A/N: This story is set during the last few scenes of "Final Mission" and afterwards, and is written from Picard's point of view. (As an aside, it's impressive, though not surprising of course, how good Sir Patrick Stewart is in this one when he's lying flat on his back for half of it.) Dialogue taken from the episode is by Kacey Arnold-Ince and Jeri Taylor; the rest is mine. Reviews are kindly welcomed.

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Thirsty.

He was fading. The darkness was closing in at the edges of his vision again. It wouldn't be long now.

The tune of an old nursery rhyme danced lightly through his unfocused mind and he murmured the words. Auprès de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon... He was trying to hold on, but the agony from his back, his leg, his head was unrelenting, stabbing at him with every shallow breath inhaled through cracked, dry lips. Need water. He needed much more than that, of course, but it might at least alleviate the particularly acute agony of his thirst. Failing that...it would be easier, wouldn't it, to just let go? To leave this place?

Which was...where, exactly? It was getting hard to remember. He should ask Beverly. She always took care of him; she would tell him. Except...she wasn't here, was she? He peered up at the blurry figure working quietly next to him, doggedly chased the inchoate thoughts around in his mind until one finally resolved: Beverly's son. Wesley. Yes, he would ask Wesley. "Ensign, where are we?"

There was a pause, then a cautious reply. "We crashed, sir. We're in a cave."

A cave? That didn't make any sense. Well, there was something more important than that anyhow. "I need water."

More hesitation. "Sir, we don't have any water. Don't you remember? We tried to get to the fountain, and Captain Dirgo—"

And the landslide. Another knife of pain stabbing through him brought momentary clarity, and Jean-Luc Picard recalled the dangerous crumbling of the cliff walls overhead, the instinctive, desperate rush to shove the boy to safety, and the terrible weight of the stones crushing his own body. "Yes," he rasped. "I remember."

Wesley started to describe his thoughts on how to break through the sentry guarding the water fountain they'd found, but Picard interrupted. No doubt the boy's plan had a chance of success—he was intuitively brilliant with technical problems, after all—but Picard didn't need to hear the details; even if he could have processed them in his current state, it simply wasn't going to happen in time for him. He didn't particularly want to die here on this godforsaken desert moon, of all places, but he couldn't see that there was anything he could do about it. Still, while he could accept the apparent inevitability, he did regret that there hadn't been more time. There was so much he had wanted to tell Wesley, now as he headed off to the Academy and in the future, but now there was no time left. "Listen to me," he insisted again.

The young ensign swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

Picard told him about Boothby. The boy seemed surprised that the Academy groundskeeper could have meant so much to the captain, but then, he didn't yet understand: sometimes the most important things in school had nothing at all to do with the classroom, but with the people you never expected to meet, who could become mentors, friends for a lifetime. Although sometimes that life turned out to be much shorter than one had planned, or hoped. He felt an anguished sob well up in him. He envied the boy, now, at the beginning of his life instead of the end. So much ahead of him...

But it wouldn't do to break down now. He was still the captain of the Enterprise, after all, and his ensign needed to focus on his own task of survival, not to worry about him any longer. He drew a shuddering, painful breath to compose himself again, and mustered what authority he could while lying immobile and half-delirious on a cave floor. "Go on," he instructed, forcing the words through parched lips. "Get the water. Stay alive. They'll find you."

Wesley knew an order when he heard one. He nodded resolutely, collecting his tricorder and supplies before getting to his feet. "I'll be back soon," he promised.

"Of course."

There was something else, something important. Picard remembered, through the haze, the boy's earlier confession, here, that he wanted Picard—of all people—to be proud of him. Picard had been barely conscious, but had heard the words and was astonished. More than that, he was profoundly humbled. How could that even be? He wasn't Wesley's father. But of course, it was because of him, of his cursed decision all those years ago to order his best friend to his death, that Jack Crusher wasn't here anymore, that Wesley had no father to strive to make proud. He'd done everything he could to make up for that fact once Wesley had come to the Enterprise, to try to play a role, however insufficient, in Wesley's life. He always knew it could never be enough, but it was the least he could do. For his absent friend, for Wesley...and for Beverly. He owed it to them all.

It hurt to turn his head, but he had to speak. The boy—the young man—had confided in him; it was so important that he hear this one thing more in return. "Wesley," he called, hoarsely, but with as much firmness as he could summon. He focused on the indistinct figure across the cave, knew he was listening. "You remember...I was always proud of you."

There was a long pause before Wesley turned and went off in search of the water. Good. He would find it, he would survive, even if Picard wouldn't. His own survival was no matter, though, as long Wesley could make it home to his mother...

Beverly...

Beverly, the woman he trusted, depended upon, had increasingly come to consider his closest friend, as they'd come to share much more of their daily lives than mere colleagues would. Sharing morning tea or the occasional dinner, enjoying orchestral concerts and plays together, discussing their respective scientific enthusiasms… Over the past few years he had grown to truly love her company. And yes, despite trying so hard to deny it, to wish it away, he also loved her—but he had never admitted it to her and didn't want to admit it to himself, even here, because it still wasn't right. He had never had any right to feel that way about her.

Another wave of pain, not physical this time, surged through him, together with the familiar, crushing guilt and regret. At the very least, now, at the end, he could rest easier knowing that he had never betrayed Jack's friendship. But that hardly made him an honorable man, he thought with bitter reproach, because the temptation was always there. And the truth was that he so desperately wanted to see her again now. Just once more...

But it was a selfish desire, he knew, and there was no place for selfishness anymore. Not with her. He had done what he could to make sure her son returned to her. Losing his own life in exchange would be a small price to pay, in the end, to finally set things right.

Odd, unfocused shadows began to swim above him and he closed his eyes again, trying to shut out the blurry, dizzying vision, to ease the pounding in his head, to push away the damnable thirst. Annoyance bubbled up and he grimaced inwardly. He really needed water. Couldn't someone see he was thirsty? Where was the doctor, anyway? The cold of the stone floor beneath him was creeping throughout his body, but in a small mercy, at least he felt warm. Going into shock, some part of him realized dimly, and then the realization floated back out of his consciousness like a boat drifting away on the current. Fragments of music sounded distantly in his mind, and he began to hum again. Que donneriez-vous, belle, pour avoir votre mari?

Unmoored now, he drifted along with the melody in his mind and let the warm darkness envelop him. Auprès de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon dormir... Yes...it would be good to sleep.

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N.B. - The refrain of the folk song Picard sings translates loosely to, "Ah, near to my fair girl, how good it is to sleep." The other line from the song near the end is, "And what would you give, beautiful, to have your husband back?"