Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Five weeks to First Contact Day

The studio lighting is harsh, painting dark shadows on Q’s upturned face. There, on his cheek; a small triangle of light. He looks like something from a Rembrandt, Jean-Luc thinks. Which is a very odd thought. He puts it out of his mind immediately, straightens up and gestures for the sound engineer to start the music. On the other side of the glass, the metronome starts ticking.

Drums, a peal of bells, Q’s annoying little shimmy-shake, and then:

♪ Remember how Zef Cochrane
Offered Solkar his hand
Put a little love in your—

Q stops singing. He gets the kind of look on his face that means he’s about to say something particularly mean or sarcastic. Jean-Luc does not like it. He punches the talk button and says, “What now?”

“Oh, nothing,” Q smiles sweetly.

Of course, of course he waits until the music has started again and the backup singers have gone through a few put a little love in your heart s before speaking again, directly into the mic: “None of these verses actually fit, you know. And I hope you’re aware that ‘Cochrane’ does not rhyme with ‘hand’, even after you’ve asked me to deform the word beyond recognition.”

The music stops. The engineer turns sharply in his swerving chair. The backup singers lean against each other tiredly. Jean-Luc pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time for this, Q.”

“I see,” Q sighs dramatically. He loves playing the diva. “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped. All right, let’s take it from the top.”

The intro plays again—for what must be the seventh time this morning—and Q does his usual little shimmy. Jean-Luc wonders if it’s some sort of superstition or if he does it out of spite, because he knows how irritating it is. A lot of things Q does are irritating. Actually, right now, Jean-Luc can’t think of a single thing Q has ever done that wasn’t positively infuriating .

Just looking at him makes Jean-Luc want to roll his eyes: he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and big showy trainers that even Wesley Crusher would find childish. He hovers near the microphone, eyes closed, smirking.

♪ Remember how Zef Cochrane
Offered Solkar his hand
Put a little love in your heart

And on First Contact Day
Let all our children play
Put a little love in your heart

The worst thing about this entire project is that… Q’s right. The lyrics don’t make much sense. They’ve shortened ‘Zefram’ to ‘Zef’, which no one really does in reference to Cochrane—whose last name is, as Q pointed out, completely slaughtered in that first verse in order to make it rhyme with ‘hand’. The song is cheesy and obvious and light-years away from Q’s usual gritty 90s alternative rock.

They’re sell-outs; it would be pointless to pretend otherwise. Everyone involved knows this is just a cheap and desperate attempt at finding a way back onto the charts. Jean-Luc isn’t proud of it, but a cheery holiday song might be the only way to revive a dying career.

And besides, they’ve agreed on this. Q is well aware of what they’re doing, why they’re doing it and why it’s important. So even though he’s technically right in pointing out how ridiculous the song sounds, his petulance is completely unwarranted. A deal’s a deal. Jean-Luc had been blunt, that day in his office: he’d looked Q in the eye and said, Q, there is no money left .

In other words, they have no choice.

♪ And the world will be a better place
And the world will be a better place
For you and me
Just wait and see

Maybe Jean-Luc should feel bad doing this to his once esteemed client. Maybe the sight of Q in this dingy studio, recording a shoddy holiday cover, should make Jean-Luc feel uncomfortable. But as undignified as the whole thing is, it’s simply impossible to pity a man who shows up forty minutes late with a Quark’s Free Refills mug, playing Jumja Crush on his phone. And then there’s the Rembrandt thing, but Jean-Luc doesn’t want to think about that.

It takes them all morning to record the first verse and chorus. After lunch break there’s more sarcasm and crabbiness, and one of the backup singers threatens to quit—“good riddance,” Q says, “that’s what I call strategic budget cutting”—but by five they’re pretty much done with the main vocals.

Everyone is relieved when Jean-Luc finally decides to call it a day.

“If he wears that shirt again tomorrow I will not be held responsible for my actions,” mumbles Worf, their sound engineer, as he heads towards the door.

Jean-Luc says nothing. He feels the same, but he can’t really say that. He’s Q’s manager, after all.

The sidewalk outside the studio is covered in bird shit. Jean-Luc looks up at the top of the building. Dozens of pigeons are outlined against the sky, where long pink clouds are laid out, slipping away.

“I can give you a ride home, if you want.”

It’s Q, pulling up at the side of the road in his old Ferrari 550 Maranello, an elongated red eyesore he bought back in the day and still drives with juvenile pride. The window is rolled down, Q’s arm hanging out.

“No, thank you,” Jean-Luc replies stiffly.

Q rolls his eyes. “Here we go again. It’s always like this with you. You say nothing’s wrong but something clearly is.”

“I never said that. Of course something’s wrong. Everything’s wrong.”

“I can’t read minds, Picard. You’re going to have to tell me if something’s bothering you.”

“Something is bothering me. Your behaviour—”

“Anyway, I would appreciate it if you weren’t so secretive next time. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Q!”

And there he goes, driving away into the restless city. Jean-Luc takes a deep, calming breath. No use losing his temper now. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and calls an Uber. Right now all he wants is a glass of wine and a good book. He decides to make a few business calls while he’s waiting, so that he can turn his phone off once he gets home and truly enjoy the evening.  

“Hello, Geordi La Forge speaking.”

“Mister La Forge, it’s Jean-Luc Picard.”

“Oh, hi Captain.”

Most of Jean-Luc’s clients call him Captain. He earned the nickname back in the eighties, after he produced a successful sci-fi radio drama called ‘Captain Proton’—successful enough to have its own spinoff video game franchise, but sadly not to pay the bills—and somehow it stuck. 

“I’m calling to make sure you don’t forget the stand-in job next week; they’ve moved your scenes to nine thirty.”

There’s a weird rustling sound on the other end.

“Mister La Forge, can you hear me?”

The sound of an organ comes muffled through the phone speakers.

“Um, Captain,” Geordi’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Can I call you back? I’m at a wedding.”

Listen to 'First Contact In My Heart' here.

thank you Spocko_My_Man for the wonderful audio!

Chapter Text

B’Elanna was never going to get married in a white gown. All her friends knew she would choose a blood-red wedding dress, with the traditional Klingon diadem instead of a veil. They also knew she’d walk down the aisle to the combined sounds of the organ and two big barrel drums, like the steady beating of two Klingon hearts, forged by the gods of old.

And yet, now that she’s finally here in all her blood-red glory, there’s a moment of stunned stillness. She’s even more beautiful, more fierce and magnificent than anyone imagined. She walks down the aisle with quiet dignity, chin tilted upwards, her hair wild and free—a true Klingon warrior.

Tom stares, misty-eyed. She’s perfect, and she’s about to be his wife.

Standing a little stiffly at his side is Harry, his best man and best friend. They exchange an anxious look, and then Harry smiles. “It’s time,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tom laughs nervously. “I hope you didn’t lose the rings again.”

“Don’t worry, they’re right—” Harry pats his breast pocket a few times, gets a panicked look on his face then starts frantically patting his trouser pockets, “—here!” he exclaims in relieved triumph as he pulls the rings out of his left pocket.

Tom laughs again, a little less nervously this time. “Good.”

They look at each. They’re teetering together on the very edge of this moment, and it’s scary and wonderful and definitely the best thing that has ever happened to Tom. He pulls Harry into a tight embrace. “Thanks for everything,” he whispers. “I love you, man.”

Harry hugs him back, but says nothing.

*

Jim leaves the wedding early. He stops to buy flowers—dahlias and snapdragons—then takes the bus downtown. Ten Forward’s purple neon sign flickers in the early evening. Carol is already there, waiting. Jim checks his watch. He isn’t late.

“Hey,” he says, sitting opposite her at the discreet table she’s chosen for them.

“Are those for me?” she asks, nodding towards the flowers.

Jim smiles, placing them on the table in front of her. “Of course.”

She looks positively horrified.

“It’s okay if you don’t like them,” Jim quickly says.

Carol shakes her head gravely. “No, they’re lovely, it’s just that—” she looks down, and that’s when Jim notices the glass of wine in front of her, the lipstick stains on the rim. “There’s no easy way to say it. I’m sorry, Jim, but this isn’t going to work out.”

He blinks, a little dazed. “I don’t understand…”

Her eyes avoid him, landing instead on the bouquet, lying limp and abandoned between them. She tucks her hair behind her ear. “You like nature and travelling and working on weekends. I like the city, staying in, waking up at noon on Sundays. ”

“I can take a break from writing on Sundays. And I don’t mind travelling less.”

“But you do, Jim, and I don’t blame you for that. It’s who you are.”

He watches her, the way her hand closes around the wine glass, fingers grazing the stem. She still won’t look at him, and he can’t get to her, can’t reach her behind the wall of empty arguments and excuses she’s made up for his benefit. He knows it’s over, not because of travelling and work and Sundays, but because she doesn’t love him.

For some reason, he doesn’t want to give up just yet. “I still think we can make it work.”

“So you’ll give up everything for me? I don’t want that. I wouldn’t give up my work, my weekends or Regula I for you.”

It hurts, even though he knows she’s right. And to be honest, it’s not like he’s imagined a future with her. But he does love her, and he thought—well, he thought that they could make it last. That maybe they don’t need to want the same things in life to be together. To love each other. He remembers that time they went dancing. She was bad at it, she kept stepping on his toes, I hate this , she said, and he told her they’d only dance the Macarena from now on.

“I’m not saying we should give everything up,” he says weakly. “But we could compromise. Find something that works for both of us.”

That’s when she finally looks at him. Her eyes are filled with affection and resigned sadness. “I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment.”

The waiter comes around to their table. She pays for the wine, belatedly asks Jim if he wants anything.

“Thank you, I’m fine,” he tries to smile.

They both get up to leave at the same time. It’s a little awkward, a different kind of dance. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he picks up the bouquet.

“Keep it,” she says. She’s made up her mind. Her features are cold and beautiful, like marble.

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you around.”

She leaves. He waits, standing up next to his chair in this bar in the middle of a city he knows too well, a city made of memories, of her laughter, the feel of her hand in his. When she’s gone he walks out of Ten Forward and stands in the rain. When did it start raining? He decides to walk home anyway.

Heavy raindrops paint every sidewalk. They gather in nooks and crevices, and cause ripples on the surface of small puddles. The pavement shines like silver. Jim doesn’t feel the rain dripping down his neck, sliding underneath his collar. He doesn’t even button his coat all the way up.

His apartment is dark and empty. He opens his laptop, stares into the vastness of space—the picture of a nebula: his screensaver. He notices the scrunchie she forgot on the nightstand.

“I need to get out of here,” he whispers to himself.

Chapter Text

Kathryn leans forward in the back seat and points at the coffee shop ahead. “Can we stop here?” she asks Decan, her driver.

“At Quark’s, ma’am?” Decan raises one perfectly tweezed, slanted eyebrow.

“Yes. I’ll only be a minute.”

He can raise those eyebrows all the way up to his bangs, for all Kathryn cares. Once he’s had a taste of Quark’s heavenly coffee, Decan will never again look down his nose at the place.

The car comes to a stop right in front of the coffee shop and Kathryn hops out. She pushes the door open, breathes in the rich smell of a caffè ristretto and sighs happily. At the counter, the owner is arguing with a client—a tall, strict looking fellow.

“I’ll do it, Quark,” the man says, pointing an accusing finger at the cash register. “One of these days I’ll catch you red-handed and I’ll have all the proof I need to finally shut this place down!” 

“Go ahead,” Quark snarls, “be my guest!”

“Why won’t you just admit it and save us both the trouble?”

Quark squints. “You know Odo, in another life you would’ve made an excellent cop. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

“In another life you would’ve made an excellent coffee,” the man drops his paper cup into the bin by the door and storms out angrily.

Kathryn leans against the counter, smirking. “What was that all about?”

“Who knows?” Quark shrugs. “He’s always on about something. But don’t let that fool you: he loves my coffee, no matter what he says. That’s why he keeps coming back. The usual?”

“Do you even have to ask? Oh, and I’ll have a caramel macchiato too.”

“Coming right up.”

Yes, all right, the place is a little suspicious, and the owner is rude and greedy, and there are probably ten illegal things going on right now in the kitchen. But the coffee is so good . Unquestionably the best in the Federation.

Quark pushes two paper cups and a blueberry muffin across the counter. “Here you go.”

“I didn’t order that.”

“It’s on the house. Congratulations, Madam President.”

Kathryn shoves the muffin into her coat pocket, picks up the drinks and turns towards the door. “I could get used to this,” she jokes.

“You better; it’s going to be like this for the next four years.”

“Bootlicker,” she calls over her shoulder.

It’s a pleasant, albeit short, drive up to T’Pau Street—also known as the United Federation headquarters, the official residence and office of the President. Kathryn barely has enough time to finish her coffee and muffin before Decan pulls up at the gates, and she hears the roar of an overexcited crowd behind the tinted car windows: her supporters, come to watch her enter headquarters for the first time.

“Wish me luck, Decan.”

“I do not believe in luck, ma’am.”

“Working with me will teach you otherwise,” Kathryn smiles.

And with that she’s out of the car and into the spotlight. It’s the usual collection of supporters and journalists and people holding up words of encouragement written on cardboard signs; except this time they’re standing behind a sea of security guards. She waves at the crowd with both hands, because waving with one hand would make her look like Kai Winn, and that’s the last thing she wants to see in the papers tomorrow morning.

Someone opens the door and welcomes her in. She looks around. It’s a little overwhelming, finally standing here, but Kathryn feels ready for this job. Right now, she feels ready for anything life throws her way.

“Welcome, Madam President,” a familiar voice greets her in the hallway.

“Thank you, Tuvok,” she beams at him; her old friend.

They’ve made it. They’re finally here.

“How are you feeling?” he asks her, and coming from him it’s more than a little touching, but Kathryn knows better than to ruin the moment with sentimentality. Tuvok is not a sentimental man.

“I feel great,” she replies. “Powerful.”

Tuvok’s lips twitch. It’s the closest thing to a smile she’s ever seen on his face. “Indeed. Would you like to meet your household staff?”

The household staff consists of a grumpy middle-aged man called Zimmerman, a smiling cook with a bubbly personality by the name of Neelix, and—

“Chakotay. He’s new, like you.”

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Nice to meet you, Chakotay.”

They shake hands. Their eyes meet. There’s a slight pause, a moment of stillness. And it all disappears, for that one impossible, breathless second: the crowd, the cameras, the enormity of her new responsibilities, the weight of who she has become. It all fades into nothingness. His eyes are bright, seeking hers. She doesn’t even try to look away.

“I will accompany you to your office, now,” Tuvok’s voice seems to come from miles away, but it’s enough to shatter the moment.

Kathryn blinks, nods, turns away. “Yes, thank you, Tuvok. We have that speech to work on.”

“If I may, Madam President,” Chakotay says, and her attention is immediately back on him, as if it never really left, “I think you should continue with the tour. Taking the time to get to know everyone will be useful in the long run.”

Tuvok’s eyebrow goes even higher up than Decan’s. Everyone else looks uncomfortable and a little scared. Even Neelix the happy chef stares at his shoes. Kathryn knows this kind of silence; they’re anticipating her reaction.

“Mister Chakotay,” she says, but even the formality can’t keep the smile out of her voice, “that’s an excellent idea.”

It’s strange, the way she can’t tear her gaze from his. She likes that he isn’t afraid of speaking up—even if it’s out of line; she can forgive impertinence for the sake of a good idea—but most of all she likes that his suggestion is benevolent, honest. There’s no defiance there. Boldness, yes, but he is too gentle, too elegant for an empty challenge.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says with a polite tilt of his head.

Then he smiles. Soft, mellow. Eyes crinkling at the edges, the slow upturn of the corners of his lips. It blooms on his face, pearly white, leaving dimples on his cheeks.

It stays with her, that smile. She carries it around headquarters and all the way to her office. She closes the door and slumps against it, but it follows her inside.

Oh no , Kathryn thinks. That is so inconvenient .

Chapter Text

Everyone is watching the new President enter headquarters for the first time. Despite having each their own computer—not to mention the various tablets and phones strewn across the desks like fallen leaves—they’re all huddled together around Jadzia’s station.

Julian tries to ignore their whispering, the sudden bursts of laughter or cheering. He focuses on his computer screen, pushing his earbuds into his ears.

It’s not that he’s annoyed with them for celebrating; he himself voted for Janeway, and he’d really rather be watching her arrive at T’Pau Street with the others. But he has exactly thirty-two minutes to finish this paper he promised he’d have on Sisko’s desk by Thursday. Today is Monday, and he can’t ask for the deadline to be extended a second more, for fear that his boss’ patience will run out for good this time.

He’s not usually this careless with his work. He’s just been distracted lately.

Ten minutes go by, then Sisko opens the door to his office and says, “All right, that’s enough, everybody back to work.”

The crowd disperses, exchanging their last comments across the room. Julian leans back in his chair, making himself as small as possible, but it doesn’t work.

“Bashir,” Sisko calls him. “A word.”

Julian walks into his boss’ office as slowly as possible, already working on an excuse. My laptop caught on fire, I ran out of toilet paper, there was an alien invasion… Sisko closes the door behind them and sits down, inviting Julian to do the same.

“Tell me,” Sisko says, elbows on the table, fingers linked, “exactly how long it is that you’ve been working here?”

“Er, it—it must be,” Julian stammers, “two years, seven months, three days and I suppose… two hours?”

“And how long have you been in love with Elim Garak, our enigmatic chief designer?”

For a moment Julian just stares at his boss, open-mouthed, eyes wide as saucers. This is unexpected, to say the least.

“I’m not in love with—”

“ How long have you been in love with Elim Garak, our enigmatic chief designer?”

Julian takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, closes it, takes another deep breath, looks at his shoes and says, “Two years, seven months, three days and... I suppose an hour and thirty minutes. How did you know?”

“Everybody knows.” Sisko’s voice is a little less irritated now. There’s even a hint of amusement there.

“Do you think Garak knows?”

“Shockingly, no.”

“Oh thank goodness,” Julian sighs. “That is good news.”

But Sisko isn’t done yet. “We think it’s time you did something about it.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Dax. Kira. O’Brien. Everyone.”

It’s embarrassing enough being called into your boss’ office for this, but knowing they’ve all been discussing it behind his back…  “It’s that obvious, is it?”

“I remember the day you met him, vividly. You immediately came running up here to talk our ears off about him. ‘You won't believe who just sat down next to me at the Replimat’, ‘he struck up a conversation with me of all people’ . Prophets, I wanted to fire you right then and there.”

Julian blushes. This is worse than getting told off for not meeting the deadline. Which, he realizes now, is also because of Garak. It’s difficult to focus at work when your brain is busy daydreaming and your heart has a Garak-shaped hole in it.

“I see,” he whispers, mortified.

“Think about it,” Sisko says. “For all our sakes.”

*

Ben Sisko used to enjoy walking home from work, watching the city slow down, listening to the sound of his footsteps on the sidewalk. But he doesn’t have time for that anymore. Now he needs to get home as soon as possible, and if the city slows down he doesn’t notice because he’s always running.

Things change. He’s accepted that a long time ago.

He parks the car in front of his house, 9 Emissary Street. He forgot his keys at home this morning, so he rings the doorbell and waits. And waits. Eventually he takes his phone out of his pocket and calls his son.

“Jake-o, the door.”

Thirty seconds later, Jake opens the door. “Hi, Dad.”

“Where were you?”

“In my room.”

“Can’t you hear the doorbell from there?”

The boy shrugs, disappearing once again up the stairs and into his bedroom; his lair, his hideout. Ben is no longer welcome in there, unless it’s clean-up day and Jake needs help with the dusting.

“I’m making shrimp and sausage jambalaya for dinner,” Ben calls after his son.

No answer, except for the sound of the door closing, keeping Jake in and his father out.

Ben takes off his shoes and lets himself fall onto the couch with a grunt. Something’s wrong with the boy. This isn’t one of those things that simply change as time goes by. It’s something else, he knows it is. He can sense it, but he doesn’t know what it is or what to do about it.

Jennifer would’ve known what to do. She would’ve opened the curtains to let in the last rays of sunlight, and then she would’ve said, “Ben, you worry too much. Just talk to him.”

But what if I say the wrong thing and it drives him further away?

“He’s your son,” she would’ve reassured him, “and he needs you. You’ll know exactly what to say.”

The furniture hasn’t been moved since Jennifer passed away. Not even the hideous candle holder on the mantelpiece that everyone keeps accidentally knocking over.

Perhaps Ben hasn’t accepted the change in his life as much as he thinks he has.

He makes his way upstairs slowly, dragging his fingers along the staircase railing, looking at the pictures on the wall: Jennifer at the beach, their wedding reception at his father’s restaurant, Jennifer holding a newborn Jake. Smiling faces, frozen in time. 

Ben knocks on Jake’s door, twice. Jen is there, by his side, beaming at him, the shadow of her hand falling upon his shoulder like those last rays of sunlight.

“I’m busy,” Jake says.

“Too busy for ice cream?”

It’s still a little cold outside, and they usually save their first ice cream of the year for First Contact Day, but Ben wants to make his son happy. They don’t take the car. They both used to like walking. Jake is silent, but his eyes sparkle with the promise of two scoops of Cookies N’ Cream. They sit on the bench outside with their ice cream cones and Ben leans in to adjust Jake’s scarf.

“I can tell something’s wrong,” he starts, carefully. “You know I’m here for you, son.”

Jake looks at his ice cream. “I know.”

“Is it about your mother? Or is it something else?”

The silence stretches, interminable. Ben is nervous. “Is something bad happening at school?” he asks. “Are you being bullied?”

Finally Jake takes pity on him. “It’s not school. And it’s not mom, although I think about her all the time. But it’s…” Ben waits, his ice cream dripping onto his sleeve. Jake frowns, clears his throat, then says, “The truth is… I’m in love.”

Ben is so relieved he reaches out and pulls his son into a hug.

“Dad, my ice cream!”

“Sorry. I’m just… relieved.”

“Why?”

“I thought it would be something worse.”

“Worse than the total agony of being in love?”

Ben’s smile fades as he considers this. “Hm. You’re right. Total agony.”

“And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

They finish their ice cream quietly, watching the sun set over the river. There are birds flying towards the golden horizon in a V formation. It’s beautiful in a sad sort of way. On the way home, Ben asks, “This person you’re in love with… Do they know?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Jake winces. “And I don’t know how to tell him because he’s my best friend.”

“Nog?”

“Yeah.”

“But you tell Nog everything.”

“That’s why this is supposed to be easy, but every time I try to talk to him about it it’s like my mouth stops working!”

Ben pats Jake on the back reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

Chapter Text

Four weeks to First Contact Day.

Epsilon IX isn’t the worst radio station in the Federation. Of course, back in the day they could’ve done better—much, much better—but Jean-Luc is starting to get used to the downgrade. Deanna is here, “for moral support,” she says, even though he keeps telling her he needs none. They’re sitting outside the booth with the show’s producer, a shy young man called Hugh.

“We’re on the air in five—” Hugh counts, “—four, three, two, one!”

“Good morning, this is Epsilon IX, the time is 8.14,” the host says. “I have a special guest in the studio with me; the one and only Q.”

Although it’s radio and no one can actually see him, Q makes a peace sign with his fingers. Just another one of those annoying little quirks of his.

“Tell me, Q,” the host continues, “How do you think the new record compares to the old classic stuff?”

Jean-Luc tenses up. They’ve prepared an answer for this question in particular, but there’s no knowing what Q will do.

“Oh come on, Leeta,” Q leans back in his chair. “You know as well as I do that the record’s shit.”

Deanna covers her mouth with her hand in shock. Jean-Luc rubs his temples. He can already feel the beginning of what promises to be a splitting headache.

And Q isn’t done yet.

“But wouldn’t it be great if number one this First Contact Day wasn’t some smug teenager or Academy dropout, but a washed-up former rock star looking for a comeback at any price?” he says, studying his painted fingernails. “Imagine me in a few weeks, stuck in the penthouse apartment I can’t afford anymore with my manager Jean-Luc Picard—the most boring man in the world—drunk and depressed because our little gamble didn’t pay-off. Isn’t that the saddest, most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard? So buy my festering turd of a record and spare us all the image.”

There’s a stunned silence at the end of this speech, then Leeta clears her throat. “Um. Okay.”

Jean-Luc leaves the studio after that. He doesn’t need to listen to the rest of the interview. Deanna follows him outside, and they stand there in the early March sun.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Jean-Luc shrugs. “I don't know why I expected anything different.”

“Why don’t you just quit?”

Ah. The inevitable question. Anyone who has ever spent five minutes in Q’s presence ends up asking this.

“Oh believe me, I’ve tried,” Jean-Luc replies.

“What does that mean?”

What indeed. He’s not quite sure he knows the answer to that. It’s been years since he stopped ‘trying’ to quit. He hears people use that ridiculous expression when talking about smoking— trying to quit. Is that what Q has become? A bad habit? Is it a self-destruction thing?

If he speaks any of this out loud Deanna will therapize him till morning, so instead he says, “It means I need the money.”

Deanna frowns. She knows he has several other clients, most—if not all—of them more successful than Q currently is. It’s admittedly not the most convincing excuse, but it’s the only one he can think of.

“Captain,” Deanna’s voice is gentle, “is it possible you… enjoy spending time with Q?”

“That’s absurd. He's devious, and amoral, and unreliable, and irresponsible, and working with him is impossible—”

“I’m not suggesting you enjoy working with him.”

“Deanna…”

“It’s not inconceivable that over the years you’ve formed a connection. Maybe even a friendship.”

“No,” Jean-Luc protests. “We are not friends.”

“All right,” Deanna holds her hands up, “we don’t have to talk about this. I’m going to meet Will for lunch later, would you like to join us?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. We’re doing four more radio stations after this.”

“Dinner, then?”

“Perhaps some other time.”

It’s always like this, the same old song. He pushes everyone away. Deanna smiles at him anyway, but he sees the disappointment in her eyes, the quiet concern. He knows that she worries about him; she thinks he’s lonely. After she leaves he waits for Q in the cold, dark, empty cafeteria. The scenery has changed since the nineties. Their days in the sun are over, and judging by Q’s disastrous first interview, they aren’t coming back anytime soon.

The rest of the day goes by slowly, the seemingly endless procession of cold, empty cafeterias becoming Jean-Luc’s only refuge from Q’s self-depreciative sarcasm. They have chicken wraps for lunch, and Q complains about the dressing. Jean-Luc tries to read in-between interviews, but he’s distracted by Q, who’s listening to music on his phone, mouthing the words to his favorite songs.

The last interview is the longest and least interesting. By now Jean-Luc’s headache is monstrous; all he wants is to go home and go to bed. Which is probably why he accepts Q’s offer to drive him home this time.

“That was fun,” Q says ironically, once they’re out of the parking lot. “Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

Jean-Luc rests his aching head against the window. “Please, just drive.”

They end up listening to the radio, the one they just left. They’re playing Q’s old songs. ‘Spatial Anomaly’, ‘Sherwood Forest’, ‘Continuum’.

“Remember when I used to make music ?” Q sighs. “Because I can’t. It was too long ago.”

“Jonathan Archer was still president, the last time you made a good record,” Jean-Luc mumbles.

Q laughs; a low, delighted chuckle. Then ‘First Contact In My Heart’ starts playing. “Ugh, not this crap again,” Q cries, turning off the radio.

The following silence carries anger, frustration, and something resembling regret. Q’s laughter dies on his lips. His dark eyes are fixed on the road. Jean-Luc looks at him, at the street lights flickering on his cheeks, the shape of teardrops. Not a Rembrandt, but a Van Gogh. Tired, nostalgic, inexplicably tragic.

For the first time, Jean-Luc thinks about how Q must feel. The disgrace, the slow decline, the descent from rockstar into has-been. The press isn’t making it any easier. “How the mighty have fallen,” wrote Guinan, an esteemed critic—who also happens to be one of Jean-Luc’s closest friends. Unfortunately, she’s met Q; which is why she will show him no mercy. And what of Q’s friends? He left them at the top, all the poseurs and hypocrites that watched him fall with satisfied smiles.

What went wrong? Jean-Luc remembers the adoring crowds calling out Q’s name, their faces turned towards him, following the light glinting off him like sunflowers following the sun. But with no new music to feed them, they withered and disappeared, and now this is all that’s left: old songs, sounds of the past, the echoes of his former glory.

But Q isn’t old. He can still reclaim his career, redeem himself and secure his legacy. It should be easy; give those once-adoring crowds something good, something authentic to rekindle the fire, and Q and Jean-Luc are back in the game. Yes, it should be easy. Then why are they so desperate? The holiday song is their last resort, their plan Z. Why couldn’t they come up with anything better? It seems that over the years neither one of them has really tried. Q stopped writing music. Jean-Luc took on new clients. And yet they’re still here, stuck together with some sort of cosmic glue, unable to separate even though it’s the only rational thing left to do.

Something needs to change. Perhaps it’s time for Jean-Luc to let go.

The car stops in front of his building. Q’s eyes are distant as he nods and says, “Goodnight, Jean-Luc.”

“Goodnight, Q.”

Jean-Luc walks through the hallway, up the stairs, into the living room then the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water and looks around. The emptiness is like a presence, swirling and twirling and coiling around him. The entire flat looks like a Van Gogh.

Chapter Text

Data arrives at 9.30, right on time, which is 30 minutes too late according to Odo, the production assistant. This is a little confusing, because Data was told shooting begins at 9.30, but he will simply have to correct the mistake in his notebook and be there at 9.00 tomorrow.

However, it turns out his tardiness is not the primary cause of the delay. He overhears the crew discussing a misplaced document, an e-mail that they never received and a distracted colleague from the accounting staff who keeps wasting their time.

At 9.42, a young man with a cane walks onto the set. He stands next to Data, discreetly running his hand along the front of his shirt to smooth it out. At first his attention is focused on the argument that has broken out between the gaffer and the production assistant, but then his arm accidentally brushes against Data’s and he turns around.

“Oh, hello,” he says, extending his hand in greeting. “I’m Geordi La Forge.”

“I am Data.”

“Sorry I’m late. I thought I was never gonna make it; the traffic was unbelievable. A friend of mine gave me a ride this morning, but I think I’ll just walk home.”

Odo, having finished arguing with the gaffer, greets Geordi with an annoyed ‘harumph’.

“We’re running out of time and we have to get the actors in.”

“No problem,” Geordi smiles. “We can get it done in one take. Right, Data?”

Data nods. It’s pleasant, the way Geordi said ‘ we ’ just now, immediately making them a duo, a team. It’s not something Data is used to. He can’t help but think of how warm Geordi’s hand felt earlier, when he shook it. Warm, and soft.

“Places!” Odo says.

Geordi removes his jacket. “Here we go.”

*

“This is my first stand-in job. I do a lot of theatre.”

Geordi likes to talk while they’re shooting. There’s no problem with that, because the sound will be added later in post-production anyway. But it’s another thing Data is not used to. His colleagues don’t really talk to him. Not like this, anyway.

“I have always been curious about the theatre,” Data says. “However, I have been told that it is not ‘for me’.”

“The theatre is for everyone.”

It’s these little affirmations that make Data pause, that remind him of the warmth and softness—Geordi’s hand in his. There’s a light in his eyes that glows silver, like a pale half-moon in the evening sky.

“You know,” Geordi adds after a moment, “I think you’d enjoy it—the theatre, I mean.”

Being a professional stand-in for films means Data has seen a lot of actors on-set. Geordi is not like them. He is a high school drama teacher, but his true passion is the stage. He says he can’t stay away from it, no matter how hard he tries. He asks Data about his hobbies, what do you like? and that’s so interesting! and can I read one of your poems?

When they’re done with work Data asks if they can walk home together.

“I was joking earlier about walking home,” Geordi laughs. “I live all the way up in Deneb.”

“That is convenient; I live near the Pike Memorial gardens.”

Geordi carefully places his cane against the wall and pulls his jacket on. “That’s far from here. Really far. It’ll take us forever.”

“I would not mind walking with you forever,” Data says, because he means it, because it’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

And there it is again, that boomerang light in Geordi’s eyes.

“You know what,” he beams, “me neither.”

It does not take them forever. Only 2 hours and 36 minutes. They stop for coffee at Quark’s, where they notice that a picture has been added to the collection of celebrity photos on the wall. Data describes it for Geordi: Quark is in it, holding his thumbs up, and President Janeway is standing next to him, trying to hide her face with her hand. It makes Geordi laugh, so Data looks for other pictures to describe.

Because Geordi’s laugh is the most beautiful sound Data has ever heard.

They continue their slow trek home. By the time they reach Deneb, they’re both starving.

“Do you like Bajoran?” Geordi asks. “I know a Hasperat place nearby; they make the best soufflé.”

*

Over the next five days, they make a habit of walking home together—except on Thursday, because Geordi teaches at 2.00 and needs to take a cab. Data spends the afternoon at Pike Memorial, watching the birds as they circle the treetops. They’re returning; spring is just around the corner.

On the very last day of shooting, Data and Geordi walk a little slower than usual. They take every possible detour, stop in front of several shops. They talk about music and dreams and Data’s cat Spot. Time seems to go too fast, no matter what they do. Soon they’re standing in front of a blue door, the door to Data’s little house, and the gardens are stretching at their feet, and the sky is purple and pink.

“I guess I—I guess I’d better get going,” Geordi says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Data nods. He does not know what to say. His keys make a clinking sound as he takes them out of his pocket, but he does not want to open the door. He wants to stay here with Geordi, forever.

“Okay,” Geordi says, “Um, goodnight, Data.”

“Goodnight, Geordi.”

They linger, swaying a little. A siren blares in the distance. Geordi fidgets with his cane, then taps it a few times on the sidewalk and turns to leave.

“Geordi.” Their arms brush. Data tilts his head to the side. “May I kiss you?”

The silver light, once again. Geordi smiles. “Yes, Data.”

So Data leans in, very slowly, and presses his lips to Geordi’s. They kiss, noses bumping. It’s soft and sweet, a moment of true tenderness. Data thinks they can make this last. This moment, it could be forever.

Geordi closes his eyes. “Data,” he whispers, “what are you doing on First Contact Day?”

Chapter Text

The Vulcan countryside is a quiet place. The sound of Jim’s typewriter fills the air, loud but faltering, unsteady. He looks across the room, out the open windows. Spring has already claimed the rocky hills there, splattering some green onto the eternally yellow stone. Plant life grows shyly. Only the orchid dares to tip its blue head up towards the sky.

The doorbell—a literal tiny bell—chimes. Jim gets up to answer it, leaving his sentence unfinished, suspended on the paper. Uhura is at the door in her strawberry summer dress.

“Nyota,” he smiles, genuinely happy to see her.

She pulls him into a brief hug. “How are you?” she asks, leaning back with her head on one side, no doubt trying to determine the extent of the damage.

“I’m fine. I just needed to get away.”

She nods, understanding. He knows she won’t push, and she won’t mention his breakup unless he wants to talk about it. “And how’s the house?”

“It’s lovely. Nyota, I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’m happy to help,” she pats him on the arm. “Let me introduce you to the housekeeper. This is Spock.”

Jim steps out onto the driveway, where he sees a man waiting near Uhura’s car. Tall, thin, with hair black as night.

“Hello, Spock,” Jim waves.

“He doesn’t speak Federation Standard,” Uhura explains.

“Oh. Um, dif dor heh smusmo ¹ ,” Jim says, trying—and failing—to perform the Vulcan salute.

Uhura winces. “I think you should just stick to Standard. You’re both clever; I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to communicate. And maybe you can drive him home when he’s done?”

“Absolutely, yes.”

“Great,” Uhura claps her hands together once, satisfied.

She then turns towards Spock, and they exchange a few words in Vulcan. Jim waits, staring at his shoes.

“Okay, I need to go now,” Uhura finally says. “My plane leaves in less than an hour. You’ll be back for First Contact Day, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” Jim answers.

“See you then! Sochya heh wu ha'kiv ² !”

*

Jim stares at that last, unfinished sentence. He’s been staring at it for most of the day, finding increasingly stupid ways to distract himself, then sitting back down to do some more staring. The house is so quiet he keeps forgetting that Spock is around, until the sound of running water or a dish being placed on the counter reminds him he’s not alone.

The day goes by slowly, the sun shining bright and bold in a cloudless sky. At exactly half past five Spock enters the room, wearing his coat and hat. Jim hurriedly pushes himself off his chair. His backside is numb from sitting on it all day.

“I guess this means it’s time to go,” he says with a polite smile. “After you.”

He opens the front door and waits. Spock doesn’t understand; he just stands there, waiting for Jim to go first. An awkward few seconds later, Jim decides to hold the door from the outside, where there can be no misunderstandings, but just as he’s taking a step forward Spock seems to have the exact same idea. They bump into each other, stepping on each other’s feet as they both try to clear the doorway, sorry , Jim says, oops—excuse me, and then he trips on Spock’s bag, and Spock steadies him with a gentle hand on his arm, muttering; ni'droi'ik nar-tor .

The drive to Spock’s house is quiet. Jim wants to say something, anything, but it feels a little pointless.

“ Vaksur igen-va ³ , ” he tries anyway, gesturing vaguely towards the window.

Spock shifts in his seat but says nothing.

“Nyota was right,” Jim clears his throat uncomfortably. “I should really just stick to Standard. Or better yet; I shouldn’t say anything at all. How does that song go? Silence is golden, golden, but my eyes still see. ”

Spock looks away, and even Jim recoils at his own high-pitched, out-of-tune singing.

“The Tremeloes’ version is better than mine,” he says apologetically. “Although I think it the original version was by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. I have it on my phone—wait.”

He reaches inside the pocket of his ripped jeans, squirming as he tries to slide his phone out with one hand.

“ Nam-tor ish tehvar-bosh ⁴ ,” Spock says.

“Don’t worry, this isn’t dangerous,” Jim smiles as he swipes up to unlock his phone.

“ Nam-tor yetur t'du rasahkos, dungi-stau du etek ⁵ .”

“I’m a good driver, it’s perfectly safe—”

Jim looks up just in time to notice that he’s deviated from the lane and that a truck is speeding towards them. He drops his phone, grabs the steering-wheel with both hands and swerves off to the side of the road. Heart racing, he sees the truck whoosh past them and watches it until it disappears.

“Sorry about that,” he bites his lower lip, embarrassed.

Spock looks at him, and Jim is struck by the color of his eyes. Such a deep, beautiful brown. He stares for a moment too long, unable to look away. He finds himself wondering what those eyes would look like in the sun, on a rainy day, or under the stars. Spock quickly turns away and bends to pick up Jim’s phone.

“Oh, thanks,” Jim nods. He knows it’s useless, but he can’t help asking; “Do you still trust me behind the wheel after what just happened?”

And even though Spock doesn’t understand Federation Standard, it seems like he feels the need to say something as well. “ Fai-tor nash-veh nam-tor nash riolozhikaik, hi sahrafel nash-veh du. Hi sos'eh dungi-yetur nash-veh thurai wak ⁶ .”

1. “Live long and prosper”, spoken in broken Vuhlkansu. The correct pronunciation is “dif tor heh smusma.”
2. “Peace and long life.”
3. Jim’s failed attempt at saying: “beautiful weather”. Literal translation: “beauty weather.”
4. “That is dangerous.”
5. “Your driving is abysmal, you are going to get us killed.”
6. “I know this is illogical, but I trust you. Although perhaps I should drive next time.”

Chapter Text

♪ Remember how Zef Cochrane
Offered Solkar his hand
Put a little love in your heart

The moment former rock star Q’s newest single was released, Harry set it as his ringtone. Not because he actually likes it: no, the song is crap. But it’s so extraordinarily bad that it’s funny.

It’s also a little sad. There’s something truly heartbreaking about a once-great musician being reduced to this. Rehashing songs from three decades ago, begging for the public’s attention. It’s not exactly the comeback his fans were hoping for.

But it’s Q’s ballsy radio interviews that redeem him. Harry’s heard a few of them online—because no one actually listens to the radio anymore—and it seems that Q is as disgusted with the new single as everyone else. It makes Harry like him.

Tom would probably find this extremely amusing too. He’s usually the first to send Harry Youtube compilations, funny videos and other memeable moments. 

♪ And on First Contact Day
Let all our children play
Put a little love in your heart

Harry flips his phone over to see who’s calling. Huh . Speak of the devil .

He lets it ring, the screen glowing face-down on the table. It’s difficult to get back into his book after that, but he manages, until a few minutes later his phone lights up again. It’s a text from Tom; i know ur there. why r u ignoring me?

Naturally, Harry’s guilty conscience makes him pick up the phone and call Tom back, even though the rational part of his brain tells him this is a bad idea.

“You’re alive!” Tom cries as soon as he picks up.

“I’m alive,” Harry agrees.

“Where’ve you been? We got back from our honeymoon three days ago.”

“Really? I didn’t realize—”

“Harry, I haven’t heard from you since the wedding. What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong . Harry knows exactly what’s wrong. These things happen, he tells himself. They happen all the time. There are plenty of songs and movies and poems about it, and every time you hear this kind of story you think, ‘oh that poor fool.’ You never imagine that one day it’ll be you, that you’ll be the poor miserable fool everyone pities.

“Nothing. I’ve been busy, that’s all.”

Tom doesn’t say anything. Harry taps his fingers nervously on his book. It’s so weird, this cold silence between them. They used to know exactly what to say to each other.

“B’Elanna thinks you’re avoiding us,” Tom finally says.

Harry covers his face with his hand. “I’m not,” he answers weakly. B’Elanna probably sees right through him; she’s always been the smart one in their now-disbanded trio. And the tough one. And the pretty one.

 “So you wouldn’t mind if I stopped by?” Tom asks.

“Of course not. You can stop by anytime.”

“Like, now?”

Harry freezes. “What?”

“I’m at the door, doofus.”

There’s no point in pretending he’s not home, so Harry opens the door. Tom is standing there in a white tank top and denim overalls. He looks absolutely ridiculous, and absolutely lovely.

“I’m glad you’re here but I have this thing at ten—” Harry starts.

“Relax,” Tom interrupts, a little dryly. “I’m here for the wedding video. Just copy it to my flash drive and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“The wedding video…” Harry pales. “I think I lost it. I must’ve accidentally deleted the file.”

But Tom has already crossed the room, picked up the laptop and turned it on. He sits on the couch, puts his feet on the coffee table, reaches for the half-empty bag of chips on one of the pillows. Harry watches him, heart aching at the familiarity of it, the ease with which they exist in each other’s space.

Tom finds the file. “It’s literally on your desktop,” he raises an accusing eyebrow at Harry.

“Oh. Yeah that’s right, that’s where—wait, you’re going to watch it now ?”

“Just to make sure it’s the right video.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

But Tom isn’t listening. He double clicks and the video starts playing.

The first shot isn’t incriminating: just Tom’s face as he recites his vows, a little teary-eyed. Harry hopes that it’ll be enough, prays that Tom will stop the video and leave. But he doesn’t. He stuffs his face with chips and keeps watching. It gets worse after that. It’s all Tom, only Tom. The camera doesn’t leave him. The close-ups allow room for no one else. Tom laughing, dancing, making a face. The way his eyes close as he wraps his arms around B’Elanna, the way he smiles when she kisses him. His hands on the table, fidgeting with a spoon. His mouth full of cake, his eyes alight with joy.

Harry remembers sitting on a plastic chair at the wedding, his camera abandoned on the table. He remembers watching Tom and B’Elanna’s first dance, the slow, swaying motion; B’Elanna’s palm against Tom’s back. He remembers Julian sitting next to him and asking: “Are you in love with her?” And Harry shook his head, “What? No! No. Of course not.”

Poor fool.

He never intended for this video to be seen by anyone but himself. He knows what it looks like. He feels naked, embarrassed, but he can’t move. Can’t even speak. Tom isn’t eating anymore, just staring at the screen in silence. The video ends with Tom waving at the camera, mouthing: ‘goodbye, Harry!’

The secret is out in the open. It lives in the air between them. The blank screen, the stillness—it’s even more excruciating than the video itself. Then Tom turns around, looking up at Harry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The answer is already there, waiting to be spoken. “Because I want you to be happy.”

“I can’t be happy without my best friend.”

“You have to understand, Tom... It’s a self-preservation thing.”

Tom blinks furiously. He’s about to say something, but Harry doesn’t want to hear it.

“I really need to go now,” he mutters. “You can just show yourself out.”

Chapter Text

The meeting has been going on for a while. Kathryn doesn’t really see the time go by, except that she’s so hungry her stomach might be eating itself. And there are still a few more things to work on before lunch. She taps her pen on the table. “Okay, what’s next?”

“The Legate’s visit,” Tuvok answers.

“Yes, hm,” Kathryn says. “I’m afraid this is going to be a difficult one to play.”

“We must not allow ourselves to be blinded by our recent victory and forget that Cardassia is one of the most powerful countries in the world.”

“I don’t agree with you, Tuvok. This is our first really important test; we need to take a stand. We don’t want to be bullied like the last government.”

The room goes still. Uncertainty is written on every face, which is… not very encouraging. It’s even a little alarming. They can’t afford to be cowards like their predecessors. Kathryn doesn’t have the patience for this, not on an empty stomach. “Okay,” she says, “who do you have to screw around here to get a cup of coffee and a cookie?”

The joke works for the most part, making everyone except Tuvok laugh. But then Chakotay walks into the room with coffee and cookies on a serving cart, and Kathryn’s stomach stops eating itself long enough to do a silly little flip.

*

She’s in her office, poring over a document—and definitely not thinking about him—when he knocks on the door. She knows it’s him because of the way he knocks; four times, slowly. She has no idea when she memorized that.

“Come in.”

He opens the door, nodding politely, and places several new documents on her desk. “These have just come through from the Treasury.”

“Good.”

“And this,” he adds, handing her a Quark’s disposable paper cup, “is for you.”

Kathryn looks up at him, surprised. She doesn’t remember telling anyone of her fondness for Quark’s coffee. “Thank you.”

“I was hoping you'd win,” he smiles. “Not that I wouldn't have been nice to the other guy too. But I probably wouldn’t have gotten him the best Raktajino in town.”

“In the Federation,” Kathryn corrects him, smiling too.

He lingers, and she realizes that he’s waiting for her to dismiss him. God, she does not want to dismiss him.

“Listen, Chakotay, I'm starting to feel... uncomfortable about us working in such close proximity every day and me knowing so little about you.”

He bites his lower lip pensively. “There's not much to know.”

“Well, where do you live, for instance?” she asks, and immediately regrets it. What are you doing, Kathryn?

“I used to live near Pike Memorial, but my roommate got married recently so I’m back in Trebus.”

“Trebus… that’s a beautiful neighbourhood.”

“It’s an old neighbourhood. Not as beautiful as T’Pau Street, that’s for sure… My father would kill me for saying that.”

There’s something enchanting about that last remark, the simplicity with which he says it. It’s quiet, discreet; almost like a secret. And he offers it to her so freely, with a small smile that holds secrets of its own. Kathryn wants to know more about him—she wants to know everything.

“Your father lives there?”

“Lived. Yes, all his life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

She can tell it isn’t. The silence that follows is a little strained, and the secrets stay hidden behind his eyes. Kathryn wants to reach out and place her hand on his shoulder, but that would be inappropriate. Instead she clears her throat. “Thank you for the coffee, Chakotay.”

He nods, taking this as his cue to leave. The moment the door closes behind him, Kathryn buries her face in her hands. Come on, get a grip. You're the President, for God's sake.

*

After that, Chakotay’s impromptu trips to Quark’s become more frequent. With the Legate’s upcoming visit and all the preparations it involves, Kathryn barely has time to leave her office. But she doesn’t need to, because every morning she finds a Raktajino on her desk.

Chakotay even stops by her office during the day to make sure she’s had enough to eat—no matter how hard she tries to discourage him.

It’s during these small breaks that the secrets slip out, not only his but hers as well, sometimes willingly, sometimes not. She finds herself trusting him with words she’s never said, things she’s always kept to herself. She trusts him with her laughter too, and it’s so easy, so incredibly easy to fall into that dark gaze, those warm eyes, to get lost in the sound of his voice.

In the evenings he knocks—four times, slowly—and pokes his head around the door to say goodnight. She says it back, always too late, trying to make the moment last.

Today she’s making an appearance at a VSA conference. It shouldn’t be long, but it means she’ll miss their afternoon chat over whatever snack he’ll try to pester her into eating. Yesterday he brought her donuts and told her about his childhood in Trebus: the ‘dinosaur bones’ in the backyard, the old lady across the street who let him watch boxing fights on her small TV set. And she told him about her own childhood: the astronomy books, the summers spent indoors reading The Adventures of Flotter .

She smiles to herself as she fastens her earrings. She’s been doing that a lot lately; smiling for no apparent reason. Even Tuvok seems to notice. It should be embarrassing, but she’s too busy to be embarrassed, and frankly she’d rather devote what little free time she has to other things. Things like—

And that’s where she stops herself. Every time her thoughts wander she pulls them back in. She knows where they want to go, but she can’t allow it. She’s the President now; she can’t be anything but that. Untiring, imperturbable. Distant.

She certainly can’t allow herself to entertain those wandering thoughts.

But as long as she keeps her distance, there’s nothing inappropriate or morally wrong about being friendly with Chakotay, even as his superior.

On the way back from the conference, she asks Decan to stop at Quark’s again for a muffin and herbal tea. She hopes he doesn’t know her well enough to realize it’s not for her—she very rarely drinks tea.

The coffee shop being a little crowded, Decan offers to go himself. When he comes back, she pretends not to notice the caramel macchiato he bought for himself.

They all have their little secrets.

Chapter Text

The coffee shop is crowded. Quark’s brother Rom is behind the counter, looking a little distressed as he tries to get everyone’s order. People from all over town have flocked here to get coffee. For the first time in forever, it’s happy hour at Quark’s.

Most people think this is a miracle, but Odo knows it’s just another ploy to reel in gullible customers. Which is why he doesn’t bother ordering anything, just walks straight up to the counter and asks Rom: “Where’s your brother?”

“Miss me already, Odo?” Quark himself answers, appearing behind the counter. He’s wearing a fanny pack around his hips and dragging a heavy-looking suitcase behind him.

“So it’s true, it wasn’t just a ruse,” Odo says, and he has to admit he’s a little surprised.

“It’s all true,” Quark grins, waving his passport in the air between them. “I’m leaving today.”

“For good?”

“And give up the coffee shop? Of course not!”

“Hmph. Too bad.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Quark glares at him.

The truth is… Odo is not disappointed. He’s the very opposite of disappointed. He’s actually—well, he’s actually relieved. And he hates it. He hates that he spent all morning thinking about this, that he really didn’t want it to be true. He hates that he hurried to the coffee shop as soon as he could, just to make sure.

“How long will you be gone?” he hears himself ask. He tries to make it sound like he’s irritated, not genuinely curious.

Quark rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I haven’t decided yet. A month, maybe two. If everything goes well I might even be there all spring. Don’t start worrying about me before June.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Odo scoffs. “I have better things to do than to worry about you.”

But that’s a lie. He doesn’t. Especially now that the movie’s finished filming. He’s been trying very hard to convince himself that Quark is nothing but a nuisance, and yet he knows that when Quark leaves, he’ll have nothing to do outside of work.

“And where exactly is it you’re going?” he asks, feigning indifference by brushing crumbs off the countertop.

“Oh, I haven’t told you?” Quark answers excitedly. “I’m going to Risa!”

“Risa?”

“Yes!”

“What for?”

Quark looks at him like he’s a complete idiot. “Poor, innocent Odo. What does anyone go to Risa for?”

“Ah. Charming,” Odo grimaces, turning away in disgust.

“I don’t care what you think,” Quark shrugs. “I’ve finally worked out why I can't find true love: Earth people. They're stuck up. And I am primarily attractive to people who are, you know, cooler. Not so uptight and judgmental. Like Risians; now that’s a corner of the Federation that knows how to party. So I should just go to Risa! I'd get a date there instantly.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Odo shakes his head.

“You see, that's where you're wrong. The Risians are going to love my exotic accent and adorable smile.”

“You don’t have an adorable smile, Quark.”

“Yes I do. You’re just too stuck up to notice it.”

And with that he leaves, waving his loyal customers goodbye. Odo stares after him, suddenly and inexplicably angry. He has no idea where it comes from, all this anger. So what if Quark wants to go gallivanting around that silly night club of an island? Who cares? It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t ruin Odo’s day. But it does.

He finds an empty bar stool, sits down.

This, he realizes, is the sad reality of his own life. As much as he hates this place, he just can’t seem to stay away from it. Arguing with Quark isn’t exactly pleasant, but it’s familiar. Comforting. He already feels empty, knowing he’ll somehow have to get through the next few months without it. For better or for worse, it was all he had.

Now he has nothing.

“What will you be having?” Rom asks him.

Odo stands up, turns to leave and says, “Nothing.”

Chapter Text

Three weeks to First Contact Day.

The narrow streets of the Bajoran quarter open onto a large square, with cobblestones leading up to a pedestrian-only area along the river. The sun is kind today, shimmering on the water and flickering in the windows of the tall buildings in the distance. Julian takes his jacket off and throws it over his shoulder, turning to follow the river downtown.

“Mercies,” Garak sighs. “Where are you taking me?”

“Oh, come on, don’t you trust me?” Julian says, trying to supress a smile.

“I have every right to be cautious. The last time I let you choose our destination, you took me to that dreadful play—”

“J. T. Kirk is one of the Federation’s most celebrated playwrights!” Julian exclaims, a little outraged.

“And ‘The Never Ending Sacrifice’ is the finest Cardassian novel ever written, but that didn’t stop you from calling it dull, did it my dear?”

My dear . The first time Garak called him that, Julian’s heart skipped a beat. He spent an entire week thinking about it, even lost some sleep over it. Then he heard Garak use it again—“my dear sir”, “my dear Miss Dax”—and realized that’s what he calls everyone. Julian still enjoys hearing it, despite the disappointment of knowing it doesn’t mean something else, something more.

“Did I say ‘dull’?” Julian frowns with mock-remorse. “I only meant that the story got a little redundant after a while. Perhaps a trifle repetitive. Just a tiny bit boring—”

“All right, Julian, that’s enough,” Garak smiles.

If there’s anything Julian has learned about Garak, it’s that he enjoys being teased. Almost as much as Julian enjoys teasing him. It’s a little game they play. It’s also their own secret language.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“It’s a surprise.”

They walk in companionable silence, watching the cherry blossoms sway in the breeze. The tangled branches look like candyfloss, Julian thinks. A few petals get separated from their flowers and drift down onto the river where they float, leaving ripples in their wake. A goldfinch chirps in the trees ahead. Garak and Julian turn towards each other at the same time. They’ve talked about birds before, said they’d go bird watching in the spring. It’s a sign, Julian tells himself. Yes, it certainly feels like an invitation.

Garak’s eyes are so very blue, the light inside them shifting like sunshine over a peaceful ocean. And like an ocean they are inscrutable, with depths that Julian hasn’t explored yet, hasn’t dared uncover. 

Today’s the day. Today he takes that first terrifying plunge.

The goldfinch takes to the sky. They walk a little closer after that.

Once they cross the bridge and leave the river behind, Julian starts feeling nervous. They’re getting closer, and it’s getting more and more difficult to ignore the three words stuck on the tip of his tongue. So much can go wrong, and there is so much on the line, but he knows that Sisko is right. They can’t go on like this forever. He needs to tell Garak how he feels.

He should’ve told him a long time ago. Many occasions presented themselves over the years, during their countless lunches and dinners together. That very first lunch at the Replimat; that ’s when he should’ve told him. Julian remembers how he felt back then; giddy and nervous, just like today. Garak sat next to him and Julian fell instantly, all at once, without knowing it. Secretly, his heart made a permanent place for Garak, hiding him in its deepest recesses. His feelings took months to surface. By the time he caught on it was too late: he was already desperately and hopelessly in love.

As they walk past a florist, Garak starts talking about Edosian orchids. For a moment Julian forgets to worry. There’s something tragic about the way Garak speaks when he’s engrossed in a subject—he gets lost in the spaces between the words, like he’s trying to hold onto a fading memory. His eyes grow softer, too. Julian could listen to him talk all day, but these bursts of wistfulness always end too soon.

There are things Garak never tells Julian. Things he never tells anyone, Julian suspects.

They cross the street and stop in front of the Memory Alpha Museum.

“Here we are,” Julian says.

“Well,” Garak tilts his head to the side, “I must confess I’m a little surprised.”

“That’s the whole point of a surprise , isn’t it?”

But the real surprise is inside. Julian leads the way, holding the door open for Garak. Over the great white staircase at the center of the museum is a banner announcing the newest exhibition: ‘ Journey to Cardassia . Over four hundred photographs of Cardassia Prime as it is today, with interactive displays and a virtual reality trip through the Cardassian Union’.

Garak brings his hand up to his chest. “Oh, Julian…”

For the first time since they met, it seems Garak is utterly speechless.

“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to,” Julian says anxiously.

“Don’t be silly,” Garak shakes his head, voice thick with emotion.

He doesn’t say much as they walk through the exhibition, but the joy is visible on his face, and that’s enough for Julian. They stop for a long time in front of each photograph. There are shadows lining the frames, a thousand spectres that Julian doesn’t see, although he knows they’re there; all the ghosts from Garak’s past. And the things he doesn’t say—they fill the air, they’re written on every wall.

Julian and Garak walk closer still. They take their time, savouring the silence.

Near the end of their visit, Garak turns to Julian and says, quietly; “Thank you for this. Sometimes it seems like I’m the only person who remembers…”—he shies away from using the word ‘home’—“…and memories, regrettably, fade.”

I want to know your memories , Julian almost says. Share them with me, Garak. I’ll keep them safe, I promise. I’ll never forget.

But the words never reach his lips. Instead he smiles. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

This is it; this is the perfect moment, the one he’s been waiting for all afternoon. Here in front of the marble staircase, all he has to do is say it, just say it, now —

They both speak at the same time.

“Garak there’s something I have to—” “I can’t imagine anything—”

They pause, looking at each other.

 “I’m sorry my dear, you were saying…?” Garak asks.

“No, no,” Julian shakes his head, holding his hands up, “you go ahead.”

“I said I can’t imagine anything ruining my evening now. You’ve made a lonely old man very happy.”

Garak smiles, and Julian’s resolve weakens. Those three words hide away now that he needs them the most. They’re out of reach, left unspoken for too long. It feels selfish, suddenly, to confess feelings that Garak might not reciprocate, might not even want to know about. It could destroy their friendship. Julian can’t stand the thought of losing Garak.

No, he can’t take that risk, especially not after such a lovely day. Because what he wants, more than anything in the world, is to make Garak happy.

Chapter Text

Two weeks to First Contact Day.

Jake crumples his latest poem into a ball and tosses it on the floor, where there’s a growing pile of torn paper.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Ben asks.

“Too cheesy,” Jake replies.

It’s the fifth poem he throws away. They’ve been at it all morning, and frankly Ben is starting to lose hope. “The one before was too boring, this one’s too cheesy—you have to make up your mind, Jake.”

“Maybe I should just give up,” Jake sighs.

“No, don’t say that. Here: I liked the first one you wrote. The one with the whales carrying gold-pressed latinum.”

“It’s a little weird,” Jake scrunches up his nose.

Ben picks up a wrinkled piece of paper off the floor and tries to smooth it out over his knee. “It’s fresh, it’s creative. It’s you . And it’s definitely not cheesy.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’s all right. Take your time and think about it, we’re in no hurry.”

“Actually… we kinda are,” Jake says. “Nog’s uncle Quark is thinking about opening a second coffee shop in Risa. If he does, Nog’s dad will be the manager, so they’ll have to move there.”

Ben nods slowly. “Oh. I see.”

“His uncle’s already invited him to spend the holidays in Risa. He might not come back.”

“He’s there right now?”

“No, he leaves in two days.”

Once again, Ben feels Jen’s hand on his shoulder. He knows what she would’ve done in this situation. Standing up, he opens the curtains to let in the sun. “There’s no time to waste. Open that notebook and start over. I’ll make you cookies and a smoothie, and if that doesn’t help we’ll just have to make Pinterest mood boards.”

Jake smiles. “Okay.”

Ben turns to leave, but Jake calls him. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the best.”

*

The living room is quiet, the windows open, the curtains billowing in the wind. Ben finishes his second sandwich and wipes his mouth with a napkin. Rearranging the furniture is hungry work.

“Bad news,” Jake says, hurrying down the stairs. “Nog just texted me: they’re leaving early.”

“How early?” Ben asks.

“Today. He’s already at the airport.”

Ben jumps to his feet. “You get the poem, I’ll get the car. Quick.”

Five minutes later they’re driving towards the airport as fast as safety allows. They didn’t have time to grab their coats, but they probably won’t need them anyway; it looks like the sun is here to stay.

“Traffic jam!” Jake cries, pointing ahead.

“Don’t worry,” Ben says. “I know a shortcut.”

They’re going so fast it feels like flying a star ship, which reminds Ben of the blanket fort—occasionally converted into a blanket rocket ship—and the many adventures he, Jake and Jennifer used to go on. He smiles and glances at Jake, who’s trying to copy his poem onto a new sheet of paper. Our little boy is growing up, Jen . But no matter how old he gets, Ben will always have time for an adventure with Jake. 

The airport appears on the horizon.

“You got this, son,” Ben pats Jake on the shoulder.

Jake turns to look at his father. “I chose the poem you liked. The one with the whales.”

“I knew you would,” Ben grins.

Jake beams at him, and it’s like travelling back in time. That same smile, the one Ben knows so well—the one he thought he’d never see again. “You look just like her,” he whispers.

“I know,” Jake says.

*

They catch a glimpse of Nog and his dad disappearing through the gates. A security person stops them before they can enter.

“Look, we're not actually flying,” Ben tells her.

“You can't come through without a passport, sir,” she shakes her head.

“Not even to let the boy say goodbye to the love of his life?”

She looks at him. “No.”

Jakes covers his face with his hands. Ben pats him on the back. “I’m sorry, Jake-o. You’ll just have to text him.”

“I can’t… I tried, but it’s weird. I just can’t do it—”

“Wait…”

“What?”

A man that Ben recognizes from the coffee shop—Morn, if he’s not mistaken—is emptying his bag on the floor, looking for his boarding pass. The security person stands next to him, watching him closely. The gates are empty.

“Do you want to make a run for it?” Ben asks.

Jake raises his eyebrows. “Do you think I should?”

“Yes. Go!”

*

Ten minutes later, security escorts Jake out. He’s smiling. Ben hugs him and places a kiss on his forehead.

“I didn’t know I could run that fast!” Jake laughs.

“You were incredible.”

“I didn’t make it though, the security guys stopped me. I was lucky Nog heard me call his name. I couldn’t go to him, so I made the poem into a paper plane and threw it at him.”

“Genius! Did he catch it?”

“Yeah. But I don’t know if he read it.”

“I guess we’ll have to wait until his plane lands.”

The wait is going to be a little stressful. Ben knows; he’s been there. So instead of going home, they leave the car in the Memory Alpha Museum parking lot and walk around town, watching the city slow down, listening to the sound of their footsteps on the sidewalk.

Chapter Text

Making difficult decisions has always been Jean-Luc’s strong suit. It happened all at once, without hesitation. Now his mind is made up. The minute this is all over, he’s quitting. It’s been a long time coming.

Jean-Luc is also very good at diplomacy, so he knows better than to announce his decision right away. In any case, his contract binds him to this project—which includes the press tour, unfortunately—so there’s no sense in antagonizing Q during their last two weeks together.

But it’s all he can think about. Every morning when he wakes up, every time he checks his phone, every night before bed. In two weeks this will be over . In two weeks I will no longer be Q’s manager . He’s thinking about it right now, as he waits backstage on the set of this big television talk show he somehow managed to get Q on.

And although he’s constantly thinking about it, he can’t tell if he’s happy or not. He doesn’t feel as good as he thought he would; in fact, he just feels... empty. What makes matters worse is that Q has been civil lately. Working with him has been almost tolerable. The bastard can be quite charming when he wants to.

“We’re back in five minutes!” says the show’s assistant director.

The host, Samantha Wildman, is already in her chair surrounded by makeup artists. Q is nowhere in sight. It’s starting to stress Jean-Luc out. They can’t afford to mess up a big television appearance; frankly, it’s a miracle they’re even here, considering the fiasco of their radio interviews. Q is purposefully sabotaging himself to prove a point, but surely he wouldn’t go this far. Would he?

There’s no telling what Q is capable of. And if Jean-Luc is being totally honest with himself, that’s something he’s going to miss. He’s always been excessively fond of the unpredictable, the unexpected. The thrill of the unknown.

He’s about to reach for his phone when Q appears, holding a steaming mug.

“Q! Where were you? You better have—”

“Temper, temper, mon capitaine . I’m merely trying to make this more bearable for you. Here.”

And then something extraordinary happens. Q hands Jean-Luc the mug.

“Earl Grey… This is—is this for me?” Jean-Luc stammers.

“For whom else would it be?” Q rolls his eyes, as if it were obvious, as if he’d ever done anything like this for Jean-Luc before.

“Oh. Er—thank you.”

Q shrugs. The crew is ready, the assistant director calls again, the red light turns to green, and Q takes his place on the couch facing Samantha Wildman. For a moment, Jean-Luc is too stunned to do anything but sit down, balancing his mug on one knee, and stare at the ground.

They’ve known each other for twenty years, but nothing like this has ever happened before; not to Jean-Luc’s recollection. It’s a revelation. Not only does Q know Jean-Luc favorite blend of tea, he also took the time to make it for him. Perhaps he notices how difficult this entire press tour has been for Jean-Luc. Perhaps he’s not as callous as he pretends to be.

It’s silly, but it makes Jean-Luc feel… seen.

“Hi there and welcome back,” says Samantha Wildman, looking into the camera. “So, Q; two weeks till First Contact Day, looks like the real competition is going to be Dominion.”

“I saw them on the show last week,” Q replies, crossing one leg neatly over the other. “They weren't very nice about my record, were they?”

“They’re not exactly known for their ‘niceness’,” Samantha laughs, making air quotes with her fingers.

“Not very talented musicians either. Although I do enjoy their song ‘Ketracel White’. Do you know what it’s really about?”

If Samantha is annoyed by that last remark, she doesn’t let it show. “Q, I understand you have a prize for our competition winners?”

“Yes I have, Samantha. It's a personalised felt-tip pen,” Q smiles, and it’s that smile, and suddenly Jean-Luc feels very, very tired.

“Oh, great!” Samantha reaches for one of the pens placed on a small table next to the couch and holds it up for the camera. She then gives it to Q, who immediately takes the cap off.

“It's brilliant,” he smirks. “It even writes on glass. I’ll demonstrate; can you pass me that framed picture of your dog?”

“It’s not my dog, it’s the cover of our next guest’s new book—”

“Here, look, you can just write on it.”

Tilting the picture so it’s facing the camera, Q writes ‘Dominion sucks ass’ in bold letters.

“Oh my goodness,” Samantha says, trying to laugh it off. “There are a lot of kids watching, Q.”

“Right.” Q puts the pen down and looks into the camera. “Hiya, kids. Here's an important message from your Uncle Q: don't buy drugs.”

Samantha smiles, visibly relieved.

But then Q adds: “Become a rock star and they give you them for free.”

The director gestures wildly behind the camera.  

“I think it’s time for a commercial break,” Samantha says hurriedly. “We'll see you soon, Q. Bye!”

The lights go off, poor Samantha slumps into her chair, and everyone glares at Q as he walks off set with a satisfied smile. Jean-Luc’s tea has gone cold. It doesn’t matter; he doesn’t feel like drinking it anymore.

“Tasteful,” he mutters, falling into step beside Q.

“Oh spare me your self-righteous indignation, Picard. At least we get to go home early.”

Jean-Luc doesn’t want to make a scene, so he waits until they’re alone in the parking lot to say: “What’s the matter with you?”

Q tosses his car keys in the air. “Want a ride home?”

“No, I do not want a ride home,” Jean-Luc replies sharply.

“You’re doing it again. Expecting me to know when something’s bothering you—”

“You’re impossible!”

“Thanks.”

“No, no,” Jean-Luc gestures frantically, “This isn’t one of your games, Q. This is the real world, where real things have real consequences. You are immature and irresponsible and your behaviour over the past few weeks has been appalling. Don’t roll your eyes at me! You can’t expect everyone to laugh along like they used to. You are no longer adulated, and you are no longer successful. Look around you. This is your reality, whether you like it or not.”

For a few seconds, Q is dangerously quiet. Then he shakes his head, slowly. “You think I don’t know that? Do you honestly think—”

“Then why are you squandering your chances? It wasn’t easy getting you on that show, I expected you to behave yourself. Your career is in tatters—”

“I know that.”

“—and you are only making things worse!  You need to make sure this project is a success.”

Q scoffs, studying his fingernails. “Isn’t that supposed to be your job?”

“Not for long,” Jean-Luc mutters, turning his back on Q and walking towards the exit.

“What?” Q says, raising his eyebrows, as he follows Jean-Luc outside. “What does that mean?”

“It means that once this masquerade of a press tour is over, I’m quitting.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I can, and I will. I’ve had enough of your nonsense.”

Q tugs at Jean-Luc’s sleeve, the way a child would. “Wait.”

Jean-Luc isn’t in the mood for this. Half an hour ago he was ready to believe that Q could change, that perhaps there’s more to him than meets the eye. But that was his mind playing tricks on him; a subconscious attempt to delay his decision. In reality Q is a nightmare, always has been and always will be.

“What is it you want, Q?”

“To continue this press tour, dreary as it may sound to both of us.”

“I have no choice,” Jean-Luc says quietly. “It’s in my contract. But the moment it’s over…”

His voice trails off, fading into the sounds of the night. He looks at Q, plain and unadorned—not a Rembrandt, not a Van Gogh, just Q. There’s something breaking beneath the surface of his eyes, something that draws Jean-Luc in, only for a moment…

He turns away before he can change his mind. In two weeks this’ll be over . It’s better for everyone. “Goodnight, Q.”

Q doesn’t say it back.

Chapter Text

Every morning is the same: Jim wakes up early, showers, drinks his coffee standing at the window, watches Spock arrive, then writes until lunchtime. Although there’s comfort in the repetitiveness of it, Jim finds himself longing for adventure. He’s never been one for comfortable routines.

So he spends his afternoons outside, exploring the Vulcan wilderness. He carries around a pen and notebook, and often stops to write under a tree or near a river.

He still has a hard time communicating with Spock. They exchange a few words from time to time, but it’s more of a formality, since neither of them actually understands the other. They have lunch together in total silence, Jim staring out the window pensively, Spock reading a book. 

Until the day he sits down with his plomeek soup and takes a portable chess set out of his bag.

“You play chess?” Jim asks.

Spock looks up, raising an eyebrow, then gestures towards the chess board. “ Tishau tu mavau k'nash-veh, ha. ^{1 ”}

Jim smiles. “Yes, of course.”

He sits opposite Spock and helps him arrange the pieces on the board, hoping he hasn’t misunderstood. Their fingers brush over the board as they both reach for the same piece, and Jim feels himself blush. “Sorry.”

Spock looks away, clearing his throat. He points at Jim’s side of the board, inviting him to go first.

And that’s how it starts. After that, they play chess every day at lunch, sometimes forgetting about their food and letting it go cold. It’s a language of its own, a language they both speak fluently, although they have entirely different approaches to the game. In the absence of words there are knowing looks, stolen glances and a teasing, secret smile, hidden in the corners of Spock’s mouth. Time goes by quickly when they’re together.

Perhaps it’s what prompts Jim to ask Spock if he would like to accompany him on his afternoon walk. It takes a few tries, desperate gesturing and an accidental game of charade, but Spock agrees. They leave after lunch—after chess—and walk for a long time in silence, admiring the landscape.

Jim wishes he could ask Spock about his childhood here. Have these rocks and plants and trees watched you grow? Have they witnessed your sorrows, your first heartbreak? Have they known your joys, your victories, your proudest moments? Or are you from a place beyond the dunes, where all is sand and sky?

More than anything, Jim wants to know these things, and a thousand things more. But Spock’s silence is a fortress. His footsteps echo in the plain, sharp and loud on the boulder he just climbed. The sun is merciless, beating down upon them. Jim stops in the shade of a small tree.

“It’s getting hot,” he says.

Spock looks at him, questioning.

“Ah, um—” Jim makes a show of fanning his face with his hands.

“ Zahal’voh nash-veh, ² ” Spock nods to the side and turns, walking in the opposite direction.

Jim follows him, and a few minutes later they’re on the bank of a beautiful lake, where there are plenty of trees with large, thick branches. The air is cooler too; spring in Vulcan is fickle, the weather unpredictable, changing without warning.

Oh, but this place is lovely. The lake, shimmering under the sun, rippling with new life. The flowering shrubs, revelling in the early arrival of spring. Jim lifts his pen and notebook and shakes them in the air. “Do you mind if I write here for a while?”

Spock shakes his head. “ Hal-tor nash-veh svi'udish na' theris-masu heh kreyla. Ri hafau nash-veh wu. ³ ”

Then he leaves, disappearing into the bushes.

“Wait, I didn’t mean—where are you—wait, you can stay,” Jim calls after him, but it’s no use, he’s already gone. Jim sighs, leaning against a tree trunk.

It would be ridiculous to go after him. And to tell him what, anyway? Even if he could speak Vulcan, Jim wouldn’t know what to say. So he sits down facing the lake, opens his notebook, clicks his pen and loses himself to his writing.

The words come easy. They spill out of him and onto the paper; steady, stable. He can’t tell how long he stays there, filling the pages of his worn-out notebook. Shadows shift around him and he looks up to find Spock at his side, holding a round teapot, two mugs and a plate full of cookies.

“Oh, thank you,” Jim says, a little startled.

He tries to help Spock with the mugs, extending both arms—including the one holding his notebook. Spock moves at the same time, accidentally knocking the notebook right out of Jim’s hand. It rolls into the lake.

“No no no no!” Jim exclaims.

“ Ni'droi'ik nar-tor, ⁴ ” Spock mutters.

“God, it's half the play…”

“ Bek’voh. ^{5 ”}

“It’s all right. Just leave it. It’s not important.”

Spock hurries to the edge of the lake and peers into the water. Bubbles are rising to the surface where the notebook fell in. Spock kicks off his shoes and unbuttons his cardigan.

“Wait!” Jim says. “Stop, it’s not worth it!”

But Spock isn’t listening. He lets his cardigan fall to the ground, reaches for the back of his shirt and tugs. The fabric slips over his skin, dark blue giving way to the paleness of his back. Jim stares, unable to look away, even as Spock pulls down his trousers. There is a tattoo—a single word in swirling Vulcan script—peeking from under his boxers. He tilts his head up, taking a deep breath, and the wind ruffles his bangs. He is beautiful beyond words.

And then he’s diving into the lake.

“Oh God, he's in,” Jim jumps to his feet, pulling off his sweater.

He doesn’t want to do it, but he has no choice, really. Spock will think he’s a total jerk if he doesn't go in too. Closing his eyes, Jim jumps into the lake.

“Fuck—it’s cold!” he cries.

“ Ish-veh samek ⁶ ,” Spock says, as if in reply.

Jim swims around aimlessly, watching Spock disappear underwater for a few seconds then reappear empty-handed.

“It’s not Shakespeare, Spock. Leave it.”

“ Opi' spen-tor du svi'wuh suk'muzh tor zaprah au, nam-tor ish-veh olozhikaik tor ngiq'e ik kitaun t'du maut taluhk ⁷ .”

Spock dives again, and comes back up empty-handed again.

“ Tor ish-veh duhik ri tor va'asaya ⁸ ,” he mumbles.

“I really need to make copies,” Jim mutters.

He swims in circles, waiting for Spock to give up. Wet jeans on wet skin is already such an unpleasant sensation, but then something slithers along his leg.

“Please tell me that wasn’t an eel. I can’t stand eels.”

“ Ri dvun'voh. Dungi-ertau du wuh masu-oluhk ⁹ .”

“Fuck! It’s an eel!”

*

Jim places the mugs on the table and sits down. Next to him, Spock is wrapped up in a towel, blow-drying the notebook. His hair is still wet, dripping down his neck. Jim tries not to stare this time.

“Thank you so much for saving my play,” he says. “I'll name one of the characters after you.”

Spock sets the hairdryer aside and picks up his mug. There’s that secret smile again, hidden in the corners of his mouth. Jim smiles too. He could stay here, like this, all evening. But it’s already six o’clock.

“I’ll let you get dressed. When you’re done I’ll drive you home.”

“ Lesek ¹⁰ , Jim.”

Something about the way Spock says his name makes Jim’s heart flutter. He pauses near the door, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed on Spock’s. “It's my favourite part of the day,” he whispers, “driving you.”

“ Nam-tor ish-veh rasahkos krus t'gad t'nash-veh. Tor-trasha du ^11.”

*

This morning is different from all the ones before. Jim’s bags are packed, all the windows are closed, and Spock’s main job is to help Jim fit everything in the trunk of his car. No lunch, no chess, no tea. They don’t go for a walk, and they don’t drop anything in the lake.

As they get in the car, all Jim can think is that this is their last drive together. He plays ‘ Silence Is Golden’ . Spock’s lips twitch upwards.

Too soon, they arrive. Jim gets out of the car. He stands on the sidewalk facing Spock, a little too close. He has to tilt his head up to look into those lovely brown eyes. “Well… goodbye,” he says softly.

“ Rom-halan ¹² ,” Spock replies.

The stillness lingers; suspended, unending.

And then Spock takes Jim’s hand in his own, pressing their index and middle fingers together.

It only lasts a moment—a wonderful, impossible, perfect moment—then Spock is walking away, and Jim is alone on the sidewalk, and the sun disappears behind the clouds.

1. “Would you like to join me?”
2. “Follow me.”
3. “I will go back for tea and biscuits. I will not be long.”
4. “I am sorry”–literally translates as asking forgiveness.
5. “Wait.
6. “It is cold.”
7. “You jumped into the lake to retrieve your notebook; it is logical to assume that it is valuable.”
8. “It is foolish not to make copies.”
9. “Do not move. You will disturb the eels.”
10. “Thank you. ” 
11. “It is the worst part of my day. Leaving you.”
12. “Farewell.”

Chapter Text

One week to First Contact Day

Kathryn closes her eyes to enjoy the last sip of her morning coffee. The sun is kind, bathing her office in light and warmth. Today’s the big day. Her first important test. The Legate’s visit.

She adjusts the collar of her shirt, takes a deep breath and nods at herself in the mirror. It’s show time .

On her way to the conference room, she passes Chakotay—he’s carrying documents, probably for her to read later—and she can’t help the fluttering feeling in her chest. There’s no time to stop and chat, so she grins, “Hi,” and waves at him, wriggling her fingers. Pathetic .

Luckily, she doesn’t get the chance to think about her silliness, or his devastatingly handsome smile, because the Legate’s car has already entered T’Pau Street. Kathryn stands beside Tuvok in front of the conference room and watches as Cardassia’s representative crosses the hall, surrounded by bodyguards.

“Legate Seska,” Kathryn nods. “Welcome.”

The Legate nods back, her cold gray eyes fixed on Kathryn’s. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Madam President.”

“After you.”

*

“No, absolutely not,” a Cardassian Gul says, shaking his head. “We cannot and will not consult on that either.”

“That is unexpected,” Tuvok raises an eyebrow.

“It shouldn't be,” Seska intervenes. “The last administration made it perfectly clear. We are just being consistent with their policies.”

Kathryn shifts on her chair. “With all due respect, Legate, they were bad policies.”

“I see,” Seska mutters. There’s a small, unpleasant smile on her lips. “I don't think we're making progress here. Let's just move on.”

The rest of the meeting isn’t any different. The Cardassians are uncompromising, and Seska keeps tiptoeing around the more delicate issues. By the end of the day, Kathryn is exhausted. The last thing she wants to do is invite the Legate back to her office, but it’s protocol. When they enter the room, Chakotay is there, rearranging some documents.

“Good evening, Madam President; Legate.”

“Hello,” Seska says, raising her eyebrows approvingly.

Kathryn does not like the Legate’s tone. “Um, Chakotay,” she interrupts. “Coffee, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The moment he leaves, Seska emits a low whistle. “My my, that's a pretty little son of a bitch.”

For a moment, Kathryn is too shocked to say anything. Her ears are burning and anger is beginning to well up inside her, but for the sake of diplomacy she shrugs. “He's great at his job.”

It feels incredibly wrong to leave it at that, to let Seska get away with what she said. Guilt gnaws at Kathryn, as it often does. Guilt, her old companion. She tries to shake it off, but it remains lodged in her stomach, stuck in her throat. Seska finds a chair, sits down and sighs. She’s evidently tired; eager to get back to her hotel room. If Kathryn is going to make any progress, it’s now or never.

“There is one final thing I think we should look at,” she suggests. “If you could just give me a second.”

“I'll give you anything you ask for,” Seska smiles again, that same unpleasant smirk, “as long as it's not something I don't want to give.”

Kathryn bites her tongue. She can’t afford to say what’s on her mind, so instead she nods, leaving her office to enter the adjacent storage room. As she rummages through a drawer for a document, she hears four slow knocks on the door, then voices whispering. It takes her longer than expected to find the document she needs.

“Here it is,” she exclaims, walking back into her office. “I’m sorry I kept you wait—”

It’s like a punch to the gut. The image burns itself into Kathryn’s mind, even though she only catches it for a second: Chakotay, still bending to place the tray on the table, his lips parted; and Seska, a possessive hand on his waist, leaning forward to kiss him. They quickly straighten up, but she knows what she saw. She knows.

“I'll—I'll be going,” Chakotay stammers, looking away.

“Yes,” Kathryn tries to sound indifferent.

He’s at the door when Seska says, “I hope to see much more of you, Chakotay, as our countries work toward a better future.”

“Thank you, Legate,” he answers.

*

Kathryn doesn’t sleep much, despite Tuvok’s meditation videos, and despite the important press conference in the morning. Anger and guilt, she knows, are a toxic combination. She watches the sunrise from her window, morning bleeding into the sky, falling over the city like gentle rain. Her father used to take her camping every spring—she used to hate it. Now cherry blossoms remind her of him, of those long road trips, of leaving the city she loves and getting lost in the wilderness.

It also makes her think of Chakotay. She can’t stop thinking about Chakotay.

She manages to get two or three hours of proper sleep before Tuvok knocks. “Forty minutes, Madam President.”

The press conference takes place in the Entrance Hall. Kathryn and Seska shake hands, walk in together, then stand behind their lecterns. The room goes silent, except for the clicking of cameras. Kathryn nods towards a Cardassian reporter.

“Natima Lang from Prime,” the reporter introduces herself. “Legate, has it been a good visit?”

“Yes, it has,” Seska says, lifting her chin. “We got what we came for and our special relationship is still… very special.”

“Madam President?”

Kathryn grips the edge of her lectern. There’s no time to think. Everything she’s been holding back comes pouring out of her.

“I love that word. ‘Relationship’. It covers all manner of sins, doesn't it? Well, I fear that this has become a bad relationship. A relationship based on the Legate taking what she wants and ignoring everything that matters to us. In the words of one of our greatest playwrights, this Federation is ‘a dream that became a reality and spread throughout the stars.’ A friend who doesn’t share that dream is no longer a friend. From now on, I will respond with strength, when strength is needed. And the Legate should be prepared for that.”

The room erupts into chaos.

*

After the Cardassians leave, T’Pau Street celebrates. Neelix prepares a feast. The press is more than pleased with Kathryn’s spur-of-the-moment speech: Epsilon IX dedicates a song to her; on TV, Samantha Wildman calls her a national hero. The phone doesn’t stop ringing all evening.

It’s like winning the elections all over again. Except this time even some of her opponents call to congratulate her.

Kathryn is quiet. She doesn’t regret what she said. She meant every single word of it. But making such bold statements without consulting with her team first isn’t the kind of leadership she promised her country. The truth is… she let her emotions get the best of her. She gave in to the anger, the guilt and—there’s no sense in lying to herself—the jealousy.

Chakotay’s private life is none of her business. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t let it affect her ability to do her job.

It’s dangerous. It can’t happen again.

After dinner, Kathryn asks Tuvok to join her in her office.

“You wanted to see me, ma’am.”

“Yes. Tuvok. Listen. Don't ask me why, and don't read anything into this, but... you know Chakotay? I want you to... redistribute him.”

“Of course. Consider it done.”

Chapter Text

Julian is sprawled on the couch in nothing but his underwear, eating a bowl of cereal and rewatching the President’s speech on TV, when the doorbell rings. He looks at his phone—it’s 9pm, who the hell could it be?—then grabs his t-shirt and jeans, pulling them on as fast as he can. “Just a minute!”

The city sparkles beyond the window. A flickering street light winks at the river, and someone is singing in Bajoran. Julian opens the door.

“Garak?”

“Good evening, my dear.”

It’s weird to see him here, although he’s walked Julian home countless times. There’s something about the way he looks in the shabby hallway—his expensive shoes against the carpeted floor, his black coat against the beige wallpaper.

“Hi, er—good evening,” Julian stutters, tugging on his t-shirt nervously.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, not at all, I was just… er, I was…”

Julian knows he looks a mess, and his apartment isn’t much better, and he doesn’t know what to say, and what does Garak want anyway, why is he here, now, and oh god there’s a wine stain on the couch and an empty pizza box on the floor…

“I wanted to thank you again for the museum,” Garak says. His eyes are soft. Lost somewhere in the space between words. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box.

“Delavian chocolates,” Julian smiles, pleasantly surprised. “They’re my favourite!”

“I know,” Garak smiles too.

I know . There is such tenderness in the way he says it, in the way he gives Julian the chocolates, their fingers touching over the box. They look at each other tentatively, almost shyly, then the nervousness melts away all at once, and they finally meet in that place between words. Garak tips his chin back, Julian tilts his head to the side, and there it is, the first brush of mouth against mouth, eyes closing of their own accord. Garak’s palm against Julian’s neck.

The half-hearted separation, the breathless wonder on both their faces.

“Er—would you excuse me for one second?” Julian asks. “Just one second.”

“Of course,” Garak whispers.

Julian moves around the corner so he’s out of sight, wrings his hands, dances a little jig, punches the air in triumph, then returns. “Okay, that's done. Er... Why don't you come upstairs in about ten seconds?”

Garak hasn’t stopped smiling. “Ten seconds,” he nods.

“Ten seconds.” Julian hurries up the stairs to his loft bedroom. He picks up two empty mugs and hides them in the closet, then kisses Kukalaka and shoves him under the bed. The place is still a mess, but he only has time to change into a clean t-shirt and run his fingers quickly through his hair before Garak enters the room.

They fall into each other’s arms. The world around them is forgotten.

*

The kitchen is a mess: sauce spilled over the counter, flour on the shelves, egg yolk making everything sticky. Tom slides his arms around B’Elanna’s waist as she’s mixing the ingredients. She turns around and pokes him in the sides, right where he’s the most ticklish. He jolts, making an undignified squealing noise that she finds hilarious.

The doorbell rings, interrupting them.

“I’ll get it,” Tom offers.

“Whoever it is, tell them to fuck off, we’re making gagh ,” B’Elanna says.

Tom’s smile disappears as he opens the door and sees Harry, holding a bunch of placards under his arm. “Oh.”

Harry puts a finger on his lips and flips over the first placard.

« Shhhhh... »  

“Okay,” Tom mouths.

Harry takes his phone out of his pocket and taps the screen. ‘First Contact In My Heart’ starts playing. Tom’s smile returns, and Harry shows him the next placard.

« With any luck, by next year I’ll be going out with someone who looks like this: »

Beneath the text, there’s a stylized picture of Solkar with long hair, wearing hot pink speedos. Tom shakes his head, suppressing a laugh. The next placard reads:

« But for now, let me say, without hope or agenda…  »   

Tom takes a deep breath.

« To me, you are perfect.    »

« And my wasted heart will love you until you look like this: »

The last placard is a picture of something very old and dusty—a mummy, Tom thinks. The music keeps playing. There’s nothing left to say. Harry nods once, whispers, “Happy First Contact Day,” and walks away.

Tom runs after him. Before he knows what he’s doing, he grabs Harry by the arm and kisses him.

Chapter Text

April 5 th —First Contact Day.

Everyone is holding their breath as Jean-Luc turns on the radio, and the DJ’s voice fills the room.

“ It's a sunny First Contact Day all over the Federation and the big question is: who is number one on the Radio One chart show tonight? Is it ‘Dominion’ or the unexpected First Contact sensation from Q?”

There are so many people here; musicians, backup singers, producers, photographers, sound engineers—even Worf showed up. Everyone who worked on the project is standing in the room with Q and Jean-Luc, who haven’t spoken since the incident at the television studio two weeks ago. The crowd is a welcome barrier between them, but now that they’re waiting for the verdict, Jean-Luc’s eyes search for Q’s.

Q is looking pointedly away.

The DJ doesn’t make them wait too long. “ You might have guessed it although you may not believe it... It's Q!”

Fists go up in the air as everyone cheers. The backup singers hug each other. Worf pops open a bottle of bloodwine. Q jumps onto the table and shushes them, holding up his phone. The room goes quiet again, although the atmosphere has completely changed.

“ Hi, Q ,” the DJ says on the radio.

“Hello,” Q grins.

“ We're live across the Federation and you're number one. How will you be celebrating? ”

“I don't know,” Q replies, raising an eyebrow. “Either I could behave like a real rock and roll loser and get drunk with my boring manager... or, when I hang up, I'll be flooded by invitations to a large number of glamorous parties.”

“ Finger crossed. Okay then, here it is. Number one, from Q: ‘First Contact In My Heart’ .”

Q makes a face and tosses the phone at Amanda Rogers, the record label’s newest intern. Jean-Luc shakes a few hands, congratulating the team. It only takes a few minutes for the phone to ring again. Amanda picks up, then hands it to Q, saying, “It’s for you.”

“Hello,” Q answers. “Koloth! Mm-hm. Yes, of course. Send an embarrassingly big car and I'll be there.”

“Koloth?” Worf asks, once Q has hung up.

“The Dahar Master , yes. He’s invited me to a party at Kang’s tonight.” Q does his little shimmy-shake, and everyone laughs. “It’s going to be a very good First Contact Day.”

Jean-Luc watches him leave. That’s it, then.

It’s over.

*

“ Nam-tor nash yut tor wurzel, ha. ¹ ”

Jim repeats the sentence a few times. His phone chirps approvingly. Rom ar'kadan ² , says the animated owl in the corner of his screen. A few seconds later, the next sentence appears.

“ Dungi nam-tor nash-veh sa'awek fi'wuh'rak sviribau gad. ^3”

He says it once. The owl jumps up and down, encouraging him to repeat it, but Jim has lost interest. He lets the screen go blank.

Zefram Cochrane didn’t know a word of Vulcan when he shook hands with Solkar. And yet they somehow reached for each other, they somehow understood the significance of the moment. They made it work. Solkar had crossed the desert to be there, to touch his hand to Earth’s soil and look upon its inhabitants.

The world would be a colder place, if he hadn’t travelled so far to make First Contact happen.

Jim unlocks his phone.

1. Is this the way to the station?
2. Good job.
3. I will be alone on First Contact Day.

*

Julian raises his arm in the air. He watches the sunlight paint his skin, warm on his forearm and wrist. Daytime flickers on his fingernails.

“Julian,” Garak sighs.

His hair brushes Julian’s cheek as he turns toward him, and Julian lets his arm fall back onto the mattress between them.

“Yes, Garak?”

“I love waking up next to you.”

His voice ripples down Julian’s spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Me too.”

Hand holding hand, mouth pressing against mouth, heart beating against heart. They float around the bed, around the room, around the apartment. Kisses sweet and wet and demanding, and then it’s already noon.

“We could go downtown,” Julian suggests. “See the parade, buy Jumja sticks, listen to the President’s speech…”

“That sounds lovely, my dear.”

*

Kathryn’s coffee has gone cold—a rare occurrence—but she can’t stop staring at the card in her hand. She picked it up from the pile of First Contact Day cards Tuvok placed on her desk yesterday. It’s just a random sample, most of them from well-meaning supporters, but Kathryn doesn’t have time to read them all. Out of guilt, she took a look at the first one while waiting for Decan to arrive.

And it turned out to be this.

« Dear Madam President , Dear Kathryn,
Happy First Contact Day. I'm sorry about what happened. It was a very odd moment and I feel like an idiot. Particularly because—I'm actually yours.
Chakotay. »

She finally puts down the card, grabs her jacket and hurries outside. Decan is waiting in the car.

“Downtown Square, ma’am?” he asks, adjusting the rearview mirror.

“Yes, but first take me to Trebus.”

*

“Ready?” Geordi asks.

Data closes the little blue door and pockets his keys. “Walking to Downtown Square will take us approximately two hours. Are you certain you would not prefer a taxi?”

“Nah.” Geordi smiles. “I could walk with you forever.”

*

When he reaches Spock’s neighbourhood, Jim’s ears are still clogged from his flight. He pays the taxi driver and hops out, heart racing. The memory of their last drive together guides him through the narrow streets of Vulcan, and then he’s standing in front of Spock’s house, and he can’t remember ever being this nervous.

He knocks. Someone opens the door.

It’s an older gentleman, handsome but stern-looking, with graying hair and eyes like Spock’s.

“ Na'shaya. Nam-tor Spock la’, ha ¹ , ” Jim asks, a little breathless.

“ Trashal Spock na’Terra dahkuh sfek kehkuh lirt'k vesht ² ,” the man replies.

Jim’s stomach drops. “ Lesek, osu ³ .”

“ Nam-tor du James Kirk, ha ⁴ .”

“ Ha ⁵ .”

Spock’s father raises a knowing eyebrow. “ Nam-tor tra' wak tor kum-tor abru k' ish-veh wi ⁶ .”

“ Yeht ⁷ ,” Jim smiles gratefully.

1. Greetings. Is Spock here?
2. Spock left for Earth two point four minutes ago.
3. Thank you, sir.
4. You are James Kirk, yes?
5. Yes.
6. There is still time to catch up with him.
7. True/You’re right.

And then he’s off. Running like his life depends on it. Running so fast he might be flying. He thinks about Cochrane and Solkar, that fateful handshake, the way they made all of this possible. He’s running faster, faster still, and his mind is filled with images of Spock; the first time he saw him, standing in the driveway; his hand hovering over the chessboard; his tattoo, dark against his skin; his brown eyes, and the secret smile they held. The way he said Jim’s name. Spock, Spock, Spock …

There he is, it can only be him, waiting for a taxi at the end of the street, his long black trench coat too warm for the season.

“Spock! Wait, Spock!”

Spock turns, slowly, and Jim is still running, and their eyes meet as he closes the distance between them. A crowd of logically curious Vulcans has gathered around them. They’re probably not used to this: people running up and down the otherwise quiet streets, screaming someone’s name. Jim couldn’t care less. He won’t lose Spock again.

“ Na’shaya, Spock ¹ ,” he pants, finally coming to a stop.

“ Na’shaya, Jim ² .”

They stand facing each other, like so many times before, but it’s different. Being able to use words is weird, almost, but Jim has so much to say. He takes a deep breath.

“ Fai-tor nash-veh ik nam-tor nash-veh goh riolozhikaik komihn heh ik tor nash-veh ved wuh ralash, hi ma tor nash-veh… bolau var-tor du ik… ashau nash-veh du. Heh aitlun nash-veh tor nam-tor k'du, kwon-sum ³ .”

Spock is as inscrutable as ever, although his lips part, only slightly.

“ Veling ri gish nash-veh du nam-tor u'duhik u'nash-veh ,” Jim quickly adds. “ Hi… bolau nash-veh var-tor du ⁴ .”

The silence between them is familiar. Silence is golden, golden …

“Jim,” Spock says. “I should have known. This—this simple feeling is… beyond the need for words.”

A breeze ruffles Spock’s bangs. Like that day by the lake, he is beautiful… beyond words. Jim places his palm on Spock’s cheek, gently pulling him down, and presses their lips together. A second, a heartbeat, an eternity. Spock melts into the kiss, his hands landing on Jim’s hips to hold him closer. They’re floating, they’re flying, and—

“You learned Standard?” Jim whispers against Spock’s mouth.

“It seemed the logical thing to do,” Spock whispers back.

1. Greetings, Spock.
2. Greetings, Jim.
3. (In slightly broken Vulhkansu) I know that I’m merely an illogical human and that I’m making quite a scene, but I have to… need to tell you that... I love you. And I want to be with you, always.
4. (In slightly broken Vulhkansu) Of course I don’t expect you to be as foolish as I am. But… I had to tell you.

*

Downtown Square is always crowded on First Contact Day, but that never stopped Ben and Jake from having a good time before. This year, however, Jake is quiet. He’s been quiet ever since their trip to the airport. Ben doesn’t know what to say anymore. They get their customary First Contact Day ice cream and sit by the fountain to watch the marching band.

“I know you think you’re too old for the merry-go-round, but how about we go for a ride? For old time’s sake?” Ben says, nudging Jake.

“You go ahead,” Jake shrugs. “I’ll wait here.”

Ben knows his son is heartbroken, and it seems nothing will cheer him up. Nog never wrote back. Not even a text.

“We can just go home if you want,” Ben suggests.

“Yeah…”

They’re heading up Prophets Avenue, just past the florist, when they come face to face with—

“Nog,” Jake freezes.

The Ferengi boy looks embarrassed. “Hi, Jake.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were in Risa?”

“Change of plans. My uncle won’t be opening a new coffee shop after all. We’re not moving.”

“That’s—that’s great.” Jake looks at his shoes. “You didn’t text me.”

“Yeah, um—I didn’t know what to say.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“But I think I know what to say now.”

Nog places a shy kiss on Jake’s cheek. Ben turns away quickly to give them some privacy—so quickly that he bumps into someone and almost knocks them down.

“Prophets, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s okay,” says the stranger, grabbing his arm to steady herself.

She looks up at him, and Ben stops talking, stops moving, stops thinking. He can only stare, eyes wide with wonder.

“I’m Kasidy,” she smiles.

Ben shakes her hand, mesmerized. “I’m Ben.”

*

Odo was sure he’d never see that face again. He even managed to convince himself that it would be better that way. And yet standing here, right in the middle of Prophets Avenue, with Quark looking up at him through the most ridiculous sunglasses he’s ever seen… he knows he’s never been happier.

“I never took you for a parade guy, Odo,” Quark says.

“It’s First Contact Day,” Odo shrugs. “What about you, Quark? Going to the coffee shop, I presume?”

“No, I’m taking my nephew to Downtown Square.”

“Risa wasn’t to your liking, then.”

Quark winces. “It was fun the first few days. But it’s like nothing’s illegal there. Where’s the thrill in that?”

Odo tries not to smile. “And the Risians?”

“They were okay. Turns out they’re not my type, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Turns out my type is tall, plain and a pain in the behind. Who would have thought?”

*

B’Elanna leans against Tom as they make their way to the Jumja stick kiosk. “Banana flavored Jumja for me,” she says.

“Of course,” Tom chuckles, kissing her on the nose before looking at Harry. “And for you?”

“Blueberry,” Harry replies, resting his head on B’Elanna’s shoulder. “Although you’d think I’d have enough sweetness, with the two of you here.”

“Ew, gross,” B’Elanna laughs.

“Yeah, Harry. Gross,” Tom agrees, then pulls him in for a kiss.

*

Jean-Luc hates going to Downtown Square on First Contact Day, but he has nothing better to do, and his flat feels terribly empty. Deanna and Will should be joining him soon; in the meantime he’s found himself a nice spot from which to listen to the President’s speech.

“ Bonsoir, mon capitaine .”

“Q! What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be at Kang’s.”

Elbowing his way through the crowd, Q walks up to Jean-Luc. He looks out of place here, in his velvet shirt and blue lipstick. “Well,” he says, “I was there for a minute or two and then I had an epiphany.”

Jean-Luc rolls his eyes. “Please, don’t tell me.”

“It’s about First Contact Day.”

“Ah, I see. You realized it’s in your heart?”

“I’m serious, Picard. I realized that—as revolting as this sounds—First Contact Day is about being with the people you love.”

This is a surprise. Jean-Luc has never heard Q speak like this. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Right.”

Q runs his hand through his hair. “And, much as it grieves me to say it, it might be that the people I love is, in fact... you.”

For a moment, Jean-Luc thinks it must be a joke, but the silence following the confession is confusing. He squints, shakes his head, frowns. “What is it you’re trying to tell me?”

There’s a pained expression on Q’s face. “It's a terrible, terrible mistake, Jean-Luc... but you turn out to be the fucking love of my life.”

It makes sense, somehow. All the banter and teasing and arguing, all the late night drives and the sad, cautious smiles. The small triangle of light on Q’s cheek. Like something from a Rembrandt.

“Well?” Jean-Luc asks.

Q looks at him. “Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

It’s not at all the way Jean-Luc imagined it would be. No, it’s soft and sweet, like the first touch of spring. Like a new beginning. 

*

“Two minutes, Madam President,” Tuvok says.

Kathryn is about to go on stage for the traditional President’s First Contact Day speech. The entire Federation is waiting for her. But her mind is elsewhere.

Chakotay wasn’t at home. She looked for him all around Trebus. His neighbour, a young man called Ayala, told her he’s probably at Downtown Square. In other words, impossible to find.

“One minute, ma’am.”

She can’t stop thinking about him. Wherever he is, she needs him to know that she’s sorry—she needs him to know how she feels about him.

“Three… two… one…”

The crowd roars as Kathryn walks on stage. She waves with both hands, taking her place behind the microphone. Her mind sifts through the speech she’s prepared. She decides to say what’s in her heart instead.

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about First Contact. Some people will tell you that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. When Solkar came to Earth, when Vulcans and Terrans first exchanged messages, as far as I know none of them were messages of hate or violence; they were all messages of peace and love.”

People cheer and clap. Kathryn’s eyes search the crowd, although she knows it’s useless.

“It seems to me that love is everywhere,” she continues. “Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. Sometimes it’s misunderstood. Sometimes it’s inconvenient or frightening. But if you look for it—if you open your heart to it—you will realize that love is why we’re here today. Love is what built our Federation. Love will see us through.”

She sees him. There, in the crowd, his eyes bright and beautiful, smiling up at her. He’s here, he’s here and she has to tell him, she has to let him know—

“We make mistakes, because we are human. But because we are human, we learn to be better for the ones we love. We learn to apologize. To be more understanding. To take risks. To hope, to compromise. Love is complicated… but ultimately worth it.”

He nods, and his smile widens. She can’t help but smile too.

“Happy First Contact Day, everyone!”

The crowd goes wild, but Kathryn doesn’t hear the cheering anymore. She’s already running backstage, past her bodyguards, past Tuvok and Decan, heart racing, thinking of him, only him, always him—

“Let him in,” she orders the security guards at the door.

And then they’re in each other’s arms, finally, finally , and she’s kissing him, and he’s smiling into the kiss, and ‘First Contact In My Heart’ starts playing outside.