Love Reign O'er Me
by Ruth Gifford
and Varoneeka
(c)
 

"Only love
Can bring the rain
That makes you yearn to the sky.
Only love
Can bring the rain
That falls like tears from on high.

Love, Reign o'er me.
Love, Reign o'er me, rain on me.

On the dry and dusty road
The nights we spend apart alone
I need to get back home to cool cool rain.
The nights are hot and black as ink
I can't sleep and I lay and I think
Oh God, I need a drink of cool cool rain."

"Love, Reign O'er Me"
The Who
 
 

ean-Luc Picard awoke and snorted groggily.  He was used to waking up alert and aware, but now he felt more disoriented than normal.  Why, just this morning...As the fog cleared from his head, Picard  remembered that he'd already woken up today.  Opening his eyes, he blinked rapidly at the intense light that assaulted him and tried to remember what had happened.

Nothing.  Nothing had happened.  He'd been on the bridge of the Enterprise-E, turning to make a comment to Troi and then...Nothing.  Until here, wherever that was, and now, whenever that was.  He continued blinking, assuming he wasn't in Sickbay, because Beverly would never have the lights up like this unless she were performing an operation.  He didn't think he was on the table...He frowned and shook his head again; maybe he wasn't thinking as clearly as he thought.

"Come on, Jean-Luc," he muttered to himself.  "Take stock.”  His eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the light, and he looked around, still blinking a little.  It was astonishingly bright, and he suddenly realized that he was looking at sand:  light-colored sand, and a lot of it.  He blinked again and realized that he was lying on his side on the sand and staring at a low mound of it.  He listened carefully, but there was no indication that there was anyone near him.  No longer blinking, but still squinting at the strong light reflected off the sand, he sat up and cautiously looked around.

He was sitting on one side of ditch -- a “wadi,” his mind helpfully provided -- facing the  large dune that made up the other side of the wadi.  As he turned to look behind him, he found, to his relief, that he'd been sitting on a patch of ground that was made up of both sand and clumps of tough-looking gray-green grass.

*Good.  There should be water nearby.*

And he wanted some water; he was thirsty and hot.  Not painfully hot, but warmer than he was accustomed to being.  Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked around for the sun, finding it off to his left.  By the quality of the light he guessed that it was probably late morning; the sun wasn't at its zenith yet, nor was the ground giving off heat.  Still squinting, he stood up carefully.  In the same direction as the sun, he could see that the grass got thicker.  Deciding that the grass was a better bet than the wadi, he slowly walked in that direction, being careful to breathe through his nose.  If the grass didn't lead to a better environment, he'd try to find some sort of shelter, cover himself up as well as he could and wait for nightfall.  Hardly an appealing thought, but  then none of this was very appealing.

"Computer," he said, feeling a little foolish, but deciding to try anyway, "end program.”  Nothing happened.  "Q?”  he said, feeling even more foolish.  "Q?  Are you responsible for this?”   He was answered with the sound of a slight breeze hissing through the grass.  "Well, I had to try," he muttered, before remembering that he shouldn't be talking while dehydrated.  Settling into a careful pace, he tried to remember anything that would help.

There wasn't much to remember; the Enterprise had been en-route to Pacifica.  Released from McKinley Station six months ago following the repair of the extensive damage wrought by the “briar patch,” the ship had participated in the study of two gravitational anomalies, delivered equipment and supplies to a new Vulcan colony, and been involved in a long, tense trade negotiation involving a consortium of non-aligned planets, the Klingons and the Ferengi.  When the conference was over and Picard's new orders turned out to be a scientific mission that did not seem to be too urgent, he had requested and received permission to divert to Pacifica for some much needed R & R.

None of this explained the situation, whatever it was, in which he found himself now.  Running over the Enterprise's current flight plan in his head, Picard realized that there was no planet anywhere on their route that supported this kind of desert.  *Just splendid,* he thought.  *I'm in the middle of a desert, on an unknown planet, God knows how many light-years away from my ship.*  He smiled ruefully at his grumpiness, thinking that it would be easier to be the Stalwart Captain if he had anyone around to command or at least to see him.  *You're a fraud, Jean-Luc,* he thought with resigned amusement.

It was in this odd frame of mind that he crested a steep dune completely covered with grass.  He was trying not to pant as he came over the top, but he drew a deep breath in spite of himself and suddenly relaxed.  Even before he could see it, he knew there was water, and a fair amount of it, somewhere very close.  The air wasn't damp, but the light breeze carried the faint promise of moisture, and Picard could feel his tense muscles unknot a little.  This was a desert, and where there was water in the desert, there was also life.  He moved down the slope of the hill and quickly climbed the next, much lower, hillock.  And there it was, spread out below him, an oasis right out of an illustrated version of *1001 Arabian Nights.*  He paused -- the hill was much steeper on this side --and looked cautiously at the scene below.

Like a sapphire surrounded by emeralds, the oasis pond glittered in the bright sun.  There were trees at one edge of the water and grass around the trees.  There were also buildings, and other signs of civilization, but Picard was somehow certain that there was no one there.  It was far too quiet, considering that, in spite of the bright sun, it was still not excruciatingly hot.  In two or three hours, the silence could be explained by people dozing through the high heat, but now?

 *Of course, it could be a trap, you idiot,* he thought.  Not that it mattered if it were; there was nowhere else, other than back out into the desert, for him to go.  And so, slowly and cautiously, he moved down the hill toward the pond.  In spite of the fact that he remained sure that there was no one here, he held his arms slightly away from his body, trying to look harmless.  Although he didn't know it, the pose was shattered when a raucous squawk startled him and he moved immediately into a defensive crouch.  When he saw the colorful bird striding toward him imperiously, he smiled at his own jumpiness and straightened up a bit.  It squawked again before moving past him with an arrogant grandeur.  Picard, turning to look at the startlingly gaudy russet and gold plumage as the bird passed, thought that the arrogance was well deserved.  In the wake of the bird's passing he realized that the silence was only a lack of Human (for want of a better word) noises.  He could hear frog-like belching from the pond and there was something nearby that sounded like a cross between a quiet cow and a loud sheep.

Still, his heels sounded loud to him as he walked over the pale stone of the courtyard in front of the largest building.  "Is there anyone here?” he called out.  He received no answer, and hesitantly looked around.  The large building was U-shaped.  The two low wings that made up the arms of the U flanked an impressive pillared and arched facade, and the whole thing faced the pond.  The buildings were faced with a creamy ivory-colored stone that matched the surrounding sand, and were roofed with green tiles.  The green was echoed by the primarily green mosaic designs along the facing wall of the building.  The designs were flowing and sinuous and seemed somehow to add to the overall feeling of peace and tranquillity that pervaded the whole oasis.

Unsure of himself, Picard fought the feeling, wanting to be prepared if this place turned out to be a trap.  In this frame of mind, he slowly went up the nine shallow stairs that led to the main entrance of the building.  The door, a carved double door of green painted wood, was open and, feeling even more nervous, Picard hesitantly stepped through.

***

s he always this paranoid?*

*You'd be paranoid if *you'd* been through the things he has.*

The two energy swirls hovered inside the temple and watched Picard explore.  They weren't actually even in the same dimension, although one of them had scoffed at such precautions.  *You actually think he's going to notice us?* one of them had asked earlier.

*I don’t know,* its companion had replied, *but I see no reason to take risks.*

*I think he likes it,* one of the swirls now said.

*He's *supposed* to like it, you dolt.  After all you created it specifically to interest him.  Honestly, Q, what is it about this Human, anyway?*

*Ah ah, that's for me to know and you to find out.*

*That's for all of us to find out.*  As it spoke, Q's companion launched a lightning attack, an attack that was backed up by the weight of many more members of the Continuum.

As Q struggled to escape them, he shifted in time…

***

icard had been at the Temple of the Green Moons for four weeks (of nine days each) as measured on the temple calendar, and he still had no idea of how he'd been pulled from the Enterprise and sent here.  However, he now knew a great deal about the temple, the Goddesses of the Green Moons, the surrounding desert, and the people who lived beyond the desert.  He also knew that the Hithanytan (as they called themselves) did not send caravans out into the desert during the winter, and so, if he stayed here that long, it would be another three months (of 45 days each) before he saw anyone.  He didn't have to worry about supplies; there was plenty of food, both preserved and fresh.  The fresh food was courtesy of the garden, the spring-fed pond, the flock small gray birds called dhoji that reminded Picard of  guinea fowl, and the small herd of sheep-like chuptis that grazed on the tough desert grass.

In fact, every need he had was taken care of:  there were several lovely suites of rooms, there were clothes suited to the environment, and there was a small, but fascinating library in which he spent a fair amount of time.  The fact that he could read the flowing script of the books and scrolls was one more bizarre detail of the mystery in which he found himself living.

It was in the library that he first realized why he was caught up in this mystery, although there was still no answer for why it had happened to *him* as opposed to anyone else in the universe.  He found the information in "The Commentaries of the Sages," a far more useful text for historical reference than "The Three Books of the Green Moons," which was the main text of the local religion.  In the "Commentaries," Picard read that when the Old Moons granted rest to Their priests, They also provided a replacement.  On the third day of his time here, Picard had been exploring the nearby desert and had found a framework with a corpse lashed to it.  He had since learned that Hithanytan burial consisted of leaving the dead out in the desert for the carrion eaters.  So he had to assume that the dead man had been the Priest of The Goddesses and that now Picard was his successor.  He spent some time trying to figure out just who had taken care of the burial detail, before he realized that he might never know.

He had agonized over it quite a bit, and he still wasn't entirely comfortable with his decision.  And yet...The Hithanytan were his only hope of finding a way out of the desert; his explorations and reading had shown him that soon enough.  And one way to make sure they at least listened to him was to follow their traditions.  Therefore, every morning Jean-Luc Picard, the Captain of the Federation's flagship, found himself performing the simple, yet oddly moving Morning Rite, just as every evening he performed the corresponding Evening Rite.

He'd felt terribly self-conscious in the beginning but found that the elegant simplicity of the ceremonies called to something inside him.  That, above all else, worried him.  It had taken five *years* on Kataan before he finally accepted that he belonged there, but now, as the fifth week of his stay at the temple began, he had to fight the feeling that this was where he was supposed to be.  At first, he had suspected the incense that he burned on the altar in the temple, and stopped burning it for over a week.  It did not change that feeling of belonging, except that he had worried that he wasn't following the rite correctly.  He'd then tried avoiding the preserved food, drinking only from the pond and eating only vegetables from the garden.  The only result was a lingering loathing for what was called a teltha root, which happened to be a very plentiful vegetable, and which tasted a little too much like celery.

He tried at various times to counsel himself.  He knew himself well enough to know that doing things correctly was incredibly important part of his character.  He knew that his need for ritual contributed to the way he found meaning in this odd life he'd fallen into.  He knew that time away from the Enterprise, where he didn't have to look at Lt.  Hawke's station everyday or see Engineering on a regular basis was something he needed; something that Earth and LaBarre, with its painful memories of his lost family, hadn't been able to provide.  He knew that his overwhelming curiosity and his love of learning something new kept him looking forward to each day's study in the library.  He knew his independence made him take pleasure in the everyday tasks of cooking and cleaning and caring for the oasis and the temple.  In short, his self-knowledge led him to the disconcerting fact that this place seemed almost designed for him, a trap of a very subtle kind.

Most of the time he suspected that Q had something to do with it.

***

hree days into his fifth week, things changed.  After the Morning Rite, Picard had decided that the clean morning air was irresistible and so he sat by the pond and shared his morning meal of flatbread and left-over fish with Selene.  Selene was the friendliest of the Temple sirtanis, a feline species that reminded Jean-Luc of his Aunt Adele's  sleek, self-satisfied Blue Point Siamese.  So he'd given this sirtani the same name, finding it fitting that it was a Terran moon name.  As he dusted off his fingers and stood, something in the distance caught his eye.  There were birds, carrion birds, circling over something in the desert.  Picard ran to his rooms in the temple complex and grabbed an over-robe and a head scarf with its accompanying cords.  On his way out, he paused at the kitchen to snatch up a skinning knife and two full water skins.

Half an hour later, he found himself looking down into the bottom of a wadi.  There was someone down there, and from the occasional faint moan that echoed through the wadi, that someone was alive.  Picking his way carefully, Picard finally reached the bottom.  He'd been concentrating so hard on his steps that he hadn't been able to look at the injured person.  Now that he did, his first thought was..."Will!?”   But no, after a second he realized that, although the person with the broad back and dark hair wore a Starfleet uniform, he not was Picard's First Officer.

"Q," he breathed.

"Unnnghhh ...” the entity groaned as Picard rolled him over, and Jean-Luc was stunned to see cuts and bruises on his face.

*Idiot, they're not real,* Picard told himself.  *None of this is real!*

"Q!" he snarled.  "Enough of this!"

Q groaned again and weakly threw up a hand to shade his eyes.  "Thirsty ...” he whispered.

"Of course you are," Picard muttered.  Nevertheless, he pulled one of the water skins out from under his robe and opened it.  Carefully, he let a little of the water trickle into Q's mouth, and after a moment or two, Q pulled the skin away and started to gulp the water down.  "Don’t do that," Picard snapped, his training taking over.  "You'll get sick.”  Q ignored him and kept gulping the water.  "Oh, why bother?" Picard muttered.  Whatever game Q was up to, Picard had no intention of playing.  *Oh yes you will, Jean-Luc,* he told himself.  *He's your ticket out of this.*

"What...” Q said shakily.  "Where..."

"That's the best you can do?”  Picard asked.

"I don't understand...”  Q frowned and put a hand to his stomach.  "Ohhhh...”  With that, he turned away and did something that shook Picard's world to the core.  Q threw up.

Quickly, Picard moved to support him as the entity lost all the water he'd drunk too swiftly.  When he was done he almost passed out again, but he revived a little when Picard carefully poured a little water directly on his face.  "Here," Picard said.  "No, don't drink, just rinse your mouth out and spit."

"Ugh!"

"Now, just take small slow sips.  That's right, don't rush it."

Q meekly obeyed, something that shook Picard as much, if not more, than the concept of Q’s throwing up.  After a time, the entity took a deep breath and sat back.  "You seem to know who I am," he said, looking at Picard curiously.

Picard stared back with some suspicion.  This was obviously one of Q's little games, but he couldn't ever recall seeing Q look so...”open” was the word Jean-Luc finally settled on.  He was used to scorn and cynical amusement from Q.  He'd seen flashes of cruelty, anger, disdain, and even occasionally a flicker of concern.  But, until now, never had he seen an emotion that seemed to make Q approachable.

"The implication is that you don't," Picard told him.

Q's eyes widened.  "Do you always talk like that?”  he asked.

"Q," Picard began.

"Q?"

Picard sighed.  He was hot, sweaty and decided to just play along until he could get  back to the temple.

"That's your name," he said carefully.

"Q," Q said.  "Q.  Hmmmm...I like it, which is a good thing, don't you think?"

"I suppose it is.  We need to get...”

"What's yours?"

"What?"

"Your name."

"Jean-Luc Picard."

Q raised his eyebrows.  "That's rather different from Q.”  He looked at Picard thoughtfully, almost seeming to size him up.  It made Picard feel a little odd.  "It suits you.  I mean, I think it does, but what do I know?"

"Usually everything," Picard replied before he could help it.

"What?"

"Never mind," Picard replied.  "I'll explain later.  We really need to get out of the sun.  Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"Good.”  Picard helped Q up.  "Here," he added as the entity staggered a little.  "You can lean on me."

"Thank you.”  Picard shot Q a glance, and Q smiled at him a little tentatively.  "For everything."

"No problem," Picard replied.  He couldn't help responding to this nicer, less edgy Q, and it bothered him.  Q was probably having a huge laugh at his expense right now.  "Let's get going, shall we?"

"All right, but slowly, please."

"Of course."

Q leaned against him, and Picard grew very much aware of the acrid salt of his sweat.  He'd never thought of Q sweating before.  They walked about a hundred meters in silence, then Q sighed.

"I'm sorry I'm taking so long."

Jean-Luc couldn't help the look he shot sideways, but he kept his tone level.  "It's all right, Q.  Just keep walking."

"Perhaps you should leave me here and get help."

"There isn't any help, Q.  Just me."

"Oh.” Q seemed to think about this for another hundred meters.  They were almost over the hill.  "Does this sort of thing happen to you often?  Are you some sort of caretaker or gatekeeper?"

Picard almost started telling Q what he thought of his performance, but they crested the hill at that  moment, and Q's next question was cut off by a gasp.

"What's wrong?”  Picard demanded with open suspicion.

"It's so pretty," Q breathed, sounding for all the world like an unspoiled child.  "Do you live here?"
 
Jean-Luc looked at the oasis below.  The white and green structure, the trees, the water:  it all did look quite lovely.

"I'm staying here for a while," he compromised, urging Q with his body to begin walking again.

"Oh," Q said.  "Must be nice."

Picard remained silent.

"Staying here, I mean," Q went on.  "Where do you usually live?"

Picard sighed, feeling his patience start to unravel.  If it weren't for the fact that Q was gasping a little from the exertion and the dark patches of sweat on Q's uniform, Picard would have snapped at him to give the whole thing up.

"Elsewhere," he answered.

"I'm sorry," Q said quietly.

"For what?”  Picard asked.  They had made their way down the hill and he guided Q toward the kitchen entrance.

"All my questions," Q said, his voice still apologetic.

For a brief moment, Picard was five years old again, being told by his father that he asked too many pointless questions.  He drew a deep breath and the moment passed, but he looked at Q with real concern.

"No, I should be the one apologizing.  I'm having a hard time realizing that you don't know who you are."

Q allowed himself to be led towards the kitchen, but his eyes stayed on Picard's face, taking on a quiet sadness.

"What?”  the captain asked.

"You don't mean that.  You mean that you're having a hard time *believing* that I don't know who I am.” Q frowned deeply.  "Are you used to having me lie to you?"

Picard sighed.  "Can we just get you cleaned up first?  We'll talk, I promise."

Q nodded unhappily, then went wide-eyed as they finally reached the kitchen and entered the cool-tiled enclosure.  Q sagged against Picard in relief, and staggered his way into one of the kitchen chairs.

Picard made sure he wasn't going to fall off onto the floor, then turned to the sink to dampen a dishtowel and fill a glass of water.

Q took the glass and sipped, his eyes seeking Picard's approval for the restraint he showed, then cleaned off his face with the towel before laying his head on the table, carefully, and breathing deeply for a while.

Picard sat in the other chair and waited.

"I smell," Q said at last.

"A bit," Picard acknowledged.

Q's head came up, his face happy at the shared semi-joke.  "May I make use of your hospitality as far as a bath?"

"And a change of clothes, Q."

Q nodded, looking over Picard's white desert robes, then down at his gray and black uniform.

Running the bath water was easy enough, but Q was really in no shape to get out of his uniform, and he didn't seem to know how to unfasten it, so Picard stayed and helped him undress.  "If you can promise not to fall asleep and drown," Jean-Luc said once Q was relaxing in the tub, "I'll go get you some food."

Q nodded, smiling, as though at another joke, and began to scrub with some vigor at his grimed skin.

*He still has no sense of body modesty,* Picard thought as he headed back for the kitchen.  Then he grunted at himself, and shook his head.  *Surely this is some sort of joke, or trick.  Though he might have done this to himself, in hopes of gaining my sympathy.  I wouldn't put it past him.  However, it is unlikely that he would choose to have this much discomfort.*

As he worked in the kitchen to put together a simple meal, Picard wondered if leaving Q alone had been such a good idea.  The last time Q had been without his powers, he'd been suicidally depressed, Picard remembered with a twinge.  He wasn't entirely pleased with the way he'd acted towards Q during the Bre'el IV crisis.  As grandiose and unsuccessful as Q's self-sacrifice had been, it *had* solved their problems...all except the one about getting rid of Q.

Picard frowned at himself, putting the food together on the tray.  Their knowledge of Q had, in fact, been good for Humanity, and for himself, he admonished.  He never *liked* being with Q, but he knew he was a better captain -- damnit, he was still *alive* because of Q, after all.

*My God!* Picard thought as he carried the large tray of food out of the kitchen, *I've known him for almost ten years.*  With the thought came a sudden fierce longing for his ship and his friends, and Picard was almost relieved to realize that he hadn't, by any stretch of the imagination, become resigned to his imprisonment here in the oasis.

Picard put the tray on a table in the sitting room of one of the extra suites.  Stopping long enough to grab some clothing out of the closet, he returned to the bathroom.  Q looked better, he had obviously washed up completely and was now soaking in a clean tub of water .  He no longer looked pale; in fact, he had a bit of a sunburn, and Picard made a mental note to get some cream for it.

At the sound of his steps, Q jumped a little, splashing water over the edge of the tub.

"Sorry," Q said quickly.  "You startled me.”  He looked at Picard curiously.  "Are you always that quiet on your feet?"

Picard thought of trying to explain the training that had made him quiet on his feet and was suddenly a little overwhelmed at the concept of explaining *everything* to Q.  *Well, he does have *some* knowledge.  I just need to find out what the gaps are.  If there are any gaps, that is.*

*Can you hear me?* he thought, calling on the memory of encounters with other telepaths as he tried to project his thought.
 
"Jean-Luc Picard?”  Q asked.  "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Picard replied.  "Why?"

"You were somewhere else for a moment.  Did I do something wrong?"

"Could you hear me, when I was 'somewhere else?'" Picard asked.

"No," Q replied looking puzzled.  "You didn't say anything."

"Nothing inside your head?"

"Are you a telepath?”  Q asked.

Picard drew a deep breath.  "No, but you are."

"And we normally communicate telepathically?  I read your mind?"

"Well, sometimes," Picard said.

"Oh.” There was a pause.  "Um…Jean-Luc Picard?”  Q said and there was that unfamiliar hesitancy in his voice again.

"Yes?"

"Are we...how do we...do you like me?  Normally, I mean."

"We don't know each other all that well," Picard said carefully.

Q just looked at him for a moment.  Again he seemed to be trying to figure Picard out and the captain felt a little odd.  *He's just supposed to have lost his memory,* he reminded himself.  *He's probably still more intelligent than I.*

It was an unsettling, but hardly unfamiliar thought.  Q simply wasn't taunting him about his "ape-like" brain.  He felt a strong urge to tell Q about past insults.  But then, he also felt a strong urge to insult Q himself.

*Don't be ridiculous, Picard.  Either Q is baiting you, waiting for you to insult him so that he can justify his current torment of you, or he's really lost his memory, in which case an insult would only cause him confusion.*

"You're being tactful, aren't you?”  Q asked finally, looking down with distaste at the dirty bath water.

"Done in there?”  Picard asked briskly.

"So it would seem, though I could probably stand the whole treatment over again."
 
Picard allowed a small smile, then turned away as Q rose from the tub and reached for a jar of lotion for his sunburn, then again for a towel as Q smoothed the balm into his reddened skin.

"Uh, Jean-Luc Picard?"

"Yes?"

"I don't know how this goes."

Picard turned and saw that Q was struggling with the robes, uncertain how to tie them at the waist.  He stepped forward and efficiently fastened the robes shut, noting that there were small scratches on Q's hands, and more on his chest.  He looked as though he had been fighting.

*Fighting, perhaps, with other Qs?  Have they done this to him?  Is he being punished by the Continuum again?  If so, then what am *I* doing here?*

Q's eyes were on the food tray.  "Aren't you going to eat?"

"I thought you'd feel like going to bed."

Q's eyes turned to him, and for an instant, Picard felt himself bracing for some sort of remark.

"I'm not that tired anymore, and...I would appreciate company, if you can stand my questions."

Picard shrugged and took the tray into the sitting room.  Q followed a little behind, looking around at everything.

When Q finally came into the sitting room, Picard was sitting cross-legged in front of the low brass tray-table.  "Here," Picard said, handing Q a glass.  "Start with this."

What is it?"

"Lemonade, or at least the closest I can manage.  You need the sugar.”  He watched as Q sipped at it curiously.  "Sorry there's no ice."

"Ice?  That's cold little blocks, right?"

Picard nodded, suspicion returning in a rush, but Q responded with a frustrated sigh.

"I seem to know so many things," he said guilelessly, "but they're all jumbled up and don't make any sense.  It's such a relief when you explain things:  a small piece of order out of total chaos."

Picard watched as Q examined the way he was sitting, then mimicked it exactly, even to tugging down on the front of his robes slightly before settling down.

Picard took a sip of his own lemonade, then tucked in to his lunch.  In truth, he was extremely hungry, and Q's arrival had postponed his midday meal considerably.

"Oh, this is good," Q said about the rice, then again about the lentils.

"I'm glad you like it, though I'm not much of a chef, I'm afraid."

"Well, now I'm here, I can help, I guess, if you'll show me how."

Picard nodded.  "Yes, if you like."

Q got through about half the food before he began to look expectant.  Picard sighed, quietly.  How in the world could he possibly begin to explain his relationship with Q to Q?  He couldn't even explain it to Starfleet Command.

And moreover, did he really *want* to tell Q everything?  But if he edited the truth, when did it become a lie?  What would he do to excuse himself if, acting on a lie he had told Q, Q decided to do something inappropriate, or dangerous?

"Is it really so difficult?” Q asked.

Picard looked at him, startled, then shrugged and tried to smile.  "Yes, it is."

Q leaned his elbows on the table, his eyes as open as they were direct.  "Let me see if I can help.  We're not friends."

"No."

"Enemies?"

Picard hesitated, then shook his head.  "No.  Not enemies."

Q looked a little happier.  "That's something, I suppose."

Picard looked down at his food.

"Do we work together?”  Q asked.

"Not really, though we may have some of the same goals...I have always liked to hope so, anyway."

Q let almost a full minute go by in silence.  "You said you don't live here."

"That's right.  I live on my ship.  A starship."

"A starship?  You work on one?”  Q looked at him narrowly.  "You're no cabin boy."

Picard couldn't help his smile.  "No.  I'm the captain, actually, and have been since we met, though that was on my ship before this one."

"A captain," Q said, nodding.  "That explains a few things."

"Like what?”  Picard asked, automatically on the defensive.
 
"Well, you're sort of brusque," Q replied.  "Sorry but...Why do you keep giving me that look?"

 Picard was tempted to ask "What look?" but he didn't.  "I'm not used to hearing you say you're sorry."

"How exactly do we know each other?  Am I another captain or something?  Was that a uniform I was wearing?"

"It's a uniform, but you're not in Starfleet.” Picard paused, but Q gestured for him to continue.  Picard drew a deep breath.  "Actually, you're not Human," he said, not sure how Q would react.

"Not Human.  I assume that Human is the name of your species?"

"Yes."

Q looked at Picard and then back at himself.  "I *look* Human?"

"It's like the uniform," Picard said, feeling his way with care.  "You take on that form to make it easier to interact with us."

"I'm a...shapeshifter?”  Q said, his eyes a little wide.  "Really?"

Picard smiled a little, unable to help his reaction to Q's delighted surprise.  "Really.  I've seen you do it."

Q frowned and seemed to concentrate for a moment, then his face fell.  "One more thing that's missing.”  Picard's face must have shown his unwilling sympathy.  "I've lost a lot, haven't I?”  Q asked.

"Yes, it would seem you have."

There was a moment of silence and then Q drew a deep breath.  He smiled, looking around.  "Well," he said, his voice once again intrigued.  "I suppose I'll have to relearn things."

He sounded almost eager and Picard found himself liking this optimistic, curious Q.  It was hard to remind himself that this could still be a game or a ploy.  *Do I take him at face value, or suspect everything he says?* he wondered.  *Or do I just muddle through the way I always do when Q is involved?*

"I'll try to help, but I'm afraid I'm not a shapeshifter either," he said aloud.

"Do you know what my normal form is?"

"No," Picard replied.  Feeling a little bad at not having an answer, he smiled ruefully.  "I've always wondered."

"You never asked?  How long have we known each other?"

"Nine years," Picard replied, choosing the easy question.

"That sounds like a long time not to know what I look like."

"It's not the sort of question you would be likely to answer.”

Q looked completely thrown.  "You're trying to tell me I'm secretive, aren't you?"

Picard couldn't help his short, barking laugh.

Q looked hurt, then speculative, then, of all things, touched.

"What?”  Picard demanded.

"You're answering all my questions, even though they make you uncomfortable, and even though you're used to having me refuse to answer *your* questions.  It's incredibly decent of you."

Picard shook his head and leaned back.  "You're not yourself.  I'm not in the habit of dancing on people when they're down."

"So if I were myself, we wouldn't be having lunch, is that what you're saying?  I thought we weren't enemies."

He was getting a headache.  "Q, when we talk, it's almost always when you have me at a decided and very carefully arranged disadvantage.  I'm usually in the middle of some sort of a crisis, often guided to that crisis by you, and expected to perform to your standards, even though you won't tell me what they are!"  He broke off.  Q looked horrified.

"But there have been times," Picard admitted with a sigh, "when we have...agreed on things, important things.  I must tell you, there have been times when I have...felt stimulated by the challenge of your company."

Q acknowledged the compliment with a smile, then proceeded to look absolutely miserable.

"You mustn't completely...you should know you're not entirely the cause of many of our interactions," Picard added.

"What in the world does that mean?"

"You're a member of a group, a community of extremely powerful entities, known as the Continuum.  Many of your dealings with my ship and crew have been instigated by their instructions."

"Including our present circumstances, do you mean?"

Picard acknowledged the possibility with a shrug.  "I can think of no other group who could be responsible, but, as you yourself, if you were yourself, would point out, my knowledge of the universe is highly limited.  The Continuum may have enemies.  Or this might be some sort of accident...or...there may be any number of causes."

Q nodded slowly, and it seemed to the captain that he could almost hear the effort of thought.  "You work on a starship."

"That's right.” Was Q's short-term memory affected as well?

"And you're here, living in the desert."

"Correct."

"And you said there was no one to go to to get help."

Picard nodded.

"So you're not here on purpose, are you?"

Jean-Luc looked at him.

"Did I bring you here?”  Q asked.

"I don't know.  I thought you did."

Q shook his head, then leaned forward, burying his face in his spread fingers before rubbing his eyes, hard.  "I can't remember any of it.  It's a wonder, I suppose, that you didn't strangle me on sight," Q mumbled into his hands.
 
 "The thought did occur.”  But Picard's tone was drier than the desert outside, and he could tell Q was smiling into his hands now.  "Come help me clean up," he urged quietly.

"All right," Q replied.  "If you're sure..."
 
"I'm sure," Picard told him, starting to place dishes on the tray.

Q followed Picard back to the kitchen, and watched carefully as Picard began to wash up.  It felt surreally domestic for Jean-Luc as he handed over plates to Q, and he must have looked a little bemused.

"This is weird for you, isn't it?"

Picard smiled and chuckled faintly.  "Just a little."

Q nodded, but any response was cut off by a large yawn.  The entity blinked.  "I'm tired, right?"

"I wouldn't be surprised.  Why don't you take the suite of rooms we used earlier?"

"I think I can find them ..."

Picard shook his head.  "Let me show you around a little, so you don't get lost if you need anything in the middle of the night."

In spite of his obvious fatigue, Q looked around with intense curiosity as Picard showed him around the main temple complex.

"Look at the tile work," he said at one point as he halted in front of a section of corridor wall.  "How many shades of green do you think are in this pattern?  And *look* at the way the umber line here sets it off.  This is just gorgeous."

Once more, an amused chuckle escaped Picard before he could stop it.

"What?"

"There's a possibility that you created all of this."

"Me?”  Q asked.  "All by myself, with just a wave of the hand?"

"A snap of the fingers actually.” Q looked at him curiously and Picard explained.  "That's your...trademark I guess you'd call it.  You snap your fingers, there's a bright flash of light, and whatever you wanted to happen, happens."

"Hmmm ...” Q looked back at the tile work.  "I'd be more impressed if I knew that I'd laid each piece of  tile by hand.” He reached out and stroked the uneven surface, that intrigued smile back on his face.

*My God,* Picard thought.  *He reminds me of Data."

Q looked away from the tile.  "Well, whether I snapped it up or someone else did, it is lovely."

"Yes," Picard said looking at the wall.  "It is."

By the time they reached the main hall of the temple, Q was yawning so much his eyes were watering.  He gaped at the big room and shook his head.  "Too much to take in," he mumbled.  "I'll want to look at it later, when I can really pay attention."

"Of course."

They turned back, and Picard let Q take the lead a little, pleased to see him find his way back to his rooms.  He snarled inwardly at the small pleasure.  If Q were playing a game...

The thought brought him up short with its attendant realization.  If Q *were* playing a game, that would be it.  Picard would never jump through one of Q's hoops again, no matter what the offered prize or threat.  It would be the end of trust between them.

Picard found himself staring at the back of Q's head.  Would Q do that?  *Yes, if the Continuum ordered him to.*  And yet, the Continuum had ordered Q to do many things which he had, evidently, declined to do.

*This is all vanity.  Q would do whatever damn well suited him, without a thought to my comfort or security or dignity.  I've been out here chanting and cleaning up this place because...Dear God.  What *could* he possibly get out of it?*

They reached Q's rooms and paused, and with overt hesitation Q turned to him.  "Is everything all right?"

Picard nodded curtly.  "Sleep well.” He turned to go.

"Jean-Luc Picard?"
 
The man sighed, held himself still a moment, then turned back.  "Yes?"

"Did I do something wrong?"

"It appears neither of us knows that for certain, Q."

Q nodded solemnly, then stepped back as an invitation to allow Picard to leave politely.

The man did, and Q stood in the middle of the room a moment, feeling more than a little abandoned.

"I wonder what I've done to him," he muttered, getting some comfort from the sound of his own voice.  "It must be pretty bad, the way he keeps looking at me."

Q shed his robes and slipped into the bed, feeling unexpected pleasure from the cool sheets.  His skin was uncomfortably hot, and it had hurt a little where it touched the robes.  The sheets were more forgiving.

As exhausted as he was, however, his mind seemed unwilling to shut itself down, and he wasn't entirely certain exactly what was supposed to be happening.  He needed to "sleep," Jean-Luc Picard had said, but what was that, exactly?  He wished he had thought to ask.

What sort of body was this?  It was supposed to be "Human"-like, which meant, as far as he could tell, ten fingers and toes, two legs and arms, one head, and one set of genitals, although there were two testicles, like shoulders,  flanking the shaft.  Two nipples, too, and two hips.  One spine.  One nose.  Two eyes.  One mouth.  Hair -- Jean-Luc Picard didn't have much of that.

"The hip bone's connected to the thigh bone, the thigh bone's connected to the knee bone...” The strange song peeked out from the chaos in his head, then plunged back into the melee again, and he felt dizzy with it.

 He moaned, slightly, and felt even sicker.  There was a horrible pressure in his stomach, low down.  It *hurt* and he didn't know what to do.  If he called out, would Jean-Luc Picard come back?

"Urinate!" he shouted.  He had to urinate.  But what was that?  He got up from the bed, and staggered.  He was so incredibly tired.  Maybe after he urinated -- whatever that was -- he could sleep, and then he supposed he would feel better.  He opened the door to his rooms and began to hurry through the halls.  Somewhere he would find what he was supposed to do.

He wound up in the kitchen, and stood there, swaying slightly.  There was such pressure in his body, and his muscles were all tense.  Should he just relax?

"Q?  What are you doing?"

He turned towards the sound of that deep voice with almost tearful relief.  The man stood there in a thin robe, his feet bare.

"I need to urinate!"

Picard blinked at him.  "Then what are you doing standing naked in the kitchen?"

"I don't know what it means."
 
"Oh, really, Q!  Do you honestly expect me to believe that?"

Q's eyes went wide and sorrowful, so much like those of a small boy caught being naughty that Picard felt like an ogre.

"Come with me, Q," he said, voice dropping to soft and soothing in an instant.  "It's all right."

His face radiating gratitude, Q walked forward, close behind Picard as the man led him back to his rooms and then showed him the room in which he had taken his bath.  He pointed to a small white seat.  "Stand in front of that," he instructed, "and allow your body to relax."

Q looked at him in trepidation.  "And then what happens?"

Picard sighed.  "Q, your body, like all Human bodies, needs water to survive,
and some of the water you take in every day is used to clean out the body's
systems.  For this process to work, the water must be expelled as urine."

"You mean I'm going to leak?”   Q's eyes were wide with shock.

Picard couldn't help it.  He started laughing and couldn't stop.  He held up his
hands in apology, doubling over, out of breath.  He forced himself to
straighten as soon as he could, meeting Q's eyes.  He stopped laughing
quickly, but couldn't get rid of his smile.  Q wasn't insulted, just puzzled.

"Jean-Luc Picard?"

"I'm sorry.”  He took a steadying breath.  "I should leave you to it.”  He
patted Q on the shoulder and exited the room, adding at the last moment, "Oh,
pull the chain, and then wash your hands afterwards."

Q looked at the closed door, then turned back to the porcelain seat.  With a
sigh, he relaxed his body, and felt the pressure increase.  His penis
dribbled, and with care he held it so that the drops would go into the hole in
the seat.  More water came, a stream, and with it a relief so profound he
gasped.  Oh!  That felt so *good!*  It also lasted a long time, and seemed to
have trouble ending, as water came in uneven spurts, then finally stopped.  He
shook his penis (strange thing it was, too), pulled the chain -- starting
slightly at the noise of the rushing water -- and then turned to clean his
hands.

It was easy to stagger back to bed after that, and indeed now sleep came to
him easily, another blessed relief.

When Q didn't come back into the kitchen after twenty minutes, Picard decided
he'd figured out enough to take care of himself, and breathed through his
relief.  He really couldn't deal with the concept of actually demonstrating
urination to Q.  And frankly, he wasn't sure he could have made himself do it.
It was just too much like a juvenile prank.  If he hadn't seen Q standing
naked in the kitchen, looking so lost, he wouldn't have gone as far as he had.

Picard sighed again, and rested his head in his hands, sitting at the small
table.  Q.  Was he really what he seemed:  lost, amnesiac, guileless?  A
child, more than Amanda had been.  Almost a moppet, except for the power of
that mind when Q put it to use.

What would the Continuum have to gain from taking Q's memory and putting Q in
this scenario with him?  What possible joy or insight could be gained from it?
And what could be happening that he had to be here for it?  What did they want him to
do for Q?

Things hadn't gone right for him and Q, he thought, since they'd met.  He had
realized at some point over the last ten years that Q's original orders hadn't
been to put Humanity on trial, but to restrict their exploration of space.
Thinking about it, as he so often had, he wondered if Q's attempt to tempt
Riker with godhood hadn't been a placating offering to the Continuum after Q had returned from his "failed" mission.  They had kicked him out afterwards, and then...

And then Q had requested to join the crew, and then flung them across the
galaxy, killing eighteen members of his crew, and quite possibly saving Humanity in
the process.

Could that be what the Continuum wanted:  to see what Q saw in Humanity?  Was
Picard here as some sort of representative?  It seemed terribly...inefficient.
If they wanted to know what Q saw in Humanity, why didn't they just ask him?
And why put only him here?  Surely Q should be interacting with a community of
Humans.  If Q had shown up on the Enterprise without his memory or
powers, Picard would have let him interact with his crew.  Surely that would
show the Continuum more than they could learn from this...desert laboratory?

His face split into an almost painful yawn.  He was exhausted, no question,
and Q was certain to be up in the morning with a hundred questions.

"What are you getting from this?” he asked the ceiling.  "He's going to spend
time here, asking questions, and we'll probably find some sort of domestic
balance, until one of us can't take it anymore.  What can that teach you?"

The ceiling didn't answer.

As Picard had gone to sleep, he'd told himself to wake up early, and so it wasn't quite dawn when he awoke.  He thought about what to do as he washed up; should he perform the Rite as he had been doing, even though he was almost certain that Q was, in some way, responsible for the whole situation?  Or should he not do it because Q might make fun of him?

*Oh please, Jean-Luc,* he told himself.  *You've been here for five weeks now.  He's had ample time to laugh at you, if that's what he intends to do.*

And anyway, there was a part of him that wanted to do the Rite.  It had become an important part of his day, not  to mention the fact that he found it rather calming.  *And this morning,* he thought wryly, *I need all the calm I can muster.*

To Picard's relief, Q did not show up while he was chanting.  In fact, Picard was halfway through a simple breakfast of tea, bread and jam before Q stumbled sleepily into the kitchen.  The entity had put on a light robe, but his hair still looked slept on, and he was rubbing his eyes.  Picard's slight smile was genuine as he said, "Good morning."

Q smiled back, his eyes hazy, and sat at the table.  "Good morning, Jean-Luc Picard."

The man shook his head.  "Just call me Jean-Luc, all right?  Or Picard.  Not both, if you please."

"Which one did I call you before?"

The nick-name rose to Picard's lips like a hic-cough, and almost escaped before he bit it back.  "You alternated."

"Jean-Luc...that's a Ferengi name?"

"French."

"Oh.” Q scratched at his hair, then rubbed his forehead.  "I feel like someone went inside my head and shoved everything into boxes."

Picard felt sympathy rising, but kept it polite.  "That must make things very confusing.  Do you want some breakfast?"

"Yes, please, some bread, if there is some."

Picard made to get up, but Q stood before him and walked to the counter, finding flat bread and cheese and pouring himself some lemonade.  "I heard something earlier, like a song.  Was that you?"

"Yes, actually, it was."

"Do you always sing in the morning?”  Q asked innocently, as he sat back down.

Picard poured himself some more tea and took a sip before answering.

"It's a ritual," he said.  "And I was chanting, not singing."

"A ritual?”  Q asked.  Picard was about to answer, when Q's face suddenly bore an odd expression.

"A ritual," the entity said, as if thinking very hard, "is a formal observance of some kind.  Right?"

"That's one way of putting it," Picard replied.

"So, what kind of ritual do you do?  Or should I not ask?  I'm getting the idea that some rituals are private."

Picard sighed.  Q had just given him, all unconsciously, an out.

"It's a religious ritual connected to this place," he finally replied.  "I learned it by reading books in the library.”

He continued, choosing his words cautiously, until he'd told Q about finding himself in the desert and about most everything that had happened up until he found Q.  He was careful not talk about his longing for his ship, or his worries about whatever Q (or whoever) had planned.  It was a bare-bones recitation, but Q listened to him raptly.

In fact, Picard realized, Q had been watching him with great fascination ever since the entity had arrived yesterday.  Picard didn't know what to make of it.  He tried telling himself that, provided Q really *had* lost his memory, Q was simply looking at the only person he knew.  Still there seemed to be something more to it, and Picard didn't know what that something was.  He did know that it disturbed him.

"So you did this, even though you thought that I was responsible for your being here?”  Q asked when Picard finished his tale.

 Picard shrugged.  "There was always the possibility, and there still is, that the natives of this world will appear and will need to know that their rituals have been observed.”

Q thought about that for a while, finishing his breakfast.  Picard watched him covertly, noting the sad look that settled over Q's features.  It was odd, seeing sadness there.  He had seen almost everything else on that face:  need, fear, anger, annoyance, arrogance, laughter, even joy, but not this melancholy.

"Q?”

"It's a beautiful world, but if I did make this place, then the natives probably don't exist.  I mean, I can't make people, can I?”

Picard hesitated, and Q's eyes widened.  "You can make characters, things that look and act like autonomous beings, but I do not believe you have the power to make actual persons.”

Q slightly relaxed.

"However, we can't rule out anything about this world.  I simply don't know what lies beyond the desert, or if anything does lie out there at all.  I only know that here I have been...safe.  The ritual is soothing, if nothing else.”
 
Q reached forward suddenly, gathering their plates and taking them to the sink.  He seemed eager not to have Picard help him, so Jean-Luc tidied the room while Q washed and stacked the dishes.  When Q turned towards him, wiping his hands, he tried to give the entity an uncomplicated smile.

"I should get dressed, then perhaps we can finish that house tour?"

Picard nodded.  He was already dressed in a pair of loose pants and a short-sleeved tunic, clothing which, in spite of being comfortable, frequently made him miss the close fitting gray and black uniform.  But it would be absurd to wander around the oasis in his uniform, even if he stripped down to his undershirt.  *You dress to suit your surroundings,* he reminded himself as he cleaned up his own dishes.  He tried not to think of the floor-length green vest embroidered with silver that he wore during the rites.

He'd spent a lot of time thinking around those rites already today.  Now, having Q ask him about them, he couldn't avoid it.  If only they didn't seem so perfectly dovetailed into his own sense of place and order.  If only they didn't allow him to bring as much or as little into the ceremony as possible.  If only… If only the incense and the water and the chanting of the Names of the Moons didn't serve to ground him, to center him so securely.  It wasn't just that he was centered to this place, and these moons, but he felt that, having been forced to acknowledge the connection between this planet and its moons, he was then more able to look at it and think about his own connection with the universe as a whole.

He sighed and looked at the sourdough starter he had going, trying to distract himself with a mundane task.  If Q were really suffering from amnesia, he might as well discover what freshly baked bread was like.  And as if the thought of Q had conjured up the entity, he heard footsteps outside the kitchen.

"Well," Q asked, "did I do it right?"

Picard looked at the dark blue pants and the steel gray tunic belted with a brighter blue belt.  Even here, without his memory (if he *were* without his memory), Q had a sense of style.  "You look fine, Q," he said.  "If we were going to be outside for any length of time, we'd have to put on desert robes and scarves."

"Like you had on yesterday?”  Q asked.  When Picard nodded, the entity smiled.  "The word that came to mind was 'dashing.'  Is that correct?"

"For the clothing perhaps," Picard replied dryly.  "I'm hardly a dashing figure myself."

"Well you looked pretty damned dashing yesterday," Q muttered as Picard lit a small lamp from the day hearth, and then headed toward the cellar door.  "Where are we going?"

"This is the cellar," Picard said.  He opened the door, which almost looked like it was leaning against a wall.  Q followed him as he went down the stairs.

"It's a lot cooler down here."

"Yes, the whole set-up is really quite clever," Picard  replied, moving toward the cold box.  "The spring that feeds the pond outside is actually very cool.  Whoever built this place designed this stone box that has a continual flow of cool water around it.  It's not a freezer, but it's surprisingly efficient.”

Q nodded, looking around at the bins of vegetables and the large jugs that filled the cellar.  "What's in the jugs?"

"The very large ones have various grains in them.  The smaller ones are either oil or wine."

"This is a lot of food, Jean-Luc.”  Before Picard could answer, the entity turned to him.  "Why would I put you in a place like this?"

"Believe me, Q," Picard replied, "I've been asking myself the same question for the last five weeks."

His expression was closed and distant, and Q let his next question die unspoken.  Picard said he wasn't even sure that Q was responsible for their mutual predicament, but Q didn't want to dig too deeply, ask too many questions.  Perhaps, with Picard, not knowing was better than knowing.  Or at least it was when it came to the big questions.

The problem was, every question seemed big to him, if not enormous.  He could almost feel the strangeness in himself, but perhaps it was only the way he was comparing himself to Picard.

The man was so damn *calm,* so disciplined, and yet there was more than a hint of something underneath that Q, quite frankly, found fascinating.  He wondered what Jean-Luc would look like when he was angry, or sad, or...anything else.  Q knew he was anxious to please the man, in however small a manner.  He just didn't know what to offer, or do.

And the worst of it was that Q suspected what Picard most wanted was an explanation and a way out of this place, things which Q would evidently be able to give him under normal circumstances with a literal snap of his fingers.  Q wound up staring at his own hand, and brought the middle finger down across his thumb experimentally.  Picard whirled on him at the snapping noise, and Q shrugged, truly regretful.

"I just don't seem to have it anymore."

Picard smiled at him, ruefully.  "No."

"Have I put you in scenarios like this before?  I mean," he rushed on when the man frowned, "perhaps if you could tell me more about how I did it..."

"You've...placed me in made-up situations, yes, but I have no idea how your species manipulates energy and matter in the manner I've seen you achieve."

Q looked miserable, and Picard stilled himself before he took a step forward.  Suspicion stabbed its little nails all over his back, like a shiver, but Q was better company when he wasn't moping.  "Actually, you should know, there's definitely been a reason for many of the things you've done, as I told you before.  In fact," he took a breath, "looking over our entire association, I can tell you without reservation that your presence in my life has led to several undeniable benefits."

Q puzzled on that one.  "You mean you're glad we met?"

"Er...yes.  Now, the tour?"

Q got the feeling that he should drop the subject.  For a second, the fragmented chaos of his memory tossed up the image of two halves of a door, with writing on them.  The doors were sliding closed swiftly, shutting him out.  He blinked, trying to follow the image, to get more, but then it was gone.  He must have looked odd, or something, because Jean-Luc looked at him with some concern.

"Are you all right?"

Q shrugged.  "What's 'all right?'  I mean, I don’t feel ill, but I get these...”  He paused, not sure he wanted to try to explain.  Would Picard even understand?

So he looked around, trying to recapture the fascinated interest he'd felt about this place yesterday.  It was actually rather easy to get back into that state of mind; everything seemed so new and interesting.  So the smile he offered Picard was genuine.  "It's all right.  Maybe it's my memory trying to come back.  Anyway, weren't you going to show me around more?"

But Picard shook his head.  "You get these what?"

Q worried his bottom lip with his teeth, and Jean-Luc kept himself from staring in fascination at the gesture.  The creature in front of him sometimes felt wholly like a stranger.

"I get these sort of images, flashes of things."

"What sorts of images?”  Picard asked.

Q felt a little spurt of irritation.  Why was Picard probing so much when the man wouldn't tell Q even a fraction of what he knew about Q?  It was hardly fair.

"A door," he said, shortly.  "Not a carved wooden one like the ones here, but one that slid closed really quickly.”  He shrugged again.

Instead of frowning, which Q had expected, Picard looked intrigued.  "The doors on the Enterprise slide shut quickly.” he said.

"The Enterprise?"

For a moment, Q caught a glimpse of that very same deep emotion he'd wanted to see on Picard's face.  Longing and worry and pride flickered across those strong aquiline features and then was suppressed again.  Picard looked away briefly and then looked back, his face once more calm.

"Have you seen enough of the cellar?”  he asked, his deep voice again neutral.

"The Enterprise?”  Q pressed, his hands going to his hips.

Picard frowned.  "My ship.  It, like all Starfleet ships, has doors which close like this.”  He gestured with his hands.

Q shook his head.  Why couldn't the man just have said it in the first place?  Why was the name of his damn ship a secret?  It was doubtlessly common knowledge.  "No, the doors I saw were double-doors, and they closed inwardly, like this.”  He gestured with his own hands.

Picard nodded.  "Like old-style doors, non-automated."

"Sounds right.”  Q looked at him carefully.  "Tell you what, I'll let you know when I have another, and maybe we'll see a pattern."

"Excellent.  Now, why don't we start with the library?"

Q let himself follow this time, and enjoyed the library very much.  The books were old and thick, but not crumbling, and not too dusty.  He didn't bother with opening them.  Perhaps later.  He was too busy noticing the way the morning light came in just the way one would wish for reading, and thought in all likelihood it would still be bright and cheerful in the room in the afternoon.  Lamps were strategically placed about the room as well, along with several comfortable-looking chairs and a settee.

And over everything were thrown velvet, satin, woven, smooth, patterned, and plain pillows, blending perfectly into the decor.  Q fingered several of them, pleased at their fineness.  When a half-urge plucked at him to toss one at Picard's head, just to see what he would do, he quelled it regretfully.  From there, they went through the "pool room," a large room with almost no floor, just a large pool of clear, clean water.  Around the walls were hundreds of small openings in star, sun, and moon shapes.

The sunlight came through in shimmers and flashes, sparkling on the water until Q had to ball his hands into fists to keep from ripping of his clothes and jumping in.

"Do you bathe here often?” Q asked hopefully.

Picard should his head.  "I find the bathrooms sufficient."

"But...”  Q stared at him in confusion.  "It's gorgeous in here.  It would be...fun."

"Feel free to use it yourself," the man said with a wave, turning from the room.

*So, you're a stick-in-the-mud.  So disciplined and controlled, you won't let your hair down even when it doesn't matter, is that it?*  Q's eyes trailed over that smooth head, his lips twitching.  What would it take to get Picard to splash around in the pool with him?

But Picard walked out, and Q followed, to see the larder, the drying room, a parlor, and two storage rooms.

From the last of the storage rooms, Picard led them outside.  He was avoiding the actual temple room, and it took him a minute to figure out that he was saving it for last because it looked so impressive when entered from the front.  Part of him wanted Q to be as impressed with it as he was, and part of him was hoping that the sight would jog more of Q's memories.  After all, if Q had created this, he must have put some effort into it.  Perhaps the full-on sight of the place would recall that effort.

He showed Q the more mundane parts of the complex:  the plot of grass with the chuptis grazing, the dhoji hutches, the vegetable and herb garden.  Q was visibly enthralled with all of it.

"Do you look after all of this?”  he asked, looking at Picard with respect.

"Most of it looks after itself," Picard replied.  He felt a sudden surge of pride, which he tried to ignore.

"Well, still," Q said, gesturing at the garden, "It looks like a lot of work."

"I like it," Picard said, surprising himself.  "The work, I mean.  I'm used to working hard, but this...well, I suppose I am proud of it."

"You should be," Q said firmly.

"Ah...yes," Picard replied uncertainly.  *He's not himself.  If he were he'd be mocking me for being proud of performing such menial tasks.

*If he were himself,* another part of his mind replied, *you'd have never let him know how proud of yourself you are.*

He wasn't sure which disturbed him more:  Q's respect or his own need for that respect.

He led Q silently back to the lake, and together they watched the palm trees bow from the wind, gently, lazy as the noon sun's heat, settling over them, not to be shaken off.  With relief, they turned to the temple, and he gestured Q ahead, not to block his view.

Cool green tile and ice-white stone, insulated from the world, not a single smooth curve or inlaid edge chipped or out of balance.  The entire room was a mandala, its focal point the altar with its bowls.  The only sounds came from the men who walked the smooth floor.

Q felt suddenly that he was walking underwater, and Picard almost plowed into him as he braked to a complete halt.

"I'm seeing an ocean, and it fills the world...or it did.  It's all lost now, drained off...no, burned off by the sun.”  His voice wavered slightly.  The scene in his head for that one second had gone from a coral paradise to absolute loss -- a universe made of the void.

"Q?"

He turned to look at Picard, unaware of the pain in his eyes.  "Just another vision.”  He looked around the temple and shuddered.  "Could we get out of here?"

"Certainly," Picard said quickly, turning to the rear door which led back into the living quarters.  He didn't squeeze his tone flat, and the concern he felt came over clearly, he knew.  *Oh, well.  Showing concern can't hurt things too badly, I should think.*

Q didn't speak until they were back at the kitchen.  "Sorry about that."

"Don't apologize.  This can't be easy on you.”  Picard hesitated for a moment and then plunged ahead, figuring that it couldn't hurt to tell Q a little about his own experiences, particularly as this one had nothing to do with Q.

"I lost my own memory once," he said.  "It was very difficult.”  He looked down at his hands.

"How did that happen?”   Q leaned forward curiously, and Picard felt a little better.  If he could distract Q away from that image of the drying ocean...

"An alien race, the Sataaran, wiped out the memories of everyone on the Enterprise and seriously damaged our computers.  None of us had any idea who we were.”  He closed his eyes and looked away, remembering the feeling of confusion and powerlessness he'd felt.

"What happened?" Q asked, and Picard heard yet another new thing in that rich voice.  Sympathy.  Even in the middle of his own problems, Q could be concerned about someone else.  Or at least "this" Q could be.

And it was too tempting to tell this Q about the loss of his memory.  The story spilled out.  Even stripped of its emotional content, something Picard did not want to share with Q, any Q, it was still some time before he finished the tale.  When he did finish his stark recitation, talking about the lives lost and the way he'd almost destroyed a fully manned station before he'd learned the truth, he hazarded a glance at Q.  The entity's eyes were wide.

"It must be...” Q began, and then paused.  "How do you deal with so much responsibility, with the knowledge that so much, people's lives even, depend on you?"

Picard suddenly remembered Q lounging on the bridge while the Borg cut into the Enterprise.  He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut and he knew his eyes were narrowing.

"I just deal with it," he said tightly.  "Excuse me, I have to change.  I have work to do in the garden.”  He stalked out of the kitchen, leaving Q sitting at the table.

An hour passed, and then another, as Q sat there.  But the time was not wasted, and when the afternoon shadows agreed with his stomach that it was past lunch time, he reviewed his work.

*So, it's clear he doesn't care for me much, but he seems to feel responsible for me.  I've interfered with his command, doubtlessly, and now he must be suspicious that this is all some elaborate game I'm playing.  I must have hurt his pride, perhaps deeply, before this.  It's probably an act of great kindness, the courtesy he's shown me to this point.*

Q nodded to himself, unconsciously running his fingers over the smooth table-top.  He never seemed to be able to sit quite still.

*Then yes, the best thing to do for him is to give him as much space and distance as possible, which is obviously the worst thing for me.  Which means that we'll need to work out an agreement, a compromise.  If he's a commander, he'll know the need for that as well.  We'll establish...parameters.*

Q rose and walked to the kitchen larder, and eventually put together a tray of cheese, fruit and flat bread.  He poured two glasses of lemonade and walked with the tray into the garden.  Picard was working under the shade, at least.  His eyes when he looked up were guarded, but not hostile.

"Time to eat something," Q said quietly as he settled down with the tray.

"Thank you.  It's late, but I'll make us a proper dinner in a few hours."

"I'll look forward to it."

Picard nodded and ate quickly.  When the tray was clean of all but the plates and cups, Q rose and carried it back into the structure.  By the time Jean-Luc came in from the garden, he'd cleaned the kitchen from ceiling to floor and had the sore hands to prove it.

Picard looked around in confusion, then met Q's eyes and thanked him.

Q shrugged.  "I needed something to do."

"Well, there are several other things that need doing, if you're complaining about the lack of entertainment here.”  Picard winced at his own harsh tone, but there was nothing he could think of to do.  This wasn't really Q standing here.  He had no idea how to approach him.  Had he really cleaned the whole kitchen?

Q nodded.  "That would be good.  Perhaps we could draw up a sort of schedule, so we'll know what the other has done, and will be doing."

Picard nodded.

Q continued, "And also...I think it would be good if you and I could work out something similar with information."

"Information?"

Q's stiff posture broke suddenly, and his hands came up.  "Jean-Luc Picard, I *need* to know more.  This ration of data you're giving me, bits and pieces of my life, *my* life, I can't deal with this, I can't function.  How would you feel if I knew all about you and I wouldn't *tell* you about it?"

Picard's shoulders and expression revealed resignation.  "I imagine I would feel more than a little resentful and frustrated.  In fact...” he let the sentence die.

"*What?*"

"In the past, you have been the one who's known so much more than I have.  I've known some resentment in dealing with you."

"So now the tables have turned.  Are you enjoying the prospect of a little turn-about and fair play?"

"Revenge, you mean?”   Picard made himself think about it.  "I don't believe so, but I'm just a Human, Q, and as you would ordinarily point out, that means I'm petty, narrow-minded and ape-like."

They both winced this time at the venom in the man's words, and Picard made himself back off, walking to the kitchen counter and then pouring them both a glass of water.  He turned and handed Q's glass over, forcing out the words, "I'm sorry."

"Jean-Luc, if you could just give me an outline, an overview --"

"No.”  Picard was determined.  "No, you deserve more than outlines, I'm just not sure what it would help you to know.”  He drained off his water quickly and set down the glass.  Q mimicked him, and they stood quietly, only a few feet apart.

"Perhaps we should go to the parlor and sit," Q ventured.  "You could just tell me about how we met."  Picard smiled a private smile, then nodded and gestured to the doorway.

Once in the parlor, Picard spent some time putting things back in their places before he sat down.  Q, reminding himself of his resolve to give Picard space, tried to remain still.  He had chosen a low mound of pillows and he felt himself sinking back into their embrace as he waited for Picard to speak.

"We met close to ten years ago," Picard finally said.  He was still facing the low brass tray-table he'd been adjusting, but just when Q decided he'd have to content himself with looking at the back of Picard's head through the whole story, the man turned and sat on one of the low sofas.

"I had just taken command of the Enterprise at the time -- the Enterprise-D, that is -- and we didn't even have a full ship's company.  In fact, we were on our way to a place called Farpoint Station to pick up personnel and investigate the station when you threw a huge forcefield around the ship."

Q just nodded.  It was obvious that Jean-Luc was having a hard time telling this story and he resolved to refrain from interrupting.

"And then you appeared on my bridge and told me, all of us really, to go home."

"Just like that?”  Q asked, instantly forgetting his resolution.

"Well, you mocked our advances a bit too," Picard said.  "I said something about your acting as judge, jury and executioner, and, from that, you got the idea of putting us on trial for the crimes of Humanity."

Picard's gaze traveled inward and Q waited, feeling simultaneously curious and afraid.  Did he really want to know what he'd done to this man and his crew?  Or would it be easier to live in ignorance?  He could just stop Picard now, he realized; it would be so much easier on both of them.

He thought of what he'd seen of Picard's character up to this point.  The man certainly didn't seem to be interested in doing things the easy way, and he'd hardly admire someone who took the easy way out.  Not only that, but Q felt a *need* to know.  Without knowledge he was...somehow incomplete.

"I...know this isn't easy, Jean-Luc Picard," he said as Picard remained silent.  "I appreciate it, though."

Picard looked up at that and nodded.

"You created a court room from one of the most brutal periods of Earth's history and conducted a trial against...”  He paused and an odd expression crossed his face.  "I've never really thought about this before, but you chose an interesting group of people to try for *Human* crimes."

"Oh?"

"Of the four of us, I was the only one who was actually born on Earth."

"And the others?"

Q listened, fascinated as Picard talked about his officers.  The captain's affection was obvious as was his sorrow when he spoke of Tasha Yar.  His use of the past tense made Q realize that the woman had died, and Q desperately hoped that he had nothing to do with it.

He let Picard speak about his people for quite a long time.  It was interesting, listening to the man dodge the story he'd promised to tell.  It was almost as if he were not only avoiding the memories of the trial, but also trying to...spare Q?  Q wasn't sure.

"And I?  What was I doing while you and your officers were acquitting yourselves?” Q asked finally.

"You agreed with me that finding us guilty of past crimes served little purpose.  We agreed to test us with our current mission to Farpoint Station.  You released my vessel, and I met my first officer, who already had suspicions about the station and the Bandi who were offering its use to us.  We investigated, you...appeared at intervals to...urge us along in our task.  When my people were on the station, we intercepted a life-form which attacked the Bandi city, and my people investigated further --"

"Jean-Luc, how did I urge you along in your task, exactly?"

The man frowned, wrestling with the question and Q's pinning eyes, then sighed.  "You would show up on the ship, and...taunt us.  Me, in particular."

"Were the words 'petty' and 'ape-like' involved?"

Picard's lips twitched slightly, then he dropped his voice into a sort of insinuating hiss, "'The answer is as plain as the noses on your ugly little primate faces.'"

Q chuckled, stopped himself in horror, and then burst into belly-laughs, holding his stomach.

Picard tried to glare at him, then couldn't help a dry chuckle of his own.

"I'm sorry," Q gasped out when he could.

Picard waited until Q was calm, then shook his head.  "It's all right, Q.  Even then I had realized..."

Q waited to see if Picard really needed any prodding.

"I realized that you say things you don't really mean, about all manner of things, just to get reactions from people.  You use words as a weapon, but you sometimes...sometimes what you say is just what needs to be said, even if the manner in which you express yourself is less than tactful."

"You're saying I needed to call you primates?"

"No, I'm saying there were *other* things you said, things about how Humanity was suffering from complacency, in particular, that have been helpful to my people.  The primate remark I simply ignored."

Q looked at him oddly.  "You memorized it, though."

Picard smiled.  "It was memorable."

"How did I react when you figured out the mystery of Farpoint Station?  What *was* the secret of Farpoint Station?"

"The entire station was made of an entity, a space creature that had been wounded.  The Bandi had captured it and were forcing it to make itself into a station.  Its mate came and rescued it, and we helped."

Q whistled.  "That's pretty good.  Did I congratulate you, at least?"

"You left, which had been our agreement, though you said you would be back, and you made reference to my first officer, Commander Riker."

"Reference?"

"A few months later you returned and offered to make him one of the Q.  You and I...”  Picard looked quite uncomfortable at this point, but Q was enthralled.  "We made a bet."

"A bet?  About what?"

"About whether Riker would accept your offer.  I said he wouldn't."

"And you were right, right?"

"Yes."

"What did I bet?”   Q's eyes sparkled with inner suggestions.

"You promised not to come back to the ship."

"And what did you promise, if you lost?"

Picard spoke quietly, but the words were painful enough on their own.  "My command."

Q blanched.  "Seriously?  I mean, you think...if you had lost, would I have insisted?"

Picard shrugged.  "I knew he wouldn't accept."

"But I didn't know that.”  Q looked disgusted and picked at the seam of a pillow, his legs crossing and re-crossing.  "Riker refused to be a Q, and I left?”

Picard couldn't help smiling.  "You had dressed up like a monk, and talked about praying for guidance."

"Heaven help me," Q moaned.  "And you...?"

"I called you a flim-flam man and ordered you off my ship.  Then the Continuum took you away."

"But I came back?"

Picard, lost in the memory of actually beating Q at his own game, came up short.  He knew he couldn't help the pain that crossed his face, even as he tried to stop it.

"Yes," he said quietly.  "And..."

"And?"

Picard couldn't tell the story.  He just couldn't get the words out without accusations, both against Q and himself.  He'd come to some sort of peace with himself over the arrogance that had made him refuse Q's offer to join the crew.  He'd even told himself that Q had, in a horrible way, done the Federation a favor.  But it had been such a hard-won favor, and, as was only fitting under the circumstances, he'd paid such a high price.

"I can't...” he said, his words falling gently into the silence of the parlor.  "I lost; you won, and we both paid for it."

Q hesitated, wanting to push, to prod and learn more.  But something had happened between them that had scarred this man deeply and he couldn't pick at that scar right now.  And perhaps it was cowardly of him, but, right now, he didn't want to know how he himself had paid for whatever victory he'd had over Picard.

He looked around the still room, and noticed that the light had shifted quite a bit.

"It's getting late," he said, his voice as soft as Picard's had been.  "Perhaps we could make dinner and talk about our...less painful encounters?”   He found himself desperately hoping there *were* less painful encounters.

It wasn't long before Picard was stirring the flour into the sourdough starter as Q peeled beans.

"Actually," Picard said, talking primarily to the dough in his hands, "there was a time before this that we've interacted while you were without your powers."

"This has happened to me before?"

"Not really, you had you memory, then.  You were being punished by the Continuum for being a menace, though it wasn't until after you left the ship again that I believed you really were as helpless as you made yourself out to be.”  A long pause, while thoughts were evidently collected, and Picard continued.  "You showed up, you see, on the bridge, naked and then complaining about the clothes we had for you.  When we didn't fall over ourselves comforting you, you demanded to know what you could do to convince us of your desperation.  Worf -- my security officer -- said that you could die."

Q laughed, surprising Picard considerably.  "This Worf fellow sounds like a hoot.  Are he and I friendly at all?"

Picard laughed himself.  "No."

Q sighed and took the beans to the sink.  Picard watched him peripherally as he worked the dough, sticky and still warm from the water, over the board.  Q seemed so damn domestic standing there, washing more beans to peel, his face concentrating on Picard's story.

Q didn't return to the table, peeling the beans at the sink, his own eyes watching Picard without seeming to, watching, in particular, the way the man's strong forearms flexed with the kneading motions.  "Am I friendly with any of your crew?"

Picard winced slightly, then seemed to reconsider.  "Lieutenant Commander Data watched over you while you were on the ship, and the two of you talked at some length.  He even pleaded your case somewhat when the Calamarain showed up.”  Q frowned at him.  "A race of sentient beings living as swirls of ionized gas.  We gathered you had been unkind to them, and they wanted you badly enough they kept attacking the Enterprise while we wearing trying to get the Br’el IV moon back into its orbit."

"Please, tell me I did something more than peek around corners and taunt you this time."

"Actually, you were quite helpful in Engineering, if somewhat difficult to work with.  However, the Calamarain wouldn't leave us alone, and Data was injured."

"Badly?”   The single word conveyed so much concern and self-loathing that Picard let his hands rest on the mound of dough as he turned to look into Q's face.

"No.  We were able to fix him up.  And then you tried to save us all."

Q looked wildly hopeful.  "I did?"

Picard nodded.  "It was an act of great selfishness and sacrifice at the same time:  you stole a shuttle and tried to fly off, offering yourself to the Calamarain.  The Q were evidently so impressed by this that your powers were restored.”  Picard turned away from the look on Q's face and finished kneading the sourdough before placing it in a greased bowl.  "When you showed up on the bridge again, you had a Mariachi band in tow."

"Is that good?"

Picard snorted softly.  "Not on my bridge, it isn't.  But you left only after giving Data a present he greatly cherished.  He's an android, and didn't have an emotion chip then.  You made him laugh."

"With my Mariachi band?  And what is one of those, anyway?"

"Mexican music...a type of music enjoyed on Earth.  And then you put the Br’el IV moon back in proper orbit and went away.  It was almost a year before we saw you again."

"And then?”  Q asked eagerly.

Picard carefully washed his hands, and then dried them with equal care.  How to explain Vash to Q?

"Or is this one of those times you don't want to talk about?"

Q watched as Picard placed the towel over its hook.  When the man turned to look at him though, he did not have that tight look of pain that Q had seen before.  This time he was actually sort of smiling, a rueful smile that made Q want to smile back.

"Q, the only reason I don't want to talk about it is that it made me look rather foolish.  Nothing earth-shattering, and it wasn't an  'end of life was we know it' situation, but I don't like looking silly any more than the next man."

*Probably less than the next man,* Q thought.  *Then again, what do I know?*

"You showed up," Picard said, beginning to work on the rice, "when the last thing I needed was a distraction.”  he chuckled.  "I had a ship full or eminent archeologists, I was working on the speech I was going to give them, and my lover was on board, demanding way too much of my time and attention."

*Lover!* Q thought.  *He's got  a lover?*  For some reason, once his mind actually gave him enough information on the word “lover,” the concept of Picard’s having one seemed...if not actually disturbing, then certainly odd.

"Let me guess," he said aloud, "you told me to get off your ship?"

Picard turned to look at him in surprise.  "You remember that?"

"Far from it," Q replied, "it just seems to be a recurring theme."

"Oh, fair enough.”  Q thought he caught the faintest hint of a smile, but it vanished swiftly as Picard turned back to the stove.

"So what *happened?*”

Picard frowned at the pot as he put the lid on it.  Q's voice was almost desperate, and it had been through much of this conversation.  *Be fair, Jean-Luc.  If you knew nothing about yourself, wouldn't you be desperate to know all you could?*  The thought bothered him, and he stood staring at the pot for a moment.  *I'm beginning to believe him,* he thought.  *My God, I'm actually beginning to believe that he has no memory.*

Resolutely he turned and looked at Q

"You wanted to get me something as a gift," he said.  "You went about telling me so in the most insulting manner than you could, but you seemed interested in repaying a debt you felt you owed after the Br'el incident.  when I told you 'thank you, but no thank you,' you seemed to just take off.  Of course you didn't really go away.  Instead you watched me have a quarrel with Vash..."

"Vash?"

"My lover.  She's an archeologist...of sorts."

"You still see her?”  Q asked hoping his voice was casual enough.  He wondered what this woman looked like, how she acted.  *I bet she's really reserved,* he thought.  *An archeologist...that's a scientist who studies the past by uncovering artifacts from earlier times.  She's probably as dry and pedantic as Jean-Luc Picard is.*

"No," Picard replied, without regret.

"Oh.  So I watched you two fight?"

"And then you came and needled me about the relationship.  How Vash and I sounded married, how I obviously cared about her.  I don't really know what your point was; I guess you wanted me to admit that I loved her.  You told me that you thought I was a little more evolved than most of my race, but that this woman had made me small."

"The Continuum…”  Q interrupted.  "My people?"

Picard nodded.

"They don't...love?"

"I...” Picard paused, thinking.  "I honestly don't know.  I don't suppose I've thought about it much."

"Oh," Q replied, sounding a little sad.

Picard felt an urge to get back to the story at hand.  “The next morning, while I was giving my speech, you pulled me, my senior staff, and Vash off the Enterprise and put us into Sherwood Forest as Robin Hood and his Merry Men," he saw the look of incomprehension on Q's face.  "It's a legendary Earth setting."

"Well, that sounds interesting at least.”  Q tried a small smile which wasn't answered.  In fact, Picard began to look quite grumpy.

"The point of this little scenario of yours was to show me that love was too dangerous for me.  I ended up almost getting myself killed while you sat at the table and ate chicken.  Then when it was all over you took Vash off on some sort of galactic tour, and, I heard later, abandoned her in the Gamma Quadrant."

"Oh dear," Q whispered, overtly distressed.

Picard relented somewhat.  "I heard that you also helped save her and Deep Space Nine from destruction, and I gather the parting was mutually agreed upon.  Still, the history of my almost-demise has become one of my first officer's favorite date-stories.  For that alone, I should cast you out into the desert."

Q looked up from putting the beans on to boil, smiling now openly at the man's joke.  He didn't push it, however, and walked to the table to set it for dinner.

"And how long was it that time until we met again?"

"About another year.  A young woman from Earth turned out to be a Q.  Her parents had been executed by the Continuum.  You arrived on the ship to help her learn about her powers..."

"That sounds decent of me!"

"...and to decide if she should be executed herself."

Q threw himself down in a chair with a groan.  "This just gets worse and worse!  I shudder to think what I did to the poor Calamarain!"  A moment passed while Q put his head in his hands.  "Well?  Did I kill her?"
 
"No, as it turned out, she accepted her Q powers and left with you.  And the next time I saw you -- well, actually, I'm not sure I did see you.  It might have been a dream, and you never mentioned it, afterwards."

Q's head rose with a snap.  "What happened in your dream?”   Picard looked uncomfortable, and Q realized his heart was actually beating hard in his chest.  A curious sensation.

"As I said, I'm not sure," the man said slowly, stirring the beans before fishing one out and pressing it between his fingers.  "Not quite done."

"Jean-Luc..."

"You may have saved my life, though it was only with another harsh lesson, this one about how important my past is to me.  For that, I admit, I felt quite grateful."

Q smiled and leaned back.  "You and I…we seem to pack a lot into short visits."

Picard "hmmed" slightly.

"How did I save your life?"

"I was shot with an energy weapon, my heart fused.  That's how I might have died.  But as for how you saved my life, again, it's beyond me."

Q looked quite puzzled.  "Fused?  That doesn't sound right."

"I have an artificial heart," Picard replied.  He peeked at the rice, and then looked back at Q.  "I got stabbed in the chest as a very young man.  In my dream...or whatever it was, you took me back to that point in time and gave me the option of not getting stabbed."

"Which you took, of course," Q replied.  "Who wouldn't want to avoid that?"

Picard laughed a little.  "I took it all right, after you essentially bullied me into it.  And it was a mistake.  A very big mistake."

"Why?"

Picard sighed and, moved away from the stove to lean against the counter.  "Well," he said thoughtfully, "look at yourself now."

When Q glanced at himself curiously, Picard smiled and shook his head.

"Metaphorically, I mean.  You don't have your past and so you don't know who you are.  Any being that travels in linear time, like I do, is defined by their past.  Take that past away, or change it, and you redefine that being."

Q nodded.  "So I'm essentially a...clean slate here."

"Exactly!" Picard said.

Q looked at him in surprise; the man looked...not exactly happy, but something, pleased maybe.  Q wondered why.

"And so you changed when you changed your past?"

"Very much so.  I had to tell you that an early death was preferable to being who I'd become."

"So you got stabbed again, but you didn't die later.  Why not?"

"I have to assume that you saved my life, that the lesson was enough and you didn't intend to kill me."

Picard was taking the rice off the heat, when Q asked, in a hesitant voice, "So, I'm not *all* bad?"

Picard's eyes narrowed.  "The next time you showed up, you told me I was going to be responsible for the destruction of all Humanity."

"Oh dear."

Picard drained the beans and stirred up some onions, caramelizing them over a hot flame, before mixing tumeric and chopped hard-boiled eggs in with the rice and beans.  Then he served up the plates and sat down with more lemonades before, finally, meeting Q's sad eyes.  "It was an order from the Continuum, Q.  And you helped me as much as you could.  With your help, I prevented Humanity's destruction, and solved a temporal puzzle.  After that, we had a talk, I thanked you, you made enigmatic comments about my future, and then said we'd meet again.”  He waved his fork around slightly.  "I think it possible
you might have had this place in mind at the time...though that was several years ago.  I've been...wondering when we'd be seeing each other again."

Q ate some of the rice and beans, his eyes not leaving his plate.  "And you know nothing more about the Continuum?"

"Guinan, a mutual acquaintance, said that some members of the Continuum were 'almost respectable.'  Other than that, no, I'm afraid not."

"When I'm not under direct orders from the Continuum or fearing for my life, my interactions with you seem governed by a desire to teach you things, especially things about yourself.”  Q waved his own fork.  "Have you, in fact, been learning anything about yourself here?"

Picard let several minutes pass as he considered Q's question.  Trust the entity, even without his memory, to ask him something so difficult and sit so expectantly for his answer.

"I suppose," he said at last, "that I have been a little disturbed by the peace I've found here.  The rituals and rites have been calming.  I tend to think of myself as an adventurer who hates routine.  You might have been thinking to disabuse me of that notion."

Q frowned.  "Would that sort of insight be helpful to you?  I mean, you have to command your ship, and it has its own rituals, I'm sure.  I don't see this changing your life much."

"I'm not sure your intention has ever been getting me to change the facts of my life so much as my attitude towards it."

"I wonder why, though.  I mean, do I just feel the need to prove to you over and over that I'm right?”   Q's voice wavered slightly as his attention strayed.  "Hey, how old am I, anyway?"

"I have no idea.  Millions of years old, at least, I should think."

"And how old do Humans live to be?"

"We can live to around a hundred and fifty years, with care."

Q wasn't sure if he kept the shock of pain those words caused from showing on his face.

"Q?”  Picard asked, dropping his fork on his plate and leaning toward Q.  "Are you all right?"

"It's just...I...I don't know what to think right now."

Picard desperately wished for the presence of Deanna Troi.  How could he help Q with whatever it was that had startled and hurt the entity?  He didn't know the first thing about helping an amnesiac, let alone one with whom he'd so often been at odds.  *Don't be such a coward, Jean-Luc,* he told himself sternly.  *Deanna's not here; you're all he's got.*

"All right," he said, trying to keep his voice steady but interested.  "Something about the age discrepancy has upset you.  Can you isolate it?”   Even as he spoke, he braced for a sarcastic remark, steadied to have Q look up and needle him for practicing without a license.  Instead, Q frowned in concentration.

"It just...made me feel sad, I guess."

"That you've lost so much of your memory?"

"No!  Ten years or ten million years...what difference does that make?"

"Good point," that voice calmly replied.

Q didn't know what Picard was doing, but something in the man's face and body language made him realize that Picard was genuinely concerned about him.  The man was so quiet now, but it was an encouraging silence and it made Q feel that he could take his time, that Picard would wait for him to figure things out.  He tried to pin-point that moment of pain.

"It's you," he murmured finally.  "I felt sad knowing you have so little time."

Picard looked surprised and once more Q felt that tiny, private dagger-thrust of pain.  Picard was surprised when he said something nice, he was surprised when Q expressed any sort of feeling, he was surprised when Q indicated that he felt pain for Picard's mortality...*Damnit, what did I *do* to him?*

"I don't think of it that way," Picard was saying now, his voice reflective.  "I can't.  I think I'd begun to think of it that way, but then, between your lesson when you took me back in time and my encounter with a man who was trying to turn back his own clock at any expense..."

His voice trailed off and Q waited, wondering what was going on in Picard's memory.  *Once,* he thought, *I would have known just by wanting to know.*  The thought made him feel a little odd.  Had he done things like that?  Intruded on this man's mind simply out of idle curiosity?

"Each day comes along," Picard said slowly, "and we have to live in it.  There's no avoiding the future, it will happen and we will deal with it.  We continually make decisions that shape the future, but we can't see the results of those decisions as we make them.  It's...it's the frightening thing about being mortal and linear.  Should I say yes to *this* and risk *that* future, or should I say no and create a different future?  If I do everything exactly right, can I spare myself pain of any kind?"

"And can you?"

Picard looked up, half-surprised to remember that he had an audience.  "I met that man," he said, "the one who was trying to return to a past that didn't hurt as much as the future, at the same time my brother and my nephew died.”  He looked down at his hands and the dark wood of the table underneath them.  "There was nothing *I* could have done differently in my life that would have saved them, unless I'd changed myself so drastically that I wouldn't be me.

"Yes, I could have been there, and then, maybe, instead of Robert and Rene, I would have been working on the piece of equipment that exploded.  But then I would have been Jean-Luc Picard the vintner's younger brother and not Captain Jean-Luc Picard of Starfleet."

"You had that choice at one point?”  the soft voice from across the table asked.

"Choice?” and Q could hear the irony in the man's voice.  "I had to fight my family, my father and brother, incredibly hard to be who I am now.  Yes, I had a choice, but," and that elegant head raised and Q found himself looking into a pair of sad but aware hazel eyes, "if you took me back, knowing what I know now, I'd make the same choice.  After all, for all I know, I could have been there and they still could have died."

"And don't you do important things as a captain?  You told me I made you save Humanity that time, have you had to do that sort of heroic thing other times?”

Picard smiled wryly.  "Rather often of late, it seems."

Q was amazed to hear the man speak of something so important and epic in that sad, almost resigned tone.  It occurred to him that he could listen to the good captain speak for hours.  As it was, their plates were clean and the evening was late, and he wasn't even tired.  Picard's next words, however, shocked him.

"You're responsible for helping me be who I am now, Q.  I *can't* begrudge you that."

"Even though you want to?”  Q's own voice was resigned as well.  Picard frowned at him.

"No...it's more complicated than that.  Perhaps, if we have to stay here long enough, you'll understand what I'm saying."

Q nodded carefully.  "I'll try, Jean-Luc Picard.”  He rose and took the plates to the sink, washing up while Picard disappeared for a time.  He thought he heard that singing again, but didn't want to disturb any rituals.  When the man returned, he did indeed seem more at peace for the exercise.

"Well, if I weren't here," Q said briskly, drying his hands on a towel, "what would you do now?"

"Read in the library, I suppose."

"Sounds lovely."

They walked the short way together, with Q trying to pretend that their silence was companionable.  They lit the lamps, took books from the shelves, and settled into chairs on opposite sides of the room.  It was several minutes before Q put his book down with a sigh.

"Q?"

"I can't read."

Picard stared at him.

"I thought I might get the hang of it if I tried long enough, but it's just a bunch of symbols, complete gibberish."

"My God," Picard said softly.  Q flinched and the captain realized that he hadn't been able to hide his anger completely.

"They took *that* from you as well?”   He remembered being in a body that was too young and how he'd had to step down from his command.  At least he'd still had the *memory* of his life, his accumulated knowledge and the capacity to learn more.

"Which," he said carefully, "would bother you less, my teaching you to read, or my reading to you?"

Q remembered what he'd thought only moments before, and smiled.  "I think I'm too overwhelmed by everything to try to learn something new right now.  I mean, everything's new, right?"

Picard nodded.  His initial burst of anger at the Continuum had died down and in its passing he realized hat he utterly believed Q now.  And so he had to stop thinking (as much as he could, at least) of this man as Q.  This was *not* the Q he knew and it would be unfair to judge him by actions he couldn't even remember taking.

"I wouldn't mind reading to you," he said.  "If, later, you want me to teach you how to read this script, I'll be happy to do that."

"Thank you," Q said.  He looked at the page of the book he'd been trying to read.  "It *is* beautiful script."

"I thought so too," Picard said, settling into the pillows on the floor near Q's chair.  "It looks, like much of this place, Arabic or Persian.” He laughed softly.  "I shouldn't be able to read it either, but when I got here, I could."

"So I did that to you."

"Someone did," Picard said.  He looked at the book in his hands and then at the book he'd brought with him from his own chair.  "Poetry or prose?”  he asked.

"Uh...what's the difference?"

Then as Picard drew breath to answer, Q held up his hand.  "Wait...” Q took a deep breath and let the words come out of his mouth:

"She dwells with Beauty -- Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh
Turning to pleasure while the bee-mouth sips:"

Picard wondered what on earth had caused Q to remember this one.  But, for some strange reason when Q paused, and looked at him, he nodded and finished the verse.

"Ay, in the very temple of her Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovereign shrine.
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might
And be among her cloudy trophies hung."

Q had closed his eyes to listen to Picard's recitation, but when the captain fell silent, he looked at Picard a little helplessly.  "Kind of sad, isn't it?"

"Well," Picard said, "not exactly.  Keats might have been trying to say something about the transitory nature of inspiration and life and the inseparability of joy and melancholy.

"Might have been?”  Q was surprised that Picard didn't lay down the law here as he had so many other times in the short time Q had known him.

"I would never," Picard replied dryly, "presume to speak for someone who was one of the greatest poets of his time, even on the subject of a poem that isn't considered one of his finer efforts.”  He shrugged and picked up the book Q had been looking at.  "I think, perhaps, we should stick with prose tonight.  This is a book of short stories; they're rather like fables or parables, but they're interesting even if you're not trying
to find a message in them.  Shall I?"

"Please," Q replied.

"'The Prince and the Mason,'" Picard read.  "And so it came to pass, in the third year of Shihiva's reign, a great drought came upon the land.  Many were the people who took ill, and even in the richest quarters of El Sagil, disease and hunger visited."

Q leaned his head back and listened to the story of the brave young men who discovered a new way to bring water to El Sagil.  Picard's rich voice brought the story to life and soon the man was doing different voices for the characters.  When the story came to its happy ending, Picard, without being asked, moved into the next one.  At some point he moved to lean against a nearby sofa and, as he began a third story, Q opened his eyes and looked at him, still under the spell of that voice.

Sharp features softened by the warm light of the pierced metal lamps, Picard's face was all curves of light and shadows.  Q let his eyes follow one shadow down the captain's neck to the midnight blue silk tunic the man wore.  The thin lines of gold embroidery on it glittered every time Picard paused to breathe, and Q found himself breathing in the same rhythm.  And still, the voice read on.

"It's amazing," the entity breathed.

"What?  The story?"

"Your voice.  I could listen to it forever."

The sting of the old memory surprised him.  Kamala had said something so similar.  But he only smiled at Q.  "I do believe, Q, that you are about to fall asleep on the sofa."

Q yawned and nodded.  "Not a bad way to go, really.  Finish the story you're doing, please.  Then I'll go to bed like a good boy."

Picard looked back to his book.  "And in the lake of still waters the woman saw her beloved, the eyes which had known her, the hands which had touched her skin, the body which had shared with hers.  She could not curse the love which now seemed a torment --"

"Jean-Luc, are you sure you read that right?"

"Read what right?"

"'The body which had shared with hers.'  Shared what?  Is there a word missing?"

"I believe it's a euphemism, Q."

"For what?"

"Really, Q!  You can't have lost that much of your memory!"

"Oh.”  Q laughed softly.  "You mean it's sexual.  Hm.  'Sharing.'  Not bad for a euphemism."

Picard grunted and sought his place in the story.

"Have we ever shared, Jean-Luc?"

"Q!"  The book slipped from Picard's grasp and fell to the floor with a thud.

"I'll take that as a 'no.'"  Q sighed and sat up.  "You must have been very lonely here, these weeks, all by yourself.  Considering how kind you've been to me, and what a bastard I've been to you, before, I should think it only fair if, well, you know."

Picard's mouth worked slightly before the words came out, "If I know what?"

"If you ever wanted me to do something for you, sexually.  I wouldn't mind.  Really."

"Q, listen to me carefully.  You and I have never...”  Picard trailed off, looking, to Q's surprise, somewhat pensive.

The captain didn't want to lie to Q, however much his current suggestion rattled him.  And it wasn't entirely true that *nothing* of a sexual nature had existed between them, even if it had only been suggestion and innuendo.  But of primary importance here was getting Q *never* to make those sorts of suggestions again.  He cleared his throat.

"Sex, Q, is simply not a part of our relationship, nor will it ever be."

"Oh.”  Q looked somewhat lost for a moment.  "But you said you didn't have a lover anymore.  Or has someone taken Vash's place?"

"That's really none of your business, Q!"

"But," Q was looking very puzzled now indeed, "don't Humans need sex, the way they need air and food and sleep?  If we're stuck here together --"

"Q, this is not an issue here!"  Picard stood, bent down for his book, put it on the table, and walked to the doorway.  "Please do me the courtesy of never raising the question of...being intimate with each other again."

"As you wish, Jean-Luc.  I'm sorry I...”  There was no one left to speak to.  Q looked around the empty room sadly.  He'd only wanted to help.

***

he singing or chanting or whatever it was that Jean-Luc Picard did in the mornings didn't exactly wake Q up, but it did let him know that perhaps it was time to get out of bed.  He hadn't slept very well, and his eyes felt gritty and tired.  He thought he'd had dreams, but he couldn't remember them.

He could remember his offer to Picard though.  He wasn't quite sure why he'd been turned down.  Picard didn't want to talk about it, but Q had so many questions that he wasn't sure he could refrain from asking them.  Maybe Picard would change his mind and they could talk.

*Not a chance,* he told himself.  *I'll bet he *never* changes his mind once he's made a decision.*

After hastily washing up, he made his way to the kitchen.  An incredible smell was making its way down the corridor and Q's stomach suddenly woke up.

"What *is* that smell?"

"Good morning, Q."

"Oh, good morning.  What...?"

Picard smiled; he really couldn't help it.  Q sounded so eager, and so *real.*

"It's the bread I was working on last night," he explained as Q moved around the kitchen getting out plates and cups.

"Well, it smells just like the best thing I've ever smelled.”  Q laughed.

"What?"

"Well, I suppose the competition isn't too fierce.  My first smell was my own putrid body, then there was the soap in the bath, then the smell of the clothes you got me -- very nice -- and then the moon pool...”  He trailed off, looking at Picard with affectionate confusion.

Picard stopped laughing and turned away.  "Sorry.  It just seemed amusing.  Well, now you have a universe of smells to learn over...”  Picard trailed off himself, pulling the bread from the oven and setting it on the marble counter.  "I wonder, Q.  Could this be some sort of survival phase of your species?"

Q swallowed thickly, and his mouth instantly re-watered.  "What?"

"This business of losing your memory.  If you've really been alive so long, perhaps this is the Q's way of making the world an interesting place again.  But then, why would you lose your powers?"

Q thought a moment, wondering how long it was until the bread would be ready to eat.  The heat off it felt great as he leaned in for a discreet sniff.  "Perhaps I haven't lost them.  Perhaps I've just forgotten how to access them.”

"Would you like some bread, Q?"

Q smiled happily.  "Yes, please."

Picard cut four thick slices, then carried the bread with butter and jam to the table.  While Q devoured his first slice, Jean-Luc set out two cups of coffee before joining him.

"This is incredibly delicious," Q said, reaching for the next slice.

Picard smiled, more pleased with the simple compliment than he wanted to admit.  "Perhaps later we'll make doughnuts.  You'd like those, I'm sure."

Q smiled more broadly then ever, his lips a little shiny with butter.  "I'm sure I would too, if you think so."

Picard looked down at his plate for a moment.  Why did Q's innocent pleasure in everything bother him so much?  Or was his own pleasure in watching Q really the thing that bothered him?  Q should have reminded him of a child, but he didn't.  Picard kept coming up with the comparison to Data.

He wondered if that comparison was leading him to feel something that felt almost like amused affection for Q.  He countered the thought with the idea of Data’s offering him sex, and he almost choked on his coffee.

"Are you all right?”  Q asked, concern obvious on his face.

Picard cleared his throat.  "Just a cough," he said.

And he almost instantly felt odd about lying to Q.  He'd lied to Q before, but it was always the same as lying to Troi; there was the understanding that his lie or evasion was being accepted as a social courtesy.  Well,  at least, with Troi there was.  Picard didn't really know why Q had never called him on his fabrications or evasions.  Now he could lie to Q with impunity.

He didn't like the feeling.

"Where are you?” a quiet voice asked, gently breaking his train of thought.

"Oh...I was thinking.”  He took a deep breath.  "About lies and truths, actually."

"What about them?  Have you been lying to me?"

*Merde!*

"Not...I've been evading your questions, but you know that.  I have my reasons.  As for lying?  Well, just now, I wasn't really coughing, I was laughing at a private joke that I'd rather not explain.”  He shook his head.  "It was what we Humans call a social or ‘little white’ lie."

"I see.  And it's supposed to make things work between people?  I assume that the idea is that you don't want to mention the private joke, and you don't want me to feel bad about your not sharing it with me, so you say you coughed."

Picard smiled ruefully.  "That's the idea all right."

Q frowned a little.  "Am I supposed to know you're lying and let it go?”  he asked.

"That's the general idea."

Q frowned more deeply.  "Just like that?  How am I supposed to stop wondering what you've lied about?"

Picard opened his mouth to answer, but Q continued:

"How do I know it wasn't a joke about me?"

"Well, it did involve you, slightly."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

The captain sighed.  He really didn't want to think about what it would mean to be completely honest with Q every second of the day.  "You remind me of someone on my ship, one of my crew, whom I've known for years.  He has a habit of doing things which seem humorous, unintentionally.  I was laughing at that."

Q looked hurt.  "I seem ridiculous to you?"

"No, no.”  Picard felt himself sinking.  "Not at all.  Just...your present condition, where everything seems new to you and different and worth exploring, it makes you like this crewmember of mine.  His name is Data.  I told you about him."

"The android I made laugh."

"Right."

"Well, that's something, I suppose," Q said, eyeing the bread as though wondering if it would be rude to cut another slice.  Picard made a "go ahead" gesture towards the knife.

"What?"

Q shrugged and took the knife.  "You're fond of Data.  It shows."

Picard frowned this time, and rose from the table.  His coffee was finished, and he wanted to start on the laundry.  "I would appreciate it if you would put anything you want cleaned out in the hall," he said.  "I'm going to do the wash."

"Right," Q said around the bread in his mouth.  "And I'm going to clean the floors."

"Good," Picard replied.  As Picard efficiently tidied up his breakfast things, Q stared at his back and tried to figure out what he'd said to make the man just close up like that.

* He's fond of Data.  Is Data his lover?  Or would he like Data to be his lover?  Would an android be able to be somebody's lover?  He said I made Data laugh *before* he had emotions; what did he mean by that?*

Q shook his head as Picard left the kitchen without a word more.  He wanted to jump up and offer to help “do the wash,” which he thought had something to do with clean clothes, but it was obvious that Picard didn't want him around.

*Not a morning person.*

Q stiffened a little as the phrase popped into his head, and then his shoulders slumped.  Just what he needed, another useless bit of information.  He could feel himself starting to get edgy, even a little sad.  He needed to get outside and distract himself.

The world outside certainly provided enough distractions.

"Did I really do *all* this?”  Q murmured as he wandered around the back of the building.

The morning air was still faintly cool, and it smelled almost as good, in a very different way, as the bread Picard had made.  Q found himself staring at one of the bright birds the wandered the grounds and his spirits began to rise.  He still had questions, millions of them, but now they were about this place and his own role in creating it.

Q looked at the bird, and followed it as it made its stately way across a patch of grass.  *How would anyone go about creating something like that?  Jean-Luc Picard said all of this was similar to his own world, but I still would have had to know *so* much to be able to create even that bird.*

He thought about something else Picard had said.  *Would the universe be boring if you know that much?  He seems to think so.  Did I do this out of boredom?*  He thought about being someone who would just kidnap a man from his starship and bring him here just to alleviate boredom.  *No, I don't think so.  He implied that even when I'm at my worst, or the worst he'll tell me at least, I do things for more of a reason than that.  So *why* did I go through all this trouble?"

Q sighed and looked around, the bird having wandered away while he was thinking.

The small ornamental garden was to his left, and he turned toward absently.  He'd been curious about the flowers yesterday, but hadn't wanted to slow things down while Picard showed him around.  But now he could look at the flowers for a while and then go wash floors.

The range of colors in the garden was amazing, and he looked at them all feeling a little bewildered.  What would it be like to look at these flowers and know their names?  To maybe even know something about them?  Maybe that was what gave Picard such an air of authority.

*He *knows* things,* Q thought.  *Maybe everyone who has a memory is like him.*  But his mind balked at the idea.  A whole starship full of people like Jean-Luc Picard?  It seemed impossible.

A bright patch of gold blooms caught his eye and he moved closer.  His mind, for once helpful, tossed up the image of something like a glass, only with flowers in it.

"A vase!" he said aloud.  "You cut flowers and you put them in a vase because they look good that way.”

He decided that the gold flowers, and maybe a few of the pale peach-colored ones, would look good in the kitchen.  If there weren't a vase anywhere, he could use a glass or something.  With that in mind, he bent down to pick some of the flowers.

Picard was trying to find some sort of balance, which was not an easy thing to do while washing laundry by hand.  *Nothing,* he told himself wryly, *makes one appreciate the little things like having to do without them.  Even Father never wanted Maman to do the washing by hand.*  To be fair, he wouldn't have done so well at this whole stint of domesticity if he had grown up in a thoroughly modern home, but Picard wasn't interested in being fair.

*No, you'd rather sulk,* he told himself.

He certainly had enough to sulk about.  He'd believed Q last night, but then this morning, while they were talking about lies, Q had echoed his own thoughts enough to make him wonder if the entity were playing a particularly subtle game with him.

*But even Q's subtleties are usually flamboyant,* he reminded himself.

As he reached for another sheet, he heard a yell from a different part of the grounds.  The yell was followed by more yells and Picard dropped the sheet and ran toward the sounds.

He found Q sitting on the grass in the flower garden, clutching at his hand and yelling, "Ow!" over and over.

"Q?"

"Ow!"

"Q!  What happened?"

"It bit me...the flower vine.  It bit me!"

Picard was tempted to turn around and stalk away, but Q was holding up his hand, and the skin was badly torn across the back of his hand, and there was actually quite a bit of blood.  In fact...he looked more closely at the wound, touching Q's hand gently, turning it in the sunlight.  He turned to examine the vine.  He'd steered clear of the thorns himself, not linking their sharp, serrated edges.  Q must have caught one deeply inside, then pulled back in alarm.

"You need to be careful of thorns, Q," he murmured, losing himself a moment in the deeply and openly sad gaze of Q's eyes.  *Merde.  Forget Data.  He looks like a hurt puppy.*

"Thorns," Q said, weighing the word.  "Yes.  I should have remembered."

"Why should you have?  It's not your fault.  Let's get you fixed up."

He put a hand under Q's shoulder and pulled, but Q swayed heavily against him, his face going ashen.

"Uhhhh.  I don't feel well."

"Just breathe, Q, nice and steady."

Q obviously struggled to obey him, then pitched forward in a faint.  Picard caught him, grunting with the heaviness of him, then lowered him to the ground.

"Well, this is you, Q," he muttered, holding up Q's sandaled feet.  "You can't deal with pain, with or without your memory."

A moment passed, and Q's color began to come back a little.  Picard gently lowered his feet and then ripped a few strips from his white robe to make a bandage.  He wrapped up Q's hand, wiping up the blood as well, trying to hide the sight of the wound.  Perhaps Q was one of those people who couldn't stand the sight of his own blood.

*Either way, he's going to be embarrassed when he wakes up.*  Picard found himself staring at the sky.  *Did you have to make him this helpless?*

Q groaned softly.

"Q?"

Dark eyes fluttered open.

"Wha' happened?"

"You...er...fainted.  Reaction.  You did lose some blood here."

Q looked ready to faint again.

"Don't worry, though, Q.  You'll be fine.  I'm sure it hurts, but it won't take long to heal."

Q cautiously looked at his hand, saw that it was bandaged, and relaxed slightly.  Taking it in stages, they got Q on his feet again and walked back to the structure.  In the kitchen, while Q looked steadily off to the left, Picard cleaned and dressed the wound, treating it with some of the herbs he'd already identified for the purpose, and then brewed Q a strong cup of tea that would help him sleep.

"I should wash floors," Q protested weakly as Picard steered him to his rooms.

"Nonsense.  You can do it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow I'm supposed to sweep the walkways."

"Don't worry so much, Q.  You've had a shock to your system.”  He opened Q's bedroom door and led the entity to his bed.  "Just lay down and rest for a while.  You can help with the chores soon enough.”

"You're so nice," Q said, his voice thin and dazed.  Picard looked up, startled, into soft eyes.  Q reached up with his uninjured hand and lightly touched Jean-Luc's cheek.  "Thank you.”

"You were hurt," Picard said after a moment.

For a second, during which Q's hand remained on Picard's cheek, neither of them moved.

"It was...” Picard said, a little hoarsely.  "It's just what you do," he finished, knowing that he sounded inane.  Once more Q looked sad, and Picard felt like an utter ass.  "I didn't like seeing you in pain," he said, the truth slipping out before he could stop it.

"Even after everything I've done to you?"

"Yes, Q," Picard replied, hoping desperately that Q would fall asleep *now.*  He reached up and took Q's hand off his cheek, but he did it gently, not wanting to hurt Q's feelings any further than he already had.

"You're a good man...Jean-Luc Picard," Q said, his voice slurred by oncoming sleep.

Q felt drowsy and confused, but he was keenly aware of the warm strong hand that guided his own hand to the blanket.  Before that hand could escape, he fumbled at it, patting it for a second.

"It's all right, Q," a warm, deep voice assured him.  "It will be all right."

And Q slipped into sleep.

Picard spent several hours doing hard work, first with the laundry, then scrubbing the floors.  He was almost exhausted by dinner time, and hadn't stopped for lunch.  When he finally threw himself over a sofa in the parlor, he was too tired to run a bath and let himself fall into an early evening nap.  Q wouldn't need a fancy dinner...

Q padded into the parlor not long afterwards, the cool tile soothing against his bare feet.  He felt more than a little