Three Hours

Hi!

This is the first time I've posted a Star Trek fan fiction.

I have to admit that I have mixed feelings about the character of Wesley Crusher, but if something like this had happened during the show, I admit that it would have been really upsetting.

Timeline: Definitely AU, set sometime after Wesley entered the Academy.

Warnings: Depressing, character death, mention of terrible injuries.

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of anything Star Trek, let alone anything to do with The Next Generation.

1600 Hours

The air was still except for the quiet humming of machinery and distant voices far in the background. The air smelled mostly of sharp antiseptic disinfectants, though near one particular bio-bed, the faint, sickening scent of burnt flesh lingered.

Third-degree burns covered over 70% of his body, concentrated from left to right. Metal shards had lacerated his abdomen. His body was now almost entirely covered in equally white and stained bandages. His breaths were short and labored despite his unconscious state. He was strapped down, partially surrounded by barriers and machines designed to protect him and keep him breathing.

She had not left his side since her arrival only almost a half an hour ago, nor would she leave his side for as long as possible. After the news had first reached the Enterprise via subspace message, the ship had been immediately set on a course to Earth at Warp 9. Thankfully they had not been very far away. She had been terrified of being too late. The terror had faded now, only to be replaced by a horror and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness.

There was nothing for her to do except sit alone by his side, gently holding his right hand, the one that was mostly bare of bandages.

For a long time, while en route on the starship, she had felt blank shock. The voices of those who had been with her at intervals had blurred into meaningless sounds. She had been unable to process fully what she heard.

Now that she had reached his side, that had changed. She almost longed for the blank disbelief. Compared to her thoughts now, it had been blessedly peaceful.

Now, she kept imagining the accident, the explosion, the flying shards of metal and glass, the screams, the pain, the fire, the blood. She saw his body flung helplessly through the air, engulfed by flames, impaled by sharp objects. She saw the aftermath, the operation similar to the ones she had performed herself, where a team of doctors and nurses struggled to piece the damaged body back together.

It might have been all in vain. She fought the conclusion of her painfully analytical thoughts, but it would not go away. Its presence only grew as the hour wore on.

It might have been all in vain.

1700 Hours

The cause had been so stupid: a machinery malfunction during a training exercise, causing an explosion that had killed four cadets and severely injured seven more.

Including this one. The only one she knew by name, the only one that she could concentrate on.

It was all so stupid. A stupid, stupid accident.

This shouldn't have been him. Why did it have to be him?

She wanted to scream, to fight whatever higher power existed that was slowly taking him from her. She wanted to go back in time, avert whatever cruel twist of fate that had led to this sterile room and this echoing silence.

The silence was broken when her friend came in, all concern. But she had no patience for concern right now. She was angry, furious, disgusted with the entire universe.
"How are you?"

What a stupid question. Her friend could tell well enough just how she was, and she knew it. She just wanted her to go away. Not now, I don't want anyone right now. Just go away.

Her friend did not go away. She grew angrier, ordered her out with vicious words that she knew she would regret eventually.

She railed silently against the injustice of it all. All the medical knowledge they possessed, all the great advances they had been, they were useless now. She hated that she had to accept it. She furiously refused to.

Three others came in together. One was clearly sorrowful, another stoic. They did not infuriate her. The third did. He made the mistake of opening his mouth. She came very close to attacking him. I know where your "off" switch is, Commander, so get the hell out!

A doctor came in, ushered them out before an actually confrontation could occur, checked the machines, and departed.

The anger began to fade slowly to grief as she remained alone to the unconscious figure that she couldn't bear to let go of.

I'm tired of being angry.

The second hour disappeared faster than the first.

1800 Hours

The doctors and nurses were so sympathetic. She mostly ignored them, despite their good intentions.

Another visitor arrived only briefly, staying only long enough to assure her that she could take her time. He left quickly. She didn't blame him.

Still the body next to her did not stir as his breathing grew rougher with every inhale and exhale. Every ragged breath sent a stab of pain to her heart.

She was remembering him as a baby, a child, a teen, a young man. The joy of the earliest years when all had been as wonderful as it could possibly be, the pain and strange comfort of later years when they had had nothing but each other. The wonder of watching him grow and change, the empty space he left when he finally grew beyond her. But she had known where he was, what he was doing a least some of the time. They were still close, as they would always be.

As they should always be.

Now she could do nothing but wait. Wait for the inevitable.

This hurts so much.

She kept expecting another visitor in particular, but he never came. She didn't blame him, though. This was probably almost as hard for him, just in a very different way. She understood that. He had been too close to her grief before.

The third hour dragged on, time slipping past her oh so slowly yet far too quickly.

He's so frail, so fragile…

His heartbeat was becoming even more unsteady…

Another doctor came in, checked the machines again, then rested his hand gently on her shoulder for a moment. "I am truly sorry." He left quickly.

She wanted to appreciate his condolence. She really did. But…

"Sorry" does nothing for a mother who is about to lose her child.

He came out of unconsciousness briefly. She only realized it when he shifted his head a fraction of an inch so that he was facing her. Only one side of his face was uncovered, only one eye visible. "Mom…" he croaked.

She stood and bent over him. "Don't try to move." she whispered, gently moving a wisp of hair out of his face with her left hand.

He swallowed painfully. "Hurts…"

She felt tears stinging her eyes, but she blinked them back. "I know, darling. I know."

His dark brown eye was a mirror of pure agony. "Make it stop…"

Stay strong, for him…"It will stop. Soon."

"You…promise?"

"I promise." She gently stroked his cheek, simultaneously squeezing his limp hand gently.

He nodded the slightest bit, allowing his eye to close for a few moments. A single tear escaped from under the closed lid. She had to lean close to hear his voice when he spoke again. "…tired…scared…"

"Don't be, darling, everything will be all right." It's true, it will be all right, for him…soon…

His eye opened again and searched desperately for hers. "Mom…"

"Yes?"

His breathing grew even more ragged. "Mom…love you…"

The tears began to escape, trailing down her face. She didn't bother to wipe them way. "I love you too, my darling boy. I always will."

He tried to speak again, but failed, settling instead for the faintest ghost of a smile. His eye fluttered shut once more.

As she bent forward and kissed his forehead, still cradling his hand in hers, she felt his final breath leave him.

Slowly, she sat back down next to the bed and rested her forehead on his hand, still clutched in hers. "Goodbye, Wes."

The third hour had passed.

Later, she would wish helplessly that she'd had more than just three hours. Maybe, if she'd had more time, she could have formed words to tell him just how much he had meant to her, how much she would miss him. Perhaps she could have given him more comfort in his last moments, somehow. It was not her fault, she knew that, but if she'd had more time…

More time would not have helped, however. It wouldn't have made it any easier in the end. The pain of loss would have been just as terrible.

It took her a very long time to accept that.

But eventually she did. And when she did, Beverly Crusher could recall her son in life without the pain threatening to drown her. She could hold on to the happy memories.

They were what she had left.