Disclaimer:
The Star Trek universe is the copyrighted property of Paramount, and 
borrowed solely for the use of this story. The story is copyright 1997 
by Ariana (ariana@ndirect.co.uk). All rights reserved. Do not distribute
without the present header and the author's written permission. Please
contact the author if you wish to include this story in an archive.
Archived at:  http://www.alpha.ndirect.co.uk/trek/
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                        Plaisir d'amour
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                by Ariana (ariana@ndirect.co.uk)
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   "Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment
    Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie"*
                --Traditional, "Plaisir d'amour"
   
   *"Joys of love are but a moment long/Pain of love endures the whole 
life long" (adapt. Joan Baez)
   

   She was asleep in front of the fire when he came in. Her long 
blonde hair was spread out around her thin white face, shining orange 
and gold in the firelight. The flames cast strange shadows on her 
slumbering shape as she lay on her back, so deep in her dreams that 
she didn't even hear the door open.
   He let the door close behind him and indulged in the rare moment, 
the chance to observe her freely, to run his eyes over her body 
without fear of discovery, with only his guilt and desire for 
witnesses. Her fashionable jumpsuit emphasised every curve of her 
young body, her thin legs, her rounded hips, slim waist, the gentle 
half crescent shadows her breasts cast on her chest. His gaze 
caressed each detail and memorised it, finally travelling further 
along her body to the milky whiteness of her graceful neck, leading 
up to a pale face flushed with pink. He let the longing seize his 
chest, as he observed the thin pink lines of her lips, the hollow of 
her cheeks, rosy in the heat of the fire, her long sharp nose, the 
slant of her closed eyes, the curve of her arched eyebrows.
   Her long fingers twitched in her sleep and he allowed himself a 
little bittersweet smile. *What are you dreaming about, Mrs Crusher?* 
he wondered. *Not a dirty old man like me, I'll warrant.*
   This was all wrong. The beat of his artificial heart shouldn't 
increase at the mere sight of her. She was not his to admire, not the 
way he was looking at her now, the way he desired her. But she was 
pretty and she was half his age. At first, he had told himself that 
was all there was to it. He was simply attracted to her because she 
was attractive. But he was too intelligent a man to ignore the truth, 
and he knew himself too well to deny it. She had been, from the 
moment he first met her, the woman he loved. And his heart, for all 
it was plastic and metal, broke once and for all in this very room 
three years ago.
   He had struggled with the feelings ever since. Fate couldn't be so 
cruel as to dictate this was the woman he had been looking for all 
his life. It had to be plain, base envy that made him want her. Envy 
of the happy family life Jack had, and that he would probably never 
know. That was it. It was easier to think he was despicable, rather 
than extremely unlucky. It was better to despise himself rather than 
despair.
   He gave a deep sigh, and decided it was time to come back to 
reality.
   "Beverly."
   She stirred, her eyes fluttering open as she slowly regained 
consciousness. She had been dreaming about something weird. Not that 
it was unusual, indeed most dreams are weird, but this had struck her 
as really strange. Yes... she was blowing bubbles in a bowl, 
something she hadn't done since she was a tiny child. She seemed to 
be at a party, with some of her adult friends, and she couldn't get 
any of the bubbles to work, possibly because there were pieces of 
orange peel floating in the bowl. It must have been a bowl of punch, 
but everyone seemed to think it was normal for her to blow bubbles in 
it. 
   She wanted Jack to help her, but it was Jean-Luc who appeared. 
"Let me help," said the dream captain. He took the straw, but then it 
turned out it was a paintbrush, and he was helping her paint a 
picture for Wesley. As he painted, he held her in his arms and his 
hug was the most sensual, the most comforting she could imagine. And 
the dream Beverly felt so safe and loved that she could have stayed 
like that forever.
   What a load of rubbish, said her conscious mind as it woke up and 
remembered bits of the dream. But the intense feeling of comfort she 
had felt remained with her as she opened her eyes and saw the real 
captain standing over her.
   He looked taller from this angle, powerful and forbidding in the 
flickering light that made his captain's insignia sparkle. She looked 
up the black trousers and long maroon jacket to his face, catching 
its stern expression as it relaxed into one of tenderness.
   She stretched out, tensing the muscles in her back and arms with 
sensual pleasure.
   "Hello, Jean-Luc," she said, her voice still muddled with sleep.
   "Good evening," he answered gently.
   "I must have fallen asleep," she said, getting up to greet him. He 
took her hand to help her up and she noticed how soft his was. The 
hand of a Starfleet officer, well manicured and softened by years of 
manipulating smooth consoles in the sheltered environment of a 
starship.
   "Yes, that's certainly what it looked like," he grinned, as their 
hands parted. "Where's Jack?"
   "He went to fetch Wesley over at his parents'. I had to stay in 
because I'm supposed to be on call for the hospital, in case they 
need some slave labour, as usual. They consider Oshkosh a bit too far 
away for me to come back to Denver Hospital."
   "They're probably right. Anyway, I hope the child enjoyed his 
holiday." He sighed and put on a contrite expression that made him 
look rather boyish, for all his forty-five years of age. "I feel 
really bad about moving in on you like this and taking the child's 
room."
   She gave him a bright smile that lit up her almond-shaped eyes. 
"Come on, Jean-Luc. You're Jack's best friend... *our* best friend," 
she added. She was using what he thought of as her reasonable voice, 
a tone that would well suit a doctor. "He wasn't going to let you 
stay in some temporary accommodation just for a few days. It gives 
him a chance to catch up again after his leave. And as for Wesley, we 
did think about putting you up in here, but then it occurred to us 
you'd have to go through one of the rooms to get to the bathroom. And 
anyway, Wesley *loves* staying with his grand-parents."
   "I'm sure he does. I know I did when I was a child."
   "You? A child?" she said with a teasing grin. "Never." 
   She was charmed by the boyish grin that spread over his face. 
According to Jack, Jean-Luc Picard was a born leader with an aura of 
authority that made him the absolute master on board his ship. But 
she never saw that side of him. In her eyes, he was a rather sweet 
family friend, a charming European. And a man she liked very much.
   "Well, I am very grateful for your hospitality. I've enjoyed 
staying here." 
   It was true. Despite his inconvenient love for the young woman, he 
took pleasure in observing the Crushers' domestic life and the 
tenderness between them. Though it hurt him to know he would never be 
a part of that affectionate closeness, it was heart-warming to 
observe the happiness of these two people who meant more to him than 
anyone else.
   "However," he said, a finger raised in mock seriousness. "I'd like 
to make it quite clear your husband isn't going to make Lieutenant 
Commander just because of this... I don't take bribes," he added 
proudly, and for a fleeting second, as he straightened up and looked 
down his nose at her, she got a glimpse of the man Jack knew.
   They both laughed and she stretched again. Her body ached because 
of the hard floor, and she longed to sit down.
   "Sleeping here wasn't a good idea, but I was so tired after being 
called out last night," she said, not bothering to finish the 
sentence. "So, last day on Earth, huh?"
   "Yes..." His voice trailed off as he realised there was something 
he wanted to do before getting comfortable. "Sorry, I think I'll just 
change out of the uniform, I'll be back in a minute."
   "All right," she answered, for want of anything better to say. She 
watched him go into the room next door and sat on the floor again. It 
had been a while since Jean-Luc had stayed with them, and it had been 
a pleasure to have him around again. Usually, when he was in San 
Francisco, he stayed with their friend Walker Keel, but Walker was 
off doing goodness knows what and his sister Anne was living in his 
flat. So the captain had finally accepted his friend's long-standing 
invitation. 
   The Crushers hadn't seen much of him the last couple of times he 
was on Earth. The main excuse was Wesley, but the reason was simply 
that neither of them particularly cared for his girlfriend Philippa. 
Beverly thought she was downright rude, and Jack was of the opinion 
Jean-Luc had probably done something terrible in a previous lifetime 
to end up with a woman that arrogant. Jean-Luc seemed to think very 
highly of her, but then, as they say, "Love is blind". 
   Jean-Luc's private life was a favourite topic for the Crushers. As 
one of his officers on the _Stargazer_, and his best friend, Jack 
could bear witness to the fact Jean-Luc wasn't short of 
relationships. For fun, the couple had once counted up all the women 
Jean-Luc had been 'seeing' to Jack's knowledge. The result was eleven 
over a twenty-six-month period, which struck them both as a rather 
high number. Jack and the computer came up with the interesting 
conjecture that, if he had kept up this rate since he was twenty, he 
may have had up to 127 girlfriends, which definitely seemed a lot.
   But as far as they could tell, few in this long line really caught 
his attention. Occasionally, one of them did, like Philippa, and some 
other women Jean-Luc would tell Jack about when he had had a little 
too much to drink in some starbase bar. But most of them were shore-
leave romances, forgotten as soon as the _Stargazer_ left orbit. Jack 
said it was partly because of his status as a captain always on the 
move, which prevented him from forming durable relationships. But 
Beverly could point to a number of married captains and admirals. The 
reason was simply some internal problem of Jean-Luc's and it puzzled 
her.
   He joined her in the living-room again, but he was now dressed in 
civvies. The shirt was a collarless wraparound in the fashion of the 
time, with a low neckline that made his neck look a bit longer, which 
quite suited him. It was worn over wide, loose trousers. The captain 
settled on the sofa and she looked him over appraisingly.
   "You look very nice," she said.
   The orange light of the fire, mixed with the rapidly fading 
daylight from the window gave his face a grave air that surprised 
her. He had rather noble features, she reflected, probably a legacy 
of the aristocratic ancestors who had died during the French 
Revolution. His forehead was high, a feature she had always liked in 
men, as it gave them an intellectual look. His brown hair was 
carefully coifed to hide his growing baldness, though the last she 
had heard, he was talking about giving up the unequal struggle. The 
thought made her smile, and she was surprised, for some reason, to 
find him smiling back.
   "Thank you," he said finally. "You're not bad yourself."
   She grinned and ordered some 22nd century classical music. She ran 
her hand through her hair and found it was tatted at the back. She 
went into the bedroom to get a brush, and stayed there a little 
longer than expected to pick up some of the garments she and Jack had 
left strewn all over the floor. Just in case her husband's CO caught 
sight of the mess.
   Left to his own devices, Jean-Luc looked at the familiar room 
around him. It was quite large, but aside from the computer and the 
couch, the only furniture was a small dining-table, surrounded by 
three chairs and Wesley's high-chair, in front of the replicator. The 
apartment was typical of Starfleet-issue living quarters. A perfect 
square with four rooms that opened onto each other: the living-room, 
a master bedroom, a spare room, and a 'water room' incorporating a 
bath/shower, a toilet and a clothes washer. Each of the rooms had a 
large picture window made of something like a one-way mirror, so that 
it was possible to see out, but not in.
   Perhaps people really didn't need more than that. Jean-Luc knew 
families who had lived their entire lives in one of these flats. The 
rooms were by no means small, and the fireplace in the living-room 
was a nice touch in this area. This particular complex, in Utah, was 
also quite near San Francisco, half an hour if you were really in a 
hurry. There was a school and playground for every building, and 
community centres for anyone who couldn't occupy themselves with a 
computer. But to Jean-Luc who had grown up in a 22nd century house 
with a kitchen, stairs and indoor corridors, the flat felt too much 
like a spaceship cabin. He wondered about the advisability of raising 
a child here, but then he was hardly an expert.
   Beverly came back in with her brush and settled on the floor 
again. She had briefly considered sitting on the sofa, but it 
occurred to her sitting side by side might make conversation 
difficult. Also, she was sometimes uneasy around Jean-Luc. She 
occasionally caught him staring at her with a certain look that made 
her wonder. It was possible he was attracted to her, and though the 
look would change the minute she was aware of it, it sometimes made 
her uncomfortable. She wasn't really afraid he would make an 
unwelcome pass at her. Jean-Luc was anything if not a gentleman. But 
she was sometimes worried his sense of honour might push him to say 
something, if only to apologise for his imaginary misconduct in 
daring to like her. But maybe she was mistaken.
   She started to brush her hair. It was only when she felt the 
bristles run through her hair that she realised this had been a 
mistake. It didn't take much imagination to know her long blonde hair 
would be particularly golden in the firelight, a powerful turn on for 
many men. It was for Jack, at any rate, one of the reasons she 
continued to dye it, and there was no reason to believe Jean-Luc was 
any different. On the other hand, it would look a little strange if 
she suddenly stopped.
   She was quite right, her hair was beautiful and Jean-Luc wasn't 
indifferent to its golden cascade. Though he couldn't have cared less 
what colour her hair was most of the time, it was undeniably at its 
best right at that moment, flowing free over her rose-clad shoulders 
in the flickering light from the hearth. He noticed her hesitation 
and puzzled over it as the black brush was buried in the bright 
strands again, pulling them taut for a moment before releasing them 
to fall lightly against her body.
   Having rapidly untangled her hair, she twirled it into a coil. For 
a brief moment, his mind caught the image of her sitting cross-legged 
in the orange firelight, her pink jumpsuit clinging to her thin frame 
as she lifted her arms, her pale yellow hair falling in a soft golden 
shower from her fine hands. The image settled in a non-erasable area 
of his mind, ready to torment him in the years to come. 
   "So, how did things go at Starfleet?" she asked once her hair was 
in a satisfying state of not in her face. Some inane conversation 
might distract him from her innocent display.
   "Nothing new," he said, stretching and rubbing his neck. "The 
_Stargazer_ will be shipping out tomorrow afternoon as planned, so I 
spent the day reviewing the new personnel. I'm rather pleased with 
some of the people we're getting. There's an Andorian Ensign for 
security."
   "That should make Jack happy," she said neutrally, wondering if 
her jumpsuit was perhaps a bit too tight.
   "Yes, well, it was on Jack's wish-list for this new staff. 
Unfortunately, they're also trying to fob us off with a psychiatric 
nurse." He didn't normally think much of jumpsuits, but hers was 
definitely attractive.
   "What on Earth for?" She could tell from his tone that he wasn't 
overjoyed with the idea.
   "Stop us all from going stir crazy in deep space, I suppose. I 
said I'd think about it, but since we're shipping out tomorrow, I 
don't think he's coming with us. He seemed friendly enough, but I 
really don't see the point of having a permanent counsellor on board 
a starship. He's a Maori," he said a propos of nothing.
   "Interesting."
   "I reckon they just picked the poor fellow in the hopes the 
novelty would encourage me to take him on."
   "It could have been worse. They could have offered you a Betazoid, 
like the counsellor at Denver Hospital," she said. 
   "Exactly. Mind you, I fail to see why a telepath would make a 
better counsellor. The head of Starfleet Academy was a Betazoid when 
I was there, and he was certainly no psychologist."
   "More experience with people's minds? I don't know. Tesirdin, the 
fellow at Denver, is apparently a very good counsellor. I had to go 
and see him and tell him all about my stress when I first started the 
internship. He'd ask me some questions, and then we'd discuss the 
thoughts that came to my mind when he mentioned certain subjects. He 
didn't seem very impressed with what I had to say, though he was very 
interested to discuss why I got married so young."
   "That's a good question. There aren't many people who get married 
and have children before they've finished their studies these days."
   "Yeah." She was tired of people telling her that.
   "So, what was his conclusion?"
   She shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, the usual things. Psychobabble. A 
lot of nonsense."
   He was surprised by her dismissive tone of voice. The counsellor 
must have said something she did not like, because, having brought up 
the subject, Beverly obviously didn't want to discuss it further. He 
found himself resisting an urge to investigate the matter, to find 
out what the Betazoid had sensed in Beverly that had troubled her so, 
making her fiddle nervously with her hairbrush, her brow furrowed 
with dark thoughts.
   Beverly was sorry she had mentioned Tesirdin. She had found the 
counselling session rather disturbing, especially the fact that she 
couldn't hide anything from the Betazoid. He had uncovered that one 
of her chief regrets at the time was the fact she and Jack were 
seeing less of Jean-Luc, and had gone on to suggest that she might 
have some subconscious desire for... it was a load of rubbish anyway.
   "I see," was all he could say. "A counsellor would probably find 
mind-shattering foibles in anyone -- even Jack," he continued. She 
smiled at the idea of Jack having any foibles. "I suspect a 
counsellor could write a book about me, though," he continued. Maybe 
telling her about some of his problems would bring her to loosen up 
and tell him what went wrong with this Tesirdin.
   This time she let out a short laugh.
   "I'm sure they could, yes," she said. "Is that why you don't want 
a counsellor on board the _Stargazer_? Are you afraid he'll write a 
best-seller entitled 'Captain Picard's Mind'."
   "Hardly a best-seller," he said, tapping his temple. "You wouldn't 
want to know what's going on in there."
   It suddenly occurred to her that she would. *I wonder what really 
makes him tick,* she thought.
   "Oh, you never know. It might be fascinating," she said, raising 
her eyebrows flirtatiously.
   He decided he didn't want to tell her about his problems after 
all, even if it did mean ignoring anything about hers. The topmost 
problem in his mind these days was his attachment to her, and that 
was definitely not something he wanted to tell her about.
   "Or maybe just sordid," he said, half-jokingly, deliberately 
making eye-contact with her.
   She couldn't avoid his gaze. She fixed her eyes on his and her 
heart skipped a beat.
   He lowered his eyes before she did hers, letting the moment pass 
with a little sigh. He wasn't sure what she got out of their brief 
stare, but her steady gaze had troubled him.
   The computer terminal suddenly sprang into action.
   "Communication for Beverly Crusher from Jack Crusher," it 
announced loudly in every room of the flat.
   "Beverly Crusher here," she said, clambering over to the terminal 
to put her finger on it and activate the connection.
   Jack's face appeared on the screen.
   "Hi, Bev."
   "Hi."
   "Er, right, how to say this? I'm, ah, kinda caught here for a 
while," he started.
   Beverly smiled.
   "Your Mom's convinced you to stay for dinner, right?"
   >>Why can't Bev come over?<< said a woman in the background.
   "She's on call, Mom, I told you," said Jack over his shoulder. 
"We're really sorry you couldn't come, honey."
   "So am I. Tell them I'll come over with Wesley next week, when 
you're off again."
   "Is Jean-Luc back yet?"
   "Yes, he's here," she turned the terminal so that it caught Jean-
Luc sitting on the sofa.
   "Hi, captain. What? No hot date for your last night in town?" said 
Jack, laughing.
   "No. You people are corrupting me. All this domestic bliss and 
stuff," he said waving his finger at the screen.
   "Hah, I reckon you're just gettin' old."
   "Well, yes, that could be it, too... Anyway, I have some news for 
you. I got you an Andorian fellow for security."
   "Great. I knew I could trust you."
   "What would you want an Andorian for?" asked Beverly.
   "They're big and tough," explained Jack.
   "What more could you want from life?" said Jean-Luc, spreading his 
hands philosophically.
   "I hear Damien Vigo is coming on as tactical officer," mentioned 
the Jack on the screen. "We were at the Academy with him."
   Beverly nodded to indicate she was part of the 'we'.
   "Yes..." answered Jean-Luc, looking thoughtful. He used to know a 
woman called Miranda Vigo, and wondered briefly if she was any 
relation. But he didn't want to start explaining that unpleasant 
relationship.
   "When will you be home?" Beverly asked the screen.
   >>Wah<< wailed a child.
   "I heard that," said its mother, leaning forward instinctively to 
see what was going on.
   Jack leant down and reappeared with his son in his arms. The child 
immediately stopped crying and looked at the screen in front of him 
in earnest concentration. It struck Jean-Luc that the boy was looking 
more like his father now, with a high forehead topped with some tufts 
of dark brown hair. Wesley smiled at Beverly and then looked at Jean-
Luc with only limited interest.
   "He just wanted to look at the computer, as usual," explained 
Jack. "I won't be home too late, probably around eight at the latest. 
Tomorrow's a big day."
   "Exactly. I wouldn't want you sleeping on the job," said the 
captain.
   "Right, I'll leave you two to it. I'll see you later. You take 
care of him, Bev."
   "No point in that," she said. "He's already told me he isn't going 
to make you Lieutenant Commander, no matter what I do."
   "Aw, shucks," said Jack. "Chuck him out, then."
   They all laughed and then the Crushers signed off.
   
   It was quite dark in the room now, and the only light came from 
the fireplace. It was chilly away from the fire, and she shivered 
slightly in the cool air. She thought about ordering the lights on, 
she thought about ordering the ambient temperature increased. She 
wondered what she was going to do, alone with Jean-Luc. They had 
never been entirely alone before. Talking to Jack so briefly had left 
her feeling empty, and she leant against the sofa, the pressure on 
the back of her head releasing her makeshift bun.
   Jean-Luc also felt deprived of Jack's cheery presence. One of the 
reasons he liked him so much was that Jack was generally a happy-go-
lucky man, who didn't let things get to him. Where Jean-Luc was given 
to second-guessing himself and worrying, Jack would tackles obstacles 
in his life with a shrug, not letting them interfere with his sleep, 
his life, or his mind. If he was unhappy, he could cry, if he was 
angry -- a rare occurrence --, he would express his anger, instead of 
bottling everything up inside. Jack had qualities Jean-Luc sometimes 
wished he possessed.
   "You married a good man," he said softly, a propos of very little.
   "I know," she said with a gentle smile he couldn't see. "He's a 
great comfort to me."
   "Now, why would you need comforting?" he asked teasingly, looking 
down at the mess of shadows amongst her loose hair beside him on the 
sofa.
   She didn't answer, letting her eyes stare into the fire in a 
pleasant daze.
   "I don't know what I would do without him, either," continued 
Jean-Luc.
   She pulled her eyes away from the flames to look up at him. She 
wondered if he would be offended at what she said next.
   "I sometimes wonder... why are you so interested in him?"
   He looked into her upturned face, all sharp angles and soft 
curves, and wondered why she had asked such a strange question. The 
wording suggested she thought there was some ulterior motive behind 
his interest. Did she think he could be in love with Jack, for 
instance? If she thought that, then obviously she hadn't noticed that 
it was her he loved. His secret was safe.
   He smiled pleasantly.
   "He's an interesting person," he said lightly.
   "Yes... I suppose he is."
   There was a silence, and then he leant ever so gently towards her.
   "Why do you ask?"
   She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I just wondered why you 
don't have more friends your own age." 
   Now that was a silly thing to say, she thought. But the thought 
had occurred that it was strange the middle-aged captain's best 
friend should be a young Lieutenant in his twenties. Certainly, they 
got on very well together, but she would have expected Jean-Luc to 
have a best friend nearer his age, like Walker. But having seen the 
three of them together, she knew Walker was the odd man out, not as 
close to Jack and Jean-Luc as they were to each other. So the 
question still needed to be asked.
   He gave her a rather embarrassed smile.
   "You are really full of surprises," he said hesitantly.
   "That's what Jack says."
   "Well, I think he and I spend enough time discussing you to excuse 
my lack of original thought," he said, smoothing out a crease in his 
sleeve.
   "You discuss me?" She didn't sound too pleased, and readjusted her 
position so that she saw more of him.
   "Go on, tell me you've never talked about me," he dared her.
   She didn't answer, but just pouted attractively.
   "Ah, you see. So yes, Jack does talk about you a lot. In fact, 
until your child was born, you were nearly his only topic of 
conversation. Now it's a toss-up between you and your son."
   She shifted position again so that she was facing in his 
direction, and leant her arm on the couch seat, resting her head on 
her hand. Her free hand plucked idly at the fabric of the couch.
   "We're a very important part of his life," she said gently.
   "Glimpses of the obvious. So what's his excuse for discussing me?"
   She kept her eyes on the folds her hand was forming and smoothing 
on the upholstery. That was a good question. The way Jack went on, 
the _Stargazer_ was run single-handedly by her captain, who was 
nothing short of perfect. The couple often discussed Jean-Luc, and 
she enjoyed the topic as much as Jack did. Whatever it was that drew 
Jean-Luc to Jack, Jack had as strong a tie to Jean-Luc.
   The nature of that strong tie intrigued her somewhat. For the 
first time, she wondered if there could be more than friendship 
between them. The thought was profoundly repugnant to her. They 
couldn't do that to her. Stranger things had happened, of course, but 
she could not imagine her beloved husband and this dear man beside 
her would ever entertain such a bizarre relationship. On the other 
hand, it was a well-known fact that Don Juans were often latent 
homosexuals -- or so she had heard, at any rate. Maybe that was Jean-
Luc's problem.
   "Oh, we don't have much else to discuss, I guess," she said with a 
gentle grin.
   He ignored her answer, his mind wandering onto a different topic. 
He was asking himself her initial question, wondering what it was 
that drew to him to Jack. Was he in love with him? He didn't think 
so, though he considered the young man quite attractive. Sometimes, 
when they were working together, he might let his hand stray on the 
man's shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that could well be 
misinterpreted, and certainly not something he would allow himself 
with other members of his staff. But he needed to feel near to at 
least one person on his ship, and since he had no permanent 
relationship to take comfort in, his friendship with Jack had grown 
beyond the simple gruff companionship men usually engage in. Jack was 
his confidant, someone he could turn to in times of trouble, inasmuch 
as he was capable of confiding in anyone, owing to his innately 
repressive nature. 
   But Jean-Luc had had enough experience of his romantic likes and 
dislikes to know that Jack wasn't the type he would fall in love 
with. He usually went for people with a sharp wit, a devious nature, 
and a certain aura of danger about them. People who didn't let him 
get away with anything, who put him down even, who didn't treat him 
with the deference due to a Starfleet captain. In other words, Jack 
was too gentle a man to attract him.
   She looked up at his face, surprised by his lengthy silence. In 
the dim light, all she could see was his dented, slightly receding 
chin, and the slits of his nostrils. He looked old and ugly from this 
angle, she thought. But she also realised this noble creature 
couldn't possibly be the Don Juan she had just imagined. There was a 
lot more to him than some stereotype.
   He sighed and looked down at her. His hazel eyes were fixed on 
hers again, and again she smiled at him. His thin upper lip separated 
from the full lower one to draw his mouth up into a smile that 
creased his face and lit up his eyes. There was definitely something 
about looking into those small, pleated eyes of his that was very 
compelling.
   "What makes you think I'm interested in your husband, Mrs. 
Crusher?"
   His voice was beautiful. Deep, rich, foreign in its intonations 
and pronunciations, another legacy from the long history of his part 
of the world, of the Europe America had fought to disaster so many 
centuries ago. He was unlike anyone she knew. Perhaps it was the aura 
of command, the confidence of age. He was a fascinating stranger in 
her world of medical students, doctors and Crushers. Perhaps that was 
the attraction.
   No, no attraction, she reminded herself. He's just a friend of the 
family. And those words could not be suggesting he was interested in 
someone else than Jack, someone like her perhaps. She looked away, 
turning her back on him.
   "That's Doctor Crusher," she corrected.
   "Go on, tell me," his voice was almost teasing.
   "Tell you what?" she teased back.
   "Oh, forget it," he said, getting up. "Do you want something from 
the replicator?"
   "I'll have a lemonade."
   She raised her face once more towards him and he looked over her 
slim body, neatly arranged into pink folds as she reclined against 
the sofa.
   "Right. One lemonade, one ale," he told the replicator. He sipped 
his drink as he came back to the sofa and his hostess.
   "Computer, set room temperature to twenty degrees," she ordered, 
as he handed her her drink.
   "Are you going to turn the fire off?" he asked.
   "Nope. Why should I?"
   "It might get warm in here."
   "It was set like that last night and I didn't notice you 
complaining."
   "No, I make it a rule to never complain."
   "Then don't."
   "I didn't."
   "Oh. That's true."
   "See?"
   They both burst out laughing.
   "Oh, all right. You're the big Starfleet captain. I'll let you 
have your way." That wasn't quite what she had meant to say.
   They drank in silence as the music continued to twinkle away in 
the background.
   "You think I'm a Don Juan, don't you?" he said suddenly.
   She had thought so. But now she knew it was unlikely. For all his 
relationships, he didn't have the profile for a Don Juan. According 
to Jack, he didn't brag about his relationships, the way some 
Starfleet types did. The women Jack had been introduced to were often 
Starfleet, base or starship personnel. All human, all white, and, 
quite often, if one happened to be available, European. Her basic 
training in psychology suggested he was merely looking for 
companionship. Maybe that was all he wanted from Jack as well.
   "No, I think... I don't know," she said. "I suppose you're 
lonely."
   For some reason, that made him chuckle. The understatement of the 
year. Lonely didn't even begin to describe what he was.
   "Ow, that hurts," he said gently, as if she had just hurled an 
insult at him.
   "Why? Why won't you admit it?" She turned to look at him again, 
ready to give him her idea of what went on his mind. He was lonely 
and he needed a mate, not some strange relationship with one of his 
subordinates and his wife. But he interrupted her before she got 
started.
   "And why don't you sit down on the couch instead of on the floor?"
   She thought about that for a split second, and then pulled herself 
up unto the couch. Deprived of any support, her hair unwrapped into a 
knot on her shoulder. Jean-Luc could not resist pulling out the loose 
hairpin dangling from the soft golden mass.
   "Why do men always do that," she complained.
   "What?"
   "Want to touch my hair. What is it about blonde hair that seems to 
attract men so much?"
   Somehow the words seemed to soothe the tension she had felt when 
his hand reached out for the pin. She had been half-afraid he might 
try to touch her. This is not good, she told herself. It wasn't right 
for her to shudder at his every movement. The poor man had so far 
given no overt indication that he might be interested in her. It was 
just wishful thinking... no, not wishful. She didn't want that.
   "I'm not particularly attracted to blonde hair," he remarked, 
apparently unperturbed by her reaction. "Brown hair, yellow hair, red 
hair... what matters is the brain underneath it."
   She would have to ask Jack more about Jean-Luc's girlfriends to 
verify that. The 'brain underneath it' indeed.
   "Go on, tell me you think it's ugly," she dared him.
   "It isn't. Blonde hair attracts the attention because it's a 
bright colour. It calls on the same instincts as diamonds or gold, an 
infantile desire to have things that shine. Plus, it's a long-
standing icon of occidental mythology. The fair maiden with blonde 
hair as a reflection of her spotless soul... and body, of course. All 
the heroines of medieval tales have blonde hair -- look at the 
stories of Grimm, or Perrault. It's also associated with 
vulnerability, since a lot of Caucasian children are naturally blond 
in their infancy. You're probably aware that some men have a thing 
about vulnerability," he said, obviously not in favour of this sort 
of thing. Certainly, the only one of his girlfriends she had met was 
anything but vulnerable.
   "How nice," she said with a smile. "So now, I finally know why 
gentlemen prefer blondes."
   He laughed at that.
   "Anyway, yes, I think your hair is a very nice colour."
   "Yes," she said, untangling it again with her fingers. "Number 17 
from the replicator."
   "Oh? Mine's number 98," he said casually.
   She laughed, and even clapped her hands with delight.
   "I knew it! I *told* Jack, but he wouldn't believe it."
   He just shrugged his shoulders, already regretting his honesty.
   "I have my pride."
   The information made her feel rather sad. It was by no means 
unusual for men to colour their hair, but the fact that Jean-Luc, of 
all people, was taking such care of his looks, surprised her. But 
then, as she thought about it a little longer, she realised what he 
was doing. He was trying to hold on to his youth, to the image he had 
of himself... the image others had of him, too, she thought, as she 
remembered his fame as 'youngest captain in Starfleet'. His self-
image was based on that important word, 'youngest'. And now he was 
forty-five, not old yet, but ageing. Maybe loneliness wasn't his only 
problem.
   She didn't know what to say to that, how to express what she 
suspected without sounding like some prying counsellor.
   "Would you mind it if we had a bit more light," he asked. "I can't 
see you anymore."
   "If I can see you, then I suspect you can see me, too."
   "I can't see you properly," he corrected.
   "Why would you want to see me?"
   He didn't understand why she didn't want to turn the light on, and 
indeed, her refusal to do so had little logic to it. She was 
comfortable in the firelight, with their desultory conversation for 
company. The dimness created an intimacy she had never shared with 
him before. She brushed her hair out of the way with her hand and 
turned to look at him.
   "Can I have my hairpin back?" she asked softly.
   He realised he was still holding it in his hand. "Not if you're 
going to make the same mess as before," he said. "That bun wouldn't 
hold a second."
   "I'll go and get a hairclip then," she said, starting to get up.
   "Stay where you are," he ordered. He didn't raise his voice, but 
there was an undeniable authority in it that gave her a thrill and, 
perversely, made her want to disobey.
   "Why?" she asked, disappointed to find that her chosen resistance 
came across as the reaction of a petulant child.
   "Just turn around and you'll find out."
   He settled sideways on the sofa, one leg tucked under him. She 
looked at him naughtily, her pale eyes bright with mischief.
   "I'm not turning around until you tell me what you're going to do, 
Jean-Luc."
   "Turn around," he ordered more firmly.
   She hesitated, and then, with a little smile, she obeyed, turning 
slowly as if dreading something terrible. Of course, she knew he was 
simply planning to apply some of his nation's famous 'taste' to her 
hairstyle.
   Sure enough, she felt his hands run through her hair as he drew it 
off her face and neck. She let her eyes close as the sensation of his 
hands on her scalp filled her with a comfortable drowsiness. She 
enjoyed the feeling, it was something Jack sometimes did, once of the 
advantages of having blonde hair as far as she was concerned. But 
Jean-Luc didn't let it last long enough for her to let the sensation 
overcome her. There was a slight pull as he coiled her hair into a 
bun and then the pin gently scraped her scalp as he fastened the coil 
securely.
   He looked at his handicraft in the orange light. It was a little 
crooked, but at least it would hold for a while. He would have needed 
more pins to catch all the wisps of hair that were free. It was on 
the tip of his tongue to ask for some hairgrips when he was 
distracted by a nearly imperceptible movement of her head and 
shoulders. With a gentle shrug, she nudged the material of her 
jumpsuit a little further down at the back, so that the neck of the 
garment, which was not a good fit for her own neck, sagged slightly, 
revealing the soft curves of the large vertebrae at the top of her 
back. She tilted her head towards the fire ever so gently, so that he 
could just see the outline of her cheek and a glimpse of her nose and 
eyelashes.
   She heard a soft intake of breath and wondered at how easy it was 
to attract his attention, evidently focused entirely on her. For some 
reason, the sound made her heart beat faster. She asked herself why 
she had this sudden compulsion to test him, to see if he would react 
to such a subtle erotic movement, so easy to deny, and yet so 
deliberate. Another man would perhaps not have noticed, or else would 
have taken the gesture as an invitation and acted on it. But this was 
Jean-Luc Picard, who for all his womanising, prided himself on being 
as phlegmatic as an Englishman. He noticed the gesture, but did not 
act.
   She wondered what to do next. She wasn't even sure what she wanted 
to do next. To test herself, she coldly, objectively envisaged the 
possibility of an affair with him. The thought was distasteful to say 
the least. She was only two years married, and had a small son to 
think about. Added to the fact that such an act went against the 
Terran Occidental (often erroneously referred to as Terran Standard) 
morals she had been raised in, there was the fact that such an affair 
would per necessity cast a permanent blemish on her future 
relationship with Jean-Luc. They were friends, and she had heard that 
it was close to impossible for former friends, become ex-lovers, to 
continue their friendship.
   "You look much better like that," she heard him say, and the 
velvety tones of his deep voice brought her back to the reality of 
the situation.
   She turned towards him, her movement honest and deliberate, in 
contrast to her previous teasing shrug. He was a lot nearer than he 
had been. Not so phlegmatic, she thought. And then she felt a 
tightness in her chest as she became aware of the rush of heat she 
had felt in her lower stomach at that thought. This involuntary wave 
of desire surprised her enough that she blushed, and was thankful she 
had resisted turning the light up.
   He pulled away from her when she turned, as if she was about to 
attack him. But, sitting on the edge of the sofa, he chose to look 
her in the eye, the confidence in his voice belying his reaction.
   "What do you want, Mrs Crusher?"
   He was calling her Mrs Crusher again. She shook her head, the 
image of patience, successfully concealing the turmoil within her. 
"I've already told you, it's Dr Crusher."
   But she knew exactly what he was asking and why he was insisting 
so much on the 'Mrs'. It was a barrier between them.
   "I can't believe they made a slip of a girl like you a doctor," he 
said teasingly.
   This was safer ground, at least. And any conversation was better 
than the silence that would let them both think about each other.
   "A slip of a girl? How dare you, you old fruit!" She laughed. She 
had meant to say 'old fool', but fruit sounded better.
   "I am not an old fruit! I thought we established that I was not a 
Don Juan."
   She laughed again as she realised what the ancient expression 
meant.
   "I'm not sure we did," she said flirtatiously. This subject was 
already a bit more dangerous.
   "You still think I'm a Don Juan, don't you, only interested in 
aligning women as trophies because I'm a homosexual in denial?"
   His pronunciation of 'homosexual', with a short /o/ in the first 
syllable, made the word sound strange and exotic. Their conversation 
was definitely veering back onto topics of a risqué nature.
   "Can you prove that you aren't?"
   "Well...," he thought about it, and then concluded, "No, I can't. 
I can only give you my assurance that I am not a homosexual in 
denial. I have had affairs with men," he explained more seriously, 
"and I found that, much as I enjoyed them, I preferred the company of 
women."
   The thought of Jean-Luc with a man struck her as decidedly 
strange. Maybe her earlier suspicions had not been so far off the 
mark after all. She could not for the life of her imagine that he had 
had relationships of that kind with men.
   "As to me collecting women," he continued, "I can assure you I 
don't give them marks in my personal logs."
   "Then why do you have so many girlfriends?" she asked, trying to 
conceal her shock at what he had just told her in a verbal attack. 
"Jack counted that you've had about one every two months since we've 
known you. It's time you found someone to settle down with."
   *You, for instance?* asked the thought in his mind. But he knew 
that, even if she were free, he would not settle down, with her or 
anyone else. He could never bear to let anyone get that close to him. 
If he was lonely, it was also because he needed solitude, and the 
best way to get it was to isolate himself from others. In solitude, 
he was free to explore all the possibilities of his imagination, to 
indulge in the silly fantasies and serious reflection that had been a 
part of his life from the days when, as a small child, he hid in the 
copses of his native Languedoc to escape his brother's mockery. He 
had learnt then that others didn't understand what went on in his 
mind and that the only way to live with other people, in the real 
world, was to hide his thoughts and feelings as much as possible. A 
steady relationship would break down too many of his carefully 
erected barriers. It had always been like that, and would probably 
remain like that for a long time. Perhaps for the rest of his life.
   He was silent, and she was afraid she had really hurt him. One 
would have thought, after all these years, that she would have 
learned to control that tongue of hers, she told herself. She 
observed the flickering shadows on his ageing face as the music 
filled their awkwardness. He was staring into the fire, his eyes 
moving slightly as if he were trying to formulate what he was going 
to say next. But he still didn't say anything.
   "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that," she said, the automatic apology 
tripping easily off her tongue. She was sorry enough to place a 
friendly hand on his shoulder. She could feel the shape of the bones 
and muscles under the thin shirt, and involuntarily moved her thumb 
in a gentle caress.
   He leant his head over until it touched her hand. His cheek 
brushed against her fingers, the very first signs of stubble barely 
perceptible in the texture of his skin. This time, she was the one 
who needed air. She told herself what he was telling himself, that 
this was just a gesture of friendship on her part as on his, and that 
none of this would harm anyone. Their hearts were not beating faster 
and those were not the first twinges of desire that tickled them as 
his skin made contact with hers.
   Yet if he had turned towards her then, she would have kissed him. 
Her awareness of the desire she felt for him made her head spin. She 
couldn't believe this was happening. That latent desire Counsellor 
Tesirdin had sensed in her a few months ago was now quite present, 
perfectly tangible in the warmth in the crotch of her jumpsuit. She 
couldn't believe she could do this to Jack.
   At that moment, any further encouragement from her would have 
broken his resolve. He couldn't believe this was happening, that 
Beverly could possibly be attracted to him. He needed to be sure 
before he made any further move; part of him hoped he was mistaken, 
that Beverly couldn't possibly be even remotely tempted to be 
unfaithful to her husband. He couldn't believe she could do this to 
Jack.
   She still thought she couldn't.
   Her hand was pulled slowly off his shoulder and he took a deep 
breath, almost a sigh of relief. They sat in the darkness of the 
twinkling music for a while, both breathing slowly to calm their 
desire, as they tried to convince themselves again that nothing had 
happened that could not be undone.
   "Computer, what time is it?" asked Jean-Luc in a hoarse voice that 
confirmed her fears. Until that moment, she had been able to ignore 
the fact her friendly caress had affected him as much as it did her. 
Realisation struck her like a blow.
   "It is nineteen-oh-six," drawled the electronic voice.
   He took in a deep breath, and then turned to look at Beverly. Her 
face was visibly pale, her forehead puckered with worry as her large 
pale eyes stared into the fire in a tragic gaze. What was happening 
to them, he wondered, as he looked down to her heaving bosom and the 
hands fingering the thin material on her knees.
   "Do you fancy something to eat?" he asked, his voice surprisingly 
shaky. 
   She was amazed that the fact of simply placing her hand on his 
shoulder could cause such turmoil in the proud captain. This was 
Jean-Luc Picard, her husband's captain, after all. And now she 
definitely knew he was attracted to her. If not in general, certainly 
at this moment.
   She could probably deal with that. If all he saw in her was a 
pretty young woman, all she had to do was convince him there were 
plenty of other fish in the pond, and with his tendency to 
flightiness, that should be an easy task. But, from what she had 
heard from her usual source of information, Jean-Luc usually made it 
a point to only pursue available women, and a little voice in her 
mind suggested there might be more than simple physical attraction in 
his gaze. But that she could not deal with. Turning down his advances 
was one thing, breaking his heart was another.
   "That sounds like a good idea," she said. Her own voice wasn't the 
most confident, either.
   "So, what shall we have?" His gaze and voice were steady again, 
and he gave her a friendly smile that reassured her. She decided it 
was all right, it was only physical, and he was fine. As long as they 
didn't touch, it would be all right.
   Jean-Luc was far from fine. Her hand on his shoulder had filled 
him with a terrible foreboding. For the first time, he found himself 
considering the possibility that she might be attracted to him as 
well, and that just worsened his guilt. From his moral point of view, 
the fact she might share his feelings was just as bad as acting on 
those feelings. If she wanted him, she had already made the first 
step to being unfaithful to her husband. And while he could trust 
himself if his feelings were unrequited, he feared the slightest 
encouragement from her would make him lose his carefully constructed 
reserve.
   "I don't know," she said, getting up. As she headed for the 
replicator, her bun came undone again. She sighed, put her hand on 
her hips and turned to look at him.
   "So much for your French styling, Picard," she said sarcastically, 
though he could hear the smile in her voice. 
   He couldn't see any details of her features, just the black 
silhouette of her body against the firelight. Since he could no 
longer see the fire, he presumed his face was in darkness and allowed 
his eyes to roam along the pink outline of her thighs and hips. If he 
sat on the edge of the sofa and just leaned forward a little, 
stretching out his arms at shoulder level, he should be able to get a 
firm enough grip on her hips to pull her down towards him. That was 
not the right think to be thinking about. *Calme-toi, mon vieux,* he 
told himself. But it was hard to calm down.
   She couldn't see his face or read his intentions, but in the 
moment that followed her teasing statement, she saw him stand up and 
her heart began to beat wildly again. She felt weak in the knees at 
the thought he might be making a more decisive move on her, and 
waited to discover his intentions, her head spinning with a mixture 
of desire and dread.
   In fact, his original intent had simply been to pull himself out 
of the contemplation of her midriff. He just wanted to get up, pace 
the room, move, invite her to dine out, anything to break the spell 
that seemed to be pulling him towards her. But now he was standing in 
front of her, and although he could not see the expression on her 
face, the mere fact that it was her, that it was dark, and that he 
had some hope she harboured at least a physical attraction for him, 
all these factors combined brought him to take one step further in 
her direction.
   This brought his face into the light, and before he realised she 
could see his expression and restored his usual mask, she read the 
desire clearly written on his familiar features. She had not believed 
the heartbeats and the dizziness could get any stronger, but they 
did, and the desire that seemed to rush down from her womb begged for 
relief that only his arms could offer.
   But she still wasn't sure what to do. The impulse to pull him 
towards her for a passionate embrace was very strong. But she still 
couldn't believe she would do that to Jack. She didn't love this man 
the way she loved her husband, not as the man she wanted to live 
with, have children with, grow old with. Right then, there was only 
one thing drawing her towards Jean-Luc, and she was not proud of 
herself for giving in to it.
   But she put her hands on his shoulders, her eyes drifting 
uncomfortably along his collar, incapable of meeting his gaze even 
though he couldn't see her. She told herself this could still be 
interpreted as a gesture of friendly affection, not some base 
adulterous passion. If he pushed her away, her honour, and his, would 
still be intact. If he drew her closer...
   His arms closed around her waist and they hugged rather chastely 
for a moment, each still trying in spite of everything to pretend 
this was nothing more than a friendly embrace, while the physical 
reactions of the other's touch clearly indicated the deception did 
not work. They didn't kiss, just held each other tight until she 
could feel his desire as much as her own, and her hands moved to hold 
him even tighter in a silent beg for more. 
   She pulled her head back just slightly to try to kiss his lips, 
but he understood her gesture and turned away, leaning his head on 
her shoulder with a soft sigh. Encouraged by a raw passion the likes 
of which she had never felt before, she placed her mouth on the 
smooth shaved skin at the back of his neck, just below his dark 
hairline. The touch of her dry lips on him sent a gentle shiver 
through his body, firming his need and forcing a groan from his 
throat. Her lips parted against his skin and a soft wet tongue 
explored his slightly salty taste.
   His hips shifted in an involuntary thrust and it was her turn to 
catch her breath. He had touched the most sensitive area of her body 
and, the sensation drowning out all rational thought in her, she 
moved her hips against his to renew the experience. The warmth of the 
fire that she felt on her back was nothing compared to the warmth his 
body was producing in her. It was unlike anything she had ever felt 
before, a wave of senseless but irrepressible pleasure, akin to the 
pointless desire of masturbation, except that some part of her still 
remembered who it was she was holding in her arms. The Starfleet 
captain, Jack's best friend, Jean-Luc Picard was the one who was 
causing this pleasure in her, and the thought combined with the 
sensation to tear a sigh from her lungs.
   He heard the sound and realised what had happened. It brought on 
the sickest gush of unmitigated lust he had felt in a long time. He 
pushed her roughly against the nearest wall, ignoring the bedroom 
door that opened invitingly as they passed. His hands moved down to 
her hips in a well rehearsed gesture of numerous past experiences, 
his fingers exploring the round curves concealed beneath her 
jumpsuit. He could feel her irregular breath on his bare neck, the 
soft pressure of her breasts against his chest, the inviting warmth 
of her lower body as her thighs parted slightly under the pressure 
from his hips. All that was needed was to get rid of their clothes, 
and he could have her.
   But his mind reminded him how terribly wrong this was. How could 
he ever face Jack after this? He couldn't let this go on... and yet 
he couldn't stop it either. He had loved Beverly and wanted her from 
the moment he first met her. That he could never have her love was 
certain, but it was evident he could at least satisfy his desire 
right now. All that was needed was to get rid of the clothes.
   Beverly had evidently come to the same conclusion, since she 
pulled his shirt up his body, her hands running along the lean 
muscles on his back. His head turned to face hers and she tried to 
kiss him again, but he withheld his lips like some honour-bound 
prostitute, some part of him still trying to resist this, still 
trying to remind him that this was Jack's wife he was fondling, and 
also doing a fair job of convincing him it wasn't so bad as long as 
they didn't kiss. But her hands were high enough on his body to catch 
his head and try to hold it as her lips snapped at his. Her tongue 
caressed his lips, willing them to open for her, willing him to give 
in and relieve the passion that wracked her body.
   He was now sure he couldn't do this. The shame and guilt he felt 
now would be nothing compared to what he would suffer if he gave in. 
He brought a hand up to cover her mouth, to keep her tempting lips 
away from his in a feeble effort to deny what was happening to them 
both. As he pressed her head back he felt her warm humid breath on 
the palm of his hand, followed by a lick of her tongue. He let the 
pressure of his hand relax a little, and the tongue travelled along 
his soft palm to the tip of his major. He could just make out her 
face in the dim, flickering light. Beverly's lovely face, her large 
eyes hooded with desire, her sensual lips closing on his finger as 
she took it into her mouth.
   She wanted him. There could be no doubt about that, and it just 
made things worse for him. To see her like this, all thought of her 
husband brushed aside by her desire for him, was tearing at his 
heart. He could resist his own passion, but he wasn't so sure about 
hers. His own desire weakened his emotional control and he let all 
the conflicting feelings course through him. His love for her, his 
desire, the shame, the guilt, the sheer despair furrowed his brow and 
made him close his eyes. She saw his pained expression in the orange 
light and sensed the change of mood in him. Her hands still on his 
head, she turned his face towards hers and placed her lips just 
beside his in a gentle touch that belied the fire burning in her.
   He leant against her again, burying his face in the soft mass of 
hair against her shoulder, letting a quiet tear run down a strand of 
her golden hair as his body renewed its demand for her touch. She ran 
her hands through his hair as she covered his cheek and neck with 
kisses. She could still feel his desire for her and the fact that he 
refused to act on it, refused to give them what they both wanted, 
made her cry as well.
   Caught between the hard wall and this man she wanted so much and 
could not have, she began to sob, her composure broken by emotional 
and sexual frustration. He pulled away from her shoulder and cupped 
her face in his wet and his dry hand, observing with a breaking heart 
the unhappiness he had caused. This was just what he had feared; he 
had brought her down with him, tainted her mind with his despicable 
desire. It was perhaps even worse than if he had really seduced her 
and taken the automatic door up on its invitation, because they would 
not even have the satisfaction of a pleasant moment spent together to 
alleviate the consequences.
   Her sobs increased as she saw the sadness in his face. She wanted 
to blame him for getting her into such a state and then letting her 
down, but at the same time, she was well aware of the reasons he 
wanted to stop this now. It didn't make her feel any better. She 
still hated him for touching her in the first place, for kindling 
this desire and then denying her any relief from it. She pushed him 
away angrily as the tremors that shook her body intensified.
   "You bastard," she gasped.
   He pulled away, turning to lean against the wall beside her, his 
hands wiping at the tears on his face like some shamefaced urchin. 
Released from the pressure and warmth of his body, she sank slowly to 
the ground, her hands still clinging to his clothes as her weak knees 
gave way. The sobs wracked her body like hiccups as her rational mind 
overcame her passion and the full force of their situation hit her. 
He wasn't the one to blame. She was the one who had done this to 
Jack. He was bound only by friendship, but she was bound to Jack by 
the promises she had made him only two years ago. Promises she had 
sincerely believed she would keep, because she loved Jack as she knew 
she would never love any other man. Yet she had betrayed him and was 
now reduced to this, to weeping at the feet of her lover like some 
lustlorn wanton.
   He stood still as she wept at his knee, using all the force of his 
self-control to resist consoling her. If he took her in his arms 
again now, he would never be able to stop holding her, until their 
adultery was consummated. So much for his high ideals of 24th-century 
humanity. To say he had had the arrogance, the hubris of believing 
that man, and himself in particular, had evolved in the slightest. 
But no, here was plain proof that humans were still subject to the 
same passions that had always animated them. His Iseult, his Leila, 
his Genevere was weeping at his feet, and an ancient commandment from 
the very beginning of their civilisation berated him for nearly 
giving in to the oldest sin in the world.
   And now, he didn't know what to do. Beverly was obviously in no 
state to make any decisions about what they should do next. He looked 
down at her prostrate shape, shaking with sobs so strong they made 
her cough as she struggled to breathe through the convulsions. He 
felt more sorrow well up in him and new tears tickled his cheeks. He 
loved her so much, how could he leave her like this?
   For a moment, he considered what might happen if he reached out to 
her and did take her in his arms. His desire was considerably abated 
by now, but he longed to console her, to make her smile again and 
calm the hysterical sorrow that had seized her. Perhaps then he could 
tell her how much he loved her. Perhaps she would smile at him and he 
could kiss her gently. Perhaps she could come to love him, would take 
him in her arms with tenderness rather than passion. Perhaps they 
could leave, go anywhere together, and be happy. Maybe it was worth 
giving up a little of his solitude, if he could be happy.
   He dismissed his little fantasy. Almost unconsciously, his hands 
rose to his face and he buried his mouth and nose in them, in a 
primordial reflex of self-consolation. He loved her, and yet he had 
done this. He had attempted for a moment to share the pleasure of 
love with her, and had only succeeded in hurting her. He looked down 
again at her bowed head, the long blonde hair that shimered with her 
rasping sobs. After looking at her for a long while, he finally 
decided the best course of action would be to leave her alone for a 
while. He certainly needed to be alone. 
   He turned away from her and walked into his room, the child's 
room, with its colourful pastel walls and amassed toys. He sat on the 
bed for a while, looking over the child's fluffy toys and cheery 
games. It didn't help him to consider that he had just now been 
lusting after the boy's mother. He shook his head. He had done plenty 
of things he wasn't particularly proud of, but this really topped the 
lot. He contemplated the space the cot usually occupied. Jack had set 
it up in the master bedroom for tonight, since Wesley would soon be 
back. Oh, mon Dieu, Jack and Wesley would soon be back. They had to 
sort themselves out before they came. But first, he needed to clean 
up a little.
   She had seen him go and stayed against the wall for a moment, 
still under the shock of her sudden breakdown. She finally pulled 
herself off the ground, dazed and short of breath from the intensity 
of her crying. She went into her room and lay down on the bed. The 
bed she shared with Jack. She ran her hands through her hair as she 
wondered at the situation she had put herself in. The sight of 
Wesley's cot in the corner served as a reminder of how much she had 
to lose if Jack ever learned of what she had done. How could she be 
so stupid, she asked herself, as tears of rage ran down her face 
again. She wept into her pillow for a while longer, berating herself 
for her incredibly crass behaviour. 
   Later, when her sobs had ceased and she lay hiccuping on her back, 
she felt a lot calmer, and viewed the situation in a slightly better 
light. It would be all right. If Jean-Luc didn't say anything, which 
she knew he wouldn't, and if they could both behave themselves 
properly when Jack was around, which she wasn't quite so sure about, 
it would be all right. She had not actually been unfaithful to Jack, 
she told herself, though this conclusion was based only on the 
tenuous premise that Jean-Luc had not penetrated her. Aside from that 
point, what they had done was pretty bad. The thought of him 
penetrating her brought an unwelcome flush to her cheeks and she 
allowed herself a self-mocking smile. She hadn't wept over a man like 
this since she was a teenager. What a mess you're in, Bev, she told 
herself. She curled up into a ball on her bed and, for the first of 
many times, thought about Jean-Luc Picard.
   The bathroom lock clicked to indicate it was now free. Jean-Luc 
had probably gone back into his room -- Wesley's room. She dragged 
herself off the bed and went in to wash away some of her guilt.
   He sat down on his bed and heard the bathroom lock click shut. He 
briefly considered just going to bed right now, putting off the 
inevitable until tomorrow, when Wesley and Jack would get in the way 
of any embarrassing aftermath. That was hardly a brave thing to do, 
but then, for all his reputation, Jean-Luc wasn't always the most 
courageous man. 
   But he loved Beverly. He wanted to see her, to check that she was 
all right, that he hadn't harmed her. He stood up and went into the 
living-room, ordering the lights on. If she came in, then fine. If 
she was the one who chose to avoid him, then he would let things rest 
as they were as well.
   He was sitting on the couch as before when she came back in. He 
looked at her, his eyes hesitating before moving up to her face. She 
had washed and applied some discreet makeup to hide the tear stains, 
but he could still see she had been crying, and wondered if Jack 
would notice too. She had also changed into a different jumpsuit, and 
he preferred not to consider the reasons why she had chosen to 
discard the other one.
   She took in his calm demeanour and impeccable appearance, but also 
the red rims around his uncertain eyes. She smiled what was supposed 
to be a reassuring smile, but which turned out a bit shaky. A cold 
rush of dread ran through her as her mind again reminded her what a 
terrible situation they were in. But there was nothing for it, she 
couldn't turn on her heels and run away, she had to get used to 
talking to him again, so that Jack would never have cause to think 
anything unusual had happened between them.
   She took a deep breath and walked over to the couch, sitting down 
beside him as she had done before. They sat in silence for a moment, 
each wondering how to initiate a conversation that would break the 
wall of fear between them.
   "I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice hovering on the brink of a 
whisper.
   She shook her head gently, but continued to look into the undying 
fire.
   "It's not your fault," she answered, though it was as lame a 
statement as his.
   They let the moment pass.
   Then she turned slowly to look into his face. She saw his eyes 
glisten in the diffused light of the room, and felt such a wave of 
pity surge up in her heart, she feared she too would start to cry 
again. Her mind rebelled against what his unshed tears told her, 
refusing to admit that he could be in love with her, that her 
unbridled hormones might have broken his heart. She could forgive 
them both their temporary insanity of passion, but if his feelings 
ran further than that, she would not be able to face him, knowing 
that he could not dismiss the moment as she would have to. But as her 
conscious mind tried to deny it, her heart still sensed his profound 
sorrow, and it made her own eyes smart.
   But instead of giving into a sentimentality that would only worsen 
the situation, she reached out to him. She could have ignored his 
feelings, pretended she didn't notice his sorrow, and perhaps it 
would have been kinder to let him believe his shields were still 
strong enough to hide his emotions. Her hand slid under his, lifting 
it up until she only needed to bend her head down ever so slightly to 
kiss the curls on the back of his hand.
   When she looked up again, he was smiling, charmed by her strange 
gesture and reassured by her continued presence. In truth, he felt 
terrible, horrified by his own behaviour, and, to a certain extent, 
by hers. But her gentle kiss seemed to communicate that she didn't 
begrudge him what had happened, while also indicating that she still 
had some affection for him. At least, that was how he chose to 
interpret it.
   He watched her straighten up again and fought the impulse to 
reciprocate her kiss. He drew in a long breath, his nostrils flaring 
slightly as the air was pulled in to calm him. He removed his hand 
and smiled at her once more, a small smile of friendly affection. She 
returned the smile and her eyes shifted away, darting around the room 
as she tried to think what to do next. They finally came to rest on 
the replicator.
   She got up and walked over to it.
   "Now, how about something to eat. What would you like?"
   He told her the first thing that came to mind. "Couscous?"
   She laughed. "Why not, indeed? You're the expert on French 
cuisine, come and see what kinds the replicator has in store and 
choose a nice one. I'll have some too."
   "Actually, it used to be a North-African dish," he explained as he 
came over. His eyes were still a little bright, and he sniffed as he 
peered at the menu, but he seemed to be trying to put the event 
behind him at least. He found a nice Moroccan couscous with raisins 
in it, and ordered two plates of that, some water to drink and a bowl 
of harissa.
   Beverly smelled the spicy fumes curling off the semolina and meat 
sauce appreciatively.
   "I haven't had this since Jack and I were in France," she said.
   "I seem to remember Jack doesn't care much for spicy food."
   He tried to speak casually, but it was difficult to be talking 
about Jack when he had been groping his wife a few minutes ago. *Mon 
Dieu, how am I going to deal with this?* he asked himself in mental 
desperation. In about half an hour, Jack would be coming home with 
the child; tomorrow, they would be back on the _Stargazer_, and all 
the time, from now on, he was going to have to face his friend, 
continue on as normal, while knowing what had passed between him and 
Beverly.
   "That's true enough. Not that this is a particularly spicy dish."
   Beverly seemed to be taking it well, he thought. From her point of 
view, that had merely been a temporary lapse of insanity. He doubted 
she would ever mention it, any more than he would. Perhaps, in time, 
they would come to bury the memory sufficiently deep in their minds 
for their friendship to return to more or less the way it was. The 
memory would fade, and all would be the happier for it.
   The thought failed to console him. Tonight, he had nearly got a 
part of what he had wanted for three years, and the realisation that 
that was as close as he would ever come to having his precious 
Beverly Crusher was yet another clamp shut on the coffin of his 
happiness. But life had to go on. He wasn't the sort of man who would 
jump out of window just because of a broken heart, no matter how 
small the pieces; he had to trudge on, indulging in the hope all 
humans live in, that the future will bring brighter days. In the 
meantime, he had a conversation to carry out on the subject of Jack 
and couscous.
   "I think I put him off it by insisting he take some harissa with 
it. Do you want some?" he offered, indicating the small bowl. 
   Beverly looked at the bright red paste, which seemed to be 
positively screaming out 'do not eat!'.
   "No, I think it's a bit too strong even for me," she said.
   "You know, I have found over the years that I can cope quite well 
with large doses of this stuff," he said dolloping a fair amount of 
it onto his plate as they settled down on opposite sides of the 
dining table. "I put it in my mouth and it tastes vaguely salty. And 
then, for some reason, my nose begins to run."
   "Hmm, thanks for warning me."
   "I promise it runs with great dignity."
   "I'm sure you do everything with great dignity, captain."
   Considering his rather undignified behaviour tonight, her remark 
surprised him. But it was the sort of teasing remark she would have 
made to a friend, and he realised she was trying to re-establish the 
relationship they had had before.
   "Well... I..." He couldn't think of any witty rejoinder and 
concentrated on sniffing with dignity instead.
   The meal was very short, and they discussed all sorts of topics, 
most notably Jack, Jack's parents, Wesley's teeth, the warpcore 
upgrade on the _Stargazer_, the conjectural design of the 50s-style 
Starfleet uniforms, the rumoured abolition of unisex clothing and the 
return of the miniskirt in said uniforms, what Jack would look like 
in a jumpsuit, the dress sense of the French in general, Jean-Luc's 
dress sense or lack thereof in particular, how like Jack Wesley 
looked.
   "Would you like to watch something?" she asked when they had 
finished their meal.
   "Why not, yes, that would be nice, thank you," he answered.
   They moved back to the sofa, which seemed a lot safer now the 
light was on, and she called up a recent comedy, a very successful 
and very funny holoplay. They had both already seen it, but it was a 
pleasure to relax and laugh a bit after what had passed between them.
   They were halfway through the play when the front door opened, and 
Jack walked in with Wesley in his arms. He grinned widely at them 
both as he handed the sleeping child to Beverly.
   "It's *freezing* outside," he informed them by way of greeting. He 
leant down to kiss his wife.
   She smiled at him as Wesley, now awake, writhed in her arms to get 
down. She put the child down and took his coat off. Jack hung his up 
in the mural cupboard near the door. She watched her husband as if 
she hadn't seen him in a long time. He was a tall, sturdy fellow with 
an undeniably North-American face, and the sort of pleasant, easy-
going nature that went well with it. Jean-Luc was right, he was a 
decent chap. And he was so handsome, tall and strong in the 
artificial light. He was the one she loved; if she had ever had any 
doubts about that, she only had to look at him, listen to his voice, 
feel his gentle eyes on her to know the truth. There would never be 
any other man for her.
   "So, what have you two been up to all evening?" he asked Jean-Luc 
as he settled on the couch beside him.
   It seemed to Beverly that Jean-Luc was giving Jack a slightly 
funny look, too, but whether he was or it was just her imagination, 
Jack certainly didn't notice.
   "Nothing much. We've been having a quiet night in," she informed 
him, amazed at how calm her voice was. The easiness with which she 
was lying to him frightened her. Was it really this easy to deceive 
the man she loved?
   "We had couscous for dinner," said Jean-Luc, as if that had been 
the high point of the evening. He too seemed quite at ease. Whatever 
the feelings she had suspected earlier, he seemed just as determined 
to hide what had happened as she was, and that reassured her.
   "We're watching _The Centauri Sky_," she added, as she sat down on 
the floor, where Wesley tried to use her as a climbing frame. 
   Jack made a suitable facial expression to indicate vague interest 
in what they said.
   "So I see. We've only watched it about fifteen times," he 
remarked.
   Wesley scrambled up from his mother onto the sofa with surprising 
alacrity and gazed up at the screen, evidently planning on staying up 
to watch the play.
   "Wes, you're going to bed," said his mother, without making the 
slightest effort to back her words with actions. "I like his plays," 
she continued, pointing at the screen to indicate the subject of her 
sentence. "But I prefer this one to that other one he wrote. What was 
that one called..?"
   "_A shuttle to nowhere_?" suggested Jean-Luc. "I think it was his 
best, but then it got more consideration because it wasn't just a 
comedy. It was more like a psychological drama with some comic relief 
thrown in."
   He looked down at her sharp features profiled against the pale 
carpet. He wondered if the pain he felt looking at her right now 
would ever fade. The yearning was so intense, he wondered that he was 
able to conduct a civilised conversation when his whole being seemed 
to cry out that he loved her, and that he was desperate in the 
knowledge he had made a fine mess of things tonight. He wondered how 
long he could bear these feelings and the guilt at having such 
feelings for his best friend's wife. Perhaps Fate was cruel after 
all.
   "I know, but I really didn't like the ending," said Beverly. 
   Jack stroked her loose blonde hair.
   "Well, not all stories have a happy ending, honey."
   
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