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The knock on Nerys’ door comes after Julian’s third attempt to hail her; she can’t think of a good reason for him to bang his hand on the door instead of using the comm system, but it’s definitely, unmistakeably him.
She calls to the computer to open the door as she does her best to push herself into a sitting position, trying to ignore the way the room spins around her in the process.
“Major.”
Julian pulls to a stop in the entranceway, obviously startled by her appearance.
“Doctor.” Nerys smiles tightly in greeting. She’d dimmed the lights to help with her headache earlier, and now she can barely see him: only a gangly spectre clutching a medical bag in one hand, looming over her like a well-meaning shadow.
“I came to check on you,” Julian says. He’s recovered from his shock, now, and moving closer to the couch. This close his features have come into view, a small smile visible on his face. “You didn’t respond when I called.”
“I’m really fine,” Nerys insists — wheezes, more like, coughing the words out more than she speaks them. Julian’s close enough now that she can see the way he raises an eyebrow at that, obviously unimpressed. “It’s just the fever, it’ll pass.”
It’s common in Bajoran women after childbirth. Nerys had been expecting it soon after the baby was born, but when days — then weeks — passed and it never hit, she figured maybe the circumstances of her pregnancy rendered her exempt. Everything else had gone back to normal, after all. She unpacked all her old uniforms and zipped herself into them without any difficulty at all. Moved back out of the O’Briens’ quarters, started working her regular shift schedule again. Worked for too long and came home to silent, empty quarters.
All normal.
But she figured wrong, apparently. The symptoms came on in a rush after her shift yesterday, hitting her so fiercely she barely made it back to her quarters before her knees started giving out from underneath her. Messaging Sisko this morning to call in sick had injured her pride, sure, but after a night of hallucinatory, fever-induced dreaming she hadn’t been foolish enough to try and leave her quarters. Even standing up had been risky: moving to the couch had exhausted the last of her energy reserves, leaving her trembling and weak. That was hours ago, now; she hasn’t tried getting up again since.
Julian kneels directly in front of her on the couch, then seems to reconsider and awkwardly perches on the coffee table instead, hunched forward to get a good look at her. Nerys, used to his attention after spending five months under his constant, careful scrutiny, doesn’t even bother trying to swat him away.
“Hm,” Julian says to himself as he squints down at his tricorder. “I’m not liking some of these numbers. I could prescribe — ”
“No,” Nerys interrupts him. Julian presses his lips together in a longsuffering expression, settling back on the coffee table so he can look at her properly.
“I suppose there are herbs,” he says, with the air of a man who anticipates opposition, and has long since given up trying to fight against it.
Nerys pauses, then.
There are herbs — that’s what she was going to tell him, wasn’t it? Her usual refrain: that she wants to follow the traditions of her people, instead of defaulting to Julian’s Federation medicine.
But what traditions are there, in a case like this? The birth itself was traditional, sure, but not anything that came after it. There would be ceremonies with the baby, if it had been her own child. Washing ceremonies, naming ceremonies. Bland, milk-white cakes delivered on the baby’s 100th day. Instead, there was — nothing. She gave birth, and then it was over.
There’s been an ache in her stomach since the baby was born, a hollow emptiness she’s done her best to ignore. It seems to open up even further, now, in the quiet of her quarters, with Julian in front of her and an ache in her bones that won’t let up, holding herself very still to keep from shivering.
“No,” she says again, contradicting herself. “Your prescriptions will be fine. Don’t worry about it.”
It’s obviously not the answer Julian was expecting: his eyebrows rise in shock, then immediately furrow in concern. He really does have the most expressive face, Nerys thinks vaguely, watching him try to puzzle through the meaning behind her sudden change of heart.
Julian’s bright, and he cares a lot, but he’s never been the best at understanding the rationales behind others’ behaviour.
“Is there any particular reason?” he asks, finally, giving up on figuring it out himself.
“I trust your expertise, that’s all,” Nerys lies.
Julian’s eyes narrow.
“You never have before,” he says suspiciously. In addition to being unusually perceptive, it’s not a particularly flattering sentiment towards Nerys.
“Of course I have,” she snaps, annoyed, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the way her body shudders with a sudden, violent tremor. Julian’s lips press together again as his hand comes up to touch her forehead — not standard practice, she wants to remind him, only she’s clenching her teeth too hard to tell him to use the damn tricorder instead.
“You’re really quite warm,” he says, drawing his hand back and pushing himself up to stand. “Do you mind if I use your replicator?”
Nerys waves a hand carelessly, knowing him well enough to know he’ll do as he pleases no matter what she says, if he thinks that’s what he needs to do to help her.
She doesn’t want his help, particularly, but she doesn’t say anything as he quietly enters a set of codes into the replicator’s manual interface. It’s humiliating, having him see her like this, but she hadn’t enjoyed spending her afternoon on the couch in the dark, either. She must have gotten too used to living in the O’Briens’ quarters, always having someone there to fuss over her. Not that she loved being fussed over, but she can’t deny that the silence left in its wake is — noticeable.
She’d been worried when she first moved in with them; she’d lived alone since the Occupation ended, and gotten used to having things her own way. But it had been nicer than she expected, staying in a place that felt so warm. Always having someone to talk to, someone to check in on her. If she’s being really honest, she hadn’t even minded the fussing all that much. It was so different to anything she’d ever experienced; almost as though she’d stepped into another woman’s life.
She hadn’t expected how easily she’d slip back out, nor that her own life wouldn’t quite fit, afterward.
“I’m making myself quite at home in your space, Major, I do apologize,” Julian says quietly from where he’s still fiddling with the replicator. The sentiment is very polite, although Nerys can’t help but notice that he makes no attempt to leave as he says it.
“It’s Nerys,” she says tiredly instead, recognizing a lost cause when she sees it. Julian’s stubborn as anything when he decides to be, and he’s not intimidated by her anymore — not much, anyway.
Julian glances over, brightening — but only slightly. Nerys’ eyes catch on the shadowed planes of his face, on the set of his shoulders, little more than an inky smudge in the dark of her quarters.
He’s been different since he got back. Nerys hasn’t spoken to him much; they’ve never been each other’s first choice for that. She assumed he was talking to Jadzia, or maybe Miles, but last week at dinner Jadzia confessed that she thought Julian had been avoiding her completely. Nerys hasn’t spent as much time with Miles lately — he’s been busy with the baby, and she’s been busy with work, or at least that’s what she’s telling herself — so she doesn’t know for sure, but she’d imagine it’s the same. She wonders about it, now, watching him.
Injured hara cats will retreat to heal their injuries alone, tucking themselves into caves or burrows until they’re strong enough to emerge. They used to find their corpses, back in Dakhur, when they were looking for places to hide. Curled up to die alone, without any witnesses.
Nerys understood the impulse, even back then.
To Nerys’ surprise, when he settles himself back on the coffee table Julian doesn’t offer a hypospray. Instead he hands out a mug of tea, wrapping his hands around hers briefly to make sure she can hold it up herself.
“I’m not an invalid,” Nerys says before taking a tentative sip, scowling mostly because that’s what she’s used to doing.
“Of course not,” Julian says, voice deliberately mild. “You’re merely a patient made weak by injury.”
“Exactly,” Nerys says, and then she takes a moment to let what he’s said sink in. “You’re insufferable,” she sighs, then, no particular heat to her words. She nods towards the cup. “What is this?”
“Tea from the dine root,” Julian answers brightly. “Commonly ingested by Bajoran women following childbirth.”
“Childbirth was months ago,” Nerys points out, not particularly liking the reminder. Not of the birth itself — that part was fine, despite the obvious discomforts. She’d felt accomplished, afterward. She’d created life, not destroyed it. It was — exhilarating. Incomparable. But she doesn’t like being reminded that it’s over, which is a strange thing to realize. She doesn’t like being reminded that now she’s alone, without her baby who wasn’t actually her baby.
A stupid thing to be upset over: she knew what she was getting into when she agreed to it. It must be the fever, she decides. It’s making her overly sentimental.
“The fever is now,” Julian counters with a raised eyebrow. He’s hunched over on the coffee table still, watching her drink the tea with, frankly, too much focus. “Have you experienced any other complications since your last check-in? Any discomfort?”
Her last check-in was not, actually, with Julian, something he neatly dodges addressing directly. After he’d come back she’d been too shocked (and, although it pains her to admit it, uncomfortable) to go out of her way to schedule time to see him, ashamed that she hadn’t noticed his replacement and alarmed that she’d been in the care of the Changeling without even realizing.
She wonders if Julian noticed, if he realized her inaction was deliberate. He’s usually the type to press the issue, but he hadn’t reached out to her to schedule an appointment, hadn’t issued any ultimatums for her to push back against.
Nerys feels doubly ashamed of herself, suddenly, the ensuing wave of humiliation compounded by the heat of her fever.
“No,” she says, through a mouth that feels stuffed with cotton. It is, technically, the truth: physically, she’s been fine. No pain, no discomfort.
It’s technically the truth, but it’s still a lie.
Julian’s eyes are fixed on her, monitoring her expression, the darkness of the room giving his stare an accusatory shadow.
What about you? Nerys thinks, surprised at how readily the question rises up within her. Has he been experiencing complications? Discomfort?
Surely.
“I should have made an appointment,” Nerys hears herself say; it must be the fever, loosening her tongue. “I’m sorry.”
The words are inadequate, she knows; apologizing has never really come naturally to her. Why waste time worrying about what’s already done? There’s no way to change it. But she’s softened her stance since coming to Deep Space Nine; she does understand the value of a gesture, at least theoretically. Personally, she still puts more value in actions, but she can recognize that isn’t true for everyone.
Julian, in particular, seems like the kind of person who values soft words.
He only offers a one-shouldered shrug in response, though, a half-hearted twitch that only barely acknowledges what she’s said; it’s impossible to tell how he really feels.
“I’ll want to see you again tomorrow,” he says, eyes on the cup as she downs the rest of the tea. It’s bitter, but not too much: she thinks he might have added something sweet.
“If I can get up by then,” she says, aiming for lighthearted. Julian shrugs again, the expression on his face too serious to really be considered a smile.
“I’ll come here again if you can’t,” is all he says. Casually, as though it’s nothing. “Has anyone else stopped by?”
Nerys feels her body go stiff, another shiver wracking through her. She wishes she could blame it solely on the fever.
“No,” she says brusquely. “It’s only been a day, Doctor. I’m fine.”
“Julian,” he corrects her, a quirk to the corner of his mouth. “If you’re Nerys, then I’m Julian.”
“Julian.”
He doesn’t press her about the visitors. He would have, a few years ago. Even six months ago, probably. Maybe he’s just distracted, or maybe this Julian, like the hara cat, has learned the appeal of licking one’s wounds in private.
“You should get back to bed.”
“Easier said than done,” Nerys admits with a wince, leaning her head against the back of the couch.
“Maybe.” Julian reaches to free the cup from her limp grip. “Up and at ‘em, Major.”
He’s got both her hands in his before she can really track what’s happening, tugging insistently to urge her to her feet.
They make a ridiculous sight, she’s sure, stumbling towards her bedroom. Julian is strong enough to hold her weight comfortably, but awkward enough that that almost doesn’t matter. Nerys might be able to compensate, if the fever hadn’t robbed her of any natural grace; instead, they look like the losers of a three-legged race, barely making it to the finish line.
“Oof,” she groans quietly when Julian deposits on her bed, already slumping towards the pillow before he can offer any more assistance. “Your bedside assistance could use a little work,” she mumbles into the fabric.
“My apologies.” She can’t see his face, but it sounds like he’s smiling. “I’ll do my best.”
“You always do,” Nerys says, rolling herself onto her back with considerable effort. “No one can deny that.”
Her eyes are closed, so it takes a moment for Julian’s silence to register. She cracks one open, then the other, to find him staring down at her, looking perplexed.
“Ah,” he says, finally, offering a tight, fleeting smile. “I suppose not. Thank you, Major.”
“Nerys,” she reminds him, eyes already closed again.
“Nerys,” she hears him repeat. “Well. I’ll come check on you again tomorrow, shall I?”
Nerys nods, squirming to get the blanket up over her. Whatever was in that tea, it’s working, she thinks dimly. She’d been hovering on the edge of sleep all afternoon, too uncomfortable to tip over the edge, but now she thinks she can rest for real.
“Julian,” she calls before he can let himself out. Her eyes are closed, but she can hear him hesitating somewhere near the doorway, one hand fidgeting against something — his uniform pants, probably. She’s never met an adult man worse at holding still. “Don’t be like the hara cat, alright?”
“I’m sorry?”
Nerys forces her eyes open, squinting blurrily in his direction; the tea is setting in for real, now.
“You should call Miles,” she says, aware she isn’t making much sense. “You don’t have to be alone.”
“You should call Miles,” Julian says, a slight edge to his voice, before his posture softens and he shakes his head. “That was awful, I’m sorry. Just — ”
Just what, he doesn’t seem to know. He stays silent, holding his hands up helplessly in an aborted gesture of explanation. Nerys snorts, one clumsy hand coming up to rub awkwardly at her forehead. She leaves it there, flat, palm pressed to the space above her eyes.
“Ridiculous, huh,” she says, finally.
Sometime in between being replaced by a Changeling and spending weeks in an enemy internment camp, Julian’s learned at least a small measure of subtlety. Instead of asking her to elaborate he only smiles, a little more genuine than his last attempt.
“Perhaps,” he agrees, and doesn’t push it any further. “Get some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Nerys raises her hand in a passable attempt at a salute, then lets it drop back to the bed.
She should call Keiko, she thinks hazily, sleep already crawling up to claim her. She won’t be able to come visit, obviously, not when there’s a risk for the baby, but —
She should call.