Picard steps back, shock written all over his features. He can do nothing but watch as the snow builds, its source unknown.
Blustering, he is about to get aggravated, call to Q once more—after all, who else could it be?—but as flakes drop on his head and shoulders and begin to melt, so does his tension. He can feel it easing from his bones, leaving him feeling ... well, quite like he did as a boy.
Once more, recollections of his grandmother's estate, of snowmen in the front garden and warm tea by a roaring fire, flood his mind, and the captain does something rather unexpected.
He laughs.
"What is this devilry?" he asks, though it is with amusement rather than annoyance, palms outstretched to catch the falling snow. Is it like this everywhere on the ship?
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Blustering, he is about to get aggravated, call to Q once more—after all, who else could it be?—but as flakes drop on his head and shoulders and begin to melt, so does his tension. He can feel it easing from his bones, leaving him feeling ... well, quite like he did as a boy.
Once more, recollections of his grandmother's estate, of snowmen in the front garden and warm tea by a roaring fire, flood his mind, and the captain does something rather unexpected.
He laughs.
"What is this devilry?" he asks, though it is with amusement rather than annoyance, palms outstretched to catch the falling snow. Is it like this everywhere on the ship?