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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"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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