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Chapter Text

The quarters were quiet, save for the soft hum of the ship and the muted rustle of fabric as Beverly adjusted on his couch.

She looked utterly at home there, legs stretched and elegantly crossed, the long line of her calf catching the lamplight. She wore nothing but one of his t-shirts - olive fabric draped across her like a private claim - and her hair was loose, a copper spill over the cushions. A PADD hovered lazily in her hand, scrolling through the latest xenobiological report from the Science Department.

At her stomach, curled in a warm, purring ball, lay Spot - Data’s infamous orange tabby.

Jean-Luc Picard, across the room in his favorite armchair, sipped his Earl Grey and pretended to read The Tempest. His eyes traced the lines, but none of it landed. His attention kept sliding back to her. To Beverly, looking simultaneously domestic and untouchable. To the cat, purring as if this couch, this woman, this life, had always been hers. And to the soft, quiet shock still tucked in his chest, months later, that this was his daily life now.

“You know,” he grumbled finally, breaking the spell, “I wasn’t aware this… ‘being’ would stay right here, when Data asked you to watch it while he was away.”

Beverly’s hand moved automatically, stroking the soft fur at her belly. Spot purred louder, stretching with obscene contentment. “Jean-Luc,” she said without looking up from her report, “it’s just a cat. You’ll survive. I can’t keep her in my quarters when I spend half my time here anyway.”

He exhaled through his nose, deliberately closing the ancient book and setting it on the low table beside his tea. “Still, she loses hair. All over everything.”

Beverly smirked faintly, her fingers combing through Spot’s ruff with unconscious expertise. “So do I.”

He froze for half a heartbeat - long enough for the mental image to derail him entirely.

Spot rolled onto her back, exposing her stomach. Beverly’s hand followed automatically, massaging the soft, vulnerable area. The cat squirmed in bliss. Jean-Luc found himself utterly transfixed. How Beverly’s fingers moved - gentle, firm, confident. How she coaxed trust so easily - from feline or human alike. The words slipped out before he could catch them.
“Chérie,” he said, low, his voice almost hoarse with amusement, “I’m starting to get jealous.”

Her eyes flicked up, an impish glint there that made his chest tighten. “Of Spot?” she teased. “You could always lie in my lap and purr.”

He groaned. “You’re incorrigible.”

She leaned back into the cushions, smirk broadening, and for a moment he swore the cat’s smugness had transferred to her.

Jean-Luc leaned forward, setting his tea aside with quiet deliberation. Shakespeare lay forgotten, his hand resting for a moment on the arm of his chair as his gaze trailed back to her. 

She was a vision in stillness.

His eyes wandered the familiar path - up the elegant slope of her calf, over the smooth plane of her thigh, to the soft, inviting curve of her hip. His shirt draped over her like a whisper, one button low enough to hint at the hollow of her collarbone, the gentle swell beneath. Her hair tumbled over one shoulder, catching the light in copper strands.

He loved when she wore his things. His scent on her skin. His life wrapped around hers. His tongue slipped over his lower lip, wetting his mouth unconsciously, as though tasting the thought.

She felt his gaze before she saw it - her eyes flicked up from the PADD once more, catching him in the act. That playful, dangerous spark ignited in her blue eyes as her lips curved into a challenging smirk. “You shouldn’t be,” she said lazily, her fingers still combing Spot’s pelt. “Even if you’re not quite as fluffy as our sweet, little Spot here.”

His laugh rolled out low and rich, that familiar baritone that always sent a tremor through the quiet. “Nice to know,” he murmured, and leaned back, his eyes never leaving her.

Spot purred, oblivious to the tension curling through the room.

Beverly stretched a little, feigning nonchalance as she reached for the last lines of her report. “Please, could you prepare her food? I’m almost done here.”

He hesitated for only a heartbeat, then nodded. “Of course.”

If feeding Data’s feline was the price for what he hoped would follow - the slow retreat into the bedroom, the warm press of her against him, the quiet intimacy of their evenings - he would gladly comply. As he crossed to the replicator, he felt that rare, private smile pull at his lips. How easily domesticity had taken root in his quarters - cats, her shoes by the door, the faint scent of her shampoo mingling with his Earl Grey. It had taken him decades to let this happen. 

And yet… now that it’s here, I can’t imagine my life without it.

Spot meowed softly as the food dish was placed down, hopping off Beverly’s stomach with the lightness of a furred comet. 

“Thank you,” she said without looking up, voice casual. But he caught the corner of her lip twitch, betraying that little private amusement - she always knows when I’m staring.

He came back to the couch as she finally set the PADD aside, her work forgotten for the night. Their eyes met in the soft, golden light. “Shall we?” he said, voice warm, already offering his hand.

“Lead the way, Captain,” she teased, sliding her fingers into his.

They retreated toward the bedroom, barefoot and at ease, the hum of the ship beneath their feet. For Jean-Luc Picard, there was no opera, no negotiation, no starfield more captivating than this  -  the quiet, unspoken trust of the one special woman who finally, irrevocably, was his.

***

The gentle hum of the warp core threaded through the walls like a lullaby.

Jean-Luc drifted in that weightless space between dreams and waking, the warmth of Beverly’s elegant body pressed along his side. His arm curled protectively around her, his fingertips idly resting on the soft line of her waist.

The faint brush of fur tickled his chest and chin. He blinked once, slowly, the dim lighting from the viewport outlining the gentle curve of Beverly’s shoulder, the spill of her hair, and the orange lump of Spot sprawled luxuriously across both of them.

For a heartbeat, his pulse spiked - confusion and old instincts snapping him to alertness - until he realized that this was merely an ordinary episode of his life now. And the sound of his own heart calmed, as the soft rhythm of her breathing lulled him back into the safety of this cocoon.

Then the call chimed again. A sharp double - beep, quiet but intrusive. He groaned softly, rubbing a hand over his face as Beverly shifted against him in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. He tapped the comm beside his bedside. His voice was thick with sleep. “Picard.”

“Sir,” Riker’s voice came through the line, pitched low, and tinged with hesitation. “Sorry to disturb your sleep… but I received a priority message from Betazed Command.”

Jean-Luc’s brows furrowed. He rubbed at his temple, trying to clear the fog. “Go on.”

“…It’s Lwaxana. She’s… missing in action. Last reported en route to a diplomatic conference in the Korel system. Her transport dropped out of contact twelve hours ago.”

Jean-Luc felt Beverly shift against his side as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her or the now mildly offended cat. He exhaled through his nose. “I assume you haven’t told Counselor Troi yet.”

“No, sir,” Riker confirmed. “I didn’t want to alarm her before we knew what we were dealing with.”

Picard stood, tugging on the closest garment - a robe draped over a chair - his mind slowly assembling the pieces of command around the fragile, warm edges of his private night. “I’ll be on the bridge shortly,” he said. “Picard out.”

The comm clicked off, and for a moment he just stood there in the soft glow of starlight and shadows, watching Beverly sleep. In his bed. In his life. 

Her hand reached for him unconsciously, even in slumber. He covered it with his own, bending down to press a kiss to her hair, whispering to no one but the night: “Of course, Lwaxana…”

Then he straightened, squared his shoulders, and strode toward the ready room to become the captain again. Behind him, Beverly murmured and rolled over, and Spot reclaimed the vacated patch of warmth with imperious ease.

***

The turbolift doors whispered open onto the dimmed bridge. Gamma shift was quiet, the stars a slow river of light through the main viewscreen.

All eyes turned when Captain Picard strode out - robe exchanged for a hastily donned uniform jacket, his posture slightly mussed, and the faint evidence of a domestic life clinging to him in the form of faint remains of orange cat fur gracing his shoulder and chest.

Riker, standing from the command chair, took one look at his captain and tried, he truly tried, to keep his mouth shut.

He failed.

“Rough night, sir?” His eyes flicked to the feline evidence and then resolutely forward, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You… appear to have been decorated by Mister Data’s pet.”

Picard followed his gaze downward. A low, very unamused sigh escaped his chest as he brushed at the orange streaks on his uniform.

“Commander,” he said dryly, voice pitched with the exact gravity of a man who had once stared down Klingons and Romulans alike, “Not. A. Word.”

Riker’s mouth twitched. “Of course not, sir. Not a single word.”

From Ops, Ensign Kellin coughed into her hand. Worf kept his face entirely neutral, but his left brow lifted a fraction. He wouldn't dream of interfering. Now that he was so glad that the chalice in the form of Data's cat had passed him by this time.

Picard gestured sharply toward the ready room. “Number One.”

Riker followed, still wearing that almost - suppressed grin, and the door hissed shut behind them.

***

Picard settled into his chair behind the desk, spine straightening as the weight of command replaced the warmth of his quarters. A steaming mug of emergency Earl Grey sat to one side, replicated immediately on entry.

“Report,” he said.

Riker’s humor faded into the brisk professionalism that made him indispensable. “We received a secure relay from Betazed Command, timestamped less than an hour ago. Lwaxana Troi’s shuttle never arrived at the Korel system. Last known coordinates place her in the Celtrian Corridor, near a cluster of subspace eddies.”

Picard’s jaw tightened. Of course. The Celtrian Corridor was notorious for sensor interference and comm delays.

“Any indication of attack?”

“None yet. But…” Riker hesitated. “She was traveling on a lightly escorted diplomatic shuttle. If someone wanted a high - value hostage…”

“Yes,” Picard finished for him, exhaling. “I am well aware of Ambassador Troi’s… visibility.”

Riker nodded. “Betazed Command has not informed Deanna yet. They requested that we assist in a discreet search before escalating to a formal distress.”

Picard leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. Lwaxana Troi missing in action. The universe did enjoy its cosmic jokes. And yet - beneath the irritation, the fur still clinging faintly to his sleeve, the lingering warmth of Beverly’s sleeping form - he felt the cold edge of responsibility settle in.

“We’ll begin a sweep of the Corridor,” he said finally. “But discreetly. I will inform Counselor Troi myself once we have actionable intelligence.”

Riker inclined his head. “Understood, sir.”

Picard tapped his fingers on the desk. “And Number One… this remains strictly between us and the senior staff for now.”

“Of course,” Riker said, then hesitated just long enough to be Riker. “Although I have to admit, sir… of all the things that could disturb your sleep, I wouldn’t have guessed a missing Lwaxana Troi.”

Picard’s eyes flicked up with all the weary authority in the quadrant. “Commander… I had just recovered my equilibrium from her last visit.”

Riker smirked. “And yet, sir… something tells me she’d say she left you in very good company.”

Picard’s lips twitched despite himself. “…Dismissed, Number One.”

Riker turned for the door, his grin just barely hidden behind professionalism.

Chapter Text

The stars beyond the long windows of the Observation Lounge drifted slowly as the Enterprise eased into the outer reaches of the Celtrian Corridor. Beyond lay a snarl of unstable subspace - eddies and gravitational hiccups that had earned the region its reputation as a sensor nightmare.

The senior staff was gathered around the long table. Riker leaned forward with a PADD in hand, his usual easy posture checked by the gravity of the morning. Worf sat stiff, arms crossed and jaw tight, while Beverly - hair pulled back but eyes still heavy from lost sleep - sat next to the worried Klingon, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee as though it were a lifeline.

Deanna Troi sat at the captain’s right, her face calm but tight at the edges, the faint shimmer of anxiety slipping through her shields. She had been told hours ago. Her mother was missing.

Picard stood at the head of the table, one hand braced on the cool surface, the other clasped loosely behind his back. The trace of fatigue in his eyes didn’t diminish his authority.

“We are now approaching the Celtrian Corridor,” he said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of both command and personal concern. “Ambassador Troi’s shuttle went missing here approximately twelve hours ago. Betazed Command has asked for our discretion. We will attempt a full sweep using both active and passive scans.”

Worf’s low voice rumbled. “Sir, the subspace eddies in this region will make a standard sweep… difficult.”

“I’m aware, Mr. Worf. You’ll coordinate with Lieutenant Barclay to modify our sensor arrays. I want every stray particle in this corridor accounted for.”

Worf inclined his head with grim determination. “Yes, Captain.”

Riker slid the PADD to the center of the table, the schematic of the Corridor appearing in holographic overlay. A twisting, distorted region of space lit up with red outlines.

“The shuttle’s flight plan followed this approach,” he explained, tracing the path with a finger. “She should have arrived in Korel orbit by now. No distress calls. No transponder pings. For all intents and purposes, she vanished.”

Deanna’s voice was quiet, steady. “If she were hurt… I would feel it. At least I think I would.”

Beverly reached across the table and brushed her fingers against Deanna’s briefly - a silent gesture of solidarity.

Picard’s gaze softened for a fraction, but he quickly returned to command mode.

“Doctor,” he said, turning to Beverly now with that blend of professional and private concern only she could fully read. “I want you to prepare Sickbay for potential evacuees. If we find survivors - ”

“When,” Beverly corrected gently. Her voice was firm.

He inclined his head once. “…When we find them.”

Riker leaned back slightly, eyes flicking to Deanna. “In the meantime, we keep this quiet. The fewer panicked calls to Betazed’s council chambers, the better.”

Deanna nodded. “I understand. I just… hope she hasn’t made things worse for herself somehow.”

Riker allowed the faintest smirk. “It is Lwaxana.”

Even in tension, a ripple of dry amusement passed around the table. Picard straightened. “We’ll begin active sweeps in twenty minutes. Dismissed.”

The rest of the senior staff filtered out, soft footfalls fading down the corridor. Only Beverly lingered, her hand brushing Deanna’s shoulder in silent reassurance before pausing at the captain’s side.

Jean-Luc remained by the viewport, hands clasped behind his back, his reflection faint against the sea of stars.

Beverly leaned a hip against the table, coffee cup cradled in both hands. “You’re wound tight,” she observed softly. “Tighter than when we faced the Klingon High Council.”

He didn’t deny it. “Lwaxana Troi has a unique talent for… inviting disaster. But she also has an unnerving habit of escaping it.”

“Still,” Beverly said gently, “she’s Deanna’s mother. And she’s… well, ours in a way too. Whether you like it or not.”

His mouth twitched. “Don’t remind me.”

She watched his profile a moment, the rigid line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. This was a man shouldering a galaxy and a lover pretending to carry nothing. “Jean-Luc,” she said, quieter now. “You can let some of that go. With me.”

At that, he turned his head toward her, the steel softening in his eyes just enough for her to see past the captain and glimpse the man beneath. “Chérie,” he murmured, letting a trace of warmth slip through, “I sometimes think you can see through bulkheads.”

“I can see through you,” she countered with a small smile.

He stepped closer, just enough for his hand to brush hers on the cup, fingers grazing the curve of her knuckles. The contact was fleeting, but it steadied him more than any star chart could.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

“For what?”

“For… existing here,” he admitted. “For being in this room. For giving me something to hold on to that isn’t duty.”

Her smile softened, and she leaned in just enough for her shoulder to press lightly to his arm. “Then hold on. But also go find her. Deanna will never forgive you if you don’t.”

He gave a low exhale, almost a laugh, before pulling himself back into command.

“Back to the bridge?” she asked, reading his shift.

“Back to the bridge,” he confirmed, his hand trailing briefly down her wrist as he passed.

***

The Enterprise slid deeper into the Celtrian Corridor, her impulse engines a low, steady hum. Outside the viewscreen, the stars warped in uneven arcs, bending under the unseen hand of subspace eddies. Shimmers of static danced along the corridor walls, brief flashes of light against the black.

Picard sat in the command chair, posture perfect but gaze sharp, hands resting lightly on the armrests. Beverly slipped into the seat on his left, coffee forgotten, her presence a quiet anchor he felt more than saw. Riker leaned on his right, a solid line of command energy, eyes on the viewscreen.

The arrangement was unspoken but natural: command and trust flanking him like twin stabilizers.

“Mr. Worf,” Picard said evenly, “status?”

“Modified long - range sensors are online,” Worf rumbled. “The subspace eddies are… unpredictable. Lieutenant Barclay is compensating, but the distortions may conceal the shuttle until we are very close.”

Beverly’s hand brushed the arm of her chair. “So we could fly right past her?”

Riker turned his head slightly. “Or into her, if we’re not careful.”

“Then we will be careful,” Picard said, his voice carrying a calm that belied the undercurrent of worry pressing against his ribs.

“Ensign Kellin,” he continued, “begin a narrow - band subspace ping sweep. Let’s see if she wants to answer.”

“Aye, sir.”

The bridge hummed softly as the ping pulsed into the corridor. On the main screen, arcs of sensor returns rippled outward like concentric waves in black water.

Seconds passed.

“Negative contact,” Kellin reported. “No transponder. No debris. No ion trail.”

Riker exhaled. “She’s… just gone.”

Deanna Troi, seated at the auxiliary console near the front, shook her head slowly. “Not gone. I feel her. Irritated. Hungry. But not afraid.”

Beverly leaned toward Picard with a soft, wry murmur only he could catch: “Sounds exactly like her.”

He allowed himself the briefest smile. “Yes. It does.”

Then Worf’s deep voice cut through the air like a disruptor blast.

“Captain! Localized subspace distortion detected. Bearing zero - two - nine mark four. The signature is consistent… with a small craft.”

Picard’s eyes snapped forward. “On screen.”

The viewscreen shifted to a ragged patch of space where light twisted unnaturally. For a moment, it looked like a ripple in a dark pond. Then, like a mirage becoming solid, a small silver Federation shuttle shimmered into view - tumbling slowly, end over end.

“Impulse power to one - quarter,” Picard ordered, his tone tightening. “Bring us alongside, Mr. Kellin. Gently.”

Beverly’s fingers tightened on the armrest as the massive Enterprise crept closer to the fragile, drifting shuttle. Her heart picked up, a blend of medical anticipation and private dread.

“Visual scan confirms life support is unstable,” Worf announced. “No response to hails.”

Riker leaned closer, his voice low. “We’ve got her, sir… but she’s in trouble.”

Picard glanced at Beverly for the briefest heartbeat, sharing that unspoken weight - the line between command and the private worlds they shared.

“Prepare for recovery,” he said, voice like steel over velvet. “And get me that transporter window.”

***

The shuttle tumbled slowly, like a discarded toy caught in the lazy spin of the void. The Enterprise hung beside it, a leviathan holding its breath.

“Transporter locks?” Picard asked, leaning forward in his chair.

O’Brien’s voice came over the comm. “Negative, Captain. Subspace interference is too dense. I can’t get a stable lock on the shuttle’s interior. Signal keeps fragmenting.”

Riker leaned toward the viewscreen. “Then we pull her in the old - fashioned way.”

“Mr. Worf,” Picard said, “tractor beam. Gentle, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.”

A low hum reverberated through the deck plates as the blue beam lanced out from the Enterprise’s underbelly, locking onto the shuttle’s aft. The tumble slowed - but didn’t stop.

“Compensating for rotational momentum,” Worf reported, hands steady on the console. “Adjusting… now.”

The shuttle shuddered in the beam, but the spin fought back, like a stubborn top refusing to yield. The readouts flickered amber.

“Structural integrity on the shuttle is weakening,” Worf warned. “Hull stress increasing.”

“Release,” Picard ordered. “We’ll try another approach.”

Beverly exhaled softly, her fingers gripping the armrest of the seat next to him. She caught his eye, and he saw her medical mind already running scenarios. If the hull failed, if the life support collapsed, if the next few minutes tipped into disaster…

“Helm,” Picard said, voice low but firm, “bring us closer. Match her spin as best as you can. Let’s stabilize her manually.”

The Enterprise inched forward, her massive frame dwarfing the shuttle as the inertial dampeners hummed to adjust for the delicate dance. Beverly watched the monitor, heart pounding - not from the maneuver, but from the helpless awareness that Lwaxana could be just meters from safety and still lost to vacuum if the hull gave way.

The ship shuddered slightly as they aligned, the shuttle now framed perfectly in the forward view.

“Within range?” Picard asked.

“Negative,” Worf said. “We need ten more meters.”

Then -  

The proximity klaxon chimed.

“Unidentified vessel entering the corridor,” Kellin called. “Dropping out of warp… now!”

On the main screen, space rippled - and a squat, ugly Ferengi Marauder emerged, orange lights blinking across its hull. 

Riker’s mouth tightened. “Because of course it’s the Ferengi.”

Beverly muttered under her breath. “What is it about this family that attracts trouble like a magnet?”

Picard’s voice cut across the bridge, hard and precise.

“Open hailing frequencies.”

The Ferengi ship loomed closer, its comm system crackling before the channel even fully opened.

“Federation vessel,” came the nasally voice, smug and opportunistic. “This is DaiMon Prux of the Krayton. You appear to be interfering with a valuable derelict. By Ferengi salvage rights, it is ours.”

Beverly whispered, “Oh, she’s going to kill him if he touches that shuttle…”

Picard’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping into that dangerous, smooth baritone that once silenced battlefields.

“DaiMon Prux,” he said, “you are approaching a Federation diplomatic vessel. Stand down immediately. That shuttle contains an ambassador of the United Federation of Planets. Attempting to claim it as salvage would be a violation of half a dozen interstellar treaties.”

A pause.

Then the Ferengi voice oozed back.

The Ferengi Marauder’s channel snapped closed with a rude crackle, leaving the bridge steeped in an uneasy quiet.

“Sir, they are ignoring all hails,” Worf said, his voice a controlled growl. “They are altering course - heading directly for the shuttle.”

Riker leaned toward him, sotto voce. “I hate Ferengi negotiations at two in the morning.”

Picard’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled once on the armrest of his chair, then stilled. He could feel every eye on him, waiting for the next order, while the shuttle spun helplessly on the screen.

“Life signs?” he asked, voice clipped.

Beverly leaned forward at the console to his left, tension rolling through her frame. “Faint… very faint. I can barely distinguish them over the subspace interference. But she’s fading, Jean-Luc.”

Her use of his name on the bridge made his stomach twist. He exhaled slowly. “We will not risk anything unnecessarily. Not as long as our transporters are still affected.”

“Send me over anyway,” Beverly whispered, sharply. “I can stabilize her until we pull the shuttle in.”

“No.”

The single word was cold, absolute.

She turned to him, and for a moment, the bridge disappeared. It was just them.

Her sapphire eyes were fire and storm. His were steel, darkened by the fear he could not voice here, not in front of them all.

“Jean-Luc,” she said, voice low, measured but trembling at the edges, “if we do nothing, she will die. I will not sit here and watch that happen. And you won’t either.”

He held her gaze, silent, the weight of command and love crushing him like twin stars. He could hear his own pulse in his ears.

Riker shifted in the chair to Picard’s right, glancing between them. “Captain - Beverly’s right. I’ll go with her. We can EVA over with thrusters and stabilize the shuttle. It’s risky, but it’s the only way to keep her alive until we get her aboard.”

Picard’s hand tightened on the armrest.

From the forward console, Deanna’s voice trembled. “Her mind is slipping. I can feel it. It’s… like she’s falling asleep in a snowstorm.”

Beverly’s tone softened, almost pleading now. “Jean-Luc… please. Trust me. Trust us.”

His heart cracked beneath the weight of it.

Every instinct screamed to keep her here. Safe. Beside him. To never let her drift into that blackness where one slip, one crack in the hull, would take her from him forever.

But her eyes…

He had faced Romulan warbirds with less fear than the clear, bright fire in those eyes, daring him to deny her purpose.

The seconds stretched.

Finally, he gave the faintest nod. “…Go. Both of you. But you follow Riker’s lead, and you check in every thirty seconds.”

Beverly’s shoulders eased - not in relief, but in determination. She rose smoothly, already turning for the turbolift.

Riker fell in step beside her, muttering under his breath, “We’d better bring suits. And a miracle.”

Picard watched her walk away, feeling each footstep as if it pressed directly into his chest. His heart was a cold, heavy thing behind the uniform he had once believed impenetrable.

If I lose her here…

He straightened in his chair, forcing command into his posture as the lift doors closed. On the main screen, the shuttle spun. The Ferengi Marauder loomed in the distance, edging closer. And somewhere in that cold tin can of a shuttle, Lwaxana Troi’s life flickered like a candle fighting the wind.

***

Beverly’s breath echoed in her helmet as she drifted across the black, tethered to Riker by a safety line. The Enterprise loomed behind them like a silent guardian, while ahead, the shuttle spun in slow, drunken rotation. Even through the insulated suit, she could feel her pulse thrumming in her wrists.

“Easy,” Riker said through the comm, voice low and focused. “On my mark, engage thrusters… now.”

They aligned with the shuttle’s rotation and touched down against the scarred hull with a faint, magnetic clunk. Riker secured the tether and began forcing the emergency hatch override.

The hatch hissed. A stale, metallic gust escaped, carrying the scent of burnt circuitry and something acrid Beverly knew too well—ozone and charred insulation.

“Inside,” Riker said, leading.

The interior was chaos. Panels hung askew, the standard lightning flickered dimly through smoke, and the low, mournful chirp of failing life support filled the air - the emergency lights pulsed a dim, foreboding red.

The bodies of the missing were scattered across the floor - two aides and the pilot, pale and still.

“God…” Beverly muttered, already moving, her med kit snapping open. She knelt beside the closest form, checked for a pulse, and shook her head. “Gone.”

Riker crouched by the control console, his voice tight. “Shuttle’s tumbling. Hull stress is rising. We don’t have long, Doc.”

A soft groan cut through the noise.

Beverly’s head snapped toward the sound and saw Lwaxana Troi sprawled across the deck, her skin ashen.

“Mrs. Troi!” Beverly was at her side in an instant, rolling her gently onto her back. “Stay with me. C’mon…”

A weak flutter of her eyelids. “Oh… Jean-Luc… I told you… not to call before breakfast…”

Beverly almost laughed with relief. “You’re safe now. Or you will be.”

The shuttle gave a hard lurch. Riker grabbed for a railing, his voice cutting through the din. “Hull stress is climbing - she’s not going to last, Doctor!”

Frantically Crusher administered a hypospray, her hands steady despite the lurch of the deck beneath them. “I can stabilize her for transport, but we need to leave now.”

Riker slapped his combadge. “Enterprise! I dearly hope you got those transporters running! Three to beam up with one critical!”

//

“Give everything you have, now!” Picard barked toward the towering Klingon, voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Transporter lock is still unstable,” Worf warned. “Attempting to compensate… now!”

//

The transporter’s familiar hum swelled. A shimmer of light began to envelop the three of them.

Suddenly another silhouette shimmered into existence at the aft compartment, grinning through the smoke.

“Will!” Beverly started.

He spun, eyes widening as the unknown Ferengi lunged forward.

With shocking speed, the intruder yanked Beverly off balance and slapped a transponder onto her arm. The device hissed against the thick fabric of her suit. The Enterprise’s transporter beam intensified.

“No!” Riker roared, reaching for her.

Light flared. Beverly and Lwaxana disappeared - along with the Ferengi.

Riker landed hard on the transporter pad of the Enterprise, alone, his chest heaving.

Beverly was not there.
Lwaxana Troi was not there.

Picard’s voice cracked through the tense quiet. “Worf! Did we catch all of them?”

Worf’s eyes scanned the board, his voice iron - hard. “Negative, Captain. Only Commander Riker rematerialized. Two life signs… gone.”

Picard’s chest constricted, a hollow weight sinking into his bones. “Gone?” His voice was a whip crack, half disbelief, half fury.

The turbolift doors hissed, and Riker stormed onto the bridge, streaked with soot and sweat. He tore off his gloves, his face grim.
“Sir… they’re gone. This Ferengi used some kind of transponder on Beverly. He grabbed her - and Lwaxana - and disappeared right before I beamed out.”

Silence crashed over the bridge.

Then, the viewscreen flashed. The damaged shuttle, still spinning in the corridor, gave a sudden violent shudder.

“Captain!” Ensign Kellin shouted from the helm. “Hull breach cascade!”

A blossom of white light erupted on the screen, rippling into fiery fragments that scattered into the void.

The shuttle exploded.

Beverly’s absence landed like a physical blow in Picard’s chest. For a heartbeat, he was just a man, watching the last trace of her mission - of her courage - disintegrate into nothing but starlit debris.

“Helm,” he said at last, voice a deadly calm steel, “lock on to that Ferengi vessel. Pursuit course.”

“Aye, sir,” Kellin said, already pivoting the ship.

Riker moved to his chair, his jaw set. “Sir… they had this planned. That Ferengi wasn’t there by accident.”

Picard’s gaze stayed fixed on the stars and the trail of the fleeing Marauder. His hands clenched on the armrests. “They have abducted a Starfleet officer… and an ambassador of the Federation,” he said, his voice low, resonant, dangerous. “And they have made it personal.”

The red alert klaxon pulsed. The Enterprise turned like a hunting cat, engines thrumming deep.

They have her, Picard thought, his heart a knot of fear and rage. And I will tear the stars apart to bring her home.

***

The air aboard the Krayton was damp and acrid, thick with the oily stench of poorly filtered ventilation and the lingering tang of burnt plasma.

In the dim light of the cargo hold, two women lay slumped on the deck.
Lwaxana Troi, Betazoid ambassador and chaos incarnate, her rich robes now dull with smoke and grime.
Doctor Beverly Crusher, commander and chief medical officer of the USS Enterprise, her sapphire uniform smudged with soot, copper hair splayed across the floor.

Two Ferengi loomed over them.

DaiMon Prux, tall for his kind, his ears glinting with thin gold chains, folded his arms with visible irritation.
And Tog, his younger brother and partner in perpetual poor judgment, was already circling the unconscious forms with a grin that belonged behind bars.

“I told you,” Prux hissed, his voice like wet gravel, “we were only after the Betazoid. Her mind - reading makes her worth ten times her weight in latinum. You just had to make it complicated, didn’t you?”

Tog snorted, eyes roving with shameless interest. “Complicated? Brother, look at her!” He gestured at Beverly with a sweep of his short arms. “A high - ranking Starfleet officer. And attractive. You can smell the profit from here!”

Prux leaned in, squinting at the glint of metal on her collar. “Three pips. A female Commander.” He clicked his teeth, annoyance sparking in his beady eyes. “Starfleet will kick your ugly ass for this, brother.”

Thoroughly unimpressed Tog crouched next to Beverly’s form, tilting his head as if inspecting a new acquisition. “Starfleet always bluffs. And she’s worth a fortune - to the right buyer. Or a diplomat who wants… leverage.” He grinned, his needle - like teeth catching the low light. “And if she screams well enough in a ransom holo, even better.”

Prux groaned, rubbing his forehead. “You always let your lobes lead you into trouble. She’s not cargo, she’s liability.”

Tog shrugged, utterly unbothered. “A gorgeous liability. Besides, you’re forgetting one thing…” He jabbed a finger at Lwaxana. “Your Betazoid prize comes with a bonus! A companion piece! Collectors pay more for complete sets.”

Prux gave him a long, withering look. “You disgust me.”

“Thank you,” Tog said cheerfully.

The older Ferengi crouched at last, peering at Beverly’s face, his own nose wrinkling. “Well. If we’re keeping her, we don’t want her dead. Call the medic. I want them awake and valuable before Starfleet catches up to us.”

Tog’s grin stretched wider. “Worried about her?”

“I’m worried about profit margins,” Prux snapped. “And I don’t get profit from corpses. Wake the doctor. And clean this cargo bay - smells like burned Federation in here.”

As Tog scurried off, Prux lingered for a beat longer, his shadow falling over the unconscious women.

“Such trouble you’re going to bring me,” he muttered to no one, his voice a mix of irritation and greedy delight.

Then he turned, the wet slap of his boots echoing in the dim hold, leaving the women to the ship’s foul air and the slow creep of consciousness.

Chapter Text

The Enterprise thundered silently through warp, her sleek frame vibrating with the pulse of pursuit.

On the bridge, Jean-Luc Picard paced like a caged animal, his hands clasped behind his back one moment, slicing the air with sharp gestures the next. His face was carved from stone, but his steel gray eyes - dark and burning - betrayed the storm behind them.

“Status?” His voice cut across the room like a disruptor.

“La Forge reports we’re holding their velocity,” Riker said, leaning over the console at Picard’s right. “We can’t close the gap - not yet. Their Marauder’s lighter and dumping non - essential power into engines. But they can’t shake us either.”

“Not good enough,” Picard snapped, pivoting on his heel to stalk past the helm. His jaw was tight, his French cadence sharpening the edges of every syllable.

Riker exchanged a glance with Worf, then took a careful step closer. “Sir… if we push the warp core any harder, we risk a breach. Geordi says he can give us a few more decimal points, but nothing that’ll let us overtake them outright.”

Picard’s mouth tightened further. He exhaled through his nose, the sound clipped. “Then we stay on them. I want that ship under my phasers the moment they falter.”

At the rear of the bridge, Deanna Troi sat forward, her hands white - knuckled on the armrests. Her eyes were closed, her breathing measured - reaching. Searching.

“Deanna?” Riker asked softly.

Her brow furrowed. “I can feel… flickers. My mother is alive. Confused. Annoyed.” A pause. “And… frightened. She’s shielding instinctively, but she’s there.”

“And Doctor Crusher?” Picard asked, his voice low, taut as a bowstring.

Deanna hesitated. “I think she’s unconscious - or her mind is clouded. But I sense her presence. Distant. Dim. But alive.”

Picard turned sharply toward the viewscreen, where the faint trail of the Ferengi Marauder shimmered against warp space.

“Number One,” he said, voice colder than the vacuum beyond the hull. “Did you see anything aboard that shuttle before transport? Any detail that might help us predict their move?”

Riker’s jaw worked. He shook his head slowly. “Smoke. Flickering panels. A dead crew. Lwaxana barely conscious. And then this Ferengi - he came out of nowhere, Captain. Some kind of personal transponder - like he’d been waiting for her specifically. For them.”

“Them.” Picard’s gaze hardened. “This was planned.”

“Yes, sir,” Riker said grimly. “And that means they’re not running blind. They’ve got a buyer. Or a plan. Or both.”

Picard turned, scanning his bridge, the crimson alert glow washing his face in shadow.

“I want options,” he said. “Interdiction. Traps. Negotiation - hell, even trickery. Anything that will get them back on this ship alive.”

No one spoke.

Only the deep, omnipresent thrum of warp engines filled the silence, along with the relentless pulse of the captain’s rage - a predator held in check by steel and duty.

***

Pain arrived first.
A dull, throbbing weight behind Beverly Crusher’s eyes, radiating down her neck like a lingering echo of the transporter.

Then came the smell.
Stale, metallic, and faintly sweet in that unsettling way poorly recycled air carried the ghost of every previous breath.

She shifted, and her shoulder met cold, uneven plating.

Memory crashed back in fragments:
The shuttle.
Lwaxana unconscious.
Riker shouting.
A Ferengi hand on her arm.
Light…

And then nothing.

Beverly’s eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of a forcefield strip across a narrow, grimy cell.

No bed. No chairs. Just a metal deck, a corner drain, and Lwaxana Troi, sprawled a few feet away in a tangle of ruined silks and untamed curls, starting to stir.

Beverly groaned, forcing herself upright. Her hand instinctively went for her hip - her medkit – then for her chest in search for her combadge.

Both were gone.

“Of course,” she muttered, voice dry as a Risan desert. “First thing Ferengi steal: dignity and medical gear. Not necessarily in that order.”

Across the cell, Lwaxana’s eyelids fluttered open. She blinked once, then twice, and then – remarkably - sighed like she’d just woken from a nap.

“Oh… well,” she murmured. “This is certainly less comfortable than I prefer.”

Beverly crawled over, checking her pulse. “Your vitals are holding. Hypoxic, but no concussion. Congratulations, you’ll live to torment Jean-Luc another day.”

Lwaxana smiled faintly, even as her voice rasped. “My, my… you get sharper when you’re kidnapped. It’s attractive.”

Beverly shot her a sideways glance. “I do my best work under duress.”

She leaned back against the cold wall, exhaling through her nose, cataloging her own condition: mild headache, stiff neck, no obvious injuries. Her hands curled into fists. “Jean-Luc is going to kill someone for this,” she muttered, half to herself.

“Oh, he’ll be dramatic,” Lwaxana agreed lightly, adjusting her ruined hair with regal unconcern. “Scowling. Pacing. Grinding his perfect teeth. It’ll be delicious.”

Beverly huffed a short, involuntary laugh. “Encouraging image, but we’re still in a Ferengi cage.”

“Yes,” Lwaxana said serenely, leaning her head back. “And yet, my dear, we’re alive. And as long as we’re alive, we can make their lives miserable.”

Beverly’s lips curved, just slightly. There it was - the stubborn spark that made Lwaxana impossible to break.

“Then let’s start small,” Beverly said, voice sharp and steadying as she met Lwaxana’s gaze. “Step one: survive. Step two: get out. Step three: make them regret ever kidnapping us.”

Lwaxana grinned, eyes gleaming even in the dim. “Oh, I like you more and more, Beverly Crusher.”

***

The bridge of the Krayton smelled like greed and ambition.

Panels rattled softly as the Marauder pushed its engines to maximum, warp space streaking in twisted, sickly colors across the viewport. The low hum of the engines underscored every word like a predator’s purr.

DaiMon Prux lounged in his command chair, long fingers drumming the armrest, ears twitching with anticipation. His brother Tog, shorter and visibly agitated, paced the edge of the bridge, muttering about sensor pings and the persistent shadow of the Enterprise.

The doors hissed open, and the Ferengi doctor waddled in, his hands clutching a battered tricorder and a datapadd.

“Well?” Prux said without turning his head.

The doctor’s voice had the nasal quality of one too long in unventilated rooms. “The prisoners are stable. Minor injuries only. The Betazoid female is slightly dehydrated and concussed, but she will recover quickly.”

Tog grinned, rubbing his hands. “Good. She’ll be useful once she wakes up. So much profit in a woman who can hear secrets before they’re spoken.”

“And the human?” Prux asked, his tone sharper.

“Completely healthy… mostly,” the doctor said, drawing out the last word as he tapped the tricorder screen. He glanced at Tog, then back at Prux, and slowly extended the device. “But there is… additional information your lobes will appreciate, DaiMon.”

Prux took the tricorder, squinting at the scrolling medical data. His eyes narrowed, then widened slightly, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Well, well,” he purred.

Tog tilted his head, ears twitching in irritation. “What? What is it? She’s just a human female. Healthy and… profitable, yes, but…”

“The price,” Prux interrupted smoothly, “just went up.”

Tog blinked. “Why? Because she’s a Starfleet officer?”

“No,” Prux said, setting the tricorder down with deliberate care. “Because someone out there will pay anything to have her back. And we’re going to find him.”

Tog frowned, not catching the nuance. “Why complicate this? That long - legged beauty will certainly attract enough other potential buyers. No need to blackmail Starfleet.”

Prux leaned back, his grin stretching wider, predatory and calculating. “Because, brother… this human woman is not just a Starfleet hostage. She’s a growing investment.”

He tapped his ear with a long finger. “Trust your lobes. Profit smells sweeter when it’s… personal.”

Tog scratched his head, still baffled. “You and your secrets. I just hope she screams nice when we record the ransom holo.”

Prux chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Oh, I think the screams will come… from the one whoever it is that wants her back.”

On the flickering console, the Enterprise still trailed in warp space, silent and relentless - a wolf in pursuit.

***

The low hum of the warp core vibrated through the deck as Jean-Luc Picard paced the length of his ready room like a predator denied its strike.

The stars beyond the viewport stretched into ribbons of light, the Ferengi Marauder’s warp trail etched into his mind like a taunt. Every step he took was clipped, his hands clasped and unclasped behind his back, jaw tight enough to ache.

Deanna Troi sat on the edge of the couch, back straight, hands folded tightly in her lap. She was pale but composed, the effort of that composure evident in the tension across her shoulders.

“Captain,” she began gently, “you need to sit. You haven’t stopped moving in an hour...”

“You have no idea,” he growled, low and rough, stopping just short of the viewport. His reflection glared back at him, eyes shadowed by the weight of fear he couldn’t release on the bridge.

Deanna’s own control wavered, but she held her ground. “Sir… with all due respect, they have my mother as well. I’m… not exactly calm inside either.”

The words seemed to reach him. He turned, exhaling through his nose, and studied her face for a long moment before dropping heavily into the chair behind his desk. His elbows hit the surface, hands covering his mouth, then sliding down to his chin.

“They are holding… her,” he said finally, voice quieter but no less raw. “Beverly. I can picture her in their hands, and it is…” He shook his head once, struggling for the word, “…intolerable.”

Deanna’s tone softened. “I know. I feel you, Captain. And I can still sense her - faintly. She’s well and alive. My mother too. They’re frightened… but not in despair. Hold on to that.”

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the streaked stars. “This ship can match that Marauder for now. But not forever. Their power curve is lower, but their mass is a fraction of ours. They can run longer than I can chase. And the second they reach Ferengi space…”

“They’ll try to vanish,” Deanna finished quietly.

His mouth pressed into a hard line. “Or worse - they’ll try to sell them before I can intervene.”

Silence hung for a moment, the soft hum of the ship a fragile barrier between the man and the chasm of rage he fought to contain.

Finally, Picard’s hand clenched on the armrest. “I will not let that happen. Not to your mother. Not to…” He stopped himself, but the name was there in the silence.

Beverly, the woman I love.

Deanna’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Then we find a way, Captain. But you can’t chase them on fury alone. That’s how they win.”

He met her gaze, the flaring storm in his chest tamped down - slightly - by her calm.

“I hear you, Counselor,” he said at last, rising slowly. “Now let’s make sure they never reach Ferengi space.” And slowly, a plan began to form in the back of his mind.

***

The cell was dim, a single guttering strip of light buzzing overhead. The faint hum of the forcefield droned like a mechanical insect, punctuated by the creaks and groans of the Marauder’s bulkheads in warp.

Beverly sat with her back to the cold wall, knees drawn up slightly. Her hands were restless, rubbing together, wishing for her missing medkit. Lwaxana lay sprawled with aristocratic discomfort, her tresses a shadow of their customary glory.

“Alright,” Beverly said at last, breaking the heavy quiet. “We need to start thinking about how to get out of here.”

“Excellent idea,” Lwaxana said dryly, rising up while flicking imaginary dust from her sleeve. “Shall we simply walk through the forcefield and ask them politely to release us?”

Beverly’s lips twitched. “Not quite my plan. I was thinking maybe you could read what they’re planning. Pick up on their thoughts, their intentions.”

Lwaxana’s face scrunched in a grimace. “Ah, if only. But, my dear, Ferengi minds are opaque. Like trying to eat soup with a fork. I can feel the edges of their greed and… other appetites, but I can’t read specifics.”

Beverly’s head tipped back against the wall. “Great. So much for the shortcut.”

“Oh, don’t pout. You’re far too pretty for that,” Lwaxana said airily. Then, after a beat, her eyes gleamed. “Although I do recognize one of them. I’ve seen those lobes before.”

Beverly arched a brow. “You keep track of ears?”

“I keep track of everything interesting,” Lwaxana corrected primly. “He was on Betazed, maybe… six weeks ago? At a spa, of all things. Pretending to enjoy the mineral pools, but really just watching and listening. They’re terrible at subtlety.”

Beverly sighed. “So, this might’ve been planned for a while.”

“Oh, certainly. You don’t kidnap me on a whim.” Lwaxana preened for a second, then tilted her head toward Beverly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “And speaking of planning… what exactly have you and our dashing captain been planning lately?”

Beverly stiffened. “Lwaxana…”

“Oh, don’t give me that tone, darling. We could be here for hours, days even. I need entertainment. And you… you’re practically glowing with delicious little secrets.”

Beverly crossed her arms, aiming for a mask of dry composure. “You’re imagining things.”

“I never imagine. I perceive,” Lwaxana said, tapping her temple. “And I perceive that a certain Jean-Luc Picard has been… less tightly wound these last few months. A little softer in the edges. A little… rumpled.”

Beverly’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Rumpled?”

“Yes, in the best way,” Lwaxana said, utterly delighted. “I can practically smell it on him. That quiet, post - midnight sort of… contentment. Mmm.”

Beverly groaned, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Please, spare me the dramatic commentary.”

“Oh, come now. You’re trapped in a Ferengi cell with me. You can’t run away, and you can’t hide behind those pristine Starfleet protocols. Talk to me, Beverly. Is it true love?”

The word landed like a soft, heavy weight in the dimness.

Beverly hesitated. Her hands twisted in her lap before she forced herself to meet Lwaxana’s curious, warm gaze.

“…Yes,” she admitted finally, voice quiet. “It’s love. It’s always been love. For longer than I care to admit out loud.”

Lwaxana’s smile softened, all mischief retreating for a moment to reveal the maternal warmth beneath. “Ah. There it is. I knew it. It’s in the way he looks at you, my dear. Like a man who’s spent his whole life holding his breath and finally remembered how to exhale.”

Beverly’s chest tightened, and she stared down at her hands. “We’ve wasted a lot of time. And now… I don’t even know if -”

“No, no, no,” Lwaxana interrupted, sitting up straighter. “Do not start down that dreary path. You are both stubborn, brilliant, infuriating people, but love like this… it survives. It thrives in adversity. Trust me. I practically wrote the book on star - crossed romances.”

Beverly gave her a sidelong glance. “…Wasn’t the last chapter of that book you eloping with a Rigelean blood prince and then divorcing him three months later?”

“Details,” Lwaxana said breezily, waving a hand. “The point is - he will come for you. And for me, of course. But mostly for you. I can feel it.”

Beverly let out a slow breath, her pulse steadying slightly in the familiar rhythm of hope and doubt. “I want to believe that.”

“Oh, believe it,” Lwaxana said, leaning back with a feline stretch. “I give him one day, two at most, before he’s breaking down those ridiculous doors. And when he does, I’ll be there to watch him look at you like you hung the stars yourself.”

In the cocoon of dim light, stale air Beverly crossed her arms over her knees, while Lwaxana Troi reclined like a queen denied her throne, watching her cellmate struggle with contentment and flaring emotions. “I admit, life with Jean-Luc definitely suits you,” Lwaxana said at last, breaking the comfortable silence Beverly had been clinging to. Her dark eyes glittered with mischief. “Your aura has definitely changed.”

Beverly groaned, tilting her head back against the wall. “Lwaxana…”

“No, truly. It’s the presence of deep, settled satisfaction. That delicious warmth that comes when the body and the heart have found their perfect match.” She gave Beverly a look that could have passed for innocent if it hadn’t been so utterly wicked. “Lucky you.”

Beverly pressed her lips together and exhaled slowly. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m observant,” Lwaxana corrected with airy superiority. Then she leaned in a little, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And I’ve always known Jean-Luc Picard is a passionate lover. He walks around the galaxy all buttoned up, but men like that… oh, my dear, when they finally unbutton…”

Beverly buried her slightly flushed face in her hands and let out a deep, suffering groan. This could be hours. Days, alone with this Betazoid inquiry. “I’m going to lose my mind before the Ferengi even try anything”, she muttered into her palms.

“Consider it a bonding exercise,” Lwaxana said cheerfully, ignoring Crusher’s embarrassment and stretching her legs out with queenly ease. “I’ll keep your spirits up. You’ll keep mine in check. And when your gorgeous starship captain bursts in to save us, you’ll thank me.”

Beverly peeked at her between her fingers. “…I will?”

“Of course. It was me, after all, who helped push you two past all that deliciously boring fear.” She tapped her temple with a smirk. “A gentle nudge here, a provocative remark there. Deanna played her part too, naturally. But the sparks were always there. We just blew on them a little.”

Beverly’s groan softened into a rueful laugh. “…You might actually be right. You helped us get here. You and your… ‘gentle nudges.’”

Lwaxana smiled, a rare, sincere warmth under all the theatricality. “And look at you now. The great Jean-Luc Picard’s heart in your hands. That man would face an armada for you. And he will.”

Beverly’s chest tightened. She let her head rest against the wall, letting that hope - stubborn, quiet, real - settle in her trembling chest.

***

Had his fears come true?

The dark, unrelenting voice of guilt coiled tight in his chest. He had always known love was a vulnerability. He had feared it for years - decades - because this was the cost. This gnawing, gut - deep terror.

Was it wrong to start this?

Was this the price of loving her too much?

Beverly.

Her name reverberated like a pulse in his chest. Her laughter in his quarters, her bare feet on his carpet, the quiet mornings over coffee and croissants, her copper hair spilling across his pillow.

Every memory felt like a blade now, cutting as much as it comforted.

He had thought - foolishly - that loving her would bring peace. And it had, in the quiet moments. But now, with her in the hands of Ferengi scavengers, the peace was a cruel joke.

Beverly had already lost Jack.

And now, the ugly thought whispered, she might be lost herself.

His heart stuttered under the weight of it, a familiar ache blooming into a sharp, punishing throb. Perhaps this was his penance. He had not saved Jack Crusher. He had carried that guilt for years, every time he saw Beverly’s eyes and Wesley’s smile.

And now, maybe, he was to pay the ultimate price for daring to take what he had yearned for all along.

This is what happens when you let yourself love.

He exhaled, long and slow, steadying the tremor in his chest. No one on the bridge could see the man inside the captain - the man who wanted to tear across the stars barehanded and drag her back from whatever cage she was in.

Duty weighed on him like a mantle of lead.

I am the captain. I have to function. I have to think.

He straightened a fraction, squaring his shoulders, forcing his mind to the task at hand. He could not let grief or fury drive him. He had to be cold enough to plan, sharp enough to strike, and patient enough to wait for the moment that would bring her home.

Riker’s quiet voice reached him from the first officer’s chair. “Sir. We’re still holding their trail. But they’re not slowing down.”

Picard gave a single, precise nod. “Then we will not either.”

His voice was calm. Controlled. The mask of command firmly in place.

But beneath it, Jean-Luc Picard’s heart burned with a singular, dangerous truth: I will bring her back.

Ever so slowly he sat forward, elbows on the armrests of his chair, gaze locked on the target. He had been weighing and discarding plans for hours, patience fraying with every kilometer of distance.

Finally, he turned his head, the decision coalescing like cold iron.
“Mr. Worf. If we were to fire on their secondary fusion reactions… could you target it precisely enough to force them out of warp, without destroying the vessel?”

Worf’s dark eyes narrowed. His fingers moved over tactical controls.
“Yes, Captain. It is possible… but difficult. We would need to strike the flux chillers in a precise sequence. A near miss, or overcompensation, could destroy the warp core or send them into an uncontrolled spin.”

Riker leaned forward, brows drawn. “And without Data at the helm… we’re gambling, sir. Even a fractional miscalculation and they either blow - or come out of warp so hard they could crack apart. And with Beverly and Lwaxana aboard…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

The silence stretched, heavy and taut, every officer holding their breath.

Picard’s jaw worked. His heart thudded, split between captain and man - between the logic of command and the raw, suffocating need to get her back.

If I wait, they could reach Ferengi space and vanish.
If I act, one mistake could kill her.

His hand tightened on the armrest. Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his feet, command presence radiating from every line of his posture.

“Prepare phasers,” he said at last, his voice low but firm. “Target their flux chillers. Stand by on my mark.”

“Aye, sir,” Worf said, his tone a low rumble of anticipation and tension.

Then - without warning -  
The Ferengi Marauder dropped out of warp.

“Captain!” Ensign Callum’s voice spiked. “They’ve cut speed! We’re overshooting their position!”

“Bring us down to impulse!” Riker barked. “Full reverse stabilization!”

The bridge shuddered lightly as the Enterprise dropped out of warp, space snapping back into a field of sharp, steady stars. The Ferengi vessel now hovered a few thousand kilometers ahead, small and smug on the viewscreen.

“They’re hailing us,” Worf announced, a growl in his voice.

Picard’s eyes narrowed, the storm in his chest coiling tighter. “On screen.”

Chapter Text

The Ferengi face filled the main viewscreen, DaiMon Prux’s sharp grin glinting under the sickly light of his bridge. His large ears twitched with smug delight, gold chains jingling faintly as he leaned into the camera.

“Captain,” he whistled, drawing out the word like a taunt. “I believe I have something… or rather, two someones… you are surely looking for.”

In the corner of the frame, Tog leered and fiddled with a control panel, his grin a parody of brotherly support.

Picard’s hands tightened to fists. He kept his voice level, the iron in his tone unmistakable.
“You have kidnapped a Federation ambassador and a Starfleet officer. Return them to me. Now. Or I will use force to recover them.”

Prux chuckled, a wet, greedy sound. “Oh, I don’t think you will. Not while I hold… such delicate leverage.”

Picard’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed cold. “They will not be harmed.”

Prux’s grin stretched wider, showing sharp teeth. “Harmed? No, no, Captain. Quite the opposite. They are thriving. Especially the Starfleet woman.”

Picard froze, a flicker of confusion flashing across his face. “…What do you mean by that?”

Prux spread his hands in a pantomime of innocence. “I only mean… it would be a tragedy to separate a… bonded pair. I understand that your Commander has a mate aboard your ship. Perhaps… someone who would pay any price to have her back, safe and whole.”

The words landed like a phaser shot to Picard’s chest. He forced his expression to remain neutral, but his mind raced.

Her... mate?

He felt Riker stiffen in his chair. He turned slightly, Deanna Troi caught his gaze and gave a minute shake of her head, eyes focused inward. “She’s thoroughly alive and definitely well,” she murmured softly, pitched for him alone. “A little shaken, probably. I guess he’s just bluffing.”

A knot in his chest loosened - slightly - but his heart still pounded with cold fury.

He resisted the almost primal urge to stand and declare I am the one you seek. I am her mate. And I will tear you apart if you even dare to touch her just once.

Instead, he took a slow breath, smoothing his voice into the measured cadence of command.
“You have made a grave mistake, DaiMon. The longer you hold Federation citizens, the worse your situation becomes. Release them now, and we will consider… clemency.”

Prux tsked, wagging a finger. “Ah, but you see, Captain… as long as I hold them, I hold everything. Profit is a patient game. I can wait. Or… we can negotiate.”

Riker leaned forward, his voice edged with steel. “Negotiate? You abducted a Federation officer and a diplomatic envoy. That’s piracy. And piracy doesn’t end well for Ferengi.”

Tog let out a nervous giggle, but Prux only grinned wider. “And yet here I am, alive… and holding all the cards. You can threaten me, Captain Picard, but we both know: you will not risk harming them. Because I could… misplace them.”

The words slithered across the bridge, dripping with malice and greed. But Picard didn’t even flinch.

Tog began to fidget beside Prux, licking his teeth with a restless, feral energy. Leaning toward the pickup, his voice high with glee and opportunism, he continued: “Come now, Captain… who is she bonded to? This eyes - stimulating Commander of yours. She must have a mate. Someone who would give anything for her safe return. Where is he hiding? Someone has to care very much…”

Picard took a step forward, his face a mask of absolute composure, closing the distance to the viewscreen until his shadow swallowed the light from the command pit. When he spoke, his voice was a soft, deadly whisper that seemed to cut through the Ferengi’s oily glee.
“DaiMon Prux. Surrender your prisoners. Now. Or you will leave me no choice but to remove you from space by force.”

The bridge held its breath.

Prux chuckled, tapping his greedy fingers together. “Oh, the great Jean-Luc Picard, so very serious. But I think… I think we are getting closer to the truth, aren’t we, brother?”

Tog’s grin spread wider. “Oh, yes. He knows. He’s trying so hard to hide it, but I can see it in his eyes. She belongs to someone here. Someone… important.”

Picard’s gaze locked on Tog, the full weight of his fury and terror compressed into a single glacial stare. It should have been enough to freeze the blood of anyone with sense.

And yet, Tog kept talking. “Ahh… there it is. There he is. Right there in the middle of your lovely bridge. The mate. Hiding in plain sight. No wonder you look ready to burst.”

Prux’s eyes widened, the grin returning with a new, sharper edge as the pieces clicked into place. “Well, well, well,” he purred. “Now the prize grows ever sweeter. A Starfleet commander, and her… very protective, very stubborn mate, right there in command of the famous flag ship. How very… profitable.”

Picard’s face drained of color, the words sinking into his chest like shards of ice. He could feel the eyes of his bridge crew flick toward him and away again, silently, respectfully, but they all knew.

Beverly. My Beverly.

And then Tog, unable to resist, delivered the line that made the air itself crackle:
“Now, now, Daddy,” he crooned, mock - sweet. “We wouldn’t want to risk the mother of your little… investment… by being rude, would we?”

The words hit him like a photon torpedo.

Picard froze. For the briefest, most dangerous heartbeat, the meaning hovered just out of reach  -  then slammed into him, leaving his body cold, his stomach hollow.

Mother.

His mouth opened slightly, breath catching. He felt his knees nearly buckle under the sudden, crashing weight of realization, and forced himself to lock his legs and hold his ground. The bridge had gone utterly silent, a cathedral of shock. Not even the hum of consoles seemed to intrude.

Prux’s grin had never looked more poisonous.

And for the first time in hours, Jean-Luc Picard was not thinking about command, or strategy, or diplomacy.

He was thinking only one thing, with a clarity that burned: Beverly. My love. My child.

***

The Marauder shuddered, then fell abruptly silent.

Beverly Crusher rose from the cold floor in one smooth motion, brushing grit from her hands. The low thrum of warp speed was gone, replaced by the hollow stillness of a ship at rest.

“They’ve stopped,” she said, voice calm but alert as her sharp eyes flicked toward the forcefield. “Either they’ve reached their destination, or the Enterprise has finally forced their hand.”

Lwaxana stretched languidly, shaking the stiffness from her arms. “Mmm, that will be your Jean-Luc, rattling their lobes. He’s relentless when properly motivated.”

“Motivated,” Beverly said dryly, pacing a small circle in the cell. “He’s also cautious. If they’ve stopped, it’s because he’s already made a move - or they’re about to make one.”

She crouched to inspect the floor, searching for anything she could use as a tool, a lever, a distraction. The cell offered little but smooth plating, a drain in the corner, and a faint seam where the forcefield emitter met the wall.

“Looking for a way out, Doctor?” Lwaxana asked, amused.

“Of course I am,” Beverly replied. “Hope is a wonderful thing, but it’s not a plan. If I can find even a small edge, I want it ready before they walk in that door.”

Lwaxana tilted her head, watching her with a mixture of admiration and amusement. “You really do glow when you’re in fight - mode. It’s very… commanding. No wonder Jean-Luc is so besotted.”

Beverly snorted, never pausing her inspection. “If you keep talking like that, I might let you deal with the Ferengi first.”

Then Lwaxana went still, her gaze sharpening. “Oh.”

Beverly turned immediately. “What?”

“I can feel him,” Lwaxana whispered, the mischief gone from her tone. “Jean-Luc. He’s like a beacon in the dark. Fury, love, resolve… and something else. A new kind of fire.”

Beverly stilled, letting that land - but she refused to linger on the thought like a helpless damsel. “Good,” she said firmly. “Then he knows enough to act. And so do we. I need you alert, Lwaxana. If you sense a distraction or a shift in their mood, I can use it to get us out of here - or at least give the Enterprise an opening.”

Lwaxana straightened her spine, a spark of her old Betazoid regal authority lighting her eyes. “You intend to make trouble?”

Beverly’s mouth curved in a small, fierce smile. “Oh, absolutely. I’m not waiting for someone else to save me if I can make their lives miserable first.”

“Delicious,” Lwaxana said, eyes twinkling. “I do enjoy a woman after my own heart.”

***

The Ferengi bridge was a shrine to greed: gold - pressed latinum strips inlaid in the railings, dangling chains and trinkets clinking with every vibration of the ship. The stale scent of recycled air mixed with the sour tang of sweat and metal.

The viewscreen went dark, leaving DaiMon Prux and Tog bathed in the flicker of console lights.

Prux leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grunt, rubbing his large, fleshy ears like a man savoring a favorite vintage.
“Ahhh… did you see his face, Tog? That stiff Starfleet mask almost cracked. He would give half his ship to have them back. I can smell the latinum already.”

Tog fidgeted at his console, grinning and nervous all at once. “Yes, brother, it was… delicious. But this is Picard we’re taunting. The flagship captain. He’s angry. Very angry. What if he decides the profit isn’t worth the risk?”

Prux snorted and flicked his fingers dismissively. “Bah! Starfleet captains don’t act on anger. They posture. They negotiate. And in the end… they pay. That man will do anything to protect his… what did you call her?” He licked his teeth. “His mate.”

Tog’s ears twitched. “Still, I don’t like how close they are staying on our tail. I can feel his eyes on our hull. It’s like being stalked by a targ.”

Prux leaned forward, his grin stretching. “Let him stalk. The longer he chases, the higher the price rises.” He tapped the arm of his chair. “First, we make sure our leverage is clear. Then, we name our terms.”

Tog hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the lower decks where the cells were located. “Do we… show them both?”

Prux’s grin sharpened. “No. One hostage at a time. We start with the Betazoid. Her mind tricks are valuable, and she’s noisy enough to make Picard sweat. I intend to keep her for myself after we collect the ransom. A mind like that can open doors in markets gold can’t touch.”

Tog leaned closer, lowering his voice despite the empty bridge. “What about the human? The commander?”

Prux’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “She’s the insurance policy. She will fetch a fortune - or break Picard in ways the Betazoid cannot. But we don’t show all our cards yet.”

Tog grinned, a little cruel and a little fearful. “We could… prove our point with her, though. A little scream for the audio feed…”

Prux’s ears twitched in thought, then he shook his head. “Not yet. If we mishandle her, Starfleet might act before we’ve secured our profit. No… first we bring up the Betazoid. See how loudly she can sing for us.”

He rose from the chair, gesturing toward the door.
“Come, brother. Let’s see if our prizes are awake enough to play.”

***

The hiss of the door broke the cell’s dim stillness.

Beverly Crusher was already on her feet, spine straight, jaw set. Lwaxana rose a beat later, adjusting her tattered silks with regal dignity, as though she were about to receive guests in a Betazoid drawing room rather than a Ferengi brig.

Prux and Tog waddled in, flanked by two scrawny guards with low - grade disruptors. The forcefield dropped with a shimmer, and the stale corridor air seeped into the cell.

“Ahhh,” Prux crooned, showing his pointed teeth. “Our little investments are awake and… fiery. Excellent. I prefer my merchandise conscious.”

Crusher’s eyes narrowed to icy slits. “If you think you can intimidate me, you’re in for a disappointment.”

Tog giggled, a grating, high - pitched sound. “Ohhh, we don’t need to intimidate. We just need to… profit.” His gaze roved over her in a way that made her skin crawl. “Though I do admire Starfleet’s uniform policy. Very… efficient for inspections.”

Beverly crossed her arms deliberately, her stance more commanding than defensive. “Touch me or the ambassador, and Picard will make sure you regret ever leaving Ferengi space.”

“Ahhh, yes,” Prux purred, tilting his head, “the formidable captain. He is quite… motivated, isn’t he?” His grin was pure malice. “I imagine he would do anything to keep you… safe. Or shall we say… intact?”

Beverly’s stomach twisted at the implication, but she didn’t flinch. “You’re overestimating your leverage and underestimating his patience.”

Tog leaned in, leering. “I think we’re estimating perfectly. His eyes practically bled when we mentioned you. He knows you’re special. Very… special.”

Beverly’s jaw clenched. She didn’t understand the full weight of their innuendo - she wasn’t aware of the life growing quietly inside her - but she understood their game. “I am a Starfleet officer and a doctor. I am not a bargaining chip for your amusement.”

“Hmm,” Prux hummed, glancing at Lwaxana. “We’ll see which of you fetches the higher price. But for now… let’s see how our Betazoid songbird sings.”

Lwaxana’s dark eyes glittered. “Oh, I can sing, you vile little troll. I can sing about every single law you’re breaking and how many admirals will line up to tear those ears off one by one when I testify.”

Tog’s ears twitched in irritation. “Hah! Big words for a prisoner.”

“Bigger words than you’ll ever understand,” she said tartly, flipping her hair back with deliberate drama. “I’ve been kidnapped by more impressive creatures than you, and I married one of them. At least he had manners.”

Beverly bit back a smirk even as her mind worked furiously. Keep them talking. Keep them distracted.

Prux lost some of his smug patience and gestured sharply with his disruptor. “Take her.”

The guards seized Lwaxana under the arms. She allowed herself to be pulled toward the door, never breaking eye contact with the Ferengi.
“You’ll regret this,” she called over her shoulder. “Jean-Luc will not tolerate your existence for long!”

The door hissed shut, and the forcefield snapped back to life.

Beverly stood alone in the cell, her heartbeat steady but her mind a storm.

They’re separating us. They’re planning something. And I need to be ready.

She scanned the cell again, her sharp mind cataloging every seam, every vibration, every sound from the corridor. Her pulse thrummed - not with fear, but with focus.

***

The bridge was quiet now, save for the steady hum of the engines and the faint, electronic chirp of tactical readouts.

Jean-Luc Picard sat rigid in his chair, dazzled and unmoored, the echo of the Ferengi’s insinuation rattling through his chest like a bell struck too hard.

Mother.

His mind ran in spirals, each thought colliding with the next. Beverly was the most forthright person he had ever known. She would have told him. Wouldn’t she?

He turned, almost stiffly, toward the counselor seated at his left. Deanna Troi met his gaze with a soft, cautious smile - the kind she used when she sensed a storm brewing in a man who prided himself on unflinching control.

“Is he…” The words escaped before he could fully shape them. They trembled in the air like a dissonant note.

Deanna rose from her chair, moving a step closer to the command dais. Her hands folded lightly before her, her voice calm but edged with restraint.
“Captain… I cannot read Ferengi minds. You know that. And I would be careful. They are not exactly paragons of honesty or… trustworthiness.”

Picard’s eyes closed for a heartbeat. He inhaled slowly, the air tasting dry as recycled steel. His mind was a whirlwind: logic, duty, memory, and raw, unshielded hope.

Could it be true?

He felt Riker shift beside him, the first officer’s usual stoicism undercut by a flicker of amusement he barely suppressed. His lips twitched before settling back into something more professional.

“Captain,” Riker said, leaning closer, voice pitched low. “With respect… Ferengi aren’t above inventing leverage. If they thought they could make you hesitate for even a second, they’d spin any story that might sting.”

Picard’s jaw clenched. Leverage. The word sliced into his thoughts.

But another voice - a quieter, more dangerous one - rose in the back of his mind:

But what if they didn’t lie? Why would any Ferengi, no matter how vile or self - serving, fabricate something like this without a kernel of truth?

He exhaled slowly, letting the breath hiss past his teeth. “No. They are liars by nature… and yet…”

The bridge crew watched him from the corners of their eyes, respectful of his space, yet keenly aware of the weight settling over their captain.

In the hollow of his chest, love and fear coiled together like twin serpents.

Beverly. If it is true… I will bring you both home.

***

The bridge doors hissed open, and the scrawny guards all but dragged Lwaxana Troi inside. Her tattered silks trailed behind her like a royal banner fallen into enemy hands, and yet she radiated poise.

“Careful!” she snapped, jerking her arm free from one of the guards. “These robes are hand - woven Betazoid silk, and if you tear them, I will add it to the list of indignities that will ruin you in court.”

DaiMon Prux lounged in his oversized chair, fingers drumming, gold chains glinting under the flicker of the consoles. His grin was wide and indulgent.
“Ahhh, our honoured guest finally joins us. Welcome to the heart of profit.”

Lwaxana lifted her chin, scanning the cramped bridge with a single, withering glance. “Heart of filth, more like. Do Ferengi ever clean their ships, or do you prefer the smell of wet socks and desperation?”

Tog, standing near the helm, made a strangled noise of protest. His ears twitched furiously. “She’s… insufferable!”

“Delightfully so,” Prux said, his grin widening. “That sharp tongue is exactly why you are valuable to me. You can hear thoughts, hmm? Secrets others would pay dearly for?”

Lwaxana rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Oh, so that’s the game. You kidnap an ambassador and expect me to perform party tricks for your amusement? What a small imagination you have.”

Prux leaned forward, his voice a low purr. “Small imagination, big profit. Every secret you spill makes you more valuable. And the sooner Captain Picard understands that…” He tapped the arm of his chair. “…the sooner I get what I want.”

Lwaxana tilted her head, studying him with the kind of lazy disdain that only a lifetime of aristocracy could perfect. “You want latinum, obviously. You always want latinum. But what you really want is leverage. And that, my dear, is something you can never truly hold. Because no one in this quadrant fears a Ferengi with a hostage - they just hate you.”

Tog stomped his foot, face twisting in frustration. “She’s mocking us! She should be terrified, not -”

“She is terrified,” Prux said with infuriating calm, though his grin faltered at the edges. “She just doesn’t show it. Betazoids… always trying to be clever.”

Lwaxana leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Oh, I’m clever enough to know you’ve already overplayed your hand. You’ve made Captain Picard angry. That man will not stop until he has me, and that lovely doctor of his, back on his ship. And when he does…”

Her gaze drifted deliberately over the consoles, the ceiling, the walls -  
“…I suspect there will be scorch marks where your precious bridge used to be.”

Tog’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again in frustrated sputtering. His voice pitched high.
“Brother, she’s impossible! She’s…  she’s…“

“- a delight,” Lwaxana interrupted smoothly, smiling with pure mischief. “And you’re already regretting bringing me here, aren’t you?”

Prux’s grin thinned into a cold smirk, but his eyes glittered with calculation. “Perhaps. But regret is cheap. Profit is eternal. Take her back to the cell. We will begin… a different strategy soon.”

The guards hesitated, clearly reluctant to touch her again, but eventually ushered her back toward the lift.

As the doors closed, Tog let out a strangled growl and threw his hands up.
“She’s going to drive me mad!”

Prux leaned back, steepling his fingers.
“Then pray the human screams better than the Betazoid taunts, brother. Because one way or another, Picard will pay.”

***

The forcefield shimmered and dropped with a low hum.

Beverly Crusher was already on her feet, muscles tense and eyes sharp, when the guards shoved Lwaxana Troi back into the cell. The Betazoid stumbled once, caught herself, and immediately flicked her curls back into place with an indignant huff.

“Well,” Lwaxana said, planting her hands on her hips, “that was exactly as appalling as one would expect from Ferengi interior design and conversation combined.”

Beverly moved to steady her, scanning for injuries. “You’re alright?”

“Perfectly intact,” Lwaxana said with tart satisfaction. “But our delightful host is planning something. He wants leverage, and he wants it soon. I could feel his greed dripping off him like sweat. He’s thinking about… proof. A demonstration.”

Beverly’s jaw clenched, but her eyes stayed calm, calculating. “Then we can’t wait for him to make the next move.”

Lwaxana arched a brow. “Oh? Do you have an idea, Doctor?”

Beverly stepped closer to the wall and knelt by the faint seam where the forcefield emitter met the deck. “I’ve been studying this cell since you left. Forcefields need emitters, and emitters need power junctions. Ferengi engineering is…” she glanced at Lwaxana with a wry smile, “…let’s say ‘cost - efficient’ rather than elegant.”

“You’re going to short it out?” Lwaxana asked, her eyes brightening with both curiosity and mischief.

“If I can find a weak point, maybe. I need a conductor - something metal, small enough to fit in that seam. Once the field fluctuates, we make our move.”

Lwaxana looked around, then down at the various metallic ornaments sewn into the remains of her elaborate sash. She plucked one free with a theatrical flourish. “Will Betazoid ceremonial jewellery do?”

Beverly took it, turning it in her hand, a slow smile forming. “Perfect. If this works, we can give the Enterprise the opening it needs.”

Lwaxana settled beside her, uncharacteristically serious for a moment. “And if it doesn’t?”

Beverly glanced at the door, her blue eyes flaring with steel. “Then I make sure they regret ever putting me in this cell.”

***

The doors whispered shut behind him, and for the first time in hours, Jean-Luc Picard was alone.

He did not go to the ready room. He did not sit in the captain’s chair to stare out the endless stars like a man carved from command. No, this needed to happen here - in his private space, the space that now felt incomplete without her presence.

He walked the length of the room slowly, letting the stillness settle on his shoulders. His quarters smelled faintly of leather and tea and the softer, warmer trace of her - like sunlight and clean linen. He could almost see her curled on his sofa, legs tucked beneath her, medical reports in hand, blue eyes glancing up to catch him watching.

His knees gave the smallest tremor as he sank onto that sofa now, the weight of his exhaustion and fear pulling him down.

A soft chirp, and then a familiar warmth landed on his lap. Spot stretched luxuriously, a purr vibrating through Picard’s thighs.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, voice rough with fatigue and emotion. “I’ve neglected you, haven’t I?”

The cat blinked, then meowed pointedly. Picard’s lips twitched. He reached absently for the container of feed on the nearby shelf, pouring some into the small dish on the low table. Spot dove in, tail flicking against his arm, and he resumed stroking her fur automatically.

The mundanity of it - feeding a cat while the woman he loved sat in the hands of Ferengi pirates - struck him like a blade in the chest.

She would have told me.

He repeated the thought like a mantra, trying to drown the whispering echo of DaiMon Prux’s words.

She would never hide something like that from me.

His gaze drifted to the side, to the neatly folded stack of replicated linens on the chair. On top of them, the shirt she always stole - his soft, worn grey tunic - lay abandoned from the last night she’d stayed. He reached for it slowly, fingers curling into the fabric, and lifted it to his face.

Her scent clung to it faintly, enough to pierce straight through his chest. A deep inhale filled his lungs with memory, with her warmth, with the stubborn ache of love.

“Beverly…” he whispered, letting the syllables tremble.

He closed his eyes, gripping the shirt, soft beneath his fingers, carrying the faint warmth of memory.

Jean-Luc Picard had sat in silence long enough for the weight of command to settle back into his spine.

The Ferengi’s voice still crawled under his skin, every insinuation, every mocking “Daddy,” every veiled threat. His first instinct - to storm in, phasers hot, and tear Beverly from their filthy hands - burned in his chest.

But rashness could kill her.

And surrender, no matter how softly it whispered through the corridors of his heart, was not an option. Not yet.

He inhaled slowly, the scent of her shirt steadying him. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he tapped his combadge. “Computer. Open a secure channel to the Ferengi Marauder Kradax. Route to this console only.”

The console on his desk chirped and blinked to life, and after a moment, DaiMon Prux’s grinning face filled the screen. Behind him, the flickering lights of the Ferengi bridge cast greasy shadows.

“Captain Picard,” Prux purred. “Calling from your private den? How… intimate. I imagine you’ve been thinking of my little offer.”

Picard leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk, his gaze cold and cutting.
“Spare me your games, DaiMon. I want to know exactly what you intend to demand for the return of my officer and the Federation ambassador. No riddles. No taunts. State your terms.”

Prux blinked, then chuckled, the sound oily. “So direct. I do like that about you, Captain. Very well. I intend to trade value for value. The Enterprise carries technology… and influence. Both can be converted into profit.”

Picard’s voice sharpened. “You will name your price. If you imagine you can barter for hostages indefinitely, you are mistaken.”

Tog’s head popped into view from the side, his grin sharp and feral. “I like this one, brother. So protective. So… invested. His pulse must be racing.”

Picard didn’t flinch. His voice lowered, controlled steel. “Tell me what you want. And I suggest you make it realistic - because the patience of the Federation is not infinite, and neither is mine.”

Prux steepled his fingers, his grin unfaltering. “Latinum. Technology. And perhaps… a favor. A discreet one. You see, Captain, I am willing to return your Betazoid chatterbox. But the human… ah, she is more… complicated. Her value has grown. A family should always pay dearly to be reunited.”

The words slid into Picard’s chest like knives, but his expression never cracked. His mind raced: he wanted to know if Picard would admit it. He wanted leverage - confirmation that could be sold for blood and latinum.

Picard leaned forward, his voice a growl of quiet threat. “Listen to me, DaiMon. If you harm her - if you so much as frighten her - you will find that no amount of profit can shield you from me. From this ship. Or from the Federation.”

Prux’s grin faltered for a heartbeat. Tog’s giggle filled the gap, nervous and shrill. “Ohhh, I like him angry,” Tog hissed. “Makes the game so much sweeter.”

Picard’s eyes burned cold. “This is not a game. I am giving you one chance to walk away with your ears and your ship intact. Decide your price, Prux. Because the moment you cross the line… I will end this pursuit my way.”

The channel cut abruptly, leaving Picard alone with his own reflection in the dark screen.

Spot leapt lightly to the back of the sofa and meowed once, as if echoing the choice he had already made.

He would not surrender.

For Beverly.
For the fragile, luminous possibility of what she might carry.

***

Tog paced near the helm, his ears twitching in agitation, while his older brother Prux reclined in his chair, stroking one of his own lobes in a gesture of smug satisfaction.

“That call…” Tog muttered, rubbing his hands together. “…that call was dangerous. I could feel his anger through the screen. There’s no profit in pushing a Starfleet captain too far.”

Prux’s grin widened. “Oh, brother, there is every profit in this. Did you see his face? The way he held himself? The man is breaking inside, and he knows it. His anger is our gold. His fear… our latinum.”

Tog turned sharply. “Fear doesn’t pay unless we can collect. And if he decides to open fire, we’re finished!”

But Prux was already on his feet, the glint of greed and malice lighting his small eyes. He gestured toward the lower deck.
“It’s time we… reminded him of his priorities. He’s too proud. Too stiff. We need to… humiliate him. That will break him faster than any threat of harm.”

Tog’s mouth fell open. “You want to bring her up here? The human? On the bridge?”

“Of course,” Prux said, rubbing his hands together, his voice slick with anticipation. “He’ll see her. He’ll see she is mine to command for now. And he will pay anything to get her back.”

Tog hesitated, wringing his hands. “Brother… I am telling you. This is dangerous. Starfleet won’t forgive this. Not when it’s her. There’s no profit in pride.”

Prux’s grin turned sharp, his voice dropping to a purr. “Ah, but there’s pleasure in it. And the Captain of the Enterprise will learn that his pride is nothing when I hold his… treasure.”

Tog swallowed, his nervousness warring with greed. “If you misstep, we lose everything. Our ears. Our ship. Our lives.”

Prux waved the words away with a flick of his wrist. “Then we will step carefully. Bring her up. It is time to prove my point to Captain Picard.”

Chapter Text

The heavy footsteps echoed down the dim corridor long before DaiMon Prux appeared, his bulk flanked by two guards. The flickering lights of the brig painted his grin in a grotesque stutter of shadow and gold.

He stopped before the cell and gestured imperiously.
“Lower the field. Time to fetch our prize.”

The shimmering forcefield dissipated with a hiss.

Lwaxana Troi sat on the floor in the middle of the cell like a queen displaced, her silks torn and ash - stained, her posture unbent. Her eyes flicked up at him with a gaze that could have peeled paint.

“Well, well, well,” she said tartly, her voice dripping with disdain. “If it isn’t the galaxy’s least eligible bachelor, here to ruin his reputation even further. I hope you’ve had time to reflect on what a small man you are.”

Prux scowled. “Where is the human?!”

“Oh, how typical,” Lwaxana sighed, examining her nails. “Kidnap two women and only remember the one you’re obsessed with. It’s almost… pathetic.”

Prux’s ears twitched as he stepped into the cell, scanning every corner, frustration bubbling into his voice.
“She was here. WHERE is she?”

He didn’t hear the soft pad of boots on metal behind him.

Beverly Crusher struck like a coiled spring.

She launched herself from the shadowed recess by the door, catching Prux off - balance. One hand slammed into the base of his skull, the other yanked the small disruptor from his belt.

“Surprise,” she hissed in his ear, shoving him forward.

The guards fumbled for their weapons, but Lwaxana was already on her feet, a force of aristocratic fury. She snatched a loose length of conduit from the wall and swung it with a theatrical flourish, cracking it against the guard’s knuckles.

“Hands off, little men! The grown - ups are speaking!”

Prux staggered, stunned, as Beverly swept his communicator from his belt and flung it across the deck. A second later, with the precision of a woman used to commanding sickbay chaos, she shoved him into the cell.

“Lwaxana, now!”

Lwaxana hit the control with a satisfying slap. The forcefield shimmered to life, trapping Prux and his whimpering guards inside the same cell they had once used for their “merchandise.”

Prux bellowed and slammed his fists against the field. “You insolent females! Do you know who you’re defying?!”

“Oh, we know,” Lwaxana said, planting her hands on her hips and leaning toward the barrier with a dangerous smile. “We’re defying a coward who kidnaps women to make himself feel tall. Let me tell you something about taking women like us: it never ends well for the fool who tries.”

Prux roared, his voice muffled by the humming field, as Beverly tossed the small disruptor from one hand to the other, already scanning the corridor. Her heart was steady, her eyes sharp.

“We need to get to the bridge,” she said, all business now. “And we need to do it fast, before anyone realizes their mighty DaiMon is in his own brig.”

Lwaxana smirked. “Oh, darling, I like you more and more.”

***

The turbolift hummed as Jean-Luc Picard ascended toward the bridge.

He stood alone, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his reflection staring back at him from the polished doors. His mind was a storm, but within it a sharp, unyielding core had formed.

The Ferengi had dared - dared - to take Beverly Crusher and Lwaxana Troi as pawns in their filthy game of profit and pride. And worse, they had spoken of her - Beverly - as if she were a trinket, a prize to be bartered.

They had seen a crack in the armour of the captain of the Enterprise .
They had mistaken love for weakness.

The turbolift slowed, and Picard exhaled once, deliberately. The captain’s mask settled into place, iron and ice over the roaring heat of his chest.

When the doors parted, the bridge crew straightened instinctively. The hum of consoles, the quiet beeps of sensors, the faint murmur of warp engines all seemed to recede as Picard strode to the centre of the bridge.

“Status,” he said, his baritone measured but thrumming with restrained energy.

“Ferengi ship is holding position, Captain,” Worf reported, his voice low and almost anticipatory. “Shields remain up. No further communication since your last call.”

Riker’s eyes followed him, his voice cautious. “Sir… you’re going to call them again?”

Picard’s gaze settled on the viewscreen, his jaw like carved stone.
“Yes. And this time, those DaiMon’s will understand exactly how unwise their latest choices have been.”

A few keystrokes, and the channel opened.

The Ferengi bridge appeared. Tog sat in the command chair now, his posture a mix of arrogance and poorly hidden nerves. His eyes darted toward the pickup like a rodent caught in a spotlight.

“Captain Picard,” he said, his tone aiming for smug and landing somewhere closer to shrill. “You seem very… persistent. Perhaps it is time you admit how badly you want your ridiculous females back.”

Picard stepped closer to the screen, his presence radiating like a cold sun.
“Listen carefully, Tog,” he said, every syllable honed to a blade. “You have taken two Federation citizens hostage, including a senior officer of my ship and an ambassador of Betazed. You have threatened their safety. And you have presumed to bargain with the Federation flagship.”

Tog licked his teeth nervously, but his grin held. “And yet, Captain, you have not fired. Because you are afraid to lose what you cannot bear to part with. I smell your fear. I taste your desperation. And it is… delicious. ”

Picard’s eyes narrowed to flint.
“What you smell is your own doom approaching .”

Tog flinched. The weight of the voice, the utter certainty in those words, struck through his bravado like a phaser blast.

“This ends now,” Picard said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Return my people. Surrender your vessel. Or I will show you precisely how short - lived your profit will be.”

The Ferengi’s greasy image lingered on the viewscreen, but Jean-Luc Picard’s voice cut through the silence like a drawn blade.

“Mr. Worf,” he said, never taking his eyes from Tog’s twitching face, “lock photon torpedoes on the Ferengi vessel. Phasers as well. Target engines, weapons… and life support.”

The Klingon’s deep voice rumbled with approval. “Aye, Captain. Targets locked. Photon torpedoes at standby. Phasers charged.”

The bridge hummed with a dangerous energy, every officer at their console acutely aware that they now stood one heartbeat from combat.

On the viewscreen, Tog visibly paled, his ears flattening in an instinctive twitch of fear. “Y - you wouldn’t dare! Firing on us would endanger your precious… commander !”

Picard’s gaze did not waver.
“You are already endangering her by drawing out this farce. You will release my people, or you will discover firsthand how Starfleet deals with pirates.”

Riker leaned forward in his chair, his tone deceptively casual but brimming with warning. “You might want to check our record on handling hostile ships that refuse to comply. It’s… extensive.”

Tog squirmed in his seat, glancing off - screen for support - none came.

“Mr. Worf,” Picard said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of finality, “prepare to fire on my mark.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The low, thrumming whine of the Enterprise’s weapons powering to lethal readiness filled the air like a rising storm. On the viewscreen, Tog licked his teeth nervously, sweat glistening along his ridges.

“I… I will consult with my brother!” he sputtered, panic edging into his tone. “Do not fire! You will regret it!”

The screen went dark.

A breathless silence settled over the bridge, punctuated only by the steady pulse of the Enterprise’s engines and the muted hum of charged phasers.

Picard’s hands closed on the armrests of his chair as he sat, every line of his body radiating authority and resolve.
“Hold targeting solution, Mister Worf. Maintain weapons hot.”

“Aye, Captain,” the Klingon said, almost smiling.

Riker shot Picard a sidelong glance. “Sir… you just scared the lobes off that Ferengi.”

“Good,” Picard said, his voice flat and low. “Let him feel what happens when you threaten what is mine.”

***

The doors of the transporter alcove on the Ferengi bridge hissed open with a shrill mechanical whine.

Tog spun toward them, wringing his hands and nearly tripping over his own boots.
“Finally!” he cried. “Where have you been?! That Starfleet captain is going insane! He’s charging phasers! He’s threatening life support! PRUX, DO SOMETHING…”

But it wasn’t Prux who emerged.

Beverly Crusher appeared first, disruptor in hand, her movements sharp and purposeful. Her sapphire eyes burned with fierce intelligence, hair slightly dishevelled from the fight, a light bruise forming beneath the soot on her cheek.

Behind her, Lwaxana Troi, regal and composed despite the ash streaks on her silks, stepped forward with the poise of a queen returning from exile.

Tog’s eyes bulged, mouth flapping. “Wh - What - ?!”

“Sit. Down.” Beverly’s voice was cold steel.

Tog froze.

Lwaxana leaned close to his shoulder, whispering as though sharing a social secret at a gala, “If I were you, I’d do exactly as she says. Don't mess with a doctor.”

Beverly didn’t wait for compliance. She strode across the small bridge and dropped into the Ferengi command chair, crossing one leg over the other, disruptor resting lightly against her thigh. She owned the room now, calm and in control, her every movement radiating a coiled strength that dared anyone to challenge her.

***

The tension was suffocating. No one moved.

Jean-Luc Picard’s knuckles were white against the armrests of his chair. Every second stretched like an eternity as the status display on Worf’s console pulsed, waiting.

“Captain,” Worf said finally, his gravel voice steady, “the Krayon is hailing us.”

Picard’s heart lurched, pounding against his ribs in a way he hadn’t felt since the Borg, since the Stargazer, since the night he first realized he could lose her.

He swallowed hard, his voice clipped.
“On screen.”

The main viewscreen flickered - and there she was.

Beverly Crusher, alive and defiant, disruptor in hand, seated in the Ferengi captain’s chair as though she’d claimed it by right of conquest. Her posture was still slightly mussed, but her eyes locked with his, steady and unbroken.

In that single gaze, volumes passed between them.

I’m here.
I’m alive.
I told you I could fight.

“Captain,” she said aloud, her voice honey - laced steel. “Sorry for the delay. We had a… disagreement about hospitality.”

Picard exhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly. The tension in his chest eased - but only a fraction. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low, intimate despite the open channel.
“Doctor…”

The corner of her mouth curved, a small, knowing smirk that made his chest tighten.

Behind him, Deanna Troi stifled a soft, audible sigh of relief. Riker chuckled under his breath, tension bleeding off him like steam. And from tactical, Worf rumbled a low, satisfied growl - the Klingon equivalent of a grin.

The bridge did not cheer. They didn’t need to.

The connection held, and Picard let himself breathe - just enough to find his voice.

“Doctor,” he said, baritone steady but softer than usual, “do you care to come back aboard the Enterprise… or have you decided to pursue a career in… Ferengi command?”

On the Ferengi bridge, Beverly Crusher’s smirk deepened. She leaned back in the oversized chair, disruptor still resting easily across her thigh. “As tempting as it is to explore my leadership style in this… environment,” she said, wetting her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, “I think I prefer Starfleet replicators. And a long shower.”

Lwaxana Troi chose that moment to lean into view, her curls frizzed, her silk robes a mess, her expression positively glowing with self - satisfaction.
“And a hot bath for me, with proper bubbles. These Ferengi haven’t the slightest idea about personal hygiene - or hospitality! Honestly, Jean-Luc, I am deeply insulted. You must take us home immediately before I file a formal complaint with… well, with myself , but still!”

On the Enterprise bridge, Troi’s lips curved in amused relief.

Picard allowed himself the smallest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Understood, Ambassador. Doctor - stand by for transport.”

Beverly leaned forward, and though her grin remained, her eyes met his with something softer, almost private, a flicker of relief and triumph mingled with the wordless promise that their story was far from over.

“Aye, Captain.” She smiled, her sapphire orbs radiating.

***

The soft hum of the transporter filled the air, followed by a familiar cascade of blue - white shimmer.

A heartbeat later, Beverly Crusher and Lwaxana Troi solidified on the pad, streaked with grime and the faint scent of scorched metal. Beverly’s disruptor hung loosely in her hand; Lwaxana held herself like a predator returning from battle, chin high despite the frayed silk and smudged cheeks.

Jean-Luc Picard stood just beyond the console, hands clasped behind his back, posture as rigid as if carved from marble. But his eyes - his eyes drank Beverly in as if he could finally breathe after hours underwater.

“Welcome home,” he said, the words formal, but carrying a weight that only she could hear.

Deanna Troi stepped forward immediately, her relief palpable as her eyes flicked over her mother. “Mother,” she murmured, soft but firm, “are you hurt?”

Lwaxana released a theatrical sigh, leaning a little into her daughter’s shoulder. “Hurt? Only in spirit, darling. Hours trapped with Ferengi… without even a proper pillow . And I believe I’ve inhaled enough unwashed male odour to last me a decade. But I survived!” Her eyes gleamed as they slid toward Picard. “Mostly because your dashing captain here was practically vibrating with worry. One could feel his aura from light - years away.”

Beverly felt heat creep up her neck but met Picard’s gaze head - on, her blue eyes alive with triumph and something quieter - something private.
“Thank you for not giving up on me,” she said softly.

Picard’s jaw flexed. His voice was steady, but lower than before. “I never would.”

The words sat between them like a promise, unspoken and undeniable.

Deanna, ever the empath, stifled a knowing smile and turned back to her mother. “Let’s get you to sickbay, Mother. I’ll walk with you.”

Lwaxana sniffed dramatically, adjusting her ruined silk sash. “Fine, fine. But I expect champagne and a proper meal in my quarters within the hour. I am a victim of circumstance, after all.”

As mother and daughter exited, their voices trailing into the corridor, the transporter room fell into a quieter orbit.

The room was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the idle transporter.

Beverly stood just a step away, close enough for Jean-Luc Picard to see the faint smudge of grime along her temple, the small shadow of exhaustion beneath her eyes - and the fire of life still dancing in them.

“Home?” he asked softly, his baritone carrying a warmth that was for her alone. “Or a detour to Sickbay?”

His hand almost reached for her before he caught himself, hovering in the air, the restraint of a captain warring with the instinct of a man who had nearly lost her. His gaze roamed her features, memorizing every line, every curve, as if to reassure himself that she was here, solid and safe.

Beverly’s lips curved in a gentle smile, her eyes softening. “A quick check-up,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Then… home.”

Her hand rose, fingers brushing his jaw, then his chin, tilting his face toward hers. The touch was feather-light but electric, a silent affirmation that she felt the same magnetic pull he did.

For now, he let the questions burning in his chest fall silent - the doubts, the Ferengi’s cruel insinuations, the nagging thread of what if. All of it could wait.

Right now, he only knew the bone-deep relief of having her back.

She leaned in, and he met her halfway.

Their lips brushed in the softest of kisses, a whisper of connection that spoke volumes: survival, longing, and the unbroken thread that had stretched across light-years and danger to bring them back together.

When they parted, his forehead lingered against hers for a moment, his breath steadying.
“Let’s get you checked,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed the warmth pooling in his chest. “Then I am taking you home.”

***

The doors to Sickbay hissed open, and the familiar scent of sterilized air and biofilters washed over Beverly Crusher like a long - denied breath.

“This,” she said, exhaling, “is home too.”

A few nurses turned their heads as the pair entered. Their eyes flicked between their Captain, standing close to the Chief Medical Officer, and the faint smudge of dirt and dishevelment on Beverly’s otherwise unshakable figure.

Beverly held up a hand, authoritative and calm. “I’m fine. Just a standard check-up. No fuss.”

Jean-Luc Picard followed her in, hands behind his back, the posture of a man trying - and failing - to disguise his hovering anxiety. His gaze swept the room as if confirming that she was truly back in her domain, free of Ferengi hands.

Beverly slid onto the nearest biobed and activated the scanner. The familiar hum soothed her; here, she was in control again.

“I can do this myself,” she said, though her voice carried a warmth when she glanced at him. “But you’re not leaving, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Picard said, low and even.

He stood at her side, the tension in his jaw betraying his inner storm. He had been patient, he had waited, and he had let relief flood him - but the Ferengi’s words still gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

She raised an eyebrow, catching the flicker in his expression. “What is it?”

Picard hesitated. His instinct was to shield, to delay, to let this moment of relief linger untouched. But the doubt, the single, insistent question, wouldn’t let him go.

He cleared his throat softly. “Beverly… did they… say anything to you? Anything unusual?”

She paused mid-scan, the soft hum of the medical tricorder filling the brief silence. Her sapphire eyes lifted to meet his grey ones, puzzled but sharp. “They said a lot of things. Most of it repulsive. Why?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze lingering on her face, her hair, the curve of her shoulder under the torn uniform. The truth itched at the back of his throat, but he wasn’t ready to lay it bare. Not here. Not yet.

Instead, he let his hand rest lightly on the edge of the biobed, close enough to feel the heat of her thigh through the fabric, the quiet proof that she was here, alive, and his to protect.

“Nothing that matters now,” he said softly. “You’re home. That’s all I care about.”

Beverly studied him for a long moment, her instinct telling her there was more - but she let it rest. For now.

The tricorder chirped. She was clear. She shut it off and slid off the biobed, reclaiming her stance as the Doctor, whole and unbroken, even after captivity.

“Then let’s go,” she said, her voice threaded with something quieter, almost intimate. “Home, like you promised.”

Jean-Luc nodded once, offering his arm. She took it.

As the Sickbay doors closed behind them, his mind whispered with love and fear - and that single unspoken question still coiled in the quiet corners of his heart.

***

The soft hiss of the doors closing behind them felt like the ship itself exhaling.

Jean-Luc Picard crossed into his quarters with Beverly’s hand still brushing his arm, and for the first time since her capture, he allowed himself the indulgence of believing she was safe.

“Go,” he murmured, voice low, rich with relief and quiet command. “Shower. Take as long as you need.”

Beverly nodded, a faint smile flickering over her lips before she disappeared into the bathroom.

Alone, Jean-Luc’s composure fractured.

He paced the length of the room, restless energy thrumming through his muscles. His mind replayed the last hours in jagged flashes: the Ferengi’s leering grin, the hollow ache in his chest, the intoxicating moment she had appeared on that screen, alive and defiant.

He wanted to do something, to prepare, to show her - without words - that he had held her in his heart through every agonizing minute.

He went to the replicator.
“Merlot, ‘61,” he said automatically, and a crystal decanter and two glasses appeared.

He picked one up, stared at it… then slowly set it back.
Wine. After captivity. After threats.
It felt wrong, like a celebration in a moment that was still raw.

With a quiet sigh, he cleared the decanter away.

Instead, he arranged cushions on the sofa, aligning them neatly - then paused, unsettled by the perfection.
She’ll notice.

He nudged them askew with a grimace, absurdly aware of the intimacy of this ritual, of how she would read everything he did the moment she emerged.

Finally, he fetched two mugs of tea, Earl Grey for himself, chamomile for her, and set them on the low table.

But when he turned, the quarters felt too large and too quiet.

His restless steps carried him to the bed. He sat, then lay back, staring at the ceiling, forcing himself to inhale and exhale slowly. His chest still ached with all the words he hadn’t said, the fears he hadn’t voiced.

Beverly emerged in a soft robe, skin still dewy from the shower, tendrils of damp hair curling against her neck. Steam drifted past the doorway like a memory of warmth. Her alluring scent - something floral and uniquely her - reached him before she did.

He sat at the edge of the bed, motionless, transfixed. Every muscle in his body was drawn to her, but he waited, letting her cross the space at her own pace.

“You’ve been pacing, haven’t you?” she said with a teasing smile, her voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate right through him.

“Relentlessly,” he admitted, eyes roaming her with a hunger he didn’t bother to hide. “I rearranged the cushions twice. Then… deliberately misaligned them, because you’d notice.”

Her hands reached up, brushing over his shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt. A soft laugh escaped her as she crossed the room, bare feet silent on the carpet. Her hands reached up, brushing over his firm shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt. “Jean-Luc Picard… master of starships, undone by throw pillows.”

He caught her hand as she reached him, his thumb brushing the delicate skin of her wrist. His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “You have undone me in far more ways than that.” He might have said more, but her fingers were already sliding the shirt from his shoulders, and the feel of her touch burned hotter than any witty remark he could conjure.

Then, she kissed him - not tentative, but claiming, her lips warm and insistent. He answered in kind, his hands finding her waist, but she pressed him back against the mattress with a firm, deliberate push.

This time, he surrendered completely, letting her take control.

It began gentle, like a question - but he answered in kind, deepening the kiss, tilting into her. The relief of survival and the ache of yearning bled together, flooding his chest until he thought he might break.

She straddled him, the soft tie of her robe loosening as she settled over his hips. His hands came to rest on her supple thighs, the heat of her skin searing through his palms. Her thick, silky tresses brushed his face as she bent to kiss along his jaw, the taste of warm skin and lingering steam filling his greedy nostrils.

Her slender, expert fingers roamed his chest, tracing the lines of old scars and hard - earned muscle. Incapable of stopping the magnificent shiver every touch provoked he suppressed a deep - felt groan. Every brush of her nails, every glide of her palm, it felt like sparks racing through his nerves.

“Beverly…” His voice was hoarse, reverent with desire.

She silenced him with a soft press of her finger to his lips, then kissed him again, deeper this time. Her lips tasted faintly of mint and something sweet, and he let himself drown in it.

When the robe slid fully from her shoulders, pooling around her waist, he caught his breath. He let his eager hands explore her slowly, reverently, feeling the smooth warmth of her back, the elegant curve of her spine, the softness of her breasts under his palms as she leaned into his touch.

Every sense was heightened - the faint scent of her soap and warm skin, the taste of her kisses, the silk of her gorgeous hair against his face, the quiet hum of the ship beneath them like a heartbeat.

Beverly moved against him with confidence and intent, setting the rhythm, her hands braced on his chest as her breath mingled with his. He watched her through half - lidded eyes, awed and undone by the sight of her above him, powerful and utterly beautiful, taking what she wanted and giving it all back.

“Cherie…” His voice cracked, reverent, pleading.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, moving against him, her rhythm sure and sensual.

The tension coiled tighter between them, a shared current they both felt - the inevitable, glorious pull toward release. Their breathing quickened, mingling, gasps breaking through the quiet as the pace built.

When climax took hold, it came like a wave crashing over both of them at once - hot, electric, overwhelming. Beverly arched against him, her fingers clutching his shoulders, and he followed her over the edge with a groan, their bodies shuddering together, slick with heat and need and the relief of being whole again.

She collapsed against his chest, her hair damp against his feverish skin, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her as if he could keep the universe at bay. Jean-Luc kissed the crown of her head and closed his eyes, letting her weight and warmth root him in the present.

For a long moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the ship and their ragged breathing.

If the Ferengi were right… if she carries my child…

The thought struck like lightning - both terrifying and wondrous. He still didn’t ask. He couldn’t. Not tonight. Tonight was for life, and for her. “Jean-Luc…” she murmured, feeling his unease, and the tremor in her voice undid the last thread of his tension.

Sated for now they lay tangled in each other, still joined, the room hazy with the warmth of spent tension. Her head rested under his chin, her hair sprawled against his chest. He traced idle patterns along her spine, the gestures protective, tender, possessive in ways he never voiced aloud.

“You feel… different tonight,” she murmured drowsily.

“I nearly lost you,” he said simply, his voice vibrating against her ear. “I don’t ever want to feel that again.”

Her fingers found his, lacing together without thought. She pressed a kiss to his chest and closed her eyes, the toll of those events finally catching up with her.

As her breathing deepened into the soft rhythm of sleep, Picard stared into the shadows of the ceiling. And suddenly, he felt it all: the lingering terror, the hollow ache that only she could fill, and the quiet, unspoken wonder at what their future might hold -
A future that now seemed fragile and infinite all at once.

With one last kiss to her hair, he whispered into the darkness, a vow meant for no ears but his own.

I will keep you safe. Both of you, if fate has given us that gift.

Only then did Jean-Luc Picard close his eyes, surrendering to the peace he only ever found in her arms.

Chapter Text

Artificial morning drifted softly into Jean-Luc Picard’s quarters, filtered through the stars and the muted hum of the Enterprise. The golden light caught on the smooth curve of the bathroom mirror, where Beverly Crusher stood completely bare, brushing her teeth, hair tousled in the way that only sleep and love could craft.

He leaned on the doorframe for a beat, savoring the sight - the everyday intimacy that felt like the greatest luxury in the galaxy. Then he moved forward, quietly, like gravity itself pulled him toward her. His arms slid around her from behind, palms gliding over the tempting curves of her waist and hips, drawing her back against the solid warmth of his chest. His voice was a soft murmur against her ear, resonant and low. “I still can’t believe you took over a Ferengi Marauder on your own.”

Beverly’s lips curved around the toothbrush. When she spat and rinsed, she turned just enough to flash him a playful smirk. “Oh, I definitely had some help,” she said, her voice husky with amusement.

He chuckled, the deep vibration of it and his chest hair tickling against her bare back, and leaned to press a kiss to the curve of her tempting, most inviting neck. “Yeah,” he said, lips brushing her skin between words, “from a… rampant Betazoid.”

The chuckle turned into a string of kisses, soft at first, then more insistent - nibbling her earlobe, tracing the curve to the spot just beneath her ear, where he licked and tasted the rapid flutter of her pulse.

Beverly stifled a moan, her head tipping to the side instinctively. “Yes…” she managed, her voice a whisper that trembled with a mixture of laughter and arousal. “She is definitely… bold.”

His possessive hands roamed freely now, cupping her supple mounds with slow, teasing squeezes that drew a decent shiver through her spine. Her nipples peaked under his touch, and his thumbs circled in lazy, knowing patterns as he watched her reflection in the mirror - the flush rising in her chest, the parting of her delicious lips. Then his hands wandered lower, tenderly exploring her ribs, the soft planes of her stomach, and finally settling across her abdomen.

A breath hitched in his throat. “I love you,” he said quietly, watching her attentively in the mirror.

Her sapphire infinite orbs softened, shimmering with a sudden, quiet heat that wasn’t just desire. Emotion pooled there, and for a heartbeat, Jean-Luc felt the pulse of something unspoken between them. His chest swelled with love - and a whisper of wonder, the Ferengi’s taunt echoing at the edge of his thoughts. When will she tell me?

Before he could even dare to speak, the sharp chirp of the comm system cut through the steam - filled air. “Bridge to Captain Picard.”

Jean-Luc stilled, forehead briefly resting against Beverly’s shoulder. “Picard here,” he said, voice thick with restrained irritation.

Worf went on, unimpressed. “Sir… the Ferengi are requesting to speak with you. I may guess that they have reconsidered their position to some extent…”

Jean-Luc exhaled slowly, letting his hands linger for one more, indulgent second along Beverly’s belly before releasing her. His tone dropped to a low, grumbling murmur meant only for her. “Of course they are…”

***

The doors to the observation lounge parted with a soft hiss, and Jean-Luc Picard stepped into the room with purpose in every line of his body.

The large table gleamed under the muted lights. At its far end, DaiMon Prux and Tog sat opposite one another like mismatched bookends of Ferengi failure. Prux looked frayed, his posture slumped, his lobes glistening with a sheen of sweat. Some hours in the Enterprise brig had worn him down, stripped the bravado from his shoulders. Tog, by contrast, was restless and twitching, his beady eyes darting between the door and the security officer looming by the wall.

Lieutenant Worf stood with arms crossed, silent and intimidating as a loaded phaser, the faint glow of challenge in his dark eyes.

Picard advanced to the head of the table and rested both hands on the smooth surface, command personified.

“DaiMon,” he said evenly, his baritone carrying through the room, “I trust you’ve had time to… reflect.”

Prux groaned softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Tog leaned forward with a too - wide grin.
“Ah, Captain Picard. Reflection, yes. And profit! There is still profit to be made. Let us be civilized businessmen.”

The air tightened like a coiled spring.

The doors whispered again, and Commander Riker entered, his broad frame and folded arms adding weight to the room. He took a silent place at Picard’s right shoulder.

“Civilized businessmen,” Picard repeated, his voice a blade hidden in velvet. “You abducted a Federation ambassador and a senior Starfleet officer. You threatened their safety. And you have the audacity to sit here and speak of profit?”

Tog didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in further, eyes glinting.
“Ahh… the fiery human. I am impressed, Captain. She fights like a Klingon, that one. Bites, scratches - so spirited. I regret giving her back.”

Riker’s jaw tightened, and Worf’s low growl filled the room like distant thunder.

Prux smacked his brother’s arm with an exasperated hiss. “Shut up, Tog! Can’t you see the human is about to vaporize you with his eyes?”

Tog ignored him, gaze sliding to Picard with oily confidence.
“Perhaps… a different deal could be arranged. I find myself… admiring your Commander. A woman like that is a prize. What position aside from warming the precious captain’s bed does she hold aboard this vessel?”

Picard’s knuckles whitened on the tabletop. His voice came out cold as deep space.
“Doctor Beverly Crusher is my reigning Chief Medical Officer, the CMO and a leading Commander of the flagship of the fleet. She is whether a prize nor a subject to own. She is a grown, educated, bright Starfleet officer - and you are one insult away from learning exactly what that means.”

The atmosphere crackled, the hum of the engines underfoot the only sound for a long, suspended moment.

“And she is…” Tog hissed through his sharp teeth, but his brother silenced him with a warning glare only. Prux finally deflated, his head dropping into his hands. “We are ruined,” he muttered. “Absolutely ruined. The Klingons would have been easier to handle.”

Picard straightened to his full height, his gaze cutting like a laser across the table.
“You are correct, DaiMon Prux. And your only path out of this disgrace is full cooperation and surrender. Otherwise, I assure you, Starfleet will ensure that your names become a cautionary tale across every Ferengi trading floor from here to Ferenginar.”

The room was thick with unspoken consequences, and for the first time, the Ferengi truly understood just how close they were to disaster.

“I will be clear,” Picard continued, his baritone measured and icy. “You will surrender your ship, transfer any remaining property to my custody, and submit to Federation authority. Or I will personally ensure that your next conversation is with the Grand Nagus himself.”

Both Ferengi stiffened. The name landed like a torpedo in the room. Even Tog’s grin faltered into a twitch.

“You wouldn’t…” Tog began, his voice catching.

Picard leaned forward, his voice dropping to a velvet - lined growl.
“Oh, I would. And I will provide a full accounting of your actions: kidnapping a Federation ambassador, abducting a Starfleet commander, threatening lives, and attempting to extort ransom from the flagship of the Federation. The Nagus will not be amused. And I suspect your… future profit margins will suffer accordingly.”

Prux groaned, slumping further. “We’re finished…”

Tog slammed a fist onto the table, bluster surging back. “This is outrageous! You are biased! Clearly - personally invested! The way you look at that human female… the way you - ”

“Enough!” The word cracked like a whip across the table. Commander Riker had stepped forward, his eyes sharp, his voice a low snarl that startled even Worf.
“You have insulted the captain, his officer, and this ship enough. You want to talk about bias? You’re lucky you’re not already floating home in an escape pod. I’ve had about all I can take of your mouth, Mr. Tog.”

The room fell silent but for the thrum of the engines. Tog’s mouth opened… and then shut again, a squeak of protest dying in his throat.

Picard straightened, reclaiming the quiet with unshakable command.
“Your decision is simple. Cooperate now, or the next voice you hear will be the Grand Nagus, and I assure you, he will be far less patient than I.”

Prux slumped so low he was almost under the table. “We surrender…” he muttered.

Tog shot him a look of betrayal, but the fire had gone out of his posture. His lobes twitched nervously, and after a long moment, he nodded.
“Fine. We… surrender.”

Picard let the silence stretch for a few long, deliberate seconds. Only then did he incline his head slightly, his voice controlled but cold as vacuum.
“Wise choice.”

***

The corridor was silent but for the hum of the ship, broken by the soft clack of Ferengi boots and the faint rattle of their ornamental chains.

Lieutenant Worf followed DaiMon Prux and Tog, his heavy footsteps measured, his arms folded behind his back in the posture of a Klingon predator at rest - or, to any who knew him, a predator restraining himself.

Hours in his own brig had stripped Prux of much of his bluster, but his lobes twitched with lingering rage. Tog, on the other hand, strutted with an oily satisfaction, his grin creeping back like mold.

They hissed and whistled in their private, sharp - edged language, but Worf’s hearing was keen and deliberate, parsing the rhythm of threat and lust even without every translation.

“…Picard will regret this,” Prux spat under his breath. “He paraded us like fools, caged us like animals. The Nagus will hear of it… and when the time comes, the human captain will wish he had never been born.”

Tog’s laugh was a low, greedy cackle, almost musical in its malice.
“Regret? Oh, yes… but not before I collect what is owed. The red - haired female… she is gorgeous. Fiery. Strong. I can still see her conquer our bridge like a ravenous queen.” He licked his teeth, voice thick with indulgent fantasy. “Next time, she will fight physically… and I will enjoy every second.”

Prux made a noise of disapproval, but his eyes glimmered. “Think of profit, brother. Picard’s little breed child will fetch a price beyond imagination if we choose to sell the story - or the offspring itself. Or… if you may… parts of it. Starfleet’s precious image shattered… and the Federation too polite to even admit it.”

Tog shivered in delight. “Oh, I like the way you think. First the woman, then the profit, then sweet revenge. We will wait. We will watch. They will never expect it.”

They both snickered in cruel harmony, their whispers echoing like vermin in the corridor.

Behind them, Worf’s jaw clenched. His deep voice rolled like distant thunder: “You will be silent.”

They froze mid - step, their ears flattening instinctively at the predatory note in his tone. He moved closer, letting his shadow fall over them, his presence enough to make them tremble.

“One more word,” he rumbled, “and I will drag you to the transporter by your lobes.”

They scurried forward the remaining meters to Transporter Room 2, the metallic door sliding open with a hiss.

“On the pad,” Worf ordered.

The Ferengi obeyed, though Tog cast one last lingering glance toward the deck, as if imagining Beverly walking it in nothing but his fantasies.

“Beam them directly to their bridge,” Worf told the transporter chief.

Worf’s hands curled briefly into fists before he forced them to relax. As they approached the pad, the Klingon’s mind seethed. He would follow his captain’s orders and see them off without incident, but his warrior’s heart longed to end their sniveling threats permanently. If they ever dare to return… they will not leave alive.

Soon the shimmering blue light engulfed them, and they were gone.

***

The stars drifted silently past the panoramic windows, their distant light spilling across the polished table. The observation lounge was quiet now - empty, save for Jean-Luc Picard and William Riker, the lingering tension of the Ferengi ordeal settling into the soft hum of the Enterprise.

Picard sat with his hands loosely clasped, a cup of lukewarm Earl Grey at his elbow, though he hadn’t touched it. His posture was more relaxed than the bridge ever allowed, his shoulders lowered in the presence of someone who had earned his trust through years of command and battle.

Riker leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually along the backrest, eyes tracking the stars before shifting to his captain.
“Well,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I think we can both agree… next time we hear from Lwaxana Troi, we should just head for the Neutral Zone and take our chances with the Romulans.”

The faintest smile twitched at Picard’s mouth. “She always means well,” he said dryly. “In her own… unique fashion. It wasn’t her fault those impertinent brothers came up with some crazy ideas. It definitely wasn’t her fault, they chased her in that tunnel.” He stopped a moment to linger on the thought alone and then stifled a brief smile. “And let us not forget, as long as she’s staying on the Enterprise this time, her most recent objective is not me or Doctor Crusher anymore, but you and Counselor Troi. If I recall right, she believes you require… a nudge as well. Number One, keep your phaser handy.”

Riker chuckled, leaning forward, forearms on the table. “If she tries to plan a wedding on the bridge, I’m resigning.”

Picard’s eyes glinted. “Spoken like a man with experience.”

The two men shared a moment of quiet amusement, the rare laughter of old brothers in arms in the aftermath of danger, before the silence settled again - this time heavier, thoughtful.

Riker hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. “Sir… may I ask you something?”

Picard turned his head, meeting his first officer’s gaze with the calm weight of command, but there was an underlying warmth there too. “Of course, Number One. By all means.”

“It’s about… Beverly.”

Picard’s fingers stilled against his cup.

Riker leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower. “Those Ferengi… they said some things. About her. About… the possibility that she might be expecting…”

Picard’s chest tightened - not in anger, but in that complex storm of love, fear, and hope that he had been carrying since the moment the Ferengi’s vile insinuation first touched his ears. “And now you want to know if it’s true,” he said, his voice quiet, measured.

The commander nodded once. “I don’t mean to pry, sir. But… I’m your first officer. And your friend. If there’s something that could affect this ship, or you…” He paused, letting the unspoken or her hang in the air.

Picard’s gaze drifted toward the stars for a long moment, weighing trust and truth against the walls he had built around his private life.

Finally, he exhaled softly. “I do not know, Will,” he said, the honesty unvarnished. “I have not asked her. Not yet. And she didn’t tell me either.”

Riker’s eyes softened, the corner of his mouth curling into a wry, understanding smile.
“Then I hope - for both your sakes - you find out soon. Secrets like that… they don’t stay quiet forever. However, if it is true…” He hesitated. “…then congratulations in advance.”

A rare glimmer of mischief passed over Picard’s face, still unable to really believe this could come true. He wasn’t that lucky after all. And thanks to all those rapidly unfolding events he’d never really had the one certain moment to indulge too deeply in the prominent thought, what if. Would he panic? Definitely not, he knew that. The prospect alone made his heart jump to new heights and yet, there was nothing but pure joy spreading in his heart – only hindered by the nagging fact, she hadn’t told him. For the time being, he decided to cling to the most hopeful belief: that his deepest desires would eventually come true. Leaning back slightly, his voice dropped into a low, indecent rumble. “Thank you. And… if that certain day comes, Number One - do try not to hover too much. I doubt you’ll survive babysitting another Picard.”

Riker laughed outright, his shoulders shaking. “Oh, I don’t know, sir. I can picture it. ‘Adventures in Babysitting: Captain Picard’s Legacy.’ Starfleet Command would love the holos.”

The humor cracked the last of the tension, the two men sharing a smile few others would ever see.

Then, just as the warmth settled, Riker’s face paled slightly.

Picard noticed immediately. “What is it?”

Riker swallowed, leaning back in his chair with a grimace. “If it’s true… if Beverly really is…” He paused. “…Lwaxana will know. She’ll sense it the moment she meets you, as well as anyone else who knows. And she will be ecstatic. I can’t imagine, she hasn’t detected anything yet.”

Picard’s stomach plummeted.

The blood drained from his face as he imagined Lwaxana Troi – unleashed - with this particular piece of knowledge. “Oh… dear God,” he muttered under his breath.

Riker tried - and failed - to stifle a laugh, leaning back with the air of a man who could already see the fireworks. “Good luck with that one, sir.”

***

The Enterprise had a particular hum in the evenings, a subdued rhythm of engines and life support mixed with the distant footsteps of night - shift crew.

Beverly Crusher walked the corridor with her hands tucked behind her back, her uniform swapped for a pair of leggings and a comfortable sweater long ago, her heels clicking softly against the deck plating. It was supposed to be a simple visit - a check-in with Deanna Troi, who had requested a casual evening chat after the Ferengi ordeal.

But as she passed a pair of junior medical technicians, their hushed voices drifted into the corridor.

“…Did you hear? About the Ferengi?”
“…Yeah. Said something about… the captain and the doctor. I mean, can you imagine?”
A brief giggle.
“…I swear, she’s glowing lately. Must be the…”

The whisper cut off abruptly as Beverly rounded the corner, and the technicians stiffened, nodding quickly before scurrying past.

Beverly paused mid-step, a prickle rising at the back of her neck.

She was used to whispers - life aboard the flagship had its share of gossip, especially after Lwaxana Troi’s last flamboyant visit - but this felt different. Pointed. Personal.

She forced a neutral smile and continued down the corridor, but the echo of their words curled in her chest like smoke she couldn’t quite clear.

When the doors to Troi’s quarters slid open, Beverly was greeted by warm light and the soft scent of Betazoid tea.

“Beverly,” Deanna said, smiling as she gestured toward the sofa. “I was hoping you’d come. I thought after everything, you might want a little… quiet company.”

Beverly settled onto the couch, crossing her long legs and exhaling a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Quiet company sounds perfect. Though… it seems even quiet corridors have ears tonight.”

Deanna’s brows rose. “Oh?”

“I passed two of Geordi’s staff,” Beverly said lightly, though the edge in her voice was clear. “They went silent the second I appeared. Something about Ferengi and Jean-Luc… and me glowing.” She gave a wry smile, though her chest felt tight. “Care to explain why half the ship seems to have decided I’m a walking gossip headline?”

Deanna hesitated just long enough for Beverly to notice. The counselor set her tea down, leaning forward. “You know the crew,” she said gently. “They’ll speculate about anything unusual. And… you have been through a lot recently. People notice when their CMO comes back from a dangerous mission looking…”

“Looking what?” Beverly pressed, arching an elegant brow at her reserved friend.

“…different,” Deanna finished softly. “Lighter. Happier. Maybe even… radiant.”

Beverly laughed under her breath, though the sound wavered with tension. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I survive one Ferengi kidnapping and suddenly I’m radiant?”

“Beverly…” Deanna said, her voice tender but weighted with subtext.

The doctor stilled, reading her friend’s expression. “You don’t actually believe…”

Deanna held her gaze, the quiet of her quarters amplifying the weight of unspoken thoughts. She definitely didn’t care to explain to her, what exactly had happened on the bridge only two days ago. “I don’t know,” she said, gently sidestepping it, “But something has changed in you. I can feel it.”

Beverly sat back, her pulse quickening, the technicians’ whispers echoing in her memory. She tried to brush it off with sarcasm, but the quiet in her chest wouldn’t ease. Finally, she simply snorted, shaking her head as she sank deeper into Deanna’s couch. “This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. I would have noticed first, wouldn’t I? I’m a doctor, for heaven’s sake. My own body does not keep secrets from me.”

Deanna raised an eyebrow, the expression somewhere between sympathetic and amused.
“Beverly, in my experience… the body sometimes likes to surprise even the most attentive minds. Especially,” she added delicately, “when the heart is otherwise occupied.”

Beverly’s lips parted in a mock gasp of scandal, and she swatted the air.
“Oh, don’t you dare get poetic on me. Occupied, my foot. What my heart is occupied with is an endless stream of overworked interns and emergency calls. That’s it. Especially because I have no idea how that could've happened.”

Deanna simply sipped her tea - her façade perfectly in place, but her dark eyes inwardly rolled up in mere disbelief. Oh, come on. I don't need to explain that, do I, doctor?

Beverly leaned forward automatically, her elbows braced on her knees. “All right Dee, tell me. How bad is this rumor mill? Am I starring in some galaxy-class soap opera without knowing it?”

“Well…” Deanna hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “After the Ferengi maneuver… and the way Jean-Luc acted through it… the crew noticed things. Your closeness. His protectiveness. And of course…” She gestured toward Beverly with a small smile. “…the glow.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake with the glow,” Beverly muttered, throwing herself back against the cushions. “So, the crew thinks I’m glowing and suddenly I’m… what? Pregnant? With the captain’s… child?”

Deanna’s silence was answer enough. She could hardly tell her best friend that the Ferengi had essentially announced her pregnancy right in front of Picard and everyone else on the bridge, which had more or less set the stage for the largest mass of running rumors and bets since re-claiming her post on this ship.

Beverly’s jaw dropped slightly, her eyes widening. “They really think that?”

Deanna nodded once, apologetic. “Word spreads fast on a ship like this. And… well… considering the way he looked at you after the rescue, no one would dare suggest it to his face, but…”

Beverly pressed her palms to her face with a groan, her voice muffled. “Oh, wonderful. Just wonderful. I can’t wait to do my morning rounds with everyone imagining I’m waddling down the hall with the captain’s baby.”

After a moment, she peeked at Deanna through her fingers, her voice dropping. “Does… Jean-Luc know about this?”

Deanna hesitated, then offered a small, careful nod. Of course, he was. But Beverly Crusher would faint in shock if the slightly cornered Betazoid would admit that to its full expense. “I believe he’s… aware.” She tried, wisely. “Will told me they had a talk. He hasn’t said anything to me directly, but he’s… thinking about it.”

Beverly sat frozen for a moment, a swirl of emotions hitting all at once - amusement, humiliation, a prickle of anger, and something softer she didn’t want to name. “Oh… perfect,” she muttered. “Just perfect. He probably thinks I’m going to announce something dramatic over our next breakfast.”

Deanna tilted her head, her tone turning gently probing. “And how would you feel… if it were true?”

The doctor stared at her, silent, her throat tight with a mix of sarcasm and something dangerously close to vulnerability. “Deanna,” she said finally, voice dry. “I would feel like transferring to a ship with fewer gossips. Maybe a cargo freighter. Or a deep space probe.”

Deanna chuckled softly, but her gaze never left her friend’s face.

At some point Beverly pushed herself up from the couch and began pacing, her shoes whispering unnervingly against the carpet. She quickly decided to get rid of it, flinging her flats across the floor. Her long hair swayed with every sharp turn, and the irritation in her movements spoke louder than words. “I cannot believe he hasn’t said a word.” She spun on her heel, gesturing at nothing in particular. “Jean-Luc Picard - the man who can deliver a lecture on proper tea brewing with all the gravity of a starship captain - has apparently decided to say nothing about half the crew thinking I’m…” She threw her hands up. “…glowing with his child!”

Deanna sipped her tea, trying not to smile. “Maybe he’s… giving you space.”

Beverly stopped mid-stride and shot her a look. “Space? He’s the captain of the flagship, not a Betazoid monk. Space is his job. Words are his job. He’s supposed to be the unflappable communicator of the quadrant!” She dropped back onto the couch with a huff. “I need a drink.”

Deanna’s brows furrowed, her voice laced with caution. “…Beverly…”

“Oh, relax, Counselor,” Beverly said, waving a hand with mock drama. “I’m not going to toast my imaginary motherhood with a synthehol martini. I just… ugh!” Her head fell back against the cushion. “I can’t believe this ship sometimes.”

The chime of the door interrupted her impending rant.

Deanna blinked. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else…”

Before either of them could react, the door slid open with theatrical flourish, and in swept Lwaxana Troi, all sparkling fabrics, clinking jewelry, and the subtle scent of decadence.

“My darlings!” she announced, arms thrown wide as if expecting the universe to applaud her entrance. Her voice bounced off the walls like a trumpet. “Why, I could feel the emotional storm clouds from three decks away! And I simply had to check on my favorite girls!”

Beverly’s eyes widened, her stomach dropping in sheer shock. “Oh no,” she muttered under her breath.

Lwaxana turned her laser-sharp attention to her immediately, lips curling into a knowing smile. “Well, well, well… if it isn’t our glorious redheaded beacon of radiance. Beverly, dear, you are still positively shining. Are we celebrating something other than our fabulous rescue? Hmm?”

Deanna sighed, covering her face with one hand. “Mother…”

Beverly forced a smile, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Why, thank you, Lwaxana. I’m so glad my emotional weather is broadcasting across the ship.”

Lwaxana floated, eyes twinkling with scandal and delight. “Oh, my dear… it’s broadcasting across the galaxy.”

Beverly groaned. Deanna set down her tea with a long-suffering sigh.

Chapter Text

Lwaxana glid closer across the carpet, layers of jeweled silk whispering in her wake. Her perfume seemed to fill the room, sweet and heavy with whatever rare Betazoid flowers had met its doom for her evening’s attire.

Beverly instinctively leaned back into the sofa cushions, realizing this was far from over yet, as Lwaxana loomed over her like a friendly predator, eyes glittering with curiosity. “My beautiful Beverly,” Lwaxana cooed, reaching out to brush a strand of copper hair from her shoulder. “You are absolutely radiant. I could feel the change two days ago in the Ferengi brig. And I could feel it minutes ago from the turbolift. It’s like you’re carrying a secret sun in your heart. Something warm… something… new. Even though I admit, at first I thought it was Jean-Luc's self-sacrificing love that made you glow that much.”

Beverly caught Deanna’s alarmed glance over Lwaxana’s shoulder and immediately went on the offensive. “Well, maybe that’s just the warm glow of exhaustion,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You know, from getting kidnapped by Ferengi, nearly suffocating, and saving your life, Mrs. Troi.”

Lwaxana waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, nonsense. That sort of thing is practically foreplay for Starfleet officers. I know your type.”

Beverly choked on her own breath, spluttering. “Excuse me?”

“Mother!” Deanna covered her face with both hands.

“What?” The elder said innocently, settling herself into the nearest chair like a queen claiming her throne. “You two have been dancing around each other for decades. Now, half the ship knows you’re messing around whenever and wherever you are. Why, I daresay even the Ferengi noticed before you admitted it to yourselves. You’re not that discreet, my dear doctor.”

Beverly crossed her arms, forcing her tone to stay dry even as her cheeks warmed.
“Oh, so now the Ferengi do gossip, too? Well, if you’re here to deliver tonight’s ship-wide chin-wag report, congratulations - you’re late. I already heard the rumors in the corridor. I’m glowing. I’m a walking romantic holo-novel. Next, I suppose, someone will start taking bets.”

Lwaxana leaned forward with predatory delight, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Oh, my dear… they already have.”

Beverly froze, her mouth opening slightly in speechless indignation, while Deanna groaned softly beside her. “Mother…” she warned again, futilely.

“What?” She piqued, batting her eyes with mock innocence. “If the captain is too dignified to say a word, someone has to have a little fun. Besides…” She eyed Beverly up and down like a connoisseur admiring fine art. “…as I said, I can feel something is different. And I am never wrong about these things.”

Beverly lifted her chin and delivered a perfectly acid reply. “Well, then perhaps you should take up fortune-telling as a second career, Lwaxana. That way, at least, your meddling would come with a paycheck.”

Lwaxana gasped in faked offense, pressing a hand to her chest. “Such sass! I do hope Jean-Luc appreciates that acidic tongue of yours as much as I do.”

Beverly’s jaw dropped, and she turned sharply to Deanna. “Are you going to stop her, or am I going to need a sedative?”

Deanna only sank deeper into the couch, muttering, “I’ve tried sedatives. They don’t work on her.”

For a moment, the room filled with laughter and tension, swirling together in the kind of chaotic intimacy only Lwaxana Troi could create. But beneath Beverly’s sarcasm, her chest tightened with a new unease. Because what if, buried under all that teasing, there was a grain of truth she had yet to face?

By the time Beverly Crusher felt compelled to rise from Deanna’s couch again, her patience had evaporated entirely. “I have had enough of this,” she said sharply, swiping a strand of copper hair from her face. “I am a doctor. I live surrounded by medical scanners, biobeds, and the most advanced diagnostic equipment in the quadrant. And yet here I am, listening to gossip like a first-year cadet with a serious crush.”

Deanna blinked. “…Beverly?”

“I’m done with the what-ifs. I’m getting clarity tonight. Right now.”

Beverly marched toward the door, barefoot and determined, before abruptly spinning back to point at the other two women. “And you’re both coming with me. If I have to suffer this circus, I’m taking the entire troupe.”

Lwaxana gasped in delightful scandal, clapping her hands together. “Ohhh, how exciting! A midnight diagnostic, three ladies in stride, the corridors alive with anticipation. Why, this is practically a pilgrimage of truth!”

Deanna groaned but got to her feet. “Mother, please…”

The three women - Starfleet’s most formidable medical officer, the ever-even-tempered ship’s counselor, and the Betazoid whirlwind herself - marched down the quiet corridor like a small, determined parade ready to invade a foreign kingdom.

Crew members who crossed their path stepped aside instinctively, sensing the wave of female purpose barreling toward Sickbay.

Lwaxana whispered far too loudly to Deanna as they walked. “You know, this reminds me of the time I marched three of my sisters into the House of Vow Trials on Betazed. Except that time, just one of them was hiding a secret pregnancy.”

Beverly’s voice came back sharp and dry without looking over her shoulder. “Thank you, Lwaxana. Your discretion is truly inspiring.”

Deanna muttered to herself. “I can’t believe I’m part of this.”

By the time they reached Sickbay, the room was dim and hushed, running on its night-cycle lighting with just a minimum staff greeting unobtrusively. The quiet hum of biobeds and monitors filled the air, and the faint scent of sterilization and warm circuitry was almost comforting.

Beverly made a beeline for the private room she'd picked out to avoid being seen and witnessed, and quickly shut the doors as soon as everyone was inside. Approaching the diagnostic station, her chin lifted with resolute defiance. “All right. Enough whispers. Let’s settle this.”

Lwaxana beamed, settling herself onto the single biobed like she owned it. “Ohhh, I adore late-night drama. Will there be a drumroll?”

Deanna sighed and folded her arms, leaning against the wall. “You’re not helping.”

Beverly paused at the console, her fingers hovering over the controls, and for a brief, unguarded moment, she felt her heart tighten. What if the rumors… were true?

Moments passed as she stood at the central console, her fingers hovering over the LCARS interface, her reflection caught in the sleek surface of the display. Behind her, Deanna had leaned against the wall, arms folded, while Lwaxana Troi throned like a queen on the bed, watching the proceedings with rapt delight.

“Well, darling,” Lwaxana bustled, “are we doing this the efficient Starfleet way, or the dramatic Betazoid way?”

Beverly shot her a look over her shoulder. “I’m a doctor, Lwaxana. There’s only one way to do this: fast and accurate.”

Her fingers danced over the console, activating the diagnostic subroutine. The soft whir of scanners filled the quiet Sickbay as the medical display illuminated.

Beverly kept her eyes on the readout, her heartbeat a heavy drum in her chest.

I should have noticed. The thought struck hard and uninvited. She had run a routine post-rescue scan the day before. Standard procedure after confinement, possible hypoxia, and stress. And she had reviewed her own bio-readings as she always did, out of habit and self-assurance. Even Jean-Luc had watched her doings.

But she’d been tired, distracted. Caught between the chaos of reports, crew whispers, and… him.

If I had just looked closer…

The soft pulse of the scanner passed over her body, and the monitor pinged softly as data populated the screen.

Beverly’s throat tightened.

She recognized the pattern instantly - long before a verbal confirmation could even sound. Years of medical training made the image unmistakable, a single highlighted section on the display that shifted the room around her.

She gripped the edge of the console, her knuckles white. Behind her, she could feel the weight of Deanna’s empathic concern and Lwaxana’s barely restrained glee.

“Well?” Lwaxana asked after a heartbeat, her voice dripping with impatient excitement. “Don’t keep your audience in suspense, dear. Some of us are positively vibrating with curiosity.”

Beverly inhaled slowly, her gaze locked on the data and raising her inner shields even higher.

“Mother,” Deanna repeated in the same warning tone like a never-ending mantra, sensing the fragile swirl of emotions in the room.

“Oh, fine, fine,” Lwaxana said, waving her hand but never taking her eyes off Beverly. “But I can tell something is different. I know that much.”

Beverly didn’t move for a long moment, just letting the sound of the Sickbay’s quiet hum anchor her.

Finally, she tapped the console to lock the results. Her voice, when it came, was soft and controlled, but her heart raced. “All right. I’ve seen what I needed to see.” She turned off the scanner and faced the two women, her face carefully composed, though her blue eyes shimmered with something unspoken and profound.

Lwaxana leaned forward, nearly bouncing on the biobed. “Well?”

Beverly’s mouth twitched in a small, tight smile, the sarcasm returning as her other, more effective shield. “Well… I think I owe myself a very long night’s sleep.”

Deanna’s brows lifted, reading her friend’s aura, but she didn’t push.

Beverly gathered herself, shutting down the console with practiced efficiency. One thing was certain: by the time she faced Jean-Luc, she would know exactly what she needed to say - and exactly how complicated their world had just become.

***

The ready room was quiet, save for the low hum of the warp engines and the muted chirp of the console as Jean-Luc Picard finished his incident report.

Every word was measured, every line precise, yet his thoughts kept drifting - slipping through the careful net of professionalism like water through cupped hands.

He saw her face in his mind. Beverly, with that teasing little half-smile that unraveled him in ways he could barely admit to himself. The smell of her hair lingered from the night before last, the warm weight of her body against his chest as she’d finally, mercifully, let herself relax into him.

Even with the Ferengi threat resolved, his heart had not settled. Not entirely. There had been the taunt, the whisper of a possibility that had left him quietly unmoored. The crew whispered about it now - he could feel it in the air, even if no one dared bring it to his face.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the starlines streaking past the viewport, fingers absently brushing his temple. He had been so careful for so long. A lifetime of restraint, and then… her. Always her.

The intercom chirped softly, slicing through his thoughts.

“Crusher to Picard.”

His head snapped up, his pulse immediately kicking up a notch. Her voice. Calm. Steady.

He tapped his combadge with the barest hesitation. “Picard here.”

“Jean-Luc,” she said, and the use of his name was like a hand brushing over his heart. “I need you to come to Sickbay. Immediately.”

His fingers tightened against the armrest, a swell of anticipation and dread colliding in his chest.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, trying to flatten his baritone into something professional, knowing he was failing.

“No… I mean… well, it’s nothing urgent. But I guess it can’t wait until morning.”

“On my way,” he managed, swallowing the lump in his throat. The line clicked off, leaving him in a suffocating hush. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing a long, slow inhale.

She had called.

The thought was electric, threading through every nerve. She had chosen this moment, this night, after all these hours of new, unknown tension. And yet - don’t expect too much, Jean-Luc.

She could want to talk about the mission report, a crew medical evaluation, or the Ferengi ordeal.
She could want to reprimand him for his ongoing worry. Or… he stifled a brief smile. They often had shared some extra niceties lately, in the middle of the night. When their duty shifts not allowed to spent the night together in one of their quarters, they had found a way to spent some private time nevertheless - over a splendid cup of Earl Gray or… something even better. He found it hard to believe he had endured so many years without the banality of being basically happy. At ease, complete, and grounded.

And yet, deep in his chest, he realized that another thought burned more, one he could not silence:
What if she’s telling you now? What if the Ferengi… were right?

He rose, every movement deliberate, his uniform immaculate despite the storm of anticipation beneath it.

The ready room doors opened, spilling him onto the bridge.

Every eye turned toward him.

The weight of attention was palpable, like static in the air. Picard could feel the silent ripple of curiosity, the invisible threads of gossip winding across the room. Even the usual hum of the consoles seemed to pause as he crossed the deck with measured authority.

Riker rose from the command chair, his blue eyes gleaming with a smirk he half‑failed to suppress.
“Everything all right, sir?”

Picard’s jaw tightened, and he gave a single, crisp nod. “Perfectly.”

He didn’t break stride, moving toward the turbolift with quiet intensity, every step a battle between professional control and the fierce, private hope pounding in his chest.

By the time the lift doors slid shut behind him, his reflection in the brushed metal walls looked composed, unreadable - but inside, Jean-Luc Picard was a man on the edge of the moment that could change everything.

***

Sickbay was dim, the night‑cycle lighting casting soft shadows across the rows of silent biobeds. Only the soft hum of the diagnostic consoles broke the stillness.

The doors whispered open, and Jean-Luc Picard stepped inside. His stride was controlled, his hands clasped behind his back, but his eyes found her instantly, drinking her in.

He found her alone in Sickbay, near the central biobed, arms folded, dressed casually and surprisingly barefooted, her posture relaxed in appearance but coiled beneath the surface. Her brilliant copper hair caught the muted light, her expression composed but simmering with something he knew too well - anticipation wrapped in sarcasm.

She didn’t move, letting the silence stretch just long enough to bite, before arching one, delicate brow. “Well,” she said, voice low and edged with her signature dry humor. “The mighty captain finally answers his doctor calling him in.”

Picard paused a step inside the room, his mouth twitching despite himself. “Beverly,” he said, with that measured calm that was more armor than truth, “I assumed it was important.”

“Oh, it is,” she said, tilting her head. “You’ve been pacing around this ship like a man about to be audited by fate, and I’m tired of the suspense. So…” She gestured to the biobed with a flourish. “Here we are. My domain. The place where truth lives.”

He moved closer, the scent of sterile air and something faintly her - flowers and copper and warmth - drifting around him. His voice dropped into the lower, intimate register he reserved for her.
“And what truth am I here to face tonight? I guess it’s not about the absence of your shoes?”

Beverly’s sapphire eyes flickered, and for a heartbeat, the humor cracked to reveal the weight of what she carried. Then she straightened, masking it with a smile that was a little too sharp to be casual. “Oh, I don’t know, Jean-Luc. Maybe the truth that half your bridge crew thinks I’m… glowing. Or that the Ferengi have inspired a ship-wide betting pool about our personal lives. Or maybe…” She leaned in slightly, voice a soft sting. “…the truth that you’ve been brooding like a thundercloud instead of just coming to talk to me.”

The words hit home. He drew a measured breath, his gaze steady on hers. “Perhaps,” he said softly, “I was waiting for you to be ready to talk to me.”

Beverly’s lips parted, the sharpness in her expression flickering toward something vulnerable.

The room was silent but for the steady hum of Sickbay’s systems. Her heart thudded in her ears, matched by the low pulse of his quiet anticipation. “Then I suppose,” she said finally, her voice softening, “you’re in luck. I’m ready now.”

Beverly rested her palm against the edge of the biobed, the soft mattress cool under her skin. For all her practiced sarcasm and Starfleet steel, she could feel the weight of this moment settling in her chest.

Jean-Luc still stood a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders taut with that carefully composed tension she knew by heart. He could face Borg cubes and Romulan warbirds with a stone mask, but right now - here, with her - his eyes betrayed him.

He was afraid. Not of her - but of what she might say. But then, she had to do it, now. Before she lost the courage to do so. She took a slow breath and let the humor fall away, leaving only the raw honesty beneath. “For obvious and aforementioned reasons, I scanned myself tonight,” she said simply.

His jaw shifted almost imperceptibly, the only sign that his heart had leapt to his throat.

“I could have seen it yesterday,” she continued, her voice low. “When I ran the standard post-rescue scan. But I was tired… distracted. Or maybe…” She hesitated, her hand tightening on the biobed. “…maybe I wasn’t ready to look too closely.”

Jean-Luc’s baritone was a near whisper, every fiber in his body ready to burst. “And now?”

“Now I’ve looked,” she said, meeting his gaze head-on. Blazing sapphire meeting storm gray, steady and unflinching. “And I know the answer to the question you’ve been obviously too afraid to ask.”

His throat tightened. He took a careful step closer, until he could feel the warmth of her in the dim Sickbay light. “Beverly…” His voice faltered, rich and soft. “Are you…?”

Her lips curved, not quite a smile - more a slight tremor of embarrassment. “I am.”

The word hung in the air like a star igniting in the dark.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The ship hummed quietly around them, life support and warp engines oblivious to the tectonic shift in the captain’s heart.

Jean-Luc’s breath left him in a slow, unsteady exhale. “My God…” he murmured, and then, softer still, “Our child.”

Beverly felt the words land deep and irrevocable, sparking warmth and fear all at once. Her fingers curled at her sides as a dozen thoughts collided - duty, risk, love, loss - but in that instant, his awe anchored her.

He stepped closer, carefully, reverently, and lifted a hand as though to touch her but stopped just shy of her arm, seeking silent permission.

“Jean-Luc…” she said quietly, her voice trembling but steady with conviction. “I wasn’t sure how I felt until I saw it on the screen. But now…” She swallowed, and the sharp edge of humor returned just enough to soften the fear. “…I think I’m going to need you to breathe before you faint.”

A laugh - soft and incredulous - escaped him, and he let his hand rest lightly against her arm at last. His thumb traced the curve of her sleeve in a gesture both intimate and grounding.

“I’m breathing,” he murmured, eyes locked to hers. “I just… I feel as though the deck has shifted under me.”

“Welcome to my world,” Beverly said, her voice catching despite the quip.

Jean-Luc studied her face for a long, quiet moment, the gravity of her words settling over him like starlight. “I thought…” He stopped, the admission heavy in his throat. “…I thought you already knew. That you were keeping it from me until you were ready to say the words or fearing my impending reaction.”

Beverly blinked at him, surprise flickering in her blue eyes. “You… what?”

“I’ve spent hours…” His voice dipped into a low, almost rueful rumble. “…convincing myself that you were afraid of me and waiting. That you were… sparing me. That you're trying to break it to me gently.”

Her mouth parted, then curved into a soft, incredulous laugh. “Oh, Jean-Luc… I admit I thought you would be the one terrified out of your mind. I thought when I would tell you, you’d go running for the Neutral Zone. But… actually, I found out just an hour ago.”

His chest rose with a deep, unsteady inhale, and then he let out a warm, disbelieving huff of laughter.
“So… we were both apparently wrong.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice gentling. “Gloriously wrong.”

He moved before he even thought about it, closing the space between them in a stride. His arms went around her waist, and he pulled her in with the sureness of a man who had finally stopped running from gravity.

Beverly’s hands slid up his back as he tilted his head to capture her inviting mouth, the kiss slow and deep and consuming, speaking all the words neither of them could yet string together.

Time seemed to stretch and dissolve.

They stood there in the dim Sickbay, Starfleet’s most disciplined captain and its most formidable doctor, clinging to each other like the universe outside could wait.

When the kiss finally broke, Jean-Luc kept her close, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in soft, uneven exhales. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the pure, unvarnished joy of the moment sink into his bones. Then Beverly’s voice, soft but wry, threaded between their shared heartbeats. “You do realize… Lwaxana knows as well, don’t you?”

His eyes snapped open, and he leaned back just enough to see her smirk. The color drained from his face with almost comedic speed. “Already? Oh… hell.”

Minutes passed while he simply couldn’t stop to hold Beverly as close as possible - one hand resting tenderly on the curve of her waist, the other sliding over the perfect contour of her backside. The intimacy of the moment radiated with a warmth no starship engine could match.

His lips found the side of her head, a kiss dropped into her auburn hair like a vow. “But, are you alright?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Truly? And the baby?”

Beverly leaned back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were misted, but her smile was radiant. “We’re both okay,” she murmured, brushing her fingers across his cheek. “I just… I should have noticed earlier.”

“You’ve had other things on your mind,” he said gently. But inside, his thoughts spiraled.
He still couldn’t believe it. This was real. She was here. Safe. Carrying their child.

The weight of it - the sheer wonder - tightened his throat. A strange cocktail of awe and humility and overwhelming tenderness flooded his chest. They remained like that, breathing each other in, hearts beating out a rhythm only they could feel.

He exhaled deeply, fingers curling gently into the fabric of her blue sweater as reassurance. They barely noticed when the small room’s door opened.

Lieutenant Alyssa Ogawa entered, a datapadd in hand - and immediately froze, startled mid-stride to find the two still locked in each other's arms.

Her eyes widened, then softened at the sight before her: the captain holding their CMO in an unmistakably intimate embrace, his fingers spread protectively across her belly, her face buried into his neck. Her gaze lingered shyly on Beverly’s illustrious hair and luminous eyes, then on Picard’s gentle expression, tenderness written in every line. Her superior officers, always so composed, so reserved- caught in a rare moment of vulnerability and quiet joy.

“Oh!” Alyssa stammered, eyes darting away. “I… I didn’t know you were here. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

Beverly turned in Jean-Luc’s arms, but didn’t step away. Her eyes still shimmered; her body relaxed against him. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms across his ribs, as though grounding herself in his presence.

Alyssa paused, her voice softening. “It’s good to have you back, Doctor.” Her tone wasn't mere courtesy - it was heartfelt, warm with relief and admiration towards her superior.

Beverly nodded, a smile catching in the curve of her lips, fragile and glowing all at once.
“It’s good to be back, Alyssa.” Her voice wavered. “Thank you.”

The younger woman dipped her head in quiet respect and offered a gentle smile, then she quickly excused herself with one last lingering look. The door closed softly behind her.

Beverly tilted her head up and met Jean-Luc’s eyes again. He smiled, something deep and rare blooming behind the lines of command and weight of duty - a man so deeply in love and totally undone - yet reborn by it.

His voice was a whisper: “I don’t think I’ll ever get over the sight of you in my arms.”

She chuckled, a soft melodic sound that brushed his collarbone. “Good. Because I’m not considering to let you go, Jean-Luc Picard.”

And neither of them moved. Not from the room. Not from each other. Not from the moment where everything finally felt right. They remained entwined in one of the rarest moments of their lives: absolute, unfiltered intimacy in the quiet sanctuary of Sickbay. Beverly’s hand moved down to bury his fingers in hers, lacing them together with deliberate care. Eyes still glistening, she turned her gaze to study him - his strong jaw softened, the storm in his gray eyes alight with love and awe, the silver in his temples a reminder of how long and how far they’d come.

She held his gaze, and at last, he spoke, voice low and earnest:

“Beverly… whatever happens next… I need you to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that, Captain?” she teased, voice gentle but with a spark of mischief.

He exhaled, steadying himself as he shifted the position of his hand to rest on her belly, protectively, reverently. “Promise me you won’t take unnecessary risks anymore,” he murmured, the words heavy with the memory of the Ferengi threat. “No more midnight rescue missions, no more reckless bravery…”

Beverly’s lips quirked in that roguish grin he knew all too well. She leaned closer so her breath brushed his ear: “Jean‑Luc Picard,” she said in mock scold. “I’m just pregnant - not sick. You’ll have to get used to that now.”

Picard groaned - a sound halfway between protest and delight - and shifted to plant a gentle, disapproving kiss on her supple mouth. “Anyway… and just so we’re clear,” he teased, voice thick with affection, “once you’re back on duty and our child keeps growing inside of you… any possible risk you do take, better comes with infinite justification.”

Beverly’s answer was to gently tug at his hand, coaxing him toward the door. “Well, well. Now come with me, Captain Daddy. There is more I want to show you.”

He gave her a playful growl - equal parts gruff devotion and adoration – realizing there was nothing that would stop her at any point, anyway - and scooped her into a light embrace. “Let’s get you home, Cherie,” he said softly, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.

They left Sickbay, hearts synced, hands linked - two lovers visibly forging ahead.

Chapter Text

The warm, dim glow of Ten Forward spilled over the curved windows, stars drifting lazily beyond the transparent aluminum. At a small table near the viewport, Lwaxana Troi sat in full, glorious regalia - deep violet robes shimmering, hair coiled in a crown-like arrangement - spoon in hand and an expression of utter delight on her face.

In front of her sat her daughter, less elaborately dressed but no less regal in her own quiet way, leaning over a plate large enough to qualify as a diplomatic arena. On it: a towering mountain of replicated Betazoid dark chocolate mousse, rich enough to sink a shuttle in.

Lwaxana scooped a large spoonful, savored it with theatrical sighs, and then fixed her daughter with a pointed look. “So… Beverly Crusher. And Jean-Luc Picard. Expecting. My, my, my.”

Deanna kept her expression neutral, but her spoon hesitated mid-air. “Yes, Mother. That’s what the scans confirmed. And before you even try to ask — no, I didn’t read her to find out earlier. I’m not in the habit of violating my friends’ privacy.”

Lwaxana waved a dismissive hand. “Please, darling. Privacy is overrated when the universe hands you such… delightful material. Besides -” she dipped her spoon again “- one doesn’t need to be a telepath to have noticed they’ve been messing around with each other these past months quite… frantically. Like two teenagers hiding in a turbolift. But tell me, Little One, how does the ship’s chief medical officer not notice she’s carrying the future heir to the Picard dynasty?”

Deanna sighed. “I can't believe how much you're enjoying this… I guess… this happens more often than you think. Long hours, stress, irregular schedules, mission after mission - and first stage pregnancy symptoms can be subtle or even non-existent, especially for someone who’s not looking for them.”

“Nonsense. Not looking for them? Beverly Crusher’s a doctor. Doctors are supposed to look for things. And, of course I am enjoying this, shouldn’t I? I told you this would happen! Although…” Lwaxana leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “…I do wonder exactly how it happened on a ship where its formidable captain insists on such strict decorum. That is…  undeniably a delicious mystery in itself. I’m surely not picturing some tedious nightly interaction in her quarters…”

Deanna groaned, setting her spoon down. “Mother. That’s surely none of your business.”

“Oh gosh, stop mothering me. Just think about it, Little One - the idea of the legendary Jean-Luc Picard losing control just enough for this to happen? Oh, it’s positively thrilling. No amount of dignified fencing in the holodeck can prepare a man for that kind of duel.” She sighed theatrically, seeing her daughter roll her eyes at her. “Oh, come now. Let’s speculate! Was it after one of their little ‘briefings’? Or perhaps during one of those endless evenings in his ready room with ‘just one more tea’, the blushing bridge crew witnessing disturbing noises? Or—” she gestured broadly with her spoon, nearly flinging mousse across the table “—during one of those perilous negotiation sessions where she rescues him from infinite monotony and he suddenly realizes he cannot go another moment without…”

“Mother!” Deanna’s voice had taken on the firm, warning tone she reserved for unruly ensigns and Lwaxana alike. She groaned softly, pushing her mousse around her plate. “Maybe it was… planned. We can’t be sure…”

Lwaxana shook her head firmly. “No. I know an ‘accident’ when I see one. And this one… oh, it’s going to make the best dinner conversation for years.”

Deanna couldn’t help a faint smile, despite herself. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you adore me,” Lwaxana replied, raising her spoon in a mock toast. “Now, here’s to the most anticipated little bundle of scandal the Enterprise has ever seen.” Grinning broadly, she quickly stole another scoop of mousse. “Mark my words, Little One — this baby is going to be magnificent. With her brains and temper and his… let’s say… attitude, the child could run the Federation by age ten.”

Deanna shook her head, though a reluctant smile crept onto her lips. “Or blow up the Enterprise by age five.”

They both laughed, clinking spoons before diving back into the chocolate mountain, stars wheeling silently around them.

Deanna let her spoon rest in her dish for a moment, her gaze drifting past the stars streaking outside the viewport. Her mind wandered into softer territory - to Beverly’s expression in Sickbay earlier, the raw, unguarded joy in Picard’s mind she could sense radiating through the entire ship like a warm summer rain, and the subtle but unmistakable new shift in the air between them. It was the kind of change that sent ripples through the entire crew.

They finally got there, she thought, a quiet smile curving her lips. And if they can… maybe anyone can.

But Lwaxana Troi was not one to linger in sentiment for long.

“Alright, enough of this misty-eyed gazing,” she announced, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “That chapter of my work here is almost finished. Jean-Luc and Beverly will be blissfully occupied for the foreseeable future, giving me all the freedom in the galaxy to focus on my real mission.”

Deanna blinked, wary. “…Which is?”

Lwaxana’s eyes glittered like a cat spotting a wayward bird. She leaned forward, voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr. “You, Little One. You and that delicious first officer of yours. You think I’m going to leave this ship without securing my own future grandchildren?”

Deanna sighed, already feeling the trap close around her. “Oh no, don’t you even start…”

“I mean it! You and William Riker have been dancing around each other for years - almost as long as good old Jean-Luc and our fiery doctor, and you see how I fixed that in mere months. All you need is the right setting, the right music, some drinks and perhaps a little chocolate-fueled courage…”

“Mother.”

Lwaxana ignored the warning tone entirely, eyes alight with ambition. “Oh, just imagine it! My legacy ruling the galaxy from both sides - one branch descended from Picards, the other from Trois and Rikers. Why, the diplomatic possibilities alone…”

Deanna dropped her forehead into her hand. “I’m not having this conversation in Ten Forward.”

“Good,” Lwaxana said brightly, rising from her chair and sweeping her violet skirts aside. “Then we’ll have it in your quarters. Come along, darling. We’ve planning to do.”

*

The doors to Ten Forward whispered shut behind them, the decadent scent of chocolate still clinging faintly to Lwaxana Troi’s flowing violet robes. She moved like a starliner in full diplomatic regalia — graceful, dramatic, and impossible to ignore.

Deanna followed in her wake, a full pace behind, clutching the bridge of her nose with the grim resignation of someone who had just seen her quiet evening implode.

Maybe if I fake a transporter malfunction...

“Mother,” she hissed under her breath, trying to catch up, “you promised you wouldn’t—”

“I promised no such thing,” Lwaxana said, not slowing down. “I promised not to interfere with Jean-Luc and Beverly any further. You never mentioned a word about me pursuing your personal fulfilment.”

Before Deanna could respond, fate delivered the next blow.

Around the corner — tall, confident, and entirely unprepared — Commander William Riker strode right into the path of Betazed Destiny.

“Ah, William!” Lwaxana trilled, hands outstretched in welcome. “Just the man I wanted to see. And not just because of that magnificent beard. Although — truly, darling, you do wear it like a general of love.”

Riker froze mid-step, blinking. “Mrs. Troi.”

Deanna was already mouthing I’m so sorry behind her mother.

Lwaxana linked her arm with his before he could protest. “Walk with me, darling. We have so much to discuss. Your future, your prospects, and what a delightful parental figure you’ll make.”

Riker looked over Lwaxana’s towering hair to Deanna, eyebrows lifted in a mute plea for rescue. Deanna gave a helpless shrug and fell in beside them.

“I can only hope,” she muttered under her breath, “that the captain really wants to reach Betazed as fast as possible. The ship won’t survive another week of this.”

“Of course not,” Riker whispered back, eyes widening slightly as Lwaxana began detailing their hypothetical wedding colours. “The morale will collapse. We’ll have to divert to Risa for recovery leave.”

Lwaxana, of course, ignored them both. She was already waxing poetic about Betazoid twilight ceremonies, open emotions, and the supreme compatibility of soulmates born under opposite moons.

And so the corridor echoed with her lyrical declarations and Riker’s steadily mounting dread — as Deanna tried very hard not to look like a Starfleet officer fleeing the scene of a diplomatic incident.

=/\=

“So,” Beverly said, stretching one bare leg along the length of the sofa and letting Spot lazily drape herself over her thigh, “you’re really going to let her go back to Data like that? Without protest?”

Jean-Luc Picard sighed from his place near the replicator, where he was preparing two cups of tea—Earl Grey, hot, and chamomile with a hint of mint. He didn’t answer immediately.

Beverly smirked. “You’ll miss her, admit it.”

“I will not miss her fur in my chair,” he said dryly, walking back and handing her the cup.

She tilted her head, accepting the tea with a soft merci. “But you will miss her purring in your lap.”

“I’ve already got someone else to occupy that position.” His voice was calm, but there was that familiar sparkle of flirtation in his eyes.

Spot flicked her tail as if she, too, had something to say about that.

At that moment, the door chimed.

“Come.”

The doors opened to reveal Lt. Commander Data, posture precise, his uniform as crisp as ever after his short assignment aboard the USS Calliope. His gold eyes lit up as they landed on the cat nestled comfortably against Beverly belly.

“Doctor Crusher,” he said courteously, “Captain. I hope my return is not interrupting anything. And Spot has not been too… intrusive.”

Beverly's spirit chuckled, relishing the warmth of the cat's fur against her rapidly growing legacy. Her hand instinctively settled against her abdomen for a beat before she repositioned it on Spot. Picard cleared his throat and stood with his usual brisk efficiency.

“She’s been a model house guest,” Beverly replied then, stroking the soft fur with additional enthusiasm. “Your captain, however, may never recover from the shedding.”

Jean-Luc sipped his tea, unfazed. “Commander, your pet is ready to resume duty. I trust the mission aboard the USS Calliope was enlightening?”

Data nodded. “Indeed, sir. The diplomatic relay with the Ventari delegation proved informative. Captain Elana Vyne handled the situation with admirable—if unconventional—grace.”

Beverly exchanged a look with Jean-Luc, mischief flickering in her eyes.

“Oh yes, Captain Vyne,” she said with feigned innocence. “I met her once at a medical conference. Tall, very poised. Very... hands-on leadership style, if I recall.”

Picard took a deliberate sip of tea. “She once was my second officer on the Stargazer. Brilliant tactician. Had a penchant for chainmail formalwear, if memory serves.”

Data blinked. “I can confirm she wore ceremonial attire during the Ventari proceedings. Chainmail was indeed involved.”

Beverly barely stifled a laugh, and Picard’s mouth twitched with restrained amusement.

“And Spot?” Picard asked, gesturing toward the feline, still indolent on Beverly’s grip and entirely uninterested in her owner's return.

Spot gave no indication of agreement or interest, rolling onto her back and revealing her belly in silent protest.

“Appears emotionally stabilized,” Data said. “The behavioral telemetry suggests a reduction in stress-related vocalizations - so different to last time, when Lieutenant Worf was looking after her. I believe she found comfort in Doctor Crusher’s feminine presence.” Data crouched to gather her, gently scooping the feline from his visibly relaxed colleague. “Thank you for your care. She appears emotionally content. That is encouraging.”

“I’m good with needy mammals,” Beverly murmured, casting Jean-Luc a sideways glance. Her fingertips grazed her abdomen again, subtle but meaningful. Picard caught it. And swallowed thickly.

“And… I may add, she’s not the only one,” Beverly murmured, watching the cat’s tail flick as she was carried off toward the door.

Data tilted his head. “Indeed. I appreciate your care. If she has shed excessively, I can offer lint rollers.”

“She’s not the only one shedding around here,” Beverly teased softly. “Though mine’s less visible.”

Picard shot her a look.

Data, oblivious to subtext as ever, took a closer, inspective look at his cat, who curled reluctantly into his arms. “I shall leave you to your evening,” he said courteously. “I will be recalibrating Spot’s environmental comfort protocols in my quarters. Should you wish for visitation, I am amenable.”

“We’ll keep that in mind, Commander,” Picard said. “Dismissed.”

As the doors slid shut behind him, silence lingered for a moment.

Then Picard let out a long breath. “Do you think he already suspects anything?”

Beverly smiled, rising and walking over to him. “Data? Please. You could’ve just asked him about ventilation efficiency for a crib and he wouldn’t notice.”

Picard took a deep breath and observed Beverly, who had drifted over to his replicator.

“Computer, one dark chocolate square, extra bitter,” she commanded, and popped the cube into her mouth with a satisfied hum. “I needed that.”

Jean-Luc leaned against the back of his armchair, stifling a chuckle. “So,” he began casually, “now that we’re settling back into routine… I thought perhaps it’s time to re-evaluate our habitation logistics.”

Beverly slowly turned, brow lifting in classic Crusher mischief. “Habitation logistics?” she repeated, eyes twinkling.

He cleared his throat. “Living arrangements.”

“You mean… you want Spot to stay permanently?”

He gave her a pointed look.

She sauntered across the room, stopping just shy of touching him. “I mean, she has taken to my lap like it’s her throne.”

“Beverly.”

Her smile deepened. “You’re asking me to move in with you?”

He nodded, reserved but hopeful. “Yes.”

She looked around the room slowly, then back at him, tilting her head. “What, all this?” She gestured theatrically. “The sleek grey walls, minimalist aesthetic, a single bonsai tree clinging to life and… wait, is that three PADDs on a napkin dispenser?”

His lips twitched. “It’s a functional space.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, pretending to consider. “And you’re sure you’re ready for me and my mountain of medical journals? And the ten thousand things I need just for a hair routine?”

“I’m prepared to make… compromises.”

“Compromises,” she echoed with mock gravity, stepping closer again. “Is that what you’re calling unconditional surrender these days?”

“Semantics.”

She laughed and finally reached for him, curling her fingers into his shirt. “You know, Jean-Luc, I’m not opposed to it,” she said more softly. “But I like that we still have our own space. It’s been working.”

“I’m serious, Beverly,” Picard said, retreating from her grip only to circle toward his replicator and retrieve another tea, watching the steam momentarily. “It’s not just sentiment - though that certainly plays a role.”

Beverly shifted her weight, arms folded loosely, watching him. “All right, then. Convince me, Captain.”

He sipped his tea, then faced her squarely. “For one, it’s logistical. When appointments start crowding your mornings and the ship decides to throw an emergency into the middle of the night—how long before walking between quarters in a robe becomes scandalous?”

She lifted a brow. “Scandalous? On this ship?”

“Point being,” he continued smoothly, “you’re already here half the time. More, really. And soon, with all the changes coming…” He paused. “It would give us both more time. Time that matters.”

Beverly’s teasing expression faded slightly as she considered that. He moved toward her again, setting his tea aside on his desk.

“And our baby…” His voice softened remarkably. “Will be born into a life of chaos, no matter how carefully we tread. But if we can offer one space that’s always ours - a place that’s warm, familiar… safe…” His hand brushed her arm gently. “That’s what I want to give. To both of you.”

She stared at him, touched and surprised by how thoroughly he had thought this through.

“And,” he added, his voice dipping into something a bit smug, “you’d have full access to the replicator settings I’ve secretly adjusted for optimal chocolate croissant texture.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “You adjusted them?”

He leaned in, smiling now. “You think Riker knows how to code laminated pastry specs?”

She laughed, the sound soft and joyful. She touched his chest, resting her fingers just above his heart.

“All right,” she said, her voice suddenly quiet, decisive. “You win.”

He blinked, almost not believing it. “Truly?”

She kissed him once, then again. “You make a compelling case, Captain.”

His hands slipped around her waist, a soft sound of satisfaction escaping him. “Then I’ll inform the computer we’re initiating joint quarters status.”

“You’ll what?”

“Kidding,” he murmured, nuzzling her temple. “Mostly.”

The warmth between them hadn’t faded. Not in the quiet minutes following her agreement to move in, not even when the lingering scent of his skin clung to hers after their embrace. But still, Beverly shifted, stepped back just enough to break the moment’s spell, and wrapped her arms around herself—not out of reluctance, but calculation.

“Jean-Luc,” she said gently, watching him as he turned from pouring more tea. “Now you’re addressing it… we should talk about these next steps properly.”

His gaze met hers, alert. He didn’t speak, only waited, sensing the shift in tone.

“When I run the official prenatal scan,” she said, “it’ll go into the medical database. That means a flag will be sent to Starfleet Medical, notifying them of my condition. And since I’m the CMO of the Enterprise…” she trailed off, watching him absorb the meaning.

His face remained composed, but she could feel the tension underneath.

“It means questions,” he said finally.

She nodded, retreating toward the sofa. “Yes. And assumptions. And speculation.”

He folded his hands behind his back in that familiar posture, one that made her smile in spite of herself. “There’s no regulation against a relationship between senior officers,” he said. “And certainly none against children born on a starship.”

“No,” she agreed, “but you and I both know it’s different when the Captain and the CMO are involved. Especially on this ship.” She leaned against the back of the couch, her voice playful now. “Do you really think Vash is going to take this news gracefully?”

His eyes twitched slightly at the name, and Beverly’s grin widened.

“Or Jenice?” she continued with mock sympathy. “Oh, and let’s not forget Nella Daren. I’m sure the next symphony she composes will be… dramatic.”

Picard groaned. “Must you?”

“Absolutely,” she replied sweetly.

His amusement faded into reflection as he crossed to stand beside her again. “There will be fallout,” he admitted quietly. “Not just from the past. From Command. From people who’ll see this as favouritism or question our judgment.”

She nodded slowly. “And yet… I’d do it all again.”

He looked at her, truly looked. The fierce confidence in her eyes, the resilience in her posture, the unshakable truth of her affection for him. He hadn’t just fallen in love with her. He’d chosen her—again and again, across years and regrets and close calls. And here she was, choosing him back.

“Whatever happens,” he said, voice low and steady, “I want the record to reflect the truth. That this child…” his hand brushed her belly lightly “..was born of something real. Something deliberate. And that we stand by it. Publicly.”

She smiled, touched by the formality of his declaration. “Even if the crew starts whispering about nursery furniture in the ready room?”

“I’ll requisition toys with Starfleet logos,” he said dryly. “Let them speculate. We’ve weathered worse,” he said quietly, reaching for her hand again. “And we’ll weather this. Together.”

“But we need to decide how we present this,” Beverly added. “Not let rumour and whispers tell the story first.”

He nodded, a slow and thoughtful motion. “You’re right. I’ll contact Starfleet myself, as soon as possible. I’ll make the report.”

She arched a brow. “Taking full responsibility, Captain?”

He gave her a dry look. “Sharing it.”

She leaned up to him with a sigh, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist. “We really are doing this, aren’t we?”

“We are,” he murmured into her hair. “And I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

“Even with Spot’s fur on your couch?”

He chuckled against her scalp. “Even then.”

“Then we’re agreed?” she asked.

“We are.”

She slipped her hand into his. “You’re sure you’re ready for this?”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for anything,” he confessed. “But I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Chapter Text

EPILOGUE

Data’s quarters glowed with the ambient light of a slow evening. The poker table, stacked with chips and half-finished drinks, had become the latest arena of playful banter. Riker leaned back, arms crossed behind his head like a man deeply at peace—or at least smugly confident. Geordi swirled his drink while Worf sat solidly in his chair, peering at his cards like they were tactical readouts. Deanna was curled into her seat, her drink balanced lazily on one knee. And Data, the perfect host, occasionally tilted his head, trying to read the room beyond the data on the cards.

Spot purred softly from the nearby console, having made a full tour of laps before choosing Worf’s boot as the perfect resting place.

“So,” Riker drawled, stretching his arms above his head, “calm has returned to the Enterprise. After the last few days, this almost feels like shore leave. No rogue Ferengi, no Betazoid invasions. Just good old-fashioned poker. I almost miss the chaos.”

Geordi chuckled. “Yeah, right. Tell that to the captain, who personally escorted Madame Troi off the ship like a priceless diplomatic relic.”

Worf grunted. “Her parting speech was ten minutes longer than required.”

“That was the short version.” Deanna muttered, raising an eyebrow at her cards. “And she did promise to return,”

Riker smirked. “You know, I think Picard enjoyed it. He’s never looked more motivated to initiate warp drive.”

Worf growled, not looking up. “We should increase security protocols for when she visits again.”

“Agreed,” Deanna said flatly. “And I want hazard pay.”

They all laughed - yes, even Worf, who offered a single, brief, guttural laugh that almost startled Spot off his paw perch.

Data tilted his head. “It is curious. Captain Picard has displayed a 37% increase in what humans refer to as ‘contentment’ since the ambassador’s departure.”

“Make that 77%,” Riker said. “And I think we all know why.”

Deanna smirked knowingly. “You mean besides her finally leaving the ship?”

Geordi’s grin widened. “So... has anyone seen the captain and the good doctor lately?”

Riker snorted. “Not since they tried to pretend nothing is going on. I think he’s still processing the fact that the toughest officer on the ship outmanoeuvred a Ferengi, saved a Betazoid Ambassador, and managed to knock him off his game completely.”

“She didn’t just knock him off his game,” Deanna said, sipping her drink with a mischievous twinkle. “She rewrote the rules.”

Worf looked up, puzzled. “The captain is now... officially mated?”

Deanna choked on her drink, while Riker and Geordi laughed outright.

“It’s not exactly the Klingon version of a mating bond,” Geordi said. “But... close enough.”

Data interjected. “If I understand correctly, Doctor Crusher and Captain Picard are now engaged in a romantic cohabitation scenario, and potentially expecting a biological offspring.”

Worf blinked. “That was fast.”

“They’re efficient,” Riker said. “It’s what you’d expect from senior staff. Not to mention, that this man is in love.”

“Deep,” Deanna teased. “And completely overwhelmed.”

“Think it’s the pregnancy that’s got him so rattled?” Riker asked.

Geordi raised an eyebrow. “If it were me, I’d be hiding in astrometric’s for the next six months.”

“More like,” Deanna said slyly, “Will would be the one pregnant.”

The table burst into laughter. Riker blushed and pointed dramatically at her. “You promised never to mention that dream.”

“Dream?” Geordi asked, instantly curious.

Worf blinked. “What dream?”

“Nothing!” Riker said too quickly, almost spilling his drink.

“Will had a dream that he was pregnant,” Deanna said sweetly. “And gave birth to a tribble.”

More laughter. Worf looked mildly horrified. “You... birthed prey?”

“It was symbolic!” Riker protested. “Or psychological. Or... something.”

Geordi wiped tears from behind his visor. “Man, I needed this.”

Data nodded. “Dreams of reversed reproductive roles are not uncommon in humans, especially those experiencing latent anxieties around parenthood, commitment, or unresolved emotional attachments.”

Riker sighed, muttering, “Thanks, Data.”

“Anytime.”

“Has the… pregnancy of Doctor Crusher been entered into the official logs yet?” Worf asked, his personal interest finally quipped.

Deanna shook her head. “At the moment, not. Only in whispers, but the crew knows. Trust me, although not official yet, they know.”

Riker tossed his cards down and sighed. “I still can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“He’s in love,” Deanna said softly, smiling now with less sarcasm and more warmth. “It changes everything.”

“You know,” Riker said, gifting her with his trademark grin, “we give the captain a lot of trouble... but he seems happy.”

Deanna smiled softly. “They both do. It’s real. Stronger than I expected.”

“Do you sense that?” Data asked curiously.

“I don’t have to,” she said. “Everyone can see it.”

Silence returned for a beat, broken only by Spot hopping into Deanna’s lap.

Then Geordi leaned back with a chuckle. “I’m just glad Lwaxana didn’t declare you two next on her matchmaking list.”

Deanna stiffened. “Oh, don’t get her started again.”

Riker leaned toward her, mock-serious. “She did say something about grandchildren.”

“Keep dreaming, Imzadi,” Deanna warned, though a faint blush crept up her cheeks.

“I am,” Riker replied, eyes twinkling. “And this time, no tribbles.”

Worf studied them for a moment, then turned to the others. “So... who wins this round?”

Data scanned the table. “Statistically, Lieutenant Commander La Forge holds the strongest hand.”

Geordi raised his eyebrows. “I’ll take it. Maybe next time, Picard will join us. I’d love to see him try to bluff now that the doctor has all the cards.”

As laughter echoed through Data’s quarters, Spot curled up in Deanna’s lap – satisfied, content, blending with the group at ease, in harmony, teasing, laughing, and ready for whatever the next adventure brought.

Peace had returned, for now. And for once, everyone was exactly where they were meant to be. They were a crew again, a family. And in the soft hum of the ship, as Spot purred and cards shuffled, everything felt exactly as it should.

***

The ship was quiet, settled into its night cycle. In the ready room, Picard sat with one elbow propped on his desk, collar open, nursing his third mug of Earl Grey. The display scrolled with reports he wasn’t reading anymore. His eyes burned from the day’s endless decisions.

The door hissed open.
He didn’t look up.

“Our shift ended one hour ago, Captain,” Beverly said, her voice dry, but with that particular you’re-pushing-your-luck timbre that always made the corner of his mouth twitch.

He half-smiled at his console. “I’m almost done, chérie.”

“Almost done… I’ve heard that before,” she countered, glancing toward the neat but untouched tea and stepping around the desk. Her perfume - subtle, warm, maddening - cut through the recycled air. She didn’t stop until she was leaning against his desk, hip brushing the edge, arms loosely crossed.

He glanced at her, meaning to give a small, polite nod before going back to his work…
…but his eyes caught on the fact that her lab coat was hanging loosely over her frame… and wasn’t quite closed.

His gaze flicked up, trying to play it cool, but she caught him and smiled - just enough to confirm she knew exactly what she was doing.

“You’re also still in uniform,” he said, though his voice had gone softer, rougher.

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Am I?”

He cleared his throat. “And yet somehow, I don’t recall the standard issue being that… minimal.”

Her smile deepened. “Do we need to drag you to our bed, Captain?”

He made a low sound - not quite a laugh, not quite a growl - and reached for her thigh without looking away from her eyes. “Careful, Doctor. That almost sounds like an order.”

She tilted her head, voice dipping into a murmur. “Oh, you’d follow this one.”

“Beverly…”

She leaned down just enough for the collar of her coat to fall open a fraction more, revealing a sliver of pale skin. “Jean-Luc.”

And that was all it took - his self-control fractured. He reached for her thigh without hesitation, his thumb finding the warm fabric just above her knee. Her breath hitched, and his pulse kicked hard against his ribs.

“Still thinking about work, Captain?” she teased, glancing at the console behind him.

He shook his head once. “Not anymore.”

His hand slid higher, releasing the closure of her pants with practiced ease. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, watching him with equal parts challenge and invitation. He pushed the cloth down and it pooled at her feet. She stepped free, his gaze devouring every inch now revealed.

He leaned back in his chair, catching her wrist and tugging her with him.

She willingly climbed into his lap with deliberate slowness, straddling him, knees braced against the chair. He took in the way her coat framed her body now, the faint flush in her cheeks, the way her breathing deepened.

“Now,” she murmured, “let’s see if I can make my Captain forget about duty for a while…”

The first kiss landed with the force of a breach in the hull - hot, urgent, claiming. His hands slid over her hips, up her back, memorizing her curves through the thin fabric. She rolled her hips against him, and he groaned into her mouth, his hands tightening reflexively.

Her smirk was pure victory. “I love it when you’re this sassy.”

“And I love it when you’re this insubordinate,” he growled back, before kissing her again, harder this time.

The pace shifted - heat building, breaths mingling, their bodies fitting together in that perfect, maddening way that made the rest of the galaxy vanish.

And as she began to move with slow, deliberate intent, the scene dissolved- sliding away from their shadows behind frosted glass…

***

A handful of night-shift officers manned their stations, the stars streaking past in the forward viewscreen. Ensign Ro Laren stood at tactical, posture crisp, gaze fixed ahead. But the muffled, rhythmic sounds coming from behind the ready room’s closed doors were impossible to ignore.

A comms officer cleared his throat and hunched over his console. Another adjusted their earpiece in vain. One young ensign stared fixedly at the floor.

Laren, however, didn’t flinch. After a long pause, she said - deadpan, without turning her head: “Well… at least the captain’s morale is up. Looks like he’s running a… very thorough performance review.”

Barclay, until now composed and thoroughly out of sight, looked up and turned toward Ro. “I guess the captain’s finally giving medical the attention it deserves.”

The conn ensign coughed violently into his sleeve. The young man at Ops turned redder than the Bussard collectors in front of the Enterprise's warp nacelles.

Ro paused for a beat, then added, still perfectly expressionless: “Though if he’s planning to maintain that speed, helm may need to plot a course to sickbay.”

Barclay’s eyebrow arched so high it nearly left orbit, but his mouth twisted into that dangerous half-smile. Somewhere deep inside the ship, Beverly and Jean-Luc were entirely oblivious… which was probably for the best.

And somewhere, a smothered snort of laughter nearly broke the bridge’s composure.

A decent amount of time later the ready room doors slid open with their usual quiet hiss.
Jean-Luc Picard emerged first, uniform perfectly in place, every hair immaculately aligned — if perhaps just a touch more mussed than regulation preferred.

Beverly followed a heartbeat later, lab coat crisp, hair flawlessly arranged… though the faint flush high on her cheekbones betrayed a warmth that wasn’t from the environmental controls.

They crossed the bridge side by side, neither speaking, neither breaking stride.

Every officer on the night shift locked eyes with their own console, trying desperately not to see.

Ro Laren still stood at tactical, arms folded, gaze cool and unreadable. But as the turbolift doors closed behind the pair, she leaned toward the conn ensign and murmured: “I assume the Captain’s log will need an edit.”