**The Weight of Weary Eyes**

Miles O'Brien rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, the dim glow of the console in front of him blurring together as he worked tirelessly to repair the damaged systems on the space station. It had been weeks since he'd had a decent night's sleep, and the exhaustion was starting to take its toll. The constant hum of machinery and the faint scent of burned wiring filled the air, a reminder of the countless hours he'd spent trying to get the station back in working order. As he worked, Miles's mind wandered back to the events that had led him to this point. The station had taken a beating during the recent Dominion attack, and it was up to him and his team to get it back online. The pressure was mounting, and he knew he couldn't afford to take a break, not even for a moment. The thought of taking a step back and letting someone else handle it was unthinkable; Miles was the chief engineer, and it was his responsibility to ensure the station was running smoothly. Just as he was starting to feel like he was getting into a rhythm, a voice interrupted his thoughts. "Miles, how's it going?" Julian Bashir, the station's chief medical officer, stood in the doorway of the engineering room, a concerned look etched on his face. Miles looked up from his work, a hint of irritation flashing across his eyes. "It's going," he replied gruffly, not looking up from the console. Bashir walked over to Miles's workstation, his eyes scanning the area. "I've been telling you for days to take a break, but you just won't listen, will you?" he said, shaking his head. Miles shrugged, his fingers flying across the console as he worked to repair a damaged plasma injector. "I'm fine, Julian. Just need to get this done." The doctor raised an eyebrow. "You're not fine, Miles. You're running on fumes. I've seen you eat more Bajoran plasma cakes in the past week than I've had hot meals. You need to take care of yourself." Miles snorted, "Plasma cakes are the best fuel, Julian." Bashir chuckled. "I'm not sure that's even close to being true. But I do know that if you don't take care of yourself, you'll end up doing more harm than good." Miles looked up at Bashir, his eyes red-rimmed from fatigue. "I'll take a break when the station's back online and running smoothly. Not a moment before." Bashir sighed, "You know, I swear, sometimes I think you're more stubborn than a targ in a mud pit." Miles forced a smile, "That's what makes me a good engineer." The doctor shook his head. "It's what makes you a hazard to yourself and others. Now, I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I'm going to make you a deal. If you don't take a break soon, I'll have to put you on sick leave." Miles raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn't dare." Bashir smirked. "Oh, I think I would. You're not exactly the poster child for health and wellness, Miles." The chief engineer pushed his chair back from the console, stretching his arms over his head. His eyes felt gritty, his muscles aching from hours of physical labor. For a moment, he let his gaze drift to the floor, and when he looked up, Bashir could see the exhaustion written all over his face. "You know, Miles," Bashir said gently, "sometimes I think you're more concerned with fixing the station than with fixing yourself." Miles looked away, his expression a mixture of stubbornness and desperation. "I just need to get this done," he muttered. Bashir placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You know, I think it's time we got you some help. You're not exactly the most cooperative patient, but I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse. Why don't I bring you some food and we can get you rested up for a bit?" For a moment, Miles considered Bashir's offer, but then his gaze fell back to the console, and his mind snapped back into gear. "No, Julian. I'm almost done here. Just a few more tweaks and-" The chief engineer's words trailed off as he gazed blankly at the console, his eyes unfocused. Bashir followed his gaze, noticing the strain on Miles's face. "Miles?" Bashir said softly. "I think it's time you admitted you're running on empty." Miles blinked slowly, his vision blurring. For a moment, he felt like he was floating, disconnected from reality. His head swam, and he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. The room began to spin, and Miles's vision began to blur. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it was too late. His body gave out, and he nearly collapsed onto the console. Bashir rushed to his side, catching him by the arm. "Miles, easy does it! You're going to collapse if you don't take care of yourself." Miles tried to speak, but his words were slurred and barely intelligible. "I'm...I'm fine...just need to...get this done..." Bashir's grip on his friend's arm tightened. "No, you're not fine. And you're not going to get any better if you don't take care of yourself." Miles's vision began to tunnel, and he felt himself slipping away. "Julian?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Yes, Miles?" Bashir replied, concern etched on his face. "I'm...I'm not sure I can...do this anymore," Miles stammered, his body trembling with fatigue. The doctor's expression softened, and he helped Miles sit down on the nearest chair. "You're done for now, my friend. You're going to take a break, and I'm going to make sure you eat something and get some rest." Miles tried to protest, but his body had other plans. As the darkness closed in around him, he felt himself being pulled down, down into the abyss of exhaustion...