shepard | The One in Which Shepard Breaks Bashir's Nose [Closed]

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The One in Which Shepard Breaks Bashir's Nose [Closed]

Shepard never gets sick. Or at least, she never admits to it. As first Human Spectre, she had a lot to live up to; as Commander of the Normandy, she had a lot of responsibilities. The only time she had a free moment to hit the ship's medical bay was when she was bleeding enough that medigels weren't doing anything to improve her physical condition.

And Shepard liked to keep those moments few and far between.

Those few times she was sick -- really sick -- she'd inject herself with immunity boosters and get back to work. And if they didn't work, well, she'd just tough it out. Even if the immunity boosters didn't work whatever was in her system out immediately, they definitely hastened her recovery.

Unfortunately, there's no immunity boosters onboard the Prosperina. Or anything like it. Not as far as Shepard could find, anyway. Which meant that she was going to have to treat whatever had afflicted her body the old-fashioned way.

"Do you still have dreams of Deep Space 9?" Shepard asks, taking a long swig of her orange juice. There's a strange sense of fatigue drawn in the lines of Shepard's face this morning as she and Bashir enjoy their breakfast together. It's difficult to know if Shepard's sudden weariness and this morning's topic of choice are linked or not.

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The morning is like any other morning on the Proserpina has been. Dull, with the exception of those more pleasant moments they inject into the day to try to pretend they are not prisoners. He cannot complain about their treatment. It has been safe enough aboard the station, and they have been provided for in the bare minimum. Still, he feels stifled and restless. While Shepard eats methodically, Julian has torn through his breakfast and finished most of it already. He sips in distraction at a glass of water.

There is nothing good about being locked away in a cage, no matter how big or small.

Shepard, on the other hand, doesn't look like she's feeling at her best. While it's not approved of back home, Julian can generally make a fair diagnosis without the use of scanning equipment just by standing in the presence of a person. So he is doing now, as he notes Shepard's sluggishness, her slightly wet respiration. Congestion, but not enough to stuff up her nose, or make her cough. She looks weary.

It could be a flu or cold; it could be innocuous. He pursues the conversation about dreams with most of his senses focused on gauging whether Shepard just had a sleepless night, or is feeling genuinely unwell.

"Of course; I miss them," he says lightly, though he really does miss Miles especially. "And so I suppose...dream about them. But what about you?"

Shepard rarely dreams. Or if she does dream, she doesn't remember them. The only dreams she can remember having in adulthood were really visions: visions given to her by the Prothean artifact on Eden Prime. But even those were gone. Since the Battle of the Citadel, those visions no longer afflicted her when she was asleep -- or when she was awake. It was almost as if Sovereign's destruction had put a stop to her glimpse into the destruction of Prothean civilization.

"I don't," she says. "Sometimes I wish I did, though. It'd be nice to see them again, even if it was just in my head."

She offers Bashir a wry smile, then turns her attention back to the food on her plate. Her nose twitches and she wipes it with the back of her hand and continues poking at her cheese-and-bacon omelette.

"Any big plans for today?" she asks, her tone ironic. There’s not really anything that they could do aboard the Prosperina that they hadn’t already done countless times before. Different TV shows to watch, sure. But that was about as exciting as it really got onboard the station.

Shepard so quickly redirects the conversation when her question is turned back on her that he can't help wondering if she is hiding some deeper worry for her home than the one they all share, here. While Julian has no qualms about discussing his friends and his past, Shepard seems willing only to reveal the most superficial details, and never to linger on them.

He doesn't miss her wiping her nose, and his left eyebrow arcs, his lips pursed in a thoughtful frown.

"Yes, actually." Julian says, setting his glass down and eyeing her archly. "I'm going to come with you to your morning training. See what I'm missing. I'm sure you can put me through my paces?"

This is her chance to admit she's not feeling well without full Doctor Mode turned on her. If she fails to do so, he will not be held responsible for the subsequent motherhenning he has to do.

Now it's time for Shepard's brow to rise. Bashir had seemed so dead against the possibility the last time the topic was broached. "What's with the sudden change of heart?" It's hard for her not to feel a little skeptical, especially given how passionate he felt about it only a few days before.

“I suspect you’re not feeling well,” he says quietly, “and I’m concerned about your health. Do you feel overwarm? You should be resting.”

And well, perhaps his tone is very chiding and a little disappointed, but it’s all for her own good.

Shepard's lips form a tight line; her shoulders stiffen. "I'm fine," she says, lifting her plate and her glass with her as she rises from the table. "But if you want to tag along, I don't have a problem with it. Just know that if you're coming, be prepared for a workout."

She scrapes her leftovers into the trash and dumps off her place and glass. She glances over her shoulder at Bashir -- to see if he really plans to come along -- and makes her way towards the Training Room.

He can't help feeling as though he's just gotten himself into trouble, but Julian follows Shepard's lead, trailing only a step behind her. Pretending not to notice the agitation evident in her posture, he asks calmly, "Did I spoil your appetite? I didn't mean to rush you."

They enter the sparring room, and she only grunts in response.

And then all bets are off: Julian knows a sick person when he sees one, and he's fully cognizant of the fact that Shepard is not hitting him as hard as she normally would. He is also painfully aware of the fact that she has taken offense at his concern, as she boxes him into a corner and nearly knocks him out, then commands him to push back, critiquing his form and correcting his posture before decking him repeatedly.

They're both sweating-- Shepard because she's clearly ill, and Julian because they're working very hard-- when her padded fist connects with his shoulder again, sending him spinning face-first into the wall with a wet 'smack!'

He peels himself from it with an angry groan, pulls off and throws down the practice gloves they were wearing to keep from hurting each other seriously, and traces the slightly swollen column of his nose with a dour grimace, hissing in pain.

Shepard had intended to make the workout more grueling than she would for a beginner like Bashir. A small part of her -- the part of her who didn't want to be mothered over -- was hoping Bashir would just give in and acknowledge that she was in good health and give in after a few punches.

But he didn't.

And so she began to tear into him; she tried to push him harder. She barked out commands as she evaded or withstood his punches. And eventually, she had him cornered.

"You're going to have to hit me harder if you're going to get yourself out of that corner." Her fists are up now, prepared to take whatever hits Bashir plans to send at her. But he doesn't make his move.

And when she sends a gloved fist barreling towards his shoulder, it's with more force than she intended. As soon as her hand makes impact with him, she knows it was too much.

Bashir's face hits the wall with a crack and immediately she regrets it all.

Within seconds, Shepard tears off her gloves and throws them to the ground. "Bashir," she says, taking a step towards him. Her brows furrowed with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Better than you, I suspect," he growls, squeezing his eyes shut as his fingertip grazes a particularly sensitive spot. That's where the break is, then, but it doesn't feel out of alignment. Yelling as much in frustration at himself for letting things get out of hand as anything, he glowers at her. "D'you make a habit of childishly beating up anyone who shows even the least bit of concern for your welfare?"

When she steps towards him, he lifts a hand to ward her off, stepping around her and towards the door. Though his nose doesn't visibly show any damage, he's bleeding from it very slightly, and his right eye is darkening as if bruised. He wipes gingerly at the blood. "Is it such a crime to admit it if you need help?" He sighs, his tone dropping back to a sort of resigned calm from that brief anger.

"Don't be an idiot," Shepard snaps irritably. It's clear she's angry. More at herself than she is at Bashir, but there's still a little anger directed at him, too. If he hadn't been so damned concerned about her welfare, they wouldn't have been sparring in the training room and she wouldn't have hurt him.

If Shepard is listening to him preach, she doesn't seem terribly affected by his words. She pulls out her communicator and starts tapping on the screen. "I'm contacting Dr. Baltar," she says.

Which is really saying something considering how much she's made her mistrust of the man known.

It would be hypocritical to argue with her, so he doesn't. Instead, he leans back against the wall by the door and sighs, eyes turned ceilingward. When he feels the blood trickling down again he tips his head back and wipes at his nose a little.

Now he is starting to sound faintly congested. His voice is also very faint and soft, as it's a little hard to speak while he's out of breath and his nasal passages are aching with every resonation of his vocal cords. "I thought you said you didn't trust him," he decides to say, after a few moments of tense silence otherwise broken only by ragged gasping. He's not as fit as she is, even sick; she definitely winded him.

"I don't," Shepard says as she continues to tap out a message. "But I also know my own limitations." There's a little sting to her tone, as if those words were synonymous with 'I can take care of myself'.

"I know that without medigel, I'm not going to be able to take care of you." She finishes tapping out the message, then snaps the communicator shut. "Keep your head up and your nose elevated," she orders. "I’m going to get you some ice while we wait for Baltar to respond."

Perhaps ungracefully, he starts chuckling, which of course hurts, and sinks to a crouch with a discombobulated grumble for the ache of his nose. His bruised right eye has had time to swell shut now, and he cups it gingerly with his hand, rolling his head back and sighing.

"You're absolutely right." He says, even more quietly, tone a little flat. Julian is trying to conceal his irritation. "Ice would just about do it."

He has nothing to say about whether she can take care of herself or not, but his pointed refusal to acknowledge the claim suggests he disagrees.

Sheapard looks down at Bashir for a second as he voices his affirmation, her expression unreadable. And without another word, she jogs out of the training room towards the nearest replicator.

She returns about a minute later with a handkerchief filled with ice; it's tied at the top to prevent the ice from slipping out.

"Here." Shepard crouches down to his height and offers it to him.

There's a moment of silence and then:

"I'm sorry," she says, her tone softer now. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He accepts the ice, and then applies it carefully, especially at the swelling on his eye. With a quiet nod, he answers, "I know you didn't." A slight smile finds its way onto his face. "Thank you for the ice. And the apology."

It does help, though the ache of his nose is starting to throb with his pulse, now that the bleeding is scabbing over. He licks his lips, and shifts his position, so that he is sitting instead of crouching, one knee drawn up.

Though he has caught his breath by now, he notices that she is still sweating a little. Fighting the impulse to do something about it, he gives her a wry look. "Did anyone ever tell you, Commander, that you fight mean?"

There's definite concern there in the redhead's eyes, in the furrow of her brow. She doesn't let herself relax until he does; when he lowers himself down to a sitting position, she follows suit.

"When you're military, you have to know how to fight mean." Her answer's serious, even though her tone isn't. "You can't always count on the enemy to show compassion, even if you do."

She looks over at Bashir, her head still resting against the wall; it's cool against her face. "You're not the enemy, though."

He is sorely tempted to ask what he is, but suspects that could lead to bad places and holds his tongue. Instead, he thinks that over.

In a low tone, quite candidly, he admits, "I've always had problems with that part." With a low laugh, Julian shuts his good eye, brow furrowed against those less happy memories. "'The enemy' doesn't mean much of anything to me. If someone needs helping, I want to help."

Pointedly, he does not directly address the fact that that is what got them into this situation. "You'd think being abducted and imprisoned by ‘the enemy’ would beat that out of someone. Or at least being suspected of treason afterward might." He sighs. Between the broken nose and his own frustration with the topic, his voice isn't quite steady. He pretends it is. "I know Miles worries about it, from time to time. We've argued about it before."

"It's not easy," Shepard says, turning her eyes back to the line of mirrors across the room. "But sometimes you have to realize that not everyone can be helped." It was a lesson she had learned young. And it was one of the hardest lessons she had to swallow.

"Did that all happen because of the changelings?" she asks when he mentions abduction and imprisoning. It's a topic she wanted to broach since he mentioned it during their first encounter. But she wasn't comfortable asking then; they had barely known each other.

Now, though, they did. And Shepard considered Bashir a friend.

He nods almost imperceptibly. "It would be arrogant for me to think otherwise." And even though he's not especially good at being humble, he's aware that the universe is not all sunshine and rainbows-- despite the insistence of many jaded individuals in his life that his outlook is naive.

Maybe it is. Maybe the universe could use some naivete. Or some hope. "It doesn't mean I don't want to try to help people anyway. It's part of who I am."

Her final question gets him to open his eye again, shifting the ice on his face and pressing it a little harder, staring at her thoughtfully, debating whether to answer or, perhaps, how much to say.

"Yes," he admits at last. "That's all related, yes."

Part of Shepard admires that even despite his experiences he can still cling to the hope that he might be able to help someone, no matter what the situation.

But the other part of her finds herself wishing that he didn't feel that way. Because she was sure that eventually, Bashir would be hurt because of it.

"What happened?" she asks softly.

He seems to struggle with it; with the desire to tell her, and just as much the desire to keep this one thing private, this thing that he doesn't talk about back home so that it doesn't make his friends feel guilty. Julian can see easily enough that Shepard might feel the same; indignant for what happened, or upset by it.

What makes him start to answer is the thought that she, at least, will not think he is complaining to her for failing to notice. Miles and Kira, even Jadzia didn't want to speak to him about it at first, or later, or ever. It made them angry, being forced to confront the fact that they had never once suspected in that month that the man they thought they were talking to had not been there. He doesn't like to remind them of that, he doesn't blame them for it. But talking about it always seems to imply that he does.

"I had been on my way to a conference about treating burns and scarring when it happened." Julian shrugs a little. "I woke up in a Dominion prison camp. They had all sorts there; Klingon, Breen, even a Cardassian by the name," his lips twitch, but not into a smile, "of Enabran Tain."

For a long moment, it seems he might not continue. He is remembering what it felt like, to wonder if he would ever see the station again. It's not different enough from being aboard the Proserpina. Not enough.

"Humans aren't considered especially impressive in melee, and certainly not a doctor, such as myself; but the Jem'Hadar would bring out the warriors-- the Klingons, especially-- and fight them in single combat. One on one; a gauntlet of genetically engineered beings who lived for nothing but slaughter, tearing apart these exhausted men and women. They’d call them out every day, again and again, until the Klingons broke apart. I couldn't watch that." He sighs, rolling his eye at his own impetuousness. "So, I...interfered. You can imagine not with great success. After that, I got to spend most of my time being interrogated, or locked away in solitary confinement. And I assure you, it didn’t stop them from torturing the Klingons. They made sure I could hear it."

A deeply wistful tone enters his voice, but he doesn't acknowledge it. "I was so grateful to be back in the Infirmary, after it was all over. You'd think it'd be sleeping in my own bed, or seeing my friends, but--I felt a little like I’d betrayed them. Those warriors who couldn’t defend themselves; who’d died, instead of getting a chance to escape.” His expression gets bitter here, and terribly lonely. "After that, all I wanted was to work until I forgot the whole thing."

Shepard turns her eyes away from the mirrors across the room and towards Bashir. She's no longer staring at their reflections; her attention is focused on the real thing.

And when he begins to speak, she listens.

Even though their situations are entirely different, she can't help but tie his own experiences to her own. On some level, she understands well what he's going through because she felt that way once, too.

But unlike Bashir, Shepard was able to find closure.

When he finally stops speaking, a silence fills the small space between them. "What could you have done?" she asks, her eyes meeting his own. The question is not rhetorical; she's serious. "What could you have done to change things so they turned out differently? There's no way you could have known that you'd be abducted by changelings. And you sure as hell did everything you could to try and make things right once you were there."

She sets a hand on his leg. "What you did back there -- it's more than what most people would do, Bashir. There's no shame in that."

Swallowing thickly, he does not protest her offer of comfort. It's unexpected but welcome; and rather than explain why he feels like he should have been able to do better-- wishes he could have done better by those people-- he's not so far distant from that time that he doesn't remember how hopeless the situation was. It was ridiculously lucky or the Dominion's plan all along that they'd escaped in the end, instead of getting executed.

"Yes. I suppose there isn't." Lowering the ice as it starts to get too cold and his eye nearly feels numb, he turns the icepack over, as if considering its weight, its effectiveness as both a tool of healing and a weapon. "It still-- bothers me. I hope it always does, as strange as that sounds. I know it's a luxury."

He smiles sadly. "But it's about the only luxury I really treasure. It's the only luxury I'd fight for."

Shepard lifts her hand from his leg and sets it back in her own lap. Her fingers intertwine. "I think that's a healthy way to look at it," she says.

Then silence again. A silence that is remarkably short-lived as Shepard's communicator message chime plays. She fishes the device out of her pocket and flips it open. Within a few seconds, she's navigated to the messages screen.

And she smiles at what she finds.

"I'd forgotten I'd messaged him," she admits, passing the communicator over to Bashir.

FROM: Gaius Baltar
TO: Jane Shepard

Have him drop by whenever. Let him know I'm in the science lab.

"You going to pay the good doctor a visit?"

He laughs drily. “I suppose I will. Take it easy, Commander.” He gets to his feet, and once he’s there, walks steadily out of the room, makeshift icepack still in hand.

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The One in Which Shepard Breaks Bashir's Nose [Closed]

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