Chapter Text
The band had long since stopped playing.
The last notes had faded into the velvet hush of the night, and now only the quiet clatter of packing dishes and soft murmurs of the catering crew remained. The grand hall, once glittering with laughter and light, lay in dim silence. In the back corner, at a table left forgotten, Beverly Crusher sat alone, cradling the remnants of her dignity in the bottom of a wine glass.
She exhaled deeply. Relief. Weariness. Defeat. The performance was over.
Acting had always been a quiet amusement — a private skill pulled out at dinner parties or in jest. She never imagined it would be the lifeline at her best friend’s wedding. But tonight, she'd worn her brightest smile like armor, danced as if she didn’t ache, and toasted the happy couple without letting the glass tremble in her hand.
Bravo, Beverly, she thought wryly. She gave herself a silent pat on the shoulder and drained the last of the wine. No award awaited her. Only the lukewarm champagne in the center of the table — a cheap consolation prize, unclaimed by guests who had long since left.
She reached for the bottle. Her fingers fumbled at the foil, clumsy from too much wine and too little resolve.
“Of course it’s stuck,” she muttered. “Of course.” She dug at it with a fingernail, muttering under her breath. Eva probably picked these ridiculous bottles. Overdecorated. Overcompensating. Her mind latched onto the petty insult. Ugly foil. Ugly woman. Ugly night.
The bottle wouldn’t budge.
She made a face at it. A childish scowl. Her hands throbbed from trying, her pride wounded. The bottle sat there smugly. Mocking.
“Beverly?”
She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.
Deanna’s voice was gentle, cautious — the tone of a woman approaching a wounded animal. And if Beverly looked up, the bottle would win.
“Beverly, are you alright?”
She groaned, tipping her head back. “I’m wonderful,” she said with theatrical flourish. “Except —” she jabbed a finger at the bottle, “— for this sadistic bottle. It refuses to open.”
Deanna slid into the chair across from her with the patience of a woman well-practiced in emotional triage. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Observant as always,” Beverly laughed — too loud, too sharp. “And what does the resident telepath deduce from that? That I’m depressed?”
“Are you?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she shoved the bottle across the table. “If you want to be helpful, Counselor, open this damn thing.”
Deanna sighed but complied. The foil came off easily beneath her calm, sober fingers. A clean pop followed.
“Drinking isn’t the solution,” she said.
“Don’t preach. Pour.”
A glass slid toward her. She filled it and raised it in mock salute.
“To Jean-Luc,” she said, “and his lovely wife. May they have vigorous sex until they’re blue in the face.”
Deanna grimaced. “Beverly—”
“May she be so satisfied,” Beverly continued, “so ecstatically happy, she faints. And dies.”
“That’s enough,” Deanna said, filling her own glass.
“Exactly what I was saying.” Beverly gulped half of hers in one go.
“What are you going to do about this?”
Beverly shrugged. “Drink it.”
“No.” Deanna leaned forward. “You’re in love with him.”
“Bad word,” Beverly muttered. “Love. Worse than ‘truth’.”
“You brought this on yourself,” Deanna said quietly. “You pushed him away.”
“I know,” Beverly whispered, but her voice was lost in the crystal rim of her glass.
Deanna’s chair scraped gently as she stood, her half-finished drink in hand. “I’m not doing this with you, Beverly. Not tonight.”
“You already are,” Beverly replied, not looking up. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, absently, almost lovingly. “You came over here. Sat down. Played the part. You're the only one left, Deanna. Everyone else went home to love, or obligation, or both.”
Deanna hesitated. “You could’ve told him.”
“I did tell him. Just not in words.” Beverly glanced up, her eyes glossy and far too bright. “I told him in every look I didn’t give, in every goodbye I pretended didn’t ache. I thought he understood me. Isn’t that what you do when you love someone?”
Deanna’s voice softened. “Sometimes you have to say it.”
Beverly laughed bitterly. “Words wouldn’t have mattered, Dee. He was already halfway out the door before I realized I’d never asked him to stay.”
There it was. The truth. Like glass in her throat.
“You just sit here,” Deanna said, stepping back, “and drink yourself into an oblivion. And when you crawl out of that glass—listen to me—he’ll still be married. And you’ll still be alone.”
A pause. Not long. Just enough for the silence to taste metallic.
“Thank you for that milestone in judgement, Counselor,” Beverly replied, raising her glass in salute. “May I recommend a career in soul-crushing?”
Will’s voice, gentle but firm, cut through the tension. “Deanna? You ready?”
Beverly didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. But she felt the weight of his gaze — concern, pity. Maybe even confusion. Why is she like this? Why now?
He stepped closer. “Beverly, are you alright?”
“Excellent,” she replied crisply, tipping the last of her drink into her mouth. She swallowed the lie along with the wine.
Deanna, already beside him, touched his arm. “She’ll be fine.”
Beverly stared at the flower arrangement in front of her, petals beginning to wilt, color already fading. The moment hung too long. Too heavy. She wanted to cry. To scream. But pride — that ancient, loyal guard dog — barked her back into stillness.
“I am fine, Will,” she managed.
But her fingers were already reaching for the champagne bottle again. After all, it was open now. And it would be a shame to let it go to waste.
“Get a shuttle, Beverly,” Will said. “Someone to drive you.”
“I will,” she lied.
“She has a lot of regret to sort through,” Deanna added, half-whispered.
Regret.
That wasn’t the word for it.
Regret was for lost chances and missed appointments. This was something else. Something raw, blood-deep, and irreversible.
*
The room was silent now. Too silent.
The kind of silence that makes you notice the hum of the lights. The echo of your own heartbeat. The way memories slide in sideways when no one is watching.
Beverly rose slowly, pressing her palms to the table. The world tilted.
She’d misjudged the wine. Or maybe her own limits. But the dizziness passed, and a kind of false clarity settled in its place — a drunken confidence that felt a little like bravery and a lot like despair.
She stepped onto the empty dance floor.
The irony nearly made her laugh. The dance floor.
A place built for connection, movement, rhythm — now nothing more than a stretch of cold wood reflecting back a version of herself she didn’t recognize.
Eva Dupon.
A baker. A woman who kneads dough and wears linen aprons and probably sings to her sourdough starters.
Baked bread, Beverly thought again, the phrase catching in her throat like a splinter. That was what stole him away. A woman who knew yeast.
He’d gone back to France to bury his brother and nephew. She could’ve gone with him. He asked. She said no. Too soon, too close, too dangerous.
She was afraid. Of him. Of herself.
Of what might happen if there were no duty, no ship, no buffer between them.
“I was afraid,” she said aloud, arms spreading wide as if to plead with the empty room. “All right? I was afraid because it would’ve just been me and him.”
Him and me? He and I? The grammar eluded her — always had when it came to matters of the heart. She took another step. The floor wobbled.
“Maybe it’s all my fault,” she whispered. “She’s not prettier than me. She’s definitely not smarter.” Another step, and she stumbled, collapsing onto the polished wood with a thud.
The reflection that stared up at her wasn’t kind.
Bloodshot eyes. Smudged lipstick. Blonde hair falling from its pins. Old, she thought. When did I become old?
But then the face shifted. Not hers. His.
His handsome, strong face, his warm grey eyes shimmering in memory. A ghost she still loved more than anything real.
“You were in love with me,” she whispered, brushing her fingers over the cool floor as if it were his cheek. “Just months ago…”
The tears came without mercy. “I don’t understand,” she whimpered. “You loved me…”
She curled around the image, desperate to hold onto something that was already gone. No warmth met her. No gentle hands. No voice calling her name.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured again, and again, until the words unraveled into breath. Until exhaustion folded over her like a blanket. Until sleep, thick and dreamless, took her away.
=/\=
She woke to soft light filtering through linen curtains, the kind of morning glow that pretended nothing bad had ever happened.
The hotel room was still. Too still.
Outside, the city was stirring — muffled footsteps, the distant hum of a shuttle, birdsong threading through the air like music you almost remember. But inside, time had paused. The air was stale with perfume and dried champagne. Her evening gown was wrinkled, twisted around her hips, one strap slipping off her shoulder. Her shoes were nowhere to be found.
The room was foreign and impersonal — high ceilings, minimalist furniture, chrome accents that caught the sunrise and cast it in cold gold across the floor. The bed beneath her was half-made. She hadn't meant to fall asleep there. Or maybe she had. Memory was patchy. She only remembered voices. Laughter. The way the floor had felt beneath her cheek.
A knock. Soft. Distant. Then a voice. “Dr. Crusher?”
She blinked, trying to sit up.
The door cracked open. A kind-eyed hotel attendant peeked in. “Sorry to disturb, ma’am. We escorted you up last night. You’re safe. Do you need anything this morning?”
She shook her head, her voice deserting her. He nodded, smiled gently, and left her alone.
Beverly sat there for a long moment, one hand pressed to her forehead. Her mouth was dry. Her head pulsed with the dull throb of regret.
The first day, she thought. The first day without him in love with me.
The sentence echoed hollowly.
She rose, slowly. Let the gown slip to the floor. It pooled at her feet in silent surrender. She stepped over it, her bare soles silent as she walked to the window.
The view was beautiful — a city waking up. The starports gleamed in the distance, their spires catching morning sun. Trees lined the horizon, their leaves golden and amber, fluttering gently. It was a perfect day.
And she couldn’t feel any of it.
She pressed a hand to the tinted glass, then turned away.
Denial. It had been her faithful companion for years. She had denied her feelings. Denied the consequences. Denied his patience, his pain, her pride. She lay back on the bed, arms spread across the linen. The scent of her hair — wine, perfume, and salt — clung to the pillows.
How could he do it? she wondered. How could he marry someone else without even talking to me first?
But the question was unfair. He had tried. She had made it clear — not with words, never with words — but in every subtle shift of conversation, every postponed dinner, every polite brush-off.
She had told him no. Over and over.
And now he had simply listened.
A sob tightened her throat. No tears, not yet. Just the ache. The silence in her screamed louder than a hurricane.
What was left for her? Her work? The life aboard the Enterprise E? She couldn’t go back there... at least, not for a while. She needed to get away... away from him and his damn eyes, and his strong hands, and his deep voice... Right now, she mused, they were waking in each other’s arms... warm, content - married. After knowing each other – how long - a few weeks? Ridiculous.
She rolled over, pressing her face into the cool pillow. Her shoulders trembled. Finally, the tears returned. Hot and clean and agonizing.
She cried like she hadn’t in years — not since Jack. Not since losing the man who had first taught her how fragile love could be.
The tears came from somewhere deep, a place buried beneath duty, professionalism, and restraint. They came with fists clenched around the pillow, knees pulled to her chest, breath hiccupping with each new wave of grief. A grown woman, sobbing like a teenager.
She didn’t cry for the wedding. She cried for everything before it. For years of half-finished sentences, for the nights she lay awake rehearsing words she never said. For the man she had almost let herself love completely — and didn’t.
She sat up, suddenly. The pain had broken through to something else. Anger. Not rage — something sharper, colder.
She stripped the rest of her clothes off, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the shower — cold.
Hate. She hated that woman, hated herself, hated ... him. The rate at which the emotions were changing, startled her.
Steam billowed quickly, curling into the air like ghosts. The tiles were clean, clinical, too perfect. She stepped into the cold spray, gasping, her skin prickling with shock. She tilted her head into the stream, arms wrapped around herself. Let it strip away the last of the wedding. The perfume. The mascara. The memory of his voice.
You were so in love with me.
Not anymore.
She let the cold water ground her. Pull her back into her body.
And suddenly she realized, she could do it. She could get over it. She was a Howard woman, damnit.
When she emerged, shivering but clearer, she looked into the mirror.
Something was different.
Not broken. Not ruined.
Something was… beginning.
She sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a white towel, the city now fully awake outside her window.
No, I can’t go back to the Enterprise, she thought.
Not yet. Not like this.
It was more than just seeing him every day. It was seeing who she had become in his shadow. She had spent so long orbiting Jean-Luc — tethered to his gravity, even in silence. And now the tether was gone.
What was left of her?
She thought of her grandmother’s cabin. Of the little valley tucked into the hills. Of fields of lavender and tall grass brushing against her calves. She thought of the sound of wind against old windows, of quiet mornings with strong tea.
She needed that. Needed the space to find herself, not the version of her that wore a medical uniform or delivered biting retorts in sickbay. But the woman beneath it.
First to go would be the blonde hair, the short cut. Maybe she’d grow her hair again. Long. Red. The way it had been when she was still wild and unafraid.
She wasn’t running away. Not this time. She was choosing something.
No ties, she thought, and the words felt like sunlight. No gravity but my own.
*
Deanna stood still in the doorway, surrounded by chaos — a dozen crates stacked neatly along the walls, empty bookshelves stripped of their usual clutter, Beverly’s quarters echoing with an unfamiliar kind of silence.
“I’ve made up my mind,” Beverly said as she stepped over a crate and paused, hands on her hips, surveying the room with the quiet certainty of someone trying not to tremble.
Deanna’s brow furrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
Beverly glanced back at her with a small, dry smile. “Then don’t. I’ve signed the papers. Nana’s house is still mine. Inclusive two cozy bedrooms, the little garden, and a view of the sky that isn’t filtered through a deflector shield. You can come visit if you think I’m bluffing.”
The attempt at levity fell a little flat. She turned her attention back to her crates, ticking off items in her head like it could drown out the weight of the decision she’d already made.
“You could wait,” Deanna said softly. “The captain gets back from his honeymoon in two days. Just… wait until then.”
At that, Beverly laughed. A short, sharp sound that cut through the stillness. The idea of Jean-Luc on a honeymoon was funny enough, not to mention the horrendous emotional response it provoked. “That’s exactly why I’m leaving before then.” Her eyes darted toward the window. “I don’t want to see him walk back onto this ship with a tan and matching rings.”
She took a breath and steadied her voice. “I’ve recorded a message for him. I’ll leave it in his quarters. He can watch it while he’s unpacking her toothbrush.”
Deanna raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the one who always said it’s better to face things head-on?”
“I’m fresh out of bravery,” Beverly murmured. “And I’m not looking for closure. I just want distance.”
Deanna hesitated. “You’re not afraid of his temper?”
“Jean-Luc?” Beverly huffed a dry chuckle. “Please. At worst, I’ll get a strongly worded lecture and a furrowed brow. Maybe a ‘Beverly…’ in that tone he uses when someone scratches the hull plating.” “You’re deflecting.”
“Yes,” Beverly said simply.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the ship’s systems filled the space between them, like it always had — a constant backdrop to lives lived in liminal moments.
“Everything’s in order,” Beverly said at last, softer now. “I’ve filed for formal leave. Signed the documents. Packed up my life.” She looked around the room. “It’s done.”
Deanna’s voice was quiet. “You’re not just leaving Starfleet. You’re leaving me.”
Beverly turned, her expression melting. “Deanna…” She stepped forward, taking her hands. “This has nothing to do with you. I’m not running from you. I just… I need time. Time to figure out what’s left of me when he isn’t in every hallway, every conversation, every decision.”
Deanna searched her face, then nodded slowly. “That makes sense.” Her voice caught slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Beverly smiled gently. “That’s fair.”
“Promise me you’ll stay in touch.”
“I will. Constantly. You’ll get sick of me. I’ll write about sunsets and farmers’ markets and whatever ridiculous adventures I stumble into.”
They embraced, tightly, both holding on a second longer than they needed to.
“I’ll miss you,” Deanna whispered into her shoulder.
“I’ll miss you too,” Beverly said. “But I need to do this. For me. Before I forget who that even is.”
Deanna pulled back, attempting a smile. “What are you going to do out there? All by yourself?”
“Not go to exercise classes,” Beverly smirked. “Rule number one.”
Deanna actually laughed, wiping her eyes. “You’ll walk everywhere, I assume?”
“Exactly,” Beverly said. “Maybe even barefoot, through the grass.”
Deanna stepped back, scanning the nearly empty room again. “I still can’t believe you’re really doing this.”
Beverly looked around too, her sapphire eyes soft with something that wasn’t quite sadness. “Neither can I. But I want it. I really do.”
Deanna nodded. “Okay. Who am I to argue with that?”