Nightlife of the Gods

by G.Dunbar

Salvation a la mode. Lies, love, blood, mud, and mutants...2nd book in a series

5. Default Chapter Title

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

She was wrong. Bashir didn't realize himself to what extent at the time. For now concern for discovery won out over desire. They returned to the shuttle to find his pips with the able assistance of a tricorder. Elise had answered Kira's hail for Anar who wasn't available, finding no complaint with their decision to leave a few hours ahead of schedule and doubting if Anar would either.

"Just tell him," Kira signed off from Elise, turning her impatience on Bashir and Dax. "I've had enough!"

"She's had enough?" Bashir quipped to Dax as Kira's attention shifted to putting the Ark through a full systems analysis level 3 that was apt to take all night, and that was only if everything turned out all right.

"Stop it," Dax reminded, accepting her change of orders from Bashir's assistant to Kira's throughout the analysis and suggesting Bashir consider accepting his.

"Quite," Bashir said. "From doctor to cargo specialist."

"It is a mess," Dax put it bluntly.

"As I can always sleep tomorrow," Bashir agreed. "Where have I heard that before?" He ducked through the interior hatchway to turn back.

"What?" Kira huffed.

"Our gear. Half our gear is still in town."

"So?"

Bashir nodded. "Yes, well, I'd say my neuro medkit pales by comparison, which it probably doesn't. Suspect it's more the act of supplying Federation equipment to non-Federation personnel, not the quantity of the supply. Quite all right. Perhaps we can arrange for adjoining prison cells."

"What?" Kira said to Dax when he departed.

"I…" Dax started to say but then just said, "He gave Sorge his neuro medkit for Lange? You're right. What are we going to do with him?"

"I don't know," Kira assured, other than what she'd like to do with him.

"Explains why we're leaving half our gear behind," Dax followed her forward.

"We're coming back!" Kira reminded, that fact already a fact and straight in her mind.

"Well, maybe so is Sorge," Dax supposed.

"Just!" Kira waved for them to get to work.

"Yes," Dax agreed how that was probably the best idea.

She retired for a needed break eight hours later, an hour before Kira, an hour after Bashir. Liftoff more realistically rescheduled for 1200 surface time, the cargo hold and Lange's inventory neat, though misleading in its organization. That was all right. It gave them something to do during the two-day flight to meet the Defiant. An hour after Kira flopped down on her cot to stare at the underside of the one above her Anar was answering her earlier hail, inquiring about the status of the analysis.

"It's fine," Kira answered him abruptly, adding how they would be back within a week to secure their equipment and Nadya.

"Bashir will be, at least," Anar agreed, "with or without his uniform. A recent revelation, at your insistence, admittedly, nevertheless quite possibly accurate. Your friends become you more than your Federation commission, convenient though as it is at this point in our lives."

Kira just stood there looking at him. Anar smiled. "The truth."

"Whatever," she said. "You're a week too late."

With the revelation? The compliment? Or to have a chance? "Perhaps," Anar acknowledged. "We'll have to see. Anything else?"

"No," Kira severed the hail to check the status of the system analysis that was twenty minutes from completion with results solidly within acceptable parameters. "Bashir, Dax," she hammered her com badge, ordering them to the bridge as she initiated procedures for liftoff and began a thirty minute countdown.

Now why did I anticipate that? Floated through Dax's semi-conscious mind as Bashir dropped back on the bunk heaving "damn it," with Kira's call.

Dax kissed him. He let her until he had to stop her or he'd never get up, which they had to. He rolled over, pulling back from her attempting to coil around him.

"What?" Dax protested.

"No, it's all right, come on," Bashir reassured, hitting his head on the upper bunk as he rose, tugging at her hands, encouraging her to get up as well, and tripping over her boots waiting for him on the floor.

"It's hot in here," Dax remarked, wondering what he wanted her to do with the T-shirt he handed her.

"Damn hot in here," Bashir zipped up his jumpsuit, taking the T-shirt from her to pull it down over it her head. "For a fair and obvious reason why."

"Hm," Dax said, feeling his slippery wet arms curl around her. "You're sweating."

"Not the only one. You all right?"

Dax shook her head. "No. But then I really, really, really hate to be interrupted."

Bashir laughed. "My God but you're a sight."

"You, too," she nodded. "Drunk. You look drunk."

"Also for a fair and obvious reason why," Bashir kissed her for five minutes too long by which time she was awake, Kira's second call emphatic, and he was gasping for a relief that was not to be had.

"Julian…" Dax said as he hung onto her for support.

"No, I'm all right," Bashir shook his head, which was a lie. He was not all right, quite shocked by the fact that he could even stand. They parted in the doorway, Dax turning forward and Bashir veering aft in search of the replicator and a much needed glass of cold water that he drank a swallow of, dowsed himself in the face with the next, drank another, and poured the rest over his head. It was perfect.

"God, yes," he sank back against the replicator. Which the water wasn't perfect but it was better than coffee, his stomach turning acidic with even the thought. Nevertheless, he replicated Dax a cup of tea and himself a cup of coffee as a prop to hold as he treaded forward, formulating his lecture on the four stages of non-REM sleep, delta waves and general exhaustion just in case Kira had any questions.

Kira didn't. She simply looked determined when Dax slipped up to sit down in the vacant navigator's seat, ready with her if-necessary explanation for any delay that was not as scientific as Bashir's but generally believable; Hopefully. She smiled. "1200 already?"

"Ten minutes," Kira answered tersely.

Dax nodded, deciding an apology was probably in order. "Sorry," she said. "But I had the headset on not to disturb Julian and I guess I didn't hear you -- or for that matter Julian," she glanced at the cup of tea being set down on the console in front of her.

"Stage four," Bashir agreed. "Like trying to rouse a damn dead body."

"Huh?" Kira said.

"NREM," Bashir stifled a yawn, wandering only as far as the closest wall that he promptly slid down, resting his head back and closing his eyes as he sat on the floor. "Deep sleep. Jadzia's trying to be diplomatic. The truth is, we were both rather hoping you would just go away -- yes, I know," he nodded, "prepare for impact; I'm prepared."

"Liftoff," Dax laughed.

"Close enough," Bashir tipped over, his head cradled in the crook of his arm, the floor uncomfortable under his hip. "Wake me up when we get there."

"Just in case anyone's ever wondered why his parents stopped at one," Dax turned around for the console.

"No," Kira was not wondering. "Standby full impulse. SIF: high."

The engines shook themselves awake. Bashir kept his eyes closed and his fingers crossed, taking his cue from the calmness in the voices. "Standby full impulse," Dax reported. "Structural integrity field: high and holding."

Kira nodded, checking the status of the analysis one last time. "Let's do it."

"Let's," Dax agreed as Kira engaged the thrusters.

It was a little rough, but doable. Bashir felt his head and stomach swim with mild nausea as the interior pressure rose sharply under the strain of sudden elevation, suggesting he would probably fair better sitting up. He did. Kira and Dax calm and verbally addressing the situation already leveling out, Dax reported and he concurred, the motion sickness long passed. He opened his eyes in time for a fleeting though breathtaking glimpse of the snow-covered peaks of a mountain range approaching them very quickly as the Kira cut a wide arc around. The mountains vanished. The shuttle clearing the summit by 15,000 kilometers easily as it plunged into the upper spheres, through them to open space.

"It's a pretty world, actually," Bashir got to his feet.

"Very pretty," Dax agreed.

"At 10,000 feet," he grinned as she reset the shuttle's chronometer. "Was it 10,000?"

"Little more than that," she nodded. "The apex had to be at least 10,000."

"Geologically active, anyway," he surmised. "Of course, how geologically active impossible to tell at a glance. Did we have to do that, by the way?"

"Well…" Dax smiled at Kira.

"But what did it hurt?" Bashir agreed. "Couple of hundred miles from the colony, easily. Certainly can't start complaining about contamination at that distance. It's not like we scanned -- did we scan?"

"No," Dax shook her head.

"Only what would be required for normal, safe, navigational procedures," Bashir understood. "It's not as if you guessed the mountain range was there, or where it was, other than out there somewhere. We knew it had to be there, simply where -- you didn't guess, did you?" he asked, not quite sure if he liked the idea that only she was answering him, Kira remaining silent throughout. "It didn't sneak up on us, did it? We are talking only a couple of hundred miles at best."

"No," Dax said. "We had an idea it was there."

"I think I'll stop there," Bashir decided.

"You sure?"

"Well," he said, "maybe one other question…"

"What time is it?" she guessed.

"The day anyway, doesn't have to be to the hour. The hour I can see, if I look," he admitted, "day as well." He picked up her hand from covering the chronometer. Parted her fingers to peek through them and have a look.

"Monday," Dax said.

"What time Monday?" Bashir requested suspiciously, finding two days a significant amount of time to gain on one hand and now quite obviously lose.

"0200?"

"Well, that does it for me," he patted the backs of both their seats. "May I suggest for you two ladies as well? It's called sleep deprivation and/or -- versus, actually, autopilot. Keep her at impulse. Flip on her long-range scans. Chart our flight pattern -- all in the appropriate order, of course. And once through the asteroid field, naturally," he pointed out the forward screen with its view of a significant wasteland of space junk -- natural space junk, and therefore acceptable space junk despite all the damage it too could cause.

"I'm going to bed; sleep. Where I shall be unavailable for the next eight hours. Ten, if I set my mind to it. One last time, I suggest you ladies consider the same…and no headsets," he paused in the corridor with a grin for Dax.

"If you find your headset comes up missing I plead guilty in the first degree. But then 40 decibels of music is questionable to begin with. 40 decibels of residual static leaking through your headset is not. Little wonder you couldn't hear me. Sheer wonder you can hear me at all. Goodnight."

"Frightening," Kira commented.

"Yes. He can be," Dax said, meaning it in a different way than Kira.

Oh, what a smooth liar you are, Julian Bashir. She smiled down on him grinning back at her when she entered the cabin an hour or so later to find him in his usual position of lying on his stomach with his chin propped up on his crossed arms. Really, what a remarkably smooth liar you are.

"Come here, you," he pulled her down next to him when she sat down on the bunk.

"What happened to those eight-ten hours of sleep?" she asked.

"Nothing happened to them," he tugged her hair loose from its hastily gathered braid, kissing the ends of it, kissing her. "Can just stay in bed all day. Who's to say what?"

He had a truly loving way about him, in his kisses and in his caress that she first considered painstakingly slow and still considered slow though fluid. There was an obvious strength in his arms encircling her. A slyness about him, she had to laugh because she was losing her clothes in a manner that seemed to suggest she wouldn't necessarily notice this at first.

"Kira?" she did laugh in answer to his question as far as who might have something to say.

"You think so?"

"Definitely," she nodded.

"Oh, well, we can take care of that," he ordered the computer to impose a security lock on the door.

"Well…" Dax said as far as that because it wasn't as if Kira couldn't overrule the lock because of course she could for a reason or for none. The same as Kira was quite capable of just walking in with or without a security lock at any point in time, certainly anywhere between eight and ten hours, again for a reason, or again for none. "Even if she didn't overrule the lock, I'm sure she would at least ask why," she smiled.

"You think so?" Bashir said.

"Definitely," Dax nodded.

"Well, there's a simple enough explanation," Bashir kissed her. "I told her I didn't want to be disturbed."

Dax had to laugh again and say it out loud that time. "Oh, what a smooth liar you are."

"You mean about the headset?"

"I mean…" she almost said about everything but she changed that. "Yes. I mean the headset."

"Well, that's your lie, actually," he flipped her boot over his shoulder, followed by her jumpsuit which explained why they had to spend a few minutes every morning sorting out what was whose.

"Tell you what's not a lie, though," he stretched out next to her.

"What's that?" Dax smiled.

"I love you. So, yes, there's the answer should anyone really care to ask."

He said it with such sincerity. Not meaning Dax didn't think he was sincere; she did. It was instead perhaps something she didn't expect him to say? Her head tipped in a silent examination of him, what he said and what he meant. A delay before she answered, noticeable or not.

It was noticeable to the extent that he had time to kiss her and say, "I love you," again.

"I love you," she answered immediately. "I love you very much."

Kira did not walk in, but then they did not test the boundaries of cause for suspicion by spending even eight hours in bed. They were both awake and up within six? Maybe seven hours later? It was closer to seven. Julian resigned himself to working on Lange's inventory that he truthfully considered a technician's job. A minor degree of resentment when approaching Lange's haphazard organization coupled with his extensive frustration. Dax knew that, the same as she knew he and his medical doctorate would both survive. She relieved Kira who was tipped back in her seat at the helm, her heels up on the console. She had probably slept that way on and off through the night.

"No, I'm fine," Kira waved for Dax to take over if she wanted to when Dax approached her about her perhaps wanting to get a few hours sleep in a more conventional manner? In a more conventional setting?

Dax did take over. Kira remained there for a short while before she finally got up and retired to her cabin. Dax watched her as she walked away, wondering if Kira had any suspicions, thoughts, or ideas about her and Julian? Yes Kira did, she decided, whether or not Kira was having an idea now.

Acknowledging that, Dax realized that she believed Kira had "an idea" about her and Julian for years. The same as the Chief had "concerns". Garak "wonders". Worf?

She denied thinking about Worf for the moment finding Garak and the Chief easy to dismiss, and the likely definition of Kira's idea palatable. Julian and she had an understanding about each other. That understanding at times, if not at others, incorporating a physicality between them or not incorporating one. Kira was wrong. There had never been a physicality between her and Julian prior to the past week whether or not the interest was there, the desire, or the sheer want. But Kira's idea was reasonable in that it was not judgmental, condemning, or even really interested only to the extent that personally it was not the sort of relationship Kira was interested in having with anyone. It was largely what her relationship with Shakaar had become, Kira felt, or was becoming toward the end. She had been down that road before -- who hadn't? And she wasn't traveling it again.

Worf? Dax was thinking about Worf whether or not she wanted to. What did Worf have? "Suspicions"? That annoyed her considerably. Suspicions alluded she was having an affair with Julian, had had one and was continuing to have one, a series of frivolous periodic encounters over the last six years.

"Wrong," she said aloud as she checked their flight path. "Oh, so wrong. " A cup of tea mysteriously appearing next to her, Julian's hand on her back and his kiss on her cheek.

"You're supposed to be working," she reminded.

"Kira's gone to bed, I see," he countered as if that meant something significant.

"Well, I would hope you determined that first," Dax agreed.

"Before the kiss?"

"No, before the tea," she picked up her cup. "Thank you. Now go back to work. That's an order."

He kissed her cheek again with the wicked disclosure. "Of course I determined it first. I'm not only a smooth liar, I'm also a first class spy."

"Go," she pointed aft.

He went. And then he came back. And then he left again. And then he came back again. Lange's inventory is far more extensive than any of us realized…Dax wrote in her journal for Benjamin, explaining why they were less than 40% finished with the initial cataloging when they docked aboard the Defiant two days later.

"But they'll be back," Q pointed out to Ziyal making the acquaintance of Humpty-Dumpty. A curious looking lifeform with his large oval body and spindly arms and legs; she found him cute and certainly extremely amiable and passive.

"Not for a week and a half," Ziyal shrugged.

"You're right," Q sat down, with a ping of his fingers sending Humpty for a test tumble off the security of his stone wall. "The universe is only on the brink of destruction, why make rash decisions?"

"He exaggerates," Ziyal promised Humpty, giving him a hand back to his seat, startled as he was to find him rolling around in the unprotected field that only looked like soft, green grass. Her new friend even more relieved than she was to find himself shaken but otherwise perfectly fine.

"Stop that," Ziyal cracked Q's wrist in scolding.

"I didn't do it," Q assured her. "I didn't," he insisted to Humpty, but just to ensure there were no hard feelings he gave them each a fresh, shiny apple to eat while sitting on their wall.

"Ho, ho, ho, we look like we've had fun," O'Brien greeted the trio who left with a kilo of equipment and returned with forty more of junk. His humor fixed, false, but they didn't know that. No reason how they could, or why they should. He was only half-joking anyway. His chuckle quickly followed by a serious, "Whoa, whoa, whoa," for an anxious and ambitious Rom dragging the booty out by the cartload.

"Organization," O'Brien instructed. "Let's get a little organization here."

"Lange," Dax offered Worf visually inspecting the assortment of field packs and lockers.

"Some old, some new, some borrowed," Bashir plunked one, two, three, packs down on top of one another in a harrowing tower threatening to topple over.

"Yes," Worf said to Dax, elaborating on his recollection of Lange's duffels with their library of data logs, equally impressive in that they were equally extensive in number. He looked at Bashir listening.

Bashir grinned, hearing "That's not what I recall" come out of his mouth for some reason. Odd, because his brain was certainly saying something much more like How awkward in response to being there, seeing Worf. Feeling his stomach churn with that persistent sensation of motion sickness he had first experienced two-plus days ago during liftoff. The proverbial shoe-on-the-other-foot not comfortable, he'd grant Worf that much. Excruciatingly painful, if Worf cared to know, half-inclined to boldly tell him that. More than half-wondering if how he felt was how Worf felt these past two years, was feeling now; sincerely hoping that Worf was; Bashir looked away.

"Yeah, we know what you recall." The Chief was hitting him in the arm. "Come on, move; move. No reason to make a project out of this, just tell me where you want the crap."

"Quite staggeringly heavy," Bashir agreed.

"Huh?" O'Brien said.

"The duffels?" Bashir picked up the top field pack from off the stack before it did fall and started across the shuttle bay for the hatch. "You said something about Janice's duffels?"

"Where's he going?" O'Brien asked Rom. "Am I speaking English here? Hello."

"Um, yup, hi," Rom nodded. "And…I don't know. Where do you want this crap?"

"Well…" Dax smiled, not that she had been asked specifically.

"Sorry," Bashir was back. "Habit."

"No transporter," Dax explained to O'Brien.

"Quite," Bashir nodded. "I assume you are transporting this?"

"No, I'm carrying it," O'Brien retorted, having no clue what either of them were talking about, but that was okay, they seemed to be having the same trouble with him. "One more time…"

"The science lab," Bashir imagined. "That all right with you?"

"Yes, that's fine," Dax agreed.

"Thank you," O'Brien said. "Like pulling teeth, but thank you. Next question -- "

"Well, I guess we may as well transport as well, yes," Bashir shrugged.

"Give me strength," O'Brien turned to Kira.

"I said, that's it," she replied.

"No, you didn't," he assured, "and, no, it isn't -- give me that," he took the data padd from Rom with its listing of equipment.

"Um, yup," Rom said, "they're missing both medical field kits -- "

"I don't give a damn about the kits." O'Brien walked around the cargo hold nodding, "Uh, huh, uh, huh," and punching out the details, the ones present, and the ones absent.

"Notice," he slapped the data padd in Kira's hand, calling her attention to the bottom line, "unsigned. You want to log yourself in? Be my guest. But I'm not, and neither's Worf. You listening?" he checked with Dax since it was an intergalactical rule as far as who wore the pants in the family irrespective of rank, and hence who was the boss. Something that had a lot to do with his caustic, fixed, mood, nothing of which any of them needed to know anything about, especially the boy dressed in medical blue. "Neither's Worf."

"Oh, I'm listening," Dax nodded.

"Uh, huh," O'Brien said, having heard that a few times in his life before also. "Suit yourself. It's not my neck; it's yours. Me? I know nothing, I see less. Get it?" he moved to the transporter console with a wave of his arm around. "I see less."

"Um, yup, me, too," Rom nodded to Kira, "I don't know what happened to your equipment either. Maybe you do?"

"Don't worry about it," she suggested.

"Nope, not me," Rom agreed in relief, scurrying over to the Chief cupping his hand and calling, "Oh, yoo-hoo!"

"Well, actually I have the equipment," Bashir informed Kira before she accepted a responsibility that he truly felt was his, regardless of whose idea it had been to leave half of their inventory behind. "If anything does turn up missing I suppose they can just take it out of the family estate."

"You're joking, right?" Kira verified.

"About the family estate?" Bashir grinned. "Or about whose responsibility I feel it is? Well, I must have something I can sell."

"Such as my headset?" Dax chimed in.

"Well, yes, not quite sure what happened to that…" Bashir turned away from her for the Chief bustling over heated and red-faced. "What?"

"Stand still," O'Brien said, like he should have to tell him this. "He's trying to take a reading. Pick a spot and stay there."

"Oh," Bashir said. "Sorry, didn't realize I was moving."

He was though, unconsciously sidestepping Worf and Dax who as unconsciously kept up ending next to him.

"I mean, we can do this in one shot, right, folks?" O'Brien was checking with the gang of them not only Bashir to be sure those on the left wanted to stay on the left. Those on the right wanted to stay on the right, and so forth. "We're not trying to transport a planet over here. We're trying to transport a bunch of field packs, a couple of containers, and five of us -- got that?" he checked with Rom. "Five of us. Not four. Not three and a half."

"Oh, yup, got it," Rom swore. "Okeydokey, no problem…one, two, three, four, five, yup, you're all there -- say, smile," he burst into a raggedy-toothed grin, hawking out a laugh at his joke. "Oh, boy that's good, Rom. That's really, really good. Okay, let's see…"

O'Brien stared. "Will you just initiate the goddamn transport?"

"Yup, I'm doing it. I'm doing it," Rom nodded, and he was.

"It's got to be close to retirement or something; it's got to be." Bashir heard the Chief say as they faded away. "What's wrong with you?" he wondered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Me?" They were in the science lab, O'Brien plucking at Bashir's stiff, stained jumpsuit reeking of two weeks' abuse. Kira and Dax's uniforms in a similar state, but neither of them anywhere near as much fun to rib. "Waste management not part of your vocabulary? Aw, gee, I'm sorry. Welcome to the real world. Rough, isn't it?"

"Maid's day off," Bashir agreed with a grin for his watch. "That late already? Can't believe it -- "

"Nice try," Dax had him by the hand pulling him toward the console with a smile and assurance for O'Brien, "Actually, by the second day it really was to the point of wasting energy."

"Hey," O'Brien shrugged, "you had to live with him for a week, you don't mind, I don't mind."

"He had to live with us," Dax's smile rested on Bashir.

"Oh," Bashir said, not as far as the living arrangements. Or how the three of them complemented each other's nauseating appearance and smell. "Well, no, it's not a matter of trying to get out of helping you with cataloging -- "

"Us," Dax nodded, "helping us."

"Yes, us," Bashir supposed. "I was just rather hoping…"

He was in the Infirmary, showered, changed, sternly telling himself to focus on uploading Nadya's medical screenings. He couldn't focus, finding himself drifting into daydreams that he couldn't remember, or others that he didn't want to. The planet seemed an eon ago, certainly very unreal. He tried to delay the feeling of losing something, at least leaving it behind, while still aboard the shuttle, but the party, as it was said, was over, things different in the cold light of dawn.

"Damn it all," he pushed himself away from the console with anger and subsequent apologies for Kira he didn't realize was there at first; he did now. "Sorry. Frustrating."

She nodded. Showered and changed as he was, like he said, the planet eons ago, unreal, within hours everything returned to status quo. "You going to have something for Benjamin?"

"Why?" Bashir smiled. "Dax feeling a little anxious about things herself? Not like her."

"I'm going to talk to Benjamin," Kira advised him, assured, actually.

Of course. Made sense. Bashir supposed, though Kira was hardly a galactical-class orator, anymore than he. Short, to where he was long, entering angry, not simply leaving. Nevertheless, she was a "force to be reckoned with", the same as he. Not that any of them seemed to realize this about him, or even gave the slightest hint in being interested in finding out. Bashir smiled again. "Meet you at the upper pylons at 2400."

Kira frowned, a response that also made sense. There weren't any upper pylons, they were aboard the Defiant. It wasn't anywhere near 2400, much closer to 0400. He had been in the Infirmary six hours, accomplishing little except confirming he was sick, nauseous, and furiously angry over being forced back into a reality he didn't like, want, and had very little say in doing anything about.

"A joke," he shook his head, not that she got the joke about exerting one's independence and returning to the colony, damn the Federation and anyone else. "By something I suspect you mean something definitive? Or even anything definitive to show Captain Sisko? Such as a treatment plan?"

"Whatever," Kira shrugged, less interested in the details than in having something, anything coherent ready to wave in defense like a Bajoran sword should the name Shakaar prove insufficient in giving Sisko cause for pause.

It was probably sufficient, Bashir believed, not selling the Captain short, but he simply understood politics better than he cared to. "Whatever I can manage," he promised.

"Good," Kira said. "Meet you on upper pylon 3 if we're wrong." She walked away, Bashir watching her mildly amused and certainly quite surprised. Thinking also, perhaps not exactly wondering why he'd never found the Major Kiras Nerys romantically attractive or stimulating, especially this one, rather than leave them to the Shakaars Adon and Anars. Kira really was extraordinarily lovely. Delightfully and beautifully feminine in her slender, compact size and shape, and large, almost overwhelming brown eyes.

One look in those eyes though, a moment in her presence, it wasn't a woman one was looking at or talking to, but a force, oh, definitely, yes. Assertive, aggressive, distinctly no one's fool. At times, too often in his opinion, needlessly confrontational.

"Do you ever sleep?" Bashir inquired aloud, not in a manner or matter of ridicule, simply interest. "Rest, I mean. Do you ever?"

"Huh?" Kira turned around.

"Foolish question," Bashir shook his head in agreement, though it gave him his answer as to why Jadzia rather than Kira Nerys if it even were a question, or for that matter a choice, it wasn't. An observation only. An explanation of sorts as to why Jadzia, a woman who morally, if not legally, should be considered unavailable if one placed any sort of stock in such archaic principles or rules of conduct, which admittedly he did not. To do so would make him an idealist, not a realist, even though realistically Kira was far more available to fall in love with. A woman he could pick up and carry if he ever felt so inclined. A primitive action no doubt accompanied by the equally primitive thought that such an ability somehow translated into an ability to perhaps not control her exactly, but exert any sort of influence over her; out of the question.

"You're right, who does?" Bashir sighed out loud about the strains of duty while internally saying something more like so yes, that explains why Jadzia rather than the Kiras Nerys. Who he would likely find exhausting beyond Jadzia, who was exhausting enough. To where Kira would probably find him boring as opposed to Jadzia who probably found him something more like adorable; wonderful, he supposed if he were petitioning to be her pet, sickening otherwise.

"Just…" Kira said what he expected her to say, waved her usual wave and left, unmindful and uncaring that he would love to just.

"Just anything," Bashir also waved the mandatory accompanying whoosh with his hand. Finding it remarkably callous of Jadzia if nothing else to not appreciate, at least understand how he would far prefer to just, even though he couldn't begin to just whatever it was they would like him to just about.

The science lab was deserted and dark, a neat row of selected samples lined up on the console ready for their morning analysis when he found himself there. It could have been worse. It could have been dark and occupied. Something other than Lange's collection cluttering the corners, floor and console. Bashir lingered in activating his com badge, the unspoken request poised on his lips and asking for trouble when there wasn't necessarily a reason.

"Location of Commander Dax?" he hit his com badge.

"Commander Dax is currently in her assigned quarters."

"What assigned quarters?" Bashir snapped. "Who's assigning quarters on a ship that's at less than one sixth crew capacity, if that -- never mind," he walked out before the computer finished analyzing the question attempting to provide him with the answer that he already knew.

He was in his quarters unassigned though they may be, more randomly picked on a deck that he couldn't even remember long before the door to the cabin closed. However, troubling the computer for the whereabouts of Doctor Bashir when he was Doctor Bashir seemed just a touch absurd. His duffels were another matter. The computer agreed, locating them for him two decks away and several cabins removed, much too far to be concerned about trucking after them at this hour of the morning. He didn't even think of requesting an emergency toiletries transport, though the Defiant was certainly far more upscale in her amenities and comfort than the hellhole he had just come from, it didn't even cross his mind. What crossed it was dropping down on the bunk and dropping off to sleep.

Right. He lay there like a dead man on his back staring up at the bunk above him. Bashir sat up. "Location of Commanders Worf and Dax."

"Commanders Worf and Dax are currently in their assigned quarters." The request sounded vaguely familiar to the computer but it answered nevertheless.

"Damn it all!" Bashir jumped up, angry, incredulous, completely unable to fathom how Jadzia could turn from him to Worf so easily and then do what? Turn back again?

He was in the commissary, a small collection of coffee cups decorating the table like he was a participant in an early-morning tea party with a group of invisible friends. Two hours later he was back in his cabin, the one that included his duffels, having recalled its location somewhere along the way. Sorry to report that if he were anticipating some sort of loving, joking, note or message left in the data bank from Jadzia claiming missed you, tired of the chase, thinking of you he was wrong. It was 0600. At noon Federation time he was back in the Infirmary, refreshed, focused, his priorities in order.

"I'd like your hours," Dax stopped by thirty minutes later to invite him to take a break for lunch.

"Be more like breakfast," Bashir laughed, "if one listens to rumors. But, yes, all right. Ten minutes? Meet you in the commissary?"

"Sounds good," she left, expecting it to be more like fifteen or twenty. Forty-five? No, twenty minutes before it was forty-five Dax knew Bashir was not coming. The excuse being not that he forgot exactly simply became absorbed. Taking a break just then not a priority compared to what he'd much rather be doing.

"Okay so it's not my imagination," Dax decided, troubled and slightly sad what with having decided just a few hours ago it was her imagination. Worf, on the other hand? No, Worf was not her imagination anymore than she was his.

"Makes sense," Dax voiced what she was thinking when Bashir scooted out from working on Lange's inventory to shower, change and delve into Nadya as he had been longing to do.

"Yes," Kira understood what Dax was thinking behind what she was saying, agreeing and saying a few silent things herself under that affirmation. Things like not wanting anything said or discussed with Worf, the Chief, or anyone, until she had a chance to speak with Benjamin four long days from now.

"Yes," Dax nodded. Understanding fully what Kira was saying, though not quite sure who anyone else might be -- Rom? She would probably be as inclined to discuss transporting the nine-year-old Maquis niece of Shakaar Adon to the Defiant for medical treatment and care with Rom as she would be inclined to discuss it with the Chief. Julian might think of mentioning it to the Chief, though common sense would probably detour him from that also. Worf?

She was breaking Kira's unspoken rule to an extent not long after Kira left to shower, change, and assume duty aboard the bridge, Dax presumed. She didn't break the rule deliberately, even consciously. She wasn't quite sure why she mentioned anything of the colony to Worf at all except Worf lingered behind in the science lab to where Julian, the Chief, and Kira left, Lange's extensive inventory transported in a stack of containers and field packs on the floor.

Worf picked up a random container heaving it down on the console next to the field pack she set down.

"Yes, well, actually, wait a minute," Dax said before Worf confused what was already confused enough.

Worf huffed. She wasn't sure why he huffed. The container wasn't that cumbersome or heavy. If it wasn't for her, it couldn't be for him. He told her why he huffed. "What is this?" he insisted, having determined somewhere between the cargo hold of the Ark and the science lab aboard the Defiant "this" was too much.

"Lange's inventory," Dax nodded.

Worf studied the container the size of a weapons locker.

"It is a weapons locker," Dax agreed.

"A Cardassian weapons locker," Worf assured.

"Makes sense," Dax said while Worf studied the other four containers of roughly the same size and weight. One that was identical in that it, too, was a Cardassian weapons locker, the other three slightly different in that they were Klingon.

"Lange's inventory," Worf repeated.

"You sound like Julian," Dax disclosed with a smile, flipping open her field pack and setting out an organized arrangement of mismatched specimen bottles and jars.

Worf bristled either at the name, the comparison, or the putrid shades of Lange's inventive color-coding system; Dax suspected it probably had little to do with the samples.

She was right. "I wish to resolve our differences," Worf informed her in a tone that was not conducive to resolving anything. An order, if it didn't quite make it to being a demand, an instruction. For a moment she wasn't sure what differences he was referring to and then she remembered. They had an argument, or Worf did. About Julian just prior to her departing aboard the Ark. Something to do about her being far too generous in granting Julian liberal room and opportunity to indulge himself in taking inappropriate liberties in either what he said, did, or what he simply inferred.

Something about her having obvious feelings for Julian after six long years of friendship with him, and one short one of marriage to Worf. "Shouldn't you be on the bridge?" Dax asked pleasantly. The turn on her heel slightly more emphatic as she headed to drop her uniform in for solid waste recycling and the sanctuary of the lab's sonic shower. Worf was waiting for her when she returned shortly. The containers shoved neatly into a corner, what field packs wouldn't fit on the main console piled up on the one next to it.

Definitely Julian. Dax maintained in that regard, beginning to wonder where Julian was. Not that she didn't believe him when he confessed to wanting to spend some time in the Infirmary now that his medical banks were available; she believed him. She just also had this thought in the back of her mind that he would come by the science lab once showered and changed to drag her off to help him. They were a team, after all. This was a team project.

"Actually…" Dax said as far as Worf's insistence in being helpful. "You're really not?"

Worf grunted. A long and drawn out "Hmmmm."

"As far as any differences…" she nodded.

"Yes," Worf assured, "things cannot continue the way they are."

Dax wasn't quite sure what things he was referring to other than her admittedly open and close friendship with Julian that she continued to view as open and close, as well as a friendship regardless of the sudden path it had taken over the past…was it two weeks? She looked at Worf. Yes, it was two weeks since they left the station and she was admittedly stuck there. Not at the station but on the path her relationship with Julian had taken. What was she supposed to say? She looked away.

"These are issues that are important to me," Worf persisted, "that you, as my wife, have a responsibility to address -- "

"In some fantasy Klingon world perhaps!" Dax's attention whipped back to Worf, ignoring the rumbling of what Julian would call his primal growl kindled by the heat in her voice, inspired by her willingness to fight because to fight was good, to fight was fun, one breath away from making love.

"Dating to the time of Kahless!" Dax's stiff, powerful arm halted any advance, striking Worf like a hammer in his chest and holding him there; he paused to stare at it quizzically perplexed.

"But in this one," Dax said, "the real one, I doubt if even Gowron could hope to get away with that line."

"Chancellor Gowron has no mate," Worf reminded her of the Klingon ruler's status as an eligible bachelor.

"Well, maybe that explains why!" Dax pushed him away from her altogether to take a breath; she took one. Calmer, as firm, hearing herself say something like, "Most people would probably agree the best way to resolve differences is simply to view them as differences and go on from there…

"Not dredge them up," she nodded to his strong and puzzled face. "Yes? No?"

Worf was thinking about it. "I am Klingon," was his answer.

"Uuggh!" Dax's head hung with her frustrated, mangled groan. He was not Klingon. He was Klingon by race. He was Klingon by heritage. He was something else by environment and upbringing: Terran. Terran-like. Terran-taught. Terran-trained. "That's not an excuse!" The uncharacteristic shrillness in her voice returned, desperation creeping in. She really had no idea what to say to him.

"Go, just go," she pointed toward the door. "Worf, I have work to do. Benjamin wants a report and just how possible do you think that is in four days? It's not. A preliminary, if we're lucky."

"Well, where is Bashir?" He demanded and that made a lot of sense when two minutes ago he was complaining about Julian and now he wanted to know where Julian was.

"In the Infirmary," Dax nodded. "You know he's in the Infirmary." He practically got the door for him when he left. "Uploading Nadya's medical screenings."

The name was familiar, from somewhere two weeks back in time, connected to Lange.

"Shakaar Nadya," Dax said though that was not the child's family name. It had to be her mother's family name. As strictly conservative as Elise was in her own way? It was definitely her mother's family name, as her daughter was definitely Shakaar regardless of her name.

"You don't want to know," she shook her head at Worf's undecided interest. "You don't want to know -- there's at least one suspected mass gravesite," she told him that much not to be unkind or cruel. She really did want to know what he thought, hear his opinion, what he had to say. "There could be more, we don't know. Including a possible Klingon one -- "

"Klingon," he interjected.

"Yes, Klingon. No one survived Khitomer? Well, not too many survived Dyaan IX," she referenced the historical Romulan slaughter of the Klingon outpost Khitomer, drawing a parallel though the numbers were less possibly, though not by much. The horrifying event equable in that the entire population was quite literally and ruthlessly annihilated.

"Anar is somewhat inconsistent in his census and chronology of events," she told Worf. "Deliberately," she added as an afterthought. "Regardless, he told the truth. Somewhere around two thousand Bajorans died in the last of the Klingon attacks. Another thousand between the Rigelian plague and the first of… I don't know how many other battles," she pushed back her hair she had left loose following her shower, the subject truthfully very uncomfortable and disquieting. "Guesswork has as many as five thousand comprising his original troops with the unaccounted for two divided between the deserters and those killed in some Dominion fight."

"Why would Klingons attack a Bajoran colony?" Worf asked.

"They're Maquis," Dax reminded. "They're not Bajorans, they're Bajoran Maquis, or they were. Nadya's psychological crippling is the least of her concerns."

That last part was unfair and untrue in that it alluded to some dire physical injury at the hand of some Klingon rather than only the loss of an ear. Nadya's extensive physical injuries and illnesses were indisputably a direct result of her family's involvement in the Maquis.

Worf nodded without knowing that, disturbed by the grimness of the report but understanding. "If you sleep with targs -- "

"'You'll wake up with glob flies!'" Dax completed the Klingon proverb that stressed the importance of focus on that which is meaningful rather than frivolous. "They didn't wake up! There's something meaningful in that."

Worf nodded. "And meaningless in the ideals of the Maquis. They are not warriors, but cowards, preoccupied with the thoughts of cowards. Promoters of anarchy, attacking all who disagree with them. Federation, Cardassian, Klingon, Bajoran. That is absurd and wasteful. We cannot all agree, as we should not all disagree."

"Anar also told the truth," Dax said for whatever reason, she had no idea. To frighten him? Force him to remain removed from the colony and hence her and Julian? "When he said he would strip and flail your skin and wear it as a robe; he has one. Not a robe, perhaps, but yes, a throw." The stripped flesh of a Klingon, like one would strip a targ, tossed over his makeshift bed of many mats beside the wall decorated with its Klingon bat'telh in his quarters in the Town Center. She knew Julian hadn't realized that, he would have said something. She wondered if Kira had, having an idea Kira did with less remorse and notice than Worf had for the Bajoran Maquis.

"An angry animal," Worf answered.

"Very angry," Dax agreed. "Though I wouldn't call him an animal." Simply a man who could be and had been extremely unpleasant at times, something else he had told the truth about. How odd Julian should realize that beyond her for all his bouts of anxiety and angst and her with her calm and wise serenity. Understand without the visual evidence what was going on inside Anar's mind from the ferocity of his anger to his concerns surpassing Lange to Nadya's eventual encounter with Worf.

"Trying times," Worf identified the prevailing mood and situation facing their landing party for a week.

"In that way, yes," Dax agreed. "Cold and dark at others."

"I will let you work," Worf consented to her earlier request.

"Thank you," Dax said.

She worked for several hours on Lange's inventory, planning to work for a short while longer on her journal for Benjamin, elaborating on some new thoughts surrounding Anar's inexplicable friendship with Anon and Pfrann Dukat. Curious as to why Julian didn't happen by, determining he was absorbed and deciding to pop in on him if he hadn't appeared by the time she ran dry in detailing her retrospective impressions.

"All right…" she said several moments later after failing to locate her duffel that she knew was right there and really couldn't be too many other places.

"Wait a minute," she tugged aside Worf's strategic barricade of containers blocking the corner to see if he had inadvertently stuffed it behind them thinking it was just another catch-all for Lange's collection. Worf hadn't, any more than the Chief or Kira had accidentally walked off with it. That only left Julian. She tried to remember if Julian had anything in his hands, or swung over his shoulder when he left. She seemed to remember he had something, but that was earlier in the shuttle bay. A field pack. She started to laugh but only because she couldn't see him unintentionally ordering a transport for three duffels instead of only two.

"Location of Doctor Bashir's quarters," she activated her com badge. She was there three minutes later and wrong. There were only two duffels in Julian's cabin, both of them his.

"All right…" Dax thought over what she had been thinking, hating to trouble the computer with such a trivial request, but something was nagging at her, suddenly remembering she saw her duffel when she turned for the showers while in the science lab with Worf.

"How dare you…" she burst through the door of her cabin, furious, considering Worf's action of taking her duffel invasive and intrusive regardless of what he considered hers.

He considered them uncharacteristic and unusual as he had considered them and the intonation of her voice in the science lab. What that meant? He was undecided. She was abrupt for a woman who had not seen her husband in ten days. She was now extremely angry at finding her duffel in her own quarters. Worf rose to a straightened seated position on the lower bunk where he had been sitting back reading a data padd.

Dax assumed it was her journal and snatched it away from him. It wasn't her journal and since it wasn't she wasn't interested in what it was she flung it aside.

"Four thousand Klingons died at Khitomer," Worf began with that.

"I don't care how many died," Dax sputtered before she stopped to demand, "What?"

Worf nodded stiffly. "You are angry with the wrong man. I did not kill the Bajoran Maquis."

Dax groaned. "I'm not angry with you because of the colony, I'm angry with you because you took my duffel!" She kicked it with her foot, hard, to drive her point home.

Worf resumed being puzzled. "It is your duffel."

"I know it's my duffel," Dax assured, tearing open her duffel and yanking out her journal for Benjamin to wave in his face. "I told you I wanted to work. What do you think this is?"

"A data log," Worf agreed.

Dax stared at him. "What?" she demanded.

"A data log," he said, just like that. Unemotional and serious.

"Oh, you are impossible," Dax accused. "Yes, you are. Move. Just move. Will you move?" she insisted when he sat there.

Worf stood up. When he did, she sat down; why, she didn't know. He proposed a reason for her. "You are tired."

"Yes," Dax admitted. "Yes, I'm tired." Feeling her arms tightly crossed in front of her hugging each other, refraining from saying let him hike twenty miles a day, every day, in the cold, the wet, the sludge. Argue, fight, cajole, as necessary, when necessary. "It was exhausting," she nodded.

"Yes," Worf said.

"It was just supposed to be a field expedition," she looked up at him almost innocently, confused, trying to remember when, why and how it had turned into being so much else. "We didn't even have any heat the first four -- five -- however many days!" she gestured wildly and exasperated. "No toilet half the time, no shower the other!"

She was starting to exaggerate, confuse the night and days she spent in the town or out at the grotto with the days and nights she spent aboard the shuttle. "So, yes, I'm tired," she nodded. "I'm very tired." She laid down, first just on her back and then over on her side with her back to Worf. His hand touched her shoulder and she jumped up like she had been slapped.

Worf eyed her. Dax sat back down under his scrutiny that continued to be unsure, only knowing that something was not quite right even if it wasn't quite wrong. She wanted a cup of tea for some reason when she looked away from him to stare at the wall. She sighed eventually and looked back with the acknowledgement, "I am angry with you because you are wrong about Julian…which," she had to admit to be fair, "is only fair I suppose because Julian is wrong about you."

Worf nodded, satisfied. "It is as I have suspected."

"What?" Dax requested politely. "What is as you have suspected?"

He was eyeing her again, silently. Knowing she wasn't telepathic or even empathic like his long-time friend Deanna Troi of the Enterprise whom Dax had never met, though she had met Counselor Troi's mother Lwaxana, as they all had. As everyone in the galaxy probably had at some time. The UFP's flagrant and outrageous Betazoid Ambassador who was everyone's nemesis in ways, and definitely everyone's friend; it didn't matter. Dax didn't have to be Deanna Troi or her telepathic all-knowing mother Lwaxana, she knew Worf. She was married to Worf; he was her husband. She loved him, and loved him still, simply in a very different way than she loved Julian and that was where she was freely willing to admit she had gone wrong. Nothing to do with Curzon. Everything to do with her, Julian, and yes, Worf. Who suspected or believed he knew what?

She studied him even though she didn't really have to. They had had an argument and she had told Julian of the argument, Julian, naturally supporting her. They went to a colony where two thousand Bajorans had died, massacred in a Klingon attack. It angered her, troubled her, and Julian fed the anger, citing it as another example of Klingon brutality, violence, an entire Empire living on the lunatic fringe, as he called it, devoid of any feeling, caring, or appreciation for life. Worf was right. That was what happened. What Julian said, believed, and would continue to believe until the Klingon Empire became Terran, or at least Federation in its outlook and practices. Something that chances were was not going to happen in his lifetime.

"Fine," Dax stood up, "don't answer me." She reached for her duffel to secure her journal for Benjamin, remembering she had already pulled it out and finding it on the bunk. Worf didn't stop her until she turned for the door.

"Doctor Bashir is your friend, not mine," he capsuled the situation and what he was thinking.

"That's true," Dax agreed after a pause to consider the implications of what he was saying, thinking of the Chief who could be said to be Worf's friend, not hers. However O'Brien also had no cause, or ever maliciously strove to undermine her to Worf or anyone, Worf's accusation and belief surrounding Julian. Worf was right. Malicious was a little harsh perhaps, but Julian definitely had an agenda when it came to Worf and her. On the other hand…

"Garak," Dax said. Garak was the perfect example and parallel. "Garak is Julian's friend, not O'Brien's, who's Julian's friend, not Garak's. I'm Quark's, who's no one's."

She was looking directly at him. "I'm Kira's, and I absolutely loathed Bareil -- who knew," she nodded. "Yes, Kira and Bareil both knew…and," she smiled, confident and wise, "I'm not so sure what you actually think of Kira. I'm not so sure what Kira actually thinks about you.

"I'm not so sure you would have liked Bareil." Not that it mattered because Vedek Bareil, Kira's one-time serious love interest, was long dead. Three years? Almost four. A passive-aggressive man. Soft-spoken, saintly, and domineering. A stubborn idealist. A pensive philosopher. A wicked spring ball player, Dax laughed. Stopping with what caused her to dislike Vedek Bareil Antos most of all. A lacking appreciation, respect, and interest in Kira's status, position, and ambitions. Who did that sound like? Anar. Simply more honest in his advice that one not confuse the robes of a Town Elder with the robes of a Bajoran monk. Possibly the defining factor in what caused her to like Anar rather than dislike him, his honesty.

Though, no, if such things were up to her she would not choose Anar as a mate for Kira, any more than she would have chosen or encouraged Kira's association with Bareil. For a diversion? Yes. The Anars and Bariels were perfect diversions. They were not mates. More than seven lifetimes of accumulated wisdom -- ten, if she truly wished to disclose her age -- supported her in that belief, much more. Dax was notoriously not a mate, only with his host. Though Jadzia had to acknowledge the idea of a mate personally intrigued her in that it was a theory and premise she wished an opportunity to explore, had chosen to explore with Worf. Now, she wasn't so sure why she had done that, regardless of what Julian said about Curzon exerting too much control and she wanted time to think about it.

"Differences," Worf was saying.

"Yes," Dax was nodding. "Think about it."

She left with an encouraging pat on his chest to sit in the Defiant's abbreviated version of a lounge with its single expansive window and view of space. A strictly Federation feature in this joint Federation-Romulan venture deemed the Defiant. Romulans held little interest in crew lounges. In the power of the craft? Oh, yes. The advancement of technology with the successful integration of Federation and Romulan technology, complete with the workable application of a Romulan cloak; that worked. Most of the time. It gave the Romulan Star Empire an edge in that it gave them experience and knowledge in areas otherwise held in reserve. It gave the UFP the same edge for the same reasons. It was an odd marriage with a unique and powerful offspring.

Dax doodled on her report for Benjamin, meditating on what was actually distracting and disturbing her, Julian. His distance. Predicting an outpouring of anxiety, angst, pathos, she didn't know what else he fairly promised as a culmination to the week's end only that it didn't happen. He withdrew instead of achieving new heights of hysteria. She should have known better. Given his erratic mood swings over the week? She definitely should have known better. Julian was histrionic, melodramatic, emotional, and anticipatory.

"And," Dax sighed out loud, "this is ridiculous." Julian hadn't withdrawn any more than he had suffered some self-inflicted emotional collapse. It was her imagination. He was involved, extremely involved in Nadya and wanting to be truly involved. The extensive medical banks of the Defiant were his chance to explore the theories floating around inside his head and prepare his defense for Benjamin should Kira's prove insufficient.

Kira's would never prove sufficient in Julian's opinion. This time around, Dax suspected, to where Julian had begrudgingly accepted Benjamin's "No" in accompanying Lange to Cardassia Prime, he was not going to accept "No" in returning to Dyaan IX. It should be an interesting reunion with Benjamin. She wasn't quite sure if she was looking forward to it or not, having an idea Benjamin would probably not be if he knew what was coming, which Benjamin did not know. She recalled what she wanted to say about the trio Anar, Anon and Pfrann that had a fourth as interesting player. The towering, aging giant Cardassian, Chief Engineer Tan who hailed from Dukat's era as Cardassian Prefect of Bajor and probably before.

Two old soldiers. She wrote to Benjamin. Neither of whom have anything to prove to each other. In retrospect, if there is a friendship Anar wishes to keep to himself it is the one with Tan. Never more evident than during the Chief's hearing if you think back. Tan was obedient to what had to be Anar's offsite instructions, as he was obedient to Sian. Generally amused I would say otherwise. As I would say the association between Tan and Anar was most strange if it wasn't for General Martok and Enabran Tain. The Klingon Empire's top military officer and Cardassia's former Intelligence Chief? I realize the circumstances under which Martok and Tain met were extraordinary but so were the circumstances here, with the outcome primarily the same. Whatever Martok and Tain saw in each other, Anar and Tan apparently saw the same thing…"If that's not enough to convince you," she laughed suddenly, "there's always that Klingon throw." Of which Tan had to know about, of which Tan had to give marked and amused approval.

These are brutal men, Benjamin. She began her conclusion there. It was a short one since she was tired, though satisfied that she had communicated her point. She resumed doodling, curling up and resting her head on the cushioned arm of the reasonably comfortable chair, preoccupied with Julian and Worf. They were not two-dimensional characters from some trite literary work. They were not some eternal triangle. They were not anything.

Several hours later she was sitting in the commissary thinking through what she had determined to be her imagination and wasn't. From there it was an interesting, informative, and lonely four days. She saw Julian perhaps a handful of times. Always pleasant, friendly, jocular, as obviously and distinctly removed from her without explanation, without a word. Offhand and casual under his smile, evasive with his distracted attention and darting eyes, and that was all so typical of him, all so familiar.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Welcome back," Sisko greeted his returning senior staff at the airlock, a secret behind his smile and dancing amusement for the squabbling Kira, Bashir, and O'Brien who emerged, tripping over each other's heels to continue their verbal wrestling at the engineering console.

"I'm transporting it," O'Brien assured, physically the largest of the three even if he may not be the strongest; they would still have to go through him to stop him.

"No, you aren't transporting it," Bashir corrected, verbally the loudest and most emphatic. "I beg to differ, but you aren't just transporting it."

"Will you just listen to him?" Kira gave O'Brien a wallop in the diaphragm, needless to say the most physical, upsetting the Chief's late lunch and aggravating his annoyance.

"Miss us?" Dax smiled at Sisko amazed with the minor commotion.

"Oh, yes," he acknowledged tentatively. "Quiet without you…What are they doing?"

"Lange's inventory," Dax nodded.

"This isn't?" he indicated the field pack she held, assuming that it was.

"Well, they're field samples," Dax agreed. "But no, not exactly." She took him by the hand to show him what she meant.

"Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa!" O'Brien snapped to attention in an effort to prevent Dax from involving Sisko; he failed. She vanished through the airlock with Benjamin and he cracked Bashir painfully in the arm. "Now, you see what you did? Satisfied? You got the Captain all riled up for no reason; repeat, no reason."

"Ow," Bashir rubbed his arm with an annoyed glare. "Yes, I see that, and good, maybe now you'll listen -- though he hardly seemed riled to me -- he seem riled to you?" he solicited Kira, really not anxious to have the Captain in a sour mood before he had a chance to speak with him.

"Will you just…the two of you," Kira pushed him aside and took off on a fast walk down the airlock after Dax and Benjamin.

"After you," Bashir gestured for O'Brien to proceed.

"Uh, huh," O'Brien gave him a gesture. His hand folded in a fist, drawing Bashir's attention to the knuckles and invisible words written across them. "Your name, got it? Your name. One of these days. I'm telling you, one of these days."

He bulled into the airlock, Bashir behind him mimicking, "One of these days."

"You think I'm kidding?" O'Brien challenged with a bark for the computer "to hit the pavement for the science lab" whatever "hit the pavement meant" as they crowded into the turbolift.

"No, I don't think you're kidding…" Bashir replied with an uneasy glance over Worf silently joining them, not that he had any reason to feel uneasy; he didn't. "I think you're mad," he smiled at Worf. "A bear, been a bear for what? The last week?"

"Four days," O'Brien corrected. "Four long days, and I've been a bear, yeah, right."

"You have been," Bashir nodded.

"And you've been what? A regular sweetheart?"

"Well, I've not been anything," Bashir denied. "Can't see where I've been anything."

No more than the Captain was riled to find his science lab looking remarkably similar to a cargo hold and that was after four days of intensive organization.

"This is Lange's inventory," Dax introduced them. "Most of it, anyway."

"Indeed," Sisko's brow crinkled in astonishment. "Most, you say."

"Impressive?" Dax verified first.

"I would have to say yes," he assured.

"Good. Then you'll understand when Julian and I confess we're only 80% finished with the initial cataloging and gross analysis; your report is more a sketch at this point is what I'm trying to say."

"I understand, Commander," he nodded, "completely."

"Good," she took him by the arm to steer him back out into the corridor and down to his Infirmary and the rest of Lange's inventory. These particular samples forgotten and set to the side with Julian yet to make a decision if he felt they needed to keep them. But that was nothing Benjamin needed to know and so she didn't mention it.

Bashir did, after he first alerted O'Brien to the Captain's mood. "Well, riled, obviously not."

"Lucky you," O'Brien snorted.

"No, lucky you," Bashir assured, quickly making his way after the Captain and Dax to join them in the Infirmary. Tripping over Kira in the doorway and assuring her "Will you!" that he was trying to.

From there skating smoothly into the spotlight and Dax's monosyllabic conversation with the Captain with an attention-getting rata-tat of his fingers on the field pack Sisko was busily admiring. Or inspecting. Or whatever it was he was doing, it really wasn't relevant.

What was relevant were the samples and Bashir's unintentional, though unavoidable neglect. "Most unintentional," he informed Sisko. "Unfortunate. However, rather than potentially risk jeopardizing the remaining assortment to the same fate -- as you can see, far more extensive than this particular lot…"

"I can, Doctor," Sisko reassured. "All understandable as I've said."

"Yes it is," Bashir agreed. "As I can at least define the gross contamination experienced to be due to a kingdom of multicellular fungi, largely saprophytes and generally asexual."

"Are they," Sisko said, planning on having dinner shortly and from the sounds of that rather hoping Bashir would delay in relinquishing them for solid waste recycling until sometime later in the evening.

"Definitely," Bashir asserted. "Interesting unto itself, I agree. Therefore we shall be submitting them to a few random screenings to insure it is not part of the natural process before eliminating them from the study."

"Reasonable, Doctor, yes," Sisko concurred. "Congratulations are in order."

"Oh," Bashir said. "Well, joint congratulations I would think being as Dax has had as much to do with all of this as I…exerted a similar effort…" He was starting to feel a little warm around the collar. Really not trying to take credit where credit was not due, that was not the point at all. "Probably much more so."

"Congratulations as well, Commander," Sisko's head tipped in appreciation to Dax.

"Absolutely," Bashir supported. "And, well…" he said with a nonchalant check of his watch since that was the reason why he was standing there spouting off the top of his head words he seemed to recall Dax mentioning two or three days ago when she first brought the samples to him. "1800 now…shall we say ten to go over…well, our sketch as Jadzia calls it?" he smiled.

"10-hundred should be fine, Doctor, yes," Sisko imagined, mentally checking his morning schedule that already included a planned meeting with Bashir and Dax.

"10-hundred…" Bashir repeated. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, I meant 2200. Ten o'clock. This evening," he clarified to Sisko shaking his head. "Why no?"

"There's no reason to trouble yourself unnecessarily, Doctor," Sisko said. "Tomorrow morning will be more than sufficient."

"It is no trouble," Bashir said. "None at all. That's what I'm saying -- "

"And he said no," Kira impatiently pushed him aside with a brisk, business-like nod for Sisko. "Have a few minutes?"

Sisko smiled. "Possibly a few more."

"Good," Kira said. "There are a few things I'd like to talk with you about."

"Reasonable," Sisko accepted, distinctly interested in meeting with her as well. "What are you doing for dinner?"

"Huh?" Kira said, with which Bashir wholeheartedly concurred. It was a remarkably odd question.

However, the Captain explained his reasoning fairly nicely, mentioning something about his son Jake being home from his literary seminar, and also about Kassidy Yates being aboard. Eager and anxious to try out a new delectable culinary wonder on Ben and Jake, an experience Kira was invited to share.

"Oh," Kira said, never more in demand as a dinner companion than she had been over the past two weeks and apparently that trend was going to continue, at least for this evening. "Well, all right."

"Excellent," Sisko gestured for her to accompany him. "Shall we say 1900?"

"1900?" Kira's face contorted. "Kind of early, isn't it?"

"It will give us time to talk," Sisko offered lightly.

"And him something to do other than be underfoot," O'Brien chortled, his elbow catching Dax in the ribs as the Captain and Kira left. "How much do you want to bet he's under orders?"

"To stay out of the kitchen," Dax understood. Reasonable. She just wasn't buying it. "What's going on?" she smiled back.

"Huh?" O'Brien blustered immediately. "What do you mean what's going on? How the heck do we know? We've been with you."

The we was interesting. "What's going on?" Dax turned her smile to Worf.

"We have been with you." He reiterated about as believable as you got it, no one. O'Brien groaned.

"Whatever. Worf's not telling you either because there's nothing to tell."

"I like the not," Dax nodded.

"You do, huh?" O'Brien said. "Okay. Make it a can't. How's that? Like that even better? He can't tell you. The same as I can't tell you. Because if there's anything going on we don't know anything about it any more than you -- come on," he clouted Bashir with his head tipped and his mouth opened. "Wake up. He invited her to dinner, he didn't ask her out on a date. You've got ten minutes to make my life as miserable as you possibly can and then I'm going home to my own wife, to my own kids -- "

"Kassidy's not his wife," Bashir shook his head as if that meant something; it didn't. Kassidy Yates, while she may not be Benjamin Sisko's wife, was certainly a significant figure in his life.

"No, but Keiko is mine," O'Brien assured. "And she's here, yes, she's here -- I guess. I'd like to find out before my anniversary. So where do you want them? It? This one? That one? Whichever. I'm telling you ten minutes, that's all."

"Oh," Bashir glanced down on the field pack. "Well, I imagine the science lab."

"Okay, I got that. It's in the Infirmary, but now you want it in the science lab."

"Well, there really is no reason to put it in the medical lab."

"I'm not arguing," O'Brien said, "I'm just asking. Where do you want this one?"

"The science lab," Bashir said. "Actually, you may as well put everything in the science lab."

"Everything," O'Brien repeated. "Everything," he looked at Worf.

"Yes," Bashir said.

"Kill him for me," O'Brien instructed Worf, "because if you don't, I will. Forty-five minutes -- "

"It wasn't forty-five minutes," Bashir corrected. "It wasn't the point of transporting. It was how you were planning to transport them -- "

"Shut up," O'Brien suggested. "Just shut up."

Bashir couldn't shut up. He was trying to but for some reason the air seemed to be incredibly filled with words like wives, mothers, lovers. Dinner, dates, murder. "Eighty percent, really?" he surrendered to asking Dax. Mainly because she was standing there, close, like a shadow. "That is impressive. I don't think I realized…" he hesitated, wondering if she noticed. "You must have spent a rather significant amount of time."

"Enough," she smiled.

"Yes," he smiled as well. "And, yes, apologies are probably in order, though I have been rather busy -- "

"How are your simulations coming?" she inquired.

"Reasonable," he said. "Much more so if I had a complete genetic mapping…" he caught Worf's eye looking at him, or perhaps Worf wasn't looking at him. It probably wasn't worth the risk in finding out. "Which I will," he concluded.

"Yes," Dax nodded. "Nice try, by the way."

"Oh, you mean Captain Sisko," Bashir answered after a moment. "Yes, well, I tried I suppose is what counts."

"Kira will take care of it," Dax trusted.

"It's not like I don't have anything to do," Bashir agreed, his fingers unconsciously tapping on the field pack the Chief was trying to pry out from under him for some reason; transport probably. He could hear O'Brien in the background of his mind growling and barking over his com badge at Rom.

Dax laughed. "Survey your own kingdom."

"Kingdom?" Odd thing for her to say. Almost as odd as Captain Sisko inviting Kira to dinner. He had to agree with her there; something was going on, more than likely something to do with Shakaar. Their Shakaar, not the Maquis' Anar. Though it still seemed somewhat uncharacteristic of Captain Sisko to resort to wining and dining his Second in Command in an effort to soothe whatever seizure Kira was apt to have over whatever was going on.

"The Infirmary?" Dax was cueing him to the nature and location of his kingdom.

"Oh, " Bashir said. "Sorry, what was I thinking? Yes, certainly, the Infirmary. I was planning on stopping by; I am planning on stopping by, naturally. Are you sure you don't mind, I mean about the science lab? There really is no reason -- "

"No, I don't mind," she shook her head.

"You're a sport," he meant that sincerely.

"And you really are a pretty decent liar," she meant that as well.

"Liar…" he stared at her, into her actually, through her.

Dax smiled. "Now, how do you know they're saprophytes?"

"Oh," Bashir said. "Well, they're either that or parasites."

"Or symbionts," she nodded.

"Except I thought you said they were saprophytes," Bashir frowned.

"No," Dax shook her head. "I didn't say anything. I just brought them in. You said," she poked him jokingly in the chest, "they were probably saprophytes."

No, he said I love you. He meant that. Wholly and completely. He had also said that. Madly, by this point. He hadn't yet said that; he didn't think. He looked away, at the Chief propped up on his elbow.

"I'm just waiting," O'Brien waved. "Just waiting."

"All right, all right," Bashir agreed with a grin for Dax, picking up the selected field pack of contaminated samples and heading for the exit; the corridor; the airlock; the Promenade; the station's Infirmary. He wasn't quite sure how much further away from her he could get unless he took a runabout and left altogether; neither was she. "Ten-hundred? Should be able to at least give them a look by then, you're right. Meet…0900? Medical lab? Probably doesn't even have to be that early. Nine-thirty should be sufficient. Anything else…well, anything else, I imagine, you've entered into the data banks, or you will; I'll find it; figure it out."

He was gone. Five minutes later dropping the field pack down on his desk in his office, himself in his seat, resting his head in his hands.

"Madness," Bashir pronounced the entire situation to be. "This is truly madness." He checked his vital signs deciding his blood sugar was low, it was early, the Infirmary quiet, he just returned from his field assignment, not yet on duty, or even on call, only as far as being the Chief Medical Officer; he left for dinner and Quark's. Rudely brushing past a floral of perfume with straw blonde hair, mauve lips and charcoal-blue eyes attempting to say "Welcome back."

"Or maybe not," the perfume shrugged and wafted away.

"Who's that?" Bashir asked, pausing briefly in his flight to turn around with a frown and turn back to fall into the arms of his evening charge nurse Michelle Faraday. A professional looking woman, older, wiser, and extremely soft, both in her manner and to land on.

"Your new resident?" Michelle jovially removed him from her uniform. "Relax. She's here for six weeks."

"I don't care how long she's here," Bashir assured. "Who is she? What new resident? I don't know anything about a new resident -- Why?" he demanded, "is she saying hello to me when I don't even know who she is?"

"Alexis Ortiz?" Michelle nodded as if that should mean something to him; it didn't.

"Get rid of her."

"Rid of her?" Michelle repeated.

"Yes," he insisted. "I don't care what you do with her, or how you do it -- reassign her; jettison her off the station in an escape pod. Get rid of her. I'll be in Quark's."

"A good or a bad idea," Michelle agreed. She ogled Ortiz. A pretty girl, a young girl, bright enough Michelle supposed. Time would tell.

"Married?" Ortiz wondered what a lot of them her age wondered.

"Thirty-three years," Michelle answered what she always answered.

Ortiz frowned. "Oh, no, I meant -- Doctor Bashir, is it?"

"It is," Michelle helped herself to Ortiz's data padd. "Start your rounds yet?"

Dax actually felt a little sorry for Bashir when he left the Defiant's Infirmary; he looked so uncomfortable.

"Two down," O'Brien hinted from behind her that she was the last of the three. "I know," he stopped her before she said anything about the method of transporting, "sequential."

"Well, I wouldn't call it sequential, actually," Dax smiled.

"No, just orderly," O'Brien said. "Rom!" he hit his com badge.

"Um, yup, right here," Rom answered. "Right here."

"Hold that pose," O'Brien directed Dax, hanging a pack over her shoulder and sticking the last one in her hand. "Rom?" he checked.

"I'm here," Rom assured.

"Then hit it," O'Brien said. "Commander Dax; Science lab -- the station. Not the Defiant's, the station's. On her feet, next to the console. Doesn't have to be on top of it, she'll take it from there."

"You're such an engineer," Dax agreed, a moment later talking to him over his com badge. "Perfect."

O'Brien nodded. "Rom?"

"Oh, yup," Rom said. "I'll take it from here."

"Perfect," O'Brien signed off with a look over Worf, aborted when his com badge sounded again; it was the Captain.

"Chief?"

"Right here," O'Brien rolled his eyes. "We're here; why? Is she?"

"Oh, she's here," Sisko assured, not too excited. "She's here. Major Kira and I are aboard her now -- bay four."

"On our way," O'Brien promised with a crisp nod for Worf. "Get used to it, I'm telling you. Back one day, gone the next, that's just the way it works."

"Yes," Worf was beginning to see how this might be so as they exited the Infirmary for the turbolift, from there eventually shuttle bay four where the Chief surveyed the virgin runabout U.S.S. Styx with a critical, though appreciative eye.

"Big; real big; nice. Why Styx though?" O'Brien questioned Sisko's grin as he moved to look over an equally massive midsection, detached, and waiting to be fixed in place.

"Why not?" Sisko asked.

"It's a ship, and I'm Irish," O'Brien said, "remember? Why didn't they just christen it River of Dead and get it over with -- this it? The science module?"

Sisko couldn't imagine what else it might be.

"Uh, huh," O'Brien said. "And you want this ready when?"

"Tomorrow," Sisko smiled.

"Uh, huh," O'Brien said to Worf after the Captain left with Kira and he called for a full engineering detail, which even then would be pushing it. "Like I said, here a day, gone the next. But, hey, at least your wife is talking to you. Mine? Who knows. But I guess I'll find out; maybe; tomorrow."

"Yes," Worf said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It was early for Quark's also. The glittering multi-level palace of entertainment dominating a central portion of the station's Promenade was just beginning to come alive.

"Julian!" Garak's Cardassian eyes grew wide with delight. Greeting Bashir as he entered the bar like he had returned from life internment in some Cardassian mine rather than two weeks…where?

Garak had no idea, but he would love to know. He was dying to know. Hardly able to contain himself. But then in boastful compliment to Garak's six year career as the station's premier tailor and sole Cardassian resident following his exile from his home world for reasons which remained obscure, was a past spanning a decade or two as an Obsidian Order operant. Cardassia's premier Intelligence Organization prior to falling into ruin a year or so before the first collapse of the Union -- it was almost becoming an annual event by this point. All thanks to his former Eminence Gul Dukat, the Civilian Council before him, and the ineffectual Central Command before them, of which Gul Dukat was a life-long member, naturally.

However, for all the deep and hard feelings of resentment Garak might harbor, and he harbored many, he remained faithful to the world that had spurned him. Confident the Union would rise again, as it had risen…? Garak momentarily lost count as to how many times, distracted by the appearance of Bashir on a fast trot through the door.

"And stay there?" asked Quark, the station's premier Ferengi bartender/owner/business entrepreneur since the days the former Cardassian mining station first graced the skies of Bajor Prime.

Garak ignored Quark to focus on Bashir in his distinctive Cardassian way, with the look that he maintained, the obvious interest, enduring Cardassian curiosity.

"The slobber, the drip, the drool," Quark cracked to Morn, the bar's premier bar stool. A cumbersome, lumbering alien, large and cuddly and amicably mute with a long, broad, chinless face and two hollow legs. "I thought the idea here was to be subtle?" he reminded Garak that what they didn't know about Bashir's and others' mysterious disappearance they could know with the appropriate mixture of tact and ingenuity.

"So, where were you?" he queried Bashir while the Cardassian tailor was busy sizing up his prey. "The attention you've got -- free, I might add. The drinks are not. I don't care how good is good, it's not that good -- especially since," he tipped Bashir off, "we already know how, and we already know who."

"No, I know who," Garak advised Bashir with a smile. After three weeks Quark was still trying to desperately place the face he knew he knew and failed to place despite his boasts to the contrary.

"Okay, fine, don't tell me," Quark shrugged. "I've got a brother who's got a wife who works for me who'd like to keep her job. Do you really think I need you?"

"He does," Garak assured Bashir. "Not that I mean that as encouraging any form of extortion. I, for one, respect Captain Sisko's efforts to maintain a level of discretion, certainly best under the circumstances."

"Which, if you believe that, I've got an investment tip or two I'd like to sell you," Quark nodded.

"Actually, dinner would be fine." Bashir sat down with a tired, perhaps slightly distracted comb of his fingers through his hair, Garak noticed.

"Anyone ever tell you you're boring?" Quark tossed a menu up on the bar.

"Fine," Bashir said. "Make it dinner and a stardrifter. That exciting enough for you?"

"Touchy, too," Quark agreed with a not-too-subtle flick of his head for one of his league of erotic bar hostesses to stop taking in the scenery and do something constructive, like work.

"Tired," Bashir scrolled through the evening's selections, none of which seemed remotely appealing, that included the sensual and supple figure attempting to displace his mood. "Too tired for an interrogation…joking or otherwise," he excused himself out from under the clutches of his visitor. "I'm sorry, but as you can see this seat is taken."

"Viola," Quark made the introductions.

"Charmed," Bashir agreed. "However unless it's a medical emergency I'm not available."

"Sounds like an emergency to me," Quark nodded to Garak. "Okay, you purr, I'll pour. Between you, me, and the synthale we'll get it out of him."

"Stardrifter," Bashir corrected.

"Definitely get it out of him," Quark promised Garak.

"Except there's nothing to get," Bashir assured. "Commander Dax and Major Kira and I were on a field expedition, that's all. We had some trouble with our shuttle and the Defiant had to secure us -- what?" he said to Garak ogling him like he was dinner. "It's true. Spent the last four days listening to the Chief argue about everything he and Rom did right and Kira and Dax did wrong -- which if that's right, Kira and Dax shouldn't have had to do anything. Surely I would be held accountable if I pronounced a patient medically fit for duty and they left the Infirmary to promptly drop dead on the Promenade. No, one can't foresee everything. However, one should be able to be reasonably confident in their life support systems before heading off into space. I'm not saying it was anyone's fault, I'm saying it was asking for trouble assigning us to the Ark. It's simply far too old, and therefore unreliable -- what?" he said impatiently to Quark. "I said I'm not blaming the Chief or Rom."

"You tell a good one," Quark thumped his drink down in front of him.

"Yes," Garak approved with a comforting pat of Bashir's arm. "However, I can assure you, Julian, I do know who. If I didn't find it so amusing, I would be alarmed, disturbed, anyway…Which I do find it most amusing -- quite unlike Major Kira, one would presume," he hinted for Bashir's thorough and complete understanding that he really did know what he was talking about.

"That certainly narrows the prospects down, not," Quark snorted. "I've seen her crack a smile…come to think of it, I'm not sure if I've ever seen her crack a smile. Not even when they took Dukat out of here in his own handcuffs. I would have sworn I'd see one at least then. But what do I know?"

"You mean like General Martok and Enabran Tain?" Bashir countered to Garak, because he did understand what Garak was attempting to convey of how "unusual" would probably not be the way the galaxy viewed an association between Bajor's Shakaar and Cardassia's Gul Dukat, whether it be the two principals themselves, or merely their kindred.

"Enabran Tain?" Garak stiffened, of course he would. Enabran Tain was much more than simply Cardassia's former Chief of Intelligence, he was Garak's father. A man whose expectations Garak never lived up to no matter how much he tried, no more than he lived up to the man. "I fail to see what you're saying, Julian, I must confess, certainly about General Martok."

"You were there," Bashir reminded.

"Yes." On that Dominion asteroid, Julian no doubt referred to, with Martok and Tain, Mister Worf, and several other prisoners, Bashir among them. "So were you," Garak smiled. "Need makes for interesting unity, I must admit."

"Yes, need does," Bashir agreed, if he believed Jadzia's theory, because it was her theory, not his, that was the crux of the matter of friendship between Bajor's Anar and Cardassia's young Gul Dukat. The answer to the mystery. Need.

"How…romantic," Garak just simply said.

"Yes, that would be a fair description," Bashir sighed, thinking of something else. He eyed Quark. "Dinner?"

"Order?" Quark's knuckles rapped the padd.

"I don't care. Surprise me. Anything has to be better than some replicator."

"It is a replicator," Quark assured. "You want food, that'll be ten slips for the reservation and one level up. A little action, a little adventure, and some general fantasy? One up from there. The real thing? Last, but not least…and, okay, maybe not real," he admitted. "Real you can go to jail for. The holosuites they just make me shut down and turn back into storage."

"Since when?" Bashir insisted.

"What do you mean since when?" Quark snapped. "Since the Cardassians left and the Federation took over again. When do you think since when? Look, if I say it's storage, it's storage. To the back, down the end of the corridor, rear of the turbolift, two panels up, third from the left, remove it, it's false anyway; a real shocker, I know. Trust me, no one was more surprised than me. In the meantime, two hundred strips and magic. You're there, you're in, and you can check it out for yourself."

"No, I meant the reservation fee," Bashir shook his head. "Since when have you charged a fee?"

"For the restaurant? Since the Bajoran Maquis paid us a visit -- I know, I know," he waved, "they weren't the Maquis. Fine. They weren't Maquis, and it's not a fee. It's a cover charge to pay for the new and improved décor. But then, hey. You say renovations. You call it a mezzanine. I call it a hole in the middle of the floor where there was never a hole before at the cost of twenty-three tables, not happening…I know food, dinner," he assured with a bellow over his shoulder. "An order of parthas ala Yuta with a nestle of caviar; cheese cake with a slice of apple and a drizzle of uttaberry and apricot syrup wine -- what?" he said to Bashir's groan. "No good? You said to make it interesting."

"Interesting, yes," Bashir said. "I'm not pregnant."

Quark looked him up and down. "Well, if you are someone's got some explaining to do. That 'in surrogate' story's only good once. I've been in dozens of shuttle mishaps. Survived asteroid belts, time warps, you name it. A broken bone or two, I buy. A concussion, plasma burns, black eye. Waking up with my stomach grazing the ceiling? Uh, uh. Spots, ridges, brown, red, or blue hair, some little Julianna Bashir shows up six, seven, eight months from now, or however long you Humans take, I'm asking questions."

"Are you insane?" Bashir had a question of his own.

"Maybe," Quark shrugged. "If I am it comes from standing twenty years on this side rather than sitting on that one -- Okay, scrap the parthas ala Yuta and caviar and make it a Rueben!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Better?"

"Yes, much," Bashir nodded.

"In your opinion," Quark assured. "If I have to kill it before I eat it, I'm not eating it, and I'm especially not eating it if it's never been alive in the first place -- still want the cheese cake?"

"Yes."

"Keep the cheese cake!" Quark barked. "That way when he's in the toilet throwing up no one will have to ask why!"

"Not that it wouldn't be an inappropriate question, regardless," Bashir sipped his stardrifter as he turned around to survey Quark's gambling arena with a wanton eye. "As inappropriate as your and everyone else's apparent fetish with bodies and bodily functions."

"She is attractive, isn't she?" Garak simpered in his ear about Quark's latest edition Viola. "Somewhat less tawdry looking than her predecessor."

"And far more alive," Bashir agreed, "yes."

"Hey," Quark reminded from behind him. "The occupation's over, people have choices. It's hard enough to find them, keep them. I don't want to have to start worrying about any unnecessary details of job risk and finding yourself -- sliced and smeared between two pieces of bread," his stomach rolled with the presentation of Bashir's sandwich that looked far too much like seasoned flesh. "Are you really going to eat that? Correct me if I'm wrong, but that used to be somebody or some thing."

"Yes, I'm going to eat it," Bashir assured. "Take it to go, if you don't mind. It's no more been anything than anything else has ever been anything."

"Uh, huh," Quark said. "That's what they like us to believe. Me? I'm suspicious. The minute someone starts talking food synthesizer, raw material and organic residue I automatically question yes? And? Meaning? From where? Who? What? I lost three waitresses. You want to take your chances you're not eating one of them be my guest. I'll stick to worms, insects, and an occasional plant or two like any other self-respecting Humanoid. To go, you said? Sounds like a deal to me."

He tossed a towel over the plate, garnishing it with the cheesecake. "Consider it and you gone. That'll be an extra ten-percent for take out. Another twenty for the rental of the equipment – non-refundable, I might add. What do I care if you bring it back? I'm still the one who has to put it in the replicator. And fifteen percent gratuity. But then, hey. Where else can you get service like this? Not too many places. Bon appetite."

Bashir left following pleading a temporary shortage in funds, added a macchiato to his order, and the total to his tab.

"It's okay," Quark called after him, "need I say what we don't eat we do sell to those who do…finally," he breathed a sigh of relief to Garak. "I don't know about you, but I thought he'd never leave."

"Except we didn't want him to leave," Garak smiled, "we wanted him to stay. How else do you propose we find out where Julian's been and where he's going? If not why? Surely Julian was our best avenue for information. Surely you don't think either Major Kira or Commander Dax are going to be cooperative, anymore than Mister Worf, Chief O'Brien, or Rom have been despite your threats to terminate Leeta."

"Surely you could have said something about this before," Quark mimicked.

"I did say something before," Garak nodded.

"And you have your ways, and I have mine," Quark assured. "I read Leeta's contract. She doesn't have inalienable rights to work here. I'm the only one who has inalienable rights because I own the place. I don't care what she says. I can fire her. I will fire her. My bar will survive and so will I…maybe," he sighed with a reach for his cane. "Who'd ever thought a shattered knee could hurt so much and take a week to heal? Not me. Something tells me I should be glad she missed and the floor broke my fall."

Funny, but something along that very same idea crossed Dax's mind not ten minutes earlier when she wandered by the Infirmary to deliver the two field packs of contaminated samples that Julian had forgotten to take along with the one he had, and met Alexis Ortiz checking her profile in the main diagnostic display.

"Oh," Ortiz said, startled to find herself under the scrutiny of a six foot Trill rather than an almost six foot man. "Doctor Ortiz…Is this something I can help you with… Commander?" she quickly located Dax's pips, not difficult to do, plainly visible on her collar with her neat upsweep of sable brown hair. "Or is it Doctor?" she verified, the lighter blue shoulders of Dax's jumpsuit confirming science rather than medical but that didn't mean she couldn't be a doctor of something. She laughed suddenly. "Mud. Why do I get the impression of mud? It's not like you're dirty."

"Maybe because you're an empath?" Dax's nose wrinkled as it usually did when she was intentionally being pleasantly coy.

"Or maybe because those field packs have seen better days and far cleaner environments," Ortiz nodded with a reach and offer to give her directions and a hand.

"It's all right," Dax assured, "I know my way." She walked into Julian's charge nurse Michelle Faraday somewhat gentler than Julian had en route to the medical lab.

"Doctor Bashir?" Michelle interpreted the purpose of her visit.

"You read my mind," Dax smiled.

"Not too difficult to do," Michelle nodded, meaning the field packs.

"No," Dax agreed, meaning the blonde. "New staff member?"

Michelle's eyes rolled. "If you want to call her that."

"What else would I call her?" Dax wondered.

"I don't know," Michelle admitted. "Not been here long enough to know if she's good, bad…" she stopped, gossip really not her style.

It was generally beneath Dax as well. "Or knows her way around more than a mirror? I'm sure she knows her way around."

Michelle shrugged, understanding what Dax meant but sticking to her position of whether or not Ortiz did or didn't really not being her business. Keeping the boss happy and following orders was her job. "She's being reassigned."

"Reassigned?" Dax set her baggage down on the console, the lilt in her voice masking the murder she was planning in her mind. "That doesn't sound like Julian."

"Not his type," Michelle shrugged again, meaning Bashir's idea of a qualified physician and so, yes, she probably could have chosen a better way of saying so and probably would have if she wasn't as perplexed as Dax.

"Not his type?" Dax heard herself repeating again along with her laugh. "Definitely doesn't sound like Julian." At what? Five foot seven or so? One hundred and twenty-five to thirty pounds, close enough, in all the right places? Dax believed the expression was. Over twenty and under thirty, blue eyes and blond hair, no, reassigning Ortiz, or whatever her name was, definitely did not sound like Julian. It sounded like fear, guilt, desperately wanting to live to see his meeting with Benjamin at 1000, which wasn't very likely.

Dax moved on though, the protective look beginning to cloud Faraday's face suggesting it was probably wiser. "Where is Doctor Bashir?" she looked around the medical lab that was empty save for them and her two field packs.

"Quark's," Michelle passed off like it was expected and reasonable, and to her it was. Doctor Bashir was hardworking and dedicated and just returned from some dangerous excursion somewhere with every right and reason to unwind and relax the same as everyone else.

"Quark's," Dax wished she could stop echoing Faraday's words, straying away from thinking about Ortiz to thinking about the three entertainment hostesses brightening up the otherwise bleak and solemn morgue the evening of the terrorist attack. "Quark manage to fill his vacancies?"

Faraday snorted that time with a dismissive wave. "Darla, Starla, who knows, who cares, I just nod."

"It's probably safer that way," Dax smiled and left to stop at Ortiz diligently studying Julian's official Starfleet biography.

"Oh," Ortiz looked up from reading one of the more interesting excerpts about Julian's nomination for the prestigious Carrington Award despite his tender, though unmentioned age, at the time.

"Thirty-one, and he lost," Dax saved her the trouble of having to read the last page or doing further research. "You'll find Starfleet is as adamant about discouraging age and gender discrimination, as it is species."

"Which is why there's no mention," Ortiz nodded, aware. "As right we should be. A picture however is optional; I know. It took me forever to decide on mine; even with everyone's encouragement," she laughed. "But then it simply isn't true. I don't look beautiful no matter what."

Dax had to bite her tongue. "You know, I had that same difficulty," she said jokingly instead.

"Age sensitive," Ortiz agreed with another laugh. "Not you, Doctor Bashir. Silly, because he's fascinating no matter how old or young he is."

"Cute, too," Dax supported.

"Definitely," Ortiz assured. "Here I was afraid I would die of boredom -- what do you people do for…well, to keep your sanity, quite frankly? Excitement really would be reaching, wouldn't it?"

"Have you seen the Promenade?" Dax asked curiously, not meaning to suggest Ortiz hadn't lived until she had.

"Yes," Ortiz groaned. "Pathetic, you're right. Unless you like screaming five-year- olds and 100 year old grandmothers trying to look my age; twenty-five…"

"Actually I was thinking more of the entertainment facilities, rather than the restaurants or shops," Dax nodded. "Quark's, if no other…"

"Or being ogled by middle-aged men, like I would even look twice in their direction," Ortiz assured. "I'm Doctor Alexis Ortiz, by the way, Doctor Bashir's new resident. Did I mention that?"

"Which?" Dax requested.

"Either," Ortiz laughed; she laughed a lot, Dax noticed. As often and forceful as Janice Lange. "But then I also seldom give the competition the time of day, I'm sure you can understand that."

"Commander Jadzia Dax," Dax smiled. "Just so there's no misunderstanding."

"About?" Ortiz asked.

"The identity of your competition?" Dax offered. "Even though in my case I think you'll find it's more like a 400 year old symbiont trying to look…well, maybe not twenty-five," she acknowledged.

"Early thirties, no more," Ortiz patted her arm reassuringly. "I was only teasing. I seriously doubt if we are in competition."

"Or you wouldn't be talking to me," Dax recalled.

"Exactly," Ortiz laughed. "But just in case I'm wrong it's only fair I tell you I may not have seen him first, but I have seen him now."

"Meaning?" Dax checked.

"Just that," Ortiz shrugged.

"Well…" Dax smiled, "on a departing note…"

"Yes, please," Ortiz agreed and left her standing there, but only because she caught a glimpse of Michelle watching from a respectable distance. "I'd love to stand around and chat but I am on duty…thanks for the recommendation though, if you want to call it that. Quark's, you said? The Ferengi bar? I wasn't impressed, but then I'm fussier than you are. It's all right, I don't mind giving it a second chance -- dig someone up, just anyone, I'm sure you'll have no trouble and we'll make it a foursome; who knows, it might even turn out to be fun," she set her padd down in Michelle's outstretched hand with a smile. "All living, all bored. Doctor Hamilton's in the lounge if you need her. May I go to dinner now, please? Or do you have some closets you'd like me to clean?"

"Go," Michelle waved. "But be back…" she instructed.

"An hour," Ortiz swore and took off, "or thereabouts…Great!" she caught up with Dax on the Promenade, midpoint between the Infirmary and Quark's with a startling and mildly painful yank of Dax's tight braid.

"Just me," she grinned as Dax grabbed protectively for her hair, whirling around to stare shocked at her assailant who had to be out of her mind. "I wouldn't go as far as saying I'm glad to see you…"

"But I'll do," Dax lowered her hand.

"Yes," Ortiz said.

"How did I know you were going to say that?" Dax nodded tiredly.

"I don't know," Ortiz said. "How did you?"

"I don't know," Dax shook her head. "Apparently I just did."

"Well, maybe you're the empath," Ortiz shrugged.

"Just a Trill," Dax assured. "Still, I wouldn't advise you pull my hair ever again."

"Or what?" Ortiz laughed.

Dax did not. "Or I'll pull yours?"

Ortiz eyed her. "Why do I get the idea I probably wouldn't want you to do that?"

Dax smiled. "Why do I get the idea it's a choice between you're a smart young woman even if you don't care to act like one?"

"Or?" Ortiz prompted wickedly.

"I'm twice your size," Dax complied with a sigh.

"Easily," Ortiz grinned.

"Not quite," Dax assured. "But you're still right."

"Sounds violent rather than wise," Ortiz taunted. "To think I was considering asking you to be my friend."

"What?" Dax said.

"I'm not," Ortiz laughed her obnoxious laugh, in her obnoxious way. "Useful, maybe."

"Useful?" Dax said.

"All right, available," Ortiz groaned. "My God, you can tell you're a science officer."

"Well, that's not the only thing I don't understand," Dax replied. "Nor do I really care to. Now, if you will excuse me…"

"Humorless," Ortiz caught her by the arm. "You're humorless."

"I thought I told you…" Dax glanced at the hand.

"Not to pull your hair?" Ortiz smiled.

"Fine," Dax surrendered before she surrendered to murdering her before Julian rather than waiting until after. "What am I missing?"

"My humor?" Ortiz hinted.

"Except I don't find you funny," Dax shook her head. "I find you unprofessional and grossly immature; intentionally, I would think, for whatever the reason."

"Well, I don't like your hair," Ortiz countered. "I find it matronly."

"Did I mention rude?" Dax wondered.

"Unprofessional and immature," Ortiz shook her head.

"I meant rude," Dax assured.

"Now if I could only manage to be unattractive…" Ortiz laughed. "True or false?"

Dax just closed her eyes after she finished staring at her again. "Yes, of course. What was I thinking? We're in competition."

"Are we?" Ortiz asked bluntly.

"I would have to say…" Dax briefly considered saying no, truly believing for a moment, no. But as if on cue Quark's shapely Leeta, stunning in glittering purple gauze, picked then to scamper past them on her clicking, spike heels with a hasty, breathless "Hello!" and hearty tug, shift, fluff really, of her ample and heavily exposed bosom.

Dax smiled. "Actually, I would have to say it's probably a lot more fun to leave you guessing…that was Leeta, by the way, in case you're wondering. A close and long-time friend of Doctor Bashir's. So see? Just when you thought you only had me to be concerned about, come to find out we're all around you."

"You said concerned," Ortiz corrected, ignoring the warnings and taking her by the arm. "I call it recognizance. Come on. We can be each other's cover."

"Cover…" Dax reacted in spite of herself.

"You're halfway there," Ortiz pointed out. "We'll just go together…Quark's," she huffed to Dax's frown. "I heard Michelle tell you Doctor Bashir is in Quark's."

"I'm not going to Quark's," Dax assured.

"Well, it certainly looks like you are," Ortiz nodded.

"I don't care what it looks like," Dax firmly removed the woman's hand from off of her arm. "Play time's over, Lieutenant. I suggest you get back to work before Doctor Bashir returns…" She walked straight into him, almost. She turned away to exit down the Promenade, into the bulging crowd of tiring hungry travelers, tourists and residents, and suddenly he was right there, dodging his way around a large heavyset Bolian woman moving slowly in tune with her swaying collection of parcels.

"Julian…" she said, abruptly finding herself bounced aside by a pack of Ortiz's "screaming five-year-olds" who looked closer to ten, on a race past her to somewhere.

He ignored her. He heard her, saw her, she knew he did both. Sidestepping the caterwaul of children with a fleeting grin, to continue past her and on, managing his precarious balance of what appeared to be cheesecake, at least on top.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ortiz laughed behind her. Dax turned around to the giggling ruby grin and teasing smoky eyes. "Okay, so I was wrong; you're not lovers. You were just on a field assignment with Major…Kira, is it? What do I know?"

She counted to ten after that for some reason. Enlightening Dax to some theory about how some men really did not like to feel as if they were being chased, before she left on a casual stroll, not a run, back in the direction of what would eventually become the Infirmary. Dax left also, for Quark's. Where Leeta was on a rampage hollering about not being a maid, the color purple, being late, a manager, Rom, and Garak was dutifully attempting to arrange a date between Julian and a violet-haired Dabo hostess also attired in purple, though of a different shade than Leeta's. That explained Leeta's annoyance as it explained Julian's desire to abandon Quark's quickly after he arrived, collecting his dinner and returning to the Infirmary.

Either that or he hadn't intended to stay in Quark's, only there to get dinner. Anyone's guess was as good as Dax's and she decided to give up guessing, along with deciding to forego Quark's. Settling for dinner from the Replimat and returning to the science lab where she stared at the remaining nineteen percent of Lange's inventory waiting to be categorized for the next two hours before deciding it was ridiculous.

"It's ridiculous," Dax pushed herself away from the console to stand in the middle of the floor thinking about what was ridiculous, and that was the odd, strained twist her relationship with Julian had taken, one, for which she wanted an answer.

"A definitive answer," she packed up the field pack she had opened. "I want an answer."

If it was Worf, Nadya, something she had done, something Julian wished he hadn't, whatever it was, the change of atmosphere from the planet to the Defiant, the Ark to the Defiant, she wanted an answer. She stopped in the doorway because if anything was ridiculous, marching into the Infirmary, the medical lab, or his office to demand an answer was ridiculous. Why didn't she just ask him in the middle of the Promenade? Remove herself from a physical confrontation entirely and just hail him over his com badge? She wouldn't. Though not because it would be so grossly inappropriate but because she knew the answer.

"No, I don't know the answer," Dax shook her head. "I don't." She knew what she thought was the answer and that was that it was just simply over. Whatever it was, whatever had happened. Julian had retreated. In a way, with a finality that he hadn't in a long, long time.

"I'm just so upset," Dax stifled a frustrated cry, brushing this one, loose, irritating wisp of hair away from tickling her forehead. This was all so completely unlike her and that was what was most confusing of all. "I'm upset," she insisted. Angry one moment, sad the next, and quite frankly just so tired of being so upset.

She marched out of the science lab, not for the Infirmary, but for Bashir's quarters, to sit outside them if he wasn't there, until he came home. She was marching back in a moment later to snatch up the field pack she had repacked to give herself something to do while sitting inside his quarters not outside, waiting for him to show up home. She was calmer in one way once inside the turbolift and more nervous in another.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Dax chided herself. "I can't believe I'm doing this!" she said incredulous. Julian said she was sick, and quite obviously she was sick. Emotionally stressed if she was nothing else, and whose fault was that?

"Julian?" she pressed the buzzer to his quarters, her voice pleasant and surprisingly calm. "Julian?" she called through the door's invisible seam, a feeling of déjà vu in the air.

A feeling confirmed when she attempted to override his security with her security and the computer told her she didn't have the authority unless it was a medical or station emergency. That was exactly what he did to her aboard the Defiant when they first disembarked from the station to escort the Tir to the Cardassian border.

"Oh, yes, I do have the authority!" Dax kicked the base of the door with a promise to return and left for the security office to borrow one of Odo's security bypass modules.

"Thank you!" Dax said as she swept in to sweep out.

"Anytime," Odo nodded, just presuming she got locked out of one of her Cardassian weapons lockers; he knew how frustrating that could be.

"Where were we?" Dax slapped the module in place on Bashir's door and twelve trials later (she was exaggerating, it was probably no more than six) she was still locked out. Obedient to the module's instructions, the computer still wanted a password to ensure the module was in the right hands. It didn't care if it was spoken, typed, or scrawled across the door, it wanted a password and it wasn't releasing its final hold on the lock until she gave it one; she tried. Simple things. Personal ones. Considering the request for an additional password was a secondary feature, this seemed to be the most logical. Things general villains, murderers, or thieves, wouldn't necessarily think of or know.

That, and Julian would probably just seek to be a little more creative (or silly) than the average officer with their alpha-mega-gamma security refrains. It wasn't a weapons locker after all, it was his personal quarters. So she gave the computer his father's name. His mother's. His birth date. The date of his graduation. The name of the first woman he ever dated, she had no idea who that was and so she just made one up, assuming he had dated someone by the name of Daria at some point in his life.

She gave the computer Melora. A woman she knew he had dated. Leeta. Several more that she did know, and a handful that she didn't. She even gave it the security code 007 for his favorite holographic reenactment program.

She gave the computer everything she could think of in every conceivable combination including a few random standard choices and twenty minutes later (at least) she was still outside in the corridor.

"Julian!" Dax sat down cross-legged on the floor in disgust, her head in her hands, trying to think. "What do you have in there?" she demanded, that required a medical disaster to gain entry even though she didn't have to think about that. She knew what he had in there. Pharmaceuticals. Equipment. Confidential medical logs and files.

"Oh, no," she stared at the door suddenly thinking of the one thing she didn't know and if she did, she had forgotten; why wouldn't she? She was an adult. A science officer.

"Julian," she fell over with a groan to lie on the floor for a few minutes beside her field pack, thinking about what she hadn't thought of. The choice of personal simplicity wouldn't be for the villains, anymore than it would be for someone like her. It was a secondary lock, not a primary one. Possibly the only one he even used half of the time and in place along with all the formal primaries because he had been away from the station and hadn't yet returned to his quarters.

She sat up before someone happened by to find her lying there, understandably curious as to why. She got up because what she didn't know, or had forgotten, she did know someone who did.

"What's the name of Julian's teddy bear?" Dax borrowed Leeta away from her station at the Dabo wheel where she alternated between inspiring good luck and entertainment with her good looks and bright smile, and casting muttering angry glares at her violet competitor hosting the Chula board.

"Oh…" Leeta found Dax's question reasonable amidst the hub of the gambling pit and certainly confidential; she whispered the answer in Dax's ear.

"Really?" Dax said, it not sounding even slightly familiar.

"Yes. Why? Do you think you found him?" Leeta asked, eternally hopeful the bear's mysterious disappearance from her quarters two years ago might one day be solved.

"I have a lead," Dax crossed her fingers and left.

"Now where were we?" Dax slapped the security bypass module back in place on Bashir's door. Seconds later she was inside where panic struck momentarily because she really didn't know if he was there and just refusing to answer her; he wasn't there. His quarters were quiet, cool, and semi-dark, relaxed and peaceful, waiting for him to come home. He had a very different style and taste than she did. Sleek, she would have to say, but not stark. So typically Terran with the generally related furnishings and limited decorations. So unlike her. Distinctly conservative in her appearance, usually in her manner, and so eclectic in her own right and lifestyle. Bohemian, by comparison to him who made a point of trying to look and be Terran society. Natural. Almost native. Almost Klingon. Simply less oppressive and overbearing in her style and tastes that still included the occasional monstrosity of an artifact or curio. Julian's words whenever he had been in her quarters on rare occasions, eyeing her repulsive collections with trepidation, touching them gingerly.

They were two very different people, Julian and she. She knew that. Yet for some reason she seemed to be focusing on it before moving toward his computer console. The room just appeared so very large perhaps? Open. Airy. Relaxed. More personally his than Benjamin's or the Chief's. More private. But then a family did not live there. No children. No mate with her own personality and tastes and hobbies commingled with or disrupting his.

In contrast, her quarters suddenly seemed to be so very crowded, confining, grisly, even though they weren't. Two people lived there not one, neither of them Terran. Julian hung a mirror for an accent piece, Worf hung his ritual painstiks for ancestral and ethnic pride. They were two very different men, Worf and Julian, beyond their markedly different cultures and quarters.

"We're all very different people," Dax set her field pack down on the console. All a study in contrasts between their lives and their loves. Worf with his music. Her with her literature and books. Benjamin with his extensive galley kitchen. Kira's soothing meditations and intensive athletics. She was thinking of hobbies. She wasn't even sure what Julian's hobbies were apart from the mental and emotional stimulation of his career on which he thrived. An occasional tournament of darts with the Chief, perhaps? It wasn't really competitive, only for the Chief, not with Julian's superior eye and hand coordination.

A spring ball match with Kira? Also not truly competitive, except possibly for Julian's level of stamina and endurance. Superlative, superficial socializing then? Matching wits with Garak and/or some fantasy action-adventure holoprogram? Dyaan IX had been an adventure for the first hour or two, her mildly hostile environment challenging him physically. After that it was a nuisance. A week of cold, dark, and rain.

"Lies, love, blood, mud, and mutants," Dax smiled at Bashir's ancient and much-worn stuffed teddy bear. A fuzzy, cockeyed-looking little rascal sitting propped up, some might say, rather boldly on public display considering his reputed status of being MIA.

"You're right," she promised the bear, "there's always blackmail," and got to work on sorting through and cataloging the field pack of samples. Entering them into the system file that Julian had yet to access, or so it read.

"Back already?" Michelle greeted Bashir in the door of his office to give him a hand balancing his dinner, macchiato, and the cumbersome field pack he had slung over his shoulder.

"Couldn't seem to stay away," Bashir agreed.

"I wonder why?" Michelle smiled. "She's still on rounds, in case you're wondering …Where to? In or out?"

"Oh, out," Bashir said. "Lab's fine…who's on rounds?"

"Doctor Ortiz?"

She seemed surprised for some reason when he should be the one surprised and he was. "Alone?" Bashir frowned at the padd she had in her hand. "I realize we appear to be rather quiet, but that hardly warrants leaving her unattended…what year is she, anyway? Can't be much more than first."

"Second," Michelle nodded. "We are very quiet. But, no, she's not alone. Doctor Hamilton just came on…Though I'm sure if you want to take over her supervision, you'll get no complaint."

She was teasing more than she was hinting. He knew why and he declined. "No, that's not necessary." He set the pack down to take his dinner and the padd from her. "Duty roster?"

"You're back," she shrugged.

"So I am. Where do you want me? 0700 all right? Days would be easier for the next week or so. I have this project I really do need to work on for Commander Dax…" he indicated the field pack. "Don't really want to, but if my days are busy and my nights are free, even I can't see where I have much of an excuse."

"You're the boss," Michelle assured, "if you want days, you've got days…She was here, by the way. Twenty minutes after you left."

"Commander Dax?" Bashir paused with a glance down on his com badge. "Odd she didn't just call me…" He grinned suddenly. "Checking up on me, is that what you're trying to say?"

"I don't know about checking up," Michelle said, but then she wasn't aware of any project at the time. "There was a definite silence, yes, when I told her you weren't here. I don't think she expected that."

"A longer one," Bashir imagined, "when you pointed her in the direction of Quark's."

"You said it not me," Michelle laughed.

"Yes," Bashir laughed as well, briefly. Sobering to wonder lightly, "Dax say what she wanted?"

"Only that she would be in the science lab should you have any questions."

Bashir smiled again. "Subtle hint to get to work. Did Keiko O'Brien happen to stop in, by any chance? Either today or yesterday? Doubt if she arrived much before then."

"No…" Michelle answered uncertainly. No more aware of Keiko's plan to return to the station than she had been about whatever project Bashir was talking about, or why he had even left the station. Only what common sense told her, and that was not to escort some Maquis relative of First Minister Shakaar Adon home to his distant colony, it was to escort Doctor Janice Lange home to Cardassia Prime; everyone knew about that by this time. Not the sort of thing one could expect to keep quiet even with the Chief's hearing having been closed to the public. Shocked to hear of the young woman's affiliation with Gul Anon Dukat? Michelle supposed she was as shocked as the next one, and no more shocked than anyone else. Didn't mean the young woman wasn't injured. Didn't mean Bashir wasn't a doctor, acutely tuned to being a doctor, first and foremost, ahead of even being a Starfleet officer. She smiled. "Was Mrs. O'Brien supposed to?"

"At some point," Bashir said. "Quite all right, certain she will. On that note however, I probably should get to work before Dax is back -- and I lose more than my cheese cake," he returned her padd. "I'm serious about discharging Doctor Ortiz. Nothing against her, but I simply don't have the time to supervise any resident right now, as I doubt if any of us do. Today it's quiet. Two weeks ago it was utter mayhem. Who knows what it will be a week from now, I dare not even guess. That's hardly your concern, certainly, but it is mine, and I will be discussing it with Captain Sisko. Together with the distinct possibility of my returning to the Bajoran colonies to retrieve a child in desperate need of medical intervention. That's for your information only right now, though who knows. There's also a chance I might just take you with me."

"Got it," Michelle nodded.

"Thank you," Bashir picked up his field pack and left for the medical lab.

Dax did not return with a fork or a whip, he didn't think she would, certain she was annoyed he had abandoned work for Quark's. He dawdled over his dinner just in case she did come back once determining he was not in Quark's, eating, drinking stardrifters, or playing the Dabo wheel, but in his lab, eating, drinking coffee, and catching the eye of his attractive new resident. Bashir blinked, startled to find the pair of charcoal-blue eyes gazing at him from across his coffee.

Ortiz smiled. "Cappuccino?"

"Similar," Bashir cautiously lowered his cup. "I'm sorry, but if you're looking for something I'm sure Michelle can help you. Other than that, I believe Doctor Hamilton is on call."

"No," she shook her head. "I was just wondering if you needed a hand."

"A hand?" Bashir repeated with a glance at the console that was crowded but blank.

"With the cheese cake," she laughed. "It looks delicious."

"Oh," Bashir said. "Well, no, not with anything, thank you…As a matter of fact…" he straightened up from his slouch, coolly professional and alert as to why she would even be there instead of the Infirmary.

"You're not on duty," Ortiz preempted him. "Neither am I."

"I beg to differ," Bashir corrected sternly, "you are on duty."

"Dinner break. Even doctors eat," she teased. "I'm sure you've heard that before; said it a few times as well."

"Yes, well, whether I have or I haven't," he assured, "is irrelevant. I'm sorry, Doctor -- "

"Alexis Ortiz," she extended her hand. "You must be Julian Bashir."

Must be? Bashir stared at her hand. She knew very well who he was. He stiffened, distinctly annoyed by her assertive, casual manner with its presumption of familiarity that had him a peer, which he was not. Hardly even some supervising staff physician. "Doctor Bashir, Chief Medical Officer," he replied coldly.

"I expected you to be older," she agreed pleasantly, either ignoring or ignorant to his harsh tone. "I'm glad to see I was wrong. Biographies can be vague and so misleading…" She laughed again. "'Well, what exactly does 'distinction as the youngest nominee ever for the Carrington Award' mean when they're all 100 years old; you're only seventy?"

Bashir was of half a mind to think it was him; it wasn't. Frustrated by the situation with Jadzia, annoyed, panic-stricken to the point of paranoia at being found in the same room with some attractive twenty-five year old blonde, the young woman was completely out of line. If she didn't invade the lab, she certainly sought him out, inviting herself to engage him in friendly conversation. He insisted he wasn't her friend, anymore than he was her peer. He was her superior. He rose to tell her that and more and stopped. It wasn't her; it was him.

"I'm sorry," he apologized for any impatience she had to perceive, "but I'm rather…"

"Involved," Ortiz offered.

It was a very good word. "Yes," Bashir nodded. "I am extremely involved right now."

"With a woman or with your study?" she smiled at his stack of odd-looking containers.

It wasn't him. Bashir stared at her. Assertive? He meant aggressive. Flagrant and unacceptably so. He had this absurd mental image of himself hitting his com badge and calling Michelle for help; he didn't. "That's inappropriate," he informed her, deathly emphatic and serious.

She was dense. Certainly not deaf. Intentionally so. "What's inappropriate?" she smiled.

He wasn't getting into it. "You have a choice, Doctor," he said, "you can either return to duty and we can forget this entire conversation or I can relieve you of your duty, ending your assignment here, and quite possibly your career; which is it?"

"Not much of a choice, is it?" she thought about it for a moment before she stood up with smiling apologies. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to intrude."

"Good Lord," Bashir crumbled into his seat when she left. If it was him, it wasn't him in the way he had been thinking it might be him. Obviously there was just something about him that had them clamoring for his attention without any encouragement from him. First the Dabo hostess in Quark's and now this one. Jadzia the only one impervious to his charms or pheromones.

He managed to focus and do some work, not much. Only enough to know the extensive contamination of the samples was through no fault of his, and begin wondering if he wasn't looking at the results of one of Janice's attempts. Still, he couldn't help hoping Michelle would interrupt with some catastrophe, freeing him from his boredom and heavy thoughts; she didn't.

A few hours later he was back in his office idly scrolling though what had perhaps not started it all, but had certainly done its part, and that was his notes on Curzon's manacled hold on Jadzia and Dax. A subject broached, but not pursued. Curzon in turn, no fool, allowing Jadzia her week of freedom on a planet where there was no Worf to protect his interests and detour Bashir. Once aboard the Defiant there was, as here aboard the station, Jadzia immediately back in and under the Ambassador's control. Bashir helpless to do anything shy of confronting her or Worf, which he would never do, anymore than his argument would ever stand up under the glaring spotlight of a peer review.

Foolishly having given into his own emotions, Bashir didn't need a convened panel of physicians to tell him how and where he had gone wrong in Jadzia's treatment plan, he already knew. Changing her status from patient to prisoner, what he truly believed her to be, didn't change any assistance he could hope to offer her would be medical or psychiatric.

The fact that he was deemed unqualified by Starfleet Medical to act as Jadzia's attending physician did not alter how he had obviously chosen to ignore their direction by not immediately contacting the Symbiosis Commission with his concerns. For all apparent and practical purposes appointing himself her caregiver regardless, promptly moving on to violate one of the oldest and strictest ethics of his profession by becoming personally involved with his patient.

Albeit an unwritten rule of appropriate conduct by this century, it nevertheless remained one fiercely upheld by the Federation's staunchly conservative faction. With even the most liberal members of the medical world not likely to view his particular case with much or any sympathy when his idea of therapy in its entirety consisted of a weeklong session of unbridled sex. Adding to that a lacking attention to duty throughout his field assignment, his decision to offer medical care and treatment to the Maquis, and topping it all off with his initial donation of his neuro equipment to Sorge and the Cardassian Union.

"Good Lord," Bashir sighed, also not needing a convened session with Captain Sisko to understand he was as much in danger of losing his head as he was his rank and career should his short-lived love affair with Jadzia be revealed. Uncertain as to the actual category such a crime would fall into, or the nature of the charge Captain Sisko would be inclined to cite him with other than some obscure, made-up-on-the-spot regulation concerning unlawful carnal knowledge of a fellow officer's wife, he simply knew he did not wish to find out. A Lieutenant at the beginning of his tour of duty aboard DS9, six years later he had occasionally briefly achieved and enjoyed the rank of Lieutenant Commander. Losing his promotion or gaining it back in this bizarre cycle of punishment and reward, commonly for reasons no more dramatic or less significant than chronic insubordination, generally verbal. Making Jadzia right when she said he just didn't seem to know when to speak and when to keep silent, and he'd yet to learn. Entwining he and Captain Sisko in this equally bizarre love-hate relationship, the two of them united by mutual respect and personal like and so divided by a clash of opinions and wills.

"Wills," Bashir decided would be the nature of the division between he and Sisko should a division arise. Surely having willfully slept with Jadzia of his own free will, an opinion only that he had such a right being as he did not consider her Worf's wife, having only married Worf under great emotional and mental duress; an opinion with which Captain Sisko would likely disagree.

"Wills and opinions then," Bashir decided around the time he decided it was midnight, 0015 as a matter of fact.

He looked exhausted to Michelle Faraday's mothering eye when he stopped by to say goodnight, sounded it, too. More than discouraged by some project that may not be going as well as he hoped. She noted the field pack he carried slung over his shoulder somewhat absently.

"Don't call," she joked to cheer him. "You'll call us."

"No, please," Bashir agreed. "Not before zero-seven. If I'm not here by then, of course, please do." Ortiz he just gave a courteous nod and left to spend half of forever waiting for a turbolift on the Promenade spilling over with bodies renewed, refreshed from their day's stress and trials, hungry for action, adventure, and more.

He saw the tall, lanky figure of Jake Sisko standing about twenty heads and shoulders away talking to someone he couldn't see, probably Nog. Quark's homunculus nephew and Rom's son, standing at attention down around Jake's waist somewhere. Defying the critics with more than his diminutive size, but by being the first so-far-successful Ferengi Starfleet cadet, not simply the first and only, making his father proud and Captain Sisko relieved, having been the one who chanced recommending his son's partner in juvenile mischief and schemes.

Jake waved with a handsome grin and universal signing for "don't tell". Like Bashir would, like he even cared. Whatever neglect Captain Sisko felt over his only child stopping by for a home-based dinner for the first time in two months, quickly bowing out moments after the table was cleared with some transparent excuse about creative thinking or writer's block, when the truth was Jake simply wanted to spend some time with his friends that he also hadn't seen, Captain Sisko would get over it. If not this year some time within the next few. No longer thirteen, quizzical, watchful, and growing, Jake was nineteen, nearing twenty, a young man, zestful, involved, and self-assured.

"Enjoy it while you can," Bashir lamented sourly, sounding like Garak after too many glasses of kanar. The turbolift finally arrived and while he was unsuccessful in his attempt to convince the onslaught of bodies who appeared quite literally from everywhere that he was in possession of a kingdom of deadly biohazards, and perhaps they'd might want to consider waiting for the next one, he was successful in his bid for the chance to squash himself in with fourteen other anxious passengers too lazy to walk from one end of the Promenade to the other. Dizzy, reeking of ten or twelve different colognes and perfumes he was eventually deposited on his deck where he remembered the location of his quarters even if he didn't remember the walk, rattling through all the required security codes to gain access also by rote. The door slid open and he stepped tiredly inside to halt in the semi-darkness under the unexpected glaring light of his console and shadowy figure of Dax rising to greet him.

She read with a light on in bed when she was supposed to be sleeping and she worked in the dark? Something along those ridiculous lines ran through Bashir's mind, immediately followed by a disbelieving, "Jadzia…"

Admittedly, nothing even close to that ran through Dax's. "I found two more samples you may want to have a look at," she began to explain pleasantly.

He didn't answer her. Just sort of stared at her, from her to the console and field pack and then back at her, visibly having no idea what she was talking about, or why she was there. Dax nodded. Mistake! screaming in her head as it tipped and she agreed, "I should just go -- "

"Darling!" He exhaled, dropping the field pack. Dax heard one of the containers break, glad the pack was rated to contain biohazards, and Bashir was across the room, pulling her into his arms.

"Julian…" He heard her breathe with the same intensity of relief he felt as his mouth connected with hers, her fingers clutching the back of his jumpsuit so tightly the collar of his shirt threatened to strangle him; he didn't care. She caught herself before passion turned to pain. The fever in their embrace cooling to heated sensuality and then teasing; or she was. He was quite serious.

"I guess that answers any question of whether or not I misinterpreted something," Dax suggested coyly as they relaxed into just holding each other.

"Well, if you did, I did as well," Bashir assured. "Oh, darling, I'm so sorry."

"For what?" she smoothed his rumpled shirt.

"Anything, everything," he insisted. "I could feel myself retreating and I didn't want to, but I simply couldn't begin to figure out how not to. It was like I had no control at all, and that's just so insane."

"You have been distant," she smiled.

"Angry," he freely admitted. "So fiercely angry. Jealous. Maddened. But not at you, never at you. Just with everything. All this talk about opportunities, what opportunities? It's all manipulation. Sheer and desperate manipulation of us, time, place. Whether we're grabbing at each other in my quarters or in some turbolift -- and I love you.

"Oh, God, darling, I love you," he clutched her. "It's everything I want and don't want for us, between us, at the same time, when all I really want is you. To be with you. Every hour of every night, and every hour of every day. How was I supposed to just turn that off? After ten days just stop? The two of us just step back and step into living some schizophrenic version of life where we're lovers one moment and coworkers the next?"

"Difficult habit to break," she recalled his forewarning.

"Damn near impossible," he said. "Can you stay? Even an hour? I realize it's late, not very, but enough, and how crass that must sound. But I don't mean -- "

"Yes I can stay," she stopped him from needlessly explaining what he didn't have to.

"Or two?" he kissed her, the incredible heat between them rising immediately, their bodies molding and melting against each other. "I'll work the rest of the night here, in the science lab, medical, if you're concerned about an alibi, or questions from Worf or anyone, I don't care -- Damn!" he said as his com badge sounded. He couldn't believe it. It was like some sort of running gag. Only it wasn't Kira, it was Michelle Faraday above some sizable and loud commotion in the background.

"Yes?" Bashir answered the hail tersely, assuming if they were all screaming and trying to out shout each other's profanities they couldn't very well be dead or too gravely injured, could they?

"You're needed in the Infirmary," Michelle apologized for the interruption.

"I realize someone thinks that," Bashir assured, having realized that when she called and said Doctor Bashir to the Infirmary. "However, I'm not on call. Where's Doctor Hamilton? For that matter Ortiz?"

"Here," Michelle quickly ran down a list of who else was there. That included three of the six staff physicians they had, half the nursing staff, and unless Bashir was mistaken, failing to recognize the feline howl, Leeta. Either struggling with Faraday for control of her com badge, or in the immediate vicinity, snarling meaningless threats like, "I said, shut up! Don't touch me! Gimmick? I'll give you a gimmick! Right here!"

Whatever Leeta did Bashir suspected to be somewhat more risqué than violent as many of the screaming crowd momentarily forgot their differences to explode in a whooping, cheering round of whistles and applause, much to Leeta's satisfaction.

"Now that's a gimmick! Don't tell me! I have statutory rights! Who won the war, anyway? Was it you? No! But it was me!"

"Garak?" Bashir mouthed to Dax with a frown.

"I was thinking Quark?" she shrugged, equally mute, and thinking obviously of a different war.

They were both wrong, but that was unknown and rather unimportant right now. "Doctor?" Faraday was inquiring, around, between, Leeta now screaming, "Julian? Is that you, Julian? Well, you listen to me, Doctor Julian Bashir!"

She fell abruptly silent, Bashir could only guess why. Michelle far less desperate though still flustered, verifying if he was there. Bashir sighed. "Yes, I'm here, and I'll be right there."

"Thank you," she signed off.

Dax smiled, interpreting Leeta's "statutory rights" and the possible cause behind the ruckus in the Infirmary. "Darla, perhaps…or is it Starla?" she laughed at Bashir's perplexed look. "Quark's new hostess. The one with the violet wig?"

"Oh," Bashir said. "Well, actually, I think it's something like Viola."

"Makes sense," Dax accepted. "The name?" she offered when it didn't make much sense to him. "Something to do with the color purple?"

"Oh," Bashir said. "Well, yes, I suppose it does…purple, violet."

"Leeta was in quite a state," Dax remembered.

"Apparently still is," Bashir agreed though it was hardly something that was on his mind. "Stay?" he hoped. "Please? It should only be a few minutes."

"I'll be here," she nodded.

"Good," he kissed her, promising to be right back and left. His dropped, forgotten field pack still on the floor.

Dax smiled, deciding to just take the contaminated pack to the science lab instead of calling for transport and accompanying quarantine field. Ten minutes later she was back. An hour later, Julian wasn't. By 0200 when Bashir still hadn't returned, she kicked off her boots, curling her legs comfortably underneath her as she sat at the console determined to finish cataloging the samples she had with her.

At 0349 she downloaded the completed base analysis, collected his stuffed bear to keep her company while she read through the data, relaxing on his bed. Too tired to care, or react to the fact she was lying on his bed in his quarters for the first time in either of their lives, regardless of the intimacy that had already occurred between them. This was different. It was very different. A confirmation of who and what they were. She fell asleep shortly after that, the light on, the data padd still in her hand, and never so much as a thought about Worf. It was like she didn't remember him at all; she didn't.