The lights came up slowly as the daytime duty shift began. Ever so subtly, if you knew what to listen out for, if you had spent years of your life aboard Federation starships, you could hear the life support systems kicking up a notch, a shift in the deck plates, a switch in the humidity controls, daytime had begun. This subtle switch was what brought Beverly Crusher to wakefulness.

She had slept well. She felt rested, energised, and almost a little enthusiastic about her most recent patient. She hated to admit that despite her long and complex relationship with the Captain, she had a well-developed sense of medical curiosity and that's exactly what he presented: Jean-Luc Picard was the Federation's only example of someone who had been assimilated and lived to tell the tale. She understood why Starfleet Medical were chomping at the bit to get to see him, and he was right here, in her sickbay.

Just as soon as these thoughts had struck her, she had quickly reined them in. Her Captain, her friend, needed her.

She marched resolutely into sickbay and headed straight for his room. He was curled up on his side, his back to the entrance, eyes staring vacantly at the wall to his right.

She perched herself on the edge of his bed and reached out to take his good hand. He flinched, startled. He turned dull eyes toward her, searching her face. It had been a long night.

"Hi there," she said quietly.

"What time is it?"

"It's a little after 0800 hours."

"Oh."

She helped him turn onto his back, folding back the blankets that had tangled around him. He seemed weaker this morning, his face gaunt, deep shadows were etched under his eyes. She raised the head of the bed so he was more upright.

"Ready to get out of that bed? How about a little trip to the head?"

He nodded.

She would grant him this small freedom, this small sense of control over his body. She knew he would need some time to take in the changes to his appearance. She tapped at the control panel on the wall and the stasis field disappeared. He felt his arm drop onto the bed as gravity kicked back in, a sharp stab of pain ringing out. He pulled his arm toward him intuitively sending further bolts of lightening through the useless limb, darkness swimming at the edges of his vision.

"Sorry, I should have warned you. Here," she soothed, pressing an analgesic into his neck.

Cautiously, he lifted his arm… lighter than he had expected, the cast seemed to feel like nothingness. In comparison to what was there only days prior anyway. As awkward as it was to have his whole arm restricted in a fixed position, he could feel a gentle warmth emanating from it, healing by the second.

"Ready to try standing?"

He nodded once again, not trusting his voice.

He sat up slowly, his arm following a step behind. He was hyper aware of the strangeness of the cast.

He sat for a minute, his head swimming against the length of time he had been lying down.

"Just give it a second, let the blood get to your head. Okay? Ready to swing your legs round?"

Another nod.

He pushed the blankets back from his legs, noticing the plasts dotted about on his legs, and that he was dressed in a pair of blue sickbay shorts and nothing else. Of course, the Borg had taken everything he had arrived with. His thoughts flashed to the cube for a moment, to his uniform, his communicator stashed somewhere. Then he remembered; that cube had been destroyed. There were others out there, plenty more to take its place. Its destruction was meaningless.

He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, readying to stand.

He pushed awkwardly with his left arm, Beverly taking the weight of his right hand side. He recoiled involuntarily at the contact. He'd been so focused on moving his body that he had forgotten she was there.

"It's okay, I'm just going to help a little that's all, nothing to worry about."

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No need to be sorry Jean-Luc. Ready to stand?"

He pushed up with his legs and left arm, Beverly stood close by. He swayed unsteadily. He could feel blood pooling in his feet, his head felt light, like it might float away. Darkness edged his vision once again. He stood, breathing slowly, good hand clinging onto the edge of the biobed.

"Take your time."

He raised his head, looked at Beverly, nodded and began to move.

As he took his first cautious, jerking steps, he felt the pull of repairing tendons not quite ready to be put to the test like this. Fresh new skin stretching over his muscles. It seemed like every movement required serious thought now that the Borg weren't making his decisions for him. His body felt alien to him, like he didn't know it, didn't understand how it worked as a lone being.

Thankfully the head was only a few awkward steps away. He reached the door, sure that this has been the hardest journey he'd ever taken. He rested for a moment, leaning against the opening, breathing, feeling each uncooperative muscle come to a halt.

"You're doing really well. Just take a minute," said Beverly encouragingly. "Want some help?" she nodded toward the toilet.

"I can do it… but Beverly?"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps it would be wise for you to stay close?"

"Of course, I'll be right here."

He nodded his thanks and stepped into the head. The door whispered to a close and he was suddenly standing in the middle of the small cubicle all alone. He stepped to the toilet, managing to figure out how to handle the most basic of human functions with only one arm, one hand, grateful for the elasticated waistband of the shorts.

When he was done, he hobbled over to wash his good hand and caught sight of himself in the mirror.

He froze, surprised by the reflection staring back at him. Was that his face?

He reached out to touch the mirror. The glass felt cold. He traced the reflected outline of the plasts on his face, turning his head to see how far around they reached. He looked horrific. He wasn't a vain man but he couldn't stay like this. He couldn't get used to this.

He looked down at the rest of his body. There were plasts dotted about all over him like some kind of terrible rash. He knew in minute detail exactly what each one was covering, knew exactly the nature and scope of every single bit of hardware that Beverly had removed.

"Jean-Luc?" Beverly called from the other side of the door.

He cleared his throat, "Yes, I'm fine."

He stepped back to the door, releasing the lock. The lights of his room blinded him for a second, he squinted against the brightness, disoriented. He stumbled, almost falling, but managed to right himself before he hit the deck.

"I think that's enough excitement for now, don't you?" said Beverly as she guided him back toward the bed. Her joke was met with dead silence. Too soon, he still had a long way to go.

Once he was situated, and his arm was freshly retained in the anti-grav field, he noticed a tray of croissants and a cup of Earl Grey on the table next to the bed.

Was he hungry? When was the last time he'd actually ingested any real food? Not on the cube at least.

Beverly chatted absently, probably trying to distract him, "Riker is just itching to get in here and see you, feel up for a visitor?" She edged the tray closer to him.

He reached out for the mug. He could probably handle a drink, he was thirsty.

He sipped cautiously at the tea, felt the warmth of it as it made its way down into his stomach. The familiarity of it brought a little comfort. He could do this, he could come back.

"Captain?" said a deep familiar voice, Riker.

"Captain," he replied, looking up at his former Number One.