The Promised Land, Book TwoPart TwelveQ smiled at his audience and tipped his hat. Wesley would be in his arms this very night. Q had never quit praying for that. Wesley. His beautiful boy. Q was proud that he did not have to look for seedy rooming houses advertising 39-dollar-a-night specials. He pulled up to the Hyatt Regency; the valet took the car from him, nodding at Q's handsome tip. He and Wesley were still silent and shy with each other. Each of them knew life's road was full of rocks, but this was incredible. He had gotten the Regency's VIP suite for them, Wesley watching silent and round-eyed as Q magically pulled out his gold card and swept them both to the top floor. Wesley had been a little ashamed at how pathetic his luggage looked in the hands of the bellboy, but he had the bravado of a true tart. When he came out of the bathroom, he crawled right into Q's bed. Q was surprised but pleased. His other sons sometimes slept in bed with him when they had nightmares, their little bodies warm and comforting. Wesley was clearly not afraid of nightmares. He pressed his body against Q's and touched Q's chest. His come-hither smile had not changed one iota from that night in Sisko's cell. "Feel this, Daddy," he said and pressed himself insinuatingly against his father. And then he opened his mouth as he leaned over to kiss Q. Shocked, Q pulled himself away from Wesley. "Come on, it doesn't matter what the papers say," Wesley coaxed. "It only makes things more special." "It matters to me, boy. I've missed you for twenty-five years." Q put his arms around Wesley's shoulders letting their wavy hair mingle as he drew his son closer. "I've always wondered where you were, and to think I saw you right there and didn't recognize you. You look just like me." Wesley was taken aback. Then Q got out of bed to get his wallet. He showed Wesley a picture of Vernon, Jerry, and Roger. "They look like their mamma . . . her side of the family. But you. I can see myself in your face. I don't know how I ever missed it." Wesley was very still. "I loved you so. I always prayed for you. When those folks took you away to their car, I followed them. I was trying to memorize the tag before they drove away. But I . . . the tears in my eyes. . . well, that's all over now. I kept hoping they'd look in the rearview and see me waiting. For years, every time I saw a pretty little dark-haired boy I kept thinking it might be you. Even after my other sons. I wanted to find you, to tell you I hadn't abandoned you, that I loved you. All those . . . social workers said I was too young to be a real father, but I never thought I was. I always loved you, you understand? I'm your father." Wesley almost gagged at the word ‘father'. He could understand fucking old guys – that had been his one real gift for years. This was something else. Against which he had no real defense. "Being father and son doesn't have to stop us," he said. He put his hand on Q's thigh. Q was too far gone in emotion and sentiment to really hear Wesley. "Lie close," he murmured and carefully tucked the plush blanket between their groins; then he wrapped his arms around Wesley. "All my other sons did this. They got in bed with Daddy. Or I'd come get in bed with them if they were scared." He was smiling at the sweet memory. Wesley could not believe it; there was nothing of sexual interest in Q's attraction to him. "I don't feel like it," he protested. "I don't want to *sleep* with you. Not like this." "I know," Q's voice was soothing. "But just shut your eyes for a minute. Just one minute." Q had had years of experience at talking drowsy boys into sleep before. And now he was holding the son he thought he would never be able to hold and he could hear the smile in his own voice. He couldn't help it. He had always wanted to hold his son, and twenty-five years late was better than nothing. Then Q did the one thing he could do best: he began to tell Wesley a story. In the past, he'd calmed Jean-Luc down with fuck tales, he'd calmed his boys down with stories of his own childhood, refined and embellished into lies of an idyllic childhood, he'd even calmed down Worf with his stories of Beverly's good cooking. And what would calm this boy down? "We can buy you some stuff." "I don't want stuff." "How about a car?" "Who gives a damn? I can't even drive." "You don't know how to drive? Tomorrow you start to learn. Then when we get you away from here, I'll buy you a car. I wonder what kind of car would be best. There's these little VW Cabriolets, convertibles, real cute little cars. I bought your Meemaw a good-looking Mercury sedan." Wesley began to nip at Q's neck. "I love you, boy," Q said and stroked Wesley's head. Wesley drew back. "You can do anything you want to me." "I know that. That's what makes this so special." Wesley was very still. "Wesley, I know what you did in the pen. I did the same thing. Being a whore is irrelevant. Did you ever see any cars you liked? There's SUV's and there's four by fours -- I've been seeing some nice two- color trucks, silver and red, or green and white." He went on great soothing length about the cars and trucks he'd seen. Wesley listened; then his breathing started getting solid-sounding. "Vans are nice." He had a sigh of surrender in his voice. "You see them on TV a lot." "Vans ARE nice." Then Q was very quiet. And Wesley was asleep, his lean body giving off a kind of pleasant dog-warmth that was more comfortable than fifty good quilts. Q pressed his lips to the top of Wesley's head. "Sweet dreams, son." Wesley woke up disoriented and surprised. He was alone in a comfortable bed. He looked around. Their hotel suite was beautiful. He got out of bed and walked through it on his tiptoes. He couldn't get over the big picture windows overlooking the tumultuous beauties of the distant blue Smoky Mountains. He wasn't used to wide windows. Q was sitting on the balcony. "Good morning, son! Isn't it a beautiful day? Now what do you want for breakfast?" After breakfast, they went shopping. A whole new wardrobe! A Walkman! A Discman! A two-hundred-dollar pair of sneakers! "Just wait til we get back to L.A., son! You won't believe the different kinds of music you'll be able to buy." Then he took Wesley to an expensive chain steakhouse. "Order anything. Or everything," he whispered to the dazed Wesley. The waiter brought out two monster t-bones and set them down. "Delicious," raved Q. Wesley put down his fork. "What is it, boy?" Q said. "Should I call the waiter over?" "What if I don't want to go to L.A.? What if I want to go to college?" College! Q bit his lip. "There are excellent schools in the L.A. area -- we could get you a nice apartment. A part-time job. College is great. It's better than great." "Well." Wesley looked pale, and Q felt real terror. "See, I've been in touch with this guy. On the Web?" He ducked his head. "I mean there's no action here, right?" The web? Was this some prison thing poor Wesley was involved in? "What's a web?" Wes gave Q a little smile; for the first time, Q seemed like any old dad. "The Web's a computer thing – my computer terminal calls this guy's computer terminal and we . . . talk and stuff." The web? "See, and he's in Ann Arbor. The University of Michigan. He's a grad student in physics there. And he's . . . we have a lot in common. We talk about physics stuff together. Well, we talk about a lot of stuff really." "What's his name?" Q was not one-hundred-per-cent following this. "Well, his . . . the name he uses on the web is Traveler." An alias! Oh, my God! Q and Wesley bought a lot of maps at a truck stop just north of Louisville. "Wesley, put your jacket on. It's getting chilly." Wesley just looked at him. "I'm not in prison any more." Q lowered his eyes: "I guess I'm not used to having such a grown-up son. Of course you don't have to put your jacket on if you don't want to. But I won't be able to say these things to you when you're in Ann Arbor." Five minutes later Wesley was wearing his jacket. Zefram had a locked box out in the pig barn where his wife never came, and he kept it filled with the things that gratified him -- lipstick, garter belt, stockings, high-heeled shoes in a variety of lovely colors, a blonde wig, a red wig, and a breathtaking Morticia Adams wig of long black hair. He also had sexy dresses, and, when he put them on, he was able to tease himself, smoothing the material against his body, stroking his penis through the fabric, admiring his long legs in their lovely high heels. Zephram genuinely loved the woman he became. He loved her flat chest and broad shoulders and large ungainly hands. He loved her freedom to be sensual and erotic and enticing. "My wife is an invalid," Zefram said in a soft voice. "But we're celebrating our 30th anniversary next week and she needs a special dressy dress. She wears about a size 22 tall. Would you have something she would like?" The plus-sized clerk smiled. What a lucky woman to have such a devoted husband! "I'll just look over this rack," he said and she smiled at him again. But he wasn't alone. Another ordinary-looking man was there too. He was also shopping for his wife. The man's eyes met Zefram's. I won't tell if you won't. They both lowered their eyes and continued to search the racks. But a few minutes later, he was standing next to Zephram, making an elaborate show of looking in the opposite direction. Zephram did not dare look at him. The man had a card in his hand. Zephram took it and left the store without buying anything. He didn't dare look at the card until he was well away and down the road. Then he pulled over on the empty highway and took it out. On the left side of the card, there was a picture of a man; on the right, a woman. The writing said 'From Michael to Mindy.' It had a phone number. Zephram pocketed the card. He had no idea what it meant. That evening his wife had gone out again and Zephram was in the bedroom making the transformation from drab and sexless to glamorous and erotic when he suddenly got it. Some one knew. He thought he might be sick to his stomach. Jumping Jesus. Sebastiana's maman. "Mrs. Tyler," Jean-Luc nodded warily at her. "I know Sebastiana is glad you came to Tennessee." "I could sue you for everything you've got," she said. A nice way to start a relationship. Supper that night was not easy. Joe, Mrs. Tyler, Sebastiana, and Jean-Luc. Hard to find common ground in that crowd. "When will you two be getting married?" Mrs. Tyler said. "Never," Jean-Luc said smoothly. There was a big silence. Sebastiana's huge eyes swivelled between her mother and Jean-Luc. Joe breathed in. "So Sebastiana's baby will have no father." Well, nothing to do but call Q. Q could come to Tennessee and persuade the silly girl to have a late-term abortion and that would be that. Unfortunately, Q was whoring around with that son of his, but he always turned up. "You're Wesley! I can't believe it!" said Traveler. Q didn't much care to make judgements about his fellow man, but Traveler was the ugliest man he had ever seen. Bald with a caveman's forehead, Traveler had an eerie resemblance to the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Wesley didn't seem to notice as he shook Traveler's hand, a handshake that mutated into an awkward hug. "Welcome to my humble abode!" Traveler said with a little smile. He was wearing a huge circus-tent striped shirt. Ugly. And quite the . . . nerd too, Q couldn't help but notice. "Ummmm, yeah, and this is my . . . father. Ummm, Quentin McConn." "Hey," said Traveler. He could care less about Wes's dad, that was plain to see. "Nice to meet you," Q said. "Say, do you have a last name?" Wesley glared at him. "Actually, Traveler is just what I call myself when I'm on-line. My real name is Waymon Hurlbut." On-line? "But Waymon Hurlbut isn't nearly as glamorous as it could be," Traveler was one of these lads who liked to merrily prattle on. "I know. Wesley is such a loser name, too." Wesley and Traveler were smiling at each other. "Oh, I beg to differ. I just LOVE the name Wesley," said Traveler in a meaningful way. Q eyeballed the apartment. Just two rooms as far as he could tell. This kitchen/living/dining area filled with papers and books and high-tech equipment. And then there was a door which opened on an untidy bedroom. An unmade king-size bed. "Son, are you sure you know what you're doing?" They both looked at him. "I mean, settling here in Ann Arbor." "Dad." Wesley's voice sounded impatient, deflated. "Oh, Wesley can just stay here with me til he finds his own place." "And Traveler's going to practice my driving with me til I get my license." Q had bought Wesley the van he wanted the day before. He had also opened a bank account for Wes with ten thousand dollars and given him an American Express card with a monthly thousand-dollar limit. Now he could take off, he supposed. But still . . . "Well, Wesley. . . I don't know if . . ." "Dad, I promise I'll make you proud. I'll be the first great gay white-trash ex-con physicist." Traveler put his arm around Wesley's shoulder and whispered, "I'm not an ex-con or I'd give you a run for your money," and they both laughed. New Zealand was one damn weird place to Quark. Lotta different kinds of bugs in New Zealand. Many with fatal bites. But being there with Melinda was worth facing a fatal bug bite. She was the most wonderful woman in the world. Just the day before, he'd had to confer with her about something the artistic director was having to rebudget and so he went to her trailer and she was sitting there with her hairdresser and she was . . . not wearing anything above the waist. "Let me check out the problem," she said to him in a professional way as the hairdresser fussed with her hair. Meanwhile Quark had turned into a pillar of salt at the sight of her perfect high breasts. "Jadzia, are you ready for that outdoor shower scene?" Kira came in the trailer. (They had hired her as director.) An. Outdoor. Shower. Scene. Melinda smiled. "Betty and Ursula faxed us the new draft last night. By the way, Quarky-Warky, don't you think as producer you ought to supervise this crucial scene?" Quark was speechless. Data was on the phone: "Q, Jean-Luc has been trying to reach you. He wishes to inform you that you are needed in Tennessee." A dark, dark girl with a lilting accent and a big belly answered the door. "You must be Q," she smiled. "Come in. I'm Sebastiana. Johnny told me to expect you." Q doubted he'd told her exactly what to expect, but he went in to find Jean-Luc anyway. Jean-Luc's expression was grim, but he pulled Q in for a long kiss. Sebastiana gasped. Jean-Luc broke off the kiss. "What is it?" he said; his posture was very erect. "Why do you kiss 'im like that? You're both men." Jean-Luc shrugged, and she wheeled around and ran down the hall. "Go talk to her, Q. I don't want to hear her carrying on like that all day." "Is that why you asked me here? So I could do more of your dirty work?" Jean-Luc looked at Q steadily. "She wants to marry me." "And you panicked. Why didn't you tell her before now?" "You have to talk to her." Q obeyed. By the time Q found her, Sebastiana was on her bed, wailing and crying. "Jean-Luc is going to give you a whole lot of money," he said to her. She stopped her noise for a brief second before starting up again. "What good is money when my baby's father loves a man. A man!" She rose from the bed, cumbersome and dangerous to herself. "I should scratch your eyes out!" She raised her hands to his face. "Stop this or you'll hurt the baby." He very gently took her hands in his. That stopped her. "What am I going to do?" She threw herself on the bed again, carefully falling on her side. Q sat down on the side of the bed feeling like the maid cleaning condoms out of the pool. "You don't want to marry a man who loves other men." He dangled bait again. "Johnny asked me to make sure you and the baby got everything you needed. He wants me to take you shopping for baby clothes and ..." The girl looked up. Jean-Luc should be ashamed of himself. She was little more than a child. "I'm sorry," she said and began sobbing again. "Believe it or not, I'm here to help you." "Q, I'm not ashamed of anything. I taught her about love." Q was silent. Then: "Now what? "I want her to get an abortion. Not just for me, but for her too. So she can go back to her real life." "Isn't she too far gone for a safe abortion? How many months is she?" "She got pregnant around . . . Mardi Gras, I think. Sometime in February." Q looked at his fingers. "Six months! Jean-Luc! I just . . ." "Then talk her into giving it up for adoption." Q couldn't speak. Jean-Luc sighed, "Things are very bad," he whispered. "I don't love her. I'll do right by her, but I don't want to marry her. Doesn't it seem that getting rid of the baby would be easiest?" Well, fuck it, Jean-Luc knew he was asking the wrong person. Oh, yeah, Q the softhearted. Q the savior of kittens and puppies everywhere. Q the giant tit who moved heaven and earth for his rat sons. And then the giant tit spoke: "What if we get Will and Worf to adopt the baby? You know Will would love that." Jean-Luc shut his eyes. An image of Patsy bossing around his, Jean-Luc's, flesh and blood, came to him. "No." Patsy was a fine little girl, but his own child was not going to play second fiddle to some kid of Will Riker's. "Jean-Luc, we could watch Will and Worf raise her." "What makes you think it's a girl?" "The way she's carrying it. My mother always said that if you carried it high it was a boy and if you carried it low it was a girl. That little girl is carrying the baby really low." Jean-Luc stood up very straight. "Actually, I assumed she was having a son." Then he sighed, "Wait til you meet the girl's mother." "Jean-Luc, this wouldn't have happened if you'd stuck to your own kind." Jean-Luc wouldn't look at Q. "Suck my dick," he said and breathed out like Worf. "Joe, this is Q McConn. Q and I go way back." Joe Sisco looked at the beautiful man with long dark hair, with perfect full lips, with beautiful long hands. "Picard, I read the papers." Joe didn't much want to discuss this with Jean-Luc. A man should be able to live the life he wanted. "Joe, what are we going to do?" We. A soft summer night on the screened side porch. Melinda had made that their summer dining room with a huge oak table and candles and comfortable chairs. Jean-Luc refused to sit down, so Joe was sitting at the head of the table. Sebastiana was sobbing softly, but her mother sat with her head lifted high and hard. Q sat beside Joe. "Joe, what do you think my husband would say to you about letting his only child fall into that old devil's hands?" Jean-Luc rolled his eyes. "Martine, there's no call to say that to me. I was there with you when Sam died. You know I promised to take care of his little girl." "You're doing a pitiful job of it." "Mama, I'm not a little girl," Sebastiana sniffled. "I went into this with my eyes open." "I believe we can work something out," Q said. "And who are you?" Martine's voice was edging near hysteria. "Another devil?" She seemed genuinely consumed by despair. "I am Jean-Luc's friend. I'm also the father of four children. What happened . . . is what happened." Martine shuddered. "About the baby - Sebastiana, Jean-Luc says it ought to be your choice. We'll help you with whatever you want." "I want to marry Jean-Luc Picard and live here forever with him and our little baby." There was a silence then; they could all hear moths battering the screens. Q looked at her in the candlelight; she was a charming child who thought Jean-Luc was a key to happily ever after. "You are not marrying that . . . man," said Martine. Thank God. "Oh, for Christ's sake," Jean-Luc said. "I'm leaving." Sebastiana buried her head in her hands. "Don't cry, baby," said Joe and stroked her soft hair. Martine unbent a little. "Are you two as bad as I think?" "Yes, ma'am," Q said simply. Sebastiana lifted her head. "Maybe if I stayed here and he stayed here, he'd realized how much he loves me and we could be happy." Q heard Jean-Luc's car scratch out of the driveway. Then Sebastiana fled the room sobbing. He looked at Martine. She was grim and heartbroken. She had wanted so much for her daughter. Q could understand that. "Jean-Luc wants to give Sebastiana this house. He and I have already contacted a lawyer. She'll be the owner tomorrow. Jean-Luc will own the rest of the property, but she gets the house and five acres of property." "How's she going to pay for this? What about the taxes?" "She gets five thousand dollars a month for the next twenty years. If she needs more, he'll give her more." He saw Martine's eyes grow puzzled. Could that be as much as she thought? She looked at Joe Sisco. "How could you let this happen? He was your friend, how could you let this happen to his child?" "Now, Martine, I can't stop nature. Jean-Luc treats her fairly well, never raises a hand to her, gives her the best care." "The girl told me she wanted to study," Mrs. Tyler mourned. "She still can. Her life isn't over." Joe drew in a deep breath. "Martine, let's make the best of a bad situation. Forty years ago . . . I was accused of the worst crime I could be accused of then. A white woman said I'd assaulted her. No truth to it. I was working on a nearby farm and she'd hired me to do some chores on my day off . . . " he seemed lost in memory. "She was lonely. She was talking to me. Her daddy walked in on us. He was a worthless sonofabitch. He threatened to whip her bloody for talking to me. Accusing me was the only story she could think of. I had no money, but a lawyer took pity on me. Big rich white guy. Now, if this was a fairy tale, he'd have won the case and I'd have been cleared. But life's not a fairy tale. He plea-bargained me into the military. Pled guilty to a misdemeanor when I'd done nothing! But off I went. First time away from home. I was a man, but I started crying." Joe drew in a deep breath. "Best thing that ever happened to me. I learned everything, saw everything. Served in the Navy for twenty years and I wish I were still there. Pleading guilty was the best thing I could have done. Sometimes you have to ride what happens, Martine." The next morning when Martine woke up, Q was padding around the kitchen in tight white tennis shorts and nothing else. "Good morning, Mrs. Tyler," he smiled. "I'm just fixing Jean-Luc's breakfast." "Sebastiana, you really want to stay here with these evil men?" "This is my house now, and I want to live here." "Let him move back in with that boyfriend." Martine shut her eyes. "Then you can come back. Go someplace decent and have the baby." "I don't want to," Sebastiana started to cry, something that had always worked with Mister Johnny. "Leave me alone! Let me do what I want to do!" Jean-Luc was getting dressed when he heard the slap and Sebastiana's wails. Pale and trembling, he burst into Sebastiana's room. His little virgin was holding her cheek. He breathed in furiously, but Martine wasn't one to give in. Q appeared at the bedroom door. Then Jean-Luc led Sebastiana out of the room. Jean-Luc and Q spent the next hour wiping her tears, patting her hand, getting her a cold drink, leading her to a comfy chair, speaking to her very soothingly and in general coddling her. Martine watched silently from the stairs. What else could she expect from such womanly men? That Jean-Luc was dirt under her feet. How dare he do this to her daughter? But the daughter was thriving and glowing and wealthy. And that Mr. Q could be useful. Martine found Sebastiana loading the dishwasher one day. "Stop that or you'll tear up your back. Go swim in the pool." Then she found Q: "Sebastiana doesn't need to be cleaning in her state. You get her a maid." Q did immediately. "And I want to see this doctor she's been going to." Q took her that day. The doctor was confused and a bit disdainful. "You are not the father." "I'm his boyfriend," Q lifted his chin. "Are you are the mother's mother?" "Yes." Martine was looking around his office. It was very opulent. Paintings and shiny oak wood everyhere. He was a real doctor in a beautiful white jacket, not a harried technician in a clinic. She sighed. In some ways, she did not want to be part of this native-girl-and-rich-bwana scenario, but there was something very seductive about the sheer opulence of her daughter's life now. Q noticed that, while Martine hated Jean-Luc, she still had Sebastiana teach her how to use all the wonderful gadgets in the kitchen. Martine loved the Cuisinart. At supper that night, Martine fixed a special stew. It was excellent. Sebastiana was sitting between two candles; she looked like a sweet dark angel. "I want to name the baby Stephanie Crystal." Joe lifted his eyebrows. Too much television. "Hush," said Martine. "That's a very nice name," Q was making an effort. "Sammi Jo," Jean-Luc said with finality. "Sammi Jo Picard." Every morning in that damp velvet Tennessee August, Q woke up in Jean-Luc's arms. But he was surprised to find how uncomfortable he was. Not with Johnny exactly -- it was always good just being with Johnny, watching Johnny sleeping in the pink dawn light, seeing Johnny wake up. There were always tender silent times in the morning together. But Johnny went into Sebastiana's room every night and only climbed into bed with Q after spending a couple of hours there with Sebastiana. What if Johnny was in love with that girl! He sure wasn't having sex with Q. What if Johnny married her after the divorce from Melinda was finalized! Sebastiana was a fine girl, sweet and pretty, smart and kind . . . but Q had been completely lost without Jean-Luc. He could not bear to lose Jean-Luc again. Sebastiana was a fine girl. And Jean-Luc was Q's God. But frankly Q found himself on Martine Tyler's side. It would have been better for Sebastiana if Jean-Luc had left her alone. Even now, when Jean-Luc padded every night into Sebastiana's glowing little bedroom with its maple furniture and creamy walls, there was something unsettling about that whole scene. "I'm chewed, Q. I'm beat. You're going to have to take Sebastiana for me tonight." Q was speechless. Pale. Jean-Luc looked at him. "Oh, so that doesn't that fit into your busy agenda of sucking up to Martine." "I . . . can't." "Don't say no to me." "No," Q said softly. Jean-Luc looked at him. "What in fuck's name is wrong with you?" "I can't. It's wrong." Jean-Luc didn't seem angry. He seemed amazed. "What do you think I'm talking about?" "Sleeping . . . with Sebastiana?" Jean-Luc was very still. Still not angry. "You're not going to sleep with her. You're not going to *sleep* with her. I certainly haven't been if that's what you and your big buddy Martine are thinking. But she's pregnant and lonely and she needs someone with her. It . . . soothes her to talk. Or we watch television. I want to keep things . . . peaceful around her. I thought I might catch a break tonight. You're . . . a good one for peacefulness." Jean-Luc wasn't angry. He just seemed puzzled by his own emotions. Q dimpled. "I'd love to watch television with Sebastiana!" So Q and Sebastiana watched television in her comfortable room every night til she went to sleep. Sometimes Martine came in (Martine was developing a little crush on Q) and sat with them, and once in a while even Joe and Jean-Luc would join them. Sebastiana was good company; her simple childlike pleasure in silly American television shows always made Q smile. She loved the networks that showed old television shows like Dragnet. Or Adam 12. Their simple braveries thrilled her. She also loved shows which featured evil scheming women who got their comeuppance. They made her laugh, and that made Q laugh with her. Then together she and Q would solemnly watch television movies where famous stars pretended to be dying of various diseases. "No!" Sebastiana would whisper when the television doctor gave his dire prognosis. And together Q and Sebastiana would cry at the scene where the costar made a vow over the dead star's grave. "That was so sad," Q said. "I'm glad it's not real," Sebastiana said. And when the late-night news came on, Q coaxed her into letting him turn off her lights and tuck her in. Even Martine was secretly thrilled by how much Sebastiana was thriving. Q was actually gaining a sense of accomplishment here. The house now always smelled of fried plantains, and Jean-Luc was stuffing himself silly on tropical cooking. It was a strangely timeless time. Quark was out of the country, Geordi and Data were working on the newest album, Will and Worf were settled in with their brood. Jean-Luc had never quite felt this way. "Q, let's do something," but he wasn't restless. He seemed calm and pleased. Well, Q was game. They hadn't had sex in ages – Sebastiana's condition had the strangest damping effect. "What do you want to do?" Q said breathily; he bit his lower lip. "Let's take a trip. Martine and Joe can watch Sebastiana – the doc says everything is great. If we go away for a weekend, the world won't fall apart." "Oh. Okay." Q made numerous plans and connections and packed weekend bags for Jean-Luc and himself while Jean-Luc rolled his eyes, and then they were out of there in Jean-Luc's big showy convertible. They were going east past Nashville, past Knoxville, towards North Carolina. They drove until Jean-Luc pulled towards a small, flower-painted sign. "Willow Grove Bed and Breakfast," Q read. He looked at Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc ignored him; he merely pulled up the drive and got out and took his small duffel bag out of the car. "Reservation's under Nagel," he said in a loud, nondescript voice. "I have you booked in a room with a queen-size bed," the proprietor frowned when the two men walked up. Q thought a queen-sized bed would fit them perfectly, but perhaps he shouldn't say that. "I thought the rooms had two double beds," he frowned, as if it were the proprietor's fault. "I can put you in the room next door if you want." "That will be fine." Q and Jean-Luc exchanged glances. After they paid for the second room, they didn't even bother entering it. Well, that first room was bad enough. "This whole country theme is so overdone. I can't believe this!" "Bitch." They exchanged smiles. Melinda was in New Zealand; she'd thrown Jean-Luc out of her life with no second thought. Well, two could play that game. Sort of. Now that Q knew about the Willows, she shared no secret with Jean-Luc. The next day they strolled through all the willows in silence when Q turned to him. "How'd you find this place, Johnny?" Beautiful Q. Tall handsome surprising alert Q. Q knew exactly what questions to ask. Q's tender concern was palpable. Jean-Luc found it hard to speak for a moment. "I found it one time when I had to hide out," he finally answered. "These two sisters ran it. They took me in." The truth was that shinerunning had its intrinsic difficulties. Twice he'd been badly beaten and had his cargo stolen, and he'd outrun the law more times than he'd cared to count. He had been in his early thirties then, still a hotshot with reflexes like lightning, and he had his lights off, racing down a dark county road to get away from a state trooper's cruiser. His car had been customized with a special switch that turned the taillights off, and Jean-Luc knew the road like the back of his hand. It should have been a cakewalk. It would have been a cakewalk but he had hit something in the darkness--to this day he didn't know what--and the car bounced and jolted so violently that he banged his head on the roof and the impact knocked him out. Jean-Luc had come to with the engine running and the police nowhere in sight. There was nothing to do but sit there in the darkness and hope for the best. In the morning, he was so sore and stiff he could barely move. He pulled over to the first place that looked as if it might have a bed, rolled up the driveway and staggered up to the front desk. "You have a room?" The little lady behind the counter looked at him skeptically, but she nodded. Jean-Luc pulled out a wad and shoved it at her. "Tell me when that runs out." He didn't remember much else except taking off his clothes in an over-decorated room and falling into the bed. Every once in a while there was a knock at the door which he ignored--troopers didn't knock, so he was safe. A few days later he was up and walking around though he probably shouldn't have been. His ears rang continuously, and any movement made dizzy. Still he pushed himself. After a while, he forced himself to walk around the property, and that was when he discovered the willow grove. Jean-Luc paused. Q had put his arms around him, which Jean-Luc hated. "Q," he warned. "Just for a little while," Q begged. "Just until the end of the story, please." "Stop this, Q." "I know. What happened next?" There wasn't that much to tell. He walked, he looked. He liked it. "Magical," Q ventured. "I guess." But really, that was the only word for it. The constant, gentle movement; the draping, protective canopy; the utter stillness of trees; it had touched an answering stillness in Jean-Luc, a part of himself that was utterly foreign to him until the trees introduced him to it. He still didn't know what to make of it. He had come back to the place several times, always warning himself that it was probably razed to the ground; that the trees had been chopped down to make way for a shopping center or something. Nothing ever lasted. But the place was still here. Even after the sisters died and someone new bought it, the grove was still here. "Why don't we buy it, Johnny?" "What would we do with this place? You're crazy." "I know. But we need a place nobody else knows about. Besides, you've given up the house to Sebastiana. Don't you want a place of your own?" In fact Jean-Luc did, but . . . "It's not for sale." "You don't know that." That was the thing he hated about Q. The way he always took Jean-Luc by surprise with the things he said and did. "Motherfucker," but it was said very affectionately. "You buy it. I'm still short from paying for Sebastiana." "You mean paying off Sebastiana." Then Q leaned close, obviously wanting a kiss but not daring more than to present his lush mouth as available. Jean-Luc felt pressured. He didn't want kisses. He turned away. Q sighed. Jean-Luc turned back. "Dammit, come here." This one time it wouldn't kill him to give Q what he wanted. After a moment, he drew back. "We'll christen this place when we own it. And then nobody can chop these trees down." Just the two of them there. And making love to Q would be a relief -- unlike Melinda, unlike Sebastiana, there was a giving in Q, and a forgiving too. That night when they went back to their queen-sized bed, he said to Q: "Tell me fuck stories about what you've done. You can't make me believe you were celibate all that while." "Put something in me and I might," Q teased him. Jean-Luc put a finger in his mouth, and then inside Q. Q sighed. "I got some and I gave some, but nothing was like you . . . Daddy." He breathed the last word softly, as if afraid of what it might mean to Jean-Luc now. Jean-Luc said nothing; he just twisted his index finger a bit. "Jean-Luc, have you heard about that new lube? For men? For butt-fucking. We used it out in California." "Who's we?" "A bunch of us." Q was flirting. "Guess who I did have a big fuck session with? Will and Worf." Jean-Luc smiled back. "What'd you do?" "I sucked Worf's balls while Will licked him out. He came double-hard. I wish you'd been there." His knees were open. Jean-Luc rested his hands on Q's knees. "I can fuck you from here, bitch, make that little panty-free pussy come and come. I'll make you wet as water." "Let me get that lube. It's really a great product." Q was back in a second. "Here." It came in a blue tube; it had a nice neutral smell. "It's made in Germany. They know how to manufacture things in Germany." He squirted out a bit on his fingertips and moved his hand to his ass. "You like this, Daddy?" "Girl, don't even ask." "Let's have a little fun, Jean-Luc. It's been forever." "Forever." Jean-Luc gave a small smile. He abruptly put two fingers in Q's lubricated opening. Q gasped. "More." Jean-Luc stroked him, feeling all the familiar slicknesses of Q. "Are you ready?" He slid a third finger in. Q writhed more. "My pussy is so wet." He was lying on his back with that big dick sticking out; now he grabbed it with one hand as he threw the other arm out. He looked angelic and trapped. "Can't wait to fuck you there," Jean-Luc whispered. Q beat himself against Jean-Luc's fingers. "Johnny, put another finger in," he begged. Jean-Luc looked up. He was trying not to look apprehensive. "You want me to fist you, Q?" "Oh, yes, Johnny, more than anything." "Talk me through it." "You'll love it. It's so powerful. And it feels like nothing else on earth. You know I'm pussy, and that's all I am. Please, Jean-Luc. Please." He opened his eyes. And was shocked to see Jean-Luc hesitate. "Please," Q said again. "You won't hurt me. Think of everything that's been in me in the last twelve years. That's what I do, Jean-Luc." Jean-Luc stayed still. His slightly shocked expression did not change. Q sat up; he still had Jean-Luc's fingers inside him. He moved against them, his big dick stiff as ever. "See how I want it. I want it." He leaned in. "You can fist me while I pray. Won't that be something special, Daddy? Your little girl's saying her prayers and you've got your whole fist in my ass and I'm praying and praying. And you're fucking me with your fist, your whole big fist; I'm that hot and that ready." He eased away from Jean-Luc's fingers and pulled the top sheet around him. It was like a makeshift skirt. Jean-Luc never stopped watching Q. A Q knelt by the side of the bed, he pulled the sheet up so that the bottom few inches of his ass showed as he knelt. "I'm praying, Daddy." He looked at Jean-Luc. And Jean-Luc knelt behind him. "Put your little knees on a pillow; make your little self taller for Daddy. I have plans for your pussy." He pulled the top sheet away. "Where's that grease?" he said and then found it. He coated Q's asshole and then his fingers. One finger. "Keep on praying." Q backed again and again against him. Two fingers slipping in easily. "I'm glad my Daddy's big." Three fingers. "Twist them, Daddy. Make me big enough for your big hand." More lube. Twisting. A fourth finger. Up to the knuckle. Jean-Luc barely moved his hand; it was the sheer size of his fingers in Q that mattered. Q was grunting now -- rearing back against him. Jean-Luc put more lubricant on his hand and put his thumb in a wedge against the other fingers. He would never have thought this possible, but now it was more than possible, it was plausible. Q's ass was so open and wet. Christ, didn't this look nice? His hand buried to the knuckle in the wealth of Q's ass. More lubricant. He made his hand writhe and twist and swivel against Q's pounding flesh, and then it was in -- not even with a sound, unless you counted Q's long drawn-out sigh. "Oh, fuck me with it now." Jean-Luc tentatively moved against Q and Q began to thrash and throb against him. He had never seen Q so out of control. Where did this power come from? And then Q started to come, leaning against Jean-Luc, batting against Jean-Luc's fist, and Jean-Luc hardly knew what he was feeling. Was this how it felt? So slick and -- how did you know you were doing it right? Mysterious shapes made way inside Q; he could feel the beating of Q's heart as if he were touching it. But Q was coming and gasping and panting and his back was flushed bright red. Then Q quit thrashing and became very quiet; Jean-Luc still felt his beating heart. "Are you all right?" "Oh, yes, Daddy," Q said. "I don't want you to leave. I wish we could stay this way forever." Jean-Luc could feel Q compress himself around his fist -- it was pleasant. Pleasant to look at; more than pleasant, hot actually. Like he was punching Q in the asshole. Well, who wouldn't want to do that? Punch Q in the asshole -- make Q's asshole take it all, take everything. "You sure got a busy pussy." "I'm your little pussy," Q purred and backed against Jean-Luc. "When I take out my hand, if I take out my hand, will you suck my dick? Then we can make plans to do this again. Now that I know how. Sweet little whore pussy ass." Q bore down, and Jean-Luc moved his hand out. Blood. They both saw it. Q shrugged. "Jean-Luc, fisting alway causes a few asshole fissures. That's nothing. Let me suck your cock." And he did. Jean-Luc was mildly distracted by having to hold the bloody hand away from their bodies, but he grabbed Q's hair with the other hand and fucked Q's willing wet mouth and fucked it hard. Cleaned up, they slept as they had in the old days. Back in prison. Or on buses. On rental shacks in rural woods. Spooned together, Jean-Luc at Q's back. Then Jean-Luc awoke. He felt . . . a trickling warmth against his groin. "Come, it's come," he thought and smiled. His come. He felt a bit more trickling, and his eyes opened. Q hd sucked him off; he hadn't come inside Q. He turned on the light. A plate-sized pool of blood was on the sheets. And Jean-Luc felt a terror he had never felt before. "Q, you're bleeding." "It's nothing, baby." Q said sleepily and wiggled, and then said "ouch." He stiffened. "Look, Q." Q diffidently looked at the sheet. Then they both looked at each other. Q moved his hand to his back. And brought it back out. It was covered with bright red blood. Jean-Luc couldn't think. "Shit shit shit, Q. Now what?" They were alone in the middle of nowhere. For shit's sake. "You've got to go to a hospital." Q was visibly turning paler. "There's an argument in favor of that and against it," he whispered. "You know about the papers." Jean-Luc felt he was going to explode. "Q, we have to do something now. Q. Q." Q closed his eyes. Was it pain? "Call Julian Bashir. His clinic's only about seventy miles away." "Julian Bashir?" "He and his partner gave us the money for the Stargazer. Remember?" An excited dog. A slender Brahmin. An old dope-addict. That scene. "What's his number? How do we know he's on the up and up?" "We can give him what he wants. That'll . . . " Q winced. "What's his number?" The dayplanner was in Q's luggage; Jean-Luc was astonished. Q had the number of everyone on earth. He dialed the number. Panicked. Some fucking answering service was going to pick up and there'd be red tape and he'd end up driving the now-shivering Q (was Q going into shock?) to the hospital and . . . "Hello," said a gracious, amused voice. "Julian here." "You've got to help me." "I beg your pardon?" "Jean-Luc, tell him . . ." Q whispered. "This is Jean-Luc Picard -- Q McConn said I could call you. We need help. We were . . . playing and Q's bleeding. I don't want the papers to know. But I'll do whatever it takes to get Q safe. I'm . . . it looks rough." "You were playing. Now Q's bleeding. Okay, I think I get it. No press. Now listen, do you have a helicopter pad near there?" They told the hotel owners Q had had a sudden major nosebleed and paid them money and said they'd be in touch. There was a little baby tri-state airport just ten minutes away, and there was a nice little private clinic -- just ten beds -- fifteen minutes from there. And since Julian had admitting privileges, there they were. "My patient's name is Gulwinder Morra," said the sober and dignified Bashir. Jean-Luc was standing behind him. Baseball cap. Tinted glasses. Hopefully unrecognizable. "And I want him ready for surgery in twenty minutes. It's a bit of an emergency really," Julian shrugged. Then he turned to Jean-Luc. Julian had grown up a bit, Jean-Luc was glad to see. "This is a good place," he whispered. "Actually, they're quite used to celebrities. Perry Como had his eyes operated on here." Jean-Luc had calmed down some. He was calm because he knew Q wasn't going to die. Q had promised Bareil that he would live to see Modyed reach adulthood, so everything would be alright. Q was a man of his word. And the atmosphere was totally different from the time Q got shot. That had been a busy, big-city hospital with police and medical personnel running around everywhere. This was a small, quiet place where he sat in a private waiting room while people spoke to him in hushed tones and offered him things to drink. A pretty dark-haired nurse came by with fruit juice. "Your friend will be fine. He came to the right place," she smiled. "Did you know Perry Como had his eyes operated on here?" After what felt like a long time, Julian came and got him. "I've done a pretty good job if I must say so myself. He'll be up and about in no time, but I think you may want to reconsider your playtime for a while. Come on." Q was in bed with blood running into his arm from an IV. Jean-Luc's heart was pounding. He told Julian to give him lots of blood to replace what had been lost. Julian smiled. I'll leave you two alone." Jean-Luc didn't even hear him leave. He pulled up a chair right next to the IV stand and laid his fingers against Q's arm. He didn't dare touch the Band-aid that held the needle in his arm, but he ran his fingers all around it, helping it, encouraging it, thanking it. Q opened his eyes. "I'm okay, Jean-Luc." His voice was slurred, but he was still beautiful. "You're in a good place. Hey, Perry Como had his eyes operated on here." "Wow." Julian sat Jean-Luc down and talked to him about the various things he'd have to do for Q. Jean-Luc was comfortable with that; it was like the army. Then: "How's . . . Will?" Julian asked in an off-hand way, but his eyes were bright. "I liked him so much." Jean-Luc lifted his chin. "He's good, real good. Maybe you can come visit us. I know Will would like to see you again." Julian blushed. "How's that McCoy?" Jean-Luc asked him. Julian shook his head. "Some day I'm going to discover what the CIA poured on his Wheaties. He's indestructible." Julian and the hospital personnel made sure Jean-Luc had everything he needed. They gave him a special pillow for Q that looked like a toilet seat, and slender-snouted tubes full of disinfectant cream to stick up Q's ass. They gave Jean-Luc prescriptions for strong laxatives so Q wouldn't have to strain, and instructions for what to eat and what to avoid. Fear Alley, California, Tennessee. He was always receiving Q back from a hospital somewhere. Q, his delicate flower, moved stiffly and winced often. Jean-Luc would have to remember to be careful. He wasn't taking any chances. He made Q lie on his side in the back of the Caddy as they drove back home. "You okay back there?" He asked this every few miles or so. Once when Q didn't answer, Jean-Luc died. He gently pulled over on the side of the road, got out and shook Q's shoulder. Q opened his eyes and said, "Are we there?" Jean-Luc came to life again. "Not yet," he answered. He got back in the front seat and kept driving. Back at Sebastiana's wasn't quite as awful as Jean-Luc had feared. Q had a scheme where they told Joe and Martine and Sebastiana that Q had fallen off a cliff! Joe rolled his eyes, but Martine and Sebastiana had gasped. Q was an invalid now! Thirty times a day Jean-Luc helped him from the bed to the bathroom and back again, and never thought to complain. When Q was sleeping, he snuck out to the store. Q needed soup and fruit and lots of liquid. Jean-Luc gave him soda pops until Bashir called to check on him and scolded him for doing so. After that, Jean-Luc bought apple-cranberry juice. Meanwhile Sebastiana's visits to the doctor were coming more frequently. Impossibly, she was getting even bigger, and she needed his attention too. Q solved it. "Get a visiting nurse." Such a thing would have never occurred to Jean-Luc, but he got two nurses, one for him and Q, and one for Sebastiana. Sebastiana was having pains! My God! No! The time was totally wrong! Jean-Luc drove her to the doctor, Martine sitting in the back seat bitching at him the whole while. Sebastiana's doctor was very nervous about this family. But fortunately, Sebastiana was, thank God, okay. "These are just Braxton-Hicks contractions. She just needs to keep on resting and eating right and going for little walks." He recommended a certain kind of elaborate pillow. "Go and get one," Martine ordered him. She still wasn't speaking to Jean-Luc except to boss him around. Jean-Luc was losing weight. He had dark circles under his eyes. "That bitch is putting shit into my food," he rumbled to Joe. "I'm going to kill her." "Boss, you're tired," Joe opined. "Get some rest." But what Jean-Luc really needed was someone to help. "Data, I need you to help us out here. And Geordi can stay in California and work on the album." (Geordi normally got all Data's attention, and right now Jean-Luc needed it all for himself.) Data came. He wore an apron and busied himself. Martine's face, which had been softening, grew hard and vigilant again. Jean-Luc couldn't bring himself to get in the same bed with his lover anymore. Too dangerous. He was sleeping on the sofa again. So Data acted as their go-between. When Q fell asleep, Data slipped out of his bed, came to Jean-Luc and opened his mouth to share the taste of Q. Jean-Luc's eyes grew wide. He knew that taste. "Do you know what you're doin'?" "Yes, Mrs. Tyler, I have studied all sorts of massage therapy programs." Data rubbed Sebastiana's legs twice a day, and he escorted her for brief walks around the property. He helped her with her pre-natal exercises. "Well.. . " Martine looked at Joe. This did give her time to call home and find out how everyone was doing in her absence. Her expression became a bit less harried. Then Data told Geordi that Q had been in the hospital and Will and Worf learned almost by osmosis, and messengers started arriving with elaborate baskets of fruit and flowers. And all of a sudden they were there in person, Will, Worf, Geordi and Patsy. "Who's taking care of Ginger!" Data was panic-struck. "Chris and Pen," Geordi assured him. Martine heard the role call and nearly fainted. Will had brought Q a Gameboy. He shared it with Sebastiana. Worf glared at everything. Patsy climbed on Q's lap and demanded all the attention and Geordi learned his way around the house while Mrs. Tyler stared in amazement and Jean-Luc made a conscious choice not to murder even one person. "This is my band," he introduced them all around, "and this is Sebastiana. And this," he ran his large hand over Sebastiana's ever-increasing stomach, "is my son Pierre." "No, it's your little girl," Sebastiana corrected, and they gave each other strained smiles. It was now just a joke between them. Martine kept a close watch. The "Boys" sure had a nerve calling themselves that. But they all treated her daughter with grave courtesy. They were polite and deferential towards her, and her spoiled daughter took full advantage. Martine nodded to herself. When all this was over, she was going to take her unruly daughter down a peg or two. In the driveway, Q's rental gathered spiders under a fir tree. Jean-Luc's Caddy was next to Sebastiana's red Mercedes which her mother was now driving; then there was a Jeep for Worf and Will with a baby seat Patsy, and the two nurses' sturdy cars. Jean-Luc stared at all the various vehicles and felt better. Worf rumbled up behind him and touched his shoulder. Jean-Luc sighed and settled back against him, relieved to let go a little. "If you weren't here, I don't know what I would do," he said. "Woe to liars," Worf said "I certainly can't lean on Q like this." "Liar," Worf insisted. "You lean on everybody." He was like an old oak, or a sequoia planted so deep in the ground that he would not go anywhere, no matter what. Jean-Luc stayed where he was. So he leaned on people? So the fuck what? "I can't have any Q?" Worf teased. "I know I want some." Jean-Luc was shocked. (Worf was watching him carefully.) Data. Petite and precise. Data would do anything. "Worf, let's fuck Data. Just like old times." Geordi brought out a strange maternal quality in Martine; she loved cooking for him as he stayed in the kitchen strumming exotic stringed instruments or devising new uses for the Cuisinart. Those so-called Boys couldn't be too bad if a fine man like Geordi laForge (and what a pretty name!) was a part of them. Data found himself being dragged into one of the guest bedrooms. "Just look at what we found," Jean-Luc said. "Looks good," Worf said. "I beg your pardon." Data was very formal. "We're lonely," Jean-Luc began to rub Data's back; "we want some loving. You're cute, did anyone ever tell you that?" "We heard your husband was blind. He'll never know what we did to you." "Show us your tits," Jean-Luc said. "I like titty." "I could not do that," Data said. Prim. Maddening. Worf rubbed the front of his jeans against Data's side. "Ummm," he said. "No, you must not," Data said, sliding his pale cool eyes over to Worf. "Pull her panties down, Jean-Luc." "All right," and Jean-Luc got on his knees and began to undress the writhing Data – when his pants and briefs were down to his ankles, Jean-Luc leaned back to admire his handiwork. Data was stiff, already leaking a little, and his sallow skin was flushed. "There she is, Worf," he said as he stood back up. Worf was methodically stroking the front of his own jeans and pressing himself against Data's small firm buttocks. "Let me get some first, Jean-Luc. I've got the lube right here." And he unzipped his pants and sat down, his long hard cock rampant in the air. "Now that your panties are off, you can sit on Worf's lap. We'll all have a good time." "No, you must not do this," Data said as Jean-Luc pushed him down on Worf's lap. "No, you mustn't," he repeated as Worf worked himself into Data. And suddenly Data was completely pinioned on Worf's huge dick, and Worf's eyes rolled back in his head as Data ground back and forth against him. Jean-Luc finished undressing Data as Data was being soundly fucked by the panting Worf and suddenly Worf and Jean-Luc exchanged a look and Worf was still. "Where's Jean-Luc's little piece of poon?" Jean-Luc said, and he had his pants off and he lifted Data's legs and held them level with his hips as he entered Data. "Jean-Luc, what are you doing?" Data said in a panicky voice. "Nothing, just getting some," Jean-Luc was not really listening to Data - he was inside him moving back and forth against Worf whose breath was raspy, solid-sounding. "I know it must feel good." Data was limp and panting. "No, please. No. Please." "You know you want it," Worf said in Data's ear. "No, no." "Come on, bitch, quit that lying or it'll be much worse." Data's eyes were closed and Worf's dark hands were on his chest, on his nipples, caressing and pulling them into small points of sensation. "I want more dick," he whispered. "Okay, touch yours so I can see it," Jean-Luc said. And Data needed no encouraging to put his hand down against himself: "Can we not make it last a long time? This is so pleasurable." And he began a leisurely stroke as he backed himself against his partners. Jean-Luc pushed and pulled back rhythmically, his eyes never leaving Data's caressing hand. "Data, put your other hand on your tits. Worf, you can support him." "Take it all, bitch," Worf gasped. Oh, he loved feeling Jean-Luc's slick cock next to his in Data's narrow channel. He felt as if his skin were on fire. "Did you do this with that big cocksucker Spock?" Jean-Luc said. And Data's eyes opened and his legs spread even further and his hand moved faster and he began to come on Jean-Luc's stomach and he said, "yes, yes, Spock had a big one. I fucked myself," he whispered, "I fucked myself all the time with it, Jesus Christ," and he fell still. "Don't stop, whore, we still need to come," Jean-Luc hissed at him. "Was it big as Q's, did you suck it like a bitch, did you get down on your hands and knees while Geordi stuck it in your ass and Spock made you take it in his mouth?" "Yes, yes, yes," Data's hands were dreamily stroking his own chest. "You know I did them both in the hot tub almost every night. Then they made me get out and jerk off so they could see it." Jean-Luc's eyes were closed tight: "Oh, really," he said, as he envisioned it, and suddenly he was coming and Worf grabbed Data all the more tightly, moving his hands down between Data's pale thighs and pulling Data's small tight body against him and then Worf was coming also. It was almost as if they had been sleeping or dreaming and were suddenly awake. Jean-Luc pulled out and then sat on the side of the bed, his head lowered, his shoulders slumped. Worf pumped into Data a couple of times more and then his big softening cock fell out against Data's ass, and Data turned over so he faced Worf and they began to exchange soft open-mouthed kisses. "Thank you," Worf said softly. "Thank YOU," Data kissed him again. "You performed very well," Worf patted Data's back. "As did you." "I know what you're doing," Jean-Luc said suddenly. "I'm all right. I'm just thinking." Worf's eyes met Data's. They nodded at each other. "Q's all right. So's the little girl. I've been through a lot worse than this." Then he added, "Let's get cleaned up." |
