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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.