"There is no gene for fate."

(Gattaca)

(Trivia Note: The four basic proteins of every genetic sequence are Guanine G, Adenine A, Thymine T, and Cytosine C.)

"Can you hear me, Julian?"

…Nathan?

His head throbbed painfully, as if something tight and unyielding had been wrapped around his skull. Weight pressed down upon his chest. His entire body felt numb and desiccated, hands cold and tingling at his sides as, with all the strength he could muster, he willed his reticent arms to move.

They wouldn't.

"Julian."

Panic surged through him. For a brief, terrifying moment he wondered if he was paralysed, or even comatose. But if he was, then surely the voice he'd heard would be talking about him, not to him. Fear means adrenaline, some inner voice whispered at the back of his mind. Use that.

Eyelids fluttering open. Eyes prickled as though with needles, still rolling back into his head…

Follow your senses.

"That's it," said the voice of Hayes. His touch was firm on Bashir's arm. "Good. Now you're getting there."

A dry, ticklish feeling brushed against the back of his throat, so that his first attempt at speech came as little more than a series of ragged, wheezing coughs.

"What…?" he finally managed to say.

"You tell me," Hayes scolded, his voice suddenly hard. "Cyterlin? That's practically a poison, Julian. Another hour could have killed you. Although I suppose we should be grateful that you didn't use such a strong dosage on Nurse Thompson as you did with yourself."

What?

One deep gasp. And a second. Clouds slowly banished by a rising tide of oxygen.

Nathan Hayes was leaning over him, still slightly out of focus, with his mouth set into a grim line. There was something in his hand. Another hypo. But what would Hayes be doing in my quarters? Julian asked himself. And then there were memories forcing their way to the surface.

"That man…"

Hayes' frown deepened. "What man?"

"There must have been another one." Pushing through the sudden attack of grey that threatened to swamp the edges of his vision, Bashir struggled to seat himself upright. He rested his head against the nearest wall and waited for the giddiness to pass - determined that this time, it would not claim him. But as he turned to study the same patch of floor where the stranger had stood, there was no evidence that anyone had even been there.

He had to have been somewhere where I couldn't have seen him,he thought. And they drugged me so that they could make a getaway. But why…?

Rubbing his head where it ached the most, he turned back to Hayes. "You don't believe me…"

Of course he doesn't. Bashir's innermost thoughts were tinged with bitterness. Listen to yourself, ranting on about men who sneak into your quarters and disappear in the dead of night. They probably knew that no-one would believe you. They were most likely counting on it.

And he could have quoted centuries of studies on the subject. Once a person was labelled as insane or unstable, there was very little that could be done to convince anybody otherwise. Ten times more so if they were known to have undergone such extensive genetic tampering.

It was more than his heaving stomach could handle. "Uh oh," said Nathan, and suddenly there was a basin in his lap, and the doctor was supporting him with one arm firmly around his shoulders. Stomach acid burned in his mouth and nose, and the smell of partially digested Klingon food caused the muscles of his throat and abdomen to clench all over again, until there was nothing left but to continue dry-retching over the stinking residue of his own humiliation.

He could taste the thin, acrid coating of bile, and gasped between spasms. Hayes' supporting arm remained around his shoulders, but - illogically, perhaps - Julian silently cursed him for being there at all. Breathe, he urged himself. Just breathe. But he was too exhausted, too abused. Too much valuable air had been forced from his lungs, and he could no longer fight the rising oblivion.

Bashir's head dropped forward, his body slack and suddenly quiet. Placing the container on the floor with one hand, Hayes used his other to lower him gently onto the bed, and made sure to remember to turn him onto his side. He performed a quick scan - enough to ascertain that the young man really had simply fainted this time - and quickly disposed of the contents of the portable basin. They shimmered out of existence, now just a shapeless collection of atoms. But their smell lingered like a persistent ghost. And now, he had a patient to see to.

The first priority now was to get to the Infirmary, and get some fluid to the young man's system. Julian Bashir's hair was rough and tangled, his face ash-pale. Loss of weight had left him compromised, and Hayes did not doubt that he'd known how this would exacerbate the drug's effect. "That's it," he scolded, as if Julian could hear his words. "You're staying where I can keep an eye on you."

Soft pressure of another palm against his own. It was cold to the touch. He forced his dry and aching eyes to open a little way, and there was her face - one that he would never tire of seeing as long as he still lived.

Jadzia.

"Hi," she said.

He swallowed, taking a moment to find where he'd misplaced his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Actually." Dax glanced to one side and stammered a little through her reply. "The truth is, I came with Worf. My injuries turned out to be slightly worse than his this time, and I think he's still being treated now."

A rumble of annoyance filtered through from the adjacent room. She smiled, and even appeared to blush a little. "We were…"

"I get the picture," Julian hastened to say. He started to cough.

Dax's expression quickly changed. "Here." She handed him a glass of water, and propped him up just enough to allow him to drink. "But how are you?" she asked as soon as he was done.

"I'm fine," he replied automatically. But she didn't seem very reassured.

Bashir attempted to lever himself upright, ignoring the shifting ripples that passed briefly in front of his eyes. For now, he needed a steady, unflinching gaze. But Dax held him down with a gentle hand upon his chest. "Easy, Julian," she said, and he gave in.

He pushed away all outward signs of fatigue, and forced himself to look into her eyes. "I didn't do it, Jadzia," he said. "Not this time. I know you don't have any reason to believe me, but it's true."

"You should rest…"

"No," he told her, feeling ever so slightly annoyed. "This is important. There was a man in my quarters. I think there may even have been two. I'll get all the rest you want soon enough. But promise me you'll at least check."

"I will," Dax promised, and her expression hardened when she saw the scepticism on his face. "I will. Now go to sleep."

"Thank you." Bashir relaxed a little, speaking in a soft whisper, and closed his eyes. Perhaps sleep wasn't such a bad idea after all. He really had been so tired…

Strange, that feeling halfway between floating and sinking, limbs and muscles weighted down and drowsy. He could still feel Dax's steady hand upon his own. "You're a good friend," he thought he was telling her. Although there was a chance he may have only dreamt it.

And for the moment at least, he slept.