Chapter Text
The book of sonnets had been a gift from Beverly years ago, dog-eared now, the spine cracked from use. Picard turned another page, letting the words wash over him without quite absorbing them. It was late, later than he typically allowed himself to indulge in anything other than ship’s business, but all was quiet, and he'd found sleep elusive.
The air beside his shoulder shimmered.
He didn’t look up. “Go away, Q.”
“Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?” Q materialised fully, peering over Picard’s shoulder at the page. “Sonnets? How maudlin. And here I thought you were meant to be celebrating.”
“I’m reading,” Picard said evenly, though his jaw tightened. “A concept I realize may be foreign to -”
The book vanished from his hands. In its place, a different volume appeared, this one leather-bound, gilt-edged, decidedly Victorian. He glanced down at the cover.
A Christmas Carol.
“There,” Q said with satisfaction. “Much more appropriate for the season.”
Picard closed the book with deliberate care and set it on the side table. When he stood, he kept his voice level, the tone he reserved for tedious diplomatic functions and Q’s more irritating manifestations. “Whatever it is this time, Q, find someone else to toy with. Haven’t I only just recently passed your little test? Proven humanity’s worth? That we are not a savage race. That we are, in fact, worthy of our place in the universe?”
“Jean-Luc.” Q’s voice carried a note of reproach as he circled around to face him. “You know very well that that trial will never end. Do keep up.”
“Surely even mere mortals deserve a reprieve once in a while.” Picard moved toward the replicator, suddenly needing something to do with his hands. “I’m still recovering from our last little adventure. Go bother someone else. Tea. Earl Grey. Hot.”
“But then you won’t get your present!”
“I'll live, I'm sure.” He didn’t bother hiding the dryness in his tone. The cup materialised and he wrapped both hands around it, grateful for the heat. “Now, if you don’t mind -”
“But Jean-Luc, it’s Christmas Eve and here you are, sitting all alone when you could have much more... entertaining company.”
Picard’s hands stilled on the cup. He took a deliberate sip before turning.
“While that may be, Q,” he said, ignoring the sly innuendo, “Christmas is not, and has not been for many centuries, a major celebratory occasion. Many of the crew are simply -”
“You truly are a killjoy.” Q’s expression shifted to something like pity. “No wonder you never managed to capture the love of your life. You know, had I realised how attached to Red you are, I never would have arranged that little Sherwood adventure.” He spread his hands in a gesture of mock contrition. “Tut, tut, Jean-Luc. Why do you have to self-sabotage so spectacularly? I never had you personally down as a slow learner, and yet...”
The tea stopped halfway to Picard’s mouth. “What are you talking about?”
Q gestured grandly at himself. Only then did Picard register the costume, a waistcoat, tights, boots with tassels, the whole absurd ensemble topped with a letter ‘Q.’ And chains… long, heavy chains wound around his torso, made of lockboxes and ledgers and other detritus, symbols of… what? Avarice? Regret?
“Getting into character,” Q announced, turning to show off the ensemble with evident satisfaction. “You have to admire the commitment.”
Picard could only stare. Then the pieces fell into place, the book, the costume, Q’s uncharacteristic gravity beneath the performance… and something hot flared in his chest.
“Q.” He set the tea down harder than intended. “Didn’t we just do this?”
“Ah, but mon capitaine, that was existential. This is personal.” Q’s voice softened fractionally. “I’m here to save you from a fate worse than death.”
“And what might that be, Q?”
“Eternal regret, mon capitaine.”
Picard opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
Q’s smile turned almost gentle. “I realise that Picard. And that is precisely why I'm here.” A pause. “I wouldn’t go to all this trouble for just anyone. You’ve always been my favourite, Jean-Luc.”
“Lucky me,” Picard muttered.
Q began to pace, his chains clinking softly with each step, an affectation, surely, but effective nonetheless. “Would you know, Jean-Luc, the weight and length of the strong coil you bear? You have laboured on it, long. It is a ponderous chain.”
"I’m hardly a miser."
"With your time?" Q’s eyebrows rose. "Your devotion to duty?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Perhaps not. But none of those things is what brings me here.”
“Kindly get to the point.”
“I have vastly overestimated your intelligence, you know.” Q stopped pacing. When Picard made to push past him toward the bedroom, he relented. “Fine. I’m talking about your heart, Jean-Luc. That long-neglected organ you humans associate with romantic feelings.”
The word dripped with disdain, and Picard felt his jaw tighten. “Q, I do not need you to play agony aunt for me.”
“I tried to help with your love life once before, if you recall.”
“As I recall, you helped yourself, Q.”
“Come now, Jean-Luc. Surely that’s water under the bridge. She wasn’t even your type.”
Picard pointed a finger towards him, eyebrows raised. “You said, and I quote, that love made one weak and vulnerable. That it brought out the very worst in me personally.” Picard’s voice went flat. “You know what? You were right. I thank you for saving me from ruination.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Picard looked toward the ceiling as if appealing to some higher power than the one currently haunting his quarters. “Of course you have.”
“It just so happens that I’ve become a family man.”
That brought Picard’s gaze back, momentarily speechless.
“Congratulations, Q. But I am not in need of your matchmaking services.”
“Oh, that's where you're wrong, Picard. I was so certain that our little adventure to save mankind from -”
“You saved nothing!” The words came out sharper than intended, months of exhaustion and unprocessed emotion suddenly boiling over. “In fact -”
“Fine.” Q folded his arms, the chains settling with a heavy clink. He looked genuinely disappointed. “I've seen the future, Picard. Your true future. All the other hopeless cases aboard this tub,” he drawled, “managed to learn something from what I so graciously shared with you. Even that microbrain you call a security chief.”
“Q.” Picard's voice dropped to something dangerous. “I will not sit here and listen to you insult my crew.”
He was halfway to the bedroom when Q called after him, quieter now. “Even Red, stubborn as she is -”
Picard spun around, eyes blazing. “You leave Beverly alone, Q.”
Q's eyes narrowed, and something like satisfaction crossed his face. “No wonder things didn't work out between you and the delightfully devious Vash. I don't know how I missed it before. But then again, it was so obvious. So… cliché.”
“What, Q?” he snapped.
“The solitary captain whose only mistress is his starship. The brave, widowed doctor devoted to her dead husband’s memory.” Q tilted his head, studying him. “Jean-Luc, if you’d simply told me it was Red that you really wanted, we could have skipped all that other business. I’m not a mind reader.”
Picard held up his hand, command and plea at once. He moved toward the bedroom, needing distance, needing this conversation to end before -
Q’s voice stopped him at the threshold, silky and almost kind.
“Shall we check in on the love of your life? See what she and your Counselor Troi are up to at this very moment?”
Picard remained frozen.
Q stepped closer, his voice soft at Picard’s ear. “I am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping your fate. A chance and hope of my procuring.”
The silence stretched. Picard’s hand gripped the doorframe.
“What do you want from me?”
“Only to show you what you refuse to see.” Q stepped back. “Three visions, Jean-Luc. Past, present, and future. Then I’ll leave you to your sonnets and your exceedingly well-practiced solitude.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll live exactly as you are now.” Q’s voice was soft. “Until one day you realise what you’ve lost. And by then, it will be far, far too late.”
Picard met his eyes. He wanted to argue, to send Q away with cutting words and righteous indignation. But something in Q’s face, something almost human, stopped him.
“Fine.” The word came out quiet. “Show me.”
Q smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Excellent choice, mon capitaine.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s begin with a Christmas you'd much rather forget.”