Title: Heart In Hand
Author: Lori
Contact: lpon@earthlink.net
Series: TNG - Kerzoinky AU
Rating: PG-13
Code: P/C
Disclaimer: Make no claims to anything, but try everything.
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I know it's been a long road
To get these fears behind me and I
Will gladly reap what we may sow I am
There for you and you're there for me
Pictures and photographs
Memories and windows
Goodbyes and epitaphs
Heartbeats and hellos
Are you waiting for
Heart in hand
Woman and man
See me where I stand I am
Heart
Heart in hand
-- Heart in Hand, Vertical Horizon
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"It's actually not that bad," Beverly said, putting the tea cup down. She smiled at Jean-Luc and shrugged a little. "A little bitter for my taste, but it's good."
"I thought you would say that. I found another flavor that might appeal to you more -- is there something wrong, Beverly? You seem a little distracted."
They sat on his sofa in his quarters, where they'd been since she dropped in to leave a copy of the report about Steichen, after her visit to Deanna's quarters to do the same.
Beverly pressed her hands together and held them between her knees, and stared at the dregs of her tea. "Nothing wrong, per se. I'm just a little concerned."
"About Deanna, you mean. Because of her friend, the mysterious Gwaheer."
She smiled at how easily he read her. "It isn't just that he's her friend. There's something new in her face when she talks about him. She's excited, but it's the sort of anxiety that comes when you're on the verge of acknowledging feelings you don't quite realize exist, when there's an attraction on some deep-down level that's about to surface -- "
"Deanna's had affairs before. You've not been so bothered by them that we end up discussing them over tea. What is it that bothers you so much about this one? Not that I think it is one, yet."
Beverly stood and paced around the table, arms crossed. "You've been concerned about her mental health, too, Jean-Luc."
"Enough to persuade her to take a vacation. I haven't seen anything pathological about her, however. Are you suggesting that she should curtail whatever romance may be developing, for her welfare?" Jean-Luc refilled his tea cup. "I hardly think -- "
"That isn't it," Beverly exclaimed. "There's just something -- different, going on with her. You heard the recording. That voice. . . . You could hear the warmth when he spoke to Deanna as a child. That was the voice of someone who loved children in general and Deanna in particular. And the look on her face when she talks about him in past tense, as she knew him when she was a child, is one of affection. But she gets dodgy when you try to talk to her about who he is to her today."
"I think you're reading too much into it."
Beverly put her hands on her hips and stared at him. Jean-Luc seemed amused by her concern, more than anything else; his expression remained neutral, but his eyes laughed. "I am *not* reading too much into it. She's my best friend. I know her well enough to see a change, however slight. I think she's hedging because she's interested in him, and not just as a friend of the family."
"Women are good at hedging, when it comes to things they don't want to admit." He turned, reaching for the milk to add to his tea, and so didn't see her reaction to his words. "I think she's mature enough not to act on it until she's certain of where she stands and who he is, don't you? I can understand why she wouldn't want to -- "
The door closed behind her, cutting off the rest of his statement. Beverly stood in the corridor and tried to wish the blood from her face. Pushing her hair back, rubbing her eyes, she blinked rapidly, regained composure, and walked, calmly and professionally, toward her quarters. She heard his door open and kept going. She turned to face her door, stole a look down the corridor, and caught a glimpse of him peering out of his quarters with a concerned and puzzled look on his face. Then her door opened and she had to hold herself in check, so as not to leap in frantically, and went inside.
Inhaling once raggedly, she closed her eyes and hugged herself. Why did she have to react to hearing him say that so casually? He had no idea what she'd been thinking about for the past few months since the last time an offhanded comment of his had sent her into long pensive wanderings, but this would certainly have given him a clue. Now what? She valued his friendship a great deal, and more so as time passed. Ruining it with --
Beverly shook off that train of thought. Allowing it would only make her melancholy.
She changed into a loose pair of forest-green pajamas, buttoning the front, then unbuttoning the top button again when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in passing. Having them done up to her collar bone made her look too prudish. Then she stared at her reflection, taking a step closer to the mirror. She touched her cheek. Was she thinner than she remembered being? Did her eyes look that huge before?
Sitting at her dressing table, she removed her makeup and applied moisturizer in slow circular strokes. She sighed and looked at the picture of herself and Wesley she kept stuck in the bottom of the mirror frame, taken the last time he'd seen fit to appear out of nowhere. She pursed her lips and smiled a little at the striking resemblance he bore to his late father, then brushed tears from her eyes. What would Jack have thought about his son leaving Starfleet the way he had? The incident on Dorvan had been the final straw for Wesley, just as it had been for so many who had joined the Maquis. At least he had gone with the Traveler rather than becoming a terrorist, she reflected, though it was little comfort. His visits were so few and far between any more.
And her image in the picture -- was she really looking that old? She plucked the picture from its spot and tucked it in her top drawer. "Sorry, Wes. I just don't need the reminder at the moment."
The computer chimed; someone was at her door. Probably Jean-Luc. Rising, she picked up her robe from the foot of the bed and threw it on as she left the bedroom.
He didn't wait politely on the doorstep, but rushed into the room and paced back and forth a few paces until the door closed, then stopped and looked at her. Anxiety and uncertainty weren't emotions he tolerated well. He had discarded the grey uniform jacket, and his hands, lacking something to tug at, smoothed the front of his red turtleneck nervously.
"Something wrong?" she asked, holding the ends of the robe's sash.
"What just happened? What did I say that made you run out of the room?"
"I'm sorry. It -- was only that I didn't appreciate that you discarded my concerns that way, without even -- Jean-Luc, I was only venting. You didn't have to tell me I was wrong or right or give me a solution. I guess as close as we've been, I expected you to understand that."
"You didn't have to run out that way. You could have simply said -- " His expression changed, from anger to realization. "That isn't right, Beverly. You wouldn't be that upset about it. You would have said something."
"I don't feel up to discussing -- "
"Are you suffering from whatever melancholy has been afflicting Deanna, too? I thought several times in the past month or so that you've been a little down in the mouth about something." He took a few steps and gripped her arm lightly. "Beverly, if you need a vacation -- "
"I'll be fine. Really, Jean-Luc," she said breezily, smiling. She put a hand on his shoulder and tried to step around him, but his other hand found her other arm, and he held her there, leaving her in the awkward position of standing too close to him and touching him.
He searched her eyes. "Are you jealous of Deanna finding a little romance?"
She pulled out of his grasp and shook her head, unable to hide her dismay and angry because of it. Crossing her arms, she marched up to the viewports and looked out at the stars. "I'm tired. I really would rather talk about this over break -- "
"I would rather know now. I doubt this will come up at breakfast. In fact, I doubt I'll see you for breakfast, because you're too upset and too uncomfortable discussing the reason." He paused. With her back turned, she put her hand over her eyes and waited, hovering between breaths.
"Beverly."
What was he doing this to her for? He'd always respected her right to privacy. He'd never forced it, never questioned -- but maybe that was the problem. Maybe if he had, this would have been resolved one way or the other long ago. Maybe she should have taken one of those other postings she'd been offered before the commissioning of the newest *Enterprise.* Maybe she should have made Wesley take her with him -- "It was the comment I made about hedging, wasn't it? Denying the truth about your feelings? Is that what this is about? If I remind you of what we discussed so long ago after Kes-Prytt -- "
"Shut up, Jean-Luc!" she blurted, ashamed of how obvious it was that she was crying. "Just. . . go away. . . I can't have this conversation with you again. I'm sorry, I can't -- "
"Then don't," he said softly. His hands on her shoulders made her jump. He put his arms around her and pulled her back against his chest.
She shuddered, exhaled, stiffened, and when he wouldn't let go, she looked at the viewport, at the faint image of the two of them against the backdrop of space and stars. He was holding her and pressing his face into her hair, eyes closed, his expression of solemn bliss evident even in the wavering, incomplete reflection.
She turned before she realized she was doing it. He touched her face, tracing the edge of her jaw and raising her chin. She opened her mouth to speak and found his lips on hers without warning; he'd moved as though he'd thought it all through, and planned to pounce the instant the opportunity arose.
The first touch brushed tentatively over her mouth, testing, and the second was accompanied by his hand conforming to the back of her neck, to pull her into the kiss. She felt her body responding at an alarming rate. Gasping, she pushed herself away, but he pursued her and worked his way down her throat with his lips, his fingers finding the collar of her pajamas.
"Jean-Luc," she moaned. Oh God. . . that didn't sound like a complaint. She should be complaining. He would get the wrong idea if she didn't stop this now.
"Tell me what you really want," he whispered, straightening to kiss her ear. "I know why you were afraid before. We both know the professional ramifications of it all. I've suspected you've been thinking about it -- about *us* -- for some time now. But I'm not going to allow you to sweep it under the rug again. I've been patient. It's your turn to meet me halfway -- to be forthcoming."
"I feel. . . so. . . ."
"Afraid," he mumbled. Having him so close, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin robe and pajamas -- her body wasn't allowing her the chance to think clearly.
"Yes. . . but. . . you really don't have any reservations about. . . ."
His lips finding hers again cut her ramblings short. So softly, so gently, he explored her mouth and, she realized distantly, unbuttoned her pajamas, sliding his hand down the waistband after the last button was undone, palm against her belly, fingers closing on her hair and tugging while his other hand covered her breast --
It was like being a damn kid again. Her breath caught, her heart raced, and the sure hands of Jean-Luc Picard were coaxing her to give in and enjoy. She didn't know what to expect -- would they be friends again in the morning? Would he chalk it up to a moment's passion and expect her to deny it ever happened?
"Maybe it's not -- "
His finger stopped a hair's breadth from descending past the point of no return. "Not wise?" he breathed, the air caressing her cheek. "Not right? Are we going to return to our years of smiling nicely over coffee and being just friends? I can do that, Beverly -- I value you as a friend that much. I can get over my less-than-platonic feelings for you, given time and inclination. We both know that. But the question at hand is whether you wish it to be that way."
"I -- can't -- think," she gasped. He started to pull away, but she grabbed his arm and held his hand in place. "But maybe that's a good thing. . . . You're right, I've been thinking about -- It's been so hard, not to imagine -- "
"Yes, or no," he mumbled. "If no, I'll need my hand back."
She blinked at him, slow to comprehend, and realized her fingers were digging into his flesh. She let his arm go and grabbed the waistband of his pants instead, pulling him against her. The movement sent his hand the rest of the way down; at the touch of his finger sliding down into her wetness, renewed waves of pleasure radiated up through her body.
"It's been a long time," she whispered against his face. "I didn't expect this would ever happen. . . if this is just a. . . casual thing for you. . . ."
He backed away, removed his hands, and looked at her solemnly. "Is that what you think?"
"I told you I'm not thinking! I can't do this unless -- unless you feel the same way for me. I can't just -- I don't want to spend the rest of my life missing you, damn it!"
Jean-Luc rarely smiled like he smiled then, and the sight of the naked joy on his face distracted her. "You're so beautiful when you're angry, *cherie,*" he mumbled.
They met each other halfway and kissed again. He made a frustrated noise when she pulled away again.
"So was that a yes, a no, or a diversionary tactic?"
Jean-Luc picked her up by the waist and carried her into the bedroom. He put her down on the edge of the bed and stood looking down at her. "What do you think?"
"I'm not thinking. I'm giving up on thinking while off-duty."
He sat down next to her, smiling at her attempt at humor, then sobered. Brushing her hair away from her face, he said, "I wouldn't do that to you, Beverly. After all we've been through together, I'd thought you would understand how important you are to me. I have always taken our relationship seriously, and I don't want to do anything that might damage it. But -- "
"It could damage it, if we aren't sure."
He sniffed, one corner of his mouth turning upward. "I made my decision when I came after you, Beverly. It's time to play all the cards. I came after you because I love you."
"Oh," she said faintly, looking into his eyes. As he reached for her again, she turned away. "But there's only one problem."
"Problem."
When she was sure he'd braced himself for the worst, she turned loose the mischievous grin she'd held back. "You're wearing clothes."
"Doctor," he exclaimed, an undercurrent of laughter ruining his attempt at stern disapproval.
"I have a scalpel. I could remove them -- "
He pulled his shirt off, yanking impatiently at the sleeves. "You're wearing too much yourself, Beverly."
Shrugging out of the robe and open pajama top was as simple as moving her shoulders. She stood and wriggled out of the bottoms, and caught him staring at her. "Does my butt look fat in these pajamas?"
He opened his mouth, closed it slowly, rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "Do you always crack jokes in the bedroom, Beverly?"
"Do you require that your lovers genuflect as they approach the bed and confess their sins before climbing in?"
"*Merde,* you are unbelievable," he muttered.
"Usually men say that *afterward.*"
He chuckled, shook his head, and gave in. While he was laughing, she climbed on the bed and settled on her knees, shoving back the covers. She looked up to find him grinning and watching her again. He snorted. "This is almost surreal. Almost unbelievable. After all this time. . . ."
"If you're waiting for fireworks and a floor show, I'm afraid you really should have given me advance notice that you'd be coming. I would have had a casting call and ordered the rockets several weeks ago. But no, you wanted to just walk in out of the blue, and get into my pants."
"I wanted to? Was goosing me in the lift last week an expression of platonic affection?"
Beverly gaped. "I brushed up against you by accident, Jean-Luc. I didn't think you'd even felt it!"
"Otherwise you would have apologized, I'm sure."
"Of course. I would have come into your ready room, my eyes downcast in penitent dismay." She crawled slowly across the few feet between them. "I would have taken a seat, and folded my hands."
Swinging her leg around, she settled astride him, sitting with her arms over his shoulders. "I would have submitted meekly to whatever punishment exists for goosing the captain in a public place -- a tongue-lashing, perhaps? That's what I would have hoped for anyway. Or maybe even a. . . ."
He wasn't responding with much enthusiasm, and it finally sunk in why. "Jean-Luc, I'm sorry. I'm being a poor hostess -- want something to drink?"
His eyes questioned the change of direction, and watched her slide off his lap and go to the replicator. "Beverly -- "
"Champagne, two," she said, and watched the glasses materialize. "I know it's not the same as the real thing, but it'll have to do. Unless you'd like to sneak down to Ten- forward?"
"No. I think that would be inadvisable, at this point." His eyes followed her movements, and he took the glass she offered as she sat down next to him.
She almost said something flippant, and bit her lip instead. Raising her glass, she touched the rim to his.
"What were you about to say, Beverly?" he asked, tolerantly amused and resigned to it.
"Just. . . a toast. To you. To us. To love."
He smiled -- the warmth of it, the nearness of a shirtless Jean-Luc looking at her with such obvious affection, tickled her in places that hadn't been tickled in years. "That wasn't exactly how you were going to word it, was it?" he asked.
She sighed. "I'm just happy -- giddy. I can't help it. But you want -- "
"What I want," he echoed. "Beverly, you've been uncertain and coy for so long that it startled me. I was expecting. . . anything but humor."
"Well, Jean-Luc, you can just get used to getting things you didn't expect." She sipped her champagne and grinned at him over the rim of the glass. "It's your own fault that you've never seen this side of me before."
"My fault? *My* fault?"
Putting the glass on the bedside table, she crossed her arms. "Absolutely. If you had simply reassured me that I wasn't just going to be another notch in your bedpost. . . . Oh. I'm doing it again, sorry."
He took a mouthful of champagne, suppressed a grimace, and put the glass on the floor. He thought for a moment, staring at the floor, and looked at her again.
"Beverly?"
"Yes?"
"Put your arms down. You're blocking the view."
She gaped at him, then grabbed his arm, dragged him onto the bed, and wrestled with his pants. "Do you *weld* these on in the morning?"