want to take part in the family business – then not to bother coming home. He said," he clears his throat. "He said I was a disgrace, that I flouted everything that the Picards held of any value, and well…" He smiles at me. "It does no good to dwell on the past."
I stop walking, signaling for him to do the same. "Jean Luc," I pull him to me. "Jean Luc, look at me." The rising, warm sun dances and reflects off of the delicate coat of moisture in his eyes, making them sparkle. "Jean Luc, it's not your fault."
"Intuitively," a large hand moves to rest on my waist. "I know that. But those were the last words that my father ever spoke to me." He again looks down, fixating on the small pebbles littered amid the dirt and the tractor marks. "But what Jack did to Wesley was so much worse than what my father did to me… My father never wanted to hurt me; he just didn't understand me and he interpreted that as disappointment. But," He looks up again. "I don't want…"
"What don't you want?"
"I don't want…" He tries to put together the words; "I never wanted any of this for Wes. I never wanted him to have to deal with anything like this… having father issues! It was bad enough when Jack was just dead. But now, I'm struggling because I don't know how to make this right…"
"Oh Jean Luc," I lean into him. "I don't know either, but," I kiss him again, take his hand, and continue walking. "We'll figure it out." I look to my left again, this time with a smile. "But, you still haven't told me where we're going."
The brush is now well past his ankles. Every step we take seems to elicit a great disturbance as tiny grasshoppers, moths, and colourful butterflies flee from our footsteps. And, there's that underlying melody of crickets singing their own solemn melody out in and around us. "There," he points.
At first I didn't see it. But there, in the distance, sitting on a low-lying tree branch, is the lone figure of a boy. From here he looks so small. His shoulders are hunched as his torso leans against the strong lines of the tree. He's completely still, albeit the occasional swing of his tawny, lanky leg. Our approach is anything but subtle as more parched wheat is displaced and small pebbles are crunched, but he doesn't turn to regard us.
"Wesley," Jean Luc wraps a hand playfully around his ankle. "Wesley?" He still doesn't respond.
"Wesley," I round his front. He's not that much higher than us, as the branch is so abnormally low to the ground. "Wesley please talk to us."
He sighs and looks down, defeated. "There's nothing to say. I'd just like to be alone."
"Oh no," Jean Luc breathes as he gains his own footing on the tree. "Move over."
"Come on!" he exasperates. "I'm fine, I just want to be alone!"
Jean Luc patiently shakes his head. "Stop acting like a petulant child, Wes. Scoot down."
"Fine," He droops his shoulders as he slides noisily along the dry bark.
"Beverly?" Jean Luc motions to the tree. "It's not the most ideal location, but uh," He slides down to sit nearer to Wesley. "It'll do."
"I don't know," I look warily.
"Come on," he reassures. "You'll be fine."
The shade provided by the tree yields a stark coolness as opposed to the hot sunshine that we walked through. It's peaceful, I think, that's why Wes came here. Sitting in silence, the senses are heightened. There's nothing left to distract you but the dulcet tones of the birds, the wind, the insects, and smells of the trees and flowers. It all surrounds you and lulls you, like a bewitching enchantment.
"Talk to us, Wesley." He whispers, leaning in.
He shrugs, "There's nothing to say…"
"There's a lot to say," I add. "Just start somewhere. We want you to be honest with us."
"Honest," he mirrors and nods his head. There's silence only punctuated by the sounds of the fields as he gathers what he wants to say.
"I don't belong here," he says, barely audible.
A pang of sadness punches me in the gut and I grab tighter to the cragged bark. "Belong where, Wesley?" Jean Luc utters back, his voice laced with the same melancholy.
"Here," he motions all around us. "With you," He turns to Jean Luc. "With your family, pretending that I actually belong here."
For a long moment, there's again silence. The sound of Jean Luc's hand moving away from the tree to take Wesley's is what breaks the moment. "Pretending that you belong?" He muses. "Why do you say that, Wes?"
"You saw him. You saw Jack Crusher," he spits out, his syllables cracking. "That man was my father – he gave me life and half of me is him." Tears bleed through, "I can't reconcile that with who I am…"
We're quiet to let him continue. "It was better when Jack was dead." He's emphatic, "I could pretend he was anyone I wanted him to be: a hero… I built my whole life around some ideal of him. And now…" He stops to look at Jean Luc directly. "Look at who he really was… a monster…." He cries through red eyes and wet cheeks, "What does that make me?"
"It makes you Wesley," Jean Luc wipes a hot tear away without missing a beat. "It makes you the young man who I am and have always been very proud of." He turns his downcast gaze to meet his own. "You're kind, Wesley. And you're loving, and giving. You've never hurt anyone, or anything. Just because Jack gave you life… that has no bearing on who you are as a person or what choices you make."
"But," he argues. "I could make those choices…"
"Anyone could make those choices, Wes!" He counters emphatically. "Regardless of who their mother or father was."
He nods, "I know, but..."
"Eh," Jean Luc holds up his hand with the quirk of a smile. "No 'buts'. You're not Jack Crusher so let that notion go immediately." He takes Wesley's limp hand into his own. "Is that why you feel like you don't belong?"
"Yes," he responds immediately. "No." He motions with his other hand. "I don't belong because I don't. Saoirse and Aaron and Renee – they're all Picards… but I'm just some sort of poser. An imposter."
"Wesley," I whisper through my own hurt. "That's not true."
"I just don't belong anywhere. I don't feel like a Crusher. Even the sound of that name," He laughs. "You know when your lawyer," He regards Jean Luc. "When he called me Mr. Crusher, I almost had to wrack my brain to remember who that was.
Mr. Crusher is Jack. I'm…" He shrugs, "I'm nobody. Just Wesley."
"Is that what you want, Wesley?" Jean Luc's hand moves from Wes' hand and is replaced on his shoulder.
"What I want?" Wesley is confused.
"You've always known how I've felt about you Wesley." He looks down, a little embarrassed. "Remember when you were 17 and you were making your second application to the Academy?"
A smile graces Wesley's voice, "Don't remind me!"
"Well," He laughs. "I had to fill out the paperwork… and," he looks at me with a smile. "I've never told anyone this because I was so embarrassed at how presumptuous of a notion it was. But," he lags. "I remember it was very late at night when I finally sat down to fill out the padd of information." He looks up, recalling the memory, "The first part of it was all biographical information – name, date of birth, place of birth… Well, I finished it. I don't remember how because I was so tired. But, uh, then I set it down for the evening because I still had to input my own letter of recommendation." He jumps the small distance down from the tree and moves to regard Wesley directly. "When I picked it up the next morning to double check all the information before I sent it, do you know what I had done?"
Wesley shakes his head with a grin, "In every single slot where your name had to go – and there were quite a few – I had input your name as Wesley Robert Picard."
Wesley smile broadens, "You did?"
"You never told me that, Jean Luc," I whisper through a smile so big it's hurting my face.
"Well…" He looks down bashfully as that same blush travels up his neck. "I was a little ashamed – making such a presumption. But uh," he looks at me as if to implicitly confirm his question.
I think I know and I couldn't agree more.
"Now, well…" I lay my hand on his. "Wesley, you know that I, how I," He sighs defeated, as the words which so eloquently and easily flow now won't come. "From when you were a little boy, I always wanted…"
Thank you again, everyone, for the direction.
Maddie: Thanks a million! Here you go :) I love all the questions!
Martin D: Glad you've been enjoying this story. Hope you don't get tired of it :)