She'd lost track of the number of gentle handshakes, well meaning platitudes and worse, empty embraces she'd endured over the past several hours. They were people she knew, people she had known, some she was meeting for the first time, and they all said some variation of the same thing. The service was beautiful, Beverly. Beautiful service, Doctor. There had even been a few "Commanders," and one "Mrs. Crusher." She supposed it had been a beautiful service, for a funeral.
He'd been by her side the entire time, hadn't left it until they made it back to the house where she spotted a group of women she vaguely recognised as Starfleet wives busy in the kitchen plating food and pouring drinks. Organising refreshments and counting their blessings, she thought somewhat uncharitably. Thankful that they were merely the one organising the refreshments and not the one hosting this macabre little get together.
She was holding onto her sanity by a thread when a latecomer ("So sorry I missed the service Doctor… Great loss for us all…. My sincerest condolences…") snapped what little control she'd managed to maintain. She wanted to give into her grief-fuelled rage and scream at them all to get out, just get the hell out. Instead, she left Mr. Latecomer for him to handle and escaped out onto the porch out back.
When she eventually made her way back inside, she somehow found herself on the second floor surveying the toys that were scattered across the floor of Wesley's usually abnormally neat little boy room. She thought her son had sought refuge in here for most of the late afternoon and early evening but couldn't really be certain of such a mundane detail.
Who had a thought to spare for details when there was a house full of mourners to attend to? She'd managed to lose track of just about everything after the service, especially following Mr. Latecomer's arrival when she'd reached her limit.
He appeared silently at her side next to Wes' bed, wordlessly bending down to snag model ships and other small boy detritus with thick fingers. He quickly placed the starships, and the small figures clad in command red uniforms neatly back where each belonged. Funny, she thought at random. She wouldn't have believed Jean-Luc ever paid enough attention to Wesley to have picked up on something so inconsequential as where he kept his toys...
Just then she saw a coffee mug on the nightstand, picked it up and inhaled. The familiar scent of Earl Grey greeted her nose. She glanced in his direction, but he purposefully avoided her gaze by turning to return books to a low shelf in the corner.
She felt then, the only emotion that had managed to pierce the almost weeklong numbness. It warmed a place deep inside her to know that he'd been in here, with Wes. Even though it was probably as much about him wanting to escape the crowd and accompanying social obligations as it was about comforting her son, it still eased something in her heart.
The task complete, she wandered downstairs into the living room. What next? Shouldn't there be a next? She'd been functioning until now by moving from one "next" to the next…. Visit to the morgue… Next…. Explain to the five-year-old that his father was never coming home… Next… Contact Starfleet funeral services… Next…. Organise a post-funeral gathering…
She needed a checklist, tasks, things to do to avoid drowning in the nothingness. She needed a next…. She thought that she'd feel relief when everything had been accomplished, but… She sat heavily on the sofa in the living room and knew by the persistent empty ache and the relentless numbness that came with inactivity that it had turned out to be no relief at all.
When she finally surfaced from the brief moment of reprieve in numb detachment, she looked around the room and was startled to realise that they were the only ones left in the house. The living room and kitchen beyond it were silent and empty. When had everyone gone?
She saw that the kitchen had been tidied. Someone, probably Jack's parents, had cleared away the remains of the food and drink that had been organised for the mourners. She wished they hadn't. That could have been "next."
She panicked for a moment, finally wondering where Wesley had gotten to, before remembering that Jack's mother had insisted he spend the night with them.
Beverly hadn't shed a single tear yet, surviving in an enforced emotional dead zone, existing moment to moment, breath to breath. Her mother-in-law had probably imagined that she was protecting Wes from some great outburst of grief, that she was giving Beverly time to grieve openly without worrying about frightening her son.
Liane didn't realise that that sort of loss of control wasn't in Beverly's nature, that she preferred to divert her attention, to remain occupied, to fill each moment with "nexts". To allow grief to overwhelm her… well, she wouldn't have made it off of Arveda had she been one to weaken in the face of tragedy. That her in-laws didn't intuit that about her spoke volumes about their relationship.
She felt the couch shift and dip beside her, breathed in his aftershave, and closed her eyes against the tidal wave of emotion that threatened to undo her. If anyone could cause her protective shell to shatter, it was this man.
She felt his arm slide around her shoulders as he curled her body towards him. She allowed it for a moment, but this wasn't what she wanted, what she needed from him. True, she couldn't lose herself in some great catharsis of grief, but he could still help her to escape, if only for a little while.
She hesitated, but only a moment. They were friends. There was an attraction. He would help her in this way if she asked it of him. Now that Jack was no longer between them, it had perhaps been inevitable…
Raising up slightly off his chest she slid a hand around the nape of his neck and pulled him to her, her lips capturing his. His head jerked back in surprise, but his resistance was momentary. When she gradually felt him relax against her, she moved up to straddle his lap, her lips never leaving his.
They shouldn't be doing this. Giving in to the simmering sexual tension that had always persisted in the background of their friendship. No good would come of it… and yet… she couldn't manage the energy to care about tomorrow or next month or… ever really. She just needed to feel… something… anything but this endless empty numbness and… This was next.
Their lips clung as they clutched at each other's clothing, grinding their bodies together helplessly. It was as if they were ablaze, consumed by grief and lust and all that had always been repressed between them.
Hesitation and future regret were pushed violently aside as he yanked her dress up over her head and released her bra. His lips and teeth tortured first one breast then the other. She, meanwhile, made quick work of his pants and boxers shifting them off and forcing them down when he wordlessly lifted his hips for her.
She was about to reach for his erection when she felt his hand slide between them inside her panties. The sensation was dizzying, and she heard a keening whimper rise from her own mouth, as his fingers first stroked the length of her folds then zeroed in on her clit.
When she felt him attempting to push his fingers into her, she shifted her hips in vain trying to pull her panties off. Recognizing her frustration, he grabbed the material and tore it on one side so that she could push it aside where it remained hooked around one thigh.
Hands resting on his shoulders she fucked herself on his fingers, but that wasn't what she wanted, needed. Sensing her rising orgasm, she yanked his hand away. Grabbing a hold of the base of his penis with one hand she stroked him twice with the other and was rewarded as pre-cum leaked from the engorged tip as his head tipped towards the ceiling, neck resting on the back of the couch.
He released a hiss, his hips bucking almost violently as she stroked him. Her hand slowed as she centred herself over him, then bent towards him plunging down and impaling herself on his turgid flesh. The invasion along with his pubic bone grinding abrasively against her already sensitive clit tumbled her over the edge, her orgasm crashing over her entire body all the way to the tips of her toes.
She started to come down from the high and realised that he was holding himself immobile, still buried deeply inside of her. Half lidded blue eyes captured grey and using deep internal muscles, she squeezed him. His eyes closed on a groan that was bordering on a moan, his hips pushing him involuntarily against her soaked folds. Her voice when it came was barely a whisper.
"Jean-Luc… please."
They were the only words uttered by either of them that night. This was sex, she told herself then, and later. Empty emotional rationalisations or justifications had no place here. There was no emotional component beyond that of friends comforting one another, at least not that she wanted to examine too closely right now.
What it was, however, was raw and overwhelming and anything else that might or might not be between them was wiped out by the intensity of the inferno consuming them both pushing aside the veil of grief and utter desolation.
Without a word he twisted sideways kicking off his boots along with the pants that had been wedged against them. He was still inside her when he manoeuvred them so that he hovered over her, their bodies stretched the length of the couch. He spread her thighs open as far as possible before pulling back then pummelling into her.
Over and over again he slammed against her eventually triggering a second orgasm causing her to jerk against him, releasing a breathy winded scream. Her body clenching and unclenching around his cock finally triggered his own release. A loud drawn-out moaning grunt was the only sound.
Heart slowing, she reached up and dragged the quilt off the back of the couch and draped it over their sweaty, quickly cooling bodies as he pulled out of her, his head coming to rest against her breast. To her surprise sleep took her swiftly, her body seeking the refuge sleep provided as it had sought the escape of orgasm.
She never knew if Jean-Luc slept, how long he had stayed. When she woke the next morning Nana's quilt had been carefully tucked around her and there was no sign of him. Had it not been for her state of undress and the sticky soreness between her thighs, she might have believed she'd dreamed the entire thing.
That was the last time she'd laid eyes on Jean-Luc Picard until she turned up on the bridge of the Enterprise nine years later, reporting for duty as if they were mere acquaintances. Mere acquaintances, however, did not attempt to block one's duty assignment to the flagship.
But for all intents and purposes, time truly had made them strangers, she supposed. Strangers with an intimate knowledge of each other's bodies, but strangers all the same. If she could only convince her heart and mind to believe it. Even a decade later she remembered every single moment, every touch, every kiss, every whispered sigh and sensation from that night. She thought he did as well.
Unfortunately, she also remembered the devastation when she slowly came to realise over the days, then weeks, then months that followed the funeral, that that night had announced the end of their friendship. When the two communiqués she'd gotten up the courage to send him went unanswered she could no longer deny that he had fled what had happened between them.
However, she had an idea that sex or no she wouldn't have ever seen Jean-Luc Picard again after that night. Ironically, it turned out that the bravest man in the Federation, a man who would go on to face Romulans, Cardassians and even Borg without hesitation, had run back to his ship and bolted to the other side of the galaxy rather than face one ordinary woman.