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From the moment he escapes Akrit'tar and returns to the New Republic, part of Tycho is afraid. He knows consciously that Ysanne Isard never broke him, that he isn't one of her agents programmed to go off and do something horrible at any moment, and yet...
And yet what if he is? The doctors never find anything to prove it, but they've never caught the danger in any other agents before they activated either. When Wedge pulls him back into the the Rogues, Tycho is secretly pleased at the all the limitations and security measures put on him. It means if he does snap, there's a vastly reduced chance of him actually being able to hurt someone. As much as he wants to help in whatever ways he can, he would never be able to live with himself if that happened.
Perhaps it makes his trial, when it comes, even more painful. Tycho isn't aware of having betrayed the Rogues, but then again there's always that chance. He doesn't want to admit it, doesn't want to incriminate himself further, but his memory isn't perfect. He knows it's the trauma from what happened to him, but he can't help wondering. There's so much damage he could do in missing minutes or hours.
Corran Horn returns, having spent a stint in Lusankya himself and brings the knowledge that Isard's own records state Tycho's time there as a failure. The trial ends abruptly: the person he was supposed have murdered is alive, and this proves his innocence once and for all.
It should erase all of his fears, but it doesn't. Sure Isard didn't plan on Corran finding her files, but is it so far outside the realm of possibility that she would kept false records to play havoc with anyone who did happen to find them?
Years pass, though, with no incidents, and Tycho starts to relax. The fear grows less ever-present. He takes command of the Rogues. He marries Winter. He keeps living.
But the questions in the back of his head never really go away. He knows feeling a sense of déjà vu from time to time isn't out of the ordinary, but whenever it happens, it stops him in his tracks. Has he just been exposed to the trigger Isard implanted in him so long ago? Has the time finally come for him to act on it? And when nothing happens, it takes so long for his heart rate to calm again, for him to wave away the confused and concerned looks his friends and comrades give him.
Or he'll walk into a room and suddenly forget why he's there – more lost time, more lost thoughts, more cold fear in his gut. Where has he just come from? Did he do something awful he already can't remember? He's home alone when it happens this time, the silence of the house weighing on him, giving him no answers. He finally remembers, picks up his datapad where he'd left it in the refresher, but that's no comfort.
Ten years have passed now since Isard's death, even longer since the prison Lusankya ceased to exist, its reign of terror ended forever. Tycho has retired, and he likes this new life of peace very much. He gets to spend more time with Winter than he ever did before and doesn't have to worry about his work taking him away from her, temporarily or permanently.
But the effects of his own time in Isard's clutches still linger. They don't happen as often as they did right after he returned, but when they do show, usually when he's stressed or sleep-deprived, the night terrors are fierce and draining. He'll wake himself with hoarse screams, Winter struggling to hold him still and offer some kind of comfort. Sometimes he'll tell her what he's seen, halting, stumbling words describing the vague memories of his torture and interrogation or, just as often, awful, bloody images of things he's still afraid he might be capable of. Other times he won't be able to speak at all, and his wife will just rock him, murmuring soothing mantras in his ear, telling him she loves and trusts him and isn't afraid. He wishes so much that he were more capable of taking her words inside himself and making his thoughts match them.
He still forgets things sometimes. He'll find himself staring at a broken processor in their kitchen, swearing he'd fixed it already, that sense of unreality creeping in on him, cold up his spine.
“You were going to,” Winter explains gently, as if she can read his thoughts, looking up from the counter where she's starting dinner, “but you got distracted by that HoloNet report about the benefit the Alderaan Survivors Association is planning. Then Wedge commed, and you talked to him for awhile before going over to meet Gavin's new pilots. And since you just got home, you never got around to it before now. It can wait, though.”
Tycho closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to center himself. “Thank you,” he murmurs, because he can't really speak all of the words he wants to, how grateful he is for her patience and reassurance, how he's certain he would have lost himself completely long ago if she hadn't been by his side.
The are light steps across the kitchen floor, and then she's beside him, guiding him into her arms. “I love you, Tycho,” she tells him. “I'm always going to be here to give you what you need.” She looks up, blue eyes fierce and fond. “I'm never going to leave.”
He kisses her, pressing all those unspoken words into it. He loves her so much.
Lusankya may never truly leave him. The nightmares and worry and paranoia may never stop. He may never fully trust himself again. But he thinks, maybe, with moments like this, if he keeps trying, he can keep going.