Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/235092.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Trek:_The_Next_Generation, Star_Trek:_Voyager
  Relationship:
      Jean-Luc_Picard/Tom_Paris
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-08-06 Words: 5311
****** Comme si de rien n'etait ******
by Jane_St_Clair_(3jane)
Summary
     The captain was not pleased to discover civilians in his battle zone.
Notes
     This is old, old songfic. I apologize.
The captain had not been pleased to discover civilians in the midst of his
battle zone.
The Enterprise had been on routine patrol in sector 005 when reports came in
that a separatist
faction from Cygnus V had taken control of the USS Stephen Hawking. The unarmed
research
vessel had only managed to get their distress call off twice before
communications were
disrupted. Starfleet command reported that the region should be quiet enough:
there were no
logged civilian flight plans that came within fifteen light years of the
Hawking's last reported
position and no regular shipping lanes. Orders to get the terrorists, alive if
possible, dead if
necessary, off the Hawking and into custody.
If Captain Picard thought privately that Fleet was sending a flamethrower to
knock out an anthill
by dispatching the Enterprise, he didn't comment. The Federation flagship
couldn't always do
elite duty, he supposed. Terrorist action was a constant problem in an alliance
as massive as the
Federation, but it tended to be dealt with quickly, cleanly, and quietly,
affording whatever group
it was as little press as possible. Still, clean was a relative term. He was
grateful not to have
gawkers about, waiting to be shot, if only by mistake.
So he was not pleased when Wesley Crusher turned to him and reported that five
civilian ships
had entered the sector and were apparently crossing into the danger zone.
"Change course!" Picard snapped. "Intercept them, damn it!"
The ships in question were not the sort he normally thought of as "civilian."
They were flying in
military formation. Perfect military formation. The vessels' design might
almost have been
mistaken for Fleet fighters. Only the lack of insignia denied a Fleet origin.
Well, that and the
extremely loud music they were broadcasting in lieu of an identification
signal. Faced with the
sheer bulk of the Enterprise, they stood down and hovered in formation a mere
five kilometres
from the larger ship's saucer section.
"Identifications received sir," Data reported. "Ships identified as Circe,
Europa, Alcyone,
Meleagre, and Ganymede. Earth registry. The flight plan they logged this
morning places them
in sectors 001 and 002, simple formation exercises close to earth. They are,"
the android raised
his eyebrows, "rather notably off-course."
"Mr. Worf, open a channel," Picard ordered.
"Open, sir."
"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise to Earth-registered
ships. You have
strayed into a terrorist zone, in violation of your flight plan, and have
placed yourselves in grave
danger. In accordance with Starfleet regulation 591, subsection alpha, I am
taking your ships and
all those aboard into protective custody. Prepare for tractor lock."
On screen, the silver arms of tractor beams caught the tiny vessels and swept
them into a vacant
shuttle bay. Picard sat back in his chair and frowned.
"Mr. Crusher, I have an unfortunate duty for you. I want you to go down to
shuttlebay three and
collect our guests."
"Yes sir. Where would you like me to take them?" The boy kept his face
carefully
expressionless, but a small tightening around his eyes betrayed his dismay. So
young. Jack's
dark eyes and hair, Jack's expression, sweet and determined all at once. The
captain pulled his
attention back to the young officer's question.
"Hmm. Guest quarters on deck eleven, or Ten-Forward if they prefer. We must
keep in mind
that these people *are* our guests and not our prisoners. And don't take it
personally, Mr.
Crusher. If I was unhappy with your performance, I would have come up with
something even
more unpleasant for you to do."
Wesley looked carefully at his captain. Had that been a joke? He wasn't always
sure. Shrugging
to himself, he relinquished the conn and left the bridge.
*****
At close range, Wesley Crusher could see that the ships they had collected had
never been
designed to hold more than one, or at the most two people each. But he didn't
see anyone in the
bay except the crewman who'd supervised the docking. He was solidly into the
room before he
spotted the others.
There were five of them. Resting casually by their ships in black semi-military
flight suits, they
gazed impassively at the crewman and, as Wesley became visible, widened their
focus to include
him. Three women, two men. No, that wasn't quite right. They were absolutely
glossy, slick as
the images in a fashion vid, and most were wearing dark glasses that concealed
their expressions,
but they weren't adults. Older than Wesley, but not by much, maybe seventeen or
eighteen to his
sixteen years.
The reaction that developed as he got closer was definitely uncomfortable.
Looks were
exchanged amongst the five, and a current as strong as a telepathic message
radiated from them.
Surprise, bemusement, amusement. Contempt. The boy with his back pressed to the
Ganymede
took off his glasses very slowly, a deliberate statement of fashion and
something very like power.
The eyes behind the shades were an impenetrable blue.
"Our babysitter," the boy announced to the room at large, "has arrived." He
rose gracefully to his
feet and Wesley was surprised to see that he was shorter than the stranger by
four or five inches.
He shifted uncomfortably, thinking he was resented. He was used to dealing with
that from
adults, but from people his own age it was . . . disturbing. Instinctively, he
retreated behind a
barrier of formality.
"Welcome to the Enterprise. If you'll follow me . . ."
Crusher turned without waiting for them to move and paced back towards the
door. He was most
of the way out before the crewman's uncomfortable cough drew his attention
back. No one had
moved. The stranger who had spoken earlier was still rooted to the spot; the
others were sitting.
One hand moved up in a fluid gesture and swept the golden hair back off his
forehead. He
smiled, not quite a smirk, and locked gazes with the ensign. Crusher found
himself growing
steadily more uncomfortable under those eyes.
"Paris, let the kid be." One of the girls, the one without glasses,
straightened and gave the blond
an ugly look. She crossed the bay and held her hand out to Wesley. "Joanna
McCoy."
He took it. "Wesley Crusher."
She cocked and eyebrow at him. "Son of Jack Crusher?"
Surprise. "Yeah."
She nodded to herself. "Um-hmm." Subject closed. She gestured at the others.
"Iyami Nogura,
Irene Jacobson, Jessica Matthews." A pause. "Tom Paris." The blond's smile
crossed the thin
line into smirk and he bowed slightly. "So," she said. "Let's go." The other
followed them into
the hall.
"You look a little young for an ensign," the girl introduced as Jessica said.
"It's, um, unofficial," Wesley said. "I haven't been through the academy yet."
The others
absorbed this in silence, but he could hear their eyebrows rising.
"You want to be in Starfleet that badly," Joanna said. He liked her tone. It
was half a question,
as if she were totally delighted. He nodded.
"Why?"
The question stopped Wesley in his tracks. He'd head that voice already, the
blond from the
shuttlebay. But it wasn't the bluntness so much as the question itself. He'd
never asked why, he'd
known for years, since his father died, that he needed to be in Fleet, the way
he needed to
breathe. It was important. It was Starfleet. It was the Enterprise. It was the
feel of the helm
under his fingers, cool glass and power . . .
"I need to fly," he said finally.
There was a pause while the others digested this. Wes raised his eyes and
studied the blond's
face. The drawling sarcasm had vanished for an instant, replaced by a clear,
intense expression
that wasn't quite joy or anger. Then the boy's attention returned and his blue
eyes met Wes's dark
ones. And he smiled, and it wasn't quite so ugly. "OK," he said, as though the
answer had been
the most natural possible one.
Wes turned, led them down the hall, and called for deck eleven as they stepped
into the turbolift.
He was struck by the way the strangers moved. Most newcomers to a starship were
awkward in
the artificial gravity and the close confines of the halls, but these people
moved the way he did.
They moved like people who had lived more of their lives in space than
planetside.
"Who are you?" Wes demanded suddenly.
"Spacemen in waiting," said the blond softly. What was his name? Paris.
"Starfleet brats."
Wes looked him over. "Paris as in Admiral Paris."
"Of course as in admiral. That's what Fleet brat means." That bitter tone that
he didn't know
how to react to.
Uncomfortable silence. Wes showed them to their rooms on deck eleven. Joanna
gave him a
smile, the others nods. Paris vanished last into his anonymous room, tense and
silent. He hadn't
spoken since the turbolift. The door slid shut and inch from Wesley's nose.
*****
Ten captured terrorists later, the Enterprise turned to stardock, the damaged
Hawking in tow.
Picard had retired to his ready room as soon as the situation was under
control, leaving
Commander Riker the bridge. Wesley Crusher was back in his seat at the conn,
oddly pensive
but working too well to be questioned for his mood. The ensign had reported as
much
information as he had gained from their guests. Enough that Picard had chosen
to take the lot of
them back to stardock rather than let a group of adolescents loose in what was
still insecure
territory. The captain settled down with his cup of tea to write the incident
report. The door
chimed.
"Come."
The person who came in was not one of his crew. A tall, slender boy of perhaps
seventeen, tow-
headed and restless. His clothes were black, and suggested a uniform. He
stopped just inside the
door and came to a textbook "attention." Picard reflexively waved a hand. "At
ease, mister . . .
?"
"Paris. Thomas Eugene." A textbook "at ease." Hands folded behind him, feet
shoulder width
apart, steady blue eyes meeting the older man's hazel ones.
Ah, the admiral's son. He'd been identified as the pilot of the Ganymede,
flying point position
when they'd been intercepted by the Enterprise. So he'd been in control of some
sort.
Responsible. Picard looked the boy over. Aristocratic face, fair skin showing a
bright contrast to
the black clothing, long legs. He walked with just a trace of a sway that
proto-Fleet training
hadn't yet bred out of him. Altogether beautiful, altogether Ganymede. Picard's
balls tightened a
little at the sight of the boy. He tried to ignore the sensation.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Paris?"
Now the blue eyes shifted and wouldn't meet his. "I read your message. The one
that told us
what the report to Fleet would say."
"Yes?"
"Look, there's nothing *per se* illegal about deviating from a flight plan, is
there?"
"No-o. But it is frowned upon."
"But not illegal," the boy forged on. "And what you're writing looks a hell of
a lot like a
reprimand. Wouldn't it be enough to say that you picked up civilians in a
danger area, and leave
out the deviated flight plan? I'm not asking you to falsify anything, just make
the report a little
less damning."
Picard favoured the young man with a particularly frosty silence.
"OK, leave that for a second. Forget I mentioned it. Just . . . do you really
need to send special
reports to the admirals?"
"It is a customary courtesy."
"Could you not?" The "at ease" had been abandoned. The black-clad body was
closer to his
desk. The expression on the aristocratic face bordered on pleading.
"I think, Mr. Paris, that your father will likely have noticed your absence."
Was that a snort?
Hard to tell. The golden head shook "no."
"He won't notice I'm gone. The ships belong to the McCoys. We were staying at
their family
home in Georgia." Pause. "Please, captain." The door chimed.
"Come," the captain snapped.
Wesley Crusher stepped in. "Sorry to disturb you, Captain. The information you
wanted for
your report came up from engineering." He set a number of padds on the
captain's desk, nodded
to Paris, and left. Picard watched him leave, appreciating the view of that
young body in the
close-fitting uniform, forgetting momentarily the other young man still in the
room. Not noticing
the blue eyes that missed nothing.
Finally, "Captain?" A prompting sound.
His attention snapped back. "The report stands, Mr. Paris. Dismissed. I'm sure
you know what
the word means." He deliberately turned his attention to the padds.
He didn't see the blue eyes spark before Paris turned and stalked out of the
room.
*****
It was Jean-Luc Picard's humble opinion that starship captains, when they did
duty saving
civilization, defending the weak, and exploring the farthest reaches of space,
should be excused
from writing reports. After three hours of compiling and composing, his
shoulders ached. He
keyed open his quarters and stepped into the comforting darkness. After years
on the Enterprise,
he no longer needed more than the starlight to find his way around this
personal space.
He jumped nearly out of his skin when the voice came out of that darkness.
"Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Age 56. Born Provence, France, Earth. Married and
divorced Aline
Trudeau. As an ensign, assigned to the USS Reliant, promoted and transferred to
the . . ."
"Computer, lights!"
". . . Horne as tactical officer." The monologue stopped. Tom Paris sat on the
couch in the
middle of the living area, still dressed in flying black. His mouth curled into
a lazy smile.
"How the hell did you get in here?" Picard demanded.
"Locks only keep out the unresourceful." Paris remained seated, but stretched
his arms above his
head, pulling the fabric of his jumpsuit tight against his body.
"What *was* all of that?"
"Your service record, more or less, or the beginning of it. Just wanted to make
sure you knew I
know who you are."
"Why?"
"Because I think we didn't finish our previous conversation on quite the right
note."
"I'm not changing my mind."
"Have I asked you to?" The boy's expression was artful. He drew a knee up and
wrapped an arm
around it. The gesture was casual, but again the fabric pulled tight and in the
bright illumination
Picard had ordered, the shape of the leg and the tight curve of the young man's
ass were clearly
detailed. "I just thought we should talk."
"About what?"
"Wesley Crusher." There was a longish pause while Picard considered what to say
to this.
"Sweet kid, really. I don't remember the last time I met someone actually
*eager* to join
Starfleet. You served with his father." It was not a question. "Fleet rumour
has it he was your
lover."
"I beg your pardon! Jack Crusher was a married man and a great friend and I
don't need this
crap from--"
"From me. Yeah. I didn't say I believed the rumour. Just a piece of gossip. I
don't think you
were Jack Crusher's lover."
"Good."
"Because I don't think you're the sort of man who would go lusting after his
dead lover's son."
Picard froze. When control asserted itself, he drew all that he had about him.
"I think you had
better leave."
"I didn't say you'd act on it. But I saw the way you looked at that kid. You
want him. You won't
ever have him, but you like to look." At some point in the conversation, Tom
had raised himself
off the couch and moved towards the captain. It was an easy motion, as natural
as water flowing.
Picard only noticed it when the golden body was suddenly deep within his
personal space.
Slender fingers ran down his chest invitingly. "But you can have me."
Hazel eyes widened. "No! I "
He never got any farther, because Tom's arms wrapped themselves around the
older man's neck
and his lips locked on. He was a skillful kisser for someone so young,
demanding and soft,
slipping his tongue into Picard's mouth and stroking palate and teeth before
finding the other
tongue and twining around it. Picard groaned as his body responded to the young
one pressed
against it. He was painfully erect, blood pounding in his groin as Paris rubbed
against it with his
own, equally hard penis through the layers of their clothing. Still the kiss
continued. Paris'
hands slipped down and began to explore, opening the uniform top with deft
fingertips and
slipping inside to tease the nipples to rigidity. The other hand slipped lower
and began to rub
hard at the older man's erection, eliciting further moans.
Picard knew he was out of control. He should push this boy away. He should
order him out of
the room. Instead, he sank his fingers into the shaggy golden hair and Paris
lowered himself to
his knees and opened the Fleet-issue trousers. Warm fingers slipped both pants
and boxers off,
freeing the raging erection that leaped higher at the touch of the cool air. He
could feel soft
breath on his groin, then the sudden, massive heat as that young mouth locked
onto his sex and
sucked him in.
Tom worked carefully on the captain's member. He'd only gone down a couple
of times before, and never on anyone so, well, *big*. Picard was nearly as
hairless below as he
was above, and the lack of hair meant that the massive erection projected
smoothly from the
body. Tom licked it down its length grinning slightly at the moans coming from
above. At the
head, he pressed the tip of his tongue to the slit, licking away the pre-cum
and coaxing more from
that body, savouring the sharp, salty taste. He left it for a moment, then, and
slid his baby-soft
cheek along that raging length until he'd reached the older man's scrotum. His
mouth closed over
the delicate skin there and he sucked hard. A shudder ran through Picard's body
and the hands
resting in his hair tightened their grip. Tom smiled against the hot skin and
drew back slightly.
Then he closed his lips over the erection again and began the slow process of
taking the whole
thing into his throat.
Picard's body had long since been reduced to a mass of screaming nerves. The
delicate mouth
was working its magic on him. He'd never, ever felt like this. Shock registered
when he realized
that Paris's lips were at his root. He'd taken the whole thing into him, and
down his throat, and
he was still sucking, creating tension on the thin skin, and tracing the
network of veins with his
tongue. Picard pressed his eyes shut and savoured the ecstatic contact,
enjoying the heat, the
wetness, the fantasy that was at once the boy on his bridge and the beautiful
young man who was
even now locked onto him. At some point he'd shrugged the rest of his uniform
off; his bare
shoulders were pressed against the bulkhead.
Then a hand slipped up behind him and between his cheeks and a fingertip
penetrated his ass. He
lost what little control he had left. Hands locked on either side of the golden
head, he fucked his
way in and out of that sweet mouth, loving the sensation, feeling the fingertip
still in him and the
other hand stroking his balls. Harder, deeper into that wet heat and then he
came, screaming,
spurting hard into Paris's mouth. The delicate tongue convulsed slightly,
swallowing, and licked
him clean. The mouth withdrew. Picard sank to the floor, whispering, "Oh gods."
"Mmm," the sensual whisper came back. "We're just getting started." The young
man withdrew
slightly. "A Frenchman, Capitain. Ca va, cher, on peut converser assez bien." A
pause.
"Computer, reduce lighting to 50%, begin music."
Paris straightened. He was still fully clothed, though flushed slightly and
panting. A decidedly
Mona Lisa smile was playing across his lips. Soft acoustic music filled the
cabin and a delicate
woman's voice, singing.
Tes mains peuvent bien se cacher
tes yeux peuvent bien se baisser
et tes pensees, oh oui tes pensees
comme tes cheveuxs s'entremeler
Tom posed, hands provocatively on hips, and allowed Jean-Luc to drink in the
sight of him. He
began his motion slowly, falling into the melody of the music and letting it
take him,
half-dancing until he found a grinding rhythm to carry him. Casually, he
stepped out of his shoes
and toed off his socks. The flesh beneath was obviously fair, but tanned to a
bright gold and
marked white where sandal straps had been. California boy. Jean-Luc's breath
was taken away.
So little bare skin, so very arousing. He was far beyond protesting. Feeling a
stirring in his groin
that spoke of a recovery time he hadn't experienced in years, he let a smile
drift onto his own lips
and decided to enjoy the show.
Tes pas peuvent s'eloigner des miens
tes secrets se chuchoter moins
et mes pensees, oh oui mes pensees
un bouquet d'illusions fanees
toujours je voudrais te garder
toujours je voudrais te garder
The black top came off teasingly slowly. Tom lifted it at the hem, one inch,
two inches, exposing
more of that hard, golden body beneath, finally coming up and off, tousling his
bright blond hair
and giving his expression a decidedly impish cast. He threw the soft black
fabric to Picard, who
caught it and pressed it automatically to his face. Sharp, ocean smell of
cologne and sweat,
incredibly enticing.
Comme si de rien n'etait
on irait faire des ricochets
entre mer et galets
nos larmes seraient moins salees
Tom stretched his arms above his head, tightening every muscle in his half-
naked body and
driving Picard into the madness of full arousal. He would have driven the young
man to the floor
if the eight-foot distance between them and the music hadn't made that form
maddeningly
untouchable. Golden skin, greying blue eyes, a smell like the ocean and bright
sunlight that he
hadn't felt against his body for too long . . .
Those long fingers were at the trousers' waistband, unlocking the fastenings so
slowly, too
slowly, hands lingering at every centimetre. Still those slender hips ground in
time to the
progressively more intense music. The delicate fingertips stroked his skin,
outlining muscle and
bone and hinting at an irresistible sexuality.
The Mona Lisa smile deepened as the pants came open and, with a shift of
weight, dropped away
from Tom's body. He stepped out of them and kicked them into the semi-darkness
that now
shrouded the corners of the room.
Les bateaux que l'on regardait
les ronds que l'on faisait dans l'eau
et sur le sable, tous nos chateaux
toujours je voudrais les garder
toujours je voudrais les garder
comme si de rien n'etait
Tom's fingers ran over his nearly naked body like a musician thoroughly
familiar with his
instrument. No, that wasn't right. Like a pilot in full connection with his
ship, moving at once
himself and something outside himself, responding instinctively to changes in
the vacuum of
space, understanding the magnetic pull of the warp field. Like Wesley on the
bridge, his face
deep in concentration. Intense. Young. Sweet. Utterly edible. Delicate fingers
tracing the lines
of close-fitting grey briefs that left little to the imagination and cleanly
outlined the young man's
arousal.
It was almost nothing, a flick of the fingers, a shift of the hips, though it
should have been
difficult to circumvent that erection, and the grey fabric came away and
disappeared into the
encroaching dark in the corners. Still moving subtly, Tom Paris stood before
him, naked and
inviting.
Comme si de rien n'etait
on irait faire des ricochets
entre mer et galets
nos larmes seraient moins salees
comme si de rien n'etait
courir sur la jetee
entre vents et marees
nos larmes pourraient bien secher
Deft pilot's fingers descended and Tom stroked his erection, still
tantalizingly out of reach.
Picard was harder than he'd been before, harder than he'd been in years. He was
rapidly coming
to the point where the only thought in his head would be to fuck this beautiful
animal before him,
fuck him long and hard, desperately . . . . His paralysis remained.
Tom rolled slowly down to his knees and then to all fours. He padded towards
the older man,
still in the rhythm of the music, the shifts of his body emphasizing the
erection that had risen up
to rest against his lower belly. Approaching like a fierce, golden near-liquid,
flowing up to
Jean-Luc as maddening and as deadly as mercury.
Those soft, child's lips reached blindly out and locked onto his.
Comme si de rien n'etait
si on allait se noyer . . .
The paralysis dissolved. Picard locked his arms around that delicate body and
dragged it down to
him. He *needed* it, needed to feel that young heat along his length. A
practised manoeuver
flipped them over, reversing their positions, so that when they drew back from
the kiss Paris's
head struck the carpeted floor. Blue eyes met hazel ones darkened almost beyond
colour with
lust. Soft lips mouthed one word.
Where?
Jean-Luc rolled to his feet, drawing the other up with him. "Desk," he snapped,
and pushed the
boy toward it. Stopping only to call up lubricant from the replicator, he
followed. "Bend over
it," he ground out. The desk was high, and awkward enough that the young man
fumbled the
action. Picard slipped a hand under the abdomen and lifted until the boy's
weight was laid across
the desk and only the tips of his toes touched the floor. That pale, young ass
was offered up to
him, so sweet that he wanted to drive into it immediately. Only years of
experience presented
him from doing just that.
Coating his fingers with the gel, Picard laid hands on Paris's ass cheeks. A
quick jerk parted
them, revealing the tight, puckered opening. Without hesitation, he drove one
finger in right to
the knuckle, relishing the boy's startled gasp. Oh, this was so good. Sweet,
tight. He rotated the
digit until the tense muscle began to relax, then added a second and began
roughly to stretch.
"Oh fuck yes please oh gods thatfeelssogooddon'tstop," Paris ground out. He
could feel the cool
gel smoothing into him, at odds with the rough fingers that sent burning spasms
through his ass.
A third finger entered. His anus was screaming from the violation, but he was
so hard it didn't
matter. Gods, when had he been this hard? Maybe never. His cock felt like
flaming steel,
caught against the cold surface of the desk, grinding with every shift he made.
A fourth finger
and Tom wailed and pushed his hips back against the hand. He felt he was going
to tear along
the rim. He almost didn't care.
The fingers withdrew. Tom sobbed briefly. Hot breath brushed his ear. "Second
thoughts, my
little man? This is your only chance." Tom was far beyond words, but he shook
his head
violently and pushed his hips up, offering himself, spreading his legs as wide
as he could.
"Fine," Picard snapped. Strong hands gripped Tom's hips and lifted him
slightly. There was a
moment of contact before penetration, then Picard drove in completely in three
massive strokes.
Oh seigneur, oh lord, this boy was so tight, so hot, and he was driving in so
hard he was surprised
that his ears couldn't register the impact like grinding metal. Jean-Luc's
brain had given over to
the friction that even the gel couldn't inhibit entirely. He released Paris's
hips and ran his hands
along the boy's back, feeling bone and muscle and the tanned skin that Wesley
Crusher would
never have after so many years in space. That body was writhing under him,
driving him on, and
he could hear the whimpers of pleasure coming muffled from where he had buried
his face in his
arms.
Picard slipped a hand under the slender body that was bucking against his own
and found Tom's
erection. One hard hand, slick with lubricant and sweat, locked around it and
started to pump.
Paris pressed his face deeper into his arms. Oh gods, this was so sweet he was
damned near
screaming, he hadn't expected it to be this good. His face was wet, mixed salt
of sweat and tears.
Picard's lips on the back of his neck, a brief, intimate kiss. The jerks on his
cock were so rapid
now, he was so close to coming . . . he raised his head out of the cavern of
his arms, arched back
his neck, and screamed as he came and as Picard came in him a second later.
*****
Consciousness came back to him slowly, and Jean-Luc realized he was lying in
his own bed,
curled into a semi-fetal position and smiling at the memory of the soft, golden
body that had been
his companion through the night. He reached out an arm to draw his lover to
him, but found the
bed empty. Oh well, perhaps he wondered what people would think if he walked
out of the
captain's quarters at shift change. Actually, people would probably think a
great many things, all
of them correct, but few flattering. He could see Tom later, before he
disembarked at spacedock.
Picard eased himself out of bed, groaning a little as aging muscles protested
the unexpected
workout of the night before. Smiled to himself, smiled more as he came into the
living area and
found breakfast waiting for him, with a rose in the vase and a padd beside his
plate. The flower
was a strange hybrid, red petals blurring into yellow ones, a colour he had not
seen in roses
before. He made a mental note to visit the botany department from time to time
and discover
these sorts of things for himself.
Easing into his seat, he bit into a pastry and picked up the padd. And spit his
mouthful back onto
the plate.
At his touch, a vid had begun playback on the padd screen. In a strangely
archaic manner, it was
colourless and silent, monochromatic images stabbing at his eyes. Him fucking
Tom Paris,
pounding into the boy while the young man buried his face in his arms. Hiding
his eyes.
Writhing, struggling.
"Goodness, Captain, looks like he's being a little rough, doesn't it?" The
voice-over cut in
amusedly. Paris's voice. "I think that borders on rape." As he watched,
horrified, the aristocratic
face raised up, contorted into something animalistic, and let loose a silent
scream as Picard
slammed into his ass. "Yeah, I definitely think that looks like rape." The vid
continued, but
Picard dropped the padd to the table and pushed it away from him. He didn't
need to remember
more. Not them against the wall, not the handcuffs Tom had held out so
tantalizingly to him. No
sound in the recording to reproduce the consent that had passed those baby-soft
lips, and he had
already realized that the vid had been edited to exclude Paris's more enticing
gestures, his own
kisses.
"I have a copy of my own," the voice added, "and so will my father, the day and
hour that report
of yours crosses his desk. Just a little silence, Captain. We had a good time,
didn't we? No
report. Comme si de rien n'etait, n'est-ce pas? As if it had never been."
He hadn't noticed the room getting colder, but Jean-Luc Picard was shivering as
he crossed his
quarters and called up the last evening's reports on his console. They hadn't
gone out yet. The
last five, addressed to individual admirals, filled his screen. It would have
to be all of them, of
course, so no one would notice the single omission. They vanished at a brush of
his fingers,
and a word removed them from permanent memory.
Comme si de rien n'etait.
As if it had never been.
As if nothing had ever been.
He was surprised to notice that it didn't even hurt yet.
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