textfiles/sf/STARTREK/voices.txt

Subject: Voices (A DS/Bashir story)

VOICES by Brenda S. Antrim, a Star Trek :  Deep Space Nine story.
Copyright on characters by Paramount Pictures, Inc, copyright on
original fiction by Brenda S. Antrim, 1995.  Enjoy!


Her voice was soft, almost wistful, as she said goodbye to a man
who could no longer hear her.  Bareil had finished his work and
slipped away earlier that evening, fighting to the last breath but
unable, at the end, to fight his own body for his life.  Kira Nerys
had fought as well, fought the need to keep what was left of him
with her, and fought her own need to deny the truth.  The essence
of Bareil had diminished with the implant of the positronic brain,
but Nerys had held to the hope that he would somehow be able to
pull through.  There had been no peace for her when his body
revolted from the experimental treatment one last time and she and
the Kai had released Doctor Bashir from his duty to keep Bareil
alive.  Perhaps, in the cathartic act of opening her heart one
final time, pouring her broken words into his unhearing ears, she
might find a measure of rest.


"I'll clean up here, Mer.  It's been a long day.  Why don't you go
home and get some rest."  Julian Bashir dismissed his nurse, and
after a serious look at his face, she nodded and turned to go.


"Don't stay too late, Doctor.  It's been a long day for you as
well."  Her warm concern reached out to him, but he contented
himself with a nod and a slight smile.  It would be some time
before he would be able to rest ; the adrenalin from fighting to
save Bareil's life was still running high, as was his anger at Kai
Winn for her actions over the last few days.


He moved wearily, almost mechanically, around his surgical unit,
straightening instruments, powering down equipment, going through
the motions of a normal evening with hollow eyes and a dry throat.
Although he'd told his nurse to go, he hadn't been able to bring
himself to leave quite yet.  The low murmur of Kira's voice in the
next room undulated gently almost below the level of his hearing,
so that he didn't catch her words, but was wrapped in the
overwhelming feeling of loss in her tone.  Unable to stop himself,
he drifted closer to the doorway and found himself silently
waiting, listening to his friend say goodbye to her love.


The pain in her voice reached out to him, and he deliberately
stepped back, unwilling to intrude on her grief.  He forced himself
to walk into his office, made himself sit at his desk and
officially record the end of the Vedek's life.  Sometimes he could
distance himself this way, taking the horror of death and reducing
it to dry medical terminology.  By recording the facts and shutting
off the memory of the person, he could complete his duty ... and it
was the only way he could complete it.  If he let himself think
about it for too long, he would be paralyzed by the conflicting
feelings of grief and failure he felt.  Grief at losing a good man,
and causing such pain to a friend, and failure because he had once
again lost a patient.


He gradually became aware of the silence, realized he had finished
the entry and not stopped the log from recording.  He raised
slightly shaky hands to his face and pressed the heels of his hands
into his eyes, rubbing hard.  It had been a hellish few days.


"Computer, end recording."  His voice sounded rusty, and tight.
Clearing it roughly, he levered himself from his chair and walked
to the replicator, intent on a hot cup of tea.  Before he made it
to the wall, an unnatural sense of stillness caused him to turn
toward the door.  Kira was standing at Bareil's shoulder, barely
touching his skin, lightly tracing her fingertips over the relaxed
muscles running along the collarbone and up the side of his throat,
to rest for a moment at the heavy chain of office laying along his
ear, before retracing her path back to his shoulder.  She wasn't
making a sound, and her face seemed composed, but tears rolled down
both her cheeks to splash against the hospital sheet covering his
chest.  Her eyes were opened but she was looking at something
Julian couldn't see, and the soul-weary sadness in their dark brown
depths made his heart clench.  She had seen too much pain in her
life, lost too many loved ones, and he hadn't been able to save her
from this loss.  And he should have been able to, if only Bareil
had listened, if only Winn hadn't been such a coward, if only ...
if only he'd been just a little more skilled.  As Kira bent to
place her lips against Bareil's still mouth, Julian turned away,
startled to realize that his own cheeks were wet.  He didn't
remember the last time he had cried over a patient.  But then, he
didn't know if he was crying for Bareil, or Nerys, or himself.


Without making a conscious decision, he found himself clearing his
schedule for the next two days.  The appointments were all routine,
anyway, and the physicals could wait.  The immunizations could be
handled by his nurse, and the tissue samples certainly weren't
going anywhere.  He could finish the analysis next week if he
wanted to.  He left a message on his nurse's terminal, letting her
know where he would be, and slipped out the back way, careful to
avoid Kira, not wanting to break in on her time alone with Bareil.


He didn't want the company of others, really felt more like hiding
than anything else.  As he stood in front of the door to his
quarters, he tried to think, force himself to make a decision, any
decision.  His mind seemed to reject any sort of effort, wound up
in the knot of his loss and pain.  He had managed to project such
a professional demeanor, had even managed to convince himself that
he was handling this so well, until Nerys had started to cry.
Knowing how she hated to show emotion and how she considered it a
weakness, he knew he couldn't go to her and offer comfort.  All he
could do was retreat, offer her solitude to recover, and castigate
himself for his own failure.


His primary duty was to his patient.  To protect and heal his
patient.  To keep his patient -- to keep Bareil -- alive.  And once
again he had not been able to do the job.  His feet had decided
what his brain couldn't, and he was in his darkened quarters facing
his replicator, the door firmly shut on the outside world, not sure
how he got there.  But it seemed like a good idea.  He hadn't had
anything to eat since earlier that day, before Bareil's second
seizure had threatened to rip the Vedek's mind completely apart.
Perhaps he should have some dinner.  He opened his mouth to order
a dish of chicken curry and wild rice, and heard his voice request
a bottle of single malt scotch.  The replicator hummed, and the
flask appeared.  He looked at it for a long moment, knowing it was
not the brightest idea he had had in awhile, but unable to come up
with a single better alternative.


Sighing, he wrapped his long fingers securely around the neck of
the flask and turned toward the low couch in front of the oval
window.  He loosened the constricting uniform with one hand and
pulled off his boots with the other, slumping wearily on the hard
Cardassian cushion, wondering about the mindset of a culture that
couldn't design a single piece of comfortable furniture.  Ignoring
the tumbler on the table next to him, he raised the flask to his
lips and took a long swallow.  The alcohol burned a path straight
to his stomach, threatening a quick return trip, but he ignored
that urge, too, and pressed the cool glass of the flask against his
cheek, still hot from his earlier tears.  Gradually the queasiness
left, and his head began to sing a little, reacting to the strong
liquor on his empty stomach.  He lay back, watching the stars,
sipping from the bottle and trying to force his thoughts to stop
chasing themselves through his mind, as the fire spread through his
blood.


It wasn't working.  He'd hoped it would take the edge off, dull his
brain.  Instead he found himself going over and over his actions
the last few days, tying to figure out where he had gone wrong.
Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut, not told Bareil about
the experimental treatment that would tear him to pieces.  It had
been a chance, but only for a short term resolution, and he just
knew that if he had gotten him into stasis there would have been a
treatment.  Eventually.  He would at least have had time to work on
it, given the best research effort he could to save him, tried to
find a way to repair the radiation damage that he himself had
inflicted on Bareil's brain when he revived him.  But he couldn't
have held back, not really.  It wasn't his choice, in the end.  It
was his duty to lay out all the alternatives to his patient, and
the right of the patient to make that choice.  And he had been up
front about all the risks, strongly urging Bareil to go with the
safe treatment, to prolong his life until a cure could be found.
So it wasn't his fault, not really.  *Then why do I feel so damned
guilty?*  If only the words would stop pounding through his mind.


***  *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


*Wasn't my fault.  I didn't know, Daddy*  Sunlight, out of place on
a space station.  He could feel it when he lifted his face to the
air, when he looked outside the darkness of the cave.  His arms
wrapped so tightly around the frail body of the little girl,
rocking her to give her some comfort, not comprehending the meaning
of the stiffness in her limbs.  They had found him that way, after
the storm had settled, the girl's father making a sound not unlike
the one Kira had made, wrenching, guttural, unbearably soft.  His
father stood back as the other man had unwrapped the boy's arms
from his daughter, pulling her away from the youngster, cradling
her against his body.  Julian finally knew, looking at the man's
face, that there was no hope for the little girl he had tried so
hard to comfort and protect.  His father, staring at him with
typical lack of expression, his eyes cool, informing him that the
flowering root outside the cave could have saved her life.  Three
feet from where he had sat with her in his arms and let her die.
Let her die.  *Wasn't my fault, Daddy.*  Of course not, Julian, but
he thought it was.  He made that clear enough.  He always did.
Only this time it wasn't another faux pas at a diplomatic function,
yet another dismissing apology for his inept son, but a life.  A
death.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


*I'm supposed to be a hot shot doctor, multispecies specialist.
The only thing I know is what's wrong with her.  I haven't the
faintest idea how to fix it!*  Jadzia.  So pale her markings stood
out lividly against the creaminess of her skin.  Her symbiont,
rejecting her, having nightmares and hallucinations.  She was his
friend, and a corner of his heart was lost to her, whether she
wanted it or not.  Her life, slipping away, and all he could do was
take her home.  Take her home to a group of so-called doctors too
worried about their own professional skins and their precious
status quo to want to save Jadzia, willing to sacrifice her for the
"greater good" of Trill society.  But it wasn't Jadzia's greater
good, it wasn't Sisko's, or his.  Too bad he hadn't the skill or
the knowledge to help her.  Too bad he had to rely on those who
didn't have her best interests at heart to try to save her life.
And too bad that Sisko had had to blackmail the doctors into
helping her.  While he stood on the sidelines, helpless again, not
able to do a bloody thing but watch and wish he wasn't such a fool.
He was supposed to be a doctor.  Doctors were supposed to help
people.  Dimly he realized that he was getting very drunk, but he
didn't particularly care.  Maybe if he got drunk enough he'd stop
thinking.  Stop remembering.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


Garak knocked softly, concerned when he got no response.  He knew
about Bareil's death, and knowing his young friend as he did, he
was certain that Julian would be taking it badly.  The doctor was
a strong young man, but he was very empathetic for a Human, and
Garak was worried about him.  When a second knock still brought no
response, he murmured a phrase in sibilant Cardassian, and the door
slid silently open.  Garak stepped inside, his eyes quickly
adjusting to the darkness, and stopped in his tracks, appalled at
what he saw.


"Doctor? ... Julian?"  His eyes sought the sprawled form of the
Human in the semi-darkness in the room.  Julian lay curled on one
side, staring blankly at the star field visible through the window,
obviously not seeing a bit of its beauty.  Garak moved closer,
deliberately clearing his throat in an attempt to get his young
friend's attention.


"My dear doctor, this will never do."  His voice was gentle,
matching the concern in his eyes.  Julian slowly opened his eyes
and focused them painfully on the Cardassian.


"Why the hell not?  And who asked you?"  The belligerence would
have been more convincing if it were less slurred.  Garak stopped
a few feet away from the couch, assessing the situation and the
level of company Julian was willing to accept.  Not much, from the
way he held on to the bottle tucked against his side.  Garak had a
sudden memory of himself, holding up the bar in Quark's, trying to
drown out the pain in his head and lashing out at anyone who dared
approach him.  Even his dear doctor, who hadn't paid the slightest
attention to the rebuff but had continued to reach out.


"Oh, no one," he continued the fractured conversation in an even,
calm tone.  "But I was concerned for your well being, Doctor."


"Nobody asked for your damned concern, Garak!" the younger man
snarled in return.  "Why don't you just leave me alone?  It's none
of your bloody business!"


Garak looked at him for a long moment, feeling for the right words.
"You are my friend," he finally said to Julian, in a near whisper.
"You have given me many things, companionship when others are
unwilling to be seen in my company, someone to look forward to in
a life often devoid of such anticipation, and even my life, at
great personal risk to yourself, and at a time when I had
repudiated any claim to my continued survival-"


"You don't owe me a damned thing!" Bashir almost screamed at him,
cutting into the gentle flow of words that was threatening to
recall him from the near state of forgetfulness he had almost
managed to attain.


"Perhaps in your mind I do not," Garak continued, unfazed by the
open hostility on the doctor's face.  "But I consider you a friend,
and I am worried about you."


It was too much for Julian at that point.  He didn't want to have
to deal with Garak's sympathy, or his company, didn't want to have
to think at all, really.  He just wanted to hide in the darkness
and silence.  With an inarticulate sound of mingled rage and
sadness, he raised the now-empty bottle and heaved it toward Garak.
The tailor instinctively ducked, and the glass shattered harmlessly
against the wall.  Garak's glance flickered rapidly between the
figure huddled with his back to him on the couch, and the pieces of
flask sliding slowly down the wall, and without another word he
retreated from the room.  Doctor Bashir was not responding to his
efforts at outreach -- perhaps he should call upon reinforcements.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


Finally.  Something his father could at least have some pride in,
even if he wasn't exactly interested in it.  Junior champion, best
in his class, set for the Federation round robin to determine the
tennis champion at the next level.  More adrenalin and heart
pumping terror than he'd ever felt, knowing his father had actually
managed to show up for the tournament.  Knowing he was good enough,
knowing he could do it, could step out on that court and be the
best.  His heart in his throat, grip slightly damp but firm on his
racquet.  Giving it everything he had.  Knowing, after all, it
wasn't enough, would never be enough.  Knocked out in the first
round.  His legs and arms ached from effort, sweat running into his
eyes, as he slumped on the bench in the dressing room.  He knew
that when he dressed and went into the lobby, there would be no one
to meet him.


Once more, he hadn't quite measured up.  He had failed.  Again.
Disappointed Father.  Again.  Tears burned in his eyes but he
refused to let them fall, knowing they would just be one more
failure, a sign that he still wasn't measuring up to expectations.
Coming to a stop outside the dressing room door, shocked at the
sight of his father standing there, dreading meeting his eyes.  *I
tried, Daddy*  Not good enough, Julian.  No surprise.  Your reach
always outdistancing your grasp, no sense of your own limitations,
Julian, should have known you couldn't do it.  Never quite as good
as you could be, Julian.  Gods, he hated the way his father said
his name.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    ***  *    *    *    *


"Julian?"  Jadzia Dax looked up from the readouts she was studying,
somehow not surprised that Garak had managed to find her even here,
in the small anteroom off the main conference room that she used as
her retreat.  She was beginning to think there wasn't a square
centimeter of Deep Space Nine that Garak wasn't familiar with.
"He's taking Vedek Bareil's death very hard, then."  It was more
statement than question.


"Yes.  I went to his quarters to check on him, and see if he would
like some company."  Garak appeared ill at ease, and Jadzia knew
this couldn't be easy for him.  It wasn't in the little tailor's
nature to ask for assistance, so he must really be worried.
"He was depressed, angry.  And he was ... drinking.  Heavily."


That caught her attention.  It was unlike Julian to drink in
excess, since he hated the lack of control that went with being
drunk.  "What was he drinking?"  Maybe it was synthale, and Garak
was misreading the situation.


"From the scent, I would say Earth scotch.  Nearly a half liter."


Her eyes opened wide, sapphire in the bright overhead light.
Julian was going to be one very sick young man if he drank that
much real alcohol, especially being unused to it.  He must be quite
upset.  "He's been working up to this, I'm afraid.  Even last night
at the celebration banquet, he was quiet, withdrawn.  Not like
Julian at all.  He really didn't want to do the positronic
implants."


Garak stared at her calmly, and she felt the force behind his
placid blue gaze.  *Do something!*  Worry for her young friend,
combined with his sense of urgency, decided her.  Shuffling the
reports together in a pile, she rose gracefully and headed toward
the door.


"Let's go see if we can talk some sense into him, then."  Garak
smiled behind her back and followed her into the corridor.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


She was so beautiful, and so independent.  He'd fallen for her
before he'd ever met her, ever saw in the flesh that face, those
fierce eyes.  He rolled over on the couch, closing his eyes, trying
to drown out the starlight that hurt his eyelids.  But when he
closed them, all he saw was her hair, glowing like blonde-white
silk under his hand.  She had wanted to prove herself, determined
to escape the confines of her planet and map the stars.  Along the
way she had fallen a little in love, with possibilities, and with
the sweet, funny, handsome man who offered them.  But he hadn't
been able to hold her.


She had decided, the flying was more dear to her than he was,
called by her culture and her family, and the present they shared
was less important than her home.  She had refused further
treatments, accepting her "disability" in his natural surroundings,
and she had slipped through his fingers.  One more failure, on a
more personal note this time, and Melora wasn't even the first.


He rolled over, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.  By now
he had given up trying to suppress the memories, and just let them
stream through his mind, hoping the images would numb him as the
alcohol hadn't.


*    *    *    *    *    *    **   *    *    *    *    *    *    *


Frontier medicine.  No wonder Kira had scoffed at him.  Of course
it sounded impossibly idealistic, and naive.  It was.  And it was
the way he felt.  But it was only half the story.  Jadzia accused
him of being a flirt, said he was a charmer, but a better friend
than he'd be a lover.  Of course he was a flirt.  No one got too
close that way.  Friends were fine. They didn't take your self
confidence, what there was of it after it had been trampled for
years by all those times he hadn't quite been good enough, and
stomp it into the dirt.  They didn't take the feelings he offered
and laugh at them, use them and then throw them back at his feet.
A low moan rent the air, and he realized it was from his own
throat.  Even now, three years later, it still hurt so much more
than it should.


She'd been his dream, a strong, delicately-drawn woman, all soft
skin and long muscle.  She danced into his dreams at night and
stole his thoughts until she was all he could care about.  He had
so much going right, for the first time.  His choice of
assignments, all he had left was his orals and he had them down
pat.  She had agreed to marry him, and he was looking forward to a
challenging position, research possibly, probably in Paris.  He'd
always loved the city.  Finished his labs early that day, the
instructors knew how hard so many of them had to study yet for
their orals, had let them go early.  He knew it, had been working
at them so long he didn't need extra study.  He wanted to spend
this glorious afternoon with his fiancee.  Hurrying through the
still afternoon, it was so strange to see the living quarters so
quiet.  It was always so much crazier at night, with everyone in a
rush to spend some time with their lovers, study, let off steam.


He swung the door open, puzzled by the muffled sounds coming from
the back room.  Perhaps she was stretching out, his love was always
working.  Pushed the bedroom door open, froze in shock.  Not quite
able to believe what his eyes were seeing, his mind rejecting the
picture it saw, his Palis wrapped in an intimate embrace with
another man, both oblivious to his presence.  Backing silently
away, letting the door slip from nerveless fingers, he retraced his
steps out into the sunshine.  Vaguely he wondered why the man
looked familiar, then he remembered ... the chorus last night, the
new dancer in from Sydney ... helluvan audition.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


"Julian?"


He didn't want to talk to her.  Hadn't talked to her in years,
refused to listen when she asked him to, finally she gave up, said
she'd have time.  Time.  Ha.  By the time she decided what lies he
might believe he was long gone, on a shuttle to...


"Are you in there, Julian?"


Light.  Concerned.  Contralto?  That wasn't his ballerina.  She was
a sopran- Jadzia.  What on Earth was Jadzia doing in his memories?
He'd seen her already.  Failed *her* already.


With concentrated effort, he lifted his head from the cushion and
attempted to focus his eyes.  At least his body was numb, even if
his brain wasn't.  A small corner of that brain whispered that he
was being stupid, that this wasn't helping anything.  But the voice
sounded like his father's voice, and for once he was doing his
level best to ignore it.  A knocking seemed to come from the
shadows across the room, and he realized Jadzia was rapping on his
door, asking permission to come in.  He looked down at his
crumpled, half on half off uniform, raised a hand to rub his palm
across the stubble along his jaw, and sighed.  Permission denied.
He almost grinned at that, but the muscles in his face hurt too
much for so much movement, and he settled for a grimace.


"Go 'way, Jadz'a."


She looked at Garak in disbelief.  That voice hadn't even sounded
like Julian's, it was so low and gravelly.  She shook memories of
similar occurrences from her own past out of her mind, and
concentrated on the present.  Julian wasn't Curzon, but she was
finding herself reacting like Benjamin.  She lowered her voice to
a soothing purr, pitched just loud enough to be heard through the
door, and started wheedling.


"Come on, Julian.  It's just me, Jadzia.  Let me in.  I need to
talk to you."


"No.  Go 'way.  Don' wanna talk to no--any-body."  His accent was
thicker than normal, and his words were slurry, but the
determination behind them was strong.  He wanted to hide, and he
*didn't* want company.  Jadzia sighed and settled in for a long
session.


Garak heard the subtle whine of a replicator, and knew that Dax's
patience wasn't going to work.  Julian would just keep drinking
until he couldn't hear anything anymore, and Garak wasn't willing
to see that happen.  He'd seen the boy's eyes, and knew that there
was much more going on here than the loss of a patient, no matter
how close the doctor had been to Bareil.  And he wasn't willing to
see this go any farther than it already had.  Sparing one last
glance at Dax, leaning uncomfortably against the door and trying to
reason with someone who was beyond it, he turned and headed deeper
into the habitat ring.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


Stumbling a little when the room began to swing around him, Julian
steadied himself on the edge of the replicator.  Blast Garak,
anyhow, now he had to get a new bottle.  Why wouldn't they just
leave him alone?  It wasn't like he was worth anything to anybody,
was worth the effort.  He ignored the ongoing drone of Jadzia's
voice and punched at the replicator, managing on the third try to
get it to understand what he was requesting.  Stupid Cardassian
junk, had to keep repeating yourself for a simple drink.  No wonder
ever'body drank at Quark's.  Little Ferenghi probably had all the
replicators fixed so you had to beg for a drink.  He refused to
consider how ridiculous the thought was, it just seemed the type of
thing that Quark would do.  Had to make a profit, after all.  He
snorted at the thought of the bartender, not one of his favorite
people, and reached for the second flask.


Fist wrapped somewhat firmly around the neck of his new bottle, he
turned back toward the couch.  Somebody had moved it.  Now it was
clear the hell and gone over to the other end of the room.  Such a
very long way to go.  He contemplated the stretch of dull grey
carpet between himself and the couch, and shrugged a negligent
shoulder.  Oh, well.  The floor couldn't be any harder than the
cushion on the couch.  Tipping the bottle to his lips and ignoring
the trickles that escaped and ran down the side of his throat, he
slid bonelessly down the wall to settle in a heap on the floor.
*Better here, anyway.  No bloody starlight to make my eyes hurt*
Satisfied with his seat, he closed his eyes and let his memories
settle over his shoulders like a mantle, weighing them down.


His orals were a dim nightmare.  He tried to focus his mind on the
intense verbal grilling, but it would drift at odd moments,
catching him up and causing little blank spots in his memory.  He
even misheard a question and blew one that a first year med student
would have gotten half asleep.  The finishing touch to the
nightmare, his father's reaction when the rankings were announced.
Second.  Why does that not surprise me, Julian?  And where is that
charming fiancee, Julian?  Don't tell me she's finally opened her
eyes and found a better prospect.  *Far away.  As far away as
possible.  Far from her, far from his damnedable voice, as far away
as ... Bajor*


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


He really hated to do this.  The Bajoran major hated him, he felt,
and intruding on her grief now was the last thing he wanted to do.
But someone had to reach young Bashir, and Kira, of all the
denizens of the Station, was closest to his thoughts at this
moment.  Garak drew a fortifying breath, put out his hand to knock,
and hesitated.  Was this really necessary?  After all, it wasn't as
though the Doctor was suicidal.  He was just getting drunk.
Perhaps it was his way of dealing with the loss of his patient, and
who was Garak to interfere with this method of coping?  Then he
remembered the soul destroying sadness in Julian's eyes, and the
defeat that had clung to him like a shroud.  No.  This was more
than just grieving for Bareil.  And Kira was the only person he
could think of who might be able to reach him.  Castigating himself
for his cowardice, he knocked firmly on the closed door.


Silence met his knock, then the door swished open, without any word
from the occupant.  Kira Nerys was sitting in front of her altar,
not meditating, not praying.  Just sitting, contemplating the flame
dancing in the bowl sitting in the center of the altar top.  Garak
took a hesitant step inside, and the door shut behind him.
Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he asked, "Major?"


Kira didn't look away from the flame, and didn't respond to his
question.  He stepped closer, not wanting to interrupt her
thoughts, but wondering what to say next.  She spoke before he
could decide on a plan of action.


"It was the Cardassians, really."  Her voice sounded far away and
light, as if she was not really aware of where she was.  Her eyes
raised to meet his, and he sank to a seat on the floor beside her,
not too close but not very far away.  Deep brown eyes, immeasurably
sad, met sparkling blue, and the Bajoran spoke her heart to the
Cardassian.


"The occupation should have taught me something.  War with the
Cardassians took everyone away from me.  My mother, my father, all
three of my brothers.  It should have taught me to stay away.  To
avoid love, because if you love somebody, you'll lose them.  The
Cardassians will kill them.  War with the Cardassians will take
them away from you."  Her gaze fell away from his, centering again
on the candle flame.  "Isn't it ironic?  When the war was over, I
thought I could love again.  War wouldn't take him away, not any
longer.  Because there was no more war.  And then what?  Peace.
War with the Cardassians couldn't take away my love, so peace with
the Cardassians did, instead."  A single tear traced it's way along
her rounded cheek, catching in the corner of her mouth.


He looked away then, unable to continue to watch her grief.  She
forced her mind away from the image burning in it, Bareil, lying so
still, and looked at the man sitting next to her.  For some reason
she couldn't define, his presence was a comfort.  Perhaps it was
his stillness.  Or perhaps it was because, although Cardassian
himself, he also had lost his homeland, when he was forced into
exile.  Sweeping her eyes over the ridges of his face, she saw the
lines of worry underscoring his eyes, and knew he must have felt
strongly about his errand here, or he never would have broken into
her solitude.  Anxious to find something, anything to think about
besides the hole where her pagh used to be, she pulled herself
upright and addressed him.


"What is it, Garak?  I know you didn't come here to sit and listen
to me ramble."  It was a good attempt at her normally brisk tone.


He lifted his head and regarded her somberly.  "First, let me
extend to you my most sincere condolences, Major Kira."  She
nodded, once, and he let it go at that.  She probably would accept
no more from him than those few words.  After a moment of silence,
he continued.  "My other concern is for Doctor Bashir."


She cocked her head to one side, wondering what was wrong with
Julian.  He had seemed so composed at Bareil's bedside, the
consummate professional.  In a way, she was grateful for his
strength, because it had allowed her to maintain her own, and kept
her from breaking down in front of the others.  Why would Garak
think that Julian needed her for anything?


"What's wrong with Bashir?  He seemed all right when I ... left the
infirmary ... earlier."  Her voice trailed off, and she stared
fixedly at him, fighting for control, determined not to think about
it any more.  Not now.  Not until she could handle it a little
better.  Distance helped at times like these.  She should know.
She'd been through them often enough.


"He has retreated to his quarters with a bottle, or two, of
alcohol."  She almost smiled, because it sounded more like
something she would do than an action the doctor would take.  But
Garak looked unusually upset.


"So, he's getting drunk.  Sounds like a good idea to me."  The
words were flippant but her tone was deadly serious.  He shook his
head.


"I saw him, Major.  There is more at work here than the loss of the
esteemed Vedek."  She glanced sharply at him, but he was serious.
Perhaps he *had* esteemed Bareil.  Her love had had that effect on
people.  Even Cardassians.


"What do you think I can do?"  She leaned away from him,
unconsciously denying his concern.  He carefully kept himself
still, so she wouldn't feel pressured.  But his voice held the
urgency his body didn't betray.


"Talk to him.  Please.  Lieutenant Dax is trying, but he won't let
her in.  You have just suffered a terrible loss, and he is feeling
guilty about -"


"Guilty?"  Her indignant word cut across his plea.  "Why on Bajor
should he feel guilty?  He saved his life!  Twice!  He gave me the
opportunity to say goodbye-"


She choked on the words and turned away from Garak, unwilling to
let him see her lose control.  He lifted a hand to touch her
shoulder, and thought better of it, letting it fall back to his
side with a sigh.



"He lost a patient today.  He failed in his duty to Vedek Bareil
... and to you."


She turned back to him, her body tense, ready to launch a defense
of Julian.  After all, the doctor had done everything he could, had
done more than anyone could ever have expected ... she saw the
truth of her words in Garak's expression before she could utter a
sound, and realized why she should be the one to talk to Julian.
He wouldn't believe them from anyone but her.  She nodded at Garak,
and he smiled at her in relief.  Ignoring his hand, outstretched to
assist her from the floor, she untangled her legs and stretched the
kinks out.  Looking at the candle for an instant, she closed her
eyes.  *Later, my love.  When the wound is not so fresh*   Turning
from the altar she followed Garak out the door.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


Jadzia was sitting in the corridor outside Bashir's quarters, her
face pressed to the door.  Her voice had grown hoarse, and she had
the feeling she was repeating herself, but she couldn't stop
talking.  There hadn't been any sound from the room for awhile now,
and she was starting to wonder if she should override the privacy
lock and check on him.  This really wasn't like Julian.


"How's he doing?"  Kira's voice behind her made her jump.  She
twisted around to see her friend, followed closely by Garak,
crouching down at her side.  She shot a furious look at the
Cardassian, who returned it blandly.  Kira patted Jadzia's shoulder
reassuringly.  "It's okay.  I need to talk to Julian anyway, and
now is as good a time as any."


"I don't know about that," Dax replied, studiously ignoring Garak.
"I have the feeling he's pretty well out of it by now."


"I think he replicated another bottle shortly before I left," Garak
put in.  Kira shook her head.


"Can we get in there?  Or is it some sort of security lock out?"


"I think it's just a standard privacy code.  You can override it."
Dax shrugged.  "I was considering just that when you arrived."


"Let's do it, then.  I'll go in and talk with him.. Maybe it will
help both of us."


The last of her words were soft, obviously meant for herself, but
Dax glanced at her with concern.  *Maybe it would*   She gave the
verbal sequence to override the lock, and stepped back to let Kira
enter the room.  The door slid shut behind her and Jadzia settled
herself back in the corridor to wait.  Garak lowered himself to the
floor across from her, and gazed quietly at her.  She looked back
at him, and nodded slightly.  Maybe it hadn't been such a bad idea
after all.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


He'd meant to escape.  In a way, he had.  No one knew the whole
truth about Palis, although Miles had come close.  No one knew how
he really felt when he lost a patient, when he had to admit yet
another failure.  His father only contacted him once or twice a
year, and the so-called conversations always went the same.  Bashir
rolled carefully onto his back, clutching the nearly empty flask to
his chest.  Bajor hadn't been far enough away.  At times like
these, when he knew that he had not measured up yet again, that he
hadn't been able to do the job, his father's voice pursued him.  It
whispered through his thoughts and chewed viciously at his brain.
Cold.  Quiet.  Continuous.  Not worth my time, Julian.  You are a
failure, Julian.  Stupid.  Worthless, Julian, useless, Julian,
Julian...


"Julian?"


*GODS, HE HATED THE WAY HIS FATHER SAID HIS NAME!*


Kira stepped further into the darkness, stopping to allow her eyes
to adjust before moving any further.  She strained to see the
couch, but he wasn't there.  Perhaps he had managed to find his way
into the bedroom?  She continued to call his name gently, as she
walked across the room and felt her way to the doorway.  She hadn't
ever been in Julian's quarters, and she was a little surprised at
the decor.  The walls were nearly bare, just a few ancient
tapestries glowing in the dim light.  Very few personal effects
were scattered along the shelves, giving the rooms a curiously
uninhabited air.  The stark elegance was calming, but too
impersonal for her tastes.  Not wanting to turn on the lights if he
was asleep, but unable to see him in the dimness, she blew a breath
out in exasperation.


"This isn't getting me anywhere."  The words were nearly a growl.
"Computer, lights, seventy-five per cent."  There.  That way if he
was stewed it wouldn't hurt as badly as full light.  Her thoughts
were cut off abruptly as she turned from the empty bedroom and saw
Bashir crumpled in a heap by the replicator.  *Julian!*  She was by
his side in an instant, tipping his head up, her hand light under
his chin.


He looked like hell.  She ran her gaze over his rumpled uniform,
the blouse completely undone, pips askew where the turtleneck had
twisted half around in his slide down the wall.  An empty flask lay
near his hip.  His face was shadowed with beard, and his hands,
when he raised them to shield his eyes from the light, shook.  But
it was his eyes that riveted her attention.  She was used to their
shifting colors, from olive to mahogany when he was upset, to clear
hazel when he was excited about something.  But now they were a
muddy brown, dull, with all of the life and sparkle drained from
them.  The whites were nearly red with swollen vessels, and his
lids looked chapped, as though he had been crying.  She recognized
the look, had seen it on herself, recently.  But Garak was right,
there was more here than Bareil's death.  This looked like it went
deeper than the events of the last few days.


He tried to escape her light grip, and her fingers tightened,
holding his head in place.  She wouldn't let go until he looked at
her.  Finally, he raised his eyes to hers, and they stared at one
another for a moment.  Tears started in her eyes at the misery in
his expression, and she drew her hand away and turned from him.
Staring sightlessly into his living room, she found herself
dropping inelegantly down beside him.


She could feel his attention, but now it was her turn to refuse to
acknowledge him.  After what felt like hours, he moved a little
closer, until his shoulder lightly touched hers.  She found herself
comforted by the contact, and wasn't quite sure why.


"I'm sorry, Nerys."  He barely whispered, but she heard him
clearly.  "So damned sorry."


"It wasn't your fault, Julian."  She didn't see him wince.  "You
did so much for him.  You brought him back to life, gave me the
chance to have a little more time with him.  To say goodbye."


"I failed.  I should've protected him, should've made him listen.
Should've blocked that bitch-"


"You couldn't do that, Julian."  She cut him off decisively.  "You
did what you had to do, made him aware of his choices, *all* his
choices, and in the end he was the only one who could make those
choices.  Thank you."


He looked at her incredulously.  "Thank me?  For what, pray tell?
For not having the balls to tell Winn to back off?"


"You did."  She met his shocked stare with a slice of a smile.  "I
read Odo's room reports.  Did you know he makes routine recordings
of any incidents involving high ranking visitors to the station?
I reviewed the tape.  You expressed yourself ... very well."


He half smiled, but it dissolved immediately into a scowl.  "Not
well enough.  Couldn't get her to back off."


"It was what Bareil wanted, Julian.  He wanted to bring peace to
Bajor.  And he did."


"Was it worth the cost?"  The bitterness sobered him a little, and
he remembered to whom he was speaking.  "I'm sorry.  That wasn't
fair."


She grimaced.  "It wasn't, but then neither is much of anything
else that I've ever found."  She thought for a moment, then turned
to study the Human beside her.  "And yes.  For him, it was worth
the cost.  No matter what choices I would have made, or you,
either, for that matter, it was *his* choice.  And to him, it was
worth it."


He looked away, staring at the stars showing through the window
across the room.  It seemed that Nerys had made her peace with
Bareil's death.  But then, for all that she had endured, she was a
strong woman.  The voices weren't pounding in her head like they
were through his, weren't reminding her constantly of what a
failure she was, how she could never do anything right, never was
quite good enough... "Stop it!"


Her head whipped around, trying to find whomever he had spoken to.
There was no one in the room with them, and she didn't think he
meant her.  "Stop what, Julian?  Who are you talking to?"


He made an attempt to straighten his tunic, pulling himself to a
basically erect posture on the floor.  "No one.  A'tall."  He
blinked owlishly at her and leaned forward, swaying slightly.  "You
should get some rest, major.  It's been a rotten week."


She nodded agreement, and rose to look down at him.  "Would you
like a hand getting to bed?"



"No, shanks.  Um, thanks."  He shook his head, trying to stand, but
his legs wouldn't cooperate.  "M'feet's asleep."


She grinned, a little painfully.  "More likely anesthetized."  As
she reached down and awkwardly hauled him up, she heard him
whisper, "Not good enough.  Can still think.  'Member."


After they navigated their way into the other room, she dropped him
on the bed and proceeded to pull off his coverall.  He wasn't much
help, but he didn't try to stop her, either.  When she'd managed to
get his long legs tucked under the coverlet, she perched on the
side of the bed and looked at him.  She expected him to fall
asleep, given the amount of alcohol in his system, but he just
watched her, his eyes still dull and sad.  Finally she couldn't
stand the scrutiny any longer, and confronted him.


"What else is behind this, Bashir?"


"Whatcha mean?"


"This is more than Bareil's death."  Her breath caught for a
moment, but she forced herself to go on.  Concentrating on him took
her mind off her own grief, and she needed the distraction.  "Why
has this hit you so very hard?  It's not the first time you've lost
a patient.  It's not even the first time you've ... lost a friend."


For a long time she didn't think he would answer her.  Then, when
he did, his voice was so low she had to strain to hear it.


"See that sculpture on the far shelf?"  She nodded, and he
continued.  "It's a trophy.  For being second in my class at Star
Fleet Medical."


"You keep it here for show?  It is pretty."


"I keep it here to remind myself of another failure."


She shot him a startled glance, but he wasn't paying attention.
His eyes had wandered to a small plant, encapsulated in crystal.
"See the flower?"  She nodded again.  "A death."  She shuddered,
but he didn't notice.


"What do you mean?"


"My father gave it to me.  Told me to look it up."  He shivered,
and she instinctively laid a hand on his shoulder.  "It's a
medicinal herb.  Saves a certain species of being from a nasty
fever.  Grows wild outside caves."  She remembered something Dax
had told her about Julian's past, and suddenly wondered at the
insensitivity of a parent who could give such a reminder to his
child.


"That plaque, on the wall."  She glanced up at an ornate brass
plate on a marble base, tucked into the corner of the room.
"Tennis award.  Last tournament I won before getting knocked out of
the first round in the next level."


She looked around his room again, wondering how he could keep such
painful reminders all around him.  But he hadn't finished.  The
final thing he pointed out was the holo of a dancer, no more than
ten centimeters high.  "That's my reminder.  Can't trust it.
Should know better by now."


"Can't trust what, Julian?"


"Emotions.  Heart.  Whatever the hell you want to call it.  Gets
stomped.  Every time."


She rose from the side of the bed and picked up the holo.  Whoever
she had been, she was beautiful.  Her body, poised mid-leap, was
strong and graceful, and her face was alight with the joy of the
dance.  Setting it down, she made a circuit around the room before
coming to a stop beside his bed again.


"It's worth the risk, Julian.  Yeah, you get 'stomped', and
sometimes it hurts so much you wonder if you'll ever survive it.
But at least the pain makes you remember you're alive."


He fixed a bloodshot stare on her and shook his head in disbelief.
"I can't believe with the losses you've had, you still open
yourself up for more."



"It's my father's fault, I guess."  He turned his head toward the
wall, but she was caught up in her memories and didn't notice.  "He
always told me I was the bravest, smartest, prettiest person on
Bajor.  That I could do anything, be anything.  He was trying to
keep our spirits alive, I think, knowing that the Occupation would
kill us, down inside, if he didn't fight to keep us believing."


"How ironic."


"How so?"  Sharply, a bit hurt at his dry tone.  He lifted  a
suddenly sober face to her, and closed his eyes in frustration.


"Your father, living under a Cardassian regime, in the middle of
famine and war, managed to instil a sense of pride in you that can
see you through anything.  Mine, in the lap of luxury, with every
advantage that money could purchase, instilled in me the sincere
belief that I wasn't worth the genetic material that went in to
building me."  Her gasp brought him back to the present, and he
shut his mouth, sure he'd revealed much more than he'd meant to
with that single statement.  "Oh, ignore me.  I'm just doing a bit
of wallowing in self pity, and you certainly don't need to deal
with that on top of everything else."


She stood looking down at him, seeming to stare right through his
shaky defenses, to the little boy trying so hard to pretend that
everything was all right.  Turning on her heel, she left the room,
and he was certain she was leaving his quarters.  But she surprised
him by returning almost at once, holding a steaming cup carefully
between her hands.


"I'll decide what I need and what I don't, Doctor."  She handed him
the cup with a short order to "Drink up!" and settled down in the
chair beside his bed. Fixing him with a determined glare, she
continued.  "So, talk.  What's this about a waste of genetic
material?"


He tried to draw away, but her eyes pinned him to the linens and he
didn't have anywhere to hide.  "You don't want to hear this,
Nerys."  He buried his nose in the fragrant steam, inhaling deeply,
and recognizing the scent of a powerful Bajoran folk remedy.  With
the first sip, his head began to clear and the nausea caused by the
alcohol began to fade.


"On the contrary, Julian.  If I didn't want to know I wouldn't have
asked."


*Asked?  Demanded!*  The thought slipped through his mind, but he
found himself wanting to explain to her why he felt so guilty, why
it was his fault that Bareil had died.  Why, once again, his father
was right.


"He was never really satisfied with my accomplishments, such as
they were.  You couldn't really blame him, I s'pose.  After all, he
came from a distinguished family of diplomats and soldiers.  I can
take care of myself, but I've always preferred to heal, not fight.
And as for diplomacy ... well, if there was any way at all to
commit a social blunder, I found it.  From the first time I was
allowed out in public, I've always managed to put my foot in my
mouth."  She gave him a puzzled look, and he explained, "Make an
idiot of myself."  She nodded her understanding, and he almost
laughed.  He would have, but it hurt too much.


"Anyway, every time he did manage to find time to show up at
something I did, I managed to disappoint him.  Second, not first.
Not quite fast enough, or strong enough, or skilled enough.  Never
quite good enough."


"Oh, come on, Julian.  Please.  You're a brilliant doctor-"


"Who can't save his patient-"


"-and you haven't done half bad at ... so," her breath came out in
a sigh, "that's where this all ties in."



He rolled over to look directly at her, and nodded, once.  "Yes.
If I'd been a little better, Bareil would not have died.  If I'd
been able to talk him in to a stasis field, he would still be
around for a treatment, when it became available.  I'd at least
have had the chance to *try* to find a cure for him-"


"-And if only the spy hadn't stopped for lunch, the patrol wouldn't
have caught him."


Julian looked at her in complete incomprehension.


"You're living in the past, Julian, with all these 'what onlies.'
I thought you were a stronger man than that.  You certainly seemed
to be when you were body-blocking the Kai out of the way in order
to get to Bareil.  You seemed that way when you convinced me to
make the decision he would have wanted, instead of hanging on like
*I* wanted to do.  And you certainly don't seem all that afraid of
failure every day in the infirmary, when you treat those people who
come to you, looking for help."


He looked at her for a long moment, lost in the certainty of her
voice, unaware of how much longing there was in his face.  She
responded to his expression, reaching across the bed to gather him
up in a fierce hug, startling them both.


"Thank you!"  He started to say something, he wasn't sure what, and
she shushed him.  "Just be quiet and listen."  He subsided, and she
whispered in his ear, "Thank you for the time with my Bareil that
I otherwise wouldn't have had.  Thank you for caring so much, and
trying so hard.  Thank you for being my friend."


Before he could react, she released him.  Standing up from the bed,
she regarded him disapprovingly.  "Now, get up, take a shower, and
get some sleep.  You look like you need it as much as I do."


His faint, "Yes, major!" hit her back as she marched out the door,
then she turned for one final word.


"Don't forget what I said, Bashir.  I meant every word."


She gathered Dax and Garak up with her as she swept out into the
corridor, briskly reassuring them that he would be all right.
Julian stared after her for a bare instant before pushing himself
out of the bed and heading for the shower.  For now, at least, the
guilt had faded, and Kira's heartfelt words were louder than the
voice in the back of his mind.  His father's voice.  A voice he
would have to answer one day.  But not this day.


*    *    *    *    *    *The End*      *    *    *    *    *    *