Archive of Our Own ^beta

October 8th, 2405

Somewhere above the Château that evening, the moon was beginning to enter Earth's penumbral shadow. 

When Picard had heard about the lunar eclipse, he'd had all intentions on viewing it. As it turned out, the clouds were not on his side that night, and they had obscured the moon under a hazy stratus sheet. 

Earlier that day, on a nostalgic whim, he'd tried hunting down the old refractive telescope he had built as a child, but either his brother had tossed it out at some point over the years, or it had been lost in storage under layers of dust. That is, if the fire hadn’t claimed it. 

Perhaps he could find his telescope by the next celestial event. Though at his age, in all likelihood there weren’t many more left for him to witness.

Instead of dwelling on that thought, Picard contented himself with the knowledge that the eclipse was occurring, with or without his observation of it, and if he couldn’t see it, then at least a great many others around the world would get the opportunity to enjoy the view of the moon that evening when, for a little while, it would reflect a portion of light from all the current sunsets and sunrises on earth.

With that thought in mind, he'd settled down by the fireplace that chilly autumn night with a book and a small glass of brandy at his side. Lately he’d resorted to using his PADD to read, since it was easier to enlarge the text, and as a result the feel of a book had become a rarity in his hands. But sometimes he just needed to feel the weight of a worn hardcover, for old time’s sake. Tonight was one of those occasions.

As Picard's eyes grew heavy, he felt a strange pang in his chest. He knew almost right away what it was, though the feeling didn’t come often. 

He loved solitude more than most, and that sentiment certainly had not lessened in his retirement. But he supposed loneliness was only natural once in a while—though it was less like loneliness, and more like the expectance that something would happen, and the bitter pang of disappointment when it did not come.

He thought back to his time on the Enterprise. In those days as captain, his brief moments of solitude had often been disrupted by some problem or another. More often than not, the interruption meant a cumbersome undertaking to bring things on the ship back to normal. But every once in a while, those difficulties prefaced a discovery of some sort—be it a new technology, people, or other previously unknown life form capable of consciousness. In the best of times, it wasn’t so much what they could discover in the far reaches of the galaxy, but what that discovery also meant for humanity—how it changed them, humbled them in some way. He had lived for those moments.

Out there, the possibilities had been endless. Here, the only possibility of exploration rested in his books, and to his disappointment, they were only growing more cumbersome to read as the years went by.

He took another sip of brandy and let the feeling pass, returning to his book through the heaviness of his eyelids. 

The fire had died down when Picard jerked awake. He was not sure if it was his head nodding that had woken him, or the soft flash of light on the other side of the room. He blinked a few times, wondering if he was dreaming. But as reality settled around him, his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, focusing on the figure that emerged from the shadows.

Picard’s body tensed, though he did not immediately leap from his chair as he might have forty-some years ago.

His unexpected visitor was dressed in a comfortable Earth civilian garb similar to his own. An unusual choice, considering who it was. 

Q.

After his initial shock at Q’s appearance, something lighter settled in Picard’s chest, rather than the usual trepidation. Like the warm feeling of seeing an old friend when one least expects it, or the reassuring comfort knowing he wouldn’t have to go through this night alone.

What an absurd thought. Why should he worry about that?

“Q...?” 

Though he had not commanded a starship for many years now, there was still one being he could rely on in the universe to interrupt his quiet evening. In the back of his mind, he could not help but feel a little grateful that his luck had not entirely run out.

Q stepped closer, his form brightening a little as he neared the small standing lamp by Picard. He smiled, but it wasn’t the playful or conceited one from times past. It held a weight that Picard could not quite place. 

Accompanying Q’s strange expression was something even stranger: silence.

Picard wasn’t sure how to deal with this side of Q. Funny how silence was what made him wary, when it was usually Q’s brash displays or ‘nice’ offers that gave him cause for concern. 

When Q did not make any further move, Picard rose from his chair, no small feat at his age, and met Q’s gaze. 

“I thought you’d forgotten me in my retirement. What brings you here now?”  

“It’s good to see you, too, Jean-Luc.” Q’s gaze warmed a little, and he stared at Picard with a more familiar intensity, though it was still more restrained than Picard had remembered it being in the past. 

“Well?” he said when Q still refrained from answering his question. “Time to take me back to the distant past to show me the error of my ways? Or even better, whisk me to an alternate timeline where you can torment me with the thought of living out my life as some unremarkable junior rank officer on the Enterprise?”

That seemed to knock the strange, distant look out of Q’s eyes for a moment. Their old glow returned, and he regarded Picard with a thinly veiled air of interest, perhaps catching the edge of fondness hidden in Picard’s tone. “Mm, well the blue uniform did a lovely job of bringing out the hazel in your eyes. I admit, part of me was disappointed you turned that life down, if for that reason alone.” 

Picard shook his head, thankful to finally get some sort of reaction out of Q, at least. Even after all these years, some things never changed.

He didn’t bother hiding his smile at Q’s comment. Oh, he might have done so decades ago, when he had more responsibility as captain and needed to portray a certain image to his crew, but he had no need for such postures anymore; even around someone as powerful and capricious as Q. Dare he say it, especially around someone as powerful as him. Because beneath the danger he represented, there had always been a fascination with the entity, there was no denying that.

“Aren’t I getting a little old for such attention from you, Q?”

“Oh, hardly,” Q said, raising his eyebrow slightly, one corner of his mouth turning upward. Picard half-expected him to make some quip about his age in comparison to Picard’s, but he didn’t. In the span of silence, Picard could only guess Q’s sentiment behind those steady, gleaming eyes. Alien eyes, he reminded himself, dressed up as human.

Most would have found the experience uncomfortable, being at the center of Q’s attention. He supposed he did, somewhat, but not for the reason others might. 

An old feeling was starting to surface again. One he wasn’t certain he could keep control of. Or wanted to, anymore. 

Well, if Q could be silent, then so could Picard. He used the opportunity to consider the entity. 

Since Q often maintained a human form, Picard had always found it difficult not to judge him from a human standpoint. He assumed that in order for Q to speak with someone like himself, much of the subtleties of how the Q Continuum communicated with each other were lost in translation. Perhaps Q’s silence meant he had just become more comfortable in his role as a human—no longer needing bold, dramatic displays to get his point across. 

Or, more likely, he had another reason for his behavior, and Picard just hadn’t figured it out yet.

When he had first encountered Q, it was an understatement to say he had mistrusted him. Later, Picard had surprised himself by feeling a modicum of respect for the often brash, but oddly well-meaning entity. He had suspected Q’s interest in him for a while, though he would undoubtedly be mistaken to compare it to any kind of human interest, romantic or otherwise. They were leagues apart in age and origin, and yet, despite their vastly different backgrounds, at times Picard felt a strange affinity with Q—one that only seemed to grow with each encounter they had. 

In the end, Q couldn’t resist breaking the silence.

“Reminiscing about the good old days?” Q stepped closer to the hearth, bringing the fire back to life with a wave of his hand. The heat from the fresh wood hit Picard’s skin, taking away the chill he didn’t realize he’d felt. “I understand completely. We Q can spend millennia remembering all our favorite moments.” His voice lowered with a strange weight. “And nostalgia is never to be taken lightly, no matter what the form.” 

Q kept his gaze on the fire as he spoke, as if it had pulled his attention far away, perhaps to the edges of the observable universe. “My personal favorite is one I don’t think you humans have a word for. It describes nostalgia for a future yet to come.” 

Picard watched the flames dance over Q’s face, flickering between light and shadow. He took a step closer to the fire. To Q.

“An intriguing concept.”

Q pulled his gaze from the flames, the pensive look that the fire had given him all but disappearing. “Speaking of the good old days, what shall I call you now? Mon ‘former’ capitaine? That just doesn’t have the same ring.”

Something stirred in Picard at Q’s words. He had the sudden inclination to let his typical self-possession be replaced with something altogether different, on the chance that it might distract Q enough that his following admission wouldn’t be so plainly noticed. 

His face relaxed a little, and he rested a hand on Q’s arm, just below his shoulder. “Oh, I will always be your capitaine, Q, there’s no doubt about that.” He hoped that Q would attribute the warmth in his face to the heat of the fire, and nothing else. “But if you wish, you may also call me ‘friend’.”

Q stilled for just a fraction of a moment, then resumed his lax, carefree mien, but that was all Picard needed to know what effect he’d had on him. 

“Hm, tempting, though still lacking in some nuances. I’ll add it to my list, anyway.”
 
Picard mulled his next words carefully. “You know, Q, I don’t know if I ever properly thanked you for helping me.” 

Q's eyes narrowed, but he otherwise kept his expression neutral. “With what, exactly?”

Picard had his words ready, having had many years to prepare them in case of this very event. He only hoped it would be enough. “Everything. You saved my life and my crew from the anti-time eruption. Saved me when my artificial heart malfunctioned. At least, I think that was you.” Q’s earlier comment had seemed to confirm his suspicions, though he could never be certain. “I suspect you may have also had something to do with this,” he motioned to his head, “genetic anomaly of mine not acting up in my later years.” 

He swallowed, finding his next words harder to say, even so many years later. “I even thank you for the time you introduced the Enterprise to the Borg.”

Q broke the brief, but heavy silence, his tone betraying a hint of disbelief under a mask of wry amusement. “Is this really Picard I’m speaking to? Thanking me for such an abominable thing. Even if it was for your own good.”

Picard didn’t let Q’s soft gibe distract him. Perhaps it was his age, but things just didn’t rile him up like they used to. He went on. “I see now that you were only alerting us about their existence. The Borg had already encountered human colonies in the Neutral Zone. You warned me of them, and in my hubris, I ignored you. Without your intervention, we would have been far less prepared when the Borg finally made their way to us.” He breathed out, feeling a weight lift off him with his confession. “In the end, the knowledge I gained from my experience in the Collective proved very useful.”

Q scoffed, but there was something curious in his gaze, nonetheless. “Please. Locutus wasn’t my idea. Don’t thank me for that one.”

Picard had always wondered if the Continuum had played a role in his assimilation. He still had many questions on the subject, but he would not question Q further at the moment. “It doesn’t matter. You helped humanity, in your own roundabout way. It didn’t appear that way at the time, but you did.”

Q’s mouth twisted into a frown, and it looked as if he was about to argue further, but at the last second his features smoothed out, and he lifted an arm out instead—surprising Picard by resting his hand on the side of his face. 

He spoke tenderly, almost under his breath: “How is it that you always know the best way to distract me?”

Q’s hand dropped away a second later, and the room felt colder, despite the fire. Picard suppressed a shiver. “Distract you—from what? You still haven’t answered my question, Q. Why are you here?”

This time, Q closed his eyes, breathing in deeply as if to steady himself. When he opened them again, his gaze fell somewhere behind Picard, where his armchair was. There was that uneasiness in his expression again. 

Not just uneasiness, Picard realized. Regret.

“The answer is right behind you, I’m afraid.”

Picard turned, taking in the sight before him. 

Ah. 

It was all quite simple, really. 

He saw himself—sitting on his favorite armchair, his head drooped, book fallen onto his lap. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was sleeping. 

Picard forced his legs to move forward, advancing slowly toward the chair. Hand moving almost of its own accord, he touched the identical one that was draped loosely over the chair’s arm. Cold. When he examined himself for a pulse, he confirmed what he had already suspected. 

He took a step back, feeling the strange dissonance of being unable to tear his gaze away from his own body while at the same time wishing he could look anywhere else.

When he found his voice, it was quiet and resigned. “I suppose I should say I’m surprised.”

Q stepped beside him. “Let me be clear, Jean-Luc. Though I may look guilty of it, I am no mere psychopomp, come to whisk you off to some human-conceived notion of the afterlife. It was simply your time, and I sensed it.” 

Q leaned slightly closer to Picard. “But I am offering you something special. If you feel the need to return to your life, I would heal you as before. No chess game against Death required. You would get another few years, at the very least. I would grant that to you in a heartbeat.” Q’s eyes flickered down to Picard’s chest, half-smiling. “Forgive the turn of phrase. Old habits.”

Picard swallowed. At the motion, he lifted a hand to touch his throat, wondering how it still felt real if he wasn’t even in his own body anymore. Was it Q’s doing, making him feel like he still had a corporeal form? 

Undoubtedly. Back to the issue at hand. Q was offering him life again. But at what cost?

With a shiver, he turned away from his body. Then, without really thinking about it, he moved to one side of the fireplace where a wide mirror hung from the wall. When he stared into it, what he saw was unsurprising. He looked like any human would after ten decades of living. 

Half-consciously touching the tired lines of his face, he spoke, still facing the mirror. “If you're offering what I think you are, why not come to me sooner? Why wait until now, when I’m already dead?” 

It hadn’t been exactly what he’d meant to ask, but now that he’d said it, he realized another truth he had been keeping from himself. 

He had wanted Q to come. Wanted Q to extend the offer he’d once given another human in an unreasonable attempt to make Picard jealous. Picard had turned down Q’s offer to explore the Tagus III, but some part of him had always assumed that someday Q would try again. In the privacy of his mind, he had often entertained the thought of what he would do when Q asked him. 

Countless times, in countless ways, Picard had imagined saying yes. 

But not like this. Not when he was already dead. 

Picard felt a bitter ache in his chest, then noticed that his hands had closed into fists. He lifted his arms in front of him, uncurling his fingers and seeing his familiar, withered palms. Felt the joints in his hand throbbing with the dull pain of arthritis.

He dropped them back to his side, his voice softer when he continued. “We could have explored the galaxy together. Could have done so much more than that.”

Q stepped over to him, watching Picard through the mirror. His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Would we have? Or would you have turned me away at the first opportunity, like you were always so eager to do?”

The Picard in the mirror hesitated, showing a hint of remorse. He knew Q wasn’t wrong to think that way. “I… I cannot deny my former actions. I suppose I never gave you any reason to think I would respond otherwise.” He turned away from the mirror, facing Q. “But you must have sensed something from me when I was in Starfleet. Why else would you appear to me now? Unless this is to teach me another lesson. To force me to choose between my mortality or an eternity with you.”

The way Q stared at him made Picard think he was getting closer to the truth.

Q’s gaze flickered back to the fire. “You already know my answer. I said it to you once, long ago. Perhaps you still remember my words somewhere in that old, cobwebbed brain of yours.” 

Picard furrowed his admittedly old and wrinkled brow. “You said many things to me. How am I supposed to know which you’re referring to?”

With a sigh that seemed almost impatient, but only half-heartedly so, Q spoke. “The Continuum didn’t think you had it in you. But I knew you did.” 

Ah. Picard remembered that conversation well. Recalled one line in particular. The sentence had reverberated in his mind countless times throughout the years, along with what Q’s words had portended. 

“I remember, Q. How could I forget? You told me the exploration that awaits humanity isn’t about just mapping stars or studying nebulae, but charting the unknown possibilities of existence.”

The side of Q’s mouth turned up as if in approval, though his gaze remained on the fire.

“Close. I can see why you thought I was talking about humanity when I said that. Though to quote myself verbatim, I believe I said, ‘the exploration that awaits you’.” Q turned to him, his eyes seeking Picard’s with new intent. “You see, my meaning was on a far more personal level than you ever thought to interpret, Jean-Luc.”

At some point, Q had changed his attire. Had it been earlier, when he revealed Picard’s body on the chair? Picard would only drive himself mad at the inability of his mind to recall this small detail, so he let himself be drawn in to Q’s new costume instead. 

At first glance, it was reminiscent of the very thing Q had claimed he wasn’t representing: draped in loose, dark fabric, Q’s robes appeared unnervingly similar to the personification of Death. But the folds of black had a complexity that only grew the more he looked at it. Like eyes adjusting to the night sky, finding bits of light that weren’t there a moment before. 

Within those depths, stars gathered like beads on velvet, while hints of nebulae formed and faded out of existence from one fold to the next. Galaxies drifted like cloudy wisps, sometimes joining together and other times separating and leaving behind a chaotic mess. Rings of bright accretion disks surrounded black holes, marking invisible event horizons within, tearing stars apart and growing to supermassive sizes at galactic centers. Failed stars and lone planets drifted in the massive expanses throughout the web of the universe that all matter collected on.

When had his vision improved to see such detail?

The corners of Q’s lips creased upward, seeming satisfied with Picard’s reaction. “I am offering you the chance of a lifetime—of a billion lifetimes. You can come with me, or I can return you to your former life, what’s left of it, and you will never have to hear from me again. You wouldn’t even have to remember this little conversation of ours.”

Picard pulled his gaze away from Q’s costume, looking purposefully at the fire instead. He needed to contemplate Q’s words without any distractions.

“Considering our history, may I ask you one thing?”

“Of course.”

“Why me?”

Q briefly eyed Picard up and down. “Isn’t that obvious? You’ve passed every one of the tests that the Continuum has thrown at you so far. And while you may have gleaned some knowledge from them in the past, it is only now that your first lesson can truly begin.”

“This is all part of the Continuum's directive, then?”

“Indeed.” The smooth way Q answered made Picard wonder just how true that really was. “As I said before, I have the power to put you back the way things were—to give you a few more years, if you’d like. Or, you can leave that life behind, and come with me.”

“I understand that the Continuum has chosen to study humanity, Q. But why choose me, specifically? I do not represent the entirety of humankind.”

Q’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, if you haven’t figured that out by now, then perhaps there’s no hope for you, after all.”

“Alright.” Picard nodded. “If you won’t say it, then you won’t mind if I draw my own conclusions.” When Q didn’t make an attempt to stop him, he continued. “I think you chose me because you see something in humanity, something in me, specifically, that intrigues you as much as you’ve intrigued me. I think your alleged omnipotence gets boring after a while, and in some ways, mortality is something to envy. After all, starting out small, like we humans do, means there is so much room for expansion. As an advanced being, you have already lived through that growth, and want to experience some semblance of it again through new eyes. Through my own.”

Q smirked. “Now, that’s a start.”

“For how long?” 

“Hm? Oh, you and your reliance on a linear concept of time. I don’t know. Months. Decades. Eternity. As long as you need.”

“Or until you get bored of me, and find some other mortal to toy with.” 

Q’s smile grew strained. “That’s not how it works, you know. Not for the Q. In fact, I think there’s a danger the opposite might be true,” Q said. Then, as if unsettled by the possibility of his own statement, he quickly went on. “I realize asking you to spend eternity with me sounds like a lot. But I assure you, if you change your mind at any moment, I can—”  

“Alright.”

Q froze at Picard’s abrupt answer. “Sorry? Did you say ‘alright’? As in you’ll...”

“Agree to come with you.”

Q looked at Picard as if seeing him in an entirely new light. “Are you certain, Jean-Luc? I mean, there’s no catch, is there? Not that I mind. It’s only fair, after all I’ve put you through.”

Picard’s mouth turned slightly upward, unable to hide his amusement at Q’s shock. “Shouldn't I be the one asking that? No, no catches.” He turned, sending a glance to his body growing cold on the chair. The sight sent a fresh shiver through him, and he looked away. “So, how will this work? Will you return me to my body again? Make my joints ache a little less, perhaps?” 

Q trained his eyes away. “The thing is, although you said it half in jest, there is a catch, of sorts, Jean-Luc. Once you come with me, you may find you see things… differently, to say the least.”

Picard frowned as he took Q’s words into consideration. He had expected something of the sort, though, and after a moment, he nodded. “I see. This isn’t about making me young again, to extend my life beyond its natural reach.” He thought back to what Q had hinted at the last time they were in that courtroom. The unknown possibilities of existence. “If I go with you, my body remains here.”

“Correct. Even if you were willing for me to enact such a scenario, humans are simply incapable of living such extended lifespans. To a Q, age truly is only a number, but it would drive you mad were you to live like we do.”

Q spoke as if he were stating a simple fact. Picard knew he wasn’t being deliberately condescending, so held back a comment. 

“So, what are my options, then? Is this about turning me into a Q?” Picard was not certain if he was ready for a change like that.

Q’s eyes widened. “Goodness, no. What would be new or exciting about adding you to the Continuum? No, Jean-Luc. This is about becoming more than what you are. More than what I am.” He caught himself. “More or less.” 

Q continued, his eyes focusing on Picard with a renewed intensity. “You will progress in your own way. That is the only way this will work.” 

Those words tugged familiarly at Picard. He had used similar phrases when speaking to less technologically advanced civilizations. Though the Continuum had no Prime Directive, he knew there were some standards on how they interacted with so-called less-advanced beings. Prime Directive or not, he understood the importance of what Q was saying. 

“But this isn’t only about me, is it? This will change you, too.”

For a moment, Q was quiet. Then he laughed—but not the sharp, mirthless one Picard remembered from their first meeting en route to Farpoint. 

“Oh, Jean-Luc,” he said, the affection plain in his tone. “I’ve already changed. And you were no small part of it. That I’m not even embarrassed to admit it should prove as much to you. You taught me a lot about myself—and not just when I was human. Now it’s time I return the favor. Time for you to be so much more, if you let yourself.” Q studied Picard a moment, giving him an appraising look. “You’ve already started to change on your own. Have you noticed it? Your eyesight is better.”

Picard's brow tightened in confusion. “What? 

Q smiled. “Come on. Why don’t you try it? Consciously, this time? There’s no reason for you to look this way anymore if you don’t want to.” He gestured toward Picard. “Go on.”

Slowly, Picard looked down at his hands. He arbitrarily focused on his right one, studying it a moment, then tried to will the pain and the age spots and the wrinkles away. After several minutes of struggling, he sighed, dropping his hands to his side.

“I can’t, Q. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Here.” Q grabbed his wrist suddenly. His hands were gloved in that same fathomless fabric that Picard could easily get lost in if he did not stop himself. Q gripped Picard’s hand, turning his palm upward. Picard tried to remain focused as Q’s thumb slid over his palm. “Let me help you.”  

Picard watched as his hand recovered its youth right before his eyes—the decades slipping backwards over a matter of seconds. 

The effect stopped at his wrist, and when another few seconds slipped by, Picard realized Q was waiting for him to take the lead from there.

He hesitated another second. Perhaps he was trying to make it too complicated: thinking of DNA; telomeres; the complex cellular processes of pre-programed apoptosis. All things that had mattered for a living, material body.

Now, without considering any of those details, he pulled the effect outward from where it ended at his wrist, as if by will alone. With surprising ease, he restored himself, the aches and pains leaving his body: his stance straightening, strength renewing. 

And then it was done.

Picard slowly tested his hands, turning his wrists to see the backs of them. Hands he thought he’d never see again. 

“How did I do that?” he asked, his voice faint with wonder. His vocal chords had also strengthened back to what they had been in a former time: his voice a more resonant baritone.

Q pulled back from him. “It is a potential that exists in every species, though the majority are not worthy to use it.” 

Picard inspected himself in the mirror once more. The sight of his younger face was jarring at first. He looked how he felt—a good five decades younger—his senses sharper, but with the wisdom of his later years intact. 

“I thought you said this wasn’t about making me young again?”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to shock you too much right away, now would we? One thing at a time.” Q stepped forward, examining Picard. He heard the fabric rustle as Q’s arm lifted up. “But, if you’re curious…”  

Before Picard had the time to react, a finger had touched his temple. 

He was on the precipice of something.

No, not a precipice—

An ocean of perception drew him under. Before he could even fill his lungs with a stabilizing breath of air from his own reality, the water had engulfed him.

The human body had barely a handful of senses to choose from. He still retained all of those familiar senses, but now, without thinking, he knew the current distance between the sun and earth, not by memory, but as naturally as the awareness of where his limbs were at any moment.

It was less like being suddenly all-knowing—he still knew so very little. But he could sense so much more than he ever thought was possible. In his present state, he could easily dwarf Voltaire’s Micromégas with his one thousand senses.

Thankfully, he didn’t feel every sense at once, instead catching glimpses of them in brief flashes. 

A wave crashed.

He was deep in subspace—watching the ripples from distant starships as they entered and exited warp, as if viewing them as nautical ships from the bottom of the ocean. The starships tread only the surface of the water, missing everything else that existed beneath it. Subspace was not just tetryons and warp bubbles, but the foundation for so much more. 

Crash.

There was the presence of billions of minds on the land around him—not just human, but animal, plant, fungi—he was aware of every method of perception each life form had to gauge their surroundings. Small or large, the mind was just a way to process all those sensory abilities.

There were whispers of proto-consciousness in the ground of certain forests—vast networks of roots and mycorrhizal associations that had lasted for millions of years, with parent trees communicating, nurturing, and passing information down to their saplings. 

All this time he’d spent exploring the galaxy with its vast nursery of life, and a new form of sentience had been burgeoning in his own backyard. Perhaps he should have looked down at his feet more often for it, instead of up at the stars.

Crash.

The permeating warmth of the cosmic microwave background hit his skin. Once, it had been a fog of suffocating plasma heat throughout the universe—no room for empty spaces. There was a future where it would be no longer detectable, having red-shifted to a wavelength even smaller than his own senses could detect. It was a cold, dark future that awaited, different in every way from the scorching beginning. 

Crash.

His ears caught the low hum of a galaxy over 12 billion light years in the distance. It had formed not long after the cooling of the universe, during a time when chaos reigned, but strangely, it seemed not unlike the Milky Way. What had caused such an orderly disk to appear so soon after the Cosmic Dark Ages, and even more intriguing—what things had formed within it? 

Crash.

He could taste cosmic rays radiating from the sun: different in flavor from their extragalactic cousins outside the solar system and the Milky Way. The furthest rays had a fizzy, effervescent effect—the higher energy of the antiprotons tingling his taste buds with a faint, but pleasant burning sensation.

Crash.

Just as suddenly as he had been engulfed by the ocean of unfamiliar senses, he was cast ashore: left with only the fading impression of what each sensation had been like, feeling lost in the old reality of his life after the brief, but tumultuous foray into the currents of an alien mind.

To be without those senses, even after so short a glimpse, left his mind shivering at the emptiness of the world around him. 

He was beginning to understand why Q had been so uncomfortable during his period of banishment from the Continuum. As a human, the understanding of physics took years of study and hard work to even begin to grasp certain concepts—having to defy the nature of human intuition at every turn to do so. 

Picard had told himself that the reward of understanding made the struggle worth it, but being able to sense the universe intuitively without the limits of the human mind had been like a breath of fresh air he hadn’t known he was missing. His new perceptions hadn’t hindered his desire to seek new knowledge—on the contrary, it only gave him more things to wonder about.

Already, Picard was aching to step into those waters again. 

Even though it had only been a glance at Q’s own abilities, it was a taste of what he himself might learn, if given the effort.  

He became aware of Q beside him.

Q leaned in close, as if to share something confidential—filling Picard’s sense of loss with a new sensation. Warm breath hit his ear, reminding him he was still very much human.

Picard closed his eyes. Swallowed. Tried to steady his mind. 

“This is the exploration that awaits you,” Q whispered, then pulled back, eyes full of promise as he held out his hand. “The time has come for new beginnings, mon ami. Are you ready?”

Picard eyed Q’s extended hand as his thoughts began to settle. 

He was more than tempted to take it. His hand had already moved forward almost imperceptibly. But at the last second, he held back. 

Q had reminded him of something. 

“Wait.”

When Picard didn’t clarify further, Q frowned slightly. “What?” His tone was wary, but unaccusing. “Afraid you won’t be human anymore? Don’t worry, Jean-Luc, no matter what you choose to become from here, your beginning will always be the same. Like the bacterial ancestors of your mitochondria, your humanity will always be a part of you.” A playful gleam appeared in his eye. “You’ve always been stubborn, that way.”

Picard kept his expression unreadable. “Be that as it may, there is one thing I need to do, first.”

Q’s frown returned. “What is it—your family? Your Federation friends? You can always tie up any loose ends with them later, you know. Time as you know it no longer has to be a restriction for you.”

Picard stepped closer, eyes drifting meaningfully up to Q’s. He took a risk, and laid a hand lightly on Q’s chest, his fingers barely brushing the fabric. “That’s good to know. But that isn’t what I had in mind, Q.” 

“Oh?” Q’s eyes widened slightly, glancing down at Picard’s hand as he seemed to finally read the intent in Picard’s gaze. His eyes flickered to the lower half of Picard’s face, and then up again. “Then what did you have in mind?”

Picard eased closer to Q, feeling the heat between them grow. He wanted more of it, but at the last moment, face hovering next to Q’s, he stalled, falling back into the comfort of speech instead of acting on his overwhelming impulse. 

“Well, it does concern loose ends of a sort,” he said. Q’s mouth was still achingly close. “It’s something I should have addressed a long time ago, but I was too stubborn to consider it, let alone admit it to myself. Too afraid to ever let anyone get close.” 

There was a brief, heady second of silence.

Q’s eyes were dark on him. “Well, are you going to do something about it, or am I going to have to sit through another one of your speeches?”

Fueled by the desire in Q’s gaze and the provocation in his words, Picard responded, not bothering to hide the beginning of a smile on his lips. “No. No more speeches.” 

At long last, he acted on his impulse. 

In all his years, he never expected he would be doing this. Never thought Q’s mouth would feel so natural on his, nor that Q would respond the way he did—tender, eager; not seeking to overpower him, nor turning away from the distinctly human action, but letting it be what it was. Seeming to take both a delight and a curiosity in it.

Picard was so lost in the simple feeling of it all that he didn’t notice when it started to drift from an ordinary kiss into something entirely different.

His body began to feel much lighter, more spread out. Like the moment between waking and sleeping, he was dimly aware as the unconscious border of himself relaxed against another. 

It was different from the ocean of senses Q had shown him.

Picard caught glimpses of boredom, beauty, loneliness. He did not comprehend most of the feelings—like picking up a few words of a foreign language, the majority slipped by his recognition. It rendered a strange feeling of awe and unsettlement in him.

At the same time, he saw images of his own childhood—glancing up at the night sky from the vineyards in his childhood; seeing Earth from space for the first time as a young cadet in Starfleet, then during training, visiting his first planet outside the solar system. The first time he had sat down in the chair of command on the Stargazer.

The shock of seeing Q in the courtroom during his first mission on the Enterprise. His frustration at being put on trial, and beneath the anger, the fear that maybe Q was right about humanity. 

Then, much later, the unexpected attraction he felt toward Q the second time he found himself in the courtroom. The hitch of anticipation in his breath when Q was about to whisper in his ear, then did not. 

All memories Q could see. Memories Picard was letting Q see.  

Q smiled into their kiss.

In return, Picard saw the images of a thousand times Q, in his human form, had wanted to enact this very scenario with Picard, and resisted. Picard saw the temptation he’d had to turn himself into someone like Vash, just to know what it was like to have Picard gaze at him that way. 

Picard caught Q’s doubt flare up at the memory of his former lover, and in response, Picard showed Q his closely-guarded thoughts about all the times he had imagined saying yes to Q. How he had very nearly said yes the first time he had made his offer. He showed him the regret that plagued him in his later years when Q did not reappear.  

A note of desperation entered their kiss.

Picard wanted to continue on like this, but something else at the back of his mind was calling his attention. Picard gathered himself back into a more concrete form, opening his eyes again and realizing he was nowhere near La Barre, France, anymore. 

At Picard’s bewilderment, Q pulled away slightly, breaking their kiss. There was an unconstrained warmth in his gaze. “I knew you would be good at that.”

Picard studied their new surroundings. 

They were in the vacuum of space. 

Earth was in his focus, but it was small: only a few times larger than the moon normally appeared from the surface of the planet. 

For a second, he felt like a young cadet again, viewing his homeworld from behind a thin sheet of transparent aluminum, only this time, he had no ship or space station to protect him. It was a baffling experience, even if he knew that he wasn’t really in a human body anymore. 

While he didn’t need a ship or a suit to protect him any longer, that didn’t stop a small wave of apprehension from rising up that at any moment he might start suffocating. 

Before he could worry further, he felt Q’s reassuring presence next to him, and relaxed, knowing the entity wouldn’t let any harm come to him. 

“Did you do this?”

“I’ve only taken your hand, metaphysically speaking. You’re the one doing the walking.”

With a new sense of calm, he turned away from the earth, only to be greeted by the moon in all its ecliptic glory.

He must have traveled toward it instinctively, wanting to get a better view than he had ever had in France. A better view than any human had ever had, in space or otherwise. 

Caught in the deep umbral shadow of Earth, the moon glowed a rich, sunset red, brightening to orange around one edge. Here and there, lights from the lunar colonies shone in the darker regions.

Even considering the recent developments of that evening—getting a glimpse into Q’s senses and his mind—it did nothing to diminish Picard’s awe at the sight before him.

For a minute, Picard was speechless. Q patiently took in the sight beside him.

Eventually, Picard managed to find his words. “I’ve never had a view like this before. It’s beautiful.”

Q’s eyes glinted appreciatively at him. “Decided to take us on a moonlit stroll through the cosmos, Jean-Luc? How romantic.”

Picard chuckled. “You could say the events of this evening have brought out my romantic side. Forgive me.”

Q smirked. “I suppose I can let it slide this one time.”

Picard raised his brow. “Just once? If that’s the case, I think you’ve picked the wrong person for this.”

“Hm, it’s a shame I never go back on my decisions once I’ve made them. Guess that means I’m stuck with you.”

Picard's smile gently faded, but the feeling remained. “What’s next?”

“That, my dear Jean-Luc, is up to you.”

He thought about the ancient galaxy he’d glimpsed 12 billion light years away, and the mysteries that awaited there. Thought about the time the Enterprise had unwittingly travelled to M-33 with the Traveler’s powers, but never had the opportunity to explore it. Even within the Milky Way, there was so much left unknown.

Picard’s eyes drifted away from the moon to the sea of stars around him. He’d spent enough time on Earth to know the general positions of the stars here, just as many civilizations throughout history had. Out of habit, he found the North Star, Polaris, in the constellation Ursa Minor. A Cepheid variable used throughout the ages by various peoples as a guiding star in the Northern Hemisphere. 

If he remembered correctly, there was also a galaxy located near the north celestial pole 200 millions light years away: Polarissima Borealis. Far too faint to be seen by the naked eye as a guiding galaxy, certainly not by his childhood telescope. 

But if he looked now, with his new eyes—yes, it was there. Faint, but he could see it.

Q followed his gaze, seeming to understand Picard’s intent. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in that neighborhood.” Q’s eyes settled back on him, an adventurous glint his eyes. “Shall we take a look?”

Instead of answering right away, Picard let his attention be drawn back to the moon again, remembering the reason why he had come here tonight.

“In a moment, perhaps.”

Picard watched until the moon began to fade to a more muted red, turning grey as it gradually slipped out of Earth’s umbral shadow. 

The earth and moon would continue this dance for years to come. They would change, in time, just like humanity would. Who knew what life would be here to witness the eclipse a billion years from now, let alone a thousand. Eventually, the sun would expand, swallowing all the terrestrial planets, and the moon along with it. But they would always once have been here, in this moment. Nothing could change that.

Earlier that evening, Picard had not expected to see the eclipse. He had settled down with a book for another quiet, uneventful evening. Now, he had seen things he’d never before dreamed of. Kissed his former adversary, no less. 

He slipped his hand into Q’s.

His body would rest, and what remained of himself would continue on, in some other form.

It was the ending of one chapter of his existence, and the beginning of so much more.