Voices by Sue Castle (1995). Not rated; no copyright infringement
intended.
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 appoint- ments 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!"
"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
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
"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.
end