Fic: Untitled (DS9 one-shot)
Pain chases the air from Bashir’s lungs and he realizes, far too late for it to be of any use, that now he is in over his head.
~~~
Sometime between the whipping and the second drowning attempt, Bashir decides that he’s had better days. He can’t remember when, exactly, but he knows that they are there. They must be. It’s just that he has lost quite a bit of blood - too much for his quick mind to calculate, which says something right there - and he is more worried about getting out of this situation alive than remembering a time not so long ago when it did not hurt to breathe, cough, or even blink.
The room has grown hazy around the edges and his vision moves just a beat slower than his eyes as he sweeps them over his surroundings. It reminds him of times when he has gotten just this side of tipsy, and this is somewhat amusing. Who knew that it feels just as blissful to die as it does to get drunk?
Dead people, his mind answers him sardonically. He rolls his eyes, groans in pain, and mutters, “Fat lot of help you are.”
Bashir is alone now; for how long is the mystery. Lore left long ago, his business completed and his attention wandering. His friends won’t miss him for at least a day, and that is if he is very lucky. Bashir knows - gods, why did I have to become a doctor? - that he does not have a day. He barely has twelve hours, judging from the fact that there are three stab wounds he remembers receiving and two he does not, though he can very much feel them.
He wonders, stupidly, whether there was anything he could have done to prevent this. What event in a long chain of events led to this godforsaken situation?
Perhaps they all had. Perhaps there was simply nothing he could have done; all paths would have led to here, to now.
Bashir fights hard to keep his thoughts from wandering down that path, but his resentful mind has other plans and wonders what would have happened had Garak not canceled that one lunch; what would have happened if Garak had chosen him over the work.
He takes what comfort he can in the fact that his last conscious thoughts are of his friend.
~~~~
Long-ass A/N: -Ok, so I lied: this is most definitely NOT a B/D fic. Sorry to be misleading, but I couldn’t help it ;). I’ll re-code it when/if I post a revised version.
- This was written with my dark_fest prompt in mind, even though the darkness is largely implied (sorry!). I have four additional pages of Lore beating up on Bashir, but when I add the additional scenes it just feels like the story gets bogged down in the details. I’ll have to fiddle with it a bit, but definitely let me know what you think of it at this point. If people feel the story is worth expanding on, I’ll take another crack at it.
- This takes place after TNG’s season 7 and during DS9’s season 2. Bashir’s anxiety at the beginning is due to practicing medicine on the ‘frontier’ and day-to-day hardships on the station, not the war. If I remember right, at that point in the series they were only slightly aware of the Dominion. I say this only because I realize that he seems especially down, but hey, everyone’s allowed their bad days.
-I have no idea why I call him “Bashir” and not “Julian”
-For some reason this story wanted to be written in a present tense, so let me know if I messed that up anywhere.
I think that’s all for now. Thanks for sticking with me!
~~~
Sometime between the whipping and the second drowning attempt, Bashir decides that he’s had better days. He can’t remember when, exactly, but he knows that they are there. They must be. It’s just that he has lost quite a bit of blood - too much for his quick mind to calculate, which says something right there - and he is more worried about getting out of this situation alive than remembering a time not so long ago when it did not hurt to breathe, cough, or even blink.
The room has grown hazy around the edges and his vision moves just a beat slower than his eyes as he sweeps them over his surroundings. It reminds him of times when he has gotten just this side of tipsy, and this is somewhat amusing. Who knew that it feels just as blissful to die as it does to get drunk?
Dead people, his mind answers him sardonically. He rolls his eyes, groans in pain, and mutters, “Fat lot of help you are.”
Bashir is alone now; for how long is the mystery. Lore left long ago, his business completed and his attention wandering. His friends won’t miss him for at least a day, and that is if he is very lucky. Bashir knows - gods, why did I have to become a doctor? - that he does not have a day. He barely has twelve hours, judging from the fact that there are three stab wounds he remembers receiving and two he does not, though he can very much feel them.
He wonders, stupidly, whether there was anything he could have done to prevent this. What event in a long chain of events led to this godforsaken situation?
Perhaps they all had. Perhaps there was simply nothing he could have done; all paths would have led to here, to now.
Bashir fights hard to keep his thoughts from wandering down that path, but his resentful mind has other plans and wonders what would have happened had Garak not canceled that one lunch; what would have happened if Garak had chosen him over the work.
He takes what comfort he can in the fact that his last conscious thoughts are of his friend.
~~~~
Long-ass A/N: -Ok, so I lied: this is most definitely NOT a B/D fic. Sorry to be misleading, but I couldn’t help it ;). I’ll re-code it when/if I post a revised version.
- This was written with my dark_fest prompt in mind, even though the darkness is largely implied (sorry!). I have four additional pages of Lore beating up on Bashir, but when I add the additional scenes it just feels like the story gets bogged down in the details. I’ll have to fiddle with it a bit, but definitely let me know what you think of it at this point. If people feel the story is worth expanding on, I’ll take another crack at it.
- This takes place after TNG’s season 7 and during DS9’s season 2. Bashir’s anxiety at the beginning is due to practicing medicine on the ‘frontier’ and day-to-day hardships on the station, not the war. If I remember right, at that point in the series they were only slightly aware of the Dominion. I say this only because I realize that he seems especially down, but hey, everyone’s allowed their bad days.
-I have no idea why I call him “Bashir” and not “Julian”
-For some reason this story wanted to be written in a present tense, so let me know if I messed that up anywhere.
I think that’s all for now. Thanks for sticking with me!