Blinking awake as her chronometer sounded its alarm, Beverly Crusher stretched and, as she had every morning since their return from the twenty-first century, turned her head to find the other half of her bed empty.

As captain and chief medical officer on the Enterprise, it was hardly unusual for either of them to work long hours, and she knew these days following the Borg attack on Earth were anything but usual. But she confirmed by the undisturbed sheets that Jean-Luc hadn't come to bed at any time last night. Beverly sighed inwardly. It had been just over a week now and she wasn't sure how much he was sleeping at all, much less here—a matter of increasing concern to her as both his physician and his wife.

She knew he was probably suffering from nightmares again—or a fear of them—and he probably thought he was being considerate in not disturbing her sleep. But he wasn't helping ease her worries about him by staying away. Nor was his absence helping her sleep any better herself. She was still sorting through all of the repercussions from everything that had happened during the attack, and she hadn't made peace with it. And yet, no matter what conflicts they might have, she'd slept alone for enough years to appreciate just how much she preferred it when he was beside her. She missed him.

Since their return, they had mainly interacted professionally, at the daily senior staff meetings regarding the ongoing ship repairs and personnel matters, and at memorial services for far too many fallen crewmembers. He had stopped by sickbay once or twice to check on progress there, but had otherwise been consumed by dealing with Headquarters and their never-ending reports and panel inquiries. She knew it must be wearing away at him, and she couldn't help but resent all of their demands on him. Especially since they seemed to be drawing her into it, too...

She recalled the single brief conversation they had had several days earlier in the conference room following the staff meeting. With a word Jean-Luc had asked her to stay behind after the group was dismissed. They'd waited until the doors had closed before he leaned forward and extended one hand to grasp hers across the corner of the table. She relaxed at the warmth of his hand in hers, but something in his eyes troubled her. "What's wrong?" Besides most everything, she amended silently.

He sighed, and she could see the fatigue in the lines of his face. "Beverly, there was something more. In light of these recent events, Command has been expressing... concerns over our relationship."

Her eyes narrowed. "In what way?"

With an ironic tone, he replied, "They believe that we may not be able to maintain professional detachment in certain critical situations."

"That's absurd," she said immediately, temper flaring.

"I am, of course, attempting to convince them of that," he said with a wan smile.

She tried to return his smile, but couldn't hide her annoyance and disbelief. After all this time… "What on earth is prompting this now?"

"Personally, I believe they're simply upset that it was our disobeying of orders that ultimately resulted in the Borg defeat." He ran his free hand over his face and gave her a rueful look. "If I were a more cynical man, I would say they are searching for something to hang a reprimand on."

Beverly considered that, blowing air between thinned lips. It was likely enough. They hadn't trusted Jean-Luc enough to allow the Enterprise to participate in the fight originally, but it was only because of his knowledge that the fleet had prevailed. But since they had prevailed... "I can't imagine that would stick at this point, Jean-Luc. Should I be talking to them also?"

He shook his head reassuringly. "Hopefully there won't be any need. You have too much else to be focusing on. I just wanted you to be aware."

She stretched her other hand across the table to squeeze his arm. "All right. I'll see you tonight?"

He had nodded, though she caught a fractional hesitation. "Of course."

But they hadn't seen each other that night, nor the next day, nor the next up through this morning. And she didn't have time to do anything about it now, either, she thought in frustration as she rolled out of bed to wash up. She had been working long hours herself, first on Earth and then, once the priority repairs to sickbay were mostly complete, here on the Enterprise, and her own schedule continued to be filled with consults and surgeries. She had the dubious distinction of being one of the only doctors in Starfleet with experience in the surgical removal of Borg implants, a skill which was being tested now with the small number of crewmen whom they had managed to save after assimilation in spite of the evolved, even-more-terrifyingly-thorough means of the alien process. There were also quite a few patients still being treated for injuries sustained during the battles on the ship.

Beverly pulled on her dark uniform in pensive silence, mentally preparing for the day, and brushed her hair a few last times before emerging from their bedroom to the living space. She noticed the navy blanket folded neatly on the couch and felt an ache at the sight. Oh, Jean-Luc. They really needed some quiet time alone, but she had no idea when that would happen in the near future. Then she caught sight of the dining table.

A note, written in his careful script, lay placed next to a small tray of croissants. Beverly— I'm sorry to miss breakfast again. I shall make it up to you sometime soon. —Jean-Luc.

Her eyes filled with tears. She picked up the card, folded it carefully into the pocket of her lab coat, and headed out the door to sickbay.

...I am Locutus of Borg...

Robert, wiping mud out of his eyes with the back of his hand: This is going to be with you a long time, Jean-Luc, a long time.

...You will be assimilated...

Waking up in sickbay, body screaming from the pain of the alien implants, unable to speak for himself: Jean-Luc, it's Beverly. Can you hear me?

...Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own...

The queen, breathing next to his face in grotesque seduction: Welcome home, Locutus...

...Resistance is futile.

Jean-Luc Picard woke up in a cold sweat. Blinking in the darkness, he breathed deeply, willing himself awake in order to shake the vestiges of the dream from his consciousness. When he finally felt calmer, he shifted uncomfortably on the narrow cushions to face the other direction, adjusted his blanket, and tried to relax again, but it was no use. Even though he'd only drifted off for a short while, he couldn't fall back asleep so easily now; he wasn't sure he wanted to, either.

Checking the chronometer, though, confirmed there were still several hours until his shift was due to start. Picard sighed. If he wasn't going to sleep, he might as well get a head start on the day's work in his ready room. He swung his legs over the side of the couch with a grimace and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. He hadn't even changed for bed when he'd arrived home earlier, so he could probably just stay in his uniform for now, but he did need to at least wash his face and shave to look presentable. He folded the navy blue blanket on the end of the couch, pulled on his boots again, and walked through the bedroom quietly to avoid waking Beverly.

Beverly. His heart sank a bit as he caught sight of her sleeping. She probably wouldn't have minded if he had come to bed earlier, but he'd been sleeping so poorly since their return, he didn't want to disrupt her own rest. She had far too much else to worry about than him. Besides that, although she'd implied she would forgive him for some of his actions during the Borg attack, he still felt tremendous guilt in particular over the fact he hadn't told her before staying behind on the ship after its evacuation. If Data hadn't aborted the self-destruct sequence and destroyed the Borg queen in Engineering, then whether or not Picard had saved Data, Picard himself would have died on the Enterprise. It was a sacrifice he had been willing to make. But whether or not she might be able to forgive him, he knew it was still a terrible thing to have done to the woman he loved. He found himself feeling uncustomarily hesitant around her now as a consequence. It felt almost presumptuous to think he could simply return to their bed as if nothing had happened.

If anything were going to change, though, they would need to actually talk—but he couldn't seem to find a quiet moment in the midst of all the non-stop demands on his time that had followed in the aftermath of this battle that had nearly cost their ship. The last time he'd stopped by sickbay, yesterday, Beverly had been in the middle of a surgery. He'd told Nurse Ogawa not to disturb her, but Beverly had glanced up at his arrival anyway. Their eyes held for a long moment and his heart warmed as he could see her expression soften. Then a nurse handed her an instrument and he saw her eyes change focus again over the red surgical mask as she turned back to her patient.

He'd watched her admiringly a few minutes more, appreciating her consummate skill at her profession, before heading to the transporter room so he could attend another board of inquiry session at Headquarters. It was a part of his own job to manage the admiralty, in order to advocate for and protect his crew and his ship, and he was ordinarily quite good at it. But this time around, with his own actions so much the focus of the investigations—and now with an additional threat to his and Beverly's positions, which he was doing his level best to mitigate—he would just as soon be done with it and back out to deep space on new missions. Ones that did include time with his wife, and did not include the Borg.

Having washed his face and now feeling a semblance of normalcy, Picard paused for another moment on his way out to watch her sleeping again. A familiar ache lodged in his chest. He so missed their usual routine, but after a week of so much distance and missed connections between them, he was feeling at somewhat of a loss as to how even to begin again.

Perhaps he could start just by telling her. Tea would be cold later if he replicated it now, but perhaps he could set out some pastries for when she awoke in a few hours. With quiet resolve, he located pen and paper on his desk, and a moment later placed the peace overture on the dining table before slipping out the door for the day.