AN: Here we are, the next little piece to this one!

I hope that you enjoy! If you do, please do let me know!

111

Laris was happy that her ears were at least partially covered, and that the excess of cloth from her makeshift head covering muffled her hearing slightly, when Beverly first woke up.

It was expected, really. In Laris's experiences with torture—of which there were more than she really wanted to admit—those who were either rendered unconscious by the inability to deal with their experience, or by the drugs that would keep them in a preferred state of "holding" until they were needed again, often woke up screaming.

Even the appearance of peace that came with the drug-induced slumber wasn't real. The mind didn't release things just because the physical body succumbed to a sort of oblivion.

Of course, Laris was sure that Beverly's reaction, coming out of everything, was also helped along by the fact that she was rudely jerked into reality, again, by a contraction that was thanks to the fact that she was in labor.

"Jean-Luc…" Laris said, hoping to ground him.

Beverly came up out of the medication like someone coming up from having held their breath under water for too long—like someone that had been held down, even, and had been struggling to surface. She came out of the medication like someone who had, at least for a moment, feared for their own life and doubted the continuation of their existence.

Laris had no doubt that she'd felt that, at least once, and her brain had held on to the sensation to use against her when next it surfaced into consciousness—secretly afraid that it never would.

Laris might have considered something moral about invasion of privacy and such when it came to examining Beverly, but she'd put that aside in favor of the fact that a quick physical examination of Beverly and a little knowledge about where her body was in the act of delivering the child, was better done before she surfaced into consciousness. At least, now, Laris had some idea of what she was dealing with, and she didn't have to try to convince Beverly not to fight her to gain that knowledge.

Beverly Crusher was, by all descriptions that Laris had ever heard, charismatic, caring, strong, grounded, intelligent, skilled, and gentle.

At the moment, though, Laris knew better than to consider her as anything more than a woman who was hurt and terrified—and, therefore, functioning like nothing much more than the animal side of her nature.

As a Romulan, Laris could appreciate that. It wasn't the first time she'd seen it or dealt with it. It didn't surprise her in any way.

Jean-Luc, at least, responded well to the suggestions that she offered him.

111

Jean-Luc couldn't quite recall the last time that he'd felt so entirely overwhelmed and so completely helpless.

One part of his brain wanted to ask a thousand questions, like a child. What happened? Why did you leave? Did they truly stop you from coming back, or had that decision already been made? Is the child truly mine? Were you going to tell me?

But Beverly's pain and fear were palpable, and Laris's voice—just sharp enough that he knew he was being scolded, preemptively, should he choose not to obey—helped cut through some of the foggy feeling of Jean-Luc's brain. He knew what he had to do. He knew that everything else had to wait.

Beverly needed him now and, like Laris had said, now was really all that mattered to any of them.

Jean-Luc shushed Beverly—not because he thought she had no right to scream, but because he knew that getting her to calm enough to even see him and take in her surroundings was the only way to begin to ground her and get her some semblance of relief from her mental anguish.

"That's a contraction," Laris offered from her position at the foot of the bed, probably purposefully out of Beverly's field of vision at the moment.

Jean-Luc appreciated the help she offered.

"Beverly—Beverly—it's Jean-Luc. You're safe, Beverly. You're safe," he offered, holding her and nuzzling the side of her face. Despite how he was feeling, he forced himself to keep his tone as even and gentle as possible. She would respond to him. She would respond to the overall feeling of the room.

Slowly, the screaming stopped. Slowly, it turned to a gasping sort of desperate plea for air. She wasn't suffocating, but she'd not been breathing properly, either, while reacting to her initial thoughts and feelings.

"That's it," Jean-Luc said, swallowing back against the ache in his own throat and chest. "You're safe. You're safe. I've got you, Beverly…I'm not letting anyone hurt you."

"Jean-Luc…"

Jean-Luc felt nearly dizzy at the sound of her voice saying his name. Her voice was terribly hoarse. It cracked and practically shrieked like metal against metal. It was the sound of a voice that had been used for screaming, loudly, and to the point of exhaustion—over and over again.

He pressed his eyelids closed for a moment and steadied himself. He drew in a breath. He let it out as gently as possible, so as to not risk alarming her. He forced himself to put on a smile so that she would see it, when she looked at him, and she would hear it in his voice.

He would give that to her, even if he couldn't feel it, himself.

"My love," he breathed out. The words escaped him before he even truly considered that he would say them. Something stung him, inside, as he realized that he had said them, with all the feeling that he felt behind them, with Laris only a few feet away.

He loved her, too. He truly did. Since the moment that he'd met her—since he'd known her as a refugee with absolutely nothing left—he'd sensed that there was something in her that he needed in his life. There was a piece of her that cried out for a piece of him.

And he had only come to love her more and more with each passing day.

But Jean-Luc could barely recall a time that his heart hadn't cried out for Beverly Crusher. He had ached for her in the way that poets described—a way he wouldn't have believed was true or possible, if he hadn't felt it himself. He had craved her. His mind had felt fevered, at times, at the thought that he couldn't have her. His body had felt that same heat. He had felt guilt for wanting her so badly. He had felt guilt for finally having her.

He had rejected her—to save her, he said, but really to save himself from feelings that were so overwhelmingly strong that he could hardly believe it possible to survive them. And he had come running back to her—time and time again—because he couldn't live without her.

No. That was too poetic. It was too cliché.

Jean-Luc could live without Beverly—he absolutely could. But he didn't want to live without her. Life wasn't much worth living without her. Having a life without Beverly was like having food without its taste and like having a world without color. Jean-Luc found that he could survive, but there was always something missing—so much was missing.

He had found some of that in Laris. She had given him some reason to live. She had brought some sunshine back into his days—tearing open the proverbial curtains and blinds, and shaking off the dust that he'd allowed to settle over his feelings when he'd thought that Beverly was gone for good. But he had never given her all of himself, and she knew that.

She accepted that. And, now, she coaxed him to hold Beverly a little more tightly as another contraction ripped through her.

"You're safe. You can do this. Beverly—focus on me," Jean-Luc said.

He tried to push them away, but his thoughts continued to bombard him. They shifted, and changed, and fell back into place before falling out again, over and over, like the sliding pieces of a kaleidoscope turning in his brain.

I love you more than life. Do you still love me? Why did you leave? Did you mean to come back? What happened? What did they do? I want to stop this. I want this to end. I want to take this pain from you. I want to take all pain from you. You hurt me. You're still hurting me. Did you mean to? Will you do it again? Don't leave. I'm ready to stay now. Say you're ready to stay.

Jean-Luc let the thoughts come and go. He let them flow through him. He didn't try to hold onto any of them. There was no need to try. Everything was happening so quickly that to simply stay on top of the moment, he had to do exactly what Laris had suggested—he had to let the past go. He had to let it run through is fingers like water.

Laris spoke directly to him, prompting him every time he fell silent and his thoughts threatened to overtake him and pull him away from the moment—a moment he hadn't even fully processed.

His child—because he felt sure that this was his child—was coming into the world.

Laris reminded him of that gently.

"Jean-Luc—it isn't every day that your child is born," Laris said. "Stay focused. Do this with Beverly. You don't get another chance to do this again—not for the first time."

Jean-Luc had never imagined he might experience this, and he certainly would have never dreamed that it would happen like this, but he wasn't going to miss it—not even mentally.

"That's it, Beverly…" He coaxed.

"Jean-Luc…I…I don't…"

Beverly had started to explain things, perhaps, a half a dozen times. She'd started to ask questions. She'd started to raise her own concerns, her own mind probably racing even faster than Jean-Luc's. She wasn't successfully getting anything out, though. Perhaps a delay in processing her own trauma or her own reality was causing it. Perhaps, she was simply responding to the fact that her body and mind were divided, right now, between what had happened and what was immediately taking place.

"Now is all that matters," Jean-Luc assured her, kissing her forehead and squeezing her hand as her other fingers found purchase on his arm.

She had torn at his skin with nails that were rough and jagged—uncared for in a torture facility and probably broken as she had fought for her freedom at least more than once. Jean-Luc pushed that thought of his mind. He welcomed the pain of her nails digging into him.

The pain helped him remain here and now, where he most wanted to be.

"Help!" Beverly called out, as things intensified. Her voice croaked out. He wished he had something to offer her to drink, but he didn't dare move away from her. The way that she held onto him was a silent plea that he not move—that he not leave her. He would never leave her again. That knowledge slammed into his ribs painfully.

He would never let go of her again, not if he could avoid it.

"Please!" She cried out. "I can't!"

"Laris…" Jean-Luc said, pleading with his companion, whose focus only seemed drawn away from what she was doing when she offered, from time to time, some input on how he might better comfort Beverly.

"She's fine," Laris said. "Vitals are holding strong for mother and child. Encourage her, Jean-Luc. Comfort her. You told me you loved her. You told me you're lovers. Damn it…be one now. Lend her some strength. Be a father, because you're very close to seeing your child's face."

Jean-Luc felt something swell inside him. Anticipation. Hope. Something happy and positive.

"You can, Beverly," Jean-Luc coaxed. He smiled at her and shook his head at her protests. He locked eyes with her. Her eyes were beautiful. They had always been beautiful, and the slightly hollow and empty look that he'd seen in them only hours before—because they must have been at this for hours—seemed to be fading. He could see some light there. There was pain, of course. There was a great deal of pain. But there was light, too. "You can do this, Beverly. You can do anything. I'm here." He squeezed her hand. He held her eyes. "I'm here. Let's do this together…and when it's done…Beverly…when it's done, we'll rest. All of us."

"Oh…Jean-Luc…help…please," Beverly insisted.

"In every way that I can," he assured her. "Hold onto me."

"She needs to push," Laris offered. "When she feels ready. When she feels the need. It's time push."

"Do you hear that?" Jean-Luc asked. "We're almost there. You're almost there. And…our child, Beverly, is almost here. You need to push."

She protested—a solid declaration that she could not push.

"She's pushing," Laris offered, a hint of amusement in her tone of voice. "Keep doing what can't be done…it's going wonderfully."

"Come now," Jean-Luc said, helping Beverly to change her position when it seemed that's what she wanted. "Keep going, Beverly. You're doing everything right."

"I'm too tired, Jean-Luc," Beverly insisted.

"Then, you will rest very soon. Undisturbed. For as long as you like. Another round, then? Not much longer now, I'm sure…"

He noticed that keeping his own tone light seemed to help Beverly. He noticed that she seemed to be breathing a little more easily, and with a little more purpose.

"Good…very good," Laris offered gently, from her position. "Perfect. Just a little more."

Beverly's protests got a little louder and a little more determined. She absolutely could not do this and, suddenly, she was angry at Jean-Luc for insisting that she could.

"That's the baby's head," Laris said, laughter bubbling in her throat. "Now—then—one more angry outburst like that and we'll have a brand-new Picard. Yell at me, if you like, but let's go ahead and bring this little one the rest of the way. I'll help with the shoulders."

"Beverly…you can do this," Jean-Luc reassured Beverly. "You've done it before. You're the…strongest…most incredible woman that I have ever known. You can do this…"

"She already has!" Laris declared. "I've got it! Hold on—we've just got to get…" Laris's words were interrupted by the sound of a baby howling, protesting everything that had ever happened to it. Beverly panted and collapsed somewhat heavily into Jean-Luc's arms, allowing him to support her, entirely, for just a moment. "Now then! That's wonderful! Congratulations! It's a boy!"

Laris got up from her position and brought the baby over. Beverly reached toward her, and Jean-Luc wondered if Beverly had really registered Laris's presence there at all. Now, he imagined, all she could possibly see or think about was the baby cradled in Laris's arms.

"Here you are…he looks like a strong little man! Congratulations!" Laris said, smiling at Beverly as she handed the baby over. Beverly took him and hugged him against her, taking him in with big eyes and a waterfall of tears that Jean-Luc imagined she couldn't help.

Laris pressed her hand on Jean-Luc's shoulder affectionately.

"Congratulations to you, too, Papa," she said.

He reached and took her hand, squeezing it. His chest squeezed, too, aching with the rush of feelings that must, eventually, be dealt with.

But, for now, there was only this moment.

"He'll need to be cleaned up," Laris said. "But—I'm going to tend to his mother first. Jean-Luc…when you find yourself released, you might help clean your son."

Jean-Luc nodded his understanding.

His son.

Next to him, Beverly took in their son. She practically seemed to drink the baby in. For a moment—the present, sweet, wonderful moment in which they found themselves, and the only one guaranteed to them—it seemed as if nothing else mattered to her. The past was, at that moment, truly the past. All that mattered was Jean-Luc, against whom she rested a great deal of her weight, and the baby boy in her arms.

Their son.

The past was behind them. The future would keep. For just a moment, family was all that mattered. Their love and everything it had created was all that mattered. This was all that mattered.