Chapter Text
The bar pulsed with low, rhythmic music, something like a heartbeat layered in crystal tones. Intergalactic Spirits was tucked into a crystalline alcove on Mantra 5, a world known for its gravity-defying cliffs, bioluminescent flora, and a notoriously potent atmosphere that made alcohol hit just a little harder.
Dr. Beverly Crusher slammed her glass down with a grin. “You haven’t lived until you’ve stitched a torn artery with improvised surgical thread made from a Jelari warrior’s own hair.”
Across from her, Counselor Deanna Troi’s eyes widened as she laughed. “That can’t be hygienic.”
“It was either that or he bled out in the diplomatic suite.”
“I stand corrected.”
The two women leaned into each other, cheeks flushed, drinks fizzing with unidentifiable ingredients. Deanna’s dark hair was slightly tousled, her typically reserved posture softened by whatever alien liqueur had tasted like cinnamon, honey, and deep-seated emotional release.
“Did you really say to the ambassador’s aide, ‘You're not having a crisis, you're just under-hugged?’” Beverly asked, blinking tears of laughter.
Deanna tried to look offended, then burst out laughing. “It was accurate! And I was very gentle about it.”
They both dissolved into giggles, shoulders bumping, completely unaware of the figure who had just stepped through the bar’s shimmering crystal-paneled entrance.
Captain Jean-Luc Picard paused. He took in the scene: his chief medical officer halfway draped over the bar, her curls a halo of fiery red under the shifting lights, and his counselor fanning herself with a menu that flickered between languages.
It was the stunned look of a man who had walked into his ready room expecting a report—and instead found a jazz quartet and a conga line.
Deanna spotted him first. “Captain!” she called, a little too brightly. “Come to join us in the noble pursuit of stress management?”
Picard approached slowly, arms crossed, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Is this what Starfleet is calling recovery now?”
Beverly turned, grinning. “Oh, come on, Jean-Luc. We just saved a planet from political collapse and an ecological meltdown. You’re lucky we’re not dancing on the tables.”
Deanna snorted. “Yet.”
He gave her a pointed look. “Counselor, are you intoxicated?”
“Only emotionally,” she said smoothly. Then, sensing the shift in energy, she slid off her stool with an elegant wobble. “And on that note—restroom. Or possibly diplomacy with a sink. Don’t wait up.”
She vanished into the crowd, leaving Beverly and Jean-Luc alone at the glowing bar.
“You didn’t have to come looking for me,” Beverly said, more softly now, her fingers tracing the rim of her empty glass.
“I didn’t,” Picard replied. “I was... walking. Thinking.”
“And accidentally stepped into a bar carved into a floating cliff on Mantra 5.”
He allowed the faintest smile. “Perhaps not entirely by accident.”
There was a pause—comfortable and full of unspoken history. Beverly looked at him from the corner of her eye, still pink-cheeked from drink and laughter, but there was something rawer beneath the surface now.
“I needed to not be the doctor for a while,” she admitted. “Not the fixer. Not the calm one.”
“I know.”
“And you? Still the captain, even here?”
Jean-Luc met her gaze, something flickering in the depths. “Always the captain. But right now... maybe just a man who wanted to see if his oldest friend was all right.”
Her throat tightened. She didn’t speak right away, just watched him. Then: “You could sit.”
“I believe I will.”
He eased onto the stool beside her, the warmth between them growing quietly electric, unspoken but felt. Not command and officer. Not healer and strategist.
Just Jean-Luc and Beverly, under alien lights and the faint thrum of a planet that always seemed on the verge of singing.
“Jean-Luc,” she said, voice low, “you’re not obligated to worry about me.”
“Beverly,” he said, just as softly, “it’s not an obligation.”
She looked at him then, really looked—and for a moment, the years and uniforms and walls between them cracked.
No kiss. No smile.
But her hand brushed his on the bar. A touch, featherlight. A signal.
He didn’t move away.
Outside, the floating cliffs of Mantra 5 shimmered under the light of two suns, and somewhere behind them, Deanna peered around the corner, grinned to herself, and quietly disappeared back into the bar’s swirling glow.
***
Deanna Troi discovered her awkward tension and fuzziness somewhere between her third glowing cocktail and the moment she found herself passionately debating philosophy with a sentient fern. When the plant failed to respond—possibly because it was, in fact, a large decorative centerpiece—she staggered back to the bar, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with a mixture of merriment and mounting melancholy.
Meanwhile, Beverly was laughing—really laughing—as a tall, silver-skinned humanoid with a devilish smile and far too much confidence bowed before her and extended a hand.
“May I have this dance, radiant traveler?” he purred, with the sort of accent that implied he thought quite highly of himself.
Beverly raised an eyebrow at Jean-Luc, who looked distinctly less amused.
She smirked. “Why not? I suppose I’m due one interstellar waltz.”
The stranger led her to the central dance floor, which shimmered under a dome of refracted starlight. Music bloomed from the walls—light, romantic, a kind of alien jazz that made the room sway with rhythm.
Deanna dropped back onto her stool and watched, drink in hand. She giggled once, then sighed. “Look at her. Graceful. Elegant. Hair still perfect after a mission that nearly killed you both.”
The bartender—an insectoid creature with six eyes and a bowtie—offered her a refill. She waved it away and slumped forward.
“Beverly gets a charming alien dance partner. I get the philosophical ficus. This is fine. This is... totally fine.”
On the dance floor, the charming alien was getting very close.
Too close.
His hand slid subtly down Beverly’s waist, and her polite smile faltered.
From the shadows, Jean-Luc Picard rose.
He crossed the floor in seven decisive steps, placed a firm hand on the stranger’s shoulder, and said, with crisp, unmistakable authority, “I believe the lady’s had enough, thank you.”
The alien blinked. “I was only—”
“She said no,” Picard interrupted. His voice was cool steel.
Beverly’s eyes met his—and though she could’ve handled it herself, something about the fierceness in his expression sent a flutter through her. The stranger backed off with a charming shrug and disappeared into the crowd.
She exhaled. “Thanks.”
“I couldn’t just stand there.”
“No,” she said softly. “You couldn’t.”
And then—without waiting for permission, or thinking too hard—he offered her his hand.
“May I?”
She hesitated just long enough for him to worry. Then she smiled. “I thought you didn’t dance.”
“On special occasions.” He breathed. They stepped into the same rhythm the bar was playing, two figures moving in quiet synchronicity beneath the alien lights. They danced without flourish—no twirls, no showmanship—just two people who had known each other a long, long time, finally leaning into the silence between them.
From the bar, Deanna watched them.
Her smile had vanished.
She sipped what was left in her glass, eyes fixed on the pair—Picard’s hand resting lightly at Beverly’s waist, their foreheads close in shared conversation.
They looked good together. Beautiful, even.
And something deep in Deanna’s chest twisted—not jealousy exactly, but a kind of hollow ache. The ache of being almost needed, almost loved, almost the center of someone’s world. Always the one people talked to, but rarely the one they turned toward.
She slumped, chin in hand.
“I’m a glorified therapist in space,” she muttered to no one. “My best conversation tonight was with a plant. And now I’m narrating my own tragic backstory.”
The bartender buzzed sympathetically and slid her another drink.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
On the dance floor, Beverly laughed at something Jean-Luc said—tilting her head back, radiant. He smiled at her like he hadn’t in years.
Deanna sighed again, dramatically, and whispered to her liquid friend, “I hope you don’t start dancing.”
***
The music swelled, low and slow, pressing them closer.
Jean-Luc’s hand rested lightly at Beverly’s back—too lightly. Not because he feared overstepping, but because if he let himself feel the full warmth of her through the fabric of her dress, he wasn’t sure he’d remember how to stop.
Beverly’s breath hitched. She didn’t step back.
He looked down at her, his voice hushed. “This is dangerous territory.”
“Is it?” she whispered, her eyes not courageous enough to meet his.
They didn’t kiss. But they could’ve. They both knew that. The closeness wasn’t just physical anymore; it was gravity. And if they let it pull too far—
Beverly took a sharp breath and stepped away.
“We should… head back,” she said, voice cracking into professionalism like a shield being raised.
“Yes.” He nodded too quickly. “Yes, of course.”
They turned, walking back to the bar in a silence that buzzed like static between them. Neither dared speak. Neither dared look at the other too long.
And then they found Deanna.
She was still on the barstool. Technically. But only by a thread. Her dark hair had fallen into her face, her posture that of a woman fully melted into philosophical despair. She looked up as they approached, her eyes gleaming with a particular kind of over-brightness that meant: Brace for impact.
“Well, look who’s back,” she said, swaying slightly. “Captain Forearms and the Dancing Doctor.”
Beverly blinked. “Deanna—”
“Do not ‘Deanna’ me.” She pointed a dramatic finger. “I watched that whole little... slow motion emotional entanglement, and let me tell you—it was both very romantic and deeply unprofessional.”
Picard opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Beverly stepped forward. “Okay, I think it’s time for some water and maybe—”
Deanna dramatically slumped over the bar, groaning. “Ugh, stop being maternal, Beverly, you’re gorgeous and intimidating and you glow when you dance. It's infuriating.”
Then she slid sideways.
There was a brief moment of weightlessness before she hit the floor with a muffled oof.
Beverly was immediately at her side. “You okay?”
“I live here now,” Deanna mumbled into the floor. “Among the sticky alien peanuts and spilled dreams.”
Picard coughed once, clearly suppressing a laugh. He extended a hand, helping her up while Beverly steadied her from the other side.
“All right,” Beverly sighed, “I think we’re done here.”
Picard nodded. “Agreed. Time to head back to the ship before the counselor declares war on the bar stools.”
Deanna muttered, “They started it.”
They half-guided, half-carried her toward the transporter pad outside, Mantra 5's twin suns setting in gold and lavender across the floating cliffs. As they passed the still-swaying dance floor, Beverly glanced once at it—and then quickly looked away.
Picard caught the glance but said nothing.
Later, they would talk. Or maybe they wouldn’t. The moment had happened, then evaporated like mist.
But the weight of it lingered. So did the warmth of where their hands had touched.
And behind them, Deanna let out a hiccup and mumbled, “You two are so repressed.”
Neither denied it.
***
USS Enterprise – Transporter Room
The transporter hum faded, leaving behind the crisp, cool air of the planet to be replaced by the Enterprise’s stale and unmistakable silence starship’s professionalism.
Except for the sound of Deanna Troi dramatically groaning into Captain Jean-Luc Picard’s back.
“I deeply regret everything,” she mumbled, her arms dangling uselessly as he carried her—fireman-style—over one broad shoulder.
“She refused to walk,” Picard said to the young chief on duty, as if this explained everything. And maybe it did. “Tried to duel the transporter console.”
“Only in spirit,” Deanna added, her voice muffled. “And the spirit was very offended.”
“Jean-Luc, for heaven’s sake, put her down before she throws up on your uniform,” Beverly said, laughing as she stepped down from the transporter pad, just a little wobbly herself.
“She already did. Back on the cliff,” Picard remarked dryly.
“That was one time,” Deanna slurred. “And it was symbolic.”
Picard carried her out of the transporter room, ignoring the two ensigns stepping by, who tried and failed to appear completely unfazed.
Counselor Troi, half-conscious, murmured against his back, “You know, you have very comfortable shoulders.”
“Oh but yes, I’m quite aware,” he muttered grimly.
Counselor’s Quarters – Later
Somehow, between gravity shifts and half-conscious navigation, they made it to Deanna’s quarters.
They stumbled in together—Beverly and Picard flanking Deanna, who groaned softly as the lights adjusted to a low, gentle glow. Her boots had long since been abandoned. Her dignity was somewhere on Mantra 5, beneath a bar stool.
Picard gently deposited her onto her bed, careful but practiced—as if starship command occasionally involved wrangling drunken diplomats. Beverly immediately moved to the replicator, fetching water, a metabolic stabilizer, and a towel, setting them down with well-honed precision.
“Bed,” Deanna muttered. “I demand a diplomatic escort to bed.”
“You are in bed,” Beverly said gently, helping her down into the plush, navy-blue covers.
“No, this is a lie. This is an existential gravity well.” Deanna went on muttering something in Betazoid that sounded deeply tragic, rolled over, and promptly vomited into the basin Beverly had prepared in advance.
Picard now winced from the doorway. “She’s still articulate. That’s... impressive.”
“She’s going to feel that tomorrow,” he said.
“She’s also going to hate herself in the morning, but, at least, she’ll live,” Beverly said, brushing Deanna’s hair back and checking her vitals. “Maybe a little mortified, but physically fine.”
Deanna blinked at Beverly, then at Jean-Luc. “You two are the worst. All glowing and sexually repressed and dancing like a holonovel and leaving your poor empath to emotionally implode alone with the sentient ferns—”
“Okay,” Beverly said, voice bright. “That’s enough.”
Deanna groaned and flopped backward. “I’m dying. Don’t tell Will.”
“You’re not dying,” Beverly said.
“Tell him nothing,” she added dramatically. “Or I swear I will astrally project embarrassment into your dreams.”
Beverly stood slowly, wiping her hands on a towel and stepping back into the soft lighting of Troi’s living room. Picard was still there, one shoulder braced against the doorframe, the other hand curling around the arch like he needed something to hold onto that wasn’t her.
“She’ll be okay,” Beverly said quietly.
“I never doubted that,” Picard replied, his voice a little rough. “She’s... stronger than she lets on.”
They all were.
The silence stretched again, heavy and strange—like the moment before a storm, or the second after music stops.
Beverly looked at him. The glow from the wall panels cast a soft halo around her red curls, her eyes half-lidded, tired, but warm with wine and weariness.
“You were watching,” she said.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want help.”
“I didn’t.” A pause. “But I wanted... company.”
Picard stepped back slightly, letting her pass through the threshold. She stopped just in front of him.
They were close again.
Closer than they should’ve been.
The heat of her skin, the faint scent of something floral and alien on her tight, breathtaking dress, the glimmer of a smirk barely tugging at her lips.
He said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it, “We can’t keep doing this.”
Her breath caught. “Doing what?”
He smiled faintly. “Pretending we don’t already know.”
Her laugh was soft, breathy. “Are you always this philosophical when you’ve had two drinks?”
“Three,” he corrected, and she leaned in just a fraction.
They were both leaning. Not swaying. Not stumbling. Just...
Tilting.
Toward something inevitable.
When their lips met, it was cautious at first—an echo of something that had lived in the space between them for years. A question in the shape of a kiss.
Beverly’s hand brushed his chest, steadying herself, or maybe anchoring him. His mouth was warm, uncertain, but honest.
It wasn’t a kiss of passion. Not yet.
It was a kiss of permission.
Of doors half-opened and walls half-fallen.
When they parted, breathless and a little dazed, she whispered, “Well. That was either very brave or very stupid.”
Jean-Luc’s eyes stayed on hers. “Possibly both.”
Neither moved for a long moment.
***
Deanna’s bedroom door slid closed with a soft hiss, leaving the room in near silence save for the steady hum of the Enterprise. Beverly took a step back and leaned her back against the wall, her arms folded tightly—not from cold, but from tension that had been building for far too long.
Still close her, Jean-Luc lingered in the threshold, backlit by the low golden glow of Deanna’s ambient lights. He looked at her as if unsure whether to speak or to simply turn and leave.
“You can go, Jean-Luc,” she said, voice low.
He didn’t move. “You shouldn’t be alone here tonight.”
She raised an eyebrow. “She’s not going to aspirate on my watch.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She studied him. Then sighed. Thoroughly, her mind wrestling with her flaring nerves.
“Fine. We could sit. But if she wakes up and sees us cuddled on her couch, I’m blaming you.”
The sheer thought alone made him dizzy, but he kept his face straight. “I outrank you. I’ll survive the scandal.”
A beat passed. Then he found his voice. “Come here.”
She didn’t know which of them moved first. Just that suddenly they were standing far too close, and his hand was brushing a stray red curl from her temple with such tenderness it made her chest ache.
Her voice was breathy, uncertain. “This is most probably a terrible idea.”
“Yes, most likely,” he murmured, his strong, stormy eyes never leaving hers. “But right now I don’t care.”
And then his hungry lips were on hers again.
The kiss was slow. Careful. Full of everything they weren’t capable to put in words. It was slightly off-balance from the alcohol, but warm with unguarded honesty. Beverly let herself lean into it, her hands coming up to rest at his collar, fingers curling against the soft fabric of his red tunic.
He pulled back only an inch, his breath uneven. “Tell me to stop.”
She shook her head. “I won’t.”
He kissed her again. Deeper this time. Her hands slid to his chest, then down, feeling the taut lines of him beneath the uniform. Jean-Luc’s arms wrapped around her slender waist, pulling her gently against him as if afraid she might vanish.
They stumbled backward together, still kissing, breaking only to breathe before diving back in. Their mouths opened more easily now, tongues brushing in slow, aching rhythm. When they reached the sofa, she nudged him back and he let himself fall into it, guiding her down with him.
Beverly straddled his lap, bracing herself on his shoulders. Her fingers slipped around his ears to the back of his head, tugging lightly. He groaned softly into her mouth and let his head fall back for a moment, drunk on the feel of her, the scent of her perfect skin—spiced by foreign drinks and faint insanity.
Years of tension began to unspool. Not in frenzy—but in slow, devouring indulgence.
Her hips shifted. His breath caught.
“Beverly,” he whispered, forehead resting against hers. “If we keep going—”
She touched his jaw, soft and certain, realizing that she wouldn’t back out. “We’re already going.”
Her fingers brushed his cheek. His hand slid under the hem of her dress, resting respectfully against the bare skin of her hip, drawing slow circles as they kissed again—longer this time, less careful. The edge of her teeth caught his lower lip, and he groaned louder into her mouth.
They kissed like explorers. Like old friends rediscovering something vital.
It wasn’t desperate—but it was deep.
When she shifted to press her body closer, he closed his eyes briefly, his hands gripping her waist as if she might dissolve.
“I meant to tell you,” he murmured against her lips, “on Rutia... After they took you, I mean, after they took me as well… down in that cave…”
Her weight softened suddenly against him.
He blinked, pulled back slightly, and found her head resting on his chest—eyes closed, lips parted in sleep.
She had passed out mid-kiss.
He stared at her for a long moment, stunned. Then something like a laugh escaped him—dry, helpless, full of reverence.
His hand cradled her back, the other gently smoothing her hair.
“I love you,” he said into her hair, barely audible. “I think I’ve loved you since before I even realized I could.”
He kissed the crown of her head, then leaned back, pulling a nearby blanket to throw it over both of them.
Restless sleep caught him a moment later, there on the counselor’s couch—with Beverly in his arms and the rest of the night just beginning to unfold.
***
The first light of simulated morning filtered gently through the translucent panels. Warm and dim, it cast soft edges over the room’s quiet disarray—two still filled but now cold cups of tea on the low table, a captain’s tunic and some shoes halfway down the couch.
Beverly Crusher stirred first.
Her lashes fluttered, the familiar hum of the Enterprise wrapping around her like a blanket. She was warm—very warm—and held.
It took her a moment to realize she had never made it back to her own quarters.
She was still sprawled across Jean-Luc Picard, their bodies molded neatly together on Deanna’s slim sofa.
And something was evidently trying to gain attention by pressing against her thigh.
Her breath caught.
She didn’t move right away. Just… felt. The steady rhythm of his breathing beneath her ear. The subtle tension in his arm still wrapped around her waist. His unmistakable, impressive arousal pressed along the inside of her leg, evidence of a sleep deeper than his guarded waking hours ever allowed.
She bit her lip, a flush rising across her face—not from embarrassment, but from the quiet thrill of being exactly where she’d long imagined, yet never allowed.
Gently, she shifted just enough to rake her fingers across his bare abdomen, tracing the planes beneath the fabric of his crumbled shirt. Her nails brushed lightly over firm muscle, the trail of her touch lingering.
Jean-Luc murmured something unintelligible in his sleep and shifted beneath her. His grip tightened slightly.
Beverly exhaled, leaning into the crook of his neck. She inhaled slowly—his scent. Clean, sharp, a trace of the wine from last night and something deeply him beneath it. Familiar. Undeniably comforting.
She smiled against his supple skin, eyelids fluttering.
And then -
The bedroom door slid open.
Beverly froze.
Deanna stood there, barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, hair an absolute disaster. Her eyes were puffy, her expression somewhere between death and sarcasm.
She stopped at the unexpected sight.
Beverly didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Just shut her eyes and pretended to still be asleep - curled against the unconscious captain, her hand suspiciously placed on his bare stomach, the blanket and shirt kicked halfway off.
Deanna arched a brow.
A thousand snappy remarks flooded her non-synthetic-alcohol-soaked mind.
“Well, good morning, Federation regulation violation number six.”
“Should I replicate you two breakfast or just throw a bucket of cold water?”
“I see we’ve moved from ‘unspoken tension’ to ‘spooning the commanding officer on my couch.’”
But in the end, she just made a face, grabbed her hair in a half-hearted attempt at taming it, and muttered, “Nope.”
She shuffled toward the bathroom like a hungover banshee, disappearing behind the door with a soft hiss.
Beverly exhaled, lips twitching.
Still pretending to sleep.
Still wrapped around him.
And not ready to let go.