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As captain of a starship, Jean-Luc Picard always felt that he should have found a more reliable way to avoid illness. Although he had tried to solider through the lethargy of this most recent bout, as the chills, aches, and irritability began to worsen, he began to notice Counselor Troi eyeing him in that way that he knew meant she would try to remind him of his humanity and practically drag him into Sickbay. Deciding to preempt the talk, he summoned Dr. Crusher to his quarters for an evaluation.
Running her medical tricorder above where he sat at his desk, Beverly quipped, “I was wondering how long it would take for Deanna to wear you down.”
Picard shook his head, though he regretted it as his equilibrium lurched. “I’ll have you know I called you before she could even start.”
Beverly smirked. “That is improvement. I thought she was the empath, not you.”
He cleared his throat. “You could have asked when I canceled this week’s breakfast with you.”
“Now, you should know better,” she replied, “It wasn’t interfering with your duties, so there’s only so much I can make you do. I just hope, looking at these results, that you haven’t had your nightly cup of Earl Grey.”
He looked up. “What’s wrong with my tea?”
Hesitating, Beverly closed up the tricorder. “Well, I have good news and bad news.”
Scoffing, he said, “Let’s start with the bad.”
“Do you remember that illness we caught from the crew of the Tsiolkovsky? The one that made us lose our inhibitions?”
The captain grimaced. “How could I forget? What about it?”
She raised a hand with a placating smile on her face. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t appear to be as severe as that was. In fact, it isn’t virulent at all, so the crew should remain unaffected. That’s the good news. But about ten or so days ago, when you went down to Fantaur IV, the verturan particles in the atmosphere interacted with the dormant virus in your bloodstream and partially reawakened it. It should have much reduced results - but at the same time, I’m going to have to relieve you of duty for at least the next three days while the reawakened virus takes its course.”
Rasping a sigh, Picard buried his face in his hands. “Wonderful,” he drawled, “but what does all that have to do with my nightly cup of Earl Grey?”
She clearly braced herself for his response. “The tannins in black tea will have an intoxicating effect on this virus.”
He stared back at her. “Intoxicating?” He repeated in shock.
She nodded grimly. “Like Fleet Week at the Academy.”
He rolled his eyes, recalling how he spent his senior year’s Fleet Week. Or rather, barely recalling. “Well, that’s just grand,” he replied flatly. “I’ve been having more today than usual because the tea felt better on my throat.”
“It’s a good thing then I’ve relieved you of duty. No making any important decisions, at least for a few days, but definitely not until… when did you have your last cup?”
“Just before you came.”
She made a face. “Well, at least until after 0500.”
Folding his arms on the table, Picard rested his forehead upon them. “Very well. Don’t let me keep you.”
She offered a weak smile. “I’ll be in touch to check in on you,” she promised, gathering up her med kit.
“Thank you, Beverly.”
As Dr. Crusher left his quarters, Picard sighed resignedly. While he took comfort in knowing this would not affect the crew and civilians under his watch, he did not relish the idea of losing control, even for a couple of hours, let alone a couple of days. Although there could be a little harmless amusement in the occasional overindulgence, it was not an amusement he could frequently entertain in his position as an authority figure.
Moreover, it reminded him too much of his experience with the Borg. To lose control over himself, to be unable to stop what they forced him to do… Although he seldom ever spoke of it, even to Counselor Troi, he still had nightmares about it. Even now, he could feel the dread begin to worm its way into his belly. No, he was strong. He could resist. But he was so very tired…
Allowing his eyes to flutter open a moment, he thought he saw a flash of light in the corner. He shook his head slightly. No, he must have imagined it. If that had actually happened, then that would mean…
“Mon capitaine!” Q crooned from behind him. “How dreadful you look! I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”
Letting an exasperated breath escape him a moment, Picard demanded, “Dammit, Q, what are you doing here?”
“Just taking a little unplanned detour in this human body you’ve grown accustomed to seeing me in. You know, it is rather endearing that after all this time, you still light up when you hear my voice.”
Picard groaned.
“Oh come now, Picard!” He made a show of brushing off his sleeves. “I only put this old thing on because I thought you liked it?”
Barely lifting his head, Picard said, “And what if I said I was always curious about your true form, Q?”
Q wagged his finger. “I knew you cared! But isn’t it so very mortal of you to focus so much on which form really matters-“
“Prevaricating as always,” Picard cut in.
Frowning, Q responded, “Well, the truth, mon capitaine, is that it’s for your protection as much as my own. You see, if you were to experience my presence as the Q Continuum does, your human limitations just couldn’t grasp it and you may just go mad.”
Picard chuckled dryly. “Driven mad by you? I’m getting closer than you think.”
“Yes, I noticed.” Q picked up the empty teacup on the desk and took a whiff. “Earl Grey, again - and while this reawakened virus is ravaging your immune sys-“
“How do you know about that?”
“Please! You should know better by now than to ask about such nonsense. And I should know better than to talk to someone who’s clearly intoxicated.”
Picard shook his head lazily, slowly. “I am not,” he lied, barely propping his head up from the table.
“What was that one of your human authors said? ‘Two things only a man cannot hide: that he is drunk and that he is in love.’”
Picard’s voice rose in what he hoped indicated irritation. “Q, I am not intoxicated and I certainly am not in love with you.”
Q looked back, eyebrows raised. “I never said you were, Jean-Luc.”
With a flash of light, Q had relocated Picard to lying in his bed across the room. When Picard registered this, he also realized his pajamas were on instead of his uniform. Just wonderful…
Q sat down beside him, leaning in to purr, “Methinks thou doth protest too much.”
Picard squinted hard, huffing a moment before muttered, “I’m not a lady though.”
Q blinked. “Come again?”
Sighing, Picard fumbled about with one hand, trying to locate the blanket. Frowning slightly, Q reached down to grab the silvery material and put it in Jean-Luc’s hand. Abruptly, Picard used the other hand to hold Q’s in place. More surprised than he cared to admit, Q stared down at him before stammering, “That is, what did you say?”
Slumping his face gently against Q’s hand, Picard responded, “The quote. It’s ’The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ So many people remember it incorrectly - including you, it seems. So much for your so-called omnipotence.”
His hand inexplicably trembling, Q traced his thumb and forefinger lightly down Picard’s cheek, making the human shiver. “No, mon capitaine,” he soothed quietly. “I remember well how much your childlike species values the false concept of binary genders. Would it help you to know I’ve never seen you as anything but a man?”
Q allowed his thumb to brush over Picard’s lips. For the barest of moments, he felt Picard’s lips move forward ever so slightly to kiss it. No manner of otherworldly powers could take away the flush that entered Q’s human face. For a second or two, they just stared into each other’s eyes before Picard admitted quietly, “Yes.”
Q’s lips quirked a moment, deciding what exactly to say, before Picard leaned closer to him. “What’s this? Q struck mute!” he marveled in a whisper, “Can it be I’ve finally found a way to shut you up?”
Q moved his hand to Picard’s chin to tilt his face towards his own. “I suppose there’s one way to be sure, mon capitaine.”
For what felt like the melting of eternity into a billionth of a second, Q allowed Picard’s lips to insist manfully upon his own. Taking a ragged breath inward, he yanked himself away. “I can’t, Jean-Luc.”
“And why in hell not, Q?”
He shook his head. “You aren’t yourself, Jean-Luc. There’s just simply no challenge in it. It very nearly takes all the fun out of it.”
Picard snickered. “The Q doth protest too much, methinks.”
They were both silent a moment, regarding each other.
“Where is that mind of yours right now, capitaine?” Q murmured.
Picard leaned back heavily. “El-Adrel IV.”
Q tilted his head. “Why that backwater?”
Sighing, Picard said, “I met a Tamarian captain there. It was the start of an official Federation treaty with the Children of Tama.”
“Ye gods! Why would anyone ever want diplomatic relations with the Children of Tama?”
Picard snorted. “I should think you know enough about the Federation by now to know we welcome any who extend the hand of friendship. I was just… thinking about him.”
A muscle in Q’s human face twitched. “Him who?”
“Dathon. The Tamarian captain. He and his crew beamed us to the planet’s surface in an effort to establish successful communication between our two peoples. It took the better part of two or three days, but it worked - at the price of Dathon’s life. Before he died, we shared stories. Beside a camp fire. Something about tonight made me think of it.”
“How so?”
Picard briefly turned his back to Q, but Q merely vanished and reappeared on Picard’s other side. “I asked you how so, Jean-Luc?”
Picard sighed again. “It’s just… I was thinking to myself how it must have been very comforting to hear someone tell you stories as you lay dying.”
Q smirked. “Oh please, Jean-Luc, you aren’t dying. Do you see the two of us in another realm, like when I visited you between life and death?”
Snorting, Picard replied, “Why do you think I thought of that?”
Q swallowed. “Is that your way of asking me to tell you a story?”
Picard closed his eyes and nodded. “Temba, his arms wide,” he mumbled, gesturing.
Swallowing again, Q thought for a moment. “Did you know the Xantrappe people of Keldris III worshipped me as the king of their gods?”
Picard’s expression perked up. “Are you seriously trying to convince me that you were The Golden One, who rode the chariot of the sun pulled by the palest of stallions, formed on the darkest of nights in the bluest of seas?”
Q nodded. “It’s true, Jean-Luc, right down to the sacrifice of one of their finest members to become my spouse in times of uncertainty. They’d lead him or her to the top of my temple where my newly betrothed would swear an oath to represent the Xantrappe’s best interests to the husband they were about to meet, and then when the sun was at its zenith, the high priest would rip out my intended’s heart and ritualistically feast upon it in front of the crowd. Then they’d roast the spouse’s body and serve it to the throngs, so ensuring that the memory of their sacrifice would live eternally on.”
Picard had been nodding along with this, having studied the Xantrappe in some depth during his Academy days. “It’s too bad,” he rasped.
“What is?”
“I don’t have a heart to offer.”
Q smirked at the wry joke. Gently sliding his hand to rest upon the place where Picard’s newest heart implant resided in his chest. “Well, you could have fooled me, mon capitaine. Now then.” Reluctantly, he resigned himself to a simple kiss upon the crown of Picard’s head. “You need some rest, Jean-Luc.”
As Q was about to stand, Picard laid his hand upon Q’s hand, gently but firmly holding it in place so Q could feel the pounding of Picard’s artificial heart. They were silent a moment before Picard replied, “Were you there though?
“Was I where?”
“With the Xantrappe sacrifices to you.”
Q paused a moment, mainly because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of those poor deluded humanoids. “Well yes, now that you mention it. You see, whether you believe me or not, I didn’t like that the Xantrappe would treat their finest citizens as nothing more than a menu option. In the time they could have focused on enacting real solutions, instead they sent innumerable spouses my way, expecting them to plead their case to me. As if I’d be so inclined to listen to the pleas of a people who would kill and cannibalize their finest artists, their most learned historians, their bravest of warriors…” He sensed this wasn’t what Jean-Luc was referring to. “But if you mean to ask, was I there to meet my murdered brides and grooms, the answer is yes.”
Picard blinked hard in a double take. “Yes?”
With a dry grin, Q went on. “You needn’t feign surprise, Jean-Luc. I should hope by now you understand me enough to know that I’m usually not deliberately cruel in the face of real wickedness. I always felt… well, to give them an experience in their dying moments, something that aligned with their expectation of what would happen in their afterlife, was a small mercy.”
Picard chuckled slightly. “Are you a god of small mercies then, Q?”
Q nodded once, smirking. “I suppose I am.”
They were silent a time, Picard lying on his bed, Q sitting beside him. Q looked into the distance. “Although, knowing, as I do, what you’re going to have to face soon, you might not think I have any mercy whatsoever. But-“
At this point Q looked down to see Picard had fallen asleep. Smiling, Q leaned down to whisper in Picard’s ear, “But I’m sure, as always, you will perform admirably.”
With one last tender kiss upon Jean-Luc’s cheek, Q snapped his fingers, and with a flash of light had vanished.
When Picard finally stirred, it took a good minute before he could muster the strength to open his eyes. Grunting, he forced himself to sit upright. He was stunned to realize not only that he felt more relaxed than he had in weeks, but also that his sleep had been untroubled. In fact, he vaguely remembered a rather curious dream where he had been dressed in ancient Xantrappe ceremonial garb and-
His hands clutched the blanket close to his chest. He licked his lips. “Computer,” he uttered scarcely above a murmur, “What’s the star date?”
The computer chimed and recited the date. Three days from when Beverly had relieved him of duty.
“God of small mercies indeed, Q,” he quipped. “God of small mercies indeed.”
And heaving a breath with just a hint of reluctance, he made his way to the sonic shower to prepare to return to duty.