She turned her head as she rolled out of bed and felt a sharp zap of pain shoot down her neck to her shoulder. It's always the day after, she thought to herself. She'd felt great after the game last night. But she'd overdone it. Her arm was still stiff and sore, too. She wasn't worried though. It would give her an excuse to see how Julian was doing in the Infirmary. She was dressed and ready to go in less than twenty minutes.

The Promenade was still quiet this early in the morning. A few shops were open to offer coffee or breakfast to those coming on duty. Or coming off duty. But it was much more subdued than later in the day.

The Infirmary, however, was always the same. Sure, there were times when there were more patients or more of a sense of urgency, but the feel of the place was the same. Bright, airy, clean, and inviting. Kira couldn't say that about all doctors' offices, but Julian's had always been that way. Here on this dark station or on the bright Defiant. The only time that had changed was when Julian was gone, and even then, it hadn't disappeared completely.

Kira stepped through the door from the still-sleepy Promenade to the fully-awake Infirmary and was greeted immediately by the man she wanted to see.

Bashir rose from the console he'd been studying and smiled warmly. "Colonel. How are you this morning?"

Amazing. She could have sworn he was the same Bashir as before. There was no sign of the weariness she'd seen just a few days before. "Just a little stiff in my shoulder," she told him.

"That was quite a match last night," he said, showing her to one of the biobeds.

That surprised her. She hadn't thought he'd been out much. She hadn't seen him at the springball court. "You saw the game?" she asked, sitting down.

He smiled again. "Well, no," he admitted, "but I heard all about it this morning. Right shoulder?"

Kira nodded and he tested her movement by rotating her arm a bit. She flinched when he ran his fingers along her neck and shoulders, rubbing the muscles gently.

"There is such a thing as too much of a good thing," he teased finally, releasing her. "Go easy on it for a few days." He pulled a vial from a nearby shelf and loaded a hypospray which he placed at her neck. He then began to massage her shoulder, starting right up at her neck. It hurt at first, but the drug was swift and his kneading fingers loosened the knotted muscles until it felt quite good to have his hands there. So good, in fact, that her left side was getting jealous.

"Better?" he asked.

Kira sighed and nodded. "You do good work, Doctor. Now how about you?"

Bashir had stopped the massage at her nod, and now his hands dropped to the mattress beside her. He rolled his eyes. "You're not going to ask me how I'm doing."

"Yes, I am," Kira insisted, "and I want an honest answer, not just 'I'm fine.' You've been back a week. You seem to have settled in here again, but what about the rest?"

"What about the rest?" he repeated, putting the question back to her.

"Well, is it home yet? Is Dax helping?"

He surprised her a bit by hopping up onto the biobed to sit beside her. "She's helping me to understand how I feel, why I'm feeling what I feel. It's still a little too crowded out there just yet. Everyone watches me, asks how I'm doing. I'm not comfortable being the center of attention. But it's getting easier. Every day."

Kira covered his hand with hers for a moment. "I'm glad. Take your time. You don't have to rush it. If you ever want to talk . . . to someone who's not a counselor. . . ."

He squeezed her hand. "I know where to find you."

Bashir walked her to the door and watched her go. He couldn't step across the threshold of the Infirmary with her. Not yet. The staff meeting, his first since his return, was not for another ten minutes. He'd come to work early, since he was up anyway, so he could settle himself. The Infirmary was home to him.

"You know," Jabara said behind him, "I remember when she could do nothing but glare at you in disgust."

Julian smiled, remembering. "It wasn't disgust exactly," he replied, turning back away from the Promenade. "It was exasperation tinged with distaste. I think I did that to a lot of people back then."

Jabara waved a hand to dismiss that thought. "They just didn't know you, and didn't know you were worth getting to know. You get excited about things that they can't begin to understand. They couldn't relate. They learned though. She did."

"Miles didn't like me either," Bashir said, more to himself than the nurse. "He hated me. Told me so. Said I wasn't an 'in between kind of guy.'"

Jabara laughed. "I think he's right!"

"And you?" he asked her. "What did you think of me, way back then?"

Jabara set down the supplies she was holding and crossed her arms over her chest. "When I first saw you, I thought you were far too young. I thought you were Starfleet, an outsider who was going to come in here and show us everything we were doing 'wrong' or backward. I was all set to hate you."

Bashir couldn't think of anything to say. He understood that. He'd seen it a lot with Bajorans. But he'd never seen that from her.

"But then I saw you work," she went on. "Right there, nearly the first day. The Cardassians thought they'd shoot the station out from under us. And there you were, on the Promenade, walking among the wounded, calmly deciding who to treat and how. You were competent, compassionate. And then there was Odo. I saw that. 'Hold it there!' you said, and he did. He wanted to squirm, to find someone else, but you held him with your voice and he couldn't help but obey. Everything I'd thought you were flew out the door right then."

That was a good moment. Odo had harrumphed at him up until then. That one moment earned him some respect. And, more importantly, saved a woman's life. But so much had changed since then.

"I think I snapped at all other doctors while you were gone," she said, picking up the supplies again. "They were too young, too old, too serious, too undisciplined, too arrogant, too bossy, too lenient. There was always something, some way they didn't measure up to you. I think they got the wrong impression of me."

"You know, someday you will have to work with other doctors," Bashir teased. "But thank you anyway."

She smiled again, big and bright. "Just remember all that when you go to that meeting. You're not a stranger. You belong here."

Bashir took a deep breath. The meeting. It was time. "I'll try," he promised. "Hold down the fort?"

"Always."

Sisko leaned back in his seat and tried to appear relaxed. Under the table, though, he gripped the arms of his chair. This was it. He'd avoided--and he hated that he'd done it--Bashir for a week now, but Kira, Dax, and Girani all agreed that Bashir was competent to resume his duties as Chief Medical Officer. That assessment also meshed with Troi's, since she had let him serve in Sickbay on the Enterprise and even on a rather harrowing away mission. And nothing in any of those assessments gave Sisko any indication that Bashir was anything like he'd seen him on the Enterprise. That personality, it seemed, was reserved for him, though a bit of it had apparently shown with Garak.

Sisko couldn't help thinking about what Bashir would be like now. Had the time on the Enterprise helped? Had the week he'd spent here on the station calmed his anger and sense of betrayal? Would being in a group matter? Sisko wasn't ready to meet Bashir one on one yet.

The doors opened and the first of the senior staff arrived. Worf. Not surprising. He nodded his greeting and then took his chair. O'Brien was not long behind. He looked tired but also anxious. "Julian's back today?" he asked.

Sisko just nodded. That was enough. No comment to the positive or negative. Just a nod.

"One would hardly know that he was back on the station," Worf commented.

"He is keeping to himself a bit," O'Brien acknowledged, "but that's not really surprising. He's been through a lot."

"Perhaps too much," Worf grumbled.

That upset the engineer. "What's that supposed to mean?" he challenged. Sisko would like to know as well, but he played it neutral.

Worf looked uncomfortable. But he didn't back down. "He is a healer, not a warrior--"

Sisko cut him off at that. "If you're implying that makes him weak, you're wrong."

The door had opened again. "Wrong about what?" Ezri asked before sitting down next to Worf.

"It is not important," the Klingon muttered. Worf could be diplomatic when he needed to be.

Kira and Odo arrived next and took their seats. "You played well, Colonel," Worf offered.

Kira smiled. "I played too hard. I had to stop by the Infirmary this morning to get the kinks worked out."

Sisko almost thought everyone had stopped breathing, the room grew so quiet. They all wanted to know the same thing. How had Bashir seemed to her?

But they didn't get a chance to ask. The door opened one last time and deposited the young--not so young anymore--doctor. He stood still in the doorway for a moment, as if startled by the silence. But he shook that off and moved to the table. His greeting was simple. "Good morning."

The others smiled their hellos and offered their hands to welcome him back. Sisko just watched. The subtleties of Bashir's greeting were not lost on him. Bashir had meant it for everyone, but had directed it to Colonel Kira. Not to Sisko. Bashir had yet to look at Sisko directly. So it was still there.

Bashir took a seat next to Ezri, probably the one person he'd seen most since his return. "It's good to see you again, Doctor," Sisko offered, trying hard to keep any doubt or wariness from his voice. "You'll be getting a new patient today."

"Thank you, sir," Bashir replied, still not meeting Sisko's gaze. His voice was clipped and formal, but subtly so. No one else seemed to notice. "I assume you are speaking of Lieutenant Mtingwa."

Sisko was surprised, though he thought maybe he shouldn't be. Bashir was on the ball, as always. He'd read the report and gotten himself up to speed before stepping back into his old post. The old Bashir would have done the same thing. Had, in fact, when he'd first arrived on the station and again after their trip to Adigeon Prime. "Yes, as the rest of you may be aware, the lieutenant escaped from the middle of a Dominion experiment. She's been under treatment and constant observation for the last week or so. She's not a changeling, and she's not a clone. We checked for that, too, even hypnotized her to be sure. She did sustain some injuries, some of them severe and unusual. Starfleet Medical wants you on it, Doctor."

"Has she told us more about the experiment?" Worf asked, after a sideways glance at Bashir.

"Not so much," Sisko replied. "She's told us all she knows. You have all read the report?" He waited for everyone to nod in turn. "She was able to give a better description of the base, the barracks she was held in before the experiment, but there wasn't much more she could say about the experiment itself. We have the ship, so describing it is unnecessary. That only leaves the experiment."

"And whatever it is they are trying to do," O'Brien spoke up, "is taking a lot of dilithium. It could be a phase shift, but why that much dilithium? And why the damage?"

"Good questions, Chief," Sisko acknowledged, though he didn't have any answers. "We don't know yet, but the Dominion apparently isn't done. Another shipment was hit yesterday, just outside the Milot system." He punched up a diagram on the screen. "They didn't get much though. It was a decoy. The real shipment went through Kiaral. Mtingwa said the other pilots would disappear about one every four days. They could be getting desperate for dilithium soon. The Alliance will be trying to make sure they don't get it. The Defiant has been assigned to investigate the whole thing. We need to find that base or find the other ships they've been sending out. Chief, you get to take a look at the ship Mtingwa brought back. Dax, see if you can't help her remember anything else that might be helpful."

Bashir had been quiet since he was addressed at the start of the meeting. Sisko hadn't expected more from him. "They're trying to spy on us," he said.

"They have changelings for that," Worf told him.

"The changelings are sick," Bashir reminded him.

"They've used clones," O'Brien offered.

"They used a clone," Bashir pointed out, "and he failed. We don't know that they've tried again. But that's not the point. Such a spy is still an individual. While that's beneficial, it's also limited. One still needs surveillance. That's what they're after. Concealed surveillance."

"It would seem that way," Sisko said.

"Why not just use cloaks?" Dax asked.

"We've got them," Kira replied. "And we can detect them if we know what to look for. They're wanting something unique. Something we wouldn't know how to counter."

Odo grunted. "If they're out of phase we wouldn't know if they were sitting right outside our perimeter."

"Yes, we would," O'Brien countered. "Now that we know what to look for. It only depends on how out of phase they go. And if they go too far, it wouldn't do them any good anyway."

As each person spoke, the other's heads would turn to look at the speaker. Except for Bashir. And Sisko, since he was watching Bashir. Bashir was staring out the window. "It's too simple," he said quietly. Sisko wasn't sure if he was trying to contribute to the meeting or just commenting to himself.

O'Brien asked the question for all of them. "What do you mean?"

Bashir blinked once and turned toward O'Brien, snapping out of whatever state he'd been in just a moment before. "Phase has been done," he said. "It's not that hard. Given, it's rarely been done with a whole ship, even one so small, but it's been done enough. It wouldn't cause that kind of damage. Why would so many prisoners disappear? The ship shifted back of its own volition. It was programmed to do that. They wanted it to come back. They wanted them all to come back. It wouldn't take forty-plus pilots to get it right."

Sisko liked this Bashir so much better than the one on the Enterprise. This must be the Bashir the others were seeing on a consistent basis. "So they're after something more complicated," he summarized. "Can you imagine what?"

"I'll have to give it some thought," he replied.

"Do that," Sisko ordered. "And that goes for everyone. This investigation is our top priority. The Enterprise has been assigned to assist us. They are following up some of the dilithium shipment attacks, trying to trace warp signatures and such. Commander Worf, you'll want to keep in contact with Commander Riker; Chief, with LaForge. That's it. Let's get to work."

He stood and watched them leave. Bashir still hadn't looked at him.

The ship was amazing. Amazing that it had allowed Mtingwa to survive at all. O'Brien thought it looked like it had been pieced together from scrap to begin with. Half the burn marks on the outer hull appeared to be from Dominion and Cardassian weapons fire. The others were made from the inside out. The main hull had been compromised in at least three places. The wings were threatening to split entirely from the rest of the hull. The dilithium containment compartment had been enlarged to the detriment of most of the life support system and one of the ship's engines. The chamber was now filled with large chunks of blackened crystals and a lot of ash. Ash. Dilithium didn't usually turn into ash as it got used up. Not one spot on the inside of the chamber was not blackened by soot and warped by heat.

Just as the report had described, the ship had been gutted of most of the necessary equipment. Only a rudimentary communications system remained, no voice audio and no video. Environmentals consisted only of a small heating unit and several vents around the cockpit. There was no helm. The ship had been controlled entirely by remote. Life support was provided only by Mtingwa's environmental suit and she had been running low on oxygen when the Potemkin found her. The one thing of note that remained was a warp symmetry generator tied into the engines.

O'Brien thought about what Bashir had said about the Dominion wanting a new way to spy. Phase would work, if it wasn't so easily detectable. One could literally be holding position right next to the station observing all the comings and goings of ships. But that was hardly a help if you couldn't hear the comm traffic.

That was something. Comm traffic. Why a comm system at all if they were controlling the ship by remote? They obviously didn't think they needed to speak to Mtingwa since they didn't provide voice communications capabilities. The difference in phase would distort any subspace comm signals coming from the other side. They needed something that could detect and relay comm traffic from the Alliance back to the Dominion base through wherever it was they were trying to go with this ship. So wherever it was, however it was done, had to support the reception and transmission of subspace communications and render them undetectable to their target.

O'Brien pushed himself out from underneath the ship and yelped as his arm got caught on a sharp edge of torn hull. He sat up and wrapped his fingers around his forearm. He felt blood, but he also felt something hard, which stung his fingers. He hated to look, but he had to. He removed his hand and tilted his arm up. A shard of metal from the ship, approximately one and half centimeters long, was protruding from just above his elbow. He hissed as he gingerly pulled it free with his thumb and forefinger. He was about to throw it down on the deck when the thought occurred to him. Now that it wasn't attached to the ship, he could have the science lab run it through any number of tests a lot easier. Maybe wherever it had gone had left something behind as a clue. He clamped the remaining fingers around the bleeding wound and headed for the Infirmary.

Bashir had left the meeting as soon as it broke up. He had excused himself from the others by telling them he had to prepare for Mtingwa's arrival. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. A few minutes of hellos and small talk wouldn't have delayed anything as Mtingwa wasn't scheduled to arrive for another hour. He couldn't talk just then though, without the business of the meeting to focus on. All that was left was Sisko. And Sisko was too much just then.

He brushed past Jabara and kept himself to his office for a quarter of an hour with no disruptions. It helped. His pulse slowed and his thoughts settled on the task at hand: his incoming patient.

He pulled up her records and allowed himself to put Sisko out of his mind. He'd had no idea her injuries were as severe as they were. It was amazing that she'd survived at all. She'd been burned over seventy percent of her body, mostly on her limbs and back, but also partially on her face. Her lungs were damaged from heated air and fumes.

"Doctor?" Jabara called, sticking her head inside the door.

Bashir looked up from Mtingwa's records. "Yes?"

"You have a patient."

It was too early for Mtingwa. Bashir quickly shut down the file and moved into the main room.

"Hi, Julian," Miles O'Brien said. He was sitting on a biobed, holding his left arm in his right hand. "At least I wasn't kayaking," he offered with a grin.

Bashir let out his breath. If O'Brien could joke, it wasn't too serious. "It's the wrong arm for that," Bashir replied, smiling with relief. Then he was serious. He lifted O'Brien's hand away and found a rather deep gash. "How did it happen?"

"Crawling around in that ship." O'Brien cringed a bit as Bashir cleaned out the wound. "Piece of metal speared me. Broke off right in my arm." He held out the piece in his other hand. "Figure we can really run it through the scanners now."

Bashir looked at it then picked up some forceps and took the shard from him. "No reason we can't start right now," he said. Jabara held out a small petrie dish, and Bashir dropped the piece into it. "Start with a scan for contaminants," he whispered to her, hoping that nothing dangerous had infiltrated the wound.

Bashir turned back to his patient. It had only taken a few seconds to give Jabara the shard, but the cut was bleeding again. He picked up the dermal regenerator and began to wave it over the torn flesh, even as he set the biobed's scanners to check for contaminants in O'Brien's blood stream.

"You know, Julian," O'Brien began, hesitating before he spoke again. "I haven't seen much of you since you got back. I won't ask if you're okay. I know how annoying that gets. But we're worried about you."

Bashir felt the walls inch upward inside him and resented it. This was the Infirmary, his Infirmary, his safe place. "Who's we?" he asked, wishing he hadn't. It sounded defensive, or paranoid. Or both.

"Keiko and me," O'Brien answered. "And the kids. Molly misses you."

And Yoshi? Bashir thought. Yoshi probably didn't even remember him. "There's no need," Bashir told him. "I'm okay. It took some time for you to adjust, I remember."

O'Brien nodded. "It did. But you were there when I needed you. I'll be there, too."

That last bit was spoken so quietly. Bashir knew how hard it was for Miles to say that. "I'll remember that," Bashir told him. He finished healing the cut and administered an antibiotic, just to be safe. "There," he said. "All done."

Miles flexed his arm back and forth. "Good as new," he claimed. "I even think I could beat you at darts. Been awhile since we played."

Bashir put on a smile for him. "Ah, but you've had six months to practice. I'd be at a disadvantage."

Miles shook his head. "Not with those genes of yours. Besides, there wasn't anyone to play with."

Bashir was sure that last part wasn't true, but it was nice to hear just the same.

"How about tonight?" Miles asked, getting up from the biobed. "After shift. Just a round or two. I won't keep you. It'll be fun. Maybe help you lose some of your tension."

Bashir doubted very much that playing darts with Chief O'Brien in Quark's with a bar full of people would help him lose any tension at all. But darts with O'Brien was part of that old life he wanted back. He had to try. "Alright," he agreed. "For a little while."

O'Brien's shoulders dropped and he blew out his breath in a smile. "Great! Now, how about that piece from the ship?"

"This way," Bashir said, happy to be getting back to business. But he hadn't missed the relief in the Chief's actions. "Let's see what it tells us."

Kira cleared the Klingon battle cruiser for docking. It had been out for nearly four months now and was in need of supplies and repair. The Defiant hadn't been out to battle in a couple of weeks, but, still, the war went on.

So did other things. Like Julian. Section 31 just wouldn't leave him alone, war or no war. And now it had changed him. While he had seemed himself, though admittedly less cheery, in the Infirmary, he had seemed a bit off in the staff meeting. He had practically run off after it was over, and Kira had noticed how he never once looked at Captain Sisko. As she thought about it, Kira realized Bashir had not come to Ops once since his return. She wondered if he'd seen the captain at all since the airlock.

Captain Sisko, for his part, had looked very tense this last week, despite the lack of action on Deep Space Nine. Of course, he'd been tense since before the war began, and he took the war very much to heart. But this was unusual for him. There was no small talk, no dinners in his quarters, no after-hours at all, really. He was almost being as reclusive as Julian.

Something was going on between the two of them, and the only thing she could think of was Section 31. She remembered the shocked and devastated look on Bashir's face when Sisko had told him to say yes to them when they returned. He'd obeyed the order, on two occasions now. The first had gotten him tortured, and the second had left him marooned. It was possible that Bashir was holding Sisko responsible for that. But why would Sisko allow himself to feel guilty?

Yes, he'd given the order. Even Kira had not agreed with that one. But it was Section 31 who had harmed the doctor. Still, she knew trauma was not a rational thing. Bashir could be angry at the captain because the captain was there to be angry at while Section 31 was not. Bashir could be explained. Sisko wasn't so easy.

Another ship requested docking clearance. The Theresa. The medical ship that was carrying Lt. Mtingwa.

Doctor Bashir stood over his new patient. Despite her time under medical care, she was still in very serious condition. The damage to her lungs was severe, and her condition had actually deteriorated. It had been a delicate transfer from the Theresa to the Infirmary, but now she was resting with as much comfort as Bashir could give her.

Her eyes fluttered for a moment and then opened. She looked around the room a bit and then looked at him.

"Hello," he said, touching her arm lightly. "I'm Doctor Bashir. You're on Deep Space Nine now."

"You're the genius doctor . . . who came back . . . from the dead?" she asked in a hoarse and halting whisper. "Doctor Morton told me . . . about you."

Bashir forced a smile for her. "I wasn't dead," he corrected. "I was marooned. And I'm not exactly a genius." The smile faded. "I was genetically enhanced as a child. Does that bother you?"

"Not if it means you can maybe help me." She shifted position and winced for a moment. "You're one of the escapees?"

Bashir nodded. "So are you now, but I'm surprised you even knew about that."

"All the prisoners knew," she told him. "Gave us hope." She grinned. "And it drove the Vorta crazy."

Bashir chuckled, finding pleasure in her last statement. "Tarnished their record, did we?"

"Two Klingons, a Romulan, a human, and a Cardassian, working together," She spoke with pride and awe. "It's kind of a microcosm of the Alliance--except for the Cardassians."

Bashir nodded. "It's a shame all the allies here didn't hit on it sooner." Still, he knew why the Romulans had finally joined forces. It was nothing like what had happened in the camp.

"You triumphed," she went on. "Working together. That makes me think we can win this war."

Her voice had gotten stronger as she spoke, but she was still having trouble breathing. He knew how severe her injuries were. He knew she had little chance, genius doctor or not, of surviving.

She'd been watching him while he thought, and when he hadn't replied, she spoke again. "Do you think you can help me?"

He'd never been one to give false hope to his patients. That much hadn't changed. "I'm going to try," he told her. "But your injuries are--"

"I know," she said, interrupting. "Doctor Morton told me. My lungs are breaking down, my internal organs compromised."

"Maybe if you could describe more for me what happened to you," he suggested. "I read your report, but I want to know what you saw, what you felt. Did you hear anything? Smell anything?"

She nodded. "The first time," she began, "it wasn't so bad. There was a flash of light. The ship shook. Then it stopped. Everything seemed normal except the stars were a different color, and I could see through the base, like it wasn't really there."

"But the ship was fine?" Bashir asked. "Just then. No heat?"

She nodded again. "Except they'd set it to self-destruct. I could hear the countdown. Thirty seconds. I thought I was going to die then. But suddenly it all started again, just before the count was up, only worse. The flash of light was brighter and it lasted longer. It burned my eyes. The ship shook so hard I thought it was going to come apart. The nose looked liquid, like a bridge in an earthquake, you know? Not solid anymore. And it got hot. I was wearing an EV suit. It had to be burning in there for me to feel it. But I felt it. The air in the helmet became so hot it was like breathing lava. And it smelled funny."

"Smelled funny how?" Bashir coaxed. Her suit should have fed her clean oxygen, which should have caught fire after a certain temperature and with any kind of spark.

"Acrid, like something rotten, but metallic, too."

Bashir could see her eyes were getting droopy. "You rest now," he told her, patting her lightly on the shoulder.

Their time was shorter now. Now that Bashir was back to full, active duty.

Ezri found herself saddened at that. She saw so little of him, as it was. And when she did, he was hiding from her. That was not the way she'd hoped things would be when she'd first heard he was alive. She'd missed him, far more than she'd realized. She'd hoped to see him across a table at Quark's, smiling, reminding her that there were still reasons to smile. Before he'd gone, he just always seemed to be around when she needed someone to cheer her up, or to just sit and understand.

It was unrealistic, of course, and she knew it. Once she found out the circumstances of his disappearance, she knew she'd be his counselor once he was back on the station. Her training took precedence over her daydreams and hopes. He couldn't walk away from what had happened and just be there for her. She had to be there for him.

She had tried to tell herself that she could still be his friend, that she was only his counselor while in session. But the staff meeting had reminded her that that wasn't true. He was her patient. Twenty-six hours a day, whether she saw him or not, whether he hid in his quarters or the Infirmary. He wasn't going to call her to have dinner. He wasn't going to talk to her like he did before. There was a distance between counselor and counseled that made friendship lose its hold.

Ezri didn't want distance. She wanted to be closer. Julian, though, was not ready for such a thing, even if he was willing. And he was her patient. It wouldn't be right. She had to put her feelings aside in favor of his health.

The door chimed. Her heart sped up. My patient, she told herself. She focused her thoughts on the morning's staff meeting and called for him to come in.

"I'm sorry to drag you away from your work," she offered as he sat down.

"It's what the doctor ordered," Julian quipped, though his expression carried more gravity than mirth.

Ezri nodded, staying serious with him. "Would you have done things differently, if your roles had been reversed?"

He looked up, not quite rolling his eyes. "Haven't we already been through this?"

Yes, she thought, and we had a very good talk last time. So she wondered why he was leading her to it again. "What did you think when Miles ditched his counseling sessions after the Agrathi prison?"

"I'm not ditching them," he told her, being defensive in his toned down way. "I'm here."

"But you don't want to be," she said. "You don't want to be here. You don't want to need to be here."

He looked away, and she knew that was as much agreement as she was going to get at that point.

She softened her voice, "We all need help sometimes. Even you."

He didn't turn back to face her, and she knew he was hiding again. A new tack was needed. "How was your first full day back on duty?"

"Fine," he said, still not turning, "at first. Kira came by, and O'Brien. Minor problems. Then she came."

That was the source of his gravity. She could tell the way his shoulders had dropped, the way he'd breathed out that last bit. "Mtingwa?"

He turned back, but his eyes were on the floor. "She's dying. They expect me to pull some sort of miracle."

Dying? Ezri hadn't expected that. Severe injuries, yes, but Captain Sisko had not said 'dying.' "Who expects that of you?" she asked, focusing on her patient, not on his.

"Doctor Morton, the captain, Starfleet Medical, all of them," he replied, still looking at his feet. "Why else would they send her here? I kept Bareil alive. I found a vaccine for the Blight. I'm a mutant."

Ezri hated when he called himself that. The others, Jack and Patrick, had called themselves that with pride. With Julian it was a character judgement. "You can only do your best. If she dies, it won't be because of you. What does she expect of you?"

He sighed. "She just wants me to try."

Martok had offered, and, too often nowadays, Admiral Ross didn't feel like turning him down. Even if it meant eating gagh. The Promenade was noisy, full of people shopping, eating, or just talking. People living. That was the draw. Just living. Just putting aside the war for an hour or two. Captain Sisko had said he'd meet them at the Klingon restaurant.

Ross moved though the crowd and noticed the one person he hadn't expected doing the same. Bashir. It was hard not to notice him as the crowd subtly shifted out of the doctor's way. Ross had heard that Bashir was keeping to himself after duty. And with Lieutenant Mtingwa now in his care, he simply hadn't thought Bashir would be heading to a rowdy place like Quark's. Perhaps it meant he was settling in finally.

As much as Ross tried to push thoughts of Bashir and Romulus away from each other, he had never wished real harm on Bashir. And he didn't want animosity between them. The war was enough animosity. Perhaps Bashir's recent disappearance had given him a new perspective, one where they could go beyond the decorum duty prescribed and move on to genuine civility.

Bashir saw him, too. And he looked a bit nervous. He darted his eyes, and Ross realized he was trying to find a different way around. But someone waved at him. Chief O'Brien. The two used to play darts. Bashir waved back. Trapped, as it were.

That really wasn't how Ross wanted it. He didn't want Bashir running off every time they ran into each other. He wanted to make peace, to move beyond Romulus and the misfortunes that war had forced on them both.

"Doctor!" Ross called out, motioning Bashir over. Ross was standing near Quark's. That and protocol would keep Bashir from avoiding him.

Bashir moved forward, his face unreadable. "Admiral," he offered, no inflection in his voice.

Ross let it go. He was the admiral. Diplomacy was part of his job. Besides, he knew what Bashir had gone through. "I was glad to hear you'd been found." He offered the younger man his hand, and a smile. "Welcome back."

Bashir's eyes narrowed, his hands remained at his sides. When he spoke his voice was cold, not unlike Koval's back on Romulus. "How's that aneurysm?"

Ross dropped his hand. He couldn't say anything more. He couldn't move from that spot. Bashir stepped past him and on into Quark's. He hadn't forgotten, Ross knew, and he hadn't forgiven.

Captain Sisko watched from the turbolift. He'd stopped there when he'd seen O'Brien wave to Bashir, deciding he'd wait until the doctor was safely inside the bar before he met up with Martok and Ross at the Klingon restaurant and vaguely thinking he could maybe beg out of the dinner altogether.

But then he'd seen Ross call Bashir over. Bashir had given a report, sketchy though it was, of what had happened on Romulus and how Ross, supposedly his contact in his mission against Section 31, had not been there when he was needed. One piece not in place and the whole thing had crumbled. If Ross had been there, Bashir might not have turned to Cretak. She might not have been arrested. An illness had detained Ross, but Bashir's dour properness around him ever since had said he resented the admiral for it. Sisko wanted to see now if that resentment would cause Bashir to lose the mask he'd been wearing for everyone else but Sisko.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see Ross offering his hand to Bashir and Bashir refusing it. Bashir said something that left Ross looking pale before joining O'Brien in the bar. Ross stood in the middle of the Promenade for a moment and melted back into the crowd.

Sisko stepped out from in front of the turbolift. He didn't know what exactly Bashir had on Ross, but he felt a bit of relief knowing that he wasn't alone.

"What did Admiral Ross want?" O'Brien asked as Bashir reached him just inside the door to Quark's.

"Just wanted to welcome me back," Bashir told him, not wanting to get into it any farther. It was loud in the bar, and he had to raise his voice so that O'Brien could hear. He moved further inside, hoping to pull O'Brien away from the topic of Ross as he pulled him away from the Promenade. "Find anything new on the ship?"

O'Brien shrugged and followed. "Yeah, don't know what it is yet though. The dilithium broke down on a molecular level, that much is sure. But there's something else there I just can't figure."

They passed the bar and Quark waved them over. "What can I get for you, gentlemen? Doctor, your first drink is on the house."

Bashir regarded him, skeptical of this show of beneficence. "That's generous of you, Quark."

"Consider it a welcome back gift," the Ferengi enthused. "It's a terrible thing to lose a good customer."

Bashir decided not to take offense. "Thank you," he replied. As for the drink, Quark had said 'first' after all. Had he offered more, Bashir would have been suspicious. "Make it a root beer then."

"Wouldn't you like something more substantial, to calm your nerves perhaps," Quark suggested.

"What's wrong with my nerves?" Bashir asked. He'd been trying to hide his insecurities. He'd fooled a Betazoid counselor. How had Quark figured it out?

Quark smiled and brought out a bottle that wasn't root beer. He started to pour. "It's just that it's a big crowd and you've been keeping to yourself. I thought the noise might make you jumpy."

Bashir nodded, relieved it was just that. "With the exception of the last six and a half months, I've lived on this station for the better part of seven years. The noise is nothing new. And I believe I said 'root beer.'"

Quark must have given up on him, because the Ferengi dropped his smile and turned to O'Brien. "What'll it be, Chief?"

"Scotch," O'Brien answered. "My nerves could do with a bit of calming."

Quark poured the drinks and then went to tend other customers. Bashir picked up his root beer and moved towards the end of the bar where their dartboard still hung.

O'Brien was apparently not ready to play, as he took up a stool and sat down with his drink. Bashir would rather have played and left. The noise did bother him, and so had the admiral.

He sat down next to O'Brien and looked over the bar. So little of it had changed. Quark was at the other end, arguing with Morn as usual. Someone shouted 'Dabo!' and Bashir turned. A barely-clad dabo girl was congratulating the winner, a short Norellian with blue hair and a turned-up nose. Nearly every chair and table in the whole establishment was taken. A few of the faces were new to Bashir, but it was still the same Quark's. Only he had changed.

"How's the root beer?"

O'Brien's question brought him out of those thoughts. He realized he hadn't actually taken a drink yet. "It's fine," he said, sipping now. "Just like I remembered."

O'Brien didn't act as if he'd even heard. "You know what I can't fathom? The darkness. How'd you manage without the slightest bit of light?"

Bashir sighed and took an even longer sip. He didn't want to talk about the cave. "It was like being blind," he finally said, trying to dismiss it. "Other senses learn to compensate for the lack of sight. Tell me about your mystery, with the ship."

"All the readings are off," O'Brien said. "They're right, but they're not right. They're just off. It's just strange. I've been puzzling over it all day. I need a break. Shall we play? I've kept your darts."

Bashir looked at the box Miles held out to him. He hesitated to touch it a moment. He hadn't thought about the box for months. "Thank you," he finally said.

They stood up and stepped to the area in front of the board. "You want to go first?" Miles asked.

"You can," Bashir told him. He remembered enjoying darts very much, but it didn't seem that entertaining now. It seemed more of a waste of time. So many other things were more important than throwing darts at a board. His patient was dying, for one.

"So how was it on the Enterprise?" Miles threw his first dart, just above center. A twenty. A good shot. "Did you spend much time with Data?"

"He visited quite often," Bashir told him. "Caught me up on everything, the war, mostly. You know he has an emotion chip now?" The second dart hit a three, just below center.

"Yeah, I'd heard that." Miles threw his last dart dead center. His face lit up in a smile and his shoulders relaxed. "Though I didn't think it was working properly," he added.

Bashir envied him that release of tension. Small talk and a bulls-eye, aided by a bit of scotch. If only it were so easy. "He's got it worked out now. He mostly keeps it off though. The war's a bit hard to take."

"Wish I'd gotten to visit him a bit more." Miles retrieved his darts and stepped to the side. "He was a good friend."

Bashir remembered their compromise and moved back towards the tables. "What about Riker? Were you friends with him?"

"Yeah," Miles replied. "Not as close. He's a fun guy, though. Had a poker game every week with several of the senior staff."

Fun? Bashir wouldn't have called him fun. "So you knew him well?" He took his first shot. Dead center.

Miles harrumphed. "I was kind of hoping you were out of practice."

"Want me to step back more?" Bashir asked.

O'Brien smiled and waved that thought away. "You'd be standing on that table. It's not likely you'll hit all of them."

Bashir nodded and prepared his second dart. "You didn't answer my question."

"Riker?" He took a sip of his scotch. "No, not well. I mean, I knew him. I knew of him. I didn't spend a lot of time with him outside of work." He nearly dropped his scotch when the second dart hit the center as well, knocking the first out of the board. As it was, the liquid spilled on his hands. "You sure you weren't practicing in that cave?"

"I was blind and you had my darts," Bashir told him, but he was just as surprised himself. It used to be hard to hit the board from this distance. He threw the last dart as quickly as he could and, still, it hit center.

They both stood silent for a moment. Bashir couldn't take his eyes off the darts. What six months ago would have thrilled him, now sent a shiver down his spine. "Miles, I'm sorry," he offered.

"For what?" O'Brien asked. "For not letting me win? We don't have to play this. Let's just go have some dinner. Keiko would love to see you."

Bashir shook his head even before he'd decided. He just wanted to go. "Maybe tomorrow," he said, hoping that would placate O'Brien. "I just want to go back to my quarters." He turned to go.

"You didn't finish your root beer," O'Brien tried. But Bashir was already working his way through the crowd.

O'Brien watched his friend go, not sure if he should follow. He wanted to say that the darts meant nothing. But they did mean something, and it was almost scary. Perfect. Too perfect. What did that say about Julian's mind that he could do that without aiming?

But Miles wasn't as afraid of Julian as he was afraid for him. Julian was hurting more than he let on. Miles knew how that felt. He'd done the same after the Agrathi prison. He'd pushed his friends away, including Bashir. He hadn't wanted help, hadn't thought he deserved it.

Maybe Julian felt he'd be weak if he asked for help. They say doctors make the worst patients, and Julian never had been one to talk about his own weaknesses. Miles didn't know what to do. Julian was always the stronger one when it came to things like this.

Suddenly, O'Brien felt a wave of gratitude for his wife. He downed the rest of his Scotch, retrieved the darts, and left for his quarters. For just a moment he thought he saw a strange man in striped clothing from the corner of his eye as he exited the bar. But when he stopped to look closer, the man was gone.

Bashir couldn't stop moving even when he'd returned to his quarters. He felt like a rubber band drawn too tight, like an engine stuck in warp nine. He couldn't stop. His mind wouldn't stop. That was why he couldn't sleep more than an hour or two a night, why he laid awake taking apart the walls in his head, or tinkering in the lower levels. It's why he could put three darts into exactly the same space on a board more than three meters away.

What had he become? For six months in that cave he'd worried about losing his mind. But instead he couldn't get away from it. He wanted to rest, to not think, for even just a little while, but when he tried, the fears would come. Sloan would come and he wouldn't be ready. The Dominion would steal him away before he could think of a way out. His mind was the only defense he really had, the only one he could count on. Too much could happen if he let his guard down.

He took the time to calculate the code and then began to work out. The coded device would keep Sloan at bay for a while longer. And perhaps the war would keep the changelings busy. Tonight, he wanted to sleep.

As he had before, he began with stretches but felt impatient and soon moved on to more exertive exercises he remembered from the Academy. Things he'd learned from Section 31. He practiced movements, martial arts katas and stances, kicks and blocks. When his legs began to shake from fatigue, he dropped himself to the floor to work his torso and arms just as hard.

His uniform became sticky with sweat, but he didn't stop. He could still think. He could still remember all he'd said to Troi, all he'd kept from Ezri. He still felt the energy pumped through his body by his racing heart. He closed his eyes against the stinging sweat that dripped down his face and pushed himself up on his arms. His back strained but he lowered and raised himself again and again.

Bashir let his knees fall to the floor and folded himself back onto his feet, flattening his torso against his thighs and his face against the floor. His arms stretched out before him, reaching almost to the spot where they anchored his pushup. It was a good stretch. But it wasn't enough. His arms were tired, but not tired enough. His mind still ran in circles, thinking this and that, in spite of the fifty push-ups he'd just completed. He wasn't the least tired. His body was, but not his mind. His mind had to be quiet if he was to sleep.

He hadn't told Troi that he wasn't sleeping. He hadn't told Ezri either. He'd be relieved of duty, and the times in the Infirmary were the best part of the day, the times when he almost felt whole again. But the truth about equilibrium, despite the fact that he'd meant everything he'd said when explaining it to Troi, was that it was a fake as much as he was, as much as anything he'd let Troi see or Ezri hear. The real truth, the one he even tried to hide from himself, was that his body was an automatic shell. Each breath was an effort he couldn't help but take. There was a hole inside him, threatening to swallow him up, but his lungs still took the next breath; his heart still beat; his eyes still opened in the morning, even if he hadn't slept at all.

He got back up on his knees and stretched his arms back to their positions. Up on his toes. Down. Back straight. Chin to the floor. Up. One hundred and one. Down. Up. By one hundred twenty his arms were shaking. He forced them to drop him down again and lift him up. Down, up, down, up. Two more. One twenty-five. He didn't stop. Down, up, down . . . . He collapsed, panting to the floor, sweat dripping into his eyes. He didn't even bother to brush it away. He inhaled, first one breath and then others in quick succession. He could wear his body out, but his mind kept going anyway.

Benjamin Sisko tried to listen to the conversation at the table, but his mind refused to stay there. He should have tried harder. He should have pushed Garak instead of letting Garak push him. He should have made an effort to find out who wanted the gel.

Foolishness! he chided himself. Yes, Garak had pushed him, manipulated him into going farther and farther, but he'd taken the first step himself. He'd set out to find evidence that the Dominion was going to attack the Romulans and when there wasn't any, he'd created it. That was his idea, not Garak's. The gel was a detail, one piece of the whole structure that made the lie possible. Not just a lie. A crime.

What would they do if they knew? Kassidy might understand. She'd worked for the Maquis. She broke the law to do something she believed in. He'd believed, wholeheartedly. He was so convinced that they'd lose the war without the Romulans. But she'd had to spend six months in prison. Would she understand why he got to stay free? She hadn't hurt anyone. He'd caused thousands to die, millions.

And Jake. What would Jake think of him? He was supposed to set an example for his son. He was supposed to teach him about ethics and principles.

"Hasn't he been through enough?" Kassidy asked. Sisko snapped back to attention. Bashir again. It was always Bashir.

"That's why they want me to do the story," Jake replied. "Because I know him. They think he'd open up to me, that he'd trust me."

Sisko doubted that. Bashir wasn't opening up to anyone, no one except him.

Kassidy put down her fork. "What did you tell them?"

"That he's a friend. I told them I wouldn't sacrifice a friend for a byline." Jake dipped his head and glanced at the captain. "I also said the station's commander wouldn't allow it."

"You're right about that," Sisko told him. His stomach churned between pride and shame. He had taught his son about values.

Kassidy smiled. "Good for you, Jake."

The door chime interrupted the discussion. "Come," Sisko called. He was surprised to see Admiral Ross when the door opened.

Ross nodded his hellos to Kassidy and Jake. "I'm sorry to disturb your meal, but I need to borrow the captain."

Sisko wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up. "What is it, Admiral?"

"Not here," Ross said. "We're meeting in the Ward Room."

Sisko left his napkin on the table and met the Admiral at the door. "I'll be back," he told his family. "Go on with dinner."

Once in the corridor, he hoped Ross would be more forthcoming. But the Admiral kept silent the entire way. The door to the Ward Room opened, and Sisko saw some familiar faces. Worf, Martok, and Parnal. But there were others. Admiral Benetti and two Romulans Sisko hadn't met.

"Now that we're all here, we can begin," Ross said, as Sisko took one of the two remaining seats.

Worf was standing at the other end of the table. "Two hours ago, Starfleet Intelligence forces confronted and killed a changeling posing as one Doctor Wilhelm Pfenner of the Aranus Institute on Millani Twelve."

"The Millani system is not part of the Federation," Parnal pointed out. Sisko wasn't sure if he was making an observation or an accusation.

Benetti responded, "No, but the Institute employs nearly one hundred Federation citizens. The Millanines requested our help when Pfenner's peers began to suspect him."

"I was not questioning your actions," Parnal explained. "I was questioning the Dominion's. Why Millani Twelve? Was Pfenner working for Starfleet Command? Was he a spy? Millani Twelve is sufficiently distant from the front as to pose no strategical advantage."

"He wasn't working for us," Ross told him. "Aranus is a research institute more concerned with theoretical science than practical. There doesn't seem to be much reason to take Pfenner at all. Which is why we can only assume this has something to do with their recent interest in dilithium shipments."