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lizbeeFandom: Star Trek: Picard
Rating: all-ages
Characters: Beverly Crusher, Jack Crusher (the younger), Zhaban
Pairing(s): Picard/Crusher
Notes: "Oh no, Beverly, London is far too close to France," I said to the TV, "and also we don't need an explanation for why Picard's secret kid as an inexplicable British accent, it was a mistake to let reply guys write television." Anyway, this definitely happened; the only question is whether he told Laris, and my opinion varies depending on what I find funnier at any given moment.
Summary: Zhaban never forgets a face. And today he is recognising a person he has never met.
Zhaban never forgot a face.
It was a gift of his Tal Shiar training, along with an extensive knowledge of poisons and a certain facility with improvised weapons. His mother had started the mental conditioning long before he was recruited. It was one of the things he had excelled at, a lifetime ago.
Now, in La Barre, he was known as the friendly Romulan who remembers everyone's name, and the names of their children and grandchildren, and even their birthdays. Anniversaries, too, although he largely kept that to himself. They might find it strange, and he wasn't quite part of the community yet.
And today, he was not in France, but London, and he was recognising the face of a person he had never met.
Faded red hair. Cheekbones to rival Laris. A thin mouth and sharp nose.
Swap the grey knit dress for a Starfleet uniform, he thought, add colour back into the hair, and you have--
A problem, actually.
Dr Beverly Crusher. Chief medical officer of the Enterprise D. And E, until she left. Without a word, the admiral said. No one from the old days had seen or heard from her in a decade.
The admiral kept her picture on his desk, and only mentioned her when it was late at night and the wine had flown too freely.
Yet here she was. In London. Practically on the admiral's doorstep. And also two tables away from Zhaban, eating fish and chips off a replicated facsimile of a newspaper in a centuries-old food market near the river.
He thought about leaving her alone.
But he was already getting up, picking up his drink and his plate -- eel pie, which sounded like a Klingon monstrosity but was warming and heavy like the food his grandmother's wife once prepared -- and moved to stand beside her.
"Excuse me," he said, and before Crusher could stop him, he sat down beside her.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm so sorry," said Zhaban insincerely, "but I saw you were eating one of the local delicacies, and I was overcome with excitement -- Earth has such a rich gustatory history, and it's not often I meet a fellow enthusiast."
Crusher's shoulders dropped a fraction.
"Enthusiast is overstating it," she said. "But I -- well, I lost a bet, if you must know." She gave him a fleeting, rueful smile, and peered down her nose at his pie and mash. "What's your excuse?"
"It's practically comfort food," said Zhaban, and he told Crusher about his grandmother's wife until she had almost forgotten he was a stranger invading her privacy. But now and then, she glanced around her, past him, as if she was--
"Are you waiting for someone?"
A new lover, perhaps. But one who would take her away from her friends and family?
She keyed a message into her PADD and sent it with a look of exaggerated irritation. "And I won't wait much longer," she said. "But tell me, what brought you to Earth?"
"Well, my planet's sun blew up."
This earned a small laugh.
"We could have settled on one of the new colonies. Or even Vulcan." In a pig's eye, said Laris in his mind. But it wasn't a proper conversation without at least one lie. "But one Starfleet officer was very good to us. When he offered us a place in his home, and a new career path, we accepted."
"What do you do?"
"Keep house, tend the gardens. Grow produce, help care for the dog."
"That sounds idyllic," said Crusher. "What did you do before?"
Zhaban gave her his most harmless smile. "I was a spy, of course."
She laughed, the uncomfortable chuckle that humans gave when they were confronted with a reminder that they weren't nearly as enlightened and unbigoted as the propaganda claimed.
"And you?" he asked.
"I'm a doctor. Civilian." She said it as if she was still -- after a decade -- getting used to the idea. "We're in London while--"
We, she said, so there was a new lover -- but she was interrupted by the approach of a small boy with dark hair and the hint of a familiar jawline. About nine or ten, Zhaban guessed, less by his familiarity with the development of human children than -- well. It all made a certain kind of sense, didn't it?
"Mum! Sorry I'm late." He took his seat, forked a handful of frites in his mouth and, while chewing, turned to Zhaban and said, "Who are you?"
Crusher stared at him until, abashed, the boy closed his mouth and chewed like a decent person instead of a Reman barbarian.
"Please forgive my son," she said. "Jack's equal parts curious and eager to destroy his arteries. And they don't teach table manners at his fancy London school."
"It's not fancy just because it's English," Jack said, thankfully after he had finished swallowing. "And I think table manners are your job." He turned to Zhaban. "So who are you?"
"My name's Zhaban. I saw your mother was trying a local delicacy and barged in to interrogate her about it. But she tells me you're the real gourmand."
"Yep." Jack turned his attention to the fish, which his mother had barely touched. To her, he said, "You have to eat half. That was the deal."
"I regret my parenting choices," said Crusher, but she picked up her fork.
"So you're a Romulan? From the … northern continent?" Jack asked. He tapped his forehead. "Cranial ridges. And that male pattern baldness is rare among Vulcans."
"Jack…" Beverly murmured.
"You're quite right," Zhaban told him. "My hair colour is rare, too, among both our peoples. When I was younger, the Senate passed a law demanding -- what was the old term? Visual unity. We had to choose from approved hairstyles, and southerners were altered to have cranial ridges. And the clothing--" His shudder was only partially theatrical.
"Why'd they do it?" Jack asked.
Zhaban shrugged. "Politics. Power. Because they could."
"Like Starfleet."
"Jack," said Beverly.
"You don't like Starfleet?" Zhaban asked him.
It was the boy's turn to shrug. "I don't see the point. It's not like they do anything anymore. Soon as I'm done with school, we're going out to join the Mariposa Group. They give medical aid to everyone, Federation or not."
"That's a very noble task," Zhaban said, and he meant it.
"But Starfleet helped Zhaban and his family," Crusher told her son. "One of their officers gave them a home. Not everyone is as jaded as you, kiddo."
"You mean, I should watch my mouth."
"Think of it as developing your diplomatic skills."
Jack wrinkled his nose.
"My mother used to be in Starfleet," he told Zhaban. "She's still pretty hung up on all that stuff."
"Jack."
This time, Crusher's voice was hard, and her son stopped.
He chewed thoughtfully on some frites for a few minutes, and, when the moment had passed, he said, "Do you live in London, Zhaban?"
"No." And here, he thought, it was time to begin to drop the mask. "My wife and I live in France."
Crusher became still.
"On a vineyard," he continued.
Crusher put her fork down.
She said nothing else for the rest of the meal. Jack cheerfully interrogated Zhaban about life on Romulus, his time on Earth and his favourite human sports.
He was an intelligent child, Zhaban noted, as if preparing his report. A credit to any parent.
Zhaban had learned more about the admiral's childhood than Picard perhaps realised. This boy was brave and confident. Unafraid.
Safe.
Jack had to leave for football practice, and wheedled a promise from his mother that she'd come and watch as soon as she was done.
"It's shocking how safe children are on Earth," said Zhaban as he raced off. "On Romulus, you could never leave a child alone. Who knows what secrets they'd spill?"
Her mouth a tight, thin line, Crusher spat, "Did Jean-Luc send you?"
"He has no idea you're here."
She exhaled but did not relax.
"Will you tell him?"
"I haven't decided," Zhaban admitted.
She raised her eyebrows.
"Let's go for a walk," said Zhaban.
He led her to the river, where the great forcefields kept the water from washing the ancient city away. Crusher walked by his side, arms folded, posture rigid.
"I love to see this," he said, waving at the forcefields. "On Romulus, rising water levels would have been reversed. As if they never happened. Or the government would simply let the water take the city, if it was convenient to do so. They might evacuate the inhabitants. Or they might not."
"If this is a metaphor for Jean-Luc saving you from the supanova," said Crusher, "you can keep it. I already know he's a great man."
"He is," Zhaban agreed. "But great people don't necessarily make good parents."
She gave him a doubtful look.
"And the attack on Mars -- the failure of the evacuation, the end of his career. It's all been very hard on him. The dog helps, of course. Some days, I think it's his main reason for getting dressed."
Crusher said, "My son is not a dog."
"Of course not."
"And I need him to be safe."
"That's natural for any parent."
"Jack won't be safe in Jean-Luc's orbit." It sounded like something she had told herself often over the years.
"It's a very small orbit, these days. He rarely leaves the vineyard."
"Just him, his dog, and his Romulan spies?"
"I lied," Zhaban admitted. "I wasn't a spy."
"Oh?"
"I was an assassin. My wife, too. We keep him safe."
Crusher stared at him.
"Is that a joke?" she asked.
"Well, we also cook."
"Oh, good."
She took a few steps towards the forcefield. Zhaban didn't follow her. He could feel her hesitation. Her anxiety. She had a life with her son. Plans for their future. And he could blow that up with a word to the admiral.
But -- he would not. He had been uncertain, earlier, perhaps influenced by his time among sentimental humans.
He was a Romulan. As far as his people held anything sacred, it was secrecy.
"The last attempt on his life was two years ago," he said. "A Vulcan extremist, if you can believe it. She had very strong feelings about the resettlement. Which is ironic, when you think about it."
The wind stirred Crusher's hair.
"She breached the perimeter of the estate, but didn't come near the admiral. And she was unharmed, if that means anything to you. Laris and I turned her over to the authorities and gave evidence at her trial."
"You can't be everywhere at once."
"No. And a child shouldn't have to grow up in a fortress."
Crusher turned to look at him. Zhaban did his best to appear non-threatening, but he suspected she was harder to fool than the villagers of La Barre. Or had more to lose.
But she graced him with a smile, and this time it was genuine, and said, "Someone once told me that it's wrong to think Romulans are obsessed with secrets, that it's more accurate to say you respect privacy. Is that true?"
"Doctor," Zhaban said, "there are things I wouldn't share with my wife. Nor her with me. And that's normal among our people. To keep a secret is a gesture of respect. And a kindness."
She nodded. Maybe believing him. Maybe not. The proof would, as the humans said, be in the dessert. In his silence.
Crusher turned and walked away, and he thought she was gone, but then she paused and returned.
"Has Jean-Luc seen a doctor for these low moods?" she asked.
"Of course."
"And does he do what the doctor says?"
Zhaban held his hands out and shrugged. Yes. No. Sometimes.
"He needs to be pushed," she said. "Bullied, actually, for his own good. Can I trust you, Zhaban?"
"Of course," he told her. "My word as a Romulan."
She laughed out loud at that, and squeezed his shoulder before she walked away for good.
*
"You were gone a long time," said Laris, when the kitchen was tidy and they each had a glass of wine.
"I was on a quest," Zhaban told her. "For a rare and unique cheddar, a variety almost lost in the various human wars, but reclaimed through painstaking research and a soupçon of technological cheating."
"And yet there's no cheddar in the pantry."
"At no point did I say my quest was successful."
Laris laughed and leaned in, so her breath touched his ear as she whispered, in Romulan, "Keep your secrets."
"I shall," he replied in French. "And I have more to say on the subject, but first--" He got up and reached for the tray he had prepared earlier. It held a glass of wine, some cheese and apple slices, and the medpatch the doctor had prescribed for the admiral months ago, as yet untouched.
"Good luck with that," said Laris.
"He needs to be bullied for his own good," Zhaban told her. "Or so I'm told."
She raised one pointed eyebrow, and the sound of her laughter followed him out of the room.
end
Rating: all-ages
Characters: Beverly Crusher, Jack Crusher (the younger), Zhaban
Pairing(s): Picard/Crusher
Notes: "Oh no, Beverly, London is far too close to France," I said to the TV, "and also we don't need an explanation for why Picard's secret kid as an inexplicable British accent, it was a mistake to let reply guys write television." Anyway, this definitely happened; the only question is whether he told Laris, and my opinion varies depending on what I find funnier at any given moment.
Summary: Zhaban never forgets a face. And today he is recognising a person he has never met.
Zhaban never forgot a face.
It was a gift of his Tal Shiar training, along with an extensive knowledge of poisons and a certain facility with improvised weapons. His mother had started the mental conditioning long before he was recruited. It was one of the things he had excelled at, a lifetime ago.
Now, in La Barre, he was known as the friendly Romulan who remembers everyone's name, and the names of their children and grandchildren, and even their birthdays. Anniversaries, too, although he largely kept that to himself. They might find it strange, and he wasn't quite part of the community yet.
And today, he was not in France, but London, and he was recognising the face of a person he had never met.
Faded red hair. Cheekbones to rival Laris. A thin mouth and sharp nose.
Swap the grey knit dress for a Starfleet uniform, he thought, add colour back into the hair, and you have--
A problem, actually.
Dr Beverly Crusher. Chief medical officer of the Enterprise D. And E, until she left. Without a word, the admiral said. No one from the old days had seen or heard from her in a decade.
The admiral kept her picture on his desk, and only mentioned her when it was late at night and the wine had flown too freely.
Yet here she was. In London. Practically on the admiral's doorstep. And also two tables away from Zhaban, eating fish and chips off a replicated facsimile of a newspaper in a centuries-old food market near the river.
He thought about leaving her alone.
But he was already getting up, picking up his drink and his plate -- eel pie, which sounded like a Klingon monstrosity but was warming and heavy like the food his grandmother's wife once prepared -- and moved to stand beside her.
"Excuse me," he said, and before Crusher could stop him, he sat down beside her.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm so sorry," said Zhaban insincerely, "but I saw you were eating one of the local delicacies, and I was overcome with excitement -- Earth has such a rich gustatory history, and it's not often I meet a fellow enthusiast."
Crusher's shoulders dropped a fraction.
"Enthusiast is overstating it," she said. "But I -- well, I lost a bet, if you must know." She gave him a fleeting, rueful smile, and peered down her nose at his pie and mash. "What's your excuse?"
"It's practically comfort food," said Zhaban, and he told Crusher about his grandmother's wife until she had almost forgotten he was a stranger invading her privacy. But now and then, she glanced around her, past him, as if she was--
"Are you waiting for someone?"
A new lover, perhaps. But one who would take her away from her friends and family?
She keyed a message into her PADD and sent it with a look of exaggerated irritation. "And I won't wait much longer," she said. "But tell me, what brought you to Earth?"
"Well, my planet's sun blew up."
This earned a small laugh.
"We could have settled on one of the new colonies. Or even Vulcan." In a pig's eye, said Laris in his mind. But it wasn't a proper conversation without at least one lie. "But one Starfleet officer was very good to us. When he offered us a place in his home, and a new career path, we accepted."
"What do you do?"
"Keep house, tend the gardens. Grow produce, help care for the dog."
"That sounds idyllic," said Crusher. "What did you do before?"
Zhaban gave her his most harmless smile. "I was a spy, of course."
She laughed, the uncomfortable chuckle that humans gave when they were confronted with a reminder that they weren't nearly as enlightened and unbigoted as the propaganda claimed.
"And you?" he asked.
"I'm a doctor. Civilian." She said it as if she was still -- after a decade -- getting used to the idea. "We're in London while--"
We, she said, so there was a new lover -- but she was interrupted by the approach of a small boy with dark hair and the hint of a familiar jawline. About nine or ten, Zhaban guessed, less by his familiarity with the development of human children than -- well. It all made a certain kind of sense, didn't it?
"Mum! Sorry I'm late." He took his seat, forked a handful of frites in his mouth and, while chewing, turned to Zhaban and said, "Who are you?"
Crusher stared at him until, abashed, the boy closed his mouth and chewed like a decent person instead of a Reman barbarian.
"Please forgive my son," she said. "Jack's equal parts curious and eager to destroy his arteries. And they don't teach table manners at his fancy London school."
"It's not fancy just because it's English," Jack said, thankfully after he had finished swallowing. "And I think table manners are your job." He turned to Zhaban. "So who are you?"
"My name's Zhaban. I saw your mother was trying a local delicacy and barged in to interrogate her about it. But she tells me you're the real gourmand."
"Yep." Jack turned his attention to the fish, which his mother had barely touched. To her, he said, "You have to eat half. That was the deal."
"I regret my parenting choices," said Crusher, but she picked up her fork.
"So you're a Romulan? From the … northern continent?" Jack asked. He tapped his forehead. "Cranial ridges. And that male pattern baldness is rare among Vulcans."
"Jack…" Beverly murmured.
"You're quite right," Zhaban told him. "My hair colour is rare, too, among both our peoples. When I was younger, the Senate passed a law demanding -- what was the old term? Visual unity. We had to choose from approved hairstyles, and southerners were altered to have cranial ridges. And the clothing--" His shudder was only partially theatrical.
"Why'd they do it?" Jack asked.
Zhaban shrugged. "Politics. Power. Because they could."
"Like Starfleet."
"Jack," said Beverly.
"You don't like Starfleet?" Zhaban asked him.
It was the boy's turn to shrug. "I don't see the point. It's not like they do anything anymore. Soon as I'm done with school, we're going out to join the Mariposa Group. They give medical aid to everyone, Federation or not."
"That's a very noble task," Zhaban said, and he meant it.
"But Starfleet helped Zhaban and his family," Crusher told her son. "One of their officers gave them a home. Not everyone is as jaded as you, kiddo."
"You mean, I should watch my mouth."
"Think of it as developing your diplomatic skills."
Jack wrinkled his nose.
"My mother used to be in Starfleet," he told Zhaban. "She's still pretty hung up on all that stuff."
"Jack."
This time, Crusher's voice was hard, and her son stopped.
He chewed thoughtfully on some frites for a few minutes, and, when the moment had passed, he said, "Do you live in London, Zhaban?"
"No." And here, he thought, it was time to begin to drop the mask. "My wife and I live in France."
Crusher became still.
"On a vineyard," he continued.
Crusher put her fork down.
She said nothing else for the rest of the meal. Jack cheerfully interrogated Zhaban about life on Romulus, his time on Earth and his favourite human sports.
He was an intelligent child, Zhaban noted, as if preparing his report. A credit to any parent.
Zhaban had learned more about the admiral's childhood than Picard perhaps realised. This boy was brave and confident. Unafraid.
Safe.
Jack had to leave for football practice, and wheedled a promise from his mother that she'd come and watch as soon as she was done.
"It's shocking how safe children are on Earth," said Zhaban as he raced off. "On Romulus, you could never leave a child alone. Who knows what secrets they'd spill?"
Her mouth a tight, thin line, Crusher spat, "Did Jean-Luc send you?"
"He has no idea you're here."
She exhaled but did not relax.
"Will you tell him?"
"I haven't decided," Zhaban admitted.
She raised her eyebrows.
"Let's go for a walk," said Zhaban.
He led her to the river, where the great forcefields kept the water from washing the ancient city away. Crusher walked by his side, arms folded, posture rigid.
"I love to see this," he said, waving at the forcefields. "On Romulus, rising water levels would have been reversed. As if they never happened. Or the government would simply let the water take the city, if it was convenient to do so. They might evacuate the inhabitants. Or they might not."
"If this is a metaphor for Jean-Luc saving you from the supanova," said Crusher, "you can keep it. I already know he's a great man."
"He is," Zhaban agreed. "But great people don't necessarily make good parents."
She gave him a doubtful look.
"And the attack on Mars -- the failure of the evacuation, the end of his career. It's all been very hard on him. The dog helps, of course. Some days, I think it's his main reason for getting dressed."
Crusher said, "My son is not a dog."
"Of course not."
"And I need him to be safe."
"That's natural for any parent."
"Jack won't be safe in Jean-Luc's orbit." It sounded like something she had told herself often over the years.
"It's a very small orbit, these days. He rarely leaves the vineyard."
"Just him, his dog, and his Romulan spies?"
"I lied," Zhaban admitted. "I wasn't a spy."
"Oh?"
"I was an assassin. My wife, too. We keep him safe."
Crusher stared at him.
"Is that a joke?" she asked.
"Well, we also cook."
"Oh, good."
She took a few steps towards the forcefield. Zhaban didn't follow her. He could feel her hesitation. Her anxiety. She had a life with her son. Plans for their future. And he could blow that up with a word to the admiral.
But -- he would not. He had been uncertain, earlier, perhaps influenced by his time among sentimental humans.
He was a Romulan. As far as his people held anything sacred, it was secrecy.
"The last attempt on his life was two years ago," he said. "A Vulcan extremist, if you can believe it. She had very strong feelings about the resettlement. Which is ironic, when you think about it."
The wind stirred Crusher's hair.
"She breached the perimeter of the estate, but didn't come near the admiral. And she was unharmed, if that means anything to you. Laris and I turned her over to the authorities and gave evidence at her trial."
"You can't be everywhere at once."
"No. And a child shouldn't have to grow up in a fortress."
Crusher turned to look at him. Zhaban did his best to appear non-threatening, but he suspected she was harder to fool than the villagers of La Barre. Or had more to lose.
But she graced him with a smile, and this time it was genuine, and said, "Someone once told me that it's wrong to think Romulans are obsessed with secrets, that it's more accurate to say you respect privacy. Is that true?"
"Doctor," Zhaban said, "there are things I wouldn't share with my wife. Nor her with me. And that's normal among our people. To keep a secret is a gesture of respect. And a kindness."
She nodded. Maybe believing him. Maybe not. The proof would, as the humans said, be in the dessert. In his silence.
Crusher turned and walked away, and he thought she was gone, but then she paused and returned.
"Has Jean-Luc seen a doctor for these low moods?" she asked.
"Of course."
"And does he do what the doctor says?"
Zhaban held his hands out and shrugged. Yes. No. Sometimes.
"He needs to be pushed," she said. "Bullied, actually, for his own good. Can I trust you, Zhaban?"
"Of course," he told her. "My word as a Romulan."
She laughed out loud at that, and squeezed his shoulder before she walked away for good.
*
"You were gone a long time," said Laris, when the kitchen was tidy and they each had a glass of wine.
"I was on a quest," Zhaban told her. "For a rare and unique cheddar, a variety almost lost in the various human wars, but reclaimed through painstaking research and a soupçon of technological cheating."
"And yet there's no cheddar in the pantry."
"At no point did I say my quest was successful."
Laris laughed and leaned in, so her breath touched his ear as she whispered, in Romulan, "Keep your secrets."
"I shall," he replied in French. "And I have more to say on the subject, but first--" He got up and reached for the tray he had prepared earlier. It held a glass of wine, some cheese and apple slices, and the medpatch the doctor had prescribed for the admiral months ago, as yet untouched.
"Good luck with that," said Laris.
"He needs to be bullied for his own good," Zhaban told her. "Or so I'm told."
She raised one pointed eyebrow, and the sound of her laughter followed him out of the room.
end
