AN: Since I recently watched "Remember Me," I thought I'd do this one as part of my little rewrite project. I have a couple of other possibilities that I might do for this episode as well. As always with these little stories, don't take things too seriously. They're just for fun.
I own nothing from Star Trek.
I hope you enjoy! If you do, please do let me know what you think.
111
"Until the end" was a popular sentiment for every kind of romantic declaration that Beverly had ever experienced, from loving speeches to romance novels. The rest of the statement, of course, varied, but the sentiment was the same.
Of course, tangled in Jean-Luc's arms and wrapped in his blanket, a gnawing feeling in Beverly's stomach made that thought take on a shape entirely unlike ever before.
Everyone around them seemed to be disappearing. Sometimes, the disappearances came dozens at a time and, sometimes, there was a single, solitary soul lost forever. Each person that disappeared was, all at once, simply gone—but gone entirely. They were erased, it seemed, from the very tapestry of the universe.
Beverly closed her eyes and drew in a breath, making herself starkly aware of the feeling of the sheets, and the blanket—and the one spot where her foot touched the bare mattress. Their lovemaking had been hungry—as though both of them had been nearly starving to death for it—and the sheets hadn't been able to keep their hold on the mattress.
They had both been hungry for this. They'd both been desperate. They'd been starving for ages and, although this was the kind of hunger that didn't kill one, exactly, it did drive one to a certain semblance of madness.
Beverly knew that they all thought she was mad in an entirely different way. Jean-Luc, perhaps, was the only one who didn't think that. He was possibly the only one who even halfway believed that she might be telling the truth—and that, somehow, he might have missed something that she hadn't.
Those who didn't believe her, though, were disappearing as surely as everyone before them had. One at a time, they were all disappearing.
Beverly swallowed and let her fingertips trail over Jean-Luc's skin. She listened to his breathing as he dozed, peacefully, in the soup of hormones that followed his release. She could still seem to feel his touch on her skin. She could taste him. Her body could still feel that he'd been there. There was, in fact, undeniable evidence of what they'd done in the form of a not altogether pleasant and lingering dampness. At the moment, however, Beverly welcomed it all. She welcomed all proof that she wasn't mad, and that everything around her was real. Jean-Luc was there, and he was real. He believed her.
"Your word has always been good enough for me."
That's what he'd said to her. She'd grabbed him, in that moment, meaning only to hug him and show her appreciation for his trust. She'd meant only to seek a little more comfort than the verbal comfort that he'd shown her already. She hadn't meant to kiss him, really, but the kiss had seemed to come organically. It had surprised her, as much as it had surprised him.
And, then, he'd returned the kiss with every bit as much hunger and enthusiasm as she'd shown him, and she'd clung to him, suddenly desperate not to let go.
She hadn't expected to be met with the same desperation from him. Suddenly, the man who had pushed her away, every time they'd gotten close, with some excuse about being a captain and not having time for the relationship that she would want from him, if they were ever to do what they had just done, was pulling her to him. He was holding onto her like he feared losing her. He kissed her, again, like he believed her about the whole world disappearing, slowly, one person at a time, around them, and as though he was absolutely terrified that she might vanish before his eyes.
Jean-Luc had suggested that she come to his room—his quarters—and, when she'd dared to say that they hadn't time for that, which he would have agreed with any other time, he'd told her that they didn't have anymore time to waste like they'd wasted so much before. If this was the end, then what reason did they have to keep denying what they both knew to be true?
If this was the end, then there was nowhere he would rather die than in her arms.
And she hoped that, somehow, she might be able to hold onto him tightly enough that he wouldn't disappear.
As Beverly's fingers flexed in sync with her thoughts, Jean-Luc stirred. He found her. He pulled her close. His lips found hers. She savored the kiss he offered her, sweet and lazy as it was. She relished the way he held her—the strength in his arms gave her a comfort she needed.
"I'll never let you go," he said, as though he could read her thoughts and knew exactly what she needed to hear from him.
Beverly smiled to herself. She believed him. She wanted to believe him, and so she did—as simply as that.
"Until the end," she breathed out.
111
"We can't stand around here doing nothing," Beverly said, as Wesley followed her.
It was only getting worse. It wasn't getting any better. No matter what they tried, it seemed as though nothing was helping. No matter how many times they changed course or called for help, nobody came, and the ship's navigational system seemed eternally confused and constantly in the process of shutting down completely. They seemed incapable of getting anywhere, and it seemed as though nobody could get to them—if there was anyone even out there, anymore.
They were, in essence, trapped.
Beverly had thought it could be some sort of anomaly. She thought it could be a rift in the space-time continuum. She thought, perhaps, they had somehow moved to another universe entirely. Each of these explanations, though very rare occurrences, weren't impossible—history had proven that. And, at this point, she was willing to believe anything.
The "why" behind it all didn't really matter to her. Not now, and not with the disappearances continuing and the crew dwindling. All that mattered now was the fixing it—the undoing what had been done.
Now, there was another possible explanation and, with that explanation, there was another possible solution. Wesley, perhaps, could help her. Wesley, perhaps, had caused this—but there wasn't time to think about that now. It didn't matter what had caused it, now…only that they were able to fix it, before it was too late.
Wesley.
Something pulled inside of Beverly. Something tugged at strings inside of her that she knew were purely imaginary.
She knew, when she turned, that he would no longer be behind her. She knew that he was gone. She could feel it in a way that she hadn't felt any other loss yet. She knew that he no longer existed in the minds of anyone else—he no longer existed in their reality. She was the only one who would remember him.
She wondered, for a brief moment, as she stalled herself from turning to face what was inevitable, if her body would still show the evidence of him. She had carried him. She had brought him into the world. She had fed him, and cared for him, and lost sleep over him. And her body bore evidence of her sacrifices beneath her uniform—would it now? Would her body remember him as surely as her mind and her heart did, when nobody else could be convinced that he'd existed?
Something squeezed inside of her. It would. Her body would remember him. Her body knew him just the same as it knew the little one that she carried now—a secret she hadn't dared to speak about out loud, afraid that it might vanish if anyone knew it even existed. It was far too soon, she knew, for the little one she carried to have advanced to what it was—but whatever was causing the disappearances, too, seemed to have caused this to advance.
It read six weeks old on the scan that she'd done—coming into existence as everyone around it was disappearing from existence. Beverly kept the strange phenomenon secret, not fearing it nearly as much as she feared anything else that was taking place. More than fearing its appearance and quick progression to this point of existence, she feared its disappearance.
She feared it may be lost before anyone knew it was there—disappearing as completely as everyone else, with only her to remember that it had ever been there at all.
Even though it was impossible, she knew, she felt it. She felt sure of its presence. She could, somehow, sense it, even now. She knew it was there, just the same as she knew that Wesley was gone.
Beverly steeled herself as best as she could. She closed her eyes, steadied her breath, and balled her fists at her side. If Wesley were there—if he still followed her and still existed—he would have urged her forward by now. He would have asked her why she'd stopped her progress. He wasn't there, and she turned and opened her eyes, letting them see what her heart already knew.
The cry caught in her throat.
"Wesley!" She called out, retracing their steps. Engineering was quiet. It was still. The whole ship seemed still. A tomb.
Beverly took a moment to accept what she had already known, and she resolved herself, once more, to solving whatever was happening and to bringing everyone back. She headed for the bridge as quickly as she could.
111
Beverly sat next to Jean-Luc as the computer recited his life functions aloud for the two of them. The sound of the computer's repetitive accounts of Jean-Luc's life functions—proof of his existence—was a comfort to Beverly, even as her stomach gnawed on the knowledge that he, too, would be gone sometime soon.
They were the last ones left. And, though he still believed her, he was struggling more with the thought now than he had been. Everyone else had vanished, but he didn't know that—not exactly. He had forgotten all of them entirely, as though not a soul had existed.
For Jean-Luc, at this moment, he and Beverly were not only the only two aboard the Enterprise, they were the only two that had ever been aboard.
"We've never needed a crew before," he'd told her, in response to her questioning him about whether or not he truly believed that it was only the two of them that had been responsible for the entire ship and its mission.
"We've only ever needed each other," he added, softly, now that he was relaxed in the seat next to her and was doing his best to calm her from what he surely saw as some sort of hysterics. He took her hand and held it. He didn't remember that, before, he never would have done anything like this on the bridge, for fear of being observed. Who would observe them, now, after all, if they were the only crew members left—the only two that had ever been present?
Maybe, Beverly thought, he didn't even remember how hard he'd fought against this or how many excuses he'd made to himself, as well as to her.
The higher-ups that he might have said would disapprove didn't seem to exist any longer. Jack—Jack who had been important to both of them and, in some ways, had been part of Jean-Luc's excuses against a relationship with Beverly—no longer existed. He never had. Beverly had never married him. He'd never been Jean-Luc's best friend. Wesley—whom Jean-Luc claimed to be respecting when it came to not entering into a relationship with his mother—was gone. He had never existed. To Jean-Luc's knowledge, he had never been born at all.
The only beings left in the universe, it seemed, were Beverly and Jean-Luc.
And, Beverly thought, as her stomach squeezed, one being more that had come into existence in the midst of all this insanity.
Though she feared mentioning the little one out loud, as though mentioning it might somehow make it disappear as surely as everyone else, she also felt as though she owed it to Jean-Luc to tell him about the child before…
Even if she couldn't bring herself to truly accept what she was sure was the inevitable, she felt as though she owed it to Jean-Luc to tell him.
She knew that things had a way of coming to pass, even if she wasn't willing to accept them at first.
Beverly turned her body toward his. She squeezed his hand in hers. She dropped his hand, her face growing warm, and wrang her own hands as she looked for the words that she felt were almost impossible to say.
"Jean-Luc, I've been meaning to say something to you. I might not have another chance…"
A sensor beeped and Beverly glanced quickly in the direction of the sound. It was nothing—some stray sound from a ship that was, somehow, practically running itself…toward what, she could never be truly sure. She looked back and found the seat empty.
She swallowed against the lump that formed in her throat. She dropped a hand to her stomach. Though there was no physical evidence of the little one, and though she knew it wasn't truly possible, she sensed it there. She knew it was still there. She still carried it with her. It hadn't left her.
"I'll keep it safe, somehow, Jean-Luc," she breathed out. "Maybe—as long as it's inside of me…a part of me…it can't disappear until I do. I won't forget you. I won't forget any of you. And…I'll figure this out."
111
Jean-Luc could hide his feelings from everyone else, but he couldn't hide them from himself. He could choose not to acknowledge them, but feeling them was entirely out of his control. Something inside of him, too, made him wonder if he ought to acknowledge them for once and for all—both to himself and publicly.
Was it time to stop hiding? Was it time to stop running?
Jean-Luc knew, as well as anyone, what it was to simply run out of time. He knew what it was to lose someone and to lose any opportunity there would ever be to say what you hadn't said. Jean-Luc knew the eternal sting of regret.
He was already feeling that regret.
He had never told Beverly how he felt. He'd never acted on those feelings. The few times that they'd come up—that the two of them had danced somewhere close to the truth—he'd pushed her away and held his feelings back. He'd made excuses, and he'd tried to make himself believe them, even as he'd tried to make her believe them.
He felt the desperation that came with regret, and the heavy conviction that, if he were given another chance, he would tell her the truth. If they could save her, he would tell her the truth.
He only hoped he got the chance to keep his word to himself—and that he was man enough to do it.
111
"Beverly!" Jean-Luc ran for her the moment that she appeared through the vortex, practically hurled at the floor. He gathered her up in his arms, helping her to her feet and, at the same time, assuring himself that she was real.
She was alive. She was real. She seemed relatively unharmed.
And she was in his arms.
"Jean-Luc!" She breathed into his neck.
"Beverly," he repeated, holding her tightly.
"Is this real?" She asked, pulling out of the hug. "Really real? My thoughts, in there…"
"They shaped your reality," Jean-Luc said, recalling everything that he'd heard as he'd kept vigil over the attempts to recover her. "They created your reality."
For a moment, everyone seemed to be keeping their distance—hovering just far enough away as to not impose on a moment. It was as if they could all sense that Jean-Luc needed this and, perhaps, that Beverly did, too. Jean-Luc didn't let go of Beverly's arms. She didn't ask him to let go of her.
It was only Wesley that finally came, breaking between them to hug his mother. She hugged him, and then she reached a hand out in Jean-Luc's direction again, as though she didn't want him moving away from her. He had no such intention, and he took her hand to prove it.
"Jean-Luc," she said. "If I may ask…how many are there aboard the ship?"
"Now that you're back, there are one thousand and fourteen, including your guest, Doctor Quaice," Jean-Luc said.
Beverly's eyes went wide, and she let out something like an airy laugh.
"Is there something wrong with the count, Doctor?" Geordie asked from his spot.
"No. That's the exact number there should be," Beverly said.
"Come, Beverly…let's get you to sickbay. You look fine, but it's best to have you examined, just in case. Wesley…I expect you'll be along shortly." Jean-Luc said, allowing mother and son one more hug before he took hold of Beverly's arm to support her. He doubted that she actually needed it, but he did. Jean-Luc accepted Wesley's confirmation that he would go to sickbay for an examination as soon as he was done with their guest, and he led Beverly slowly along the corridors. She came with him without argument, and she even leaned slightly on him as though she welcomed his touch as much as he welcomed hers.
When he felt that they were quite alone, he stopped, and she stopped with him. There was the slightest bit of question on her features, but she didn't put anything into words.
"There is…something that I have to tell you," Jean-Luc said.
"There's something that I have to tell you, too," Beverly said.
Jean-Luc felt something inside of him squeeze. If he didn't tell her, he feared he might lose his nerve. Still, if he did tell her, there was a chance that she wouldn't feel the same way that he felt—especially not after he'd done such a thorough job of pushing her away before. She may never tell him what she needed to say—whatever it was—if he didn't let her say her peace first.
"Perhaps you should go first," he said.
"You can go first," Beverly said.
"I insist, Beverly," Jean-Luc said.
She smiled softly at him, and his pulse kicked up.
"While I was in the bubble, Jean-Luc…my mind created and controlled my reality," Beverly said. Jean-Luc nodded his agreement.
"That's what I was led to understand," he said. He saw her cheeks blush pink. There was no mistaking it.
"Jean-Luc…I don't quite know how to say this," Beverly said.
Jean-Luc's heart thundered wildly in his chest. That was a feeling that he understood. He had no idea how he would manage to say what he had to say. The very thought of it practically made his knees feel weak. He took Beverly's hand and wondered if she could feel his shaking. He glanced around, pleased to find they were alone, wondering if that same solitude might be unnerving to her after being trapped, alone, in the warp bubble.
"Just say it," Jean-Luc urged. "I will hear anything you need to say."
"In that reality, Jean-Luc…you were the only one who believed me, even when it was difficult for you," Beverly said.
Jean-Luc smiled at her and squeezed her hands.
"I like to believe that I would always believe you, Beverly," Jean-Luc said.
"You were the last of the crew that was left with me," Beverly said.
"I would hope to stay with you until the end," Jean-Luc said. He saw something flash across her features. She tensed, but then relaxed a little.
"I don't know how to say it, except to say it," Beverly said. "In that reality, we…well…"
"Go on, Beverly," he urged.
"We knew each other," Beverly said. "Quite well. Our relationship…when we thought that everyone and everything was disappearing, and when I thought that you were the only one who believed me anymore…Jean-Luc…"
"I think I understand," Jean-Luc said, as the weight of it seemed to land in his stomach. "I would hope that I offered you everything that you needed, Beverly…and that I didn't take advantage."
"Nothing like that," Beverly assured him. Her cheeks burned redder. "It's embarrassing to say this, but…it was wonderful."
Jean-Luc felt his own cheeks burn. He felt the pounding of his heart. He felt interest that he couldn't deny and couldn't ignore stir elsewhere inside of him.
"I would hope so," he said. "For you…"
"For both of us," Beverly said, cocking an eyebrow at him. He welcomed the hint of a challenge. He relished it as it cut through the feelings that were coursing through him. "Jean-Luc…before you disappeared, I was trying to tell you something. I wanted you to know, before you vanished, that there had been something else that was very strange…something, now, I realize was just another piece of my shaping reality…but you disappeared, and I wasn't able to tell you."
"Which was?" Jean-Luc pressed.
"While everything and everyone around me was disappearing from existence," Beverly said, "it seemed that…something else came into existence. Quickly, too…too quickly, even…yet, there it was."
Jean-Luc felt a sensation in his gut.
"What is it, Beverly?" He asked. "What do you have to tell me?"
"Computer," Beverly said. "What is the exact complement of the ship, including the conceived-but-not-yet-born passengers into the count?"
"The exact and complete complement of the ship, including the conceived-but-not-yet-born passengers, is one thousand and fifteen," the computer's voice reported.
Slowly, like ice water descending over his body, reality sank in for Jean-Luc.
"One more than there should be," he said.
"I brought it with me," Beverly said.
"Are you saying that…?"
"I wasn't sure that it would cross from one reality to another," Beverly said, "especially not since…since it's virtually impossible that anything that happened there was anything more than a daydream."
Jean-Luc laughed.
"That's some daydream," Jean-Luc said. "If you're telling me what I think that you're telling me…"
"I know how you feel, Jean-Luc. If you don't want this…if you don't want the baby, and you don't want to be a father," Beverly said, "I'll understand. I won't hold it against you, Jean-Luc. After all, it was my dream, and my reality…not yours."
Jean-Luc caught her shoulders and squeezed them gently to ground her.
"Stop right there," he said. "Beverly—perhaps it's my turn, now, to tell you what I meant to tell you earlier…what I've meant to tell you for so long, though it took nearly losing you to help me gather the courage and the resolve to admit that…well…that I've been a coward, hiding behind excuses and…
"Jean-Luc," Beverly said.
He stopped and she smiled at him. He realized that she was grounding him just as he'd done for her.
"Thank you," he said softly. "Beverly—what I wanted to say was…well…I guess, now, in light of what you've said…what I want to say is that I would like to make your daydream a reality here, in this universe. That is, of course, if you're interested."
Beverly smiled at him and tipped her face toward him in such a manner that he instinctively knew what she wanted. Still, he moved slowly, fearing she might change her mind, right up until their lips touched. She deepened the kiss, and he allowed it. He closed his eyes and couldn't help but sigh at the relief of it all—the relief of putting down all that he had carried for so long, to rest in her love and the promise of a future.
"What if…it isn't real?" Beverly asked. "The baby…from one reality to another, is it truly possible? What if I really am crazy?"
Jean-Luc laughed.
"The computer seems to agree with you," Jean-Luc said. "Which means a full biological scan agrees with you. Still—we're going to sickbay. We'll find out for sure, there."
"And if there isn't one?" Beverly asked. "If—it vanished, like everyone else, only…that it remained in the other reality?"
Jean-Luc squeezed her hand, dropped an arm over her shoulder, not caring who might see it, since he was sure that they'd be telling their truth soon enough, and tugged her toward sickbay.
"Then—we'll just work on making it a part of this reality," he said. "We'll work on making this reality everything either of us could ever dream it might be."