"Beverly."

The voice, quiet yet urgent, pulled her back to consciousness. She became aware of the fact that she was lying uncomfortably on a cold metal floor somewhere. What—? As she started to shift her weight, a hand touched her arm. Abruptly remembering where she was, she jerked away, until she saw the worried face of the man kneeling beside her. "Jean-Luc," she breathed in relief.

He reasserted his hand at her elbow and helped pull her to her knees, and then embraced her hard. She clung to him tightly, emotion catching in her throat. After a moment he let his arms fall away and she sat back, raked her hands through her hair, and took a few deep breaths to steady her nerves. "He hasn't harmed you?" he asked anxiously, searching her face.

Beverly was unable to hide a grimace, but denied it. "No. At least, nothing beyond the standard prisoner mistreatment," she amended.

But his eyes were drawn to the cut on her chest: the confirmation of Madred's threats, the torture device that had hurt him so much two years before. He reached out and lightly ran his fingers over the scar, in an unknowing echo of Madred's actions; she swallowed hard to force herself not to shudder. "This is not 'nothing,' Doctor," he said tightly, letting his hand fall, clenched now. "Nor is it standard. I'd expected the truth from you." It was as though he were reprimanding a junior officer for a misdemeanor.

Far from being an awestruck ensign, she stared at him, not processing the fact that his anger was directed at Madred. "I didn't want to worry you," she bit off, then added a sarcastic "sir."

Annoyance flickered on his face. "Beverly, I only want to know what he's done, so I can–"

"So you can what?" she shot back, furious. "How exactly are you going to stop him from torturing me?"

He flinched as if struck physically, and she immediately regretted it. "Jean-Luc, I'm sorry," she apologized, reaching out a hand to his shoulder, relieved when he didn't recoil.

"No," he said quietly, his genuine exasperation with her already faded. "No. You're right, of course. There is nothing I can do." He suddenly looked very tired, and she noticed the bruises emerging on the side of his face. "You've heard what he wants?"

Beverly let out a breath. "Yes." A pause. "Jean-Luc, it's not your fault. I would never ask you to make this confession for my sake. If it could be used as a pretext for war...You can't." She brushed a thumb gently on his face.

"It is just a pretext," he said, reaching up to take her hand away and squeezing it. "I haven't worked out why yet, and I don't want to provide him with it. But I'm certain that even if I did make the confession, he wouldn't free us."

"Then we just hang on until Will finds us," she said hopefully, trying to see some other way out for them. "This isn't Celtris III—we couldn't possibly be disavowed after such a brazen attack in Federation space."

He shook his head, unused to being so pessimistic, but feeling worse the more he thought everything through. "I don't know that the Enterprise will be permitted to come after us." He hesitated, but chose not to add that they didn't know she was here at all. The situation was bad enough as it was.

"Wait—why the hell not?"

He made a gesture of frustration with his free hand. "Politics. With the Maquis situation so out of hand and the threat from the Dominion, the Cardassians can do almost anything, even this, and the Federation would have to overlook it for the sake of getting to the negotiating table." He dropped his gaze as he thumbed her hand. "I don't know what else we can do," he admitted at last. "Beverly, you know I'd do anything possible if I could."

Anything... "Yes. Madred told me..." She saw him stiffen almost imperceptibly as he realized what she meant, and her heart sank. It was true, after all. "Jean-Luc, why didn't you ever tell me?"

He shook his head again, pressing his lips into a thin line, and anger kept him quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. When I learned you were safe and it had been just one more lie, I couldn't…" A muscle worked in his jaw as he fell silent again. "I would do it again," he told her finally, looking up at her intently. "But he won't let me."

"I wouldn't let you, Jean-Luc," she countered, holding his gaze, feeling tears sting her eyes as she remembered the full horror of what he had suffered, understood the significance of his willingness to bear it all again for her sake. Despite her words, she couldn't help but feel terrified of experiencing the same.

His hand tightened on hers and she broke eye contact first, looking down at their hands. "It's not your fault," she repeated, quietly. "I won't blame you. You can't make a choice like this."

Abruptly his features slipped into a mask. "I shouldn't have to," he muttered. "Madred should never have done this, to either of us." He rocked back off his knees and stood up, pulling her along with him. In a lowered voice, on the assumption that the Cardassian was listening in on their words, he said, "We should see if there's any possible way out of here."

"To where?" she was going to answer, but suddenly her breath was gone, stolen by a searing pain in her chest. She gasped and pitched forward into his arms, feet twitching spasmodically in the induced seizure. She heard him saying her name over and over again in horror as she might hear in a dream, but she could focus only on trying to force air into her lungs and stop the agony. She wanted to pass into unconsciousness but couldn't, and remained aware of every shock of pain.

And then it was over, and Beverly buried her face against his shoulder, tasting sweet air in between shuddering breaths. Picard pressed his mouth into her hair and realized with bitterness that it smelled of the same pleasing fragrance as it had some hours ago, in the shuttlecraft, before—

His mind flashed with mocking images of the evening he'd once imagined they would have, and he tightened his arms around her, trying to ward off despair. He stroked her hair comfortingly until she seemed to have calmed, and finally whispered, in a devastated voice, "I'm sorry. I never wanted you to experience what I did."

She drew in a shaky breath. "I know."

"We'll have to hold out as long as we can."

But she could feel that his resolve was almost gone. "We will."

At that moment the door behind Picard opened and they drew apart, quickly, turning as one to see Madred enter. He dropped the forcefield, looked at them measuredly, then motioned to the guard behind him. "Bring the female," he ordered, turning away to exit.

Picard immediately moved in front of Beverly and started to back up. "Beverly, stay back," he said in no uncertain terms. To Madred: "Leave her out of this. You can do what you want with me, but you will leave her alone."

"Jean-Luc, you don't have to–" she tried.

"That's not the way it works this time, Picard," Madred answered, pivoting calmly to face him.

Beverly stepped back into the corner, but Picard still tried to push further, to get away from the nightmare in front of him. He had to try again, had to risk it even though he lacked every option except the one he couldn't use. "You've done enough for one day, haven't you? Let her sleep for the night."

"Enough?" Madred smiled without sympathy. "My dear captain, I'm afraid we're just getting started." He called off the guard with a gesture, then raised the controller in his hand.

"No—" she said quickly, but the word was swallowed by a scream as she jerked violently against Picard's back.

"Beverly!" He spun around to catch her as she collapsed, incapable of supporting her own weight through the pain, before the gul shut off the device. The guard reached out to pull her away from her now less protected position but Picard held on to her waist, supporting her, and moved them both a step away. "Stop this! Enough!" he shouted.

Beverly looked at him for an instant, knowing what he was saying, before she dropped her forehead onto his shoulder, her breath ragged. She wanted to speak, tell him she would be fine, she was strong enough, and he couldn't give in now. Somewhat to her shame she found she could not; her body was still too stunned by the successive attacks to protest. She wanted this to end, now, and so she leaned against him silently.

Picard looked up at Madred, the rage seething in him...and broke. All the consequences, all the reasons they had agreed he couldn't speak were not enough. He suddenly knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not be the one responsible for her torture, no matter what the repercussions. "I'll do it."

Madred paused.

"I said I'll make the confession," Picard repeated, louder this time. "Whatever you want me to say. You must stop this."

The Cardassian nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I must say you have caught me by surprise. I thought it would take considerably more for you to abandon your principles. And yet, at the same time, I thought not. Hence this exercise." He smiled. "How simple—if I had captured her the first time you would have broken then as well. Interesting."

"So now you have what you want," Picard snapped, ignoring the words. "Get it over with and return us to my ship."

The superior smile again. "Ah, that was never part of the bargain," he reminded Picard. "And you will note my reference to this as an exercise."

Beverly raised her head and stared at Madred in shock; Picard's grip tightened on her waist as he came to the same realization she had. As he had feared, this would not be the end of it. A sick feeling twisted in his gut.

"I had to make sure I had found the right key to you. I have." Madred's voice revealed his utter satisfaction before it turned harsh again. "Now," he spoke to Beverly, "you can come voluntarily or be dragged from here, it really makes no difference to me."

Beverly met Jean-Luc's agonized hazel eyes and stepped away from him slowly, but her mind recoiled in base terror at the thought of more pain, of more violation, and she wavered where she stood. The guard grabbed her arm again and pulled her out of the cell.

"Damn you, Madred," Picard whispered with cold fury as the door shut. "Why?"

The contemptuous look his captor gave conveyed the answer already burned into his own mind: because of him. It was all because of him.

#-#-#-#

They forced him to watch. A part of him shut down completely and died as he heard her screams and futile pleas; he became physically ill at the horror more than once, and shouted himself hoarse demanding her release. He wasn't listened to. He began to suspect, as the night wore on, why it was happening, what the objective of the torture was. And he knew he couldn't stop it, would never be able to, and that hurt as much as the immediate reality of her suffering.

#-#-#-#

His head was resting in his hands when they brought her back to the cell, and he jumped up from the hard bed where he'd been sitting for about twenty minutes. His heart wrenched anew at the sight of her matted red hair and bruised face, along with the useless shift they had deigned to give her as clothing. Dear God. She stood immobile for a moment, clutching the garment to herself, before the forcefield snapped on behind her and the guard moved out of the room. "Beverly," he whispered, approaching her slowly.

She seemed surprised that he was there, her blue eyes taking too long to focus on a spot somewhere on his shoulder. She's in shock, he realized dumbly, and in terms of coping with this wretched new reality, he wasn't doing much better himself. "Are you thirsty?"

She nodded hesitantly and he grabbed the single cup of water that had been left in their cell. He brought it to her and she held out her hands, but they were shaking too badly to hold it. "Here," he murmured, bringing it carefully to her lips. Eyes averted as if she was ashamed to need the help, she drank until the cup was drained. He set it aside and came to her again, wanting to hold her, to offer any comfort he could, and touched her shoulder gently.

She jerked away from him, turning her back. "Don't touch me!"

Devastation at the rejection, at his utter impotence, threatened to overwhelm him. "There isn't anything I can do," he said, his voice hollow, pleading. "He won't let me—I can't stop this."

The rest of her body was beginning to shake now, too, and he desperately wanted to pull her into his arms, but then again that was the entire damned reason she was suffering at all—because he wanted more than anything to protect her, he was to be denied. Because he loved her, she was condemned. How could he even imagine she wouldn't blame him for that? He felt numb.

"Beverly, I'm sorry."

She looked up at him then, red-rimmed eyes pained and exhausted, and he stopped, suddenly ashamed that he should be seeking her absolution when she was so horrified by what had happened, by what she knew he'd seen, that she was just barely managing not to collapse. Just barely managing—yet finding it within her to offer him this much: "I know," she said. She held his anguished gaze as long as she was able, then turned away again. "I know. Just leave me alone."

He swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded to her back, a tremendous ache in his chest.

"Just leave me," she whispered again. She sank clumsily, painfully down to the floor in a corner of the small cell, arranging the shift around her as well as she could before drawing her knees to her chest and bowing her head on her arms.

He watched her trembling figure for a moment and then, quietly, tugged off his gray pullover and eased down beside her. He wouldn't touch her if she didn't want him to, but if there was any small comfort he could offer, he had to try. She didn't react at all as he draped the sweater over her shoulders, but she also didn't pull away; and her shivering subsided with the warmth. Her breathing soon slowed to an even rate and she slept.