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This first part is pretty much a character study in fic form; as for the concluding bit aka chapter 3, I have a general notion, based on the preview, of what the writers have in store for Tyler in the season finale (and keep my fingers crossed that he at least lives through the end of it without succumbing to the infamous redemption = death trope), and have drafted it accordingly, with a couple of face-to-face moments between Tyler and Michael; but will wait to see how exactly it plays out before finishing and posting it, so as not to be too wide of the mark as far as the plot points go.
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1. Duplicity
Usually, waking up was a reprieve. One moment she would be staring, for the hundredth time, at what had become known as the Battle of the Binary Stars, pushing back the sinking knowledge of impending disaster unleashed by her mutinous hand; the next, she would be fighting the searing pain in her throat as she yelled to Saru over the comm, begging him yet again to grant her the delay needed to bring her Captain's body onboard… and then she would find herself sitting bolt upright and breathless in her bunk, feeling the sticky cold sweat trickling down her chest, but relieved that the real horror was months ago, and the raw anguish was, by now, easier to keep at bay when she was awake.
On the couple of occasions when it happened as she shared a bed with Ash, he would pull her to him and cradle her against that broad chest, muscular arms surprisingly gentle as he ran caressing fingers up and down her forearms and shoulders, soothing her back to sanity. He did not ask; after the first, tentative "bad dream?" and her heavy "yeah", it seemed like he understood enough not to press her. If anything, she thought, his own nightmares ought to be a thousand times worse; yet he appeared to be a remarkably sound sleeper, at least around her.
Little did she know… little did either of them know.
When she dreams now, waking up is the nightmarish part.
They are together in his quarters, lights set to minimum intensity bathing them in a dim golden glow, their bodies intertwined, and as she basks in the warmth, the exquisite sensation of his soft skin, the joy and tenderness shining in his magnificent eyes, the glorious, still-fresh but already-familiar pleasure of intimacy, for the first time in ages she feels at peace with herself and the universe; she feels at home. She feels safe.
And then, with her next breath, she is chillingly aware of being awake and alone in a narrow bunk, Tilly's soft snoring across the cabin being her only hope of keeping calm, to little avail… because she remembers.
It feels like she just fell a hundred feet and landed on solid concrete.
It would only take a few dozen steps to reach him; the perverse attendant privilege of his strange new status on board was Saru letting him keep his private cabin without so much as programming a security lock override.
But as far as she is concerned, he might as well be back in the Mirror Universe.
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Her unassailable Vulcan logic tells her there is no reason she should be the one to feel so tormented, and offers her two clear-cut, equally straightforward courses of action. Either accept that Ash Tyler is who he says he is, who he now appears to be by all accounts – broken and guilty but ultimately human and deserving of forgiveness – and do her best to put the recent hellish events behind them and help him back to his feet; or stand by her decision to cut him loose, leaving him to work through his momentous wrongdoings and redeem himself by his own devices, and keep her mind off him until – unless – he irrefutably proves his humanity and they both are ready to face each other without reservation.
Equally straightforward, and equally excruciating nonetheless.
Ultimately, the second option is the better one to follow; the lesser evil, at any rate.
She may have spent a lifetime denying herself the right to feel but is too self-aware to deny that for an instant, seeing him crushed by guilt and loneliness and longing, she felt the urge to just hold him and help him be whole again… until he made the tiniest move toward her, and the memory of cold fury, ignited in those same eyes as his hands tightened on her throat, hit her, so vivid and immediate that she flinched and had to make an effort to stand her ground. Her own longing for him is far from extinguished, but if she were to give in to it, she would be constantly reliving that agonising memory and fighting her reflexes, and the continued distrust would poison and subvert any attempts to salvage the affection that may still exist between them. It would become the proverbial death of a thousand cuts, ending in an ugly, tormented shambles that would leave them both weakened and wounded. Better to have delivered a single clean cut now, to spare them both from protracting the pain… and maybe leave a sliver of a chance of an understanding, if not a reconciliation, in the future.
She knows it is better this way; she hopes he can understand it too; but she is damned if it makes things any easier.
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