The tall, smoothly confident Lieutenant Commander Dax had refused to allow her friend to leave the station unaccompanied. "I still have some outstanding leave," she'd insisted with all the unyielding tenacity she could inject into her voice.

"In the middle of a war?" asked Julian, still doubtful.

But Dax was resolute. "I'm coming with you," was the closest she came to an answer. "I've already confirmed with Benjamin that he's willing to spare us a runabout. And that is my final word on the subject."

The Rubicon levitated from its launching pad and drifted smoothly into the realm of open space. Bashir cast a parting glance over his shoulder, wishing that he could have at least caught a glimpse of the edges of the outer docking ring. The runabout's viewing ports faced forward, not back. He had lost his final chance to farewell this place where once - long ago - he had felt like he belonged.

The captain had granted Jadzia her requested time off, and wished them both the best of luck. Julian found that he was grateful. Luck was about all they could hope for. His last visit to the station had been so fleeting that, already, he scarcely believed that he had ever been there at all. But now, it was just a stop for Federation and Klingon ships to pass through on their way to battle - where too many of his own recent hours had been spent in the snare of a restless and yet peculiarly exhausting semi-wakeful slumber. Deep Space Nine was Dax's home. But somehow, it no longer entirely felt like Julian's.

"You're awfully quiet," Dax had commented, glancing leftward from her position at the helm.

"Mm." Too tired for more than a noncommittal grunt, Bashir leaned back in his chair and kneaded the fingertips of both of his hands.

Jadzia sighed. "Switching to autopilot." She turned back to the console in time to key in the final command sequence - and, with a brief but contemplative look at the steadily advancing vista of stars, pushed herself lithely to her feet.

"I'll…" She spoke with very little attention on her own words, and turned briefly towards the runabout's aft compartment. "I'll get us something to drink."

More tired than he was hungry or thirsty, Bashir responded with a silent nod. He rested his head against the back of his own padded chair, watching as Dax skirted around the dividing partition. In her absence, perhaps, was there just enough time? A moment, to close his eyes without her constant scrutiny - to will the ache behind his skull to subside, and to rub away the deeper pain of twisted muscles in his hands. But it would take him much longer to banish the memory of the secretive, anxious glances that Jadzia had already cast his way.

"She wants to keep me here, Dax."

"Did she tell you that?"

"Not in so many words." Bashir dropped cautiously onto both of his feet and crossed the short distance to the opposite corner of the room. He stayed for a moment, directing his gaze away from the sight of Jadzia's frowning eyes. "But words aren't the only way that a person can speak. And the worst part is, I'm not sure I have the energy to resist."

"Then don't," Dax advised him.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't," she repeated. "The authorities on Adigeon Prime acknowledged your transmissions, didn't they? If Doctor Larkin is still out there to be found, leave it to them to find her. Is it really so bad to stay where they can reach you when they do have news?"

That's the problem, thought Julian. There isn't going to be any news.

Dax's calm blue eyes watched for a reaction. With a silence as though to squeeze all the air from the room, she sighed again, and the tension between them evaporated with her outward breath. "I ought to be going," she told him. "The others on DS9 will be expecting me back. Will you be all right?"

Bashir nodded, forcing his attention away from a dark mottled stain upon the surface of one wall. It had been three full minutes - almost four - since Doctor Nikos had quietly excused herself, and left the pair with privacy enough to speak alone. But the afterimage of her face lingered even more clearly now that she was gone. And there was another, the memory of a woman whose appearance had haunted him since his Academy days.

He shuddered, but presented Dax with nothing but a hastily patched-together smile. "In any case… I'll see you soon enough."

"Is that a promise?"

The tension eased in the expression of her friend. "I suppose it is," he conceded. "I could hardly pass up a chance to see the station again - and besides, I would hate to disappoint Miles."

"Chief O'Brien?" Dax sounded mildly incredulous. "Really? Is there something I'm missing?"

"Just racquetball," Bashir reminded her. For the first time in days, he was grateful for the gradual smile that had crept into his own expression. "He still thinks I owe him a game."

Dax chuckled. But as she turned to face the exit, Bashir reached up with one hand and quickly located the hem of her sleeve. His fingers closed loosely over the blue-green strip at its end. "Dax-" he began, suddenly voiceless again. He didn't look at her directly, but sensed her watching in silent anticipation. "I just want to say. Thank you."

Returning Bashir's smile, she clasped his hand. "It'll work out," she promised.

"I hope so." What further words may have been exchanged between them remained unsaid as Julian pulled her close into a brief but fond embrace. He was choking, unsure which of a multitude of feelings had risen so suddenly to seize the breath from his throat. But he separated himself with gentle certainty - and nodded in response to the silent query in her eyes. There was only one way to make their parting bearable: That the last expression she should receive from him could at least be a hopeful one.

After all, he thought. There's a chance you may never see her again.

The inner sanctum of Nikos' workplace was infused with a steady yellowish gleam, itself a mere shade away from white and reflecting partially from the walls on either side. The ceiling bore the appearance of swirling plaster, although lacking the same light, porous quality. Probably a modern imitation of older materials, guessed Bashir as he glanced at the patterns above his head.

Every passage was straight, perpendicular, and yet somehow not quite evenly arranged. The colour extending across each surface was broken at intervals by deep vertical cracks, where a touch of blue-green suggested the added potential of night-time illumination. When the main lights had dropped to nothing, and the eerie monochrome of sulphur-blue was all that existed to define each long corridor, these would reveal a path through the complex passageways. But in daytime hours, unvaried pastel hues lent a further illusion of size - high, broad ceilings making humanoid visitors seem remarkably small and detached from the scene.

The small, middle aged Bolian who guided Bashir through the building kept a constant eye on his progress regardless of whether she was directly looking his way. Echoes of their footsteps, and even the emptiness around him carried an air of unfaltering surveillance.

"Evening meals are at Nineteen Hundred Hours, lights out at Twenty-two Thirty. Everybody has free use of the common area before that time, and twice-daily supervised access to the courtyard. If you have any other questions, don't hesitate to ask." She rounded a corner to her left.

"And one more thing," she added. "Don't worry if some others round here get a little excitable on occasion. It's a regular part of life in a place like this."

With a periodic glance over her shoulder, the woman retraced her steps to where her latest charge had already started to fall behind. Extending a hand towards him, she took his arm.

"Don't." Julian extricated himself as politely as he could, and shifted a little further from the Bolian's reach. But shallow creases had appeared across her brow, shifting the hairless skin until it was not quite cast into the shape of a troubled frown. The eyes that looked into his were only slightly less blue than her complexion. "Please. I can manage on my own."

It's only temporary. He replayed Nikos' words of only minutes earlier, but found that he was even less convinced than when she had previously spoken them. In spite of any wishes of his own, he had already committed the in-house rules to memory. The passage offered very little distraction for his weary eyes, no change in the prevailing colour scheme, and even fewer glimpses of the outer world beyond. How many others had been handed the promise of a short term respite, only to have days turn to weeks, weeks to years - and hopes of freedom melt away like the last snow of an April dawn?

An old man stared and laughed as they passed, with little mirth and no obvious cause. The Bolian continued until he was out of sight, to where a mute young woman in a gown of moonlight blue watched from the narrow alcove between two cubicles. Thin strands of dark blonde hair hung in smooth, ghostly curtains around the edges of her face. Julian shuddered. He had seen that expression too many times already, most commonly in the indictments of ghouls that continued to haunt his dreams.

"That's not me," he whispered through tightly clenched teeth, pressing the lids of his eyes together as though self-induced blindness would banish the memory of both faces from his world. But with a single breath inward, he steeled himself to open them again. Who was he to assume such things? This woman belonged to the labyrinthine enclosure as much as Bashir did, or his guide. If anybody was out of place here, it was him.

The vigilant orderly turned again, continuing to force a smile. "Don't worry," she promised. "We're getting close."

He blinked, startled. "Close? To what?"

"Your section," the Bolian responded. Somehow, the echoes that followed her cheerful reassurance were even louder than those which had come before.