AN: Here we are, another little piece to this one.
I hope you enjoy! If you do, please do let me know!
111
When Jean-Luc returned from bringing his third load of water, he was sweaty and pretty well-exhausted. Of course, if he were being honest—and, clearly, that's what he at least told himself that he was attempting to do, even if he hadn't always been that way before—that was part of what he'd hoped for when he'd trekked back and forth to the water with the intention of refilling their barrels singlehandedly.
Beverly hadn't joined him to haul water. She hadn't come to tell him that he was being ridiculous. She didn't tell him to leave the work until morning. She had left him entirely alone and, really, he thought that might have been for the best.
Jean-Luc hadn't killed Jack Crusher on purpose. He never would have done something like that. He wasn't a killer, firstly, but Jack was also his best friend. He was practically a brother to Jean-Luc, and one who understood him and attempted to be closer to him than his own brother had ever been.
Jean-Luc had been happy for Jack when he'd found Beverly, even if he'd been instantly attracted to her, upon meeting her and, therefore, instantly a bit jealous of Jack's good fortune. He'd been thrilled for Jack when he'd announced their marriage, even though Jean-Luc had let his own imagination run a touch wild with the idea that, if Jack and Beverly were to find that they were incompatible…well…naturally, it was possible that Jack might support Jean-Luc in pursuing Beverly.
Even after they'd married, Jean-Luc had been happy for Jack. What man, after all, didn't want his best friend—the man he thought of as a brother by choice and not chance—to be as happy as was humanly possible?
And Jack was happy.
In the earliest days of their marriage, Jean-Luc had frequented the Crusher household. He'd spent long weekends and breaks there. He'd eaten at their table, slept in their guest room, and watched as their love blossomed and grew.
He'd let his mind and his imagination drift, too, sometimes.
When Beverly set the table, he'd imagined her setting a table for him to entertain Starfleet brass—certainly he would achieve some high rank of mention, after all. When he'd seen Jack and Beverly brush against one another in the kitchen, he'd imagined a late night when he might go seeking a midnight snack with his wife, only to end up making love to her in that very kitchen—his appetite sated in an entirely different way. In the morning, wearing a robe and certainly doing nothing to purposefully arouse his interest—or anything else, for that matter—he'd watched Beverly sip coffee, and he'd thought at least a few times of what it might be like to sit so close to her with the memory of the love they'd made still fresh in his mind, and on his tongue, and on his skin.
Jean-Luc had carried too many of those imaginings with him for too long. He'd held them too close and too dear. He'd called upon them too much in his loneliness, aboard his ship, with only his captaincy to hold in the middle of the night.
That had been the main reason that he had begun to refuse invitations to the Crushers' home. It had been the main reason that he'd always had somewhere else to go and something else to do—letting his leave accumulate as he hid out on the ship and avoided letting anything distract him from his work.
He had maintained his friendship with Jack, of course, but he'd avoided Beverly as much as possible—ashamed of himself and, honestly, afraid that somehow, he might give voice to his thoughts or, even worse, act on them in some way. Jean-Luc had started to feel that he couldn't even trust himself around Beverly. He would never want to hurt her or Jack, and keeping his distance had been the best thing that he could do for all of them. He'd only broken the promise that he made to himself when Wesley had been born, and only because Jack might not have made it back in time to see his son born without his captain escorting him and pulling every string that Starfleet allowed him at the time.
Even seeing Beverly then, at Wesley's birth, when she might have sworn she looked her worst, every feeling for her that Jean-Luc had done his best to extinguish had sprang back to life and burned with white hot fire inside of him.
So, naturally, when Jack died, Jean-Luc had spent some time alone, with a drink or two, and wondered if something deep inside of him had moved him to act the way he had. He could never be sure and, thanks to that, he could never be entirely free from his guilt.
It had been his guilt that had made him keep his distance from Beverly following Jack's funeral.
And now, like everything repressed must do, it was all coming back—and it was doing so with a vengeance.
"I am afraid to love you, because I am afraid that I don't deserve you for so many reasons."
The words had come out of Jean-Luc, as they had a time or two before when he had forced them out, but they'd done so with only the night sky to hear him. Before, only his empty quarters had ever heard him.
He couldn't seem to manage the words when and where they mattered most.
When he returned to the little house, he found that Beverly was showering. She'd given him his space, and she'd taken her own.
Jean-Luc set about preparing food from the stores they had. The meal wouldn't be gourmet, but it would be filling, and it would be mostly balanced.
Beverly had more ideas—of course, she did—about establishing varied and reliable food sources, and he could help her make that a reality. They could plant and cultivate food. They could build greenhouses. They could search for more animals to domesticate, and they could domesticate some of those that they'd already found for the food they could provide.
All he had to truly do was accept that this was their reality. Starfleet would come for them, if they could, but the truth of the matter was that Starfleet might not know where and when they were any more than they did.
They were well and truly on their own. It was just the two of them, lost in time and space.
And, he thought, maybe he ought to stop fighting Beverly's attempts to build a life for them, here, that was worth living. Starfleet might come for them. They might find them in a day, or it might take a decade. Either way, perhaps, it was best if they focused on living the life they had now.
When her shower was done, Beverly passed through the living room with her towel wrapped tightly around her body. She didn't speak to Jean-Luc as she headed toward the bedroom.
Out of respect and something else, honestly, Jean-Luc tried to divert his eyes. Still, they drifted up as though they had a mind of their own and trailed after her as she disappeared into the bedroom to have her privacy.
He wondered, if he'd handled things differently, whether or not she would have chosen to dry off and dress in front of the fire instead of in the likely chilly bedroom.
When she returned, she brought with her the smell of cleanliness—a stark contrast to Jean-Luc's own sweaty stench—and an air of peace that contrasted with the tension that Jean-Luc had expected.
She was quiet, and she settled back into her spot where she picked up and began working faithfully at the nets again.
"Leave it for tonight, Beverly," Jean-Luc said. "Your fingers will cramp, and the light is failing so that I worry for your eyesight."
"Is that an order from my captain?" She asked.
Jean-Luc searched her voice for any indication of exactly how he ought to interpret what she'd said. There was no clear indication of her feelings, though, in her tone.
"It's a request," Jean-Luc said, careful to keep his own tone soft. "From your friend."
She looked at him. There was something in her eyes. He saw it there, but it didn't linger long. She smiled softly at him.
"My friend," she said.
Jean-Luc felt the echo of his own words stick in his gut as surely as if she'd stabbed him with one of the spears that had failed them in their attempts to catch the fish.
"You would have preferred if I had said something else," Jean-Luc said.
"I only want you to tell me the truth," Beverly said. "I only want you to tell me what you feel and…what you want, Jean-Luc. And, for now, that's…to be friends."
"Beverly…" Jean-Luc said. He stopped and tried to read her expression.
She renewed her smile.
"I think, for now, just being friends is a wonderful idea. After all, nobody is so rich, Jean-Luc, as to throw away a friend."
He frowned at her. It wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what he dreamed of having. And, yet, he felt frustrated with himself and unable to say what he'd been able to say to the empty night outside.
"Beverly—there is a great deal that remains to be said," he finally managed.
She laughed quietly.
"I know," she said. "But—there's time."
"Until, someday, there isn't," Jean-Luc said.
"But that day isn't tonight," Beverly countered. "Unless…"
She left it hanging a moment—a thread that he could grasp. It was something he could use to save himself—perhaps the last rope thrown to a drowning man or something of the like. He should have reached for it. He should have grabbed hold and refused to let go until he'd said everything that he was terrified to say. He should have made her hear him.
But he didn't, because he was a coward.
"Have some supper, Beverly," he said. "And leave off working on the nets for the night. There will be time for the nets tomorrow. Time to talk about—the seeds, and some kind of plan for a greenhouse, and the fish. Time to discuss exploring and…looking for animals to domesticate."
The smile that Beverly gave him, now, was sincere—much more so than the smile she'd given him before. She put her work aside, tucking it out of the way, and she accepted the food that he offered her. She moved and sat near him.
The very air around them changed. The tension that Jean-Luc had felt slowly dissipated. Though a lingering, aching sadness remained deep in his chest—a suffering of his own creation—there was a certain peace that wrapped around him like a warm blanket. It was the peace he always seemed to manage to find in Beverly's presence. He craved it, and even as friends, she shared it with him. Even when he was acting quite at his dumbest, as he feared he had, she shared it with him.
"There's time for everything, Jean-Luc," Beverly said. "We don't know how long the future is, but…that's no different, really, than it ever has been."
"Nothing has ever been promised to us," Jean-Luc agreed.
"And it still isn't," Beverly said, nodding gently.
"When I said…"
"No, Jean-Luc," Beverly interrupted.
"I beg your pardon?" Jean-Luc responded, surprised at her abrupt interruption.
"No," she said, this time more gently than before. "You said what you said, Jean-Luc. Friends. That's what you said. And—you said there's a great deal more to talk about. You're right, on both counts. There's also a great deal more to do and, with any luck, a great deal more time promised to the both of us. So, for now, I'm taking it off the table."
"Taking it off the table?" Jean-Luc asked.
Beverly hummed and nodded after taking a bite of food. Jean-Luc furrowed his brow at her.
"What do you mean?" He asked. "Taking it off the table?"
"Just that," Beverly said. "I'm—taking it off the table, Jean-Luc. We can talk about the future. We can talk about the past. We can talk about anything and everything that you want to discuss, but…we do so as friends. I'm taking the rest off the table."
"I thought we might…discuss…"
"Jean-Luc," Beverly said, interrupting him again, so that he stopped. "All that's left to discuss tonight is the fact that you very desperately need to bathe. So, as soon as you finish your meal, I'll do the dishes, and you take care of that. We have a lot to do tomorrow, and we'll both need our rest."
"I understand," Jean-Luc said, feeling a sensation in his gut that made him think that he did, in fact, understand at least a little of what she was thinking and what she meant.
"Good," she said.
"May I ask—will…things return to the table, Beverly?" Jean-Luc asked after a moment. "After some time?" He added.
"Maybe," Beverly said, half-shrugging. "But—there's plenty of time for that."
And Jean-Luc understood that the discussion, as far as Beverly was concerned, was well and truly off the table, at least until she decided otherwise—whenever that may be.
"In the morning," he said, as a way to show his absolute acceptance of her decision, "we'll finish the nets first thing."
"Great," Beverly said. "Then, we can set them and explore the planet a little, while we wait to catch some fish."
"I can't wait," Jean-Luc said with a laugh at her enthusiasm, which he wholeheartedly believed was genuine. What he hadn't expected, though, was that he absolutely meant what he'd said. He couldn't wait for all that was sure to come.