A/N: This is a revision and extension of my first fanfic, Breaking Point. Many of the story beats will be very similar to the original, but I've substantially reworked the entire thing, added a fair amount, and in response to a few requests over the years, gone for a happier ending this time. I have no idea how much interest, if any, there will be in this version, but I wrote the original story when I was 16 (!), and while it holds up decently enough, I'd like to believe that my writing style (and understanding of characters) has matured and developed just a bit in the intervening two decades. In any event, I wanted to try writing it as I could now, so if you've never read the original version, you can ignore it and just follow this one. Content warning for torture (not explicit—no more than Chain of Command) applies, but again, it will eventually end up in a better place. Feedback is, as always, welcomed.

#-#-#-#

Dust hung in the cool, still air as autumn sunlight streamed through the windows of his study. Jean-Luc Picard leaned, equally still, against his régence writing desk, staring out towards the vineyards, letting the bright room around him fade into the periphery. It was nearing harvest time, but an early frost was expected this week and he would need to speak with the vineyard manager about how they would prepare. He himself didn't have much experience to draw on in this regard, coming late to a business he'd never planned to assume; tending vines was the life's work of his late elder brother, never him. Even several years on, he still wasn't accustomed to ordering his days according to the mundane rhythms of the seasons instead of the precision of a ship's clock. But order, routine—all that had been before.

Before she—

He pushed away from the desk, the scrape of wood disturbing the quiet. After all this time, it might have been surprising that thoughts of her were still ever close to the surface of his mind...but for the fact that he had retired here to his childhood home with precisely the aim of never allowing himself to forget.

The doorbell sounded and he closed his eyes for a moment. Of course, the memories were all the more fresh in light of today's visitors. Crossing to the front door, he didn't try to mask his aversion to their arrival; it would be wasted effort in the company of one of his expected guests. There was little point.

There was little point in anything he did anymore.

He steeled himself before turning the door handle. "Good day, Deanna. Will," he said, gesturing them to enter.

"Sir." Will Riker, tall and broad-shouldered, with four pips on the crimson collar of his trim black uniform, shook Picard's hand warmly as he ducked through the door.

"It's wonderful to see you, sir. It's been far too long." Deanna Troi Riker, his former ship's counselor, greeted him with a kiss on the cheek as she stepped inside behind her husband. She glanced around the checkered-tile entryway to the home, taking in the carefully maintained traditional decor, noting the quietness of the space. To her knowledge, Picard's sister-in-law had moved back to Paris after his return, happy to cede the responsibility for the ancestral family home to him following the tragic deaths of her husband and son, Picard's brother and nephew. Marie's choice made sense to her. Picard's remained an enigma.

Somewhat discomfited, Picard managed a polite smile and searched for a suitable reply. "When are you due?"

"One more month," Deanna said easily, as though she hadn't already told him many times in her—unanswered—messages to him. She rested one hand on her rounded belly, smoothing the fabric of her snug maternity-cut uniform. "Though according to Dr. Selar, this little one is probably going to arrive sooner."

Deanna was hardly a thoughtless speaker, but had she really meant to mention the physician to him directly that way? Either way, it stung. "Ah. Congratulations to you both," he murmured.

She winced at the noticeable lack of affect in his voice, exchanging a concerned glance with Will. "Captain–"

"It's not 'captain' anymore, Counselor," he cut her off, then immediately regretted his curt tone. No matter that he would rather they not be here at all; the very least he could be, in the event, was cordial. "Forgive me. I—haven't had any company in some time."

Deanna waved it off graciously. "It's all right." She smiled, determined to make a connection with him, but first needing to make it past the awkwardness of the entryway. "Your home is lovely," she offered. "We were hoping we could visit for a little while. May we come in?"

He hesitated fractionally, but there was really no way to decline without further offense—and for all his many faults, inhospitality had never been among them. "Yes, of course." He gestured them towards the sitting area in the parlor. "May I get you something to drink?"

Riker cleared his throat. "Water would be good for both of us, thank you." He waited as Picard filled a few glasses from the adjoining kitchen, then took the glasses from him and handed one to Deanna as he settled down next to her on the vintage upholstered sofa. He took a sip of ice water and waited for Deanna to the take the lead, as they'd agreed. He knew she was the best at this, but couldn't help but question whether whether even she would be able to reach him. It was disconcerting to see his mentor, his friend, who'd always been the embodiment of confident authority, so closed in on himself that even the space he occupied seemed smaller, somehow.

Picard took his seat across from them in the parlor, face drawn, eyes not quite meeting either of theirs.

Deanna's voice was full of warmth and concern as she broke the quiet. "How are you feeling, Jean-Luc?"

He'd corrected her use of his non-existent rank, but the familiar address jarred. Picard grimaced, wondering whether he could yet avoid this joint counseling session attempt without crossing the line again to incivility. If he were capable of pretending that all was well, that he was adjusted to his new life and unburdened by the past, perhaps he could deflect them; but he wasn't, and he couldn't. And after years of being put off, they were unlikely to be leaving anytime soon.

He let out a breath, his shoulders hunching slightly forward. "What would you have me say?"

"The truth," she suggested gently. "As your friends, we care about you and how you're doing." When he didn't respond, Deanna pressed her lips together and studied him, deciding finally to be more direct. "You know, no one else understood why you would retire at such a high point in your career."

"But you did."

She nodded carefully. "I—we—knew that it was Beverly. We knew that you were shattered by her death. What we didn't know, and don't know, is why you feel so guilty."

He was silent.

She exchanged another glance with Will, who nodded grimly for her to continue, and pressed further. "She didn't suffer in the accident, and you weren't to blame."

Nearly choking on his next breath, Picard met her dark eyes and the intensity in his, suddenly burning, shocked the empath as much as the mental outpouring that statement provoked. Self-loathing crashed against her mind like a buffeting wave, and she flinched.

Riker set down his glass in alarm, reached out for her. "Deanna?"

She shook her head and held up a hand, still processing the emotions she was perceiving. "Sir," she breathed a moment later, leaning forward, dark hair falling over her shoulders, "this is killing you. If you truly don't want to talk to us about whatever happened, then please, confide in someone else. But don't continue living like this."

You don't understand, he thought bitterly. It's all I have.

"You don't deserve this."

That provoked a response. "Oh, yes, Counselor," he said grimly. "I have no doubt that I do." His expression was empty now, the flaring of emotion back under tight control, and he lapsed back into silence.

Riker narrowed his eyes, growing frustrated at the older man's stubborn refusal to be more forthcoming. Depression, they'd expected—this suddenly appeared to be something entirely different. "Jean-Luc, what happened?" he demanded. "Beverly was our friend, too— do you think you're the only one entitled to grieve for her? Isn't that pretty damned selfish of you?"

"Will," Deanna said, touching his arm to calm the outburst, but he brushed off the attempt and continued forcefully: "What aren't you telling us?"

Startled by the challenge, Picard stared at him for a moment, then seemed to deflate even further. "You're right, Will," he said at last, his voice hollow. "It's not my secret to keep, is it. I'm sorry. You should know." He stood and walked to his desk across the room. After a hesitation, he worked up his courage and dug out an alien-styled padd buried at the back of one drawer. "Do you recognize this?"

Riker did immediately, and an ominous feeling began to well in him as the anger subsided. "It's the padd the Cardassians wanted me to give you after the treaty ceremonies were concluded, isn't it."

That was the day, Deanna realized. It wasn't the difficult day of the memorial service at which, stoic and withdrawn, he'd barely said a single word to anyone before his resignation went through—it was the day before, the day of the treaty, that the despair the captain had felt since his recovery had deepened to such a degree that no one, not even she, could get through to him. Something about the timing had always made her wonder...but then again she'd been grieving so much herself, and he'd never confided anything...

Picard nodded, though the action was a while in coming. Finally he held it out to them. "You—you don't have to watch; I understand. If you do...please mute the sound."

Warily, not quite knowing what he expected to see, Riker took the padd from him, found the control and turned on the viewscreen for both of them. He blanched, and Deanna's hand flew to her mouth at the sight–