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Q had once thought, believed even with all his might and glory that mortality was a stain upon the universe which was his for the taking.
And took it he had. Oh, Q had his fun. His adventures and his wars and his playthings. He had created whole mountains, whole galaxies of creatures and bright suns and sometimes –when he could not bear the bright, sprawling power within him– he would travel to those things he had made. Centuries ago. Eons ago. And he would sit among the darkness of space and wiggle the fluidity of his true form around the enormity of a red giant sun.
I am a god, he would say to himself, I am the greatest being in the universe. And for a long time he believed that. He truly did.
And then, he met Jean-Luc. And something cracked inside of him.
His human weakness, the continuum would say. It happened sometimes, Qs getting too entangled with mortals.
“Don’t worry, Q”, Q had told him then. Even humans became too attached to their dogs, or Klingons to their targs. “You’ve had fun with your pet,” he said. “It’s time to let it go.”
His tone was not kind or unkind, as immortal beings did not have the patience or even the care to deliver orders with tact or grace. The message was clear: you have compromised our order. It was taunting, grating.
“Can I go to him”, Q said, surprised that the words had leapt out of him. This was dangerous, reckless behavior, and he knew it. The continuum did not take well to having to repeat itself. A ripple passed through his mind of the stirrings of other Q, curious and disturbed by his defiance.
“Please,” he begged, luminous body pulsing from the tension. “Please allow me to say goodbye, if I am to never speak with him again. Allow me this.”
There was a murmur through their consciousness. An unsettled hush of agreeing tempers. It was unusual, but then again, this Q had proven to be somewhat of an unusual Q as it was.
“This will be permitted.” The choking, echoing grace of the continuum hummed in pleasure, for they liked it best when they agreed. “You have four minutes.”
Four minutes.
Q mustered as much gratitude through his sorrow and grief as he could for this allowance. He knew he would not be offered it again.
With his ancient eyes he effortlessly turned his attention to his captain. He was seated in his quarters, clearly having just finished cleaning himself up for the evening. He wore a red bathrobe, not starfleet issue, his own. Q had seen him wear it before, many times in his years of observance. It was one of Jean-Luc’s small indulgences. The little comforts and riches he allowed himself to keep on board. After all, Q knew, Jean-Luc was not one to satiate his human appetites with other sweaty, mortal bodies as other starship captains.
Jean-Luc had his women, from time to time. Vash, for one. Beverly. The doctor. Her bright orange air flashing like a spark as she busied herself with her patients. Q did not dislike her. Envied her, perhaps, in a juvenile way unbecoming of an immortal being. He thought she was boring. Insignificant.
Regardless, the captain's sin was not lust like James T Kirk or Commander Riker.
No, his captain found his pleasure and escape in his items of the world. His Shakespeare collection, in leatherbound books. His Early Grey tea store of real tea in a box he brought out on tough days, when he would lose a crew member or make a wrong command call. His model ships. His Ressikan flute, which he kept in perfect pristine condition but almost never played. Q wished he would play more, that delicate, resonant music that would bring a far off, watery look to his eyes when its melody wrapped itself around his heart.
And there was his robe, of French construction. Q thought, reverently, that he looked like a king.
He did not want to startle him.
Too often he had barged into Jean Luc’s life. Unwanted. Grating. Disruptive. He cringed at himself and his own behavior. Behavior that had gotten him into this sordid position in the first place.
He wore his usual attire. The maroon captain uniform with four pips. He settled more easily into this human form than he used to, with its lengthy limbs and beating heart.
With a human body came human sensation, and he felt the anxiety fill his muscles and cinch his throat.
This is your last chance, he reminded himself, unused to finality in his infinite life. Do not give him reason to turn you away.
He adjusted his uniform once more before pressing the doorbell and when the deep, resonant echo of Jean-Luc's voice commanded come, he entered only slightly. Just enough space behind him for the doors to hiss shut.
This, he could do.
“How are you, mon capitan! Bonsoir!”
The captain did not startle. He pinched his furrowed brow. How Q loved that brow. How he would make a constellation in their very shape just so he could look at it once more.
“Q, it has been a very long day. Please, whatever you have to say, make it brief.”
The anxiety in Q's false human body morphed into a much heavier, much thicker grief. He was not wanted here. He never was. But he would not give up this moment so easily. He thought of something to draw his attention. Something human.
“Are you familiar with the man from the ancient story of your planet, Achilles?”
Jean-Luc squinted. “Of course. Every school boy knows of Achilles and the Trojan war. The Iliad is the second oldest written text on Earth.”
“Yes, yes. Very famous. A little wordy, if you ask me. Lots of fanfare and pomp.”
Jean-Luc scoffed. “As if you are one to complain of pomp.”
Q gleamed. He loved this. He loved this banter. This teasing. He let the words wash over him and warm him. He bottled up the memory and the sound of his voice and the lilt in his tone for the eternity of drought before him.
“Yes, I suppose you have me there. I do find your species dramatics quite interesting. Inspiring even.”
“You? Inspired?”
“But of course!” Q gestured his languid arms out in triumph. “We Q are not as heartless and brainless as you take us to be, mon capitan.”
Picard paused for a moment. Looked Q up and down. The room fell silent. That old anxiety found itself back in qs toes and crawling up to regain lost time.
“Why have you come here speaking of Achilles? Is this another one of your games, Q? I will have you—”
Q raised his fleshy hand, smiled. “No trick. No game. I simply—” he paused. Swallowed down his human throat. “I simply wished to speak to you. To ask what you would have said.”
“Said to what?” He asked, still cautious. Q did not blame him.
He took a step forward, encroaching on Jean-Luc's personal space. He held his ground, unflinching in his seated bathrobe.
“Odysseus spoke to Achilles in the underworld. He asked him if it was worth it. The glory. The immortality of his name.”
“Yes,” Jean-Luc nodded, eyes full of trepidation but bright curiosity.
“What would you have chosen, Jean-Luc? A short life of fame, and heroism. Or a long, steady, old age before you fade into obscurity and die alone.”
His captain sighed, an empty, tired thing. He looked solemn for a moment. Wounded. Then resolved.
“I do not think life must be so black and white. There are no prophecies. There are no gods. It is just a story. One does not have to choose.”
“That is easy for you to say,” Q snarled. Drawing back and crossing his arms. “A human, with the ability to die at all. Do you know what Achilles said to Odysseus, when he asked?”
“Yes.” Jean-Luc nodded. “He told him that— that the fame and glory was not worth it. He did not get to live a life. He would have rather been a farmer's boy. He did not want to be a king among the dead.”
“A king among the dead,” Q said. Quiet. Resigned. “And what if the people are so long gone that they too, are nearly dead. Unable to laugh. Unable to cry. Unable to —” he took a shaking breath. “Unable to love. Is it better to have had glory?”
“What is the meaning of this question, Q. Is something wrong in the continuum?” There was a softness to his tone. As though he were speaking to a scared dog he did not want to startle. “Is something wrong with you?”
“Don’t pity me, Jean-Luc,” Q spit, awash with anger. “Do you think Aphrodite wept for Paris? Athena for Heracles? It is the gods who truly waste away. Left to watch their creations fall to ruin.”
Jean-Luc looked at him blankly, almost shocked. Q was behaving strangely, he knew, and he was unsure if he should be calling for security or pinching himself to ensure he was not dreaming.
Q's mind flooded with an idea, so absurd. So blasphemous. So ridiculous that his human skin flushed alight with reckless joy.
He fell to his knees, one poised up and balanced. He reached up, grabbed Jean-Luc's chin and pulled it down to meet his face. It was a supplicant's position. An ancient practice of begging a king for protection or assistance. Q cradled Jean-Luc's squirming but firm jaw between his hand and looked in his eyes and felt alive for the first time in his eternal existence.
Two minutes.
“I beg of you. Do not think of me as the monster under the bed. Do not groan at the memory of my visits. I should have been kinder. I should have helped you. I could have helped more, Jean-Luc, but the continuum was not keen on helping. We are creatures of eternal boredom. Of stubborn, moral righteousness. And what do we have to show for it? We are no better than Achilles, sitting among his kingdom of the dead, longing for a simple life of farm work. Of feeling. Of—”
He paused, breathing deeply, ignoring the expression on his beloved captain's face.
“It does not matter. We will never attain it. It is far beyond our reach. Too many years of stagnation. Our-” he laughed, the irony of his words eating at his heart. “Our souls, as you might say, are atrophied. The life of a Q is no life at all.”
His captain looked down at him, jaw mushed from Q's firm grip. But there was compassion in those wise eyes. The beginning slivers of understanding. He reached his own hand down and placed it firmly, blissfully, on Q's quivering shoulder.
“I don’t understand why you are saying all this? Why to me? After all you have put me and my crew through for your games.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Jean-Luc.”
He broke himself from the spell and stood, human knees aching from the vulnerability of his position. He rose above his captain. A god speaking to a man once again.
One more minute. The sirens song of the continuum whispered their instructions through his consciousness.
One more minute to drink him in. To swallow him whole. To make him a god and keep him with him. But this was not Jean-Luc. He would kick and resist and maybe even relent. He may even have fun, exploring the universe with Q, his sharp, curious eyes darting around every splendid corner of the galaxy and beyond. But then he too would bore. He would succumb to the rot that is immortality. His friends - his precious doctor - would die. Humanity would die. He would be alone in a universe that he was never meant to see, and he would sink into the same placid emptiness of every Q. Without love. Without light. Without his wildly beautiful human heart.
“I do love you, Jean-Luc.” He said. Quickly. Firmly. He was thrilled to have it out of him.
And then, to his horror, his captain laughed. An honest, billowing laugh.
“I didn’t think a Q was capable.”
“Me neither.” He admitted, solemn, affronted. “I spent a very long time trying to decide whether it was admiration, fascination, obsession.” He smiled to himself. “The Continuum was convinced it was an experiment. I should have told you years ago.”
“So you…”
“Don’t make it into something theatrical, Jean-Luc. I’ve already done the difficult part.”
He froze.
“I really am sorry. But don’t worry. You won’t have to deal with me anymore.”
Something like concern flashed over his captain's face. “What?”
“I really must go now.” He said, rushing, feeling the pull of the continuum telling him time was up. “Please, Jean-Luc. Try to remember me better than I treated you. And thank you for the gift you have given me. I hope it is some honor to know, though you loathe me, that no mortal has ever been worthy enough to bring a Q to their knees.”
He took a step back, drinking in the sprawling sight of the mortal, human, man who had brought a fire back to the cold cavern of immortal life.
“Goodbye, Jean-Luc.”
He felt his human body melt away to the rippling cloud of his true form. With the last of seconds of his moment, he reached a misty swell towards the captain and stroked his cheek. This, and this. He brought it down to his shoulder, lapped up the scraps of his form and touched what he could. Committed it to memory.
“Q, wait. Maybe we can assist you–”
Oh, Jean-Luc. Ever the savior. But it was too late. He was already snapped back to the continuum. The lackluster eternity of the perfect union of consciousness. There was no further word. No follow up. In the continuum’s opinion, the matter had been settled. The kink in the rope undone. All was right in their bubble again.
Q did not linger in the prison of the continuum. He swallowed up his grief and travelled to a distant galaxy. The one with the fewest M class planets in the universe. And by fewest, of course, he meant one. An entire galaxy of blue giants and nebulas. The Qs loved this galaxy, free of mortal tainting. Q came and sat before the little green and blue dot. It looked a lot like Earth, he knew, in its early days. Full of sunlight and minerals and plants in its vast ocean. In time, it might develop sentient creatures on its own. Or it may not. Perhaps another Q would come and snuff it out to preserve the quiet of this one unique galaxy.
Q approached the planet, and landed in the sea. He travelled down to the volcanic vents newly pumping hot oxygen into the surrounding water.
Let there be life, he said to himself, laughing at the irony. Laughing at his own hubris. I can bring life to this place.
He ghosted a thought to the warmth of the water and planted the seeds of the future of evolutionary life. Of consciousness. Of beauty. In five thousand years, there would be a civilization with its own gods and stories. He left the planet and sat in space, drifting around and watching. With a stretched out limb, he morphed the stars in sight of the planet into little wonders.
Four dots, aligned. Pips.
A broken, crooked, beautiful line. A furrowed brow.
He sat for years, or maybe minutes, or maybe eons in that space. Painting the universe as his canvas. A scattered, glistening palette of thoughts of Jean-Luc. This would be his to observe, now. He thought. His alone to know the significance of.
Q reclined beside the yellow sun of this new dawning planet and wrapped himself around it, allowing its warmth to radiate deep into his grieving soul.
I am a god, he said to himself, coldly, stiff with emotion. I am the greatest being in the universe.
He planted himself to watch. To observe. Hopeful that one day, he might convince himself once more that it was true.