One more vignette dug up from my files, originally published to ASC in 1997, with some minor edits made now. This is a post-First Contact friendship piece written after the movie came out. I think I'm motivated now to do a new story around the same time period, so we'll see where that goes...

He splashed the cold water over his face, trying to clear away the vestiges of the nightmare, but still the fragmented images remained in his mind, along with the shadowy horror that had accompanied them. It was the same thing every night since they had returned: seeing the assimilation of his friends, all, and not caring – oblivious to their terror, their fear, because he was already a part of the monsters' minds, by choice. In trying so desperately to avoid becoming one of them for a second time, in ordering the continuing, pointless defense of the ship, he had become as unfeeling as they were. No, not unfeeling, but rather consumed by one emotion: rage.

You would have sent them all to hunt your whale, he thought bleakly.

And they would have followed you.

And they would have been assimilated.

Worf . . . Data . . . Beverly . . .

Beverly . . .

Jean-Luc Picard grabbed a towel from the side of the sink and dried the water from his face, suddenly needing to see her, to apologize, to be reassured that she was still here and still herself. As she always was. "Picard to Crusher."

A beep. "Dr. Crusher is not on board the Enterprise," came the computer's maddeningly pleasant voice.

Of course she wasn't. He knew that; she was on Earth, on special duty to oversee the treatment of all the casualties from the Borg attack. She had been there for three days now, would be there for several more, probably. Still, the knowledge caused a wave of depression to wash over him. He missed having her here to talk things over with, especially now . . . when all the admirals' questioning and his sleeplessness and the memories were wearing away at him slowly.

His communicator sounded; Data's voice came over the channels. "Captain, you have a priority call from Admiral Young on subspace."

He let out a long breath as he moved toward his desk. It wasn't going to end anytime soon.

"Thank you, Mr. Data. Put it through to my quarters." Then the admiral's composed visage appeared on his computer screen, and Picard forced himself to push aside the dreams once again.

There weren't many people on the ship at this time of night on normal days, but today was hardly normal. Dr. Beverly Crusher shivered a bit at the eerie silence of the corridors as she entered her quarters, unused for several days now. She had had to ask permission to come back up to the ship just for these few hours; it was only now, after four days, that she felt fairly certain that no emergencies would happen in the next hours that would require her attention. And the admiral in charge had agreed – if only for a short leave.

She had visited her sickbay and was pleased and dismayed at the same time: pleased that the repairs were coming along so well, dismayed at the extent of the damage in the first place. But there was little she could do there to help, so she retired to her quarters to take a shower and change into some more comfortable clothes than her uniform. She pulled on a favorite green sweater and dark pants, gathered a fresh uniform to pack into her bag, and made ready to head out again. For a moment she paused, looking around her quarters, even more silent and empty, it seemed, than the corridors.

Will it ever change?

Beverly looked up at the ceiling. "Computer, location of Captain Picard."

"Captain Picard is in his ready room."

So he wasn't asleep. She checked her chronometer, decided she could spare some time. If the time hadn't been there she would have taken it anyway; she wanted to see him. They had hardly had a single moment together since the entire ordeal had begun, much less had time for anything as normal as breakfast. She smiled regretfully and left her quarters, heading for the bridge.

She hadn't spoken to him in the last four days; he had been besieged by admirals demanding reports and explanations the instant they returned, while she'd been in San Francisco. And so it was with a small bit of apprehension that she rang the chimes outside his door.

"Come," came the familiar voice.

She stepped inside, glanced around to find him resting on the couch, a small book open in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

"Beverly," he said in surprise, setting the book aside to rise, but she stopped him with a shake of her head.

"You don't have to get up."

"Not at all," he replied easily. He downed his tea in one sip and placed it on the floor before standing. She accepted his kiss on her cheek with a warm smile.

"I've missed you, Jean-Luc," she said, squeezing his hand with affection.

He smiled a quiet acknowledgement, taking in the welcome sight of her. The casual outfit she was wearing perfectly complemented the shape of her face, now framed by recently trimmed red-blonde hair. As always, her blue eyes spoke even more than her words possibly could, and yet it was good to hear his own thoughts voiced back to him in her familiar tones. "I thought you were still on the surface?"

"I am," she nodded, hefting the bag so he could see. She slipped it off her shoulder and set it down when he invited her with a gesture to join him on the couch. "I mean, I'm going back soon, I just had a few hours to come home. I thought I'd come up, see how you were doing."

Picard shrugged fractionally. "This is about the first time to myself I've had in several days. The inquiries haven't stopped yet, but we will get a reprieve tomorrow. The Enterprise is to escort the Defiant home to Deep Space Nine, and at the same time keep up our projection of strength along the Cardassian neutral zone." He gave her an ironic look. "The Romulans have yet to take advantage of the situation."

She snorted softly. "Entirely due to our 'projection of strength' out there last week, no doubt."

"No doubt," he echoed as she fell silent, staring down at her hands.

His eyes narrowed in concern. "Beverly, you look exhausted."

"Is it that apparent?" she asked, chagrined.

"No," the captain assured her, "but I have known you for quite a few years now."

Beverly sighed, leaning back against the couch. "It's been a long few days for me, too," she admitted. "We've lost a lot of good people; their injuries were just too extensive, even with all the latest technology at our disposal."

"I'm sorry." His voice conveyed his real understanding of how she felt.

"It's all right. It just takes its toll after awhile, you know?" Beverly tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, looking troubled. "At the moment I'm too tired to sleep, odd as that sounds." She paused then and gave him an appraising look. "What's your excuse?"

So she wasn't going to pretend not to notice the late hour. He sighed. "None that you would accept," he answered bluntly.

"The nightmares again?" she asked gently, cutting to the quick of the issue as usual.

He was quiet for a long moment. He hadn't intended to discuss the matter here, not now when she was clearly dealing with her own issues, her own fatigue. Yet her willingness to listen was genuine and he did need to talk, and so he accepted her invitation to speak. He looked up at her with a ghost of a smile on his lips and picked up the book he'd been reading. "Moby Dick," he explained.

She frowned, perplexed. "Jean-Luc, what does that have to do with-"

"She called me Ahab. Lily. She said I was acting like a man possessed, consumed by the hatred, the need to destroy, the need for revenge, like Ahab was. And so I was. That's why I stopped . . . abandoned ship, because she was right . . ." Picard's eyes were haunted; he stood abruptly and went to the window, staring out.

She leaned forward on the couch. "It didn't destroy you, Jean-Luc."

"But for her, it would have." It was the completely matter-of-fact way in which he said it that disturbed her most. He watched the Earth move below them for a long moment, and then turned around to face her. "Why did you listen to me?"

"What?"

"When I said we would stay on the ship, fight to the last man . . . not even until he fell, but was assimilated, something far worse. Why did you listen to me?"

Beverly looked taken aback. "I . . . I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I knew – I was certain – I couldn't change your mind once you had given the order, so I followed it."

"You didn't agree with me."

"No," she affirmed softly. "No, I didn't. The order didn't make sense."

He nodded and turned back to the stars; silently she studied his chiseled profile from her vantage point. Finally he said, "I want to apologize to you." She made no move and he pushed on. "I've been . . . The nightmares now, I've been dreaming that I never changed my mind, that I forced everyone to stay on board. Then I see my friends being assimilated and I can't make myself care, because all I want is to make the Borg pay for what they did to me six years ago." His voice was hard yet with the remnants of the hatred, but now, with her here, he could dismiss it with greater ease. He met her eyes in the reflection of the glass as she came up behind him. "I'm sorry, Beverly. I need you to know that."

She was about to cross a line and knew it, but somehow the circumstances of this late night permitted her to. She wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her chin on his shoulder. Her eyes remained fixed on his in the window. "I . . ." she began, and then trailed off. He knew she understood. "It's going to take awhile, Jean-Luc, for all of us."

"This too shall pass?" he murmured, no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

"Something like that," she agreed.

He turned in her embrace and leaned forward, resting his forehead on hers. "Thank you."

"You know I will always be here for you. You are never alone." She closed her eyes with a small sigh, drinking in his warmth for a long moment, before finally, reluctantly pulling away. "I—think I should be getting back to the surface, Jean-Luc."

He nodded, already missing her, and and watched her retrieve her bag and move to the door.

"I'll see you . . . when I come back."

"Goodnight, Beverly," he whispered.