Chapter Text
The first clue that the day was going to be unusually ridiculous arrived on Enterprise’s main viewscreen at 0800 hours.
The crimson, lace-edged heart took up the entire display, pulsing gently like an overenthusiastic alien organ.
A cascade of glittering particles arranged themselves into text that read:
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, ENTERPRISE!
Underneath, in smaller script:
Initiated by: Counsellor’s Office
Jean-Luc Picard closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose.
There was also a soft snort from the tactical station. “Subtle,” Worf muttered.
At ops, Data tilted his head. “The symbolic representation of an organic cardiac structure appears to be made of simulated paper lace. I guess this is… supposed to be charming?”
Deanna Troi, just exiting the turbolift, didn’t even try to hide her amusement. “Just wait until you see Ten Forward.”
“I would rather not,” Picard said crisply. “Mr. Data, remove that… confection from my viewscreen. And remind me to have a conversation with our counselor about the appropriate use of shipwide systems for holiday decorations.”
Troi stepped down toward the command chairs. “Oh, don’t be such a curmudgeon, Captain. Crew morale is statistically higher when cultural celebrations are acknowledged.”
“And statistically lower when I’m forced to look at glitter this early in the morning,” he argued back.
Deanna folded her arms. “Maybe if you embraced the idea instead of resisting–”
Once more the turbolift doors hissed open and Beverly Crusher strode onto the bridge, her copper tresses pulled back in a slightly more harried knot than usual. She was carrying a PADD, and there was a faint smear of something pink on the cuff of her lab coat.
“Jean-Luc,” she said without preamble, “did you approve a Morale and Wellness Initiative that involves heart-shaped gelatine in sickbay?”
Picard raised an eyebrow. “I most certainly did not.”
Deanna bit her lip. “That might have been me.”
Beverly swung toward her. “Deanna, one of my orderlies tried to serve a painkiller in a heart-shaped candy dish. Do you know how many regulations that violates?”
“At least four,” Picard supplied dryly.
“At least twelve,” Beverly corrected, thrusting the PADD toward him. “Also, someone reprogrammed three of my biobeds to display floating rose petals as they’re scanning. It’s like trying to run a trauma unit inside a greeting card.”
“I can disable that from the bridge,” Data offered. “Although it might take me several minutes to locate all of the holiday subroutines you approved, Counselor.”
Deanna shrugged, unapologetic. “The crew deserves a little light-heartedness. It’s been a stressful month.”
“Light-heartedness does not require weaponizing gelatine,” Beverly said.
Worf cleared his throat. “May I request that the holodeck security drills remain unchanged, Counselor? The last time there was a… seasonal theme, the simulated boarding party wore long red hats and made jingling noises. It was… disturbing.”
Deanna winced. “Noted. No more holiday Klingon jingling. Beverly, I promise, I’ll scale everything back to ‘tasteful’ by tomorrow morning.”
The doctor sighed, the steam of her annoyance escaping. Her sapphire eyes flicked to Picard’s. “As long as no one has scheduled anything medically related for today without my authorization…”
Picard shook his head. “I’ve authorized precisely no Valentine’s Day events. I was under the mistaken impression that Starfleet had not yet adopted it as an official observance.”
“Not yet,” Deanna said lightly, “but if I have anything to say about it–”
“Counselor,” Picard cut in, “you have already had quite a lot to say.”
Deanna smiled sweetly. “Consider it my professional duty, Captain. Speaking of morale – Beverly, don’t forget your holodeck reservation at 1900.”
Crusher blinked. “My what?”
Deanna’s smile widened just enough to be suspicious. “For the medical staff. You asked me weeks ago to book a social event for them. ‘Anything that isn’t another lecture on hand hygiene,’ I believe were your exact words.”
“I did say that,” Beverly admitted. “But then I got pulled into three different follow-ups from Starbase 67 and… Deanna, what did you reserve?”
“The program is called ‘Parisian Evening: A Walk Along the Seine.’ Very tasteful, very low-key. Outdoor café, live music, ambient starlight, minimal risk of lice.”
Picard’s second eyebrow joined the first. “Minimal?”
“Holodeck pigeons,” Deanna said. “Don’t ask.”
Beverly pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can’t take an entire evening for that, Dee. I’ve got a backlog of reports and an equipment calibration–”
Troi quickly reached out and took her friend’s hands, lowering them gently. “Beverly, you’ve pulled three double shifts in the last six days. Your staff is exhausted, and so are you. Go. Have one evening of coffee and simulated cobblestones.”
Beverly’s gaze slid, almost inadvertently, toward the command chair beside Picard’s. He caught the brief flicker and pretended to study the edge of the viewscreen.
“Fine,” Beverly sighed. “One hour. Maybe two, if no one is bleeding.”
“I cannot promise that,” Deanna said, “but I can promise that I’ll cover any minor emergencies. Go be… festive.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Beverly muttered. “You make it sound contagious.”
She turned away, and as she did, Picard found himself saying, “Doctor.”
She paused. “Yes, Captain?”
He cleared his throat. “If this… Parisian program is as refined as Counselor Troi claims, I am certain it will be a welcome change of pace.”
Beverly smirked. “Translation: enjoy your fake French evening, Doctor, while I heroically endure a ship covered in lace.”
He allowed one corner of his mouth to curve. “Something like that.”
“Noted. I’ll send you a holosnap of the pigeons.” She disappeared into the turbolift. The doors hissed shut.
Deanna watched the closed doors thoughtfully, then glanced sideways at Jean-Luc. “You know,” she said casually, “the program allows up to ten participants. It wouldn’t be inappropriate for the captain to put in an appearance. For morale.”
“Absolutely not,” Picard said, too quickly. “I have… reports. And a meeting with… someone.”
Deanna folded her arms. “With whom?”
“With… the replicator,” he finished lamely.
“Mm-hm,” Deanna said.
Data looked between them. “Captain, I am able to confirm that your schedule is entirely free after 1830 hours. Shall I mark you as available?”
“No,” Picard said. “Mark me as very busy doing… captain things.”
“Of course, sir,” Data replied. “I will note: ‘Captain engaged in vaguely defined but important captain things.’”
Deanna’s smile turned wicked. “Perfect.”
*
At 1855 hours, Jean-Luc Picard stood outside Holodeck Two, glaring at the doors as if they had personally offended him.
He had not intended to be there.
He had intended to be in his quarters, working on a perfectly respectable analysis of the last month’s diplomatic encounters.
He had even started a pot of Earl Grey and sat down at his desk.
Then his terminal chimed.
FROM: Counselor Deanna Troi
TO: Captain Jean-Luc Picard
SUBJECT: Morale
MESSAGE: “Just spoke to Doctor Crusher. She is attending the medical staff event, albeit reluctantly. She claims she will leave ‘as soon as possible.’ I thought you might want to know, in case you wished to make a brief appearance to support your chief medical officer’s efforts. — D.”
He had read it three times. Then he had paced. Then he had told himself it was absurd to consider changing his plans based on a single, innocuous message.
Then he realized he had already changed into a fresh uniform.
Now he was here, five minutes early, arguing with a door. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m merely… checking on the program. Ensuring everything is functioning properly. A captain’s responsibility.”
The doors remained impassive.
He took a breath, straightened his tunic, and stepped forward as they hissed open.
The holodeck was dark. No Paris, no music, no staff.
“Computer,” Picard called, “run program Troi-Paris-Three.”
There was a soft chime. “Program already in progress,” the computer replied. “Accessing…”
Light surged around him, and the darkness dissolved into twilight.
He was standing on a cobblestone walkway beside a gently flowing river. The air was cool and smelled faintly of water and fresh bread. Strings of tiny golden lights arched over the path, reflected in the Seine below. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower glowed against the night sky.
It was, he had to admit, very well done.
A café terrace stretched out nearby, tiny round tables clustered under striped awnings. A holographic violinist played in the background, accompanied by the gentle murmur of conversation and clinking glasses.
And there, at the closest table, sat Beverly Crusher.
She had changed out of her lab coat into a simple dark-blue dress that fell just past her knees. Her hair was down, curls warm in the artificial light. She had a cup of coffee in front of her and a PADD on the table, which she was pointedly ignoring.
Beverly looked up–and froze. “Jean-Luc?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
He opened his mouth. Three different explanations fought for precedence and cancelled each other out. What came out instead was, “Counselor Troi said the program might require… oversight.”
Beverly blinked. “You’re here to supervise Paris?”
“Yes,” he said, too firmly. “For… safety. Holodeck safety is paramount.”
One of her eyebrows climbed. “Uh-huh. And it has absolutely nothing to do with you wanting to check up on your chief medical officer’s morale?”
“I trust your morale is functioning adequately, Doctor.”
“Oh, counts are holding steady, Captain,” she said, lips twitching. “No drastic Valentine-related injuries so far. Unless you count my dignity.” She gestured to the empty chairs around her. “Well, since you’re here for rigorous safety inspections, you might as well sit down. I won’t stand between you and your duty.”
He hesitated. “Where is the rest of your staff?”
Her mouth thinned. “They all cancelled. One by one. Family calls, double shifts, a transporter recalibration that absolutely couldn’t wait until tomorrow…” She took a sip of her coffee. “Deanna tried. But you can’t force people to be festive.”
Picard cleared his throat. “I see.”
He sat opposite her, trying not to notice the way the scrollwork chair forced them just a little closer than Starfleet regulation seating.
“Fine,” Beverly said, setting her cup down. “You win.”
He looked at her, puzzled. “I win?”
“You win. I am officially admitting that you were right and I was wrong.” She waved a hand around them. “This entire thing is absurd. It’s a perfectly normal stardate, but the counsellor’s office has decided it must be covered in hearts and glitter, and I let myself get talked into this… this date with myself.”
“Technically, it is an ancient Earth cultural observance,” he said. “St. Valentine’s Day. Rooted in various historical–”
“Don’t you dare quote me a history lesson right now.”
He paused. “I would never.”
“Liar,” she said, but she was smiling. “You can archive it for later. Preferably when I’m trying to sleep.”
He felt his own smile tugging at his mouth, unbidden. “Duly noted.”
The program’s ambient breeze picked up, rustling the leaves of nearby plane trees. Across the river, a holographic couple laughed, silhouetted against the lights.
Beverly glanced around. “I will say this much: Deanna has good taste in simulations.”
“It’s a highly accurate rendering,” Picard agreed, his hazel eyes following the curve of the river. “I spent some time in Paris as a young officer. This feels… familiar.”
Beverly’s gaze shifted back to him. “Really? I didn’t know that.”
“There are several things you don’t know about my misspent youth,” he said lightly.
“I’m listening,” she replied, leaning in. “Was there wine? Dancing? Illicit rendezvous under bridges?”
He coughed. “There may have been wine.”
“And?”
“And that is all I will be sharing this evening.”
She laughed, low and warm. “Tease.”
He opened his mouth to retort–
–and the lights flickered.
The violinist’s bow hit a sour note as his entire form glitched, fragmenting into jagged pixels for half a second before reassembling.
Beverly sat up straighter. “Did you see that?”
“Yes,” Picard said slowly. “Computer, report holodeck status.”
Silence. The violinist resumed playing.
“Computer?” he repeated.
Nothing.
Beverly’s expression sharpened. “That’s not good.”
The café patrons continued their scripted conversations, oblivious. A waiter passed, tray balanced effortlessly.
Picard stood. “Exit.”
The program did not shimmer. The doors did not appear. Instead, the Eiffel Tower flickered like a bad transmission, stabilized, then flickered again.
“Jean-Luc,” Beverly said carefully, “tell me this is part of the ambiance.”
“It is not,” he said shortly.
She rose, tapping her combadge. “Crusher to bridge.”
The tiny chirp of activation never came.
They both looked at each other.
Picard’s jaw set. “Either we have encountered an entirely new form of holographic mood lighting,” he said, “or we are trapped in a malfunctioning holodeck.”
Beverly took a breath, then let it out in a long, familiar sigh. “Of course we are.”