The Forty-Seven
Copyright 1993 by Sandra Guzdek

Doctor Beverly Crusher had just gotten the strangest call from the captain, and she stood for a moment with a puzzled look on her face before grabbing her medibag and briskly strolling out of sick bay. She was not quite sure if she should be worried or not, at this bizarre request to come to his quarters, when he knew she was doing some long put off research work. As the turbolift doors closed behind her, she thought some more. The afterthought of grabbing her medibag struck her when she considered the possibility that he was too proud to come to sick bay and acknowledge an illness. She smiled sweetly.

Reaching her destination, she stepped off and headed for the captain's quarters, where she hit the door chime once, then again, then a third time, each time more anxiously because he did not answer. She refrained from calling out his name to save him embarrassment, and was glad she did because at that moment, the door slipped aside unsuspectingly to reveal the captain.

Jean-Luc stood there, dressed casually in a robe, a book clasped loosely in his hand. The room was dim, lit only by a lamp near which he had been reading. Her ear caught the soft cello music that hung in the air and danced past her head lazily.

"Beverly, come on in." Stepping aside to let her in, she entered, looking a little confused.

"What -- you're -- what is -- What is going on? Are you all right?" she asked, a little more than hotly.

Calmly, he returned, "I might ask the same of you."

She offered up the medibag as a sort of evidence. "I thought you were . . . well, the way you asked me down here... when you knew I was working." She indicated the bag again.

"I know how stubborn you can be. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine."

"So then why . . . ?" Her voice trailed off.

"I asked you to come to my quarters, and you're here. What else does there need to be?"

He headed for the couch a couple of meters away, and sat back into its corner, crossing his legs as if he had assumed the command chair. He gestured for Beverly to do the same, but she simply shifted from one foot to the other. "So, you're not feeling sick at all."

He shook his head. "I just wanted you to come here for the sake of coming here. I know you were just doing work down there on your own time, thought I'd ask you up. No harm done."

'No harm done,' she thought with a laugh. 'Only destroyed a perfect batch of Tirellian Moon Flowers.' She sighed.

The things were beyond saving now, so she decided that sitting down for a bit wouldn't be such a bad idea. Bev set down her medical equipment with a dull thud on her way to the couch. However, she perched on the edge of it, as if she wasn't planning on staying long.

One last time she had to ask, "You're sure you're not ill?"

"Stop being a doctor for two minutes. I wanted some company tonight, and since you've been spending all your free time in a research lab, I haven't had the chance to see you, to talk to you, see how things are going." He stood, patting her shoulder as he passed her by for the replicator, and asked, "Would you care for a drink?"

"Captain, I was in the middle of -- "

He turned and said sternly, pointing a finger to her, "A drink . . . or not?"

After the moment of considering the consequences of mentioning work once again, she decided a glass of wine might be just what she needed. As she settled back into the couch, he stood by the replicator, about to command it when he remembered he had something much nicer to offer.

In a moment he returned with a bona fide bottle of wine and two tall wine glasses. Beverly had about all the surprises she could take tonight, and could no longer keep her eyes from going wide.

"What is the occasion for all of this, Jean-Luc," she began as he popped the cork, and filled the glasses, "and I mean, really?"

He took a glass, sipping the sweet liquid. "I'm winding down after a long day. Thought it would be nice to wind down with a good friend. With you." He sipped again, watching her take a timid taste.

Her face changed to one of pleasant surprise. "Oh, this is wonderful. The real thing is always so much more delicious."

"Mm-hm. A gift from my brother."

She tipped her head. "Your brother? The one in Lebarre?"

"Yes. My only brother, Robert. 'A little of the forty-seven,' he told me," he reminisced, smiling. "'Do not drink it all
at once, and if possible, try not to drink it alone.'"

Beverly took her glass and held it aloft in a toast. "Words to live by." Then she tipped back the delicate glass, further, further, liking the taste immensely. She let one of her slow, mysterious smiles creep across her face. "So. You wanted to talk. Any particular subject?"

He thought for a moment, then said decisively, "You. Let's talk about you. How are you?"

She pushed a loose strand of hair back into the braid that laid at the base of her neck. "I'm . . . fine." Honestly, she
couldn't think of another thing to say. "Wesley's fine" came to mind, but she felt that he wasn't particularly interested in Wesley at this point, so she simply remained quiet, and sipped at her wine.

"What about you?" she asked on a sudden, realizing things had been quiet far too long.

He had already drained the wine from his glass, and he let the stemware linger on his lips for a moment before setting it down on the nearby table, next to the bottle of wine, as he thought of his answer.

"Never better," he said at last.

His steel blue eyes met hers and held them fast.

Quietly, Beverly said, "I think it's time you told me what this is really all about."

Picard sat back, looking for all the world like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. "Beverly, how well you know me."

A strong sense of deja-vu swept over her.

He continued, "We have been so close for so very long."

"True. Jean-Luc -- " she began insistently.

He drew a finger up to silence her apprehensive lips.

"Have you ever thought what it might be like if we were more than friends?" It was more of a statement than a question.

She was silent for a while, trying to think of how to respond, as she emptied her glass, set it down besides his, and
turned her eyes back to his slowly. "I'd be a liar," she spoke in a silent tone, "if I said I never had."

He laced his fingers, continuing to gaze piercingly at her, as she helped herself to a second glass of wine, and filled his once again.

"Be careful," he warned, "that wine will creep up on you."

She grinned, handing him his glass. "I think I can handle it."

"Have you thought about it recently?" he asked, catching her off guard.

Beverly, however, recovered nicely and said, her eyes sparkling, "Apparently, Jean-Luc, you have."

His smile was positively charming, yet when he spoke, his voice was strangely firm. "What about you, Beverly?"

She turned her head aside, muttering something inaudible that he fancied sounded like a yes. Instead of pressing it, he continued, "Would you be at all offended or uncomfortable if I suggested it might be nice if we became . . . closer?"

Instead of replying, she took to her glass of wine, taking half the glass in one swallow, hoping it would help her to think.

It did not.

"I just don't know what to say, Jean-Luc." She could barely muster the strength to face his deep, shining eyes.

He reached over and touched her face tenderly. "Say you'll think about it."

Beverly placed her hand on top of his, patting it gently.

The wine was putting a flush on her face that she felt all of a sudden, sending a charged glint into her blue-green eyes. Perhaps the wine had nothing to do with it at all.

Softly she asked, "Tell me, where did this come from? This is so unexpected."

His reply was a simple one: "No regrets."

Slowly, he leaned towards her, slow enough that she could have pushed him away, or at least slapped him, to stop his advance. But, in fact, she met him halfway for a friendly, modest peck on the lips.

As they sat back into the couch, Jean-Luc's eyes were sparkling, and Beverly smiled, ruddy all over. She said to him, "That was very nice."

He paused to take another sip, and set it down.

"Absolutely." His arm welcomed her to sit closer to him, and as she did, he pulled the ribbon from her hair, freeing her silken locks from their braid with his fingers. The wine did not give him all the courage he had thought it
would. Here he was, the captain of the jewel in Starfleet's crown, yet the knot in his stomach and the tremble in his hands made him feel like an unsure schoolboy approaching his first crush.

Worse yet, her eyes seemed to tell him that she was aware of that very thing, and she bent to kiss him delicately on the cheek. As she did, he whispered into her ear. "May I kiss you again?"

She pulled away to look into his clear blue eyes, and felt her eyelids fall and rise slowly. She replied in a voice that was playful, yet all the same strained.

"Asking kind of takes the fun out of it."

With those permissive words, he quickly brought his lips to hers with a kiss that surprised the both of them in surpassing the limits of mere friendship in its passion.

Beverly looked into his eyes again, bringing a finger up to trace the outline of a budding smile on his face. "Damn that forty-seven," she whispered.

"And why is that?" He brought his own fingers to her curving cheek.

"It's making me do things that I really should not do," she said sullenly. "I promised myself, I wouldn't let myself..."

"Don't you dare blame the wine. Blame me for asking you here, and giving it to you." Picard tried to keep his tone
lighthearted. "Blame me for making you stay."

Gazing at one another, they spoke volumes without words. Slowly, as if expecting protest, he embraced her and drew her close to him, engaging her in a full, passionate kiss that reached down to the depths of her soul. When they released one another, she sat back against the couch, breathless. She took his hand in hers and slowly raised her eyes to his.

"I knew it," she began in a papery voice. He came close to her.

"What did you know?" he asked, their eyes inches apart, his mouth curled in a smile.

"You asked me here to seduce me." She tried to smile, but felt this too deeply in her heart.

He drew back, curling a lock of her auburn hair between his fingers. "No, I did not, you must believe me. The
opportunity did, however, present itself. And . . . you are irresistible."

"Is that the wine talking?"

A warm, inviting smile lit her eyes as she said this. She couldn't not believe him; she trusted him too much.
He slipped his hand across her flat abdomen and around to her back, sending a charge of electricity through her nerve core. When he slid closer to her and placed his lips on her cheek, it intensified.

"Beverly," he murmured.

"Jean-Luc," she murmured in return.

Nose to nose, breath coming with some difficulty for both of them, and a fire threatening to burst out between them at any moment, Beverly managed, "What . . . what are we doing . . . "

Caressing her with gentle, anxious hands, he replied, "I believe . . . we're making love."

That wasn't what she meant, and she sighed. She continued, "Do you . . . want me?", as he pushed her chin up
to plant savouring kisses on her throat.

Not missing a beat, he answered, "I think that is plainly obvious."

As he moved to her cheek again, she pulled back suddenly, her bottom lip tremulous. She stammered, "Do . . . do you . . . want . . . me?"

He withdrew his hand from her waist.

"I am not using you, Beverly. I would not ever do that to you," he said in a hushed tone. "It is indeed you that I am
kissing, you that I am holding. You that I want here beside me."

She felt foolish for even thinking such a thing. This was, after all, Jean-Luc Picard. Almost reverently she traced his brow with her thumb. "Jean-Luc, I -- "

His voice was commanding. "Beverly, if you are in any was unsure of this, I will stop."

She smiled. Only he would make this kind of promise to a woman. "I'm sure, I'm sure. I know I can trust you. I am where I want to be right now . . . I just needed a little reassurance."

Beverly tilted her head and leaned towards him, stopping anything he might have said with a kiss, her hands caressing the back of his head, the short hairs there tickling her fingers.

"I'm sure," she echoed, as she slipped her hands down the silky skin of his shoulders, under the collar of his robe.

"Beverly," he sighed, as they began their mutual seduction, high with ecstasy from passion, physical contact and from wine, on the captain's couch in the dimness of the evening and of the eternal night of space. Warp engines hummed within the breast of the ship, just as hearts raced within the breasts of these two beings; the music in the air lingered and drifted through their souls like a powerful aphrodisiac, accompanying their breathless gasps and long awaited melding of spirits.

"Commander Riker to Captain Picard," said William Riker as he looked across the table to Geordie LaForge. The former had been trying all evening to contact the captain, to invite him down for a drink. To no avail. The latter thought nothing of it: "You know our captain, Will. He would rather sit in a corner of his room with his nose deep in a book, than venture down here to Ten Forward during his off-hours."

"It wouldn't bother me," Will returned, as he sipped his blue drink, "or even surprise me if he refused. But for him not to answer at all . . . that's unusual."

Guinan appeared at their sides to freshen their drinks, and gave them a typically mysterious smile.

"I suppose . . . He's always very prompt," said Geordie, accepting the glass and taking a long drink.

Guinan spoke up before she turned away for another table.

"I wouldn't worry too much about Captain Picard. He's got everything under control."

Riker gave her a bemused look, dismissing Guinan's statement as nonsense, something one should never do.

Geordie continued, "What if something has happened to him? What if that artificial heart of his has given out on him?"

Will nodded briefly as he tapped his comm badge.

"Computer, locate Captain Picard."

"Captain Picard is in his quarters."

"Lifesigns?"

"Strong and stable: heart rate seventy-five beats per min--"

"That's enough, computer."

The computer made its curt tweedle noise; had they listened on, however, they would have discovered how high that deviated from the norm. Since they did not, Geordie smiled and was relieved.

"Probably just turned in early. He's probably just catching up on a book he's been meaning to read . . . " offered Geordie.

This scenario didn't sit well with Riker, though, and he suggested, "Perhaps we should ask Doctor Crusher to swing
around, see if he's all right."

"Just to make sure," reinforced Geordie.

"Commander Riker to Doctor Crusher. Acknowledge."

Riker's brows met; once again, no response. After several tries, Will became suspicious. "I'm detecting a pattern here . . . " he grumbled.

Geordie then asked the computer, "Run a Level One Diagnostic on ship's communications systems."

Briefly it made another 'working' noise, before replying, "There are no malfunctions of the communications systems."

Will muttered to himself, "What the hell is going on?"

"Could be she's very busy down in sick bay . . . heard the secondary school was going rock climbing in the holodeck."

"No," Riker began. "I know she's not on duty, because..."

Just then, as he remembered the captain wasn't either, an idea so implausible came into his head and escaped his lips before he could stop it: "You don't suppose . . . "

"'You don't suppose' what?" Geordie's curiosity was thoroughly piqued, and he sat up stick straight.

Will smiled broadly, holding on to the upper hand just that much longer.

"Computer."

Tweedle.

"Please, give me a location on Doctor Beverly Crusher."

Geordie's eyes grew wide in anticipation of what he suspected he might hear.

"Doctor Crusher is in the captain's quarters."

Geordie cut in enthusiastically. "How long has she been in her present location?"

"5.3 hours."

The two looked to each other with looks of utter incredulity, minds completely in the proverbial gutter. But, in the spirit of non-partisan opinion, Geordie gave them the benefit of the doubt:

"They might just be talking. You know, how sometimes they get into . . . heated discussions . . ."

With sarcasm thick enough to plow, Riker retorted, "Discussions. Yes. I'm sure that's all." He stood. "So, are you
in or out of this 'discussion'?"

Geordie grinned. "I'm in."


Sometime later, Beverly awoke. She was lying on a softly carpeted floor, in a rather dark room, next to an overturned glass table. The bottle of wine they had so enjoyed was on the floor also, contents almost completely spilled and glasses shattered. Her clothes were strewn every which way; wrapped around her was a blanket, a real, lamb's wool blanket, and the captain's securing arms. His slumbering head rested serenely on her bosom. She
sat up with a start, waking Jean-Luc from a pleasant dream. Beverly rubbed her temples, wiped the sleep from her eyes and stretched a little.

Picard sat up beside her, coaxing her to rest with him against the couch, and placed a gentle hand on her warm cheek. Across the room the lamp still cast its warm, iridescent glow over them. She closed her eyes as he kissed her gently.

When he spoke, his voice was low and kind. "Are you all right?"

She nodded slightly. "I haven't felt this way in a long time."

He reached to comb her hair with his fingers. "I know, I haven't been so content in ages."

Beverly smiled, taking his hand, preparing to burst his fragile male ego. "No, Jean-Luc. I meant hung-over." She
laughed lightly, and to her delight, so did he.

"I did have a wonderful night, though," she added, her voice dropping an entire octave. She modestly pulled the blanket higher to cover herself.

Jean-Luc grinned despite himself, as he tugged at the blanket's rim with his index finger. "What's under there that I
haven't yet seen?" he asked playfully. Beverly was rather incredulous at his apparent immodesty as he reclined beside her.

She thought briefly, 'He does have a beautiful body . . . '

Putting his arms around her again, she let out a peal of laughter of incredible force, which he quickly silenced with his lips as they tumbled back to the floor.

Out of breath as she ended up on top of him, Beverly looked down into his eyes as residual laughter died down between them. "I had forgotten," he began, as she stroked the crown of his smooth head, "how to let go. How to have . . . how to be fun."

"I guess I'll have to keep you in line."

He grinned; it was delightful to see such a devilish look on his face. "Promise?"

She bent her head down and touched her nose to his, taking pleasure in breathing in the air he released, before placing her lips to his, igniting the embers of desire back to full intensity. However, somewhere in the back of her mind she swore she heard the door chime. Impossible. She must have been hallucinating . . . right?

When Picard stopped and said, "Wait, what's that?", she knew it had been no figment of her imagination, and she cursed under her breath.

"Captain!" came a voice from the corridor. "Are you all right, Sir?"

Together, they cringed, "Riker."

Grabbing a corner of the blanket each, they scrambled clumsily to their feet. Through her teeth, Beverly said, "Give me the blanket; you have the robe," indicating a rumpled heap by the bulkhead.

Quickly, and suppressing the urge to burst out laughing, the two of them tried their damndest to straighten out the room, righting the table, gathering her clothes, sweeping up the broken glasses, and sponging up the wine. He had tied the robe closed, and motioned vigourously for her to hide in the head. Finally, in a matter of a minute or so, he stepped up to the door, and commanded it to open one-third of the way.

Seeing Riker and Geordie standing there, as serious and straight-faced as could be, Picard became worried. "What is it?" he asked crisply.

"Sir. We were a little concerned for your health," Riker began soberly.

"We tried several times to hail you, and there was no response, Sir," Geordie added, equally somber.

"As you can plainly see, I am fine -- "

"Then, Sir," Riker interrupted, "there are also the reports we heard. Pretty serious stuff, Sir."

Picard became immediately suspicious of the amount of 'Sir'sthat were directed his way. "Oh really?"

"Yes, Sir. Reports of . . . well, giggling, Sir, coming from your quarters."

Geordie contributed: "We knew something had to be wrong."

Picard did not know quite how to respond to this. The two of them, who had been standing outside and had heard the previous exchange of laughter and sounds, stood stiffly at attention awaiting the captain's wrath. Picard, however, said nothing, until he saw Riker's eyes connect with Beverly's medibag on the floor.

"Feeling all right, Sir?" he asked.

Geordie could see, courtesy his VISOR, the cooling spot of warmth on the floor where the two of them had been just minutes ago, and also could see the captain's elevated body temperature.

He said, "What are the two of you really driving at?"

"Nothing," Geordie said, and behind his VISOR, Picard could see his eyes widen in an expression of innocence. "But, now that you mention it . . ."

"Have you seen Doctor Crusher? She seems to be . . . missing, Sir," Riker drilled.

Picard narrowed his eyes. "You obviously know full well where Bever-- where Doctor Crusher is."

Riker played dumb as he looked to Geordie, who shrugged.

"We know nothing, Sir."

Suddenly Riker's eyes went wide, and Geordie's mouth dropped, seeing something behind the captain, who furrowed his brow in puzzlement. He heard Bev's voice and knew why.

"Hello boys," she began, her voice especially sensual. "Are you looking for me?" She emerged into the light wrapped only in the blanket, looking ravishing . . . and ravished.

All three of them were without words.

"No? Well, then. We'll be seeing you."

Beverly flashed them a pearly smile that hit them both low in the gut as the door closed in their faces. In the interior of the still darkened room, Beverly could hardly contain the laugh that threatened to burst from her. Picard did not look amused.

She frowned, suppressing that laughter. "Oh, don't tell me you're mad at me. They obviously knew what was going on here tonight."

"Did you have to confirm it for them?" he muttered.

"Yes! Yes I did. So there," she said. She hated to speak to him like a little kid, but dammit, he deserved it. "Don't be embarrassed of who you are. Most of all, don't be embarrassed of me. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to take the wind out of their sails."

He still looked grave. "I'll never live this down, you know."

This time pure anger came out freely. "'You' this and 'you' that. What about me?" Her teeth were clenched and her eyes were pure fire. "Is it so much to bear for others to know you and I have enjoyed one another?" As she stalked away from him, he could catch phrases: "Can't believe . . . actually thought . . . my feelings!"

He went after her and grabbed her arm, pulling Beverly back towards him. Her blood, however, was still boiling, and she took her arm right back.

"Don't even touch me," she hissed, pointing to him.

"Beverly." His dark, silky voice was laden with apology.

"That was very ignorant and selfish of me."

"Damn right. And this . . . this was a mistake. I had better leave now." She made for the head, fetching her medibag
and her shorn clothes. It took her but a moment to dress.

"Very well," he muttered to himself. He shook his head in defeat, feeling deep down that he would never understand women as well as he understood, for instance, quantum mechanics. When she reappeared, he said to her, "I'll see you at oh-six-thirty for breakfast."

"I'll see you," she countered, "at oh-seven-hundred for the staff meeting. I'm afraid my research data, however, will be incomplete, as I was called away from my work."

"Goodnight." Jean-Luc turned from her and headed for his bed, thinking that tonight it would perhaps seem that much more empty. He fluffed up the pillows, and laid down his head, drifting off to sleep even before he could hear the door's pneumatic sigh.

At least he thought he had fallen asleep, because a very long time seemed to pass without hearing the door, and therefore, he must have dozed through it, or so he reasoned. He turned over and blinked his eyes open to see starlight . . . and Beverly.

She had not left after all, and she had not slept. She sat in the chair she usually took when she came for breakfast,
wearing a sad expression and a far away look in her eyes. Softly he called, "Beverly?"

She gasped, startled.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked quietly, as if he would wake someone with a louder tone. As he asked, he felt that he already knew the answer.

"I couldn't leave after being so sharp to you. I should know you by now, and know what will wound your tender ego."

She smiled, and was glad to see that he did too. She walked from the chair to where he was, blanket wrapped around her uniform.

"I was wrong to come to the door, knowing your very sensitive nature about your privacy . . . but I couldn't help myself."

Picard almost laughed. "Heavens, we sound like," he began, "an old married couple." He slid over and pulled down
the corner of the sheet. "Why don't you come and sleep with me tonight?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "Have we . . . made up?"

"Are you coming or not? I'm exhausted and I have to get some rest." She looked puzzled and he knew why. "I only want to sleep knowing you are beside me. Being here would be a great comfort to me. And to you, I would hope."
"No funny business?" she mused.

"Depends," he joked. "Come on."

"Let me put on something more suitable." He wondered what her definition of 'suitable' entailed until she returned in a long flannel nightgown that was almost as soft as the light in her eyes. As she slid in beside him, he wound his arms around her from behind, fitting together like a pair of spoons. He nuzzled into her soft hair, his arms resting just below her breasts, and his eyes closed automatically. "Bonne nuit," he murmured.


The conference room was bustling with the voices of the senior officers who were already present, discussing the two officers who had not yet surfaced this morning.

"I'm not one for gossiping," began Riker, "but -- "

"Well, she was there, and she was -- " cut in Geordie.

"She was, let's just say, not in uniform -- "

When the doors to the observation lounge swished opened, conversation came to a screeching halt. Picard and Crusher, their professional faces intact, looked surprised at the lack of conversation. They all stood, and Riker said a curt, "Sir," before sitting again.

"Good morning to you all." His sunshiny mood was hard not to notice, as he stood near the head of the table, pressing his palms to the cool, hard surface. "A bit of news to start off the day." He looked to Beverly, who smiled and then nodded.

Deanna's eyes widened.

"Go ahead," she said softly.

"For the first time last night, I . . . " His pause was overly dramatic, for he knew the exact reason the conversation
had halted. " . . . I painted a nude!" His tone had become exalted as he ran over to the blushing doctor. "Meet my
charming model!"

"He wanted to show it to you, but I thought all of you might have been a little . . . " Beverly began.

"Don't make excuses!" he said, enjoying the charade they had cooked up over breakfast. "And don't be so modest. You did after all have the blanket on . . . most of the time." He raced over to the display screen, digging into his jacket pocket. "I've brought the isolinear chip with the painting loaded on it . . . let me pull it up on the screen, and you all can tell us what you think."

Meanwhile, the rest of them, Riker and La Forge most noticeably, shifted uncomfortably in their seats and met eyes
furtively.

"Sir," mumbled Worf. "I must protest seeing another senior officer . . . in the buff."

Picard worked on loading the chip and shrugged. "It'll only take a minute . . . there! What do you think? Now, don't be shy . . . "

A splash of red served as a background; a large red paisley-shaped figure, devoid of features and appearing to be
reclining round end down on a green rectangle, served as what could loosely be termed middle ground. In the questionable foreground were blue shaped vaguely resembling a table and a medibag. It was nothing short of atrocious, and Picard knew it, yet, beamed proudly at his 'masterpiece'.

Data opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Geordie and Will exchanged glances, and Worf grunted
noncommittally. Kindly, Deanna offered, "It's . . . different." Around the table, one by one agreed, and even suggested that Beverly had been done a tremendous justice. Thus began business as usual, as the doctor shot a look to the captain to share a smile.

The end.
Copyright 1993 by Sandra Guzdek.
Standard disclaimers about Paramount, and threats of death for
plagiarism, apply.