Doctor by choice, awkward by nature

As they’ve made their way through the raucus crowds and ceaselessly partying people of Venice, they have begun to acquire and increasing amount of things to carry. First, Arturia had divested that drunken gentleman of his sword; then Shepard had, understandably not wanting to be outdone, acquired a blade of her own, thinner and lighter with an ornate handle that bore the crest of some distant family. Julian, unable to make use of such a weapon even if he’d liked to, had plucked up flowers from some of the gardens they passed, and given them one by one to passers-by, usually to young couples or gaggles of children dashing about in devil masks.

Eventually, they’d found their way to the center of the party, where they’d eaten (with some trepidation, perhaps, given the number of dogs and other things roaming about amongst the party) of the banquet laid out within those halls. Here, they’d pilfered other things: a jar of currant jam for Arturia, stowed carefully in Julian’s makeshift sack; a stack of paper, a stone to grind for ink, an inkwell, a set of quill pens, all wrapped up in a leather carrying case; and most importantly, a red-and-black dart board made of cork and wood, with a set of darts painted green and yellow sunk into its face.

Pleased by their findings, the three adventurers had made their way back out of the party, Julian carrying their non-essential finds, flanked by the two warrior women and feeling much safer for it. Now, they roam the streets again, as the night grows ever darker. They are passing down a large street’s crossing with another large street, and at the center of both there stands an enormous work of art in the form of a fountain. Its marble carvings depict battles in rings around each tier, and slightly sulphurous smelling water spills down its sides, glimmering in the light from the now-distant party. There are many people walking about, talking, drinking, and many taverns and restaurants still open despite the late hour. Several couples are draped across the bottom tier of the fountain, kissing passionately, holding hands, or simply talking coquettishly about love.

Julian shifts the weight of the dart board to his other hand and shakes his head, seeming bemused. “I haven’t read much about this era, but I’m beginning to think I should have!”

It’s morning, according to the clocks, which is as much a circadian rhythm as Julian Bashir has gotten used to living with over the last six years as any. The only thing strange, ultimately, is that the day is shorter here-- not the familiar twenty-six hours of DS9. If he were less invested in socializing this fine morning, he might spare time to wonder when he’d grown more accustomed to Bajor’s day than Earth’s. But as it stands, his interest is focused in trying to put Captain Sisko’s life lessons to work for him.

That is to say, he has asked for food enough for two, and a container to carry it in, and brought it all to the rec room’s tables.

And, using the archaic communication devices offered them by Proserpina’s mysterious owners, he has contacted one Commander Shepard with the following ungodly cheerful message, bright and early at what seems to be 0730:

Join me for breakfast? We can trade recipes or favorites if you don’t like what I’ve found in the station’s databases.

As for the mystery meal, once he’s set it up around the small round table with its two least-comfortable-possible chairs (he suspects Shepard shares his distaste for the plushy ones), it appears to be a simple, flavorful omelette to split between them, spiced with cajun seasoning, onions, peppers, and sausage. To drink: two glasses of spicy raktajino, and hopefully, well-- hopefully Shepard is not a vegetarian.