A/N: Everyone knows that the world has more than enough fanfics with respect to "Attached," but what my story presupposes is, maybe it doesn't? This is my attempt to flesh out the fireside scene, continuing from there to a rewrite of the episode ending. Given the subject matter, similarities to other stories are perhaps inevitable, but I have purposely not gone back and read any existing stories on the subject, so any similarities are purely coincidental. Episode credit is to Nicholas Sagan. Feedback is welcomed.
#-#-#-#
The night air is cold, and he carefully tends to the fire he's built for them, grateful for its warmth. Grateful, too, that if they have to spend a night in the open wilderness on an alien world, evading pursuers as they make their escape from captivity, that at least the weather is clear and they have sufficient kindling for the fire. He is staying alert, but isn't too worried about drawing unwanted attention with their small light in the darkness; the notes in the escape route smuggled to them in their cell this morning indicated that overnight campfires are not uncommon in these rocky hills. It's another thing, he supposes, for which to be grateful.
Incorrigible optimist. The sour words, directed at him, appear in his mind, and Jean-Luc Picard smiles dryly as Beverly Crusher drops down to sit on a stone beside him. "No luck?" he asks, though the answer would radiate clearly even if he couldn't read her thoughts.
She snaps her tricorder shut and blows out a breath in frustration. "I'm beginning to think there's not a single thing on this planet we can eat."
He's hungry, too, but he tries to reassure her, keeping his voice mild. "Well, by this time tomorrow we could be back on the Enterprise and you can plant yourself in front of a replicator with a knife and fork."
Or a soup spoon, she agrees, more amiable now, remembering the vegetable soup he'd earlier chided her to stop thinking of. He feels her thoughts skip lightly from one savory dish to another, and she smiles. "Remember that Vulcan dish I promised you for breakfast?"
He ducks his head, as if he can physically bite back the reflexive thought that is the mental equivalent of muttering under his breath. He fails.
"I was just— " She stops, and he feels her sudden bewilderment and hurt. "You hate having breakfast with me."
"That's not true," he protests, bewildered in turn that she can jump to such a radical conclusion from a single stray thought.
"Yes, it is," she insists. "When I said breakfast, I heard you say, I hate that."
"That isn't quite what I meant." Exasperated, unexpectedly on the defensive, he drops the stick he is using to prod the fire.
"Well, then, what did you mean?"
"It's just that I don't like—"
"—what I've been choosing for breakfast recently," she finishes.
Yes, for heaven's sake, that's all. Images of some of her more exotic spreads flash through his mind, along with his remembered feelings of resignation. He tries to explain so she doesn't misunderstand him again. "You see, I think that breakfast should be a simple meal and recently you've been ordering these elaborate things."
Oh. Chastened, she sees it now, and shakes her head. "Coffee and croissants," she says wonderingly. "That's all you really want, isn't it? Coffee and croissants. Well, why didn't you just say so?"
He shrugs uncomfortably. "I didn't think it was important." It would have seemed impolite, after all, when she was clearly making so much of an effort and he did enjoy their time together...just not the food.
She is still shaking her head, incredulous, and he glances up in surprise. "You don't like those elaborate meals either," he realizes. Wait, then why did you—?
"No, I usually prefer something simple myself, but I thought you might enjoy more variety."
And I didn't say anything—
And you didn't say anything—
So I thought—
So you thought—
They smile at each other a bit sheepishly. "Well, I guess it's coffee and croissants for both of us from now on," she says genially, and he sends his relief and agreement across their link... before his stomach rumbles and he tries to banish from his mind any further thoughts of warm, flaky, buttered pastries.
Sorry.
It's all right.
He lapses into silence, lets his thoughts drift again as he stares into the crackling flames, tracing the paths of the glowing cinders as they dance into the air. He murmurs aloud at the same time as she does: "I love firelight."
She laughs, and he marvels again at the strange intimacy this enforced telepathy has brought them. With their captors' psionic implants they are no longer alone with their own thoughts, and it is unsettling and exhilarating all at once. For as close as any two friends might be, as they are, there is always some elemental mystery that remains, some barrier that cannot be breached when it comes to mind, to essence. But now the barrier between them is dissolving slowly, inexorably, as their link becomes stronger, and he thinks there is no one else he could imagine sharing himself with, and he thinks there is no one else he could be more terrified of sharing himself with.
He edges away from the dangerous eddies coursing beneath the surface of conscious thought, glad that she doesn't seem to have noticed, and focuses again on the hypnotic light in front of him. "There's something about the flames, the smell of the smoke, that's always seemed to me to be...intoxicating, somehow."
Beverly smiles and he thinks he will be safe, until she speaks.
"I remember when Jack and I took Wesley on his first camping trip to Balfour Lake. Wesley kept throwing manta leaves in the fire and watching them pop. Jack kept telling him—"
She freezes. Jean-Luc?
In his mind's eye he sees her, two decades past, long red hair, mischievous eyes, slender and beautiful and impossibly graceful; and he sees his friend, full of humor and energy; and he knows these memories are his downfall and he curses inwardly as the barrier between them is swept away in a flood of submerged emotion that he still tries, with desperation, to contain.
He fails.
"Jean-Luc, I heard you," she whispers. "Don't push it away. When I said Jack and I, I felt this sudden wave of…something."
He stares rigidly into the flames, but his thoughts are roiling and he is helpless to keep them from her. He remembers the way his heart used to race in her presence, the longing behind the light-hearted flirtation between friends, the green-eyed monster that stalked him...
"I didn't know you felt that way."
But there is a surprising uncertainty behind her denial, and he looks up at her blue eyes, pushing back gently. "Didn't you?"
I don't know. Beverly stammers and looks away again, a flutter of panic rising in her. "I—I guess I always knew that there was an attraction between us, right from the start. But I never knew how strongly you felt."
You were never meant to. Picard smiles hollowly at the revelation of this secret he has guarded for so long. He has always wanted to protect her from it. Wanted, too, if he's honest, to protect himself.
She swallows, trying to make sense of the rush of images and emotions, coming to understand the truth. Did you really…?
Yes.
Her voice is barely audible. "Why didn't you ever tell me you were in love with me?"
"You were married to my best friend." Of course she knows this, but she deserves, doesn't she, to have him confess the shameful truth aloud. He hesitates a moment, having no idea how to continue from here, but as he looks at her, at the firelight dancing on her delicate, pale skin, he finally sees that there is no way forward but through. He surrenders.
"At first, I thought it was harmless infatuation, something hormonal rather than emotional." He speaks evenly, as if they are making small talk at her table over breakfast and not disturbing the very foundations of their friendship.
She continues in the same calm, quiet tones, staring into the flames as she fits the puzzle pieces together. "Then when the months went by and the three of us began spending more time together…"
He nods. "I realized that it was something else. And it wasn't right. But although I would never act on it…I couldn't help the way I felt."
"And when Jack died you felt guilty."
Oh, for much longer than that. He grimaces. "I felt guilty before he died—having feelings like that for my best friend's wife. And then later, after the accident, I promised myself that I would never tell you know how I felt. It would be like betraying my friend." His throat tightens. And now I have, haven't I? I'm sorry, Jack.
Beverly hugs her knees to her chest, sorting swiftly through memories of her own, and makes another connection. "That's why you didn't want me on the Enterprise seven years ago."
He nods again, regretting how coolly—how cowardly—he had behaved towards her then, but she doesn't seem upset. "I didn't know how I would react," he admits. "And then, little by little, I realized that I didn't have those feelings anymore." He smiles wanly. "Twenty years is, after all, a long time."
This is true, but it is not the whole truth; and perhaps it is simply another instance of his cowardice when it comes to her, but he silently pleads for her to leave it at that, to allow him a dignified retreat of a kind he does not imagine he deserves.
Her keen blue eyes search his for a moment and he feels her answering succession of emotions—hesitation, fear (of what?) that she is struggling to suppress, and finally a desire to affirm, in spite of everything, the bond they've spent these many years cultivating. With a small, tentative smile, she reaches out to him. "And now we're friends."
He grasps her hand tightly, relief washing through him at the mercy she has granted him. "Yes, friends."
She lets the touch linger for one more beat, then pulls back, rubbing her hands together for a last bit of warmth from the fire. She rises from her perch on the rock and stretches. "Well. We still have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow. We should get some sleep."
"Right."
She moves to the other side of the fire pit and lies down on a patch of straw, her back to him. It's a clear indication that she too wants to retreat, to be left alone to sort through her own thoughts, but the implants will not allow them to separate either mentally or physically. For as much control as they each exercise over their words, their actions, it is difficult to think of anything besides what has just passed between them; and he feels that she is still brittle, unsettled. He regrets there is so little he can do to help, but he tries.
Do you want me to stay awake over here and keep watch?
No, we both need our rest.
Reluctantly he acknowledges the sense of this, as he is admittedly now exhausted both physically and emotionally. After one more prod of the fire, he moves to her side, eases down onto his back, and folds his hands across his chest. He is careful to keep some space between them, but is acutely aware of her proximity. The ground is hard, moreover, and the sounds of the wilderness around them unfamiliar and vaguely alien.
He has no idea how he is going to sleep.
Me either. She is staring into the darkness and shifts uncomfortably. I wish there was something else to focus on, she confesses.
He says the first thing that pops into his mind. What about Mozart?
She is bemused. Mozart?
Music, he offers. Here. He pulls up a few notes of the first melody he can think of, pauses and resets it from the beginning, and begins to "play" the piece in his mind. They haven't tried this with the telepathy yet and he doesn't know if it will work.
But she smiles and he feels her relax as she hears it, too. Mozart. That's nice.
Together they listen to the intricate, remembered harmonies of the clarinet concerto, winds and strings weaving their soothing spell, until he feels her drift to sleep, and he soon follows.
#-#-#-#