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Chapter Text

"You're going to wear a hole in the deck plating."

Julian looked up from his PADD to find Jadzia watching him with amusement. He'd been pacing—when had he started pacing?—in the small space between the helm and the aft compartment. The Somoni wasn't built for restless energy.

"I'm not pacing."

"You've circled the cabin four times in the last ten minutes."

"I'm stretching my legs. It's a long flight."

"Uh-huh." Jadzia's smile was knowing. She was curled in the co-pilot's seat, legs tucked beneath her in a way that would have given Julian a cramp within minutes. "You're nervous about the conference."

"I'm not nervous. I'm preparing. You can never be too prepared with the kinds of questions the Vulcan delegates ask."

Miles snorted from the pilot's seat. "You've been preparing since we left DS9. At this rate you'll have Taknor’s entire publication history memorized before we reach Earth."

Julian glanced down at his PADD. He'd been reading the same paragraph of Doctor Taknor’s paper on Bolian neurochemistry for the past five minutes without absorbing a single word. "His keynote presentation is important. If I can get him to review my comparative analysis—"

"Julian." Jadzia's voice was gentle. "You know your work is good. You don't need to convince yourself of that."

"I'm not trying to convince myself of anything. I just want to make a good impression."

"You want to make a perfect impression," she corrected. "There's a difference."

Julian opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She was right, of course. Jadzia usually was. So many lifetimes of experience gave her an annoying advantage in reading people.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to everyone who's known you for more than five minutes," Miles said, not unkindly. The console beeped as he ran another diagnostic. "You get this look. Like you're about to take your final exams at the Academy all over again."

"I do not have a look."

"You absolutely have a look," Garak's voice drifted from the aft compartment, smooth and amused. He stood in the doorway. "It's quite distinctive, really. The way your jaw tightens just so. And you get that little crease between your eyebrows. It’s going to give you wrinkles, you know."

Julian resisted the urge to furrow his brow. "I don't have a crease."

"Of course not, doctor." Garak's smile was pure innocence, which meant he was being deliberately provocative. "I must have imagined it."

"Anyway," Julian said, determinedly changing the subject, "Doctor Taknor’s presentation starts at 1400 hours. I need to be at the conference venue by 1330 at the latest, which means—"

"We know," Jadzia and Miles said in unison.

"You've mentioned it," Jadzia added. "Several times."

"I just want to make sure everyone's aware of the timeline."

"We're aware," Miles said. He frowned at his console, tapped something, frowned again. "We'll get you there with time to spare. Stop being so twitchy.”"

"I have not been twitchy," Julian protested.

"You reorganized your dress uniform three times yesterday."

"That was—I wanted to make sure it was properly pressed."

"Uh-huh." Jadzia's smile was knowing. "Let me guess. There's someone speaking you want to impress."

Julian felt heat creep up his neck. "Doctor Temnor is one of the most respected xenobiologists in the Federation. His work on Bolian neurochemistry is groundbreaking, and if I can get him to review my paper on—"

"There it is," Miles said, a trace of amusement in his voice. "The Julian Bashir networking mode. I've seen this before. You're going to follow this poor Bolian around like a lost puppy, aren't you?"

"I am not going to follow anyone around. I'm going to attend his keynote address, and if the opportunity presents itself for a professional discussion—" He was cut off by a series of sharp beeps from Miles’ console. "Is everything all right, Chief?"

"Hmm? Yeah, fine. Just running pre-arrival checks." Miles waved a hand dismissively. "Standard procedure."

Julian wanted to press into Miles's tone, a hint of frustration he couldn't quite place, but Garak spoke first.

"What about you, Lieutenant Commander? Besides delivering me to the tender mercies of Starfleet Intelligence, do you have plans?"

Jadzia's grinned. "I'm visiting the Rozhenko’s, actually. Helena agreed to send me home with some family recipes to make DS9 more like home for Worf."

"You're going to cook?" Julian couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.

"I've cooked before."

"You set fire to a replicator once."

"That was Curzon," Jadzia corrected. "Completely different host, completely different circumstances. Besides, Worf mentioned that he missed his mother's knishes. I thought it might be nice to surprise him."

Eight lifetimes of experience, centuries of accumulated confidence, yet even Dax got anxious sometimes. Julian found it oddly comforting.

"That's really sweet," he said.

"Don't tell Worf. I want it to be a surprise."

"Your secret's safe with me."

"And you, Chief?" Garak asked, settling into one of the rear seats. "Surely you have more planned than equipment maintenance and family reunions?"

Miles's expression shuttered. "Nothing’s more important than seeing Keiko and the kids. Figured it was safer to have them here with her parents on Earth while things escalate."

"I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see you," Jadzia said gently.

"Yeah." Miles's jaw tightened. "Keiko's been having a hard time with it. Being away from the station. Away from me. And Nerys."

Julian glanced at Jadzia, who raised her eyebrows. Miles and Keiko's relationship with Kira wasn't exactly a secret on DS9, but Miles rarely mentioned it directly. The Chief was private about personal matters, even with friends.

"How is Nerys handling it?" Jadzia asked.

"About as well as you'd expect." Miles's Shrugged. "She understands why Keiko and the kids needed to go. Doesn't make it easier. For any of us."

"Long-distance relationships are difficult enough," Garak observed. "I can only imagine… the complexity for you."

His voice lacked the mockery Julian half-expected from it. Miles must have heard it too, because his shoulders relaxed slightly.

"It's not that complicated," Miles said. " You make it work."

"How remarkably simple," Garak murmured. "And yet you're making this trip alone."

Miles's hands stilled on the console. For a moment Julian thought he might snap at Garak, but instead he just sighed. "Nerys can't leave the station. Not with everything going on. Someone has to hold things together with Sisko's."

"Of course," Garak said, edgeless.

"I'm hoping to convince Keiko to come back sooner rather than later," Miles continued, almost as if he were talking to himself. "The kids miss their friends. Molly keeps asking when she can see Nerys again. And Keiko..." He shook his head. "She's safer on Earth, but she's not happy. None of us are."

Julian’s chest tightened. He'd always envied Miles's certainty about relationships, the way he'd built something solid with Keiko despite the challenges of Starfleet life. Learning that they'd opened that relationship to include Kira had surprised him at first, but watching the three of them together, it made sense. They fit.

And now they were scattered across light-years, held apart by a cold war that threatened to turn hot any day.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," Julian said, because he didn't know what else to offer.

Miles just nodded, returning his attention to the console. His hands moved over the controls with more force than necessary.

"You know," Garak said after a moment, tone deliberately light, as if to lighten the mood. "I've always found it fascinating how humans handle separation from loved ones. The way you all scatter across the galaxy, yet maintain these bonds as if distance were irrelevant."

"It's not irrelevant," Julian said. "It's just... necessary sometimes."

"Necessary," Garak repeated, as if tasting the word. "Yes, I suppose it is. Though I must confess, the idea of family visits has always eluded me. Cardassian families tend to be more... self-sufficient."

"You mean Cardassians don't visit their parents?" Jadzia asked.

"We visit when it serves the family's interests. Family is paramount to Cardassian society, yet, but this compulsion to share meals and discuss trivial matters..." He waved a hand.

"Not everything ties to the state. Sometimes we just want to spend time together," Miles said, not looking up from his console.

"A very human perspective."

"Yeah, well. I'm human."

Julian watched the exchange, noting the tension in Miles's shoulders, the careful neutrality in Garak's voice. The two had developed a sort of détente since the Empok Nor incident, but it was fragile. Miles didn't trust Garak—sensible, given Garak's history—and Garak found Miles's straightforward nature both uncomplicated and deeply suspicious.

The Somoni shuddered slightly as they dropped out of warp. Earth filled the viewscreen: that familiar blue-green sphere. Home, for some of them.

"Entering standard orbit," Miles announced. "We're about five minutes out."

"You know," Garak said casually, "I've always found Earth to be remarkably... temperate. So much water. It must make your people terribly complacent."

"It makes us appreciate what we have," Julian replied, not taking the bait.

"Mmm. Perhaps that's why you're all so eager to share it with everyone else."

"Garak."

"Just an observation, my dear doctor. I would never dream of critiquing Federation policy."

Jadzia was grinning now, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Play nice, both of you. Julian has a Bolian to impress, and Garak has intelligence officers to charm. Everyone gets what they want."

"I'm not trying to charm anyone," Garak said, affronted. "I'm merely providing information in exchange for the Federation's continued tolerance of my presence."

"And doing it with such grace," Miles muttered.

Julian felt his stomach tighten. He pulled out his PADD again, reviewed his notes one more time. Doctor Taknor’s key publications, discussion points, intelligent questions that would demonstrate familiarity without presumption...

"You're doing it again," Jadzia observed.

"Doing what?"

"Reviewing the same information for the fortieth time like it's suddenly going to change."

Julian closed the PADD. "I just want to be prepared."

"You've been prepared since before we left DS9." She stretched, unfurling from her seat with feline grace. "In fact, why don't we transport down as soon as we're in range? You and me first. Get you to your conference before you worry yourself into a coma."

"I'm not going to—" Julian started, then stopped. There was no point. "That would be good, actually."

"I'll drop you two off first," Miles said, fingers moving over his console. "Then I'll dock properly and head out to meet Keiko. Garak's debriefing isn't until 1800, so there's no rush on that."

"How generous," Garak murmured. "Being the lowest priority."

"Gentlemen," Jadzia warned. "Let's try to part on good terms, shall we?"

Miles muttered something under his breath, but didn't argue. Julian stood, smoothing his uniform. His bag was already packed, PADD secured in his jacket pocket. Everything was in order. Everything was fine.

"Coming up on transporter range," Miles said. Something in his voice made Julian glance over, but the Chief's expression was neutral. Professional. "Give me a minute to run a final diagnostic."

"Is there a problem?" Julian asked.

"No, just..." Miles tapped at his console. "Had to jury-rig one of the components the other day. The supply chain being what it is these days. Just want to make sure everything's calibrated properly."

"Jury-rigged how?"

Miles’ look gave him all the answer he needed.

“Really? How much are you going to cannibalize the station?”

“Tell that to bureaucrats who've been sitting on my requisition forms for three months!” Miles frowned. “Look, the biological filter was registering false positives, and since DS9 had a spare Cardassian phase discriminator sitting in storage, I replaced it. It’s temporary. I’ll swap it out for proper Federation components once we're back.”

Garak raised an eye ridge. “Temporary fixes have a way of becoming permanent in your capable hands, Chief.”

"It's fine, Garak. I know what I'm doing."

Julian wanted to press, but Jadzia touched his arm. "He's got this. Come on."

She was right. Miles O'Brien could fix anything with spare parts and determination. If he said the transporter was fine, it was fine.

Julian picked up his bag, moved toward the small transporter pad at the rear of the cabin. Jadzia joined him, her own bag slung casually over one shoulder.

"Try not to kill each other while we're gone," Julian said.

"No promises," Miles and Garak replied in unison. They both looked faintly horrified at the synchronization.

Jadzia laughed. "I’ll be back within the hour."

"Coordinates locked," Miles said. His fingers hesitated over the controls for just a moment. "Starfleet Academy, transporter room three. You're all set."

Julian stepped onto the pad, closed his eyes as the transporter engaged. That familiar tingle spread through his body, consciousness riding the carrier wave through subspace—

The sensation lasted longer than it should have.

Julian's eyes snapped open. Something was wrong. The transporter's hum had shifted, gone higher-pitched and discordant. He tried to call out, but his voice scattered across dimensions. He could feel Jadzia beside him, or thought he could, but when he reached for her his hand passed through empty space.

The world twisted.

Then gravity reasserted itself with shocking violence.

Julian hit the ground hard, rolling instinctively to absorb the impact. Pain shot through his shoulder. Cold bit at his exposed skin. He gasped, pushed himself up onto hands and knees.

Dirt. Not deck plating. Not the smooth floor of a transporter room. Dirt.

Above, the sky was stark, blue with the whisper of smoke through it. Trees surrounded him—actual trees, Earth trees, deciduous and looming

This was not Starfleet Academy.

"Jadzia?" His voice came out hoarse. He pushed himself to his feet, spinning around. The topography was dense, echoing with distant sounds he couldn't quite identify. No other transporter signatures. No sign of his friend. "Jadzia!"

Nothing.

Julian's hand went to his communicator. "O'Brien, come in. Chief, there's been a problem with the transport. I'm not at the Academy. I need an emergency beam-out." Static. "Chief? Garak? Anyone?"

Just faint, meaningless static.

He was alone. In a forest. On Earth, presumably, but where?

Training overrode panic. Assess the situation. Gather information. Make a plan. Julian turned slowly, taking in his surroundings. The trees were Earth-native—oak, perhaps, and pine. The temperature suggested northern hemisphere, temperate zone, late autumn or winter. The sky had that particular quality of sun that could cook and burn, if given the chance.

Then he heard it. Distant but distinct. The sound of artillery.

Julian's blood went cold. Artillery. Not phaser fire. Not photon detonations. Old-style, chemical-propellant artillery. Ancient technology.

He moved carefully through the underbrush, staying low. His Starfleet uniform was going to be a problem. Bright colors, distinctive design, nothing remotely appropriate for wherever—whenever—he'd landed. The sounds grew louder as he walked. Voices now, shouting in languages his universal translator struggled to capture over the bombardment. Korean, his mind supplied as he picked out some words. Some Chinese and English mixed in. Military terminology.

Julian crested a small rise and froze.

Below, maybe half a kilometer away, he could see them. Soldiers in mid-twentieth-century uniforms, moving in formation. Vehicles that belonged in museums. The distinctive profile of early Cold War-era military equipment.

Korea. War.

Julian pulled back behind the tree line, his heart pounding. This wasn't possible. Transporter malfunctions didn't send people through time. They caused pattern degradation, molecular dispersion—but they didn't breach temporal barriers. That required exotic matter, deliberate manipulation of spacetime...

Or components that weren't designed to work together.

Movement to his left made him turn. More soldiers, closer than the ones below. Maybe two hundred meters away, moving through the forest in a tactical pattern. Searching for something. Or someone.

Julian pressed himself against a tree, barely breathing. His uniform was too bright, too visible. If they saw him...

But they weren't looking his way. They were focused on something else, sweeping the area with grim efficiency. One of them called out in Korean. Another responded. They were getting closer.

Julian needed to move. Needed to think. Needed to figure out where—when—Jadzia had ended up, whether she was even on Earth, whether the others knew what had happened.

Needed to figure out how to get home.

The soldiers' voices grew louder. Julian turned, moving carefully through the underbrush, every snapped twig like a gunshot in his ears. He didn't know where he was going or what to do

All he knew was that he was alone in the middle of a war zone, with no way home and no idea if anyone was coming for him.

Chapter Text

The heat was unshakable.

Julian pressed himself against the rough bark of a tree, breathing hard. Sweat plastered his uniform shirt to his back despite the temperature being nowhere near what he'd experienced on desert planets or in DS9's malfunctioning environmental systems. But this was different. This was Earth-humid, not the dry heat index of any number of Cardassian planets or space stations.

He needed to think. Needed to understand where—when—he'd landed.

Korea. The war. He'd studied Earth history at the Academy, of course, but long-term campaigns had never captured his interest the way notable battles had. The Alamo had interested him for its desperation, the way outnumbered defenders had held out against impossible odds. The Cold War's height, the brinkmanship that gave birth to his favorite spy and his fantastical tales—those he remembered.

But Korea? Korea had been... what? A proxy war. The first major conflict of the Cold War era. 1960s—no, 1950s. North versus South, communist versus capitalist, with the United Nations forces supporting—which side? The South, he was fairly certain. And it had ended in a stalemate, an armistice that technically left the war unresolved for decades.

Julian closed his eyes, trying to pull up more details. If he'd actually studied this period properly, he'd remember every word, every date, every tactical decision. But he'd been twenty-two and arrogant, convinced that ancient Earth conflicts were less important than xenobiology or cutting-edge surgical techniques.

He'd been an idiot.

A sharp crack echoed through the forest. Julian's eyes snapped open. That wasn't artillery. That was closer. Much closer.

Gunfire.

He dropped instinctively, pressing himself flat against the ground. The shooting intensified into a sustained roar. Voices shouted in Korean, in English. Engines roared. Something exploded with a concussive force that made his ears ring.

The battle had found him.

Julian's heart hammered against his ribs. He needed to move, needed to find cover, but which direction was safe? The forest had erupted into chaos. Soldiers crashed through the underbrush, running, firing, falling. He caught glimpses of uniforms but couldn't tell which side was which.

Another explosion, closer. The tree he'd been leaning against shook. Julian scrambled backward, turned, ran.

He didn't know where he was going. Away, to regroup from the noise, away from the gunfire, away from anything that could kill him. His bag slammed against his hip with every step.

There! A depression in the ground, a ravine. Julian threw himself into it, rolled, fetched up against the far side. He lay there gasping, trying to orient himself. His hand went instinctively to where his comm badge to report the danger.

Gone.

The clasp must have torn loose when he'd rolled into the ravine, or maybe earlier when branches had ripped at his uniform. He twisted around, scanning the ground frantically.

Suddenly, there! A glint of metal half-buried in the dirt. Julian lunged for it, fingers closing around the familiar shape. But when he pulled it free, his stomach dropped. The badge was crushed, the delicate circuitry exposed and mangled, utterly destroyed.

The shooting continued above, a sustained firefight that showed no signs of stopping. Julian pressed himself against the earthen wall, making himself as small as possible. This was old war, the kind of weapons that could shred flesh and scorch nerves with chemical propellants and metal projectiles.

A body tumbled into the ravine three meters away. Julian flinched, then froze. The man was wearing a uniform—American, he thought, based on the cut and color. Was he—

The man groaned. Alive, then.

Julian's medical training overrode his fear. He crawled forward, keeping low. Two more soldiers appeared at the edge of the ravine, moving down in controlled slides. They were young, maybe nineteen or twenty, faces streaked with dirt and nauseating rivulets of blood.

"Martinez!" one of them shouted, moving toward the fallen soldier. "Jesus, Martinez, can you hear me?"

Julian reached them first. "I'm a doctor," he said, already assessing. The soldier—Martinez—had taken shrapnel to the abdomen. His uniform was soaked with blood, breathing shallow and rapid. Shock, possible internal bleeding, maybe perforated bowel. "I need to examine him."

The two soldiers stared at Julian. One of them, the one with corporal stripes, frowned. "Who the hell are you?"

Julian ignored the question, dropping to his knees beside Martinez. His medical kit was back on DS9. Of course it was. No need for medical equipment at a medical conference.

He had nothing, just a bag with a padd and clothes. Just his hands and his training.

"I need clean water and something I can use as bandages," Julian said. "Now."

The men stood unresponsive. "Answer the question," the corporal said, but his voice lacked conviction. His eyes were fixed on Martinez, whose breathing had become more labored.

"I'm a doctor," Julian repeated, carefully lifting Martinez's shirt. The wound was bad. Worse than bad. Shrapnel had torn through the abdominal wall, and Julian could see intestinal tissue. Without proper tools, without a surgical facility, without antibiotics... "Now get me water or your friend is going to die."

That got them moving. The second soldier, just a private, scrambled for his canteen. The corporal pulled out a first aid kit, opened it with shaking hands.

Julian worked quickly with what he had. The first aid kit was basic—sulfa powder, gauze, tape. Worse than primitive, but better than nothing. He packed the wound as best he could, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. His hands moved automatically, finding the rhythm of emergency medicine even with inadequate supplies. Direct pressure here, elevation there, check for exit wounds.

"You're not wearing fatigues," the corporal said, watching Julian work. "And I've never seen a uniform like that." His eyes narrowed, but then his expression shifted—desperate hope winning over suspicion. "You with the UN forces?"

Julian's mind raced. The corporal was offering him a lifeline, an explanation that might make sense of his strange appearance. He seized it. "Yes," he said, not looking up. "Medical support staff. Just arrived. Got separated from my unit when the fighting started."

It was a terrible lie built on someone else's assumption. His uniform was obviously wrong, his lack of proper equipment suspicious, but the corporal just nodded, too focused on his friend to question further.

"Is he going to make it?" the private asked. His voice cracked.

"If we get him to a hospital, yes." Julian secured the makeshift bandaging, keeping pressure on the worst of the wounds. Martinez needed surgery, antibiotics, blood transfusions. Needed technology Julian didn't have and couldn't provide. "We need to get him out of here."

The corporal looked up toward the edge of the ravine. The gunfire had lessened, become sporadic. "There's supposed to be a collection point south of here. They'll have transport for the wounded."

"Can you carry him?"

"Yeah." The corporal moved to Martinez's shoulders, the private taking his legs. "Come on, Doc. You're with us."

Julian grabbed his bag, packed with supplies he couldn't risk anyone seeing, and followed. What choice did he have? Stay in the ravine and hope the battle didn't circle back? Wander the wilderness alone? At least with these soldiers he had some direction.

They emerged from the ravine cautiously. The forest had gone quieter, though Julian could still hear fighting in the distance. Bodies lay scattered among the trees—he forced himself not to look, not to count, not to think about the fact that every single one of those deaths was in Earth's past and there was nothing he could do to change it.

The collection point turned out to be a small clearing where the trees thinned. A dozen wounded soldiers lay on the ground, some conscious, others not. Two medics moved among them with the exhaustion of having been there for hours. Maybe days.

A vehicle rumbled into view—a bus, Julian realized with a jolt. An actual mid-twentieth-century bus, olive drab and battered, with red crosses painted on its sides. It lurched to a stop and the doors opened.

"Load 'em up!" someone shouted. "Priority cases first!"

The corporal and private carried Martinez toward the bus. Julian followed, his bag clutched to his chest. One of the medics—a harried-looking man with sergeant stripes—glanced at him.

"You with this one?" he asked, jerking his chin toward Martinez.

"Yes. Abdominal trauma, multiple shrapnel wounds. He needs surgery."

The sergeant's eyes narrowed. "A doctor?"

"Yes."

"Where's your kit? Your insignia?"

Julian felt heat rise in his face. His uniform had no insignia, no rank markers that would make sense to these people. His bag was clearly not military issue. "I got separated from my unit. Lost most of my gear."

The sergeant looked skeptical, but another wave of wounded arrived and he had no time to interrogate Julian further. "Fine. Get on the bus. We're headed to the MASH."

"The what?"

The sergeant stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "The Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. Where the hell did you think we were taking wounded soldiers?"

Right. Of course. Julian had a vague memory of that—field hospitals, mobile units that could be set up and torn down quickly to stay close to the front lines. The concept was archaic by his standards, but for this era it was innovative.

"Of course," Julian said. "Sorry. The shelling rattled me."

The sergeant's expression softened slightly. "Yeah. Get on the bus, Doc. We need all the help we can get."

Julian climbed aboard, squeezing past wounded soldiers to stay close to Martinez. The corporal and private had laid him across one of the seats, and the corporal was holding pressure on the bandages. Martinez's breathing had stabilized slightly, but his color was terrible.

"He's going to make it, right?" the corporal asked.

Julian met his eyes. The young man—barely more than a boy, really—looked desperate. "I'll do everything I can."

It wasn't a promise. It wasn't even close to a guarantee. But it was all Julian had to offer.

The bus lurched into motion. Julian grabbed a handrail to steady himself, his other hand keeping his bag secure. Through the windows he could see more smoke, more soldiers, more evidence of the battle that was still raging.

He had no idea where Jadzia was. No idea if Miles and Garak knew what had happened. His communicator was gone, destroyed somewhere in the chaos. He was alone, in 1950, in the middle of a war, with no way home and no plan.

But he was a doctor. And there was a surgical hospital ahead, full of people who needed help.

It wasn't much of a plan.

The bus rattled down the rough dirt road, carrying Julian deeper into history and further from any chance of an easy rescue.

Chapter Text

The MASH unit sprawled before Julian.

Tents. Everything was tents. Canvas structures arranged in rough rows. Generators hummed, providing electricity that flickered and sputtered. The smell hit him immediately: antiseptic, blood, diesel fuel, and a lingering organic scent he didn't want to identify. Soldiers moved everywhere, carrying stretchers, hauling equipment, shouting orders that barely rose above the constant din.

The bus lurched to a stop. Julian barely had time to grab his bag before the doors opened and medics swarmed aboard.

"Critical cases first!" someone shouted. "Move, move, move!"

Julian stayed with Martinez as the corporal and private carried him off the bus. The clearing outside the surgical tent was packed with wounded men, some on stretchers, others sitting against supply crates. Two people moved through the field, triaging: a tall man in scrubs and a darker-haired man in a dress.

No. Not just a dress. Julian's exhausted brain caught up. An old-fashioned nurse’s uniform. He moved with quick competence, checking wounds, calling out assessments.

"Compound fracture, Doc!" the man in the dress called. "Want to take a look at his one's—I think he’s stable enough for now! You—yes, you with the head wound—sit down before you fall down!"

The tall man reached Martinez first. He paired a mustache with tired eyes and capable hands that immediately went to Martinez's abdomen. "What've we got?"

"Abdominal shrapnel wounds," Julian said, happy to facilitate the handoff. "Multiple penetrating injuries, possible bowel perforation. I've managed to control the primary bleeding, but he needs care. Immediately."

The man glanced up at Julian, taking in his uniform. "A doc?” Julian nodded. The man held out his hand. “Captain BJ Hunnicutt. You're new."

Julian shook his hand over Martinez's body. "Doctor Julian Bashir. I'm with… the UN forces. Just arrived."

"Welcome to the Four-Oh-Seven-Seven." BJ returned his attention to Martinez, fingers probing gently. "Good work stabilizing him. He's going straight into surgery."

"Surgery?" Julian frowned. "Doesn’t he need a hospital?"

Hunnicutt gestured around them. "This is it. Welcome to meatball surgery, Doctor Bashir." He raised his voice. "Klinger! Get this one prepped for OR. Priority one."

As if summoned, a stretcher apparated in the man in the dress—Klinger’s—hands. "Got it, sir. Come on, fellas, let's get your friend taken care of."

The corporal and private helped transfer Martinez onto the stretcher. The corporal caught Julian's eye. "Thanks, Doc. Really."

Julian nodded, unable to find words. The two soldiers disappeared into the chaos, and Julian turned back to BJ, who was already moving to the next patient.

"Wait," Julian said, following him. "You're saying this is the hospital? This building?"

"That's right." Hunnicutt knelt beside a soldier with a leg wound, began unwrapping a field dressing. "It’s the OR, pre-op, post-op, and recovery, and lab. It's not the Mayo Clinic, but it's what we've got."

Julian stared at shoddy building. No sterile environments. No bio-beds. No neural stimulators or cellular regeneration equipment. Just canvas and whatever supplies they could scrounge. "This is barbaric."

Hunnicutt glanced up, and for a moment something sharp flashed in his eyes. Then he laughed, though there was no humor in it. "You got that right. Barbaric pretty much covers it." He stood, wiping his hands on his already-stained scrubs. "But that's the job. We patch them up, stabilize them, and ship them out to hospitals in Japan or back to the States. We're not here to fix them. We're here to keep them alive long enough for someone else to fix them."

Julian felt something twist in his chest. This was medicine? This was what passed for surgical care in the twentieth century? He knew it intellectually, had read about it in history texts, but seeing it, smelling it, feeling the desperation of it—

An explosion in the distance made them both turn. Not close, but close enough. BJ swore under his breath.

"That's just perfect. We're down a surgeon with Winchester on weekend leave, and it sounds like we're about to get another wave." He turned to Klinger. "How many are we at?"

"Seven in triage, five in OR, another Fourteen in post-op," Klinger called back. "And that bus was just the first. Radio says there's at least two more coming."

Hunnicutt ran a hand through his hair. Julian recognized that gesture, the universal sign of a doctor facing terrible odds.

"I can help," Julian said. The words came out before he'd fully thought them through. "In surgery. I can scrub in."

Hunnicutt looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. "You're a surgeon?"

"Yes." It wasn't quite a lie. He'd done surgical rotations at Starfleet Medical, logged hundreds of hours in various disciplines. The techniques would be different, the technology primitive, but the principles… "I can help."

Relief flooded Hunnicutt’s face. "Colonel Potter!" he called toward a white-haired man. "We've got another surgeon!"

The man—Potter, presumably— looked up from a soldier on a stretcher. "Well don't just stand there, scrub him up! And someone tell me why we're not getting these boys on the table faster!"

Hunnicutt clapped Julian on the shoulder. "Come on. I'll have the good Father get you oriented. You're about to experience meatball surgery firsthand." He paused. "Fair warning—it's not pretty. We do what we can with what we've got, and we try not to think too hard about the things we don’t."

Julian followed him toward surgery, bag clutched to his chest. Inside he could hear voices, the clatter of instruments, someone calling for suction. The sounds of surgery, at least, were universal across centuries.

"Glad to have you on hand!" Potter called as they headed in. "I look forward to meeting you properly after this is over!"

Julian took a breath. No tricorders. No dermal regenerators. Just scalpels and sutures; archaeological artifacts and desperate hope. Julian followed Hunnicutt into the tent. He had no idea how he was going to get home. But for now, there were patients he could help. And that, at least, was something he knew how to do.

"This way," Hunnicutt said, guiding him toward a basin where several nurses were cleaning up. "Father Mulcahy will get you set up."

A man in clerical collar looked up, his face kind despite the exhaustion evident in every line. "Another pair of hands! The Lord provides. I'm Father Mulcahy, chaplain."

"Doctor Julian Bashir." Julian hesitated, then pulled his bag off his shoulder. Inside were things he absolutely could not let anyone see—his PADD, his ruined comm badge, the hypospray if anyone examined it too closely. "Father, I need you to do something for me."

"Of course, my son."

"Take this bag. Keep it safe. And please—" Julian met his eyes. "Please don't look inside. I know how that sounds, but I'm asking you to trust me. It's nothing dangerous, I swear to you. Just... personal items I can't risk losing."

Father Mulcahy studied him for a long moment. Whatever he saw in Julian's face must have been enough, because he nodded. "I'll keep it in my tent. No one will touch it."

"Thank you." Relief flooded through Julian. "I mean it. Thank you."

"Now let's get you scrubbed. Do you know the procedure?"

Julian almost laughed. He knew sterile protocol that would make these surgeons' heads spin. But he just nodded and moved to the basin, following Father Mulcahy's instructions even though every part of him wanted to point out the inadequacies. The soap was harsh, the brushes primitive, the whole process designed for a level of contamination that would be unthinkable in his time.

But it was what they had. And it worked, in a fashion.

"Gloves and gown are there," Father Mulcahy said, pointing. "God bless you for helping, Doctor."

Julian pulled on the gloves—actual rubber, not the bio-adaptive polymers he was used to—and pushed through into the operating theater.

The scene that greeted him was bloodshed. Two operating tables, both occupied. Bright lights overhead, powered by generators that hummed and occasionally flickered. Nurses moving with practiced efficiency. And at the center of it all, directing traffic with crisp authority, was a woman in surgical gear.

"Suction!" she called. "More gauze. And someone tell me when that blood is ready—this patient is down two units already."

Julian moved toward the nearest empty space. "Doctor?" he said, addressing the woman. "Where do you need me?"

She looked up sharply, her eyes flashing with anger. "Doctor? That's a new one. Usually you boys just call me 'nurse' and expect me to—"

"I'm sorry," Julian interrupted, confused. "I saw you directing assumed you were the surgeon. You clearly seem to be in charge."

The woman stopped mid-sentence, her expression shifting from anger to surprise to something softer. "You're serious."

"Of course I'm serious. You're running this theater." Julian gestured around. "If you're not the doctor, then who—"

"I'm Major Houlihan, head nurse." Her voice had lost its sharp edge. "But you're damn right I run this OR. And you are?"

"Doctor Julian Bashir. Just arrived. Captain Hunnicutt said you could use another surgeon."

Houlihan’s expression warmed considerably. "Well, Doctor Bashir, welcome. We've got a patient over there who needs immediate attention." She pointed to a soldier being wheeled in. "Shrapnel wounds, chest and abdomen. Can you handle it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then scrub in and let's save some lives."

Julian moved to the table as Houlihan called out orders. A nurse—young, competent—appeared at his side with instruments. Julian looked down at the soldier on the table. Young. They were all so young.

"All right," Julian said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "Let's get to work."

The surgery began. Julian fell into the familiar rhythm despite the unfamiliar tools. Scalpel instead of laser. Sutures instead of dermal regeneration. Manual retraction instead of photonic stabilizers. Everything took longer, required more physical manipulation, left more trauma to the surrounding tissue.

But it worked. His hands remembered the old techniques from his emergency fieldwork training, from the required coursework meant for stranding and other unthinkable scenarios. Clamp and tie. Cut and cauterize. Layer by layer, piece by piece, put a body back together with nothing but metal tools and thread.

The chest wounds were manageable. The abdominal injuries took longer, but he cleared the damaged tissue, repaired the perforations, checked for any bleeding he might have missed. His stitches were precise, each placed with care.

Then he reached the final repair: a torn artery that needed to be reconnected. Normally he'd use a laser scalpel, maybe a tissue regenerator if the damage was extensive. The procedure would take seconds, the fusion perfect and complete.

But here, with these tools, with this level of fineness required and no technology to assist...

Julian's hands hovered over the artery. He knew the theory. Had studied it, even practiced it in holosimulations. But theory and practice were different things, especially when a patient's life hung in the balance and his hands, enhanced though they were, had never actually performed this exact procedure under such limitations.

He froze.

"Problem?" a voice asked from beside him.

Julian looked up to find another surgeon standing there, his eyes sharp and assessing above his surgical mask. He was lean, with dark hair and an air of casual confidence that somehow didn't diminish the intensity of his focus.

"I'm—" Julian swallowed. "I'm having trouble with this repair. I know how it should be done, but—"

"But it's a bastard of a procedure." The man moved closer, looked at the surgical field. "Mind if I take over?"

"Please."

The surgeon stepped in smoothly, his hands already moving. "You did beautiful work here. These stitches are some of the cleanest I've seen. Medical school teach you that, or are you just naturally gifted?"

Julian smiled despite himself. "I've had good training."

"I'll say. Most surgeons can't get this kind of precision, especially not with what we've got. You from Europe? Your technique's different from what preceptors usually teach."

"Something like that," Julian said vaguely, watching the man work. The man's hands moved with practiced ease, each motion economical and exact. He was talking—casual, conversational—but his focus never wavered from the patient.

"Don't feel bad about hitting your limit," the man continued, tying off another suture. "This particular bit is tricky as hell. I've only gotten good at it because I've had to do it about forty times since I got here. Forty times too many, if you ask me, but that's war for you."

"How do you make it look so easy?"

"Practice, practice, practice. And a deep-seated desire to make sure every single one of these kids makes it home to whatever girl is waiting for them." He glanced up briefly. "Though between you and me, I'd really rather not get any more practice. I'd prefer never having to do this again."

Julian understood that sentiment deeply.

"There." The man tied off the final suture, checked his work. "That should hold. Welcome to the assembly line. You've got good hands."

"Doctor Bashir!" Houlihan’s voice cut across the OR. "I need you on table two. We've got another abdominal coming in."

Julian looked at the man, who grinned—Julian could see it in his eyes even behind the mask. "Go on, they need you. And Doc? That really was excellent work. Keep it up."

Julian moved to the other table, where another soldier waited. Another set of wounds, another desperate attempt to piece together a human being with inadequate tools and too little time.

He scrubbed in again, accepted instruments from a nurse whose name he didn't know, and fell into the rhythm of the surgical theater. Time became meaningless. There was only the next patient, the next wound, the next desperate attempt to save a life.

Houlihan called out orders. Hunnicutt worked at the other table. That tall man rotated between patients, offering advice, taking over difficult procedures, joking with the nurses even as his hands performed miracles.

And Julian adapted.

He didn't know how many hours passed. Didn't know how many patients he operated on. He existed in a strange fugue state where everything was hyperreal and distant at once. This was what medicine had been, medicine at its most fundamental. No technology to hide behind, no advanced equipment to compensate for mistakes. Just skill, knowledge, and determination.

He hoped somewhere, in another time, his friends were trying to figure out how to bring him home.

But for now, there was another patient. Another wound.

Julian picked up his scalpel and made another cut.

#

The last patient wheeled out to post-op.

Julian stood at the surgical sink, scrubbing blood from under his fingernails with a brush that felt like sandpaper. His hands were steady—they were always steady, that was what the modifications ensured—but the rest of him felt like it might shake apart.

How many hours had it been? Six? Eight? Time had become meaningless in the OR, measured only in heartbeats and sutures and the constant, desperate determination that each patient would survive.

"Hell of a first day," a voice said beside him.

Julian looked up to find his savior from earlier at the adjacent sink, scrubbing intensively. Without the surgical mask, Julian could see his face properly—sharp features, dark eyes that held both humor and something deeper, more tired. He looked like someone who'd seen too much.

"Is it always like this?" Julian asked.

"Only on days that end in 'y.'" He frowned dried his hands, tossed the towel into a hamper. "Though today was busier than usual. We don't usually get two waves back-to-back like that."

"Doctor Bashir."

Julian turned to find Hunnicutt approaching, Colonel Potter and Margaret flanking him. Potter was shorter than how he looked hunched over a casualty, with kind eyes and a commanding presence that reminded him of Captain Sisko.

"Sir," Julian said, straightening instinctively.

"At ease, son." Potter held out his hand. "Colonel Sherman Potter, commanding officer of the Four-Oh-Seven-Seven. I wanted to thank you properly for jumping in like you did. You came at exactly the right time."

Julian shook his hand. "I'm glad I could help, sir."

"Help? Son, you probably saved a dozen lives in there. That's more than help." Potter's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Now, I know you met BJ here earlier, but let's do this properly. I'm Potter, and this is Major Houlihan.”

Houlihan smiled, and Julian was struck by how different she looked without the surgical mask and the urgent intensity of the OR. "We did meet briefly," she said, her voice warm. "Though I don't think I properly welcomed you. It's not often we get a doctor who assumes the woman running the OR is actually in charge."

Julian grinned. "You clearly were in charge. It seemed obvious."

"Careful, Doctor Bashir," Houlihan said, her eyes sparkling with amusement even as she held up her left hand, wedding ring visible. "Flattery like that could turn a girl's head. Lucky for you, I'm a happily married woman."

"I didn't mean—that is—" Julian stumbled over his words, which only made Houlihan’s smile widen.

"Relax. I'm teasing." She patted his arm. "But I do appreciate the recognition. Not all the doctors who rotate through here are quite so observant."

"And you've met me," the tall man said, "though we were a bit distracted by the arterial repair at the time. Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce, but everyone calls me Hawkeye. Named after Last of the Mohicans, before you ask."

"I wasn't going to," Julian said, the reference utterly foreign.

"They always do eventually." Hawkeye grinned. "So, Beej mentioned you said you're with the UN relief forces?"

Julian's stomach tightened. "Yes. Medical corps."

Hawkeye whistled low. "That explains the fancy duds. I was wondering what country issued uniforms like that."

Julian looked down at his Starfleet uniform, now stained with blood and who knew what else. The bright shoulders that had seemed so normal on DS9 stood out starkly here, where everything was olive drab or surgical white. "I suppose I ought to change."

"Good idea," Potter said. "Can't have you standing out like a peacock in a henhouse. Pierce, you and Bashir look about the same build—all legs, the both of you. Think you can lend him some fatigues until we can get him properly outfitted?"

Hawkeye looked Julian up and down with an exaggerated critical eye. "I don't know, Colonel. These legs are my signature feature here. The nurses fall all over themselves admiring them. If I let Bashir show off his, I might have actual competition."

"I think you'll survive," Hunnicutt said dryly.

"I suppose you’re right. Competition keeps a man sharp," Hawkeye continued, undeterred. "Though I should warn you, Bashir—once they get a look at those legs in fatigues, you'll have to beat the nurses off with a stick. It's exhausting, really. The price of being devastatingly attractive in a war zone."

Houlihan rolled her eyes. "The only thing nurses beat you with is frustration, Pierce."

"That too. It's all part of my charm."

Potter shook his head, but Julian could see the fondness in his expression. "All right, enough. Pierce, get Bashir some clothes. The rest of us will meet you in the mess tent. I think we've all earned a drink and something that vaguely resembles food." He clapped Julian on the shoulder. "Welcome to the Four-Oh-Seven-Seven, son. We're glad to have you."

Julian watched Potter walk away, Hunnicutt and Houlihan following. The weight of the last few hours crashed onto him all at once.

"Come on," Hawkeye said, gesturing for Julian to follow. "My tent's this way. Fair warning—it's not the Ritz. It's not even a Motel 6. But it's dry, and the still works most of the time."

"Still?"

"For making gin. Well, something that resembles gin if you're very drunk and not asking too many questions." Hawkeye's grin was unrepentant. "You're not one of those teetotaler types, are you?"

Julian thought of the Cardassian kanar he'd shared with Garak, the synthehol he usually drank at Quark's. "No, not exactly."

"Good. Because if there's one thing you need to survive here, it's a sense of humor and a drink. Sometimes at the same time. Often at the same time."

Julian followed Hawkeye across the compound, past rows of tents and supply crates and soldiers and orderlies. The sun was setting, casting everything in golden light that should have been beautiful but just made the whole scene feel more surreal.

#

Hawkeye's tent—he called it "the Swamp," though Julian couldn't imagine why anyone would voluntarily associate their living quarters with fetid water and mosquitoes—was exactly what Julian should have expected from such a moniker, and somehow worse.

Three cots occupied opposite walls, separated by a small potbelly stove that looked like it predated the war by several decades. Personal items scattered across every available surface: books, bottles, a chess set missing half its pieces, clothes draped over chairs in various states of cleanliness. The smell hit Julian immediately: a combination of unwashed laundry, a vaguely alcoholic sharpness, and an underlying mustiness that spoke of canvas that never quite dried.

"Home sweet home," Hawkeye announced, spreading his arms in mock grandeur. "I know what you're thinking—how does one man create such an oasis of comfort in the midst of chaos? Natural talent, mostly. That and a complete disregard for military regulations regarding proper housekeeping."

"It's..." Julian searched for a diplomatic word.

"Disgusting? Squalid? A health hazard?"

"I was going to say 'lived-in.'"

"Very diplomatic. I see your UN training." Hawkeye rummaged through a footlocker, pulling out what appeared to be a clean-ish set of fatigues. "Here. These should fit. Might be a bit long in the leg, but beggars can't be choosers, and you, my friend, are definitely begging."

Julian took the offered clothes. They smelled. Not overwhelmingly, but enough to be noticeable. Sweat, maybe, and that same underlying mustiness from the tent itself.

"These are clean?" Julian asked before he could stop himself.

Hawkeye presented a mockery of offense. "I'll have you know those were washed just last week. Maybe the week before. Time gets a little fuzzy around here." He grinned. "Welcome to the front lines, doc. Everything smells, everything's dirty, and if you're very lucky, the roaches will only carry off your socks instead of your entire uniform."

"Roaches," Julian repeated flatly.

"Big ones. I named mine Frank. He lives under BJ's cot and comes out at night to judge my life choices." Hawkeye settled onto his cot, reaching for something tucked under his pillow. "Go on, get changed. Those fancy duds of yours are going to get you noticed, and not in the fun way."

Julian looked around the tent. No privacy screens, no separate changing area. Just the three cots and Hawkeye Pierce, who was now flipping through what appeared to be a magazine, his posture casual but still facing directly toward Julian.

"Do you mind?" Julian asked, making a small turning motion with his finger.

Hawkeye glanced up from the magazine, all innocence. "Mind what? I'm just catching up on my reading. Very enlightening material. You go right ahead."

Julian caught a glimpse of the magazine's cover as Hawkeye adjusted it. A nudist publication, naturally. The man was leafing through photographs of unclothed people while Julian was expected to change right in front of him.

For a moment Julian just stood there, holding the fatigues, face warming. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he turned his back and started unbuttoning his uniform jacket. He could see Hawkeye in his peripheral vision, the magazine held up at reading height, positioned perfectly to see both the pages and Julian simultaneously.

Julian tried to focus on the buttons. On the practical matter of changing clothes. On anything except the awareness of eyes on him, however much Hawkeye was pretending to read.

He shrugged out of his jacket, reached for the fatigue shirt.

"You know," Hawkeye said conversationally, his tone suggesting he was merely commenting on the weather, "you'd fit right in in one of these magazines. Cute as a button, sandwiched between these avid knitters. They’re even making scarves! Don’t know who they’d be for though…”

Julian fumbled the shirt, nearly dropped it. Heat flooded his face and neck. He didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge the comment. Just pulled on the shirt with slightly more force than necessary and started on the buttons.

He could feel Hawkeye's gaze on him, amused and entirely unrepentant.

"You know," Hawkeye continued as Julian shrugged out of his jacket, "for a doctor who just spent six hours elbow-deep in other people's internal organs, you're remarkably modest."

"I believe in not being rude," Julian said stiffly, pulling on the fatigue shirt. It smelled like soap and sweat and something indefinably masculine. "I don’t want to cross any boundaries."

"Boundaries. How Continental. Or is it British? I can never tell with you UN types."

Julian buttoned the shirt, tucked it in, started on the pants. The fabric was rougher than he was used to, the fit looser. "I'm not British."

"Could've fooled me. You've got that whole buttoned-up thing going on. Very proper. Very—" Hawkeye paused, as if searching for the word "—repressed."

Julian snorted at Hawkeye’s characterization. If only he had a minute to spend with Felix he’s learn how repressed Julian was. he turned around, fully dressed the olive drab of every other person in camp. "I'm not repressed."

"Everyone's repressed about something. Except me. I’m shameless." Hawkeye stood, giving Julian an appraising look. "Not bad. The fatigues suit you. Make you look less like you stepped out of a science fiction serial and more like an actual army doctor."

Science fiction. If only Hawkeye knew.

"Thank you," Julian said, gathering his uniform carefully. He needed to stash it somewhere safe, with his bag. "For the clothes, I mean."

"Don't mention it. Literally. I'm not supposed to be lending out military property to foreign nationals." Hawkeye tossed the magazine aside and stood. "Come on. If we don't get to the mess tent soon, all the good swill will be gone."

The mess tent was exactly as depressing as Hawkeye suggested. Long tables, benches filled with exhausted soldiers, and a serving line where something that might charitably be called food was being slopped onto metal trays. The smell was... interesting. Not quite appetizing, not quite revolting, just vaguely organic in a way that made Julian's stomach uncertain about its position on the matter.

Potter, Hunnicutt, and Houlihan had already claimed a table. Hawkeye grabbed a tray for himself and jerked his chin at Julian. "Get in line, Bashir. Experience the culinary delights of military cuisine."

Julian took a tray. The server—a tired-looking man with corporal stripes—scooped something brown onto his plate, followed by something that might have been vegetables in a previous life, and a roll that had the consistency of a geological sample.

"What is this?" Julian asked, staring at the brown substance. The corporal frowned.

"Best not to ask.”

"Enjoy," Hawkeye added, grabbing utensils. "And by enjoy, I mean try not to think too hard about what you're eating. It helps."

They joined the others at the table. Julian set down his tray with a sense of impending doom.

"Ah, you've met Igor's cooking," Hunnicutt said cheerfully. "Did he warn you, or did he just let you discover it yourself?"

"The corporal was... descriptive." Julian picked up his fork, studied the brown mass. It looked like something he'd seen in a petri dish once.

"Fair warning," Hawkeye said, digging into his own meal with apparent enthusiasm. "It's practically inedible. I've had shoe leather with more flavor. But it's hot, it's got protein, and after a few months here you stop tasting it altogether. It's very efficient, really."

Julian steeled himself, took a bite.

It was bad. Definitely bad. Over-salted, under-seasoned, with a texture that suggested the beef had been reconstituted from something that was never actually beef to begin with. But it wasn't terrible. He'd had worse—that time Garak had convinced him to try a Cardassian delicacy that turned out to be fertilized egg sacs, for instance. Or the tambok cutlet that had tasted like sulfur and poor decisions.

Julian swallowed, took another bite.

BJ stared at him. "You're actually eating it."

"It's not that bad," Julian said, which was possibly the most generous assessment of military food in the history of warfare.

"Not that bad?" Hawkeye put down his fork. "Are you insane? This is barely food. It's the concept of food, redydrated in sadness and government contracts."

"I've had worse," Julian said honestly. He thought of the replicator failures on DS9, the time Quark had tried to serve him something he swore was a Ferengi delicacy. "A friend of mine—Garak—he's introduced me to food from his culture. Compared to some of those dishes, this is practically palatable."

Houlihan raised an eyebrow. "What culture is that?"

Julian cursed himself internally. Too specific. He should have been more vague. "He's... from far away. Very far away. Different food traditions."

"Must be pretty far if it makes army chow taste good," Potter said, though he was smiling. "What about you, son? Where'd you go to medical school?"

"San Francisco," Julian said, because it was technically true. Starfleet Academy was in San Francisco. Or would be. Or had been. Temporal mechanics made his head hurt.

Hunnicutt’s face lit up. "San Francisco? I went to Stanford! Mill Creek's just north of the city—that's where my wife Peg and daughter Erin are right now." He leaned forward, excited. "Do you know—"

"I wasn't there very long," Julian interrupted, panic rising. He didn't know anything about 1950s San Francisco except what he'd seen in history texts. "Moved around a lot."

"Sure, sure." Hunnicutt looked slightly disappointed but nodded. "Still, it's nice to meet someone from the area. Gets lonely out here sometimes, knowing everyone you care about is half a world away."

Julian thought of DS9, of Jadzia and Miles and Garak. Half a world away didn't begin to cover it. Try several centuries and a dimensional barrier he had no idea how to cross.

"I know the feeling," he said quietly.

"Well, at least you're here now," Potter said. "Though I'm curious how you ended up on that particular bus at that particular time. Bit of luck for us, but odd."

Julian's mind raced. He'd been expecting this question, had tried to prepare an answer, but sitting here with these people who'd welcomed him so readily made lying feel heavier than it should.

"I was supposed to be a supplemental doctor," he said slowly, building the story as he went. "Transport bringing me got diverted—enemy fire, mechanical issues, I'm not entirely sure. They had to turn around. I offered to walk the rest of the way, thought I could navigate by the sound of the fighting." He attempted a self-deprecating smile. "Got caught in the middle of a battle instead. The bus was the first thing I saw that was heading away from the shooting."

Potter laughed, shaking his head. "Son, you're either the bravest idiot or the most idiotic brave man I've ever met. Walking toward a battle on purpose." He pointed his fork at Julian. "You'll fit right in here at the Four-Oh-Seven-Seven. That's exactly the kind of thinking that keeps this place running."

"I'm honored?" Julian ventured.

"You should be,” Hunicutt jumped in. “We're a very exclusive club. Requirements include medical degree, questionable judgment, and a willingness to—"

He was interrupted by a group of nurses walking past their table. Hawkeye's attention shifted immediately, his whole posture changing into something both casual and calculated.

"Ladies," he said, voice warm and inviting. "You look radiant this evening. Like angels of mercy descended from on high to bless us poor souls with your presence."

One of the nurses—blonde, pretty in that classic mid-century way—rolled her eyes. "Save it, Hawkeye. We've heard all your lines."

"Lines? I'm wounded. These are genuine expressions of admiration."

"They're genuine expressions of something," another nurse said, but she was smiling.

"I'm a poet," Hawkeye protested. "A romantic. I merely put into words what everyone else is thinking but too shy to say. For instance—" he gestured to the nurse with the dark hair, "Lieutenant Baker, that shade of lipstick is absolutely your color. Brings out your eyes."

"My eyes are brown, Hawkeye."

"Exactly. It's a very complementary effect. Brown on red. Like autumn leaves. Very poetic."

The nurses laughed, moving on. Hawkeye watched them go with obvious appreciation, then shifted his attention back to the table. His gaze landed on Julian, and something in his expression shifted—became more focused, more deliberate.

"Though I have to say," Hawkeye said, continuing his teasing tone, " our new doctor here is giving them serious competition in the looks department. Don't you think, Margaret?"

Julian froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

“I mean, have you seen his hands? Very steady. I noticed it in surgery, but seeing you handle that fork with such precision really drives it home. Must make you very good at delicate work."

Heat flooded Julian’s face. He glanced quickly at the others, waiting for—what? Shock? Disgust? He'd studied this era's history enough to know that this kind of comment, this kind of attention from one man to another, wasn't just taboo. It could end careers. Ruin lives.

But Potter just snorted into his coffee. Hunnicutt grinned. And Houlihan—

"Pierce," Houlihan said, warning in her voice, but she was smiling slightly. "Play nice with the new doctor. He's been here less than a day."

"I am playing nice. I'm being welcoming. Friendly. Showing appropriate appreciation for a colleague's professional attributes." Hawkeye's eyes sparkled with something that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. "Nothing wrong with recognizing talent when you see it."

Julian didn't know what to do with any of this. The flirting—because that's definitely what it was, however much Hawkeye was wrapping it in playfulness—was both obvious and subtle, direct and deniable. And no one else at the table seemed to think it was strange. Potter was eating his dinner, Hunnicutt was grinning slightly, and Houlihan just looked fondly exasperated.

“You’re going to scare him off, then where will we be? A surgeon short again!”

"I'm not scared," Julian insisted. Hawkeye’s comments had nothing on a half-drunk Nausican, and if he could handle that, he could handle anything.

"Good," Hawkeye said, eyes sparkling. "Because we don’t get scared here. Terrified, maybe. Occasionally horrified. But never scared."

"He’ll get a peek into that soon enough ," Potter said, fondly exasperated, "So Doctor, you planning to stick around for a while? Help us out here at the Four-Oh-Seven-Seven? God knows we could use another surgeon, and you proved yourself in the OR today."

Julian thought about his options. He could try to find his way to... where? Seoul? Tokyo? And do what, exactly? He had no credentials these people would recognize, no papers, no way to explain his presence that wouldn't invite more dangerous questions. And even if he did find a way to contact Starfleet across time and space, what then? He was trapped, and that was that. Perhaps the best option would be to just hold firm and wait for someone in the future to figure out what happened.

"I can stay," Julian said. "For a while, at least. Until my orders come through."

Orders that would never come, but they didn't need to know that.

Potter smiled, genuine warmth in his expression. "Glad to hear it, son. Houlihan, put Bashir on the rotation for infirmary duty. Let's ease him into things before we throw him back into the OR."

"Yes, sir," Houlihan said, making a note on a small pad she pulled from her pocket.

Julian felt something in his chest unclench slightly. He had a place here, at least temporarily. A purpose. It wasn't home, wasn't anything close to home, but it was better than wandering alone through a war zone with no direction.

"Thank you," he said. "For taking me in like this. I know my arrival was... unconventional."

"Son," Potter said, his voice kind, "unconventional is our specialty. You'll fit right in."

Across the table, Hawkeye caught Julian's eye and smiled—warm, genuine, with just a hint of that earlier mischief lurking at the corners.

Julian found himself smiling back before he could stop himself.

A young man with glasses and an endearingly round face appeared, clutching a tray of food. He looked barely old enough to shave, let alone be in a war zone.

"Radar!" Hunnicutt called. "Join us!"

The young man—Radar—shook his head. "Can't, sir. Choppers are coming. We've got wounded incoming."

Julian started to say he didn't hear anything, then stopped. Because he did hear something—a distant thrum, barely audible over the ambient noise of the mess tent, but growing steadily louder.

Helicopters.

"How does he do that?" Julian asked. He’s heard the helicopters before even Julian had.

Hunnicutt laughed. "Everyone asks that. Radar's got better hearing than any human being has a right to. We gave up trying to figure it out and just learned to trust it."

Already the others were standing, abandoning their trays. Potter moved briskly, Houlihan right behind him. Hunnicutt grabbed one last bite of his roll—somehow managing to chew it—and headed for the door.

Hawkeye caught Julian's confused expression. "When the choppers come, everything else stops. Meals, sleep, personal hygiene—all of it goes out the window. You're about to get the crash course in what it really means to work here."

"But we just finished surgery—"

"And now we're starting again." Hawkeye was already moving, pulling Julian along. "War doesn't care if you're tired. It doesn't care if you've eaten. It just keeps sending us broken bodies and expecting us to fix them."

They burst out of the mess tent into the gathering dusk. Julian could hear the helicopters clearly now, their rotors cutting through the air. Across the compound, people were running—nurses, orderlies, surgeons, everyone converging on a cleared area near the surgery tents.

Julian ran with them, his borrowed fatigues feeling startlingly real. This was happening. And whatever came next, this at least was something he knew how to do.

Chapter Text

The surgery lasted eons.

Julian lost track of time somewhere around hour six, when the distinction between one patient and the next blurred into a continuous stream of wounds and blood and desperate repairs. His hands moved automatically—clamp, suture, irrigate, close—while his mind existed in that strange focused state where nothing existed except the tissue beneath his fingers and the monitoring of vital signs.

Somewhere around hour twelve, Klinger appeared at his elbow, in a shining chiffon thing with a cup diesel fuel that lied about being coffee. Julian drank it anyway, barely pausing in his work.

"You're doing good," Hawkeye said, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Real good. These boys are lucky to have you."

Julian just nodded, already moving to the next patient.

The casualties kept coming. Young men—boys, really, none of them older than twenty-five—with injuries that would have been easily treatable in his time but required hours of painstaking work with these tools from the dark ages. Shrapnel wounds that needed to be debrided piece by piece. Compound fractures that required external fixation. Burns that he could only pack with gauze and hope they didn't get infected.

He worked alongside Hawkeye and BJ, learning their rhythm, adapting to their techniques. Margaret moved through the OR like a conductor directing an orchestra, her voice calm and authoritative even when the generators flickered and the lights threatened to go out entirely.

And slowly, patient by patient, they worked their way through the wounded.

By the time the last soldier was wheeled to post-op, Julian could barely feel his feet. His back ached from standing so long. His hands—enhanced and steady as they were—felt clumsy and thick.

"That's it," Potter announced, stripping off his surgical gloves. "Last one. Good work, everyone. Damn fine work."

Julian followed the others out of the OR, rubbing his eyes in the lantern-lit dark. Dark. They'd worked through the entire day.

"First day," Hawkeye said, appearing at Julian's side. He looked exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. "You survived. That's more than some people manage."

"How often does this happen?" Julian asked. His voice came out hoarse.

"Often enough." Hawkeye started walking toward the Swamp, and Julian fell into step beside him. "We'll get a few days of relative quiet, then another wave. Sometimes multiple waves. War's unpredictable like that. Keeps things interesting."

"Interesting," Julian repeated. "That's one word for it."

"I've got several words for it. Most of them aren't suitable for polite company."

They walked in silence for a moment. Julian's mind was already starting to spin despite his exhaustion. He needed a plan. Needed to figure out how to increase his odds of getting home, or at the very least, how to leave some kind of record of what had happened to him. A message to the future, maybe. Something that could survive decades and reach his family, or Starfleet, or the crew on the Rio Grande.

But what? Bury a letter in a time capsule? Risk writing something down that could alter history if found by the wrong people? Every option seemed impossible, dangerous, or both.

His thoughts were interrupted by Father Mulcahy hurrying toward them, Julian's bag clutched in his hands.

"Doctor Bashir!" the chaplain called. "I've been looking for you. I wanted to return this before you thought I'd absconded with it."

"Father." Julian took the bag, relief flooding through him. "Thank you for keeping it safe."

"My pleasure, son. I hope you don't mind—I had Radar set aside a footlocker for you. Nothing fancy, but it'll give you a place to store your personal effects." Father Mulcahy's kind eyes crinkled at the corners. "Welcome to our slice of the war, officially. I look forward to getting to know you better when we're not all running on fumes."

"Thank you, Father. I appreciate it."

The chaplain nodded and headed off, leaving Julian holding his bag with its precious, dangerous contents. His ruined comm badge, his PADD with its database of future history, the hyposprays he absolutely couldn't let anyone examine too closely.

"Come on," Hawkeye said, gesturing toward the Swamp. "Let's get you settled before you fall over."

Inside the tent, a cot frame had been set up against the far wall, squeezed into a space that definitely wasn't designed for so many people. An old footlocker sat at its base, battered and scarred but functional.

"Radar’s probably off looking for a canvas for you. In the meantime, take Charles’s cot," BJ explained, gesturing to a neatly made bed—crispness that stood in stark contrast to the other two. "He’s on leave for the weekend, lucky bastard."

"It's fine," Julian said, setting his bag on the footlocker. He was too tired to care about cramped quarters. "Better than a foxhole."

"Now there's the spirit." Hawkeye rummaged in his own footlocker, pulling out what appeared to be a padlock. He tossed it to Julian. "Here. Lock that thing up."

Julian caught it reflexively. "What?"

"Lock. Your. Stuff." Hawkeye enunciated each word carefully. "Unless you want your belongings showing up on the black market by Tuesday. We've got more thieves in this camp than wounded soldiers, and that's saying something."

"People steal from each other here?"

"People steal everywhere, Julian. It's human nature. But in a war zone where supplies are scarce and boredom is plentiful?" Hawkeye shook his head. "I once had a guy try to sell me back my own bathrobe. My own bathrobe. Which he'd stolen the week before. Had the audacity to ask for twenty bucks."

Julian looked down at his bag, at the technology inside that could rewrite history if it fell into the wrong hands. "I'll lock it up."

"Good man." Hawkeye collapsed onto his own cot with a groan. BJ was already in his, face-down and snoring softly. "Now get some sleep before your brain forgets how."

Julian knelt by the footlocker, carefully placing his bag inside. His fingers lingered on the lock for a moment. This was it—his only physical connection to his own time, locked in a battered box in a tent in 1950.

His thoughts scattered as exhaustion hit him like a physical force. The cot was right there. His mind was fuzzy, too slow.

Julian locked the footlocker, pocketed the key, and practically fell onto the cot. The mattress was thin, the pillow flat, and he'd slept on better surfaces in Starfleet emergency shelters. He lay and look up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He needed to think. Needed to plan. There had to be some way to leave a message, some method of communication that could span the decades between now and the twenty-fourth century. Maybe if he could find a way to—

"You've got that look," Hawkeye observed.

Julian glanced over. "What look?"

"The one where you're thinking too hard about something complicated and probably unsolvable." Hawkeye took a swig from a glass. "I see it in the OR sometimes. Right before someone makes either a brilliant decision or a terrible one."

"I'm just trying to figure out my options," Julian said carefully.

"Options for what?"

"For... how long I'm going to be stuck here. How to contact my command. What my next steps should be." All technically true, if missing several crucial details like "from the twenty-fourth century" and "possibly for the rest of my life."

BJ and Hawkeye exchanged a glance.

"Look," BJ said gently, "I know it's frustrating being cut off from your unit. But these things happen in war. Communication lines get crossed, orders get lost. It'll sort itself out eventually."

Eventually. Julian almost laughed. If they only knew.

"I'm sure you're right," he said instead.

"In the meantime," Hawkeye said, "you're stuck with us. Could be worse. You could be in a real hellhole instead of our charming little monument to entropy."

"It's not that bad," Julian said.

"Now I know you're delirious." But Hawkeye was smiling. "Get some sleep. Whatever you're trying to figure out will still be there in the morning. And you'll think more clearly with actual rest."

“I don’t know if I can.”

"Sure you can. Watch." Hawkeye tilted his head back in mock sleep. "Close your eyes, let unconsciousness claim you. It's very simple."

Julian smiled, tired, but closed his eyes. Outside, someone laughed. A generator hummed. The ordinary sounds of the camp settling in for the night.

Then darkness claimed him.

Julian dreamed of transporter beams and scattered atoms, of reaching for Jadzia's hand across dimensions and finding only empty space. He dreamed of Miles at the controls, frantically trying to reverse whatever had gone wrong. He dreamed of Garak's voice, dry and amused: "Really, Doctor, getting lost in time is quite careless, even for you."

Then blessed nothing. 

Chapter Text

Julian woke to the sound of outrage.

"You mean to tell me," a voice announced with diction, the sound of someone whose vowels had been educated at considerable expense, "that I must now share this roach motel with another cretin?"

"Hey Charles," Hawkeye's voice responded, lazy and amused. "Be nice. This cretin's kinda cute."

Julian's eyes snapped open. A man stood in the doorway of the Swamp—tall, clad in dress uniform, features skewed in an expression of profound disgust. He held his suitcase like it might protect him contamination.

"Cute," the man repeated, his tone suggesting Hawkeye had just announced Julian was also a talking horse. "I leave for one weekend—one weekend—and return to find my already inadequate living quarters further degraded by the addition of yet another body. As if sharing space with you two wasn't sufficiently trying."

"Morning to you too, Charles," BJ said, not looking up from tying his boots. "How was Tokyo?"

"Civilized. Briefly." Winchester—Charles, Julian's sleep-fogged brain supplied—set down his suitcase with exaggerated care. "I attended a performance of Handel the officers' club. It was transcendent. And now I've returned to this." He gestured broadly at the tent, at Hawkeye sprawled on his cot, at Julian sitting up on. "Tell me, is there no limit to the indignities I must suffer?"

"Apparently not," Hawkeye said cheerfully. "Want some of the cookies Peg sent BJ? The rats didn’t get to most of them."

"I wouldn't dream of polluting my palate with your swill." Charles' gaze fixed on Julian. "And you are?"

Julian stood, smoothing his borrowed fatigues. He'd dealt with difficult colleagues before; arrogant surgeons were universal, apparently. "Doctor Julian Bashir. I arrived yesterday."

"How unfortunate for you." Charles' eyes traveled over Julian with evident disdain. "Let me guess. Medical school somewhere in the boonies? Limited surgical experience? Sent here because you couldn't hack it at a proper hospital?"

"Charles, that's—" Hawkeye began, sitting up.

But Julian just smiled, unruffled. He'd grown up enduring far worse than snobbery. Compared to some of the things Miles used to say to him, Charles' condescension was almost quaint.

"Medical school in San Francisco," Julian said mildly. "And I spent yesterday performing fourteen consecutive surgeries with Hawkeye. He seemed satisfied with my work."

"Satisfied," Charles scoffed. "Pierce is satisfied if a patient walks out with the correct number of limbs. That's hardly a meaningful endorsement."

"Hey," Hawkeye protested. "I resent that. I also check that they have the right limbs. Left arm on the left side, right arm on the right. I'm very thorough."

Charles’ frown deepened. “Tell me, Doctor Bashir, do you even know what an opera is, or shall I explain the concept to you in small words?"

"Charles—" BJ started, indignation coloring his voice.

But Julian just smiled. "I've been to the opera, actually. Though I'll admit my tastes run more toward the argumentative than the musical."

"How charmingly vague." Charles sniffed. "Well, I suppose I shouldn't expect much. You strike me as rather a Tom Jones sort—rough around the edges, stumbling through life on luck and low cunning rather than breeding or education."

Julian's smile widened. Charles had just handed him an opening. "I'd like to think I'm more Fielding, actually. Observant, analytical, interested in examining society's hypocrisies."

Charles stopped mid-gesture. His eyebrows rose.

"You've read Fielding."

"I have. I found his narrative style fascinating—the way he addresses the reader directly, comments on his own storytelling. Very self-aware for the period." Literature. Julian was in his element. "Though if we're comparing people to literary characters, I've always thought Tom Jones gets a bad reputation. Yes, he makes mistakes, but he's genuine. Honest. More than can be said for Blifil."

There was a pause. Charles's expression shifted from disdain to curious interest.

"Well," he said finally. "Perhaps you're not a complete philistine after all." He extended his hand with considerably more grace than his initial response would have suggestsed. "Major Charles Emerson Winchester the Third. It appears I may finally have a cultured roommate. God knows these two wouldn't recognize Henry Fielding if he performed surgery on them."

"Hey," Hawkeye protested. " I wouldn’t recognize anyone performing surgery on me. Not if they’re using anesthesia properly."

"Uncultured swine," Charles muttered, but without real heat. He turned back to Julian. "Do you play chess, Doctor Bashir?"

"I do."

"Excellent. Perhaps my exile to this godforsaken peninsula won't be entirely unbearable after all."

BJ caught Julian's eye and mouthed "that’s Charles," grinning.

Julian allowed himself a small internal moment of satisfaction. All those months of Garak systematically dismantling his literary analyses had paid off in the most unexpected way possible. He could practically hear the Cardassian's voice: Really, my dear doctor, if you're going to let yourself be insulted, at least have the courtesy to respond to it cleverly.

The mess tent was marginally more appealing with a morning-hungry stomach, though the food remained a crime against cuisine. Julian collected something that claimed to be scrambled eggs and toast that could probably be used as body armor, and followed the others to their usual table.

BJ was already reading a letter, his face lit. "Peg says Erin's talking in full sentences now. Full sentences! She's only two!"

"That's wonderful," Margaret said, appearing with her own tray. She'd clearly heard this update already but listened with patience.

"And she's figured out how to open the child gate. Peg had to install a new lock because Erin kept escaping to the neighbor's yard." BJ laughed, shaking his head. "My daughter's an escape artist. Should I be proud? Terrified?"

"Both," Hawkeye suggested, leaning into BJ's space to read over his shoulder. "Definitely both. Though I have to say, Beej, this whole 'proud papa' thing is a good look on you. Very ‘daddy’ in more ways than one."

BJ shoved him away, but he was grinning. "Down, boy."

"Just appreciating a man who knows what matters in life." Hawkeye's tone was teasing, but there was genuine warmth underneath it.

Julian watched the exchange with interest. The easy affection between them, the way Hawkeye could flirt openly with BJ without anyone batting an eye—it was fascinating. And confusing. He'd studied this era's social mores. But here, in this small bubble of close colleagues, different rules seemed to apply.

"Your daughter sounds wonderful," Julian said. "You must miss her terribly."

"Every day," BJ admitted. "But Peg sends pictures, writes constantly. It helps." He looked at Julian. "You got family back home?"

"Not really. My parents and I... we're not close." Julian picked at his eggs, thinking of Richard’s disappointed face. "But my commanding officer—he's got a son. Jake. Older than your daughter by quite a bit, but seeing how proud you are of Erin reminds me of him. Commander Sisko."

"Commander Sisko?" Margaret asked. "That's your CO?"

Julian nodded, warming to the subject despite himself. "Benjamin Sisko. Best man I've ever served under. Dedicated, brilliant, the kind of leader who makes you want to be better just to live up to his expectations. And when he talks about Jake, you can see everything else fall away. Doesn't matter what crisis we're dealing with—his son comes first. Always."

"Sounds like a good man," Potter said.

"He is. One of the best." Julian smiled, remembering. "Actually, his father owns a restaurant back in New Orleans. Soul food—the real stuff. He grew up learning to cook from his father, and sometimes when things are slow, he'll make jambalaya in his quarters. It's incredible. The whole station can smell it, and everyone suddenly finds a reason to stop by."

The table had paused. Julian watched awareness dawn on their faces as realized what he'd said. Soul food. New Orleans. What their minds would connect in their era of such strict segregation. A black CO. A black man in a position of significant authority over personnel, including someone like Julian. In 1950, where segregation was still legal in much of the United States, where the military had only recently integrated under Truman's executive order, that was—

"Well," Potter said finally, his voice warm. "Good for him. And good for the UN for recognizing talent."

"The UN's very progressive that way," Margaret added quickly. "Equal opportunity and all that. It's the future, isn't it? Judging people by their capabilities rather than—well."

Charles looked thoughtful, swirling his coffee. "I suppose if we're going to have any hope of actual international cooperation, we'll need to move past provincial prejudices. Though I confess I'm surprised the organization has progressed that far already. My family still belongs to clubs that wouldn't—" He stopped himself. "Well. Perhaps that speaks to why international organizations are necessary."

"Agreed," Hawkeye said. He was watching Julian with those sharp eyes, like he was seeing something he hadn't noticed before. " You can tell a lot about someone from the way his men talk about him. And you sure sound like you respect him. I’d sure like to try that jambalaya."

Julian thought of Sisko on DS9, dealing with Cardassians and Bajorans and the ever-present threat of the Dominion. Thought of him trying to hold together a station at the edge of Federation space while raising his son alone. Thought of the impossibility of that meeting ever happening.

"I think you'd get along," he said. "He's got a good grip on things. Needs it, dealing with the people under his command."

"Like you?" Hawkeye's grin was back, teasing.

The conversation moved on—Hawkeye launching into a story about a poker game, Margaret reminding everyone about the supply inventory that afternoon. But Julian caught BJ watching him occasionally, something speculative in his gaze.

He'd have to be more careful. Every detail he revealed was another thread that could unravel his story. The more details he gave, the more opportunity there was for things to not quite add up.

But for now, he had breakfast to finish and a day of work ahead of him. Whatever consequences his slip might bring, he'd deal with them when they came.

#

After breakfast, they made their way to the infirmary for morning rounds. The post-op ward was filled with rows of cots, each occupied by a soldier in various stages of recovery. The air smelled of antiseptic and sweat, with undertones of coffee and possibly oatmeal. Julian hoped oatmeal.

Julian followed BJ, moving from bed to bed. Margaret supervised a team of nurses who changed dressings and monitored vital signs with the kind of competence that reminded him of his own nurses on DS9.

"This is Martinez," BJ said, stopping at a cot near the middle of the tent. "Your patient from yesterday."

Julian recognized the young soldier immediately. His color was better, his breathing easier. The bandages across his abdomen were clean, showing no signs of infection. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, sir. The nurses said you're the one who patched me up in the field."

"We all patched you up," Julian corrected. "I just happened to be there first."

"Still. Thank you, Doc."

Julian nodded, checking Martinez's chart. The handwriting was meticulous. Someone had been monitoring his vitals every two hours, noting fluid intake, pain levels, any changes in condition. Good nursing. The kind of care that made the difference between survival and complications.

They continued down the row. BJ checked sutures and Hawkeye charmed patients with a running commentary that was part medical assessment, part vaudeville act.

"Mr. Henderson," Hawkeye said to a soldier with a leg cast, "I see you've been flirting with Nurse Baker. I admire your taste, but I feel compelled to warn you that she's already rejected me seventeen times, so your odds aren't great."

"Maybe I've got something you don't, Doc," Henderson said, grinning.

"Bravery? A mustache? Money back home? You might be right." Hawkeye made a note on the chart. "How's the pain?"

"Not bad. Nurse gave me something a couple hours ago."

"Good. Keep taking it easy, and maybe in a few weeks you'll be dancing." Hawkeye moved to the next bed. "Well, hopping. Dancing might be optimistic."

They were halfway through rounds when Julian heard raised voices from the far end of the tent. He looked up to see a nurse—Asian, petite, with her hair in two neat buns—standing beside a patient's bed, her expression professionally neutral despite the soldier's aggressive tone.

"Listen sweetheart, I don't want some nurse making decisions about my treatment," the soldier was saying, loud enough that heads were turning. "I want a real doctor. A man who knows what he's doing."

"It’s Nurse Kellye, Private. I'm following Doctor Potter's orders. The medication schedule—"

"I don't care about schedules, nurse. You probably don't even understand what those medicines do." The soldier's face was flushed, whether from pain or anger, Julian couldn't tell. "Get me a real doctor. Not some—"

Julian moved before he'd consciously decided to. He crossed the room quickly, aware of Potter and the others turning to watch, but unable to stop the surge of anger that overrode his usual caution.

"Private," Julian said, his voice sharp enough to cut. The soldier looked up, startled. "You will apologize to Nurse Kellye. Now."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Doctor Bashir, and I'm telling you that Nurse Kellye is more qualified to manage your care than you are to question it." Julian was vaguely aware that his accent had sharpened, that he was using what Miles called his 'Starfleet officer' voice—the one that expected immediate compliance. "She's been monitoring your vitalsand keeping you alive while doctors like me are in surgery. Without her and the other nurses, half the men in this tent wouldn't have survived their first night."

The soldier opened his mouth to respond, but Julian wasn't finished.

"There is nothing 'less than' about being a nurse. There is nothing lesser about being a woman. And if you can't show basic respect to the person keeping you alive, then frankly, you don't deserve her care." Julian was aware his hands were clenched, that his voice had risen slightly. He forced himself to take a breath. "Nurse Kellye is following doctor's orders. Orders that were carefully calculated to optimize your recovery. If you have a problem with your treatment plan, you can discuss it with Colonel Potter. But you will not disrespect the nursing staff. Is that clear?"

The soldier had gone pale. "Yes, sir. I—I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean—"

"Apologize properly," Julian said.

"I'm sorry, Nurse Kellye. I was out of line."

Kellye's expression had shifted from professional neutrality to something softer. "Apology accepted, Private. Now let me check your temperature, and then I'll bring your medication."

Julian stepped back, suddenly aware that the entire tent had gone quiet. Potter was watching him with an unreadable expression. Margaret looked approving. BJ and Hawkeye were both grinning.

"Well said, Doctor Bashir," Potter said finally. "Very well said indeed."

The rest of rounds passed without incident, but Julian noticed a change. The nurses—who'd been professionally courteous before—now smiled at him more readily. When he asked questions about patient care, they answered with genuine warmth rather than the careful distance of earlier. One of them, a nurse named Bigelow, actually laughed at something he said about suture placement.

By mid-afternoon, Julian was helping change dressings on a shrapnel wound when he heard Hawkeye's voice behind him.

"You know, Julian, you're very good with your hands. Very precise. Gentle touch. I bet the patients appreciate that."

Julian glanced over his shoulder. Hawkeye was leaning against the supply cabinet, watching him work with that same amused expression he'd worn the night before.

"I'm just doing my job," Julian said.

"Mmm. But you do it well. With such... attention." Hawkeye drew out the last word slightly.

One of the nurses—Baker—walked past and swatted Hawkeye's arm. "Leave the poor man alone, Pierce. He's been here less than two days. At least let him settle in before you start."

"Start what? I'm offering professional appreciation."

"That's what you call it?" Baker's tone was fond despite the words. "You're terrible."

"I'm charming. There's a difference."

"No, there isn't."

BJ appeared from the other side of the tent, shaking his head. "Hawkeye, stop harassing the new doctor. Julian, if he makes you uncomfortable, just tell him to shut up. The rest of us do it at least six times a day."

"Seven," Hawkeye corrected. "You told me to shut up seven times yesterday. I counted."

"Should've been eight."

Julian found himself smiling despite his confusion. The easy banter between them, the way the nurses participated with obvious affection—it was nothing like what he'd expected from his historical studies. Nothing like the rigid hierarchies and careful distances he'd read about.

Hawkeye caught his eye and winked before moving on to flirt with another nurse who responded by telling him his hair looked like a mop. He agreed cheerfully and offered to let her fix it later.

By the time Julian finished his shift, the sun was setting and his feet ached in a way that reminded him of his early clinical rotations. He was cleaning up at the sink when Margaret approached.

"Doctor Bashir," she said. "Do you have a moment?"

"Of course, Major."

"I wanted to thank you. For what you did this morning. Standing up for Kellye."

Julian shook his head. "It was nothing. He was being disrespectful."

"It wasn't nothing." Margaret's voice was firm. "The doctors here—they're good men. Excellent surgeons. But sometimes they're…unaware. They'll flirt with the nurses, joke with them, even rely on them completely. But standing up for them the way you did? Treating nursing as equal instead of subordinate?" She smiled. "That was different. Important."

"I just said what needed to be said," Julian said, feeling heat creep up his neck. "Where I come from—where I trained—nurses are respected as essential members of the medical team. I wouldn't have made it through my residency without the nurses teaching me half of what I know."

"Where you trained must be very progressive." Margaret studied him. "The nurses noticed. They're already talking about you—in a good way, for once. Usually when a new doctor arrives, there's a period of... evaluation. Testing to see if he's going to respect them or treat them like glorified assistants. You skipped that entire process this morning."

Julian thought about Nurse Jabara on DS9, who'd saved his life more than once. About the way she'd patiently corrected his mistakes during his first year on the station, never making him feel inadequate even when he'd been spectacularly wrong about treating Bajorans. About how she'd once told him that he was one of the few doctors who actually listened when nurses spoke.

"I've worked with some incredible nurses," he said quietly. "I know what I owe them."

Margaret touched his arm briefly. "Well, you've earned their respect. That's not easy to do. Especially not in less than forty-eight hours." She glanced back at the ward, where Kellye was helping a patient sit up. "You're fitting in here, Doctor Bashir. Better than most."

After she left, Julian stood at the sink, staring at his reflection in the small mirror above the basin. Fitting in. Better than most.

He'd spent so much of his life feeling like he didn't fit anywhere. Too smart for his peers, too genetically modified for the rules, too enthusiastic for the cynical. Even on DS9, where he'd found something like home, there was always that underlying awareness that he was different. That people found him annoying. That they tolerated his presence rather than welcoming it.

But here, nurses smiled at him genuinely. Doctors praised him. People seemed to actually like him, not despite his enthusiasm but because of his competence and his willingness to stand up for what was right.

It was such a small thing. Such a simple thing. But it made him smile.

Chapter Text

Three passed like water through Julian’s fingers—too fast and impossible to hold on to.

Julian fell into the rhythm of the MASH unit with an ease that should have concerned him more than it did. Wake to the sound of Hawkeye's snoring and Charles's disgusted commentary. Breakfast in the mess tent, where the food never improved but the company made it bearable. Rounds in post-op, surgery when the choppers came, and quiet hours in between where time stretched long and uncomfortable.

He learned the names of all the nurses, the quirks of the equipment, which centrifuges were reliable and which would fail at the worst possible moment. He learned that Radar could predict choppers before anyone else heard them, that Father Mulcahy always had time to listen, that Margeret held her own—and then some.

And he learned that Hawkeye Pierce flirted the way other people breathed—constantly, enthusiastically, and with absolutely no regard for social convention.

"You know what I like about you, Julian?" Hawkeye asked one afternoon. They were in the supply tent, cataloging surgical instruments that had been requisitioned from who-knew-where. "You've got this intensity. Like you're always thinking six steps ahead."

"I'm a doctor," Julian said, not looking up from his clipboard. "Thinking ahead is part of the job."

"Mmm, but you do it differently. More... focused." Hawkeye leaned against the supply shelf, close enough that Julian could feel the warmth of him. "It's very attractive. Like someone could kiss you and you wouldn’t even look up."

Julian did look up then. "Are you ever not like this?"

"Like what?"

"Flirtatious."

"Why would I want to be?" Hawkeye's grin was unrepentant. "Life's short, especially here. Might as well enjoy the view while we can."

At first, Julian had been anxious about the attention. He'd studied this era, knew the laws, the stigma, the very real danger that came with being too open about certain interests. But no one at the 4077 seemed to care. When Hawkeye made comments that would have gotten them both arrested in most of the Western world, people just rolled their eyes and said "that's just Hawkeye." Apparently as long as it stayed to flirtation it was just another way to make their tribute to purgatory bearable.

"You don't have to answer," Hawkeye said, straightening up. "I know I come on strong. If it bothers you—"

"It doesn't bother me," Julian said honestly. And it didn't. Hawkeye's attention was flattering, uncomplicated in a way that Julian's interactions with Garak had never been. There were no layers here, no hidden meanings. Just straightforward appreciation wrapped in humor. “God knows I’ve been called overeager more times than I can count.”

"Good." Hawkeye's smile softened slightly. "Because I'd hate to make you uncomfortable. You're too good a doctor to lose over my inability to keep my mouth shut."

Later that evening, Julian found himself in the officers' club—a shack with a bar, record player, and furniture that had seen better decades. Charles was holding court near the makeshift bar, a glass of something amber in his hand.

"The problem with modern music," Charles was saying, "is that it lacks sophistication. Give me Mozart, Monteverdi! Composers who understood that music should elevate the soul, not merely entertain the masses."

"You’re partial to opera?" Julian asked, settling into an empty chair. He'd had just enough of Hawkeye's gin to make conversation feel easier than usual.

"Opera is the highest form of musical expression," Charles declared. "Verdi, Puccini, Wagner—though I'll admit Wagner can be exhausting. Have you attended many operas, Bashir?"

Julian thought of the Klingon opera he'd seen on DS9, where Jadzia had tried to explain the cultural significance while he'd mostly been fascinated by the theatrical violence. His mouth ran without thinking. "A few. I saw Aktuh and Maylota performed once. The staging was incredible—real bat'leths, actual combat choreography. Very visceral."

Charles's expression went blank for just a moment—a flicker of confusion so brief Julian almost missed it. Then his face smoothed into something carefully neutral.

"Ah yes," Charles said, in a tone that said he absolutely did not know what Julian was talking about but would rather die than admit it. "Quite... exotic. An interesting choice of repertoire. Very... interpretive."

Julian bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He'd accidentally referenced Klingon opera—opera that wouldn't exist for another three hundred years, from a species humans hadn't even encountered yet. And Charles, rather than admit ignorance, was pretending to be familiar with it.

"I thought the aria in the second act was particularly moving," Julian said, unable to resist. "The way Maylota faces her death—very powerful."

"Powerful indeed," Charles agreed, taking a long sip of his drink. "Though I prefer more traditional compositions myself. The Italian masters."

"Of course."

The moment passed, but Julian found himself smiling for the rest of the evening.

The lack of entertainment at the 4077 was a constant low-level frustration for everyone. There were a few worn paperbacks that circulated constantly, a handful of magazines months out of date, and Radar's record collection that consisted of approximately four records played on infinite loop.

Julian noticed how people treasured letters from home. How they'd read them over and over, share news with anyone who'd listen. Potter kept a letter from Mildred in his breast pocket, pulling it out to reread during quiet moments. BJ had photographs of Erin that he showed to anyone who'd sit still long enough.

Books were precious. Potter had a collection of Zane Grey westerns. Charles hoarded classical literature like a dragon with gold. Hawkeye had a battered collection of mystery novels that he claimed to have read so many times he'd memorized the endings.

"I wish we had more," Margaret said one evening, watching two nurses argue over a detective novel. "It would give them something to focus on besides where they are."

Julian thought about his enhancements, about the perfect recall that meant he'd never forgotten a single book he'd read. Every novel, every medical text, every piece of literature Garak had forced on him during their discussions.

"I could read to them," he said slowly. "Over the PA system. In the evenings, maybe. When things are quiet."

Margaret's face lit up. "Could you? That would be wonderful."

So Julian found himself sitting in the communications tent after dinner, Radar looking at him expectantly, microphone in hand.

"What should I read?" Julian asked.

"Something good," Radar said. "Something that'll make people forget they're here."

Julian thought for a moment, then smiled. "I know just the thing."

He started with The Great Gatsby—a book that was relatively period-appropriate and one he'd loved during his Academy literature courses. He read for an hour, his voice carrying across the compound through the PA system, painting pictures of Jazz Age excess and doomed romance.

When he finished the first chapter, he set down the microphone to find a small crowd had gathered outside the communications tent.

"That was beautiful, Doctor Bashir," one of the nurses said. "Will you do more?"

"Tomorrow," Julian promised. "If we're not up to our elbows in surgery."

It became a routine. Three or four evenings a week, Julian would "read" from memory—Pride and Prejudice, Bonjour Tristesse. People would gather near speakers or stop what they were doing to listen. Even Charles approved, though he grumbled that Julian's French pronunciation was suspect.

One evening, feeling playful and slightly homesick, Julian decided to recite a Cardassian novella. It was a political thriller Garak had insisted he read—something about family honor and state loyalty and betrayal across three generations. Julian had found it dense and occasionally confusing, but Garak had been enthusiastic about discussing the cultural subtext.

He translated as he went, adapting the Cardassian cultural references into something his audience might understand. The story was convoluted, the motivations of the characters often opaque, and the ending was decidedly unsatisfying by human standards—the protagonist died having achieved nothing, and his family was disgraced for another generation.

When he finished, there was a long silence over the PA system.

The next morning at breakfast, Potter cleared his throat. "That reading last night, son. The one about the family and the political intrigue."

"Yes, sir?"

"It was..." Potter searched for words. "Interesting. Very... complex."

"Depressing," BJ added. "Exceptionally depressing."

"I found the circular narrative structure unnecessarily convoluted," Charles said. "And the ending was thoroughly unsatisfying."

"Kellye said it gave her a headache," Margaret contributed. "Though she appreciated the effort."

Julian bit back a smile. "So you didn't enjoy it."

"Let's just say," Potter said diplomatically, "that we'd appreciate it if you stuck to more... conventional stories. Ones where the good guys win."

"Noted," Julian said.

He thought about Garak, imagining telling him this story—how a camp full of pre-warp humans had basically declared Cardassian literature incomprehensible and depressing. Garak would probably be delighted. He'd say something about humans lacking the sophistication to appreciate true complexity, and then he'd ask Julian to explain exactly what people had found objectionable, and they'd spend an hour dissecting cultural differences in narrative structure.

Julian missed that. Missed Garak's clever commentary, the way he'd pick apart Julian's arguments with fond derision. Missed the kotra games that were never just kotra games, the conversations that meant three different things simultaneously.

He missed Miles's good-natured grumbling and Jadzia's knowing smiles. Missed Odo's exasperated patience with human foolishness and Sisko's steady leadership. Missed Keiko's kindness and Kira's fierce protectiveness of the people under her care.

He missed home.

Late at night, lying on his borrowed cot while Hawkeye snored and BJ muttered in his sleep, Julian would pull out his PADD and stare at its darkened screen. He couldn't risk turning it on—the light would raise questions, and the battery was precious. But just holding it, feeling the familiar weight of Federation technology, made him feel less alone.

He'd tried to think of ways home. Dozens of them, each more improbable than the last.

He could try to build a subspace transmitter, but that would require resources he didn't have and knowledge he'd never fully mastered. Miles was the engineer. Julian was just a doctor who'd paid attention during Academy courses.

He could try to find any Bureau of Temporal Affairs agents. But he had no idea where they would be, much less if there were any on Earth at that time. And walking around asking people if they were Temporal Agents seemed like an excellent way to make things worse.

He could try to leave messages—buried time capsules, carefully worded letters deposited in places he knew would be preserved. But what could he say that wouldn't risk altering history? And how would anyone in his own time even know to look?

Most of his plans required him to leave the MASH unit, to get to a city or university where he might be able to access equipment or materials. But that presented its own problems. He had no papers, no documentation that would survive serious scrutiny. He was a foreign national in a military zone during wartime. Moving around without proper authorization would draw exactly the kind of attention he couldn't afford.

And there was another problem he didn't want to examine too closely: part of him didn't want to leave.

The 4077 had become... not home, exactly. But something like it. A place where people knew him, valued him. Where he could help, make a difference, be useful. Where nurses smiled at him genuinely and doctors asked his opinion and patients thanked him for their care.

Where he felt less like an annoying burden and more like someone who belonged.

It was dangerous, this feeling. He knew it was dangerous. He was supposed to be trying to get home, not settling in. Every day he stayed was another day he wasn't trying to return to his own time, to his friends, to his real life.

But every day he stayed was also another life he might save. Another surgery where his skills made the difference between survival and death. Another evening reading stories to people who desperately needed the escape.

The temporal mechanics made his head hurt. Was he changing history by being here? Were these soldiers supposed to survive, or was he creating new timelines with every suture? Did it matter?

Julian didn't know. And lying in the dark, listening to his tentmates breathe, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Chapter Text

Julian knew something was wrong when BJ didn't show up for dinner.

"Where's Hunnicutt?" Potter asked, looking around the mess tent.

"In the Swamp," Hawkeye said, usual levity subdued. "He's having one of his nights."

Potter's expression softened with understanding. Margaret nodded. Even Charles looked sympathetic in his own way.

"One of his nights?" Julian asked quietly.

"Homesickness," Hawkeye said, pushing food around his tray without eating. "Hits him every once in a while. He'll be fine in a day or two. Always is."

But Hawkeye didn't sound convinced. And as soon as dinner ended, he was heading back toward the Swamp. Julian found himself following.

Inside the tent, BJ sat on his cot, still in his scrubs. He wasn't crying—not exactly. But his eyes were rimmed red, and he held a photograph in his hands. Peg and Erin, Julian assumed. The wife and daughter he hadn't seen in ages.

"Hey, Beej," Hawkeye said, his voice deliberately light. "You planning to join the land of the living, or should I tell everyone you've taken a vow of sulking?"

BJ didn't respond. Just kept staring at the photograph.

Hawkeye sat down on his own cot, facing BJ. Julian hesitated near the door, unsure if he should leave, but Hawkeye caught his eye and gave a small shake of his head. Stay.

So Julian moved to his cot and sat quietly. Present but not participating. It was the kind of dynamic he'd seen on ships sometimes, when privacy was impossible but people needed the illusion of it anyway. The unspoken agreement that you could have a conversation in front of someone pretended to not be listening.

"Come on," Hawkeye tried again, injecting false cheer into his voice. "It's not that bad. The food's terrible, the pay’s worse, but at least the accommodations are substandard. That's got to count for something."

Nothing. BJ's thumb traced over the photograph.

Hawkeye's expression shifted, humor dropping. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. Genuine.

"I know," he said simply. "I know it hurts. God, Beej, I know."

"I missed her first birthday," BJ said quietly. His voice was rough. He'd been crying earlier. "Erin's first birthday. And her second. Peg sent pictures, but it's not the same. I wasn't there."

"You'll be there for the next one."

"Will I? We don't even know when we're getting out of here. Could be months. Could be years. She's going to grow up, and I'm going to miss all of it." BJ's hand tightened on the photograph. "Her first words, her first steps. Every milestone. I'm missing everything that matters."

"You're saving lives," Hawkeye said. "That matters."

"Not to Erin. Not to Peg." BJ finally looked up, eyes swimming. "I'm her father, and I'm not there. What kind of father does that make me?"

"The kind who's making sure other fathers get to go home to their kids."

"That's supposed to make it better?" BJ barked a bitter laugh. "Sorry, sweetheart, Daddy missed your childhood because he was busy keeping strangers alive? That'll go over well."

Hawkeye was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You know what Peg would say if she heard you talking like this?"

"That I'm being maudlin and self-pitying?"

"She'd say that you're exactly the man she married. The one who puts others first even when it kills him. The one who cares so much it hurts." Hawkeye’s brows furrowed, serious. "She'd tell you that Erin's going to grow up knowing her father is a hero. That she's going to be proud of you. And that when you get home—when, Beej, not if—you're going to have the rest of your life to be there for every moment that comes after."

BJ made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "That's exactly something Peg would say. Jesus, Hawk. I've written to her so much about you, she probably knows you as well as I do at this point."

"Well, unless you’ve sent her my stinky socks, that’s a title you can probably keep holidng."

"She'd like you," BJ said, wiping at his eyes. "You'd like her. I'll have to be careful when you come visit us after all this, make sure you don't try to swoop in and sweep her off her feet too."

"I would never," Hawkeye said, mock-offended. "Well. I might try. But Peg sounds like she's got good taste, which means she'd see right through my considerable charms and tell me to help you with the dishes instead."

That got a real laugh from BJ, watery but genuine. "She definitely would."

"See? I'd fit right in. I'll be the charming family friend who shows up for holidays and teaches Erin inappropriate jokes."

"God help us all."

"God's got nothing to do with it. This is pure Hawkeye Pierce." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You're going to get through this, Beej. You're going to go home. And yeah, you're going to have missed some things. But you know what you won't have missed? The rest of her life. The rest of your life with Peg. All those years stretching out ahead where you get to be there for everything."

"You really believe that?"

"Of course I do." Hawkeye's voice was soft. "Because if I don't believe you're going to make it home to them, then what the hell have I just been talking to you about?"

BJ nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He looked down at the photograph again, but this time his expression was less devastated, more wistful. "Tell me that story that you said I missed yesterday. The one Radar was telling at lunch. About his family's farm."

Hawkeye launched into the story—something about Radar's uncle and a prize-winning pig—and slowly, gradually, BJ's shoulders loosened. He laughed at the right moments. Asked questions. Came back to the world.

Julian watched the whole thing from his cot, supposedly reading a book but mostly observing. The way Hawkeye had shifted tactics from humor to honesty to distraction. The way he'd known exactly what BJ needed at each stage.

And that tenderness in his face when he looked at BJ. In the way he'd said "when you get home to them" instead of "when we get home." It was there in every gesture, every word carefully chosen to lift BJ's spirits. The way Hawkeye focused entirely on BJ's happiness, on getting him through the dark moment, with no expectation of anything in return. The look was tender. Proud. And underneath it all, heartbreakingly sad.

"You should write to Peg," Hawkeye was saying. "Tell her about today. About how Martinez is walking now. About how Potter's daughter-in-law sent him a care package with homemade cookies that tasted like sawdust but we all ate them anyway because they were made with love."

"You think she wants to hear about sawdust cookies?"

"I think she wants to hear about your life. About what you're doing, who you're with. She wants to know you're okay." Hawkeye smiled. "And if you mention that your devastatingly handsome tentmate is taking good care of you, I wouldn't object."

"Devastatingly handsome?"

"I'm told I have excellent bone structure."

"By who?"

"By me. I tell myself every morning. I’m very affirming."

BJ laughed again, this one more genuine. "You're ridiculous."

"And yet you love me anyway." Hawkeye said it lightly, playfully. But Julian caught the way his eyes flickered for just a moment—vulnerable and quickly hidden.

"Yeah," BJ said, oblivious to the weight behind the words. "Yeah, I do. Thanks, Hawk. You’re the best."

"Better than he best," Hawkeye agreed, his smile never faltering. "Now come on. Let's go see if Klinger’s got any new outfits he wants to model for us.”

"Sounds good."

They stood, and Hawkeye threw an arm around BJ's shoulders in an easy, companionable gesture that was simultaneously intimate and completely acceptable.

As they headed out of the tent, Hawkeye glanced back at Julian. Their eyes met, and for just a second, Julian saw past all the humor and deflection to the person underneath. Someone who cared deeply, impossibly.

Then Hawkeye winked—breaking the moment—and followed BJ out into the evening.

Chapter Text

The choppers came at dawn, which meant they'd been flying through the night. That wasn’t a good sign.

Julian was already moving before Radar's announcement finished echoing across the camp. He'd learned to interpret the urgency in the young man's voice: this wasn't the usual steady stream of casualties. This was bad.

Pre-op area filled within minutes, spilling outside. Stretchers everywhere, nurses calling out vital signs, orderlies moving briskly. Julian caught sight of Margaret directing traffic, calm and authoritative even as the numbers kept climbing.

"Bashir!" Potter's voice cut through the noise. " Table three. Chest trauma, possible cardiac involvement!"

Julian moved quickly. He could hear voices from inside the operating theater: Hawkeye calling for instruments, BJ's steady commentary, the rhythmic hiss of manual respirators.

He pushed through the doors into chaos with disturbing ease.

"What've we got?" Julian asked, moving to the empty table where a soldier—couldn't be more than nineteen—was being transferred from a stretcher.

"Shrapnel to the abdomen and chest," Lieutenant Able reported. She'd started smiling at him during rounds after the incident with Kellye. "Possible pneumothorax, definitely internal bleeding."

Julian assessed quickly, hands already moving. The chest wound was serious but manageable—he could see the lung collapse, the telltale signs of air in the pleural space. Standard treatment for the era would be chest tube, drainage, careful monitoring.

But the abdominal injuries were worse. Much worse.

He opened carefully, working through layers of tissue and muscle. Blood welled up immediately. Too much blood. A nick to the hepatic artery. Small, but catastrophic.

Back home it would be simple. Laser cauterization, tissue regeneration, maybe some surgical sealant. The patient would be in and out of surgery within the hour and fully recovered in a week.

But here, with these tools…

The standard procedure would be clamping and ligation. Tie off the bleeder, hope the collateral circulation was sufficient, and pray that the resulting ischemia didn't cause more damage than the original injury. It worked, mostly. But the recovery was brutal, and the risk of complications was significant. The patient might make it to Tokyo. He might not.

Julian's hands paused over the exposed artery. He could do what they expected. Follow the protocols of the era, perform the surgery the way any competent doctor would.

Or—

"Suture," he said. "The finest you have. And I need irrigation, constant irrigation."

"Doctor?" Able's voice held a question.

"I'm going to repair it," Julian said, his hands already moving. "Direct arterial anastomosis. Small enough that I can approximate the edges without compromising the lumen."

He felt rather than saw Hawkeye pause at the next table. BJ glanced over. Even Charles, working across the room, turned slightly.

"That's ambitious," Hawkeye said carefully. "Julian, if you can't get a clean repair—"

"I can." Julian was already working, starting to suture sutures with the microscopic precision his enhancements afforded him. Each one perfect, positioned to minimize trauma while maintaining vessel patency. He could see the arterial wall, imagined he could feel how much tension each suture could bear.

It was delicate work. The kind of surgery that wouldn't become standard practice for another couple decades at least, and even then only by specialists with far better equipment than they had here. But Julian could do it. His coordination was working overtime, compensating for the inadequate tools and lighting to place each stitch exactly where it needed to be. The arterial walls came together seamlessly, the repair so clean that when he tie doff, the blood flow resumed. Minimal leakage.

"I'll be damned," Potter said softly. "That's beautiful work, son."

"Irrigation," Julian said, not looking up. "I need to make sure there are no other bleeders before I close."

The rest of the surgery was almost anticlimactic. He checked every vessel, closed in layers, left nothing to chance. By the time he sutured the final layer of skin, the patient's vitals had stabilized completely. Color returning to his face, breathing easier, all the signs of a body that wasn't fighting for survival anymore.

Julian stepped back from the table, suddenly aware of the silence around him.

Margaret was staring at him with something like awe. Able looked stunned. Even Charles had moved closer, observing Julian's work with uncharacteristic interest.

"That," Charles said slowly, "was remarkable. Where did you learn that technique?"

"Medical school," Julian said vaguely, already stripping off his gloves. The lie came easily now. "My training program was... cutting-edge."

Hawkeye appeared over his shoulder having finished with his own patient. He looked at Julian's table, at the neatly closed incision, at the stable vitals.

"So. Something fancy with a hepatic artery repair," he said.

"Just a direct anastomosis. Ligation seemed too risky."

"Risky." Potter's eyebrows rose. "Son, that's not a common procedure. Not even slightly common. You just performed surgery that most vascular specialists would hesitate to attempt."

"I had a good teacher," Julian offered, thinking of Dr. T’seth Vo and her exacting standards during his vascular rotation. She'd made him practice on holographic simulations for months before letting him near actual patients.

"Clearly." Potter looked at him for a long moment, and Julian felt his stomach tighten. He'd been too fancy, too skilled. Had drawn exactly the kind of attention he'd been trying to avoid. But what was he supposed to do—let the patient die to avoid suspicion?

But then Potter smiled. "Damn fine work, son. That boy's going to make it home because of you."

We’ll need to watch him carefully," Julian said, stripping off his gloves. "Monitor cardiac function every thirty minutes for the first six hours. Any irregularities, any signs of tamponade, you call me immediately."

"Yes, Doctor," Nurse Baker said.

The OR gradually emptied as patients were transferred to post-op. Julian scrubbed out alongside Hawkeye, who was uncharacteristically quiet.

"That was really something," Hawkeye said finally. "I mean it, Julian. I've been doing this for years now, and I've never seen anyone attempt that kind of repair, let alone pull it off so cleanly."

Julian shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "It just seemed like the better option."

"Better option." Hawkeye laughed, but there was no mockery in it. "You're something else, you know that? Come on. Potter keeps the good stuff hidden, and I think this calls for a celebration."

#

The officer's club was more crowded than usual—several new faces that Julian didn't recognize mixed in with the regular staff. Visiting brass, maybe, or support personnel from another unit.

Word of the successful surgery rate that day had spread, and the mood was almost celebratory, a brief respite from the usual exhaustion.

Julian claimed a seat, accepting the glass Hawkeye pressed into his hand. Charles was already holding forth about sport hunting, and BJ was grinning at something Margaret had said.

"So there I was," Hawkeye announced to the table at large, his voice carrying in his storytelling mode, "closing up a relatively straightforward shrapnel wound, when I hear Charles—Charles, mind you, who wouldn't compliment his own mother—say 'that's remarkable work.' So naturally I had to look." Hawkeye gestured dramatically. "And there's Julian, calmly performing a repair that I've only read about in journals."

"It wasn't that impressive," Julian protested. "Any competent surgeon could have—"

"Any competent surgeon would have tied it off and hoped for the best," BJ interrupted. "What you did was steps beyond competent. It was damn near magical."

"Here here," Hawkeye said, raising his glass. "To Julian and his magical hands."

"To Julian!" the table chorused.

Julian felt heat creep up his neck. The attention was too much, too visible. He needed to redirect, to downplay—

A flash of light made him flinch.

Julian's head snapped up to find a man with a camera lowering it from his face, a press badge visible on his jacket. "Sorry about that, Doc. Couldn't resist. That's going to be a great shot—you surrounded by your colleagues, everyone toasting your success."

"I—what—" Julian's voice came out strangled. A photograph. A photograph that would be in records, in archives. "You can't—"

"Can and did." The man grinned, extending his hand. "Corporal Marty Walters, Stars and Stripes. I've been touring the unit today, getting some human interest stories. When Colonel Potter mentioned what you did in surgery, that technique that probably saved that kid's life, I knew I had to get a picture."

Julian's mind raced. This was bad. This was very bad. Photographs were evidence, documentation—

"It really wasn't that great," Julian tried. "Just a standard repair—"

"Standard?" Hawkeye leaned back in his chair, grinning up at the journalist. "Julian, you're terrible at taking credit. What you did today was extraordinary. That boy's going home with a fully functional liver because you had the skill and guts to attempt something most surgeons wouldn't even consider."

"Hawkeye, please—" Julian's voice came out strangled.

"He’s right," the journalist said, making notes. "Colonel Potter said this kind of direct arterial repair isn't common practice. Said you might be ahead of your time."

Ahead of his time. If only he knew.

"I just did what needed to be done," Julian said, trying to keep his voice level even as panic clawed at his chest. "Any doctor would have—"

"Would have packed the wound and shipped him to Japan," Charles interrupted. Julian had forgotten he was there. "What you did was several orders of magnitude more sophisticated. The technique, the precision—it was masterful work, Bashir."

Great. Even Charles was working against him now.

"Exactly!" The journalist was writing faster now. "This is perfect. 'MASH Doctor's Innovative Technique Saves Young Soldier.' Front page material, Doc. You're going to be famous."

Famous. Famous meant visible. Meant attention. Meant people looking at him, increasing the risk of changing something, of—

"I really don't think—" Julian started.

“Can you tell me where you trained? Our readers will want to know."

"San Francisco," Julian said, because he had to say something. "But I really don't think this warrants—"

"San Francisco? Excellent. And you're with the UN medical corps?" The journalist was still writing, creating a permanent record.

"I appreciate the interest," Julian said, trying to keep his voice level, "but I'd really rather not—"

"Modesty," Hawkeye said, warm and tipsy. "I love it. But Julian, you deserve recognition. What you did today matters."

"Hawkeye." Julian's voice came out sharper than he intended. He felt cornered, trapped. The journalist was still writing, still planning his damn article. The photograph was already taken, already going to be developed and printed and distributed. "Why are you doing this? Why do you keep—"

He stopped, aware of their audience. The journalist was watching with interest, probably already composing his next paragraph. Margaret and Potter were listening. Even Radar had paused in clearing glasses to hear what Julian would say next.

"Could we talk?" Julian said to Hawkeye, his voice tight. "Outside?"

Hawkeye's expression shifted, reading something in Julian's face. "Sure. Corporal, if you'll excuse us for a moment—"

Julian led him outside the hall, jaw tight. As soon as they were alone, he turned on Hawkeye. "Why did you tell him all that? Why did you keep talking me up when I was trying to—"

"To do what? Pretend you didn't do something incredible?" Hawkeye was smiling, which somehow made Julian angrier.

"It wasn't incredible, it was just—"

"Stop." Hawkeye held up a hand. "Julian, I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to actually think about your answer. Why does it bother you so much to be recognized?"

"That's not—I'm not—" Julian struggled to find words that would explain without revealing. "I just don't think it's worth making a big deal over."

"Bull." But Hawkeye said it mildly, without heat. "You're not just being modest. You're actively trying to avoid attention. Which I've noticed, by the way. You're brilliant in surgery, you read literature like an orator, and you deflect every compliment like it's a live grenade." He tilted his head, studying Julian. "So what is it? Bad breakup with a previous hospital? Trying to avoid an ex? Running from something?"

"I just don't like being in the spotlight," Julian insisted.

"Yeah, I got that. But here's the thing." Hawkeye's voice softened. "Do you know what Stars and Stripes usually publishes? Battle reports. Casualty numbers. Stories about bravery in combat—which usually means stories about young men dying heroically for questionable objectives. That's what war gets you. Death and destruction and the glorification of both."

Julian fell quiet, listening.

"But today," Hawkeye continued, "today you gave that journalist something different. A story about saving a life. About a doctor using skill and innovation to make sure some kid gets to go home to his family instead of being shipped home in a box." His eyes were intense, serious in a way Julian rarely saw from him. "There's so much death here, Julian. So much waste. If one front page—just one—can be about life instead of death, about healing instead of destruction, doesn't that matter?"

Julian felt something in his chest loosen. "You really believe that."

"I have to." Hawkeye's smile was sad.

They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the camp filtering around them. Someone laughed in the distance. A generator hummed. Normal sounds of people trying to live despite the war.

"I'm sorry," Julian said finally. "For snapping at you. You were just... you were trying to do something good."

"And you were trying to avoid attention, which—fair enough. We've all got our reasons." Hawkeye squeezed his shoulder briefly. "But Julian? What you did today? That kid's going to have kids of his own someday. Grandkids, maybe. A whole life ahead of him because you had the guts to try something different. That's worth celebrating."

Julian thought about that soldier—nineteen, maybe twenty. Thought about the life he'd just preserved, the future that would unfold from this single moment. Thought about how one surgical decision could ripple forward through time.

And he thought about how he'd been so focused on protecting himself and his timeline that he'd forgotten the most important thing: in this moment he was a doctor. And doctors saved lives. That was the job. That was the mission.

"Thank you," Julian said quietly. "For the reminder."

"Anytime." Hawkeye's grin returned, bright and irrepressible. "Now come on. That journalist probably has more questions, and I'm not done talking you up yet. Someone's got to make sure the article properly captures your heroism."

"My heroism."

"Absolutely. By the time I'm done, you're going to sound like a cross between Florence Nightingale and Zeus."

Julian laughed despite himself. "I won’t shake you, will I?"

"Never. I’m a dog with a bone.” Hawkeye slung an arm around Julian's shoulders, steering him back toward the officer's club. "Besides, someone's got to balance out your excessive modesty. Think of me as your publicity manager."

"I don't need a publicity manager."

"Everyone needs a publicity manager. How else will people know how wonderful you are?"

They stepped back into the warm light of the officer's club, where the journalist was waiting with his notebook and his camera and his plans to put Julian’s face in the historical record

Julian took a breath, squared his shoulders, and tried to remember that sometimes the best way to hide in history was to be exactly what people expected: a competent doctor who got lucky.

Even if luck had nothing to do with it.

#

The revelries continued throught the evening until the crowds slowly petered out in ones and twos back to their tents. Only the sparce chair remained occupied, two of which were filled by Hawkeye and Julian. Their quiet was accompanied by the clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation. Normal sounds of people trying to forget, for a few hours, where they were.

"You know," Hawkeye said, his voice losing some of its performative edge, " I don't actually know much about you. And before you deflect with another perfectly vague answer about the UN, I mean the real stuff. Who Julian Bashir actually is, not just what he does in an OR."

Julian glanced at him, surprised. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because you're interesting." Hawkeye said it simply, like it was obvious. "You're brilliant and talented and clearly running from something, and you quote obscure literature at Charles and perform miracle surgeries like it's nothing. I'd like to know the story behind all that."

"I'm not that interesting."

"Now I know you're lying." Hawkeye grinned. "Come on. Tell me something real about Julian Bashir."

Julian opened his mouth to deflect, to change the subject. But something about the moment—the darkness, the lingering warmth from Hawkeye's words about saving lives, the good feeling of being actually appreciated—made him want to answer honestly.

Or as honestly as he could.

"People don’t always tend to like me.”

He surprised himself with that statement. Ah well, time to see where his mouth would take him. “I can come across as being a bit abrasive. Intense about what I love. Not the best recipe for popularity."

"Ah, the curse of being brilliant and insufferable." Hawkeye's grin was warm, teasing. "I'm familiar with it. Though in my case, it's more about being devastatingly handsome and unable to hide it."

"Is that what you’re calling that look?"

"Absolutely. It's a burden I bear with grace and humility." Hawkeye shifted closer, his voice dropping slightly. "So this intensity of yours, is it always about medicine? Or do you apply that same focus to other areas of life?"

There was something in his tone that made Julian's pulse quicken slightly. "I've been told I can be... somewhat single-minded when something interests me."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me." Hawkeye was watching him with those sharp eyes. Julian could understand how the nurses described that look: the kind that makes you feel you’re the only one in the world. "What interests you, Julian Bashir? Besides saving lives?"

"I like games. Darts, mostly. Strategy games, though I’m terrible at misdirection." Julian smiled. "I had a friend who used to destroy me at… chess on a regular basis.” He adjusted. Didn’t think it was worth explaining kotra. “He'd make these moves that seemed completely out of nowhere until suddenly you realized he'd been setting up the real strategy five moves back."

"Sounds frustrating."

"It was. It was also..." Julian paused, feeling his throat tighten slightly. "It was one of my favorite parts of the day. Just sitting across from him, trying to figure out what he was thinking. Never quite succeeding."

“All right, all right,” Hawkeye was grinning, encouraging Julian on. “Keep going!”

"When I was a kid," Julian continued slowly, "I had this stuffed bear. Kukalaka. I used to pretend to be a doctor, perform surgeries on him with whatever I could find. Safety pins for sutures, that sort of thing."

"That's adorable." Hawkeye's face lit up. "Please tell me you still have this bear."

"I do, actually. He's—he's back home." Julian smiled despite himself. "He looks... well, loved might be the charitable term. Mangled might be more accurate. But I think I always wanted to be a doctor, even back then."

"Most kids that age are breaking things, and you were trying to fix them." Hawkeye leaned forward. Julian smiled, wistful.

“He stayed with me through…a lot of stuff.”

“There’s a story there, I can tell.”

"I got…sick when I was seven. Needed surgery." Julian's approached the topic with caution, each word chosen carefully. This was the dangerous part: the edge between truth and necessary lies. "Something genetic. The kind of thing that shouldn't have been fixable but was. And afterwards, I felt…different.”

It was true, in its way. He had been seven. He had been changed. The specifics were different—enhancement rather than surgery, improvement rather than repair—but the emotional truth was the same. The feeling of being remade.

"Different how?" Hawkeye aske, quieter.

Julian paused. To hell with it.

“Like I was a different person. Like the me before died to give me life. And that I had to prove I deserved that life." Julian's throat tightened. "I spent every moment from then trying to justify my existence. Every achievement, every accomplishment—they were payments on a debt I could never fully repay." A debt to Jules.

"That's a hell of a way to live."

"Yeah." Julian laughed, but it came out stilted. "And the worst part is, I know it's impossible. I know I'm never going to feel like I've done enough, been enough. But I can't stop trying. Can't stop pushing myself to be better, smarter, more useful." He paused. "More tolerable."

"Tolerable?"

"I know I'm annoying." The words came out in a rush, like a confession Julian had been holding back too long. "I talk too much, I'm too enthusiastic, I come across as arrogant even when I don't mean to. People tolerate me because I'm good at what I do, but they don't actually—" He stopped himself. "I just wish I knew how to be different. How to be the kind of person people actually want around, not just put up with."

Hawkeye was quiet for a long moment. When Julian finally worked up the courage to look at him, he was met with an unusually serious expression.

"Is that really how you see yourself?"

"It's how everyone else sees me." Julian shrugged. "I've made peace with it, mostly. As long as I'm useful, the rest doesn't matter as much."

"Julian—"

"It's fine." Julian forced a smile. "Really. I've had friends who saw past it. People who understood that I didn't mean to be... like this. That I couldn't always help it. One friend in particular—"

Julian stopped, his throat closing unexpectedly. He thought of Garak in their usual corner of the replimat, dissecting Julian's arguments. Bringing him chocolates for his birthday, surprising him with a beautiful shirt just because Starfleet’s standard-issue uniforms were apparently appalling on his frame.

"Sounds important to you," Hawkeye said gently.

"They are. Were. Are." Julian shook his head. "I miss—home. I didn't realize how much until just now, but… Julian wiped at his burning eyes roughly, determined not to cry. Not here, not now, not about temporal displacement and the terrible possibility that he might never see Garak again. "Sorry. I'm being ridiculous. It's the exhaustion talking."

"It's not ridiculous to miss someone."

Julian almost laughed. He was talking to a man who'd been dead for centuries by the time Julian was born, missing another man who wouldn't be born for centuries more. The absurdity of it all was almost too much.

But what struck him, what made his chest tight and his eyes burn, was how much truth he'd just told. The root of the stories might have been a lie, but they were emotionally true.

He thought of what Garak had told him once of his own stories: my dear, they’re all true—especially the lies. Julian had rolled his eyes at the time, dismissed it as more Cardassian double-talk. But now, standing here with tears threatening and truth wrapped in necessary deception, he understood.

The lies revealed more than facts ever could.

"This friend," Hawkeye said carefully, his voice gentle in a way Julian rarely heard from him. "Must not realize how lucky…she is. To have someone who cares about them that much."

The pause was deliberate. The pronoun hesitated. An offering of understanding wrapped in plausible deniability.

Julian looked at Hawkeye and saw no judgment, just genuine warmth and perhaps a hint of recognition.

Hawkeye's hand landed on Julian's shoulder, warm and steady, guiding him back to levity and cheer. "For what it's worth, I think they’d be lucky to have you back. And in the meantime, you're stuck with me. Which isn't the same, but it's not terrible either."

"It's not terrible at all," Julian said honestly.

“Good. Because I have plans to get you some of Potter’s good Scotch before Charles tries to slink back here and drink it all. And tomorrow maybe we can convince Potter to tell the story about the time he tried to ride a horse in the Missouri mud."

"Is it a good story?"

"It's terrible. But it's funny, and Potter does this thing where he acts it out with his hands. It's worth it." Hawkeye steered him back toward the officer's club. "Maybe tomorrow you can watch me absolutely devastate BJ at poker."

Julian laughed—actually laughed—and felt something in his chest loosen. He was still stranded in the wrong time, still carrying secrets that could rewrite history. But for this moment, he had someone who listened.

Who could make him laugh even while acknowledging the ache of missing home.

Hawkeye slipped over to the bar, rummaged behind it, pulled out a bottle of actual Scotch—Potter really had hidden the good stuff. He poured two glasses and returned, raised his in a quiet toast.

"To absent friends," Hawkeye said. "And to the hope that somewhere, they're missing us back."

"To absent friends," Julian echoed.

"And to you," Hawkeye added, his voice warm, "for being exactly as intense and enthusiastic as you are. It's working for you. Trust me."

The way Hawkeye said it—the slight emphasis, the warmth in his eyes—made Julian's face heat slightly. But it wasn't uncomfortable. It was... nice. Being seen. Being appreciated.

Being flirted with.

"You know," Julian said, taking a sip of the Scotch, " you seem suspiciously interested in my intensity."

"What can I say? I appreciate a man who commits to his work." Hawkeye's grin was absolutely wicked now. "Among other things."

"Other things?"

"Your surgical technique. Obviously." Hawkeye's expression was pure innocence. "What else would I mean?"

"Obviously," Julian agreed, smiling despite himself.

The Scotch was good. The company was better. And for a few hours, Julian let himself exist, telling truths wrapped in lies.

It was, he thought, something Garak would have appreciated.

Chapter Text

Julian woke to the usual sounds of the Swamp—Hawkeye's snoring, Charles's muttered complaints about the indignity of sharing quarters with philistines, BJ fumbling for his boots in the pre-dawn darkness. Nothing about the morning should have felt different.

Except it did.

Julian caught himself watching Hawkeye across the tent as they dressed for the day. Noticed the way his hands moved as he buttoned his shirt, easy and unhurried. The same hands that had squeezed Julian's shoulder last night. That had offered understanding without judgment.

Hawkeye glanced up and caught Julian looking. His grin was immediate, warm, and carried an edge of knowing that made Julian's stomach flip.

"Morning, Julian. Sleep well?"

"Well enough." Julian turned back to his own boots, face heating. "You?"

"Dreamed about that Scotch. And possibly about miracle surgeries." Hawkeye's voice was casual, but when Julian looked up again, Hawkeye was still watching him with that same warm interest of the night before. "Good dreams, as it turns out."

Charles made a noise of disgust. "If you two are quite finished with whatever this is, some of us would like to get to breakfast before Igor runs out of the slightly less inedible options."

"What this is?" Hawkeye's tone was all innocence. "Charles, I'm simply having a nice conversation with our newest friend. It's called being friendly. You should try it sometime."

"I am perfectly capable of being friendly. I simply reserve it for people worth the effort." Charles straightened his jacket with exaggerated precision. "Though I will admit, Bashir, your performance yesterday was noteworthy. Perhaps you're not entirely hopeless after all."

"High praise," Julian said dryly.

"The highest, coming from me." Charles swept toward the door. "Now hurry up. I refuse to eat cold eggs because you two are having a moment."

"We're not having a moment," Julian protested, but Charles was already gone.

BJ, who'd been quietly observing the whole exchange, just grinned. "Sure you're not."

#

Breakfast was the usual mess: terrible food, tired doctors, nurses moving between tables with coffee that tasted like diesel. Julian collected his tray and was scanning for a seat when Hawkeye appeared at his elbow.

"Saved you a spot," Hawkeye said, gesturing to the table where BJ and Potter were already seated. "Can't have our miracle worker standing around like a lost puppy."

"I'm not a lost puppy."

"No, you're more of a... determined puppy. A cute one."

Julian felt heat creep up his neck. "I am not cute."

"Agree to disagree." Hawkeye, steered him toward the table. The touch was light, almost casual, but it made Julian hyperaware of every point of contact.

They'd touched before, casual brushes in surgery, Hawkeye's arm around his shoulders last night. But this felt different. More deliberate. Like Hawkeye was testing something, seeing how Julian would respond.

Julian didn't pull away.

"Morning, Bashir," Potter said as they sat down. "Sleep off that Scotch okay?"

"Yes, sir."

Potter took a bite of a shingle that might have been toast. "Speaking of which, that story of yours last night—that’s going to make a lot of people feel better about our boys on the frontline. You charmed that press pass, all right."

"I was probably more annoying," Julian admitted.

"Impossible," Hawkeye said. "You were clearly adorable. All big eyes and earnestness. They eat that right up."

BJ was watching them with barely concealed amusement. Potter seemed oblivious, already discussing the day's surgical schedule. But Julian caught Margaret approaching their table, and something in her expression suggested she'd noticed Hawkeye’s flattery.

"Gentlemen," she said, settling into an empty seat. "Busy day ahead. We've got supply deliveries coming in this afternoon, which means inventory. Potter, I'll need at least two doctors to help sort and catalog."

"Take Bashir and Pierce," Potter said immediately. "Charles's on call for emergencies, and BJ's covering post-op rounds."

"Perfect." Margaret made a note. "Bashir, Pierce—report to supply tent at 1600 hours. Should take a few hours depending on what shows up."

Julian caught Hawkeye's eye across the table. Hawkeye's expression was entirely too pleased.

"Inventory," Hawkeye said. "My favorite. Nothing I love more than counting bandages for hours."

"You sound suspiciously enthusiastic," Margaret said dryly.

"I am enthusiastic. Absolutely thrilled. Bashir and I will do an excellent job." Hawkeye turned to Julian. "Won't we?"

"I'm sure we'll manage," Julian said, trying to sound professional even as his pulse kicked up.

Several hours. Alone. In a supply tent. And Hawkeye sounded none too disappointed about it.

#

The morning passed in the usual rhythm of rounds and consultations. Julian checked on his patient—Private Barett, he'd learned from the chart—and was pleased to find him recovering ahead of schedule. The nurses reported stable vitals, no signs of complications, good color and appetite.

"You did good work, Doc," Barett said when Julian stopped by his cot. "They told me you did some kind of fancy surgery. Said I'm lucky you were here."

"Just doing my job," Julian said automatically, checking the surgical site. The sutures were holding perfectly, no inflammation, no signs of infection. "How's the pain?"

"Not bad. Nurse Kellye's been taking good care of me."

"She's excellent at what she does." Julian made a note on the chart. "You should be able to transfer to Japan in another week or so. They'll monitor you there, make sure everything continues healing properly."

"And then home?"

"And then home," Julian confirmed.

After he finished rounds, Julian found himself in the OR observing a procedure BJ was performing. Nothing complicated: shrapnel removal, straightforward repair work. But Julian noticed Hawkeye watching from the doorway, supposedly waiting for his own patient but clearly paying more attention to Julian than the surgery.

When Julian glanced over, Hawkeye didn't look away. Just smiled, deliberate and shameless.

Julian felt his face heat and quickly returned his attention to BJ's technique.

"Bashir," BJ said without looking up from his work, "you planning to scrub in or just supervise?"

"Sorry. Just observing." Julian rushed into high gear.

Later, in the mess tent during lunch, Julian watched Hawkeye charm a group of nurses with some elaborate story about a poker game gone wrong. He was animated, gesturing widely, clearly playing up the comedy. The nurses were laughing, one of them swatting his arm in mock reproach.

But Hawkeye kept glancing over at Julian. Making sure he was watching. The performance wasn't for the nurses—it was for him.

Julian found himself smiling despite his best efforts at professional detachment.

"He's showing off," Charles observed from across the table. He'd settled in with his tray and a book. Julian had forgotten he was even there. "Rather desperately, I might add."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Please. Pierce hasn't been this obvious since that nurse from the 8063rd visited last month." Charles turned a page. "Though I'll admit, his taste has improved. At least you have a functioning brain."

Julian nearly choked on his coffee. "Charles—"

"I'm not blind, Bashir. Nor am I particularly scandalized." Charles's tone was matter-of-fact. "Pierce is Pierce. You're apparently... receptive. As long as you both maintain professional standards in the OR, I couldn't care less what you do with your free time."

"We're not—we haven't—"

"Not yet." Charles looked up from his book, one eyebrow raised. "But you will. The tension is becoming tedious to observe. I suggest you resolve it before it affects your surgical performance."

Before Julian could formulate a response, Charles returned to his reading, clearly considering the conversation closed.

Julian sat there, mind racing. Was he that obvious? Was Hawkeye? And more importantly—what did he want to do about it?

He was stuck with no clear way home. Every day he stayed increased the risk of temporal contamination, of changing something that shouldn't be changed. He should be focused on finding a way back, not on the way Hawkeye's eyes crinkled when he smiled or the warmth of his hand.

But.

He was here. And he was tired of being alone.

If he was going to be stranded in the past, shouldn't he at least enjoy it?

Julian's eyes found Hawkeye again across the mess tent. Hawkeye had finished his story and was heading back toward their table, tray in hand. When he sat down beside Julian—close enough that their shoulders almost touched—he leaned in slightly.

"So," Hawkeye said quietly, "inventory this afternoon. Just you and me and several thousand bandages."

"Sounds riveting."

"Could be." Hawkeye's smile was warm, intimate. "Depends on the company."

Julian met his eyes and made a decision. "I think the company will be excellent."

"Yeah?" Hawkeye's expression lit up. "Good. That's—good."

Across the table, Charles sighed dramatically. "I'm eating. If you two could postpone your flirtation until I'm not trying to digest this swill, I would appreciate it."

"Charles, don't be such a prude," Hawkeye said cheerfully. "We're just having a conversation."

"That's what you're calling it?"

BJ appeared then, sliding into the seat across from them. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," Julian and Hawkeye said simultaneously.

BJ looked between them. "Sure. Nothing. Got it."

The rest of lunch passed in comfortable chaos—Potter joining them to complain about requisition forms, Margaret stopping by to remind them about the inventory, Radar appearing to announce that there were no choppers expected until evening.

Through it all, Julian was hyperaware of Hawkeye beside him. The casual way their arms brushed when reaching for coffee. The warmth when Hawkeye leaned in to make a joke. He couldn't wait for 1600 hours.

#

The afternoon dragged. Julian threw himself into work—checking patients, reviewing charts, helping change dressings in post-op. Anything to make the time pass faster and stop thinking about what might or might not happen in the supply tent.

He was helping Kellye with a dressing change when she gave him a knowing look.

"You seem distracted, Doctor Bashir."

"Just thinking about the inventory later," Julian said, which was technically true.

"Uh-huh." Kellye's smile was warm. "Pierce is a good man. Silly sometimes, but good where it counts."

Julian felt his face heat. "I don't—we're just—"

"It's okay." She lowered her voice. "People here understand more than you might think. As long as you're discreet, no one's going to cause problems. Especially not for you."

"For me?"

"You stood up for me. For all of us." Kellye's expression was sincere. "That matters. We look after people who look after us."

Julian didn't know what to say to that.

"Thank you," he managed.

"Don't mention it. Literally." She winked. "Now finish this dressing so you can go count bandages."

By the time 1600 hours arrived, Julian's nerves were strung tight. He made his way to the supply closet, trying to look casual despite his racing pulse.

The storage area was larger than he expected, packed with crates and boxes stacked haphazardly. Medical supplies, mostly—bandages, gauze, medications, surgical instruments. A clipboard hung near the entrance with what looked like an inventory list from the last delivery.

Hawkeye was already there, leaning against a crate with a casualness that didn't quite hide the tension in his shoulders.

"Right on time," Hawkeye said. "I like punctuality in a man. Among other things."

"Margaret said 1600 hours."

"She did indeed." Hawkeye pushed off from the crate, moving closer. "So. Inventory. We should probably... do that."

"Probably."

They stood there for a moment, the air between them charged with possibility. Julian could hear the distant sounds of the compound—voices, generators, the ordinary noise of military life. But inside the tent, it was just the two of them and several thousand medical supplies.

"Where do we start?" Julian asked, because someone had to say something.

"Bandages," Hawkeye said, studying the clipboard with exaggerated concentration. "We should probably start with bandages. Very important, bandages. Can't do surgery without them."

"No, you can't," Julian agreed, hyperaware of how close Hawkeye was standing. Close enough that he could smell the faint scent of surgical soap and something else—coffee, maybe, or the gin from Hawkeye's still.

"They're usually in the back." Hawkeye gestured vaguely toward the rear of the tent. "Behind all the other supplies. We might have to do some... digging."

"Right. Digging."

Neither of them moved.

"Julian," Hawkeye said quietly, and his tone sent a shiver down Julian's spine. "I'm going to be honest with you. I'm not actually thinking about bandages right now."

"No?"

"No." Hawkeye took a step closer. They were nearly touching now, and Julian could see the flecks of gold in Hawkeye's eyes, the faint lines at the corners that deepened when he smiled. "I'm thinking about how you looked last night when you told me about yourself."

Julian's breath caught. "Hawkeye—"

"And I'm thinking about the way you smiled when I was showing off at lunch. How you didn't pull away when I touched you this morning." Hawkeye's voice was low, intimate. "So I need to know, am I reading this completely wrong? Because if I am, tell me now and we can just count bandages like professionals and never speak of it again."

Julian's heart was hammering. This was it. The moment where he could step back, try to keep his time in the past simple and uncomplicated. Or not.

"You're not reading it wrong," Julian said.

The smile that spread across Hawkeye's face was incandescent. "Thank God. Because this has been a long day."

Hawkeye closed the remaining distance between them, and Julian met him halfway. The kiss was tentative at first, more question than statement. Julian's hands found Hawkeye's waist, steadying himself as much as pulling him closer. Hawkeye's fingers curled into the front of Julian's shirt.

It felt good. Easy. Like something Julian had been waiting for without realizing it.

They broke apart after a moment, both slightly breathless. Hawkeye was grinning.

"Again?”

"Yeah," Julian agreed.

They kissed again, longer this time. More certain. Julian felt Hawkeye's hands slide up to his shoulders, felt himself being walked backward until his legs hit a crate. He sat without thinking, pulling Hawkeye with him, and suddenly Hawkeye was there between his knees.

"God," Hawkeye breathed against his mouth. "You kiss like you know what you’re doing. I don’t suppose you’ve had recent practice?"

Julian's response was lost in another kiss. Hawkeye's hands were in his hair now, tilting his head to deepen the angle, and Julian let himself sink into it. Let himself feel the scratch of Hawkeye's stubble against his jaw, the pressure of lips and tongue and teeth. One of Hawkeye's hands slid down to cup the back of his neck, thumb pressing against his pulse point, and Julian shivered.

"Cold?" Hawkeye murmured, pulling back just enough to speak.

"No." Julian's voice came out rougher than expected. "Opposite of cold."

Hawkeye grinned, that wicked spark back in his eyes. "Good to know I haven't lost my touch." He leaned in again, but this time his mouth moved to Julian's jaw, trailing kisses down to the collar of his shirt. "You know, this uniform really doesn't do you justice."

"It's your uniform."

"Exactly my point. Looks terrible on you. You should take it off." Hawkeye's fingers found the top button, worked it free. Then the next. "Mind if I...?"

Julian's breath caught. "No. Don't mind at all."

The buttons came undone one by one, Hawkeye taking his time with each. His knuckles brushed against Julian's chest with every movement, deliberate and teasing. When the shirt fell open, Hawkeye pulled back to look, and Julian felt suddenly exposed under that gaze.

"Christ, you're gorgeous," Hawkeye said, sounding almost reverent. Then his hands were sliding under Julian’s undershirt, against his skin—warm palms over his chest, skirting hair, trailing back down.

Julian's hands found the hem of Hawkeye's undershirt. The fabric was rough, worn soft from countless washings. Everything here was like that, he'd noticed. Worn and reused and made to last because there was nothing else. He tugged it up and Hawkeye helped, raising his arms so Julian could pull it over his head.

For a moment they just looked at each other. Hawkeye was lean, all angles and limbs. There were scars—old surgical scars, probably, from childhood. A newer one near his ribs that might have been from shrapnel. Julian traced it with one finger.

"Souvenir from my second week here," Hawkeye said. "Mortar attack. Got lucky."

"Doesn't look lucky."

"I'm still breathing, aren't I?" Hawkeye caught Julian's hand, pressed a kiss to his palm. "Stop looking at my damage and kiss me again."

Julian did. Pulled Hawkeye closer, felt the press of bare skin against bare skin, the warmth of it almost overwhelming. Hawkeye made a sound low in his throat, and his hands slid down Julian's sides to his waist, fingers hooking into his belt. Felt the world narrow in that glorious way down to just the two of them: the rub of skin, the catch of breath, the way Hawkeye's moved eagerly against him. Hawkeye's hands were at the front of his belt now, getting it undone, and Julian's fingers found Hawkeye's belt in return, fumbling slightly because his hands were shaking and he couldn't quite focus on anything except the way Hawkeye was kissing him like he was hungry and Julian was a feast.

Hawkeye's belt came loose. Julian's hands moved to the button of his trousers, managed to get it undone, was reaching for the next one when—

Footsteps. Close. Right outside the door.

They froze.

"—need more splints," a voice was saying. Male, young. An orderly, maybe. "Said they're in the supply room."

"Can it wait?" Another voice, older. "We're in the middle of—"

"Major Houlihan said now."

Julian and Hawkeye stared at each other, both perfectly still. Hawkeye's hands were still on Julian's shoulders. Julian's were frozen at Hawkeye's waist. They were a tableau of guilt, obvious and incriminating if anyone walked in.

The door jostled.

Hawkeye moved first, jerking away, desperately pulling on his shirt, grabbing the clipboard from where it had fallen. Julian yanked his shirt closed, fingers fumbling with buttons. By the time the orderly ducked inside, they were standing on opposite sides of a crate, both studying the shelves with intense concentration.

"Oh." The orderly blinked at them. "Sorry, sirs. Didn't know anyone was in here."

"Just doing inventory," Hawkeye said, his voice only slightly strangled. "Very thorough inventory. What do you need?"

"Splints. Major Houlihan—"

"Top shelf, left side." Hawkeye pointed without looking up from his clipboard. "Help yourself."

The orderly grabbed what he needed and left. His footsteps faded into the general noise of the compound.

The silence that followed was… uncomfortable.

Julian finished buttoning his shirt with shaking hands. His heart was still racing, but now it was adrenaline instead of desire. That had been close. Too close.

"Well," Hawkeye said, tucking his shirt back in. His voice had lost its arousal. "That was exciting."

"Hawkeye—"

"No, it's fine. It's good, actually. Good reminder." Hawkeye set the clipboard down carefully, deliberately not looking at Julian. "Of what the stakes are here."

Julian's chest felt tight. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"Shouldn't have what? Kissed me back? Enjoyed yourself?" Hawkeye finally looked at him, and his expression was complicated. Not angry, exactly. Sadder. "You didn't do anything wrong, Julian."

"But if we'd been caught—"

"We would've been caught." Hawkeye's laugh was brittle. "And you know what would've happened? Court martial. Dishonorable discharge if I'm lucky. Prison if I'm not. For me, anyway."

The words hung between them, heavy with implication. For me. Not for you. Because he would supposedly be going back to the progressive UN, while Hawkeye would be left to face the consequences.

Julian felt sick. "I didn't think—"

"I know." Hawkeye's voice was gentle despite everything. "That's the problem with being the one who's just passing through. You don't have to think about what comes after."

That stung, but Julian couldn't argue with it. He'd been so caught up in the moment, in the simple pleasure of connection, that he'd forgotten—or let himself forget—that for Hawkeye this wasn't simple at all. It was dangerous. Career-ending. Possibly life-destroying.

"I'm sorry," Julian said again, meaning it with everything he had.

Hawkeye waved it off, but the gesture lacked his usual energy. "Don't be. I'm a grown man who makes his own choices. And I chose to kiss you." He picked up the clipboard again, studied it like it might hold answers to questions he wasn't asking. ""And don't get me wrong, you're attractive and fun and honestly one of the best people I've met in this godforsaken place." He finally looked at Julian, apologetic. "But here's the thing, Julian. When the stakes are this high—when you could lose everything—it's gotta be for the right person. If it's going to be a man, it's got to be the right man. Or nothing."

Julian sat back, understanding washing over him. He thought of Garak's careful distance, the way they circled each other with words but never quite closed the gap. How Julian had always known, somewhere deep down, why they hadn’t yet tried quite enough to bridge the space between wanting and having.

"It's fine," Julian said, and meant it. "I think I know exactly what you mean."

They were quiet for a moment, adjusting to the shift. The tension had dissipated, replaced by a more gentle melancholy.

"BJ?" Julian asked quietly.

Hawkeye's silence was answer enough.

"You know," Julian said carefully, "he doesn't seem like the sort to hold that kind of bias—"

"Of course I don't think he'd hold that kind of bias." Hawkeye's voice was sharp, defensive. Then he sighed, deflating. "Sorry. I know you meant well. It's just—bias doesn't even enter the picture. BJ's a better man than that. Downright honorable. A gentleman, through and through."

The words were complimentary, but the tone was bitter. Julian understood instantly.

"A married man," he said.

"An honorably married man." Hawkeye affirmed, leaning against a stack of crates. "Which is the root of it all, really. There’s no point in speculating. He's so devoted to Peg that even if he were interested, he'd never—" He stopped himself. "He's not that kind of person. He doesn't break promises. Doesn't betray trust. It's one of the things I love about him, and it's the very reason nothing could ever happen."

Julian slid off the crate, made himself comfortable on the ground. It was clear the inventory wasn't getting done anytime soon, but they weren't going to have a romantic encounter either. This had shifted into something else—something more real, perhaps, than either of those options.

"You know," Julian said slowly, "I have a friend. Well, friends, really. Miles and Keiko. They've been married for years. Very devoted to each other. And a while back, they opened their relationship to include another woman. Kira."

Hawkeye turned to look at him. "Opened their relationship?"

" All three of them, together. It works for them—they love each other, they're committed to each other, and they've built something that makes them all happy." Julian leaned back against the crate. "Miles was terrified at first. Thought he was betraying Keiko by having feelings for someone else. But it turned out Keiko had feelings for Kira too, and Kira cared about both of them, actually did something pretty selfless for them. And once they actually talked about it..." He shrugged. "It's not traditional, but it's real."

Hawkeye was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful but skeptical. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. Really. But I don't believe it."

"I'm not lying—"

"I didn't say you were lying. I said I don't believe it could work. Not like that." Hawkeye ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe for some people, somewhere, in very specific circumstances. But for me? For BJ and Peg?" He shook his head. "Even if BJ were interested—which he isn't—I couldn't ask him to do that. Couldn't ask Peg to accept it. It's a nice story, Julian, but it's not reality. Not for me."

Julian wanted to argue, to explain that he'd seen it work, watched Miles and Keiko and Kira navigate the complications with honesty and grace. But he also understood Hawkeye's skepticism. It was one thing to see polyamory in the 24th century. But there, the very concept was almost unthinkable.

"I understand," Julian said quietly.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both processing the conversation and its implications.

Then Hawkeye turned the tables. "So what about you? This 'Mr. or Miss I think I know exactly what you mean'—who are they?"

"It’s a Mr.” Julian felt his face heat. “And… it’s complicated."

"Because it’s a Mr.?"

"That's the least of our problems."

Hawkeye's eyebrows rose. "The least of them? What else is there?"

Julian thought of Garak—Cardassian, exiled, former spy, possibly still a spy, definitely untrustworthy and completely fascinating. How could he explain that?

"He's from very far away," Julian said carefully. "Different culture, different values. We're friends, but there's always been this... distance. This awareness that we're from different worlds and that might matter more than anything else."

"You think he doesn't feel the same way?"

"I think he feels something. But I'm never quite sure what. He speaks in layers, you know? Everything means three things at once, and I'm never certain which meaning is the real one." Julian smiled despite himself. "It's exhausting and exhilarating and I miss it more than I can explain."

Hawkeye was watching him with understanding. "Sounds complicated."

"Extraordinarily."

"Well." Hawkeye's smile was wry. "At least we're both terrible at this. That's something."

"A shared skill."

They lapsed into silence again, this one more comfortable. Julian found himself grateful for how the evening had turned out—not what he'd expected, but somehow better. More honest.

Finally, Hawkeye pushed himself to his feet. "Come on. We should probably do at least some of this inventory before Margaret has our heads."

Julian stood, brushing dust off his fatigues. They worked in companionable silence for a while, checking off items on the clipboard, reorganizing crates into something resembling order.

"Gauze," Julian read from the list. "Should be three cases of four-by-four gauze pads."

"Right. Should be..." Hawkeye looked around, frowning. "Somewhere. Maybe behind those—no, that's bandages. Maybe—"

Julian tilted his head back, scanning the higher shelves. "Hawkeye."

"Yeah?"

"They're right above our heads. Have been this whole time."

Hawkeye looked up. Three cases of gauze pads sat neatly on the shelf they'd been standing under for the past hour.

"Well," Hawkeye said. "That's convenient."

"And they just happened to be there?" Julian couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice. "Do you pull this on the nurses too?"

"I only pull it on them so much as they pretend they don't see them either." Hawkeye's grin was unrepentant. "It's a time-honored supply tent tradition. Romantic."

"Is it?"

"It could have been. Under different circumstances."

"Under different circumstances," Julian agreed.

They finished the inventory in relative silence, both lost in their own thoughts. When they finally emerged from the supply tent, the sun was setting and the compound had settled into its evening rhythm.

"I need a drink," Hawkeye announced. "A real drink. The kind that tries to make you forget the sting of emotional honesty."

"I could use one too."

"Swamp?"

"Lead the way."

They walked back to the tent together, and despite everything—the failed romance, the complicated feelings, the impossibility of their respective situations—Julian felt lighter. More settled.

He'd been honest. Hawkeye had been honest. They'd kissed and decided it wasn't right and somehow come out the other side as better friends.

It wasn't what Julian had expected when the day started. But it was fine.

Chapter Text

The gin was terrible, which meant it was perfect.

Julian sat on his cot, glass in hand, and marveled at how the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. It took a lot to get him drunk, but Hawkeye's homemade gin was apparently up to the challenge.

"This is awful," Julian announced, taking another sip.

"I know," Hawkeye said from his own cot, already on his third glass. "It's beautiful, isn't it? Like the lighter fluid you’ve never known you’ve always wanted to try."

"Poetic."

"I'm a poet. Always have been." Hawkeye raised his glass. "To terrible gin and even worse decisions."

“If we want the worst decision,” Julian said, the words coming out slower than he intended. "We could resume where we left off!”

The thought made Hawkeye double over with laughter, which in turn roused laughter from Julian.

"And you’re funny, too." Hawkeye's smile was warm despite the slight slur in his voice. "You're a good man, Julian Bashir. The complete package."

"Not a package." Julian paused. "Well. I did get dumped here like a delivery. It's complicated."

"Everything with you seems to be complicated."

"Says the man in love with his married best friend."

"Touché." Hawkeye poured himself another glass. "We're disasters. Beautiful, talented disasters."

BJ appeared in the doorway then, took a long look at them, and sighed. "You two are already drunk."

"Not drunk," Julian protested. "Relaxed."

"Very relaxed," Hawkeye added. "Extremely relaxed. Beej, come be relaxed with us."

"It's not even 1900 hours."

"Time is a construct," Julian said solemnly. "We're doctors. We understand these things."

BJ shook his head, but he was smiling. "You're both idiots." He grabbed a glass anyway, settling onto his own cot. "Go ahead and pour me some."

"This is the worst batch yet," Hawkeye warned. "It's vile."

"Perfect." BJ accepted the glass Hawkeye poured. "After the day I've had, vile sounds about right."

They drank in comfortable silence for a moment. Julian felt warm and loose and pleasantly disconnected from his usual anxieties. When was the last time he'd been properly drunk? Not synthehol tipsy—actually drunk. Years, maybe.

"You know what we should do?" Hawkeye said suddenly. "We should go to the officer's club. Share this misery with others."

"That's a terrible idea," BJ said.

"The best ideas are terrible," Julian agreed. "That's what makes them good. We’ve talked about this already."

"You're drunk."

"I'm delightfully buzzed. Can’t get me drunk that easily." Julian stood, swaying slightly. The world tilted pleasantly. "The club sounds excellent."

"See? Julian agrees with me. Julian's smart." Hawkeye was already on his feet, grabbing the bottle. "Come on, Beej. When was the last time you had fun?"

"I have fun."

"When’s the last time you had fun that didn’t involve torturing us with pranks?"

BJ looked at them both, clearly weighing his options. Then he sighed and stood. "Fine. But if choppers come, I’m blaming both of you."

"Deal," Hawkeye and Julian chorused.

The walk to the officer's club was more challenging than Julian expected. The ground kept moving in unexpected ways. Hawkeye kept stopping to point out interesting rocks or clouds or whatever caught his attention. BJ shepherded them both.

"You're swaying," BJ observed.

"The earth is swaying," Julian corrected. "I'm not letting it fool me."

"Uh-huh."

They tumbled into the officer's club in a wave of motion and poorly suppressed giggles. Klinger looked up from behind the bar, took in their condition, and sighed.

"Let me guess. The still?"

"It's a beautiful still," Hawkeye said dreamily. "Makes beautiful, terrible gin."

"Right." Klinger pulled out some glasses. "What are you drinking?"

"More gin," Julian said, settling onto a barstool with more force than intended.

"Maybe water," BJ suggested.

"Water's for quitters," Hawkeye declared. He spotted Radar sitting at a nearby table with a bottle of Grape Nehi and waved. "Radar! Come join the party!"

Radar looked uncertain but moved closer, clutching his soda like a security blanket. "Hi, doctors. You seem... happy."

"We're very happy," Julian confirmed. He patted the stool next to him. "Sit. Tell us about... things. Normal things. What's Grape Nehi?"

"It's soda," Radar said, looking confused. "You've never had Grape Nehi?"

"I've had grape-flavored beverages. But not Nehi specifically." Julian squinted at the bottle. "Is it good?"

"It's real good. Want to try?"

Julian accepted the bottle, took a sip. It was sweet—almost overwhelmingly so—with an artificial flavor that bore only passing resemblance to actual grapes. "This is bizarre."

"Good bizarre?"

"Good bizarre," Julian agreed, handing it back.

Klinger set drinks in front of them—water for BJ, more gin for Hawkeye and Julian. Julian stared at Klinger's outfit—today it was a floral print dress with matching hat—and the question that had been building for weeks finally escaped.

"Klinger," Julian said, the words tumbling out. "What's going on? With the dresses. All the time with the dresses?"

Klinger blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." Julian gestured vaguely. "You're wearing women's clothing. Constantly. And I don't care—wear whatever you want, fashion is subjective, gender is subjective—but I'm curious about the why." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "If you're interested, I could give you a sex change operation. Even if it's an anachronism."

Everyone within earshot went very quiet.

"An ana-what?" Klinger asked.

"Doesn’t matter." Julian waved his hand. "But I could do it. Probably. I mean, the technology is primitive, but the basic surgical principles are sound. Might take a few procedures, and you'd need hormone therapy, but—"

"Doc," Klinger interrupted, "I don't want a sex change."

"You don't?"

"No. I wear dresses to try to get a Section Eight. You know, a psychiatric discharge." Klinger gestured at his outfit. "I'm trying to convince the Army I'm crazy so they'll send me home."

Julian blinked, processing this. "Oh. I suppose that makes sense."

"Does it?" BJ asked, sounding amused.

"Sure. Creative problem-solving. Using the system's biases against it." Julian turned back to Klinger. "Is it working?"

"Not yet. But I'm persistent."

"That's not very sporting," Radar said suddenly, his voice serious. "Trying to get out unfair-like. Not when getting out is all any of us want."

"Sporting?" Klinger frowned, less playful. "Kid, there's nothing sporting about this war. Nothing fair about being stuck here while everyone and everything I love is back in Toledo." His voice dropped. "You know what I miss? My mom's cooking. Kids jumping in puddles after the rain. Walking down my street and knowing everyone's name. That's home. That's what I'm trying to get back to."

The raw honesty in Klinger's voice cut through Julian's alcoholic haze. He thought of DS9: the promenade, Quark's bar, the hum of grav machines and life. Thought of Garak in his shop, Miles in the holosuite, Jadzia laughing at one of her own jokes while Worf grumbled. Sisko making jambalaya in his quarters while Jake thought about his latest writing.

Home. Real home. Not this temporary existence in the wrong century.

"I understand," Julian said quietly. The gin had stripped away his caution, his guards. "What it's like to not be able to get home. To be trapped somewhere that's not yours. To miss people so much it hurts."

"Yeah?" Klinger's voice was gentle. "Where's home for you, Doc?"

Julian opened his mouth. Closed it. The truth sat on his tongue, desperate to escape. He was so tired of lying, of pretending, of being careful. And he was drunk enough that the words came anyway.

"The future," Julian said. "About four hundred years from now. There was an accident and I ended up here. And I don't know if I can get back. Don't know if I'll ever see the people I love again."

The silence was deafening.

Radar's eyes were huge behind his glasses. "Wow."

Klinger stared at Julian for a long moment. Then he started laughing, genuine delight. "Hey, now that's a great story! Mind if I use it for my next Section Eight petition? 'Dear Army, I'm from the future and need to return to my own time. Please discharge me immediately.' That's gold, Doc. Pure gold."

Julia’s relief deflated. Of course they didn't believe him. Why would they? Time travel was science fiction in 1950. The realm of pulp magazines and Buck Rogers serials.

"Sure," he said, forcing a smile. "Use it if you want."

"Seriously, that's creative." Klinger was still grinning. "You should write stories. You've got the imagination for it."

"Maybe I will," Julian said. The words felt heavy, false.

Radar was still watching him with those wide, innocent eyes. "That must be lonely," he said quietly. "Being from the future. Missing everyone."

"It's just a story, Radar," Julian said, though his throat felt tight.

"Oh. Right." But Radar didn't look entirely convinced.

The evening continued, rowdy, sloppy. Happiness and melancholy alternated in waves of laughter and records. Radar challenged Hawkeye to a darts tournament that devolved Hawkeye’s elaborate excuses for why the board kept moving. BJ got cornered by Father Mulcahey, who wanted promises that he’d give a checkup to the orphans the following week. Klinger modeled his dress with various accessories to the increasingly inebriated group who offered fashion critiques that ranged from genuinely helpful to completely absurd.

Margaret stopped by long enough to shake her head at the lot of them before confiscating the rest of the gin—which everyone knew meant she was taking it to share with the night-shift nurses.

As the clock crept past toward midnight, the energy began to flag. The alcohol caught up with people in earnest. Conversations grew quieter, more philosophical. Someone put on a record that skipped every third rotation, but no one had the energy to fix it.

Charles rose from the corner, apparently there all along, announced that he was "surrounded by debauched barbarians," and retreated to the Swamp with a book and an air of profound martyrdom.

One by one, people began drifting away, remembering they had 0600 formation. Radar helped Klinger clean up the bar area. BJ and Hawkeye left the club arm in arm, deep in discussion about someone named Ferret Face.

Julian was halfway to the door, following Hawkeye and BJ's stumbling progress toward the Swamp, when a gentle voice stopped him.

"Doctor Bashir?"

He turned to find Father Mulcahy standing by the piano, his clerical collar slightly askew. The priest had been playing as the night went on—badly, but with such earnest enthusiasm that no one had the heart to complain.

"Father," Julian said, aware that his words were still slightly slurred. "Did you need something?"

"I couldn't help but notice you seemed rather melancholy this evening. Despite the—" Mulcahy gestured vaguely at Julian's condition, "—obvious attempts at cheer."

Julian felt his face heat. "I'm fine. Just drunk."

"Perhaps." Mulcahy's smile was kind. "But if you ever need someone to talk to, my door is always open. Or my tent flap, as it were. I'm a good listener."

The offer was genuine, Julian could tell. But he shook his head. "I appreciate that, Father. I really do. But I'm not religious. I'd feel hypocritical, taking up your time with my problems when I don't share your faith."

"Pish tosh." Mulcahy waved a hand dismissively. "I'm here to serve everyone, Doctor. Believers, non-believers, the questioning, the uncertain—everyone. That's what being a good chaplain is about. Serving others regardless of condition." His eyes crinkled with warmth. "Your problems are no less important because we believe different things about the universe."

Julian looked at the piano, at the worn keys and scratched wood, and found himself moving toward it. Leaning against it for support—physical and otherwise.

"I've been privileged," he said quietly. "In my medical career. The places I've trained, the equipment I've had access to. Medicine was challenging, yes, but it was... clean. Controlled. We had protocols and technology and the luxury of time." He rubbed his face, feeling the exhaustion settle into his bones. "Being here—seeing what you all do every day—it's making me aware of how raw and violent war and medicine can be. How much blood and pain and impossible choices."

Mulcahy listened without interrupting, his expression attentive.

"I admire everyone here," Julian continued. "Potter, Hawkeye, BJ, Charles, Margaret—they do this day after day. They save what they can and accept what they can't and somehow keep going. But I wonder..." He paused, gathering his thoughts through the alcoholic fog. "If I have to stay too long, will I become like that? Hardened? Disillusioned?"

"You don't strike me as someone who could become callous," Mulcahy said gently.

"Maybe not callous. But… tired. Worn down." Julian's hands clenched on the piano's edge. "And the worst part is, I want to leave. I want to go home so badly it aches. But wanting to leave makes me feel guilty because I know I can do good here. I can save lives. Every day I stay, I make a difference. So how can I justify wanting to abandon that just because I'm homesick?"

Mulcahy was quiet for a moment, considering. When he spoke, it was thoughtful. "I think perhaps you're being too hard on yourself, my son. We all have a duty: to do the best we can in the situations we find ourselves in. To serve where we're needed, to help where we're able. But that doesn't mean we have to be happy about our circumstances. It doesn't mean we can't long for home, for the people we love, for the lives we left behind." He smiled. "Our duty is to do good no matter where we are, or when. The wanting to leave—that's just being human."

Julian's head snapped up. "When?"

"Hmm?" Mulcahy looked confused.

"You said 'no matter where we are, or when.'"

Mulcahy laughed, shaking his head. "Did I? I must be more tired than I thought. I meant to say 'no matter where, or how long that is.' How long we find ourselves in difficult circumstances." He patted Julian's shoulder. "See? Even chaplains make mistakes when it's late and we've been listening to too many confessions."

Julian exhaled slowly. Coincidence. Just an inadvertent turn of phrase. Not some cosmic message.

But the words had struck something deep anyway. No matter where, or when.

His duty was here. Now. With these people. And maybe Mulcahy was right—maybe he could long for home while still doing good where he was. Maybe those two things didn't have to be in conflict.

"Thank you, Father," Julian said, and meant it.

"Anytime, my son." Mulcahy smiled. "Now go get some sleep. You look like you need it."

"You too."

Julian made his way back to the Swamp on unsteady feet, the night air helping to clear some of the fog from his head. Not enough to sober him up completely, but enough that he could navigate without falling.

The tent was dark when he entered, lit only by moonlight filtering through the canvas. Hawkeye and BJ were already asleep—or rather, Hawkeye was asleep and BJ had apparently fallen asleep while trying to cover him with a blanket.

BJ was sprawled half-on, half-off Hawkeye, one arm flung across his chest. The blanket was draped haphazardly over both of them. Hawkeye's face was peaceful in sleep, one hand resting on BJ's arm like he'd reached for him unconsciously.

Julian stood there for a moment, watching them. The intimacy of it, the tenderness in BJ's gesture even while drunk, the comfort they found in each other's proximity. It was beautiful and heartbreaking.

Hawkeye loved BJ. BJ loved Hawkeye, though perhaps not in the same way. And Hawkeye tried to make peace with that impossible situation, finding what happiness he could within its constraints.

Julian thought about Garak again. About all the almosts and maybes that had never quite resolved into anything real. About how he'd been so focused on what they weren't that he'd never fully appreciated what they were.

Julian moved quietly to his own cot, stripped down to his undershirt and shorts, and collapsed onto the thin mattress.

The world spun slightly when he closed his eyes. Too much gin, too much emotion, too much honesty for one night.

But as he drifted toward sleep, Julian felt something settle in his chest. Not peace, exactly. But acceptance, maybe. He was here. He was doing good. He missed home desperately.

All of those things could be true at once.

Across the tent, Hawkeye or BJ made a soft sound in their sleep. Contented. Safe.

Julian let himself relax into the sounds of the Swamp—breathing and snoring and the occasional rustle of movement.

"No matter where, or when," he murmured to the darkness.

Chapter Text

Julian woke to the sensation of his skull trying to escape through his eye sockets.

He groaned, pressing his palms against his temples as if pressure could contain the throbbing. His mouth tasted like something had died in it—specifically, something that had been marinated in the gin still before dying.

"Good morning, sunshine," BJ's voice chirped from across the tent, far too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour it was.

"Go away," Julian mumbled into his pillow.

"Can't. It's breakfast time. And you, my friend, look like you need coffee. Or possibly an exorcism."

Damn it. Julian forced himself upright, immediately regretted it, and spent several long moments waiting for the world to stop spinning. Across the tent, Hawkeye was still buried under his blanket, making distressed noises that suggested he was suffering similarly.

"How are you so functional?" Julian asked BJ, who looked annoyingly well-rested.

"Practice. And I stopped early instead of matching you two drink for drink." BJ grinned, threw a towel at him. "Come on. Food will help. Probably."

The mess tent was a unique kind of torture. The smell of Igor's cooking—which was barely tolerable on a good day—made Julian's stomach rebel. He collected toast and coffee, skipped everything else, and followed BJ to a table.

Potter took one look at Julian and chuckled. "Rough night, son?"

"Gin," Julian said by way of explanation.

"Say no more." Potter pushed his own coffee toward Julian. "Drink up. Doctor's orders."

Margaret appeared, took in Julian's condition with a knowing look. "At least you made it to breakfast. Last time Hawkeye got that deep into his still, he didn't surface until noon."

"I'm never drinking again," Julian announced.

"They all say that," Charles said from down the table, not looking up from his breakfast. "They're all liars."

BJ was watching Julian with barely suppressed amusement. "So. Want to talk about your confession last night? About being from the future?"

Julian nearly choked on his coffee. "That was—it was a dumb joke. I was drunk. Very drunk."

"Yes you were." BJ's eyes sparkled.

"I read a lot of science fiction," Julian said weakly.

"Clearly." BJ took a bite of toast, still smiling. "For what it's worth, if you were from the future, I think you'd fit in pretty well. You're weird enough."

"Thanks?"

"It's a compliment. Normal people are boring."

Julian found himself smiling despite his headache. This was why Hawkeye loved BJ, he thought. Not just because BJ was handsome—though he was, in that wholesome, all-American way—but because he was genuinely kind. He could tease without cruelty, be perceptive without being invasive.

"You're a good man," Julian said.

BJ blinked, surprised. "That's... thanks."

"I mean it. Peg and Erin are lucky to have you."

A shift in BJ's expression—a flash quickly masked. "I'm the lucky one."

They finished breakfast in comfortable companionship, joined eventually by a pale and miserable Hawkeye who collapsed into a seat and put his head on the table.

"Kill me," Hawkeye mumbled. "Just kill me now."

"Can't," BJ said cheerfully. "You're on duty in an hour."

"Take my rounds."

"Not on your life."

Julian watched them—the easy affection, the comfortable teasing. The way BJ's hand landed on Hawkeye's shoulder, steadying and warm. The way Hawkeye leaned into the touch without thinking.

And he noticed something else. When Hawkeye wasn't looking—when he was focused on his coffee or talking to Potter—BJ's expression would soften. His eyes would linger on Hawkeye's profile, trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.

It wasn't blatant. Anyone not looking for it would miss it entirely. But Julian was looking now, really looking, and he saw it.

BJ Hunnicutt was at least a little bit in love with Hawkeye Pierce.

Julian blinked. BJ. Married. Devoted to Peg. Honorable to his core. And still, somehow, feeling something for his best friend that went beyond platonic affection.

Poor bastard, Julian thought. At least Hawkeye knew his own feelings were hopeless. BJ seemed to be trying very hard not to acknowledge what was right in front of him.

The day passed in the usual rhythm—rounds, consultations, paperwork. Julian's hangover gradually receded to a dull throb, manageable with coffee and determination. He caught himself watching BJ throughout the day, noting the little tells.

The way BJ would seek out Hawkeye during breaks, gravitate toward him like a compass finding north.

The way he'd laugh at Hawkeye's jokes—really laugh, not the polite chuckle you gave colleagues—his whole face lighting up.

The way he'd touch Hawkeye casually—a hand on his arm, a bump of shoulders—with the kind of unconscious intimacy that spoke of deep comfort.

And in the quiet moments, when BJ thought no one was watching, he'd look at Hawkeye with an expression that was tender and wistful and deeply sad.

By mid-afternoon, Julian had made a decision, damn it.

It was morally questionable. Possibly indefensible. Definitely a violation of privacy. But he needed to know. Needed to understand if what he was seeing was real or just his own projection.

He waited until evening, until BJ and Hawkeye were both in surgery and Charles was conducting post-op rounds. The Swamp was empty, quiet.

Julian knelt by BJ's footlocker, pulled out the small tool kit he kept in his own locker, and made quick work of the simple lock. His hands were steady despite the guilt churning in his stomach. This was wrong. He knew it was wrong.

But he couldn't let Hawkeye suffer unnecessarily if there was even a chance—

Inside the footlocker were the expected items: spare clothes, toiletries, a photograph of Peg and Erin. And underneath, carefully stored, a bundle of letters tied with string.

Julian picked them up with careful hands. Most were sealed: letters from Peg, presumably, waiting to be read and reread. But some were loose, written in BJ's neat handwriting. Drafts, maybe. Or letters he hadn't sent yet.

Julian unfolded one, his eyes scanning quickly.

Dear Peg,

I hope this letter finds you and Erin well. Things here are the same as always—busy, exhausting, occasionally surreal. We got a new surgeon a few days ago, Hawkeye has been...

Julian skimmed further down.

I know you’re probably sick of hearing about Hawkeye, but I don't think I can properly explain what he means to me. He's the kind of friend who makes this place bearable. Who can find humor in the darkest moments and genuine compassion in the bloodiest. He's brilliant and ridiculous and I'm better for knowing him.

I miss you. I miss Erin. But having him here makes the missing less sharp. He understands the weight in a way no one else can. We can sit in silence after a bad day and it's enough. We can joke about terrible things and somehow make them less terrible. I don't know how to explain it except that he matters to me. Really matters. It's like having someone who understands the weight you're carrying, who helps you bear it without being asked.

Does that make sense? I hope it makes sense.

Julian's throat tightened. He picked up another letter, this one from Peg.

My darling BJ,

Your letters about Captain Pierce always make me smile. I can tell how much he means to you—how much you care about him. The way you write about him... it's different from how you write about the other doctors. Softer, somehow.

I'm glad you have someone there who understands you, who makes you laugh when everything seems hopeless. Don't feel guilty about caring for him. I'm grateful he's there when I can't be.

I don't know how to write this without sounding presumptuous, that I know more of your heart than you do. But you've always been honest with me, have shared everything, so I would like to, perhaps, speak words that you seem to struggle to write. I know you, BJ. I know your heart.

It’s big enough to hold love for many people, in many ways.

When you come home—when all this is over—I want to meet him. This man who's captured part of your heart. I think we'll be good friends.

I love you. All of you. Even the parts you're still figuring out.

Yours always,

Peg

Julian's hands trembled slightly. He picked up another draft from BJ, dated more recently.

Peg,

I've read your last letter about twenty times now. Each time I tell myself I should write back immediately, to ask what you mean, to deny what it sounds like you’re saying. And each time I don't know what to say.

You're right. Of course you're right. You always are.

I do care about Hawkeye. More than I probably should. More than I know how to handle. When you wrote that my heart holds love—my first instinct was to deny it. To explain all the ways you were wrong, all the reasons it couldn't be true.

But I've been sitting with it for a week now, and I can't quite make myself write that denial.

I don't know what I feel. I know I'm devoted to you and Erin. I know I would never do anything to jeopardize us. But I also know that when Hawk looks at me a certain way, something in my chest aches. When he laughs at my jokes, I feel proud in a way that seems disproportionate. When we're in surgery together, I'm aware of him in every moment—where he is, what he needs, how he's holding up.

I care about him. Not the way I care you. That's different—it's home and comfort and building a life together. What I feel for Hawkeye is... complicated. It's friendship and admiration and something else I can't quite name. Something that makes my chest ache when he looks at me a certain way. Something that makes me want to reach for him even though I know I shouldn't.

What I do know is that you giving me permission to feel this—to not be ashamed of it—means everything. I don't deserve you, Peg. I really don't.

I won't do anything about it. Pierce doesn't feel the same way (I'm almost certain), and even if he did, I wouldn't betray you. But thank you for seeing this in me and not turning away.

Thank you for loving all of me, even the complicated parts.

I love you. I love Erin. I love the life we're building.

And I think I also love my best friend, in a way I didn't know was possible until I met him.

Tell me I'm not crazy. Tell me this doesn't make me a terrible husband.

Always yours,
BJ

Julian set the letter down carefully, his vision blurring. He fumbled for the next one—Peg's response.

My sweet, tortured BJ,

You're not crazy. You're not a terrible husband. You're human, and you care deeply.

I won't pretend this isn't complicated. I won't pretend I understand it completely. But I trust you. I trust us. And I trust that whatever you're feeling for Captain Pierce, it doesn't diminish what we’ve built.

Here's what I believe: love isn't finite. Caring about Captain Pierce doesn't diminish what you feel for me. It doesn't threaten our marriage or our family. It's just... another facet of who you are. Another way your beautiful heart manifests in the world.

When you come home, we'll figure this out together. Maybe Captain Pierce will visit. Maybe you'll stay friends and this feeling will fade. Maybe it won't. But we'll face it honestly, the way we face everything.

I love you. I love your big heart and your tendency to overthink and your absolute incapacity to be anything less than genuine. Don't torture yourself over this. Just keep being the man I married—kind, honest, and brave.

All my love,

Peg

Julian sat back, overwhelmed. This was—

This was beautiful. This was heartbreaking. This was two people navigating impossible complexity with honesty and grace and deep, abiding trust.

Peg knew. She intuited BJ had feelings for Hawkeye, and instead of jealousy or anger, she'd offered understanding. Acceptance. Permission to feel without guilt.

And BJ—honorable, tortured BJ—was trying so hard to be faithful to his marriage while also being honest about his heart.

Julian thought of Miles and Keiko and Kira. Thought of how they'd navigated similar territory. They'd made it work through communication and trust and the willingness to redefine what love could look like.

Maybe BJ and Peg were already doing that. Maybe they didn't have language for it yet, but the principles were there. The honesty. The trust. The understanding that love was expansive rather than exclusive.

Julian carefully refolded the letters, returned them to their exact positions in the footlocker. He remembered the arrangement, exactly how everything had been placed—the angle of the photograph frame, which letters were on top, how the string was tied.

He relocked the footlocker with steady hands, checked three times to make sure nothing looked disturbed. No angles askew. No fingerprints on the metal. Nothing to suggest anyone had been here.

His chest ached. For BJ, who thought he impossible feelings. For Hawkeye, who didn't know he had a chance. For Peg who was trying to hold space for her husband's complexity from half a world away.

For himself, maybe. For the relationships he'd left behind in his own time, the words he'd never said, the honesty he'd been too scared to offer.

Julian stood, checking the footlocker one final time. Returned to his own cot, sat heavily.

He should tell Hawkeye. Give him hope. Let him know that BJ's feelings weren't one-sided, that maybe—just maybe—there was a path forward that didn't involve suffering in silence.

But how?

Hey Hawkeye, I broke into BJ's footlocker and read his private correspondence wasn't exactly a conversation starter. And even if he could find a way to share the information without admitting to his violation of privacy, what then? What if telling Hawkeye made everything worse? What if it destroyed the friendship they had, the comfortable intimacy that was clearly sustaining them both through this hell?

He'd invaded someone's privacy. Found something beautiful. And now he had no idea what to do with the knowledge.

He thought of Garak again—how he would probably admire Julian’s audacity while condemning the sloppiness of his moral reasoning. My dear Doctor, if you're going to violate someone's privacy, at least have the courage to do something with the information. Otherwise you're just a voyeur with a guilty conscience.

But Julian wasn't sure what to do. The truth he'd uncovered wasn’t his to share. Yet there had to be a way. Some method of nudging them toward honesty without revealing his own transgression. Some way to help without causing harm.

Julian just had no idea what that way might be.

The sound of voices outside announced the return of the other doctors. Julian straightened, composed his face into something neutral. Whatever he figured out, it wouldn't come that night.

The tent flap opened. BJ entered first, followed by Hawkeye, both looking exhausted from surgery.

"Hey, Julian," BJ said, his voice warm. "Good day?"

"Productive," Julian managed. "Yours?"

"Long." BJ moved to his footlocker—Julian's heart seized—and opened it to retrieve a clean shirt. He rummaged through it unsuspecting, pulled out what he needed, and closed it again without a second glance. Julian exhaled slowly.

Hawkeye collapsed onto his cot with a groan. "I'm too tired to eat. Someone tell Igor I died."

"You're not dead," BJ said, changing shirts. "You're dramatic."

Hawkeye huffed—agreement, or disagreement, it didn’t matter.

Julian watched them. Their comfortable interaction, the way they moved around each other like planets: natural and instinctually orbiting around one another, never interrupting each other’s paths.

Damn it, Julian thought, not for the first time that day.

Chapter Text

Evening had settled over the compound, carrying that mood of twilight that made everything seem softer, less bleak. Julian walked toward the nurses' tent eagerness, looking forward to what Kellye had promised was "actual food"—her words—made from ingredients she'd somehow procured through means she refused to discuss.

"You'll like it," she'd said that morning. "Real Japanese cooking. My mother's recipe. Better than anything Igor's ever made."

"That's a low bar," Julian had pointed out.

"Trust me. The other girls said you could come by tonight if you wanted. Platonic food-sharing only, Doctor Bashir. We have rules."

"I'll be on my best behavior," Julian promised.

So there he was, navigating the quiet paths between tents to share an evening with the nurses, who'd decided he was worth including in their off-duty social circle. It was nice.

The path between tents was quiet, most of the compound settling in for the night. No choppers expected until morning, Potter had said. A rare gift of uninterrupted rest.

The nurses' tent was just ahead, warm light visible through the canvas, when Julian heard it.

"Doctor."

He stopped, looked around. Nothing. The voice had come from near the perimeter, where the compound gave way to scrub brush and darkness.

Probably someone looking for medical attention. It happened sometimes—soldiers too embarrassed to come to the infirmary during the day, waiting until dark for privacy to talk about their more.. sensitive medical needs.

Or it could be an enemy combatant.

Julian changed direction, cautiously moving toward the edge of camp. "Hello? Do you need—"

A figure emerged from the shadows. Male, medium build, wearing civilian clothes that looked vaguely local but not quite right. Something about the cut, the way they hung on his frame.

"I'm Doctor Bashir," Julian said, keeping his voice professional. "If you're injured—"

The man stepped closer, into the faint light. Julian shifted his weight, ready to run for help—

Then he saw the face.

Wrong. It was all wrong—human features, human coloring, human proportions. But the eyes. The eyes were familiar. The way they watched him, with fond humor. The angle of his head, slightly tilted. The set of his shoulders.

And the mouth. The subtle curve at the corners that suggested amusement even in complete seriousness.

Julian's breath caught. "No."

The man's mouth curved into a smile that was achingly familiar despite the foreign features. "Hello, my dear Doctor."

"Garak?" Julian's voice came out strangled, disbelieving. "You can't—how are you—"

"Perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere with fewer potential observers?" Garak gestured deeper into the shadows. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to your colleagues why you're lurking in the dark with a… strange civilian."

Julian looked back toward the camp. He could see figures moving between tents, hear distant voices. No one paying attention to him yet. But if he stayed here, if someone noticed—

He followed Garak into the darkness.

They moved about fifty meters from the compound's edge— in the same cleared minefield famous for nighttime interludes, Julian recalled— far enough that voices wouldn't carry but close enough that Julian could still see the lights. Garak leaned against a tree with affected casualness plain on that wrong-wrong-wrong face.

"You're staring," Garak observed.

"You're human," Julian said stupidly. "You're—how are you human?"

"Merely a disguise." Garak turned his head, showing his profile. In the moonlight, Julian could see a subtle shimmer at the edges of Garak’s hairline and neck. “A photonic mask, holographic projection overlaid on my actual features. Quite convincing from a distance, less so up close if one knows where to look.” As Garak spoke, the cracks in the disguise revealed themselves to Julian: features that were too symmetrical, too perfectly arranged. Like a painting of a human face rather than an actual human face.

"So you fit in," Julian said, his mind trying to catch up. "But that still doesn't explain how you're here—"

“How we’re here, you mean.” Movement from behind another tree made Julian tense. Another figure stepped into the moonlight with dark hair and—

"Jadzia?" Julian's voice cracked.

She grinned. "Surprise!"

Julian saw in surprise the places where her Trill spots should have been were smooth, covered. Makeup, he realized, carefully applied.

Jadzia was already moving forward, closing the distance between them. "Come here, you."

She pulled him into a hug, and Julian wrapped his arms around her. She was solid and real and impossibly present. He felt his throat tighten, his eyes burn.

"I thought you were—I didn't know where you'd ended up," he managed, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "I thought you might be—"

"I'm fine. I'm safe." Jadzia squeezed him tighter.

They stood there for a long moment, Julian trying to absorb the reality of her presence. All these weeks—or however time worked when one was temporally displaced—of thinking he might never see his friends again.

And now Jadzia was here, holding him, and everything felt less overwhelming.

Finally she pulled back, keeping her hands on his shoulders. "Let me look at you. Are you okay? You look…" She paused, studying his face. "Tired. But healthy. Have they been treating you well?"

"I'm fine. They're good people here." Julian pulled back. "I can't believe you're actually here. Both of you."

He turned toward Garak, who'd been standing back, giving them space. That human face watched him with familiar amusement, but underneath it Julian could see relief, maybe. Or concern.

Julian took a step forward, then hesitated.

He wanted to hug Garak. Wanted to close the distance and confirm his presence the way he had with Jadzia. Wanted the physical reassurance that this wasn't some exhaustion-induced hallucination.

But he and Garak didn't hug. They'd never hugged. Their relationship existed in verbal sparring and careful distance. In things implied but never quite spoken. In the space between what was said and what was meant.

Julian stood there, caught between wanting and uncertainty, and watched Garak's expression shift through several emotions too quick to identify.

Then Garak lifted his hand, palm facing outward. The gesture was small, formal. A Cardassian custom Julian had seen once or twice on the station, the pressing of palms in greeting or farewell. Intimate in a way that was difficult to define. Something reserved for family, or those who were as close as family.

Julian felt his breath catch. He raised his own hand, slowly, and pressed his palm against Garak's.

The contact was warm. Solid. Real. Julian tried to communicate through the touch what he couldn't say—I missed you, I'm glad you're here, thank you for coming—and felt Garak's fingers flex slightly against his own, an acknowledgment of the unspoken.

They stood like that for a moment, palms pressed together, before Garak lowered his hand and stepped back.

"Well," Garak said, his voice carefully light despite the slight roughness at the edges. "I'm glad we've established that I'm not a figment of your imagination. Now, shall we get out of this messy era? Four weeks is quite enough of this unsophistication for me."

“Four weeks?”

Jadzia settled onto a fallen log, patting the space beside her. "Might as well sit down, Julian. This is going to take a minute."

Julian sat, and Garak leaned against the tree.

"When you and I transported down,” Jadzia began, “We got caught in a temporal echo. Earth's solar system—this whole region, actually—has been the site of a number of time travel incidents, and we got caught in the wake of one."

"Normally it wouldn’t affect transporters," Garak interjected, "but the residual chroniton radiation had the misfortune of interacting negatively with our particular equipment."

"The transporter," Julian said, pieces clicking together. "The Cardassian components—"

"Precisely." Garak looked pleased. "The phase discriminator Chief O'Brien installed had a very specific resonance frequency. When it encountered the temporal echo, it harmonized with it in precisely the wrong way. The result was—"

"Time travel," Julian finished.

"The Chief figured it out almost immediately,” Garak affirmed. “Took him about twenty minutes to work through the math, realize what had happened, and call some Earth-based temporal mechanics specialists to develop a retrieval plan. They calibrated a beacon to send back and calibrate to. But there was a problem."

"To do with the Cardassian technology," Julian guessed.

"Exactly. The transporter malfunction was caused by Cardassian technology interacting with the temporal anomaly. To retrieve you safely, we needed someone whose transporter pattern was already logged in the Cardassian configuration."

"Someone from DS9," Julian said. "Someone who'd used that transporter before."

"The Chief was needed on the ship to manage the retrieval. That left me as the only option." Garak’s smile was wry. " Lucky me."

"You volunteered," Julian said, looking at Garak. "You came back, just to—"

"My dear Doctor, let's not make me out to be a hero. I had compelling reasons beyond pure altruism." But something in Garak's expression suggested that wasn't entirely true. "Besides, they assured me the retrieval would work."

Julian let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “So you arrived here.”

“In Seoul. I found Jadzia first," Garak continued. "She was broadcasting from her comm badge on a loop. I was able to locate her within hours."

Jadzia grinned. "I'd managed to cover up my spots with makeup—there was a USO show passing through, and the performers were happy to share techniques. I had it easier than Garak in passing for human."

"She'd talked her way into a secretary position with the American military office in Seoul," Garak said, admirative. "Monitoring communications, looking for any sign of you."

"I figured if you were nearby, you'd end up somewhere with wounded soldiers," Jadzia explained. “But you didn't exactly make it easy—no comm badge, no way to track you."

"It got crushed," Julian explained. "During the battle when I arrived. I tried to contact you—"

"I guessed." Jadzia's expression was sympathetic. "But without your badge, we had no way to locate you until—"

"Until you decided to become famous," Garak interjected. "That photograph in Stars and Stripes was quite something.."

Julian groaned. "I tried to avoid that."

"Lucky for us, you failed," Jadzia said. "As soon as we saw it, we knew. Garak came up with a cover story—"

"I'm a journalist," Garak said, his tone suggesting quotation marks. "Writing a human interest piece about frontline medical care. My lovely assistant—" he gestured to Jadzia "—is my secretary. We're both civilians attached to the press corps, authorized to visit frontline positions for research purposes."

"The credentials were surprisingly easy to forge," Jadzia added.

"You lied your way into a war zone."

"Creative problem-solving." Garak's eyes glinted with amusement. "Though I must say, the accommodations on the journey here were appalling. The Jeeps alone—"

"Garak," Jadzia grinned. "We can complain about transportation later. Right now we need to leave."

Leave. The word hit Julian. Of course he was leaving. He was going home. Back to DS9, to his life. Back to replicators and civilized medicine. Back to everything he'd missed desperately for the past weeks—hours—however long it had actually been.

But also leaving. Leaving the people he'd come to care about. Leaving patients who still needed him. Leaving Potter's kindness and Margaret's respect. Leaving Winchester's conversation and BJ's warm friendship. Leaving Hawkeye's humor and pain.

"When?" Julian asked quietly.

"Now," Garak said. " We have a temporal beacon that will allow Chief O'Brien to lock onto our position and extract us."

"I understand," Julian said. His training, his Starfleet education, all insisted this was the right move. Get out cleanly, minimize contamination, protect the timeline. But—

"I just—I need to get my bag. And I need to say goodbye. To someone."

Jadzia and Garak exchanged glances. Some wordless communication passed between them.

"All right," Jadzia nodded. "But try to be quick.”

Julian nodded and turned. His heart was racing, his mind spinning with everything he needed to say and no idea how to say it. He made his way through the darkened camp, past the tents and supply stations, toward the Swamp. Inside, he could hear voices—BJ and Charles arguing about something, their tones familiar and comfortable.

He pushed through the tent flap quietly. Charles looked up from his book, BJ from a letter he was writing.

"Bashir," Charles said. "I thought you'd gone to join the nurses for their culinary experiment."

"I was heading there," Julian said, moving to his footlocker. "Just needed to grab something first."

He knelt, opened the lock—not his lock, not anymore—and pulled out his bag. The PADD was still inside, wrapped carefully in his Starfleet uniform. His ruined comm badge.

Everything that proved he didn't belong.

"Going somewhere?" BJ asked, his tone curious but not suspicious.

"Just clearing out a few things," Julian lied. He'd gotten good at lying. "Where's Hawkeye?"

Charles wryly gestured to Pierce’s bunk where—sure enough— Hawkeye’s legs were sticking out under a pile of blankets and clothes.

"Hawkeye." Julian probed, voice low. "I need to talk to you."

"Talk in the morning," came the muffled reply. "Preferably after coffee. Or gin. Haven't decided which."

"It can't wait."

Something in Julian's tone must have registered. Pierce shifted just enough to disturb the pile over him, peer at him with an exhausted eye. "You're not pregnant, are you? Because I'm pretty sure we established—"

"Outside. Please."

The levity drained from Pierce's face. He sat up slowly, wincing. "This is serious."

Julian nodded.

Pierce reached for his boots. "Give me a minute."

As Hawkeye struggles to tie his laces, Julian turned toward the other surgeons.

"I don't know if I've ever said it properly," Julian said, "but thank you. For everything."

"How uncharacteristically sentimental," Charles said. "One might almost think you were saying goodbye."

Julian felt his throat tighten. "Just feeling grateful."

"Gratitude." Charles stood, moved closer with that particular aristocratic drawl that was somehow both distant and defensive. "An emotion I find is often expressed most fervently when one believes there will be no future opportunity for its expression."

"Charles," BJ said, a note of warning in his voice.

But Charles ignored him, his eyes locked on Julian's face. "You've been an adequate tentmate, Bashir. Better than adequate, actually. Which is remarkable, given my initial worries you would be insufferable."

"High praise," Julian managed.

"The highest, coming from me." Charles's mouth quirked slightly at the words, echoing back. "You play chess with actual strategic thinking. You appreciate literature beyond its utility for appearing cultured. And your surgical technique—" He paused. "—your surgical technique is extraordinary. It has been... educational, observing you work."

Julian swallowed against the sudden tightness in his chest. "I learned a lot from you too."

"I doubt that very much. But it's kind of you to say."

Julian reached out and clasped Charles’ hand briefly. Firmly.

"Good luck, Doctor Bashir," Charles said.

Julian took a step, hesitated. BJ's expression shifted to something more serious. "You okay, Julian?"

"Fine. Just..." Julian forced a smile. "I'll see you both later."

The lie felt heavier this time. Because he wouldn't see them. Not later, not ever. They'd live their lives and die their deaths decades before he was even born, and this moment would exist only in his memory.

Julian turned toward the tent flap before the emotion could show on his face.

"Bashir," Charles called out, not looking up from his book. "For what it's worth—I'm glad you were here. However briefly."

Julian didn't trust himself to respond. He just nodded once and pushed through into the night, Hawkeye stumbling after him.

The night air carried the acrid smell of distant smoke. Julian led Hawkeye past the motor pool, past the latrines, away from the scattered pools of light until the camp's sounds faded to a murmur behind them.

"Far enough?" Pierce's voice had an edge now. "Or are we hiking to Pyongyang?"

Julian stopped. Turned. In the moonlight, Pierce's face was all sharp angles and shadows, exhaustion carved into every line.

"I'm leaving."

Pierce blinked. "What, tonight? Did Potter finally realize you're too pretty for the front lines?"

"Hawkeye—"

"Because I gotta say, if the UN's pulling you out already, that's just typical. Send us the good ones, yank 'em back before they can make a real difference—"

"I need you to listen to me." Julian stepped closer. "I'm going to tell you something. It's going to sound crazy and unbelievable, but I've seen you do unbelievable things every day, keeping these people alive. So maybe you can believe this thing, too."

Hawkeye went still, the manic energy that usually animated him dissipating at Julian’s urgency. "You're scaring me, kid."

Julian swallowed. The words felt impossible, prohibited by every regulation he'd ever learned. But standing here, in this moment, with this man who'd shown him more genuine humanity in weeks than some people managed in years—

"This war isn't over." His voice came out rougher than intended. "And I'm so sorry, but it's not going to be over for a while. And after this... there's going to be another. And another."

He watched Hawkeye’s face. Saw the way his jaw tightened, the way something behind his eyes went dark and distant.

"And then the big one."

Hawkeye let out a breath. It might have been a laugh, except there was no humor in it. "Well. That's just fantastic." He turned away, ran a hand through his hair. "Any other cheerful predictions? Nuclear winter? Plague of locusts?"

"But when that one is over—" Julian pressed forward, desperate now, "—humanity's going to take a look back at their history and all their wars. And they're going to look at them, at how awful they were and how long they went on, and the memory of this war is going to be part of their final reckoning, their realization that we have to be better. Become better."

Hawkeye stood, shoulders rigid.

Julian took a breath. "They're going to choose compassion over conflict. Evolve beyond war, beyond scarcity. And when they're unified they're going to reach to the stars and extend their hands to others."

He moved forward, gripped Hawkeye’s arms, felt the tension thrumming through them. "I know it’s hard, but you can’t let all this destroy you. You need to hold on. Hold on to the hope—the knowledge—that there's a future after all this. A better future."

Hawkeye turned. In the darkness, his eyes were black pools. Empty. He stared at Julian for a long moment, and the silence stretched between them like a chasm.

Then he shook his head. The familiar smirk returned, but it sat wrong on his face: a mask over something nearly broken. "Jeez, kid, if this is some weird ‘this is our last night’ attempt at seduction, it's missing the mark." He stepped back, gestured broadly. "Look, I don’t blame you if you're regretting what we decided in the supply closet—"

"Seduction?" The voice came from the shadows behind them, smooth and almost casual. "What an interesting conclusion."

Garak emerged into the moonlight, photonic mask rendering him perfectly, generically human. Hawkeye jumped, spun.

"One can't help but wonder," Garak's tone remained light, but his eyes were fixed on Pierce with an intensity that belied the easy words, "what happened in the supply closet for you to think that's what he's leading to."

"Who the hell are you?" Hawkeye voice went sharp, suspicious.

"A friend of Julian's," Garak said, his smile pleasant and his posture relaxed in a way that somehow made him more threatening.

"Garak—" Julian started, recognizing the tone.

"Garak?" Hawkeye looked at Garak, then Julian. "UN Garak? What’re you doing here?"

"Oh, nothing at all." Garak's voice could have cut glass. "Simply bringing the good Doctor home."

"Garak, stop it." Jadzia materialized from a different angle, her tone carrying both warning and resignation.

Hawkeye’s eyes narrowed. "You people have a real talent for appearing out of nowhere. What are you, some kind of spy ring?"

"Spies? How humorous," Garak grinned, still watching Hawkeye with that unblinking focus.

"Hawkeye—" Julian stepped forward, trying to regain control of the situation. "I need you to listen to me—"

"Listen?" Hawkeye let out a sharp laugh. "Kid, you just told me about World War Three and humanity reaching the stars. That's beyond impossible. That's—" He waved a hand vaguely. "—that's martinis talking. That's three days of surgery and no sleep and gin for breakfast."

"It's not the gin," Julian said.

"Then it's a nervous breakdown. Mine or yours, I haven't decided." Hawkeye backed up a step. "Look, I get it. War does things to people. Makes them believe things, see things—"

"I'm telling you the truth."

"The truth." Hawkeye’s voice rose. "The truth is we're in Korea. And the future is whatever happens tomorrow, not hundreds of years from now. The future is whether that kid with the chest wound makes it through the night, not whether humanity decides to hold hands and sing kumbaya in space!"

"Hawkeye, please—"

"No." Hawkeye jabbed a finger toward the camp. "I've got enough to worry about right here, right now, without some beautiful idealist filling my head with fairy tales about—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Garak's exasperation finally cracking. "This is what happens when you indulge in sentimentality, Doctor." He reached his hand up

"Don't do it," Julian said quickly, urgently. His heart hammered. "Garak—"

"Don't do what?" Hawkeye looked between them, confusion warring with suspicion and a growing edge of alarm.

Garak tilted his head. Even through the mask, his exasperation was evident. "You've already broken the Temporal Directive. What’s a little more visual proof?" He glanced at Hawkeye.

"The what?"

Garak's hand moved to his jawline. The photonic mask shimmered, then dissolved.

Hawkeye’s jaw went slack. He stared at the ridged scales, the reptilian features, the too-blue eyes that caught the moonlight and reflected it back in a way human eyes simply didn't. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Okay. Okay, I've had too much to drink. That's—that has to be it." He looked at Julian, confusion creeping into his expression. "That's makeup. Really good makeup. Hollywood quality. Right?"

Julian shook his head slowly.

"Right?" Hawkeye’s voice climbed higher. He turned to Jadzia. "Tell me that's makeup."

"I'm afraid not," she said gently.

Hawkeye laughed. It was a thin, reedy sound. "This is—I'm dreaming. I fell asleep in the Officer's Club and this is some kind of nightmare, or—or hallucination from Igor’s creamed beans—" He pinched his forearm. Hard. Swore when it hurt. Pinched again, harder.

"That won't help," Julian said quietly.

"Like hell it won't." Hawkeye squeezed his eyes shut, counted to ten under his breath, then opened them again. Garak was still there, still decidedly not human. "Oh God. Oh God, you're real."

He stumbled forward, drawn by the impossibility of it. Slowly, like approaching a wild animal, he reached out toward Garak's face, fingers stopped just short of making contact.

"May I?"

Garak's tilted his chin slightly, and Hawkeye’s fingertips brushed the scaled ridges. Traced the sharp contours of the orbital bones, the plates along the jaw. His hand was shaking. He pressed his palm flat against Garak's cheek, feeling the warmth of living tissue, the slight give of flesh over scale. Not rubber. Not makeup. Real.

He jerked his hand back like he'd been burned, stared at his fingers as if they might have changed from the contact. Then he looked up at Julian, and his eyes were wild, unmoored.

"Do you believe me now?" Julian asked quietly.

Hawkeye laughed again, a broken sound, wild at the edges, gestured helplessly at Garak. "Believe you? Kid, I don't even know what I'm believing. He’s— you're—what, from the future? Space? Both?"

"The future," Julian said. "About four hundred years from now."

"Four hundred." Hawkeye repeated it like the number had lost all meaning. He looked at Garak, at Jadzia, back to Julian. "And you're all...?"

"Garak and I are aliens," Jadzia said gently. "Julian’s human, just like you."

"Right. Right, of course." Hawkeye pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Because that's the normal part of this situation. That Julian’s the human."

He turned back to Garak, studied him again with something like awe. "What else is out there? In your time?"

"More species than I could name," Julian said. "Hawkeye, we've built something. The Federation. It's not perfect, but it's proof that what I told you about the future, about humanity choosing better, it's real. It happens."

Hawkeye was quiet for a long moment, just breathing, trying to fit this impossible truth into his understanding of reality. Finally, he looked at Julian. "You really are leaving. Going back."

"Yes."

"And I'm just supposed to—what? Go back to the MASH and pretend I don't know any of this?"

"Hawkeye." Julian stepped closer. "What I told you—about the future, about what's coming—I  wanted to tell you. Needed… to give you hope. For your darkest hours. But you can never tell anyone. Ever. Do you understand? It could have serious consequences."

Hawkeye lowered his hands. His eyes were still red-rimmed, but clearer now. "It'll be hard," he said, and his voice had gone quiet. Serious in a way Julian had rarely heard from him. "There's a lotta people here every day who could use that kind of hope."

"I know."

"People who are dying. Who are scared. Who think this is all there is, all there's ever gonna be."

"I know," Julian said again, softer.

“You could end the war,” Hawkeye made a final bid, even with resignation of its impossibility. And didn’t Julian fully understand why he had to try. “You could talk to the brass, show them your scaley friend here, get them to put an end to all this madness. Wouldn’t that make the future better? One less bloody mess in its past?”

“If I could, I would,” Julian placed his hand on Hawkeye’s arm. “Believe me. But the temporal mechanics…it has to happen. It has to go on, for us to resolve to make peace.”

Hawkeye held his gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, once. Tired. "I'll keep it to myself." A ghost of his usual humor flickered across his face. "Besides, they'd section eight me faster than Klinger if I started spouting off about aliens and the future."

"Thank you." Julian felt something loosen in his chest. He hadn't realized how much he needed Hawkeye to understand, to believe him. "I—I wish you well. With everything. The medicine, the—" He glanced at the dark shapes of the 4077 behind them. "—all of it."

He glanced over his shoulder. Garak had moved a few paces away, studying something in the darkness with pointed disinterest. Jadzia was checking the device at her hip, giving them space. Julian stepped closer to Hawkeye, close enough that his words would travel no further than the man in front of him.

"Hawkeye." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Before I go—there's one more thing."

Hawkeye tilted his head, waiting.

"BJ." Julian kept his eyes on Hawkeye’s face, watching the way his expression shifted at the name. "Tell him. How you feel. Take the chance."

Hawkeye’s jaw tightened. "Julian—"

"I know what you said. About him being honorable. About not wanting to know because it doesn't matter." Julian's voice was urgent now, insistent. "But you should tell him anyway. You might be surprised how things turn out."

Hawkeye looked away, toward the camp. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "You saw him. You saw what he's like. How much he loves Peg, his family—"

"I did." Julian held steady. "And I'm still telling you: take the chance."

"Easy for you to say." But there was no bite in it. Pierce's hand came up, rubbed at his face. "You're leaving. Going back to your future where apparently everything works out and people hold hands among the stars."

"Not everything works out," Julian said quietly. "Trust me. But some things—some things are worth the risk of finding out."

Hawkeye was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "Yeah," he said, and when Julian looked at him, there was something different in his eyes. Something tentative and fragile, but present. "Yeah. Maybe." He swallowed. "Maybe I will."

Julian squeezed his shoulder, felt Pierce's hand come up to briefly grip his wrist in return. Then he stepped back.

Garak made a sound that might have been a sigh or might have been something more disparaging. Hawkeye’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Julian. His expression shifted, something sharp and mischievous sliding into place.

"So that’s him?" His voice dropped low, amusement trickling back in. “Mr. Being-a-man-is-the-least-of-our-problems?”

Julian swallowed. Nodded.

Hawkeye's gaze traveled to Garak, considering. Taking in the scaled ridges, the too-sharp angles. The way he stood with perfect posture that somehow managed to convey both casual indifference and heavy self-denial.

"Huh," Hawkeye said, still studying Garak. "You know, I can see why you said what you said."

"Can you?"

"Oh yeah." Hawkeye turned back to Julian, gestured vaguely at Garak. "I mean, look at him. He's an alien from the future. And the jealousy. Oh, the jealousy is practically radiating off him. He's standing there pretending he's not about three seconds from murdering me for suggesting you were seducing me—which, by the way, you should take that as a very flattering reaction.”

Despite everything, Julian felt a laugh bubble up.

"So yeah, you being two guys?" Hawkeye shook his head, still watching Garak out of the corner of his eye. "That's not even in the top ten complications of whatever this is." He paused. "Does he know? That you're—that you feel—"

"I don't know," Julian admitted. "We've never talked about it. We just... dance around things. Say things that mean other things. It's… exhilarating. Exhausting."

"I bet." Hawkeye's expression softened slightly. "For what it's worth, kid? He came back through time to find you. That's gotta mean something."

"He was the only one who could," Julian said, but even as he said it, he heard the doubt in his own voice.

"Sure. And I'm sure that's the only reason." Hawkeye's smile was knowing. "Which means whatever you two have going on, it's not as impossible as you think.”

A wicked glint sparked in Hawkeye’s eyes. He leaned in close, close enough that Julian could smell the gin still on his breath, close enough to feel the warmth of him. His lips brushed the shell of Julian's ear.

"And since it’s the least I can do, this oughta spark a conversation between you two."

Then Hawkeye’s hand was at the back of Julian's neck, swooping him down, and they were kissing—deep and dramatic and utterly performative. Julian made a startled sound against Pierce's mouth but didn't pull away, not from Hawkeye’s goodbye gift.

When Hawkeye released him, Julian stumbled back. Jadzia had a hand pressed over her mouth, her eyes dancing with mirth. Garak's smile was thin as paper, hands clasped behind his back in a way that suggested he was restraining them.

Hawkeye turned to Jadzia, eyebrows raised. "You could be next, if you want."

She laughed outright then. "I'm flattered, but I'll have to decline."

"Your loss." Hawkeye winked, then sobered as he looked at Julian. "So. What do I tell everyone? About where you went?"

"Make something up," Julian said. His voice came out rougher than expected. "You're good at stories."

"That I am." Hawkeye stepped back, shoved his hands in his pockets. The gesture made him look younger somehow, or maybe just more vulnerable. "Take care of yourself, kid. Wherever—whenever—you're going."

Garak produced a small device from his pocket. His fingers danced across its surface. "The beacon's activated. Any moment now."

Julian wanted to say something more. Something profound or meaningful or adequate to the strangeness of this moment. But all he could manage was to raise his hand—a simple wave, inadequate and human and final.

Hawkeye raised his hand in return. "See you in the funny papers, Doc."

The world dissolved into light.

The last thing Julian saw was Hawkeye, standing alone in the darkness, hand still raised in farewell.

Chapter Text

The hotel room overlooked the San Francisco Bay, lights twinkling across the water. Julian sat at the small desk, snack forgotten at his elbow as he scrolled through the historical database on his PADD.

He'd made it back in time for the second half of the conference, at least. Only a day had passed since the transporter accident—less than twenty-four hours while he'd lived through weeks. Doctor Taknor’s talk had come and gone without the chance to ask him about his latest paper. It disappointed more than it should have, given the big picture of things.

But he'd heard other things instead. Important things about hope and the future and taking chances when they mattered.

His fingers moved across the screen, pulling up records from the mid-twentieth century. He'd resisted looking until now, afraid of what he might find—or worse, what he might not find. The Temporal Directive warned against this kind of thing. But Hawkeye had given him something precious in the face of losing everything he’d known, and Julian needed to know if he'd managed to return the favor.

Pierce, Benjamin Franklin

The entry was brief, as most were from that era. Julian's eyes skimmed the text, chest tightening with each line.

Born: September 13, 1922
Medical degree: Androscogin College, 1943
Service: United States Army, 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, Korea
Post-war: Private practice, Crabapple Cove, Maine

Julian paused. Then continued.

Relocated to Mill Valley, California. Joined family practice with Dr. B.J. Hunnicutt.

His breath caught. He scrolled faster now, looking for more.

Notable contributions: Co-developed early prototypes of pressurized injection systems, precursor to modern hyposprays. Revolutionary work in trauma surgery techniques.

There were images attached. Julian opened them with trembling fingers.

The first showed Hawkeye, late thirties perhaps, standing outside a small clinic. His hair had gone salt-and-pepper, a legacy of the war, but his eyes still held that familiar spark. Beside him stood BJ, laugh lines carved deep around his eyes. Between them, a woman—Peg, it had to be—blonde and smiling, her hand resting on Hawkeye’s shoulder.

The next image was dated a decade later. Hawkeye and BJ together again, this time with two children. A girl—Erin, bright and grinning—and a younger boy. They were all laughing at something off-camera, caught in a moment of pure joy.

The final photograph was from Hawkeye’s retirement party. He stood flanked by BJ and Peg, his arms around both of them. All three were older, grayer, but the happiness on their faces was unmistakable. Genuine.

Julian leaned back in his chair, something warm and aching settling in his chest. He'd never know the full story—how Hawkeye had found the courage to speak up, how BJ had responded, how Peg had opened her heart wide enough to encompass them both. But the evidence was there in those photographs, in the way they stood together, in the life they'd clearly built.

"Technically remained a bachelor," Julian chuckled, musing over the sparse historical record. He smiled. Some truths were too complicated for databases to capture. Some love stories existed in the spaces between official documentation.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

Julian rose, crossing the room. When he opened the door, Garak stood in the hallway, holding a bottle of something that gleamed amber in the low light.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Garak said, though his tone suggested he'd come inregardless of the answer. "The shopkeeper assured me this would appeal to a cultured palate, though given his establishment, I have my doubts."

Julian didn't recognize the label, but he stepped aside, gesturing Garak in. "You're not disturbing me."

Garak moved past him, all grace. He set the bottle on the small table by the window, then turned to survey the room. "How cosmopolitan. I'd expected something more... Starfleet."

"It's a hotel, Garak."

He produced two glasses from seemingly nowhere—Julian suspected he'd brought them from his own quarters—and poured generous measures into each glass. "How was your debriefing?"

Julian accepted the offered glass. The liquid inside was thick, almost syrupy. "Uneventful. They took my statement about the temporal incident, made sure I hadn't irrevocably damaged the timeline, sent me on my way." He sipped. The alcohol burned pleasantly, with notes of something floral underneath. "Yours?"

"Drab." Garak settled into one of the chairs, legs crossed. "So many questions about codes, about Cardassia, about things I've already told them before. Though I suppose recent events have made me more valuable as a source." His smile was thin. "How fortunate for me."

Julian sat on the edge of the bed, studying Garak over the rim of his glass. "And Jadzia?"

"Off visiting Worf's parents. Something about learning to make blini and borsht." Garak waved a hand dismissively. "I'm sure she's having a delightful time."

They drank in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Garak leaned forward slightly, his eyes sharp despite the casual pose.

"Are you all right? Adjusting to being home?"

"I'm glad to be back." Julian turned his glass in his hands. "I wasn't sure I could handle it—the medicine there, I mean. So primitive. So brutal." He looked up. "But I learned something."

"Oh?"

"About hope. About taking chances." Julian felt his mouth curve into a small smile. "About not letting fear keep you from what matters."

Garak's expression shifted, something guarded sliding into place. "How philosophical. Did you pick that up from your new surgeon friend?"

There was an edge to the words, subtle but present. Julian recognized it immediately—that careful disdain Garak used when he was feeling threatened.

"Jealous, Garak?"

"Of a long-dead human physician?" Garak's laugh was light, practiced. "My dear doctor, I'm simply curious what you found so enlightening about medieval medicine and rustic charm."

Julian stood. Moved closer, until he could see the way Garak's fingers tightened fractionally on his glass, the only tell that he wasn't as composed as he pretended.

"There wasn't anything there," Julian said quietly. "Between Hawkeye and me. Just two people who turned out to be surprisingly alike."

Garak's eyebrows rose. "Alike? You and that—" He stopped himself, recalibrated. "How so?"

They were close now, barely a foot between them. Julian could see the patterns in Garak's scales, the faint blue of his chufa.

"We both care deeply about medicine. About our patients." He took another step. Garak didn't move back. "We both abhor violence." Another step. "Both understand how whimsy can be a casualty of war."

"How poetic."

Julian swallowed. His heart was hammering now, but he pressed forward. "We both love... deeply. But we're both afraid of taking chances on the relationships that matter most."

The words landed like stones in still water. Garak went very still, his glass frozen halfway to his lips.

"Oh?" The word was careful, controlled. But underneath it, Julian heard something else. Fear. Hope. "And what relationship would that be?"

Julian set his own glass down. Then, before he could second-guess himself, before fear could win, he dropped to his knee in front of Garak's chair. Gently, he took the glass from Garak's hand and set it aside. Then he reached up, cupping Garak's face between his palms, feeling the warm ridges beneath his fingers.

"This one," Julian said, and kissed him.

For a heartbeat, Garak was frozen. Then his hands came up, gripping Julian's sides, and he kissed back with an intensity that stole Julian's breath.

When they finally parted, Garak's carefully maintained veneer had shattered. Disbelief made him look weary, vulnerable in a way Julian had never seen before.

"Julian." His voice was low. "Are you certain? About where you've chosen to place your affections?" He paused, and when he continued, the words came flat. "After all, I was just debriefed by your Federation officials about my questionable motives and actions in regards to our growing Dominion threat—”

"I know exactly who you are," Julian interrupted gently.

"Then you must see—"

"I saw Hawkeye." Julian kept his hands on Garak's face, thumbs stroking along his jaw. "He was so afraid of going for what he wanted. But when I looked at his life from the outside, as an observer, he had nothing to worry about. It worked out." He held Garak's gaze. "I don't want someone looking at my life that way someday. Wondering why I didn't go for what would make me happy when it was so obvious I should have."

Garak's throat worked. "Julian—"

"And I think," Julian said softly, "a similar argument could be made for you."

"My dear, I'm not sure exactly what you're saying."

"Of course you do, Garak." Julian's voice was gentle but firm. "I've never known someone so determined to deny themselves happiness as you."

For a moment, Garak looked like he might retreat into his usual deflections. Then his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'm offended. I enjoy a good bottle of kanar, I'danian spice pudding. And I'm sure you've noticed I indulge in more than my share of Denobulan chocolates—"

"Self-indulgence isn't the same as happiness, Garak."

The words landed hard. Garak's expression crumbled, the lightness bleeding away. When he spoke again, his voice was flat.

"My dear, it's pure naivety to think I'm deserving of happiness."

Julian's chest ached. "Fine," he said. "But do you think I deserve it?"

"Of course." The response was immediate, almost indignant. Garak looked at him as if Julian had asked something absurd, as if Julian was something wonderful and rare that couldn't possibly deserve anything less than everything. "Of course you do."

"Then grant me my happiness." Julian moved closer, until they were breathing the same air. "Because then I can spend every day after convincing you that you're worthy of it too."

Garak made a sound—half laugh, half choke. Then Julian was climbing into his lap, and they were kissing again, deeper this time. Garak's arms came around him, holding tight as if afraid Julian might disappear. As if this moment might shatter and prove to be nothing more than a dream.

But it wasn't. It was real—as real as the weight of Garak's hands on his back, as real as the taste of unfamiliar alcohol on both their lips, as real as the future they were choosing together.

Outside, the San Francisco lights glittered. Inside, two people who'd spent so long denying themselves finally reached for what they wanted.

#

The Somoni hummed with the familiar vibration of warp engines as Earth receded behind them, that blue-green marble growing smaller in the viewscreen until it was just another point of light among millions.

Julian stood near the aft bulkhead, his bag at his feet, watching the planet disappear. Somewhere down there, in 1950, Hawkeye Pierce was waking up to another day of surgery and impossible choices. BJ was writing letters to Peg. Winchester was complaining about something with disdain. And the war was grinding on, oblivious to the temporal ripples that had briefly intersected with its brutality.

But they'd be okay. Julian had to believe that. Had seen the evidence in historical records, in photographs of three people who'd built something beautiful despite impossible circumstances.

"Earth to Julian," Miles called from the helm, his voice warm with amusement. "You planning to stand there the whole trip back?"

Julian blinked, pulled himself back to the present. The twenty-fourth century present, where he belonged. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"Dangerous pastime," Jadzia said from the co-pilot's seat. She was scrolling through something on a PADD, her lips curved in a small smile.

Miles glanced over at her. "What's got you so amused?"

"Helena's recipe for borscht. Apparently the secret is to add the beets at exactly the right temperature, and if you get it wrong, the whole thing turns gray." Jadzia shook her head fondly. "She wrote three pages about beet preparation alone."

"Are you actually going to make it?" Julian asked.

"Are you joking? I'm feeding all of these directly into the replicator." Jadzia patted the stack of handwritten recipe cards beside her console. "I love Worf, but I'm not spending six hours making soup from scratch when I can have the computer do it for me. Helena will never know the difference."

"That seems like cheating," Miles said, but he was grinning.

"That seems like being smart." Jadzia looked back at Julian. "What about you? Bringing anything back from your temporal adventure besides trauma?"

Julian thought about the photographs on his PADD. About hope delivered in the darkness and a friendly kiss goodbye.

"Just perspective," he said finally.

Miles made a sound that might have been understanding. His hands flew over the controls. On the console beside him, a small bundle of flowers sat carefully wrapped: bright yellow blooms that looked distinctly Earth-grown.

"Those from Keiko?" Julian asked.

"Mmm." Miles's expression softened, the way it always did when he talked about his family. "She's been growing Daffodils in her parents' garden. Kira mentioned once that she loved Earth flowers—specifically these ones, though I can't remember why. Keiko grew a whole patch just so I could bring some back." He touched the wrapped stems gently. "Molly helped pick them. She wanted to make sure Nerys got the prettiest ones."

Jadzia smiled. "That's sweet."

"Yeah, well." Miles cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the attention but unable to hide his pleasure. "Keiko sends her love to everyone, by the way. And Molly drew you a picture, Dax. It's... abstract. Something about you being a slug princess."

"I'm honored," Jadzia said, utterly sincere.

Julian watched them: Miles radiating contentment, Jadzia warm with the glow of happiness. His friends, his family. The weight of it settled heavy, gratitude and affection mixing with the strange melancholy of knowing how close he'd come to losing this forever.

A subtle shift made him glance to his right. Garak stood near the opposite bulkhead, ostensibly examining something on a PADD but clearly doing nothing of the sort.

Their eyes met across the small cabin.

Garak's mouth curved slightly, just at the corners. Not quite a smile. More of an acknowledgment. A recognition of that which had changed between them, something that would be explored carefully, slowly, with privacy and time.

Julian felt his own mouth curve in response.

"So," Miles said, breaking the moment, "anyone want to tell me what actually happened down there? Because Starfleet's official report was about as informative as a Ferengi contract."

"Temporal anomaly," Jadzia said promptly. "Very technical. You wouldn't understand."

"I'm an engineer."

She grinned at him. "Some things are classified."

"Classified." Miles snorted. "I’m just asking what happened down on the ground during your time there. Julian, you had an adventure, didn’t you?"

"It's very complicated," Garak jumped to Julian’s aid. "Multiple temporal directives at play. The less you know, the better. For your own protection, of course."

"Of course," Miles said dryly. "How thoughtful."

Julian bit back a smile. This gentle bickering, the easy camaraderie—he’d found something similar at the 4077. But this was home, where he belonged.

"How long until we're back?" he asked.

"About seventy-three hours at current speed," Miles said. "Longer if we want to avoid the Cardassian border patrol routes."

"I'd prefer to avoid them," Garak said mildly. "I'm not particularly eager to have any more adventures for the time being."

"Fair point." Miles adjusted their heading slightly. "Seventy-five hours, then."

Jadzia stretched in her seat. "Perfect. Time for a nap, some food, maybe a drink." She glanced back at Julian and Garak. "You two going to stand in the back the whole time like awkward teenagers, or are you going to sit down?"

Julian felt heat creep up his neck. Garak's expression remained perfectly neutral, but Julian could see the amusement in his eyes.

"I'm fine standing," Julian said.

"Me as well," Garak added. "The view from here is quite adequate."

Miles made a noise that might have been a laugh or might have been exasperation. "Right. Well, when you two are done being weird, there's coffee in the replicator and ration packs if you're hungry. Try not to brood too loudly."

The Somoni hummed through space, carrying them home. Outside the viewscreen, stars streaked by in familiar patterns. Inside, four people settled into the comfortable rhythm of a long flight—Miles and Jadzia discussing navigation, the soft chime of the computer making minor adjustments, the gentle hiss of environmental systems.

And in the back of the cabin, Julian and Garak stood in their separate spaces, not quite together but not quite apart. Aware of each other in a way they hadn't been before. Connected by something new and fragile that would need careful tending but had finally, finally, been acknowledged.

Julian thought of Pierce's words in the darkness: Take the chance.

He'd taken it. Had knelt in a hotel room and offered his heart, and Garak—complicated, damaged, wonderful Garak—had accepted it with shaking hands and desperate kisses.

What came next would be difficult. They'd have to navigate something that lacked a roadmap. But they'd figure it out. Together.

"Deep Space Nine, here we come," Miles said, his voice carrying contentment and anticipation in equal measure. "Home."

Home. The word resonated in Julian's chest. Not a place, he thought. Not really. Home was the people who'd come for you when you were lost. The friends who'd tear through time itself to bring you back. The person who'd volunteered to risk everything because you mattered that much to them.

Julian smiled, settled more comfortably against the bulkhead, and let himself feel it—the rightness of being here, now, with these people. The rightness of going home.

He couldn't wait to arrive.