He opened his eyes. The room was bright around him, light from the window behind the bed reflected off the white walls and ceiling. He lay perfectly still for several minutes, thinking that if he waited long enough it would all disappear, and he would be back aboard the Enterprise. But the room remained the same.
She wasn't beside him. He knew this without even having to look at the other side of the bed. Already he could sense her warmth, and the absence of it. And he was alone now; the only sounds present were those of his breathing and steady heartbeat, comforting in their familiar rhythm.
Slowly, he sat up, studied the room in the light of morning. His first assessment the night before had been correct. It was a simple room, comfortable, lived in, its faded blues and greens and russets so very different from his quarters aboard the ship. On one wall hung a tapestry, rich in color and texture. And there was a mirror, and a framed painting of the mountains.
"So, you're awake."
He jumped, startled, swung his head toward the door. Eline was there, smiling broadly at him.
"Yes. I... I suppose I am," he stammered.
She crossed over and sat down on the bed beside him, one hand resting warm on his knee, the other caressing his cheek and forehead, checking for fever.
"How do I feel?" he asked, a slight smile forming at the corners of his lips.
Despite his apprehension, her thoughtful concern was endearing.
"You feel just perfect," she replied, brushing her fingers against his neck, then drawing her hand away. "No fever at all."
He nodded. "That's good."
"No. That's wonderful," she corrected. And before he realized what she was doing, she leaned over and kissed him, her lips soft on his.
Surprised and confused, he abruptly turned his head away, broke the kiss. "What... what time is it?" he faltered.
Eline sighed, and drew back. "It's a little after eight."
The look in her eyes told him that his reaction had hurt her, but he didn't know what to say to remedy the situation, and he silently vowed to be more careful. For although he did not know this woman, she knew and loved him.
"Why don't you take a bath before breakfast," she suggested evenly. "I'll go draw you one." She got up and went through the door on the opposite side of the room.
A moment later, he heard the sound of water running. Throwing back the quilt that covered him, he got out of bed, and walked hesitantly over to the bathroom door. He looked inside. Eline knelt beside the tub, testing the temperature of the water with one hand, regulating the flow with the other.
She glanced up at him. "Think you can manage a bath on your own?"
"Oh, yes, I'm sure I can," he replied instantly, his hand gripping the door frame.
She nodded. "I thought so."
When the tub was half full, she turned off the water and stood up, pushed at her hair with the back of her hand. "There, I think that's warm enough. I'll lay some clothes out for you." She brushed past him, and he reached out and touched her shoulder. She looked at him, surprised at the contact.
"Thank you," he said softly.
She smiled. "You're welcome. Call if you need anything."
Once she was gone, he shed his pajamas and slid into the tub, submerged himself in the warm water. It felt good on his sore muscles, eased the stress that had knotted his neck and shoulders. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was still tired, had indeed tossed and turned most of the night, waking from restless sleep to find Eline hovering over him, whispering soothing words.
"I'm here, darling." Her touch was gentle as she ran a dampened cloth over his fevered body.
He hadn't the strength to talk, the events of the day had been too much, and he'd felt a part of him accept, almost willingly, the care and attention the woman gave so freely.
He'd drifted in the warmth.
"Don't fall asleep."
The voice startled him, and his muscles tensed, causing him to slide lower in the tub. His eyes snapped open, and he gasped, choked on the water he swallowed.
"Kamin!"
He started to cough.
Eline hurried over and knelt beside him. She grabbed his shoulders, helped him sit up; her hand patted his back. "Easy there."
He took several deep breaths, then looked over at her. She was trying not to laugh.
Suddenly, remembering where he was, he leaned forward, drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them. He felt his face grow hot.
"Are you all right?" Her hand lingered on his back, rubbing gently.
"Yes, I'm fine," he said quickly.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Yes, I... I... I'm sure. I'm just fine. Just... just taking a bath. Just fine here." He lowered his eyes.
"Kamin?" Eline touched a finger to his chin. "You're embarrassed." The humor was gone from her voice.
He turned his face from her, and she drew her hand away.
"You've never been modest before." She spoke as though she no longer knew him, as if for the first time she truly believed that the man sitting before her was not her husband.
He swallowed. "I haven't?"
"No. Never."
He looked back at her, saw that her eyes were filled with worry, concern. Even fear.
"I'm... I'm just not myself yet," he whispered.
Long moments passed, then Eline smiled. "That's all right. You will be soon." She stood up. "I brought some fresh towels. There on the linen shelf." She stepped toward the door. "I'll just go finish breakfast now."
~vVv~
"Are you hungry?"
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "What?" "You kept mumbling something about breakfast." Beverly Crusher stared at him from the chair beside his bed.
He pushed himself up on his elbows. "I was?"
The doctor nodded. Her lab jacket was wrinkled, and her face was lined with sleep. Stray wisps of hair fell across her forehead, into her eyes, and she pushed them back behind her ears. She looked as if she'd spent the night in the chair; knowing Beverly, she probably had.
Picard smiled at her, grateful for her friendship and concern. He shrugged. "I am a bit hungry." He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, not in Ressick, nor here on the Enterprise.
Crusher stood up. "What would you like?"
He thought for a moment. "I suppose it is time for breakfast?"
"More or less."
He frowned at her. "More or less? What time is it?"
"A little after 0300."
He let his head fall back on the pillow, and groaned. "I'm sorry, Beverly."
"You have no reason to be." She reached down and pulled on his arm.
He propped himself back up. "But you haven't had a proper night's rest at all."
"I'm fine, Jean-Luc. Now, what can I get you to eat?"
"Some porridge, I guess," he answered absently.
Her eyes widened. "Porridge?"
"With just a little bit of cinnamon on it."
She nodded, hearing his words, but not quite believing them. "Porridge and cinnamon?"
"Yes. If you don't mind." His smile returned as he sat up, adjusted his pillow behind his back.
"No. No, it's just that..." Crusher eyed him suspiciously. "Jean-Luc, I've never seen you eat porridge."
The smile broadened. "You haven't?" Then his face suddenly went slack. "No, of course, you haven't." His voice was dull. "My wi..." He sighed heavily, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "My wife made porridge for me every morning," he explained. "It was one of my favorites. It's, ah... really quite good with the cinnamon."
"I'm sure it is."
He ran his hands over his face. "Oh, Beverly, this is going to take some getting used to." He shook his head. "The memories seem so real."
She stepped back to his bed and sat down next to him. "They are real. For you." She rubbed her hand along his arm. "And I want to hear all about that other life."
He grinned slightly. "Have you got a spare thirty years to listen?"
She laughed. "Perhaps you can just tell me the highlights."
He nodded, staring across the room at memories only he could see. "There were many."
"I'm glad."
~vVv~
The porridge wasn't as good as Eline's. He had a strong suspicion that nothing the food dispenser issued ever would be. From that first bowl of soup, he'd loved every dish Eline had served. She'd even taught him how to cook, although his culinary talent never improved as his flute playing had. Still, those evening meals they'd prepared together, laughing and talking with the children underfoot, had been good times. And Picard had come to understand his brother's disdain for modern conveniences. Perhaps Robert had always known the secret that had taken his younger brother a lifetime and another world to discover.
In Ressick, he'd found that he appreciated things more: a fire built in the hearth, their small garden scratched into the dying soil, the iron he'd learned to weave by hand, a simple dinner of vegetable stew. He stared at the half empty bowl on the table before him and realized how much he would miss those things.
"It's not as good, is it?"
He glanced over at the doctor, found her staring at the bowl as well. "Oh, it's fine. It's just..."
"Not as good," she finished with a shake of her head.
"No," he admitted, "I'm afraid it's not the same."
Crusher leaned forward, propped her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. "She was a good cook, wasn't she?"
"Who?"
"Your wife. What was her name?"
Picard averted his eyes, stared down at the table. "Eline," he answered tersely.
"Tell me about her." Crusher's tone was soft, concerned, genuinely interested.
But Picard evaded the topic. "There's not much to tell. After all... she wasn't actually real."
"She was to you. Very real." She touched her hand to his arm. "You can't deny those memories, Jean-Luc."
He gave a short laugh, reached up and rubbed his eyes, massaged his temples. "No, you're right. I'm finding that I can't deny those memories." He looked back at her. "They're very strong, Beverly. I close my eyes, and they're there immediately. Almost like they're waiting for me to come and visit. You know, like a good dream, and when you wake in the middle of it, you want to go back to sleep so you can finish it."
She nodded, smiled reassuringly at him. "I know. You need to talk about them. That's why I've scheduled you an appointment with Deanna this afternoon."
He started to protest, but changed his mind, found that a part of him wanted to talk to his ship's counselor. There were too many lingering emotions for him to assimilate on his own. He took another bite of porridge, forced himself to swallow, although it tasted much worse now that it had grown cold.
"Here." Crusher set a cup in front of him. He hadn't even been aware that she'd gotten up from the table.
"What is it?"
She laughed. "It's tea, Jean-Luc. Remember? Earl Grey, hot."
He smiled and reached out for the cup. "I remember." And he remembered how much he'd missed it.
"You call this tea?" he sputtered, taking a sip of the overly sweet liquid.
"Of course, it's tea," Eline replied exhaustively. He'd questioned her about every aspect of their morning meal. "The brown, hot stuff is tea. The grey, mushy stuff is porridge. The reddish sprinkles are cinnamon. And since you happened to have forgotten, they're all your favorites."
He frowned. "They are?"
"Yes." She sat down across from him at the dining table. "Please eat, darling. You need to build up your strength."
He nodded and picked up his spoon, took a bite of the porridge. It wasn't bad. After the second bite, he decided that it was actually very good, despite its unappetizing appearance. But the tea was an entirely different matter.
"This is the only kind of tea you have?" he asked, staring hopefully at her.
The already puzzled expression on her face deepened. "There's only one kind of tea, Kamin. And that's it."
"I don't suppose you've heard of Earl Grey?"
Eline shook her head. "No. Who is he?"
He sighed, discouraged. It was one thing to be stranded on a world he'd never heard of, but to be denied a good, hot cup of Earl Grey in the morning..." It's, uh... it's no one. At least not anyone you know."
She took a sip of her own tea, then set the cup firmly on the table, wrapped both her hands around it. "Speaking of knowing people, Kamin," she hesitated, licked her lips, "who is Beverly?"
"Beverly," he repeated the name, the sound of it so very familiar to his ears.
Eline nervously ran her fingers along the rim of the cup. "You kept calling for her last night."
He swallowed. For just a moment, he felt guilty for some reason, as if by calling out Crusher's name he'd somehow been unfaithful. "She's... an old friend," he whispered.
"I see." But the look she gave him let him know that she didn't really see at all.
Perhaps there would be a time to further explain to this woman who Beverly Crusher was, but not now, not yet. He reached over and touched her hand. "A very old friend, Eline. Someone I knew long before I ever met you."
"She wants to meet with you at 1400 hours."
"Who does?" he asked, looking up from the bottom of his tea cup.
Crusher's face fell. "You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying."
"Beverly, I-"
She shook her head with the sudden realization. "You haven't heard what I've been saying."
Picard looked away, ashamed of his inability to control the powerful flow of memories.
"It's all right, Jean-Luc," she assured him. "Deanna can help."
~vVv~
"I don't need any help," he snapped when she reached out to unbutton his shirt.
Stung by his sudden outburst, Eline drew her hands away, her eyes hardening into steal. "Of course, you don't. How silly of me to forget." She turned her back to him, began to change into her nightgown.
He sank onto the bed, sighing deeply. "I'm sorry. I'm... I'm just tired."
She was silent, and he looked away while she prepared for bed, still uncomfortable with the idea of being married and sharing his life with someone.
It had been a long day. Even after six weeks, his profession wasn't coming easily to him. Eline could no longer say that he was the best iron weaver in Ressick, although she assured him that he would improve. She cared for him, but he was beginning to wish that she didn't care quite so much. She still treated him as if her were ill, as if her were something fragile that had to be handled carefully. If he went for a walk in the hills, she would go with him. If he sat on the patio after sunset, she would bring him his dressing gown and wrap it around his shoulders. If he complained of being hot or cold, she would immediately touch her hand to his forehead, checking for fever. He felt like an invalid. But it was more than that. She wanted to know him, be a part of his life, have him share his thoughts with her. And that was difficult. He'd always been a very private man, singular, solitary. And now...
He sighed again, changed into his pajamas and slid into bed. Eline stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, and he watched her. She was an attractive woman, kind, gentle, and he couldn't deny that he had feelings for her, but he was still too unsure of this life to let her into his.
"I am sorry," he said again.
And she turned toward him, a slight smile on her face. "I am, too. It's just that... when I see you so tired, I want to help. I don't always know what to do."
He lowered his eyes, ran his hand over the quilt that covered him, chewed at his lip. "I don't make things any easier, do I?" he murmured.
She came over to the bed, sat on the edge of it, drew her knees up beside her.
"You make everything easier." She smiled gently. "When you were sick... I was afraid that I was going to lose you. I don't know what I would have done if I had. Kamin, I love you so much." She reached to touch his cheek, but then drew her hand away. He never returned the words, and that's all they were becoming, just words, empty, hollow. She got up. "We'd better get some sleep. Morning will be here before we know it."
After a few minutes in the bathroom, she came and climbed into bed, turned off the lamp, lay down with her back to him. "Goodnight, Kamin," she whispered in the darkness.
He hesitated, reached out to lay his hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself, placed it on his pillow instead. "Goodnight, Eline."
~vVv~
