A month after the court-martial and spring was breaking on Îl de Ré. Deanna waited patiently as Jean-Luc rifled through the crate she had brought with her.
"What is all this?" he asked.
"Keep looking, take one or two out and read."
He selected one of the many envelopes and pulled out a handwritten letter. The penmanship was beautiful, sloping words, all lined up neatly swooping with a flourish towards the end of each line.
His concentrated on the words, his face tightening into a frown as he read. "It's for me…"
"They all are."
"All of this?" he said, selecting another message.
"Yes, every padd, chip, letter, picture, item… all of it is for you."
"I don't understand…" he said as he opened out a child's painting. Pieces of glitter fluttered over him coating him in a fine mist of sparkling pink dust.
"When the news broke, that you and the others had been rescued, Starfleet starting getting all of this. People wanted you to know how glad they were that you were alive, safe, and most importantly, that you were coming home. All the survivors got a crate just like this. It was all kept safely, until each of you were ready. And we kept yours until today." She didn't add that it had taken her this long to desensitise him to anything box-shaped after his encounter with Ted months ago.
He was mesmerised by the range and sheer amount of things people had sent… he looked at an envelope addressed to him, The Xhand Admiral, at Starfleet. "All these people…"
He pulled out a hand-knitted pullover and rubbed the soft wool between his fingers. He held it up in front of him, and was amazed by the workmanship that had gone into its creation as well as its intricate but ugly design. It was pale lilac with an image of a Martian sunset patterned into the bottom of it with starships dotted about each sleeve – not something he would ever choose to wear willingly, but incredible nonetheless.
She smiled in silent agreement over the jumper, having sensed the feelings about it he was keeping well hidden. "They all wanted to tell you how highly they think of you, what you mean to them. And more, they wanted to tell you how much hope you had inspired in them – surviving against the odds for so long, and making it home. All of that before you there, all of it is sent with love."
"My goodness…" He put down the jumper and picked up another envelope, he didn't know what to say. It was truly overwhelming.
She gave him a few moments, waiting for his curiosity to wane. She knew he only had so much energy in him, she needed to keep him moving, not let him focus too long on any particular emotion. She had to time this right. "So, I thought we might discuss what happens next?"
He sat back then, another letter dangling from his fingertips. "Next?"
She could feel his tension kicking up, she had hoped he might not have reacted so quickly and with such intensity. "You've done so well. I know you might not think it, but your recovery is really exceptional. I've worked with many cases similar to yours and I can tell you, you are doing brilliantly."
"It doesn't feel that way…"
"I know. That's perfectly normal. From an objective perspective however, I can say with certainty, you are doing a great job."
"How can I be when I keep having days that bring me to my knees?"
He'd told her of the bad days, those that saw him stay in bed with the curtains drawn, when he couldn't face his family, the boys, Beverly. "Recovery doesn't ever go in a straight line, you're always going to face tough days when things are out of your control, when you just don't feel strong enough."
"That sounds about right," he said. She could tell he was thinking hard about all that she had said.
"I brought all of this here today because I know you're ready to start thinking about the wider world. We've kept everything here, in this house, just close friends, family, and you've done so well." She hesitated a moment, "and uh... I have something else for you…"
"You don't sound too sure about that?"
She smiled at him, over the years, he had grown almost as able to read her, as she had him. "Well, I don't know what you're going to think."
"Try me," he said, intrigued by the direction in which this was going.
She pulled out a storage chip and handed it to him.
"What's this?"
She pulled a display screen from her bag and handed it to him, "Here..."
He plugged in the chip and the screen woke up. Before him, a series of press images and vids taken when he'd assumed command of the Enterprise appeared. He stared in disbelief, he hardly recognised himself. "My god..."
Captain Jean-Luc Picard stood on the bridge of his ship, confident, strong, commanding. His face was young, fresh, without the various lines that had been earned him over the last few years. He heard himself speak, addressing the gathered press eager to hear his every word, the words that would become legend soon enough as his ship ventured into the unknown, seeking out new life and all that came with it. He even sounded strong, his voice, deep resonant, mellifluous, nothing like it did now.
"Recognise him?"
"Just about..." he said, unable to draw his eyes from the man on the screen.
"Do you remember that day?"
He nodded, "It was incredible."
"I remember it well," she said, thinking back to those first days before Will and Beverly had joined them. She had been so young herself, entirely scared of the Captain Picard, digging deep to find the confidence she needed to be of use to him.
"I want you to imagine what he would say to you if he were here right now."
"Pardon?"
"If Captain Picard walked in this room right now, what would he say?"
"He'd ask me if I had gone mad..." he replied, gesturing to a pile of Louis's school stuff on the credenza and waving his hand over the room at large. "Then he'd sit me down and tell me to pull myself together."
"Go on..."
"He'd remind me of all that I worked for, all that was out there just waiting to be explored. I... he had so much drive... so ambitious. So naïve..."
She felt his mood start to turn sour, so interjected to re-steer the work she was trying to get him to do, "Tell me what you remember about him."
"I was so different... If I'd ever considered children... settling on Earth, in France of all places... This man," he said pointing to the image of himself on the screen, "was full of Starfleet dogma... the Prime Directive, its mission... doing the right thing, being the best he could be, fit, strong. Decisive, a leader. Brave..."
She stashed away the descriptors he had used, knowing they marked the qualities he felt he had lost. "And what might you say to him?"
He thought deeply for a few minutes, to the point where she wasn't sure he'd make the attempt. "I'd tell him that all this," he said cautiously, pointing to the room again, and gesturing out into the rest of his home, "all of this is so much more precious than anything space can offer."
"Anything else?"
He shrugged, "I'd tell him to be careful..." he smiled sadly.
She smiled back, understanding, caring. "I want to tell you something. The man I see here in this room, isn't so far from the man you see on the screen. I see someone older, wiser, more open... a loving, caring man, fiercely intelligent, but someone who is hurting – for the moment."
He shrugged again, something she recognised now as typically French. She'd seen the gesture repeated in both Ted and Louis, as well as the various native inhabitants of the island.
"I want you to remember that the man you see there, is not so far away. Everything that he is, is still within you," she said, pointing toward his chest. "It's just been a little dulled,"
He put the screen down on the coffee table and sat back into the sofa. He recognised that a few weeks ago, this would have brought him to tears, maybe he was getting better after all. He looked at her, surprised to find a quizzical expression on her face, "What?"
She looked at him, sizing him up, unsure whether to keep pushing him.
"Out with it..."
"Alright… I have three offers for you."
"Go on…"
"Starfleet, the Federation Council actually, want to offer you a choice of two roles."
His mood snapped, suddenly, violently. "I don't want to hear it. I'm not going back."
In the past, the bad things that had happened to him had always had some cut-off point after which he would be resuming command of his ship. He'd always had something to work towards, something he wanted to work toward and by which he defined himself. Now, now... he was so far away from re-gaining anything that even vaguely resembled his old life that the prospect of taking command of anything seemed ludicrous. He had lost so much...
He knew, in his heart, that he wasn't going back. The institution he had joined when he was still in his teens, bore very little similarity to what it had now become. The desire to make first contact with the Xhand had come from a place, not of exploration and peaceful accord, but of defence and attack. Starfleet had wanted to get to them before anyone else. The rumours had abounded for years about their violent character, but after everything that had happened, to the others, and to him, their standing in their sector remained unchanged, nothing but rumour. Nothing useful had come of his incarceration, nothing at all.
She held out a hand to him, "Hear me out… First, Starfleet are going to promote you, Fleet Admiral. You can decide what to do from there – retire, or take up the role. No travel off-planet – unless you want it. That promotion is automatic – and stands whatever you decide to do. Second, the Federation wants you to head up the Ethics Advisory Commission," she paused, scoping out how he felt about what she had said so far. She could feel a prickle of curiosity edging the horror he felt at even skirting this discussion. She pressed on, "You would be helping to write a new mission directive for Starfleet."
The second offer piqued his deeply buried curiosity, "What? Why?"
"Starfleet has been… humbled… by all of this, by what happened to you and the others. They recognise they need somewhat of a course correction, and they want you to steer the ship."
"Deanna… I don't… look at me. I'm hardly in any fit state to do much of anything."
"Don't worry… you can take as long as you want. They know they messed up. If it takes years, they will wait for you."
"You said three offers?"
"I did, that's right. The third offer comes from the School of Archaeology – at the Academy. They want you to be their man on the Atlantis Project."
"Atlantis? I never thought that would get off the ground…" he said, remembering a long-ago discussion he'd had with an old friend in La Barre.
"Well, it did. Eventually, the funding was secured and work started about eighteen months ago. The School got in touch and said they would hold a position for you."
"Why me?"
"Look at all those letters there – always remember there is more good in the world than bad. The people who have written to you, made you these offers care. They want to help you in any way they can. They know about your interest and ability in the subject, they've read your papers."
"I see…"
"You don't need to decide anything right now. You just continue to take all the time you need. There is no rush. Nobody is expecting an answer..." she paused, looking him over. He still looked terrible, better than when he'd first arrived home, but the man before her still bore little resemblance to the captain under whom she had served for all those years. "I just thought it might help you to know that there is a new life waiting for you, on the other side. I know you don't feel particularly warm towards Starfleet, and I really don't blame you..."
"That's putting it lightly." he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
"But you know what?"
He was thinking hard, she could practically hear the cogs working. "What?"
"I am hungry… how about you and I head to that little patisserie I pass every time I come here? It looks so good!"
He loved her, deeply as a friend. She always knew how to play him, bait and switch, bait and switch. She'd thrown him a curved ball and sent out the fielders at the same time. She'd let him mull it over, and he knew there was a tiny part of him that was giving everything she'd said some thought.
"Come on," he said, standing. "You're buying."
