AN: Here's another chapter. I'm not sure if everyone saw the one that I posted yesterday, so I would recommend making sure that you read the one before this one before you read this one.

I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!

111

Beverly didn't wake up from her nap in Deanna's office thinking that the best thing to do would be to tell Jean-Luc that he was the father. If anything, she woke up more convinced that he would try to do the right thing, because he was a man of honor, but he wouldn't want it—not even for a moment—and she didn't think she could live like that. She couldn't make him live like that, and she would rather her baby know no father than know a father that it could sense didn't quite want it.

Beverly didn't know if Deanna was right that Jean-Luc suspected something, but she did her best to avoid Jean-Luc, and Jean-Luc didn't press her too much. He called her in regularly for work-related consultations and, in each of those meetings, he would try to pry information from her. He wanted to know how she was, how she was feeling, if the interminable morning sickness had been cured, and anything else that had crossed his mind. Beverly kept her answers short and no more involved than she might give Geordi or Data. Jean-Luc would worry aloud that she looked thin and pale, and she would reassure him that she was under the care of a doctor and doing everything she could to ensure her health was as good as it could possibly be.

More than once, he'd started a conversation in his ready room with the softest "Beverly," that she thought she'd ever heard, and her heart would nearly stop in her chest. More than once, he'd reached for her, and she'd tolerated the somewhat affectionate touches, all the while hoping that he didn't dare ask for more because she didn't have the strength to tell him no—not when she couldn't possibly mean it. Still, everything he'd meant to say fell away before it was said, and Beverly was spared the agonizing decision of how to answer a direct question about the child she carried.

During the passing weeks, Beverly tried to focus on her job, focus on Wesley, focus on getting her news out there and not saying too much or giving herself away—she tried to focus on everything except Jean-Luc.

And, yet, Jean-Luc was one of the only things that she thought about with any consistency. He came to her mind constantly. Even when she'd seemingly quieted her mind from thinking about him or turning her problem over and over, Jean-Luc would flash back to the front of her mind. In the middle of working, the moment there was a lull in what she needed to do, she would think of him. The harder she tried to pretend that she could somehow put him entirely out of her mind, the more her mind told her how utterly ridiculous such a thing was.

In those passing weeks, she'd tested two new medicines that Dr. Moran had found to try to get her some relief from the never-ending nausea, and neither had delivered, so far, more than the slight relief that the others she'd tried had done. A well-timed cracker or piece of bread was nearly as relieving as anything she'd managed to find in a hypospray, so far. Dr. Moran continued looking, though, enjoying the challenge and putting herself into contact with a great many new colleagues to see if anyone might have come across something obscure that might magically work for her apparently-medicine-resistant patient. Regular infusions were keeping Beverly going, but she was anxious to keep trying whatever Dr. Moran might find, since she was starting to worry that the baby—although developing rather normally, despite registering a low weight—would suffer from the lack of variety and calories in her diet.

As she crossed into the second trimester, Beverly hoped she would see nearly magical relief from her morning sickness, but she was afraid that everyone who had ever declared that to be true would be at least somewhat related to the person who had named the cursed, ongoing, never-ending sickness "morning sickness." The relief, if it was coming, wasn't immediate.

Deanna kept her promise of not pushing Beverly too hard, and she kept her secret. Every now and again, she would press Beverly to consider telling Jean-Luc the truth, but she always left it to her to decide what she wanted to do. In the absence of a confession to Jean-Luc, Deanna accepted that Beverly let her fuss over her a bit and, by presenting it as something she wanted, Deanna allowed Beverly to indulge in the care without feeling like she was placing a burden on her friend's shoulders. Admittedly, she found it very nice, sometimes, to slip into Deanna's office for a quick nap, and to sleep in the security of knowing that she could let down her guard, put down her burdens, and simply sleep, knowing that everything was being watched over by some other responsible soul for at least an hour.

When it came to telling Jean-Luc about the baby, the most doggedly persistent person in Beverly's life, really, was Wesley, even though he didn't know the baby's father was Jean-Luc.

"Mom—you have to eat something," Wesley said. He said it so often that Beverly thought he just placed it at the start of a meal, now, much like grace.

"I'm going to eat as much as I can," she assured him, already knowing that the lasagna that he'd chosen and replicated for their dinner—part of his efforts to help out as much as she would allow—was not going to go down well, and it was going to come up even worse, if she should try to force it too much. Still, through the course of the meal, Beverly took a few of the smallest bites she could for show, and chewed them until she was wondering if she could somehow transfer them to her napkin, instead of swallowing, and still make Wesley happy.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, Mom," Wesley started after a silence that followed a bit of a monologue about what he'd been studying that day.

Beverly sucked in a breath and let it out, trying not to sigh as dramatically as she felt like sighing.

"But you're going to try to insist on it, anyway, Wesley," she said.

"Hear me out," Wesley said.

"I've been hearing you out for weeks, Wes," Beverly offered.

"Just…listen, Mom," Wesley said. "Just listen."

"Fine," Beverly ceded. "I'm listening. What is it that I absolutely have to hear?"

"I wish I'd had longer to know Dad," Wesley said. Whatever he was going to say, this was already different than the way he'd started similar conversations during the passing weeks. "I wish—I had all those memories that I hear other people sharing. You know? My dad did this…my dad did that. I don't have that."

Beverly swallowed against the lump in her throat that felt ever-ready to form these days, and she reached a hand out to squeeze Wesley's arm.

"Your father loved you very much," Beverly said. "And—he would have…loved, Wesley…to spend so much more time with you. He would have wanted you to have all the wonderful memories that you could possibly have. He would have wanted your childhood—your whole life—to be full of wonderful memories."

"And I have a lot of great memories, Mom, but most of them are with you," Wesley said. "And that's great, but…it doesn't mean that I don't wish, sometimes, that things had been different."

"I wish that things had been different, too," Beverly assured him.

"Then, you'll understand what I'm going to say. Mom—I don't have the chance to have all those memories because Dad's dead. But the baby? The baby could have all of that. Everything. It isn't fair, and the baby's not going to think it's fair, if you tell him that he doesn't get any of that because you never gave him the chance."

"I think we're done, Wesley," Beverly offered, softly this time.

"You're not listening," he insisted.

"No—I'm listening. And I've heard you. But there are things that you just don't understand."

"Then—help me understand," Wesley countered. "You're always saying that you want me to learn everything I need to grow up and be a man. Maybe, as part of being a man, I want to be a father someday. Maybe—I want to avoid doing whatever it is that would make the mother of my child feel like I didn't want to be a father. Help me understand this."

"The difference would be desire, Wesley. If you wanted to be a father, she would know. Your father wanted you," Beverly said. "From the moment that we knew you were coming, he wanted you. He loved you. That isn't the case, here. It's really that simple, Wesley. At least you have the memories of a father who loved you dearly. The baby would have nothing but…a father who didn't want him…or her."

"How do you know that if you haven't told him?" Wesley asked.

"You just know things, Wesley," Beverly said.

"Who is it, Mom?"

"That's none of your business," Beverly said.

"Is he on the Enterprise? You said shore leave, but…we haven't been off the ship for a while."

Beverly narrowed her eyes at him.

"That's enough, Wesley," she said, putting a bit more force behind her voice. He looked scolded, but then she saw a little flash of defiance behind his eyes—he was, after all, his father's son.

"You should tell him," Wesley said, some anger coming through in his tone. "You're just being selfish, Mom, if you don't."

"You need to think very carefully about what you're saying, and what you're planning to say," Beverly warned. "And you need to reconsider how you're speaking to me, young man."

"I'm sorry," Wesley said, seeming sincere. "It's just that—you should tell him. Then, if he says he doesn't want the baby, at least you know. At least, when the baby asks about it later—when he's grown up—we can tell him the truth. If you tell him, Mom, and he doesn't want the baby? I won't say another word. I promise. I'll tell the baby, myself, when he asks why he doesn't have a father."

"You'll do no such thing," Beverly said. She stood up. "I'm sorry, Wesley. I don't feel well. I'm going to lie down."

Wesley stood up, too.

"Did I upset you?" He asked.

"I'm fine," she assured him. "If you want me to clear, just leave this when you're done and I'll clean it later. You know I'm up half the night anyway. I don't mind having something to do when I can't sleep."

"I'll clear the table," he said, without hesitation. "You just—rest."

Beverly thought of apologizing, but she didn't. If she had—if she'd started telling him everything that she was sorry for in life, she would have probably dissolved into tears and ruined the rest of his dinner. Instead, she simply hugged him tightly and then replicated tea to take to her room.

Beverly laid in bed for a while, in the darkness of her room, but she didn't sleep. She ran everything that Wesley had said through her mind. She imagined her baby, somehow grown enough to begin questioning things, and she imagined trying to explain to it why it didn't know its father. There would never be an easy answer. Whether she said that Jean-Luc didn't want the baby, or he said it, it was going to be difficult and painful. The only relief from that pain, perhaps, would be knowing that she wasn't putting words into his mouth. She hadn't been the one to deprive her child of a relationship that they might want.

Her quarters were still and quiet. When Beverly had tiptoed back to the kitchen for another cup of tea, she'd found everything in order. Wesley's room was quiet and, if he was awake, he was probably studying by lamplight or reading a book.

Back in her quarters, Beverly toyed with her communicator. Her chest ached badly enough that she could almost convince herself that her very soul ached and yearned. Maybe Deanna was right—maybe she was hurting herself more than anyone or anything else could possibly hurt her. Maybe the pain of knowing, beyond any doubt, would be less devastating than the pain of not knowing.

Beverly tried to calm herself with a few purposeful breaths, and then she activated the communicator.

"Crusher to Picard," she said.

Jean-Luc came back immediately, as if he'd been sitting with the communicator in his own hand at an hour when he should have been sleeping.

"Beverly—is…something the matter?"

Beverly smiled to herself. Her throat ached, and her eyes prickled. She reached for the tissues that she didn't keep too far from herself—every place she frequented had them on offer.

"Nothing official," she said.

"Something personal, then?" Jean-Luc responded.

"I need to talk to you," Beverly said.

"Certainly," Jean-Luc responded quickly. "What is it?"

"I—don't want to say it over a channel, Jean-Luc," Beverly said.

"Come to my quarters," Jean-Luc said.

"I'm already in my nightgown," Beverly said with a laugh, appreciating at least the amusement that her body offered her as it processed the somewhat eager sound of his voice. He was used to spending time with her, and she had taken that away, entirely, for months.

"Come as you are," Jean-Luc said. "As you're comfortable. I don't mind, Beverly. You said, yourself, that this isn't a formal call."

"It's late, Jean-Luc," Beverly said. "People would talk if I were to go to the captain's quarters at this hour."

"Then, I'll come to you," Jean-Luc said.

Beverly's stomach twisted in response and she closed her eyes against the sensation—and all the thoughts that it brought with it. She forced a smile, so that it might come through in her voice.

"Tomorrow," Beverly said. "We'll talk tomorrow. In your quarters, so Wesley won't be present."

"First thing, then," Jean Luc responded. "Breakfast. Come as early as you like. We'll have plenty of time."

"We both have duty tomorrow," Beverly said.

"We'll make time," Jean-Luc corrected. "Duty rosters can be altered, Beverly, if necessary."

"I'll see you at 0500 hours," Beverly said.

"I'll be ready," he assured her, "to give you my undivided attention."

"Goodnight, Jean-Luc," Beverly said.

"Sleep well, Beverly."

Beverly disconnected the link between them. She wondered if she could keep her nerve up. She wondered if it would still be there in the morning. Of course, she doubted that she would do much sleeping and, in fact, she wondered exactly how much sleep Jean-Luc would get—if any.