Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Thu, 29 Jan 2004 07:03:21 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net Title: Faith, Part II: Forgiveness Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 3/9 Rating: [PG] Codes: Summary: Doctor Bashir, after having been marooned for over six months, Chapter 7, cont. It had been two days already. Two days since Bashir returned from the dead to stand on Deep Space Nine. And Sisko had still not seen him since that night. Protocol would usually mean that Bashir would present himself to report for duty. But Captain Sisko hadn't forced the issue. Bashir had met with Kira, and the captain had let it stand at that. He still didn't know what to do with Bashir. He'd sensed Bashir's uneasiness in the docking bay. It was nothing like what Sisko had seen on the *Enterprise*. That had been much worse. It could mean that the extra time he'd spent on the *Enterprise* had done him good, calmed that violent streak within him. Or it could just mean that Bashir had covered it up in front of the others. But Sisko was captain, commanding officer of Deep Space Nine. He couldn't go around avoiding his Chief Medical Officer. Though he wasn't officially Chief Medical Officer yet. Girani was handling that for now, letting Bashir ease back in to the post. That meant he wouldn't be at staff meetings for a least a few more days. Sisko slammed the PADD he was holding down on the coffee table. He was finding excuses, and he didn't like it. He'd never been afraid of any of his officers before, not even when that alien virus had Kira (and Bashir, apparently) plotting mutiny. O'Brien was the paranoid one then. Sisko had been obsessed with building a clock. He looked over at it now. It really was a beautiful clock. Stalling! Again. The clock wasn't an issue. The past wasn't an issue. Bashir was the issue. Bashir. When Sisko had first heard that he was alive, he was surprised but happy. He'd looked forward to welcoming him home, talking with him about what had happened during the last six months, maybe working out some of the distance that had come between them in the year or so before he'd disappeared. Sisko remembered the hope in Bashir's eyes once he'd been beamed up from Auschwitz that first time. He'd trusted Sisko to save him. He'd trusted him. And the Bell Riots. They were together there and Bashir trusted him to make the right decisions to get them out of it. But Sisko also remembered those same eyes in the runabout on the way to Adigeon Prime. The trust was gone. Sisko hadn't understood it. He hadn't thought he'd done anything to cost that trust. But he had. He remembered the joke he'd made to Kassidy on the *Defiant*, how he'd said he liked Bashir better "this way." "This way" was impersonal, formal, all business, saying only what needed to be said. No smile, no greeting, just "Here are the reports." And Kassidy had caught him; she'd known he wasn't joking. When had he stopped liking Bashir? Bashir, who made one feel comfortable in his Infirmary, who smiled when he walked into the room, whose enthusiasm sometimes got the better of him? Bashir, who stood up to a tribesman with a gun to his chest and demanded his medical supplies to treat Kira? He'd liked that Bashir. Now he knew why Bashir had changed. Section 31. That was where it started. His foundation had been shaken. And Sisko, in his righteous indignation over what Bashir had uncovered within Starfleet, had missed that and ordered Bashir to join them. The Federation was a big thing, not really quantifiable. Captain Sisko was Bashir's commanding officer, the only one he'd ever had. Bashir had admired him, respected him, trusted him. And Sisko had thrown him to the wolves. He'd come to Sisko's office, as a Starfleet officer performing his duty, to report what had happened. But he'd also come as a victim, one who hadn't slept in two days, seeking support from his captain, the one who hadn't given up on him in 1943 and the one who had argued in his favor after his secret had been revealed. But Sisko had missed that. It wasn't Bashir who had changed. It was him. Sisko had changed. Somewhere between the invasion and the incident with Garak, Sisko had lost himself. He'd let himself get so focused on the war that he'd lost sight of other things, other people. Like Bashir. And he'd stopped liking Bashir because he hadn't wanted to face it. He hadn't wanted to admit that he'd given up so much. Bashir stood for principles. Bashir was a walking conscience, and Sisko hadn't wanted a conscience around. The door chimed, interrupting his thoughts and Sisko realized that again, he'd let his thoughts wander. He was thinking about Bashir but not about what he would do with him. "Come," he called, not knowing who to expect and not really caring. It was Garak, and Sisko couldn't remember a time when Garak had ever come to his quarters. "I hope I'm not disturbing you," the tailor said. Sisko was puzzled over why he'd come at all. "No," Sisko replied. "I was just thinking. About Julian." "Ah," Garak said, raising his head just a bit. "I've been thinking about him myself. May I sit?" Sisko nodded to the couch. "And what have you thought? Have you seen him?" Garak sat down, but he didn't relax into the cushions. He sat right on the edge and kept himself stiff. "I take it you haven't," he surmised. Garak was sometimes too perceptive. *Probably made him a good spy*, Sisko thought. He shook his head. "We had lunch yesterday," Garak said, answering Sisko's question. "He's not quite himself." Sisko nodded. "He's been through a lot, Garak." "But I've been watching him. He doesn't seem as out of sorts with others. When he *is* with others, that is. He spends most of his free time in his quarters." Sisko caught that but wasn't going to open up to Garak, not without Garak opening up first. "He was alone a long time. It will take awhile for him to get used to being around people again. Dax doesn't think we should worry. At least he's not holed up in a holosuite." "True," Garak conceded. "But he was stammering like the day we first met. Do you remember what he was like that first year? Eager for adventure, but flustered when it arrived. He wanted to be a hero. It was quite charming, really, to see him so at a loss for words." "He was a hero," Sisko let out, though he hadn't meant to say it, not to Garak. But it was said. "He just hadn't caught up to himself yet." Garak nodded. "He did catch up to himself. He stopped stammering years ago." Sisko sat up straighter and turned himself more square to Garak. "Yes, he did." He hadn't stammered once in their confrontation on the *Enterprise*. "What are you saying, Garak?" "I seem to upset him," Garak said, standing. "He seems fine--well, fine enough, all things considered--with others. He's flourishing in the Infirmary already. But me. . . ." Sisko actually felt a little relieved. He wasn't alone in Bashir's wrath, it seemed. "He knows, Garak." Garak had turned away, but he turned back now. "Knows what?" He sounded sincere enough, but Sisko knew he must have at least a suspicion or he wouldn't have come to see him. Garak could easily have gone to Dax or O'Brien. He and Sisko didn't interact all that much. Not since. . . . "He knows what we did. He was told. He knows more than I do. Where did you get the data rod?" Garak sat down again. "Ah, that." So he had suspected. "That would explain his behavior. Somewhat." Sisko wasn't worried about Garak's perception of Bashir just then. "You didn't answer my question." "It doesn't matter now, does it?" Garak asked. "What's done is done." "It does matter," Sisko held, now feeling some of that anger Bashir had thrown at him. Did Garak know? "What did he want with the gel?" "I didn't ask and he wasn't forthcoming," Garak stated quickly, standing again. "He had the upper hand, Captain. He had what we wanted--what you wanted--and he wasn't in the mood to negotiate. He wanted the gel, nothing else." Sisko stood, too. "Who was he?" he asked. "What ties did he have to the Dominion?" That spun Garak around quickly. "The Dominion?" Sisko thought he looked a little paler than his usual gray. He looked away and Sisko waited for him. "It had to be indirect," he finally said, softly, as if speaking to himself, "or they would have stopped us, exposed us somehow." Sisko thought about that and knew that Garak was right. The Romulans joining the war was a big blow to the Dominion. They would have made a move to ensure that the Romulans either stayed out or joined them. Some of the anger melted away and he sat down again. "Whoever he was, the gel ended up with the Dominion." Garak sat, too. "What do you think they'll do with it?" Sisko felt the bile rise in his throat again. "They've already done it." And he told Garak about Deyon III. Kassidy arrived before he'd had a chance to tell Garak about his own encounter with Bashir. He wasn't sure he should anyway, so he didn't mind the interruption. He didn't know how to explain Garak to Kassidy, though. "Mr. Garak," she said, smiling at the guest but throwing a questioning glance at Sisko, "what a surprise!" Garak smiled back and offered his hand. "Yes, I don't often make house calls, but the Captain is a busy man, and I needed a break from all those transmissions." He turned back to Sisko. "If you want to get those pants, I'll have them mended for you by morning." Leave it to Garak. "No need to stay up with them tonight." Sisko stood and walked toward the bedroom. "Whenever you get a chance." "Nonsense," Garak said. "It's just a mend. It will take no time at all." Sisko nodded and quickly retrieved a pair of pants from his closet. He made sure to keep them folded in order to hide a tear that didn't really exist. He handed them to Garak, who tilted his head and took his leave. "What happened to the pants?" Kassidy asked Sisko, sitting beside him on the couch. Sisko remembered the dinner he had warming on the stove. "Grease splatter," he told her, and it hurt to lie, even this little bit. "Burned a small whole in the left thigh." She looked into his eyes, concerned. "You weren't hurt?" she asked as she touched his thigh. "No," he assured her. "Just the pants." Bashir felt rather worn out after his talk with Ezri. She seemed a lot happier when he left her office, less suspicious. At least in that he'd been successful. He, however, didn't feel much different from before. What he did feel was relieved. He'd gotten by without letting anything dangerous slip out. It *was* nice, though, to have someone interested in him for a change, and not just a report. She had empathized with him, not in an invasive way like it would have been with Troi, but in a comfortable way. It was like she understood. And that made her more dangerous than Troi ever was. He had felt himself trusting her several times during the session and had to remind himself to be careful. Trust can be betrayed, he'd learned that lesson well enough. Besides, if he let his guard down, he might talk about Sisko and what he knew. And, although it might make him feel better to not carry it alone, it could only make matters worse. Secrets didn't stay secrets on this station. Besides, even if he only told Dax, in confidence as her patient, what good would it do? What would it change? Would it win the war? Would Section 31 leave him alone? No. Nothing would change, except that he would make an accessory of Ezri the way Sloan had of him. So there really was no point. He was on the Promenade and he thought briefly of stopping in at Quark's to see if O'Brien was there. But the noise was so loud from there. He just couldn't put on the facade he'd need for Quark's. Bashir turned toward the turbolift that would take him back to the Habitat Ring and his quarters. He still had to work out the code for his device. O'Brien put his dishes back into the Replicator and kissed Molly goodnight. While Keiko put Kirayoshi down for bed, he dusted the model again, still waiting for the chance to run strategies with Julian like before. O'Brien hadn't seen him in two days, not since the *Enterprise* had docked. He'd actually entertained the idea of kayaking again in the hopes of dislocating his arm just so he'd have an excuse to go to the Infirmary. But he knew that Julian was only working in the morning at present. He could only go kayaking after work, and that would give him a different doctor. "You could call him." Miles hadn't realized Keiko had returned. "Asleep already?" he asked, surprised that Yoshi would be down so soon. "He was very tired," Keiko replied, wrapping her arms around him. "Didn't even put up a fight." "I don't want to disturb him," Miles said. "He might want to be disturbed," she returned. "Wasn't he glad to see you on the *Enterprise*?" "I don't think 'glad' would quite characterize it." He turned around to face her. "He wasn't unhappy or annoyed or anything, but he didn't seem to be glad about anything. It's not like him. It's not like him to be this quiet." She put her head on his chest near his shoulder and held him close around the middle. "If anyone can imagine what he went though, Miles, it's you." Miles knew what she was referring to. The Agrathi prison. But it wasn't quite the same. "But I wasn't alone. I wasn't blind." "You were alone at the end," she held, looking up at him. "And what was there worth seeing? My point is, you weren't exactly happy when you got back either. You can relate. Go, talk to him." O'Brien did remember. He had returned from his implanted imprisonment a guilty man. He had killed his only companion in twenty years. He had wanted to put it behind him, telling himself that it hadn't happened, that Ee'char wasn't real, that none of it was real. He had tried to bury the guilt in work. He had wanted to be with his family, start his life again from the moment it had changed. Julian didn't have the guilt maybe, but he would want the same thing. His old life. Only he wouldn't find it. Just as O'Brien hadn't. Time changes a man whether he wants it or not. O'Brien had found his way to simply living and finding joy in his life, as it now was, again. But it hadn't come easy. Julian had tried to help early on, but Miles had pushed him, and everyone else away. That was what Bashir was doing. And maybe, like Miles had, he needed some time to find that he couldn't make it on his own before he could accept the help he needed. "I don't think it's the right time," he told his wife. She put her head back down against him. "At least just let him know that you're here when he's ready." "I will," he promised her. The rest of the evening was quite uneventful, and Bashir found himself disappointed even though he knew he didn't want visitors. He was used to contradiction. It was his old life beckoning him, the thing that he wanted most. The old Bashir would be having dinner with friends or colleagues, sharing a round of ale at Quark's, or enjoying a set at Vic's. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to be the old Bashir. The old Bashir had been naive, blissfully unaware of the depths into which good people could fall headlong. The current Bashir knew better than to leave evil only to the evil. The good were just as capable. So the current Bashir had decided to heed his wariness toward crowds of people in uncontrolled situations instead of his urge for company and entertainment. Besides, he didn't want to answer any more questions about where he'd been for the last six months. He had eaten alone in his quarters and calculated the code for his device. Safe from Sloan for one more day, he turned his attention to the power transfer conduit he'd been working on in the lower levels. Yesterday he had drawn a diagram based on his memory of how the conduit had felt. It had taken some time and it was nearing midnight by the time he'd finished. He had tried then to do research, to compare his diagram to the one in the computer. But sitting in his quarters in the utter quiet of the station's night had proved unsettling. He constantly felt as if he were being watched, or as if the walls were moving behind him. He couldn't go out though. It was still too early. Someone else would be up, maybe strolling along the Promenade. Sisko did that sometimes. Or he used to. Bashir didn't know if he still did. He didn't know the man at all anymore. *How could he?!* Bashir asked the wall the same way he'd asked the cave. How could he have done what he did? How could the same Sisko, the one that had risked his life to fulfill Bell's destiny of bringing the sanctuary districts down, who let the woman he loved go to prison for helping the Maquis to break the law, the one who had risked his career to help the Bajorans see the truth of the Circle, how could he have lied, falsified evidence, and helped to cover up at least four murders so that hundreds of thousands more could die in the war? How could the man who was standing by his bedside when he woke up from the Lethean's coma be the one to order Bashir to place eighty-five liters of the same gel the Lethean had attacked him for in a cargo bay to be handed over to some stranger with unknown motives? How could the one who'd risked everything by beaming down to a Nazi concentration camp to bring him back be the same man who would abandon him to Section 31? And how could Bashir ever look at him the same way now? How could he look up to him like he did before? How could he trust him? He couldn't. It was that simple. He just couldn't. And if someone like Sisko could change so much, anyone could, including himself. But he wasn't ever going to let that happen. He couldn't trust anyone else because he couldn't control anyone else. He could control himself. And he could control his surroundings. To a point, anyway. He stood up and looked at his walls, his windows, his ceiling. They weren't enough. Sloan had come and gone as if they weren't even there. And a changeling could just slip under the door, through conduits or ducts or anything. Hell, Laas had been fog once. Security locks for quarters on the station really only covered the doors, kept people from breaking in. They didn't stop beaming or seeping, or flowing. What he needed were sensors, something to warn him if something or someone tried to come in through the wall or ceiling. Or shields to keep them from coming in at all. Sitting back down at his desk, he pushed the PADD with the conduit schematics aside. He had work to do. Chapter 8 Kira didn't bother cursing at the computer when it woke her up. She'd been an early riser for years now. With the resistance, she'd be up and on the move before the sun had even risen. By comparison, mornings on DS Nine were like sleeping in. She turned her head as she rolled out of bed and felt a sharp zap of pain shoot down her neck to her shoulder. *It's always the day after,* she thought to herself. She'd felt great after the game last night. But she'd overdone it. Her arm was still stiff and sore, too. She wasn't worried though. It would give her an excuse to see how Julian was doing in the Infirmary. She was dressed and ready to go in less than twenty minutes. The Promenade was still quiet this early in the morning. A few shops were open to offer coffee or breakfast to those coming on duty. Or coming off duty. But it was much more subdued than later in the day. The Infirmary, however, was always the same. Sure, there were times when there were more patients or more of a sense of urgency, but the feel of the place was the same. Bright, airy, clean, and inviting. Kira couldn't say that about all doctors' offices, but Julian's had always been that way. Here on this dark station or on the bright *Defiant.* The only time that had changed was when Julian was gone, and even then, it hadn't disappeared completely. Kira stepped through the door from the still-sleepy Promenade to the fully-awake Infirmary and was greeted immediately by the man she wanted to see. Bashir rose from the console he'd been studying and smiled warmly. "Colonel. How are you this morning?" *Amazing.* She could have sworn he was the same Bashir as before. There was no sign of the weariness she'd seen just a few days before. "Just a little stiff in my shoulder," she told him. "That was quite a match last night," he said, showing her to one of the biobeds. That surprised her. She hadn't thought he'd been out much. She hadn't seen him at the springball court. "You saw the game?" she asked, sitting down. He smiled again. "Well, no," he admitted, "but I heard all about it this morning. Right shoulder?" Kira nodded and he tested her movement by rotating her arm a bit. She flinched when he ran his fingers along her neck and shoulders, rubbing the muscles gently. "There *is* such a thing as too much of a good thing," he teased finally, releasing her. "Go easy on it for a few days." He pulled a vial from a nearby shelf and loaded a hypospray which he placed at her neck. He then began to massage her shoulder, starting right up at her neck. It hurt at first, but the drug was swift and his kneading fingers loosened the knotted muscles until it felt quite good to have his hands there. So good, in fact, that her left side was getting jealous. "Better?" he asked. Kira sighed and nodded. "You do good work, Doctor. Now how about you?" Bashir had stopped the massage at her nod, and now his hands dropped to the mattress beside her. He rolled his eyes. "You're *not* going to ask me how I'm doing." "Yes, I am," Kira insisted, "and I want an honest answer, not just 'I'm fine.' You've been back a week. You seem to have settled in here again, but what about the rest?" "What about the rest?" he repeated, putting the question back to her. "Well, is it home yet? Is Dax helping?" He surprised her a bit by hopping up onto the biobed to sit beside her. "She's helping me to understand how I feel, why I'm feeling what I feel. It's still a little too crowded out there just yet. Everyone watches me, asks how I'm doing. I'm not comfortable being the center of attention. But it's getting easier. Every day." Kira covered his hand with hers for a moment. "I'm glad. Take your time. You don't have to rush it. If you ever want to talk . . . to someone who's not a counselor. . . ." He squeezed her hand. "I know where to find you." Bashir walked her to the door and watched her go. He couldn't step across the threshold of the Infirmary with her. Not yet. The staff meeting, his first since his return, was not for another ten minutes. He'd come to work early, since he was up anyway, so he could settle himself. The Infirmary was home to him. "You know," Jabara said behind him, "I remember when she could do nothing but glare at you in disgust." Julian smiled, remembering. "It wasn't disgust exactly," he replied, turning back away from the Promenade. "It was exasperation tinged with distaste. I think I did that to a lot of people back then." Jabara waved a hand to dismiss that thought. "They just didn't know you, and didn't know you were worth getting to know. You get excited about things that they can't begin to understand. They couldn't relate. They learned though. She did." "Miles didn't like me either," Bashir said, more to himself than the nurse. "He hated me. Told me so. Said I wasn't an 'in between kind of guy.'" Jabara laughed. "I think he's right!" "And you?" he asked her. "What did you think of me, way back then?" Jabara set down the supplies she was holding and crossed her arms over her chest. "When I first saw you, I thought you were far too young. I thought you were Starfleet, an outsider who was going to come in here and show us everything we were doing 'wrong' or backward. I was all set to hate you." Bashir couldn't think of anything to say. He understood that. He'd seen it a lot with Bajorans. But he'd never seen that from her. "But then I saw you work," she went on. "Right there, nearly the first day. The Cardassians thought they'd shoot the station out from under us. And there you were, on the Promenade, walking among the wounded, calmly deciding who to treat and how. You were competent, compassionate. And then there was Odo. I saw that. 'Hold it there!' you said, and he did. He wanted to squirm, to find someone else, but you held him with your voice and he couldn't help but obey. Everything I'd thought you were flew out the door right then." That was a good moment. Odo had harrumphed at him up until then. That one moment earned him some respect. And, more importantly, saved a woman's life. But so much had changed since then. "I think I snapped at all other doctors while you were gone," she said, picking up the supplies again. "They were too young, too old, too serious, too undisciplined, too arrogant, too bossy, too lenient. There was always something, some way they didn't measure up to you. I think they got the wrong impression of me." "You know, someday you *will* have to work with other doctors," Bashir teased. "But thank you anyway." She smiled again, big and bright. "Just remember all that when you go to that meeting. You're not a stranger. You belong here." Bashir took a deep breath. The meeting. It was time. "I'll try," he promised. "Hold down the fort?" "Always." -- --Gabrielle I'd much rather be writing! http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/trek/ The Edge of the Frontier http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/doyle/ This Side of the Nether Blog: http://www.gabriellewrites.blogspot.com -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to:http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service. From ???@??? 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