Chapter Text
The clang of duranium against synthetic steel echoed like a gunshot through the empty gym.
Picard lunged. Parried. Spun.
Again.
And again.
The holodeck’s fencing drone mirrored his movements with clinical precision, but it wasn’t his opponent he was punishing.
His breath came harder now — not labored, but not calm either.
Control, Jean-Luc. Control. Damnit.
The tip of his foil scraped the floor as he faltered mid-riposte, then steadied. His jaw clenched. He adjusted his stance and resumed.
He’d fought Nausicaan pirates with less frustration.
Because this wasn’t about form or footwork. It was about her. About him. About what he'd seen on Caldos — or more precisely, what he had walked in on.
The image still burned behind his eyes: Beverly Crusher, half-consumed by pleasure and power, tangled in candlelight with a being made of fog and manipulation. She hadn’t seen him at first. And when she had… gods, the look in her eyes.
Not shame. Not even fear.
It was longing. Real. Raw. Reckless.
And what did that say about him, standing at the threshold like a Victorian prude, mouth half-open, fists clenched?
He thrust forward violently — a miscalculated move. The fencing bot darted aside with mocking elegance, and its blade snapped forward, slicing a clean, shallow line across his upper arm.
He hissed, staggered back, dropping the foil.
Blood welled up — not much, just enough to sting. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, grey eyes fixed on the red smear against his skin. “Computer, end program,” he snapped.
The room reverted to stillness, light panels humming overhead. The silence was louder than the blade strikes had been.
Jean-Luc Picard stood alone, sweat beading on his brow, a drop slipping past the corner of one eye — though whether it was from the exertion or something else, he wasn’t sure.
He should’ve gone to Sickbay. He should’ve filed a report. Instead, he gathered his foil and walked out without a word, leaving behind nothing but the metallic scent of blood and the echo of his own anger. Because Doctor Beverly Crusher was unquestionably the last person on this ship he felt able to meet right now.
*
The lights were dimmed, the kind of gentle twilight setting Starfleet psychologists recommended for “decompression.” He’d ignored the Christmas decorations that had begun appearing on the decks — garlands around command consoles, a crude but earnest tree in Ten Forward, glittering stars in the turbolifts – a decoration he’d been persuaded to allow it in order to boost the crew’s morale for the first time.
He sat shirtless in front of his mirror, gingerly applying a dermal patch to the fencing wound. It had already begun to seal, though the skin around it was red and tender. The pain was a nice distraction from the spiral of memory.
Her voice. Her moan. Her damned insistence on going back down and dancing at the edge of danger.
And yet… he couldn't erase the way she had looked. Free. Loose. Not the Starfleet doctor with a spine of steel and a mind like a scalpel — but a woman craving passion, believing in ghosts because she wanted to. Needed to.
What right did he have to resent that?
A flicker of energy pulsed in the reflection. Picard turned, heart seizing in his chest.
And standing — or hovering, rather — half-in, half-out of his wall, was Ronin.
Or rather, a mockery of Ronin. His robe flowed too dramatically, the candlelight flickering from nowhere, casting perfectly shadowed cheekbones. His full hair moved as though in a constant, melodramatic wind.
The specter smiled with lips far too smug. “Oh why, Jean-Luc,” Ronin purred in that voice Picard knew so well, “did you miss me?”
*
Picard didn't move. He simply sat there, one hand still frozen with the half-sealed dermal patch pressed to his shoulder. His reflection showed the full picture — the ridiculousness of it all.
The “ghost”, or rather the person dressed in the flowing robes of Ronin, stood framed by flickering phantom candlelight, his eyes glowing faintly green, hair tousled in an artfully haunted manner. There was even a faux-fog curling around his boots, never quite touching the floor.
“Of all the—” Picard stood slowly, seething. “Q.”
Q’s grin widened - wicked. “Oh, I see you've been thinking about me.”
Picard gave him a withering glare. “If you're trying to provoke a reaction, you’re three days late and four phantoms too cliché.”
“Oh, Jean-Luc, must you always be so droll? It’s the season of sentimentality!” Q twirled dramatically in the air, the fabric swishing like a stage actor in a poorly reviewed Gothic play. “I simply thought I’d show up in a form... familiar to your recent obsessions.”
“Take that ridiculous costume off,” Picard barked. “Now.”
“But I worked so hard on the spectral lighting.” Q pouted, waving a hand. A floating candle appeared near Picard’s head and exploded in a puff of glitter. “Besides, this… Ronin had such presence, don’t you think? He certainly made an impression on Red. And you, mon capitaine, you were practically seething.”
Picard’s jaw tightened. “You are not welcome here.”
“Oh, you wound me,” Q sighed, placing a hand over his not-quite-heart. “I’ve come bearing the most delightful gift.”
“I’m not interested in your silly games.”
“Who said anything about games?” Q’s tone shifted, dropping some of the theatricality. The shadows behind him deepened, just slightly. “I’m here to offer a Christmas gift. A very old-fashioned one. I’ve learned you humans enjoy these ridiculous niceties.”
Picard narrowed his eyes. “What sort of gift?”
“Insight,” Q said, voice smooth now, echoing faintly as if through distant halls. “Perspective. A peek beyond the linear stubbornness of your human lifetime.”
Picard crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Alright. You want to be the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“Oh, not just past,” Q cooed, floating lazily upside down, his head now level with Picard’s shoulder. “Past, present and future. A trifecta of traumatic introspection, all wrapped up with a sentimental bow.”
“And let me guess,” Picard said, voice dry, “I’m to be redeemed by morning?”
“Well,” Q said, flicking a finger, “it is Christmas Eve. And someone around here is a little short on cheer. Among… other things.”
The lights dimmed. The walls began to melt, shimmer, fade.
Picard’s voice was cold. “If this is another imprudent test...”
“It’s not a test,” Q interrupted, now beside him in a blink, his voice suddenly lower, less mocking. “Call it... a mercy. Before you die old and alone, having let the one person who truly mattered slip through your fingers.”
Picard flinched. Just slightly. He opened his mouth to argue - and the room darkened.