textfiles/sex/EROTICA/C/cure.txt

     The smile with which she accepted his invitation for
dinner had been radiant enough to convince him that he had
been worrying himself over nothing.  Tonight that conviction
was growing weaker by the minute.
     Jean-Luc Picard stood up impatiently, then sat back down
again, realizing there was no need to revise the dinner
programming in the replicator.  It had been perfect the last
three times he checked.  The soft Bach repertoire he had
arranged was beginning to sound repetitious and annoying. 
Even the candles seemed to be dimming before his eyes.  
     "Computer, location of Dr. Beverly. . . never mind." 
Perhaps she was just running late.  Very late.  If it there
was any other reason, he didn't want to know.  Picard forced
himself to lean back against the couch.  Once more, he went
over the last time they had spent real time, alone, together. 
At that moment, everything had seemed so glorious, and he had
expected their relationship to be changed forever.  But not in
this way.

     He closed his eyes and pictured her as she had looked
that evening.  She was dressed in her formal starfleet uniform
as so many other guests were, but somehow she stood out from
the crowd.  He had caught her eye as he was making his escape
and impulsively,  he invited her to come along.  With one
smile from across the room she had transformed his desire to be
alone, to the more intense desire to be alone. . . with her.
     "An odd path to the best seats in the house," she had
said as she struggled through the panel he was holding open
for her.  Finally out of the shaft, she seemed glad to be able
to stand upright again.  The insulation partition was a tall
but very narrow corridor, barely a foot and a half wide.  He
was pleased that he could still fit in these places without
scraping against the walls.  He smiled to himself at the
thought of Riker or Worf trying to squeeze through this space. 
Beverly, of course, was having no problems.
     "When I was an ensign, our ship was stranded on this
planet for nearly two months.  Like now, it was during sunset
era. The Kavens are a wonderful people, but a bit too
hospitable.  I got tired of being entertained."
     "So you just happened to find a ripped wall in a back
storage room which led to an obscure air duct with a broken
partition which leads to this area which goes. . .where?"  She
nearly bumped into him as he stopped at the dead end.
     "Up." Picard pointed at the dark space above them.
     "Up." Beverly repeated, staring first at the darkness,
then back at him.  Knowing how she felt about heights
(probably about the same way she was feeling about him at this
moment), Picard had left this little detail out of his invitation up 
until the last minute.  "I brought a ladder, don't worry."
     Beverly just looked at him.  "Up."  she repeated.
     Picard pulled the pegs out of his bag and touched one of
them to the wall.  It made a hissing sound as it bonded.  "If
it is anything like what I remember, you won't regret it," he
promised.  He feverently hoped his memories had not been
romanticized by time.  Perhaps he should have come up alone
and checked first, but then he probably would have not been
able to go back and get her in time for the sunset.  He
climbed the curving wall slowly, giving her time to fol
low. The inside wall had a more gentle slope to it so the space
became wider and the climbing easier as he progressed. He
turned around and saw Beverly was still on the ground, biting
her lip as she contemplated the "up-ness."  She shook her head
and tentatively stepped on the bottom peg.  Picard grinned as
she tested her weight on it.  Surely if it was strong enough
to hold him. . . . Finally, she started climbing.  As usual,
once the first step was taken she seemed to relax.
     "Surely, the Captain of a starship could've arranged a
transporter," she called up crossly.
     As Picard climbed, he felt his excitement growing.  The
risks of being caught on this sort of escapade were slightly
different than when he had climbed this wall as an ensign, but
still thrilling enough.  And his rapture was doubled by the
opportunity to share this with Beverly.
     Beverly, the woman he. . . 
     Well, if she didn't want to explore their feelings, that
was her choice, but among so many other things, his journey to
the future had taught him to value the time he had.  Since
that journey Picard had relaxed the shackles he'd always kept
on his feelings for her.  He was a man who loved passion, so
after over two decades, Picard finally allowed himself to
enjoy some of most intense emotions of his life.  Not wanting
to pressure Beverly in any way, he'd kept up the essence of
his essentially brotherly exterior.  She seemed not to be
aware of any change,  but he'd noticed Troi giving him a
couple of sharp looks whenever his Chief Medical Officer
entered the room.
     The wall which was had been nearly vertical at the base
leveled out onto a plateau.  Picard crawled the last couple of
meters, then stood up.  He shone his light on the ceiling.  As
if projected by his memory, the single pane rested ajar on the
roof, offering a glimpse of the light green sky. "We're here!"
he called triumphantly.  After all these years he hadn't
forgotten.
     Beverly was standing next to him looking around at the
darkness once more.  "Nice view,"  she commented wryly.
     "One last step," he assured her. Carefully he considered
the distance, leapt up and hit the pane.  It budged.  "It's
loose!" he exclaimed smiling ecstatically at Beverly's
startled expression.  "You should be able to move it easily." 
He bent over and cradled his hands.  She was silent for a
minute, then he heard her laugh -- a sound which added to his
exhilaration.  She put her boot in his hand and Picard lifted
her up.  With one movement she pushed the pane out of the way
and grabbed onto the rim of the opening.  Light streaming in
blinded him for an instant and she pulled herself through
without any further help.  He blinked as her silhouette
disappeared into the light.
     "Beverly?"  he called.  There was no answer.  "Dr.
Crusher!" he shouted in his sternest voice.
     Her head reappeared. "I just wanted to see how you
managed by yourself when you were an ensign," she teased.
     Picard raised his eyebrows. "I climbed the up the inside
wall," he informed her.  His eyes had adapted enough to see
her shudder.  Voluntarily climbing up anything upside-down
must have seemed to her the outer border of insanity.  She
recovered, and grabbing onto the edge of the opening with one
hand, she extended her other arm towards him.  
     This was the first time they had touched since she had
kissed him in his ready room.  This realization hit him with
a jolt as their hands closed around each others' arms.  If she
hadn't been holding on so firmly, he may have let go and
dropped.  Catching his breath, he let survival instinct win
out and managed to swing his other hand up to the opening. 
Beverly helped pull him up onto the roof.  She looked as
flushed and out of breath as he was, although he suspected it
was for different reasons.  Oblivious to the effect she had
had on him, Beverly stood up. He heard her gasp as she took
her first proper look around.  He too scrambled to his feet.
     "What do you think?"  he asked. 
     They were standing at the top of the Royal Dome,  a good
couple hundred meters from the ground.  Around them they could
see the crests of the smaller domes poking out through the
tops of the artificial trees, but the homes were completely
hidden.  Picard had considered Beverly's fear of heights when
he asked her up here, but they had at least 30 meters in any
direction before the crest became too sloped to walk on
safely.  Beverly seemed entranced rather than terrified. 
Picard's joy at being back up here was eclipsed by his delight
as he watched Beverly walking around in slowly widening
circles as she examined the horizon from all angles.  The heat
>from the two suns could not be completely filtered out by the
weather controller, but a soft breeze had been arranged to
blow at regular intervals.  
     Jonaro was one of several Kaven ships affectionately
referred to as planets.  They had been nicknamed as such
because of their massive size and because the Kavens lived on
the surface, rather than on the inside.  The whole mass was
encircled by an atmospheric bubble, and was programmed with a
fixed "orbit" around nothing in particular. The bubble served
as a giant magnifying glass, giving the illusion that objects
in the heavens were closer and warmer than they were in
reality.
     The Kavens were an extravagant race, like humans
interested in meeting a wide variety of species, but unlike
federation members, preferred to have the people come to them. 
Jonaro was the Kaven word for Celebration, an apt name for
such a place.  Kavens wanted to meet people on their own
festive terms, being a race which had little patience for
depression.  It was a popular place to visit (Commander Riker
had been the one to suggest this site for shore leave), but
there were no overnight accommodations, so guests usually
beamed back to their ships when they grew tired.
     Jonaro was flat, so there were only three brief
"night-times" per federation year.  Jonaro was situated in
closer proximity to stars than was comfortable for most
planets.  The two closest ones, the 'suns', provided Jonaro
with most of its light and heat, but even during one of the
nights, the sky was lit to a husky purple by the other
thousands of enhanced stars that adorned Jonaro's sky.
     It was one of those rare evenings tonight when the suns
went down in nearly perfect synchronization for what was
popularly hailed by Ferengii travel ships as one of the most
beautiful sights in the Universe.  Picard had seen it twice
before, and had been rendered breathless both times.  As
clearly as he had remembered the way up here, he could
visualize the color sequence and could tell the event was
about to start. The smaller sun was nearing the horizon and
the sky was changing  to a more intense shade of green.
     Downstairs, inside the Dome, Picard could picture the
guests crowding towards the large window, some practically
climbing over others to get a clear view.  He took a deep
breath and enjoyed the open space.  Beverly had finished her
tour and had returned to stand next to him.  Giving him an
almost shy smile, she faced the suns and sat down.  Picard
joined her and they both looked out over the horizon. Picard
had looked forward to repeating this experience for a long
time, but now that he was back on Jonaro, he found it hard to
concentrate on anything but Beverly Crusher's closeness.
     "Jean-Luc, this place is perfect," he heard her say
breathily.  He looked at her.  The sky turned to a dark orange
and everything on Jonaro was bathed in gold.  Beverly's face
glowed softly in the warm light, her hair like smooth fire
around her face. As he watched, the breeze started up again,
bringing the fire of her hair to life and Picard watched
jealously as the long red strands caressed her cheeks.  As
color intensified to a magnificent scarlet Beverly sighed
deeply and reached to touch his arm.  Picard caught her hand
midway, and held it.  At her touch, a wave of electricity
passed through him.
     She glanced at him, and caught his stare.  
     "Jean-Luc," she murmured.  "You are missing out on one of
the most beautiful sights in the Universe."
     Gently, he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.
     "Perhaps not." he said softly.
     This time when she looked his way, the look held.  In the
dazzling light, he could the shadows on her throat move as she
swallowed, but otherwise, she remained motionless.  Or did
she?  Perhaps it had been the light metamorphosing around her,
but it seemed at the time that her expression changed.  In
just a couple instants her look of affection deepened into a
look which reflected the way he was feeling.  Now he wondered
if he had imagined it, but at that time he had had no doubt. 
It was the look which made him loosen his grip on her fingers
and slide his hand gently up her arm, over her shoulder,
barely brushing the fabric of her uniform.  When he reached
the edge of her collar, he hesitated before tracing the side
of her neck.  As his hand touched her skin, Beverly closed her
eyes and leaned her head down to let his fingers slide through
her hair.  
     Picard moved his hand still upwards.  Entranced, he
observed the light playing on her hair as it fell silkily
back into place.  When he reached the end, he held on to one
last strand, reluctant to break contact.  Only when she opened
her eyes again did he let go.
     That look again.  If she had told him how she felt in
words he might have had trouble believing it. . .but that
look. . . .His eyes tore away from hers to look at her lips,
and he realized they were moving closer.  As he had with her
hand, he leaned forward to meet her half-way.
     A loud clanging interrupted them when they were but
millimeters apart.  They both stood up quickly, straightening
their jackets as if they had been caught at a much further
stage.  A panel, only a few feet from the one they'd used, had
been pushed open and two giggling ensigns climbed onto the
roof.  They stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of two
senior officers in this unlikely place.
     "At ease!" barked Picard, wishing he could follow his own
order.  The ensigns looked at each other and then back at him,
expectantly.  Desperately he racked his brains for a dignified
way out of this. "What the hell are you two doing here?" he
managed.   The question sounded rhetorical, even to his own
ears.  The ensigns said nothing.
     He heard Beverly sigh. "Time to pass the torch," she
murmured.  She asked the ensigns, "How did you come up here?"
     The darker woman swallowed.  "We took the stairs, sir."
     Picard stared at them.  "Stairs?"  he asked weakly.
     "Of course you did." Beverly said, sounding a little
strained.  In a stronger voice, she reassured them, "We'll be
leaving the same way.  You two have a good time."
     The ensigns hesitated, glancing at Picard.  Trying not to
look as foolish as he felt, he nodded at them.  They echoed
"Thank you, Sirs" a couple of times, before turning around and
heading to the opposite end of the roof.
     Beverly walked over to the open hatchway, and peered
inside.  "Stairs," she confirmed brightly.  Picard glared at
her.
     "They are probably a new addition," he snapped.
     "Oh, absolutely," she agreed, but her smile was tender
and dissolved his embarrassment.  He smiled back at her.
     Time to pass the torch, indeed.  For an instant he was
flooded with nostalgia.  With his boot he nudged the panel he
had climbed through three times, and would probably never go
through again.  He thought about the pegs he had bonded to the
wall and felt some of his melancholy subside.  He would leave
them there as a monument to the adventuresome spirit of his
youth.
     The ensigns seemed to have remembered what they had come
up for, and forgotten about the officers completely.  Beverly
was gazing at the young people, looking as wistful as he felt. 
The stars were out in full glow, making her skin look even
more pale and her eyes darker.  Picard remembered the texture
of her hair sliding through his hand and for a minute was
tempted to pull rank and order those two children off his
roof. 
     Beverly turned to face him and slipped her hand in his. 
"Thank you for bringing me here, Jean-Luc." she said softly. 
She was giving him that look again.  Or was it still.  It was
hard to tell, when each time it knocked the breath out of his
body.
     Gently, she touched her lips to his.  She drew back for
a moment, seemed to reconsider, and moved towards him again. 
As their lips met, he felt her palms gliding up his chest and
over his shoulders.  He felt her hands caressing the back of
his head, drawing him even closer.  Picard slid his hands down
her sides and circled her waist with his arms.  Her whole body
was now pressed softly against his and Picard was overcome by
the sensation.  In her touch he felt the same intensity as he
had seen in her look.  Where their first two kisses had been
flavored delicately of perhaps, this one tasted of resolve and
promise.

     As clearly as he thought he remembered that instant, the
rest of the evening seemed uncertain and hazy.  After that one
glorious moment they seemed destined for frustration after
frustration.  He had needed to be with her.  They couldn't stay
on the roof, and going back to the feast was inconceivable. 
Unfortunately, protocol demanded that guests leave only by the
transporter pad on the main hall.  It also demanded that he,
as Captain, thank his nearly four-dozen hosts individually. 
In his impatience to be alone with Beverly again, he set out
to do this immediately.  She wandered off as to not delay the
process any more than necessary.
     He was thanking his forty-seventh host (keeping earnest
count), when she had caught up with him.  She looked terribly
upset.  "I just spoke to Alyssa," she said.  "I forgot I'd
promised to look over some of her work."  
     "What, now?"  Picard pulled her towards him by the wrist. 
"Tell her you'll be late."
     Beverly glared at him.  "I'm already late!" she said.  "I
can't just play hooky on your say so."
     "Why the hell not?" he protested.  "Surely there 
are some advantages to having a torrid affair with the Captain of
the Ship."  He grinned at his own words.
     Her distress melted into a smile.  Tenderly, she kissed
him on the neck, right below his ear. Her lips tickled him as
she whispered, "Not as many as there are to having a affair
with the Chief Medical Officer." With one final mischievous
look, she was gone.
     And he hadn't seen her since.  Not in the way that
mattered.  He had come back to his quarters, freshened up,
changed and waited.  Although they hadn't agreed to meet, he'd
known she'd show up.  The certainty grew dimmer as time
passed, until it finally died when she still hadn't shown up
to join him for their usual coffee and croissants the next
morning.  Or the morning after that.  Or the one after that. 
The computer confirmed that there had been no medical
emergencies, yet when she came to staff meetings she looked
tired and haggard.  Troi had inquired, but Beverly insisted
that she was just involved with her research.  She had
apologized to him the first couple of days for missing
breakfast.  After that, she seemed even too preoccupied to
remember their longstanding morning ritual.  
     Picard had seen her like this before, but since this
wasn't a matter of life and death, he was starting to wonder
if he was as important to her as he had believed that night. 
Five days after their evening on the dome, he asked her to
stay after the meeting.  He sat on the edge of the table.
     "Are you feeling all right, Doctor?"  he
 asked.
     She looked at him in slight confusion. "Just a little
tired, thank you."
     "You don't look tired, you look exhausted," he said.
     "Captain, I'm fine, just a little. . ."
     " . . . involved in your research. Yes, I know.  You've
said that much and not much else this past week." He noticed
her eyes were a little bloodshot.  He wondered if he had let
his personal feelings prevent him from approaching her
earlier.  "Do you want to tell me about this research you're
doing?"
     Beverly shrugged, "Nothing important, just something I'm
doing for fun. . . a hobby really."
     That hurt.
     "I see," he said quietly.  "Well, I hope you haven't been
neglecting all your meals."
     She stared at him.  Then a stricken look came over her
face.
     "Jean-Luc, I'm sorry.  I don't know where my mind has
been.  I guess breakfast just completely slipped by me."
     Picard was startled to see her eyes glistening.
     "Beverly, it's all right," he assured her, forgetting
that a moment ago it hadn't been.  His heart went out to her,
she looked so desolate. He covered her hand with his. "Look,
since you haven't been eating very well, why don't you join me
for dinner tonight."  He squeezed her hand.  "My quarters. 
I'll replicate."
     She seemed to hesitate, then he was rewarded by her
smile.  
     "It sounds lovely," she said.
     "Good, why don't you get some rest first."
     Again she seemed to hesitate, but she must have seen his
concern.  She rubbed her eyes. "I don't think I need to be
told twice."
     "Wonderful.  I'll see you at nineteen-hundred hours."  He
bent over and kissed her briefly on the lips, feeling a sharp
thrill as she responded.  "See you then."

     "Computer. Time."
     "Twenty-fifty-one."
     There was no longer any question.  The Captain of the
Federation flagship had been stood up.

      
      "Anything else I can do for you, Doctor?"  Alissa's voice
penetrated through the fog, and Dr. Crusher realized the computer
screen had been swimming again.
      "What?  No, thank you Alissa.  Good night."  Crusher didn't
risk letting her eyes leave the screen, knowing it would be hard to
refocus.
      "You mean she's *still* here?"  Roger's powerful voice wafted
into her office and Crusher smiled to herself.  Poor Roger. 
Discretion was not his strong suit and even when he whispered his
voice carried clearly.  Not a bad singer, either.  It was too bad
she couldn't get him on stage once in a while.
      Annoyed, she realized her mind was wandering again and forced
herself to concentrate on the words before her.  Just a little
longer, she told herself.  Distractions would cease once the bustle
of shift changes was over.
      Shift changes.  
      Beverly felt the blood draining from her face.
      "Computer.  Time."  It was ridiculous even to ask.  Roger was
her most punctual nurse.
      "Twenty-one-oh-one."
      Crusher's heart sank.  Jean-Luc. 
      Tiredly, she ran her hand through her hair.  How could she
have let this happen again?  He seemed so worried this morning, and
she had promised herself she'd make it all up to him.  What the
hell was wrong with her these days?  She never forgot things that
mattered, and tonight had mattered. . .  She shook her head, trying
to think.  She had to apologize.
     It was too late tonight, and she didn't want to leave her work
just yet, but perhaps they could plan on breakfast for tomorrow. 
Crusher cleared her throat and tapped her communicator.
      "Crusher to Picard."
      "Yes, Doctor,"  came the soft reply.
      Crusher jumped.  He was leaning against the doorway.  How
long had he been standing there?   She searched his face for traces
of anger.  There were none.  There was no expression on his face at
all.  Beverly straightened her shoulders.
     "Jean-Luc,"  she began.
      "Doctor, until further notice, you are relieved from duty."
      She stared at him.  "What?"
      His voice was flat and quiet when he answered.  "You heard
me."
      Crusher had expected him to be upset about dinner, but she
couldn't believe he would abuse his authority to soothe his
tarnished pride.  She opened her mouth, but he interrupted before
she could even think of the words she wanted to form.
      "I'm sorry, but I cannot have my Chief Medical Officer
fighting fatigue.  You are in no condition to fulfill your duties."
      So now dinner with the Captain was a duty?  Rage perforated
her shock.
      "You are not qualified to make that assessment," she said 
hotly.
      "No,"  he agreed.  "If you'd prefer, we can have someone from
your staff come in and make an evaluation."  Jean-Luc's cold stare
did not waver.  "If necessary, I will also arrange for someone to
escort you to your quarters so we can be sure that this time you
*will* get some rest."  His voice grew even quieter.  "Is that
understood?"
      Crusher was stunned.  This whole conversation seemed unreal. 
Jean-Luc was threatening her.  She'd heard him use that tone of
voice before, but never with her.  Never, ever with her.  Once again
she started to speak, but suddenly she noticed that sickbay was
silent.  Like Roger, the captain had a powerful voice.  Her mouth
snapped shut.  Controlling her fury, Crusher opted for dignity.   
      "Yes, sir,"  she said, keeping her face as tightly impassive
as his.  Without another word, she stood up and walked past him. 
Nurses and technicians studiously kept their eyes down as she
strode out of sickbay.  She felt Jean-Luc following silently at her
shoulder.   They entered the turbo-lift together.  "Main bridge." 
he ordered.  "Then directly to deck eight."  The 'lift hummed
obediently and Crusher glared at Jean-Luc.  He was treating her
like a child.  The doors opened onto the main bridge.  She didn't
look at him, but felt his icy gaze once more.
      "Until further notice, Doctor,"  he repeated.  He stepped out
of the turbo-lift, and the doors hissed shut with what sounded like
a slam.


      Crusher paced around her room, furious and humiliated.  What
in the world was he thinking?  How did he expect to get away with
this kind of treatment of another senior officer?  Under the best
of circumstances (which this certainly wasn't), Crusher was not
fond of spending time in her quarters.  Now that Wesley was gone, 
she only ever came here to sleep.  Of course that was the idea in
this case, but she was far to angry to get any rest right now. 
Helplessly, Crusher thought about her research.  She needed to get
back to it, but she was probably locked out of Medical Database by
now.  Beverly stopped under one of her windows and looked out,
trying to fool the sense of claustrophobia that was enveloping her.
      As always, the stars reminded her of Jean-Luc.  Only instead
of their brilliance and intensity, tonight it was their frigid
distance which made her think of him.
      Stop it, she told herself sternly.  If she couldn't talk to
him, she certainly didn't want to think about him.  Crusher's focus
shifted, and she noticed her reflection in the glassy surface.  The
first thing she had done when she reached her rooms was change out
of her uniform.  It was standard procedure after being relieved. 
Still trying to get Jean-Luc out of her mind, Crusher studied the
black jumpsuit she was wearing.  She'd bought it in San Francisco
when she was a cadet, and it was one of the few things she still
had from those days.  It was loose-fitting and comfortable -- nice
for sitting around in, lovely for swimming, perfect for dancing. 
Crusher was struck with inspiration.  After all, Jean-Luc hadn't
confined her to quarters.  She knew that he had meant for her to
get some sleep, but he hadn't actually *said* it. 
      Feeling deliciously defiant, Crusher pulled her hair up in a
pony-tail and made her escape.

      
      There were several recreational areas which would have been
adequate for dance routines.  Crusher preferred the Holodeck
because of its versatility, and, more importantly, for its privacy. 
When she was younger, several of the people who saw her dance
suggested she do it professionally.  Even when she was at the top
of her classes at the academy, people seemed more interested in the
glamour of entertainment than in her promise to save lives.  Far
from being flattered, young Beverly Howard had been annoyed by
these comments, taking them as a personal affront to her grandmother,
the healer.   The final straw had been the repeated teasing on her very
first assignment where the ship's second officer had heard of her talent
and dubbed her the Dancing Doctor.  Crusher had worked hard to earn
her degree, and it hurt her when people treated it as secondary.  The
experience soured her desire to perform. 
      Now she could see the situation with a little more humor.  In
her wish to be treated like a serious officer, she had overcompensated
and was deemed by most people to be positively hostile.  For several
years, she only showed her gentler side to her patients and her son. 
She'd heard rumors that the Dancing Doctor had been renamed Lady
Disdain.  Her talent as a practitioner, however, was never in question,
and she knew she was respected throughout Starfleet Medical.  Beverly
grinned at the thought of the poor souls, especially the men, who had
tried to approach her during that time.  She had met up with one or
two of them since those days, and delighted in the opportunity to see
their expressions when she smiled sweetly and engaged them in jovial
conversation.
      "Computer.  Crusher Studio, please."  The room where she had
had her first formal dance lesson materialized around her.  Light
streamed through the windows to reflect off the wall mirrors and
the smooth, polished floor.  The holodeck simulation may have appeared
more ethereal than the real thing, but this was how Beverly always
remembered it.  She walked up to the barre and began to stretch.
      Of course she missed dancing, but on the Enterprise she
managed to make up for most of the aching.  Recently Data had found
out about her shady past and she agreed to teach him how to dance. 
It had been liberating to finally share her secret.  Data was the
ideal confidant because in addition to being completely trustworthy, he
could observe her dispassionately, and still see her primarily as Chief
Medical Officer.  They still got together for a lesson once in a while, or
she would create a partner for herself on the holodeck.  However, most
of the time, she cherished dancing alone.
      Beverly felt a tightening in her chest.  Dancing also made her
think of Jean-Luc.  He was not aware of the extent of her ability,
but he knew she enjoyed herself at social events.  Ever since they
had re-discovered their friendship, he had asked her to nearly
every formal function when he knew there would be dancing.  He
probably didn't realize that an enormous part of the appeal of such
events was being in his company.  Crusher remembered the way he had
treated her tonight and forced herself back into anger.  Anger was
much easier to deal with than hurt.
      Having finished with her upper-body warm-ups, Crusher stood
on the ball of one foot and pulled her other leg back over her
head.  Concentrating on her balance, she held it there for a count
of twelve.  She could feel her body loosening up with each
exercise.  The muscles which had protested violently at first were
now starting to purr with anticipation.
      Usually, when Crusher needed to work of stress, she indulged
in a twentieth-century Broadway musical number.  That wouldn't do
today.  Broadway had tended to be a tad too jovial, and Crusher was
not interested in cheering up.  Her mood would probably be served
best by something from the early twenty-third century.   At a time
when people were finally really learning do something constructive
with their emotions, positive feelings were expressed directly, but
negative emotions were channeled creatively.  Art forms had
flourished, taking on an almost violent passion.  Crusher was
fascinated by that particular era, which her mother used to joke
about, saying it had probably been started by one of the infamous
Howard tempers.
      "Computer, traditional earth theater setting, no audience. 
Show me something by Delia Nbene.  Surprise me,"  she added before
the computer could ask for more specifics.  Delia Nbene had been
her mother's favorite choreographer.  Also known for her bizarre
stage settings,  the one called up by the computer was a deep gray 
background.  White poles floated above the stage at different
heights, speeds and angles.  Crusher climbed down to the stage and
watched Nbene, dressed in a gold catsuit, fling herself through,
over, and around these poles.  Fluid, but fast and powerful, it
reflected the music beautifully.  Crusher smiled, feeling even more
of her tension subside.  Perfect.  
      She allowed herself to enjoy it the first time around, lazily
letting herself get into the subdued music, concentrating on the
overall pattern of Nbene's movements.  The piece was energetic,
graceful and extremely satisfying.  When the number was over,
Crusher asked the computer to repeat it, once at half-speed, then
once again at regular.  Then she was ready.  "Computer.  Apply to
current program, Crusher, Reflections 1."
      Beverly Crusher knew her body.  Both as a dancer and a
physician, she was completely aware of herself and of what she
could do.  Like Data, she was able to watch someone make a certain
move, then imitate perfectly.  She had used this knack to amuse
herself as a child, and it never ceased to challenge her to try
with new, more complex movements.  Although she had fun creating,
and was not half bad as a choreographer, sometimes she just liked
to let others do the work for her.  Data had been the one to help
her with design a program that allowed her to become the mirror
image of what she was studying.  Reflections 1 came in useful when
practicing an exercise which demanded as much precision as this one
did.  Upon her command, the theatre image had doubled, and the
holograph of Delia Nbene transformed into a second Beverly Crusher
posed to start her routine.  Crusher stood across from her double,
and beckoned the music to begin.
      It felt glorious to dance again.  Crusher swung herself up
over a bar, landing with one foot on the tip of another.  She
pirouetted at an angle, turning her fall into an intended rotation,
caught onto a quickly descending pole and dropped lightly to the
ground.  She and her counterpart faced each other with a high kick
followed by an arm sweep which carried them full length onto the
floor and back up in a single motion.  With a leap they were both
back on the bars in perfect synchronization.  
      The freedom of movement was tremendous.  It dawned on Crusher
that she had stuck herself behind a desk for nearly a week.  She
hadn't had any real exercise since she and Jean-Luc had climbed up
to the top of that dome on Jonaro.  Beverly missed the bar she was
aiming for and crashed to the floor.   She was on her feet immediately,
furious at her break in concentration.  "Computer, halt.  Take it from
the first remount."  Her image disappeared in midair to reappear back
on the ground, ready for flight.  Beverly clenched her teeth.  "Okay
Computer, five, six, seven, eight. . ." and they were up again.
      She had hardly thought about Jonaro, about what that night
had meant to her.  She hadn't had time.  She knew it was important
that she and Jean-Luc talk about it, but her work made that impossible. 
Now the conversation, and whatever might come of it, seemed extraneous. 
After what had happened today, she had no idea how he felt.  
      But then, that had always been her problem with Jean-Luc. 
She could never quite read him.  Everything he had ever done for
her she could excuse as kindness, only he never seemed quite so
*kind* among other people.  She knew he enjoyed her company, and
the ghost of an expression which would occasionaly cross his face
always disappeared before she could fully interpret it.  It wasn't
until they had been kidnapped by the Prytt that Crusher had any
real evidence to support her suspicions.  All during that first day
on Kes-Prytt, she had perceived feelings which were too intense to
be her own, and it had shaken her deeply.  Then, by the fire, it
seemed for a minute that not only did he have such feelings for
her, but that he was ready to talk about them as well.  Instead, he
spoke of them as something of the past, shrugging them off as a
childhood ailment he was cured from.
      Crusher had told herself that she was prepared for this, and
that she should be relieved to finally know where she stood.  Or
rather, that eventually she would see this as a growing experience. 
Eventually.  Perhaps it would have been easier if he hadn't
admitted to once having been in love with her.
      Afraid that he would feel her hurt, she had kept her mind
clear that night, using Worf's relaxation exercises.  And had heard
Jean-Luc's memories.  Through his mind, Crusher re-lived every time
she and Jean-Luc had ever touched.  She was moved by the intensity
and clarity of his memories, and by the ardor that accompanied them
carrying them far beyond the friendship he had just claimed.
      These memories had kept him awake far into the night.  When
he finally did sleep,  Crusher listened to his dreams, seen herself
here in his Ready Room, and felt the passion along with him.  She
wondered whether the implants had allowed her to contribute to his
dreams, or whether he always pictured her responding so fervently. 
So once again she was left questioning the way he felt about her.
      It was that that had made her turn him down when they
returned to the Enterprise.  No matter how badly she had wanted to
say yes, she was still unsure of this man who said one thing but
apparently felt another.  Perhaps he was the one who wasn't ready. 
His friendship was too special for her to risk it on something
uncertain, and she knew from long experience she would be able to
keep her own feelings aside.
      Crusher knew she had miscalculated her timing even as her
hands left the bar.  She had let go too soon.  Without the extra
momentum she needed, she tried to swing both legs up to compensate,
but one of them got caught between intersecting poles.  Crusher had
enough presence of mind to know she would snap her leg if she let
herself fall, and desperately catapulted her body backwards.  As
she did, she felt a sharp crack as her head hit something, and she
distinctly heard the gods thunder her name.  Not one to be
ungrateful, she grabbed the surface she'd banged into and twisted
her body around.  She cried out as fiery pain ripped though her, and
her foot was wrenched free.
      For a moment she just let herself swing back and forth,
catching her breath.  Her vision was swimming,  but she could see
that she was only hanging a couple feet from the ground.  Of
course, a couple few feet could feel more like a kilometer when one
landed on what could be a broken ankle.  Damn.  She didn't even
have her communicator with her.  Not that she could think of anyone
she'd want to call for help; this was not her most awe-inspiring
moment.  Crusher felt blood pounding in her ears, deafening her. 
Probably a concussion as well.  She couldn't exactly hang here
forever.  Already she counted herself lucky that she hadn't fallen
unconscious or been knocked down by one of the bloody moving poles. 
At least not yet.  She could see no other options.  She would try
to land on her good foot and roll onto that side.  It would still
hurt like hell, but she might be able prevent further damage.
      Crusher gritted her teeth, and let go.
      As in a dream, she felt herself fall.  To her surprise, she
seemed to float down slowly, as if supported by something.  Her
injuries didn't feel that serious, but perhaps she had been in
danger of shattering her spine, and the holodeck safeguards had
kicked in.  She tumbled gently to the ground, and moaned as her
injured foot touched down on the stage.  This time, when the gods
spoke, it was in a softer, more anxious voice.  "Beverly?"
      She opened her eyes.
      "Jean-Luc,"  she murmured.  "Don't you ever knock?"
      "Are you all right?"  he asked urgently.
      "I will be,"  she said.  Her voice sounded slurred.  She
waited for a reprimand, but none came.  She wasn't quite sure
whether she was sitting down or lying, but she was comfortable. She
felt the warmth of his fingers as he brushed her hair away from her
eyes.  His expression, which had been empty earlier tonight, was
now full of tenderness and concern.  Such a beautiful face.  So
close.  She was aware of his arms around her and of her cheek
against his chest.  She must be propped up against him.  She
listened to his heartbeats pulsing rapidly, and felt herself rising
and falling heavily with his breathing.  Her mind was clearing a
little.  That thumping that she thought was blood had probably been
the sound of him running up the stage.
      "Good catch,"  she said appreciatively.
      Relief flooded his face.  "What happened to the computer
safeguards?"  he asked.
      Beverly sighed.  "It's my own program,"  she explained,
embarrassed.  "It's possible to get hurt, but only what I can fix
myself, here, without going to sickbay."
      "Which for you could be anything short of death,"  he pointed
out.
      "I don't make a habit of falling,"  she told him.  She tried
to sit up and drew her breath sharply as her ankle reminded her of
its condition.  "I should be fine if I can just reach my. . . " . . medikit. 
She hadn't brought it with her.  In fact, she couldn't even remember if
she had taken it to her room or left it in her office.  Great.  A perfect
ending to a perfect day.  Defeated, she leaned back against him once
more.  To her horror, she could feel tears of frustration stinging her
eyes.  Jean-Luc must have noticed because the worry returned to his
face.
      "We need to get you some help," he said.
      "No!  I mean, please, not yet."  Crusher fought to control
herself.  She tried to smile.  "Jean-Luc, I'm a doctor.  I promise
you it won't hurt me to wait."  Of course she knew she needed to be
attended to, but she did not want to deal with the mortification of
returning to sickbay injured after having stalked out earlier.
"Would you mind if we just stayed her for a while?"  When he
hesitated, she whispered,  "Please."
      After a few seconds, his expression softened.  "Of course," 
he said.  This time her smile came effortlessly as she felt the
tension melting out of her.  His hand, which had been reaching for
his communicator, came back down to rest on her shoulder, his
knuckles grazing the underside of her jaw.  Beverly could feel the
weight of his arm on her chest, and found it strangely comforting. 
She was grateful that he hadn't brought up the fact that she
shouldn't have been in the holodeck at all.  Her head was still
throbbing, though less painfully, hypnotic and lulling.  She felt
drained.  Even through the pain in her ankle and head, she felt
herself drifting.
      "Is that what it was supposed to look like?"  She heard Jean-
Luc's voice, sounding further away now.  With as little movement as
possible, she followed his eyes.  The other Crusher was still flying
gracefully around the poles; agile, elegant, and incredibly annoying.  It
seemed extraordinary to Beverly that moments ago, she herself had had
that much energy.
      "She's had a little more practice than I have,"  she informed
him.
      "Oh, I don't know about that.  I thought your approach to be
more . . . original."
      "Creative license."   Beverly murmured modestly.  She stifled
a yawn.  She was having trouble with her eyes again.  Much easier
just to close them.  Why was she so tired all of a sudden?  She
remembered her fall and the thoughts that had caused it.  Pretty
dumb mistake.  She should not have let her mind wander like that. 
      "How *do* you feel about me, Captain?"  she asked sleepily.
      She felt his arms tensing.  Hazy and far away, she heard him
ask,  "What?"  She wanted to explain, but she was so very tired.
      "On Kes-Prytt," she mumbled.  "You said you didn't have those
feelings. . . anymore. . ."  Her mind felt heavy and uncooperative. 
She was exhausted. Perhaps all she needed was a couple minutes to
rest.  Then she could ask him again, explain it better.  She should
have just come out and asked him a long time ago.  She would too,
in just a couple of minutes.  When she wasn't so damn tired. . .

      Jean-Luc Picard stormed into his ready room.  Out of habit, he
went directly to the replicator.
      "Tea, Earl Grey.  Hot!" 
       He watched in irritation as it materialized at his command.  He
didn't want any bloody tea.  He ignored the cup and strode over to his
desk.  He sat down and slammed open his terminal nearly knocking it
off the desk.  He didn't want to work.  He didn't want to read a book
or listen to music or look at his damned fish.  His door chimed and he
glowered at it.  He certainly did not want to talk to anyone.  
      It chimed again.
      "Come,"  he snapped.
      Picard winced as Counselor Troi walked in.  He'd forgotten she
was in command of the ship tonight.
      "What can I do for you . . . Commander?"  he asked.  
      "Forgive me, Captain, but I couldn't help noticing, you seem a
little upset." 
      Sure.  He was a little upset, like the universe was a little large. 
Still, it wasn't something he wanted to talk about.
      "Thank you, I'm fine."  he said briskly.  "Now, if you'll excuse
me."  He nodded towards the door.
      Of course,  Troi didn't budge.  Picard glared at her.  "Don't you
have a ship to run?"  he asked testily. 
       She ignored him.
      "Would you like to talk about what's bothering you?"  she asked.
      Interesting how she always formed these questions as if he had a
choice.  Picard sighed.  Deanna could be as persistent as the Borg, and
fighting her would only drag things out.
      "There is nothing bothering me, Counselor,"  he said. "However,
you should be made aware;  Doctor Crusher has been temporarily
relieved from duty."
      He noticed Troi raise her eyebrows ever so slightly.  The rest of
her face remained impassive.
      "I see," she said quietly.  
      Did she?  Picard found himself becoming defensive.
      "I assure you, I did not make this decision lightly," he said.  
"The computer has her logged for over one hundred hours in sickbay
for this past week.  I believe that's too much work, by anyone's
standards."  Actually, it was one hundred and three hours over the last
*five days*, including eleven hours since today's senior staff meeting. 
That left her with less than four hours of sleep per night.  If Beverly
had gone back to her quarters at all after their conversation this
morning, she could not have remained there for more than twenty
minutes, certainly not enough time to recover the sleep she'd lost.  He
knew he had acted within the best interests of the ship.
      "What?" he realized Troi had been saying something.
      "I was just wondering if you knew what was wrong.  That doesn't
sound like Beverly at all."  Deanna was gazing at him intently.  "You
must be . . . concerned."
      "Concerned."
      She nodded.  "We both know Beverly is dedicated, but this sounds
obsessive."  Slowly, Deanna walked over and took a seat across from
him.  "I can't help being reminded of the way she reacted when her
grandmother died."
      Picard blinked, remembering that painful day.
      Troi had been the one to give him the news of Felisa Howard's
death, and had asked that Picard accompany her to go offer their
condolences.  
      They had found Beverly alone in sickbay.  She had sent her
entire staff home, and was occupying herself with her subordinates'
chores.  With an aching heart, Picard remembered how Beverly had
given them her brisk, empty smile, thanked them for their concern, and
excused herself, saying she couldn't talk at that moment, she was too
busy.
      Unable to argue with the piles of work she had created for
herself, Picard and Troi had spent the rest of the evening helping her. 
Being the one least experienced in sciences, he was left with the most
tedious jobs of all; checking files, verifying records, organizing the
day's log entries-- things he hadn't had to do since his academy days. 
They had worked in silence for hours, late into the night.  It wasn't
until Beverly realized there was no more work she could possibly invent
for herself, that she finally had dissolved into tears, collapsing into
Deanna's arms.  Picard could still feel the warm wettness of her tears
on his hand.  It was the first time he had seen her cry.  Not even at
Jack's funeral had she lost control.
      Of course he was concerned.
      No.  Was he imagining the skepticism in Troi's look?  He had to be
honest about this.  Although Beverly was in no shape to perform her
duties, he hadn't relieved her for the good of the ship.  He had been
hurting over tonight's dinner, over her indifference to him these past
few days.  Picard had needed to feel he still had some control over at
least one part of their relationship.
      The problem was not that he had let his personal feelings
interfere with his command responsibilities, rather, he had let his
feelings get in the way of their friendship.  He had known Beverly for
many years.  She was Starfleet Medical's finest -- well-deserving of her
position on the Enterprise.  But part of what made her so effective, was
that she never sacrificed her own well-being on trivialities -- she knew
she could best fulfill her role by keeping herself healthy and alert for
emergencies.
      Troi was right.  There had to be something wrong with Beverly. 
He'd known that, but had conveniently forgotten about it in order to
nurse his own wounds.
      Abruptly, he stood up.
      "Excuse me, Counselor."
      Deanna's smile barely registered with him as he left.
 
 
 
      Picard held Beverly close.  
      His heart was still pounding.  She was out of danger now, but
adrenalin fueled his terror and kept the image of her fall vivid in his
mind.  He would have never made it in time if she hadn't managed to
grab onto that pole.  Even so, and purely by luck, she had fallen into
his arms the instant he reached her.   This is the holodeck, he had to
keep reminding himself, she was never in any real jeopardy.
      Gingerly, he felt her pulse.  It was a little fast, but considering
what he had just seen her do, that was to be expected.  Her face was
peaceful, her breathing slow and steady.
      "Computer, end program."
      The stage, the music, the mirror image all disappeared, and they
were left surrounded by the holodeck's impersonal gridded walls.  For a
minute, he was tempted to bring up another program -- perhaps a
pastoral scene with soft sunlight and cool trees.  Maybe an ancient
bedroom with a large bed and a fireplace; somewhere she could rest
comfortably and wake up far away from whatever was bothering her.  
      Picard smiled to himself, knowing how Beverly would feel about
his antiquated white knight fantasy.  The holodeck idea was impractical
on several counts.  He had to get her out of here.  Keeping his
movements to a minimum so as to not disturb her, he touched his
communicator.
       "Transporter room, two to beam to Captain's Quarters."
      The holodeck shimmered and faded around them, and he was
sitting on his own floor, with Beverly still cradled safety in his arms. 
Tenderly, Picard stroked her hair.  The way he had behaved was
unforgivable, but he was determined to make amends.
      His leg was folded uncomfortably beneath him. Carefully, he
shifted his weight back.  As he moved, Beverly's body jerked and she
moaned.  Picard froze. 
      "Beverly?"  
      She didn't answer. Was she hurt?  Her face was contorted, but
her eyes remained closed.  He had to get her some help.  
      It was then that Picard realized he had put them both in a very
awkward position. There was no way he could get her back to her own
quarters without inviting speculation, but how would he explain to a
medical team that their superior officer was injured and unconscious in
the ship's captain's quarters?  This incident could result in far more
embarrassment for Beverly than for him.  Not for the first time that
day, he cursed himself vehemently.  
      He remembered bumping into Alyssa outside sickbay.  If memory
served, her husband was working double-shift tonight.  Not the best
solution, but it would have to do.
      "Picard to Ogawa."
      Her voice floated back to him, sleepy and uncertain,  "Yes,
Captain?"
      "Nurse Ogawa, I know you are off duty, but I would like you to
come to my quarters.  I have an injured . . . guest."
      There were a couple moments of silence.  Then her voice came
back, sounding a little more steady.
      "Yes sir, I'm on my way."
      Picard smiled down at Beverly, silently congratulating her for her
staff's professionalism.  If Alyssa wondered why Picard was calling an
off-duty nurse rather than a doctor, she'd given no indication.  He
hoped he was doing what was best and safest for Beverly.  He hoped
against hope that Beverly would understand.
      "Will you?"  he asked her softly.
      She didn't respond.  Her face was regaining some of its color. 
There was a small crease between her eyebrows and her mouth was
pulled tight, but apparently she was still asleep.  Gently, Picard stroked
her cheek until the muscles in her face relaxed.
      Any illusion he might have had about going back to safety of
their old relationship was dashed.  He had come here as a friend, but
now that she was in his arms, he knew he would never again be able to
fool himself about the way he felt.  He let his fingertips run lightly
over her features, tracing her eyebrows, her cheekbones, her jaw, her
chin.  They were so familiar to him, yet he had never had the
opportunity to contemplate them individually.  Certainly never to touch
them.  His fingertips lingered over her mouth, barely grazing her lips. 
Had he just kissed her this morning?  It seemed as far away and as
illusory as his dreams. 
      He heard someone at his door and, reluctantly, lowered his hand.
      "Come," he said. 
      Ogawa walked in.  Her eyes grew wide at the sight of him sitting
on the floor holding her unconscious boss.  To her credit, she
recovered almost immediately, and was by them in an instant, unfolding
her tricorder.
      "What happened?" she asked.
      "An accident on the holodeck."
      He was grateful that Ogawa seemed disinclined to ask for any
more details.  She scanned Beverly's entire body and examined the
results.
      "There is a fracture in her left tibia.  That is the most serious
injury -- there are several bruises, and it looks like she hit her head
on something.  No concussion."   She checked the readings once more as
if to make sure she wasn't leaving anything out, then looked at him.
"Captain, a doctor needs to take care of this,  I'm not qualified."
      Picard nodded.  Alyssa sounded almost apologetic, as if she knew
about his promise to Beverly.  He remembered the way Beverly had
asked him to hold off on going to sickbay.  She had seemed so
desperate.  He tightened his hold on Beverly, wishing he could do more
to protect her.
      He noticed Alyssa gazing at them, apparently deep in thought.
      "What is it?"  he asked.
      Alyssa hesitated. "Well, I could give her something for the pain. 
It would be possible for me to set the bone and put her foot in stasis,
then she could take care of the problem herself when she wakes up." 
She smiled suddenly.  "I could bring her instruments over for you. 
That really might be best, sir, goodness knows she can use the sleep."
      Picard considered it.  That would mean Beverly would have to
stay here tonight.  How would she feel about that?  Probably not as bad
as if she woke up in sickbay.  He nodded to Alyssa.  
      "Make it so,"  he said.
      Alyssa worked slowly, but with care.  Picard observed Beverly's
face anxiously for any further signs of discomfort.  There were none.
      "She can be, er, moved as long as there is no weight on the
ankle."  Picard was amused to see Ogawa blush at her own innocent
statement.  He knew about the rumors that floated around the ship
about his relationship with Beverly.  Apparently sickbay was not
immune.  Bravely, Ogawa cleared her throat.  "I mean, neither the cast
nor the pain-killers are strong enough to endure that kind of
pressure."  Her color deepened clapped her hand over her mouth.
Hastily, she stumbled to her feet.  "I will go get her things," she
stammered, and fled.
 
      It was late.  Although Picard felt he wanted to hold Beverly
forever, he was starting to feel guilty about his indulgences.  Beverly
was unconscious.  She had no say in what he did.  As gently as he
could, Picard eased her off him and knelt by her side.  He managed to
lift her and carry her to his bed, telling himself she would be most
comfortable there.
      The black garment Beverly was wearing was cut low, held up only
by two pins above each shoulder, and then again at the wrists.  It
revealed a lot of her shoulders, neck and arms, a fact which Picard had
studiously ignored all evening.  Although her legs were covered in the
folds of the material, he remembered the flashes of white as she danced,
and knew the trousers were similarly cut.  The ensemble was gathered
at the waist, but it was loose enough to permit easy breathing.  Very
relieved, but slightly disappointed, Picard noted the outfit was
unrestrictive, and would not encumber her sleep if he just left it as it
was.
      He lowered her onto his sheets, taking special care with her
ankle, although her foot was straight and stiff in the cast Nurse Ogawa
had provided.  He lowered her head last and ruefully eased back from
the bed.  He was aware of the protestations of his body, aching to
touch her again, but he forced himself to disregard them.  
      He couldn't make himself leave the room, however.  Not quite yet.
      Picard pulled up a chair to the side of the bed, and sat down. 
He was not used to looking at her face without being caught up in her
radiant blue eyes.  Sleeping peacefully, she did not look like the medical
genius she was, or like one of three federation members to have ever
neutralized a Borg ship.  She did not look like the only human he'd
ever known to hug a Klingon, or like the dancer on the holodeck, or
like the woman who had kissed him last week under a rare Jonaro
sunset.  Picard realized he missed her.
      He leaned forward in his chair, as to close the space between
them.  What had happened to her since that kiss?  True, he hadn't seen
her much these days, but had she offered him any clues?  Could he
have missed obvious signs because he was too wrapped up in his own
expectations?
      Picard remembered the last words she'd said to him, before she
lost consciousness.  After so many months, why had she chosen tonight
to bring up their conversation on Kes-Prytt?  She had mentioned what
he said to her by the fire, after he'd confessed to once having been in
love with her.
      "I was afraid of what would happen . . . and then, little by little,
I realized I didn't have those feelings anymore."
        What he remembered most clearly about his words was the force
of the blow that hit him after he'd said them.  Or rather, the blow that
had hit *her*.  It must have knocked the breath out of both of them. 
He had felt something in her break. . . and then her profound sense of
loss.  She had smiled at him and he had smiled back, both of them
inanely trying to cover up the pain with small talk about friendship. 
He had almost gone to her, but was immobilized by the intensity of her
emotions.  He had felt the emptiness within her yawn wider, and Picard
wondered which one of them it would consume first.  Then it stopped. 
So suddenly, that for a moment Picard thought the implants had
malfunctioned.  But the wall Beverly had erected was too solid, too real
to give that theory much credibility.
      Picard had watched as she turned her back to him to lie down,
and he had been struck by another wave of loneliness.  But this time
he'd known it was coming only from him.
      It was his words that had caused that reaction in her:  ". . . and
then, little by little,  I realized I didn't have those feelings anymore."
      He wasn't sure what had made him say that to her, aside from the
fact that it was the truth.
      
      Visiting Earth between assignments, a young Captain Jean-Luc
Picard had fallen in love with a brilliant young medical student.  She
was fun, spirited, compassionate, and beautiful.  Gods, so incredibly
beautiful.  She also happened to be dating one of his best friends, but
although he respected her relationship with Jack, he couldn't help it
that his heart would skip a beat every time he looked at her.  It was
the kind of infatuation he'd missed in his youth -- the kind in which all
of a sudden poetry and music make a special sense they never did
before.
      That was a quarter of a century ago -- in another lifetime.  Age
and experience had transfigured him, altering his views, his values, his
needs.  Picard no longer believed in human perfection, and although
someone like the lovely Beverly Howard would always touch him deeply,
he had other priorities in his life.  
      The problem was, Beverly Crusher, CMO of the Enterprise, was
very different from Jack's young wife.  For Picard, having her on his
ship had been like meeting her all over again.  The birth of her son,
the death of her husband, the thousands of lives she had escorted in
and out of this world, had all tempered the qualities of her youth. 
They were all still there, but in more daedalian and vibrant form.  In
addition, Picard been introduced to new aspects of her character. . .
like her courage, her dedication, her fierce devotion to saving lives.  
      They had both grown, both changed, but apparently they had
done so nearly parallel to one another.  Cautious because of their
shared history, they had nevertheless found themselves drawn to each
other, and had become closer than they ever could have been
twenty-five years ago. 
      Tonight, the woman he had grown so close to was sleeping in his
bed.  Picard resisted the urge to kiss her, even to touch her.  He
wanted to lie down next to her, as he had on Kes-Prytt, not touching,
but close enough so she could feel his presence.  Like that night, he
didn't know whether he would be doing it for her comfort, or for his
own. 
      His door chimed.  
      Slowly, Picard stood up.  
      ". . . I didn't have those feelings anymore."
      It was true. The feelings he had had twenty-five years ago were
no longer there.  He was no longer a man in love with his best friend's
wife. 
      He was now a man in love with his best friend.

      
      He met the apparently recovered Ogawa at the door. She gave no
outward sign of her earlier mortification.
      "In addition to the sedatives, I administered some nutritional
supplements." she said.  She handed him the medikit and turned her
dark eyes to him.  "Captain, Doctor Crusher should get some food when
she wakes up.  Her iron count was very low."
      Picard was a little alarmed by the urgency in her voice, but knew
that if Beverly were in any immediate danger, Ogawa would tell him.
      "I'll see to it," he promised.  He saw the relief in her eyes and
felt honored to be trusted so.  It was obvious Alyssa cared deeply for
Beverly, and he believed she would keep their secret.  After all, Beverly
had once refered to Ogawa as her medical confidant.
      Medical confidant.
      Picard took a deep breath.  "Alyssa,"  he said.  "Tell me, what do
you know about that research Dr. Crusher has been working on?"
      She seemed more surprised by his use of her first name than by
the question itself.
      "Well, I haven't been that involved in it;  I've just looked up
some things for her.  I set up some experiments."  She frowned,
thoughtfully.  "I know she's working off the main computer, so it's
accessible to anyone.  If you'd like, I could bring up the files for you."
      "That won't be necessary," Picard said.  He walked her to the
door.  "Thank you once more, for everything."
 

      After Ogawa left, Picard stood staring at the medikit he still held
in his hands.  If Beverly wasn't keeping her research a secret, then
perhaps it was all, as she'd said, a hobby.  If that were true, then
there had to be another reason why she had been acting so strange. 
Perhaps she was avoiding him.  Maybe he was pushing her into
something she didn't want.  But he'd thought. . .
      No, he couldn't start making assumptions, or he would never get
anywhere.  He would wait until she told him herself.  Slowly, he carried
the medikit back into his bedroom.
      Picard felt a pang at the sight of Beverly's red hair spread out
over his cushions.  He should have been feeling joy, but that feeling
would be artificial.  She hadn't *chosen* to be there. 
      He took his seat by her side again, carefully setting the medikit
on the floor.
      There was so much about her he still didn't know.  Watching her
dance tonight had been one of those frequent reminders of her
complexity.  What surprised him even more than her obvious expertise
as a dancer, was seeing her perform so high above the ground.  That
was one of the things he'd thought he'd knew for certain about 
her . . . Beverly was afraid of heights.  
      On Kes-Prytt the first sign of their abilities to read each other's
minds was when he felt her tightly controlled terror as she examined a
ledge they had to climb.  It was an illuminating experience.  Fear was
not an emotion anyone would associate with Beverly Crusher simply
because it never showed up on her face.  Yet the implants had allowed
him to feel it radiating from her, not once, but twice. 
      The second time had been at the Kes-Prytt border.  Beverly had
managed to create a gap in the force field, but the gap had closed right
after she pushed him through.  The force field did not inhibit the
implants.  As the Prytt soldiers closed in on Beverly, Picard felt her
overwhelming relief that he was safe, but her fear was almost as
tangible.
      Picard knew all his officers were prepared to give their lives for
him, but Beverly had not acted out of loyalty alone.  At that bewildering
moment, when both their emotions had been running so strong, he had
heard her call out to him.  Three words she believed she'd never have
another chance to say.
      Those words.  That look on Jonaro.  Her behavior towards him
these last few days.  What the hell was going on?  Picard rubbed his
temples.  He wanted the implants back.  If she had gone without sleep
for as long as he suspected, she probably wouldn't be waking up for
quite a while.  He asked himself how he could possibly wait so long to
find out what was wrong with her.  The answer was. . . he couldn't. 
      Picard stood up.  His gut feeling still told him to find out about
her research.  It was the most obvious starting point and while it might
not hold answers, any clues would be helpful. As if responding to his
decision, Beverly moved slightly, curling her body inwards and sighing
gently.  Then she was motionless once more.  Her copper hair tumbled
across her cheek in lustrous contrast with her pale skin and his metal-
gray sheets.  At once it became harder to leave, yet all the more
necessary.
      Pushing the chair back, he walked out to his desk and activated
his terminal.
       "Computer, identify most recent entry made by Chief Medical
Officer Crusher."
      "Most recent entry dated for today at oh-nine-hundred hours, in
Medical Database.  It is the fourth report of an undefined, unfinished
series."
      Picard allowed himself one last look at Beverly's sleeping figure
before sitting down.
      "Display all," he said.  
      The screen flickered before him, and Picard started to read.
 
     Beverly Crusher fought down the initial surge of panic when she
was unable to open her eyes.  She tried to reach for her face, but the
rest of her body was equally unresponsive.  The familiar hum of the
_Enterprise_'s engines reassured her that she was in friendly territory,
but why couldn't she move? 
     She concentrated on her heartbeat, counting slowly to herself. 
Her pulse was normal.  Her head felt neither heavy nor light, but her
mind was a little foggy.  She was not in pain, although something told
her she should be -- she had a vague but recent memory of crashing
into something. 
     She tried to move her fingers, and succeeded.  Barely.  She
ordered her hand to do the same, and felt it brush against her thigh
before collapsing.  The effort exhausted her. 
     Forcing herself to stay awake, she continued her self-diagnostic. 
She felt no tingling, no discomfort, no unusual sensitivity to
temperature.  She swallowed.  Her throat felt cold and dry. 
     Doramine, she decided.  The pain-numbing effects deepened with
sleep and wore off gradually after the patient awoke.  Judging by the
heaviness in her muscles, she must have been out for at least twelve
hours.  So she had been injured, probably in that crash.  Then why
wasn't she in sickbay? 
     No longer afraid, but increasingly curious, Crusher switched her
focus to her outer environment.  The surface she was lying on felt
solid, so she wasn't on a bio-bed.  She could hear no movement and
there was no draft.  The air in here was the comparatively stagnant air
of private quarters.  But whose? 
     As easily as she had dismissed sickbay, it was obvious to Crusher
that she was not in her own cabin.  Yet there was something familiar
about this place . . . not sound, not the feel, but . . . 
     Cautiously, Crusher sniffed the air. 
     Despite the Enterprise's several self-cleaning and air-purifying
mechanisms, each room retained its own faint, unique scent, often
reflecting aspects of the occupant's personality.  One just had to step
into Troi's quarters to suspect a passion for chocolate, or into Data's to
know he owned a cat and enjoyed oil painting.  Jean-Luc's
quarters . . . 
     A different sort of panic settled in as she realized, suddenly and
without question, exactly where she was.  Summoning all her strength,
Crusher forced her eyelids open. 
     The room was darkened, but she could make out his figure
slumped forward in a chair next to her bed.  
     His bed. 
     His elbows rested on his knees, his face was buried heavily in his
hands.  
     "Jean-Luc," she said, or tried to say -- her tongue felt parched
and swollen and his name ebbed into a weak groan. 
     He looked up immediately.  Crusher caught the deep lines of
tension on his face an instant before they melted into his usual
imperturbable exterior.  He leaned back in the chair. 
     "How do you feel?" he asked. 
     Crusher nodded, unwilling to trust her voice again.   
     There was something wrong with the way he looked at her.  He
seemed concerned, but it was merely the concern of a captain for a
member of his crew.  She was . . .   
     In confusion, Crusher realized she did not quite know what she
was to him.  Her eyes moved downward and she breathed a sigh of
relief to find she was still clothed.  Immediately she felt embarrassed by
her paranoia.  What had she expected? 
     Yet, she was in his bed, and although she was not sure of the
specifics, she knew that very recently, things had changed between her
and Jean-Luc.  Or had they? 
     As if to tease her, a single memory surfaced.  The memory of a
kiss, as deep as the night sky which had surrounded them.  A memory
of indescribable happiness, of love . . . 
     Crusher blinked at the stranger in the chair.  How different he
looked from the Jean-Luc in her memory. 
     "Why am I here?" she asked. 
     "You fell.  On the holodeck, remember?" 
     That didn't exactly answer her question but she was starting to
feel silly trying to carry out a conversation in this position.  Using her
arms, Crusher heaved herself upwards.  Jean-Luc leaned forward warily,
but she noticed he made not effort to help her.   
     Strength had returned to most of her body, but her foot felt
heavy and rigid.  She identified the feeling immediately. 
     "My foot is in stasis,"  she said. 
     "You fractured your leg." 
     Crusher waited for him to elaborate.  He didn't.  With that kind of
bedside manner he wouldn't last fifteen minutes on her staff, she
thought wryly.   
     The doramine was definitely wearing off.  Her mind was clearer,
but she was also starting to feel a throbbing headache.  She raised her
hand and found a small lump above her ear.   
     "I think I'd better go to sickbay,"  she said.  "I should get this
fixed."  Actually, she didn't give a damn about her foot, but Jean-Luc
was making her very nervous and she didn't feel like playing this
strange game of his.  Not with her skull feeling like the inside of a
Klingon Opera house. 
     "You don't have to go,"  he said. 
     "Oh, I think it would be best.  Besides, it's probably not very
proper of me to be here, anyway."  Gods, what an idiotic thing to say. 
She could practically see Wesley rolling his eyes at her and saying,
"real smooth, Mom."  It did nothing to improve her humor. 
     "I really should be going,"  she repeated firmly, trying to push
off the blanket.  He still didn't move, but Crusher refused to ask for
help.  Dammit, she'd drag herself out of here if she had to. 
     She eased her legs to the side of the bed.  Jean-Luc bent over to
pick something up and set it down next to her.  Crusher stared at it in
astonishment. 
     "My medikit."   
     She was nearly annoyed enough to ignore it and leave anyway,
but how badly did she want to be seen hobbling out of the captain's
quarters in what could be the middle of the night?  She glanced at
Jean-Luc.  Behind his careful mask, she could see real concern, and
something else she couldn't identify.  But at least it wasn't indifference. 
Resignedly, she pulled out her tricorder. 
     "Have dinner with me,"  he said suddenly. 
     Crusher almost laughed.  His tone was flippant, but his words
sounded like a clumsy peace offering.  She had seen more predictability
in a surrealist painting than in the captain's behavior tonight.  But she
wasn't quite ready to forgive him.  
     "I think I should go after this,"  she said primly.  Jean-Luc
didn't press the subject. 
     Her tibia had been well set.  Crusher recognized Alyssa's
handiwork and made a mental note to thank her.  She checked the
alignment of the bone and fused it together before dissolving the cast. 
     She turned her attention to the lump on her head.  As it 
disappeared under her expert fingers, the headache faded.  The release
>from pain felt like a weight lifted from her, taking with it the
frustration and anger she'd been feeling only moments earlier. 
Contentedly, Crusher sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes. 
     "Is it all better?"  she heard Jean-Luc ask. 
     "All better, thank you," she said. 
     "Your head, your ankle?" 
     "Mhmm,"  to demonstrate, she lifted her foot and flexed it. 
     It was quiet for a few minutes.  Crusher enjoyed the silence.  She
didn't feel like moving or thinking or even reacting to anything for a
while.  She just wanted to drift.   
     She heard Jean-Luc speak again. 
     "No more pain at all, then?" 
     He sounded amused.  Crusher cracked open an eye suspiciously. 
He was smiling at her. 
     "Jean-Luc, what's so funny?" 
     He sat back and crossed his arms.     
     "Nothing,"  he said.  His smiled broadened.  "I just thought I'd
re-extend my invitation for you to stay a while." 
     Crusher bolted upright, her face flaming.  After all her prudish
protestations against staying, she'd simply laid back and made herself at
home.  Embarrassed, she grappled for a dignified comeback, but
suddenly she realized how nice it was to see Jean-Luc smiling.  So nice,
that she didn't mind sacrificing a small piece of her pride.  
     "Thank you,"  she smiled back at him.  "Perhaps just for a little
while." 
     "Excellent,"  he said.  He stood up and waited by the door for
her to pass.  She was wearing her civilian jumper, but having slept in
it, and now getting out of bed in it, she felt as awkward as she would
sitting around in her pajamas.  She crossed her arms in front of her
chest as she walked past Jean-Luc, then sat down at her usual place
and drew her knees up to her chin. 
     "Dinner?"  he asked. 
     "Fine, thank you." 
     She wasn't hungry.  Now that she was upright, she'd begun to
feel a sense of urgency, as if there was somewhere else she needed to
be.  It had something to do with Alyssa . . . or sickbay. 
     Jean-Luc set a huge steaming bowl of vegetable soup in front of
her, then sat down with a second one himself.  Crusher noticed he was
wearing her favorite shirt: pale green and open nearly to the waist. 
She wondered, as she did every time he wore this shirt, if the sparse
hair on his chest was as soft as it looked. 
     Jean-Luc stared at her expectantly and Crusher sighed.  She was
a guest in his quarters.  Out of habit and courtesy, he would not start
until she'd had the first bite. 
     She dipped her spoon into the soup and brought it up to her
lips.  The savory liquid ran down her throat and seemed to warm up
her whole body.  Suddenly, she was famished.  
     "How long was I . . . sleeping?"  she asked between bites. 
     "Eighteen hours." 
     "Eighteen hours?"  Her spoon hung suspended for a minute.
"Whatever they gave me was excessive." 
     "Nurse Ogawa was kind enough to come check up on you.  She
gave you pain-killers, but she said sedatives were unnecessary."  His
tone sounded mildly accusing.  Was he telling her she'd slept eighteen
hours on her own?  She had never done that before in her life.   
     "Eighteen hours?"  Crusher repeated.  "Don't tell me you've been
here all this time." 
     He didn't have to. 
     Crusher stared in shock at the empty bowl before her.  She must
have been half-starved as well as exhausted.  Jean-Luc hadn't touched
his meal. 
     "Didn't they miss you on the bridge?"  she asked him, trying to
keep her tone light. 
     "As of oh-six-hundred hours this morning I'm on leave for a few
weeks.  I just wanted to be sure you were alright." 
     Crusher stared at him and felt her heart sink.  He was leaving
her. 
     That's not what he said, she told herself severely.  He was simply
going to take a vacation, for once without thinly veiled threats from
her, Will, Deanna, and everyone else on the bloody ship.  Still, she
couldn't help feeling abandoned. 
     "Where will you go?"  she asked him.  
     "What?"  Her question seemed to take him by surprise.  "I don't
know, actually.  I hadn't given it much thought.  I guess I'll leave it to
the fates -- whatever M class planet happens to be the closest." 
     His nonchalance concerned her.  This wasn't like him at all. 
Crusher wished she could . . . 
     She remembered where she had to be.  In fact, she should be
happy Jean-Luc would be out of her hair for a couple of weeks; she
had to get back to work, and she knew it would be easier for her to
concentrate if the captain wasn't around.  That was what she told
herself, and what she knew to be true; however she couldn't quite
shake the feeling of desolation -- the last time he'd taken time off he
had spent a few days on Atar 2 with Nella Daren.  Thank goodness he
hadn't spoken to Crusher about *that* holiday, but he had been in high
spirits for weeks afterwards. 
     Those high spirits were certainly not with him now.  His face was
serious. 
     "Beverly,"  he started carefully,  "perhaps you should consider
taking some time off as well." 
     An unwelcome memory hit her like a phaser blast.  Jean-Luc had
relieved her from duty.  She couldn't go back to work if she wanted to. 
Crusher felt her temper starting to flare, but it couldn't quite
overshadow her disappointment in Jean-Luc.  Was that what this was all
about?  A 'friendlier' way of controlling her every move?   
     "Is that an order?"  she asked tersely. 
     He seemed genuinely surprised.  "An order?" 
     "I know I've been relieved from duty, Jean-Luc,"  she said.  "Am
I also to understand I am to be forced into taking it easy?" 
     Jean-Luc's expression softened.  He leaned forward as if to reach
for her hand, but then seemed to change his mind.  He hadn't touched
her since she'd woken up, she suddenly noticed. 
     "I apologize,"  he said,  "that is not how I meant it to sound. 
You have been reinstated and may return to work whenever you wish. 
However, what I meant was . . ."  Jean-Luc took a deep breath. He
leaned forward once more, almost as if against his will.  "Beverly, I
want you to come with me."  
     Only someone who knew him as well as she did could detect the
storm of emotions behind his stillwater eyes.   The memory of the kiss
on Jonaro returned to Crusher, along with the one thing she had
wanted at that moment.  Gods, how she wanted to say yes to him.  She
wanted it with a force that staggered her.
     Far ahead of her rational mind, she could feel a bubble of
happiness start in her chest, yet, as it had all during this past week, it
was burst in its infancy by that undeniable sense of duty.  The captain
had told her she could go back to work, and it was clear she had to do
just that.   
     She shut herself off from her less practical side and spoke of his
request as a casual invitation, which she knew damn well it wasn't. 
     "I'm sorry,"  she said.  "There is work I can't possibly put off. 
I don't have much time." 
     For the first time that night Jean-Luc's eyes wavered, flickering
like a candle before returning to their steady burn.   
     Softly, he asked,  "Just twenty-five years?" 
     Crusher froze.   
     "What?"  she whispered.   
     That look in his eyes deepened and she tried to interpret it.  Was
is sorrow, defeat?  Oh, please, she thought, not pity.  She could
withstand anything but pity from Jean-Luc. 
     "Beverly, I know about the research you've been doing.  I want
you to stop." 
     Speechless, Crusher stared at him.  In his voice she heard not an
order, but a plea.  How could he say that?  If he did know what she
was doing, then he, more than anyone else, had to know how important
it was that she continue.  Silently, she begged him to understand. 
     Jean-Luc didn't say anything.  He simply waited for her response. 
Finally she was able to give him one, the only one, yet she choked on
her own words. 
     "I can't,"  she said. 
     Not a muscle in his face twitched.  He kept his gaze locked to
hers for what seemed like hours.  Crusher kept her mind blank and
tried to control her emotions.  It was his turn to speak. 
     She watched Jean-Luc stand up and walk to the window.  His
hands were clasped tightly behind his back, digging into each other
hard enough to cut off circulation.  Other than that, he seemed chiseled
in stone, his perfect profile rigid in the window's light.  For another
eternity, he was completely motionless.   
     Then he blinked. 
     Stunned, Crusher watched a single tear leave his eye, so small it
disappeared halfway down his cheek. 
     "Jean-Luc . . ." 
     "Why you?"  he asked, still unmoving.  "There must be dozens of
other scientists specializing in this." 
     Sure, dozens.  She'd become very familiar with all of them and
with their work in recent months.  But not one of them was Beverly
Crusher, one-time head of Starfleet Medical and ecumenical miracle
worker.  And not one of them was battling for the sanity of someone
she loved.   
     "Tell me, Doctor,"  Jean-Luc said, his voice as hard as his face. 
"What do you plan to do?  Work around the clock for the next couple of
decades until you find a cure?" 
     "At this rate it seems like I'm going to need every second," 
Crusher said. 
     "Then I don't want it!"  The very ship seemed to tremble with the
force of his voice. 
     Crusher jumped but managed not to shrink away from the fierce
eyes he now turned on her. 
     She felt tears searing her own eyes.  Even this ferocity she loved
about him.  His intensity, his convictions, his brilliant mind, couldn't he
see that Irumodic syndrome could take this too from him?  The disease
would render all his passions useless because he would not even
understand why things were important. 
     Jean-Luc seemed to check himself, as if regretting his outburst. 
His body relaxed.  In fact, he leaned against the wall, as if needing
support. 
     "You've been keeping abreast with all new findings on
neurological disorders since my trip to the future?"  he asked.  
     Miserably, Crusher nodded.  It had started that way.  She'd done
the research she would have done for any other crew member in this
situation.  
     "What happened after Jonaro?"  Jean-Luc asked.   
     There was an odd sort of relief to be able to finally talk to
someone about this.  To talk to Jean-Luc, the first person she usually
sought out when she needed a shoulder. 
     "I came back to look at some of Alyssa's work,"  Crusher began.
"She's been experimenting with decay and regeneration of plant cells. 
She was using a new approach, very innovative.  It had never been
used on human tissue, but at the time, I could see it in my head -- how
it might be applied as a preventive measure in situations such as yours. 
While it was fresh in my mind, I set up some experiments to test my
theories."   
     Fresh in her mind too had been the elation of that kiss.  Perhaps
it was that feeling which had made her feel so invincible -- Crusher
had been certain she could show up to Jean-Luc's quarters with news
that he'd never have to worry about the threat of Irumodic syndrome
again.  It was the most perfect gift she could give someone who made
her so happy. 
     Jean-Luc's quiet voice interrupted her thoughts: "But it didn't
work," he said. 
     "No, it didn't work!"  Crusher slammed her palm down on the
table, reliving the frustration, the horrible disappointment.  That failure
had brought to light how much she feared losing him.  "But it occurred
to me that just because I'd failed once, didn't mean I couldn't keep
looking."   
     She didn't have to tell him about the rest of her work.  It was
obvious he had read her reports and knew that her subsequent efforts
were equally depressing.  Crusher had never been one to take
short-cuts; she knew that medical research took years, and on many
occasions, lifetimes.  This had just felt different.  But it wasn't, and
Jean-Luc must have known as well as she did that she would have to
make some tough choices. 
     Crusher knew there was no way she could keep up with her
research and still be an effective physician.  Was it possible she had
found something that mattered more to her than being a doctor?  She
hadn't allowed herself to think about that.  There were only two viable
answers, and either one would be painful.  Yet she was haunted by
memories of this past week; forgetfulness, lack of concentration.  Never
in her entire career at Starfleet could she have been accused of
carelessness, until this past week.  When she'd fallen on the holodeck
she'd forgotten her medikit.  If there had been a medical emergency, if
someone had needed her . . . 
     Crusher found she was unable to meet Jean-Luc's eyes.  She
didn't know what would hurt her the most; leaving her career, leaving
her life on the Enterprise, or leaving him.   
     She refused to let these questions sway her right now. 
Everything would be easier once she got back to her research; her
work had always protected her that way. 
     "Beverly." 
     Every nerve in her body felt deadened.  "What?"  she asked
wearily.   
     "Beverly,"  he repeated.  She looked at him.  His expression had
regained its gentleness.  Such a beautiful face . . . 
     "When I traveled with Q, in my present you and I talked about
how nothing is cast in stone.  Please, let me finish,"  he said as she
opened her mouth.  "But even if I believed that Irumodic syndrome was
an inevitable part of my future, the price you're asking me to pay is
too high. 
     "Reading your reports forced me to think about the consequences
of the illness.  Losing control of one's mind is a terrifying prospect,
but you must believe me, there is something which I find even more
unbearable."   
     Jean-Luc pushed himself away from the wall and straightened his
shoulders before continuing: 
     "I want you to understand that our friendship used to be one of
the most important things to me.  But it's grown into something else. 
What I see, and what I want, is not a brief romance.  I would never
jeopardize this friendship . . . or your feelings . . . on something I
didn't think could last for a long, long time." 
     Jean-Luc looked out to the stars, imitating their stillness.  
     "There are no words."  he said, almost as if to himself.  He
seemed to have forgotten she was there. 
     "No words?"  Crusher asked finally. 
     Jean-Luc turned around to face her again.  "On the holodeck, you
asked me how I feel about you,"  he said.  His voice was barely audible. 
"There are no words." 
     Crusher was vaguely aware of the pain as her fingers tried to dig
into the surface of the table.  Her lungs shuddered with the effort of
breathing and her body felt torn by the equal forces pushing her
towards Jean-Luc and pulling her away. 
     Quality of life against mere survival was one of her and Jean-
Luc's oldest arguments, a close second to the ones about the Prime
Directive.  She had taken an oath to do what she could to preserve life,
to make people well, but she'd never been faced with a case in which
her patient may not even be affected for twenty years, if at all. 
Medical school had not prepared her for such a long-term emergency. 
     She knew now why he hadn't touched her.  She had a decision to
make, but she had to make it alone.  He needed her to be sure enough
to take the first agonizing step . . . in either direction. 
     Jean-Luc was asking her to do the easy thing, just forget about
the future and live for the here and now.  It wasn't a fair request. 
How would he feel if she asked him to give up one of his own principles
for her? 
     Crusher studied the commanding lines of his face, and abruptly
realized that was exactly what he had done.  As captain, Jean-Luc held
himself to some very strict rules, not the least of which was forbidding
himself a close relationship with anyone serving under him.  Deviating
>from that canon, especially after what had happened with Nella, would
probably be terrifying.  
     But he had found someone worth the sacrifice. 
     What kind of a sacrifice was she prepared to make?  Was this
really a matter of principle?  Was she doing this for duty or for love,
for him or for herself?  There was no guarantee that either of them
would live long enough for the illness to set in, or that she would find
a cure even if she did dedicate the rest of her life to this.  Then, it
was also possible that he would never develop Irumodic syndrome, and
that he . . . that they could live a very long, healthy life.  Together.  
     Jean-Luc was not asking her to do the easy thing.  He was asking
Doctor Beverly Crusher to do something completely against her nature. 
He was asking her to walk away, just this once, from a puzzle she had
set her mind on solving and to let her patient control his own destiny. 
She respected and trusted this man more than she had anyone in her
entire life, yet she had not bothered to include him in this decision. 
Only now could she see exactly how much her decision would affect him,
but what he wanted had little to do with the disease or the possibility
of a cure. 
     Crusher was aware of his warm breath on her lip.
     Imperceptibly, she had gravitated towards him until they stood
only a few centimeters apart.  She smiled in spite of herself. 
Apparently the two forces were not so equal after all.  Apparently too,
she had made her choice.  
     His eyes seemed to pierce the space between them.  She knew,
had known for quite a while that there was nothing he wouldn't do for
her, and although she hadn't bothered looking at it this way before, if
she were in his place and had to pick between a shorter life with him
or a long life without, well, at this moment it wasn't even that hard of a
choice to make. 
     Gently, she touched her lips to his, not kissing, just touching,
both in promise and in supplication.  She was still a doctor, and would
need his help to come to terms with this.  It might take a long time, but
she wanted Jean-Luc to know she was certain. 
     She shifted just far away enough so that they were no longer in
physical contact, but close enough to feel the heat from his body.  The
memories of feelings she'd felt on Jonaro were dwarfed by the emotions
that engulfed her now.  Crusher cleared her throat. 
     "So, which is the closest M-class planet?"  she asked. 
     "Morial-Taj, about two-and-a-half days from here by shuttlecraft."
His voice was low and hoarse.  Crusher sighed at Jean-Luc's ever
allegiant impersonation of a rock.  That was something they would have
to work on.  She ran her fingers lightly over his clenched fists. 
     "And if we were to leave in the morning?" she asked softly. 
     The clash of emotions exploded and settled like dust over his
stunned face.  Painfully, Crusher realized that Jean-Luc had truly
believed she would turn him down.   
     She allowed herself to forget that she nearly had. 
     Slowly, she moved up against him.  After a moment, she felt his
arms encircling her, then they loosened automatically.  When she didn't
move away, they tightened fiercely around her once more and Jean-Luc
let out a long shuddering breath as he whispered her name. 
     It was only because he held her so tightly that she realized she
was shaking.  It was only because she felt so safe in his arms that she
stopped. 
     Then she pulled back.  They shook hands passionately and agreed
to meet for tea.


          The End


Well, I hope you . . .  What?  You expected that they would actually
bonk?  Shame on you!  The two officers represented in this story have
always been shown to be consummate professionals in their dealings with
one another.  To even consider them doing *that* implies that someone
has a vivid imagination and far too much time on his/her hands. 





Like me.




Enjoy, faithful readers:


     She felt his cheek slide away from hers and their lips met for
that first tender kiss, then for a second one.  They pulled apart almost
shyly when the tenderness began to deepen into something more.   
     Crusher had to smile.  They were behaving as though this were
something completely new to them.  Jean-Luc smiled back at her as if
reading her mind, then he pulled her to him once more.  He kissed her
lips once, gently, then again, less so.  She could feel the desire welling
up inside her as his tongue parted first her lips, then her teeth to
explore the depths of her mouth.  Eager to get closer, she pushed her
hands under the fabric of his shirt, and ran her hands over the faintly
defined muscles in his back.  Their kiss broke only long enough for her
to pull the shirt over his head. 
     Jean-Luc's chest rose and fell heavily against her.  His hands
unfastened one of her shoulder clasps and she felt a burning kiss on
her bared skin before he returned to her mouth.  He struggled with the
other side.  Impatiently, she tried to help by tugging at the offending
clasp.  She heard the fabric rip. 
     "Damn,"  she muttered, and felt his mouth smile under hers.  She
felt his hands hard on her exposed back, the front of her jumper held
up only by their bodies pressed together.  She moved away the few
millimeters that were necessary to correct that problem. 
     They made love urgently, almost desperately.  Years of passions
held back seemed to carry them off in a force all their own until she
felt her very soul shatter with the final release.  Slowly, it pieced itself
back together in a more peaceful, more harmonious pattern that she
ever imagined could exist within her. 
     She wasn't sure how long she slept, or if she slept at all, but she
was next aware of Jean-Luc's fingers soft on her cheek.  She reached
for his face and their lips came together once more. 
     They made love a second first time, this time slowly and tenderly. 
They spent an eternity touching, kissing, tasting and exploring each
other's bodies, paying close attention to what gave the other pleasure
while discovering new pleasures of their own.  Every so often they'd
pause to look at each other, or say each other's names, relishing this
simple joy as much as the loving caresses.

     Finally, close to morning, Jean-Luc slept.  Crusher could feel his
chest, warm against her back, his arms locked securely around her.
     She held his hand to her cheek, turning her head every so often
to kiss away the tears which spilled onto it.  She was happier than she
could remember being ever in her life, but the price had been painful.   
     Drying her cheeks, she turned around to face Jean-Luc.  His eyes
opened and fixed on hers, questioning.  Reassuringly, she kissed his
face once, then wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.  She
could only pray that her decision would always feel as right as it did
right now.

       The End (Really)