Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You have to be kidding.”

There wasn’t a flicker of humour in his face.

Beverly stared across the table, caught somewhere between a laugh and a scream. His expression—stoic, unreadable—was the same one he used for diplomatic negotiations and impossible chess matches. The uniform he wore, stiff and ceremonial, now seemed to choke him with every breath.

“Beverly, I—” He tugged at his collar as if it might offer an escape. Just hours ago, before their private dinner, this had seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea. Will Riker had certainly thought so.

But looking at her now, eyes wide and incredulous, he felt the slow grimace start to form. Her reaction wasn’t what he’d anticipated. Though, in hindsight, maybe he should’ve.

“The Skinoan protocol,” he began cautiously, “requires that all negotiators—foreign or native—be accompanied by a spouse. No exceptions. I’ve read every rule, every clause. Twice. And I thought… well, I thought it might give us a smoother start.”

Her eyes lit with fire. That slow, simmering blaze he’d come to know far too well.

“You’re enjoying this,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, like the moment before a phaser fired.

Her arms folded across her chest, the movement sharp and defensive. She wasn’t offended in the traditional sense—not insulted by the notion, or even the pretence—but it felt like being shoved into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. Trapped.

And yet… there was a flutter beneath the irritation. A flicker of something that felt suspiciously like excitement. She hated that.

From across the table, she watched him—the man, the uniform, the stupid, charming protocol. Her heart gave a warning thud.

Picard, as ever, noticed everything. The twitch of her fingers. The hesitation. He masked a smile, a fraction of movement at the corners of his lips, barely visible to anyone who didn’t know him like she did. Her uncertainty gave him the upper hand. And now, he pounced.

“If you’d prefer,” he said, voice smooth and maddeningly even, “I can always ask Counselor Troi. I’m sure she’d—”

“Oh, no. Absolutely not.” Her voice was laced with fire now, her eyes tracking his every move as he rose and began clearing the table with calculated indifference.

She followed him with her gaze, barely keeping her temper in check. How dare he? After everything—after the fragility of their friendship these past weeks, the careful steps back into routine, the gaping silence that still hung between them from KesPrytt—this was how he chose to move forward?

They were only just beginning to trust each other again. She’d made terrible choices. She’d run. And now he was tossing them both into another emotionally tangled mess. No warning. No discussion. Just protocol and a dinner invitation.

The hole KesPrytt had left still ached. And yet here they were.

She rose to meet him halfway, her steps calm, deliberate, betraying none of the chaos inside.

When she leaned in, the kiss she placed on his cheek was feather-light—strategic, practiced. But it was also real.

“You owe me,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin.

=/=

“Ready when you are.”

Picard’s voice held a practiced calm as he nodded toward Chief Nevins, stationed dutifully behind the console in Transporter Room Three. The familiar hum of the transporter pads was oddly loud in the silence that followed.

To his left, Riker shifted, arms crossed with a grin that hovered somewhere between mischief and amusement. The Commander wasn’t even trying to hide his glee—he was thoroughly enjoying every second of this.

Picard didn’t like the way that smile felt. Too knowing. Too eager. Riker had agreed to the “pretend wife” plan a little too easily. And now, his smugness was unbearable.

“Ready, sir,” Nevins replied, tapping in the coordinates without fanfare.

Worf stepped forward, stoic as ever, taking his place on the pad. Beside him, Data moved with quiet precision. They flanked Picard and Beverly like pillars of duty.

The tension in his chest twisted tighter.

He turned to Beverly. Her face was unreadable, her posture flawless. But when their eyes met, the smile she gave him—subtle, almost imperceptible—was nothing short of incendiary. It wasn’t affection. It was challenge.

It lit his nerves like wildfire.

=/=

The transporter faded, and they stepped into silence.

White marble stretched beneath their boots, polished to a blinding sheen. Columns rose like ancient sentinels, supporting a ceiling lost in crystal chandeliers. The air was warm and thick with the scent of sandalwood, stirred by a faint breeze that whispered through vine-laced walls. Blood-red blossoms clung to the greenery like wounds against the sterile backdrop.

Beverly took it in with a quiet inhale, steadying herself. This wasn’t just diplomatic elegance. It was theatre.

Ten Skinoans approached in formation, led by a tall male whose dark hair swept neatly over wide, blue-tinged shoulders. They walked with purpose, and something else—curiosity, maybe. Confidence. Power, certainly.

Picard’s fingers found hers before he’d made the decision. A subtle squeeze. Just long enough to say: I’m here. We do this together.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move away. She just stepped in a little closer.

And that, more than anything, rattled him.

It wasn’t the protocol, or the lie they were walking into. It was the way her presence stilled something in him—something fragile and unspoken and already too exposed.

They had never needed to pretend. Not really. Their friendship had always been a mask stretched thin over something deeper, something they’d both ignored until ignoring it became its own kind of intimacy.

With her at his side now, the act felt... dangerously easy.

The Skinoans halted before them. “Captain Picard, I assume,” said the lead figure. “I’m Ambassador Tareth, please just call me Aurelin.” His voice had a low, resonant timbre. He bowed slightly, the gesture fluid, almost reverent.

Picard inclined his head in return. “Ambassador. Thank you for your welcome. May I present Lieutenant Commander Data and Lieutenant Worf, my Chief of Security.”

Aurelin’s gaze moved across the group, appraising. When it landed on Beverly, his expression softened. “And this… luminous creature?” he asked, voice dipped in amusement, though his eyes remained unreadable.

There was a beat of silence. A shift in gravity.

Picard turned to her, met her gaze. The warning in her eyes was sharp, unmistakable. Choose your words carefully.

He cleared his throat. “This is Dr. Beverly… Picard. My ship’s Chief Medical Officer. And…” he paused, just for a breath, “…my wife.”

He felt her reaction ripple next to him, though she didn’t move.

Aurelin blinked. A soft gasp left him. Clearly, that had not been in the diplomatic briefing packet.

Picard didn’t look away. Couldn’t. He offered the ambassador a handshake, hoping the subtle burn in his cheeks didn’t show.

“Thank you for inviting us,” he said evenly.

Beside him, Beverly tilted her head just enough to shoot him a private glance—one eyebrow raised in dangerous amusement. Dr. Beverly Picard was it now?

He was going to pay for that later. And, oddly, he realized he didn’t mind.

=/=

Below them, the great hall buzzed with music and motion. Hundreds of Skinoans twirled in elegant disarray, their shimmering garments catching the golden light that spilled from above. From the small gallery assigned to diplomatic guests, the view was spectacular—if one were in the mood to appreciate such things.

Picard was not.

The knot in his stomach had tightened considerably since they'd arrived. He glanced to his left. Worf sat like a boulder wedged into a chair clearly not designed for Klingon anatomy, discomfort etched in every line of his brow. To his right, Beverly. Next to her, Data, already absorbed in silent analysis of the choreography below, committing every step to memory.

But it was Beverly who drew Picard's eye. She sat with her body turned toward the dancers, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Her expression held a strange kind of softness, the faintest smile curving her lips as she watched the motion below.

Picard’s gaze wandered helplessly. High cheekbones. The arch of her nose. The mouth that had haunted his dreams for years. She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and exhaled, her lashes lowering for a moment of quiet stillness.

When she turned toward him, she caught him staring.

“Dr. Picard?” she murmured under her breath, sharp as a blade honed by disbelief.

“Beverly,” Picard warned, barely louder, but the heat in his voice matched hers.

She fell silent.

The look they exchanged lasted only a second. But it landed like a body blow.

She blushed, lips parting just enough for the tip of her tongue to appear. The movement was subtle. Devastating.

His heart clenched—and then immediately lurched into a hammering rhythm that he couldn’t control.

Why? Why had she run after KesPrytt? She had seen inside him. She’d known. And she had still walked away.

The rejection still bled at the edges. Still stung. Every time he looked at her, that night threatened to resurface. The bond they’d shared, the clarity they'd been given—it had made the following silence almost unbearable.

They had returned to routine. Friendship. Professionalism. But beneath that, nothing was the same.

He had loved her for years. That had never been the question.

The question was—what was she afraid of?

“Doctor,” a voice interrupted from the steps below. “May I have the honor?”

Picard turned sharply. Ambassador Aurelin stood poised at the edge of the gallery, hand extended toward Beverly in a fluid, graceful gesture.

Her surprise was immediate. Her reaction—far less so. A smile curled her lips, genuine and disarming. Her hand found his, and she rose effortlessly, letting him lead her toward the dance floor with practiced grace.

Picard stared after them, his throat tight.

“Sir?”

He didn’t turn. Worf’s voice was quiet, but it carried.

The Klingon shifted in his undersized seat, studying his captain with an intensity that bordered on invasive. “She is a strong woman,” he said finally. “A warrior, in her own way.”

Picard’s eyes remained locked on the dancers. Aurelin’s hand settled at the curve of Beverly’s waist.

“I have fought beside her. Served with her. Trusted her with my life,” Worf went on. “You should fight for her, Captain. She is not one to chase.”

The words landed like a slap.

Before Picard could form a response, another voice joined the unsolicited counsel.

“Captain, if I might add something…”

Dear God. Not Data.

“I believe I could offer several efficient strategies—technically based, of course—for increasing your odds of—”

“Mister Data.” Picard stood so fast the chair scraped loudly beneath him. His face was burning, his uniform suffocating. He didn’t dare look at either of them.

He descended the gallery stairs without a word.

Behind him, Worf exhaled with the closest thing between a smile and a growl. “Commander,” he muttered, “we’re never winning that pot at this rate.”

Data tilted his head. “Did I say something wrong?”

=/=

The keycards clicked softly in Picard’s hand as they walked the corridor. Beverly’s heels struck the polished floor in perfect time beside him, each step echoing the unspoken tension they carried between them.

They hadn’t said a word since leaving the reception.

“You never told me we’d be sharing a room,” she said, finally, with more edge than question.

He cleared his throat, searching for composure he didn’t feel. “Obviously the Skinoans intended it as a gesture of hospitality. A cultural courtesy for a married couple.”

Her eyes flicked sideways, reading him like a chart. She didn’t comment. But he saw the doubt in her posture—and maybe something more. Something he didn’t dare hope for.

Or maybe she’s wondering the same thing I am—how in God’s name did we end up here again?

They stopped outside the room. The door loomed larger than it should.

“I’m sorry,” she said, just before he keyed the panel. “It’s just that…”

She trailed off. Whatever words she’d been reaching for dissolved. She looked up at him, eyes uncertain.

“Never mind,” she finished.

The door opened with a quiet swoosh.

He gestured stiffly. “Go ahead.”

She entered first.

It was a beautiful room. Intimate. Tastefully decorated in earthy tones, with warm lighting and one large window that looked out over the sleeping city of Hivoc. Moonlight streamed across a bed that was too big to ignore. The air held a faint floral scent, something clean and foreign.

Their suitcases had already been delivered, resting side by side at the foot of the bed.

Neither of them spoke.

“I’ll take the sofa,” he muttered.

She turned to him sharply. “Jean-Luc, don’t be ridiculous. That thing’s barely wider than a biobed. You’ll end up with a pinched nerve before morning.”

“I’ll manage.”

“The bed is large enough for two adult friends,” she said, voice clipped. “Don’t you think?”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

Her cheeks were pink, her arms crossed tightly. She held herself like a woman preparing for battle. Or heartbreak.

He exhaled. His fingers itched at the collar of his uniform, which had become intolerably tight.

“Damn,” he muttered, voice low.

Beverly stepped forward before he could stop her. Her hands moved with familiar ease, reaching for the fastener at his throat. Her fingers brushed his skin, light and steady.

Too close.

Too much.

“Beverly…” He tried for warning, but it came out as a ragged whisper.

Her fingers brushed the fastener, freeing his throat with elegant efficiency. His chest constricted in a completely different way. Her scent—warm, tempting, faintly floral—wrapped around him like a trap. Her blue eyes flicked to his mouth, and his heart stopped, then pounded so violently he was certain she could hear it.

He was seconds away from forgetting every ounce of restraint he’d ever cultivated. “Doctor…” The single word escaped him, a warning, a plea, and a confession all at once.

A tiny smirk played at her lips. Teasing. She’s teasing me. His mind screamed for mercy.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “You can… have the bathroom first.”

Her exhale was soft, almost amused. “Right. Thank you.”

He only nodded, unable to trust his voice and soon the door closed behind her.

He stood alone in the room, the air suddenly too still.

Her scent lingered.

He ran a hand over his head, then dragged it down his face. The fabric of his collar felt like a noose. His heart hadn’t slowed once since she touched him.

This was madness.

He stripped off his jacket, flung it over the nearest chair. His boots followed. Then, hesitating, peeled the rest of his uniform down to his black undershorts and stopped—every part of him burning.

The shower was still running. Steam curled beneath the door.

His brain tried to send a logical signal to his body.

Don’t imagine it. Don’t visualize. Don’t—

Don’t you even start. Don’t you even… dare start.

But he started.

His mind betraying him anyway.

He imagined her under the steaming water, her body arching against the spray. He imagined her fingers brushing through her hair, the curve of her spine, the glisten of droplets sliding over her skin. It was a cruel, perfect torture.

His boxers were suddenly too tight. Too noticeable.

The blink of an eye later, the shower stopped.

In a moment of pure, undignified survival, Jean-Luc Picard dove for the bed and yanked the covers up to his chest, snatching a worn book from the nightstand as camouflage.

He froze.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

The door opened.

She emerged into the dim room, barefoot and glowing faintly in the moonlight. Her nightdress was peach-coloured silk—simple, modest—and somehow more dangerous than anything else she could’ve worn. Her hair was loose, slightly damp, curling at the ends.

She looked soft. Relaxed. Devastating. But he didn’t move. Just kept the book steady.

She glanced at the bed, then back to him. Her eyes narrowed then smoothed her nighty with a nervous flick and slid under the covers, the mattress dipping slightly with her weight, her back brushing his arm. He nodded stiffly.

Silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of a page he turned without seeing. His temples throbbed. His lungs burned. He prayed she couldn’t hear his heartbeat. She faced away from him, curling toward the wall.

A few seconds passed.

Then she said, almost too casually, “Jean-Luc… your book’s upside down.”

He froze and looked down. Skinoan letters and poetry staring at him the wrong way up.

His gut clenched.

Mortified, he flipped it, snapped it shut, and placed it on the nightstand. Without another word, he switched off the light.

“Good night, Beverly,” he murmured into the dark.

She didn’t answer for a long time.

But when she did, her voice was soft, threaded with something he couldn’t quite name.

“Good night.”

=/=

Warmth.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Not the blankets—they were thin, barely more than decoration. The source of heat was behind her: solid, still, and unmistakably male.

Jean-Luc.

Her heart gave one panicked thud before she even opened her eyes.

His body was moulded to hers, chest to back, arm draped securely around her waist. His breath, warm and steady, skimmed the back of her neck in soft, rhythmic waves. His hand—God, his hand—rested just below her breast.

She froze.

And time stilled with her.

The realization unfurled slowly but thoroughly – and his fingers began to move.

Not much. Just a small, unconscious stroke. Barely there.

But enough.

Her breath caught as a jolt of heat licked through her skin. Her pulse rose in response, wild and utterly inappropriate. He was asleep. Deeply, blissfully asleep. This wasn’t intentional. Just proximity. Muscle memory. He didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

And yet…

His fingers shifted again, tracing an absent-minded circle across the silk of her nightdress—right across the soft curve of her breast.

She closed her eyes with force.

It’s fine. Just let it pass. If I move, we’ll both be mortified.

But the circles continued—light, gentle, maddening. And she was very, very awake now.

She clenched her jaw, unsure if the rush of heat she felt was from embarrassment or desire. Probably both.

Delicate. Intimate. Completely unintentional—and yet, utterly devastating.

She clenched her jaw tighter. But her heart wouldn’t slow. Her skin tingled beneath his touch, and her mind, no matter how she scolded it, was already veering into dangerous territory.

Then his breathing changed.

Slight, but enough.

He was waking. A ripple of tension spread through his body, as though awareness arrived molecule by molecule. His fingers halted. His muscles coiled.

And she knew the exact second he realized.

He exhaled shakily, the sound low and strained, pressed into her hair like an apology. His body remained still—too still—behind her, rigid with panic.

She forced her own breath to stay steady, feigning sleep. It was easier. Easier than facing him, than confessing how badly she hadn’t wanted him to stop.

Why part of her had wanted it to last a as long as possible.

He puffed, long and low, the sound pressed into her hair. She felt him swallow behind her, the motion tight and uncertain.

And then—just for a breath—he shifted.

His hips brushed closer. Her entire body went still.

She could feel the heat of him now, unmistakably real and firm against her lower back. Her breath hitched. Her body betrayed her again—thrumming with unwanted anticipation.

And then she realized. He’s aroused.

His body was giving him away, even if his mind screamed for restraint. And the sound he made—a small, strangled gasp—told her everything.

The heat between them pulsed like a live wire.

His fingers flinched, then retreated completely. He rolled away from her like he’d touched a flame. But not before he whispered her name—soft and broken, barely formed.

She remained perfectly still, not trusting her voice. Not trusting anything.

And then, gently, heartbreakingly, he leaned over and brushed a kiss to her shoulder.

Soft. Barely there. But it landed like a thunderclap.

Her eyes stung.

He didn’t linger. He pulled back, stood, and walked away with quiet, purposeful steps. The bathroom door slid shut behind him. A beat later, the shower hissed.

She let out the breath she’d been holding.

Alone now, in the centre of the bed, she felt the cold seep in where he’d been. It crawled up her spine like guilt. Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes before she could stop them.

She rolled onto her back and covered her face with both hands. “God, you’re an idiot,” she muttered to herself, voice shaky. “What are you doing?” She dragged in a breath. Then another. None of them helped. “You’re a doctor,” she whispered. “You know what this is. Morning arousal. Accidental proximity. It’s just chemistry. Biology. That’s all.”

But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true.

It wasn’t the touch that had undone her. It was the sigh. The stillness. The kiss.

It was the way he’d breathed her name.

Her chest twisted.

He still loves you, said a quiet, treacherous voice in her mind. He never stopped. He tried to tell you once. You ran. You coward.

She pushed the blanket back and sat up slowly, rubbing her temples like she could wipe the memory from her skin.

“You’ll go down in flames,” she said, her voice low and bitter. “Both of us will. If this keeps going…”

The sound of the shower continued, blissfully unaware.

She leaned back into the pillows, curling onto her side, her hand resting in the space where his had been.

And the worst thing?

Some small part of her wanted it. And this part grew with each passing breath.

Chapter Text

The large sunbeams filtered through the trellised roof above them, casting golden halos across the marbled patio. Warmth spilled gently over the table, making the white stone gleam against the rich greens of the ambassador’s gardens.

“I think it’s rather nice of them, inviting us to stay in their private house,” Beverly said, leaning forward with an elegant tilt, fingers selecting a glossy purple fruit from the bowl at the centre of the table.

She tossed it lightly into the air—just a few centimetres—catching it easily. Turning it in her hand, she examined the unusual form. It looked vaguely like an eggplant, but the smell was sweeter, layered with hints of grape and something citrusy—pineapple, perhaps.

“Maybe,” Worf grumbled beside her, “but not very safe, Doctor.”

A grimace had taken over his broad face—equal parts displeasure and hunger. Clearly, the idea of a vegetarian breakfast did not sit well with him.

“I can’t do my job properly with all these open doors,” he continued, casting a sceptical glance toward the quite impressing house. “I may as well sleep through the day. Or lurk on the ship.”

He took a sip from the dark liquid in his cup. His expression darkened even further.

“This is… downright disgusting.”

Picard nearly choked.

His lips curled upward despite himself. “Mr. Worf, you’re more than welcome to take up the Ambassador’s offer to visit their security areas. He extended it yesterday. Mr. Data already left this morning to tour a research facility. And frankly, it seems rather obvious the Skinoans are a peaceful, friendly people. There’s nothing to watch over that I can’t handle myself.”

He threw a sideways glance at Beverly, his tone laced with dry humour.

“Or our well-trained doctor.”

Beverly lifted one brow, the corners of her lips twitching. “Of course,” she said sweetly.

There was something light in his tone this morning—playful. And it made her curious. It wasn’t common, not like this.

Officially, she hadn’t caught him getting his hands on her.

But the sensation of his touch still lingered like a spark on her skin.

“The Captain and I also have an appointment just after breakfast,” she added, slicing the purple fruit neatly in two. “There’s not much point in observing us sightseeing, Lieutenant Commander.”

Worf put down his fork, the utensil absurdly small in his large hands.

“Then thank you, Sirs.” He stood in one fluid movement. “Please contact me if anything is needed.”

With a curt nod toward them both, he made short work of his exit, disappearing through the open archway into the house.

Still chuckling under his breath, Picard watched the Klingon vanish.

“He’s not the type for breakfast without something bloody and slimy trying to crawl off his plate,” he murmured, eyes twinkling.

He was in good spirits. Really, genuinely good spirits.

Beverly tilted her head slightly, observing him again.

She didn’t quite understand it. That morning, as he’d emerged from the bathroom, he’d seemed… renewed. Refreshed in a way that went beyond water and soap. Like something had loosened deep inside him overnight.

Not that she could ask.

Not after waking in his arms.

She swallowed and pushed the thought aside.

“Aurelin already told you about our tour today?” she asked, affecting casual interest.

His gaze snapped to her—sharp, alert—and for a second, she saw something flicker in his expression. Something dangerously unguarded.

Fixing her imploring eyes, he almost lost his nerve. The fact that her gracious mouth meanwhile closed around the juicy flesh of the fruit, dripping down over her already wet red lips almost made him gasp in excitement. Beverly closed her eyes, enjoying the taste. “My god, this is so good.” She breathed, chewing the fruit down in perfect bliss. “Maybe you should try some, too.”
Picard’s heart stopped a beat, his ears ringing while he managed “I would love to.” His only intention was on her, not on this silly fruit. Gazing up she caught his intense, longing eyes.

Picard’s heart stopped.

The way she moved, the sound of her voice, the way her lips curved around the word “good”—it ignited every nerve in his body. He forgot the patio. The Skinoans. The appointment. The galaxy.

“I would love to,” he murmured. His voice came out lower than he intended. Rougher.

She opened her eyes just in time to catch the look on his face.

And for a moment, nothing else existed.

“Enterprise to Captain Picard.”

The comm interrupted with merciless timing, its chirp sharp and clinical in the still morning air.

He barely stopped himself from swearing, longing and frustration colliding as he tore his gaze from the radiating doctor.

Of course. A call—always ready to ruin the rarest, most fragile moments.

“Picard here,” he barked, slamming his cup down and snatching the napkin to wipe his mouth. His eyes never left hers.

“Ah, sir,” came Riker’s voice, too upbeat to be anything but suspicious. “I have to inform you of upcoming passengers. Deanna just told me—they’ll be reaching orbit in approximately twenty-four hours.”

Picard’s frown deepened. “Passengers?”

Beside him, Beverly arched a brow.

Riker hesitated—barely. “Yes, sir. Commander Louvois will be joining us for a short passage to Starbase 47.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Beverly turned her head sharply, lips parted. “Philippa Louvois?”

A muscle in Picard’s jaw twitched.

“Indeed,” Riker said, with that same maddening cheer. “The Commander has requested temporary quarters and access to the main archives for the duration of the trip.”

Picard closed his eyes. He could already feel the headache building behind them.

“Thanks for the terrific news, Commander. Picard out.”

He tapped his combadge with more force than necessary, and the channel closed with a crisp chirp.

His shoulders slumped. Wonderful. He couldn’t be happier.

A soft snicker broke the silence. He turned his head—slowly—to find Beverly watching him with barely restrained amusement. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head, managing a half-hearted glare. “Don’t tell me you’re amused by my misery, Beverly.”

She didn’t even try to deny it. The glint in her eyes said it all. She’d met his old flame one day and he still hated that the day even existed. “At least she won’t chase after you,” he added dryly, lifting his cup again in surrender.

That almost made her choke.

She set the remains of her fruit down and reached for her napkin, lifting it with exaggerated grace. Her mouth opened—an acid remark poised and ready on her tongue—but she caught herself just in time. Instead, she dabbed her lips, trying to buy a second or two of composure.

Don’t say it, she told herself. But it slipped out anyway. “Maybe I should play along and resume being your wife. Just to anger her.” The second the words left her mouth, she froze. Her face flushed a deep shade of crimson, and her heart leapt violently in her chest.

God, why did I say that?

A hole in the floor would’ve been deeply appreciated in that moment. Preferably one with warp speed to the far side of the galaxy.

Across the table, Picard went rigid. “Beverly,” he growled, “this is not funny.” His voice wasn’t cold. It wasn’t cruel. But it hit with weight. He sounded wounded. Offended, maybe. But not in the way she feared. In the way of someone trying very hard not to be made a fool of. Not again.

He gulped, clearly trying to swallow down whatever sharp retort was rising in his throat. But she could see it—see the effort it took to keep his dignity intact. His face had coloured slightly, and though his expression remained unreadable, his eyes betrayed him.

They always did. And hers weren’t much better.

She looked down at the napkin in her lap, her flush not fading.

Why did you joke about that? Why now?

She sighed, low and unsure. “Jean-Luc… do you think it’s possible to—”

“Doctor, Captain!”

The interruption came like a storm front.

Aurelin stepped through the doors of the patio, his broad frame wrapped in a flowing robe of greenish blue. The morning light shimmered across the fabric as he strode forward, smiling like a man who had never walked into anything awkward in his life.

Behind him came a woman—slightly shorter, regal in her bearing, her dark red and black gown trailing behind her like spilled ink. Her blonde hair was swept up into an intricate coil, pinned high above her delicate, blue-tinged face.

Beverly didn’t move. Her eyes remained locked on Picard, her unspoken question hovering between them.

He met her gaze. Shrugged slightly. Later, he mouthed.

Aurelin approached the table with easy confidence.

“Have you tried our GumTun? It’s absolutely marvellous,” he said brightly, already pulling out a chair for his companion. “Ah, my apologies—I nearly forgot. This is my mate, Mira.”

Both Picard and Beverly adjusted their expressions in practiced synchronicity—diplomatic, warm, unbothered. Nodding politely, they stood.

“Mira, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Picard said, taking the woman’s slender hand with a firm but careful shake. “This is Beverly.”

“Beverly,” Mira repeated, her voice soft and melodic. She gave a nod of her own, then turned toward the redheaded woman, her gaze sharp and curious. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Aurelin beamed. “My wife was terribly eager to meet you, Doctor Picard. Though I must admit, the idea of showing you around the educational sector was hers, not mine.”

Mira nodded, her pale eyes brightening. “I’m afraid the children will… well, they’re going to be quite overwhelmed when they see you.”

Beverly laughed politely, reaching across to return Mira’s handshake. But her eyes flicked toward Picard in question. He looked just as caught off guard.

“Sorry?” she asked carefully.

Mira leaned forward, blue lips stretched into a wide smile. “Didn’t my husband tell you the story of Tholey?”

=/=

“Absolutely fascinating.”

Picard couldn’t believe what he was seeing—more importantly, that he was enjoying it.

He stood at the back of a bright classroom, shoulder to shoulder with Ambassador Aurelin and a handful of Skinoan staff, positioned near a window that bathed the room in soft golden light. It reminded him of the Enterprise’s pre-school, though the laughter here was higher, melodic—utterly alien and utterly joyful.

And from where he stood, he had the perfect view of them.

Mira and Beverly.

They were surrounded—swallowed, really—by a lively knot of tiny blue-skinned Skinoan children, none older than eight or nine, most no taller than Beverly’s waist. And all of them were reaching, climbing, tumbling forward to get closer. Small hands—some hesitant, others boldly insistent—tugged at Beverly’s sleeves, reached for her flaming red hair, patted gently at her face and skin.

“She’s luminous,” Picard murmured.

Aurelin chuckled, arms folded comfortably across his chest. “The kids love her,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just as my wife suspected.”

Picard didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His eyes hadn’t left Beverly since they entered the room.

“They really believe in those fairies, don’t they?” he asked in a low voice, trying to piece together the cultural mythology Mira had explained earlier. “We have something similar, as I recall…”

Aurelin nodded. “Yes. The stories of Tholey—the fairy of the ancient woods. They’re told to children from the moment they can understand language. When I first saw your wife, I knew Mira would be furious if I didn’t bring her here. Beverly is…” He shook his head, his smile widening. “She’s astonishing. And I hope I’m not being too blunt, but—she matches the old stories perfectly. That pale skin, the vibrant red hair… we’ve never seen anyone quite like her.” Aurelin turned. “I dearly hope she doesn’t mind being the centre of everyone’s attention here.”

Picard’s throat worked around a tight knot of something he couldn’t name.

Swallowing down the rise of tension, he watched as Beverly knelt gracefully and scooped one of the smallest children—a little girl with pale blond curls and enormous green eyes—into her arms. The girl squealed, delighted, wrapping her arms around Beverly’s neck and pressing a wet kiss to her cheek.

Beverly only laughed, patting her back with gentle ease as she tried—unsuccessfully—to regain control of the chaos around her. And she did it all with that impossible calm. The kind that came from deep understanding. From love.

The calmness radiating from her was intoxicating. She was an absolute pro. A natural parent. Gentle, patient, endlessly warm.

Everything he was not.

“She would certainly tell me, Ambassador,” Picard said quietly, eyes still on her. “Be sure of that. But I think she rather enjoys being someone they look up to.”

Aurelin leaned against the wall beside him, scratching his jaw in amusement.

“How many children do you have, Captain?” he asked casually. “If Mira had her way, we’d be drowning in kids.”

Picard felt the question land like a blade to the chest. So harmless. So innocent.

And yet it hollowed him out completely.

“Beverly has an adult son,” he replied after a pause, voice distant, like the words came from somewhere else. The pain followed close behind, quiet but all-consuming.

Across the room, Beverly’s face lit up as the child in her arms squealed again. Her smile, bright and unguarded, tore through him. Love bloomed inside his chest, fierce and instinctual—but it came paired with a darker ache.

Pride. Grief. Regret.

Jack.

The shadow was always there. No matter the years passed, it clung to him. Jack Crusher had been his closest friend—and Beverly’s husband. And Picard had been responsible for the mission that killed him. That guilt had carved itself into the architecture of his life.

How could he ever dare to imagine himself as the man Beverly deserved?

"Caty is four; she's our youngest. The youngest of seven—six girls and one boy,” Aurelin explained proudly, but without further notice of Picard’s inner struggle. Then he suddenly turned and watched the other with steadily rising disbelief, opting to ask the unbelievable. "Just to get this right, you don't have any children together, but the stunning doctor has a child from a previous relationship, right?” Aurelin pressed, blinking in mild surprise.

Picard felt the heat crawl up his neck. He cleared his throat, avoiding the man’s gaze.

“No, we haven’t.” he said, his voice rough. “I suppose we were rather busy in our positions for… pursuing that kind of thing.”

It sounded hollow even to him. Thin. Weak.

Aurelin, to his credit, didn’t laugh. But the warmth didn’t leave his eyes.

“Oh, Captain, forgive me,” he said softly, “but that’s quite a lame excuse. To sacrifice one’s entire life to duty—when you’re lucky enough to have such a wonderful woman by your side?”

He squared his shoulders, gesturing back toward Beverly.

“There will come a time when the job is done,” he said. “But the years… they don’t wait. Your wife is clearly gifted with children. And I highly doubt she would deny her captain that wish.”

He smiled knowingly. “You did have time to marry, after all.”

Picard grimaced faintly. “Indeed.” The word landed like a stone in his mouth.

His gaze drifted back to Beverly. Still holding the child. Still radiant. Still smiling.

And all he could think—achingly, silently—was how perfect she looked in that moment. How easily she wore joy. How extraordinary a mother she would’ve been. How she already was one.

And how none of it could ever be his. Deep inside him, something cracked wide open.

*

“I’m thoroughly afraid you’re getting too heavy for me,” Beverly murmured, brushing a soft strand of blond hair out of the little girl’s face.

The child ignored her entirely, tightening her arms around Beverly’s neck and pressing her small body firmly against her chest.

“Doooley…” the girl hummed, clearly pleased with herself.

Mira laughed, stepping forward to gently pat her daughter’s back.

“Honey, come on now,” she coaxed.

But the girl clung tighter, a determined little burr wrapped around her newest obsession.

Mira sighed and threw Beverly a look of amused exasperation. “My sweet little daughter has fallen head over heels for an incarnated fairy. You might as well come to terms with it.”

Beverly smiled, a touch helpless but wholly warm. “At least I’m not some pink, glittery unicorn,” she quipped softly. “But hey… she can stick with me as long as we’re here.”

She adjusted her hold slightly as the girl responded with a happy shudder, her tiny fingers curling deeper into the fabric of Beverly’s dress, digging into her shoulder blades like she’d never let go.

And Beverly sighed—not in exhaustion, but in contentment.

She knew this feeling. This joy. The peaceful hum of a child’s presence, the weight and warmth of their trust. She breathed in the child’s unique scent, that sweet, sun-drenched skin smell only small children had, and pressed a soft kiss into her hair without even thinking.

She didn’t notice the tug on her leg until it shifted her balance.

“Did you come with that huge ship and that peculiar man?” a small boy asked, his voice high and curious.

Beverly glanced down to see a brown-haired boy, maybe eight, standing at her knee, his finger pointed first at the sky, then squarely at Picard.

She followed the direction of his gesture—and found Jean-Luc staring at her.

His expression was unreadable. Somewhere between unease and embarrassment, with a flicker of something else beneath it. He looked… trapped. Tense. As if the entire idea of being surrounded by so many small, curious beings sent his Starfleet brain into a minor system failure.

Her heart skipped a beat. Poor Jean-Luc.

She gave him a subtle smile. Gentle. Encouraging. Pleading.

Just relax, she thought. Just for a moment.

Mira, watching the exchange with more interest than she let on, stepped in smoothly. “Yes,” she said brightly, answering the boy. “Doctor and Captain Picard arrived in a gigantic starship called the Enterprise. They’re officers in Starfleet, and they’ve brought some friends with them. Maybe I can introduce you to one later, Jolan. He’s a real Klingon warrior. How would that sound?”

Jolan shrugged off her touch but kept his eyes on Beverly.

“Your friends?” he asked her seriously.

Beverly nodded, lips twitching. “That’s right.”

“Then I’ll consider it,” he said solemnly.

She laughed. “You’re a very considerate young man.”

His grin was broad, his small white teeth flashing, gaps still prominent between them. It struck Beverly’s heart like a dart, that wild, aching maternal pulse rising in her without warning.

Mira shifted beside her, hesitating slightly, unsure if she should speak. The nonverbal exchange between the humans hadn’t escaped her. There were glances. Pauses. Careful not-touching. Something was there—something real—and she couldn’t quite make sense of it.

“You want some,” Mira said finally, almost musing it aloud.

Beverly blinked. “Pardon?”

Mira’s gaze was gentle, not mocking. But the question landed with its full weight.

Beverly hesitated, her throat tightening. “I’m afraid he wouldn’t appreciate little feet running through his meticulously organized life,” she said with a soft, self-deprecating laugh. But it didn’t reach her eyes. The words were armour—thin, fragile.

That, at least, was a fact.

Whether married or not. In love or not. No matter how close they danced, Jean-Luc would never allow that. The idea was almost absurd. Sad. But true.

She’d closed that chapter long ago—when Jack had died. She’d buried the dream of being mother to more than one child along with him.

Mira must’ve seen something shift in her expression, because she mouthed a small, regretful, “Oh,” noticing the shine suddenly welling in Beverly’s eyes.

“But,” Mira said gently, trying to soften the moment, “he’s quite infatuated with you, if I may say so.”

Beverly looked down, pulling the little girl closer—grateful for the excuse to hide her face.

“I wish that were enough, Mira,” she said, voice low. “But sometimes… things are just complicated. We are complicated.”

She paused, her words laced with a tired truth she rarely allowed herself to admit aloud.

“The captain and I share a long history. So much of it… tangled. I couldn’t ask something of him I already know he’s not capable of giving. And I don’t want to break his heart trying to ask.”

She swallowed.

“Or break mine imagining something that won’t ever be real.”

Her eyes found Mira’s, quiet and honest.

“And maybe… maybe we’re just too old for that now.”

Not just children. All of it.

*

“That looks… comfortable, young lady,” his deep baritone hummed behind her, close enough to stir the tiny hairs on her neck.

Beverly startled, heart skipping.

Jean-Luc Picard stood directly behind her, his gaze locked on the little girl in her arms. Slowly, humbly, he reached out and brushed his hand over the child’s cheek. She stiffened at the touch, her green eyes wide with wariness as the strange human leaned closer.

Before Beverly could react, Jean-Luc’s arm slid gently around her waist, grounding her with a warmth that stole her breath. He pressed the lightest kiss to the child’s forehead, voice a low, velvety murmur: “You have excellent taste, Caty… but I’m afraid this wonderful lady belongs to me.”

Beverly’s heart lurched. She looked at him in shock.

He didn’t move away, nor did he flinch.

The children reacted first—some giggled, others squealed their disgust. Jolan groaned loudly, folding his arms with the universal indignation of a eight-year-old boy.

Beverly couldn’t believe it. Jean-Luc Picard, on duty, holding her with casual intimacy in front of their hosts—and enjoying it.

Her pulse thundered.

Slowly, almost without thinking, she lifted her hand to his jaw, fingertips brushing the roughness of his skin. He leaned into her touch without hesitation. Her heart fluttered violently. A tentative kiss to his cheek followed, lingering just long enough to whisper the possibility of more.

The little girl, pressed between them, began to giggle uncontrollably.

Picard flushed faintly, but he still didn’t pull away. Holding her like this, in this sunlit room filled with children, felt… terrifyingly right. His heart ached with the weight of it, with all the years of restraint and all the love he had swallowed.

“You’re not doing as badly as I thought you would, Jean-Luc,” Beverly whispered, voice trembling with something tender and dangerous.

He leaned closer, eyes locked on hers, the world around them fading to a blur. “So you have thought about it, then?” His voice was a low, rich hum, and a ghost of a smile curved his lips.

She swallowed, her nerves alight, and for once let the truth slip free. “I never said I hadn’t.”

For one perfect heartbeat, time stood still.

Then the little girl wriggled, overwhelmed by the intimacy and warmth around her. “Daddy!” she whined, reaching toward her father.

Picard stepped back reluctantly, the loss of her closeness hitting like a physical ache.

Aurelin swooped in, lifting his daughter into his arms with an indulgent chuckle. “What about a tour of the arboretum, my love?”

Beverly’s pulse was still racing. She caught Picard’s eye and smiled softly. Maybe—just maybe—he finally understood.

“Daddy! Doooley love cappain!” the girl cried proudly, pointing her index-finger at Picard.

Both very controlled officers flushed crimson. Aurelin’s laugh boomed through the room, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Yes, my dear, that is quite obvious.”

As the Skinoan family drifted toward the doors, Aurelin glanced back at the two humans still standing close, almost reluctant to part. “Captain, Doctor—join us in the arboretum. Afterwards, we will show you the stellar institute. Many fascinating things to see.”

Caty bounced in her father’s arms, her voice carrying down the hall: “Cappain!” she sang happily, “I loooove cappain!”

Picard felt the tips of his ears burn as Beverly’s quiet laughter brushed against his raw, racing heart.

=/=

The Skinoan arboretum was nothing like the one on the Enterprise.

Filtered sunlight spilled through the domed glass ceiling, fractured into a thousand shards by the cascading leaves of towering silver-blue trees. Flowers the size of Beverly’s hands bobbed gently in a manufactured breeze, and streams of warm, crystal water wound between beds of exotic ferns. The air smelled of earth and faint sandalwood, like the breath of an untouched forest after rain.

Picard followed a half step behind Aurelin’s family, hands clasped tightly behind his back, trying to appear every bit the dignified Starfleet captain. Inside, his pulse was still unsettled, echoing the warmth of Beverly’s touch on his jaw and the whisper of her lips against his cheek.

Control, Jean-Luc. Get yourself under control.

But she walked just ahead of him, her hair catching the light like fire spun into silk, and every few steps she would glance back with that soft, secret smile. His chest ached with the effort of swallowing everything he wanted to say.

“Cappain!”

Caty wriggled in her father’s arms, pointing at a low-hanging cluster of violet flowers. Aurelin lowered her, and she toddled straight to Beverly, arms raised expectantly. Beverly knelt and scooped her up without hesitation, the motion smooth, instinctive.

Picard’s heart twisted. Watching her like this—radiant, natural, utterly in her element—was both heaven and agony.

“She adores you,” Mira said warmly, walking beside Beverly as the group moved deeper into the arboretum. “You are… very good with her. With all of them.”

Beverly smiled faintly, kissing the girl’s temple. “I love children. Always have.”

Mira’s eyes flicked to Picard, who was studiously observing a spiraling vine on the wall. His posture was rigid, but his gaze betrayed him whenever he thought no one was looking.

“You must be very proud, Captain,” Mira said softly, her voice carrying a quiet weight.

Picard blinked, throat dry. “Indeed. The doctor is… remarkable.” He forced the words out evenly, but he could feel the tremor in his chest.

Aurelin, walking at his other side, leaned in slightly. “She would make a wonderful mother to your children.”

The sentence landed like a disruptor blast to the sternum.

Picard’s step faltered, though he recovered almost instantly, hands tightening behind his back. He wanted to say something—anything—but words deserted him.

“Cappain!” Caty interrupted, oblivious to the adult conversation. She wriggled until Beverly set her down, then marched over and grabbed Picard’s hand with sticky fingers. “Come!”

He looked down, startled, and saw Beverly watching him. Her eyes were a storm of warmth and something unspoken—encouragement, maybe, or hope.

Without thinking, he let the child lead him to a shallow pond ringed with shimmering plants. Caty pointed at her reflection, then his, and giggled.

“She likes you,” Beverly said softly, her voice brushing against the last, unguarded place in his heart.

“I…” He swallowed. “I like her as well.”

=/=

The group moved on to the stellar institute, where tall crystalline windows opened to the Skinoan sky. A massive holographic display filled the centre of the room, showing their star system and its long orbital history. Children and apprentices flitted around them, pointing excitedly at the glowing models.

Beverly stood close to him now, shoulder brushing his for just a moment as she leaned in to examine a spinning projection of the planet’s twin moons. Her scent—warm, always faintly floral—curled around him like a whisper of temptation.

“This is extraordinary,” she murmured. “The way they’ve mapped stellar drift… it’s more precise than any model I’ve seen in the Federation.”

Picard nodded, forcing himself to focus on the science instead of the heat building under his skin. “Indeed. And yet…” He trailed off, catching her gaze as she straightened.

The unspoken words hovered between them, fragile as glass.

Aurelin’s voice boomed across the chamber. “Captain, Doctor—come! I wish to show you Tholey’s chamber. It is… important to our people. And I believe…” He paused, eyes twinkling. “…it may help you understand why my daughter is so taken with your doctor.”

Beverly’s pulse quickened.

Picard inclined his head politely, though something deep in his chest clenched. He had a feeling that this chamber, this story, this entire charade, was about to test every last shard of his restraint.

=/=

The Tholey chamber was a cathedral of light.

Tall, arched windows stretched from floor to ceiling, filtering the late morning sun through panes of blue and gold crystal. The polished marble floor reflected the patterns like liquid light, creating the illusion that they were walking through rippling water.

Along the walls, carved reliefs told stories in graceful, spiralling script and delicate figures: blue-skinned couples embracing, parents lifting children toward a sky of stars, luminous winged shapes hovering above them like guardians. The faint hum of wind through the high archways gave the chamber a living, breathing presence.

Beverly slowed as they entered, her hand brushing the smooth edge of a carved pillar. She felt a hush settle over her, the weight of history and reverence pressing gently against her chest.

“This…” she whispered, “this is breathtaking.”

Mira smiled softly, clearly pleased by her reaction. “This is Tholey’s chamber. Our people believe the spirit of Tholey—the guardian of new life—blesses this place. It is here that families pledge themselves to each other, to their children, and to our world.”

Beverly’s heart skipped.

Picard walked a step behind, his posture rigid, eyes flicking from the carvings of mothers and fathers to the high ceiling where faint constellations had been etched in gold. His throat felt dry.

Aurelin joined them near the centre of the chamber, where a raised platform held a shallow, reflective pool. Its surface mirrored the glowing crystal light above. Around its edges, tiny carvings depicted infants cradled in loving arms, and above the water a single sculpture of Tholey—half-human, half-winged spirit—held a protective hand over a family of three.

“This is where our vows are made,” Aurelin explained reverently. “Our bonds of love, our promises to the future. It is said that if two people stand here and place their hands together above the water, Tholey sees into their spirits… and blesses them.”

Beverly glanced at Picard, pulse quickening. His face was carefully neutral, but his eyes—oh, those betraying grey eyes—were filled with unspoken storms.

“Every couple comes here,” Mira added. “Every union, every pledge to bring new life. We do not separate family and spirit; they are one. Without family, we are only half-alive.”

Picard’s heart gave a painful twist. He looked at the carvings again—at the serene faces of parents holding their children to the sky—and the ache in his chest deepened until it felt like a physical wound.

Beverly saw it. She could feel it in the air between them. Her own chest tightened, caught between desire and the old, familiar fear that had kept her from stepping into this space with him for decades.

Caty squirmed in her father’s arms, reaching toward the reflective pool. “Doooley water!” she squealed, her tiny fingers stretching toward the glassy surface.

Aurelin chuckled and crouched, letting her touch it. “Yes, little one. Tholey’s water.”

Mira tilted her head, gaze flicking between Picard and Beverly. “In our tradition, couples often come here to renew their bond—or to let Tholey judge if it is true. If the water ripples toward them, it is said that their love is strong and their spirits ready for life.”

Beverly’s mouth went dry. Her hands trembled faintly where they rested at her sides.

“Would you… care to try?” Mira asked, her tone polite but heavy with cultural expectation.

Picard’s stomach dropped. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the Skinoans watching with open curiosity, Beverly standing just close enough that he could feel the heat of her body but not close enough to touch.

For a fraction of a second, he imagined it—her hand in his, fingers twined, their reflections side by side in Tholey’s pool. A silent admission of what he had held back for so long. A blessing for something he had never dared to claim.

His heart pounded painfully. His palms itched with the need to reach for her.

Beverly’s lips parted as she glanced at him, her eyes wide, conflicted. Her pulse thrummed in her throat. The air between them buzzed with tension, thick with the ghosts of unspoken words.

Then Picard’s gaze darted to the carved family on the edge of the pool—mother, father, child cradled in gentle hands—and guilt like a blade cut through his chest. Jack’s face flashed in his memory. Wesley’s laughter. The sound of Beverly’s quiet sobs years ago when she had lost the life she deserved because of his decisions.

He could not move.

The silence stretched long enough for Caty’s voice to break it: “Cappain? Hold doooley hand?”

Picard froze. Beverly’s heart lurched violently, a tremor racing through her chest.

The room waited. The Skinoans watched. Beverly’s eyes burned with too many feelings at once—hope, fear, love, and the ache of all the years they had wasted.

Picard’s hand rose and hovered in the air, suspended between duty and desire.

The world seemed to narrow to the shallow pool before them, its mirrored surface catching the light of the golden crystals above. His reflection trembled faintly in the water, haloed by the soft glow. He could feel the heat of Beverly’s presence at his side, the subtle brush of her sleeve against his, and his chest ached with the weight of everything he wanted but could not claim.

“Cappain?” little Caty prompted again, her gummy fingers waving toward his unclaimed hand. “Hold her hand!”

Beverly’s heart twisted. Her first instinct—her every instinct—was to step forward, to take his hand and let the moment swallow them whole. But then she saw him.

Jean-Luc Picard, legendary captain, standing stiff and pale in a cathedral of family and love, his jaw tight with control, his grey eyes betraying a storm of longing and fear. He seemed as though one more ounce of intimacy might shatter him into a million shards.

And in that instant, she knew she couldn’t do it to him.

Not here. Not like this.

“Oh! Well…” she said suddenly, her voice just a pitch too bright. She clapped her hands together gently, making Caty flinch in surprise. “I… um… I probably shouldn’t touch the water. My hands, you see—they might… have, ah, microbes from the ship!”

Aurelin blinked. Mira’s eyebrows rose. Even Caty tilted her head.

Beverly pressed on, cheeks heating. “Yes, um—Starfleet medical protocols. Cross-contamination and… interplanetary flora and fauna exposure.” She gestured vaguely toward the pool, as though the serene, sacred water might harbour an infection waiting to be unleashed by her unwashed hands. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally, er… infect Tholey.”

There was a beat of silence.

Picard’s lips twitched despite himself.

Mira covered her mouth, clearly suppressing a laugh. Aurelin gave a polite nod, the corner of his mouth curving in amusement. “Ah. Of course. We wouldn’t want to… offend Tholey’s spirit with Starfleet microbes.”

“Yes, exactly,” Beverly said, her voice steadying as she embraced the absurdity of her escape. “Best to admire from a safe distance.”

Caty looked vaguely disappointed, but Picard exhaled a quiet, almost imperceptible breath of relief.

The moment passed, the sacred tension folding back into polite diplomacy. But Beverly could feel his gratitude radiating off him, warm and raw, even as he shifted his posture into the familiar armour of Starfleet composure.

As Aurelin began guiding them to the next alcove, Beverly fell into step beside Jean-Luc. Her fingers brushed his lightly, a touch so fleeting it could have been an accident—but wasn’t.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and she caught the faintest flicker of something—thank you, apology, and that dangerous undercurrent of love—before he straightened his shoulders and followed their hosts deeper into the chamber.

Chapter Text

His gaze roamed the evening skyline of Hivoc, lingering on the ancient silhouettes that rose against a canvas of molten gold and deepening violet. The marbled spires caught the dying light, glowing like silent sentinels of a civilization untouched by the scars of war. Picard’s fingers curled around the cool metal railing, his other hand absently balancing a cup of herbal tea.

For a long moment, he let the warmth of the sun settle on his face, inhaling the faint, sweet scent of the gardens below. He felt almost envious of the Skinoans. Thousands of years of uninterrupted history, family bonds unbroken, no battles to erase the stories carved into their stones. No ghosts in their streets.

“Maybe there are excavations somewhere… we could visit,” he murmured under his breath, tugging his tunic straight as if anchoring himself to something familiar.

A dry, sarcastic voice floated from behind him. “We…?” Beverly sighed from the lounger. “Jean-Luc, I know you’re always dying for a dig site, but you can’t spend your whole life chasing dust.”

He stiffened. The remark wasn’t cruel, but the note of teasing felt sharper than he expected. He glanced over his shoulder. She was sprawled on the lounge chair, bare feet propped on the low table, surrounded by a scatter of PADDs. Her hair caught the sunset, haloed in firelight as her fingers traced the screens in idle concentration.

The familiar mix of pride and ache surged in his chest. Always working. Always brilliant. Always just out of reach.

“Obviously,” he said, his tone sharper than intended, “there are no other tasks to attend.”

Beverly didn’t look up, but her lips curved with a wry smile. He saw it anyway. He felt the sting of it, quiet and personal.

The hurt rose, hot and unbidden, and he turned toward her fully. For a heartbeat, he just stood there, watching the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and chewed her lip while scanning the PADD. He wanted to take the damn devices, toss them into the garden, and force her to look at him—really look.

“What are you doing?” His voice came out harsher than he meant, and he set the now-empty cup down with a muted clink.

“Dr. Selar sent me some reports,” she said evenly, eyes still on the screen. “Since my absence from sickbay was… unplanned.”

Finally, she looked up when his shadow blocked the last rays of sunlight. Her brows rose. “Everything okay?”

“Maybe,” he said, breath unsteady. “Maybe we should talk about what happened this morning.”

The colour drained from her face. Her fingers stilled. “What exactly?” she asked softly, though her eyes betrayed the truth—she knew.

Picard felt the tension coil in his gut, the familiar war between logic and the ache that had been building for years. He lowered himself onto the wide lounger beside her, the warmth of her body a dangerous comfort. His hand found hers almost without permission, engulfing it, thumb brushing the delicate skin over her knuckles.

“I know you told me to be afraid,” he said quietly, eyes shutting against the intensity of her gaze. “But I… I can’t. Not anymore. I don’t know if I can keep respecting those boundaries. I’ve tried, Beverly. God knows I’ve tried. And I—”

The words caught, stuck in the tangle of emotion in his throat. The heat crept up his neck, shame and longing twisting into one unbearable knot.

“Jean-Luc…” Her forehead touched his, soft as a whisper, and he felt her hands cradle his face. “I’m here. Will you look at me?”

His eyes opened slowly, heavy with the weight of years and the glint of unshed tears. Her heart clenched at the sight—fear, love, and the raw, unvarnished pain he carried for her, because of her.

Her lips trembled with a nervous smile that was almost a plea. She was tired of running from this, of hiding behind duty and fear. They had been circling the same fire for too long, and the heat was consuming them both. “You know I love you, don’t you?” she whispered, the words barely leaving her lips.

The air fled his lungs. Her words landed like a weight and a balm all at once.

She had said it.

A single tear slid down his cheek before he could stop it. He nodded once, small and careful, terrified that any sudden movement might break this fragile, impossible moment.

He had known since KesPrytt, since the cursed telepathic bond had laid her soul bare against his own. He had known in every sleepless night since, tossing under the weight of love unspoken and desire unfulfilled. And he had endured her teasing, her skittish retreats, her moments of warmth followed by fear—because he could do nothing else.

But a darker thought suddenly cut through the sweetness.

“Please…” His voice broke, rough with distress. “Please tell me this isn’t… some sort of payback. For putting you in this… situation.”

Her spine straightened. Offense flared across her face, hot and immediate. “Gosh, Jean-Luc. You are such a moron.”

The sharpness of it stunned him. His mouth opened in protest, breath catching—

“Captain, Doctor!”

Both of them groaned, the fragile moment snapping like glass.

Data emerged from the house, tilting his head in benign curiosity. “I have returned from my tour. Is there time for a brief report?”

The timing was catastrophic.

Picard shut his mouth and forced his hand to stay loosely wrapped around Beverly’s, though she made an effort to slip it away. His chest throbbed with the familiar ache of frustration, sharp as a blade.

“I must inform you,” he continued, “Lieutenant Worf returned to the ship several minutes ago in response to an emergency call from Security. It appears the incident was related to the arrival of Commander Philippa Louvois. Several… belongings of hers triggered multiple safety protocols upon transport.”

Beverly gave a dry, choked laugh. “Of course they did.”

Picard’s heart was already hammering in his chest—half from the emotional battlefield between them, half from the reminder of her arrival. Of Philippa Louvois. The name echoed in his head like an ill-timed alarm.

He turned his head to Beverly, hoping for a reprieve. Her expression, however, was unreadable—controlled, carefully blank. His grip on her hand remained, but it felt fragile now, tenuous.

Data, seemingly oblivious to the tension, took a seat near them, folding his hands neatly.

“Sir, I take it you are still… rehearsing the role?” he asked Picard, tilting his head slightly. “Our hosts may soon return. It would be prudent to reestablish consistency.”

Beverly gave a half-choked laugh, somewhere between bitter amusement and disbelief.

Picard cleared his throat. “Stop babbling, Mr. Data. Any incidents I should know about?”

The android studied them both for a beat longer—no doubt running internal algorithms regarding increased heart rate, flushed skin, and proximity. But he said nothing more.

“No, sir. I gathered the information I intended to collect, and my work here is complete.” Data’s tone was steady, unreadable as ever. “Perhaps it would be wise for me to return to the ship and support Lieutenant Worf. I understand he has his hands full—especially with Commander Philippa Louvois arriving on board, and you not present to assist.”

Nicely done, he thought to himself, a subtle note of self-satisfaction humming beneath his words. He was improving—at least at avoiding the uncomfortable emotional bruises that tended to follow in his wake. The captain and doctor had always maintained an unusually private dynamic. It didn’t take a positronic brain to detect the storm of unspoken feelings now crackling between them.

He recalled relaying a similar insight to Commander Riker—specifically, his offer to assist the captain with personal technical adaptations. Riker had laughed so hysterically, Data still didn’t fully understand what he had done wrong.

“Drinks, everyone?” Aurelin’s warm voice rang across the patio as he stepped out, balancing a tray of glasses filled with sparkling green liquid. Mira followed him, both dressed in soft, casual fabrics.

The moment shattered.

Beverly pulled her hand swiftly from Picard’s, flashing him a glance sharp enough to draw blood. He met it without retreating—returning her warning with one of his own. The fracture between them, already delicate, split a little further, like a fault line creaking open under pressure.

Mira stepped closer, her smile soft, her gaze flicking between them. The tension hung thick in the air, charged and unmistakable.

She didn’t comment. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she moved gracefully into the space beside Beverly and held out a drink. Her fingers lingered just long enough to say: I see you. And I know.

“I could use a hand inside,” Mira said lightly, gesturing toward the house—her voice casual but full of quiet intention. “Beverly?”

The doctor nodded wordlessly. Rising from the lounger, she stepped out of Picard’s reach without so much as a backward glance.

She wasn’t sure she could hold his gaze again without strangling him.

His timing, she thought bitterly, was abysmal.

Every step forward he took was followed by some catastrophic stumble—always at the wrong moment, always when it mattered most. He could command the Federation’s flagship with impossible grace, but when it came to her, he was hopeless. Utterly, infuriatingly hopeless.

Hints hadn’t worked. Cautious invitations hadn’t worked. Nothing seemed to sink in. He still didn’t realize how close she was to letting her guard fall completely. That she might have changed her mind. That she was ready.

She hadn’t said no. She hadn’t said never. She’d said she was afraid.

And what had he done? He’d thrown her fear back at her like a weapon.

Now, he was looking at her like he’d only just figured it out.

It was almost too late.

Rolling her eyes, Beverly followed Mira into the house, hoping—praying—that time was still on their side. That he would catch up before everything slipped through their fingers.

Men, she thought, were truly slow on the uptake.

He watched her go, the weight of unspoken words and missed chances pressing down like gravity.

God help me, he thought. If I lose her because I am too slow, I will have only myself to blame.

*

“That bad, huh?” Aurelin asked, setting his glass down with a soft clink. His brow lifted in dry amusement now that both women had vanished inside.

Picard didn’t answer.

Not with Data still observing him in unnervingly precise intervals, likely calculating every nuance of his flushed face and fidgeting hands, every spike in his pulse. The captain knew that look—it meant the android was piecing together some kind of psychological equation and silently debating how best to ask without being intrusive.

But Picard had no interest in being dissected—not when he was still simmering with frustration. Mostly at himself.

I missed something, he thought bitterly. Something important.

The moments replayed in his mind with merciless clarity. Beverly’s subtle invitations over the past weeks—how had he been so blind? Beverly’s shifting behaviour.

And then, the holodeck. She had chosen a Dixon Hill chapter, its soft, romantic edges as clear as candlelight. And he—idiot that he was—had invited Geordi and Data along, thinking he was protecting her from feeling cornered. He had walked into the dimly lit streets of that simulation and seen the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. He had consoled himself with excuses. She didn’t know the script. It was an oversight.

But Beverly never did anything without purpose.

Then there was that day after the senior staff meeting. She’d lingered when the others filed out, stepping close enough that her sleeve brushed his arm. Just that one accidental touch had lit him on fire, his pulse hammering in his throat. He had thought—maybe now, maybe finally—

And then Deanna had reentered, frozen for an instant as if she could taste the electricity in the room. The counselor stammered something unintelligible and fled.

So obvious now. Every moment had been an opening, a test, a gentle push against the walls he’d built around his heart.

And he… had failed them all.

Gods, he thought. It wasn’t random. None of it was.

“Sir?” Data’s head tilted slightly.

Picard forced himself upright, folding the chaos back behind his usual commanding facade. “Mr. Data, return to the ship,” he said, voice even. “I’m certain Commander Riker will be grateful for your assistance.”

If nothing else, he needed space to breathe without the constant, clinical scrutiny.

“Captain. Ambassador,” Data said with a polite nod. “I look forward to seeing you again on the Enterprise.”

A moment later, the transporter shimmered blue and the android was gone.

Only then did Picard slump back into the lounger, shoulders sagging beneath the fading tension. Being watched—especially by someone so emotionless and exact—was both a blessing and a curse.

Aurelin chuckled beside him, taking a leisurely sip from his glass. “He reminds me of one of my sons. Always turning up at the worst moments. Especially when Mira and I were in the middle of something... delicate. We could never have a private… minute without him appearing like a ghost at our shoulder.”

“I got it,” Picard cut in dryly, not particularly eager for the rest of that thought.

“I understand,” Aurelin repeated with a knowing grin. “It is not easy. Especially when the woman you love is also the one you… command.”

Picard glanced over at him, thoughtful. The word love landed like a weight and a balm all at once.

Command had never really been their issue—Beverly would never simply obey because of his rank. She challenged him, met him eye to eye, pushed back when it mattered. And perhaps that had always been one of the things he loved most.

He managed a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Dropping back into his seat, he reached for his drink and took a sip—surprised by the tang of lemon and basil.

“You should think about having some of your own, Captain,” Aurelin said casually. “It would be a shame to waste such genes.”

Picard blinked, puzzled—until realization dawned.

“Oh,” he said.

Aurelin grinned, entirely unbothered. “Pardon me. Hers, not yours. I think that’s obvious.”

That earned a reluctant laugh. It felt good to laugh, even if it ached a little. Aurelin drained his glass and leaned back comfortably, his dark eyes glimmering with amusement and sympathy. “You humans try to hide your hearts. But they live in your eyes. I have seen the way you look at her. And I have seen the way she looks back.”

Picard’s lips parted, but no words emerged.

“Love makes men soft and foolish, Captain,” Aurelin said simply, as if it were the most natural truth in the universe. “It also makes life worth living. Stop trying to hold it in a fist of logic. Let it hurt. Let it burn. Or it will wither in your hand before you dare to touch it.”

And maybe he was right. Picard stared into his half-empty glass, Aurelin’s words echoing through him like the deep toll of a bell. Memories rose unbidden—Jack’s laugh, Beverly’s tears, her warmth under his hand this morning, her whisper: You know I love you, don’t you?

His heart ached with a deep, pulsing ache he could no longer deny. Beverly wasn’t just a colleague, or a friend, or the ghost of a life he’d never allowed himself to live.

She was his center. His anchor. The only constant in the storm of his existence. And Picard had spent so long trying to maintain control—over his feelings, hers, the situation, the outcome. But he hadn’t been able to stop the way he felt when she was married to Jack. He hadn’t stopped it when she came aboard his ship. And he certainly hadn’t stopped it from growing into something deeper, something dangerous, as their friendship turned into fire.

He had never been in control of Beverly Crusher.

And he was just one thing: losing her by being a coward.

He sighed, the weight of all those unspoken years pressing down.

But somehow, here on this warm alien patio with a stranger who felt like an old friend, he could admit it aloud. He exhaled shakily, staring out over the twilight city, lights flickering in the windows of ancient towers. “You’re right,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I… have spent too long trying to control something that was never meant to be controlled. And she has saved my life more times than I can count,” he added softly. “And my sanity, too.”

Aurelin nodded slowly, like he’d expected nothing less. “I thought so.” He reached over, pushing another drink into Picard’s hand. “Then maybe it’s time you tell her and stop thinking like a captain… Start living like a man.”

Chapter Text

“You may take the bathroom first again. I’ll call Will and Admiral Heel in the meantime,” he said, exhaling softly. It was a relief to finally be back in their quarters—alone, just the two of them, wrapped in the hush of privacy.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Beverly replied, her voice tight.

“Take your time,” he hummed, letting his gaze follow her as she slipped into the bathroom and the door swished closed behind her. He listened to her footsteps, then the hiss of water starting.

The tension of the day had slowly, painstakingly dissolved over dinner with their hosts, softened by laughter and good wine. Yet as he stood in the center of their room now, Picard felt something new rise—an intimacy he had never allowed himself to imagine outside the walls of his own mind.

He could get used to this.

Being with her, without the ever-present eyes of his crew. No bridge, no PADDs, no formalities—just the two of them moving in their private orbit. It was intoxicating. And dangerous. The status quo he had fought so hard to maintain was shifting under his feet like sand.

Here, playing roles that seemed to give them permission to be more, to exist in the space between friendship and whatever lay beyond, Jean-Luc felt his mind settle for the first time in weeks.

He had to tread carefully. No more missteps. No more clumsy forward motions that might spook her into retreat. This chance—this sliver of potential—would vanish if he misplayed his hand again.

He paused at the desk, suddenly remembering the bottle he’d packed. After rummaging briefly, he pulled out a vintage of Chateau Picard and spotted two glasses neatly shelved nearby.

The shower’s distant hiss filled the room like white noise, wrapping around his thoughts.

He poured the deep ruby liquid, the scent of his family vineyard blooming softly into the air. One glass he set aside; the other he held as if it might steady the tremor building in his hands.

For a long moment, he just stared at the closed bathroom door. His chest tightened. He felt that dangerous heat rising through his body—the heat that always accompanied her presence in any unguarded moment.

All right, he thought. Just this once.

He pushed the door open just far enough to slip inside.

Steam embraced him immediately, warm and scented faintly with her shampoo. He moved silently to the sink, placing the glass of wine on the counter like an offering. The mirror was fogged, blurring everything but the outline of her form through the misty shower doors—graceful curves, one hand reaching up to brush water from her hair.

A low tremor passed through him. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew. Every instinct as a gentleman, every ounce of discipline, told him to leave immediately. But the thrum in his fingertips and the pulsing in his chest betrayed him.

His body remembered every accidental brush, every stolen glance.

He forced his gaze straight ahead, inhaled sharply, and slipped out before he could disgrace himself further.

Back in the suite, he retrieved his own glass and tugged the rest of his uniform loose, dropping into the oversized wing chair with a sigh, his pulse erratic.

“Picard to Enterprise. Will, are you there?” he said, tapping his combadge.

“Yes, Enterprise here, sir. Everything all right?” Riker’s voice was steady, but Picard swore he heard a hint of mischief lurking there.

“Oh, sure,” Picard said, trying to make his tone crisp. “Everything runs… smoothly.” He swirled the wine in his glass, staring at its deep color like it might keep his thoughts anchored.

There was a pause. “Status report, Number One?”

=/=

His eyes wandered the quiet room as Riker’s voice streamed steadily through the comm channel, listing the day's events. The once-busy house had fallen into silence now that the children—Aurelin’s boundless pack—had finally disappeared into sleep.

Picard leaned back into the wing chair, his head dropping heavily against the leather. The fatigue of the day settled deep in his bones, but it wasn’t rest that held his attention.

Movement caught the corner of his eye.

He swallowed—hard.

The bathroom door was still ajar. Only slightly. But it was enough.

“Sir?” Riker’s voice cut in, a touch sharper now—likely the second time he’d asked.

“I hear you, Will. Please, go on.”

His face flushed instantly, a deep, invisible blush climbing to the tips of his ears even though no one could see him. He clutched his wineglass tighter and brought it to his lips, draining the contents in a swift, ungraceful gulp.

He couldn't stop himself. His gaze fixed on that narrow sliver of open door, on the steamy haze curling outward. A flicker of motion. The curve of her form, faint behind the clouded glass.

His heart pounded like a drumline, his mouth dry as desert wind. Sweat began to trace a line down the back of his neck.

“As I said, Captain,” Riker continued smoothly, “Commander Louvois has boarded without further incident. After a small delay during transport, she’s already looking forward to speaking with you at your earliest convenience.”

Picard barely heard the words.

His mind was elsewhere—captivated, electrified by what he imagined just behind that thin veil of steam. Another glimpse. Another wave of impossible heat washing through him.

He set his glass down a little too forcefully. The soft clink sounded like a gunshot in the silence.

“Sir?” Riker’s voice turned dry with teasing. “Am I boring you?”

“No—no, Number One.” His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for your thorough and extensive report. See you tomorrow, then. We’ll be visiting the ship with the Ambassador’s family for a tour.”

A beat passed. Picard sensed Riker’s hesitation—something unsaid at the tip of his tongue.

“I’ll prepare a reception, if you like?” the Commander offered.

He closed his eyes for a second. Focus. “Ah — no, that won’t be necessary, Number One. Estimated time of our boarding will be at 10 hundred. That will be all.”

He tapped his combadge with unnecessary force, ending the connection.

The shower cut off.

Silence pressed in, broken only by the distant hum of his own blood rushing in his ears. He realized he was holding his breath, his chest tight with anticipation and restraint.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, staring at the open bathroom door. Steam began to drift out, curling like smoke, and with it came the scent of her—warm and floral, achingly familiar.

Picard closed his eyes for a moment, willing his heart to slow. His body didn’t obey.

When the console chimed for his call to Admiral Heel, he nearly jolted. Sweat was gathering at his temples as he tapped the connection.

The screen blinked to life, revealing the familiar, dark-skinned features of Admiral Nathanael Heel.

“Jean-Luc,” the admiral said, his voice steady but his eyes narrowing slightly. “You seem… unwell.”

Picard forced a smile, the edges of it tight and brittle. He could feel every muscle in his body coiled and burning, the memory of steam and soft curves and whispered confessions threatening to shatter the iron control he’d clung to his whole life.

And Beverly Crusher was only a few steps away.

=/=

Steam still clung to her skin as she stepped out of the shower, each breath slow and heavy in the warmth-drenched air. The marble floor was a cool kiss beneath her bare feet, sending shivers up her calves as the heat of the water still pulsed beneath her skin.

Beverly sighed, tilting her head slowly until the tension gave way with a soft pop in her neck. The day had been long—fascinating, chaotic, and emotionally charged—and the solitude of the bathroom was a balm. The steam enveloped her like a cocoon. A sanctuary.

And then… she saw it.

Her breath caught.

A single glass of deep red wine sat waiting on the broad sink, a thin wisp of condensation still tracing down its side. Elegant. Intentional.

Not an accident.

She stared at it, her heart thudding softly in her chest. Her pulse skipped as if it recognized the silent message for what it was. Her hand rose instinctively to her mouth as a smile—slow and cautious—curled at the corners.

Beyond the door, she could hear his voice. Muffled but unmistakable. That rich, resonant baritone she’d known for decades, laced with formality and restraint. Speaking to the Enterprise, she guessed—always the captain, even here.

But this?

This was Jean-Luc.

She stepped forward, her body tingling with awareness, her damp skin brushing against the soft wrap of the towel. She reached for the glass, her fingertips tingling as they met the cool stem. Lifting it gently, she brought it to her lips and took a sip.

Velvety, bold, familiar.

Chateau Picard.

A piece of him. Of home. Of something long denied but never forgotten.

She swallowed, her throat tight with something that wasn’t wine. Emotion welled behind her eyes.

A whisper, soft and startled, escaped her lips before she could suppress it. “So… my dear captain, you like to watch?”

A pulse of heat coiled deep in her belly at the thought.

She didn’t know if he’d looked. But she hoped. God, she hoped.

Another sip.

She reached toward the mirror and traced a small, perfect circle in the fogged glass. Sapphire eyes stared back at her—clear, uncertain, and alight with something unmistakable.

Longing.

Yes, she was scared. But it wasn’t the same kind of fear anymore. Not the kind that made her run. Not the kind that built walls. It was rawer now. More alive.

Because lately… he’d been different.

Bolder. Hungrier. Honest in ways he’d never dared before. She thought of that look he’d given her this morning—the trembling hesitation beneath his steady words. That kiss on the child’s forehead. The arm around her waist. The way he had said, “She belongs to me.”

And here he was. Reaching for her again, in the smallest, quietest ways.

She let her hair fall loose over her shoulders, curling like flames over her flushed skin. The peach silk of her wrap clung gently to her hips as she adjusted it with trembling fingers.

If he saw her now—bare, damp, wrapped in warmth and wine—he might finally understand. The door hadn’t just been left open.

It had never been closed.

Maybe now, it was time to stop planning, hoping or trying. It was time to act.

=/=

Out in the suite, Picard’s voice was measured as he spoke to Admiral Heel, though his heart pounded erratically. He leaned back in the leather wingchair, one hand still wrapped around his wineglass, the other clenching the armrest to disguise the faint tremor in his fingers.

“I would appreciate that. Thank you, sir.” he said, forcing each word through a throat that felt unbearably dry. He caught motion in the corner of his eye and almost forgot to breathe.

Beverly emerged barefoot, a living vision draped in silk, her hair spilling in damp curls around her shoulders. The bathroom light haloed her from behind, turning the sheer fabric nearly translucent. She padded silently into the room, carrying the second glass of wine, her gaze locked on him with an unreadable heat that made his chest ache.

Heel’s voice seemed to come from miles away. “Thank you for the update, Jean-Luc. It seems you’re… enjoying the assignment?”

Picard’s jaw worked. He dared not look directly at Beverly as she rounded the table and leaned back against it, mere inches from his knees. His peripheral vision caught the elegant sweep of her leg as she crossed it, the subtle sway of her body, the way her fingertip traced the rim of her glass.

“The journey to Starbase 47 is a short one, I assume?” he managed sidestepping the Admirals remark, tension in his voice.

Her bare legs nearly brushed his knees. Picard was acutely aware of her warmth, her scent—clean skin and soft floral notes from her shampoo—curling around him like a private gravity well.

Heel allowed a knowing half-smile. “Yes, the Commander only arranged passage A to B. You’ll receive the full details soon. But… I see you’re… occupied. Perhaps I should let you attend to… pressing matters?”

Beverly crossed her legs again, bare skin whispering against his trousers. His cheeks warmed.

“Uh—Admiral, no. I’m alone. I’m… ah… I’ll contact you as soon as my report is done.”

Beverly hid her smirk behind the wineglass, taking a languid sip. Picard’s ears burned. “Admiral… I… ah…yes. I will file my report shortly. Picard out.”

The screen went black. He closed his eyes for one brief second, exhaling hard through his nose.

“This Nathanael Heel,” Beverly murmured softly, her voice like velvet. “He’s a nosy one, isn’t he?”

Picard’s eyes opened to find her studying him with a smile that could undo a man in seconds. He grimaced faintly. “Beverly, he’s… an admiral. They have the right to… ask things.”

She tilted her head, her expression softening into something that made his pulse trip. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned toward him, the scent of warm skin and wine wrapping around him.

“Maybe you’re right,” she whispered, her lips dangerously close to his ear, “and evidently, he didn’t ask who you’re sleeping with.”

His breath hitched. Her hand slid to his jaw, tilting his face toward hers. His own hand—traitorous, hungry—found her bare leg, curling around the smooth, warm skin instinctively. The contact jolted through him like electricity, his body reacting with a force that left his mind scrambling to keep pace.

“Do… do I do that?” he rasped, his voice rough, almost breaking. His thumb stroked a slow line against her thigh.

“I admit,” Beverly hummed, a vibration he felt more than heard, “I hoped you would.”

Every nerve ending in his body lit up. His control—the armor he’d carried for decades—cracked under the pressure of her closeness, the scent of her, the undeniable invitation in her voice.

“Beverly…” His voice was ragged, laden with years of restrained longing and the sharp edge of fear. “You… you won’t run this time?”

Her eyes softened, their oceanic blue clouded with want. “Jean-Luc… I never played games with you. Not once. I was afraid. But I’m here now. And I want this. I want us. Maybe I still have doubts—but I want to give it a try.”

The raw hope and pain in his chest nearly stole his breath. He whispered, “You’re sure? No running?”

“None,” she promised, closing her eyes for a split second, her throat tight with emotion.

A soft groan escaped him, his forehead falling to her stomach, his arms wrapping around her waist. “Dear lord…” The words trembled in his chest. He had waited so long, endured so much silent torment, and now she was finally here—and ready.

She stroked his head, her fingertips circling his ears, her voice barely audible. “So… maybe you can show me just how much you appreciate my recent decision.”

That snapped the last thread of his restraint.

His hands slid to her jaw, fingers trembling as if he were afraid, she might vanish like a mirage. He pulled her down into a kiss that stole the air from his lungs—hungry, desperate, reverent all at once. Years of self-denial and quiet agony ignited in a single spark.

Beverly gasped against his mouth, the soft sound vibrating through his chest and straight into his bones. Her hands fisted in his open shirt, tugging him closer, as though she’d waited just as long, suffered just as silently.

A low, primal growl rumbled from deep in his chest. The years of restraint—the captain, the gentleman, the ever-controlled man—cracked apart under the fire she ignited in him. He rose in one fluid motion, lifting her effortlessly, her legs locking around his waist with instinctive trust.

Her warm breath brushed his neck, her whisper like a spark on dry tinder. “Jean-Luc…”

He nearly shuddered. Every nerve was alive, his heart a drum in his ribcage, his body a lit fuse. He pressed her against him, feeling her heat through the whisper of silk, and began to move, carrying her toward the bed with single-minded intensity.

She arched against him, lips finding the corner of his jaw, and he bit back another groan, the sound rough and raw with years of suppressed need. He felt her smile against his skin—playful, daring, utterly his in that moment—and the combination of fire and tenderness nearly undid him.

When he laid her down, it was with a reverence that belied the urgency in his veins. His hands shook as they slid along her sides, memorizing every curve, every shiver. Their eyes met—hers blazing with desire and soft with trust, his dark with hunger and the fragile hope of a man who had waited more than a half lifetime for this.

“Beverly…” His voice was a rough, unsteady whisper, his forehead pressed to hers. “If I wake and this is a dream—”

“Then don’t sleep,” she breathed, pulling him into another kiss that set his world on fire.

***

“Obviously, their odd abstinence has ended,” Aurelin murmured, his tone a mix of amusement and satisfaction as he set his book aside.

“I told you it would,” Mira replied softly, her voice carrying that gentle lilt of certainty only a woman long in love could manage. She stretched out on the bed, her hair spilling over the pale pillows like liquid gold. “Perhaps it isn’t polite for them to show too much affection when others are around. In their world, everything seems to be a performance. Maybe he’s this… overly private because he leads the flagship of their fleet. Always observed. Always judged.”

“Certainly he is,” Aurelin agreed, his lips quirking into a small smile. “But I must admit…” He leaned back, propping himself on an elbow, listening to the faint echoes of muffled movement and soft laughter through the walls. “…I am more than satisfied that he is opening up here. At least when he is alone with his… intriguing wife.”

Mira chuckled, a soft, knowing sound, and patted his shoulder. “You’ll see. These humans, they seem so stiff at first. All rules and restraint. But at the end of the day, they are just like us—sentimental, emotional fools.” Her smile curved into something mischievous, her green eyes glinting. “And just as intent,” she added with a rueful edge, tilting her head toward the faint rhythm behind the separating wall.

Aurelin laughed under his breath, but Mira had already drifted into a reflective silence. He watched her carefully—the slight crease in her brow, the way her fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket. She was listening, yes, but also remembering.

“Thinking about earlier?” he asked gently.

Mira nodded slowly. “The doctor… she spoke as if she’d locked away a part of herself long ago. She smiled, she laughed, she radiates life—but there was something… fragile. Like she’s still carrying the weight of loss that never quite leaves.” Mira’s voice softened to a whisper. “I don’t know if she realizes how much she wants what she’s afraid to ask for.”

Aurelin reached out, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. He understood this side of his wife—her heart always reaching for others, aching to patch what was broken. “If anyone can awaken that part of her, it will be him. But he’s fighting himself just as much as he’s fighting for her.”

“She needs a reason to believe,” Mira murmured, her gaze distant. “Something more than whispered love in the dark. A future.” Her lips curled into a bittersweet smile. “It’s a shame there aren’t already sweet little red-haired, blue-eyed babies crawling across their pristine floors. It would heal her heart more than she realizes.”

Aurelin chuckled low in his chest, but there was an undertone of worry in his voice. “Caty wants to go up to their ship tomorrow. Our daughter is determined to see that magnificent vessel and stay with her ‘dooooley-doctor’ as long as she possibly can.”

That finally earned a laugh from Mira, the tension easing from her face as she imagined their small daughter trailing Beverly across the shining corridors of the Enterprise. “I would very much like to see that. And… perhaps Picard’s heart isn’t as petrified as he believes. Caty will melt that brick-hard, self-imposed shell of his like a wooden twig under a Klingon targ.”

Aurelin’s brows rose, both amused and thoughtful. “Perhaps. Yet…” His gaze drifted to the ceiling, as if he could see through the stone to the human couple above. “I wonder if it is wise to push a man like that too far, too fast. A heart held in chains does not always break gently when it finally opens.”

Mira turned to him, her smile tender but determined. “Then let it break. Because only through breaking does it finally belong to someone else.” She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, her voice full of that quiet, unshakable faith in love.

“You listened to me when I asked you to risk everything,” she whispered. “And he will listen to her. Captain or not, Starfleet or not - he is a man in love.”

***

She felt watched.

Little shivers ran over Beverly’s bare skin, and it wasn’t just the cool air slipping beneath the thin blankets - it was that unmistakable sensation of being observed. Jean-Luc’s arms were still wrapped tightly around her, his body a warm, solid fortress, the scent of him enveloping her like a protective cocoon. Her head rose and fell gently with the rhythm of his breathing.

After hours of catching up for years of longing, she was utterly sated, her body heavy with the delicious ache of love and the drowsy warmth of safety.

“Doley?”

The whisper froze the air in her lungs. Her eyes snapped open instinctively.

“…Caty?”

The room was still dim, moonlight barely brushing across the marbled floor, but she could make out the tiny outline of the Skinoan girl framed in the doorway - half-hidden, half-curious, her little blanket and stuffed creature clutched in her arms.

Beverly’s heart stuttered. It wasn’t quite panic she felt, but there was no denying the sharp awareness of just how underdressed they both were for unexpected midnight company.

The girl began her slow, determined approach. Bare feet padded softly, and as she reached the edge of the bed, Beverly noticed what she carried - a purple plush creature with a long neck and outrageous pink hair, hugged tight against her chest.

“You should be in bed, sweetheart,” Beverly whispered, careful and coaxing, lowering her voice in the hope that the captain remained blissfully asleep.

Caty only pouted and held her ground. “Sleep here,” she announced, matter-of-fact, with the stubbornness of a small child who already knew she would win.

Beverly’s lips twitched despite herself.

“What?” The warm, familiar rumble of a sleep-heavy voice interrupted her. “Is everything all right?”

She glanced down at Jean-Luc, blinking groggily, his deep baritone roughened by sleep.

“We’ve… a visitor, Jean,” she whispered, nodding toward the child.

He made a soft, disgruntled noise, half a groan, and mumbled, “Not so funny, ma chér.” His eyes drifted shut again, and his arms instinctively tightened around her as if to reclaim her from the interruption. In seconds, his breathing settled back into the steady cadence of sleep.

Suppressing a chuckle, Beverly turned her attention back to their tiny intruder. “All right, come here, honey,” she murmured at last, tapping the empty space between them. “But very quiet, hmm? We don’t want to wake the captain.”

Caty’s face lit up. She scrambled onto the bed with a small, victorious squeal quickly muffled by Beverly’s warning shush. She nestled herself between the doctor and the captain, snuggling into the offered warmth with contented little sighs.

Beverly adjusted the child’s brought blanket over her small body, smoothing her hair and tucking the plush creature into her arms. “Okay?” she whispered softly.

The girl nodded, already half-asleep, her eyelids heavy. She reached out blindly and caught Beverly’s free hand, pressing it against her tiny chest in a silent gesture of trust.

“Doley… night,” she mumbled, and moments later, she was out completely, her breathing deep and even.

Beverly couldn’t help the soft, incredulous smile that curved her lips. She gently stroked the child’s hair with her thumb, her other hand resting on the absurdly endearing purple giraffe. Worf would lose his mind if he knew this is what ‘security risk’ looks like, she thought, stifling a quiet snicker.

She was still smiling when she heard it.

“I love you.”

The words rumbled from Jean-Luc’s chest, low and slurred with sleep, but utterly clear. Beverly’s blood seemed to still, her heart stuttering. Slowly, she lifted her head to study his face in the dim light. His eyes remained closed, a faint, blissful smile softening his features in a way few ever saw.

Some seconds passed before he stirred just enough to murmur, “Go back to sleep, mon amour. She’ll be fine.”

A wave of warmth rushed through her chest, stealing her breath. That single sentence - so effortless, so unguarded - melted something inside her that had been locked tight for years. Beverly pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, feeling the faint shudder it drew from his body. Her whisper was a mix of affection and mischief. “I won’t tell anyone she captured your heart so quickly, Jean.”

The chuckle that vibrated through his chest sent pleasant tremors down her spine.

“Obviously, I’m not the only one here being captured,” he murmured, his voice low and full of quiet amusement.

Beverly’s grin turned wicked. She nipped his shoulder lightly, just enough to make him twitch. “Mmm. Consider yourself officially outnumbered.”

He shifted, pressing closer to her warmth, his arm curling protectively around both her and the little girl nestled between them. His murmur was a deep, velvety hum.

“I’m just here for the giraffe.”

Her answering laugh was soft and breathless against his lips as he finally found them, kissing her with all the tender, sleepy love he carried in his chest. And in that quiet, dimly lit room, wrapped in his arms and the unlikeliest of company, Beverly Crusher realized she had never felt more complete.

=/=

The invading sunbeams roamed freely over Beverly’s pale, flawless skin, tracing the line of her back and glinting in the cascade of fiery hair that spilled over his shoulder and the pillow. Jean-Luc’s gaze lingered, helpless against the warm, molten glow that rose in his chest.

He let his fingertips drift slowly along the elegant line of her spine, feeling the soft heat of her skin, savoring the way she shifted almost imperceptibly at his touch. Her breathing was still deep, even, the gentle rhythm of someone utterly spent and utterly safe. He watched her in wonder, that fierce, private joy flaring in his heart again - an emotion so bright it almost ached.

How quickly everything had changed.

The tension and walls he had carried for decades had fallen in a single night, and now he lay here with her wrapped around him, her slender arm draped possessively across his waist. He exhaled, the breath shaking slightly with the weight of it. All those years of imagining, doubting, aching… and this is real. Finally, real.

Leaning in, he brushed a golden strand away from her face and bent to kiss her bare shoulder, light and reverent. Her soft warmth, her scent, the sound of her even breathing - it was almost more than his heart could hold.

“Up this early?” she murmured, lips curving as her eyes fluttered just enough to acknowledge him.

He smiled down at her, the expression unguarded and boyish in its delight. “Oh, I think I got… distracted by this magnificent woman lying next to me. You can’t possibly blame me for admiring you.”

Her lips quirked, teasing. “So, that’s your game, huh?”

“Look at me, Beverly.” He cupped her chin gently, guiding her face toward him. Slowly, her sapphire eyes opened, sleepy but glimmering with a promise that set his pulse racing. He stole a brief kiss - light, tasting, worshipful - and drew back only slightly.

“Happy?” he whispered, his voice rough with both amusement and a depth of feeling he could barely contain.

“Mhhhm,” she hummed in contentment, letting her hand wander over the firm planes of his chest, savoring the rare moment of unburdened intimacy - until sudden realization struck like a jolt. Her eyes flew open.

“Where is Caty?”

He chuckled softly, holding her still. “Mira arrived some time ago. She came looking for her little escape artist. I imagine she found her daughter’s empty bed… and traced her here.” His smirk was warm, and a little self-satisfied. “She didn’t seem overly surprised.”

Beverly fixed him with a pointed look. “About her daughter… or about us?”

“Perhaps both.” He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, the gesture tender and teasing all at once. “She only said something about ‘making the most of family time.’ I found her words… somewhat cryptic.”

Beverly’s laugh was soft, full of knowing amusement. She stretched, propping herself on one elbow, her hair falling forward like a silken curtain as her fingertips traced his jawline. “Jean-Luc, you really didn’t catch her meaning?”

He blinked, brow furrowing slightly. “Should I have?”

“She wasn’t talking about morning interruptions,” Beverly murmured, her smile curving into something deliciously conspiratorial. “Skinoans are… very clear about family legacy. They live for it. A family without children—without as many children as possible—is considered… incomplete. Almost invisible in their society.”

He absorbed that silently, his expression shifting from curiosity to dawning comprehension. “…Ah.”

“Exactly.” Her fingers drew idle circles on his chest, watching the realization settle behind his warm gray eyes.

“I see now why Aurelin seemed so… persistent about our disturbing family status.” His voice had gone thoughtful, but there was a glimmer of humor there too. “Starfleet’s finest, yet in their eyes I am… woefully underqualified for their definition of success.”

“Not entirely,” Beverly said lightly, her voice carrying a playful undercurrent. “You do have the right… collaborator.”

He arched a brow, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “A collaborator, is it?”

“Mmm. That’s my professional opinion,” she teased, barely keeping her expression neutral.

His hand slid to her hip, fingers pressing just enough to make her breath hitch. He lowered his voice to that intimate, commanding rumble that had always undone her.

“Then perhaps, Doctor, we should pursue… a more diligent course of practical research.”

The smirk on his lips was pure sin, softened by the love and awe that glimmered in his eyes.

And for once, Beverly Crusher didn’t intend to argue with her captain.

Chapter Text

Will Riker stood at the centre of the bridge, one hand gripping the back of the command chair as he stared at the approaching shuttlecraft on the viewscreen. He didn’t sigh—out loud. But internally, he was already bracing for turbulence. "Shuttlecraft Verity, you are cleared for docking. Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Commander Louvois," he said smoothly, tapping his combadge. “Riker out.”

There was a pregnant pause before Ensign Kellin turned from the ops station. “Sir, the shuttle has landed. Commander Louvois is requesting immediate access to the main archive and… your presence in Shuttle Hangar Two.”

Of course she is.

Riker straightened, tugging down his uniform jacket. “You have the bridge, Mr. La Forge. Try not to blow anything up while I’m gone.”

Geordi didn’t even look up from his station. “No promises.”

=/=

Shuttle Hangar Two

The aft doors opened, and the woman who quickly exited from the small vessel acted as she owned the ship already. Commander Philippa Louvois had barely changed. Her auburn hair was swept into a high twist, elegant and strict, not a strand out of place. Her uniform was immaculate—tailored to within an inch of regulation—but softened just enough to make it clear she wasn’t here to be forgettable. Her eyes scanned the hall, critical and unblinking, before they locked onto him.

Will Riker offered his most diplomatic grin. “Commander Louvois. Welcome aboard.”

“Commander Riker,” she said, dryly. “The infamous Number One. Not quite handsome how you looked the last time, but close enough.”

“I’m hoping that’s a compliment,” he said, taking her duffel with practiced ease. “You have a reputation too, you know.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrow lifted. “Do tell.”

He gave her a look. “Let’s just say the JAG corps still has nightmares—and a few officers still carry grudges.”

Louvois smiled—razor-sharp. “Good. Then I’m still doing my job.”

As they walked, her boots clicked down the corridor with slow precision. Riker noticed how she observed everything: the crew members who passed them, the hum of the engines, even the subtle shift in the lighting. It wasn’t just the mind of a legal strategist—it was the gaze of a woman who had walked these corridors before and carried too many memories in her wake.

“He’s not aboard?” she asked, voice casual.

Riker didn’t miss a step. “Captain Picard is on a diplomatic assignment. He should return for a ship tour soon.”

A pause. Measured. Her jaw ticked just slightly. “Of course he is.”

Riker debated for exactly three seconds before caving to his nature. “You know,” he said lightly, “I’ve always wondered. You were the one who prosecuted him at the 23rd JAG tribunal… and yet, he still vouched for you during the Data trial. That’s not common.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “He always was complicated. Especially when he wanted to be noble.”

“You two go back a long way, don’t you?”

“Define long.”

“I’ve heard… fifteen years?”

That got her. Her step faltered—barely—but enough. She glanced sideways. “Is that what he tells people now?”

“I’m just observant,” Riker said, flashing a grin. “And very, very curious.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said, her voice smooth and faintly dangerous. “But Commander, a word of advice—curiosity is adorable in cats. In first officers, it’s a liability.”

“And yet,” Riker said, pausing outside her quarters, “you didn’t deny it.”

The doors hissed open. She stepped inside without acknowledging the jab. But just before the doors closed, she turned, gaze pinning him like a blade. “Curiosity, Commander… is what got Jean-Luc Picard into trouble the first time. Don’t follow his example.”

And then she was gone. Riker stood there for a long beat. “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Now I want the full story.”

=/=


The sun had just begun to climb, casting long slanted beams through the trellised canopy, when Beverly stepped barefoot onto the patio.

She moved slowly, her body pleasantly sore, her robe hanging loosely from her shoulders. The linen whispered across her skin with every motion, still faintly perfumed with his scent. She didn’t need to close her eyes to remember his hands. His mouth. The low, unguarded sounds he’d made against her throat when the last of his restraint gave way.

God.

She lowered herself onto the sun-warmed stone bench, drawing her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them like a shield—but it was no use. Nothing could guard her now. Not from the aftershocks of last night. She had known, deep in her bones, that they were always meant to end up here. But she hadn’t known it would feel like this.

Not like surrender.

But like freedom.

It hadn’t been slow or delicate. It had been raw and hungry, the kind of intimacy that stripped everything bare. Jean-Luc Picard, the man who lived in steel and silence, had come apart in her hands. And she had let him. Let herself. Given in to all the years of careful avoidance, of aching glances and brushed shoulders and what-ifs. And somewhere in the night, tangled in his arms, sweat-slicked and breathless, she had felt something inside her quietly break. Or maybe it was a becoming. A returning. A soft, thunderous yes.

It wasn’t just lust. Not even close. 

It was love. Unhidden. Undeniable. No longer theoretical or postponed. Her life had changed overnight.

And yet—no alarms had sounded. The sky hadn’t cracked open. She was still here, breathing, with the sun warming her skin, a teacup cooling in her hand. And inside… a silence. A stillness.

No panic. Just the terrifying clarity of knowing that everything was different now. She heard a soft patter of feet before she saw her. Caty emerged from the archway like a dream, wrapped in one of Aurelin’s oversized tunics, her hair sticking up at odd angles, one eye still half-closed in sleep.

Beverly didn’t move.

The child crossed the patio without a word and climbed directly into her lap, as if this was their ritual. As if she had always belonged there. Beverly welcomed her without hesitation, arms opening instinctively. Caty curled up like a kitten, her cheek resting against Beverly’s chest with a quiet sigh.

“You’re warm,” she mumbled.

“You too,” Beverly whispered back, brushing a kiss to the top of her head.

They sat in silence for a long while. 

The child’s weight anchored her. And Beverly, for the first time in years, felt the absence of loneliness. The absence of ache. Not that everything had resolved. But… something in her had shifted.

Caty’s tiny fingers tugged gently at the fabric of the robe. “You happy?” she asked.

Beverly blinked. The question hit so softly, and yet it went straight through her.

Was she?

Yes. Terrified. Raw. Exposed. But yes.

“I think I am,” she murmured.

Caty smiled into her chest. “Good.” The child dozed again moments later, soft and warm and trusting in the curve of Beverly’s arms.

And Beverly—doctor, officer, widow, mother—sat perfectly still, watching the sunlight stretch across the Skinoan sky, a slow smile blooming at the corner of her mouth.

She didn’t know what came next. But for the first time, she wanted to find out.

*

Caty slept now, her head rising and falling with Beverly’s breath. The peaceful weight of her stirred something deeper than maternal instinct. It stirred something longing. Something that had surfaced in the arms of a man last night—a man whose body had finally broken open with hers after years of restraint.

Her fingers brushed softly through Caty’s curls. She had no words for what she felt. Not yet.

And that’s when she heard somebody cautiously approach.

Mira stood in silence, her long robe flowing like silk around her. Her eyes fell on the pair of them—Beverly and Caty—and something warm and knowing bloomed across her face.

She didn’t speak at first. Just lingered there in the golden spill of light, her robe trailing at her ankles, her hair loose down her back. Then, gently: “She always finds you.”

Beverly smiled, voice hushed. “I don’t mind.”

“I know,” Mira said, finally stepping onto the patio. “That’s why she keeps coming back.” 

Mira smiled, glancing at her peaceful daugther. “She rarely sleeps so deeply with anyone but me or Aurelin. You have a gift.”

Beverly swallowed. Her heart ached with something too large to name.

The Skinoan woman watched her for a moment longer, then leaned forward, her voice conspiratorial and laced with amusement. “You know, I must admit… I hadn’t expected it of him.”

Beverly blinked. “Who?”

Mira’s smile deepened. “Your husband.”

Beverly’s chest stilled.

Mira mistook the hesitation for modesty. “Captain Picard. He’s so… tightly held. So… ever controlled. But I saw the way he looked at you yesterday. The way he touched you. The way…” she stopped, realizing this would definitely be too much for the constraints of human ethics and standards. “I mean… it wasn’t only duty anymore. He dared to show his love. Deep and undeniably real.”

Beverly’s throat tightened.

Mira went on, gently, like sharing a secret: “I think there’s something beautiful about it—when a man like that finally allows himself to show his desire. His need. And when he’s brave enough to act on it, even when not alone…” She gestured toward the quiet garden, where early blossoms swayed in the wind.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this, but I find it… deeply romantic. That he let go of his control while on a mission. That he wants you more than the perfection of his command.”

Beverly’s heart was a battlefield of joy and guilt and longing. She wanted to correct her. To tell her it wasn’t real—that the marriage was charade, a clever cover for diplomacy. 

But the truth was… last night hadn’t been a lie. And Mira was seeing a truth Beverly had only just allowed herself to accept: that whatever name it bored, this thing between them was real. Maybe it had been for a long time.

“I’m glad,” Mira said softly, leaning back and closing her eyes to the sun. “He deserves that joy. And you…” she looked at Beverly again, reverent now, “you wear it like it’s always been yours.”

Beverly couldn’t speak. Her arms drew Caty tight against her chest, as if she belonged to her and to nobody else.

Mira was wrong about one thing. Jean-Luc had never chosen love over duty.

He had taken both. In one night. In one reckless, glorious act of surrender, he had taken her.

And Beverly knew, deep in her bones, there would be no going back.

=/=

He saw her before she saw him.

The gardens stretched before him like a living tapestry—glimmering leaves, delicate sky-fronds swaying, light trickling down from the high glass dome like liquid gold. And there, beneath the arch of a white-barked tree whose branches hung low with violet blossoms, she stood with her back to him.

Alone. Quiet.

Still wearing her robe, cinched at the waist, her hair loose and wild in the breeze. Barefoot.

Something in him stilled at the sight.

Jean-Luc Picard had faced war zones and courtroom interrogations, diplomacy breakdowns and death itself. But nothing quite froze his steps like the sight of Beverly Crusher bathed in sunlight, as if the entire garden had bloomed for her alone.

He stepped lightly over the stone path, trying not to disturb the moment.

But she heard him. Of course she did.

Her head turned slowly over her shoulder, eyes meeting his with something unreadable—guarded, yes, but also soft. Unsettled.

"Back already?" she asked, her voice calm, almost casual.

He nodded, hands clasped behind him as he slowed to a stop a few paces from her. "Aurelin insisted I see the subsolar observatory. It’s impressive."

She turned fully now, folding her arms across her middle—not defensive, just unsure.

Silence stretched. Neither of them seemed to know what to say.

The awkwardness settled like mist, light but unmistakable.

"How’s Caty?" he asked finally.

"Sleeping. She found me again this morning."

His lips twitched. "She’s persistent."

"So are you," she said, meaning more than she let on.

He nodded, lowering his gaze. "Not always to my benefit."

Another silence.

Then, quietly, Beverly asked, "Are we going to talk about it?"

He looked up sharply. Met her eyes.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t retreat.

"I hope so," he said. "I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About you."

She exhaled, stepping back slightly to lean against the tree. Her fingers brushed the bark. "I’ve had a lot of time to think too."

"And?"

She looked at him then, the sunlight casting delicate shadows across her face. Her expression had shifted—no longer guarded. Open. Luminous. "And I don’t regret it."

Something in him eased. His breath came faster, his voice lower. "Neither do I."

He moved toward her slowly, testing the distance like it might vanish beneath his feet. When he reached her, he didn’t touch her—not yet—but his voice dropped into something intimate. "I thought... last night might break us. That it might be a mistake we'd spend years untangling."

"And now?" she asked, voice barely more than breath.

"Now I can’t imagine undoing it."

A beat passed.

Then she reached out, her hand curling into the front of his uniform tunic. He stepped in, gently but without hesitation, pressing his forehead to hers.

"Jean-Luc," she whispered.

His hands slid to her waist, grounding her.

"I'm here," he said, not a promise but a vow.

Then—slowly, reverently—he kissed her.

It wasn’t like the night before. There was no firestorm. No desperation.

This was soft. Intimate. Their mouths met with the gentleness of something sacred, the aching caution of people who knew what it meant now—what it could cost, what it could give.

His fingers curved into the small of her back, pulling her against him. Her hands rose to his face, cradling his jaw, her thumb tracing the corner of his mouth when they finally parted.

Her voice trembled. "We can’t go back to pretending."

His answer was immediate. "Then we won’t."

"And after this mission?"

He kissed her forehead. Then her temple. Then the corner of her mouth. "We find a way."

She smiled. Then laughed—a quiet, amazed sound, like it surprised her.

"And what if we make a mess of it?" she asked.

He smirked. "Then we make it together."

She leaned into his chest, eyes closed, letting herself feel it—his breath, his heart, his warmth. For the first time, she allowed herself to believe it could last. And above them, the blossoms stirred in the breeze, scattering pale violet petals around their feet like a silent blessing.

The gentle peace between them was still humming when the comm chime interrupted it.

Picard sighed, drawing back slightly as he tapped his badge. “Picard here.”

The voice that followed was smooth but urgent. “Captain, this is Ambassador Aurelin. I'm afraid something’s come up. I’ve been called to the Central Ministry—an incident requiring immediate diplomatic review. I’ll have to delay our scheduled visit.”

Picard exchanged a glance with Beverly, brows furrowed. “Understood, Ambassador. I trust everything is under control?”

“For the moment. My wife and my youngest are still eager to see your ship. They’ll join you without me, if that’s acceptable.”

Picard hesitated. Then: “Of course. We’ll be ready to receive them shortly.” The line went dead.

Beverly arched a brow. “That didn’t sound ominous at all.”

“No,” he murmured, slipping back into command posture, though the warmth in his gaze remained. “But it buys us a few more quiet minutes.”

She smiled, brushing a petal from his shoulder. “I'll take them.”

Just then, small footsteps broke the stillness. A familiar tousled head peeked around a leafy arch—Jolan, the dark-haired, sharp-eyed boy who had first challenged Beverly to “earn his respect” by proving she belonged among the fairies.

He spotted them and froze mid-step, clearly not expecting to find the captain standing so close to his very own, very mind-blowing fairy.

Picard noticed the shift immediately: the narrowed eyes, the squared shoulders, the way Jolan straightened and marched forward like a miniature ambassador himself.

“Captain,” Jolan said with far too much formality for a eight-year-old. He offered a sharp little bow that made Beverly choke back a laugh.

“Jolan,” Picard returned smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Are you… enjoying your morning?”

The boy didn’t take his eyes off Beverly. “I was looking for her,” he said bluntly. “You’re always very close to her now.”

Picard glanced sideways, amused. “She is my wife. We spend a lot of time together.”

Jolan frowned. “But you didn’t use to kiss her in public.”

Beverly coughed.

Picard cleared his throat. “Well. Things change.”

Jolan crossed his arms. “I don’t like changes like that.”

“I imagine,” Picard said dryly, “you’ll grow out of that.”

Silence fell as Jolan stared up at him with full, dramatic gravity.

Then, pointedly: “She could marry me instead, you know.”

Beverly gave up all attempts at composure and burst out laughing.

Picard, to his credit, merely inclined his head. “Indeed, she could. But I’m afraid I asked her first.”

Jolan’s face crumpled, and Beverly rushed to crouch beside him, her voice warm. “Jolan,” she said gently, “I think I’d have to wait until you’ve passed your flight exams, don’t you think?”

He looked up at her with wide, mournful eyes. “But I was going to build you a garden.”

She smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Then I’ll visit it. Often.”

That seemed to mollify him—barely. He gave Picard a look of deep, inherited betrayal, then stomped away with exaggerated dignity.

Picard watched him go with faint awe. “He’s going to make a terrifying politician.”

“He’s already a jealous ex,” Beverly murmured.

They turned to each other in the hush that followed, laughter still buzzing faintly between them. But Picard sobered first.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve seen children in a thousand worlds. But I’ve never… imagined what it would feel like to see one look at you like that. Like you belonged to them.”

She blinked, her throat tightening.

And before she could speak, he added—so softly she almost didn’t hear it: “I’ve missed so many chances to be part of something like that.”

She took his hand without a word. They stood there in silence, watching the wind stir the garden around them.

In minutes, they’d beam back to the Enterprise. In hours, they’d have to navigate what it meant to return to duty… changed.

But right now, in the shade of violet trees and the echo of small heartbreaks, Beverly knew one thing for certain. She had never felt more seen.

Chapter Text

The hum of the transporter faded.

Aurelin’s absence was noted—but not missed. Mira, poised and curious, stood on the pad with Caty’s small hand locked in hers. The child immediately lit up at the sight of Beverly also rematerializing next to her and jumped over before the beam even cleared fully.

“DOOOOLEY!”

Beverly laughed, arms open. “There’s my girl!”

Caty slammed into her like a comet, wrapping her arms around Beverly’s legs. Picard’s brows rose ever so slightly at the sheer force of affection, but he said nothing—his eyes instead flicking up to the man who’d managed the transport, now stepping forward from the control console.

Riker.

Damn him and his idea’s.

Will Riker’s grin was already forming, slow and mischievous. “Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Ambassador Mira, young miss Caty.”

He turned to Picard and Crusher. “And of course, Captain and Doctor Picard.”

Picard didn’t even blink. “Commander.”

Beverly gave Riker a look that could peel paint.

But he only chuckled to himself and extended a hand toward Mira. “We’re honoured to have you aboard. Captain Picard has arranged for a full tour—command deck, observatories, hydroponics. And we’ve prepared a special viewing of our stellar cartography dome for Caty.”

Mira smiled graciously. “Thank you, Commander. This ship has quite a reputation.”

Riker turned just enough to throw a pointed glance at the "married" couple beside him. “Oh, its stories are legendary.”

Picard ignored him with practiced elegance.

“Shall we begin?” Beverly said brightly, her hand slipping around Caty’s shoulder. “I think we should start with engineering.”

Picard raised a brow. “Engineering?”

She smiled without teeth. “Unless you'd prefer sickbay.”

“Engineering will do,” he said dryly.

And so they began.

* 

Surprisingly, the tour went smoothly.

Mira’s quiet awe, Caty’s squealing delight, and even Riker’s side comments were easy enough to navigate. Beverly and Jean-Luc fell into an odd rhythm—smiling at each other just often enough to keep the illusion alive. Holding hands once or twice. Laughing at an old shared anecdote. Never overplaying it, but never falling out of character.

And yet... something inside Beverly trembled each time their eyes met.

Because the marriage wasn’t entirely pretend anymore.

Not after last night.

And God, it was so easy to fall into this seemingly natural rhythm with him. Too easy.

They stood side by side now in the observation lounge, Mira and Caty just ahead, marvelling at the starscape projected across the floor and ceiling. Caty danced barefoot across it, arms wide.

“She thinks this is a dream,” Mira whispered, smiling.

Beverly felt Jean-Luc’s arm press lightly against hers, and for once, she didn’t move away.

“Doctor Picard,” Mira said with gentle amusement, “you wear space as easily as you wear motherhood.”

Picard tensed slightly and Beverly felt it. She glanced sideways and gave the smallest shake of her head. Don’t correct her.

It was fine. They could keep pretending. Just a little longer.

And then the doors opened.

The temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. “Ah. There you are.”

Philippa Louvois stepped into the lounge like a woman arriving at her own victory celebration. Her auburn hair was immaculately styled, her uniform crisp, eyes sharp and just amused enough to make Beverly’s stomach turn.

Riker straightened a little too quickly. “Commander Louvois. I didn’t realize you were... joining us.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Her gaze swept the room, landing first on Picard, then Beverly, and finally Mira and the child. “And what a charming domestic scene.”

“Philippa,” Picard said, voice neutral, formal.

“Captain.” Her lips curled. “It’s been too long.”

Then she looked at Beverly. “Doctor. I see... congratulations are in order?”

There was no venom in her voice. Just that finely-honed edge Louvois wore like jewellery.

Before either of them could speak, Mira beamed. “You know them well?”

Philippa tilted her head. “Oh, intimately.”

Riker coughed loudly and stepped in. “Ambassador, this is Commander Louvois—attached to the JAG office and currently... reviewing some documentation aboard ship.”

“A pleasure,” Mira said, polite but slightly puzzled.

Louvois kept her eyes locked on Picard. “You’ve kept yourself busy, Jean-Luc. Very busy.”

“Commander,” Beverly said sharply, stepping forward just a little, body angled protectively toward Mira and Caty. “Now isn’t the time.”

Louvois’ gaze shifted to her. And something flickered behind her eyes—hurt, maybe. Or disbelief.

“No,” she said softly. “It never is.”

The tension crackled—silent and sharp as a plasma storm.

Picard took a breath, eyes on Mira and her daughter. “Shall we continue the tour?”

“Of course,” Mira said, sensing the shift but too diplomatic to pry.

As they turned, Louvois fell into step behind them, her presence like a storm cloud on the edges of sunlight.

Riker leaned over to Beverly, voice just above a whisper. “This is going to be a damn long day.”

Beverly didn’t answer.

She just reached for Jean-Luc’s hand.

And this time, he squeezed it.

Tightly.

* 

The doors closed behind her with a final, quiet hiss.

Picard stood behind his desk, not sitting, spine rigid as the silence between them stretched thin. Louvois remained still near the window, bathed in starlight—her reflection barely moving against the starscape. For a long moment, neither spoke.

And then:

“So,” Louvois murmured. “It’s come to this.”

He didn’t answer.

She turned to face him, eyes scanning the familiar lines of his face and taking in the faint lines that hadn’t been there the last time they stood alone in a room like this. And yet… his expression was the same. That carved stoicism. That infuriating restraint.

“You haven’t changed,” she said, quiet now. “Not really.”

“I try to improve with time,” he replied.

“You don’t. You just get better at hiding.”

He let the words sit.

Louvois folded her arms, voice sharpening. “Let’s stop wasting time. I know the marriage is a fake —Starfleet cover protocol, Class II. Hastily filed, might I add.”

“You’ve been reading files you weren’t cleared for,” he said, voice calm, clipped.

“I’m thorough,” she snapped. “Something you used to appreciate. I’ve read diplomatic cover stories more thoroughly than anyone in your chain of command. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.”

Picard’s jaw flexed.

Her expression shifted—just slightly. “When I realized, reading the file, you were suddenly married to Beverly Crusher, I thought: Well, at least the bastard finally picked someone.” Philippa circled slowly, her voice smooth, almost amused. “But what I didn’t expect… was the depth of your performance. The hand-holding. The glances. And that picture-perfect show in the observation lounge—very convincing.”

He looked up, sharply.

Louvois smiled thinly. “I can see it. The way you look at her - you never once looked at me like that. Not once.”

There it was.

She drew back slightly, stung—but her mask rapidly reformed. “And this?” she gestured vaguely toward the ship, the planet, the woman waiting in Ten Forward. “This ridiculous charade that suddenly smells like something more?”

Picard’s voice was low. Firm. “I won’t discuss Dr. Crusher with you.”

Her lips twisted. “Of course not. Because if word got out that a sitting Starfleet captain used a diplomatic cover to explore an inappropriate personal entanglement—well, that would be very messy, wouldn’t it?”

A groan fled his throat while he watched her fire with eagle eyes.

“You loved her,” she whispered finally, with hidden despair. “Even then. Even when you were with me.” Her voice broke on the last word. “And you let me think I was the reason you couldn’t stay.”

He shook his head slightly, jaw tight. “What we had was—”

“—a lie?” she interrupted. “A placeholder? A mistake?”

“No,” he said, firmly. “It was real. It was complicated. But you deserved more than half of a man.”

Her laugh was sharp. Bitter. “Then why didn’t you say that back then? Why didn’t you have the decency to tell me the truth instead of leaving me with silence and a transfer order?”

Picard looked away. “Because I was a coward.”

That stopped her.

For a moment, the steel in her spine softened. Her arms dropped to her sides. Her expression flickered—anger, grief, something more intimate than she meant to show.

“You broke something in me,” she said, softer now. “And I never let myself feel it until I saw you with her.”

He swallowed.

“Every time I prosecuted a man who lied to his crew,” she continued, “I thought of you. Every time I read a transfer report that stank of politics, I thought of you. Every time I asked myself why I still walked into rooms looking for a face that wasn’t there, I thought of you.”

He met her gaze. And it hurt.

“Philippa,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked hard.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he added. “I just… regret not telling you the truth you deserved. You were brilliant. You were bold. You challenged me every day. And I… was afraid to let anyone close enough to see how deeply I’d already betrayed my own heart.”

Louvois stood still for a moment longer. Then she turned sharply, pain transmuting back into steel.

“Well,” she said. “That was almost noble.” Then, colder: “But don’t think sentiment will protect you. If I catch wind of anything compromising Starfleet’s diplomatic standing—any evidence you’re letting this private fantasy life with Beverly blur your judgment—I’ll bring down the full weight of JAG protocol on your head. Marriage cover or not. An acting Starfleet captain using his powers to indulge in physical decadence—well, that would not conducive to your future career advancement, wouldn’t it?”

Picard’s eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?”

Louvois shrugged one shoulder. “I’m just reminding you of the rules. Of your position. And what happens to men who let sentiment cloud their better judgment.” There was venom beneath her restraint now. Hurt that had calcified into control.

“You always did want the moral high ground,” she said, quieter. “But Jean-Luc, if I get even the tiniest indication that this little love story is bleeding into your decisions on a diplomatic level—if your judgment is somehow compromised—I will report it. I will bury you in protocol violations.”

He stepped forward slowly, a controlled fury burning under his calm. “If you ever cared about me—”

She cut him off. “I did. That’s the problem.”

Silence snapped between them.

And then—quietly, bitterly—she said, “Just… be careful. You don’t always get to come back from mistakes like this.”

She turned on her heel and left him standing there—alone in his ready room, staring after the woman who’d once known every corner of his ambition and still missed the part of him that had always belonged to someone else.

Picard stood alone in the silence, the hum of the ship soft around him, the echo of her words reverberating like aftershocks.

He looked down at his hands, flexed them once, then reached slowly toward the small, framed photo tucked discreetly into the corner of his desk—an old picture of Beverly, long before she was even his CMO.

She was smiling. Sunlight in her hair.

And for the first time in years, he let the guilt crack open… just a little.

=/=

The lounge was aglow with ambient starlight, the soft thrum of the warp engines like a lullaby beneath their table. Ten Forward wasn’t crowded, but it pulsed with low, friendly chatter and the occasional hum of a passing tray from the food replicators.

At the table near the viewports, Beverly Crusher leaned in slightly, one elbow on the glass-smooth surface as she watched Caty devour something resembling a miniature orchard made entirely of spun sugar and purple mousse. The child’s face was already streaked with it.

“This,” Mira said with a soft laugh, “was a mistake.”

“I’d argue it was a calculated risk,” came Guinan’s smooth voice, appearing beside them with another plate in hand. “For every three desserts a child tries, only one causes hyperactive warp bounce.”

Caty squealed softly and held up her messy fingers. “I love space dessert!”

Guinan leaned over, smiling conspiratorially. “This one’s a secret. I only make it for special guests.”

“Which one’s this?” Beverly asked, amused.

“Skytaste,” Guinan said. “It changes flavour depending on the colour of the stars outside the viewport.”

Mira arched a brow, impressed. “That’s... impossible.”

“It’s Guinan,” Beverly said simply, as though that explained the universe. And somehow, it did.

Guinan offered a soft nod to both women. “If you need anything else, just wave.”

As she drifted away, Mira took a small bite of her own portion and sighed. “My diplomatic kitchen has never offered me anything like this.”

Beverly chuckled. “Nor has my mess hall.”

Mira settled back, watching Caty with a fond smile. Then her gaze shifted—softly, curiously—back to Beverly. “Your crew adores you. I’ve been watching.”

Beverly lifted her brow. “I should hope they trust me, at least.”

“No. It’s more than that,” Mira said. “There’s respect, yes, but also... affection. Even among the bridge crew. You have something rare.”

Beverly glanced down at her plate, quiet now.

Mira hesitated, then asked gently, “Is it hard?”

Beverly looked up.

“To live a life between orders and intimacy,” Mira clarified. “To have your husband as your commanding officer. And yet… keep the heart of your marriage intact.”

It was the perfect question. The dangerous question.

Beverly’s smile was soft, eyes flickering down to Caty. “It’s a challenge. We draw boundaries. Let protocol lead when it has to. And then we... try to come back to each other when the day ends.”

Mira tilted her head. “And does it work?”

Beverly’s voice dropped slightly. “Sometimes.”

The truth wrapped in silence. She didn’t look up.

“I imagine it takes deep trust,” Mira offered.

Beverly finally met her eyes. “More than I ever thought I had.”

Mira nodded thoughtfully. “He seems softer here than I expected. Less... severe.”

A faint smile tugged at Beverly’s mouth. “He hides it well.”

“I don’t think he hides it from you.”

Beverly exhaled slowly, not quite answering. She toyed with the stem of her spoon, the sugar melting on her tongue and leaving something bittersweet.

Then Caty gasped.

“Cappain!” she shouted, half-standing in her seat.

Beverly’s head snapped up instinctively.

Jean-Luc had just entered Ten Forward, still in uniform, posture tense—but his gaze softened the moment he saw them. Especially her.

He crossed the room with quiet purpose, nodding to a few passing officers, but his focus never wavered.

“Ambassador,” he greeted Mira, smoothly.

“Captain,” she said with a warm smile. “We were just enjoying the best dessert I’ve had since our wedding.”

“And I,” he said, looking at Beverly now, “was hoping I hadn’t missed all of it.”

Caty tugged his hand. “You did! But Dooley saved you a bite.”

Picard raised a brow. “Did she?”

Beverly slid a spoonful of the delicate sky-coloured mousse across the plate toward him with a practiced, deadpan smile. “The last star. Just for you.”

He took the seat beside her.

Mira watched them both quietly—then smiled into her dessert, saying nothing more.

But Beverly felt the weight of Picard’s presence beside her like a second gravity. And when his knee brushed hers beneath the table and didn’t move away, she didn’t stop it.

They were still pretending.

But less and less of it felt like a lie.

Chapter Text

The house was steeped in silence, the kind of deep stillness where even the wind through the balcony seemed muted and the air outside had cooled to a soft, salt-tinged breeze.

Beverly lay in the tangle of sheets, her cheek resting on his chest, listening to the faint, rhythmic thrum of his artificial heart. His arm was draped around her waist, his breathing steady, slow—utterly asleep. The subtle rise and fall of his body beneath her was a lullaby she hadn’t known she’d been missing all these years.

She should have been asleep too. But her mind kept drifting—to the remaining two days ahead, to the way his fingers had unconsciously traced circles against her side before sleep claimed him, to how different it would feel to wake up alone again when all this was over.

The chime was barely audible at first. Just a faint, rapid tone—someone triggering the door’s private alert instead of the household’s full system.

Beverly stirred, frowning, careful not to wake him.

“Beverly?” The voice was hushed over the intercom, but urgent, and unmistakable - Mira.

Jean-Luc shifted faintly, his arm tightening around her in reflex. She pressed a hand gently to his forearm, easing his hold until she could slip away.

“Yes?” she whispered back, into the darkness.

“Beverly, please… come to the doors. I’m waiting for you. Come alone. Quickly.”

She slipped from the bed, pulling her robe around her and padding barefoot to the door.

Mira was waiting just beyond the threshold, barefoot herself, her hair unbound, her radiant green eyes wide in the dim light. She grabbed Beverly’s hand immediately. “I’m sorry to wake you,” Mira whispered. “It’s Jolan. I think he’s sick.”

Beverly’s mind snapped instantly into physician mode. “What symptoms?” She asked, but turned quickly, noiselessly, in search for her medkit she had shelved close to the door.

“He’s pale. Sweating. His breathing… it doesn’t sound right.” Mira’s voice wavered, though she tried to mask it. Pulling her into the hallway, she brushed the doctor’s arm. “Please, come with me.”

“Why the secrecy? Why didn’t you call Aurelin as well? What about Jean-Luc?” Beverly inquired, already moving with her toward the family wing.

“Because—” Mira’s breath caught, and she shook her head. “Just… please. Don’t wake him. Not yet.”

They turned down a narrow corridor, the air cooler here, the stone floor cold underfoot. Beverly’s senses sharpened with each step—the faint, labored sound of a child breathing reaching her before they even entered the room.

Jolan lay curled on a low bed, sheets twisted around him, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes opened briefly at the sound of them, dazed and glassy, before sliding shut again.

Beverly was at his side in an instant, kneeling to check his pulse, his temperature, scanning the pale shade of his skin with a practiced eye. “How long has he been like this?” she asked quietly.

“Only a short while,” Mira whispered, wringing her hands. “He was fine at dinner. Then he said he felt tired, and…” She trailed off, swallowing hard.

Beverly’s fingers moved over the boy’s wrist, feeling the uneven beat of his heart. “He needs proper care,” she murmured. “Medical scans, at the very least.”

Mira hesitated, her jaw tightening. “We can’t. Not here. Not like that.”

Beverly looked up sharply. “What do you mean, we can’t?”

But Mira only shook her head, her expression unreadable. “Just help him. Please.”

And Beverly, despite the questions already forming in her mind, turned her full attention to the boy—because whatever else this was, Jolan didn’t have the luxury of waiting.

Beverly pressed the back of her hand to Jolan’s damp forehead, feeling the unnatural heat radiating from his skin. She gently tilted his head to check his airway—his breathing was shallow and irregular, with a faint wheeze on each exhale.

She glanced at Mira. “He’s febrile, and his oxygen saturation is probably lower than it should be. This isn’t just a cold or fatigue.”

Mira’s hands twisted in the folds of her night robe. “You can help him here, yes?”

“Not properly,” Beverly said, voice calm but firm. “I can try to treat symptoms for now, but I need at least a tricorder scan to determine the cause. It could be a respiratory infection, a systemic reaction… even something environmental.”

Jolan stirred, mumbling something incoherent. Beverly smoothed his hair back and kept her voice low, soothing. “Shh. You’re alright. Just rest.” Then she looked back to Mira. “Alright, I’ve seen enough. I can call the ship to beam him to my sickbay in minutes.”

Mira stiffened. “No. No sickbay. No beams. No… technology like that.”

Beverly blinked. “Mira, this isn’t the time for...”

“I said no,” Mira snapped, too quickly, too sharply. Then, softer, as though catching herself: “Please. I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not possible.”

Beverly sat back slightly, studying her. Mira’s face was pale in the dim lamplight, but her eyes were too bright, her jaw tense - not just with worry for her son.

“This isn’t just about Jolan, is it?” Beverly asked carefully.

Mira’s gaze flicked to the door, as if checking that no one else was listening. “I… can’t explain right now. Not here.”

“Mira...”

“Please,” she interrupted, voice urgent but hushed. “Just do what you can without… without crossing that line. I’m asking you between a mother and another mother. As someone who trusts you.”

Beverly hesitated. The part of her that was a doctor screamed for the full resources of her sickbay. The part of her that had learned diplomacy knew better than to push too hard without understanding the stakes.

She reached for her medkit, opening it quietly. “Alright. I’ll do what I can here. But if his vitals drop further, Mira… you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on.”

Mira nodded quickly, but her eyes betrayed something deeper—fear, yes, but also the look of someone guarding a secret at all costs.

Beverly began a quick in-room assessment, scanning with her tricorder’s biosensors and noting the irregularities: elevated white cell count, mild hypoxia, possible fluid in the lungs. It wasn’t enough for a full diagnosis—but it was enough to know this could turn serious, fast.

As she adjusted Jolan’s position to ease his breathing, she asked quietly, “Has he been exposed to anyone sick? Any new foods? Plants?”

Mira shook her head. “No. Nothing unusual.”

“Any allergies?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly.

Beverly’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Then what aren’t you telling me?”

Mira’s lips parted, but no words came.

Instead, she reached down, brushing her son’s hair back from his clammy forehead, and whispered something in her native tongue—a phrase that sounded halfway between a prayer and a promise.

Beverly didn’t understand the words. But the way Mira’s hands trembled told her the truth: whatever this was, it wasn’t just an illness.

And whatever was stopping Mira from allowing proper treatment… was bigger than Beverly had realized.

She worked in near silence, the soft beeps of her portable medkit the only intrusion on Jolan’s uneven breathing. He fought her at first—too restless, too hot with fever to stay still—until she murmured something low and steady, the same tone she’d used with Wesley when he was small and frightened.

Gradually, he stopped resisting, letting her slip a hypospray against his arm. The hiss was almost inaudible, but Mira flinched anyway.

“This will ease the fever and help him breathe,” Beverly said quietly.

“It’s not…” Mira’s voice caught. “It’s not dangerous?”

“Not for him,” Beverly replied, eyes locked on the readings. Not yet, she didn’t add. The medication would stabilize him, but it wasn’t a cure. Without proper diagnostics and targeted treatment, the underlying cause would only resurface.

The numbers on her scanner inched toward safer ranges, but Beverly’s chest remained tight. This was a patch, nothing more—and every instinct she had told her to drag the boy to sickbay, to fix what was wrong before it got worse.

She hated this.
Hated the feeling of holding back when she could do more.
Hated the awareness that ethics wasn’t always a clean line between right and wrong—sometimes it was a shifting shadow between what was possible and what was permitted.

Jolan’s eyes fluttered open. Still glassy, but clearer. He reached out blindly, his small hand clutching the fabric of Beverly’s sleeve.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

Her throat tightened. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She stayed there until his breathing evened, until the trembling eased and the fever’s heat subsided under her palm. Only then did she gently disentangle herself from his grasp, lowering his hand back to the blanket.

Mira was standing in the shadows, her relief tempered by something heavier.

“Thank you,” she said, voice trembling despite her control. Then, stepping closer: “Beverly… you can’t speak of this. Not to Aurelin, not to your captain. Not to anyone.”

Beverly frowned, the reluctance in her very being struggling to break free. “Try to cool his body with damp cloths. You’ve to watch his temperature. Whenever…” she wrung her hands, struggling with the words and the knowledge all this wouldn’t possibly help. “In the morning I call my colleague to…”

“I’m serious.” But Mira’s sharpness was back, cutting through her gratitude. “If anyone knows he was already treated—if anyone knows you intervene—it could destroy more than you realize. Please. Promise me.”

Beverly hesitated, every part of her medical training recoiling at the request. Keeping quiet meant risking his health in the long run. But refusing meant violating trust, jeopardizing the fragile negotiations still underway.

Her voice was low when she said, “Alright.”

Relief flickered in Mira’s eyes, but it didn’t hide the deeper fear behind them.

Beverly stepped into her space, drawing her into a brief but firm embrace. “You’re not alone in this. I’ll keep it to myself. As long as… possible.”

When she pulled back, Mira’s eyes were shining.

Beverly gave one last glance at the sleeping boy, then slipped from the room in silence, the weight of her promise heavy on her shoulders.

She intended to keep it. But she already knew she might regret it soon.

=/=

The stone floor was cold under Beverly’s bare feet as she slipped silently through the darkened hallway. She eased the door shut behind her, letting her eyes adjust before moving toward the bed.

Jean-Luc was awake.

Not moving, not speaking, just watching her from the pillow, his expression unreadable in the dim spill of starlight from the balcony.

“You were gone,” he said finally, voice low.

She silently dropped the medkit to the floor, pulled her robe tighter, then loosened it again as though the motion might buy her time. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

His gaze followed her as she rounded the bed and slid beneath the covers. The warmth of his body was instant, familiar—and tonight, it felt almost accusatory.

“Something happened,” he said, more statement than question.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

A faint crease formed between his brows. “Beverly, you’ve never been good at lying to me.”

She gave a small, humorless laugh. “And you’ve never been good at letting something go.”

He reached for her hand beneath the sheets, lacing his fingers with hers. “If it involves you, I won’t let it go. Tell me.”

Her chest tightened at the weight of his concern. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Not yet?” His thumb brushed against her knuckles. “That implies you will. Which means it is something.”

She looked away, toward the balcony’s shadowed frame. “I need you to trust me on this. Please.”

Silence settled, heavy but not empty. Finally, he said quietly, “Trust has never been the issue.”

The way he said it—gently, without accusation—landed harder than any reproach. Her throat felt tight. “Then believe me when I say I’m doing the right thing. Even if I can’t explain it.”

“I believe you think it’s right,” he said, his voice carefully even.

That stung. She turned back to him. “Do you think I’d keep something from you lightly?”

His eyes searched hers, steady and unblinking. “No. But I think it costs you to keep it. And I wish you didn’t have to.”

She swallowed hard, unable to answer.

He pulled her closer, his arm sliding around her back, holding her with a steadiness that was almost protective. “When you can tell me…”

“I will,” she promised, though the words felt fragile in her mouth. The warm proximity of him should have soothed her, but all she could think of was the faint, fevered flutter of Jolan’s pulse beneath her fingers.

Her promise to Mira lay between them like a second body in the bed—silent, unmovable, and far heavier than she wanted to admit.

Jean-Luc said nothing more, but she could feel his awareness in the dark, the way he was still thinking. Waiting.

And she knew he’d carry that question into the morning.

=/=

The scent of spiced grain bread and brewed c’vith filled the air, mingling with the distant hum of conversation from the household staff. The large, sunlit kitchen was alive with motion—servants moving quickly but quietly, trays being prepared, Aurelin standing at the long marble counter reviewing a datapadd as if the organized chaos around him didn’t exist.

Jean-Luc was already there, cup in hand, posture relaxed but precise. “You’ll be gone the full day?” he asked.

Aurelin gave a small nod. “The review will take most of the afternoon. The ministries are… thorough in these matters.”

“I understand,” Picard said. Then, after a beat: “I’ve been hearing murmurs of discontent from one of the smaller guilds involved in the trade agreement. I’d like to know if there’s substance to it before we finalize.”

Aurelin’s mouth twitched in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah. Captain, you have the instincts of a statesman. Yes, there is friction—but it is manageable. And it will be addressed in today’s session. We will meet right after, I’m eager to get those contracts finished and done.”

Jean-Luc studied him for a moment, then inclined his head in acceptance. “Very well. I’m looking forward to it. What about your wife?”

“She is with Jolan,” Aurelin said, setting the padd aside. “He had a rough night.”

From the archway, Beverly froze mid-step.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Picard said. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

Aurelin shook his head, his tone casual. “It happens. Children are resilient.”

Beverly stepped into the room, schooling her expression. “Rough night how?” she asked, moving toward the table as though it were idle conversation.

Aurelin glanced at her, as if only now realizing she’d been listening. “A fever, I believe. He’s sleeping now.”

“Was he seen by anyone?” she asked lightly, pouring herself tea.

“No.” Aurelin returned to his datapadd. “It is not customary here to bother a doctor for such matters.”

Beverly kept her tone neutral. “Bother? With children?”

“Especially with children,” Aurelin corrected, finally meeting her troubled eyes. “We believe in allowing nature to decide such things. It is why our families remain large—when life claims one, another will follow.”

There was no cruelty in his voice. No shame, either. Simply a statement of fact, as if reciting a weather pattern.

Jean-Luc set his cup down, the faintest furrow between his brows, but he began to wonder what exactly had happened last night. And if… there could be a problem straight ahead despite all those common grounds and familiarity they’d felt over the days.

Beverly forced her own features to remain calm, but her grip on the teacup tightened. “And this is a… universal belief on Skinoa?”

“It is a main tradition,” Aurelin said simply. “Older than our written history. And it has preserved us as a people.”

She swallowed her rising instinct and flaring temper to challenge him and his tradition, all so slowly letting her eyes drop to her cup for Jean-Luc’s sake only. “I see.”

But she didn’t. Not really.

And across the table, Jean-Luc Picard’s gaze lingered on her—sharp, assessing—because something in her tone told him there was so much more behind her question than she’d said.

=/=

Aurelin’s footsteps faded down the corridor, the quiet in his wake far heavier than the morning bustle had been.

Jean-Luc didn’t move from where he stood, one hand resting on the counter, the other still loosely around his coffee cup. His eyes locked on Beverly - sharp, searching.

“Last night,” he began, his voice low but edged with steel, “your absence… I take it, that was about Jolan?”

Beverly paused mid-step toward the cleaner, inwardly groaning. “Jean-Luc...”

“Answer me.”

She turned, spine straight. “I can’t.”

His brows drew together. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Don’t,” she said quickly, almost pleading. “It’s hard enough.”

His temper flared—not loud, but present in the sudden stillness between them. “Hard enough for you? Do you think it’s easy for me, watching you disappear into the night and then come back pretending nothing happened?” And witness you fighting your inner demons so obviously it’s barely possible to order you to tell me everything?

“I’m not pretending.” She snapped, her ire getting the upper hand.

“Yes, you are,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You’re holding something behind your back and telling me to trust that it’s for the best. But this isn’t about trust, Beverly. This is about knowing you. Knowing that if a child is ill, you don’t wait. You don’t look away. You act.”

“I did act,” she said, her voice tightening with the strange sensation, that this time it wasn’t only their friendship she risked by challenging his pretty much justified inquiry.

“Then tell me how.”

“I can’t,” she said again, but this time it carried an edge of defiance and despair.

His eyes narrowed. “Is it Mira? Did she tell you to keep me out of it?”

“Jean-Luc…”

“Because if she did, I’m telling you now…”

“Stop!” she rebuked; her voice louder than she meant it to be. The sound seemed to hang in the air, startling even herself. “You don’t get to do this right now. Not when I’m trying to figure out where we fit in all of this.”

He stared at her, breathing slow but deep. “Where we fit?” Picard almost blanched.

“Yes.” Her hands flexed at her sides. “We’ve barely started figuring out what we are to each other. And here we are, already at odds over how to navigate our duties and… and whatever this is between us. You’re the captain. I’m the doctor. But I’m also me, Jean-Luc. And sometimes you have to let me choose when to tell you things.”

His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “And you have to understand what it feels like to be kept in the dark by the one person I would risk anything for.”

Her breath caught at the rawness in his tone. She wanted to reach for him, to close the space between them—but the weight of her promise to Mira held her still.

“I hate this,” she said finally, truly serious, her heart thumping high in her ears.

“I do too.”

They stood there, neither willing to yield, the distance between them feeling both inches and miles.

Then a voice broke the tension. “Good morning.”

Mira stepped into the kitchen, her robe belted loosely, her expression mild but her eyes taking in far more than she showed.

Beverly was the first to turn. “How’s Jolan?”

“Resting,” Mira said smoothly. “Better than last night.”

Jean-Luc didn’t take his eyes off Beverly even as he greeted Mira, and Beverly knew exactly what that meant—this wasn’t over. For good or bad.

His intent gaze lingered at her for a moment longer, his jaw tight, before he gave the faintest nod to Mira. He was surrendering to her plea, and she knew it. But there was no victory in that.

“I’ll leave you both to your morning,” he said, voice controlled but far too clipped to be casual.

Beverly wanted to reach for him—to soften the way he walked away—but the promise she’d made to Mira held her back. She watched his back disappear through the archway, the silence after him stretching taut.

Mira stepped closer, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes following the door as if to be sure he was gone. “That was close,” she murmured.

Beverly turned on her, the boiling frustration in her chest spilling into her voice. “Close? Mira, you have no idea what it costs me to hide something from him. It’s not what we do. Not with each other. And the longer I keep this, the more it’s going to eat at both of us.”

Mira’s face shifted—guilt, fear, defiance all passing in quick succession. “I know. And I wouldn’t ask it of you if it weren’t for...”

“Life or death,” Beverly finished. “I can see that much without you saying it.”

Mira’s ever poised composure cracked. She turned away, briefly squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m afraid,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m afraid he won’t survive this.”

The words hit Beverly like a punch in the gut. “Then why…”

“Because I know and live to those traditions,” Mira cut in, her voice sharp now, almost furious. “I know what they expect of me. Of us. But when it’s your own child… traditions mean nothing. I don’t care what my people say. I don’t care if they call me a coward or worse.”

Beverly’s heart was already breaking, the image of Jolan’s small, fevered hand clutching hers replaying in her mind. “Then let me help him properly. Let me bring him to my sickbay. I can…”

“You can’t,” Mira interrupted, spinning back to face her. “If Aurelin finds out, if anyone does, it won’t just be my son they take from me—it will be me. I’ll lose him even if he lives.”

The truth of it hung in the air like a blade.

Beverly pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to argue. “And you’re willing to take that risk by letting me treat him here?”

Mira’s eyes filled with tears, and she gave a small, desperate laugh. “I’m willing to take any risk that doesn’t put him in their hands. If that makes me a traitor to my traditions, so be it. I just want him to live.”

Beverly closed the space between them and gripped Mira’s shoulders. “I want that too. But this… hiding, patching him up without knowing the cause—it’s gambling with his life.”

“I know!” Mira’s voice broke, the tears finally spilling. “But it’s all I can do. And I’m begging you to help me do it. Please, Beverly. I can’t do this alone.”

Crusher’s throat ached, her own tears burning at the edges. “You’re not alone. I’m here. But God, Mira… this won’t get easy.”

Mira swallowed, her breathing ragged, and in the next heartbeat Beverly pulled her into a fierce embrace. Neither spoke for a long moment, the silence broken only by the sound of the bustling wildlife outside.

When they finally parted, Beverly’s hands lingered at Mira’s arms. “Then we fight for him together. Quietly. But no matter what happens, you have to tell me the moment he worsens.”

Mira nodded, but the look in her eyes said she was already bracing for the worst.

And Beverly, heart heavy, realized she was too.

=/=

“…no, not viral,” Beverly was saying, her voice low but intent. She stood before the small screen, one hand resting on the desk in their shared room as Selar’s composed Vulcan face regarded her from the screen.

“I see,” Selar replied. “You are describing a progression consistent with several possibilities—bronchial constriction secondary to immune suppression, possibly environmental exposure. Without direct scans—”

“I know,” Beverly cut in, a little too quickly. “That’s the problem.”

Selar’s brow lifted a fraction. “Then your course of action is limited to supportive measures. Unless—”

“Selar, I can’t,” Beverly said, her tone final but heavy. “Not yet. I just… needed to hear your thoughts.”

Selar inclined her head. “Then I advise close monitoring. And caution.”

“Always,” Beverly murmured, reaching for the control to close the channel.

The screen went dark just as the soft sound of footsteps approached. Beverly turned to see Mira in the doorway, her face brighter than it had been all morning.

“He’s better,” Mira said, hope breaking through her voice. “The fever’s down, he’s eating.”

Beverly stood, smoothing her hair back. “That’s good to hear.”

Mira’s smile was quick, almost shy. “Come see.”

They crossed the quiet halls together, the muffled sounds of the busy house a distant backdrop. In Jolan’s room, the boy was propped up against his pillows, a small bowl on the low table beside him. His eyes lit faintly when he saw Beverly, though his movements were still slow.

“You’re looking stronger,” she said warmly, coming to sit on the edge of the bed.

He didn’t smile. Instead, he looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Beverly frowned slightly. “Sorry? For what?”

“For being weak,” he said, his voice trembling. “For… for maybe making you not want to marry me anymore.”

The words caught her off guard. For a heartbeat, she just looked at him—this small boy, trying to measure his worth by how healthy and strong he could be.

“Oh, Jolan,” she said softly, leaning closer. “Being ill doesn’t make you weak. And it certainly doesn’t make me like you any less. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it,” she promised, managing a smile that she hoped would ease the fear in his eyes.

As they spoke, she let her hand rest lightly over his, feeling the faint irregularity in his pulse. She scanned his breathing without drawing attention—slightly shallow still, though less labored than the night before. The fever’s flush was gone, but there was a fragility in the way he sat that told her nothing had truly improved beneath the surface.

Her heart twisted. Every instinct screamed to tell Mira, to do more, to break every Skinoan law if it meant saving him. But she could feel Mira’s watchful presence behind her—protective, hopeful, desperate to believe her son was on the mend.

So Beverly just brushed a strand of hair back from Jolan’s forehead and said, “Now, I think you’ve got a little more recovering to do before we worry about anything else. How about you finish that soup?”

Jolan nodded, some of the tension in his small shoulders easing.

Beverly lingered a moment longer beside Jolan’s bed, chatting lightly about the view from his window and the ships she’d seen in orbit the day before. Mira was by the closet now, rummaging through it to retrieve a new tray of cloths.

Beverly’s hasty gaze flicked to the door, which was still closed.

Then she lowered her voice. “Jolan,” she murmured, “I need to do something for you. It won’t hurt much, but it’s important.”

He frowned. “Important for what?”

“To help me understand how to make you better.”

From her medkit, she retrieved the smallest sterile sampler she carried, palming it to hide its gleam from anyone at the door. She rolled back his sleeve gently. “Just a tiny bit of blood and skin cells. I’ll be quick.”

He looked at her warily as the device gave a soft hiss and a faint prick at his arm.

“All done,” she said softly, slipping the sealed micro-cartridge into the hidden compartment of her kit.

He rubbed at the spot, still frowning. “Why can’t you tell my mother?”

Beverly crouched so her eyes were level with his. “Because she’s afraid. And because this is something between you and me. Just for now.”

“You mean… a secret?”

She hesitated. She hated the word in this context, but there was no better way to explain it to him. “Yes. But it’s not because we’re doing anything bad—it’s because I want to make sure you get better without anyone stopping me.”

Jolan studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll keep it.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, smoothing his sleeve back down.

In the doorway, Mira turned back toward them, smiling faintly as if nothing were amiss.

Beverly returned the smile, but her heart was pounding—not from fear of being caught, but from the quiet thrill of knowing she’d just taken the first step toward the truth of what was wrong with him. And another step in risking her new gained and long desired closeness with Jean-Luc.

But she would not let any stupid tradition or Prime directive dictate Jolan’s future.

*

From the shaded terrace, Picard watched her cross the far side of the garden—head down, steps brisk, slipping into one of the lesser-used corridors that led toward the family wing.

He didn’t follow. Not yet.

This wasn’t the first time today.
A conversation left mid-sentence. A sudden errand she “needed to attend to.” Returning minutes later with that subtle change in her expression—the softened eyes, the slight catch in her breath—as if she were forcing her mind back into the moment with him.

She’d hidden things from him before, over the years.
Never for herself. Always for someone else.
For her patients. For a friend. For a cause she’d decided mattered more than his right to know.

It was one of the things that infuriated him most about her. And one of the things he respected most.

But this time was different.

He knew exactly when he’d seen the truth. This morning, in the kitchen, when Mira had walked in—Beverly’s expression, quick and unguarded, had told him everything he needed to know. She was carrying something for Mira. Something about Jolan.

And if it involved a child’s health… Beverly would never stand aside.
Even if it meant placing herself—or both of them—at risk.

He set his cup down, jaw tightening as he stared at the corridor she’d disappeared into.

The Skinoan traditions were rigid. He didn’t know the details, but Aurelin’s casual explanation this morning had been enough to unsettle him. Enough to make him realize what Beverly might be trying to circumvent.

He feared she didn’t fully grasp how dangerous it could be if she was caught. Not just for her standing as a physician—but for the fragile trust they’d built here, and the fragile relationship they were only beginning to navigate.

And yet, he knew her. He could no more stop her than he could stop the tide. By the gods and ancient tales of Skinoa, he loved her too much to try. So, he would wait. More or less patiently. And be ready when whatever she was hiding inevitably came to light.

And he had no doubt - it would.

=/=

The transporter beam dissolved around her, and Beverly stepped down from the pad with the smallest of nods to the operator. She’d timed it for one of the quieter shifts, minimizing the chances of running into anyone who might ask questions.

The medkit at her side felt heavier than usual. Inside, in a sealed compartment, the micro-cartridge of blood and tissue waited—her one chance to get answers before Jolan’s condition slipped beyond her reach.

She took the long route to Sickbay, slipping through side corridors until the familiar scent of sterile air and the faint hum of diagnostic panels greeted her.

Her own Number One was already there, standing at the central station. Beverly didn’t waste a moment—she pulled the cartridge from her kit, holding it low between them.

“Run a full workup,” she said quietly. “Cross-reference for environmental toxins, immune suppression markers, and anything consistent with prolonged respiratory compromise.”

Selar’s dark eyes flicked to the sample, then to Beverly. “This is not a standard crew health matter.”

“No,” Beverly admitted. “And it’s not to leave this room. Not yet.”

Selar inclined her head once, the Vulcan equivalent of a solemn oath. Without further comment, she took the cartridge and moved to the nearest isolation scanner.

Beverly leaned in slightly. “When you have results—contact me directly. No logs, no back-up until I approve.”

Her colleague’s answer was a simple, “Understood.” They exchanged no more words. The silence between them was deliberate—shielding, protective. A trust they had built over years working with each other. And then, the sound of the Sickbay doors sliding open cut through it like a blade.

Philippa Louvois stepped inside. Auburn hair perfectly in place, eyes sharp and glittering with a mixture Beverly knew instantly: rivalry, old hurt, and the satisfaction of catching someone exactly where they shouldn’t be.

“Well, well,” Louvois said, her tone laced with false sweetness. “The lovely Doctor Crusher. Imagine my surprise to find you here. I was under the impression you were… indisposed planetside with our esteemed captain.”

Beverly straightened slowly, the use of her name tinging at her already thumping heart and her spine instinctively stiffening under the woman’s scrutinizing gaze. “I had business to attend to.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Louvois purred, letting her eyes sweep over Beverly’s contours with calculated precision. “Funny, though… the sort of business that requires disappearing without telling anyone. I’d think the captain might take that personally. Not to mention what Starfleet might say if they knew their Chief Medical Officer was sneaking off without clearance.”

Beverly’s voice stayed level. “If you have a concern, Philippa, you can take it to me directly.”

“I will,” Philippa murmured, stepping just close enough for her voice to drop. “Everyone has a weak spot, Doctor. And I’m very good at finding them.”

They locked eyes—two women standing in a silent, unspoken battlefield.

Louvois’ eyes glinted. “And don’t think I’m not straightforward. This is more than direct. You see, I’ve known Jean-Luc longer than you think you have—in ways you certainly haven’t. I know how he reacts when those close to him make… questionable choices. Professionally, or personally. And right now, Beverly, you’re risking both.”

Beverly felt the barb land, but she kept her hands steady at her sides, forcing the blush her rising ire caused, quickly down.

Philippa took another half-step forward, close enough that Beverly could see the fine tension in her jaw. “Be careful. Because if you lose his confidence as CMO… and as a woman? Well, I’d be right here to… pick up the pieces.”

Every retort Beverly wanted to throw back burned on her tongue. A tart remark would have been so easy—so satisfying. But she thought of Jolan. Of Mira. Of the risk if Louvois started digging and found anything. And she thought of Jean-Luc, walking into yet another political minefield because of her temper.

So, she swallowed it and simply said, “If that’s all, Commander, I have work to do.”

Louvois smiled like a cat who’d scented blood. “Yes, for now.” She turned on her heel and walked out, the Sickbay doors hissing shut behind her.

Only then did Beverly let out the breath she’d been holding, the tension in her shoulders easing fractionally. She turned back to Selar, her voice steady again. “Let me know the moment you have results.”

Selar inclined her head. “Of course, Doctor.”

And Beverly headed back to the transporter room, knowing Louvois would be waiting for her next move - both in Sickbay and in Jean-Luc’s life.

Chapter Text

The late morning light spilled across the pale stone, the breeze carrying the mingled scent of salt and flowering vines. Picard crossed the courtyard with his mind on the council ahead—and the conversation he needed to have with Aurelin.

But thoughts of Beverly kept threading through: her nightly absence, the exchanged looks between both women, the way she’d left the surface this morning without a word.

“Cappain!”

He turned.

Caty was toddling toward him, a small blur of pale-blonde hair and bright eyes. Two older sisters followed, watchful but allowing her to run her short-legged path across the flagstones.

Picard crouched slightly as she reached him, her little hand catching his fingers. “Good morning, Caty.”

She grinned, the simple joy of recognition lighting her face. “Dooley with Jolan.”

Picard tilted his head. “Was she?”

Caty nodded earnestly. “Jolan likes Dooley much. I love Dooley too.”

Her tone was matter-of-fact, but the slight downturn of her mouth afterward made him ask, “You miss her?”

The girl gave a solemn nod. “Dooley makes all things nice and pretty.”

The words were simple, but they landed in his chest with unexpected weight. Behind them, one of her sisters called, “Caty, come on—we have to stay in the yard.”

She gave his hand one last pat, then turned and trotted back toward her sisters, already chattering about something else.

Picard watched her go, that small exchange looping in his thoughts as he resumed his walk toward the council chambers.

If even Caty knew Beverly had been with Jolan… then so did Mira. And that meant whatever Beverly was keeping from him was still happening—quietly, intentionally, and in a place where he should better not follow.

* 

The council chamber was a wide, circular room open to the sea breeze, sunlight pooling across the polished stone floor. A long, low table curved around the center dais, where Aurelin stood in quiet conversation with two elders.

Picard’s boots clicked softly on the stone as he entered, and Aurelin turned, his diplomatic smile already in place.

“Captain Picard, Jean-Luc.” he said warmly. “I trust your night was intriguing and your morning … restful?”

Picard returned the smile with practiced ease, while trying not to bother thinking about this weird statement too long. “Restful enough. Though I did have the pleasure of meeting some of your daughters in the courtyard.”

Aurelin’s expression softened for a moment, the politician’s mask thinning. “Ah. I guess you’re referring to Caty.”

“She mentioned Beverly was with Jolan,” Picard said evenly, watching for the smallest flicker in Aurelin’s reaction.

It came—a faint pause before Aurelin inclined his head. “I know my son enjoys her company a little too much. Maybe he’s already a little infatuated... or simply bound by her magnificent spell. Please don’t hesitate to tell him or me if you’re bothered by it. But I guess, she just has a way with children.”

“Yes,” Picard agreed, his tone mild. “She does. And no, I’m definitely not bothered by it.”

The silence between them was brief but weighted before Aurelin gestured toward the semicircle of council members who were settling into their seats. “Shall we begin? The final provisions await our signatures.”

Picard followed him to the dais, the sea breeze lifting the edges of the ceremonial banners overhead. The meeting unfolded with the measured rhythm of seasoned negotiators—deliberations on shipping routes, trade tariffs, and diplomatic courtesies.

He contributed where needed, but his mind kept circling back to the image of Caty in the courtyard, her small hand gripping his, her bright voice saying Dooley with Jolan.

And when Aurelin spoke of long-standing traditions and the resilience of Skinoan families, Picard found himself wondering which of those traditions might be closing around Beverly like a net.

By the time the council adjourned for the midday recess, he had decided that as soon as the day’s formalities were over, he would find her.

And this time, he would not let her sidestep him.

*

The council chamber had emptied into its recess with the quiet murmur of diplomats trading pleasantries over trays of fruit and pale, fragrant wine. Outside the arched colonnade, the sea gleamed hard and bright under the midday sun, waves striking the black stone cliffs with slow, deliberate force.

Picard found Aurelin apart from the others, standing at one of the wide pillars, the light catching in the deep folds of his ceremonial sash. He held a crystal glass as though it were part of the role itself.

“Productive morning,” Picard said as he approached, tone warm, unthreatening.

Aurelin’s eyes crinkled faintly in acknowledgment. “The council admires your… precision, Captain. Your attention to nuance is a rare skill in outsiders.”

“Nuance is where trust begins,” Picard returned, letting the compliment settle before adding, with deliberate ease, “Your traditions are remarkable. The Federation often prides itself on progress, but there is a strength in constancy.”

Aurelin’s expression warmed slightly. “Tradition has kept our people whole, even in adversity.”

“And that extends to… matters of family?” Picard asked, careful, almost idly.

Aurelin nodded. “To all matters.”

Picard took a measured sip of the local wine. “Including health?”

The faintest pause—gone in an instant—before Aurelin answered. “Yes. Particularly with our young. We do not interfere with nature’s balance.”

Picard tilted his head. “Even when a child is gravely ill?”

“It is not our way to intervene. To do so would alter the natural course.” Aurelin’s tone was calm, but beneath it lay the unyielding certainty of doctrine.

“I see,” Picard murmured, as if only mildly curious. But the shift was there—Aurelin’s gaze sharpening, his posture tightening by a hair’s breadth. Suspicion.

Picard let the silence linger just long enough to feel the edge of it before he changed the subject, offering a diplomatic comment on the morning’s agreements. Aurelin responded smoothly, but the moment of stillness between them had already taken root.

When Aurelin turned to greet another council member, Picard remained where he was, the wine already warm in his hand.

If Jolan were sick—and Aurelin did not know or reject any help—these “traditions” would seal the boy’s fate before anyone could lift a hand to stop it. Beverly, knowing that, would act anyway. She would risk herself, her position, perhaps even the negotiations.

And if it were his own child?
He would break any tradition that dared to stand in the way.

The thought came swift and unguarded, startling him less for its content than for the sharp ache it stirred—an ache he’d spent most of his life avoiding. He had never let himself linger on what it would mean to have a child. Not truly. Not until now.

And when he did—when that image formed—it was Beverly’s face beside his own.

The weight of that realization stayed with him as he turned from the sea, its steady roar suddenly feeling far too much like the sound of time running out.

=/=

The lights in Philippa Louvois’ quarters were dimmed to a warm glow, the hum of the computer the only sound as she sat at her desk, a glass of dark wine within reach.

On the display before her scrolled the crisp, impersonal lines of a Starfleet personnel file. Beverly Cheryl Crusher.

She had already read it twice.
Heritage: Scotland, Earth. Parents: deceased—victims of the Arvada III disaster when she was just three years old. Raised thereafter on Caldos Colony by her maternal grandmother, Felisa Howard.

Philippa’s eyes lingered on the stark phrasing. Tragedy early, stability restored by a grandmother’s hand. It explained part of the woman’s steel—part of the warmth she wore like armor.

Education: Starfleet Medical Academy, honors graduate.
Marriage: Jack Robert Crusher.

Widowed: 2358, USS Stargazer — Captain Jean-Luc Picard commanding.

Louvois took a slow sip of wine, tasting the bitterness that line always brought.

Child: Wesley Robert Crusher. Current status - unknown.

She skimmed the service history—flawless. Honors from Starfleet Medical Academy. Commendations for humanitarian relief, frontier medicine, and crisis command. Research credits, promotions, service under multiple flag officers.

It was infuriating.

But what the file did not tell her was what she wanted most to know: the explicit nature of Beverly Howard married and widowed Crusher’s relationship with Jean-Luc Picard. Obviously, this woman had even dumped her once-in-a-lifetime chance and post as Head of Medical just to run back to him.

Officially, there was nothing here to explain the strange, yet intense connection she’d seen between Crusher and Picard. Nothing to tarnish the spotless image.

She could read between the lines well enough—that Beverly had served as CMO under him for years, a trusted presence on his bridge, in his life and she was more than sure, he’d erased and whitewashed all those errors and missteps even she must have made over all those years. But the official logs gave her absolutely nothing. No personal exchanges. No late-night conversations. No moments that would confirm the suspicion that had been gnawing at her ever since she saw them together in the observation lounge.

Philippa leaned back in her chair, tapping the rim of her glass against her lip.

Damn her. Perfect record. Impeccable reputation. And still… she had him.

Louvois’ frustration rose, sharp and sour. She sought a blemish. A weakness she could point to. Something that would shift the balance of power in her favor—professionally, personally. She wanted to see Beverly fall from that careful, polished height.

Instead, all she found was a woman Starfleet would defend to the last breath.

No damn flaw. Not even a crack in the careful, unnervingly beautiful facade. Nor something Philippa could sink her teeth into—or just something to wound Beverly Crusher professionally, to reclaim the man she’d lost to her decades ago.

The thought made her jaw tighten.

She took another slow sip of wine, her eyes narrowing at the blank spaces between the lines of the file.

If the records didn’t hold what she wanted, she would find it elsewhere.

And Philippa Louvois was very, very good at finding what she wanted.

The moment she emptied her glass, rolling the taste of the remaining drop on her tongue, a new thought struck her.

Earlier that day, when she had stepped into Sickbay and caught Crusher and Selar standing together, their conversation hushed, posture subtly shielding something between them, she’d instantly known, that there was something going on. A case—small, sealed, and quickly tucked away right when Louvois entered.

Her fingers tapped against the desk.

If Beverly was playing at secrecy, Sickbay would be where the trail began.

Louvois keyed in a different access code—one not entirely hers to use—and the terminal shifted to a restricted subdirectory. Medical files. Protected. Heavily flagged for privacy protocols.

Her lips curved slightly as she began to navigate them, skirting the obvious entries and delving deeper into the labyrinth of encrypted logs.

Whatever Beverly Crusher was hiding, Philippa intended to find it.

The terminal’s display flickered as it processed her latest query. Louvois leaned in, her eyes narrowing as the progress bar crept forward.

=/=

The transporter’s glow faded, leaving Beverly on the familiar flagstones of the garden path. Warm sunlight and the now familiar scent of the Skinoan sea should have been comforting, but her pulse was still pounding from the quiet urgency of Sickbay. Selar had the sample now—hidden, processing. The results would come, and with them, the truth.

She stepped forward, shoulders squared, medkit hanging at her side like any other day. But every nerve felt raw. The air seemed too bright, the distant voices of the household too loud. She kept her expression composed as she crossed toward the main hall, forcing her breathing into something even.

Jean-Luc was there. Waiting.

He stood beneath the shade of the colonnade, hands clasped behind his back, looking out toward the sea. He turned when he heard her footsteps, and the subtle shift in his expression—relief, suspicion, something else—hit her like a physical blow.

“You’ve been gone,” he said. No accusation in his tone, but the weight of the words settled between them.

“I had… something to check on.” She hated how her voice caught, hated the flicker of hesitation she couldn’t quite hide.

His eyes searched hers, the way they always did when he was looking for the truth she wasn’t ready to give. “Beverly…”

“Jean-Luc, not now,” she cut in softly, almost pleading. “Please.”

For a moment neither moved. The sunlight slanted between them, warm on her skin but cold in the pit of her stomach. She knew he could feel the distance she was holding, the wall she was forcing between them to keep him clear of this.

He stepped closer, his voice low. “You’re risking something. And you don’t see how much it could cost us.”

Her throat tightened. No, I see it. I see it every time I look at you. But aloud she said, “I need you to trust me. Just for a little longer.”

He held her gaze for a long, painful moment. She could see it—the part of him that wanted to demand answers now, and the part that loved her enough to step back.

Finally, he nodded once. “For now.”

It was all she could ask.

She moved past him toward the house, every step feeling heavier than the last. Behind her, she could feel his eyes following her—not with anger, but with the quiet ache of someone who knows he’s being shut out.

Beverly’s stomach twisted. She had to keep moving. She had to save Jolan.

No matter the cost.

She was halfway past him before her steps finally faltered.
The tight knot in her chest ached at the thought of walking away like this—another day, another half-truth.

“Jean-Luc,” she said softly.

He turned toward her, guarded still, and before he could speak she reached for him—one hand at his collar, the other curling at the back of his neck. The kiss was slow but unhesitating, a deliberate breaking of the tension that had been building between them since last night.

It wasn’t passion meant to erase the problem—it was the anchor she could give him, the silent plea for patience she couldn’t put into words.

When they broke apart, his eyes searched hers with a different kind of question now—one laced with tenderness, but still shadowed by worry.

“Better?” she asked, a faint smile at the corner of her lips.

His voice was quieter than she expected. “Always.”

She slipped her hand into his then, fingers threading with his as if that simple contact could steady them both. They walked together toward the stone bench beneath the ivy, the noise of the household just a hum in the distance.

“How’s the council progressing?” she asked.

He exhaled slowly. “We’re close. Aurelin’s council is agreeable, but… there are still undercurrents. Traditions. You can feel them in every clause. I wasn’t aware there were that much.”

Beverly nodded, squeezing his hand. “He’ll sign. You’re good at reading the water before the tide changes.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said, glancing sidelong at her. “Two more days, and we can leave all this behind.”

For a moment, they simply sat there, palms warm against each other, the sun falling soft across the courtyard. It wasn’t enough to erase the strain—they both knew that—but it was a pause, a breath, a fragile piece of peace between the storms.

Neither of them knew that far above, on the Enterprise, Philippa Louvois was sifting through encrypted medical files with a hunter’s patience, looking for exactly the kind of storm that would break them apart.

They sat in silence for a long moment, the gentle brush of her thumb over his knuckles saying more than either of them could manage out loud. The courtyard felt almost private here, the sea breeze soft, the light warm on their faces.

Then Jean-Luc’s voice cut through the quiet—low, certain. “I’m with you, Beverly.”

She looked at him, startled. “With me?”

He nodded, holding her gaze. “Speaking with Aurelin today… hearing him talk about those traditions… it’s made me aware of certain upcoming or already existing problems.” His tone sharpened briefly on the words. “I don’t know what you’re dealing with yet, but I do know you. And whatever it is—you have my support.”

Something in her chest tightened—not from guilt, but from the almost unbearable relief of not having to hold all of it alone this time.

“Jean-Luc…” she began, but the words wouldn’t form. Instead, she leaned toward him, catching his mouth in a kiss that was softer than before, but longer—one that lingered until the sounds of the house and the sea faded to nothing around them.

She shifted instinctively closer, one hand sliding to the back of his neck, drawing him in. The first kiss had been soft, almost tentative, as though testing the space between them. Then his arms came around her, anchoring her against him, and she melted into the quiet certainty of him.

The sun was warm on their skin, the scent of salt air mingling with something faintly green from the gardens. So, she kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger—letting it say all the things she wasn’t yet ready to speak aloud.

When they finally broke apart, they stayed close, their foreheads touching, her fingers tracing the faint lines at the corner of his eyes. “You always know exactly when I need you,” she whispered.

He gave a small, almost self-deprecating smile. “And you know I’m useless at staying out of things that matter to you.”

Her heart ached at the truth of it. She kissed him once more, a persistent press of lips that deepened when his hand cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek as if memorizing it.

For those minutes, the world outside their small sunlit corner didn’t exist. No negotiations. No dangerous traditions. No silent lies between them—only the warm weight of his hands and the steady truth in his trustful eyes.

Finally, she whispered, “If I ask you to come with me—if I ask you to promise to keep it to yourself—would you?”

His answer was immediate. “Yes.”

She drew back just enough to meet his eyes. “Then… come with me. I want you to see Jolan.”

He gave a single, steady nod. “Lead the way.”

And together they rose, fingers still entwined, walking toward a door she had kept closed to him until now.

=/=

Beverly led him through the quieter wing of the house, her pace measured, her hand still locked in his. She didn’t speak, and he didn’t press her. The air here felt different—quieter, as if the very walls had learned to keep secrets.

She paused at a carved wooden door and glanced at him. It wasn’t a request for permission. It was a silent trust me.

Inside, the light was dimmer, softened by gauzy curtains that stirred with the sea breeze. Jolan sat propped against pillows, a blanket tucked up under his chin. The boy’s hair was dark and tousled, his eyes bright but shadowed by fatigue. The boy’s expression shifted when he saw Beverly’s husband walk in. “Captain,” he said, voice small but clear.

Jean-Luc stepped closer, keeping his tone gentle. “Jolan.”

The boy’s gaze flicked to Beverly, then back to him, lingering with a hint of something sharp beneath the fatigue. “She’s talking about you.”

Beverly gave a faint smile. “I talk about both of you.”

Jolan’s lips pressed together. “And she’s with you a lot. Probably kissing you again.” It wasn’t a complaint exactly—but there was an edge there, the unguarded jealousy of a child who didn’t want to share someone he loved.

Jean-Luc crouched beside the bed so they were eye to eye. “I’m hers,” he said carefully. “But I’m sure she’s yours, too.”

That seemed to soften the boy’s gaze, though his grip on the blanket didn’t ease. Beverly moved closer, checking the covers, her hands deft but tender. Jean-Luc caught the subtle signs—the paleness under the boy’s skin, the shallow breath, the stillness born not of calm but of conserving strength.

It hit him harder than he’d expected. The conversation with Aurelin earlier echoed in his mind—Nature selects the strong—and his jaw tightened. If this were his own child, he would never accept doing nothing. Never accept standing aside and simply let the issue drop.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, unsettling and raw.

Jolan’s voice broke the moment. “Beverly says you love books.”

Jean-Luc smiled faintly. “That’s true. Perhaps we could read something together—when you’re feeling up to it.”

The boy gave the smallest nod, eyelids fluttering before he forced them open again. Beverly brushed his hair back, her touch feather-light. “Rest, sweetheart. We’ll be here.”

They stayed like that for a while—Beverly at the bedside, Jean-Luc close enough to feel the fragile pull of the moment. No politics. No pretenses. Just a sick child, a woman who couldn’t turn away, and a man who was realizing he couldn’t either.

*

They stepped out of Jolan’s room into the long, sunlit corridor. The patterned stone underfoot was cool, the carved wall panels throwing soft shadows across their path. Jean-Luc’s voice was quiet but edged with command.

“Beverly, you can’t intrude on their traditions too much. We’re guests here. The Prime Directive still applies.”

Her jaw tightened. “So, we just do nothing? Let him…” She trailed off, but the heat in her voice left the rest unspoken.

“I’ll speak with Aurelin,” he said, as if that would settle it. “Perhaps there’s more flexibility than we’ve seen. But we have to stay within the boundaries Starfleet expects.”

“You think talking is going to fix this?” she asked, her voice sharper now. “That a few diplomatic phrases will make them overturn centuries of… of superstition?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Beverly—”

“No,” she cut in, her steps quickening. “This is a child’s life we’re talking about, Jean-Luc. Not a negotiation point. Not a clause in some contract. A boy who’s sick and getting worse, and you want me to wait while you have polite conversations?”

His own voice hardened, quiet but unyielding. “I want us to act without igniting a cultural incident that could make his situation even worse.”

She stopped, turning to face him fully, her eyes bright with frustration. “I can’t stand by and do nothing.”

“And I can’t have you risking your career—and this mission—because you won’t control your obsession to help,” he returned.

For a moment, neither moved. The sunlight between them felt cold.

“This is no obsession, it’s my damn responsibility, Jean-Luc. And you told me you’d support me,” she said, more quietly but with an edge.

“I do,” he said firmly. “I am. I just… need to find a way that doesn’t run headlong into a cultural wall and collapse everything in its path.” His eyes softened for a beat. “Please, give me the chance to speak to Aurelin. To see if there’s a way forward without making Jolan the center of a political firestorm.”

She didn’t tell him about the sample she’d already taken, the tests already in motion aboard the Enterprise. That would only make the rift between them widen.

Instead, she looked away, disappointment prickling beneath her ribs. “Sometimes you’re so determined not to break rules, Jean-Luc, that you forget rules were made to be challenged.”

“And sometimes,” he countered quietly, “you forget that crashing through them headfirst can destroy more than you save.”

The corridor fell silent again, the weight of their opposing instincts pressing down. Finally, she moved past him, her voice clipped. “Do what you have to. I will.”

He watched her go, every step away from him a reminder of how much it cost—for both of them—to stand on opposite sides of the same fight.

=/=

Philippa Louvois leaned back from her console, the scrolling column of Sickbay activity logs freezing under her hand.
Nothing.

Whatever she’d been hoping to find—whatever Beverly Crusher and Selar had been shielding so carefully—was either gone, encrypted beyond her reach, or had never been recorded in the first place.

It was annoying.

She couldn’t force open private files without leaving a trail straight to her terminal, and while the thought was tempting, she wasn’t ready to give Picard that kind of ammunition against her.

But there were other ways.
If the records wouldn’t talk, maybe the people around him would.

A slow smile curved her lips as the idea took shape.

*

Riker’s door chime sounded just as he was settling into the evening’s reports. “Come in,” he called, not expecting the door to part and reveal Philippa Louvois, a bottle of deep green glass cradled in one arm.

“Commander,” she greeted with an easy smile. “I thought it was time we were properly introduced, after we unluckily just briefly met five years ago. And nothing smooths the edges of shipboard life like a good bottle of Bajoran spring wine.”

Riker stood, automatically returning the smile. “That’s… thoughtful.”

“It’s my nature,” she said, stepping inside as though the invitation had been formal. She held the bottle up. “Shall we?”

He gestured toward the small table by the viewport. “All right. But I’m on duty early, so no promises about drinking you under the table.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of turning it into a competition,” she said lightly, setting the wine down and producing two glasses with a flourish.

They settled opposite each other, the faint clink of glass on glass marking the first sip. Louvois let the silence stretch just enough before she leaned in a fraction. “So, tell me, Commander… what’s it really like, serving with Captain Picard all these years?”

Riker caught the deliberate casualness of the question, the glint in her eyes. This wasn’t small talk. This was fishing.

He smiled easily, as if he hadn’t noticed. “Challenging. Rewarding. Keeps you on your toes.”

“I’ll bet,” she murmured, taking another sip. “And Beverly Crusher? You’ve known her as long, haven’t you?”

The smile stayed in place, but his tone stayed neutral. “Doctor Crusher is an exceptional officer. We’re lucky to have her.”

Louvois tilted her head, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Oh, I’m sure. And… you’re close, I imagine?”

Riker let out a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair. “If you’re looking for gossip, Commander, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. But I’m happy to keep you company while you try.”

Her lips curved—not in victory, but in acknowledgment. This wasn’t going to be easy. But that, she thought, was half the fun.

“You must have seen him in every kind of situation,” she said, swirling the pale liquid in her glass. “Captain Picard. Always in control, yes, but surely he’s… let go, once or twice? Maybe over a woman?”

Riker smiled faintly, but his eyes stayed cool. “The captain’s private life is exactly that—private.”

“Mmm.” She let the sound linger, as though savoring the taste of his reluctance. “Come now, Will — may I call you Will? — we’re just talking. I’m curious about the man who runs this ship, and about the woman who… shares his trust. Doctor Crusher is quite striking. And she’s visibly not the type to spend years without company. Perhaps she has someone keeping her bed warm?”

Riker chuckled, a low sound with no real amusement behind it. “Doctor Crusher is a dear friend of mine and her personal life is her own. And I’m guessing this line of conversation isn’t about idle curiosity. I’m not in the habit of speculating about my friends.”

Louvois leaned forward, her elbows resting lightly on the table. “But you’d know if there was someone. You’re the first Officer, his Number One—you see everything. You must have noticed something… off, lately. Between them.”

Riker’s smile widened, deliberately lazy. “If I did notice, Commander, I wouldn’t be telling you over a bottle of wine.”

She laughed softly, a low, throaty sound, and let her gaze travel deliberately over him. “Maybe I was hoping you’d tell me something else, then.”

Her foot brushed his under the table, light at first, then lingering. When he didn’t move, she shifted closer, the scent of her perfume—a warm, spiced note—threading through the air between them. She reached out, her fingers grazing his wrist under the pretense of adjusting her glass.

“Such a shame,” she said quietly, “that a man like you spends so much time alone. We could… compare notes, you and I. About the captain. About the good doctor. And perhaps about each other.”

Riker didn’t flinch, but the spark in his eyes changed—no longer amused, but measured. He leaned back slightly, creating space. “Commander, I think it’s time I called it a night.”

Her smile didn’t falter; if anything, it sharpened. “And here I thought we were just getting started.”

“I have an early shift,” he said lightly, standing to his full height, the easy charm still in place but the invitation closed.

Louvois rose too, smoothing her uniform. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” he returned, walking her to the door with unshakable courtesy.

When it slid shut behind her, he stood for a moment in the quiet, the faint scent of her perfume still hanging in the air. Whatever game she was playing, she’d just shown him her opening move.

And Riker knew enough to be ready for the next one. 

*

Deanna Troi had chosen a quiet corner of Ten Forward for her decent evening chocolate, a PADD open in front of her but mostly ignored. The soft hum of conversation around her was a welcome background, and she was almost entirely relaxed when a familiar voice intruded.

“My dear Counselor,” Philippa Louvois said, sliding into the seat opposite her without waiting for an invitation. A half-smile tugged at her lips, practiced and polished. “I was hoping to run into you.”

Deanna’s eyes lifted from the datapadd, her expression warm but cautious. “Commander Louvois. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The brunette set down a small bottle of Saurian brandy and two glasses, as though she’d just stumbled upon the perfect opportunity for a chat. “I thought we might share a drink. Get to know each other better. We seem to have certain… mutual acquaintances.”

Deanna’s brow lifted ever so slightly. “Ah. By ‘mutual acquaintances,’ I assume you mean Captain Picard. And Doctor Crusher.”

Louvois poured the brandy with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Among others. I’ve heard you’re quite close to both.”

Deanna’s answering smile was serene. “They are dear friends of mine. Like family.”

“Family,” Louvois repeated, swirling the amber liquid. “Interesting choice of word. You must know everything about them, then.”

Deanna took a measured sip of her cup, letting the silence stretch before answering. “I know enough to value their trust. And enough not to share it over drinks with someone fishing for gossip.”

The remark landed like silk-wrapped steel. Louvois’ eyes narrowed fractionally before she laughed. “Direct. I like that. But surely you’ve noticed… changes lately? The way they look at each other. The time they spend together. One could almost imagine…” She let the thought trail off, the bait hanging in the air.

“One could,” Deanna agreed smoothly, “if one enjoyed imagining other people’s business.”

Louvois tilted her head, clearly reassessing her approach. “You’re protective.”

“I’m perceptive,” Deanna corrected gently, her dark eyes unblinking. “And right now, I perceive that you’re trying to stir a pot that isn’t yours to touch.”

For a heartbeat, the table was silent but for the faint clink of Louvois’ glass. Then Louvois smiled again—tighter this time. “Well. It seems the good doctor’s allies are as formidable as her reputation suggests.”

“Formidable,” Deanna said, leaning in just a fraction, “and patient. I’ve learned that people with ulterior motives tend to reveal themselves, given enough rope.”

Louvois’ lips curved in something between a smirk and a scowl. “Counselor, I do enjoy a challenge.”

“I’m sure you do,” Deanna replied, her tone still calm but the steel unmistakable. “Just be sure you pick the right one.”

Louvois rose smoothly, collecting the brandy without another word. As she walked away, Deanna returned to her hot chocolate, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Beverly would want to hear about this.

 *

The doors to Ten Forward slid shut behind Philippa Louvois, sealing away the faint scent of Brandy and the Counselor’s unshakable calm. For all Deanna Troi’s polite poise, the woman had been about as yielding as a duranium bulkhead.

Philippa’s heels clicked against the deck as she walked, the bottle of Saurian brandy swinging lightly in her hand. Protective little empaths, she thought wryly. Like guard dogs with perfect manners.

Still, the evening wasn’t a loss. It had given her a clearer picture of the fortress around Beverly Crusher—and now she was thinking about the cracks. And… she’d learned where the doctor’s inner circle drew their lines—and how far they were willing to go to defend them.

She smiled to herself. Lines are meant to be crossed.

Her thoughts caught on a memory. A cramped JAG courtroom. The sharp echo of her own voice. The look on Data’s face—subtle but there—when she’d argued for his right to choose his own fate.

The android had been her client once, even if indirectly. She’d fought for him, in her way. And if her instincts were right, he wouldn’t have forgotten that.

A slow smile curved her lips. Yes… call in a favor.

Data was famously precise, a creature of logic and absolute clarity. But he was also, by regulation and by choice, incapable of ignoring a debt. If she framed her request just right—professional, harmless on the surface—she could extract exactly the kind of information she needed.

“Engineering,” she told the turbolift when the doors parted.

As it carried her toward the android’s present whereabouts, she began assembling the shape of the conversation in her head: a reminder of old battles fought on his behalf, wrapped in gratitude, sprinkled with just enough charm to keep him open.

By the time the lift slid to a halt, she had a dozen questions ready—and a quiet certainty that Data wouldn’t see the trap until he was already standing in it.

She stepped out, the corners of her mouth twitching in anticipation.

Time to collect on a debt.

=/=

The room was heavy with heat despite the drawn curtains, the air thick and unmoving. Beverly knelt beside the bed, wringing out a strip of linen in a basin of cool water before folding it gently across Jolan’s flushed forehead.

His skin was too warm under her fingers, and the faint hitch in his breathing was like a stone in her chest. She smoothed the damp hair from his temple, forcing a smile she hoped looked steady.

“You’re going to be fine,” she murmured, even though the words were as much for herself as for him.

Jolan’s small hand reached for hers. “Beverly… will you tell me a story?”

She adjusted the cloth again, the chill already fading from the heat of his skin. “Which one?”

“About when you were little,” he said, his voice thin but insistent.

Her mind scattered under the request, unable to land on a memory. Instead, thoughts of Jean-Luc crept in unbidden—his hand in hers in the garden, the quiet certainty in his eyes when he’d promised to stand with her. How much she wanted to believe that promise could withstand this. How devastating it would be to lose him over the one thing she couldn’t stop herself from doing.

The cloth was warm again. She replaced it with another, the movement automatic. You can’t just watch him fade, a voice inside her pressed. You can’t.

“Beverly?” Jolan’s voice pulled her back.

“I’m here, sweetheart.” She took his hand in both of hers, squeezing gently.

Her thumb gently stroked his temple, the chill already fading from the heat of his skin. “All right,” she said softly. “When I was about your age, I lived on a planet called Caldos with my grandmother. There were ancient forests all around our house—big, dark places that felt older than the stars.”

His pale eyes followed her, though his lids drooped with exhaustion.

“I used to go exploring there,” she continued, keeping her tone light. “I thought the trees whispered to each other when the wind blew. I’d pretend I was chasing ghosts through the underbrush—little flashes of white between the trunks. My grandmother said there were no such things, but I was sure I could hear them laughing at me.”

A faint smile ghosted over Jolan’s lips before fading again. His grip on her fingers loosened for a moment, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Hey,” Beverly coaxed gently, giving his hand a light squeeze. “You still with me?”

His eyes opened a fraction. “Mmh. Tell more.”

So, she did—about climbing half-rotted logs and pretending they were bridges, about following the calls of birds she’d never seen, about the time she’d gotten lost and followed the sound of water back to the village. Every few minutes she switched out the cloth, cooling it in the basin before pressing it gently to his forehead.

She could feel him slipping from consciousness in small waves—drifting away, then clawing back with stubborn will—so she kept talking, filling the warm, stifling room with the sound of her voice.

“You would have loved it there,” she murmured. “So many hiding places. So many secrets. And if you were lucky, you’d catch the sunlight through the leaves just right, and for a second you’d think… maybe the ghosts were real.”

The door opened behind her, and Mira stepped in. Her eyes went immediately to her son, softening for a moment before shifting to Beverly.

“You’ve been here long,” Mira said quietly.

Beverly nodded, straightening. “He’s been warm. I’ve been keeping his temperature down.”

Mira came closer, brushing the damp cloth from Jolan’s brow and replacing it with a fresh one as well. Her movements were quick, almost practiced. “You shouldn’t exhaust yourself. There are… ways here we handle these things.”

Beverly bit back the first sharp reply that rose to her tongue. “Some ways take too long.”

Mira’s eyes met hers, something unspoken passing between them—fear, defiance, the shared understanding that tradition was a poor shield against illness.

Jolan stirred, his fingers tightening around Beverly’s. “Don’t go,” he whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly, but the promise felt heavier than it should have.

Outside, the sea wind pressed against the shutters, carrying with it the smell of salt and the sense that time was running out.

=/=

Jolan had finally drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep, his too-warm hand still resting in Beverly’s. She lingered a moment, memorizing the small rise and fall of his chest, before slipping her hand free and pulling the blanket over his shoulder.

Mira stood by the window, the shutters open just enough for the breeze to stir the curtains. Her arms were locked around herself like armor.

“He’s sleeping,” Beverly said softly.

“It’s the only time I can breathe,” Mira murmured without turning. “When he’s quiet. When I’m not watching him fight for every second.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you know what it’s like to be told you can’t save your own child?”

“Yes,” Beverly said, her voice quiet but certain.

Mira studied her. “Then why aren’t you telling anyone? Not even your husband?”

Beverly hesitated, then stepped closer. “I already did.”

Mira’s expression shifted—something between surprise, shock and a hint of envy. “You must trust him with all your being.”

“I do,” Beverly admitted. The words came easily, but the truth behind them landed in her chest with unexpected weight. “For a long time, I didn’t think I would ever be able to. My…” she sighed heavily, while her eyes searched the wall. “My former husband, his name was Jack, died under his command. Jean-Luc was the one who sent him into that mission. For years, I couldn’t separate the man from the loss. I couldn’t even look at him without hearing the words telling me Jack was gone.”

Her voice faltered, and for a moment she stared past Mira, seeing that younger version of herself—brittle, angry, aching. “But… somewhere along the way, I realized he’d carried it too. That every choice he’s ever made has cost him something. And that he never makes them lightly.”

It struck her then, with a quiet, breathtaking clarity: all those old walls, all those old ghosts—they were gone. “I think… I’ve loved him far longer than I’ve ever admitted. I knew the moment I stepped on his ship, claiming the post under his command. And now… I trust him as much as he trusts me. Possibly for quite a long time. Completely. Unconditionally.”

Mira’s gaze softened, but there was still fear in her voice. “But still, I’m afraid, Beverly. Afraid that no amount of love will save my only son.”

Beverly reached for her hands, squeezing them firmly. “We will find a way to help him. I promise you.”

She didn’t add that the search had already begun and Jean-Luc was planning on a keen mission to involve Aurelin. Mira had no clue that the samples she’d taken that morning were likely in her domain and thoroughly investigated by Doctor Selar right now, or that she’d push every limit she could without drawing the council’s eye. It wasn’t something this woman needed to hear yet.

Outside, the wind shifted, and with it came the sharp, metallic scent of oncoming rain. Beverly glanced back at the sleeping boy, her resolve hardening.

*

The house slept under the hush of the late hour. Beverly moved quietly through the dim corridors, the trace of rain still lingering after the evening’s brief but heavy storm. Their room was calm but not empty—moonlight spilled in through the open balcony doors, tracing silver across the bed and floor.

Jean-Luc stood outside, framed by the arch of the balcony, his hands resting on the railing. The moon hung low over the skyline of the large city, and he watched it as though measuring its slow journey across the horizon.

She let her shoes slip soundlessly to the floor, the cool air brushing her bare feet. One by one, the fastenings of her clothes gave way beneath her fingers. The day’s heat still clung to her skin, but here on the balcony the air was cooler, touched by the scent of rain and faint perfume of night-blooming flowers.

He didn’t turn as she stepped out to join him, bare skin kissed by the moonlight.

She came close enough for her lips to find him—softly, between his shoulder blades. He stilled, just slightly, but it was the kind of stillness that invited her closer.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed against his skin. The words were too small for all that they carried, but she let her actions speak instead.

Her hands slid around his waist, fingertips brushing the line of his shirt before slipping beneath it, palms meeting the warm firmness of his body. He covered her graceful hands with his own strong ones, anchoring them there as though grounding himself.

For a long while, neither spoke. The wind moved gently around them, carrying the low rush of the night and the occasional distant cry of a night bird.

Her hands moved slowly across the warm expanse of his stomach and chest, feeling the subtle play of breath and muscle under her touch. He leaned into her, his head bowing slightly as if her closeness anchored him against the night.

“How is he?” Jean-Luc asked at last, his voice low, almost reluctant to break the silence.

Beverly’s fingers stilled. “Holding on,” she said quietly. But he felt the faint tremor that ran through her hands, and it told him far more than her words.

He turned then, slow and deliberate, gathering her into his arms. Her face came to rest in his warm neck, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding her. One hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his other arm circling her waist.

“I don’t like seeing you carry this alone,” he murmured.

“You’re here,” she whispered. “That’s enough.”

He kissed the side of her head, then further, along her hairline, the slope of her temple, and finally the curve of her cheekbone. His lips trailed down to the delicate skin beneath her ear, lingering there until she tilted her head back in silent invitation.

The moonlight traced the line of her throat as he pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along it, tasting the faint salt of perspiration on her supple skin. His hands slid lower, splaying across the small of her back, drawing her closer until there was no space between them.

When their mouths met, the kiss was unhurried but deep, building with the slow certainty of something inevitable. Her quivering hands came up to frame his face, fingers curling around his head and into his hair, holding him there as though she could pour every unspoken word into that single connection.

His breath warmed her lips when they finally parted, just enough to rest their foreheads together. “Beverly…” he said softly, and the sound of her name in his voice carried both a question and an answer.

She smiled faintly, her eyes never leaving his. “Take me inside.”

He didn’t hesitate. Bending slightly, his arms swept under her knees and back, lifting her with a strength that made her cling to him. She felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat under her palms as he carried her through the balcony doors, the moonlight following them until the curtains swayed closed.

The night closed in warm and quiet around them, the garden’s whirr fading into the rhythm of their breaths, and the world beyond the walls ceased to exist.

*

The chime of the comm unit cut through the hush of the night, sharp against the muted wash of the sea beyond the balcony. Jean-Luc stirred, sliding out of bed without a word. He reached for his pair of boxers, pulling them on as he crossed the dim room.

At the desk, he tapped the control. “Picard here.”

Doctor Selar’s face filled the small screen, her Vulcan composure perfectly in place—though one brow arched ever so slightly at the sight of him bare from the waist up, the shadows of moonlight tracing across his chest.

“Captain,” she said evenly. “My apologies for disturbing you at this hour. Is Doctor Crusher available?”

Jean-Luc inclined his head, as if nothing in the exchange were unusual. “One moment.”

Turning toward the bed, he crossed back and touched Beverly’s shoulder. “Beverly,” he said softly.

She stirred, blinking, then followed his glance toward the comm. The instant she saw Selar’s face, the last of her drowsiness vanished. She rose, drawing the sheet loosely around herself, and joined him at the desk.

“Selar,” she greeted, voice low but clipped. “Did you run the full spectrocyte analysis?”

Jean-Luc stepped aside but didn’t retreat, leaning a hip against the desk as she spoke. His eyes flicked between them, cataloging every detail—the precise tone, the guarded posture, the way Beverly never looked his way.

“I did,” Selar replied. “Preliminary scans indicate an irregular cellular degradation consistent with—” She hesitated, glancing deliberately toward him.

Beverly’s fingers twitched in a subtle gesture. “Go on.”

Jean-Luc caught every word, but not enough to assemble the full picture. What he did see was Beverly’s focus—tense, purposeful, and hiding something.

“Send me the complete results,” Beverly instructed. “And lock the chain of communication. No one else—just you and me.”

Selar inclined her head. “Understood.”

The screen went dark, leaving only their reflections in the black glass—two figures framed in the pale light of a foreign yet familiar room. Beverly stayed leaning on the desk, her head bowed slightly, hair falling forward to shadow her face.

Jean-Luc didn’t move. He stood a pace away, the cool air from the open doors brushing over his bare skin, but it was the cold inside him that he felt more sharply.

“You’ve chosen again not to tell me everything,” he said at last. His voice was low, steady, but beneath the calm there was a thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

Beverly straightened, meeting his gaze for just a moment before looking away. “I did it to spare you any more trouble.”

“Spare me trouble?” His jaw flexed, his eyes narrowing. “Beverly, I’ve commanded starships in war zones. I’ve faced the Klingon High Council, the Romulan Senate, the Borg. Do you really believe I need protecting from this?”

Her lips parted as if to answer, but no words came.

“Do I even want to know?” he asked, quieter now, but with a weight that pressed between them.

Her breath caught, and to her own surprise she felt the heat rush to her face. She turned her head, breaking eye contact. “Better not.”

He stared at her for a long, unbroken moment. The muscles in his shoulders tightened, the shirtless ease he’d worn minutes ago gone entirely. “I’m not in the habit of being kept in the dark by my own chief medical officer,” he said, “and I will not be kept in the dark by the woman I—”

He stopped himself, but the words hung between them, unfinished and undeniable.

Beverly swallowed hard. “Jean-Luc…”

His patience—long, disciplined, tested by years of diplomacy—was fraying. She could see it in the way his hand flexed against his thigh, in the clipped precision of his breathing. He loved her. Heaven help her, she knew he did. However, there was a limit to how far she could push before the line finally gave way.

And still, she kept her silence. Not because she wanted to, but because she had to.

The tension coiled tighter, both of them aware that one more word could turn it into something they couldn’t take back.

Chapter Text

The steady thrum of the warp core filled Main Engineering, its blue glow washing the walls in cool light. The late hour had thinned the crew to a skeleton watch, their voices low, their movements efficient.

Data stood at a side console, methodically inputting a string of adjustments to the diagnostic subroutines. His attention was absolute—until the doors parted with a hiss.

Philippa Louvois stepped in, the measured sound of her boots carrying her across the deck. She didn’t walk with the clipped pace of duty; her gait was slower, more deliberate.

“Commander Data,” she greeted, her tone pleasantly neutral.

Data turned. “Commander Louvois. This is an unusual location for a social call.”

She smiled faintly. “I’ve always been curious about engineering. People forget that the heart of the ship beats here, not on the bridge.”

Data tilted his head. “Your metaphor is correct in certain contexts.”

Her gaze drifted toward the warp core for a moment before returning to him. “You’ve served with Captain Picard for years, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I have been under his command for the entirety of my service aboard the Enterprise.”

“I imagine you’ve seen him in every kind of situation. Crisis, diplomacy, personal challenges…” She kept her tone casual, conversational, as though merely admiring a colleague’s career. “That kind of history must give you… perspective.”

Data regarded her evenly. “I have observed Captain Picard in a wide variety of contexts. My respect for his capabilities is considerable.”

“Of course.” Louvois gave a light, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not prying for gossip, Commander. But sometimes a person’s strength is also the thing that makes them vulnerable. As an officer—and as a friend—knowing those points can help protect them.”

Data considered this. “You are inquiring as to whether I have identified such vulnerabilities in the captain.”

“You’ve served with Captain Picard for a long time.” Her tone was light, conversational. “That kind of service… it must build a certain understanding. Trust.”

“Yes,” Data replied. “Our working relationship is one of mutual respect and reliability.”

She stepped closer, her gaze steady but warm. “When you say ‘working relationship’—does that mean purely professional? Or do you count him as a friend?”

“I consider the captain a friend, yes.”

“Mm.” Louvois tilted her head slightly, as though thinking aloud. “Friendship, trust, admiration… those things can blur boundaries. Even among the most disciplined officers.”

Data’s brow furrowed faintly. “If you are inquiring whether the captain’s regard for any officer has compromised his duties, the answer is no.”

Her lips curved faintly. “Even where Doctor Crusher is concerned?”

“Doctor Crusher is a valued officer and trusted colleague,” Data said without hesitation.

“But that trust,” Louvois pressed lightly, “just how far does it go? Has it ever—oh, how shall I put it—strayed into the inappropriate?”

“Inappropriate?” Data echoed.

“You know… disproportionately personal. Perhaps in a way that could be misinterpreted?” She leaned just slightly forward, her voice lowering in faux discretion. “You’ve been on the bridge, in sickbay, off duty hours… You’ve seen things others might not. Anything that could… look questionable, even if it wasn’t?”

Data straightened. “I have witnessed nothing indecent between the captain and Doctor Crusher. Their conduct, in all observed circumstances, has been within the bounds of Starfleet regulations and professional decorum.”

She lifted her hands in a small shrug. “Oh, I’m just trying to understand him better. Some men have a way of… hiding their soft spots.” Her eyes lingered on Data, steady and unreadable. “Especially where certain people are concerned.”

“I will not speculate on the captain’s personal intentions and possible soft spots, as you call it,” Data replied evenly. “However, I can confirm that Doctor Crusher is the person he would certainly classify as his closest friend.”

Louvois’ smile curved just enough to suggest satisfaction—or perhaps the confirmation of a suspicion. “That’s what I thought,” she murmured, almost to herself, before inclining her head in farewell.

She gave a cordial nod, turning toward the doors. “Thank you, Commander. You’ve been most… clarifying.”

As she left, Data turned back to his console. But in his internal logs, he marked the conversation for potential relevance—along with the note that Louvois’ interest in Captain Picard and Doctor Crusher was not casual.

*

The soft chirp of an incoming comm jolted Riker from sleep. He reached blindly for the panel on his nightstand, squinting at the display.

“Data?” His voice was gravelly with sleep.

“My apologies for disturbing you at this hour, Commander,” came the even reply. “However, I have encountered an interaction I believe merits your attention.”

Riker sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is the ship in danger?”

“No. The matter is… personal in nature.”

That got Riker’s attention, though a weary sigh escaped him. “Go on.”

“I was approached by Commander Philippa Louvois in Main Engineering at approximately 1:00 hours,” Data began. “She expressed a desire to understand Captain Picard’s ‘vulnerabilities.’ Specifically, she inquired about the nature and extent of the captain’s relationship with Doctor Crusher. She asked whether it was purely professional, how far their trust extended, and if I had witnessed any inappropriate or indecent conduct between them.”

Riker quietly exhaled. “Now that figures.”

Data tilted his head. “You are not surprised?”

“Not really.” Riker leaned back, exhaling. “She’s already been to my quarters. Brought a bottle of wine. Said she wanted to ‘catch up.’ It didn’t take long before she was circling around the same subject—Dr. Crusher, Captain Picard, their past, their present. I played along, but it was pretty clear she wasn’t just making small talk.”

“I see,” Data said. “Based on my observations, her approach to me was more… refined than yours describes, but the intent appears similar.”

“She’s fishing,” Riker said flatly. “And she’s doing it in the middle of the night, which is surely not helping her case.”

“I agree,” Data replied. “While I cannot ascertain her ultimate goal, I recommend caution.”

“Caution, hell. I’ll be watching her. If she starts pressing anyone else for personal dirt, I want to know immediately.”

“Acknowledged, Commander.”

Riker reached to close the channel, but Data’s voice stopped him. “Sir, may I ask you a question of a personal nature?”

He paused, wary. “Yes, go ahead.”

“In human romantic relationships, is it considered inappropriate for two colleagues to indulge in physical intimacy while serving together, provided they maintain professional performance?”

Riker blinked, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the late hour. “Depends who you’re asking about, Data.”

“I was, of course, referring to Captain Picard and Doctor Crusher.”

Riker’s grin widened. “Then yes, it’s definitely inappropriate—at least to talk about that specific topic at 01:30 hours. Good night, Data.”

“Understood. Good night, Commander.”

The channel closed, leaving Riker shaking his head with a chuckle, even as the unease about Louvois lingered in the back of his mind. This woman might have come aboard under official pretenses, but whatever game she was playing, it was getting old fast.

And if she thought she could stir up trouble for Picard and Beverly without anybody of their crew and friends noticing or interfering, she was in for a surprise.

*

The sunlight was already bright and warm, spilling across the long patio table. The scent of fresh bread and citrus hung in the air, mingling with the faint sandalwood drifting in from beyond the gardens.

Beverly sat in the same place like two days ago, the porcelain cup before her untouched, steam curling lazily from the tea she hadn’t lifted. Jean-Luc sat opposite, his plate neatly arranged, his posture composed as ever. But his eyes—when she wasn’t looking—were fixed on her.

She was pale, the delicate skin beneath her sapphire eyes alarmingly shadowed. Her hair was gathered back in a loose knot, strands escaping to catch the sunlight, but it was clear she’d not given much thought to appearances this morning. She kept her gaze on her plate, tracing the edge of her fork along its rim without eating.

They hadn’t spoken much since waking. Not when she had risen early, dressing quickly in the dim light before slipping out with barely a word. Not when she had returned only minutes later, faintly flushed from the walk and the morning heat, her expression shuttered.

He hadn’t stopped her from going. Not this time. He’d lain awake when she left, listening to her soft footfalls fade into the hall, feeling the emptiness she left in her wake. The temptation to follow had been strong, but he had resisted—telling himself that trust was more important than control.

Now, watching her across the table, he wasn’t certain whether that trust would be rewarded—or tested beyond endurance.

Her slender hands curled loosely around the warm cup, but she didn’t drink. He could see the way her mind was somewhere else entirely—beyond the patio, beyond the house, beyond even him.

The scrape of his knife against the plate seemed unnaturally loud in the silent morning. The usual sounds of the house were absent; Mira and Aurelin had not yet appeared, and the servants kept their distance, leaving the two of them in a pocket of silence.

He remembered the night before—the guarded tone in her voice when she spoke to Selar, the deflection when he pressed her, the look in her eyes that told him she had already made a choice and it wasn’t one she intended to share.

And he thought of how composed she looked right now. How much lighter she seemed in body, as though the weight she carried was no longer entirely hers to bear.

And he realized, with a dull ache that pushed deep into his chest, how desperately he hoped this would end well enough. Not only for the boy. For her. And, especially for them.

Beverly broke the silence first, though her voice was soft, almost an afterthought. “The tea’s strong this morning.”

He looked at her a moment longer before answering. “Yes.”

It wasn’t the tea they were tasting. It was everything they weren’t saying.

Her voice was so low he almost didn’t hear it over the quiet hum of the nature’s awakening. “I’ve talked to Selar again. We will try—”

His hand lifted, palm out—not sharply, but with the measured finality of a man who’d made a choice. It was a gesture halfway between I still don’t want to know and better not tell me.

Beverly let out a long, audible sigh and closed her mouth. The sound carried more than frustration; it was resignation, and maybe a trace of sorrow. And then, for the first time that morning, she met his eyes. The force of it startled him—desire and longing wrapped around a fear she couldn’t hide. Fear that whatever they had found together on this mission, whatever lines they had crossed, would not survive the weight of it.

She rose from her chair and stepped around the table. The sunlight caught in her hair as she bent to press a faint kiss to the top of his head, her lips lingering just long enough for him to feel the warmth of them, as she stood as close as possible.

“I love you,” she murmured in a futile attempt to erase the flaring tension.

He didn’t look up. He couldn’t—not with the twist of doubt and worry pulling tight in his chest.

“I have to go to Jolan,” she said softly.

As she began to turn, his hand reached out almost of its own accord, closing gently around her wrist. His thumb brushed over the smooth, warm skin there, a simple touch, but it carried all the weight of what he couldn’t bring himself to say. “Go,” he told her, voice low and even.

She nodded once, and walked away, her footsteps fading toward the house. He sat there, his hand curling slowly into a fist, his heart aching with painstaking doubt—about her safety, about the boy, and about whether the fragile, precious thing growing between them could survive what was coming.

The patter of small footsteps broke through his thoughts. He looked up to see Caty wandering out onto the patio. Her hair was a tumble of pale gold, bright eyes still heavy with sleep.

She came right to the table, her little chin barely clearing the edge, and peered around. “Where’s Dooley?” she asked, her voice soft but insistent.

“Dooley…” Jean-Luc echoed, still catching up with the unfamiliar name.

Caty nodded solemnly. “My Dooley. Your Bev’ly.”

He felt a pang in his chest. “She had to step out for a while,” he said carefully. “But she’ll be back.”

Caty frowned at that, considering, then shuffled closer to him. “Can I wait with you?”

Before he could respond, she clambered onto his lap, settling herself without hesitation. Her small arms looped around him, cheek resting against his chest as though she belonged there. He froze, startled by the foreign intimacy, but she didn’t notice—only wriggled closer until she was comfortable.

Something in him loosened. He let one arm circle her small frame, feeling her warmth seep into him, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

It surprised him—how natural it began to feel. How the warmth of a child’s trust softened the edges of his restless thoughts.

“My Maman,” he said after a while, his voice quiet, “was the most wonderful person I knew. She could make the whole world feel safe, even when it wasn’t.”

Caty tilted her head back to look at him. “Like Bev’ly?”

He hesitated. The question struck deeper than she could have known. His throat felt tight. “…Yes,” he said at last, his voice softer still. “Like Beverly.”

She nodded as if that settled everything, then tucked herself back against him, content.

Jean-Luc sat there in the morning sun, holding her, his heart unexpectedly heavy and warm at the same time.

*

The sound of more footsteps on the tiled floor reached them before the figure appeared in the doorway. Mira paused at the threshold, her hand resting lightly against the frame.

Her daughter sat curled on Captain Picard’s lap, tiny arms draped over his chest, golden hair spilling over his shoulder in the sunlight. Caty was murmuring something too low for Mira to catch, but she could see the way the captain’s head bent toward the little girl, his expression softened in a way she had not witnessed before.

For a moment, Mira simply watched. She had seen Picard on the ship, she’d seen him officially act—formal, precise, unyielding in negotiations. She had seen him in Aurelin’s company—polite, measured, diplomatic. But this… this was different.

There was no performance here, no calculated stance for the sake of an audience. His hand moved gently over Caty’s back, steady and protective, the way a loving father might.

Something in Mira’s chest tightened.

Caty noticed her first. “Mommy!” she called, wriggling slightly but not leaving Jean-Luc’s embrace. “We’re waiting for Dooley.”

Mira smiled faintly, though her eyes stayed on the man holding her daughter. “Is she not here?”

“No,” Caty said with a small pout. “She had to… step out?”

Mira’s gaze flicked at that, just enough for Jean-Luc to notice. But she didn’t ask further—not here, not in front of Caty.

Instead, she stepped closer, her tone warm but threaded with curiosity. “You two look comfortable.”

Jean-Luc met her eyes briefly, offering the faintest of smiles. “We were talking about… our mothers,” he said, as though that explained everything.

Mira studied him a heartbeat longer before nodding. “Well. I think Caty’s found herself a very good listener.”

At that, Caty nestled in closer into his uniform tunic, and Jean-Luc’s arms instinctively tightened. Mira saw it, filed it away silently, and with a quiet grace, she turned toward the house.

Jean-Luc watched her go, feeling the shift in the air—the subtle change in the way Mira saw him now. And though he didn’t yet know if that would make things easier or harder in the days ahead, he knew it was another variable in a game already fraught with too many.

*

From the doorway, Mira’s voice drifted across the patio. “Caty, come inside and dress, sweetheart.”

Jean-Luc gave the girl a last gentle squeeze, then released her. She lingered just long enough to brush her cheek against his before scampering to her mother. He allowed himself a brief smile—only for it to vanish at the sound of the familiar, yet deeper voice behind him. “Where is your doctor?”

Jean-Luc’s gut tightened. Turning slowly, he met Aurelin’s gaze with what he hoped was casual ease. “She didn’t feel well this morning,” he lied, letting the words slide off his tongue as smoothly as possible. Relief stirred that the younger couldn’t see the flicker in his eyes.

The ambassador came around the table and settled opposite him. For several moments, Aurelin merely studied him, his dark eyes unblinking. “You’ve been quite active,” he said at last, his voice rich with implication. “Not tired yet?”

Picard blinked. “I—”

Aurelin’s mouth curved faintly, and he leaned in. “I mean your nights, Captain. I might admit, that our walls are not that thick. One might suspect you and your lovely doctor are… well acquainted in the most vigorous sense and trying to speed up... things.”

Jean-Luc’s cheeks went hot, and before he could muster a reply, Aurelin continued, almost idly: “Do you pace yourselves, or is this constant passion your usual practice? Humans can’t have the same stamina as Skinoans, surely.”

Picard’s ears slowly turned crimson. “That is… not a topic I generally discuss,” he said with careful dignity.

“Why not? Here, intimacy is a badge of strength. We prize it. To deny it in conversation is like refusing to admit the taste of wine.” Aurelin’s eyes glinted. “It is… a mark of vitality. Such active intimacy is considered a strength, not something to be hidden behind closed lips.” Aurelin smiled faintly. “Though judging by your color, perhaps you prefer… quieter appreciations?”

Picard drew in a long breath, forcing his voice into calm waters. “I assure you, Ambassador, my relationship with Beverly is… very satisfying.”

Aurelin chuckled. “A modest answer. Pity. Because it has the sound of something vigorous. Enthusiastic. Perhaps you are still at discovering one another’s… limits?”

Jean-Luc’s hands closed around his teacup, not for the warmth, but to keep from drumming his fingers on the table. “Ambassador—”

“Forgive my curiosity,” Aurelin said, not looking the least bit contrite. “But I find humans so fascinating in this regard. Mostly because of your placated façade of total reserve, which is… pardon me, dissolving the moment you think you are alone...”

Even the tips of Picard’s ears were on fire now. “That is quite enough.”

Aurelin chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “You are shy, Captain. I hadn’t expected that. Skinoans value a lover’s prowess as highly as a diplomat’s wit along with the constant want to reproduce. Not forgetting the pleasure it brings, of course.”

Picard forced a steady breath, letting the pause stretch until the moment lost a fraction of its heat. Then he set down his cup and deliberately shifted the conversation. “Your people are candid about intimacy,” he said, using the door Aurelin had just opened. “But are you equally candid about other aspects of life? Illness, for example? The care of children?”

Aurelin’s brows lifted slightly. “Care? Children are the responsibility of the family. We do not involve outsiders unless the matter is beyond question.”

“Even if the ‘outsider’ could help?” Picard pressed lightly, careful to keep his voice idle, conversational.

“It is our way,” Aurelin said simply. “Traditions bind us. To break them would invite chaos. Surely a Starfleet captain understands the importance of cultural boundaries?”

Picard inclined his head in agreement, masking the way his mind was filing every word away. He was testing the waters—and now he knew exactly how guarded they were.

Still, Aurelin’s smirk lingered, as if he’d scored the greater victory that morning, having seen the captain of the Enterprise turn crimson under questioning.

Tearing a piece of bread Aurelin regarded Picard thoughtfully, his earlier amusement cooling into something more calculating. “I see you ask much about our ways, Captain,” he said slowly. “One might think you are… measuring them against your own future.”

Picard’s brows drew together. “My future?”

The other leaned back, studying him over the rim of his cup. “Perhaps you are contemplating the notion of fatherhood. You and your wife… you have the look of a couple considering it changing plans. Mira had already mentioned it, by the way.”

Jean-Luc held his gaze, giving nothing away. “That is… solely a personal matter, Ambassador.”

“Of course,” Aurelin replied smoothly, knowing better than to push his luck. “But tell me—if any children, at any time were to come into your busy, hectic life aboard the most important ship in fleet… would the doctor in your wife do everything in her power to ensure they survived, no matter their strength or weakness?”

The question was a trap in more ways than one. Jean-Luc answered without hesitation. “Yes. Without any doubt. Until the very end and without hesitation. As would I.”

Aurelin’s eyes narrowed faintly, not in accusation but in thought. “Hm. Then I do hope, Captain, that you never consider interfering with our traditions.”

There was no malice in the words, but there was weight—and the kind of sincerity that felt as much a warning as a plea.

Picard inclined his head slowly, his expression unreadable. Inside, he was already hearing Beverly’s acidic rebuke to all that Aurelin had just told him. She had long since crossed the line, maybe even without a second thought. And he knew Aurelin was more than right to be concerned. He sat back, letting his captain’s mask settle over his features, nodding at the appropriate intervals. Yet inside, his mind was running cold calculations.

If Beverly wasn’t successful—if whatever she was already doing for Jolan failed—they wouldn’t just be dealing with personal heartbreak. They’d be facing the full force of Skinoan outrage. Diplomacy would collapse. Aurelin’s trust would shatter.

And in that breach, it wouldn’t matter whether Beverly had acted out of compassion or desperation. The result would be the same: enormous trouble, for her, for him, for the Enterprise.

He glanced at the sunlit doorway where she had vanished earlier that morning, a faint ache in his chest.

She was already too deep in this. And so was he.

Chapter Text

Beverly slipped into Jolan’s room with practiced quiet, the door sliding shut behind her. The boy lay curled on his side, thin arms tucked beneath his cheek, his breathing shallow but even. Sunlight filtered through the slats, laying warm stripes across the bed.

She set her medkit on the low table, pulling out a slim vial of altered medication. It surely wasn’t a real cure for the original source of his issue’s - but it might ease the worst of the fever, give his system a fraction more strength to fight.

Jolan stirred as she knelt beside him. “Dooley?” His voice was hoarse.

“Shh.” She brushed damp hair back from his forehead, her touch gentle. “It’s just me. I brought something to help you feel a bit better.”

His eyes, too bright in the dim light, searched her face. “Is it… bad?”

She hesitated, then chose the most necessary truth. “You’re sick. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

That seemed to be enough for him. He let her press the hypospray gently to the length of his throat, the soft hiss barely louder than his breathing.

When she was sure the medication began to take effect, Beverly drew the tricorder from her kit. With Mira absent, she had a rare chance to scan him properly without watchful eyes questioning every movement. She passed the device slowly over his small frame, adjusting the scanner’s settings for deeper tissue readings.

The results scrolled across the display in a steady stream of symbols and data—numbers she wished she could unsee.

The pathology was consistent with what she feared: organ inflammation, progressive tissue stress, cellular irregularities that could spiral downward fast without intervention. She kept her expression calm, schooling her features into the same soft reassurance she’d worn since stepping in.

Jolan shifted restlessly. “What are you doing?”

“Just making sure the medicine’s working,” she told him, snapping the tricorder shut before he could catch the full truth in her eyes.

She reached for a cool cloth and laid it gently over his forehead. “Rest now. That’s the most important thing.”

He nodded faintly, his gaze still fixed on her—as if her presence alone could hold the sickness at bay.

Beverly sat back, eyes fixed on the shut tricorder in her hands. The readings replayed in her mind like a silent alarm—too many variables, too many unknowns. The Skinoan physiology still held gaps in the Federation’s medical archives, and those gaps were exactly where Jolan’s illness had rooted itself.

What she had given him now would hold the fever at bay for a while, steady his breathing, keep the worst symptoms from spiralling. But it was a pause, not a solution.

She had gained time. Nothing more.

Her fingers curled tighter around the tricorder. Time to think. Time to act.

She could return to the ship and start a full-spectrum analysis—Selar would help, discreetly, behind closed doors. But without a baseline, without cultural and biological markers only the Skinoans could provide, it would still be guesswork. Dangerous guesswork.

Which left the harder road: going directly to Mira. Asking questions without asking too much, pulling truths from between the lines of tradition, and doing it in a way that wouldn’t raise alarms before she had the full picture.

Her gaze drifted to Jolan’s small, still form. His eyelids had fluttered shut again, the damp cloth sliding slightly askew on his forehead. She reached out and adjusted it, letting her hand linger just long enough for him to sigh softly.

“Yes, sweetheart,” she whispered under her breath, a promise to herself as much as to him. “We’ll find a way.”

She slipped the tricorder back into her kit, her mind already working through approaches—how to phrase the questions, how to make Mira feel it was safe to answer them. How to do it all without Aurelin or Jean-Luc catching on until she had what she needed.

For now, she had time. And she would use every second of it.

*

The quiet hum of biobeds and diagnostic consoles filled the room, punctuated by the soft, deliberate movements of Selar as she worked at the central workstation. The Vulcan physician studied the upcoming files with practised ease, compiling the latest data her superior had transmitted from the surface. Readouts of cellular anomalies scrolled in orderly lines, cross-referenced with simulations for an altered medication formula.

Selar adjusted the molecular ratios by a fraction, watching the projected efficacy spike marginally higher. It would not be a cure. But it might strengthen the boy’s system long enough for further treatment to be possible.

The doors to sickbay hissed open. Selar didn’t look up—until movement registered in her peripheral vision.

Philippa Louvois stepped in, her stride brisk and uninvited. There was no greeting, no polite acknowledgment of the Vulcan’s presence. Her eyes scanned the room, then locked on the frosted transparency of Beverly Crusher’s office. Without hesitation, she crossed the deck toward it.

Selar’s eyebrow arched a fraction. “Commander Louvois,” she said evenly, “Doctor Crusher is currently away from the ship.”

“I can see that,” Louvois replied, not slowing her pace. “Just thought I’d have a look at her workspace.”

Selar’s gaze followed her, calm but unwavering. “Medical offices contain confidential materials. Access is restricted to authorized personnel.”

Louvois gave her a thin smile over her shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure Doctor Crusher wouldn’t mind.” She didn’t wait for permission—her hand was already reaching for the door’s opener.

Selar’s fingers paused over her console controls, her voice carrying a precise, Vulcan edge. “It would be… illogical to disregard Starfleet medical security protocols, particularly for non-medical staff.”

Louvois’ smirk only deepened. “Illogical? Maybe. But sometimes a little illogic is exactly what gets you answers.” And with that, she approached the threshold, her intent written plainly in the set of her shoulders.

Selar straightened, one brow raised higher. “You seek answers… about Doctor Crusher?”

Louvois didn’t turn this time, her voice deceptively casual. “You could say that.”

Selar did not return to her console.

Instead, she deactivated her current display with a single tap and stepped away, crossing the room in measured, unhurried strides. The hiss of the office door preceded her by half a heartbeat, and she slipped in behind Louvois just as the other woman was already making a slow circuit of the space.

The JAG officer’s eyes moved restlessly, taking in the neat stacks of PADDs, the nearly empty shelf only stacked with a holo of Wesley Crusher in his academy’s attire, the small potted plant on her desk. Her fingers drifted near—but never quite touched—objects on Beverly’s desk, as though tasting the air for secrets.

“This is very… tidy,” Louvois remarked, her tone walking the thin line between compliment and suspicion. “Almost like she’s hiding something in plain sight.”

Selar folded her hands behind her back. “Doctor Crusher’s organizational methods are efficient and appropriate for her role as Chief Medical Officer.”

“Mhm.” Louvois let her gaze wander to the wall display, where a few personal holo’s were neatly arranged. “So—she’s been here how long now? Five years? Six?”

“Five years, three months, and—” Selar’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly. “—twelve days.”

Louvois smiled faintly, almost purring. “And in all that time, she and the captain… have remained strictly professional?”

Selar’s voice remained even, but her eyes sharpened. “I am not in the habit of discussing my colleagues’ personal relationships.”

“That’s not a ‘no’,” Louvois said lightly, stepping closer to the desk. She picked up a small carved keepsake—a delicate piece of Caldos woodwork—and turned it slowly in her hands. “I’m just curious. Relationships have a way of… affecting judgment.”

Selar took one precise step forward. “That object is of personal significance to Doctor Crusher. I would request you return it to its original place.”

Louvois’ gaze met hers, the air between them taut with unspoken challenges. “Vulcan loyalty. Admirable. But you know, sometimes loyalty keeps us from seeing the truth—” she set the keepsake down with exaggerated care “—and I think there’s a truth here worth finding.”

Selar regarded her for a long moment, her hands clasped tighter behind her back. “Doctor Crusher is entitled to privacy, as are all officers aboard this ship. I will ensure that remains so.”

The corners of Louvois’ mouth lifted, but her blue eyes glittered with something colder. “We’ll see.” She made another slow turn about the room, scanning every shelf, every corner—clearly unwilling to leave without having looked everywhere.

Selar’s scrutinizing gaze followed her without wavering. If Louvois wanted a war of patience, she had chosen the wrong opponent. Moving a fraction closer, the measured calm in the Vulcan doctor’s voice now edged with an unmistakable steel. “Your inquiries, Commander Louvois, are neither relevant to your duties nor consistent with Starfleet’s code of professional conduct. If you persist, I will be obligated to report your behaviour to the captain.”

Philippa turned slowly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, I’m sure Jean-Luc would be delighted to hear about my visit. Though I suspect he wouldn’t appreciate being called ‘the captain’ in this particular context, don’t you think?”

Selar’s gaze did not waver. “I refer to him by his rank because that is his title and position aboard this vessel. Personal familiarity is irrelevant to my interactions.”

Louvois took a step closer, lowering her voice just enough to make the words feel like a secret shared. “Come now, Doctor. You’ve seen them. Actually, certainly more than I can even think of. The subtle glances. The way they hover just inside each other’s space. Do you truly believe it’s all professional restraint? Or do you simply consider it beneath you to admit it?”

Selar’s brow rose by the barest degree. “I acknowledge the nature of their professional and personal relationship only insofar as it affects the operation of this ship. Beyond that, speculation is an inefficient use of time.” Not to mention that seeing her privately introverted Captain almost bare in the mid of the night, and Dr. Beverly Crusher only wrapped in tangled sheets while sharing a room with him, had been rather conclusive enough, as well.

Louvois circled her, pacing slowly, eyes still roving over the office. “Efficient… or convenient? Maybe you’d rather not notice, because if you did, you might start wondering what it means for the captain’s judgment. Or hers.” She paused, glancing toward the desk again. “A woman in love will do… unpredictable things.”

Selar straightened another fraction, her voice sharpening into precise, crystalline tones. “A woman—or a man—in love may still act with discipline, forethought, and logic. Emotional attachment does not automatically imply compromised judgment.”

Louvois’ lips curved into something more dangerous than a smile. “Unless the object of that attachment is sick… or in danger… or facing a moral choice that doesn’t align with Starfleet’s pristine rulebook. Then what?”

Selar’s hands clasped tighter behind her back. “Then, Commander, I would expect both individuals to weigh their obligations against their personal inclinations—and make a choice in accordance with their oaths.” Moreover, Selar concluded that they had certainly quarrelled enough over proper choices and decisions instead of carelessly deciding to push an already close friendship between CMO and Captain forward to more.

Philippa studied her for a long, silent moment. “You really believe she could walk away, even if staying would mean saving him?”

“I believe,” Selar replied without hesitation, “that Doctor Crusher acts with both compassion and reason. It is not my role to doubt her integrity—nor yours to undermine it without cause.”

The words landed between them like a quiet challenge, and for the first time Louvois’ smile faltered, just slightly.

She reached for the door panel, eyes still locked on Selar. “We’ll see, Doctor. We’ll see.”

And then she was gone, leaving the Vulcan alone in the office, the faint hum of the ship the only sound in the charged air.

=/=

The Chamber of Tholey was every bit as breathtaking as he remembered from the tour—a cathedral of light. Shafts of sunlight poured in through high, hidden apertures, striking the polished stone at deliberate angles so that the entire space glowed from within. Frescoes lined the upper walls, their pigments softened by centuries but still rich with detail.

Picard stepped into the centre aisle, the quiet enveloping him. His footfalls seemed to sink into the stillness, his mind pulling in too many directions at once—toward Beverly, toward Jolan, toward the unspoken limits of his duty.

He let his eyes wander over the artificial scenes, searching for… something.

A point of clarity. A fragment of wisdom, even from a society so different from his own.

Proud figures stood in acts of abundance—fields heavy with harvest, children lifted in celebration, elders presiding over orderly gatherings. Yet there was something subtly wrong in the perfection.

He stepped closer, studying the panels one by one.

No battles. No ruined cities. No evidence of famine or great migrations. The Skinoan record, stretching back untold centuries, was pristine. Unbroken. Untested.

The thought struck him so abruptly it made him still where he stood. There has never been war here.

No decimation of the population. No forced adaptation. No genetic mixing from outsiders. For thousands of years, the same families had bred with the same families. Generation after generation, without interruption.

And in that instant, the rest of the pieces clicked into place.

The Skinoan DNA had never altered in any significant way. It had been reproducing within the same narrow gene pool for millennia. The so-called “right of the strongest” wasn’t merely tradition—it was survival shaped by genetic stagnation. Those born with weakness didn’t survive not only because of societal choice, but because there was no diversity in the genome to counter it.

His stomach tightened. Beverly hadn’t been told this—perhaps no outsider ever had. And without this piece, she was fighting a puzzle she could never solve entirely.

He exhaled slowly, his pulse picking up. This wasn’t just an observation—it could be exactly the key she needed. For the first time in days, he felt the faint lift of hope in his chest.

“Picard to Data.”

“Data here, Captain.”

“I need you to access all available anthropological and medical records on the Skinoan population—past thousand years at minimum. I’m looking for genetic lineage data, mutation rates, migration records—anything that could confirm long-term isolation and minimal genetic variation.”

“Acknowledged. That will require cross-referencing cultural archives with off-world trade and migration logs. Estimated time to compile: two hours, seventeen minutes.”

“Do it,” Picard said. “And Data—keep this discreet.”

There was the faintest pause before Data replied, “Captain, discretion may be… increasingly important.”

Picard slowed his pace. “Explain.”

“I have reason to believe that Philippa Louvois has been conducting unauthorized inquiries into the personal affairs of senior officers—specifically you and Doctor Crusher. She has visited Sickbay twice without formal cause, spoken at length with Commander Riker on unrelated personal matters, and attempted to obtain information from me regarding the nature of your relationship with the doctor.”

Picard’s jaw tightened. “And what did you tell her?”

“That my duties aboard the Enterprise do not include the monitoring of my colleagues’ private relationships,” Data replied, his tone as calm as ever. “However, she appears… persistent.”

Persistent. That was one word for Philippa Louvois when she had a target in mind.

“Thank you, Mister Data,” Picard said after a measured pause. “Complete the genetic analysis first. I’ll deal with Commander Louvois.”

As the channel closed, the hope he’d felt moments ago dimmed slightly under the weight of a different kind of concern—one far more personal.

Picard had just opened his mouth to call Louvois when the sound of measured footsteps echoed against the ancient stone. He turned to see Aurelin approaching, the man’s formal robes catching slants of late sunlight.

“Captain,” Aurelin greeted, his tone polite but tinged with curiosity. “I did not expect to find you here, of all places.”

Picard offered a faint smile. “And where would you expect to find me?”

Aurelin’s mouth curved in the smallest suggestion of humour. “Somewhere more… Starfleet. Standing in front of a console, perhaps, or debating with my council. Not in the Chamber of Tholey, where only the very old and the very devout bother to pass the time.”

“I assure you, I’m not here to pass the time,” Picard said evenly. “I was seeking… perspective.”

“Perspective?” Aurelin stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back as he studied the high columns. “This chamber offers beauty, Captain. It offers quiet. But perspective? That, I think, depends on what you are willing to see.”

Picard inclined his head. “Perhaps. On my world, there are places much like this—built for reflection. And sometimes, reflection brings uncomfortable truths.”

Aurelin’s brow arched slightly. “Uncomfortable truths are for diplomats and philosophers. We Skinoans prefer certainties. It keeps life less… cluttered.”

Picard allowed the smallest huff of air through his nose, almost a laugh. “If only my profession allowed such simplicity.”

“You sound almost envious.”

“Perhaps I am,” Picard admitted. “On Earth, long ago, certain families—noble houses—believed they could ensure their power, their… purity, by marrying only within their own circles. Remaining among themselves for generation after generation.”

Aurelin gave him a sidelong glance, half-amused. “I fail to see the problem in that. Surely one marries among those one knows, the people who share one’s upbringing, one’s blood. Who else could possibly be suitable?”

Picard’s tone shifted subtly, the warmth draining into something steadier. “That is exactly the belief they held. And for centuries, they thought it worked. Until it didn’t anymore.”

Aurelin’s amusement faded into a small, puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

“It eventually weakened them,” Picard said, meeting his gaze squarely. “The very strength they thought they were preserving began to erode—illnesses, frailties, all compounded by the fact that their bloodlines never changed.”

The ambassador’s expression cooled. “We are not your people, Captain. Our ways have kept us strong for thousands of years.”

“Or,” Picard countered quietly, “they have kept you unchanged, untested—and unprepared.”

The flicker of temper in Aurelin’s eyes was immediate. “Careful, Captain. If you are speaking for the sake of your own offspring—present or imagined—you may find no support here. We do not alter what has worked for generations.”

The air between them tightened, every word balanced on a knife’s edge.

Picard inclined his head, letting the conversation close before it became more than words. “I appreciate your candour, Ambassador.”

“See that you do,” Aurelin replied, turning sharply and striding away, leaving Picard before the glowing chamber doors, the silence of the place pressing in on him once more.

Picard watched Aurelin’s figure retreat into the sunlit haze beyond the arches, his words still sharp in Picard’s ears. The conversation lingered in his mind, the ambassador’s tone sharp enough to leave an aftertaste of warning. His fierce defensiveness had told him almost as much as the frescoes had. This was no idle curiosity now—this was a matter that cut to the core of their mission.

He tapped his combadge, his hand hesitating for only a heartbeat before he opened a channel. “Picard to…” he inhaled sharply, remembering the Skinoan protocols. “Picard to Dr. Picard.”

There was a faint crackle, then her voice—low, a little breathless. “Yes Jean-Luc, I’m here.”

“I need to see you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “The garden. Under the large tree.”

A pause. “Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

He closed the channel before she could ask why, his mind already running ahead. The confrontation with Louvois could wait. The solution—or at least a path toward one—was beginning to take shape, and he needed Beverly to see it as clearly as he did.

Turning toward the path back to Aurelin’s residence, he set his stride with purpose, the warm light filtering through the high branches above seeming to narrow into a single point ahead—one moment, one meeting that might change everything.

*

Beverly spotted him first, leaning against the weathered trunk of the great tree that shaded half the garden. The late afternoon light sifted through the canopy in shifting patterns, dappling his face, his uniform, the grass at his boots.

She slowed her pace as she crossed the lawn, sensing in his stillness that this was not another cautious exchange about Jolan, nor one of their quiet evasions.

“Jean-Luc,” she greeted softly, as though not to disturb the light around them.

He straightened, offering the faintest smile, and waited until she was close enough that the scent of her—sun-warmed skin and the faint trace of uniquely her—reached him. Then, without speaking, he extended his hand.

She took it without hesitation. The warmth of his fingers closing around hers felt like the first unbroken thread they’d had in days. “I’ve found something,” he said at last, his voice low and steady. “Something that might explain Jolan.”

Her eyes searched his face, cautious hope flickering there. “Go on.”

He didn’t rush. He let the words come in measured beats, telling her about the frescoes, about the startling absence of war in Skinoan history, about the unbroken gene pool. As he spoke, his thumb brushed absently over the back of her hand, grounding them both in the contact.

When he’d finished, she exhaled, a sound between relief and disbelief. “That clarifies so much…” She glanced away for a moment, blinking hard, then back to him. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear an explanation for that.”

He answered with a half-hearted smile. “We’ve been working against each other without meaning to,” he admitted. “I don’t want that. Not now. Not when—” He broke off, his jaw tightening. “Not when we’ve finally stopped running from each other.”

Her lips curved faintly, even as her eyes shone. “I don’t want that either.”

They stood for a moment in the shifting light, saying nothing, simply holding each other’s gaze. Then she reached up, her fingertips brushing the line of his jaw, and his other hand found her waist, pulling her in gently until her forehead rested against his.

No urgency, no battle in this moment—just a quiet anchoring, the two of them breathing in sync beneath the branches.

“We’ll figure this out,” he murmured against her hair.

“I know,” she whispered. “We always do.”

“Dr. Picard,” he murmured like echoing the name he’d given her three days ago, almost as if testing the sound for the first time.

She blinked, startled, and felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “There’s no need to call me that when we’re alone,” she said quietly, though there was no real protest in her tone.

“I know,” he replied, his eyes warming. “That’s why I said it.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled—small, almost shy— closing her eyes toward the impending storm of emotions. “If the problem really is genetic isolation,” her voice was soft but precise now, “it changes the approach entirely. We’d have to look at introducing diversity in a way that doesn’t trigger an alarm. That could take years—generations, even—but if we frame it as—”

He tightened his fingers around hers, not sharply, just enough to pull her eyes from the horizon back to him. “Beverly,” he said quietly, almost a plea.

She faltered, catching the look in his eyes—intense, searching. “Jean-Luc, I’m trying to focus. This might be our—”

“I know,” he murmured. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, feather-light, sending a warmth through her that was almost maddening in its simplicity. “But not every solution is found in mere minutes. And… without the full knowledge and acceptance of the Skinoans.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, realizing her pulse had quickened for reasons that had nothing to do with strategy. “I’m aware of that,” she whispered, though it lacked any real bite.

“And you,” he countered softly, “are exhausted. You’ve been carrying too much—Jolan, this mission, us—without letting yourself breathe.”

She swallowed, her resolve slipping as he demonstratively bit his lip. The late light caught in his warm, promising eyes, turning them a softer shade. His hand released hers and swiftly came up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek before his fingers lingered there.

Her body reacted before her mind could object - and for a moment, neither moved, their breaths mingling in the warm air.

“You’re already doing everything you can and that’ll just have to suffice this time” he said low, the words sinking into her like an anchor.

“I’m not ready to give up for the sake of silly traditions,” she cursed, the confession so quiet it might have been stolen by the breeze.

“For you and me they may be silly. But still you have to,” he said. “Albeit nobody said, you can’t help Jolan.”

The weight of it hung between them—both the vow and the unspoken truth of how far he might go to keep it. Her eyes searched his, and she found the same restrained longing she felt herself.

Slowly, his hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck. She let her palm rest flat against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his artificial heart under her fingers.

The kiss, when it came, wasn’t hurried. It was a careful, deliberate thing—like reacquainting themselves after too many days of distance, letting the contact speak where words would only tangle.

When they parted, she rested her head briefly against his shoulder, her voice steadier now. “We’ll need a plan. Something we can both stand behind.”

He smiled faintly, kissing the top of her hair before answering. “We will. But for now…” His arms tightened slightly, just enough to hold her there in the dappled light. “…stay a moment longer.”

And she did, letting the garden hold their silence, letting his warmth bleed into her bones, until the weight of the last days felt just a fraction lighter.

=/=

Philippa Louvois moved through the upper corridor with the purposeful stride of someone who knew exactly where she was going and was determined to be seen doing it. The PADD in her hand was a mere prop—what she carried in her mind was the real weapon.

She’d learned nothing concrete from Riker, and Data had been infuriatingly literal, offering only precisely what she asked and nothing more. That in itself was telling. Picard’s crew were circling their wagons, which meant there was something worth circling around.

Her lips curved faintly as she stepped into the turbolift. She’d been in this position before—closing in, one move at a time, until the carefully constructed Starfleet walls cracked and the truth spilled through.

The doors parted onto the deck housing Sickbay. She adjusted her posture to something almost casual as she approached, her eyes sweeping over the quiet corridors. The first step toward breaking down a fortress, she knew, was learning its entrances.

*

The familiar sterile scent greeted Beverly as the doors slid open. She’d been back from the surface less than an hour ago; the shift to the ship’s clean, recycled air always jarred her after the layered scents of Skinoa.

Selar was bent over a console in the slightly secluded lab area, her long fingers dancing with Vulcan precision over the displays. Without looking up, she acknowledged her. “Doctor Crusher, welcome back.”

Beverly stepped inside, the weight of her conversation with Jean-Luc still clinging to her. “What do we have?”

Selar straightened, passing her a PADD. “I have refined the medication parameters based on your most recent tricorder data. The changes should allow for greater stabilization without raising suspicion.”

Beverly took the PADD, scanning it quickly, her mind already running the dosing models in parallel. It would buy Jolan time- days, probably - but nothing more. But now they had new theories and maybe even answers.

“I’ll need access to the deeper genetic scans,” Beverly murmured, almost to herself. “If Jean-Luc is right about what’s causing this—” She cut herself off before finishing, the instinct to guard her words after the day’s encounters.

Selar’s brow rose fractionally. “Understood.”

Beverly moved toward her private office, the PADD still in hand, unaware that Louvois had entered the outer bay moments earlier.

The doors slid shut behind them, cutting off the muted hum of Sickbay’s main floor. Beverly set the PADD on her desk and keyed in a safety lock. Selar mirrored her focus, already calling up the relevant scans on the wall display.

“Frankly, we don’t have the luxury of waiting for cultural approval,” Beverly said quietly. “If the problem really is the unaltered gene pool….”

Selar inclined her head. “Your preliminary theory aligns with the genomic data. There are markers consistent with centuries of closed reproduction. This correlates with immune deficiencies in a significant percentage of juvenile cases.”

Beverly crossed her arms, her voice tightening. “Which is why we could normally move to mRNA-based gene therapy. If we could introduce coded gene-sequences—designed to mimic a native immune response—it could offer them new input without changing the visible genetic markers.”

Selar’s fingers moved over the console, pulling up the sequence models. “Could?”

“We’re not allowed to interfere in any way.”

Selar’s brow arched slightly. “And still we’re investigating the case? I admit I’m irritated by…”

“The chance of Jolan, the Ambassador’s son, surviving the next month without any treatment is practically zero,” Beverly cut in, her voice sharper than intended. She exhaled slowly. “We can start with a sample batch and a treatment of his damaged organs, traditional style. No genetic altering at this moment. Just one subject. And no one outside this room needs to know. We will continue our research anyway, just in case.”

Selar inclined her head again. “Sounds reasonable for me.”

Beverly leaned over the console, their shoulders almost touching as the first sequences began to build in the simulation matrix. The blue light from the display painted her features, tightening her jaw, highlighting the exhaustion she carried.

She knew the risks—Prime Directive violations, political fallout, her own career—but the thought of doing nothing was worse. This was close to insubordination, maybe even crossing the line already, but she would, at least, try to save Jolan.

*

What Beverly didn’t know was that in the outer Sickbay, Philippa Louvois still waited for the bricks to drop, her ears wide open.

She slowed her breathing, her eyes flicking toward the closed doors of Beverly Crusher’s office. The soundproofing was Starfleet-standard, but there were always moments—brief, perfect moments—when a word or two carried through before the seal fully engaged.

Her brows arched, the smallest spark lighting in her eyes. She didn’t need a full transcript to taste opportunity. Whatever this was, it wasn’t standard medical chatter. And the fact that Jean-Luc’s name had been uttered with such intent—it tightened the noose of her curiosity.

Philippa leaned casually against the nearest biobed, masking her stillness under the pretence of scrolling through the PADD she carried. In truth, her mind was already slotting pieces into place. Crusher. Picard. The planetary mission with diplomatic oversight. And now murmurs of avoiding suspicions?

A slow, feline smile tugged at her mouth.

She’d been circling the edges of their carefully guarded little arrangement for days, frustrated at every turn. But now—now she could feel the game truly begin.

And this time, she had an opening.

Her expression smoothed into polite neutrality just as Crusher’s office door hissed open.

Selar stepped out, a PADD in hand. Her stern gaze swept the outer bay with Vulcan accuracy—landing on Louvois almost instantly. One elegant brow arched. “Commander,” Selar said evenly. “You are… far from the legal annex.”

Philippa smiled as though the comment were nothing more than polite observation. “Sickbay’s public spaces are hardly restricted, Doctor. I was merely taking a stroll.”

Selar’s expression didn’t shift an inch. “Indeed.” She inclined her head fractionally, the Vulcan equivalent of narrowing her eyes. “I must attend to the lab facilities. If you require assistance, the duty nurse will be happy to direct you.”

Without waiting for a reply, Selar turned on her heel and crossed the bay back toward the lab. The door slid shut behind her with a soft hiss, leaving Louvois alone in the sterile, faintly humming quiet.

Philippa’s smile lingered, sharper now, as she adjusted her grip on the PADD. She had caught enough. And Selar’s cool dismissal only confirmed it: there was something here worth hiding.

Something involving Beverly Crusher.
Something involving Jean-Luc Picard.

She turned toward the corridor, her steps slow, deliberate, and full of promise.

Chapter Text

Riker sat at the bar, his posture relaxed but his eyes tracking the slow orbit of the room. Off duty or not, his mind refused to stop working. He sipped from his glass, the hum of quiet conversation and the muted starfield beyond the windows filling the air.

Guinan approached from the far end, moving with her usual unhurried grace.
“You’re not usually alone in here, Commander,” she said, leaning an elbow on the bar.

Riker gave a small smile. “Waiting for someone.”

Her head tilted slightly, studying him. “Waiting, or watching?”

“Maybe both,” he admitted.

Before she could press, the doors slid open and Deanna Troi stepped in, her eyes scanning the room until they found him. She crossed over quickly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

“I saw her again,” Deanna said without preamble as she slid onto the stool beside him. “Philippa Louvois. She’s been… circulating. Talking to more officers. Always in that too-friendly way that’s not actually friendly at all.”

Riker’s jaw tightened slightly. “Any idea what she’s fishing for?”

“Not yet,” Deanna replied, “but she’s persistent. And she’s asking questions about Beverly.”

Before he could respond, Louvois herself stormed into Ten Forward, the door sighing open in her wake. She didn’t head for the bar or a table—but straightly toward Worf, who was standing near the windows, a steaming mug in his hand.

They could hear her voice carry faintly over the room’s low hum, her tone half-curious, half-challenging. Worf’s answers were short, clipped, his posture turning more rigid with every passing second.

Then Louvois glanced over her shoulder—and caught sight of Riker, Deanna, and Guinan watching her.

Her expression didn’t flicker, but her exit was immediate. A pleasant nod to Worf, a final smile, and she turned on her heel, leaving the Klingon with a look of restrained irritation.

Worf crossed the room to join them. “She asks too many questions,” he said, placing his mug down on the bar.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Riker muttered.

Deanna folded her arms. “She’s not just curious—she’s probing. Looking for weakness.”

Guinan’s gaze followed the closed doors for a moment before she spoke. “People like Louvois don’t dig without a reason. If she’s sniffing around Beverly, it’s not because she wants to send her flowers.”

Worf gave a low, disapproving rumble. “The captain will not appreciate her interference.”

Riker’s mouth curved into a humorless smile. “No, he won’t. But the question is—how far is she willing to go before he notices?”

Guinan set a fresh drink in front of him, her eyes unreadable. “The better question might be—what will she already know by then?”

The four of them fell into a thoughtful silence, the easy murmur of Ten Forward resuming around them like a tide, while outside the great windows, the stars wheeled on.

“We should tell him,” Worf said suddenly, his tone low but edged with steel. “It has gone on long enough. A threat left to grow in the shadows will strike deeper when it finally reveals itself.”

Deanna inhaled slowly, studying the swirl of liquid in her glass before lifting her eyes to Riker. “Do we even understand the full depth of her hostility toward him? It’s not just irritation, Will. It’s visceral… I can feel it radiating from her like heat from a forge. It clings to her every thought when his name comes up. But there’s something else—underneath it all—”

Worf grunted. “Resentment?”

Deanna shook her head. “No. Wounded pride, yes. But there’s a grief there, too. It’s sharper, older… like the sting of a wound that never closed. She’s angry because she still cares—perhaps more than she wants to admit.”

Worf’s brows drew together. “A Klingon would confront such a matter in combat or in the open council. This… stalking and probing of subordinates and crewmembers - it is dishonorable.”

“She’s not Klingon,” Deanna reminded him gently. “She’s human. And humans sometimes… circle their prey.”

“Like a Targ before the kill,” Worf muttered darkly.

Deanna leaned forward. “If her feelings are that intense, she’s not just after professional leverage. She’s aiming for something personal. And that means she may not care who gets caught in the fallout.”

Worf’s eyes narrowed. “Including Doctor Crusher.”

“Yes,” Deanna said softly. “Especially Doctor Crusher—if she thinks Beverly stands between her and… whatever closure she believes she’s owed.”

The group fell quiet for a beat, the weight of the thought settling between them before Riker finally spoke. “Which means Beverly’s standing in a storm she doesn’t even see coming.”

Guinan’s gaze flicked up from the glass she was polishing. “And storms have a way of changing course when you least expect them.”

=/=

The air carried a faint trace of tea, still warm in the cup on his desk. Picard sat in the leather-backed chair, posture upright but with the faint rigidity of someone forcing his focus to the untouched reports he should take care of.

Just then, the soft chime of an incoming call fractured the stillness of his quarters. His eyes flicked toward the console, where Will Riker’s face appeared on the screen.

“Sir, we should talk about some pressing matters.” There was a weight to Riker’s tone—controlled, and definitely not casual.

Picard’s fingers tightened slightly on the PADD in his hand before setting it down with deliberate care. “Not now, Will,” he said, the syllables clipped. “It’s… rather inappropriate at the moment.”

A small pause. Riker’s gaze sharpened, as if searching for the reason behind the deflection. “Understood, sir. But get in contact as soon as possible.”

Picard inclined his head, the gesture brisk but not unkind. “Thank you, Will.”

The channel cut, the display dimming back into the soft glow of the room. The silence that followed was heavier now, as if the conversation had unsettled the air itself.

From somewhere behind him, a faint rustle of fabric whispered against the quiet.

The rustle came again—soft, deliberate—as though the sound itself was meant to be noticed.

Picard’s shoulders stiffened before he turned, and then, with visible unease, his eyes locked on her slender frame.

Philippa Louvois was leaning one hip against the low table near the viewport, the curve of the planet framed in starlight behind her. She wasn’t in uniform. The tight, dark dress clung to her in a way that felt almost calculated, its smooth lines broken only by the fall of auburn hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. It was the first time he’d seen it unbound since… well, since before things had ended between them.

Her lips trembled in barely concealed amusement and arrogance. “Oh, your Number One is really a good boy,” she murmured, her eyes flicking toward the now-dark comm screen before returning to him.

“Philippa,” Picard said, his voice cool but not yet cold. He remained seated, as if willing to set the tone by staying grounded.

She stepped forward, slow and measured, the faint sound of her heels against the carpet prolonging the moment. “You’ve always had good people under your command,” she went on, her tone rich with something that was not quite admiration. “Loyal. Protective. That’s not an accident, is it?”

He said nothing, but his gaze never wavered.

When she was close enough to reach him, her fingers extended, brushing lightly against his sleeve, then trailing down toward his wrist with calculated ease.

He caught her hand before it could go any further, his grip firm but not cruel. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

The small spark of challenge in her blue eyes flared into something hotter, edged with frustration. She tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she already believed she could solve.

Then she smiled again—only this time it had teeth. “Oh darling, I know about you and that lovely doctor.”

“There is nothing to know.” His voice was steady, clipped, as if that would end it.

Philippa’s lips curved, the expression slow and knowing, not with belief, but with satisfaction, as though she’d expected the denial and welcomed it. “You’ve never been a good liar, Jean-Luc. You wear your… attachments… right under that noble veneer.” She took another step closer, the hem of her dress whispering against her thighs. “However, if that were true, I could imagine… getting involved with you again.”

He pushed back his chair and rose, creating space between them, his intent to generate distance clear. “I don’t…”

“I could also imagine,” she continued without further ado to stop his intervention, her voice dropping to a near purr, “using other… much more disgusting secrets I’ve learned against you… You and your attractive redheaded collaborateur.” She let the French word linger like an intimate touch. “Certain things like the fact that the two of you seem to think Starfleet regulations—and Federation law—are just… flexible guidelines.”

His jaw tightened, the air between them now taut as a drawn wire. “…this is neither the time nor the place.”

Philippa tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Oh? And what is the place? Some quiet, candlelit dinner, here in your quarters? You see, a woman in my position could cause quite the stir if she chose to report certain violations. Of course…” Her eyes swept deliberately over him, “…there are ways to keep such… inconvenient matters private.”

She invaded his private space now, her scent a faint mix of spice and something stale, the heat of her presence forcing him to hold his ground.

He took a step toward the door, but she matched it, cutting him off with feline precision. “You think you can just walk away?” she asked, the edge in her tone betraying the tight leash on her temper.

“I intend to,” he said evenly, though his posture was taut, his eyes locked on hers. “This conversation is over.”

She laughed softly, a low, dangerous sound. “Over? No, Jean-Luc, I’ve barely begun. I know about you and Beverly Crusher. And I can pretty well imagine how far she’ll go for those she cares about—not to mention that I know how far you’ll go to protect her. That kind of devotion…” she leaned in slightly, “…is the easiest thing in the world to exploit.”

His hands came up—not to touch her, but to keep her at arm’s length. “You will not use her for your games. Or me. Whatever resentment you harbor from the past, leave her out of it.”

Philippa’s eyes glittered with the thrill of having struck a nerve. “Resentment?” she echoed. “Try unfinished business. You were never mine to lose, were you? But perhaps… I could still win. You’re just a breath away from losing everything you cherish.” Suddenly she shifted, slipping past his guard with a sharp twist of her wrist, one hand snaking up to the back of his neck. Her other palm pressed against his chest, forcing him back half a step.

“Philippa…”

The protest was cut short as she pulled him down and pressed her mouth to his, hard, insistent. The move and the kiss not gentle—but possession disguised as passion.

The door to his quarters hissed open without warning.

“Jean-Luc—” Beverly’s voice was bright with urgency, but it broke mid-syllable.

She froze in the doorway.

For the barest heartbeat, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. Then the shape of it—the proximity, Philippa’s hand tangled in his collar, their mouths still far too close—drove into her like a blade.

The PADD in her hand slipped, hitting the carpet with a dull thud.

Neither of them moved. Picard’s eyes widened, but whatever words he might have had tangled uselessly in his throat.

Beverly said nothing. Her face had gone pale, but her eyes burned. In one motion, she turned on her heel and strode into the corridor, her footsteps fast, almost too fast.

“Beverly—” His voice finally broke free, rougher than he meant, as he shoved past Louvois.

Louvois’ laugh followed him, sharp and rich with bitter triumph. “Oh, yes, do run after her, Jean-Luc. Nothing says ‘innocent’ like chasing down the woman you’ve been sneaking around with.”

He stopped in the doorway just long enough to glare back at her. But the damage was done—the sound of her derision carried into the corridor, chasing him like smoke.

“Beverly… please, you must believe me… this is not what you think it is!” His voice was urgent, the words tumbling out with a rare, unguarded edge.

She turned sharply, sapphire eyes wet but blazing. “Oh, of course. Because that silly line always makes everything better, doesn’t it?” The acid in her tone could have stripped paint from the bulkhead.

Her palm came up in one swift motion, the crack of the slap echoing down the corridor. His head jerked slightly with the force, but his eyes never left hers.

“I came to tell you I’ve found the proper treatment for Jolan,” she hissed, her voice shaking not from weakness but from fury. “But clearly, you have… more important things occupying your time.” Without waiting for his response, she spun and strode away, each step ringing with anger and betrayal.

She didn't see the figure rounding the far corner in her back. Just the two ensigns approaching on a collision course straight ahead.

Philippa Louvois slowed as she approached, her eyes flicking from Beverly’s retreating back to Picard’s stricken expression. Her lips curved in a smile that was nothing short of lethal but was a blow wrapped in velvet. “Oh… so my legendary brave Captain does have a weakness. And here I thought she was just your pet physician. So much for your shining professionalism, Jean-Luc. Seems the Captain’s logbook has more… personal entries than I ever imagined.”

=/=

The door to Jolan’s small room slid shut behind her, muting the distant hum of household activity. Beverly set her medkit down on the low table with a sharper motion than she intended, the instruments inside giving a faint clink of protest.

Jolan was propped up against his pillows, his skin pale but his eyes alert. He studied her quietly for a moment, the corners of his mouth turning down.

“You’re… upset,” he said at last, his voice small, almost hesitant.

The words caught her off guard. For a second she considered denying it, but she knew children could smell lies like animals scenting rain. “I’m fine,” she said anyway, forcing her mouth into something that might pass for a smile. “We’ve got more important things to talk about than me.”

He studied her longer, his gaze far too perceptive for an eight year’s old. “And your eyes are red,” he murmured, and she wondered just how much he’d learned about reading people in a house full of siblings running wild and two adults trying to hide things from each other.

She busied herself with the medkit, fingers unfastening compartments with practiced efficiency. “I’ve brought something for you,” she said, her voice softening despite the turmoil still gnawing at her. “A new treatment. It’s going to help.”

“Will it hurt?” he asked, his tone quiet but steady.

“Not really,” she murmured, preparing the hypospray. “And it’ll be over before you know it.”

Her mind wandered in the space between words. To the corridor outside Jean-Luc’s quarters. To Louvois’ greedy fingers on him and her own, uncontrolled temper when exposed to situations like that. To the unsteady beat in her chest that had nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with the possibility of losing him to someone or somewhat she wasn’t able to fight off… not to politics, not to the Prime Directive, not to history itself, but to something far smaller and far crueler. Something that had accompanied her life as long as she could think of and the very same thing she had dreaded for years, the thing that had prevented her from becoming involved with him. Blatant fear.

Now Beverly sat beside Jolan, her hand steady as she took his arm – intent on her mission to save him from his faith. He watched her every movement, the trust in his gaze piercing deeper than she wanted to admit right now. The same trust she’d seen in Wesley’s eyes so many years ago.

“I don’t like it when you’re upset,” he said suddenly. “It makes you… different.”

Beverly’s throat tightened. If only you knew. “Sometimes things happen that make us upset,” she said, locking eyes with him as she administered the dose. “But what matters most is, what we do next.”

The hypospray hissed, and he barely flinched. She set it aside, keeping her other hand wrapped around his small one, as if by holding on she could ground both of them.

In that moment, the mission and the politics and her hurt all fell away. Here—just here—she could breathe. She was exactly where she needed to be, even if she had no idea what it would cost her when she walked out again.

Jolan’s fingers tightened around hers, his gaze steady in a way that felt far older than his years.
“Is it Jean-Luc that hurt you? Did he make you cry?”

The question landed with the weight of something too big for the room. Beverly’s breath caught, her hand pausing mid-motion as she adjusted the damp cloth on his forehead.

He pressed on before she could answer. “Because… I would never hurt you. Not ever. If you chose to marry me instead. I really like your smile.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. The innocence of the words was wrapped in something achingly earnest, a child’s first attempt to put shape to devotion. It pierced her far deeper than she expected.

She searched his face—too pale, framed by fever-damp hair, yet lit with that stubborn Skinoan pride—and felt her heart twist. She had spent her life treating and reading people, seeing the truths they tried to hide, but she hadn’t expected him to read her so clearly.

Did she trust Jean-Luc? She had thought so. No- for god’s sake - she knew so. And yet… that image in his quarters, Philippa’s hand on his collar, her lips far too close… it had been like a punch to her chest. Her vision blurred now, not from tears alone but from the dissonance between what she knew and what she had felt in that instant.

Jolan was still watching her, a quiet hope in his expression, the first fragile threads of a very young love taking root. She reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, willing her voice to remain steady. “Oh, Jolan,” she whispered, “you are… something very special.”

He smiled faintly, satisfied enough with her answer.

Beverly sat back, her mind already shifting. She had to talk to Jean-Luc. He didn’t deserve her fury—not the depth of it, and maybe not even that slap… though, admittedly, the sting of it had felt good. Freeing.

Suddenly, the door slid open without warning, and Mira swept in. The moment her gaze fell on the hypospray in Beverly’s hand, her face froze—then hardened. “What,” she demanded, her voice taut with barely restrained fury, “is that?”

Beverly’s fingers tightened around the instrument, instinctively drawing it slightly behind her. “Mira.”

“You promised me,” Mira hissed, stepping forward. “We never discussed this. You don’t make decisions about my child without me.”

Beverly straightened, her own temper flickering back to life. “Your child was fading before my eyes, and you wanted me to wait? For what—tradition? Permission? A miracle?”

“This is not your world!” Mira’s voice was rising now, edged with hysteria. “You don’t get to walk in here with your off-world medicine and—”

“—and save him?” Beverly cut in, her words sharp as glass. “Because that’s what I’m doing, Mira. Saving him. You can rage at me later if you like, but don’t pretend this isn’t necessary.”

For a moment, the air between them was electric, charged with the clash of two wills unwilling to yield. Mira’s breath came faster, her hands clenched at her sides.

Beverly’s heart was pounding, not just from anger but from the constant pull of the last hours—Jean-Luc’s face in that damned corridor, the weight of her latest choices, and now Mira’s outrage layered over the fragile hope she’d brought into this room.

“Mum…”

The voice was small but clear. Both women turned.

Jolan was pushing himself upright against the pillows, his eyes brighter than they had been in days. “Beverly just tried to help me,” he said, his voice firm.

Mira blinked. “No, Jolan, this is not…”

“No!” he said again, more forcefully. “She didn’t hurt me. She made me better. I can feel it. I know it.”

Beverly froze as she watched him pull his still weak legs over the side of the bed. Mira stared too, her mouth parting in disbelief.

He stood, carefully at first, then straightened fully, a tentative smile spreading across his face. “Mum, please look at me.”

For a long heartbeat, neither woman moved. Beverly felt her chest tighten with relief so fierce it was almost pain—at least, that one was working.

Mira’s shock melted, slowly but irresistibly, into something warmer. She crossed the room in a rush, dropping to her knees and pulling Jolan into her arms. Her breath hitched against his shoulder. “Oh, my boy…”

Beverly took a pace back, lowered the hypospray to her side, her own throat thick and watched them with a swell of emotion so fierce it threatened to undo her. She’d risked everything for this moment—and seeing it, she knew she’d do it again without hesitation.

Chapter Text

Beverly stepped into the quiet corridor, the door to Jolan’s room sliding shut behind her with a muted hiss. Her hands were still trembling—not from fear, but from the residual clash with Mira and the adrenaline of watching the boy’s strength so quickly, so unexpectedly return. She leaned back against the wall for a moment, closing her eyes. She’d been convinced they’d come up with something quite remarkably, that the alteration of his immune system would merely reboot his cells, but the pace of it amazed even her. Whatever this infection had done to his small body previously, it had been thoroughly fought off with precise strength the moment his system was able to.

Relief and exhaustion pulled at her in equal measure. With the peace of a recovering child returning to her mind and soul, however, this other weight rose again, enveloping her entirely. It was a weight that carried the image of Jean-Luc Picard most likely choosing someone over her. After all they'd been through. But… if she were completely honest with herself, she might admit that she hadn't made it particularly difficult for him to reconsider his decision over the last few days. She’d complicated things, ignored his orders again and… not for the first time, acted as she pleased. In short, she’d done what she always did: gone her own way with her ever-unnerving kind of unshakable self-confidence and stubborn pride.

She drew in a steadying breath, tapping her combadge with growing unease. Using the ships communication this time meant no change of names - unfortunately. “Crusher to Picard.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, followed by his voice—calm, contained, but gentler than she expected. “Picard here.”

She hesitated, just long enough for him to notice. “Are you… alone?”

“I am.” A faint shuffle of sound in the background—PADDs being set aside, maybe, or a chair turned slightly. Then, after a careful beat, his voice cracking slightly: “About that… ugly episode in my quarters—”

“Jean-Luc,” she interrupted softly, but firmly, biting her lip, “not now.”

The silence on the line wasn’t sharp; it was the kind that hummed between them when words weren’t enough or weren’t safe. She could almost see him, brow furrowed, holding himself still so as not to make things worse.

“Dinner tonight?” she asked, and she was startled by how fragile her own voice sounded in her ears.

There was a soft exhale, as though he’d been bracing himself for something else entirely. “I must attend the finalization of the contracts,” he said at last, the formality of the words doing nothing to hide the caution beneath. “It will be late.”

“I’ll wait,” she promised, and her lips curved just faintly, though there was no one to see. “Just… be there.”

Another pause—long enough that she wondered if he was weighing not the answer, but how much of it he let her hear.

“I will,” he said finally, his tone low, rich with unspoken reassurance.

When the comm closed, she stayed still, staring at the wall as if the last echo of his voice might still be there. The ache in her chest wasn’t entirely from anger anymore; it was the awareness of how thin the thread between them felt just now, and how desperately she wanted it not to break. Whatever else may have happened, it hadn’t changed her feelings for him. If so, they’d only grown.

She pushed off the wall, eager to head toward the garden with her arms wrapped lightly around herself, carrying the warmth of his promise like a candle she meant to keep lit until nightfall.

Beverly had just started when the door to Jolan’s room slid open again. Mira stepped out slowly, her hands still resting on the doorframe for a moment as though she needed its support. Her eyes were red, but her face was soft in a way Beverly hadn’t seen before—less guarded, less regal, and far more human.

“He’s still weak, but sleeping now,” Mira said quietly, her voice carrying the remnants of emotion that hadn’t yet settled. “Sleeping peacefully, for the first time in… too long.”

Beverly nodded, unsure what to say that wouldn’t sound like a victory lap. “I’m glad,” she offered gently.

For a moment, neither moved. Then Mira took a step closer, her gaze locking with Beverly’s. “You’ve given me my son back,” she said, each word heavy with sincerity. “And I will be endlessly grateful for that.”

The unspoken but hung in the air between them until Mira let it fall.
“But…” She exhaled, glancing down the hall as if to make sure they were truly alone. “Aurelin never knew how sick Jolan was. He’s been… thankfully very occupied with these negotiations with your Federation. But he will notice, Beverly. He will see how quickly Jolan has improved.”

Beverly’s jaw tightened. She hadn’t thought this through. Or, if so, she’d successfully ignored it. “And then what?”

Mira shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. The traditions are… not gentle when they are broken. And you haven’t just bent them—you’ve cracked them in half.”

For a moment, Beverly was silent, the weight of Mira’s words pressing against the pulse still quick in her throat. She thought of the Prime Directive, of Jean-Luc’s steady insistence on working within its bounds, which she had done- to some degree - and returned to her own quiet decision to push these bound to its very limits. “I couldn’t do nothing,” she said finally defiantly, her voice quiet but firm.

Mira’s expression softened, though her worry remained. “I know. And I’m not sorry you did.” She hesitated, then added, “But Aurelin will be. That’s the truth we both have to live with.”

For a heartbeat, they stood together in the stillness of the corridor—two women bound by love for the same child, and by the knowledge that gratitude and danger could exist in the same breath.

Beverly leaned her shoulder against the wall, her arms loosely crossed, watching Mira’s expression shift under the weight of her own thoughts. “You know,” she said quietly, “it’s possible Aurelin will be grateful—despite the… circumstances. I only helped him fight.”

Mira gave a small, almost pitying shake of her head. “No. Gratitude won’t outweigh what he sees as dishonor. Not for this. He’s a good man, a gentle, sensitive being, but…” Her eyes darkened. “The only option for me will be to bluntly lie to him. And for the first time in my life, I consider lying to him… because it’s the only thing that will save our son. And you. And, I suspect, even Jean-Luc Picard.”

Beverly’s brows knit. “Lies have a way of unraveling.” She heard her counterpart sigh in quiet confirmation and struggled to come up with a reasonable solution which would pass for all of them. “What if…” she began, “we don’t give him the whole story, but not a real lie either? Something he can possibly live with. Think about Jolan, he has to confirm this, he has seen me doing things, use… devices.”

Mira tilted her head, curiosity breaking through her caution.

Beverly went on with more rigor, her tone thoughtful and firm. “I’ll do the talking with your son, he will listen to me… he’s very bright and will certainly understand the importance of a shared little secret. You, on the other hand, could tell your husband that I helped caring for Jolan… and he was strong enough to fully recover. That he fought it, whatever it was. We admit a fragment of the truth—a version he can keep in his mind without shattering the perfect façade of tradition.”

Mira’s lips pressed together in thought. Beverly could almost see the calculations moving behind her sparkling green eyes.

“And,” Beverly added, lowering her voice slightly, “when the contracts are finalized and new people from all over the Federation arrive, you keep sure, there are no boundaries for them to … interact, if you know what I mean.”

For the first time, a flush of color touched Mira’s cheeks. She blinked, then gave a short, startled laugh. “Doctor Picard, are you actually suggesting I orchestrate an influx of eligible… donors?”

Beverly’s mouth curved despite herself. “Call it… cultural and biological enrichment.”

Mira laughed again, shaking her head. “You really are a troublemaker.”

“Only when necessary.”

And though the air between them still carried the weight of risk, that flicker of humor hung there like a small, unexpected truce.

Beverly straightened, feeling the slow pull of fatigue under her skin. “For now, I should… get back. Finish a few things before Jean-Luc’s done with the council.”

Mira’s lips curved slowly, a knowing light in her eyes. “Mmh… yes… best to prepare. Something tells me tonight could … deliver decisive results for Starfleet’s future history books.”

Beverly froze for half a heartbeat, then turned a sharp look on her—one that didn’t quite mask the flush creeping up her neck. “Mira…”

“What?” The other asked, tilting her head innocently, though her smirk betrayed her. “I’m just saying… you seem like someone who’d be thorough in all her duties and deeds. “And if I were you, I’d want to be ready for whatever consequences the evening might bring.”

Beverly shook her head, huffing a quiet laugh despite herself, and stepped forward to hug her. “I’ll keep that in mind.” she murmured. “And for you and Jolan… I’m sure everything will be fine, you’ll see.” When she pulled back, Mira’s expression was softer, though the unspoken meaning lingered like perfume in the air.

Turning toward the direction of their private room, Beverly already felt the new strange mix of anticipation and unease at the sheer thought of seeing Jean-Luc tonight. Anything else was nothing more than pure speculation.

=/=

The council chamber was covered in warm afternoon light, the high glass arches catching and scattering the sun into thin, golden strands. Around him, voices murmured in measured cadence—Aurelin and the Skinoan councilors debating final clauses of the trade agreements—but Jean-Luc’s mind wasn’t entirely in the room.

Beverly’s voice from earlier still lingered in his ears: Dinner tonight?
The way she’d said it —cautious, almost fragile— like handling something that might break if pressed too hard. He had heard the hesitation, felt it in his bones, and it had stayed with him since.

He forced his focus back to the matter at hand, nodding politely as one of the councilors addressed him, but the words blurred against the low burn of another thought entirely: Philippa Louvois.

The memory of her in his quarters, the press of her hand, too-close, too familiar, the poisonous satisfaction in her eyes when Beverly had walked in… it made his jaw tighten even now.

He’d told Philippa—firmly, unequivocally—that whatever she thought she was doing, it was useless and long over. That dragging Beverly into some misguided personal vendetta was beneath her. And in the corridor afterward, he’d made it even plainer: she would not use Beverly to settle old scores with him. But she had already succeeded in something—she’d pushed Beverly’s limits, and hard.

And Beverly… had reacted.
Possessive. Jealous. Defensive in a way he had never quite seen from her before.

A corner of his mouth almost flinched at the strange, unfamiliar image and memory. He’d never wanted to see her hurt - damn, no - but when suddenly there had been that raw, unguarded truth written right across her face, he’d also realized: he mattered to her. Not in the polite, guarded way she’d always used to keep him at a distance, but in the deep, visceral way that came when something precious felt threatened.

And yet—he had been the cause of it. The reason for the hurt in her eyes. The reason she had lashed out. He had let Philippa corner him, allowed the moment to unravel far enough that Beverly had walked straight into the middle of it. And he had allowed, that his past had exposed them to the public of their ship.

Here he was—watching the fine threads of trust between himself and Beverly stretch taut, knowing Louvois had deliberately put her nails into them.

He wondered, with a pang, whether Beverly had been able to help Jolan with that newly achieved serum. Whether she had found a way and if this was working. He suspected she had—he knew that determination in her shoulders too well—but the thought brought with it a sharper, more dangerous edge: what price would she pay for it? And what price would they pay if Aurelin ever found out? Or… Philippa?

He drew a slow breath, looking across the long table at Aurelin now, speaking animatedly about cultural protections in the final draft of the treaty. The words barely registered. All Jean-Luc could think about was Beverly—his Beverly—her fire, her impossible stubbornness, her unshakable moral compass.

And in that moment, he realized something else entirely:
He couldn’t possibly love her more than he did right now.
Not because she was flawless—she wasn’t. But because of who she was, down to the marrow. The woman who would risk everything for a child, who would stand toe-to-toe with him in every fight, who would fight just as fiercely for him.

He sat straighter, interjecting smoothly into Aurelin’s point about tariff percentages, but the control was for show. Underneath, his mind was already moving toward tonight. Towards Beverly. Towards the conversation they still needed to have. About the fact, that he’d allowed his past and his mistakes intervene in the one thing he’d ever dreamed of because of his own cowardness to tell the truth.

If Philippa thought she’d forced his hand?
Well. She’d soon learn that Jean-Luc Picard did not allow his life—or the woman he cared for—to be maneuvered like a pawn.

*

The signing ceremony ended in a swell of polite applause, the deep tones of the Skinoan language echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the council hall. Picard stepped back from the table, the stylus still warm in his hand, and let the tide of dignitaries and aides flow around him. For the first time in days, the work was done.

He caught sight of Aurelin waiting near the wide staircase that curved down to the great entryway, his tall frame bathed in the warm spill of late afternoon light. Picard approached with measured steps, still carrying the air of formality, but Aurelin’s open, genuine smile cut through it.

“No matter how different we are, Captain,” The Skinoan began, his voice rich with sincerity, “the similarities are greater. I did not expect to feel that so strongly when this began.”

Picard inclined his head, allowing a small smile. “I would agree with that.”

Aurelin’s gaze shifted, keen and direct. “And where is your lovely doctor?”

The question made something twist low in Picard’s chest. Does he know? Has he seen Jolan? He schooled his features into polite neutrality. “She… had other pressing matters to attend to.”

Aurelin nodded thoughtfully, as though weighing the answer. Then he asked again, this time more softly, “Tell me, Jean-Luc… have you finally agreed to pursue the planning of your own children?”

For a heartbeat, Picard stilled, the question hitting him with more force than he expected. He read the intent in Aurelin’s eyes—not suspicion, not yet, but genuine curiosity laced with the assumption that their cultures might not be so far apart in this after all.

“I…” He drew in a slow breath, choosing his words carefully. “I have considered many things, Ambassador. Our future is among them.”

Aurelin’s smile deepened, a warm but knowing expression. “That is good. One should not wait too long to shape a legacy. Blood, after all, is the truest continuation of ourselves.”

Picard inclined his head again, the diplomat’s mask firmly in place, but beneath it his thoughts churned. If Aurelin ever learned what Beverly had done, the fragile ground they’d built here could collapse in an instant.

And yet, as he stepped aside to let Aurelin pass down the stairs, he realized something else entirely—if it came to a choice between protecting her and protecting the treaty, he already knew where his loyalty would fall.

“So, Captain,” Aurelin continued, the deep timbre of his voice carrying across the hall without effort. “It surely has been… more than business, this visit. And now, as this will likely be your last evening on Skinoa for some time, I would be honored if you and your wife joined us in my home. A final farewell, among friends.”

Picard slowed his breathing, his smile polite, but somewhere behind it was the faintest ripple of hesitation. Beverly’s voice from earlier in the day came back to him - Dinner tonight? - gentle, tentative, an opening that might not come again soon if he gambled to let it go.

“I appreciate the invitation, Ambassador,” he said carefully, “but there are already plans—”

Aurelin’s eyes glinted in the golden light, sharp enough to catch the pause. “Plans,” he repeated, the single word curling into something wry. “Yes… I have noticed that you are as much dedicated to your wife as she is to you.”

The phrasing—so matter-of-fact, so knowing—made Picard shift almost imperceptibly.

“Of course, I will extend the invitation to her personally,” Aurelin continued, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “and to your men. To spare you the trouble of approaching an… angry wife yourself.”

Picard’s brows drew together, though his tone remained measured. “Angry?”

Aurelin gave a faint shrug, the movement smooth but deliberate. “It is not my place to inquire into the… domestic tempests of another man’s household.” His gaze lingered, keen and unblinking. “But I have seen enough these past days to know you may welcome my intervention. Particularly when matters of family are concerned.”

The air between them cooled, subtle but undeniable. Picard recognized the deliberate restraint in Aurelin’s words—what was not being said often weighed more than what was. “A thoughtful gesture, Ambassador,” Picard replied evenly, his voice a touch lower.

Aurelin inclined his head, satisfied. “Then it is settled. I will see you both tonight.”

He turned, his long strides carrying him down the wide stairs, his silhouette briefly catching the fractured glow of the stained glass before slipping into shadow.

Picard remained at the landing, eyes drawn to the light spilling across the council hall floor—geometric, shifting, a pattern that would vanish when the sun set. Aurelin’s words lingered, abrasive and unshakable, like a grain of sand beneath the skin.

And in the silence that followed, he could not tell which unsettled him more—the ambassador’s insinuations… or the truth they brushed against.

*

The sterile hum of the corridor seemed sharper than usual, the soft underfoot thrum of the Enterprise’s engines a steady counterpoint to the tension knotted deep in Beverly’s chest. She kept her stride even, her posture composed, but every step toward Deck Eight carried a measured purpose.

She had told herself this wasn’t about confrontation—it was about clarity. About taking control of a situation before Philippa Louvois could twist it any further. But the truth was there, just under the surface: her temper was like a taut wire, ready to sing at the lightest pull. So, before seeing Jean-Luc again, she had to face yet another challenge.

The turbolift doors slid open with their soft, familiar hiss. She stepped inside, only to find Deanna Troi already there, her dark eyes lifting from a PADD.

“Beverly. Welcome on board.” Deanna greeted, warmth in her voice. But the warmth shifted to curiosity almost instantly, her empath’s senses brushing over Beverly like a gentle probe. The turbolift doors closed, granting the Counsellor the opportunity to let her gaze and mind linger. “You’re…conspicuously focused today.” She remarked, her dark eyes glinting with mischief and interest. “I guess ‘married life’ seems to suit you.”

Beverly pressed her lips together for a moment, as though that might hold the rest of her expression in check. “Funny, really. But I have to go to somewhere.”

Deanna tilted her head, studying her. “To somewhere… or to someone?” Her tone was light, but there was an edge of deliberate testing in it.

Beverly met her gaze, the calm mask in place but just barely. “Someone,” she admitted finally.

The lift hummed as it carried them upward. Deanna kept her gaze fixed on her friend, reading more than words could ever give her. The threads between Beverly and Jean-Luc Picard had always been there—probably long before she’d even joined the Enterprise. Old, tangled, rich with shared history. But now… something was different. Her radiance had definitely taken a new level and the barely palpable atmosphere between them had significantly changed as well. She’d felt the same new vibe when the captain had arrived the day before. It was warmer, more charged, as though some unspoken line had finally been physically crossed.

She definitely felt something in the subtle way Beverly’s emotions had transformed—less guarded, yet more volatile, the pull of desire braided tightly with something fiercer. Possession. Love she’d carried for as long as Deanna had known her, but now colored with the deep vulnerability of finally, possibly having him. Unfortunately, Deanna couldn’t tell where knowledge began and a friend’s dearest wish ended.

“I’ve seen you like this before,” she said softly, her voice pitched for privacy. “Determined. Contained. And I would die to press for all those dirty details… but…” Her gaze sharpened. “I realize there’s also something else. Hurt. Maybe even… anger.”

Beverly exhaled through her nose, the faintest shake of her head. “You sense too much.”

“That’s my job,” the smaller woman countered gently. “But it’s also my job to ask—are you sure you’re ready for whatever comes of this… trip you’re planning right now? She has caused a lot of anxiety among the crew over the past few days. I am uncertain whether it would be advisable to...”

“I’m ready for whatever she brings.” Beverly cut in, her jaw set.

There was no need to name Louvois; the slight narrowing of Deanna’s eyes said she already knew. Or had known, since meeting the foreign woman from Picards past for the first time. And… that she would pull Beverly’s trigger. The turbolift slowed, the well accustomed shift in weight preceding the soft chime. Beverly straightened, a flicker of heat in her sapphire eyes now, focused and unwavering.

Deanna’s voice followed her as the doors slid open. “Then at least remember—there’s more than one way to win a battle.”

Beverly didn’t answer. She simply stepped out, her pace unbroken, each step taking her closer to Philippa Louvois and whatever war the other woman was prepared to wage.

*

Philippa Louvois’ quarters were exactly as Beverly had imagined—stale without being cluttered, a space that spoke of someone who knew the value of appearances and the precision of their arrangement. The lighting was low, warm, calculated to flatter skin and hide flaws.

Beverly didn’t bother to ring the chime two times. The first had been polite enough she mused; swiftly entering her override code right into the small console. The door slid open to reveal Louvois at a small table, her long legs stretched out in a pose that was both casual and deliberate. A glass of deep red wine was poised in her hand, catching the light like blood.

“Well, if it isn’t the Enterprise’s finest,” Louvois purred, leaning back in her chair. “Come to deliver my check-up? Or… something more personal?”

Beverly stepped inside, letting the door hiss shut behind her. “I’m here because I think we should speak plainly.”

Philippa’s brows lifted, a slow smile curving her lips. “Plain talk? From you? That’s almost exciting.”

“I’m not here to be exciting,” Beverly replied evenly, but her eyes were sharp, the ice in them matched by the steady, controlled weight of her voice. “I’m here to tell you that whatever game you’re playing—whatever you think you can provoke—you won’t win.”

“Oh, Doctor,” Louvois sighed, swirling her wine, “you make it sound like a contest. This is merely… curiosity. Professional and otherwise.”

“Professional?” Beverly’s voice tightened, the edge in it clear. “Digging into my files without authorization? Questioning my staff? Circling my captain like some kind of vulture—don’t insult me by calling that professional.”

Philippa set her glass down with care, her challenging gaze locking on Beverly’s. “Your captain,” she echoed, drawing out the possessive until it turned into something pointed. “My, my… you’ve claimed him so openly now. How very unlike you.”

Beverly didn’t flinch, but the muscle in her jaw shifted. “I trust him. I respect him. And I won’t stand by while you try to undermine him either.”

Philippa rose, slow and graceful, closing the distance between them until Beverly could see the faint gleam of provocation in her pale eyes. “Trust,” she murmured, as if tasting the word. “You know, that’s the thing about trust—it takes so very little to break. One moment, one… suggestion.” Her smile sharpened. “And he’s never been immune to me.”

Beverly’s voice dropped, quieter but deadlier. “You overestimate your influence.”

“And you,” Philippa countered, tilting her head, “underestimate how badly I can wound you, Doctor. Not physically—oh, I would never. But reputation? Position? The image you and your precious captain have so carefully cultivated? I could unpick it thread by thread. And the best part? I’d never have to lie.”

Beverly took a measured step forward, closing that last inch of space between them, her voice low and steady. “Try it. And when you do, you’ll discover just how thoroughly I might fight back.”

For a moment, they stood there—two women locked in a silent, electric standoff, the hum of the ship around them like the steady beat of a war drum.

Philippa’s eyes glinted like a blade testing sunlight. She leaned forward, the air between them heavy with the kind of challenge Beverly had seen in rival surgeons before a critical procedure—except this one wasn’t about saving a life, it was about drawing blood.

“You know,” Louvois murmured, her voice silk wrapped around glass shards, “His affinity for fiery redheads is more than evident. It's no surprise he's attracted to you, even though you're just a poor imitation of me.” She tilted her head. “I almost admire you. It takes a certain… nerve… to think you can keep a man like Jean-Luc satisfied anyway. I wonder, though—does he close his eyes and remember me when you’re in his bed?“

Beverly’s breath caught, but she refused to give the reaction Philippa wanted. She locked her arms loosely across her chest instead, masking the heat that crept up her spine—not desire, but fury. You won’t see me flinch.

Philippa smiled at the silence, leaning just enough to brush past Beverly’s shoulder, her perfume clinging like an accusation. “He used to say I challenged him,” she went on, almost dreamily. “In ways no one else could. He liked my teeth… figuratively and otherwise.” She let the implication hang, poisonous and precise.

Beverly’s fingers tightened where they rested against her arm. She could feel her pulse in her temples. She wants me to lose control. She wants something she can use.

Philippa turned back toward her, folding her arms now in a mirror of Beverly’s stance. “Dites-moi, chère Madame le Docteur, how do you challenge him? With candlelit dinners in your quarters? With whispered medical advice when the lights are low? Or do you just rely on that quiet, loyal façade, hoping he never craves something… sharper, something more… enticing?”

Beverly inhaled slowly, willing her voice to stay calm even as her stomach coiled like wire. “You mistake devotion for dullness. And you mistake history for relevance.”

Philippa’s laugh was short, biting. “History always matters, doctor. Especially when it comes back to haunt you at the wrong moment.” Her eyes swept her up and down, lingering just a second too long. “But then, maybe you’ve never been the kind of woman who’s willing to get her hands dirty.”

That one landed, sharp as any scalpel. Images flickered in Beverly’s mind—Jolan’s pale face, the hypo in her hand, her oath as a doctor fighting against the Prime Directive. Or saving Jean-Luc’s sheer sanity and body in endless hours and days after the battle and his rescue at Wolf 359, when Starfleet had quickly, cowardly let him down. You have no idea how dirty my hands already are.

Philippa hovered directly in front of her, close enough that Beverly could feel the warmth of her breath. “I strongly recommend you to be careful, Doctor. Because if I decide to tug at a few threads, I don’t think your precious captain will be able to protect you. And wouldn’t it be a tragedy if he had to choose between you and Starfleet?”

Beverly’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “If you think he would choose you over me… you really haven’t been paying attention.”

The pause that followed was taut, humming like a live wire. Louvois’ eyes narrowed just slightly, a flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—passing through before her expression smoothed.

Beverly didn’t move right away. She let the silence stretch, let Philippa think for just a moment that she’d managed to hold the higher ground. Then she took a step back - slowly, deliberately – creating just a small gap to look her straight in the eye. Her voice was low, intimate in tone, but it carried the precision of a scalpel. “You know, Philippa… for someone so certain of her place in Jean-Luc’s past, you spend an awful lot of time worrying about his present.”

A flicker crossed Louvois’ face—too quick for most to catch, but Beverly saw it. That faint tightening around the mouth, the way her eyes sharpened just slightly, like a predator realizing it’s been cornered.

Beverly’s gaze held steady, the corners of her mouth tilting upward just enough to convey both amusement and victory. “You’re not the first woman to have shared a chapter with him. You just might be the only one still reading it out loud, hoping someone cares.”

She let the words hang between them, heavy and unflinching, then stepped further back, toward the door. Her parting glance was pure, level confidence—Crusher’s particular brand of poise when she’d landed a blow exactly where she intended. She paused in front of the doorway, letting her eyes sweep Philippa from head to toe in one slow, deliberate pass. “Good night, Mademoiselle Louvois.” she added, deliberately formal, the emphasis on her name and status a reminder of precisely where Philippa stood. “And don’t you dare to show up in his privacy again.”

Then she was gone, leaving Philippa standing motionless with her wine glass in hand—and a flare of color high on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

The door sealed with a soft hiss, and for a moment she didn’t move. She simply stood there, the stem of her wineglass balanced between her trembling fingers, her reflection caught in the dark pane of the viewport. Mademoiselle Louvois. Miss. What a goddamn b…

The words pulsed in her mind, poisonous in their simplicity. The smallest smile curved her lips, the same one she wore in court when she’d been struck clean across the jaw by a point she hadn’t seen coming. She’d smile then too—smile until she was alone.

And she was alone now.

The glass left her hand in a swift, violent arc, shattering against the far wall in a bloom of crimson and glittering shards. The sharp tang of wine and the acrid scent of her own temper filled the air.

She braced her hands against the table, leaning forward, head bent as her pulse drummed in her ears. “Damn her,” she hissed, the words slipping free in the empty room. “Damn her annoyingly intrusive magnetism … and damn him for being so stupidly swayed by it.”

Her mind replayed the scene in Picard’s quarters—how easily the ever so well-tempered doctor’s fury had risen, how quickly the cracks had shown just by tenderly nagging at her tightly wrapped shell. Louvois knew what those cracks meant. They were openings. Openings she could pry apart, widen until even Jean-Luc’s precious loyalty couldn’t bridge them.

She straightened, smoothing her hair back from her face, the picture of composure reforming like a mask sliding into place. In court, in negotiation, in the press of political warfare—this was where she thrived. And if the good doctor thought she’d walked away victorious tonight, she was sorely mistaken.

“Round two, my dear Doctor,” Philippa murmured, stepping over the splintered glass without a glance. “Let’s see if you’re still standing when I’ve had my say.”

The broken stem of the wineglass crunched under her heel, the sound sharp and final.

Chapter Text

Beverly’s quarters were lit in a warm glow, the kind that smoothed shadows but did nothing to quiet the restless current in her chest. She’d already discarded two dresses across the bed—one too formal, the other too obviously just for him. Her hands hovered over a third, the soft, crimson fabric slipping through her fingers as she weighed whether it said diplomatic farewell or I’ve missed you in ways words can’t touch.

The chime of an incoming call startled her. She spun toward her desk, heart leaping into her throat. Selar? Jolan? Something’s gone wrong—

But it was Aurelin’s face that filled the screen.

“Ambassador…” she said, her voice steadier than the little jolt in her pulse. “Is everything—”

“All well,” he cut in, smiling, though it carried the faint weight of formality. “I wished to invite you—you and your husband—to our home this evening for a farewell reception. Since you’ll leave us tomorrow.”

Beverly blinked, her mind running two tracks at once: relief that this wasn’t about Jolan, and irritation at the timing. “Does… the captain already know?” she asked carefully.

“Yes.” Aurelin’s mouth curved further, this time with something warmer—almost teasing. “I admit, frankly, he didn’t seem overjoyed. Clearly, he had intended to make your evening… unforgettable… surely, without us down here.” The pause in his phrasing was deliberate enough to draw a flush to her cheeks. “But since it is your last night, I felt it only right. And besides—Caty has been asking over and over when you will come back. She will be most disappointed if you are not there for at least a farewell.”

Beverly smiled despite herself, the image of the bright-eyed little girl softening some of the tension knotted in her chest. “Of course, she has.”

“I will send the details within the hour,” Aurelin continued, still watching her with that blend of host’s pride and a hint of amusement. “And Doctor… do not worry. We will not keep you late enough to ruin your… other plans.”

The comm closed before she could respond, leaving her standing in the quiet hum of her quarters, dress still clutched in her hands, thoughts pulled in two directions—toward the warmth of a child who adored her, and toward the man she loved, who she suspected would not be happy about this sudden change of plans either.

*

The room still smelled faintly of the steam from his shower, warm air drifting in from the balcony where the late afternoon’s light slanted through the trees. Picard set the last of his belongings neatly in his travel case, then paused to straighten the cuff of his pale linen shirt—simple, but chosen with care. The open collar, the cut of the fabric, the faint trace of cologne… all small concessions to the woman he expected to see tonight.

He could almost picture her expression when she walked in—surprise first, then that subtle softening in her truly magnificent eyes when she realized he had dressed solely for her. It wouldn’t make her forget the change of plans, but it might temper her disappointment. And later… well, later, he had every intention of ensuring this last night on Skinoa left them with something worth remembering.

He was just checking the time when the door chime sounded.

“Aurelin,” he greeted as the panel slid open, masking the flicker of surprise. “I thought we’d concluded the day’s diplomacy.”

The ambassador stepped inside, his posture relaxed but his eyes carrying that alert gleam that meant the upcoming conversation was not merely social. “We have,” Aurelin agreed, “but this is a different kind of diplomacy. A personal farewell… before tomorrow changes everything.”

Picard gestured toward the seating area, though Aurelin didn’t immediately take the invitation. “Beverly will be joining us shortly,” Picard said.

“So, I have heard,” Aurelin replied, a faint curve to his mouth. “You know, Jean-Luc, it is no small thing to us, to welcome someone into your home for such an occasion. It is as much a gesture of trust as any treaty we have signed.”

Picard inclined his head. “We are deeply honored.”

“And I,” Aurelin went on, his voice dipping into something almost conspiratorial, “hope you will forgive me for… interfering with your plans for the evening.”

Picard’s brows rose a fraction. Aurelin’s smile deepened at the reaction. “It is obvious to anyone with eyes that you had too little of your wife lately. But traditions are traditions—and you will find, Jean-Luc, that those who keep and cherish them sometimes reap unexpected rewards.”

Picard held his gaze, curious now. “Rewards?”

“Perhaps,” Aurelin said lightly, “a deeper understanding of those who stand beside you. Or perhaps simply a reminder of what you will be leaving behind or get while going further.” He paused, his black eyes flicking briefly toward the neatly made bed. “Either way, I thought it best to see you both tonight, before the stars claim your attention again.”

*

Transporter Room Two was awash in the steady, low hum of the pads, the air carrying that faint tang of ionization that lingered between beam-outs. The polished deck reflected the pale lightning from the console screens, and the gleam of dress braids and insignia caught in the reflection with every movement.

Worf stood at parade rest near the edge of the platform, his ceremonial baldric luminous against the crisp lines of his gala uniform. Beside him, Data’s posture was equally impeccable, though his hands were occupied with adjusting the exact angle of the clasp on his collar.

“You appear… agitated,” Data remarked in his neutral timbre, tilting his head as though studying a tactical readout.

“I am not agitated,” Worf replied, his voice carrying the low growl of restrained impatience. “I am… anticipating.”

Data considered this. “Ah. A state analogous to the human phrase ‘butterflies in the stomach’?”

Worf turned just enough to fix him with a glare. “Klingons do not compare battle-readiness to insects.”

From behind the transporter console, Riker leaned on one elbow, grinning as though he’d been waiting for exactly this opening. “No, but you do compare it to the heat of a thousand suns, the fury of the ancestors, and occasionally, something about drinking the hearts of your enemies. Which, by the way, is exactly what butterflies feel like to the rest of us.”

The Klingon’s glare deepened, but before he could counter, Data interjected with mild curiosity, “I fail to see the nutritional value in consuming a cardiac organ, but I understand the symbolism—”

The doors whispered open behind them, and the rest of Data’s sentence dissolved into silence.

The Enterprise’s CMO stepped into the room, the lighting catching the deep, jewel-toned crimson of her gown, the soft fabric flowing like liquid around her flawless curves as she moved. Her hair blazed in the transporter room’s cool atmosphere, every auburn strand alive, framing a face that carried both warmth and purpose. Her presence shifted the air immediately; the three men froze mid-breath.

Riker actually choked on nothing at all, straightening quickly and schooling his face into something approximating professionalism. “Doctor,” he said, his voice carrying that drawl that always edged toward trouble, “That’s not a dress, that’s a damn statement. You’re certainly going to start diplomatic incidents with that.”

Beverly’s smile was slow, knowing, a spark of amusement glinting in her eyes. “Then I’ll make sure to have my chief diplomat handle the fallout, Commander.”

Worf’s brows inched upward a hair’s breadth; Data blinked twice, no doubt cross-referencing her tone against his database of human banter.

Without breaking stride, she joined them, stepping onto the transporter-padd with a grace that made the move seem ceremonial. She came to stand between Worf and Data, her perfume—a subtle, warm note—drifting just far enough to reach Riker’s post.

He lifted a hand in mock salute, his smirk returning. “Alright. Energizing.”

The familiar shimmer of blue-white light engulfed the trio, scattering them into motes of energy before the room fell silent again.

Riker stayed at the console for a long moment, the grin slowly creeping back to his face. “If Louvois ever thought she’s competition… she always played in the wrong league.,” he murmured to himself, the thought clearly amusing him.

With an easy roll of his shoulders, he stepped away from the controls, still grinning as he left the transporter room behind.

***

The transporter shimmer gave way to the warm air of Skinoa, thick with the mingled scents of flowers, sweet spice, and the faint hint of the nearby sea. Aurelin’s estate unfolded before them—a graceful expanse of pale stone terraces, flanked by archways carved with curling, organic patterns that caught the orange-gold light of the late afternoon.

Beyond the main steps, the gardens swelled with a crowd. Clusters of Skinoans in rich silks and light-draped robes mingled with a scattering of a few Starfleet uniforms, their voices weaving into a tapestry of laughter, music, and the low hum of conversation. The horizon had begun its slow surrender to evening, the sun dipping toward the line where the sea met the sky, casting everything in a molten sphere of gold.

Beverly took a moment to drink it in before stepping off the platform, the fabric of her crimson gown trailing gracefully behind her. Worf flanked her on one side, radiating stoic vigilance, while Data kept pace on the other, his gaze scanning the crowd with precise calculation.

“Doctor,” Data said as they descended the broad steps into the gathering, “earlier, in the transporter room, Commander Riker referred to your attire as ‘a statement.’” His head tilted, the question hanging just beneath the flat delivery. “Could you clarify the intended meaning of this phrase in the current context?”

Beverly’s lips curved into a faint smile. “It means, Mr. Data… that sometimes what you wear says more than words ever could.”

Before he could dissect that, a delighted voice cut through the crowd. “Dooley!”

Caty, blonde and barefoot despite her elaborate little tunic, came tearing toward them, Mira following at a more measured pace in a flowing gown of deep emerald. The girl barreled straight into Beverly, her small arms wrapping around her legs before she tipped her head back to beam up at her.

Mira reached them, her smile warm but her eyes glinting with that quiet, assessing intelligence Beverly had come to respect. “Welcome,” she said, her gaze flicking briefly to Worf’s imposing presence and Data’s polite nod before returning to Beverly. “You’ll find half the city here tonight, I think. Everyone wants to see you before you leave.”

The moment they stepped deeper into the estate’s terraced gardens, the crowd seemed to fold around them—Skinoan courtiers, Federation officers, aides and attendants. Compliments flowed easily: the Skinoans praised the elegance of Starfleet’s delegation, while Beverly returned warm remarks about the grace of their hosts and the beauty of the gathering. The air shimmered with the scent of citrus blossoms and something darker—spiced wine being poured into delicate crystal goblets.

A dignitary in robes of pale blue drifted toward them, greeting Worf with a deep bow that was returned in a clipped, formal nod. Another, curious about Federation cybernetics, promptly engaged Data, who launched into an unhurried, precise explanation. Within moments, both men were swept into separate knots of conversation, leaving Beverly free to feel the subtle pressure of Mira’s hand at her elbow.

“Come,” Mira murmured, guiding her toward a quieter edge of the gathering where the din of voices softened to a pleasant background hum. “It’s been too long since we spoke without interruptions.”

They lingered in the shade of a flowering archway, the light filtering through leaves that trembled in the sea breeze. Mira’s expression held something almost secretive. “Jolan…” she began, her voice softening. “He’s improved more than I dared to hope.”

Beverly’s breath caught, a wave of relief threading through her chest. “I’m so glad,” she said quietly, the words carrying more weight than the moment allowed.

Mira tilted her head toward the far end of the terrace. “Just see for yourself.”

Beverly followed her gaze. Across the crowd, near a low stone balustrade that overlooked the gardens, Jean-Luc stood with Jolan. The boy’s posture was straighter, his movements no longer dulled by fatigue. He was smiling—really smiling—as Jean-Luc rested a hand on his small shoulder, speaking with quiet intensity. The boy listened as though every word was worth keeping.

The sight hit Beverly like a slow, deep ache. The mixture of pride, gratitude, and something sharper—longing—rose so swiftly it left her breathless. She had thought she’d seen every facet of Jean-Luc Picard, but watching him with Jolan—gentle, attentive, protective—showed her yet another piece of him.

Her heart cracked at the simple beauty of it.

Mira’s gaze followed Beverly’s line of sight, and a slow, knowing smile curved her lips. She didn’t speak—she didn’t need to. The look on Beverly’s face said enough: open, unguarded, aching in a way that betrayed every carefully built wall.

Caty came skipping into view, darting around their skirts like a sunlit sparrow. “I played with Jolan today,” she announced proudly, her pale-blue eyes sparkling. “Even though he’s a boy.” She wrinkled her nose at the confession, as though that single fact still held weight.

Before Beverly could reply, Caty spun away in a burst of giggles, heading straight for the balustrade where Jean-Luc and Jolan stood. Jean-Luc had leaned slightly toward the boy, listening with the kind of patience Beverly knew so well—patience most thought he reserved for negotiation tables and tense briefings.

Caty was too quick; her little shoes skidded against the smooth stone, and she nearly collided into him. Jean-Luc turned sharply at the sound, his reflexes honed over decades catching her before she could stumble. He pulled her up into his arms with ease, settling her against one hip.

And then his gaze shifted—past Caty’s hair, past Jolan’s curious glance—and landed on Beverly and Mira across the terrace.

His breath caught.

For a heartbeat, the crowd and the hum of conversation ceased to exist. She stood in the last slant of the sinking sun, setting fire to her hair, weaving copper and flame through every strand. The crimson gown clung in all the right places, a perfect balance of elegance and understated provocation. He could see the rise and fall of her breath, the subtle tension in her posture, the glint in her eyes that was all at once challenge and invitation.

Heat pooled low in his chest, blooming outward. Warmth. Recognition. And a sharp, quiet yearning that surprised him with its ferocity.

The sun slid lower, shadows lengthening, as though even the light lingered just to catch her in its final radiance.

And then—without a word—he simply smiled at her.

It wasn’t the polite, measured expression he wore for councils and formal receptions. It was softer, deeper… the kind of smile that reached his eyes and lingered there, unguarded. A smile that carried resolve, the steady certainty of a man who had already chosen where his loyalties, his heart, belonged.

Beverly felt it hit her like a warm current, threading through her chest and stealing her breath for the span of a heartbeat. Her pulse fluttered in response, unbidden. She didn’t move, didn’t dare, afraid the spell might break if she so much as blinked.

For that very perfect moment, with the low sun and the sea breeze lifting the edges of her gown, it didn’t matter who was watching. The world narrowed to the space between them—spanned by nothing more than his gaze and the quiet knowledge of what they both carried in their hearts.

And she loved him for it. Entirely, helplessly, with a depth she wasn’t sure she’d ever put into words.

Mira cleared her throat softly beside Beverly—not loud enough to draw attention from anyone else, but enough to break the spell hovering between them. There was amusement in her eyes, though, and a faint blush on her cheeks; for all her poise, she was a hopeless romantic herself, and she knew it.

Over by the balustrade, Jean-Luc bent slightly toward Jolan, his hand still resting lightly on the boy’s shoulder. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “So, tell me, Jolan… who do you think our doctor is looking at so intently? Surely, the most stunning man in the room—but is it me, or you?”

Jolan’s grin was instant, his reply quick as a blade. “You, of course—because she’s saving me for later.”

Jean-Luc’s laugh was quiet, genuine, the kind that softened the lines of command on his face. He gave the boy’s shoulder a warm squeeze just as Beverly and Mira began to cross the terrace toward them, their gowns like two flames moving through the crowd.

For a brief moment, everything—the negotiations, the danger, the politics—fell away, leaving only the easy warmth between them, threaded with something far stronger, far more dangerous.

The women reached them in a slow, unhurried approach, as if neither was willing to break the unspoken tension too quickly. Caty, still perched on Jean-Luc’s hip, beamed at Beverly and reached for her with eager little hands. Beverly’s fingers brushed over Jean-Luc’s as she took the girl, the barest graze of skin—enough to send a spark up his arm.

“Doctor,” he said with a polite nod, his voice just a shade warmer than protocol required. “You look awesome.”

“Captain,” she returned, equally formal, though her eyes betrayed her, lingering on his in a silent conversation of their own. “The same goes for you. “

The corner of his mouth tilted—so small a movement it could have been imagined.

Mira stood to the side, watching with the faintly indulgent air of someone who knew far more than she let on. Jolan stepped forward, now tall enough that Beverly noticed the subtle improvement in his balance and coloring. She set Caty down and bent to greet him, her palm briefly on his back, but her gaze flicked up to Jean-Luc’s for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

He caught it. Of course, he caught it.

Jean-Luc shifted his stance as they exchanged pleasantries with Jolan and Mira, his hand finding the small of Beverly’s back as though guiding her subtly through the crowd. The touch was barely there, his fingers grazing the silk of her gown, but her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. She kept her tone even as she asked Jolan about his evening, but the heat between them was palpable, pulsing quietly beneath the veneer of casual conversation.

When he closed the distance—only to hear her better in the noise—she caught the faint scent of his cologne, warm and grounding. She straightened just a fraction too slowly, their shoulders brushing in a way that could be dismissed as accidental, but neither of them moved away.

In the fading light, their eyes met again—just for a heartbeat—and the air between them shifted. Still formal, still entirely appropriate… and yet charged with a private fire only they felt.

*

The crowd's current slowed them down, as did the discreet departure of the ambassador’s family, which created a gentle eddy in the flow of guests. Voices swelled and faded around them, but for a moment, they stood still, half-turned toward one another.

Jean-Luc leaned in, close enough that the warmth of his breath brushed her ear. “I’m really sorry,” he murmured, low and earnest— an echo of the words he’d already given her, the sincerity in them as sharp as the memory of the moment he was apologizing for.

Beverly sighed and turned toward him, her high heels bringing her just above his eye level. For a beat, he searched her expression for the lingering spark of her still flaring anger—half expecting the cool deflection or biting remark that would tell him she was still nursing it. But there was nothing of the sort. Only something quieter, steadier.

Before he could puzzle over the change, she leaned in and kissed him—tender, deliberate, nothing ostentatious but enough to still every passing thought in his mind. Enough to make him aware, all at once, of how deeply the crowd around them had receded.

When she stepped back, there was the ghost of a knowing smile on her mouth before she moved forward again, letting the crowd carry them toward the reception.

He followed, his mind running with a single question: Have I missed something? Where has her anger gone? He had been braced for more heat, more edge, but instead she seemed to have slipped it aside—and that unsettled him more than any open confrontation could have. And for all his skill at reading people, for all the years he had known her, he found himself wondering if there was a truth beneath her gaze that he had yet to uncover.

Beverly, for her part, was quietly satisfied. This Louvois person had been successfully pulled from the pedestal she’d herself put on, cleanly, professionally and without leaving a large battlefield Jean-Luc would notice. There was no need to trouble him with that small victory—especially not tonight. Instead, she chose to turn the tide of the moment.

“How was your talk with Jolan?” she asked, her voice smooth, lightly curious.

*

The balcony above the main hall was a quiet perch compared to the thrumming crowd below. The marble floor below caught the sinking sun pouring in through the high arched windows, gilding the scene in a shimmering haze. The air up here smelled faintly of wine and polished wood.

Worf stood with his arms crossed, posture rigid, eyes sweeping the crowd like a sentry. Beside him, Data had adopted a similar stance, though his head tilted slightly as he focused on two particular prominent figures moving through the sea of guests.

They both watched as Beverly Crusher stopped with Jean-Luc Picard in the midst of the crowd, the ebb and flow of people parting briefly around them. There was a brief exchange, too low for either to hear, and then, quite without ceremony, she kissed him.

Data’s head tilted by exactly twelve degrees. “Their skills in theatrical pretense have improved significantly since our arrival on Skinoa. They are convincingly embodying the premise of a married couple. The captain appears to derive genuine enjoyment from the role.”

Worf’s grunt was low and knowing. “Could be because none of this is a role.”

Data turned his gaze slightly toward him. “Ah, that would explain the elevated oxytocin levels I have recorded in both of them during the past forty-eight hours. It would suggest an authentic romantic attachment between them. Given recent statistical patterns—body language, sustained eye contact, and the fact that she has, on three separate occasions, touched his face without necessity—it is probable.”

“That’s not probability,” Worf replied, “that’s fact.”

Data considered this. “Then I shall adjust my parameters. Fact: the captain is… physically involved… with Doctor Crusher.” He paused, head tilting again. “Do you think this will alter Commander Riker’s position in the betting pool? He currently holds three wagers on them, two of which require confirmation of… bodily consummation.”

Worf exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving the crowd. “We should speak to him. The winning pot will have increased. Dramatically.”

“Indeed. I calculate a seventy-two percent increase in total credits wagered since the beginning of the diplomatic mission.” Data clasped his hands behind his back, tone still utterly devoid of embarrassment. “I am also curious as to whether their… encounters… occurred before or after the commencement of the mission. This detail could impact both payouts and the validity of certain bets.”

Worf turned his head toward him, one brow lowering. “You’re suggesting we ask the captain.”

“I am suggesting,” Data said, entirely unruffled, “that we inquire through a less direct route. Perhaps Commander Riker, at least he came up with these marriage plans, or Counselor Troi. She may have… sensed… something.”

Worf grunted again, the sound somewhere between amusement and disapproval. “You ask her.”

“I will,” Data said without hesitation. His gaze returned to the couple below. “For purposes of research.”

There was a pause, then Worf added, “And for the pot.”

“Correct.”

They stood there for a moment longer, silent save for the murmur of the crowd below—until Data, as if only now considering the optics of their surveillance, added mildly, “If they were to look up and see us watching, it might be interpreted as… inappropriate.”

“They won’t,” Worf replied flatly. “They’re definitely too occupied with each other.”

Below, the captain and the doctor continued to blur the line between diplomacy and something far more personal.

Data’s gaze shifted, pupils narrowing slightly in recognition. “Lieutenant… observe, three o’clock from the captain’s position.”

Worf followed his line of sight. Through the undulating press of dignitaries and Skinoan officials came Philippa Louvois, not in uniform but in an elegantly cut civilian gown that moved like liquid silver in the fading light. Her auburn hair was down, catching the last remains of the downing sun as she navigated the crowd with a smile that was… deliberate.

“She does not seem to be here merely for a kind farewell,” Data observed.

“No,” Worf growled. “She moves with purpose. Like a predator that already knows its prey.”

Data’s head tilted. “I have recorded multiple instances of her engaging members of the crew in unsolicited conversation since her arrival. Commander Riker, Counselor Troi, Doctor Selar… even Ensigns Marlowe and Chen.”

Worf made a low sound. “Riker told me she visited his quarters—late—bringing wine. Left unsatisfied.”

“Counselor Troi reported,” Data continued with clinical neutrality, “that Louvois asked her to ‘share any empathic impressions’ regarding the captain and Doctor Crusher. The Counselor declined.”

“When she tried Selar in Sickbay,” Worf added. “She asked not only about medical logs and their late projects, but about personal insights in her superiors relationship habits… anything to ‘satisfy curiosity.’ The doctor escorted her out without touching her, which is a feat in itself.”

Data blinked once. “She also approached me in Engineering. Asked whether the captain and the doctor’s ‘colleague status’ had ever… evolved… into something more. I informed her I had no authority to classify the nature of their interpersonal dynamic. She seemed dissatisfied.”

“Persistent,” Worf said.

“Predatory,” Data countered.

They watched as Louvois paused to greet a pair of Skinoan council members, her smile warm and utterly convincing—yet her eyes kept flicking toward the captain’s whereabouts.

“She is… assessing,” Data concluded.

“She is plotting,” Worf corrected.

Data considered this. “If her intent is to challenge Doctor Crusher’s position in relation to the captain, the outcome could be statistically unpredictable.”

Worf grunted, this time with a faint curl of his mouth. “Statistically? No. The doctor is very capable of defending what is hers.”

“You are confident?”

“I trained her,” Worf said simply. “Hand-to-hand combat. She learns quickly. And she has… motivation.”

Data absorbed that without comment, though his gaze lingered on Crusher now, her attention briefly snagged by Louvois’ approach.

“Then,” he said at last, “this may be… educational.”

“Or entertaining,” Worf replied.

“Or both.”

They both kept their eyes on Louvois as she threaded through the clusters of Skinoan dignitaries, every movement calculated, every smile just a shade too precise.

“She will not retreat,” Worf said at last, voice pitched low. “Not when she believes she still has a chance.”

Data regarded him. “Statistically, it is highly improbable that she would secure a relationship with the captain given his current… alignment. Yet I agree—her behavioral pattern indicates a refusal to acknowledge a closed opportunity.”

Worf’s eyes narrowed. “When she realizes her ship has sailed long ago, she will press harder. Push limits. Perhaps attempt to discredit the doctor. Or blackmail our captain.”

Data turned to him fully. “You believe a Starfleet Commander and advocate would escalate to that level?”

“I know Commander Louvois would,” Worf replied without hesitation. “And so does Commander Riker. We have made preparations in case such an… scenario arises.”

Data’s brow rose slightly. “Preparations?”

“Discreet watchfulness. Quietly alerting certain allies among the crew and beyond. Making sure there are no… gaps… in the captain’s and the doctor’s security and privacy.” Worf’s gaze shifted briefly toward Beverly, radiant in the evening light, then back to Louvois. “If she tries, she will find no opening.”

Data processed that, his voice neutral. “I am inclined to believe Captain Picard’s ability to negotiate his way out of such a scenario would also be considerable.”

“Our doctor’s temper and assertiveness are far more reliable,” Worf countered, a faintly amused growl in his throat. “If it comes to a fight, I know where to place my bet.”

Data considered for precisely half a second. “A new bet, Lieutenant?”

Worf allowed himself the ghost of a grin. “Naturally.”

*

Philippa Louvois moved like smoke through the Skinoan crowd, the low swell of conversation and the clink of crystal an easy mask for her own quiet focus. The late sun threw long shadows across the courtyard, gilding the edges of everything it touched—Beverly Crusher included.

There they were. Picard and his doctor, orbiting each other with the ease of two people who’d forgotten how to keep their distance. The glances. The faint touches. The little lean of her shoulder toward his. All of it so subtle they might as well have been performing for the whole damn room.

Plan Six on her mind’s chart teased the back of her attention for a moment. The old card—nostalgia, seduction. There’d been a time when she could have cut in there, brushed his hand with hers, and had him remembering a Paris balcony and the weight of her hair against his cheek. But that was years and wars ago. She’d realized it with full force in his quarters, his stiffening posture, his awkwardness feeling her sudden, physical approach. Jean-Luc Picard now was a fortress. A fortress that happened to be letting a certain red-haired doctor inside its walls.

And Philippa Louvois never wasted her siege weapons on a fortress that had already chosen its queen.

No. Sentiment was for amateurs.

Plan Two, however… that had claws. And Crusher was obliging enough to hand her the threads. Those secretive glances with the Vulcan in Sickbay, the low-voiced conversations she’d walked in on, those tantalizing half-heard words—Prime Directive… genetic… secrecy. All it would take was one sharp tug in the right place.

She watched Crusher laugh at something Picard murmured. That warmth, that looseness—it was an opening. Louvois didn’t need to expose her here, not yet. This was reconnaissance. Measuring the strength of the bond, looking for the seams. Picard revered the Prime Directive; Crusher bent it like warm metal. If Louvois could find proof that the doctor had already overstepped…

A whisper to the right Skinoan dignitary, a formal inquiry to Starfleet Command, and she’d have them both on the defensive. The beautiful part? She wouldn’t need to invent a thing. Just… interpret.

Philippa’s lips curved as she drifted past a group of Skinoan officials, offering them the kind of smile that promised she might be worth talking to later. Her eyes, however, stayed fixed on Picard and Crusher.

The hunt was always best when the prey didn’t yet know it was being stalked. And tonight, the game had well and truly begun.

*

Louvois let her slow drift through the crowd take her toward the balustrade. That was where she found Mira—alone for the moment, a glass of some pale, sparkling Skinoan drink in hand, her eyes following her daughter’s darting path between guests.

Philippa adopted her warmest, most disarming smile, the one that said I’m simply here to chat.
“Ambassador’s wife,” she greeted smoothly, voice low and conversational. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. Commander and Judge Advocate Philippa Louvois.”

Mira returned the smile with polite caution. “Mira Tareth. And you serve with Jean-Luc?”

“Not exactly serve,” Louvois said lightly, stepping closer, her dress brushing the warm stone as she leaned on the balustrade beside her. “We’ve… worked together before. I like to keep an eye on my old colleagues.” She let her gaze slide briefly toward the captain and Beverly before turning it back to Mira, as if the look had been nothing at all. “His wife however—is remarkable. Very… committed to her patients.”

Mira’s brow lifted, faintly wary. “She is.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Louvois let a gentle laugh escape, soft as if she were sharing a harmless observation. “Though I imagine commitment like that can sometimes… test the boundaries of protocol and marriage.” She tilted her head, as if curious, as if simply making conversation. “She must care a great deal for your family as well. Quite astonishing after such a short amount of time being here.”

“She does,” Mira said, a little too promptly. Then, after a beat, more firmly: “She’s been a great help.”

Philippa let the silence draw out just enough to make Mira feel the space she was leaving unspoken. Then she sipped her drink, eyes idly on the horizon. “I suppose… when someone’s that dedicated, they’d do anything to protect the people they care for. Even if it meant… bending a few rules.”

Mira’s gaze flicked to her sharply, and Louvois caught it, storing it away like a chess piece she’d just moved into check. She gave a faint shrug, smoothing over the moment with another pleasant smile. “Well. That’s what makes a great doctor, I suppose.”

From somewhere across the crowd, laughter from Beverly reached them—clear, unguarded. Louvois’ pale eyes followed the sound, then flicked back to Mira with polite interest. “It must be… comforting, having her so close to the captain as well. A united front to work with.”

Mira’s lips curved, but it was a guarded expression now. “It is.”

Philippa smiled as if satisfied, but her mind was already spinning through the implications. The way Mira had tensed. The careful choice of words. There was something there—and Louvois intended to find it.

Philippa didn’t linger. You never stayed too long in one spot if you wanted the other player to wonder which move you were making next. She let the conversation with Mira trail off into polite farewells, her last words wrapped in silk: “I do hope we’ll speak again before the night is out. It’s always fascinating, learning how the Federation’s finest navigate… difficult situations.”

Mira’s glass paused halfway to her lips at that, but Louvois was already drifting back into the flow of the crowd, the hem of her dress whispering against the flagstones.

She wove herself between clusters of Skinoan officials and Starfleet officers, exchanging smiles and murmured acknowledgments without ever stopping. Her destination was clear: the far side of the terrace where Picard and Beverly stood in easy proximity, their posture saying more than any words could.

From here, she could watch without appearing to watch.

Beverly’s hand lingered a heartbeat too long on Picard’s sleeve as she spoke. He leaned in—not much, but enough that Louvois could see the faint softening at the corner of his mouth. When the doctor smiled disarmingly at something he murmured, he looked at her with that particular Picard expression: private, indulgent, utterly unguarded.

Philippa studied it like a scientist examining a rare specimen. And… he’d never looked at her like that—not even at their closest. And that, she decided, was useful knowledge.

Her gaze dropped to Beverly’s dress—second-skin perfection wrapping a flawless figure with never-ending legs, clearly chosen to set tongues wagging. Louvois could almost admire the woman’s nerve. Almost.

The crowd shifted and someone stepped between her and her quarry, but Philippa didn’t mind. She’d seen enough. Their body language spoke volumes: this wasn’t some mild shipboard flirtation or the easy camaraderie of long service, nor the pretense of a marriage used as a cover for Starfleet’s benefit. Philippa fortunately knew him. Whatever they pretended they were playing, this was nothing close to it.

This was entanglement. And entanglement was leverage.

The Prime Directive trap was no longer just a possibility—it was a live weapon.

Philippa let herself be drawn into idle chatter with a Skinoan dignitary, every inch the relaxed guest, while her mind mapped out her next move. The game was tightening, and she intended to be the one holding the checkmate when the board finally cleared.

*

Jean-Luc’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes tracked over Beverly’s shoulder to the slow, deliberate movement on the far edge of the crowd. Louvois.

He’d known she’d be here—of course she would—but the way she moved through the Skinoans and Starfleet officers alike, pausing just long enough to look like she belonged before slipping to the next vantage point, made his stomach tighten. That wasn’t mingling. That was hunting.

“Something wrong?” Beverly’s voice was low, meant only for him.

He shifted his focus back to her. “No,” he said, and almost believed it himself. Almost. “I’m just… assessing the room.”

Her lips curved faintly, that knowing little half-smile that told him she could feel the tension radiating from him. “You’re supposed to be celebrating, Jean-Luc.”

He reached for her hand, letting the touch ground him. “I am. Right here.”

And it was true. In this pocket of space between them, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, even the endless polite chatter of the farewell seemed distant. She was wearing that dress like it had been designed to undo him, and he suspected she knew exactly what it was doing to him.

But Louvois was still out there, a shadow flitting just outside their little circle. He’d already spotted her speaking with Mira. That, more than anything, worried him. Mira wasn’t trained for this kind of verbal chess, and Louvois wouldn’t hesitate to use her as a lever.

Beverly’s gaze flicked toward where he’d been watching earlier, but Louvois had melted back into the crowd. “She’s here, right?” Beverly murmured. Not a question.

He nodded. “And she’s not here to wish us well.”

Her fingers tightened around his, the only outward sign of her reaction. “Then we make sure she doesn’t get what she’s looking for.”

He almost smiled at the steel in her voice. Almost. But beneath the words, he heard the undercurrent of something else—protectiveness, not just for him, but for what they’d begun to build between them.

“Beverly,” he said quietly, leaning closer as though to comment on the party itself, “When we return to the ship, I want you to stay with me. Tonight. Don’t give her an inch.”

She met his gaze for a long beat, then—softly, but with a glint in her eyes and slightly bewildered by his still visible uncertainties, she said “She’s not getting one.” His request also meant staying the night, in his quarters, for the first time, despite returning back to official, which felt... sufficiently convincing, at last.

Across the crowd, Louvois reappeared, her expression pleasant, her eyes anything but. Jean-Luc smoothed his expression into that perfect captain’s mask, but his thumb brushed over Beverly’s hand like a private signal: We hold the line.

Beverly let her gaze drift over the terrace, then back to him, her lips quirking. “You’re staring again.”

“At you?” he murmured. “I thought that was allowed.”

“It is,” she said, drawing out the words with a teasing tilt of her head. “But people might start to think you’re besotted.”

“They’d be right.” His reply was quiet, but there was no mistaking the conviction.

She looked away, cheeks warming despite herself, and muttered, “Charmer.”

He leaned just a little closer, enough that she could feel the heat of him even in the cooling evening air. “Only for you, Mrs. Picard.”

Her blush deepened at the deliberate use of the name, the faint smile tugging at her mouth betraying that it was working exactly as intended. “Still no audience here that needs convincing, Jean-Luc,” she murmured, though she didn’t move away.

“Perhaps I’m not trying to convince them.”

Before she could fire back, movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention. Louvois. Approaching with the grace of a diplomat and the precision of a predator, her pleasant expression an almost flawless mask. Almost—because Beverly caught the glint underneath.

Jean-Luc straightened, his hand still loosely around Beverly’s. Louvois’ gaze flickered between them as she closed the gap, every step measured.

“Jean-Luc. Doctor.” Her tone was smooth, cordial enough to pass in polite company, but there was a weight in the air now. “I wondered if I might steal a moment of your precious time.”

Beverly felt Jean-Luc’s grip tighten fractionally. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head—not here, not now.

Before either of them could respond, a familiar voice cut across the space. “Ah, Captain Picard!”

Aurelin appeared as if conjured by the gods of timing, moving between Louvois and his targets with effortless authority. “Forgive me for interrupting, but we are about to begin the final toast, and I cannot allow my honored guest to miss it.”

He smiled at Louvois with diplomatic courtesy, but the subtext was clear: You’re not needed here and I don’t want you around.

Philippa’s smile didn’t falter, but Beverly caught the faint tightening around her eyes. “Of course,” she said, stepping back. “We’ll speak later, Jean-Luc.”

He inclined his head politely, though he didn’t miss the way her gaze lingered on Beverly a moment too long before she turned away.

Aurelin gestured toward the far end of the terrace, where the crowd was beginning to gather. “Come,” he said lightly. “The evening is short, and it would be a shame to waste it on anything but celebration.”

Jean-Luc offered his arm to Beverly, and she took it. As Aurelin led them away, she leaned in just enough for him to hear her whisper, “Saved by the ambassador.”

He gave a quiet huff of agreement. “For now.”

*

From her vantage point at the edge of the terrace, Philippa Louvois studied the scene like a tactician reviewing a battlefield map.

Picard and Crusher—standing just close enough to send the right signals without telling too much, but their bodies angled toward one another in a way that spoke of private intimacy. The ambassador, Aurelin Tareth, hovering nearby with that practiced air of someone who considered himself master of his domain.

She had tried the direct route with Picard before. It hadn’t worked—not yet. But Aurelin… Aurelin might be pliable, given the right angle. She’d already tested the waters with a few subtle questions earlier in the evening, gauging his reactions. She had left that conversation knowing one thing for certain: men like Aurelin valued their traditions above all else. Which meant they had pressure points.

Slipping between clusters of Skinoan dignitaries and Starfleet uniforms, she closed the distance once more. Her smile was warm, her voice pitched low and conversational when she addressed him. “Ambassador Tareth… might I…”

Aurelin saw her before she could finish, his expression shifting instantly. He turned, not toward her, but toward Beverly.

“Ah, doctor,” he said with a bright, almost theatrical cheer, “would you honor me with another dance? I must say that I derived considerable pleasure from the previous occasion."

Beverly blinked, caught off guard. “I… of course.”

He extended his hand, and she took it, still a fraction behind the moment, but already being drawn toward the center of the terrace where music was beginning to swell.

Louvois slowed her step, the calculated interruption cutting neatly across her approach. The ambassador had just walked her intended mark out of reach… and left Picard standing alone.

She allowed herself the faintest of smirks. Sometimes, fortune plays the same game.

From across the crowd, Jean-Luc glanced after Beverly, clearly surprised at the turn of events, before feeling a shift in the air beside him.

“And again… you‘re watching just her.”” Philippa said smoothly, stepping into his orbit with all the casual grace of someone who absolutely belonged there. “But you’re alone at last,” Philippa Louvois said smoothly, her smile perfectly practiced as she drifted closer. “Not something that happens to you very often, is it, Jean-Luc?”

He turned, already schooling his face into neutrality, but she was smiling faintly, her hair loose around her shoulders, her dress a calculated elegance that spoke of intent. “Good evening again, Philippa.”

She tilted her head. “Evening, yes. Though I can’t help but wonder if you’ve noticed how very much of your evenings seem to… orbit around her.”

His jaw tightened, but he gave no response.

Philippa took a step closer, circling just enough that he was forced to either follow her with his gaze or turn his back. She chose for him.

“She is… accomplished, I’ll grant you. A talented physician, a capable officer, a woman of presence.” Her eyes lingered on Beverly across the terrace. “But then again, I shouldn’t be that surprised, when you’ve always had a taste for flame-haired women who speak their minds, haven’t you?”

Jean-Luc’s gaze flicked sharply back to her, but she continued before he could interject. “Of course,” she went on, her tone still airy, “talent does not always mean discretion. Passion is a dangerous quality in a Starfleet officer, let alone in a commanding officer’s—companion. One has to wonder where her boundaries end. Professionally. Personally.”

His expression hardened, though his voice remained quiet. “Doctor Crusher has earned her place here through dedication and skill. I will not stand for her reputation to be questioned.”

“Oh, Jean-Luc.” Philippa’s smile widened, her voice dropping lower, silk over glass. “I’m not questioning her reputation. I’m questioning your choice. You—of all people—abandoning your carefully laid life for someone who doesn’t know the meaning of restraint. Tell me, what exactly is it that you find so compelling? Her mind? Her loyalty? Her… unnerving infinite legs?” She leaned in, her breath brushing his ear. “Or something even more ordinary, more physical? Does she give you something you never had from me?”

He stiffened, fury simmering beneath his calm exterior, but she stepped back with a serene little smile, as if nothing in her words had been improper. “Just a curiosity,” she added smoothly. “A man of your precision doesn’t often choose chaos.”

Jean-Luc braced himself, a terrific answer forming on his tongue, when Mira appeared—radiant, deliberate, her hand extended like a shield. “Captain Picard,” Mira said brightly, appearing at his side with the effortless timing of someone who knew when to intercede. Her eyes were clear, her smile easy as she extended her hand toward him. “Would you do me the honor of a dance as well?”

Jean-Luc turned, startled. Of all people, he had not expected her. But her timing was impeccable—and he knew, instantly, she had just thrown him a lifeline.

Philippa’s expression faltered by a fraction, but she recovered almost at once, her smile sharpening into something practiced. “How fortunate for you, Captain. It seems you are in demand tonight.”

Mira slipped her hand into his, her touch light but firm. “Come,” she urged softly, her gaze flicking toward Louvois with just the faintest edge of warning. “Before someone else decides they need you.”

Jean-Luc inclined his head, covering his relief with formality. “It would be my honor.”

As Mira led him away, the swell of music enfolded them, pulling him into motion across the floor. For a moment, Jean-Luc let the rhythm carry him, grateful for the reprieve.

But when his eyes caught Beverly dancing across the terrace, still in motion with Aurelin, a pang struck through him. He was dancing with Mira to escape Philippa. Beverly was dancing with Aurelin to escape something else.

And Philippa Louvois was left standing in their wake, her smile polite, her eyes burning with the quiet fury of a predator who had lost her prey twice in one night.

*

The music unfurled around them, strings lilting beneath the dusky glow of Skinoa’s fading sun. Jean-Luc let Mira guide him on the floor, her hand light against his, her smile soft enough to ease the rigid tension Philippa had left in her wake. “You look as though you’ve just been rescued from a battlefield,” Mira teased, her dark eyes glinting with quiet mischief.

“Perhaps I have,” Picard allowed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I am in your debt.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said airily, though the firmness in her touch betrayed she had been quite intentional in stepping in. “I suspected you were in need of… diversion.”

They continued to move, his steps measured, hers fluid. For a moment, silence wove between them, comfortable, filled with the simple rhythm of measure and the faint warmth of her hand.

“You’re very composed for a man who’s endured the gaze of Philippa Louvois,” Mira said at last, her tone light, almost conspiratorial.

Jean-Luc gave a soft laugh—short, but genuine. “I’ve had practice. Though it is a skill I’d happily never employ again.”

Mira’s smile deepened. “I imagine your wife appreciates that composure. She’s not an easy woman to balance, is she? Fire, precision, heart all tangled together.”

Jean-Luc’s eyes flickered toward where Beverly stood across the terrace with Aurelin, her laughter carrying on the breeze. Something inside him softened at the sight. “No,” he said quietly. “She is not easy. But she is…” He hesitated, the word lingering at the edge of confession. “…unparalleled.”

Mira tilted her head, studying him with something between amusement and affection. “You say that as though you’ve just discovered it. As though you’re surprised.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted, meeting her gaze. “Though I suspect I’ve known it longer than I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge.”

They turned with the music, Mira’s skirt catching the last brush of sunlight, her expression warm but knowing. “Jean-Luc Picard—ever the man who guards his heart like a fortress. And yet…” she leaned a fraction closer, voice lowering, “I think I see the walls crumbling.”

He smiled faintly at that, a trace of rueful humor. “You may be right.”

They moved in silence for a time, the closeness not heavy, but companionable. Mira seemed to sense the fragility of the moment, offering no judgment, no probing further into Beverly herself. Instead, she said softly, “She is fortunate. As are you. Some bonds, no matter how carefully we try to disguise them, shine through.”

Jean-Luc’s throat tightened, but he nodded, his hand pressing lightly over hers in silent gratitude.

And across the terrace, Beverly’s sapphire, blazing orbs found his warm gray eyes—her supple, inviting lips parting as if she had felt his thoughts reach for her. For one suspended instant, the world narrowed to that glance, until Mira gently drew him back into motion, her smile faint and wistful, as though she had just confirmed what she already knew.

The music wound itself gently around them, each note like a breath of evening air. Jean-Luc kept his steps precise, though Mira’s ease loosened his shoulders by degrees. She moved like someone who had been waiting for this moment—not for romance, but for the chance to say something unguarded. “You know,” she followed up, voice low so it wouldn’t carry beyond the space between them, “I hardly know where to begin with gratitude.”

Jean-Luc’s brow furrowed slightly. “Gratitude?”

Mira smiled faintly, her gaze flicking across the crowd, back to Beverly – now standing in quiet conversation with Aurelin. “For her. For what she has done. For what she risked.”

He followed her gaze, his throat tightening. Beverly’s profile was aglow in the sinking light, her laughter soft but edged with exhaustion. He swallowed before answering, carefully. “Beverly is… resolute. When she gives her heart to something—or someone—she will not let go.”

Mira’s eyes softened, shimmering with a truth she didn’t say aloud. “Tradition is… our fortress, Captain. But she saw through its walls. She chose to act, even when silence might have been easier. My son is… stronger today than he has been in many months. And that is because of her.”

Jean-Luc exhaled slowly, his composure steady though his chest ached with pride, and fear, and love all entwined. “She would say the strength was always his. That she only gave him space to show it.”

Mira’s lips curved. “Spoken like her partner, then. Deflecting praise the same way she does.”

They moved in silence for a few moments more, the soft rhythm of their steps carrying them across the terrace. Then Mira’s voice dropped further. “I know what tradition demands. I know what Aurelin would say, if he understood the truth. But tonight… I cannot bring myself to care. My child breathes easier. His eyes are brighter. And I am… selfish enough to take comfort in that before the storm comes.”

Jean-Luc met her gaze, deeply moved. He could feel her struggle—between love and loyalty, between hope and the crushing weight of what might come when truth could no longer be hidden.

And then, as the music began to swell, an idea began to form in him. Something small, delicate, but urgent. A place. A possibility. He would need Mira’s consent, her silence, her trust.

He leaned just fractionally closer, his words meant for her ears alone. Whatever he asked, Mira’s eyes widened slightly, then softened with understanding. She gave a single, deliberate nod.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words carrying both relief and solemnity.

“Do not thank me yet,” she replied, her smile faint but resolute. “But whatever comes of this, do not forget—I know what I saw in her. What you see too. It is… not chaos. It is strength.”

The music faded, applause scattered among the terrace. Jean-Luc inclined his head with formal grace, but his mind was already elsewhere, on what would come next.

*

Philippa Louvois lingered at the edge of the gathering, glass of dark wine in hand, her eyes scanning the terrace with the precision of a hunter circling a herd. Her sharp gaze locked onto Beverly and Aurelin, their heads tilted together in quiet conversation. She couldn’t catch the words, but she didn’t need to. Their expressions said enough—Beverly intent, Aurelin troubled, both stealing glances toward the corner of the hall.

Louvois followed their gaze.

There, half-hidden by the throng, stood a pale brown-haired boy - his face undeniably the spitting image of their dominant host. But he was too thin, too wan, and his large eyes clung to the human doctor with desperate devotion, as if she were the only glory left in his world. His small fists clenched when Aurelin drew the redheaded doctor away, and for an instant the longing on his face was raw enough to unsettle even her.

Philippa’s lip curled. This is sick, she thought. A child intoxicated by a grown woman who doesn’t even belong here, who doesn’t belong with him—or with poor Jean-Luc, for that matter.

But then, slowly, her sneer gave way to calculation. The pieces slid into place, one after another, like a chessboard shifting in her mind. The boy wasn’t just pathetic. He was leverage. A gap. A weakness neither Picard nor his precious doctor could conceal forever.

Her smile sharpened. So. That’s where the blood runs too hot to hide. He’s his son, and she took care of him. In some kind of morbid way, despite all regulations.

She downed the last of her wine, set the glass aside, and began to move through the crowd—graceful, deliberate, already considering how best to pry this fragile seam open.

*

Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, their light beginning to rise as the day surrendered to dusk. Music curled through the air, strings weaving a delicate rhythm that seemed to hush the crowd to softer tones.

Beverly moved with Aurelin across the stone floor, her gown brushing faintly against his robes. He was a graceful partner, steady, his posture effortlessly diplomatic. Yet beneath the surface, every turn of his head, every lingering silence, carried questions. And Beverly, whose heart still carried the storm of Jean-Luc’s gaze and Jolan’s fragile smile, felt the pressure of every second.

“You are not what I expected,” Aurelin said, his voice rich but quiet, for her alone. His dark eyes studied her as if she were another treaty to be deciphered. “I thought you would be straightforward—a healer, precise, transparent. But you are… full of shadow.”

Her heart gave a small, traitorous lurch. She forced a smile. “I think everyone carries shadows, Aurelin. Even ambassadors.”

He chuckled lightly. “True. But most of us do not wield them as you do. You… fight them. You carry weight in silence. And silence is the most dangerous weapon of all.”

She exhaled through her nose, her throat dry. If only you knew. The image of the hypo pressed against Jolan’s arm flashed before her. Selar’s face on the comm-screen. Jean-Luc’s shocked eyes when she had slapped him. Her shadows were not noble—they were gnawing, demanding things she had no right to demand.

Aurelin’s next words nearly unraveled her: “My son smiled at me this morning for the first time in weeks. His voice carried strength instead of weakness. And most impressing of all, my wife’s eyes… were less haunted.”

Beverly lowered her gaze, forcing composure into her voice. “Children recover faster than we expect sometimes.”

Aurelin tilted his head, his grip on her hand firm, grounding. “Do they? Or do they have help from those who see more clearly than we allow ourselves to?”

God, she thought, he knows. Not the details—no, not the probe, not Selar, not the truth of it all—but enough. Enough to place her on a blade’s edge. Beverly swallowed against the tightness in her throat. I cannot lie to him, but I cannot tell him either.

He leaned closer, his voice a velvet thread. “I am not blind, Doctor Picard. Mira is many things, but a deceiver is not one of them. And Jolan… Jolan adores you with the fierce devotion of the very young. His eyes betray more than he understands.”

Her pulse hammered in her temples. She wanted to confess—to spill everything, the fear, the sleepless nights, the desperate choice to defy a world’s traditions. But instead, she kept her gaze on the burnished horizon beyond Aurelin’s shoulder.

“You do not need to fear me,” Aurelin said after a pause, his tone softening. “I will not ask questions I do not wish answered. I trust my wife. And I trust you.”

Beverly blinked rapidly, vision blurring. Relief and guilt warred inside her, tearing at her chest. He knew. He knew enough—and still chose to turn away.

“You have brought light into my house,” Aurelin went on, his voice thickened now with something that almost sounded like gratitude. “Not merely through diplomacy, or contracts, but through being here. Through… caring. You did not need to, and yet you did.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came. Words deserted her, leaving only the raw ache of being seen.

And then his mouth curved into something wry, softened by affection. “Perhaps that is why your captain looks at you as if the stars themselves spin around your presence.”

Beverly flushed, heat surging through her chest and up into her cheeks. She glanced away instinctively—and found Jean-Luc across the hall, his eyes fixed on her with a devotion that made her knees weaken.

Aurelin chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. “I thought so.”

The music slowed, drawing to its close, the last notes lingering like shadows in the air. Aurelin let her hand slip from his with the grace of ceremony, but his gaze held hers, steady, weighty.

“You owe me no explanation,” he said, his words gentle but firm. “Only… be cautious, Doctor. Shadows do not always remain kind when stirred.”

Beverly still felt the tremor in her hands as the last echoes of the music faded. Aurelin, ever composed, offered her the barest smile, a diplomatic shield wrapped in sincerity.

“Rest assured, I'll keep it to myself, Doctor,” he said again, lowering his voice, his tone both paternal and commanding. “As I will ask for your confidence as well—for the sake of my family, for yours, and for your formidable captain and husband. Mira does not know what I suspect. She does not need to. When this is finished and you are safe aboard your ship, I will speak with her myself. We will find a way forward.”

Her lips parted, her breath catching. “You would carry that weight alone?”

He shook his head faintly. “Not alone. But silently—for now.”

The gratitude that welled in her chest was overwhelming, almost unbearable. Before she could answer, Aurelin’s expression changed. His smile faltered, his eyes hardened like stone. Beverly followed his gaze across the crowded hall.

And then she saw it.

Philippa Louvois, prowling like a hawk through the revelers, her gaze fixed on the slim boy at the edge of the dance floor. Jolan, pale but upright, leaning slightly against a column as though he had fought with all his strength simply to stand here. His eyes, as always, were pinned to Beverly with an almost painful devotion. Louvois’ mouth curved in a predatory smile as she began to approach him.

Aurelin’s hand tightened on Beverly’s arm, his jaw flexing. He did not raise his voice; he did not need to. The fury in his posture radiated enough to silence a room.

“Stay here,” he murmured, a command wrapped in velvet. And then, without another word, he crossed the floor.

The crowd shifted instinctively, parting for him. Louvois barely had time to register his arrival before Aurelin was standing in her path, tall and unyielding, his presence a wall of authority.

“Commander Louvois,” he said coolly, his voice carrying just enough to silence the nearby conversations. “You will leave my house at once.”

Philippa’s smile did not falter, but her eyes gleamed with something sharp. “Surely you don’t mean that, Ambassador. I was only speaking with—”

“My son,” Aurelin cut in, his tone a blade. “Who is not to be trifled with. Not by outsiders. Not by diplomats. And most certainly not by you.”

The murmurs of the crowd rose, scandal and curiosity stirring in equal measure. Louvois flushed, the practiced veneer of civility cracking for the first time.

“I think you misunderstand my intentions—”

“I understand perfectly.” His words thundered now, though his voice never rose. “You have abused my hospitality long enough. You will take your leave. Immediately.”

Gasps fluttered through the hall. Louvois’ mouth opened, then closed, her pride visibly warring with her calculating mind. She glanced once toward Jean-Luc—standing stiff and grim near the balustrade—then toward Beverly, whose eyes burned with a mix of fury and relief.

Finally, Philippa Louvois inclined her head, her lips curling in a brittle smile that promised retribution. “Very well. If that is your wish, Ambassador. I would not want to make your… delicate household any more uncomfortable than it already is.”

Her heels clicked sharply against the stone as she turned, her departure slicing through the crowd like a wound. Conversations erupted behind her, whispers trailing like smoke.

Aurelin watched her until she vanished beyond the great doors, then turned back to the gathering with calm that seemed carved from iron. “Enjoy the evening,” he said simply, and the music struck up again as if nothing had happened.

But Beverly’s heart was still hammering. Her hands trembled as she caught sight of Jean-Luc, their eyes locking across the room. His relief mirrored her own, but beneath it lay a shared understanding.

This was not over.

The music resumed, the crowd quickly swallowing the scandal. Louvois had been driven out. Aurelin had shown his hand. And Jolan was improving. For the first time in days, Beverly Crusher felt the faint but steady ground beneath her feet.

Jean-Luc’s presence cut through the throng like a beacon. Mira was at his side, but it was his gaze—dark, steady, intent—that sought her out. He reached for her hand without hesitation, clasping it firmly, his thumb sweeping across her knuckles as though reassuring himself she was truly there.

“Everything all right?” he asked, low and taut, his voice betraying both urgency and fear.

Beverly inhaled, lifted her chin, and met his gaze head-on. “It is,” she said, her voice clear, resolute. “I knew she would try something. But Aurelin ended it before she could do any real harm.”

Mira’s lips curved faintly, approval softening her eyes. “You’re braver than most, Doctor. Stronger, too. She’ll think twice before circling again.”

Jean-Luc studied Beverly’s face as though searching for cracks in her composure. But there were none. She was pale from exhaustion, yes, but her eyes burned with the fire of a woman who had made her choices and would not be swayed.

“You’re certain?” he pressed.

Her fingers tightened around his. “I’m certain of this: we’ll see it through. You, me, Mira, Aurelin—we’ll find a way, and Jolan will live. Whatever else happens, whatever she tries… she won’t undo us.”

The conviction in her words startled him; for the briefest second, he faltered, caught by the force of her faith in them.

Mira nodded once, firm and approving, before glancing away toward the crowd, giving them the smallest fragment of privacy.

Jean-Luc leaned closer, unable to stop himself, his voice dropping so low it was almost a prayer. “I envy your certainty.”

Beverly’s lips curved—not in arrogance, but in quiet, defiant strength. “Then borrow mine, Jean-Luc. We’ll need it.”

Chapter Text

From their vantage point on the upper gallery, Worf and Data still had an unobstructed view of the floor below.

Worf’s brow furrowed as Picard clasped Beverly’s hand, his posture tense, his words inaudible but his intent clear. Beverly’s answer came with a lift of her chin, her poise unmistakable. The two of them stood locked in their own sphere, as if the crowd had melted away.

Data tilted his head, analyzing the microexpressions, the tilt of shoulders, the flicker of eyes. “The captain appears… unsettled by the Ambassadors presentation of will. Doctor Crusher, however, is displaying a notable degree of assertive composure. The balance of influence in their interaction has interestingly shifted.”

“Hmm.” Worf crossed his arms, his mouth twitching at the edges. “If the Doctor guides and decides to drag Aurelin into this, the captain will follow. It is… reassuring.”

Data glanced sideways. “You considered intervening as well?”

Worf snorted softly. “It crossed my mind. But it would have embarrassed our captain in a way - and probably insulted our doctor. No. Better to watch the Ambassador clear up the mess Louvois started when pestering his son.” His gaze sharpened. “Besides, she is still not finished. She will be waiting when we return.”

Data followed his gaze toward the shadows of the hall, where Louvois’ auburn hair caught a glint of light as she drifted toward the exit, her eyes sharp and restless. “I will maintain surveillance. Subtle pursuit seems prudent.”

“You follow the Commander. I will stay here.” Worf’s tone carried an iron finality. His gaze returned to Picard and the doctor, softer now, almost protective. “My eyes will remain solely on them.”

Data gave a short nod. “Very well. Should Louvois attempt anything, I will alert you.” He paused, then added thoughtfully: “It is fortunate the captain has someone of Doctor Crusher’s… strength. Were she less tough, Louvois’ tactics might prove more effective.”

Worf allowed himself a short grunt of approval. “The Doctor is not easily intimidated.”

Data’s brows furrowed in curiosity. “Would you describe her as… tough in a combat sense, or tough in her capacity to bend the captain’s will to her own?”

The Klingon turned his head slowly, one brow rising. “Both.”

Data considered this, then ventured in his calm, logical tone: “It is efficient. She dominates him privately and publicly. Statistically, such arrangements often produce successful pair-bonding.”

Worf froze, caught entirely off guard. His jaw tightened, a flush creeping up his ridged cheeks. “Lieutenant Commander… that is not a topic for statistical analysis.”

Data blinked innocently. “I was attempting to be complimentary.”

Worf growled low in his throat and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a Klingon curse before he turned back to the crowd, pointedly ignoring the android’s wide-eyed curiosity.

Worf’s alerted gaze stayed fixed on the crowd, but his jaw worked as though he were chewing through steel.

Data, still entirely oblivious to the Klingon’s mounting discomfort, tilted his head again. “It seems logical to assume Doctor Crusher has… intimate leverage over the captain. Would you concur?”

Worf’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide with affront. “Leverage? She is his equal. His—” He stopped short, biting the rest off, realizing too late what he’d nearly admitted aloud.

Data blinked. “His what?”

Worf’s nostrils flared. “His… commanding officer in sickbay.”

Data’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though running through linguistic probabilities. “I do not believe that is the context I intended.”

Worf grunted sharply, gaze snapping back to the floor. “Your intentions are irrelevant.”

There was a beat of silence, filled only by music drifting up from below. Data’s expression remained thoughtful. Then, with that infuriating calm, he added: “Still, if such dynamics are conducive to the captain’s happiness, should we not encourage them?”

Worf turned slowly, his teeth bared, every line of his posture rigid with restraint. “Lieutenant Commander Data… if you continue, I will consider this conversation a hostile act.”

Data paused. “Ah. You are embarrassed.”

A low growl reverberated in Worf’s chest, deep and dangerous.

Finally, Data lifted his brows in mild concession. “Perhaps I should follow Louvois now.”

“Yes,” Worf snapped, relief breaking through his irritation. “Do that.”

The Android gave a short nod and slipped away into the crowd with mechanical grace.

Worf exhaled through his nose, muttering low in his native language again. Then his gaze softened once more as he returned it to the sight of Picard and Crusher together below, their heads bent close, their movements subtle but undeniably entwined. A slow, knowing, very-unklingon sigh escaped him. “They stand as warriors do,” he rumbled, the faintest edge of pride in his tone. “Strike at one, and you face them both.”

*

Worf lingered a moment longer on the gallery, but the most authentic part of him—the part that refused to rely only on distant observation—drove him down the steps into the heart of the farewell. His boots struck the polished stone with deliberate weight, his eyes locked onto the captain and the doctor below.

He approached, towering, folding his arms across his impressing chest as he came to stand beside them. Both turned in mild surprise. “Doctor. Captain.” Worf’s voice was low, rumbling, as though the words themselves weighed something.

Picard’s brow lifted faintly. “Mr. Worf… I wasn’t aware you were on the surface this evening with us.”

Worf nodded, glancing once—just once—at the faint distance between them, as if measuring battlefield terrain. “It is… instructive to observe the customs of other worlds.”

Beverly’s lips curved with restrained amusement, though her eyes shimmered with some teasing warmth that nearly made Worf look away. “You mean the dancing, or the politics?”

“Both,” Worf deadpanned, though his gaze flickered again, catching a quick exchange of fingers brushing at their sides. The Klingon cleared his throat. But before the moment could tilt further, a small voice pierced the air.

“Who is that?” Jolan stood at his mother’s side, eyes wide as he stared up at the imposing warrior. He had clearly never seen anything like a towering giant like that.

Worf straightened, gaze falling to the boy. He considered for a heartbeat, then inclined his head in a rare gesture of respect. “I am Worf. Son of Mogh, house of Martok and bane to the Duras family, survivor of various visits by Lwaxana Troi from Betazed …” he stopped midsentence, realizing he was talking to a mere kid. “I’m… a Klingon.”

Jolan’s brow furrowed, curiosity burning through his pallor. “And are you… dangerous?”

Beverly opened her mouth to intervene, but Worf answered first, his voice like distant thunder. “Only to those who deserve it.”

The boy blinked at him. Then, to everyone’s surprise, his lips twitched into the beginnings of a grin. “So, you must be like your friend Beverly then. She fights hard as well.”

Crusher flushed slightly, caught between laughter and embarrassment. Jean-Luc’s eyes glimmered with unspoken amusement.

Before the exchange could ripple further, Aurelin returned, his robes trailing the last of the golden light. His eyes scanned the small cluster quickly, pausing on Worf with a diplomat’s smile. “I see we’ve gathered quite a circle,” Aurelin said smoothly, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Doctor. Captain. And this… impressive ally of yours.”

Worf inclined his head stiffly. “I merely serve at their side.”

“And,” Aurelin’s gaze softened, sliding toward Beverly, “sometimes, it seems… above and beyond.”

The words hung, loaded, before he steered Jolan gently away, breaking the charged little knot of conversation.

Worf remained where he was, stiff and looming, as Aurelin guided Jolan back toward the refreshment tables. The tension that had clung to the moment eased, like a taut bowstring finally slackening. Picard cleared his throat, but Beverly—always quicker with her wit—was the first to break the silence. “You know, Mr. Worf,” she said lightly, “I think you’ve managed to terrify half the room just by standing here.”

“Only half?” Worf’s brows rose. “Then I have grown complacent.”

Jean-Luc almost choked on a laugh. Beverly tilted her head, lips twitching. “You’re not supposed to terrify the hosts at a farewell celebration.”

“They should be honored,” Worf replied flatly, though there was the faintest glint in his eyes. “It means I find their gathering worthy of my presence.”

Beverly groaned and glanced sidelong at Jean-Luc. “Tell me you didn’t teach him that.”

“I can assure you, Doctor,” Picard said dryly, “Mr. Worf’s social graces are entirely his own.”

The three shared a moment—unexpected, absurdly pleasant amid all the strain of the past days. For once, Beverly’s laughter bubbled without restraint, and Jean-Luc let it wash over him, the sound so achingly normal it stirred a pang in his chest.

“Mr. Worf,” Beverly said at last, regaining enough composure to keep a straight face, “I think the next time you visit Ten Forward, you should join Commander Riker for one of his… other card games. I suspect your presence alone would ensure a swift end to his winning streak.”

Worf gave a grunt that might have been amusement. “I do not cheat. But intimidation is… an honorable tactic.”

Picard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Remind me to caution Will in advance.”

And then, as if on cue, Caty darted back toward them, her bright eyes catching on the towering Klingon. She froze, tilting her head all the way back to meet his gaze.

“Are you Dooley’s guard?” she asked, utterly serious, realizing the big one always seemed to be orbiting the doctor.

The adults nearly broke again. Worf, however, straightened, his expression as grave as if he’d been summoned to a war council. “Yes,” he said at last. “I am. And the Captain’s as well.”

Caty nodded solemnly, satisfied with the answer, before scampering away again. Beverly covered her mouth with her hand, laughter threatening to escape, while Jean-Luc looked as though he were deciding between outrage and fondness.

Worf folded his arms across his chest, utterly unruffled. “She is perceptive. A warrior in the making.”

=/=

The doors to Will Riker’s quarters slid open with their customary hiss, and in stepped Lieutenant Commander Data, his posture crisp even at this late hour. Riker, sprawled in a chair with a half-drained glass of whiskey at his elbow, straightened immediately.

“Data,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I can tell by the way you’re standing there this isn’t a casual visit. What’s wrong?”

Data inclined his head. “I observed Commander Louvois departing the farewell gathering on Skinoa and returning directly to her assigned quarters aboard the Enterprise. Her demeanor was… agitated. I have reason to believe her actions this evening, and indeed her presence here, are no longer aligned with her official capacity.”

Riker set the glass aside. “Go on.”

Data clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head. “As you already know, she has, on multiple occasions, sought information regarding Captain Picard and Doctor Crusher’s personal relationship. She attempted to engage both myself and Lieutenant Worf in inquiries of an… invasive nature. This evening, her focus appeared to shift. I observed her shadowing Ambassador Aurelin’s family—particularly his son.”

Riker’s jaw tightened. “The boy?”

“Yes, sir. I found her interest… troubling.” Data paused, and for a moment his usually measured tone dipped lower. “She reminds me of an opponent in a chess match—testing the board, probing for weaknesses. It is my concern she may attempt to leverage this situation against the captain.”

Riker rose, pacing toward the viewport, his reflection hard-edged in the starlight. “You did the right thing, Data, coming to me.” He turned back, a hint of steel in his expression. “But let me handle this. Philippa Louvois is not your opponent. She’s mine.”

Data studied him, unreadable eyes fixed on the commander’s face. “Do you intend to confront her directly?”

Riker gave a short, humorless laugh. “Not directly. Not yet. First I’ll reach out to Admiral Heel—quietly. He needs to know what she’s been doing here, and how far she’s pushing. If she thinks she can play politics with the captain’s career—or Beverly’s—she’ll find out she’s picked the wrong table or ship to gamble at.”

Data tilted his head, curiosity flickering. “Admiral Heel is known to be cautious. Do you expect him to take immediate action?”

Riker smirked faintly, though his eyes were dark. “Let me worry about the admiral. All you need to know is—I’ll take care of it. You just keep watching, and if Louvois makes another move… I want to hear about it first.”

Data considered this, then nodded. “Understood, Commander. I will remain vigilant.”

As the android turned to leave, Riker called after him, softer now: “And Data? Good instincts. Keep trusting them.”

The doors whispered shut, leaving Riker alone with the stars and the weight of what he knew had to come. His jaw set once more. He would not let Philippa Louvois sink her claws into Picard - or into Crusher. Not on his watch.

*

Philippa Louvois’ quarters were a study in disorder—uniform jacket discarded across a chair, a half-empty glass of wine abandoned on the low table. She sat at her desk, auburn hair loose, the starlight catching in the strands as her reflection glared back at her from the viewport.

Her lips curled. “So… the doctor thinks she’s untouchable. That Jean-Luc will protect her. Sweet Beverly, all cool smiles and clinical composure. Always the perfect officer.” She laughed sharply, the sound too brittle to carry warmth. “She doesn’t fool me. Not for a second.”

Philippa rose, pacing like a predator in a too small cage, her customary wineglass in hand. Her thoughts turned over like sharpened stones. She had pushed Picard tonight—too far, perhaps—but the reaction she saw in Beverly’s eyes afterward? That had been worth it. A crack in the doctor’s mask, a flash of possessiveness. Vulnerability. The kind of weakness she could use.

She stopped before the mirror and whispered at her own reflection. “You should have chosen me, Jean-Luc. Fifteen years ago, on Starbase 247. You knew what we had.” She took a slow sip, her jaw tightening. “But no—you had to bury yourself in duty. And now you let her crawl into the spaces you once denied me.”

Her mind worked, shuffling strategies like cards in a gambler’s hand. Beverly’s compassion. Picard’s loyalty. Jolan’s miraculous recovery. Weaknesses, all of them. “The Skinoan boy adores her,” she mused aloud, lips pressing into a dangerous smile. “Adoration that becomes a chain. All I need to do is tug.”

She set the glass down hard enough that it almost cracked against the table. “Riker suspects something. Worf watches. Data… pries. But Jean-Luc?” Her smile sharpened. “He is already stretched to breaking. And Beverly is the lever that will snap him in two.”

Crossing to the console, she tapped it awake, fingers hovering just above the comm channels before pulling back. Not yet. Too soon. This game required patience. Her gaze flicked to the stars again, voice dropping into a whisper that was equal parts vow and curse.

“Enjoy your dance, Jean-Luc. Enjoy your redheaded saint. Because when I make my move, there won’t be a single doubt left in Starfleet—or in her—that you’ve always belonged to me.”

Philippa Louvois lifted her chin, masking fury with poise once more, a queen rehearsing for her final strike.

*

The farewell festivities had begun to thin into the soft lull of late evening. Music still drifted faintly through the open doors of Aurelin’s estate, laughter rolling like an echo in the night. But Beverly and Jean-Luc had excused themselves with polite smiles and murmured farewells, their steps soon carrying them through the ancient streets of Hivoc.

The air was warm, nearly sticky, threaded with the faintest spice of flowering vines clinging to weathered stone walls. Overhead, both Skinoan moons hung heavy and luminous, silver-blue light spilling across the narrow-cobbled paths. Their shadows stretched side by side, touching, as though even the night itself was intent on drawing them closer.

Jean-Luc clasped his hands behind his back, posture outwardly composed, though every breath felt threaded with anticipation. Beverly walked beside him, skirt whispering with each step, copper hair catching moonlight like fire. They had spoken of the evening—of Aurelin’s heavy-handed toasts, Mira’s radiant smile, of Jolan’s unexpected vitality—but now words seemed too small for what pressed between them.

A few paces behind, Worf trailed in silence, broad-shouldered vigilance wrapped in ceremonial finery. Jean-Luc stopped abruptly and turned, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Mr. Worf,” he said softly, careful not to break the hush of the night, “I appreciate your diligence. But I believe the doctor and I can manage a short walk on our own.”

Worf’s brow furrowed deeply. “Sir, it is not wise. The evening is unguarded. The doctor has… been the target of certain inquiries.” His voice darkened, Klingon pride rising. “It is my duty to protect you both.”

Jean-Luc inclined his head in quiet respect, though his resolve held. “Your loyalty honors us, Lieutenant. But I assure you, I am very capable of watching over Dr. Crusher.” His gaze softened briefly as it drifted toward her, warmth flickering in his eyes.

Beverly, cheeks faintly flushed from both moonlight and amusement, added with a smile, “Don’t worry, Worf. He’s managed to keep me alive this long.”

The Klingon let out a low growl—not of anger, but of stubborn discontent. Yet after a long pause, he nodded curtly. “Very well. But should you call, I will come.” He touched his chest in a small, fierce gesture, then tapped his combadge and shimmered away into sparkling light.

Beverly shook her head, still chuckling softly as the shimmer of the transporter faded and left only the two of them behind. “I swear, if Worf hovers any closer around us, he’ll start demanding I file for bodyguard duty every time I take a walk. I didn’t know Klingons could be that… protective.”

Jean-Luc’s lips curved faintly, but his laughter didn’t reach his eyes. His stride slowed, hesitation catching him like an unseen hand tugging at his chest. He stopped, turning toward her beneath the spill of moonlight, the pale blue glow etching the lines of his face into a sharper kind of vulnerability.

“Beverly…” His voice was lower now, roughened. “About Philippa. About what you walked into the other night.”

The levity slipped from her expression at once. She froze, breath catching in her throat, because she had not expected him to bring it up. Not here. Not now.

He lifted a hand, not yet touching, only hovering in the space between them, as though the air itself might scald him. “I should have stopped her sooner,” he said, words taut, the honesty in them cutting sharper than any excuse. “I should have been stronger, clearer, faster. Instead, I let her… corner me. And you—” His voice faltered as his eyes locked on hers, full of that contained storm she had seen in him too often when command collided with his heart. “You shouldn’t have had to see that. You shouldn’t have had to doubt me.”

Beverly’s chest ached at the rawness bleeding into his tone. For a long beat, she couldn’t speak, caught between the sting of that memory and the truth of what she saw in his eyes now. He wasn’t defending himself. He wasn’t trying to untangle blame. He was simply laying himself bare.

She stepped closer, her heels echoing softly on the cobbled stone before she stopped—close enough that the hem of her dress brushed his trousers, close enough that she could feel his breath. He still hadn’t touched her, though his hand lingered in that hesitant space, trembling just slightly.

Her voice softened, yet carried an edge of sharp honesty. “Jean-Luc, you don’t need to excuse yourself to me. I saw enough. And I know her well enough to see what she was doing. What she wanted.” Her mouth tilted, humorless. “What she still wants.”

His eyes searched hers, desperate, unsure if he was being forgiven or if he was being let off too easily. He finally let his hand drop, but she caught it before it fell completely, her fingers lacing through his with a deliberate slowness that made him draw in a breath. “Beverly…” The single word escaped like a confession. He stepped into her, their hands still bound, and the restraint in his body trembled like a bowstring drawn to breaking point. His other hand rose, brushing a strand of hair from her face, lingering at her temple as though the contact itself anchored him.

They had long stopped walking. The street around them was silent save for the soft sigh of night air. The moons carved their silhouettes into silver outlines.

She tilted her head just slightly into his touch, and in the widening quiet between them, her own thoughts spiraled: This is madness. We’re in the middle of a fragile alliance, on borrowed time, with enemies in plain sight… and yet this—this is what I want. Him. Always him.

His chest rose and fell unevenly as he looked at her, at the woman he had commanded, been best friends with, loved quietly for far too long. If I could keep her like this, within arm’s reach, away from everything that claws at us… I’d give up every treaty in the quadrant.

The silence pressed, heavy and electric, until finally—slowly—he leaned closer, his lips hovering just shy of hers, his breath mingling with hers. Their joined hands tightened, trembling together with everything unsaid.

The space between them vanished in a single heartbeat. Jean-Luc finally broke, closing the agonizing gap, his mouth claiming hers with a force and hunger that made her knees weaken. It wasn’t careful, it wasn’t measured—this was passion unleashed, rare and unguarded, the kind of kiss neither of them had dared imagine aloud. His lips pressed firm, then softened, coaxing, tasting, devouring her resistance until there was nothing left but heat.

Her hand slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring herself to him, her pulse thrumming like warp engines at full throttle. She kissed him back with equal fervor, the years of longing, denial, and restraint burning away in the fire of the moment.

When they finally parted—just barely, lips still brushing, foreheads close—her breath hitched with laughter, though her eyes shone molten. She whispered against his mouth, voice low and sultry: “Well, I suppose I simply knew you would prefer a good kisser over a persistent officer, after all.”

The glint in her eyes was unmistakable, teasing and daring.

Jean-Luc’s answering growl rumbled low in his chest, the sound more primal than command. He grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against him in one decisive tug, his other hand sliding down to cup her rear with a boldness that made her gasp.

“Oh?” he murmured, dangerous and amused, his lips brushing her ear. “And that’s why you had to slap me—just to prove your point—in front of two thoroughly shocked ensigns’ junior grade?”

The memory flared in her mind, hot and sharp, and instead of flinching she laughed, low and throaty, her smile twisting into something wicked. She silenced him with another kiss, slower this time but no less searing, before breaking away with a smirk that could have burned through duranium. “Maybe,” she purred, eyes alight with mischief. “But admit it—you liked it.” And with that, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth briefly, playfully, before pulling back just enough to watch his composure teeter on the edge of oblivion.

Picard’s composure was slipping fast. Every time he thought he could breathe again, Beverly tilted her head just so, or pressed her mouth back to his with that maddening mix of sweetness and fire, and all the years of command, restraint, and guilt evaporated into nothing.

Her hands framed his face now, thumbs grazing the corners of his mouth as though she couldn’t quite believe she was allowed to touch him like this at last. And every time her lips curved into that dangerous smirk between kisses, he swore it was going to be his undoing.

“You’re insufferable,” he rasped against her mouth, kissing her again before she could retort.

“Mmm,” she breathed, smiling into the kiss, “and you’re mine.”

His laugh was low and ragged. He pressed his forehead to hers, gripping her hip so tightly she felt the tremor of his restraint. “Beverly Crusher… you are infuriating.”

Her sapphire orbs glittered, challenge sparking in their depths. “And still,” she whispered, her lips brushing his again, “you can’t keep your hands off me.”

She wasn’t wrong. He kissed her hard, one hand sliding up her back, the other holding her flush against him as if daring the gods themselves to intervene. The moons painted her hair in silver fire, her body warm and yielding against his, and for one breathless moment he nearly let go of everything else.

But then, just as her fingers traced the line of his hair, he tore his lips from hers, gasping as though it cost him dearly. He caught her wrists gently, kissing her knuckles as though to soothe the abrupt pause.

“Not here,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes dark with both hunger and resolve. “Not yet.”

Her brows lifted, amused and just a little breathless. “Oh? The captain finally drawing a line?”

He grinned then, rare and reckless, tugging her hand into his and turning down the shadowed street. “Hardly. I’ve just got something to show you first.”

She laughed softly, her pulse still thrumming wild. “You’d better hope it’s worth pulling me away from… that.”

His thumb stroked the back of her hand, the promise in his eyes fierce and unshakable. “It is. Trust me.”

And with that, he pulled her with him, deeper into the ancient heart of Hivoc - toward the target, leaving the charged air of their near - surrender lingering in the wake of their footsteps.

*

The streets fell silent the closer they drew to his intended goal, the pale light of the moons catching on weathered stone and columns that had stood longer than any Federation archive could remember. Beverly slowed, her hand tightening around his. “Jean-Luc…” she whispered, a frown creasing her face as the familiar silhouette of the Chamber of Tholey reached her eye. “That’s ridiculous. We can’t do this. Not alone. Not… now.”

He didn’t slow, merely tipped his head toward her with that infuriatingly calm expression that always masked mischief in him. “We can. And we will.”

“Middle of the night, breaking into the holiest site of their culture—yes, that will do wonders for your diplomacy reports.” She arched a brow at him, her voice dry but betraying the nervous flutter in her chest.

He chuckled, leaning over to brush a kiss across her temple, quieting her protest before it could grow teeth. “Let’s just say,” he murmured against her skin, “It is possible thanks to certain… connections.”

She tilted her head at him, sapphire eyes glinting, lips curved in that wicked half-smile that always undid him. “Connections,” she echoed. “Is that what you’re calling it now? I call it a captain abusing his charms.”

Before she could twist further, he caught her mouth with his, silencing her sharp tongue with slow, deliberate heat. And while she was still blinking at the force of it, he tugged her through the great arched entrance, her laughter breaking between kisses as she stumbled after him.

“Jean-Luc, you’re absolutely mad,” she whispered against his lips as the vast chamber opened around them, “dragging me into this—”

But the words froze in her throat.

The Chamber of Tholey stretched above and around them like a cathedral spun from starlight, its high vaults glowing faintly, frescoes shimmering in the moonlight streaming through cracks in the ancient dome. And at its center lay the pool as she remembered it—still and crystalline, but now luminous as though it held the night sky within.

Beverly stopped dead, her hand slipping from his, her breath catching. “Oh…” she breathed, her voice breaking on the wonder.

He stayed close behind her, hands resting gently at her waist, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered: “Now you see.”

Her heart pounded so hard she thought he must feel it through her spine. She wanted to laugh, to scold him, to remind him this was forbidden. But all her clever retorts, her rapid wits, her tart banter—gone. Her eyes fixed on the water, on the shimmering light, and on the man at her back who had led her here, knowing what it would do to her.

Slowly, she turned her head to look at him again, her lips parted, her voice barely audible. “Jean-Luc… you can’t possibly mean…”

His hand slid lower on her back, steadying her, grounding her, his eyes dark and intent in the half-light.

But he didn’t really move. Not yet. “Scruples, Doctor?” His voice was velvet, low and teasing, vibrating against the shell of her ear. “I hadn’t assumed you owned any.”

Her breath caught, a nervous laugh escaping before she shot back in the same hushed tone, sharp but trembling: “You’ve mistaken me for Selar. I’ve always had scruples—just rarely about you.”

The words faltered into silence as he pulled her closer, his hand settling firmly at the small of her back. She could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of her dress, could feel how his restraint was thinning with every heartbeat.

The moonlight spilling through the fractured dome painted them both in silver-blue, reflections from the pool scattering over their skin like fireflies. Her heart thundered in her chest as he bent his head, his lips grazing her hair, her temple, the delicate curve of her ear.

“Beverly…” His voice dropped even lower, intimate, thick with unspoken promises. “Do you want to try our bond now? Here—where it began for them.”

Her breath shuddered, her fingers clenching lightly in the front of his shirt. His words sent a jolt straight through her, leaving her trembling.

He drew back enough to look at her, his eyes dark, searching, a flicker of fire beneath command and discipline. “I saw it in you, that first day,” he whispered. “You wanted it then. And I wanted it more than I can say. But with Aurelin, Mira, Caty always at our side…” His hand slid up her spine, cupping the back of her neck, forcing her eyes to hold his. “…I couldn’t let go. Not then.”

The pool glimmered behind them, its crystalline surface reflecting every flicker of their hesitation, their longing.

Her lips parted, but words failed. All she could feel were his trembling fingers at her nape, her own pulse racing under his touch, the raw ache in her chest that had lived there for years but never burned so fierce as now.

Still, even breathless, even undone, her voice found its edge—a whisper sharp as a blade. “And you think you can let go now? In the middle of breaking every Skinoan law?”

He smiled faintly, not easing his grip, his thumb brushing her throat with feather-light reverence. “Doctor… there are worse laws to break.”

She turned her head, startled, her eyes searching his face in the glow.

“I might add, I did call in a favor,” he continued, voice calm, even—yet threaded with the kind of steel she knew from the bridge, from every impossible decision he’d ever carried. “And thanks to your dedication—thanks to what you’ve done for a certain boy…” His thumb grazed the back of her hand, a fleeting caress that melted her resistance. “…it seemed no great matter to grant me what I asked for.”

Her lips quivered, trembling on the cusp of protest, of disbelief—but his gaze held hers firm, steady, certain. He was always certain when she was not.

She drew a shivering breath, her eyes darting back to the water, then to him again. The air seemed to thicken, her heart beating so loud she feared it would betray her. “Jean-Luc,” she whispered, the syllables unsteady, almost pleading. “This… this is not us. Not duty. Not reason. This is…”

“Us,” he finished softly. His hand slid from her back to clasp her fingers, entwining them, grounding her. “Nothing more. But nothing less either.”

Picard stepped forward, the pale blue glow of the crystalline water playing along his face. His hand tightened around hers, tugging her gently with him until her reflection wavered beside his own in the pool. “Now,” he murmured, his voice low, steady, almost solemn, “you can let Tholey do her little wonders.”

Her breath hitched, and she gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Jean-Luc… you know I don’t need such a thing. As I don’t believe in miracles, I’m a scientist.” Her eyes shimmered, soft but defiant. “And… I certainly don’t need any proof from some ancient fairy to know how much I love you.”

He angled his head, a flicker of a smile tugging his lips. “Ah… so my brave doctor is frightened.”

Her mouth parted, indignant. “I shouldn’t be, should I? Not after you’ve risked your position for me more times than I can count.” Her mind flickered unbidden to Louvois, to her own furious claim laid bare in front of everyone. Not after stomping straight through Philippa’s little web and showing her you’re mine, she thought—but swallowed it back, forcing a steadier reply instead: “Surely, Jean-Luc, it isn’t necessary to intrude upon these waters to confirm what we both already know.”

The teasing curve of his mouth faded. His grip on her hand steadied, heavier now, anchoring. His gaze was heavy and fierce in the glow. “Chérie,” he said quietly, the word reverent, his voice trembling against the silence of the chamber. “I don’t want a humble test. I want… a bond.”

She froze. Her pulse lurched, blood draining from her face as her gaze searched his, desperate for mischief in his eyes, for a jest, for anything to break the enormity of it. But there was no jest. No smile. Only unshakable resolve.

“You want…” she whispered, her throat dry, “…to bond?”

It wasn’t superstition. It wasn’t a ritual. It wasn’t a dare to the old gods of this planet.

It was him.

And the realization struck her heart like lightning: he wasn’t asking for faith, he wasn’t asking for ceremony. He was asking to step with her into whatever came next—not hidden, not half-truths, not pretense.

Her lips trembled. Official. Us. On the ship. In front of the crew. Even… in front of Starfleet.

And yet—was that what he meant? Or was this only here, only now, under the ancient gaze of a forgotten myth?

Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it might echo through the chamber itself and he patiently watched her tremble, the water’s glow shimmering across her delicate features. “So, you are frightened.” he whispered, tilting his head, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. A breath later, softer still: “But so am I.”

Her eyes darted up to his, wide, uncertain, caught between disbelief and aching hope.

“But frightened only,” he continued, voice rough with unspoken strain, “of letting you go. Frightened that every other person with venom on their tongue can twist it, can use it against us, as long as we go on… hiding.”

She desperately tried, but no words came. He stepped closer, his warmth pressing into her even before his hand framed her jaw.

“And something tells me,” he murmured, gaze locked to hers with a depth that left her trembling all over again, “that the people around us, which are close to us… they already know.”

Her breath shuddered out of her, her body taut in his hands. She began to speak, but his fingertips slid against her cheek, silencing her. His eyes were not pleading—they were resolute. “Beverly,” he whispered, almost breaking on her name, “I cannot—I will not—go back to pretending.”

His words struck at her fears, her deepest tether of duty, her desperate caution. But at the same time—they ignited the one truth she could never hide from herself anymore.

That she didn’t want to go back either.

That she didn’t want him to let her go as well.

She kissed him first—soft, unhurried, tender enough to shatter every wall he had left. When she drew back, her lips hovered against his, her eyes bright with unshed tears, her breath shaky in the humid night air.

He caught the tremble of her shoulders, the conflict still warring inside her. And because he couldn’t bear the ache in her eyes, he leaned closer, voice a low murmur edged with the teasing lilt only she ever drew out of him. “Don’t tell me,” he said, brushing her mouth with his, “I’ve to cancel the flowers.”

Her eyes widened—then narrowed, because she saw through him. He was covering his heart with wit, his fear with jest. Still, her lips quirked, caught off guard.

“I want more,” he whispered, forehead lowering to hers. “Not a pretense. Not a masquerade for diplomacy’s sake. I don’t want it to end when we step back onto the Enterprise. Even if it changes, even if command weighs heavier again… I want to try.”

She drew back just far enough to search his face, sharp, intent, making sure this wasn’t just a passing spark but a fire he meant to carry. “It will be different,” she said at last, steadying herself with words. “And don’t pretend it won’t be hard to keep professionalism when we’re sharing a bed.”

His smile flickered warm, disarming. “You,” he said, brushing his lips against hers again, “are the most professional human I have ever met.”

That startled a laugh from her—short, soft, betraying how badly she wanted to lean into him instead of logic. She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Serious,” he corrected, his voice dropping, eyes burning with quiet certainty.

“You know exactly what you’re risking,” she pressed, clinging to reason even as her pulse betrayed her. “Your command. Your spotless record. Everything you’ve built.”

“And none of that,” he said firmly, pulling her closer until his breath mingled with hers, “is worth a damn if it means losing you. I more than realized this during those days here with you.”

Her heart clenched, the final line of defense falling. Despite her protests, despite all her carefully honed fears—she was already his.

He didn’t speak. He only recaptured her trembling hand, his fingers closing around hers with infinite certainty, and guided her closer to the water’s edge.

The surface shivered under their presence, then shimmered—like liquefied silver kissed by moonlight. A slow glow unfurled beneath, spreading in tendrils until the whole pool seemed alive, luminous, pulsing in rhythm with the racing beat of her heart.

“Jean-Luc…” she breathed, awe-struck, her earlier doubts scattering like mist.

And then the magic happened.

The glow coalesced, rising from the water in strands of light that wound upward like living ribbons, drifting toward them. With a soundless sigh, they converged, twining gently around their joined hands. Warmth flooded her palm where his skin touched hers, as though the light itself sank into them, binding flesh and spirit alike.

Beverly gasped softly, feeling a resonance in her chest, a thrum that wasn’t entirely her own heartbeat. He tightened his hold, steady, his eyes never leaving hers even as the chamber pulsed around them, frescoes catching fire in radiant hues.

The air was thick with energy, humming against her skin, carrying the faintest scent of ozone and rain after drought. The silence was reverent, almost sacred—until a strand of light split, curling around their arms, their shoulders, trailing like a blessing down the lines of their bodies.

Her breath caught. For the first time in years, she felt weightless. Whole.

Jean-Luc Picard, his eyes dark with awe and something fiercer, whispered into the charged stillness:
“Now, Beverly… now you know.”

She had no answer but to lift her free hand to his cheek, trembling, tears glinting in her lashes, and kiss him again—this time soft, reverent, as if sealing the bond the chamber itself had witnessed.

And still, the light held them, warm and unyielding, as though Tholey herself had approved.

Chapter Text

Aurelin lingered in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of the sconces. Mira was by the mirror, slipping the clasp from her gown, her hair cascading loose over her shoulders like a veil of dark silk. He watched her for a heartbeat before speaking, his tone low and thoughtful. “A message reached me,” he said. “The captain and his doctor… have apparently entered our Chamber.”

Mira stilled, then slowly turned, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “So… At last, they dared to follow where their hearts were pointing all along.”

His brow furrowed, searching her face. “Was this your design, Mira? Did you grant them entry?”

She lifted one shoulder in a faint shrug, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Not mine. I only recognized it before they did. From their first day here, I saw it—how they longed, yet held back. Fear kept them from stepping into what was already theirs.”

He crossed the room, taking her face gently in his hands. His kiss was tender and soft, before he drew back with a quiet, almost broken laugh. “I’ve been afraid too,” he admitted, voice rough. “Afraid of Jolan. Afraid of betraying our traditions, of failing in my duty. Afraid of failing you.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “And yet… you were the strong one, when I was not.”

Her hand rested against his chest, warm and grounding. “Do not give me the credit, Aurelin. Most of the strength was hers—Beverly’s. She does not bend, not even when the weight of the world demands it.”

Aurelin huffed, half in disbelief, half in admiration. “She is… a storm, that one. A troublemaker.”

“She is,” Mira agreed softly, her lips quirking. “And he loves her for it.”

For a moment they simply stood there, eyes locked, sharing the unspoken recognition of two people who understood what it meant to risk love against impossible odds.

But Aurelin’s expression darkened slightly, his gaze wandering away from hers. “And what of the other one?”

Mira blinked. “The other?”

“The sharp-eyed woman with the tongue like a blade. Louvois.” His voice hardened, his tone wary. “She circles Picard like a hawk, yet looks at Beverly as though she would burn her to ash. What place does she have among them? I cannot see it clearly.”

Mira exhaled slowly, turning back to the mirror, her hands folding at her waist. “I may think a relic of his past. A wound not healed, perhaps. But one thing is certain, Aurelin—whatever power she imagines she holds, it cannot touch what those two share. I’ve seen it. She may scratch, she may bite, she may even draw blood—but Beverly will not yield. Not in this.”

His jaw tightened, but he gave a small nod. “I hope you are right. Because I would not welcome such venom under my roof again. Especially when it’s threatening my family.”

Mira returned to him then, laying her hand over his. “Be at ease, husband. Louvois may circle, but she circles alone. What was fragile between Picard and Beverly is no longer. The Chamber will seal it and provide the back-up for us.”

“And we?” Aurelin murmured, softer now, drawing her close.

“We stand beside them,” she answered simply, her smile both fierce and tender. “Grateful they came.”

Aurelin’s arm slipped around Mira’s waist, but his eyes were distant anyway, narrowed in thought. “Still… she unsettles me. That Louvois. Her smile is too sharp, her presence like vinegar poured into wine. She prowls as though everything were hers to claim.”

Mira chuckled low in her throat, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Vinegar is too generous. She is more like spoiled milk, curdling in the sun. One sip and the whole cup is ruined.”

His lips twitched at her imagery, though his tone remained grim. “And yet she stalks the captain as if she expects him to drink.”

Mira arched a brow, sly amusement flickering in her eyes. “Perhaps he did enjoy vinegar at some point in his life, as some men do.”

Aurelin barked a soft laugh at that, shaking his head. “But obviously he does not… anymore. He carries himself too carefully for such bitterness. I might add, he has chosen far better. You saw how he’s looking at his wife. That woman could burn a city with her stare, but he followed it as though it were the only flame in the world.”

Mira smirked, pride and fondness glinting in her gaze. “Then let Louvois gnash her teeth in the shadows. She is a predator with no prey, and nothing is more pathetic.”

“Still dangerous,” Aurelin muttered, warning, his tone heavy now, and not only with concern for Picard. His hand squeezed Mira’s side. “Predators without prey have a way of turning on anything within reach. I’ve seen vipers eat their own tails.”

Her smirk faded, and for the first time that evening, silence stretched between them. The memory of Louvois watching Beverly, circling Jolan like a hawk, crept unbidden into Mira’s thoughts, and her mouth tightened. “Dangerous, yes,” she said at last, steadier. “But irrelevant—if we hold fast. She feeds only where weakness shows.”

Aurelin turned, catching her eyes with his own, his voice quiet but edged with steel. “Then we must ensure none is left for her to taste.”

Mira nodded, though her fingers lingered over his chest. “We will. Between us—and them—she will find nothing but stone.”

Only then did Aurelin lean down, pulling her with him toward their bed, pressing a kiss against her lips that tasted not just of tenderness, but of resolve.

Behind their laughter and whispered slander, the shadow of Louvois remained—shapeless, prowling, waiting for her chance.

And elsewhere, aboard the Enterprise, Philippa Louvois sat alone in her quarters, her reflection jagged in a half-drained glass of wine. Her hair was loose, her uniform discarded over the chair like an enemy she had bested, and her breath came shallow, furious.

She could still see them—Crusher radiant in that damned dress, Picard smiling at her as if the rest of the universe had fallen away. She could still feel the sting of Beverly’s cutting words in her quarters and then during that reception, still hear her name twisted into victory on that elegant, cruel tongue.

Philippa’s nails raked over the PADD she gripped, so tight the casing groaned. That woman, she seethed. That meddlesome, flame-haired interloper who had stolen what should have been her’s years ago. Jean-Luc’s loyalty. His heart. His future.

“Enjoy it while you can,” she whispered to the dark, her voice cracking under the weight of venom and longing. “Because I’ll find a way. I’ll peel you apart, piece by piece, until you’re nothing more than another name in a casualty report.”

Her laugh—low, unsteady, almost broken—shivered against the bulkhead walls, as obsessive as it was dangerous.

=/=

The morning sun spilled over the Skinoan estate, flooding the courtyards and catching in the tall glass windows until the house itself seemed to glow. The air was rich with the scents of baked bread and flowering vines—familiar now, almost comforting—and yet the undertone of parting clung like a shadow to every breath.

Jean-Luc stood at the threshold with Beverly at his side, their uniforms restored, their composure returned—yet every subtle glance between them carried the afterglow of the night before. Their bond, now unofficially sealed, hummed like a secret beneath their calm Starfleet veneer.

Mira embraced Beverly first, clinging to her with a fierceness that needed no words. “You’ve given me more than I can ever repay,” she whispered against her shoulder, her voice trembling. “More than even Aurelin will understand, perhaps.”

“You owe me nothing,” Beverly answered softly, stroking Mira’s hair before drawing back to meet her eyes. “Only to remember that Jolan’s strength is his own. I just gave him the chance to use it.”

Jolan himself hovered nearby, pale but upright, his hand clenched in his sister Caty’s. When Beverly knelt to him, his lower lip trembled—but he straightened his shoulders, forcing a boyish pride into his stance. “You’ll come back, won’t you?” he asked, voice cracking with the gravity of an oath.

Beverly’s chest constricted. She cupped his cheek gently. “If the stars ever let me, Jolan.”

Picard bent down then, his own hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, steady and warm. “You’ve shown more courage than many grown men I’ve known,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of command and the tenderness of something more. “Take care of your mother. And your father.”

Caty, her pale hair a halo in the morning light, darted forward, demanding to be lifted. Jean-Luc obliged without hesitation, her giggles wrapping around him like sunlight. “I will miss you,” she declared gravely, peering over at Beverly from his arms. “But Cappain as well.”

The words, innocent and piercing, drew a quiet laugh from Aurelin, who had joined them at last, dignity wrapping his tall frame. He clasped Picard’s hand in both of his own. “No matter the differences between us, Jean-Luc, know this: you and your people are welcome here. You’ve brought us not only treaties but… hope.” His gaze flicked, just for a breath, toward Beverly. “And I trust that what has been given here will not be forgotten.”

There was meaning in the words—layered, cautious, but real. Picard felt it, and Beverly felt it too.

Together, they turned back toward the transporter team waiting at the gates. And for one long heartbeat, with the Skinoan family behind them and the Federation future ahead, they shared a look. A promise unspoken: that this was not an ending. Only a beginning.

=/=

The hum of the transporter faded, leaving the sterile, accustomed walls of Transporter Room Two around them. After days in the golden warmth of Skinoa, the sudden cool brightness of the Enterprise felt both like a relief and a jolt—home and duty reclaiming them in the same breath.

Beverly’s boots touched down softly, her spine straightening, her features sliding back into the calm mask of Starfleet composure. Beside her, Jean-Luc mirrored the shift—captain once more, crisp and unreadable, as if the man who had kissed her beneath the moons and bound himself to her in sacred water was just another dream.

But when their eyes met—just a flicker, a glance shared in the space between two heartbeats—there it was. The promise. The bond. The undeniable truth that nothing would ever be the same again.

“I should get to the bridge,” he murmured, his voice pitched low enough for her alone, duty already pulling at him like a tide.

“And I need a shower and a change before sickbay swallows me whole,” she answered lightly, though her tone was too soft, too warm to be mistaken for casual.

For a moment, neither moved. The quiet hum of the transporter pads seemed to hold them in place, cocooning them in something fragile and private. Then he inclined his head, ever so slightly—the gesture of a captain, but also of a man who could not risk more just now.

She gave him the smallest of smiles, her lips curving with the weight of all they hadn’t said, and turned toward the corridor. As she walked away, she felt the burn of his gaze linger, heavy and warm on her back.

On the threshold, she paused, just long enough to glance over her shoulder. His eyes caught hers once more, steady, unwavering.

Later, that look promised.

And she nodded—just once—before disappearing into the ship that had always been theirs, and would now, in ways unspoken, never be the same again.

*

The bridge doors parted with their familiar hiss, and Captain Picard strode in. The shift in atmosphere was immediate: heads lifted, spines straightened, eyes darted with quiet acknowledgment. Yet, to those who had served with him longest, there was something… subtly different in his bearing.

“Captain,” Riker greeted warmly from the command chair, rising to his feet as Picard crossed the deck. “Good to have you back, sir. Smooth sailing while you were gone.”

Picard gave a faint, approving nod. “Excellent. Number One, would you join me in the ready room for a moment?”

“Aye, sir.”

The two men disappeared through the doors, and the bustle of the bridge resumed at their backs. Inside the ready room, the space was quiet, calm, and bathed in the soft light of stars streaking past.

Picard ordered, as always, “Tea, Earl Grey, hot.” The familiar hum of the replicator delivered his cup, the steam curling upward like a loyal companion. He settled behind his desk, fingers resting lightly on the rim of the cup before lifting it for the first sip.

Riker, hands clasped loosely behind his back, offered a knowing half-smile. “So. The mission. The contracts. Negotiations… and the hospitality of our gracious hosts.” His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp, watchful.

Picard arched a brow, savoring his tea before replying. “All handled. The treaties are signed, the relations secured. A satisfactory outcome by every measure.”

“That’s all?” Riker’s grin widened. “From what I heard, you were more than simply welcomed, Captain. The Skinoans seem to have made quite the impression.”

Picard let the silence hang for a moment, his lips curving—just slightly. “They are… spirited people. Fond of their traditions.” He took another sip, letting the understatement settle.

Riker chuckled. “Spirited, hm? That’s not the usual Picardian briefing, sir. Normally by now I’d have endured at least a ten-minute lecture on diplomatic nuances and cultural imperatives.”

Picard set his cup down with deliberate care, eyes glinting mysteriously. “Careful, Number One. I might take that as an invitation to begin.”

That earned him a bark of laughter from Riker—genuine, surprised. “Well, now I am curious.”

Picard’s mouth twitched in what might—might—have been the shadow of a smirk. “Let’s simply say the mission succeeded in more ways than one. And we leave it at that.”

Riker tilted his head, studying his captain, the man he had served beside for so many years. There was something softened in him. Not weaker, not distracted—but alive in a way he rarely allowed to show. Hell, Will thought, he even just teased me.

Whatever had transpired planetside, it wasn’t just diplomacy. And though the urge to pry tugged at him, Riker knew better than to push. For now. He’d save the digging—perhaps through Worf, or Data—for later.

“Understood, sir,” he said instead, his tone the picture of professionalism. But inwardly, he was grinning like a wolf. Unceremoniously pulling a padd from beneath his arm, he set it on the desk, sliding it toward Picard. “Our next assignment comes in from Command. We’re scheduled to run a survey of a moon in the Deneva sector—geological research, short-term mineral analysis. Routine, but necessary. After that, we’ll divert to Starbase 173 to drop off JAG Louvois.”

Picard skimmed the padd with one hand while sipping his tea with the other. “A research moon,” he said dryly. “Hardly the most stirring of postings.”

“No,” Riker admitted with a grin, “but it’ll keep the science teams entertained.” Then, his tone shifted, voice lowering. “I’ll be honest, Captain—I’ll breathe easier once Louvois is off this ship.”

Picard set the padd down, steepling his fingers. “Has she been… troublesome?”

Riker let out a breath through his nose. “She’s been circling the crew like a hunting hawk. Pressing them for information, digging into logs, cornering people in Ten Forward. Even Data couldn’t escape her questions. She’s making enemies left and right. And if she keeps pushing…” He stopped, but then shook his head. “Frankly, sir, the sooner she’s gone, the better.”

Picard’s jaw tightened briefly—then, unexpectedly, he leaned back in his chair, expression composed, almost serene. “Patience, Number One. The storm will pass. It always does.”

Riker frowned. He’d expected irritation, maybe even cold dismissal—but instead, his captain radiated a calm that was almost unsettling. Louvois’ antics didn’t seem to land at all. “With respect, sir, she’s not just a storm. She’s a storm with teeth. And she’s after you.”

Picard’s gaze shifted toward the stars, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Her teeth will find no purchase. Let her exhaust herself. We’ll see her delivered safely to Starbase 173 soon enough.”

The calmness unsettled Riker even more. His captain wasn’t dismissing the danger, but he was… untouchable, anchored in some quiet resolve Riker hadn’t seen before. “You seem… different, sir,” he said carefully. “Not distracted. Not troubled. Almost…” He hesitated, then smirked. “…light.”

Picard arched a brow. “Light?”

Will spread his large hands, feigning innocence. “You don’t usually take sabotage and scandal-mongering with this kind of composure. So forgive me if I wonder what’s changed.”

Picard held his gaze, then lowered his voice with measured weight. “Soon, Number One. I’ll tell you soon.”

There was finality in the words, but also something else—something warm and unshakable beneath them. Will inclined his head, accepting it outwardly, though the spark of curiosity behind his arctic blue eyes only burned brighter. Whatever had happened those last days, his captain wasn’t just calm. He was anchored.

Picard returned the padd, the faintest smile still lingering, signaling that the conversation was at an end. Riker straightened, tugging his uniform down with a habitual gesture.

“Yes, sir,” he said, voice even, though his mind buzzed. He tapped the padd once, almost as if to anchor himself, then moved for the door. The ready room doors parted, spilling him out onto the bridge. He paused for a fraction of a second, glancing back at the closed doors.

Light, he mused with a slow grin. Jean-Luc Picard doesn’t do light. Not unless something—or someone—pulled it out of him.

He stepped into the turbolift, his shift ended and his arms folded. I was the one who suggested they play at being husband and wife. A little “diplomatic convenience,” I called it. And now? Data swears he’s observed… that Beverly Crusher had, at least on three separate occasions, touched Picard’s face without necessity” unnecessary or necessary. A touch. Only Data would phrase something lifechanging like that. Physical contact between the two of them had ever been discreet, but always existed – in a way. That they chose to go further than his hand on her back or hers on his arm, was proof enough to know, there had happened more than just acting and roleplay.

Riker chuckled under his breath. Maybe this whole charade of a diplomatic marriage had turned out to the most pleasurable push, a chance to get them thrown together, after KesPrytt and the emotional drift all of them had been obvious to. Maybe my little plan worked better than I imagined. And if it did—well, I’ll be the first to raise a glass when the captain finally admits it.

The lift doors closed on his smirk, leaving only the faintest hum of satisfaction behind.

*

Steam still clung faintly to the corners of the room, dissolving as the circulation system cleared the air. Beverly stood before the mirror, tugging the collar of her freshly replicated uniform into place, smoothing it with precise, practiced movements. Everything about her posture said professional Starfleet officer, Doctor, CMO.

And yet—her reflection betrayed her.

Her hair was still damp, curling softly at the ends, her cheeks faintly flushed from the sonic shower. Her eyes, though steady, shimmered with a secret fire that no uniform could quite extinguish. She leaned closer to the mirror, fingertips brushing lightly along her neck. Just there—barely visible above the crisp collar—was the faintest shadow of a bruise, his mark.

Her breath caught. A memory flashed—his mouth claiming hers in a way that had unraveled her completely, the weight of him pinning her to the sheets, their whispered confessions spilling between desperate kisses. The taste of him. The way his voice had broken when he said her name.

She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. Beverly Crusher, former Head of Starfleet Medical, acting CMO of the Enterprise, reduced to trembling at the thought of a man’s mouth on her skin. Again. And again.

And not just any man. Jean-Luc.

Every time the pull between them getting stronger.

Her hand fell from her throat, tugging the zipper up to conceal the evidence. She schooled her face into neutrality, into calm. But inside? Inside she still felt the water of Tholey stirring against her palms, the spark of light as it had wound around their joined hands, sealing something ancient and intimate between them. A bond, he had called it.

A bond.

Her gaze drifted back to the mirror. She should feel guilty—about bending the Prime Directive, about Jolan, about all the things she had risked. And yet, her thoughts betrayed her, returning to the memory of his firm body against hers, the way she had finally let go of all restraint. For the first time in decades, she hadn’t cared for a second about consequence and decorum. Only about him. And what he was doing to her.

“Heaven help me,” she whispered at her own reflection, “I think I’m past the point of any reason.” She lingered by the mirror longer than she meant to. Her fingers—traitorous, curious—wandered down the line of her jaw, tracing where his stubble had rasped her skin. She remembered the weight of his hand at her waist, firm but reverent, how he had pulled her flush against him as if afraid she might vanish. She remembered the faint growl in his throat when she teased him—Jean-Luc Picard, her friend, her superior, her love… growling in need. For her.

Her breath caught again. Her body still hummed from it, as if his presence hadn’t quite left her. Even here, in her quarters, alone, she swore she could smell him, that faint spice of Earl Grey and clean starch, mingled with something purely him—warmth, command, the man behind the captain.

Her lips parted, remembering the moment she had bitten back a moan against his shoulder, unwilling to let the walls of his quarters betray them, now finally really alone and back on their ship. Her nails curled against the mirror now, the glass cool under her fingertips where his skin had been feverishly hot.

A sharp chime at the door jolted her back into herself.

She straightened too quickly, nearly upsetting the small cup of hairpins on her dresser. “Come,” she managed, her voice pitched low, still husky.

Deanna stepped inside with her characteristic poise, eyes sweeping over Beverly once, and then narrowing. Too perceptive. Beverly knew that look—the tilt of the head, the subtle narrowing of Betazoid eyes that meant trouble.

“You’ve been… distracted this morning,” Deanna said softly, leaning a hip against the table. Her tone was casual, but Beverly could hear the note of curiosity humming underneath, the gentle probe of a counselor who already knew more than she should. “And I don’t mean by work.”

Beverly’s hand snapped to her collar, tugging it just a little higher, as if the uniform could hide what Deanna’s empathy never would. “I’m fine,” she said briskly, too briskly.

Deanna smiled—knowing, amused, patient. “Fine,” she echoed, letting the word hang between them. Her eyes softened, her voice dropping lower, almost teasing: “You do know I can tell when you’ve had a very… eventful night, right? I must admit, I was a little surprised to hear you cared to return to the ship just for the night, especially since you were expected and present at the official farewell this morning.”

Beverly’s lips curled into a smirk, even as her cheeks burned scarlet. “Really, Deanna? You barge into my quarters right after breakfast like some Betazoid gossip hound, sniffing for scandal? What’s next—do I have to lock away my diary and hide my underwear drawer? We had… pressing matters to attend to…”

Deanna’s brows arched, unbothered. “You have a diary for… pressing matters? Interesting.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice with mock seriousness. “Is it encrypted, or do you just trust no one will ever dare peek into something so… personal just like your Nana did?”

Beverly spun on her heel and snatched a PADD from the table as if busying herself, refusing to meet her friend’s glinting eyes. “You’re terrible.”

“And you’re radiating, Bev,” Deanna countered with a catlike smile. “Honestly, you look like you’ve been… very thoroughly attended to. It’s almost unfair how obvious it is. Poor Will nearly choked on his coffee when he saw you stroll past earlier. And I don’t think it was because of your new boots.”

Beverly snapped her gaze up, scandalized. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Deanna!”

“Am I wrong?”

Beverly narrowed her eyes. “If I gave you details—and I’m not saying I will—you’d blush so hard your empathic antennae would fry.”

Deanna’s grin widened into something positively wicked. “Try me. Remember, Betazoids don’t embarrass easily. We embrace intimacy, celebrate pleasure. You Humans get so prudish when it comes to the interesting parts.”

“You mean the intimate parts.”

Deanna only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Same thing.”

Beverly crossed her arms, leaning back against the dresser with studied casualness. “You know, there’s a reason I never bring you shoe shopping. You’d interrogate the salesman about his sex life before we even picked out a pair of heels.”

“That happened once,” Deanna said sweetly, “and in my defense, he was thinking very loudly.”

Beverly groaned into her hand. “You’re a pain.”

“Maybe,” Deanna said, her eyes dancing with mischief, “but I’m also your best friend. And your best friend really wants to know what—or should I say who—kept you up all night to make you look like… well, that.” She gestured with a flourish at Beverly’s flushed face, the faintest shadow of bruises on her throat.

Beverly’s smirk sharpened into dangerous territory. “Deanna, one more word, and I’ll call Will and tell him all about that little ‘exercise session’ you and Worf had on the holodeck last week. In graphic detail.”

Deanna’s cheeks finally colored, though faintly. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.” Beverly crossed her arms triumphantly.

Deanna huffed, half-laughing, half-defeated. “Fine. Keep your secrets, my dear doctor. But I expect at least one detail before the end of this day. Or I’ll get it from Data—he’s the least discreet of the lot.”

Beverly barked a laugh, rolling her eyes. “You do that. And when he explains the regularities for being indecent, don’t come crying to me.”

Deanna’s grin returned, sly and unshaken. “Don’t worry. I’ll save my crying for when you finally admit that Jean-Luc Picard has ruined you for any other man.”

Beverly’s retort caught in her throat. Deanna’s knowing chuckle still lingered when Beverly, with the grace of a surgeon and the bite of a cobra, leaned in just slightly. Her lips curved in a wicked smirk, and she let the tip of her tongue drag slowly across her lower lip. “Maybe you’re right, Dee,” she murmured, voice low, teasing, razor-sharp. “He has, in fact, ruined me. And I’ve never been so grateful to a man in my entire life.”

Deanna stopped for half a heartbeat—actually froze—then blinked, caught between outrage and helpless laughter. “You…” She shook her head, sputtering. “You are insufferable!”

“Professional hazard,” Beverly quipped, stepping past her toward the replicator, her hips swaying with deliberate insolence. “You should know by now.”

Deanna recovered with a huff and folded her arms, doing her best impression of imperious calm. “Actually, I came here to talk about the upcoming mission and its side-effects. Not your… extracurricular cardio regimen.”

Beverly turned, a sly light flashing in her sapphire eyes. “Of course you did,” she said sweetly, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement.

For a moment the air shifted, heavier, calmer—until Deanna, as if unable to help herself, dropped the word like a dagger: “And… Philippa.”

Beverly’s smile faltered. Her eyes darkened, still alight but now with something dangerous—like embers stirred too hard. She said nothing at first, just stared at Troi until the counselor shifted on her feet. “Of course,” Beverly said finally, her tone dry as desert air. “Because nothing spoils a perfectly fine morning faster than invoking her name.”

The smaller woman hesitated at the sudden chill in the room. Beverly had returned to fastening the clasp of her uniform jacket, but the movements were tighter now, more forceful than precise. The faint humor still clinging to her face drained away as though Louvois’ name had stripped the warmth from the air.

“I’m serious, Beverly,” Deanna said softly, stepping forward, her voice gentling though her dark eyes stayed sharp. “She’s been… circling and I can tell she hasn’t stopped yet. Not just down there, but up here as well. The crew feels it—like a storm waiting to break.”

Beverly’s fingers paused at her collar. For a heartbeat, her reflection stared back at her from the mirror—flushed and off-track, betraying what she would not speak of. She saw herself, exposed. And suddenly, the image of Louvois’ smug, prying eyes flashed before her mind. She let out a brittle laugh, though it caught in her throat. “Circling. That’s generous. Hawks circle, Deanna. Philippa Louvois is more of a vulture.”

Deanna’s lips quirked, but the humor didn’t reach her eyes. “She’s dangerous, Beverly. And I can’t ignore how much venom she carries when she looks at you.”

Beverly turned then, her hands on her hips, fire sparking in her eyes. “Good. Let her look. If she thinks she can rattle me, she’s gravely mistaken.” She stepped closer, voice lowering, trembling between steel and heat. “But if she dares to use him as a weapon against me…” She trailed off, inhaling sharply as the anger burned too bright, threatening to spill over.

Deanna tilted her head, studying her with something between admiration and concern. “You love him,” she said simply. No teasing, no coyness. Just truth.

Beverly froze for half a heartbeat, then gave a low chuckle, too sharp, too pointed. “Deanna, you really should stop poking at things that don’t concern you. Or do I need to remind you, you’re not a full telepath?”

“Oh, please,” Deanna countered smoothly, folding her arms with amused stubbornness. “I don’t need to be. It’s written all over you. And don’t pretend you didn’t march into Philippa Louvois’ quarters to stake your claim. That kind of confidence—” her brow lifted knowingly “—doesn’t come from nowhere.”

Beverly turned back to the mirror, smoothing a curl behind her ear, avoiding her friend’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mm-hm.” Deanna’s voice dripped with skepticism. “Then explain to me why she looked like she wanted to strangle you when I saw her in the corridor yesterday. Or why you’re standing here with bite marks you’ve been conveniently trying to hide under your collar.”

Beverly shot her a glare through the mirror, crimson rising in her cheeks. “Deanna Troi, one more word and I’ll order you to Sickbay for invasive scans.”

“Oh, I’d love to see you try,” Deanna quipped, stepping closer with a grin that was far too pleased with itself. “But I’m right, aren’t I? You’ve finally stopped pretending. And I’m happy for you, Beverly, I am. But—” Her tone dropped, softening, growing serious again. “She won’t stop. Louvois. She’s obsessive. And while you and Jean-Luc may have found joy in each other at last… you have to remain careful. She’ll use any weakness she can sniff out. Even love.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Beverly inhaled, slow and controlled, then let out a fragile laugh to mask the pounding in her chest. “Careful? I invented careful. And if Philippa Louvois thinks she can weaponize what Jean-Luc and I share, then she’s in for a very rude awakening.”

Deanna arched a brow, unconvinced but unwilling to push further. Beverly’s eyes flicked back to her reflection—her lips curved, proud and faintly dangerous.

She was Beverly Crusher. And no one—not even JAG officer Louvois—would undo what she had finally allowed herself to claim.

*

The door slid shut behind her with a soft hiss, leaving Deanna in the corridor, arms folded, her lips still quirking from Beverly’s razor-edged retorts. She had expected sparks, of course—the good doctor always guarded her heart like a bastion—but this new light in her, this radiant defiance… it was something else.

She exhaled slowly, trying to smother the small laugh that still lingered in her throat. Only Beverly would parry affection with acerbic wit. And only Jean-Luc Picard would endure it—and love her all the more for it.

But beneath the amusement, something heavier stirred.

Deanna closed her eyes for a moment, letting her senses reach back into the quarters she had just left. The echoes of Beverly’s emotions still resonated—bright, sharp, fiercely alive. The steady thrum of love, the dangerous blaze of possession, the fragile trembling of someone who had finally dared to step past the line she’d drawn for years.

And in that blaze, Deanna felt another pulse, dark and cold: Philippa Louvois.

Obsession. Envy. A hunger that won’t stop until it devours everything in its path.

Deanna opened her eyes, her smile fading as she stepped into the turbolift. For all her joy at seeing Beverly and Jean-Luc finally giving themselves to each other, she couldn’t ignore the shadow threading its way around them. Love made them strong, yes—but it also left them vulnerable.

“Deck Ten,” she instructed, her voice quieter than usual.

As the lift hummed to life, Deanna pressed her palm against the smooth wall, her thoughts lingering on her best friend. I only hope you’re right, Beverly. That you can keep her at bay. Because if Louvois strikes… it won’t be just your heart at risk. It will be his, too.

The doors slid open, light spilling into the lift. Deanna straightened her shoulders, softening her expression again as she stepped out. But in her chest, a knot of unease had already begun to coil tighter.

Chapter Text

The pale-grey sphere of the outer moon filled the main viewscreen, its surface etched with craters and jagged ridges. A stark, frozen desert—airless, lifeless, so different to Skinoa and yet, strangely magnetic.

“Orbit achieved, Captain,” Data reported smoothly from Ops. “Surface scans confirm a solid crust composed primarily of silicates and iron oxides. There are also anomalous energy readings beneath several ridgelines. Their origin remains undetermined. Atmosphere with moderate oxygen-level.”

Worf, standing firm at Tactical, narrowed his gaze at the screen. “Undetermined usually means dangerous.”

Riker leaned back in his chair, lips quirking. “Or it just means rocks, Lieutenant.”

“Dangerous rocks,” Worf muttered.

Picard rose from his chair, stepping closer to the viewer, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. The faint ridges of the moon seemed to shimmer under the reflection of the nearby gas giant. “A desolate place,” he murmured. “And yet maybe it may hold secrets older than any known civilization.” He turned, his voice sharpening. “Mister Riker, prepare an away team. We’ll put boots on the ground and see what those anomalies reveal.”

“Aye, sir,” Riker replied, already keying a note into his console. “Geology, xenobiology, and geoarchaeology teams will want to come along. I’ll pull the roster.”

Data’s head tilted. “The energy signatures could indicate ancient infrastructure. Possibility of artificial origin: twelve-point-four percent, and rising as we refine the scan.”

That drew a faint grunt from Worf. “Artificial origin means sentience. Sentience means conflict.”

Riker shot him a look. “Or it means some old ruins, Worf. Not every mission has to end in a fight.”

Worf didn’t flinch. “I prepare for what might be there, not what I hope is there.”

Picard lifted a hand, silencing the quiet bickering with practiced ease. “Your caution is noted, Mister Worf—and warranted. Data, continue refining the scan. I want every detail we can gather before we step onto that surface.” His eyes returned to the screen, narrowing slightly. “There’s something about this place…”

For a moment, the bridge fell quiet. The barren moon loomed back at them, silent, scarred, but promising its own brand of mystery.

Picard straightened, his decision forming as crisply as his words. “And Will… add Commander Louvois to the away team.”

At the mention of her name, a hush seemed to ripple across the bridge. Riker’s head jerked up, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline as though he hadn’t heard correctly. “Sir?”

Picard turned only slightly, his tone clipped and unmistakably firm. “You heard me, Number One.”

Riker leaned back in his chair, arms folding as though to pin his incredulity in place. His look was plain as words: You’re kidding, right?

Picard’s eyes narrowed by a fraction, his jaw set with a dangerous edge of dry humour. “Just trying to keep her busy, Number One.”

The answer was enough to silence further objection, though Riker’s lips twitched with a muttered busy that didn’t make it fully past his throat. He gave a curt nod, fingers dancing across his console to enter her name on the roster.

Picard moved closer to the main viewer once more, absentmindedly tugging his uniform tunic in place. The moon dominated the screen, pale, lifeless, its horizon forever locked in shadow. Yet something about it hauled at him—its scars like the lines of an ancient face, keeping secrets no one had been close enough to read.

His mind drifted, not toward the science, but the danger. Louvois, always circling, probing, pressing for weakness. Bringing her down to this barren place meant distraction for her, yes—but also proximity. A gamble. Still, it was preferable to leaving her aboard, unrestrained, with too much time to dig into the lives she was already bent on poisoning.

And beneath that thought, quiet and persistent, his heart strayed elsewhere—toward the woman who wasn’t here, but would undoubtedly argue her way onto this mission once she heard of it.

*

The shimmer of transporter light gave way to dust and silence. The team materialized in a staggered circle on the moon’s surface, boots crunching onto uneven, metallic-grey rock that glittered faintly beneath the pale sun of the Deneva system.

Riker was first to move, tricorder snapping open in his hand with the familiarity of ritual. The air was thin but perfectly breathable, crisp as glass, carrying a faint metallic tang that stung the back of the throat. “Alright, people—standard sweep pattern. Let’s make this quick.”

To his left, Worf adjusted the strap of his phaser rifle, already prowling the ridgeline with a warrior’s eye, scanning shadows that stretched long across the fractured terrain. “No immediate life-signs,” he rumbled, though the way his hand lingered near his weapon suggested he trusted neither instruments nor surface calm.

Two scientists, both clad in field jackets over their uniforms, knelt immediately to examine a jagged crystalline outcrop. Their tricorders chirped in counterpoint as they muttered to each other—rare silicate composition, unusually stable lattice structure. A third scientist moved further afield, raising a portable sensor to map the terrain.

The youngest of the group, Ensign Maren, blonde, wide-eyed and eager, turned slowly in place, her gaze sweeping over the broken plains and distant, toothlike ridges. She tapped at her wrist console, fingers almost trembling with the thrill of her first planetary survey.

And then there was Louvois.

She appeared like a figure carved of disdain, arms crossed tight over her chest as if even the barren moon had personally insulted her. Her pale blue eyes swept over the group, not the landscape, her lips pressed into a sharp, bloodless line. When she moved at last, it was not to open a tricorder, nor to lend a hand—but to step closer to Riker, her face a mask. “Well, this is riveting,” she said acidly, her voice cutting against the silence of the rocks. “I do hope this exercise in moon-hopping proves worth my time, Commander. Unless, of course, your captain simply wanted me out of his hair for a few hours.”

Riker’s jaw tightened, though his practiced smile held. “I assure you, Commander Louvois, the captain is quite invested in these findings.” He gestured with his tricorder toward a fractured ravine, deliberately shifting attention. “And so are we. Why don’t you make yourself useful?”

Louvois arched a brow, stepping past him with deliberate slowness, her eyes glinting with quietly hissed retorts. Instead of bending to the rock or soil, however, she turned her gaze to the horizon, as though her mind already plotted new angles, new games.

Behind her, Worf muttered something low and guttural under his breath, a sound that made the young ensign’s head snap toward him in alarm. He didn’t explain—didn’t need to. His scowl said it plainly: this woman was more dangerous than the desolate moon itself.

Riker turned on his heel, planting himself directly in Louvois’ path. His eyes narrowed, but his tone was clipped, even. “Commander Louvois—while you’re aboard this ship, you are part of the crew. That means you join the away missions without complaint. You follow the orders of our captain. And you follow my orders while we’re down here. Clear?”

Louvois tilted her head, her lips curving into that razor-edged smile that could cut through steel. “Oh, I’m perfectly clear, Number One.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a poisonous purr only he could hear. “And how very noble of you, standing tall, keeping the captain’s little world in order while he’s… otherwise distracted. I wonder if he thanks you properly for that.”

Riker’s jaw flexed, his eyes briefly flicking skyward as if to call down patience from the moons themselves.

Before he could fire back, one of the geologists let out an exclamation from the far side of the ravine. “Commander Riker! You’ll want to see this.”

The away team gathered quickly at the edge of a fractured seam in the rock. Lt. Cavir, the geologist, crouched, tricorder humming in his hand, the small screen alive with unfamiliar readings. “There’s movement beneath the surface—deep sub-strata layers.” He tapped, adjusting sensors. “Not tectonic activity. Microbial colonies, possibly. Dense enough to register this far up.”

Ensign Maren leaned forward, eyes widening as the readouts spiked across the tricorder screen. “Sir, if those signatures are biological, they’re unlike anything in our databases.”

“Microbes?” Riker asked, crouching beside Cavir, scanning the rift himself.

“Microbes at least,” the young man nodded, his excitement tempered by disbelief. “But clustered this densely? With energy readings like these?” He shook his head. “That’s not just life surviving. That’s life thriving—and influencing the mineral structure itself.”

Louvois, arms still crossed, peered over them all with a veneer of boredom, but her eyes flicked down at the scanner with quick, hungry sharpness. “So, you’ve found a colony of germs. I’m sure the galaxy will be eternally grateful.”

Riker ignored her. His gaze tracked the ravine stretching ahead like a wound across the barren plain. If there was life here—life reshaping the rocks themselves—this mission had just become far more complicated.

And Louvois, he thought grimly, was the last person he wanted on this team when things got complicated.

The geologist carefully sealed the first sample, his gloves trembling despite years of field work. “We’ll need medical cross-checks immediately—no telling how this organism interacts with humanoid biochemistry.”

Riker straightened, dusting his hands against his thighs as his gaze cut to Worf. No words passed between them, none were needed. Calling Beverly down here, right now, was out of question. For reasons both scientific and… personal.

Worf gave the faintest incline of his head, as if he had just growled his agreement without sound. Riker turned back to the team. “Catalogue the specimens, run every scan twice. We’ll handle medical evaluations once we’re sure this won’t eat through our tricorders.”

A ripple of nervous laughter from the young ensign quickly died as Louvois’ voice slithered into the silence. “Well,” she drawled, arms folded across her chest as if she were supervising children playing with rocks, “if I really must follow our lovely captain’s orders, I would have preferred following them when we were alone—in his quarters. Naked.”

The entire away team froze. Even the geologist’s tricorder beeped in protest as if the remark had corrupted its circuits.

Riker pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing a long breath through his teeth before levelling her with a stare that could have melted duranium. “Commander Louvois,” he said with deliberate calm, “your wit is… noted. But unless you plan to contribute to the research, I suggest you keep your commentary to yourself.”

Louvois’ smirk widened, shark-like. “Careful, Number One. One might think you’re… jealous.”

Worf’s growl was audible this time, low and dangerous, but he returned to scanning the ridge without further comment.

Riker turned away too, but his jaw was tight. The sooner this mission wrapped, the sooner they could rid the Enterprise of Louvois—for good.

Cavir crouched again, brushing a layer of dust aside. His tricorder chirped wildly, readings spiking into unfamiliar registers. “Commander… this isn’t right. These microbes… they’re reacting to the light. Almost as if they’re—communicating.”

The xenobiologist, a slightly older, stern Vulcan scientist, leaned over his shoulder, wide-eyed. “Look at that—structural reorganization. They’re forming patterns. They may not be just microbes at all, but a collective network.”

Riker crouched beside them, jaw tense. “Keep recording. Contain everything—carefully.”

Behind him, Louvois gave an exaggerated sigh and dusted an imaginary speck from her sleeve. “Oh, fascinating. Little green germs scribbling love notes in the sand. Perhaps next they’ll write Jean-Luc’s name. He does inspire… curious devotion.”

The young ensign, busy sealing a vial, flushed scarlet. Her hands trembled so badly she nearly dropped it.

Louvois’ eyes flicked to her like a hawk to prey. “What’s the matter, Ensign? Never heard a woman speak plainly before? Or is it the thought of your captain disrobed that makes you so pale?”

The ensign froze, her lips parting but no sound emerging.

Riker’s head snapped up, voice taut with steel. “That’s enough.”

Louvois tilted her head, smirking, her tone almost playful. “Oh, come now, William. You can’t tell me you’ve never wondered what keeps Beverly Crusher so very… occupied. It isn’t the microbes.”

That was when Worf moved.

The Klingon rose to his full height, casting a shadow over the clearing. His tricorder snapped shut in his hand, the sound sharp as a blade leaving its sheath. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Your behaviour dishonours this team and the crew.” He stepped forward, his glare fixed squarely on Louvois. “You shame yourself with every word. Enough.”

Even Louvois faltered under that gaze, though her smirk twitched defiantly back into place a beat later.

The ensign, pale as bleached bone, whispered, “Thank you, sir,” so softly it was barely audible.

Worf did not look at her. His eyes never left Louvois, every inch of him radiating disgust and warning.

Louvois tilted her chin, lips curling into something halfway between a smile and a sneer. “My, such chivalry. One would think I’d stumbled into a convent rather than Starfleet.” Her voice dripped with mocking sweetness, but the heat of Worf’s glare still lingered on her skin. She folded her arms, turning away from him, pretending disinterest—though everyone saw the retreat for what it was.

Riker’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, only exchanging a weighted glance with Worf. The Klingon’s nostrils flared once, satisfied, before he bent again to scan the soil, deliberately ignoring Louvois.

Minutes stretched in tense silence, broken only by the soft whir of tricorders and the scientists’ quiet murmurs. The xenobiologist finally approached, cradling the sealed samples in gloved hands. “Commander Riker—we’ve completed the extraction. Enough for weeks of analysis. It’s delicate work; we should return before exposure risks contamination.”

Riker rose, dusting off his knees. “Understood. Well done.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Worf, then back to the team. “We’ve seen enough for one day.”

He tapped his combadge. “Riker to Enterprise. Seven to beam up.”

The transporter’s whine filled the clearing, gold shimmer beginning to rise around them. Louvois’ smirk lingered until the last moment, but it never reached her eyes.

*

The shimmer faded, the cool sterility of the Enterprise’s transporter room replacing the humid air of the moon. The scientists hurried off with their samples, relief plain on their faces. Riker dismissed them briskly and strode out with a purposeful pace along with the young Ensign, leaving only Worf and Louvois behind.

She lingered at the edge of the pad, smoothing down the fabric of her red uniform as if the transporter had somehow wrinkled it. Then, with a sideways glance at the Klingon, her lips curled. “You know,” she purred, her tone as sharp as glass, “for all your righteous snarling, I can’t decide if it’s loyalty to Picard that fuels you… or fear that the good doctor might actually be replaced.”

The words dropped like acid.

Worf froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned to face her, his shoulders broad, his voice low and lethal.
“Your tongue dishonours you. Speak of my captain—or Doctor Crusher—with such poison again, and you will find Klingon patience runs far thinner than Starfleet courtesy.”

Her eyes flickered—just briefly—but then she tilted her head back, chuckling as if his fury amused her. “Touchy, aren’t we? I wonder what that says about what you’ve already seen…”

Worf’s growl rolled deep from his chest, echoing off the transporter room walls. For an instant, Louvois’ smile faltered. She gathered her composure quickly and swept out, her heels clicking against the deck with defiance.

The doors hissed closed behind her.

Alone now, Worf exhaled through his teeth, forcing restraint. This had evolved into a challenge.

*

Philippa Louvois stormed through the corridor, each step measured but betraying the fire beneath her carefully cultivated calm. By the time her doors closed behind her, the mask cracked. She yanked at her uniform, tugging it down off her shoulders, discarding the jacket across a chair. Her boots followed with a sharp kick, then her combadge—flung onto the table like it burned her fingers.

“Computer—Cabernet Sauvignon, ‘62. Large glass.”

The replicator hummed, presenting her with deep crimson wine. She clutched it greedily, downing half before sinking onto the sofa. A ragged exhale escaped her, her fingers trembling against the glass. “Useless brutes… Klingon's, sycophants, wide-eyed ensigns,” she muttered, voice laced with venom. But as the alcohol hit her bloodstream, although synthetic, her scowl twisted into a crooked smile. “And Jean-Luc, always the noble captain. Always with that perfect mask…”

Her eyes hardened.

“Computer, secure channel. Priority JAG-One. Admiral Cornelius Veynar.”

The screen on her desk came alive, displaying the grizzled, stern face of her superior. The shadows in his office emphasized his gaunt features, his eyes pinning her like a hawk’s. The man himself looked like he had been carved from basalt—hard edges, severe lines, his voice gravel smoothed only by authority.

“Philippa.” His voice was low, clipped. No warmth. No courtesy. Only command. “I’ve reviewed your situation. The Enterprise is ordered to retain you until further notice. I made sure to buy you time as your findings on that late mission were rather... unsatisfying and incomplete.”

She leaned back, feigning nonchalance, but her voice carried sharp edges. “But you realize the crew’s patience is thinning after that sharp manoeuvre. Picard’s little, laborious bees would like nothing more than to see me launched into a star.”

His lip curled, not in amusement. “Then you’re doing your job right. You just have to dig deeper. You’ve only scratched the surface. Behind that polished grumpy facade, Picard hides something. Find it. Something in his past. Something in his record. Or something in his daily activities or commands. You know as well as I do—no man maintains such spotless perfection without burying rot beneath it.”

Swirling the wine, she watched its legs trail down the glass, her thoughts clicking like a well-oiled weapon. “Admiral,” she began carefully, spreading her web, her voice deceptively silken, “I like to talk about the ship’s doctor. Beverly Crusher. His so-called best friend… Am I to assume she remains… outside my purview?”

Veynar’s brow arched, but his tone remained flat. “No, not entirely. Picard is the target—but if evidence links Crusher to impropriety, concealment, or aiding him in bending Starfleet law, then yes. You are permitted to extend your investigation into her as well.”

Philippa’s lips parted, the question pressed with something like hunger. “Just to be absolutely clear, sir—you are sanctioning that, if necessary, Doctor Beverly Crusher could fall on the same blade as Picard?”

There was a long pause. Veynar leaned forward into the screen, shadows swallowing half his face. His answer was slow, deliberate: “That is not the aspiration, Louvois. Starfleet owes her a great deal… however, if Picard’s indiscretions are compounded by hers—if she is complicit—then it is… tolerable. We are not here to spare reputations. We are here to protect the integrity of Starfleet, after Wolf 359 left our command structure shredded. We cannot afford compromised captains—or compromised senior officers.”

Philippa sat straighter, her pulse quickening. The words hit her chest like a balm, an absolution. And they wrapped smoothly around her long-cherished desire for revenge. Acceptable. Tolerable. The meaning hummed through her like a promise. “Thank you, Admiral,” she whispered, a curl of satisfaction tugging her mouth. “That… clarifies matters.”

Veynar’s gaze sharpened further. “But let me be clear on one thing, Louvois: stay sober. Stay professional. This is not about a spurned affair or some misplaced envy over who shares Picard’s bed.  We can’t afford being distracted. This is about his command, his decisions, and his capacity to lead the flagship of the Federation. If you indulge personal vendettas, you will burn with them.”

Philippa inhaled through her nose, letting the sting ride out in silence. Then, with perfectly measured calm, she inclined her head. “Of course, Admiral. Strictly professional. No… indulgences.”

“Good,” Veynar replied, eyes hard. “Now dig deeper. And find me the weakness.”

The screen went dark.

Philippa leaned back, the wine warming her blood. The Admiral’s warning echoed—but it only fed the flame licking at her ribs. Her nails tapped the armrest in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Acceptable, tolerable, she repeated in her mind, tasting the words like forbidden fruits.

Picard. Crusher. Lovers playing house behind Starfleet’s back. If she pulled them both down, the fall would be glorious. Most satisfying.

She rose, pacing the small space of her quarters, her fingers trailing over the edge of her desk, over the leather-bound case where she kept her PADDs. “He made a fool of me once. Left me standing in that courtroom with the taste of him still on my lips while he paraded himself as the paragon of Starfleet honour. And she…” Philippa’s voice faltered for a moment, then sharpened. “…she dares to walk beside him as though it were always meant to be her? As though I never existed?”

Her nails drummed the surface, harder now, sharp staccato.

“Professional,” she repeated, mocking the admiral’s voice. “Yes, Admiral. Professional, of course.”

But her eyes burned. And her smile widened.

Professional was digging into old logs, sealed files, whispered rumours. Professional was learning every skeleton buried in the captain’s closet and every hidden chamber in the doctor’s heart. Professional was placing them under such scrutiny that the cracks would appear not only in their careers—but in their precious little romance as well.

Her pacing slowed. She stopped before the mirror. Fingers lifted to her throat, brushing the pulse fluttering there. “You think you’re safe because you’ve kissed him in public? You think you’re safe because you claimed his place at his side?” she whispered to the absent redhead. “Because you’ve played house long enough to convince even yourself? Oh, Beverly. The higher you climb, the further there is to fall. And I will be here, at the bottom, when you break.”

She tilted her head, studying her own face as if she were studying an adversary across the table. Cold. Composed. Dangerous.

The glass of wine was reclaimed, drained in one swallow. “Prepare yourself for something. Prepare yourself for me.”

=/=

The long oval table gleamed under the mellow light of the Observation Lounge. Beyond the wide windows, the curve of the Deneva moon rolled slowly past, its pale surface mottled with the shadows of deep ravines.

One by one, the senior officers filed in, voices low, movements subdued. The air was thick with something unsaid, like the static before a storm.

Picard sat at the head of the table, shoulders square, expression composed. But Beverly felt him long before she looked at him—felt his presence like gravity itself, pulling at her. She risked a glance. A heartbeat of connection. The faintest flicker of warmth in his eyes, restrained, buried beneath captain’s steel. Her lips twitched toward a smile she swallowed just in time, instead lowering her gaze to the padd before her.

Riker broke the silence first, his tone brisk but edged. “The geology and xenobiology teams have already transmitted their preliminary data from the surface. If we stay in orbit another forty-eight hours, they’ll have the full picture.” He hesitated, then added, voice lighter but not without bite: “Assuming certain… distractions don’t slow them down.”

Worf rumbled low in his chest, folding his massive arms across his chest. “Distractions,” he said bluntly, “have already hindered the efficiency of the away team once. They should not be allowed to do so again.”

A faint ripple went around the table—exchanged glances, suppressed frowns, careful neutrality.

Beverly tapped her padd, pretending to study the medical scans, though her pulse had quickened. She could very well image how much they’d handled down on the surface along with their new member in the away team. Jean-Luc’s gaze, she could feel, had flicked toward her for the briefest second, gauging, checking. She didn’t look up. Not yet. But the warmth lingered.

And then—

The doors slid open with a hiss.

Philippa Louvois entered, not in uniform but in the elegant civilian attire she favoured, her stride unhurried, her chin held high. She didn’t excuse herself for being late; she didn’t even acknowledge the others. Her eyes swept the table with calculated precision, pausing a heartbeat too long on Picard, then moving on—until they stopped opposite Beverly Crusher.

The last empty chair.

She slipped into it, the fabric of her dress whispering against the seat, arranging herself with the grace of a predator settling in to wait. Her smile was thin, almost lazy, but her eyes glittered like knives catching light.

Beverly met her gaze at last, steady, persistent. She would not give her the satisfaction of a flinch.

The conversation, so fragilely pieced together, dissolved utterly into silence.

Even the hum of the engines seemed louder.

The quiet stretched just long enough for it to sting before Picard cleared his throat, clasping his hands on the table. His voice was crisp, controlled. “Very well. Let’s proceed. Mister Data, the preliminary scans?”

The android inclined his head, rising slightly in his chair as he launched into the report. “The surface strata contain mineral compositions consistent with tectonic activity from approximately two hundred and fifty thousand years ago. Additionally, we have detected microbial colonies beneath the outer layers. Their rate of resilience suggests unique bio-adaptation that warrants further study.”

As he spoke, Beverly noted how Louvois sat—not slouched, not rigid, but at ease in that deliberate way of hers, one hand resting lightly on the tabletop, fingertips tracing the faint seam in the surface. Not listening, not really. Watching. Her gaze slid to Picard, then, casually, to Beverly. Their eyes caught for half a breath—two women measuring one another in silence—before Louvois smiled faintly, as though amused by some private joke, and looked away.

Riker picked up after Data, his tone brisk. “The geologists want a deeper core sample from grid three, but they’ll need more time. Worf and I recommend assigning additional security personnel. The… conditions on the surface can be unpredictable.”

Worf’s eyes flicked briefly to Louvois before he gave a single sharp nod. “That is correct. And unnecessary complications should be minimized.” His voice was granite, no room for interpretation.

Louvois’ eyebrow arched. She didn’t respond—didn’t need to. Her very composure was a response. Maren at the far end of the table shifted uncomfortably, feeling the crossfire and knowing its explicit source.

Picard steepled his fingers. “Doctor Crusher—medical assessment of the microbial findings?”

Beverly’s voice was steady, professional, her back straight. “They are stable at this stage, but any potential hazard to the away team will only be determined after I run further cross-comparisons with known resilient strains. Until then, I advise continued caution with direct handling.” She let her words hang just a fraction too long, deliberately technical, giving Louvois no foothold for one of her sharp interruptions.

Still, she felt Philippa’s gaze again—cool, probing, dismissive. Beverly ignored it, fixing her attention on Picard. He gave the slightest nod of approval, nothing anyone else would notice or may be able to misinterpret. She felt it burn through her anyway, anchoring her composure.

The meeting trudged on—numbers, logistics, proposed shifts. But beneath the flow of reports and discussion, tension coiled tight as wire. Louvois contributed nothing, said nothing. Yet her silence carried its own menace, the deliberate patience of someone waiting for the right opening.

And Beverly could feel it: every so often, those prying eyes on her, gauging, appraising, searching for a crack.

At last, Picard brought his palms down softly on the table, signalling closure. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred to review the next set of findings. Dismissed.”

Chairs turned, PADDs gathered. Officers filed out with subdued murmurs.

Only Beverly lingered a beat longer—because Louvois lingered, too. Their gazes touched once more, just enough for Beverly to read the unspoken message: This isn’t over.

She lifted her chin slightly while starting to rise, a Crusher’s defiance in every inch of her posture.

“Doctor, may I have a word.” The words landed like a disruptor blast.

Beverly froze mid-step, her hand tightening on the PADD she carried. Slowly, deliberately, she turned back. Louvois, halfway through the doorway, stilled as well. One heel clicked back against the threshold as she pivoted, her expression composed—too composed—but her eyes flashed like steel.

For a long second, the three of them formed a strange tableau in the emptied lounge: Picard at the head of the table, controlled but unyielding; Beverly, caught between anger and curiosity; Louvois, gaze darting between them, her mask slipping just enough to reveal the flare of hostility beneath.

Beverly forced a smile—subtle, razor-thin—as though the request were nothing more than routine. She gave Picard a faint nod and moved back toward the table, her head high, dropping the padd. She didn’t look at Philippa. She didn’t need to. The weight of the other woman’s stare burned against her profile like acid.

Picard’s voice, calm but carrying a warning edge, cut the silence. “Is there anything amiss, Commander Louvois?”

For the briefest moment, Philippa’s jaw flexed. Then she laughed once—dry, sharp, humorless.
“Amiss, Captain? Not at all. Your… senior staff have conducted themselves with their usual efficiency.” Her gaze slid deliberately back to Beverly, who met it without flinching. “Almost enviable.”

Picard’s brow twitched—an almost imperceptible gesture of irritation. “Good. Then you’ll excuse us.”

Something in his tone—measured, final—left no room for argument. Louvois lingered half a second longer than propriety demanded, her eyes narrowing with calculated slowness. Then, with a little tilt of her head, she turned and swept out of the lounge.

The air she left behind was heavier than before.

Picard exhaled softly, looking to Beverly, who still hadn’t moved from her place. Her fingers pressed into the smooth edge of the table, her posture flawless, but her pulse thrummed so loud in her ears it drowned the ship’s quiet hum.

“Jean-Luc—” she began, but stopped herself, swallowing hard, gathering her composure.

The door shut silence followed in its wake.

For a long moment neither moved. Picard stood anchored at the head of the table, hands braced against its surface, his eyes fixed on her in that way that always made her feel both exposed and… safe. Beverly remained by the chair she’d nearly abandoned, every muscle taut, her chest rising and falling with deliberate calm.

He broke the silence first, voice low, even, but threaded with the weight of everything unspoken.
“You shouldn’t let her rattle you.”

Beverly’s lips curled in the faintest of sardonic smiles. “Oh, I don’t. Not really. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t occasionally want to strangle her with her own regulation collar.”

Picard’s mouth twitched despite himself, the ghost of a smile quickly contained. “Tempting as that might be, Doctor, I would advise against it. Paperwork alone would be… considerable.”

Her eyes softened at his attempt to lighten the moment, but her expression sobered almost immediately. “Jean-Luc… what is she doing here? Really. I can’t help but feel she isn’t just circling. She’s hunting.”

He tilted his head, studying her, the honesty of her words mirroring his own fears. He straightened, stepping around the chair, his voice pitched lower. “She wants a weakness. She thinks she’s found it.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Us.”

Beverly inhaled, sharp and quiet, her chin lifting. “We shouldn’t give her that.”

The air between them thickened. The way she said it—steady, fierce, unflinching—sent a pang through him, admiration mixing with a fierce tenderness. He took a step closer, almost unconsciously, lowering his voice to a whisper meant only for her. “You’ve been extraordinary, Beverly. More than you should ever have to be.”

Her throat worked around a lump of emotion she hadn’t expected. She turned slightly, trying to hide it with a wry quip. “Careful, Jean-Luc. If you keep talking like that, people will start to think you’re human after all.”

His lips curved, his eyes glinting with something warmer, sharper than humor. For a breath too long, neither looked away.

Beverly finally exhaled, brushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. “I guess, we should… get back to work.”

“Yes.” His agreement came too fast, too clipped. But he didn’t move, not immediately. His hand hovered near hers on the table—close enough to feel the heat of her skin, but not quite touching. That restraint had always defined him. And now, it burned.

At last, with visible effort, he withdrew, clasping his hands behind his back in rigid composure. “Dinner tonight?” he asked softly, a deliberate echo of her words from the night before.

Her eyes found his again, steady, unflinching. “Dinner tonight.”

The promise in her voice lingered as she finally turned, striding toward the door with her head high. Picard watched her go, his jaw tightening, the thrum of anticipation and danger warring in his chest. That’s when he chose to be bold.

“I didn’t tell you to go, Madame Picard.”

Beverly froze mid-stride, every nerve in her body igniting at the sound of his voice.

The way he said it — low, roughened with intent, the “Madame” rolling off his native tongue like both a most possessive claim and a caress — nearly undid her. Her spine prickled, heat flooding her, though she forced herself to turn with studied composure, her smirk almost masking the shiver. “Jean-Luc, don’t.” The words lacked conviction. They trembled in the air, brittle as glass.

His gaze stormed over her, dark, unwavering, and so intensely focused on her mouth that she nearly forgot to breathe. “I really love the sound of it,” he murmured, voice edged with hunger and warmth all at once. “More than I thought I would.”

She smirked even more, although her sapphire eyes betrayed her turmoil, luminous and uncertain. This is madness, she thought. Here, of all places. Yet her feet refused to carry her away.

When she didn’t move, he did — closing the distance in two long strides. His hand found hers, warm, commanding, firm yet careful as if she were something precious and fragile. Her breath hitched when his thumb stroked over her knuckles, deliberate, reverent.

“Last night…” he began, his voice dipping into something low and raw. His eyes roved over her features, lingering on the faint blush at her cheeks, the elegant line of her jaw, the perfect curve of her lips that had haunted him since decades. “I can’t remember if I ever felt so—” he faltered, then let the truth spill in a whisper, “—alive. So utterly undone. By you.”

She swallowed, the memory scorching her skin all over again. “Jean-Luc...”

But he didn’t let her finish. He leaned in, his breath brushing her inviting lips, tender and warm, sending her knees near buckling. His other hand came up, cupping her cheek, steadying her, grounding her. “Beverly,” he whispered, every syllable trembling with both restraint and need. “Delicious doesn’t begin to describe you.” And before reason could steal her away, he closed the gap, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was as reverent as it was claiming. Not hurried, not desperate, but deep — a slow burn unfolding into fire, his lips moving against hers with the tenderness of a man who had waited far too long, and the heat of one who no longer cared to wait.

Her resistance shattered, her free hand rising instinctively to his chest, clutching the fabric of his uniform as if to anchor herself in the storm of him. The taste, the scent, the sheer weight of him pressed into every sense until she trembled, not from fear, but from the recognition that she was his — had always been his.

The Observation Lounge, the politics, even Louvois — it all dissolved into silence around them. Only their breath remained, shared between parted lips, when at last he drew back just enough to look at her. His stormy eyes softened, and the smallest smile curved his mouth. “You’re definitely more dangerous than diplomacy, Doctor.”

Her lips quirked, swollen and flushed from his kiss. “Then it’s a miracle the galaxy hasn’t fallen apart yet.”

The next kiss quickly deepened, and with it, his restraint frayed. His hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, anchoring her as he claimed her mouth in long, hungry strokes that stole her breath and replaced it with fire. She responded with equal fervor, her fingers clutching at his shoulders, tugging him closer until their bodies pressed flush, no room left for hesitation.

When her back hit the edge of the long conference table, he broke just enough to murmur against her lips, voice thick with heat and need. “Computer, secure doors.”

The quiet chime of acknowledgment came, but Beverly barely heard it. She was already lost — to his touch, to the scent of him, to the weight of years collapsing in the span of a single breath.

He pushed her gently, insistently back onto the polished surface, her palms bracing behind her until she yielded fully, lying there with her hair fanned like fire across the glassy sheen. His grey eyes raked over her, reverent, devouring, as if he could memorize every curve, every rise and fall of her chest, and she shivered beneath the sheer intensity of his gaze.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he confessed, raw, as he bent over her, his lips trailing the line of her throat, his voice vibrating against her skin. “Right here. With you. More times than I care to admit.”

Her gasp broke into a trembling laugh, her hand slipping to the back of his head to press him closer, guiding his mouth lower. “And you call me reckless,” she whispered, breathless and wicked, her tone teasing even as her body arched beneath him. “I admit… I’ve had my own… dreams. And none of them involved restraint. About a lot of places, Jean-Luc. Far too many for propriety.”

He growled softly against her collarbone, her words stoking his fire, unraveling the last of his composure. His hands roved, sure and desperate, over the uniform she had only just donned, tugging at seams, impatient to feel her without barriers again. She gasped, half protest, half plea, but he silenced it with another kiss — deeper, consuming, his tongue tangling with hers until the world itself seemed to fracture.

Their movements grew fevered, a collision of too many years of denied hunger and carefully restrained longing. She tugged at his jacket, pulling him harder against her until the table beneath them silently protested. He kissed her with the devotion of a man starved, but every touch, every stroke was reverent, as though worshiping more than simply possessing.

Her whispered quips turned to moans, his confessions tumbling free between ragged kisses — how often he had wanted, how deeply he had loved, how impossible it had been to imagine returning to cold solitude once she had warmed his life.

She gasped his name, her fingers running through the fringe of his hair as he moved lower, and the sound undid him completely. Years of guilt, of command, of carefully maintained composure again shattered in the tidal wave of their need, and together they drowned — in breathless laughter, in fire and silk, in the unshakable certainty that this was no longer pretense but truth, raw and irrevocable.

They made love on the table where strategy had been planned and wars averted, where politics had been argued and futures shaped. Now it bore witness to something infinitely more powerful: their devotion, unmasked, unstoppable.

And when the crescendo finally broke them apart, leaving them trembling in each other’s arms, he buried his face against her hair, his breath harsh and uneven.

The silence afterward was thick, but not empty. Their breath came in ragged, uneven waves, slowly evening into a rhythm that mirrored the rise and fall of their chests pressed close. His body still caged hers against the table, but the urgency had ebbed, leaving behind something softer, deeper.

Jean-Luc shifted first, bracing on one arm to keep his weight from crushing her, his other hand smoothing stray tendrils of copper hair from her flushed face. His thumb traced her cheekbone, reverent. She turned into the touch, her supple lips brushing his palm, and for a moment neither spoke — their eyes carried everything words could not.

Finally, she gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “We just… did that. Here.”

His mouth quirked, though his voice came husky, still roughened by desire. “On the record — not my most diplomatic use of Federation property.”

Her laugh deepened, spilling warmth into the space between them. “Imagine the maintenance crew. The great Jean-Luc Picard, leaving… prints… on the observation lounge table.” She tilted her head, lips curving into a mischievous smirk. “They’ll need a full decontamination cycle.”

“Incorrigible woman,” he muttered, but there was no sting in it — only affection, thick and heavy in his chest. He kissed her again, lingering, softer now, as though savoring the very air she breathed into him.

Reluctantly, she nudged his shoulder. “We should get dressed, Captain, before someone wonders why the doors are sealed.”

His answer was a low groan of disapproval, but he drew back enough to help her up. Their uniforms lay in disarray across the table, their combadge's scattered like discarded chess pieces. She tugged her uniform back on, fingers still trembling slightly as she fastened the collar. He was no steadier, his hands betraying their recent shaking - but the intimacy of helping each other reassemble their Starfleet masks only deepened the bond.

When she caught him watching her — newly added, less inconspicuous marks his mouth had left visible against the pale curve of her throat — she flushed but didn’t hide them. Instead, she gave a lopsided grin. “Your handiwork, Jean-Luc. Hope you’re satisfied by the way you tagged me.”

He pulled his jacket straight, pausing just long enough to murmur at her ear, his breath a caress. “Not even remotely.”

She shivered at the promise beneath the tease.

They stood a moment longer, fully dressed once more, though neither quite ready to step back into the roles that waited beyond closed doors. She smoothed his lapel unnecessarily, fingers lingering over the beat of his heart.

He caught her hand, pressing it to his chest. “Beverly… what we began on Skinoa, what we sealed last night…” His throat tightened; he had commanded fleets, faced down gods, but this confession left him raw. “I love you. And I will not let it be undone. Not by Philippa. Not by the Fleet. Not by fear. Do you understand?”

Her eyes glistened, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “I understand. More than you think.” She leaned in, whispering with playful fire, “Though if you call me Madame Picard in front of the crew, I may have to kill you.”

His laugh — rare, rich, unguarded — filled the room, and she basked in it.

They sealed their vow with one final kiss, tender and grounding, before Jean-Luc squared his shoulders and gave the order. “Computer. Unlock doors.”

For several long moments after the computer acknowledged his command, neither of them moved. The door remained shut, but the spell of privacy was thinning, and they both felt it. Beverly leaned against the edge of the table, her hands gripping it behind her as though to anchor herself against the tide of duty already creeping back in.

Jean-Luc lingered close, unwilling to let the space between them grow. His hand slid along the curve of her waist, up to rest at the small of her back, his thumb tracing idle circles over the fabric of her uniform. It was a subtle, almost unconscious gesture, but she felt the weight of it — the quiet claim, the reassurance that the passion just spent hadn’t burned out into regret.

Her eyes softened, though her voice held its usual dry edge. “We’ve made a fine mess of things, Jean-Luc. If anyone ever…”

“They won’t.” His tone was firm, absolute. He tilted her chin so she was forced to meet his gaze. “We have nothing to be ashamed of. I’d stand before the Admiralty tomorrow and tell them you are the one thing I refuse to give up.”

That disarmed her more than any kiss. Her chest tightened, breath catching. “You would risk that?”

“I already have,” he answered, the raw honesty in his eyes leaving her no place to hide. “Every time I’ve let you slip away. Every time I’ve chosen silence. That risk was far greater than this. I definitely didn’t bring you to Tholey’s water to bond just to resume hiding afterwards.”

Her lips parted, a sharp retort hovering — but dissolving in the face of his conviction. Instead, she exhaled, shaky and low. “You are infuriating, do you know that?”

He chuckled, brushing his thumb across her lower lip. “So I’ve been told. Usually by you.”

Her laughter slipped free, breaking the tension, and she leaned forward to press her forehead to his. For a moment, there was nothing but the soft exchange of their breaths.

“I don’t want to stop, Jean-Luc,” she admitted finally, voice trembling not with fear, but with the gravity of her choice. “Not this time. Not after everything. Not after telling you how much I love you.”

His reply was wordless: a long, reverent kiss, softer than before, lips brushing hers as though committing her taste to memory. When he drew back, his eyes burned with a fire she knew was hers alone.

“Careful, Captain. If we’re late, people will talk.”

His answering smirk was devilishly unrepentant. “They already do, Doctor.”

She swatted his hand away, laughing under her breath, but her eyes betrayed how much she adored that glimmer of mischief in him. At last, when they could delay no longer, Jean-Luc straightened to his full height. He reached for her hand one final time, squeezing it firmly before releasing it. “Later.”

The single word, heavy with promise, was enough to make her pulse quicken.

“Later,” she echoed, her smile secretive.

As they stepped out of the observation lounge, the dim hush of the ship’s corridor washed over them — cool, sterile, unknowing. Jean-Luc’s mask slid into place with a precision born of decades of command. Yet the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Beverly, walking just a pace beside him, caught it with a sidelong glance that warmed her more than she’d admit aloud.

“Jean-Luc,” she said lightly, her tone the casual lilt of a colleague — but her hand brushed ever so slightly against his as they walked. “I’ll be joining the away team on the surface tomorrow.”

His stride faltered by the smallest fraction, a near imperceptible catch. He drew in a slow breath, composed, but his eyes narrowed. “Cherie…”

She tilted her head, the copper fall of her hair catching the corridor lights like fire. “Don’t bother, Jean-Luc. You will not dissuade me.” Her voice was soft, but unyielding. “My expertise will be necessary. And you know it.”

They reached the doors to the bridge, the final hurdle toward public. He gestured her forward, his sigh deliberate, heavy, but threaded with something close to amusement, but stopped in the corridor, the doors sealing them a few moments more into a bubble of quiet.

Turning his head, he met her eyes at last. There was no point in command tones now; she would see right through him. His mouth curved with reluctant surrender. “You do realize, Beverly, that you are impossibly stubborn.”

“Of course I do.” She allowed herself the smallest smile, eyes glinting. “Why do you think you put up with me all these years?”

He exhaled, low, resigned — but not truly defeated. He suspected he never would be where she was concerned. “The truth, Doctor? I suspect I’d grant you whatever you asked, no matter how impractical. Or impossible.”

Her eyes softened, something tender flickering across her face that she quickly masked with a teasing arch of her brow. “I’ll remember you said that, Captain.”

In that private pocket of silence, just before the doors slid open, they shared a kiss — heavy with promise, with battle lines blurred and bonds tightened. And Jean-Luc Picard realized, with a faint ache in his chest, that yes — she could have anything from him. Always.

*

The corridor stretched quiet and still as Picard and Beverly emerged side by side, their steps measured, their expressions flawlessly composed. Yet beneath the veneer of Starfleet professionalism, the air between them was alive — a charge invisible to most, palpable to a select few.

At the split in their paths, Beverly slowed, offering a faint smile. Her eyes lingered on his for the barest instant longer than propriety allowed — long enough for meaning to spark, then vanish. Without a word, she veered toward the turbolift, the sway of her stride betraying nothing save her usual grace.

Jean-Luc watched her retreat, his hand twitching against his side before he turned firmly toward the bridge proper. He strolled towards his chair with the calm dignity of command, even as she entered the turbolift, cutting off that last shared glance.

Data’s head turned almost imperceptibly, his eyes tracking the timing. His positronic net tallied the interval — the precise duration between when all senior officers had left the observation lounge and when the captain and chief medical officer reappeared. A deviation. Not significant in practical terms, but anomalous. He filed it silently into his internal logs, refraining from comment. Later, perhaps, he would consult Commander Riker on its relevance.

From her chair, Deanna caught Beverly’s eyes just before the turbolift closed. She sent no words, only a glimmer of thought — gentle, teasing, suffused with knowing warmth. The doctor blushed, faint colour rising across her cheeks, and dipped her gaze. The doors shut.

Riker, leaning casually against the arm of the first officer’s chair, waited until Picard settled into the captain’s seat. Then, with careful timing and just the right touch of lightness, he murmured: “Quiet corridors today, sir. Nice evening stroll?”

Jean-Luc’s eyes snapped to him, cool and sharp, but his lips pressed in a line that twitched at the edges. A half-beat of silence, then: “Indeed, Number One. Very… quiet.”

Riker straightened, smothering a grin with professional efficiency. Deanna folded her hands in her lap, feigning interest in a sensor readout, though her eyes sparkled with restrained mischief.

The hum of the bridge resumed, outwardly unchanged. But the undercurrent lingered — a wordless awareness threading through those who knew how to look, how to sense.

Something had shifted.

*

As the bridge settled into its rhythm, Picard leaned slightly toward Data, requesting a status update on the ship’s senor findings. His tone carried only calm professionalism, his profile composed in the chair.

Riker, resuming his seat, allowed his gaze to drift forward, every line of his posture obediently attentive. Yet beneath the surface, he was still digesting that faint blush on Beverly’s cheeks, that stray hesitation in the captain’s step. He didn’t need to be a Betazoid to put two and two together.

Deanna, seated a pace away, had felt more than seen the same things. She tilted her head, fingers brushing across the edge of her console as if idly preoccupied — but her mind reached outward, a pinpoint focus cutting through Riker’s thoughts. Well, Will, her voice purred in his head, smooth as silk, laced with unmistakable mischief, I hope you’re pleased with yourself. That little scheme of yours… it seems to have blossomed.

Riker’s mouth almost betrayed him with a twitch of a grin. He kept his eyes forward, kept his hands steady, and answered her in thought, practiced enough after years of working at her side: Scheme? I prefer to call it… strategic matchmaking.

Deanna’s laugh was silent, but he felt the ripple of it in his skull, sharp and amused. Strategic chaos, more like. Just don’t forget, Will — this game you set in motion could undo itself spectacularly if you keep prodding.

Then let’s hope, he replied dryly, our captain and doctor have more restraint than their First Officer imagines.

Her answering pulse of thought was bright, acerbic: Restraint isn’t exactly what I sensed in our Observation Lounge only minutes ago.

Riker coughed into his hand, schooling his expression just in time as Picard’s gaze swept back across the bridge. The silence between him and Deanna was flawless. Outwardly, nothing had passed at all.

But inwardly, the game was very much alive.

Chapter Text

The hum of the Enterprise’s warp core was a distant, constant pulse beneath the sterile quiet of Deck 12’s science wing. Fluorescent panels threw a clean, cold light across rows of analysis consoles and specimen chambers, where sealed containers from the moon’s surface were arrayed like relics awaiting judgment.

Lieutenant Eric Cavir sat at one of the forward benches, his tricorder tethered into the lab’s main console. His pale face and hazel eyes reflected in the glass of the sample chamber as he logged each reading with careful, almost reverent precision. "Silicate lattices fractured by thermal stress," he muttered, fingers dancing across the display. "Trace deposits… and—" He froze, leaning closer. "Yes. Yes, it’s repeating."

From across the lab, his assistant —Ensign Joseph Lane, broader, older but apparently still far lower in rank, and perpetually unimpressed — glanced up from calibrating a scanner. "Repeating what? You’ve been talking to those rocks like they’re listening."

Cavir ignored the jibe, his voice tightening with excitement. "Organic residue. Not random contamination — patterned. Layered. That’s biological structure."

Lane snorted, tossing a rag onto the counter. "Great. We brought back mud, and you’re telling me it’s alive."

"Not alive," Cavir corrected quickly, though his own expression faltered. "At least… not in the sense of movement. But the biosignature is consistent across three separate samples. This isn’t an anomaly. There’s something preserved here."

Lane ambled over, peering into the magnified display. "Preserved microbes. Sounds like a great thesis title. But let me ask you, Eric—" He folded his arms. "What if they’re not as preserved as you think?"

The Lieutenant’s smile flickered. He stared at the faint pulse on the readout, his excitement souring into unease. The console hummed as he finally ran another sweep, his jaw set, eyes glittering with the mixture of focus and boyish enthusiasm only science officers could wear convincingly. "Look at this," he said, pointing at the cascading peaks on the display. "Protein chains. Not fractured, not random. Structured. This is designed."

Lane leaned against the opposite bench, arms crossed, his posture the picture of weary skepticism. "Designed by what, exactly? Space termites?"

Cavir exhaled sharply through his nose, refusing to look up. "Possibly microbial architects. Self-replicating clusters. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve uncovered such things."

"Uh-huh," the other muttered. "And next week, we’ll find lichen with a PhD."

Cavir tapped in another sequence, his lips pressing thin. "You know, Joseph, some of us joined Starfleet for the discovery part. You might try indulging that curiosity once in a while instead of leaning on sarcasm like a crutch."

Lane chuckled, his emerald eyes glistening with wit, not at all chastened. "And some of us joined Starfleet because it beats mining colonies, and the replicators serve real coffee. Doesn’t mean I need to get romantic over a rock with a runny nose."

That earned him the faintest smirk from Cavir before the lieutenant’s expression sobered again. He stared at the readout, fingers curling around the edge of the console.

"This isn’t contamination. It’s viable. And if it’s viable…" His throat tightened, but he pressed on. "It means we’ve brought something aboard that could potentially reactivate."

Lane raised his dark brows, unimpressed. "So, what you’re saying is: we beam up some dirt, and now we’re babysitting space germs."

"Joe," Cavir said sharply, then sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Just… no. I’m saying we don’t have the expertise here. I’m a geologist, not a biologist. This needs Crusher."

That drew a groan so deep it might have come from the deck plates. Lane rolled his eyes, grabbing the nearest padd and slapping it into Cavir’s hand. "Of course. Because what’s a day on the flagship without dragging the CMO into a dirt report. By all means, Cavir—summon Dr. Crusher. Nothing says ‘impress the most stunning woman aboard’ like wasting her time on a pile of dirt."

Cavir tapped his PADD, squinting at the readings. “This isn’t matching the baseline. We need Crusher’s input before we log the samples.”

From his stool, Lane let out another groan, spinning lazily on it. “Oh, brilliant. That won’t make you look desperate at all.”

Cavir shot him a glare. “She’s our chief medical officer. It’s protocol.”

Lane smirked, kicking his boots up onto the edge of the workstation. “Uh-huh. And I’m sure protocol has nothing to do with the fact that she could walk in here, toss that glorious hair over her shoulder, and you’d forget what a tricorder even is.”

Joseph’s smirk was still hanging in the room when Eric Cavir stiffened, brushing his hands flat over his uniform. “Lieutenant Cavir to Doctor Crusher.”

Some decks away, Beverly Crusher straightened as well. “Crusher here.”

There was a touch of hesitation in Cavir’s voice. “Doctor, apologies for disturbing you, but we’ve come across something in the soil samples from the surface. It doesn’t quite match our xenobiological profiles. I’d like your opinion.”

Beverly arched a brow, already sensing the subtext. “Is it serious?”

Before Cavir could answer, a muffled voice piped up in the background—Lane, his tone dripping with cheek. “Told you she’s too hot to bother with dirt.”

Beverly blinked, startled, then let a smile tug at her lips despite herself. She definitely wasn't in the mood to be overly strict today. Surely not after… “Whoever said that—be assured, if this turns out to be trivial, you’ll be running decontamination cycles for a month.”

There was a sharp cough from Cavir’s end, followed by Lane’s muffled grunt of defeat.

“You’re in the science labs?” Beverly asked.

“Yes, Doctor. I’m sorry. We’ll be ready.”

*

Deck Twelve smelled faintly of sterilized air and ionized minerals, the lingering trace of the samples they’d pulled up from the moon’s surface. Cavir hovered over the console, triple-checking the readouts, shoulders tight with nerves. “Gods, Lane, do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he hissed, shooting his assistant a glare sharp enough to cut. “That remark—you’ve just sabotaged my credibility with the chief medical officer.” He flinched visibly. “I called for her because this is serious. That was not an invitation for you to keep running your mouth.”

Lane leaned back on his stool, arms folded, a smug grin tugging his lips. “Relax. She’s just human like the rest of us. Not some divine being who floats above the decks on starlight. She won’t vaporize you for calling her down here.””

Cavir’s jaw tightened. “She should vaporize you for that stupid crack you made over comms. Because she’s Doctor Crusher. CMO of the flagship, head of Starfleet Medical. Former head. Hell, this woman destroyed a damn Borg ship and now she agreed to come down here because I merely asked. And thanks to you, she’ll think I’m running a circus.”

Lane snorted. “If it is a circus, I’m the ringmaster. Besides—maybe she’ll laugh. Maybe she’ll like it.”

Before Cavir could explode again, the lab doors hissed open.

And Beverly Crusher strolled inside.

Both men looked up, conversation sliced in half. Lane, however, faltered halfway through his grin—the cocky expression slipping into a betraying flush the instant her sharp blue eyes brushed over him.

Cavir cleared his throat, voice overly formal. “Doctor. Thank you for coming. We… may have something that warrants your expertise.”

Beverly’s eyes flicked between the two men, the faintest knowing smile gracing her lips. “I gathered as much from your call. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Cavir guided the doctor toward the primary console, his hands moving with practiced precision over the controls. The central holo-display sprang to life, streams of mineralogical scans spinning into the air, layered with glowing data. “We’ve been running cross-comparisons on the crystalline lattice structures beneath the surface,” he began, his voice steadier now, though still a shade too quick. “What we found… doesn’t conform to any naturally occurring patterns. Not in this density, not in this arrangement.”

Beverly leaned in, eyes narrowing at the display. “Self-organizing colonies,” she murmured, half to herself. “Almost microbial in their consistency.”

“Exactly,” Cavir said, a spark of relief in his tone. “We suspected a microbe-host relationship embedded directly within the crystalline structure. Symbiotic, maybe even dependent. The initial scans suggested the colonies react to atmospheric fluctuations—adapting in real-time.”

Beverly straightened, arms crossing as she considered. “Adaptive crystallization. That would explain why the outer layers resisted degradation even under phaser sampling. It’s almost like they’re… alive.”

Lane, who had been hovering behind them with uncharacteristic silence, finally risked a comment. “So, what you’re saying, Doctor, is… we’ve been poking at rocks that are poking back?”

Cavir shot him a murderous look, but Beverly only quirked a faint smile. “Not the most elegant phrasing, Ensign Lane—but yes, that’s one way of putting it.”

Joseph Lane flushed but leaned forward anyway, his eyes lingering on Crusher a fraction too long before darting guiltily back to the holo-display. “Alive rocks. That’s… unsettling.”

“Or fascinating,” Beverly countered, her voice firm but bright with curiosity. She reached for the console herself, fingers brushing Cavir’s as she manipulated the scan. “What you’ve found here, Lieutenant, may not just be mineralogy—it could bridge into biology, perhaps even a completely unknown field of hybrid life.”

Cavir’s chest swelled ever so slightly at her words, pride cutting through his nervousness. Lane only swallowed, less cheeky now, clearly trying to recalibrate his earlier swagger into something resembling professionalism.

Crusher glanced between them. “Keep running the molecular sequencing on the samples. If this colony adapts as quickly as it seems, I’ll need medical profiles—cellular breakdowns, protein structures, anything that shows how it responds to external stimuli. Think of it as your chance to write a new chapter in xenobiology.”

Cavir nodded eagerly. Lane muttered, “Yes, Doctor,” under his breath, though his eyes flicked toward her once more, the faintest trace of awe softening his features.

Beverly turned for the door, her mind already racing ahead. “I’ll report preliminary findings to the captain. Keep me updated—if we’re right, this discovery could be a lot bigger than the moon it came from.” And with that, she was gone—leaving Cavir glowing, Lane chastened, and both men very aware they’d just been standing in the orbit of someone far sharper, far steadier than either of them had accounted for.

The doors had long whispered shut, but her perfume lingered faintly in the sterile air of the lab. Cavir exhaled, steadying himself, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as if to chase away the tension.

Lane, on the other hand, leaned against the console with a lopsided grin, his eyes still fixed on the doors. “Well,” he drawled, “if the good doctor visited my lab like that, I’d count it as a personal victory. Forget microbes—she’s the phenomenon worth cataloguing.”

Cavir whipped around, color rising into his cheeks. “Ensign. Enough.”

Lane only grinned wider, undeterred. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you didn’t notice. That uniform, the way she leans over the readouts, the way she—” He trailed off, sighing as if dazed. “Stars, Cavir. She’s so hot… too hot to bother with such trivialities.”

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re out of line. She is the Chief Medical Officer of this ship. Not some fantasy for you to—”

“—dream about when the shifts get long?” Lane cut in cheekily, shrugging. “What can I say? I’m a scientist. My imagination wanders. And I dare say that there’s apparently enough worth to wander… you’ve certainly noticed her damn perfect…”

Cavir’s glare could have melted duranium. “Your imagination,” he said tightly, breaking his colleague’s monologue, “is going to land you in disciplinary reports if you don’t learn to chain it.”

Lane smirked but finally lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Scientist’s code. Keep it professional. Still…” He tilted his head toward the door, the grin creeping back. “You have to admit, she makes professionalism one hell of a test of endurance.”

Cavir turned away with a disgusted sound, focusing on the console as if it were the only anchor left in the galaxy. “If you can’t keep your mouth shut, Joe, I swear I’ll transfer you to cargo bay duty. See how much that fuels your imagination.”

Lane chuckled softly to himself, wisely deciding not to push further—at least for now. But he would, very likely, try his luck and ask her out anyway.

=/=

Gamma shift had just settled onto the bridge; the lights dimmed fractionally for the evening watch. Picard rose from his chair, crisp and steady as always, though his First Officer had been watching him with an amused eye for hours.

The turbolift doors slid shut and closed them in, silence stretched between them. It was not uncomfortable silence—at least not for Riker. For Picard, though, it seemed weighted. The captain’s hands tugged his uniform tunic down, his posture a touch too rigid, his gaze fixed on the ascending deck indicator as though it carried the fate of the Federation.

Riker’s lips curved, the grin he’d been suppressing since late afternoon finally escaping. Oh, he remembered the ready room briefing well enough—Picard calm to the point of serenity, answering with a patience that felt almost… alien. And he’d noticed, too, the inordinate length of time both his Captain and the Chief Medical Officer had remained in the Observation Lounge, long after the others had gone.

But while they rode down between the decks together he kept all that to himself. He didn’t need to voice suspicions when the silence was this telling. “Captain,” Riker broke the hush at last, tone light, “care for a distraction later? Weekly poker in my quarters. Data’s itching to prove his latest bluff algorithm works, and Worf swears he’s finally cracked the psychology of betting. I could use another sharp mind at the table.”

Picard’s jaw ticked. He did not turn his head. “Not tonight, Number One.” His refusal was clipped, decisive.

Riker smirked. “Ah. Prior commitments.”

Picard’s eyes snapped to him, sharp as cut glass.

The grin spread wider. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll tell the others you’re… cataloguing the ship’s botanical samples.”

Picard’s brow furrowed. “Botanical samples?”

Riker shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. “Well, you needed something suitably time-consuming, yet respectable. A man could lose hours pruning orchids, couldn’t he?”

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Picard exhaled through his nose, tugging down his uniform tunic with the sharpness of a blade. His glare was half fury, half betrayal of a smile. “Number One,” he muttered, straightening his tunic as if the gesture might restore order, “you are perilously close to insubordination.”

The turbolift halted, the doors parting. Riker gestured for him to step out first, eyes gleaming with mischief. “With respect, sir— but you Captain, are perilously close to smiling.”

Picard strode out, spine straight, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a reply. But Riker caught the faintest curve tugging at the corner of his Captain’s mouth, and the knowledge warmed him like a winning hand.

=/=

The door to his quarters slid open with a hiss, and for the first time in days Jean-Luc Picard allowed himself to exhale fully. The muted hum of the ship, the low ambient lighting, the familiar scent of Earl Grey tea lingering from earlier—all of it was grounding. Safe. And yet, tonight, none of it seemed ordinary.

He stripped off his uniform jacket with a precision born of habit, laying it across the back of a chair as though even fabric deserved respect. But there was a swiftness to his movements, a tightness in his shoulders, betraying the storm beneath the veneer. Tonight, was not about order. Tonight, was about waiting for her.

He moved to the replicator, tapping in selections with uncharacteristic hesitation. No grand feast—it wasn’t their way. But something thoughtful, personal. A fine Terran coq au vin, accompanied by a delicate Rigelian green salad with golden, crusty rolls he knew she favoured, and for dessert, something lighter, just sweet enough—chocolate mousse with a whisper of brandy. A meal meant to linger over, not devour.

Candles—replicated, yes, but he’d chosen them over the standard illumination, their warm glow softening the room into shades of amber and gold. He set them carefully, one on the small dining table, one by the viewport where the stars glittered in silent witness.

Then came the music. His fingers hovered over the computer panel longer this time, before settling on a chamber suite, strings in quiet harmony. Not too formal, not too casual—something that breathed intimacy without demanding it.

Finally, himself. He showered quickly, the steam loosening muscles knotted since morning, though no amount of water could wash away the anticipation coiling in his chest. He dressed not in uniform but in casual attire—dark trousers, a simple cream shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled back. Understated. Comfortable. But he caught his reflection in the mirror and for a fleeting second felt absurd, like a boy nervously waiting for his first true date.

He shook the thought off with a wry tug at his collar, then turned his attention back to the table. Two glasses stood ready, the wine—a deep red from Bordeaux—already breathing. Everything in its place.

And yet his eyes drifted more than once toward the door. Each glance felt sharper, heavier, the seconds stretching like years. He found himself pacing once, twice, stopping at the viewport to regard the stars only to circle back to the table again.

Steady yourself, Jean-Luc, he muttered inwardly. You’ve faced Klingon warbirds with less apprehension.

Picard finished setting the last fork in place, aligning it with the precision of a man who found comfort in order, though in truth his heart wasn’t in the table setting anymore. He stood back, surveying the small arrangement of candles, the carefully chosen wine, the waiting plates. It was perfect. It was also unbearably empty.

He turned toward the bedroom almost absently, as though pulled there. The lighting was dim, soft—already adjusted down by his earlier command. He crossed the threshold and reached to straighten the bedcovers, an idle gesture, when his hand brushed against fabric.

He paused. There, carelessly draped at the side of the bed, lay her sweater. Crystal-blue, familiar, faintly creased from wear – and a simple reminder of her presence last night. For a long moment he simply stared at it, his breath caught in his throat.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the garment, pressing it lightly between his hands. The faint scent of her still clung to the fabric—warmth, a hint of her perfume, that subtle, utterly human presence that had worked itself into every corner of his life without him realizing until now.

A smile, small but unguarded, tugged at his lips. He inhaled, eyes closing briefly, a man who had weathered star systems and yet found himself undone by something so simple as the trace of her. He folded it carefully, reverently almost, laying it across the chair by his bed.

For the first time in years, he admitted silently: he was used to her here. In his space. In his life. The thought should have unnerved him. Instead, it filled him with a warmth so deep it bordered on ache.

And still… he was anxious. Each moment stretched further, his anticipation gnawed by uncertainty. He found himself pacing again. Then, at last, he turned to the one presence on board that might grant him truth. “Computer. Location of Doctor Crusher.”

The voice came back, cold and neutral: “Doctor Crusher is in the science lab on deck 12.”

His brows furrowed. She’d informed him about a few discoveries they’d made some hours ago. Maybe this was serious or… her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d lost track of time - again. His fingers twitched against his thigh before he crossed back to the desk and tapped his combadge. “Picard to Doctor Crusher.”

There was a pause, longer than it should have been, before her voice answered, brisk and even, though he could hear the faint hum of instruments in the background. “Crusher here.”

“I was merely…” he cleared his throat, suddenly conscious of how tight his voice sounded, “…inquiring how much longer your duties will detain you… because… um… Dinner is waiting.” And I am waiting too.

Her pause was softer this time. He knew at once she was not alone. The silence stretched, deliberate, careful. Then she replied lightly, “Not much longer, Jean-Luc. I’ll be there soon.”

“Very well,” he answered, keeping his tone neutral, professional—though the quiet weight beneath it lingered. “Picard out.”

The line closed, and he stood still, gaze fixed on the door again.

*

The lab was quiet, save for the gentle pulse of the scanners and the faint rustle of shifting isolinear chips. Beverly bent over the console, her copper tendrils falling loosely forward as she scrolled through Cavir’s probe data. The lieutenant stood a pace behind her, watching intently while she explained in clipped tones what her adjustments might reveal.

“You see here?” She pointed toward a cluster of anomalies, her voice brisk, intent. “These variations suggest microbial life interacting with mineral strata in ways we don’t yet understand. If confirmed, it could change how we classify this moon.”

Cavir nodded quickly, as though eager to keep pace, his stylus poised above his padd but barely moving. He wasn’t writing. Not really. His mind kept slipping elsewhere, his gaze lingering on the way the light haloed around her hair, the cool authority in her voice, the assured grace of her hands as they moved over the console.

She’s just human like anyone else, Lane’s cheeky words rang unbidden in his ears. But look at her. Too hot to bother with trivialities.

He swallowed and shifted his weight, trying to silence the thought, when her combadge chirped.

“Picard to Doctor Crusher.”

She straightened instantly, shoulders tightening, and answered, “Crusher here.”

The faint change in her tone was impossible to miss—just a touch softer, guarded but warm in a way Cavir had not yet heard.

“I was merely… inquiring how much longer your duties will detain you,” came the captain’s measured baritone. “Dinner is waiting.”

Cavir’s eyes widened slightly. He quickly busied himself with his padd, tilting his body discreetly away as though offering her privacy. Yet his ears caught every word.

“Not much longer, Jean-Luc,” Beverly replied, her voice quieter now, carrying a warmth that made something in Cavir’s chest tighten. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Very well,” came Picard’s reply.

For a moment, silence lingered between them, heavy and telling. Crusher refocused on the console, determined, as though nothing had happened. Cavir cleared his throat softly, pretending to check his notes, though his mind was far from the microbes.

When she ended the transmission, her hand lingered near the badge longer than necessary, her lips curving with a softness utterly foreign to the cool, commanding doctor he had seen before.

And Cavir realized, with a pang of awkward understanding, that the data she had been reviewing no longer held her attention at all. He bent back over his console, forcing his attention on the shimmering graphs before him, though the numbers now blurred together like meaningless patterns. Crusher’s voice still lingered in his ears, softer, warmer than he had ever heard it. And then that reply from the captain.

He cleared his throat, tried to bury the thoughts. Not my business. None of this is my business.

But Lane’s earlier jests flickered back into his mind, unbidden—the ribald teasing about the tempting doctor, those half-dreamt fantasies Lane had painted with such colour. At the time, Cavir had rolled his eyes, half irritated, half amused. But now…

Now he wasn’t so sure.

He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, sneaking a glance at her as she moved away to another console. Her poise, her faint, unshakable calm… yet the way she had softened while speaking to Picard. It was like catching the faintest crack in an otherwise flawless crystal.

Rumours. They had floated across the ship before, muttered in Ten Forward, whispered between junior officers when they thought no one of rank could hear. Picard and Crusher—too close, too perfectly attuned, surely something more than the professional distance they wore like armour.

Cavir sighed and rubbed his temple. Lane would have a field day with this. Lane, with his endless capacity for mischief, would probably declare it proof enough that the universe was far less dull than their geology reports.

But Eric Cavir knew better—or told himself he did. Not my business. Not my place. I’ve got rocks to analyse. He could already picture his colleague’s face if he knew. The disappointment. The crude banter suddenly crumbling into silence.

Lane will be crushed with his crush on Crusher, Cavir thought sarcastically. Disillusioned, finally. But maybe, that’s not such a bad thing. It’s just his unending insensible avarice anyway.

He shook his head, hunching closer to his console again, fingers tapping with renewed intensity. But the truth was, no matter how he tried, his focus had fractured. The image of Beverly Crusher smiling faintly at a voice only she could hear had branded itself into his mind—and with it, the uncomfortable realization that some rumors weren’t rumors at all. “Definitely not my business.” he muttered under his breath. And yet, despite his best efforts, the thought lingered like an itch at the back of his mind.

*

Jean-Luc Picard meanwhile sat at his desk, the wine still breathing in the background and the soft glow of candlelight replaced by the solid illumination of his terminal. With one last breath to steady himself, he initiated the secure channel.

The Federation crest flickered, dissolved, and the familiar lined face of Admiral Heel appeared. His voice carried the authority of decades, but tonight it was softened by satisfaction. “Jean-Luc. At last. I’ve read the preliminary reports from Skinoa—outstanding work. The council’s resistance was legendary, yet you secured a treaty that not only stabilizes relations but paves the way for future settlement. I knew you’d deliver.”

Picard inclined his head with quiet dignity. “It was… not without its challenges, Admiral. But in the end, understanding was reached.”

Heel’s eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting into the faintest smile. “Understanding you call it. Quite the diplomatic turn of phrase. Especially considering the rather unusual… arrangement that sealed it. Bold stroke, Jean-Luc. Very bold. I knew there was something in the air seeing you on Skinoa, but reading your report and realizing how thick this “air” actually was… well, I admit I was thoroughly surprised.”

Picard’s jaw tightened, but he held his tone even. “I assume you’re referring to my… marriage.”

Heel chuckled. “What else? I must say, compensating for your apparent disadvantage as a legendary bachelor by presenting yourself as a family man—that was sheer brilliance. The Skinoans value strength in unity, tradition. You gave them a picture-perfect image. And you did it without months of wrangling in the Council chambers.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “But tell me—how in the stars did you persuade the good doctor to play along? She’s as well-known for her fiery temper as she is for her medical genius.”

Jean-Luc sat straighter, his expression grave. He had known this question was inevitable. Better to confront it now, directly, than allow whispers to grow unchecked. “Admiral,” he said slowly, “Doctor Crusher and I entered into this arrangement with the best interests of the Federation and of Skinoa in mind. The success of the negotiations demanded a certain… presentation. I… no we chose to oblige. And in doing so, we gained not only their trust, but their signatures on a treaty that otherwise may have been impossible.”

Heel arched a brow, a smirk tugging treacherously at the corner of his mouth by seeing the stern captain struggle with all those various emotions so badly. “Very diplomatic. But you didn’t answer my question. How did you convince her?”

For the briefest moment, Picard hesitated. He remembered Beverly’s snide remark on nosy Admirals that night, and their subsequent actions right after. Heel definitely had a knack for personal intrusion and if it hadn’t been thoroughly necessary to push things forward, he would’ve preferred to keep this as discreet as possible. As things turn out, this option had vanished the moment Philippa Louvois had entered the scene. He exhaled, long and audibly, his resolve clear. Even if he wasn’t looking forward to make big fuss about it, he didn’t fear the consequences either. “To be straight and honest, Nathanael… it wasn’t entirely pretense. As you surely know, Doctor Crusher and I have been very close friends for decades. We have… long shared a deep bond of trust and affection. This planet merely provided the catalyst to finally move forward in our relationship. We saw no reason to hide it there - and we see no reason to conceal it from you as well. We just… appreciate your understanding.”

Silence lingered on the channel, Heel’s shrewd eyes studying him. Then the admiral leaned back, lips pursing. “Well, well. That explains much.” His tone carried neither censure nor surprise, only a quiet note of calculation. “You’ve chosen a formidable partner, Jean-Luc. Beverly Crusher is respected across the fleet—and feared, by some.” A faint smile ghosted across his worn features. “If you’ve truly won her loyalty beyond the uniform, I suspect you’ll be the stronger for it. Just be prepared. Rumors travel faster than warp.”

Picard inclined his head. “All the more reason to set the record straight now. I will not allow idle speculation to undermine either her reputation or mine.”

Heel’s smile deepened. “Spoken like a man who’s decided to stop running from himself. Very well, Captain. I’ll see that the right ears hear the truth—and not the twisted shadows of it. Good luck and send my regards to Beverly. Heel out.”

The channel ended, leaving the screen dark. Picard sat in the silence a moment longer, the words lingering in his mind. Not entirely pretense. It was the first time he had spoken it aloud to anyone but her. And it felt like the truth it was meant to be. The Admiral’s words echoed still. Spoken like a man who’s decided to stop running from himself. Perhaps that was true. He had spent a lifetime wrapped in discipline; armor forged from duty and restraint. Yet here he was, setting aside his caution before the highest of ranks—not as a captain, but as a man who had chosen.

His gaze drifted toward the table he had set, candles flickering in quiet defiance of the ship’s sterile lights. Two glasses waited. Wine breathing, patient. A meal cooling slightly but still untouched.

And his bed. Her lab coat still placed on the chair, a quiet witness to a truth he could no longer suppress: he was already used to her daily, close presence aside from duty, woven into his days, his nights. He had let her in, finally, and the thought both steadied and unsettled him in equal measure.

He rubbed a hand across his mouth, leaning back, his heart restless. Beverly was still researching those probes—doubtless finishing whatever or whoever had pulled her back there. Always working, always carrying others’ burdens before her own. Admirable. Maddening. Entirely her.

He sighed, rose, straightened the cuff of his shirt. He could sit here, waiting, pacing himself into oblivion… or he could go to her, meet her halfway, as he had sworn to in all things. Jean-Luc Picard was not a man given to impulsive gestures. But tonight was different. It was now, especially after making everything… them… official. He glanced once more at the flickering candles, the glasses catching the light. Then he turned toward the door, shoulders squaring with renewed resolve.

If she could not come to him yet, then he would go and catch her up. And together, they would decide how the rest of this night would unfold.

*

The small lab was quiet, bathed in the dimmed evening lights. The usual hum of activity had stilled, the staff long gone. Only the soft pulse of monitors and the occasional chirp of the diagnostic console broke the silence.

Beverly stood alone, leaning over the central display, her radiant hair falling forward as she scanned line after line of data. The faint shadows beneath her eyes betrayed the long hours she had given this work, yet her posture remained taut with purpose.

The doors whispered open.

Jean-Luc entered, his footsteps careful, deliberate, though the moment his gaze settled on her, a warmth bloomed across his features. For a breath, he only watched—how she stood, utterly absorbed, the play of light across her elegant face.

“Doctor,” he said softly, voice lower than usual.

She glanced up, startled, then softened as her eyes met his. “Jean-Luc. I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”

He crossed the room with quiet purpose, his mimic unreadable until he reached her side. “So I noticed. But you’re still working.”

“Almost finished,” she promised, tapping the display. “Cavir and I found a repeating sequence in the samples. It may indicate a dormant microbial life-form with potential…”

Her words faltered as he leaned closer, his hand brushing lightly across her back. “Dormant microbes,” he murmured, not unkindly, “hardly seem reason enough to keep you from me all evening.”

Her lips curved into a wry smile, though her sapphire eyes glinted with fond exasperation. “Someone has to care about those microbes, Jean-Luc.”

He bent nearer, his breath warm against her ear, his other hand slipping to circle her waist. “I admit, I care only about you.”

Her heart jolted at the tenderness in his tone, so utterly new, yet so utterly welcome. “Jean-Luc…” she warned, though the word came out softer than she intended.

But his lips brushed the curve of her cheek, feather-light, coaxing. She sighed, tilting toward him despite herself. He pressed a kiss there, then another at her temple, before trailing lower toward the corner of her mouth.

“Please behave,” she murmured, though her voice trembled. “This is a sterile room. It shouldn’t…

He smiled against her supple skin, his embrace tightening fractionally, pulling her back from the console and against the steady strength of his chest. “I am behaving,” he whispered, lips brushing her jaw. “Barely.”

Her fingers, still resting on the edge of the console, curled into the smooth surface as if for anchor. Her mind warred between duty and the pull of him—her data, her findings, Cavir—and the intoxicating truth of Jean-Luc’s overwhelming presence.

At last she turned her head, capturing his lips with her own in a brief but tender kiss. When she withdrew, just slightly, her eyes were bright, her breath uneven. “Please, let us finish this one sequence,” she whispered, “and then I’m fully yours.”

His eyes burned with humour and hunger alike. “So…” he murmured, his voice low, teasing, “where is this man—this Cavir—who dares to keep the captain of this ship from ravaging the woman he loves?”

Beverly laughed, the sound soft, breathless, betraying her struggle to hold onto composure. She swatted his arm playfully, though her smile betrayed her pleasure at the unfamiliar possessiveness in his tone. “He’s scanning the probes, Jean-Luc,” she whispered tartly, “and doing a damned fine job. Better let him work, or microbes will outpace Starfleet.”

His reply was a wicked smile. His hand slid lower, curling around the curve of her tempting rear, squeezing with deliberate, claiming pressure. His other hand threaded into her glorious hair, brushing her copper tresses gently aside to expose the line of her delicious throat. He bent without hesitation, his lips fastening there with reverence and growing devotion, tongue tracing fire over her pulse.

A sound escaped her then, unbidden—low, guttural, torn from some place deep within at the most intimate contact. Her head tilted back against him, lips parting.

And at the doorway, Lieutenant Eric Cavir froze.

He had entered silently, a padd in his hand, his intent simple: to update her on his analysis. But the sight that greeted him rooted him to the spot, breath locked in his throat. His captain—the captain of the damn ship—entwined with the intriguing doctor, arms wrapped possessively, lips devouring her as if she were the only being in the galaxy.

Cavir’s heart hammered so violently he thought it must be audible, sweat prickling across his brow. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His rational mind screamed to retreat, to vanish before they noticed—but his body betrayed him, locked in paralysis.

Then came the sound. The doctor’s throaty, raw whisper of pleasure at Picard’s ministrations.

Heat flared through Cavir’s face, burning scarlet, rushing downward into places he had no control over. He clenched the padd tighter, pulse racing, mortified at himself even as the sight branded itself into his memory.

And that was when the final truth struck him—like a sledgehammer to the chest. That perfect curve of her hip, that low and most stimulating sound, that beautiful tumble of red hair—already belonged to someone.

To him.

The captain.

The realization landed heavy. That gorgeous woman, that perfect fire, is his.

The console Beverly was half bend – half pressed against - hummed, forgotten, as Jean-Luc’s lips traced her throat, drawing another low, husky sound from her that made his pulse thunder. His hand at her waist tightened, greedy, unwilling to let her go.

And then— clatter.

The sharp crash of metal against tile shattered the silence. A padd tumbled across the floor, bouncing with humiliating volume.

Both froze. Crusher stiffened in Picard’s arms, her eyes flying wide before she turned toward the source.

At the doorway stood Cavir, frozen mid-step, his face pale as starlight. His hand still outstretched where he’d dropped the padd, his expression an unholy mix of terror, embarrassment, and apology. “Sir. Doctor. I— I…” His voice cracked. He bent hurriedly, fumbling for the fallen padd, nearly knocking it a second time as his hands shook.

Picard did not release Beverly. Not fully. His hand at her waist remained, his expression steel-carved calm—though his grey eyes flashed fire at the intrusion. “Lieutenant,” he said, voice clipped but not unkind, “I believe you’ve lost something.”

Cavir straightened, clutching the padd like a lifeline, ears red. “Yes, sir. I— I didn’t mean— I thought the lab was—empty except for the two of us. I’ll just—”

“—bring in the last results to finish the report?” Beverly supplied, her tone carefully even, though her lips trembled with a suppressed laugh while she straightened herself.

“Yes. Exactly. I intended to… finish the report… but… elsewhere.” Cavir stammered, backing toward the door so quickly he nearly collided with the frame. “Excuse me, Captain. Doctor. Carry on—I mean, not carry on, but—” He broke off, mortified, and vanished into the corridor as the doors hissed shut behind him.

Silence lingered after Cavir’s hasty retreat, broken only by the steady hum of instruments working. Jean-Luc’s hand still rested at Beverly’s waist, his lips grazing the faintest smile.

Beverly finally shook her head, laughter bubbling through despite herself. “You realize,” she whispered tartly, “that this—” she gestured at the empty doorway, at the awkwardness left in Cavir’s wake “—is entirely your fault. Starting something in the middle of his domain.”

His brow arched, his voice low and rich with dry humour. “Entirely mine?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, though her eyes still sparkled. “Completely yours.”

He leaned closer, brushing his mouth against the shell of her ear, murmuring, “It wouldn’t happen if you came home before I was compelled to start a search party for you.”

Her lips parted, a retort caught in her throat, but instead she let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head against his chest. “You’re really that reckless, aren’t you?”

“And yet,” he murmured, tightening his hold fractionally, “here you are.” His fingers demonstratively continued raking over her hipbone, his calm composure cracking just slightly by the faint curve of a smile. His gaze dropped back to her face, her sapphire eyes sparkling now with laughter she was fighting valiantly to suppress. “Well,” he murmured dryly, his voice low against her ear, “…it could have been worse.”

Beverly bit her lip, shoulders shaking faintly. “Could it? I think Cavir just lost about ten years of his life expectancy. And… to make things worse as if there weren’t enough rumours already, they’ll certainly multiply now. Poor Cavir will see to that without saying a word.” She straightened her uniform top where he’d rumpled it beyond recognition to emphasize her point, but her lips quirked, though her tone carried a faint bite of realism.

Jean-Luc only regarded her with that infuriating calm, the storm in his eyes tamed into something steady and resolute. He leaned in, brushing a deliberate kiss across her lips, unhurried, unashamed. “Let them,” he murmured against her mouth. “I care little for whispers when the truth is infinitely better and... substantial.”

Her breath caught, her protest dissolving as his hand closed firmly around hers. With a tug both gentle and commanding, he coaxed her toward the doors.

“Jean-Luc,” she managed, half-exasperated, half already yielding, “You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into.”

His lips curved faintly, his stride purposeful as he led her out of the lab. “And yet,” he replied, unnervingly calm, “I’m more than ready for it.”

*

The corridor of Deck 9 was quiet, the artificial night lending the ship a hushed, half-asleep air. Their joined hands brushed lightly between them, fingers tangling and untangling as though both relished the contact yet knew how easily it could be noticed.

A pair of junior officers rounded the corner, voices low in conversation. They fell abruptly silent at the sight of their captain and CMO walking side by side, close enough that shadows overlapped beneath the corridor lights.

Jean-Luc inclined his head in his customary greeting, calm as ever. Beverly, cheeks faintly warm, straightened her stride just a fraction. The officers passed, their whispers resuming only once they were safely out of earshot.

Beverly cast him a sideways glance. “You see?” she murmured. “Fuel for the rumour mill.”

He didn’t even blink, his thumb brushing across her hand in quiet defiance. “Then let them burn.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. For a man who so often lived by restraint, Jean-Luc Picard could be infuriatingly reckless when it came to her.

They reached the door to his quarters. He tapped the panel, and the doors slid open, spilling warm candlelight into the corridor like a secret they had only just begun to share.

Chapter Text

The air in Riker’s quarters was thick with the faint scent of synthehol, the shuffle of cards, and the easy camaraderie of men who had weathered countless battles side by side. The lights were dimmed just enough to soften the sharp edges of duty, the room humming with the low, lazy jazz Riker had queued up in the background.

The table at the center was cluttered with neat piles of chips, half-drained glasses, and the inevitable trail of discarded cards. Worf sat ramrod straight despite the casual setting, his dark eyes fixed on his hand with warrior-like intensity. Geordi leaned back in his chair, VISOR glinting in the warm light, the edges of a grin tugging at his mouth as he studied his own cards. Data, precise as ever, tapped two fingers lightly against his chips in a rhythm that mirrored the tempo of the music.

Riker, of course, lounged with an ease that bordered on smugness, one arm thrown over the back of his chair, his grin as broad as the deck was wide.

“So let me get this straight,” Geordi said, tossing a chip into the pot. “You were ordered to drag Louvois down to the surface, had her tramping around in the dirt with the science team, and she didn’t stage a full-on mutiny?”

Riker smirked, sliding two chips forward with a lazy flick. “Oh, she tried. I reminded her that as long as she’s on this ship, she’s crew like everyone else. She didn’t like it.” He chuckled low in his throat. “She likes it even less when Worf reminds her.”

Worf grunted, his voice gravel. “Her behaviour was… dishonourable.”

Geordi laughed, shaking his head. “You don’t say.”

“I do not jest,” Worf replied gravely, tossing a chip into the pot with a sharp clack. “Her remarks were beneath her station. And beneath this crew.”

“Agreed,” Data said calmly, his brow furrowing just enough to signal his disapproval. “According to lively Cmdr Riker's report, her commentary during the away mission contained multiple improprieties. Statistically, her probability of offending someone with every utterance was… ninety-three percent.”

Riker chuckled. “I’d say you’re being generous.”

“Indeed,” Worf rumbled.

The table broke into laughter, a rare moment of easy humour crackling between them.

Geordi leaned forward, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Still, I’ve got to admit… seeing her face when the geologist later on ignored her to talk to Crusher instead? Worth every minute.”

Data tilted his head. “Doctor Crusher does command a significantly higher degree of respect among the crew. Louvois seems… aware of this disparity.”

Riker’s grin softened into something sly, almost knowing. “Oh, she’s aware all right.”

Geordi arched a brow. “Sounds like you’re holding back, Commander.”

“Maybe,” Riker said, voice full of mischief as he gathered his cards. “But some things… you don’t put on the table.”

Worf frowned at him across the pot. “In poker, you always put everything on the table.”

“So,” Geordi said slowly, stacking his chips with deliberate care, “Louvois wasn’t the only one making waves today. Word gets around—fast.”

Worf grunted, lifting his gaze from his cards. “Clarify.”

Geordi smirked. “Let’s just say, certain members of the crew noticed the Captain and Doctor Crusher leaving the Observation Lounge… considerably later than the rest of us, slightly... shaken.”

Worf’s brow furrowed. “Surely they were just… discussing exhausting matters?”

Riker chuckled, voice low and teasing. “Yes, but let’s call it… an extended discussion about exhausting matters.”

The game suddenly drifted into one of those long awkward silences where everyone was more focused on speculation than strategy. Cards lay in half-forgotten hands, chips idly tapped between fingers.

Geordi finally broke it, leaning back in his chair. “So… is anyone else going to admit we’re all thinking the same thing?”

Riker arched a brow, lips quirking into a half-smile. “Depends what exactly you’re thinking.”

“The captain and our doc,” Geordi said bluntly, grinning. “The two of them. On Skinoa, here on the ship… wherever they go, the rumors follow. Hell, they don’t even try to hide it anymore.”

Worf grunted in agreement. “I observed them in the Ambassador’s house. They were convincing. Too convincing for purely acting. No warrior feigns such closeness unless there is truth beneath it.” His eyes glinted as he stacked his chips. “Doctor Crusher protected him fiercely. And he her. I have no doubt their bond is… genuine.”

Data tilted his head, his voice precise as ever. “If one considers the statistical anomalies of their behavior—their extended absences, synchronized schedules, and nonverbal communications, their apparently accidental touches—the probability of a serious romantic relationship exceeds eighty-six percent.” He paused, then added, “Factoring in my and Lieutenant Worf’s late explicit observations raises it to ninety-eight point four.”

Geordi let out a low whistle. “That’s… about as close to certainty as we’re gonna get.”

Riker, who had been silent longer than usual, finally chuckled. “You probably just said in five seconds what the rest of us have been wondering for months. But funny thing is—I’m still not exactly sure when or how it finally happened. If it did.” His grin softened into something almost fond. “They’ve been dancing around each other for years. For all I know, they’ve been this way the whole time and only just stopped pretending otherwise.”

Data glanced up, expression thoughtful. “If uncertainty remains, perhaps Counselor Troi would be able to provide insight. Her empathic abilities may clarify the true nature of their relationship and the exact timetable.”

Riker nearly choked on his drink. “Data, I strongly advise against that course of action.”

“Why?” Data asked, blinking innocently.

Riker leaned forward, his grin wicked but his tone serious. “Because Deanna Troi does not appreciate being used as the ship’s gossip column. Trust me on this one—you’ll live longer.”

Geordi laughed, shaking his head. “Good advice, Data. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.”

Data folded his hands on the table, his brow furrowed in faint puzzlement. “Then we are to rely on inference and probability alone?”

“That’s poker, Mr. Data,” Riker said, tossing in a chip with deliberate flair. “Sometimes you just have to play the hand and trust your instincts. And… he definitely looks happier than I’ve seen him in years. All I say is if that’s her doing, then… it is good for both of them.”

“But Commander,” the android continued unimpressed, his tone entirely earnest, “you previously alluded to the betting pool regarding Captain Picard and Doctor Crusher’s relationship. Am I correct?”

Riker glanced up, his beard-shadowed grin twitching. “I might have mentioned something like that.”

Data nodded seriously. “In the interest of statistical tracking, I would like clarification. What is the current size of the pot?”

Geordi burst out laughing, nearly dropping his cards. “You would ask that, Data.”

“Of course,” Data replied calmly. “Without knowing the value of the wager, it is impossible to calculate the potential risk-reward ratio of participation.”

Worf rumbled low in his chest. “This should be dishonorable.”

Riker smirked at him. “What, betting?”

“No,” Worf growled, “betting on the personal lives of our commanding officers. If discovered, it could possibly bring dishonor.”

Geordi leaned over, grinning. “If discovered, Worf. You’re saying you’re in?”

Worf’s glower didn’t fool anyone.

Meanwhile, Riker set his cards down with mock solemnity. “Since you asked, Data… the pool’s sitting at twenty-two credits and a bottle of Saurian brandy. Some say they’ve been together for months. Some say only since Skinoa. And some say…” His grin spread, “...they’re still pretending.”

Data tilted his head. “And your position, Commander?”

Riker chuckled, tossing another chip into the pot. “My position is simple: Our doc has the sharpest tongue on this ship. If she’s decided to let Jean-Luc Picard past those defenses, it’s not pretense. It’s real.”

The table fell briefly silent at that—until Geordi let out a low whistle. “You almost sounded… sentimental there, Will.”

Riker only grinned, eyes twinkling. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Data resumed shuffling his chips. “Understood. However, I believe you may wish to adjust the size of the pot soon. At the current rate of observed behavior, the odds are heavily skewing toward certainty.”

Geordi chuckled, raising his glass. “To certainty, then.”

Worf grunted, throwing in his bet with a decisive clack. “We shall see.”

The game rolled on, but the conversation lingered between them like unspoken camaraderie—part speculation, part loyalty, and more than a little amusement at the expense of the two people who had no idea how closely they were being watched.

=/=

The doors slid shut behind them, and before Beverly could even step fully into the glow of his quarters, Jean-Luc’s arms circled her waist from behind, pulling her back against him. The scent of candles and him, mingled with rich wine hung in the air, the table gleaming with careful preparation—dishes set, crystal glasses waiting, everything in its place.

Her breath caught. The warmth of him at her back, the quiet reverence of the scene, the flicker of flames—it was all too much, and not nearly enough. “Jean-Luc…” she breathed, the words barely there, “this is beautiful.”

But he wasn’t looking at the candles or the wine. He was lost in the slope of her neck, his mouth brushing her skin with hunger barely restrained. One hand roamed up her side while the other found the zipper at her back, dragging it downward in a slow, delicious descent. “Is it?” he murmured, his voice rasping against her skin like smoke and silk. “Because all I see is you.”

A shiver rippled through her. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, savoring the intensive pull of him, desire rising like a tide—before her stomach made itself known with a distinctly unromantic growl. Her eyes flew open, a laugh bursting from her throat as she turned slightly in his arms. “Apparently, someone disagrees with your timing.”

He stilled with a low, gravelly chuckle and pressed his forehead to her shoulder, breath warm and tickling against her skin. “Trust me to be outmanoeuvred by bread and poultry.”

She smirked, struggling to twist out of his possessive grip just enough to snatch a golden-crusted roll from the table. “Bread doesn’t argue about microbes,” she teased, taking a triumphant bite.

“Beverly…” he warned, voice thick with indulgent threat, his hand tightening on her hip. “You’re stalling.”

“Am I?” she mused, plucking a glass of wine and swirling it slowly, letting the candlelight catch in the ruby swirl. She took a lingering sip, then slowly lowered the glass, her tongue sweeping her bottom lip with teasing precision. “You’re just thinking about undressing me, aren’t you?”

He stepped in closer, his eyes like flint striking flame. His hand slid over her hip, fingers spreading wide as though to reclaim what had always been his. “I’m thinking about nothing else. You know I’m a man of persistence.”

She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. “And I’m a woman with an appetite.”

Jean-Luc arched a brow and plucked the glass neatly from her hand before she could finish it. He tipped it toward her in a gesture of his own, his lips brushing the rim where hers had been, taking a deliberate sip. His grey eyes never left her sapphire ones as he set it back on the table—slowly, carefully—like a man removing an obstacle.

“Now,” he said, voice a dark promise, “my hands are free.”

“Jean-Luc—” she began, only to choke on her breath as his fingertips resumed their torment. The zipper resumed its downward journey, baring inch after inch of her back to the cool air and the burning heat of his mouth. He followed the path with aching devotion, each kiss a branding.

“You had your bite,” he growled, his lips finding the curve of her jaw.

“Maybe a snack,” she gasped, laughing even as her fingers knotted in his shirt, “but I’m not surrendering.”

His mouth curved against her skin as he bent to kiss the hollow of her throat. “You call that surrender? This is surrender…” His hands firmly grasped her waist, pulling her flush against him, every line of his body claiming hers.

The half-eaten roll slipped from her hand, forgotten, bouncing harmlessly across the carpet as she clutched at his shoulders instead. Her voice trembled, caught between laughter and desire. “You’re insatiable.”

“And you,” he murmured against her mouth, warmth spreading through her limbs, “are mine.”

The stubborn fabric gave way inch by inch as Jean-Luc drew the zipper lower, baring the pale line of her back to the air. His mouth followed the path, warm and insistent, until Beverly’s shoulders shivered under his touch.

She tilted her head, laughing softly even as her breath hitched. “What happened,” she whispered, her voice husky with amusement, “to that ever so patient, self-composed captain I knew so well?”

He chuckled darkly against her skin, then bit gently at her neck—a single, claiming nip that made her gasp aloud. His voice vibrated there, raw and unguarded. “He used to think patience was a virtue, but then… he fell in love.”

Her lips parted, her laughter fading into silence as the words washed over her.

“So deeply,” he continued, tugging her uniform top down with slow, reverent care, peeling the stubborn blue fabric from her shoulders, “that when she finally said yes, she freed his soul… and every restraint he’d clung to for decades.”

The cloth slipped lower, pooling at her waist, leaving her flushed skin bare beneath his firm hands. He cupped her breasts through silk with a hunger tempered only by awe, his thumbs tracing delicate circles that made her knees weaken. His mouth pressed deeper into her neck, nipping, kissing, devouring until she had to stifle the groan rising in her throat.

Beverly swayed into him, her body melting against his. “Lucky woman,” she managed, her breath trembling against his ear, her voice catching on the edge of a moan.

He sucked her skin between his lips, just enough to make her tremble, his voice a growl rumbling through her. “No, lucky man.”

Her head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as his lips mapped a burning trail along her throat. Her hands, which had tried so valiantly to push him back toward reason, betrayed her at last — clutching at his shoulders, urging him closer.

“Jean-Luc…” her voice wavered between laughter and desire, “this wonderful dinner…”

“…will keep,” he cut her off, voice rough as his lips dragged lower, tasting the curve of her collarbone. His hands, reverent but greedy, slid around her to make short process with the clasp of her bra. Swiftly discarding the unwanted fabric to the floor his eager palms returned, glid lower still, roaming her supple exposed skin as though he meant to memorize every perfect line of her. The mere feel of her hardening peaks under his sensitive palms nearly undid him.

Her laughter dissolved into an exquisite jolt, the soft sound of surrender slipping free as she gave up the pointless fight, her body willingly arching into him.

One of the candles flickered in protest as she stumbled back against the table, clutching his shirt to steady herself. Another roll tumbled to the floor and the wine in its glass trembled, but neither spared the meal another thought. He unceremoniously tugged the rest of her uniform down her hips and easily removed her boots, while her fingers curled around his head, tugging his mouth back to hers.

Their kiss deepened — no longer teasing, no longer banter — but hungry, aching, claiming. He lifted her then, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, his grip sure and steady as if carrying her was second nature. Her hands fisted in the collar of his shirt, tearing it loose from his shoulders as their mouths clashed in desperate rhythm.

Her breath broke against his ear as he moved, strong strides carrying her past the table, past the glowing candles, into the solitude of his bedroom. The doors whispered shut behind them, leaving the table set and the wine untouched — their laughter and gasps the only music that lingered as the night swallowed them whole.

The doors whispered closed behind them with a finality that sent a shiver down her spine—though whether from the chill or from Jean-Luc’s hands sliding lower was impossible to tell. He carried her through the dim shadows like she weighed nothing, her body molded to his, her arms locked around his shoulders, fingers tangled in the short hair at the back of his head.

The air was thicker in here, warmer. More intimate. The candles from the main room cast flickers through the glass panel of the door, painting long, dancing obscurities across the dark walls. The bed, turned down in quiet anticipation, waited like a secret.

But he didn’t go to it. Not yet.

He stopped in the center of the room, just holding her, the heat of her bare skin pressing through his already crumpled shirt. His breathing had deepened, growing ragged against her ear, and when she shifted in his arms, her thigh brushing low against his abdomen, he groaned—quiet but broken.

Her lips found the edge of his jaw, brushing his skin in a kiss more delicate than air. “Jean-Luc…”

He lowered her slowly, reverently, letting her bare feet find the plush carpet. But his hands didn’t leave her body. One slid along the small of her back, pulling her in again, while the other ghosted along her ribs, teasing the underside of her breast with a touch that burned. His eyes—darkened to steel—searched her face like he might never get another chance.

“You undo me,” he murmured, his voice nearly hoarse, and his thumb dragged lightly over her nipple. “You always have.”

She caught his mouth in a kiss that started soft—but didn’t stay that way. Her fingers clawed at the remnants of his clothes, tugging, peeling the stubborn fabric from his shoulders. He let her, hands falling away for just a breath before returning, unfastening his pants with shaking precision as she watched with parted lips and ravenous eyes.

When he was bare before her, she stepped forward again, her palms spreading over the firm muscle of his chest. Her lips followed her hands—kissing a line from his collarbone downward, savoring every inch. His breath stuttered. His hands found her hips. And then he turned them, slowly, until her back met the wall.

Not cold. Not sharp. But grounding—something solid in a moment where nothing but her mattered.

His mouth descended on her again—neck, throat, the tender place between her breasts—and each kiss was deeper, more consuming, as though he could breathe her in through his skin. She moaned, soft but unguarded, and he echoed it in the back of his throat like her pleasure was his only language.

He dropped to his knees.

Her breath caught.

His hands slid down the backs of her thighs, coaxing her legs wider, and then he pressed his lips just below her navel. He kissed her there—slow, adoring—before letting his mouth trace a path lower, lips and tongue reverent, until her head fell back with a strangled sound of need.

Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, then slid across the sensitive skin on his head, and when he finally looked up at her, his eyes were wild with devotion, desire, and something far more dangerous—love unbound.

“Beverly,” he whispered, and even the way he said her name made her tremble.

He stood again in one fluid motion, catching her lips with his own, tasting the sounds she'd made, sharing them between kisses that left her dizzy. Then, without speaking, he lifted her once more and carried her the last few steps to the bed.

This time, he laid her down.

Not rushed. Not careless. As if she were something sacred.

She reached for him, and he came willingly, lowering himself over her with aching care, his body pressing against hers, chest to breast, thigh to thigh, until there was no part of her not touched. His hands cradled her face, his mouth finding hers again in a kiss that was soft and burning all at once.

The world melted.

He worshipped her slowly—his hands memorizing every curve, his mouth branding her skin with heat. Her back arched into him with every caress. She gasped his name like a litany, a prayer, her voice breaking each time he discovered some new place that made her shiver, moan, beg.

There was no hurry. No urgency.

Only fire. And devotion. And him, wholly undone beneath the weight of finally being able of loving her like he’d ever dreamed of.

And when, finally, he pressed inside her—slow and sure and so deeply—it was not with conquest but surrender. His forehead dropped to hers, their breath tangled, their hands laced together above her head. She met him with a cry, her legs tightening around him, drawing him deeper, grounding them both in the only truth that mattered: this.

He moved inside her like he was trying to etch the memory into his bones, each thrust a promise, each breath a vow. Her body arched into his again and again, chasing the rising wave, helpless to stop the storm he built with every rolling movement of his hips, every groaned whisper of her name.

She shattered first, trembling beneath him, crying out as her nails dug into his back. He held her through it, never faltering, never looking away, whispering her name like it could anchor him in this moment.

And then—only then—did he let go.

He spilled into her with a raw, broken sound, her name on his lips like a benediction, and collapsed against her, every inch of him still wrapped around hers, shaking with the force of it.

For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of their breath, their bodies still tangled, his hand stroking sweat-damp curls from her temple as if she were made of glass.

Finally, she exhaled a laugh—breathy, stunned, and full of warmth. “I admit that… was better than dinner.”

He chuckled softly, still breathless, and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Dinner wouldn’t have lasted that long.”

=/\=

Ten Forward was quieter than usual — the late hour drawing most of the crew to their quarters. The stars streamed by in long arcs outside the wide windows, a serene backdrop to the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses.

In the farthest corner, half-hidden from the main crowd, two worn-out officers sat slouched over their drinks.

Joseph Lane nursed his glass like it was a lifeline, swirling the amber liquid with a distracted hand. His cheeks were flushed, whether from alcohol or agitation it was hard to say.

Across from him, Cavir looked equally unsettled, his posture rigid, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass in nervous circles. “Hell of a day,” he muttered, finally breaking the silence. “Moon dust, microbes, and Worf looking like he was ready to break Louvois in half. I thought I’d seen it all until today.” He gave a short, humourless laugh, running a hand through his thick blonde hair. “And then, just when you think this was enough you walk into your lab and find the captain wrapped around the doctor.”

Lane’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing, breath caught mid-pull of his drink. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” Cavir rubbed a hand across his brow, his voice low. “Went I left, she was alone, studying the probes. I didn’t even… that’s when I saw them. He had her…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “Let’s just say there’s no doubt anymore.”

The older Joseph leaned back, his edgy jaw tightening, the smirk he usually wore nowhere to be seen. “So, the rumours are true.”

“They’re not rumours,” Cavir muttered. “Surely not even close. They didn’t even notice me until I dropped a padd. Nearly had a heart attack on the spot.”

Lane barked a laugh, though it rang hollow. “Lucky you survived to tell the tale.” His fingers tapped against the glass, restless. “Crusher…” His voice dropped, bitter around the edges. “Figures she’d be untouchable.”

Cavir shot him a sharp look. “She’s more than your fantasy, Lane. She’s the CMO. She deserves respect.”

Lane shrugged, but his shoulders were tight. “Yeah, well. Hard to respect a dream when your stiff captain smashes it into pieces by simply claiming ownership in public.”

“I wasn’t that public, considering that it practically never happens that anyone enters the laboratory by accident at this time of day. But anyway…”

For a moment, silence stretched between them again, heavy with the unspoken.

Neither noticed the figure a few tables over, a half-empty glass of wine resting forgotten in her hand. Philippa Louvois sat angled just enough to catch their voices, her sharp eyes narrowing with each word. She swirled her wine, lips curling into the faintest, bitter smile. So, the captain and his damn doctor, without the pretense of a mission. Confirmation, and from the mouths of his own officers no less. Louvois leaned back in her chair, pretending indifference, but her ears missed nothing.

Lane swirled what was left of his drink, staring into the glass as though it might rewrite the evening for him. Finally, he spoke, his voice edged with something rawer than his usual bravado. “Yes, anyway. I still can’t believe that… you… really saw it…  them, making out…”

Cavir exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “I’d say if I’d come a minute later, they’d have been beyond caring who walked in. I mean, our lab, Joe. Right there on my console, with the probes still running.”

The other blinked, then laughed once, harsh and grim. “Her cute ass on your lame console? Are you pulling my leg, mate?”

Cavir shook his head. “I’m not. I don’t know what got into her, risking contamination like that. Dr. Crusher should be meticulous. Careful. Tonight she…” He trailed off, baffled, as though replaying the image again in his mind. “Just freaked out for a decent...”

Lane’s jaw tightened, and he downed the last of his drink in one bitter swallow. He slammed the empty glass down harder than necessary. “I know exactly what—or who—got into her.”

Cavir’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t, Lane.”

Lane smirked faintly, though the edge in it betrayed how much it stung. “Don’t what, Eric? Say it? Admit I wanted to ask her out? Everyone knows I’ve had a thing for her. You just proved what the rest of us only guessed—that she’s not even in the same stratosphere. Captain or not, she was never for the likes of me.”

The Lieutenant sighed, shaking his head. “Boy, she has ever been … out of your league. That she’s messing around with our Captain is only the cream topping.”

For a moment, silence pressed between them, Joseph slumping deeper into his chair while Eric stared at the table as though the answers might be etched in the wood.

And a few feet away, Philippa Louvois’ wineglass caught the light as she swirled its contents slowly, deliberately. Her lips twitched at the Ensign’s bitter words, though no trace of amusement reached her eyes.

So, even the crew saw it. Even the morbid scientists, crawled up from the lower decks to daylight, knew the truth. And perhaps most useful of all—they spoke of Beverly Crusher not as a respected doctor, but as a woman compromised.

Louvois leaned back, shadows curling around her. She had found the crack she needed.

A faint gesture to the bar brought a tray of fresh drinks on the way, Louvois offering the server the barest flick of a smile before rising with her glass in hand. She moved like a prowling cat, every line of her body calculated to draw eyes without seeming to. She arrived at their corner and, without waiting for invitation, placed a delicate hand on the back of the empty chair. “May I, gentlemen?”

Lane arched a brow, curiosity sparking through the haze of alcohol. “Well, that depends…” His gaze lingered with unmasked interest, “…do you bite?”

Louvois smirked, easing gracefully into the chair, her auburn hair spilling loose around her shoulders. “Only when it suits me.”

Across the table, Cavir stiffened visibly, his jaw tightening. He’d already endured her presence on the away mission, and nothing about her sudden intrusion now struck him as casual. His hazel eyes flicked toward Lane, who seemed only more intrigued.

“Relax, Lieutenant,” Louvois purred, settling her elbows lightly on the table. “I’m not here to interrogate anyone. Just… conversation.”

Lane snorted softly. “That’s new.”

Her smirk widened. “Sharp tongue. I like that.” She lifted her fresh drink when the tray arrived, tilting it slightly in mock salute. “Besides, you both looked far too solemn for such a fine evening. Something weighing on your minds?”

Cavir’s throat tightened. He didn’t answer immediately, fingers drumming against his untouched glass. Lane, however, leaned forward, the alcohol making him reckless. “We were just talking about… colleagues and attitudes.” His tone was flippant, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. “You know. The kind of colleagues who keep the rumour mill grinding.”

Louvois feigned mild curiosity, sipping delicately from her glass. “Rumour mills. Dangerous little things, aren’t they? Always more smoke than fire.” She set the glass down with careful precision, her gaze darting between them. “But sometimes… sometimes the smoke leads straight to the blaze.”

Lane chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, if you’re looking for gossip, you’re in the right corner.”

“Not gossip,” Louvois corrected smoothly, her smile polite but her eyes sharp as glass. “Perspective.” She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “And I do so enjoy hearing perspective from those who aren’t… shackled by rank.”

Cavir’s hand tightened around his glass, his discomfort clear.

Lane, meanwhile, basked in her attention, raising his brow with a smirk. “Well then,” he drawled, “you’re in luck.”

Louvois twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers, her voice light, casual. “So… science division, isn’t it? What is it you’re working on this week? Something with… probes?”

Cavir’s head snapped up, suspicion flickering instantly in his eyes. “Routine analysis. Geological samples from the area we researched this morning.” His tone was curt, clipped, already regretting her presence.

But Louvois only smiled sweetly, her eyes flicking toward Lane. “Sounds terribly important.”

Lane smirked, his tongue loosened by drink. “Important, maybe. Exciting? Not so much. Rocks, microbes… it’s all dirt until the doc shows up.”

Louvois leaned forward slightly, chin resting on her hand as if she were merely indulging idle curiosity. “Ah, Doctor Crusher. She does have a way of making things… lively, doesn’t she?”

Lane’s jaw tightened, but he laughed anyway, bitterness bleeding through. “That’s one way to put it.”

Beneath the table, Cavir’s foot shot out, connecting sharply with the Ensign’s shin. Lane jerked but ignored it, eyes fixed on Louvois, drawn into her orbit like a moth to flame.

“She’s meticulous,” Cavir cut in quickly, his voice firm. “The finest CMO in the fleet. Without her, none of this research could move forward.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt her brilliance,” Louvois said smoothly, her gaze never leaving Lane. “But brilliance and… passion, they don’t always align. Sometimes the heart distracts from the duty.” She let the word duty linger just long enough to sting.

Lane barked a laugh, far too loud for the quiet corner. “Distracted? Yeah. You could say that.”

“Joseph…” Cavir warned, his voice low, urgent.

But Lane pushed on, his cheeks flushed, his smirk unsteady. “She’s not distracted by microbes, though, if you catch my drift.”

Louvois’ lips curled faintly, a predator’s smile disguised as indulgence. She leaned closer, her perfume drifting across the table, her eyes locking with his. “Oh, I catch it, Ensign.” Her voice was velvet and venom all at once. “Tell me more.”

Cavir’s foot connected again under the table, harder this time, but Lane only grimaced, waving him off with a dismissive shake of the head. He was too far gone, too wounded by a woman’s rejection to recognize the trap snapping shut around him.

Louvois leaned closer, her glass untouched, her voice smooth as silk. “You know, Joseph, you strike me as a man with stories worth telling. I can see it in your eyes. Something you’ve seen, something you know, but haven’t said aloud.”

Lane smirked, though it wavered under the weight of her attention. He shifted in his chair, tapping restless fingers against his glass. “Maybe.”

Cavir’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

Louvois turned her gaze lazily toward him, the smile never slipping. “Oh, Lieutenant, surely you’re not suggesting your colleague keep his insights to himself. I’m only asking about science, after all.” She tilted her head back to Lane. “Science, and perhaps… the things science reveals.”

Lane laughed bitterly. “Reveals? Yeah, you could say it revealed something.” He drained the last of his glass and leaned forward, emboldened by the alcohol and her provocative gaze. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll even forced to redo half the tests. Because someone,” he snorted, “chose to mess around in the lab instead of keeping it sterile.”

Cavir’s heart sank like a stone. His chair scraped back sharply, drawing eyes from across the room. “Lane. Enough.” His voice was low, firm, almost a growl.

But Lane only waved him off, his eyes glazed, caught between drink and his wounded pride. “Why? It’s the truth. She’s not perfect. Not that anyone would believe it.”

“Ensign,” Cavir hissed, “think. You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

Louvois’ smile sharpened, her tone silk with steel beneath it. “He’s talking to a Commander in Starfleet, Lieutenant. And unless you have something relevant to contribute, I suggest you finish your drink elsewhere.”

Cavir froze, fury boiling in his chest. His fists curled tight at his sides as his eyes burned into hers, but her rank left him cornered. Finally, he forced the words out between his teeth. “This isn’t right.”

“Neither is insubordination,” Louvois replied sweetly, dismissing him with a flick of her fingers.

Cavir stood rigid, his gaze darting once more to Lane, then back to her. For a heartbeat, it looked as though he might refuse. But at last, with a sharp breath and a muttered curse, he turned on his heel and stalked out of Ten Forward.

Louvois exhaled softly, a smile of satisfaction curving her lips as she slid closer to Lane, her presence filling the space Cavir had left. Her hand brushed his arm lightly, deliberately. “Now,” she murmured, her voice sheer silk, her eyes gleaming with promise and threat alike, “where were we?”

Lane’s bitterness flowed freer with each refill, his voice lowering only when she leaned closer to catch it. Details blurred between half-formed confessions and wounded pride, but Louvois drank in every word with the precision of a woman gathering ammunition.

Finally, when his head sagged slightly and his smirk had dulled into something sloppy and hollow, she straightened, setting her glass neatly aside. “That’s quite enough for tonight,” she said softly, almost fondly, rising from her seat. “You’ve been… very enlightening.” She smoothed her auburn hair over one shoulder, her lips curving into that quiet, satisfied smile she wore so well. She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve with meticulous grace before gliding away from the table.

Lane mumbled something incoherent, half a laugh, half a sigh. His hand flopped uselessly against the table, eyes glassy, utterly pliable now.

And as she passed the wide windows, the stars stretched endlessly across the void — and her reflection in the glass smiled back at her like a predator with blood on her teeth.

Chapter Text

The warm, familiar artificial light streamed across the bridge, the curve of the pale moon rolling beneath them in solemn silence. The shift was fresh, the air still carrying that faint crispness of routine just beginning, but Picard’s mood was anything but steady.

Standing at the center of the bridge, hands firmly at his sides, he listened as Riker confirmed the away team’s readiness via intercom.

“Mr. Worf will handle security. Cavir’s leading geology. Ensign Maren’s assisting on xenobiology.” Riker’s tone was brisk, efficient. He paused, then added: “Doctor Crusher has requested to oversee the biological implications of the samples. Commander Louvois will… observe.”

Picard’s jaw tightened. He inclined his head slowly, deliberately neutral. “Very well. You have my permission to proceed.”

The words left his mouth, but unease knotted low in his chest. He had promised Beverly—promised her the freedom to do her work without his overbearing instinct to shield her. And yet, while it became reality the moment her name appeared alongside Louvois’ on the roster, the fact she really went down there with them, with her, twisted his stomach with silent dread.

His mind flicked back to the night before: her laughter, her warmth, the way her body fit into his arms as though they had always been made for each another. And then forward again, to the image of her standing across from Philippa Louvois, two sharp minds sparring beneath polite veneers. Beverly could handle herself—of that he had no doubt—but Philippa’s venom was a subtler, more dangerous foe than any blade.

He forced his gaze toward the viewscreen, hiding the flicker of possessiveness, the protective edge that threatened to escape. Duty. Discipline. He would not undermine her by giving in to them. “Make it quick, Number One,” he said at last, raw, his voice steady though his fingers dug faint crescents into his trembling palms.

Riker nodded unseen, aware of his captains growing disquiet. “Aye, sir.”

Picard turned slightly, his gaze falling briefly to the young female Ensign at the Conn and finally back on the moon which was hovering underneath his ship. He exhaled quietly, forcing himself to let her go.

“Energize when ready,” he ordered, and the bridge moved into motion.

Transporter Room Two

The hum of the pads filled the chamber, sterile and expectant. Worf stood tall, arms folded, surveying the small team as they assembled. Cavir clutched a padd tight against his chest, double-checking data as if it were a shield. Ensign Maren, pale and stiff, adjusted her kit with hands that trembled despite her best efforts.

Beverly arrived, her step brisk, her uniform crisp despite the faint shadows of fatigue beneath her eyes. She moved to her mark with calm assurance, nodding once to Worf before setting her medkit at her feet.

Then Louvois swept in—dressed to Starfleet regulations, but with a sharpness in her stride that suggested defiance rather than discipline. She caught Beverly’s eye for the briefest instant, sapphire meeting ice, a flash of something barbed behind her smug smile, before taking her place at the far side of the pad.

The air between the two women thickened, enough to make poor Ensign Maren glance uneasily between them.

From the console, Riker took it all in—the doctor’s quiet professionalism, Louvois’ subtle provocation, and the unspoken tension simmering like static. He arched a brow, muttered something to the transporter chief, and keyed in the coordinates.

“Energize,” he ordered.

The shimmer of the beam caught them in its golden glow, and in a heartbeat the chamber was empty again.

*

From his chair on the bridge, Picard watched the status light flicker green on the tactical display. The transporter cycle completed, the away team safely transferred to the moon’s surface.

He let out a breath, controlled, measured — the kind of exhale meant to disguise itself as routine. But his knuckles whitened against the carved wood of his chair arm, betraying what the rest of his body so carefully masked.

On the surface below: Beverly. In close quarters. With Louvois.

His mind churned, recalling the venomous glint in Philippa’s eye as if she knew more than he cared for, the mockery barely hidden beneath her civil tongue. That woman could turn loyalty into a weapon, could twist a single overheard word into scandal if it suited her. And Beverly — brilliant, headstrong, stubbornly fearless Beverly — would not yield to such tactics, not even for peace.

Jean-Luc Picard knew what that combination meant.

A confrontation was inevitable. And he was responsible for that.

“Captain?” Data’s calm voice carried from Ops, pulling him back. “The away team has arrived at the intended location now.”

Picard’s voice emerged steady, betraying none of the storm beneath. “Thank you, Mister Data. Maintain standard orbit.”

His eyes lingered on the stars surrounding the moon on the viewscreen, but his thoughts were nowhere near the bridge. He saw instead the imagined sight of the transporter beam fading around her, the way she always looked at him just before stepping onto the pad: calm, resolute, with that faint softness she reserved only for him.

He had promised her trust. Promised her space. And yet every instinct screamed at him to follow, to keep her within reach. He forced his jaw to relax, unclenched his fists slowly, one finger at a time. Duty demanded composure. Trust demanded restraint. And despite years of friendship, this was totally new, for both of them. He had to handle that carefully.

But beneath it all, his heart hammered with the unbearable certainty anyway: if Louvois pushed too far… if Beverly’s temper flared… this mission could become something far more dangerous than microbes in the soil.

Moon Surface

The transporter glow faded into a barren landscape, pale rock stretching in jagged ridges toward a low horizon. The sky above shimmered faintly with the moon’s thin atmosphere, painting everything in muted silvers and pale gold. Dust crunched underfoot as the away team adjusted their gear, tricorders chirping to life.

“Atmospheric pressure stable,” Worf reported, scanning with his tricorder. His voice carried low and guttural, already wary. “Oxygen content within tolerance. Visibility clear.”

“Good,” Riker said, tugging his jacket tighter against the faint chill. “Let’s spread out again. Cavir, mark the coordinates for sample retrieval. Beverly, keep an eye on potential hazards.”

“Got it.” Crusher’s voice was calm, professional, as she unclipped her tricorder and began scanning the mineral-rich soil. She crouched low, gloved fingers brushing along a cracked outcropping, the faint hum of her device filling the silence.

Louvois, however, stood a little apart, her arms crossed as though she were a spectator rather than a participant. She arched a brow at the rough terrain. “What a surprise. It’s still rocks and dust. Such a sight, I can’t believe I almost missed this… again.”

Cavir stiffened, already frowning as he knelt beside Beverly to catalogue samples. “If you want to take a look, Doctor, these formations are geologically unique. They could teach us a great deal about the system’s history.”

Louvois’ lips curved in a faint smirk. “Mm. History written in stone. How… riveting.”

Beverly’s eyes flicked up, catching the barb but choosing restraint. She returned her gaze to the tricorder. “History has a way of saving lives when understood properly. I’ve seen more than one medical cure start with an overlooked mineral.”

Riker glanced between them, his mouth tightening slightly, then turned deliberately to Worf. “Let’s set a perimeter. Make sure we’re not missing anything on sensors.”

Worf gave a short nod and moved away, leaving Cavir, Maren, and the two women close together among the rocks. The silence thickened, broken only by the chirps of tricorders and the occasional clink of samples being stored.

Ensign Maren, the youngest among them, shifted uneasily as she worked beside the evidently rather stiff Cavir. She felt the tension radiating like static and kept her head down, praying to avoid notice.

Philippa Louvois eventually crouched, picking up a shard of rock and turning it idly in her fingers. “Fascinating,” she murmured, her tone dry. “Though I imagine most of you would rather be in Sickbay. Or perhaps…in a lab… or elsewhere, where it’s cozy...” Her eyes flicked toward Beverly, sharp beneath her feigned casualness.

Beverly didn’t look up, though her jaw tightened. “We’re here to do a job. I suggest you focus on it.”

“Of course,” Louvois said, standing gracefully, dusting her hands across her red uniform. “But one can’t help noticing how some people’s… focus tends to shift. From duty to… sweet little distractions.”

Cavir shot a sharp glance at the throning Commander, then back to Crusher, alarm sparking in his eyes. Lane’s drunken words in Ten Forward rang too close in his ears. He prayed that the doctor was wise enough to deny taking the bait.

Beverly rose slowly, her tricorder still in hand, her expression composed though her sapphire eyes burned. “If you have something to say, Philippa, I suggest you stop circling and say it plainly.”

Louvois’ smile sharpened, glinting with venomous delight. “Plainly? Very well. For all your brilliance, Beverly Crusher, I never imagined you’d be so reckless. Allowing… personal indulgences to cloud your judgment. While on duty, no less. Tell me, how do you reconcile that with the oath you swore?”

The words hung in the thin air like a blade unsheathed.

Ensign Maren froze, her tricorder trembling faintly in her hand. Cavir straightened, stepping protectively closer to Beverly Crusher – his knowledge that he was to blame for the situation, that Louvois now knew about something only he had seen and too carelessly passed to a friend, overwhelming.

Beverly drew a slow breath, her gaze never leaving Louvois. “You’re overstepping.”

The elder tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Am I? Or am I simply holding a colleague accountable? You see, some of us still believe Starfleet regulations mean something.”

Riker’s voice cut in, suddenly appearing from nowhere, sharp as steel. “That’s enough.” He stepped nearer, his stare forcing Louvois to a stop. “We’re here to do research, not trade accusations.”

Louvois’ lips curved in mock amusement, though her eyes never left Beverly. “Just an observation, Commander. Don’t mind me.”

But Beverly did mind. She felt every word coil like barbed wire around her chest. So she forced her chin higher, refusing to give Louvois the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. “If you’re finished, Philippa, perhaps you’ll allow the rest of us to work.” Had… Cavir talked? With her, of all people?

Louvois gave a small, theatrical bow of her head. “By all means, my dear Doctor. Lead on.”

For a long, tense moment, silence ruled. Then Eric Cavir quickly bent low, avoiding Crusher’s disconcerted yet arched elegant brow, resuming his sample analysis with forced intensity. Ensign Maren exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Finally, Beverly turned away, scanning again, her shoulders rigid but her face calm. Riker lingered, eyes sharp on Louvois, before moving to check in with Worf.

The dirt munched beneath their boots as they moved deeper into the outcropping. Cavir crouched near a jagged crack in the rock, carefully adjusting the probe he had planted during their first survey. The device chimed softly, data scrolling across his padd.

“Readings are consistent with what we gathered yesterday,” he murmured, brows furrowed in thought. “But look at this spike. The mineral density here isn’t uniform. There could be microbial colonies beneath.”

Beverly ducked beside him, her tricorder already sweeping. Their shoulders brushed as she angled her display to match his. “You’re right. And if that density pattern holds, there may be viable organisms clinging between the crystalline layers. Not unlike halophiles in salt deposits on Earth.”

Cavir’s lips curved faintly, the glimmer of pride showing through his usual reserve, blocking the queasy feeling from earlier. “I was hoping you’d say that. I thought I was imagining the possibility.”

Beverly’s mouth tugged upward, just briefly. “That’s why we check each other’s work. Science is meant to be collaborative.”

Their voices fell back into an easy rhythm again, exchanging theories, tossing ideas back and forth as they moved from one outcrop to another, scanning and sampling with practiced efficiency. They fit together seamlessly, as though they’d worked as a team for years instead of mere hours.

And Philippa Louvois watched every moment with hawk-like focus, her arms crossed, her pale blue eyes narrowed.

So, the fiery doctor knew how to smile and nod when a young man fed her praise. She could lean close, brush shoulders, let her voice soften with encouragement. How… convenient.

Jean-Luc would surely appreciate seeing her like this — his precious Beverly, already weaving her spell on eager junior officers. She wondered whether he had noticed, or if his blind adoration kept him from recognizing the pattern.

Of course, Louvois knew more than anyone now. She knew about the incident in the lab, about how the doctor’s professionalism had already crumbled in the heat of the captain’s arms. Sabotaging the equipment that night had been easier than she expected — a few keystrokes, a quiet override, a set of readouts corrupted just enough to force repeated tests. A small inconvenience, wrapped as failure of discipline.

She intended to add that to her list and deliver the details straight into Veynar’s hands. Proof of Beverly Crusher’s total lack of professionalism. Proof that would tarnish the untouchable doctor’s name and, by extension, the man who dared to shield her.

A small voice interrupted her thoughts. “Commander Louvois?” Ensign Maren stood hesitantly at her elbow, datapadd in hand. “Should I… catalogue these mineral samples separately, or attach them to the primary log?”

Louvois turned slowly, her eyes slicing the girl open with a look. “If you need to ask such a question, Ensign, perhaps you aren’t suited for fieldwork at all.”

Maren flushed crimson, her mouth opening in a stammer before she quickly bent her head over her padd again.

Louvois’ smirk lingered, faint and cruel, as she returned her gaze to Beverly and Cavir — still kneeling side by side, their tricorders alive with shared discovery.

Cavir adjusted the probe again, the tricorder on his wrist chirping with a new stream of data. “There,” he said softly, almost to himself. “That’s the pattern. Microbial lattices. I knew it wasn’t just noise.”

Beverly leaned closer, her own tricorder sweeping across the same seam. She nodded, satisfaction washing over her features. “Good work, Lieutenant. You’ve got a sharp eye.”

He glanced at her, startled by the praise, and quickly ducked again as though embarrassed by the warmth in her tone. Still, his shoulders squared a little more, pride carrying him forward.

They worked in silence for another few minutes, logging samples, until Cavir cleared his throat. He hesitated, then asked bravely but quiet, “Doctor… are you—are you alright? I mean, the Commander...”

Crusher paused, her hands stilling over the probe. For an instant her gaze flicked to Louvois, standing stiffly a few meters away with her arms folded, eyes locked on them like a hawk. Then she turned back to Cavir, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips. She reached out and patted his arm, just once, her touch firm and reassuring. “I’m fine, Eric. Better than fine. And it is very kind of you to ask.”

The tips of his ears burned crimson, his hazel orbs darting quickly back to his readings to distract the weird flutter starting low in his gut.

Beverly leaned in just a fraction closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “But if you keep worrying about me like that, you’ll have the captain jealous in no time.”

He froze, his mouth opening, then snapping shut again. His cheeks went scarlet, and he nearly fumbled the tricorder in his hands. “I—I didn’t mean—”

She chuckled softly, the sound warm and kind. “Relax, Lieutenant. It’s just a compliment.”

He managed a weak smile, though his blush lingered. For all her brilliance, authority and sharp wit, Beverly Crusher could be disarmingly gentle. Adorably sweet, even. Damnit.

Behind them, Louvois’ fingernails bit into her palms, her thoughts racing. She still smiled, that redheaded, long-legged curse. Charming and perfect and untouchable — the doctor everyone admired, the woman even Jean-Luc Picard idolised.

But charm alone, Louvois told herself, was fragile. And she would be the one to break it.

*

The bridge was calm, routine hum filling the air as Alpha shift settled into its rhythm. Still Picard sat motionless in the command chair, reviewing a dispatch from Starfleet, when Data’s clear voice cut across the silence.

“Captain, I am registering multiple system inconsistencies.”

Picard’s head lifted at once. “Report.”

Data’s fingers danced over his console, golden eyes narrowing in concentration. “Environmental controls on Deck Eleven are fluctuating by one point six degrees Celsius outside of standard tolerance. Replicators in sections of Deck Sixteen are outputting garbled queues. Internal sensors are briefly misreporting crew locations.”

Picard frowned, straightening in his chair. “Cause?”

The android tilted his head, still processing. “At present, the anomalies appear to be isolated. I detect no correlation between the affected systems. Preliminary diagnostics suggest corrupted data packets within the secondary computer core.”

The captain slowly rose to his feet, pacing toward the ops station. “Can they be purged?”

“Affirmative,” Data said. “I have initiated a level-three scrub of the corrupted subsystems. However, if the anomalies recur, further investigation will be required.”

Picard’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Very well. Keep me informed. I don’t want these… ‘inconsistencies’ creeping into primary systems.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Data bent again to his work, Picard’s gaze flicked briefly toward the stars hovering at the viewscreen, his thoughts restless. Nothing on the bridge suggested danger — the crew worked steadily, efficiently — and yet his instincts prickled.

Minor failures. Harmless glitches. But on a starship, even the smallest ripple could widen into a breach.

He drew in a quiet breath, forcing his features calm. “Maintain all standard operations,” he ordered. “Notify me at once if further anomalies arise.”

The hum of the bridge resumed, but a faint unease lingered in the captain’s chest, like a shadow pressing at the edge of calm seas.

*

The thin atmosphere lay quiet over the ridged stone, every sound magnified — the crunch of boots on gravel, the faint hum of tricorders.

Beverly crouched by a fissure, tricorder angled carefully against the crystalline edge. “Eric,” she called, her tone sharpening with interest. “Look at this.”

He hurried to her side, kneeling in the dust, datapadd ready.

Her tricorder display shimmered with irregular pulses, faint signatures flickering at the edges of detection. “Microbial readings,” Beverly murmured. Her brow furrowed as she adjusted the filters. “Very faint. But there’s metabolic activity.”

Cavir’s eyes widened, his own tricorder chiming as he synced to her scan. “That’s impossible… these colonies shouldn’t be viable in an atmosphere this thin.”

“Not unless,” Beverly replied, her voice dropping as curiosity sharpened into focus, “they’ve adapted to crystalline structures as a medium. Embedded in the lattice.”

Excitement flickered across Cavir’s face, boyish beneath his professional restraint. “Doctor, if that’s true—”

“It could be groundbreaking,” she finished softly. Her hand steadied the tricorder, her pulse quickening with the possibilities. “We may be looking at an entirely new branch of extremophiles. They could survive in environments we’ve always considered sterile.”

From a few paces away, Louvois’ voice sliced across the hush, dry and barbed. “So, the rocks are alive. How thoroughly charming.”

Cavir stiffened once more, but Beverly ignored the tone, rising to her feet. “They’re not alive in the way you’re thinking. But their biochemistry could hold enormous potential. Adaptation at this scale…”

Louvois arched a brow. “Adaptation. Yes, that does seem to be your specialty, Doctor.” Her gaze flicked like a blade between Beverly and Cavir, who bristled at the insinuation.

Beverly’s shoulders straightened. This time she would not take the bait. “Alright Eric, let’s set additional probes. I want samples from three more fractures in this ridge. If the pattern holds, we’ll have enough for preliminary sequencing back on the ship.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was firm, eager again, and he moved quickly to comply. As he set the next probe, its soft hum vibrated faintly through the stone. The tricorder readings spiked — sudden, sharp.

Beverly turned and bent low, scanning again. “Look at that,” she breathed. “The colony’s responding to the probe. Almost like…” She hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Almost like agitation.”

Cavir’s tricorder chimed in confirmation, its pitch uneasy. “It’s increasing metabolic output. Multiplying.”

Beverly’s jaw set, her medical instincts prickling at once. Microbes shouldn’t behave this way. Not without cause. She stood slowly, scanning the ridge again, her expression composed — but her eyes told another story. Something was stirring here. And she would find out what.

Straightening slowly, her tricorder still alive with the spiking readings, she drew a quiet breath, then stepped away from Cavir, toward where Riker and Worf were sweeping the perimeter. “Will,” she said lowly, her voice pitched for their ears alone. Her eyes flicked once toward Louvois, who stood a short distance away, pretending to study a formation while her gaze lingered on them like a knife-edge. “I don’t want to raise alarms unnecessarily, but these colonies… they’re responding to our probes in a way I’ve never seen.”

Worf turned at once, scanning the terrain with suspicion. “Hostile?”

“Not exactly,” Beverly said carefully. “But accelerated growth at this rate is dangerous in itself. If they’re adapting to our presence, we need containment protocols before we take more samples.”

Riker’s expression tightened, his usual ease replaced by sharp concern. “You’re saying our taking probes is provoking them.”

“I’m saying,” she replied, her voice firm, “they’re not inert. And if they’re reacting this strongly down here, I don’t want to imagine what they could do inside the ship’s systems.”

That struck home. Riker’s jaw set as he tapped his combadge. “Riker to Enterprise.”

The comm chirped and Data’s voice answered, calm and crisp. “Enterprise here.”

“We may have a complication,” Riker said. His tone remained professional, but his glance flicked toward Beverly as though weighing every word. “Doctor Crusher’s readings suggest microbial colonies on the moon’s surface are showing adaptive responses to our probes. Cross-check with any systems up there showing anomalies.”

There was a faint pause before Data responded. “Acknowledged, Commander. It may interest you to know we have already registered minor computer inconsistencies aboard. I am running diagnostics right now.”

Riker’s eyes narrowed. “Then I’d call that more than interesting.”

Beverly folded her tricorder, her lips pressed into a line. She didn’t need to say it aloud — the pieces were already falling together.

Worf scanned the ridge again, his posture braced. “If the microbes are influencing our technology, we are vulnerable.”

Riker nodded grimly. “And I don’t like being vulnerable.” He tapped his badge again. “Riker here. Data, keep us updated. We’ll secure more samples, but with caution.”

“Acknowledged.”

The channel closed, leaving the group in heavy silence, the faint hum of the probes suddenly less innocuous.

Louvois strolled closer, her expression unreadable. “Problem?”

Will Riker straightened, his voice smooth, controlled. “Just science, Commander. The kind that needs very careful handling.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

*

The away team pressed forward cautiously, tricorders chirping as Cavir and Ensign Maren collected additional samples under Beverly’s steady supervision. Every reading brought fresh spikes of microbial response, each spike sharper than the last.

Beverly crouched by a second fissure, tricorder steady, her brows knit in concentration. “They’re escalating again,” she murmured to Cavir. “See this?” She adjusted the scanner, showing the pulsing readings. “It’s as if they recognize foreign stimuli.”

“Like an immune response,” Cavir whispered back, equal parts fascination and alarm.

Louvois’ voice cut across them, crisp and mocking. “Or perhaps it’s just sloppy fieldwork. Probes agitating microbes — hardly a scientific revelation.”

Beverly rose slowly, dust clinging to her knees. Her gaze fixed on Louvois, calm but edged with steel. “These readings are unprecedented. If you’d care to actually observe instead of commentating, you might learn something.”

Louvois smirked, arms folding across her chest. “Oh, I’ve learned plenty, Doctor. Especially from you. About microbes… about habits. About lack of restraint.”

Riker’s voice snapped in before Beverly could respond, sharp and cutting. “Stop this, instantly.” His glare was hard. “Commander, I don’t care what your personal issues are. We’re here for science, not your nonsense vendetta.”

For a moment, Louvois only smiled, that infuriating veneer of composure wrapping her like armour. Then, with a flick of her hair, she turned on her heel. “Fine. If my presence is so intolerable, I’ll remove it.” She started striding toward the beam-out coordinates.

“Commander Louvois,” Worf barked, his voice deep and commanding, “return to formation. Now.”

She didn’t break stride. “File your reprimand, Lieutenant. I’ll be waiting.”

“Philippa!” Riker’s voice rang, carrying the edge of authority. “That’s an order. Stay with the team.”

But Louvois didn’t even turn. Her boots crunched across the stone, her figure shrinking against the soft horizon.

Riker swore under his breath, glancing back at Beverly, who stood rooted in place, her tricorder tight in her grip. Cavir and Maren exchanged nervous looks, the younger officer paling visibly.

“Worf,” Riker muttered, his jaw tight, “mark her position. But let her go. If she wants to test my patience, she’s about to find it has limits.”

Worf growled low, his tricorder already active. “Acknowledged.”

Beverly exhaled, her eyes lingering on the distance where Louvois disappeared. “This won’t end here,” she said softly, not so much to the others as to herself.

*

Louvois’ stride was brisk, her chin tilted defiantly as she marched away from the team. The crystalline ridge beside her pulsed faintly, its surface alive with shifting light. She didn’t notice until the ground beneath her gave a sharp, unsettling tremor.

A crack split open, dust billowing upward like smoke. Louvois gasped, throwing up a hand—too late. The glowing particles clung to her uniform, her neck, sinking against her skin with an almost predatory eagerness.

“Will!” Beverly shouted, tricorder shrilling in her grip. “She’s triggered the colony!”

Louvois stumbled, collapsing to her knees as angry red welts blossomed up her throat. She clawed at them, choking, her eyes wide with panic.

“Commander down!” Worf bellowed, already barrelling forward.

Riker cursed, gesturing sharply. “Beverly, Cavir, move!”

Crusher sprinted, kneeling hard at Louvois’ side. She snapped her medkit open, tricorder scanning. The results made her stomach lurch. “The microbes are embedding in dermal and vascular tissue—they’re treating her like a host.”

Louvois thrashed weakly, batting at Beverly’s hands. “Don’t - you dare to - touch me -”

“You’ll be dead in minutes if I don’t!” Beverly snapped, frantically removing her gloves and pressing a hypospray to her sweaty neck. The hiss delivered a broad-spectrum inhibitor, slowing the microbes’ replication.

Louvois gasped, her breath steadier, but her eyes blazed with fury. “You think this...” she coughed violently, “...gives you some power over me?” Her fingers curled around Beverly’s wrist, nails biting into skin. “I’d rather die than - than owe you -”

“Shut up,” Beverly hissed, yanking free, forcing another dose into her. “You can hate me later. Right now you’ll breathe because I said so.”

Riker slapped his combadge. “Riker to Enterprise—emergency beam-out! Lock on all signals!”

Static. The comm chirped once, then fizzled into silence. His face darkened. “Enterprise, respond!”

Data’s voice cut through the static at last, faint and broken: “Transporters… offline… core anomalies spreading—attempting reroute—”

The channel died again.

Beverly’s stomach plunged. The transporter was down. They were trapped.

Louvois jerked in her arms, grabbing her uniform front with surprising strength despite her weakness. “This is… your fault,” she spat, her voice raw with pain and venom. “You brought this on us—on me. Too busy… chasing—” She broke off in a violent cough, blood speckling her lips.

Beverly clenched her jaw, refusing to rise to the bait. “Save your breath. You’ll need it.”

But her hands trembled as she worked—because Louvois was right about one thing: the microbes were reacting faster than anything Beverly had seen, and without the Enterprise’s transporter, her options to contain them were shrinking by the second.

“Will,” she said tightly, forcing composure, “if we don’t get her to Sickbay soon, she won’t last the hour.”

Riker’s gaze swept the ridge, the crystalline seams glowing brighter now, as though alive with fury. “Then we buy her the hour. Worf, perimeter! Cavir, keep your tricorder on those colonies. Beverly—do what you have to.”

Louvois let out a hoarse laugh, dark and bitter even in her weakness. “Oh, I’ll remember this, Doctor. Every second of it.”

Beverly pressed the hypo to her throat again, her voice sharp, controlled, laced with fire. “Good. Then you’ll remember who kept you alive.”