He softens as she recites Romeo's lines but never mind, and clasps her hand in his own, encircling it completely and looking back down at her. She was a passionate woman. No 'ifs' or 'buts'. No 'underneath the role of Captaincy'. She was a passionate woman, and so much more besides. And he was a moth to that flame. He'd told her before that she would be capable of rising to the challenges of being a mother to a Q, the battles she'd have to face beyond even those of the Borg. He'd even insisted that she would come to love him--he remembered neither of those subjects. But they were no less true because he didn't remember them.
This would all pass, like an evening, and in the morning everything would be different; but that evening wasn't tonight, and that morning wasn't tomorrow.
But he wasn't used to ultimatums. He was Q. He did things until he got bored, and if the moment passed he'd go back and live through it again until he was good and satisfied (it usually only took one run through). But this was different; finite, mortal. It had a predefined ending, like night and day, like a human life.
"If you remember that, then you must remember what becomes of the lovers at the end of the play. I have to say I'm slightly more optimistic." He raised his free hand to brush a strand of loosened hair from her face, stepping forward. "I thought about saving all your memories for you. Bringing them back when you'd moved on from Starfleet and the prime directive no longer applied to you. It's fine; I'm well aware you wouldn't be interested, but I considered it."
no subject
Romeo's lines but never mind, and clasps her hand in his own, encircling it completely and looking back down at her. She was a passionate woman. No 'ifs' or 'buts'. No 'underneath the role of Captaincy'. She was a passionate woman, and so much more besides. And he was a moth to that flame. He'd told her before that she would be capable of rising to the challenges of being a mother to a Q, the battles she'd have to face beyond even those of the Borg. He'd even insisted that she would come to love him--he remembered neither of those subjects. But they were no less true because he didn't remember them.This would all pass, like an evening, and in the morning everything would be different; but that evening wasn't tonight, and that morning wasn't tomorrow.
But he wasn't used to ultimatums. He was Q. He did things until he got bored, and if the moment passed he'd go back and live through it again until he was good and satisfied (it usually only took one run through). But this was different; finite, mortal. It had a predefined ending, like night and day, like a human life.
"If you remember that, then you must remember what becomes of the lovers at the end of the play. I have to say I'm slightly more optimistic." He raised his free hand to brush a strand of loosened hair from her face, stepping forward. "I thought about saving all your memories for you. Bringing them back when you'd moved on from Starfleet and the prime directive no longer applied to you. It's fine; I'm well aware you wouldn't be interested, but I considered it."