Dancing Lessons

Tom Glendenning watched the group of officers milling around the holodeck, which currently simulated a large open patio overlooking San Francisco Bay -- a setting suggested by Craig Bellamy as being the common denominator for those present, since they'd all been to the Academy.

Bellamy had flirted outrageously with most of the women present in turn, his current target being Deanna Troi. Hard to believe Picard wasn't annoyed by that, but the elder captain chatted obliviously with Riker and La Forge near the railing, with Bellamy not two yards away and laying it on thick. Tom shook his head. Maybe that was how Picard liked it -- better to have one's adversary where he could be watched. Though, judging from the only-politely-interested look on Troi's face, Jean-Luc had absolutely nothing to worry about anyway.

The *Enterprise* was far larger than the *Phoenix,* and with more age range among the crew -- Tom had seen that first hand and been duly impressed by the way Picard knew his ship and many of the names of officers from ensign to commander. After the official tour, Picard had invited all the gathered admirals, captains and their senior officers for a reception. Given the occasion for their having gathered at Starbase 455, the respite from the serious matters at hand was more than welcome. The evening was wearing itself out; the admirals, several of the captains, and a good portion of the seniors had already left. Data stood nearby with Glendenning's own first officer and Bellamy's second, and a knot of chief medical officers stood in a corner gesturing and laughing -- imitating medical procedures, judging from the way their hands moved. Looked like a race to see who could mime an operation the fastest.

Tom turned, surveying the rest of the room, and noticed the doctor from the *Valiant* standing alone. Since she was near the end of the bar, it made the approach much easier. He'd been eyeing that flaming red hair all evening, not to mention the way she moved -- slender, graceful, and elegant. Self-possessed and cool, which played counterpoint to Deanna's softness and warmth when the two stood together. One of the other captains had referred to the doctor as the ice queen, probably reacting to a rebuff, but Tom guessed there had to be more to Dr. Crusher than that cool facade would indicate.

She looked up when he stepped alongside her. He passed his empty glass across to the bartender, then ordered another drink. Glancing at her with a polite smile, he noticed a faint sadness in her face that hadn't been there earlier when she'd been chatting with Picard and the other 1701-D alumni.

"Dr. Crusher -- how odd to see you standing over here all by yourself."

She returned the smile. Porcelain -- that's what she reminded him of. That redhead's complexion, and her fine features, reminded him of a porcelain doll. "Not so odd when you consider Bellamy is over there." She inclined her head toward the opposite end of the patio.

"Has he been giving you grief, too? I thought it was just Deanna he's obsessed with."

"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" She glanced at the counselor and her would-be swain. "You'd think he'd know better. She's not even mildly interested, and she's definitely attached."

"He's insane, that's what. Ignoring a perfectly lovely rose for a morning glory who'll fold up and shut him out by the end of the day."

The doctor did a double take. "You've been taking lessons from Jean-Luc, haven't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Thanks for the compliment. Actually, I'm glad he isn't paying attention to me. He's a little too much for my taste -- he and Will have been using the same Little Book of Lines, and I've heard too many of them before. You know flowers?"

"Horticulture is the Glendenning family business, up in Oregon just west of Portland. Roses are a big deal up there. My grandfather counted two hundred twenty-two varieties of rose in the greenhouses when he took over. It's only gotten worse -- my sister runs it now, and she's got more roses than she knows what to do with." He looked at her hair, coiled on the back of her head and not a strand out of place. "There's a variety Olivia calls the desert rose, that's precisely the color of your hair, with just the right amount of yellow to make it look like a sunset over the Sahara."

"Sounds beautiful -- and I'm not just saying that because I'm biased." Her smile banished the hint of sadness.

"It's one of the more beautiful varieties we have. I particularly like the variegated -- I'm not going to bore you silly, am I? The last time someone got me talking about roses, her eyes glazed over and she ended up walking out with my security officer."

"I find horticulture interesting. I like to think I have a bit of a green thumb myself. Even so, there's no guarantee you'll walk out with me anyway." She studied him briefly, laughter flaring in her eyes, but lost the amusement rapidly. Turning away, she put her half-finished drink on the bar and brought her eyes up to meet his, with farewell written all over her face.

"Oh, now, I wasn't intending to drive you away. You looked a little sad when I came over for this." He held up his glass. "Something wrong? Anything I can help with? And that's not meant to be anything other than a friendly offer from one officer to another, Doctor."

"I'm just tired. It's been a long week. *Valiant* picked up some of those survivors from that starbase that was attacked by pirates, and I was right in the middle of crew physicals, and frankly I'm beginning to feel a little too old to be in the middle of another war."

Tom glanced around again. "Tell you what, why don't we go to the *Phoenix* and I'll give you a quiet tour -- you can walk out some of the stress without all the nonsense going on here, and I don't have to watch Craig make a complete nincompoop of himself trying to hit on Troi or Sumners. I'll replicate you a few desert roses to take home with you, since I happen to have them programmed into the *Phoenix*'s computer. And I won't hit on you once. How's that?"

Her thin smile hinted at something other than simple weariness. The woman was tired, really tired, and reminded him more of fine china than porcelain now. "Actually, that sounds like a nice change of pace. Thanks, Captain."

"Tom. Otherwise I'll start calling you commander."

"Tom," she amended. "Let's just get out while the getting's good. I think Bellamy's looking this way."

They left the holodeck and made it to his ship in no time, the lieutenant in the transporter room giving them a raised eyebrow; Tom stared at the man briefly and led the doctor out. There'd be rumors about this. He never brought women back with him. Didn't matter -- they'd see her leaving again before long.

She didn't ask many questions about the ship itself, not even in sickbay. Their leisurely discussion took many turns, through innocuous subjects -- talking to be talking, more than anything else. She started to open up a little about her husband but veered off into medical topics quickly. Not a big deal -- they'd only just met, after all.

He hesitated in taking her to his quarters, then took the plunge. There really was nowhere else on the ship to go that was remotely private, other than a holodeck. She stopped on the threshold and looked at him, then came inside.

"A Nebula class isn't significantly bigger than an Intrepid, is it?" she asked, looking out the viewport at the ships in view.

"About a hundred meters bigger. You aren't referring to that absurd theory Deanna was teasing Bellamy and Riker about earlier, I hope."

She laughed, the first time he'd heard her do so, and turned to him. "Oh, no. I'm a doctor. I know better than that. When it comes to male genitalia, ship size matters not a whit. Dee likes to yank Will's chain -- she always has."

"Want something to drink?"

"Nothing that might come from a bar. Tea would be nice. Just plain old black pekoe, with a teaspoon of sugar."

"Nice of you to have mercy on a poor old bachelor." A weak joke -- the replicator took no skill whatsoever.

When he brought two cups of tea from the replicator, he saw that the sad look had returned. Asking about it again seemed poor form, like nagging, so he ignored it and handed her the cup.

"You have a nice ship. Which is, I suppose, the standard response to a tour, but it's a good vessel. How long have you had her?"

"Seven years. Getting tired of abusing her." He sipped and watched her over the rim of his cup.

"I'm getting tired of abusing myself." She looked up through the viewports again, at the ships paralleling them. Riker's ship happened to be the closest of them, and beyond it the *Enterprise* drifted against the backdrop of deep space, running lights and glowing nacelles its only illumination. "I signed on for adventure and the challenge of xenobiology, not patching up casualties of battles."

"I hear you there. But what else can we do but endure until we get back to adventure?"

She sniffed and seemed to be watching the *Enterprise* -- her former posting. Jean-Luc had said she'd been his CMO for years. Tom wondered why she'd left. Barregan may be good, but Picard was nearly as legendary as the *Enterprise* itself, and he and Beverly were obviously close friends.

"In a way I wish I'd gotten a Galaxy class and gone exploring long-term. Makes me wonder, you know?" He moved alongside her, shoulder to shoulder. "What it's like to go roving beyond the boundaries of known space. Must be worthwhile, I know Jean-Luc's been offered a promotion more than once."

"He has?"

"Heard that one from an admiral. Claimed he's currently clinging to a ship to stay with Deanna while she works at being a command candidate."

"That's probably partially true." Her head snapped around so suddenly it startled him into looking at her. Her blue eyes turned intense, almost defensive. "But I hope you don't think he's doing it just to push her through. He wouldn't do that. She's doing it on her own, and I happen to know they've actually argued because she thought he was favoring her."

"I didn't say that. Our ships have bumped into each other a few times on patrol long enough for dinner or a game of pool. I've talked to her in some depth about command, once. She's got a head on her shoulders, and she's strong-willed enough to stand up to the most famous captain in the fleet. Can't disrespect that. There have been very few captains coming out of the medical or psychological branches, however, and then she added in the fact that she's sleeping with her CO. She's fighting an uphill battle."

"Why?"

The hostility in her tone wasn't directed at him personally, he realized after a few seconds. "Why is she fighting?"

"No, why does it have to be an uphill battle? We have older enlistees coming in right and left -- some of them are heading for command. Why is it so hard for someone who's already been on the bridge for years to attempt to walk across it and fill a different position?" Beverly yanked the pins out of her hair and ran her fingers through it. The fall of it across her shoulder distracted him momentarily.

"That isn't obvious?"

"Oh, sure it is. It's maddening though! You'd think by now people would recognize that who she sleeps with doesn't have an affect on her work, that she's not a weak little woman without motivation, that she's capable of learning the technical things she needs to know -- my god, she sounds like a first officer already! She talks to Data like she's about to get his job."

"But unless you know these things, all you'll see is the appearance -- big dark soulful eyes, long hair -- "

"Why should she have to appear any differently than that?"

Glendenning stared at her and tried to finish what he'd started to say before, minus some of the supporting evidence. "She's making it in spite of the opinions of the uninformed. I think she enjoys that fact. She likes surprising people. Jean-Luc told some of us once that the very fact that she *doesn't* appear to be strong is one of her advantages. He's right. She may be less imposing, more beautiful, but that just means people will underestimate her and give her an advantage."

"Hell with you all," Beverly blurted. "The hell with you and advantages, and all your analyses -- I'm getting sick of it. Just because a woman spends most of her life in a position in which she's been nurturing and sensitive doesn't make her unfit for -- Thanks for the tour and the tea, Captain. I'm calling it a night. I have to get up in the morning and finish the crew physicals."

She put the cup on the clear coffee table and marched out without a backward glance. Tom watched her leave -- what else could he do? The only reason for her ire that he could see was that she'd brought the conflict in with her. He'd been an innocent bystander.

Brilliant. She was brilliant, in several senses of the word, passionate, independent and strong. He'd heard comments at the reception from the other doctors, and from Barregan and Picard. Some of her comments made in passing hinted at it, too. She was a force to be reckoned with, but she wasn't brassy or masculine as some female officers tended to be. He smiled and raised his cup to the closed door.

"Here's to redheads, and their tempers."

Tom headed for the bedroom, where he opened the captain's safe and recovered a genuine bottle of tequila from the depths of storage. Half of it left, but more than enough. Tucking it under his arm, he replicated a vase of desert roses, programming for the largest blooms possible and making six of them buds. They wouldn't bloom, but it made for a more interesting arrangement, with the closed roses nestled among the fern and the open flowers. In the bud, the different colors swirled together like small sherbet ice cream cones.

The corridors were empty all the way to transporter room four. Most of his small crew were on leave or sleeping, with a skeleton crew on the bridge. He paused to bring up the schematics of *Valiant* and locate the doctor's quarters. Placing the flowers and tequila on the pad, he chose a spot on the floor in the corridor outside as safest and computed coordinates given the current ship's orbit, the location of her quarters, and the position of the *Phoenix,* and sent the gifts on their way. A tricky bit of programming, placing the items in a corridor on another ship blind like this, but his stint as a transporter chief years ago hadn't gone to waste after all. He returned to his quarters and settled in with a Jack London novel.

An hour later, the annunciator went off. Tom put down his book and rubbed his eyes. Rising from his bed, he straightened his rumpled uniform and headed for the living area. He expected Deetz or one of the other officers, returning from the reception and stopping by to razz him for leaving early with the only redhead in the room. But the doors opened to admit Beverly -- he stared at her, then stood aside. She brought the tequila -- untouched, he noticed -- inside, holding the bottle in both hands as if she needed it for balance. Her uniform was just as rumpled as his. Cheeks flaming in an otherwise pale face, she met his eyes, her own wavering and glimmering wetly.

"Thanks for the roses," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I lost my temper and you didn't deserve it. It wasn't anything you said. You really were on my side."

"Everyone's on edge, Beverly. Everyone. The edge of the zone, the edge of war, the edge of sanity -- we career fleeters don't have the advantage of the up-and-comers. We can't look at this situation and see glorious adventure. All we see is the body count. I don't mind it if you lose your temper for no good reason. I wish I had the same luxury."

"Want some tequila?"

He glanced at the bottle and grimaced. "No."

She crossed the room and put the bottle on the table under the viewports, then came to stand in front of him. "Tell me something, Tom. You walked me all over this ship chatting pleasantly about anything I wanted to talk about. Is there anything you wanted to talk about, but didn't?"

"Talking to you has been the highlight of my day. I don't care what the subject is, really."

Arms crossed, she dropped her gaze and considered -- her slight smile threatened to make his heart stop completely. She was standing too close to him. Close enough that he could smell a faint hint of perfume, and he imagined he could feel the heat of her body. Had it really been so long since he'd been in the company of a really beautiful woman?

"Can we start over? Talk about something other than places we've been and innocuous topics?" she asked finally.

"Sure." Moving toward the replicator was a good escape. "Want something?"

"No. Just to sit down."

Stopping, he turned slowly, then joined her on the sofa, tempted to take a chair instead. He put a good two meters between them and forced his hands to relax on his stomach, right over left, fingers open, flat.

"You're probably the first captain I've ever seen slumping that way."

He grinned. "I had a couple glasses of wine. It may not be real alcohol, but you don't have to shake off the effects if you don't want to. A good slump is sometimes just what you need after a long day of -- you know."

"I know." She slid closer and leaned across the back of the sofa, chin on her arm. "You know what I hate the most?"

"Prejudice? Unfair treatment of Betazoid command candidates?"

She grinned. "Besides that. I hate the fact that at any time, you can be separated from friends and family. We had something special on the *Enterprise.* Something as close to a family as you can get. Then Worf left. Then Will was offered command -- he wasn't going to take it. He -- "

She rubbed her face and moaned. He could offer comfort, but something told him she'd run from it. Her behavior earlier hinted that things swam beneath the surface, things she needed to talk out but had nowhere to do it. This hesitation said the same. She didn't want to talk about it now, either, but it was killing her.

Tom squeezed her arm to get her attention. "You know, I've never met you before today. I may not meet you again -- may not have the opportunity to talk to you this way again. I'm a captain and I'm trained to keep secrets even when being tortured. If you want to talk to me about things you don't think you can tell anyone, I can guarantee you they'll never see the light of day again."

Her eyes were the most vivid blue he'd seen, really, and riveting when she stared with such intensity. "Why are you doing this? The tour, the talk -- and now this."

"Do I have to have an agenda?"

"Give me a break, Tom."

"Okay. . . I have an agenda. If it would make you feel vindicated in outguessing the swaggering oaf -- my original agenda was fairly predictable. But I'm flexible, and smart enough to see that it was a stupid idea. I lost good friends in the Dominion conflict and I haven't made very many new ones. I think you could be a good friend." He blinked, startled by her reaction. "I didn't know that was such a horrendously upsetting prospect."

"It's not that," she blurted, hiding her face in her hands. "Hell -- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Maybe I shouldn't -- I hate this! Why can't I just get rid of this?"

"Have you talked to the counselor?"

"No. I can't. I tried. It just -- she doesn't -- Damn it, Tom, I'm jealous! I am so *jealous* of her!" Beverly pressed her hand along her forehead and leaned against the back of the couch on her elbow. "I was married to Jack Crusher -- he had his career and I didn't begrudge him that. It was tough, having a son and being separated like that -- and then Jean-Luc brought his body home to me. And then I was alone, and Wesley was growing up -- I couldn't let him down. We made it through, he and I. I'm so proud of how he turned out. But he's out on his own now, and I'm alone, and it's *not* fair!"

She sprang up and began to pace. Her movements were fluid and graceful in spite of her obvious ire. Turning, pivot on a heel here, on a toe there, swinging her arms -- she must be an excellent dancer. Tom thought about all those dance lessons his mother had forced him into, and wondered in a detached way if he could get her to give him a refresher course. Then his thoughts derailed at the shock of what she said next.

"Deanna is so. . . she has it all, and even if he's not doing anything to help her, he is. He's supporting her. He believes in her. And there's nothing Jean-Luc Picard can't do, if he believes he can, including making his lover his own first officer! He's rearranging his life to meet her needs, and she's doing the same for him, and it's all balancing out -- and when the trouble hits they don't even waver, they just tough it out and sail right on through it! He pulled strings at the beginning to get the opportunity to try it, and he's proving that he can do it, that she can, and you know that if it comes to a place where they aren't allowed to continue, they're both willing to just drop out and go their merry way together?"

Tom gaped a moment and closed his mouth. He'd expected more personal angst, not this. His eyes continued to follow her restless movements around his quarters.

"He's changed over the years, you know? I've always known he was the sensitive sort under the stoic captain's armor. But I never thought I'd hear him admit that he wanted *kids*! You should've seen how uncomfortable he was that first year aboard the D -- he dumped the whole family thing in Riker's lap, lock stock and barrel, and wanted nothing to do with it. It's her -- she's been his counselor all those years, and the things she knows about him, that he never told me -- "

It hit her then, the awareness of how she ran on, and she stood in front of the viewports hugging herself, a stifled sob barely reaching his ears. Still, he waited, forcing his body into keeping its relaxed posture. She wasn't done yet. Nothing like growing up the only male in a house full of women to teach a man that lesson. The reprieve was welcome -- he already sorted through her words, assimilating the information and dealing with it. The past, in these most personal matters, should have no effect on his dealings with Picard. He'd been sworn to secrecy, after all.

"We used to eat breakfast together," she murmured. "Used to go to concerts. I directed plays on board, and even though he never played a part in any of them, he'd come. He'd suggest things -- he loves Shakespeare. He likes those old pulp mystery novels, even has some of them programmed into the holodeck so he can play private detective. I knew him so well in so many ways. But it never evolved into anything more. And now it's like I hardly know him at all, or her -- she and I were the best of friends, doing exercise classes together and indulging in facials and all those female things men can't figure out. We still do some of them when we can. But there's a wall now, and they're behind it together, and here I am, looking at the blank backside of all their shared secrets. And I can't help wondering what would have happened if I'd never left the *Enterprise.* She was afraid because she knew he and I were close. She didn't want to approach him because of me."

"If you could undo it, go back to before you left, would you still leave -- knowing what you know now?"

She turned around slowly and dropped her hands to her sides. Whether her posture was defensive or she was poised on the verge of flight, she held herself ready for it. "You ask yourself questions like that too, don't you?"

"All the time. I had a girlfriend on board once -- I wasn't brave about it. She was a lieutenant, down in sciences. I thought it was safe. We kept it quiet, and eventually she got tired of being 'strung along' as she called it, and transferred off." He smiled, the tight sort of expression one wore to hide a more vehement reaction. "I wonder sometimes what might have been, if I'd had the courage to love her. We command types get good at it. Care just enough to come together temporarily, but not enough to stay together. I think Command was pretty clueless you know? They actually let Jean-Luc try. Now that it's working, everyone in the fleet sees it can work, and everyone's looking at their own lives and saying 'why didn't I think of that? Why can't I have that?' A pebble in a pond, and the tidal wave is imminent. You can bet we'll hear about more bridge officers playing house. But that doesn't answer the question, I guess -- would you have left, if you'd known what would happen?"

Beverly crossed her arms again. "You know, I think I would. It was obvious how she felt. To me it was, anyway. I'm her best friend. I just didn't think she'd do anything and that it would pass, like infatuations do. You know. . . you're not going to repeat this to anyone? You swear you're not?"

"Want me to write it in blood? You've come this far."

The emotions were starting to unwind themselves from the tight knot she'd tied them in, probably for months on end. Tom knew what that was like. Though he didn't have knots at the moment, he'd had them before. He watched her spin in circles, half-pacing, half-whirling around the words tumbling out of her mouth, flinging her arms occasionally to make her point.

"This is going to sound bad. Deanna was in love with Will Riker, once upon a time, a very long time ago. She wouldn't let him get anywhere with her when they were both assigned to the *Enterprise* -- quoted professionalism as her reason. About six months before I left, Will tried again, and she rebuffed him. He got nowhere with her because she had a thing for Jean-Luc. I got nowhere with Jean-Luc. . . we were comfortable with each other, I guess, and that seemed like enough. With everything that's happened, with the fleet going militaristic, I guess I had this fantasy all built up in my mind that since we were all going our separate ways and he was thinking about retiring anyway that he and I could just go together, you know? Just slip off into a comfortable relationship from a comfortable friendship. He stonewalled me. I lost it. Everything was *gone* -- Will was gone, Worf gone, Geordi talked about a few possibilities, Deanna walked around hiding this awful haunted expression behind her professional counselor's mask, and Jean-Luc looked like death warmed over every morning."

Tom watched her spinning slow to a halt. Her hands over her face for a moment, she collected herself, probably reining in the tears he'd heard gathering in her voice. Here was the heart of all of it, the loneliness of losing what had apparently been a network of relationships that had become family. It reminded him, for the first time in years, of how he'd felt going off to the Academy, and then going into space. Having four sisters had been maddening and he'd wanted out of their shadow all his life, but once he'd gotten his way, he'd missed it acutely. But the family had been there when he returned on leave -- he'd send one note to his mother, and his sisters would come from wherever they were, on dance tours or artist retreats, to meet him on the front porch at home with laughter and hugs. Beverly didn't have that, even. It sounded like the romantic triangle -- quadrangle? Rectangle? -- had set up uncomfortable vibes in the group.

She laughed, breathless and disdainful. Head back, she hugged herself again. "I screamed at him -- I knew it was hurting him and I just kept screaming. And then I left, and I didn't talk to him again unless I absolutely had to, and a week later I was off the ship. I can't believe how juvenile I was. I cut and run like a stupid teenager in over her head. And he just let me go. He didn't come after me, or send me a message. He let me go without a word. No 'doctor, you're a fine officer, please reconsider.' I really knew then that I'd hurt him too much to go back."

"Beverly," he whispered, trying to throw her a line before she went cascading into all-out sobs. She pivoted on a heel, looking at him like a wild creature on the verge of fleeing. The storm clouds gathering in her eyes were all too obvious. Self-incrimination, blame, regret, and all of it kept under tight wraps for too long. He'd caught her in time.

They stared at each other for a while until she settled, flat-footed again and arms loosening to lay along her sides. He smiled gently and tilted his head. "The amazing thing is that the four of you appear to be friends in spite of it."

"That's their fault. Jean-Luc and Deanna. They went to extraordinary lengths to placate Will, and Jean-Luc came to talk to me. How could I be angry or petty when he was so obviously determined to preserve the friendships at stake? How could I not accept them, when they're so -- " She returned finally to the sofa, tucking her leg beneath her and draping her head along the back cushion, arms still crossed tightly. The posture reminded him of his sister Chloe, who had used him as confidant many times in her adolescence.

"I can't believe how well it works. I can't believe how happy she is. The light in her eyes -- the energy he has." Beverly pursed her lips and looked at him with sober blue eyes. "He told me he's keeping the ship because he can have it all, with her. I'm so happy for them, it's so wonderful to see them that way and they deserve every bit of it -- and yet when I get back to my quarters and look at my mementos and the way it all was, with Jack at first and then Wesley, and then with such wonderful, wonderful friends aboard the *Enterprise* for those years that I wouldn't trade for anything, and then I go to bed knowing that I have to get up in the morning and go to a sickbay full of people I've only worked with for a year who don't know me well enough yet to really let go and joke around with -- I've had it all before. I've been there and done that. Being with Deanna hurts and she knows it does, and she respects my right to choose to bear with it and be with them when I can -- but she reminds me of what can be. She reminds me of marriage, and love, and good, good friends. The things I miss. The things I may never find again. I'm so *tired* of the loneliness. I'm so tired of. . . of missing out."

At least the tears were slow and her voice relatively unaffected -- she wasn't sobbing her eyes out. But her woe struck a chord in him, more than he thought it would. Tom sighed and stroked his beard -- a nervous habit he'd been trying to kick. Stroking the goatee wasn't as effective as Riker's full beard gesture. "Have you talked to them about this, like this? Obviously not -- what am I saying? But they have to know something's not quite right, and they *are* still your friends."

"What can they do? I've talked to Dee, a little bit. I think she guesses more than I've said. I almost went to the counselor on the *Valiant* -- but you know what? I just couldn't do it. I've always talked to Dee. She's always been *the* counselor for me, and I'd only gone to her on a professional basis for yearly exams. We always talked things out as friends well enough. After that, I couldn't bring myself to talk to a stranger about things that personal. And I can't really talk to Deanna about it. God -- I don't want to give her any more pain. You don't know -- they look so tired sometimes, over subspace and the few times in person. When Dee almost died on an away mission I thought he was dying along with her. He didn't sleep. He went down to sickbay when he came off shift and went right back on duty the next morning, for two days, until she woke up after we finished putting her back together. And then while she recovered, he was there, showing up for physical therapy and sickbay appointments, somehow managing to juggle his schedule around her.  All the people asking them question after question about how it works, the curiosity everyone has about the two of them, the missions, the danger -- I don't understand how they do it, and I probably know better than anyone because Jean-Luc talked to me about it for a while once. But it kills me to watch them -- it *kills* me that after all the stress and the fear and the pain they can look at each other and suddenly everything's -- "

Her eyes shifted from glazed-over thoughtfulness to startled terror. "I shouldn't be doing this," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

Tom blocked her, standing swiftly as she did, and she bounced off him bodily, putting her hands to her temples. Taking her hand or touching her in any way wasn't comfortable; he really didn't know her well enough to dare, and the way she hugged herself told him it wouldn't be welcome. Crossing his arms, he tried to catch her eye with his.

"You needed to talk. I told you -- but then, it's not easy to believe everything you hear, is it?" He smiled sadly. "Tell you what -- sit down and let me get you some wine. I'll tell you something to even up the balance. I'll tell you something that could get me in serious trouble with Deanna, and probably in dutch with Command into the bargain. You're a doctor, you've sworn an oath, and I can trust you. Right?"

A smile wandered faintly across her face. She let him get her a chablis, and sat down again. He sipped his own and put it on the coffee table. "The first time I ever met Deanna Troi, I was in a back room of a bar on Rigel. Admiral Gaines was there. Bellamy, Picard and Shelby too. Gaines had informed Craig and I that we were to go along with whatever he and Picard said, and that it was absolutely necessary that we cooperate while behaving as naturally as possible. As it turned out, the whole reason Picard showed up at all was so Deanna could be there and not seem out of place. He let us rake him over the coals about fraternizing with an officer, just to get into Shelby's head and get her to admit she'd been doing it, too. With a man who'd died, for whom she wasn't allowing herself to grieve -- it started to affect her work. I'm under a death threat from Deanna not to tell anyone that. It worked, believe it or not, and evidently the patient is doing well -- her ship's out here somewhere, after all." He pointed at the viewports over their heads.

"Dee's had some creative solutions before." Beverly smiled fondly. "And she's had tough patients -- Jean-Luc had a few rough spots of his own."

"But that's not the whole of what I'm confessing, either." He paused. This could be dangerous. But she wasn't a naive giggling virgin, after all.

"At first, I was like Craig. I was thinking about Deanna as a potential target. I didn't know any better -- pretty stupid of me, but I didn't know Picard personally, or her. I came back here from that bar all hot and bothered by the idea of a Betazoid in a red dress so tight you'd think a molecule wouldn't fit between it and her skin. Craig probably went back to his ship the same way. It had both of us so worked up we roasted the hell out of Picard, after Deanna departed with Shelby and Gaines left. But I woke up the next morning with a slight hangover, and realized that he never flinched. He wasn't even drunk. He let us have at him, and then he went back to his ship, and got to spend the night with a woman who could tie knots in cherry stems with her tongue and outmaneuver a starship captain like Shelby. When I recognized that, it just about floored me. All the talk -- nothing. He doesn't even care. And if I found a brilliant, beautiful woman who showed as much devotion to me as Deanna does to him, I wouldn't give a tribble's ass what anyone else said, either."

She laughed. The last thing he expected, and the reaction was almost immediate -- she spilled her wine, leaning backward and holding her stomach. "I'm -- so -- sorry, Tom. That's so -- "

"Sentimental? Sorry, I didn't stop to label the idea. It's just my reaction to Picard's situation." Tom drank his wine and watched her recover.

"I was thinking it was an astute observation, actually, quite different than the usual 'lucky guy has a babe in his bed' reaction other male officers have had. And I was thinking about Craig commenting earlier tonight about cherries, and the look on Jean-Luc's face -- I finally get it. And mostly I was laughing at what you said -- tribbles don't have asses, Tom. For some reason, that hit me just the right way to push me over."

"Well, good, that'll save me the trouble of attempting impersonations of famous Starfleet captains to cheer you up before you leave, so no one will accuse me of driving you to depression." He stroked the beard on purpose this time. "Let's see -- secondary battle plan should include. . . cuddly Denebian slime devils? Purring targs? Maybe a few blushing L'norims or giggling Klingons. How about a grinning Vulcan? You know, there's a bar on Risa called the Grinning Vulcan. Has this great big picture of one too, right over the bar."

More laughter, but with more control this time. "You realize I worked with a Klingon and a Vulcan for years, don't you?"

"Hence the reference. Worf's famous, too. Met him once. Can't imagine the man doing much more than a grimace." She had a wonderful smile, when she was amused and relaxing. For a while he reveled in the expression on her face -- until he realized he could be construed as staring and impolite. Wagging his head, he studied his wine and thought about sitting on the beach in northwestern Oregon, in March. Cold enough to put a damper on himself, usually, except this time she turned up there, with the chilly wind coming off the gray Pacific breakers blowing in her hair.

"You look tired, Tom. I should go."

"If you want," he said softly, not raising his eyes.

He heard the quickly-stifled gasp and wondered what it meant, exactly. She touched his arm, then her shadow moved off. When he estimated she'd reached the limit of the door sensor's range, he cleared his throat. "Jean-Luc invited some of us to dinner tomorrow. Just a few of us captains and first officers -- no pips. Escorts, if available. Would you like to come with me?"

It took too long. He glanced up at last to find her standing with her hands clasped across her stomach, studying him like an unknown, unexplained anomaly.

"Sorry. Guess that was pretty dumb of me, wasn't it?" He got up -- exhaustion dragged at him, worse than just a few minutes ago. All the wine, probably, and dispelling the effect of the synthahol wasn't worth the effort. In fact, that bottle of tequila sounded like a pretty good idea.

He reached the table and took the tequila in one hand, hefting it as if testing its reality, and turned to find her right there, in his way.

"I'd already been invited, actually, but I'd like to go with you," she said.

"Oh." He paused, mouth open, and rolled his eyes. "Wasn't that brilliant? Beautiful woman agrees to dinner and all I can come up with is a single letter of the alphabet. Although technically it's a party and I really can't claim she's going just for my sake."

They were about the same height, he realized. She was uncomfortably close again, but moving meant bumping into the table or a chair. Had she intended to trap him this way? Tempting, so tempting, but after all she'd told him the thought of touching her was simply too daunting. It could be so easily misconstrued.

"Do you dance?" he blurted.

She backed away a few steps, inexplicably. "Yes. . . why do you ask?"

"You're just that graceful -- I thought you must be a good dancer. Mom forced all her kids to dance lessons -- me and all four of my older sisters. I hated them. I always had to dance with Cressida."

"What's a Cressida?" she asked, incredulous yet greatly amused.

"A blond girl who always ended up being my partner and who loved to yank my hair. If I let it get much longer than regulation it curls like no one's business, and when I annoyed her she'd just grab a big fistful and drag me around. I guess she took it personal that I was younger and shorter and always ended up standing on her toes." He snorted. "Oh, great, there we go -- I've given you more ammo to destroy my command image."

"That's okay, I know a lot about a couple other captains, and they're still on their ships. I thought -- it's just funny you asked. I was known for a while as the Dancing Doctor. Every now and then another person pops up who heard about it somehow and asks." She ducked her head and grinned. "Ever hear of the play 'Little Orphan Annie?' You could let your hair grow and play the lead -- she's supposed to have curly red hair, and with a little effort you could be at least a strawberry blond without making it too obvious you dyed it."

"No, thanks. I'll keep pretending I'm a captain, that's enough role playing for me." He looked down at the tequila. "Guess I should put this away until I really need it."

She was back, encroaching on his personal space again, a hand on his wrist. "Thank you, Tom. For everything -- I feel a lot better now. Thanks for letting me get all that off my chest."

"You're welcome. I'm honored that you trusted me with it. Other than a few hours of watching you across a crowded room, I really don't. . . aw, shit. I'm too out of practice with this. What is it with me? Sorry. I said I wouldn't hit on you and there I went, tripping the light fantastic on my way to making the attempt." He looked up and almost bumped noses with her. What was she doing?

Every muscle in his body stiffened at the touch of her lips on his cheek. Damn. He must've looked like a complete idiot as she stepped back, probably gone dead white and bug-eyed.

"Tom?"

"You're. . . . I'll call you, tomorrow. Time and where to meet, and all that. I can't -- you're beautiful, Beverly. I wish we had time. . . I wish I'd been lucky enough to know you, serve with you on the same ship." The shocked look on her face sunk in. "Oh, hell, I'm sorry, that wasn't -- "

"That's okay. I would've liked to get to know you, too -- there's nothing that says we can't do that now. If we're all out here on the zone anyway -- " She went slightly agog for a moment, then frowned. Then put her hand over her eyes in an unmistakable gesture of woe. Nothing else for it, then. He took her by the elbow and pulled her into his arms, imagining his weepy sister Chloe in her stead.

At least while she sobbed it did away with sexual tension -- nothing like a weeping woman to do that to you. "It's all right, Bevvy. It'll be all right." She stiffened at the sudden use of a nickname, and of course she would -- he'd picked the one of the more natural short forms of her name, and probably it was used a lot by other people over the years. "Sorry. I'm really not drunk and losing it -- another stupid thing for me to say. You've probably got memories with other people who used that one. How about Verly? That one taken?"

A loopy giggle surprised him. "Where did you come from?"

"A little town in the middle of nowhere called Vernonia. Near Portland, Oregon, North America, Earth, sector zero zero one, the green and blue marble hanging between Venus and Mars -- "

"I know where the planet is, Tom, I've been there. I mean where have you been? How do you know just how to rescue me from drowning in my own tears?"

"Mmmm. Four sisters, one mother, two aunts, a grandmother, and a series of foster sisters -- followed by a long series of girlfriends. You know, it really got depressing, being the youngest and male, and having the prettiest hair. Every single time someone got a new makeup kit or something, they'd tie poor Tom down and have some fun. Until I got to be about seven and I could run fast enough to get away from Chloe. Then I learned the magnificent art of mud-making, and got even."

"And you joined Starfleet to become a chest-pounding man, to counter all the feminine influence in your life?"

"Nope. I figured if they ever tried to get me with their makeup kit again, having a few torpedoes at my disposal wouldn't hurt. I also figured they couldn't pick the lock on my quarters with their nail files, the way they always did my bedroom door. We didn't have a house computer back home."

She'd had her arms curled up against his chest, but she put them around him, surprising him into silence. Her perfume reminded him of the greenhouses at home, in spring, with the gardenias in bloom. Nice having a woman in his arms again, a slender, warm presence with just enough curve in the right spots and soft, soft skin --

"Lovely Beverly," he murmured. "Lovely Verly. . . loverly?"

She was crying, again, quite unaccountably. Her body shook in his arms. He waited it out, letting the storm pass, and let go when she backed away. "Sorry. It's been. . . so long. This is too much, too fast -- I can't deal with it. My head's spinning, I'm tired, and it would be so easy. . . ."

"Go back to your ship and sleep, Beverly. We'll talk tomorrow. Around lunchtime? Wouldn't want to interrupt your schedule -- and mine's not looking too wonderful, either."

She turned and lurched to a halt. Head bowed, she waited, apparently deep in thought. "I can't. I don't want to go -- I don't want to be -- "

"Alone? Doesn't sound like a lot of fun to me either, actually."

"It's just so nice to have someone -- you're so easy to talk to, and I haven't really laughed in so long."

"I promised I wouldn't hit on you, so fill in your favorite line here. Though something tells me you'd feel like I took advantage of you, if. . . . You can have the bed, or the couch, if you want. They're about the same so far as comfort goes."

She laughed curtly. "And you'd have the benefit of having your crew think -- "

"I don't care. I was thinking more in terms of -- "

"I'm sorry. I knew better. I'm so stupid, Tom, I'm sorry."

She was nervous, the tension in her posture obvious. He crossed the short distance between them and took her by the shoulders, shaking her back and forth gently. "Get a grip, already. It's entirely up to you, Beverly. I'd be perfectly content with you doing anything you want. Intellectually speaking, that is. Certain other aspects of the various options available will make for a really long sleepless night."

"I can't stay here," she whispered. "I can't go. But I can't stay here."

"I'm not saying a word. Not a word. No coercion from this mouth."

"Good night, Tom. Thanks for everything -- I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He opened his hands and left them hanging in midair as she walked away from him and out the door without looking back. He looked at the empty wine glasses and then at his right hand. "Well, babe, guess it's just you and me." Then he looked around the empty room. "Shit -- I can't believe I just said that. I can't believe I'm talking to myself, either. And not even drunk -- "

He picked up the tequila again. Humming, he sauntered into the bedroom, thinking of holding Beverly close, trying to commit the sensation to memory just in case it never happened again.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Jean-Luc sat down in the officer's mess and began to eat, hardly tasting the salad. He remained in his ready room, for all intents and purposes; he'd left the bridge to get away from dire prognostications and couldn't quite manage it yet. Loosely-formed recommendations swirled through his mind during hypothetical conversations with Nechayev. The approaching conflict wouldn't be a simple one-mission job.

Carlisle and his wife were the only other people present, and they sat at the opposite end of the room near the replicator, talking quietly. It was late for lunch, and others had come and gone already. Ward and Cecily greeted Deanna when she came in and got her food. Jean-Luc resisted the impulse to rise and greet her affectionately as he did within the confines of their quarters, instead trading smiles across the table as she settled in front of him. She met his eyes briefly and brought him across to her, in the silent heart-to-heart exchange they used in public, but she looked away too quickly for his liking.

"I see you've chewed up another ensign," she said blandly, glancing at the padd she had sitting on the edge of her tray. "She has an appointment with me day after tomorrow. Probably to talk about it. You could save me the effort later by telling me if she deserved it."

"She's been on report twice, and you know Geordi doesn't write people up for no good reason. I walked into engineering and caught her primping, using her reflection in the antimatter containment readout to do it. She had a yellow light on her panel. Logs said it'd been yellow for a good five minutes. If we had been doing anything other than idling along in orbit, we could have had a containment field failure and -- "

"Point taken. I simply wanted to know the facts before I got down to the business of helping her see the cause and effect of her actions." She ate, paying more attention to her food than she had to. He watched her put bites of squash in her mouth. Fascinating how she did that without smudging her lipstick.

{Eat, Jean. You're staring again. Why do you stare at me when we've been together for a year?}

{Because I'm still infatuated with you, ma petite.} He stabbed his salad at random. "Did you notice Beverly left with Tom last night?" he asked softly.

Instead of smiling, she pursed her lips and contemplated a limp green vegetable he couldn't identify. "Yes. I noticed."

"Something wrong with that?"

"No. I think we should stay out of her business."

"I just thought it was interesting. Tom's a good fellow. I know she's been lonely -- "

"Leave it be." Deanna put down her fork slowly. "Jean, I love her, too. I know exactly how she feels, believe me, and it breaks my heart. She loves her work but when she's not on duty she has to face a more personal kind of reality -- she's lonely. She misses Wes, and she misses the way it was before when we were all together on the *Enterprise.* If something happens between her and Tom, I'll be happy for her, but. . . ."

They ate in silence until the Carlisles left the room at last. "But you think nothing will."

"She loved you. You approached her, and she backed away. And when she got the courage to come forward, she got hurt. It's going to be hard for her to overcome the fear of rejection again, and she refuses to talk to me or anyone else about it."

"Dee, what happened between her and I -- " He rested his elbows on the table and picked words carefully. "It wasn't what you think. Not some wild lover's quarrel. The way she came across wasn't passionate. She simply expected it to happen, and I was. . . shocked. I think that's what hurt her the most. The shock."

"Jean." Deanna looked up at him finally. "She's doing her best. Don't think that you're the reason she's sad, because what happened between you and her was really just one of the symptoms of a larger problem. Don't feel guilt. I realize now that the guilt I felt initially was unwarranted and that her situation was different than I'd thought. I hope Tom turns out to be good for her, honestly, but given her frame of mind I think it'll be hard for him to reach her. Plus, he's also one of those men who -- But it's none of our business, and I don't want to talk about this any more. Eat your lunch."

He shoved his plate away and tossed his napkin after it. "Men who what?"

"He has a reputation."

"Starship captains have those. It's a stereotype, actually."

Deanna pushed her food around haphazardly. "True. Reputations can exist, whether perpetuated or not -- you had a larger-than-life reputation, yourself. Of course, as you matured, yours was based mostly on conjecture -- but men like Tom and Craig have been known to keep their reputation in good standing the honest way."

"Conjecture?!"

She smiled faintly. He'd mostly abandoned posturing in front of her in private, but still, once in a while, the male ego asserted itself. "Relax, Jean, remember you're talking to the house empath. Swagger a little more quietly or you'll make me counter with statistical data."

Fuming, he refocused on the original topic. "You're insinuating that Tom is going to treat her like just another -- "

"It isn't -- our -- business," Deanna exclaimed in clipped tones, fixing her 'shut up and I mean it' glare on him. "You never interfered before. You let her do as she pleased, as you should."

"When you start to worry about her verbally it means something serious -- "

"I should know better than to vent to you about it, of all people. Enough -- don't. And don't think about talking to Tom about it. No noodges. Leave him alone."

He looked up at her, surprised. "I thought you didn't make a habit of mindreading."

"I don't. I just know you. You have this unfailingly chivalrous instinct that keeps you fussing after the welfare of the women in your life."

"And just what is a noodge?"

She sniffed, amused. "Malia's term for anyone who sticks their nose where it doesn't belong, with the intent to somehow better another person's life. She said her mother was a genuine noodger of long standing -- evidently Mama Malone would set up her daughters with likely young men without a qualm. That's how Malia met Ronnie."

"I wouldn't dream of interfering in Beverly's love life."

"Not even when you feel guilty that it's nonexistent?"

"I wish -- " The futility of it twisted inside him. "It wouldn't have worked, would it? We wouldn't have been suited to each other -- we were different people, that first tour of duty. You've changed that much, and so have I. The burrhog and the cygnet wouldn't have been able to live with each other." They'd unconsciously fallen into the same position -- arms crossed on the edge of the table in front of them, leaning forward slightly. He smiled a little at it. Deanna seemed to be studying her plate and didn't notice.

"We might have made it work, but it would have been very different than it is. You can't rewrite history and clip out the things you regret. Nice sentiment, thinking that you could have avoided hurting Beverly that way, but it's not reality. We shouldn't play the what-if game, Jean-Fish."

"Do you suppose her frame of mind has something to do with the fact that, out of all of us, she's the one who's already *had* a family?"

He almost expected a reproach. She considered it, though. "I think you're close. What was her relationship with Jack like?"

"They loved each other very much. It was beyond me how they tolerated the long separations, but Jack always came back from leave with this expression. . . . Hell. Probably the same one I wear, every morning on the way to the bridge." It reminded him of why, which was enough to distract him.

"Like the one you have now?"

He tried to glare at the smug mischief on her face. "Shut up."

"You're cute when you're so happy you can't manage to be embarrassed about it."

"I am not cute. Stop that. I'm bald, old, curmudgeonly -- "

"Strong, agile, remarkably good with your hands -- "

"Shut up, before I have to pull rank on you. All I need is for a bunch of officers to walk in and catch you gushing at me."

"I think you're more worried about them catching your reaction to it, but as you wish, Jean-Fish." She sighed and slumped in her chair, an unusual posture for her, but one that he'd seen before on rare occasions when she allowed herself to be weary. "She had Jack, and Wesley, and it was a standard Starfleet setup -- but she managed well. Losing Jack was difficult, but she recovered. There was that adjustment period after Wesley left for the Academy, and another when he left Starfleet at Dorvan -- the latter was harder for her than she admitted, I think."

"Definitely. We talked about it often. She had some difficulty understanding his motivations. I thought at times it bordered on obsession. Nothing like a son falling out of touch for months at a time to drive a mother insane. Didn't she ever come to you?"

"Not professionally, and we only talked about it a few times." Deanna tilted her head in bemusement. "Maybe she thought you could offer her more insight than I. Wesley was one of your mentors in the development of the kinder, gentler Papa Jean -- "

"Don't call me that, dammit!"

"Ooo, grouchy. The betting pool will be tipping the other way today."

"Betting pool?" The glare became real, this time.

"The one that cropped up after my jaunt across the zone. The goal is to determine whether or not you've gotten any lately. The winning bet is determined by your general demeanor during the course of the day."

"Oh, bloody *hell* -- I can't believe this!" He was on his feet before he finished the shout, then caught himself. "Or are you teasing me again?"

"Data tells me you were Captain Grumpy the whole two weeks I was gone. It's a problem, you know -- work you back up to optimum performance, get you accustomed to a routine indulgence of urges you spent years suppressing, and then deprive you of it for a while."

"So now every time I'm a little out of sorts -- tell me you're kidding, please, just to let me ignore this."

"Nope." She got up and put her dishes away. Sauntering around the table, she chastely kissed him on the cheek, rubbing the inside of his thigh at the same time. He grabbed at her arm, but she moved away easily. "See you at dinner, Jean-Fish."

"Dee, *why* do you do this to me?"

"You have a meeting with the handful of captains in our little armada in fifteen minutes, after which you have the remainder of the afternoon free. Which reminds me." She hesitated near the door, crossing her arms and half-turning to look at him. "You know, it's been a good two months since the last time you took me on a date of any kind. I realize we've been busy, but still, you're getting a little forgetful. I've scheduled a meeting for you with the ship's counselor to discuss your ailing relationship with your fiancee. I thought you might also take the opportunity to discuss deprivation, and its effect on your mental well-being. After all, sometimes temporary abstinence can make you appreciate what you've got all the more."

"So your suddenly becoming a zombie in the evening for the past three days straight was a calculated -- DEANNA!"

She was gone. He thought he heard a light giggle before the door closed behind her.

"Deanna," he exclaimed. Laughing in disbelief, he got rid of what was left of lunch and headed for the briefing room at a brisk walk. He couldn't blame her, really, he did deserve some chastisement -- and her chastisements could turn into quite the opposite, after an appropriate amount of penance.

And before he could begin thinking about the details of that, he settled at the briefing room table and turned his thoughts to work.

Not two minutes later, the door opened. Tom Glendenning came in -- probably one of the quietest captains Jean-Luc had ever met. When not fueled by alcohol and the presence of more boisterous officers, he seemed to settle into a more serious demeanor by default. He got along with everyone, it seemed, and managed to do it without the overt charisma of Will Riker. Since first meeting the man, Jean-Luc had revised his opinion of him for the better.

"You're early, Tom."

"Been an interesting morning. I thought I'd try to catch you beforehand." He sat at Jean-Luc's right hand, and his blue eyes had an odd look about them. "You've known Beverly Crusher for years, haven't you?"

"Yes. But you knew that. I don't know if I like the look you're giving me."

"I just want to know if she's a tease, or if she's just skittish. That's all."

"Merde," Jean-Luc grumbled, dropping his padd and putting palms to eyes, sliding them to his forehead and shaking his head slowly. "Why the hell are you involving me in this?"

"Because I don't have time for guesswork. And you would know. She was on your ship for years. You had to have some inkling of what she's like."

Inkling, indeed. "She's not a tease, and if she's skittish, it's understandable. Don't ever ask me anything like that again. And don't you dare treat her carelessly and hurt her, or you'll have some serious hell to pay."

Glendenning nodded soberly. "She's not someone I could do that to, Jean-Luc. But I'm getting some really mixed messages from her, and I feel like I'm dancing on eggshells trying to talk to her."

They measured each other for a long moment. He didn't seem insincere. But Deanna had been concerned -- should he trust her, or his perception of Tom? Not that it mattered. She'd string him up for interfering if he said anything more, one way or the other.

"She's an extraordinary woman, Jean-Luc," Tom said at last. "But you tend to find those, don't you?"

"What?" It came out with a little too much force.

Tom's face went carefully pleasant, a study in polite innocence. "You seem to find officers who excel in nearly every aspect. Deanna, after all, has surpassed anything I might have expected of someone who spent most of her career as a practicing psychologist. I didn't understand at first why you would take such risks with Deanna's career, and with yours, or how you could remain her commanding officer while she pursued advancement. I should have realized that you wouldn't have done so without being certain that her determination and capability matched yours. And now that I meet Beverly, I see that it continues true to pattern -- it shouldn't surprise me that your former CMO would show similar strength and sense of purpose. Not to command, but I could imagine she could achieve it, if she wished."

Another moment of mutual appraisal. Jean-Luc closed his eyes for a moment. "Just. . . one more thing. If you're certain -- if you know how she feels. . . don't back down easy. Don't force it, but don't let it go."

"Ah. Like holding a rose."

Dropping his hands, Jean-Luc appraised Glendenning anew. "A rose?"

"A real rose, with thorns. Fresh off the bush instead of the replicator. You pick it, and you can hold it barehanded, but if you hold it too tightly you feel the thorns. Too loose, and you drop it and knock off the petals." Glendenning smiled and rubbed his beard with a knuckle. "My family raises roses."

"Good metaphor," Jean-Luc said, turning as the door opened to admit Riker, followed closely by Shelby, both of them in full voice about battle strategy already.

~#~#~# ~#~#~

Tom let his thoughts wander in the end stages of the meeting, which consisted mainly of Riker and Shelby being competitive -- why the two constantly butted heads was a mystery to all but Picard, apparently, who sat looking at them, mildly annoyed but tolerant, as if watching two children fighting for dominance. Probably letting them duke it out now would prevent friction in the upcoming tense situations they'd be facing.

Beverly had been too nervous. Tom had stopped in sickbay on the *Valiant* -- definitely a side trip that had gotten some attention from his crew and Barregan's -- to find her finishing up one of her crew physicals. She'd looked perfectly natural until she'd seen him. Then the whole time they sat in her office talking, he'd gotten the impression she didn't care for his presence in her sickbay. The whole thing left him feeling used and confused. Where was the woman who'd thanked him warmly and kissed his cheek? Her words sounded fine, if one discounted the odd catch in her voice and her body language.

Skittish, all right. The one remaining question, from Beverly's confessions last night -- had Picard ever felt the same for her? Tom would guess that he had, just from the way Beverly had talked about it, and from the way Picard had offered advice.

Tom glanced at Riker. Deanna's former lover. Tom couldn't picture that; Deanna had such a close rapport with Picard that it was difficult to imagine her with anyone else. Casual lovers, maybe, but Beverly had hinted at more than that. If it was true, and Beverly and Picard had --

This would give him a headache. They didn't let it bother them; he shouldn't, either. It wasn't as if he didn't have his own set of unbelievable incidents in his past.

"Enough, Will," Picard rumbled at last, cutting into one of Riker's comebacks. "Elisabeth, give the man his balls back and let's end this meeting."

Scattered laughter -- the other captains in the group were mostly clueless, but Tom exchanged knowing glances with Craig, and grinned lazily at Shelby. She grinned back, with her sardonic twist of the lips, and cooled to a superior smirk as she turned to Riker. At the reception she hadn't flinched from Picard's presence, or from Deanna's, in spite of the dirty pool they'd played against her in that bar on Rigel. In fact, Shelby had chatted quite openly and almost warmly with the counselor. A testimony to Deanna's abilities, turning a hostile patient into a friend like that.

The group broke up quickly enough, though Riker lingered; Tom got an elbow in the side from Craig as they both went to toss cups in the recycler. "Hey, saw you leave with the redhead -- good job."

Tom raised an eyebrow and stared at Craig. "And who did you leave with? I'm surprised -- the famous Captain Casanova spent the whole evening flirting with women he had not a chance with. Or didn't you notice how bored Deanna looked?"

Craig gaped a few seconds, and a guffaw from Riker drew his attention briefly. "It could've happened."

"In your dreams, Bellamy," Riker said.

Riker? Picard ignored the whole exchange, apparently engrossed in his notes. Tom crossed his arms, wandered to the row of viewports, and watched the *Hancock* going by in a slightly-higher orbit.

"Well, it could've. What does Jean-Luc have that I don't?"

"Besides Deanna?"

The dynamics were interesting. Riker had poked fun at Jean-Luc plenty at the reception last night. Although -- Tom hadn't heard him mention Deanna once. All the jokes had been about age, male pattern baldness, battle tactics, old 'in' jokes from years of working together on the same ship -- nothing about the famous love life of Captain Picard. And now Riker became defensive. No angst about old lovers here.

"I had Christy hanging on every word -- better be careful, Riker," Bellamy exclaimed.

"Bell was so impressed she didn't bother to mention she hates being called Christy? I don't think so. Nice try." Riker smirked and glanced at Tom. "Guess the two of us will be riding point together."

"Should make for an interesting tour. I haven't been on an Intrepid class yet -- those bioneurals any good?"

"Response time's great, but it's a scramble in the heat of battle to replace burned out packs. We seem to be good at finding scenarios the eggheads at Utopia didn't imagine."

"The curse of the *Enterprise* will follow you, Will," Picard said. He didn't look up from the screen he was working at. "The unexpected dogs me everywhere."

"Speaking of which -- what happened on Zanzibar? Some archeological trip you took, but Dee hinted at more than that. She's being unusually mum about it for some reason."

"She hated the dirt. If you can picture her caked in a centimeter of red dust from head to toe, that's what she looked like a good portion of our stay."

Riker laughed, throwing back his head. He leaned back in his chair. "I'd have paid good money to see it. Got pictures?"

"Like I would be alive if I did. She swings a shovel too well." Picard turned off the monitor, threw a padd on the table, and relaxed in a posture similar to Riker's. "Not to mention she can hit a Romulan with a phaser shooting from the hip through a coat pocket."

"Not the Deanna I remember," Riker mused, then raised an eyebrow. "Romulan? I thought it was an archeological expedition."

"It was. I'm not terribly popular with the Empire, however, and they got wind of my vacation and tried to take advantage of it."

"Next time you go on vacation, invite me."

"Will, as much as I like you, the thought of having you along on my honeymoon doesn't appeal to me one iota." Picard rose, straightened his uniform, and eyed the younger man as he stood.

"I can't see why not," Bellamy said. "Maybe he'd protect you from Deanna."

Both Picard and Riker turned slow, disapproving stares on Bellamy, who staggered backward a step. Tom covered his mouth, stroking his beard to do so without seeming to, and tried not to laugh. Obvious who was part of the 'in' group and who wasn't.

"Well, hey, you make her sound dangerous -- phasers and Romulans, and war games, and -- "

"Bellamy, shut up while you're ahead," Tom said smoothly, watching his friend out of the corner of his eye. Riker's stance, more than Picard's, looked dangerous. Because Riker defended two close friends, Tom realized -- and Picard made a habit of not responding to insulting remarks about Deanna or his relationship to her.

Craig glared at Tom. "Until next time, captains." He swept from the room in his best captain's march.

"He's an old friend of yours, isn't he?" Riker asked, looking at Tom.

"Craig isn't this bad unless he's got something bugging him, and I'm afraid something's gotten him upside down and kicking. Sorry, Jean-Luc." Tom turned his back on the stars and ships outside. "I'm a little surprised you let him go on like that last night."

"Dee could have routed him without my help easily." Picard was proud of Deanna's abilities and showed it almost too often. It dared people to challenge him on it.

"I don't know," Riker said cautiously, leaning on the edge of the table; he tended to pose, that one. "She may have been waiting for you to say something."

"We're a little beyond tests, I think." Jean-Luc picked up his padd and tugged his jacket. As if on a silent cue, the three of them headed for the door. Picard assumed the lead, or perhaps Tom and Will gave it to him. Hard to tell.

Riker glanced at Tom, eyes laughing, then at Picard. "You think so? Are you forgetting who you're dealing with? The queen of the unexpected?"

Picard stopped short of the door. Tom saw the tension -- the man's body went from relaxed poise to duranium in seconds. "Damn," he muttered to himself.

Riker looked surprised. "Jean-Luc?"

"Computer, location of Counselor Troi," Picard exclaimed, a growing urgency in his tone.

"That's for me to know and you to find out, Captain Amnesia." The computer sounded perfectly normal if one discounted the wording.

Riker staggered backward, gaping, and Tom stepped back himself, eyeing the other two captains -- mostly Picard, who looked alarmed. "I forgot -- she's been hinting at me, she even -- Commander Data to the briefing room!"

The door opened almost immediately, and Data came in. "Sir?"

"Data, are you helping her?"

The android cocked his head. "To whom do you refer, and with what?"

"Computer, location of Deanna Troi!"

"None of your business, Captain Amnesia."

Picard jabbed a finger at his first officer. "You have to be helping her! How could she have rewritten the computer's responses?"

Data looked at Riker, who had collapsed against the wall laughing helplessly. He spoke over the noise. "Computer, location of Commander Troi."

"Commander Troi is in her quarters."

"It would appear she has only changed its response to you," Data said. "I find it unlikely that she would effect changes globally. Does this have something to do with your anniversary, perhaps?"

Picard gave the android a glare that might have seared the ridges off a Klingon's forehead. "You have the bridge, Commander, and notify tonight's guests that our dinner will be postponed until further notice." He swept out of the room without further delay.

"I didn't know they were married," Tom said blandly.

Data's yellow eyes appraised him calmly. "They are not. Today is the one year anniversary of the day their relationship transcended their friendship."

"Only you could manage to put it that tactfully," Riker exclaimed, pulling himself up. "The day the captain got laid the first time."

"No, that did not occur for another. . . in any case, it was an obvious transition."

"In what way? They're about the least obvious couple I've ever seen." Riker seemed unusually keen about this; it made Tom a little uncomfortable, but at the same time, curiosity reigned. If the android would cave in and explain it might make for an insight into the relationship that had the fleet talking all year.

"There is an observable difference -- his manner toward her changed overnight. Very difficult to quantify, or so I have found." The android paused. "Excuse me, sirs, but I do have the bridge."

Data preceded them and took the center seat. Tom followed Riker out, then across to the turbolift. Once inside one of the lift cars, Riker chuckled to himself and raised an eyebrow at Tom.

"How's Beverly? I didn't get a chance to talk to her much last night."

"Beverly? Fine. I think. How am I supposed to answer that, and why do I have the feeling I'm being tested? Are all of her former crewmates this protective?"

Another guffaw. "Sounds like Jean-Luc already got to you. No, she's quite capable of looking out for herself."

"Then why ask after her welfare, when I've just met her?"

It sobered Riker somewhat. "She's just not seeming herself lately. I've noticed some concerned looks from Deanna shooting Bev's way. You learn to pay attention to Deanna's concern. And I've talked to Bev myself, a few times in the last few months, and she's seemed. . . off."

"How far off?"

"Not far. Just sad, when she lets herself relax. She's her usual self when she's completely involved in conversations and such, but it's like she needs the distraction to keep her from thinking about whatever's bugging her." Riker scratched his chin. "You talk to her much?"

"I do talk to women once in a while, unlike many a lady's man I've met."

"Touche. How much. . . has she told you?"

Riker was tenacious, had to give him that. Tom wondered what would happen if he gave an incorrect response. "Are you referring, perhaps, to the interesting network of former relationships between herself and certain other members of the *Enterprise* crew? Perhaps inferring that it might be part of her problem?"

That gave Riker something to chew on for a few minutes. He leaned a shoulder against the side of the lift, arms crossed, posing again. "I'm worried about her, Tom. She's a good friend. I hate to see her look that sad."

"She's told me enough to terrify anyone without years of experience with Starfleet weirdness. I made the mistake of swearing myself to secrecy, not understanding the full extent of the problem. But she needed to let it all go. On the one hand, I can see how it all happened, quite clearly. Working together for years, getting to know one another so well -- if Starfleet really wanted us not to indulge in fraternization, they'd limit the amount of time a person can serve aboard a ship and keep us rotating."

"But on the other hand?"

Tom studied the man -- Riker must be about his age, he guessed, possibly a little younger. A few grey hairs in the beard, the general appearance of a man who kept himself in fighting trim but had lost the lean look of youth. "On the other hand, I'm not quite sure I should be telling you anything, because I'm not sure I understand it well enough to know how much *you* know."

Riker put a hand to his forehead in a rare gesture of consternation. "If she spilled her guts to -- Normally she'd go to -- damn, why didn't I see that? Of course she wouldn't talk to Dee. Or Jean-Luc. You must think you walked into the middle of the biggest tangled-up mess of relationships in the galaxy."

"I have four knockout sisters and we lived in a small town, so actually the mess seems vaguely familiar."

As the lift spat them out on deck nine, Riker laughed -- he had a voice that carried and seemed to ring in the deck plates. "I guess it might at that."

"I get the feeling you find the whole idea of Deanna and Jean-Luc a little unbelievable."

"You wouldn't understand why, I suppose. You didn't know them before -- Deanna's become a different person, in a lot of ways. The whole command thing threw some of us for a loop. I guess it's always been there, though. Beverly's fault -- Bev took the bridge test at one point and challenged Dee to do it."

"Beverly, too?"

"Sure. Guess she wouldn't brag about that, would she? Probably hasn't mentioned the bat'leth lessons from Worf, either."

"I'm sure there are a lot of things she hasn't mentioned," Tom said. He wondered why such an odd look ran across Riker's face before the man turned away. Then again, given what he'd already heard, he probably was better off not knowing.

They reached the transporter room. He let Riker go first, then instructed the L'norim at the console to send him to the *Valiant* instead of the *Phoenix.*

The *Valiant*'s transporter attendant, a different one than last time, was startled to see him. "Captain Barregan's on the starbase, sir, but I could -- "

"That won't be necessary, Lieutenant, thank you. Just visiting a friend." Tom headed for sickbay.

Beverly was even more startled to see him the second time. Her staff seemed surprised as well, and one of the nurses looked at her slyly. She marched past him toward her office and he followed, unruffled by her stiffness -- now that he knew more about the emotional terrain, he could walk easier.

"Before you speak a word, I'd like to apologize," he said as the door closed behind him.

There. Nothing like an apology to get a woman's attention. She stopped in mid-word, mouth open and eyes wide, standing behind her desk but not sitting down. He spent the seconds studying the woman in the uniform once again; she looked good, even though black and grey weren't her colors. The blue of the collar helped.

"Apologize?" she managed at last.

"It was a little startling to find you so nervous when I showed up unannounced earlier -- all I wanted to do was apologize in person for being late in contacting you as I'd promised last night. I thought for a while that I must've read you wrong. I realize now that maybe you were unsure of where exactly to go from here, because what happened between us wasn't what you could call a date. That, and the fact that you opened up based on the presumption that you wouldn't see me again, then I turn around and ask you out. In retrospect that probably wasn't fair of me to do, but I did try to even us up. You probably woke up this morning wondering what the hell was wrong with you for dumping all that on someone you'd just met."

Her eyes darting away from him and slight color in her cheeks told him he was right. He leaned against the end of her desk, turned slightly away from her in hopes of being less confrontational. "It's all right, Beverly. Unusual is part of the job when you're in Starfleet. After all those years together living in a bottle it gets tough to avoid weird interpersonal scenarios. I've had a few myself."

The warmth in her eyes was back -- it hadn't been his imagination, or the surreal quality of last night. Her half-nervous, half-relieved laugh reassured, too. "I'm sorry, you're right -- it really hit me hard this morning. Thank you for understanding that -- I must have sounded absolutely incoherent last night. When you showed up today. . . I thought I wouldn't be hearing from you again. Even after you asked me to the dinner. I thought you'd wake up and realize the same thing I did, that I'd -- "

"Stop it. You weren't incoherent. I confess that I don't understand everything you said, but that didn't matter, and it doesn't matter. You got it out of you. You needed to, and from what little I did understand, your closest friends are the last people you'd talk to about it. I just got out of a meeting with Picard and Riker. I see how you're all on good terms with each other in spite of everything. You have some good friends, which means that you're a good friend, and that tells me you're definitely someone I'd like to know better."

She dropped her gaze and for a moment they stood in silence. If he reached out, he could touch her. Her hand rested on the desk just behind him; he could hold it. Twisting slightly, he touched her chin, just enough to turn her head and make her look at him.

"We're going to the starbase instead, tonight. I'd like to set the record straight, unconfuse things, get us off on the right foot. If that's all right?"

"But what about the dinner?"

"Oh, well -- someone forgot an anniversary. The dinner's been postponed until we know whether or not he lives to tell about it."

~#~#~#~#~#~

Jean-Luc entered his quarters with the wariness of someone entering a lematya's den. The lights should have come on. They didn't, even when he ordered them to.

"Dee? Cherie, please -- forgive me, Deebird, you know how it's been -- "

The bedroom was empty. In the faint starlight, when his eyes adjusted, he saw the communicator on the table and her uniform draped over the back of a chair. He sighed -- Maman had told him there would be days like this.

"Computer, give me the location of Betazoid life signs on board."

"There are no Betazoid life signs on board the *Enterprise.*"

He almost assumed that she'd left the ship, but questioned the supposition immediately. "Give me a current breakdown of all life forms on the ship, identification and quantity."

"Human, eight hundred and twenty-four. L'norim, ten. Vulcan, four. Andorian, three. Bolian, two. Sulamid, one. Chocoholic, one." The numbers were skewed by leave and visitors, but the telling detail was there. Damn her! She'd gotten too good at working with the computer.

"Location of the chocoholic."

"Commander Troi is in holodeck two." With that, the lights came on.

"Computer, what program are you currently running involving the captain?"

"There is no program in progress involving Captain Picard."

"What was the last program run that involved the captain?"

"Program Troi-57C aka Captain's Goat is completed and terminated as of fourteen hundred hours, twenty-four minutes."

At least there was that. Of course, she'd know he'd be more than annoyed if she got too carried away with it. The lights coming on were probably her way of signaling the end of the subroutine and his having solved the little puzzle she'd set for him.

No one interrupted his march for deck five -- a few even shied out of the way, apparently startled by the sight of a determined and preoccupied captain. The holodeck opened at his approach and the door sighed closed behind him; the privacy lock engaged and the arch vanished even though he'd done nothing.

It took a moment to recognize the forest as the woods behind the chateau. Once that realization was made, he knew exactly where to look. He ran through the trees and found the old oak, and there she was, sitting in the treehouse looking down through the leaves. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, her white peasant's dress bunched in her lap, her knees peeking out as she sat cross-legged on the boards. The way she looked down her nose at him from under her thick black lashes said it all.

He took a moment to center himself and deal with the trepidation. "I'm sorry, cherie. I did know. I even thought about it several times last month. I had every intention. . . . I have no excuse."

She lowered her head and smiled faintly, then scooted over. Taking it to be an invitation, he climbed the easy sloping trunk and crawled up on the board platform. It was too small for two adults, really. Not that he cared. She caught his shoulder before he could sit up, pulled him around, and put his head in her lap. Turning on his back, he looked up at her and crossed his arms across his chest.

"It's really been a year," he murmured. "A whole year since I took a chance at making a complete fool of myself."

She smiled and covered his hand with one of her own. "Since you scared me to death, you mean. I didn't know how seriously to take you. I did, but I didn't."

"You're not going to make me really suffer for forgetting?"

"I couldn't -- not today, at least. I'd prefer to keep anniversaries memorable in a more pleasant fashion."

"I postponed the dinner party. Is that worth something, at least?"

"How did the meeting go?"

"Well as could be expected. When we move out to counter the Romulan fleet next week, we'll have a well-coordinated fleet of our own. If Shelby will back off Riker's ego for a while." Jean-Luc trapped her fingers between his and brought her hand to his lips briefly. "Thanks to the Raven's skilled intelligence work, the odds are in our favor, for once."

"The credit should go in equal measure to those who sent us the information leading to the mission, for laying in the groundwork so well." She thumped his forehead with her thumb. "What are you smug about? It feels like a blip on a sensor scan."

"Tom. He's going to do just fine, I think."

She sat up straighter and glared at him. "Jean-Luc!"

"I didn't start it! He asked me if she was a tease or if she was just skittish. That's all. I didn't volunteer. . . ."

"You did."

"Just a little. Honest. Nothing damaging."

"Skittish, or a tease?"

"Skittish. I told him. . . that if he was sure of how she felt, he shouldn't back down too easy. That's all."

She looked at him for a long moment, with one of those impervious expressions he couldn't decipher, and sighed. "Noodge. That's what you are. You're nothing but a big, bald noodge!"

"But I love you."

"I warned you not to say anything! You would make a lousy counselor, Jean. Interfering in other people's lives is *not* right, no matter how good your intentions."

"But I love you."

She frowned but couldn't hold it long. Gripping his fingers, she giggled and shook her head slowly, her curls swaying across her shoulders. "The problem with being an empath is the inability to stay angry when your target is too busy trying to distract you with warm fuzzies and a hard-on."

"You're the one who put me here, with such a good view." He bumped a breast with his forehead to make the point. "This treehouse is too small and too hard, ma chere -- let's relocate, hmm?"

He had a hard time resisting the urge to catch her in his arms as they walked through the woods. Her smugness might have bothered him, if not for how aware he was of the body under the billowing folds of that dress --

She dodged his sudden attempt and ran, laughing and leaping over the low stone border of the chateau's back garden. He caught the back of the skirt as she made it to the back door. She twisted, wriggling out of the dress backward even as he tried to use it to pull her closer.

"Oh, hell," he growled at the sight of her. She hesitated in the open door, posing in the pale pink peignoir for a moment before resuming her flight into the house.

At the end of the hall his hand finally closed on her arm. She gasped and struggled against his arms, giggling breathlessly. "Jean," she blurted.

"Stop and look at me -- you've been avoiding my eyes, stop and look at me and let me in -- "

Her eyes came up, wide open at last, not veiled behind her lashes or darting away again as they'd done for days, and she stopped fighting. Heart fire raged at last, released from the fetters of her denial.

Her hands pulled at his uniform, wrestling in vain while he kissed her and tore at the flimsy thing she wore and carried her backward into the living room, stumbling against a cabinet, then a bookcase. The fire in the fireplace was lit, the windows dark, the lights off -- she'd borrowed heavily on his variations of the chateau, using a different one for the inclusion of the house and the fire. Except she'd added a large mattress in front of the hearth to the program. He laughed, dropping into it and pulling her down on top of him.

"No banged elbows this time, chere?"

She'd finally gotten his uniform undone, and her hands against his skin were electric and smooth at the same time, making the hair on his arms stand on end. How did she do that? After she pulled off the layers of jacket and shirt, he lay with his arms open, waiting and moving his legs obediently while she slipped off the rest of his clothing. Surrendering completely now might mean lighter penance tomorrow -- not that surrender was a bad thing.

Eyes closed, he lived on his nerve endings. Her hands roamed his body, sliding freely at first along his limbs then tightening on selected areas. When she reached the tops of his feet, her palms pressed down and ran slowly up his legs. They slid down at the knee and up the insides of his thighs; tensed, rising slightly, he willed himself to stay still and let her finish -- interrupting her when she felt this way wasn't wise. He could feel her emotions now as he did only when she allowed, only when they were able to concentrate so completely on each other. Her desire, her pleasure, remained tightly coiled in her control, and burned hotter as she caressed his body.

Something wet touched his stomach -- the muscles twitched at the sensation. Not her tongue. A cool trail circled his navel and ran in a spiral outward. Ah, *this* game -- he liked this better and better. He always got to reciprocate when she got playful this way, and she only did it when she was reasonably certain they wouldn't be interrupted. The prospect of a chocolate-covered captain rushing to the bridge daunted even her quirky sense of humor. He hoped she'd bribed Data to intercept any comm traffic he might get from an unsuspecting admiral trying to make casual conversation.

By the time she got down to the business of cleaning up her handiwork, his hands were knotted in the mattress. She'd given herself a lot of work to do, and she did it thoroughly, her mouth wandering along his skin, beginning at the knee and zigzagging up his thigh. Her tongue became the only point of contact. Every so often, she stopped and kissed his skin, sometimes twice. Her breath trickling along the inside of his thigh drove him to distraction. Occasionally she switched legs so that she finished both sides at the same time, more or less. She licked along the joining of thigh to hip, dragging the tip of her tongue along with excruciating slowness and lingering near, but not on, the one part of his anatomy he wanted so desperately for her to touch. Such warm, moist contact along his groin nearly sent the muscles into spasms. Digging his heels into the mattress, fingers clenching until his knuckles ached, he endured the same on the other hip. She'd put him off too long, burned too hot -- his breathing became rough and spastic. She panted too, between the long slow licks of what was likely the dark chocolate she claimed went so well with the taste of his skin.

She bent over him to take her time on his abdomen, wandering along the muscles and making them quiver all the more, moving up to his chest at last and lingering around the nipples. Her breasts brushed his stomach a few times, then his ribs as her lips reached his throat and her tongue traced the single line up to the underside of his jaw.

He opened his eyes and found her looking into them. Her face -- gods, he loved it when she looked at him like that. Curls falling around her face, she licked chocolate from her lips slowly, flames leaping in her eyes as her tongue moved to the upturned corner of her mouth. She put a hand on his chest, massaging with the heel of her hand, then leaned forward until her lips were within centimeters of his. Her breath on his face burned.

"You missed a spot," he rasped.

"I had a different flavor saved for it," she whispered. He felt her fingers close on his erection -- he grimaced, his back arched, and her name burst from his throat.

"What is it, Jean?" she purred. Her fingertip pressed lightly at the base, between his balls.

"Mercy," he gasped. "Please -- "

She descending on him, taking him into herself and pulling him into the fire with her completely. His eyes closed again, but he could see her eyes as if the image had burned itself in his retinas. Feral. Her body against his, skin sliding against skin, nipples against his chest, undid his white-knuckled fingers. When his hands found a thigh and a breast, she hissed and drove her hips against him -- white fire shot through him. Suddenly her tongue was in his mouth. Dark chocolate. Groaning, he returned her ferocity, burying his hand in her hair. She responded and demanded more attention, writhing under his touch eagerly.

She'd become less soft in recent months, having stepped up her physical regimen significantly. Now when his hands ran along her legs they met muscle rippling just under the skin, and her arms and even her hands had more strength in them. Caught up in passion, she became more of a wrestling partner than she'd been previously; the more fervent she became, the more it excited him. She moved to the side, and it wasn't clear whether she pulled him or he seconded the idea and rolled with her.

Her body rose to meet him. She managed to push against him and pull him into her at the same time, one of her heels pressing the small of his back along with her hand, her other hand resting lightly at the back of his neck with a finger twining in his hair. Strange combination of passion and tenderness that it was, it managed to typify her -- flexible, firm, slightly quirky, and loving.

"Love me," she breathed into his ear. It sounded like a request. He raised his head and found that the feral quality had been replaced by quivering need, her eyes dilated and pleading. Kissing her proved the change of mood; she'd gone soft and tentative.

Questioning the mood shift at this point seemed unwise. The fire between them remained, she still wanted, but seemed to need something more than the passion she'd showed initially. Smiling, he pulled his arm free of where it was pinned under her shoulders, kissed her again, and settled on his elbows with his hands on either side of her face.

"I love you, Deanna. Even if you confuse the hell out of me half the time, put your bras in my boots, hide my books, and do a thousand other little things to make me crazy -- I've loved every minute of it."

"Even the snoring?"

"What snoring?"

She smiled and touched his cheek. "I love you, Jean-Luc. Especially when you make me crazy. You challenge me to be a better person, in so many ways."

"By which you mean it would take a saint to put up with me."

"That, too. I love that you let me be whatever I please. As much as it angers you when people refer to me as the captain's woman, as much as you see that as taking away from my status as an officer in my own right -- there's a part of me that likes that identification. You wouldn't have picked just anyone, after all." Her fingers wandered down his brow, over his temple, and behind his ear.

"I was under the impression that the choice was mutual. I also think that, if either of us should feel flattered, it should be me -- I still wake up sometimes and find myself shocked by this warm, sensuous goddess who keeps wandering through my dreams at night and turning out to be real."

Her head rolled to the left, pushing her cheek into his palm, as the love lit her eyes and her hand moved to the other side of his face. "Happy anniversary, Jean Poisson, ma cher."

"Very, very happy, mon belle cygne -- happier still that ma petite will spend the next one as Madame Picard."

"Inside out," she whispered, stretching -- the movement beneath him reminded him of where they'd left off. The next kiss involved more tongue and rekindled the passion. Her other leg wrapped itself around his thighs while he applied himself to the task of pleasuring her and eventually losing himself in the resonance of a happy empath in the throes of orgasm. She abandoned herself to it, laughing wildly even while she trembled and convulsed around him and he quickened his pace, losing himself in his own climax with a shout and catching her to his chest while he plunged deep, crushing her in a fervent kiss while the fire roared in his ears and she shared his pleasure, her internal laughter wilder than before. Soaring joy, without equal, and made more joyous by her ability to magnify and echo the rapture.

The sensation of falling back into his body left him with a sated, reverberating pleasure. He pulled out of the kiss at last and looked down at her contented expression. Her eyes opened, searching his briefly as her smile broadened. She slid her foot up the back of his thigh. Her hands flat, she rubbed circles over his shoulder blades while he kissed her leisurely and tasted the slight salt of her skin, nibbling her neck.

"I reserved the holodeck for the next six hours, by the way," she murmured.

"Mmm, definitely a happy anniversary...."

~#~#~#~#~#~

"Captain!"

Tom hesitated as Deetz ran up to him. The second officer grinned a little at the sight of the captain in civvies, but returned to professional impartiality quickly. "Sir, I wanted to let you know that the level one diagnostic has been completed and -- "

"Do I look like I'm going to care right now, Deetz?"

"Well, no. . . the redhead again?"

"Good evening to you, Commander." Tom resumed his walk toward the lift.

The transporter attendant wore a variant of the same sly grin at the sight of him; it was the last thing he saw as the beam took him. Stepping off the pad on the starbase, he noticed groups of officers in the corridors around the transporters. Most of them paid no attention to him; a few from the *Phoenix* and others he didn't recognize glanced his way, probably *Valiant* crew who had seen him wandering the ship by himself twice that day.

He stopped in the first major junction of corridors, twirling the single rose he'd brought and meandering around the open area where people sat at tables eating -- this was one of the food courts around the base, where Starfleet personnel could find a variety of simple fare and a place to sit. Institutional, no ambiance, and reminiscent of the mess hall on his ship.

She got attention the instant she walked around the corner -- he noticed heads turning. She didn't see him right away, which was good. It gave him the chance to see her out of uniform at last and recover from it. Definitely a dancer, and definitely a cut above the norm. Her poise and unaffected manner were almost as stunning as her looks. She'd put her hair up again and wore a simple sleeveless dress, knee-length, teal with one of those neck bands that crossed at the collar bone. Unselfconscious and searching for him, she moved around the tables, her heels clicking quietly on the deck plating. Stilettos. Damn -- she had sheer black stockings, which only showed off her legs all the more.

He managed to appear to be just coming around one of the support pylons as she came near. She stopped in her tracks and smiled, then came the rest of the way and gestured at the rose. He handed it over without a word.

"Thank you." She frowned. "Thorns?"

"This desert rose is real, the only one on the bush or I'd have brought more. Might have a small ship, but there's still an arboretum. I took off the big thorns, but the little pricklies are still there. Just hold it gently and it won't bite." Taking her elbow lightly, he led her toward one of the corridors. "You look wonderful tonight."

"Thanks. I could say the same for you."

"Basic black works. It let me get through the mess outside the transporters without much notice, which I'm sure you didn't get away with regardless."

She looked around curiously as they walked. "I don't think I've been this way before. Where are we going?"

"I have a reservation at Level One, up top of the base. Great view. Big dance floor. I thought you could give me a refresher course, since I'm so out of practice."

"Really?" she exclaimed. "You dance? Even after your trauma with Cressida?"

He raised an eyebrow at her and guided her into a lift at the next junction.

Level One was where a lot of the official Starfleet functions on the base were held, but the rest of the time it was a restaurant. When they stepped out of the lift, a man in a simple white suit greeted them officiously and guided them to their table at once.

"Oh," she said, after being seated and turning to look out the viewports, which made up most of the walls and ceiling. Stars, and the black of space, all around them. And ships -- only two of them visible, the smallest of the gathered vessels, both Intrepid class. As if in deliberate counterpoint to the darkness of the view, the carpet and most other surfaces were a pale off-white with an occasional metallic gleam of bronze work.

"Precisely my reaction the first time I came here. So what would Verly like to feast on this evening?" He studied her neck as she turned to him, the curve and movement of tendons beneath her fair skin -- a graceful dancer's neck.

"I've never been here before -- what's good?"

"Everything." He shook himself a little. "I'm sorry, did you mean the food?"

"I was wondering when it would get around to that. What is it about the fourth pip that makes you captains such a lascivious lot?"

"When you get the pip and the vessel, you wake up the next morning and realize you've spent years diverting all that energy into the pursuit, and now that you've achieved the goal, you've still got the energy." He glanced up at the stars. "And then there aren't too many likely prospects out there to help you expend it."

"Don't tell Bellamy. The universe is his babefest."

"His standards are a lot looser than mine."

She still looked around, smiling a little, and finally settled her eyes on him. "You're telling me that if a blond in next to nothing walked up to you on a starbase and offered you whatever you wanted, you wouldn't take it?"

"What time frame are we talking about?"

"Time frame?"

"Pre or post?"

She blinked. "Clue me in, please."

"Pre-Beverly, or post?"

Her eyes and her mouth opened. "You're being a little -- "

"It's allowable to suspend the side trips down the alleys while investigating a promising avenue, isn't it?"

"I. . . suppose." She looked away, her eyes disappearing behind their lids. "It's just nerve-wracking to think about the probabilities."

"Life's a gamble. Any more, it's just a matter of finding as much certainty as you can, and hoping for the best with the rest."

The waiter returned and took their orders. She asked him to order for her, and when the waiter left again, Tom gestured at the dance floor. She looked confused.

"The dance floor is up there," he explained, pointing up the column in the center of the room. "You have to ride a lift to get there. They'll hold the food until we get back, if they have to."

They came out of the tiny lift to find they had the whole floor to themselves. A bank of one-way windows around the dance floor afforded a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the restaurant and the viewports. "Lucky us, it's early," he said, pulling her by the hand. "Two to tango?"

"A waltz to start, until we get more ambitious," Beverly said. "Where's the music?"

She'd said the magic word -- as she finished speaking, the computer voice spoke pleasantly out of midair. "Please state preferred dance style."

"That's Melody, the Level One AI. Hello, Melody."

"Good evening, Captain Glendenning. Nice to see you here again."

"Let's hear some waltzes. Start us out slow, okay?"

"Slow waltz, coming right up."

Beverly smiled, incredulous at the way he caught her in his arms and swung her into the waltz as the music began. "Thought you needed lessons."

"Any dumb cluck out of the Academy can waltz."

She moved like a professional; he matched her stance and smiled, noting the lights dimming until only the starlight on the silver flooring remained. Beverly noticed too and glanced around them as they moved in circles around the open floor.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

"Are we on the right foot yet, Beverly?"

Her eyes found his, and her steps slowed. "I think we are. Tom -- "

"Dance with me, Verly."

She smiled and nodded. The first waltz spun to a close and the next was more ambitious and upbeat. It took a little more effort to match her steps. She seemed to be losing herself in the movement, enjoying the dancing for its own sake, her arms loosening a little. Tom watched her face while she closed her eyes and followed his lead.

When he called for something suitable to a fox trot at the end of the second waltz, her eyes flew open. She followed right along into the steps, slow-slow-quick, turn, slow-slow-quick, and the tempo increased until they glided around the room, hardly moving above the waist as was proper for the dance type.

"You don't need lessons," she chided. "You're the best dancer I've run into in years."

"I hated this one, but it was the instructor's favorite. It's like riding a bicycle, you don't forget how. You pick the next one."

"What else can you do?"

"Challenge me and find out."

The canny smile she gave him sent his heart into a forward spiral. Melody amiably provided music for the mambo at Beverly's request, and predictably he ran right into her because he wasn't quick enough to change mid-stride. They recovered and were soon engrossed in a lesson, at his request.

The pneumatic sound of the lift brought their heads, and the lights, up. Deanna stepped out and froze. "Hi!"

Beverly laughed. "Good grief, how the hell did you get him up here? He hates dancing."

Jean-Luc had come out as well, standing behind Deanna. "I'm only allergic to dancing in uniform -- and besides, I'm doing penance. Is that supposed to be a mambo?"

"It's trying to be. You can't mambo -- can you?" Beverly seemed a little shell-shocked.

"Maybe we should go," Deanna said, half-turning.

"It's a public dance floor, you know," Tom said. "You're probably just the first of many. It may be an exclusive place, but we've got a lot of pips in orbit at the moment."

Jean-Luc said nothing, merely looked at Deanna with uncharacteristically-docile patience. Deanna seemed a little uncomfortable. She wore a strapless dress, not skin-tight but black and form-fitting with a flaring skirt that would lend itself well to dancing.

"You're sure it wouldn't be an intrusion?"

"I was about to ask if you wanted the place to yourself," Beverly said. "Tom said there was an anniversary -- I'm afraid to ask what kind."

Jean-Luc rolled his eyes; Deanna thumped his shoulder without looking back to check her aim. "Can we do something other than whatever this is?"

Tom grinned. "Melody, let's hear something more generic and less syncopated."

"Another waltz?" She sounded bored. Artificial intelligences could get that way. Melody wasn't the brightest AI he'd ever seen, but she knew music and dancing well enough that the basic requirements for a constant turnover of customers grew tiresome.

"Sure, why not?"

"I get tired of waltzes. How about a nice tango?"

Beverly laughed. "Now I see why AI hasn't made it onto starships yet. Play the waltz, please, Melody."

"If you insist. Just because I like you, Beverly."

The floor was big enough that ignoring one other couple wasn't hard. Deanna led her partner to the opposite end of the elliptical area as the music began.

Tom held Beverly a little closer this time. She added improvised steps -- an under-the-arm turn, then another in the opposite direction. He sniffed, adopted an overly-dramatic posture, and mimicked the foppish manner of a professional dancer he'd seen once when attending one of his sister's competitions.

"Oh, really," Beverly muttered, and spun about to fall into a dip. He caught her and yanked her upright into a spin. As she twirled to a halt her eyes went up and her face went from pleasure to shock. "Oh."

Following her gaze, Tom looked the length of the dance floor, which was easily the size of the exercise track in the gym on his ship, to see Jean-Luc and Deanna not-waltzing to the regular three-beat rhythm. They weren't even touching; both of them had closed their eyes, and both moved their feet in time to the somewhat sedate music and to each other. In perfect synchronization they balanced on the ball of one foot, raised an arm to spin under it, mirroring each other's movements with a degree of accuracy Tom had rarely seen in professional dancing circles. At the end of the turn they raised the other arm and turned the opposite direction, then took a step toward one another, again synchronized so well that instead of colliding they simply met, arms sliding into place at their waists and hands meeting without having to hunt for each other -- and their eyes were still shut.

And then they were waltzing. Their feet still moved in sync, and Deanna's head rested on his shoulder while they turned and glided along the floor in the starlight. Jean-Luc had the natural grace Tom would've expected; he always moved with controlled composure as a matter of course. Picard would've been an excellent dancer, if he'd applied himself, and judging from the way he whirled Deanna along, he was better than he would admit. His hand slid further around Deanna's waist, curving against the small of her back. They shouldn't have been able to dance so closely yet move so freely.

Tom looked at Beverly. "I don't know why you're surprised. It's all they ever do."

"What?" she blurted.

"Make up their own steps, and shut everything else out completely."

Beverly stared at him a moment, glanced at the other couple, and suddenly a quiet grumble sent her hand to her stomach. "The voice of the gastrointestinal system."

"Let's go get something to eat. It's probably ready by now."

He slipped his arm around her waist on the way to the lift, smiling when she moved a little closer to him as a result. It was the most natural thing in the world to turn his head and kiss her while they rode down to the restaurant. Softly, gently, and the touch of her hand on his face was encouraging and blissfully welcome. He moved to hold her but the doors opened and interrupted them.

Her hand curled around his arm, she walked close and hesitated when they reached their table, looking in his eyes. "I wish we'd done this last night."

"That's all right. Something tells me you would have been too wound up if we'd tried. Don't keep looking back, Verly. Always looking backward at where we've been makes us trip a lot, and you deserve better than to spend your time playing the hindsight game."

She reminded him of a deer, briefly, startled wide-eyed by the comment. He pulled out her chair and seated her, and as he settled across the table he noticed her glancing up at the dance floor. She shrugged sheepishly when she noticed him looking at her.

"They don't show that side of them often. I guess I can understand why. But it's something of a miracle, you know?"

"That's the general consensus from what I hear. They're lucky, but they make their own luck. And from what little I've seen of him, it'd take a psychologist to decipher him. Me, I'm a simple guy." He gestured at the rose she'd left sitting on the table. The waiter must have put it in a bud vase for them in their absence. "I'm about as complicated as that flower. Closed or open, and pretty much the same regardless. I can wilt but a little water perks me up."

"You struck me as just being reserved, at first, but I think you can be complicated."

"You'll just have to find out, won't you?"

Dinner showed up. She dissected it neatly as a surgeon, of course, tucking in bites of foraiga and sipping spring wine. "You like Bajoran cuisine."

"We were in the area during the war. I learned to appreciate it. Even hasparet, though at times it upsets my stomach. Tell me what you like to do most, Beverly. If you could do anything at all in the next few hours, what would it be?"

She looked up from another forkful of foraiga. Contemplated him solemnly. Looked back at her food, and slowly smiled until his heart rate had doubled. "Don't worry, I think you'll figure that out."

~#~#~#~#~#~

Jean-Luc watched her walking back to the table from the dance floor for the second time that night, the hem of the skirt fluttering around her knees -- and the solid impact of a fist on his arm brought his attention back to the woman in the booth with him.

"Noodge," Deanna muttered.

"She's enjoying herself. It's a great relief -- to you too, Dee. You can't pretend it isn't. The look in her eyes -- I haven't seen her look like that since before Jack died." He glanced at the table where the two were sitting down to dessert. "He's a good man. Sometimes all it takes to reform a confirmed bachelor is the right woman -- as you should know."

"Stop staring at them, already."

He smiled at her, noting that she'd slid closer and now he could see down the front of her dress. "As you wish, Deebird."

"Public leering? That isn't like you, Jean-Fish." Annoyance was replaced by amusement and surprise.

Flicking his gaze to her face, he chuckled and toyed with her skirt under the table, tracing her kneecap. "Exclusive restaurant, no uniforms in sight, and it's impossible for me not to leer, cherie. The cumulative effect of spending an afternoon wallowing in delightful pursuits and thoughts of spending another year building up to the next anniversary. At the moment, I can't quit wondering if your leg still tastes like chocolate."

No one did smug satisfaction so well as his little swan. She leaned closer, tilting her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye and toying with the ends of her hair, most of which fell over her left shoulder. "Save some for dessert."

"I love the way you think, cygne."

Her eyes moved, focusing somewhere over his left shoulder, and her expression went wary. "You'd think it was a conspiracy. I do love you, Jean-Fish, but these things happen too often when you're around."

"Hm. Let me guess. Vash. Your mother. Vash and your mother being held captive by Romulans, and Ferengi, and Admiral Nechayev is taking pictures."

"No, not so bad as all that. Just Will and Bell -- I suppose that's to be expected, there's only one really nice restaurant to be had here. And Geordi, and Shari Mendez."

"From astrometrics? Well, it's about time. I'd wondered about that. He couldn't possibly find that many recalibrations that needed doing." He paused. "And they're staring at us, aren't they?"

"It isn't every day they see us sitting almost in each other's laps, with you looking all soft and cuddly at me. Shari's got that 'aren't they cute' look on her face."

"I am not cuddly, nor am I cute, so -- " He felt himself stiffening and realized what she'd done. "You don't have to do that. Let them stare. We should have this much of a reprieve, Dee, just once -- it's going to be a rough tour this time out."

The familiar weariness crept into her expression, putting a sad glint in her eye. "I wish the Romulans would go back to hiding behind the Neutral Zone and never showing their faces -- "

His finger on her lips was enough. "Don't make me pull rank to get you to shut up and ignore reality for the duration, cygne. Suggesting you for that mission was a stupid thing to do. All it did was put your focus on things other than making the captain a happy boy."

She tilted her head and regained the sly contentment. "But it's simple enough to refocus, especially when I have such a delicious incentive."

"Think anyone would notice if you disappeared under the table?"

"Don't push it too hard, Jean. Remember whose daughter I am and be very careful what you ask for. Otherwise, when you shake yourself out of this extraordinary mood you're in, you'll hate yourself." She eyed him, suddenly suspicious. "You've been eating that Ratarrigian fruit from hydroponics again, haven't you?"

"No, but I did send some to the *Lexington* a while ago, for Will. He said it tasted pretty good in the thank-you message he left -- should be hitting him right about now."

Her laughter rang out across the restaurant, making heads turn. Eyes alight with joy and affectionate mischief, she scooted closer still, within cuddle range, and reached for a cherry. He propped his arms along the back of the booth, stretched his legs out under the table, and settled into the contented demeanor only possible to someone who had everything a man could ask for. And as he watched, 'everything' popped her mouth open and extended a cherry, tied by the stem around the tip of her tongue, for him to take neatly in his teeth. She reached for another cherry. Half a bowl left, and for some reason, he just couldn't get his fill of them.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Tom resigned himself to it with the grace he could only muster by thinking that things were going very well with Beverly. But there were only three more nights left to his time on the base with her, so his patience wore thin. Riker, Sumners, La Forge and a lovely woman named Mendez had stopped in front of Tom's table to say hi and stayed to stare; it was unfortunate that Picard's booth had to be in view, but until the others had showed up Tom and Beverly had managed to ignore the captain and his kittenish counselor.

"Where did she learn how to do that with cherries?" Shari exclaimed. "That's. . . ow. Hurts my tongue to think about it."

"It's something, all right," Will said. His gaze was a little too intense, Tom thought.

"If you think they're something sitting there like that, you should have seen them dancing," Beverly told Riker.

Will's escort looked as mildly frustrated as Tom felt. "I guess it makes sense. Anniversary, relatively-private restaurant -- not like the whole ship can see them." Bell slapped Will's chest. "Hey, Captain, you going to join me for dinner or what?"

"I can sure tell you haven't been around them much," Geordi said. He exchanged glances with his date. "They're a lot closer together than usual, and he's not wearing the formal mask, but the attitude's pretty much the norm."

"I thought they weren't supposed to do that on duty," Riker exclaimed.

"Oh, he never lays a hand on her, or vice versa. They hardly even look at each other most of the time. He can still talk to her like the captain, and she can still sound like the counselor. It's just, every so often, for a few seconds, there's a meeting of the eyes, and you could probably double the shields with the energy."

"Spoken like an engineer," Tom put in. "Do you always gossip about them this way?"

It got their attention finally. Bell cleared her throat and walked off, and Riker followed with the chastised air of a man with a strong-willed woman he intended to please. Geordi shrugged and led Mendez the other direction. Beverly grinned lopsidedly.

"Gotta love a man who can command without sounding like he's doing it."

Tom smiled while a few dozen comebacks vied for dominance. "If you say so, Verly."

He wasn't prepared for the way her face drained of color and expression. She looked at her lap and fidgeted. Oops. Wrong comeback. She was less predictable than a Maquis.

"Beverly?"

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "Suddenly I don't feel so well."

"The base medical center -- "

"I'll be fine, if I can just get to my -- "

"Beverly, it was just a flip response to your comment. I don't expect anything from you."

Her eyes flashed angrily, and her cheeks flamed. "Good," she blurted, rising and marching away. She vanished around a partition in the direction of the bar.

Well, there went something promising. Tom debated whether this was something to apply Picard's advice to or not, and sighed. He'd shown his usual knack for saying the wrong thing under pressure -- he could handle a starship, but get him alone with an irresistible woman and he'd trip over his own tongue. These things were much less complicated when it was just casual sex both parties were after. Draining his wine glass, he went to the exit to pick up the check, then headed out.

He hesitated outside the restaurant, then turned his back on the bank of lifts and went back in. He couldn't give up this easily. Her smile would haunt him too much. She made him want to know her better, and not just --

He heard Craig's laughter before he'd made it halfway around the restaurant. Coming around a partition, he saw the man at the bar, sitting on one of the tall stools, facing. . . oh. Hell.

She was too beautiful for words, and flashing coquettish looks at Craig -- her posture flaunted a sensuality Tom had only seen hints of so far. He stared, then turned away again, before she could notice him standing there. Nothing else he could do here. Marching away with his head down, he almost ran into Deanna.

The counselor regarded him with those dark, fathomless eyes for a long moment. For some reason, he thought she must be looking right down into his soul. Something about the sadness and sympathy in her eyes -- of course. What was he thinking? She was an empath, he knew that. She'd probably sensed the low mood he'd plunged into from across the restaurant. Or, she'd sensed Beverly's ire, and only now been able to come looking for her.

"Jean-Luc was right," she said quietly.

He blinked at her and probably looked like an idiot. "Right?"

Deanna's stare intensified. "All that matters is what you believe -- hasn't the rough road to command taught you that much? The strength of your convictions got you to the bridge. It gets you through every crisis you face. What's so different this time?"

He couldn't breathe. How was he supposed to take this? He was saved from standing and staring by Jean-Luc, who came up behind her and frowned at the back of her head.

"Noodge," he exclaimed.

"You started it," she mumbled, turning her head slightly in his direction.

Jean-Luc glanced beyond her at Tom, then beyond Tom at the bar. "Lost her temper?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out," Tom said.

Picard considered, then smiled wryly. "If the rose you're holding is a rare and precious thing you don't want to see damaged, you'll hold on in spite of the thorns and not drop it."

"I want to dance," Deanna announced, tossing her head. Very effective with that many curls to bounce around.

"You said you wanted a drink." Jean-Luc sounded more amused than annoyed.

"I changed my mind. Women can do that." She met Picard's gaze, and suddenly Tom was quite sure he didn't exist any longer.

Jean-Luc brushed his knuckles across her bare shoulder. "About almost anything, without warning. Given the proper incentive, they can even do it on cue. If I were to suddenly find a piece of chocolate cake, would you still want to dance?"

"What kind of chocolate?" Deanna put an arm around Jean-Luc's waist and leaned against him, bringing herself within kissing range. "Does it have to be cake? Can I -- "

"Then again, dancing has its own appeal. Being something you can do in public is a plus. Come, cherie, and give me a dance lesson or two." Jean-Luc turned -- almost as if dancing already, Deanna moved with him, coordinating her steps to stay within the arm he placed across her back. Tom watched the two walk away. They fell into step with each other perfectly.

Surreal. Tom wondered if they had staged the conversation for his benefit -- he got the impression that they hardly needed to speak at all. A lot more had passed between them than words -- they hadn't done anything like that at the reception, nor did they ever hint at it while in uniform, from what he'd seen so far. That much he chalked up to exotic Betazoid behavior. As for the spoken part of it -- if they had staged it, there was one thing left for him to do, if he chose to take their advice -- make Beverly change her mind.

He strode back to his table and plucked the rose out of the vase. When he came up to Beverly, she turned from laughing at something Craig had said and froze, eyes wide.

"Would you care to dance?" He held out the rose.

"Tom," Craig exclaimed angrily.

Beverly studied him a moment, then took the rose. She looked at it, smiled a little, and slid down from her stool, glancing at Craig apologetically and taking Tom's arm. He led her around to the lift to the dance floor.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "What I meant to say was that I would like to expect something from you but have no right to do so, yet. I wouldn't want you to feel that I'd pressured you into anything."

She stopped at the lift doors and glanced at him, then at the rose she held before her in both hands.

"Everything all right?"

"I'm just tired. It's been a long day." She smiled a little. "I hate to say it, but -- "

"You'd rather just call it a night than dance?"

"It's really not you -- I really want to keep dancing. You're such a good dancer, Tom, and it isn't every day I meet a handsome gentleman who can also dance without whacking my shins or standing on my toes. But my feet hurt."

"In those shoes, I can see why. I'll walk you home, just for saying I'm handsome."

"Can we do it again tomorrow night? If the dinner on the *Enterprise* happens tomorrow, we could still go dancing afterward. I only have five more physicals left in the morning and a staff meeting after lunch. Then I'll take some time to rest up, and I'll dance your socks off."

"Hardly an offer I could refuse. I've never cared for wearing socks."

The lift doors opened, and Will and Bell sprang apart, then hurried past them. They made a beeline for the exit while Tom and Beverly stared after them in surprise.

"You'd think he'd figure out the ride isn't long enough for real satisfaction," Tom murmured.

"Will's got a reputation to maintain. Though it *is* unlike him to start unfastening dresses in lifts. Guess Bell has him going a little crazy. She's the type who could do that to a man."

"I suppose. I hadn't noticed." He eyed her through his lashes, noting the rising color in her cheeks.

"I wish I weren't so tired," she said.

"So do I. Though after the trauma of seeing Craig hitting on you, I don't know what good I'll be the rest of the evening, anyway." Guessing that Will and his flustered date must have caught a lift by then, Tom guided her slowly toward the exit.

"Craig's a relative of an old friend, believe it or not," she said quietly. "His cousin introduced me to my husband. He's nice, when he's not being Captain Testosterone."

Tom stifled laughter. "That's rich. I hope you don't mind if I use that when he gets out of hand."

"It doesn't bother you that he was flirting with me?" she asked lightly, as if only passingly curious.

"At this point, I have no claims and no right to stake any."

Her hand tightened on his arm. "That doesn't answer the question."

"I wanted to stuff shot glasses up his nostrils and punch him."

Her jaw dropped. "That's an unusual variation."

"I've seen it done. Painful. Makes a bloody mess." They stopped in front of the lifts and waited for one to open.

"I've seen a lot of odd ways to injure someone, but when I'm not being a doctor -- that sounds awful." She looked queasy.

"Sorry. You did ask." A set of doors opened, and they rode down to the level on which the base transporters were located. Once out in the corridor, she tucked her hand around his elbow again.

"How long have you been a captain?" she asked.

Tom pondered his career for a moment. She hadn't asked about it before; all their talk had been about flowers, favorite foods, shipboard anecdotes, and friends they knew. "I was promoted thirty-two years ago. Spent a good number of years in the Cardassian conflict, then the Dominion war of course. *Phoenix* and I came together after her predecessor was retired to the boneyards. You could say I'm an old war horse. Gotten my nose broken a few times too many, and various other parts of my body."

"Any covert operations?"

He paused, and realized what she was driving at. "You're curious too, aren't you? Everyone's trying to figure out who Raven is."

"Whoever he is, he's sure done a good job -- all the captains I've seen have had this anticipatory gleam in their eye, like they think the battle's been won." She chewed her lip. "I thought it was someone from Will's ship -- he's been skirting close along the zone for the last few months. He seems just as curious as the rest of us, though."

"I think it's someone from the *Enterprise.*"

"Why?"

"Picard's probably not one to show curiosity like the rest of us. But something about the way he is in the briefings makes me think he knows more than the rest of us about the Raven and what happened in the Empire."

They chatted about dancing the rest of the way back to the *Valiant,* and he left her at her door, but not without a lingering kiss good-night. She whispered a thank you and went in; the last look at her as the doors closed left him with the memory of her looking back over her right shoulder, with the rose under her nose.

"Loverly," he whispered, turning to head for the lift.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Jean-Luc smiled as he rounded the corner and saw Tom and Beverly coming from the other end of the corridor, heading for holodeck one just as he was. The poker game had been a spontaneous suggestion by Tom, who had evidently been told about the Tuesday night poker games on the previous *Enterprise* and wanted to play with Jean-Luc and Will. He'd also invited a few of the other captains and first officers -- and Beverly, obviously.

Beverly looked much more at ease, but some tension remained in her stance. However, as Jean-Luc knew, finding footing in a new relationship wasn't easy. Tom seemed comfortable enough with her. That they were together today, after nearly being derailed last night by whatever had infuriated Beverly to the point of sitting at the bar with Bellamy, was a good sign.

Jean-Luc stifled a grimace. Dee was right, he was being a noodge -- but damn it, it was about time Beverly at least tried to get out of her funk.

"Do you ever listen to Dee when it comes to your wardrobe?" Beverly asked, putting her hands on her hips as the three of them stopped before the holodeck doors. "Isn't that the same outfit you were wearing last night?"

"No, this is the black shirt with three pleats under the collar. Last night I wore the one with four pleats."

"He probably got in so much trouble for forgetting his anniversary he had to sleep in the corridor and couldn't change," Tom commented amiably.

"It's already under way, come on in."

They entered a scene straight out of an old pulp paperback novel, a smoke-filled bar -- Data had a stogie in his mouth, of all things. Riker grinned at them and patted the back of the empty chair next to him.

"Come on, Bev, saved you a seat."

"Where's Bell?" Beverly asked. Tom pulled out the chair for her before taking the one next to her on Data's left. Data finished shuffling and dealt cards swiftly. Jean-Luc sat on the android's right and glanced at the two remaining chairs. Data would have set up the necessary seats; who else had canceled out?

"Bell went shopping instead. She met up with some old colleagues she served with on the *Ares.* And my first officer went with them. Nice dress -- matches my eyes." Riker tugged the sleeve of Beverly's dress.

"I knew there was a reason I picked it," Beverly said, rolling her eyes. "What about Deanna?"

"On the bridge." Jean-Luc picked up a stack of chips and noticed everyone staring at him. "What?"

"Where've you been, then?" Riker asked.

"Reading. I would've been here sooner but I fell asleep."

Beverly lowered her cards into her lap and frowned at him. "You stuck Dee on duty while you sat around reading?"

"Everyone else is on leave, and she didn't mind -- she had a few appointments but she took them in my ready room."

"She's got a weird idea of punishing you for forgetting an anniversary." Riker tossed a chip out, calling Beverly's bet.

"Duty has nothing to do with anniversaries, and she performed unauthorized modifications to the ship's computer. Using *your* command codes, Data. Care to explain that?"

Data dealt another card around the table. "She has been working on a project to complete her coursework and needed the additional clearance. Taking advantage of it to commit a practical joke will result in a failing grade. She was aware of that, however, and has already made arrangements to start over on a different project. And the command codes are no longer valid."

"I thought it was quite clever," Tom said. "Captain Amnesia."

Beverly looked around at their faces. "I missed something good, didn't I?"

"Deanna tweaked the computer to call him names." Will smirked. "She's gotten damn good at things like that. Glad she's not on my ship, I have enough problems without the practical joking."

Jean-Luc allowed a grim smile. "Who canceled, Data? I thought there'd be more chairs than this."

"Captain Shelby sent her regrets, as do most of the others. The only one who could be here is Captain Bellamy. He will be late."

Jean-Luc studied his cards. He didn't care for Craig, but at least the younger captain wouldn't be half-drunk this time. Funny, Bellamy seemed to drink a lot off duty. He'd seen some hard action in the war, however, and other captains had responded to the pressure with less stability.

Deanna arrived four hands of poker later, at the end of the shift. She prowled in, wearing a quite stunning black outfit -- she'd been in a black phase lately. Tight leggings under a flowing skirt with a slit to the left hip, and a low pointed neckline, no jewelry. The fabric caught the eye; it looked matte black until the light caught it from a certain angle, at which point it shimmered slightly. He recognized it then for what it was, a modest version of another outfit she'd worn recently, and went dry-mouthed.

"Dee?"

She turned the chair and sat in it backwards, arms crossed across the back, resting her chin on them. She'd braided her hair in a long, twisted rope and draped it over her right shoulder. Riker stared; Jean-Luc saw the calculation in his eyes as he crossed his arms and studied Deanna's appearance. "That's. . . different."

"Looks good," Beverly said. "More severe than I'm used to seeing on you, but it's an interesting outfit."

Tom only tipped his head forward and studied his cards.

The doors opened again to admit Bellamy. He alone had showed up in uniform. "Sorry I'm late, had a -- wow." He moved around the table and sat down next to Deanna, all eyes for her. "That's a unique look for you."

"Thanks, I guess." She picked up cards as Data dealt again, and Bellamy did as well, glancing at her sidelong. He seemed most interested in the braid. His grey eyes met Jean-Luc's over her head briefly, questioning.

{Dee, what are you doing? You realize some of these people may have been on the zone long enough to recognize that hair style?}

She froze for a few seconds, then picked up a chip and turned it end over end in her fingers, as if intently studying her hand. {I like the style, and I didn't think it would be dangerous on the ship. They aren't supposed to say anything and they know it, right?}

Starship captains would know better, that was true. But still.

"So when would you like your tour of the *Hancock*?" Bellamy asked, picking up right where he'd left off the night before. He smiled at Deanna winningly. Jean-Luc hated that smile and wanted to wipe it off his face with a fist, as he had considered several times before. Instead, he made an in-depth study of the queen of spades and how she might improve his chances of winning.

"No, thanks," Deanna said. The first complete refusal she'd issued -- all her others had been less direct. He was finally wearing her patience thin. Probably seeing him with Beverly last night had done it. Dee had less patience with those who presented any kind of threat to her friends.

Bellamy brought his chair back to all four legs. His sudden movement distracted Jean-Luc from his cards, and the look on Bellamy's face set off warning bells -- not to mention Craig sounded frustrated. "Got another quick trip across the zone to make before the *Enterprise* ships out?"

Jean-Luc noticed Tom's sudden tension out of the corner of his eye. Deanna stiffened and looked at Bellamy.

"I don't believe they gave it to a counselor," Bellamy said. "After they approached me about it, they gave it to you."

"Perhaps you weren't so qualified as I was, Captain."

Very smooth. Professional. Jean-Luc wondered if he were the only one at the table who heard the slight quaver underlying Deanna's comeback.

"I had a few missions on the DMZ," Craig said. "I could've done it."

"Romulans aren't Cardassians. Do you know Romulan?"

"Intradermal translators -- "

"Would have been discovered on the outskirts of the Imperial City, like any other Federation technology," Deanna said calmly.

"A counselor," Bellamy repeated, shaking his head.

"What's wrong with that?" Beverly exclaimed. Climbing on her soapbox -- the trouble Deanna had with other officer's opinions was had more to do with who she was sleeping with than her qualifications, yet it was the qualifications that became the focus with some officers -- the two issues would always be connected thanks to the idea that she had her captain by the balls. Beverly had gotten increasingly sensitive about it. She'd seen first-hand how Jean-Luc didn't favor Deanna, had in fact chastised him once for overcompensating and being too hard on her.

"Why they would overlook an experienced special ops -- "

"This isn't the time or place to discuss this, Captain," Deanna said coldly.

"Where else am I going to ask? Everyone here is quite capable of keeping secrets -- they'd have to be, to spend a lot of time with you. You seem to be a magnet for secrets, from what I've seen."

Deanna's head whipped around so fast her braid hit Craig's shoulder. She stared at Jean-Luc; he folded his hand and leaned on the table, impassive as he didn't feel. Her lip curled slightly as she considered the situation. Finally she turned back to Bellamy.

"Occupational hazard. Play cards, Captain." Her voice had that ringing command overtone to it that had been so slow to emerge. Carefully modulated, pitched in the lower end of her range, and with a forcefulness that brooked no contradiction. Riker's head came up -- he hadn't heard it before. Jean-Luc exchanged a grim appreciative glance with Data. They had, and Jean-Luc more often than most, since it was nearly the same tone she used when she lost her temper but not her composure. An infrequent occasion, but it did happen.

"Why is it that women always go hard when they shoot for command? It's really a pity -- "

"You can quit pushing your luck, Craig, I'm not going to rise to the bait any more. Test's over. Ante up or leave." More of the same voice. She'd had it with Bellamy. Jean-Luc raised an eyebrow -- test?

Bellamy's mouth dropped open. "Shit. Maybe I'm not as good as I thought." Tossing down the cards, he got up and left the holodeck.

Beverly gaped across the table. "What was that? Deanna!"

"He was testing me, and Jean. He was trying to see how far he could push me and whether Jean would try to protect me." Her hand found his leg under the table and gripped his thigh. {H'nayison, again. We're supposed to contact him tomorrow, remember.}

Anger, frustration -- they settled at last like weights in Jean-Luc's stomach to be dealt with later. "When did you figure that out?"

"When he started talking about special ops -- he knows better than to do that, even in present company. He wasn't getting enough of a reaction from me so he resorted to outright inappropriateness." She glanced at Riker, who seemed just as floored as Beverly. "Are you going to bet, or fold?"

"Do they do that often -- send someone in to test you?" Tom asked. He didn't seem very surprised. Then again, he knew Bellamy better than anyone there. He might even -- wait a minute.

"Only once before. They should know better than to try outmaneuvering Deanna by now." Jean-Luc met Glendenning's cool gaze. "You were in on it, weren't you?"

Tom shrugged and glanced at Riker. "You passed with flying colors, Jean-Luc. Your friend here would've failed. Good thing Christabel's not a bridge officer."

"Bellamy's behavior's been a setup from start to finish -- including that stupidity in the briefing room? Did you know what he was doing, Jean-Luc? I wondered why the hell you kept letting him get away with it!" Riker turned to Tom, who leaned away defensively. "But you cut Bellamy short. Kept him from provoking him further."

"I kept him from provoking *you* further. Jean-Luc wasn't saying anything."

Jean-Luc smiled cryptically and would have said nothing, but Beverly looked positively volcanic. "I don't make personal comments about Deanna in an official setting. If he had questioned her ability as an officer, I could have responded as her CO, as I would have had he questioned Data's abilities, or Carlisle's. I also don't respond to comments made about her abilities, anywhere. Professionally she stands on her own two feet."

"But you were talking to *me* about the personal," Will exclaimed.

"Talking generally about vacations isn't the same. Bellamy was being intrusive and obviously had an agenda. What it was, I had no idea, but in retrospect you'll note that he gave me every reason to lash out at him -- he flirted incessantly with her at the reception and insinuated everything he knew would irritate, that she was somehow inferior for a variety of reasons. He was trying to continue the trend after the briefing but you intervened."

Data took the cigar out of his mouth finally and glanced between Jean-Luc and Will, somewhat amused. "Captain Bellamy was to test the sensitivity Deanna has often demonstrated to the suggestion that she has benefitted from favoritism. Your behavior toward fellow officers who do not view your situation objectively was at issue."

"And you were observing, too," Deanna said. "Weren't you?"

"I was informed of it, but not instructed to participate directly until Tom asked my cooperation to manipulate the attendance of the poker game today. Will interfered in the final phase of the process -- a direct confrontation in a more official setting would have been preferable, but Captain Bellamy took advantage of the opportunity to do it with both of you present." Data smiled at Deanna. "Admiral Gaines said you gave him the idea when you worked with him on Rigel. Bellamy was a natural choice for the job, according to him."

"I thought I saw Gaines on the starbase the other day," Jean-Luc said. "He went the other direction in a hurry and disappeared, though. I thought I must have been mistaken."

Deanna sniffed and held up her cards, reaching for the beer nuts Riker had been eating. "What goes around, comes around, I guess."

"You're not even upset about this?" Beverly's voice skipped an octave. "You just shrug it off, eat a nut, and that's all?"

"It's just another day under the Starfleet Command tricorder. Relax, no blood was shed and Bellamy's gone his way. I'm surprised at you, Tom, you're very coolheaded about it -- you have excellent control. I wouldn't have guessed you knew about it." Deanna looked over the tops of her cards at Glendenning.

"I only found out about it this morning. Stopped in on Craig and let him have it for making a general nuisance of himself." Tom's lidded eyes and too-casual posture gave away too much. "He told me he had to keep up appearances."

Jean-Luc almost smiled, imagining what had prompted Tom to do it -- Beverly sitting at the bar with Craig's hand on her knee, laughing.

"Was he right in assuming you were covert ops, Dee?" Riker asked suddenly. "Were you the Raven?"

Deanna did a good job of covering her reaction. Tossing a few nuts in her mouth, she stole a mouthful of Jean-Luc's lager and made a face. "Ick. No, I'm not the Raven." She got up and crossed to the bar, ordering a Tarkalian tea.

Will stared at Jean-Luc. "Sorry, I think you are. Jean-Luc's lost his poker face."

Deanna sauntered back to the table and glared down at Jean-Luc. "Some covert ops agent you make."

"You both went -- I wondered," Will said, slumping the other way in his chair. He crossed his arms again with his cards against his right shoulder. "I tried contacting you last month. Data tried to make it sound like you were simply 'unavailable' but when I called back the next day at a different time I knew something was up."

"Why were you trying so hard to -- your birthday." Deanna sighed. She sat down and put her glass on a coaster Data tossed to her. "I didn't send you a birthday greeting, so you worried that something might have happened to me."

"At least Data let me know you were all right. He just wasn't any help telling me where you were." Riker smiled at Jean-Luc. "So why both of you, on this one? Had to be some special reason."

"That's classified information." Jean-Luc rubbed lipstick off his glass with his thumb.

"It certainly wasn't a romantic hot spot -- and my face itched for a week afterward." Deanna rolled her eyes. "I keep trying to think in Romulan."

"That braid," Beverly said. "I noticed Craig looking at it. What significance does it have?"

"Just a hairstyle that's popular in the Empire." Deanna could fool most people most of the time, but wasn't used to bluffing Beverly -- she kept her eyes averted too long before looking up at her friend. "It's comfortable. I got used to it."

"Oh, right. Just a hairstyle. Last time you ditched the long hair entirely to look more Romulan."

"Last time?" Tom seemed surprised at last.

"Last time the role I played required short hair." Deanna laid down her cards. A straight. Jean-Luc threw his three of a kind down and watched her rake in the chips. Beverly crossed her arms tightly and stared at Deanna while Data took up the cards and started to shuffle.

"Quit glaring at me like that, Bev," Deanna said finally, after everyone had their cards in hand and chips were hitting the table.

"It's not like I want details on the mission itself. Just what cover you used -- not Tal Shiar again, surely."

"I was a very specific kind of assassin -- the kind that goes around shooting nosy doctors for begging for classified information," Deanna said, loading on her usual light humorous tone. She smiled and raised Will's bet another ten.

"A dancer," Data said. The android knew just enough to be dangerous and looked at Jean-Luc as he said it. He was replacing Riker too well, right down to the chain-yanking.

"An assassin, who kills big-mouthed androids as a side job," Deanna exclaimed, still being light but not so humorous.

Jean-Luc knew the casual way she thwarted their attempts hid an honest defensiveness, mostly of the mission details but partly of his ego, and tried to think of what to say that might terminate the line of questioning before she managed to make them more curious than they already were.

"A dancer? Really?" Beverly's enthusiasm wouldn't help matters. She leaned forward. "Did you dance, or was it just a front?"

"And was Jean-Luc a dancer, too?" Will asked, almost laughing at the thought. Oh, well. Too late now to avoid rampant curiosity -- though it might be possible to deflect it.

"Just what is so amusing about that idea?" Jean-Luc asked, assuming innocent, hurt pride.

Will did laugh at that. "Oh, just the memory of you dancing at innumerable receptions and diplomatic functions and looking like a fish out of water."

Deanna giggled. Will had unwittingly stumbled on her favorite nickname for him. Unfortunately, her mirth refocused Will's attention on her. "So it's true, he was a dancer too?"

Deanna hid her mouth behind her cards and turned wide, pleading-for-mercy eyes on Jean-Luc. He shrugged and put his chin in his hand, leaning on the table. "It could be worse -- he might've found out about that time I had to go undercover as a Deltan."

"Oh," she exclaimed, perilously close to laughing. "That was fun, though!"

"Thought I'd never get all those pheromones washed off."

Deanna blinked and frowned at him, though it kept trying to turn into a grin. "You washed them off? Now I'm embarrassed!"

"Oh, you don't have to be. You didn't notice all the women who follow me everywhere? Blame my magnetic personality."

"Magnetic? Don't you just rub your head really fast and use static elec -- Jean!" She leaped up, her cards fluttering down, and frowned as she peered down the front of her shirt, trying to see the beer nut he'd tossed. She fled the holodeck, glancing back at him with an expression that said he'd be doing more penance soon.

Jean-Luc assumed nonchalance and waited patiently for the others to stop laughing. Tom signaled for the holographic waitress, who moved around and refilled glasses with a minimum of chitchat.

"I'm surprised she didn't make you go in after it," Will said, somehow sipping his drink with a big grin on his face.

Beverly, giggling and trying to stop, wiped her eyes with a napkin, thoughtfully provided with her drink by the waitress. "I'm jealous, you told Data and you won't tell us anything!"

"When Deanna returned from her first mission I helped her program the holodeck for practice purposes." Data definitely had some penance of his own coming to him. Jean-Luc decided that was best left to Deanna.

"Frankly, I'm a little surprised by how much they've shared with us already," Tom said, his grin fading quickly. He seemed to be making a quiet appeal with his eyes to Beverly to back down. His fingers moved against the backs of his cards -- a hand signal, like the ones used in the Romulan underground. Jean-Luc tensed briefly, then forced relaxation -- Tom had been across the zone himself recently. He'd signed a query; Jean-Luc mimicked the movement with his thumb and forefinger as he picked up his glass for a drink. Recognition, the movement said. I am a friend.

"All I want to know about is the dance," Beverly said. "I don't want to know what they did or how -- I'd just like to see what a Romulan dance looks like."

"No, you just want to see us doing it. I don't think that's wise," Jean-Luc said.

Beverly's chin dropped. "Why? Did you do a strip tease?"

Will guffawed again and wisely refrained from comment -- probably thanks to the glare Jean-Luc shot across the table.

"Why is it so terrible a thing to just show us how to dance like a Romulan?" Beverly asked.

"Sure, give us lessons," Will put in. "I'm up for it."

Tom glanced to either side, at Will and Beverly, and regarded Jean-Luc with a resigned, solemn expression. His hand resting on the table near his chips moved. The underground's sign language wasn't meant for sustained conversation, only for the briefest of communications, but there was a sign for 'surrender.'

Jean-Luc leaned to pick up the cards Deanna had thrown down and kept calling her silently, until she replied -- she'd probably gone to their quarters to extract the nut, and only then come back into the limited range of their ability to communicate.

{Jean?}

{The harder we try to avoid it, the more Beverly and Will want to see it.}

{Tom's feeling some trepidation. Why?}

{He knows the hand signs. He's been there, too. He thinks we should surrender now, rather than continue to resist.}

{Do you want to do that?}

{What do you think their reaction will be if we refuse?}

She went silent for a few minutes. Just as well -- Beverly was speaking, and carrying on external and internal conversations simultaneously wasn't something he could manage.

"How bad could it be -- you had no qualms about waltzing around Level One. You were even improvising steps." Beverly patted Riker on the shoulder. "Will won't poke fun at you -- will you?"

Will flinched at the sharpness of the last two words. "You know, I'm just curious enough that I'd agree to that."

Jean-Luc sighed, putting his forehead in one hand. {They aren't going to give up.}

{It will put an end to poker, you realize. Though that's been interrupted well enough by Bellamy. I know I've lost all interest in cards.}

{You want to do it, don't you?}

{One last time, and record it. I'd like a memento of it -- before we lose the ability entirely. I didn't intend to do it in front of them, though -- I was going to ask you after they left. If you want to wait -- }

{We may as well indulge them. I doubt we'll have any trouble with them telling other people -- even if they did, no one would believe them.}

{As you wish, Jean-Fish. Give me a few minutes. I'll be back.}

Jean-Luc raised his head and studied their expectant faces. "If I agree to do it, you'll have to understand -- you can't distract us. I'd have to put myself completely back in the persona I assumed, and so would she. It isn't easy to do even then. You can't ask questions, either, because there are too many telling details involved in the how and the why, and we can't afford to let any of it slip. It was necessary. That's all I can say."

"I'd just like to see it, that's all." Beverly smiled triumphantly and put down her cards.

Tom sat up out of the slump he'd been in. "Was it easier or more difficult to be with her, when you knew it could turn bad at any moment and one of you might have to leave the other behind?"

The sudden question startled him. Jean-Luc thought about his three weeks in the Empire, and glanced at Data. The android's expression had gone solemn. Data knew well enough what he'd been like after both missions.

"Both."

"How specific." Tom didn't quite smirk.

Picking up a few beer nuts, Jean-Luc tossed one in his mouth. "I don't know what was worse, the idea of her being killed or of her killing. She could have gone in there alone the second time as well. The chances were the same. In the end, it was easier being with her than without."

"I would agree with that assessment, given your general demeanor following both of her absences," Data said quietly.

"She killed." Will said it almost under his breath.

"In self-defense."

Tom stared at Jean-Luc in disbelief and reproach -- why? The captain stroked his goatee thoughtfully, dropped his hand to the table to join his other one, and raised his chin. "Hard to imagine, even so."

{Jean, I have the holodeck programmed.}

Jean-Luc rose and walked away from the table. {Go ahead.}

{Make it so?} A hint of her amusement tickled him as the bar faded to particles, which reassembled themselves into an expanse of desert sand. Not the setting they had worked in for the mission, but a fitting one. She'd added a wall of white curtains arranged in a circle around them, putting the table, chairs and onlookers along one edge and out of the way. The dancing would be done in the half-circle ahead of him; two red-brown rocks stood there, crescent-shaped, reminiscent of the tables they'd had in the hall on Romulus. Unnaturally shaped to smooth curving edges -- he ran a hand over one, testing the surface, which was rough enough to give good traction. Pacing across to the other, he measured the distance and picked up the reya'vda lying on the other table.

The weapon had a lirpa in its ancestry somewhere, probably, but the blade was longer, shining dully like beaten brass. That appearance was deceptive, the metal more like steel in strength and sharpness. His hand wrapped around the grip automatically. The butt of it fit the contour of his arm just below his elbow, making the blade an extension of his arm. It felt comfortable. Already, his body remembered what it'd been taught.

The holodeck doors opened and closed somewhere beyond the curtain. He whirled the reya'vda over his head, the blade sighing through the air, and headed to his left, disappearing through a break in the fabric wall. Dropping the weapon in the sand, he began to stretch -- he'd be sore afterward regardless of how well he warmed up but he did his best.

The dancer Sevarin, his instructor and then his persona while undercover, was one of the many members of the underground working toward reunification with Vulcan. On the condition that the information be used to enforce peace and prevent an all-out war with the Federation, the underground had cooperated with Starfleet conditionally, but cooperation hadn't extended to actual infiltration. The underground couldn't take such risks, and the Federation couldn't expect it of them. Too much work had gone into staying underground to jeopardize the movement that way. Federation agents had been necessary.

The critical meeting they had infiltrated had been done in two stages. Deanna had gone in the early morning in the guise of an underground member who was on the cleaning staff, and planted recording devices in the chamber itself. None of them emitted signals of any kind to be detected; they operated by voice activation only. Since the devices would have been discovered by the staff's routine sensor sweeps the following morning, he and Deanna had returned as dancers to perform as part of the evening's entertainment and managed to remove them without discovery, mostly due to Deanna's flirtatious lap-sitting as she pulled the communicator-sized units from the undersides of tables. Getting them out past the sensor sweeps had entailed more trickery and a little luck, and taking advantage of a careless guard's interest in an impromptu performance of Deanna's. Nice that she could tell when such behavior would be effective and when other means were necessary -- and other means had been necessary, once. She'd turned out to be quick with a knife when she had to be.

It'd been an uncomplicated approach, but sometimes simplicity worked most effectively where technology and complexity were the expected norm. All subsequent intelligence received since the information-gathering maneuver had fallen in line with what they'd learned from the recordings. The Romulans were counting on the handful of ships Starfleet kept patrolling the border and nothing more, hoping to slip small groups of warbirds through the zone, pick off as many ships as possible, and regroup to face the rest of the fleet when it arrived. If the Federation surprised the Romulan forces at the zone, they might be able to turn them back; Romulans didn't like to make blind decisions, and rearranging the game board would at least give them pause.

Jean-Luc counted the mission a resounding success. He and Deanna had worked well together as a team; she'd shown the intelligence and quick thinking he'd come to expect from her. The role of a dancer hadn't come easily to him, however. A few intense melds with Sevarin and hours of practice had finally produced an acceptable level of performance. Most of their three weeks in the Empire had been devoted to practice and learning enough spoken Romulan to be passable as entertainers, rarely spoken to and more rarely expected to speak, but still needing to understand instructions.

Deanna knew mok'bara, which promoted limberness, and the movements were not unlike the posturing necessary for the dancing. She had the more difficult part, the leaping and pirouetting and bending -- Sevarin had taken pity on Jean-Luc's relative inflexibility and helped them choreograph the male role in such a way that he wouldn't have to injure himself mimicking the Romulan's agility.

And the one thing they had that made the whole pretense possible had been the hajira bond, that made them so aware of each other's bodies they could emulate a bonded pair of Hakhal'aar well enough to gain Sevarin's begrudging admission that they would pass. Being dancers had been preferable to the only other option, as serving food wouldn't have allowed easy access to the undersides of tables without a lot of inexcusable dropping of dishes. Deanna had asked Jean-Luc's help, prompted by little things she'd noticed, the way he was able to unconsciously and unerringly find her in the dark, for example. Sevarin's performance had been planned for the conclusion of the meeting well in advance, long before the true nature of the meeting had been discovered by another underground member; he was a well-known performer in the Imperial City. He had helped Deanna willingly, claiming that the commanders and officials in attendance wouldn't know a Hakhal'aar dancer from a sanitation worker anyway, and that having the performance was the military's pretense of knowing something about true art.

Fortunate that the only necessary details for the official reports to Starfleet had been simple. They went, planted the devices, retrieved them while masquerading as dancers, and came back. And the briefings following the mission had all referred to a single agent, and preserved their anonymity.

Until Beverly questioned the way Deanna braided her hair, of all things. Not that they couldn't trust their friends -- it was just a nuisance to have everyone looking at him and wondering how Jean-Luc Picard had wound up being a Romulan dancer.

{You're sure you want to do this, Jean?} Deanna came around the outside of the curtains to him and stood slant-hipped, already posing like her Romulan alter-ego would. She had the actual costume on now, the same matte black material as her former outfit but less of it. A single strap over the left shoulder held up what was otherwise simply a tight band around her chest. The skirt was gone and the leg-covering tights had been replaced with ones that clung to her legs in spite of the way the apparently-painted-on material didn't meet down the outsides of her thighs, baring a widening strip of skin from the point of each hip to just below the knee, where the thin flexible black boots met it. When she moved, the dusting of glitter on her skin showed.

{I'm going to miss that soft, gentle counselor I used to know -- though the replacement is definitely worth keeping. You've turned into a sleek little panther, ma petite. How did you come up with this setting so quickly?}

{I already had this setting in mind, and spent some of my time on the bridge earlier working on it -- I worked from what Treya told me about the origins of the dance on Vulcan. I'd like to remember the dance in a more natural setting. You know, in a way it reminds me of how we live.}

Jean-Luc smiled and nodded. {It does at that. So we're performing for each other as well. It makes it easier to do.}

{The only way you can perform is to forget the audience anyway. Good that you wore black today -- you can dance in those shoes?}

{They will do.}

Eyes large, she came to him and put palms to his chest, and they lost themselves in their mutual center, suspending time and physical reality while immersing themselves in the heart fire. He could feel her heart beating, hear the sigh she let out as the connection solidified and she became as apparent to him as he to her. {Let it be an expression of how we feel, let it be a reflection of how we live. Hajira.} She kissed him lightly on the mouth. His pulse sounded loud in his ears, it seemed, or perhaps it was hers, or the roar of the flames that seemed to dance invisibly on his skin.

They parted, but his body felt somehow distant -- split, with part of him residing in her, making him aware of her movement away from him around the curve of the curtains. The reya'vda in hand, he took stock of his surroundings. The music had already begun, probably while they had stood adrift in each other. Ripples of sound -- the chatter of pebbles in hollow gourds, the patter of fingers on drums, the wailing lament of a wind instrument he'd never learned the name of -- traveled the room like a breeze rising and falling in the dusk. The ambient light had dimmed to that level; overhead T'Khut rose high, the Vulcan moon bleeding its light over the curtains, turning them pale rose. He appreciated that she'd returned to the roots of the dance, rather than resort to a Romulan backdrop.

There was no starting cue; it was his show for the first few moments. Taking a few measured deep breaths, Jean-Luc brought the other component into play -- memories of the melds with Sevarin, the superimposing of the hundred years of experience and muscle control of a Romulan Hakhal'aar dancer over his body to allow him to move with more grace and confidence than would have been possible otherwise. It worsened the dislocated feeling -- part of him now focused on Deanna, the other part on wearing the persona of Sevarin, and part looked on and wanted to laugh at the incredible twisting of his life that had brought him to this point, being at the mercy of telepaths and enjoying it.

He slipped between the curtains and moved across the sand in the near-darkness. He knew his body language had changed. It would shock them. That was his final thought of the audience as he raised the weapon in a long sweep and settled into the much-practiced movements. Already, the meld's affect had faded somewhat. He was more aware of the motions his body made, this time, though his limbs moved with the same ease.

This was like playing his flute, when the music flowed effortlessly and fluidly with little conscious effort on his part and he drifted into a state of detached bliss. Being in flow, some artists called it. Becoming one with the music. He went through a series of feints and strikes with the reya'vda, lashing out at an imaginary opponent while the drums became dominant and voices began to chant. As he let himself relax into the routine, following Sevarin's choreography took little thought, which was as it should be, the dancer had said.

He slowed with a lull in the music as if fatigued, though he felt charged and ready to fight -- adrenalin raced, and his muscles were loose but ready. The lights shifted, gradually coming up behind one of the curtains; Deanna's shadow appeared where he'd known it would. Her presence burned steady on the periphery of his senses. She knelt, her body clearly defined in silhouette on the red curtain. Jean-Luc came to rest flat-footed, standing to the left of the curtain holding the reya'vda at a relaxed angle, watching it. The voices chanted on, and over the descant of the wind instrument a high-pitched male voice wailed a desolate, tormented song about the desert, dreams of rain and of a woman he needed more than parched ground needed water.

He walked slowly forward as if hunting elusive prey. She went into motion, standing and stretching, flexing her body backward, one arm forward, the other back, changing them in a languid movement. Her shadow grew larger, the lights still changing.

Facing the curtain, she circled her left arm slowly, turning and bending as her hand reached the apex and swung backward and down. She came under the curtain in a crouch, a reya'vda in hand -- she'd picked it up on the down swing. The final detail of her costume had been added. A headdress, with long flowing black veils hanging from the pinnacle of it, sweeping down her back and over her shoulders.

His arm went up automatically, which was a good thing, because her attack surprised him in spite of his foreknowledge. She moved with the quickness of a Romulan. The blades clashed. They began the ritualized dance, mirroring each other's movements -- pivot and parry, advance and strike, turn and retaliate, in circles. Each strike landed in time with the music. The other component of the dance, the perfume of a flower, the hyva, became apparent, lingering faintly in the air as the lights changed and the arena was bathed in simulated Vulcan daylight.

Swinging blades down and away, they strode forward and halted within centimeters of one another, and froze -- his head turned to the right, hers to the left, chest to chest with her blade held at a thirty degree angle to the left and his to the right. The singer wailed about the fires of the desert in some detail, continuing the metaphorical story of his desperate love for his absent lover.

This was where it would became difficult, if not for hajira. Every movement had to mirror or complement hers. They had to dance within centimeters of each other, but never touch. Echoes of the Vulcan metaphor of bonding -- never and always touching and touched. The heat of heart fire burning like a cushioning layer between them, they turned the reya'dva and sank the blades into the sand, leaving them stuck there. He backed away slowly; her steps followed his, keeping them close but not too close. One step to the side as she moved away as well, and a turn of the head brought them face to face at last.

Eyes locked on each other, they turned a prowling circle, orbiting a common center. Halting between the two low stone crescents, he centered himself in Sevarin's memories, pulled himself into the fire, and closed his eyes. Visual stimuli would distract him. He knew the steps well enough, and he could follow her more easily if his conscious mind could pretend they were merely waltzing on the flat safety of a dance floor.

She picked up speed the instant his eyes closed, and he whirled with her. Sand spattered against his pants, kicked up by their feet. Moving as Sevarin would, he snatched the air and magically a veil came away in his fingers. They traveled forward, though she would be backing from him, and spun apart -- using the unnatural quickness of Romulan reflexes he twisted and leaped up on one of the stone platforms.

Bad landing. Something twinged. No time to think about it, feel it -- the fire was there, and she was moving. Another twitch of the fingers caught another veil. Holding one in each fist, he raised his arms and felt the tension -- she'd caught the other ends of them in her hands.

Turning under the veils and crossing them, wrapping them around his hands, he pulled forcefully as if trying to drag her to him. She swung round, the soft rhythm of her boots on the stone pausing as she did so; the drums crescendoed as she completed the leap over the open air within the curve of the crescent, swinging on the ends of the veils using him as an anchor. When the tension on them eased he let them slip through his hands and rushed forward in a series of sidling steps. She stayed in front of him, chest to chest again. Together they left the end of the stone platform and landed lightly in the sand. Another snatch, another veil. Pivot on the balls of his feet while she kept up, still in front of him, and then another snatch to take the last veil.

Tension meant she'd caught the veils. A turn under to cross them, then a pattern of steps to bring them to the end of the other stone platform. Again, a leap -- another twinge. Left calf. The pain was gone again, the music swirled loud and she was burning hot in front of him. Hard to tell now what was Sevarin's memory and what was hajira. Bonding as Vulcans did wasn't a Romulan tradition, but it wasn't unheard of, and Sevarin had a fierce love for his bondmate that he wasn't ashamed to express; dancing was a shared passion for the bondmates, so it hadn't come as a surprise to find that it carried over through the meld.

She swung through the open air and landed, and he let go of the veils. Pivot on the toe, plant the foot, and leap into the air -- they landed in between the platforms two meters forward of where they'd left the weapons.

This was like the waltzing last night. Arms held as if in surrender, he let his feet move through the remembered steps and take them away from the platforms, toward the center of the arena. Her feet would be moving with his, within tripping range if they made a misstep. He heard her breathing heavily near his left ear and realized he was panting, too, from the exertion -- they were losing focus.

The effort came from both of them at the same time. Once again they brought each other into the fire and the steps came faster as the music rose. Then he was spinning away, leaving her behind, stopping with a jerk and opening his eyes.

She hesitated, poised on one foot with the other crossed in front of her ankle, veil-less and glistening red and black in the moonlight -- she must have simulated a Vulcan day, using the changing light to compliment the dance movements. Her stance shouted lithe strength and passion; one shoulder higher than the other, her body curved slightly, her arms back and her head tilted, she smiled at him, drawing fire from him. Then she ran, and his body leaped forward in response, Sevarin's reflexes pulling him along. She jumped, he caught her foot in his hands, and two-handed he threw her straight up as hard as he could.

A hundred-eighty-degree turn brought him around and into position. Her momentum combined with his throw had sent her high overhead, and he didn't have to watch to know what she did. She twisted in the air -- he'd seen Treya doing it with Sevarin, in their demonstration of the dance -- tucking her shoulder and spinning so that, just as planned, she landed neatly in his arms. Not in the standard cradling position; she fell sideways, facing him, and as his right arm caught her beneath her outstretched arms, the left hooked her topmost leg. He stayed in motion, still spinning another revolution on the ball of his foot, then another, bringing her back to vertical and placing her on her feet at the end of the second turn.

They ended the dance still moving in tandem, performing an intricate weaving walk into the darkness that began to fall on the arena. He made it behind the curtain and fell on his back in the sand, panting. Pain blossomed along the back of his leg.

{Jean-Luc, let me.} In the darkness her hands found the leg that had given out as the heart fire ebbed to nothing and exhaustion set in. The influence of the meld and the disciplines he'd learned were definitely receding; he'd made it out of the Imperial Palace before this had happened last time.

"Hurt," he gasped, as if he had to tell her. He gritted his teeth as she pulled off the shoe and touched the back of his calf. The ambient lighting was coming back slowly. Raising his head, he brushed his sleeve across his face, trying to rid himself of sand sticking to his sweaty skin. She crouched, glanced at him, and ran a tricorder, then a regenerator, over his calf.

"Just pulled, not torn. It feels like a tear, doesn't it?"

"What I get for trying to dance around like a kid." The regenerator was doing its work; it already felt better.

"I'm not exactly a kid, either. How is it?"

He rolled his foot around and nodded. Sitting up, he let her brush his face off with a towel. "You think of everything, don't you? Well -- almost everything. You went for a tricorder and regenerator and forgot how sweaty this makes us?"

"No. Now we have to go change -- a good excuse to get us out of the holodeck and off to somewhere more private. I feel like taking a nice long nap."

His body was starting to yell at him for what he'd done to it. She helped him up, moving stiffly herself. "We're both going to be hellaciously sore," he said.

"A hot bath will help." Deanna put on a loose black robe to cover her glittery, sandy body. Tucking tricorder and regenerator in a pocket, she waited for him to put his shoe back on and brushed off his back for him.

They marched across the arena to where their audience sat -- all four of them were wide-eyed, still, and didn't say a word. Jean-Luc rolled his shoulder; more twinges were playing games across his back.

"Any questions?"

Will looked at Beverly; Beverly looked at Tom. Data simply looked at Jean-Luc with his usual impassiveness.

"Comments?"

Will sat forward and chewed his lip. "I had no idea you could do that. I'm impressed."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "You have a gift, Will. When they promote you to admiral in charge of the department of underwhelming responses, let me know -- I'd like to speak at the ceremony. Should be a very short speech. Jean-Luc -- a magnificent achievement. You obviously put a lot of work into it. Nice catch, too. And Deanna, that was a marvelously agile performance. I thought you said you weren't a dancer."

"I'm not. But it was close to martial arts, in some ways." She smiled wearily. "I'm just lucky he bench-presses more than I weigh on a routine basis. And as performances like that tend to go, that was lackluster -- but it served a purpose."

Beverly found her voice at last. "I'd like to know how you managed to learn that in less than a month. I'm sure they didn't give you a lot of notice."

"We had help, yes. A lot of it. Not all Romulans are unsympathetic to peace efforts," Deanna said.

Jean-Luc decided he didn't feel like a long-winded discussion of the details.  "I think I'll have to call it quits for poker. After Bellamy, I was too distracted to make a go of it, anyway."

Deanna smiled and said a farewell to the others, and he followed her on autopilot to their quarters. She disappeared into the bathroom, running the water and the sonic shower at the same time, probably to remove glitter before the bath. He stumbled against the wall trying to pull off his pants. The computer politely announced messages from several people; ordering it to hold them, he leaned on the side of the door, one foot in the bathroom.

"Jean, are you all right?" Deanna came to him and stepped under his arm. "You're sore, tired -- "

"Fine. Just a little off balance. It was harder this time, the memories faded too much." He sighed and let her help him into the bath, which smelled like jasmine. "Perfume and bubbles?"

"They won't kill you. Going anywhere any time soon?"

"I'm too tired to growl about it."

They took turns kneading each other's backs and legs, and sat in the hot water in silence for a while. It did help -- he caught himself almost falling asleep and came awake as his chin hit the water. Opening his eyes, he caught her doing the same at the other end of the tub. She slid her feet up to rest on his ribs and wiggled her toes. The tub, though comfortably contoured, felt hard against his bones and joints. His muscles no longer screamed soreness, but he felt like a well-wrung rag. A threadbare one. The weight of the upcoming confrontation with a Romulan fleet didn't help matters.

"I'm getting too old for such things," he said with a sigh.

"Jean -- "

"Don't scold me, Dee. I really am getting too old. I've beaten the hell out of my body over the years, it can't last forever. As much as I want to ignore that, I can't."

She withdrew her feet and crossed the tub to lay against him, arms around his ribs. While she pressed her cheek against his shoulder, he pulled the band from the end of her braid and combed out her hair with his fingers.

"I know you don't like to think about it. We'll have to. I can't go on forever, and I worry about it -- the thought of you having to look after me in my dotage, when you should be -- "

"Later. Please?" she whispered.

Shifting her weight to the left, he rested his chin on her head and held her, taking comfort in her presence. It was all that kept him going when he was this tired. She was right, the Hakhal'aar was very much like the way they lived, putting everything they had into it and flinging caution to the wind. He'd danced with his eyes shut -- he'd been living with his eyes shut to the devastation that would surely overwhelm him if anything ever happened to her. Just that thought was enough to make him think of retirement and home. But they lived in space, they enjoyed their jobs, and she was finally coming to the point that the light at the end of the tunnel was more than a flicker -- she had turned into a promising command candidate.

"I'm tired, too, Jean, and it has nothing to do with age," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm tired of fighting them. All the conjecture, and Bellamy, and the reports. All the questions and the disbelief -- I just want to be left alone. Why can't they leave us alone?"

The floodgates opened. She even pounded her fist weakly against his chest, splashing water. He tolerated it with weary acceptance of her need to vent. They lay in silence for a while afterward until he remembered how long they'd been in the bath. At his nudging, she stood up, water running from her body as she stretched.

"Venus rising from the waves," he said, finding his footing. His limbs felt heavy climbing out. He took two towels from a pile she kept handy on a shelf near the tub and turned to find her still standing in the water watching him, smiling.

She had smiles for all occasions, sly ones and polite ones, wide happy ones and tiny pleased ones, smug, haughty, and outright disdainful ones -- this one made him stop and search for classification. Her head raised, her eyes glittering with pleasure, her lips only barely upturned at the corners. Not proud, though there might some of that in it. Not serene -- that was a different look. A measuring one, an appreciative one -- a look that resembled the one she had when he surprised her with a box of her favorite chocolates.

"What is it, Deebird?"

The mood, whatever it was, passed as she stepped out of the tub and came to him. He wrapped a towel around her and she leaned and kissed him unexpectedly. And kissed him, and kissed him, her hand going to the back of his head. Her tongue roamed the backs of his teeth and along his own tongue, confidently staking its claim. Her body came to his, the towel falling out of the way, clean, warm jasmine-smelling skin against skin. Suddenly the heart fire was back. Suddenly, his limbs wanted to dance again, to run after her and find new steps and new patterns. Her lean, warm body felt solid and yet soft in his arms.

Her tongue and lips retreated and she leaned, nose to nose, forehead to forehead. "How do we feel now?" As if she didn't know, as if she didn't sense the fire and the love overlaying the exhaustion. Now that she granted a reprieve, he could still feel the bone-weariness of his body.

"Still sore, but not caring much." He considered it further. "You know, it's surprising we did that well -- we endured four weeks of intense physical workouts to prepare for it, and only two weeks of recovery. That on top of the usual stress we go through, and then this whole Bellamy thing, and worrying about Beverly -- we probably would have suffered less if we'd been more rested, don't you think?"

"Possibly. You don't think it's your advanced age, after all?"

"That's probably a contributing factor. I've danced my last Hakhal'aar, regardless. Waltzing from now on. Possibly a mambo, if you have the patience to help me learn. If you really want to dance, that is."

She brushed her lips against his. "Are you up to a little dancing of the horizontal persuasion?"

Jean-Luc laughed. Taking her hand and putting a hand on her hip, he waltzed her around the tub toward the bedroom. "Realistically speaking, probably not, but wake me up in a little while and I'll see if I can rise to the occasion."

~#~#~#~#~#~

"I can't believe it," Beverly said for the hundredth time, softly, almost to herself.

Tom led her through the *Phoenix* toward the holodeck, ignoring looks from the few passing officers they'd seen. They had stayed a while longer talking to Data and Riker about the dance, all pretense of poker forgotten. The performance had left the group in a state of shock -- though Tom had seen Hakhal'aar before, he hadn't imagined humans could do it.

He looked at Beverly, smiling in amusement at her continued shocked state, and finally addressed it. "Why? He'd obviously worked hard on that single routine, and I get the feeling he'd be able to do anything he damn well pleased once he set his mind to it. And he's got the strength and the natural grace for it. If you think about it, there wasn't a thing he did that was spectacular. He turned, he picked her up, he threw her, he caught her. The most remarkable thing about it was that they moved together, in tandem. She's Betazoid, though -- that might have something to do with it. And they had help, obviously, from -- "

He cut himself short of talking about who and where. "Anyhow, I could've done any of that, except that tandem work -- though I'd bet it would be possible to come close with practice."

"You think so? It's just not something you'd picture him doing. He did have it down pretty well. I guess what threw me the most was how drastically his body language altered -- and hers, too."

Tom guessed there must have been a mind meld or two involved somewhere, no human could mimic such dancing without it -- though it'd been unspectacular as Hakhal'aar went, it was still something that couldn't be learned in a few weeks. The dance had been breathtaking in one aspect unrelated to technical merit -- it had shown how completely they trusted one another. However the synchronized part of the dance was accomplished, Picard had done it with his eyes shut, his expression serene, and without a single hesitation, even when they had leaped on the stone -- and his foot had come perilously close to the edge, too. Deanna's expression hadn't been so serene; Tom wondered how much of the emotion had been borrowed from the no-doubt passionate Romulan dancer she'd emulated, and how much of it had been her own.

"You know, you haven't told me a whole lot about your past," Beverly said, breaking into his train of thought. "Some about career, yes, but not family and origins. All I know is the rough location of your home, and that your family raises flowers. For all I know you have a wife and children somewhere."

"No, never married. No kids for this old war horse. You really want to know about my childhood?"

"What's the big secret?"

"I was going to take you dancing along the Seine, but since you're so curious. . . I'll show you where I grew up."

All the holodecks were busy but one. Tom led her into holodeck three, and once the doors closed he said, "Computer, run program Glendenning seven." The program already had the coding to secure the door; on the arch panel the red privacy indicator went on, and the grid dissolved to a dance auditorium, the smooth shining black floor stretching before them. White walls on either side with bars for ballet students, mirrors to the north, a set of double doors on the south end of the room.

"This is my mother's dance studio in Portland. She took us with her when she went to teach and we were out of school -- I spent a lot of time dancing, or sitting in a corner studying while the ballet classes went on."

Beverly went forward, her heels making quiet clicks that echoed. She turned, blue skirt flaring, and kept going two full revolutions, looking up at the high-beamed ceiling. "What's her name?"

"Rhiannon Glendenning. Though you would probably know her if I told you the name she danced under professionally, which was Rhiannon Sinclair -- her maiden name." Tom strolled along the floor, watching their indistinct reflections against the black surface. "You would probably also know Catriona's reputation -- my oldest sister."

"Tom! You can't mean Catriona Sinclair, can you?"

He looked at her, surprised at her utter amazement. "That's the professional name she chose, yes."

"I took lessons from Cat -- we were good friends when she was dancing with the San Francisco Repertory! We used to go out on the town, she'd drag me away from my books and make me dance with strangers."

"Beverly. . . Howard? You're kidding!" He stopped in front of her and stared into her face. "I must have already graduated and gone -- I remember her mentioning you in some of her messages. She wanted me to come home on leave some time so she could. . . ."

"Set me up with you. But she said her brother's name was -- " She grinned until dimples showed.

"Geraint. With a mother named Rhiannon, you can guess who named me." Tom shrugged, hiding his amazement at the revelation as much as he could. "What a small universe it is, after all."

"I'll say. Bet Cat never dreamed. . . . It really is something, I never would have guessed you're her brother. You don't look anything like her."

"No, she's definitely got the looks. I got the personality."

"I wouldn't say that. Both, maybe."

He stood, one hand on his hip, too lost in imagining a much-younger Beverly and how well she and Cat had gotten along. "I was stupid to not pay attention to Cat's request. But you should've seen the last girl she set me up with. Built like one of those Brunhilda types you see in Wagner productions, and manners to match. Cat loves to embarrass me."

"Why did you change your name?"

"My father died before I was born. When I went into the Academy, I took his name as my first name legally -- Geraint's still there, but as a middle name. My sisters never call me Tom. I have two lives, essentially. I go home, I'm their brother Geraint who has something to do with space travel, they don't really care what. They're too wrapped up in their dancing and art to give a fig for Starfleet."

"Okay, so you're Catriona's baby brother -- what about your sisters? Chrissy, Chloe, and Livvy?"

"Those are Cat's names for them. Cressida is Chloe's twin, they're five years older than me. Olivia's the second child, two years older than the twins, who runs the greenhouses and paints. Catriona's the carrier of the Sinclair dancing tradition and three years older than Ollie. I was the odd one out, the late addition to the family. When I'm out here, I'm Tom Glendenning, the rough-looking guy who can give as good as he gets, but skimps on the details when people start talking about home. You think dancing doctor is bad? Try the capering captain. I stopped showing off my dancing ability as a cadet."

"Geraint," she repeated. "What's wrong with that?"

"As a kid, everything. If people weren't mispronouncing it, making the G soft, or worse, a Y sound, they were making puns on it. It's not such a big deal any more, but I'm Tom to everyone but my family. I'm used to it that way."

Tom held out a hand. She took it, and walked with him to the center of the floor. "I don't believe I've been with Catriona's brother all this time and I didn't even know it. I haven't heard from her in ages! How is she?"

"She and her two daughters are running a dance studio in the Los Angeles metroplex. Her son's graduating from the Academy next year. She does exhibition tours, still. Her younger daughter's a ballerina, a rising star in the art."

"Let me guess, Anwen Sinclair. I've heard of her."

"Cat sent me a recording of one of her latest performances, if you'd like to see it later."

"I'd love to."

He nodded, turned away and called for the arch. Bringing up the lists of his favorite songs, he selected a few of them and queued them, then turned back to her as the arch disappeared. Taking her hand again, he led her into a slow, elegant four-beat movement to the gentle strains of mandolin music. Surprised by his more practiced and precise posture, she mimicked his relative formality.

"This is nice music. I like how soft it is, and the rhythm. Where'd you find it?"

"Old favorite. My theme song, you could say. Want to hear the words?"

"Of course."

He smiled, and began to sing with the mandolin, feet moving automatically to the familiar melody.

"He deals the cards as a meditation
And those he plays never suspect
He doesn't play for the money he wins
He doesn't play for respect

He deals the cards to find the answer
The sacred geometry of chance
The hidden law of a probable outcome
The numbers lead a dance

I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart."

She moved with unconscious grace now, wrapped up in his words and watching his face. Her neck, slender and elegant, invited kisses he hesitated to give. The silk of her dress felt smooth under the hand he pressed against the small of her back. Hesitate, turn, step lightly across, pivot -- she followed with the soft Latin beat, leaning into the direction he took her, and he continued to sing huskily over the slow descant and flow of the melody.

*He may play the jack of diamonds
He may lay the queen of spades
He may conceal a king in his hand
While the memory of it fades

I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart
That's not the shape,
Shape of my heart. . . .*

Her eyes reminded him of gentians, Chloe's favorite flower, the vivid blue his sisters insisted were the same color as his own eyes. In the dimmer lighting of the studio and with her dress providing a lighter shade to contrast them with, Beverly's eyes seemed that dark. He led her in a more rapid series of turns down the mirrored wall, catching their reflection out of the corner of his eye. Her body language had changed from when they'd danced yesterday; they were dancing together now, instead of simply dancing with each other.

*And if I told you that I loved you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one

Well, those who speak know nothing
And find out to their cost
Like those who curse their luck in too many places
And those who fear are lost

I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart
That's not the shape. . .
the shape. . .
. . . of my heart*

The mandolin finished, and the next song began -- quicker tempo, different beat. He slipped into a quickstep, watching her, happy to see that she followed him into it without hesitation. She must dance often. He could guess what her favorite holodeck programs were like.

"You're better than you pretend to be," she said breathlessly.

"I can be. Depends on my partner."

She hesitated, and he slowed with her. She studied him as if he'd just become someone else. "Tom, about what happened in the restaurant. . . I panicked. I've been so torn between two extremes and there's been no middle ground. I forced more intimacy than I should have, by telling you everything that's been on my mind -- I shouldn't have done that. It's not like me to be that way."

They stopped dancing, and stood while the music romped onward. "I've been thinking about what you've told me, and I've realized something about you that you aren't apparently aware of."

She let go of his hand, stepped away from him, and stood with arms at her sides, watching him, her face in those composed ice-queen lines -- a mask. "What's that?"

"You haven't lost nearly as much as you say you have. You're just ignoring it."

"*What* are you talking about?" Fire rose in her eyes, and in her cheeks.

"Riker asked me how you were, after you left with me that first night. Jean-Luc issued an ultimatum for me to treat you with respect yesterday. And Deanna was coming around the restaurant, probably to find you when you were upset. They're worried about you. You've never lost your friends, Beverly, and I don't imagine that you could -- you're just having difficulty accepting the separations and the new relationships forming between them." Tom held out a hand, pleading silently for her not to flee. "You've also had difficulty accepting me, even though I'm doing everything I can to reassure you."

She hardened -- her eyes went glassy and her jaw clenched. Then her eyes softened. "I'm really not looking for a relationship at the moment. There's too much going on between the Federation and the Empire. Things are too uncertain."

"And when they're settled, you'll decide the Ferengi alliance looks a little too rocky, and then the Cardassians will be acting up again, and then the Klingon treaty will be in jeopardy. I'm sorry, but if I can believe what you told me the other night, a relationship is exactly what you're looking for. Why do I get the feeling you're afraid to be happy?"

"Why do you suddenly sound like a counselor?"

Tom regrouped, taking the moment he likely didn't have -- she was rapidly becoming angry again. He thought about Deanna's words in the restaurant the prior evening, and swallowed nervously. All that mattered was what he believed. At the moment, believing she might change her mind was difficult -- but he could believe that if she did, it would be worth the risk.

"Beverly -- listen -- I have a friend who's in charge of a deep space station, who's about to retire to go home to be with his grandchildren. I'm going to put a bug in his ear that I'm interested in taking his place. He'll put a bug in Command's ear that I'd be good for the job. Do you want me to check on openings in the medical facility?"

She backed away. Turned her head away slightly as if cocking a slingshot, looking at him sideways, her left shoulder moving back as well. "What are you saying?"

"That I'm willing to risk everything on the chance that you and I could be more than we are. I play poker, and I like the hand I've been dealt well enough to gamble with it. I've risked a ship and crew on slimmer odds. And there's more room for dancing on a station. I wouldn't feel so wary of inviting my sisters to come out for a visit, and maybe if you're in one place long enough, your son will come around more often."

She thought about it, eyes closed, turning away slightly. Shoulders straight, her slender neck and head held high, one leg forward in an unconsciously-vampish pose, knee bent slightly and ankle turned in with out-turned toe. Her face had gone white and still.

"I'm falling in love with you, Beverly. Please don't stand so far away."

She shook her head, making the floor seem to move under his feet -- his hopes were toppling around him. "This is too fast."

"Fast is all it can be. You can't make leisurely decisions out here. There's not going to be another reprieve for weeks, Beverly. We only have a couple more days here before your ship goes away with the others, and mine goes away with the *Enterprise* -- my one consolation in this is that yours will be in the fallback position instead of up front. I'm not proposing, I'm not that stupid. But we have to start somewhere. At least getting us on the same station would give us that much. I won't ask you to tolerate the separation the way Jack did."

Her head tipped back as if avoiding a blow. "Tom," she cried.

He waited a few moments, then went after her slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to run for it. She was petrified. When he was close enough, he saw that she trembled visibly, her body tight as a violin string.

"I can't," she whispered.

"Only because you think so. I for one think you can do anything you damn well please. You made it this far -- you had to believe you could. Why can't you believe in us?"

Her mouth opened in surprise, and her eyes glittered with tears. "You really think it might work?"

"I can believe in it enough to give it that chance. I know better than to make you promises like others might -- but I promise you, I can believe in us, and that can be enough until you believe in us, too. If you're willing to try."

"Willing to -- " She pressed her hand to her forehead. "Oh. . . ."

"Dance with me, Beverly. Decide when the music should stop later. Or if it should. Don't be a wallflower any more. You're a rose, you don't deserve to be kept in a dark corner."

"You have a way of sweet-talking a girl, you Starfleet officers." Tears made her voice wobble. "Right before you take off and get yourselves killed."

"I told you, that's not the shape of my heart. I'm tired of war, too. I would love to love you, Beverly. All I'm really asking for right now is the chance."

Her laughter came in gasping fits; hand over her mouth, she hugged herself with her other arm. "I think I realized -- I think you know -- Tom, I promised myself I wouldn't fall for another captain, you're all so caught up in duty and -- but I do love you."

"Then dance with me, Verly."

She sighed and nodded, wiping tears on the back of her hand. "Quand Tu Chantes -- you have that one, don't you, Tom?"

"Oh, I'll kill Cat one of these days. You know that wasn't exactly what I meant, but if it's samba Verly wants, I can oblige." He requested the song, the same one he'd won that Latin dance competition with as a fresh-faced sixteen-year-old dancing with his older sister. Cat loved to brag about it, knowing full well that it embarrassed him when she did. Apparently she'd bragged when he wasn't around to defend himself, too.

The music brought back the memory of the dance with surprising clarity -- amazing how he could feel his body remembering how to react, even after all these years. Samba was one of those things that looked best when done with passion, and Beverly had plenty of that -- under his hands she felt like a live wire, twisting and turning and moving around the floor with him, following his lead as best she could. She wasn't up to her usual par, probably hadn't done many sambas, but that only meant she had an even match in him, out of practice as he was. Both of them made their share of missteps but recovered quickly. Beverly caught his eyes with hers often in the course of the dance -- smoldering. No more brief glimpses of sexual tension. This definitely wasn't the same as dancing with Cat.

In fact, something about the way she was dancing reminded him of Deanna's earlier gyrations. Beverly seemed quite conscious of what she was doing, and when Tom pulled her in for a swift change of direction, she even mimicked that caressing motion of the thighs a few centimeters from his legs, the inside of the leg, then the outside, taken straight from the counselor's repertoire. It was enough to tempt him to attempt Hakhal'aar dancing, just to get Beverly to do this again -- he wouldn't care if they ever got it right as long as they could keep trying.

She finished the samba bent back over his hand, her arms flung back and a leg raised. He came perilously close to simply kissing her. Knowing his limitations, he stepped away from her and rolled his shoulder to ease a sore muscle. Dancing a samba the right way was definitely a workout.

"Why did you pretend you couldn't mambo?" she asked.

"It was the only way I could think of to bump into you and get away with it. Didn't want to seem too forward."

She laughed, finally, and closed the distance between them, putting a hand on his shoulder. He kissed her, embracing her at last. Her arms went around his neck -- she put herself into it this time.

"Can you handle it?" he asked, roughly, trying to curb too many impulses at once. "Am I being unreasonable? Have I read you wrong? Just clarify it, one more time."

She kissed him again, less urgently, and extricated herself. For every step she backed away, he took one forward. "You haven't. You aren't. I'm afraid, Tom, terrified -- I had so much and I've felt like I lost all of it, and I'm being irrational, I know perfectly well that's no excuse for -- but I've known you for all of two days, and it's happening so quickly -- "

"You don't believe in love at first sight. How unromantic of you."

"It's just that I haven't had the possibility of it in so long. . . ."

"You're telling me you haven't had a lover since your husband died? One who you thought might turn into more than that? Isn't that contradicting what you've said already?"

She flushed and anger flickered then died in her eyes. "It wasn't like that. I was never Jean-Luc's lover. He was my commanding officer, and it would have made it too difficult. And I was too. . . afraid. I've put him back together so many times, after the Borg, after he's been shot and stabbed, and tortured -- I didn't want to go through that with a lover. It was hard enough to remain detached as it was. The others -- "

Her eyes darted around the room and came to rest on his chest while she still backed away, though she took smaller and smaller steps. "The men I've known, the ones I've -- considered, have all proved to be wrong. For a wide variety of reasons and sometimes -- sometimes it got to the point that someone would ask for too much of a compromise."

Tom stopped walking. She stopped as well, and watched him, uncertain of what to make of him. He inhaled roughly. "What's too much of a compromise?"

"I'm a doctor. I want to keep that -- it's too much of who I am. I like my career. I complain about the battle-wounded, but hopefully that will end soon."

"Does a space station sound like a bad place to be, for a doctor?"

Shrugging, she looked at the floor. "No, I don't think it would be."

"Even if I'm your commanding officer?"

"Are you likely to go venturing into hazardous situations in which you could be torn apart and I'd have to put you back together?"

"There'll be other doctors on staff, I'm sure. And space stations aren't starships." And undercover ops would be a thing of the past, he thought, making her that promise silently. A good captain he could be, a good undercover man, yes, but he suffered no delusions of being anything like Picard when it came to mixing professional and personal relationships.

"There's never going to be a way to eliminate all the risk." Her eyes came up to meet his. "I'll just have to accept that. I don't want you to ever resent any decision you made because of me -- so don't make them based on what you think I want, Tom. They have to be more of a mutual decision, and I'm not in any position yet to influence the big career decisions."

"If I want it that way, you are." He hesitated and sized her up. "Beverly, you do realize that you've answered your own question?"

"What question?"

"Jean-Luc and Deanna -- you wonder how they do it. You know how. They accept things and move on. The thing with JAG, for example. They hate it with a passion that other people are prying into their personal affairs but they let it happen anyway because it's the only way they can stay together and in Starfleet. They look at how things are, size up the reality and find ways to work with it or around it so they can stay together. You said you were jealous of them -- well, surprise, they aren't really doing anything you couldn't do yourself. You just did it yourself. You're right, there will always be risk. But death will take us all eventually -- how we live, right now, is what's important. And who we live with can make the difference between hollow pursuits and a life lived well."

Beverly almost cried -- hand over her mouth, she stared at him with tears like stars in her eyes. "I know that," she whispered at last. "I knew that. But thank you for reminding me -- Tom -- " She rushed him and he caught her in his arms.

"Can we make a go of it?" he whispered into her hair. "You want to try? I've waited a long time to find someone like you, Verly. I can meet you halfway, make compromises to keep you. We can play pen pals for a while, and meet when we can, and when the opening comes up I might be able to -- "

"One day at a time, please. But I want to try. I really do." She sounded surprised at her own words. "I never thought I'd want to again, not with another officer, but you drive a hard bargain."

They stood that way for a long time. She didn't move, and didn't loosen the tight hold she had on him -- she'd slid her arms under his and up his back, her fingers meeting at the base of his neck. He pulled out her hair pins and let his fingers play through her hair slowly, over and over, his eyes closed.

"I can't believe I've found a desert rose of my own," he murmured.

She loosened her grip at last and stood back a little, running her hands down his shoulders and across his chest. "You know, that was the most erotic dance -- I can't believe he did it in public, for any reason. Although. . . it's possible they did it to prove to me and Will once and for all that there's actually more to their relationship than respect."

Tom frowned. "Is that what Riker's comment meant? You really don't think Jean-Luc would have done it if he'd had his eyes open and seen the way she danced?"

"Hard to say. Like I've said, he's changed a lot over the years. He obviously did the dance for a bunch of Romulans once already, so maybe. . . ." Her eyes acquired a sly glint. "You really think I'm a desert rose? Want me to try what she did?"

"Hell." Turning slightly away, he looked at the floor. The look in her eyes was too much. "I don't want to sound like a complete bastard about it, but slow seductions kill me. I've got a really uncomfortable situation here, and you're underestimating the effect you have on me, and I've no intention of just mauling you indiscriminately. But something's got to give."

She looked down and sounded amused. "I can tell. I think it'll be the seams. But this isn't exactly the most comfortable setting."

"Pick a setting. This is a holodeck. Just don't make it a beach, I hate sand, it makes a lousy lubricant. Why women think beaches are so damned romantic is beyond me." He took a deep breath. "Unless. . . you don't want. . . ."

"I think you know better. Arch," she said, turning with a sway of her hip that caught his eye and pulled him forward. While she contemplated menus he ran his hands down her back, over her hips, pulling up her skirt to caress her thigh when she didn't seem to mind the attention.

She picked an option and the dance studio disappeared, the music with it, and was replaced in short order by a large bedroom, the centerpiece of which was a bed covered with cushions of every color, size and shape. From the view of a beach out an octagonal window, and the horgh'an on the table, he knew exactly where they were.

"This isn't just jamaharon, exactly."

"I wasn't thinking of significance. You said you were going critical, so I figured, any old bedroom in a storm. Care to undo the dress?"

"I don't know where that hesitance went, but it'd better stay there -- where the hell would one undo this?"

She saved him the trouble by pulling the dress off over her head. "Samba, Jerry?" she asked, flinging the dress to one side dramatically.

The way she'd addressed him only registered after she'd made a show of taking off her underwear. "*Jerry*?"

"Short for Geraint. I know, it changed the G sound a little, but it's just a nickname." She turned around and took over the task of manipulating the fasteners on his clothing, brushing his fumbling fingers out of the way. "Do I really make you this hot and bothered?"

"For two days straight -- don't you dare go near Craig again without me when you look so damn good! That sonofabitch touches your knee again I'll bury his head in the nearest bulkhead!"

"Oh, really?" She was enjoying it, which was a good thing. "Are you saying you have a right to be jealous?"

"Do I?"

She looked at him, lips parted, cheeks flushed. "Absolutely."

"FINALLY! Thank you! I thought I'd never get a really solid reassurance out of you!" He yanked his foot out of the other boot and pant leg and grabbed her up in his arms, propelling them toward the bed and falling into the cushions with her. She fought her way free with ferocity, making him worry a little, but she grabbed a pillow in each hand and pummeled him, forcing him to defend himself and laughing merrily.

After a few half-hearted swipes of a pillow, he dropped it and ducked under one of her swinging arms, finding one of her nipples with his mouth. Her skin was soft, her breasts small but perfect; his hand fit over the other one well enough. She abandoned her attack immediately, moaning, pressing herself against him. His other hand ran the length of her back, finding the back of her neck as he kissed and nuzzled his way up to her mouth.

She made a soft, guttural noise in the back of her throat as his tongue slid along her teeth, and pressed closer into his arms. No thorns in evidence any more on this rose. She trembled and swayed on her knees, and he lowered her gently, following, as she put her hands against his chest and moved herself into a receptive position, never losing contact with his mouth. They parted and breathed for a moment; she kissed his cheek.

"I would have invited you in last night, if you asked," she whispered. "But I love you for not pressuring me."

"You'd better love me for more than just that," he growled.

"Oh -- I think that's a foregone conclusion."

"Now that you say so, it can be." The skin of her thigh was just as smooth as the rest of her. He kissed her neck, squeezing her firm little dancer's derriere, tasting the skin along her shoulder.

"I thought you were in a hurry," she whispered.

"To touch you, yes. My god, you're so sexy. I wanted to do this last night -- hell, it was hard to let you leave two nights ago. I love the way you look when you're angry. I love the way you walk."

While he whispered against her throat and caressed her breast, she wriggled and somehow connected -- the sudden sensation of moisture and tightness around the glans shocked him into spasm. She cried out a little at the first few thrusts, but when he would have stopped she kissed him and arced her back encouragingly.

"Verly -- "

"Shut up! Harder! *Please!*"

The problem was that obedience meant it would only last another frenzied minute or so -- but what ecstasy, being able to let go that way. He couldn't stop if he wanted to, now. She had opened herself to him and pushed her hips into him, moving -- mattress dancing took on a whole new meaning the way she was doing it. Mouth on hers, he gave her what she wanted, harder, faster, and the quiet slap of flesh on flesh and her moaning and the thrust of her tongue drove him harder still. She clutched him tightly when he came, pulling her legs in to grip him, knees in his ribs, still tensed up and kissing him between his gasps for air.

"You didn't have to, I was trying -- "

"I realize that, but I couldn't stand it."

He laughed, kissing her again, shaking sweat off his bangs. "Such extremes -- one end of the spectrum to the other." Hesitating, he remembered something. "Computer, time?"

"The time is fourteen hundred twenty-nine."

"Good. We have time, then. What shall we do waiting for this poor old body of mine to recover, since you have such a good idea of what you want?"

"You've got hands, and a perfectly serviceable tongue. I'm sure you know how to use them. Or are you going to pretend you don't so I have to give you more lessons?"

He raised himself on an elbow and touched her flushed face, glowing with desire and, finally, the full measure of happiness he'd longed to see. "No lessons necessary. I'm well-versed in undercover operations."

~#~#~#~#~#~

Jean-Luc sat on the side of the bed and shook her shoulder. "Dee, cygne, wake up. It's time."

She raised her head and peered through the fall of black curls at him. "Time for what?"

"Remember the dinner?"

"I thought you postponed that. What time is it?" She finally noticed that he was dressed, and stared at his jacket. "That's a suit. A new one. You're smug. What are you up to?"

"I told you, I didn't forget our anniversary. What I forgot was that you might be upset if I appeared to forget it. It's eighteen hundred twenty, and time for you to get dressed."

She sat up and looked at the dress he held out. "Jean, that's one of those peasant dresses you like so much -- I can't wear that to a dinner party."

"You will, and you'll go barefoot and with flowers in your hair. Wearing your swan necklace and holding a bouquet. And without underwear -- just like you did a year ago yesterday."

"But -- you noticed that?"

"Oh, yes, when you're wearing one of these, from certain angles with the light behind you it's quite obvious. But I insist on authenticity. I want the girl I met and nothing less."

Deanna stared at the dress, then at him, then at the dress -- he leaned and fastened the necklace around her neck, sweeping aside her hair. "Jean, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm getting married, if you'll get your pretty little Betazoid butt moving."

Not too often he could surprise her to the point of open-mouthed, wide-eyed, completely-floored shock. "WHAT?"

"Carpe diem, Deebird! Get the hell up and start looking more like a swan and less like a fish."

"You were going to do this *yesterday?* Why didn't you just -- Jean, what about Mother? What about -- "

"You fussed about the guests and how embarrassed the Starfleet contingent would be at a traditional Betazoid wedding -- the simplest solution would be two weddings. Which isn't a definite plan, yet, but Dee, we're about to go into something that could turn into the next Dominion war. I want to go into it with this much in place -- I want to do this now, while we can, while all our friends are gathered in one place. Will's got his holodeck fired up with my Labarre program -- have to have it on his ship, so he can perform the ceremony. We'll just have a few friends there, and their dates, and the reception will be back here on the *Enterprise* so the crew can come and go as they please."

She assimilated the information slowly, mouth closing a millimeter at a time, and put a hand to her forehead, leaning an elbow on her knee. She shook her head, then began to giggle. "You never manage to include me in the really important decisions. You didn't give me an option when you proposed, you did it on the most godforsaken mudball in the quadrant, and now we're having the wedding on a starship in the middle of -- I should know better than to expect anything else, shouldn't I? You are a very, very lucky man, Jean-Luc Picard, that I love you so much, otherwise I would be screaming at you right now."

"Life on the edge -- that's the way we wanted it, Dee." He patted her leg. "Would you have said no, if I'd asked you if this would be acceptable?"

"You knew better. After the screaming -- I would have agreed to it, how could I not?" She laughed and began to arrange the dress to pull it over her head. "Having Will perform the ceremony is an interesting twist."

"I had intended to ask Tom. Will insisted."

Her head popped out and she settled the dress across her shoulders, pulling her hair free. "I'm glad he did," she said softly.

"There's something else. One of the messages I got was from H'nayison. I talked to him while you were asleep. After Bellamy made his report, H'nayison reviewed everything with the committee -- we're free."

"Free?" She looked up, startled. "No more reports?"

"No more reports. They've started writing up an actual procedure for future cases of bridge officer relationships, based on the ordeal they put us through -- they've had problems with it in the past, not that we'd hear anything about that since they keep details on such things confidential. Evidently, part of their motive in letting us try was to see if one of the fleet's top psychologists and one of their more experienced captains could actually make it work. You may become a consultant in the future, but we're out of the test tube. Quite a wedding present, isn't it?"

She launched herself at him, laughing, and he joined her, hugging the cloud of muslin and long black hair falling into his arms. Fervent kisses ensued, and he had to push her away at last. "You're running out of time -- don't tell me you're forgetting the wedding already?"

"Just make me feel guilty for thinking you forgot the anniversary, then," she exclaimed, rolling off his lap and racing for the bathroom. He spent the time waiting straightening his suit, rubbing wrinkles out of the lapels and re-tucking the white shirt. He'd thought about wearing dress uniforms, but they'd separated the professional and personal so much that it didn't seem appropriate -- good enough excuse to avoid the damned stiff collar and the horrendous non-fashion statement it made. The loose shirt was much more comfortable, the simple black jacket much more elegant.

When she reappeared, she looked as beautiful as he'd known she would, only more so. Very much the peasant with the off-white billowing dress pulled off her shoulders and the skirt falling in deep folds to mid-calf, her hair pulled back simply in a loose ponytail and fastened, with a wreath of edelweiss nestled in her curls. She'd found the flowers on the sink, then, and known what he'd intended. The light in her eyes was exactly as he'd wanted it to be, contented, happy, and adoring. The bouquet of red roses he'd gotten would add a perfect touch of color -- that and the slight flush in her cheeks. She'd put on lipstick that would match them.

"They're going to wonder why I'm barefoot," she said, the laughter already starting -- she held it inside, and he could feel it as well, tickling in his chest. Joy, soaring like a swan, and he was joining her in her flight.

"I don't care. It's our wedding. The only concern you should have is whether or not they'll be stepped on dancing at the reception."

"As long as I'm dancing with you, I'm sure that won't happen." She suddenly acquired that look again, the one she'd had in the tub earlier in the afternoon, and the smile broadened. She touched his face as if seeing him for the first time and trying to prove to herself he was real.

"You keep looking at me that way."

"I'm memorizing you. Taking a moment to make a picture of you as you are right now -- we've made so many memories together, Jean. I don't want to forget any of them. Even the elephants, even the crows, the wicked witches, the pain, the separation, the ogling and finger-pointing -- you've endured so much for me."

"Don't start to cry, not yet anyway. They'll wonder what I've done to make you weep." Rising from the end of the bed, he put an arm around her and kissed her forehead. "Stop thinking in terms of give and take -- I know you would do anything for me, and you know I'd do anything for you, and it's got nothing to do with deserving or repaying anything. What we have is unique. Priceless. And I don't want to forget a moment of it, either."

"Wait a minute -- I need to do something." She went to the drawers and rummaged in one of them.

"I thought I told you no underwear."

"There's too much potential for embarrassment, Jean, and I won't do that to you. Not today." Pulling her arms into the dress, she not only put on underwear but one of the body stockings she wore for aerobics.

"As easily as you did that without removing that dress, I'd say you're correct -- there's a lot of potential. But I was willing to endure if you decided to turn Betazoid on me during the wedding."

She hesitated, her left arm in the process of emerging from a sleeve. "You were?"

"I wouldn't ask you to deny your heritage, any more than you would ask me to deny mine."

"Jean, you don't have to keep being so -- "

"Yes, I do! I have to, at every opportunity. Because at any time, in a split-second, I could be gone. I have to love you now, because now is all I have to give you. Don't you see -- every minute, every hour we have, we'll never get it back again. I want you to know, I have to tell you how I feel any way I can, because it's all can give you."

She came to him, grabbing his face with both hands and looking in his eyes. "You told *me* not to cry. Jean-Fish, you've been so good to me. I know how you feel -- how could I not? How could I ever forget? What's put you in this mood all of a sudden?"

He ran his fingers down her smooth cheek and sighed. "It's a crossroads. One of those places where the past and the future connect, and make one recognize the things that are so invaluable. I know what's ahead of us, Dee, if we can just muddle through the bad times in the near future. I want to be your husband. I want a family. I never thought I'd have a chance at it -- I thought that I'd have to make do with the memory of Kamin. But you make the impossible so easy to accomplish."

"You think it's been so easy?" she murmured.

"I would never have done any of it for anyone else. It would only have worked with you. I'm not saying it's all been easy -- but the difficulty seemed so much less a problem, when you looked at me and smiled."

Her eyes came up to meet his, and the smile appeared -- her affectionate, private smile that he only saw in moments like these. "I would do it all again for you, Jean."

Joy threatened to overwhelm him entirely -- if he succumbed to this, they'd never get to the wedding. "Even swallow communications equipment?"

From affection to glare, in nanoseconds. "Stop being silly and ruining the mood. Remember what your maman told you. Make your madame happy."

"I'll have to make you a madame, first."

"Fine. Make mademoiselle happy by making her a madame, and then make her happy. Does that satisfy your nitpickiness?"

Jean-Luc rubbed her sides through the muslin, feeling the body stocking instead of her skin. "Yes, ma'am."

"What are you thinking now, moody fish?"

"Maman would have loved you. I wish she were here." He smiled at the touch of her thumbs tracing the paths of his tears. "I wish Robert were here, and Rene. I wish your father could be here, too."

"And your father," she said.

"Yes. He would have loved you, too. Papa had a weakness for beautiful eyes."

She shook him by the shoulders gently. "Come on, now you're making us late. Tonight we'll sit down with the photo album and remember them together."

"I wish -- "

Deanna's hand slipped into his and she pulled him toward the door. "I hope you aren't going to make me cry, now."

"I wish I could spend a lifetime telling you that I love you, Deanna."

She didn't cry, didn't turn somber as he'd half-expected, but she hesitated and smiled at him - her eyes full of joy, her fingers tightening around his. "I would love to spend two lifetimes with you, Jean-Luc. But I'll be more than happy with whatever we are allowed."

Speechless, flooded with joy himself, he allowed her to pull him into the corridor and lead him toward the transporter room.