DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the Star Trek Franchise or its characters.
A/N: Hello everyone! Gosh it's been almost two years since I posted any fanfiction on here! I wrote this last October, and have finally decided to upload it. For all you Picard/Crusher fans out there I am so so sorry this is the most angst-ridden thing I've ever written in my life. Part two will be coming soon. If you have the time please read and review. I would absolutely LOVE to know what you think. As always, enjoy :) x
MAZE OF BROKEN DREAMS
She wakes up at the same time every morning like clockwork, body shuddering as fragments of strangled screams lodge in her throat. At first fatigue, like a palpable weight, falls heavily on her shoulders, and then slowly the tangible remains of reality flicker to life and bitter remorse twists it's way into her memories and garish images, thick and murky with accusations, batter her conscience with a merciless ease. Unspeakable, unthinkable nightmares with lucid sorrows of their own, and horrors that circle as translucent ghosts.
It's after the Borg encounter that the nightmares start.
Sometimes she wonders if she could have done better, if she had done enough to save him. Perhaps he hates her for trying, for leaving his dignity in tatters despite repairing his physical form. He's said that to her, more than once, quietly, voice pained with bitterness, and since that day guilt has burrowed like a fierce parasite inside her waking mind.
Sometimes the memories stay dormant, a constant underlying current while she carries out her daily duties the best she can. At night the whole world turns on it's head, and a great beast lurks in the shadows until it hungrily unleashes it's fury on her subconscious.
They keep their distance during the senior staff meetings, eyes locked firmly on the view-port or gazing over one another's shoulders at some distant horizon. On occasion he visits Sickbay, and even then he never comes too close. There are no friendly glances, no smiles for reassurance. Those unspoken words still linger on her lips, an apology burning in her gaze every time she looks at him.
In the earliest hours of the morning she routinely stumbles out of bed and checks the monitor, his vital signs, making sure he's still alive. Panic seers through her bones as her fingers work hurriedly, murmuring faint commands to the computer upon accessing his file, and waiting anxiously for the medical report she fears will come. But there, in the midst of binary numbers and electrical readouts, remains the soft melodic beeping of his artificial heart, strong and steady. When despair cloaks her like a blanket she often lets it's rhythm lull her to sleep, and when she is shaken from her own rest it is there again to comfort her.
Sometimes, when the doubt is unbearable, she ventures out into the passageway, quietly sneaking to his quarters and hesitating at the door. She never goes in, just listens, makes sure the air isn't plagued with traumatised voices and twisted truths.
The first time she hears him shouting, hollow and raw like a wounded animal, like a lost child screaming for it's mother, she panics, torn between running to his aid and leaving him to fight his demons alone. She thinks about the way his eyes drilled holes in her heart as she unplugged the implants, detangled the wires that had distorted his body, his lips forming sounds she can't bear to remember. The memory, she knows, may never be erased, and no matter how many times she talks with the Counsellor, the same guilt, the same horror still rises from the pit of her stomach and floods her senses.
Sometimes, when she's desperate, she overrides the controls and enters his quarters. It's always quiet, a melancholy gloom hanging in the air despite the brightness of the stars outside in the black emptiness of space. They twinkle, watching her, pleading with her to continue, shrieking at her to go back. Silent footsteps, a hand wrapped around her stomach as the familiar sound of his breathing lingers between them. And as she watches him lying there, sleeping peacefully if only for a little while, she wonders if he knows. If he knows how much she cares.
Again she checks the vital signs on her PADD, but even then it's not enough. She needs to feel his skin beneath her hands, his pulse against her pale fingers, the ticking of his mechanical organ. Lacerations still fall like acrid raindrops across his back, faint mottled bruises weaving their way along his spine where she had removed the trickiest parts of the Borg technology. Seeing him so vulnerable, twisted in the sheets with barely a shred of sanity left to cling onto makes her heart ache with sadness. For although the Captain of the USS Enterprise is nigh indestructible, the man Jean-Luc Picard is not.
Sometimes, when he rolls over and stares at her with longing, pleading eyes, when he begs her to hold him, to make the pain stop, she can see the raging emotions that sail like tall ships over the rough seas of his soul. No matter how many times she wants to run, to flee from the despair held in his gaze, she will never leave him to drown.
Sometimes she replicates Aunt Adele's nightcap remedy, her soft voice soothing his spirit as she speaks of hushed nothings and the old folk tales that Nana had told her long ago. He stares at the ceiling, unblinking, lost in a maze of broken dreams and a shattered reality. They spend endless nights together like that, one talking, the other listening with quiet fatigue. Fingers toy with the fabric of her quilt, fists clenching and unclenching, deep breaths then shallow ones. Once in a while his hand manages to find hers in the starlit darkness, seeking the strength to battle the tremoring of his spirit and the disquieting, disturbing thoughts that refuse to be silenced.
Sometimes, when he has worked up enough courage, he pulls up the dregs of his trauma, turning them over like hot, burning coals. Words are uttered, faint, broken words that lie like the scattered pieces of a jigsaw across an empty sky. With cautious hands she collects them one by one, helping him place them together, and filling in the missing holes where lies have taken root.
Sometimes he screams at her, commands her to leave him be. She doesn't understand, she can't know what he's going through. Even as she tries to approach him, tries to reach under his cold exterior, he pushes her away. Raw anger gleams like fire in his indifferent gaze, anger that frightens her as his fists move through the thin air and he all but chases her from his quarters. Hearts hammer wildly in distant rooms, each wracked with personal fears neither wish to acknowledge. And even when her mind falls prey to the demons once more she can't help but wonder if this nightmare will end, if each will be forever confined to their own bony cages, with the stars as the only witness for their tears.
Sometimes, when the feverishness nightmares break, lungs bursting for air and hair in disarray, she wakes to find him standing in her doorway, eyes glazed over. A nod and he sits in the chair beside her bed, body curling up, cocooning into himself. He never faces her, never looks, never speaks a word. Despite the respect she holds for his solitude, her hand somehow finds it's rightful place on the curvature of his spine. Every bone, every muscle tenses and relaxes under her touch as she traces delicate patterns, gliding across the wounds that have yet to heal. For she knows that underneath the thick skin hides a scared little boy, wishing the monsters would leave him alone.
Sometimes, when there are no words left to say, he lets her hold him. Face burrowed in the crook of her neck, breathing her in until the hazy fog clears and he can see clearly through the darkness, see the light near the end of the tunnel. And as her tears fall silently, often mingling with his own, they cling to each other, waiting for the lonely, inevitable dawn to come.
