Author's Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I appreciate the positive feedback. Picard's mental and emotional regression is very deep, and in the following chapters he will seem very childlike. If this bothers you, then the rest of the story may not be your cup of Earl Grey. I just wanted to let you know. JT

The song had been in his dreams, along with the images of the man and the boy. There had been a room, with lots of windows and sunlight streaming in, and the man had been sitting in a chair singing the song. And then, the room was gone, and it was dark. The boy's face had leaned over him, tired and dirty, and he'd lay on the hard ground singing the song. The song. He started to sing it when he opened his eyes.

The woman hugged him, and he pulled away. He was hungry. He told her. She said she'd get him something to eat.

Her name was Beverly. He could remember that now. But he didn't know why.

She was gone. But she'd be back. He was still hungry.

~vVv~

Jean-Luc was staring at the plate of food she held in her hand, and Beverly realized that this was the most attention he'd given any one thing since they'd found him. All right, she thought to herself as she set the tray on the bed table, here goes nothing. She picked up the spoon, placed it in the bowl of oatmeal, and stirred. It was hot, and steam rose. With her other hand, she unfolded a napkin and spread it over his chest. He took very little notice, his eyes still fastened to the food.

"Jean-Luc," her voice was calm as she sat down on the edge of his bed, "do you know what this is?"

He didn't answer.

"It's one of your favorites," she continued, "it even has brown sugar on top, just the way you like it."

Still nothing.

She lifted a spoonful out of the bowl, held it in front of him. "It's oatmeal, Jean-Luc. Can you say oatmeal for me?"

He looked longingly at the spoon. "Hungry," he whispered.

"I know. But I want you to say oatmeal for me first. Can you do that?"

His mouth opened slackly, and he whimpered, tears filled his eyes.

"Oatmeal," she over-enunciated the word.

His hands came up to his chest and he began to pull frustratingly at the napkin. She set the spoon back in the bowl, then reached out and took hold of his fingers, stopped the nervous movement.

"Concentrate, Jean-Luc. Oatmeal," she repeated, lifting the spoon again.

His face twisted, and tears began to flow freely down his cheeks. For a moment, Beverly was tempted to give in: feed him the oatmeal without him having to ask for it. After all, maybe he was asking for it in the only way he knew how.

He groaned and pulled free of her grasp, his hand lunging toward the spoon. She pulled back.

"No, Jean-Luc," she reprimanded firmly. "You have to ask for it. I know you can."

His head tossed back and forth on the pillow, the frustration building into anger. Quickly, he dropped his hand, and grabbed at the bowl, his fingers catching the edge of it, tipping it over. Before he could get a firm grip on it, though, Beverly pulled it away.

"No!" Her voice was louder, and Jean-Luc shrank back as if he'd been slapped, turning over on his shoulder, so that she could only see the left side of his face. Then, realizing that some of the oatmeal had gotten on his hand, he stuck his fingers in his mouth. Beverly noticed a slight smile form on his face.

"So, you're pretty pleased with yourself, are you?" She placed the spoon back in the bowl. "Well, one handful of oatmeal isn't going to satisfy you for long."

Seemingly angered by her words, Jean-Luc suddenly swung his left arm at her, pushing himself up off the pillow with his right hand. His wrist connected with the glass of tomato juice, and sent it toppling off the tray, and over the edge of the bed table. Beverly jumped up, just missing being soaked. The glass landed on the bed, the juice spreading over the blanket. Roughly, he shoved at the small bed table, upsetting the rest of the food. Scrambled eggs landed on the bed. He kicked the blanket back, sending half the food onto the floor.

Beverly stood watching him, her hands on her hips. Realizing there was no longer anything nearby to push at, he drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and began to rock, slowly, back and forth, his eyes staring straight ahead.

The left leg of his pajamas, from mid-thigh to down past his knee, was soaked with juice. Beverly sighed, went over to the dresser, placed the bowl of oatmeal on top of it, and then pulled out another pair of pajama pants.

She approached the bed. "All right, Jean-Luc, breakfast is being postponed due to your little temper tantrum." She disliked being firm with him, but getting him out of a pair of pajamas was like wrestling with a two-year-old, only Jean-Luc was much stronger, and put up a better fight. She put her hand on his knee. "Now, untangle yourself and let me put these on you."

He didn't pull away, he didn't lash out, but continued to rock, beginning to hum the song he'd been singing earlier. She pulled his arms apart and was surprised when he didn't resist. He allowed her to straighten his legs out on the bed, and didn't seem to be bothered at all when she untied his pajama pants and slid them off. In less than a minute, she pulled the other pair on, first one leg, then the other, and tied them securely around his thin waist.

"Jean-Luc?" she said the name softly, be he didn't respond. Trance-like, he stared across the room, his eyes fixed on nothing. She'd lost him again; lost him to that other world, the one that existed only in his mind. She didn't like him this way. Actually preferred wrestling with him. At least then he seemed more alive. She sighed, reached out and rubbed his cheek. Jean-Luc ducked his head, nestled back into the pillow.

"All right, you rest while I take care of this." She removed the wet blanket, and replaced it with a clean one. Then she threw the remains of his breakfast down the disposal chute.

"There," she smiled, returning to the bed and sitting down beside him.

Jean-Luc put his hands on top of the blanket, rubbed his fingers over the softness. Then he started to rock again.

She grasped his shoulder, gently but firmly, and made him stop. "I thought you were hungry."

The word seemed to flip a switch and his eyes brightened. "Hungry?"

Beverly's smile broadened. "Yes, hungry." She motioned over her shoulder. "There's a bowl of cold oatmeal back there with your name on it. All yours for the asking."

The corners of his mouth twitched, but then it firmed into a hard line.

"I know you can say it, Jean-Luc. Oatmeal."

He swallowed, and his eyes seemed to plead silently with her.

"Well, I've got all morning. I'm not going anywhere. Except maybe over there to that chair." And she got up, went to the cushioned chair, and sank into it. Jean-Luc's eyes followed her and for several minutes they stared at each other.

"Beverly?" It was a whisper.

Beverly barely breathed. "Yes, Jean-Luc?"

The square jaw trembled, and he licked his lips. "O-oatmeal," he stuttered.

Beverly sat in stunned silence, and when she didn't react immediately, Jean-Luc's eyes clouded over. But despite his quivering lips, he murmured, "C-cold oatmeal," then exhaled deeply, "please."

She laughed out loud, jumped to her feet and in a single stride was at the edge of the bed, enveloping Jean-Luc in her arms, holding him tightly. And for the first time, she felt him hold back, his hands pressing possessively into her shoulders. But the embrace lasted only a moment, and then he pulled away, looked directly into her eyes. "Oatmeal." And this time, the word was clear and precise, and she went over to the dresser and returned with the bowl. She settled on the edge of the bed. Jean-Luc's mouth dropped open, and she spooned a cold bite of oatmeal into it. He swallowed, opened his mouth again. She smiled wearily. It was a beginning, but she didn't like thinking of how far he had to go.

~vVv~