A/N: I wanted to write a short story that would let the kiss from "All Good Things" actually happen, instead of being wiped out by the "Christmas Carol"-type reset button. So, this is my shot at that alternate ending for the episode. Dialogue for the first scene is by Ron Moore and Brannon Braga; the rest will be mine. Feedback very welcomed.

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He was beginning to jump at shadows.

Jean-Luc Picard had retreated to the quiet of his ready room, both to escape from the perceptible tension on the bridge and to have a chance to regroup after running on adrenaline for too long today. The Enterprise was racing to investigate a massive, unexplained spatial anomaly in the Neutral Zone and his crew was efficiently preparing for any possible Romulan threat there, including battle. He knew he could better focus on his own work in the meantime in solitude. Rather than being able to concentrate in the silence, however, he found himself glancing around frequently, as if expecting his surroundings to change at any time.

Time.

He felt his pulse thrumming at his temples. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then blinked twice to refocus his gaze on the computer screen in his other hand. It would probably do him well to have some tea and close his eyes, settle his nerves, but there simply wasn't time. Time, rather, was dogging him, refusing to let up, insinuating itself into his conscious reality. Over the past twenty-four hours (days? weeks?), with increasing frequency, he had been slipping in and out of time, or more precisely, this time period—for what purpose, at whose initiative, by what means, all mysteries as vexing as time itself. With every shift he retained more memory of the strange future, the altered past, and he hoped that answers would be manifest soon, in at least one time period…

The door chime interrupted his third failed attempt to concentrate on the pressing work of the present. "Come."

Almost before the doors had finished opening, Beverly Crusher was through them, crossing the room with barely a glance in his direction. She stopped in front of the replicator. "Milk, warm. A dash of nutmeg."

As the replicator hummed in the corner alcove, Picard set the PADD down on his desk and watched her with mild bemusement. "What's this?"

Beverly turned towards him smoothly, holding the glass of milk as if it were a hypospray she intended to administer. "A prescription. A glass of warm milk and eight hours' uninterrupted sleep."

He gave her a wry look. "Beverly."

"Doctor's orders," she insisted, settling on the edge of his desk with a familiarity that would have been rather remarkable...if she, alone among the thousand-odd people on board, hadn't assumed such privilege for herself many times before. Truth be told, he rarely minded. They always had had a relaxed notion of the concept of personal space.

Dutifully accepting the glass from her, he set it aside and was about to protest further, but she stopped him. "You're exhausted. Look, I don't know whether you've slept in the past or in the future, but I'm sure you haven't slept in the present." They both smiled at the absurd nature of the situation, but despite her light tone the doctor was adamant. "Now get some rest, or I'll have you relieved and sedated."

Picard chuckled. "Yes, sir."

Her smile faded and she dropped her gaze, fingers twisting on her thigh. His eyes narrowed in concern at her sudden change in demeanor. "What?"

Blue eyes bright with unexpected emotion, she was silent. Almost on instinct he slipped his hands over hers. "Hey," he murmured. "Beverly?"

She shook her head in frustration, tried to collect herself. "As a physician, it's often my job to give people unpleasant news. To tell them that they need surgery or that they can't have children." She faltered again, finished softly: "Or that they might be facing a difficult illness…"

The neural defect—she'd found it this morning through her scans, as they'd tried to determine what was happening with his time shifting, and he recalled she had seemed shaken by the discovery then as well. He hadn't realized it would have affected her so strongly. He himself had been concerned, of course, but with so much else happening since then he hadn't yet dwelt on the reality—or at least, the possible reality of illness that the defect represented. He tried to console her with that reminder. "But you said yourself that this is only a possibility."

"But you've been to the future," Beverly countered. "You know it's going to happen."

Perhaps it was optimism—she always accused him of that—or perhaps simply denial, but he found that he refused to accept that the ravages of neurological decline lay inevitably in his future. Even if they did, what purpose could it serve to worry so far in advance? In the here and now, instead, all he wanted was to reassure the woman he cared for the most. "I prefer to look on the future as something which is not written in stone." He smiled up at her warmly, tightened his grasp on her hands. "A lot of things can happen in twenty-five years."

Time slowed, stretching out over several heartbeats, a moment of deep affection between friends hovering on the edge of becoming something more...

And then she kissed him.

The universe of possibilities collapsed into a singular reality that astonished him with its clarity. In recent months he had begun to feel that the increasing closeness in their relationship was destined to always be limited, as if by an asymptote, with time slowly extinguishing any lingering hope that the line might ever be crossed. But in one brilliant instant it was—of all the places and times, it was here—now—

Without hesitation he returned the kiss, a thrill coursing through him as he felt the softness of her lips.

Beverly pulled back, a slight flush on her cheeks, and gave him a tiny smile. "A lot of things can happen," she agreed.

She slipped off his desk quietly and headed out of the ready room, leaving him with a wondering smile on his lips.