"A man's faith may sustain his broken body, but when courage dies, what hope is left?"

(Proverbs, x. viii. 14.)

They talked as he slept.

"I never even saw it coming." Miles kept his voice low, standing slightly apart from their agitated huddle. Even on his return from that Dominion prison - had it really been less than a month ago now? - Julian had never looked so haggard. He remembered how his friend had barely responded to his repeated attempts to lighten the mood, or his occasional quips about how it had been easier to be friends with a changeling than it had to be friends with him. But back in his quarters, the man had been eerily thin and pale, with dark, hollow circles lining the base of his eyes.

"None of us did," said Major Kira. Her words were uncharacteristically quiet, close to a whisper.

"I suppose he's grown too good at hiding." The captain spoke with a heavy sigh. "Better than we'd ever realised."

But he was my friend. O'Brien glanced behind him to the Infirmary's main ward. He would have noticed, if it had been me.

There were three others - Sisko and Kira standing at each other's side, and Doctor Hayes, watching silently as if from somewhere just beyond their inner circle. The lines deepened on the doctor's weathered face, but whatever he might have wanted to say, it remained unsaid.

By contrast, the thoughts in Major Kira's intense brown eyes were as clear as if somebody had scrawled them across the nearest bulkhead. Curses on Starfleet, on the admiralty, and on the oh-so-accepting Federation that would strip a man of his future on the basis of something over which he'd never had any control. Those kind of thoughts were easy to recognise. O'Brien shared many of them himself.

But with Bashir, the response had been very different. Before that early morning meeting with Captain Sisko, Miles had watched the doctor swing from anger, to cold silence, and finally to despair and something much more like resignation than true acceptance. Afterwards, he'd just been - well - quiet. They'd shared their weekly darts game together, but the conversation had been cursory, strained, and largely one-sided. Even after realising that his long time rival had been letting him win for the better part of three years, O'Brien had suddenly glimpsed the man's face, and bitten back an urge to comment.

"But what do you do?" he muttered, half to himself. "I mean, we've all seen some pretty horrible things in our time. But at the end of the day, there was always our work to go back to. We've always had that lifeline."

And no time to sit in darkened rooms, staring into the void and stewing in our own despair. He knew as well as anyone alive what that kind of solitude could do to a man.

Hayes' already worried frown deepened still further.

Although his own face did not create such clearly defined grooves, the expression was mirrored on Sisko's brow. "Doctor?"

"It's probably nothing," Hayes spoke in the same hushed whisper. "I'd say he's out of any immediate physical danger. I've been able to flush most of the drug from his system, and I should be able to release him by the end of the day, as long as…"

A flash of anxiety passed almost imperceptibly across Sisko's features. "As long as…?"

"Excuse me?" said a voice from the far end of the room - soft but clear, and infuriatingly polite. "But when you're done talking about me as if I'm not even here, I'd like my clothes back. Uh… Please."

Familiar smells - of slightly dry, sterilised air and bottled antiseptic. A constant, cold light burrowing through his eyelids. Voices. All lowered to a cautious whisper. They were talking about him.

He swallowed, throat as dry as desert sand, and carefully tested his vocal chords with a series of soft, almost silent noises. They seemed to get stronger with each try. When he spoke, his voice was thin, weaker than he would have liked. But it carried well enough to make the other voices stop.

Opening his eyes, he blinked until the colours above him drifted into focus, and resolved into the hovering shapes of Sisko and Hayes. He shied from the light that Doctor Hayes was shining in his eyes, and batted his hand away. "I'm fine," he growled, although his words came out a little slurred and his mouth felt like it had been scraped with broken glass.

Sisko stormed around the ginger haired doctor until he was close enough for Julian to smell the spices on his breath. "You," he commanded, pointing a warning finger as if to drill right through his slender chest. "Are staying right there until Doctor Hayes says you can get up, and not a moment before. That's an order."

With a sigh, Bashir scowled at the snaking IV tubes that someone had attached to his arm. He had vague recollections of trying to struggle, of being held down by two reluctant nurses who flinched every time he moved. So this is what it's come to, he thought. You've known these people for years, and already they're afraid of you.

There was no fear in the captain's eyes, but neither could he bring himself to look upon that flimsy mask set up to hide such anxious sympathy. "I'm not in Starfleet any more," he murmured, so softly that he barely even heard the words himself. "No orders."

"I'm ordering you to stay," Hayes remarked. "And doctor's orders count no matter who or where you are."

Bashir's scowl deepened. "But I'm fine."

"You, sir, are on suicide watch."

"Suicide watch? But… That's ridiculous. I just… I was tired, that's all."

"I'd say it was more than just that, Doctor." Hayes folded well-muscled arms across his chest. "How long since you last ate?"

"Don't call me that!" Even the captain winced at the sudden vehemence in his words. "I'm not a doctor, you hear me? Not any more."

"How long, Julian?"

That was better. He shrugged, but did not look them in the eye. "This morning… Last night… I don't know. I haven't been very hungry recently."

Hayes' expression remained hard and probing. "Lie to us all you want - it makes little difference right now. Just don't play me for a fool. You're losing far too much weight and your blood sugar is dangerously low. If you don't start eating again soon I will keep you here until you do."

"But you can't…"

"Oh, yes I can."

Bashir's eyes sought those of Captain Sisko, but found them just as unwavering. "Please, Captain," he begged, struggling to hold back a rising lump in his throat. He could not bear the thought of any more time spent staring at those walls, or listening to those familiar sounds that only reminded him of all that he had lost.

The captain's face instantly softened. "Rest, Julian," he said, and placed a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Then we'll see."

Feeling painfully self-conscious, alone and defeated, Bashir rolled over so that his back was to the others in the room. "Fine."

There was no more sleep to be had that day, but Julian was remarkably good at pretending. He kept his eyes closed, mostly as a shield against the steady stream of visitors and well-wishers that were a constant presence in the Infirmary's front room. Bad enough that Hayes and his nursing staff should have seen him this way. Not to mention the Chief, Major Kira, Captain Sisko… For a moment, despair and humiliation clutched at his chest like a snake, until he had to force himself to take another breath and fight to suppress the urge to curl up and cry.

Closing his eyes did nothing to block the images and memories that invaded his thoughts. His sense of smell was as acute as ever, and his mind still painted an all too perfect likeness of the infirmary's inner walls. And there were still the words of Rear Admiral Bennet, cutting like a laser through the beckoning darkness. "I'm sorry, Doctor…"

Although apparently not sorry enough to let me stay. He had been the first in a long line of apologists, and Bashir had long since grown tired of hearing how sorry they all were.

Footsteps approached from behind him, followed shortly afterwards by the soft musical tones of a scanning device. He turned to see Doctor Hayes standing over him with an open tricorder in one hand.

"Checking up on me?" he asked.

Looking up from his readings, the doctor smiled. "Ah. I didn't think you were really asleep."

Bashir opted not to comment. "So. Can I go now?"

"First," Hayes said, his expression grim. "I'm going to need some assurances from you."

Julian's face tensed briefly, the kind of marked disgust he associated with having to smile politely when someone served him beetroot, or tube grubs. Sitting upright, he searched the older doctor's face for a concession, a loophole, or anything he could exploit. But he knew from years of experience in similar situations that there was nothing he could think of that Hayes would not have considered already.

He lowered his head, and nodded.

"Good. So you'll be back at 0700 tomorrow for a check-up," Hayes commanded. "And if I have to chase you, then you'll be staying here for at least another day."

Bashir's only response was a softly resigned sigh. But at least this seemed to satisfy the new CMO.

"And," he continued. "After that, I've already booked you into counselling."

A groan of reluctance, but Julian nodded again.

"Then you can leave on one more condition." Doctor Hayes kept his voice firm and insistent. "That you accept the O'Briens' dinner invitation."

Bashir looked up, feeling the pressure on his shoulders increase by nearly double. "I'd really rather be alone right now, Nathan…"

"Uh. Not another word." The doctor raised his hand, silencing him. "You are free to go, but my terms are non-negotiable. And besides, they're already expecting you."