MEMORY TO MEND

by ardavenport

"Difficult case." Pong Zola's brown eyes looked up from the display at Deanna Troi's desk. "But it could be worse," he added in a businesslike fashion. Troi sensed no strong optimism or doubt in him. Nothing beyond the expected, cool professionalism. She'd made a few discreet inquiries with people she knew at Starfleet Headquarters before Zola came aboard. Some people hated him, some admired him, but all had verified that his professional credentials were impeccable; even those who disliked him for being 'cold' and 'inhuman' admitted that they would recommend him.

"I wouldn't say difficult."

Pong stared back. "You wouldn't say easy, either." His response carried no trace of emotion in either voice or expression. No feeling filtered through to Troi's Betazoid empathy from him beyond his calm confidence not uncommon for an average Human male in his early middle years.

"No," Troi admitted.

"These status reports don't surprise me." He turned back to the screen. "Except," he qualified, "they run completely counter to his personality profile."

Troi sighed. "I had noticed."

He faced her. He sat in her seat, at her desk. Troi mirrored him, sitting calmly, the picture of neutrality. "Severe physical and mental trauma, brain scans indicating violent dreams and night terrors with no conscious memories afterward, extreme aversion to confronting his experience." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "This isn't the right behavior pattern at all. And I don't believe his profile has changed that much. Something else would have shown up on some of the other tests."

Troi cast her eyes downward briefly. "It doesn't fit. I can't explain it. Yet." Black eyes stared back at her colleague's brown ones.

"We'd better find out what it is soon, or more problems are going to develop."

"I would prefer that he come forward himself..."

"He may not be able to."

"If he doesn't in the next three days then I'll have to recommend a more...intense form of therapy."

A tiny smile curled Zola's lips. "I would have given him four."

Zola's show of warmth was genuine. She sensed that. He had timed it for maximum effect to establish a good rapport between them. She sensed that, too. Troi allowed herself a return smile...just a small one. "I think he would prefer to get it over with as soon as possible," she answered.

"I'm only here to assist you, Counselor."

"And to report independently back to Starfleet about Captain Picard's status."

"That, too," he freely admitted. "I hope that won't affect your decisions about the case."

Troi tilted her head to the side, considering Zola Pong almost as if he were a separate case, a patient to be analyzed. "Only as much as it might affect yours," she told him.

Two hours later Captain Picard sat on the overstuffed sofa in the 'sitting room' portion of Counselor Troi's office. Zola and Troi sat in two of the matching chairs. A couple clear, glass teacups and saucers littered the low table between them. Picard had taken one sip from his and now appeared to have forgotten about it. He seemed to be making a great visible show of being calm and cooperative, but Troi sensed enormous tension behind the facade. Zola, not the least bit telepathic or empathic, politely accepted the captain's show of composure, but she could tell that the other psychologist was equally unconvinced.

"I'm not sure what else you wish me to say." Picard had just finished an abbreviated review of his period of captivity with the Borg. A patch still covered the side of his head where the Borg had removed a piece of his skull. He straightened his uniform, expecting to be excused. Against Doctor Crusher's initial objections, Troi (and Zola) had insisted that to counteract the extreme loss of personal control and identity inflicted upon him by the Borg that he be allowed as much freedom as soon as possible. Physician and counselor had compromised by allowing the captain out of Sickbay two days after Doctor Crusher had removed the Borg implants, but he was allowed no more than four hours restricted duty.

"I don't think we have anything more to cover this time." Zola shrugged innocently. This was his first meeting with Picard even though he'd been communicating with Troi since the day after the Borg had been defeated. He glanced at her. She could think of quite a few things that they hadn't covered, but she nodded agreement. They obviously weren't going to get any more information from the patient.

"I will see you next week, Captain." Picard stood with Zola. The Headquarters psychologist, assigned as the case observer, made the captain uneasy. Just his presence on the ship reminded Picard that he was being observed, that people were thinking about him and concerned for him. An uncomfortable silence followed; it seemed there was some doubt as to which of them was to leave. Zola sat back down, making the decision for them both. Picard nodded briefly and left.

"That did not go well," Zola stated.

"Did you expect any better?"

"No." He sat back in his chair, arms straight at his side. He didn't fidget, scratch, cross his legs or even touch his fluffed and styled black hair. Every mannerism, or lack thereof, demonstrated the level of control he exercised over his own person. If he'd worn a more tailored cut of shirt and pants (or a more flattering color than olive green with thin, black, vertical pin-stripes) he might have been intimidating. Troi suspected that the informality of his dress, as well as everything else about him, was by design.

Zola stood. "I'm going to go back to my office, read over some of the other cases I have pending and then return to this one. Perhaps it will look differently then. I will call you if I have any new insights." He nodded and left, heading for the transporter room.

Deanna Troi relaxed. She could have used some fresh insights right then. The captain was not dealing well with the aftermath of his forced captivity with the Borg. And she wasn't even certain if his reticence was conscious or unconscious. She hoped it was the former; the later would be much more difficult to work with.

Picard could discuss his experience; he could recall everything done to him in excruciating detail. An unwanted benefit to being linked, mind and body, to the Borg Collective, was the electronic precision with which he could remember each violation, each horror visited upon him. But throughout his narratives he avoided any discussion of his feelings about the experience, as if they were bothersome and secondary to his purpose. He intended to pursue his recovery on a purely intellectual level. This didn't surprise the counselor; Picard had always been a very reserved person. What worried her was the intensity of his aversion to re-examine his emotions on the subject. And this was critical, because how he made peace with those buried feelings would decide how well, or even if, he recovered.

Doctor Crusher glared down at her patient. She'd used up her sympathy for him when she'd scanned his vital signs just after he'd arrived in Sickbay for his daily visit. It had been Counselor Troi's recommendation that had prodded her into letting him out of Sickbay a day earlier than she otherwise might have wanted to. At the time, she'd agreed that allowing him as much control as possible over his personal life was essential. But now, two days later, he seemed to be making poor use of his freedom.

"You've lost one point six kilos since you left Sickbay."

Picard sat up brusquely, unhappy with her rebuke. He'd had more than his fill of people evaluating his physical and mental status. He was tired of it. He would be quite satisfied if they would all just leave him alone to deal with his own private difficulties.

"I've been eating fine, Doctor." He hadn't actually had much appetite the past few days, but it would be pointless to try to convince the doctor that this wasn't a problem.

"No, you haven't." She blocked his way as he slid down from the diagnostic table. "You shouldn't have lost any weight at all," she chided sternly. Hoping for a spontaneous answer, she suddenly changed the subject. "How have you been sleeping?"

"Fine," he answered curtly. How was he supposed to have any opinion about any dreams that he couldn't recall, he wondered impatiently. He'd been scrupulously thorough about describing every detail of the Borg. He'd been totally honest about how uncomfortable he felt discussing it. He'd been painfully forthright about the injuries he'd suffered. But still it seemed that they wanted more from him. He was beginning to think that they were looking for something that just wasn't there, and in so doing were prolonging the recovery process just to be sure that they hadn't missed anything. His patience with it was wearing thin. At some point he would have to tell them to mind their places. But, he hoped, if they finally ceased their excesses he wouldn't have to.

With as little discussion as possible he departed Sickbay and left the doctor to her excesses.

"He's not cooperating." Doctor Crusher, sitting behind her office desk, faced Counselor Troi in the chair across from her.

"Actually he is. At least he thinks he is."

"That's not good enough. I should have kept him in Sickbay."

Troi shook her head. "That wouldn't have helped. In fact, it might have made it worse."

"I know," Crusher admitted, "but I don't like what I'm seeing. And I don't intend to sit by and watch while...what's wrong?"

Troi had ceased looking at her. Her gaze defocused in a familiar way that told the doctor that the counselor's empathic senses had suddenly demanded her attention. She inhaled quickly, her eyes jerking back to the doctor.

"The Captain...come quickly." She was up and out of her seat. "Bring your medical kit."

Doctor Crusher got to the turbolift first.

Captain Picard staggered to the doorway of the lavatory going neither forward nor backward. He stood there trembling, leaning against the door frame. He couldn't stop it. The cold he felt came from within.

The door chime sounded.

He stared forward, past the darkened bedroom to the main room beyond. "Computer, who is it?" he asked, dreading the prospect of answering the door.

"Counselor Deanna Troi and Doctor Beverly Crusher."

The door chimed again.

Troi must have heard him; he was sure of it. The violence of the nightmare that had awakened him had surely been enough to bring her from any part of the ship. Now she was at his door with Doctor Crusher. If they came in, they would see that he'd been ill. His pajamas were damp with sweat. And he'd wet the bed, too. He took a step forward and then back. With his back to the door frame he slid slowly to the floor.

I should answer, he kept thinking, but he wanted to compose himself first. The door chimed again.

"Medical emergency override authorized entrance, Doctor Beverly Crusher," the ship's computer voice announced.

The door whisked open. A bright square of light opened upon the floor of his cabin. Shadows blacked portions of it out. Legs, arms, heads... The light closed behind them. He rested his forehead on his knees.

The room lights came up, and they rushed toward him. He heard a medical scanner whir, but he didn't look up at it. His face was wet, from sweat and from tears. His mouth tasted foul and acidic, even after his attempt to wash it out. And he still couldn't stop himself from shaking.

"Damn," he heard Doctor Crusher swear. She would be angry with him. And worse yet, he deserved it. He rolled his head to the side and squinted toward her.

He jumped, sliding quickly to the side. Troi touched his arm but didn't try to restrain him as he moved away just before Doctor Crusher's hypospray could touch him.

"It's okay, it's okay. It's just something to help you relax." She slowly crept toward him on her knees.

"I know, I know." Tears ran freely down his face again. "I-I'd rather you didn't." He felt Troi's arm slide behind him, supporting his back. He flinched away from the touch, but there really wasn't any place for him to go.

The doctor stopped, as if considering a change of tactic. She sat back, reaching behind her to collect her medical kit. "All right," she told him gently. He burned with embarrassment to hear her using that tone of voice with him. She moved slowly as if she feared that any sudden movement would upset him. "But I'm going to get you something for your stomach." She stared at him earnestly, waiting for him to acknowledge that he'd understood. His embarrassment intensifying, he nodded. She rose gracefully and went into the lavatory.

Next to him, he felt Troi sitting close.

"Try to relax." She still touched him, one hand behind his back, the other resting on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around his knees and gritted his teeth, not trusting himself to say anything. He dearly wanted her to go away. If there was ever a time he needed privacy, now was it. Troi spoke to him with calming, soothing words. He shut his eyes and ignored her.

Doctor Crusher returned. "Jean-Luc." He opened his eyes. She knelt very close, holding a glass up to him. Shakily, he lifted his head and took it; he dreaded what it might contain. Her hand stayed on the glass, steadying his grip. I must look terrible, for them to be acting this way towards me, he thought. The glass touched his lips. He tilted his head back and swallowed the pale orange fluid in a few gulps, not bothering to taste it.

It ran down his throat, leaving behind a trail of cool relief, that finally settled in his stomach. He released his grip on his knees and the glass, and Doctor Crusher took it away. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. It hit the wall behind him too hard and he grimaced. He felt Doctor Crusher's hand behind him, cupping the base of his skull. He let her support him. I must look terrible, he thought.

He sat there, not saying anything for several minutes. If he could not have privacy, then perhaps he could be allowed silence. But it didn't last. He felt the doctor's hand gently withdraw. He heard her get up and then he heard the sound of drawers opening. She was looking for a fresh pair of pajamas. He lifted his head. If she was thinking of dressing him...

He stared into Deanna Troi's fathomless black eyes. She'd hardly moved while the doctor had tended him, or perhaps he just hadn't noticed if she had. She stared at him now, expectantly. He'd have to talk about it. He'd been putting her off for days and only now realized it. She wanted to know how he felt; the facts that he'd relayed to her up until then were only the beginning.

A fresh wave of panic went through him along with the memory of the nightmare that had brought her and the doctor. It was still with him. He hadn't forgotten this time. He felt his throat tighten; his eyes stung with tears. He just couldn't control it, which was the most terrifying thing of all.

"Try to relax." She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Close your eyes." He shut his eyes tightly. "Take a deep breath." She waited for him to comply. "Good. Don't think of anything, just relax." Haltingly, he took another deep breath and furiously tried to clear his mind. After a few moments the tension in him lessened.

"We need to talk," Troi told him gently. He nodded curtly.

Doctor Crusher knelt beside him and surprised him by helping him to his feet. She handed him a gray handful of clothes and turned him back toward the lavatory. "Get cleaned up." And after that...he refused to think about it.

He threw off his soiled clothes, showered and cleaned his teeth. Crusher and Troi moved about in the next room, probably changing the bedding. He could hear them talking in the bedroom, just enough sound so he knew they were speaking, but not nearly enough to make out any words. He desperately wanted to hear what was being said, but he just couldn't make anything out through the door. And if he opened it, they would know he was listening.

He put his pajamas on and finally exited the small lavatory. The lights in the bedroom had been dimmed; the lights in the main room glowed beyond. He found them waiting in the main room, Troi in a chair next to the door, Crusher on the far end of the sofa, the empty half of the sofa between them obviously reserved for him. He edged around Troi's knees and the low coffee table and sat down.

He didn't say anything, just rested his elbows on his knees and stared down at the yellow and purple flower basket. If they wanted him to talk then they could start. It was difficult enough just sitting there.

"What happened?" Troi asked him.

"I suppose you're here to tell me that."

"You're the only one who can tell us that."

He sighed. "Counselor, I didn't know this was going to happen. I just didn't think it would be this bad."

"What did you think wouldn't be this bad?"

"This," he answered, flustered. Was he supposed to assign a name to his difficulties? "Dealing with...this."

"You didn't expect that recovering from your captivity by the Borg would be so difficult?"

He nodded, hanging his head sullenly.

"Why?"

"I don't know," he replied a bit crossly. "This isn't supposed to be happening. I've had worse things happen to me before." He started to rub his temple, but took his hand away when his fingers touched the skull patch.

"You have? When?"

He looked up at her sharply and then let his gaze drift downward. He'd make the statement without thinking. In the past, there had always been something worse to reference the latest calamity from. But not this time.

Troi got up, edged around the coffee table and sat down next to him, so that he was now sandwiched between her and Crusher. The doctor remained silent, except for the faint whir of the medical tricorder in her lap.

"I know this is difficult for you..." He cringed inwardly from these words. This was the sort of speech she gave to one of her patients. But he was one of her patients, this time. "...but we both know that you need to get through this. And the only way I know how is to talk about it." He nodded, staring down at the flower arrangement.

Troi touched his shoulder gently. "Why don't we start at the beginning."