The BLTS Archive- Points of View
Beverly: Saying Goodbye
by Trexphile (trxphile@cox.net)

---

DISCLAIMER:  So here we are tonight, you and me together.  The storm's
outside, but the fire is bright -- and Paramount is gawking at us
through the window. Yes, O Mighty P, you own these characters but all
we want is one illicit night.

April 1999

---

It's quiet.  Deathly quiet.  Still-as-a-tomb quiet.  Amazing to me how
accustomed we are to that ever-present hum of technology -- filtering
the air, powering the lights, keeping the temperature constant.  Now
there's just silence.  Overwhelming, disconcerting, accusatory
silence.

The room is gray without the artificial light, and it's getting colder
by the minute.  I could open the curtains -- the sun is probably
reflecting brightly off the snow and could provide ample
illumination... I should at least get up and check the auxiliary power
system.  These cabins may look rustic and antiquated but believe me --
they have all the modern conveniences that we 24th century humans
can't live without.

I should get up...

The blanket's warm enough, at least for now.  I'll just stay here for
a while longer...

He managed to get away this morning before the weather got worse,
before the power went out.  He was awake and up and gone before the
sun had completely risen over the ridge.

Gone.  Without a word.

No.

He'd said something.  Had murmured it softly, so softly I thought at
first that I was dreaming.  But then he moved away, leaving me there
alone, taking the warmth with him. And I knew it was real.  It was all
real.

I lay there and heard the rustling of his clothes as he dressed, the
quickness of his breath as he pulled on his coat, the soft clump of
his boots as he crossed to the door.  And then all I could hear was
the thundering of my heartbeat in my ears as I waited, waited for him
to say it.

All I heard was the door.

He never said it.

He never said goodbye.

---

Every relationship has its ups and downs.  God, but that sounds trite. 
It's true, though.  There's that realization about six months down the
line, the one where you begin to see your lover clearly, after the
orgasmic haze of infatuation has lifted.  You suddenly begin to see
the blemishes, the imperfections, hear the snores and belches and
farts, smell the bad breath and body odor.	And suddenly you start
seeing some annoying little quirks, bad habits that just weren't there
in the beginning.  All in all, it's not a bad thing -- in fact, I'm
sure that it's just a logical step in growing closer to your life
partner.  Seeing each other the way you really are, and loving each
other despite the imperfections.  The passion still remains...

I was so naïve.

I wasn't expecting to lose the passion.  I'd never even considered
that there would come a time when Jack could touch me and I wouldn't
be engulfed by throbbing heat.  That time came, though, creeping
softly on little cat feet.  I didn't see it coming and one night it
grabbed me by the throat like a ravenous tiger.  Lying in bed while he
slept, after nine months of marriage and six months of pregnancy, I
cried because I could no longer *feel* it.  I was devastated... and
afraid.  Because, for us, it was all physical.

We didn't talk.  We didn't discuss our dreams.  We didn't cry on each
other's shoulders.  Hell, we didn't even argue.

We woke up in the morning.  We ate together.  We went off to our
separate duties.  We came home at night.  We got clean and comfortable
and then we fucked.

We never made love.  It was always fucking.

With all that fucking, it was inevitable that I would get pregnant. 
And I did, three months into the marriage.

We were beside ourselves with joy... well, I know that I was.  I
believe Jack was happy about it.  He seemed happy.  And we could still
fuck, at least until it got too uncomfortable for me.	In fact, that
was the second thing that Jack said when I told him:  "Does this mean
we can't....?"  I assured him that yes, we could.  And then I took him
into the bedroom and, in celebration of the news, fucked his brains
out.

Disgusting expression.

After my nocturnal epiphany some five months later, I did what any
Howard woman would do -- I sat down and rationalized.	I decided that
since I was soon to be a mother, passion would naturally have to take
a secondary place in my life.  We wouldn't have time for all that
fucking anyway, what with a baby needing twenty-four hour a day care. 
I decided that this change was a timely one and chided myself for
being so immature.

Jack's posting on the Stargazer followed shortly which reinforced my
decision. It wouldn't do to be getting all horny and pining away after
a man when he's lightyears away.

And most of all, I realized that this turn of events signaled a new
page in our relationship, one that I was excited about.  With the
passion out of the way, we could finally really get to know each
other, start sharing those dreams, start talking to each other.  Even
if it had to be over subspace.

Sometimes I wonder if I think I'm living in a fairy tale.

We played our parts when he came home for shore leave.  He was the
doting daddy and the passionate husband.  And the passion was real, I
have to admit.  Absence may not always make the heart grow fonder but
it sure as hell makes the libido grow stronger.  He would be home for
two weeks and we would utilize every minute we had together.  And then
he would leave for another three months.

After we'd been married for about four years, he stopped coming home
every time.  Something would come up, something that only he could
take care of.  I would be disappointed, but after all that's what you
have to put up with when you're married to a Starfleet officer.

I counted myself lucky -- lucky that I had a successful, ambitious
husband who was destined for greatness; lucky that I had a beautiful,
healthy child whose potential was immeasurable; lucky that I was
headed toward a successful career of my own.

I really didn't need anything else.

Fairy tale.  Enter Fairy Godmother.

Or rather, Jean-Luc Picard.

---

It's definitely cold in here.  Even the blanket isn't providing much
warmth anymore.  I suppose I'm gonna have to give in and check the
auxiliary power after all.  I thought that maybe the power would be
restored by whoever handles these things, and I wouldn't be forced
into saving my own sorry ass.

It's here somewhere... ah yes.  There, a panel in the wall beside the
fireplace, blending into the décor nicely.  And there's the button.

After the long silence, the heater kicking in sounds out of place,
like an anachronism in this winter wilderness.	I wonder what time it
is... probably around mid-afternoon.  The sun's position in the sky
doesn't give me any clues.  Like I would actually be able to judge
that sort of thing.  Beverly Crusher, Wilderness Woman.  God...  all I
know is that it's too bright outside.  I prefer the dimness of my
sanctuary, thank you.

I should probably think about leaving.	I rented the cabin for the
whole weekend but I really don't think I can stay here by myself
another night. There are now too many... memories.

It's getting warmer already and I shed the blanket.  Hmmm... almost
comfortable enough to lie naked all night on a rug with nothing but a
dying fire, a small throw and another body for warmth...

Dear God...

It happened.  It really happened.

And now I'm crying and I hate it.  I hate feeling like this.  I hate
feeling this out of control and alone and worthless... and guilty.

I hate it, but it's what I am.  Guilty.

I'm kneeling on the rug now, wiping my tears away with the edge of the
discarded blanket.  I can't help it but I start caressing the plush
fibers of the rug, wondering...

I lean forward and press my nose into the softness.  Almost... I can
almost smell us.

Suddenly I'm cold again and I reach behind and grab the blanket,
pulling it over me, wrapping myself in it.  And I remember.  I
remember it all.

---

Someone's pulling up outside and my heart skips.  He's here after all.	
He's late, but he's here.  Through the window, the snow is falling
thickly, but I can just make out his form through the windshield.  His
head is bowed as he shuts down the motor and then he looks up and sees
me.

Jean-Luc...

Why is he here?

Damn you, Jack.  Now you're sending your best friend to do your dirty
work.

That strikes me as funny somehow as I pour another glass of wine. 
Dirty work. Yeah, I could conjure up some "dirty" to "work" on the
noble, upstanding Jean-Luc Picard.

Must be the wine talking... this is my third -- no, my fourth glass
tonight. Figures.  I didn't think I'd be seeing anyone this weekend. 
Guess I won't be able to get stupid drunk by myself after all.

Time to play the gracious hostess instead.

He's right there when I open the door, all bundled up like a little
boy who's been building snow forts in his backyard, with a decidedly
uncomfortable expression on his face.  I'm not happy -- how very
chickenshit of our beloved Jack to put his friend through this.

He looks good, though, as always.  He's really not all that
good-looking, not really.  His nose is too big, his eyes too small,
his hair too thin. Actually, he'll probably look better once he loses
it all, which will happen eventually. It's strange, this effect he has
on me -- one minute I feel like I should salute, the next I want to
rip off his pants and take him all huge and hot into my mouth...

Ooooh, Bev.  Must be the wine.  Actually, I've had these thoughts
while completely sober.

Of course, I'm not about to betray any of my thoughts.  Calm and cool,
that's me.  Nonchalant.  My husband has ditched me?  Do I look like I
care?

He comes in and he sheds his gloves.  I offer him some wine but he's
not accepting it.  All business tonight, aren't we, Captain?

And now he wants me to go back with him, back to the base camp before
the storm gets worse.  Like hell.  No, that wouldn't suit this Howard
woman.  She's not about to go running back to *him* with her eyes
bright and legs open.  Let him fuck himself this time.

And here's Jean-Luc, the faithful friend, still trying to persuade the
little wife to listen to reason and leave.  Why would I want to leave? 
Why should I? I tell Jean-Luc that I don't need a babysitter.

He finally gets it.  I am not leaving.  Period.  End paragraph.  End
chapter.  End book.  Toss it away and pour another drink.

And now he's apologizing.  He's sorry that he suggested I was
incapable of taking care of myself and adds that he didn't come to
argue with me.

Why *is* he here?

I ask him, and his response surprises me.  He looks uncomfortable,
flustered.  He even steps back.  He says something about messages not
going through and Jack being worried  blah blah blah, but there's more
here, something lying warm and pulsing just below the surface of his
impeccable captain's façade.

Does he... could he possibly?

I realize that I should respond to what he's just said so I ask the
question that, as the concerned wife, I should have asked right off
the bat.  "And just what is it that has kept Jack away?"

God, I don't want to know.  Right as the words come out, I realize
that.  I don't want to hear that I rank lower than realigning the warp
core or sending out crew evaluations or cleaning the fucking heads on
deck twelve so that they gleam.  I'm proud of myself as I dismiss Jack
and his excuses with a dramatic flick of my hand.  Perhaps I should've
followed my heart and majored in drama instead.

And then he says it.  I didn't want to hear it.  I didn't ask to hear
it.

He wants to know what's wrong.

Damn you, Jean-Luc Picard.  It's none of your damn business.

There is no way that I'm going to let him inside my head, no matter
how concerned he looks.  So I offer him some wine again and this time
he accepts. Good move, Jean-Luc.  You'll make a hell of a diplomat
some day.

So now what do we say?	Yes, the weather.  That's always safe.	He
tries once more to suggest that I leave, but I know that I've won that
battle and he's only making the effort for appearance's sake.  You've
done your duty, Picard.  Now leave it be.

He's so disarming like this -- chastised and almost cute.  Never
thought I'd be using the word "cute" to describe Jean-Luc Picard, but
that's just what he is. I can almost see him wobbling on the eggs,
trying desperately to keep his balance.  I can't resist giving him a
little shove.

"Great.  I knew you'd see things my way."

Oooh, I can see the hackles rise as he begins to bluster.  Well, as
close to blustering as he ever gets.

And then I respond with my "Of course, Captain, my mistake" and I can
see the panic on his face.  This is really too much fun.

And then I'm laughing, ridiculous laughter.  I'm laughing way too hard
-- it really wasn't that funny.  I can feel my control slipping away
and somewhere inside I'm screaming.  I'm just a hair's breadth away
from crying and I'm terrified by the prospect.

Not here.  Not in front of him.

I feel a tear escape and I'm still laughing and I'm hoping that he'll
attribute it to my senseless mirth.  Or maybe he won't notice it at
all.

And then...

Oh god...

He's touching me, touching my cheek, wiping away the tear... so
tender, so gentle... as if he really cares...

Damn you, Jean-Luc!  Why did you do that?

His hand is still there, just barely resting on my skin and I swear I
can feel every whorl of his fingerprints, every capillary beneath the
surface, pulsing heated blood to his fingertips as my own blood rushes
to meet it, straining to blend, to merge with his through the skin of
my cheek...

Our eyes lock and something... passes between us, something I've never
experienced before.

And then suddenly his hand is gone and he's turned away.

Oh god... get a hold of yourself, Beverly.  Say something, say
anything... anything to distract us both from what I think just
happened... Hostess.  Yes, you're the hostess.  Do your job.

Take off your coat, Jean-Luc.  I'll get you some wine, Jean-Luc.  Have
a seat, Jean-Luc.  We walk through our roles, playing our parts nicely
until we're both seated on the couch.  He's taken a sip of wine and
looking uncomfortable and I remember that he's an expert on wines and
that this bottle must be inferior to what he's accustomed to.  I make
some comment, ask him if the wine is okay.

And he tells me it's fine, that it's very good.

And I wonder if he's talking about the wine.

My head is swirling.  I don't think it's just from the wine, although
I've drunk more than my share tonight.  I feel... light-headed, almost
giddy.  Seductive. And bold.  I say what I feel for the first time
tonight not holding back as the first honest smile of the evening
stretches my lips across my teeth.

"When it comes to knowing about wines, I had a very good teacher."

He smiles too, looking magnificent, and lifts his glass.  "Here's to
teaching."

I take the challenge.  "Here's to the teacher."

Our gazes connect again and this time I'm ready for it.  I'm ready to
see what is lurking right behind his eyes and I want him to see it in
mine too.  Maybe it's too much for him, maybe he doesn't want to see
it because he turns away and I see his shields raise again.  I finish
my fifth? sixth? glass of wine as I watch him.  He's looking around
the room, his eyes moving furtively.  I wonder if he's really seeing
it.

He's obviously not hearing anything.  I ask him something trivial,
something about his ride up in the rover but he doesn't answer me.

Please don't pull away from me, Jean-Luc.  I really need you here with
me.  I need you to talk to me, to laugh with me, to look at me, to
desire me.  I need for you to care for me, if only for a little while.

The wine has made me bold and I lay my hand on his leg.  He startles
and I laugh.  I've got his attention again.  I ask him where he was
and he says something about how nice the place is.  He's drifting away
again and I'm not sure why.  Look at me, Jean-Luc.  Look at me the way
you did before.  See me...

I tease him about not hearing me and he says that I don't allow myself
any distractions, and I reply that I'd hate to miss any chances by
being distracted.  I love this, this easy banter.  It resembles what
Jack and I had before Starfleet replaced me.

And then Jean-Luc says something that blindsides me, sucker-punches
and leaves me gasping.

"And you're not one to miss a chance, are you?"

God, he didn't mean anything by it -- he was just playing the game
like a good boy but this statement has suddenly become very
significant.

I feel as if I've left my body, that I'm observing the scene unfold
before me. I watch myself as I start babbling about choices and street
corners and changed lives.	I don't even feel it when he takes my
hand, don't even see it when he captures me with his eyes.  I hear him
describing a woman and a man and a marriage that I don't recognize. 
And I hear myself telling him that nothing is as it seems.  That I
missed my chance.

My god, this is not what I intended to happen.	I never meant to tell
him any of this.

Get it back, Beverly.  Pull yourself together.

But I can't.  The tears come and they hurt, they burn my chest and my
head and my whole body starts to heave with the pain.  He takes me
into his arms and some part of me is still grappling for control,
trying to push him away, but that part is too weak and I succumb to
the comfort of his arms.

We sit this way, melded together for an eternity.

Finally I regain my control and, still in his arms, apologize for my
outburst. His response is simple, one that's perfectly acceptable in
this situation.  His voice resonates through me, jarring something
loose, unleashing something within me.  And suddenly I see everything
with a clarity that I've never possessed before.

I want him to see it too.

So I tell him.  I tell him that, in the beginning, it was him that I
wanted. That Jack distracted me. That I'd made the wrong choice.

He's fighting this.  He doesn't want to see it.  It's so clear -- how
can he miss it?  I can see how he feels about me -- I just didn't have
the power to see it until now.  Jean-Luc has given me that power, that
gift, just by being here. Just by caring.

I touch him now, encouraged by my knowledge.  His chest, the back of
his neck. I lean in closer, wanting to feel the warmth and life within
him.  I lean in close to his ear, my voice humming in my throat.

"He's not the one."

He tenses and I'm afraid that he's about to bolt.  He starts pushing
me away and when he does, I feel a rush of warmth deep inside,
flooding me, flushing away all my indecision and cowardice.

I want this man.  I want him to take me with the same force and
determination that he's using to push me away.  The more he resists,
the more I want him.

My lips move of their own accord and I'm murmuring seductively of
storms and fire and us.  I almost have him.  I can see it in his
eyes...

And then he breaks away, rushing to the far side of the room.

No.  Don't leave me, Jean-Luc.  Please...

I should stop right now.  Yes, I should.  Because I know that if I go
to him now, he won't push me away.  I am more sure of this than of
anything else.  If I go to him right now I will only have to say a few
words, I will only have to touch him, and it will happen.

We will make love.

I should stop right now.

I go to him.

---

I awaken, not realizing that I've slept.  My body aches, right down to
the bones.  I really shouldn't sleep on the floor anymore.

I've got to get up, got to get my stuff together.  I need to get out
of here before the sun goes down.  It looks like I'll be driving
myself back to the base camp.  I hadn't planned on using the rover in
the garage, figured that Jack would be driving instead.  I've never
driven one before but I'm a smart girl -- I'll figure it out.

As soon as I get to the camp, I'll call Jack's parents and arrange to
pick up Wesley earlier than we'd planned.  Maybe we'll have time to
salvage some of this weekend, just the two of us doing something
special together.  And then back to work on Monday.

And then?  What about Jean-Luc?

He loves me.  He told me before he left, in soft words not meant to be
heard. But I heard them and I still hear them now.

He wasn't supposed to say it.  We agreed that we couldn't say it.  He
touched me and kissed me and filled me.  "Love me," I said.  And he
said "Just for tonight."

Just one night.  Can I live with just one night?

He wasn't supposed to say it.

We didn't agree not to feel it.

Perhaps I could just forget that this happened.

I can't forget.  I will never forget.

I wish I knew what to do...

The only thing I am sure of is that I'm leaving here now.  Once I'm
away, I'll be able to think more clearly...

I still wonder why he never said goodbye.

---^^

It's quiet.  Deathly quiet.  Still-as-a-tomb quiet.

It's cold too.

I don't want to be here.

I look down at him.  I can almost pretend that he's asleep.  If it
weren't for the hideous red-rimmed wound that's splitting his face
open.

I'm here to say goodbye.

I feel movement beside me and I glance over at Jean-Luc.  He looks at
me for only a moment, then drops his gaze.

Shame.  I can see it all over his face.  He's already blaming himself. 
I don't know exactly what happened or whether there really is anyone
to blame.  I can't think straight right now anyway.

All I can think is one word.  It keeps repeating over and over in my
head.

Goodbye.  Goodbye.  Goodbye.

I'm here to say goodbye.

I touch his hair, avoiding the cold skin.  And I realize that, despite
the pain and loneliness and distance, I loved him and he loved me.	
In our own way, we loved each other.

I say it.

"I love you, Jack.  Goodbye."

I'm ready to go.

We walk back to the lift, not speaking.  There's nothing to be said,
after all.  Hidden in a corner of my mind, there's a week-old memory
of a night when I made a choice.  It was a choice borne of loneliness
and anger and confusion and too much wine.

It was the wrong choice.

The memory is already fading.

When the doors open again, I step out and turn to him.

He couldn't say it, but I can.

Goodbye, Jean-Luc.

---

The End