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The simple things bring him back, in moments one at a time. Organic things. Human things.
She touches his arm to check his temperature, and it takes him a few seconds to work through the sensation. That is an arm, it is mine, she is touching it, I can feel it.
She smiles at him and he smiles back, wincing at the circuitry still embedded in his cheek.
He can’t leave Sickbay for several days, so she moves him to one of the private beds and brings small things from his quarters to decorate the space. He looks at them - his books, his ornaments, his clutter - and finds that half of him is dismissing them as irrelevant, while the other half is overwhelmed that he is still there, his belongings are still his, there is still a him to care.
Usually when he’s unwell Beverly fusses and scolds and tries to feed him up and generally coddles him in a manner most unbefitting a Starfleet captain, and he submits because when it comes to medical matters she does have seniority. (And if it sometimes feels nice to be taken care of, well, that’s neither here nor there.)
This time she doesn’t, she’s brisk and businesslike, as if she knows that too much gentleness will break through the fragile layers of him that he is slowly building back up. When he cries, she pretends not to notice, and he knows how much it costs her to ignore pain.
He can’t talk about it, except for in his regular appointments with Counselor Troi - he can have those feelings in her office, where it’s safe, where it’s appropriate to the context, but he can’t take them outside. Instead, when he finally gets discharged from Sickbay, he spends evenings with Beverly just talking about whatever comes into his head - about the past, about Jack, and Wesley, about his childhood, funny stories from the Academy. Every story he tells is like a little reminder - this is who Jean-Luc Picard is. He tells her stories he never told anyone before, because they were too embarrassing or they reflected badly on him, or they made him sad, or they were too private. He seems to have forgotten how to stop talking. Beverly listens to it all, nodding and laughing in the right places, and adds a story of her own now and then so that he feels like they’re actually having a conversation.
The nightmares are an inevitability, he supposes. She takes to sleeping on the couch in his quarters so that she is there when he wakes. Sometimes she sits on his bed and watches over him and he sees her eyes drift closed in spite of her efforts. She’s almost as exhausted by his nightmares as he is. Once or twice it’s bad enough that she calls Deanna and the two of them, nightclothed and bleary-eyed, sit in his quarters with cups of tea while he insists he’s fine over and over but he can’t quite make himself sit down, be still.
Everyone is being so kind. Guinan knows just what to say and when to stop saying it and leave well enough alone. Will is the snappiest, most efficient first officer imaginable, anticipating every need without ever making him feel as though he isn’t pulling his own weight, commanding his own ship. Data, good old Data, treats him exactly the same as normal. He feels loved and blessed and fortunate and ashamed and small.
A night passes with no terrors - no blinking lights in the dark, no cold metal, no screams in their voices and his. He wakes in the morning not quite believing it. He and Beverly eat breakfast and talk about the day’s news.
They’re back the next night worse than ever, but after that they begin to tail off. He tells Beverly to for God’s sake get some proper sleep in her own bed.
The first night alone in his quarters is the longest night there has ever been, but a morning follows it.
After that progress comes in increments harder to measure. His concentration span, one day, is sufficient for him to read a book and enjoy it. The everyday work of command begins to feel routine again instead of like a desperate fight to reach the end of a shift. He stands in a busy turbolift and doesn’t feel the noise of chatter like hailstones on his skin.
He and Beverly meet for breakfast most days and he’s sure she’s still checking on him, but they talk and laugh like she’s not. He knows he might not ever tell her how much her help has meant, because that would mean acknowledging how badly he needed it and he’s not a man who can talk about his needs at the best of times. It doesn’t feel right but he trusts that she will know anyway.
And he pours the coffee and she butters the toast and life goes on.