The BLTS Archive- The Portrait by Trexphile (trxphile@cox.net) --- DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the paper and pencil and even the model. The sketch is theirs -- I've shaded and colored it myself. Author's notes at the end. March 1999 --- "Where the hell is it??" Beverly was halfway under the bed, rump in the air, frustrated and not a little angry about the situation. When would she learn to put things up when she was finished with them? Of course, she had been rather distracted last night, although not in the way she had anticipated. She had *hoped* that she wouldn't be spending another night poised over a padd, working on the new play. She had *hoped* that she would be able to indulge something besides her intellect. And once again, her hopes had been dashed. He was tired, he'd had a long day, he had to be up early for the next round of negotiations. Yada yada yada. She'd been hearing these sorts of excuses for some time now. And so she'd tossed the padd in the general vicinity of the night table and turned off the lights. And now it was gone. Damn that man. Grunting a little, she pushed herself back out from under the bed, then sat cross-legged, thinking. There was no other place it could be. All that work gone. She suspected that Jean-Luc had appropriated the padd -- by accident, of course -- and had probably inadvertently overwritten the whole play. "Damn it to hell," she muttered. "And damn him for making me lose it." She rose slowly, then dropped heavily onto the bed. She was being irrational, she knew. She had no one to blame but herself for losing the padd -- she had always been notorious for misplacing personal items. A well-organized sickbay, yes. A well-organized closet? Never been there. And on top of that, she couldn't remember the last time they had made love. She couldn't recall when, much less remember *how* they'd done it. In the bed? In the shower? Against the bulkhead? No, definitely not against the bulkhead. They hadn't done that in a while, and probably never would again. Not after Jean-Luc had thrown his back out the last time. She could have persuaded him last night. She'd done it before -- many times, in fact. If she had kept a tally sheet, the times she had initiated lovemaking would probably outnumber his two to one. But it seemed that lately the effort of starting was just that: an effort. She closed her eyes. It had happened, what she'd known would happen eventually. It was the same with every relationship that lasted this long. The magic was gone. Their love life was just an old card trick now -- with few thrills and just as predictable. She wondered if it was her fault. No, she had tried, although lately her attempts had been half-hearted at best. But he wasn't responding like he used to. She lay on the bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling until she'd had enough. She needed to do something to take her mind off the situation. She sat up and saw the bathroom door. A shower. That would do it. Stripped of her clothing, the water running and steaming up the surfaces, she rummaged around in the bottom drawer for her favorite shower gel. She only used it on special occasions -- times when she needed to indulge herself. She couldn't find it. "Am I going to lose *everything* today?" she muttered and slammed the drawer shut, hearing items in the adjacent cabinet toppling over. The automatic drawer bounced back open, then slowly closed again as if to chastise her for her childish behavior. "Smartass drawers," she said, then frowned when the drawer once again wouldn't close all the way. "Shit, I broke it." Naked and on hands and knees, she opened the cabinet and felt around toward the back, pushing toiletry items out of the way. There was no partition between the drawer and the inside of the cabinet and she touched the back of the drawer with tentative fingers, hoping the thing wouldn't suddenly close and mash her hand. She immediately discovered why the drawer wouldn't close -- something had fallen over and was blocking the area, wedged firmly between the drawer and the back of the cabinet. She pushed on the drawer front to open it, then extricated the item and pulled it into the light. Her shower gel. A satisfied wave washed over her and she almost yahooed her triumph. She pushed the drawer shut -- and once again it stopped just shy of closing completely. Feeling around again, she discovered one more something wedged in the back. With a tug, she brought it out. It was a plastic box. She'd never seen it before. She sat back and turned it over in her hands. It was plain and white and about ten by fifteen by ten centimeters with a simple latch keeping the hinged lid shut. She opened it. Cards. A lot of thin plastic cards. She pulled one out and stopped breathing. On the card was a picture, a two-dimensional photograph of a human woman. A very well-formed human woman. A very *naked* well-formed human woman. "Oh my god...." She flipped through the cards and every one held the same thing -- different women, in different stages of undress, all posed very provocatively. She was appalled. She was incensed. She was depressed. None of them looked anything like her at all. She sat on the floor for a long time, dazedly flipping through the cards, shower hissing behind her. Finally she replaced the cards and sat the box on the floor in front of her. She stared at it. When had he gotten this thing? Where? And most importantly, why? Obviously he hadn't wanted her to find it. No wonder he was no longer interested in making love to her. And what should she do with it? Put it back? Throw it in the disposal? Set it on his breakfast plate with a croissant curled against it? She carefully placed it in the back of the cabinet and drooped into the shower. --- "You're very quiet this evening." Beverly looked up at Jean-Luc from across the table. "I am?" He smiled. "Usually you have all sorts of things to tell me about your day. You've said hardly anything since I've been here." She shrugged. "I'm just thinking." "About the play?" She paused. "Yeah." "How's that coming along?" "Fine. I found my padd." "Oh?" "Between the headboard and mattress." He glanced over toward the bedroom and then back to her, a smile dancing on his lips. "Now how did it get there?" She forced herself to smile. "I have no idea." After dinner, they fell into their regular routine. They cleared the table together, then he went off into the bathroom while she straightened up the living area. She had just settled down on the couch with her wayward padd when he came back in. "What do you say we turn in early tonight?" he said softly, brushing back a lock of hair from her face. Panic rose within her. He wanted to "turn in early." He'd just been in the bathroom. Oh shit. Normally she would have jumped up and hauled him into the bedroom. But now that she'd discovered his little secret ... She smiled as prettily as her confused state would allow. "Well, I'm right in the middle of a crucial scene... I'll be there as soon as I get through this. Okay?" He nodded solemnly and kissed her forehead. "Okay." He got up and went into the bedroom and closed the door. He hadn't even tried to persuade her. She stared unseeing at the padd in her hand, reeling from the thoughts ricocheting through her brain. Don't think about it, Bev, just don't think about it... She should just go to bed and allow him to seduce her. And who would he be seducing? His middle-aged wife of five years? Or one of the nameless plastic hussies that he'd brought to life in his mind? She curled up against the arm of the couch. Why was she doing this to herself? So what if he liked to look at naked women? She had dated an artist during her first year at the Academy whose entire apartment had been plastered with nudes of all shapes, sexes and species. She'd actually found it arousing to lie in Andrew's bed, surrounded by those naked forms that looked down at her and worshipped her with their pencilled eyes -- as her lover worshipped her with much more than that. It had been a long time ago, but she still remembered those carefree, youthful days fondly. Youthful. That was the difference. That youthful medical student had still been taut and toned and not yet subject to gravity's supremacy. Thirty-eight years had passed since then. And she couldn't deny the reality -- that time had made her what she was now. A fifty-six year old woman with laugh lines and aging skin, with gray hair that she never allowed to show, with a body that she'd taken care of as well as she could. It wasn't a *bad* body, not for its age. Good genes and exercise and the occasional touch of a surgical instrument here and there had kept her comfortable, if not totally satisfied, with her body over the years. At least until now. She fumbled for the afghan at the other end of the couch and pulled it over her. It wasn't really her age that was the problem. After all, she had fallen in love with and married a man nineteen years her senior, and he was definitely showing his age. It was the fact that he sought out other women to look at, to perhaps fantasize about. No, that wasn't fair. He sought out *pictures* of other women. He wasn't being unfaithful -- he was just ... curious? She wrapped the afghan tightly around her. Curiosity wasn't a bad thing in itself. It was what that curiosity might lead to ... Would he do that? Had he grown disinterested in her enough that he might consider *acting* on any fantasies? "Stopitstopitstopit" she whispered angrily. "You're imagining things, Beverly." If there were just some way to catch his attention again, to renew the passion they'd once had. Something visual. Not just a new negligee or a new setting on the holodeck. Something different.... She finally fell asleep, curled against the arm of the couch. --- He didn't say anything about her sleeping all night on the couch. It had happened before, after all, when she'd stayed up late to work on something. She certainly didn't bring up the subject. They got up, they showered and dressed, they had a small breakfast, they kissed each other goodbye and went to work. Today would be a short work day. They had entered Earth's orbit during the night and most of the crew would be disembarking for two weeks' shore leave. Beverly had only to finish up some reports and she would be back in their quarters packing for the trip. She and Jean-Luc would spend most of their time in France, visiting with Marie and relaxing at the estate. Beverly had always enjoyed the time spent at Jean-Luc's home and she was hoping that this vacation might renew some of the intimacy that they had lost. Work done, she bid her staff goodbye, wished them a good trip, and set off for her quarters. Jean-Luc wasn't there when she entered. She didn't figure he would be. He was usually one of the last people to leave the ship for shore leave. She changed into civvies, then hauled out a large bag and started sorting through clothing and toiletries. She stopped halfway through folding up a delicate piece of lingerie. She held it up and looked at it. It closely resembled something that she'd owned back at the Academy, something that she'd posed in once for Andrew. She recalled the occasion vividly. Propped against pillows, the black silk clinging to her curves, watching Andrew across the room, his long red curls falling into his face, slender fingers gripping the pencil lovingly, his gray eyes darting across her body. She remembered the excitement, how she could barely breathe as she lay there, impatient to see what he saw in her. And when he was done, he had knelt before her and laid the portrait reverently in her lap, then touched her brow, her cheek, her lips. "You are perfection," he'd said and she had melted into him when he took her in his arms. He was her first love, although she hadn't realized it at the time. He had been totally devoted to her, had practically worshipped her. But she was young and the world was new and the future beckoned brightly and she had left him behind. Only later when she had lost so much did she allow a measure of regret when she thought of Andrew. He had become successful as a graphic designer, had married and raised a family. She had heard his name mentioned in association with some award. And last she'd heard, he was still living in San Francisco. She dropped the lingerie into the bag. She had just gotten an idea. --- She rang the bell and waited, her stomach turning flip-flops. She heard footsteps approaching from inside the house and took a deep breath. The door opened. "Beverly?" "Andrew?" They laughed together, nervousness evident in the sound. "I can't believe you're here," he exclaimed. "Come on in!" He gestured her inside and she moved past him quickly into a sunny foyer. He scooted ahead, turning back to beckon her on into a large bright room. His words stumbled over each other. "Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee? A snack maybe? Damn, you look good!" She actually giggled, caught up in his exuberance, her nervousness fading. "Thanks, but I'm fine." She sat on the couch and he positioned himself on the other end, smiling back at her, his eyes never leaving her face. The years had changed him, of course. He had filled out -- he wasn't as lanky as he used to be, although he was still trim. His hair was short, no longer curling to his shoulders and the natural red had faded and was sprinkled through with white. He had never been particularly handsome, even in his youth, but his face seemed ... comfortable, more open than she'd remembered. "I was so surprised when you contacted me," he began. "It's been so many years." "Don't remind me!" she laughed, and he laughed too. He seemed so different -- he laughed so much easier now. They sat in silence. He was staring at her still and she could feel discomfort rising. The way he was looking at her ... it was too reminiscent of how he used to look at her all those years ago. She looked away. "This is a beautiful house," she said. "Thank you," he said as he rose. "It's pretty quiet right now with Jon at school and Jaree at work." "Jon is your son?" "Yes, my youngest. He's sixteen." "How many children do you have?" "Five." "Five??" He grinned and beckoned her over to a large portrait on the wall. "This is the whole family. We had this taken about five years ago -- we're due for a new one, especially now that we have the grandkids." "*Grandchildren*?? Oh my..." She admired the portrait as he gave a name to each smiling face. She paid particular attention to the petite, dark-skinned woman in the picture. "Your wife is lovely. Did you say her name is Jaree?" "Yes. She's at work right now -- she's a doctor, has a private practice in the city." "A doctor?" "Yes, I always did have a thing for smart and beautiful medical students." She smiled, her heart fluttering a little, and tried a segue. "Andrew Lasater, a family man. I never would have imagined it." "Nor I," he chuckled. "Who would have thought all that artistic angst could be channeled into things as mundane as toilet-training and the Tooth Fairy and school plays?" He paused. "And what about you? Any family?" She breezed through a brief description of her life since she'd last seen him: about meeting and marrying Jack and Wesley's birth, Jack's death, her posting on the Enterprise. She hesitated when she brought up Wesley and where he was now. She settled on just saying that he was "travelling with a friend." He searched her face again when she stopped speaking. "Did you ever remarry?" "Yes," she answered, more tentatively than she'd intended. "I ... uh ... I married my captain." She gave him a wry grin. "Jean-Luc Picard. Five years ago." "*The* Jean-Luc Picard? I had no idea I was consorting with such an illustrious personage!" "Oh stop it, Andrew," she laughed. Suddenly he was solemn, his eyes boring into hers. "Why are you here?" Her mouth went dry. She swallowed a couple of times. "I ... I need you to draw me." She was surprised at his response, or rather his lack of one. Instead of questioning her, he simply took her arm and led her to the large window. He tilted her face toward the sun with one gentle finger and she felt the warmth falling across her cheeks and forehead. Now this was the Andrew that she remembered -- serious and intense. She almost didn't hear him when he spoke. "What do you want to see?" The question caught her off guard and she answered him with the first thought that came to her. "Someone desirable." He nodded and she knew without a doubt that he knew exactly why she was here. "Does he know you're here?" "No," she whispered. "Do you feel guilty about being here?" "No." "Are you nervous?" "Yes." He touched her cheek with one slender finger. "Do you trust me?" "Yes." "Good." He stepped back and seemed to be studying her. She stood stiffly, not sure whether she should move or speak. The tension built until she felt she would snap in half ... and then finally he spoke. "All right. Come with me." She followed him through the house until they came to a closed door. He touched a keypad and the door slid open. She stepped across the threshold and into the past. The room was decorated exactly like his apartment almost forty years before. A low couch, large pillows and rugs covering the floor, an old wooden table strewn with art supplies. And the walls -- the walls were papered to the ceiling with drawings. She circled the room. She recognized some of these pictures. There were new ones, of course, but many of them were undeniably the same ones that had hung in that old cramped apartment a few kilometers from the campus. She wondered if he still had ... He approached her and held it out for her to take. She took it, fingers trembling and looked down into a face that she hadn't seen in many years. "I can't believe you still have this," she whispered. "I keep everything," he answered softly. "It was so long ago..." She studied the portrait for a long time, remembering, letting herself be carried back to a time that was so much simpler. When she had her whole life ahead of her, when her dreams were unsullied by any possibility of failure or regret. She had already experienced loss and pain but there was still so much that she'd had yet to experience, so much to absorb. The future was bright and welcoming. She wanted to feel that again. His voice broke through. She turned to where he stood beside the table. "What?" she asked. "I said what do you want?" "What do you mean?" He approached her slowly. "What do you want to see? What do you want to be?" What did she want? She thought she'd known before she came but she wasn't sure anymore. He stopped in front of her. "You said earlier that you wanted to be desirable." "Yes..." "For whom?" "I .. don't understand." He stepped even closer. "Desirable to him? Or desirable to yourself?" She couldn't answer. She wasn't sure what he meant. He guided her over to a full-length mirror and slipped her jacket off. "Look at yourself. What do you see?" "I see me." "Describe you." He stepped back so that she couldn't see his reflection. Describe herself. Okay... "I'm fifty-six years old, one point seven eight meters--" "No. Describe what you *see.*" Why was he doing this? She just wanted him to draw a sexy picture of her, one similar to those he'd done before. What did this little exercise have to do with anything? "Tell me, Beverly. What do you see?" She sighed. "I see tall and thin. I see large hands and large feet. I see a dark blue sweater and a slim black skirt. Light red hair. Blue eyes. No jewelry except for a wedding band. Long neck that's starting to show its age ... high cheekbones ... pale skin ..." She stopped and looked at him, hoping she was giving him what he wanted. He nodded from where he'd seated himself on the floor. "Now. Take off your clothes and tell me what you see." "Andrew, I don't think--" "Do you want me to draw you or not? Trust me, Beverly." She swallowed her protests and began disrobing. When finished, she stood with her back to him, not looking at him or her own reflection. "Look at yourself and tell me what you see." She closed her eyes and turned so that she was facing the mirror. After a deep breath, she opened them. "Look at your body. Tell me what you see." She looked. "I see a woman. Pale. Tall. Very slim, almost too thin. Short-waisted, small-breasted. Long legs." "More." "What?" "More detail." She sighed. "Slim shoulders with a defined clavicle. Slender arms and large hands. Very long fingers. I can see a few ribs if I lean to the side." "That's good. Move around if you want." "My breasts are small, smaller than I'd like and not as firm as they used--" "Uh-uh. No comparisons allowed. Just tell me what you see." She smiled. "All right. Breasts -- sagging a bit but not too badly. If they were larger, they would sag worse, I'm sure. Thank heaven for small miracles." He chuckled. "Pinkish beige areolae, small nipples. Made breastfeeding hell." He laughed again and she began to relax more. "Waist -- not much of one. A little thick. Definitely not an hourglass figure. Hips. Oh yeah, they're there. Go up higher than I'd like but they're not too bad. Overall the torso is short in proportion to height." She ran her hands down the fronts of her thighs and turned sideways. "Rear end is rather flat but still fairly firm." She placed her hands on her stomach. "Tummy is mostly flat with only a slight pooch. Jean-Luc says that he likes it..." She stopped, the mention of her husband suddenly making her very aware of just what she was doing. Just keep going, Beverly. She turned back full front. "Light brown pubic hair, *no* gray. And now, the best part. Legs -- long and slim and still toned. The calves are rounded just enough, the ankles perfectly proportioned. Feet are large, but they match the rest of the body well enough." She stopped, having run out of body parts. Andrew spoke softly. "And what about the face?" She stepped close to the mirror. "Blue eyes, very blue, surrounded by what I choose to call 'laugh lines.' Light eyebrows, darker lashes. Narrow nose, not too large. Pronounced cheekbones, thin upper lip, fuller bottom lip. Chin just a bit squared, with an almost-cleft in the right lighting. Ears." She pulled her hair back. "Never liked 'em. They're too big and stick out too much, but they match the feet and hands." She turned to Andrew, no longer self-conscious. "Is that enough?" "I'd say so," he said as he rose. "Now, look at yourself again and tell me how *he* would describe you?" "What...." Andrew came up behind her and gripped her shoulders lightly. "If Jean-Luc were here, how would he describe you?" She was at a loss. "I .... I have no idea." "All right. Then tell me this -- do you like what you see?" Do I like what I see? "I used to." "Can I tell you something?" He leaned in and whispered in her ear. "He loves what he sees. Because when he looks at you, he doesn't see the small breasts and the good legs and the flat rear. He sees *you.* All of you. And *that* is what he loves. You." He pulled away and she felt the tears burn her eyes. "Now," he said as he started picking through his pencils on the table. "What do you want to see?" "I want ..." She struggled for words. "I want to see me the way Jean-Luc sees me." He nodded. "I think I can do that." He motioned to the pile of clothes on the floor. "Get dressed and sit on the couch. Sit where you can feel the light on your face." "But I wanted you to do me ... well, I wanted a sexy picture...a nude." He smiled. "I have plenty to work with. I have an excellent memory." He turned back to his supplies. She dressed quickly and sat Jon the couch, moving until she found the light. And then she waited. He took a seat on the floor, cross-legged with a low easel propped in front of him. He studied her face for a moment, then began to draw. --- "Did you get what you needed?" She watched him as he unsaddled and began brushing down the horse. "Yes, I did." He smiled at her briefly and continued working. She leaned against the wall of the stall and admired the way the setting sun seemed to set him aglow, highlighting the muscles of his forearms, causing his face to glisten. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and she resisted the urge to lift her finger and trace the path it left behind. She watched him in silence and when he was done, she took his arm as they walked back to the house. "You know," she said, "it was very romantic to see you come galloping up on that horse as I was walking in. I half expected you to sweep me up with you and carry me off into the woods to ravish me." He laughed. "I doubt I can manage a stunt like that. Perhaps in my youth, but I'm afraid that those days are long gone." "Oh, Jean-Luc, don't sell yourself so short. Youth isn't everything, you know." "Whatever you say, milady." She could feel him looking at her as they neared the house. "Just why were you walking home? I expected you to shuttle in from the 'port." "No real reason. I just felt like walking." The house was dark and cool, a welcome relief to the waning summer day. Marie was off visiting her sister and their footsteps echoed through the silence as they ascended the stairs toward their room. Jean-Luc undressed, preparing to shower while Beverly sat on the bed and watched. He removed his shirt and tossed it at the hamper. She sighed. He really did look splendid for his age. No, she wasn't supposed to think that way. He looked splendid because he was Jean-Luc Picard. "What exactly were you doing in San Francisco?" She had been waiting for this question. "I was visiting an old friend. And I needed a favor from him." Jean-Luc sat on the old overstuffed chair and pulled off his boots. "What sort of favor?" She rose and took the paper-wrapped package from her bag. "This." She handed it to him. He looked at her inquiringly. "Open it. It's for you." She took her seat on the bed again, and clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting. This was it. The moment of truth. He unwrapped the package carefully, revealing a simple leather portfolio tied with a cord. He looked up at her, then untied the cord and opened the cover. He didn't say a word. He looked at it for a long time. She rose and crossed to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder at the portrait. It really was beautiful. Andrew had drawn her nude and lying on her side, propped on one elbow, the other arm lying along her hip, holding a small book. She was almost smiling, her expression pleased, as if someone had just entered the room, someone she was happy to see. Andrew had gotten everything just right -- the shape of her hip, the size of her breasts, even the way her ear poked out in front of the hair curled behind it. "Do you like it?" she whispered. He cleared his throat. "I ... don't know what to say." "Say you like it." "Beverly." He turned and reached for her and she knelt beside the chair. He put his arm around her shoulder, hugging her tightly to him for a moment. "It's beautiful," he murmured. "What made you decide to do this?" She thought about mentioning the cards she'd found but knew that they no longer mattered. "I just wanted to do it," she said. "You did this for me?" She nodded against his shoulder. "And for me. It turns out that it was also for me." He closed the portfolio and set it carefully on the floor, then pulled her up into his lap. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed his head to her breast. "I do love you, Beverly," she heard him say. "And I realize that I don't show you often enough just how much I love you." He raised his head and lifted his hand to her cheek. "Please forgive me?" She laughed softly and kissed the palm of his hand. "I think we could both spare a little forgiveness. I got so caught up in seeing what I couldn't be that I wasn't seeing who I really am. Does that make any sense?" "Not at all." She laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "Well, let's just say that I've seen myself and I like what I see." He cradled her cheek in his hand and ran his thumb along her lips, causing something deep within her to sigh and break loose. His breath was warm against her neck. "I love what I see. And I will never tire of seeing it." He took her face in his hands and kissed her, just a breath of kiss. "You are perfection." And she melted into him. --- Two weeks later back on the Enterprise, Beverly was once again searching for her shower gel. One of these days she would learn to put something up when she was finished with it... She hesitated before reaching to the back of the cabinet, then plunged ahead. There was an empty space where the box had been. She found her gel and opened the shower door. Jean-Luc was waiting for her inside. "Here." She squeezed a generous portion into his palm. "Wash my back?" "With pleasure." She groaned as he began massaging her shoulders. "Jean-Luc?" "Mmm-hmm?" "What happened to that box of cards that was in the cabinet?" His hands stopped moving. "Cards?" "Yes. The ones with all the pictures on them." "Oh. Those." His hands began moving again. "I gave them back to Will." "They were Will's??" "Not really. He ... well, he asked me to keep them for him. He didn't want Deanna to find them and get the wrong idea. He got them as a gift for Lieutenant McLean, sort of a joke. I understand they were a great hit at the bachelor party. And I hid them in the cabinet because I didn't want you stumbling across them and getting the wrong idea as well. I guess I didn't hide them very well ... what is so funny?" Beverly was bracing herself against the wall, shaking with laughter. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself, then leaned her forehead against the wall and sighed. "Nothing, Jean-Luc. I'm just happy." She felt him move, felt his body pressing against hers. His voice was deep and melodic against her ear. "Turn around and I'll make you even happier." She turned around. --- The End --- I want to thank all those that helped me through this. When I began this story, I thought I was going to be writing a short humorous piece, centering around a certain picture of Bev on eBay. About a third of the way through, the story did a 180 on me and I had to delete much of what I'd written. I want to thank Althea and Tenille for the ideas -- T, thanks muchly for the use of Andrew. See? I've returned him safe and sound. :D And to my beta-readers, Josh and Kate -- Josh for his unerring eye for technical accuracy and for telling me to stop obsessing and just post the damn thing, and Kate for her honesty and her ability to know what I'm trying to say when I haven't a clue.