======== Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 1/16 From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Date: Fri, 28 May 1999 23:19:59 -0700 -------- Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 1/16 Date: 27 May 1999 14:24:39 GMT From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com To: Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Well, it's been a while since I finished up something on my own, so I should warn you this isn't a Bond story. It's a first-time story with a new Picard and Q, though you might think of this as another companion piece to "The Louder the Song." I've been warned by a reader that I need to tell people this isn't like TLTS, however. I'm doing something a little different. That's no surprise to people who know me, I suppose, since my stories always reflect my life, and lately, my life has...er...changed. Anyway, I need to thank the incredible patience and kindness and general wonderfulness of Ruth Gifford, the beta-reader from Heaven, and my Editrix, who had to read through so many copies of this story that she asked me to convey her apologies for the typos she can no longer "see" in the story. Please just ignore them. I should also say that my Editrix helped me out tremendously with the local color and details. Thanks also to the people on my mailing list who gave me their helpful comments. Title: An Hour of Eternity Author: Varoneeka Series: TNG Part: 1/16 Rating: NC-17 Codes: P/Q Summary: Picard and Q are placed in an unusual situation that forces them to confront themselves and their feelings. *An Hour of Eternity* by Varoneeka "Self-destruct in ten seconds," the computer informed them. "Nine...eight...seven..." "Transportation complete," LaForge's voice assured Captain Picard, though that voice was shaking slightly. "Beaming you up now..." Jean-Luc centered himself, seeing the spots and shimmers which meant the transporter had him. "...six...five...four..." "Captain!" Picard heard through the distortion of his atoms being disassembled. "We're losing the lock...hang on! We're..." "...three...two..." "...Captain!" "...one..." There was a sudden, terrible noise. There was a sudden, terrible silence. ~~~//~~~ "You want fries with that?" "No, damnit! I don't want fries and I don't want your Coke. Just give me the burgers!" "That's $5.67. Please pull up." There was some sort of rumbling to accompany the distorted and angry voices. He smelled something burning and animal dung, and he was covered in sweat. His face was pressed into dirt. He hurt all over, especially when he tried to move. The rumbling increased, then moved away, to be replaced by a differently pitched rumbling. "Welcome to Burger King," the distorted voice announced. "May I have your order?" "I want two Junior Whoppers with Cheese, and three Junior Whoppers with Cheese, no onions," a woman's voice called. "The Junior Whopper doesn't come with onions." "You mean I can't get onions on those whoppers?" "No, ma'am. You can, you just have to ask for them." "So...what are you...Okay, give me three Junior Whoppers with Cheese, and then three more *with* onions, okay?" "You want fries with that?" "This is hell. I've followed you into hell." Picard finally woke up completely with this new, familiar voice, and raised his aching head from the damp earth. "Yeah, give me four large fries," the woman's voice said. "One Diet Coke, two Sprites, and three Cokes." "Large sizes on those drinks?" "You all right, Jean-Luc?" The captain finally worked his eyes open, and could see that he was lying under some sort of greenery, half-buried in dark dirt. A white cup and some crumpled paper sheets that stank of grease lay to his right, and he finally identified those rumbling noises as engines. It wasn't until the dark shape right in front of him moved that Picard could focus on it. He realized it was creeping towards him. "Talk to me here so I know there's no brain damage...or are you just overcome with joy?" "Q?" he managed to gasp. "Where are we?" "Home of the Whopper, Jean-Luc." "That will be $10.95," the garbled voice shouted. "Please pull up." The engine roared, and another took its place. Dizziness pushed through the captain's body, and with a smothered groan his head fell into his soil-covered hands. A memory came to him, as nauseating as the present: he had been between something, suspended, falling from something, and there had been so much pain. He'd thought he was dying, caught in the explosion of the Klingon bird of prey, last to evacuate the site of the clandestine meeting after the warp core had begun to breach, taking the place of the dead Klingon captain. And in that no-place he had shouted instinctively for help, pulling desperately against the undertow which led...here. "Welcome to Burger King. Can I have your order?" "Two Big Macs, large fries, and two small Cokes." "We have Whoppers, not Big Macs." "Whatever. And no pickles on one of them." There was a hand on his shoulder, and it occurred to him that the stink of exhaust fumes, feces, and garbage was aiding his dizziness. He wanted to sit up and breathe something clean. He realized he was fiercely thirsty. "Q," he croaked out, "wherever this is you've taken us, get us out of here." "You did the taking, this time, Picard. And if I could get us out of here, *believe me,* we'd be gone." There was pain in Q's voice. Genuine pain. It made Picard say something he thought he would never say: "Are you all right, Q?" "It all depends on your definition, Picard. I don't know yet what universe you've dragged us into. I suspect it's not a good one, though." "That will be $6.78. Please pull up." It took everything Picard had in him to sit up, flinching as the wet leaves slicked over his head, leaving trails. He heard Q muttering and saw the entity sitting up as well. Both of them were filthy. They were sitting in some sort of small island of greenery beside a white slab of concrete. Automobiles -- Picard hazarded they were of the type produced on Earth around the turn of the millennium -- were lined up along the concrete, and then on the other side of them was a red building bearing a sign: "Burger Home of the Whopper King." "We're in the past, on Earth," he grunted. "We're not in the past, the universe is," Q grunted back. "Either way, we need to get out of this shrubbery." "If you're feeling ready to stand up yet, be my guest." A very large man in tan shorts walked past them, a large and panting dog going before him on a leash. Neither looked at the two male figures in the brush. "Good," Q snorted when the man and his pet were out of earshot. "We're in a big city." "Any idea which one?" Q looked around, but could see as little as Picard could. Then his eyes narrowed, staring at a car as it passed. "'Louisiana,'" he read on the plate. "And so is that one." Q looked suddenly just a little happier. "Could be New Orleans." "Would that help us?" Q shrugged. "Well, it's a lot more fun than the rest of Louisiana at this time. It might even be Mardi Gras season." "Q," Jean-Luc snapped, "this is no time for your usual foolishness." "This from a man sitting in a pile of dog pooh?" "Fish sandwich, and I want onions on it," a woman screamed from her car, looking into a large plastic display. "And a Pepsi." "Coke okay?" the display asked. Picard got his feet under him and stood up. Dirt and other debris fell from him in a shower, and the woman in her car gave him a dirty look before she was told the price of her order and asked to move forward. With severe distaste he began to brush at his uniform. He had not, he realized with some relief, actually been sitting in excrement, but he desperately needed a shower. Groaning loudly, Q stood up as well, and he and his uniform proved to be in an equally bad state. Only as Picard was registering this did he realize that procuring a shower wouldn't be easy. In this place -- New Orleans or elsewhere -- he and Q would need money to get things. "I don't suppose you have any currency on you," Picard remarked, trying to indicate with his hand that Q had missed brushing off a little red-stained, white, shiny envelope from where it had stuck to his right sleeve. "If I'd known where we going I would have packed a money-belt, or better yet, a gold card, but as you can see I was quite unprepared for how far off the mark you were going to get." Picard finally just reached out and removed the foil packet, letting it drop to the ground. Q watched him, and then together they stepped out of the dirt onto the concrete. "Q..." the man began, but his companion was looking at the red building. "I bet they have a restroom we can use," Q said, walking towards the glass doors. "Try to look like a customer." One of Picard's favorite instructors at the Academy had been Admiral Maitland Watters. From her, he had gleaned his first true insights into what it meant to command others. He'd learned from her lectures and class discussions of the importance of listening, of accepting others' suggestions and points of view, of valuing the people who served with him, and remembering at all times that they were individuals with their own minds who *chose* to follow orders. A strong commander, Watters had said often, had to know those moments when one should not command. "A good leader *has* to know when to follow," she would insist, meeting her students' eyes firmly. As much as he'd valued the information at the time, his years of experience in the captain's chair had shown him a depth of truth to that simple guideline to make him cherish it all the more. And so Picard followed Q now, weaving through the line of cars, walking quietly through the glass doors, turning left down a short hallway to a door marked with a little stick-figure which Q pushed open to reveal bright yellow tile, four yellow-painted stalls, two urinals, and two sinks recessed into a white counter. Q was looking only at the mirror, however, and scowling at the dirt on his face, his unkempt hair, and his stained clothing. With a sigh, he pushed up his sleeves and turned on the water before jabbing several times at what Picard realized was supposed to be a soap dispenser. Grunting in irritation, Q moved to the second dispenser, which actually produced soap, and then washed his hands and forearms, then his face. Somewhere in all this Picard moved to the other sink and washed up as best he could as well, using the brown paper towels on his uniform's stains and his shoes, removing all the dirt he could from his skin. He also took the opportunity to drink several handfuls of water, and noticed Q did the same. It was difficult not to obsess over the thought of Q's needing water. A young man came in at one point, used the urinal, and left without looking at them or washing his hands. "Anything on my back?" Q asked, turning so that Picard could see. "No." "Well, you've got something," Q muttered, going after a spot on Picard's left shoulder with a damp towel. The captain stood there quietly until Q got a second towel and scrubbed harder, frowning, and he couldn't stand it anymore. "Since when are you so domestic, Q?" Q shrugged, took a few last swipes at the whatever-it-was, and then tossed the towel in the bin. "After my experience in mortal ineptitude, I studied up on basic Human functions and needs." Dark brown eyes met hazel in the mirror. "It didn't take long." Jean-Luc didn't quite keep the smile off his lips. "Of course it didn't." He turned, crossing his arms and leaning one hip against the counter. "So, the transporter beam broke up due to the same spatial distortion that caused the core to breach. I was pulled into the disturbance, which removed me from my own universe. Correct so far?" "Quite." Q's eyes glittered slightly with a challenge. Picard felt his shoulders settling back, his chin coming up just slightly. "When I felt myself being pulled away from the beam, I tried to call for assistance. It was a general distress call, but I take it...you heard me? Q nodded, but Picard's own eyes returned his earlier challenge, and the entity smiled somewhat ruefully. "For a bunch of mortals who haven't even mastered transwarp drive, you and your little crew sure know how to find trouble. That was no mere spatial anomaly you stumbled into. It's literally a conduit, a sort of intra-universe wormhole doubtlessly created by the collapse of an unstable proto-universe that was breaking temporal synch with your universe --" "Doubtlessly." "And when you entered into it, you were without space or time, falling through the wormhole. As loudly as you called for help, I barely heard you, and when I reached you, we were both subject to the random direction of the forces at work." Picard shook his head. "You're going to have to do better than that. You're almost omnipotent. How could a wormhole render you helpless?" "I wasn't helpless! But I was and am without my powers, as I suppose you've managed to work out." Q raised a hand. "As for how, well, the Q draw their power from the universe, Jean-Luc, at least, they do in our universe. There are no absolute constants, you know...at least --" "Not in our universe." Q made an expression of half-exasperation, half-acknowledgement. "When I left ours behind, my powers stayed there. I'm 100% Human right now, and I'll have to stay this way until we make it back." "You say that with surprising calm, considering your state the last time this happened." Q shrugged. "My enemies are back in our own universe as well. Here I can enjoy the anonymity of Human insignificance." Picard nodded absently. "Then...you believe we can make it back?" Q opened his mouth, closed it, firmed it, and took a breath. "I'm sure we can, though, it won't be a matter of snapping my fingers." Picard heard the almost-apology behind Q's words and felt a fleeting annoyance that the entity evidently believed him to be that shallow. "You're risking a lot to help me out of this, Q," he said evenly. "Thank you." Q gave him the same look of surprise he'd once offered while wearing his judge's robes, accepting a different expression of Picard's gratitude. "Well, I couldn't just let you go off on your own and break something Crusher couldn't fix." Q's eyes were plainly hiding something. But Picard let it go for now, focusing on more immediate concerns. "We need to find out where and when we are. We also need money." "Shelter, food, something snazzy to wear..." Picard didn't smile. "We have the gold in our communicators -- assuming yours is real. But I don't want to part with them for obvious reasons." "Oh, I think we can avoid the pawn shops for now. If this *is* New Orleans, they'll be ways for us to make some cash pretty quickly." Q's eyes sparkled and looked him over. "Especially you." "What is that supposed to mean?" Picard demanded just as a father and his two sons entered the restroom. "Excuse me," the father said, and Picard nodded at him politely, murmuring, as he and Q moved on outside again. There, they both looked around, taking in the small grouping of stores across the street, the largest of which evidently sold green interior decorations, until Q spotted a large blue metal box and moved towards it. Together, they reached the front of the box, and saw a newspaper inside, bearing the header "The Times-Picayune." "New Orleans," Q said with satisfaction. "'Picayune?'" Picard murmured. "That means 'a little thing.' Strange name for a newspaper." "Ah, Jean-Luc, this city has a sense of humor about itself. It's also one of the country's murder capitals, rife with corruption, and I think it's about this time in history that it sported the most fat people per capita." Picard looked at him in some surprise. "You're a regular guidebook, Q." The entity shrugged coyly. "I've been here before, though not in this universe, obviously, and it was about twenty years ago, relatively speaking. I kept an eye on it...until the war, when it became very dull, as you know." The captain looked again at the date. October 3, 1999. "How different could the history of this universe be from our own?" he wondered aloud. "Very different," Q said, looking around again. "But it looks pretty much on target so far. Hm. If that's the levy," he pointed to their left, "and this is Carrolton Avenue, then we want to go right." "What's to the right?" he asked even as he fell into step beside Q, continuing to look around them with open interest. He reminded himself that he wouldn't have to worry about preserving the timeline -- though he would still try to avoid disrupting this universe's history as a matter of course. *Anything at all might be different. Not even Q knows what's here.* He smiled to himself. The thought was surprisingly intriguing. "You're gawking like a tourist, Jean-Luc," Q noted. "You worried we'll get our pockets picked?" Q looked thoughtful. "Well, they might come after our organs." "What?" "There were many rumors circulating at the time about organ harvesters...but I'll tell you what, I'll keep an eye on your mechanical pump if you'll watch over my favorite organ." "I'm not going to ask what that is." "Oh, why not?" "Are we headed to some sort of homeless shelter?" "You wound me! We're heading to the Fairgrounds, where we're going to take advantage of marketing techniques and make a bet with one of their little 'tourist chits.'" They stopped at the light on Oak Street. Picard noted the Rite Aid pharmacy, the Whitney Bank, and something called "Kinko's." "It's just a copy shop," Q snorted in disdain and as he gestured towards the sign. "Later we'll walk down Bourbon Street." "I hardly think we should waste time on sight-seeing." They started walked again, and when Q spoke up, that distinctly sincere tone had entered into his voice, the one Picard had grudgingly learned to trust. "Jean-Luc, this isn't going to be some in-and-out lark here. We're stuck in a universe that could be aligned in *any* configuration with our own. No one, not even my fellow Q, has any idea where we are. We have no money, no resources, no back-up, and not even the assurance that scientific laws work here the same way they do in our world. This is going to take some time." Picard felt the enormity of their problem settle around him. He thought of the Enterprise, of his crew waiting for him...getting on with their lives without him when he didn't return. He thought of Beverly and Will, Data and... "Q, is time moving forward in our universe?" The entity shrugged, crossing the street with a quick look both ways. "Doesn't matter. When we get home, I'm going to return us to the second we left -- believe me, it's in my best interests as well." Picard only nodded, thinking of all they didn't have: identification papers, a place to sleep that night, something to eat. He was starving, and thirsty once again, but even as he dwelled on this a slight breeze swirled around them, bringing with it the perfume of sweet olive and magnolia. Picard breathed it in with relief: this universe's first pleasant sensation. The walk to the Fairgrounds was several miles, and it was well into the afternoon before they reached their goal, which turned out to be a horse track, newly renovated by the look of things. There wasn't much of a crowd, but what there was was quite diverse. Picard saw suits and T-shirts, slinky dresses and raggedy shorts. "Q, do our uniforms look like anything in particular to these people?" "Jogging outfits, probably." Q walked up to the *Welcome to New Orleans* window and began a spiel about being from Montana and missing the speed limit. Picard tried to look as though he knew what that meant, chuckling along with the Fairgrounds employee. "Are you from out of town too?" she asked Picard, holding up a reel of tickets. "Oh yes. From quite some distance, I'm afraid." The woman smiled at him -- at his accent, he realized -- and handed both him and Q a ticket, on which he read, "Good for $2 Win." Q meanwhile took up a free racing form and began scanning the tight lines of text as they moved away from the window. "There are four races left," he muttered. "Hm...OK. People have to bet to win with these tickets, but that won't be a problem for the next race. Then we'll bet the next one to show. The odds are pretty good, and it should win -- but it might not. And then in the last two races we can bet to win. This horse, number three, should kill the competition in the last race, and the odds are lovely." "And if this doesn't work?" Q looked at him. "It is called 'gambling' for a reason, Q." "Then we'll sleep in a shelter tonight and try again tomorrow...unless you have a better idea." Picard was surprised that they didn't need any identification to place a wager, but less than surprised to watch all the horses Q picked cross the finish line first. When they were done, they had $275.45. With part of it, they had bought several Pepsis and some beans and rice. Picard found that the combination of sugar, carbohydrates, protein and caffeine made him feel quite Human again, and, judging by the renewed energy of his companion, it helped Q out as well. "We need a cheap hotel," Q said as they walked out of the Fairgrounds, "which means going downtown." "Think our expenses can cover some sort of transportation?" Picard asked, feeling surprisingly mellow with his stomach full. "The bus, then the streetcar," Q mused. "Then someplace not too scuzzy." Picard nodded. His feet were tired. "We're going to need someplace permanent to stay. I'm sure this is going to involve making a great deal of equipment, and we'll need to purchase equipment." "One thing at a time, Mon Capitaine. You know, it's a shame I don't have much of a singing voice in this form. Street performers are quite popular in this town." "You could paint yourself up and get trapped in an invisible box." "Death before mime, mon ami." "Q, it really is...extraordinary, your coming along with me like this." "Well, if I'd had a bit more warning, I could have kept you from slipping out in the first place. That *was* what I was trying for. My fault for getting trapped, really." "But there must have been a moment when you could have left me to my fate and saved yourself." END OF PART ONE Varoneeka Varoneeka: What would Q make of Sterling? Homespon: His mistress. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Posting to ASCEM is easy: send your messages to http://www.onelist.com/subscribe.cgi/ASCEML ======== Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 2/16 From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Date: Fri, 28 May 1999 23:20:49 -0700 -------- Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 2/16 Date: 27 May 1999 14:24:58 GMT From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com To: Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated They were waiting at the bus stop now, and Q met his eyes briefly, looking uncomfortable. "It occurred to me that I had never done something like this before. That's quite an opportunity for a Q, Jean-Luc. Don't worry about it. When we get back, I'll be the talk of the Continuum." Picard grunted, distracted by the thought of how much longer he'd now spent with Q at one time than he ever had before. Even their time in Shuttlecraft Six was shorter now than this. How odd it was to be with Q and not have to wonder what second he was going to choose to snap out in a flash. It felt oddly companionable. On the other hand, he was more than a little concerned that being stuck together like this was going to prove that they actually couldn't stand each other's company. The bus picked them up and then got to the corner of Carrolton and Claiborne without incident. From there they picked up the streetcar, riding it almost to the end of the line. The hour off his feet only served to make Picard feel how tired he was, and both of them were close to staggering when Q suddenly perked up and got off at St. Charles and Julia, walking with determination to the Humming Bird Hotel and Grill, where double occupancy rooms with a private bath were $30 a night. They walked up the stairs to the thick window behind which a snaggle- toothed man holding a Diet Bark's rented them a room and passed them some towels. Vaguely, Picard realized Q was getting them one bed, but he didn't care. He was in serious danger of falling over and sleeping in the hall, and the idea was to save all the money they could. Besides, Q had certainly been in his bed before. "They got a place down the street," the hotel employee burbled at them, giving Picard a look he hoped didn't mean what it seemed to, "rents by the hour." Q grabbed up the key with a saccharine smile. "Has anyone ever told you about the joys of following the Lord?" The man scowled at them and backed up a step. Q feigned disappointment as Picard kept his face impassive and followed Q down the hall, semi-white towels in his hands. On the way, they passed a pay-phone, and the captain felt foolishly pleased with himself for recognizing it, and for realizing he had the means now to make it work. As exhausted as he was, he was beginning to feel a bit more centered, more connected to this world, feeling less and less the need to follow Q on every little thing. So when his companion opened the door to their shabby, but not filthy room, he walked in with some assuredness and took the towels into the tiny bathroom. He looked into the mirror, and the yellow light showed off every deep line on his face. "I feel a hundred years old," he murmured. "Well, if it makes you feel better," Q called from the bedroom, "I feel five billion years old." The sound of Q's yawn indicated a full- body effect. "We are going right to sleep after a shower, aren't we?" "I am." Picard turned with a frown and walked out. "I thought you hated sleep." "I do. But right now it's better than trying to stay awake." Q bent over and took off his shoes, then shrugged his way out of the uniform on the way to the bathroom, clad only in his briefs and socks when he reached the door. "I'll be quick." Within one minute, Picard heard the shower, and when Q came out in just his briefs, Picard had Q's clothes in his hands. "I'm going to wash these out in the shower," he explained, smothering a yawn. Q nodded through a look of surprise and stared at the bed. When Picard emerged from the now-steamy room in his briefs, Q was in bed. The air-conditioner was clacking away, though Picard could feel that Q had set it on the fan only. He clicked off the light and got into the bed himself, falling asleep almost instantly. Q managed to wrestle himself into sleep not long after, but found no rest. Something was wrong below him, where his feet should find purchase, and when he stepped forward, gravity snatched at him. He jerked himself awake, his breathing like a cold fist, and the blood in his ears roaring like the polluted ocean not far away from the hotel. Softly, he rose from the bed and padded into the tiny bathroom, sitting on the cold lid of the toilet to stare into the dark. *Breathe. Not so fast. Just breathe. How often have you practiced this? Can't you make it through one night without falling to pieces? Some impressive omnipotent magnificence you are, can't even go a little while without your precious powers. You're just like you were the first time, cowering on his ship while the Calamarain almost killed everyone and Guinan had a field day dancing on me while I was down. I can't believe I didn't rip off that stupid hat of hers and stuff it down her lying throat. *Yes, that's better. Get the little heart-rate down now. This really isn't all that different from showing up, just like you planned...although this isn't France and he hasn't retired yet, and he's still not sure you're not the biggest pain in the ass he's ever met. Oh, Mon Capitaine, how did you do this to me? How did I do it to myself without common sense kicking in? But how did I have a chance when I was hearing about Quentin Jones, ruler of the seas? *I should have been able to pull us out. We shouldn't be in this universe. Are there really no Q here? I keep calling.... *We should be in his ready room now, him looking dignified while he tries to figure out if I really deserve thanking, and me invading his space a little, getting him to notice me, seeing if I can get that little nudge from his instincts that sometimes happens when I'm around. That nudge, so ephemeral, and yet for that nudge alone, how much time have I spent (a mortal concept) practicing at being Human? I wanted to offer him his youth again, his health, another chance to explore the universe, with me as a companion who seemed so Human, so much like someone he could really *understand* and trust that eventually that nudge would become a push, and shove him into my arms. *And now look at me. Absolutely useless. Unable to make it through the night without wanting to...what *do* I want to do to him? Joining with his mind and spirit are out for now. Have I really been reduced to nothing but sexual needs? That was really never so much a part of it before, though it *was* a part, no question... *What do I do? Stay in here until morning? If I stay here long enough I suppose I'll die on the toilet, like Elvis.* "Q?" Picard called softly through the door, having woken up to an empty bed. "Are you all right?" There was only silence for a minute, then the door opened, and they looked at each other in the illumination from the street lights. "Sorry to wake you," Q said quietly. "What is it?" Q sighed, and leaned against the doorframe. "When I slept before, I didn't dream." Picard remembered with guilt the way he had brushed aside Q's concerns before, when he had been made mortal and abandoned on the Enterprise. He had tried since then to think of how it would be to sleep and dream when one was used to being conscious all the time. "Dreams can be disturbing," he said, wishing Troi were there, "but they should fade as you awaken." "They did," Q complained. "That makes it worse. I...I hate trying to remember something. I woke up in a panic and I don't know why." "Were you running from something?" Q shook his head slowly. "Were you falling?" Q jerked in surprise. "How did you know that?" "A very common dream, Q, considering the circumstances. How can I help?" "You can't, I don't think." "We need to sleep. I hope I don't sound callous, but you're going to have to get used to it." Q shrugged away from the doorjamb and walked in resignation to the bed. He got under the covers, and Picard followed him. Once they'd settled again, Picard noticed that Q seemed to be lying there with some tension. "Were the images really so terrifying?" he asked as gently as he could. "No, I don't...it's...I find it comforting, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable." "What? What's comforting?" "Your...uh...body heat." Picard smiled into the dark. "Are you afraid if we bump in the night I'm going to scream 'rape?'" "Well, I wasn't sure the Great Jean-Luc Picard would care for being treated like a teddy-bear." Cautiously, Picard reached out and laid a hand on Q's arm. The skin was cool and a little clammy, but he felt the muscles relax slightly under his touch. "I know this is more difficult for you than I can appreciate," he murmured. "You mustn't hesitate to ask for my help. If it's something I'm not willing to give, I assure you I'll let you know as politely as possible." Q chuckled and turned slightly on his side, being careful not to move his arm. "I'll remember that, Jean-Luc. Goodnight." "Goodnight, Q." ~~~//~~~ "Fuck you, you bitch!" "Eat shit!" "It was a gram of blow! You wanna pay for a gram of blow?" "I do pay for it, you fucking asshole! On my knees I pay for it!" "Come back here, you little slut! You hear me?" "Hmm. Something tells me we're not on the Enterprise." "Ah, the brilliant captain in action." The voices in the hall had moved off into silence when Picard got his eyes fully open. He felt with surprise that his hand was still on Q's arm. Somehow it seemed more significant in the light. He withdrew it carefully, and sat up to the sound of a growling stomach, uncertain whose it was. "The track won't open for hours," Q said. "Plenty of time for breakfast." "I'm quite hungry as well, but we'll need to keep it cheap." "We'll save Brennan's for later." "Oh, that's right," Picard said with pleased surprise, "it was open back then...still, I mean...you know what I mean." "I do, and the thought of that is scarier than those dreams." Picard grunted and got out of bed. Their uniforms had dried almost instantly last night, as the material was designed to do, and hanging in the bathroom had been good for them. He washed himself off and dressed and felt much better than he'd expected. They were going to have to get some suitable clothing, however, as soon as they could afford it. Q took his turn in the bathroom while Picard turned on the television and listened to the news. Vice President "and presidential hopeful" Al Gore was visiting a relief camp in Bosnia. The new AIDS vaccine was having difficulties getting approval. The Saints had a slim chance at the playoffs. "I'm hungry," Q announced from the bathroom door, and Picard looked to see that Q had not put on his jacket, tying it instead over his shoulders. It made their outfits look dissimilar, and Picard nodded in satisfaction. A thought struck him, and he slipped his com badge into his pocket, making Q nod in his turn. Jean-Luc noted that his wet hair was finger-combed, and idly wondered it might look like later in the New Orleans humidity. "So, what's your pleasure for breakfast, Mon Capitaine?" "Coffee, to begin with...though you may not care for it." "I've had coffee," Q said with a wave of his hand. "Oh! I have an idea!" He headed out the door, and, with a somewhat indulgent smile, Picard followed. They dropped off the key and walked outside to a day just getting started. Picard tried not to stare at the old men who leaned, loitered and ambled around them, their clothes and attitude betraying the truly universal signs of poverty and, in some cases, inebriation. This was Earth Before. These were Humans as they lived then, awaiting the war they dimly perceived as inevitable, with their "Doomsday Clock" and Armageddon-toned sci-fi cinema. If he allowed himself, he could see prophesy in these men, predators and flotsam, lost souls, forgotten... "You can't help them, Jean-Luc," Q said quietly as they waited at another stop light. "I thought you were without your powers. Are you still telepathic?" Q sighed. "No. It's just obvious that you'd want to help them, and your eyes give you away, you know, much more than you think." Picard thought that over, dodging a white car, then realized he might know where Q was headed. "The Café du Monde?" Q smiled. "Seems appropriate." It was a museum in the 24th Century, complete with life-like mannequins which sat at the little tables, pretending to consume café au lait and begnets by the dozens. Otherwise, however, the reconstruction was surprisingly similar to the café which came into view before him. Q chose a table by the railing, and they watched a man make balloon animals until a waitress came to clean off their table. "Two café au laits and two orders of begnets," Picard said. "And an orange juice." "In the seventies they didn't have juice here," Q sniffed when she had gone. "Just java and the donuts. He squinted at the menu on the side of the napkin dispenser. "They even serve decaf now." "What's the world coming to?" Q smiled absently as he unfolded the newspaper he'd bought on their walk through the Quarter and opened it to the sports section's racing page. Picard retrieved the news section and for the next ten minutes was torn between feeling horror at the disasters and scandals he read about and feeling an odd contentment at the domesticity of sitting here with Q, two friends having breakfast while the world woke up. He was increasingly aware of how much Q wasn't telling him, but he was also amazed at the effort Q was putting into making their predicament feel like an adventure, or even a vacation. Their waitress returned and deposited two small glasses of water, an orange juice, two café au laits, and six begnets dusted with powered sugar. Q paid her with a large tip and told her they would want more coffee in ten minutes. "What are you snickering at?" Picard asked mildly a few minutes later. "You have sugar on your chin." Picard retrieved a napkin. "You have it all over your front." Q frowned and slapped his napkin over his shirt while Picard watched their waitress approach to confirm their order of more coffee. The captain waited until the plates were clean of all but their residual sugar, and their second cups of coffee half-drunk, before he leaned back in the green vinyl chair and crossed his arms. "Ready to go?" Q asked a little too quickly. "Q, it's past time we talked about this." "Jean-Luc, I had my reasons." "Not good enough. Q --" He held up a hand firmly, and with a sigh Q leaned back in his own chair and crossed his legs before settling his hands on the table to drum his fingers. "Q, you've put yourself in true danger, coming here with me, and I'm not going to believe it's over some sort of need for adventure. And besides, I've watched you go for almost twenty-four hours without seriously complaining. It's unnatural, and I want to know what's going on." "Is it so impossible that I just want to help you?" Q asked in martyred tones. "No, it's not impossible. You've helped me before and I've appreciated it. But there is more going on here, and I want to know what it is." Q looked at him blankly a long moment, but Picard refused to be put off, and with a slight sagging of his shoulders, Q sighed, "I didn't lie about what happened, but as for why it happened...it was Q's fault...the wormhole." "So this is another order from the Continuum?" "No, it was just...his fault." "Q, I have no intention of continuing to follow your lead here if you're not going to tell me what's going on." "What exactly do you see as your alternatives, Jean-Luc? You have no idea what universe you're in, and if you want to see home again, we're in this together." "Is that really how you want me to feel about all this?" Q looked ready to cut him in two, then scowled and looked away. When he spoke, his tone was icy, but his eyes were incongruously sad. "It wasn't my fault, but I am responsible in some way. I was *there* when he came through, to see me." "Who?" "Q." Picard allowed himself an angry sigh. "Which one of you?" "Exactly." There was a rather lengthy silence. "It was a Q from another universe. One of my counterparts. He wanted to see me." Picard's eyebrows shot up. "Why?" "He wanted to see what I was up to." "Do Qs do that sort of thing often?" Q fingered his coffee cup a moment, then lifted it up for a sip. "Not really. It tends to cause things like spatial disturbances. I sent him on his way, but I didn't realize...I didn't think he'd be so careless. If I'd checked things out more thoroughly, you wouldn't have run into trouble. So you see, I'm just doing what I have to here. I'm sure, if they could have, the Continuum would have insisted" Jean-Luc frowned over Q's rough tone. "You not going to convince me you're not helping me because you care about what happens to me, Q." Q blinked at him, then pushed his chair back. "Let's get going." Picard let the matter drop for now, joining Q and then walking from the café with him. From what he could tell, they would have plenty of time to discuss it later. Plenty of time...Good Lord. "While you're at the track, I should spend some time finding out as much as I can about this place," the captain said. "Actually, I'm going to need you at the Fairgrounds." "What for?" Q waited until the had crossed the street, turning to walk through the Jackson Square courtyard, red with flowers and draped with tourists enjoying the cooler October air. A young boy was trying to climb the Jackson statue and touch the horse while his sister screamed at him to come down. "Several reasons, but for protection, mostly." He held up a hand at the obvious question. "I've spent a lot of time in this form recently, but there are a lot of things I can't do well in it without my powers. One of them is put up a fight. I'm going to be carrying quite the wad of cash by the end of the day. Someone might try to take it from me. A man alone is an easier mark than a pair. Also, it would be better if we split the betting up between us. And besides, I want the company." "Oh, well, why didn't you say?" Q allowed a smile, and they walked on to the end of the streetcar line. "After today, we're taking cabs," Q said sourly. "No argument from me, but we're not going to keep betting on the track for funds." "No, it will be the stock market after today. I'll be able to do it all on the phone, as soon as we hack into an obliging bank so I can set us up with an account. Besides, tomorrow we shop!" "That should be a sight: you let loose in a clothing shop." "Oh, don't pretend you don't like the idea of getting some new civvies yourself." Picard grunted as they neared the group of people waiting for the streetcar. They were an assortment of business people having lunch. Picard realized he and Q had slept quite late, and thought that one thing he'd have to buy soon was a watch. Some people were dressed in long shorts and carrying cameras and somehow screaming "tourists," and then there were many people in denim and white T-shirts. Everyone had a slightly hostile, wary attitude that Picard found depressing even while it brought his instincts online. He realized it had been foolish to suggest that Q go alone to the track, and would have said so, but the moment seemed only suitable for standing there quietly, watching the rumbling green streetcar come into view, unload its passengers, and then take on the crowd that included him and Q. When the entity put the money into the machine for both of them, the driver seemed to give them a look, but there were so many people around that it was doubtlessly Picard's imagination. They managed to find seats, and settled in for the hour-long ride uptown, and somewhere around Washington Street, Picard realized he was enjoying himself. It was not a high level of enjoyment, but it was definitely measurable. He was having a good time. It was thrilling to be in Earth's past without worrying about messing up the timeline. It was fascinating to watch the people around them, to think about their lives and their many possible futures. And it was simply a relief after recent events - facing down admirals over the Federation's recent violations of the Prime Directive, fighting in the Dominion War, hearing almost every day about some friend or colleague who was dead or missing -- to have this sort of challenge. Gathering up funds, calculating just where they were, and then figuring out how to get home were sizable challenges, but they didn't make his guts twist up or whisper with awful voices in his head. And, Jean-Luc acknowledged, it was hard to be too concerned with Q working with him. It was a bad habit, but he couldn't stop thinking that if something really bad came along, Q would be able to handle it. He tried to tell himself that Q was without his powers, and in many ways more vulnerable to peril than he was himself, but he also knew that Q would be frightened if there were something to be frightened of. He also couldn't help remembering that the entity, though trapped in his current form, boasted an IQ of 2005 and more knowledge than the Enterprise-E computer could hold. Though it wasn't as good as having his crew with him, it was infinitely preferable to being here alone. Picard smiled privately. That wasn't a thought he'd have had a few years ago. "I'm glad you're happy," Q groused quietly. "My feet hurt already and we're going to be walking around all day." "Sore feet and sleeping, Q: part of the Human experience." "Hmph. Don't remind me." Feeling oddly comforted by Q's griping, Picard leaned back against the hard wooden seat and enjoyed looking at the houses passing by. The subsequent bus trip had less scenery, but they'd managed to time things well. The Fairgrounds were open, the first race was getting set to go. As he had the day before, Picard gave Q his endorsement with efficient compliance, and apart from conversing about their task, they spoke little. Q spread the winnings out over the races, making several bets per race, going to different windows, having Picard make half the bets. Their most visible moment occurred when they won the trifecta, though Picard stood there calmly as he took possession of twenty thousand dollars, and returned the teller's tight smile. They caught a cab after the last race, almost $70,000 in their pockets, and headed for the Fairmont. Picard walked over the spotless dark red carpet and booked a room -- he toyed with the idea of getting two rooms, but, remembering how Q had needed his company last night, settled for two beds. Q went into the gift shop to purchase five maps, a copy of every newspaper in the place, two watches, two T-shirts with the smallest logos he could find, two pairs of sweat pants, four pairs of white socks, some disposable razors and shaving cream for sensitive skin, two deodorants, and one comb. The rest he was assuming would be in the room. Q bit his lip unconsciously, wondering if Picard were getting two rooms. He should have told Jean-Luc they needed to save the money...except that that was rather obviously a lie. He smiled to himself. With a computer and a modem, he could simply have hacked into some bank's mainframe and helped himself to millions. He thought over the day spent at the track, and chuckled to himself as the clerk rang up his Human necessities. *The things I do for you and your sense of morality, Mon Capitaine.* What would he do if Picard had gotten two rooms? Jean-Luc was being incredibly accommodating to keep Q in line, but how far could he push? One night in a room alone and he was going to claw his eyes out. He walked slowly towards the registration desk, then spotted Jean-Luc by the column-display of local sites. The man smiled at him without overtones, and Q nodded towards the elevators, where they met, not speaking until they were alone behind the doors and Picard had pushed the button for the seventh floor. END OF PART TWO Varoneeka Varoneeka: What would Q make of Sterling? Homespon: His mistress. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Posting to ASCEM is easy: send your messages to http://www.onelist.com/subscribe.cgi/ASCEML ======== Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 3/16 From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Date: Fri, 28 May 1999 23:21:46 -0700 -------- Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 3/16 Date: 27 May 1999 14:25:08 GMT From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com To: Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated "I got us a room with a view, I hear," he said with that same smile. "It better have a bathtub, or we're checking out," Q growled. "And I want room service the second I get out." "Room service?" Picard smiled to himself at the thought of Q on the phone with a menu in his hand. Q sighed. "Stuck in the City That Care Forgot with a rube." Jean-Luc shook his head slightly and let it go. There was a "ding" and the doors opened to a startled-looking man and woman who backed up a half-step, then smiled wanly and got in. Picard noticed they had that "tourist" air about them, and that they kept more distance than was really necessary between themselves and him and Q. He suddenly became aware of his own body odor and the stubble on his chin, and stared up at the numbers above the door. When they reached 7, he moved quickly through the doors even as he heard a muffled gasp behind him. He turned quickly, but Q's face was all innocence as he stepped out. Picard waited until the doors closed. "What did you do?" Q shrugged elaborately. "Nothing, I'm sure." The captain rolled his eyes and followed the numbered placards to their room, then opened up the half-suite with relish, thinking fondly of a bath himself. The room was full of soft colors, clean smells, and dark wood furniture, and when he pulled back the drapes he saw the pleasing skyline of the ancient skyscrapers. It was starting to get dark. Q walked directly into the bathroom, and spent almost an hour in there, while Picard figured out how to order food, then paid the young man dressed in a white shirt and black pants -- which struck the captain as being an odd choice for a server -- who brought the food. He tipped 15%, waited for the man to leave, and then called through the bathroom door that their food had come. Q emerged in a shroud of steam, wearing one of the T-shirts and a pair of sweats. Picard spared a thought to be grateful the bathroom here was connected to a small dressing room. "I feel like a new Q! Oh! You got the entire menu, Jean-Luc!" "Not quite," Picard murmured. "Steak, lobster, shrimp cocktails, red wine, stuffed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, and creamed spinach. You expecting guests, or is this all for little ole me?" Jean-Luc shrugged uncomfortably. "I thought we deserved a little spoiling." Q frowned and stopped flapping his hands about. "Now you're the one who's not saying something." Picard made himself meet Q's dark brown eyes, seeing in his mind Q in his judge's robes, Q helpless on his bridge, and Q promising to take care of Vash all at the same time. "Q, you are the most dangerous person I have ever met, and at times I have been so thoroughly disgusted with your selfishness that I would have given almost anything never to have been plagued by you again." "There'd better be a 'but' coming, Jean-Luc." "But for the past day and a half you've been patient, considerate, brilliant, and practical, to say nothing of your altruism in coming after me in the first place." "So steak and lobster means 'thanks a million?'" "No. I'm *trying* to say that if I can help you with all this, I want to. If a shared room and nice meals help you to deal with what must be an absolutely horrific experience for you, then I'm all too happy to provide them. And if you have other needs that need meeting while we're getting ourselves back home, then I want to hear about them, Q. Quite frankly, you're going to have to put up with a few dozen demands of mine, and if this partnership is going to work, we're going to have to do all we can for each other." Several expressions had traveled across Q's face during Picard's speech, so many that the man had little idea what any of them meant. Incongruously, the primary sentiment expressed seemed almost to be sadness, but then, when Q met his eyes again, he simply seemed approving and mildly tired. "Agreed, Mon Capitaine. Now, dinner's getting cold." The food was quite good, especially to the captain after his years of replicators, and they finished almost all of it. Then Jean-Luc took his turn in the bathroom, soaking and scrubbing off the dirt of what seemed half the city. When he emerged in his own new clothes, he saw Q lounging on the right-hand bed, changing the channels on the television with a small control box, and no sign of their uniforms. "Oh, I sent them to the laundry," Q said absently. Picard poured himself the last of the wine and spread the newspapers out on the other bed, reading quietly while Q changed channels and made the occasional remark, many of which were outside the man's frame of reference, and all of which were scornful. "Too bad there's no wrestling on," Q lamented at one point. "You'd like that. It's almost Klingon." "Perhaps another night," Picard murmured through a yawn. "I've found a good place to buy computers, and I can't yet find any major historical differences between our universe at this time and this universe, except, perhaps..." Q had turned the sound down on the television and was looking at him. "What?" "Well, I'm fairly certain that there's more unrest in the Mid-East than there should be, but it may just be the way the newspapers enjoy describing the tension." Q snagged the New York Times and scanned through the news section for the right headlines, then quickly read the articles. "No, you're right. This is more than it should be." Q looked thoughtful. "That could be very significant...or not. Look, are you ready to go to sleep yet?" "Yes, quite." Picard began folding up the newspapers when he felt Q's eyes on him. Keeping things as casual as he could, he rose, turned off the lights, and then got under the covers of Q's bed, sliding in next to the entity and lightly touching his arm. Q almost seemed to shiver, but then turned over -- again not moving his arm -- and was quiet. Picard wondered if he himself weren't feeling a little comforted by Q's body heat, and then closed his eyes and went immediately to sleep. Picard awoke again in the early morning, but not because Q had arisen. He was a little warmer than he wanted to be, but the room's temperature couldn't be faulted. No, his present circumstances were caused by a little too much body heat coming from his companion, transmitted through his back, which was pressed up against Q's body while the entity's long arms had him wrapped up securely, holding him in place. Q's face was pressed into his neck, and his warm breath was tickling him slightly. Picard thought about screaming in horror and leaping out of bed. He thought about turning around and punching Q in the nose. He thought about slipping out of bed quietly and taking up residence with the newspapers. He thought about nudging Q to see if he would roll away. He thought about ignoring the whole thing and going back to sleep. This last one gained favor as he became quite certain that Q really was unconscious. He wondered if the Q maintained some sort of mental closeness while in the Continuum which allowed them to rest without actually sleeping. Or perhaps this was some sort of mimicked Human instinct to cuddle which was being brought out by Q's anxiety over his powerlessness. *Well, whatever it is, it isn't killing me, and I *did* tell Q I wanted to help him. If he needs to do this for awhile...still, I do feel ridiculous. But hysterics won't help. Dieu, he's like a furnace.* Very slowly, Picard pulled away the covers from the front of his body, allowing some of the warmth to escape, and in a few minutes he closed his eyes and went back to sleep. In the morning, he woke up alone, to sounds of Q's pottering around in the bathroom. He wondered if his companion even knew what he'd done in the night, and then smothered a laugh at the thought of Q awakening to find himself wrapped around him and reacting with horror. *Well, he did warn me he would treat me like a teddy-bear. I should have known to take him literally.* A knock at the door got him out of bed, and he was soon smiling politely at another young man in black pants and a white shirt who wheeled in a tray laden with breakfast. The man set up their tray between the beds as Picard fetched his payment. "You two from out of town?" the server asked. "Yes, rather." "You'll like it here, trust me, whatever you see on TV." The man turned to him and looked at him with a strange sense of camaraderie, as though they were newly met members in a club. "We're having a march Friday night to Charity. Consider yourselves invited." Picard's smile was fixed. "Yes, thank you. We will if we can." The man smiled and seemed almost ready to slap him on the back, then smiled over his tip and left. Picard turned at the chuckling coming from the bathroom door. Q stood there with his arms crossed, wear his T-shirt and uniform pants, his face shaven and his hair neatly combed. Picard thought absently that this was all starting to feel quite civilized. "You don't by any chance realize what he meant about the march, do you?" Q asked. "I gather it's some sort of political protest." They moved towards breakfast and sat on their beds. There was coffee, croissants, grits, bacon, and jelly. "Point to you, but that's not all that he meant." Q snagged the paper from the table and opened it to the news section, scanning for the article he wanted before passing it to Jean-Luc. The captain set down his coffee and read about the man who'd been in the paper yesterday, a victim of something called "gay-bashing." He looked up with a frown to find Q laughing at him. "Our waiter assumed we're lovers," Q informed him with obvious relish. "He thought we'd want to join in their Gay Pride protest." Picard knew Q was only looking for a reaction from him, but couldn't quite keep himself from reacting anyway. Of course, to others they'd appear homosexual, which wouldn't matter in his own time, but here...Earth had been very odd about accepting homosexuality in this time. On the one hand, it was the first time Western Civilization had began to accept it publicly, even legally. On the other... He forced himself to take a sip of coffee and jelly up a roll. "Since we're going to have to do all we can to keep from interacting with, and thus influencing, others, we're going to give people the impression of great intimacy between us." "You going to pretend it doesn't bother you that people will think we're doing the Wild Thing?" "I'm not sure I know what that is, Q. But whatever you mean, it's somewhat irrelevant to the task at hand." Q sighed, his game spoiled, and turned serious. "Not completely. We're going to have to be careful about this, Jean-Luc. At this time in history, gay men are automatic members of a tightly knit community, which means they automatically get some real hatred from outsiders. We'll need to watch where we go at night, and if we have to leave the city, we may have to worry about much more obvious discrimination. Of course we'll look a lot less gay when we're no longer dressed alike, but there will always be that problem." "I don't see why," Picard objected. "Because neither of us is interested in re-learning our mannerisms to announce to others that we're *not* gay. In America at this time, straight men spend a considerable amount of energy demonstrating to others that they're heterosexual. Tell me, if Riker put his hand on your shoulder on the bridge and whispered in your ear that you had an invisible intruder on the bridge, what would you do?" Picard frowned. "I'd run a scan for any anomalous readings on the bridge and quietly summon security." "You wouldn't feel the need to lean away from him and make it clear to everyone that what he said was completely in the line of duty?" "Of course not!" "Well, here, that's what you'd do. What anyone who didn't want to be labeled a 'fag' would do. You're comfortable with yourself, with your sexuality, your identity. Around here, that's going to give everyone the idea that you're homosexual." Q seemed slightly depressed by the level of Picard's scowl. "But this *is* New Orleans, Jean-Luc, with a highly visible, even flamboyant, gay community. Very few people will really care one way or the other, and, as you say, we'll be keeping our contact with others light." A new expression joined those already in residence on Picard's features. "What?" Q asked. "Nothing. You know, I quite like having grits for breakfast. I wonder if Beverly would like them." "I take it back. You'll be wonderful at defending your sexuality." Picard looked angry now. "I was only trying to avoid an inappropriate question, Q." "You may ask me whatever you like, Jean-Luc." "In what ways has the Continuum interfered in Human history?" "...as long as it's a personal question." Picard seemed torn, and played a while with his coffee cup. Q continued to watch him expectantly, and finally, with a sigh, the man noted, "You're somewhat...suggestive in your mannerisms yourself, Q. It's made me wonder, I admit..." "Yes?" "Do the Q actually have a personal gender preference? I mean, do you think of yourself as male?" Q looked obscurely disappointed, but answered readily enough, "Yes. The Q are actually beyond needing gender, but it is a racial instinct. I've mentioned my 'brothers and sisters' of the Continuum often enough to reveal that. I even have one sister who's a favorite of mine. We joined recently, to produce issue." Picard blinked at him. "You had a child?" "Yes, though....the Continuum resisted the idea at first, and we were raising him on our own, but then everyone fell in love with the little tyke, and it seems I hardly get to see him anymore." "That's most surprising, considering the resistance Amanda Rogers met with." "Oh, her." Q flapped a hand and poured them both more coffee. "She was a Human who became a Q, and when I got her back to the Continuum with her parents in tow it was the same as it would have been if Riker had joined -- a legal adult with new powers who just needed some guidelines. My child, well, the child of the Continuum, is an infant, learning more about us than we know ourselves. None of us has any idea what he'll become in time. It's quite exhilarating." "Sounds somewhat reckless to me," Picard noted sourly. "Yes, it is." Q leaned forward suddenly, placing an elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. "Jean-Luc, you've been a wonderful influence on me, don't get me wrong, but in some ways you led me in the wrong direction. I conformed to the wishes of my superiors, but it took an outcast Q to show me that I had a cause for which to fight. I fought it with the determination worthy of a Picard, and it was as reckless as you yourself were when saving the ambassador on Milikin III, or the population of Penthara Four." Picard smiled, though somewhat suspiciously. "Q, I do believe you have a story to tell me." By the time the they both bathed and dressed and were ready to shop, Picard had heard all about Quinn, and the civil war in the Continuum, and Q's involvement with the crew of the Voyager. For some reason, he was pleased that Q's experience with Humanity now had reference beyond that of his interactions with the Enterprise crew, and he was forward to the day he could offer to buy Kathryn Janeway a drink and ask her about her adventures...especially those in the Continuum. He wondered if she realized the honor of having been there twice, and thought idly that in the end she might be some sort of Human-Q ambassador. *Better she than I,* he'd thought at one point, surprising himself, but meaning it. Whichever Human was eventually picked to fill that role would have a very difficult task indeed, and his plate was already full. The computer was the most important thing, and they rode the taxi directly to CompUSA and told the driver to wait. Inside, they walked to the best the store had to offer and quickly found themselves approached by a salesperson. They left soon after with a top-of-the- line system, including a printer and built-in 92K modem which would do until they got a permanent lodging and a direct line to the Internet. They ferried the system back to the hotel, then dismissed the taxi and set things up in their room. Once Q was online (100 free hours and no money up front from the Sprint Network), it took him only half an hour to set himself and Picard up with checking accounts. They then walked to Hibernia and transferred the money, then to Canal Place and then the Riverwalk, systematically searching through stores selling men's clothes. Picard would have been happy to quit long before they did, except that shopping with Q turned out to be a spectacle in a way he hadn't imagined. He'd expected campy oohing and ahhing, and instead was startled with the entity's efficient concern over fashion, image, and quality. He also appreciated the way Q suggested purchases without actually hovering, and never once acted as though they were a "couple." While they both bought business suits of dark gray, which they had altered and arranged to be sent to the hotel, they concentrated on clothes they could wear on the street. Q had insisted on their both getting jeans and khakis at a place called The Gap. Picard had liked the look of a bomber's jacket from Banana Republic, and Q had opted for a long black coat from Brooks Brothers. They both got sturdy walking shoes, as well as the necessities of underwear and socks. Picard stopped at someplace called The Footlocker for running attire, and with a trace of disdain Q bought tennis shoes, asking the manager of the store about good local athletic clubs. Jean-Luc also bought some comfortable and cool pajamas, and was quietly adamant that Q do so as well. He couldn't help thinking that if he were going to be pressed up to Q every night for the next few weeks, he didn't want either of them in sweat pants. A stop at Bookstar allowed Picard to purchase some history books, as well as some extremely crude starcharts and a couple guidebooks to the city. Q scooped up issues of all the newspapers and Wallstreet and Internet magazines. They were dressed quite differently now, with Picard in khakis and a green T-shirt, and Q in black pants and chambray, and Picard was pleased to note this did seem to make a difference in the way people interacted with them. When they had lunch at a diner that Picard thought was ridiculously quaint, no one seemed concerned with them at all, and only in retrospect did Picard realize how many people had ogled him and Q at the Café du Monde. It was mid-afternoon by the time they got back to the hotel. Q plonked down in front of the computer and set himself up with everything he needed to buy and trade their way into a very quiet fortune. Picard read over the world's history and found it exactly like his own universe's until about a century previous to this time, at which point small changes began to occur. They grew, and included three atom bombs dropped on Japan in WWII, Gandhi dying from old age, and a great deal more conflict in the Middle East than should have been possible without a major, if not global, consequence. Unsurprisingly, most of the conflict concerned the shortage in fossil fuels. When the tight printed lines of history began to blur, he looked through the starcharts, and knew somehow they'd have to get the use of a proper telescope. He needed accurate measurements, but his instincts told him the heavens were a little off...just a little, but enough, perhaps, to help them figure out "where" they were. Picard understood the nature of their task well enough to know that differences were the key. They needed to know some measurement of the exact difference between their universe and this one to know the alignment between them. And then they were going to have to figure out some way to create enough power using the materials available to signal the Enterprise. Doubtlessly, they wouldn't get the sort of resolution needed for a voice communication, but he had a number of codes...and then as soon as Q was "home" enough to have his powers, he'd take them back to their original departure time. Perhaps they should just send a general signal, Picard thought. Who knew how much time was passing in their world? The Enterprise might not be around anymore. "That's a sad expression, Mon Capitaine," Q noted, then yawned. Picard was going to take that yawn as a commentary upon his company, when he realized it was after one am. "Look at the time," he murmured, smothering his own yawn. "Time for sleep, I think." "Ah, a chance to break in the PJs." Q leapt up, then halted himself, looking at his roommate. "I suppose I should offer to let you go first." Picard waved an arm. "I don't mind." Q smiled and went into the luxurious bath, splashing about in the shower and emerging within another cloud of steam, new pajamas a little creased from the bag, damp hair curling as he padded across the room and got into bed. When Picard came out, he rather hoped Q would already be asleep, and turned off the lights quietly. "Jean-Luc," Q murmured. "When the market opens tomorrow we're going to make a killing with soybean oil, orange juice, and lumber." "Wonderful." "And then we'll diversify with some blue chip stocks, saving about half for more commodities trading..." Q yawned again. "It shouldn't be long before we can fund some real...whatever we'll need to do." "Look through a telescope. That's our first priority." "Shouldn't be too hard. Aren't you going to get closer?" "Q..." "Yes?" "Here. Is that better?" "Why, Jean-Luc! You impetuous rascal! Our elbows are touching!" "Go to sleep, Q." "Did you remember to brush your teeth?" Picard sighed in response, then reached out and placed his hand on Q's forearm and closed his eyes. The entity fell quiet, and the day's toll put them both quickly to sleep. Picard woke up twice in the night, once to find Q's arm across his chest, a second time to find them spooned up as they had been the night before. The thin sleepwear helped. It was almost cozy. In fact, Picard suddenly wanted to giggle. Here was the Great and Powerful Q, who'd flung his ship into the path of the Borg, who's almost made him destroy Humanity, who'd embarrassed the hell out of him in front of his "merry men," who'd menaced him more often than he could count. And now Q was cuddled up behind him like a child. It was...strangely flattering. But he was too tired to enjoy the irony for long, and when the morning woke him Q was again in the bathroom. *What does he do in there? Wherever we find to live had better have at least two full baths, or I'm going to spend all my time waiting.* And then he was on his back, his hand on his stomach, shaking with laughter. Naturally, Q came out half-dressed to demand to know what was going on. At the sight of the entity with his pants on and his shirt off, Picard laughed harder. There were actually tears forming. When he could look at Q again, there was a puzzled and involuntary smile that reached all the way to his dark brown eyes. Picard finally sobered and sat up, pushing back the covers. "It's just our...enforced domesticity. The past few days have so little to do with how I think of you." Q frowned over that, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorjamb. "And how do you think of me, Jean-Luc?" Picard found himself stymied, and stood up, stretching his back slightly. He really wanted to go for a run...and then realized there was no reason he couldn't. "I don't know, Q. I suppose I think of you as a powerful and unpredictable entity. I'm going for a run." "I'm going to expand our fortune and get us access to a telescope." Picard nodded and headed to the bathroom, where he changed into his gear, then came out and tucked his key card into his pocket. "It might fall out," Q said absently, looking at his computer and typing as he talked. "I'm going to be here. Just leave it." Picard pulled out the card and set it by the TV, which was on without the sound. Suddenly, he felt bad about leaving Q alone. "I won't be gone long." "All right." Q didn't look away from the screen. Frowning at himself, Picard left the room and rode down the elevator to the street. There were pleasant breezes mixing with the morning's humidity, chilling his sweat slightly as he ran. The sidewalks weren't particularly crowded, and he enjoyed looking at the old architecture. He found he kept having to remind himself he wasn't jogging on the holodeck. He returned to the path along the river, then ran up and down Esplanade, somewhat puzzled at the Jean LaFitte House, which was a reconstructed museum in his time and seemed to be a sort of hotel now. He tried very hard not to stare at the homeless people huddling in doorways, asking people for money, or stretched out, still sleeping in the damp autumn morning. He wondered what they would do in the winter, and how they could live in plain sight of everyone and seem to be somehow not there at all. It all made him run harder than he should, and he was a little dizzy with panting when he pulled up outside the hotel. His head cleared as he stretched, slowly, quietly enjoying the simple physical certainty of it. "New in town?" Picard didn't realize at first the question was meant for him. Only when he was standing at rest and about to turn to walk into the hotel did he see the rather seedy young man smoking a cigarette and "eyeing" him. "No," he answered shortly, and jerked open the glass door, smothering his spike of anger. "I then I said, 'Cody, you were born to be a star!'" Howls of laughter, a round of applause. Q was sitting at the computer with fierce concentration, tapping keys seemingly at random. Picard had no doubt millions were being made. "I can't believe this kid," a man was saying on the television. "There he is in the little outfit, and you're standing there with Frank, and he takes a bow!" END OF PART THREE Varoneeka Varoneeka: What would Q make of Sterling? Homespon: His mistress. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Posting to ASCEM is easy: send your messages to http://www.onelist.com/subscribe.cgi/ASCEML ======== Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 4/16 From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Date: Fri, 28 May 1999 23:22:42 -0700 -------- Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 4/16 Date: 27 May 1999 14:25:20 GMT From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com To: alt-startrek-creative-erotica-moderated Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated More screams of laughter. Picard wanted to object to the volume level, but forced himself on into the bathroom, where he showered in near-scalding water, shaved, and dressed in jeans and an olive-green T-shirt that he almost tore when ripping off the tag. Nothing had changed when he emerged, except that he noticed his portion of breakfast waiting for him: juice, an urn of coffee, rolls, butter and jam. He poured a cup of the coffee, which was passably warm, and stood there. "I'm really proud of the film," some woman was saying. "I knew the director likes to work with people who know their lines on Day One, so the first day of shooting, I had everything down, and, then, wouldn't you know it, there was a last-minute script change, and I got so nervous, but then we decided not to shoot the scene, because Steven didn't like the look of the sky, so we shot the original scene, and I was okay." "Oh, can you imagine that, Kathy?" the man said, groaning in sympathy. "The pressure you actresses are under." "I couldn't do it!" the blonde woman shouted, throwing out her arms. "It's all I can do to keep up with this maniac." She jerked her thumb at the man. "Believe me. It's all I can do!" More laughter, and Picard jerked slightly as the set was clicked off. He looked up from his coffee to see Q setting down the remote and stretching his arms. Then he dropped them and turned off the computer before meeting Jean-Luc's eyes. "I've made us all the money we're going to need for a while, I should think." "Good work." Q shrugged with a half-smile. "It was actually something less than sheer torture. I'd forgotten the pleasures gained from simple tasks." Picard grunted and drained his coffee. His empty stomach protested. "Counselor Troi isn't here, you know." "Meaning?" "Meaning, are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or are you just going to stand there scowling at your coffee cup until it cracks?" Jean-Luc looked at Q carefully. There was no mockery there, nor cloying concern. He looked rather like Troi at this instant, almost professional in his interest. He could feel himself responding to the offer, as he had trained himself to do with her. Q was right, she wasn't here, but could he really tolerate Q as a stand-in for however long they were stuck here? "You know," Q said with quiet practicality, "when I have problems here, you're going to be my only person to talk to as well." Picard allowed himself a dramatic shudder, and felt the tension ease. He sighed, met Q's eyes, and tried to cut through to the issue ASAP. "It's being here, being unable to help these people. A young man came up to me...I wanted to rush him to Beverly and turn him over to people trained to help him, to give his life back to him. He was offering himself, as though he were an article of clothing to be bought in the street, and for what? A meal? Some sort of hallucinogen? I've seen so many desperate people, but not Humans, on Earth. Even in the 21st Century, it somehow...wasn't so bad." "Because that was a war zone?" Picard thought about that. "Probably. They had an enemy to face, a future to embrace. These people...are they headed towards a global conflict that will finish them all off? How can they live like this?" Q didn't answer the rhetorical question, simply sitting there, thinking about what Jean-Luc had said, and, suddenly, the captain smiled. "You're better at this than I would have imagined." Q smiled back. "I told you, I've been practicing." Picard chuckled, and realized he did feel better. Then Q stood abruptly. "We need to change." "I just got into this." "And you look lovely, Johnny, but we have an appointment with a radio telescope and we need to look like scientists. It's also something of a drive, so we'd better get going." "A drive?" "Yes, they dropped off the rental car while you were running." Q didn't bother to mention the problems he'd had online, or the laws he'd technically broken, getting them driver's licenses. The radio telescope proved to be a good four hours' drive out of New Orleans, with both of them taking shifts behind the wheel. Q drove in traffic, while Picard felt comfortable enough with the automatic shift to drive the long stretches on the freeways. The scenery was incredibly lush, the trees shimmering dark green with the slight wind, heavy with early fall's inheritance of summer. There was water everywhere, and after an hour or so of it, Picard knew he was enjoying himself again. There was something healing in all that relentless growth. The telescope itself was fascinating. None of these were still in working order in Picard's time, and when he and Q (supposedly radio astronomers attached to SETI visiting from Washington, DC) were given the tour, he managed to get on the team leader's good side with his questions and obvious interest. It was dark when they made it back to the hotel, comfortably not speaking as they rode the elevator up with their arms full of radio starcharts. Both spent the minimum time needed in the bath, and then crawled into bed with grunted "goodnights." Picard didn't wake up at all in the night, but when his eyes cracked into the sunlight streaming through the window they forgot to drape, he could feel the sweat on his back from where he'd been pressed against Q, and the bed was still warm from the entity's body. *Soon we're going to wake up together and have to deal with this. But...what does that mean, exactly? I don't suppose I'm going to ask him to stop, not when he's being so...I mean, if this is all he wants in return...perhaps I should just see to it that we don't have to confront anything for a while.* He rose and ordered breakfast, then sat down and started in on the charts. Q joined him, and by lunch they had exact readings on the differences between the stars' positions here, and those back in their own universe (the *exact* position of which Q supplied). After that, they did the equations together to determine the exact strength, wavelength, confinement polarity and "direction" of the signal they would need to reach their own universe. Now they just needed 24th Century technology to create it. After making a few phone calls, they spent the afternoon looking at warehouses and finally settled on one on Tchoupitoulas, set back far enough from the river but nicely isolated and secure with intact fences, an alarm system, and a sturdy gate. Since they'd gone by the bank first, Picard paid the first three month's rent in cash, was calmly handed the keys, and saw the realtor out. The concrete floor of the main storage area had been swept clean, but there was some junk in the office and upstairs living quarters. Q tried to help shift some of the empty boxes, but when Picard opened the unplugged refrigerator, the entity fled to the car "to buy some things." The living quarters had been a nice surprise, and the main reason they'd picked this particular warehouse. The original intent must have been to provide adequate residence for several workers. There had been two baths, a large kitchen, and four bedrooms, but someone had knocked out the wall between two of the bedrooms, making a large main room, and keeping the two other bedrooms intact. After the refrigerator, which Picard cleaned out with supplies from under the sink and *without* thinking about what he was doing, the rest of the place wasn't so bad. He was thinking about pressing his luck with a shower when someone buzzed the gate. He used the intercom, and was soon showing delivery men to one of the bedrooms upstairs, watching in some amusement as they assembled an enormous four-poster bed that took up almost the entire room, and came with a canopy frame and its own little wooden steps. Picard found himself actually admiring the ornate carvings in the dark wood that looked like ivy and very small flowers, but half-way through construction, he was answering the buzzer again, and now let in men with two large armchairs, an enormous television with an elaborate sound system, a dining table and four chairs. Q himself showed up while a man was hooking a small satellite dish to the side of the warehouse. "I bring dinner!" he shouted as he came though the front door carrying bags of many colors. "There's more stuff in the car." Picard fetched packages, fighting to keep the smile off his face. The bed was really too much. And he noticed Q hadn't bought a sofa. He set down the bags on the already laden table and found Q in the kitchen, opening little white cardboard boxes that read "Five Happiness" and producing chopsticks. "You wouldn't believe what I had to shell out to get all this delivered today, Mon Capitaine. The Direct TV guy I'm having to pay on the sly." "You're not really one for waiting, are you, Q?" Picard took up a carton of broccoli beef and ate a mouthful as Q produced a bottle of red wine and opened it, pouring it into the wine glasses he'd rinsed off in the sink. "I can wait for something important," Q said absently. "But I don't believe in enduring unnecessary hardship." "I hope in that mess you bought sheets for the bed." "Of course I did. And a down comforter that's in the trunk. After I get some food I'll run a load of sheets and then I can make it up." Q's eyes sparkled with mischief and Picard politically ignored him, smiling quietly inside as he took a sip of the wine. "What?" he couldn't help saying, then grabbed the bottle to see his own brand. "Wherever did you find it?" Q looked quite pleased with himself. "There's a gourmet supermarket next to the Pier 1. I got all the bottles of it they had." "In the trunk?" "Hm-hm." Q took up a crab ragoon as the dish installer appeared to get their signature. Q handed him some cash as well, saw him out, and then took his food and drink into the dining room to open packages. Picard followed, and took out the new paper and pens, making up a list of supplies they would need while Q disappeared into the back. Soon, he heard a humming thumping noise he assumed was the washing machine. By the time his list was done and he'd finished mapping out in his mind where they would put things in the warehouse, it was quite late and Q was nowhere to be seen. Jean-Luc headed upstairs, cleaned up in the kitchen, took the garbage out to the curb, and then marched with some determination towards the bedroom. "Q..." he began, opening the door, then stood there, his hand on the knob. Caribbean blue, with small, white, almost sparkly dots that looked for all the world like a deep night sky: all across the canopy, down through the comforter, accented with blue and silver pillows. Q had gotten dark blue curtains for the window, and now they framed the stretch of river outside, itself lined brokenly with white lights. The ceiling light was on, diffusing through the canopy, and everything that wasn't sparkling seemed to glow. He realized Q was behind him, and wanted to say something appropriate. This felt like a gift he wasn't certain how to accept. "In the Continuum," Q said softly, "we don't sleep, but we do rest, and it can be like this, sort of...the stars, I mean...I thought, we'll be needing someplace safe to go, someplace there aren't people you hate yourself for not helping, someplace just..." "It's perfect," Jean-Luc murmured, feeling how strangely tight his hand was on the doorknob. There was some tension in his chest too. Somehow, he couldn't stop thinking about how he would spend his time in this bed with Q's arms around him. But perhaps it was just the thought of being warm. It had grown quite cold in the warehouse since the sun went down. Tomorrow they'd have to figure out the heating system. "It's perfect, Q," he repeated, commending his companion as he turned with an approving smile. "And if you don't mind, I'm going to take a shower and test it out." Q smiled, a little distantly, and stepped back. "I'm already clean...oh, and I took the far bathroom." "The larger one?" Q shrugged innocently. Picard moved into his bathroom and found his pajamas already hanging on the door's hook. He shed what he'd left on of his "scientist's" clothes and found the space heater. He took his time washing the day off, then came out, closed the bedroom door behind him, and climbed the stairs into bed. Q was already making his little snoring sounds Picard found privately hilarious; the bed was outrageously comfortable and smelled faintly of soap. He was quickly asleep. When he woke up, there was something different about Q's embrace. It was something he'd never felt before, and it took him a few groggy moments to work out what was going on. Q was hard, and pressing into his buttock. Everything else was the same. Q's arms around him had him securely pressed against him, and again Q's face was tucked into his neck. But then... *Well, men do have these in their sleep, and Q's a man now, as far as nature is concerned. It's doubtlessly happened before and I just didn't wake up. I've basically agreed to do this every night too. How the hell did I get in this situation, anyway? And I thought that Robin Hood thing was bad. Well, if Vash were here she'd have a laugh, at least. I shudder to think what Beverly would say...or...how about Will?* Picard had to use everything he had not to laugh. He tried to think of other things, but Q shifted slightly, rubbing himself gently against his flank, and that was a little hard to ignore. *Did he and Vash have sex?* he asked himself as a desperate distraction. *I should think Q's probably had just about every sort of sex there is, and then some. Does it really give him pleasure anymore? Q said making that money was fun, and he enjoyed making up this bed as a surprise...rather like when he went off to make his Sherwood Forest preparations. I should do something, make some sort of surprise for him, but what the hell would he possibly like?* A small boat passed down the river, its lights glimmering on the water, and suddenly Jean-Luc again felt as though he were on the holodeck. It was supremely peaceful here, right this moment, despite the flesh pressing against his backside. The comforter was soft in his arms, and he felt cradled without, somehow, feeling coddled. When Beverly tried to comfort him it always felt as though he were being treated as a child, or an invalid, but now this...this was easing his worries away without diminishing him, and he felt deeply grateful to Q for this. Well, it was the wrong time for deep thoughts, he told himself, closing his eyes with determination and *not* thinking about Q's involuntary erection. He would find *something* fun to surprise Q with, and do it. The next four days flowed smoothly together. They researched the area through Q's computer (now equipped with a direct Internet line and partnered by Picard's identical unit), paper, and phone consultation, and bought all the equipment and tools they could to begin the construction of the transmitter. They both agreed the power source would be the most dangerous part, and should be saved for last. They weren't going to be able to build the source themselves, nor did they know exactly how much power was going to be needed until they saw how efficient they could make the transmitter. Doubtlessly, the source was going to have to be nuclear, which posed problems neither of them wanted to discuss at this stage. The warehouse was quickly full, and between them they parceled out the construction duties. They had a bit more trouble figuring out how to handle the chores attendant on living outside a hotel. Eventually, the kitchen became Picard's domain, and Q did most of the other things. They could, of course, hire a maid, but they didn't want anyone else having access to the warehouse. It all worked itself out in the end, especially since both of them were making overt efforts to accommodate the other. And each night, it was exactly the same. They'd shower and put on their sleepwear, calmly get into bed, say goodnight, go to sleep, and then at some point in the night Picard would awaken to find Q wrapped around him, sometimes hard, sometimes not. He resigned himself to it, and even eventually could admit that sleeping together was comforting to both of them, but it was never mentioned, and in the daytime Picard carefully didn't think of it. At the end of the fifth day, Picard found himself looking closely at Q. His companion was hunched over the counter they'd set up in the back of the warehouse, under two bright lights, trying to get enough magnification from the large, lit circle of glass to see his way into connecting the computer chip at the end of his tweezers to the interface they'd jury-rigged from three mother boards. He dropped the chip, again, and cursed in a language Jean-Luc didn't recognize. It was a pretty impressive curse, regardless. "Q, let's get out of here." Dark brown eyes met his in frank surprise, and Picard felt inordinately pleased with himself. "I thought we were trying to do just that," Q said carefully. "You know what I mean. No one could blame us for having a drink and listening to some music. We've earned it, and we'll be all the better for it in the morning." "Well, that depends on how much we drink." Q stood, carefully arranged his tools, and stepped away from his work bench. Picard set down the schematics he was fine-tuning, and together they moved upstairs to change into dark-colored clothes. They started with the House of Blues, and spent a little time in Margaritaville because the music couldn't be resisted, but they settled down across the street to listen to Walter Wolfman Washington, drinking beer and saying little, lost in their own thoughts, supported by the companionship they'd worked so hard to achieve. While the band was on break, Picard slid easily off his rather unkempt barstool and strode back to the men's room, smiling very privately as the odor around the urinals reminded him of a bar at which he'd spent some time while still a cadet, trying not to snicker as Marta pretended -- "Got a light?" Jean-Luc finished up and buttoned his fly before turning around to the owner of that overtly suggestive voice. A strikingly attractive man with thick black hair, blue eyes and a bomber jacket rather like his own was looking him over. *Do I have some sort of sign on my forehead?* "No," he said shortly, but apart from pushing the man out of his way, his further options were limited. "Excuse me." "Are you about to do something that needs excusing?" The man laughed slightly, and Jean-Luc suppressed the urge to punch him in the nose. He was reminded of men and women he'd met before who were too used to getting everything with a charming smile. He was somehow also reminded of a Romulan. "I only meant I want to pass." "Why pass up something when you don't know how good it is?" "A lack of interest?" Picard parried mildly, using the man's moment of confusion now to slip past. The band's music blasted through him, and he felt a disconcerting level of relief. Why were these offers so infuriating? He'd avoided passes before. *Ah, but the situations were different, weren't they, Jean-Luc? You didn't have to worry about not making waves there, and you weren't...somehow, you weren't feeling this exposed before. What is it? Is it just that I'm so far from home?* He settled beside Q, nodding as the music rattled his teeth, and then watched his companion's eyes fix on a point over his shoulder. Feeling dread, Picard turned to see that the black-haired man had followed him, and was now looking at Q with some disdain. His dark blue eyes moved then to Picard, and filled with overt disbelief. "Oh, sweetheart. You can do so much better," the man crooned over the music. Q stiffened, and it seemed to Jean-Luc that he could feel the energy coming off that tall body beside him. But he kept his expression almost neutral, his body relaxed, and let just a hint of incredulity show. Those blue eyes narrowed and turned to Q with open scorn. The pretty mouth opened, and Picard found himself saying rather loudly, "Q, do you remember that man we met last year in Mobile?" Q leaned forward, looming behind him as he'd done so often before, and said as quietly as he could while still being heard over *Bourbon Street Bump,* "Of course I do." Strange, Picard couldn't help thinking, how very intimate this pose of Q's leaning over his shoulder became in the right circumstances. "He couldn't understand what 'a couple' meant, either," Picard remarked aloud, making his tone a little sweet now. He tilted his head back just slightly, and let his ear brush Q's cheek, just a bit. Suddenly, the man dropped his disdainful pose, and smiled with dazzling friendliness. Again, Picard thought of Romulans. "Couples sometimes invite friends over, and I could certainly make you happy..." He was looking at Q, then turned back to Picard, "...to make you happy." The music stopped, and one of the band signaled the others before fixing a string on his guitar. In the near-quiet, Picard murmured, "I assure you, we have no need of company this evening." The man was about to say something else, but then he was looking at Q, who was looking, Picard could vaguely tell, at Jean-Luc. Whatever the man saw on Q's face, it was enough to make him shrug in an empty no- hurt-feelings gesture and saunter away. Picard turned quickly to see for himself, but Q was only grinning at him suggestively. "Wanna dance?" "Really, Q. I think you enjoyed that!" "Oh, but you were being so gallant!" The music started up again, and Picard grabbed his beer, drained it, and asked Q if he wanted to go. "Only if you mean to another bar. I'm not letting someone else ruin what's been our best time here." Picard was startled into forgetting his anger. Q was right. If he weren't careful, he was going to start pouting. "It's just so...unsettling. It's bothering me like it never has before." "It's never been so dangerous before," Q noted simply. Jean-Luc blinked. "That sounds right, but I'm not sure what you mean." Q looked over at the band. "Let's go someplace quieter." Picard nodded, and they made their way outside the bar. Though it was almost one in the morning, the streets were quite crowded still, and they found themselves heading for the river. There was a well-lit stretch of the red brick "moonwalk" which still had a few people sitting about or strolling. They wound up leaning against the metal bars at the river's edge, their ears ringing. A tugboat went past, and Picard saw a rat moving among the rocks at the water line. "I keep thinking I'm in the holodeck, and then realizing...I don't know what's wrong with me. I've been in situations like this before without losing my focus like this." "Have you really, Jean-Luc? Or isn't this really all much closer to a Dixon Hill adventure than saving the Earth from the Borg?" "But we're not safe. You just pointed out the danger we face." "But it's such an odd sort of danger, isn't it? You're used to facing down enemies in battle, not worrying about them coming on to you in the men's room. You don't know the rules. You don't even want to play the game. And you feel guilty because you're enjoying yourself." Picard blinked at him. "There's no need to feel guilty, Jean-Luc. No one will be hurt by our absence. I give you my personal guarantee." Picard almost made a remark about the last time Q had said that...but he was too tired. Q seemed grateful for the moment of silence, and then nodded to himself. "Besides, I think I know something that might help. You want to go home now?" "It is late," Picard agreed wearily. They walked along the river as far as the aquarium, then turned towards the parking lot. "So save the bones...for Henry Jones...'cause Henry doesn't eat no meat." They looked at each other, then searched for the low voice of the singer. They found him under a light, strumming a guitar with slightly gnarled fingers. The man's skin shone almost blue-black in the glare, and when they neared him they saw he was missing several teeth. His clothes were torn and dirty. His voice was golden, husky and sad. "So save the bones...for Henry Jones...'cause Henry doesn't eat...no...meat." Q and Picard applauded and the man bowed slightly from his waist. "You got a request?" the man asked, his speech somewhat garbled. Q drew a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket, folded over. The man's eyes showed clearly that he recognized the denomination anyway, and he smiled to reveal his ravaged gums. "Something happy," Q said dryly, dropping the bill in the man's guitar case. "You can't buy happy blues," the man groused. "Armstrong, then." That same red-gummed smile, and then a few chords Picard knew were in perfect tune. "I see trees of green," the man sang, "red roses too. I see them bloom...for me and you. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world..." Some tourists had noticed them, and moved somewhat drunkenly towards the circle of white light. They were quiet, though, and listened with respect. "I see skies of blue, and clouds of white. Bright blessed day, the dark sacred night. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world..." It was happening again, Picard thought. As it had a few nights ago in Q's starry blue bed. The entity was right. He *was* enjoying himself; this moment seemed an alignment of some sort of accidental perfection, and he was holding his breath in hope it would last to the end of the song. "The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky, are also on the faces of people going by. I see friends shaking hands, saying, 'How do you do?' They're really saying...I love you..." One of the tourists, a man in a yellow shirt, leaned down and slipped a dollar bill in the guitar case. "I hear babies cry. I watch them grow. They'll learn much more than I'll ever know. And think to myself, what a wonderful world. And I think to myself...what a wonderful...wonderful world." The applause went on for a while, and the man bowed again, casually scooping up some of the dollars in his case, including Q's. Picard wanted to add his own money, but didn't want to step on what had somehow become Q's gift. He settled for a smile instead, and got one in return, missing teeth and all. They walked to the car slowly, stretching out the moment now, contentedly. "This was nice," Picard made himself say in the car, watching Q drive. "Stop it, you're killing me," Q murmured back, and Jean-Luc chuckled. They let the silence take them back to the warehouse, then both kept their showers short and crawled into bed with obvious relish. "It's not so bad, sleeping," Q noted as he arranged the covers. "Once you get used to it." Picard grunted, half-asleep already. If Q snuggled up with him that night, he didn't wake up to notice. END OF PART FOUR Varoneeka Varoneeka: What would Q make of Sterling? Homespon: His mistress. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Posting to ASCEM is easy: send your messages to http://www.onelist.com/subscribe.cgi/ASCEML ======== Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 5/16 From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Date: Fri, 28 May 1999 23:23:40 -0700 -------- Subject: NEW An Hour of Eternity (TNG P/Q NC-17) 5/16 Date: 27 May 1999 14:25:33 GMT From: varoneeka@aol.com (Varoneeka) Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com To: Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Q left early the next day to shop and Jean-Luc found that getting out the night before had helped clear his mind. In fact, he could see a way to use the processor chip more along the lines of its original function, which would help with efficiency. Q returned with more micro chips, a lunch of sushi and misu soup and a little box which he handed to Jean-Luc over the dining table. The lack of flourish did nothing to prepare Picard for what lay nestled inside. "Q..." "Yes?" Q sipped his soup. "Q, this looks like a wedding ring." "I know. I got myself one too." Q pulled it out of a pocket and slipped it on. "Lots of gay men wore them at this time to announce that they were taken and keep the gals away. It also signaled other gay men that the guy was probably in a relationship." Picard fought down the need to say that he wasn't a homosexual. Q was right. He was, for all practical purposes, posing as one. With a small sigh, he slipped the ring on his left hand and ate some sushi, then outlined his new design schematic to Q. "We've really got the thing designed now," Q noted, "about as well as we can with the tools we have. I think it should take about three weeks to get it all together." "Then we work on the power source," Picard agreed. Q nodded. They were designing the transmitter to be portable, durable, and almost indistinguishable from high-powered radio equipment of the period. It was now, with its guts exposed, that the historically inappropriate device was most vulnerable. They spent the afternoon in quiet assembly, then quit to watch the news on television. Picard almost fell asleep in his armchair, then willingly followed as Q led the way down the short hall. In the shower, he scraped his scalp unpleasantly with the gold ring, and thought about taking it off until he had need of it. But it made more sense to get used to the thing. It was heavy on his hand, somehow, though he wasn't surprised that Q had gotten one that fit perfectly. Q showered even more quickly than Picard and was waiting impatiently under the covers for the only thing that had kept him from going completely out of his mind over the past couple of weeks. He'd been more than a little horrified the first time he woke up to find his body wrapped around Jean-Luc's, and he had tried very hard to make himself let go. But that classically proportioned body that glowed with the man's energy and intelligence had felt as good in his arms as he'd always imagined it would, and he couldn't release the sensation, couldn't roll over and ignore what he was getting away with touching. Instead, he'd very slowly maneuvered himself until they were connected even more completely, until Jean-Luc Picard was pressed up against his entire length: his chest, his stomach, his pelvis, his thighs, his calves, even the tops of his feet. He'd thought that Picard would attack him in the morning, savage him for having touched him without permission, but instead he'd woken up first himself, and quietly slipped out of bed, and evidently Jean-Luc had been none the wiser. Q was sure now, sometime in the past several days, that the captain must have awoken to find himself being cuddled, but Jean-Luc had said nothing, and Q wasn't about to question his good fortune. He supposed Picard felt he owed it to Q, and, frankly, Q agreed. Despite all the practice he'd put in at being limited to Human sensations, having to deal with Human pains and inconveniences, he had still pleasantly surprised himself with his performance in this universe. *Of course, this wasn't quite how I planned to show off my abilities. Being *this* Human hardly does me any good at all, does it? Still, we're here, and when we get home together he'll trust me even more, and that's something. One day, Mon Capitaine...* Q smiled in the dark. Picard came in a little later, and quietly slipped into the bed Q had so carefully and with such embarrassingly intense joy made for him. He felt the man settle, mocking himself for the pleasure of feeling that voluntary, if extremely light, touch when the man placed himself right next to Q. Long minutes passed, until Jean-Luc's breathing was slow and regular and deep. Still Q waited, until he couldn't stand it anymore, and then, very carefully, he placed his arm across the man's chest -- he would do no more, he told himself sternly, the way he always did, every night. In seconds, he had joined Jean-Luc in sleep. With one exception, the following two weeks passed by just as well as Picard could have hoped. He and Q got into the habit of reading the papers over breakfast, then would work in the warehouse, assembling the transmitter, until lunch, when they would go for a walk. Though Picard ran most mornings, he still enjoyed the stroll, and after a few days Q announced that exercise was much more pleasurable than he'd thought it would be. To Picard's surprise, Q drove off one afternoon to return with full running gear, and began to jog in the mornings as well, though he did not try to keep up with Jean-Luc. Except for Q's occasional shopping sprees, they would work through the afternoons until dinner, at which point they would usually eat out. The city was hardly without adequate restaurants, and they both began to think of it as their day's reward for hard work. They would come home from dinner and either work some more, or watch the news on television while reading, then go to bed. The warehouse began to take on true signs of their domesticity. Piles of books filled up the corners, until Q went out and made bookcases appear. Their auto-drip coffee maker hummed to itself in the mornings, and Q seemed to get amusement from seeing to it that there was always a pot of Earl Grey available during the afternoon and evenings, the little Twinnings tea bag wrappers lying on the counter until Picard gathered them up for the trash. Construction was on schedule, he and Q were getting along...everything was going better than Picard would ever have thought...except for that one thing. Picard had even begun to think of it that way, as The Thing. It had happened two nights after their bar-hopping excursion. Picard had been dreaming of something erotic, and awoke somewhat aroused. Q, of course, had been holding him, though he was not hard, and Picard had almost been able to chuckle about it and go back to sleep. But then Q had shifted slightly, almost caressing him as his arms changed position, and the pressure and ache between the man's legs had increased with a pulse. The sheer horror of the reality which confronted Picard that early morning had been so great he had not slept another moment, remaining virtually motionless until the dawn, breathing with conscious and deceptive smoothness, his erection lost as though it had never been and never would be again. After the blank white shock had worn off, after he'd made it past the almost overwhelming urge to ignore this -- as, he realized, he had done so well in the past -- Picard tried to understand how it could have happened that he had become attracted to Q. He wanted to believe it was an outcome of their situation. They were alone here, held together by so much, intimate in a way he had been with very few people. He was lonely. He was concerned about his crew. He was sexually frustrated. He was absolutely out of his mind. The day after the first time The Thing made itself known, Picard was almost able to make himself believe it wasn't true. In the daylight, Q looked the same as always, perhaps even a little old, as he appeared in his running clothes and set off down the street, waving goodbye. While Jean-Luc jogged along the river, at somewhat faster than his usual pace, he thought of the dangerous callousness Q had often shown, the disregard of other people, the total lack of any sense of propriety or consideration. He reminded himself that while he was posing as a homosexual, he was quite heterosexual, and always had been. He thought of what it would be like to show vulnerability to Q, and then, having shown it, to return to their proper universe. He made himself see Q popping onto his bridge with a leer and letting everyone know he'd gotten into Picard's pants as a lark, perhaps passing intimate pictures around to see what they would do to Data's emotion chip. He forced himself to imagine Riker and Beverly and all the rest of them knowing that he'd been intimate with Q, focusing on every detail of the censure he'd receive. And even more damning than all this, he reminded himself of what Q actually *was.* A being who could not remember the beginnings of his existence. A being who had watched countless mortals die, who had claimed that Picard's kind were "always suffering and dying." What could sex mean to Q? Did he even understand the concept of wanting something? Whatever Q wanted, he had, the second he wanted it. Picard ran much father and harder than usual, and, as far as he could tell, all trace of any sexual attitude towards the entity completely disappeared before he made it back to the warehouse. *It was the closeness of being in bed together. Good Lord, he's been pressed up against me every night, and how long has it been since I've had someone doing that? Have I ever had anyone doing that? I can't hold myself in contempt for one moment of weakness.* Satisfied, if unsettled, Picard walked inside the fence to find Q stretching out in the driveway. When Jean-Luc joined him, Q turned with a smile and made a comment about the last gasp of New Orleans heat and the need for a city-wide cleaning service. He was shiny with sweat, and panting from his run, and as he spoke, his arms reached overhead while his long body seemed surprised with the simple motion attendant on being alive. And Jean-Luc realized his problem was much, more worse than he had thought. He wasn't simply attracted to Q. Attraction didn't feel like this, didn't hurt this much, didn't destroy his ability to breathe, didn't make him ache, didn't make him feel hopeless and desperate with the knowledge that there was no way in any universe that Q could possibly return in any manner the excruciatingly intense emotion he felt. *When did it happen? How did it happen?* he asked himself. *How do I make it un-happen?* "That's an interesting expression, Jean-Luc. Did you pull a groin muscle?" Picard coughed and bent over in a stretch, missing the possessive spark in Q's eyes as they traveled over his body. They didn't make eye-contact again before Picard went inside for his shower. The morning went by seemingly as routine, with Picard disassembling Q's communicator for those parts which could not be jury-rigged with circuit boards and microchips. It was slow, delicate work, greatly complicated by the fact that Jean-Luc found it almost impossible to concentrate. Q was only a few feet from him, and he kept shifting his weight, moving around, making little noises which drew Picard's eyes to his tall body, and his mind to what he wanted to do to that body. Picard amazed himself with the direction and detail of his own thoughts. It were as if, having been forced into silence for so many years, his imagination were now on over-drive. He found himself envisioning Q stretched out over their blue bed, over the workbench in front of him, over a chair, up against a wall, on the floor...he thought of Q's eyes half-closed in pleasure, of listening to that voice -- suggestive and insinuating even at the best of times -- saying things to him, asking him to kiss him, to caress him, to stroke his nipples or his penis. Oh, damn, he almost dropped the processor. He *had* to concentrate, to focus, but there was Q now, sighing over something he was working on -- the attenuator -- and in his mind's private studio Picard made the sound one of passion. He thought of the heat of Q's body, so familiar to him now, pressed up not to his back, but to his front. He thought of those long legs -- getting even more defined with the running Q had been doing -- wrapped around his back or bent beneath him. The sheer eroticism of it all, of thinking not simply of the unfamiliar sex between two men, but of sex with *Q,* broke through every resolve, over and over, until finally he all but slammed his work down. Q looked up at him in surprise. "I'm hungry," Jean-Luc told him tightly. "You want a sandwich?" "It's still early for me. I'll get something later." Picard jerked a nod and strode into the kitchen. Q's shopping had filled it with useful and aesthetically engaging gadgets, without cluttering the place up. The captain had spent just about as much time in the room quietly looking around and feeling strangely at home as he had washing up or making a meal. Now everything reminded him of Q, and he kept his eyes strictly on his hands as he grabbed bread and some wrapped steak, cheese and deli horseradish sauce from the refrigerator. He toasted the bread, and cut himself three thin slices of meet, staring at his wedding ring while thinking about Q kneeling down in this kitchen, slowly reaching for him, slowly opening up his mouth and taking him inside -- "Damn!" He had sliced wickedly through his thumb. He help it up and watched the blood drip out with enthusiasm. It was a deep cut, and as he stared at it he realized it would take some time to heal. "What did you do?" Q demanded from the doorway, and Picard braced himself with a smile as he turned on the cold water and stuck his thumb into the flow. "Cut myself, obviously." Q stepped up close and Jean-Luc kept himself from leaning away only by staring at the lemon squeezer drying in the wooden rack. He could smell Q now, a little salt and a little soap, and of course he could feel his heat. "That looks bad." Q scowled. "You know Beverly's not here to heal it." "Obviously." "Well, you need to be more careful!" Picard was deadly calm. "I didn't cut myself on purpose." Q clamped his lips over his retort and then turned to walk out. "I'll buy some antiseptic and bandages." "It's only a cut on my thumb!" Q looked over his shoulder, and it occurred to Picard that he looked furious. "It's bleeding badly. Do you *want* it to get infected?" "Yes! I do!" Q snorted and stomped out, and Picard grabbed a paper towel from its chrome spool and wrapped it around his thumb, pressing hard and breathing harder. How could he do this? How could he live like this? Would Q get him naked, touch him until he was moaning, and then laugh at him? The car wasn't working right. He'd no more than tapped on the brakes and the ridiculous Stone-Age machine was skidding to a stop at the light. The light was broken as well, and took three times as long as it should to change back to green. It wasn't far too Walgreen's Drugs, but he cursed each block, and when he got into the parking lot he almost ran over the girl pushing the Winn-Dixie shopping carts into a line because the child didn't look where she was going. It was no better in the store. People were standing around like Bolian cattle and the absurd decorations reminded him that Halloween (actually one of Humanity's most interesting holidays, but not right now) was approaching. He grabbed a basket and sped to the first-aid aisle, collecting wrapping bandages, antiseptic, Band-Aids, burn cream, aspirin, ibuprofen, Vaseline, cough drops, a thermometer, an ice pack, a heating pad, Preparation H, sleeping pills, hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, iodine, triple-antibiotic ointment, rubbing alcohol, Vicks Vapo rub, Ambusol, gauze, tape, scissors, Visine, ipecac syrup, calamine lotion, baby powder, Q-tips, Benadryl, cough syrups -- one to soothe, one an expectorant -- anti-histamine/sinus medication, anti-fungal cream, Cortisone, and Ben-Gay. Q almost lost it, holding the last small packet of cream in his fist, standing in the glare of the fluorescent lights, unable to keep from thinking about what it would be like to rub the cream over Jean-Luc's aching shoulders. How could he have been so stupid? They could never take Picard to the hospital here, not with his mechanical heart. He should have been watching over Jean-Luc more carefully. What if he'd cut the thumb off? What if he had a problem bandages couldn't fix? Well, he could hack into the pharmacy's computer easily enough and get them prescriptions for some real drugs. And he certainly knew enough to treat Picard for several things. He had studied Humanity's anatomy very thoroughly, after all, though his motives had been quite different at the time. *Well,* Q couldn't help thinking, even though he recognized the defensiveness of his humor, *some people have called it "playing doctor.*" The excuse for a joke steadied him. Picard wasn't going to drop down dead, and Q really could treat him for a number of things. They'd both just have to be careful. Q thought then that he'd better take good care of himself, as, if something happened to him, Picard would be alone, with no one to watch over him, and suddenly the entity was fighting tears. He'd never been so scared as he was watching the blood pour from Picard's thumb and having no powers to stop it. How did he get so useless? Grabbing up some large patch Band-Aids on the way, he walked quickly to the counter and paid for his mini-clinic, then took the bags to the car and drove quickly, but carefully, home. Picard was still in the kitchen, perched on the stool, his right hand wrapped around a paper towel around his thumb. "Good Lord, Q. Did you buy out the store?" "We have to take care of ourselves, Jean-Luc. We can't afford to get truly ill here." Picard listened to the censure in Q's voice, uncertain whom it was for. He tried saying gently, "Small accidents are bound to happen, but if we're careful we should be all right. I had my last physical not long ago." Q didn't answer, busying himself with unwrapping Picard's thumb and checking to see that the wound was clean and not bleeding any longer before he washed his hands and then applied the antiseptic, letting it dry before he wrapped it up snugly in two Band-Aids. Jean-Luc kept his eyes on the floor, and Q concentrated on keeping his breathing regular. Both of them felt the other's body heat. "You have quite the medicinal air about you," Picard murmured at one point to soothe his way through the involuntary movement he'd made when Q bumped his side. "I take it you studied Human physiology." "What there is of it." Then Q was throwing wrappers away and gathering up the bags to take them to Picard's bathroom. "Then if we get into trouble, between the two of us I'm sure we'll be able to treat ourselves." Q was going to snap at Picard for his complacency, then realized what he was really saying. The man *trusted* him to know what to do, to be able to handle this danger. He realized he'd better not look Jean-Luc in the eye for at least an hour. "We'll see," he managed, making it sound as cynical as he could, and got out of there. The afternoon went slowly for Picard. With his thumb bandaged, he couldn't do any delicate work, and the work he did on the transmitter casing involved a lot of mental cursing as his hands couldn't get a proper grip on the tools. Moreover, he could feel Q watching him, and he kept thinking of the entity's concern over his injury. Several times, he had to think of disgusting things to keep from betraying himself with an erection, particularly when Q suddenly appeared at his elbow and took his hand to inspect his thumb. He could feel himself trembling slightly, and when Q suggested that they knock off early and watch some TV, he complied so willingly he thought for a second he'd completely given himself away. The evening went slowly for Q, and he had thought the afternoon was bad. Q could tell Picard didn't like the way he kept an eye on him, and when he'd touched his hand without permission, the man had all but jerked away from him. He'd hoped that the way they were pressed up in bed each night -- *surely* by now Picard knew about that -- would make the man more comfortable with being touched. Instead, he'd felt him almost shuddering with distaste. It angered him. He deserved better. *For what? For having set him up to become Locutus? Or perhaps you think he looks back fondly to those six hours you held him in the shuttlecraft?* *The Enterprise will continue on with Riker as captain.* He'd actually made Picard say those words, made him think he might hold him for so long he'd lose his command. Jean-Luc had thought then that he was a monster, and he'd given the man cause to think it. It didn't matter what he'd done since then. It would never matter. "Don't believe him, Mom. He's never trusted me," Scully was saying, holding a gun on her partner while the hypnotic suggestions she'd gotten through the television kept her in a state of paranoia. There was more chance the rerun was suddenly going to go berserk and have Mulder and Scully's mother do the horizontal bop than there was Picard would ever really let him in. And yet, Q was proudly aware that he didn't regret what he'd done, not for a second. In fact, following Picard into an unknown universe through a "wormhole" created by his double had been the best thing he'd ever done in five billion years of a selfish existence. His double. Q found himself shaking his head slightly and stopped it before Picard noticed...not that he would, since the captain was staring at the television as though it were a Bajoran orb. To think that he'd actually felt sorry for his double as he passed through, hoping his "own" Jean-Luc was lost somewhere, not wanting to accept that the one he'd been dealt was the one he got. Q had believed at the time that at least *he* had been able to accept the Picard of his universe on his own terms. Unlike the other Q, he would love the one he got, and work hard on getting that love returned. But now look at him: stuck in the wrong universe, and evidently one without a Continuum. Even as a Human he should have been able to contact the Q here and get them home, so his unanswered calls meant that there were no Q here. Which also meant that whatever he was in this universe, he wasn't a Q. He assumed Picard hadn't been born yet. Perhaps his own double here was long dead. The Q who'd decided to go breaking into everyone's universe on his own little quest believed that in every universe there was a Q and a Picard who got together, as friends or lovers, but Q doubted it. Some things were a little fantastic even from a Q's perspective. Perhaps in this little universe, on this planet that looked quite likely to blow itself up soon, there wasn't even a Picard or a Q at all. Perhaps that's why they'd been drawn here when they were in the wormhole, to fill the vacuum. Picard moved slightly, and Q felt himself tense up. Were they finally going to go to bed? Since he'd seen the man's wound he'd wanted to wrap him up in his arms. He needed that heat against his belly that told him Picard was alive and safe. But the man padded into the kitchen in stockinged feet, and Q was left looking at the shoes Picard had slipped off. He was always doing that, always slipping off his shoes and leaving them in odd places. Q had picked them up and stored them in Jean-Luc's closet at first, but now just left them where they were. He didn't mind tripping over them every now and then. Hell, he wouldn't mind it if Picard left his briefs hanging from the light fixtures. *I'm really quite besotted,* Q thought with resignation. *Have been for years. Will be forever. Do you even care that you completely changed my life, Mon Capitaine?* Well, Q cared. He had to admit, he liked himself better this way, and he was getting on much better with his fellow Q now -- the civil war notwithstanding -- and he was quite prepared to wait however long it took to have Jean-Luc accept his feelings. He wasn't going to beg, but he wasn't ever going to let Picard die, and he'd promised himself sometime ago that one of these millennia, at the very least, he was going to make the man orgasm with simple mental stimulation, and watch that face watch him while he did it. A few minutes passed and Picard came back in, holding a glass of something that smelled like brandy. "I was pouring one for myself and thought you might like some." "Yes, thank you, Jean-Luc," Q murmured, taking the snifter with care so that their fingers brushed slightly. A rush went through him, a precursor to the heat of the brandy down his throat, and he reminded himself about his own vow not to beg. He'd bought the brandy himself, and without having picked out the label while he still had his powers, so he was pleased that Picard liked the taste of it. It was earthy without being musty, strong without losing its overtaste, and when Jean-Luc returned with his own glass, they sat through the news together. "In science news," the well-coifed woman on the screen read from her teleprompter, "another attempt at cold fusion is currently being funded for a project at UCLA. Protests against government funding of what some people are calling 'pie in the sky projects' has been increasing, and the school issued a statement in defense of its exploration of alternative fuel sources." "Cold fusion?" Picard asked aloud as the news went to a commercial. "I remember some experiments with it around this time. They didn't really go anywhere..." "Well, they might be doing something new..." Q thought hard, something he didn't have to do often. "This business of protesting alternative energy sources comes from the Middle East's oil-backed money, and basic paranoia. The main argument against it is the risk of pollution. If you and I had some authentic-looking Greenpeace credentials, we could probably meet the scientists involved." To Q's surprise, Jean-Luc yawned even as he was nodding, smothering it with a hand. His face, now that Q allowed himself to look, was drawn and pale. "I'll need to read up for the role, but if they're making anything like progress, even in just having the right sort of equipment, it might be just what we need." "Go to bed, Jean-Luc. You're exhausted." "When I finish my brandy." Q bit his response back, but the lessening of tension they'd enjoyed was gone. With determination, Jean-Luc sipped his glass empty, then rose and disappeared into his bathroom, doubtlessly displeased with its new drugstore milieu. Q rose and poured the last of his brandy down his throat, then went into the kitchen for another, which he dispatched in one go, enjoying the unpleasant burn down to his guts, before he turned with resignation to his own evening shower. Picard stood very still, looking around him groggily. Was there anything at the drugstore Q hadn't bought? He found he was smiling to himself. This whole time, during this whole business with his thumb, he'd been more concerned with Q's anxiety than with his own injury. He was reminded sharply of when Eline, his made-up Resikan wife whom he'd grown to love so deeply, was so frightened by his first heart attack, and even in his pain he'd worried more at the thought of leaving her than at dying. The Thing was even worse than that: those feelings had been caused by his dream, at least in part. The Thing was all of his own making. He thought then with cruel sadness of what Q might think when he did die, as eventually he must. Q must have watched so many mortals he cared about die. Why hadn't he thought about that before, when he was judging Q so harshly for not caring about the eighteen lost members of his crew? How many mill