Five days. It was only supposed to be five days. But it had been five months, and still the commander did not have his imzadi back. When the Enterprise had returned for her, there was no trace of Deanna. No trace of anything, in fact. No clues, no bodies. Just a dreadfully empty outpost and dreadfully empty hopes.
Picard initially suspected political motivations. Perhaps all the delegates had been taken hostage. Perhaps they were alive and imprisoned somewhere. But as the weeks dragged on, no such evidence surfaced. In fact, every twist and turn during the ensuing investigation only led the Enterprise down dead ends. Deanna was gone. And after five months, Starfleet ordered an official end to the search.
It was with a heavy heart that Picard found himself in front of his first officer's quarters. Normally he would have called him to his ready room to discuss official news. But this was more than official. This was gut-wrenchingly personal.
The door opened. Will stood in the threshold, a ghost of his former self. The past five months had taken a toll on him. He would accept no comfort or company. No food or rest. His shoulders continually hunched as though he needed to lean on something. "Sir?" he prompted.
"May I come in, Number One?"
Will rubbed at his sunken eyes. "Yeah...um...I guess so," he said, shuffling aside to let the captain through. Picard entered, taking a good look around. It was clear that these quarters had once been a loving home. A happy home. Tropical paintings hung on the walls. Orchids decorated little side tables. But the walls and the paintings had lost their warmth. The orchids drooped, forlorn and forgotten, and every blossom had become a shrivelled remain of its former glory. But Picard knew that the outer turmoil merely reflected a much messier inner turmoil.
"Where is Carmen?" he asked, noting a sea of toys that littered the living room floor.
"Beverly's been taking care of her. Just until…" Will trailed off, tears choking the rest of his sentence. Picard's heart sank in his chest.
"Why don't you sit down," he urged, pressing a hand to his first officer's back. "I'll get us something to drink from the replicator."
Will complied, making his way over to the sofa without any attempt at a protest. He heaved himself onto a cushion, staring straight ahead as he waited for Picard to return with the drinks.
Presently the captain extended him a hot glass of tea. Then he settled into an armchair opposite the sofa and for several long minutes, each sought consolation at the bottom of their own beverage. At last, the captain cleared his throat. "Will...I've just heard from the council."
Will's jaw clenched. "What did they want?" he growled.
"They want us to call off the search."
"But we're not going to. Are we?"
Picard tapped the sides of his glass, loathe to answer him. "I'm sorry, but...we have no choice. There is nothing else to go on. It is time for us to return to our other duties-"
"Duties? To hell with our duties! We can't just give up on her!" Will's face pinched together angrily.
"We're stopping the search, but we're not giving up," Picard continued, his composure as even as his voice. "If we come across any sign of her-anything at all-I promise you that we'll follow it through." Setting his tea aside, he rose and made his way over to the commander.
Will's anger wilted into despair. He buried his head in his hands and wept quiet, unrelenting tears. Picard's gaze softened. He rested a heavy hand on his shoulder and kept him silent, faithful company.
"I'm sorry, Will. Truly I am," he said after a time. "But please remember that you are not alone. No one on the Enterprise is ever alone. Your loss was our loss. And your grief is our grief. Take as much time as you need."
His footsteps faded from earshot. But Will didn't even notice him leave. He sat on that sofa for hours, until there were no more tears and only a red-hot agony burning in his chest. It burned a hole through his heart, and everything he was, everything he would have been with her at his side, poured out of this hole.
A profound silence pressed in around him. Never again would her voice break that silence. Never again would he hear her sing to Carmen before bed, or hail him warmly as soon as he stepped into their quarters. He alone would now carry each and every memory that they once shared. He alone would remember their intimate hopes and conversations, their heartfelt vows exalting the sweet dark of night. She had taken a piece of him with her, and forever there would be a poignant void in the space she once filled.
All night long, Will tried to stay awake. He feared seeing her again in his dreams. And then, come morning, he'd have to lose her again. Briefly he considered going to Ten Forward. But he resented the thought of company that was not hers.
Frustrated and desperate, he began to pace his living room floor in an effort to stave off sleep. Halfway, his foot struck something sharp and wooden. Cursing under his breath, he lifted his foot and peered down at the offender.
A toy Targ looked back at him. Worf had carved it as a gift to Carmen shortly after she was born, and she would often refuse to sleep unless she was holding one of its long, curved tusks. Will picked it up off the floor, his annoyance replaced by guilt. He should have passed it on to Beverly when she took Carmen in.
His thoughts turned to the child, and his guilt burgeoned. As he had lost a wife, she had lost a mother. But the selfishness of grief had taken her father as well. How could he have abandoned her like that? How could he have let himself turn out just like his own father?
With a new and sudden urgency, Will tucked the toy under his arm and left his quarters behind.
His pace quickened as he neared Beverly's door. He could hear the infant's cries piercing the air, each one ending with a ragged breath. "Beverly?" he called into the intercom. "Beverly, it's me. Can I come in?"
He heard the thumping footsteps of her approach. Then the door opened. "Will! What are you doing awake at this hour?" The doctor stood before him, a far cry from her usual calm and collected self. She bounced a screeching Carmen on her hip, and from the looks of it, neither had gotten any sleep yet.
"I was just...I found this," he said, offering the Targ with one hand while he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly with the other.
Beverly squinted at the toy. "What is it?" she asked, shifting Carmen to her opposite hip.
"She...she likes to sleep with it," he explained.
"Oh, I see." Beverly accepted it with a grateful smile. "Maybe this is the trick to ending her strike on sleep." But when she held it in front of the child's face, Carmen merely swatted at it angrily.
"Well, it was worth a shot," the doctor said, her smile turning wry. "Thanks, anyway. Go get some rest, Will. And don't worry about us-I'll think of something."
Will nodded, biting his lip. "Actually, do you mind if I…?" He held his hands out towards Carmen.
Beverly blinked in surprise. "You want to give it a try?"
"Please."
Happily she obliged, passing off the wailing infant. Will tucked her into the crook of his elbow. "Hey, hey," he scolded. "Worf worked hard on that toy, you know."
Carmen stopped mid-cry. Her eyes searched the face above her. Relief and recognition flooded their tearful depths. She began to croon at him fervently in a language all her own.
"I know, I know," he said. "But I'm here now." He lifted her up so that her head rested against his shoulder. Her arms went around his neck and she nestled into his shirt as though it were a pillow, breathing in his familiar scent. Tears pricked at his eyes all over again.
After clumsily trying to convey his gratitude to Beverly, he wandered down the dim halls towards his own quarters. Carmen fell asleep along the way, her head lolling against him. Will found himself smiling for the first time in months. For in his arms he held the last piece of Deanna, a living, breathing remnant of their love. And in that moment he knew that he would do whatever it took to fulfill his final promise; that he would do whatever it took to protect their daughter from the darkness.