Somehow, Picard laments, Q is even more of a presence in the wake of his de-powering than he was as a member of the Continuum. "Where did you even get these dreadful clothes, a prison lunch room," Q grumbles, the fourth time he's bitched about the fact that nobody will let him wear a Starfleet uniform in the past half hour, and Picard stifles a sigh.
Pawning Q off on Data is a survival tactic more than anything. Data's quite literally inhuman levels of patience makes him the prime candidate for fielding Q's asinine questions ("what exactly is the function of passing gas?"). Simultaneously, by keeping Q away from the front of the ship, he stands a better chance of not being tossed out of the airlock by anyone else. (Worf has volunteered to do just that, twice.)
Eventually, Picard makes his way to Ten Forward. While Data appears more or less as complacent as always, Q's head is down on the table. When he hears Picard greet Data and the waitress, he perks up considerably however, albeit still seems committed to the bit. "Jean-Luc, my stomach hurts," he pouts, making a show of clutching at his middle. "This digestion thing that you homo sapiens do is dreadful."
"I did warn him that that would be exacerbated by ten chocolate sundaes," Data offers placidly, and Picard balks.
"You ate ten sundaes, Q?"
"No." Q's mouth forms a scornful 'o' and he rolls his eyes with exaggerated annoyance. "I ate four."
It's then that Picard notices the remaining sundaes, still in-tact, sitting atop the bar counter. "I see," he says. "In that case." With that, he plucks up one of the ice creams, as well as a small spoon. "Mmm, delightful," he tells the waitress, who smiles gummily at him.
Q sniffs. "I suppose you can share my ice cream, Jean-Luc; if," he adds with a hopeful, raised eyebrow, "I can get a Starfleet uniform."
"No," Picard says simply between bites. Q harrumphs and crosses his arms.