AN: Here we are, another piece to this one. I'm starting to play with Jean-Luc's voice a bit. I admit that it might take me a while to feel super confident with it, but I hope that it's not too far off!
I hope you enjoy. Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
111
"It's a bit early for Saurian Ale, Captain, isn't it?" Guinan said as Jean-Luc slid onto the seat directly across from her. At this hour, Ten-Forward wasn't empty, but it wasn't yet bustling with people. Despite the size of her clientele, though, Guinan always seemed to find special time for Jean-Luc. "Perhaps, it's better if we call it an aperitif? Do you have dinner plans?"
Jean-Luc smiled to himself. Even a few moments in Guinan's company could, at times, be just what he needed to lift whatever dark cloud had settled over him.
"I am not entirely sure, Guinan, that you cannot read minds," Jean-Luc teased.
"I'll never tell all my secrets," she said. "However, some people wear their thoughts out in the open, you know."
"I don't believe I've ever been accused of that," Jean-Luc responded.
"Maybe not to those who don't share such a long history with you," Guinan said. She poured a drink and placed it in front of him.
"I thought you said it was too early for Saurian Ale," he challenged. She poured one for herself and held it up in a toast. He copied her.
"Consider it an aperitif," Guinan said. "The Saurians certainly would. Now—what's on your mind?"
"A great deal, I'm afraid," Jean-Luc admitted, sipping the drink. He sighed. Guinan's stance was making it clear that she wasn't leaving him to go and attend to someone else, if there was even anyone else who needed her assistance. This would be one of those times when, approached by someone else, she would direct them to a replicator. Most people, too, knew how Guinan looked when she was focused in on something in particular, and they wouldn't even bother approaching her for their temporary dismissal. "The person I would, under normal circumstances, approach for advice, is the person about whom I'm in need of advice," Jean-Luc admitted. He made eye contact with Guinan. "I feel certain that you already know what's on my mind."
"I may have some suspicions," Guinan said, leaning on the bar, "but why don't I let you tell me what's important?"
Jean-Luc hadn't had much practice voicing anything about his current situation. He had managed to communicate it to Deanna Troi, but he'd almost felt like that had been nearly a comedy of errors as he'd tried to get it out. He sometimes felt that words came easily to him, but he had never found that to be true when the words were, perhaps, the most important.
"I don't know where to even begin," he said.
"The beginning is usually best," Guinan said.
"You know, I can solve problems about some of the most complicated scenarios that Starfleet can offer me, but it's another thing entirely when it hits close to home. I would, of course, appreciate your keeping everything that I may say a secret."
"I am very good at discretion," Guinan assured him, furrowing her brow and nodding—an attempt to make him believe her more, but also to illicit a little humor from him. He did find himself quietly laughing.
"Unfortunately, it would seem that I am not," he said. "Guinan—I am going to be a father. If I had any doubts before about the veracity of that statement, I don't have any now."
If he expected surprise from Guinan—or, really, any emotion—he would have been let down. She maintained the same expression as before his confession, and she looked at him expectantly.
"I suppose you're not surprised," he said.
"We could say that I had my suspicions," she said. "Or—I could act surprised, if it would benefit you in some way."
"Don't bother, Guinan," he said. She topped off the drink he was still sipping. "You're not going to ask me who the mother-to-be is, because you already know."
"There is, to my knowledge, only one expectant mother aboard the Enterprise," Guinan said. "Unless—we're going to assume that the mother is elsewhere?" She straightened up. "What's the problem, Picard? Come out with it, and maybe I can offer you some solution before you're too deep in Saurian Ale to do anything about it."
Jean-Luc laughed to himself.
"It's very complicated, Guinan," he said.
"From my understanding," Guinan said, "there's very little about human babies that is actually complicated. Human relationships, however…"
"Therein lies the rub," Jean-Luc said. He shook his head. "I don't know how to be a father, Guinan. I studied to be in command of a starship. I prepared for the things that I face every day to the best of my abilities. There was no course on relationships. There was no course on fatherhood."
"Nor will there be," Guinan said. "You can find pointers. There are holodeck programs, books…if that's what you want. What are your expectations, Picard? Or—better yet—your…hopes? If everything were to be perfect?"
"Things won't be perfect, Guinan."
"They hardly ever are," Guinan countered. "But dreams can be perfect, and they're sometimes a good place to start. What does your heart want?"
"What my heart wants, and what my brain believes it can have, are very different things," Jean-Luc said. "It isn't all about what I want, Guinan."
"Believe me, I understand that," she said. "But—it's a starting place. Have you at least told her what you want? How you feel?"
"I haven't told her anything," Jean-Luc said. "Oh—she's told me enough. The message has been…clear."
"I thought you said it was complicated."
"So, I did," Jean-Luc said. He sighed. "I don't want to disclose anything she might wish to keep private. Still—when I think of fatherhood, I can't seem to see it as something that comes without a role in the mother's life."
"Is it safe to assume that—you want a bigger role than the one you're being offered?" Guinan asked.
"Something like that," Jean-Luc said.
"Have you—told her about the role you want to have?" Guinan asked. "And—if the words won't come, Captain, have you shown her?"
"Perhaps, I'm just a bit too old-fashioned," Jean-Luc said. "I would hate to decide to try to woo her, as I feel she ought to be wooed, only to discover that I've made her feel that I'm pushing her toward something she doesn't want. I don't want her to think that I expect something she's unwilling—or unable—to give."
"But you do want something?" Guinan asked.
"I'm to be a father," Jean-Luc said. "I would like to do that to the best of my abilities."
"But you want more than that," Guinan pressed.
"Isn't it human nature to always want more?" Jean-Luc asked.
Guinan smiled at him.
"Often to get more, Captain, one has to go after what they want," Guinan said.
111
Deanna Troi smiled at Guinan as the El-Aurian approached her with an oversized chocolate sundae in her hand. She put it down on the table in front of Deanna and sat across from her in the little corner they'd agreed to call their own for these meetings.
Deanna swallowed down the first delicious bite of the perfect sundae and moaned out her pleasure and approval before she opened her eyes to Guinan.
Deanna could feel Guinan's pleasure and happiness. It was like a warm blanket to Deanna, only made better by the sundae.
"You're pleased," Deanna said. "Everything is going well?"
"My client is going to need some tradition," Guinan said, the corners of her mouth curling up in a smile as she teasingly tapped the table as though this were a genuine exchange of terms.
Deanna didn't try to hide her smile.
"I don't believe that mine would disapprove of tradition entirely," she said. "However, she's going to need some reassurance that this is personal. This needs to be clearly something he wants. She's going to need to be wanted. Not to be simply another duty on the list."
"Oh—it's something he wants," Guinan said.
"I'm not the one to be convinced," Deanna challenged.
"Nor am I the one to do the convincing. He wants to do some wooing," Guinan said. "Old-fashioned wooing."
"Which for humans entails…"
Before Deanna could say anything more, Guinan interrupted her.
"Dinners, flowers…"
"Dancing?" Deanna asked.
"I'm sure he could be convinced to dance," Guinan said.
"Romance," Deanna said. "She'll want that, too."
"For someone very modern, there's a streak of the very old-fashioned in him. He needs to know that she wants what he wants—or that she can at least be convinced. He needs approval and reassurance. He needs to be needed, at least a little."
"She's can be reluctant to hand over control," Deanna said. "But—I think that she's only reluctant when she's not sure that it's wanted. She will refuse to be a burden. However, I think there could be compromise, if the desires are mutual."
"Great," Guinan said with a sigh. "We can talk about it. Now—if only they could."
Deanna smiled at Guinan around another mouthful of ice cream and chocolate.
"I'll work on mine," she said. "If you work on yours."
"There's dinner tonight," Guinan said.
"I'll see if Beverly wants company while she gets ready," Deanna said with a shrug. She raised her eyebrows at Guinan. "What do you think she could wear that says 'willing to be traditional'?"
111
Jean-Luc replicated everything necessary for a nice meal. He set the table carefully. He chilled non-alcoholic champagne to toast the child, the meal, and, perhaps, something more.
Jean-Luc spent more time over his dress than he normally would. He believed in looking nice and put-together whenever possible. Still, he wouldn't say that he was normally someone who was given to fussing unnecessarily over his clothing. He wanted to look acceptable, though, and he didn't know what was acceptable—not for this evening.
The few drinks of Saurian Ale, spread out with conversation and diluted with time, were mostly gone from his system. They did nothing to calm his nerves at the present moment. The only thing he had left to drive him were Guinan's words—words he hoped were as correct as any other piece of advice that she'd given him.
There was no great reward without great risk.
Still, Jean-Luc's gut wasn't sure he was ready for this risk.
At heart, Jean-Luc was a romantic. He had been in love with Beverly since nearly the moment he'd first seen her. She'd been a married woman then, and he'd distanced himself because it wasn't right to covet his best friend's wife. It wasn't right, either, to want the widow that, in many ways, he'd felt guilty for having made a widow.
If he hadn't had quite so much to drink that night, he might have never given over entirely to his feelings. He had dared to touch her—first it had been sincere and without pretense of any sort. He'd brushed away something on her face, though he couldn't recall what. The simple brushing of his fingers against her skin had caused his pulse to rise, as it almost always did. Each touch after that had been a bit more contrived, until she'd simply stared at him, waiting for something, and he'd taken a chance—in his slightly hazy view of things, he'd imagined she would want what he wanted. He had dared to taste her lips—to savor her kiss.
Her lips had been soft against his. He had apologized, afraid he'd overstepped a boundary, and she'd hushed his apology with another kiss. Her kisses had tasted sweet—and he'd felt like he was finally drinking water after years in the desert. For at least a moment, he couldn't imagine ever wanting anything more than he wanted to simply keep kissing her. She had responded to his hunger and his need with a hunger of her own.
He had dared to touch her. He'd dared to let his hands explore her; his heart had pounded in his chest—always waiting for the moment when she said "enough." He had never doubted that he would listen when she said that, and he would stop when she asked it of him, but he had dreaded the coming of that moment.
Even now, he remembered, vividly, what her kiss was like when he'd allowed himself to touch her, rubbing her through her pants, and he remembered the rush of realization that ran through him when he recognized that he was closer than he'd ever been to knowing her in ways that he'd only dreamed about before. She'd made a sound—nearly a whimper—and he'd pulled out of the kiss to lock eyes with her. He'd given her breath and time to say "enough," and she'd simply held his eyes. Then, she'd smiled.
"We might be more comfortable elsewhere, Jean-Luc," she'd offered.
Jean-Luc remembered blaming a bit of his unsteadiness on the drinks that he'd consumed, but it was Beverly, tugging him by the hand to his bed, that had made him feel like he was trying to walk around on brand-new legs.
The romantic in him had made him imagine that what followed was nothing short of making love, for the first time, to the woman that he had loved, from a distance, for so many years. The romantic in him had made him imagine that, instead of being a one-time event—a minor indiscretion—it was a first-time of, perhaps, a great many times that he would spend intimately learning the unique details of her body.
He would have been embarrassed to tell her that he'd tried to commit her taste and her smell to memory, the same as he'd tried to commit to memory the sweet sounds she made—sounds he quickly learned were sounds of approval—and the way that her face looked when she was overcome by nearly painful pleasure.
The bed had been empty the following morning. Her smell had lingered, and for a moment, he'd held onto the memory that it conjured up for him as her oddly profound absence had settled around him. The two weeks that had followed—weeks where she'd hardly met his eyes, and barely allowed a word to pass between them—had made him fear that, in gaining one night of knowing her body so intimately, he'd lost the constant, comfortable pleasure of knowing her as his friend.
He wasn't any good at committed relationships. He was afraid of what he might become if he tried to commit to someone—too demanding, at times, too controlling, too distant, and too absent. He could imagine himself being all those things. Beverly deserved more. She deserved, too, to rest without the fear of becoming a Starfleet widow once again. And, beyond that, she deserved to be respected for her accomplishments and achievements, without all the whispering that anything could have come to her because of favors instead of her own true ability.
Jean-Luc feared that pressing for more would cost him the last lingering hold he had on the friendship and companionship that he valued profoundly.
There was no going back. Standing still could cost him everything. Moving forward could cost him just as much. There was nothing to do, then, but to hold his breath, and hope that Beverly was willing to join him for a dance—proverbial or otherwise.
Jean-Luc hoped that what he'd chosen—nice but more understated than his original choice of clothing—would be acceptable. He fortified himself with one more drink requested from the replicator, more than he might have normally had before a dinner, and he made a final request from the replicator. He ignored his shaky knees, and he gathered the bundle of flowers into his arms. If he was right, there was just enough time to meet Beverly at her quarters before she left to join him. He hoped she would appreciate the gesture to openly escort her through the corridors to join him for a private meal.