The light in the captain's private section of sickbay was muted. From the biobed Jean-Luc could hear the slight background hum of machinery and quiet voices in the main room. His years of experience as the ship's captain told him that it was late into the second shift, or possibly just beginning the third.

He shifted on the bed, wishing he could move more freely. But his entire right arm, from hand to shoulder, was encased in a cumbersome tissue regenerator. The right side of his head and neck as well as most of his lower torso and both legs were covered with dermal patches. Pain scratched around the edges of his consciousness, although the medication was holding it at bay.

He turned his head fractionally to gaze at the vision of loveliness standing beside him. Beverly had just finished sweeping her tricorder over him and was staring intently down at the results. At least she wasn't frowning this time. He took that as a small sign of progress.

Even from his vantage he could discern the weariness in her eyes, her pose, and the lines of fatigue around her mouth. Yet she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He knew she had been there. On the Borg ship. She had come after him, with the others. Despite the terrible dangers they had come for him and ultimately they had brought him home.

They were still reckoning with the toll it had taken on each of them.

"Rest," he murmured. One word. Even after nearly three days of recovery, one word at a time was still all he could manage.

At hearing his voice Beverly looked up, momentarily startled, then reassuring. A slight smile curved her lips as she ran a hand along the side of his face. He leaned into it, its warmth on his skin blissful after days of experiencing nothing but the feel of cold, hard metal. "Yes, Jean-Luc," she replied, her voice a caress. "You've come through the last surgery – now it's time to rest."

The last surgery, he repeated to himself. The latest of four, or was it five? All part of the long, painstaking process to physically separate him from the Borg implants. And Beverly had performed every single one, adamantly refused to let anyone else near him with a laser scalpel. Hours upon hours spent in the operating unit – and this last surgery had been one of the most delicate of all, to remove the terrible weaponry from his arm and hand, and restore the fine motor control to his fingers. Did she have any idea how much her care, her devotion, meant to him?

And even now – anyone on her staff could check his vital signs and change his dermal patches, yet here she was, taking care of him herself, as she had since the moment he'd reappeared back on the ship. She must be as exhausted as I feel.

He watched her silently, and then surprised them both by reaching up with his free hand and lightly grasping her wrist in his fingers. "You…rest," he whispered.

She smiled tightly and busied herself with a regen patch on his cheek, avoiding his eyes. "Jean-Luc –"

His grip tightened fractionally as he fought to get through to her. "I'm…going to be…fine."

For a moment her eyes shone with tears – then she blinked and they were gone. "I know," she replied softly, and he wasn't sure whether he imagined a slight tremor in her voice.

But she didn't move, and his hand dropped away as the spurt of energy faded. For now he would admit defeat. Because as much as he wanted her to go and see to her own needs, another part of him was treasuring every moment she was by his side.

Her familiar, cherished presence reminded him what it was to be human. To care and be cared for. To love. His eyes closed on that grateful rumination.

I'm going to be fine, was his last thought before surrendering to sleep. Thanks to you.

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