Work Text:
In the middle of the night, when the door chime rang, Julian’s sleepy brain immediately jumped to the worst case scenario. He was out of bed and wishing for a phaser by the time his mind caught up with the present.
Terok Nor. Cardassian space. No one from the Federation knew he was here.
And, if they did, they certainly wouldn’t bother to ring the doorbell.
“Who’s there?” Julian called out hoarsely, sleep still rasping in his throat.
Even if it wasn’t the Federation, there was no good reason anyone on the station would be at his quarters at this hour.
No vocal answer, but a rapped pattern of long and short knocks. A pre-established code.
Julian raced to the door, banging his leg against the unforgivably sharp edge of something on his way.
Kira stumbled in, holding her hands close to her chest. Once the door had closed behind her, she held them out wordlessly.
Burns. Dark, shiny red spotted with patches of white discoloration, swollen with uneven blisters across the skin.
Damn.
Julian suppressed his intake training and bit his tongue to keep himself from asking questions. Kira had been insistent about that. Even if it would help him heal to know how injuries were incurred (and it would, he made that very clear), all resistance information was doled out on a need-to-know basis, and Julian did not need to know.
He could guess, of course. Perhaps she had been sabotaging ore processing equipment or planting a bomb or interfering with something dangerous and chemical, a reactor or a plasma-based system. It was impossible to stop himself from theorizing. But Julian knew better than to ask.
He knew how he would handle this in a fully stocked infirmary. He would do an initial treatment of dermaline gel, with metorapan and bicaridine as analgesics, then a restorative series with the regenerator. Healing burns was a complex process, particularly when they had been caused by the volatile substances that proliferated on stations and starships.
But Julian did not have an infirmary. All he had was the one room he lived in, two years of medical school, and unending determination.
It would have to do.
“Water,” Julian said authoritatively, and led Kira to the sink. He tested the water temperature (cool, not cold), then indicated for her to run her hands under the flow. She winced and gasped, but made no other sound.
Step one, irrigate the burn, done.
Pain management would have to be done the old-fashioned way as well. Julian had no triptacederine or hydrocortilene, but he had purchased an aloe vera plant from a Kressari trader and tried his best to keep it alive for occasions such as these. He had honey as well, which was for cooking but could be used to create an antimicrobial barrier in a pinch.
Takeo would reduce the swelling. It was a Bajoran native herb, and should be dissolved in fruit juice before being ingested, but in an emergency water would do, although it would upset Kira’s stomach.
Most of his bandage fabric he had already given to the Bajorans, but there was some he had kept for his makeshift medkit. (That did feel foolish, calling a box of haphazardly gathered supplies a medkit, but Julian didn’t have delusions of grandeur so much as a burning desire to give the Bajorans the professional care they deserved. To treat them as people.)
“Julian,” Kira said, and he realized he had retreated into his own head as he plotted out the treatment.
“Sorry, let me grab what I need. Keep them under the water- it will be more painful without it.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, with all the humor he could muster. “It’s still going to hurt like hell.”
“No. Thank you.” She looked at him with dark, intense eyes. Everything about Kira was intense, always. “We aren’t your people. You don’t have to do this.”
Technically, that was true. But neither did Kira, or any member of the resistance. There were Bajorans who collaborated with the Cardassians, some obvious (like the repulsive Basso, who made a living intimidating comfort women), some only suspected (like the private Vaatrik, who was dubious because he had his own shop and private quarters). There were many who put their heads down and refused to get involved, unwilling to risk their lives or convinced that no act of terrorism could win their freedom.
Kira did not have to do what she did. She made the choice, every day, because her home was worth it.
Julian may not have been of Bajor, but how could he stand by and do nothing?
It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But it was the least he could do.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you healed.”