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seikilos ([personal profile] seikilos) wrote2013-07-20 03:03 pm

DS9 - More half-finished projects!

Title: Addendum: 2x23 "Crossover," Part 1
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst
Rating & Warnings: PG (references to torture, death, slavery)
Words: 3738 this part, approximately 8400 overall
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: Julian and Kira return from the Mirrorverse physically in one piece. Their mental and emotional recoveries, however, aren't so straightforward. This part: Julian reconciles the roles the different versions of his friends play and comes to terms with one Mirrorverse death in particular.
Author's Notes: So this got long. Really long, which is why I haven't updated this fic since it was posted. Originally, this was supposed to be a single chapter, but there was just so much awful thrown at Julian and Kira in this episode that I ended up just writing and writing and writing the fallout. So it's now in three parts, one of which is very short, but, well, it made more thematic sense to divide it up that way.

This three-parter brought to you by "Have You Ever" by The Offspring, which turned up on my mp3 player the moment I began my planning.

Have you ever been at someplace
Recognizing everybody's face
Until you realized that there was no one there you knew


(1)


The runabout has barely stabilized from their flight through the wormhole, has barely stopped shooting sparks when the hail from DS9 comes in. The Major immediately answers it. Seeing Commander Sisko appear onscreen, tall and controlled and in every possible way different from that self-absorbed pirate, is a relief . . . but it's a distant one. Julian is starving and filthy, he aches dreadfully, and above all, he's heartsick. And if that's the way he feels, he can't begin to imagine what it's like to be the Major right now.

"We've got ships from here to New Bajor out looking for you. Where have you been?" Sisko asks, his own relief much clearer—and much simpler.

"Through the looking-glass, Commander," Kira answers. (He didn't know she'd read Carroll.) "But it's good to be back."

He can see her sigh and only then does he smile, because with that level of understatement, honestly, how could he not?

It's good to be back. It's good to step out of the runabout and back onto DS9, his DS9, his home. He and the Major are given lots of pats on the back, hands on shoulders, a hug each from Jadzia. Kira's clothes and his filth (and stench—yes, thank you, Chief) are exclaimed over before Commander Sisko sends them to their quarters to rest, clean up, and prepare a report for him.

When they leave ops, absolutely exhausted, he hasn't met Odo's eyes once.

*


They end up giving the report together. It makes sense: after all, they had spent most of their time separated. He wants to leave out certain details and he's sure the Major does too, but he knows his duty as a Starfleet officer and she knows hers as an officer of the Bajoran militia.

There's a partnership between them now, one that expresses itself through each carrying the other when they falter, through unhesitatingly picking up the next sentence when speech becomes too difficult. He had wanted a relationship like this since his first day on the station and had tried to get it by being an arrogant fool. ("Frontier medicine"? What had he been thinking?) Now that he has it, though, he isn't sure this is how he wanted to have achieved it.

He makes it through the report somehow. By the end, the Major looks tense enough to shatter at a touch; who knows how he must look to her and Commander Sisko.

Sisko's voice is only a little softer than usual when he dismisses them. They leave the office together, but when it comes time to part, he's tonguetied.

Miles saves him. "Hey, Julian."

He looks over to where his friend is tinkering with something or other. "Yes, Chief?"

"Meet me down at Quark's at twenty-one hundred hours. You have the look of a man who needs a good pint," he says with a sympathetic smile.

Julian tries to smile back, though it feels as if someone has drained the muscles from his face. "Make it at least two and you have a deal," he answers and gets a chuckle.

By then, Major Kira has left, sparing him the need to say anything at all.

*


"So what was I like, anyway?" Miles inevitably asks him. Though, to be fair, he lets Julian get most of the way through his pint first.

"Quiet," he says, because it's the first word that comes to mind. It's true in more than one sense of the word. The other Miles had the air of a man who went through what passed for his life trying to take up as little space as possible. Small wonder—being noticed probably got him beaten.

He has another swallow of beer.

"Huh. That doesn't sound like me." The warmth in his voice invites Julian to share the joke, but to someone who has been "through the looking-glass," it isn't very funny.

"He was a slave," Julian says bluntly. "I imagine that would have something to do with it."

". . . I imagine it would." Now this Miles' voice has gone quiet, but in a way that has nothing to do with a permanent state of dull terror. He sits for a moment or so, staring into his mug, before he dares the next question: "What about Keiko? Or Molly?"

"It sounded as though he hasn't met Keiko yet—or if he has, they're not seeing each other." If she's even alive.

Miles lets out a breath. "Poor bastard." Another silence. Then, with a look out of the corner of his eye, he asks, "And what about yourself?"

Julian's smile is far more bitter than he would allow himself ordinarily, but he's been drinking and it's been a very long day. "I didn't have the pleasure."

It's just as well. He doesn't want to think about who would be looking back at him. After all, he assumes Terrans aren't usually considered good candidates for genetic engineering. Seeing the man his parents had killed, on top of everything else, would have been quite simply too much to tolerate.

"Just as well," Miles says in a strange echo of his thoughts. "That universe—hell, no universe could take two of you in one spot. It'd probably end itself out of sheer, bloody annoyance."

That startles the first laugh from him all day, and he's actually still smiling when he tells the Chief, "Just for that, you're buying the next round."

Miles grins, obviously pleased at this bit of normalcy. "Quark! Bring us another!"

Quark grumbles but obeys, and for a time, it's not just the alcohol that helps him forget.

*


He has a hangover the next day, which doesn't even slightly surprise him. He knew he had been drinking too much the previous evening, but he hadn't cared. A painful wake-up had seemed more than a fair trade for some liquid anesthetic. It still does.

The hangover is quick to vanish—the wonders of modern medicine—and all morning, he thrusts himself headfirst into his work, only stopping long enough for a preliminary talk with the therapist he's been assigned. Commander Sisko had insisted he and Kira both take off the remainder of the previous day and had offered two or three more personal days on top of that. He'd considered the offer, though not for very long, but had turned it down. He wants things back to normal as quickly as possible, to root himself in this universe. He has the feeling the Major came to the same conclusion.

When Dr. Solan alerts him that it's time for lunch (in the manner of a concerned mother despite the grand total of six years' difference in their ages), his flurry of activity comes to a sudden halt. Garak will be waiting for him in the replimat.

He isn't sure he's ready to see him. Yesterday, if that universe's Sisko hadn't come to the rescue, the other Garak would have happily tortured him to death, him and Major Kira and the other Miles. And he—

No. He's home now and safe, and he's not going to let that other Garak sabotage his friendship with his Garak—the real Garak.

He rises abruptly from his seat in the infirmary and stalks out the door. He'll probably have to reassure his staff and tell them there's nothing wrong, but later. He needs to get to the replimat before the cruelty of the other Garak's smile seeps still further into his mind.

The sight of Garak sitting at their usual table, sipping his Rokassa juice, is an effective antidote. The potency only increases when his friend looks up and smiles—a proper smile, a welcoming, even delighted smile.

"Ah, Doctor, there you are. I was wondering if I would see you today," he says as Julian seats himself in the opposite chair. Their knees bump and brush as he pulls in closer to let an engineer pass, but today, he doesn't mind. Actually, he welcomes the contact.

Garak sets down his mug and leans forward, eyes widening slightly in his version of an eyebrow-raise. "Are you quite recovered from your ordeal? It sounds as though you and Major Kira had a very difficult time of things."

"Yes, I'm fine now—thank you for asking," he says in what's become a very well rehearsed answer. The large number of people who had seen him heading for his quarters in the tatters of his uniform, covered in dried sweat and uridium dust, had resulted in a touching (though simultaneously tedious) amount of concern being expressed over the past two days.

"Indeed?" Garak asks and it's clear he isn't in any way taking him at his word. "Then I congratulate you on your resilience."

He lets out a breath. "Look, I don't want to talk about it right now. I just want to forget it ever happened."

"Of course. Then let's order lunch and discuss our book. Have you finished it yet?"

". . . Remind me what it is again?"

"Sense and Sensibility. It seems it was very memorable for you," Garak remarks and Julian grimaces slightly.

"No—it was fine. Actually, I enjoyed it more than I'd been expecting to."

They had decided last week to choose an author from their own planet whose books they had never read. Austen had never appealed to him from what he'd heard of her, but once he'd grown accustomed to the rhythm of the archaic language, she hadn't been bad. He'll have to try her other works someday.

In very little time, their conversation becomes a refuge, as had been his work this morning. Garak makes no comments about his time in the other universe and asks no questions, but he can still feel his friend watching him. It could have been a reminder of another man who pinned his victims with his stare, but Julian refuses to allow that.

He does a good job of keeping his mind on the discussion until Odo passes close to their table on patrol, and then his concentration falls to pieces.

Garak of course notices. "Doctor, if you would prefer to have this discussion at another time. . . ."

"No" —he forces himself to meet Garak's eyes— "no, I wouldn't." He wipes his hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Garak. I'm doing a pretty poor job of keeping up my end of the conversation, aren't I?"

"Not particularly." Garak is silent, but Julian knows better than to think he's finished speaking. ". . . Might I ask a question?"

"Of course." He prepares himself, because there's been only one topic anyone's asked him about today.

"Did you meet me in this other universe?"

"Yes. I did." And despite himself, his gaze lowers.

"What was I like?"

It's not the simple question it appears. Garak might be speaking the same words Miles had, but his intent couldn't be more different. Julian knows Garak: curiosity might be a reason for the question, but it isn't the reason.

"You were. . . ." He exhales and raises his head. He's never been one to flinch from delivering difficult news; he would be singularly unsuited for his profession if he were. "You were a torturer, the second-in-command of the station. You—you relished it. I was nothing but another Terran slave to you and you looked for any excuse to torture me—and the Major and the other Chief O'Brien. You almost got it."

He won't say the lack of recognition on Garak's face, coupled with the eagerness to break him into shards before he died, was what had hurt the most. That kind of pain isn't comparable to torture, can't possibly be. But it had still hurt, more than he would have thought.

Garak is silent for a beat, reflective. Then he leans forward. "I can assure you, Doctor, that if I ever find myself in a position where I need to extract information from you, I will take no pleasure in it whatsoever."

Maybe he could have pieced together a smile had Garak made a joke like that next week. Maybe he could have at least pretended to find some bit of amusement in his words. But not the very next day after his escape, not when Garak is only a week recovered from the surgery Julian had performed to remove that damned wire from his brain. He's still trying to work out what's true out of those stories Garak had told him and still trying to come to terms with the fact that no matter how he fits the parts together, he cannot make a cohesive whole where Garak has not done terrible things not so very long ago.

So, no, he has no smile for Garak today. He has only anger, until it's stalled in his chest by the touch of a dry hand covering his on the table.

It's so startling, so completely unlike all the other ways Garak has expressed his friendship, that Julian couldn't have stopped himself from meeting Garak's eyes even had he wanted to.

"Forgive me—that was too much," Garak says simply. "I would understand if you would prefer to avoid my company for the next few days. You shouldn't force yourself on my account."

Julian sighs. Most of the knot in his chest loosens. Before he thinks, he's flipped his hand beneath Garak's and clasped it in an echo of a moment beside an infirmary bed that he knows he'll never forget. If he can offer forgiveness for any number of unknown sins, a poorly chosen comment is nothing in comparison.

"You're right. That was too much. But I don't want to stay away from you." He smiles a little. He can feel the expression sitting improperly on his face, but at least it's there. "You're my friend, Garak, and I'm not about to let some false version of you affect my actions in an entirely different universe." He tries to lighten his tone. "I won't have him ruining my lunch on top of everything else he's done."

And now that he knows just how little enjoyment there is in his Garak's life, he absolutely does not add, he's not about to let that other Garak increase his friend's misery by keeping them apart.

"Not false, Doctor, only different," Garak reminds him . . . then relents. "But I am pleased that we'll be able to continue our discussion." He pulls his hand away and cool air flows in to take its place against Julian's skin. "Now, I believe you were giving me your impressions of Marianne?"

Julian pulls together his scattered thoughts and mostly manages to say what he'd planned before being trapped in the other universe. He never is able to devote his full attention to the conversation, however. A part of him is always tensed, waiting for Odo to walk by again, and his head turns at every beige uniform. Another part of him knows Garak is seeing this and teasing out the meaning of his behaviour, and as much as he fights against it, being so examined puts him in mind of the man he's trying to forget.

He thinks it'll be days before he can see only this Garak looking back at him, and before the memory of irrational betrayal and rational fear has left him. But damn it, he is going to try.

He keeps his knee lightly, barely touching Garak's beneath the table, for the comfort of contact. Garak pretends not to notice.

*


The distance from the infirmary to security is less than one quarter of a turn around the promenade, and yet Julian has crossed twice that distance in half the time. It isn't that he's deliberately dragging his feet. It's that his mind has been throwing up a truly remarkable number of potential distractions in an attempt to shield him from what he's known for two days that he needs to do.

He could drop by Quark's, he thinks, and see if the Chief is there to bolster his determination. He could stop in the temple to continue his attempts to learn more about Bajoran culture.

When he finds himself wondering if he ought to go get a jumja stick first, he realizes what he's doing to himself. With a shake of his head and a press of his lips, he lengthens his stride and doesn't slow his pace until the doors of Odo's office have whirred shut behind him.

As always, Odo is reading some sort of report on criminal activity. His gaze flicks up, measures him for a beat, then returns to his padd. Here on DS9, the light makes the smoothed-out features of his face still smoother. It hides no part of him, and while his blue eyes pierce as deeply as Garak's, to be evaluated in their light is still easier to bear than to be judged by a shadowed face on Terok Nor.

"Can I help you, Doctor?" Odo asks when Julian doesn't speak, an overtone of mild surprise in his voice. Julian doesn't blame him—out of all the senior staff, he thinks only the Chief might visit him less.

Julian takes in a breath. He has to try twice; his air catches before he can pull enough in. "I have a confession to make."

Odo pauses. With deliberate actions, he raises his head and sets aside his padd. He sits up in his chair and leans forward with his elbows on his desk. Such clear interest doesn't set Julian at his ease.

"Go on."

His body brings him to attention, a remnant of his days as a cadet. He wasn't the sort to do anything to merit being called onto the carpet, but the instinct is present all the same. Then he raises his chin and speaks: "I killed you."

There's just a moment when Odo doesn't understand. Then he does—and, strangely, he relaxes. "You mean in that parallel universe you and the Major visited."

"That's right."

No excuses and only an explanation if Odo asks. He'd decided on that last night, after he'd awoken from the second nightmare. Anything else would undermine what he needs to do here, and he won't allow it.

He's a little surprised not to be condemned outright in any way—not even by the look on Odo's face—but he's not surprised when the first question is, "Might I ask why?"

"I was sent to ore processing because I was a Human—a Terran, they called me. While I was there, the Chief O'Brien of that universe and I came up with a plan for escape," he recites, and that's the end of the easy part. "When the two of us and the Terran slaves were escaping, you tried to stop us, and I . . . shot you with a phaser I'd stolen from a guard."

For the rest of his life, he'll never escape the image of Odo exploding like an oversized child's water bomb. One moment that Odo had been preparing to shoot, and then his remains were spraying the steam-filled, acrid air. Julian had only had a second to take in the shock of the violence—of course the guard's weapon would have been set to kill, he hadn't thought—and then there had been no time to look back until he'd reached his quarters on DS9 and had nearly been sick. He'd avoided it then, but he's not sure he's going to keep that up if he can't permanently break the loop his mind has created of those few seconds.

"So," Odo says, and the playback is at least paused, "I was the overseer of the Terran slaves, was I?"

"Yes. You were."

"And you killing me wasn't premediated?"

"No, of course not! I'd only wanted to stop you, not kill you!"

It bursts out of him with too much force, but there's only so long a man can brace himself without snapping. Can't Odo just condemn him and be done?

Odo sits back in his chair. "Well, then, Doctor, I don't see the problem. In fact, while I'm not one to advocate execution without a proper trial, I'd say I should be thanking you. If I'd strayed that far from the course of justice, then I deserved far worse than a quick death from a phaser."

And then, of all things, he picks up his padd and goes back to his report.

Julian feels as though someone has concussed him, right down to the slight ringing in his ears. That . . . isn't truly the end of the conversation, is it? And yet, to all intents and purposes, that's exactly the impression Odo is giving.

"But . . . I killed you," he says into the silence.

"Yes, so you've said." Odo looks up. "Would you be happier if I were angry with you? If I threw you in a cell and put you on trial?"

"I—I think I would, actually."

Odo makes that dismissive noise that's become part of the background patchwork of his life, just as much as the hum of the station's Cardassian-made doors and the tinkling of the dabo wheel. "You think you would, but you wouldn't. If you're going to get over what happened, you don't need unnecessary punishment. That wouldn't be justice—that would be pointless.

"What you need is forgiveness. You already have mine, if that's what you want. Now go work on getting it from yourself."

He turns in his chair, its tall back a barrier more effective than any bulkhead. The conversation really is over now.

All the same, Julian stands there for a few moments longer, left unsure in the face of such abruptness. He tries, ". . . Thank you."

He receives a grunt in response, but no further movement. All that's left, then, is to turn and walk back onto the promenade.

He doesn't return to the infirmary directly. In fact, he goes up to the second level and watches the people pass by for a while, Human and Bajoran and countless other species mingling and coexisting without a second thought. He's on DS9, not Terok Nor, and though the sight of Odo's death is still waiting for its chance to play over in his mind, knowing he has this Odo's forgiveness is a great relief. He hopes, in time, he'll also be able to find forgiveness in himself.

For now, though, it's enough that he can stand comfortably in this place with his thoughts, without fear. He's safe, and he's home.

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