The Promised Land, Book TwoPart ThreeData eventually came to understand that taking care of momma, poppa, and family was the righteous thing to do. Geordi's brothers and sisters sold their parents' old house and shrewdly invested the money in cable companies and convenience stores. They became very prosperous due to Geordi's largess, and Geordi was pleased with their pragmatism. He had no intention of letting them feed off him, and was, in fact, rather strict about how much he would give away. "I had to earn this money, so don't waste it," he told one niece. "If you fail another class, I'm not giving you any more." Once he brought the whole family out to L.A. for a nice vacation. However, for all their impressive new education, they still had some very country ways. Like the sweet rubes they were, they'd bought matching outfits for every day of their visit. When Data saw this, he went out to the same chain store and bought identical clothes for himself and Geordi. And while they all went sightseeing, he made sure he and Geordi wore the same outfits as the rest of the family. Geordi never knew they all matched. The tabs also found what was left of Worf's family. His foster parents had not lived to see Worf released from prison. His foster brother Paul was the only one left. The press made much of the fact that Paul's wife was black. The brothers, they reported, had sworn a pact before Worf went into prison. As a token of their brotherly affection, they each promised to marry someone from the other's race. This was news to Worf and Paul. The press hounded Paul for stories about his younger brother, but Paul was repulsed by them. Eventually he relented enough to explain that he was the one who nicknamed him Worf because, when Worf was a baby, Paul couldn't pronounce the word ‘Ralph.' Worf found his number and called him when he saw the article. It was the first time they'd talked in over ten years. "It's me," Worf said into the receiver. There was silence, then, "I read about you in the paper." "Okay." "I mean that time with Deanne." "Okay." "I went down to the courthouse every day." "I didn't see you." "I know." A silent minute passed. "So you got a kid now." "Yep." "If mom and dad had ever seen that guy you're with, they'd . . . I don't know what they'd do." "Yeah, I know." More silence. "Well, I guess I'd better be going." "Why don't you come on out and see us? See the baby." "I don't want to put you out any." "No bother. You and your wife could meet everybody." "Well, okay." Eventually Paul brought his pretty little bride out for a visit. Her name was Cassidy. He looked around. Finally he said, "This is nice." Worf swelled with pride. The tabloids didn't do well with Data's family. The Soong compound was guarded by massive electrified gates. They could only show dim gray photographs of the buildings in the hot Texas sun. Data's father was described as a "Mystery Man". "Essentially, they are correct. My father is a bit of a mystery" was all Data had to say. The tabloids beseeched the Crushers to speak. They wanted pictures of "Gay Dad's Three Boys". But Bubba, Sonny, and Junior were holding out for much bigger bucks from Q himself. Meanwhile Beverly was having modestly consistent good luck whenever she contacted Q with demands for the boys. She started by asking for money for practical things like shoes, clothes, food, visits to the doctors. Q would let himself be gulled but only so much. He was careful not to send Beverly very much in the way of cash. He asked for sizes and sent clothes and shoes as needed. He paid the doctor bills and hoped and prayed that some of the money he sent her for food was actually spent for that purpose. When he talked to his boys on the phone, he gently tried to ferret out the details of their care without alerting them to the fact that he was spying on their mother. Beverly meant well, but the brothers were poison. What he heard was somewhat dismaying, so one day he had a lovely, chatty conversation with Beverly's mother, the upshot of which was an arrangement with a local food store to give Mrs. Crusher a five-hundred dollar a week credit. "Even three boys can't eat that much," she protested. "Well, I certainly don't mind sharing," he countered. "That way there'll be enough for everybody." Beverly continued to ask for modest amounts of money. The windows in the back bedroom needed fixing or the boys would catch cold. The brothers' trucks were all getting old; who would drive the boys around? Q was unstintingly generous. "She is the mother of my children," he told a scornful Jean-Luc. "She hasn't borne any child of yours," Jean-Luc pointed out. "Yes, she has," Q answered quietly. "Those are my sons." He sent her several thousand dollars so she could buy a nice used car, but he was afraid she'd give the money straight to her brothers. Beverly didn't even have a driver's license. With Jean-Luc's family, there was a bit of luck. A photographer in Virginia once saw Jean-Luc walking down the street and snapped his picture. To his surprise, Jean-Luc had no reaction; he just walked into a nearby laundromat. The photographer followed Jean-Luc. "Jean-Luc?" he said. Jean-Luc looked at him as he got change to buy some detergent. "Aren't you Jean-Luc Picard?" "You're half right. My name is Picard. I'm Armand Picard." The photographer looked at him closely. There was a subtle difference. "You're his brother!" "Whose?" "Jean-Luc Picard's!" "Never heard of him." Armand was lying. He remembered his little brother Jean-Luc. Then a fan in Georgia saw Jean-Luc in a bar in Savannah. Jean-Luc was chatting up the waitress. "Jean-Luc Picard!" Jean-Luc smiled. "Wrong, buddy. I'm Jean-Pierre Picard." The truth was that Jean-Luc did have two older brothers who joined the army as soon as they could, leaving little Jean-Luc to face their father alone. They were both overseas when their mother died, and no one bothered to tell them. Then, one behind the other, they came drifting back through town on their way to parts unknown. Kindly neighbors sat them down and told them their momma was dead. It didn't take much guessing to figure that their dad pretty much had driven her to death. When time passed and they later found out that the old man was discovered dead in the bottom of a ravine, it didn't take much more guessing to see their little brother behind it. They occasionally thought about this, but they did it separately. They never talked to one another. The oddest thing was that all three looked exactly alike, three baldheaded peas in a pod with deep set, hard little eyes. And when somebody said to them "Jean-Luc?" (which happened more and more often), both older brothers answered exactly the same way, even though they knew their baby brother's name: "Never heard of him. Nope, no kin to me." "But your last name is Picard, too." They shrugged. It meant nothing to them. One of them was in and out of jail and one of them was a crazy alcoholic who'd had three wives. He never laid a hand on any of the wives, but he terrified them with his rages and finally they gave up and left. The Picard boys were resourceful though, and they did okay for themselves. They survived in this hellhole of a world and that was that. A persistent reporter tracked both of them down and asked them about their famous homosexual singer brother. He took their picture when they weren't looking and captured the same bald head and big nose and hard eyes. He ran the pictures in the tabloids. "What about these brothers of yours?" he asked Jean-Luc at a press conference. (Jean Luc didn't know why but that question made him extraordinarily uncomfortable.) "I don't have any brothers." But then, almost like a dream, he had a recall of a boy whom he loved, a boy who sang a French song to him when he was very young. He said: "Jean-Pierre?" It came out 'Zhompyay.' The reporter said, "That's him, that's one of your brothers." Jean-Luc was very still. "Well, don't bother him." The reporter was flabbergasted. None of the brothers had any emotion on hearing about the other two. (Finally Armand showed up in Hollywood. "They said they'd give me 20 grand if I'd come talk to you. I've got three ex-wives. I could use the bread." "I see." The cameras clicked away at this historic moment. Armand looked stunned for a second; then he relaxed. This was proof that the deal had been done. The brothers walked out where no one could hear them. Jean-Luc said, "turn your head this way, or they'll catch every word out of our mouths." They had a modest reunion. Jean-Luc said, "You went to Korea?" Armand nodded. "You killed people?" "Well, I stopped when I got back stateside." His younger brother had something else on his mind. He said, "I guess you know about maman." Armand gave him a hard look. "Et pere aussi." Jean-Luc shrugged. After a moment, his brother shrugged. That was that. Later, Armand went to the tabloid office and collected the money. They never saw each other again.) Meanwhile Jean-Pierre (in a rare non-jailhouse interlude) had gotten another job. He was a janitor in a girl's dormitory at a big southeastern college. And because of who he was and how he looked, he got more nooky than the football captain, at least until he was fired. ************************* Q was very fond of the electronics shop ladies who had installed their intercom. By now they were on a first-name basis with one another, and he and Will liked to hang around their shop because it was calm and peaceful, and the ladies were always glad to see them, especially when they brought Patsy, which they always did. One day they dropped by the shop to find a 'for rent' sign tucked in the corner. "Great," said Q hopefully. "You're going to a bigger shop?" Chris was silent, but Uhura said, "The mall owner wants to revamp everything and put a day spa in here. I think it's a lovely idea, but we have to move." "Oh. Couldn't you find another place?" Pen smiled wryly. "It's much more complicated than that. It took us forever to find this place. Our clients like privacy." "Ah." Now their bizarre location made sense. Q took a deep breath. "I have an idea. We have a big old empty pool house. And we need someone to watch Patsy for us sometimes. And it's plenty private. We could make a trade. You could move in with us, and we'd have someone to keep an eye on our little girlchild." Will's face lit up. "YES! PLEASE! That's a brilliant idea, Q." They were poised and professional; Patsy would do well under their influence. "And you wouldn't have to leave the area." They looked at each other. Upenda had the baby in her arms and was babbling to her again. Patsy was smiling and waving her hands. Christine shook her head. "We have a lot of personal electronics equipment. We spend a lot of time with it." "You could keep it with you in the pool house, couldn't you? And you could help us out with our recording. We really need folks like you." "We have private clients," Uhura purred. "We wouldn't mind." Q had always noticed that they never had any other customers around. "Well, how big is your pool house?" So Uhura and Christine moved into the pool house and now there were women always around, lesbians the boys were tickled to find out. Will bragged that he had known it all long. The ladies had a very long-term relationship, and they were the oldest couple, of any stripe, the Boys knew. Will was very proud of that. Uhura sang to Patsy in the pool house. When she and Christine moved in, Jean-Luc raised his eyebrows at the mysterious electronics stuff they brought with them. But they let Patsy play with the old stuff and they more than once fixed up the Boys' studio when Data and Geordi couldn't, so he tolerated them. And even though they had their own apartment in the poolhouse, Will wanted the Girls to stay near Patsy. So he got rid of his big waterbed and moved in a nice queen-sized bed. It didn't matter; he always slept with Worf anyway. The ladies proved to have their own way of doing things. They had very definite ideas about what was best for Patsy. They gave her organic baby food with Q's approval and read her stories and took her to baby swim class and story hours at the local library. And, once in a while they had mysterious customers. Data told Q, "I went to get Patsy to show her that new toy I had purchased. Did you know they have very sophisticated surveillance support equipment in there, some of which, in fact, may be illegal to possess?" "Oh, I know." Q recognized some of it from his time with Fajo. "But this is LA." It sure was L.A. And they had L.A. problems. One time, Christine brought in some hussy for a couple nights' special amusement. Jean-Luc really lifted his eyebrows then. Uhura was smirky and utterly calm. Q gently asked her, "It doesn't bother you?" Uhura just shrugged. "Her? Janice Rand? I don't think so. I don't like blondes except for Chris, or I might be in there too. Let her have her fun." Typical L.A. story. Q was amazed. When Guinan came over to discuss video shoots, he told her all about it. "I'd like to be like Upenda when Jean-Luc fucks around. She's so . . . tolerant." "How long have Penda and Chris been together?" "30 years." Guinan just looked at him wisely. "Guinan, do you think in 30 years I'll be that calm?" "I think in 30 years you'll have no choice." * * * Q put his foot down."Yes, we are having Patsy baptized. I can't carry that on my conscience if . . . something happened." Will looked horrified. "And I think we should go to the Metropolitan Community Church. They're gay, you know." So they went. It was weird, all six of them standing there while Will held the baby. The minister had long dreads like Worf's. She took the baby from them and said lovely things about new life and new chances. Will teared up. That was it exactly. Just a few years ago, he'd come to Worf with all his worldly goods in two paper bags. He hadn't even owned the instrument he played. Now he was a father, a responsible citizen. He owned one sixth of a great big house and he had a husband and a family. How had he ever gotten so lucky? Q noticed the tears in Will's eyes, and he teared up too. He'd held three children at the altar like this, promising God that he would do his best, come what may. Worf glanced over at Will. Will looked back at his lover, and the pride and vindication on his face made him look like a completely different human being. 'Look at me,' his expression seemed to say. 'I'm real, I'm whole, and this is the proof of it.' Worf was surprised. Was this what he'd been seeing in Will all this time? Dignity? Identity? Worf had wanted this for him in an undefined way, but had resigned himself to the fact that Will would always be... weak, in some ways. But now here was Will, holding his eye, making Worf understand that he was right about this, and he knew it. And the tension Worf had carried ever since Patsy's arrival suddenly relaxed. He suddenly knew that what had been done to Will didn't matter; his lover was going to do right by their squirming, fretful daughter. He decided he was proud of Will -- proud of his family. Jean-Luc glowered. He hadn't been in a church in decades, and he mistrusted the whole deal. But he was here because he wouldn't be left out. To the other side of Will and Worf, he heard Data faithfully whispering the details to Geordi. Patsy was kicking. Will's face and eyes were red, his expression triumphant. The minister was dripping water on Patsy's head. She was holding Patsy up high in her arms. Now she was droning on. Jean-Luc gritted his teeth. This was such horseshit. He wondered what was in it for her besides the hundred dollars she charged. There had to be something or else she wouldn't bother doing this. Aha. She was posing with them; he knew those pictures would turn up in the papers. Well, relief was in sight. Melinda was due back soon. * * * Dark spicy perfume, long reddish-brown hair, fingernail polish, laughter. Tits. A vision. She brought the baby a sterling silver bracelet. Will gasped at the beauty of it; he loved getting baubles for Patsy. "She's going to be much worse than I ever was, Willy," she told him. Then she went to pick her up. "I know how to hold babies, guys. Remember when I was the crack-addict mom in that afternoon TV special!" She sat with Patsy whose eyes were wider than ever. "I love your shoes, Patsy. Manolo Blahniks, right? Geez, I wish my feet were perfectly round like yours." She kissed the top of Patsy's fragrant head. "I can't wait til you're older. You and me'll do the town; we'll need an 18-wheeler to haul the boyfriends." Jean-Luc leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. Was the world insane? He had been relieved for a while, assuming that Patsy would keep keep Q busy while he and Melinda fooled around, but now Melinda, too, was entranced by Patsy. Patsy began to wail. Melinda was unperturbed. "Oh, no, Will! It's one of those science-fiction personality swaps! This must not be Patsy; maybe it's... Bratsy!" They all laughed and Will took her back. "She cries if she sees me or hears me and I'm not holding her." He tucked her into the crook of one arm and bounced her on his knee. Patsy's wail turned into a whine and then stopped altogether. "I'm very impressed," Melinda leaned over to give Patsy a broad wink. "Always give ‘em hell, Pats, til you get what you want. Meanwhile, I think I'll get what I want. Jean-Luc?" "It's about time." Q watched Jean-Luc's eyes meet Melinda's; he didn't mean to be, but he was always silent when Melinda was around. * * * They went to her house. Her maid opened the door, and Melinda hugged her. "Elena!" "Melinda!" Everyone was equal to Melinda. Then the maid nodded at Jean-Luc and left; the maid knew her mistress very well. In Melinda's bedroom, she sat down on a chair near the bed. "That was a sweet domestic scene, Boy." "Too sweet." "I wish Q wouldn't look at me that way." "Q who?" Melinda made a tiny moue. "Melinda, Q isn't like you. He's just . . . property." He sat on the bed. "The newspapers say you pimped him." "I sure did. It was hot." They smiled at each other. Nothing timid about either of them. "Would you pimp him to me if I asked you? Tell you what, Boy. I'll give you a million dollars for one night with that big hot whore of yours. A million big ones. I'll even let you watch." Jean-Luc was surprised at how tempted he was by this vision, but he shook his head. "You're trying to confuse me, aren't you? You want my head to explode. I'd have to film it so that I could watch it over and over again." Melinda clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Boy, you're no good at cameras. Let's do something else." "Like what?" Jean-Luc was relieved to be off the subject of Melinda fucking Q. There was no way he could mix and match Q and Melinda. For an answer, she walked over and pulled up her skirt. Of course, she was naked from the waist down and all Jean-Luc had to do was lean over and begin kissing and licking her exquisite sex and she started moaning. "I've been wet since I got off the plane," she explained. After the first bout of love, they lay together, him holding her warm smooth skin next to him. "Apparently I just saved myself a million dollars," she murmured. "I don't need anybody else." "Good. Besides, if I rented him out to you, you might steal him from me and then where would I be?" "Oh, I assure you I would definitely steal him," Melinda laughed. "I'd stick a vibrating butt plug up his ass and suck him off every night." Jean-Luc didn't answer for a bit because he was too busy feeling himself up. Q with a butt plug up his ass. What a vision. At dusk, Jean-Luc took her out for a ride in his restored Caddy. She said, "You want to see something pretty?" "Sure, get it out." "Jean-Luc, I mean in the world," and she began to give him directions. Soon they were parked outside a darkened mansion on a high hill looking at the lights of L.A. "Whose place is this, baby?" Jean-Luc said. "This producer I know. Right now he's in Pago Pago, I think, but he said I could stop by whenever. I've used his fuck-shack many a time." And right there in the driveway overlooking the city, she began to pull off her dress, her underwear, and then she threw it all in the back seat. Now she was relaxing against the door of the convertible, completely naked except for her shoes. "Oh, don't I look like a porn princess? But I probably wouldn't do this except for you, Boy. Are you hard yet?" Jean-Luc was hard as he could be. But that was almost irrelevant. He looked at her – her legs open, her dark sex bright and waiting under that silly flag tattoo on her flat stomach, her full firm breasts, the open car, and behind her the vast city blinking. "Melinda, for some reason I want to marry you." It was so quiet they heard each other's blood beating. "Yes on all levels, Boy." "Get out of the car. Sit on its hot hood. Let me fuck you there. Spread out on the city." * * * For the ride home, she had put her dress halfway on and left her underwear off completely. "Boy, did you mean it?" "I'm afraid so." "When?" "Soon as possible is best." "You know I have a career. This prison movie is important to me. And the space-pharaoh thing is going to be in post-production forever. I keep getting called back to loop new lines." "Melinda, that stuff is shit and you know it. Let's get married next month. August. We'll go somewhere exotic, have a king-hell wingding and a big fucking honeymoon, and then we'll both get back to work." "Look behind you." "Huh?" Then Jean-Luc's prison reflexes kicked in. He wheeled the car around, t-boning and then going the other way. It was the tabloid press again. * * * Q loved decorating for the holidays. Any holidays. He had the dining room replastered and painted a soft gold; twinkle lights hung from the molding. For Christmas, there were white twinkle lights. For Halloween, he had very spooky orange ones. And for Independence Day, he put red and blue lights among the white ones. He and Will carried Patsy around the room and showed her the lights. She was wearing a fluffy dress of white lawn with little American flags embroidered on the hem. Her little socks were red, white and blue, like the smocking on the bodice. Jean-Luc came in and sat down at the head of the polished table. He was dressed very casually and he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. Waiting. Q felt a chill. Will felt it too. He looked a timid question at Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc jerked his head at the door and Will took his daughter back from Q and quietly left the room. Q stayed by the lights. "Q," Jean-Luc's tone was not unkind. "You're no fool. You know what I'm about to say." Q felt the room get colder. His eyes widened. He slumped against the wall with his arms folded around him. "Nothing will change really. I'll still come back and fuck you every now and then. The band will still record and tour. But I'm moving on. I'm going to marry Melinda and we're going to live in her house." Q nodded. "I never made you any promises," Jean-Luc continued. Then, because it sounded like he might be trying to justify himself, he added, "I'm out of here, starting now." Q said nothing. "Don't give me that silent shit," Jean-Luc leaned forward; he seemed suddenly dangerous. "I'll help with the wedding," Q offered. His voice was weak, but quite clear. "Good girl. That's more like it. And you like that kind of thing. It'll be fun for you." Q stayed by the dining room window, watching Jean-Luc walk down the driveway, and he saw as if for the first time again Jean-Luc's impeccable posture, his perfect proportions, the muscular arms and legs moving gracefully forward against the warm air. Jean-Luc passed the roadies doing yard work out front; they nodded respectfully. Then he pointed something out to them. They looked away to where Jean-Luc was pointing and nodded again. And then he got in his big Caddy and, with a bang and clatter, Jean-Luc hit the road. Will and Data were suddenly behind Q. "He's gone, isn't he?" said Will. "Yes," said Q, "he's gone." Part Four: Into the Beyond. The only thing that made Q smile was the wedding planner, a tall pale languid man who always dressed in black. His name was Charles Crosis, but everybody called him Very-Very because of the way he talked. He was the best, the most expensive events coordinator in Hollywood. Q admired his cool efficiency and followed him around, watching, learning. Crosis did a brilliant job because nothing was beyond his grasp. So, when he found out that the happy couple wanted to get married in Hawaii, he didn't bat an eye. Q hung out in his office and watched Crosis. Crosis smoothly anticipated crises both major and minor, handling them all with cool aplomb. Crosis called Scotland to have salmon sent to Maui. When the panicked chef called to say he couldn't get salmon, Crosis was able to reassure him that he would have it. "Oh, and by the way," he informed the high-strung chef de cuisine, "be prepared to work with either black truffles or white because, unless you know a very very good source for black this time of year, white may be all we can get. Yes, yes, I know you'll do your best," he reassured. He hung up on the mollified cook and then called his source for beluga caviar. Yes, only a few pounds, a month from now. Regards to Vanya." There was only one butcher he worked with, a man in Texas who grew free-range organic beef which he slaughtered and hung himself. Six weeks, really, was the minimum for very very tender hung game, he told Q while he waited on hold for the Texan to come in from his pastures, so he was going to make do with some nice prime rib instead. And the lobster chicks were coming in from Maine the week before in a special tank. Chicks were very small and unimpressive to look at, but they had very very tender meat, and he was planning for two a piece, so that should do. "Sit down and look at these," he ordered Q. He handed him a big portfolio. "Do you know her colors?" Q had no idea what he meant. "Colors?" "Most brides have a color theme. They pick one or two colors and we work around them. Now, I've got to select the flowers, and I'm thinking of hibiscus for a splash of exuberance, but that means pink or red. I can get bamboo orchids which are lovely but they have yellow centers and you know how fussy brides can be about having everything match. We can go with Chinese Violet which is mauve, or passionflower and we can trail it around the altar. It makes a very very lovely bloom, but ultimately we need to get the bride involved, don't you think?" "Well, actually they left everything up to me," Q demurred. Crosis stopped his busy chatter and looked at Q over his glasses. He had heard all the gossip from his friends and had almost turned this job down -- hillbillies, even rich ones, weren't his cup of tea, but Q seemed very very nice when he talked to Crosis on the phone, his soft, accented speech quite intriguingly at odds with his incisive inquiries. And, then too, look at the man! "Well, if it's all been left up to you, it can't help but be perfect," Crosis responded easily. "No, really," he said into Q's skepticism. "You have very very nice taste. I was afraid you were going to go for gaudy and overblown, but I really like your choices." That got him a smile. Crosis smiled back. He'd watched Q as he talked to hotels and florists and wine merchants, and, the more he looked, the more he liked what he saw. Listen, doll," he flirted gently. "I'm keeping your number, and, when all this is over I'm taking you to lunch. We're going to go out and get very very plastered." "That's awfully nice except I don't drink." "Well, then just come have lunch with me," he said soothingly to Q. "You're going to need something to keep yourself distracted." Q's face grew sad. He looked down at the portfolio. "I don't think these are her colors." Crosis shook his head again. "Don't worry, my husband isn't going to come after us with a pistol or anything, I just think you're going to need a friend or an occasional shoulder. You know, I want to be very very honest with you," he lied to Q with absolute charm, "all gay men don't want in your pants. Just lunch." Q smiled. "I'd like that." The wedding would be sumptuous in every direction. "Shrimp, lobster, prime rib, caviar, truffles," Q told Johnny as they tried on their tuxes. "Three different pates, smoked salmon, quail eggs in aspic." "What's aspic?" "It's like jellied consomme." Jean-Luc looked at his lover across the table and thought, 'In less than a week I won't ever have to put up with this again.' But secretly he was pleased at Q's efficiency. * * * Suddenly everyone was at the beautiful old thirties hotel they'd rented for the wedding. It sat on stone terraces which led to a private white-sand beach. Melinda's parents had been flown in from Chicago. The Boys flew in with Patsy (who cried and cried until she fell asleep) and the whole thing was costing almost a quarter of a million dollars but Jean-Luc and Melinda looked radiantly happy. It was one of the most beautiful places anyone had ever seen, but sadness floated through the lovely rooms like a little cloud. Data's heart tore at the sight of Q alone in his hotel room. It wasn't the way things should be. "I..." Data was not always good at expressing empathy. "I wish to know... how you are holding up." Q smiled. "Thanks, Data. That's nice of you." But Data noticed that Q hadn't answered the question. Jean-Luc and Melinda were out being photographed for their wedding album. At the registration desk; holding hands on the beach; eating in the restaurant. Q was unnecessary, and redundant, and he had no real choice but to make himself scarce. "Geordi is rehearsing," Data offered clumsily. "I thought we might spend some time together." He reached out to take Q's hand. Q looked at him suspiciously. "Shall I leave?" "No. Stay." And Data came into his arms. His kiss was very comforting and gentle, and Q smiled around it. "What?" "You're being very nice, Data." "You are my friend, Q." Making love with Data was a nice distraction. It took his mind off the fact that he was counting down the hours until Jean-Luc permanently and irrevocably walked out of his life. Data was a surprisingly good lover. They took their clothes off and got in Q's bed and took their time. * * * 'Well, I've managed to kill two more hours,' Q thought. It was a dark bit of irony that when he closed his eyes he could pretend he was holding Jean-Luc because Data was nearly the same size. * * * Jean-Luc's bachelor party was the night before the wedding. But, although some of the men at Jean-Luc's bachelor party had a wonderful time, on the whole it was not a success. The co-hosts were Worf and Q. The irony of this did not escape anyone. They rented a small but expensive dining hall decorated with a jungle motif and hired some hula-boy whores to entertain. Quark was there; he was oddly despondent. "Things would be so much easier if I were queer." Q looked at him. "That's the most Martian thing I've ever heard you say, Quark." Worf was never sunny, so his disposition did not change, but Will intended to enjoy himself. Chris and Upenda loved Hawaii (although they certainly had a lot of luggage and there was some strange argument at the airport about it), and they took Patsy everywhere with them. It was the first break from parenting Will and Worf had had in months. It was almost like a honeymoon for them. When the hula-boys started to strut their (in some cases amazing) stuff, Will took off his Hawaiian shirt and waved it around his head. Q sat loyally at Jean-Luc's table. Neither of them said much. Geordi and Data sat near them, very quiet as well. One of the hula-boys took a shine to Geordi and kept edging nearer to their table as he danced. He smelled wonderful because he was slathered in coconut oil -- and he was wearing an orchid on a leather cord around his neck. Data found him distracting. Since Kira was the matron of honor, Bareil was at the bachelor party. He was baffled but not displeased by the ferocious oiled boys threading their rapacious way through the tables. He murmured noncommital compliments as they came near him. Only the roadies were unambivalent. Klag, Gowron, and Kurn all called for louder music, cried for more coconuts filled with exotic liquors, and shouted for the hula boys to shake their stuff faster. They told them to put on a little show and, when Will finally gave in and took off all his clothes and became an honorary hula-boy, the roadies were boundlessly delighted. And they laughed uproariously when the hula-boys began to take liberties with the naked Will. Even Worf, intoxicated by the joy on Will's face and knowing full well his woman was not seriously seduced by the mischievous hula-boys, laughed as well. They both needed some R and R, and he enjoyed seeing Will lose himself. Besides, Will could have all the hula-boy fun in the world and that would only be an appetizer for Worf fucking him raw when they got back to their hotel room. He spread his knees in anticipation. His woman sure had a fine big willing ass. Klag stood up and brought his out! Kurn and Gowron went wild with merriment! "But what about the boss-man's presents! Let's have presents! We want to give the boss-man our presents!" And everyone settled down a bit, entwining themselves with each other and with the hula-boys, and watched Jean-Luc unwrap his bachelor party presents. Will and Worf gave Jean-Luc a package of designer thong underwear. Jean-Luc blinked at them. They were the exact same design and color as the ones Q wore. Jean-Luc smiled a little and waved them around. Data and Geordi gave Jean-Luc a tape recording of sensual designer music. Its pulsing subharmonics simulated the rhythm of human sexual intercourse in seven minute cycles from fast to slow to fast. The effect was hypnotic, making you feel like fucking even though the throbbing bass was barely audible below the trilling flutes and strings. They guaranteed Jean-Luc would be very pleased with its effects. Bareil who didn't quite get it gave Jean-Luc a tourist-type hula skirt. Q gave Jean-luc a small but exquisite statuette of a seated Indian Goddess. "Her name is Kamala," Q explained. "She is the Goddess of beauty and abundance. Not that you need her help in that arena." His smile was very polite. Everyone else smiled politely too. The roadies had the best gift. It was a box of love toys from Captain Bart's Love Shack right outside the base at Pearl Harbor. Jean-Luc really liked the roadies with their dark joie de vivre; he smiled and thumped their backs. "Look at this: it's the Gopher!" Klag said. A vibrator with two heads. "And this is the Flying Saucer!" The Flying Saucer came with little belts so Melinda could wear it around all day. "And look at this! A vibrating buttplug!" Jean-Luc looked at that closely. Creams. Ointments. Stay-Long Gel! "And Quark bought the batteries!" Kurn added. Then Klag put his foot in it: "Now who'll get your old queen?" They all grew silent. With no change of expression, Kurn backhanded Klag in the stomach. Jean-Luc jumped to his feet. And stood before them. No one was less frightened of facing down a crowd than Jean-Luc. "Nobody gets her. It's all still mine." He pointed from man to man. "This is my band. You roadies are mine. Quark, you belong to me too." He turned to look at Q. "All mine," he declared. He stood straighter than ever. "Any questions?" "No, boss," the roadies murmured and everyone else nodded. "I think this party's about over, what do you say? Worf, you and Will are leaving?" Worf nodded. "Then, Data, see that all these boys are tipped double. Q, you're with me. And bring that box," Jean-Luc wheeled around and walked off. Q followed diffidently. Kurn and Gowron began to pound the shit out of Klag. * * * He made Q insert it. It was big. "It hurts, Daddy," Q moaned. "Sit on it, motherfucker." Jean-Luc was masturbating and thinking of Melinda. He was so hot he ended up having Q fuck him while the buttplug was still up Q's ass. Q moaned more. The big buttplug in motion felt very good, and in his frenzy he gave Jean-Luc a Jean-Luc fuck -- taking forever, rolling him all over the bed. Then Q reached around while he was still inside Jean-Luc and pumped him off. They were grinding it out, cursing, fucking, going crazy. They collapsed on the bed after Jean-Luc was finished, sweaty all over and worn to a frazzle. Afterwards, Q said, "help me, Daddy." He turned his sweet ass to Jean-Luc so Jean-Luc could pull the buttplug out for him. Jean-Luc said in his beautiful voice, "I ought to leave it in there." "But it'll hurt," Q said. "So?" "I don't want it to hurt." "Okay, since you've been a good girl, I'll pull it out for you. This time. Here." He grasped it and twisted it out. Q groaned and collapsed, almost coming a second time, but a moment later he got up and staggered to the bathroom to wash it off. "See, Q, wasn't I good to you?" Jean-Luc called. "You sure were, Daddy." * * * The wedding took place in a natural rock chapel bursting with plumeria and bougainvillea. A tiny waterfall played in the background. Very-Very Crosis had choreographed it down to the last second. Jean-Luc stood at the end of the aisle. Worf was his second. Data, Q and Will sat in the first pew. On the other side were Melinda's bewildered parents. Q smiled through the whole thing. Then it was over, and they moved to the reception. Q stood and raised his glass high when it was time to toast the happy couple. The photographers snapped away. The food was delicious; the wines were perfect. The famous Hawaiian band playing all the Boys' biggest hits was quite amusing. But the bruised and bandaged roadies in ill-fitting rental tuxedos served as a warning of how close to the edge this wedding was. The oddly somber Quark nudged Q. "We need to go get drunk." "Why?" "Oh, lost loves, that kind of thing." "What have you lost?" Quark shrugged. "Doesn't matter now, does it?" He was already a little drunk. "You two had the most fucked-up relationship in American history. But you're no fool, and I'm not either. Neither of you would have stayed if you weren't getting something out of it. And now he wouldn't have the strength to marry Melinda if it hadn't been for you. Isn't that crazy? But that's love." And Quark wandered off. Q watched him leave. Q's secret wedding present to Jean-Luc was to be cool. Bareil helped. He came over and put his arm around Q's waist and held him tightly. It had nothing to do with erotic attraction and everything to do with solidarity, and they both understood that. They simply stood there for a moment; then Bareil gave him a parting squeeze and walked off again. |
