A/N: Yet another years-old thing I found lurking in my folders, surprisingly ready to publish.

Trigger warnings: Imagined death

Doctor Bashir is trying to focus. Really, he is. But every time he really gets into his work, Chief O'Brien's voice will jut out again, drifting through the door, and Julian is back to square one. He can't hear exactly what his friend is saying; in fact, he really doesn't want to. He knows what Miles is doing and doesn't dare violate that most private of acts, even accidentally.

Maybe that's why he can't stop thinking about it.

Every single time he's on a mission like this, the Chief records a new message for his family. Julian wonders how much each one differs from the last.

Julian has his own, of course. A note to the crew, thanking them for the privilege and wishing them well. He updates it every few months when the mood strikes or a particularly intimate encounter with death inspires some editing. Each member of the senior staff has a handful of sentences addressed to them. He took a great deal of care when he wrote them, each word deliberate and precise.

He can't imagine doing it every. Single. Time.

What would he say? Who would he even address it to? His parents?

Ha. He wouldn't dream of giving them the satisfaction.

The doors hiss apart and O'Brien emerges, looking emotionally worn but otherwise his usual grim, determined self. Their eyes meet and Miles cocks his head toward the door. "Your turn," he says, and Julian isn't sure what makes him stand up. Before he can say "No, thank you, I've got everything taken care of," he's sitting alone in front of a monitor.

He stares at the screen, the Starfleet interface looking suddenly alien after so long living and breathing Cardassian technology. In the dark monitor he can see his own eyes reflected back at him and he releases a gusty sigh.

Staring at the ceiling and swivelling in his chair, Julian tries to imagine being dead.

As a doctor, he's had to look death quite literally in the eyes too many times for his liking. It doesn't scare him as much as it used to. He's not sure that's a good thing.

His friends and colleagues would be sad to have him gone, of course. Their junior lieutenant who's always just a little too keen. Whomever replaced him would have a difficult time—Julian imagines—coping with the grief and expectations of the crew. After all, with him gone, who will play racquetball with O'Brien, or irritate Major Kira, or debate literature with Garak—

Oh.

Oh.

He can't believe it never occurred to him. As a non-member of Starfleet, Garak wouldn't be allowed to view his final message unless specifically named in it. Julian wonders why he never included Garak in any of his drafts and when it became so crucial that he did.

The doctor can't imagine what Garak would think if he never came back to the station. He likes to flatter himself and think Garak would be at least slightly grieved, even if he never gave any outward sign.

Despite himself, Julian is smiling when he taps his code into the computer and starts a new recording. His own face looks back at him.

"Hello, Garak."